#perhaps an ill-advised series of comments

[msclaritea]

Explained | Snow White live-action remake: Why is Disney classic stirring modern controversy? - Entertainment News

"Zegler's honest, but perhaps ill-advised, remarks on the original film's dated portrayal of gender dynamics and her vision for a more empowered Snow White added fuel to the fire. In an interview last year, she told Extra TV, "The original cartoon came out in 1937, and very evidently so. There’s a big focus on her love story with a guy who literally stalks her. Weird! Weird! So we didn’t do that this time. We have a different approach to what I’m sure a lot of people will assume is a love story just because we cast a guy in the movie. All of Andrew’s scenes could get cut, who knows? It’s Hollywood, baby (Andrew being actor Andrew Jonathan who plays the role of a prince who awakens Snow White with a kiss)." 

The response to her comments, let's say, was less than wholesome. Traditionalists yearning for the comforting embrace of nostalgia and seeking a faithful recreation of the animated classic, reviled Zegler, sharing on social media claiming how Zegler is dark-skinned and ugly as compared to the image of Snow White they have in their minds. They will probably continue to complain until the movie comes out. or even after that. Some did celebrate her comments, and the chance to challenge conventions in a new adaption of the classic tale for modern audiences.

The clash between tradition and progress extended to the portrayal of love and feminism. Zegler's assertion that the prince in the original was akin to a "stalker" was met with resistance from those who romanticised everything about the original. Once you become emotionally attached to something or even an idea of that something, reason vanishes. Zegler's declaration that the new Snow White wouldn't rely on the prince for salvation challenged the very idea of the story those traditionalists had in their minds. Thus, Zegler became not Snow White but the Evil Queen for them."

YO, CAN SOMEONE SEND ME SOME BOOTS? I JUST STEPPED INTO A VAT OF BULLSHIT! Below is a list from Wiki of Love Action remakes of Snow White, just in the 2000s. There were over 12 others before then. Two of them from Germany, featuring ONLY the Dwarves. Was the writer of this article counting on short term memory?

7 Dwarves – Men Alone in the Wood (7 Zwerge – Männer allein im Wald) (2004), a German comedy film

The Brothers Grimm (2005), an adventure fantasy film directed by Terry Gilliam and starring Matt Damon, Heath Ledger, and Lena Headey

7 Dwarves: The Forest Is Not Enough (7 Zwerge – Der Wald ist nicht genug) (2006), sequel to the 2004 German film 7 Dwarves – Men Alone in the Wood

Sydney White (2007), a modernization, starring Amanda Bynes

Blancanieves (2012), a silent Spanish film based on the fairy tale.

Mirror Mirror (2012), starring Julia Roberts as the Evil Queen Clementianna,[93] Lily Collins as Snow White, Armie Hammer as Prince Andrew Alcott, and Nathan Lane as Brighton, the Queen's majordomo.

The Huntsman series:

Snow White and the Huntsman (2012), starring Kristen Stewart, Charlize Theron, Chris Hemsworth, and Sam Claflin.

The Huntsman: Winter's War (2016), which features Snow White as a minor character.

How is it that people are throwing so-called fits over live adaptations when some of these others are quite recent and varied in storyline? We're all used to the modern twisting of fairy tales. What some are not used to is being so inartifully and clumsily lectured about male female relationships by an actress who looks about 12 years old. You know what this is about: Interference and ongoing attempted sabotage of the Disney brand.

[sociallym]

It's been a while since I've posted to all followers but in the week when the NSPCC revealed an 89% increase in grooming crimes against children over the last six years and Childline reported having given over 900 counselling sessions to children who were victims of 'sextortion' in the last two years alone, now felt like the right time to say something from a professional standpoint.

As a professional who has advised people how to use social media for business for more than 10 years now, and in my current role as a Designated Safeguarding Lead in a secondary school, I now find myself in a unique position as someone who should be using his knowledge and experience to help. I still love social media and how it can help small businesses and underdogs compete with massive corporations, but being a father myself, I am equally worried about the risks that the platforms represent when, like any other technology, they are in the wrong hands or used by those with ill intentions.

I am considering writing a series of posts/talks designed to help parents understand the risks to their children that social media can represent. I've always felt that when it comes to social platforms it's all too easy to put the onus on tech companies to make their platforms safer or put controls in place to protect children. Our responsibility begins as adults, to make ourselves more informed, to have difficult conversations with our children and hopefully before the damage is done.

Perhaps, that's where I should come in. Maybe I should be helping to bridge the gap in peoples' knowledge and offering advice where it's required. It's a new direction for Socially-M as a business/speaker but it's very close to my heart in both my professional roles inside and outside of school.

As ever, I am always grateful to hear what you have to say, so your thoughts are very welcome. Let me know what you think in the comments below, or feel free to message me privately if you don't want to share your experience publicly.

Yours Socially

M

[lostfracturess]

symptoms and causes | ch. 14

pairing — professor gojo x med student reader

summary — he's arrogant, self-centered, and he's your professor. renowned for his brilliance in neurosurgery and infamous for his allure. too bad you have to work with him on this research team. now you're stuck with dr. satoru gojo, delving into the complexities of both the brain and the heart — and of how far you'd go for a love that could destroy not only him but you as well.

word count — 18.8 k

warnings — 18+ ONLY. contains explicit sexual content, substance abuse/addiction, overdosing, dark and mature themes, self-destructive and abusive behavior, manipulation, moral ambiguity, borderline insane behavior by all involved, heavy angst, panic attacks, (family) trauma, anger issues, fire incident, mentions of death, illness, abuse, and blood, graphic injuries and medical procedures. reader discretion is advised.

author's note — hey lovelies, we're back with another chapter !! didn't know when to cut this one so you'll get the whole thing in one go. beware this chapter is pretty angsty again and will contain some heavy themes. please read when you feel comfortable with it, i've updated the tw too. other then that, hope you enjoy (if that's the right thing to say to a heavy angst chapter lol).

series masterlist + playlist + ao3 + wattpad

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"We can't go to Naoya's party."

"Why not?" Maki asked.

"Because he drugged her, maybe?" Yuta chimed in, backing you up.

"That's not even the main reason."

"It should be the main reason," Yuta.

"It's Satoru," you said, ignoring Yuta's comment.

"Dr. Handsome?" Maki asked.

"Yes."

"Why's that?"

"Because he'll be sad then."

"Sad?" Maki repeated.

"Yeah."

"You want to elaborate on that?"

You didn't look up from your work. "Not really."

"But what about Naoya's messed up face?" Maki pressed on.

"Maki, really?" Yuta groaned.

"Please take pictures for me," you said.

"Shh!" another student hissed, reminding you that you were in the middle of anatomy lab.

You sat at your dissection table, scalpel in hand, carefully slicing through the tissue sample in front of you. Beside you, Maki, Toge, and Yuta were similarly engrossed in their own specimens, their brows furrowed in concentration, despite the conversation whispered between you all.

"But I wanna punch him, key his car or whatever," Maki muttered under her breath.

"Feel free," you replied, still focused on your specimen.

"This whole thing was a stupid idea from the start," Yuta grumbled.

"Stupid," Toge concurred sagely.

"Oh, now you think so too, huh?" Yuta said, side-eyeing Toge.

"Anyway, what's up with Dr. Handsome?" Maki asked, redirecting the conversation.

"He's miserable," you said.

"You always say that about him."

"Because it always fits."

Suddenly, you felt an icy chill run down your spine, as if someone had just dropped an ice cube down your back. You didn't need to turn around to know who was standing behind you.

"Are you all quite finished with your chatting, or do you need another minute?"

Slowly, you turned to face your tutor, plastering on your most innocent smile. "Sorry Dr. Nanami, we're done."

"Perhaps you should focus more on your studies than on discussing your personal life. Maybe then you'd actually pass your exams." He gave the others a look that could freeze lava before stalking off.

"Ouch," Toge grimaced. "Brutal."

"He hates me," you sighed.

"Probably because you're so close with Dr. Handsome," Maki said.

"Definitely," Yuta agreed. "But you know, I heard he's not actually that bad. One of the seniors told me he's really supportive of his students, in his own unique way."

"So you're saying he's just pushing me to do better?" you asked, feeling a glimmer of hope.

"Nah, I think he definitely hates you," Yuta said, crushing that hope like a bug. "But hey, at least he's supportive of other students, right?"

"Thanks, Yuta, that's really helpful." You slumped in your seat, feeling like you'd just been punched in the gut. Then, your phone buzzed, the screen lighting up with a familiar name.

Maki smirked. "Well, speak of the devil."

[10:21 AM] Satoru: Can you come to my office after class? I have something for you.

You read the message, ignoring the few missed calls from your mother that lit up the screen. Pathetic, really. You knew you should call her back. But the wounds were still raw.

Satoru had helped you bridge the gap to her, for a moment, but you couldn't help but feel the old fear of disappointment flare up again, you had been disappointed so many times before. Each disappointment left scars on a heart that was barely able to recognize itself as such.

Satoru had helped you bridge the gap with her, momentarily, but the fear was a constant shadow. You've been let down so many times before, each time leaving scars on a heart that was barely able to recognize itself as such.

You'd call her back later.

Surely.

You shoved your phone back into your pocket.

─── ·✧· ──���

After class, you stepped out of the auditorium into the bustling hallway. Maki, Yuta, and Toge fell into step beside you. The hallway was filled with the usual chaos of students rushing to their next classes.

"How about we go to the movies this weekend instead, or to some bar, just anything fun," Maki said. "We could check out that new horror thing everyone's talking about."

Yuta made a face. "A movie sounds good, but I'm not really in the mood for jump scares and gore. I'd rather keep my lunch down."

"What about that action movie that just came out?" you suggested.

"Action," Toge nodded approvingly.

"Sounds good," Yuta said.

"Wow, you people are really boring. But okay, action it is. Maybe we could grab dinner before the movie too," Maki added. "There's that new sushi place that opened up downtown."

"Oh yeah, I heard their food is really good," Yuta said.

"Alright, so it's settled then," Maki said. "Sushi and a movie this weekend."

But then you rounded a corner and stopped dead in your tracks. A cold knot formed in your stomach.

Sukuna.

There he stood, across the hall, leaning casually against the wall, engaged in conversation with some university staff members. Their laughter grated on your ears.

What?

Why was he back?

The ethics committee hearing is not scheduled for another month. Did Satoru know about this?

As if sensing your presence, Sukuna's gaze shifted, his eyes locking with yours. He watched you for a moment, his lips twitching into a slow, predatory smile. Then, he had the audacity to wink at you.

Without a word, you marched toward him, ignoring the bewildered look on the woman he'd been speaking to. Sukuna straightened, one hand casually tucked into the pocket of his tailored suit. His chin tilted up.

"Look who it is," he drawled, his voice like nails on a chalkboard. "My favorite student."

"What are you doing here?"

He smirked, his eyes raking over you in a way that made your skin crawl. "Didn't Dr. Gojo tell you, sweetie?"

You glared at him, your jaw clenched, fighting the urge to wipe that smirk off his face. You didn't care that the entire hallway seemed to hold its breath, every gaze burning into your back. All you could see was him, standing there like he had every right to be here.

Sukuna continued, "I'm back for the ethics committee, of course. Don't tell me you've forgotten?"

"Yeah, I'm sure that's the reason."

Maki cleared her throat from across the hall, the sound cutting through the tension like a siren. You suddenly became aware of the hushed whispers and curious stares surrounding you.

Lowering your voice, you turned back to him. "Can we have a word?"

Sukuna's smile widened. "In private? With you, always."

He gestured for you to lead the way, and you turned, walking down the suddenly quiet hallway. You could feel the weight of everyone's gaze on your back like a thousand tiny needles, the whispers already starting to circulate.

Reaching an empty classroom, you yanked the door open and gestured for him to enter. Sukuna sauntered in, his smirk still in place, as if he found the entire situation amusing. You followed, slamming the door shut behind you.

Turning to face him, you crossed your arms. "Alright, Sukuna. Cut the bullshit. What's your game here?"

He leaned against a nearby desk, his posture relaxed and infuriatingly nonchalant. "No game, sweetie."

"Don't you dare fucking call me that," you snapped.

"Why so fierce? I'm just here to do my job. And ethics lately became so dear to me."

"As if. You're just here to hurt Satoru, that's all you're after."

"Wow, you're losing your temper here a bit, aren't you?" He watched you for a second, then, a harsh laugh echoed through the confined space. "Oh, now I get it. Satoru must be using again, isn't he?

Your blood ran cold at his words, and you took a step forward. "Watch it, Sukuna. I'm warning you."

He pushed off the desk, closing the distance between you until he was mere inches away. "And what then?"

"You know damn well you're responsible for this."

Sukuna leaned in close, his voice dropping to a whisper, "Oh, I think we both know it's not me who pushes him to the edge."

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, and before you could even think about what you were doing, your hand was moving. The sound of the slap echoed through the empty classroom, and Sukuna's head snapped to the side from the force of the impact.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Sukuna slowly turned his head back to face you, his lips twisting into a cruel smirk. A trickle of blood slid from the corner of his mouth, and he raised a hand to wipe it away.

"Ha," he said, looking at the blood on his fingertips. "Looks like the kitten has claws." He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, as if savoring the sensation. "You know, it's funny," Sukuna continued, his voice almost conversational. "Satoru always did have a thing for the feisty ones."

"Shut up. You don't know anything about him."

"And you do? I bet you don't even know half of it. Or do you know why he has all those scars? Do you know even the slightest bit about his past? I bet you don't. Because he doesn't trust you. Not like he trusts me." 

He paused, his head tilting slightly to the side as he studied you. "It's almost funny, really. Ever since you two got close, he's been slipping. Losing control. Returning to his old habits. It's almost as if you have a knack for breaking him. Just like his parents."

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear. "Feels awful to be the responsible one, doesn't it?"

You flinched, his words twisting the knife of guilt deeper. You wanted to pull away, to deny his accusations, but your body felt frozen in place. Your eyes searched his, desperate for some sign of deception, a hint that this was all a twisted game. But there was none. All you saw was a reflection of your own doubts, your own deepest fears.

"You know he's been stable before you came along, but now he's a mess. It's selfish, really. Clinging to him, dragging him down, all because you're so desperate to be loved. But how will you live with yourself, knowing he died trying to be something he's not, all for you?"

No, you thought. This isn't true. It can't be true.

But even as you tried to escape his accusations, a memory flickered to life. Satoru in that bathroom, his skin pale and clammy, his breathing shallow, the terrifying stillness of his body.

Your eyes began to burn.

"Poor thing." Sukuna's hand cupped your cheek, almost disgustingly gentle, his thumb brushing over your skin. You let it happen, a deer caught in the headlights. "You really are a fool, aren't you?"

His touch seared your skin, branding you with guilt, with shame. You wanted to deny it, to push him away, to scream that he was wrong, that you'd never hurt Satoru, you weren't the reason he overdosed.

You weren't.

You couldn't.

But then again, would that have happened if you weren't there? If you hadn't pushed him, hadn't demanded too much? You tried to speak, to defend yourself. But the words wouldn't come.

He's playing with you.

He's manipulating you.

You know it.

You know it.

You know it.

You know it.

You know it.

You know it.

But why was it so hard to fight back?

You had always been the strong one, the one who held it all together. With your mother's fragile grip on reality, with Satoru's self-destructive spiral, you had been the glue that held the pieces together.

You'd swallowed the bitterness, the fear, the crushing weight of it all, refusing to let it break you. So why the fuck couldn't you hold it together anymore? What was wrong with you?

Sukuna's smile was almost pitiful, his hand falling away from your face as if your touch was repulsive. "You're not good enough for him. You never were. And the sooner you accept that, the better off you'll both be."

With that, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the empty classroom, the sting of his touch lingering on your cheek. You scrubbed at the spot, as if you could physically erase the stain of his words.

You didn't want to believe him. You couldn't believe him. But as you stood there, watching him disappear down the hallway, you couldn't shake the sinking feeling that maybe, just maybe, he was right.

Maybe you were the one pushing Satoru to the edge, the one driving him back to the drugs and the self-destruction. And if that was true—

You didn't know what to do.

Suddenly, the air turned thick, suffocating. Your lungs struggled to draw oxygen, each inhale a desperate gasp against the tightening band around your chest. The world swam, blurring at the edges.

You slumped against a nearby student's desk, one hand grasping for support, the other clutching your chest, feeling the frantic rhythm of your heartbeat.

You closed your eyes, fighting for control, willing the panic to subside.

No.

Not now.

Not fucking now.

─── ·✧· ───

You stood rooted to the spot outside Satoru's office, willing your ragged breaths to steady. Sukuna's poisonous words still echoed in your mind. You wanted to push them aside, to focus, to compartmentalize, but they clung to you like a second skin, refusing to be ignored.

You fought the urge to turn and run.

But you couldn't. Not now.

You had to be strong.

Satoru didn't need to see your weakness, not when he was already teetering on the edge. You had to bottle it all up, bury it deep. You took another deep breath, forcing your shaking hands to still.

You can do this. You have to.

With a final, resolute inhale, you knocked on the door.

"Come in," Satoru's voice called from inside.

You stepped into his office, closing the door behind you. Satoru was sitting at his desk, his head bent over a stack of papers, his pen moving swiftly across the pages as he graded. His hair fell into his eyes, obscuring his face.

"You wanted to see me?" you asked.

Satoru didn't look up, his attention still focused on the papers in front of him. "Maybe I just missed you."

"Is that so?" You made your way over to his desk, halting before him, but he still didn't look up, his pen continuing its relentless journey across the page.

"Just a second," he said.

"Sure." You moved to sit on the edge of his desk, tucking your still trembling hands between your crossed legs, hoping to somehow keep them still. Your eyes wandered over the cluttered surface, taking in the stacks of papers, the half-empty coffee cups, the scattered pens.

Chaos. As usual.

Strange, how his chaos always seemed to bring you calm, how it made it easier to breathe, how it always felt like home, how being near him felt like home. You closed your eyes briefly, the trembling in your hands slowly subsiding.

Then, your gaze landed on a folder lying on the edge of his desk, a note scrawled across the front in bold, red letters, "urgent". Curious, you picked it up and flipped it open, your eyebrows rising as you scanned the contents.

"Are you switching your subject?" you asked.

"Huh?"

"This case here," you said, waving the folder. "Failing liver."

Satoru's head snapped up, his eyes widening as he saw the folder in your hands.

"Are you treating liver diseases now?"

Satoru's face paled, his fingers tightening around his pen. "It's an urgent case."

"Urgent?" You eyed the document again, scanning the patient's stats. "That's putting it mildly. Based on these stats, that patient is dying for sure."

"Wow, you're really empathetic for a future doctor."

"I'm just being honest. I don't see how anyone with that liver damage could survive. But the other vitals are pretty impressive for someone in their 50s. Strange." You paused, your eyes meeting his. "But why are you looking into that?"

Satoru leaned back in his chair, his shoulders slumping. "It's Suguru's uncle."

"Oh, I'm sorry," you said, suddenly feeling ashamed for your, indeed, lack of sympathy. "I didn't know."

"It's okay." He sighed. "Do you think treatment is even worth considering at this point?"

You looked over the file again, chewing your lip. You wanted to give him hope, to tell him that there was a chance. But you knew, deep down, that it would be a lie.

"No," you said finally. "Based on these stats, there's no way this patient will survive, even with treatment. The liver damage is too extensive, even aggressive treatment would likely only cause unnecessary suffering," your eyes meet his, "It would be cruel to give them false hope."

Satoru let out a shaky breath, nodding. "That's what I thought."

Hindsight, they say, is 20/20.

Looking back, you should have known.

Should have seen it.

Maybe if you had paid more attention, you could have spared yourself the pain. But who can really blame you, between all those battlefields? They turn you blind against what's important.

A lesson learned too late.

You closed the folder. "I'm so sorry, Satoru. If there's anything I can do, anything at all—"

Satoru shook his head. "All good. I didn't want to burden you with that."

"You don't burden me."

Satoru closed his eyes for a moment and then stood up. He rounded the corner and made his way over to his briefcase. He rummaged through it for a moment before pulling something out and tossing it over to you.

You caught it reflexively, your fingers closing around a long, slender plastic pen.

"Strip off your pants," Satoru said, his voice calm and matter-of-fact. "The leg is best."

You stared at the plastic object in your hand. Turning it around, you read the label on the side.

Erenumab.

"You did not—" you began.

Satoru's lips curved into a small, knowing smile, a smile that never failed to make your stomach flutter. "It's 70 mg," he said. "Let's start with that and see how it goes."

He crossed the room to where you sat, his gaze locked on yours, studying your reaction. You met his eyes, your own wide. You knew that this medicine was rather new. Expensive, if insurance didn't cover it. A single dose cost more than some people earned in a month.

"You didn't have to do this for me," you said.

He smiled. "I told you, I'd do anything for you."

A lump formed in your throat, making it hard to swallow. But before you could fully process what he did for you, you found yourself lying on your back on his office sofa, your pants discarded and Satoru sitting between your thighs. 

With gloved hands, he gently parted your legs, draping one over his shoulder and the other across his lap.

He quickly disinfected a small patch of skin on your thigh, then deftly drew the 70 mg dose from the glass vial. Preparing the syringe, he held it up, carefully expelling any air bubbles.

"I think my arm would have been sufficient too," you said.

His lips curved into a smile. "Yeah, but where's the fun in that?"

Hand steady and sure, he positioned the needle against your skin. You felt a brief, sharp sting as it pierced your flesh, followed by a cool, tingling sensation. And then it was over, the syringe empty and discarded.

Satoru stripped off his gloves and placed a tender kiss near the injection site, his lips soft and warm against your skin. "You good?"

"Yeah, I'm good," you said, your gaze fixed on the ceiling above.

Satoru's smile widened. "Good." He released his hold on your leg and rose to his feet to dispose of the empty medication vial.

"See you next month, then," he said, a playful lilt returning to his voice. "For your next dose of preventative migraine medicine. But don't be late. I hate when patients keep me waiting."

"Sorry," you said. "I got held up."

"Something important?"

You hesitated for a moment. "No." Slowly, you sat up, your eyes tracking his movements. "Thank you."

"You don't have to thank me," he replied as he threw away the gloves.

"I'm not going to Naoya's party."

Satoru paused, his gaze meeting yours, a flicker of surprise and relief passing over his features. "Thank you."

"You don't have to thank me," you mirrored back, then stood up and pulled your pants back on.

"Suguru is in the lab right now. You want to join him? I think he's dissecting some cells today," Satoru said, changing the subject.

"Oh, I called him earlier. He said he's pretty much done—" Your words died in your throat as Satoru turned his back to you, a small plastic container clutched in his hand. He shook out a couple of pills into his palm.

One.

Two.

Three.

You should be numb to it by now, but each pill felt like a punch to your gut. He popped them into his mouth and swallowed dry, a practiced motion. Dread tightened in your stomach.

Turning back to face you, he asked, "You want to grab something in the cafeteria then?"

"Sure," you agreed, but your eyes were drawn to the two containers on the shelf beside him. Hydromorphone. You recognized it. But also Alprazolam. Your stomach lurched, the cold knot tightening even more in its pit.

"Since when do you take Alprazolam again?" you asked.

"It's—" His brows drew together. "It's just half a milligram."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"I don't think I have to answer your question," he said, cold, dismissive.

Silence.

Why does it always end like this? A tragedy on repeat, forever at war. 

You locked eyes with Satoru, the familiarity of his blue irises suddenly chilling. It was as if a curtain had parted, revealing the same painful scene once again. You were the actress, trapped in a role you couldn't escape.

[SCENE START]

INT. SATORU'S OFFICE - AFTERNOON

SATORU stands opposite of you, his gaze unwavering, a storm brewing beneath his placid mask.

YOU stare back at him, your heart a battlefield of love and fear, poisoned by Sukuna's cruel whispers.

[BEAT]

Act I: Clash of Words

YOU (quiet) So we return to this familiar dance?

SATORU (confused) Return? To what, pray tell?

YOU This game of shadows and silence. You, building walls I cannot breach.

SATORU (dismissive) 'Tis but a trifle, a fleeting shadow.

YOU A trifle? You gamble with your very life, and call it naught but a fleeting shadow?

SATORU (averting his gaze) 'Tis my life—

YOU (interrupting) —to squander? To cast aside as if it holds no worth?

SATORU (voice low) That is not my intent.

YOU (voice trembling) Then speak plainly, Satoru! Unburden your heart, that I may understand the shadows that cloud your judgment.

[BEAT]

Silence reigns, a heavy shroud descends, Unspoken truths, where desperation contends. Sukuna's whispers echo, venom in the air, "He trusts you not, his heart you cannot share."

YOU (quiet) You cannot, can you? For even after all we have shared, you remain a fortress to me.

Satoru remains silent, his face a mask of stone. His eyes, once bright, now clouded and unknown.

[BEAT]

Act II: Aimed at the Heart

YOU (shoulders slumping) When did you plan to tell me of Sukuna's return?

SATORU He concerns you not.

YOU Concerns me not? Satoru, 'tis because of me you face this lawsuit. Sukuna's shadow looms over you because of me. And your solace in those pills, I know, is tied to my very being. How can you claim I am untouched by this?

SATORU (turning his back to you, pacing) 'Tis complicated, you know this well.

YOU Then speak, I implore you. Let me share your burden.

SATORU (stopping, facing you) This is my battle, my burden alone. I shall face it as I see fit.

YOU (desperate) Your way? By drowning in oblivion, feigning a peace that exists not? Silence breeds not tranquility, Satoru, but a tempest within. You wage war against yourself, and these pills offer no salvation.

SATORU (pacing) I know what I do.

