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selfspinninglies · 1 year ago

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hi happy pride I wrote gays

word count: 2765 [<- what possessed me to write this much how did I do that]

tws/cws: implied/discussed murder, desecration of a body, not technically cannibalism but they do eat a person [<- not graphic]

notes: I wrote 2530 words of this in 2 days somehow . The oc hyperfixation is real . Also some of this might not make sense cause I still haven't wrote an experimental plot summary yet sooo oops . They're both so oblivious it makes me ill anyway enjoyy

1-2 shifts slightly on the couch. Its not the most comfortable place to lay down, but he doesn't feel like getting up and into bed (or moving at all for that matter). His vessel feels like it's going to rip itself apart. He should've went hunting a few days ago, but he's gotten inconsistent. And now this was a result. He buries his face in the throw pillow next to him. Stupid rapidly deteriorating body.

After a few minutes of nothing he feels a nudge on his foot.

"Scoot. You're taking up the whole couch laying like that."

1-3 is the owner of the complaint. He didn't even have to look to know it was them. It was the only person who made sense, since the two lived together and he would've heard the door. Its not like they get visitors anyway.

He sighs in an exaggerated fashion, unclear if this actually bothers him or not, moves over a little and tucks his knees in to make room. He would've been more bitchy about it if he wasn't exhausted and if the only other place to sit in the apartment wasn't a mattress.

1-3 rolls their eyes at his antics. They glance at him for a moment. "You look like shit." They say flatly.

He makes a small angry noise in response, not feeling like using regular words. He looks up. Surprising nobody, 1-3 also looks like shit. Neither of them ever look that great, but apparently he looked bad enough to warrant a comment.

Was it concern? It was always hard to tell with them. Their face didn't change that much. Or maybe it was clear as day and 1-2 was just terrible at reading people.

He sits up into a horribly slouched position, one arm looped around the armrest and the other dangling oddly. He gives a glance to 1-3, who is watching him carefully. They probably know what's coming. They can see the rivulets of cracks piercing his shell. The two go through this weird routine often.

He exhales sharply, opening his mouth and willing the words in his brain to crawl out and onto his tounge. A few seconds of nothing. Yep. Not happening.

Grabbing 1-3's hand, he lifts it and turns it carefully, examining the similar darkness enveloping their fingertips. He listens and feels for a flinch or glare or hitch of breath, which usually indicates that they aren't in the mood for his antics, but he catches nothing. In fact, they're barely looking, head turned the other way, pupils facing him.

They've only been living together for a few months or so and they're so used to each other. It makes him feel weird.

He moves 1-3's hand up to his mouth bites down. He must have done it too hard, since he hears a quiet "shit" from 1-3. They take their hand from his and turn to face him. "I'd prefer if you asked next time." They say, a little sharply, though they never hold grudges over little things like this.

1-2 shakes his head and puts a smirk on his face, which earns a scoff from 1-3. They get up to leave anyway.

He tugs on their longsleeve, using it to pull himself up. They look confused for a second before an incredulous expression takes over and they shake their head.

"You are not coming with me. You cannot move well and don't have the energy for it. Sit."

1-2 rolls his eyes, but sits back down anyway. He knew that they were right, though he would rather explode right at that moment than admit that.

"Don't do anything stupid." They nod and give a half-hearted wave as they exit the [truthfully] cramped space. The door closes with a nice click.

He listens to 1-3's footfalls as they walk down the hall, as if he expected them to turn around and come back. He wasn't sure if he wanted that or not. Anything was better than sitting around and doing nothing, even if they usually didn't take long.

He gets bored and decides to heave himself to the bathroom. His feet drag against the floor and his posture sags. It doesn't particularly hurt, besides the dull aches where his vessel splits from neglect, it just feels like every ounce of energy has been stolen out of his strange hands.

After pulling himself up to the mirror, he examines himself. The cracks under his eyes look wide enough to stick a finger through it. He doesn't try. The thought of it makes him feel gross.

His hair is disheveled and overgrown. His bangs fall on his eyes slightly and stick in different directions, stuck there by natural grease and some brown stuff that's probably blood. It isn't his. He doesn't have any. The last time he went hunting was a few weeks ago. Had it really been that long since he showered? Fuck, he was gross.

He laughs. Its a weird, crackly sound, but it's rare so he lets it escape his throat. Nobody was here to listen to it. 1-3 really was right, he absolutely looked like shit.

He slinks back to the couch and passes out as soon as he hits the cushions.

------‐--------------------------------------------------------------

1-3 sighs, slumping against the wall of an alley. The world is humid and oppressive, or maybe that's the blood soaked into most of them talking, a mix of their's, One's, and the body on the pavement's.

The unexpected run-in made this outing take longer than it usually would have. They don't have anything to tell the time on them, so they can only guess, but it's likely been around an hour. God, why did they have to see One when they were in a hurry?

They shake their head. The body. They have to take care of that. They didn't want to. It was the last thing they wanted to do. Just don't think about it. Don't think about anything, just grab the knife-

It takes longer than they would like to put themself into the thoughtless haze that helps with the process. This isn't a person, it is a creature, this is necessary, if not for you then for Two. Remember what he looked like? Shit, that's what you said.

Swish thud swish thud swish thud swish thud swish- over and over again.

There's even more blood now. Less of it belonging to them. It's on the wall, the floor, in the air, in their vessel, in their soul, eating them alive. It's disgusting. If they had insides they would have thrown them up by now. The world smells and tastes and feels of viscera, it's made of it.

The meat is in neat pieces now. The knife is put into a pocket. The bones and unnecessary bits will be left there to be picked off by something that can use it. They gather the pieces they cut into a bag and stand, swaying like they were trying to be pulled in different directions by the universe.

They take their sweater off and tie it around their waist to get some of the flesh off of them, unveiling a slightly oversized white t-shirt. It's cold, but they'd rather deal with that then the feeling of your clothes being soaked with remnants and wafting into your nose and tounge.

They shuffle through the bag and take a piece between their fingers. Don't think about it, just eat it, you have to-

The only taste that registers is the sharp, metallic tang of blood. They swallow it quickly. It always makes them feel sick, the texture, smell, taste, and the weight of taking a life. But they have to. It's the only way.

Fuck, they hate it all.

Taking a breath, they steel themself and begin walking down the street and back to the building. They aren't worried about being spotted, nobody is ever here. The silence presses itself into their body. Bricks in walls are staring at them, singing, guilty, guilty.

The walk is short, as horrid as it is. The apartment is close to many places. It's convenient for hunting. The bag swings awkwardly in their needlessly tight grip.

They knock on the door in their usual pattern, opening it and walking inside. They set the bag on the counter like it's groceries.

"Two. I'm home." They announce, though the noise of the door opening and rustling of the bag should have alerted him. Strange. Knowing him, he's probably long passed out. Still, they look over the couch to check.

Exactly like they thought. He's sprawled out awkwardly on the couch (he'll probably be sore if he stays like that) out cold. He always slept like this, which made it especially annoying to share the mattress with him. They still let him, though. It always feels weird now when he isn't there.

"Two." They say again, walking over to him and poking his face. "C'mon. Hey, wake up." This probably won't work. 1-2 is an obnoxiously heavy sleeper.

Surprisingly, they see 1-2's eyes flicker open.

------‐--------------------------------------------------------------

1-2 stirs, feeling fingers tap against his cheek. Ones that kind of look like his, with the way they sharpen into claws and darken at the ends. It's 1-3. Right. They left. They're back. What time was it?

He inhales and smells something weird. Quickly recognizing it as blood and probably a bit of sweat, he looks up at 1-3 questioningly. He points a finger at them and starts talking, voice still groggy from sleep.

"Blood. 'Sit yours?"

1-3 shrugs, making a so-so motion with their hand. "Some of it is, some of it isn't." Their voice is oddly nonchalant.

"What happened?" He asks, sitting against the cushions.

"Had a run in with One. I'll tell you later."

1-2 just nods. As long as he finds out eventually, he doesn't care when. He's also curious as to what 1-1 was doing anyways. The last time anyone saw her was in the lab, before all of them were released.

1-3 sits next to him again and crosses their legs, hands in their lap. He doesn't know how they sit like that, it doesn't look comfortable in the slightest.

He fiddles with his hair awkwardly. He really needed to do something with it. He remembers his reflection in the mirror. Too long. He puts a strand between his fingers and continues to twist it.

1-3 seems to notice. "Do you want me to cut it for you?" They ask.

"You can cut hair?"

"I've done it before. Did my own." They gesture to their own hair.

1-2 examines it for a second, leaning forward a bit. It looks pretty good, actually. He doesn't know if he trusts them to do it, his always picky about his hair. It's not like he can go and get it cut, though, with how he looks.

He nods, moving his gaze to 1-3's eyes. Their face is a little red. Oh. Right. Their faces were still only separated by a few inches. He leans back and speaks again. "Fine. Just be careful. If you fuck it up I get to fuck up yours." He pokes the air near 1-3 to make his point.

Something he didn't expect at all happens. 1-3 laughs. Really laughs. At a stupid threat that really isn't one.

What.

"Alright, I won't fuck it up." They reply.

The smile lingers on their face a little. Their laugh is also crackly and weird and nonhuman like his. What. They never laugh at his dumb jokes. They must be tired. Or they hit their head. He stares at their expression for way too long.

They interrupt the developing silence. "I'll cut your hair after you eat. I went out." They lean their head towards the counter. He follows their line of sight and sees a plastic black back placed there. "Thanks." He says quickly, before he forgets.

