#its nothing man why are we arguing in the notes of a tumblr post | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

admiringlove · 28 days ago

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➵ pairing. gojo satoru x fem! reader.

➵ summary. the pieces are in place, the shadows are shifting, and soon, everything will unravel.

➵ warnings. mentions of blood; one character almost dies; lots of fire; bickering™; crying; ; mentions of familial abuse; mentions of death; mentions of physical injuries; slight evil geto; this is the last official chapter before the epilogues; yes i'm crying too.

➵ genre. wizarding world au; academic rivals to lovers; enemies to lovers; angst; fluff; adventure; SLOWBURN (NOT ANYMORE 😼😼); slight inaccuracies in the wizarding world because i did make some stuff up for the sake of the crossover; etc.

➵ word count. 33.2k (longest chapter record broken again!!!!).

➵ author's note. second part of chapter seven, as tumblr wouldn't let me post it all in one go 💔💔 enjoy!!

➵ navigation. chapter six, chapter seven part one, masterlist, next.

When you step out of the temple, the air is still cool against your skin, the sun hanging low in the sky, casting long shadows over the temple grounds. The mist has begun to lift, dissolving into thin streams of white that curl around the wooden beams of the temple before vanishing completely. Somewhere in the distance, a crow caws, its cry cutting through the hush of the early morning. The scent of incense clings faintly to your clothes, to your hair, to your skin.

Nothing had happened.

You’d gone inside, paid your respects, bowed your head in prayer, and willed the universe to grant you some kind of sign. Something—anything—to lead you forward.

But nothing came. No shift in the air, no flicker of magic, no hidden passage revealed beneath the temple floor. Just silence and the rhythmic sound of your own breathing.

Your shoulder had brushed against Gojo’s for far too long while you prayed, though. And he hadn’t moved away.

Maybe he didn’t notice. Maybe it meant nothing.

But then again, Gojo Satoru never does anything without intention. He moves through the world with certainty, with a self-assurance that is almost infuriating. He does everything with conviction, with that smug tilt of his lips, with the confidence of a man who has never once doubted himself. He does not hesitate.

You don’t let yourself think about it for too long.

You exhale, stepping down from the temple’s main hall, your shoes scuffing against the ancient wooden planks. The others follow, descending the steps one by one, the quiet hum of their conversation barely registering in your ears. When you reach the gravel path at the base of the temple, you turn to face them.

“How are we supposed to get to the next one?” you ask, scanning their faces.

Utahime presses her lips together, her brows furrowed as she considers. “The man at the tea shop said there were three that could be of use to us.” She pauses, tilting her head slightly. “But I really don’t think it’s Ninna-ji.”

Gojo snorts, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat. “You mean the one where the royal family used nepotism to get their jobs as head priests?”

Utahime levels him with a glare. “No, stupid. It’s called serving your community.”

You almost smile at the way Gojo’s lips part, ready to argue, but she continues before he can interrupt. “But yes, that one,” she admits. “I don’t think it’s Ninna-ji because it’s… small. Compared to the other two.”

You glance back at the temple behind you, its towering wooden pillars stretching high into the sky. Kiyomizu-dera had been vast, an entire world built into the mountainside. The idea of Sukuna’s grave being tucked away in a smaller, lesser-known temple feels… wrong.

“So we’re discriminating based on size now?” Gojo quips, rocking back on his heels.

You ignore him, narrowing your eyes in thought. “But, ‘Hime, wouldn’t that be precisely why it is that one? It’s different compared to the others. Process of elimination.”

Utahime hesitates. Her fingers tighten around the edge of her scarf, tugging it slightly before she exhales. “I don’t know,” she murmurs. “It’s just a feeling I have.”

Gojo lets out an exaggerated sigh, tilting his head back. “Your feelings aren’t exactly the most reliable way to get accurate directions.”

She turns on him instantly, face pinched in irritation. “And what do you suggest, then? Wandering around Kyoto until we stumble onto a cursed grave?”

“Could be worse,” Gojo says breezily. “Could be cursed spirits. Or dementors.”

“Don’t jinx it,” Shoko mutters.

Utahime crosses her arms, still glaring at him. “Enryaku-ji is technically way more powerful,” she argues, voice firm. “We’ve already gone to the oldest temple. Ninna-ji is only considered powerful because of its ties to the imperial family. And if Sukuna is as old as the texts say, then the oldest or the strongest would make the most sense.”

There’s a pause. A breath of silence. The wind shifts slightly, carrying the scent of cedar and damp earth.

You glance at the map again, though you already know it won’t give you any answers. The ink remains still, unmoving.

“How would we get to that one?” you ask, voice quieter than you expect it to be. The stillness of the temple grounds makes everything feel heavier, like the weight of your words might press into the earth itself. “I can’t see anything on the map except us.”

Utahime exhales, the breath curling in the cold air before dissipating. “We could take the train,” she says after a moment. “Then the cable car to the top of the mountain.”

You glance up from the map. The thought of winding through Kyoto’s train stations, of standing in a crowded car, pressed up against civilians who have no idea what lurks in their city—what you are searching for—makes your stomach turn. It would be a waste of time.

“That would take too long,” Gojo says, voicing your thoughts before you can. His hands are deep in his coat pockets, and when he speaks, it’s casual, like it’s the simplest answer in the world. “We could just Disapparate.”

There’s a beat of silence, then—

“What?”

Shoko’s voice is sharp, rising an octave.

“I am not doing that again,” she snaps, stepping forward, the loose ends of her scarf whipping slightly in the wind. “Did you not see me almost vomit earlier?”

Gojo tilts his head, unimpressed. “Relax,” he says, and you can hear the grin in his voice before he even smirks. “I have another vial of Pepperup Potion.”

You close your eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply.

You don’t necessarily like Disapparating, but right now, it’s the only logical option.

“We’ll go first,” you say, looking at Gojo as you roll the map back up. “I’ll see if there’s anything there before the rest of you follow.”

“You’re not scouting a potentially dangerous location alone,” Shoko says flatly.

You give her a look. “Then don’t take too long.”

Gojo rolls his eyes, but he grabs onto your arm before you can even make the first move, the warmth of his fingers searing against the cold. The familiar pull of Apparition wraps around you before you can protest, the world collapsing inward, a crushing force against your ribs, and then, cold air. Biting against your skin. The smell of damp earth. A dull, thick fog.

You stagger forward slightly, your boots pressing into the soft, leaf-covered ground. The wind up here is different—thinner, sharper, as if you’ve stepped into another realm entirely.

The mountain looms ahead.

Or at least, you think it does.

Everything is cloaked in mist, a heavy, impenetrable white stretching far into the horizon. You can just barely make out the outline of trees, their skeletal branches twisting into the sky, disappearing into the thick fog above. The ground beneath you is uneven, sloping upward as the base of the mountain begins its ascent.

It is eerily quiet. No birds. No insects. No distant hum of life. Only the wind, curling through the trees like something alive.

You unroll the map, pulling it free again. You open it carefully, letting the edges unfurl, and—

Your stomach drops. The map remains blank.

You frown, adjusting your grip, as if tilting it differently might make something appear. But no—there’s nothing. No outline of the temple, no indication of paths or terrain. Only a vast, empty space where the mountain should be.

It isn’t just missing information. It’s obscured.

A hidden place. An unmapped land. A part of the world that refuses to be seen. On purpose, perhaps.

“There’s nothing on it,” Gojo murmurs beside you.

His voice is quieter than usual, stripped of its usual teasing lilt. You don’t look at him right away, your gaze still fixed on the map—on the blank expanse where the temple should be. The pulse of golden light—your location—is the only thing that remains, flickering steadily, useless.

You inhale, slow and steady. You’ve always been good at grounding yourself, at keeping your head even when everything else unravels. But this—this emptiness, this sense of being unseen—it unsettles you in a way you can’t quite name.

When you finally glance at Gojo, your breath catches. He’s closer than you expected, his face turned toward yours, expression unreadable. You swallow. The remnants of Apparition still linger in your body, making your limbs feel unsteady, though not enough to be nauseating. Not like the others. You should say something. You need to say something.

“Tell Utahime and the others that they should get here too,” you say, voice quieter than you mean it to be.

For a moment, he doesn’t move.

“Fawkes,” he says, soft but deliberate. A name. Your name. The nickname he’s always used when he wants your attention, when he wants you to listen—really listen. You know what he’s about to do. You always know. The way he shifts his weight just slightly before he says something important. The way his voice dips when he means something more than his words let on. You know him like the back of your hand, like a familiar passage from your favorite book. You know him better than you should.

So before he can speak again, you shake your head. Just the slightest movement. Barely noticeable, but he catches it. He always does.

“Afterwards,” you say. “When everything’s over.”

A flicker of something crosses his face—confusion, maybe. But it fades just as quickly, replaced by something closer to understanding.

“How is it,” he muses, “that you always know exactly what I’m going to do?”

You huff, forcing a small smile. “The same way you always know exactly how to push my buttons.”

He exhales through his nose, something between a sigh and a laugh, shaking his head before pulling his phone from his coat pocket. The soft glow of the screen illuminates his features for a second before he types out a message, sending it off into the ether.

The silence stretches between you. You don’t mind it.

You let your fingers brush over the map again, feeling the worn leather binding, the texture of the parchment beneath your touch. It feels different now—lighter, almost fragile. But nothing has changed. You glance up, gaze flickering over the mist-covered landscape, the atrophied outlines of trees scarcely visible in the distance. It feels like you’ve stepped into a place that exists outside of time, somewhere separate from the rest of the world.

You’re still alone. Utahime, Shoko, and Nanami haven’t arrived yet. The mountain is quiet, still watching.

You tilt your head, looking back at Gojo. He’s already staring at you.

“Do you think your mother meant it?” you ask, your voice just above a whisper.

His brow furrows slightly. “Meant what?”

“That Dumbledore is a selfish man,” you say. You don’t mean to hesitate, but you do. The weight of the thought is heavy, pressing against your ribs. “That he won’t stop at anything until he gets what he wants. And that’s why your mother made sure he was put under surveillance after the prophecy was revealed to her.”

He doesn’t answer. The silence that follows is heavier than the one before, unmovingly thick.

But you don’t get the chance to press him, because then, a sharp crack breaks through the quiet, then another, and another.

The others appear in front of you, the aftershocks of Apparition still rippling through the air. Shoko and Nanami stagger slightly, their faces pale with nausea, while Utahime immediately moves to steady them. She murmurs something under her breath, a hand on Shoko’s back, but the words are lost to the wind.

Gojo reaches into his coat, retrieving another vial of Pepperup Potion, handing it over without a word.

And then—

He looks at you. That same look. The one that means he knows something. The one that means he’s holding something back, keeping something from you. The one that means he’s already decided how much he’s willing to share, and how much he’s going to keep to himself.

It infuriates you. But now is not the time to fight him on it. And you hate that. But you sigh.

You clutch the map tighter in your hands, the leather-bound edges digging into your palms.

“Guys,” you say, voice steady but sharp, getting their attention, “there’s a problem.”

They all turn to you. Gojo, who had been stretching his arms above his head like this is nothing more than a casual morning stroll, groans slightly, knowing how everyone’s reactions will be to this information. Utahime, adjusting the strap of her bag, looks up with a frown. Nanami watches, unimpressed as always, and Shoko, looking at you with mild amusement, only raises an eyebrow.

“How are we supposed to find anything,” you continue, slowly turning the map toward them, “if the map suddenly goes blank?”

A golden dot pulses at the center. Your location. But everything else—everything beyond this exact point—is nothing but an empty abyss of dark, almost black parchment. No trails, no trees, no temple. Nothing.

Utahime steps closer, furrowing her brows. “Wait, what?”

“It’s blank, different from the other temple, but still blank” you repeat, flipping it back toward yourself, as if looking at it from another angle might reveal something different. “No forest, no mountain, nothing.”

Utahime leans in, peering at it, before crossing her arms. “That shouldn’t be possible.”

Shoko groans dramatically, tilting her head back toward the sky. “Maybe it’ll update itself when it realizes we’re struggling.”

You shoot her a look. “Right. Let’s just wait for it to pity us.”

Gojo snickers. Utahime ignores you both, snatching the map from your hands, flipping it around as if it might reveal some hidden layer beneath.

“Well, that’s fucking useless,” she mutters.

“Oh?” Gojo says, smirking. “The great Utahime, admitting something is useless?”

She turns to him, already exasperated. “What is your problem?”

“My problem,” Gojo starts, voice infuriatingly smooth, “is that we’re supposed to be solving a centuries-old mystery, and you’re acting like an old lady who just realized her clock is broken.”

Utahime scoffs. “That’s the stupidest analogy I’ve ever heard.”

“Oh? Would you like me to try another?”

“No, I’d like you to shut up.”

“That’s not very nice, ‘Hime.”

You sigh, already used to this. “Are you two going to bicker the entire way up the mountain, or…?”

Utahime presses her fingers against the bridge of her nose. “I hate working with him.”

Gojo clasps his hands together, mockingly sincere. “You wound me.”

Shoko hums in amusement. Nanami, standing beside her with his arms crossed, looks deeply unimpressed. “Are we done?” he asks, voice flat. “Or should we give you two more time to act like children?”

“I’m not acting like a child,” Utahime snaps.

Gojo grins. “That’s exactly what a child would say.”

Utahime makes a noise of frustration. You roll your eyes, grabbing the map back from her hands and turning to her. “‘Hime, Where are the cable cars?”

She exhales, composing herself before looking around. For a moment, her expression shifts into something more serious—distantly calculating. Then, she points past a clearing, toward a narrow path framed by trees.

“There,” she says. “We go up, and then take the cars to the top of the mountain.”

You nod. “Then let’s go.”

“Wait,” Gojo says, voice suddenly sharper.

You pause, turning back to him. “What now?”

His gaze is lifted toward the peak, obscured by mist. His smirk is gone, replaced by something unreadable.

“Why would a grave be near a temple?” he asks.

The wind shifts. The trees whisper. The silence lingers. Something about this place feels wrong and right at the same time.

You tighten your grip on the map, its edges rough beneath your fingers. The golden dot marking your location pulses steadily, as if mocking you—taunting you with how utterly useless it is.

“What do you mean?” you ask, voice cutting through the silence. “These are very prominent Buddhist locations, right? That’s what I thought we were supposed to be—”

“No, Fawkes,” Gojo interrupts, shaking his head. His tone is different now, sharper, more serious. “Think.” His gaze is locked onto you, searching, urging. “Have you ever seen a grave near a temple?”

You open your mouth, then pause.

“A shrine, sure,” he continues. “But not temples. Temples are holy, they’re peaceful. They exist to guide the living, not house the dead. A place like this—it isn’t meant for someone like Sukuna.”

His words settle in the space between you, twisting into something uneasy. Because he’s right. He’s right, and that realization is enough to send a shiver down your spine.

Your grip on the map tightens. “The map is blank,” you murmur, almost to yourself. The thought coils in your mind, its implications clicking into place with a slow, creeping dread. “It’s the most we’ve gotten out of it today.”

Utahime snorts. “Please tell me you meant to say ‘the least.’”

You shake your head, shaking away the uncertainty, forcing yourself to focus. “No, this is… progress. I think. Everywhere else, we could see everything. Streets, buildings, trees. But here?” You glance down at the map again, at the empty expanse of parchment surrounding your lone, flickering marker. “We can’t see anything at all. Except for where we are. It’s different. I think… I think we might already be where we need to be.” Your voice wavers slightly, but you push forward. “Even though it feels like a big fucking fluke.”

No one speaks.

The silence stretches between you all, thick with unspoken thoughts.

But Gojo—he isn’t looking at you. He isn’t looking at the map or the others. His gaze is fixed on the landscape, scanning the trees, the mountain, the uneven ground beneath your feet. He takes in everything—the way the mist clings to the treetops, the way the air feels, the way the world has shifted into something just slightly off-kilter.

Then, without a word, he reaches up and removes his glasses.

The movement is slow, deliberate. He folds them neatly and slips them into his pocket like they mean nothing.

You inhale sharply. He isn’t looking at you, but he doesn’t need to.

Your breath catches as you follow his gaze—out beyond the clearing, past the trees, to a spot that seems unremarkable at first. Just a small dip in the earth, a shallow indentation where the grass grows thinner. But then, you see it.

A thin, near-invisible trail of water, trickling down from the mountain’s peak, weaving through the rocks and roots before pooling at a small, quiet basin near your feet.

A natural spring.

The water is clear, perfectly still, undisturbed by wind or movement. Yet there’s something unsettling about it, something that makes your skin prickle as you stare at the way it gleams under the weak morning light.

“Satoru?” you murmur.

He doesn’t answer.

Instead, he takes a step forward, his expression unreadable. Then another.

And without a word, you follow.

The map is clutched tight in your hands, the edges damp with sweat. You don’t hesitate, don’t pause to look back. You don’t even think—you just move, drawn forward by something unspoken, something you don’t quite understand.

The others follow, footsteps muffled against the damp earth. Utahime’s eyes flick between you and Gojo, wary but unwilling to interrupt. Shoko walks with a lazy sort of interest, while Nanami remains silent, watchful.

The water ripples as Gojo steps closer.

The trail beneath your feet is uneven, slick with damp moss and loose stones. It’s not a real path, not something meant for people to walk on, and yet Gojo moves like it is—like he’s always known this route, like the mountain itself is bending to his will.

"Where are we going?" Utahime asks, voice quiet, almost wary.

No one answers.

You catch the way Shoko shrugs, unbothered, the way Nanami barely shakes his head, resigned. The silence stretches longer, broken only by the crunch of your boots against the dirt and the soft, persistent trickle of water.

You glance up, watching as Gojo climbs higher, moving with a lazy sort of ease that feels wrong in a place like this. He doesn't look back, but when you step onto a particularly loose rock, his hand is there—steady, offering balance. You take it without thinking, just for a second, just until you find your footing again.

And then he moves on. There is no hesitation in his steps. No second-guessing.

He’s leading you all off the path, away from the marked trails, away from where anyone—tourists, monks, even the occasional lost hiker—could possibly see you.

You exhale, watching as he keeps following the water, trailing its source up the mountainside. You let yourself believe, for a moment, that this is his plan. That he's taking you somewhere with purpose. That there will be an answer at the end of this.

But then, he turns. Sharp, deliberate. Away from the water.

The thought in your head withers immediately, cut off before it can fully form. You frown, rolling the map in your hands, stuffing it into your pocket as you pick up the pace, trying to catch up to him.

"Satoru," you call softly, stepping over a gnarled root. "Say something."

He doesn't stop walking. Doesn't turn around.

"Afterwards," he says, and his voice is quieter than usual, the weight of it settling somewhere deep in your bones. "When everything’s over."

The words echo between you, and this time, you don’t argue because he’s repeating your own words from earlier back to you.

The ground gets trickier the farther and higher you go. Loose soil, jagged rocks, the kind of uneven footing that makes every step more of a risk. Your fingers brush against damp stone as you reach out to steady yourself, and for the next few minutes, there is nothing but the sound of your breathing, the press of the mountain rising steeply around you.

And then, Gojo stops.

You barely register it in time before you collide into his back, the impact forcing a small grunt from your throat.

"Satoru—"

"Those rocks."

His voice is different now. Sharper. You follow his gaze, heart stuttering as you take in what he's pointing at. Ahead, near the base of a twisted tree, is a cluster of stones—weathered, arranged deliberately, something that is unmistakably meant to be here. But that isn’t what makes your breath catch.

For a moment, you think your eyes are deceiving you, playing tricks with the shifting shadows and the slivers of moonlight filtering through the branches. But then he shifts, just slightly, and you see the glint of something—his belt buckle? A knife? No, just the metal of his rings catching the faint light.

Your breath stills.

Gojo is already moving before you can react. His footsteps are sharp against the forest floor, crunching dried leaves and twigs, and his wand is raised before you even process that it’s Toji standing there.

“What are you doing here, Fushiguro?” Gojo’s voice is low, sharp-edged, crackling with restrained magic. He presses the tip of his wand to the back of Toji’s head, fingers curled around the handle so tightly his knuckles are white.

Toji turns, slow and lazy, like he has all the time in the world. His hands are up, not in surrender, but in that easy, mocking way of his—shoulders loose, chin tilted, smirk playing at the corner of his lips. The same lips you’ve kissed before.

Your stomach twists, your pulse a beat too fast.

“Dumbledore sent me,” Toji says, voice calm, infuriatingly nonchalant. He rolls his shoulders back, stretching slightly, as if none of this—Gojo’s fury, the tension simmering between everyone—concerns him in the slightest. “I don’t mean any harm. The old man just thought I should help, ‘s all.”

Gojo doesn’t lower his wand. If anything, he presses it harder against Toji’s skin, his eyes glinting dangerously behind his glasses. “Like hell we need your help.”

Toji clicks his tongue, shaking his head with mock disappointment. “Didn’t yer mother ever teach you to be nice to yer elders?” His grin widens when Gojo tenses. “I’m tellin’ you. Dumbledore sent me.”

“How’d you know where to go?” you ask, voice quieter than before. The map is still clenched in your hands, its edges crumpled under your grip.

Toji shrugs again. “Dumbledore gave me a few hints.”

Gojo’s nostrils flare. “What do you mean, ‘hints’?”

There’s a sharp shift in the air, the atmosphere suddenly charged with something volatile. Gojo pushes forward, his wand nearly digging into Toji’s neck, his jaw tight with barely contained rage.

The hairs on the back of your neck rise.

“Satoru,” you say, softly but firmly. “Step back.”

He doesn’t listen at first, doesn’t even glance at you. He just stands there, breathing through his nose, his grip still tight on his wand.

“Satoru.”

Finally, he spares you a glance—his gaze still burning, still full of suspicion and anger. But after a long moment, he steps back. Two paces. Then four.

You exhale, turning back to Toji. He watches you carefully, his smirk fading just slightly, replaced by something unreadable.

“Toji,” you say, slowly, measuring your words. “Tell me you’re not lying.”

His expression flickers—just a fraction of hesitation before he speaks.

“Princess—”

“Don’t call me that.” Your voice is sharper than you intended.

His lips quirk up, but the amusement doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m not lyin’,” he says simply. “You think I wanna be here? ‘Course not. I’m doin’ this to boost my Auror applications. Classified work. Dumbledore made sure I’d get to the right place.”

You don’t break eye contact, studying him for any tell, any flicker of deception.

Then, you sigh. “He’s telling the truth.”

There’s a sharp inhale from Gojo, and when you turn, you see him looking at you like you’ve just betrayed him. His disbelief is so palpable you can feel it, seeping into your skin like cold water.

“You can’t be serious.”

Utahime exhales heavily. “If there’s anything you need to know about Fushiguro, Gojo, it’s that he does things solely for selfish purposes.”

Gojo is still looking at you, like he’s waiting for you to take it back, to say you were wrong.

You don’t. And slowly, reluctantly, he lowers his wand.

You swallow, your throat dry, before finally turning toward the rocks by the tree. There’s an incense stick. Already lit, and set on top of the stone. Already burned halfway down to nothing. Your stomach twists.

Geto. You know it before anyone has to say it.

You step forward, your boots pressing into damp earth, closing the distance with slow, careful movements. The others follow, drawn in by the same terrible realization. The scent of the incense is faint, something familiar but unwelcome, curling into the cold air like a whisper.

Gojo doesn’t move. Neither does Toji.

Utahime breathes in sharply, hands curling into fists, while Shoko just watches, her expression unreadable. Nanami stays still, watching the scene disentangle immovably.

But you? You kneel.

Your fingers ghost over the edges of the stones, their surfaces worn smooth from time and exposure. You hesitate for only a second before pressing your hands against them, testing their weight, pushing.

They shift. Just slightly. Your breath catches again, harsher this time.

"We have to move them," you say, voice steadier than you feel.

No one argues. Together, you start working, lifting, shifting, clearing away the stones one by one. The deeper you go, the more you realize—they weren’t just placed here at random. They were meant to hide something.

The last rock is heavier, and it takes both you and Nanami to push it aside. But when it finally moves, the map burns.

Not in flame, not in a way that destroys.

But in a way that ignites.

A sharp, golden pulse erupts from it, so sudden that you nearly drop it. Your fingers tighten around the parchment, feeling the warmth spread through your skin, sinking deep. It glows, flickers—something shifting across its surface like ink bleeding into water.

And then, a drop of blood.

Yours.

You barely register the sting until you see it—a thin, shallow cut across your palm, left behind from the sharp edge of a rock. A single bead of blood swells, wavers, and then—

It falls.

And time slows as it does, finally landing on the map with a soft plop.

The reaction is immediate. The golden light surges, curling outward, the blank space unraveling like a spell breaking. And then—slowly, slowly—something begins to appear.

Lines. Symbols. A path.

And beneath your feet, a low, deep rumble. The earth shifts, and the entrance reveals itself.

“Well,” Gojo glances back at the rest of you. “Shall we?”

You inhale sharply, the scent of damp stone thick in the air, before stepping forward, gripping the map tightly in your hands. The parchment is warm now, pulsing like a second heartbeat against your fingertips. You push ahead of Gojo, brushing past him without sparing a glance.

"I have the map," you say, voice steadier than you feel. "I have to tell you all the way."

Gojo doesn't argue. No one does.

The passage ahead yawns open like the throat of something ancient, something waiting. Darkness stretches out in both directions, thick and undisturbed, and yet—there is a structure to it. This is no ordinary cave, no natural formation carved by time and water. The walls bear the shape of something deliberate, something built. There is a symmetry to the archways, the way the stone has been shaped, pressed into perfect, unnatural precision.

A catacomb. A tomb.

"Lumos," Nanami murmurs, and then one by one, all their wands ignite, their glow illuminating the space in flickering bursts of gold and blue. Shadows dance wildly across the walls, stretching, bending, making shapes where there are none.

And then, the entrance seals behind you.

A dull, grinding sound shudders through the space as stone drags against stone, the path behind you closing in on itself with a finality that makes your stomach drop. The air thickens, pressing against your skin like the weight of something unseen, something watching.

Utahime swallows audibly, walking beside Toji.

"Why are there weird runes on the walls?" she asks, voice barely above a whisper.

You turn, eyes narrowing as she lifts her wand, illuminating the carvings. Symbols—etched deep into the stone, curling in intricate patterns, spiraling down the length of the corridor. Your heart lurches as recognition settles in.

