#the ankle part has also not been ideal

[mightbewriting]

alright team. i'm back at a truly blank page for the first time in a almost two years. what's that sound? oh, it's the looming existential dread that i've completely forgotten how to write. which, to be fair, i really may have. but we shall persevere etc., etc.

editing to add: also, a girl needs to refill her creative well so gimme all the best books you've read lately (or in the last two years; it's been rough y'all)

[inkdrinkerworld]

High Hopes 3

part one part two

cw: reader comes from a very tense and abusive home, verbal abuse, allusion to physical abuse, bad sibling relationships, fluff, angst, Remus is a sweetheart and the best almost bf ever

wc: 7.5k

Remus: On a scale of one to ten, how mad would you be if I said I found out your birthday passed and got you a gift?

You read the text as you’re exiting your class building and frown. Your birthday passed just after the new year, and you hadn’t told Remus because you hadn’t even been in the country. 

In lieu of an answer, you call him. Remus picks up on the second ring. 

“What did you get me?” He laughs down the line and you feel your stomach twist into knots. 

“Hello to you too, princess.” Since the Summer weekend sleepover thing (you’d still not decided what to call it), Remus had decided that was your new nickname and as much as you pretended to hate it, you loved it more than the others. 

“Hi Remus,” you breathe, eyes on the street as you cross and begin the walk back to your apartment. “What did you get me?” 

You can just tell he’s shaking his head. “It’s a present, why would I spoil that surprise?” 

“Because I’m impatient?” You rebut quickly. The walk back to your apartment is short, but the lingering winter makes it feel never ending. 

It also doesn’t help that you’d chosen style over cosiness- you’re in a long sleeved baby blue dress and a pair of boots that barely lick past your ankles. 

“I’m at your apartment, dove. I’ll give it to you when you get here.” 

Your eyes widen at the same time your heart constricts. “Remus, I’ve got like ten minutes left on my walk back!” 

As easily as he suggests anything to you, “Do you want me to come get you? It’s minus four right now.” 

“No, that wouldn’t make any sense,” you hear his car start. “Remus Lupin, I’m serious, I’m like one street away.” 

“So I’ll cut your walk short,” The engine roars across the line. “It’s cold, baby.” The fondness in his voice and his sparsely given ‘baby’ is what makes you stop. 

“Fine,” you try to sound much grumpier than you are and fail. “I’m at the coffee shop on the left.” 

Ten seconds later, Remus is there; his grey car collecting droplets of fine snow. 

“Hi,” you say as you slide in the passenger seat, your hands rubbing together making Remus frown. 

“And you wanted to finish the walk.” He flicks on the heating as he turns and goes back where he came. 

“How did you find out about my birthday?” You ask, fiddling with your bag to get out your water bottle. 

“Marlene mentioned that you wouldn’t be able to spend it with her this year and I asked when it was.” 

You hum, “It’s a little inconvenient having your birthday just after the new year,” Remus looks at you funny. “I like winter, don’t get me wrong, but a spring birthday would’ve been ideal. Like maybe in March.” 

He rolls his eyes, pulling into your parking lot. 

“How do you know when mine is?” He asks, helping you out of the car and then grabbing a bag out of the backseat. 

“Sirius and James talk a lot. Your gift is currently in transit.” 

Remus’ eyes shoot up, “When have you been hanging out with those two?” The ‘without me’ is implied and you look at him with a sly smile. 

“Jealous, Remus?” 

He tuts, figuring you out immediately. “You’re not winding me up, princess.” He holds the door open for you as you walk in and Remus sighs as he gets a whiff of your newest perfume. 

The couple of times he’s been to see you since the start of the semester, you’ve been wearing this intoxicatingly creamy vanilla perfume that has just a touch of something spicy to it that has been driving him mad. 

“Why would I be winding you up?” You toe off your boots and then look at him. “I’m gonna take the fastest shower known to man, but there’s food in the fridge and cookies in a Tupperware somewhere on the counter.” 

Remus shakes his head, setting his shoes beside yours. “I’ll wait for you, take your time.” 

You’re out of the bathroom in twenty minutes, in a matching jewel blue set of loungewear and a pair of socks. 

Your hair is tied back exposing a tiny tattoo behind your ear that Remus wants desperately to kiss. He’s on his laptop when you get out, typing away at what you assume is his book.

Remus doesn’t go here, he’s got a fancy writing degree already and he’s got an editing gig that he tries playing off as no big deal- but it is. 

He’s on ‘vacation’ though- meaning, he’s been on sick leave for the last four days so he can spend your first week back at school with you. Not that you know he’s been using his sick days for you. 

“Is roti okay? My mama dropped off some this morning.” Remus has yet to meet the old woman, but the fondness that overtakes your tone lets him know she’s at least half as lovely as you. 

“It’s perfect, dove. What do you want to look at?” He sets about finding your newest psychological thriller- Hannibal- and then makes his way into the kitchen to help you. 

“How was your day? I forgot to ask.” You mumble as you crack the ice into glasses before Remus pours some soda into them. 

“It was alright, got a couple more pages done of the book and then got high with Sirius.” 

You smile, a quiet smile that Remus thinks is going to stop his heart. “How was your classes?” 

You groan, “Long, boring and even longer.” He chuckles, leaving you to bring the glasses while he brings both plates to the living room. 

Remus sits in the corner of the sofa, he isn’t as slick as he thinks he is for sitting with a clearer view of the front door than you have. 

You appreciate the sentiment nonetheless. 

“Can I open the gift first?” Remus watches you with a rapt curiosity. He thinks you’re akin to a kid on Christmas- eyes bright, and hands shaking as you practically bounce in your seat. 

“Yeah baby,” he can’t help the sticky affection that slowly coats his words- an affection that only grows and spreads like warm honey. 

Remus watches you carefully tear the wrapping paper off the gift, his lips quirked just so as he watches your jaw drop. 

“You didn’t,” you murmur, shock and disbelief in your voice as you pull the wooden box out of the wrapping paper. 

“Open it,” the box in your lap is walnut colored, carved with spirals, flowers and dots and divots. The carvings are coloured in bright reds, oranges, yellows and some pinks. 

The lock resembles an ancient rusted clasp lock and as you unlatch it and reveal rows and stairs of chains. 

“Remus,” your voice is all clogged up and your bottom lip trembles and Remus wonders if he’s overdone it. 

“Yeah?” Your fingers trail along the crystal chips on the chains and you find your heart has cracked open. 

“This is the loveliest gift I’ve ever gotten,” the words are whispered into the air, your dinners cold as you take in every single chain in the box. “They’re for my glasses, yeah?”

“They are, pretty girl.” 

Silently, you close the box and put it to the side. “Thank you,” you blink and your tears tumble down your cheeks. His hands reach to wipe your cheeks gently. 

“You’re welcome.” You climb into his lap, Remus’ hands hold your hips. 

“You know you’re the first person since Marlene to get me something thoughtful?” 

Remus knows it’s meant to be a flippant comment, but his heart breaks for you. 

“Dove,” your heart clenches. “You’re breaking my heart.” His hands move up to cup your cheeks.

“I don’t mean to,” you say softly, shrugging one shoulder but Remus sees past the nonchalance you’re trying to exude. He doesn’t understand how someone as lovely as you has been treated so weirdly. 

He gives you an out though because he doesn’t want to push and push and push, “C’mon princess. Eat your dinner.” You take it and your plate as you press play. 

Remus notices you don’t move out of his lap but only smiles when you turn and start eating. 

“You’re staying the night?” You ask after you’ve both finished your dinner. 

Remus inhales, “What time is your first class tomorrow?” 

You pull away from him a little, “Eleven,” you have a hopeful look on your face that makes his answer easy. 

“Yeah I’ll stay the night.” 

You smile so big Remus thinks his heart stops. 

Then you get serious, “Wait, how do you feel about sharing the bed?” You ask the question softly, and Remus frowns. 

“I’ve shared the bed with you before, dove.” 

You shake your head, “I have a um,” you stumble for the words. Remus smiles. 

“A stuffy?” He asks quietly and you nod, nibbling away on your bottom lip. 

“Yeah a little yellow duckie,” Remus’ smile only widens. 

“That’s sweet, dove.” 

“You don’t think it’s silly?” He shakes his head. 

“How come I didn’t see it when we were at the other house?” He asks, his thumbs caressing your thighs. 

“I put him back in my suitcase, and I felt really bad about it too. I left it unzipped a little,” Remus kisses your temple as he chuckles. 

“You’re the sweetest fucking thing in the world.” 

Changing the conversation, “Do you want chai?” 

Remus’ eyebrows shoot up, “You have chai or do you need to make it?” 

You shake your head, a tired smile that’s a little teasing, “Jamie dropped it off for me when he came to see Lils.” 

Remus’ eyebrows shoot up even farther, “Jamie?” 

You giggle, “Yeah, s’what you guys call him.” 

Remus is a little indignant, “Jamie?” He repeats and you laugh even more. 

“Are you jealous, Remus?” 

Your hand reaches to the nape of his neck, twisting the sandy brown hair there as he deliberates. 

“Of James getting a nickname?” He asks and you nod, letting your fingers scratch his scalp a little. “No dove,” Remus fights the shiver that threatens to climb his back. “I’m not even a little jealous,” 

He leans into you, your noses bumping. “Why not?” Your breaths mingle as you lean even closer to Remus. 

“Because,” his hand cups your neck, his thumbs punching your chin upwards. Your chest heaves, “You’re already breathless and I haven’t even kissed you yet, princess.” 

“Please.” 

Remus smirks, wicked and impish. “No,” you whine and Remus almost rethinks his answer. “Go heat up your chai, pretty girl.” 

“You’re no fun,” you hop off his lap and head to the kitchen all the while Remus chuckles, his head against the back of the cushions as he watches you flit about the kitchen. 

-

The next time Remus sees you it’s after possibly one of the worst days of your life in a long time. Everything had gone wrong and there’d been a pit in your stomach all the way to your apartment. 

Just as you were about to walk in, your phone rang and without looking, you answered it. 

“Why does that boy keep going to your apartment?” 

You pull the phone from your ear and curse softly when you see, ‘Devil’s Right Hand,’ displayed on the screen. 

“What?” You really don’t have the energy today. 

Your father doesn’t seem to care though, “The boy. The one with the grey car.” 

As if you’re ten and not a grown ass woman, “Because we’re friends.” 

Simple, succinct and it would’ve been sufficient for any other regular parent. 

Your dad is anything but. 

“And he doesn’t leave till the morning? Do you think I’m an idiot?” 

The ‘yes’ in your brain wants so badly to slide off your tongue. You manage to bite it back. 

“I don’t understand the problem. I’m an adult, I can do as I please. You don’t even pay for the apartment, Mama does.” 

You hear the low simmering anger in your father’s tone. “Your grandmother gives you too much leeway.” 

You roll your eyes, “I’m not in the mood for a fight, was that all you wanted to know?” 