YOU And so do I.

[BEAT]

YOU You cannot continue thus, Satoru. How can we speak of love, of a shared future, when you build these walls, shutting me out at every turn? This endless dance of closeness and distance, it tears at my very being.

Satoru averts his gaze, his eyes seek the floor, Each glance denied, a wound that burns and sores.

[BEAT]

Though wisdom whispers, "Push him not, beware," Your love, a stubborn flame, refuses to despair. Did Sukuna's curse unleash this beast within? This monster that destroys, that revels in sin? Trapped within this flesh, you cannot flee, from the darkness that consumes, that will not set you free. Its fangs bite deep, its poison spreads its blight, how can you escape this never-ending night?

YOU (frustrated) Gods above, you test my patience, you try my very soul!

SATORU (whirling around) And you test mine! Your relentless pushing, your ceaseless questions...leave me be! I shall handle this alone.

YOU (stepping closer) Alone? You isolate yourself, Satoru, and call it strength. But it is weakness—

SATORU (shouting) Silence, woman!

[BEAT]

Silence descends, a tomb upon his cruel decree. Your breath, a stolen gasp, a wounded symphony. In his eyes, a mirrored fear, chilling and unkind. His words, heavy with pain, a desperate shield for his mind.

Oh, this dance of despair, this endless, tortured play, One step towards solace, then cruelly snatched away. Two souls adrift, on a sea of crimson hue, Yearning to meet, yet poisoned, their love askew.

Storms rage within, a tempestuous, bloody fight, Armor clings tight, obscuring love's gentle light. Bound by fear's cruel chains, they stand apart, Poised to strike, to rend each other's heart.

If only understanding could pierce the gloom, If only love could blossom, banish fear's cold tomb. But fear, the monster, devours all it sees, A love born in beauty, now twisted by disease.

This battlefield of hearts, forever stained crimson, Unspoken truths, wounds that refuse to glisten. So the waves crash on, their fury unrestrained, A love unspoken, forever pained.

Act III: The Killing Blow

YOU (voice trembling) Is it comfort? This self-destruction, that none may reach you? That I may not?

SATORU (hollowly) Perhaps.

[BEAT]

Your heart, a wounded bird, beats in its cage, But Sukuna's words, a creeping, insidious rage. His lies take root, a darkness you can't deny, And hope's faint ember flickers, threatens to die.

You fight to resist, to break free from its hold, But doubt's cold grip, your spirit grows old. His words, a poison, seep into your veins, And the will to fight, it slowly wanes.

YOU (quiet) Do I bring you sickness?

SATORU I know not. The line between you and my sanity grows thin, fading fast, I fear.

[BEAT]

His words, a poisoned dart, strike true. You know their source, the scars he hides from view. You strain to remember joy's embrace, but pain's dark shroud obscures its face. How long, oh heart, can you endure, this torment, this love that's no longer pure? You turn away, a heart filled with lead, from pain too deep, words left unsaid.

YOU (voice thick with sorrow) 'Tis an ugly thing, to be truly seen.

[FADE OUT]

[BLACKOUT]

VOICEOVER (detached, critical) The playwright weeps, the actors take their bows. But empty seats, no cheers, the silence grows. A cruel hush descends, the play is done. Was the bloodletting to your liking, everyone?

[SCENE END]

─── ·✧· ───

"Suguru?"

You approached him cautiously, hesitant to intrude on his concentration. He sat across the lab, his tall frame hunched over a workbench, bathed in the dim glow of a lamp beside him. He manipulated a pipette, transferring liquids between vials with a steady hand.

"Hey," he said, his gaze still fixed on his task. "Didn't expect you here today. Sorry, the fun part's already over."

He completed the transfer, then turned to face you. Even in the dim light of the lab, the aftermath of the fight was etched on your face, impossible to hide — the tear tracks, the trembling jaw, the desperate attempt at composure that crumbled with each passing second.

Suguru studied you for a long moment. He didn't need to ask. He knew you well enough to know what was going on. Yeah, how ugly it is to be truly seen.

"What happened?" He asked.

You stood beside his workbench, chewing on your lip, your arms crossed over your chest, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill over. "Can we work on something?" you said. "Please."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

You shook your head. "No. I can't. I need work...I need to focus on something, anything, or I think I'll fall apart."

The words spilled out. There was no point in pretending, not with him. His gaze had already seen through your facade. But it felt wrong. It felt so wrong to ask him for help, to use his feelings for you.

You knew he wouldn't deny you, not when you were unraveling before his eyes. The guilt of relying on him like this was a heavy weight in your chest. But you needed him right now.

Who else could you turn to? You couldn't tell your friends. Your mother was in her own world of grief. Your father was dead. You were alone. Utterly and completely alone.

"Please, Suguru. Can we just work?"

He hesitated, his gaze lingering on your face for a moment before he finally nodded and peeled off his gloves. He leaned forward, his hand gently undoing the tight knot of your crossed arms. He took your hand in his, tracing shooting lines across the back of your hand.

"What do you want to work on?" he asked.

"The nanoparticles," you said, your voice still trembling. "We still need to narrow down the potential materials and targeting ligands, right?"

"Sure," he said with a strained smile. "Anything you want."

─── ·✧· ───

Days had turned into a blur since then.

Satoru tried to reach you — missed calls, unanswered texts, a voicemail you'd deleted without listening. It was only a matter of time before he showed up at your door, you thought. But nothing. He stopped. Perhaps you should be worried.

But you needed some distance, needed a little breather.

Suguru said he was okay.

You'd sneak into the lab late at night, working until exhaustion dragged you under, then slipping away before daylight could expose you to the world, to your friends — to him.

You'd lied to your friends, a simple "I've got the flu" a convenient excuse to ward off their concern.

But somehow, your apartment felt so empty tonight. Empty takeout containers littered the floor, appetite long lost.

The last rays of sunlight struggled through the blinds, casting long shadows that glided across the walls, reminding you of the passage of time, of the life you were slowly losing control of.

You twisted and turned in your bed, sheets tangled around your legs. Your head throbbed with thoughts you didn't want to have — uninvited, lingering, persistent, intrusive, haunting, gnawing, relentless, agonizing, piercing, suffocating, venomous, tormenting, cruel, accusatory, self-recriminating, maddening — devouring your skull.

Each thought was a fresh wound. His anger. His fear. His desperation. How could you move on? How could you ever mend this?

You'd already compromised so much, given up so much, to turn yourself into someone he could love without tearing himself to pieces. But how much more could you sacrifice before there was nothing left of you, before you became a stranger, before it became some kind of murder?

You squeezed your eyes shut.

You were in an uneasy sleep when a sharp, acrid smell assaulted you, jolting you awake with a violent gasp. Your eyes flew open, blinking rapidly in the dark. Suddenly, your eyes began to water. Your throat burned.

You coughed, your body convulsing as you struggled to breathe. But the air was thick, almost suffocating you with every breath. Through your sleepy haze, it hit you like a lightning bolt.

Smoke.

Thick, dark smoke filled your apartment, obscuring everything in a suffocating nightmare. Adrenaline surged through your veins. You sat upright in bed, your hand flying to cover your mouth and nose with your shirt.

Squinting through the dense fumes, you tried to figure out what was going on, but the haze made it impossible to see anything clearly.

Fuck.

Fuck.

What the hell happened?

A second later, the fire alarm screamed to life, its shrill, ear-splitting wail instantly snapping you out of any remaining sleep.

You needed to get out. Now.

You leapt out of bed, your bare feet hitting the floor with a dull thud. Your hand shot out, grasping for the oversized sweater that lay forgotten at the end of the bed. You yanked it over your head, the fabric covering your thin top.

Stumbling towards the door, you coughed on the smoke that grew thicker, its tendrils clawing at your throat and lungs. You flung open the door, only to be met by a wall of dense, black smoke billowing up the stairwell.

Mrs. Tanaka.

Your elderly neighbor.

The smoke was coming from her apartment, and the realization sent a cold fear straight through your heart.

Covering your mouth and nose with your sleeve, you raced down the stairs, taking them two at a time. The smoke grew thicker with each step, stinging your eyes and making it nearly impossible to breathe.

By the time you reached Mrs. Tanaka's door, you were wheezing and lightheaded, your lungs screaming for clean air.

"Mrs. Tanaka!" you shouted, your voice raw and desperate as you pounded on her door with all the strength you could muster. "Mrs. Tanaka, are you in there? There's a fire!"

Silence. No response.

With your heart pounding, you were about to try the door handle when a voice from below cut through the chaos.

"Is anyone still up there?" a neighbor from the floor below shouted up the stairwell.

"Yes!" you yelled back. "Mrs. Tanaka is still inside! Call the firefighters!"

You didn't wait for a response. You turned back to the door, your hand closing around the scorching metal handle. To your surprise, it turned easily, and the door swung open to reveal a wall of darkness.

Without thinking, you plunged into the apartment, the thick smoke wrapping around you like a suffocating blanket. The heat was intense, searing your skin and making it almost impossible to breathe. Squinting through the haze, you tried to get your bearings, your hand groping along the wall for guidance.

The smoke seemed to be coming from the kitchen, the acrid stench of burning wood and melting plastic stinging your senses. You stumbled forward, making your way deeper into the apartment.

"Mrs. Tanaka!" you called out. "Mrs. Tanaka, are you here?"

But there was no response, just the ominous crackling of the fire and the groaning of the building's structure under the onslaught of the flames.

With each step, the smoke grew thicker, the darkness more absolute. Your lungs burned, every breath a struggle as the toxic fumes filled your airways. Your head began to swim.

You needed to get out.

You tried to find your way back, but your body was failing you. Your lungs screamed for air, the searing pain tearing through your chest like a thousand razor blades. Your vision blurred, the edges of the room fading into a hazy, indistinct mess.

Somehow, you managed to stumble your way back to the door, your hand groping blindly for the doorknob. With a desperate twist, you flung the door open and staggered out into the hallway, gulping in the marginally cleaner air.

But it was too late. The damage had been done.

As soon as you crossed the threshold, your legs gave out beneath you. You crashed to the floor, your knees slamming against the hard surface. The impact knocked the wind out of you, leaving you gasping and disoriented.

You hastily covered your mouth and nose again, but it was futile. Too much smoke. There was already too much smoke in your lungs.

You felt your consciousness slipping away, no matter how hard you pressed your hand against your face. Your other hand clawed at the floor, trying to find purchase, trying to keep yourself upright. But it was a losing battle.

Stupid.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Why did you go in here? What the hell were you thinking?

Desperation clawed at your very being as you looked up and down the hallway, your vision growing dimmer by the second. The realization hit you like a punch to the gut — you might not make it out of this building alive.

Fuck.

You squeezed your eyes shut.

Why were you so stupid? Why couldn't you think straight anymore?

Through the haze of your fading consciousness, you thought you heard the distant wail of sirens, the shouts of firefighters. But they seemed so far away.

As the darkness closed in, you coughed violently, your body trying to expel the noxious fumes. Your head hung low as you struggled to draw even the tiniest breath. But there was no oxygen left.

Then, the blackness claimed you, and you knew no more.

─── ·✧· ───

"Breathe in and out for me, please."

The young doctor instructed, his voice wavering slightly. Even through the dull ache of your headache and the fog of medication, you could feel his fingertips trembling against the bare skin of your back.

You did as instructed, drawing in a deep breath and releasing it.

The doctor moved the stethoscope, the cool metal pressing against a different spot on your back. You couldn't help but notice that he seemed to be placing it a bit off. But you were too weary to care.

"And again, please."

You inhaled, the air burning in your lungs. Before you could exhale, a familiar voice roared down the corridor, slicing through the quiet of the hospital. For a brief moment, you wondered if it might have been better to have died in the flames.

"I don't care about your damn protocols!" Satoru's enraged voice tore through the hospital, undoubtedly terrorizing some poor soul. "You have to fucking call me immediately when something like this happens, you understand?!"

Moments later, Satoru burst into the room, a frazzled-looking nurse trailing behind him. The look on her face mirrored your own desire to simply vanish into thin air.

"We had to wait until—" she tried to explain, but Satoru's attention was already on you, the nurse's presence instantly forgotten. He froze, the color draining from his face as he took in the sight of you sitting in the hospital bed, battered and weak.

"I think we're done here. Thank you," you said cautiously to the doctor beside you, bracing yourself for the inevitable scene Satoru was about to make. You pulled away from the young doctor, who remained silent, seemingly paralyzed by Satoru's sudden appearance.

In a heartbeat, Satoru was at your side, nearly pushing the doctor out of his way in his desperation to reach you. He cradled your face in his hands, forcing you to meet his gaze. The sudden movement sent another wave of pain through your head.

"Easy," you winced.

"Sorry." His hands frantically traced the contours of your face, as if to convince himself you were real. "How are you? Are you okay?"

You managed a weak smile. "I'm fine, Satoru. No need to worry."

A small, relieved smile tugged at his lips as he took in the sight of you, alive and breathing. His expression softened before he leaned forward to rest his forehead against yours. "Don't scare me like that."

The young doctor, who had been silently watching the exchange, finally found his voice. "Excuse me, sir, but who are you? I'm going to have to ask you to step back and let me continue—"

Wrong move.

For someone so hesitant during the examination, he certainly had guts.

Satoru's head snapped towards the doctor, his eyes blazing with a fury that made the poor man visibly shudder. Before he could unleash his wrath, the nurse jumped in, perhaps sensing the impending disaster.

"He's her husband," she stated matter-of-factly.

Ha?

Husband?

The word cut through your pain and nausea like a blade. "We're not married," you quickly clarified.

"But, what?" the nurse stepped forward. "Sir, you can't be in here then. Hospital policy—"

"I am her husband," Satoru insisted.

"Since when?" you demanded.

Satoru's grip on your face tightened ever so slightly. He looked like he wanted to kill you right after he was done with the other two poor souls in the room.

With a harsh exhale, he snatched the clipboard from the now ghostly pale doctor standing beside him. Flipping it open, he scanned the documents quickly. His jaw clenched with each passing second.

"There's no record of inspecting her throat for signs of soot," he stated.

"I am, uh—" the doctor stammered. "I'm not finished with—"

Satoru turned to him, his eyes narrowing. "Did you not check?"

"Oh, I—" the doctor stuttered, looking like he wanted nothing more than for the ground to open up and swallow him whole. Poor guy.

"It's the first thing you check, goddamn it. Did you win your fucking medical degree in a lottery?"

"Satoru—," you began, trying to intervene, but he cut you off.

"Leave us alone," he commanded, his attention snapping back to the nurse and the doctor, who stood frozen in place, their faces sheet-white.

"We can't let you be here if you're not related—" the nurse tried to argue, her voice shaking, but Satoru silenced her with a look that could have frozen hell itself.

"I swear to god, I'll buy this goddamn second-rate hospital and have you all fired if you don't leave us alone. Now."

The nurse and the doctor exchanged a terrified glance. You turned to the young doctor, who looked like he was about to faint, and whispered, "I'm so sorry, my husband can be a bit harsh sometimes. It's okay, you can go."

Your words seemed to break the spell, and they practically tripped over each other in their haste to escape, the door slamming shut behind them with a loud bang. You couldn't blame them.

Satoru could turn really ugly. But then again, so could you.

"You know, you should try being a little nicer to people," you began. "He's just a young resident."

He scoffed. "You say that like you're not a med student yourself."

He turned to you then, his eyes softening just a fraction as they met yours. But the anger was still there, simmering beneath the surface. You looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time since he'd burst into the room.

He was wearing sweatpants and a rumpled, slightly oversized white Oxford shirt that was buttoned wrong, as if he'd thrown it on in a hurry. His hair was disheveled, and there were dark circles under his eyes.

Then you spotted a faint crimson stain blossoming beneath the fabric of his shirt on his upper arm. Your stomach twisted with the familiar dread. He'd been scratching again.

"Are you okay?" you asked softly.

He blinked at you. "Am I okay? You're the one lying in a hospital bed after running into a burning apartment, and you're asking me if I'm okay?"

"That's not an answer."

He moved to your bedside, the mattress dipping under his weight as he sat down next to you. His hand reached out, cupping your cheek with a gentleness that seemed at odds with the fury that had consumed him mere seconds ago. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, really," you said, leaving out the burns. "Besides, I checked myself over."

He arched an eyebrow. "You checked your own airways?"

"Yeah."

"Huh. I should've known," he mused, a weak smile ghosting across his lips. "But seriously, what happened?"

"How did you even know I was here in the first place?"

"I have an alert on you. In every hospital in this country," he said without hesitation, his tone matter-of-fact, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"You—what? You're joking, right?"

"Dead serious." His gaze hardened. "Now, tell me what happened."

"Whoa, hold up, we're not done with this," you interjected. "You have an alert on me? What does that even mean? Is that why the nurse thought you were my husband?"

"It's only for relatives." He shrugged. "Had to tweak your medical records a bit. Technically, we're married now, at least as far as your health insurance is concerned."

"Are you kidding me right now?"

"What? Is the idea of marrying me still such a strange concept to you?"

"Satoru, there are boundaries, you know?"

"Boundaries? With you? I didn't think we ever had those." He leaned in, his face mere inches from yours. "Besides, if we were actually married, I wouldn't need to do that, would I?"

"You're delusional."

"Always for you."

"I hate you."

"Yeah, yeah," he sighed, his shoulders slumping. His hand fell away from your face, leaving your skin cold and bereft. "Anyway, now tell me what happened."

You stared at him for a moment longer. Then, with a heavy sigh, you recounted the events that had led you here.

How you had noticed the smoke and how you rushed into the apartment, how the firefighters had gotten you out of there, or at least that's what they told you, as you had no memory of that. How, thankfully, Mrs. Tanaka was not in her apartment and was doing fine.

She was with her granddaughter and had forgotten the food she had left in the oven. Talk about dementia, huh?

When you finished, you waited for the anger, for the lecture on how stupid it was to run into a burning apartment, how reckless and irresponsible you'd been. But it never came. Instead, Satoru remained silent, so uncharacteristically silent that it almost scared you.

"Don't ever scare me like that again, okay?" he finally whispered, his voice so soft, so broken, so desperate that it nearly shattered your heart. "I can't lose you. Not you."

Don't.

Don't say that.

Don't say you need me.

You wanted to be angry, to scream at him for loving you, for letting you be the reason for his pain, the source of that crimson stain that now seeped across his sleeve, drenching the entire shirt until it was nothing but a bloody red.

But how could you be angry when he stood before you, so vulnerable and broken? How could you deny the executioner the willing blood, the scars he carved into his own flesh with the blade that is your love?

You bleed together after all, beautifully, tragically.

"I'm sorry," you breathed.

He leaned in, his lips a fleeting caress against your forehead, the touch so gentle, so reverent, that you drew in a shuddering breath. He rested his forehead against yours, his eyes fluttering closed.

"I was so terrified." He shook his head slightly, still resting against you, his eyes squeezed shut as if to block out the memory. "So fucking terrified."

"I'm sorry, Satoru." Your hand came to rest on his chest, finding purchase in his shirt, feeling his rapid heartbeat beneath your palm, willing it to slow down. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"You're so stupid sometimes, you know that?"

"Always for you," you echoed.

He laughed, the sound weak and watery, but still so achingly familiar, so uniquely Satoru. He leaned in closer still. His lips ghosted over yours, the touch so light, so fleeting, that for a moment, you wondered if you had imagined it. But then you felt it again, the barest brush of skin against skin.

His hand wound around your waist, pulling you close to him, your bodies molded together like two halves of a whole. You inhaled sharply, fighting against the pain, your mouth open and hovering before his.

You could feel the tension in his muscles, the way he held himself rigid and still, as if it took every ounce of self-control not to close the distance between you, to claim your lips with his own.

And god, how you wanted him to give in.

How you longed for the feel of his mouth on yours, for the taste of him on your tongue, for the heat of his touch branding your skin until it melted away, exposing the raw bones that ached for him beneath.

But then, he pulled away. "You feel good enough to leave?"

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly constricted. "Yes."

"Then let's go home."

─── ·✧· ───

You stood in the doorway of your apartment, your hand frozen on the knob, your eyes unblinking as you took in the scene before you.

Black.

So much black.

Nothingless.

Ashes.

Your space was now a charred, smoky ruin, the walls blackened with soot, the furniture reduced to piles of ash and twisted metal. Yes, you hadn't fully unpacked, even months after moving here.

But still.

It was your place. Small and cozy and messy. Just yours.

Satoru stood beside you, waiting. "Are you okay?"

You didn't answer, couldn't answer, your throat tight, your tongue useless. Instead, you took a step forward, then another, your feet moving of their own.

The living room was a wasteland, the couch a blackened, smoking husk, the bookshelves reduced to piles of charred kindling. The kitchen was even worse, the appliances melted and twisted, the cabinets nothing more than gaping, empty holes in the wall.

You moved through the space like a ghost, your fingers trailing over the ruined surfaces, your eyes taking in every detail, every bit of damage, every lost and destroyed possession.

Satoru followed close behind. He didn't speak. He simply stayed by your side, his eyes never straying from you. "You shouldn't be in here for too long. Your lungs are still strained."

"I know." Your gaze remained fixed on the wreckage before you. "I didn't even fully unpack, you know." You turned to him, your lips twisting into a wry smile. "Can you believe that?"

He didn't say anything, his jaw tightening, his eyes flickering with an emotion you couldn't quite name. He probably knew, deep down, that he was partly responsible for this, that his presence in your life, his constant pushing and pulling, had kept you from truly settling, from making this place your own.

Ironic, isn't it?

Somehow all seemed to be stuck until it went up in flames. As if the grand scheme of things had something against you.

How should you really feel about this? Bitter? Sad? Neither emotion seemed fitting at that moment. It's not like there's a manual on how to react when your apartment burns down, right?

You should be crying. You should be mourning every burned photograph, every cherished book turned to ash. But there was nothing. Just this strange detachment. As if your brain decided it was too much and simply flipped a switch and shut down.

You'd almost laugh at how strangely indifferent you felt to your life going up in flames, if it wasn't so terrifying. As if his mere existence in your life overrode everything else.

"Funny, isn't it?"

"What? Your apartment burning down?" he asked. "No. Not really."

You turned to him. "Wow, someone's killing the mood." You turned away, your eyes sweeping over the ruined apartment once more. "But it's ironic."

"What?"

"This," you gestured around you, "this whole fucking mess, the back and forth, the never fully in, never fully out. And now, here we are, standing in the ashes of everything I've ever owned, and all I can think about is... is you. Why are you taking sedatives again? Why didn't you tell me?" You let out a hollow laugh. "It's messed up, isn't it? I don't think this is how it's supposed to be."

Satoru didn't say anything, but you could feel his eyes on you. And to be fair, you couldn't blame him for not having the words. What could anyone say in a situation like this, when everything felt so absurd?

"Sorry," you said. "It's the painkillers."

Walking away from him, your gaze settled on the charred remains of your bed. You crouched down and reached underneath, your fingers searching for something hidden, something precious.

"Can you help me out for a sec?" you asked, your voice strained with the effort of reaching into the ashy depths.

"What are you—"

"Move it to the side."

He didn't hesitate, his strong hands gripping the scorched headboard and effortlessly shoving it away. You reached further, coughing as the ashes swirled up around you. And there, tucked away in the darkness, your fingers finally brushed against something solid, something familiar.

You pulled out the steely box and flipped open the lid. A heavy breath left your lips. Untouched by the flames, thank god. Turning to Satoru, you held up the box. He loomed over you, one hand braced against the headboard, his brow furrowed.

"Kafka," you said with a smile, and he looked at you like you might have lost your mind.

"You should come stay with me," he said. "At least for now."

"No," you said, your voice flat and final as you stood up, your eyes already scanning the room for anything else that might have survived the fire. You clutched the book to your chest, afraid that if you let it go for even a second, it too would crumble to ashes.

"No?" he asked.

"We both know why this won't work."

"Where else are you planning to go then?"

"I don't know." You shrugged. "Maki's, Yuta's. A hotel. I'll figure something out."

"Don't be stupid," Satoru said, his patience wearing thin. "You know it's only—"

"Rational?" you cut him off, turning around to face him. "Don't you dare lecture me on rationality, Professor. Not you. There's nothing rational about this. About us."

He closed the distance between you in two quick strides. "Listen, we can either stand here and argue about this, or you can just come with me. Either way, you know I'm not going to back down."

"It's funny, isn't it? You never back down, but the second I do the same, you shut me out. Like you're the only one allowed to care. Pretty hypocritical, don't you think?"

Satoru's eyes flashed with anger. "You think this is easy for me?"

"Easy to hurt me? Apparently."

"That's not what this is. That's not what I'm trying to do."

"Isn't it though? Because that's exactly how it feels."

"I know you're hurting," he pleaded, his voice softening. "But please, don't be so stubborn."

"I'm sorry that I'm so difficult. Maybe you should just tell me to shut up again? Maybe if you say it often enough, it'll finally sink in. I'll keep quiet, pretend like everything's fine. And I'll just sit back and wait until I find you overdosed again, but this time I'm too late, and I have to watch you die. Is that what you want? I think you should take more Xanax then, speed up the process."

You held your breath, a shard of ice lodged in your throat. You turned away, unable to face the hurt you knew you'd see in his eyes. How ugly one can become when stripped bare.

Maybe you were not good for him after all. Because your words were weapons, sharpened to a deadly point, and you wielded them with precision if you wanted to.

But there was no escape from this hell. No running away, no hiding from the truth that lay between you, spilled out like guts on the floor. It couldn't be stopped, couldn't be contained. It drew you in deeper, pulling you under, until you were both drowning.

