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ageless-aislynn · 11 months ago

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Title: “15 Minutes” (9/?) Author: @ageless-aislynn Characters/fandom: Master Chief John-117/Reader, Halo the series Summary: You're in peril but don't be afraid, help is near. Series: How to date a Spartan (without even trying) Rating: T (PG13) Length: 2,568 (this chapter, 22,261 total so far) Spoilers: Set in the Silver Timeline of Halo the series, not the games or novels. Though we began with the events of Halo 1x06, there will be no more show spoilers. We are still firmly seated in the AU Warthog, merrily driving out to places where there’s only a passing nod to canon. 😉 Trigger warning: claustrophobia Disclaimer: Definitely not mine but I do enjoy borrowing them just for a bit! 😉 A/N: Text is both here in this post or available at AO3, however you like to read. Halo season 2 has finally arrived! However, this fic continues to zip along in the AU Party Warthog, so, while we began with season 1 way back when (and you’ll see a few more things from s1 along the way 😉), we’ll not be venturing into s2 territory at all. Unless s2 is going to take some verrrrry interesting twists, lol! Chapter 10 is in progress by hand but I hope to have it ready soon. 🤞😣🤞 The tags have been updated for hurt/comfort starting with this chapter. If you read, I hope you enjoy! ⭐💖⭐

Taglist: @pinheadbanger @mysardencut @laurenstacy610 @sporadicbelievernightmare @ultrablackwidower @bxmxtx @jellotherelol

If you would like to be tagged in my John/Reader fics, just let me know! I also write John/Kai, John/Cortana and Kai/male Reader, so I’m glad to tag you for whatever you’d like. If you would like to be removed from the taglist, also feel free to let me know, no harm, no foul. 😉 💖

Halo fic masterlist ⭐

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8

Trigger warning again: claustrophobia If you need to avoid the actual scene, skip the entire first section but there will be a lot of mentions of it again through the rest of the chapter, just so you're aware. I don't want to cause any distress to anyone so if you'd like a recap of what happens in this chapter, feel free to contact me here and I'm happy to oblige so you can stay in-the-know without reading something that could trigger a bad reaction. Stay safe, my friends! 🤗

You tried to gasp in a breath but there was a weight pinning you down. Smoke burned your lungs and your eyes. Your left arm couldn't move but you were able to bring your right hand up to wipe your face, trying to clear your vision. The only light in the rubble came from a shower of sparks a few feet away, emitting from a panel half-ripped from the wall. There was very little to orientate yourself by.

"Hello?" you tried to call but you couldn't take a deep enough breath to yell. The muffled ring in your ears told you that at least one of your eardrums had ruptured.

Evaluate, you thought in the tone you used when triaging patients, shoving down a wave of panic. You tried to squeeze out from under whatever was pressed across your back. No good, too much weight.

There wasn't a tremendous amount of pain but you worried at the numbness from your waist down, behind whatever was restraining you.

Evaluate.

You tested moving your legs, your feet, your toes. It felt strange but yes, you had movement.

Spinal cord potentially compromised but not severed, you diagnosed as clinically as possible.

Something overhead gave an alarming groan.

Alert help. Report your position.

"Hello? I'm by the crane operator booth. Can anyone hear me?"

You couldn't get the volume you wanted and you automatically tried to inhale deeper. You couldn't and had to fight another wave of panic. The animal part of your brain wanted to claw the twisted metal of the deck, trying to squirm free, but when you twitched, something above you groaned again.

You had no way to know how perilous the collapsed structure was. A wrong move could bring it all down.

A fresh wave of smoke irritated your nose and you coughed weakly. From far away, you heard the muffled sound of a woman saying your rank and last name.

"Here," you choked out. "I'm here."

A blue light shimmered a few feet away, the lower half of a blue-tinted woman, her upper body phased through the rubble. Then she shrank until she fit the space, adjusting like a camera lens. A hologram.

She repeated your rank and last name. "We have your location," she said, your damaged hearing distorting her voice. "Sit tight, a rescue crew is on their way."

You tried to respond but the smoke triggered more coughing, so you nodded.

"I'll stay with you for as long as the holo-emiter holds," she said, gesturing towards the ruined wall panel that continued to spark.

"Thank you," you managed to say. "Casualties?"

She glanced up and away as if receiving new information. "Reports coming in of injuries but no fatalities. Your alert gave enough time for almost everyone to get clear."

"Good." You made yourself slow your breathing down, taking shallow breaths since you couldn't take deeper ones. For a moment, your head swam and it felt like the floor tipped. Your fingers scratched for a hold on the crumpled metal.

The sound of your rank and name cut through the terror. "You're all right," the woman assured you. "You're not falling. Try to stay still. Silver Team will be back on site in a few more minutes. John will be here soon."

It gave you something to focus on other than bring trapped. The way she knew that the mention of John would comfort you, that she didn't call him Master Chief like most people did, even the mannerism of how she'd looked away, like someone was speaking in her ear...

"Your name wouldn't be Ms. Classified, would it?" you asked haltingly and tried to smile.

"That's... not inaccurate," she said and maybe it was your blurry vision but you could've sworn she gave you a fond smile, like she knew you. "I'm not supposed to tell my name."

You tried to say it was all right but couldn't draw enough breath.

"Ah, screw it," she said. "What are they going to do, fire me? My name is Cortana."

You must've blacked out because the next thing you knew, she was kneeling next to you, her small holographic hand resting atop your outstretched arm as she repeated your rank and name.

If you could get a breath, you needed a good, solid breath. Your chest instinctively fought to expand but couldn't beneath the pressure bearing down on your back. Something above you slid and the pressure abruptly worsened. You clawed, you fought, you struggled to breathe. To live.

"John, get here now! The support beam is failing!"

"Not his fault," you tried to say. "Tell him. Not his--"

Metal screamed and everything went dark.

You woke, grasping at nothing. You still couldn't get a deep breath but this time you were on your back and it felt like someone had laced a corset brutally tight around you.

"Easy there. You're all right," said a deep voice.

Your vision swam and then Spartan Vannak-134 appeared out from the dim lighting. You were still clawing at the air, trying to sit up, and he caught your hand a little awkwardly in his much larger ones.

"Where?" you gasped.

"You're back on Reach, in medical."

Once he said it, details emerged like a black and white picture filling in with color: the beeps of the monitors, the distinctive antiseptic smell. Your hearing was still deadened but not as much as before, meaning they had already begun healing therapies on your eardrums.

Anything you might've wanted to say dissolved like sugar on your tongue before the words could be spoken. Your head seemed too full. I'm drugged, you thought and that was the last thing you knew for a while.

Voices drew you from the murky depths and you tried to open your eyes but couldn't.

"Hold her hand," Vannak said in a quiet rumble. "She likes that."

A new hand gently folded around yours and your fingers instinctively gripped hold.

You woke, feeling the phantom press of metal bearing down on you, forcing the air from your lungs. You tried to sit up, your limbs flailed, uncoordinated and leaden. A second hand closed around yours and a feminine voice began to softly sing, a lullaby in a language you didn't recognize.

The room was blurry but you caught a glimpse of red hair -- Spartan Riz-028. You went under once more, dreaming of music that soothed your fears.

Later, there was a new voice to lure you up from the sticky darkness.

"Poor little thing. She looks so small."

"She'll heal. Hold her hand, it helps."

At some point, you jolted awake to find your hand cradled carefully within Kai's.

"Hey," she said, sitting up straighter in the chair next to the bed. "You need anything?"

Your head felt less stuffed with cotton than before but now that cotton seemed to have been transferred to your mouth. "Water?" you croaked.

She jumped up and returned shortly, carrying a cup with a straw in it. You intended to sit up but a searing pain in your ribs immediately convinced you that was a bad idea and you let her help you by holding the straw to your lips.

"Slowly," she advised.

Once you'd taken a couple of sips, you mumbled your thanks then promptly passed out.

You thought you'd closed your eyes for a brief moment but when they fluttered open, it wasn't Kai sitting in the chair, holding your hand.

As soon as John knew you were awake, he was on his feet, carefully brushing the fingertips of his free hand along the curve of your cheek.

You mouthed his name.

"Rest," he said. "I'm here. You're safe."

For the first time in what seemed like forever, you truly felt as if you were. Your mind let go.

"And how's our favorite mech, the Hero of the Pit?"

"That's not a very heroic name," you confessed, smiling as Maria and then Jamie entered medical.

You were sitting on the side of the bed in generic gray scrubs, waiting for Dr. Savannah to give you final instructions before your release. It had been two days since the explosion. Your hearing had, thankfully, returned to normal. The rest of you... not so much but you were on the mend.

They both gave you careful hugs.

"You look a lot less like you were squashed by a building," Jamie said sincerely and Maria punched his arm. "Hey, that was a compliment!"

"Don't make me laugh," you begged, holding your left side. They'd fused your broken ribs back together but the tissue damage would take longer to resolve. Still, aches, pains, limited motion and all, you knew you were very lucky.

"I hope they're giving you a nice vacation, at least," Maria went on.

"I should be ready for light duty in a week."

"Technically, I said we'd evaluate you for light duty in a week," Dr. Savannah corrected as she entered. "Afraid your friends will have to catch up with you later."

They said their goodbyes and, as they left, you started to stand. The doctor quickly said, "No, you don't. I don't want you walking on that leg."

"It's not broken," you argued.

"Not anymore," she countered. "Stay put. I got you a ride."

"I don't need to be wheeled back to the barracks." You tried to keep your tone confident but the truth was even that little bit of exertion had left you feeling twinges all along your left leg. Your left shoulder throbbed with each heartbeat.

"Well, good thing you're wrong on both counts," she said, winking. "And here he is now."

John came through the door, dressed in his undersuit as if either about to head to the Brokkr stations to have his Mjolnir mounted up or returning from having it removed. You didn't even realize you'd moved to rise again until Dr. Savannah put a practiced hand on your good shoulder to keep you down.

"I'll be sending PT to you twice a day, starting tomorrow," she said. "They'll help you to get your strength and mobility back. Around that, rest. Catch up on your reading, watch some thoroughly trashy movies, and keep your feet up. Not too far up, though. Nothing too strenuous. Make him do all of the work."

That got you to look at her and she waggled her eyebrows.

John cleared his throat slightly, a faint but definite flush creeping up from his collar. "Yes, ma'am."

"All right, see you back in a few days, sooner if anything else develops. You know what to watch for."

It wasn't until she stepped back and John approached that it clicked.

"You're going to carry me?"

"Yes, ma'am," he repeated in a murmur that shivered straight down your spine.

Since your left side had taken the brunt of the damage, he put your right to his chest and cautiously picked you up in a bridal carry. Despite the care, being moved set a thousand things to hurting and your breath hitched as he straightened.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," you said, your tone tighter than you would've liked. You thought, I hope nobody sees me being toted around like this, but, as soon as you left medical, you realized that no one was actually looking at you.

I think if Master Chief offered to drop me and pick up any marine, ODST or officer in this hall, they'd be hopping into his arms before I even hit the floor!

At the first turn he made, you realized the rest of it. "This isn't the way to the barracks."

"Nope," he said and you knew him well enough now to see the hint of a smile in his eyes.

You didn't have to wait for further clues, there was only one place, then, that he could be taking you. "How many strings did you have to pull for this?"

"Not as many as you might think," he demurred. "Your actions saved lives."

And they could've blamed you for failing to make sure a bomb hadn't been sent to the Pit in the first place. The curly tailed Warthog had been your responsibility, after all. You'd been curtly informed of all that when they'd debriefed you the first day you'd had your eyes open for more than 15 minutes.

You doubted they'd told that to John, though.

When you reached his room, he maneuvered so to get his thumb on the panel without jostling you too much. The lights came on as he took you through the doorway and then he paused.

"Kai," he rumbled, shaking his head. "She said studies show people heal better with color. I should've known she'd overdo it. Say the word and I'll have her in here clearing this out."

"It's your room," you said, "but personally, I love it."

The duvet on the bed and the pillows on the couch were now a rainbow of jewel tones. A tapestry with a field of sunflowers dominated the wall at the foot of the bed and you could've sworn there was a dusting of diamond glitter shimmering on every wall, sending tiny holographic rainbows through the air in all directions. But the main thing that caught your attention was overhead.

"She put up stars," you said, brightening.

"Ah, that one was actually me," he confessed. "You seemed to really like those in her room so I thought..."

You stretched up in his arms, inhaling a little sharply at the stab of pain in your left side, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "I love them, John. Thank you."

A short time later, you found yourself lying on the bed in the darkened room, looking up at those stars. John had profusely apologized for not being able to stay after getting you settled in. He'd turned down the bed so you wouldn't have to, had put your padd close at hand on the nightstand to the right along with a bottle of water and a couple of emergency ration packs in case you got hungry before someone bought you a meal. He'd even procured you a set of unthinkably soft civvies to change into, exactly your size and in your favorite color.

You couldn't imagine that a Spartan had ever taken care of a sick or wounded person before, other than in a battlefield triage situation, so he'd probably found a checklist from somewhere to guide him. His earnestness to make sure he'd done everything right sent warmth flooding through you.

Before he left, he'd paused to kiss the top of your head.

"You know," you said, lifting your chin, "my lips aren't broken."

He hesitated. "The last time I did that, an entire base fell on you."

"Only the warehouse part," you said dismissively, "and there was absolutely no correlation, I promise."

He tried to smile at that but his eyes still showed concern.

"I promise," you repeated more seriously and he exhaled as if about to make a tremendous leap. His kiss was so soft and gentle, it was barely more than a whisper against your mouth.

Once he had left, you'd considered taking Dr. Savannah's advice and watching a holo, reading something on your padd, or doing any number of things to pass the time but ultimately, you'd wanted to appreciate his handiwork.

After all, it wasn't just anybody who could say a Spartan had literally hung the stars for them.

#halo #halo the series #halo paramount+#master chief x reader #x reader #john-117 x reader #fic: 15 minutes #series: how to date a spartan without even trying #ageless aislynn #aislynn's fics #aislynn's fic

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cherrytastiq · 3 months ago

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Time Squad Character Analysis #1: Buck Tuddrussel

Hi guys ^_^ I've been wanting to do a genuine, in-depth analysis on the TS main trio for a while, based on what we're told / shown canonically or by the writers. And since Tuddrussel is the face of the Time Squad, I felt it was only fitting to start by analyzing him.

Backstory

Although we never get any deep insight into Buck's backstory, the show sprinkled a few hints here and there that allow us to have a pretty darn good idea of what his life was before Otto and the Time Squad.

The first time Buck mentions anything about his past is in Freud, where he goes on a small ramble about his time at "The Academy".

While we don't know what this Academy is exactly, it's safe to assume that it sounds like some sort of school for wannabe Time Squad cops, training them in combat and whatnot. It also seems to feature some sort of mental health faculty / therapy evaluations. These sessions were possibly forced, too, because Buck's not the type to go to therapy on his own will.

The therapy guys absolutely hit the nail on the head, though. Buck has a lot of trouble managing his anger; he has a very short fuse and tends to choose violence as his first option when going on missions, causing more harm than good to everyone involved. Of course, Buck ignores all of this and reduces it to "junk" and "head-shrinkin' mumbo jumbo". Speaking of Freud, I couldn't forget his psychoanalysis at the end of the episode!

Freud describes Buck as having an "overactive superego, which causes [Bucks] to force [his] will on those around [him]". My knowledge on Freudian psychology isn't great, but, I mean, do you really think the writers took their time to properly research it either? Skimming through a few websites (I am NOT studying Freudian psychology for a 2000s Cartoon Network show), the superego is in charge of making us act "civil" based on what our parental figures teach us in early childhood. Therefore, according to the show, to have an overactive superego means to have a strict set of rules and behaviors perceived as "wrong" that the superego wants to achieve, to a point that it expects everyone to follow said rules. Very fitting for a cop! Though the rules he follows aren't the ones society expects.

Buck's time at The Academy is explored further in Out with the In Crowd and Feud for Thought, both episodes telling us one key detail:

Larry's fatphobia aside, we learn that Buck was overweight back then, and even went to fat camp. Feud also tells us he was in chemistry club, meaning Buck isn't all brawn with no brain.

I'm 99% sure the "glandular thing" is just an excuse Buck makes to "explain" why he was fat back in The Academy. We see multiple times in the show that he's obsessed with working out and staying in shape, although his eating habits aren't particularly healthy. This tells me he was probably laughed at for his weight, and quickly began working out to stop the constant bullying. His reactions in both episodes to comments on his weight (embarrassment in In Crowd and straight up cowering in fear in Feud) tell me that, while Buck likes painting himself as a tough guy with no fears, he is horrified of the past and being seen as a wimp.

We get more insight on Buck's past, and specifically his childhood, almost immediately after Freud. One episode later, in Big Al, he reminisces about his life back on Earth:

Tuddrussel is clearly proud of his Texan / Cowboy heritage (something I'm sure Larry is veery fond of... More on that in his analysis) and absolutely adores guns. He was taught how to handle them from a very young age (around 7 or 8) and seems to be continuing a long heritage of policemen.