“Girl, watch your tone, it’s not a long drive to your place.” 

You shiver at the threat. “Can I go please? I have coursework to do and I’ve got exams to prep for later this week.” 

“Oh sure, coursework. Come home this weekend, your grandparents are at the house on Sunday.” 

Your body sags as you hang up the phone, the backs of your eyes burn with exhaustion. 

With a sigh, you unlock the door and get into your apartment. 

You don’t even bother to change or sit still, instead you just jump straight into your work; hours pass before your phone rings again. 

This time, it’s Remus.

“Hey,” he doesn’t like your tone, or the way you sigh the word. 

“Hi dove, I’m outside.” 

You’re relieved when you see him. He looks warm and cosy. His hair looks pillow soft and his sweater is a faded yellow one against the brown of his corduroy jeans. 

“I brought snacks,” he says, jingling a plastic bag in his hand.

You don’t smile quite as big as you normally would’ve and Remus frowns. “Long day?” He asks as he steps in, kissing your forehead when you nod. 

“Yeah, I’m just finishing up my coursework and we can have dinner.” 

Remus waits for you, busying himself with plating up dinner- leftover Chinese food from yesterday. 

“C’mon baby,” he murmurs, rubbing your back as he sets both plates on the coffee table and starts the tv. “Have some food and then get back to it if you like, but I need you to eat.” 

You look to argue, but he’s not commanding you. He’s not demanding anything from you, he’s nudging you to look after yourself. 

For a moment, you get stuck in just looking at him and your mind whirs. Remus is unlike anyone else in your life- he doesn’t take, he doesn’t shout and make threats, he doesn’t force you into a box or anything of the sort. 

Instead, he gives you room and watches you, watches you be yourself and encourages you to be yourself. It makes you emotional for a minute, the back of your throat burning as you come to the realisation. 

 “Coming,” you whisper, Remus’ eyes track your movements, and he smiles a little when you sit right up beside him, your forearms brushing. 

Dinner is quiet, little conversation here and there because Remus can tell you’re exhausted. 

In that sense, he washes up the dishes while you shower and he tidies up the living room before double checking your door is locked. 

He’s pouring hot water over the tea bags when you come out of your room, dressed in the softest look pyjamas he’s ever seen. 

“Oh you look cosy, princess.” You go bashful under the lovestruck tone to his words, walking into the arms he has open. 

One hand goes to the base of your neck, holding firm as his other hand squeezes around your back. 

“Tired?” He whispers into your hair and you hum. 

“I can have a cuppa though, not that tired.” 

You barely make it halfway through your cup before your eyes are closing and your head is lolling onto Remus’ shoulder. 

“Poor girl,” he murmurs, setting his cup down and sliding his hands under your thighs and around your back. “S’okay dove,” he coos as you stir, your nose brushed up to his neck as he walks to your bedroom. 

“Stay,” you mumble as he sets you down and Remus smiles. 

“M’right here dovey, not going a place.”

Remus wakes up to you moving around in bed, your legs kicking and your body thrashing. 

“Hey,” he croaks, voice cracking from sleep. “Dovey,” he mumbles, his hand rubbing your arm. “Baby wake up.” 

His nose brushes your cheek, hands shaking your shoulder a bit as your tossing worsens. 

“Wake up dove,” he whispers, stroking your neck. 

“Remus?” Your voice shakes, eyes open wide as you try to get your bearings.

“It’s me baby, I’m right here.” Your heart is racing as you sit up, Remus following suit. 

“Sorry,” you whimper, brushing your cheeks as you feel tears fall. Remus flicks on your lamp and his eyebrows thread together.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” He tucks you into his side. “Wanna talk to me about it?” 

His hand creeps under your shirt, his knuckles dragging up and down your spine. 

“Was just a dream,” you whisper, not quite sounding yourself. “A bad dream.” 

Remus nods, “Yeah, it was just a dream, pretty girl. Your pulse is pounding though, babe.” He can feel the harsh beat of it against the knuckles on your back. 

You shut your eyes, reliving the scenes in the dream vividly. 

“It’s a recurring thing,” you start, letting yourself be comforted by Remus’ hand on your back and the faint scent of his citrus soap. “I’m little again and my dad is blue mad, breaking glass and screaming in my face.” 

You take a shuddering breath and Remus tries his best not to react with his body. 

“I was about ten or eleven I think, by that time our relationship wasn’t salvageable. I can’t even remember what he was so upset about but I always seemed like the perfect target. ‘Specially when I started telling him off for being mean to my mum.” 

“Baby this was real?” You nod, Remus lets himself for a moment, imagine little you stopping grown adults from arguing and he feels his chest tighten at the thought. 

“He tried coming at me and mum with a piece of the glass. It was just a mess. The fight only stopped because our neighbours came to get me.” 

He feels your tears wet his shirt, but he doesn’t care. Not when you’ve started shaking again. 

“You’re alright baby,” his words sound like a promise whispered into your hairline. “You don’t have to go back to that, I swear you don’t.” 

“I think the reason I had a nightmare was because he called earlier. Said to come home on Sunday and that he knew you were staying over.” 

Remus can’t stop himself from stiffening then. He hates the frustration and defeat in your voice. 

“Do you want me to come with you on Sunday?” The offer is as easy as the breath he inhales. 

You look up at him, eyelashes wet and stuck together, lips and cheeks swollen from crying. 

“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” Remus smiles- a sad smile. 

“You didn’t ask,” he kisses your nose. “Think about it okay? I won’t be offended if you say no, pretty girl.” 

You nod and tuck yourself back into him. 

“Do you think you can go back to sleep or do you wanna watch something?” 

You think for a long time, “Will you hold me till I fall asleep?” 

God his heart really is breaking. Who could hurt you? 

“Till you wake up, dove.” 

Remus wakes up before you do, his arms still wrapped around you, and you’re more on his chest than on the bed. 

His mind wakes faster than his body, racing with thoughts of little you and the things you’ve lived. He finds that you hide it well. The hurt, the pain, the everything. One look at you wouldn’t reveal that, all anyone would see is a rich girl living with her parents and doing whatever she pleases; but under the surface? 

You’re so like everyone else, but so singular that it stops his breath a little. 

You don’t have class today, so he decides quite quickly that he’s letting you sleep in. The only thing you have to do is finish the last bit of your coursework and then Remus thinks a day doing your favourite things- shopping for books and having tea- is in order. 

He also wants to start breakfast, you’d mentioned a couple nights ago that you’d been craving blueberries and he’d had a hankering for pancakes. 

Remus tries moving out from under you but your fist closes around his shirt and he stays put. 

Breakfast can wait a bit. 

“Remmy?” You wake shortly after, the sunlight peeking through the curtains tickling your eyes. 

“Yes, dove?” His hand is stroking your arm, his blunt fingernails dragging slowly makes it hard for you to open your eyes. 

“Time is it?” You stretch as he reaches for his phone. 

“Just gone past ten,” you settle right back into his chest with a sigh. 

“Can you wake me up again at eleven?” You ask at the same time Remus asks, 

“Do you wanna go out for breakfast?” 

You hum, “What’re we having?” 

A yawn tears apart his answer, “Blueberry pancakes? Or bagels? Either or, I don’t mind.” 

“Are you making pancakes?” He can already tell where the question is headed. 

“Yes, do you have everything for them?” You nod then you shake your head. 

“Except the blueberries.” 

Remus pulls you and the covers a little closer. “Want me to go in to the grocery and get them?” You shake your head. 

“I’ll settle for whatever fruit I’ve got in the house.” Remus tuts. 

“Would you prefer blueberries?” He asks, his fingers dancing across the nape of your neck. 

“Yeah,” that’s all he needed to hear. 

“I’ll make you some tea and head out,” Remus isn’t allowed to slide out from under you, your thigh on his hip pins him down.

“You don’t have to,” you say bashfully, an intense guilt that’s completely unnecessary creeps into your voice and Remus has to slide his hands to your neck and push your chin up under your jaw. 

“You’re not inconveniencing me, pretty girl. I’m getting them, coming back here and making pancakes and then we’re going either to the beach or the bookstore.” 

You shake your head as best as you can with Remus holding your jaw. “You don’t have to do all of this just because I had a bad dream.” 

He tuts, “I want to take care of you. I’ll just be fifteen minutes.” 

You nod, accepting your defeat in the argument. 

In the time Remus is gone, you find yourself going through photo albums and reminiscing on the days when things were a lot easier. 

You stop on a picture of you and your grandmother and you sigh. Grabbing your phone, you dial her number. 

“Hello, Mama?” Your voice wavers as you speak. 

“Yes, Bebo?” You smile at the sound of her voice. Instantly, you feel like you’re being swaddled in her arms and like your troubles are eased. Your home name falling from her mouth with such familiarity also makes your chest ache. 

“I’m having trouble,” you say honestly. “I don’t know how to forgive anymore.” 

She sighs, you can hear shuffling in the back and things knocking about and then you hear your grandmother’s voice. “Bebo, you don’t have to forgive everybody.” She says, and you sniffle. “Not everyone needs that, or deserves that.” When you don’t answer she worries. You and your grandmother have an insanely close relationship, summers were spent in her back garden and on the beach near her house. She knows you as well as you can know any person. 

“Do you want me to come over? I can bring you lunch.” You take a minute to consider and know in your heart of hearts that she would be on her way if you said yes. 

“No,” you take the conversation to a different direction quickly. “Are you coming over on Sunday? Dad said.” 

You can hear the smile in her voice, “Yeah, I miss my grandkids, Bebo.” 

You’d seen her just three days ago but it feels like a month ago. “I miss you too, Mama. Would it be weird if I brought someone for dinner?” 

She gasps, always one for a good bit of gossip. “Like a boyfriend? Bebo, I’ve been waiting for this!” She sounds so excited that the image of her smiling wide behind her glasses warms your heart. 

“You don’t think dad will make it a thing?” 

She puffs out air, “Your dad would make the sun coming out a thing if he wanted to. I need you to not live your life according to him, Bebo. He’s my son, but he’s a little shit and he doesn’t rule you or anyone else.” 

You sigh, chest shaking under the weight of your withheld thoughts. 

“Is that why you don’t want me coming over? Your boyfriend is over?” You giggle, feeling weirdly like she’s right beside you as you tuck your phone between your cheek and shoulder. 

“He went to get blueberries because I wanted pancakes, and he’s not my boyfriend, Mama.” She scoffs, you smile. 

“But you like him and he’s nice?” 

“Super nice, like tooth rotting nice. And he’s really gentle and calm too.” 

You can see your grandmother’s smile, and find yourself doing the same. Even more so when you hear the knock on your door. 

“You deserve nice, gentle and calm, Bebo. I’m sorry I couldn’t have kept you kids for longer.” 

“Mama,” you gasp the words as you look through the peephole and find Remus standing there with the groceries. “You did and are doing enough. You’re not in charge of his actions, he is.” 