Its weird how they just. Do that. For him. They both dance around talking about it, for obvious reasons, but in his head he knows what they mean by "went out". They killed someone. For him. So he didn't sit here and rot.

He stops himself from thinking about it and walks over to the counter. He takes a few pieces and forces it down his throat. It tastes bad, it always does, but he's pretty used to it. It's easier to just get it over with. Not like he really has a choice in it. Could be worse. 1-3 hates it much more than he does.

------‐--------------------------------------------------------------

They're in the bedroom now, 1-3 sitting on the mattress and 1-2 on the floor directly below them. They hold a pair of thin scissors in their hand. It's not the right kind, but it'll work.

1-2 told them what they wanted earlier, and while they weren't a professional in the slightest, it would be easy. And he didn't need to know that, anyway.

God, they were close. It wasn't uncomfortable, but for some reason their brain latched onto their proximity and didn't let go. Like earlier, when 1-2 looked them in the eyes and moved towards them.

Do NOT think about his face right now just cut his hair it's what he asked of you- They hold some of his hair in their hand and begin cutting. The satisfying snip snip snip of the scissors echoes around the space as hair flutters to the carpeted floor.

It doesn't take long for them to finish. There wasn't much to do. They look at their work for a bit just to see if there's anything they need to fix in the back. They move to sit infront of 1-2 and look at the front, hands brushing against his forehead to adjust the strands slightly before giving a curt nod and leaning back. It's his turn to redden.

They push any thoughts related to 1-2's face [for the second time] and the contact they just made with him to the back of their mind.

1-2 gets up and goes to the bathroom quickly to look at what they did. He comes back after a short moment, taking his place on the floor again. He nods back. "Your hair's safe from me." He says, which is his way of giving them a compliment.

1-3 goes to sit next to him instead of infront so its less awkward. They both bathe in the sound of absolutely nothing. They do this a lot, simply sit in the same space. It was kind of nice. Better than being alone.

"You're tired." 1-2 says, now eyeing them carefully. They hate how easily he can read them most of the time. "As are you. I was only gone for an hour or so and you passed out waiting."

"Touché."

"Well," 1-2 says, standing. "We might as well sleep now, then. Neither of us have plans."

They nod and crawl into bed after him. They don't feel like denying it today. He needs the rest and so do they.

They sleep on opposite sides of the bed, though they're still close do to the size of it. They also share a blanket, which 1-3 often has to steal back from 1-2. He has a habit of taking it all in his sleep. God, they already know his sleeping habits and it's only been a few months.

He falls asleep quickly [he always does, he's always tired] but 1-3 takes a bit longer. More thoughts than usual bubble to the surface of their head and spill over. Some involve blood and the experiments and slicing, which always makes it hard to sleep, but a select few involve him.

They want to get closer, so, so badly for no reason at all. The thought of it sounds nice. It rings like gentle bells. When was the last time they were close to someone who they weren't trying to kill?

After a contemplative silence, they shift towards him and wrap their arms around him. They think this is selfish, they don't even know if he'd like it, if he'd feel the same, but they let themself have this. If he asks they'll say that it just happened in their sleep. He wont believe it, since they never move much in their sleep, but it will probably get him to not ask.

It feels nice, like they thought, a pleasant warmth to it all. It's also a little awkward since they don't do this often, but it doesn't matter. The sounds of soft breathing fill the silence.

It doesn't take them long to fall asleep now.

#noodle talks #art #drabbles #oc #ocs #oc stuff #writing #experimental #1-2 #1-3 #the endings kinda ehh to me but i wrotr wayyyy too much already #my brains gonna explode #anyway this was fun to do they make me sick #🫀#i think jts funny how this shifts from shenanigans and light angst to murder to shenanigans again and back to shenanigans but gayer #also this is probably the lightest thing ive written in a while maybe ever who knows #first thing i finished on my list 15 more to go 🎉💥💥#oh also im pretty sure this is the longest thing ive written sooo

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pleafyistired · 9 months ago

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Reading the description of angel disease and seeing 'life full of anxiety' (paraphrasing) and being like. Oh I see where this is going O_O /silly

Waugh that's so cool though. How long does it last, if it even does reverse? (Also Erics dad when I catch you 💀 /j) -🕶

Chris is truly the sufferer lmfaoo. I havent even tell youu about his fucked up shitty childhood yett teehee ^_^ i gotta buy him a shirt with something like “I’m god’s STRONGEST SOILDER! He gives all his tougest battles to ME!” on the and the back it says “can he stop getting into battles.”

anyways angel disease!

up to when chris caught it, theres been no cure found, as angels like i said, are seen as a good thing. People will call you insane for not wanting “such a blessing” and doctors outright refuse to treat you and congratulate you. Every angels also have disappeared and never discovered, so at that point many assumed they “went back to heaven”, but based on many body malfunctioning examined at that point, its basically a terminal illness. No case was ever documented of reversing basically is what im saying here ^_^

#EricS DADDDDD #oh that old stinkyy bastard #I had lots of fun writing him oh theres one detail i like sooo much about him ^_^ ask me abt it if u want #Chris the sufferer trulyyy ❤️❤️🤗🤗#inspiral astrum

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faebriel · 2 years ago

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and you caused it: chapter 3

(click for more detail!)

In which Niki has a terrible secret, Puffy just wants to move on, Tommy sneaks into casino parties and Wilbur learns to deal with anger being justified. Or - the one thing they don't warn you of, when dropping nuclear warheads on old friends, is fallout.

in chapter three: a prisoner goes free, niki and tommy try (and miserably fail) to get along, and some breaking and entering is committed. just out of curiosity, y'know.

wc: 5.2k

wilbur watches from phil's verandah, old coffee mug in hand, as the remaining syndicate spills from their houses. the world is a dull grey before dawn, as if the sun is loitering beneath the horizon until everyone is all saddled-up and kitted out in their armour and weapons.

not wilbur, though. of course.

"Why didn't you tell me about all this?" he asks Phil, question just as poised as it is nonchalant, as he emerges from the house. Just about gives Phil a bloody heart attack, is what it does. He thought Wilbur would still be asleep. "Top secret," he says. "You know how Techno's like." "What, Techno put all this together, then?" Phil pauses. "How'd you find out, anyway?" "Niki told me." Phil's eyebrows raise, and despite how the man clearly wants to ask more than that - his mouth opens, then he looks at Wilbur like he's just a kid again, and closes it - he just descends down the porch steps with the quiet clink of armour against armour. "Didn't think she'd do that," he mutters - more to the snow than anyone else, barely caught by Wilbur, as he heads towards the stables. And then, thrown over his shoulder - "and get some proper fucking sleep!"

if that was the plan, he wouldn't have made himself a fucking coffee, would he. but he decides to mollify phil for once by returning to bed, even if he spends more of his time casting glances between the ceiling and his communicator than watching the backs of his eyelids.

---

a few more hours of crisp morning, and somehow niki finds herself waiting around the arctic again.

it's not comfortable. the place is full of too many memories for her not to miss it, and even if the syndicate is out on their little mission, the thought that she might run into wilbur again is stressful. wobbuffet can sense her anxiety, and it's making her apprehensive too.

fortunately, it's not too long before she spies a small group returning from the greater smp, just over the horizon.

"Niki," Dream heralds her, extending a hand to shake. She supplies hers primly, and he shakes it with the same amount of delicacy - an amused huff behind his mask, but nothing else. "Long time no see, huh?" Not long enough. "Something like that," she agrees. "I apologise, I couldn't make the recovery myself. Some things came up." Her eyes slide over to Techno's, stony. He looks away, but keeps his mouth shut. Good. "I understand entirely," Dream replies, with a kind of curl in his voice that makes it sound like he's grinning behind that dish-mask of his. It makes her stomach turn, angry and roiling like the seas. "Could always make it up with a pastry or two, right?" It's clearly meant to be a joke, and Phil supplies an awkward laugh, but Niki still finds her fingers forming fists in the sleeves of her jacket before she remembers to titter politely. They leave thumbprints of flour behind, white on coffee brown. "I'm sorry," she says, sugar-sweet. "I haven't baked anything for a while now." "Ah, a shame," Dream says abashedly. The falseness oozes from him like tar, sticky and ill, seeping into the bones of everything he touches and turning it sickly. It curdles his tone, makes her blood boil beneath her skin. It's a damn wonder Phil and Techno keep a straight face. It's a damn wonder she didn't fully see it a year ago. Something acrid rises at the back of her throat - an old feeling, the kind of feeling she would have welcomed last winter when she was cold and dark and angry and bitter and that she should cast off now that she knows better. It overwhelms her senses, fills her mouth with the taste of blood and clings there. Sticky and metallic, lining the insides of her throat. She can't let it go. The words thrum beneath her skin, and for better or for worse, they're the same thoughts she had before TNT rained down on L'Manberg - she will not die, she will not lose a life for Tommy's sake at the hands of this man. "Well, you'd best be getting on your way," Techno says, ever blunt - and even as he hands Dream the reins to a horse, his eyes jut cautiously over to hers. "There's your debt repaid." "Alright, alright, I know when I'm not wanted," Dream laughs. Always with the jokes, this one, although these words have an edge to them - a challenge that he isn't powerful enough to assert. Not right now, at least. "I'll see you around, Techno. Take care." Sounds more like a threat than a goodbye, but Techno still lifts a hand in farewell as Dream gallops off into the distance. Not in the direction of the city, for now. Good. Techno then turns to her. "Reconsiderin'?" Niki shakes her head. He tilts his head away from hers in response - if he weren't wearing the mask she'd be able to figure out what he's thinking from the expression alone, but he won't be taking it off until Dream's long disappeared over the horizon. She'll be gone by then, too.

she's made her appearance, established her alibi. should be enough. she doesn't have much business left in the arctic - she moved most of her things by ender chest the day before, and the rest was... destroyed. techno, still awkwardly distant and standoffish, doesn't encourage her to linger. funny - for as proficient as he is in combat, even he seems to find the newfound crevasse between them difficult to traverse. she waits til she's certain dream is gone, gone away before she climbs back onto wobbuffet and heads towards the nether circuit.

