#no they didn't just because he jokes less doesn't mean he is a different person

[pondering-gales-left-orb]

Btw for Anders I despise the excuse that "Kirkwall broke him and made him who he is" as if if he lived somewhere else he wouldn't have come to the same conclusion. I actually reject it

Justice and Anders merged way before Kirkwall

Mages are oppressed everywhere

Circle annulment aka killing all the mages in the circle was a NORMAL practice to the point that an outsider (the warden) could just walk in and do it

The templars were shit in all of Thedas they abused the mages in every circle, in kirkwall they did it in broad daylight but they also acted the same everywhere we get this confirmed by every circle mage we meet

Anders was always gonna do something

he was always planning to do something every time he escaped he always had a plan to do something even in awaking

Oh also i reject the notion that Anders awakening and Anders DA2 are 2 different people no i believe one is the natural maturing of the other when you grow up in a world the keeps beating you up and bruising you taking away everything you loved it will change you and make you angrier causing you to feel like you have no worth and your self-sacrifice is the only thing that will ever help change things

also not to mention justice and all his complexities are there contained inside of Anders alongside all that.

the fact that Anders is strong enough to have control over a spirit inhabiting his body and not loose himself entirely to possession but rather be so strong that justice could only convince him to delay what he wanted and try the peaceful talking method for years before realizing he cant take over and trap Anders and that he can only meld together with him and become part of him rather than take over( maybe that why Nathaniel suggested Anders to host justice, he knew how strong Anders is and that he will never allow any kind of take over of his own soul and body)

Kirkwall "city of chains built on the blood of slaves" sure made it worse yes but it didn't cause Anders to do what he did. He was always a freedom fighter even before awakening happened (YES A FREEDOM FIGHTER NOT A T*RRORIST GET IT RIGHT WHY ARE YOU BOOTLICKING THE FICTIONAL MAGIC POLICE AND CHANTRY'S BOOTS)

Anders would have done it no matter where he was because as he says in the end there was never a chance for compromise they would have killed mages anywhere at any time for any reason and he knew that, he knew it ever since the moment they took him away from his mother as a kid.

[somewhereincairparavel]

a huge chunk of the pjo fandom has turned into such a superficial, judgemental and PROBLEMATIC group who defeat the purpose and point that the books were trying to make, it's so fucking atrocious. the prime example of mischaracterizing/reducing the value of characters who are already misunderstood/misjudged in canon. this fandom does this to every.single.character.ever omg

percy jackson is so relatable to many people is because he didn't have to capacity to absorb textbook knowledge but was HIGH on street smart knowledge that got him to succeed. the whole point of his character is that he had low self esteem because he was ridiculed at school by the faculty and the students for being a 'dumb' and 'useless' guy that made him think he's an inconvenience to his mom. the baggage he carried is so overlooked.

the fandom saying stuff like 'annabeth had adhd and dyslexia too but she carried percy' is so fucking disrespectful. one, she's an athena kid who's supposed to be smart that's like the whole point, and that does NOT mean percy wouldn't survive without her. he's a DIFFERENT character and he doesn't need to be a scholar to be a powerful demigod who has his own identity. stop belittling him and comparing all of their adhd/dyslexia struggles. just because annabeth is smarter does NOT mean percy has less value than her, and that whatever comes out of his mouth is just silly gibberish, which is exactly what y'all are trying to imply. no he did NOT get by with just "luck" he's smart and capable enough to actually achieve things. It isn't rocket science.

making jokes like his only purpose is to have a goofy personality and wondering how he 'pulled' annabeth is NOT cute whatsoever. just deprives him of his canon developement and fails to recognise him as an important person because he is not book smart. the level of belittlement. in a way rick also contributes to this character assassination because he added another scene of piper saying something along the lines of 'thank god annabeth is there to keep percy from going wild/doing something stupid' like no miss girl

I could go on about how the fandom infantilizes nico, brushes of hazel's flaws/traits because she's a 'smol' bean (when she literally cusses out octavian, why do y'all hate the idea of her being bold/badass when she literally is??) belittling frank's power because he's 'just an innocent goof', saying stuff like 'in my head leo is a tall guy because rick did him dirty with the height when he is so hot' that's basically implying that he loses his attractiveness because he's short and wanting to confine him into those toxic masculinity standards

slandering rachel and calling her a pick me for liking annabeth as though annabeth already had a claim over percy in BOTL when he wasn't even in a relationship and even had a small liking to rachel (belittling BOTH rachel and percy in the process, is percy not allowed to have feelings too? is he only obligated to like annabeth?), also with the fandom's clear misogyny in their treatment of nico liking percy vs rachel liking percy, go on a moral policing hunt when it comes to jason, piper and percy but goes right ahead to defend and glaze luke's behaviour to annabeth, percy and silena (also victim blaming silena because she was manipulated as a teenager by a fully grown adult who KNEW what he was doing, using her)

stubbornly not wanting to recognise jason as an important character and reducing him into a 'whiney pick me guy who wanted everything to be about himself' and that he's 'boring' not realising that his abusive environment both as a baby and as a teenager suppressed him into struggling and not being able to feel worthy to even have feelings of his own, villianizing and getting on pipers throat for calling percy unimpressive simply because she LOVED and was LOYAL to her then boyfriend?? is she not allowed to have a preference??? heck id be more concerned if she did call percy hot whilst being in a relationship wtf.

and DONT get me started on the grover belittlement and erasure please, saying that percy and grover are only annabeth's 'sidekicks' on quests, as though he wasn't capable to go on a hunt for pan all by HIMSELF not knowing he'll ever be back.

[andhumanslovedstories]

I've been running this writing experiment lately to cut out phrases like "I felt" in my fiction writing. Like I was looking at a sentence in a draft that said, "he felt as if character's eyes were pinning him in place." And then I was like, "well, does he think that or is it true? As a result of this person watching him, he's froze. It's not like a thing, it is that thing."

Oh and "almost"! I'm always going, "He felt almost relieved that it hadn't happened." Well, did he feel better that it didn't happen or didn't he? Or "somewhat", I'm always going, "she felt somewhat perturbed."

And like none of that is wrong, to be clear. I don't know if it'd improve your writing, I don't even know if it'll improve my writing, but I use this sentence structure all the time so every viewpoint is from a voice that thinks about what it thinks, hedges its statements, and offers the same ability for wry little jokes formatted in the exact same way. And I have a lot of writing like that and I think (!) that they're good, but read as a whole, I'm like, "god, they all sound the same." Like there's one melody that I write songs to, so even with different lyrics, it's almost (!) the same song. Something I've been struggling with in regards to my writing and why I've felt so blocked is how boring I found writing my usual way. I'd read something and enjoy the individual parts of it, but then I'd step back and I didn't like the whole. And I got good at this enough at seeing that I didn't like it to do it in real time as I was writing, which as you can imagine didn't improve the process of writing because now I was bored AND dejected about being bored.

There's this sentence-level structure fact that I use unconsciously. A pattern I find easy is short sentence, short sentence, short sentence, long sentence. So I write that. "He [verbed]. He [verbed]. Then he [verbed]. As he [verbed] to his [consequence], he [verbed] that [noun] was [statement of condition]." Which could work, it often does make for a nice rhythm, but it's something I reach for often because it's easier for me.

Just last sentence, I originally typed, "I find it easier for me." But if what I mean is "using this pattern is less effort than another pattern," then it's easier for me. One voice is hedging its bets and the other asserting. Either is fine! But they're different! And, again, GOD you would not believe how many words I've cut out of this paragraph as I write it. I'm so chatty. I love using twelve words when six will do. And that gives my writing a specific tone to my ear.

So if I am bored of that tone, why not try using just the six words? Why be understated? Why be afraid of stronger opinions? So right now with my fiction, I'm experimenting with cutting out as many self-reflective words as I can. Sometime you do need to draw attention to the face that this is the character's interpretation, but like you definitely don't need to do it as much as I naturally want to do it. You don't need to always go out of your way to allow the possibility that the narrative voice is wrong. During editing, I trim the weaker ones (I originally typed, "what I consider the weaker ones" Is that more accurate?). But I think them being there in the first place shifts my language which shifts my character's which shifts my plot. It's sentence structure all the way down!!

(this barely applies to my writing on here, btw. i try to do good but yknow this is a tumblr blog. i'm not trying to get a lit mag to accept it.)

Anyway blah blah (chatty!) the point is I've been trying to write in a way opposite of my interests. Something that doesn't take itself too seriously, that emphasizes EMOTION and ACTION instead of minimizing it, and that clips through scenes at a good pace. Doing this been amazingly fun. I've been having such a good time doing it. I am writing so much because I really enjoy doing it. The process of writing is so fun again.

This post is about two things. One is my new mood stabilizer and therapy day camp. The other is about the benefit of pretending to be MXTX.

[bones4thecats]

Hello! I am 🫱🏻 anon! Could I request Malleus, Jamil, and Ace with a s/o who fears being separated from them?

➸ Separation Anxiety! S/O; Twisted Won.

Character: Malleus Draconia, Jamil Viper, and Ace Trappola A/N: These are short, yet sweet (I hope) Disclaimer(s): Not that descriptive panic attacks? Idk if that's a trigger warning though... meh, whatever you think it is

╔══════════════════════════════════════════╗

╚═════ Malleus Draconia ═════════════════════════╝

🐉 Malleus was clingy in his own ways. It came with being a Dragon-Fae, as they were known to cling onto the things they either found value in or something that they determined to be theirs

🐉 Because of that nature, he was almost always around you, and whenever you were away from him, he'd feel bad. Little did he know, you felt the exact same whenever he had to be away from you for too long

🐉 Your issues with separation was shown when you couldn't find him and hadn't seen him since that morning. You ended up curling inside of his room in a ball crying your heart out

🐉 Malleus appeared and after calming you down, asked Lilia what was up with you having issues with being apart from him. After being informed on your separation anxiety, Malleus began to keep you by him everywhere he went so you wouldn't get upset again

╔══════════════════════════════════════════╗

╚═════ Jamil Viper ════════════════════════════╝

🐍 Jamil isn't that clingy. He's used to not having many things to himself, after all, he does work for the person who considers himself to be his best friend

🐍 When you came into his life and actually got together with him, he became fairly clingy in a different way than what many would believe him to be. He would try to always keep tabs on you to make sure you were okay, he didn't want to come off as obsessed, but to others, he did

🐍 He found out about your separation anxiety when he had to go away to grab something from his home, leaving you with Kalim, who ended up speaking to another one of his siblings. You began to panic, and you ran to the nearest bathroom, curling onto the ground and crying

🐍 Jamil found you and ended up carrying you to his room to keep you calm and away from crying, hearing and seeing you crying just made his heart break. When you do calm down, he does research to keep you from breaking down again

╔══════════════════════════════════════════╗

╚═════ Ace Trappola ═══════════════════════════╝

🪅 Ace is unknowingly clingy himself. He always had an arm around your shoulders as he spoke to the others, and was almost always around you. From the start of the day till the very end

🪅 Because of this, he never had to notice your separation anxiety, as if never became a big problem. But when it did, let's just say he was far less than prepared

🪅 Unlike the others, Ace has no chill when you panic. So, he just kneels in front of you and nervously tries to joke around to get you to laugh off your fear, and when that doesn't work out, he ends up groaning and trying to hug you to calm you

🪅 It took a while, but when you did calm down. He joked about how much he deserved a reward for helping you out of such a sticky-situation. You know he doesn't mean to be mean, so you just chuckle and pat his head as you cuddle up to him

[emthimofnight]

would the three failed siblings have different personalities if they were raised by sonic and shadow?, and if so what would their personalities be?

Oh, for sure! Being raised in a positive environment where they aren't pitted against one another would really bring out their best traits. 😁

Void

Eldest brother

Still has low empathy, but is better at relating to others and putting himself in their shoes.

Very logical. Thinks things through far more than his siblings. That being said, he is extremely impulsive when emotional.

The most morally gray out of his siblings, but is still considered a "hero". Shadow worries he is only playing the hero role because it gives him an excuse to fight.

... He really does like fighting.

Definitely the one to suggest murder before anyone else.

Bumps heads with Shadow. Shadow sees a lot of the things he doesn't like about himself in Void, and projects a lot of his personal baggage onto him.

Closer to Sonic, finds his presence to be calming and enjoyable. Sonic knows how to handle Shadow, and therefore better understands how to handle Void.

Patient, protective, but blunt. Will almost ALWAYS tell someone the cold, hard truth, even if it hurts them. There have been many times he's made one of his siblings cry for being "too mean." He doesn't see it that way.

The quietest and least disruptive of his siblings. Spends a lot of time reading.

Andromeda

Eldest sister

Can come across as bratty or vain, but loves her family deeply. Often can't decide if they are the most annoying people in the world, or her favorite.

Still very much a moody teenager, but the normal, non-traumatized amount.

Would be that pretty, popular older sister that Stellar wishes she was more like.

Prefers to stay out of fights, despite her power. Values her appearance greatly and would rather her perfectly preened quills didn't get disturbed. That being said, she has an explosive temper, and won't shy away from punching it out with someone who pisses her off.

Gets along great with Shadow for the most part, but when they disagree, their fights are infamously explosive. Sonic can do little to defuse an argument between the two of them once it has started, so he usually tells the other kids to make some popcorn.

That being said, she, Shadow, and Stellar would often go shopping or to the spa together!

Sonic, on the other hand, would be her favorite dad to chill and watch movies with!

Very protective of her siblings. That type of girl to tease and make fun of her family, but immediately turn on anyone else who does. Those are HER idiots, dammit!

Polarity

Youngest brother (but still older than Stellar!!)

Playful, witty, and clever. No one thinks of faster comebacks than he does!

A LOT like Sonic, but with a softer edge. Has less of his bold-faced confidence.

Sporty and active, but also a huge nerd. LOVES comic books!

Fastest runner out of his siblings, period.

Due to having a lot of the same interests, Sonic and Polarity would spend a lot of time together! The two of them would have a lot of inside jokes and running bits. Polarity would want to be just like him!

The most eager to be a great hero out of his siblings.

Despite his closeness with Sonic, he is not missing any love from Shadow. It would seem that all the things Shadow likes about Sonic, he likes about Polarity. Shadow clearly has a favorite between his two sons.

Polarity and Stellar are the only two people who know how to make Shadow laugh consistently.

Polarity and Stellar are also the most alike among the siblings! The two of them are super close. Unfortunately for Polarity, being around Stellar seems to make him dumber. There is only one brain cell between the two of them when they are left to their own devices.

His antagonistic relationship with Void isn't present here! The two of them get along fine, even if Polarity isn't particularly close to him. If anything, he wishes the two of them did more stuff together.

[skeletonh0e]

The boys in heat

Extremely self indulgent UT Sans x Reader, US x Reader, UF Sans x Reader, HT Sans x Reader, and UL Sans x Reader. Talks of impregnation, breeding and a lot of overstimulating. AFAB Anatomy but pronouns are gender neutral. NSFW obvs

No trigger warnings I think? Some minor blood & cnc play with Horror Sans + cum inflation with Underlust Sans but that's it

🔞 Minors DNI

Classic Sans :

Awkward is the best term to describe him during this time, Sans does not like being out of control of his body in any form and his heat especially as it progresses is gonna be an experience to say it lightly

Generally hard to be easy and laid back when your body is not uh....not that

He deliberately does not tell you about it, avoids sex like the plague, and is just generally acting weird, until you either put the pieces together or he genuinely thinks he might pounce on you at any moment

He personally admits he normally rides these out alone and doesn't know how he'll act around a partner

Now that you're here though, things are different

A brief chat mainly to ease him into it as you genuinely trust Sans regardless of what pheromones are doing to him

Once things get started well? It is a lot

Sans had previously been attentive during sex don't get me wrong, however he just kind of treats it like anything else he does. Chill and laid back.

During his heat? He's clingy, impatient and needy, going for several rounds at a time, begging to pump you full of his cum, groping at anything and everything.