Remus’ eyes narrow as he sees your glassy eyes as he steps into the apartment. 

“I know Bebo, I know.” 

“I gotta go, but I’ll call you to let you know if I’m coming okay? If I am, would you bring,” she cuts you off. 

“Of course I’ll bring you coconut fudge Bebo, I’ll make it on Saturday so it doesn’t get stale.” 

Remus starts about the kitchen, but you can tell he’s intrigued about the conversation- or at the least, who you’re on the phone with. 

“Thanks Mama, I love you.” You see a little smile break out of his face even as he faces away from you to measure the flour. 

“I love you too Bebo, go enjoy your boyfriend.” You laugh scandalously and hear her chuckle before you hang up. 

“How’s your grandma?” Remus asks as you come into the kitchen and sit on the counter near him. 

“She’s good. I called her to talk about the nightmare but I kept getting too sad so we just talked about other stuff.” You swing your feet as you watch Remus mix the wet and dry ingredients. 

“Is she also going to dinner on Sunday?” He poses it conversationally, because it is but he also wants a feel for who’s there at these dinners. 

You nod, stealing a blueberry from the carton. “She’s always there. I think she comes because she knows if she’s there my dad will be in check for the whole night;” you smile when you eat the blueberry and find it’s sweet. “She’s pretty scary when she needs to be.” 

“I don’t doubt that, dove. You’re the same way, can tell there’s a little fire behind all that niceness.” 

You roll your eyes, “Whatever you say Lupin,” Remus sets your griddle on and oils it as it heats up. “Would you really want to come on Sunday?” 

He pours three pancakes on, “Unless I have to do something strange, then yes I want to come.” 

“If I told you that there was an initiation process that everyone’s super anal about, that would be a deal breaker?” Remus looks at you wide eyed and then notices your poorly hidden smile. 

“You’re a menace.” He says as he flips the pancakes, another raucous laugh bubbling out of you. 

“On occasion.” Remus stacks three for you and reaches for the syrup in the cupboard above your head. “But Mama, my granny, will probably badger you about your ‘intentions’ and whatever else.” 

You thank Remus for the pancakes with a kiss on his cheek. “Eat,” he says, cutting your pancakes for you, making you smile. “I can handle badgering. But I should warn you, I don’t hide anger well.” 

You wave off his concern. “Oh he won’t be out of line, Mama keeps him in check. And I just ignore him anyways.” Remus doesn’t like the way you shrug like your dad being a prick is no big deal, but he decides you’ve shared enough for the day. 

You don’t start eating till he makes his own stack and switches off the stove and that makes him smile a little. 

“Do you have a preference for the beach or the bookstore?” He asks in between bites of breakfast. 

You think for a moment, “Can we go to the bookstore? There’s a couple books I want to check on.” 

Remus nods, not really caring where you go, just that you do something you like. 

-

You decide against Remus joining you, not sure if you’re ready for him to see the circus that is your family. 

Your Mama is on the front porch, sipping what you know is coffee as you get out your car. 

You send Remus a text, Made it. I’ll let you know how it goes. 

His response is immediate, My offer to come get you is always on the table, princess

“Where’s your boyfriend?”She asks, standing to hug you.

“Told him that it might be too much, didn’t want to scare him off.” You try to sound as chipper as possible, but your grandmother knows you. 

“He’s not in control of you anymore, Bebo. You can’t give it to him.” 

You nod, diverting the conversation. “How’d the fudge turn out?” 

You have a couple bricks with her and your older brother in the garden out back before they’re ready to serve dinner. 

There’s a quiet stillness that covers the remaining winter, the coffee and coconut milk fudge just enough to make it seem like the tranquillity could last forever. 

“Mama said you have a boyfriend?” your older brother asks, protectiveness and amusement in his tone as you look up at him wide eyed and shocked. 

“I told her he’s not my boyfriend. Not yet.” 

“She really wants him to be. He made her pancakes and he spent the night.” You tut at your grandmother’s gossiping. 

Your brother smiles, “I’d like to meet him sometime, you look happy again.” You just nod, scared that you might say something that gives away how much you really really like Remus. 

“Dinner’s ready,” your mum comes out on the porch, giving all three of you a soft smile before going back in. 

Dinner is great until the round-the-table questions get to you. You’d avoided it for a couple courses, but it appears your luck is out. 

“How was your coursework?” Your dad says it like it was an actual lie, you don’t miss the vile amusement in his tone, like he’s waiting to catch you in a lie.

“Lots of reading, but I think I got above 85 which is great considering this professor is known for failing students for less than 75.” 

Your dad isn’t satisfied. “What was it about?” 

You stiffen in your chair, you don’t like the implication that you’re lying. “Capital punishment, recidivism and how the two coincide.” 

Your mum can tell your dad is still not pleased, so can your grandmother and she sets him right with a look. 

“Do you need her professors to start running their coursework topics through you? Are you going to call the school next because you disbelieve everything?” 

The table is tense as your grandmother and your dad have a stare off- not that she’s at all concerned about him. 

Your younger siblings feed off your dad’s energy, their own question hot and ready and aimed at anyone with answers.

 “How is it fair that she moved out?” And “Why does Mama pay for her apartment and not just tell her to move back home? It’s silly how much she’ll do for attention.” Or “Maybe if she just came home dad wouldn’t be so upset?” You can’t even get a word in, stunned silent as you realise this is how they see you.

It’s when your younger brother and sister say, “You always make it about you, you’re Mama’s favourite and that pisses us off. Dad doesn’t like you because you think you’re better than us, and it would all be better if you just made a clear decision- do you want to be in the family or not?”, that your breath quickens at their words, your heartbeat roaring in your ears. 

The part that hurts is that they’re too young to know all the things that have happened, they don’t get why it’s so hard for you to sit here even on bi-weekly Sunday dinners and play nice with your dad.

Your food suddenly loses taste when your dad sends an evil smile your way, your stomach rolling.

They don’t understand that you’ve taken their beatings, that you’ve suffered horrid treatment just so they wouldn’t have to.

“Either way, we don’t care. I think we’d be better off without you if I’m honest. All you do is mope and complain, you wouldn’t even have half the shit you do if it wasn’t for dad. He’s not the monster you make him out to be.” 

Your older brother cut them glares, “Enough! You don’t speak for this entire table, find somewhere else to be.” They scamper off, your brother doesn’t even give your dad the time of day, he looks at you immediately. 

“Go take a walk, Bebo.” He’s the only one of them that likes you, the only out of three siblings that actually knows you, that knows what this is doing to you and you’re grateful for it. 

Mama sparks into heavy, brash Urdu, all of it aimed at your father who more than deserves it- these are his spawn. 

You try to think through your feelings, try to sort them into neat and tidy boxes but it just winds you. 

You can't take deep breaths, they’re all shallow and sharp. Your chest aches, a concave feeling to it as you worry about the sharpness of your breath. It only worsens your ability, your breathing even shallower and you can’t seem to stop the cycle. 

You reach for your phone, pulling up a breathing video and trying your best to follow it, your breathing evening the longer you follow along. 

When you can inhale fully, you call Remus. You need him. 

He picks up on the second ring, “Hi, dovey. Everything okay?” 

“I think I should’ve let you come.” Your voice sounds ragged, like you need to cry and Remus’ skin prickles. He wishes he was there too. 

“Need me to come up there?” You debate it, you really do, and maybe if you didn’t feel like such a shitty person right now you would’ve said ‘no,’ but you need Remus and his sound mind and advice. 

“It’s a thirty minute drive.” you say, hearing things rustling in the back and Remus moves the phone from his mouth as he calls to someone. 

“I’m heading out, text me if you need anything.” Then the phone is closer. “Just had to tell Siri and Jamie. I’m on my way, princess.” 

“Drive safely, Remmy.” you sound so sad, Remus wishes he could just apparate to you now. 

“I’ll see you soon, baby. Stay somewhere safe, yeah.”

Tears gather in your eyes at how easily Remus could tell that you were frightened, that you’re in need of some place soft to land. God, you can’t wait for him to be here. 

The front door opens, your older brother coming out on the porch with a heavy sigh. 

“You have to tell them Bebo,” he says softly and you shake your head. 

“Why? So they can think I’m just lying to make him look bad. I’m okay with this arrangement.” 

Your brother takes a seat on the porch swing and pats a spot next to him. 

“Are you actually?” You inhale, thinking it over for a brief moment. 

“It hurts, of course it does. But I used to be mean too, this is them being mean back.” 

Your brother rolls his eyes, “It’s not like they’re ten. They’re sixteen and they’re horrid.” You take your spot next quickly- like if you chance a slow moment the tears will come. 

“But just to me. You get to be the best sibling they have, while I’m the problem black sheep sibling who can’t help but be macabre.” 

“You’re not macabre. You know you’re not. You just lived some dark shit to spare them and it’s time to stop. They can handle it.” You wish you could do it, it might make things easier, but you’re scared. 

“Maybe next time, it’s too charged in there now.” You sigh, head touching the back of the swing. “Do you think I’ll ever have their love?” The tears stream down your cheeks anyway as you think about the idea, as you hear their words rattle around your head. 

Your brother sighs hard, not sure if your siblings would ever wake up from your dad’s spell. Instead of saying anything, he guides your head to his shoulder. “Take a nap, Bebo.” 

“Remus is coming soon. Would you wake me when he gets here?”

“‘Course, Bebo.”

Your grandmother comes out right after you fall asleep, touching your sticky cheek with a weathered hand. 

“They’ll break her, you know. They’ll break her spirit and she won’t hold back anymore.” She sounds sad, like she can see it happening already.

“Mama, she won’t break.”  your brother says, reaching for her but she bats him away. 

“She’s not like you. You brush it off, she can’t. It weighs her heart. Every time she leaves here she looks so sad, so heavy and cracked. I can’t see her crack again, do you remember it?” 

Tears fall down her cheeks, but she doesn’t try to wipe them, she just stares at your sleeping form. 

Your brother sighs, leaning on her shoulder as she sits on his other side. “I remember,” he says quietly, the memories of you being withdrawn dancing behind his eyes. “Her boyfriend is coming here.”

“Really?” She asks and your brother nods. 

“She told me to wake her up when he gets here.” 

Mama smiles, “I’m glad she called him.” 

Remus arrives about forty minutes later, your brother sitting beside you about to shake your shoulder when Remus steps out of the car and shakes his head. 

“Let her sleep a little,” your brother’s confused by his request. 

“She asked me to wake you when you get here.” 

Remus smiles despite his anger. He’d stewed all the way to your dad’s house, wondering if you’d be hurt, if you’d not find a quiet place and the argument would keep going. 

He didn’t know what he was walking into, and finding you asleep is much more welcome than the sadder visions of his brain. 

“Would you tell me what it’s all about? Or what sparked it all today?” 

Remus sits on the floor near the foot of the swing, his hand holding onto your ankle as he looks to your brother. 