---

that is day one.

more days pass, and with every one the city seems to get smaller. niki is caught in a kind of (hah) limbo - avoiding the distant shapes of other players on the surface, but unable to steer away from tommy, tubbo and michael's constant clatter in her city. (day two, she gathers more supplies - but paranoia trips at the back of her mind, because she's alone again alone again even in the endless noise of her own base, hated and feels like the forest has eyes on her, asking why so much spruce, nihachu? they need the charcoal to keep the torches and furnaces burning, to keep a small room warm for michael to sleep in.)

both tubbo and tommy are far too outdoorsy for this kind of captivity. tubbo's set himself loose on her spare materials, chests and chests stacked with stone and ores and redstone dust - in half an attempt to mollify him, niki's given him free reign over some of the less-used parts of the city for "improvements", whatever that means.

(the other half of that is an attempt to get back on his good side - he's stopped glaring at her so openly, ever since they left snowchester, though his pointedly cordiality is almost as bad.)

she's overheard him mutter about building some kind of rail line - whatever wood-and-metal contraption that's engulfed half of her storage rooms and the library space doesn't look like a rail line, but niki supposes that she's not the expert. he's already rigged a headache-inducing network of redstone and lamps through their farms, spitting out double the amount of wheat and potatoes that niki had managed to put together on her own. at least they won't go hungry. tubbo always makes a point to ask her permission before shoving another set of iron beams across a walkway and carving redstone tracks into the walls (where did that mischievous kid from l'manberg go, wrecking mostly-well-meaning (or at least, fun) chaos through their houses and their gardens? you would be lucky if he mentioned his plans for utilising your base as a dreamon-beacon or something, let alone if he asked first), but once she's given the go-ahead, he single-mindedly settles into refining all things productive in niki's city to a knife-edge.

sometimes she walks through these parts of the city, counting each new rung of iron and stone set into her walls. she realises she's missed an opportunity to do this with tubbo not hating her - missed any opportunity she had to invite tubbo to her city under normal pretenses. now it's locked away beneath the earth forever, and she doubts her friendship with tubbo will ever see the light of day again, either.

she misses ponk. she misses hbomb. she misses enough things already - she can't waste time missing things that never even happened.

tommy, on the other hand, is still climbing the walls. he has his little hobbies - he does a bit of sewing, a bit of embroidery, has even taken to baking experimental breads, but it's all clearly time-killing. whenever she comes back to the city he's always waiting at the foot of the stairwell, arms out to help her unload supplies and a million questions on his tongue. who did she see? did they see her come home? did she say hello to them? did she see wilbur? did she see ranboo? did she see - and for this part his voice always goes hushed, as if he might summon the man's presence just by saying his name) - did she see dream?

she saw ponk and hannah, she sure hopes they didn't see her come home, and no she didn't say hello to them, avoiding the cult - she didn't see wilbur, she didn't see ranboo, and no, she didn't see dream.

it doesn't even do much to ease his nerves - he's just as twitchy when she returns as he is when she leaves. she thinks he just can't help himself from asking. she remembers how quiet the server went after tommy's death, paths decked out in flowers and monuments, and thinks - well, she can't really blame him. being away from the beating life of the server is, for tommy, probably about the same as being left without air or water.

doesn't mean she doesn't start getting testy about it all, though.

particularly when he asks after techno, or phil, or wilbur.

it's been just over a week when, sleepless, niki finds herself prowling the city corridors. her plan is to wait the morning out in the library, but when she passed the beehive nook, she finds tommy awake and fidgeting with the flowers.

she can't just ignore him, and hopes a polite greeting will suffice - but when tommy looks up at her, startled by her approach, there's pure anxiety in his grey eyes. part of her still wants to turn her back - clamouring for time to herself, which feels so sparse when the city is live and awake with activity - but there's a more responsible, more nostalgic part of her that insists she stay.

niki resigns herself to a night amidst the flowers.

even she doesn't really know what she plans to achieve. back in l'manberg they all had night terrors from the war, she remembers that, but tommy almost always took them directly to wilbur, if tubbo even let him leave their bunks (clingy, tommy would joke, as if he wasn't just as bad). fundy was the one who would come to her, sometimes tubbo. wilbur had only deigned to tell her that he shared their nightmares at all in the last few months.

is this what all those awkward conversations of rehearsal was for? some shitty, third-act twist? somehow, she still feels unprepared. she still feels like she doesn't know her lines. she doesn't feel like talking, like breaking the nighttime peace that is so fucking rare these days. it's precious. she doesn't want to hand it over. haven't I handed over enough, some part of her thinks, whines - but if that were true she wouldn't be the only person sitting here, and she wouldn't have no one to comm as she waited awkwardly to see if Tommy will find his voice, and she might even have slept through the night. she would still have techno and wilbur and phil and ranboo and puffy and god, who else? so she tosses the thought out.

finally, tommy speaks.

“He’ll kill you, y’know,” Tommy says. There’s a grim, grey look on his face - not frowning, not spitting and cursing, just resigned. Limp. Playing dead. “If he finds out you let me stay here. He’ll kill you.” Niki huffs, absent-mindedly blowing a thick chunk of pink-blonde out of her face. Dream is - Dream is formidable, terrifying, powerful, and she knows that. She has seen him in battle, and it’s only ever been on the opposing side. But only from afar. Dream has never spared her a second glance - not even purposely overlooked, like Eret or Fundy, just passed over - and Niki doesn’t hate him for him, really, she hates him for the axes he holds and the TNT he palms off to her friends and that hollowed-out, horrible bliss in Wilbur’s eyes when he said Dream was his only friend. It could be anyone behind that mask, and to Niki, it wouldn’t particularly matter. The hatred she feels for him is direct, almost mechanical with how it just makes sense - she doesn’t burn with anger at him like she has at Wilbur. At Tommy. Well. She hasn’t. Tommy is trembling now, and Wilbur is somewhere out there with gunpowder on his hands again and that lost, empty look in his eyes that burns her up inside like kindling and makes her stomach turn. She tries not to let it show. “Tommy,” she says. She’s trying to be careful. “Dream doesn’t care about me. He wouldn’t track me down like that. He doesn’t care.” And to think, that’s a benefit for once? “Yeah, I know that,” Tommy says immediately, barrelling immediately past the implication that probably would offend a lot of people, and probably would offend Niki if it referred to anyone else - but Tommy stares dead ahead, unblinking. “He’ll kill you to teach me a lesson. Because I let you help me. Because of me.”

niki is a lot of things, but afraid of dream is not one of them - she struggles to comprehend tommy's fear. or, at least, the fear on her behalf. she can defend herself, no matter what tommy keeps babbling about revenge and consequences, and from across the broad crevasse of misunderstanding, his concern looks more like condescension. the more frustrated niki gets, the more stubborn she becomes - she rebuts tommy's warnings, half in an attempt to console him, and half because she simply doesn't believe they can be true. and on tommy's part, yet another instance of being brushed off about dream when he knows he is right the guy is just as infuriating - though god forbid either of them actually explain why they frustrate the other so fiercely. they don't fight outright, but the conversation sours into tired, bitter jabs.

"You don't listen," he scowls. "None of you fucking listen to me." Frustration crawls up Niki's throat, pulls fire into her tone. "I have listened to you, Tommy! For a long time! I listened well enough - before doomsday - " "Exactly!" He cuts her off, arms tightening around his knees. "What happened at doomsday? Exactly, eck-fucking-zactly what I said would happen - " "Do you honestly think that's what I cared about at the time, Tommy," Niki spits, righteous. "Do you think I just didn't know what I was doing? Just because I didn't like what you had to say, that doesn't mean I didn't listen to you." He doesn't say anything to that - instead, his face twists into a fierce, grumpy pout, and he angles his shoulder pointedly away from hers as he curses her out under his breath to a nearby bumblebee.

they part, after that - niki stalks off to the library to sulk, frustrated that tommy refuses to ever take her seriously. tommy refuses to budge from the bee nook, frustrated that niki refuses to ever take him seriously. and no one listens, and no one learns, and they keep spiraling down into bitter nosedives governed entirely by their own senses of guilt and burden and frustration, goodnight, the end.

well. not quite.

there's still a server running hot that exists outside the confines of the underground city, after all.

---

more days pass.