(Not pictured: Buck's gun magazines in Larry Upgrade, his reaction to Larry doing a "few alterations" to his Demonitor (?) 800... the list goes on)

A bit off the canon record, but co-writer Carlos Ramos once said he imagines Buck's dad to have been a "hard ass".

It's only fitting for his personality, after all. Speaking of fathers...

Tudd as a Father Figure ....of our country(EXTREMELY LOUD WRONG BUZZER)

Buck is damn proud to be what is basically an adoptive dad. In Father Figure, we see him get furious at George "I'm a better father to Otto than you will ever be" Washington, even flaunting his victory when Otto chooses him over the guy.

Tuddrussel's relationship with Otto is weird. He is as much of a parental figure as he is a prankster, an immature sibling. Sometimes he teaches Otto things like riding a bike and fishing (although in non-productive ways... I wonder what that says about his own upbringing?), and other times he's a sore loser at video games and is generally a bad example for a developing kid. In many ways, Otto ends up having to teach him, using flashcards and infodumping history lessons.

There is another analysis that goes more in-depth into this, though, in my opinion, ends up theorizing a lot of things we never see nor are implied, but I recommend you read it here. What it does get absolutely right is that Buck is a deeply complex character, afraid to fully commit to being a parental figure and instead retreating to childish actions. Just like Sheila explains in Ex, "[H]e's a man totally at the mercy of his own fragile male ego, who hasn't progressed emotionally or intellectually since early childhood!"

Buck and Sheila

As we learn in Kubla, Buck and Sheila got a divorce an unknown amount of time ago, and while Sheila holds no resentment, Buck seems bothered by their separation. When Otto tries bringing up the topic at the end of the episode, Buck immediately shuts him down.

Buck gets upset when learning Sheila took back her maiden name, even calling Sheila "hun". It's clear that Tuddrussel is very much hung up on their divorce and somewhat misses Sheila, although he's mortified of the idea of remarrying, as shown in First Flight when Amelia Earhart suggests the idea of wedding him.

A bit later, in Peace Surprise and Ex, Buck and Sheila start getting along more as friends who have fun together, while understanding that they could never work as a couple.

Toxic Masculinity

It's clear that Buck suffers from a lot of toxic masculinity. He refuses to engage with anything mildly feminine (like the pink cake in Poe), he deems himself tough and strong, and no strong man needs therapy. In fact, he doesn't need any help with anything! He's not weak, he can't afford to show weakness, he's a brave man. This sort of thinking is what most likely caused his divorce with Sheila, a topic he doesn't like bringing up at all. What was that thing about repressing old memories?

Although... this shell ends up breaking a little in Hate and Let Hate when he tries out cooking and ends up really enjoying it. And not just any cooking, it's foo-foo cooking. As the show goes on, Buck starts learning that maybe it's okay to like girly stuff... Sometimes. Baby steps.

Buck and Larry

Oh boy. Larry and Buck's relationship is... something for sure.

First off, Buck absolutely despises Larry. He hates how feminine he is, how he's a coward, a wimp, a sissy. He semi-frequently threatens Larry with hurting him one way or another, and insults him like the manchild he is. But you know what other feeling Buck has for him? Fear. Tuddrussel is terrified of Cartoon Network's sassiest (excuse my french) gay-as-fuck robot, and hates him having any kind of power or agency over him. Once again there's already an analysis on this here, so check it out. All in all, Buck's fear translates to anger and violent tendencies.

As per any other kinds of feelings, it's hard to say. Buck sees Larry as a robot who's supposed to follow his orders, him being the officer of the Time Squad unit and all. Comparing his beliefs on robots as servants to Sheila and JT's beliefs of robots as partners, we can assume this sort of thinking is old-fashioned and doesn't really reflect how the futuristic world sees robot society. Buck can't stand Larry acting like a human person with feelings, aspirations and a complex set of emotions.

(Stealing screenshots from my old analysis TEEHEE)

In some part, he's right to be mad. Larry wasn't programmed in the subject of history and doesn't act the way other robots like XJ5 and Lance do, so he's not a great help when it comes to their job. Tudd at least tries to do his job, while Larry A.K.A. The Robot Able To Look Up Anything, is too stubborn to try.

But, despite everything, Larry is still his partner, his buddy. Buck may not show it too often, but deep down he cares for the guy.

Final Thoughts

Jesus Christ I didn't think I would write this much. And Tuddrussel's not even my favorite character!

I'd say Buck Tuddrussel is the character with the most growth in the entire show, and he really makes an effort towards being a better person. He may not be the brightest and it might take a while for him to learn his mistakes, but his determination to keep moving forward really goes to show how strong he is.

#time squad #buck tuddrussel #my ts analyses

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ouatsnark · 2 months ago

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I'm sure you've talked about this on hear before but its hard to tell sometimes.

What are your thoughts on what Neal/Baelfire did to Emma? Because I don't see it talked about a lot about what he did to her. Concerning the fact that she was like 16 and he was over 200 or so years old.

As you read this I need everyone to focus in on this one thing: So. Just to be clear. I do not believe the show correctly portrayed the reality of this relationship. For that reason… things get dicey. So the opinion I am going to give is based on what canon has given us and what I feel OUAT was portraying. Because these two things are in direct conflict when it comes to Swanfire.

According to the timeline, we know that Emma was 16 and Neal states he is 150. That isn’t quite possible with Killian being 200-300 but whatever we’re gonna role with it. When we get to the Emma and Neal scenes their age difference wasn’t retconned. It wasn’t re-written. The writers just didn’t acknowledge, or think about or consider Emma’s canon age when they were writing the scenes. So we don’t see this relationship being portrayed as a predatory one (even though technically it should’ve been). I have seen people try to head canon it in there by pointing to what they perceive Emma’s motives to be in how she responds to Neal but that’s a personal opinion/evaluation of the character. Which is valid. But from a canon perspective? It’s not what the show was going for. In my opinion.

I say this because I would bet money that the majority of general audience viewers, those that casually watched therefore don’t know a lot about the timeline, do not know that Emma should have been 16 in those scenes. I say this because at that time I was one of those people. I had no idea Emma was suppose to be 16. It wasn’t until I joined the fandom and looked at a timeline that I went “holy shit.” I feel like the show was counting on this to get away with it. In my opinion they used JMO instead of the teenage actress for this very reason. OUAT wanted to completely ignore the age difference and portray a relationship between two consenting adults. Neal was not written to be a predator. Neal and Emma were portrayed as two orphans that connected over their shared trauma of being abandoned by their parents and who were of similar ages.

Can statutory rape have an effect on a fictional character when the fictional character isn't being portrayed as a minor in the scenes (because the writers aren’t acknowledging it) and what's being shown is between two consenting adults? Canonically speaking Emma has never specifically told us that she has any trauma from statutory rape. How could she when the scenes aren’t being written that way (despite the fact that they should be)? Emma has only specifically spoken about Neal abandoning her. What we saw was a toxic relationship in the sense that Neal was a self-centered coward.

But at the same time you can’t deny the simple canon fact that Emma is 16 when she meets 150 year old Neal. Do I find that disgusting? Yes. Do I think this should’ve affect Emma in some way? Yes. Do I feel like this was shown on the show? No. But I very much wish the show would've addressed it. Actually, what they should’ve done is just not have made Henry Rumple's grandson. But here we are.

I feel like this was a major flaw in the Swanfire relationship and for this reason alone I will never get behind that ship. Everyone should be appalled at the writing. The Once Upon a Time writers were so very negligent that I feel like they should be barred from writing all together. They created some compelling stories and interesting dynamics but when their writing failed they failed epically.

I covered this a little bit in this post here:

P.S. I am way behind on my inbox because life has gotten away from me.

#fandom asks #anti neal cassidy #anti swanfire #the ouat writers should be ashamed #neal is still a predator idfc

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eisforeidolon · 1 year ago

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You know, I naively assumed that within a couple of years, the D/C wackadoo conspiracy train would surely have to eventually run out of willing passengers. Except guess what, this very fucking week they're still willing to throw themselves at the most pathetically transparent possibility of a hint their ship was/is/should have been canon [X].

As pointed out in the linked refutation post, on the one hand? You have Jensen stating clearly over and over again he sees that relationship as familial. You have various shippers who infiltrated the production crew and really wanted it to be a thing point blank stating there was never a scripted reciprocation or an ad-libbed one shot on the day. You have the publicly available script explicitly stating Dean can't reciprocate. You even have Misha, the king of queerbaiting himself, stating there was no secret version where Dean replied. When it comes directly to the dub in question, you have the voice actor for Castiel saying he didn't see the scene as romantic at all even in that "creative liberties" version. You have the one who did Dean's voice attributing the choice of adding a response entirely on their director who decided that his "intense abilities" meant he understood the story better than the people who wrote it.

On the other hand, you have a random tumblr D/C conspiracist who claims to have had a totally really real conversation with the translator who did that dub years after the fact. Who said he literally didn't remember working on that specific script but that he never adds stuff so it must have been in the script he got for it to have happened!

Anyone with at least two half-functional brain cells to rub together should be able to evaluate the evidence versus the "evidence" and see this isn't a smoking gun, it's one of those toy pistols where a flag comes out with BANG! written on it - but it's a broken POS so the flag doesn't even work. Except they want to believe, and that continues to outweigh facts and logic every time. I just don't get what the hell was in the kool-aid that they're still this desperately, embarrassingly credulous over something that was done and dusted nearly three years ago now.

#destihellers #destiew #dumb conspiracy theories

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ddelline · 10 months ago

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wip wednesday (feat fresh fandom f*ckery)

blurb | "non-jjk wip posting? on the ddelline/aosc dash? straight to jail" - whoever reads this blog for jjk fic only, probably. sry if you are!!! I promise this =/= abandoning ship, I'm just dillying, dallying, dabbling. in mha. and bkdk. next to jjk that's where I've ended up putting my most obsessive behavior in the past few months; dipped my toe into the manga and emerged 4 months later as an unapologetic bakugō katsuki defender w early onset of bkdk brainrot. now if that interests you, there's wip fic to be had under the cut! if it doesn't, then rest assured that there'll be wip updates a-comin for 3 jjk projects in the near future, lol

premise | post-canon, pro hero setting; slow burn-ish getting together-premise; bkdk as roommates & established wonder duo-partners feat pro hero!shenanigans, sudden emotional realizations, domesticity, action, mixed media & more - also me attempting 2 write lighter, snarkier & dramedy-adjacent. evaluation pending, lmao. either way, wip writing under the cutttt

The sort of monumental, life-altering understanding that Katsuki’s experiencing, sadly, hadn’t hit him like a battering ram of iridescent, incandescent realization, topped off with cartoon hearts and biblical choirs, or whatever. The march towards death had begun with the most inane fucking single step, and here he is, feeling like an idiot, and feeling, like an idiot, every other hour since then.

Katsuki knows he’s not the most emotionally intelligent person on the block, and he knows that he’s hitting new and consistent deduction-lows when it comes to him-and-Izuku each and every day now. Still, if there’s the possibility of getting a refund on your personal emotional breakthroughs—he’d like one.

He’s ducking beneath hastily drawn police tape, sweat sticky and sooty, hours later, making a beeline towards where the concrete dust-matte green cap of Izuku’s head centers a cluster of reporters. They’ve caught him halfway to where a team of EMTs are waiting, long suffering, to attend to him. Katsuki resists the urge to facepalm.

“—stically, how would you analyze this recent string of public showdowns that you’ve had to deal with? Do you make anything of the increased number of hostile villain encounters you’ve had in the past weeks?”

Izuku scratches his scalp, upsetting a few errant curls. “Y’know, I wouldn’t think much of them, in the sense you’re probably thinking of them. It’s true there have been a few major ‘public showdowns’, as you say,” God bless him (curse him, actually) but he actually makes double quotations to go along. “There’s a common denominator here, what you’re talking about—it’s the arrests you’ve featured on the evening segment a few times. Right?”

Izuku’s suit is torn: a jagged ugly line bisects his hero garb and compression sleeve from mid-tricep to mid-forearm. It’s displaying an ugly gash frothing with blood. As the clump of broadcast-vultures chuckle in tandem he continues—seemingly ignorant of his injury and Katsuki’s impending arrival both—gesticulating animatedly, “Any hostile confrontations we experience whilst on patrol would technically categorize as ‘public showdowns’, but we’ve had—oh, Kacch—Dynamight!”

It’s a scene like any other, on a kind of-interchangeable end of patrol-day: they’ve just squashed an armed robbery-slash-hostage situation, had half a block rupture beneath them during the ensuing chase (neither of them are at fault, Katsuki’ll have their insurance carrier know) and are now stuck doing the obligatory clean-up-and-press-junket half hour. Izuku’s elbow is bleeding something fierce whilst he’s talking to reporters; he’s clasping both palms and twining his fingers, untwines them and raises both arms to gesticulate; lowers his hands and re-clasps his palms—all as he does when he’s faced with press and has to talk ad hoc for extended periods of time.

None of this is particularly out of the ordinary; despite it or in spite of, Katsuki doesn’t know—the amalgamation of the above turns out to be why, when three mic’d up reporters make a narrow path into the cluster for Katsuki to enter into the throng, his first instinct, his knee-jerk reaction, is to be angry.

Izuku clasps his far shoulder. Katsuki shrugs his hand off and ducks near his ear. “You’re injured.”

“Huh? I’m not?” says Izuku quizzically. He looks around and about himself. Katsuki clocks the second he notices his own elbow: the spasm of a lone muscle in his cheek, the embarrassed grit of his jaw—the if you squeal in front of the press you die-look he spears Katsuki with before turning back to the pack.

Izuku continues, bleeding but thoughtful: “What was I saying? Oh, yeah—I couldn’t talk about the ‘public showdowns’, as you say, without mentioning that any and all hostile confrontations we face on patrol belong to the same statistic. Really, they’re the same as they’ve always been—I wouldn’t say anything’s decreased or increased since a few years. Right?” He squares Katsuki with an inquisitive look.

Katsuki fights the urge to bare his teeth; he sucks down a deep breath, counts to five, and indulges his vulture-friendly maniac of a hero partner. “Because I’m not fucking lame I’m not gonna echo Pinky and say: ‘Another day, another slay.’” A few errant chuckles from the crowd; yeah, Katsuki’s a fucking comedian. “With that said, yeah, what Deku said—I dunno who was on site two days ago, DHN? JNN? JHT? I see all of you nodding, whatever; doesn’t matter—you’re drawing conjecture based on what you see. Shit happens when you’re not here, too.” Katsuki eyeballs the keeper of the JHT mic. “That doesn’t mean shit is happening. Not sure what the point of this is, but not everything’s a damn story—so I’m gonna take Hero Deku—” Katsuki snags Izuku by the collar, “—and go somewhere not where you lot are. He’s bleeding and you’re not. That’s not the end of the world either, in case that’s the doomsday headline you wanna draw up. That’s all. Scatter, fuckers!”

Izuku pouts when Katsuki drags him backwards through the clamoring throng of reporters. “We could’ve done a few more questions.”

Katsuki thinks: I knew I was fine dying for this asshole years ago.

Katsuki says: “We could’ve. We aren’t, though. Fuckface, you’re bleeding everywhere.”

Izuku glances down at himself. “It’s not that bad.”

“No? Tell that to the medteam, who’ll be the ones to explain to the public why unfortunately, due to erroneous judgment on the patient’s part, Pro Hero Deku lost mobility in his left arm a scant four years into his illustrious Symbol of Hope-era.” Katsuki squares him with a thin glare. “Also—tell that to your mom, who wants to put you on a direct flight to an isolated Siberian bunker where you can’t hurt yourself—she’s got a point.”

Izuku eyeballs him. “Kacchan,” he intones, “You’re overly dramatic sometimes.”

“Izuku,” Katsuki mocks, “You’re overly self-sacrificial all the time. Shut up and go see the EMTs.”

The march towards death had begun with the most inane fucking single step, and here he is, feeling, like an idiot, thinking: I knew I was fine dying for this asshole before I knew I was in dumb fucking love with him.

Well, go figure.

#help!!!!#posting for a new fandom is fkn terrifying lmao #this isn't even ao3 post-ready #still #shaking a lil in my boots #wip wednesday #fic: halcyon (on and on and on)#fandom: mha #fandom: my hero academia #fic #my writing #bkdk #bakudeku #work: fic

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multiverselab · 1 year ago

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[SPOILERY]

I think what makes Scott Pilgrim Takes Off feel like such a genuine and welcome addition to the canon despite technically being an AU is a few key factors:

Every character in the series still acts like themselves, and reacts to the new world order accordingly. We get character interactions that we never would've gotten before, especially with the evil exes now having time to evolve. We got to spend more time with everyone in ways that wouldn't have been possible in a straight-up sequel, given how many of Scott's friends dispersed as the series progressed.