Naturally rougher as a result, though it's less intentional and more out of sheer desperation because even without extreme horny brain you turn him on so fucking much

"sorry baby i can't help it-" being said as he fucks you through your fifth orgasm of the day, he's cum inside you many times at this rate but his body screams for more and for more of you specifically

When he does tire himself out or manage to calm his urges enough to think properly he does help clean up, order take out and cuddle. The occasional pun here or there, "i'd make a dick joke but that'd come across as cocky wouldn't it"

But per usual cool down periods do not last for that long, you have woken up before with him grinding against you nearly whimpering as he needs another round

Never been extremely heavy on dirty talk, but he's a lot more quiet during his heat cycle outside of grunts and moans. When he does speak it's normally making sure you're okay, praising you, telling you he's close.

Occasionally he'll mumble things to himself likely things he didn't mean to say outloud, stuff like how good you're gonna look knocked up, how much he wants to fill you right now, and that he wants to breed you so fucking bad

Kinda...protective in a way he just isn't, even when he isn't balls deep inside you. Hovering over you, attending to your needs outside of the bed room attentively, and on the off chance you need to speak with someone else. He is there, as if waiting for the moment he's needed to intervene.

Definitely some nesting behavior, that's pretty endearing.

Underswap Sans :

Does tell you about it beforehand, blunders a bit, sort flustered, but he wants a gameplan before anything else and he did not want to risk scaring you off.

You get the whole run down, how long the cycle lasts, what to expect, the likely good if a kid happening, etc, etc.

You start out very informed and you do prep for it accordingly, though Sans did insist that you could just sit this out as he is aware he becomes a lot during this period

And boy howdy was he not fucking joking

This man has some serious energy, combine that with his over energetic nature in general and his need to please you feel like you're basically rendered into his personal fleshlight as he pounds into you over and over

Anytime he cums, he simply just doesn't stop. Still hard and thrusting into you like jack hammer, as if the previous orgasm was just a little hiccup.

Don't worry he's just as eager to please you as he is himself

Sans has always been a bit of a worshipper in the bedroom regardless of who's on top (you two switch it up quite a bit), he really gets off on just knowing he's making you feel good and likes to praise you cuz he looooooves you

He's sickeningly sweet sometimes and on his heat

Every orgasm you have is getting milked outta you

He'll happily play with with clit and tits while pounding into you, man handling your form in passionate manner. Anything to make you moan louder and cum on his cock again

Very chatty too, not that he was ever quite but it's full force here. On and on about how pretty you look stuffed with his cum, how you're so tight, how he wants to never stop and how he's going to keep making you feel so good

Due to his high stamina cool down periods almost like never happen, he will still stop and tend to your needs when you're hungry or tired but he has a raging hard on the entire time.

You work on a compromise of him jerking off and cuming on your nude form either when asleep or utterly wrecked with your over flown pussy needs a break

Which while at first he doesn't seem that thrilled about the idea, changes his mind as he really likes the idea of you being covered and marked in his scent.

It's less out of jealousy and more out of pride to mark you a deliciously nude way

Underfell Sans :

Would have told you about his heat....if he remembered

You're both kinds thrown for a loop by it, you more than him honestly. But thankfully you at least knew monsters did have heat cycles so it wasn't as out of nowhere as it could be

Though at first it did just seem like just Sans but hornier

Sans seems to have two main moods that be flip flops in-between, VERY aggressive in which he fucks you with malicious almost violent intent telling you that he owns your pussy, that you're his little fuck doll and he's going make sure everyone knows it

And a big massive softie that's extremely sweet and lovey dovey to you. Something that was normally only happened in very small doses or when he's utterly shit faced

It's not just praise but adoring you, talking about how much he loves, you that he's lucky to have you, how he just knows you're going to make a great parent

The whiplash is real, especially since sometimes he'll change his tone half way through fucking you. It's never entirely clear what sets either side off, other than occasionally his sweet side normally happens once he's cum once or twice

Very...possessive during it all, constantly rambling about how you belong to him and he'll kill anyone that even thinks about doing this to you

You don't know how much he'll actually act on that threat, but it's probably a good thing that neither of you are able to get out much.

But frankly while he's like this he would be willingly to fuck you someplace public tbh

So. Many. Fucking. Hickeys. You're covered in them by the time it's all over.

Cool down periods he does his best for after care, but like....he's very quiet. Almost like he feels guilty, especially at the sight of all the bruises you have. Which you will have to reassure him that he didn't cross any lines and that you liked it

"you're really some kind of freak ain't cha?"

"Your freak."

Horrortale Sans ;

Primal and animalistic are the best terms to describe him while he's like this.

Before the famine heats were no big deal, now however the term "wanting to fuck like animals" has never been more accurate

Sans never told you he got them, but you learned about them via other monsters so you were prepared on some level and even a little intrigued

Once a monster sets his sight on a mate, they'll frequently hunt them or fight off any other possible suitors. And given how you and Sans like to play Prey and Hunter, this allows you take things up a notch

The moment you know he's gone into heat, you run, you hide and he comes after you. It's a hell of a thrill, especially since you know it guarantee a better pounding once he finally gets you

You shifting around in the forest, sneaking around before you hear a husky voice call out "i know you're here sweetheart-"

You attempt to book it the other direction but the only thing you can comprend is a simple phrase before you're pinned to the ground

"gotcha."

The way you're fucked is brutal, he's never been gentle really but this is something else. Your entire body quakes with his thrusts, you're screaming as his cock is jammed against your g-shot and nearly rendered to tears from it all

He bites too, not just bruising you but definitely drawing blood then lapping it up with the same feral hunger that he fucks you with

Not very talkative, mostly just growls and groans. Only occasionally barking out "mine" or a "you're not going anywhere sweetheart" if you attempt to squirm away from him

Not that you really want him to stop but the struggle turns both of you on, he likes working for it and you like driving him up the wall to be honest

You're brutally fucked outside, clothes ripped off you, covered in bloody bite marks, pussy full of his cum, on the verge of passing out until he seems to either we decide to let up or is tired himself. He'll drape his coat around your naked form then carry you back to his place

If anyone attempts to stop him they're killed on sight, this is his mate and no one gets to touch them during this time.

When you wake up there'll simply be a low growl of "told ya you weren't going anywhere" before the cycle continues.

He does halt to care for you, you're his mate after all, but again weirdly silent throughout most of it.

It'll be a while until he's more chatty again, it's best to reassure him you were into his somehow more violent and extreme side of him.

Underlust Sans ;

Literally just his entire personality dialed to his natural extreme

Also doesn't think to tell you simply because he forgets it's not a common thing and to be fair it takes you while to notice

It's not until you're ten round today that you ask if something it up as while yeah he's got serious stamina and loves to fuck normally his dick would be a little soft by now

"Babe please tell me you didn't take some monster viagra-"

It makes him laugh before he breaks it down for you but also assures you there's no shame in tapping out and that monsters down here have ways to handle this without a partner

You take it as a challenge especially as he tells you it's not a challenge

It's one you enjoy though

The shift is his personality are far more subtle, rougher, a bit more dominant, and extremely fixated on pumping you full of cum. Like extremely fixated on it.

And whether it's the heat or some other factor you're not accounting for he cums a lot more than usual. Sometimes you'll just pinned down feeling his cock gush waves of his seed for several minutes as it fills you up.

He praises you through it all, telling you how good you are for him, how you take it all so well, and reassures you when it's almost done.

Your stomach looks more than a little bloated with it glowing with all the magic he just pumped into you and he definitely has a toy blog that helps you keep all of it in there

When you need a break from getting your pussy filled, anal play and oral keep you mouth entertained. You try swallowing his massive load but you end up having plenty spill out then the rest paint your body

And Sans looks super smug after wards the entire time

Definitely likes to tease you when he can, "bet you've never been fucked this good before huh?" said playing with your overstimulated clit while your whole is still plugged with a belly full of HIS cum

Having the most control over himself and already being a king of after care you're pretty much set when you do need a break for real

But you can't help being cheeky when you two are cuddling then you feel his erection rising up again

"You having fun?"

"i dunno it's a little hard."

[killerpancakeburger]

Being Ghost's BFF Headcanons

(while also dating Soap cause you deserve the best of both worlds)

If you told anyone that Ghost was your favorite person to see in the morning, they'd write you off as clinically insane. Or laugh in your face. It didn't make it any less true though. When you don't want anyone speaking to you before you had your coffee, the Ghost feels heaven-sent. Others might see it as rude, but you're content with him acknowledging your presence with a nod of head or by raising his mug of tea in your direction.

You've never been afraid of him - more like displaying a healthy apprehension towards a guy exceeding 1m90, weighing over 100kg, and hiding his face.

After spending a couple hours with him, you quickly came up to a new conclusion about him: he just had a resting bitch face. Just because he had a deep voice and a monotonous tone didn't mean he was angry 24/7. He treated people how he wanted to be treated. He had high expectations for himself and for others/teammates. All in all, a pretty reasonable guy.

You like to think he started to respect you for your combat skills and experience, but evidence pointed to the fact that he began to look at you differently after seeing you decisively slap Soap in the face to wake him up after he passed out from blood loss.

There had been a few milestones in your relationship: when he told you a bad joke for the first time (you briefly thought you were having an aneurysm), when he told you to call him Simon (in private), when he awkwardly tried to cheer you up by patting you on the shoulder (first time he touched you outside of combat/training).

Outside of missions, the time you spent together was divided between shooting matches on the training grounds and hanging out with a smoke at night when both of you struggled to sleep. He was one of the rare men not pulling any punches against you, allowing to enjoy the competition freely. Soap tried time and time again to stay awake to join you two, but failed systematically.

Acting like a divorced couple with Soap as the kid you have shared custody of. "Yer man escaped medical again" "Before 6 a.m he is YOUR man, Lieutenant"

Frequently finding yourselves shouting both at the same time: "English, MacTavish!" In the same exasperated tone.

You can handle yourself, and Ghost is perfectly aware of that. That doesn't stop him from standing behind you menacingly like the Grim reaper himself when he thinks someone's taking too many liberties with you.

If Soap's a golden retriever when he's in a good mood, Ghost reminds of your parents' cat: silent, deadly, and shows affection by deigning to occasionally hang out in the same room as you.

You always carry a spare mask for him; and he wears spare hair ties on the wrist - plain, black ones. Cannot mess with his vibe.

People keeps asking how you managed to have a relationship with "The Ghost", and your answer is very simple: "learn when to shut the fuck up".

A/N:

Me in the beginning: I'm only gonna write Soap content

Ghost:

Me: Oh FFS

BONUS:

When Ghost told you a bad joke for the first time:

You still remembered the joke incident vividly: you were on a mission together, just the two of you, and as you were focusing more than usual, anxious to disappoint him or to be a liability, you suddenly heard in your com: "Ye heard the rumour 'bout butter?"

If Ghost's voice hadn't been unmistakable, you would have thought he had been killed and replaced by someone else.

"What (the fuck)", you exhaled, not because you wanted to know about butter, but because you had no idea what the hell was happening. The fact that his tone was exactly the same as usual - deadpan, flat - contributed to making you feel insane.

"Nah, I shouldn't be spreadin' it". was the answer. Torn between demanding explanations and not wanting to commit a faux pas, you replied the way you replied to your parents' bad jokes:

"Ha. Ha. Haha...?" 

The seasoned killer on the other side of the mic didn't seem to mind, but you texted Soap in panic as soon as your butt touched the helicopter's seat.

“JOHNNY”

"Sup hen"

"Cannae go wan mission without missing me, ae? ;)"

"Did Ghost hit his head recently??"

"Negative Ma'am" "Why? Did something happen??"

"He told me a dad joke. A fucking dad joke."

"😂 Thats kinda his thing"

"thought I was losing it"

"Congrats, ye can consider yerself stamped wit The Ghost seal of approval"

"Ok? Cool???"

"Mah too favourite people gittin along" *trails of smiling emojis and hearts*

[steddieas-shegoes]

oh love, i'm terrified

for @steddielovemonth prompt 'love is terrifying'

rated t | 1,585 words | cw: negative self views | tags: falling in love, getting together, love confessions, sappy and fluffy

💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗

He thought he was being obvious.

He doesn't do this stuff for everyone else. He doesn't show up after work to hang out for no reason other than just wanting to be around the other person. He doesn't talk on the phone for three hours in the middle of the night to comfort the other person after nightmares. He doesn't fucking stargaze with anyone.

But with Eddie he does. Steve always goes out of his way for Eddie.

He knows why, and he feels like everyone can see it too: he loves him.

But somehow, Eddie doesn't see it, or chooses not to.

Even Dustin, oblivious to human emotion as anyone else Steve's ever met, pulled him aside after Hellfire one night --yes, he even attends Hellfire now-- to ask if he knew he was flirting with Eddie so much.

Robin and Nancy had called him out on two different occasions for touching him too much in public, but he hadn't even realized his hand had gone to his waist!

And Eddie still seemed clueless.

Or at least, most of the time he seemed clueless.

Sometimes, though, Steve could swear he looked at him in a specific way, a way that Steve would think is understanding and maybe even returned feelings. But he never said anything, never did anything out of the ordinary for Eddie.

Months of wondering what the hell he could do differently, months of being less and less subtle every day, months of showing how much he loved him without actually saying it.

All for Eddie to still be oblivious.

But not tonight,

Tonight, he was going to Eddie's to have dinner and watch a movie. Wayne was on a fishing trip with his buddies from work, and all the kids were at the same summer camp, probably torturing underpaid teenage counselors.

No interruptions were possible.

He could bring out all his moves, and if Eddie still didn't get it by the end of the night, maybe he could even use his words.

"Dinner's almost ready!" Eddie yelled from the kitchen as Steve let himself in. "I didn't burn anything!"

Steve rolled his eyes fondly. "Sounds like something someone who burnt dinner would say."

"I didn't! I mean one edge is a little crispy on the lasagna, but I think that's because our oven is older than Wayne. You think the government could've given us a better oven for my troubles, but apparently not," Eddie turned to Steve standing in the doorway. "You look...nice."

Steve always liked to look nice, but he'd decided to dress up a little bit tonight, try to make his intentions clear right from the start. His hair was done as usual, but he was wearing his khaki slacks instead of jeans and his nicest navy polo instead of the t-shirts he'd mostly been wearing outside of work. He even sprung for his watch that his dad gave him as a graduation gift. He hated to know how much money was wasted on it, but it did look nice.

"Thanks. You do too," Steve replied.

Eddie looked down at his own clothes and back up at Steve. "Dude, I'm wearing sweats and a t-shirt that has more holes than cloth. You don't have to lie."

"I'm not lying. You always look best when you're comfy," Steve shrugged. "Need help with anything?"

Eddie shook his head. "Not unless you wanna grab beers from the fridge. I forgot to get some this afternoon so they're just Wayne's PBRs, but a cold beer's a good beer, right?"

"Right," Steve agreed, walking to the fridge to grab the beers.

Dinner went as dinner usually does, except they actually sat at the table this time instead of the couch. Eddie seemed surprised when Steve set his things down in front of the chair he only sat in to keep Eddie company while he planned for campaigns, but just silently joined him.

They talked and joked, they made themselves laugh so hard beer almost came out of Eddie's nose. It was perfect.

After, Steve started working on the dishes, Eddie standing by the counter watching.

He was quiet, which was unusual, especially when no one else was around to fill the silence.

"Everything okay, Eds?" Steve asked as he scrubbed a particularly difficult area on a fork.

"What? Oh. Yeah."

Steve turned to look at him, suddenly worried when he saw Eddie's face turned down to the floor. This wasn't them. They'd just had a nice dinner, and now Eddie was being...shy?

Now was his chance. He could say it. Robin would be proud of him for finally just doing it.

Hell, he'd be proud of himself for doing it.

But something seemed wrong, and the last thing Steve wanted was to turn a good night bad because he couldn't reign in his feelings for a bit.

He wiped his hands on the towel by the sink and turned fully towards Eddie.

"What's wrong?"

Eddie shook his head once, then sighed. "I kind of feel like I've been wined and dined tonight. And that's ridiculous because you're just one of my best friends, and you're straight, and it's all been in my head for months, but-"

"Woah. Wait." Steve interrupted. "You've been noticing that for months? And you didn't say anything?"

"Well, no. I didn't wanna ruin our friendship because I can't handle my own hopes getting up." Eddie leaned away from Steve further. "I know you don't mean it that way. I don't want you to change anything."