It’s clear to him, your brother, that Remus cares about you. His eyes haven’t strayed from you for more than thirty seconds, always coming back to rove over your face like he’s making sure you’re still there and still okay. 

Your brother hesitates- he’s never spoken about this with someone outside of the family. “They have warped perceptions of her; our younger brother and sister. They think she’s ungrateful and just doesn’t come home to get dad riled up- she doesn’t come home because they don’t know what she’s done so they didn’t have to get the dad we got.” 

Remus frowns harder, his thumb rubbing a circle on your ankle. 

“And she doesn’t want to tell them?” There’s no judgement in his tone, just curiosity. 

Your brother shakes his head. “She doesn’t think they’d believe her at this point. I’m always trying to talk her into it, but I think it runs a bit too deep to dredge up just like that.” 

Remus nods, eyes fixated on you as you sleep. “Will she want to tell them goodbye?” 

Your brother smiles, “If you leave without meeting our grandma, I think she’ll never forgive you for leaving without her ice cream.” 

Remus laughs, nodding as he stands. 

“You should wake her up first, I’ll go tell Mama you’re here.” Remus waits till your brother walks off into the house to sit beside you. 

You’re not sure how long you’ve been asleep, but sometime later you feel Remus’ hand on your cheek, thumb a little calloused as it rubs at the apple. 

Only he wakes you up this gently. 

“Princess, wake up. Miss your face.” 

“Hey,” your eyes peel open slowly, a little smile spreading on your face. 

Remus’ smile is small, but not forced. He could never do that with you looking up at him- especially with your sleepy eyes. 

“Was the drive okay?” 

He chuckles, it’s belated that you notice you’re alone with him on your front porch. Your brother’s car is still parked outside and so is your grandmother’s. 

“Yeah it was, pretty girl.” 

Remus kisses your forehead, his hand holding your face even though it’s a little sticky with your dried tears. 

“Your brother went to get Mama.” He says softly, letting you twist your body so you were leaning into him. Your entire front body was pressing against his ribs. 

“I’m so tired, Remmy.” Your voice cracks as you speak, Remus can’t bear it. He hates it that you’re this sad. 

“I know baby,” his words are whispered into your hairline, his hand moving to cup the back of your head as he feels the quiet tears soak his shirt. “We don’t have to stay here any longer than you want to.” 

You sniffle and nod, letting Remus pull you further into his lap so he can hold you. 

“This is Mama,” you hear your brother’s voice and the light steps of your grandmother and then feel Remus lean forward. You assume he wanted you off his lap, but his hand anchors your hip to his as he shakes the older woman’s hand. 

“Remus.” He introduces himself and she smiles. 

“You’re handsome,” you laugh when you catch Remus’ cheeks flushing. “I have your ice cream here, Bebo. He won’t come out, locked himself away in his office.” 

You shrug, “Doesn’t matter. I’m ready to go.” Remus nods, taking the tub of ice cream for you, letting you climb off his lap before standing. 

“Give me two minutes, baby.” You kiss his jaw as you go, the car keys in your hand.

“She’ll be okay right?” 

Your brother smiles at Remus, Mama frowns. 

“She’s a fighter.” He says but Mama shakes her head. 

“She might not have any more fight left in her.” 

Remus knows what she means to say. He remembers how Sirius had been, the brave faces and attitude to hide how sad he was. He looks at the car and spots you with your head against the glass. 

“Just be patient with her.” Mama says and Remus nods.  “She’ll tell you everything soon enough. She looks at you like you individually hung the stars.” 

Remus blushes again, not really knowing what to say. 

Your older brother pats his shoulder and goes inside, “I think I’ll head out too.” He goes to his car, but not before stopping at Remus’ and giving you a kiss to your forehead. 

Remus frowns, “Does everyone disperse after they fight like this?” He asks your grandmother, not wanting to push but trying to understand. 

“Bebo can’t take more of this, you’ll see. I set him straight, he leaves her alone for months and then starts over. It’s like a cat and a mouse- always prodding and slapping and poking until the mouse has had enough.” 

“And the mouse does what when they’ve had enough?” 

Mama smiles, like she’s holding out just a sliver of hope that it will happen. “Revolt.” 

Remus gives her a hug and makes his way to the car. 

As soon as he opens the door, you smile. Tired lines all over your face as your eyes barely open. 

“Wanna stay over?” You ask, cheek smushed to your shoulder as you look at Remus. 

“How abouts you come over to mine? I’ve got fluffy blankets,” Remus kisses that spot where your forearm and upper arm meet. “Oatmeal raisin and chocolate chip cookies,” a kiss to your shoulder, right on the beauty mark. “And I’ve got all your favourites on dvd.” 

The last kiss is right on the corner of your mouth, chaste and sweet and it makes you smile even more. 

“Sirius and James won’t mind?” 

Remus rolls his eyes, “They’ve gone on their own lover’s retreats today.” Wrong, Remus kicked them out the second he’d hung the phone with you. 

“Okay, but can we stop by my place to get my stuffy?” 

Remus chuckles, “Course we can, dovey. That way we’ll both have clothes at each other’s place.” 

You tut, clipping on your seatbelt as Remus turns over the engine. “You’re not getting your sweater back, Remus.” 

He only rolls his eyes as he pulls out of your dad’s yard, tipping his chin to the ice cream tub. “Will that be okay on the drive?” 

You nod, “Yeah, we can have some with the cookies tonight.” 

[blueiscoool]

Ritually Bent Bronze Age Sword Found in Denmark

The sword, which has iron rivets in its handle, may be one of the earliest iron artifacts found in Denmark.

A metal detectorist has unearthed a long, bronze sword that was bent into an S shape during an ancient ritual in what is now Denmark.

The sword and other artifacts — which were found in a bog near Veksø, northwest of Copenhagen — date to about 2,500 years ago, during the late Bronze Age. They are thought to have been part of a ritual sacrifice, although this practice was no longer common at that time. Upon discovering the artifacts, the metal detectorist notified the Danish museum group ROMU.

"It's what I would describe as a very rare find," excavation leader Emil Winther Struve, an archaeologist and curator with ROMU, said in a translated statement.

Although such items were often deposited in bogs as sacrifices during the early and middle Bronze Age in northern Europe, "We don't know that many from the latter part of the Bronze Age," he said. However, the practice of sacrificing or killing people in bogs — leaving behind remains known as "bog bodies" — spans a longer period, from the Stone Age to the 19th century.

Ritual sacrifice

In addition to the bent sword, archaeologists found other Bronze Age artifacts, including two small, bronze axes; several large, bronze "ankle rings"; and what may be a fragment of a needle, according to the statement.

A few days later, the archaeologists also discovered a large, bronze "neck ring" just 230 feet (70 meters) away. The neck ring is only the second of its kind found in Denmark, and the archaeologists think from its style that it was imported from what's now the Baltic coast of Poland.

Bronze Neck Ring

The bronze sword's handle contains two iron rivets that may be the earliest iron ever found in Denmark. The ROMU statement described the sword as "almost a physical manifestation of the transition from the Bronze Age to the Iron Age."

The sword's design suggests it was not made in Denmark but rather in more southern parts of Europe that were dominated by the Hallstatt culture during the Bronze Age, the statement said. The Hallstatt culture thrived from about the eighth to the sixth centuries B.C. and was influenced by Europe's early Celtic culture.

The ritually bent sword was a genuine weapon and indicated a transition from more lightweight swords used mainly for stabbing, Struve said, "but now they are becoming tougher, more solid and have a different weight, so you can use them more violently and for chopping."

The Hallstatt culture had a warrior ideal that demanded conquest, war and conflict. "The sword is perhaps an image of that," Struve said.

By Tom Metcalfe.

[euphoricfilter]

*deep sigh* 😔, after namjoon's recent SCANDALOUS weverse post of his gorgeous ✨beefy back✨ all I can think about is Namjoon + size kink 🤌. So with that said, may I submit this idea to the night short? 😳

you may 🫡

can i also direct you to this horny thought which follows similar ideals with the size kink. i feel like this would sort of be an indirect second part? to the belly bulge idea

. • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆. night short #23

tonight’s horny thought is about much control namjoon has over your body and his raging size kink

he’d get off on the size difference, watching how large his hand looks around your neck as he holds your head down, hips wetly smacking against your ass as he ruts into you. maybe pulling back to watch how his thick cock splits you open, hands pulling your asscheeks apart to watch you swallow his cock

he’d talk a little filthy too, telling you how small your pussy is, how he’s shaping your insides for his cock only. how pretty you look split open, small cunt creamy with your arousal, clinging to the base of his cock. how good you are for him, such a small little hole greedy for him

some days, he might fuck you over the counter in the bathroom, in absolute awe of how his body covers yours. broad chest caging your back as he snaps his hips forward, cock nudging perfectly against your sweet spot. something utterly arousing about the way your fingers dig into the muscle of his arms as you find your release. so small under him it doesn’t take much for him to hold you up when your knees go weak. tugging you back onto his cock until he cums inside of you

he’d love to manhandle you, drag you over his lap if you’ve been a brat, large hand holding both your ankles to keep you still as he lands a quick slap to your ass, condescending in the most delicious way as you try and wriggle away from him— a futile attempt when he easily pulls you back to where he wants you. eventually dragging you to sit up, fingers digging into your hips as he essentially lifts you on his cock, doing all the work for you

bonus points that feed into his kink; he’d love to fuck you up against the wall. thick arms flexing as he holds you up, gentle coo falling off his lips as he calls you his little toy, so pliant and easy to mold to his will. however he wants, because you’re too small, nothing against him even if you really tried. his to fuck and love, a strange mix of the two a constant. his feral, almost obsession with your body translated through your pleasure and his own. your nails raking over his shoulders a broad back

maybe some days he pulls away from the wall, hooking your legs over his arms, dragging you down his cock, truly his own warm little fleshlight that he uses to get himself off. you can’t really do much when you’re fully reliant on him not to drop you, pussy clenching every time he pulls you back down on his cock

and he always makes sure to treat you, filling up your little pussy with his cum, smearing it over your folds when he tells you to push it out. kissing your little clit as he calls you pretty

night thoughts masterlist

[romana-after-dark]

Blessed be the Fruit: Finale part 2

Commander!Joel Miller x Handmaid!Reader

Series masterlist Join dark!Romana's tag list Dark!Romana's Masterlist

Summary: Joel takes you somewhere different, meeting Tommy there

Content and Warnings: DARK JOEL! DUB CON! (stressing the dub con again this chapter)

Although no violent rape happens like in TWW, reader is under systemic misogyny and a society of ritualized sex abuse. Everything other than the violent rape scenes, everything that happen in either The Handmaids Tale book or show are liable to happen here including but not limited to discussion of rape, child abuse, child marriage, ritualized sexual abuse, sexual abuse in general, acts of violence, major character deaths, mentions of miscarriage but never shown and never pregnancies we know of. Big ole homophobia warning, specifically in regards to lesbophobia. As for Joel, PIV sex, breeding kink, degrading (slut, whore etc but thing like Raider!joel) forced breeding and breeding kink, power dynamics, Joel is not the good guy but he’s also not the worst, slightly rough sex but not violent. Warnings are liable to be added as the story goes but I’ll always update. As always if I miss something please tell me, but i extensively label my warnings and in the end media consumption is your own choice. If you would like to know if this is a happy ending or not you can message me and I’ll tell you that way I don’t spoil for everyone but you can decide if this is for you.