The runes. From Mirai's parchments. They are here. Real. Tangible.

You suck in a breath, turning sharply to Gojo, and he meets your gaze with something grim, something knowing.

"That's exactly what you think it is," he says. And you exhale.

"These," you whisper, "were in Gojo’s mother’s notes. Specialists have been trying to decode them at the Ministry, but there hasn’t been any luck so far."

Utahime stares at the symbols for a moment longer, then exhales, shaking her head slightly.

"Well," she murmurs, "at least now we’re sure we’re going in the right direction."

"You wouldn’t know the right direction if it hit you in the face, Iori," Gojo mutters.

You elbow him before he can say anything else, rolling your eyes as you glance back at the map. The golden marker is still there, a single pulsing point in the vast, twisting pathways now revealed on the parchment. And extending from it—

A path. A single line, leading forward, winding deep into the tunnels.

"Alright," you say, voice heavy with something unnameable. "Up straight ahead so far."

The silence that follows is different now. It is no longer the quiet of an abandoned place, nor the hush of the unknown. It is oppressive, lingering, as if the air itself is thick with something unsaid. Every step echoes too loudly, the sound bouncing off the walls in ways that don’t feel natural.

It is not like the One-Eyed-Witch Passageway.

It is way, way worse.

Here, the air is damp and stale, laced with something metallic. You can hear water dripping, here too, slow and steady, but it is not a comforting sound. It is wrong. Everything is wrong. Each drop is sharp, ringing out against the stone like something waiting, something watching.

A knife at the back of your throat, waiting to cut.

"Fawkes," Gojo murmurs, his voice uncharacteristically soft, "you okay?"

You nod, though your grip on the map tightens slightly.

Behind you, Utahime and Shoko are murmuring, their voices low as they trace their fingers over the runes, trying to make sense of them as they walk. The symbols seem to shift under the flickering light, twisting into something unrecognizable whenever you look away.

And then, a sound. Not footsteps. Not water. Something else. You take another step, turning the first corner, and freeze.

A song. High-pitched. Piercing. Not melodic, not harmonious, but shrill, discordant—something between a wail and laughter. The hairs on the back of your neck rise, and before you can react, Gojo moves.

Fast. His hand is on your shoulder, shoving you back, pressing you against the wall as he raises his wand.

"Lumos Maxima!"

Light explodes outward, flooding the passage.

And there, Erklings.

Lining the path ahead, their bodies hunched, composed of wood and thorns, twisted and gnarled like something out of a nightmare. Their eyes gleam yellow in the wandlight, and when they grin, their sharp teeth glisten with something wet.

Bavarian Erklings.

You scramble for your wand, reaching for the hidden sheath in your boot, fingers fumbling against the leather. But they are fast. And one of them is already lunging, your breath catches, heart hammering, and before you can even react—

"Crucio!"

The word slams into the air like a physical force.

The Erkling shrieks.

A sound unlike anything you've ever heard—raw, agonized, its body twisting, writhing as it collapses onto the stone floor, limbs convulsing. Your head jerks toward Gojo, mouth wide open. His wand is still raised, expression unreadable. He holds the curse for a second too long. And then he stops.

The Erkling slumps, twitching, gasping in short, ragged bursts. And then—

"Pullus," Gojo mutters.

The Erkling barely has time to react before its body shifts, contorts—feathers sprouting in jagged tufts, limbs shrinking, warping, until all that remains is a dazed, disoriented chicken.

There is a silence that stretches between all of you. Your lips part, a protest forming, but nothing comes out.

Gojo does not look at you. Instead, he turns back to the others.

"Keep moving," he says.

And then the fight begins in earnest. Utahime, Toji and Nanami are already moving, wands raised, throwing jinxes faster than you can process.

"Melofors!"

"Pullus!"

A burst of magic surges through the tunnel—Erklings dropping one by one, their bodies warping, twisting, shifting into harmless forms. A pumpkin-headed creature stumbles into a wall, its shrill shriek cutting off abruptly. Another chicken flaps wildly before darting into the darkness.

Shoko dodges an incoming attack, flicking her wand sharply.

"Expulso!"

The force of the blast sends the creature flying, colliding against the stone with a sickening crunch. And then, it is silent. The last Erkling crumples, transformed, defeated.

Your breaths come fast, uneven.

Gojo exhales, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the weight of an unseen thing. You clutch the map, pulse still unsteady.

And then, you step forward.

"Come on," you say, voice quieter than before. And you keep walking, deeper into the dark. This time, with your wand clutched tightly in hand.

This is silent in the way that a tomb is silent. A silence so complete it feels wrong, heavy, pressing against your skin, against your ribs, like the weight of the catacombs is threatening to collapse inward and swallow you whole. You listen to it, to the near-absence of sound: the shuffle of cautious footsteps against the uneven stone, the slow drip of water from unseen cracks above, the occasional intake of breath as someone stifles their unease. Even your heartbeat sounds loud in your ears.

You keep moving forward, leading them through the winding passage. The walls narrow and widen unpredictably, swallowing you in shadows one moment, then spilling out into dimly lit chambers the next. The light from your wands does little to dispel the oppressive blackness that lurks beyond its reach. Shadows stretch unnaturally, warping against the stone. You swear they move when you're not looking directly at them.

There are creatures here, but nothing large. Small, skittering things that vanish into cracks when light passes over them. They don’t bother you. Not yet. But something about them—about all of this—itches at the back of your mind.

You swallow down the lingering feeling of failure. You hesitated before. You could’ve been hurt. Worse, someone else could have. And you don’t know why it happened. You’ve been in fights before, but when that Erkling lunged for you, for a split second, you did nothing. You don’t have the luxury of hesitation now.

You glance back. Gojo is near the rear now, keeping pace with Nanami, his head on a constant swivel, eyes sharp, searching for threats before they find you. He hasn't looked at you since—since before, when the Erkling nearly reached you and he cast the Cruciatus Curse without hesitation. You don’t know what’s worse—the fact that he did it, or the fact that you didn’t say anything.

“Hey,” Toji’s voice is quiet beside you. You flinch before you can stop yourself. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. He places a hand on your shoulder as you walk, firm, grounding. “Don’t worry. You’ll do fine.”

“I know,” you say quickly, avoiding his gaze, “I got distracted for a second. It won’t happen again.”

“It’s okay, y’know,” he continues, easy, unreadable. “Happens when it’s your first time. Can’t really blame yourself.”

“Right,” you nod, tightening your grip on the map. And then you feel it—the shift in the air.

It’s almost imperceptible. A sudden drop in temperature, the taste of damp stone thickening on your tongue. The hair at the nape of your neck stands on end.

You stop. “Wait.”

Toji furrows his brows but listens. The rest of them come to a halt as well, footsteps trailing off into silence. You exhale sharply, steadying yourself, rolling the map back up as your fingers tighten around your wand.

You step forward and whisper, “Lumos.”

The soft glow barely reaches the darkness ahead. Toji doesn’t hesitate—he flicks his wand, sending out a small burst of light, something like a spark, and you watch as it streaks forward, down the corridor.

It travels far. Farther than it should, down the endless stone passage, before it hits the end of the tunnel.

And for a moment, it illuminates them.

Inferi.

The sight slams into you like a physical thing. A suffocating, all-consuming wrongness that crawls up your spine and wraps around your ribs, constricting, pressing the air from your lungs.

They stand in the clearing where the tunnel widens into a vast chamber. Hundreds of them. No—thousands. Lurking at the edges of the light, motionless. Pale, waterlogged skin stretched thin over bone. Empty, milky eyes turned toward you in eerie synchrony. Their mouths hang open, twisted into expressions that were once screams, their fingers curled like claws at their sides.

They don’t move—not yet.

The spark dies. Darkness returns. And then, they move.

A sharp, jagged inhale rips through your throat. “Prepare yourselves!”

Shoko stiffens beside you. “What—what are they?”

You don’t take your eyes off them as you force the words out. “Inferi.”

Toji exhales sharply, a humorless, disbelieving sound. “You’re telling me Sukuna left an army of dead bodies here before he died?”

Your grip tightens on your wand as the Inferi lurch forward, slow at first, dragging, unsteady, like they are remembering how to move.

“Yes,” you whisper.

Then they run.

“Incendio Maxima!”

A torrent of fire erupts from your wand, surging forward like a wave, roaring through the tunnel and slamming into the first line of them. They ignite instantly, collapsing into heaps of smoldering ash before they can even scream. But there are more. So many more.

You glance at Gojo. He understands immediately. “Incendio Maxima!”

His fire burns hotter, brighter. The tunnel is bathed in violent orange and gold, casting nightmarish shadows along the walls as the Inferi burn, as they keep coming.

“There are thousands,” you yell over the roar of the flames. “Do your best.”

“Thousands?” Utahime breathes, horrified, but there’s no time for fear.

Gojo pushes past you, casting another massive burst of fire that incinerates twenty, thirty at a time, but they don’t stop.

They will reach you. They will consume you. You can already see it happening—how their hands will grab at you, how their fingers will dig into your skin, how their rotting, open mouths will close around your flesh.

You will die here.

No. No, you won’t. You can’t. You promised Gojo’s mother that you’d put your life before his.

“Satoru?” Your voice cuts through the fire and footsteps and snarling groans. “Firestorm Charm! I can’t do it—I’m not powerful enough.”

His head jerks toward you, and there’s fear in his eyes, something raw and wrong, and he shakes his head. “I don’t know the incantation for it. Trust me, I would do it if I—”

An Inferius lunges for him.

“Satoru!”

Toji grabs the back of Gojo’s coat, yanking him away just in time, spinning on his heel. You don’t see him cast, only see the eruption of fire that follows.

It spreads fast—a ring of flame roaring to life around all of you, crimson and gold, alive in a way magic shouldn’t be. The Inferi reel back, screaming, but they can’t reach you anymore.

Toji exhales, glancing back at everyone. “Move with me.”

And he does, stepping forward, the fire moving with him, a living shield, a boundary between you and them.

Your throat is dry. “How do you know how to do this?”

Toji doesn’t look back. “You kept your secrets all year and now expect me to tell you things?”

You swallow. “Sorry.”

“’S alright,” he says.

Then, above you, movement.

You glance up. The Inferi that didn’t burn are crawling across the ceiling. Your stomach twists violently, but you don’t hesitate this time.

“Incendio Maxima!”

They burn. They fall to the ashes. And Toji gives you a triumphant smile, “See? You didn’t get scared.”

You can’t help it—you return the smile, the edges of your mouth curling before you even think to stop yourself. A quiet, fleeting moment, as fragile as the flickering light of your wands.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “I didn’t.”

Then, you turn to Gojo. He’s a step away from you, close enough that the heat from his body lingers in the space between, close enough that if you reach out, you could touch the soot-smudged sleeve of his coat. You don’t.

“You okay?”

His lips press together for half a second, then, “I’m fine.” He says it lowly, almost grumbling. His voice is rough at the edges, worn thin, like he’s been pushing it too much, yelling over the roar of fire and moving bodies. Then, softer, but still urgent, “Check the map. We have to keep going.”

Up ahead, Toji moves steadily forward, his wand raised, the firestorm curling outward as he walks. Behind him, you all stay huddled, feet shifting carefully across the uneven stone floor, the remnants of charred bodies crumbling underfoot. Nanami, Utahime, and Shoko move in rhythm, their wands flicking up in quick, precise motions, sending bursts of flame whenever an Inferius manages to crawl too high, whenever the walls shift with the weight of something overhead. You don’t let yourself think too much about how many of them are left, how many still lurk just beyond the reach of your fire.

You kneel slightly, unrolling the leather of the map, fingers trembling just enough to make it frustrating, the heat of your skin bleeding into the parchment. Your breath is quick, uneven, but you don’t stop, don’t hesitate. You press your fingers against the worn edges, trying to smooth it flat against your thigh, eyes scanning over the markings—

And then you see it.

Your breath stills. The end. It’s near.

The pulsing light of the map—the magic leading you forward—stretches just past the clearing, just past the sea of Inferi. Then it stops. No, not stops. It pauses. There’s a break. A small indentation in the ink. In the light. Not a dead end. A doorway.

Your eyes trace the markings carefully, slowly. Beyond the doorway, there is another corridor, another tunnel, drawn in the same narrow lines as the one you stand in now. But there is no light there. No pulsing glow, no magic guiding you forward. The path just continues into nothing.

A door before the grave. A tunnel leading into blackness before the grave.

You exhale, forcing yourself to swallow down the thick knot of unease in your throat. You roll the map back up, standing swiftly, turning to Gojo. He’s already watching you.

“It’s not that far ahead,” you say, voice steady, despite the way your hand still burns with sweat seeping into the cut from earlier, despite the way the air still hums with distant, unnatural movement. He doesn’t respond, just tilts his head slightly, waiting. You shift, just enough that the distance between you is reduced to inches. No, centimeters. Close enough to feel him. But you ignore it, focus back on the map, lifting a hand to point. “This, however, may prove difficult.”

Gojo’s eyes flicker downward, watching the movement of your fingers, the subtle indentation on the map. His voice is softer when he speaks now, no longer rough with urgency, just quiet, questioning. “How so?”

You shake your head, stiffly. “The Inferi are here.” You tap at the clearing. “The grave is where the light stops.” Another tap. Then, finally, your finger hovers over the break in the ink. “This indent. It’s a doorway. There’s a tunnel past it, but I can’t see anything there. No markers. No details.” You exhale, slowly. “That means it could be worse than what’s out here.”

Gojo is silent for a moment. Then his lips press together, flattening into something grim, something careful, before he finally says, “I won’t let anything happen to you. I hope you know that.”

You blink, startled by the sudden sincerity. Then your shoulders tighten, your breath catches slightly. But it’s gone quickly, replaced by something sharp, something certain. You shake your head. “That’s not what I’m worried about, dummy.”

He exhales. A laugh, maybe, but too short, too quiet.

“I can’t let anything happen to you, either,” you say.

Gojo looks at you for half a second too long. Then his expression flickers, shifts—eyes widening just slightly. And before you can react, before you even register why, his wand is already raised, aimed just above your head.

“Incendio!”

A sudden burst of fire, sharp and white-hot, surges past you. You jerk backward, the heat searing the air above as something screeches—a raw, grating, inhuman sound that echoes through the tunnel, bouncing off the stone walls. You look up, breath caught in your throat.

The Inferius is falling, already burned, already gone, its hollowed-out face twisted into something monstrous, something not quite human anymore, something that might have once been a person, long ago. It collapses into ash before it even reaches the ground.

“Thanks,” you murmur, barely above a breath, before turning to Toji. He’s just ahead of you, his body silhouetted against the flickering wall of fire, his grip on his wand unwavering despite the exhaustion evident in the rigid set of his shoulders.

“Hey,” you call, voice low but firm, “can you see the hall up ahead? There’s a small tunnel past it. We have to go through there. Be careful.”

Toji doesn’t turn, only grunts, his eyes locked onto the shifting mass of the dead just beyond the flames. “Not many left. Barely a few hundreds now,” he mutters.

Your pulse stutters as a handful of Inferi lurch forward, nearly breaking through the barrier of fire. You raise your wand in an instant, fingers slick with sweat, and send out a burst of white-hot flames. “Incendio!”

The heat flares across your face as the creatures crumble, bodies collapsing into blackened ash, and the smell of charred, rotting flesh thickens in the stagnant air.

“Keep going straight,” you say, voice softer now, but urgent. “Stop just before the big hall. If we go in there, we won’t be able to control them. There’s too many.”

Toji gives a stiff nod. “Right.”

Gojo moves beside you, stepping forward slightly, his wand still raised. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t falter—just sends another torrent of flames into the darkness, clearing more of the army of the dead so the group can push forward. The firelight catches against his skin, his white hair glinting gold for brief, fleeting moments before flickering back into shadow.

And Toji does exactly as you told him. He stops just at the entrance of the hall.

You freeze beside him, eyes widening at the vast, open space before you. It’s circular, cavernous, the walls stretching high into a dome of blackness. You can’t see the ceiling, can’t even see where the walls end. It’s just dark, an abyss of stone and silence. But it’s filled—packed—with the Inferi, bodies stacked, pressed, twisted together in a sea of the undead.

There’s a tunnel at the other end. Barely visible. If not for the firelight, you wouldn’t even be able to tell the difference between the walls of the cavern and the creatures standing in front of them. The way they move—it’s not all at once, not a coordinated attack. Just slow, unnatural twitches, heads turning sharply, bodies shifting awkwardly in reaction to the flames. But they don’t stop. They can’t stop.

Gojo exhales sharply beside you, gaze locked ahead. “Keep the wall up.” His voice is gruff, lower than usual.

Then, he raises his wand. And this time, it’s stronger than anything before.

A single, roaring inferno bursts forward, crashing against the Inferi with devastating force. It engulfs the first hundred instantly, burning them to nothing in seconds. You can barely see beyond the sheer brightness of it, your vision flickering between gold and black as the flames spread outward, stretching past Toji’s firestorm, devouring.

Some of them try to retreat. But they don’t—can’t—make it far. It’s in their very nature to chase, to seek out the living. And so they keep moving, even as their bodies burn, even as they collapse into nothing.

Gojo exhales, lowering his wand slightly, turning to you. A question in his eyes. You nod.

And this time, you do it together. “Incendio Maxima!”

The flames that erupt from your wands are immense, combined into something unstoppable. It surges forward, past Toji’s wall, past the clearing, past the horde—a monstrously magnificent burst of gold and white, twisting into shapes you can’t even comprehend, consuming everything.

The heat is unbearable. The light nearly blinding. The screams—horrific, unnatural, echoing endlessly against the stone walls—fill the cavern like a terrible chorus of the damned.

By the time the flames die down, the cavern is silent. There are only a few left now. Twenty, maybe forty. Easily manageable.

A breath escapes you, unsteady, but relieved. A grin breaks across your face, triumphant, and before you can stop yourself, a quiet laugh slips past your lips.

Shoko and Nanami step forward, raising their wands, sending their own bursts of flame into the few remaining Inferi, finishing them off.

And then, finally, Toji lowers his wand.

A harsh breath leaves him, something between a sigh and a quiet grunt, and you watch as Utahime claps a hand on his back, murmuring a small, “Thanks.”

You catch her eye, and give her a small, tired smile.

“Hey,” Shoko then says, nodding up ahead. “There’s the tunnel.”

You follow her gaze. At the very back of the cavern, beyond the burnt remains of what was once a horde, there is an opening. A tunnel, carved into the stone.

But it splits.

“There’s three paths,” Utahime murmurs.

You glance down at the map, scanning it quickly, before looking back up. “Go straight.”

A chorus of “Lumos” follows, each voice low, exhausted, but clear.

Your steps are slow now, careful, as the group moves through the charred remains of the Inferi, past the blackened bones, past the ruined, hollowed-out eyes that no longer see.

And as you walk, you look up.

The vastness of it unnerves you. The way the stone stretches up, up, up—higher than you can see, disappearing into the darkness above. The walls are carved, etched with runes, scattered across the cavern in patterns that feel deliberate, that feel ancient. You can’t make out the inscriptions anymore, not now that the fire is gone, but you’d caught glimpses earlier, words you didn’t recognize, shapes that felt wrong.

Your fingers tighten around your wand. “There might be a doorway up ahead,” you say.

You step into the tunnel, and the sound of your footsteps echoes against the dark stone, each step swallowed by the weight of the silence pressing in around you. The air is coagulated, lifeless, untouched by anything living for centuries. The only light comes from the glow of your wands, flickering against the uneven walls, casting elongated shadows that twist and stretch with every movement.

Behind you, the others fall into step, their breathing shallow, quiet. No one speaks. There is something about this place—something about the way the tunnel narrows, the way the walls close in—that makes words feel too loud, too dangerous.

You glance down at the map again, eyes tracing the inked lines. It’s supposed to be just ahead.

You stop. Only a few feet away, you see it. The incantation, faintly marked on the stone beneath your feet.

Your grip tightens around your wand, and you whisper, “Nox.”

The light dies instantly, plunging the tunnel ahead into darkness. For a moment, the silence is deafening. Then, you lift your wand and flick a single spark forward.

It dies before it reaches the ground.

Your pulse thrums in your ears. Now, you see it—it’s not exactly a doorway. More of a gate. A metal door with bars, stretching from floor to ceiling, its iron-blackened with age, embedded deep into the rock like it had been built into the mountain itself.

It’s locked. You step forward, staring at the intricate mechanism, and exhale slowly, murmuring, “Alohomora.”

Nothing. The gate doesn’t budge. Not even a shift, not even a sound. Your heart sinks as you turn back to the others, the cold metal reflecting the dim light of their wands.

Shoko presses her lips together, stepping beside you. She raises her wand, whispering the spell again. Still nothing. The tunnel falls into stillness, thick with expectation, with unease. The metal gate looms before you, unmoving, impenetrable.

Nanami shifts, his voice low. “What now?”

You stare at the gate, pulse quickening. Then, the realization practically hits you in the face.

A slow grin spreads across your face as you turn to Gojo. “Hagrid.”

He frowns, brows furrowing. “What?”

You shake your head, already reaching down, stuffing your wand back into your boot before carefully, delicately, peeling back the embroidered fabric of your chest pocket. The Gryffindor crest is still warm against your fingertips.

And inside, two tiny, beady black eyes peek up at you.

A quiet breath of relief escapes as you gently lift your hand, offering your palm, and the small creature blinks before climbing onto your fingers with its delicate, twig-like limbs.

Gojo steps closer, eyes widening. “That’s what Hagrid gave you?”

You nod, extending your arm slightly. “Everyone, meet Twig. He’s a Bowtruckle.”

There’s a pause.

“Oh my God,” Shoko mutters then, running a hand down her face. “They can open practically any lock.”

“Exactly,” you say, grinning now. The tension in your chest loosens, just a little, as you bring Twig closer to the iron gate, whispering, “Sorry, Twig. I promise I’ll take you back to Hagrid after all this, okay? But I need your help.”

Twig chitters softly, tilting his tiny head, before gingerly stepping onto the cold metal. He moves with careful, deliberate precision, scuttling down toward the lock like he already knows exactly what to do.

For a moment, there’s only the soft sound of his small limbs scraping against the metal. Then, he reaches the keyhole, pressing his tiny branch-like fingers into its intricate gears.

He twists. Turns. A quiet, rapid chitter fills the space, echoing through the tunnel.

Then—

Click.

The lock releases. The gate swings open, groaning loudly as it moves.

A breathless laugh escapes you. Relief floods your chest as you extend your arm again, and Twig eagerly clambers back onto your sleeve.

“Thank you,” you murmur, brushing a gentle finger against his tiny head before opening the pocket of your sweater again. He slips inside, curling up in the fabric, and just as he settles, you swear he yawns.

You shake your head, smiling. Then, you look back up, past the open gate. The last tunnel stretches before you, silent, waiting.

“One last tunnel,” you say. Your voice is steady, despite the pulse thrumming in your throat. You lift your wand.

“Lumos.”

You step forward, and the tunnel seems to shrink around you. The air grows impervious, heavy, pressing in from all sides like an invisible force, as if the walls are breathing, as if the tunnel itself is watching. Your breath curls in front of you in thin, silver wisps, barely visible in the dim light of your wand.

You exhale, and the cold deepens.

It is the kind of cold that seeps into the marrow of your frame, that settles in the hollows of your chest, that burrows beneath your skin and stays there. It is unnatural, empty, a cold that has nothing to do with winter. And yet, your mind scrambles for something logical—maybe it’s the mountain, maybe the temperature is dropping outside, maybe it has started to snow in Japan. Maybe—

But no.

Something is wrong. Again.

You feel it before you see it. The shift in the air, the way it suddenly thickens, curdles, as if time itself has slowed, as if the world has bent, imperceptibly, just enough for you to notice. A sharp ringing begins to crawl up your ears, a muted, suffocating silence swelling, pressing against your ribcage and sternum.

And then, a slow, creeping shadow.

You see them.

Dementors.

A dozen. No—more. Their cloaks billow, though there is no wind, ragged, tattered, stretching as they move. The darkness around them is thick, almost living, swallowing the dim light of your wand, suffocating it. You can’t see their faces. You don’t need to. The emptiness they carry seeps into your lungs, into your chest, into the marrow of your bones, twisting through your mind like a silent, insidious poison.

The temperature plummets.

It is not the kind of cold that bites at your skin. It is worse. Deeper. It is the kind of cold that drags—drags every happy memory from you, drags every warmth, every safety, until you are hollow, until you are nothing but this moment. This tunnel. This darkness.

Your heart pounds. You can hear it in your ears, beating too fast, too frantic, but even that sound is starting to feel distant, as if the Dementors are already working, pulling something from you, something you can’t lose.

A soft, keening breath escapes from behind you.

You turn, and you see them—Shoko, Utahime, Nanami—standing frozen, rooted, paralyzed by something deeper than fear.

Shoko is breathing too fast, her eyes too wide, her fingers trembling around her wand. Utahime has a hand clamped over her mouth, as if trying to keep something inside, as if she is already hearing something she cannot bear to hear. And Nanami—Nanami, who is always steady, always sure—Nanami is pale, his gaze locked on something beyond what anyone else can see, something inside himself, something that is being taken from him.

Gojo doesn’t move. Toji doesn’t either.

But they feel it. You know they do.

You can see it in the way Gojo clenches his jaw, in the way his fingers tighten around his wand, in the way he forces himself to stay upright, as if holding onto something only he can see. Toji is the same—face impassive, unreadable, but there is a tension in his shoulders, in his stance, in the way his fingers twitch.

And then, a slow, rattling breath. One of the Dementors shifts forward.

Your lungs seize. You can feel it—something pulling, something peeling away, something you cannot afford to lose.

You react before you can think. Your wand is already raised. Your voice is already there.

“Ready?” Toji asks, his voice low, steady.

You nod, pulse thrumming.

"Expecto Patronum!"

Light erupts from your wand—brilliant, silver, cutting through the suffocating darkness like a blade. Toji’s does the same, but his is different—his is mist, a wave of shapeless silver fog rolling forward like a shield, casting long shadows against the stone walls.

You glance at him, breathless. He catches your look and shrugs, his voice as casual as ever. “I have a corporeal one. This is just easier.”