---

it has been just over three weeks since the casino exploded, and wilbur is starting to think that - once again - he might be losing his mind.

that's the clean way to name the incident, isn't it? it's been just over three weeks since the casino exploded, which means it's been just over three weeks since phil and techno broke dream out of prison, which means it's been just over three weeks since wilbur has spoken to niki or tommy or, fuck, even like, tubbo. even ranbus has buggered off to god-knows-where. his mind is an endless tumble-skip of well, you deserve it and god, so angry and why niki?

why niki?

the question grates at him. for the longest time, wilbur has taken niki's gentle trust as a fact of the universe - the sun rises and falls on a timer, unless an admin wills it so; water flows to the lowest point of land; witches never spawn in mushroom fields; niki is levelheaded and trustworthy and all the things wilbur is not.

it appears he may have made that last bit up.

it's disconcerting, upsetting, like the plane of land beneath his feet tipping on its side and his stomach twisting as he tries to get used to this new sense of gravity. for the long, broken line of his life, wilbur has trusted niki's judgement as so-called second to god. he built that pedestal so naturally that he didn't even recognise its existence. that even now, when its smashed so thoroughly into pieces, he struggles to pair the niki in his mind's eye to the woman raving excuses in the casino before its implosion, to the shaky woman spitting insults back at him over l'manberg's corpse. for the first time he sees himself in niki - unstable, pathetic and deranged all at once - and it is uncomfortable.

but even then -

niki fought beside him to reclaim manberg. they had shared that.

and though he paid it little attention at the time (the thing about limbo - plenty of free time to turn every living memory over in one's mind, like searching for bugs beneath upturned stones...) he recalls whispers of the plan she and eret had while the lot of them were split between manberg and pogtopia. TNT. it's a brutish and imprecise tool.

and he thinks of her fierceness. her determination, her drive, how she burns with feeling and lets it power her in a way that others can't bear the vulnerability to pull off - all things that he had basked in the glow of, and all things that can burn and scald and tear up the object of their hatred. the dim awareness that he had been that object, once - but it was niki, so of course that fire was righteous. he had accepted the blame without trouble.

but pointed towards something more valuable...

oh, niki.

Niki is... a loose canon. He rolls the sentence around in his head, lets it acclimate uncomfortably to its surroundings. It's the kind of thing Wilbur didn't really recognise, when he was alive - or at least, not without rose-tinted glasses. Niki is confident, but not brash. Emotional, but not violent. Perhaps she had seen him through that rosy gaze too, before his death. Now he knows better.

idly, he finds himself venturing towards niki's abandoned cabin - he's still living with phil at the moment, as quackity refuses to have him on las nevadas land (really refuses this time, makes their fun little playfights look like a fucking olive branch in hindsight), though he still gets a chill down his spine when he ventures further than the porch. anxiety, or something. in any case, neither phil or techno could bear to do anything with the cabin, and now it just sits there unused and unlit like a stark reminder against the glow-white of snowdrifts marking out the horizon.

(techno absolutely refuses to discuss whatever argument they had, actually, which means phil is not saying shit because of privacy. the two of them are as bad as each other when it comes to gossip - all too happy to listen in when it's someone else's turn on the rumour mill, and all too happy to keep their mouths clamped shut when it's theirs. when it's something either of them care about, at least. which says all it needed to about niki and techno before... well. he knew they were close, not best buds close.)

the door is unlocked. is that a surprise? he mulls the thought over as he enters, taking in the destruction. glass and flour and tipped-over flowerpots line the ground, forming an awful kind of texture beneath his boots. the place is doused in cold, as if someone had layered it in a thick, cool blanket. dust hangs in the air like snowflakes.

how strange to think that a few short weeks ago, he had laid upon this couch - warm and noisy as the two of them chatted away over baking and brewing. it's all gone cold and silent, now.

he takes in every abandoned detail that he can, soaks himself in this empty shell. the weapons rack against the back wall, littered with dull knives - the cheap, brittle ones, obviously, the ones that weren't worth taking. the kitchen bench, now cold and dusty. dying flowerbeds. glass carpeting the floor, crunching under his feet with every step. the bed is the worst part of it all, somehow - it's the least-destroyed thing in the room, quilts left stacked and forgotten. they look handmade.

it draws him over. he runs a hand over the weight of the quilt sitting at the top of the stack - it's heavy, good-quality wool, rich with colour. crocheted. someone put a lot of fucking time into it. when his hand trails the edge of it, he recognises the repeating pattern - teal and cream frame ringed-round eyes of ender, framing patches woven with pink, with green, with reds and blacks and whites and gold. he's seen the matching coats the four of them wear.

the syndicate, woven into something warm to sleep with. now it sits empty, abandoned, in the dust and debris of niki's cabin.

it's a distant, strange, uncomfortable. like watching a tragedy unfold before him - one that doesn't really concern him, for once, but is still faintly distressing. he snatches his hand back as if it's been burned, goes to walk past the bed, until his boot catches on some limp thing half-spilled across the floor and he deigns (big mistake) to look downward.

he doesn't recognise it, at first. funny. it was his first, after all.

the worn leather is cold and smooth beneath his fingers - picking the thing up feels like walking over his own grave, and it's only then that he sees the deep slashes in the back of the thing, and realises that really, he is. he reaches blindly into his memory, and come to think of it - he remembers niki wearing a coat like this, not that he'd thought much of it at the time. it must have just been similar was a simple refrain. and even then, if he pushes his memory further, there's a distant memory of a woman who could be niki amidst falling fire and rubble, tearing down a wooden path...

but that memory isn't his to recall, anyway.

she had this, the entire time. ever since - ever since i died. now abandoned too.

the sheer wave of feeling that overcomes wilbur is difficult to discern. there's sadness, even grief, nestled right next to that familiar, burning anger. there's the sense that he's fucked up something important again, although that's a thought he's simply deemed permanent for now, and then a part of him that screams righteous that he was right, he was right, traitors get what traitors deserve. there's something that could be a faint cousin of - impossibly - nostalgia, even staring down at the evidence of something so miserable.

and he misses niki.

perhaps he is of weak character. if he wasn't, he might not feel so compelled to reminisce.

his circling thoughts are cut off by the sound of his name, phil calling him from somewhere outside - wilbur sticks his head out of niki's doorframe to see him blustering through the snow. there's some hubbub in the distance as techno negotiates armour with carl.

you good? wilbur asks him.

for a moment, phil's eyes skirt knowingly past wilbur's, into niki's empty house - for fuck's sake, old man, he's not here to be picked apart - but fortunately, phil breezes past it.

did you get a comm from tommy? he asks instead.

no? no. is this a trend, now? is the rest of the SMP in some group comm that wilbur has not been invited to? he swallows the bitter feeling, although it still tastes like poison as it passes his gullet, and informs phil as much. phil looks less surprised, less knowing at that, but his expression doesn't lose any of its gravity.

alright, phil tells him. i'll tell you, 'cause i think you oughtta know, but you can't take this one all personally, wil - tommy's calling us for help, for some reason. and if he's doing that, then -

something must have happened.

(to call on phil and techno, of all people - no offence to them, but wilbur knows his brother, and he's a hell of a lot more observant than too many people refuse to give him credit for - )

something must be wrong.

---

the sun has just passed its noon peak when niki returns to her city. she loads her backpack with oak and iron ore and a few pumpkins she found wandering the overworld (a treat for michael, because god knows the kid deserves it and god knows the rest of them deserve a quiet night, for once), winds her way through the nether paths, steps out towards the winding staircase of her city.

immediately, she realises -

There is something wrong. It dawns on her, as she steps down the narrow staircase to the ravine - it’s dark, too dark. There is still a torch burning at the top of the staircase but the next is tipped over, kindling scattered over the floor, extinguished. The stone-carved steps descend into a thick darkness, the type of heavy black that she only finds deep, deep underground. Not in her city. (There are other signs, although she doesn’t notice them later - boot scuffs at the entryway, leaving marks in the grass that surrounds it, and a faint, clean smell of potions as she descends down the staircase.) Potions can't hide it all. Gunpowder pricks the space behind her nose, an arrow-bolt into Niki's heart - it ignites within seconds, propelling her flight down the tumbling staircase.

her city lies in ruins.

it is as if some grand, wild creature has torn through the place - entire walls of the city crumble, spilt into gravel and rubble and ash. gunpowder leaves scorch marks against the stone, marking out smudged, defiant bootprints. the beehive nook, the library, the bakery, her bedroom - she takes in the wreckage of the cavern with a heart that doesn't dare to beat and lungs that don't dare to take in breath.

the bridge is broken down before her feet, and numbly, she scrambles down to the well of the cavern - and from this new vantage point she can see her garden still smoldering, the flowers blackened and curling downwards towards kicked-open earth. the trees she so painfully grew beneath the dim torchlights are twisted and shelled-out, stark fingers that crumble to the ground without their leaves. her feet propel her forward without thought, and she rests a hand against its trunk - there's still scant flames licking at its insides, and she feels the heat grow beneath her palm. she can't move it, can't lift it away from the burning wood. she can't. it is as if she's frozen, shadows flickering beneath the flames and the broken lanterns and the kindling strewn carelessly across the floor, throat filled with the smell of gunpowder and sickly honey from the cracked-open beehives.

she can't breathe. she can't think. part of her can't believe what she's seeing even as the heat builds beneath her palm, even as she tastes gunpowder and blood on her tongue, even as she watches the blackened bark glow with embers.

another precious thing, gone. gone. every hour she poured into this place - making it safe, making it hers - is destroyed.

niki feels that she has been destroyed with it.

she should be angry. oh, she is angry - the feeling rushes in as soon as she puts a name to it, floods her veins with gasoline. she feels sickly and lit up with flames all at once, struggles to swallow around the ash in her throat. the silent screaming thrums through her blood, makes her skin itch. even so, it remains locked inside her mouth. she can't open it. she can't talk, because if she says a word, everything will spill - tar and fire and poison and blood.

tommy and tubbo emerge from the wreckage - tubbo pushing past niki to stand by the mouth of the staircase, a squalling michael shushed in his arms, as tommy and niki lock eyes.

this wasn't me, tommy says, immediate. niki, you - you have to believe me, it was dream - i swear, i swear on prime, on the discs, on tubbo, on fucking anything -

what happened, she asked. what - what happened here, tommy?

he tries to swallow, and almost chokes on his own spit - if niki thought she had seen tommy wound up before, well - she was naïve.

it was dream, he insists, dream found us, found this place, and he called to us and i heard the spark i heard the flint screech against the iron i heard the TNT ignite and -

“We hid,” his face falls into his hands, voice breaking into a hysterical laugh, “in the walls.”

niki is barely listening.

you humoured him, the voice in her head tells her. you stuck your neck out for tommy again, and now what? everything you fucking cared about is gone. everything is gone.

this is his fault. this has to be his fault.

the gasoline running alongside her blood shrieks for a match.