"Eds-"

"And if you do want to, that's fine! Whatever would make you comfortable. I just have to say it's feeling very 'I have romantic feelings' for you territory and I know you don't so."

"Eddie."

"I'm also not good at that though. No one's ever shown interest in me other than one girl in high school who ended up moving away a week later so I didn't even have to break her heart."

Steve crashed his lips to Eddie's, half hoping it would shut him up, and half hoping he would somehow keep rambling. He kind of loved watching him ramble.

It did shut him up. Even when Steve pulled away, Eddie's silence was deafening.

"Sorry. I should've asked if I could first, but I don't think you would have even heard me. Was that okay?" Steve asked.

"Why did you do that?" Eddie sounded heartbroken.

That's not what Steve wanted at all.

"I wanted to. I have wanted to."

"No you don't."

This was not going the way Steve had hoped for. "How would you know I don't?"

"Because I'm me! I'm just the dude who gets the good weed, and says funny shit, and cooks dinner sometimes. I'm not a girl Steve Harrington falls in love with, or even takes on a date. I'm not the type you build a relationship and future with. I'm just the guy who gets to watch everyone else do that. I'm not good for that."

"What the hell do you mean?" Steve was angry now. Who had convinced Eddie he couldn't have good things, couldn't be loved or love someone, couldn't be important? "You're Eddie Munson. You saved us all from an evil wizard dude and nearly died doing it. You're the guy who makes me a sandwich when I come over for Hellfire even though there's strict no eating during the campaign rules because you know I've been working all day and need to eat. You turn all my bad days good, and make my life better just because you're you."

"Steve-"

"My turn." Steve crowded him against the counter, hands cupping his cheeks and eyes boring into Eddie's. "I need you to understand something. I've been trying to show how much I care about you, how much I love you, for months, and I've been thinking I've just been terrible at it. I thought I truly did lose all my charm. I've been pulling all my moves out for you. I was starting to think maybe you just were trying to ignore it all to let me down easy, but it isn't that. It's because you don't see how fucking amazing you are, isn't it?"

Eddie's eyes were shining with unshed tears.

"Because you are. You're incredible. Maybe the best person I've ever known other than Robin. I find excuses to be near you. I find reasons to talk to you. I didn't even have a nightmare the other night, I just wanted to hear your voice. I'm in love with you. Like, the real stupid, do anything for you even if it hurts me kind. And if you don't feel anything for me besides friendship, I'll leave right now and I'll do my best to get over it so we can be friends."

"And if I do?"

"If you do love me, then you should kiss me."

"I've never kissed anyone."

"That's not true. We kissed two minutes ago," Steve smirked, his heart racing in his chest.

"I'm scared," Eddie's whispered admittance nearly broke Steve's heart.

"Oh love, I'm terrified. Love is like that. But we've faced scarier things, haven't we?"

Eddie's soft lips against his own was the only answer he needed.

Love was terrifying, even for Steve, maybe especially for Steve, who was used to giving a lot more love than he received back. But as they kissed in Eddie's kitchen for seconds that turned to minutes, minutes that turned to hours, they got just a bit less scared.

[s4lv4tions]

numerology; nsfw

pairing; gojo satoru x reader / gojo satoru x geto suguru (past) / geto suguru x reader (past) summary; numerology — the belief in an occult, divine or mystical relationship between a number and one or more coinciding events. or: trying to move on. wc; 13.4k cw; death, angst, requited unrequited love, violence, smut (at the very end, but mentions throughout), canon divergence, spoilers for manga an; if you think you've read this before, you probably have! i posted this on my old tumblr a year or so ago, and it's still available on my ao3. this version is slightly updated and edited, but still diverges from canon as it was created at the start of the culling games arc :)

1.

The first time you bathe with Satoru, he cries.

You don't notice at first; he's quiet — abnormally so —, and his face remains pristine, unchanged. The only hint you get is a small, barely audible sniffle that stops as quickly as it starts — and you think he wants it that way. You don't think he's ever cried in front of anyone.

That's why you don't say anything. Just continue washing the suds from his hair, and pretend that the tears rolling down his cheeks are beads of water dripping from his hair — but you take extra care to massage the conditioner in, and peck his cheek as you finger-comb through silky, cloud-white strands. 

It occurs to you afterwards — as he lounges on your bed, scrolling through channels with a wayward hand planted on his stomach — that perhaps, it's the first time somebody has taken care of him. The first time ever, or just the first time since… since…

Geto Suguru's face smiles up at you from your vanity — a tiny polaroid, his face no bigger than the nail of your thumb. Beside him, Satoru grins, cheeky and bright-eyed — you don't think he's ever been any different —, and in the corner, the smudge of your thumb covers the lens. You don’t have to lift the photo and check the back to know what’s written there, in your scratchy, looping scrawl; the strongest, 2006.

"Lord of the Rings?" Satoru calls, carefree as ever. A yawn catches in his throat, and his fingers slip underneath his shirt to scratch absentmindedly at his chest. "Ooh, haven't seen this one yet…"

"Uh, yeah. Sure."

It was a better time. Less pain. Less responsibility. Less death — or maybe the same amount, just shielded by the blinding cover of childhood inexperience. Suguru was still alive and burning bright, Satoru was happy (happier. He didn't cry in the bath, at least). Shoko didn’t self-medicate as intensively as she does now. The days were spent in childish ignorance and stupid indulgence, and even when things seemed their darkest, you never lost hope. 

(It probably says a lot about you that, if given the chance, you wouldn't return. Whether that's because of what you know is bound to happen, and the pain is too much to experience again, or because you're so utterly pathetic that you'll take sadness and grief and a tiny shred of affection over… whatever it is you were back then, you don't know. A smudge in the corner of a picture of the jujutsu world's greatest.)

Suguru's eyes seem to burn into you. You turn the picture over, and rejoin Satoru on your bed.

2.

"It's been two years."

Satoru doesn't like to talk after sex. Not in any way that's really meaningful, you mean, nothing that lets you in. He loves jokes, empty small talk, work politics. Chatter that's deep enough to show he cares a little without bearing any part of himself — your injury healed up? When was the last time you had a break? There's a new teppanyaki place in Shinjuku, I'll treat you. Don't work yourself too hard, you'll put me out of business! 

If you're being honest, you didn't go into this expecting anything more than a person to scratch an itch with. 

You're already friends — though, you're not sure friends totally encapsulates what Satoru is to you, romantic or platonic. You've been friends since you were 12. Satoru, Suguru, you — and then Shoko, when you all met in your first year at Jujutsu Tech. That's how it's always been.

You swear sometimes you know him better than yourself. You swear sometimes it's his voice you think with. Is that what "friends" encompasses? Somehow, it doesn't seem enough.

Whatever. The point is that your relationship with Satoru is already strong; foundations tall and proud and unshakeable. You didn't start fucking Satoru in the hopes of forming a relationship — one was already there.

It's just... Satoru is young, yes, and he enjoys flirting, but (contrary to common belief) he's not all that keen to sleep with the first person who's willing. You don’t say this with the belief that you’re special. It’s just that with work, and especially with — y'know, his… romantic history, Satoru hasn’t found the time or will to just sleep around. At least, according to him.

Sheer willpower isn't enough to make those urges go away, though, and… well, you had them too, and you were willing, and he trusts you. And you'll take anything he'll give you, really, even if it's just scraps. Even if sometimes it makes you feel worse.

Today's one of those days.

You feel sick, after. Not because of him — because of yourself. Your polaroid of Getou and any other photo he's in has been turned over, anything that could remind you of him tucked away, but — but he's everywhere today, everywhere, and you'd fucked Satoru despite it. And Satoru is covered in memories of Getou, of course. Every freckle, every shifting of muscle, every jut of bone — did Getou touch him here? Caress every bit of him he could get his hands on? Tangle his hands in his snow-white hair, breathe against his collarbone? 

When you came, you cried. Pretended it was just because it was so intense, but behind your eyelids, dark, cat-like eyes stared back.

"Hm?" Satoru hums as if he didn't hear you, eyes fixed on the TV. Dumb doesn't suit him — it's honestly a bit of an insult for him to even try it. Like you didn't sense the stiffness of his limbs the second he'd stepped inside, or the crumbling edge of his smile, or the way he'd forced you to love him harder — pull his hair harder, scratch his back deeper, his Infinity turned off and his skin yours for the marking. 

Satoru's mannerisms are scribed into your brain. You catch yourself emulating them, sometimes; hands waving, head tilting, grin wide and posture open. You wear it like an oversized coat, an ill-fitting costume, and sometimes you wish you could stop taking on pieces of him. The more you take, the more you must throw away — and it's Suguru that your memory discards. You find yourself forgetting how he hummed when he woke up from a nap, or filled his cheeks with food like a hamster; how he scrunched his face up when he laughed, pretty all the while…

The point is that even with his incredible knowledge, his awesome strength, the sheer holiness of his existence — you know Satoru. And the fact that he came to you today isn't mere coincidence.

You decide to come out with it. You've tiptoed around it for 24 months, give or take, had a shockingly brief mourning period before the jujutsu world forced you along, and… even with what he did, Suguru deserves better. "Suguru died today."

A beat of silence. Then:

"Mm, I guess he did."

You'd spent the day staring out at the grey sky, the miserable sight of soaked pavement. Grey, grey, grey. Concrete jungle. Heavy rain clouds and an ocean of multicoloured umbrellas, bobbing and rolling to destinations unknown. You hadn't said it aloud; hadn't even thought of it, specifically. The knowledge of it had just sat over your head like a thick, sweltering fog — and if you know Satoru at all, you know that he'd done the same. Maybe he hid it better.

You don't have to look now to know that his lips are pressed thin. You find the sudden thought of looking him in the eyes daunting, anyways, so you turn onto your side, back facing him, and pick mindlessly at the sheets. You don't want to see what his reaction will be when you say—

"Did you know that I loved him — back then?"

You don't want to see the shock, or the confusion — and you'd rather not see a lack of them, either. What's worse, you wonder — him knowing and loving Suguru too, or not knowing and loving him?

"...Yes."

You screw your eyes shut and try to will away the sudden surge of cold, like a sharpened dagger to your chest. 

(It turns out that knowing is much more painful.)

Suguru Geto had been the apple of your eye ever since you'd met. 11 and gangly and stupid in a way that all children were always stupid, Suguru had been a bit kinder than his white-haired counterpart. Satoru, being Satoru Gojo, had grown up with no fear of authority, no mindfulness for his less-powerful peers as anything more than people who existed around him. You and Suguru were allowed the title of friends, but very few were. Anyway — he grew out of that mindset, of course, but your fondness for Suguru stayed.

(Though they'd always seemed to be on another level than you — not even just in terms of power, but… just caught up in each other, always. Suguru had only ever wanted Satoru. And vice versa.)

And then Suguru changed. Right under your nose, he changed, and his sudden quietness made sense. His fatigue. The way his hands would always shake when swallowing an exorcised curse, always had since you were kids, and then suddenly they were ingested with a scary calm. Nobody understands the taste of curses. Not even you, not even when he’d explained it in sickening detail.

You sigh, then. Tired and lethargic and not from physically straining yourself for an hour. This is bone-deep, soul-weary. It's been held in for 730 days, or maybe more. Maybe you've carried it with you since birth. "I never apologised."

"For what?" Satoru asks — and he laughs, jolly, and the sound fits awkwardly in his throat. A clear attempt at feigning indifference, but he's a bad liar. He always has been, because he's never needed to lie. Perks of being the strongest, you guess. You can just come out and say shit — and if you can't, not saying anything technically isn’t lying. 

"I hated you, after," you confess. You dig your thumbnail hard intoyour pinky finger, taking momentary refuge in the sharp shock of pain. "I couldn't stand to look at you. When I did, I saw… I saw what you did. What you had, and what you had thrown away. I blamed you for Suguru. I blamed everyone except Suguru."

Another snicker, a bit too humourless. "You can't stand to look at me now."

"I…" You don't know what to say to that.

Truth is, you don't want to see his face. Contorted in pity, or disgust, or sadness for you. You've gotten used to living in his shadow — most everyone has — but that doesn’t ease the ever-present blanket of insecurity that you carry around your shoulders. It doesn’t dull the ache of inferiority you’ve been housing in your chest from the moment you were saddled with your technique. As you aged, you got better at hiding it, and you generally prefer your self-pity to go unnoticed, but Satoru—

He could always read you like a book. And you hated it. You hated being pitied by someone who was as powerful as him — someone as close to God as one could get. It was demeaning. Patronising. It makes you feel like a child again, bowing your head as your mother makes excuses for you.

You shift over — onto your back, and then onto your other side — and you look at him. You force yourself. Blankets pooled around his waist, his skin so pale it could be translucent, eyes icy blue and framed with fluffy white.

"You were forced to do it," you murmur. Your eyes remain trained on his chin — his are much too bright, much too all-seeing for comfort. "If you hadn't, he would've gotten worse. He never would have stopped. You knew that, you always did. It… took me a while to come to terms with it."

Satoru sighs. Then, he slumps down so that — like you — his head rests flat on the pillow, and his body arcs towards yours. He's forced himself into your sights again, in a way that’s gentle, but not so much that you wouldn't be able to figure out what he's doing: forcing you to face him.

"Would it have made you feel better," Satoru begins, reaching forward to brush his fingers against your chin, "if you were there when I did it?"

Would it have?

Would it have given you closure? Would you no longer spend your nights wondering what he'd looked like, what his last words were, his last thoughts? If he had spittled and roared in anger, if he had wept in fear, if he had attempted a smile, a joke? If he thought of you, or if you were just another insignificant blip in his radar?

In your mind, Suguru exists as his 17 year old self — smiling and mischievous, polite yet humorous. He puts extra broccoli on your plate and gently berates you to eat more. He tells you that you're a precious part of the team, that none of them would be who they are without you. He calls you crybaby because you always wear your heart on your sleeve, and tells you not to worry about things you cannot change.

Change what you can. Forget the rest and leave it to me, crybaby.

The bubbling hatred that had festered inside him has no place in your head. You want him to stay as he is, your Suguru that was never yours, shining like gold in your mind.

"No. He hated me at the end, I think," you say quietly. For a second, you dare to meet his eyes — bright and pointed in how they stare at you. You know he can see the tears that have begun to burn in your waterline, the way you ball your fists so hard you dig half-moon into your skin. He doesn’t need to be blessed with the Six Eyes to see.

"I wasn't interested in changing the world like he was, even with my Technique. That made him despise me, I think."

Satoru stares for a few more seconds. You wonder what he's thinking about. A second in your time is a lifetime in Satoru's; he must be thinking hard. 

But he blinks, at last; sighs so deeply that his chest caves in with it, before he winds an arm around your waist and pulls you close, bare chest to bare chest, only atomic space between you.

There's nothing sexual about it. You're nothing but bones and skin and blood, here. He moulds your head to his shoulder with one large hand and cocoons you in his embrace, warm. Protected. You're not sure who the action is meant to comfort.

And just when you think the conversation is over — just when minutes have passed with nothing but the sound of the TV between you both — he speaks.

"Suguru could never hate you. Trust me."

You don't want to know what that means. You're only beginning to get over it, two years later.

3.

Satoru is holding three onigiri in one hand, and two Starbucks' cups in the other — extra sugar, extra cream, extra ice, extra unicorn-marketing, just the way you both like it. 

"There she is!" Is the first thing he says as he meets you just outside the metro, grinning. 

It's sweltering hot today — the sun had risen early and would surely set late, and Satoru seems to be taking advantage of it. Gone is his Jujutsu Tech uniform and thick blindfold, but he's stuck with the all-black theme like he usually does — black jeans, black linen shirt, black socks and shoes. Even the frames of his sunglasses are black.

(Handsome. He's handsome. He's always been handsome — years later, you'd think you'd stop feeling the effects of it.) 

Lucky for him. You're not, y'know, the strongest sorcerer in the last century, so there's no leeway for you — and even in your summer uniform, the skirt and short-sleeved blouse, you're sweating. Your only respite is that the combined force of you and Satoru will mean this mission is going to be a breeze.

Satoru tsks. "Took your time. I almost ate your onigiri."