Your father always said that a gentle soul was one who experienced pain but spared others from feeling it. But he never told you how fucking hard that would be.

"Can we just... Can we stop this, just for a second?" Satoru asked quietly.

And in that moment, amidst the wreckage of your apartment, surrounded by the ashes of your old life, you realized you couldn't do this anymore. The altar was soaked. The execution was done. But the blood was on your hands.

"Okay," you said. "Let's go home."

─── ·✧· ───

Satoru's living room was painfully familiar.

But also horrifying.

You'd been here before, after you'd been drugged by your own carelessness—headless after you'd found out about his addiction. And you've been here before, when you fought with him to get clean—been here to find him half-dead after nearly overdosing.

Lifeless and barely breathing.

And now you were here again.

Satoru had fallen back into addiction, and you? Somehow, you felt like you didn't know who you were anymore, your identity bleeding from open wounds onto the already soaked carpet below.

Horrifying, indeed.

But it was your new home from now on. But it didn't feel like a home. Not after what had happened.

You made your way to the kitchen. Grabbing a glass, you filled it with water. At least the move had been quick. No packing required when all your belongings had gone up in flames.

Small mercies, you supposed.

"I'm sorry to leave you alone so soon." Satoru's voice. His footsteps behind you made you turn, and you saw him emerging from the bedroom. "I can't skip this lecture, but I'll be back as soon as I can, okay?"

You nodded, watching as he adjusted his watch on his wrist. He was dressed in his signature professorial attire — a crisp white shirt and tailored slacks, paired with a slightly askew tie.

He looked up then. "Will you be okay here on your own?"

You managed a weak smile, setting your glass down on the counter. "I'm fine, Satoru. You don't have to ask me that every five minutes."

"But how can I not?" he said softly.

You closed your eyes for a moment, the memory of his hurt gaze stinging. Taking a deep breath, you walked over to him. "Really, I'm fine." You reached up to straighten his tie, your fingers lingering on the smooth silk. "You really suck at this, you know."

His hands found their way to your hips, his thumbs tracing circles through the thin fabric of your shirt. "Good thing you're here now, right? Making sure I look presentable."

"At least one thing I'm good at," you said, a bitter edge creeping into your voice.

His fingers twitched against your hips, and you instantly regretted letting your resentment slip out yet again. It wasn't him you were angry with, you desperately needed to remind yourself of that.

But the frustration, the fear, the sheer exhaustion of holding it all together was building to a breaking point. Each fight felt like another chip off an already fragile foundation, and you were terrified of what would happen when there was nothing left.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, gazing up at him. You forced a smile, hoping to ease the worry etched on his face. "You need to get to the university."

"I know." His arms tightened around you, drawing you impossibly closer, as if he could mend everything standing between you if only he held you tightly enough. "Just a moment longer, love," he pleaded, his voice a ragged whisper against your hair. "I... I thought I lost you."

"Okay," you breathed, melting into his embrace and resting your head against his heart. He held you close, the pressure against your burns sending a sharp sting through your body.

Time seemed to still as you stood there, entwined in each other's arms, the rest of the world fading away until there was nothing but this—this quiet, fleeting moment suspended between the next battle, a calm before yet another storm, of that you were sure.

Reluctantly, Satoru pulled back, reaching for his wallet. He retrieved a sleek black credit card and held it out to you. "The pin is 2947," he said. "The daily limit is one thousand, but I can increase it if you need more. I don't have much food in the house right now, you may need to order some."

You stared at the card, then back at him. "Satoru, I have my own money. You don't have to—"

"I know," he interrupted. "But please, do me the favor. Besides, I'll be eating the food too, right? So really, it's for both of us."

Something in his eyes silenced your objection. "Okay," you said, your fingers closing around the card.

"Oh, and here." He fished out his keys, holding them out to you. "I can get another set made later—"

"No, I—," you said, "I still have your keys." You met his gaze. "You said I should keep them. So I kept them."

A faint smile tugging at his lips.

"Now go, before you'll be really late," you added.

He reached out then, threading his fingers through your hair and gently pulling you close once more. He placed a tender kiss on top of your head before stepping back. You watched as he grabbed his briefcase and headed for the door.

And just like that, he was gone.

The sound of the door closing behind him echoed through the suddenly too-quiet, too-spacious, and too-unfamiliar apartment.

Running a hand through your hair, your fingers caught on a few stray strands still holding traces of ash from the fire. You desperately needed a shower.

You made your way to the bathroom. As you pushed open the door, a wave of nausea slammed into you, doubling you over. Vivid and unmerciful memories clawed their way to the surface — Satoru on the cold tile floor, his face ashen, his body still as death.

Staggering back, you gripped the doorframe for support, fighting the bile that scorched your throat. The image was seared into your brain, a permanent scar that refused to fade. You closed the door, shutting out the painful memory.

You took a deep breath.

Yeah, taking a shower would definitely be a challenge.

─── ·✧· ───

You couldn't.

You tried but you simply couldn't.

How pathetic is that?

You were not even able to take a shower.

In the end, you settled for somehow washing yourself with a damp cloth in the kitchen and bandaging your burns. It was the best you could manage.

You knew you needed to eat something, but hunger was nowhere to be found, so you figured if you'd order a lot of different things maybe something will wander into your stomach, or so you thought.

When the takeaway finally arrived, you sat at the table and eyed the various containers and dishes. One leg up on the chair, knee drawn to your chest.

No hunger.

Nothing.

Satoru would be home soon anyway, he sure was hungry. Strange how you knew that, even now. How strangely, intimately familiar you were with his schedule.

The minutes ticked by, each one feeling like an eternity. And all you could do was sit and wait until you felt like yourself again. But somehow, you couldn't get your mind out of that bathroom. His lifeless form, the cold tile beneath him. It was seared into your brain.

You couldn't shake the sickening feeling of helplessness that had engulfed you in that moment, the realization that no matter how desperately you wanted to, you were powerless to save him.

It was a feeling you knew all too well, an awful feeling that had taken root in your chest the day your father died. You had been just a child then, too young to understand the finality of death, too small to do anything.

For years, you had clung to the belief that if only you had been older, if only you had been stronger, you could have saved him.

But maybe that was not the truth.

Maybe it wasn't about being a child at all. Maybe there was something inherently wrong with you. Maybe Sukuna was right.

As the sun began to set, casting a warm light through the apartment windows, you heard the familiar sound of keys clicking in the lock before shortly Satoru stepped through the door.

He paused, his eyes widening as he took in the array of takeaway containers scattered across the table. A playful grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he turned to you, eyebrows raised in mock surprise. "Is that all for me, or did you invite some friends over?"

You returned his smile. "I figured you'd be hungry."

Satoru chuckled, his laughter a welcome break from the unbearable silence that had filled the apartment in his absence. "Someone sure was hungry." He placed his briefcase and keys on the side table, the familiar routine bringing a sense of normalcy to the otherwise surreal situation. "How are you feeling?"

He crossed the room to where you sat, his hand coming to rest gently on the back of your head. Leaning down, he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering for a moment before he made his way to the kitchen. The sound of the fridge opening reached your ears, followed by the crackle of a water bottle being unsealed.

"I'm fine." You turned your head to watch him, your eyes following the line of his throat as he took a long swig. "How was your day?"

He suddenly stopped, nearly choking on his water. "Did you just ask me how my day was?"

"Is that so strange?"

"No, I—" he blinked, a smile tugging at his lips. "I like that."

"Domestic, isn't it?"

"Yeah," he mused, his gaze softening. "I could get used to that."

You remained silent for a second longer, before Satoru broke the spell, gesturing towards the table with a tilt of his head. "You really went all out, didn't you?"

You shrugged. "I guess I got a bit carried away. I couldn't decide what I wanted, so I just ordered a little bit of everything."

Satoru returned to the table, settling into the chair opposite you, his eyes roaming over the vast array of dishes you'd ordered. Reaching for a container, Satoru popped it open and inhaled deeply. "Well, you certainly made good use of that credit card."

"Maybe you should consider upping the limit, after all."

Satoru grinned. "That's no problem, love. Anything for you."

He broke apart a pair of wooden chopsticks and started to eat, but halted just a second later, his gaze falling on the perfectly arranged food before him. "You didn't eat anything."

"I did," you said.

"Don't lie to me."

You paused. "It's not like I didn't try."

He exhaled heavily, then set the chopsticks down and leaned back in his chair, his gaze never leaving your face.

"That shouldn't stop you from eating. You must be hungry," you added.

"It's okay. I ate at the university."

His gaze held you captive, those impossibly blue eyes now soft and unguarded, filled with a yearning that made your heart ache. It was a look that had become so familiar, a look that filled your heart as much as it fueled your fear.

But you weren't sure you could bear it anymore.

The constant worry, the sleepless nights, the fear of finding him lifeless on the bathroom floor—it was all too much. Every moment spent with him was a delicate dance on the edge of a knife, never knowing when the blade might slip and cut you both to the bone.

"Don't look at me like that," you whispered.

"Like what?"

"You know what I mean."

"No," he shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. "Say it."

"Because it makes it easier?"

"It hurts better coming from your lips."

"And you need that?"

"Anything you give me, yes."

You tore your gaze away from his, unable to bear the blue of his eyes any longer. "I can't do this, Satoru." You stood up and started pacing the room, turning away from him.

"Then tell me," he started, his voice laced with desperation, "what do you want me to do? You want me sober, fine, I'm trying, even when it feels like it's killing me. You want me to keep my distance, okay, I'll try, even if it rips me apart. I'm yours, so just tell me what you want, and I'll do it. I'm at your mercy!"

You shook your head, refusing to look at him, your eyes stinging with unshed tears. "You don't understand."

He stood up, his hands slamming down on the table. "Then make me understand!"

"I live in constant fear, Satoru." You spun around to face him, your eyes burning. "And I don't think I can do this anymore. This fear, it's turning me into someone I don't even recognize anymore." The words poured out of you, a flood of pain and frustration you couldn't hold back any longer. "I try so hard not to be anxious all the time, but I can't trust you, Satoru. Not your actions, not your words. I can't even trust that you'll tell me the important things. I can't trust you when you say you love me, and I definitely can't trust you when you say you've got it under control, while you're taking more and more pills like it's nothing. How can I trust that you won't take it too far? That I won't have to plan my speech for your fucking funeral?"

Not again.

Not again you would ever want to see his body so still.

You took a shaky breath, your voice barely a whisper. "And I can't shake this feeling... that it's all my fault."

"What?" His gaze softened, confusion etched on his face. "Why would you think that?"

"You said it yourself. I'm pushing you."

"That's not—I didn't—" he started, but stopped, realizing he had indeed said those words. "Is that why you won't let me help you?"

"There's comfort in self-destruction, isn't there?"

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Because I would have to be an addict first, to know?" you said, the question a knife, twisting, cutting, drawing blood.

He was silent.

And you were done. Empty. A shell of the person you once were. It was unfair, and you hated yourself for it, for letting the venom spill from your lips, for hurting the one person who didn't deserve it.

But you were at your limit.

The love you had for him, the love he had for you, it was a malignant growth, metastasizing, consuming, destroying everything in its wake. It was a sickness with no cure. No treatment. No hope for remission.

Symptom and cause, all at once.

And in that moment, standing there, your heart splintering with each passing second, one truth burned with cruel clarity. His sobriety, his chance at a future, was eating him from the inside out.

But the other truth, the one that clawed at your insides, was that you might not be strong enough to survive it either. If he couldn't break free, if he couldn't stop — you'd be the one left to bury him.

It was a fear that gnawed at you, a constant, aching presence that made it hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to imagine a future where you both made it out alive.

You loved him with a fierce, irrational intensity, but could you be strong enough to stay by his side and watch him slowly kill himself? To be his executioner or his mourner?

"What did Sukuna say to you, love?" he asked suddenly, so softly.

"Nothing." You averted your gaze, the lie heavy on your tongue. "I didn't talk to him."

"Don't lie to me. Something's wrong. What is it?"

You met his gaze. "What's the reason you're back on the sedatives?"

Satoru's shoulders slumped, the weight of the question pressing down on him. He sank onto the chair, elbows digging into the table as he scrubbed his hands over his face, then raked them through his hair.

A tense silence hung in the air. Finally, he raised his head, his gaze heavy with unspoken thoughts.

He couldn't tell you. Didn't trust you enough.

You turned away, unable to bear the weight of his silence. Leaning against the kitchen counter, you gripped the edge until your knuckles turned white. As you shifted, the button-down shirt you'd borrowed from him rode up, exposing the red marks on your thighs.

Satoru's reaction was immediate. His chair clattered to the floor as he surged to his feet, crossing the distance between you in a heartbeat, his fingers hovering over the burns. "You're hurt."

"It's nothing." You braced your hands against the counter behind you, trying to create some distance.

"This isn't nothing." His voice was strained, his hands trembling as he pushed the fabric higher, revealing more of the patchwork of pain that crawled up your leg. Before he could uncover more, your hand closed around his wrist.

"It's okay. I took care of it," you said.

His eyes locked onto yours, their intensity silencing your protests. You let go of his hand. Gently, he pushed your shirt higher, his touch feather-light as he traced the red burns on your thighs.

His brows furrowed with each new discovery, the marks growing angrier, deeper, until he reached the hastily applied bandage at your waist. You could practically feel the question in his touch.

"Satoru, stop. It's—"

But it was too late. He quickly undid the bandages, ignoring your protests. The bandage fell away, revealing the ugly truth beneath.

"You have second-degree burns on your waist," he said.

"First degree," you tried to play it down. "Don't be dramatic."

"Why didn't you say something?"

"It doesn't matter." You looked away. "They'll heal."

Satoru's jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek. He stumbled back a step, turned away from you, and raked his hands through his hair, yanking at the strands with a guttural growl of frustration.

The tension in the room was unbearable, you knew he was only one stupid word away from snapping. He started pacing the length of the kitchen like a caged animal. You watched him, your heart strangely calm.

He slammed his fists against the counter opposite you, his head bowed. "You infuriating woman!" The words were barely out before his fist connected with the wood again, the impact sending a tremor through the room, leaving a visible dent.

You didn't flinch. You knew his anger wasn't directed at you, but at the situation, at the unfairness of it all, at the helplessness that threatened to consume you both. You knew that. You felt it too.

He slumped over the counter once more, his head buried in his hands, his fingers tearing at his hair. You were sure he was pulling out strands, his shoulders heaving with each ragged breath.

When he finally turned back to you, his eyes were carefully blank, a mask over the storm raging within.

He crossed the room, his body crowding yours against the counter. His hand reached out, cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing the delicate skin beneath your eye.

"It matters to me," he whispered. His other hand settled on your hip, his fingers slipping beneath the waistband of his boxers, which you had also borrowed, to trace the edge of the bandage. "You matter to me."

His touch was feather-light, despite the tension that still shimmered through every line of his body. "I'll change that bandage." It wasn't a question, but a statement of intent. You nodded.

You perched on the kitchen counter, holding your shirt up to your chest. Satoru stepped between your legs. You shivered as his fingers brushed against your skin, carefully peeling away the old bandage, the fabric sticking to the raw flesh beneath.

He didn't say anything as the full extent of the damage was revealed, but you could feel his silent fury.

You knew it wasn't directed at you, but at your stubborn refusal to let him in, to share your pain. You hadn't wanted to trouble him, to add another burden to his already heavy shoulders.

You watched him silently through lowered lashes as he cleaned the wound, his fingers ghosting over the damaged skin like a whisper. You flinched at the contact, a hiss of pain escaping your lips.

"Sorry," he said.

"It's okay."

As he began to remove the dead skin around the burn, a searing pain shot through your body. Your head snapped to the side, your teeth sinking into your lower lip to stifle the scream that clawed at your throat.

Satoru paused, his eyes searching yours. "Can you hold on a bit longer for me, love?"

You nodded, unable to trust your voice. You knew he was being as gentle as possible, but the pain was nearly unbearable. Your hand found his shoulder, gripping it tightly, the other one still clutching your shirt. Your fingers dug into his skin, but he didn't flinch, his focus solely on you.

You leaned into him, suddenly boneless with exhaustion and pain, your forehead coming to rest against his shoulder. He wrapped a fresh bandage around your waist, his touch both firm and gentle.

When he was finished, he didn't step away. Instead, he let his hands rest on your hips. He nuzzled his nose into your hair, inhaling deeply. "Don't ever lie to me again when you're hurt," he said, his voice muffled but resolute. "Promise me."

You lifted your head from his shoulder, your nose brushing against his jaw. He turned his face towards you, his lips a hair's breadth away, so close you could almost taste him on your tongue.

"I promise," you breathed.

A beat of silence passed. Then, his voice softened, almost hesitant. "You didn't call your mother back."

"Huh?"

"She called me. She's worried about you. You haven't answered her calls in weeks."

"I... I can't right now," you whispered, the admission sticking in your throat, the shame of it too heavy to bear. Not another fight. There were already too many, too many wounds that hadn't healed, too many scars that would never fade.

"We can visit her together again. If that would make it easier for you."

"Okay," you whispered, your voice unsteady.

A truce settled between you, a silent agreement to avoid the painful truths for now. He wouldn't push you about Sukuna, and you wouldn't push him about the pills. You both knew this dance, this careful avoidance of the real issues that festered beneath the surface.

But for now, in this moment, you could pretend. Pretend that love was enough. But was it really? Was love alone enough to keep you both alive?

Deep down, you knew there was no happy ending, no miraculous recovery, no fairy tale love that could conquer all. There was only the harsh, ugly reality of addiction and the cold, hard truth of a love that had become a prison, a death sentence disguised as devotion.

"I love you," Satoru whispered, breaking the silence.

His lips hovered over yours, a feather-light touch that once set your soul on fire, but now left you cold and empty.

You slid off the counter, your body brushing against his as you stood. You turned away, unable to face him, unable to face the love that had become a disease, a cancer ate away at your very being.

With a trembling hand, you wiped away the single tear that escaped your eye. "Maybe you should stop that."

"Not even in death," he said to you.

"I'm going to bed," you said to him.

You walked away.

He didn't follow.

Perhaps this was your curse — to forever dance on the knife's edge of love and hate, never able to fully commit to either. Or maybe it was simply human nature, the constant struggle between attraction and repulsion that defined so many relationships.

─── ·✧· ───

You awoke with a start.

For a moment, you lay there, disoriented, confused, your mind struggling to make sense of your sudden alarm. You sat up, your body heavy. And then, you heard it, a sound that cut through the silence of the night.

You knew what it was. Heard it once before.

Satoru.

You were on your feet before you could think, your body moving of its own accord, carrying you over to his bedroom, nearly slipping on the suddenly so slick floor. You pushed open the door, your heart in your throat.

And there he was, thrashing on the bed, his body drenched in sweat, his face contorted in agony.

"Satoru," you said as you moved over. "Wake up."

But you knew this. Had been here before.

Without waiting a second, you climbed onto the bed, your body pressing against his, as you straddled his hips. You cupped his face, your fingers threading through his hair. "Satoru! Please, wake up, it's just a dream, it's not real!"

Still, he remained trapped.

You leaned down, pressing your forehead against his. "Satoru," you said, your breath fanning over his face. "I'm here, I'm right here, please, come back to me."

And then, his eyes flew open, wide and haunted.

He sat up abruptly, pushing you back in doing so, until you sat on his lap, your hands sliding down to rest against his bare, sweat-slicked chest, feeling the rapid beating of his heart beneath your fingertips.

He looked at you, his gaze unfocused, his mind still seemingly trapped, as if he couldn't quite believe that you were real, that you were here with him.

"It's okay." You reached up, your thumbs brushing away the single tear that streamed down his cheeks. "You're safe, I'm here, it was just a dream."

He blinked, his eyes clearing, his mind slowly returning to the present, to the reality of your presence, your touch. "You're here," he whispered, his voice raw, broken, barely audible. "You're not hurt?"

"No, I'm fine, I'm here," you whispered, your arms wrapping around him, your fingers tangling in his hair. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I'm sorry," he repeated, his arms coming up your spine to wrap around you, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "I'm so sorry."

You held him, your hands wrapped around his neck, your fingers in his hair. "It's okay, I'm here."

"Please." His grip tightened around your waist, pulling you close with a searing pain that echoed through the burns on your skin. You bit back a gasp, refusing to let him see how much it hurt. "Please don't leave me."

Your heart nearly shattered at his sudden admission, your grip tightening on him in response. "Stupid," you said. "How could I ever leave you. I'm tethered to you, after all."

─── ·✧· ───

"It's not always the same."

Satoru's voice was hoarse, barely rising above a whisper.

"It's fractured, parts and pieces that I can't really explain. And then I'm alone in this hole, like at the bottom of a well, surrounded by nothing and everything at the same time, and it's crushing me," he paused. "I don't know, it doesn't make sense."

"Maybe it's not supposed to make sense."

"But dreams mean something, don't they?"

"Dreams are just dreams," you said softly. "Thoughts are just thoughts. It's what we do with them that matters. How we choose to act."

Cool, crisp air of the early morning enveloped you both as you walked along the pier, the weathered wooden planks creaking beneath your feet. The sky above was a deep indigo, slowly yielding to the soft hues of dawn painting the horizon.

Around you, the city around you was slowly coming to life, the distant hum of traffic and the occasional cry of a seagull punctuating the quiet dawn.

You glanced out at the water, watching as the first few fishing boats began their journey out to sea, their lights flickering like fireflies in the night. Satoru walked beside you, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his jacket.

Suddenly, he stopped. You halted too, turning to face him.

"Sometimes," he said, "sometimes I see you in my dreams."

"And what do I do?"

"Nothing. You're just there." He hesitated, as if the memory itself was too painful to relive. "But I see your hands, covered in blood. It won't wash away. And I can't wake up, can't look away."

"What do you think happened?"

"I don't know. But I know that whatever it is, whatever happened—it's my fault."

"Why would you think that?"

Satoru met your gaze, his eyes haunted. "Because that's what I do, isn't it? I'm an addict. I hurt people. You said it yourself."

You swallowed, hating yourself for how ugly and hurtful your words could be, even to the people you loved most. "No. You're not."

His frown deepened.

"No, you're not," you repeated, stepping closer. "Not to me. That's a label you've given yourself." You tilted your head back, meeting his eyes. "Satoru, if I could give you one thing, it would be the ability to see yourself through my eyes. To me, you're just Satoru. That's all I want, all I've ever wanted. And I..." You paused, your voice catching. "I hate you, without knowing how, or when, or why. I simply do. And I'm sorry that I've been failing to show you that lately, but I'm trying."

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips then, a soft, gentle curve that seemed almost foreign on his face, as if he'd forgotten how to truly smile. "You confused 'love' with 'hate'," he teased.

"Don't get ahead of yourse—," you began but he suddenly reached out, his hand closing around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He cupped your chin with his other hand, tilting your face up.

He studied your face, his eyes tracing every curve and contour. But then his expression hardened, like a mask slipping into place. His fingers brushed through your hair. "You still have ashes on you."

Your chest tightened, making it hard to breathe. "You know, It's hard taking a shower in the same bathroom where you nearly died," you said, hating how your voice was close to breaking.

His eyes widened. It was as if the pieces of a puzzle were falling into place, a painful clarity that shattered him from within. His lips parted, as if to speak, but the words were stuck.

"I never meant to hurt you. Not you," he whispered.

"But you did, Satoru. And you'll do it again," you said. "But I'm yours to break. So it's okay."

He leaned closer, his face mere inches from yours. "Don't say something like that." His gaze was fixed on your lips, as if he could taste the pain in your words, as if he wanted to consume it, to take it into himself and bear it for you.

"Then be careful with me, Satoru. Tell me what's going on."

Satoru was silent for a long moment, the only sounds the distant cry of seagulls and the gentle lapping of the waves against the shore. Finally, he spoke. "It's not because of you. The sedatives, I mean."

"Is it about Sukuna?

"No... I mean, yes, but not mostly," he admitted, his brow furrowed. "It's my parents."

"We don't have to go to them, Satoru. You don't have to go there."

"You know why we have to, why I have to."

"Then let's confront this lawsuit head-on. Take the fight straight to Naoya."

His jaw tightened. "No. I won't let that happen. I won't let you get dragged into this."

"Why not? It's my choice, Satoru."

"No. We won't do that. End of discussion."

Without a word, he released you, his fingers slipping from your waist. He stepped back, his footsteps echoing against the weathered planks of the pier as he made his way to the railing to lean against it.

You followed him, the salty air whipping around you, carrying with it the briny scent of the sea and the faint traces of seaweed and fish. Satoru was silent, his gaze fixed on the vast ocean. You followed his gaze.

Around you, the pier was coming to life, the low murmur of voices and the clanking of equipment drifting on the breeze. Fishing boats bobbed gently on the water, their white hulls gleaming in the sun, their crews moving about on deck, preparing for the day ahead.

"I think my problem is that I don't know how to talk about it, how to make you understand things I cannot understand myself," Satoru began. "There's just this chaos inside my head, and I don't know how to sort it out."

"Then don't. Just let it out."

"Huh?"

"You don't have to sort it out. Just speak and I'll listen."

He took a deep breath. "Growing up I never had anyone to look up to. Just people I swore I'd never become. My parents... they were always pushing, always demanding. How do they say it? Wanting the best for me and all that. Top surgeons for generations. It's in my blood." He paused, staring out at the horizon. "But they never asked if I wanted that. Never cared to give me a chance to just... breathe, and think."

He let out a bitter laugh. "And the worst part? I was good at it. A natural. But that only made it worse, made me hate it even more."

You shifted closer, your hand finding the railing beside his.

"I tried talking to them," he continued, "thought if I could just find the right words, I could make them understand what they were doing to me. Get them to change. But no matter how much I screamed, how raw my throat got, they never listened. I could never make them listen."