“Tommy,” she hears herself say. Her voice is tight. He flinches away, head bowed. “Please, just - go. Wait outside.” His face crumples. Something tugs distantly at her chest. “Niki, I - ” “I’m not - it’s not you, Tommy.” He needs to leave. She can’t hold onto her head for much longer. “I need to - I will catch up. Outside.” He doesn’t look convinced, still shying away from her like a spooked rabbit - but he leaves, he leaves, slinks off towards the staircase and leaves her alone in the wreckage.

niki waits until she hears their whispers fade, waits until the sound of their shoes scuffling against the staircase sinks into silence. she counts her breaths - in, out. in, out. each one deep, only mildly ragged.

it is only when she is entirely convinced that she is alone that she falls to her knees, like a puppet with its strings cut, and screams.

#my fics #and you caused it tag #my art #i dont really have much to say abt this one except fawking lord i am writing more of this from scratch than i expected i would have to #it's ok!! we are having fun!! i hope at least #oh yea and the syndicate have little matching capes if u go back to the character designs i drew like two yrs ago you can see they match lo #ive drawn niki in the same coat but havent ever posted her in it i think. sooo. launch ✨✨

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nature-played-a-trick-on-me · 1 year ago

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I'm also almost up to date in the outlander books compared to where I am in the tv series, idk why and it's probably a bit odd but I prefer to read series over watching them. But I like the silly drama and tenderness and whackiness of the tv series. I know I've sort of hate posted about it before but I think it's just a very fun whacky wild series. Wild shit happens and the characters are so fun. I'm over my hating on the weirdness, I've accepted the weirdness lol I love how ridiculously long the books are and how much shit happens.

#spoilers but its so fun when brianna ~ goes back ~ and she and jamie are constantly having battles of stubbornness #and clair being like oh god two frasers in one room oh no.#and jamie is like obviously loves her very much but he's constantly so confused at how brianna is acting + the whole miscommunication #i also cried so hard!!! when he physically fought with her to prove she couldnt have fought bonnet #i lov how dramatic and over the top it all is and i think shes sooo good at writing lively characters and drama #like i am rooting for all of the ~ good ~ main characters

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infintyonhigh · 2 years ago

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not to make a mountain out of a molehill here but like, i think thats why the discourse around beauty standards online irks me a little bit. so often u see anyone trying to conform to them framed as morally weak and often, those same critics will turn around and make fun of the smallest, most random aspects of someone's appearance.

im not saying beauty standards aren't cruel or unjust. or that the systems that put them in place shouldn't be dismantled. but i think we also need to acknowledge that sometimes twisting yourself into any kind of desirability mold that will fit is a way of surviving

#btw im not saying thats whats happening with the patrick thing #thats just what got me started on this train of thought #for example. thinking of the time i didnt shave my legs went out in shorts and got harassed on the street #esp as a fat woman theres so much u cant get away with #also its the one thing everyone immediately jumps to when they have even a little inkling someones done something wrong #when the ryan seamen thing happened i saw sooo many ppl making fun of his looks #and like. again. this isnt about him its about all the other people who see these comments #i just think we dont get to act enlightened about beauty when this behavior is still so common everywhere #anyway. i prob shouldnt be trying to write serious posts when im this sleep deprived but oh well #isa.txt

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moonfurthetemmie · 5 months ago

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I hope one day I have the will to practice drawing and git gud so I can make some evil little bastards kiss after trying to beat the shit out of each other. Because there’s only so much you can do with words

…especially when you have not ever kissed anyone and all your knowledge comes from bad fics written by other people who have (likely) never kissed anyone

#guh #I have so many things to do too. fun things. things that I don’t have time for. it’s not fair #I don’t know if y’all noticed but I already have like three active writing projects.#but there’s also uh. crochet. and games to play.#music things to do. bike to ride (desperately needs its tires pumped up). ROLEPLAYS TO RESPOND TO #although if I stopped fuckin sleeping all afternoon maybe I’d have more time!!!!!!#I don’t know if it’s a wonky sleep schedule or depression but there’s gotta be something I can do about it either way #sighs #anyways. thinking about many blorbos #I would also like to draw much fluff. onyx and raven… cherry and lime….. Ollie and Gecko and Clove and Maggie…..#I’d draw sooo much supernova too. make them almost kill each other #hm. actually. I need to put them in a situation.#okay maybe I have four active writing projects. maybe. big maybe. I have no ideas yet.#onyx and Raven though…..holds them……#actually I want them to hold me.#I wonder how much self insert shit would come out of me having faith in my art skills #and just how many characters I’d make give me a smoochie #oh god I just imagined having all the Koroit alternates I’ve made teasing me affectionately and giving little kisses and I’m #going to implode #fffffuck #well. thats. thats gonna have to happen someday. Hopefully #jesus christ im too gay for this shit (my own thoughts)#yeah that mental image is going to be stuck in my head all night #hh.#send help (money so I can commission someone for this)#(I’m kidding btw)

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scoobydoozombieisland1998 · 7 months ago

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tarot has HORRIBLE reviews but their opening teens around campfire banter is actually really good and i feel sooooo connected to their loser stoner friend trying to get his buddy to take a pottery class or do a spa day with him

#oh wait hes tom hollands spiderman friend thats why i know him #im honestly having fun im not mad at any of this #saw people being like this was written by chatgpt but its sooo much better than like #a violent natures teens. that was bad writing AND acting

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orcelito · 2 years ago

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Someday I will get to write my interpretation of vashwood and then none of you will know peace

#speculation nation #Sentido doesnt count bc a: drabble piece & b: it was set in tristamp anyways #i have some dissatisfaction with how i characterized them in that fic anyways. but i digress.#honestly me seeing some glaring problems yet everyone who read & commented loves it #it is my... grudging child. like yes it's good writing yes it's decent characterization but i Know It Could Be Better.#mostly it's frustrating that it's as popular as it is hfkdhfjd like give some of that love to ITNL man that's the Actual effort piece...#oh well. it's whatever.#i WILL get to write itnl vashwood before too long. and it WILL be everything i love out of the pairing.#im already writing itnl vash as purposefully kind of an asshole. bc he Is. that's how he is in canon.#really kind but really bitchy about it. except to kids hes always really gentle with kids.#adults tho??? he WILL annoy the shit out of you Purposefully. bc he has fun with it lol #and i wanna write him with wolfwood SOOO BAAAAAAD #ixll get there. before too long. not too much longer....

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nanamiskentos · 6 months ago

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MAMA, A DIVA BEHIND YOU! — toji fushiguro sfw!

prologue. → toji loves his son, he really does. unfortunately, young megumi is less than receptive when it comes to toji's efforts to impress the pretty neighbour who just moved into the apartment down the hall.

or five times megumi actively made toji's love life worse. and the one time he actually helped.

pairing. toji fushiguro x afab!reader

warnings. megumi is his own warning. mild age gap implied. non sorcerer au, toji is raising megumi on his own. reader has she/her pronouns. nothing else, just shenanigans :) toji gets knocked down a few pegs by his son 😭 mildly ooc toji <3

word count. song inspiration. paper rings — taylor swift

a/n. this is sooo silly and for fun lol 😭 i feel like you can tell this just isn't my genre or writing style 😭

mp3. i like shiny things, but i'd marry you with paper rings <3

TOJI FUSHIGURO didn't have a lot of treasures in life. he just wasn't that type of guy. treasures were for people with their lives together — the kind who budgeted for organic vegetables and owned matching socks. toji's list of prized possessions was short: a semi-reliable pay check, a fridge that kept his beer cold on a good day, and the one channel that aired late-night baseball games.

oh, and his kid. megumi fushiguro.

the little brat was the one thing in toji's life he could call a blessing without choking on the word. but lately? toji was seriously considering the logistics of international shipping. could you send a five year old punk to siberia? where was the paperwork for that?

everything had been fine. hell, downright manageable. until you moved in down the hall.

at first, toji didn't give a fuck. neighbours were usually either noisy or nosy, and sometimes the tragic combination of both. the last guy had banged on his door at least once a week, yelling about toji's late-night weightlifting sessions and muttering something about 'quiet hours.'

toji had pegged you for the same. maybe with a yoga met and too many scented candles.

but then, you showed up on his doorstep with a kind smile that could probably light up half the districts in the city. and a polite, sweet, "excuse me, but could you help me with my bed frame?"

and that was it.

the universe must've been real bored, because that was the moment it decided that toji fushiguro — self proclaimed expert on not giving a damn, was going to lose his damn mind like cupid has struck him with the painful arrows of a crush. and he was a goner.