A man nearby jogs past, clearly in a rush, and Satoru has to step closer to you to avoid him. He could've stayed still. He wouldn't have touched him, anyway, with his Limitless.

"And you would've had to buy another, genius."

A pout. "You only love me for my bank account, don't you?"

(He's joking. It's a joke. 

But your hand shakes — a miniscule tremor — as you reach out to take one of the cups, and you know he sees it because he's Satoru and he sees everything. You turn away as quickly as you can, setting off in the direction of whatever place it is you're here for, and pretend that the fact that he can say it so casually doesn't kinda fucking hurt. 

(He could never say it like that with Suguru — so bluntly, so crassly. Not without softened eyes and softened smiles and a gentle tilt of his head — those are mannerisms reserved only for him, never to be seen again. Instead, you get snickers and digs in the arm and teasing pulls of your hair. Of course it’s a joke. That’s all you are.

Perhaps you should just be grateful for what you get. Perhaps you should try to stop comparing yourself to a man you once loved. Perhaps you should try to stop comparing yourself to a dead man. Perhaps, in the end, you just love the pain of it all.))

"Yeah," you reply, taking a large, sugary sip. "And don't you forget it, either."

Satoru catches up to you quickly, effortlessly; his arm flops around your shoulder as he tugs you in the opposite direction, chastising you for going the wrong way — but it stays there long after it needs to.

4.

Itadori Yuuji — Sukuna's dead-but-not-really vessel — thinks your cursed technique is powerful. He thinks it’s amazing that you can use reverse cursed technique — you must be really powerful, right? Gojo-sensei says you’re special grade. He also thinks you're very pretty. He tells you this over his fourth grilled pork belly wrap — this one bursting at the seams with kimchi, garlic, and roasted sesame seeds.

He doesn't say it in a flirtatious way — it's just an observation to him, simple and blunt, and you figure he has about as much of a filter as Satoru does.

"O-oh," you say, metal tongs frozen over the sizzling meat. "Thank you, Yuuji."

You had briefly met him for the first time before his death — Nobara, too. Megumi, the third piece of the golden trio, has been something of a little brother ever since Satoru had taken him in, and you know him well enough to know that Yuuji's death (or lack thereof) is weighing on him terribly. 

(There are too many parallels you could make. Suguru and Satoru. Haibara and Nanami.)

Hiding it does make you feel guilty. To experience that grief, that loss — even if it will soon go away when Yuuji rejoins jujutsu society — isn’t something to take lightly. But Yuuji needs a guide that isn’t completely off the rails. Satoru and you balance each other out, and balance seems to be something Yuuji needs.

He reminds you terribly of Satoru when he was younger. Maybe that's why you have such a fond spot for him — he's too goofy and well-meaning and genuine to dislike.

"Why are you acting surprised?" Gripes Satoru, chewing with his mouth open. "I tell you that all the time."

Your eyes narrow. You place a perfectly cooked slice of marinated beef on his plate. "You're you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He whines. "We're best friends, crybaby!"

"You don't say I'm powerful. You say I'm helpful. There's a difference. And don’t call me that."

"Is there?" Satoru asks, turning to Yuuji for guidance. The teen boy shrugs, preoccupied by assembling his newest monstrosity. "I call you pretty, too."

"Yeah, when—"

When you're eight inches deep in me, face buried in my neck, trying to get yourself off. Your cheeks flush with warmth at the thought, and you shut your mouth. Yuuji doesn't notice your slip up, busy as he is; Satoru does completely, and fixes you with a grin so sharp that you vow to not give him any more meat until Yuuji is completely full.

"It's not the same," you say, voice final. It's a lighthearted lunch. You don't want to ruin it by getting touchy over semantics, and that's exactly what'll happen if you keep going. "You say it to reward me. Like tossing a dog a bone."

You reach for the scissors to snip the meat into little pieces — and in doing so, you miss the brief frown that presses against Satoru's brow.

Neither of you say anything more on the matter.

5. 

Satoru has known you for five years when he realises that he resents you. Not completely, and not for one particular or solid reason, either. He prefers not to think about it, in any case, because you're one of his closest friends — and even at 17, he knows that that's hard to come by. Especially as the Strongest.

Satoru stares up at his ceiling; stares at the miniature striations only he can see, the starburst-shaped gyrations of clay used to finish it off. 

Tonight, he's thinking about it. And many other things.

He hates that you're so hesitant about everything — he hates that you believe yourself so weak that you have to tiptoe. You, with your reverse cursed technique — which is a feat in and of itself — that could transcend time and space, just like he could. A technique passed down for hundreds and hundreds of years, accumulating power all the while…

(Your technique has lots of rules and regulations, of course. A handicap, and he understands it frustrates you, but his own frustration eclipses his understanding. Why should someone so strong feel anything but their own strength?)

He hates that you curl in on yourself when you're sad, or lonely, or angry. He hates that you wear your heart on your sleeve — he's never allowed himself to, not fully. He can't, never fully, because there are people who are watching him, people who hate him, people who want him dead. He can joke. He can make his political desires clear — but he can’t love like he wants to, and God forbid he cries.

He hates that you close your eyes and bask when it's sunny, like a cat in a sunspot; hates that you remember that he doesn't like chicken wings and prefers thighs; he especially hates that you watch over Suguru like it's your job, when Suguru doesn't need it.

And some part of Satoru hates Suguru, too. It was strange for him to come to terms with it, fond of him as he is, but as he grows Satoru realises that there's no love of his that isn't closely affiliated with hate. It makes the love all the more strong.

Satoru, for one, dislikes how polite Suguru is, even when he doesn't need to be. He hates that Suguru becomes a straight-faced, unfeeling thing when he's upset, and tries to hide it — the emptiness in his eyes unsettles him like nothing else.

Most of all, above all, Satoru hates that Suguru loves you, crybaby, and is too pussy to do shit about it. Satoru doesn't understand why, anyways, because he'd made it clear that if he wanted, Suguru could have you both and Satoru wouldn't care. Usually, the thought would offend him. How can you love someone when you already love me? When you've already sworn yourself to me? You already have the strongest, who else do you need? 

But… he doesn't know. He kinda understands. You're precious to him, too, after all, sunflower soaking up the sun. 

Like he said: there's no love of his that isn’t closely affiliated with hate.

6.

Six and a half hours after the hours-long meeting that followed the ruined School Goodwill Event, you find yourselves in a diner somewhere in Harajuku. It’s one of those weird fusion places, loaning ornamentation and tokens from classic American diners, serving omurice with fries, sushi with mashed potatoes, with a cute little mascot that looks like Elvis. It’s loud enough and bright enough to make you feel timeless. It's a sensation you can appreciate. 

Something’s been telling you that time’s ticking, and you’re not quite sure what it is. Trauma, probably. Anxiety. The fact that curses have been banding together, learning spoken language, amassing power — planning an attack on Jujutsu Tech, gaining intelligence, gaining anger.

Satoru doesn’t say it — doesn’t want to say it — but you think it’s unnerved him, too. The last time outsiders entered school grounds was… two years ago, wasn’t it? It’s crazy. Everything always seems to lead back to Suguru.

The attack has fueled something in both of you, anyways; something that makes you both stay up instead of knocking out like you usually do; something that makes you both hungry and restless and liable to travel across Tokyo past midnight. By public transport, no less. No warping or high-speed flying for you, tonight.

But you appreciate it. And you think that Satoru is taking things slow for the same reasons you want to — to take things in, to appreciate what you never think to appreciate. To admire the mundane, even for a little while. Satoru’s less emotionally attached to the jujutsu-less aspects of life than you are — bullet trains and waiting in line and standing on the train platform, escalators and traffic — but he enjoys them all the same when he has time to. And it’s not often The Strongest gets to experience pure, genuine normality, too, so maybe sitting in this gaudy diner and watching the world pass you by is a luxury he rarely affords himself.

He orders the most complicated drink they have — a sakura-caramel milkshake topped with whipped cream, glacé cherries, and an entire slice of cheesecake. He’s down to the last dregs of melting cream within 10 minutes, swiping fries from your plate between sips, ignoring your chides of rotten teeth and high blood sugar.

Blindfold swapped for glasses. Strands of hair drifting down against his forehead. 

You’re always reminded at the worst times of how handsome he is. It’s not like it’s a secret, or he’s unaware of it — and he takes pride in his looks, if his extensive skincare shelf and general attitude is anything to go by — but he puts much more stock in his strength, in his usefulness to others, his intelligence. The things he can provide for others. Not many people realise that.

Maybe you shouldn’t act so high and mighty. It’s not like you don’t appreciate his appearance as much as the next person — hell, half the time you’re trying to stop it from distracting you — but maybe you get a pass. Y’know, as a person who actually has reason to marvel over the stretch of his neck and the flush of his cheeks and how his lips go the prettiest pink when you kiss him. Or the cords of muscle along his arms; the slender-yet-thick bands of muscle of his chest and legs. The large, veiny expanse of hand — slim, delicate fingers wrapped around a paper straw…

"Are you gonna eat those?" Says Satoru, slurping obnoxiously. “Haven't eaten since dinner."

You push the basket across the table, uncharacteristically void of argument. "Go crazy."

Satoru sets his empty glass aside, but the straw remains in one hand. The other he uses to pluck up fries, 4 or 5 at a time, his gaze suddenly fixed on you as he chews nonchalantly.

"Y'know," he says, licking salt from his fingertips, jabbing the straw in your direction, "I can always tell when you're horny."

"Excuse me?"

"You squirm," Satoru continues — matter-of-fact, casual, as if he's talking about the weather. "And you get quiet.”

“I’m a quiet person,” you snap, nails pressing against your palms under the table. “Sorry I know when to shut the fuck up—”

“And then you get flustered. And when you’re flustered, or embarrassed, you get angry.” He raises his hand — signals the cute waitress for another basket of fries, and leans back with his arms splayed along the back of the booth. “Don’t look so surprised! How long have we known each other?”

If you were a better person, you’d probably admit that yes, he’s right. You do get quiet when you’re horny, and you do get angry when you’re flustered — if you were a worse person, though, you’d remark on how you're the first person he crawls to when he’s sad, or overwhelmed. How getting you into bed and losing yourselves in each other is a sort of therapy for him. How he always tries to distract you with cheeky grins and sly, flirty comments, but then afterwards he cries in the bath as you clean him up. 

You don't say that, obviously. Seems like a pretty shitty thing to bring up today of all days. He'd probably deny it anyways, but you don't think it's a coincidence that the attack has left him restless and he obviously wants to take you home.

The new fries are delivered to the table, but he looks right past them. He bows his head slightly, glasses slipping a little further down his nose so that his white-framed eyes peek over the top of them. 

"Let's warp home," Satoru says — and oh. There's that voice. That drop in tone, that lack of boisterous humour he always employs. It's soft enough to have goosebumps rising on the back of your arms, smooth enough to have you squirming — yes, squirming, you admit it — in your seat. "Alright?"

"Yes." And it's embarrassingly breathless, and embarrassingly quick, but Satoru doesn't tease you. Just smiles, raises a hand for the bill, and watches you all the while.

7.

You count seven stitches in the forehead of Geto Suguru.

Count, because it's all you can do. Everything else is lost to you. 

Breathing.

Standing.

It feels like even your heart has stalled. Because—

Because—

Because Geto Suguru is dead. Dead, in the ground, no longer breathing, no longer living. Satoru had killed him. Satoru had demolished him.

The lips of the Geto in front of you twist — a sickening, stomach-turning imitation of the smile you once adored. On his face it's a sneer, a mockery. Your Suguru did not smile like this when you knew him.

"Hello," he greets pleasantly. His arms are hidden within the sleeves of his yukata. Hair down. Suguru always tended to wear his hair up, unless he was fresh out of the shower. Unless he was upset. It was too much hassle to take care of. You know when he took over the Time Vessel Association and donned the gojo-kesa he began wearing it down. "_____ _____, yes?"

You can't answer. Your ears are ringing. Your stomach gives a worrying lurch that winds up your throat — you think you're going to be sick. 

How? Why? Who — who is this in front of you? Because it's not Geto, not Suguru — and you don't say that because of longing or a pathetic desire for ignorance. This thing feels wrong. Inherently, blasphemously wrong. Looking at him for too long makes your cursed energy prickle. Seeing Suguru's image painted in such slimy, rancid energy has you gasping for breath.

Satoru, your mind whispers. Satoru needs to know.

He should. He needs to. But this pseudo-Geto does not look friendly in the slightest, and you are isolated.

Looking back, it had seemed fine to go alone to exorcise curses in the belly of Tokyo's metro. Taking old service tunnels and eventually entering abandoned tracks hadn't felt scary. You're a semi-special grade sorcerer with years of experience under your belt and a powerful cursed technique that could get you out of most, if not all, pinches, restrictions and regulations be damned.

"I'm sure you're very confused. I apologise, really…"

The reality of the situation hits you. Maybe hit is the wrong word — it doesn’t come as a bloody, stinging smack in the face. It’s a trickle of ice-cold water down the nape of your neck, drawing dread from your head all the way into the pit of your stomach. You don't think this is a pinch you'll come out of — at least not battered half to death, especially when a silver-haired curse decorated with stitches steps out from behind pseudo-Geto. The curse Kento had fought. The one that he said to look out for. Patchwork.

Immediately, you know fighting isn't an option. But what else is there to do, in the face of pseudo-Geto and his silver-haired, sentient curse? Your technique may not be limitless in your possession, but in theirs? If they did to you what they did to so many others — transfiguring you past the point of recognition, stealing your body and technique, desecrating your corpse with cursed energy…

"I can feel it from here," titters the curse excitedly. "So warm… I have to have it! Her soul, I have to have it!"

Fuck.

You could try to escape, but you wouldn't have enough time to run past them and through the winding corridors of the underground, even while distracting them with your cursed technique. They'd catch you within seconds. You’re sure they have curses lurking around waiting to thwart you, too.

You could burst directly into the layers of concrete and metal above — use your technique to revert them back millions and millions and years to their very first forms, atoms and subatomic particles, and then rebuild them up as an ascending platform — but that would take too much time, and you'd be completely defenceless while you did. Not to mention the toll it'd take on you.

(Not to mention the fact that you'd be bursting into the public eye from a giant crater in the ground.)

"I'm sure you know what I'm going to do," continues pseudo-Geto, amiable. "I would ask you to join us, but I know that is impossible. Therefore, there is only one course of action."

Can't fight. Can't escape. Can't get answers. Can't stay clueless. How contradictory.

You're not dying, that's all you know. And if you have to do the one thing you never wanted to do, then so be it. Anything is better than death. Death is not an escape, in this scenario — it’s a guarantee of imprisonment.

"It's a shame," pseudo-Geto sighs, bloodlust swelling. "Such a waste of a good technique."

You make a Binding Vow with yourself within seconds.

Using a magnitude of cursed energy usually out of your reach, your entire body will be reduced to atoms — intangible, untrappable, unkillable — for as long as it takes to retreat to safety. In return, you will be unable to think, unable to move according to your own will, only a mere pawn to entropy as the rest of the galaxy is — high risk, high reward.

There are many things that could go wrong.

In reducing yourself to essentially nothing, in splitting your cursed energy into billions of particles, you could reach a state of such low cursed energy concentration that you are, for all terms and purposes, considered dead. In doing so, your Binding Vow could break, and you would be unable to return to living. 

Or you could float for days, weeks, years — safety is subjective, subjective is dangerous when it comes to contracts, and you can only hope that your own understanding of it sets the standard.

It's either this, this fleeting, terrifying chance, or death. With one, you can return to your school, your students, your Satoru — you can tell them what happened. You can bring justice to whoever has disturbed Suguru from his slumber. With the other — nothing. Just plain, utter nothingness forever and ever.

(You know which you'd rather.)

The last thing you recall, in spotty haziness, is the heart-stopping sight of Suguru surging towards you, eyes bloodthirsty, face contorted in malice. 

The last thing you hope is that Satoru isn't too upset about the risk you've taken.

8.

Eight days after your solo mission, you resurface — a discombobulated, stumbling mess on the outskirts of Shibuya, eyes glazed and mouth stuttering over syllables. A nearby Window calls the college within seconds, and Gojo is there just as soon — hands shaking when he grasps your arm and turns you to face him, fingers trembling when he cups your cheeks and brushes them under your eyes.