You shake your head, turning back as your own Patronus fully forms. A phoenix. Its wings spread, luminous, searing against the darkness. It rushes forward, cutting through the closest Dementor, pushing it back, driving it away—

But then—

The Dementor stirs, its tattered cloak billowing, its skeletal hands reaching, and the moment your Patronus dissipates, the cold rushes back, fast, suffocating, merciless.

You lower your wand, chest heaving.

The Dementors are still there.

And they are still coming.

“This is why Gojo calls you Fawkes,” Shoko murmurs, the realization settling over her like a slow-burning light.

You glance back at her, the ghost of a smile flickering at your lips, but it’s fleeting—momentary—because the cold is still here, wrapping its fingers around your throat, pressing into your chest, tightening. You nod once, sharp, before turning forward again, gripping your wand just a little bit tighter.

You try again.

“Expecto Patronum!”

The words leave your lips, the spell bursts from your wand, but—

It is weak.

A flicker, barely a glimmer of light before it fades, like a candle snuffed out by an invisible hand. The cold is too strong now, seeping into your bones, rotting through your veins, pulling at something deep, deep inside of you, something you need.

You try to breathe, but the air is thick, heavy, pressing down. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, faster, faster, thudding like a frantic drum. It feels wrong. It feels impossible. You have done this spell a hundred times before, practiced it enough, but now—now—your hands are shaking, your fingers numb, your breath short, your mind clogged with something like fear but worse.

They are coming closer.

You see them, gliding forward in eerie, silent unison, their tattered cloaks swelling, their hollow, faceless voids of heads tilting, as if they can already taste your fear, as if they are already pulling from you. And you feel it—you feel the emptiness coiling in your stomach, reaching into your chest, clawing through your memories, through everything that makes you you.

Your lungs stutter. It is not a scream that leaves your mouth but a gasp, a ragged, breathless sound of realization—

You can’t do it. Your Patronus isn’t strong enough. The Dementors keep coming.

And then, there’s a sharp pull at your jumper from behind you.

You yelp, the ground disappearing from beneath you as you fall, hips slamming against cold stone, your hands catching against the rough surface just in time to keep you from falling completely. The world lurches. You hear your own breath, fast, shallow, a mess of panic as you scramble for your wand—

Gojo shoves Toji back, arm slamming across his chest, because there are simply too many of them.

Too many.

You push yourself up, eyes wide, head snapping toward him as you scream, “Satoru!”

You reach out, reaching for him, reaching for something, anything—

But he is already moving. Already casting.

“Expecto Patronum!”

His voice shakes the tunnel.

It does not echo—it rings. Resonates. The walls tremble, the air splits apart, the darkness shatters beneath the weight of it. It is not just light that bursts from his wand—it is power, raw and absolute, swallowing the Dementors whole before they can even think to move.

Your breath catches.

The Patronus takes shape. And then you see it.

Something so vast, so impossibly enormous, you cannot tell where it begins and where it ends. You do not even breathe as it rises—tall, monstrous, majestic.

A dragon.

It is the most powerful Patronus you have ever seen, will ever see, in your entire life.

The silver light is blinding, molten, burning through the tunnel with an intensity that is almost too much, almost impossible to look at. The heat of it reaches you, even through the numbing cold, even through the stagnant air. Its wings spread—massive, a single beat sending a shockwave through the space, parting the Dementors like dust in the wind. Its body coils in a great, arcing motion, a beast of light and fire and fury, silver scales reflecting like mirrors against the stone walls.

And suddenly, you understand. You understand why the Marauders’ Map had that strange name written across it. The nickname Gojo had given himself.

Ashen.

Because this is what he is. It’s what his patronus is.

Something untouched by the dark. Something that burns through the shadows, something that refuses to be swallowed.

The Dementors flee.

And Gojo Satoru stands, Patronus burning, face illuminated in silver light, untouched, unshaken, like he was always meant to be here.

He turns once the last of the light fades, once the dragon—vast and towering, ancient and blinding—dissolves into thin air, leaving behind only echoes, only the remnants of a power that felt like it had been carved from something greater than magic itself. The tunnel is silent now, the Dementors gone, but the cold remains, a whisper of what once was.

Gojo’s breath is heavy, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven motions as he stares at you. There is something in his eyes—something raw, fragile beneath the usual arrogance, something that flickers, almost unsure. He is waiting. You are not sure for what.

You push yourself to stand, legs still unsteady, the weight of what just happened pressing against your bones, curling itself into the hollow space beneath your ribs. There is a strange pressure in your chest. You cannot name it, so you exhale sharply and place a hand on his shoulder, awkward but grounding, your fingers curling slightly against the fabric of his robes.

“That was…” you start, but the words do not come. They falter, caught somewhere between your throat and your teeth, so you click your tongue instead, shaking your head.

Gojo tilts his head at you the way he always does—like he knows something you don’t, like he is already laughing at the words you have not spoken yet. His eyes soften, but only for you. Only ever for you. And you cannot stand it, cannot stand how infuriatingly charming he is, how easily he wears that ridiculous, tender smile even after nearly dying.

“Incredible,” Shoko cuts in from behind, walking toward the two of you with her hands shoved in her pockets. “You’re teaching me that. I want a fake pet dragon of my own.”

“It’s not a pet, stupid,” Gojo scoffs, rolling his eyes, but there is no bite in his words, only amusement. “It’s a Patronus.”

“You’re teaching me, anyway,” she insists, shaking her head, before glancing around the now-empty tunnel. “All of the Dementors are dead. I thought they only existed in Azkaban.”

“I’m guessing someone left them here,” Toji mutters, his voice low, unreadable. He nods toward the tunnel’s exit. “After Sukuna was put into a tomb.”

“To keep people from coming,” you murmur.

The words leave your mouth before you have fully processed them, before you have even considered the weight of them. But it makes sense. Too much sense. A defense mechanism—an ancient one, old magic twisted into something cruel, something meant to deter rather than protect.

And then, another thought. One colder than the last.

“Then how did Suguru make it through?”

Gojo turns to look at you, his brows furrowing slightly. You can tell he is thinking it through, letting the pieces fall into place as his fingers flex at his sides.

“Salazar fucking knows,” he mutters.

You don’t miss the way he glances toward the end of the tunnel, toward the dim light that filters in from beyond, its glow stretching across the stone floor in uneven patches. It calls to him, the way all things dangerous and unknown seem to. And before you can say anything, before you can stop him, he moves, fast, as if something is pulling him forward, as if his life depends on reaching that light.

You follow after him, matching his pace, the air growing thicker around you as you near the exit.

The tunnel ends suddenly. One moment, you are walking through a tight corridor of damp stone, the walls pressing in, the air thick with the scent of decay and age, the sound of your breath loud against the silence. The next, the passage opens up into something vast, a space so cavernous it takes your breath away. You slow to a stop, blinking against the dim light, your fingers twitching at your sides.

It’s an amphitheater. Circular, ancient, impossibly large. The stone steps curve downward, layered in rings, leading to the center like a pit meant for something dark and long buried. The walls curve inward, enclosing the space, trapping the air inside so that every movement feels weighty, every breath thick with something old, something forgotten. The torches lining the walls flicker low, their glow too weak to chase away the shadows. You get the feeling that the darkness here is not merely the absence of light but something more.

Your breath catches when your eyes find him. Suguru.

He stands at the very heart of the amphitheater, next to the tomb that sits heavy in the center like an altar. His head is bowed, his wand raised, his lips moving in some hushed murmur, the words slipping from his mouth like smoke, curling into the air before vanishing. In his other hand, something glints—just barely—a locket, swaying gently with the movement of his breath.

It’s him, but it isn’t him. Not really.

When he hears you, hears the soft shuffle of boots against stone, his head snaps up. His eyes, when they meet yours, widen—but only for a moment. Then they land on Satoru, and the expression shifts.

“Satoru,” he breathes, like the name alone is enough to steady him, enough to pull him out of the trance, enough to make the thing inside him loosen its grip. For a moment, there is hesitation, a flicker of something familiar, something real.

Satoru steps down the stairs, once, twice, slowly, measured, like approaching a wounded animal. He tests the ground beneath him, the weight of his own voice, before he speaks, low but firm, echoing across the cavernous space.

“Don’t do this, Suguru,” he says, voice cracking. “I’m begging you.”

You feel it then. The weight in your pocket, pressing against your thigh. The phial.

And then, your eyes are on the locket, gleaming dully in Suguru’s grasp, and everything clicks into place.

Your mind churns, the realization dawning not gently, not slowly, but all at once, a violent kind of clarity that makes your stomach turn. The way his eyes look hollowed-out, the way his movements have been wrong for months, the way he speaks like something is pressing against his throat, curling around his words, twisting them into something they were never meant to be. You know what this is. You’ve read about it in books, whispered about it in dark corners of the library, terrified at the implications of what something like this could do to a person.

The Horcrux. It’s controlling him. Twisting him. Suffocating him.

It has been for months. Maybe longer, depending on when and how he found it.

A sharp breath leaves you, too sudden, too loud. Toji turns his head at the sound, his scarred lip pressing into a thin line, but you barely register it. Your legs move before your mind does, carrying you forward, down the steps, just a few, toward Suguru.

“Suguru,” you call out, voice steadier than you feel, “it’s not you. It’s the Horcrux.”

His brows knit together, his lips parting, his fingers tightening around the locket.

“What?” he asks, but his voice is strange. Not confused, not questioning, but defensive. Like you’ve accused him of something, like he’s already made up his mind. “Of course not, this is what I want. This is what I must do. Don’t you understand?”

His gaze shifts from you back to Satoru, his grip still white-knuckled around his wand.

Satoru is nearly at the bottom of the steps now. Almost. Just a few feet away.

Suguru whispers something under his breath. You don’t hear it, but you feel it.

A chill creeps up your spine, and instinctively, your eyes dart around the amphitheater, searching, scanning, waiting.

Then, the doors opposite you groan open, slow, deliberate.

And the Inferi begin to pour in.

Dozens of them. No—hundreds.

A choked breath leaves your throat. Behind you, you hear Shoko, Nanami, Utahime—the way their bodies tense, the way their wands rise in unison. They do not have to wait. They understand immediately. They know what must be done.

But you don’t have time to think about that now. Because Suguru has turned back to Satoru. And he raises his wand. You feel something sharp twist in your chest. It happens fast. Too fast.

“Satoru!” you scream, his name leaving your lips like a prayer, like a plea, as you move without thinking. The map slips from your fingers, fluttering uselessly to the ground, forgotten.

Suguru does not hesitate. He attacks. The duel begins.

Satoru does not attack back. He blocks. He dodges. He steps lightly, carefully, every movement calculated, precise, defensive. Every spell deflected, every curse sidestepped.

Suguru does not hold back. He moves quickly, viciously, every spell sent with intent, with force, with fury. His eyes burn, dark and wild, his body thrumming with something unhinged.

You watch, horror creeping up your throat, as Suguru raises his wand and sends out a curse. An Unforgivable one.

Satoru deflects it. Barely. Your heart jumps.

“Suguru,” Satoru breathes, dodging another curse, his voice low, aching, “please—”

“Stop talking!” Suguru snaps, eyes glinting with something terrible, something feverish, sending another curse, and another, and another.

Satoru does not stop trying.

But you—

You cannot focus on them anymore. Because you see it. The Horcrux. It sits atop Sukuna’s tomb, heavy, waiting. You scramble toward it, down the steps, heart pounding, breath ragged, feet slipping against the stone as you rush forward.

You are close. You can reach it. Just a little more.

Suguru turns. His wand flicks toward you. He whispers the curse before you even have time to react.

“Sectumsempra.”

You don’t see it happen.

But you feel it. A force slamming into you, knocking you backward, knocking the breath from your lungs.

Toji.

You hear the impact before you register what has happened. The way his body crashes against the ground. The way he lands in front of you, crumpled, still.

His blood pools too quickly.

Too fast, too much, blooming across the stone floor in a deep, viscous red, the edges of it creeping outward like fingers, like something alive, and reaching. You stare at it, at the way it spreads beneath him, at the way it gleams in the dim light, and your breath—

Your breath doesn’t come.

It is stuck somewhere between your lungs, between the moment before and the moment after, between understanding and denial. You sink to your knees beside him, your fingers hovering just above his chest, your hands trembling too violently to touch him. The wet sound of his breathing, ragged, uneven, clotted with something thick, echoes between the stone walls, and you watch—helpless—as his entire body begins to bleed.

There is too much blood.

He tries to say something, but it comes out wrong. The sound wet, bubbling, choked at the edges. A protest, maybe. A warning. A curse. You don’t know. You don’t want to know.

“No, Toji,” you whisper, shaking your head, “don’t—don’t say anything, please.”

You don’t know why you say it. Maybe because if he speaks, it means it’s real. Maybe because if he doesn’t, you can pretend for a little longer that he isn’t slipping away beneath you, his body torn open, his breath shallowing. Maybe because there is something so much worse about the idea of him trying to say something—to say anything—only to be cut short by the weight of his own dying.

Your throat tightens. Your hands curl, helpless, into fists.

Then, you remember yourself.

You rip your gaze away from him, from the ruin of his body, from the way his blood spills across your knees, seeping into the fabric, staining you. You look up, eyes burning, and search for Utahime.

She is up the stairs, her wand raised, sending bursts of fire toward an Inferius. Her face is sharp with focus, her body taut with it, every movement deliberate, decisive, honed by something deeper than just skill.

You scream her name, the sound of it raw, cracking, echoing against the stone.

“Iori!”

She turns at once, her head snapping toward you, eyes wide. Then, she is running, moving without hesitation, feet pounding against the steps as she descends, as she falls into place beside you, kneeling on the opposite side of Toji’s body.

She opens her mouth, about to speak, about to ask, but you grab her hand before she can.

“Iori,” you say, voice breaking, “go. Go back to Hogwarts. Take him to Snape. Snape will know what to do.”

Her face twists in something stricken, something close to refusal. “What?” she breathes. “I can’t just leave you all to fight here.”

“And I can’t let Fushiguro die when it was supposed to be me,” you say, firmly.

Your voice does not waver. Your hands do not either as you press hers against one of Toji’s wounds. You feel the heat of his blood soak into your palm, feel the unsteadiness of his pulse beneath it. You meet her eyes, hold them.

“Take him to Snape, Iori. I can’t Disapparate. You have to be the one to do it.”

She swallows hard. You can see the way her hands shake now, stained with blood, the way her chest rises and falls, the way she wants to argue, to tell you no, that she won’t, that she refuses. But she looks at Toji, at the way he is barely breathing, and she knows. She knows there isn’t another choice.

She nods. Then, she closes her eyes.

A second later, they are gone. The only thing left is the blood.

It stains the stone, pooling in the cracks, seeping into the seams. It stains your hands, thick and hot, clinging beneath your fingernails, pressed into the weave of your sweater. You can feel it drying already, the edges of it tacky, the scent of it thick in the air.

You exhale once, shoving the locket into the back pocket of your jeans. You stand, legs unsteady beneath you, and lift your wand. There is no time for hesitation.

Shoko and Nanami are holding the line on the steps, their wands moving in sharp bursts, handling the Inferi with precision. You do not need to look long to know that they will hold their ground.

Your eyes scan the amphitheater. And then, you find them.

Satoru. Suguru.

They are still fighting. Your breath leaves you in a shudder, your fingers enclosing around your wand.

You cannot waste another second.

You watch them fight. Your breath pulls short, uneven, catching at the back of your throat as your fingers tighten around your wand.

Suguru is relentless. His magic is not just offensive—it is furious, a ceaseless barrage of Unforgivable Curses, one after another, his wand moving in sharp, decisive arcs, his face twisted into something that doesn’t look like him, something too empty and too full all at once. His curses slice through the air like blades, hurtling toward Satoru with a kind of merciless precision, the kind that suggests he is not hesitating, not holding back.

And Satoru—Satoru is barely keeping up.

He does not counter. He does not send anything back. He only dodges, barely, stepping away at the very last second, twisting, deflecting, shielding, moving, but never attacking. He does not raise his wand in offense. He does not even try.

He is only trying to safeguard Suguru from himself.

Your heart is too loud.

Your fingers tighten, and a drop of blood—Toji’s blood—escapes the ridges of your palm, slipping past the gaps between your fingers, trailing along the length of your wand, clinging to the wood before finally reaching the tip and falling.

The droplet splatters against the stone.

Small. Insignificant. Except it isn’t.

Because Suguru is trying to kill him. Because Satoru won’t fight back.

Because it is terrifying, the way he is hesitating, the way he is choosing to hold himself back even as death comes hurling toward him, again and again and again.

You swallow. Your throat feels tight, like something is closing up from the inside, like something is pressing down on your chest, making it impossible to breathe. Your head rings with the promise you made to Mirai—to Satoru’s mother—that you would put his life before yours, that you would not let anything happen to him.

Your breath stills. Your feet move.

“Suguru, I can’t lose you!” Satoru shouts, voice cracking, desperate, his breath heavy with exertion. “This isn’t you. Please—”

Suguru grits his teeth. His wand snaps upward, another curse ready at the tip of it, his movements sharp with conviction, unwavering.

“I have to do this, Satoru.”

And then, before Satoru can lift his wand—before he can block it, before he can react—you reach him.

Time slows. You see it all, as if from a great distance.

Suguru’s wand flicks. A spell shoots toward Satoru, dark and green, the magic sizzling through the air, fast, too fast—

Your body moves before your mind catches up.

You shove him. Hard. Your hands collide with his chest, and you feel the impact reverberate up your arms as he stumbles, falling, his eyes widening in shock as he goes down, wand pointed at you.

The curse is coming.

Your body locks up, lungs closing, heart hammering itself into something frantic, too loud, too fast. You brace yourself, brace for the impact, brace for the pain, brace for something terrible and irreversible, for the kind of agony that will bring you to your knees—

You shut your eyes.

You wait.

And wait.

But nothing happens. Your eyes snap open.

There, right in front of you, is a golden shield, pulsing, shimmering, strong enough to stop the curse just before it can reach you. The magic flickers, glowing, warm and brilliant, radiating from something.

Your gaze drops, then.

The phial.

You watch, frozen, as it falls from your pocket, slipping free, tumbling through the air as if in slow motion.

It hits the stone, shattering. The sound is small, fragile, like the breaking of something ancient.

Suguru’s eyes widen. His head snaps toward the phial, his breath catching, something flickering across his face. He looks at Satoru, then at you, his grip tightening around his wand, his entire body tensing—

And then, silence.

“You told her,” Suguru whispers.

His wand dips slightly, falling slack at his side, his fingers twitching as if he isn’t sure whether to hold on or let go. His gaze, sharp and searching, is fixed on Satoru, but his voice is barely audible, something small and breaking, something not meant for anyone else to hear.

The amphitheater is still. The fight is over, but the air remains charged, thick with something unspeakable, neither victory nor defeat, something much heavier. The smell of blood lingers from your hands and sweater, the echoes of magic still whisper against the stone, and somewhere, behind you, the sound of battle continues—Nanami and Shoko holding their own against the Inferi. But here, within the amphitheater, there is only silence.

And yet, something shifts.

You see it before you feel it.

It is not visible, not something you can touch or grasp, but it is there, in the way Suguru’s shoulders loosen slightly, in the way his breath stutters, in the way Satoru remains frozen, watching him with something unbearably raw in his expression.

Their blood pact has broken.

Your stomach twists. You know what this means.

Satoru can betray Suguru now, however many times he wants.

And Suguru—

Suguru can read Satoru’s mind.

You see it in the way Suguru looks at him, eyes dark, almost unfocused, his lips parting slightly as he stares. He is already doing it. Already slipping into Satoru’s thoughts, already pulling apart his mind, unraveling him thread by thread, seeing everything that has ever been unspoken between them.

Your breath catches.

You don’t know what he is seeing.

But you can see how it changes him.

Suguru exhales sharply, a sound caught between a scoff and a laugh, a hollow thing, humorless and bitter. His free hand clenches into a fist at his side. His expression does not shift much, but something in his face tightens—his jaw, his brow, the corners of his mouth pressing inward, as if he is struggling to hold something in.

“I just tried to kill you,” he says, voice quieter now, rougher, like something raw has been scraped open inside of him. He gives a short, sharp breath of laughter, devoid of any real amusement. “At least curse at me a little at the very end.”

Satoru shakes his head.

And then, as if it is the easiest thing in the world, he says, “You’re my one and only best friend.”

The words fall between them, and you feel something in your chest tighten, something unbearably fragile.

Suguru looks at him.

You shouldn’t be here.

That realization washes over you all at once, a cold, creeping sensation curling up your spine. This moment is not meant for you, not meant for anyone else. It is something sacred, something years in the making, built on a foundation only the two of them understand.

And yet, you are here.

You swallow, exhaling softly, watching as Suguru extends a hand.

For a moment, neither of them move.

Satoru just stares at him.

Suguru, silent, waiting.

And then, slowly, cautiously, Satoru reaches up and takes it.

There is no relief in their faces. No triumph. Only exhaustion, only something that lingers between regret and understanding, something neither of them is willing to say out loud.

They both turn to look at you.

You let out a slow, steady breath, gathering yourself, willing the weight of this moment to settle somewhere deep in your ribs, somewhere it will not break you open.

“We should get back to Hogwarts,” you say quietly.

Neither of them respond, but you don’t need them to.

Because the fight is over.

But the war isn’t.

There is a reason you made Gojo Disapparate directly into the hallway outside Dumbledore’s office.

It is quiet here. Removed from the castle’s hum of voices, from the frantic energy that must still linger in the halls, from the echo of footsteps in the Great Hall and the whispers that will follow in your wake. It is calm. The kind of quiet that feels undeserved, like something borrowed, something that might slip away if you breathe too deeply.

The five of you land in an unsteady heap, the force of the sudden reappearance sending a tremor through your bones. The shift from the suffocating darkness of the catacombs to the familiar candlelit stone of Hogwarts should be comforting, but it isn’t. The world is still moving, and you are still caught in its momentum.

“Merlin’s beard—”

Nanami staggers forward, a hand clamping over his mouth, his other arm thrown out for balance. Shoko wavers beside him, grip tightening around her wand as she presses the back of her hand to her lips, her entire body recoiling at the violent lurch in her stomach.

You almost laugh.

Gojo has finally run out of vials of Pepperup Potion.

Neither of them seem capable of forming words beyond a weak groan, and then, without a second thought, they both take off toward the infirmary, shoulders knocking against each other as they go.

You watch them go, shaking your head. The nausea will pass. It always does. Then, slowly, you turn to the other two.

Satoru and Suguru.

There is something different about them now.

You don’t know what it is—not fully, not yet—but something in the air between them has shifted, weighty, unspoken. Suguru stands still, his hands slack at his sides, his expression unreadable. Satoru, beside him, doesn’t quite meet your eyes, his gaze cast downward as if studying the stone beneath his feet.

You exhale through your nose, forcing yourself to steady the rhythm of your breath.

“I’ll take the locket and the map to Dumbledore,” you murmur, voice quieter than you intend. “You two should get some rest.”

Satoru looks up at you then, blinking as if registering your words a second too late.

“What about the Bowtruckle?”

Suguru’s brows furrow, his expression twisting in confusion, but Satoru doesn’t acknowledge it—his eyes remain on you, waiting. You blink, momentarily lost in the sheer absurdity of the question. Then, slowly, your lips curve upward.

You bring a hand to your chest, pressing against the pocket of your sweater. There, curled up against the fabric, the tiny creature stirs, its little limbs shifting slightly, warm and small and impossibly delicate.

“I think I’ll keep him,” you say finally, shrugging. “Hagrid probably has plenty more.”

Satoru exhales, nodding, his lips pursed in something like approval. Suguru watches the two of you in silence, his gaze heavy, unreadable. You let out another breath, quieter this time, before turning toward the gargoyle statue before you.

You hesitate only once, just for a moment, glancing over your shoulder at Satoru.

Then, softly, you murmur, “Sherbet Lemon.”

The statue shifts, stone grinding against stone, revealing the spiraling staircase beyond. You take the first step. The stairs move on their own, spiraling higher and higher as the stone walls tighten around you, the space narrowing, twisting, the light from the torches casting long shadows that flicker and stretch, stretching over your hands, over your face. Your fingers brush against the locket in your pocket, its edges sharp and cold against your palm, and for a brief moment, you wonder how something so small, so insignificant in weight, could feel like this—like a millstone around your neck, like a wound pressed too deep to close.

The stairway ends before you are ready for it to.

The door opens with the faintest creak.

Dumbledore’s office is as it always is—large, circular, lit by golden candlelight, filled with the quiet hum of things too old and too wise to remain silent. You step inside, your movements slow, deliberate, as if to disturb nothing, as if to exist within this space as lightly as possible. You feel, for a moment, like a visitor in a temple.

It is a beautiful room. No matter how many times you enter it.

On spindle-legged tables, curious silver instruments whir softly, twisting in place, delicate and intricate, like living things made of metal and smoke. Some emit thin tendrils of white vapor, curling into the air like whispers. Others tick quietly, measuring something unseen, something vast. The walls are lined with portraits, framed in gold and heavy wood, each depicting a former headmaster or headmistress of Hogwarts. They are sleeping now, their breath slow, their hands resting in their laps, their expressions peaceful. You wonder how many of them died knowing what was coming.

At the center of it all, there is the enormous claw-footed desk, its surface polished to a dark sheen, and behind it, upon a shelf, a hat—shabby, tainted with age, the folds of its fabric as familiar as an old friend. The Sorting Hat.

You move toward the desk. The locket and the map feel heavier now than they ever have.

You place them down carefully, the metal of the locket clicking softly against the wood, the parchment of the map settling with a faint rustle.

You exhale.

Soft footsteps descend from the spiral staircase tucked into the far corner of the office, each step slow and measured, unhurried, deliberate. A figure appears at the top of the staircase, stepping down into the warm light of the room.

Albus Dumbledore, dressed in robes softer, looser than those he wears during the day, his expression mild, his eyes twinkling with something unreadable. His hands are folded before him, long fingers resting gently against each other.

“Ah,” he says, voice gentle, as if he has been expecting you. “Miss [L/N].”

He smiles.

“Good evening.”

You inhale, steadying yourself before you gesture toward the desk. “Sir,” you say, voice quieter than you mean for it to be, “That would be the Horcrux. And the map you gave us earlier.”