When you get down to it, the plot hasn't actually changed. Seven exes must be confronted before Scott Pilgrim and Ramona Flowers can date. Along the way, the two have to confront their own past mistakes that seem to continue to sabotage their present, and evaluate whether it's even worthwhile to continue the quest when their relationship might not even survive it. An all-powerful evil ex waits at the end of the story that can only really be beaten by coming to terms with one's self. The same story, but with different elements.

I don't think anyone expected Scott and Ramona to enjoy a perfect relationship for the rest of their lives after it was all said and done, even if feels good to imagine that they did. Once all the villains are defeated, the only person standing in the way between Scott Pilgrim and a happy relationship is himself. Just because we had room to hope that Scott went on to become a better person that never relapsed on bad habits doesn't mean that the story isn't free to point out just how much of a struggle that'd actually be for him, or for Ramona to fall back on her own unhealthy habits.

We're all older. The millenials are no longer the primary audience of young adult pop culture, and our understandings of how relationships develop and remain have changed accordingly. To have the opportunity to re-evaluate a cult classic story like this with a new outlook on life is a rare opportunity, one that I'm glad Bryan Lee O'Malley and his crew took.

#Also I really don't miss Gideon's mind manipulation shenanigans #Scott Pilgrim #Scott Pilgrim Takes Off #Scott Pilgrim spoilers #spoilers

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experthiese · 1 year ago

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PUBLIC VS. PRIVATE INFORMATION.

Feel free to refer to this when deciding how much your character should know about Lupin, especially if they're from outside his canon and have no pre-established basis on if/how well they know of each other.

PUBLIC. Accessible to everyone.

He is the grandson of Arsène Lupin, notorious French gentleman thief, and the third generation to continue in this line of work. No treasure is said to be outside of his reach once he's set his sights on it, and as a result he's been granted the title of the world's most wanted thief.

He's a master of disguise, and (much like his predecessors) is able to perfectly mimic another's appearance, voice and mannerisms with minimal observation needed beforehand. Only tiny details, such as his mask not showing sweat where real skin would, are able to give him away.

He is affiliated with Daisuke Jigen, Ishikawa Goemon XIII, Fujiko Mine, Laetitia Bresson, and more (verse/relationship dependent).

His 'eternal rival' is Zenigata Koichi of Interpol, the only man able to consistently capture Lupin, even if it's only for short bursts of time.

Zenigata has arrested and successfully imprisoned him on multiple occasions. However, Lupin has managed to find a way to escape from every single prison he's been put in, often relying on the assistance of his gang.

He's said to be in love with every woman in the world, though his prized paramour is Fujiko. He will never stop trying to win her affections, no matter how often he's betrayed or rejected.

His preferred weapon is a Walther P38 and it's kept on his person at all times.

A calling card is always sent to his chosen target pre-heist, detailing the item to be stolen, and the time/date of his appearance. It's signed with his name and peanut caricature.

He was once married to Rebecca Rossellini, well-known heiress and secret thrill-seeker. When he left Italy to continues his crimes travels, she didn't follow him.

SEMI-PUBLIC. Still accessible, but lesser known.

He's bisexual. His attraction to men is just greatly overshadowed by his womanising.

He's a mostly self-taught polyglot and remains at least conversational no matter where in the world he travels. He's also fluent in some dead and computer languages.

The details sent on his calling card are specific, and he sticks to them rigidly. Lupin will leave the premises once the window has passed, regardless of if he managed to snatch the treasure or not.

He's an art connoisseur and can tell a real piece from a forgery with a single glance.

All car maintenance is done by him. He's very proud of all three of his vehicles, and does his best to keep them in top condition for as long as possible. A lot of his wealth gets re-invested into fixing them up after a heist.

Lupin doesn't kill. That's one of the rules of his game, and it's one that he's unlikely to try and bend. He has people to kill for him, if necessary, but he himself refuses to take a life until it's the only option left.

This no-killing rule is one of the biggest copycat downfalls, and often the thing that gets them discovered. Thief he may be, but Lupin has a strict code of ethics he's set for himself.

He's intelligent. Many underestimate him because of the silly, childish persona he performs, failing to realise that this is not only a deliberate part of his plan, but necessary for his success. Any foe becomes easier to beat when they forget just who they're going up against.

He's a capable scientist, and uses this knowledge for his heists. All of his gadgets, smoke bombs, and knock-out gases are handmade and often re-evaluated to ensure they have maximum efficiency.

He can work any vehicle, be it designed for the land, skies, or water. He's an especially good stunt driver, so naturally prefers to use motorcycles or cars whenever possible.

PRIVATE. Available only to Lupin's closest.

Lupin doesn't dream, nor does he get nightmares. His REM sleep, or if he's even capable of achieving it, remains a mystery to everyone.

He is the legal wife of Onabes, an art collector. Despite his best efforts, the divorce papers were never completed, and thus their marriage remains binding.

The addresses of all his safehouses. In order to remain untraceable, Lupin's constantly selling off property and purchasing new ones, and rarely bothers to inform anyone about these developments unless necessary. His chosen locations range from penthouse city apartments, to countryside mansions the size of a small village, to cozy coastal bungalows. He has hideouts in every conceivable corner of the earth.

He's afraid of octopi, squid, and similar cephalopods. They freak him out big time.

Lupin will, on occasion, allow Zenigata's men to "recover" the occasional stolen artefact. Usually these are ones of historical/cultural significance or gems that he just can't sell for a good price. He has no interest in keeping these items; they've already served their purpose and gone to show that he can take them.

He sneaks into Interpol a lot. He's always disguised as different people of varying levels of importance, and loves to catch up on the latest water cooler gossip (and start some of his own). As a result, he's gotten a pretty good understanding of a lot of Interpol officers and knows more than they'd probably want him to.

All of Lupin's heists and their accompanying details (such as maps, blueprints, security routes, required technology and disguises) are all written down on paper and kept on Lupin's person. He's done far too much hacking to trust any sort of digital security system.

#▸ major headcanon

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avikats66 · 10 months ago

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In Defense of Ursa…

I don’t doubt that Ursa loved Azula when she was born, or that she still loved Azula throughout her childhood, though certainly that love became strained and damaged - even diminished - in ways it never did with Zuko. It was a tragedy that a wedge developed between them after Ozai took interest in Azula - in an entirely self-serving and not out of any genuine care or love way - because he wanted to use and exploit her as his daughter and a fire bending prodigy for his own power and pride. He groomed Azula - not sexually, but as the person he wanted her to be. A daughter and heir loyal to him, who would shared his values and traits, who would serve him and his wicked goals, who would be merciless and brutal like him.

Ursa was there as this process took place over a period of years, but we should consider the position she was in too. She certainly didn’t have equal power to her husband, who would have done his best to isolate her from Azula and prevent her from being turned away from his influence. And for a young child who’s got one parent praising and rewarding them for certain behaviour, then the other discouraging and disproving that same behaviour - even if not in abusive or unkind manner - that child is going to respond to and seek out the former with the greater positive feedback, without yet the knowledge or reasoning ability to evaluate the behaviour being taught to them on a critical or moral level.

Not only does Ursa not share equal power over the upbringing of her children (Azula even more so than Zuko given Ozai’s interest in her as above mentioned), she just a normal person in an awful situation no mother should ever have to be in. She is not a child behaviouralist or therapist, with knowledge or training about how to best go about helping a child in Azula’s situation; nor does she have access to anyone else who is. Indeed, she is surrounded by people who likely all either support or are unconcerned by/with the way Firelord Ozai is raising his daughter, or those who have even less power to possibly oppose him than she does, who could suffer grievous consequences or their very lives even for trying.

Ursa is trapped as the wife of the Firelord, unable to leave and take her children away from this PoS man and father. And she can’t stop him from doing his best to twist their daughter into a cruel and wicked person like himself; doesn’t know how to best help her even when and where she can, being blocked from or otherwise unable to try and intervene in the first place. And the older Azula grows, the more and more Ozai corrupts her, the less Ursa knows how to deal with it, the less hope she has of being able to heal it, and the more strained their relationship becomes. It’s a viscous circle: Azula learns a toxic behaviour/idea/belief from Ozai, Ursa tries to discourage her from it or teach her contrary, Azula is off-put and returns to Ozai where she will continue to receive clear and unambiguous positive affirmation and reinforcement, Ursa becomes more distraught and struggles to connect with Azula, Azula senses this and again goes to her father, etc. etc.

Could Ursa have done better, tried harder, done something differently in order to help Azula more? Yeah, probably, but I think she also very honestly did as best she could as can be reasonably expected of her given her circumstances as explained above. It’s very easy for us to judge her as viewers far-removed from this fictional situation - especially if we have never been in a similar sort of situation ourselves.

This is, of course, merely my personal headcanon based on limited canon information. There are many different interpretations and opinions on Ursa and her relationship with Azula; these are just some of mine.

#atla #avatar the last airbender #my thoughts #ursa atla #azula avatar

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vixnovacoda · 2 years ago

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Doctor's Medicine || Chapter 3

Hannibal Lecter x Original Character

Word Count: 3.6k

CW/TW: NSFW 18+, graphic, disturbing content, dissociation, canon-typical violence.

Summary: Amongst his list of patients, Doctor Hannibal Lecter finds an interesting character in his latest, Emma Darcy, the author of a bestselling crime series whose mind is host to something clawing to be free. The two become inexplicably drawn to each other and things progress as Emma encounters a world of death. But the question is, who will change who?

[Chapter 1][Chapter 2]

[ao3 version here]

Blood.

Red seeped onto a white sheet.

A tiny dot. A pile of paper.

A big fuss.

“It’s just a paper cut.” Emma. “You worry too much,” she declared.

“I worry too much?” A woman – this one known to her – hovered over Emma. First aid kit opened. “You don’t worry enough. You got blood on my brand new manuscript,” she said, applying a fetched bandaid to Emma’s index. The woman continued, saying with small annoyance, “I swear, your day job has made you immune to blood. All those dead bleeding out.”

Emma disagreed. “Actually, most bodies I examine don’t bleed on account of them bei—”

“Don’t correct me,” babbled the brunette. “Correcting is my job, not yours.”

She glanced at the woman as the adhesive attached itself to her. “I’m just saying—”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Unless I was on anticoagulants—”

She stared down Emma broodingly.

A sensitive matter. Blood always had been. Real gore, medicine, hospitals; the whole lot. It took that nostril flare to remind her. Emma knew her well; knew that the black hairs on her V-neck were from her cat; knew that she hadn’t recently washed it; knew how her grief spiralled. Emma knew her by their differences. It’s why they suited each other. A difference that she sometimes forgot as a result of their relationship. Her shoulders dropped with a sigh. “Thank you for your concern, Alex,” she strained, “for having clean sheets of paper to edit instead of bloodied ones. How will I ever cope without you?” Emma’s voice played a joke – how could she not? They were friends, after all.

Alex’s bright whites bared themselves, a chuckle escaping past the gaps. “You know, sometimes, I ask the same thing.” A shake of the curly head.

Joke or not.

Neither party knew.

———

Rooms often spoke. They were fractioned halves of the dweller, Emma learned. Jack Crawford’s office was cold. Not professionally cold, but air pressure cold. The FBI – mainly Crawford – placed high pressure on catching their killer before he struck again and sought probably the two most unstable minds under his care, Will and Emma, to pinpoint the who.

Emma noted the few dozen faces they had narrowed it down to. Men, middle-aged, medical backgrounds here and there. Anyone who bought surgical equipment. Anyone who bought a Le Belle Mort book. Anyone who was a fan.

They were scrambling for connections.

Then Agent Crawford drew up a plan. Interviews. Though he spoke to both of them, he angled towards Will, face dropped and slanted. Pressure bred trust issues (professionalism called equality); he preferred Will, for the matter. Not that Emma opposed. If anyone were to conduct talks about possible suspects, there should only be one non-FBI agent there. Unnecessary to drag another outsider in. She’d be better off that way. Easier to push Will from her field of view from the outside than be too involved in their conversation.

Those few things contained all she recalled that morn. That is, other than passing by the psychiatrist, who went into the office after her and the shuffling of her injured hand from behind the other to a pocket. In fewer words, Emma was a blur; hardly of note.

Doctor Hannibal Lecter – on the other hand – stood sharp in the minds of whoever saw his eccentric European self, plaid suits cutting scars. Worth never forgetting. It was him who Crawford wanted to hear. He, that was Emma’s evaluator. Besides the good words of others, Jack Crawford didn’t know what to make of Emma. He didn’t want to break all the fine china.

———

The office – still cold – hung high-tensioned wires upon Hannibal’s arrival. Remnants from the previous arrangement were meticulously strung. Pressure had made well-tuned strings. Take Will, for instance, as he moved around his seat, with great effort, to draw distance between his and Emma’s exits. His action was a precarious note.

“Actually, Will, stay. I could use your perspective on this,” said Agent Crawford while Hannibal sat down.

Will shifted. “On what?”

The soul-patch-wearing agent shared a glance with the psychiatrist; permission.

“The matter of Emma Darcy,” answered Dr. Lecter.

It was his turn to look at Hannibal and then Crawford, head tilted. “I’ve already said my thoughts about her. She’s not the killer,” said Will, perplexed.

“This isn’t in terms of the case.” A hand motioned towards the remaining seat as Crawford finished. “But Emma as a person.”

“That’s not my department, Jack. I’m not her friend.”

“That’s already clear. The two of you have been distancing yourselves from each other.” Crawford leant across, elbows propped up. “You’re supposed to be working together. No one’s asking you to be friends,” he told Will, his tone analogous to that of a father reprimanding a child.

It irked him, Hannibal noted. Strained Will’s voice. “She is distancing herself from me.”

“Why?”

“I… I don’t know.” Guilt twisted his throat and pulled at his jaw. “Maybe…” His mind drifted to an answer.

“You’ve done nothing wrong, Will,” declared Dr. Lecter, jumping to Will’s defence, who ran a hand through his messy hair out of habit (Emma had the same tendency lately).

“It feels like I have.” A hard swallow. His words got the better of him. “People barely tolerate me as is. Emma doesn’t acknowledge me. She avoids crossing my path when she can and speaks only when she has to. I’m some sort of ghost to her.”

Scrutinising eyes watched each bated breath. “It is possible, given the circumstance of your abilities, Will, that she sees what you do as you dive into this killer’s mind. You assume a shed skin, a ghost of the killer during the execution of their hunt. As far as Emma’s concerned, this person very well seeks to add her to his collection and is unable to look past the form you adorn,” Dr. Lecter explained with an unwavering inflexion in his description, “it is not you she is scared of, it is this killer.”

Will’s fingers stretched along the armrest and slowly retracted. A new perspective created an uneasy silence.

“Do you think she’s stable, Dr. Lecter?” queried Agent Crawford.

Position changing, Hannibal took a stance which faced Agent Crawford and Will. “There is not much I can say without breaking patient confidentiality. However,” he declared, fixing his tie ever so slightly. “Her life hangs in the balance; she is afraid.”

“The frightened often make brash decisions. Are you saying she’s unstable?”

“She acts as anyone of us would in such a scenario. I’d say that makes her stable, wouldn’t you?” Hands clasped. Lips pursed. Today, his person suit was tailored to adjustment. None could see the seams he kept hidden. None had reason to question his judgement.

Broken free from his thoughts, Will held his mouth agape to question what had bothered him from the moment he had been pulled into this meeting. “I thought you already cleared her, Jack. What is the point of this?”

Crawford rested his back against the chair, staring down the two in renewed seriousness. “I got her cleared because we have nothing. She has a good track record, she’ll see something we cannot, and we need all the help we can get. The point of this is – after the event at the crime scene – I need to know whether she won’t be a liability out in the field,” he clarified.

Tension dominated the room. Carried with it was a smell – emotions and sensations often did. The notes contained trace amounts of iron and sweetness. Tension smelt like blood. It stained whatever it touched. “I’d advise against not letting her back out. The mind is best put to rest when it has a full picture. It will only make things worse to let her see the partial and not the whole.” Hannibal broke the quiet first, his answer; precise and ready.

“Well, I disagree.” Will snapped his head at Hannibal. “She could come out worse.”

“Isolation makes for a fonder fear. Keeping her here could create equal damage.”

“Then she shouldn’t be on the case at all.”

“Neither should some of us in that case.”

A long blink; Agent Crawford had hoped they’d agree. “Honestly, I’d much rather she didn’t, in case she contaminates the evidence again. However, I find myself inclined to trust your word, Doctor. If she is to go, then she is to do so while accompanied,” he resigned, his mind made up. He had heard enough and dismissed them as a drawn-out note played. Sombre and conflicted.

Will examined Hannibal with uncertainty. He had glimpsed what Emma’s mind was like. He had to object to the Doctor’s opinion on the matter. There was no knowing what would happen the next time; her desperation made unpredictability. Surely the man who had her mind served on a silver platter could see that as well.