It’s you. It’s you, it’s you, it’s you, and he can breathe, he can fucking breathe, his chest is lighter than it’s been for those entire 8 days — all the while, he burns with an anger so intense it hurts. And Satoru is no stranger to anger, of course — knows it as intimately as he knows himself — but he's not sure if he can remember the last time it had rendered him breathless, trembling. Bloodthirsty.

It's not the time to think about it. Not when you're shaking in his arms, so frail and weak everywhere except your hands — no, your hands remain strong, fingers digging into his clothes and skin. He turns off his Infinity. The sting of your touch grounds him.

Shoko is already waiting in the clinic for him — she’d been preparing ever since the call first came in. The students (the ones on campus, at least) crowd together at a distance, buzzing anxiously as Satoru disappears swiftly into the depths of the infirmary with you in his arms.

Bad things happen often. Too often. Satoru isn’t sure whether it’s a good thing or a bad thing that they haven’t gotten used to it yet.

“Gibberish,” Satoru answers when Shoko asks if you’ve said anything competent since he picked you up. “Just gibberish.”

Shoko is poking and prodding you with the usual doctor's shit — stethoscopes and thermometers and that blood pressure band that goes around your arm — and you just lay there and take it. Head rocking side to side, limbs trembling, mouth lolling open, and Satoru's trying not to lose his head because what good is taking your temperature? Do you look like you have a fucking cold? Is the way your eyes focus and unfocus normal? The way you can’t string together two syllables that make fucking sense?

But even with how he can see your cells malfunctioning all over your body, Shoko knows more about this shit than him. So he sits pretty on her swivelling chair, twisting back and forth, body the image of boredom but mind anything but. Time and time again, he’s reminded of how unprejudiced tragedy is — how it leaves no hint, no mark of itself, no time to prepare for the toll of it all. 

Satoru had greeted you briefly before you’d left. Said something about getting lunch together, that you better be careful because you were treating him — the same shit he said time and time again, his real plea hidden within the folds and twists of his jokes and quips. Be careful. Don’t die. I can’t lose you. You’re precious to me.

You’ll be okay. You have to be — he won’t allow anything otherwise. But if he’d known last week that you’d end up like this, would he have said those things out loud? He doesn’t think so. He’s cowardly in that way.

A few moments later, Shoko straightens up. Immediately reaches into the pocket of her lab coat and pulls out a cigarette and a rusting lighter, and is puffing out clouds of bitter air just seconds later. 

Shit. That’s not a good sign.

Shoko sighs. Rubs at her dark undereye circles and only makes them worse, taps her cigarette so that the ash falls to the floor. “I know what it is.”

Well fucking tell him instead of keeping it in!

“Oh?” Satoru says instead, leaning forward onto his knees. “What is it, then?”

“She used her technique on herself.”

“She does that all the time to heal."

“She didn’t heal herself,” Shoko snaps — and Satoru remembers that he’s not the only person you’re important to. That while he and Suguru had gotten ahead of themselves being the strongest, they’d left you and Shoko to stroll humbly along your own paths. The only girls in their year. The only person Shoko could fully confide in, really — at least in Tokyo —, the only person who had bothered to check up on her when she drank too much, smoked too much. Even if Shoko hated it. 

Shoko is upset. Satoru doesn't what to do with it.

(Alcohol — she likes alcohol. Satoru reminds himself to pick up the most expensive bottle of the stuff the next time he's out.)

(No. She’s trying not to drink so much, isn’t she?)

(Whatever. Life is short.)

“She dissipated herself.”

Satoru knows about your technique intimately enough that it immediately gives him pause — but he runs over the details in his head, just in case, as if it isn’t already imprinted on the flesh of his skull.

Your cursed technique allows you to disassemble items down to their most basic units — subatomic particles — while your reverse cursed technique allows you to reassemble them. Items can be reassembled into their previous form, or to another related form, but you cannot exceed the item’s natural entropy threshold. If you do, the item cannot be reverted back to a physical state, and you will bear the brunt of the resulting shift in energy.

It's a finicky technique. Finicky and fickle and the risks tend to outweigh the rewards — but you'd always used it so elegantly, so gracefully. Even when you doubted yourself, you had a handle on it. Satoru admired that about you.

("You don't say I'm powerful. You say I'm helpful. There's a difference."

You'd said that to him once, when he brought you and Yuuji to lunch. You'd acted like it didn't bother you but he could tell it did — he didn't need his Six Eyes to notice how your nose twitched and your eyes narrowed, displeased. 

But Satoru believes in two types of helpfulness. 

The kind he is — powerful, needed, a force to be reckoned with. Someone that keeps things afloat, that acts as a beacon in the dark.

Then there's the other kind. The usefulness of pawns, of bait. Necessary, but not fundamental. Desired, sure, but rarely crucial.

You've always been the first. Always. You and him and Suguru and Shoko, always. Even he could admit that.)

You disassembled yourself into atoms. Into nothingness. You lost your mind, your body, your energy, everything—

Satoru sighs. He's been doing that a lot today.

“I didn’t know she could do that,” Satoru says. His throat is covered in a layer of sawdust. He can’t remember the last time he had to actually focus on not throwing up. “Why would she do that?”

“She talked about it, before,” Shoko says. She leans against the bed you’re laying on, gazing over her shoulder — and the way she looks at you turns his stomach, the upturn of her brows, the sad downturn of her mouth. It’s as if you’re already dead. As if she’s looking at a living corpse. “Just… as a theory. A last resort to help her get away, if needed, but—”

“But what?”

“She knew she didn’t have the power for it,” Shoko mutters. Breathes another puff of cigarette smoke. “If she tried, she'd end up just… fading away. In breaking herself up, she'd negate the cursed energy that gives her the power to put herself together.

"And the side effects would be… well, you can see that for yourself. Stupid, so fucking stupid…”

“Well, obviously she has the power for it,” Satoru murmurs. “Or made the power for it.”

“A binding vow?”

Satoru shrugs. Clenches his jaw, watching as you scratch at the faux-leather underneath you. “It'd make sense. Explains how she put herself back together."

(But for what? What could have driven you to such lengths? 

A curse like Jogo wouldn't be all too difficult for you to defeat.

So who…?)

Shoko hums. She stares into space for a moment, eyes unfocused, and for a moment Satoru sees her younger self — the one who just started smoking, just started drinking, who carried the weight of all the people she healed (and those she'd failed to) tucked in her pocket. The Shoko that would make sarcastic quips and humble them when they needed humbling, but humour them when she knew the outcome would be funny.

A time when they had very little responsibility. Even him, shackled with it since birth. Comparing his duty from then to now is like comparing a boulder to the weight of the world.

He feels very old, suddenly, at 28.

"There's nothing I can do for her," Shoko says, softly. Regretfully. "If she did make a binding vow, I can only assume she made a condition about returning to normal. If so…"

Satoru can’t do anything about it, basically, she explains. Your condition is one that will only heal with time, patience, and the odd boost from Shoko’s technique. Maybe, she says — she's still unsure about that last bit.

It sickens him. It festers as a deep, curdling annoyance in his bones, his uselessness. It’s a sensation he had only felt once before, standing before the slumped-over body of Geto Suguru. Nothing he could do for him except put him out of his misery, and even then that felt like a cop-out.

So… he can't go directly after the thing that had forced your hand, because they had left no trace. He can't heal you, either. He can't take care of you while your body repairs itself, while your supposed binding vow returns you to your rightful state — that duty will fall to Shoko, or one of her interns. 

He can do nothing. And Satoru is nothing if he cannot be of use.

9.

Nine months after the events of the culling games, Satoru enters your room to see you sitting up — eyes wide, eyes seeing, and it only takes you fixing him with a single look to know that you're okay. 

(Subjectively. Relatively.)

Suguru Getou — Kenjaku — is finally dead — exorcised. He’s not sure which is the right word to use. All of his allies, killed or exorcised too. Nanami, murdered. Nobara, comatose. Yaga, dead. Inumaki, Maki, Okkotsu, maimed; the great houses of sorcery destroyed and rebuilt in the image of Satoru’s will. 

Itadori Yuuji — dead. Sukuna Ryomen — exorcised.

Adding up the gains, subtracting the losses, carrying the ones… Both sides seem to have lost pretty evenly. And he should be happy about it, too; things could have turned out much worse. And they would have, too, if he hadn’t pushed himself out of his pouting and escaped the prison realm — a feat that was half out of spite and half concern for the outside world, and maybe a little curiosity. Rage. Longing to see the bastard who’d stolen Suguru’s face and body, who dared to reanimate him and rouse him from peace — longing to slaughter the thing that had rendered you bedridden and half-mad for months.

He had been the one to kill Kenjaku. It only felt right to be the one to do so — he’d killed Suguru, after all; had been the one to leave him defenceless and open to manipulation. If Suguru hadn’t been dead, Kenjaku wouldn’t have been able to steal his body. 

Of course, Satoru ignored the fact that the very last rotten, desperate dregs of Suguru would have enjoyed Kenjaku’s plan — it was the only way he was able to keep his eyes open when he blasted his brain to bits. It was hard enough the first time.

All of these things sit on his tongue, bitter and souring and curdling — every detail of the battle, of the culling games, the colleagues and peers and students he’d held in his arms, the ones he’d comforted as they slipped away, the ones he’d reassured and promised. 

(Pink, blood-covered hair; a smile that never dimmed, a nervous murmur (“It’s okay, Gojo-sensei. I know what I got into.”). The shaky laugh that had followed.)

Satoru’s hands tremble at his sides.

Your eyes are wet with tears when you look at him. 

“How long has it been?” You croak — voice dry and cracked with disuse, whining in some parts, low and wheezing in others. Bone-deep, the fear in your voice, and for good reason — things had already been at a boiling point when you’d been taken down. Everything had moved past you. “Satoru—?”

Another selfish decision on his part: he doesn’t tell you. At least, not now, when the words threaten to vomit out of his mouth, when the pain is suddenly too fresh and too raw. 

(For one strange, too-long second, he’s reminded of his mother — weak, presence-less, powerless as she was. Empty-eyed and unhappy. She was hardly even a mother with the amount of governesses he had.

Somehow, though, every problem would seem worse when her eyes were upon him; every cut and bruise was more painful; every slight against him a grave insult; every mistake a cause for self-pity and temper tantrums — and none of it mattered, as long as she took him into her arms.

A rarity, yes, but… maybe one of the only fond memories he has of his childhood in the Gojo household.

Satoru feels like a kid again — suddenly sniffling from a bruise he swore didn’t hurt, his mother ready to pat his head and baby him and coo his name. Satoru. Not Gojo-sama.)

He crosses the room and plants himself upon your bed and takes you into his arms for the first time in months, and—

And for the first time since Yuuji’s death, since Nanami’s, since Suguru’s, since your injuries—

He cries. Openly. Heaving, chest-wrecking sobs; red, wet nose and ugly whimpers. It’s overwhelming. It’s cathartic. It makes the pain worse, for a second, before it begins to taper out in a bruising wave; with it, he remembers his darling underclassmen who died, his colleagues that he’d wanted to live at least a few more years; he remembers that despite years of being told so, he’s not God — he couldn’t stop Yuuji’s death, or Suguru’s, or Toge losing his arms, or—

“Thirteen months,” he manages to get out. “Thirteen months — you couldn’t talk, or move properly, or—”

Satoru grabs handfuls of you — hair, waist, belly, it doesn’t matter. He can feel you beneath his skin. Rushing, pounding blood, cells, micromolecules — and he doesn’t need to, but he engages his Six Eyes for a moment — actually engages them, doesn’t let them run unconsciously in the background. It’s a comfort to let himself see each receptor interact with each signal on each plasma membrane, to let himself see the tissues that formed organs that formed organ systems forming you, breathing, living, sentient—

He kisses you — or you kiss him, he’s not sure — but it’s far more intimate, far more tender than any touch he’d delivered unto you; hands clutching the sides of your face, your fingers digging into his wrists. You’re crying, salt on his tongue — and he only knows they’re not his own tears because you give a great, shuddering sob when you part, trembling like a leaf in the wind. 

“I had to,” you gasp, and he wants to tell you that he knows, he knows, he doesn’t blame you, sweet girl — did what you had to do to live, to survive— “I had to—”

“Only go where I can follow, okay?" His eyes are burning again, voice cracking with the promise, regardless of the fact that he’d rather you do it 100 times over than die. But it's the only way he can tell you he loves you without telling you he loves you, and he can't remember the last time he said the words aloud.

(He does. He remembers. And he remembers that Suguru wouldn't mind if he said it to you — that Suguru loved you as he loves you. And he remembers that Suguru is dead and doesn't have an opinion anymore, so it really doesn't matter, anyways.)

Satoru calls Shoko when he rights himself, barely pulling back from your embrace to text her something barely understandable and hurried. You don't say much while he does; still acclimating to being aware, being awake — he catches you with your eyes screwed shut and your nose buried in his jacket, fingers tight on his arms again. Grounding yourself. Reminding yourself that you're alive, and with him.

Shoko scolds you between rummaging around for a thermometer and scribbling your prescription in messy, barely legible cursive — calls you a dumb bitch for doing what you did, tells you that you owe her a bottle of wine and a trip to a fancy hot spring, and it all seems a little lighter.

(She cries a little — if the slight glassiness of her eyes can be considered crying. Satoru only teases her a bit for it, though you're quick to mention how he'd blubbered like a baby when he saw you, and he's humbled quickly.

It's the most normal he's felt in weeks.)

Shoko clears away after a few hours — gives you strict orders to rest, and sends him a knowing look that he's not all too sure of the meaning of. 

"You look tired, Satoru," you finally say when you're alone again. Your smile is sad, knowing, and Satoru curses it all. You deserve a grace period, a moment of ignorance before the grief settles in. "What happened?"

But when have you ever wanted a moment of ignorance? When has he ever been able to hide the truth of things from you? When have you ever been anything but his equal, his confidant?

"Everything," Satoru says. A short, humourless laugh punctuates his single-worded sentence. "Everything, crybaby. Everything that we thought could happen, and everything we thought couldn't."

A flicker of a smile — uncomfortable, flat. Your eyes flicker down to the bland, starched sheets of the hospital bed. "Did you see him?"

He doesn't need you to elaborate. There's really only one person you both mean when you say him.

"Yes."

"Who was he?"

Satoru shifts in his seat. "An ancient sorcerer named Kenjaku. His cursed technique allowed him to transplant his brain between bodies and possess them."

"And he chose Suguru."

"Yes. And many others, too."

"And you killed him."

"Yes. For Suguru, and for you. But mostly for Suguru.”

“I’m glad,” you say, but your fingers twist the sheets tightly. “When I saw him, I was angry. So angry, I… I wanted to kill him. I knew I wasn’t strong enough, and I knew he would kill me, but for a second—”

He understands. God, does he understand. “You wanted to take the risk.” No matter the cost, no matter the damage to your own body. Anger like that consumes.

“I did.” You swallow. Your eyes meet his. “It was like… adding insult to injury. As if it’s not enough that Suguru is dead, but this — this Kenjaku has to puppeteer him too. Disturb his peace."

The wind rustles the trees outside. The late-afternoon gold of the sun settles along the horizon, a burning orange that stretches the shadows and warms the wind and turns the side of your face honey-soft and sad.

“But I realised that I was probably the first person he’d revealed himself to," you continue, "so I was the only one that could warn you."

Always thinking about the good of others. It was another thing he admired about you — Nanami, too. Satoru, for all his big talk about changing the world of jujutsu, about being better than those who came before him, is really quite selfish. 

It's why his hands had trembled when he'd had to kill Yuuji. It's why he couldn't put Suguru in the ground the first time they met after he became a curse user. Even when he knows things are necessary, he tries his damnedest to hold on — just for the chance of it all. The chance that Suguru could change his mind. The chance that Sukuna could be removed from Yuuji without him needing to die. 

"And…”

One snow-white brow raises. “And?”

“You’ve already lost too many people that you love,” you say simply, shrugging — like it's a simple fact, no need for experimentation, no need for an academic paper complete with its own abstract and footnotes. Like you've always known, in some little way, but you're only able to bring yourself to say it now.