His fingers twitched at his side, and you saw his nails digging into his palms.

"So I just... stopped trying. Stopped speaking. Went through the motions. It was easier to do what they wanted, to get their attention and approval by being the perfect surgeon they expected. And ironically, it was so damn easy. Maybe that's what got me into addiction so easily."

Satoru glanced down at his hands, his fingers clenched tight. "I still love surgery," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper, as if confessing a shameful secret. "Even after everything they put me through, I love it. How screwed up is that?"

"Do your parents know? About the addiction?" you asked.

"No. I don't think they ever cared enough to notice. Or maybe they just turned a blind eye. I don't know." He looked down at his hands, realizing he'd drawn blood, and quickly unclenched his fists. "I keep telling myself I should forgive them, that holding onto this anger and resentment is pointless. I mean, I'm in my thirties, I should be able to let it go, right? But I just... I don't know if I can."

"What makes you think you have to forgive them?"

He shrugged, avoiding your eyes. "Isn't that what you're supposed to do? Be the bigger person, rise above it all? Parents are only human, right?"

"No." You stepped closer, tilting his chin up so he had no choice but to meet your gaze. "Satoru, listen to me. You don't have to feel forgiveness or sympathy for your parents, and you don't have to wait for those feelings to appear. You don't owe them your forgiveness. Neither are you defined by their inability to love. You can't force someone to care or to see what they don't want to see."

He stared at you for a long moment, his eyes searching yours. You reached out, your fingers intertwining with his, his blood warm against your skin. "Come with me," you said softly.

You walked down the pier towards the harbor, where the fishermen were already bustling about, preparing for the day's catch. Hands still intertwined with Satoru's, you weaved your way through the activity. He followed half a step behind you, letting you lead.

"When my father died, I wanted to quit," you said, salty air filling your lungs. "Just... walk away from it all. Never see the inside of a hospital again, never open another stupid neurology textbook. I hated that antiseptic smell, how it seemed to cling to everything, even to myself. And I was so angry. Angry at the world, at fate, at everything. And I was alone with this, because my mom just shut herself off. Couldn't face it."

You paused, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat. "I felt so torn. Between this anger and my love for medicine. Loving it and hating it in equal measure. I threw myself into work, anything to distract myself from the fact that I couldn't possibly love something that only brought me so much pain. So I chose to hate it, believing anger was what kept me walk."

As you spoke, an old beagle, its brown and white fur speckled with gray, ambled onto the pier. Its long ears dangled as it sniffed its way between a few stalls, its tail wagging gently. It made its way towards you, stopping beside you and sniffing at your leg.

Crouching down, you held out your hand, letting the dog sniff. It hesitated for a moment, its nose twitching as it took in your scent. Then, as if making a decision, it nuzzled into your palm, its tail wagging happily. You couldn't help but smile as you ran your fingers through its soft fur.

"But you don't hate it anymore," Satoru observed quietly. "What changed?"

"It's not linked, you know. It's only in your head." ​​The beagle nuzzled your hand, its tail thumping contentedly against the pier. "You can love something without the circumstances that made you hate it. You can love surgery without the grief, love it without the abuse," you paused, your voice softening, "love the man without the addiction."

Just then, an old fisherman approached, his face etched with deep lines and his skin tanned from years under the sun. "Ah, that old rascal again," he said, shaking his head. "Always getting into mischief."

You looked up at him, a smile tugging at your lips. "Is he yours?"

"Nah," the fisherman replied, "he's a bit of a stray, this one. Lives around the pier here. We all try to catch him sometimes, but he's a slippery fella."

Just as he said that, the beagle perked up its ears, gave one last nuzzle to your hand, and trotted off down the pier.

The fisherman grimaced. "See? Always one step ahead. At least he didn't manage to steal my fish today."

You stood up, brushing off your knees. "He's a smart one," you agreed, watching the dog disappear into the crowd.

The fisherman, with a final nod and a wave, turned back to his stall, resuming his preparations for the day. The rhythmic clinking of metal and the smell of fresh fish filled the air once again.

You turned back to Satoru, your eyes locking with his. "Sometimes," you picked up where you'd left off, "we cling to the pain because we're afraid that if we let it go, we'll lose the last connection we have to what we've lost. But anger and pain aren't the only way to stay connected."

You reached for his hand again and pulled him along as you made your way down the pier, the bustle of the fishmongers surrounding you. Their voices rose in a chorus of shouts and laughter, and in the distance you could hear the gentle rhythm of the waves.

The day's catch was displayed on beds of glistening ice, from sleek silver mackerel to plump pink shrimp, their scales catching the light like tiny prisms as you waved through the activity.

At the very end of the pier, you stopped, both of you drawn to the vast expanse of the ocean stretching out before you, a shimmering carpet of blue and gold.

The breeze picked up, tugging at your hair and clothes, the salty tang of the sea filling your lungs with each breath. You pulled Satoru's borrowed jacket closer around your shoulders.

"I know there's stability in self-destruction, in prolonging sadness," you said, "but maybe this sadness and anger is just the grief of not having the parents you needed."

"You know what I hate about you?" Satoru asked.

"What, that I look better in your jacket than you do?"

"No, although that's definitely a close second."

"What is it then?" you asked, both of you gazing out to the lazy dance of the waves.

"I hate how easily I got addicted to you," he confessed. "In ways I can't even begin to put into words. How quickly you became a part of me, like you were always meant to be there. Every day, every moment, you're in my head, under my skin. I can't even sleep at night without thinking about you, without wanting to hear your voice, to touch you. Because with you, breathing never felt like a burden. And I think that's something I'm not used to."

He paused, his gaze finally meeting yours. "I care about you, more than I ever thought I could care about anyone. And that terrifies me. It terrifies me to be with you. And I have a lot of regrets about that, about how I've handled things. But I'm trying, I really am. And I'm sorry I haven't been doing a good job lately. I'm trying to be more easy to love."

"You were never hard to love, Satoru, not for me."

Satoru's lips curved into a smile. He took a sharp inhale, his hand coming up to tilt your chin upwards, his gaze on your lips. But before he could lean in, a sudden bark shattered the silence, startling you both.

The stray beagle from before trotted back over, his paws tapping softly against the weathered wood of the pier. His tail wagged as he made his way over, stopping at your feet and sitting down, looking up at you.

"He must really like you," Satoru said against your lips.

You looked down, smiling as the beagle leaned against your leg. "Seems like it." You crouched down again, the beagle leaning into your touch, his soft fur brushing against your fingers. "Guess I just have a thing for old, broken things that no one else wants," you quipped, scratching behind the dog's ears.

Satoru's smile twitched. "Ouch."

He watched you for a second as the sun, slowly rising, painted the sky in hues of pale pink and gold, casting long shadows across the weathered wood planks and reflecting off the calm waters of the harbor.

"Will you tell me what Sukuna said to you?" he asked.

You stopped petting the dog, your smile fading. "He said I was no good for you. That you'd be better off without me."

"And you believe that?"

"I don't know." You resumed petting the dog, your fingers tracing absentmindedly through its fur. "Maybe I am. Maybe I make things harder than they need to be."

Satoru crouched down beside you, the dog curiously peeking up at him as he reached out to gently cup your cheek. "I want you to make my life harder," he said. "Because you make me want to be better, to do better. And even when it's hard, even when I mess up, I'd rather face it all with you than have an easy life without you."

"What if I push you too far? What if I lose myself again? Say those awful things again?"

"It doesn't matter," he said firmly, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. "I want your awful. I want all of you. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. And I'm not letting you go, no matter how hard it gets."

"I didn't mean to hurt you," you whispered.

Satoru's gaze softened. "Nothing you say can hurt me."

The beagle, sensing the change in the atmosphere, nudged his head under your hand again, comforting you. You looked down at him, a small smile on your lips.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you that Sukuna is back," Satoru said after a moment. "I was scared."

"It's okay," you said, looking up at him. "I'm scared too."

He let out a shaky breath. "Stupid what fear makes you do, huh?"

"What would you do if you weren't scared?" you asked.

Satoru blinked, taken aback by the question. He slowly rose to his feet, turning towards the vast ocean. You followed him, the dog settling at your feet. Satoru leaned back against the railing of the pier, his gaze fixed on his feet. "Without fear?"

"Without any fear."

He huffed. "I would quit my job. Sell all that property that ties me to my parents, and buy us a little house, somewhere far away from here, somewhere that feels like home. I'd get us an old, grumpy dog, just like him." He glanced down at the beagle at your feet. 

Then he looked up, meeting your gaze. "And I'd marry you, in a heartbeat, without a second thought. I'd spend every day of the rest of my life making sure you never doubted, even for a moment, just how much you mean to me." 

He paused and looked out at the ocean again. "I'd try rehab again, as many times as it takes, until I get it right, until I can be the man I want to be for you."

You moved closer, closing the distance between you. "Then do it scared, Satoru," you said, your voice soft but unwavering. "You don't have to wait until your past is undone, until you feel forgiveness for your parents, or until this mess with Sukuna is over. You are not paralyzed by it. So do it scared."

Your hand reached up, cupping his cheek, your thumb gently tracing the stubble on his jaw. "I'm scared too. Scared of how much I feel for you, of how deeply you've burrowed into my heart. But I'm willing to do it scared, if you are. Together. Because I can't stand this silence between us."

Satoru leaned in, his hands finding your hips. You tilted your head back, your heart pounding as his lips hovered just a breath away.

"So is this a yes?"

"To what?"

"Marrying me?"

"No."

"No?"

"Ask me again when we're both in a better place. And you'll get the answer you want."

His lips curved into a sly smile, his dimples deepening. "Can I kiss you?"

"Since when do you ask permission?"

"Since we're... like this."

"Like what?"

"Separated," he said, "or something like that."

"We're never really separated, are we?"

"I don't know," he breathed, his lips so close now that you could feel his warmth against your skin. "All I know is that I want you. I've only ever wanted you—"

And with those words, you closed the distance between you, your lips meeting his. His arms wrapped around you, carefully avoiding your burns, pulling you flush against him.

In one swift motion, he lifted you off the ground, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

You could taste the salt on his skin, feel the roughness of his stubble against your cheek, the gentle caress of the wind in your hair. In the distance, waves crashed against the shore.

In that stolen moment, the currents met again, their crimson stains matching perfectly and the pain of the past seemed to melt away, leaving only the two of you, hearts beating as one, souls intertwined in a way that defied logic.

Finally, he gently set you back down, his forehead resting against yours. "What's your favorite color?" he asked.

"What?"

"Your favorite color, what is it?"

"I don't know, blue?"

Back home, you lay together in his bed, the guest room long forgotten. He pulled you close, his strong arms wrapped around you. And for the first time in a long time, Satoru slept soundly, the nightmares that had haunted him finally silenced.

─── ·✧· ───

The next morning, you were rudely awakened by the obnoxious ringing of the doorbell. Seriously, couldn't you just have a normal wake-up call for once in this chapter? Is that too much to ask, author?

Anyway.

With a groan, you rolled over, your hand reaching out for Satoru, wanting to shove him out of bed to answer the door. But your fingers met only cold, empty sheets. Your eyes blinked open.

He wasn't there.

Pushing yourself up on your elbows, you glanced around the room, your gaze falling on a small note on the bedside table. You reached for it.

"Had to leave early for a faculty meeting. Breakfast is in the fridge. Construction workers coming at 10, let them in, they know what to do. I love you." It was written in Satoru's distinctive, slanted handwriting.

You stared at the note, not sure whether the unexpected construction workers or the casual "I love you" at the end was more unsettling. Satoru hadn't said anything about construction work, and a little warning would have been nice.

But he made breakfast. Husband points for that.

Glancing at the clock on the nightstand, you felt your heart skip a beat. 10:15. The construction workers were already here, and you were still in bed, wearing nothing but one of Satoru's t-shirts and a pair of his boxers you'd borrowed last night. Lovely.

Cursing under your breath, you scrambled out of bed, grabbed some sweatpants from the dresser, and pulled them on, almost tripping in your rush to get to the door. The doorbell rang again, the sound even more insistent than before, as you hurried down the hallway.

Then you skidded to a halt. There, sprawled across the living room sofa, was the beagle from yesterday. He blinked sleepily, his head tilting as if he were as annoyed as you were about the doorbell.

What? How did he get in here? Did Satoru bring him?

The doorbell's relentless chime pulled you back to reality. You shook your head, you'll deal with this later. With a final glance at the unexpected houseguest, you unlocked the door and swung it open, your eyes widening at the sight that greeted you.

There, standing on the threshold, were three burly men in hard hats and work boots, their arms crossed over their broad chests as they stared down at you with impatient expressions. If you didn't know better, you'd think they were here to kill you.

Husband minus points for that. At least do it yourself, coward.

"Ms. Gojo?" the one in front asked, ripping you out of your trance as you seemed to be frozen, his voice gruff. "We're here for the bathroom renovation. Mr. Gojo said to start at 10."

If you weren't so sleepy, you might have corrected him about the "Ms. Gojo" part, but you were too confused to bother. You blinked. "I... yes, of course." You stepped aside. "Please, come in."

The men filed past you, their heavy boots thudding against the floor as they made their way into the apartment. You silently cursed them for not taking off their shoes, knowing you'd have to clean up after them. You closed the door and tried to figure out what to do next.

"Um, the bathroom is just down the hall, on the left." You gestured vaguely in the direction. "I... I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting you. Mr. Gojo didn't mention anything about a renovation."

The leader of the group, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a salt-and-pepper beard, turned to look at you, his expression softening a bit. "No worries, miss," he said, his voice a little kinder than before. "We've got all the instructions we need. You just go about your day, and we'll take care of everything."

"Thank you." You managed a small smile. "I appreciate it."

The man nodded, then turned to his crew, giving them orders as they headed down the hallway towards the bathroom. You stood there for a moment, watching them go, and then your eyes fixed on the two buckets they were carrying.

Wall paint.

Blue.

You felt your heart clench suddenly, or maybe you were about to have a heart attack, or a stroke, or both. After everything that had happened recently, you shouldn't even be surprised anymore. Shaking your head, you tried to focus again.

You needed coffee. You needed food. And most of all, you needed a damn shower.

You grabbed some of Satoru's spare clothes, the breakfast he had left for you in the fridge, and then crouched down beside the dog, cupping his soft face in your hands. "Hey, Dog. Wanna go to the city with me?" He blinked up at you, tail thumping against the sofa. "Alright then, let's go see what kind of trouble we can get into with daddy's credit card."

With Dog trotting at your heels, you headed out into the city to buy a leash, find a public bath and then go to the university.

You needed to see Maki.

─── ·✧· ───

"We need to go to Naoya's party."

Maki nearly choked on her coffee, spluttering and coughing as she tried to catch her breath. "What?" She frantically wiped the coffee that was dripping down her chin. Her outburst drew the attention of a nearby table of students, who looked over with raised eyebrows. "I thought the party was canceled because of Dr. Handsome."

You shook your head, leaning forward and lowering your voice even further in the crowded cafeteria. "No, we need to go there because of Dr. Handsome. We have to find a way to cancel that lawsuit against him."

Maki's eyes widened, her mouth falling open. "Cancel the lawsuit? Why now?" A group of students walked by, their laughter momentarily interrupting your conversation. As they passed, Maki's eyes suddenly narrowed. "Wait a minute... isn't that Dr. Handsome's shirt you're wearing?"

You looked down at the shirt, which was clearly a men's shirt and of the brand Satoru always wore. "Oh yeah, about that... I live with him now."

"What? Hold up!" Maki stuttered, almost dying on her coffee again, causing several heads to turn in your direction. She quickly lowered her voice and leaned in closer. "You live with him? Are you serious? When did that happen and why am I just hearing about it now?"

"Well, my apartment kind of went up in flames, so..." you trailed off, shrugging.

Maki's eyes nearly popped out of her head. "Your apartment what now? Flames? What? Are you okay?"

You waved your hand dismissively. "That's not important right now. The thing is," you said, trying to get back on track, "Satoru would need more money to cover the lawsuit, and he would have to go to his parents and—," you saw the growing confusion in Maki's eyes and cut it short. "Bottom line, we have to cancel that lawsuit somehow."

Maki sat back in her chair, looking more confused by the second. "Okay," she said slowly, "but how do you plan on doing that? It's not like Naoya is just going to admit what he did and drop the charges."

"That's why we have to go to that party," you said. "We need to get into Naoya's house and find something, anything, that we can use against him. Proof that he tried to drug me, or that he's done it to other girls before. Something that will make him back off and drop the charges. But we can't tell Satoru. We have to go alone."

Maki stared at you for a long moment. "You're crazy, you know that, right?"

"So, are you in?"

"You know, when I said to have a little more fun, I didn't exactly mean it like this." Then a slow, wicked grin spread across her face. "But hell yeah, I'm in. Let's wreck that asshole's place. But first, you've got to spill the tea on how you ended up living with the one and only Dr. Satoru Gojo." Then her eyes landed on Dog. "And then you have to tell me why you have a dog with you?"

You leaned down to scoop the sleepy beagle onto your lap, holding him up by the paws. "This is Dog. Isn't he cute?" You gently moved his paw, creating a half-hearted wave. "Say hi to Maki."

Maki raised an eyebrow. "You named him 'Dog'?"

"He doesn't have a name yet." You shrugged, then held up Satoru's black credit card. "Wanna go shopping while I fill you in? I need some clothes. And dog food."

<- prev chapter | next chapter ->

author's note: the biggest thank you goes out to @/nanamis-baker for helping me with this chapter, i was so unsure about everything going on and still am but she helped me tremendously to sort it all out on how i want to proceed with the story. again, thank you so much. you can read her work here <3

i know this chapter was pretty heavy again, but next chapter will be lighter and fun. also, we might need to add a sukuna slap list, because i lost count of how many times he gets slapped in this story (but deservedly) lol.

moreover, the story is now reaching its last third, can you believe that? it feels like forever since i started this series, so thanks to everyone for still keeping up and patiently waiting for updates :)

a few have wondered where his relapse happened (chapter 11), and i think most thought in his office at the university, but it was actually his place. i kinda forgot to explicitly state it, my bad (and never corrected it, i'm lazy). so… but now we all know it was actually in his apartment, and the reader came home to him after the whole ethics committee thing to check on him, and like found him there.

but anyway, thanks for reading, take care everyone :) and if you haven't checked out the spin-off with suguru yet, you can do so here <3

pls consider subscribing to the story on AO3, if you'd like to stay updated on future chapters. also, please note that i'll be kicking inactive readers off the taglist so that i can tag more people who genuinely interact with the story.

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@tw0fvced @sadmonke @thatsopanu @sirencholia @sugurusdiscordmoderator 

@erwinslut @shervinss @mechalily @bloopsstuff @cocomanga

@therealestpussyeater @louoi7 @billiondollarworth @deluluforcarlos55 @elliesndg

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© lostfracturess. do not repost, translate, or copy my work.

[sews-over-hoes]

The next Avatar hails from Ba Sing Se, a shy, introverted young man born into a political family with rumored shady dealings. Unfortunately, our Avatar discovers his fate following a terrible tragedy of some kind: someone wisely took advantage of the several years between Korra’s death and the full training of the new Avatar to do something truly awful (to be determined). Already, his family is implicated in the destructive event, and conspiracies fly, especially when his Avatar status is revealed through a series of carefully-worded press releases. Namely, the question arises: did his family somehow manipulate the Avatar line to ensure their child took on this important mantle, thus covering their tracks and bolstering their reputation?

The flames of this theory are only fanned when our Avatar is held quietly and secretly within his family’s mansion; the young man makes periodic appearances but always seems shy, even fearful of other people. A string of tutors, both for bending and for other aspects of his education, come and go from the family home, but little information is actually available about the world’s newest hero.

One of those tutors is a middle-aged man named Meelo, sent by his sister Jinora, the current leader of the revived Air Nomads, to train the Avatar in air bending. Jinora hopes Meelo’s positive attitude and ability to make friends with anyone will make him more successful (although he’s annoyed to leave his grumpy husband behind). Meelo immediately notices that something is up with this family. While the new Avatar warms to him immediately, Meelo suspects the family is not enabling the Avatar to be all that he can be. To Meelo’s shock, the young Avatar doesn’t even seem to be aware that he can contact the Avatar lineage via meditation. He teaches the boy, who takes to it quickly. Upon his first successful meditation, however, we see the awful truth we have all feared: the only former Avatar spirit he can speak with is Korra, who is ill-equipped to advise a young man who has been raised in fear by a paranoid and overbearing family.

Meelo is summarily dismissed, returning to his sisters and put-upon husband to inform them of his suspicions. They concoct a plan to free the young Avatar of his baffling bonds, but he is one step ahead of them. The young Avatar, perhaps 13 or 14 now, misses his friend Meelo, and has become frustrated with his lack of action. He is also frustrated with Korra, who continues to be utterly incapable of dealing with an Avatar who seems to have no instinct and comes to her to ask her permission for almost everything he does. It is clear they are not going to be okay.

Eventually, our Avatar leaves his home, having been inspired by a book Meelo had snuck him: a biography of Toph, which falls squarely in “forbidden literature” by his parents. (The book, of course, was written completely against Toph’s wishes, and the sheer number of instances the book says “Toph declined to comment” is staggering.)

The young Avatar sets out to learn about his Avatar heritage and do his damn job, his penchant for research and “book learnin” leading him from one resource to another. We see appearances from all of Tenzin’s kids, Mako, Bolin, lots of people. Meanwhile he drops into meditation to speak with Korra every chance he gets, even though they literally do not understand each other AT ALL, and the encounters only serve to piss both of them off.

Eventually the Avatar has to learn how to trust himself blah blah but all of this to say please give me a next Avatar who literally only has Korra to deal with and can’t stand her.

[mangokiwitropicalswirl]

Gillovny and Buyer’s Remorse

I don’t know if this is necessary or even helpful. We probably don’t need anymore voices weighing in on the state of things in the fandom, so if you’re sick of things and want to look past this, please do. If you venture below the cut, please take this in the spirit you know I intend it -- as a longtime X Files fan with a sometimes-too-soft heart that was weaned on MSR yearning, but who is also striving for a clear-eyed grasp of reality. Here goes:

 Since the events of last October, we have had two stark options. 1. To believe that G and D were in a romantic relationship that had come to an abrupt end sometime in September (factoring in Chicago Con, Schmoopie shirts and kind comments about “new incarnation of friendship” uttered at cons early last fall).  Or, option 2. To accept that what we saw, read and observed between D and G over the preceding 2 (3?) years was literally nothing more than their typical handsy BFF behavior and a liberal dose of fandom trolling.

Many people were easily able to accept option #2 and move on. Others felt that option #1 might have been the case, and if so, well, earlier behavior on twitter was understandably coming to an end.

But Option #1 didn’t really bear out as we observed a few continued playful interactions between G and D on twitter and nothing but positives on Ds end when he spoke about her at a con in January. And then came the Webby’s, which put to rest any idea that there might have been an acrimonious breakup of any kind.

Which circles us all back to option #2. Which is where we are today.

I see a lot of posts claiming that Gillovny fans are “angry” at G for her trolling of fans throughout the past couple years, but I haven’t seen much of that anger. What has been hard to stomach for those of us who have been slow to accept Option #2, is the accusation that I am somehow “not happy for Gillian” because she isn’t “dating who I want.”

This is ridiculous.

Of course I am happy if G is happy. Who she dates is something I have absolutely no control over, nor would I want to. She obviously knows herself, knows what she needs from a relationship, and has her own history with men to work with. I -- and I dare say, none of the folks who shipped Gillovny -- would never suggest that I somehow know better for her than she knows for herself.

And yet, we’re stuck with feelings. Lots of feelings. And I have been trying to pin down the nature of those feelings a little more precisely. It’s not anger, because that would assume there was something to be angry about. And it’s not sadness, because again, why should I be sad if Gillian is happy?

No, the feeling I am feeling is a very serious and intense case of buyer’s remorse.

Because I. Fucking. Bought it.

I bought into the Gillovny ship big time. It honestly was part of what brought me back into the fandom because, lord knows, the narrative of two old sometimes-at-odds costars now blissfully happy to be together (in whatever form) was a damn better narrative than ANYTHING written in season 10. And here’s the crux:

I bought into the Gillovny ship because it was being sold to me. They sold the ever-loving shit out of it for several years.

Some people will say we should not have bought it, that Gillian always maintained it was a game, that David tried to sternly shut it down numerous times. But to say we shouldn’t have bought it is sort of like saying to a person during the subprime mortgage crisis that they shouldn't have taken the stupidly low mortgage rate on a beautiful house that’s sitting right in front of them. Gillovny was sitting right in front of us. It was set up for us to buy into.

And even though occasionally a realtor might pipe up and remind you, “Hey this house has kind of a shaky foundation, perhaps don't buy it,” we did anyway. I bought it. This gorgeous newly renovated Victorian with the wraparound porch and a pool in the back where you can swim all day in your red speedos.

Why did we do this? Mostly, because we LOVE watching them together. The intensity of their smiles at one another could power the fuel needs of a small country. It was the sight of them together that powered us through more than a few (cough *half* cough) lackluster seasons and films of a weird, incoherent show about aliens.

Don’t mishear me, either. I don’t mean to imply that there is NOTHING between D and G. There is obviously a shit ton of chemistry and a lot of affection. That is REAL. It always has been. What I’m talking about is the Gillovny narrative and how far it was teased and toyed with, which is something altogether different.

But now, we look back on this house that we bought, this narrative, and we realize there's never been a foundation. We bought the big beautiful house at the persuasion of the delightful realtors, and now we are left trying to figure out how to pay for it all emotionally.