take #1 — my neck, my back

spring in tokyo had come into full bloom, the kind of day where the air smelled faintly of sunshine, and the cherry blossoms drifted around like lazy, little freeloaders. below the apartment complex, the park wasn't much to write home about — a scrappy patch of grass, a couple of benches that looked like they'd seen some shit, and a swing set that squeaked like it had a vendetta against joy.

but for toji? it was good enough.

he'd figured this 'let me show you around because i'm so friendly' outing would be low effort. easy. casual and neighbourly, even. except now, he was leaning against a tree which was far harder than it sounded when his lower back was screaming at him louder than megumi had this morning about brushing his teeth.

but you stood nearby, smiling that damn warm and disarming smile of yours, gently plucking a stray blossom from megumi's messy hair. the kid, for his part, was pointedly ignoring you both, kicking rocks with the type of dedication usually reserved for a brat trying to avoid his homework.

toji cleared his throat, "so, uh, the area's not bad. quiet most of the time. that convenience store over there's open late. great for snacks. or milk. y'know, the owner's a bit of a bitc —"

"why are you standing like that?"

megumi's voice cut through his rehearsed tour like a rusty knife.

toji shot him a sharp glance. a look that screamed: keep your mouth shut, kid.

megumi just tilted his head, all faux innocence, and then delivered the killing blow with those sea-green eyes gleaming in what toji was certain was pure maliciousness, "dad, your back hurts again, doesn’t it?"

toji froze, scrambling for damage control, but you were already pressing your lips together, trying not to laugh. trying. but he could see the corners of your mouth twitching.

"back's fine," toji huffed, straightening up too fast. something in his spine must have popped loud enough to startle a crow off a branch, "solid a rock, hah! good as new."

megumi glanced at his scuffed sneakers, and then back up, "you said it was hard getting off the couch this morning. didn't you say you're old now and falling apart?"

toji's entire soul left his body. the punk was a traitor to a family name. he should have just sent megumi back to the clan long ago.

"don't you have a rock to kick?" he hissed.

"already did all that."

and that was it. your laugh finally burst out, bright and loud, ringing through the little patch of a park. toji found himself staring at you like some idiot in a rom-com who’d just realised he was completely doomed.

"kids, huh?" he muttered, throwing megumi a glare that promised revenge.

"kids," you agreed, eyes still sparkling as you excused yourself, something about leaving a pot on the stove. you gave toji one last look as you turned to go, warm and soft with that lingering amusement.

toji leaned back against the tree once you were gone, letting out a long sigh. megumi was still standing there, kicking the same patch of dirt, as though he were trying to discover unseen archaeological wonders underneath the earth.

"you're lucky i don’t sell you to a circus," toji grumbled under his breath.

megumi didn’t even look up, "you wouldn’t get that much for me."

smart-ass kid.

take #2 — the liar's pants are blazing on fire

walking someone home shouldn't have felt like scaling mount fuji, but toji fushiguro was now sweating bullet. the evening was crisp, the air cool enough to keep him from outright drowning in these stupid nerves, but it helped little.

the streetlights flickered on one by one, casting a faint yellow glow over the neighbourhood. nothing fancy — just rows of small apartments with laundry dangling off balconies and the occasional stray cat darting under parked car. it wasn't exactly romantic, but in the soft glow of the spring, it didn't look that bad.

you walked besides him, laughing at some half-assed joke he'd cracked earlier. and damn, toji liked that sound. more than he should've. more than he'd admit to anyone, including himself. now though, the silence had crept back in, and he was left psyching himself up for the move.

just hold her hand, his brain hissed, it's not rocket science. come on, man. no! wait, give her a compliment, call her hot. ugh, idiot. don't say that yet -

his thick fingers flexed awkwardly at this side as he tried to look natural. a valiant losing battle when every nerve in his body screamed, you have one job, fushiguro. don't ruin this.

"dad!"

toji's head snapped up like a startled animal, and there he was. megumi. his kid. his little shadow. gasping, clutching his throat, and staggering toward them like a samurai dying in glorious battle.

"dad! i — i can't breathe!" megumi wheezed, voice raspy as he doubled over in dramatic agony.

toji blinked. what the —

"i think i'm dying!" megumi croaked, collapsing onto the sidewalk with all the subtlety of a boulder tumbling down a hill.

toji sighed, already pinching the bridge of his nose. should’ve known. thid kid had been hanging around that white-haired freak downstairs too much. what had that gojo satoru been teaching him? shakespearean death monologues?

"what is it this time?" toji asked flatly, his voice like gravel.

"maybe, maybe it's the peanuts!" megumi sputtered, clutching his chest now, because why not? "the ones i ate at home! i think i'm allergic!"

toji stared at him, unimpressed. this was the same kid who could inhale salted peanuts by the handful, barely pausing for air, like he was training for some bizarre snack-eating championship.

"you're not allergic," toji deadpanned.

"i think i am!" megumi wheezed, dropping to his knees, his little hands shaking dramatically.

"oh my god!" you gasped, wide-eyed. "should we — i mean, do we need to take him to the hospital? i can drive —"

toji waved a rough hand, trying to salvage what little dignity he had left, "nah, kid’s fine. just go on home. i'll handle this."

"but —"

"it's fine," toji insisted, forcing what he hoped was a reassuring smile, even as megumi collapsed onto the pavement like he’d been struck by lightning.

you had hesitated, clearly torn, but eventually nodded, "okay… but call me if you need anything, okay?"

toji nodded, biting back the heat threatening to crawl up his neck. "yeah, yeah. go on."

the second you turned the corner, toji crouched next to his "dying" son, who immediately cracked one eye open and coughed weakly for good measure.

"what the hell was that?" toji grunted, "what did i say about huffing gasoline in the laundry?"

"don't do it."

toji flicked the punk's forehead, "mhm, so?"

megumi shrugged, sitting up and dusting off his pants. "thought i was allergic."

"to peanuts? that shit you eat everyday?"

"better safe than sorry, dad."

toji huffed, ruffling a hand through his choppy black hair. he glanced in the direction you’d gone, muttering under his breath, "you're lucky you’re cute, kid."

the next morning, toji opened his door to find a basket sitting on the mat. a pristine, gingham-lined basket packed with golden, buttery pastries and muffins that smelled like heaven. attached was a note:

for megumi! i hope he’s feeling better!

karmic justice demanded that toji sit down, scarf it entirely, and leave nothing but crumbs for the little brat. he'd earned that much.

take #3 — they didn't get my nose right!

toji fushiguro didn’t get flustered easily. fights? He could eat a punch for breakfast. bills? well, avoidance was a valid financial strategy. but you, sitting on his couch, smiling at him like you’d never met a red flag you didn’t want to rehabilitate, while unpacking groceries for him and megumi? that was uncharted territory.

terrifying.

the apartment was...presentable. which was more than he could say ten minutes before you arrived, when he'd barked at megumi like a drill sergeant to hide every suspicious stain and questionable stack of dishes. now, the faint sting of cleaning spray lingered in the air, and the tiny place almost looked cozy. not that toji would admit it.

"you didn’t have to bring anything," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

"oh, it's no trouble!" you chirped, beaming like some kind of saint. "i thought you and megumi might like some fresh vegetables. and i couldn’t resist grabbing some sweets for him."

from the corner of the room, megumi's ears perked up at sweets. he dropped the crayon he’d been chewing (toji pretended not to see it) and padded over, all innocent wide eyes and suspiciously good behaviour.

"dad," megumi started, his tone way too angelic for a kid who regularly schemed like a demonic manga villain, “can i show her my drawing?"

toji utterly froze.

megumi never asked to show off his drawings. usually, he just thrust them into unsuspecting hands like a nosy salesman who couldn't take no for an answer. this? this was premeditated.

"uh," toji grunted, squinting at the kid. "maybe later. she’s busy."

but you, bless your overly trusting heart, smiled and said, "oh, i'd love to see it! i'm sure it's adorable."

toji didn’t even have time to stop him. megumi whipped out a crumpled paper from his pocket like he was smuggling state secrets and handed it to you with an air of triumph.

you unfolded it carefully, and toji wanted to crawl into the walls.

there it was: a chaotic, technicolor mess of lines and smudges.

and centre stage?

a terrifyingly accurate caricature of him labeled "dad," locked in what could only be described as a life-or-death struggle with a rabid raccoon twice his size. above his head, a speech bubble screamed, "no!" while the raccoon yelled back, "mine!"

toji groaned so loud it could’ve registered on the richter scale, "kid. seriously?"

your laughter was instant and loud, the kind that made you clutch your sides and tear up. "this — oh my god, this is amazing!" you wheezed, doubling over.

"it’s not even accurate," toji muttered, crossing his arms, his biceps straining against his shirt like they were trying to leave this embarrassing moment behind. "i won."

"dad didn’t win," megumi piped up, as smug as a kid who’d just blown up his old man’s spot in front of a pretty lady, "the raccoon stole the chips."

"megumi," toji growled, pinning him with a glare that would’ve made lesser beings tremble. the kid just shrugged, popping another crayon into his mouth like this was all part of his five-year master plan.

later, after you’d left, still giggling and promising to "treasure" the drawing, toji leaned over the kitchen table where megumi was innocently snacking on his candy.