And Satoru — well, it's no secret to him, is it? He's known it since he was 13, 14, 15 — had a bit of a buffering period, sure — and now here at 28, he knows it just as well. The point is that you're not supposed to know. Not while you're still healing from Suguru and… being attacked by fake-Suguru.

Regardless of what he knows and how long he's known it, Satoru feels his throat begin to close up, twisting and turning and holding his breath tight. He doesn’t like the feeling.

“Love?” He echoes. His voice has gotten a little empty. It's too soon for him to say it aloud, he thinks. It was okay when he whispered it in his head after making love to you; it was easy when he grinned at your scrunched up nose and scoffed comments and thought fuck, I love you. It was easy when he could pretend it was a simple, passing comment, a trick of the mind — but having it said as fact? 

Not so simple. But you don’t need to know that. “Is that so?"

You don't seem to notice his momentary pause — a lifetime of rambling in his time, a second's hesitation in regular time — too busy staring at the space where his fingers stretch apart over the sheets. Just inches away from yours. "We're friends, aren't we?"

Oh.

"Oh." Satoru blinks back. "Oh, yeah. Best friends, you and I, crybaby."

"I know it's normal for us," you say, ploughing ahead, "to just lose and lose and keep losing, but… I'll be honest. I never fully got used to it, and I don't want to."

He wishes he could say the same, but he can't.

He understands, in some capacity. Nobody wants to see the people around them die, a continuous and vicious cycle. Nobody wants to get so used to loss that most funerals no longer hold any emotional significance. But getting used to it had saved him. Getting used to it helped him act without consequence, without remorse, and that's what the battlefield both needs and requires of him.

He could count on both hands the people he wants to save in this world — about half of them were dead, at this point. A lot of them died while he was imprisoned. Two, he had to kill himself. He swore he'd protect the rest with all Six Eyes, every non-existent boundary of his Limitless.

So Satoru doesn't care much about getting used to death and dying and loss and grief. As long as you're okay, he's okay. As long as his job as the Strongest is done, everything is as it should be.

He doesn't say that to you, of course. You'd probably curse him out and call him a heartless bastard. Instead, he nods, hums and agrees and tells you the names of those who died when you work up the courage to ask.

It's a long night. It's an even longer list.

10.

Shoko keeps you for observation for 10 days after you wake up — three days longer than necessary, but she won't hear it from him, no matter how many times he reminds her that technically she falsified her degree—

He's joking. Mostly.

Satoru volunteers himself to help you back home, taking with you the plastic bag filled with your cleaned sorcerer's garb and weapon. He carries it over his shoulder along with two teddy bears, a half-wilted bouquet of tulips and a half-eaten box of chocolates (all courtesy of the second years — except for the chocolates, which are half-eaten because of him). He winds his other arm around your waist even though you can walk perfectly fine, but — it's just in case. Purely precautionary. For once, you don’t argue about being babied.

In the midday sun outside, you tilt your head back and close your eyes and smile. For a moment, it's as if the sadness has melted away from you — the tears you shed over Yuuji, Nanami, Suguru. The tears you shed over him, and he wasn't even dead. Satoru is glad your eyes are closed — even beneath his sunglasses, it's painfully obvious that he's staring.

You decide to take the subway home — it's my first time outside in almost a year, you remind him, so he pushes down any arguments he might have and enjoys the too-cramped journey towards Akihabara. You’re both shoved standing together, between a panicked looking man holding a tray of coffee and a woman with her child hanging about her legs, your head bobbing against his chest as the train moves. 

For a moment — as the train passes momentarily out of the underground and becomes encapsulated in light — it's easy to drown in the normalcy of it all. For a moment, he sees himself looking in as a stranger would. Here, he isn't the Six Eyes; just a simple man taking his girlfriend home, standing close on the train, wishing to be closer. Riding home to your shared apartment where he'll peel oranges and feed them to you, where he'll lay his head in your lap and hold your hands to his heart.

His nose wrinkles. He prefers reality, he thinks, where he can be powerful and have you by his side; where he can protect you, uphold peace, change the jujutsu world for the best — and then go home all the same, and have you to hold.

"What are you thinking about?" You mumble against his collar.

"Oranges," he replies.

"I don't have any at home," you say, "or if I did, they're rotted."

"Don't worry — we cleaned your kitchen up. Me and the kids." It was an afternoon of Yuuji attempting to shove rotting potatoes in Nobara's face. That was before Shibuya; before everything, really.

"Oh? You got your hands dirty?"

Satoru tries to not think about that same beaming, smiling Yuuji's last breaths. "Of course! This is me we're talking about, honey. I was front and centre."

You snort, soft against his neck. It's a wonder he went almost a year without you. "Housewife Satoru. I'll keep it in mind."

When you return to your apartment, you shower together for the first time in forever. He spends extra time and care massaging shampoo into your scalp, detangling each knot; spends extra time rinsing the suds out, tilting your head back with a gentle tap to your chin. 

Steam clogs his mind. Almond shower oil and citrusy shampoo fog his senses. The realisation that you could have potentially been taken away from him sits heavy like a stone in his stomach — why it hadn't sunk in in the past, oh, 13 months or so, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that he's terribly bad at caring for precious things — but if he could, if it's possible, he'll remould and reshape his hands, his heart, his mind, just for the chance—

"Satoru," you breathe against his lips, "Bow your head."

(Bow your head, you say. He'd kneel if you asked him to.)

You brush your hands through his hair; rinse him free of suds and bubbles and kiss his temples as you shut off the water. What is supposed to be healing for you is quickly becoming therapy for him — muscles relaxing, mind clearing of all responsibilities, mournings, obligations. All he knows are the soft, newly washed sheets beneath him and your nose in the crook of his neck.

It's a strange sensation, the lack of tension, his brain not working overtime. But hardly unwelcome.

11.

Satoru asks you if you saw anything when you were indisposed. Memories, flashbacks, prophecies? Blurry half-truths, nonsensical babbling? You tell him that you can't really remember — and you can't, not really, but you do remember one thing.

When you were 11, you met Satoru and Suguru for the first time. It's that memory that you can remember playing in your head, over and over and over again: Satoru and Suguru, scrawny and still-faced in their yukata. 

Satoru was from a great, traditional house. Suguru was not, but upon discovery of his powers, was taken into unofficial custody of the higher-ups. In most circumstances, you wouldn’t have been allowed within two feet of them — but the elders had deemed your cursed technique a great gift, and so you were warily accepted into the upper echelons of jujutsu society, a stranger, a foreigner.

Introducing you to the most powerful sorcerers your age was nothing more than political play, of course. The adults followed behind as you walked through the grand grounds of the Gojo family — (maintained by a team of 12 gardeners, according to the Lady of the house) — muttering and scheming between themselves, making sure nothing would go awry.

Nothing did, of course. Satoru picked his nose and Suguru told him it was rude and they bickered for a while — Satoru bickered, Suguru replied calmly and quickly. Satoru asked you if your technique was good or bad ("No such thing," interjected Suguru) and whether or not you think you could beat him in a fight. 

(That last question was to stroke his own ego, of course. Everyone knew he was the strongest sorcerer born in the last century.)

At some point, Satoru made you cry. 

You can't remember what about, all these years later — you'd think you'd remember, considering the fact that you know the amount of gardeners employed by the Gojo estate — but you know that you had tried to stop it; fists balled, teeth gritted, full-body heaves. Crying was the last thing you had wanted to do. Crying meant weakness. Weakness meant being taken advantage of.

But you were so scared. It was all so alien. You wanted to go home, but home didn’t exist anymore. You wanted your mother, but your mother was long gone. All you had left were stone-faced adults that were only interested in your abilities. 

Suguru had been confused at your reaction to what he took as a harmless quip — a little callous, as most children are — but he had reassured you nonetheless.

"Don’t cry. Satoru speaks before he thinks," he'd said, nudging your shoulder. "Sometimes you have to ignore him and he'll be so bored that he has to think."

"I can hear you," Gojo huffed. "I didn't mean to."

"See?" Suguru smiled. "Works like a charm."

Yes, Suguru had always been there to protect you. Emotionally, at least. He was willing to be kinder to people. More gentle, more forgiving. He'd believed that it was his duty as a sorcerer to protect those that couldn't protect themselves, and—

Well. That had changed, by the end, but having that memory replay in your head made you see the bigger picture of it all. Suguru's place in things. Your place in things.

You'd loved Suguru, no doubt. And you’ll probably always carry a piece of him with you — you'd hate to do otherwise. You’ll carry his kindness and his jokes and his catlike smile, all tucked away in bubble wrap somewhere in your chest cavity — but you will never disregard his wrongdoings. Since his death, you'd argued against the two sides of him; felt guilty for loving him after what he did, felt guilty for hating him after loving him and knowing him for as long as you did. Two halves of a whole. Darkness in light and light in darkness.

He was both of those things. You love him, but you don’t forgive him, and you probably never will. He will never again be the boy that comforted you after Satoru made you cry; he will never again be the boy who let you braid his hair back. He won't be the boy who slaughtered innocents, either — death's funny like that. Indiscriminately doing away with both the good and the bad.

And that's okay. Kenjaku is dead, after all, and Suguru can finally rest — and with him, your warring mind.

12.

Midnight strikes and you're still awake. You don’t even seem tired, and that's after a long shower and takeout and a movie. Usually you'd be a drooling mess by now, but tonight is different. Feels different. Satoru isn’t sure if it's just a year's worth of built up sexual tension or something else, but he feels it regardless. 

He's flopped on his stomach, hair still damp; you're curled up in the shape of a C, skin reflecting the light of the TV. He might visit Nobara tomorrow. Megumi usually goes on Wednesdays, too — they could make a day out of it, and you could tag along, too. He's got a craving for the pistachio macarons they sell near—

"I'm in love with you," you announce. 

Satoru doesn't bother asking you to repeat yourself because he knows he didn’t mishear. It isn't the knowing that shocks him — he's not stupid, and you wear your heart on your sleeve — it's the sudden, quick verbal affirmation of it that catches him off guard. After all, haven’t you two been putting this all off? Yearning for a dead man? Being pulled from two opposing poles?

He turns his head towards you, opens his mouth to ask you just that, and—

"After Suguru, I thought I'd never be happy again," you say, and you’re smiling like you didn't just say something inherently heartbreaking. But no, you look fond — content, even, blinking slowly at him. "And I thought I'd never feel for someone as strong as I did for him. But here I am: happy, and in love, and okay."

Satoru opens his mouth — then closes it quickly. For some reason, he remembers something Suguru said to you when you were younger: "Satoru speaks before he thinks." But he wants to think about this — about what he should say. How does he respond to you quite literally baring your heart to him? How does he tell you what he wants to tell you, what you deserve to hear? He's never been good with real, genuine words — emotional shit never came easy to him out loud. His thoughts are much more concise than his mouth is, but he guesses it's because it moves so fast in comparison.

Pity you can't read his mind. It'd make things much easier. 

“You don’t have to say anything,” but he wants to, don't you know? "You don't have to pretend. It’s okay. I know that… maybe you don’t love me as much as you loved Suguru, but I know you love me in some way, at least—”

Satoru frowns — strings of ideas and thoughts bunching up and stopping short as your words register. “As much as I— hey, stop putting words in my mouth—"

"The truth is," you continue on, "I feel lighter than I have in years. I don't dread life so much anymore. I don't dread you anymore."

"You… dreaded me?"

You hum. Your legs stretch down, arms forward, face scrunched up in a passing yawn. "I'm not stupid to think you didn’t know how I felt, but… I hated that I was so obvious about it. Even when I was fighting with myself about it, I was obvious. It made me hate being around you, sometimes."

You sigh, then — not as heavy and melancholy as they used to be, no. This is a sigh of relief, of cathartic release. 

Satoru blinks, and attempts to wade through the seventy-or-so compulsions telling him to make a joke, to laugh, to tease you. Maybe he should actually be serious for once. Say it straight and say it firm, so you can't take anything the wrong way. If there was ever a time for him to not beat around the bush…

"I've liked you since I was 17," he confesses, finally. "Me and Suguru, we were together, y’know, and we were happy. And Suguru loved you, and somewhere along the line I… began to do the same, but we were so young and then… Everything changed so fast. Everything broke so fast.”

Your fingers brush against his, and he breathes in a sigh. Your eyes are wide and watery, low light reflecting like glitter in your eyes. 

"Sometimes, it keeps me up at night," Satoru says, laughing a pained sort of laugh. "Out of everything, that's what keeps me up — that we could've been happy together, all three of us. It never would’ve been enough to make him change, but…"

At least you would’ve known what it was like. To be happy together in that way. To be content. To find your places in the world, hand and hand. To know what it was like — even if Suguru’s fall from grace was inevitable — so you wouldn’t have to keep wondering until your untimely, gruesome, sorcerer-style deaths, or whatever. 

Back then, Satoru didn’t understand why Suguru never told you how he felt. He couldn't understand how he could be content watching from afar, looking but never touching. What Satoru wanted, he learned to take; the Strongest didn’t need to ask for permission, only forgiveness. 

He learned quickly that some things were better left unsaid. And now, 28 years old, half of his friends, students, colleagues dead — he understands even more. 

He remembers how Yuuji had tried to stave off tears when he realised he had to die; remembers how his student’s throat had felt being crushed in his hands. He loved Yuuji like a little brother. Like a son, even. He was family. He was his student, and yet his death had been necessary, and Satoru battled with it. It allowed him to succeed in the mission he was born to complete. But he had given up Yuuji in return.

There is no curse more twisted than love.

Therein lays the problem, he supposes. The second you love someone, you run the risk of having them end up like Yuuji did. Like Suguru did. Like Nanami did. When you are burdened with incredible power like Satoru is — like Suguru was — you must be able to sacrifice for it. The closer that people are, the more likely they are to be caught in the crossfire, the more likely you are to be hurt. Suguru hoped to avoid that at all costs. It was easier to watch from afar, less painful. 

Satoru is a tad more selfish. Which is bad, he knows, because he's too prepared to sacrifice. Even now. Even now, he knows that if caught between saving you and saving society, he would be forced to — to—

Satoru inhales. The only thing for it is to simply stop things from getting that far. 

He could explain all this to you. He could talk circles around you about it, in fact, but the truth is that it's all conjecture. Suguru isn’t here to tell him why he did what he did. He can’t speak for him, no matter how well he knew him.

"I don't know why Suguru never told you," Satoru says instead. He folds his fingers tighter, taking yours in his grip as he does so. "Guess that's something he took with him to the grave."

"I've stopped wondering," you say. “I’ll never stop regretting, but I’ve stopped wondering. I can’t stay rooted in the past any more. It was doing more harm than good."

And you raise your interlocked hands — nestle them under your chin and screw your eyes shut, like you're wishing on the evening star, like he's something precious to be treasured. All of a sudden he's 17 and confused about why he can't stop staring at you. He doesn’t have Suguru to tease him about it, now.

“I’ll never forget him,” Satoru announces — a warning, or a reassurance, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that he’s telling the truth and nothing but the truth, and whether or not you like his truth is not his concern. He respects you too much to lie about this to you.

Your lips twitch upwards, a phantom of a smile. “Neither will I. "

"I'll never forget you, either."

The smile grows, blooms, blossoms, until it stretches bright and full across your face. The first smile of yours he's seen in a while that wasn't at half-mast, or tinged with sadness, or pain, or fatigue.

"How lucky I am," you whisper, "to be known by you, Gojo Satoru."

It should be the other way around, he thinks.

(12.5.

It's the first time he makes love in years.

Satoru has always fucked you. Always. No matter how tired you both were, no matter how injured — he'd always force himself to be rougher, force his touches to not linger as much as he wanted them to.

If he felt too much, he'd crack a joke instead of drowning in it; if he felt his eyes beginning to burn he'd bury his nose in the crook of your neck and push it down. If he thought of long, dark hair and cat-like eyes, he'd tighten your grip in his hair and the shock of pain would clear his mind. He fucked quick, and when he was done he'd lay far away enough that he couldn't feel your skin against his.

Tonight, he lets himself love and be loved again. 