Immersability: Reader has long hair, can conceive children theoretically.

****************

There was only one person Tommy let him tie up, and it was the woman Gilead had sentenced to get fucked by him every month. Tommy wasn’t complaining, and honestly he wasn’t hearing it from Angela either. Sure, this wasn’t an ideal situation but Tommy thought he at least made it bearable. 

He couldn’t do anything about how other commanders treated their women, he couldn’t do anything about the fact he was Angela’s last commander before she would have been sentenced to the colonies… but she didn’t have to worry about that anymore, did she?

Angela was pregnant. 

Unfortunately, this had produced a while new world of problems for them. Tommy had been working with Angela to try and figure out how to get Ellie out before she was married, but Mayday had been dragging their feet and now time was up. Ellie had been caught with Riley, Angela was pregnant, and Gina was certainly going to try and get OfJoel killed. Ellie’s wedding was next week.

Angela’s pregnancy was announced, and the Miller household had people buzzing with excitement between that and the wedding, people buzzing around congraduating Joel that his teenage daughter was getting married to a pedofile, congratulating Tommy that he has a child on the way that will likely be abused under the system he helped create, and congratulating his wife for doing absolutly fucking nothing. Baby probably wasn’t even concieved during the ceremony, considering how much him and Angela fucked. Yeah, everything was shit.

Still, at least they could fuck.

Where Tommy had gotten a strap on and restraints, he’d never tell, but boy he was glad he did. Angela had tied his hands to his ankles, fucking Tommy’s butt with the strap and smaking his freckled skin red. 

“Dirty little whore likes being beat? You like it to hurt?” She taunts him, fucking his tight hole open. She had been edging his cock for close to an hour now, his balls tied up and blue as she tortured him. Fuck, he never felt so good. Even before, when Tommy was having casual sex (a LOT of casual sex) and doing drugs (a LOT of not-so casual drugs) it never felt this good. Yes, he’s counting the time he had boy pussy sat on his face and girl cock up his ass. 

“Tommy! It’s t-” Joel burst in the room. “What the fuck!” 

Joel had seen Tommy naked, Joel had seen Tommy and Angela having sex PLENTY but not like this. Not with his fucking asshole just…. There… looking at him. Was he getting pegged?

Angela turned to look at him, her pale face flushed with exertion but certainly not embarrassment. “Hey Joel, you gonna join us?”

Joel smacks his face, not wanting to look. “No, for fucks sake. Tommy, it’s time.” He emphasizes.

“Oh shit!” Realizing what Joel is saying, he tried to get up, but his ankles are still in the air tied to his hands. Tommy falls off the bed with a thud.

*

You wake up to a hand on your mouth. Eyes opening wide, it takes a moment for them to adjust and see Joel staring down at you. For a moment, you relax as you think he wants a quick fuck, but then he’s pulling you out of bed.

He takes your hand after throwing your cloak on you. “We’re leaving.” He helps you shove on your shoes, and next thing you know he’s guiding you out of the back of the house.

“Joel!” You whisper. “What’s happening?!”

He put you behind the garage, gripping your face harshly. “Don’t say a fucking words, and stay here until I get you, okay?”

You’re frightened, but you trust him. You have no reason to, but you do.

Several minutes later, Joel appears behind the shed with a very wides eyes Ellie. You quickly hug her as she asks whats happening, but Joel moves you along.

“We’re getting you out.” Both of you.

Tommy comes, holding Angela’s hand. It’s Angela who speaks. “Anthony came through?” She asked Joel.

“He did. Had to make a lot of fucking promises, do a lot of fucking shit but we got it.”

She nods, smiling. ”Lets fucking go!”

You had to sneak down several blocks, over a mile you’d bet, in the darkness to get to another part of town. It developed houses that would be given to commanders' families should they have them, like where Ellie or Angela’s baby would go. No one lived there yet, babies were still rare. Just behind one, as the yard turned into the woods, a white van waited. Man in a Commander uniform that was ill fitting got out of the van, as did a driver. You suspected the attire was stolen. They opened the back door of the van.

“This has to be quick, Joel.” Angela said as Tommy helped her in. Joel ignored her, turning to Tommy as he’s about to say his goodbye to Angela.

“You need to go with her.”

Tommy scoffed. “Fucking sure. They’ll fucking kill her in Canada!” 

“No, they won’t. I’ll make a statement, I’ll tell they you betrayed me and you’ve been working with Maday this whole time.”

Angela nodded. “I’ll tell them, Tommy. I have some weight, I’ll vouch for you.”

Tommy continued to look back between Angela and Joel, confused. “I can’t leave you, Joel.”

Joel sighed, holding Tommys shoulders. “Tommy, this whole shit show is my fault and I dragged you into it. You have a baby to think about now, okay?”

He considered this. “If I’m still in Gilead… Gilead can try and get it back like they did baby Nicole…”

“Can’t let that happen. And Tommy… I need you to get my baby out of here, okay? I trust you. I couldn’t protect Sarah…” Joel’s jaw locked at the memory of his first born, trying to remain strong. Tommy was not as brave, eyes pooling with tears. “I need to get Ellie out. I need her to be safe, okay? Our babies, our girls, I need to know they’ll get across safe.”

Ellie spoke up. “You’re not coming with?”

He turned to his daughter. “No, Ellie, I’m sorry.” Tommy put his hand on Tommy’s shoulder, and climbed into the van with Angela, placing a hand on her stomach. Joel held Ellie’s face in his hands. “There’s a second van you’ll meet up with, Riley is there… Tommy’s gonna take care of you, so is Angela, so is she.” Joel looked up to where you stood, and you nod. You’d take care of her. You’ll get that innocent girl out safely.

“Dad…” Her voice chokes. “I don’t wanna leave you… won’t you get in trouble if we leave? Just come with us! Gilead will kill you!”

He shook his head, smiling sadly. “No, baby girl, I can’t. Gilead won’t kill me, but Canada sure fucking will. The protection I have with Gilead is the same position that will have me dead in Canada. You have to leave, Bedford will-” He stops himself, looking away for a second before turning back to her. “I ain’t letting that happen to you. I need you to be strong, okay? Angela’s pregnant, I need you to helo her.” He shifted gears a bit. Ellie didn’t want to be a child, she wanted to be strong. “Ya’ll’re gonna look out for each other. You are all family now, got it?”

Ellie stiffened her lip, putting on her bravest face. “I got it. I’m gonna keep them safe. You gotta be safe though, okay? I’m gonna find you eventually. You can’t fucking escape me.”

That made Joel smile. “Good fucking girl. You fucking show em. You’re gonna go to school, and you’re gonna learn how to be everything Gilead tried to beat out of you, okay? Expose it all. They are gonna be so fucking afraid of you, Elizabeth Miller”

Ellie grinned despite the tears. “Hell yeah they are.” She climbed into the van, settling under Tommy’s arm. He was going to protect her. 

The driver told Joel they needed to go, but Joel looked at you. “Five minutes. Get in the van.” The diver huffed, but did as he was told. Joel closed the van door. “I told you I was gonna protect you, beautiful.”

You nod, feeling dread at this goodbye. “I know. I always knew you would.”

“Watch out for Ellie, please? She’s just… She’s gonna be brave, she does better if she’s protecting someone else but… Her and Riley, they’re just kids, no matter what Gilead thinks.”

“I will.” You promise, the tears begin to come. “I am gonna miss you. I know this isn’t… This isn’t a huge romance or star crossed lovers but I do care about you. I care about your family.” A sniffle. “Well, not Gina.”

Joel chuckles at that, pulling you into an embrace and a kiss. “I know. I care about you too, that’s why I’m getting you out of here. You deserve better than this place.”

You melt into his embrace, letting his arms comfort you. “I’m kinda scared… All i’ve known is this place.”

“I know, I know… but you’ll do so good, I swear.” He takes your chin in his hand, making you look up at him. “You’re gonna be good, okay? I know how you are, I know how you love cock and pussy, but you gotta take it easy when you get out.”

“It’s not gonna be you…”

He smiles. “I know.” Joel pushes you against the van. “No one is ever gonna be me, are they?”

“No sir, no one.”

“Tommy ain’t ever gonna be me, neither is Angela?”

“No sir, none of them…”

Joel grinds his cock against your stomach. “I know they ain’t, sweet girl. I’m gonna give you a goodbye gift, something to remember me by.”

“Yes, yes, yes, yes” You chant as he hitches you leg up, pulling aside your panting as he pulls his cock out. “Give it to me…”

He thrust inside you, stinging as his fat cock pulls you apart but you don't do more than whimper, not wanting to give yourself away to everyone in that van. Joel fucks you while you touch your clit, trying to make this as quick as possible. It was a risk as it was, you weren’t going to draw this out. 

“They are gonna examine you, you know that? You’re gonna have my cum dripping out of you for days. You want them?”

“Yes, yes Commander Miller… want you inside me…” Heat pools in your stomach, ready to cum, ready to take his seed inside you one last time. A parting gift.

“When they ask you…” Joel pants in your ear, thrust deep inside as his balls draw up. “When they ask you who you belonged to, when they ask whose name you took, what are you gonna say?”

You moan, cumming on his cock one more time. “Commander Miller, I belong to Commander Miller.”

He groans in pleasure. “And when they ask your name?”

“OfJoel! I am OfJoel.”

Joel released inside you, flooding you once more with his seed and pussing your still-cummig pussy.

Then, he set you down, and it was over.

Joel opened the door, gave you a kiss, and sent you inside. He mouthed a thak you to Angela for helping him pull this off despite all he’s done. More more look to you. One more to Tommy. One long, tear-filled I love you to Ellie, and he tapped the van. As it drove off, his eyes were on Ellie being held by Tommy as he shut the door.

You rode in silence, but you could feel Angela’s eyes on you. She knew what you did. Of course she did. Angela knew everything, but didn’t speak. Ellie was crying softly but pretending she wasn’t as she got snot on Tommy’s shirt. You thought what Joel’s fate would be, if he was right that his position would offer him safety or if his brother, two handmaids one who is pregnant and a child of Gilead and a wife all escaped out from under his nose? You wondered about your son who you were leaving behind… could you really leave without him? There were no options really. 

“Is he lying?” Ellie spoke, pulling herself off Tommy. The van was almost pitched black, hiding her no doubt red face.

Angela, of course, spoke. “Maybe. But Joel has a lot of power in Gilead, and he produced 2 children… I mean, he was a founder. He might be punished, might not be given another handmaid but I don’t think he’s complaining. I think he’s fine.”