And our friends down the street who (wisely) never made a down payment on the house, are laughing at us, telling us to grab our stuff and MOVE THE FUCK OUT when we are still enamored of the beauty of the place. We took out a 23-year mortgage and now we’re underwater. It’s hard to just pick up and move.

Not only that, from the moment of Gillian holding up the Duchovny jersey at the 2015 TCAs to the August 2016 Schmoopie shirt, it has been 100% in David and Gillian’s best interest for us to buy into Gillovny.  I’ll say that again. Despite repeated denials throughout that timeframe, AND some noteable non-denials (e.g. WHHL), it remained in their best financial interest to fuel the rumors and draw attention to themselves by any and all means. And I’ll add -- it is also in Orlando Jones’s and Bryan Fuller’s, and anybody else interested in harnessing the power of Gillovny to garner attention for their show or project. Gillovny sells, bitches.

Think of it like the realtor trying to sell you the house you can’t afford.  Sure, she may occasionally remind you that maybe you shouldn’t buy into this one, but in the end, she’s getting the commission, so why would she really try that hard to stop you?

If you:

bought the XF season 10 DVD,

subscribed to Netflix to watch X Files, Aquarius, or The Fall,

bought photo ops or VIP packages at any of the Comic Cons,

bought tickets to Streetcar,

donated to Lick-my-Face, Childreach Int’l or other DDGA charities,

tickets to David’s concerts,

David’s album,

Gillian’s novels,

Gillian’s WE book and its various causes and events,

David’s novels,

a magazine with their photos on the cover,

a photo sold by a photographer (hi Mark Mann),

started a Tumblr blog (hello there ad clicks),

followed them on Twitter, Instagram or Facebook (hello Q score)

Or any of the other numerous ways in which money can be generated by your interest in and devotion to them as interesting and noteworthy individuals, you have participated in this celebrity transactional relationship.

I am not pointing fingers because I certainly have done about 30% of the things on the above list. The nature of our relationship to celebrities is by necessity one of transaction. We buy what they are selling, and in this case, we were buying the narrative of Gillian and David together. Their chemistry is ceaselessly watchable, so much so that it spills over from the X-Files to fuel interest in their other projects. They have used it to marvelous success.

But remember that every time you spend money on a DVD or a concert ticket, a theater ticket or a book, you're engaging in a transaction between yourself and their brand. NOT between yourself and a real, actual individual.

Here are my own actual financial Gillovny-prompted expenditures:

Season 10 Revival DVD - $19.95 (free shipping, thanks Amazon prime)

David’s new novel on Kindle - $12

Donation to Gillian’s Skype call auction - $75

Purchase of two of Gillian’s shirts for SAYes charity - $125

Grand total = $231.95 

This might sound crass. Or it might sound obvious. But it bears remembering as we work through our disappointment that the romantic narrative we were sold had no basis in reality. Tweets and media mentions are all part of brand creation, and both David and Gillian have benefited from the idea of a relationship between them. It never made sense for them to shut things down entirely as long as there still remained projects and charities to bring attention to. Gillian’s charity t-shirt auctions were a marvelous way to monetize the Gillovny brand for good.

Where we’re stuck now, though, is that all of a sudden, we have been asked to buy something else. Back in the fall, Brand Gillovny went offline, very nearly taking X Files season 11 with it.  In its place, we have been offered, Brand The Crown, and Brand Serious Charity Work, Brand Feminism Book and Brand Rockstar.  Some folks have made the switch to these new brands easily, while others are still reeling a bit from the sudden change.

What saddens me is the attitude that if someone hasn’t been able to transfer their brand loyalty seemlessly, somehow that means we aren’t as genuine a fan of David or Gillian as we should be. Let’s just remember, none of us has a relationship with G or D. We only have a relationship with their image, and therefore, it is okay not to want to continue a relationship with an image that has changed in a way that we don’t like as much.  I don’t have to move into the house next door to the house I actually wanted just because it’s in the same neighborhood.

It’s pointless now to go back over the last couple years looking for clues or debating what was true and what wasn’t. It would be easy to pass all sorts of judgements on the appropriateness of certain branding choices (I’m looking at you WHHL and Schmoopie shirt), but no answers will satisfy everyone.

I hope that thinking about D & G in this way might help those of us who’re reeling from the death of our dream house, and also help those who have successfully moved on understand those of us who may not have done so yet.

Peace fandom. And hope for a great season 11. Because MSR is why we were here in the first place, and fiction is forever.

[2405omu]

Can I ask for more Dysfunct Interim please? Its my favorite fic right now, I think I've read it like eight times at least. I just got into the Imperial Radch this summer, and your fic was also my gateway into the MB series. Also I really want to know what Mercy of Kalr was thinking watching MB, because it probably has a very interesting view of events XD.

Oh jeez that's amazing to hear thank you so much!

And yeah I really want to work on Dysfunct (I'm excited to see where they're going too) but I got caught in a job that is just not a great fit for me lol.

I can give you a teaser though! If you'd like a mercy of Kalr POV. I have more written that hints at what it's thinking but I think I might save those :)

In the episode of Signature Identity Jian had shared with me, the human protagonist had just done something ill-advised. Outwardly in response, Jian frowned at the wall. However, she was speaking in our shared space, and her comments are as follows:

That’s a massive fuck up, what an idiot.— (the dramatic music swells, and the human looks panicked) I fucking told you so, look at that. Humans are so stupid. You’d think he would have taken the fucking hint, but no, he has to be fucking determined because it’s his dream or whatever. He could have at least woken his son up or performed some tests on the fuel. Even I know you have to do that before attempting space-flight in your shitty homemade shuttle.

It was an anthology series. This episode, Stellar Harvester, was a period drama set before spaceflight was common. Here, they worked with the theory that humanity originated from a planet with at least one moon (this one had four) and humans had tested spaceflight by visiting the closest; they had also established that a governing body controlled the rights to spaceflight (Large governing bodies in control were a reoccurring theme in Jian’s media.) Stellar Harvester focused on a human who had been part of an official space-flight project, but left to care for his family; however, he still dreamed of going to space and built a rocket on his own, with his son, unofficially. The governing body was demanding that he dismantle the illicit space craft on threat of fines and/or repossession of his large agricultural property where the rocket was stored.

In response he had just attempted a premature launch, failed takeoff, and crashed. The camera was currently focused on his prone body in an ancient medical facility, surrounded by his children and marital partners.

It was ill-advised. I told Jian, who responded with more derisive heckling. Amaat Eight had just grabbed Amaat Six’s shoulder.

“I know you can take care of yourself,” she was saying, but her vitals were indicating doubt and apprehension. Some anxiety. “But I just don’t want you to…” she hesitated, uncertain in the face of Six’s frown. (Amaat Six wasn’t actually offended, yet, but was prepared to be. She was actually mostly concerned by Amaat Eight’s uncharacteristic struggle for words.) “I don’t want… you to have an unbalanced relationship. It’s not healthy, offering Citizen Jian things that she won’t return. It can hurt you.”

Amaat six was relieved by this outcome, and her shoulders relaxed. She smiled at Eight. “It’s appreciated, but I know that already. As I said, I don’t expect anything like that from her— In fact, I don’t think that’s what I want from her at all, at least right now. And if that changes I will handle it as I go,” Amaat Eight relaxed slightly, but she was still apprehensive. Six pat the hand that Eight had set on her shoulder, and gently removed it. “I do appreciate it though, truly. If you think I’m being an idiot, I expect you to tell me.”

This actually eased Eight, and she scoffed. “I always think you’re being an idiot, how will I choose only a few times to tell you?” she paused to allow Six to shove her. “Ah! Perhaps I will ask Ship to set a constant reminder for you.”

I considered interjecting. Perhaps informing them that it was, indeed, an option while feigning ignorance about the jest. (By now, all my officers knew that I would be feigning ignorance of anything, but most of them still found it amusing. Eight and Six were perfect targets for that sort of thing.) I chose to let them be for now, but shared the moment with my Fleetcaptian. She was interested, amused, and just a little bit exasperated, as I expected.

Jian paused Stellar Harvester, grimacing now. She had decided she wanted to watch something else, now that the human was going to rebuild the rocket and try again. Jian hadn't said it yet, but she didn't have to.

Are we skipping to the next episode?

I used 'We' carefully. In most contexts, Jian wanted to be isolated. A singular 'you'. However, when watching media it seemed to discomfort her somewhat if I didn't imply I was watching as well. A participatory 'we'.

No. She replied with immense distaste. I don't think this is a good series for me. Someone somewhere has to appreciate it for it to have the ratings it does, but I sure as fuck don't. The episode stayed paused for half a second as I assume she considered this, then it and the remaining 10 episodes of Signature Identity dropped from the queue.

Medic dropped a cotton-tipped applicator on the floor as she was restocking her supplies, and the burst of irritation, exasperation and throttled rage manifested as a derisive grunt directed at the floor. She lifted the offending hand to glare at each finger individually, then held it out in front of her at a few different angles, critically measuring the shake.

Medic needs assistance with restocking. What are we watching next?

Jian didn't so much as burst into action, as she simply went from not moving to walking. It's a strange thing to describe; even when I had ancillaries, there was a shift in body language between stillness and motion. Jian seems to be made of stone one moment, then fluid the next. She has told me that some of her code that mimics human function annoys her, and that she has turned the smaller movements off (respiratory reactions, tactile stimming, etc.) So I assume that is it the uneven balance of a perfectly human walking gait (with an error margin of .4%) with none of the perfectly human fidgets that make it so uncanny.

I don't know yet. Do you have any stored media?

A new question, but one I had been expecting for the last 9.62 hours. I passed some of the musicals and feel-good movies I kept for when my officers were ill. I had other media, but this is what I gave to Jian.

Jian has offered to help you with restocking. She is on her way.

Medic snorted as she slid the top panel of her cart shut. "Now did she offer, Ship, or did you not give her an option?"

I told her that you may need assistance.

There was not a way to make myself sound sly, but Medic reacted as though I had.

Oh. This is awful. Jian was shuffling through the musicals, skimming the synopses with a speed I still wasn't quite used to from anyone but myself or another ship. Let's watch this one first.

She selected My Hours of Sunlight's Embrace and started organizing the queue while the opening sequence played, occasionally making a comment on the production quality, or the obvious differences between her media and mine that were already becoming evident.

I had seen this one several times, though it wasn't exceptionally popular among this batch of my officers. In fact, they tended to favor the musicals with more explicitly romantic or sexual sub-plots. (I wasn't surprised that Jian had seemed to filter the Media I'd shared based on how much it focused on human relationships). I settled part of myself with Jian anyway, careful to give her an indication of my partial awareness. New perspectives were always enjoyable.

[takaraphoenix]

This is one of my favorite types of bizarre AO3 interactions and I’m wondering how many others have experience with that.

It starts with someone being a prick in your comment section. Unwanted criticism, literally just being “I don’t like this” like that is of any interest to you as the author, or a more ill-mannered take on that. Either way, a shitty comment.

You, as the author, replied to them one way or another to let them know their comment was uncalled for.

And then a third party joins in. A reader who actually came to leave a nice comment, saw the shitty comment and gave their two cents defending you/your fic/your writing and calling the asshole out on being an asshole.

That’s never a two message exchange. It usually escalates into a lengthy argument. Until, at one point, the original commenter will go back to your last reply so they can reply to it and complain why you, as the author, aren’t reigning your commenter in.

And let me add that I’ll never let these things escalate into genuine threats or uncalled for language. But I am absolutely staying out of these conversations because I am no longer involved in this conversation; I had my own conversation with the original commenter and whatever’s going on right now, it’s between these two people.

That’s the fascinatingly bizarre part for me though. This person not only decided to be an asshole about free fanfiction - like, there’s a back-button, if they dislike it, they could just click out of it, but no, they decided to go into the comment section and had the need to let the author know they disliked it - but they did so in a public space, accessible for third parties.

If you post something online, you have to expect a reaction. If you can not handle the backlash of being an asshole, perhaps consider not being an asshole! Just, as a general piece of advise.

But the additional assumption that, what, I have some kind of hive-mind with my readers and as their queen bee I control their actions? The thing about posting something in a public space where everybody can reply to it is that other people might have thoughts on that too. I mean, what, I went to my readers and cried about a mean comment, pointing them the way of the commenter and ordered to “torment” the asshole?

No, my Dear Anonymous Shitheads series specifically never features what fic the comment is on because I actually don’t want that kind of behavior. I don’t want someone to feel the need to enact revenge on my behalf or whatever and go terrorize the shithead at hand.

It never occurs to these kind of people that other people may come across someone being an asshole and might just not like that. I, personally, would probably be that way too, to be quite frank. If I’d click into the comment section of a fic I just read and that I adored, just to see someone shitting on it, I might not be able to keep my five cents on the matter to myself either, because that kind of behavior is just shitty.

Whenever this happens and that original commenter then comes whining to me about not reigning in my readers, I just kind of... shake my head. Because you come barging into my house, where I am having tea and a nice conversation with a wanted guest, just to yell at me that you hate my furniture and that what I’ve done with the place sucks and when my guest speaks up to tell you you’re out of line, you turn to me and complain that I let them talk to you like that. In my own house. Into which you barged to be a prat. Absolutely brilliant, just brilliant, truly.

[cosleia]

The Uncertainty Principle, Part 5

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Read the full series

kylux, post TROS. A story of survival, love, and Force physics. 1665 words, Part 5 of ?

--

Silence hung between them like a dense fog. It wasn’t awkward, exactly, but there was an electric undercurrent to it that made Kylo want to do something—to stand up again maybe, or to say something. To get Hux to look at him again.

He was about to make a probably-ill-advised comment about Hux’s wardrobe—he was wearing the same silly jumpsuit he’d been wearing at the space station; was it any wonder Kylo had assumed it was the same day?—when Hux abruptly spoke first.

“You went from Ajan Kloss to Exegol in an Imperial-era TIE scout?”

“Yes,” Kylo said. “Which reminds me—”

“It was in working order?”

“No,” Kylo said. “I had to fix it up first.”

Hux’s eyebrows pinched together in thought. “You left for Ajan Kloss some time after I was shot.”

Kylo grinned. Hux was leading the conversation right where he wanted it to go. “Yes.”

“Shortly before the Steadfast’s battlegroup joined the Final Order at Exegol.”

“That’s right.”

“And you had to repair the TIE before you could leave.”

“Yes.”

“It must not have taken very long,” Hux said, sounding dubious. “The hyperdrive on a TIE scout that old would barely be able to travel that distance in that time.”

“You’re right,” Kylo almost crowed. “I didn’t trust the hyperdrive. I beefed it up.”

Hux outright gaped at him. “You,” he said. “‘Beefed it up.’”

“Well,” Kylo said, drawing out the word, “it helped that I studied Starkiller Base when you were building it.” He grinned again. “You really are a genius, you know.”

Hux’s face went red. He ducked his head like an embarrassed child. But then he blinked, raised his chin and narrowed his eyes at Kylo. “You modified the Death Star superlaser?”

“Got it in one,” Kylo said, pleased.

“How?” Hux demanded. Now he looked angry. “Tell me everything.”

Kylo did.

He’d expected that Hux would be flattered that Kylo adapted his work, and perhaps even impressed that Kylo understood the physics behind quintessence. But as he spoke, Hux’s expression only grew grimmer. When he finally wrapped up, remarking with a self-conscious shrug that he’d known the engine would blow upon arrival but he hadn’t figured out how to avoid that, Hux unexpectedly reached for him, putting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing lightly. Kylo’s breath caught.

“You seem tangible enough,” Hux muttered. He let go and raised his datapad again.

“What?” Kylo asked. His shoulder felt hot where Hux had touched it. He wished Hux was still touching it.

“You absolute buffoon,” Hux said without looking up. “You don't even know what you did.”

Kylo bristled at that. He suddenly wanted to slap the datapad out of Hux’s hands.

Not too long ago, he would have indulged that desire. It would have been practically instinctual. Now, it was a struggle to hold himself back, to clutch his knees and keep his hands still, but he did it.

“What do you mean?” he asked in as level a voice as he could manage.

Hux glanced up at him, looked back to his datapad, then did a doubletake that was almost comedic. For a long moment he simply stared at Kylo, eyes intent.

Kylo wasn’t sure how he must look; he knew he wore his emotions on his face, but right now he didn’t really know what they were. “What is it?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“Nothing,” Hux said, but he put the datapad down, and his face seemed to relax. “About your rocket.” Kylo waited. Hux licked his lips. “Er. Perhaps I can illustrate my point with an example. Do you know why I didn’t modify our capital ships to use hyperspace tunneling?”

“They’re too big,” Kylo said.

Hux shook his head. “Size has nothing to do with it. It’s about mass.”

Kylo frowned. “Isn’t that basically the same thing?”

“No.” Hux reached toward him once more, this time tentatively; when Kylo didn’t react, he settled a hand on his shoulder again. “The amount of mass doesn’t matter. It’s the fact that there’s mass at all.” Hux’s fingers flexed against Kylo’s shoulder. “I don’t understand why you’re not dead,” he muttered. “Why you even still have mass.”

Kylo put his hand on top of Hux’s, partly to get his attention and partly to keep him from taking it away again.

Hux's eyes flicked to their hands and back to Kylo’s face. He looked startled. “Ah,” he said. “That is. Er.” He closed his eyes and cleared his throat.

Kylo squeezed Hux’s hand. It felt nice. “You were saying?” he prompted.

Hux cleared his throat again, but he didn’t try to withdraw his hand from Kylo’s. “Phantom energy doesn’t have mass,” he said, meeting Kylo’s eyes. “Mass can’t travel through sub-hyperspace. Any amount of mass.”

Kylo frowned. “Are you saying—”

“I’m saying,” Hux stressed, gripping Kylo’s shoulder hard, “that when you entered sub-hyperspace, you should have been destroyed.” He squeezed again, as if for good measure. “And yet, here you are.”

“Destroyed,” Kylo repeated, his eyes going slightly out of focus. He’d been in something of a fugue state when he modified that hyperdrive, operating on what had felt like instinct. He’d thought he knew what to do from then on. He’d thought that the Force was guiding him.

Ultimately, the mission he had so eagerly accepted was just another way to lose himself. He’d been so willing to do anything, anything at all to help Rey, that he’d almost lost his life.

Before Exegol, before Ajan Kloss, when he’d told her of his talk with Palpatine, she’d responded derisively, ‘Serving another master?’ He’d denied it, and he’d believed his own denial. But it turned out she’d been more right than even she knew. Luke. Snoke. Grandfather. Palpatine. Rey. All he’d ever wanted was to be himself, to have his own identity. But all he’d ever done was look to others to define him.

“Ren,” Hux said.

Kylo shook his head. “Yeah.”

“You’re not about to disappear again, are you?”

Kylo let out a sort of half-chuckle. “No, I don’t think so,” he said. “I was just thinking.”

“Do I want to know?”

The wry humor in the question made Kylo smile a little. Hux probably would want to know; he was the type who wanted to know everything.

Kylo wasn’t sure he was ready to share his personal revelations with anyone. Strangely, though, Hux didn’t seem like a bad choice for it. Maybe that was because he wasn’t in a position to control Kylo. Or maybe Kylo was just tired of being alone with his thoughts.

It occurred to him that this might be the first time in his life that that had happened. He had no way of knowing how long Palpatine had been whispering in his ear, stealing his secrets, manipulating his thoughts and beliefs.

Kylo had had plenty of time to think on his long journey from Exegol, but he hadn’t thought too heavily on this aspect of things.

He decided to continue not thinking about it.

“Mortality,” he said instead of revealing any of that. “I almost died and didn't know.”

“Ah,” Hux said. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.” He considered Kylo for a moment. Again, it looked like he wanted to say something.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Kylo said, squeezing Hux’s hand where it still lay under his.

A flush rose to Hux's cheeks. “You’ve changed,” he blurted.

“Yes,” Kylo agreed, nodding. “You’re very observant.”

Hux’s reaction to this was a beautiful, gratifying scowl and a deepening flush. “But not completely,” he amended.

Kylo cocked his head to the side, suddenly curious. He hadn’t done a whole lot of thinking about Hux before Exegol, but Hux obviously had opinions about him. “Do you think you know who I am?”

“The thing about men like you,” Hux answered, “is that it’s impossible to know how to please you. What works one day is the absolute wrong thing the next. And any misstep—” He cut himself off, cheek twitching.

“Yes?” Kylo prompted.

Hux pulled his hand away from Kylo's shoulder. “Before you interrogate me further,” he said, “I would have your word that you will not perform acts of violence on my ship, property, or person.”

Annoyed by both the turn of the conversation and the removal of Hux’s hand, Kylo opened his mouth to ask why Hux would even say that. He obviously hadn’t come here to hurt Hux. Hux was the only thing he had left.

Hux...was the only thing he had left.

Kylo closed his mouth.

“Well?” Hux demanded, and there was a small thread of tension in his voice that wasn’t there before.

Kylo sighed. “No, Hux, I’m not going to do anything. It’s like you said. I’ve changed.”

Hux wasn’t the only thing he had left. That was ridiculous. He didn’t even know why he’d had that thought.

He’d spent way too much time watching that security footage.

Hux took a long breath, then let it out. “I don’t know if I can believe you, but you haven’t harmed me yet, at least.” He raised his chin. “People like you expect things to go your way, and when they don’t, you punish everyone in the vicinity for it, regardless of fault.” His hands balled into fists in his lap. Kylo had to look away from the intensity in his eyes.

Snoke—Palpatine—had always encouraged Kylo to follow his feelings, to use them. Anger was especially useful, making Kylo powerful. He hadn’t worried about anything beyond that. After all, his goals were the First Order’s goals. His will was the First Order’s will. His pain was the First Order’s pain.

Only now he knew that wasn’t true at all. He’d been nothing more than a pawn of the emperor. The First Order had never really been his.

The ships and crew that escaped the doom of the Final Order—if anything, they’d been Hux’s, not Kylo’s. Which reminded him...

“Do you still want to rule the galaxy?” Kylo asked.

[demonsonthemoon]

Standing on the Edge / We’re Already Falling

Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Clint Barton Word Count: 3499 Rating: M Summary: Clint doesn't do romantic relationships. Bucky doesn't do sex. But they do do something together. One night, Clint has a request. "Do you mind if I jerk off?" Featuring akoiromantic!Clint. Notes: If you are here expecting smut you might be disappointed because the smut I was planning to write disappeared in between whole paragraphs of introspection. STORY OF MY LIFE. This fic has been sitting in my draft for more than a year and I STILL had to rush it to post it in time for #AggressivelyArospecWeek, so apologies if it is super wonky and there are typos everywhere. This is vaguely inspired by personal experiences and fantasies, because relationships are fascinating and I like to self-reflect. Also please note that I'm allosexual and the perspective I have on asexuality is totally external. So if you have any comments about the way I wrote it that might further my understanding of asexuality and help me write it better, let me know! Content warnings: Bucky's asexuality in this is explored partly in relation to his history of abuse so if that sounds squicky or triggering to you, be careful!

Read it on AO3.

The feeling of Bucky's lips on his wasn't anything new to Clint. That didn't mean that the pleasure of it was wearing off, far from it. First kisses were never the best. No, the really good one only came after, when you knew what the other person liked and they knew your preferences as well. When you could play each other like finally tuned instruments to elicit your favorite sounds at will. Those were the best kisses.

The one they were sharing now was quite high-ranking on that scale, at least according to Clint's opinion. They were both freshly clean from a shower, and Clint was quickly letting go of all the tension from the mission he'd just come back from. He was finally reaching the good side of pent-up where sensations were pleasurably heightened but not making him paranoid. Then there was the fact that Bucky was softly biting on his lower lip and had a hand in Clint's hair. Yeah. It was a pretty good kiss.

“Fuck,” Clint whispered at they broke apart for hair. They didn't go far from one another, just hovering on that edge of kissing again. Clint had a hand on Bucky's face, softly running a thumb over his stubble, the other over his hip.

Bucky smiled, then kissed him again. It was funny. Clint swore his lips tasted different when he smiled. It was one of his favorite flavors.

This thing between them hadn't always been that easy. There had been a time when Bucky's only two moods were “shadow in the corner” and “murder glare,” which had not been conducive to much physical intimacy. (Not that Clint had been unwilling. Everyone who knew him was aware of his attraction to danger.) It had taken a while for Bucky to become comfortable, both with himself and with the people also living on the Avengers compound. Clint had understood that. The guy had been through a lot. He'd still barely remembered who he was when he'd turned himself in after a year of leading Steve and Sam around on a merry chase.

But he'd gotten around to it. The whole being a person thing. Being something other than a weapon.

Yes, Clint had been a little protective of him. Still was. He could relate to the guy. A few days of alien brainwashing was obviously different to a few decades of being Hydra's puppet, but it still gave them more common grounds than most of the other Avengers.

They'd started getting along, and then they had started getting along, and now Clint was shirtless and kissing Bucky in his bed and it all felt really nice.

Really really nice.

“Shit, fuck,” Clint whimpered against Bucky's mouth, drawing away slightly. “Wait a sex- sec. I have a question.”

The beginning of their relationship (Clint always made a face at the word, but he hadn't found any other one that fit) had involved a lot of awkward conversations about boundaries. Clint had been on the verge of e-mailing his therapist about it several times. She would have been so proud. Clint wasn't ready to admit that, but it had felt nice for once not to be the only one tiptoeing around a minefield. That's what it had felt like in a lot of his other relationships, and most of his other partners hadn't been subtle in letting him know it was his fault.

Bucky didn't make him feel like it was his fault. He had plenty of minefields of his own and seemed grateful to have Clint here to help him figure out their layouts.