You're on top of him, ass flush against his thighs, taking every inch he has to give you; his hands have found your jaw, thumbs brushing back and forth across your dewy, sweat-slick cheeks. One hand of yours clasps around his wrist; the other bands to his chest, nails digging red into his skin. Your cursed energy blooms, flushes, flourishes when he opens his eyes to look at you. 

He sees every pore, every hair, every dimple, every broken capillary, every scratch and scrape. Every part of you, bending to him in some places, unfalteringly stubborn in others. 

"Look at you," he mumbles, blinking dumbly. "So… pretty…"

You snort something like a laugh, and continue: up, down, up, down. Slow, grinding gyrations of your hips that make his head spin pleasantly; and with his Limitless nullified, he feels every inch of skin, every tensing of muscle, every scrape and press fully and completely. He’s never felt so engulfed in it before — the sensations of it all, the warmth, your scent, your weight above him.

He'd drown in you, if he could. Take you in his mouth and nose and ears and everywhere, until he's left gasping for air and grappling for something of substance. Maybe once upon a time he would keep those thoughts to himself, for whatever reason — but now he's allowed to be selfish in his affections, allowed to give more than surface-level compliments and vague declarations of love.

Between pleasure-ridden shudders and sloppy, wet kisses, he breathes:

"I want you everywhere," he says, "All the time. Over me, on me, in me—"

You raise a brow, impudent and teasing in a way that makes his abdomen tighten. "In you?"

And maybe he didn’t mean it in the way that you took it, but he plays along anyways, waggling his brows. "You heard me."

"You're terrible."

"I'm not joking," Satoru argues — but it’s hard to take him seriously when his voice quietens, when he arches up eagerly to meet your lips— 

When his grip on your lower back becomes painfully tight, when his lips part in a moan and his eyes screw shut and he throws his head back, hips rutting up to meet yours, and—

His peak rises to greet him — and his heart swells all the while. He finds himself clawing for you as his orgasm builds, hands clambering against your back, your neck, your hair, until (with a great, shaking breath, may he add): "Fuck, I — mmf, I love you—"

It carries him off to a state of fuzzy, empty-minded ignorance — pleasure tightening his entire body, fizzling from the tips of his fingers to his curling toes. Your name on his tongue, slurred and mellifluous, his smile dizzy and drunk. 

As you smile down at him, so unbearably fond, Satoru thinks that he doesn’t mind saying I love you aloud after all.)

[newtthetranswriter]

Hello !! Sorry to bother but was wondering if it was possible for some Headcanons about Natsu , Gray , Sting & Luxus with a s/o who was magicless ( does this word exist ?? ) & was insecure about it ? Like reader dating a powerful mage yet being weak & insecure about it .

Sorry if this doesn’t make sense English is not my first language ^^

A/n: Hello, thank you for requesting. Don't worry you are not a bother and it makes perfect sense. Anyways I hope you enjoy and as always remember to hydrate or diedrate.

Natsu:

Natsu does not care if you are magic-less

He's just happy to have someone he can protect

If you're feeling insecure he will assure you that he doesn't care how powerful or weak you are as long as you are a good person

He will tell you until he is blue in the face that magic is not what makes a person worthy of anything and that he loves you for you

And if anyone ever says anything bad about you being magic-less and he finds out, they are going to find out what it's like to fried chicken because he will roast them alive

Gray:

Gray also couldn't careless about your magic abilities or lack there of

If anyone every says anything bad about you, they will turned into a ice cube

He may be cold but he will do and say anything to make sure you know he doesn't care

He was raised in Fairy Tail, around wizards with all different levels of magic ability so he knows everyone has there strengths

There will never be a day where Gray looks down on someone for their lack of Magic ability

Sting:

Pre- Gmg arc he's a little difficult to deal with

Being a member of the Great Saber Tooth Guild it is drilled into him that power is everything

so at first he can be rude and spiteful to those with less power

But after Fairy Tail and Natsu show him that strength isn't everything he starts to get better

He will do everything in his power to reassure you that the old Saber Tooth mind set is gone and no matter what He loves you for you

Sting is 100% the kind of guy to spend years making up for past mistakes even if you tell him it's okay

He's just a big softy and will definitely fight anyone who dare says anything about you and your lack of magic

Laxus:

He's rough around the edges to say the least but he will try to make sure you know he does not care about whether you have magic or not

For all of his talk about being the strongest and whatever he really doesn't care

But when you're feeling insecure about it he will let you vent about your worries and then turn around and list every reason why he loves

He will electrocute anyone who dares make fun of you, no one is safe from it, not even the thunder legion. (Bickslow learned that the hard way when making a stupid joke, he didn't mean it but he still got zapped)

All in all I see every last one of these guys being super protective over their S/o no matter what. Whether or not they have magic, these four are throwing hands with anyone who dares insult their partners.

[sillylittlecharacters]

Isabeau, Siffrin and Mirabelle are very fun to consider in relation to each other because they're all characters who have - for different reasons and to different extents - crafted their identity for the benefit of others.

Warning: Spoilers and gratuitous theatrical metaphors below! They're light (the spoilers, not the theater imagery), but this analysis is really only for those who've finished the game.

Siffrin and Isabeau play the roles of the Funny-Jokes-Person and Team Himbo respectively - the comic relief duo, needed to keep the journey's tone light and moral high. This 'Act' is genuinely part of their personalities, but - and this is made clear in the Loops for Siffrin - they both rely on it to avoid expressing their genuine thoughts or feelings. I mean, there's a reason why it took until the DAY BEFORE THEY FOUGHT THE KING for Siffrin and Isabeau to have an 'important conversation' - these two are professionals, after all, and nothing less than a country ending catastrophe would make them break character. The difference between their performances is why they made those characters for themselves in the first place. Isabeau crafted his personality actively, to make himself as different as possible from the person he used to be. On the other hand, Siffrin, like Mirabelle, accidentally, or passively stepped into his role. (more on that in a moment)

Ah, how could we forget Mirabelle? Now, the nature of Mira's 'Act' is slightly different from our dynamic duo, as it's less to do with her personality and more to do with her status as a Saviour. Or more specifically, as the Change God's Chosen One. It's a lie she maintains, a part she plays, to give hope to the people of Vauguarde, but it wasn't one she chose. It was an accident that she was blessed, an accident that people assumed it was the Change God who did it. She's similar to Siffrin in this way: His performance is also based on how other people perceive him, only the 'other people' in his case is the party. Before Siffrin met them, he was effectively a blank slate, and he used the parties' expectations and reactions to his actions to build an identity. Take this dialogue from Act 4, fittingly found in Isa's friendship quest:

(That you didn't know how to describe yourself, you didn't know who you even were, until you said a bad pun once and he laughed so hard you thought he was going to pass out.)

Neither of them were looking for the role, but they both got type cast.

And in terms of the beauty alliance? Their biggest similarity is that they're both unsatisfied with their roles. Mirabelle hates being treated like the hero: hates the attention; the free gifts she feels like she doesn't deserve; the weight of the entire country's hopes and dreams she feels unable to carry. And Isabeau says that he hates being treated like he's stupid, hates that people assume he's brainless just because of his friendly demeanor. But they feel unable to step out of their roles, because that's what everyone needs from them, right?

(I guess this last point technically applies to Siffrin too, but that's after the Loops. Before they start, it seems like he's more than comfortable and even enjoys his role. It makes sense that he'd enjoy the feeling of having a concrete identity when he's so used to vague emptiness that comes with no memory.)

It's so fun ~!

[growling]

how do we feel about low/no empathy Wolfgang chat. He has a strong sense of justice and really wants to do right by others and his intentions aren't purposefully malicious but that does not automatically mean he has high or even usual amounts of empathy, in fact dare I say he's gonna have to be one of the least empathetic students in Eden's Garden. Damon has more empathy than him going by his inner dialogue, though that could also be sympathy or something other, I am not well-versed on Having Feelings and all. Honestly it might have been sympathy. Still 10.2% higher empathy than Wolfgang

Similiarly I propose NPD (narcissistic personality disorder) Damon and Eva. Damon is so narcissistic it's not even funny - his insecure little lines made me snort a few times in the beginning but as it kept going on and on I honestly just felt bad for him. And I'm saying this in the most positive way possible as a narcissist myself. He literally acts how I would do if I didn't know the concept of fear and an inside thought, I fully understand every single thought process that he has and conclusions he comes too (but agree with only about most of these. Damon you're so socially inept.......), I don't even have to project on him he's doing that to himself. I want to give him infinite brownies and affection and kisses directly on his mouth I will not be able to rest safely until I know he's happy. Damon my little shitcritter I am so fucking sorry the fandom mischaracterizes you so badly and treats you either as a joke or an un-nuanced asshole that hates everyone and everything. Always happens to my favourites that also happen to always act suspiciously cluster b.............

Eva is a different flavor of NPD altogether and I got less on her because I'm still figuring her out like a fun little puzzle since she doesn't have a PoV but I am. Feeling semi strongly about it. I also recall seeing some other poster hc her with BPD and hell yeah I can also adopt this into my beliefs. Love this horribly self-sabotaging specimen her arc brought me indescribable agony. Unfortunately suffers from a similar yet slightly different mischaracterization hell from Damon being that she's either a sad little victim girlboss babygirl that did nothing wrong ever or an evil heartless bitch worse than Satan himself that deserves no compassion whatsoever. My faves cannot win! So sad. Anyway I also got "Jett is not entitled to Mark's friendship and Mark is not in any way 'cruel' or 'unfair' to him for not liking him back" for my future post ideas but I am unsure as to whether the P:EG fandom is quite ready for that one yet unless I am mistaken

[realcube]

dilf decemeber

day nine ⭑ shoto todoroki ⭑ x maid! reader

tags/tws ⭑ very festive, reader just out of a long-term relationship, slight angst, hurt/comfort & tooth-rotting fluff

it was a chilly winter evening, and todoroki sat alone with his legs folded under his kotatsu, eating dinner in silence.

as a the child of a quirk marriage, naturally he denied the proposition when it was suggested to him by his parents, shortly after he settled into his pro-hero job. however, due to his work, he hardly had the time or oppertunities to meet people — especially potential partners — organically.

that led him to where he is now: in his big house, with no wife and no children. not even a cat; there was a stray that liked to visit his garden, and he'd feed it whenever he had the chance, but he never adopted a cat of his own because he knew he wouldn't have the time to take care of it properly.

he's lived like this for years, and it's never bothered him until recently. before, he'd constantly be occupied by pro-hero work so he was never spared a moment to think about his living situation, but now that he is nearing retirement, he isn't being sent out on missions as much, meaning he spends more time in his house. with no one to accompany him.

well, that's not entirely true. he hires a maid who comes to visit once a week.

he did so for a while because his house was too big clean on his own, and he simply didn't have time or energy to do it along with pro-hero work. since he's been going on less missions recently, he could hypothetically clean it himself now, yet he chooses not to. not due to laziness or anything like that, but hiring a maid contributes to the economy and he'd hate to put a sweet girl like you out of work.

there's a feeble knock at the door, and he knows exactly who it is, hence he is quick to get up to unlock it. as he does so, a icy breeze wafts in with you, as you shuffle into the warmth of his house, letting out a deep sigh of relief at the refuge from the harsh winter outside.

"good morning!" you chirp in a shaky voice, while gazing up at him. you're all wrapped up snug in a fluffy scarf, with a big jacket and gloves on too. not to mention your bobble hat which is dotted with snowflakes, which slowly begin to melt.

todoroki closes the door behind you, and can't help but smile at how much clothing you have on to keep you warm. "morning. cold day, huh?" he says, a hint of amusement laced in his voice.

"yeah, very." you chuckle awkwardly, taking off your extra layers and placing them aside, until you are left in your maid outfit, which simply consisted of a fitted grey top and matching grey trousers. it wasn't anything sexy or fashionable, but it was practical. and todoroki thought you looked cute, regardless. "i had my gloves on but my hands are still so numb from how cold it is."

you show him your hands, which are visibly discolored, and you demonstrate how you are barely able to move your fingers. you mostly do so in a joking manner, to make conversation, but todoroki seems legitimately concerned by this, and he asks, "may i?"

you're unsure as to what he is referring to, but you nod. so, he gently holds your frozen fingers in his left hand, exemplifying the size difference between the two of you in the process, and he uses his quirk to heat himself up, but remaining controlled so he doesn't burn you at all. instead, your hands bask in the warmth, and though the sudden temperature difference causes a sore tingling sensation at first, but it slowly subsides until you are able to move your fingers normally again.

you beam up at him, with a cheerful glint in your eyes, "thank you, todoroki. my fingers were close to falling off!"

he cracks an even bigger smile; he just can't help but be so enamoured by your personality and charm. "well, i'm glad i could help." he muses, staring at your glowing face, tryng —but failing — to not get lost in your wide, innocent eyes. and you gazed back at him, appreciating every slight wrinkle and scar on his face. you assume by now he is around forty-five, yet he aged so gracefully, his two-toned hair still falls in the elegant and sophisticated way that drove you crazy a decade ago.

both lost in your own worlds, it takes a moment before you come back to reality and notice not only that you are staring at each other, but your hand is still being held in his.

hastily, you both retract your arms, returning them to your sides and straightening up in fear of looking 'unprofessional' to the other person. keen to change the subject, you splutter, "so, where should i start? downstairs bathroom one?"

"yes. thank you." he nods, avoiding eye-contact, and you both rush your seperate ways — you've been working for todoroki for just under a decade, so you know exactly where to jet off to, as he makes his way back to the living room.

you immediately get to work. it typically takes you the entire day to clean his whole house, due to the sheer size of it, and that isn't even a deep clean, just a light dusting and scrubbing to ensure everything is presentable. during this time, usually you'll make idle conversation with todoroki in this time, just in passing, whenever he is in the same room you are cleaning, however today — after the awkward events that took place in the morning — you decided against that and instead remained silent for the majoirty of your shift. well, 'silent' when you didn't have your earbuds in and were humming the lyrics to your favourite songs under your breath.

because of this, you finished up a bit earlier than usual, so you told todoroki and then packed up your equitment, and began putting all your layers on at the front door. just as you were tactically wrapping yourself up in your scarf, todoroki enters the foyer from the living room, leaning up against the doorway with his arms folded and asks, "what song was that?"

"huh?" you respond with raised eyebrows, mouth covered by the snug scarf.

he smirks, then explains, "i heard you humming some songs earlier. what was the last one?"

"oh," you mutter, blood rushing to your face from embarrassment, since you weren't aware he could hear your personal concert. quickly trying to divert the attention away from your humming, you reply, "uh, i think it was 'last christmas'."

"i see; i just ask because it sounded festive."

you blink in response, and a pregnant silence lingers between the two of you until he elaborates, "you don't seem as excited for the holidays this year, may i ask why?"

your mouth runs dry; you didn't expect to be psychoanalysed during your cleaning shift today. what was even more off-putting was that todoroki pointed out something that had perhaps gone unnoticed by even yourself. previously around this time of year, you'd belting out christmas classics at the top of lungs while merrily dancing around the house, and spraying gingerbread-scented air-freshener in every single room of his house. but that's just not what you feel like doing this year. and you didn't expect your customer to be the first one to point it out.

"i don't know, i guess i'm not." you shrug, capturing your bottom lip between your teeth as you try wrack your brain for why that might be, allowing the theories to spill from your mouth as they come. "probably has something to do with my boyfriend and i breaking up. i'm not looking forward to a christmas alone. i suppose i could visit my family but i don't think i could bare to be around so many people just yet. bad timing, y'know?"

he nods along, brows knitting together in focus.

"sorry," you interupt yourself, suddenly, wiping away a tear threatening to fall from your lashline. "i shouldn't be telling you all this."

"it's fine, (y/n). you can tell me anything you like, and i'll listen." he reassures you, stroking your shoulder. your eyes are downcast to the floor, unable to look at him due to shame, so he delicately placed his index finger under your chin and uses his thumb to slowly tilt your head up, so your watery gaze meets his. "would you like to spend you holidays here?"

you sniff, blinking up at him, "really?"