'kid," toji said, his voice low and dangerous, "if you ever pull something like that again, i’ll eat your crayons. one by one. and i'll make you watch."

megumi didn’t even flinch, cool as a cucumber, "good luck. i hid all the good ones."

take #4 — take your broke ass home!

the neighborhood festival was the kind of event that came together with duct tape and misplaced enthusiasm. a few janky game booths, a cotton candy machine that looked like it ran on prayers, and a ferris wheel that creaked like it was auditioning for a horror movie. but toji didn’t mind. he had a plan.

this was going to be his moment.

he invited you under the pretense of "fun time" for megumi, but really, it was to show you what a catch he was. buff, capable, ruggedly charming — he was ready to prove it all. what better way than with a little festival bravado? he’d win you a giant stuffed panda or one of those oversized bears that could double as a couch. easy.

you and megumi stood by a booth plastered with painted bullseyes, rows of rubber balls stacked neatly on the counter. toji rolled up his sleeves, flexing his arms just enough to catch your attention. he reached into his pocket, pulling out a wad of crumpled cash like he was buying the entire festival, "watch this."

from beside him, megumi crossed his arms. his eyes squinted with the kind of judgment only an six-year-old could muster. then, like a sniper, he fired off the line that would ruin toji's day.

"careful, dad," megumi said, voice loud enough to turn a few heads. "that’s our grocery money for the week."

toji froze mid-reach for the first ball and his jaw clenched. slowly, painfully, he turned to face megumi, who was standing there with a look of angelic smugness.

"megumi," toji growled through gritted teeth, "let's remember who brought you here."

megumi didn’t miss a beat, "oh, right. i'm just worried that dinner tomorrow is soy sauce soup."

"kid’s got jokes," toji muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, his cocky energy now entirely replaced by something closer to "please make this stop."

"oh, i don’t think he’s joking," you teased, tears forming at the corners of your eyes from laughing too hard.

"yeah, definitely not joking," megumi deadpanned, "dad’s gonna start eating protein powder straight from the jar."

"megumi," toji barked, praying for divine intervention that would include his son being carried off by a stork, "you’re grounded."

"for what? telling the truth?"

before toji could escalate into full-on dad-mode, the game attendant — clearly desperate to avoid whatever domestic drama was brewing, handed toji a stuffed panda.

"here, sir, on the house," he said with a strained smile, like he was hoping toji wouldn’t throw a ball through the booth.

toji grabbed the panda and shoved it into your hands with all the grace of a man trying to save face, "here. told you i'd win ya something."

you had just hugged the panda, still grinning ear to ear, "who knew you had a sweet spot? i'll cherish it forever, especially after hearing how hard you worked for it."

megumi, the little bastard, had already wandered off to scope out the cotton candy stand.

toji watched him go, then glanced at you, feeling oddly resigned, "i’m never bringing him to one of these again."

"oh, come on," you said, nudging him playfully, "i'm glad we came. this was fun. besides, he's a sweet kid."

he wondered if you were half-blind, but held his tongue. instead toji groaned, rubbing his temples, 'kid’s not eating for a week."

take #5 — brought the heat back!

it was a quiet thursday evening, the kind of night that lured people into thinking life wasn’t a complete dumpster fire. the sky was fading into a smug sort of pink, and a light breeze was making it just nice enough to forget toji's apartment was a little too warm because he’d cheaped out on air conditioning.

you’d accepted his invitation for dinner, and now here he was, a grown man trying to pretend he wasn’t about to impress the hell out of you with his cooking.

see, toji wasn’t just some dude who could barely boil water. nah, this man knew his way around the kitchen — specifically around a bowl of spicy curry that could win hearts. but he couldn’t let you know that.

toji liked to think that he had a reputation to uphold: rough around the edges, dangerously hot, and way too casual about everything.

so when you walked in, he scratched the back of his head like he’d just thrown the recipe together from a vague memory, muttering, "i dunno, figured i'd try somethin’ new. if it’s bad, there’s takeout."

except this wasn’t new. toji knew exactly what he was doing. his curry was legendary in very specific circles — namely, his own ego.

meanwhile, megumi was hanging around the kitchen like a suspicious little gargoyle, all quiet and sneaky-eyed. that should’ve been the first warning sign.

and when dinner was served, toji had to admit it, it looked perfect. rich, golden curry with just the right balance of spice, heat curling off the plates like a victory lap. hah, an easy win.

you had taken a polite bite, smiling at first. until your face suddenly froze like you'd just been slapped by a fire demon.

"what, it's too spicy?" toji asked, as he watched you struggle to smile. your lips twitching like they were trying to run away.

"no, no!" you wheezed, "it's — it's really good. just got a lil' kick to it, that's all!"

kick? toji blinked. you looked as though you had been delivering a roundhouse to the face.

suspicious now, he scooped up a big bite himself. the moment it hit his tongue, he nearly choked. his sinuses exploded, his tongue went numb, and he could feel sweat instantly forming on his brow.

"what the fuck," he sputtered, slamming down his fork and lunging for his water. toji guzzled it like a man who’d just escaped a desert, while you valiantly kept nibbling as though your dignity depended on it.

megumi, sitting way too calmly at the table, didn’t even flinch. he was eating like the curry was perfectly fine, which made it even worse. this little freak.

toji squinted at his only child, "megumi. what did you do?"

"nothing," the kid said, wide-eyed and dripping with fake innocence. too fake, tsk, toji knew that look. "just...helped with the seasoning."

toji’s stomach dropped, as his blood pressure rose, "how much seasoning?"

megumi shrugged, stabbing at his rice like he wasn’t actively committing a felony, "i dunno. a lot. jus' wanted to be helpful, dad."

"y'trying to kill me? her? yourself?!"

you laughed nervously through the pain, "ah, toji. it’s really not that bad —"

"don’t lie, doll" toji snapped, shooting you a look, "sweatin' like you ran a marathon."

"so are you!" you shot back, snickering. and you weren’t wrong. toji's forehead looked like he’d just finished a full-body workout.

megumi leaned back in his chair, chewing slowly, and said with an infuriating amount of smugness, "i like spicy food."

toji pointed at him, wondering if it would be easier to pick up the kid and launch him out the window, "you better start liking ramen, ‘cause that’s all you’re eating for the next week."

"fine with that," megumi said, clearly unbothered, "isn't that what i eat all the time anyway?”

toji groaned, dragging a hand through his messy hair, which now stuck to his forehead in sweaty, choppy strands.hHe turned to you, desperate for some kind of redemption. "this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. it’s normally amazing. i swear."

"it’s fine," you laughed, even as you sipped water like your life depended on it. "honestly, i think it’s kinda cute."

that threw him for a loop. "cute? what’s cute about this? i just served you a bowl of liquid hell."

you grinned, a little too amused for his liking. "it’s the effort."

toji, for once in his life, had no comeback. he just sighed, defeated, and grabbed his phone to order takeout. megumi, meanwhile, looked entirely too pleased with himself, even lifting the bowl to his lips to smack away the remnants of the soup that he slurped.

interlude: the peace talks

you’re standing outside toji's dingy apartment building, where even the cracks in the walls look like they’ve seen some things. you’re not entirely sure why you’re here. okay, that’s a lie. you’re absolutely sure— it’s because of him. that rough-edged, broad-shouldered man who can bench press your common sense into oblivion. but of course, you’re telling yourself it’s "just to check in."

totally innocent.

you knock. a few beats of silence, then the door creaks open just wide enough for a face to peek out. it's megumi fushiguro, toji's odd kid, and his expression already screams ugh. the kind of look that says, "what does this clown want?"

"uh, hi," you say, suddenly unsure if you’re allowed to be nervous around a first grader, "is toji here?"

megumi stares at you like you just asked if the sky was plaid, "nope," he says flatly, but doesn’t move. he keeps the door partially open, like he’s either waiting for you to leave or deciding if you’re even worth his time.

"oh. okay, that's fine, i'll just —" you motion vaguely toward the stairs, already regretting this whole situation. but then the kid speaks up.

"why do you wanna see him?" his tone is casual, but his eyes? sharp like sea-glass. too sharp for someone so young. he’s leaning on the doorframe now.

you blink, mind going blank.

"i don’t...i mean, i was just dropping by to say hi. that’s all."

megumi tilts his head, scrutinising you like you’re a suspect in a crime only he knows about, "do you like my dad?"

you choke on what must be your last breath on this earth, "what?! no! i mean, what are you even saying, he's..."

you’re spiralling, and megumi's smug little smirk says he knows it. He’s enjoying this way too much.

"sure," he says with a shrug, stepping back into the apartment. he leaves the door wide open like it’s an invitation — or maybe a saw trap. against your better judgment, you follow him in.

megumi plops down on the couch, picking up a laptop like you’re not even there, "you’re not the first," he mutters without looking up.

"what’s that supposed to mean?" you ask, trying to sound casual but failing miserably.

he shrugs again, still not meeting your gaze, "just saying, dad’s got... fans." he says it with the kind of disdain only a kid can muster when talking about their parent, "but you’re, like... different."