None could tell what note Hannibal’s actions played, for there wasn’t one. He did not play anything.

He conducted.

———

Outside, pen scratched sprawlings onto paper, churning out words from chicken scratch. Breeze dared to disturb the contents of Emma’s notebook and sought peeks into her mentality. It reminded her of home. It reminded her of a dear friend – which didn’t help, considering how she was trying to avoid checking her phone. Except here, she retained a certain anonymity. Passersby didn’t recognise her at a glance (her town was small, the type where everyone knew everyone and you always had something to say, usually about the weather). They didn’t question her need to write them out on paper. They simply let her be.

A shadow cascaded beside her (tall, six foot, she wrote). “Lost in thought again, are we Emma?” said the shadow (Hannibal…).

She bookmarked the page using her thumb. “Getting an actual breath of fresh air, this time,” Emma rectified slyly as she peeked at Hannibal’s impressive figure. Striking and welcoming. It grew hard for Emma to tear her polite gaze, finding only blurred edges while he blended into the sky. His tie: pale blue with a paisley design that drifted like clouds – the suit was a deep navy in contrast. Today was a sky day, always in sight but never within reach.

“May I?” Hannibal motioned to the bench she occupied.

She shuffled further along, and he took the vacant spot.

There was a greater difference between how close they had sat now and the night previously. A difference Emma found less distracting. Less static inducing. More open. It made for less awkward observations and, in that moment, the Doctor became a sight to decipher. His back held upright and, yet, not stiff. His brow stayed relaxed, and his hair affixed and unmoving. Hannibal Lecter had a natural disposition that tore him apart from others.

“When I am stuck, I partake in the hobby of people-watching. The fresh air helps too,” said Emma, head turning.

He followed her line of sight as her vision glided to the hustle and bustle of everyday life, keen on the exteriors people exhibited. “An engaging practice, watching the inside melt through to the outside,” commented Hannibal.

“A hobby of yours too, Dr. Lecter?” remarked Emma.

“It is,” he stated. “Though I confess, it had begun to be quite dull. The mind is a fascinating specimen and few contain a distinct one that suits my tastes.”

“There are many intriguing people in the world. Albeit they are rare to meet.” These were her thoughts about him. Ones she would have jotted down had he not been where he sat.

“These people are bound to make intriguing characters.”

The notebook shifted.

“Tell me, have you met any?” asked Hannibal, inquisitive.

Emma didn’t need to ponder. “Yes.” Doctor Hannibal Lecter: an intriguing character indeed. “You said begun, have you met someone who awoke a new hunger for you?” she pointed the question back at him with equal interest.

“Perhaps. I’ll tell you when I do.” No longer did the rest of the world occupy his sight. Hannibal landed his eyes on her. Intent. “Hobbies are often misused as a distraction and not clarification. What thought plagues you, Emma?”

The wind buffeted. “Mortality.” She put the book aside. “I have been pondering my mortality. Reflected on regret and sought to change things.” The phone lingered in her pocket. Her hand itched for its shape in her palm. Emma had to dig her nails through skin just to silence the urge. “I can feel it already, my mind cracking, bones reshaping, transforming. Slow and painful. I don’t know when it – I – will end.” A quake betrayed the stillness of her voice. She almost sounded sane – that was his doing.

“In our greatest moments of fear, we all seek a latch which we can grasp; to obtain control while the storm thrashes us apart. But, like the storm’s aftermath, change is inevitable.”

“Holding onto something implies being able to survive.”

“And are you surviving? Do you feel the adrenaline that life drips or the dread which death bleeds?”

Leaves fell under the harsh-turned weather. “I—” Emma faltered.

The temperature dropped, and eerie grey clouds rolled in overhead. Time stopped and sped up; it all happened so fast. Where once a bright day existed, thunder and rapid winds took shape. Not a note came from her. Not an answer was necessary. Hannibal knew just as she did. She feared what came after the storm. His hand extended outwards to her.

When rain pelted against glass, hitting a window placed inches from her. Thin, sheer curtains further separated her and the outside world. Dazed, Emma twisted around to find herself in the large enclosure recognisable as Hannibal’s office. Hannibal stood a few feet away, donning new attire. Reality hit her when she felt the uneven weight on her arm, his coat wrapped neatly around it; Time had passed without her consent. “I—” Emma stopped again. She ran a hand through her styled, scarlet waves and light showed cause to showcase the bloodied, bandaged knuckles.

An expression crossed Hannibal’s face, concentrated and questioning.

Emma doesn’t notice his reaction. She didn’t notice when he inched closer. Instead, she assuaged herself that nothing had happened and held out the dry-cleaned coat. “I thought you should have this back,” she carried on, seamlessly picking herself back up.

Not a word came from him as he reached.

“I would have handed it back sooner, but I didn’t want people gathering the wrong impression.” Here, when their hands brushed (his elegance and subtle harshness making contact with her smoothness), did she notice the distance which almost no longer existed, and she stepped back; abrupt. “I didn’t want to discredit you, Dr. Lecter.”

His hand did not leave her wounded one. Nor his evaluation of the tainted gauze.

“Don’t worry, not a drop got on it. I made sure,” Emma assured with a faltering smile, despite his lack of interest in the coat’s condition. The stillness felt akin to punishment or some twisted karmic justice that she probably deserved from an act committed long ago. They stood there, seconds passing, and she wanted him just to say something already so she’d have a hint of what went through his uncategorised mind.

Then: “This therapy only works when we don’t lie, Emma,” he uttered.

“I’m not lying.”

“Yes, you are. You are lying to yourself.”

Her hand returned to its lonesome self as Hannibal moved across the room, coat put away. He had seen through her. How many other times had he been aware? It drove her crazy how he knew more about her happenings than she did. “The dressings need to be changed or you will risk infection.” The thud of a cabinet opening followed Hannibal’s voice. She watched him collect a roll of gauze and alcohol-free wipes while her legs confined her to the same spot. Too busy contemplating his character, Emma did nothing to stop him from grabbing her hand, undressing the bandage, and peeling away the wrapped material.

“Where did your mind take you?” Dr. Lecter broke through the loud noise inside her head.

“Quantico.” Pain winced forth between words. Gentle though he was, the cuts stung with each wipe. “The Behavioural Sciences headquarters. We were discussing my thoughts and people-watching,” finished Emma. Trying to gauge how much time she lost, she peeked at the mess her emotions got her into. Judging how far along the wound had healed up – and according to how long it took for her immune system – the conversation was a mere few days ago. The pain which hitched her breath now was both physical and emotional. So much time went unaccounted. Time; such an intangible thing to begin with, and now it slipped out of her grasp.

“Good. Do you know what day it is?” his hand eclipsed hers, wrapping taut gauze.

Emma hesitated, “um… Wednesday.”

Mental notes jotted themselves down as he instructed her to the designated seat, the dressing complete and clean. “This is your second appointment, Emma,” he stated with a tone that indicated concern.

“And yet, we’ve seen much of each other,” she responded, half-jokingly.

He raised his shoulders in defied agreement. “Had I known it was your case, I would not have gone.” Nevertheless, he remained, and so did she.

The change of topic brought her back entirely. “So, let’s not make this awkward. Here, and only here, I am your patient. On the field, we are coworkers, acquaintances at best. Outside, we do not know each other.” Direct. Emma cut to the chase. Awake and alert while he sat across from her. “I don’t want to know your personal life.”

“Want?” he assessed the choice of word.

“I don’t want to know you beyond what is necessary,” she reiterated. It was less about convincing him and more about convincing herself. From his unbotheredness towards her fear confession, there grew an interest. Finding him interesting became a liability. It led the way to eventual ruin. She had to draw a line for her sake.

A rolled lip, contemplation. “Agreed.” and they sat in that agreeance, waded in its waters together, and casting away moments that should not reoccur, for her sake. “What do you wish to discuss, then?” Dr. Lecter, as always, began the new conversation.

“People-watching.” From Emma’s recount, the topic previously escaped them for the favouring of a storm.

“A choice topic.” He crossed his leg. “You think of it as a hobby, while for others it’s a sport. A livelihood even.”

The thin eyebrows on her face lifted themselves. “Sport?”

“In the human sense, yes. However, in nature, livelihood. Predators will stalk their prey. Some observe their chosen meal for weak links. They might even watch the prey go about their life to understand their patterned behaviour and, all the while, they remain at a distance so as not to cause alarm.” Hannibal focused on her, giving her the once over. “Are you a predator, Emma?”

“Humans live in the weird spot of being both predator and prey, though mostly we stopped being predators as we evolved and civilisation grew. We’re barely even prey any more. In this current age, we do not need either term,” Emma responded. “But, if I had to choose... I don't know what I am.” Honest. She added an observation. “You evaluate people all the time as a psychiatrist, figure out our weaknesses, keep a distance from us. Are you not a predator, Dr. Lecter?”

Heavy darkness dragged down above them. The storm outside got worse, and Hannibal’s chest showed no movement as he gave his answer. “No. Nor am I prey either.” His shadow grew behind him. Angular. Pointed. Light had a habit of distorting reality and creating shadows of truth. It created falsehoods. Under rays, he appeared normal while something hid beneath.

What Emma comprehended was limited. Hannibal’s knowledge was not, and in this space, she trusted him. For some reason, whatever it may be. Perhaps it was because the shadows she could not see (his and hers) took similar shapes or the honesty he showed her. His presence just had that effect on her subconscious.

“What did you discuss with Agent Crawford?” she requested.

“According to your terms, this direction of conversation verges on breaking our agreement,” he said. “It is best saved for coworkers, not doctor and patient.”

The muscles and tendons tensed in her freshly bandaged hand. “Unless it has something to do about me as your patient,” Emma rebutted.

“Then you already know.”

“I believe I do. I need to hear it from you directly, anyway, to be sure.”

Outside, the rain struck harder. Hannibal kept his chin up. “Jack Crawford wished to know if you were stable.”

Static fizzed stagnant air particles. Emma kept her gaze. “What was your answer?”

“That you are indeed stable.” Lightning struck a tree as he finished. Stable; an honest lie.

“And Will?”

“Will is unsure. He blames himself for your avoidance of him.”

“He does?” her volume shrunk; quiet. She hadn’t considered that.

Immediately, Hannibal went back to deconstructing the patient in front of him. “Tell me, what happens to cause this thoughts assembly?”

“I can’t help it,” Emma starts. “When I look at him, something changes, and it hurts to look at what fate stands there in his place.” Away from him, and even now, the image of that day was clearer than the current one. She could still see the monster.

“He cannot control the change any more than you,” Dr. Lecter advised.

“Will Graham doesn’t change. He mirrors,” she emphasised.

“And what if there was a way to make the mirror less painful to look at? Would you take it?” Hannibal inclined himself forward, and through the storm, a hand reached out. An offer of stability. She dared to take that metaphorical hand. Desperation wanted nothing else than that sense, but it didn’t feel right. Even still, the case needed it.

Emma Darcy craved stability.

She reached across, meeting him halfway, keeping him in sight and within reach.

#hannibal #hannibal lecter fanfiction #hannibal x oc #hannibal x original character #hannibal lecter #nbc hannibal #hannibal nbc #fanfic #fanfiction #hannibal fanfic #hannibal fanfiction #original female character #will graham

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locustheologicus · 2 months ago

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ANALYSIS Main points of the Synod's final document

In a suprised announcement at the end of the synod, Pope Francis declared that he will publish the final synod document as is and not present any changes (typically a Papal perogative). This helps define the idea of a synodal process that is open and transparent to the process and not interpreted by any one office. The final document is called “For a Synodal Church: Communion, Participation and Mission.” The document is unfortunately only in Italian (at least for now). Fr. James Martin SJ however offers these five takeways from the document in this article he wrote for “America” magazine.

Synodality is a “constitutive dimension” of the church: Always oriented toward mission—and therefore not an end to itself—synodality can be seen as “gathering at all levels of the Church for mutual listening, dialogue, and community discernment” (No. 28). This ancient path finds its roots in the Council of Jerusalem and in the “constant ecclesial practice of meeting in synods,” a process that helps us together to “dialogue, discern and decide” (No. 28)

Decision-making must be participatory: “[I]t is essential that we promote the broadest participation possible in the discernment process, particularly involving those who are at the margins of the Christian community and society” (No. 82). In terms of decision-making, the document also includes a strong call for the People of God to have “a greater voice in choosing bishops” (No. 70). Finally, to this is added the strong call for transparency, accountability and evaluation at all levels of the church, as a way of inviting the faithful to see, judge and understand how their pastors are operating (No. 95).

Bishops and pastors are “obliged to listen:” Those in authority are, in several instances, obligated by current law to conduct a consultation before taking a decision. Those with pastoral authority are obliged to listen to those who participate in the consultation and may not act as if the consultation had not taken place. Therefore, those in authority will not depart from the fruits of consultation that produce an agreement without a compelling reason which must be appropriately explained…” (No. 91).

Pastoral councils, diocesan synods, and other participatory assemblies should be mandatory: For the Latin Church: diocesan synods, presbyteral councils, diocesan pastoral councils, parish pastoral councils and diocesan and pastoral councils for economics affairs (that is, finance councils), are central to participation, accountability and transparency. These are all provided for in canon law, but often exist only “nominally.” Therefore, we write, “We insist that they be made mandatory, as was requested at all stages of the synodal process, and that they can fully play their role, and not just in a purely formal way…” (No. 104).

Some “controversial” issues are not center stage but are included: Some controversial issues, including the ordaining of married men to the priesthood, the ordination of women to the diaconate and L.G.B.T.Q. issues. For the most part these issues were handed over to the 10 “study groups” for further discernment. For our part, we said, in a much larger section on women, “There is no reason or impediment that should prevent women from carrying out leadership roles in the Church: what comes from the Holy Spirit cannot be stopped. Additionally, the question of women's access to diaconal ministry remains open. This discernment needs to continue” (No. 60).

There are a number of good resource analysis on the final result of this ecclesial process. I appreciate the coverage that America and Crux offers. John Allen offers his own insights on this process and the final document. I think it is well worth watching his 30 minute analysis. John’s final insight however is worth reflecting on further.

Let me also point out to you that in a badly polarized and divided world the fact that a riotously complex and global institution could go through such a massive consultative exercise and still manage to hold itself together, not split apart, that is an accomplishment in and of itself and those of you who are Americans I ask you to bear that in mind as we watch the aftermath of the election next week.

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Overall it seems that the synod did not offer any earthquakes, no real change that some had anticipated. Some people like George Wiegel and Mary McAleese seem to suggest that it accomplished little to nothing.

But Fr. James Martin, SJ offers a different perspective on his experience with the synod. In his America article, “I had a Conversion at the Synod,” Fr. Martin offered this epiphany.

In the end, I realized that synodality works. It helps the church to listen to everyone, trusting that the Holy Spirit has something to say through them, and it helps the church to discern better. It is, as we synod delegates wrote in our final document, a “path of spiritual renewal and structural reform that enables the Church to be more participatory and missionary, so that it can walk with every man and woman, radiating the life of Christ.”

The big question is how to bring that spirit of openness, trust, confidence, patience and even playfulness into parishes and dioceses around the world. For me, the key is trust in the process; trust in the other person’s goodness, no matter how different they may seem and trust in the Holy Spirit’s desire for unity. The other key is patience in the Spirit’s work, which in this universal church, takes time.

I think these insights have much to offer us. The synod may not have been a massive sea change on a variety of issues that many of us have but it did raise a new ecclesial emphasis that will alter the way the Church discerns controversial questions moving forward. Maybe we have not addressed the issues directly during this intense process. But if by chance we do see the Church addressing ecclesial shifts in the future, I suggest that it was this process, a process built on trust, mutual respect, and openness to the Holy Spirit, that will enable the Church to do so.

#youtube #pope francis #synod #synodality

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theohonohan · 6 months ago

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Let X=X: Notes on Refresh

This post is a discussion of Kristin Lucas's 2007 performance art work Refresh.

—

The online Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy includes the following text:

Irving Copi once defined the problem of identity through time by noting that the following two statements both seem true but, on the assumption that there is change, appear to be inconsistent:

If a changing thing really changes, there can't literally be one and the same thing before and after the change.

However, if there isn't literally one and the same thing before and after the change, then no thing has really undergone any change.

From the point of view of the implementor of a computer programming language, this puzzle is easily solved by introducing the concept of a variable. The first statement could be addressed by traditional mutable variables—“boxes” which contain a value which can change, while maintaining the same name and memory location. The second statement evokes the other kind of variable, the immutable mathematical variable. These, once defined, can’t be changed. The way to simulate change in a system that uses immutable variables is to introduce versions of each variable. So a variable \(x\) would actually exists in versions \(x_0\), \(x_1\), \(x_2\) … and so on. “No thing” undergoes a change when the assignment statement \(x_1 \leftarrow x_0 + 1\) is evaluated, but anyone who seeks the resulting value of x now needs to look at \(x_1\), not \(x_0\).