Another beat of silence before she spoke again. “This was all his fault, isn’t it. Gilead, all of it.”

Tommy tried to deny it. “No, no Ellie-”

“Yeah, it is.”

When you all arrive at the meet stop the drivers step with a jolt. No one was there. You sat waiting… waiting. Ellie starts asking questions, asking Angela where Riley is but no one knows. Finally, a car whips up to the van, and when it opens, there she is. Riley runs out of the car and into Ellie’s arms as she jumps out of the van to her friend. Relieved to see the girl, relieved she’s getting out, you prepare for them to drive out, but the door opens again…

Your son steps out of the car.

“Matthew?”

One Year Later….

Life was good. All of you had stayed together, trauma bonded from what you’d seen.

Tommy was put on trial, but the odds were stacked against the prosecutor. Gilead, including Joel, publicly condemned him. Angela spoke on the stand for his good treatment of her, Ellie spoke on his behalf, as did Riley and you, and soon they considered him little more than a bystander. Tommy played a good himbo.

 He grew out his hair and a mustache, changed his last name. Him and Angela married, not out of love. There was affection, but it was for the safety of Riley. Ellie would be placed with Tommy since they were blood related, but Riley was a risk. Tommy promised Joel and Ellie he’d protect her. So, they married, they presented as a happy family with the baby she gave birth to, a little girl they named Alicia. 

With Riley saying she wanted to stay with them, Tommy and Angela were able to keep both teenagers with them. Ellie and Riley were set up with a charity organization that tutored them to catch them up and were doing okay in that aspect. Riley had taken to therapy better than Ellie had, never wanting to talk. Some days were better than others. Some days she screamed at Tommy and some days she laid in bed for hours and hours. It wasn’t always easy, but she had support.

Riley suffered from nightmares. Having been married, she suffered sexual abuse from her far too old for her husband and frequently was jumpy around people and loud noises.

And you? You were reunited with your son. It was a confusing adjustment, one he doesn’t understand… but you’re honest with him and he’s honest with you. It gets better.

You still see him sometimes. 

On the news, mostly. He makes half hearted propaganda about the missing “Children of Gilead” that his treacherous brother stole. The pregnant handmaid he watched his brother fuck. His own handmaid he shared with the previous 2. His daughter who he was teaching and who he risked everything to get across the border. His daughter’s friend, a wife that Gilead decided to frame as a child still now that it suited the narrative, that he watched grow up tha he refused to leave behind. The little boy he had no connection to, no reason to give a shit about, but he did because he was yours.

He didn’t really care. You could tell he didn’t care because you had seen him when he spoke with passion. Gilead was never getting you or these kids ever again. It didn’t matter. They were safe. So were you.

You, Tommy, Angela, Riley, Ellie, Matthew, Alicia, you all lived together and did your best to leave Gilead behind… but there were nights you remembered him, nights you thought about his cock as you touched yourself at night, and you’d always remember. He’d always have a part of you. Part of you would always be OfJoel.

****************

Like a fighting year later, I finish it. Sorry!!!!!!!!!!!!

I started this series hot off the tails of the wrong way and first chapter got like 300 and then it just.... dropped. I think my problem was i had no plan. Never really mapped it out what I was going to do chapter by chapter which is how usually do it for series!!!

My other issue i think it this series and myself never decided what i wanted to be. Was it a sexy silly story like Little Bird,the kylo ren series that inspred this? Or was it serious? Was Joel supossed to be a hot baddie or like in TWW where Joel is always mean to be the bad guy.

I dont know.

If anyone wants to write the handmade tale aus for Joel, FREE RANGE! dont gotta credit me r anyhing. Just do it better. Make it sexy and silly or make it a story with a narrative. just dont do this weird mix.

I hope it at least tied up loose ends

Thank you each and every person who showed support!! I still love Angela and my himbo tommy. we need more himbo tommy out there!!!!

as always lk thoughts!!

@my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @dins-riduur-anthe @morallyinept @fan-fiction-floozyy @med494 @taliarose12 @flvrdoll @k-ra@sam-2me @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @moriartyyouwhore @hereforthepedrofanfic @alwaysmicado @noisynightmarepoetry @kyloispunk @jenna-ortega @lunitareads @labyrinthofheartagrams @swimmjacket @theywhowriteandknowthings @everyth1ngfan @movievillainess721 @syrupstuff @christinamadsen @darlingshame @genetics4life @stevngrant @crazysouthernlady @joeldjarin @gwendibleywrites @ladynightengale @justagalwhowrites @pedge-page @magpiepills @zliteraturehoe @lover-of-books-and-tea

[orangepanic]

okay based off that bad sex meme Irohsami sex interrupted by a phone call and Asami just casually takes the call and discusses future industry stocks while Iroh is sitting there still hot to go and shocked like:

anyway i hope this made you laugh

Welp.

He's just slipped her panties off when the telephone by the bed jangles to life. Iroh can't for the life of him understand why anyone needs a telephone in their bedroom, where its seemingly only purpose is to disturb either sleep or other private activities, so he's even more shocked when Asami scoots up the bed, rolls over, and actually answers it.

"Hello?" Iroh has noticed how she never gives out her name at first. "Oh, yes, thank you. Yes, now is fine." She covers the receiver and throws him an apologetic look before mouthing the word sorry.

Iroh gazes from her smudged lipstick down past the waves of long black hair cascading over her open shirt to the appealing dark patch between her legs. His own shorts strain against him. Iroh wears nothing else. Because they'd been rather in the middle of something, hadn't they?

"Five-fifty," Asami says, as if repeating what her caller has told her. "What about on the Ba Sing Se exchange? They're ahead." Iroh runs a thumb experimentally over her ankle and the corner of her mouth twitches into a smile. "Alright, that's what I expected," she says into the receiver. "Can you give me the averages?"

With that small victory Iroh moves his hand further up Asami's leg. Her pale calf is cool beneath his palm. She's told him she loves how hot his skin feels to the touch but he's never admitted the inverse is also true. When he gets to her knee he makes another little circle with his thumb, this time adding some heat. Asami cocks an eyebrow at him. What are you doing? she mouths.

Iroh tugs a little at her knee. Just a little. She has every right to say no, to send him packing with shattered hopes and aching balls, but she doesn't. Instead she shifts her hips and lets him gently part her legs.

"We need to get it back up to seven at least by the end of the month," Asami says as Iroh presses his lips to the soft skin beside her knee, "ideally more. I'm not concerned, not yet. We" -- her breathing hitches when he nibbles the inside of her thigh -- "we have the second quarter earnings out on Monday."

Iroh takes his time, and is rewarded with the feel of Asami's free hand in his hair. She's not pulling him to her but almost. Nothing turns him on so much as being wanted yet this, this is something else. It almost feels like a challenge. The taste of her isn't nearly as sweet as the change in her voice on the telephone. Maybe her caller can tell, maybe they can't, but Iroh can. Her tone is high, breathy, with too many pauses. Asami usually speaks with such confidence.

"Then the Board will just ah um have to wait," she gasps into the telephone. "Along with... with... with everyone else." A pause. Iroh can feel her trembling. Her hips twitch with need. "Really. Will be. Fine."

She comes perhaps four seconds after she hangs up and Iroh thinks she might tear holes in the sheets. It's all he can do to stay with her, keeping it up as she rides out the wave shouting his name. Only when he's sure that she's finished does he relent.

The scene before him is beautiful. Asami lays on the bed red-faced and wrecked, her gorgeous green eyes blown wide. "You..." she pants, seemingly unable to finish the sentence.

Iroh grins. "I'd never abandon a mission."

Asami pulls her legs together and scoots to the side. Her mouth has a mischievous look that he doesn't like. "You," she repeats, nodding her chin to the bedside table, "go call your mother."

[jupiitersreturn]

Astrocartography Observations Part Two: Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto.

(Disclaimer: A lot of Astrologers use different orbs of measurements for Astrocartography. My limit is 200 km because I have seen lines that have influences up to that point, and depending on the planet, sometimes more.)

Planets:

Sun: Fame, Happiness, Vitality, Children.

Moon: Home, Roots, Family, Nostalgia.

Venus: Love, Beauty, Luxury, Desires.

Mercury: Lower Education, Communication, Knowledge, Friendships.

Mars: Passions, Action, Pain, Anger.

Jupiter: Luck, Higher Education, Religion, Beliefs.

Saturn: Karma, Restrictions, Discipline, Commitments, Delays

Uranus: Unpredictability, Innovation, Rebellion, Technology, Humanitarian ideals

Neptune: Illusions, Dreams, Spirituality, Intuition, Fame, Popularity.

Pluto: Destruction, Transformations, Deaths and Rebirths.

Where your Pluto lines are running through are places where you could experience the most profound transformations in your life. Places where you can discover more about yourself thus leading to enlightenment. However, being at these lines does not come without a price. Many fundamental teachings of Pluto will be present here (Death, Rebirth, Destruction, etc.) I'd also like to add that when Pluto takes, it always gives something else in return.

☆ Aaliyah Haughton has her Pluto MC line running through Los Angeles. Robert Sylvester Kelly was her executive producer at the time she released her 1994 debut album "Age Ain't Nothing But A Number". It was then that the rumors began to circulate that 15 year old Aaliyah had married her then 27 year old executive producer who named her album and became the driving influence in her success and her music career. Los Angeles (Hollywood) = Fame, MC = Career, Pluto = Transformations.

☆ Ryan Reynolds has his Pluto AS line running through Brazil where he was almost crushed by a falling barrier during a fan event due to it being overcrowded with people. Interestingly enough, Reynolds has his Mercury MC line (which rules groups of people as well as social events) squaring this line. AS = You, Pluto = Destruction.

☆ Blake Lively has her Pluto IC line running through Los Angeles where she was raised. Blake Lively secure her first real movie role (that just so happened to become a huge hit) after her older brother called a casting director and asked them to hire Lively who had already had a ton of experience with acting, having a talent scout mother and director father. Pluto = Transformations, IC = Family, Home, Roots.

Where your Saturn lines are running through are places where you could experience or be subject to delays and restrictions. I've also noticed that where these lines cross are places where you could make serious commitments and decisions; good or bad.

☆ David Beckham has his Saturn DC line running through Toronto. After injuring his ankle, Beckham made the decision to sit out what according to MLS Soccer, "would've been Beckham's first official league game, shown to a national TV audience on ESPN2 and played in a stadium full of Toronto fans that are already considered the most rabid in the league."

☆ Blake Lively has her Saturn IC line running through South Carolina which is where she married Ryan Reynolds. Saturn = Commitments, IC = Home, Family, Foundations.

☆ Catherine Zeta Jones has her Saturn DC line running through New York which is where she married Michael Douglas. Saturn = Commitment, DC = Partnerships, Relationships.