"different how?" you ask, instantly regretting it. you shouldn’t engage. this is toji's kid, not your personal gossip columnist.

megumi finally looks up, one eyebrow raised, "you don’t seem as dumb as the other ones."

wow. compliment of the century. "that's way harsh. but thanks," you say dryly, crossing your arms. "and here i thought we were bonding."

there’s a flicker of something else in the child's eyes. a glimmer of protectiveness, maybe, "look, i'm just saying...don’t get your hopes up, okay? i don't think my dad's that type of guy."

you frown, perplexed at having this conversation with a child who barely comes up past your waist, "what makes you say that?"

megumi looks like he’s about to launch into a powerpoint presentation on why toji fushiguro Is a walking red flag, but then he stops. his petulant expression shifts, softens, just a little, "i don't anyone to be sad."

and there it is. the kid act drops for a split second, and you see it. he’s not just being a little punk — he's protecting himself. maybe he’s seen toji screw up one too many times, or maybe he’s tired of people coming and going from their lives. either way, you feel a pang of sympathy.

you sit down on the edge of the couch, careful not to invade his space, "i get it,” you say gently, "and i appreciate you looking out for me, and for your father. but...maybe your dad’s not as bad as you think."

megumi snorts, "yeah, right. i think he's a mess."

"well, sometimes messy people need someone to believe in them," you say, surprising even yourself with the honesty in your voice.

he doesn’t respond right away, just stares at the laptop screen like it holds the answers to life. finally, he sighs, closing it with a decisive snap.

"fine. you can...hang out with him. or whatever. i won't pull any dumb shit,” megumi suddenly pauses at the slip of his tongue, “wait, don't tell him i said that word. but if this screws up, i'm saying ‘I told you so."

he sounds like he’s just agreed to let you borrow his favourite video game.

you smile, relieved, "deal."

just then, the front door opens, and in walks toji, all feathery raven hair, sweat-slicked muscles, and a duffel bag slung over his shoulder like he’s just conquered a small country. he pauses when he sees you, eyebrows raising in surprise. "hey, didn’t expect to see you here," he says, voice rough but warm.

before you can respond, megumi pipes up from the couch, "we had important business."

megumi watches you leave, your footsteps echoing down the hallway. you turn back once, smiling at toji like he’s just said something funny — or maybe like he’s not completely hopeless. his dad stands in the doorway, looking uncharacteristically relaxed, a satisfied smirk on his face that makes megumi's stomach churn.

how disgusting.

the second the door clicks shut, toji sighs like some kind of romantic hero from the bad drama his dad loves to secretly watch, running a hand through his choppy black hair and scratching at the back of his neck.

"isn't she cute?" coming from a guy who once tried to flirt with a waitress by asking her how many push-ups she thought he could do.

toji disappears into his room, leaving young, burdened megumi stranded on the couch with his thoughts. his dad — the six-foot-four slab of muscle and bad decisions who calls protein shakes "wizard juice" — is clearly falling for you. and honestly? megumi doesn’t hate the idea. you’re nice. you don’t talk down to him like other adults, and you don’t smell like motor oil and regret like toji's usual crowd.

but toji? his dad couldn’t woo a cactus. if this is going to happen, megumi's going to have to step in. it's the responsible thing to do.

he grabs his laptop again, boots it up, and clicks on the email icon with all the gravitas of a general preparing for war.

to: [email protected] from: [email protected] subject: hey gojo i need help message: hey gojo i need help.

he hits send, satisfied. within ten minutes, there’s a reply. gojo's always on his computer nowadays, swamped by senior finals.

to: [email protected] from: [email protected] subject: re: hey gojo i need help message: why are u emailing me. i feel weird emailing a six year old.

megumi rolls his eyes. he’s six, not stupid. he definitely thinks he's smarter than gojo satoru.

to: [email protected] from: [email protected] subject: re: re: hey gojo i need help message: i think my dad has a crush.

there’s a pause. megumi imagines goji sitting in his weirdly pristine apartment downstairs, wearing those stupid sunglasses he insists are cool, trying to process what he just read.

the reply comes in two words.

to: [email protected] from: [email protected] subject: re: re: re: hey gojo i need help message: come downstairs.

then another one.

to: [email protected] from: [email protected] subject: re: re: re: hey gojo i need help message: let’s debrief. i got cookies.

megumi shuts his laptop, slides off the couch, and heads for the door. it's time someone with real intelligence got involved.

megumi fushiguro sits at the kitchen table, eating rainbow cereal and trying to ignore the way his dad is pacing the room like a stressed-out gorilla. toji fushiguro, a walking, grunting tank of a man, is mumbling under his breath about "women" and "bad timing" and something about his shirt being "too tight." not that his dad has any normal shirts — just those stupid gym shirts.

megumi, as the only person in this house with half a brain cell, knows exactly what’s going on. his dad's got it bad for you.

not that he thinks that his dad would admit it. no, his dad's strategy for dealing with his obvious feelings is to act like a complete idiot whenever you’re around. last time, he dropped a dumbbell on himself while trying to show off. the time before that, he laughed so hard at one of your jokes he spat coffee everywhere. megumi had to clean it up.

so yeah, his dad was hopeless, and apparently, it’s megumi's job to fix it.

but megumi doesn’t think of himself as a matchmaker. he thinks of himself as a tortured genius, forced to live among lesser idiots. and frankly, he doesn’t even like the idea of his dad dating. because that's gross.

but the truth is, megumi's tired of toji stomping around the apartment like a lovesick rhino, and if getting you and his dad together means toji might finally stop asking megumi if his hair looks "cool," then so be it.

he starts small. when you knock on the door that afternoon, megumi answers and blocks the entrance like a bouncer, just like gojo told him to.

"oh, dad's not here again," he says, casual.

your face falls, and megumi immediately clocks it. bingo.

"you're in luck today, lady. wait here," he interrupts, darting inside, "i'll grab him."

except his dad is in there, muttering something about a broken pipe in the kitchen, while tapping furiously on his phone. megumi marches in, hands on his hips.

"i let her in," he announces, like a town crier.

his dad looks up, like a deer caught in the headlights of his own stupidity, "what? why didn’t you tell me? damn punk," he scrambles for a shirt.

"i'm telling you now, dad," megumi says, dully, "also, you’re acting like a weirdo. just go talk to her. ask her out."

toji freezes, halfway into his shirt, "what's gotten into you, kid? gonna drop a knife on me, huh? what am i supposed to say?"

megumi resists the urge to roll his eyes so hard they fall out of his head, "i don't know. say hi to her. maybe don't mention the gym."

his dad frowns, "you're six, punk. what do you know? people like hearing about that shit."

"not normal people."

once toji is finally presentable — or as presentable as a man with permanent bedhead and a scar on his lip can be — megumi ushers him out of the room. then, like the misunderstood mastermind he is, megumi follows quietly, lurking behind the door to eavesdrop.

toji opens the door to find you standing there, fiddling with the strap of your bag. his usual dumb smirk creeps onto his face, "hey, didn’t expect to see you here," he says, leaning on the doorframe like he thinks he’s starring in a cologne commercial.

"yeah, i was just...in the neighborhood," you say, sounding way too nervous for someone who claims this is a casual visit.

megumi winces. they’re hopeless. this is your neighbourhood, too.

toji scratches the back of his neck, a nervous tick Megumi’s only seen when he’s trying not to embarrass himself, "well, uh, you wanna come in? i was just... doing some cleaning. we can...talk, or some shit like that."

megumi knows for a fact that there's a lie in toji's words. the only cleaning his dad's ever done is shoving everything into the closet and calling it "organised."

but somehow, it works. you step inside, smiling at him like he just offered you free ice cream. now, that would be a decent offer.

from his spot behind the door, megumi mentally pats himself on the back. phase one: complete. he decides to clock out, flopping back on his rumpled bed to pull his laptop back out, immediately logging back onto his game.

but by the time you leave an hour later, toji looks like he just won the lottery. you’re smiling too, waving awkwardly before heading down the stairs. and ugh, gross! you lean in and press a soft kiss to toji's cheek before you turn.

as soon as the door shuts, toji leans against it and lets out the most ridiculous sigh megumi has ever heard.

"hah, kid. she likes me," his dad says, grinning like a lovesick idiot.

megumi, standing in the doorway to the kitchen, crosses his arms, "that's foul. but no thanks to you."

his dad opens one sharp green eye at him, and scowls. "what’s that supposed to mean?"

"it means," megumi says, feeling a lifetime of bribery for ice-cream excite him, "you owe me. big time."

toji’s standing in the doorway, looking at megumi like he just asked him to join some cult. he scratches the back of his head, giving megumi that look — like he’s trying to figure out what the hell his kid is up to now.

"eh, you look weird today," toji mutters, a half-smirk tugging at his lips. he reaches down and ruffles megumi’s hair like it’s no big deal, making it stick up even more. his hair gets all spiky and untamable, and megumi scowls, smoothing it down, trying (and failing) to get his dark spikes to behave.

"yeah, whatever, dad," megumi mutters under his breath as toji turns and saunters off into his room. toji’s probably about to do a hundred push-ups and gloat to himself. megumi can already hear the dumb grunting from the other room.

as soon as toji’s gone, megumi sits back down at the table, shoveling a spoonful of cereal into his mouth.

for once, the apartment is quiet. no random phone calls, no weird people showing up, no random training sessions that sound more like a one-man wrecking crew than “exercise.” just peace.

it’s bliss.

he takes another bite of cereal, enjoying the calm and the fact that someone else is going to have to deal with toji’s nonsense for once. it’s about time.

to: [email protected] from: [email protected] subject: mission accomplished message: it worked. my dad's in love.

a few seconds later, gojo’s reply pops up.

to: [email protected] from: [email protected] subject: re: mission accomplished message: that's great! wanna help me with the guy i like?

megumi squints at the screen, blinking twice. he closes his laptop with all the gravity of someone who has just solved world peace.

to: [email protected] from: [email protected] subject: re: re: mission accomplished message: no.

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