It is possible to convert code which uses mutable variables into code which uses immutable variables. The result is called Static Single Assignment (SSA) form. This conversion is often used in compilers because it simplifies the analysis of imperative code. SSA brings the simplicity of functional programming to imperative code.

The expression Let X=X is the title of a memorable song by Laurie Anderson, from her album Big Science. It’s also legal in many programming languages. What it does, in cases where it’s permitted (ie in cases where the binding is not interpreted recursively), is to make the variable \(x\) refer (in the subsequent code) to whatever it previously referred to. It’s a variable binding. In SSA, it corresponds to \(x_1 \leftarrow x_0\). If we drop the “let”, the expression is just \(x = x\) (or, in the clearer and more formal notation, \(x \leftarrow x\)). Optimising compilers will eliminate such an assignment, unless the variable x is declared volatile (or marked in some other equivalent way). In cases where the assignment actually does take place, it can be thought of as a destructive update whereby the value of the variable x is read, and then x is immediately overwritten by the just-read value. In SSA, of course, no overwriting takes place.

I don’t claim to understand what Laurie Anderson means by the song title and lyric Let X=X. It seems likely to have a different connotation than the update of a variable. Perhaps it’s more like The Beatles’ Let it Be: accept whatever the unknown X is; don’t attempt to change it. An assignment statement (or, equivalently a non-recursive binding) where the left hand side is the same as the right hand side just doesn’t do anything.

This brings me to Kristin Lucas’s Refresh, a 2007 artwork in which she legally changed her name from “Kristin Sue Lucas” to “Kristin Sue Lucas”. The idea, inspired by digital technology, was that the name change would be “like refreshing a Web page.” Refresh is the defining work of Lucas’s career as an artist who “intervenes in systems and paradigms to experiment with new ways of being in a technologized world. Her circuitous works resonate with humor and philosophical ponderings.” Lucas's work is not completely unconnected to that of Laurie Anderson.

The canonical example of a refresh in computer technology is is the refresh rate of a video signal. As with a TV signal, the displayed image must be continually refreshed, even if it doesn't change. In the theory of video art, this fact has implications for the nature of video. As Ina Blom writes:

[Bill] Viola treats video as a quasihuman subject. It is a witness, an observer who should have memory but (sadly) does not. This is the drama of his account: video is a living entity that happens to lack some vital functions. It might of course just be an example of conventional narrative personification of things, yet there are reasons to take it at face value. For the are numerous examples that video—a signal-based feedback technology operating at speeds far beyond human perception—was experienced not as a tool but as a living entity, a technical actant challenging human conceptions of design and control. Secondly, and as significantly, video's reliance on constantly repeated cycles of scanning challenged the idea that cultural memory was based on relatively stable forms of inscription. Video disturbed the view of media technologies as recording systems that would serve memory by storing otherwise ephemeral phenomena, such as sound or movement. ... This was in many ways the beauty and fascination of analog electronic systems: too "dumb" to store information, to quote engineer-artist Dan Sandin, their signals were lost as soon as they were spent.

The notion of a refresh as a replacement of some data with new (possibly identical) data forms the concept of Lucas's work. Rather than being a self-sufficient entity, she chooses to imagine herself as partaking of the ghostly inadequacy of a computer video signal, as if her very existence was granted and sustained by the government.

In order to effect her name change, Lucas had to appear in a California courtroom. Fortunately, the presiding judge was intrigued by her idea and granted the name change court order she sought, even though it arguably constituted a mild abuse of the system (the court order is completely purposeless). The transcripts of the hearings (first hearing, second hearing) constitute the primary document of the performance.

In a cynical interpretation of the work, Lucas seems to be thinking “The court is just like a computer, so logically it will have no difficulty approving this name change petition, which changes nothing at all.” But the success of Lucas’s court room performance (as art and as legal petition) is due to her commitment to the conceit behind her work.

MJ: How did your ‘refresh’ feel? KL: It felt instantaneous with the judge’s ruling. There was an immediate change. Blood rushed through my body. and I experienced a sense of detachment from everything that had happened before-it was fun. I loved it. I felt different. In that moment I imagined my body being redrawn in space, refilled identically through the process of refreshing, much like the image of being beamed through a transporter on a Star Trek episode, with witnesses present. l had anticipated that my entire field of vision would blip off: death, then blip back on: life. Same information, fresh eyes. There is nothing like facing your own death to make you feel more alive.

This commitment to a goofy idea—Lucas’s ingenuousness—surely influenced the judge to view the concept in a positive way. It’s also very clear that what Lucas was up to is affirmative. As she said to the judge, the reassertion of the name she received at birth is akin to a renewal of marital vows. It is far from an anarchist gesture to present oneself for “processing” in court, or to opt, given the choice, to retain the name one received from one’s parents. Lucas makes this active embrace of the court’s authority and the status quo seem uncomplicated and beatific. In doing so, she neglects the problematic and unjust aspects of the legal system. One assumes that this voluntary acceptance of the court’s authority, her neutral and respectful attitude to the legal system, implies that she had previously neither suffered involuntarily through a trial nor been a litigant in some other unpleasant business.

The continual refreshing of a video display, or the reloading of a webpage from the server, don’t exactly correspond to the \(x=x\) assignment statement. What’s clear, though, (at least to me) is that the perspective of Static Single Assignment explicates what is going on when Lucas changes her name. She’s going from “Kristin Sue Lucas”₀ to “Kristin Sue Lucas”₁. What changes is the version of her name. This interpretation doesn’t require us to consider “destructive update” or the copying of values (or bodies) from one mutable variable to another (from one container or memory location to a new one). Lucas’s post-refresh Twitter handle ksltwo is compatible with this interpretation.

While Lucas’s gallery tendentiously described the outcome of the work as a “government-issued refresh” (an interpretation explicitly disclaimed by the judge), commentaries on the work sometimes get a bit carried away and go even further:

Trading in her name for the exact same name, the artist asserted that she wanted to “refresh” her identity as though she were a Web page. Divorcing the particularity of the name from the body, even temporarily, questions the construction of subjectivity in relationship to formal measures and therefore demonstrates the contingency and artificiality of identity. Lucas petitioned the court for a name change in the standard procedure, and after some deliberation, it was eventually granted.  Lucas put statutory procedure into a feedback loop, forcing administrators into a double take of the system they invest in and maintain. Her deference to the legal system “is both crediting the government with more power than it actually has, and tacitly raising the question of whether, in fact, the judge has the authority to grant a new lease on life.” Lucas entered, irritated, and provoked the mouthpiece of the institution to question its own regimes philosophically and, in doing so, forced the court’s voice, the judge, to not only acknowledge her, but to accept her existential change. In its noisy obstruction, the parasite reinvents the host, becoming an integral part in the system by forcing it to reorient whatever message the host transmits.  

It’s this kind of nonsensical discussion that I think the SSA perspective can usefully deflate. The authors of this Fillip piece may think that they are playing along with Lucas’s bit, but I think they go too far by positing that she “traded in her name for the exact same name” or that her name as “divorced” momentarily from her body. That’s not how this works, at all. A name isn’t a token you unclip from your shirt and hand across the counter to a bureaucrat. A recursive binding (let x=x) does resemble a feedback loop, very approximately, but I don't see how that interpretation is justified by what happened here. I don't think a presentation of Refresh as a work that critiques the institution of the law, that turns the logic of legally administered name changes against itself, is compatible with the sincere and direct way Lucas addressed with the judge. If that interpretation were true, it would surely turn the work into some form of contempt of court, which was not her intention.

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emeraldspiral · 4 months ago

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Wait, so I believe at last year's Florpus Anniversary screening someone said Jhonen said Skoodge is living in Zim's basement and just isn't seen in the movie.

But in the original comic timeline, which we know is meant to cover about a year since Zim experiences his second Halloween and Christmas during that run, Skoodge never reveals himself as intended in the unfinished episode Day of Da Spookies. This comic meanwhile, takes place in an alternate timeline which began the same as the original comic run, then veered into another direction resulting in ETF and 3 other post-movie comics, culminating with this one. Since the post-Florpus run was only 4 issues we can assume that less time has passed in this continuity than the original comic timeline.

In the original comic timeline, even though much more time passed without Skoodge making an appearance, it's still possible that Skoodge was laying low in Zim's base all that time and Day of Da Spookies or some alternative story which would see him reveal himself could still possibly happen at some indeterminate point in the future. But this comic appears to show Skoodge out conquering another alien planet in the name of the Irken Empire at a much earlier point in time. So either he snuck out of Zim's base without Zim ever knowing he was there in the first place, or he was in fact not ever there in the first place.

So is Day of Da Spookies now officially decanonized? Because we have two lines of continuity now, one where Skoodge never emerges from the basement after more than a year, and one where he's clearly shown to not be in the basement at an earlier point in time with no indication he was ever there. Technically it's possible Day of Da Spookies still happened offscreen, but in the absence of any evidence for it, I wouldn't consider that a reasonable argument. It's the same kind of insane, lazy logical fallacy that people like MatPat use to justify literally any theory. "I made up a bunch of stuff there's no evidence for, but you can't prove that it didn't happen offscreen despite absolutely nothing that infers it", which you could say about literally anything one could make up.

It's interesting to consider because I think for a long time the fandom always treated the unfinished episodes as if they were canon since they would've been if the show weren't cancelled. But when the comics started up I remember Jhonen made a statement about not wanting the comics to be a receptacle for old stories. The only comics that ended up being adapted from old episode ideas were ones from scripts that were never released. Like the Pants Aliens comic intended for season 1, which never got the green light from Nick because it was too similar to Jimmy Neutron's pilot episode, or "GIR's Big Day" which was heavily reworked from the description Eric Trueheart gave of the original episode concept.

I can definitely see why Jhonen wouldn't want to use the comics or a series revival to enshrine any of those old episodes into official canon. I think it'd be kinda disappointing for fans to wait so long only to pick up a new comic or tune into a new episode and it's just a story we already got 15-20 years ago with all the jokes and twists and turns already spoiled for us.

This is why I get the impression that stuff like the Virooz arc and Zim's nightmare in ETF exist to be stealth replacements for 10 Minutes to Doom and The Trial. A way to convey that the lore about PAKs and Irken existence evaluations is still part of the canon even though the episodes that were originally meant to reveal that information are not canon anymore.

Bringing it back Skoodge, it may indeed no longer be canon that Skoodge is, was, or ever will be living in Zim's basement. But only because it wouldn't be surprising to the audience anymore if that were the case. If they ever bring him back, it's not going to be in a finished version of Day of Da Spookies, it's going to be in a brand new story.

invader zim really gave us the most fan favorite and long awaited characters after 20 years of waiting, in the last 3 pages of the final issue of the comics ;___;

#invader zim #skoodge #invader skoodge #RIP unfinished episodes #but don't cry too hard about it #just because the stories may not have happened anymore #doesn't mean the important information isn't still canon #if the pak lore is still canon #so too may be zim's assassination of the previous two tallests #or the feelings zim and dib developed for each other by the time of mopiness of doom #as for #day of da spookies #i'm really not shedding any tears for that one #dib was super ooc and skoodge wasn't even well utilized #he deserves a better story to mark his return

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kentoberry · 2 years ago

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MON CHERI. — toji fushiguro.

ABOUT: toji knows the horrors of the zen'in clan, and offers something a little more than comfort to naoya's wife.

NOTES: naoya is in his early 20s and toji is in his late 20s. set before toji leaves the clan. i wrote a lot of this while spaced out on pain meds so... yeah LOL

CWS: sub fem reader, some canon divergence, cheating, arranged marriage, toxic relationships, breeding, dubcon, impregnation, controlling behaviour (from naoya), hymen breaking, implied v*rginity loss, p*ssy inspection, misogyny, car s*x, fingering, thigh riding, overuse of pet names, slight hand f3tish, spit, choking mention, dirty talk.

well, that’s one way to get back at the zen’in clan.

you’d been betrothed to naoya zen’in before you could even pronounce the word “engagement”, as the elders from your respective clans thought that it would be beneficial in a political sense. you were raised to understand that this was how things must be, and that there was no backing out. it wasn’t until your wedding day that you finally met naoya, having spent your days as a little girl dreaming that as you walked down the aisle, you’d be taking steps towards your prince charming. oh, how wrong you were.

naoya was an absolute asshole from the very beginning. he even instructed the officiant at your wedding to “get this over with” as soon as possible, and barely even made eye contact with you throughout the ceremony. your heart shattered into a billion tiny pieces, but you grinned and beared it. you knew that there was a chance that you’d be stuck in a loveless marriage, and that was now your reality.

the first night that you spent together, your new husband’s first question to you was regarding your abilities to bear a child. not whether or not you wanted one, but rather when you would be able to get pregnant. he wanted to secure an heir, which would thus secure his position in the clan. naoya truly didn’t care about you, his only goal was to breed a baby into your fertile cunt.

hell, he even poked and prodded at your pussy, satisfied only when you winced and a small trail of blood followed. the man hadn’t truly believed that you were a virgin, all modern women were cockhungry whores to him, so he resorted to inspecting your hymen himself. in naoya’s eyes, your body now belonged to him.

fast forward to your six month anniversary. you barely left the estate. naoya ensured that you be stuffed and bred full of his semen every night, the filthiest of names slipping past his lips as he degraded you and berated you for the fact that you weren’t yet carrying his child. you were nothing more than the man’s cumdump, following his every rule down to the detail. at events, he paraded you around as the perfect piece of arm candy, giving every attendee the impression that you were a happily married pair.

it was at one of these events that you’d been introduced to naoya’s cousin, who looked as though he didn’t want to be there anymore than you did. he introduced himself as toji, and wasted no time in talking shit about the clan that you had unknowingly married into. if naoya had cared enough to pay attention to you, he would have dragged you away from the other man. but he didn’t. instead, you spent majority of the evening listening to toji’s stories, promising him that you would do everything in your power to ensure a brighter future for the zen’in clan.

“but ya don’t have any power in y’r relationship, do ya, princess?”

you looked down to mask the heat that spread across your cheeks, such pet names feeling foreign to you. toji knew that he was right, and continued chatting away as he nursed his glass of alcohol.

“naoya’s always been a real piece of work. never fuckin’ treated a woman right in his life. always screamin’ at his maids to do everything for him, firing them if they made the slightest fuck-up. always felt sorry for the poor lass that would end up with ‘im. doubt he’s ever even made ya cum.”

the man took a moment to evaluate your expression, which only confirmed his prior assumption. he took pity on you, really. the rough spoken man knew the atrocities that the zen’ins were capable of, and the scar along his lip was evidence of such. feeling sorry, he resorted to what he knew best, hollering at the bartender for two more drinks, one for each of you.

“i, umm, i can’t drink,” you mumbled.

“don’t tell me he dictates what ya put in your body, darlin’. . .”

“no! no!” your voice was apologetic, as though you’d said something that you shouldn’t have. “it’s not like that; alcohol just isn’t good when you’re trying to conceive…”

toji scoffed. “you want to get knocked up by that man? you insane, princess?”

you sighed in defeat. “he wants a baby, so i need to have one. it’s what i’m supposed to do.”

your face depicted a sight that he knew all to well. toji put an arm over your shoulders slowly so as not to make you jump. he saw the tears that you worked to conceal, hand slowly rubbing your arm in attempt to soothe you.

“let’s get out of here. tell the cunt that you aren’t feeling too well; makes sense to be if he’s tryna put a kid in ya. i’ll take you home, maybe drive around a little if ya want. y’r a sweetheart, don’t let him ruin it, okay?”

you simply nodded, feeling strange that a zen’in was giving you a choice.

“i’ll go grab my jacket, and meet ya by the door. is that alright with you?”

again, you nodded. you smoothed out your outfit, once again putting on a brave face and seeking out your husband. it didn’t take too long to spot the blonde, pushing your way through seas of people to reach him. you kept your hand situated on your lower stomach, hoping that it helped to sell your fake story.

upon approaching him, you called his name though to no avail. it took tugging on his sleeve to finally gain his attention, which resulted in him turning to you with a disdainful expression. “what?” he queried coldly.

you began muttering about how you weren’t feeling too well and were needing to head home, but were cut off by him-

“speak up, woman. you’re wasting my time.”

you did just that, leaning closer to him so that he could hear you better.