Dumbledore does not move at first. He smacks his lips together, his eyes narrowing, not in suspicion but with something resembling amusement. And then, after a moment, he steps forward, tilting his head as if seeing something delightful, as if inspecting an old book he has not opened in decades.

His hand, aged and veined, finds your shoulder. His grip is gentle, but firm. “You have outdone yourself,” he says, eyes twinkling, “and many experienced witches and wizards, I might add. You might just be the brightest witch of your age.”

The words should make you feel proud. They should make you feel something, at the very least. But all you can do is swallow. You think of Toji bleeding out at your feet, of Suguru’s face as he looked at Satoru, of the way time had seemed to slow when you pushed Gojo aside. It is not pride that sits in your chest. It is exhaustion.

“Thank you, sir,” you say softly. And then, after a pause, you lift your gaze to his. You can feel the question waiting at the back of your throat, feel the weight of it pressing against your tongue.

He sees it before you say it. He always does.

“Go on,” he urges, his voice light, pleasant, as he takes the rolled leather map from the table and places it back onto one of the many shelves.

You hesitate. But only for a moment.

“Why us, sir?” you ask, finally. “We’re just a bunch of teenagers. You sent us there, and we almost died.”

At this, he turns to you fully. The light from the candle beside him flickers against his face, casting shadows beneath his eyes, across the sharpness of his cheekbones. He does not answer immediately, only studies you, gaze quiet, knowing.

“No, you didn’t, Miss [L/N],” he says after a beat. “I sent you there precisely because I knew you could handle it.”

Your brows furrow, lips pressing together. “But, sir—”

“One of you got hurt quite terribly,” he finishes for you, nodding slowly, as if to acknowledge the truth in your words. “Yes.”

He strokes his beard thoughtfully, his fingers moving with slow deliberation. “Miss Iori arrived at Severus’ office an hour ago,” he continues, voice calm, steady. “I trust Mr. Fushiguro is already healed, and resting in one of the stretchers at the infirmary, with Madam Pomfrey caring for him.”

You blink. You are not sure why the confirmation makes your throat feel tighter, why the knowledge of Toji’s recovery does not bring the relief you thought it would. Perhaps it is because it does not change the fact that he almost died. That you had sent Utahime away with him, with nothing but the hope that he would make it.

“Don’t you think, sir, with all due respect, that it wasn’t fair to us?”

Dumbledore looks at you then, really looks at you, and for a fleeting second, something shifts in his expression. A weariness, perhaps. Something more ancient than his years.

He does not answer. Not at first.

Instead, he pulls his wand from his robes, long and strange, different from any wand you have seen before. He points it at the locket.

“Incendio.”

A burst of fire leaps from the tip, bright and hot, crackling in the quiet. It hits the Horcrux squarely. And yet, nothing.

The fire licks the surface, skitters across it, but it does not consume it. The locket remains, cold and untouched, as if mocking the very laws of magic.

Dumbledore watches the flames die out. He exhales, slowly, before he turns back to you.

“You see, Miss [L/N],” he murmurs, slipping his wand back into the folds of his robe, “I didn’t have a choice. If I had informed the Ministry of this precarious situation, one of you—and you know exactly who—would have certainly lost his life.”

Your breath catches. You do not need him to say it. You know exactly who he means. Suguru.

“And this Horcrux would never be destroyed,” Dumbledore continues, quiet but certain. “It cannot be undone by spells, nor by force. Only by things more powerful than it.”

You stare at the locket, at the way it gleams in the dim light, cool, unbothered, as if it has not spent decades housing something unholy.

“You hate that I’m right,” Dumbledore muses, watching you.

You blink. Exhale sharply through your nose. “I do.”

He chuckles at that, a small sound, but there is something tired in it, something that feels less like amusement and more like regret.

Silence stretches between you, the candle flickering again, the portraits along the walls still snoozing in their frames.

After a moment, you shift your weight, rolling your shoulders. “Is that all, sir?”

He studies you for a second longer. Then, he nods. “Yes, Miss [L/N]. That is all.”

You turn on your heel, making your way toward the door. Your hand reaches for the brass handle, cool beneath your fingers.

But before you can step out, his voice stops you.

“Miss [L/N]?”

You pause. Glance back.

He is watching you, expression unreadable, eyes old, too knowing.

“Rest,” he says. “There is still much more to be done.”

You swallow.

And then you leave.

The infirmary is dimly lit, the only light coming from the low-burning lamps hovering above the beds, casting long, sluggish shadows against the floor. The room smells of old parchment and disinfectant, the kind that sticks in the back of your throat, mingling with the faintest traces of blood and burnt cloth. The night is quiet outside, heavy with the hush of something ending, something settling, and for the first time since the mission, since the chaos of it all, your pulse slows. Just slightly. Just enough.

You see him the moment you step inside.

Toji is stretched out on one of the hospital beds, his shirt discarded somewhere, his skin marred with fresh scars and hastily applied healing spells that haven’t quite settled yet. He is talking to Madam Pomfrey, his voice low, teasing, that familiar lilt of amusement in it even as exhaustion tugs at the edges of his words.

She tuts at him, smacks the side of his head with a practiced sort of impatience, before pressing a small cup into his hand. “Take this, and go to sleep,” she tells him, her tone clipped but not unkind. “You’ve lost enough blood to be declared a ghost, and I do not have the time nor the patience to deal with any lingering dramatics.”

He grins at that, lazy, lips twisting around something smug, but he downs the potion obediently.

And then, Madam Pomfrey sees you.

Her eyes soften, just a little, but she still sighs, rubbing her temples as she jerks her chin toward Toji’s bed. “Five minutes,” she says, a note of warning in her voice. “That’s all you have until the medicine kicks in.”

You nod, murmuring a quiet thanks as you make your way over. Your legs feel heavy, slow, like they are moving through water, like the exhaustion from before has finally caught up to you now that everything is over.

Toji smirks when he sees you, the scar on his lip twisting with the movement, his dark eyes catching the faint glow of the lamps. He looks at you like you’re funny. Like you’re something fragile, something foolish, something not worth worrying about, even though it was him who had nearly bled out, him who had collapsed against you in that godforsaken amphitheater, him who had made that choice without hesitation, without a second thought.

You exhale, relief and frustration and something else you do not want to name swelling in your throat. “You’re okay.”

“I’m saint-like,” he drawls, stretching his arms over his head, fingers flexing against the sheets. “Practically holy.”

You frown, brow furrowing in confusion, but he only chuckles, tapping a finger against his ear. “See this? Almost got cut off completely.”

You stare. And then, slowly, you realize what he’s saying.

“Out of all the ear jokes in the world, you go for holy?” you ask, fighting the urge to roll your eyes.

At that, he grins. “At least you smiled.”

Your breath catches. You shake your head. “You almost died because of me.”

He doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t hesitate. Just reaches out and grabs your arm, his fingers warm, solid, grounding. “Hey,” he says, “I took the hit because I wanted to.”

“Quite the masochist, aren’t you?” you mutter, narrowing your eyes. “What if you’d died? What then?”

He shrugs, entirely unbothered. “You made sure Utahime got me here.” A pause. Then, “I knew nothing would happen as long as you were there.”

Your stomach twists.

“You are a scaredy-cat, sure,” he continues, like it is just a fact, like it is something that has always been true, “but you wouldn’t just let me die. I knew it when I took the hit for you. I knew it before I even went to that stupid forest.”

You swallow. Look away. The cup of medicine is empty on the table beside him, the remnants of the potion clinging to the sides in thin, translucent streaks.

He exhales, shifting against the pillows. “Oh, Shoko was here a while ago,” he says after a moment. “Got nauseous from Apparition.”

You nod, trying to gather yourself, forcing your thoughts back to the present. “Yeah. So was Kento. They ran immediately when we got back.”

Toji hums, thoughtful. “That’s what the blond guy’s name is?” He frowns slightly. “Didn’t know.”

You let out a breath, half-exasperated, half-disbelieving. “You are,” you tell him, voice flat, “so stupid. Almost like a Neanderthal.”

His smirk returns, but this time, his eyelids are drooping, his fingers twitching where they rest against the blanket. The potion is starting to work.

“You owe me,” he murmurs, words slurring just slightly.

You shake your head, grin slipping onto your lips before you can stop it. “Yeah, yeah. Go to sleep.”

“Oh, before you go,” he slurs, falling onto the bed. You pull the covers over him, as he murmurs, “Gojo was here. Idiot went to the Room of Requirement, I reckon.”

His eyes close. The rise and fall of his chest evens out.

And for the first time in what feels like hours, you breathe.

When you step into the Room of Requirement, the door shutting with a muted click behind you, the air inside is thick, weighty, filled with something you can’t quite name but feel all the same. It presses against your skin, settles in your throat, clings to the dried blood on your sweater, to the scent of earth and iron and damp wood still lingering on your clothes. You inhale, slow and deep, trying to shake it off, trying to collect yourself, but all it does is make you more aware of the heaviness curling around your ribs, winding itself into your limbs.

The room has reshaped itself again. The long table at the far corner is still there, but the walls are closer now, lined with flickering lanterns that cast long, wavering shadows. Shelves stand tall along the edges, some filled with books, others stacked with old maps and parchment and artifacts neither of you have had the time nor the patience to move. And at the far end of the table, beneath the dim glow of the lanterns, sits Gojo.

He doesn’t notice you at first. He is leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees, fingers loosely intertwined. His eyes—bleary, unfocused—are fixed on the pinboard in front of him, its surface littered with hastily scribbled notes, torn-out pages from textbooks, maps with charmed markings glowing faintly in the dark. The exhaustion is all over him now, seeping into the sharp lines of his face, dragging down the corners of his mouth, making his normally bright eyes look dull, worn, like he’s been ground down to his last nerve.

You swallow.

"Hey," you murmur. Your voice is hoarse, rough from disuse, from the cold air outside, from everything that’s happened in the past few hours. You trudge toward the seat next to him, slow and heavy-footed, as if the weight of the night is still pressing down on you, anchoring you in place.

Gojo blinks, once, twice, like he’s only just now realizing you’re here. “Hey,” he mumbles back, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand before letting it drop limply onto the table.

You sink into the chair beside him.

For a while, neither of you speak.

The silence is thick, stretching between you like an invisible thread, fragile but unbroken. The lantern light flickers, casting shadows that dance across the wooden surface of the table, across the maps and notes spread out before you. You stare at them without really seeing them, tracing the edges of the parchment with your eyes, watching the ink shift and swirl where spells have been used to keep the writing from fading. You hear the faint crackling of the flames, the occasional creak of the chair as Gojo shifts beside you, the slow, measured rise and fall of his breathing.

And then, you swallow, straighten, turn your head just slightly toward him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Gojo doesn’t react at first. He keeps staring at the pinboard, fingers twitching faintly against the table, like he’s trying to work through the exhaustion clouding his mind, like he’s waiting for you to say more.

You exhale, watching the way the lamplight catches against his skin, the way the bruises are starting to darken along the curve of his jaw, along the ridge of his cheekbone. “About your Patronus,” you say, voice quieter now, the words more careful, more deliberate. “About how you knew exactly where to go back in the forest.”

At that, Gojo finally looks at you. His eyes flicker with something unreadable—surprise, maybe, or something close to it—before he leans back in his chair, dragging a hand through his hair.

For a moment, you think he isn’t going to answer.

And then—he exhales, slow and steady, and says, “Because you didn’t need to know.”

His voice is quiet, but there’s something firm in it, something that leaves no room for argument.

But you argue anyway. “That’s not your decision to make.”

Gojo watches you for a long time.

Then, finally, he sighs, tilts his head back, and says, “No. I suppose it’s not.”

You look at him, watching the way he exhales, long and slow, as if debating how much he should say, as if weighing the value of the truth against the burden of speaking it aloud. His fingers curl slightly against the wood of the table, knuckles faintly whitening before they relax again. Finally, after what feels like minutes rather than seconds, he sighs, tipping his head back slightly, blinking at the ceiling as if the answer is written there. When he speaks, his voice is softer than you expect.

"I knew where to go because it’s what my family has taught me. It’s what has been passed down in our bloodline for generations." He pauses, then adds, quieter, "It’s called the Six Eyes."

Your brows knit together. The name alone feels ancient, weighty and revered, something that sounds less like an ability and more like an inheritance. Like a curse. You wait for him to go on. He does, but not immediately. His fingers drum once against the table before stilling. His gaze drops, just slightly.

"You know how I said the Kamo family practices blood magic?" He asks. You nod. He exhales again, slower this time, measured. "This is what mine does."

The words settle between you. His, not his family’s. His alone.

"My father doesn’t have Six Eyes. Nobody in my family has had it for generations. I’m the first in four hundred years." He says it so simply, so plainly, but the weight of it is crushing. "I suppose that could be one of the reasons why my father made sure I was adept at everything. And so good at magic from a young age."

You don’t miss the way his jaw tightens on the word father, nor the way his shoulders stiffen for the briefest of moments before he forces them loose again. You wonder how long he’s carried this knowledge, this burden, before saying it aloud. How much of his life has been dictated by it.

Your gaze flickers to his hand. His fingers are long, elegant, but tense, curling slightly where they rest against the table. Without thinking, you reach out, hesitating for only a second before placing your hand over his. His fingers twitch beneath yours, as if startled by the contact, but he doesn’t pull away.

"And the Patronus?" You ask.

His lips press together, but there’s something faintly amused in the way his eyes move to you, something softer. "I really just wanted to keep it a secret for as long as I could." He admits, voice quieter now, less weighted than before. "You can’t go around telling people that you can conjure a dragon for a Patronus now, can you?"

You blink, absorbing it all. The room is silent except for the faint crackling of the torches lining the walls. Then, finally, you sigh. "I guess."

But your hand is still on his. And he hasn’t moved away.

He sighs, heavy and exhausted, before pushing himself to his feet. The warmth of his hand vanishes from yours, and you watch as he turns, crossing the room with long, deliberate strides. His fingers twitch at his sides, curling into loose fists before stretching out again, as if he's trying to shake off something he can't quite name. He stops near the bookshelves, glancing at the spines of the dusty tomes without really seeing them, then shifts his gaze to the sofas, as if debating whether to sit or keep standing. Then, finally, he turns to you.

"Back at the forest, I was going to—"

"Don’t." You shake your head, rising to your feet so quickly that your chair scrapes against the stone floor. The sound is sharp, almost violent, cutting through the thick silence that has settled between you.

"Don’t what?" He laughs, but there is nothing lighthearted about it. The sound is brittle, humorless. "You don’t want me to tell you what I must?"

"Satoru," you whisper, but his face hardens. His shoulders are taut, his entire body held in place by something unseen. His jaw clenches for half a second before he forces himself to breathe, to school his expression into something blank, something unreadable. But his eyes—his eyes are burning.

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair before looking at you again. His voice is quieter now, but no less intense. "You’re angry that I didn’t tell you everything from the beginning. You’re angry that I didn’t tell you I knew it was Suguru. That he can read minds. That we had a blood pact." He shakes his head, his tone tightening, sharpening. "But don’t let all of those muddled things affect this. Affect what has been clear to me for so long. What you have been blind to."

"I’m blind?" Your voice rises, incredulous. Your heart is hammering now, quick and unsteady. "You almost sacrificed yourself to the Dementors for me today!"

"And you jumped in front of the Killing Curse for me!" He yells, his hands flying up, his voice echoing off the stone walls. His eyes are wide, wild, his hair disheveled from where he has run his fingers through it again and again. "Do you not see how demented of an act that was? Are you mental? You could’ve died!"

"So could you!" You throw the words back at him, stepping forward, heat rising in your chest. "What do you think the Dementors do, Gojo? You could have had your soul sucked out for what?"

"For you!" He snaps, the words spilling out before he can stop them. His breath is uneven, his chest rising and falling with the force of it. "For you. You know that. You’ve always known that."

Your breath catches. For a moment, neither of you say anything. The only sound in the room is the distant crackling of the torches, the slow shifting of the wooden beams overhead.

Then, quieter, he speaks again. "You jumped in front of the Killing Curse for me, and you didn’t even think twice about it. Do you realize how insane that is? How terrifying? Do you think I could just stand there and watch that happen? You would have died if I didn’t put up a shield for you!"

"I didn’t think—"

"Exactly!" His voice is sharp, but not unkind. His fingers twitch at his sides again. "You didn’t think. Because it was me. And I didn’t think, either. Because it was you."

Your hands are shaking. You don’t know when they started.

"Gojo," you start, but the name barely makes it past your lips before he speaks again.

"Do you know what it felt like?" He asks, his voice lower now, his anger tempered by something else—something raw, something that makes your throat feel tight. "Watching you do that? Watching you throw yourself in front of a curse that should have killed you? Do you have any idea—" He stops, dragging a hand down his face before looking at you again, exhausted, furious, something else entirely. "You can’t ask me not to be angry. You can’t ask me to be okay with that."

"I’m not asking you to be okay with it," you say, and your voice is quieter, but no less fierce. "I’m asking you to understand that I would do it again."

He stares at you. He looks like he wants to argue, like he wants to shake you, like he wants to grab your shoulders and make you see sense. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he just exhales, long and slow, pressing his fingers against his temple. When he speaks again, his voice is different. Softer.

"And that’s the problem, isn’t it?"

You blink, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. It’s piercing—too much and yet never enough, overwhelming and impossibly familiar all at once. His eyes do not waver, do not flicker away, do not grant you even a moment’s reprieve. He watches you like he is memorizing you, like if he dares to look away, you might vanish entirely.

Your breath shudders. The air between you is thin, stretched too tightly, as if the very room itself is holding its breath, waiting. You take a step forward, then another, and another still, until there is no distance left at all, until your forehead presses against his chest, right over the steady, thrumming heartbeat beneath his ribs.

A slow inhale. A slow exhale.

"You are the most infuriating person I have ever met," you whisper, your voice barely more than a breath, but he hears it, of course he does.

And he laughs. A quiet, aching thing. A laugh dragged from somewhere deep inside of him, where things are fragile and breakable, where things are real. His hand comes up to the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair with an unbearable gentleness, as if you are something precious, something he cannot risk shattering. The other rests at your spine, stroking slow, deliberate circles, grounding you, grounding himself.

"I have fought against this," he murmurs, and there is something raw in his voice now, something stripped bare, "against you, against myself. And yet, here I stand, utterly ruined by you."

You close your eyes. His touch is warm, his hold steady, and it is too much, too much, too much. Your chest tightens, your throat constricts, and when you finally tilt your face up to look at him again, there is a tear threatening to spill over, clinging to the edge of your lashes.

His breath catches. He lifts a hand, thumb grazing the corner of your eye, catching the tear before it can fall. The touch is reverent, devastating in its tenderness.

"You have undone me," you whisper, and the words are not easy, are not light. They weigh heavy on your tongue, on your chest, but they are true. "In ways I never thought possible. There is not a moment, not a breath, where I do not think of you."

Something in his expression cracks, but he does not look away. He never does.

The silence stretches between you, but it is not empty. It is filled with the quiet rise and fall of your breaths, the press of your bodies against one another, the unspoken things that have lived between you for too long.

His thumb strokes over your cheek, slow and deliberate, as if he is committing the shape of your face to memory. His voice is quieter when he speaks, but no less steady. "When I look at you," he says, as if he has never been more sure of anything in his life, "I see every reason to believe in something greater than myself."

Your breath shudders again, but this time, it is not because of fear.

You stay like that, standing in the quiet, in the wreckage of everything that has led to this moment. It could be minutes or hours or lifetimes. It does not matter.

"If you asked me to stay," he says, his voice softer now, like a confession, like a promise, "I would not need to hear it twice. I’m quite a selfish person, as you know."

You let out a breath, one that carries everything with it—all the hurt, all the longing, all the things you have tried to swallow down for so long. And then, you meet his gaze, unwavering.

"Stay, then," you say, voice steady. "I’m selfish too."

He lets out a breath, unsteady and quiet, as if he has been holding it for too long—years, maybe lifetimes. It shudders as it leaves him, and you feel it too, the way his chest finally collapses under the weight of everything he has carried, the burdens he has never allowed himself to set down. His head dips, and for a moment, he hesitates, just barely, before his lips brush against yours.

A touch—just a whisper of warmth, of desperation, of something so gentle it is nearly reverent. Then, he presses in, and you feel it all at once. His hands ghost over your back, over your spine, over every part of you he has nearly lost tonight. He pulls you closer, as if that alone will be enough to keep you from slipping through his fingers. And you let him. You let yourself fall into him, hands reaching up, fingers trembling as they frame his face, as if you are afraid he might pull away too soon.

But he doesn’t.

And when he finally does part from you, it is slow, lingering. His forehead rests against yours, and his breath is uneven. He exhales against your lips, and the sound of it, quiet and weary, breaks something inside of you.

“Don’t put yourself in danger for me,” he murmurs, and his voice is thin, threadbare, as if he is saying it more to himself than to you.

You close your eyes, shaking your head against him. “I’ll do it again and again if it means keeping you safe. I hope you know that.”

He sighs, long and slow, as if he expected you to say that. As if he knew you would. His hands slide up your back, fingers splaying across your shoulder blades, pressing, holding.

“You’re an idiot, Fawkes,” he mutters, but it is not unkind. It is exasperation, affection, exhaustion, all at once. It is everything.

You feel him shift, feel the way his hands tighten just slightly before he pulls away enough to look at you properly. His gaze flickers downward, to your sweater, to the stain smeared across the fabric, dried now, rust-colored under the dim light. You feel the question before he even asks it.

“Not mine,” you murmur, shaking your head. “It’s Toji’s.”

His brows knit together, lips parting slightly, but no sound comes out at first. You watch as he exhales through his nose, his shoulders loosening just slightly.

“Oh,” he says finally, his voice quieter now. “I went and thanked him for… you know.”

You nod. “He told me.”

For a moment, neither of you speak. The silence is full but not heavy. There is something lighter in it now, something softer. You step forward again, pressing against him once more, seeking warmth, seeking something solid. You press your forehead into the space where his collarbone meets his shoulder, where the fabric of his robes is soft and worn from too many years of use.

His body stills at first, just for a fraction of a second, but then—then his arms come around you, wrapping you up, holding you as if he never intends to let go. And you think maybe he doesn’t. Maybe neither of you do.

His fingers curl into the fabric at your waist, gripping, anchoring. He breathes you in, and when he speaks, it is barely a whisper, barely anything at all.

“I’m never letting you go,” he says, as if it is a promise. As if it is an inevitability.

Your eyes slip shut. You could stay here forever, wrapped in this moment, in this breath, in this fragile, quiet thing between you.

“Me neither,” you murmur, your lips brushing against the fabric of his robes. “You’re stuck with me for life.”

He chuckles then, low and quiet, the sound reverberating through his chest. And it is not the kind of laughter you are used to from him—not sharp-edged or arrogant, not teasing or cocky. It is something else entirely. Something softer. Something real.

You do not pull away. Neither does he.

And so, you stay.

to everyone who came on this journey with me, thank you so, so much. i am so happy, so glad, so soft with all my feels, that something i wrote received so much love. it's really such a wonderful thing to receive sm love for smth you create — and i'm so grateful to be on the receiving end. speaking of ends, this isn't it. there's two epilogues still left to go. stay tuned, my loves.

#gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #gojo satoru angst #gojo satoru fluff #satoru gojo angst #satoru gojo fluff #gojo satoru x you #jjk gojo #gojo satoru x y/n #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x y/n #jjk angst #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen angst #jujutsu kaisen fluff

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joys-of-everyday · 2 years ago

Text

MXTX's women

Let's do ✨discourse™✨

Addendum: I checked out twitter (x now?) for the first time in ages and... um... maybe this isn't a good time for discourse. But hey, I love mxtx so I'm just going to do a Shen Yuan and pretend absolutely everything is fine.

I feel like a lot of the discourse around MXTX and sexism don't hit the mark? Things like 'there are few female characters', 'the female characters die', 'the female characters don't hold positions of power' are not indications as to whether a piece of work standing on its own is sexist. For example, you could write an entire novel about a sexless robot (which miserably fails the Bechdel test because there is only one character) and that says nothing about whether the work itself is sexist. This is an caricature of an example and of course, overall trends give a very different picture to individual works, so its not to take such works off the hook either. Similarly, including sexist troupes isn't inherently sexist, but equally arguing something is a 'critique' isn't a shield against criticism. Critique can be done badly, critique can become outdated, critique itself can be critiqued.

But equally the counterargument to this can't entirely be 'but look at x, y, and z - aren't they great female characters?'. Look, I love mxtx's women. I can write essays (plural) about mxtx's women. Many people already have. Then again, Eowyn from lotr is arguably a pretty deep character, but I would have problems if lotr was the best example of female representation we could come up with. The point being, the existence (or lack thereof) of strong female characters isn't (entirely) the point, even though it's often made out to be. Don't get me wrong, good female representation without strong female characters is... erm... hard. But if it was the crux of the argument, the discourse could be killed in three tumblr posts.

The bigger question(s) (possibly) is: What is its intent? How is that intent received?

SVSSS, MDZS, and TGCF are all extremely different pieces of work. SVSSS in particular stands out, because at its heart, it is satire. While debates around what kind of comedy is and isn't good exist independently of SVSSS, needless to say, judging satire in the same way you would say a murder mystery or a romantic fantasy is not advisable. Sha Hualing is a sexy demon lady whose clothes rip off in the middle of a battle. Why? Because that's saying something about a particular trope of a particular genre.

(Side note: I have opinions on how we shove different BLs together when they really shouldn't be under the same umbrella and how this muddies the discourse unnecessarily. I'm talking about Killing Stalking btw)

For SVSSS, if you get it, you get it (it's impossible to read without understanding this). While some loose threads exist about how female characters could have been more developed... man, do you know how much development my boy Mu Qingfang got? You're not sexist if you punch everyone (only half ironic here). (In terms of character development I also think this might be a fandom thing as well as a SVSSS thing.) But I think more relevantly, SVSSS tells you something about the way MXTX writes critique.

If you didn't notice, SVSSS is critique on two levels. First is the blatant critique of the harem genre, and the second is more subtle critique on BL, on fandoms, on webnovels, on literature. But while we get Shen Qingqiu's commentary guiding us through the first bit, this drops during the second bit. It takes Shen Qingqiu so long to realise that what he's living through is a crazy mishmash of BL tropes that the only narration you get on this is Pure Confusion. To realise Luo Binghe and Shen Qingqiu's early interactions is commentary on the 'dark and obsessive love' trope, you need to immediately realise that Shen Qingqiu telling you Luo Binghe is trying to kill him is just... Wrong. So (possibly, ofc I've no idea what's going on in the author's head) the intent is critique. But intent is meaningless without it being conveyed to the reader. So how are we meant to 'realise' what is going on?