It had almost been funny when they'd realized how little they matched one another.

Clint didn't do romance. He'd learned the hard way that however much he liked the person at first, and even continued to like them, in a way, he couldn't sustain romantic attraction for much more than a few weeks into a relationship. And the pressure of a romantic relationship was just too much for him to handle. After a series of self-sabotaged messes and a divorce, he'd been forced to admit that it wasn't worth trying anymore. He'd mostly resigned himself to one-night stands and the occasional cuddle with a friend. Wanting regular physical and emotional intimacy outside of a romantic relationship just wasn't something he figured he could get.

Bucky, on the other hand, was totally open to the pursuit of romance. At least as much as someone with such severe trust issues as he had could be. But he didn't really do sex. At least not for now.

It had been kind of funny to find all of that out, but also not at all. Clint was very happy that they'd decided to figure something out anyway. He'd been even happier when the something in question had turned out to involve having a close friend he could regularly make out with but who didn't pressure him into being with each other all the time, being wooed or going on dates.

Their relationship probably looked like weird and misshapen from any outside perspective, and sometimes even from Clint's, when his nerves were too raw or his mind was too numb and he looked at the universe and only saw the result of his failures. But it was theirs, and whenever Clint felt like his skin was his own again, he found he was willing to fight for it.

It was a weird yo-yo motion, with a string that threatened to snap every so often, but so far it was still turning.

Clint couldn't help himself, and he gave Bucky another peck on the lips. Just to erase the frown that had formed on his forehead as he'd pulled away from their kiss.. “Don't worry. There's no good or bad answer here.” He tried to keep his tone confident and casual. Spy training came in handy in these kinds of situation. Of course, the fact that Bucky was just as well trained meant he could usually read through Clint's bullshit, but well. One had to try.

Clint took a breath, and smiled. “Do you mind if I jerk off?”

Bucky froze against Clint's hands. His eyes widened just the slightest bit.

And then he looked down at Clint's crotch, and the blond bit down on his own lip to avoid letting out a thoroughly undignified squeak. The outline of his erection was clearly visible through the worn material of his post-shower sweatpants. Bucky somehow seemed surprised by it, even though there was no way he hadn't felt it rub against him at any point of the previous proceedings.

Clint felt a blush rise to his cheeks. He wasn't embarrassed about sex. He didn't think that was what it was. He was just very aware of the request he'd just made and the fact that Bucky's attention was still lingering on his cock.

“You don't have to say yes. I really don't mind if we just make out some more and cuddle. I just thought... Well. I just thought that if you didn't have to... participate, you might still like to watch?” The blood in his cheeks was quickly approaching boiling point. “Or not. I don't know. I just thought I'd ask.”

Clint forced himself to close his mouth and stop talking before he fell into a spell of ill-advised chatter. For a few excruciating seconds, Bucky stayed silent. At least he was looking into Clint's eyes again, instead of at his dick. Small mercies.

“Is that something that you would like? If I watched?”

“Um.” Clint swallowed. The fact that Bucky's gaze followed the movement of his Adam's apple was enough to force him to admit he didn't want to lie. “Yeah. Yeah. I'd... I think I'd like that a lot.”

Clint didn't know what reaction he'd expected at that. A joke perhaps. Or at least a raised eyebrow. He hadn't expected Bucky to move forward like a hunting animal jumping on his prey and kiss him. Clint opened his mouth and let the kiss deepen. He wasn't an idiot, he wouldn't pass up the opportunity to get kissed passionately by Bucky just because he was confused. So he moved one arm over Bucky's shoulder, found a better angle and kissed back, giving as much as he got.

He hadn't lied when he'd said he could do just this for hours. Who cared if it made him feel like an awkward teenager again, one who was all too happy to agree to “no sex on the first date” because he didn't know how to tell his at the time girlfriend that he hadn't ever touched a condom in his life.

Clint wasn't frustrated. He jerked off a healthy amount, and in the time between he got to hang out with Bucky and get kissed senseless. There was really no drawback to this situation.

And sure, Clint had desires. Fantasies. There were many things he thought about while he jerked off, and quite a few of them inlvoved Bucky in different stages of nakedness and with various amounts of their naked skins touching. But he also had fantasies about a lot of people he had never had and would never have sex with, and that was fine. He was friends with Bucky, and his comfort whenever they spent time together was a lot more important than Clint's libido.

But he had wondered if maybe... If there could be a way to get more of what he wanted without pushing any of Bucky's boundaries. He already felt bad for not being able to give Bucky everything he wanted, everything that he deserved. Bucky should get to be with someone who would go on dates with him, who would kiss him in the rain and hold his hand it public, and whisper I am so glad that you're my boyfriend against his ear. After all the ways he'd been used and abused, Bucky deserved the certainty of someone who loved him in all ways, all the time.

And Clint wasn't that someone. Clint couldn't give himself to someone in that way without feeling trapped, without tainting the beauty of every gesture with his own fear of being controlled.

Asking for this, for this selfish thing that wasn't sex but was so so close, it was a dangerous thing. It felt like taking something more, and Clint had never felt like he deserved anything in his life, not most of the bad, but not really any of the good either, and he didn't want to be that person who just took and took from someone who had already lost so much, but Bucky had always told him to just ask and he had, and Bucky was still kissing him like there was no other way to say what he meant to say and-

“Okay,” Bucky panted when he finally pulled away far enough to form words. “I think I want to see that.”

And, fuck, this was definitely something that Clint had fantasized about before, that's why he brought it up, but his imagination paled before the real thing, before the livewire tension all across his body and the way Bucky looked hungry in a way he'd never had before, and then Clint was being pushed back against the pillows of the bed and Bucky was slowly peeling off his sweatpants to expose the boxers underneath and this was all too much already. Bucky looked so smug about it too, like this was a perfectly normal things for them to do, like anything below the belt wasn't an entirely new territory for them. Bucky settled cross-legged on the end of the bed opposite to Clint, and tilted his head in a sort of go-ahead gesture. There was such open curiosity in his eyes, and Clint hadn't known that that was something that did it for him, but it really, truly was.

In all of his fantasies, he hadn't had to think about how to jerk off, he'd already been doing it as he set the scene in his head. He had felt a certain thrill at the idea of being watched, but none of the nervousness that came from putting on a show. And that probably wasn't what Bucky even expected from him, but Clint still felt weird. It felt like the worst case of stage fright he'd had since his first performance in the circus when he'd been a teenager.

Clint took a deep breath. He looked up into Bucky's eyes, carefully trained on his, and slowly pulled his boxers off.

*****

Bucky could tell that Clint was nervous. He wanted to so something about it, but he had no idea how. Clint had been the one to offer this, to ask for this, and Bucky was just along for the ride. A ride he definitely thought he would enjoy, but he also couldn't be sure, and he didn't want to push Clint but didn't want to stay totally detached either and...

And Clint was now touching his dick, hand in a loose fist around it, going up and down, thumb brushing over the head to gather a few drops of precome. And he was staring at Bucky as he did all that, worrying his bottom lip and staring at Bucky like he held all of the answers in the world.

He was surprised at how big the urge to touch was. He wanted to put his mouth on Clint's and bite down, bite properly instead of whatever Clint was doing to deal with his nervousness. He wanted to put a hand in Clint's hair and lick along the side of his neck and then look down at where his hand was still moving on his cock.

But he didn't do any of that, even though he had before (except for the looking part), because if he did he might trip on his own boundaries, might trigger that trapwire inside himself that made him retreat.

So he just watched instead, held Clint's gaze when it met his.

This was a new things for the two of them, but at the same time... it wasn't. Not really. Because this wasn't about sex. Sex was something that Bucky felt totally detached from on a good day, and on a bad one it was something that made him nervous, made his stomach twist and weigh heavily.

He couldn't explain why, because he hadn't ever had a particularly bad experience with it. At least he didn't think so. (He hated that he still wasn't sure, couldn't be sure, because so many memories had been taken from him and he couldn't ever know if he had gotten all of them back.)

What he remembered, at least, wasn't bad, although it wasn't good. Bucky could see himself, another person in another time, lying in fresh grass with a girl, her perfume just heavy enough to make him slightly light-headed, to take the edge off the feeling of wrongness he was experiencing as he touched her, let her touch him. He could feel the purely physical pleasure of the act, perfunctory, but nothing else.

This thing right now with Clint was nothing like that, because it wasn't about the sex. It was about Clint and it was about pleasure, but physicality was only one tiny part of this equation.

Bucky watched Clint's hand run up hand down his cock, and he didn't wish that it was his instead, but that didn't stop him from being fascinated by the movement, by the way Clint's dick responded, hardening further, and by the quiet sounds that caught in his throat.

A thought crossed his mind, and Bucky stood up. The fact that Clint immediately stopped moving made him feel... something. It reminded him that, yeah, Clint was masturbating, but this thing still actively involved Bucky. And Bucky let himself be involved, since he ruffled through his nightstand and threw Clint a half bottle of lube. Clint's eyes widened even as he caught the bottle easily. A soldier's reflexes. “You-”

Bucky rolled his eyes.

“I don't have the same libido as you, but I've still got enough experience to know it's better when it doesn't chafe.”

“Right,” Clint replied, scratching the back of his head in an embarrassed gesture. The combination of that and his erection sticking out made him look completely ridiculous, but Bucky only smiled in endearment.

He settled back at the foot of the bed, crosses his legs and make a vague gesture with his hand.

“As you were,” he said with a smirk.

Clint stared, mouth agape. “You...” He chuckled. “You are such an asshole.”

Bucky didn't deny it, but he also noticed that Clint wasn't too bothered, pouring lube into his right hand and carefully warming it up. He looked slightly uncertain again, slowly touching his own dick. Bucky didn't say anything, but he watched. That's what Clint had asked for. That he watch.

Clint worried his lower lip and hummed in his throat as he worked up a rhythm again, and Bucky watched.

He liked Clint's hands, the calluses on his fingers, the various scars from knife fights and careless handling of arrows. He liked them for the stories they told, the one that had been erased from his own fingertips by serum and metal. It was something he kept to himself, unlike Clint who took great pleasure in telling Bucky how hot he looked and which pants he should keep wearing because they framed his thighs just right. Bucky didn't look at Clint's hands like Clint sometimes did his, with a far-away intensity in his eyes and his mouth just the slighest bit open. But that was okay.

Clint didn't look at him like he wanted to be what made Bucky happy, his everything, his forever, with a yearning to share as much of the other's life as he could. But Bucky...

Bucky looked up into Clint's eyes, scared of everything his own could say, but it felt like the other man could hardly see him, too caught up in the movement of his own hand and the sensations that ran through his body. It didn't make Bucky feel alone, though. Quite the opposite. Clint was including him in a moment that could so easily have been private and it was thrilling, it made Bucky feel powerful and wanting. Bucky could have touched, Clint probably would have liked him to touch him, and Bucky felt his arms strain towards the other man, but stayed still. This made the moment feel purer, safer, better somehow, and Bucky didn't get it, not really, but then again, there were so many things he didn't get about Clint and his relationship, this was just one more thing on the list.

Another fragile compromise, another precarious equilibrium, just like everything that had followed that fateful “Can I kiss you?” during a conversation that had felt half like a fight and also like the most comfortable Bucky had been in years, because Clint hadn't been scared of him and he hadn't been careful, and he had asked to kiss him and Bucky had said yes.

And barely seconds after their lips had touched, Clint had said “Okay, this doesn't have to go anywhere, but in case it goes anywhere, we need to set boundaries,” and Bucky had thought “I think I might love you.”

These days, he tried his best not to say it aloud, but he thought Clint still understood it sometimes, like right now when Bucky had finally reached out and kissed Clint one more, and the other man's hip had thrust up twice before he came, one hand grappling at Bucky's shoulder and gripping his shirt. He was panting into Bucky's mouth, eyes wide and a little scared, and Bucky kissed him again until Clint whined, louder than any sound he'd made as he orgasmed, and Bucky couldn't help but be selfishly pleased by that.

He felt warm and relaxed. For once, the arousal coiled in his gut didn't feel uncomfortable, there was no pressure for it to go anywhere.

He pulled away, and watched as Clint carefully got his breathing back to normal. “Thanks,” the blond said, a slightly pathetic attempt at filling the silence between them.

“You're welcome,” Bucky replied, too quiet and not snarky enough, but they both smile and pretended not to know what had been said behind the word. They didn't destroy the balance.

Clint looked at his hand and made a face, and Bucky pushed him out of bed with a laugh, telling him to clean up. He chucked off his own shirt, which was stained by Clint's come and oh, what a strange thought that was. And then he settled into bed.

He was pretty sure Clint would join him, tonight, though he didn't always. If he was lucky, they'd have breakfast the next day. He didn't expect to see much of Clint for the rest of the day after that though, but that was okay.

It was an equilibrium.

[enklavefest]

Love in an Elevator

Username: @anglophile-rin (tumblr) Anglophile_Rin (Ao3)

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29079174

Prompt: "Klaus and Dave live in the same apartment building. Perhaps this story can be told entirely through conversations they have in the elevator i.e. one trying to flirt with the other who is oblivious, the first time one asks the other out, coming home after their first date, having a fight, making up, getting a bit steamy, meeting the siblings, one of them spontaneously proposing…? Basically, snapshots of their lives told through a series of minute-long elevator rides.“

Tags: Klaus Hargreeves, David "Dave” Katz, Klaus Hargreeves/David “Dave” Katz, mentioned Allison Hargreeves, mentioned Diego Hargreeves, mentioned Vanya Hargreeves, recreational drug use, substance abuse, first kiss, semi-public sex, blow jobs, post-traumatic stress disorder - ptsd, flashbacks, pre-season/series 01, modern David “Dave” Katz, war veteran David “Dave” Katz, gratuitous making out, a little light stalking, meet the family, love confessions, ill-advised rolling papers, Klaus’ cryptic comments and dubious anecdotes, ghosts

Author’s Note: Please excuse the cheesy Aerosmith title - Elliott’s House are a bunch of dirty enablers.

Dave glanced up from his phone, but quickly saw he hadn’t arrived at his floor yet. Instead, another man walked in; all flowing limbs and tousled hair with dark glasses on his face. He immediately threw himself against the back wall, tipping his head back and bracing his arms behind him on the handrail.

“Hey, uh, what floor?” Dave asked, realizing the man had no intentions of pressing the button himself. 

“Oh! Right. Uh, 16th, please. Apparently, my sister requires my immediate presence, hangover be damned.”

[15-dogs]

chapter 3 - body of years

pairing: fred weasley x reader

series masterlist

summary: danny and his friend ethan are down with a stomach bug, forcing you to go to diagon alley to pick up some potions for them. what you didn’t expect was all your memories to come rushing back to you.

warnings: children, illness (stomach bug)/kids getting sick, vomit mention

guide: italics = flashback

word count: 1.8K

a/n: if your url is crossed out that means i couldn’t tag you! if you want to be added to my taglist for this, either comment or send an ask :) hope you like it!!

●CHAPTER 3●

Why were children always sick? One day they were fine, the next they were sobbing, doubled over the toilet, emptying the breakfast that you made them. Danny seemed to have caught a stomach bug at school. You spoke with Sianna, Ethan’s mother and fellow witch, and she claimed that Ethan, too, had gotten ill. You shook your head with disapproval; you just hoped the two best friends didn’t do anything idiotic together that would’ve caused the nightmarish week you were having.

You decided it would be best if you went to pick up some potions for Danny and Ethan. But you couldn’t just leave your boy at home, so you figured that the only person who you’d let watch him in that state was Sianna, whose son was also down with that same bug.

To be honest, you weren’t sure when you showered last. Your hair was greasy and your clothes stained from various medicines that you just happened to run out of. Forfeiting sleep, you decided you had just about enough of muggle remedies.

You picked Danny up, the poor thing, cradling him against your chest as you Floo’d to Sianna’s house. You stepped out of the fireplace, Danny perking his head up at the new environment. You looked around for Sianna, instead finding Ethan curled up with a blanket on the couch.

“Hey, kiddo,” you cooed, walking up to the boy, “do you know where your mum is?”

Ethan shook his head softly. You nodded sympathetically-- he looked like he had just woken up from a particularly long nap and was quite disoriented. You snatched the now warm towel off his feverish forehead with your free hand, taking awkward steps towards the kitchen around the corner.

“Sia!” you called out. “Sia, are you home?”

You heard a hum from up the stairs and then hurried steps. “Yes, yes! I was just in the bathroom!” Sianna arrived in the kitchen, her eyes softening when she saw Danny’s sleeping form against you. She patted his unruly hair down, frowning. “Little one’s still ill, is he? All he needs is a good night’s sleep, he does.”

“He was up all night,” you explained, rubbing your drooping eyes with the heel of your palm before going to the sink to soak the cloth in cold water. “Do you mind watching him for a bit? I won’t be more than an hour, I just need to go to Diagon Alley to pick up some potions. I’ll get some for Ethan, too, and I’ll pay you-”

“That’s enough of that, now!” Sianna batted her hands limply through the air, dismissing your ridiculous request because, in all honesty, it was ridiculous. You were strapped for cash at the moment and could barely afford what you had at the moment, never mind paying your friend to watch your kid.

Sianna reached for Danny, taking him off your hands and into her open arms. He snuggled up into her, resting his head on her shoulder. “Go on,” she advised, rifling through her pockets to drop a few coins in your hand, “and get yourself a drink while you’re at it.”

You rolled your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips. “It is 8 o’clock in the morning, mind you.”

“I never said a drink, drink! I meant a coffee!” Sianna shook her head to tease you. “Your mind, always jumping to conclusions.”

“I’ll pick some coffee up for you, too, Sia.” You zipped your sweatshirt up to cover the stains on your shirt from Merlin knows what.

Sianna chuckled quietly. “You’re truly a lifesaver.”

You fought back a smile, chewing the inside of your cheek as you snatched the cool cloth from the sink basin, wringing it out. You kissed Danny on the head before darting into the living room, placing the cloth on Ethan’s head, a kind grin stretching on his lips.

You stepped into the fireplace, taking some powder from the little pot on the mantel as you whispered, “Diagon Alley!”

You appeared in the Leaky Cauldron, trying your best to blend in. To be entirely truthful, you hadn’t been to a wizarding village for quite some time. You had always been nervous to go to Diagon Alley, especially since Fred’s shop was there. You shook your head to release the anxieties that consumed your mind, remembering that Fred no longer played a part in your life; you had forgotten him in your past.

That reminded you of the time that you figured out how to install a television and a VHS player at the Burrow. Fred insisted that he had never seen a muggle movie, so you brought your tape collection over for him to pick from. He chose The Breakfast Club and, Merlin, that boy would not stop singing that song over and over again.

“Don’t you,” he sang, horribly offkey as he thrusted a finger at you, “forget about me!”

“Fred!” you teasingly warned. “You’re going to wake the whole house up, you git!”

But he continued to sing. “Don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t!” He tugged you up from where you sat on the cozy couch, pulling you flush against his chest. Your head tipped back with quiet laughter. “Don’t you forget about me!”

You silenced his terrible singing with a chaste kiss to his lips. “I’m gonna forget about you.”

His hands drifted lower so that they rested against the small of your back. “Is that so?”

You nodded, biting your bottom lip.

“Well, let’s make sure you don’t.”

You snapped out of your daydream, suddenly feeling quite worried. Perhaps being back in Diagon Alley was too much for you, perhaps you needed to leave. But you remembered why you were there in the first place: for Danny and Ethan. You couldn’t just leave because you were scared of running into your ex, that was stupid. So you mustered your last bits of strength and powered on towards the potions shop.

The uneven cobblestone made your tired legs hurt even more. They began to hurt so much to the point where you began to debate the practicalities of levitating yourself down the pathway but soon realized you were unable to do so. You decided it might be best for you to look around Diagon Alley rather than keeping your eyes trained on the object of your pain.

As you scoured the area, your gaze landed on a small bookstore. Against your will, your feet slowed to a stop at the sight. There was a tugging in your body to walk towards it but your brain screamed for you to stop. Next thing you knew, you were inside the store.

“A joke shop, Freddie? Are you being serious?”

The corner of Fred’s lips twitched into a smirk as his mouth opened to tease you. Upon seeing your solemn expression, he froze. “Yeah, I’m being serious.”

You crossed your arms and walked up to him, leaning against the shelves of books. Fred met you halfway, tugging you closer by wrapping his arm around your waist. You rested your head against his chest, frowning.

“So are you...leaving, or something?” Your voice was no more than a whisper, there was nothing more that you could muster.

With your ear pressed against him, you heard Fred’s heart beat faster in his chest. “What?” he chuckled. “No. No, of course not.”

You pulled away from Fred to look at him in his amber eyes, full of hope. “You’re not leaving?”

“Never, love.” Your boyfriend planted a sweet kiss to the top of your head.

“I just...I just assumed, and-...and-” you rambled anxiously until Fred tipped your head up, locking your lips in a bruising kiss. You melted under his touch, your fears dissipating by the second.

“I promise you,” he murmured against your lips, “that I will never leave you.”

Liar.

You bolted out of the store, suddenly feeling suffocated by the atmosphere. You ran as fast as you could, keeping your head down as you felt out the way to the potions store. You chanced a look up only to spot “Borde and Rucker Potions” in large gold letters plastered onto a wooden storefront. 

You slipped in the door, resting your back against it, your chest rising and falling with great haste. Your eyes glazed over as you attempted to steady your breathing. You completely forgot where you were, even when an attendant approached you.

“Can I help you, miss?” he asked, causing you to jump.

Panicked, you scanned the store only to notice a few patrons glancing at you out of the corner of their eyes. Your ears reddened as you nodded, muttering a quick, “Yeah, er, yes.”

“Brilliant. How may I help you?”

You pulled off the door and smoothed out the sweatpants you wore. “I’m looking for a potion for my son and his friend. They both came down with something awful; some stomach bug they caught at school.”

The man nodded wistfully, beckoning you to follow. He went to the shelves around the back of the register to pull out four small boxes, all identical in shape and size. He slid them across the counter with a firm, “3 galleons and 3 sickles.”

You nodded, chewing the inside of your lip as you reached into your pocket, hoping you had the money on you to pay for it. Fortunately, you did, snatching the items once you paid and scooted out the door.

You were nearly done with your errands when you passed a small coffee shop-- the newest addition to Diagon Alley. You had promised Sianna a coffee and you weren’t going home without it; both of you were tired out of your minds from taking care of your boys.

But, Merlin, was that a bad decision.

You ordered your coffee and stood to the side, awaiting your order when you spotted something out of the corner of your eye. Your heart pounded in your chest as you slowly turned to see Fred sitting at a table in the corner, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, head rested in his hand as he looked over something that seemed to be a budget report. You could barely see the wooden table beneath all the papers that he had scattered around it. You sucked in a sharp breath, turning your head away from him.

But it was too late, you were thrown back in the past.

What you thought was dead began to haunt you, every memory of your relationship running tirelessly in your mind. Your mouth went dry and you felt sick bubble up in your throat. You had to leave.

It’s all you were, those memories. You were a body of years that you hoped to leave in the past, dead like it should’ve been. They were a pile of bones that you accidentally dusted off. You were just a child then, you didn’t know what to do. But you were an adult now, you had priorities. And those priorities had nothing to do with Fred Weasley.

Tears pricked your eyes as you bolted out of the shop, hoping to Merlin that no one saw you. But then again, you weren’t so lucky. As you ran into the streets, leaving your drinks and dignity behind, a familiar set of amber eyes locked on your back, feeling that same sensation inside of him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

taglist: @whiz-bangs78 @the-romanian-is-bae @witch-and-a-half @pineapplesandpinas @bellaiscool @gsvshsjsbs @mackaywhore @slytherinlovesgryffindor @weasleytwinswheezes

[nerv0usm3chanic]

CORRUPTION

Chapters: 1 || 2 || 3 || 4

--

((NOTE - This is an introduction to a new PERMANENT AU feature exclusive to nerv0usm3chanic. Please see further, generalized information regarding this AU here: X

Be advised that each of these chapters are VERY LONG. The full content will be tucked under a read more after a brief introduction segment.

DO NOT REBLOG.))

--

Vivi frowned as she spotted Arthur perusing the shelves of Tome Tomb. He wasn’t often in here except when meeting up with Vivi for hanging out later...which, now that she thought about it, hadn’t happened in quite some time. The blue-haired woman made a mental note to invite Arthur and Lewis over for one of their terrible movie nights before heading over to talk to the blond.

“Hey Artie!” The blond jumped at her sudden greeting, his hand over his now racing heart as it registered who it was that spoke to him. “Oh jeeze! I’m sorry for spooking you, Arthur.” She couldn’t help but let a small giggle.

“N-no worries, I’m fine.” Arthur assured her, taking a deep breath, “I um...I was just looking up some things here.” He gestured to the shelf, a series of books on it and many of which hopefully containing his desired topic. Vivi peered over, tilting her head and quirking an eyebrow.

“These are all about ghosts and magic...ooh! Did you hear a rumor about something spooky?” She was getting excited now, “Are you researching for a case, Artie?” Her eyes sparked with her excitement. With a nervous swallow, Arthur nodded slightly, scratching at the back of his head.

“Uh, y-yeah, you caught me.” He coughed, “I heard some rumors of ghosts causing some magical energy fluxes and-”

“Ooh! So exciting! I’ll have to get with you on this later after work!” Vivi clasped her hands around his and practically bounced in place. Just as suddenly, she bounded away to continue her workday and Arthur sighed. Thankfully, he got away without further questions, but he hated the idea of having to explain exactly why he was researching this topic. He’d have to take a rain check if she were to invite him anywhere.