“whatever.”

despite being used to naoya’s lack of human emotion, it still hurt. as though your wedding day was a knife being plunged into your stomach, and each insult was your husband twisting the weapon. there was no ‘stay safe, honey!’ or concern regarding how you were getting back to your room, he just liked that he controlled you enough that you felt the desire to inform him of your every move.

you kept your head low as you went to reunite with toji, who leant against the venue’s door frame, fiddling with the keys to his car in hand. mustering up a tiny smile, you greeted your knight in shining armour and headed out with him.

toji was quick to open the passenger side door of his vintage mustang, allowing you to get in with ease. such a simple act of chivalry made your heart flutter in a way that you knew it shouldn’t. the little girl who’d been suppressed inside of you for so long suddenly sprung back to life, making you feel like the raven haired man was your prince charming helping you into your bespoke carriage. you almost felt giddy, a feeling that grew overwhelming to the point that tears began to gather along your waterline.

in the meantime, toji had started the car’s engine and was ready to pull out of the parking lot of empty cars. he checked on his fuel gauge before looking over to you.

his drawled “everything alright, darlin’?” was the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back. you began spilling your guts to the borderline stranger, detailing how unhappy your marriage to naoya made you and all of the shit that he put you through.

toji turned off the car, pulling your weeping form into his chest as he hushed you. he was a man of few words in that moment, instead doing his best to provide the comfort to you that had been absent during his own experiences with the harshness of the zen’in clan.

“i’m sorry,” he murmured, “it’s not your fault.”

you could have sworn the man was struggling to hold back his own tears as you finally looked up at him, though before you could fully discern his emotions, he placed a tender kiss to your forehead, mumbling that you didn’t deserve to be put through such trials and tribulations. you seemed a sweet soul.

the kiss, albeit innocent, flustered you. it was laced with a gentleness that you had never experienced. naoya was the only man that you had ever been intimate with, and he’d been the furthest from benevolent that one could be. it made you forget the ring on your left hand, instinctively tilting your chin up and pulling toji in for another kiss.

he hadn’t expected to feel your lips against his own. the smell of your expensive perfume overwhelmed him, feeling intoxicated by your touch. he wasted no time in deepening the kiss, grabbing your hips and encouraging you to straddle him in the driver’s seat.

upon pulling away for a brief moment to catch his breath, toji informed you of the tinted windows, promising that nobody would see whatever you both found yourselves getting up to.

with hair and makeup a mess, you found yourself grinding against his thigh in an attempt for some friction. the way that the hem of your dress had splayed over toji's lap meant that your cunt bordered on bare because of the sheer black lace that naoya ordered you wear. the material covering your slit was thin, the perfect opportunity for your husband to tear in two when he got impatient with the preparations required before fucking you.

there was an obvious wet patch soaking its way through the fabric, something that toji noticed after swiping two fingers against your clothed pussy.

"she's already drippin', doll," he growled, voice having dropped another octave. he slipped your panties aside, traipsing his digits along your dampened folds. afterwards, he placed his slick coated fingers into his mouth, groaning at the taste of you on his hand. "shit, darlin', y'r fuckin' heavenly."

before you could even make a sound, toji pulled you in for another kiss. you could taste the faint remnants of your arousal on his taste buds, making a move to pull back that would have been successful if not for his hand pressing against the back of your head, keeping you in place.

“sweetheart,” he grumbled, hot breath fanning the sensitive skin at the juncture of your neck and shoulder. “sure about this?”

you were quick to utter the affirmative, shortly followed by whimpering at the loss of contact as toji lifted you back into the passenger’s seat. he chuckled at the reaction, feeling lucky to have elicited such a reaction from you. switching the engine back on, the man began speeding out of the lot.

you were certain that you couldn’t wait a moment longer. perhaps it was the idea of doing something so taboo mixed with the anticipation that being with toji had already generated. your hand slipped underneath your dress, hiking the material up your thighs as you caressed the tender skin. your breath caught in your throat as your fingers ghosted over your clothed clit, whining at the sensation.

“can’t even wait f’me, princess?” toji smirked. instead of chiding you for such brattiness, he chose to indulge you, even moving his hand from the gearstick to peel away your underwear.

you could have sworn you heard him moan at the sight of your glistening cunt, not even caring that your arousal seeped onto his fine leather upholstery. all whilst keeping his composure with driving, he slipped a finger into your weeping folds and began to fuck you. in response, you simply gripped his arm. he took it as a sign that you were enjoying this, deciding upon adding another digit to your hole. with ease, he located the rough spot that made your toes curl, massaging circles into it as he began to stretch your pretty cunt open. with the way that you were practically creaming on his hand, he could truly tell how your husband had been neglecting your needs and desires.

as toji came into contact with a red light, he took a moment to halt the car and immediately provided you with his undivided attention. his first action was to roughly spit onto your pussy, using his thumb to spread his saliva and make a mess of your cunt. as possessive as it may seem, he wanted to taint your body in all the lewd ways that he could think of. you deserved to be his princess, not naoya’s pathetic little cumdump.

“play with y’r clit, doll,” he instructed, and you did just that. nay, you went above and beyond his instructions. you released his arm and began groping at your tits, allowing for them to spill over the neckline of your dress for better access. you played with your stiffening nipples, tweaking and tugging as your other hand made a beeline for your swollen clit, the pads of your fingers becoming coated in the concoction of your slick and toji’s spit.

toji briefly palmed the growing bulge in his pants before placing his hand back on the steering wheel. when he had to remove his hand from your cunt in order to shift gears, you considered teasing him about not driving something automatic in this day and age but were instead distracted by how fucking attractive his veiny hand looked wrapped around the piece of machinery. it only turned you on even more when you saw the shimmering of your arousal still coating his middle and ring finger. you couldn’t help but wonder how his hand would feel wrapped around your throat.

when he could spare a hand once again, toji’s fingers plunged back into your hole. due to the fact that you’d been brutally toying with your clit whilst indulging in such salacious ideas of the man, he could feel your walls flutter around him, indicating that you were likely close to an orgasm.

toji didn’t alter the speed of his movements, instead he resorted to using his words to attempt to tip you over the edge.

“‘s it, gonna cum all over my car, pretty thing? can’t even wait f’r my cock? bet you’re thinkin’ about me, aren’t ya, darlin’? want me to ruin ya, fuck ya like you wish that no good piece of shit you call a husband can’t. when we get home, i don’t think i’ll be satisfied ‘til i’ve destroyed that pretty little pussy on every fuckin’ surface i got. you’d like that, wouldn’t ya? cunt feels so good, can’t wait until my fat cock is buried deep in her, stretching the poor girl out until she’s creamin’ f’me.”

his words went straight to your core, though it was one final sentence that really tipped you over the edge.

“maybe i’ll do what he never could ‘nd put a baby in ya, princess,”

#🍑 ૮ • ﻌ • ა #toji smut #toji fushiguro smut #toji x reader #toji fushiguro x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #naoya x reader #naoya zen'in x reader #naoya smut #naoya zenin smut #tojisluvrposts

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hawnks · 3 years ago

Text

first law of motion

gojo satoru x reader

r18

word count: 9,500

[soulmate identifying marks, canon divergence, reader is not a sorcerer, alcohol mention, shogi as a plot fixture, gojo is forced to reckon with his humanness, and everyone else’s for that matter, gojo goes from indifference to absolute obsession, and he discovers a need to take care of his lover on the way, reader is kind of a hot mess tbqh]

Things are bound to get a little messy when your soulmate is Satoru Gojo.

It’s a summer weekend, and Tokyo is swollen with August heat and tourists. Bodies brushing against bodies, skin gummy and damp. A lot is happening, and a part of him wants to tune it all out. He gets the instinctive urge to shield his eyes, even though they’re already covered.

There’s some convention going on, he doesn’t keep up to date on that kind of thing. All he knows is the swelter and the quiet unrest that comes with it.

Crime increases during heat waves; so do curse attacks. He’s been sent to deal with some disaster, well below his pay grade. It didn’t even cross his mind to reject the request. The last few months have clouded his sense of purpose. The near misses and injuries, watching people under his protection be battered and brutalized—

He can do this, so he does. He can do anything. So he does.

And he walks through the crowd, knowing what’s lying in wait out there, what could snuff out any one of their lives so simply and easily, and leave not a trace. He thinks about the causal cruelty of life, of everything.

Until his brooding is interrupted by —

Cans of grapefruit Fanta rolling across the sidewalk, continually kicked and lost under the feet of unaware pedestrians. And there’s you crawling on the ground, reaching for the cans as they continue to slip away. You’re wearing all black, formal not gothic. You’re clearly fresh from a funeral, or maybe the reception.

It’s all rather pathetic. He doesn’t even intend to make eye contact with you as you drag yourself across the ground, but you reach out as he crosses your path, bat his shin like a cat, looking up at him. Expectantly.

It’s been so long since someone’s touched him, he’s almost forgotten it was possible. He’s too on edge around other sorcerers these days, but his body comprehends you with a startling clarity. Absolute non-threat.

He picks up the can you gesture to, handing it over with a pointedly smarmy grin. “If you’re on your knees for piss flavored soda, I’d like to see what you’d do for a Klondike Bar.”

You blink at him. For a second, he thinks he’s genuinely offended you. But then you laugh. So hard the can slips from your grip with a dull clang, rolling off into the gutter, lost.

You wipe the tears from your eyes. You’re much nicer than him, of course. You say, “Thanks a lot for that one, cowboy.”

And he’s curious, more than anything.

He grabs you a plastic bag from a nearby convenience store for you to dump your stray cans in, doesn’t argue as you lead him to some back alley, where you can drink them together.

He’s right, they do taste like piss. You don’t seem to enjoy it much either, though, which makes him enjoy it just a smidge more.

You’re staring at him as you drink together, trying to divine answers from his inscrutable expression, the jet-black shades.

“I didn’t even know what a Klondike bar was until, like, highschool,” you say cordially. You’d offer to show him, but, “that’s a bit more stripping than I’m comfortable with on the first date.”

You glance up, checking his expression, which is unchanged.

But you see the truth in him, draw it out so easily it could only be the work of fate. Beneath his staunch nonchalance is a fine thread of uneasiness. About this. About you.

Your gaze turns evaluative, slightly salacious.

“You’re too tall for me.” The smile you wear is simple, blithe. Like you’re discussing the weather, rather than the will of the universe. “We’d never work.”

It’s easier, then, without the expectation of anything more. Conversation flows seamlessly, almost like the two of you are in some dream state. No one has to repeat themself, or explain it differently. It all comes with an effortlessness that makes him slightly wistful.

“This sucks,” you say, wiggling your half-drunk can. “Why would anyone make this?”

He wonders why you bought it, if you hate it so much. “Acquired taste?”

“Tastes awful,” you sigh, and take another suffering sip. He snickers.

You talk for the next few minutes, about everything and nothing. It’s filler conversation, funny without much substance, the easy humor between you two fluffing out the space.

“It’s too damn hot,” you groan, eventually. “I want kakigori.”

He’s not sure if it’s an invitation or you thinking aloud, but he feels the need to reject it, all the same.

“I have an appointment, after this,” he says, paying you another inscrutable smile.

And to his relief, you don’t falter.

You shrug, stretch your legs. “More for me, then.”

He doesn’t ask you about the funeral, or the shitty soda. He doesn’t ask you where you’re going after this. Doesn’t ask if you’re okay.

He likes you all the better for how little he knows. In your brief sojourn you’ve become something fleeting and ethereal. Like you hardly exist at all. Like he can hold the sliver of this moment up to the light and it will always be shiny and new.

It will never have to hurt. He likes you, best, for that.

The conversation has drawn to its end, and you rise first, brushing ineffectively at the dirt on your skirt, accepting the bag of leftover drinks he hands up to you with a murmured thanks.

You pause, standing before him, your shadow brushing his feet. You’re about to say something, but think better of it, adjusting your grip on the plastic handles, and turning away without another word.

And he should leave it be, allow you your moment of solitude, to end things with grace.

“Sorry about the piss thing,” he calls after you.

He thinks he hears you laugh, again.

Maybe he just imagined it.

He feels lighter, for the rest of the day. The heat doesn’t even bother him as he finishes his mission. Maybe it’s because he’d been dreading this day, ever since he knew what a soulmate was. How that was simply not him, how he could never be that for another person. He thought he’d have to break your heart; instead you slipped through the moment of contention like a cool breeze.

Or maybe it’s because every day he has walked this earth understanding sacrifice. What is more important than his own life. What is not. And that constant transaction woven through everything he touches, the math of life as constant and unerring as Caucasus Mountain eagles.

But tomorrow? He‘s going to eat kakigori.

…

Weeks pass. The days start to cool. He’s away from Tokyo for nearly the entire time, doesn’t have a second to breathe, let alone think about you.

His first day off in ages, he travels to the city, picking up as many sweets as he can carry, and a copy of a new movie for Yuuji. It’s simple, almost boring. But a part of him has been craving distance from the campus, and all its inhabitants, a kind of quiet disgust that he doesn’t care to investigate.

He’ll get over it. Eventually.

He’s about to turn to climb the stairs to the train when he spots you, ambling toward him. You don’t even pause, rolling your eyes as he falls in step beside you.

“Do I know you?” you say, and he could almost mistake you for being serious, if you weren’t smiling. “I told you, you’re not my type.”

“Shame,” he says. “Because you’re mine.”

“Alright, sweet talker. What do you want?”

“Nothing,” he says honestly. “This is pure coincidence.” You look skeptical at that, so he continues, “What’s that old adage about soulmates and lessons? Maybe we’re supposed to teach each other something, before we can move on.”

“I’ve already done that,” you say snidely. “If anyone’s got a lesson to learn here, it’s you.”

“Mmm, and what would that be, darling?”

“I dunno. Humility?” You pause to look him up and down, deciding on a course of action. He’s dressed in a button down and slacks. You look downright frumpy next to him, which is slightly mortifying. But there couldn’t be much more harm to him than that. You sigh, continuing on your way. “You can come, if you want. Although I imagine you’ll be bored out of your mind.”

He comes.

The shogi house is nearly empty today. It’s never been a particularly popular spot, but that’s part of why you like it. You’ve always had a great affection for underdogs.

Probably because you are one, yourself.

You’ve never played an official match, of course, but if you had to give yourself a definitive rating you’d say your skills are roughly equivalent to that of a ten year old. You’ve been coming here for months, and just recently gotten the hang of how all the pieces function. Actual strategy is still well beyond you.

Matches tend to be more of a party than an intellectual pursuit, when you’re involved. All of the grannies and grandpas gathering around, reminding you of rules and giving well meaning but ultimately fruitless advice. You haven’t won even once. Everyone fawns over you all the more for it, enamored with how green you are, how new everything is to you. “Good work” they say to you on the way out the door, every time, regardless of how accurate that is.

Today only three people are in the parlor when you arrive. A match is already in session at the far end of the room, leaving you to face off against the man in the corner. You know him, have played a few games with him, to brutal ends. His name is Mori, and he’s a ranked shogi player, a professional. He’s surprisingly high level, for someone just slightly older than you. He’ll definitely make something of himself, someday.

Your soulmate follows you to the board, settling into the background as you set up.

Greetings are brief. Mori asks you about your cat (a running joke between you), and you inquire about his last match (won with flying colors). Then you get started.

The difference in your capabilities is immediately clear. You’re on the defense after his first move, trying to make up for all the ground he’s gaining.

You hardly have time to think about the placement of the pieces, every move of his guiding yours. You expected this, of course. Losing fast and horribly was bound to happen in a mismatch like this.

The game is nearing its conclusion when you remember your soulmates presence. You glance at him, surreptitiously, as Mori considers his next move.

He sits, legs crossed, on a floor cushion that hardly fits him. He slouches, hands folded in his lap. You’re suddenly very aware of how unfortunate his size is. He probably doesn’t fit in a bed, or under a shower.

If he kissed you, he would need to bend down so far. His hands would be massive against your own.

Your next move is a fumble, which you know because Mori raises a brow, smiles. “You wanna take that back?”

In official matches, undoing moves is illegal. But everyone lets you do it, here. Insist on helping you learn, helping you grow.

But for some reason, doing that with Mori, now, seems childish. For the first time, you’re embarrassed of your skill level, of your innate inability.

You smile at him, coy, covering up the feeling. You gesture at him to continue.

That one move seals the game, and things wind to a close quickly. The two of you reset the board, and shake hands. Your opponent moves on to challenge one of the others in the parlor.

You’re gathering up your things, ready to leave, when your soulmate catches you by the sleeve.

“Teach me,” he says, more demand than implore. He’s already taken the seat across from you.

You’re not much of a teacher. Because you’re still a novice, at best, all you can really do is tell him the function of each piece, how it can move on the board. No schemes, no tips.

“I’m sure anyone around here would be happy to help you learn,” you say, wrapping up your spiel, and shifting to get off the floor.

But before you can rise, he’s moved a piece on the board with a decisive click. And the game has started.

He’s exceptionally poor at it, which is unexpected. You know, somehow, that he’s an excellent strategist. And it seems unlike him to be losing so spectacularly right out the gate, even if this is all new to him.

It makes it a bit hard for you to keep up, but in a different way then when you play with the other regulars. You’re used to being reactive, making your decisions based off the moves of others.

But there’s no logic to the way he plays, nothing you can build off. You claim one of his pieces, a promoted knight, one of the most valuable in the game. You frown as he sweeps it off the board — you’ve checked that piece only twice in your entire shogi career, and that was with the advice of better players.