"of course. it would be nice to have someone to help me decorate and make dinner. also, i will save money since i won't have to put on the radio to hear christmas music."

you snicker at his jab at your live performaces, amused, however you still remain silent, not saying anything and looking up at him with a longing glint in your eyes, as though he knows what you want him to say.

he sighs, and gives in to your sweet, doll-like eyes, and finally admits, "i would also enjoy your company. very much."

your previously shaky frown had now grown into a massive grin, and you instantly hop onto your toes to wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him in for a tight hug. which, at first surprises him, but it doesn't take long from him to melt into your warm embrace, carefully sliding his hands around your waist.

"i would love to join you!"

[reve-writes]

—i didn't know where else to go; kaz brekker.

ʚ kaz brekker x reader | grishaverse | 1,6k words. ʚ kaz brekker knocks on your door after your abrupt departure from the dregs. ʚ injuries; angst. ʚ a/n i'm impatiently waiting for season 2 to air. here's a little something because everyone needs more kaz brekker in life.

You are not a healer, nor do you make a habit of opening your door to anybody who knocks, bleeding through their shirt early when the morning is just starting to crack over the horizon. The hustle bustle of Ketterdam is starting to die down. The streets are steadily getting less and less crowded and the city starts to feel less like a living, breathing thing actively trying to suffocate you.

But it's Kaz Brekker.

“Brekker, why are you here?” You're still rubbing the sleep off of your eyes as you open the door.

He looks as if he's as confused as you are. His mind went on autopilot after he was jumped on by a group of thugs disillusioned into thinking they were a match for the Dirtyhands. While he emerges victorious in the fight, it doesn't mean that he's unscathed. The confrontation was a little too close for his comfort. His legs have somehow carried him to your door.

He heaves a deep breath and he thinks there's a bruise over his ribs. He croaks out, “I didn't know where else to go.”

That is a lie. Kaz Brekker owns more safe houses than you care to know, but you open the door a little bit wider anyway for him to brush past you, into your one-room living space. It isn't much. It's hard to have much of anything when the second you have a little bit of something in the Barrell, it's already taken the next second. You have a cot in one corner of the room, separated with a small divider you've found discarded and repainted. In front of it, there are a couple of chairs and a short square table.

“Have a seat,” you tell him. He immediately plops into one of the chairs with a big sigh of relief. His cane clatters to the floor. “How bad is it?”

He leans against the back of the chair, tilting his head upwards with his eyes closed. “I'm fine.”

He is clearly not fine. You were concerned from the moment you opened your door. Kaz Brekker's face is smeared with blood. Whose blood, this part you have yet to know. When he inhales, he puts more effort than one normally does. Not to mention, there's a sheen on his black shirt and you'll bet twenty thousand Kruge that it's his blood.

“You wouldn't be here if you're fine,” you retort. Your hands are already digging into your box of medical supplies.

He is silent because he knows you are right. Before your departure from the Dredge, he used to have no problem knocking on your door at ungodly hours. You had no problems letting him in, disinfecting and dressing whatever wounds he had. Saints, those moments when Ketterdam hadn't stirred awake yet but the two of you were—they were some of the most vulnerable moments shared between you.

Then, there's after. After you decided you had enough of Kaz. He's the type of person who would say things that'll leave a bruise for a couple of days in your heart, but never acknowledges it. It's partially your fault, mistaking his visits for anything other than convenience. He needed someone to patch him up and you were readily available.

You told him your feelings. He said something that both humiliated and rejected you. You packed up and left.

“How bad is it?” You ask once again, irritation apparent in your tone. “Don't make this a habit, Brekker. I'm not a public hospital.”

“I wouldn't be able to tell the difference,” he says airily.

You don't reply. Whatever Brekker's playing at, you want no part in it. If he thinks he can walk into your home to have a little nostalgic chat over tea then he's sorely mistaken.

“Coat off. Shirt as well. Stop bleeding out on my chair,” you reply, already pulling out a moderately-sized box with medical supplies.

You swear he looks as if he's about to run his mouth and say something witty as a joke, but he decides against it. There's a rustle as he takes his incredulous layers of clothing off. He's as lean as ever with scars littering his body. There are a small gash on his side and bruising all over him.

“I'll clean up the cut,” you tell him. Before, you would ask what happened and he would tell you the details of the fight. Now, you can't seem to bring yourself to ask. There's a line that you drew when you left the Dregs. Inviting him into your home is already tiptoeing around it. You don't want to blur the line by pretending that you're alright.

“A knife grazed me or a dagger. I don't think it's poisoned,” he says anyway. His dark eyes are boring into yours while you keep your gaze solely focused on the wound. He follows your movement, as if trying to come up with a sketch of you in his mind.

“Dagger,” you tell him based on the shape of the wound. “No poison.”

You clean up the cut wordlessly before covering it with bandages. As you work, you wonder why he didn't go to Nina instead. A Heartrender can do your job ten times better with less scarring and less pain. Then, you wonder why he comes to you at all—all those nights ago when Nina is always there.

“How have you been?” He asks as you're digging through a bag of salves for his bruises.

You scoff. “Never been better.”

You would've stayed if he had said no like anyone else would. A simple no, you would understand. A whole speech about how pathetic you are that you're clinging to the only person who comes to you for aid is uncalled for. A long paragraph about how replaceable you are, how easy it would to leave you behind if something ever goes wrong on a job—or as he likes to call it, an acquisition.

Brekker could've said no and left it at that, but he's never satisfied. He is the type of person to ram a knife into you and twist it until you remember every second of the pain. You left because if he considers you so easily replaced then he can do it.

Thinking about it makes your blood boil, but you keep it together. You hand him a small container and he takes it with a gloved hand.

“For the bruises. You can take it with you.”

Then, you're packing everything back into the box. Your job is done anyway. He shrugs his clothes back on, occasionally hissing. Kaz is still wondering why he's decided to knock at your door after desperately making sure that you're going to walk out of his life three weeks ago when he finally stands up. The small container is balled up in his fists.

“Thank you.”

His presence in your room is already suffocating enough, but as he stands there, staring at you when he should've been leaving—that takes the air out of your lungs. Everything he said then floods back into your mind. Word by word. You think you want him to leave. You know you want him to stay.

“You can go now. There's nothing else I can do for you. Ask Nina to look you over,” you say, pulling the door ajar.

He watches you as he walks towards the door. He lingers by the doorway, his cane is tracking blood on your flooring. Don't come back. You want him to come back anyway.

“Nina misses you.”

You almost laugh. “I see her every other week, Brekker.”

He doesn't know why he said that. He should leave. He has things to tend to: a revenge to plan, another acquisition to conduct and a club to run. What is he trying to do exactly? He remembers every word he uttered that night. Every single word is chosen carefully to drive you as far away from him as he can muster. All of them are personally tailored to you. They're all things that push on your buttons.

So, why did he come knocking at your door, as if he wasn't the one who kicked you out in the first place?

When he pictures Pekka Rollins begging at his feet, more Kruge than he knows what to do with at his disposal and a quiet, content day when he's finally done everything he set out to do, he realizes you're always there, too and he doesn't know what to do with that.

Before he can think against it, the words spill out of him. “I want to apologize.”

Kaz Brekker never apologizes. He can poke someone's eyeball out of their skull without so much as batting an eye, but he can't apologize without feeling like he's just been punched in the gut.

You're still angry but you relent because Kaz Brekker never apologizes. “Water under the bridge. I've been told worse things. Just, go home, Kaz.”

He's looking at you. Saints, he's been staring at you since the very moment you opened your door for him. You don't know what to do with all that intensity, especially after he's made it verbally clear that it's one-sided.

“Jesper wants you back on the team.”

You know what he's doing then. First, Nina. Now, Jesper. You roll your eyes at him. “Since when do you care about what anyone else wants?"

He is silent for a moment. “I tend to care if their wants align with what I want.”

“Say it, then. What do you want?”

He doesn't reply and as per his style, he walks out of your door. You sigh, ready to close it behind him, but he tilts his head back.

“Crow Club. 8p.m. Don't be late,” he says, taking a few steps forward before he stops again. “If it's what you want as well.”

Then, as quickly as he came, he's gone, leaving you to wish that you can read Kaz Brekker's mind.

[ ]

[squiggle3worm]

Nico telling Percy that he's not his type has less to do with his looks but more to do with his personality. This has bothered me for a while but especially now because Walker looks like Will Solace. It's a funny joke and everything but my problem is that people take it as the truth and not just a joke. On multiple posts I've seen people say that its more about Percy's personality and other people dismiss those comments.

There are multiple times in BoO that Nico alluded to his crush on Percy fading due to his personality:

When they're eating farturas in Portugal, Nico thought about what Percy would say about them. Nico then said, "The older Nico got, the more juvenile Percy seemed to him, though Percy was three years older. Nico found his sense of humor equal parts endearing and annoying. He decided to concentrate on the annoying." Nico realized how immature Percy is and doesn't appreciate his humor anymore. Nico reflected on how their personalities and senses of humor don't mesh as much because they have different levels of maturity. He's starting to grow up out of his crush on Percy.

During another scene in Portugal, Hades told Nico that one of the seven was going to die. Nico responded, "To his surprise, his thoughts didn't leap first to Percy. His primary concern was for Hazel, then for Jason, then for Percy..." Nico has other people in his life that he cares about. It seems wrong to assume that Nico didn't think of Percy first because he's not into his looks anymore. That assumption would make Nico seem shallow and Nico's known for being the opposite since he cares about people feeling included like with Hestia and Bob.

Nico got excited when Reyna said one of her ancestors was a pirate. He said, "Even before he got into Mythomagic, he'd been obsessed with pirates. Probably that was one reason he'd been so smitten with Percy, a son of the sea god." Nico liked the idea of Percy because he reminded him of his previous obsession of pirates. Nico liked the connection that Percy had with the sea. Since Nico was also obsessed with Mythomagic, Nico also liked the idea of Percy as a demigod. Percy being a son of Poseidon perfectly fit under two things Nico was fascinated with.

Right before Nico told Percy about his crush, he said, "Nico studied his face- his sea green eyes, his grin, his ruffled black hair. Somehow Percy Jackson seemed like a regular guy now, not a mythical figure. Not someone to idolize or crush on." While Nico does bring up Percy's looks, that's not the only reasoning for not crushing on him anymore. Percy's "mythical figure" status is more about how strong he is and the fact that he's one of the most powerful demigods that Nico knows. Nico looked up to Percy because he was the ideal demigod in Nico's eyes. If Nico idolized Percy only for his looks, it would go back to him being shallow.

Nico put Percy on a huge pedestal and was infatuated with him for years but that doesn't mean that Nico only liked him for his looks. Nico grew out of his crush after he stopped idolizing Percy as a person.

[ciciyup]

Yandere! Loki X Fem! Human reader headcanons.

cw: angst, dark themes, dacryphilia, degradation, little nsfw, perversion, abuse, toxicity, kidnapping, sensitive themes.

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How boring it all was. The last few thousand years that Loki had been living had been nothing but boring, there was nothing fun or entertaining. No God fell for his jokes anymore except for the low-ranking ones, being in the same old places had become very boring and Thor and Odin's stoicism didn't help at all.

Maybe getting into some mischief on earth would be more entertaining and a great way to pass the time. Humans were fools and fell for it easily, it would be fun. Just a few disasters here and there wouldn't make a difference, after all, what could the other gods care? They always turned a blind eye when it came to mortals.

It was there that he saw you, standing perplexed before you. You, a mortal, had enchanted him, what had you done to him? It was something Loki couldn't describe even through signs. How could this be? He had barely seen you, it hadn't even been three days and now you had him in the palm of your hand without realizing it.

But Loki has other ideas, his initial plans come first and he wants to have fun, but he also wants to get to know you and find out what kind of person you were, how manipulable and easy to catch you would be. He doesn't approach you as a God, no, no, that would be what any other would do, enchant you with his divine presence and Loki didn't want that, it would be more fun to be someone else, to get to know you and maybe in the end he could take off his mask.

He approaches you transformed into a mortal, just like you. You find him very hyperactive and fun, you've never met a more special man and you liked him. He had charm, creativity, good spirits, not to mention the incredible beauty he possessed. Fascinating. This man was everything you had always wanted for yourself, so playful, but at the same time so gentle, so serious, but at the same time so cheerful, you couldn't be more enthralled.

Loki takes the opportunity to get to know you better and your surroundings, your family and friends, he wanted to know everything, what did you like? What did you dislike? Who did you like? Who does not? In his search he discovers many interesting things and points you out as an interesting mortal, something that few could be in Loki's eyes. So, the more he clings to you the less he wants to let you go, he just wants to lock you up and admire you. Was it so bad?

He couldn't hate the time you spend without him more, he wants you there by his side, pretending to be a perfect mortal for you and waiting for the right moment to show himself was ending him. While he bites his nails and his teeth pierce the flesh, his face lights up as more ideas come to him, great ideas.

A mosquito, a fly, a snail, any tasteless insect serves as a transformation as long as it sneaks away and is there. He stays by your side and you don't know it, you don't even imagine it, you simply go about your routine ignoring what was coming for you.

Loki's eyes roam over your back and the dimples that form when you raise your arms to remove your clothes, staring at your nakedness without shame and quickly forgetting the meaning as he follows you as you go to take a bath. It was lovely to see you like this. How pretty, pretty mortal.

Loki is starting to get bored again, you seemed to have gained his trust, yes, but the days were passing and he was fed up with not claiming you and seeing you walk free away from him. He analyzes you carefully when he sees doubt in your eyes, he knows you are starting to suspect something, he knows you are starting to distance yourself from him and this made Loki go on alert.

It scared you. Maybe it was because he had started to spend more time by your side and force you to spend more time with him, maybe it was because sometimes Loki couldn't keep quiet revealing things he knew you had done, but he had never been there to know them. It was strange and it disturbed you, pushing you away when you begin to notice his strange facades.

Whatever the case, this only made Loki upset, his facade of the perfect man was falling apart and you were realizing that he wasn't as perfect as he seemed. So he didn't miss an opportunity for anything, he wouldn't risk you thinking of something else and he would take you with him when you least expected it.

You were in for a big surprise when the man you initially thought was everything you could dream of turned out to be nothing more than someone nefarious. He was another person, someone completely alien and different. You weren't interested in him being a God, in his presence and his charm in the environment, you just wanted to get out of there, out of that place on the outskirts where he had invited you to meet, blindly believing that it would be to have another of his sweet encounters.

But Loki is smart, he is cunning and he manages to realize your intentions. Before you even manage to take a step back he catches you and then you are no longer you, you no longer feel like you, you feel how you have abandoned yourself and how you have rotted in that place where Loki forced you to be. Because you had to be with him, only with him. That is how he had decreed it and that is how it would be.

It is disturbing and incredibly twisted the way he relates to you, the way he sees you and thinks about you, because he loves to hurt you and see the desperation in your eyes. It becomes a trauma for you since his "jokes" end up going beyond the limit, if Loki even knew the meaning of that word, getting to joke about your physique in a hurtful and harmful way over time.

Laughing loudly as he lists all the flaws he claimed you had as a mortal, staring uncomfortably close at what you didn't like about yourself, not respecting your personal space as he touches you and pointing out with prejudice how bad he looked on you. Comparing you to other women every chance he got, saying you "could give more than you had." Constantly teasing you to the point where you had to be on alert as you didn't know if every time Loki raised a hand it was to hit you and push you until you were hurt, of course, Loki didn't take it seriously, it was all a joke and a game to him.

It was so disgusting. He loves it when he chokes you with his cock to the point where you have to scratch at his thighs and desperately try to pull away from him because he won't let you breathe. He loves your sweet tears, watching you cry when he finally pulls his cock out of your mouth at the last second when you're about to pass out from having no oxygen. Transforming into different people, men or women, anything really, not caring how you feel and enjoying it the less you do.

It's scary to try to do something behind his back, whether it's trying to escape or betray him, because Loki is a wolf in sheep's clothing, at first glance he seems to be stupid and ignorant of many things, but you really don't want to try to do anything, you shouldn't think about it. Loki doesn't hesitate, he can be a little impulsive, but he goes straight to what he wants, that's why if he finds out you're trying to escape he'll punish you in the cruelest ways possible and if you're trying to eliminate yourself, Loki will kill you before you try. Because he prefers your body to rot until there are not even bones left than to let you go.

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