☆ Selena Quintanilla's Saturn IC line runs through Mexico and she is Mexican. Although she became the biggest Mexican-American music artist in her 20's, when she was younger she had no connection to her Mexican ancestry (IC). She had to learn about her ancestry, AND learn Spanish before she was able to be labeled a Mexican American music artist. (Saturn represents restrictions and delays).

Where your Neptune lines are running through are places where you could experience or be subject to idolization, and extreme popularity or fame. Having it running through the United States can signify global fame.

☆ Gigi Hadid has her Neptune MC line running through Los Angeles where she gained fame from being a model.

☆ Kendall Jenner has her Neptune MC line running through the middle of the United States and she is famous for not only modeling, but being a social media influencer, as well as being a member of one of the most popular families in America; The Kardashian-Jenners.

☆ Ariana Grande has her Neptune MC line running through the United Kingdom which is one of her top countries in terms of popularity.

☆ Elvis Presley has his Neptune MC line running through America. He has a global amount of fame from being a famous musician, with America being his strongest country with the most listeners. Additionally, he also has his Neptune DC line running through London which is his second strongest country in terms of streams and listeners.

☆ Twice's Mina has her Neptune IC running through Japan which is her hometown as well as the location of her biggest fan base.

Where your Uranus lines run through are placed where you could be part of or cause a major change,places where you experience unpredictable and shocking situations. It can also represent places where you can take up Humanitarian beliefs and concepts.

☆ Tom Hanks has his Uranus MC line running through North Carolina. During the pandemic a small bookstore was in danger of shutting down permanently due to the lack of business. After Tom Hanks gave the store a shoutout on "The Late Show" and a million dollar ad was given to the store, business for the bookstore skyrocketed and they were able to stay open at least through the summer.

☆ Ariana Grande has her Uranus MC line to the East of Manchester where there was, sadly, an unexpected fatal incident during one of her concerts. Interestingly enough, she also has her Chiron AC line squaring this line.

☆ Bella Hadid has her Uranus AS line running through India. In 2022 she slammed India for their blatant Islamophobia regarding the hijab row. She went on to say that she stands in solidarity with Muslim women.

[adachimoe]

Persona Stalker Club "Ah-ha, I SEES It!" from episodes 8 and 9

Last time: Ep 1 + Explanation, Eps 2 + 4.

Episode 5's Q&A I wrote about last year. Mitsuaki Madono, Adachi's VA, was the guest on that episode so they had all Adachi-centric questions. I think due to this episode, Adachi was the character with the most questions/answers for him by the end of Stalker Club's whole run.

Episodes 6 and 7 had no QA. Here's a little aside about what happened in them instead.

Episode 8 was back to the "Ah-ha, I SEES it!" part.

Q: How is Aigis able to wear shoes with her Gekkokan uniform when her feet are shaped like that? Why isn't such a visible part of her more human-esque? Is there some dev with a robot girl fetish? A: When wearing her school uniform, Aigis has optional foot attachments with ankles. Also, the tiptoe foot design is to make her more mobile and have better jumping capability. This design was inspired by Bambi and horses. Q: Are Aigis's breasts, butt, and thighs hard or soft? Since she's a robot girl, I imagine they're hard, but part of me is also like, "Can you put 'mountains' of silicone on top of her hard armor" or "It'd be more romantic if her breasts were soft". A: Aigis's exterior body is made of reinforced fibre that's fireproof, bulletproof, and bladeproof to give her defense when fighting Shadows, but it's not particularly thick since she needs to be able to wear clothing over it. The rest was made to imitate a human. Q: The necklace Junpei wears in P4AU looks similar to the sword Chidori has on her head. Did Chidori make the necklace herself and give it to Junpei? A: Chidori gave Junpei the necklace, made by an apparel brand she likes, as a present.

Episode 9 was Teddie-centric questions because his VA, Kappei Yamaguchi was the guest. (For the sake of my sanity, I'm going start paraphrasing stuff.)

Q: Was Teddie's human form based on / inspired by someone else? A: It's how Teddie imagined an ideal cool guy who would be loved by all. Q: Chie says that Teddie caused a commotion on the women's floor of Junes. What did he say? Was it dirty? A: Yes, dirty. It seems he began yelling about the brand names and shapes of underwear that caught his eye. Q: How does Teddie make the glasses in P4? A: Teddie skillfully constructs them using tools from an optician's store located in the TV World's Inaba and materials he gathers from around the area. Q: Did Chie and Yukiko's curry have any curry powder? Also, what kind of seafood did they include? A: Yukiko probably knew that you needed "curry powder" of some kind, but based on how she picked ingredients plus Yosuke's reaction, Yukiko probably used random yellow powders and spices instead of a solid roux block. As for the seafood, the girls probably didn't use raw fish for health reasons. It's possible they bought fish that doubles as being good for making soup stock -- such as frozen squid and frozen shrimp, scallop, frozen tuna for impromptu sashimi, and dried/preserved fish used for ryokan breakfast -- thus they could kill 2 birds with 1 stone. Those kinds of ingredients might have been why the curry had such varied textures.

After the last question, the hosts surprise Yamaguchi by revealing they will be making the curry with the same ingredients on the show. He then attempts to put on the Teddie outfit (he wore it earlier) and escape and even does Teddie's voice lol.

Yamaguchi comments on the smell being bad / fishy, but it's... edible...? In some manner...?

[damn-stark]

Chapter 15 The start of something new

Chapter 15 of Sugar

A/N- Two of the strongest sorcerers make jokes about dicks and boobs 😗

Warning- Swearing, angst!!, FLUFF!! Talks of death, violence and blood, spoilers, long chapter.

Pairing- Choso x fem!reader, Suguru Geto x Gojo!fem-reader

Takes place during- Before 2x06

(Let me know if you want to be tagged)

————

*1 YEAR LATER. 2018*

From Unknown: Y/N Gojo, we will grant you and your allies who were a part of the Night Parade last year, a complete pardon from all crimes if you execute the vessel of Ryomen Sukuna, Yuji Itadori.

“What happens when this gets in the way, huh?” You tease Mimiko as you move strands of her long bangs over her eyes.

Mimiko chuckles, and you proceed to give her a gentle but pressing reminder. “Remember to put it up when you’re out on missions, okay? As long as it doesn’t go with your technique it can just get in the way.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mimiko brushes you off, letting you let her go to walk to her sister standing across from her. “Now you, remember what I told you.”

Nanako sighs and steps back before shifting her feet to get into her fighting stance. “Distance,” she mutters.

You nod. “And quick on your feet,” you remind her and nudge her foot forward with yours so she can get in the proper position. “You lag when you have to use your technique, so quick thinking okay?”

Nanako nods in comprehension, and you step to the side to watch them both. “Weapons up,” you tell them as you rest your hands on your hips.

“This is heavy,” Nanako complains as she lets her blade falter in her hand.

“It’s an extension of your arm,” you tell her. “And it’s for your benefit. For the both of yours. My friend Mei-Mei’s technique also isn’t ideal for fighting, but that’s why she learned to swing her axe, and she’s the best at it. She’s a grade 1 sorcerer because of how skilled she is. You guys are almost there, just a bit more. So arms up, light on your feet,” you advise them and feel your cursed worm spirit wrap around your neck as it crawls down from the branch. “Firm grip, but not too—”

“Tight,” Nanako groans, making you smile.

“Oh, you got it?” You chuckle. “So why am I seeing your knuckles whiten?” You rebuttal with a smirk that the worm on your shoulders mimics. Meanwhile, Nanako glances down at her hand and huffs before she loosens her fingers around the handle of her blade.

“Okay,” you breathe out as you notice that their stances are good to start another round of sparring.

Nevertheless, just as you part your lips again to tell them, a sweet voice calls out for you. “Mama!”

“Oh no,” Nanako grumbles.

You blink and glance over to see where Satori’s voice came from, and much to your surprise you see your brother grabbing Satori upside down by her ankle.

And of course, your daughter is amused by your brother's crazy antics and laughing her little head off.

“Look what I found on the way here!” Satoru shouts as he points to Satori with a beaming grin that matches your daughter's smile.

He’s not supposed to be here, he’s supposed to be out on a weekend-long mission. So the question begs to be answered, what is he doing here, and why didn’t he give you a heads up?

Is this about the message you got a few days ago?

It has to be.

“Why does he keep walking in the house unannounced?” Mimiko asks as she moves over to stand beside her twin sister.

You sigh. “Trust me I’ve been asking myself that same thing for years,” you mention as you watch your brother approach you and your girls. “He would barge in my room like that when we lived together.”

Satoru finally reaches you under the vibrant tree and grabs Satori’s hand to lift her and hang her around his shoulders instead.

“Brother,” you greet with a puzzled look. “What are you doing here? You didn’t call or text.”

Satoru shrugs and holds onto Satori’s hands as she hooks them under his chin and rests her cheek on the top of his head. “I thought I’d surprise you guys, you know? I finished my mission early since it was easier than expected and I wanted to come visit.” He smiles and looks up at your daughter. “Like the surprise?”

“I love it,” she of course agrees because she loves the man. They’re inseparable when he’s over, or when you’re hanging out with him. And he acts like how you imagined, a man child, they’re like best friends.

Then again it’s a good thing that he has fun with her, he seemed to help her through her grief. And she helped him relax from all the stress he’s put through. Or so you like to see it that way.

“Oh! And he brought me a gift!” Satori shares enthusiastically. “And he brought one for Nana and Mimi too!” She adds and lifts her head to look at her sisters. You follow her line of gaze and see the girls avoid eye contact so as to not look at your brother or acknowledge him.

“They’re inside,” Satoru tries to talk to them. “I’m sure Satori can show you. So why don’t you, Sugar?”

You stiffen and swallow thickly at the sound of the nickname he calls her. Out of so many he could’ve come up with, he chose that one after it started off as some joke when he told Satori about how you would call Suguru that in your youth. He found it fitting for Satori, or maybe it’s a way to be closer to the best friend he lost, but he’s called her that ever since that day.

And you can’t say that it bothers you in a bad way, because it doesn’t, it just reminds you of him so you don’t feel upset that he calls her that. It’s sweet really. it just always catches you off guard when Satoru calls your daughter Sugar. You half expect to see Suguru…

“Really? Okay!” Satori obeys and lets Satoru help her off his shoulders. When her feet hit the ground she grabs Mimiko's hands. “Come on, come on!”

“Nanako, Mimiko,” you call out sternly.

The twins know what you mean by your voice alone and sigh before they peer back. “Thanks,” they both grumble at your brother before they follow Satori back inside the house.

“I’ll win them over soon enough,” Satoru interjects as you both watch the girls retreating figures.

You huff out softly and turn around to face your brother and change the subject. “So are you going to tell me what’s up, or what? You sent Satori off so I’m sure this isn’t some leisure visit.”

Satoru watches Satori for a moment longer before he slowly turns and faces you with a sly smile. “Aren’t you smart? And why do you keep lugging that thing around?” He points at the worm around your neck.