He’s letting you win.

That fills you with an unexpected rage, and you take the knight from him with a scowl. His next move is pedantic, meandering. A nothing move, used to take up time.

You answer by moving your queen into a vulnerable position. He does the same.

The match caries on in that fashion, the both of you making increasingly stupid and brash moves, taunting the other to just finish things.

Finally you’re so incensed that you flick your own king off the board. He catches it, without looking. His gaze is steady on yours.

“Pretty sure that’s illegal.”

“You’re stupid face should be illegal,” you snap. “I don’t need a consolation prize. I know I suck at this.”

His grin is strange. Pleased, but not in the kind, sweet ways of the older shogi players who pet your hair, tell you you’ve done well. Your soulmate smiles at you like he’s won, somehow. Even though the match must have broken some record for worst plays imaginable.

You look down at the board. With your king piece no longer in play, the pattern is clear. A perfect draw.

You’d made the worst moves possible, but you played smart. Anticipating his own moves, reacting with clever and unpredictable actions. You were on the offensive, maybe for the first time since you started coming here.

“You’re a formidable player,” your soulmate drawls. His expression is cat-like. Smugly gratified. “Afraid they won’t treat you like their precious little baby anymore if you start winning?”

He waits for a response, but it doesn’t come. You’re still looking at the board like it’s the first time you’ve seen one. Like you’re not understanding what’s in front of you.

His smile sinks the longer you stare, not expecting this from you.

Finally, he reaches over the board with a closed fist. You hold your own hand open for him without thinking, nearly flinching when the solid diamond of the king piece lands against your palm. It’s warm from his skin.

“This was nice,” he says, all artifice dropped. “I’m glad I ran into you again.”

“Yeah,” you agree, despite yourself. Because you know he’d know anyway, even if you lied. “This was nice.”

He says nothing, after that. Rises on those big stag legs, and pays you a parting grin. The day has begun to fade into night, and a beam of golden light floods the parlor as he opens the door and steps out.

You flick the king piece back onto the board, strangely satisfied, and strangely not.

…

The proceedings are complicated. They’re restructuring the way the Jujutsu Tech schools function, and the way they train young sorcerers. The values they instill in them.

It’s a lot of politics, which Gojo hates and excels at.

He makes demands, and they’re listened to. Things are going his way, but it’s a delicate process. Building a new society takes time; he’s never been one for patience.

He travels with Megumi on a trip across the prefecture, exterminating a nest of curses that has recently cropped up.

It’s simple work, but tedious and exhausting. They eat their fill of ramen that night, at the local place.

It’s been a long time since Gojo has had a conversation with his old pupil.

Megumi has changed, since moving up in years. He’s less high-strung. More sociable (though, not by much). He seems— happier.

Which complicates things, in some ways. Because Gojo could count the number of happy sorcerers on one hand, if there are any at all. Leave it to his protogé to push the envelope.

Part of him wants to ask how, how is it possible to coexist with the never ending troubles they face. How can he give that to everyone? How can he remake the world of sorcerers to let them all have that?

But it’s clear as the conversations wears on that Megumi’s peace is all external. Fraught with contingencies.

His sister is doing well. For the first time in a long time. Megumi has put her up in a cottage in the countryside, nothing but rice farmers and friendly geriatrics for miles in any direction. No place for curses.

“I think she’s… happy,” he says. The ghost of a smile on his lips. “Or, at least she’s not absolutely miserable, anymore.”

There’s a warning on the tip of his tongue. Don’t get too relaxed. Bad things happen, and they’ll keep happening. Your life is about you, and what you can do, and what you must do.

But how could he possibly interrupt this, the only happiness his student has ever known?

Even if it’s bound to collapse like a dying star, eventually.

The most important rule of life Gojo has learned: everything is temporary. Good and bad.

…

He runs into you on the way back through Tokyo, because of course he does. The two of you relish blaming the other for who’s keeping you both tethered, playful arguing about who still has their lesson to learn.

His companion is introduced to you, briefly and poorly, between bickering.

“My former student,” your soulmate coos, “And isn’t he cute?”

That’s the last thing you would call the shadow glowering before you. “And who’s this, sensei?” he prompts.

“A friend,” he says smoothly, without hesitation. “We go way back.”

Megumi leaves the both of you, on his way South to visit Tsumiki.

Your soulmate invites himself to your afternoon plans.

“What have we got cooking today, love bug?”

You barely suppress an eyeroll.

“Sleepless in Seattle,” you say, holding up the dvd you rented for his inspection. “If you’re into this sort of thing.”

“One of my favorites,” he returns, grinning. You can’t tell if he’s lying.

You guess it doesn’t really matter.

The walk to your place is quick, and as you’re unlocking the door to let this relative stranger into your apartment, something occurs to you.

“I don’t even know your name,” you say, a firm hand on the ajar door, keeping him from entering.

He’s peering at you through those dark sunglasses again. Smiling. Playing a game you don’t know the rules to. “Call me Satoru.”

You hesitate. “Is that a first name?”

“Yes,” he says without shame. “Aren’t we friends?”

He catches the answer on your face, a sheepish wince. I didn’t think we were anything at all. You say, “Sure. But what’s your surname?”

His smile turns coy. He pokes the elbow supporting you against the door so it caves, grabbing you just before you fall. He draws you into the apartment with an arm around your shoulder. “Who knows?”

It’s not much. Certainly not the kind of lofty living aspirations you’ve seen on coworkers’ Pinterest boards. But it’s your space, and you’ve made it to your liking. That much is clear to Gojo as he investigates the place.

First and foremost, you are beloved. Your apartment is filled to the brim with the proof of this, nicknacks and souvenirs from friends, a stack of letters on the coffee table, pictures both framed and bare, lining the walls. Tucked between are the things you’ve bought for yourself, gaudy and vibrant, clashing because they’d be impossible to match anything.

He picks items up, turning them this way and that, observing all of the facets and idiosyncrasies. Inviting himself into the space in a way that should be rude, but you just find kind of endearing. Watching such a big man handle your belongings with such care. Like everything he touches is made of glass.

He picks up a loose postcard. The picture is a drawing of a bird, so ugly it almost makes him giddy that this exists at all. He turns it over to find smooth penmanship. A woman’s handwriting, signed Nozomi.

You don’t stop him when you spot him reading it. There’s not much to hide, anyway. It’s generically thoughtful and heartfelt in a way that would only matter to the people involved. Nozomi says she wishes you well, and that she’s happy to see you grow as a person. She’s proud of you. She always will be.

“She was the one who taught me to play shogi,” you say, as he returns the card to its spot, careful to get the placement just right. “Saw me on the street and just… took me in. Said I looked like I needed it. I thought she was crazy. Kept going back because it was kind of funny, at first. But it turned out she was right.”

Gojo nods, sagely. “Through shogi lies the meaning of life.”

You whack him on the arm, snorting. “I needed friends, dumbass,” you tell him. “Although I guess I wouldn’t mind some guidance to get me through the big clownshow.”

You leave him to go make tea. He stays where he is, staring at the postcard. The sight of it, that earnest, ugly little doodle, suddenly makes the back of his neck itch.

When was the last time he’d kept something, just because he wanted it? When has he ever enjoyed a thing except for its function, it’s usefulness? When did anything ever have meaning to him?

He gravitates toward a darker corner, where a small shrine sits on an eye-level shelf. It’s unobtrusive, less tacky than just about anything else in this place. A stick of incense waiting to be lit, a can of grapefruit flavored Fanta left in offering.

You return with the drinks, wait for him to join you on the couch.

He doesn’t ask. You don’t explain.

The two of you watch Sleepless in Seattle. He’s a good movie companion. Funny without being obtrusive. Surprisingly, doesn’t talk through the whole thing, just enough to remind you he’s there.

The two of you shift and move throughout the two hour runtime, until your feet are resting on his lap, his arms draped over your thighs.

As the credits roll and you stretch, he peers down at your toes. He pinches one, between his thumb and pointer, wiggling it. “Cold,” he notes.

“Maybe you’re just stupidly warm,” you return, nudging his thigh with your free foot.

He grabs that one, too, and through a bizarre display of athleticism, tips you bodily into your back, while grabbing a throw blanket from the back of the couch.

He wraps you up in it easily, turning you around as you squirm, laughing, fighting. Finally, he has you swaddle like a baby with your arms trapped against your sides, completely immobile.

Then he gets up and leaves.

…

The incoming first years are strong, but ignorant. One of them, the most promising of the bunch, tells Gojo she’s doing this to make her mother proud.

“She attended Jujutsu Tech, a long time ago,” she says. “But she lost both her legs in a fight. Her technique depended on being nimble; the amputation set her back too many years to recover.”

They’re meeting at a cafe outside Tokyo proper. The days have begun to cool, and this afternoon sings with a pleasant heat. He watches as the girl sits across from him, separating her meal into distinct piles of ingredients.

He can see it in her eyes. Love. So big and deep it looks more like desperation than adoration.

And that can be exploited.

Even in the absence of real enemies, it can get a person killed.

He tells the young sorcerer about another Jujutsu Tech student he taught. How he loved his childhood friend so much it cursed her. And that, in turn, cursed him.

“But it worked out, in the end,” she returns blithely. Gojo cocks his head, smiling inquisitively. “Yuuta Okatsu, right? No use trying to be obscure, sensei, there’s no mistaking Yuuta’s curse.”

“That’s true,” he agrees. “It almost killed him, first, though. Almost killed everyone.”

She hums, considering this. Yuuta’s abilities are legendary, but stories about his time in highschool vary in prolificacy. When he was at JJT, he was just another boy, with another too-big burden placed on his shoulders.

A gaggle of children rushes by, screaming, laughing. Gojo watches them, taking in their bruised knees, their scraped elbows. One of them is wearing a cast on his arm. He still chases after the rest, running recklessly, just as fast.

“Okatsu is a Special Grade, an exceptional specimen of sorcery. There’s very little he can’t do,” he says. “What can you do?”

The student grins. One of her teeth is chipped, almost completely gone. “I’d love to show you, sensei.”

…

Mori invites you to take a trip with him, the semifinals of the season, in Kyoto. It’s strange for a first date, but you’re kind of charmed by it, and by his sincerity as he asks you.

He likes you, he says, and he’d be honored if you’d spend those two days with him.

It’s easy, spending time with him. He’s easy to talk to, easy to be yourself around. He doesn’t push boundaries, or laugh at you.

You sleep in separate rooms, which you tease him for, but are secretly pleased by.

In the end, he wins, taking home a championship cup and a hefty prize sum. The two of you are bubbly about it on the way home. At the Tokyo station, where you’re parting ways, he rests a hand on your shoulder.

You’re almost the same height. All he has to do is lean in, and your lips brush. A polite kiss, no tongue, no spit. It’s pleasant, almost friendly. You feel mildly warm from it, more with the sense that you’re being kissed than with any real lust. But that’s nice, in itself. The control you feel in this situation, over yourself, your emotions.

His expression is pleased as he waves you off, and it’s a good look for him.

You like Mori. You don’t even have to try that hard.

…

You’re wearing black again today.

Who died, he thinks of calling to you when he spots you, stealing your attention in another obnoxious way.

But he doesn’t have to. You turn to look at him, cheeks and lips swollen, eyes red. You’ve been crying.

You come to him, edging forward until you’re toe to toe, and it takes the space of a heartbeat for him to lift a hand, thumb off some of the smeared makeup under your eye.

“Kakigori?” he murmurs.

“Isn’t it too late?” you ask, looking up. The day has gone so cold that the sky has cleared, and the first freckles of stars are emerging.

“Never,” he answers.

It really is too cold for it now that the season has changed in earnest, but he seems to know the one place in Tokyo still serving it. He orders for you both, somehow guessing your go-to flavor. You loiter outside the shop, eating in silence as your fingers go numb.

You always forget the texture of kakigori, between indulgences. How delicate the ice flakes are, how quickly it melts in your mouth.

He’s staring at you the whole time. You wonder how he doesn’t miss his mouth with his own spoon, but the way he can control his body is different from a normal human, you know that much.

You people watch for a bit. It’s a weekday, and this is a shopping district, so not many people are out as night begins to crest.

Eventually you get sick of him staring, so you stare back. Eyes locked as you do miss your mouth occasionally. He doesn’t even laugh at you when it happens, too pleased with your attention to risk losing it.

“Wanna trade?” he asks, but he swaps your cups anyway, without waiting for an answer.

It’s too dark to see the color of the ice in his cup, now, but you recognize the flavor as soon as you take a bite. Your second favorite.

He’s looking at you like he’s taunting you to admit it. Like he’s won, again. But you’re honestly kind of glad for it, that he knows, somehow, what you like.

You finish both portions, still locked in that strange staring contest.

“What are you gonna do now?” he asks, taking the empty containers and tossing them, perfectly, into a nearby trash can.

You take him to a bar, a little hole in the wall you used to go in college when you were flat broke.

You order beer and edamame for you both, and when the server comes back Gojo takes the glass from him, putting it down to the side immediately.

“I can’t drink,” he says amiably.

The polite thing would be to suggest something a different activity, maybe ask an non-intrusive question about it. But you just shrug and grab his pitcher. “I’ll do it for the both of us, then.”

You get pleasantly tipsy. He might enjoy the heat you throw off and your loosened morals if he couldn’t sense the underlying sadness dogging your every move.

You try to entice him into banter, funny, pointless conversation, but he doesn’t bite. Just cuts it off with a pleasant hum, or dead-end agreements.

He won’t even eat the stupid edamame, so you’re stuck consuming the whole plate as he unshells them for you, placing bean after bean into your waiting palm.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” you say eventually.

“Who said anything about talking?” he returns. “I thought we were just initiating our epoch as drinking buddies.”

“You’re not even drinking,” you say sourly.

You finish your beer. And most of his. The cozy lighting and intimate seating starts to feel suffocating. He’s so close you can see the individual hairs on his head, a color so perfect it must be made up. You’ve dreamed this man into reality, surely.

“It was a wake,” you say, finally. “My friend, the dead one, her family isn’t close. The ones who weren’t invited to the funeral wanted to do something still, though. Hence, wake.”

Gojo hands you another bean. His tone is pragmatic. “Seems complicated.”

“Isn’t everything?”

You chew slowly, thinking about how to tell the story. How to not make your life the punchline of some long-winded joke. How to not make it pitiable, either.

“We were best friends, then a little more, then a little less.” You sigh. “Then she only talked to me when she was fighting with her husband. The last year of her life we barely said more than two sentences to each other.”

Gojo is silent, his gaze intent behind the glasses. You wish he was smiling, still. That you could hide behind the banter and the meaningless jokes.

“They were both markless. It worked out kind of perfectly, for them. Meet-cute and everything.” You take another big swallow of beer, and another. It’s not demure or cute. None of this is. You wish you didn’t care what he was thinking about in this moment. You can’t help it. Any of it. “I would have done anything for her, and she knew that. I cut myself off from everyone just becasue she would get jealous. But she could never get over the fact that I was destined for someone else.”

You give him a sardonic smile. See how that worked out?

You say, “I was her interim, while she waited for someone better. I’m not gonna be that again. No more ‘almosts’.

He slides the glass from your hand, the one that was meant to be his. It’s almost empty.

He lifts it, “No more almosts,” he agrees.

And sure, you’ll cheers to that.

The rest of the night slogs into a blur, after a couple more drinks. You don’t remember the taxi ride home, where he braids your hair, loosens the oppressive buttons on your blouse. Or him carrying you up the stairs of your building. Fishing your keys out of your purse. Tucking you into bed.

Leaving the lights on. Just in case. To keep all the nightmares away, to keep all the boogeymen at bay.

…

He goes to the shogi parlor.

If anyone asked, he would say he was just passing by, it was only a whim.

But no one asks, and he doesn’t have to lie. This has been on his mind for months, ever since the first time you played together.

He figured maybe he’d glean more information about you, just through ambient forces, or something. He didn’t really think it through.

Key intel on your life and history doesn’t just fall into his lap, but he does play a few games against a couple of regulars, and that is enough to learn a few things about you.

What you like, what you’re seeking in this place, why you keep coming back.

The answer, mostly, is companionship. You wanted friends, after everything was said and done. And so you found some.

The last person he plays is a little old woman, who barely comes up to his chest. Her wrists are stalk thin, her hair so wispy, when the sun catches it, it looks like a halo of fire around her head.

He knows, even before the introductions, that this is your friend.

Nozomi’s version of the story, when he prises it from her, is a little bit different than yours.

You’d helped her, years ago, when her dog got off the leash. This was at the very beginning of her ‘ailment’ as she calls it, before she learned to navigate the changes in her body, her abilities.

Nozomi was crying, that day. Watching her dog just dart away, further and further.

“I must have looked like a hysterical old hag,” she scoffs. “No one in their right mind would stop to talk to me. Says a lot about our friend, eh?”