Firstly, MXTX tells you. Shen Qingqiu goes: 'damn Luo Binghe isn't acting like in those weird danmei novels' and you're meant to go 'oh weird danmei novels I know about those'. Second is her very obvious use of tropes (even flagged!). 'Clothes rip/disappear in the middle of a serious situation, isn't this weird? Where have we seen that before?'. And thirdly, by introducing a sense of absurdity. Luo Binghe and Shen Qingqiu's relationship is presented in such an unconventional way (the master-disciple pair which generated a famous porno!) that it forces you to engage with it critically.

Okay, so what does that have to do with sexism? Take MDZS. We have a set of very tropey characters - 'the older sister', 'the scary mother', 'the strong independent woman', 'the damsel in distress'. We have explorations and subversions that go beyond tropes: Jiang Yanli's character shaped by her experiences in an abuse household, Yu Ziyuan's pride and loyalty, Wen Qing's well... everything, and Mianmian needs no explanation. We have flags to tell us we are meant to care about these issues: most obviously Mianmian experiencing gendered harassment for speaking up. All the women die! Yeah, isn't that a problem. Because it's the women sacrificing themselves, women silently taking on burdens, women chained by the circumstances of the world around them and still making choices about what is important to them (and it's often not themselves). The women aren't in positions of power/aren't shown to be as competent as the men! They're literally put down when they speak up, and don't the wives have a great time with their husbands. MDZS is critique of society. MDZS's women too are a critique of the society they (we) live in.

But not all critique is good critique! The first way that critique can fail is if it just isn't registered as critique by the reader. And this isn't always on the reader. If the author isn't clear enough on this, then they have failed to execute the intent of their work. And to this extent, I've heard enough people say that MDZS is maybe sexist as a first reaction (myself included) to think that yeah, maybe this wasn't well done. The flags are scarce. The subversions of tropes are subtle enough to be missed in it's entirety. Then again, MDZS often ends up as people's gateway piece into danmei, when it is probably better understood with more context - for me, coming back to MDZS after a big BL reading spree was exceptionally enlightening. As to whether it could have been better done in the bounds of the genre, without detracting from the banging story it was... I honestly don't know.

One way to go about it is, well... TGCF. Here everything is laid out to you to an almost bizarre degree. 'Look, isn't this a Hard Question' the narrative stops to tell you at multiple points, from Bai Wuxiang and Xie Lian's back and forths, to 'I don't know if what I did was right' speeches on a regular basis (maybe not regular but it was enough to notice). The troupes are still there but their twists are far more obvious. Xuan Ji is the 'deranged woman' who is (we are told multiple times) surprisingly normal and competent when she isn't around Pei Ming. Yushi Huang and Banyue are just obviously strong, competent, and in positions of power. Shi Qingxuan shines in all of her wonder, kindness, and unfortune. The flags are more glaring as well: Just Pei Ming's Existence, Ling Wen's whole backstory, Jian Lan's tragedy... And it probably worked? Since people seem to complain significantly less about any supposed sexism of TGCF.

Do I like it? I like elements of it. Ling Wen is honestly great.

But I love the subtlety with which MDZS weaves its themes and tbh I think some of the magic was lost there. (I love TGCF to bits for different reasons but yeah)

Does MXTX's writing of women merit discussion? Of course, everything merits discussion. Particularly MXTX's works which rely so heavily on genre tropes to craft themes. Is MXTX's work sexist? Idk, I would say no, but these things are Hard Questions.

But my feeling? My true feeling? At the very least, it is So. Much. Better. than a huge amount of work that tries to be feminist and pitifully fails.

My current pet peeve is the 'strong independent woman'. Depicting a sexist society then including a 'strong independent women' with no true appreciation of the realistic struggles she would face, as if the only barriers that we face within these societies is to stop being a loser... is worse in my books than not including any women at all. Or 'strong independent women' who turn out to be utterly pathetic and in constant need of saving. Or 'strong independent women' who have no other personality than being the 'strong independent woman'. The intent here is to come across as feminist and progressive without critically engaging in anything. It's paper thin.

Ultimately, the core theme of MDZS and TGCF isn't about women's experiences (whereas SVSSS is, I would argue, right into the nooks and crannies). Do these works explore such themes to the extent it explore privilege, conflict, and oppression? Not really. But you can't do everything - the role of an author is inherently about choosing what to prioritise. And given what it does do, I think it does some pretty neat things.

#mxtx meta #svsss #mdzs #tgcf

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the-invisible-queer · 1 year ago

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Stream of consciousness highlights from my notes app:

Death of Watcher:

Are Steven, Shane, and Ryan really leaving YouTube??

"I hope you follow us one last time." WHERE WE GOING BESTIE?!?!?!? I'M POOR BUT I'LL SUPPORT ON SOCIALS

Nevermind 😔

AT LEAST if it was on another streaming service I'd be more supportive. But at this point just turn memberships on. Patreon. Something like Mythical Society.

ANYTHING would have been better than this choice

The fact that I can't go on Tumblr and mourn Watcher is TRAGIC

So I'll mourn alone 😭

Random:

The amount of times I've opened Tumblr but I'm logged out so I can't do shit

I miss y'all and it's only been like 4hrs

Me, watching a TikTok of a very pretty man with dark curly hair and pretty eyes who sings nice: wow Joe really fucked me up for life, huh?

The biggest plot twist is if I end up having more photos of Nick than Joe. DOUBTFUL. But not impossible.

Looking forward to logging into Tumblr and seeing if I got any notifs on my main blog. Unlikely. I do hope for a Joe fit elimination update. Hope dickgate 2033 won.

Joe Rambling:

The fact that Joe posted those selfies but I can't be horny on the main because the main is IG which has become a puritan society

BUT I AM FERAL AS FUCK

JOE WITH THE BANDANA PLEASE FUCK ME

We're gonna get a full cowboy Joe era. I am predicting it at 4:08am on April 20th, 2024

"Man, he do got a big ass forehead. BUT I LOVE IT. My man and his five-head. 🥰" - ME about Joe

Can't wait to scream about Joe's fruity little bandana moment

The struggle of so badly wanting to both fuck him and make fun of him over the bandana is STRONG

Decided to make a Joe edit to be somewhat productive. Spent an hour on it. Left the app to respond to a message. Came back. The app deleted the fucking work. 😐

Gotta go spend another hour staring at Joe's chest hair again I guess which is like not the worst thing ya know 👀

I literally don't understand why his chest hair makes me feral but I find it actually disgusting on anyone else

Making fun of Nick:

The fact that I've yet to make fun of Nick for the way his head moves when he sings is a missed opportunity

Okay, Mr. Bobblehead

Me and Josh having an important discussion:

Rest in RIP to Josh's best friend who had to listen to me and Josh argue about Joe having a big dick or not

It's been 20min and Josh brought up Joe's dick again. What is going on? His best friend is still on the call.

Why did Josh out me as "having a picture of Nick Jonas' dick" on my phone 😭 ITS NOT A DICK PIC ITS AN UNDERWEAR PIC THAT LEAVES NOTHING TO THE IMAGINATION

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poopeth · 9 months ago

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I was tagged by @sebfreak . Thank youuu.

nine albums or songs I've been listening to lately x nine people I’d like to get to know better x tag game with no name

1. why did you choose your url? it's a long story that i've shared before, but basically video games and brainrot.

2. any sideblogs? if you have them name them and why you have them. lewdeth, its a nsfw blog so that this one doesn't ever lose the avatar like my old blog did in 2018 purge.

3. how long have you been on tumblr? 2012

4. do you have a queue tag? uhh yeah i think i used to have like a special tag, but right now i just do q

5. why did you start your blog in the first place? i honestly cannot remember at all. i was bored, facebook sucked, myspace was gone, reddit was boring, twitter was annoying, i think it was just the only place left.

6. why did you choose your icon/pfp? looked cool, planning on changing it again soon

7. why did you choose your header? looks cool, if part of my header is the like title it's an elden ring reference from the best guy in the dlc.

8. what’s your post with the most notes? had to check cause i didn't know but it seems to be an anime cap from tsukimichi that says cats are great.

9. how many mutuals do you have? idk lots im not gonna count . i generally check out all the people who follow me. if i like their blog i follow back,

10. how many followers do you have? 1835

11. how many people do you follow? 1091

12. have you ever made a shitpost? yes, frequently.

13. how often do you use tumblr each day? really depends on the day. lots of days i don't even get on, and other times im on every few minutes in between doing stuff.

14. did you have a fight/argument with another blog once? not really, at least not for the purpose of tumblr. there has been people that i've gotten close to that we argued about random stuff but had nothing to do with tumblr.

15. how do you feel about ‘you need to reblog this’ posts? i really don't care for it. im nihilistic as fuck me reblogging that shit isn't gonna fix anything. it's not what im here for, and it's why i don't like twitter. i just wanna see cool pics, anime tiddies, and horror aesthetic stuff.

16. do you like tag games? i like the fact that people tag me in stuff cause it makes it seem like they're either interested in getting to know me more, or that they think im a cool mutual who they wish to tag.

17. do you like ask games? yeah, it's fun to have people interested in you by asking stuff about you, i feed on the validation.

18. which of your mutuals do you think is tumblr famous? i don't think anyone. tumblr seems to be this weird place where even if you're a 10k+ followers blog, you're still the same kind of internet degen that a smaller blog is. like people are mostly here to see your reblogs which most blogs don't create.

19. do you have a crush on a mutual? not particularly. but all my moots are hot af so all of them.

20. what is the last song you listened to? Baddadan(feat. IRAH, Flowdan, Trigga & Takura) by Chase & Status.

21. what are you currently watching? oshi no ko s2, nokotan brainrot, TOG s2, slime S3, and other anime from this season.

22. sweet/ savoury/ spicy? i like all. major sweet tooth but i have an obsession with hot cheetos so spicy?

23. what is your current relationship status? dead inside

24. what is your current obsession? uhh nothing in particular? still do gacha games, league swarm has been fun. always obsessed with music. energy drinks lately.

25. what are nine albums/ songs you’ve been listening to lately?

songs cause albums would be too hard, gonna hit shuffle on my liked song and put them on here, indecision. prepare for the roller coaster

Ew - Joji

Man on the run - Dash Berlin

Drowning - A Boogie Wit Da Hoodie.

The hand that feeds - Nine Inch Nails

Magnetic - ILLIT

HP - Maluma

Shame - 2Chainz, Lil Wayne

Dead Talk - Wind Walkers

it's my fault - Willow if you actually listen to these 9 songs my bad

i tag : @dreamweazel (got it right this time), @grimmscythe , @ghvsts, @creepingkyofu,

nine albums or songs I've been listening to lately x nine people I’d like to get to know better x tag game with no name

(thank you for the tag @lianhuajing !!)

1. why did you choose your url? uh. it was a play on "rose tinted glasses"

2. any sideblogs? if you have them name them and why you have them. nope!

3. how long have you been on tumblr? I think 2022? i knew about it before, just never bothered to make a blog

4. do you have a queue tag? don't kill me, what's a queue tag?

5. why did you start your blog in the first place? I had some Thoughts about Blue Lock and wanted to post meta for it

6. why did you choose your icon/pfp? uhh Flora.

7. why did you choose your header? Reo is one of my Blorbos and I just really liked that panel of him

8. what’s your post with the most notes? probably the "do you download fics" poll

9. how many mutuals do you have? about 20? i don't remember

10. how many followers do you have? 120?

11. how many people do you follow? 91

12. have you ever made a shitpost? yes. i think.

13. how often do you use tumblr each day? an hour?

14. did you have a fight/argument with another blog once? nope

15. how do you feel about ‘you need to reblog this’ posts meh. some of them are funny i guess

16. do you like tag games? yep! it's nice interaction

17. do you like ask games? i do! but uh. it's a silent empty void here. an echo chamber, if you will.

18. which of your mutuals do you think is tumblr famous? i have no idea but i see @kingsandbastardz a lot in the mlc community

19. do you have a crush on a mutual? nope

20. what is the last song you listened to? 若梦 by 周深

21. what are you currently watching? i just finished The Double! probably starting on Dashing Youth next

22. sweet/ savoury/ spicy? savoury!

23. what is your current relationship status? single

24. what is your current obsession? The Double,,,,

25. what are nine albums/ songs you've been listening to lately?

若梦 by 周深

如故 by 张碧晨

如初 by 张碧晨

借过一下 by 周深

万物不如你 by 张杰

Our dawn is hotter than day by Seventeen

Hitorijana by Seventeen

my music taste is kinda...i tend to stick to a few artists...

26. tagging (no obligation to do this!) @randomingoftherandomness @good-vs-evo @chrysofightme @bbcphile

#no participation required #tag game

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wolf-queer-discourse · 4 years ago

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Adventures in Aphobia #1

So I was scrolling through Tumblr the other day (a regrettable mistake as always), and I had the great pleasure of seeing this joyous post.

*deep breath*

Not gonna lie, posts like this make me real pissed. Pissed because the person who posted this exists in a space where they feel comfortable enough to post this online. Pissed because these posts are so common and often face little backlash. And pissed because there’s nothing better than allosexuals condescendingly explaining to asexual people why they’re dirty attention whores who invent their own oppression. Ace people deserve to be defended against this horseshit. Young people see these posts, and it’s extremely damaging to have your identity be nothing more than fuel for people in discourse to mock you and demand you bled in order for them to notice your pain.

Anger aside, many people do not see why this post is wrong, so why is it? Let’s unpack this clusterfuck of bigotry:

“would love to see substantive evidence of systematic “aphobia” that isn’t actually just misogyny, toxic masculinity, or rpe culture.”

God damn, we are not mincing our words here XD. A few things: systematic in bold, which tells you if you do not make a blood sacrifice on the altar of queer pain you will not be taken seriously. Potential nitpick, but systemic and systematic are not the same thing. I believe systemic is the word they’re looking for. Systematic implies a lot more intentionality that can be hard to prove. Systemic merely means that systems, in their current state, do aphobic things, which they absolutely do.

“Aphobia” in quotes is absolutely rich. Not only will this person refuse to acknowledge systemic aphobia, which is only one type, but this poster casts clear doubt upon the mere concept of aphobia in and of itself. We love to see it.

There’s a lot to unpack here. The statement, as clearly condescending as intended, is sort of correct, though it doesn’t mean a whole lot. Systemic oppression is about the systems in a society (government, healthcare, etc) discriminating against people. Systemic oppression is not bigotry faced on a person-to-person level. In short, systematic oppression is something a person experiences in their overall life, while personal discrimination is experienced on a personal level by people who are not singularly in control of the systems. This post boils down the negative comments ace people face into being called “weird”, which is an understatement for sure, but calling a gay person weird isn’t systemic oppression either.

It’s still bad and discriminatory.

This is such a snotty way to dismiss aphobia as some mere, insignificant comment with no meaning as if it doesn’t reinforce society’s painful aphobic views in the same way casual homophobic comments reinforce heteronormativity and society’s hostility toward gay people.

Ace people face discrimination in healthcare, most notably, which is systemic discrimination, but the systemic discrimination of asexuals really ought to be its own post if I’m to nosedive into it. Even if ace people faced no systemic discrimination, it wouldn’t make this point anymore correct. Discrimination is a perfectly valid reason to feel disregarded by society, and often only ace people are denied the right to feel this way and are instead gaslit into admitting what they face is no big deal and they’re just making it up for attention.

The experience of being pressured to have sex when you’re allo vs ace is very different. The vast majority of allo people do not plan to be celibate their whole lives. Many ace people do not want to have sex, ever. “Waiting for sex” in much of western society and in Christianity is seen as pure and honorable. Yet being asexual and never wanting sex is seen as a deviant disorder and people are accused of robbing their partner of sex forever.

There’s really a specific flavor of sexual pressure that is unique to ace people. Sex being to “fix” someone or because they “just need to try it”.

In this respect, aphobic sexual pressure is better compared to that faced by gay people and lesbians. Lesbians especially often can face this same struggle, men pressuring them to have sex because they think lesbians just need to “try it” or to “fix them”. I can imagine this poster would have no issue acknowledging lesbophobia being the root of lesbians coerced into sex with men, yet she does not give ace people the same.

Imagine if someone said (and knowing our fucked world, someone probably has): “Lesbophobia doesn’t exist. It’s just misogyny. Straight women are coerced into sex too!”

It’d be pathetic bullshit. Toxic masculinity, misogyny and many other issues can all tangle into combined messes with other forms of bigotry. Lesbophobia is an experience that deserves to be recognized apart from misogyny, even if the two are linked. Please stop erasing ace people’s experiences with this when it’s not the same thing.

Honestly, though, this post, as trashy as it is, if anything, is perhaps, really asking: Is there any type of aphobic experience that’s inherently exclusive to ace people?

I still wager to go say, yes, yes there is, but I must make an important point first:

Most experiences of queer discrimination are not limited to queer people.

Homophobia and transphobia are both experienced by cishets in certain instances. Feminine straight men can be victims of homophobic harassment. This does not disprove the fact that it’s homophobia just because a straight man is the victim of it. A tall cis woman with broad shoulders and a lower voice may be the victim of transphobic remarks or comments. The basis of these comments is rooted in transphobia, however, so the fact that the victim is cis does not erase the transphobia.

People who argue that experiences ace people complain about can be experienced by allosexuals are not poking a legitimate hole in doing this. Certain experiences related to aphobia can and are experienced by allosexuals. If you do not acknowledge this, then homophobia and transphobia aren’t real because cishet people have sometimes experienced them.

Despite cishets sometimes experiencing queerphobia, most of us acknowledge that their experience of that bigotry, however unfortunate, is not the same as that experienced by actual queer people. It’d be quite homophobic for a feminine straight man to claim he knew just as much about the gay experience as an actual gay man. Similarly, when allosexual people relate experiences that were rooted in aphobia, it’s overstepping a line when they claim asexual discrimination isn’t real because they experienced elements of it too.

Cishet (cishet including allosexuals) people do not experience their doctors telling them their sexuality might be a disorder or caused by trauma. Allo queer people can experience this with their sexualities too.

“using sex appeal to sell products is misogyny, it is not engineered to gross sex-repulsed people, it is meant to objectify women.”

This is a strawman thinner than my last nerve. Uh, what? What ace people are you seeing that literally think sex appeal was engineered to gross-out sex-repulsed people?? I don’t think this is a core argument??

Yes, sex-repulsed ace people sometimes complain about sex appeal in media being uncomfortable. But that’s it. Every time an ace person shares a discomfort of theirs doesn’t mean it’s the entire basis of their oppression. For the love of God, let ace people discuss their experiences without being blow-torched over not being oppressed enough with an individual discomfort.

BONUS ROUND

(This was in the tags)

“Completely vilifies celibate individuals”

...no��? What…? Huh…?

The most charitable interpretation of this vague accusation is that the poster means celibate people face aphobia as well, due to not wanting to have sex. I have no idea how this “vilifies” anyone, but that aside, as said before: people who are not queer can face aphobia. Also worth noting that society treats celibate people way better than ace people, which is really another example of aphobia. Celibate people can be told they’re missing out (which could be at very least related to aphobic ideals), but they’re rarely called broken. Celibacy is seen more as a respected, controlled ideal in allo people, but when ace people want to do it, they’re just mentally ill.

Anyway, the post was aphobic trash, and it needs to be debunked more often. Mocking ace people online is not a good look anymore, guys. Don't be ugly.

#discourse #queer discourse #LGBT discourse #Adventures in Aphobia #ace discourse #asexual discourse #aphobia #ace discrimination #asexual #asexuality #LGBT #queer #ace #rant #aphobes have no shame but they should #imagine having a brain smoother than a banana peel

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newlyy · 2 years ago

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I posted 6,530 times in 2022

That's 2,959 more posts than 2021!

2,222 posts created (34%)

4,308 posts reblogged (66%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@newlyy

@viindiicta

@coolgirlepicblog

@sportsbianism

@taurusmoon420

I tagged 2,516 of my posts in 2022

#prev - 17 posts

#prev tags - 7 posts

#aw - 5 posts

#ty 💕 - 5 posts

#thank you 💜 - 5 posts

#thank you :) - 4 posts

#:) - 4 posts

#period - 4 posts

#idk - 4 posts

#thank you 😌 - 4 posts

Longest Tag: 140 characters

#obviously there’s a difference between transracialism and trans genderism we al know that it’s a huge difference they’re not at all the same

My Top Posts in 2022:

There are two steps in the thought process about male and female sport performance. The first is “men and women are physically different.” The second is “physical difference doesn’t suggest male superiority or necessitate female subordination.” Feminism happens in the second thought. It doesn’t happen in the first, in trying to argue men and women are biologically identical. If your arguments for female equality hinge on that, you’re fighting a losing battle. Hope that helps for the genderists who can’t understand why saying that a man shouldn’t compete in women’s sports isn’t the same as saying women are inferior.

1,110 notes - Posted March 20, 2022

Anyway, these brainwashed, lip filler-having, Botox-at-22, pornsick, “bimbo,” misogynistic gen z girls need to develop some feminist consciousness pretty fucking quick, cause I’m not being taken down with them just because they grew up taking for granted the things that past generations of women fought for and feel the need now to rebel against them.

1,207 notes - Posted May 8, 2022

i hating that “aging gracefully” has been co-opted by tiktok plastic surgeons to mean “hiding signs of aging” instead of what it actually means, which is “not digging your teeth and nails into the ground trying to fight the inevitable”

1,488 notes - Posted September 7, 2022

I hate when choice feminists try to do body positivity and plastic surgery positivity at the same time. Like “this feature has been my biggest insecurity since birth, but girls who have this feature, there’s nothing wrong with you and you’re gorgeous! Just for me, it made me want to kill myself 💜” like, queen, you can’t do both.

1,546 notes - Posted January 12, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

like you need to stop sleeping with men. every woman needs to stop fucking sleeping with men. its ridiculous

1,892 notes - Posted June 24, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review

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masterwords · 4 years ago

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Without Substance

Summary: Post-Scratch, Hotch deals with what he thinks is an intruder in the middle of the night. (Whumptober 2021 prompt: blood-matted hair)

Warnings: dementia, memory loss, violence, concussion, blood, hospital, gun, paranoia, drug withdrawals

Words: 3k

Notes: Lost on Tumblr forever, pulled out of my AO3 graveyard.

Read on AO3: Without Substance

“Rossi, back off man,” Derek growls as Dave presses Aaron for information he simply cannot access. Not now. Maybe not ever. “He just experienced trauma, you know as well as I do that he's not in the right head space to sort out the details...” He's sitting in the back of an ambulance, starched white shirt splattered with blood, rumpled and damp, pressing his hands together to quiet the deep vibration shivering its way through his muscles.

“We don't know how these drugs work, Morgan,” Dave counters, and now they're arguing in front of Aaron who isn't even trying to catch up. They take a step away, try to lower their voices, to hash it out between just the two of them. The sounds of the scene swirl around him, nothing holds his attention long enough to put a name to it. “We may never know what happened if he doesn't give us something, anything, right now.” Red and white lights flash, blue lights up the trees, everything is either out of focus or too sharp, too much for his eyes. He can feel the tears pooling, ready to spill and he isn't really sure why. His head hurts, but that's not it. At least he doesn't think so.

“Dave,” he says in a voice that hardly breaks through their disagreement. “It doesn't make sense.” He's trying to cooperate, he knows Dave is right and he knows Derek is just trying to protect him, floating between them is uncomfortable. Blinking hard, he tries to be the Unit Chief, tries to get his mind in order there just isn't anything he can do. Pieces float around his head in a sticky jumbled mess, images that don't make sense and how can he be expected to form words around them when they look like nothing he recognizes? Alien lifeforms, holograms without substance, his fingertips graze them and they turn to dust. How does he say “He shot Reid, and then you, and then Derek, right in front of me, I felt his blood on my face...” if two of them are standing right before him? He reaches one finger up, touches the sticky blood on his face, the broken skin and closes his eyes. Not eager to sound like he's gone mad, to put himself in a holding cell while they try and sort out everything that happened (Would they suspect that he might have killed Dr. Ragan? Peter Lewis had convinced people to do far worse.) he keeps silent, chooses Derek's side with tears brimming his eyes.

Jessica stays the night, she's offering before Derek has a chance to ask. Once she hears the panic in his voice, she throws it out and won't take no for an answer. She knows this drill. “I have to bring my dad here, he can't be on his own all night. Do you mind?”

“Do what you gotta do,” Derek says, only half listening as Aaron hugs his arms around bruised ribs and folds himself and his long legs into the vehicle. “We'll be back late. The ER's gonna be a long wait...he doesn't want to ride in the ambulance.” He means don't wait up and she hears him loud and clear. He means if he doesn't ride in the ambulance from the crime scene then he can get away with not including this in his report. He means he just wants to take care of things on his own. It isn't blind trust that makes him agree, it's love. He'll sit in an uncomfortable emergency room chair all night if that's what Aaron needs.

It's a chilly lobby and bright white lights, people screaming and panicking over blood and nurses who have heard it all before containing situation after situation. Aaron is curled around himself, hunched over in the chair with his face in his hands – he's still not sure what's worse, the throbbing in his head or the way his chest feels constricted, bound too tight to pull in a real breath. He's exhausted and electric, buzzing bees beneath clammy skin. He's frayed nerves and burning eyes, it hurts to have them open, it hurts to blink, but when they're closed they water uncontrollably and it stings. “I can't breathe,” he whispers, and Derek rubs his back, notices that he's breathing just fine. He's heard this for the last hour, it's the only thing Aaron says and he knows, he gets it but the nurses have already run him through triage and they're on a waiting list a mile long. He just rubs, up and down, fingers playing so soft along his spine trying to draw one long, deep breath after another.