--

“Is this everything?” The shopkeeper asked in a calm, neutral drawl. Arthur nodded silently, drumming his fingers - both the metallic and flesh and bone - on the counter as Duet collected the first of the three books. A blightly-colored eyebrow quirks and the mysterious person looked at Arthur meaningfully. “Are you sure?”

“U-uhm...I think so?” Arthur quailed, glancing sideways as he saw Vivi pass by with a cart of books to be out away. With worrying amber eyes, Arthur begged Duet to stay quiet about his purchases. They too glanced at Vivi before setting the book down with a soft sigh and giving Arthur a serious look.

“Something is off about you, Kingsmen. And I don’t like it.” They commented in a hushed tone, sure to keep their conversation between Arthur and them alone. Their implication was deeply ominous and Arthur shrank at the connotations. Duet relaxed slightly, easing their dark tone and casually checking out the books Arthur had selected as if nothing had been said. After a moment, Duet looked to the blond again.

“You are...researching...yes?” They offered a much more sensitive tone, prompting Arthur to nod and sigh in some relief. “Perhaps there is someone...I can recommend to you.” And with another subtle gesture, Arthur saw a flash of gold from Duet’s sleeve. He blinked as the shopkeeper slipped the thing in between random pages in one of the larger books.

“Was that a...a card?” Arthur asked as Duet finished ringing up the books. They didn’t answer, just placed the books into a plastic bag and looked to Arthur again.

“That will be $43.23.” Duet’s flat expression indicated they had no interest in continuing. Them making a directed glance over Arthur’s shoulder was enough to say why: Vivi was nearby. Arthur nodded, pulling out his wallet and retrieving the necessary funds.

“Thank you.” Arthur nodded, passing a $50 bill and taking his bag of books. He had no need for the small amount of change, especially if Duet’s lead pointed him in the right direction.

--

“This is it?” Arthur asked himself later that evening, looking at the gilded card and with the large book in his lap. There wasn’t anything even written on the card, just a golden embossed moon and beneath it, the words ‘qui petit auxilium’. Arthur didn’t know what it meant and he frowned angrily as he flung the card off to the side. He pouted further when the card spun gracefully and made a smooth landing on his nightstand. “How am I supposed to get help with this stupid spirit if I can’t get a straight answer?”

‘I can hear you, boy.’ The spirit snarled in his head.

“I know you can.” Arthur growled back, turning to the book for help and turning pages to look at the index. The blond proceeded to read from a selected section, investigating all he could from what little there actually was on ghosts and their affects on people.

Pages upon pages on skeptical theory, a chapter on the effects of those under possession - or assumed so - and a handful of paragraphs on magical side effects. None of which described lightning or electricity. There was a small section on hearing the voice of the spirit that plagued, though it was played down shortly after with most victims actually being mentally-ill. Arthur grew frustrated. Hearing that voice constantly tease and taunt him, a spirit that made electricity fly from his hands at the most inconvenient times, and the constant strain and worry...

With an exhausted sigh, Arthur shut the book, using the attached ribbon as a bookmark. He set the book on his nightstand and flopped onto his mattress...before looking to the card once again. Metal fingers reached out, taking the slip of thick paper and turning it carefully. The moon glinted bright in the lamplight as it turned and again the words showed bright.

“Qui petit auxilium...I wonder what that means?” Arthur whispered, weariness beginning to weigh on his eyelids. ‘I just...I just wish I could find something...someone to help me.’ With that thought, the blond curled onto his side, ignoring the devious hums of the other voice in his skull.

--

Despite his doubts, Arthur continued his research, both through the books he purchased and online. He even created a new throwaway Reddit account to search for advice and ideas on how to deal with things. Most if it was hooey and there were a lot of folks going to him to sell their ‘holistic’ home remedies for his ‘condition’. With a sigh, Arthur closed his laptop and rubbed at his tired eyes, bags growing darker each day.

He was the definition of exhausted. By this point it had been more than a year since his possession and he still hadn’t gotten used to the meddling voice in his head or the electrical surges that liked to flow around his metal arm. Arthur scowled at the appendage.

“You were supposed to help me feel normal again.” The mechanic growled at the inanimate arm as it laid peacefully beside his computer.

‘Normal was never an option after you and your friends stepped into my trap.’ The blond ground his teeth a moment before aggressively pushing back from his desk. He needed a walk. Arthur said as much when Lucan asked where he was going.

“Awrigh’ lad...bu’ Ah got dinner cookin’ righ’ now. If ye want it warm an’ fresh, be back in a half hour, okay?” Lucan asked. Arthur gave a tired grunt of ascent and loudly closed the apartment door behind him. The dark-haired Kingsmen looked to his father in concern. Arthur was rarely this moody, even in his teenage rebellious phase and it worried his family.

--

There was a flash of gold in the bright moonlight as Arhur played with the strange card over and around his fingers. The nights were chill and even walks at 6:30 pm were lit by streetlamps and moonbeams. Arthur liked going for walks at night. Fewer people to run into, to talk to about how poorly and pale he was getting, to look at his arm and feel sorry for him. Amber eyes narrowed at the thought.

He’d seen the pitying looks all three of his friends gave him...and he understood why, but it hurt to see them think anything poorly of him because of his still-new disability. He wanted to be normal again. He wanted to have never gone into that cave. He wanted Vivi and Lewis to have listened to him and his bad feelings. He wanted to...to...he sighed in defeat, looking to the card Duet had given him as he walked past a series of old houses in the nicer neighborhood on the outskirts of Tempo.

Research led to only dead ends...to all but one question he had.

“Qui petit auxilium...help to those who ask for it.” A nice sentiment...but ultimately useless if he didn’t know who to ask for help. His only clue was the golden moon that seemed to glow full under the light of the pale white moon above his head. Funny...they both seemed to match at this phase. Arthur hummed idly as he thought about it and looked up.

“A shooting star...” He murmured, coming to a stop in front of another old pseudo-Victorian-style house, the walls covered in ivy and all of the windows dark with some boarded up and others curtained off. He watched the meteorite sail in a surprisingly long trail across the sky. Before it vanished, he closed his eyes and sighed out softly:

“I wish I could find answers...I need help. Who do I go to?” He opened his eyes to see the meteorite had gone. “...please?” For once...the spirit in his head was silent. Arthur felt its presence, but heard nothing. That in itself was remarkable. On another outlet of breath and a soft nod, Arthur turned his head from the sky and turned to make his way back home...when he heard a loud creaking from his right.

Startled, Arthur whipped his head towards the previously-abandoned house. The door was opened and a bright light poured forth, golden and warm and beckoning. The blond didn’t even notice the soft pulse of magic from the card in his hand as he cautiously made his way through the front gate and approached the front porch. He didn’t even notice that the windows remained dark and empty of all life.

The entity in his mind was suspiciously quiet as he set foot on the creaky wood and carefully approached the door.

“Hello? Hello, is anyone home?” Arthur called out, hopeful to gain the homeowner’s attention as he poked his head inside. “I think your door lock may be...broken...” Words trailed off as Arthur took in the sight before him: a comfortable entryway complete with classically ornate wallpaper and decorations given gold trim to compliment their warm tones. He stepped further inside, fascinated to explore more.

Arthur came across a sitting room with the back of a large wooden chair facing him, a fire dancing merrily in its hearth. He sucked in a cautious breath when he noticed a dark-skinned elbow resting on one of the arms and a draping golden cloth pooling at the front of the chair.

“A-ah um...ex-excuse me for intruding...” Arthur started, pausing to swallow nervously. “I-I um...I actually was walking by and your d-door seemed to creak open on it’s own. I’m...I’m not sure, but I think your lock may be broken. I just wanted to let you know, just so you’re not surprised...by intruders...like me.” Oh, he could have done this so much better. Waiting at the front door and knocking would have been a much nicer way to alert the homeowner of this issue.

“I appreciate your concern, but you needn’t worry. I will be just fine.” There was a flutter of nerves in Arthur at the low, feminine tone. Internally, he was both intrigued and frightened by the energy he could feel exuding from around the woman in the chair. Then suddenly he was more frightened when - in the corner of his periphery - he saw the door lazily creak shut and click securely in place.

“Come around so I may see you.” A soft request that rang as a command through Arthur’s rattled skull as she raised one hand to beckon him forward. He nodded despite the fact that she couldn’t see it and carefully made his way around the armchair before finally seeing the commanding woman who owned this obviously magical home.

She was quite the opposite of who he expected to be living in a decrepit-looking house. Shimmering golden locks were tied back neatly, held back by a pearly comb while the rest spilled gracefully around and over her mostly bare shoulders. Arthur blinked at the shimmery golden dress she wore, something he estimated to be worth five or more months of his earnings at Kingsmen Mechanics and she wore it like a second skin with how confident and relaxed she was in her seat. His eyes briefly assessed her arms - obviously strong with muscle, but still lithe and feminine with their bearer’s grace - before he met her gaze.

Arthur swallowed at the bright glow that emanated from her eyes. A firm gaze that studied him with obvious wary scrutiny and a touch of irritation that carried to the slight downturn of the corner of her dark and light contrasting lips...Arthur averted his eyes to her shoulder as the homeowner assessed the mechanic.

“You asked for help...for a problem you cannot resolve by typical means.” A statement, not a question, but Arthur nodded anyway. There was a beat and then the woman let out a soft breath, so soft that Arthur was sure a mouse couldn’t have been quieter. “You wouldn’t be inside this building if you weren’t in genuine need. Take a seat and tell me what plagues you.” Arthur looked to the matching armchair beside hers as she gestured her other hand towards it.

“Th-thank you...” Arthur says gently, nodding to the woman and taking his seat. Once comfortable, Arthur begins to spin his tale.

That was the night he met Luna, the Witch of Secrets...

--

Chapters: 1 || 2 || 3 || 4

[recentanimenews]

OPINION: How Cells at Work! Taught Me to Embrace Self-Care

  CONTENT WARNING: This article contains references to mental illness as well as self-harm, eating disorders, and alcohol abuse. Reader discretion is advised. 

  The next chapter in the story of Cells at Work! has arrived on Crunchyroll, and with it, we can continue the story about you, your body, and your 37.2 trillion cells. This is the story of how Cells at Work! saved my life and helped me become a healthier person. 

  I won’t get into the nitty-gritty details of the things that have happened to me — we don’t have the luxury of time. What I will say is that my most recent psychiatric ARNP, while doing my assessment, said I had six lives’ worth of trauma packed into my 26 years. I chose unhealthy coping mechanisms. I struggled between the desire to feel everything and nothing at all, where poor circumstances bred poor decisions. 

    Initially while facing suffering, I was jaded. But after several abusive relationships, my feelings transformed into a helpless acceptance that I was unworthy of good things. The depression infected every instance of my life: I stopped eating; some days it took me three hours just to convince myself to shower; some days I couldn’t convince myself to shower at all. I swung between frantic insomnia and using sleep as an escape. 

  When I reached out to family and friends, I was met with an overwhelming tirade of toxic positivity. It felt like I was drowning beneath the riptide while they were standing on the shoreline screaming at me to learn how to swim. And so, I turned to anime. Anime has always been a part of my mental health regimen. I found that if I was able to laugh during a crisis, I was able to slowly reel myself back from devastating action. Several series have played this heroic role, and in this instance, it was Cells at Work!. 

    Cells at Work! was delightful, and like many, I was charmed by its cities of anthropomorphic cells: the somewhat ditzy and directionally challenged AE3803 red blood cell; the stoic and sometimes ruthless U-1146 white blood cell; the adorable platelets; the chiseled killer-T cells. It was a lovely little slice of life and comedy venture, giving me a much-needed escape from reality.

  When Cells at Work! CODE BLACK started airing, I was more than eager to jump back into the quirky land and follow my cell friends for some comedy giggles, and at times, astute observations. I hadn’t read the manga, and I didn’t know this story would be one of a deteriorating body full of danger, loss, and chaos. 

  Suddenly, it all became real: the true consequences my actions were having on my body and the trillions of cells that are a part of it. I saw the effect downing a bottle of wine in one sitting would have on my liver cells; the demand facing my blood cells with an ever-decreasing supply of food and energy; the repercussions self-mutilation would have on my poor platelets — that doing so would be evicting cells just like AE3803 from her home, ridding her of her purpose, and ultimately denying her life.

    But unlike all of the conversations I had with others before — the counselors and the well-meaning mentors and the concerned friends and family — what I felt wasn’t disgust at my previous actions. It wasn’t circles of sorrow and self-hatred, nor was it an endless cycle of guilt and shame ... I wasn’t revolted by what I had done, rather, I was determined to be better. 

  My cells can’t yell at me. They don’t speak English. They have no HR, no benefits package, no union. I’m their only ally and advocate, the only one who can make their world better and work easier, perhaps even more meaningful. So I have to listen or they will strike and all the lights will go off. I have to, because if I don’t, who else will?

  When I thought about it less like it was my blood and my body, and more like I was the mother or caretaker to all of these little beings, I was able to do things I couldn’t before: eat, exercise, hydrate, choose healthy coping mechanisms and refrain from self-mutilation. I now had a purpose, which wasn’t so loosely defined as “self-love.” I wanted to be able to provide a safe home and a good working environment so all of my cells could do their jobs.

  Slowly, I began to change. 

  Bit by bit, moment by moment, I took steps to try and help my cells. 

  I began to set an alarm to remind myself to eat. Eventually, this led to tracking those meals to see if I was getting balanced and proper nutrition, and later to meal planning to ensure the blood cells could do their jobs efficiently and without worry. I invested in some supplements to help me sleep; I stopped looking at electronics at midnight to give my brain time to wind down. I started each day by doing some simple arm motions and stretching, moving up to walking and gentle yoga routines, to finally going for a run this last week, in hopes of helping my blood circulation and increasing my blood pressure since I have severe hypotension.

  I’ll admit, some days are harder than others. At times, I mess up. I don’t manage to cook a healthy meal or I can’t get out of bed. But these slips are tenfold healthier than my previous coping mechanisms and I acknowledge that I’m human. Mistakes, accidents, and blunders are bound to happen, but I can minimize the damage and I can try to prepare for those days when they come. Some days the destructive urges are there, but the key is that I don’t act on those harmful impulses. I’m able to control myself and reach for healthier alternatives because I can’t bear the thought of hurting my cells more than I already have. I have to be better for them.

    So many times I have had people tell me that I have to put on my own face mask before helping someone else. While that all makes sense in theory (I can rationalize it), putting it into action and practice is an entirely different experience. It doesn’t in any way recognize that having a life and living it for oneself is a lot of pressure. The overbearing crush of expectation compounded with the unrelenting belief that I am undeserving of basic life necessities. How many of us feel unworthy?

  In the face of death, severe stress, and exhaustion, NT4201 (AE3803’s junior) asks: “Even if we try our hardest, do you really believe it’ll change anything?” 

  How many times have I asked myself that question, unable to find an answer? 

  Fortunately, Cells at Work! provides one for us. Throughout the series, we see cells helping each other as they go about their daily lives. It’s not just that their tasks are their jobs and that is their sole purpose. They strive to work their hardest for the others that live there. AE3803 persists because “Everyone is trying their best. I also have to do this too.” 

    In Cells at Work! CODE BLACK, AA2153 has a similar experience. He asks white blood cell U-1196 if their jobs are really worth risking their lives for. She replies: “We might be working so we can find the answer to that.” The series confirms our experience — there are things we cannot control; bad things happen. Even so, there are actions we can take and people we can rely on because we’re not alone. 

  I couldn’t do it for myself. But I could do it for them. 

Cells at Work!’s personification was the allegory I needed to commit to self-care and a healthier lifestyle. It reminded me that sometimes it’s not the big things that keep us here ... sometimes it’s something as small as a single cell working their hardest that leads to revelations and meaningful change.

    I hope I can live in a way my cells can be proud of. I hope I can give them a better life. 

  How has anime helped you practice self-care? Which anime has encouraged you to lead a healthier life? Let me know in the comments below!

    Annie is a writer for Crunchyroll Features. She hopes her platelets know how much she loves them, and she still has a mega-crush on white blood cell U-1196. She also runs Annieme, a blog committed to anime and mental health. Follow her @anniemeaddict.

  Do you love writing? Do you love anime? If you have an idea for a features story, pitch it to Crunchyroll Features! 

By: Annie M

[nelllraiser]

BM and TJ: A Light Snack | Frank & Nell

TIMING: present. LOCATION: soul on the rocks. PARTIES: @frankmulloy and @nelllraiser. SUMMARY: frank gets more than he bargained for on his shift in the form of a bar fight that nell may or may not have started. he doesn’t get paid enough for this.

Soul on the Rocks wasn’t Nell’s usual haunt when it came to getting a drink. It had something of a reputation for housing seedy guys who didn’t know how to keep their hands to themselves. Not to mention Creepy-Joe who just stood in the corner as if it was his job. But the often questionable nature of its patrons also made it a decent place to pick up a few supernatural bounties from time to time, and it wasn’t exactly a secret that she was up to her ears in hospital bills that needed paying. So Soul on the Rocks would have to do. Regrettably, it didn’t seem that a new job was in the cards for her tonight, and it couldn’t have been all of fifteen minutes before some guy had already managed to piss her off with comments that weren’t welcome even after she threatened to break his fingers. Sure— she technically threw the first punch, decking him clean across the face before he could realize what was happening, but as far as she was concerned he’d been asking for it. It only took a quick breath for the other bar-goers to smell a fight brewing, and quite a few of them readily joined in, always eager to get the blood pumping. Soon enough there was a notable mass of writhing and punching humans, with Nell at the center of it trying to get a hit in wherever she could manage it. “It’s not my fault you’re an ugly bastard!” she yelled blindly at the latest person to try and kick her.

What godly force did Frank manage to piss off in his past life that every shift he’s on at the piss pot bar somehow ended up with somebody getting their teeth kicked in? Somehow, in the end, it was usually always Frank. Pheromones, he found were only of any use when the want to fuck is greater than the will to fight, Frank’s--what word did the shrink say to use? Not curse...ahh yes-- ability only served to fuel the former. Which was probably for the best. With great effort, Frank put away the glass he had been cleaning, and threw the towel over his shoulder--not unlike a willing fighting entering a ring. Only thing was, Frank wasn’t a willing fighter. He just wanted to do his job, get paid and go home. Frank wanted lots of things, like not wanting a stray elbow to ram into his side from an over-zealous spectator. “Move,” came after he had already physically moved that, and several other bodies from his way. An easy task when you towered over a lot of them. Frank had to move a lot of people in his job, it was probably one of the reasons why he was hired. At the centre of the commotion, he grabbed the closest body to him, taking care that it was skin on clothes and not the alternative. He pulled one back and pushed at the other, creating a separation that (hopefully) reason could exist in. That was Frank, he was reason. “Alright people, you wanna beat each other’s face in, you do it outside. Not in here. Let’s all be adults about this, no one needs to be kicked out.” Fuck, he was fucking tired.

Nell was in the zone, kicking and punching and dipping like she was back in the supernatural fighting Ring she’d been a part of no more than a few months ago. Before… helping to blow it up, of course. Ever so slowly, the crowd was seeming to thin, and she could hear a booming voice ring out over it, though the words were hard to actually make sense of. All of the sudden, a large, blond shadow moved over her, and it seemed that another had entered the fray. He was huge, but that didn’t stop her from sending him a challenging glare, a frown etched onto her lips as the adrenaline continued to pump through her veins, her heart thumping in unison with the simple manta of ‘fight’ that was running through her mind. She still couldn’t quite figure out what he was saying over the din of the scuffle, but decided it didn’t matter. If he wanted a fight, he could definitely have one. “Fuck off!” she yelled without thinking, and as his arm came close, she reflexively reached out to bite, like an angry puppy that was working off of instinct. Perhaps if she’d taken a single second longer to look at the man she would have recognized him as one of the bartenders, but thinking before action had never been her strong suit in situations like this.

Frank has been kicked, punched, headbutted, slashed, and in every other manner in which is violent. He’s yet to have been bitten however. His first thought shouldn’t have been (but it was) oh...this is different. His second thought was, “what the fuck?!” As he grabbed the girl by the scruff of her shirt and pried her teeth off his arm, a wet dotted half moon embedded into the skin as a reminder of his misjudgement. This proved to be another momentary relapse of attention that resulted in a fist across his jaw from her opposer. One that carried enough force behind it to jerk his head to one side. Now, Frank seldom got angry, and he wasn’t angry now, honestly! What he was, was loud, and stern, and the two were often mistaken for one another owed to his size. This was probably another reason why he was hired. “That’s enough.” One hand still firmly holding the scruff of the little she-wolf-- wisely keeping her at a distance where no teeth could attach itself onto any unsuspecting limbs-- the other grabbed the collar of her opposition’s shirt, as he hauled them both toward the door. With more force than he had intended, Frank shoved idiot number two out the door, watching with some small sympathy as he stumbled toward the curb and then onto his face. His jaw reminded him that he need not waste anyway. Now, to idiot number one. “You,” he said, “now I’m gonna let you go, but I swear to god if I so much as see a single tooth…” Gingerly, he does.

When she felt the hand tug her by the collar, some cursed cross between a snarl and a growl found itself rising from Nell, and she instantly started squirming, trying to get a hit on anything she could touch while trying to move enough that he would be forced to drop her. “Let go of me!” she yelled insistently as a warning to a man who was well over a foot taller than her, apparently uncaring of any possible consequences, and still not quite having the clarity in the haze of the fight to realize that this man worked here. She could feel her magic kicking in and pooling in her gut, asking for direction as fight soundly squashed flight into a pulp, running away having never been an option. Unleashing any magic probably wouldn’t be wise at the moment, though— and she tamped the rising feeling down as she was finally released, still refusing to stay still the entire time to the door and even for a moment after the man’s hand had left her collar. “Who the hell do you think-” Nell had been in the middle of asking who exactly this man thought he was, but she finally got a good enough look at him to recognize him as one of the people that had been on the other side of the bar, slinging out drinks. “Oh…” she said rather ungracefully as realization dawned on her. He’d been trying to break up the fight, hadn’t he? “He started it!” she insisted with a wild point towards the man that had just been tossed to the curb. In another moment her arms crossed over her chest, and the rampant aggressive nature that had been on display before ever so slowly began to chip away. Oh shit. She’d bit him, hadn’t she? And not in the way most men liked. “If you see a single tooth you’ll what?” It was less of a genuine challenge and more of a beginning of trying to salvage things.

That was a good point. What was he going to do? The answer was one he knew immediately and so did pride, and it halted the reply on his tongue. Nothing, Frank wasn’t going to do anything. What were the alternatives? Throw her to the curb? Swing a wild fist at her face? Anger had lost its hold on the girl and he could slowly see reason and comprehension formulating behind her eyes as she was no longer blinded by its red lens. Any suggestion of further violence would be ill advised, and while Frank wasn’t the smartest guy around, he wasn’t stupid. In any case, Frank never had much of an appetite for violence. He was always the type more ready to take the punch than to cash it out. Kindness, he thought, was a more valuable currency, although it wasn’t as if he readily gave those out either. “I’m going to call you a cab and send you home.” Somehow that sounded more menacing in his head. He was already pulling out his phone and punching in a series of numbers. One of them was getting a cab, and it was up to her whether she’d be joining the sorry idiot that was slowly picking himself up from the side of the curb. “Sit down, and shut up.” His previous display of bravery significantly injured, he sat down without a word. Good. Frank put his phone to his ear, the other hand absently nursing the bite mark on his forearm. “And by the way, ‘he started it’? What are you, seven? Actually...did anyone ask for your ID— hello? Hi, yeah, I need a cab at Soul...yeah, Soul for the Rocks...For one,” he turned and gave her a pointed look, “or maybe two, we’ll see when you get here.”

Nell’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly as his claim of calling a cab was revealed, as if she were scrutinizing it for any possible bluffs. But she didn’t have a chance to comment on it before his phone was already out, and apparently he hadn’t been joking about getting at least one cab. As the other man in question plopped down, Nell didn’t let up in glaring daggers at him, finding that entertaining enough to preoccupy her for the moment being. Her middle finger was itching to come up and flip off the douchebag, but she kept her arms firmly folded where they’d settled, trying her best not to be threatened with a cab once more. But she didn’t care much for the bartender’s phone call as he jibed at her. “I’m not seven! It’s true! He’s the one who was being a dick!” It probably didn’t help that her foot stomped instantly against the ground with the words, not unlike someone who was throwing a tantrum. “My ID?” The exasperation and indignance that entered her voice was akin to what it might have been if someone asked if she liked mimes. The most horrible of offenses. “I’m twenty-three! And it’s for one!” she insisted without hesitation, standing on tiptoe to try and get as close to the phone the giant man was holding to tell the cab driver that she’d be going nowhere in a taxi. Then she addressed the man grasping the cell phone directly. “Besides- I have my bike here!” Her thumb jabbed towards the spot where she’d parked her motorcycle. “And I didn’t even really drink.” She’d been looking for work, so getting drunk wouldn’t have been smart.

She actually stomped her foot. “Yeah, now I’m convinced.” Frank was tall, she was not, but keeping her away from his phone proved to be an uphill battle as she tried to speak into the receiver, threatening the space that he had carefully crafted between them, with each new attempt. He spared a fleeting glance in the general direction of her thumb, hoping to appease any further attempts. “Alright, alright, will you please just-- hello?...yeah, yes, I’m still here...excellent...thank you. I’ll be waiting outside. Thank you.” Now that that was out of the way. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you incapable of exercising some form of restraint? Oh and if someone is being a dick, you call security to kick them out, not start a brawl in the middle of a crowded bar.” Or bite people when they’re trying to help you! The latter never made it past pride’s careful guard, though the thought was betrayed in the form of his hand returning to nurse the tender spot. The cab pulled up not much sooner, and to keep himself from saying or doing anything else that might betray his thoughts, he turned his back to the woman and proceeded to stuff idiot number one into the back of the cab. Producing a handful of notes from his own back pocket, he deposited them into the driver’s window. “Just him. Make sure he gets into his front door please, thanks.” There was a pause as the driver muttered something through the window, Frank turned his head back to where the woman was standing. He seemed to have to think about his reply, but at last decided, “no, just this one. Thanks man.”