You chased the dog six blocks before you managed to grab it. You brought it back to its owner, and subsequently forgot about the whole ordeal.

“I was just returning the favor,” Nozomi says. “I saw someone in need of help. So I leant a hand.”

Her face is serene as she talks about you. Nearly reverent. Gojo recognizes something in that look, something that fills him with hope and dread in equal measures.

“You take good care of that child,” the old woman warns. “She deserves it.”

…

The next time Mori kisses you, it’s the same kind of vacant pleasure. The pressure, the heat. And a strange turning in your stomach, like you took a turn too hard, too fast.

Maybe you’re just hungry.

…

“Have you ever been in love, Nanamin?”

The question is entirely inappropriate, and poorly timed too. Nanami barely dodges a slash to the head by a rogue curse as Gojo catches him off guard.

The curse is swiftly dispatched, but there are about a hundred more to be dealt with. Nanami had been called today because of the sheer number, not their power.

Gojo decided to tag along, for fun. Mostly, though, he wanted to get away from Jujutsu Tech, and the students. He’s tired of looking at them today.

“I don’t believe this is relevant to the situation at hand,” Nanami drawls. “Nor is it pertinent to our work relationship.”

Gojo draws in close, hindering his colleagues movements and making himself un-ignorable. “Have you ever seen Sleepless in Seattle?”

“Real life isn’t like that, Satoru,” Nanami grunts.

“What about Hana Yori Dango?”

“Do you take all your advice from TV shows?”

With a flick of his wrist, Gojo sends the curse mob reeling into space. Eradicated, instantly.

“Real life is whatever I want it to be,” he says. There’s no smugness in his voice, no self-congratulation. Just awareness so deep, it’s almost weariness.

“You are Satoru Gojo, the strongest sorcerer to ever live,” Nanami says. He pulls a handkerchief from his breast pocket, wipes the blood off his hands. “But I’ve yet to see a cursed technique that can change the heart of a human.”

Gojo grins, tossing an arm around him. “And you said real life’s not like that. You sound like shoujo sizzle reel.”

Nanami turns, leading them back toward the car. “And you sound like an unmitigated ass.”

…

Mori tries to fuck you on the same day you sprain your wrist. Unrelated incidents, but the whole day has you reeling, feeling unlike yourself.

The more you see of Mori, the more you realize your affection is more docile than a lover. You like the way he smiles, his passion, how considerate he is. You like him like a friend.

So when you’re visiting his apartment, expecting tea and a nice conversation, and he pushes you down onto the couch, you’re almost shocked. Of course you should have expected this. You’ve been dating for months now, and he’s been testing the waters lately.

You’d been open to sex, maybe. Not for the passion of it, but because you think it would feel good, with him. You’re okay with it, anyway.

You could not have predicted gagging at the sensation of his hand against your breast.

And — dammit — it’s a soulmate thing, you realize. “Cheating” doesn’t make everyone in a match physically ill, in fact it’s a fairly uncommon side effect. You’re just that unlucky.

He climbs off you immediately, rubbing a soothing hand up and down your back, as you finish dry heaving. He’s not dumb, by any means. He knows exactly what happened. And he knows you well enough to not bullshit you.

“Who is it?” he asks, after you’ve calmed down enough to drink a glass of water. He’s sitting father away from you, now. Not close enough to touch anymore.

“Didn’t work out,” you tell him.

He asks a few more questions, which you answer vaguely. Cruelly avoiding what he really wants to know. Do you love them? Have you been in love with them this whole time?

“I like you,” you tell him instead, earnestly. Placating, but you’re not sure who. “I wanted this to work out.”

He reaches for your hand, a comforting gesture, but pulls up short. Reminded how his very touch repulsed you. “I’m sorry,” he says, not unkindly. “I like you too. I just don’t think this is going to be possible.”

And he’s right. And it hurts that he’s right.

It hurts how he doesn’t deserve you, the burden that you are. The shape of you so unwelcome in this world, nowhere you can fit comfortably without harming someone else.

You stumble home, in the fading winter light, almost drunkenly. In your stupor you trip on a high curb, catch yourself wrong when you fall.

The hospital visit takes up most of the afternoon, as you wait to be seen in a room full of teary-eyed patients, wrist throbbing. In a way, you’re lucky. Too focused on everything going wrong to be present in the misery of this moment.

A sprained wrist, a broken finger, and another fractured. The doctor tapes you up, instructs you to rest for four weeks. Don’t get the splint wet. Try not to move it too much.

No shogi.

You catch a taxi home, no longer trusting your own body. The hurt has begun to sink in now, and you’re desperate to be home, to sleep all this off.

You feel like a martyr as you peel out of your clothes, clumsy, damp with sweat. You throw yourself onto the unmade bed, thinking of how you’ll be alone, now, forever, and on purpose.

How you’ll never let another person suffer your presence, how you’ll keep all the longing and aching bottled up, and aren’t you a good person? Aren’t you kind for not placing your misfortune in anyone else’s hands? Aren’t you?

Evening sinks into full bodied night, and it takes the light with it. You lay there, letting it get dark around you.

How did you deserve this? Any of it? Don’t you try so hard? Aren’t you —- good?

And yet you’re cursed. Always. Destined for it. Fated for it.

You don’t know how he got it, but you can feel Gojo looming at your bedside. You don’t even have the energy to ask questions as he pulls the sheets out from under you, draping them over your hunched body. All the way up, over your head, so you’re a little lump underneath them. Hidden. Safe.

You feel him settle beside you, on top of sheets.

When you peek at him, minutes later, he’s staring at the ceiling, arms folded behind his head, feet hanging off the mattress. Not comfortable. There’s no way a man that size could fit anywhere comfortably. But he’s oddly still as he lays there.

“Rough day?” he asks.

“Rough everyday.”

He hums in answer, almost indifferent, and the response fills you with a boiling kind of anger.

Because you hadn’t blamed him for all of this, the mess of your existence. You’ve been nice enough to shoulder that weight alone.

“I fucking hate my life sometimes,” you say. Bitterly. More bitter than you’ve ever let yourself be, pitying your own circumstances in a way that would have shamed you on any other night.

You’re supposed to be brave, about every unfortunate thing that happens to you. You’re supposed to be better than this.

But just the thought of turning this situation into another punchline makes you want to curl up under the sheets again, never come out.

“You’re doing the best you can,” he tells you. “That’s enough.”

“I hate you.”

“Yeah,” he says, a tragic kind of humor in his voice. “I know.”

He rolls onto his side, one arm snaking around your waist, over the blankets. He’s close enough that you can see his eyes over the rim of his glasses, and they’re shockingly pretty. A color you’ve never seen before, not in real life, and looking straight at you.

“Go to sleep,” he whispers. When you don’t immediately comply, he reaches a hand up and brushes against your eyelids, forcing them to close, chuckling at your scowl. “There’s my good girl.”

He presses his nose against your forehead, breathing softly, rustling the baby hairs around your face. You feel a firmer touch against the bridge of your nose. Lips, warm and gentle.

It doesn’t make you want to vomit.

You hate him.

…

He’s gone by morning. You might have thought you dreamed the whole thing up, but he’d left a paper on your bedside table.

A wikihow article about treating sprains. He must have printed it from your computer. In the bottom corner is a little drawing of him, surrounded by hearts. A phone number underneath it.

You don’t know how he could have figured out you were injured. You’re sure he didn’t see the bandage last night.

Maybe it’s another soulmate affliction, that strange warping of your reality. Does he know that you can’t touch another person with that intent? Does that happen to him, too?

You grab your phone without thinking, open a new text to the number he left. Blind with fury, you send him the middle finger emoji. Six times.

He responds almost instantly. A shiny blue heart, and a grinning cat face.

You turn your phone off. You go back to sleep.

…

He’s back when you wake. You don’t ask how. Just rub the sleep from your eyes and peer at him as he rifles through a convenience store plastic bag.

He doesn’t even have to look at you to know you’re awake, that unsettling sixth sense of his. As soon as you’re lucid enough to understand what he’s saying, he holds up two packets of porridge flavoring. Veggie and Agave. You give him leeway to make whatever, but really you want to test if he can guess your preference again.

He does.

The smell of it fills your apartment, settles over the space in that familiar, cozy way. He brings it to you in a mug, your favorite one, and the whole situation is so disconcerting that when he holds the spoon up to your face you let him feed you without objection.

It’s almost condescending, how he’s doing this for you. You’re down one dominant hand, not a child. But there’s also a strange pleasure in letting him care for you, in seeing the enjoyment he gets out of it himself, like he’s getting away with something, like he’s stealing it.

He’s leaning in after each bite, watching you chew and swallow, your lips folding around the spoon. Creeping closer and closer, until his nose is brushing yours, and he’s not even trying to fit the spoon in the minuscule space between you, just sharing air with you.

“You have pretty eyes,” he murmurs.

You bark out a laugh. “Says you.”

He nuzzles one of your brows, and you let out a noise of disgust, slipping the spoon from his grip to feed yourself.

You make it through one bite before a sudden shock of pain has you dropping it. Only Gojo’s quick reflexes save your sheets.

He places everything aside, takes your injured wrist tenderly in his hands. He turns it so you’re palm up. “Does it hurt?” he says, peering at it like he’d be able to spot it. “Poor baby.”

He leans down, brushes his lips against the edge of the bandage, where it meets your skin. The touch is so delicate it’s barely there. Like you could convince yourself he hadn’t kissed you at all.

He picks up the porridge again, and feeds you until you’re telling him you’re full, and then a little more.

When he asks you what’s on the agenda for the day, you eye him suspiciously.

“Aren’t you, like, super busy all the time?”

“I have time for you.”

I make time for you.

You feel a little guilty, that he’s here with you when he has so little free time. You don’t know what he does, exactly, but you know it’s extraordinary, and important, and keeps him tied up constantly. You wonder if he doesn’t resent you a little for his self imposed care-taking. But then you think about the little chuckles he was letting out as he spoon fed you like a child.

Maybe you really are his first choice.

The truth is, you didn’t have much planned for the day. You’re still in the process of re-establishing your life, becoming an ‘I’ rather than a ‘we’. You only had one place to be today.

You look down at your broken hand, feeling suddenly filled with bitterness. Your non-dominant hand didn’t have the coordination to do something so precise. You could never play like this.

Like always, he knows exactly what you’re thinking. He takes your free hand, linking fingers with you.

“I could do it for you,” he murmurs. “Be your hands.”

So he does. The two of you play against Nozomi, Gojo moving the pieces as you whisper the points into his ear.

He messes with you, a little, of course. Pretending to move the wrong piece until you snap at him, announcing in a stage whisper what your next move is, pretending not to hear you so you have to move closer and closer, until your lips are brushing his ear, and Nozomi is cackling across the board.

Despite the (purposeful) setbacks, you play well. And for the first time in your life, you win a game of shogi.

There are tears in her eyes as Nozomi congratulates you, scrambling up and around the board to throw her shivering arms around you. It agitates your sprain, but you ignore it. You hug her back, as well as you can.

And Gojo watches the whole time, from the side. A pleased, secret smile on his face.

The walk home is cold. He holds your good hand in his, tucking it into his pocket against the bite of the air.

You glance up at him, catch his line of thought immediately. He’s wondering about the old woman. How frail she looks. She can barely stand anymore.

You slip away from him, trailing ahead to press the button for the crosswalk. Your hand is frigid without his wrapped around it.

“She’s dying,” you say conversationally. When he quirks a brow, you elaborate. “Bone cancer. They’ve given her a few months, tops. But she’s a tough old bird, yknow? There’s no factoring for that.”

“But you love her anyway,” he says simply.

“Worrying is a waste of time,” you say simply. “I love her, here and now, because I can.”

You glance at him in time to see the minuscule movement of his swallow. The twitch of his brow.

He’s still impenetrable on the best days, but you’ve learned to read him somewhat. Or maybe he’s just forgetting to keep his guard up around you. Maybe it’s all slipping through, unbidden.

That fills you with a strange sort of tenderness. That someone so big and strong could be failable, that he could be hurt.

You take his hand again.

He lets you.

…

You fall asleep in his arms that night. Curled up on the couch, an episode of Hana Yori Dango whispering on the TV.

And it feels right, this, whatever the two of you share. This strange nebulous bond.

He didn’t want it, in the first place. But now it feels like he could hardly go on without it, your presence in his life so precious he wants to thank you every time you look at him.

Because you are alive, and you are singular. Your good humor, and bad temper, your optimism and self sacrifice. Your humanness. You.

You are good, and you are his. And he never understood just how much he craved those things, how everything in the entire world seems to hinge on how you let him hold you, all trust and faith, pure surrender.

How love is the axis of the universe.

…

You wake up, still in his arms, but in you bed. Your injured arm is cradled safely between both of his. He’d sat you almost upright between his legs to keep any weight off it, and your whole body is leaned against his. You can feel a burgeoning hardness against your ass. You wiggle, testing it.

He groans, nuzzling groggily into the space behind your ear with a content sigh, arms tightening around your belly.

“You’re soft,” he rasps. “So fragile. Makes me a little bit crazy.”

Then he slips out of bed to go make a cup of coffee.

You spend the day watching cheesy romcoms, leading up to Knotting Hill, which according to Gojo isn’t Sleepless in Seattle, but almost as good.

It’s so easy for him to settle you against his chest on the couch again. Like that’s your natural place. His fingers in your hair, lips nibbling at the shell of your ear. You fit so seamlessly together, it just makes sense, all of it, like an inevitability, like the impossible pull of a blackhole.

Gojo does everything for you, while you’re incapacitated. Cooks and cleans and does laundry and tucks you in and patiently undoes the knots in your hair and kisses your okay fingers whenever you bump the broken ones and it hurts. The whole day, he’s at your back and call, even when you can’t say what you want.

It’s overwhelming to the point that you’re nearly in tears when he tucks you both in that night. He draws you into his chest, and you have to suck down a sob, unflatteringly. He lets out a huff of laughter in response. Holds you tighter.

“You’re so nice to me,” you say, burying your face against his chest. So warm, warm enough to keep all your body cozy, always. “You’re scaring me.”

“I know,” he says, against your cheek. His breath warm and warm and warm. All of him is. “I’m sorry. Thank you for letting me be nice to you.”

…

He’s already out of bed when you wake, putting laundry away. A cup of coffee is steaming on the table beside your head.

“You’re leaving?” you murmur, rising. You already know the answer, can feel the restless energy in him.

“For a little while,” he answers. He places the last garment in the closet, before returning to you, sitting beside you on the bed. “There’s some stuff that desperately needs my attention.”

He draws the covers back up around your shoulders, kisses your nose.

“You gonna miss me?” he asks, grinning.

You fist a hand in his shirt, not pushing or pulling. Just holding on. “I like you so much, Satoru. Sometimes I don’t know what to do with myself.”

He cups your cheek. Thumbs at the plump skin of your lower lip, testing the give of it, the plushness.

“I know what to do with you,” he whispers.

Then he’s kissing you. He’s kissing you like it’s a force of will, to keep you here, pliant and open beneath him. Like he’s trying to coax something out of you, get you to yield. Your answering movements are languid, eager. You already have me.

He’s careful with you as he undresses you. Holding onto your bad arm, shielding it against his rough movements as he grips and pulls you into the position he wants.

You think maybe he’s never fucked someone before, the way he’s touching you, feeling you. How he’s moaning into your open mouth every time he discovers something, the soft fat of your thighs, the taper of your waist, how sensitive your nipples are, and your clit.

Everything is exciting and new, when he does it. So good it makes him nearly crazed. Eager to touch all of you at once, to have you. To keep you.

Your soulmark is on your upper rib cage, below your breast, and that is a discovery that takes up long minutes as he traces it, and licks them, the words vulgar and his.

He fucks you like it means something something. Like it’s his own language, each touch significant, every time your eyes meet, fraught with invisible language.

You can’t decipher it.

You can only let it roll over you in a tidal wave, Gojo and his big hands, his unfortunate size. He has to arch his back like a cat to kiss you, which he does, endlessly. Panting into your mouth, tonguing at your lips.

You never thought you’d like being handled, but you think you like the way Gojo does it. Because you like everything about him, even the stuff you hate. And every time he moves it feels like it’s everything you wanted but didn’t know yet, like he’s inventing new ways of bringing heat to your sensitive skin, of taking you higher and higher.

Your peak crests with a gasp, and an answering moan. You feel it radiate from your core, a sudden clarity of pleasure, like clouds clearing, like the sun coming up.

Like he’s got you, as you come down. And he’s not going to let you fall

“I love you,” he groans, wetly, against your bottom lip. “I’m in love with you.”

“Thank god,” you return breathlessly, stroking the damp hair from his face. “I’ve been waiting, cowboy.”

#gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo x y/n #I like to post my fics at the worst times imaginable; happy 5am all :)#and as always: pleases reblog this one gang it almost killed me #guess who just wrote 8k words in one sitting #I feel.....deranged. LIBERATED #>:)

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