“Nothing we can do but try to make him comfortable,” they say and they put in a prescription for some pain medication that may or may not help. Derek sees the arguments in their future dancing in the loops and lines of the doctor's signature. “He should feel significantly better in 24 to 48 hours. Bring him back if it gets worse, if he's not sleeping, if he starts vomiting.” They list off concussion protocol, as if he's never heard it before. He played football, he knows it all but he listens intently hoping they'll give him something new, some insight into the drugs or anything, no luck. It isn't what Derek wants to hear, but Aaron feels content. To Derek it sounds like he's on his own, but to Aaron it sounds like there isn't anything to make him feel guilty glossing over this bit in his final report. Rest, that's what they're saying and Derek knows that his version of rest and Aaron's are very different – another thing to argue about.

The arguments pile up and topple over on the trip home. Aaron's forehead is pressed to the cold window, eyes blurry and wet with ointments and drops. Contacts in the trash can, nowhere near his glasses he's floating in a cloudy haze made sharp by the stabbing that runs up and down his neck when the car bumps.

“How far?” he asks, as if it matters. Derek rolls his eyes and smiles. He's worse than Jack on road trips, his are we there yet? more pointed than Jack's. The boy just wants out of the car, he wants to be free to enjoy wherever it is they've gone and Aaron is simply convinced Derek has taken the wrong way, should have consulted a map, GPS, maybe just let him drive. The medication they've given him quiets the carsick feeling he gets, he's not grouchy he just wants to go to bed.

“We'll get there when we get there,” is his forever reply to Aaron's petulant toddler behavior. “Don't make me take a wrong turn. I'll land us somewhere deep in the mountains if you keep pushing,” Aaron sighs and shifts in the seat, feels Derek's warm hand settle heavily on his thigh and he considers it a challenge. Two hands on the wheel, he would normally say but he just smirks and says nothing. Derek gives his thigh a squeeze, upping the ante and Aaron lets his hand settle right on top, fingers twitching into their rightful place. He wouldn't mind the mountains with Derek, he supposed. He wouldn't mind anything with Derek.

The apartment is dark when they walk in, the light above the stove illuminating just enough to maneuver. It feels so warm and inviting after Jessica has been there, everything is clean and smells like jasmine and vanilla. A note on the counter tells them there are leftovers in the fridge, Derek digs in and Aaron declines, he's suffering enough just trying to remain upright. Chewing might do him in entirely.

“I'm going to bed,” he mumbles, kissing Derek on the temple while he gnaws on a hot wing. Derek grins, wipes the sauce from his face and watches him walk away.

“I'll be there in a few,” he calls after him, digging further into the tupperware for his favorite pieces.

His lips burn with hot sauce when he kisses Aaron goodnight, when he pulls him in close. Aaron is restless, glad to be in bed but knows he won't really sleep. His muscles feel twitchy, anxious. It doesn't take long before Derek is sleeping, deep snoring breaths, slow rhythmic thump thump thump of his heart against Aaron's cheek.

Every time he drifts off he feels Derek's blood hot on his face and his eyes fly open, he reaches out for Derek's warmth beside him, reminds himself it's just a trick. His mind thinks it's real, tries desperately to convince him of its solid force, the crush of grief instant and all encompassing but he knows it can't be true. Knows Derek is beside him. Fingers dig into flesh, fly to the pounding of his pulse beneath his jaw, breath against his cheek. He pushes in close and feels the expanding of his rib cage around full lungs.

Derek is alive, he tells himself as he settles back into sleep for the third, fourth, fifth time.

A clatter in the kitchen startles him awake, Derek shifts but doesn't open his eyes, turns away as Aaron makes a move to sit upright. His ribs creak and groan at the action, he sucks in a painful breath and slides toward the edge of the bed, fingers punching in the code to his gun safe blindly – he knows it without seeing it, is able to open and close the door without a sound. He looks at Derek sleeping, wonders if he should wake him too but he's worried it's another trick of his mind and if Derek sees it in action, he might be inclined to take him back to the hospital, call Dave, do something drastic. He can't take the chance, not yet. If it turns out to be nothing, maybe he'll say something. The sounds in the kitchen continue as he slips out into the darkened hallway, he can see a shadow but his mind is playing tricks on him, eyes blurry, watering as he tries to will them to focus. Silverware clattering, dishes crashing, they're not exactly trying to hide and his heart thunders wildly against his rib cage. Noiseless he slips down the carpeted hall, shoulder sliding along the wall and he blinks a few times. Nearly blind by the time he reaches the break, steps out and aims his gun at the sound; he opens his mouth to alert the intruder of his presence, he doesn't want to shoot anyone, heaven knows he's had more than enough time in the recesses of his own mind tonight and the gun feels too heavy a burden. This isn't the first time he's aimed his gun at an apparition.

There is a shout and he feels something heavy connect with the side of his head that sends him sprawling backward, slamming against the wall behind him. Never saw it coming, truthfully couldn't see much of anything at that exact moment and now there was only bright sprays of white hot pain and something sticky dripping into his ear. His gun flies out of his hand and slides across the linoleum floor as he collapses backward into the carpeted hallway. More blood on the carpet, he thinks while the searing pain courses from one concentrated spot on his skull and emanates down his neck, into his shoulders. The hits keep coming, he stops feeling them after awhile, he's scrambling to get his bearings, to pull himself upright and stop the attack, he's trying to use his voice and there isn't any sound, even he knows that. His head swims and his fight of flight instinct is too quiet, dulled by medication he hadn't even wanted to take. If this is a dream, it's really fucked up.

The voice he hears is loud, angry, growling. He recognizes it and it steadies him as he pulls himself up just enough, uses his arms to cover his head. Like stepping back in time, he's transported and the voice sounds oddly like comfort, like safety.

Like hope and then a flash of clarity when he realizes it is none of those things. He blinks himself into the present and squints as Jessica rushes down the hall, eyes lighting on Aaron for just a moment before she pulls her father backward, knocking the cane from his hand. Derek is on his knees beside Aaron, pulling him into his lap, looking him over carefully for any real damage and finds none – red cane marks, blood in his hair from a gushing wound above his ear, and he realizes its the second time that night he'll be cleaning blood from Aaron's hair.

“Dad! Dad stop!”

Derek watches as Jessica shoves Roy into a chair, puts herself in his line of sight and huffs a sigh of frustration. Her hair is wild, eyes still filled with sleep and she pulls her robe tight around herself because she doesn't know what to do with her hands.

“You could have killed him!”

“He had a gun!” Roy grunts, slamming his meaty fist down on the table. “Aimed it right at me! That sonofabitch was going to shoot me.” She looks horrified, Aaron is sobbing and gasping on the floor, Derek can't believe what he's seeing but out of the corner of his eye he catches sight of the gun beneath the fridge and it's a crushing blow, he knows that Roy isn't lying.

“Jess,” he says, pointing toward the gun. She picks it up, glances between Aaron and her father briefly before setting it on the counter. A silent accusation.

“I heard noises,” Aaron mumbles through blood slicked lips. His tongue feels thick and dry, the words don't sound right. “Thought there was an intruder...” He lets out a sob from somewhere deep in his ribs, tries to choke it down with no luck. He's not really crying, he's just overwhelmed and his body is coursing with adrenaline and pain and confusion. “Didn't know...”

“Come out to the kitchen for a snack and have a gun pointed at my damn face, that's some hospitality,” Roy's snarling and Aaron struggles upright, tries to pull out of Derek's embrace, to sit on his own but he can't focus, his vision is swimming. Already fighting a head injury, the last vestiges of Scratch's cocktail still in his system he's sobbing uncontrollably and he can't really figure out why.

“Go ahead, Jessie, take his side like always.”

“Dad, there are no sides...it was a misunderstanding.”

“He tried to kill me! Misunderstanding...PAH!”

It's becoming clear to her that Roy has nearly forgotten what actually happened, soon he'll start filling in the gaps with fabricated attempts at memories while the blank look settles into his features again and she feels cold. Tomorrow the story will sound different, maybe a week from now he was holding the gun. The nature of his disease was haunting. His anger is still there but the details are getting fuzzier by the minute, and there's an odd sense of sad camaraderie between the two men as their minds struggle to come to terms with the details or let them go entirely.

“C'mon, Dad, let's go back to bed.” She's utterly defeated, on the verge of tears herself and with a sideways glance at Derek who just nods his approval of her decision, she helps her father to his feet and takes the cane from Derek's outstretched hand. Nothing she can say will make it better, will make Roy apologize, will fix another blood stain on Aaron's carpet. By the time he's back in bed, he's forgotten why he was up in the first place. It's over so quickly for him, but in the front room she knows it's really only beginning. She stays with her father until he's asleep, afraid to see the damage she's caused by having Roy stay over, even if she knows none of them had a choice.

Derek holds Aaron between his legs, hugs his arms around his shoulders and tries to control the sobbing. It's almost hysterical, wild, his whole body shakes with the effort. It reminds him of Haley, that moment, pulling him off of Foyet, his body electric and painful. He's in panic mode, his lungs are fire, he can't suck enough air in to catch his breath. Derek just holds him tight, slicks the bloody hair back from his forehead and tries to influence his breath. He's bleeding badly enough that Jessica brings out a rag and presses it to his head, brings him to her lap now so Derek can get up, can put the gun away and find him a change of clothes, figure out what to do. The cut isn't deep, it's just bleeding a lot, they can manage it at home, it's the rest that is frightening. In the morning his arms will be black and blue, and it's possible neither he nor Roy will really be able to answer why.

“It's okay Aaron,” she breathes, and his lungs fill with air. The sparks come slower and soon its only smoldering embers. Something about her soothes his turmoil. He's seventeen and sitting on her bedroom floor with a bag of frozen peas going mushy on his swollen wrist while she stitches up his favorite shirt the best she can. Haley's at cheer-leading practice and he's just had another run in with his father, he's more upset about the shirt than his arm though. He doesn't have many favorite things. “Aaron, you didn't know...”

“It's more than that, Jess,” Derek says, entering the room again, ready to admit that Dave may have been right, they needed to know what Aaron went through in that house. But now he can't talk, he's just sitting there bleeding, lost in his mind and neither of them know quite where he is, what he's thinking, what to do next. Roy is sleeping, the apartment has gone quiet. Derek found Jack hiding behind his bedroom door, listening without looking and soothed him back to sleep with the promise that everything was fine. Just a misunderstanding, he says, but the haunted look in Aaron's eyes as he washes the blood from his hair for the second time that night leaves him with more questions than answers.

#aaron hotchner #derek morgan #jessica brooks #roy brooks #jack hotchner #criminal minds #hotchgan #fanfiction

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alarawriting · 5 years ago

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52 Project #24: The Princesses and the Peas

(Inspired by a post on Tumblr and if I can ever find it again I will link it here.)

(Not proofread, beta’ed, or even read through a second time because this is massively late and if I don’t post within the next hour it will officially be next week everywhere in the United States and I will have failed in my mission. I’ll try to re-read and proofread and edit next week. Also this note is highly unprofessional, but I learned my relationship to my audience through fanfic, so this is how I roll.)

***

Surely you have heard a similar tale before, almost but not entirely like this one, of the queen who sought the perfect wife for her son, the crown prince.

The queen had ruled the land alone since the death of her husband. She was praised for her wisdom and her benevolence toward her people. But she was no longer young, and it was time to make sure her son made a politically beneficial marriage, to strengthen his position when it came time for him to take the crown. Many in the land whispered that the young man would make a terrible king, and wanted him to abdicate in favor of his younger sister, who was beautiful and bright and smiling. Celia, the young sister, could look anyone in the eye and make them believe that in that moment, they were the most important person in her world. Arien, the prince… could not do that.

The prince had a talent for mathematics, and it had expressed itself very young. Some said he should be the chancellor of the exchequer rather than the king. But Queen Leyta knew her son would make a compassionate and wise ruler as well as a prudent one. He also had a gift for seeing the humanity behind the numbers he calculated, of being able to think of the impact they would have on the people he would one day rule.

Once, when he was a child of six, his nursemaid lost him. Leyta found him behind the kitchens, picking through the garbage bins to find table scraps. She would have punished the kitchen staff for allowing such a thing, but Arien insisted that she should not. “It’s not their fault, Mother. I ordered them to let me, and I’m the prince, so they had to obey me. I told them that if you became angry at them I would tell you that they were only obeying my orders. They can’t get in trouble for obeying their liege.”

Leyta sighed. She could punish them for obeying their liege, when their liege was 6 and the thing he wanted to do was eat garbage, but she wouldn’t, because she knew why they obeyed. When the prince was thwarted, he would ask why. And if he received an answer, he would argue with it and present his position. Sometimes, this debate would lead to him accepting the necessity, and calmly going about his business, seeming to forget all about what he’d asked. More often, if he didn’t get an answer to “why”, or he didn’t like the answer and thought it didn’t make sense, and he was still thwarted, he would start to scream and hide under tables, or scream and run around and break things, or scream and slam his head into the wall, and he wouldn’t stop even when offered the thing he wanted. It was very, very hard to calm him once he started shrieking. So instead of punishing the kitchen staff, she asked Arien, “Why were you eating garbage?”

“Our food is bought with the taxes we take from the people,” he said seriously. “If we wasted less food, we wouldn’t have to tax the people as sorely as we do, and they would have more money to buy things for themselves.”

So she took him aside and told him that the scraps were fed to the dogs, who helped the palace huntsmen bring down game, or the goats and fowl, who gave the palace milk, meat and eggs, or they were tilled into the ground to make the fields around the palace more fruitful. They did not, in fact, go to waste; food that wasn’t wholesome for humans to eat could still feed animals, who would turn it back into wholesome food.

Then she had a lengthy discussion with him about tax policy, and listened gravely to his suggestions as to how they could ease the burdens on the people, and told him what the problems with his ideas were. And when some of his ideas didn’t have significant problems, she told him so, and discussed them with him, and even implemented a few as policy.

Arien also had a great love for bugs. He spent much of his days wandering the grounds, sketching every insect he saw, capturing some to study them and figure out what they ate. When Leyta learned of this, she found a learned scholar of insects, and hired him to be Arien’s tutor in the matter of insects, only. The man was at first openly resentful of being required to work with a small child, assuming that Arien would be a spoiled princeling with no real interest in learning, but when he discovered Arien’s love for the tiny creatures, he embraced the boy wholeheartedly and tutored him as well as he could.

The prince had few friends. He was open and innocent, happy to make friends with any child close to his own age, but the honest children who truly wanted a playmate were put off by Arien’s tendency to talk about bugs and math almost constantly. The children who put up with Arien’s chatter were, to Leyta’s eyes, obviously coached by ambitious mothers, pretending to friendship with the strange young prince to improve their position at court. She arranged for most of these children to be sent away – either their mothers dismissed, or the family sent to one of the crown’s holdings with some duty to perform or another. Arien was saddened by the disappearance of his playmates, since he didn’t realize they saw him as mere stepping stones to power. Celia knew, and would comfort her brother as well as she could… but she didn’t have a lot of patience for math, tax policy, and insects either.

As he grew up, Arien continued to display a strange mixture of wisdom and childishness. He would run around the palace grounds, playing with children far younger than he was, and they were not old enough to try to manipulate him, so Queen Leyta left them alone. He enjoyed riding his horse and taking care of it, and was often found at the stables, for he believed his horse needed to cared for in just the exact way he did it, and he didn’t trust the stablehands to follow his instructions exactly. He would spend hours discussing the politics of the land and the problems facing various groups of his subjects with Leyta and her own advisors, and then he would scream and throw himself on the floor at dinner because a chef had put visible onions in his soup, and he would need to be put to bed with his favorite blanket and a knitted doll of a dog that he’d had when he was four.

People said that the boy was touched in the head, that he was slightly mad, and also, that a future king who threw temper tantrums over onions was not to be trusted. But they weren’t, exactly, tantrums, as Leyta saw them. They didn’t stop when the problem was solved, they usually didn’t include demands – in fact, usually it was hard to get the prince to explain what was wrong, because he seemed to lose much of his ability to speak when these fits came on him. And she could see in his eyes that he was terrified and overwhelmed, not angry and demanding. Arien needed the world to work a certain way, and when it did not, it left him adrift, frightened and lost in a world that seemed to make no sense to him anymore.

Some of these ways that the world needed to work involved food, and the importance of not being able to see onions, for an onion large enough to see was large enough to crunch in his mouth in a way that apparently was so disgusting it would make him lose his ability to eat all day. There were similar rules regarding peppers, and certain cream dishes. Other ways the world needed to work regarded his mother’s advisors treating him like their future king, not in terms of obsequious deference but in terms of actually listening to his ideas and explaining things to him – even when he was merely eight. And then there was the care of animals – his own animals needed to be cared for in an exact way, and if he saw anyone being cruel to an animal, he might actually become violent to that person. The same was true of stronger people being cruel to weaker ones. When he was fourteen, he heard a maid crying, and asked a kitchen maid to find out for him what had happened. And then, when he learned that a nobleman under his roof had ill used her and cast her aside, he went to his mother and demanded the man be whipped for his crimes. The political explanations she gave for why that couldn’t be done fell on deaf ears; he was a cruel man and he’d harmed someone he had power over, and that was all Arien cared about. Leyta only managed to satisfy him by sending the man on a probably futile sea expedition to try to find a cheaper source of rice.

This was the boy that Queen Leyta had to find a proper bride for.

Her mother-in-law, the Dowager Queen, had ideas, but it had been many years since the Dowager Queen had actually held any power; she was one of Leyta’s advisors now, nothing more. So the idea would have to be one that Leyta agreed with, herself.

A ball to introduce eligible young women with powerful families to the prince? No. The prince didn’t handle crowds or parties well, or meeting a lot of new people in one evening.

A series of daytime salons, where a small group of eligible women would converse over luncheon with the prince? No. That was still too many people and the prince was self-conscious about people watching him eat.

Individual visits from each eligible young lady and her chaperones, to the palace, to meet with Arien, and also to be approved by Leyta? Yes! An excellent idea. Leyta had her secretary write up the invitations, to all the young women whose parents had written to her or the Dowager to express an interest.

In the palace was a suite of rooms that had been Leyta’s, once, when she’d lived in this palace to learn its ways before marrying the then-prince. She had that suite cleaned and prepared for the guests. Sleeping quarters to either side for the princess’s guards. Ladies-in-waiting to sleep in the antechamber outside the princess’s bedroom. And inside the princess’s bedroom, a bed heaped with several thick eiderdown duvets and pillows, incredibly soft, with sheets made from the finest linens.

And under the second eiderdown duvet, dried peas.

Queen Leyta tested the peas. When she sat on the bed, she couldn’t feel them. If she laid in the bed, she could barely tell they were there. But when she had Arien try it, he said, “You’re going to take them out before the guests come, right? The peas make the bed much too uncomfortable.”

“The peas,” Leyta said, “are to test whether a girl is right for you or not. It’s magic.”

Arien looked at her skeptically, unsure whether he believed in magic or not. “How are dried peas supposed to find me the right wife?”

“Magic,” Leyta said. “I can’t tell you exactly how it works. But it’s very important that you not tell them about the peas, or the magic won’t work.”

“Mother, I’m sixteen. I’m not a child. This whole story sounds ridiculous.”

“All right,” Leyta admitted. “It’s not magic, but I won’t be able to explain it to you until after it’s proven that it works, or doesn’t. But it is very important that you not tell any of your guests about it.”

Arien looked like he wanted to argue some more about it. Leyta said, “Trust me,” and he sighed, plainly remembering the number of times his mother had stood up for him or had come up with some scheme to help him.

“All right, Mother, but I’ll want that explanation afterwards.”

The Dowager Queen had her own theories. “You want to see if they can tell the peas are there?”

“To a certain extent,” Leyta said.

“You know that old wives’ tale about princesses being true and refined if they’re extremely sensitive is just a myth. I wasn’t a fragile flower who’d lose petals if you looked at her hard, and neither were you. And neither will Celia be.”

“I know that, Mother,” Leyta said – it was custom to address your mother-in-law as Mother, and Leyta’s own mother had died shortly after her wedding. The Dowager Queen had been the closest thing to a mother she’d had the entire time she was Queen. “I’m not testing for extreme skin sensitivity. Trust me.”

“It’d be hard for him to get an heir on a princess that fragile, don’t you think?” The Dowager chortled.

Leyta sighed. “No need to be crude about it. I have my reasons, and I’ll explain them to you, eventually. Let’s see if it works, first.”

***

The first princess was from the west. She had long straight hair and delicate-looking eyes with folded lids that left them shaped like almonds, rather than the eggs that the people of this realm wore in their face. She had pale creamy skin with a golden undertone, and she was demure and very polite, her etiquette perfect. She sat with Arien for hours, smiling at him with a face that expressed great interest, as he explained to her the complexities of life in a beehive.

In the morning, Leyta asked her, “How did you sleep?”

“Oh, wonderfully,” the princess said. “The bed was perfect! So soft! Your hospitality is wonderful.” She bowed her head.

Leyta saw her and her entourage off. When she returned, she asked Arien, “What did you think of her?”

“She was nice,” Arien said. “She listened to me. I’ve only had a few friends who listened to me, and they all moved away.”

Privately, without Arien present, the Dowager asked, “So what’s your verdict?”

“Unless none of them pass the test, she’s a no.”

***

The second princess was from the land immediately to the north. Her skin was tree- brown but as smooth as a tranquil lake, her hair floating around her head in a soft, curly cloud. Arien talked to her about beetles. She made excuses of not feeling well about half an hour into the beetle discussion.

When Leyta asked her how she slept, she said, “Your rooms are very nice. And the food last night was excellent, I’m so sorry I had to cut the evening short. But I feel fully rejuvenated today.”

Arien said, “She seemed okay, but she kept looking around while I was talking to her, so much that I think she gave herself motion sickness. I think that’s why she got sick.”

Leyta said to the Dowager, “A definite no.”

***

The third princess was from the far south. She had beautiful straight golden hair, cut short and asymmetrically, where it was shorter in the back than front and where it was parted on one side rather than in the middle.

She complained about her soup being cold. She complained about her roast beef being too bloody. She complained that the dessert course had small portions and also that it was too sweet. She screamed at servants for not bringing her wet towels for wiping her hands quickly enough and for refilling her wine glass too quickly. She insisted on talking to the seneschal about the servants who had served her, demanding that they be banished from the castle for incompetence. When Arien tried to talk to her, her demeanor was sweet, but every time he tried to talk to her about something he liked, she insisted that he show her another part of the castle. She made plans for room redecoration as if she had already become Arien’s queen.

In the morning, she was sickly sweet with Leyta, saying it was only a minor thing, really, but surely more competent servants could be found to make the bed? It was extremely lumpy. Leyta found out that she’d woken the chambermaids at 1 in the morning to demand an additional five featherbeds piled on top of hers.

Arien didn’t look at his mother. “Um… I don’t want to be impolite, but… I didn’t like her very much.”

The Dowager Queen said, “Please don’t tell me you’re considering that young harridan just because she could tell there were peas in the bed.”

“Oh, no. Not even for a moment,” said Leyta, and drew her quill through the name “Princess Carinna” on the list.

***

The fourth princess was actually the daughter of a powerful merchant, not an actual princess at all. She had deeply tanned skin and thick black hair, and beautiful dark eyes. She and Arien talked for hours about tax policy and accounting techniques, and she seemed genuinely interested.

She said the bed had been wonderful, and there was nothing wrong with it. Arien liked her. But Queen Leyta marked her as a provisional choice, the first on the list if no one passed her test.

***

And so it went with princess after princess. Most of them showed at least some slight sign of impatience when Arien monopolized the conversation, but none of them admitted to it, and few even tried to change the topic. No others were as rude as Carinna. No others admitted to detecting the peas, either. Leyta was on the verge of contacting the merchant to make an offer for his daughter to wed Arien. And then Princess Inaya arrived.

Princess Inaya was from further north than the second princess had been, her skin darker and her hair in braids that lay directly against her head, with ribbons and beads woven into them at the bottom. She didn’t look Leyta in the eye – or anyone else, really, keeping her head bowed demurely. She picked at her food, more or less eating only the potatoes, and she barely spoke… until she met with Arien.

He offered, diffidently, to show her the garden, and she accepted. He started to point out interesting bugs that he saw in the garden… and she began to point out interesting rocks. They soon began an animated conversation that sounded to Leyta more like two separate threads, where Arien would say a sentence or two about insects, then yield to Inaya, who would say a sentence or two about rocks. Sometimes they had a genuine back-and-forth when they talked about the habitats of pillbugs, who lived under rocks, or other areas where rocks and insects somehow intersected. Arien showed Inaya the notebook where he drew bugs and made his observations, and Inaya seemed to be thrilled with his artistic skill. She showed him her own notebook, with no art at all, where she wrote down the properties of rocks she had discovered and outlined the tests she did on stones to see what they were made of. Arien was fascinated with the efforts she’d gone to and how thoroughly she’d documented her findings; he’d never thought of doing anything to research the insects aside from looking them up in his tutor’s books.

At no point did she ever look Arien in the eye. At no point did he seem to care. He relaxed enough with Inaya to flap his hands when he grew excited; Inaya had a chain of polished stones that, instead of wearing around her neck, she tossed in the air as she paced.

In the morning, when Leyta asked Inaya how she slept, she squirmed.

“I, um. The bed was mostly very nice. Very good linens, nice soft down. But, uh. It felt like maybe there were… tiny pebbles in there somewhere? I’m not sure, I didn’t want to be rude and strip down the bed to look, but, uh. It was kind of uncomfortable.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that,” Leyta said.

She made arrangements to ask Arien his opinion before Inaya’s entourage left, this time. He spoke very simply. “I love her. Pick her, she’s the one.”

“I thought you would say that,” Leyta said, and she finished drafting the offer to Inaya’s parents, and signed it. “Take this to her lady-in-waiting before they leave, to give to Inaya’s parents.”

“I can’t!” Arien said, looking all around. “I can’t be the one to do it because I have to give her a parting gift if I see her and I don’t have any nice rocks!”

So Leyta gave him a bracelet with a large inset opal, and smaller jades all around it. “Take this to her and tell her which kinds of stones are in it, and tell her she can wear it as a bracelet if she wants, or take it apart for the stones, whichever she prefers.”