Nell’s frown only deepened as Frank’s sarcasm pervaded the air, her hands quickly going back into a stubborn cross over her middle. “I’m just saying,” she grumbled, not actually entirely finishing the thought aloud. This time she waited not quite patiently, but in a manner that was much more subdued than before as he finished up his call. Unfortunately, her offense was quick to return as soon as he started asking questions again. “What’s wrong with me? Why don’t you ask what’s wrong with him?” Her open palm jerked roughly towards the man still sitting desolate on the curb. “Why am I the one being yelled at for restraint when he’s the one who doesn’t keep his hands to himself! He could learn some restraint!” Her features quickly returned to something akin of an angry pout before she continued on, raising her nose stuffily into the air. “Security looked...busy.” It was a bald-faced lie. She hadn’t even bothered to look at security. Nell watched as his hand found the place she’d bitten him, and again her exterior lost a few of its prickles. “Did I...bite you hard or-?” An inkling of an apology was creeping through her voice. After all, even if the guy in front of her was making her bristle, he probably didn’t deserve to be bitten in a fight. “Is it bleeding?” she asked, trying to get a closer look. As the taxi pulled away without her in it, Nell scowled after it— as if she could burn a hole through the seat where the man she’d been fighting was sitting. “So you work here.” It wasn’t so much a question, and she wasn’t sure where she was going with it, but it was something to say that was neutral rather than combative.

“I’m not yelling at you!” Frank was in fact yelling at her. He realised this too and softened his tone to one more closely related to a sort of...diplomatic reprimand. “I’m not yelling at you, I’m just saying, there are better alternatives to fixing a problem than by punching it. And that was a test by the way. You failed. The security; that’s me. I wasn’t that busy.” At her remark, Frank’s eyes fell on his forearm, as if noticing the degree of injury for the first time. The dark spots of blood rising to colour in the indents left by the set of teeth; just sitting beneath the surface of the skin as no puncture was actually made, but still carrying with it the threat of spilling over if there was. A bigger ring surrounded the mark, red and angry, but would surely yellow and then disappear over time. Probably by tomorrow morning at the latest. Now that he was taking the time to examine his injury, he had almost forgotten that he was punched, and now that the adrenaline was no longer needed, the pain in his jaw made itself known. Frank pulled down the sleeve of his jacket. Stepping back before she could step forward. “No, it’s not. Don’t worry about it.” The change in her demeanour was welcomed progress, although this wasn’t saying a great deal considering how ready she was to, quite literally, rip into him before. “Well, I’m not here for the friendly crowd.” There was a pause as a sort of peace had settled between them, and Frank was not oblivious to how fragile it was and was even more careful not to break it. “Look, are you okay?” 

Nell was all too ready with a rebuttal to his claims of not yelling, but before she could get it out he rectified that particular situation, and she bit her words off before they could manage to surface. “I don’t know- punching always seems to work pretty well for me. And I tried to tell him to fuck off. He didn’t seem interested in doing that.” There was a flicker of humor to her voice this time, her temper once again fading into something less volatile for a moment. “Okay, well that’s not fair. You can’t give me a test without telling me. What kind of teacher are you, anyway? But you’re security?” she asked curiously, looking him over and ignoring the fact that she’d been caught in a lie. Again the disapproving curve of her mouth only dipped deeper as he tugged down his jacket. “If it’s not bleeding, then let me see,” she said— her tone firm once again, but filled with less hostility and more determination. She wasn’t entirely sure what to make of him stepping away. Maybe he just liked personal space? Or maybe he was worried she’d bite him again if he said something to anger her which was...fair enough. “Are you saying I’m not friendly?” she continued along the vein of a truce they’d managed to find, her fickleness in her emotions knowing no end. Confusion was quick to grip her as she blinked at his question, her knee-jerk answer of, “What?” probably too much of a give away as to how unexpected his query had been. “I mean- I’m fine,” she tentatively replied, not particularly used to people she’d bitten asking how she was doing. If any new bruises did arise from the scuffle tonight, she’d be hard-pressed to identify them with the steady collection of purple and yellow spots she generally sported from her line of work. “What about you? You’re not dying or something, are you?”

Alas, what more could Frank say to that? It wasn’t as if Soul was known to attract the upstanding citizen type. For most of its patrons, their problems could not be solved any other way so they found comfort instead at the bottom of a shot glass or a beer bottle, or a well placed fist on an unsuspecting face (and then there’s Joe, but he’s another species entirely). All Frank could really do was make sure nobody kills each other in the process; and fights never last too long when Frank’s on shift, which means he must be doing something right. “Well I’m not a teacher, I’m the deterrent.”  Frank kept his arm firmly by his side, one foot behind him in a strategic shift of weight should she prove to be as persistent as he suspected. It looked bad, yes, but that was now, and there was nothing more awkward than having someone witness an ugly injury, and the next day to find no trace of the previous night’s violence. He’d rather avoid that conversation if he could help it. “I’m saying you need to exercise restraint, and take people at their word when they say they’re fine and drop it.” However, a great deal could be said of one’s character, and their history, when their first response to ‘are you okay?’ was ‘what?’, and her reaction was not lost on him. But for the sake of keeping peace, and with no visible injury to invoke any immediate concern, he did not press. “Trust me, as long as my head stays on my shoulder, I don’t die easy.” He thought that he said it with enough casual grace to warrant no great suspicion. “I’ve worked here long enough to say with some confidence that tonight was not the worst night I’ve had. Come on Bitey McFierce, if you promise not to punch anyone else tonight I’ll pour you a beer.”

“Well if you’re not a teacher, then why are you giving tests?” Nell quipped back in the same moment the man had finished his sentence. It seemed she was still making the shift from aggressor to casual nuisance. Again, she took him in all at once, giving him a look over before saying to the tree of a man, “I bet I could take you.” It was still meant to have a home in that in between place they’d seemed to have found themselves, testing the waters of how far she could take her teasing. But then she was giving him a hearty eyeroll as he continued to preach the virtues of restraint. As for whether or not she’d drop the subject of a potential injury— she carefully mulled the thought over, deciding just how far she wanted to push. She was pretty sure she hadn’t tasted blood, and if he wanted to be some macho man and pretend he was fine when he wasn’t...it wouldn’t be her funeral. On the other hand, pure stubbornness was egging her on. “You’re bossy.” Was all she settled on after chewing the inside of her cheek. “But I should warn you I have rabies.” That was transmitted by biting, wasn’t it? She wasn’t entirely sure. But what a strange way to phrase that he didn’t go down easy. As long as his head was on his shoulders? Maybe she just wasn’t familiar with the saying, but it also made her think of how the undead were rather indestructible unless they lost their noggins. His casual delivery of the words were enough to make her brush past it, though. “Bitey McFierce?” she echoed with a cross between a scoff and an amused snort. “That’s the best you can do? I don’t know why I expected better of you, but I did....Turkey Jerky.” It was the first thing that had come to mind when she thought of things that might be hard to chew. “No promises,” she answered without thought, both being raised in White Crest and her general everyday experiences with fae nearly replying for her. Still- it was light enough to come across as still being her impish self, and Nell had intended it as such a thing. “And my name is Nell.” This didn’t seem like a moment to explain that it was short for Penelope. “Maybe you can come up with something half decent with that.”

It takes everything in Frank to bite back a retort. It would only serve to prolong this nonsense back and forth that she’s somehow trapped them in, and perhaps that was exactly what she wanted. If you can’t him, annoy them to surrender, which is why he was determined to give her precisely the opposite. “I am sure that you can,” he said, and the words, oddly, did not hold even a shadow of sarcasm. Of course, beating someone was easy when they weren’t willing to fight back, although a gut instinct told him that she was the type to enjoy a challenge or not at all. Or maybe she just enjoyed winning, who knows? He’s been wrong about people before. Although it seemed he was at least correct in her persistence, the woman would not shut up. “I am.” And he was. “Consider me warned.” He said, bearing the brunt of her nuisance with infinite patience. Although a weathered wall was not without its cracks, and the occasional jibe could, and did, muscle its way through every now and then, usually when he least expected it. “Turkey Jerky?” What the fuck did that mean? He can’t imagine a single characteristic about him, or his behaviour that might even resemble a jerky. Was he a jerk? He thought himself perfectly restrained, all things considered, her on the other hand... “Right. That’s reassuring.” Frank scratched his arm. His words were accompanied by a wary look and delivered with no great confidence. At least when he returned to his usual spot behind the bar, he knew who to keep an eye on. Nell, that can’t be a real name. A nickname, he decided. Yet deep in the pit of his stomach he felt an itch: what was her real name? This wasn’t Frank. The impulse was biological, totemic, ancient, and it made him uneasy. He scratched the back of his neck. “Frank. And I’ll let you know as soon as you come up with something that makes more sense than turkey jerky.” 

[soybeantree]

a baby changes everything

pairing: do kyungsoo x (reader)

genre/warning: artificial insemination, drama

word count: 2.3k+

description:  when you decided to have a baby, you knew everything would change, but this is not what you expected...

a/n: november installment of our ‘trying to write a kyungsoo story for every month that he is gone’ series.

parts: o1 | o2

Cars splash through puddles as they whiz down the streets. Rain continues to patter down on the bus stops awning. Resting your hand on your stomach you attempt to quell your little one’s movements with a soft whisper. He continues to push against his boundaries, ready to enter the world or perhaps eager to protect his mother. Your nerves have much to do with his unease. Your internal whispering have had the same affect on you as it did on him. There is no calming your nerves.

Your bus arrives, and with a deep breath, you push yourself up and board. A thirty minute commute stretches between you and the upcoming encounter. It drags on, while simultaneously rushing ahead. You’re not ready for the meeting, but neither would you be given more time. They gave you a week to come to a decision, even though you knew your answer the day they asked. Your son is your son, and you will fight to keep him.

The first day you met your son’s father was the day his family requested you relinquish to them your rights to your unborn son. He sat silently at the end of a long boardroom table, his eyes fixed on something beyond the room’s windows. His lawyers and secretary were anything but. They chattered incessantly and at a speed which left you confused and irritated. Eventually, you tuned them out as your focus rested on your sperm donor. He was rich, presumably well-educated, and based on the current diatribe due to become the CEO of his family’s company. The question which circulated most through your head was “why?”. 

Why would someone like him go to a sperm bank? Clearly not for money. Perhaps treatment for an illness. Was he saving it for some future spouse? Were you given his sperm by accident?

In the end, why didn’t matter. What mattered was that your son was his son, and his family wanted his son. Your son was to be his heir and the heir to their company. You would become his surrogate, relinquishing all legal rights to him.

At the end of the meeting, they offered you a contract which outlined your duties for the remainder of your pregnancy and beyond. It included a gag order and the information regarding your compensation. They gave you a week to decide. As you prepared to leave, they delicately advised what would happen should you reject the offer. They had the means and the legal team to ensure your son ended up where he belonged, and when they succeeded you would end up desolate and destitute. The world passes by in a blur of gray. Water droplets race down the bus windows, and you watch them, betting on which will win. The distraction fails, so you stop. Your hand returns to your stomach, and this time you hum instead of whisper.

Telling your family you were going to undergo artificial insemination had released chaos. Your mother went silent, but her judgment was tangible. Your sisters vocalized their disapproval. You were still so young. You had plenty of time to find a guy and get married.

Telling your co-workers had started the gossip mill. Their disapproval stemmed from the opposite direction. You were a successful career woman, steadily climbing the corporate ladder. A child would complicate your life, and a woman didn’t need to have a baby to be complete.

You smiled politely and thanked everyone for their concern. On the day of your insemination appointment, you arrived early and prayed for success. A month later you received the wonderful news.

The comments petered out after you shared the news. The disapproval remained in their eyes though. You continued to smile politely as you planned for your new life.

Everything was going to plan which should have been a red flag that something would go wrong. Early in your third trimester after all your baby-showers and after you had completed your baby’s room, you received a visitor at work. His business card identified him as a legal representative of EXO Corporation, a corporation known the whole world over. You doubted the validity of his claim. Your employer had no connection with EXO Corporation, and your only personal connection came via the products you buy from their subsidiaries.

The man assured you he was indeed a part of their legal team and requested to arrange a meeting with you and the corporations president. You had snorted, the reaction involuntary but accurate. With a clipped smile, he informed you that they would send a car to pick you up the coming Saturday.

A car had arrived that Saturday, a week ago. It took you to the meeting which has haunted you and robbed you of sleep. This Saturday, you left before a car arrived.

The bus pulls up to your stop. You whisper a thank you to the driver as you descend the stairs. The EXO building looms over you, leaving you in its shadow. A chill shakes your shoulders. Raising your umbrella, you square the and march forward.

“Ms. Y/L/N.” You skitter to a stop and glance around for the source of your name. Do Kyungsoo stands beside a sleek black car, reminiscent of the one which came for you. From beneath his umbrella, he raises a hand in greeting, and you unconsciously mimic the gesture. Snapping your hand to your side, you politely nod before resuming your march. Ire burns in your stomach, but you smother it with reason. You need to be clear headed for the coming battle.

Arriving at the elevator, you tuck your umbrella in your purse and wait in vain for the doors to open before he comes. Kyungsoo takes the spot next to you, but the crowd of workers inhibits conversation. You board and ensure the crowd separates you. As the elevator ascends, the workers exit on their floors until only you two remain.

“I had hoped to speak with you before today’s meeting.” And he had tried. Every day at exactly 5PM, he would call, and after going to voice mail, he would send the same text. If you are available today, I would like to speak with you. “We still have a few minutes before the meeting. I intend to grab some coffee. We have water and juice.”

“I’m fine.” You decline with a polite smile. “I’d prefer to keep my time here brief.” The elevator dings, and the doors open. Kyungsoo motions for you to exit. He falls into step beside you and opens the door to the boardroom. Your upbringing forces a ‘thank you’ from your lips.

While you and Kyungsoo may be early, the legal team is earlier. They already sit around the table, vultures ready to pounce. When Kyungsoo enters, they stand and show their respect. He returns the greeting and situates himself at the head of the table. The legal team sits and motions for you to do the same.

You remain standing and meet their eyes. “Thank you, but there’s no need. I’m not selling you my baby.” Anger burns in your chest as you utter the vulgar response.

The head of the legal team smiles with all the sincerity of a fox. “Ms. Y/L/N, that’s a rather crude way of looking at this situation. We are merely compensating you for your services.”

“I don’t need compensation because I haven’t provided any services to your president or this company. I chose to have a baby. I chose the sperm from the options given to me. I chose to be inseminated. This baby,” you rest your hand on your womb, “is my baby. As we have no further business, I will be going. Goodbye.” You nod to them before exiting the boardroom. Indignation and threats fly at your back, but as the door closes behind you, they fade into silence.

Once more setting your hand on your belly, you feel peace. Your son has finally settled down to sleep.

In the nursery, you sit in the rocking chair you spent weeks agonizing over. Relaxing into its plush cushions, you commend yourself for your good decision. You have no regrets regarding your son, but certain decisions weigh heavier on your mind. The EXO corporation has maintained silence since you gave your decision, but their threats linger. If they decide to pursue legal action, you may lose your son.

The door buzzer breaks you from your revere. The rocking chair cushions are easy to sink into but difficult to climb out of. After much struggle, you free yourself. Eying the chair, you second guess your decision. The buzzer sounds again, and you table that thought for later.

Staring at the door cam screen sends fear winding through your veins. Kyungsoo’s face stares at you. He reaches for the buzzer again, but you open the door before he can push it. Body blocking entrance, you meet his eyes. He offers a smile which you refuse to return. With a nod, he pulls his hand from behind his back to reveal a take-away bag from your favorite restaurant. Your eyes narrow as you inch the door closed.

Clearing his throat, he lowers the bag. “I probably should have gotten something generic and not from the background check we did.”

“Probably.”

“It’s a peace offering. I was hoping we could talk. If not, the food is still yours.” He extends the bag, the smell of the food wafting forward. Your stomach growls, and your son nudges you. With a sigh, you grab the bag, keeping your fingers far from his. His arm returns to his side as he awaits your decision. Curiosity and fear mingle in your mind. Stepping back, you open the door wide.

You leave him in the entryway as you head to the kitchen. He enters as you finish transitioning the food from the container to a plate. The bag only contained one portion of your favorite dish. You settle at the table with your food. He takes up position in the kitchen’s center, hands clasped behind his back.

“I wanted to let you know that my corporation will not be suing you for custody. I have told them that we will respect your decision.” He begins as you chew on your first bite. Relief floods you as tears prick your eyes. Swallowing, you nod in acknowledgment but keep your attention on your food. “I also wanted to apologize.” Your next bite lodges in your throat as your knuckles whiten around your fork. Kyungsoo silences.

“Continue.” You offer before standing up and heading to the cupboard to grab a glass.

“I’m sorry for the way my company and my family treated you.” You pull a water pitcher from the fridge. “I’m also sorry for allowing them to harass you, my reasons for doing so were cruel.”

“Because you wanted to steal my son.” Your voice remains steady despite the roiling in your stomach. You set the pitcher beside your glass. Your hands are shaking too badly to pour.

“Because I didn’t trust you.”

“Trust me?!” Your eyes flash to him, your hands balling into fists on the counter top

He maintains your gaze. “I had concerns that you had chosen my sperm on purpose and intended to use the baby to exhort money from me. After meeting you and seeing your love for your son, I put my concerns to rest.”

Anger still burns inside, but you release your fists and pick the pitcher back up. You guzzle the first glass and pour yourself another. This one you hold in your hand, swirling it and watching the ripples. “Is that all?”

"No." You glance back up. He continues to stand in the middle of your kitchen, his attention fully on you. "I also came to ask you to consider allowing me to be a part of my son's life."

“Why?” The word snaps out.

“Because he is my son, and the only child I will have.”

“What?” You breath the question as you set your glass back on the counter.

“Last year, I was in an accident.” The tabloids had covered it ad nauseam. “What was left out of the news report was that the accident left me infertile. Information which could be detrimental to the corporation.”

“Did they have you save your sperm in case of something like this?” The “whys” you pondered resurface as you take your glass and return to the table.

A smile cracks his face, and he chuckles. “No. That was a lucky happenstance.” Curiosity tingles the tip of your tongue, but you seal your lips. The smile continues to play on Kyungsoo’s lips. He motions to the chair across from you, and you nod. As he sits, he continues. “After high school, I went through what my parents call my rebellious stage.” You snort around a bite, pieces of food flying to the table. Covering your mouth, you clear your throat and attempt to regain your composure. With him sitting across from you in a perfectly tailored three piece suit, you find it hard to imagine him going through a rebellious stage. He shakes off your reaction. “I ran away from home, lived on friend’s couches, worked odd jobs. At one point, I became desperate for cash, and my friend suggested selling my sperm. Any option was better than swallowing my pride and crawling back to my parents.

“After the accident when my parents and the board began to worry about the future of the company, I told them about the sperm. They went to the bank, but-” He shrugs. You know the rest of the story.

Running your thumb through the condensation on the glass, you contemplate his story and his request. “If I say, ‘no’?”

“I will respect your decision, but will request that if my son ever wants a relationship with me, you will allow it.”

“If I say, ‘yes’?”

“I will respect the boundaries you put in place.” You settle your hands in your lap and meet his gaze once again. You search beneath his calm demeanor and find the flicker of hope. 

“You know a lot about me.” He swallows but nods. “May I get to know you better before I decide?” The hope brightens, and he nods again.

[fromtheringapron]

Random Notes on Episode #1 of Sunday Night Heat

I miss Sunday Night Heat. I miss wrestling weekend shows in general, but Heat holds some particularly unique appeal to me. Back in the day when I was too young to stay up and watch Raw in its entirety, Heat was usually the place to get my wrestling fix. By the time I started watching it, Heat was pretty much an afterthought, but it would recap the past week’s Raw, so it also helped keep me up to date on storylines. Even in its latter days, you would get a lot of weird stuff you wouldn’t get any other WWE show and, thanks to the WWE Network, some of it is finally starting reemerge.

The premiere episode of Heat debuted on August 2, 1998. Contrary to popular belief, a lot of stuff happened on the show in its first year on the air. As Smackdown did not yet exist, it was actually WWF’s B show for a short while, often furthering storylines and even once saw Mankind win the WWF title in the famed empty arena match. The first episode gave a small inkling of what was to come. Here’s the results from the card that literally nobody remembers:

Edge defeated Jeff Jarrett (with Tennessee Lee).

Droz & The Headbangers (Mosh and Thrasher) defeated Kaientai (Funaki, Men’s Teioh, and Dick Togo) (with Yamaguchi-san).

WWF European Championship Match: D’Lo Brown (champion) defeated Ken Shamrock via disqualification.

#1 Contenders’ Match for the WWF Tag Team Championship: The Rock and Owen Hart defeated Kane and Mankind (with Paul Bearer) vis count-out.

Edge as a rookie! D’Lo Brown as Euro champ! The Headbangers in general! What a time. Outside of the card, here’s what also randomly caught my attention:

Early Shane McMahon is Obnoxious: The early, early days of Heat were our formal introduction to Shane McMahon and, oh boy, it was rough. Thought it wouldn’t be long until he became a mega spoiled prick, the first episode sees him woefully miscast as a babyface color commentator, which is absolutely NOT his thing. First of all, his overall presentation is just weird in retrospect. He comes down to the ring in what would become Jacqueline’s entrance music, which already sets a jarring tone. Not only that, but he’s joined by two women named Alley and Kyla (or at least I think that’s her name? I couldn’t hear it well). Who are they? What’s their relationship to Shane? Why are they more random than The Wrestling Classic’s Susan Waitkis? Then we get his commentary and, woof, if you ever want to hear a human being speak in all caps for an entire broadcast, be my guest. It’s a far cry from the man who’d become known for failing several feet off various structures, somehow avoiding serious injury every time.

Droz’s World: Perhaps the most bizarre segment of the first episode is a segment inspired by MTV’s The Real World, starring everyone’s favorite puke artist Darren Drozdov. He tells the story of how he threw up on Mark Henry’s hand during training. Yep, that’s literally it. Fortunately, Tom Prichard is here to offer some color commentary to the event, saying “IT WAS GROSS!” and how Droz’s puke was filled with “corns and beans.” Oh, and then Droz shows a tattoo of a dog on his ass for good measure. Somewhere, Vince McMahon can be heard laughing in the distance. It’s oft forgotten how much the Real World was parodied back in the late ‘90s, even before the reality TV genre ever really exploded in popularity. Remember how it found its way in She’s All That?

The Val Venis/Mario Lopez Feud: One of the best parts of watching old Raw episodes is having to listen to the commentators awkwardly plug the USA Network’s original series. After all, a plug for Silk Stalkings just doesn’t feel right if you’re not watching an Undertaker squash in jest. The first episode of Heat carries on with this grand tradition and hypes the hell out of Pacific Blue, which I’ve never watched but sounds like some Baywatch/Miami Vice/crime procedural schlock. It takes it even one step further by having star Mario Lopez in the audience, who then proceeds to get into a fight with, um, Val Venis (in the midst of his castration storyline with Kaientai no less)?!? The WWF seriously tried to tease us with a Venis vs. Lopez feud in 1998. I’m not even really sure who the face in that situation would be. It sounds ridiculous, but can’t be any more so than what WCW was doing at the exact same time with Jay Leno.

Bart Gunn and Shanna Moakler: Did you do a double take reading that headline? One half of the Smoking Gunns and one half of MTV’s short-lived reality show Meet the Barkers! In the same room! On TV! If there were ever a more random pair of people to share TV time, I’d like to know it. Anyway, continuing the theme of plugging Pacific Blue as much as possible, we have  cast member Shanna interviewing Bart Gunn (dubbed here as “LeFTY”) about his upset victory in the ill-advised Brawl 4 All against tourney fave Dr. Death. Of course, Bart yammers on a bit about knocking Dr. Death out with his left hook. Blah, blah, blah. I’m sure if you adjust the volume a certain way, you can practically hear Jim Ross seething behind the commentary booth.

The Main Event is a Mess: If you thought they would’ve ended the first episode of Heat with a bang, guess again. It doesn’t even end with a whimper, really; more like a slow, drawn-out fart. The winner of the main event tag team match would go on to face Steve Austin and The Undertaker, example #457 of tag champs who are actually mortal enemies. The match is just a lazy brawl where everyone involved doesn’t seem to give a rat’s ass, despite Shane’s best efforts to once again to bring the excitement by speaking in all caps. The Rock and Owen Hart win over Kane and Mankind (Team Hell Socko?) by count-out, as Owen casually slides back into the ring after an outside brawl. I don’t know how Rock and Owen fared against the tag champs the next night on Raw, but it’s safe to say it didn’t lead to much. I know I have full access to the WWE Network where I can easily watch that but, hey, these guys didn’t put in any effort into this match so why should I? Fair is fair. 

And there you have it⏤the first episode of Heat in the books, ass tattoos and all. I hope the WWE Network uploads more episodes in the future. I personally want the MTV era on there. Anyway, they better upload them soon, or else I may just resort to finally watching Pacific Blue instead.