Later she heard that Inaya collapsed on the ground crying when he made the offer, but that her lady-in-waiting reassured Arien that this wasn’t abnormal – that she did this whenever her emotions were too strong to control, even if they were happy emotions. Inaya confirmed that she was crying from relief and joy, because she had always thought that no man would ever want to marry her and if one did, he would hate her rocks and want her to do normal womanly things like embroidery or something, which she wasn’t good at in the slightest because her coordination was bad and she was always poking the needle into the wrong place, and she had never imagined that she would ever find a man who understood her and didn’t demand that she look in his eyes and liked to listen to her talk about what she loved. Then Arien asked her very gravely if she liked hugs, because most of the time he didn’t like hugs, especially when they were a surprise, but if she would like a hug he really wanted to give her one. They hugged, and declared mutual love (“as far as I can define the feeling of love, anyway,” Inaya said, “because I don’t think I’ve ever been in love before, so how can I know for sure that that’s what this is?” Arien had agreed with her, but said “I think that even if what we’re feeling isn’t the same kind of thing as other people feel when they’re in love, it’s close enough that we can use the same word, because who wants to have to make up a new word?” And then they spent several minutes amusing each other to the point of hysterical laughter in making up new words that sounded ridiculous, sometimes repeating them to each other ten or a dozen times.) When Inaya finally had to leave, Arien cried.

Leyta wasn’t there for any of that, but her spies were everywhere in the castle.

***

When the Dowager demanded that she explain her test, Leyta summoned Arien, who had washed his face so it looked more as if he had had a terrible runny nose and sneezes than that he’d been crying.

“You asked me about what it would prove, to put peas in the bed,” Leyta said, “and I was looking for two things, but one was more important than the other.”

“What were you looking for?” Arien asked.

“Arien… you know that you’re a special young man, and different in some ways than other people your age. I’ve consulted with many scholars. Children like you are often strangely sensitive to things that other people don’t notice… often to the point where it’s unpleasant. Such as your feelings about onions.”

He shuddered. “Please do not remind me of the existence of those devil vegetables.”

Leyta laughed. The Dowager scowled. Leyta knew she preferred that a king, or a crown prince who’d just been betrothed, have a serious demeanor. She also knew that Arien would be who he was, no matter what anyone asked him to be.

“So I thought, the peas might be noticeable to some of the girls, but they would be especially notable to a girl who was like Arien. More importantly, if a girl noticed it but claimed she didn’t… Arien, I know you are often taken off guard by lies, and you’re a very honest man yourself. I know you would prefer a wife who will tell you when something makes her unhappy, rather than her trying to guess how you feel about it and then telling you what she thinks you want to hear.”

Arien nodded. “Nobody can see inside someone else’s mind, so why would anyone even do that?”

“I wanted a girl who would be honest about something she found unpleasant, even if she had to offend her host to admit it. But, obviously, kindness and compassion and a lack of malice about it were necessary as well… we don’t want a Carinna anywhere near the rulership of the kingdom.”

“You can say that again,” Arien said. Leyta suspected he was setting her up so she could tell a joke.

“But I won’t, because I know you heard it the first time,” she said, smiling.

The Dowager frowned. “So you picked a girl who has the same kinds of problems as Arien? Was that wise? The kingdom may need rulers who understand the idea of telling lies when they must, who can be charming and adept with politics. I thought you’d pick a girl who would cover Arien’s weaknesses, not one with the same issues.”

“Your son understood me,” Leyta said simply. “It was an arranged marriage, but we quickly grew to love each other, because we respected and we understood each other. I don’t want the kingdom to have a queen who resents her husband because she thinks he’s strange… who may play politics behind the scenes to have him killed so she can take power. Or who takes lovers, so we don’t know if the royal blood is even in the heirs. It’s more important to me that Arien’s wife respects him and understands him, and that he understands and respects her, than to have rulers who can detect all the subterranean undercurrents of a conversation. That’s what spymasters are for… and Dowager mothers and grandmothers, and perhaps even younger sisters.”

“Mother,” Arien said, “thank you. I know the people think I’m strange, and maybe I am, but you’ve always watched out for me. I didn’t even know I needed to find a wife who wouldn’t lie to protect my feelings until you pointed it out, and now it’s obvious.” He looked at the Dowager. “And Grandmother, Inaya does complement me. I understand mathematics, and finance, and things like that. She was trained by her parents to understand logistics, so she could run the castle, but she went deeper with it; she understands things about what kind of weather will do things to the crops and what will happen to the farmers when that occurs, things I never even thought about asking. Together I think she and I can make our country one of the most prosperous and happy nations in the world.”

***

And so it came to be. Prince Arien and Princess Inaya were wed in a lovely ceremony that they immediately fled to go on their honeymoon as soon as the marriage vows were taken. They understood the economics of the nation, and other nations, as few kings and queens ever did, and when they needed someone to tell them that someone else was lying, they had the Dowager Leyta and Princess Celia. The country prospered as it never had before, with no beggars on the streets of the cities, because the King and Queen gave homes to those who had none, and living expenses to those too sick or weak or lacking in some ability so that they couldn’t work.

It would be a lie to say they lived happily ever after, because no human can be happy all the time, and they had arguments and problems in their relationship from time to time. But even Arien the Honest and his Queen would agree that we can say they lived mostly happily for the rest of their lives.

#52 project #i'm late! i'm late!#fairy tales #autism #altered tales #the writer is autistic

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createandconstruct · 4 years ago

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Wait, Garland

So. I started this reply, worked on it for two hours, and then moved my window and tumblr eviscerated most of it. Safe to say after that I had to mourn what I lost for a bit. I hope I can channel my original thoughts and words! Maybe it’ll be even better? We’ll see!

Anyway let’s talk about the wrinkly genome himself. Buckle up this one’s a doozy (enjoy some required reading music that fits the man of the hour).

favorite thing about them:

His design. This all knowing watchful eye of Terra is as lifeless as he is old. His eyes are blank and empty. His face is withered. His body, without the imposing cape, is like an emancipated black skeleton, where at its center lies the only light and color of Garland’s entire form. He is entirely black and white, except for the red glowing sphere at his center. At first look when I saw it I felt that it’s very much a metaphor for the role designated to him by the Terrans. In Garland’s chest lies the red glow of Terra, the exposed ribs of his black, armorlike chest, keep it within - protecting and hiding it from the outside world of Gaia. Until the time is right. Garland is nothing more than what the Terrans made him to be. An eternal servant that takes every breath for the protection of Terra as that is the reason he was given for living. Every inch of his body was designed for such purpose. Its only right he was designed to aware like a living cage, protecting that last flickers of Terra and its souls that lie within.

On that note let’s look at his design another way. Terra’s revival is Garland’s only reason for living. Zidane questions Garland’s own wants and desires to which he can only claim they are the restoration of Terra and its souls. He has nothing except the words he was fed by the Terrans millennia ago. Garland is the true hollow shell of a man you find in the remains of Terra. He is worn, withered, and ancient. He has lived so long for one reason only, a reason that was never even his own. The light of Terra - the light of the selfish, arrogant, and greedy souls of Terra - are stuck within his opened chest, powering him like an exposed heart or soul. Terra is his power source. Garland cannot rest. He was not created to rest. He was created to follow the reasons the Terrans gave him for his existence. (I exist only to kill) Garland exists and has existed unable to find his own reason for living - Terra’s forever trapped within him. A constant reminder. On the outside, Garland has withered away through his taste of eternity, while Terra’s light has remained strong within him, still forcing, powering, and pulling him forward to the ultimate goal. Perhaps that’s why Garland is only able to voice his own thoughts in death (even calling their failures towards their planet arrogant, and reflecting positively on his chance at existence despite his purpose), after the light of Terra inside him has finally gone out and he is beyond his creators’ reach.

Though, my final, and favorite, interpretation of his design begs a question… are there truly even any Terrans left? Memories and experiences make the soul, FFIX tells us. Garland cannot take Zidane’s soul from him as his soul is no longer the power source Garland gifted him. It is the laughter, tears, and memories Zidane shared with his loved ones on Gaia. Zidane is of Gaia. He is Gaian. So then who is Terran? The genomes, even Kuja, are not of Terra. Not the true Terra, anyway. The Terra the sleeping souls tried to preserve in the face of mortality and the wasting away that comes with time. The people we see are from the planet’s remains. The true Terrans are those who know the history, who know the culture, who lived and walked and experienced the planet when it was its own, and not a parasite latched inside another. The genomes know nothing of these things. If we call them “Terrans” it’s only because they were created on the fragments that were left inside of Gaia. In reality the Genomes were finally born on Gaia, once they began to experience - began to create memories of their own. There’s a reason Terra’s water does no flow. The world we visit within Gaia is just a frozen memory of a long dead planet.

And when those sleeping souls of Terra... when they finally arise will they even be Terran? They will have no memories of the planet or crystal where they originally cycled. Even if Gaia was assimilated, they will have bodies born on the planet of Gaia, where only remains of Terra lie, from the failed merging of the crystals. Even if the crystal of Gaia turns red the memories of these new “Terrans” will be of their new planet. They will essentially be Gaian and will likely consider themselves so as there is no plan to pass down memories to these new people from Garland. Garland is restoring the Terran souls into a new cycle, as if trying to return things to how they were before Terra’s death. It’s like a child trying to get a deceased loved one to play or react to them like they always do, not understanding things will never be like that again. Garland can never truly restore Terra or the Terrans to the they were. Those people, the original Terrans, even if their souls remain, have been lost to death and time. Perhaps their memories could have been passed on much like Vivi’s at the end of the game but because they were so desperate to ensure that their “superior” life, history, culture, and race endured forever, they lost the chance to truly persevere such things by passing it down to others in the present for the future. Instead such things were lost when they tried to allow themselves to endure by erasing the life from another planet.

All this is to say that, the only true Terrans are those who hold one of their souls, who know the history, and the culture and the only such person who exists, is Garland. He is the last true Terran. The remains of Terra have been cast with the blue of Gaia’s light. The Terra we see, that we visit? That’s not Terra. Terra is gone. Only one of its people remains. And the tragedy is that while Garland says his goal is to restore Terra, he’s going about it in the wrong way. In reality, Garland, an almost immortal being, who carries the last true light of Terra within himself, always had the means to truly preserve Terra and its people’s memories: by simply sharing them with the future. Instead, the Terrans doomed Garland and their planet with their plans of grandeur and eternity. A doomed fate that follows all who attempt to escape death. Which is why it is perhaps so appropriate that when Kuja destroys the remains of Terra within Gaia it is only fitting that Garland has died along with them too.

least favorite thing about them:

Like Kuja, as an antagonist, there’s a lot to dislike about Garland, but that’s intentional. He’s a good villain, I like him. I rather mention something that kinda annoys me writing wise? Not even annoying, just something that gave me a raised brow the first time I played the game and now gives me a headache the more I think about it: Omnipresent Garland voice.

Now Garland speaking to Zidane in Memoria I can deal with. It can make sense, even though it’s not explained. He’s a timeless being who existed before the current civilization on Gaia began. You could argue through his soul experimentation and millennia existence he has found a way to keep a level of consciousness as his own soul travels to the crystal. We know the cycle of souls is slower due to the manipulation of the crystal by Garland so it makes sense his souls is traveling slowly in the cycle towards the crystal after his death, allowing him to find Zidane and chat. Its also an interesting parallel of Zidane and co. traveling through Memoria, deeper into the crystal, while Garland’s souls travels too. Memoria is almost like Garland’s 5000 year life flashing before his eyes. Until he eventually reaches the end. The void of space. Perhaps the void of death. It’s the place his voice finally leaves Zidane. Is Garland’s voice disappearing into that void an indication of him stuck in a purgatory like state? Never return to a crystal? Or perhaps that void is the end of himself (of his consciousness), as we know him, but his soul continues on like Zidane and the others do as he is accepted into the cycle of Gaia’s Crystal? Whatever the case I can deal with Garland’s bodiless voice in the end game. I like it honestly.

What bothers me a bit is Garland’s voice appearing right after Kuja kicks him off the cliff. I get it. Kuja has to feel on top of the world before he spirals and crashes. He finishes off Garland and gets to dance about in victorious glee only before Garland’s voice resounds in everyone’s heads. His presence still lingering even after death to inform Kuja of his own impending fate. But it’s still a little jarring when it happens the first time you play it. Garland falls to his death and then he’s telepathing through the force. There’s a moment of “wait he’s alive?” then “wait he’s not” and then “how’s he doing this?” It can take you out of the scene which should very much be about Kuja. This is very much a nitpick and something that can be explained away because of Garland’s character and capabilities but whenever I play I’m like oh here comes ghost Garland. Though maybe it’s better to think that Garland actually did survive the fall and as he lies dying in the abyss beneath Pandemonium, with his remaining strength, he speaks to Kuja and others in the same way Kuja speaks to Mikoto and Zidane at the end of the game. Yeah I like that. Seems I fixed my own gripe. And now the essays are over and we can get to the fun stuff.

favorite line: I have some favorite villain lines of Garland and some favorite sentimental post-Mufasa’d-Garland lines. We’ll start with villain: "Forget all that. You are destined to live among the stars for all eternity.” I love this line, it’s kinda haunting that this is not just Garland’s motive but the motive of the Terrans. I then love Zidane’s retort. Their whole back and forth is just William Shatner Shakespeare drama father vs very angry teenage theater kid son. Number 2: "Don't you know what it means to meet your maker?" Something about this line real hits home the clashing between Zidane and Garland in Pandemonium. It always stood out to me, especially the first time I played. It’s the first thing that comes to mind when I think of Garland. He is Zidane’s creator who was so ready to erase him with barely a snap of his fingers. As for sentimental lines, I’m predictable: “Zidane… take care of Kuja.” and “Even if I were created to serve one purpose alone, I do not regret being born to this world." Shout out to - despite my earlier ravings - Garland’s narration over the scenes in Memoria. When you encounter each memory and then get the fade to black with his objective description, it’s like the souls who have experienced each memory I talking through him. Both Terran and Gaian.

brOTP: Garland has no bros. He has no friends. Though I would have liked to see Mikoto and Garland interact. I wonder what her feelings were towards him as she was his third project, a last resort, who would easily be replaced if she went wrong in the same way Zidane replaced Kuja, and she replaced Zidane.

OTP: Garland x the eternal sleep

nOTP: Do people even ship Garland with anyone

random headcanon: I always thought that after Garland attempted to steal Zidane's soul he carried him in his arms to inside of Pandemonium and placed him in that chair. It felt disturbing and poetic to me. This idea that when Zidane is at his most vulnerable - his soul literally being pulled from his flesh - Garland, his creator, carries him away like a father would a son. Yet Garland brings Zidane to the deepest part of Pandemonium to place him on a throne where he’ll sit alone, as everything that makes Zidane, Zidane, slowly slips away. A creator - a father in some sense - drops his son into solitude never expecting Zidane’s true family to come through, reigniting Zidane’s very soul. Perhaps at that point when they come to face him, Garland already had an inclination he’d lose.

unpopular opinion: Not sure I have an unpopular one? Something I realized though is Kuja’s purple/silver/white hair may very well be his natural color as it matches Garland’s hair. I’d like to think that Kuja, as Garland’s first unique, soul-filled genome, was created in Garland’s image. Garlands also a great villain who is built up well by the entire game and he does not come out of nowhere. That may be a hot take for the non-ffix appreciators

song i associate with them: Copied City by Keigo Hoashi and of course, Toccata and Fugue in D Minor (though this piece also has a distinctly dramatic Kuja vibe as well). If Garland got his own unique boss theme I’d imagine it being something dramatically played on the organ. Though nothing fits Garland like and Mourning by Keiichi Okabe. This piece is just incredible in general but it's insanely powerful and well, mournful. (And you KNOW WHAT I just found the ARRANGED piece of mourning and hOLY ORGAN: Mourning Arranged by Sachiko Miyano. I am now adding it as required reading music for this post.)

favorite picture of them: This piece by @spoonybart is haunting. The colors and lighting form the center glow of Garland’s chest really give him the other worldly and imposing presence he has in game.

Also this art by @oeilvert Literally so incredible. It is ingrained in my experience of playing FFIX for the first time. When I got to Terra and experienced Pandemonium for the first time I went searching for art that captured my feelings and found this piece. It is perfect.

And then there’s this piece by もりもり on pixiv. I found it and can’t stop thinking about it. Absolutely incredible. It makes me wheeze whenever I see it. Garterbelt Garland. Amazing 100/10 everyone else go home.

#asks #werareallkujaandkadajstans #ffix #final fantasy ix #garland #garland ffix #final fantasy 9 #kuja #zidane tribal #feel free to send me whatever characters ya'll i will continue my essay writing #you're also now legally obligated to go give love to all that art and the artists #if you don't your soul won't cycle

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florrickandassociates · 4 years ago

Text

TGF Thoughts: 5x02-- Once there was a court...

Season five is off to a great start. I’m feeling more energized about TGF than I have in ages, maybe since the beginning of season three. After the mostly standalone premiere, I wasn’t sure what to expect from the rest of the season. Episode two introduced a lot of new elements that I’m intrigued by and excited about, so here’s hoping the rest of the season can sustain that energy. (Many) more thoughts under the cut.

And, again, since the most consistent thing about Tumblr is its inability to roll out new features that are actually helpful, here is a link to view the post so you don’t have to read it all on your dash. (Omg, Tumblr, not only do you force people to keep reading on their dashes but you also jump down to the middle of the post when the full version opens? Do you have ANYONE beta test these features?)

Reddick/Lockhart is bustling when the episode opens. The fact they’re calling it Reddick/Lockhart seems like an indication that Liz chose to partner with Diane—it's not. The firm just needs a name, and it can’t have Boseman in it. (The signage still says RBL... for now.)

Everyone in reception is talking animatedly, except for Carmen Moyo, who’s just taking it all in. You might be tempted to read her as nervous. You would be very, very wrong. But we don’t know that now. Right now, it wouldn’t be wrong to assume she’s Maia 2.0. This scene strongly parallels Maia’s first day at the firm (opening with the reception saying “Good morning” and the firm name, then showing new associates waiting for an orientation by David Lee). And in that scene, Maia is absolutely nervous, like you’d expect a new hire might be.

Carmen focuses on another associate’s hand. I assume this is meant to be a parallel to how Maia fidgets with her rosary ring in that initial scene. Carmen then peels a price tag off her portfolio—possibly another Maia parallel, since the portfolio Diane gives Maia is such an important symbol in Maia’s arc.

I also see shades of Alicia and her first scene here—Alicia's silent and focuses on small details (the thread on Peter’s jacket) too.

I don’t say any of this in hopes of comparing Carmen directly to either of those characters. Carmen is not like any other character this show has had before. But these parallels are quite good at establishing character, building intrigue, and showing contrast (even if you don’t see them as parallels, we’re still getting a lot about Carmen just from watching her reactions, even if we don’t yet have the context to understand how to read Carmen). Since I’m now thinking about Maia and Alicia, I’m also now thinking about how Carmen is different from them and triangulating her spot in this universe—that's a good thing. She’s not a copy of either character, but I understand a little more about what the writers are telling me about her from the parallels.

The RBL sign in the background is being taken off the wall. It falls and adds even more chaos to reception.

David Lee walks in and screams, “Stand up! Those seats are for clients.” This is the exact same language he uses in the 1x01 scene; this is definitely an intentional parallel.

Btw Carmen already has more personality than Maia and she’s been in one episode so far! I didn’t hate 1x01 Maia, but I will say that nearly everything that intrigued me about early Maia was that I could project more about Alicia (whom I, obviously, care a lot about) onto her. I can and will compare Carmen to Alicia, but when I do, it won’t be because Carmen is an interesting lens through which to analyze Alicia... it will be because Alicia is interesting precedent to use to understand Carmen.

I still hate Maia, yep.

David Lee accidentally instructs a client to stand and then has to save face, heh.

In David’s tour of the office, we see the partners squabbling. Sounds about right. And STR Laurie is still a thing, which explains why David is there (though not why he is giving a tour).

Throughout the tour, we get a lot of shots of Carmen. Again, she’s silent and looks like she could be nervous. (Spoiler: this is a fakeout and when you rewatch this scene, you can see what new cast member Charmaine Bingwa is doing here—expertly putting on a face that looks like anxiety in one context, but is actually just Carmen calmly sizing things up.)

Marissa eagerly joins the tour. “That’s right. They’re letting you play lawyer, Marissa. How nice,” David says. Carmen takes this in, too. “Fucking prick,” Marissa mutters. Carmen hears.

David Lee introduces “someone from HR” which is a great sign that HR is very effective at this firm.

In the conference room, the partners are still arguing about who should replace Adrian. Diane tries the “all options are open to us and we plan to decide in the next 48 hours” strategy, but this audience is too smart for that. Madeline asks about the new leadership structure. (I am kind of hoping that one nice side effect of having to kind of shoot the season in a COVID bubble will be that we’ll get more small recurring characters. Madeline’s been around for a little while but we’re already seeing her get to do more this year.)

“Diane and I are going to run the firm together. For now,” Liz says. Oh, no, Liz, do not open the door to change. Letting the partners know you’re not sure is probably the worst strategy. You’ve gotta decide or they’ll sense weakness.

“Just the two of you? A black firm being run by a white woman?” a partner asks. “Well, I’m not running it alone. I’m here to assist Liz,” Diane says, trying to deflect. “Really? Because she needs assistance?” he counters. Diane doesn’t know what to say, but she and Liz both know these questions aren’t going to go away.

HR is running an orientation for the new hires and it involves having them all take pieces of toilet paper. Man, I hate ice breakers. Carmen takes a moderate amount and then passes it to Marissa, who takes only one square. Carmen notes this and makes eye contact with Marissa. And this is where it starts to become obvious that Carmen is not nervous—just observant and not chatty. Carmen knows Marissa is one to watch from how David reacted to her presence. She gives Marissa a look that’s meant to be noticed and start a conversation. It works, and Marissa explains that for each square you take, you have to share a fact about yourself. Carmen hates this and hides the rest of the toilet paper so she only has one square.

Liz tries to say there will be a discussion about the partnership, and Daniel (that’s what the captions call him, though they do reference him as “Barry” at one point but I'm like 99% sure I know which actor is Barry and it’s not him) says it feels like they’re just being told what the new state of things is. Liz says she hears him but right now they need a senior associate to backfill Lucca.

Daniel doesn’t think they need one. I don’t get why, unless it has to do with the budget cuts.

“We need someone with real experience to take on her caseload,” Liz notes. Hell yeah you do!

Liz asks if any of the partners want to take over family law. None do.

After the meeting, Liz asks Diane if she can call a head hunter. Diane approves. David Lee pops up to ask which one of them is taking Boseman’s office and they haven’t discussed it yet. I love that they managed to order a sign with their names on it before they’ve talked about how being partners will actually work.

(Also, Adrian’s office is quite obviously going to end up with Liz. And it would be weird if it were Diane, anyway, because it’s Diane’s old office from Lockhart/Gardner and it would look it if she sat there again lol)

David notes that an empty corner office looks like failure. He is correct. He gives them until Friday to decide.

Marissa does not like the ice breaker at all and pointedly notes she only has one secret, and it is that she used to be married to a mime. She makes a whole bit out of it and then whispers to Carmen, “I usually just make things up.”

Carmen’s next and she finally gets to speak her first words of the series. You know who else didn’t speak at all in her first scene? Alicia Florrick. Very different scenes, but I can’t help but think this is intentional. From what I’ve seen of Carmen, both she and Alicia use silence strategically and are comfortable with quiet. Alicia’s first scene is silent because she doesn’t need to use words to be expressive, but it does establish that she’s going to be a character with a lot of internal thoughts she won’t vocalize and that she’s observant and tries to maintain composure. Sure, you can watch the first scene of Pilot and just see a woman who’s stunned into silence, but when you watch it knowing Alicia and realize how much of the essential parts of her character are in her totally silent intro sequence that kicks off the show... it’s kind of amazing.

So comparing Carmen’s introduction to that? I mean this as a huge compliment. Carmen deploys silence for reasons both similar and different to Alicia. While Alicia uses silence to maintain some kind of boundary between her inner thoughts and the outside world, Carmen uses it to get a chance to observe and take things in without showing her cards. (We do see Alicia do that as well, especially at work, but I would call this a side-effect of Alicia being a quiet person rather than her intention; Carmen seems to be more conscious of how she uses her silence.)

Carmen is from Victorville, California. That means nothing to me but I’m sure there’s some significance. Carmen mimics Marissa’s response when asked for her secrets—she also responds with, “secret,” emphasizing she only has one. But what she says next also shows her in contrast to Marissa. She says her secret is she hates games. We already know so much about her and she’s said like ten words!

I think it’s smart to set Carmen up as a contrast to other characters. I know who Carmen is not because of how she differs from more familiar presences like Alicia, Maia, and Marissa. Marissa hates ice breakers, but her reaction to them is to use them as an opportunity to say something funny and over the top. Many others (including probably both Alicia and Maia) would likely resent the activity but play along and say something unremarkable (I could see Alicia overthinking it and sharing something surprisingly quirky though!). Carmen just does not give a fuck, and in a different way than Marissa doesn’t give a fuck. Marissa insinuates that she thinks the whole activity is stupid... Carmen just flat out says it. I would not pull this move on my first day of a new job! And that is the point—who is this person who is so self-assured she’s willing to insult HR on her very first day of her very first job as a lawyer?

ALL OF THIS FROM A FEW WORDS AND SOME WELL-ACTED GLANCES! As I said, I’m very intrigued by Carmen. I have some questions about the logistics of this plot, her endgame, and how she’ll function when brought into the firm drama/debate plots, but for now, I only have good things to say.

Liz interrupts the ice breaker to announce that everyone will be assigned a mentor. She then pauses to greet Marissa, which Carmen, again, notices. Liz is really there to say that they’ll be working on client maintenance that day, and each new hire will get to help with one of their clients. When she reads off their top clients, all the hands shoot up—except Carmen’s.

Madeline’s last name is Gilford. Noted. John’s last name is Wilson.

No one raises their hand to assist with Oscar Rivi, who is in a maximum-security prison. Carmen confidently raises her hand.

Barry’s last name is Poe. Noted.

Marissa and Carmen exchange glances. Super curious to see how this evolves. There are too many Marissa/Carmen exchanges in this episode for the writers to not plan to have them interact more in the future.

I’m kind of loving that it seems like the show’s leads are now Diane, Liz, Marissa, and Carmen. Diane’s obviously great, Liz is someone who’s been deserving of leading material for ages, Carmen seems interesting, and I’m so impressed they have managed to make Marissa, usually good in small doses, into a character who can handle larger plots without wearing on my patience (like that awful Elsbeth centric episode of Wife).

Diane has a client who received a summons directly, which Diane finds strange. But, since she is already working with this client on the same case (teaching kids during COVID) in another court, Diane is optimistic about this second suit. She thinks it could set a good precedent.

Diane introduces Phoebe, an associate who will help out on the case. Diane says she’s not personally going because it’s a formality and Diane needs to work on the brief. I’m like 99% sure Diane isn’t personally going because Diane’s role here is to convince the client she’s getting senior-level attention while having junior people do the work, but nice story!

Diane asks Marissa to go along with Phoebe. Marissa thinks she’s going to get to argue in court... Diane says no, Marissa gets to hand hold a client.

Oscar Rivi is basically Lemond Bishop, which is the only explanation I have for why RL would represent him. And, you’ll recall, I didn’t understand why RL would represent Bishop either. But we’ll just have to go with it.

(I think representing multiple drug lords is probably a bigger PR issue for RL than having a white partner! How come no one ever talks about this! Actually, new complaint: wasn’t Liz, who now has more power than before, the one who was most against representing Bishop?)

(I guess it may make sense that she’d be more okay with this Rivi dude than Bishop. Whatever Rivi’s done, I don’t think he’s threatened Liz’s kid like Bishop did!)

(Also, I’m fine with them switching it up and suddenly having this new drug kingpin. Mike Colter is obviously unavailable since he’s a lead on Evil, and I was tired of Bishop anyway. If the writers stop using Bishop and Sweeney as shorthands for corruption I will be very happy; I don’t think there’s much more mileage left there. Speaking of, Dylan Baker popped up in 2x02 of Evil!)

“I don’t want you to be intimidated,” Barry tells Carmen as they arrive at Rivi’s prison. Carmen reads articles about Rivi on her phone, saying she’s taking notes. Barry tells Carmen to “sit, listen, leave.” But then he discovers his ID is expired (he didn’t get it renewed during the pandemic) and he can’t go visit Rivi as a result. Carmen says she’s fine alone—she'll sit, listen, leave. She’s calm and not at all cocky as she says it, and it really takes until she’s actually talking with Rivi to realize that she’s not (just?) a hypercompetent law school grad trying to impress. She doesn’t seem to care at all what people, no matter how powerful, think of her, as long as she’s able to find security of any sort. (Tbh, it is kind of amazing she doesn’t get fired in this episode.)

(I’m getting ahead of myself but in Alicia’s first ep, she also changes up strategies on the partners. Alicia does it almost without realizing she’s gone against their wishes—she's just sure of the right strategy—and Carmen does it much more intentionally.)

Marissa and Phoebe can’t locate Judge Wackner’s court. Marissa asks a security guard she’s friendly with (of course she is) for help. He says there’s no Judge Wackner there, and the security guard notices that it’s a summon for a “9 ¾ Circuit.” The guard laughs at the Harry Potter reference; Marissa is not amused. They leave the courthouse when Marissa spots a sign for “9 ¾". She follows the sighs down an alley. Phoebe wants nothing to do with this; Marissa and the client are intrigued. They end up in a store called Copy Coop and are directed to a warehouse.

In the warehouse, an argument is resolved through Rock, Paper, Scissors. Then it’s Marissa’s turn. She asks for a continuance just like she was supposed to, but she uses the wrong phrasing. Judge Wackner notices. That’s when Marissa notes she’s not a lawyer, and Wackner responds that he’s not a licensed judge. So it’s fine that Marissa isn’t a lawyer.

Marissa tries to protest again that she’s not a lawyer, and Wackner basically tells her to proceed anyway. The client wants to stay, weird as this fake court seems.

Carmen reads with Rivi. She stares at him, getting him to speak first. His translator asks if there’s another lawyer with her; she just introduces herself. The translator does a terrible job of translating Rivi’s complaints, sharing very little of what Rivi said with Carmen.

Unsurprisingly (to me at least, because scenes like this ALWAYS have the twist where a character doesn’t let on that they speak the language until the exact right moment), Carmen speaks Spanish.

She lets Rivi know she speaks Spanish AND insults the translator in one go. Pretty big move. That gets Rivi’s attention and he kicks out the translator. He asks who she is and she repeats her name again (characters reacting like this will never not remind me of “Who are you?” “Kalinda.”).

Carmen notes that she’s just out of law school, explaining that’s why she’s eager to help. She doesn’t reveal that by mistake—she's using it to her advantage.

Credits! As I predicted, things are blowing up again this week like normal. No more kittens and puppies. There’s a new couch that blows up in the credits. Wackner��s desk also makes it in. I can’t remember if the purses were in this position before; they might be new. All the exploding TVs show footage of January 6th (which I hear is going to be a major theme of the season, though it’s not heavily featured in this episode). And the zoomed in shot of the closet (that I’ve never really liked) is gone, as is the falling curtain!

I still hate the font of the logo for this show. I also don’t understand why the show seems to have three logos—the one that’s the TGW logo but with “fight”, the one in the credits, and whatever the one they’ve come up with for this season’s marketing materials is. I like that they’re trying with the marketing of this season but I don’t get why the show has three logos.

While I’m talking about the marketing, can we just talk about the “Goodbye Lucca” graphic the official social media account posted? It had a fucking crown drawn over her head like this is a 2013 Tumblr shitpost!!! Who are they targeting with this?! WHO ARE THEY MARKETING TO? DOES THIS WORK ON ANYONE??? It literally says, “Chi-Town” on it. I cringed so hard. Sometimes I feel like the marketing of this show is meant to cater to the people who would, like, watch the credits of last week’s episode and be like, “Yes! It IS all now puppies and kittens! Everything bad in the world has been resolved!”

But hey, at least it’s better than the absolute trash they used to post for TGW. Remember when there’d be episodes about Alicia making career moves and they’d be like, “#TeamPeter or #TeamWill????”

OR, OR OR OR, the fucking time they tried to crosspromote TGW and the Victoria’s Secret Fashion show (yes) with a tweet that read, “All ‘Saint Alicia’ needs is a pair of wings&she practically turns into an Angel.” I... have no words.

Hey, Caleb is back! I was not expecting them to actually wrap up his arc with Liz. I think I’m actually pretty thankful it’s ending like this—he comes back for what I assume is one last episode and I don’t actually have to deal with the Liz/Caleb plot. Apparently the writers were setting that up so they could do some plots about power dynamics and interracial couples and who is seen as having power. Caleb and Liz were going to have an encounter with the police, who were going to listen to Caleb instead of Liz even though this encounter would’ve taken place in Liz’s house and Liz is the name partner and Caleb the employee. Interesting enough, but anything boss/employee just squicks me out and I don’t need it around and Liz deserves better.

But I did like Caleb as a character, so I’m glad he gets an exit, unlike past characters who have just disappeared. (Remember Robyn Burdine? Or that time Taye Diggs was a major character for two seconds?)

Liz was NOT expecting to see Caleb as a candidate for Lucca’s old role. Things are instantly awkward. I guess Caleb left STR Laurie?

Diane immediately senses that things are awkward with Liz and Caleb. Caleb is very professional throughout all this. Diane gets an important call and leaves the room, so Caleb and Liz can chat privately.

Caleb says he thought Liz was reaching out; Liz says she should’ve reached out but things ended abruptly. Love that Caleb checks that no one else is in the room with Liz before getting even more personal. He says they should just act like nothing ever happened between them and Liz asks if he can do that. “I’m the employee. Of course I can,” he says. This is why you don’t sleep with employees.

He says he really does want the job and he liked the firm. Liz says she’ll talk to Diane. Caleb says if it doesn’t work out he’ll be fine.

Phoebe tells Diane about 9 ¾ and Diane does not understand... at all. “If it has no power, and it doesn’t have jurisdiction, what does it have?” Diane wonders.

A little more on the case: RL is representing a woman who taught a small group of students during the pandemic, and some parents are suing her for preaching socialism at the children.

The woman suing did NOT like being called a Karen by her daughter or being compared to the family from Parasite. She wants a refund.

Marissa objects and makes up her own grounds, realizing that since it’s not a real court, she can object for any reasons she wants—as long as they follow common sense.

These scenes could so easily feel ridiculous, like a gag that goes on for too long. They do not. There’s just enough zany humor and theatrics to make the 9 ¾ court feel surreal. And, most helpfully, Wackner is a GREAT judge. He is engaged with the work and only concerned with the facts and arguments rather than politics. He’s tough but fair. He’s direct and he maintains control over his court. He’d be one of the best judges in a normal court. His sincerity is enough to make you wonder why courts DON’T operate like this. It’s easy to see why the characters are sold on this BS-free, rational, and effective system, even if it makes no sense that it would exist and it has no power. It’s simultaneously idealistic (if only things were resolved fairly) and threatening (how can something like this exist?! What does it mean that the real courts are so ineffective that there’s a need for something like this?! What happens if this goes beyond what are basically mediations for simple issues?).

This type of thought experiment is where TGF excels. I think they were going for something like this with Memo 618 (which hasn’t gone away!), but that arc always felt like it was on the verge of going off the rails. Mandy Patinkin’s performance and the writing for the 9 ¾ court already have me more invested in this than I was in Memo 618.

Marissa tries yet again to wait for help to arrive, but Wackner insists that they keep things moving. She tries to stall and ends up referencing George Clooney. Wackner cuts through that, too—he hates speeches “unless I'm giving them, and even then I’m just trying to stall.” Then he holds up a sign that reads, “CUT THE SHIT” and the audience laughs. He says this isn’t the kind of court where you can just run out the clock. Kind of ridiculous that real court IS that kind of court, no? (And that’s why this is an effective device so far.) (I say so far because I have watched content from these writers for long enough to know that things that work in small doses or initially can go wildly off the rails.)

Marissa changes strategies and does what she does best: she goes on instinct and adjusts her strategy as she goes. She eventually catches the woman accusing her client of teaching socialism in a lie about Parasite. It’s very Legally Blonde and very smart of Marissa. And I’m rather proud of myself for seeing what Marissa was doing (getting the woman to commit to a time frame and then baiting her to talk about a moment that proved the time frame fake) before she revealed what she was doing.

Sarah Steele is so good in this scene. I love her smile when she realizes the woman took the bait, and that she reacts with “AHA!” instead of something more proper. This is pretty much the perfect court for Marissa.

Diane and Jay arrive; are confused.

Carmen leaves Rivi after quite a bit of time has passed, making Barry nervous. Carmen tells him very little and repeats that she sat, listened, and left. She told the translator to go fuck himself (almost in those words) so she’s gotta know that Barry will hear what happened from someone. She does not care. She lies to Barry like it’s nothing.

Diane does not understand the 9 ¾ court, nor does she understand why a non-lawyer like Marissa is arguing. She does not understand why losing in this venue would matter or why a lawyer she knows (ha, I looked him up to see if he’d been on Wife or Fight before, and he has... as a totally different character!) is there.

“Okay, I’m losing my mind. Look, this is not legal. We have got to get out of here,” Diane says. Toni, the client, wants to stay.

I don’t actually know the answer to this—would there be repercussions to someone who is a member of the bar participating in something like this? Everyone knows it’s not real or binding, so nothing is being misrepresented, but this FEELS illegal?

Toni notes that a lot of people suing her are there watching, so walking out or losing would look bad. She also likes Judge Wackner because he is “better than the judges in real court.”

“Diane, what is real?” the client asks when Diane points out again that this court is fake. The client’s spent 8 months on this case in limbo, so this feels like reality to her. Fair point.

Diane chats with the other lawyer and asks what he’s doing here. He says he’s getting paid—with business down and court dockets backlogged (how much would that affect a large firm that settles most cases out of court? I’m actually curious about this), it’s a good source of money.

Diane realizes it’s basically arbitration. Then says she doesn’t understand anything anymore. The other lawyer replies, “Sure you do. That’s why this is throwing you. Welcome to 2021.” Yup.

Diane goes with it. A former teacher is on the stand. He’s got a grudge and wants money, so he’s helping out. He tries to say something that is the most obvious hearsay ever... and Wackner has no problem with it. Marissa likes that.

Wackner basically says he’s fine with hearsay because he can use his brain to figure out what’s real and what’s fake, just like we all do every day. Crosstalk is also allowed.

Wackner also doesn’t allow for bullshit breaks where lawyers tell clients what to say, because he “likes the truths found in sudden utterances.” All his rules make a lot of sense. They are all also counter to every single sneaky legal strategy these characters tend to use.

Toni made a comment that she “couldn’t fall in love with anyone who voted for Trump.” That gives a point to the plaintiff. Diane notes that this belief is shared with most of the country, and Wackner asks her if she shares it. “I’m not the question,” Diane replies, because she definitely doesn’t want to talk about her husband who worked in the Trump administration.

Wackner flat out tells Diane that Marissa should argue instead of her. “Marissa is not a lawyer,” Diane tries to say. “Well, I’m not a judge!” Wackner responds. And that’s it for the day.

Diane asks Jay for intel, and then we get one of the most effective Jay scenes in a while—he bonds with the Copy Coop security guard, who only has good things to say about Wackner. I like how the writers use COVID in this episode—they treat it like it’s recent past (fingers crossed) and reference it when it makes sense, like how the courts are backlogged, or this guard was laid off.

The security guard notes that he thinks Wackner is building something good in his spare time. He also notes that Wackner is a big Grateful Dead fan.

Carmen takes it upon herself to visit someone else in prison to help Rivi. She points out they’re under surveillance and convinces this other dude to take the fall for Rivi so he can go free. It’s very smart. I assume this is all her own strategy, as we see her look up this other dude before she’s even met with Rivi, though it’s possible Rivi came up with some of it.

There is something about Carmen’s demeanor when she deals with clients that is very Alicia-like in interesting ways. She’s very direct and unflappable in a way that people seem to take to (remember how all the creeps loved Alicia?), and she only shows emotion when she decides to. The similarities stop there. Carmen doesn’t seem remorseful or conflicted (Alicia always did). Sociopathic definitely isn’t the right word for her, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say it didn’t cross my mind. Carmen knows that her clients are bad guys. That doesn’t trouble her. And she doesn’t try to take the easy way out—she does more than she needs to. I don’t know what she’s really trying to do here, but I suspect she does.

Carmen is 28, just fyi.

Liz gets a call from Charles Lester. Obviously, Lester now works for Rivi, because Rivi is New Bishop. (Usually I’m a bit against saying any character is the new version of an old one, like how Lucca was not the new Kalinda (even if she was brought in to bring new energy to the space Kalidna occupied) or how Carmen is not the new Lucca (same), but I’m pretty comfortable saying Rivi is New Bishop. He’s not the same personality, but he... is New Bishop.)

Lester notes that Rivi only wants to meet with Carmen from now on. Liz does not understand this and she’s not thrilled with it. She notes that Carmen is a first year who has been there for two days, but she doesn’t want to lose Rivi’s business so she goes along with it. Was that Carmen’s endgame? Job security? Does she not care about the RL job and see a good opportunity to... just represent Rivi without a firm behind her? I can’t tell.

(This is where I could see this arc faltering. I get why Liz keeps Carmen on—she doesn’t want to lose the client—but I don’t really understand why Liz wants Rivi as a client. Losing Carmen who’s been there for two days and Rivi who she probably doesn’t want to represent seems like a fine outcome to me. And, beyond that, if Carmen doesn’t care about the firm and also doesn’t need them, what’s in it for her to stay? I don’t think she really cares that the firm would have more resources to use in defending Rivi. Like, why isn’t the outcome here just that Carmen teams up with Lester and leaves RL behind?)

Diane listens to the Grateful Dead and writes down lyrics she can use in court. Kurt gets home from work. Diane asks him if he thinks she should give up her name partnership since it’s a black firm. Kurt asks if she’s the best lawyer there. She says no, but she’s one of the best, and besides, it’s a bad look and she wants to do what’s right for the firm. “You and I disagree on so much. You obviously ask my opinion because you know that I will argue something you know you won’t,” Kurt says. This is a very good, and very accurate, response.

Diane keeps going, though. Kurt plays along and starts talking about identity politics. Diane starts debating back, ignoring that Kurt is not really wanting to play devil’s advocate. Kurt doesn’t give Diane an easy out and tells her she’s right—she should step aside. That’s not what she wanted to hear. Kurt laughs and then goes to take a shower.

Liz is eyeing Adrian’s office when Carmen walks up. She’s invited Carmen to talk to her. She asks her how things are going. Carmen just wants to know if she did something wrong. Carmen says she likes the firm and it’s great to be out of the legal clinics.

Liz shares the news that Rivi only wants Carmen going forward. Carmen is pleased and says that’s surprising... though she looks more pleased than surprised.

Liz suggests maintaining a professional distance, to which Carmen replies “I’m very professional.” “Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Liz tries to backtrack. “Is the firm dissatisfied with my work?” Carmen asks bluntly. Liz says no. “It’s my intention to treat all my clients like humans. Even the ones who might be murderers, or definitely are murderers. And I think Mr. Rivi might be responding to that because it’s something that he hasn’t received at this firm previously,” Carmen notes. This is QUITE the tone to take with your boss.

One question I have—and this is mostly inspired by the recap at I think Vulture?-- is to what extent Carmen knows what she’s doing. It seems like a lot. I can’t tell how much Carmen knows vs how much Carmen THINKS she knows. She’s definitely smart, and I don’t think she is an idealist (when she says her intention is to treat her clients like humans, she means that’s her strategy), but she is young and new to the law and only out for herself, which makes her vulnerable.

Liz does not take well to Carmen’s talk and notes she’s talking about her personal safety. Carmen thanks her and says she’d understand if Liz doesn’t want her on the case.

There is something a little unnerving about Carmen. She keeps saying things that are boldly inappropriate but masked by how professional and correct her arguments sound (like the line about treating clients like humans). And she has a way of gaining power over a conversation. Liz squirms way too much in that conversation and loses some of her control as a result.

I just need to know more about her!!! The fact that I can’t understand her makes her immediately interesting.

Diane and Liz interview Julius for Lucca’s position. They all know it would be a demotion for him, but they’re seriously considering it. I feel like this would look awful for the firm and they are going to handwave it anyway after a few lines about how bad it would look.

Diane quotes the Grateful Dead in court and it works. The other lawyer tries to quote songs too... it does not work.

Carmen gets Rivi a bunch of candy bars from the court vending machine so he can have a snack he enjoys. The security guard doesn’t want to let Rivi eat them, but Carmen is right that this is permissible. The guard smashes the bars in defeat. Carmen opens one for Rivi.

It is a little distracting to see the main characters pretend that COVID is in the past when the extras have masks, but honestly, that’s kind of what life is like right now?

Carmen zones out a little in court—not sure if she just does that or if she is trying to look unfamiliar with the rules so people will go easy on her/have low expectations. I think it’s a combination of both, considering that we’ve seen her laser-focus on things elsewhere in the episode AND she tells the judge it is her first day in court.

Court stuff happens; Carmen’s strategy works.

The judge tries to give Carmen advice and a warning. Liz is also there, watching, which is good because I was shocked anyone would let Carmen do this unsupervised.

Carmen is also kind of like if you removed all of Maia’s worst traits (her selfishness, her spoiled brat attitude, her sense of entitlement) and skipped right to her willingness to partner with Blum.

Liz and Carmen talk again, this time about the reputation of the firm. Liz notes that Carmen is clearly capable and reminds her sternly that she needs to conduct herself in a manner that does not put the firm at risk and that’s the only reminder she’s going to get. Carmen twirls a pen and stares at it instead of listening to Liz. She says she’s just listening like she’s perfectly innocent. It’s the right thing to say and, again, it’s SUPER UNNERVING.

“Wow. You really don’t give a shit what people think about you, do you?” Liz says in frustration. “I’m here to do a good job for my clients,” Carmen notes. Is she??? Does she just not care who she’s representing and want to do a good job, and that’s her whole motivation?? I would find that interesting but I need more to believe it. She’s so perplexing.

(Again, I don’t really get why Liz hasn’t fired her, because if she and Carmen keep having these interactions, Liz IS going to end up ceding all of her power and looking weak. But maybe Liz is as intrigued as I am.)

Liz also tells Carmen she’s going to be her mentor. Carmen says thanks and that she respected Liz’s father. Liz does NOT take that well. Audra’s reaction—a mix of shock, irritation, and confusion—is perfect here. I think Carmen is trying to say that she respected Carl Reddick—but she has no such respect for Liz. (It could also be about the sexual harassment, but I don’t think that’s public knowledge.)

I noticed earlier that the courtroom was #305 and was wondering why they chose that number (it’s similar to Courtroom 302, the book that inspired the bond court arc, which is why 305 stuck in my mind). I see now that the Copy Coop’s address is 305. Heh.

Turns out that the woman suing Toni is someone who would break COVID protocol and be generally terrible. I’m shocked.

Wackner decides to skip closing arguments and rule. He sides with Toni.

See, this is where this kind of thing is dangerous. Wackner is great and fair. But you can’t really replicate a system like this (though I also think this system would fail if replicated on too large of a scale; the reason it works is that everyone involved is buying into it and if it were to be corrupted no one would buy into it unless forced to—and if people are forced to buy into an extrajudicial system then that’s its own problem). What if some other judge were to just decide to skip closing arguments or decide suddenly a trial was over? That could be unfair in so many different ways.

After the resolution of the case there’s clapping and even Diane is surprised at how reasonable the verdict was.

Wackner then insists that everyone shake hands because “the thing we all crave most is respect and acknowledgement.” They also have to say, “I respect and I love you.” And they do! And no one even seems that unhappy with it Marissa and Toni are super into it.

And, someone in the gallery wants to get Marissa’s number because she did such a good job. Yep, sounds about right.

Diane fills Liz in, and Liz can’t believe it. Liz wants to hire Wackner (jokingly). Then she says she wants Julius since they know and trust him. Diane’s good with that, but she also chooses this moment to playfully let on that she knows Liz slept with Caleb. We’ve seen Diane observe Liz’s reaction to Caleb/mentions of Caleb all episode, and I don’t think it’s coincidental that Diane brings this up now, and in a friendly way. Diane doesn’t need to bring it up. I don’t think Diane needs the answer. I think she just wants to throw Liz off without making it obvious that’s what she’s doing.

I really, really hate to say it, because my whole thing about this season is wanting to see Liz be a great manager, but I don’t... actually think... Liz is a great manager? She’s second-guessing herself far too much. She’s more thrown in this scene than Carmen, who has like two days of experience, is by anything she encounters. And worse, she doesn’t hide it when she’s thrown. I think Liz is very smart and capable, but this episode is a pretty good case for why she might not be able to manage alone.

I know I’ve said that I want to see Liz manage and think she’d be good at it. I still think she could be. But I’ve also tended to think that Liz is a good manager and Adrian talks down at her, and I’ve dismissed some of her less strategic ideas as the fault of the Adrian/Liz dynamic. But nothing in this episode seems out of character, so now I’m less sure. (And to be clear, Liz not being a great manager isn’t a problem with the show, it’s actually pretty interesting to me.)

(Here are some of the things Liz has done in this episode alone that she needs to stop doing to be more effective: 1) Everything about her reaction to Caleb (and the fact she slept with him-- and yes I would, and did, say this about Will too so this is not a double standard!) 2) Not having a clear plan when meeting with the partners, even though she—and not Diane—is the one who is seen as having power. 3) Not being able to hold her own nearly as well as she should be able to with Carmen. I’m curious to see how the other partners hold up, and in fairness to Liz, I may be able to make this criticism of any character who doesn’t just immediately fire Carmen.)

And, I say all of this now because Diane in this scene is SO smart and SO strategic. She mentions Caleb to disarm Liz, then casually notes that she thinks Liz should take the corner office since it’s a black firm.

Liz isn’t sure if she should thank Diane for that (it is a little patronizing) but she does anyway.

Diane has another “last thing” to say, and it’s that she wants to bring on another partner, a black one. She wants to be in the discussion and to retain a name partner position. Liz says yes, as long as she has any power over the decision. This is a very smart move for Diane. It’s a compromise that’s to her benefit, and she makes the request of Liz at exactly the right time. I think Diane likes Liz as a person and wants to work with her, but she’s definitely buttering her up. This is kind of like an audition to show Liz that she should stick with Diane—Diane will be friendly with her! Diane won’t judge (but definitely knows about!) her indiscretions. Diane is reasonable and not power-hungry! Diane is understanding!

(And again, to be clear, I don’t think Liz is falling for Diane’s trap or anything. If Diane is smart enough to plan all this out, Diane is absolutely someone you’d want to keep on as a name partner. It’s just that Diane showing how smart she is, is a pretty stark contrast to Liz getting disrespected by a first-year associate.)

(And, because I feel like I'm being quite harsh on Liz, I don’t think Liz has handled the Carmen situation badly... yet. I just see signs that Carmen is able to shift the balance of power in her favor without really trying, and that Liz is getting flustered. I think Liz mentioning the mentorship is a way of Liz asserting power, and I think/hope that now that Liz knows the situation, she will try to regain control. And, I could very easily see this same plot happening but with Diane—it's just that there are a few other plots where Liz seems flustered in this episode alone, so it feels like a pattern. I’ll be looking out for more of this.)

Marissa and Carmen, both with large folders of casework, get in an elevator together. “So. I guess it begins,” Marissa says as the episode ends. I very much want to see more of Marissa and Carmen interacting. Mostly, I just want to see what Carmen does when she’s in situations that aren’t about representing a client or defending her work. I know what type of lawyer and employee she is, but who is she as a person?

Wow, this might be the most I’ve written about characters on TGF—as opposed to plots—in quite a while. I think that’s what has me so excited about this season. Carmen is interesting as a character because she’s so unique (or, perhaps, because she feels so much like a part of this universe yet so little like any other character—that's why I keep trying to compare her to others and find out where to place her). The 9 ¾ court is interesting because Wackner is so grounded, because it challenges Diane’s sense of reality in a way that’s new and interesting (this whole series is about making reality seem like it’s shifting under your feet; this is a new take on a familiar theme), and because it is a great match for Marissa’s personality and will give her a lot of opportunities for growth. It seems like we’re heading for some interesting material with Diane and Kurt, and there’s been a little bit of a tense undercurrent in their interactions in these first two episodes—I truly can’t tell if it’s supposed to be part of their banter or if there are mounting frustrations; I think the former but could see it being the latter. And, as I’d hoped, Liz is getting a lot more material.

#tgf thoughts #the good fight

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