You shoot him a glare and caress the cursed worm's chin. “He’s my son,” you tell him again. “I’m so serious.” You laugh softly.

“It’s…off-putting,” he grumbles and you see his nose scrunch in disgust.

You roll your eyes and glare at him. “You’re off-putting,” you sass him.

“Whatever,” your brother mutters before he points at the path towards the lake. “Walk with me.”

This is about the message, isn’t it? It has to be. He’s being too serious, and too mysterious.

“Is everything okay?” You can’t help but probe as Satoru begins to get ahead.

Satoru shrugs lazily. “Depends on your definition of okay. I’m sure you’ve heard about the recent rise in curses and accidents at the school.”

You keep your pace behind him and respond honestly. “I haven’t been following up on recent news if I’m honest.”

Satoru peers back and you see his eyebrows knit together behind his eye cover. “You haven’t talked to Hakari or Kirara?”

You nod. “Yeah, I have. I was just with them this morning, but we didn’t talk about that. At least it hasn’t been brought up. All I know is that another one of your students was supposed to be killed but wasn’t. You had a hand in that?” You ask kind of rhetorically since you know the answer.

“Yep,” Satoru agrees with pride. “Actually that’s why I’m here.”

Wait! Does he want you to train another student?

You’ll gladly do that again, Hakari and Kirara turned out to be a blessing in disguise if you’re honest. They’re like your kids—no they are your kids. It hasn’t been a year since you met them, but they never made it hard to get along with, they actually accepted you pretty quickly. Of course, they had their suspicions, but you bonded quickly. Even if they knew that you had a hand in what they call the Night parade.

“Need me to take in another problem child?” You ask kind of hopeful.

Satoru scoffs softly. “No. It’s not exactly like that, it’s more of a job really. I…need your help.”

You blink in disbelief and stop in your tracks, Satoru hears you and stops to turn and face you with a frown

“Don’t make it a big deal,” he mutters as he sees how fast your mind is beginning to churn.

“You need my help?” You ask for clarification as a smirk tugs on your face.

Satoru sighs. “I do,” he admits quietly. “These higher-ups have been busting my balls trying to undermine me to kill this kid,” he explains and turns to continue, causing you to do a little jog to reach his side now—“recently they had the kids from Kyoto try and kill him at a school event.” You exhale deeply and he lifts his hand to swipe his eye cover off as he brushes his hair back.

“They didn’t manage to hurt him, but they got close before these smart curses working with some mole interrupted,” he adds, piquing your interest more than you thought possible.

Then again why should you be surprised?

“Sounds like you’ve all been busy,” you comment lightheartedly. “Is everyone okay?”

Satoru nods. “Some destruction, but everyone’s okay, they just went in to steal three of the nine cursed wombs and other cursed objects.”

Your smile falls and you watch your brother with concern at the mention of those Cursed Wombs. But it passes quickly and you grow smug. “You should’ve let me take them when I had them,” you remark.

Satoru feigns a laugh. “Funny. Anyway! With this mole, with the higher-ups wanting to kill this kid, and with trouble brewing, I need your help,” he says again, making your cockiness fade and a soft smile tug on your lips.

“The kid is strong, but I can’t put anything at risk anymore with what's unfolding. I wanted you to watch over him, be like a shadow. You won’t help him in missions unless some serious threat cuts in, or you see that it’s actually dangerous. So you’ll be like a glorified assistant manager, and with more responsibility,” he continues as you reach the lakeshore.

“What about Nanami?” You bring up and watch your brother sit on the bench facing the lake. “Can’t he help?”

Satoru sighs. “He mentored the kid for a bit, but this is different. I don’t need him, I need you.”

You stay on your feet beside him and scoff softly. “I’m a retired sorcerer now Satoru. This,” you say and steal a glimpse at your community. “This is me now. I don’t do that now.”

“You’re semi-retired,” he points out. “You still go out on missions.”

“Yes!” You quickly argue. “But that’s to train Hakari, Kirara, and the twins. I’m not…” you trail off and drop your head. “I’m not who you’re looking for. Not anymore,” you whisper and think about Suguru.

“Whether you like it or not, who I’m looking for is still there,” Satoru says softly as he picks a pebble off the ground. “You help people, y/n, they need your help, so don’t do this for me. Do this for them, for your own future. What’s happening beyond these walls might just put in danger all you’ve built.”

You pull the cursed worm off your shoulders and hug him against you. “Does this threat have to do with Sukuna and his vessel Yuji Itadori?”

Satoru skips the pebble across the body of water before he shifts around and meets your gaze with a perplexed look. “Yes…exactly, how did you guess?”

You feign a laugh and pull your phone out to show him the message you were sent recently.

“They found me,” you tell him. “I don’t know how, but they did.” You scoff and shake your head in disapproval. “They really think I’m going to be at their beck-and-call.”

Satoru hums and drifts his eyes to you. “What did you say?” He asks almost hesitantly as if he doesn’t want to hear the answer.

Yet when you lean over you begin to grin, so he pushes his doubt aside and leans close to you as you point at your clever response that consists of, “(.)(.) boobies.”.

Satoru then turns his whole body to meet your gaze seriously, but that only lasts a few seconds because you both then burst out laughing like immature teens.

That shared moment lasts for a few minutes, and when your laughter dies down you both proceed to look out at the lake, and you watch a pair of swans land on the water.

“I won’t force you to help,” Satoru says seriously once again. “I mean you have your life here and your job out there, I’m glad that you do, so I won’t force you to disrupt what you have going on. Not after what happened.”

“Not even with the power I hold?” You quiere.

Satoru nods softly. “Not even with that,” he whispers. “Not after what you’ve been through, I owe you that much at least, don’t I?”

You snap your eyes away from the swans to watch your brother with a soft and watery gaze.

Ever since you’ve reunited, the topic about the day he broke your heart hasn’t come up. It’s been a thorn in your sides that holds a tension between the both of you. Not letting you try to mend what’s clearly broken.

“What will you do with the kid?” You have to ask.

Satoru sighs. “Feed him all of Sukuna’s fingers and then execute him…unless there’s some other way to keep him alive and still kill the curse inside him.”

“Risky,” you mutter. “But you can’t shoot down an idea until you’ve exhausted all other options.”

Satoru nods in agreement before he adds. “He deserves a chance anyway.”

“Yeah,” you add without even knowing the kid. All you know is that he’s young and he’s…one of the people you told yourself you wanted to help so many years ago. But even now that dream of helping young and old sorcerers is still very much alive. That hasn’t changed even through everything.

Besides, doesn’t your brother deserve to be helped? He’s not one to ask, not as soft-spoken or as serious as he is now. So doesn’t he deserve to be helped even if he’s hurt you, and you’ve hurt him?

“And…” you begin to lean towards your answer. “Do you think I’ll be well received back in Jujutsu Society? I am a wanted criminal no? You have orders to kill me?”

Satoru smirks. “Yeah, so what? I’ve had them for a year and never lifted a finger. Nor will I. You’re my sister through it all. I can't protect you if you’re dead now can I?”

Your throat begins to sting as tears well in your eyes. Hearing him say that after all that has happened is surprising. It’s relieving to hear too.

“But if you accept,” he says. “I wouldn’t worry about it. They won’t dare and touch you, you’re too strong, they need you. The message they sent proves it. You’ll be okay. It’ll all be okay. I know it.”

There’s those special words, “it’ll all be okay,” so simple yet they hold so much power because there are times when those words are uttered and everything is the complete opposite. That’s why you hate those words. They don’t ease you anymore, they actually make your breathing a bit deeper as you’re struck with uncertainty.

But you don’t share that negativity, you just hum and walk around your brother to sit beside him on the bench. Silence proceeds to fall over you, causing the worm curse to drape back around your shoulders.

You should really debate about what he wants from you, it can be dangerous. This isn’t some ordinary kid, he’s carrying Sukuna, the worst curse of them all, the famous and legendary King of Curses. But how can you say no to your brother?

“Okay, I’ll help,” you assure your brother.

Satoru glances at you and protests. “There’ll be risks. Not only with Yuji, but with the other curses I’m sure, I mean—”

“You can explain it all to me later,” you cut him off. “I’m sure there’s a lot to tell, and there’s shit I need to catch up on.”

“Y/N.”

“Satoru,” you brush him off. “I know the risks. Being a sorcerer is about risks. Besides, this—no, accepting your offer is to follow my dream. He’d be upset if I didn’t. And I want my kids to see that. All five of them,” you laugh softly and look over at your brother to meet his gaze. “I need them to see me fighting for what I believe in so they can continue to do the same.”

The corner of Satoru’s lips tug to a soft smile before he grins. “You’re crazy.”

“Huh?”

He shakes his head. “It’s just crazy hearing you say all this. I knew you’ve always been the kinder one out of us, but I don’t know,” he shrugs. “It's weird—You’ve grown up. I’m proud.” He says and touches his chest as he feigns a sad look

You roll your eyes lightheartedly and nudge him to the side with your shoulder. Satoru laughs and you both continue to smile softly.

“I’ll say this before I bore you with what’s happened,” Satoru interjects. “Be nice to Yuji Itadori, I think he’s a fan of yours.”

You snort. “Why do you say?”

“Well not so long ago, we were out, and uh,” Satoru laughs. “We passed by this magazine stand, right? He stops and picks up this fashion magazine and points you out. I will not repeat what he told his friends,” he grumbles with slight disgust, making you chuckle.

“But!” He continues. “He knew you, he’s a fan, so be nice.”

You shoot him a pointed look. “I’m always nice,” you counter. “You’re the annoying one.”

Satoru smirks and mumbles. “They don’t know you’re a sorcerer or my sister so it’ll be a great surprise. I’ll definitely earn some cool points.”

You hum softly. “I’m sure,” you whisper happily while you look back at the pair of swans with a soft smile, and watch them swimming towards each other from across the lake with growing relief in your heart over this sweet moment that you shared with your brother.

——

*THE NEXT DAY*

Breathe, breathe, after all, you've already done the hard part, you walked through the school barrier, you’ve walked up those hundreds of steps, and you’re on school grounds. You’ve done the hard part, so now all you need to do is continue moving down the path of haunting memories. You need to move on and brush the pain away that threatens to paralyze you. You need to stop thinking about the moment you lost him. You need to continue being strong.

Just…breathe.

You let out a deep breath and look up from the ground to look at the building ahead. There’s someone you need to talk to before you meet Yuji Itadori and the rest of his first-year class. Albeit you’re nervous to talk to her, with every step you take towards the med-bay your heart races a bit faster, and your throat feels like it’s closing up.

She’s going to be upset. It’s been 11 years since you last talked to her. Eleven years!

You would turn back and avoid Ieiri Shoko—Dr. Ieiri Shoko, but now with this new job you’ve taken for your brother, you’ll be at school often so you’ll run into her, and if you don’t then you’ll just be thinking about her. So it’s better now. Plus, you’ve been meaning to talk to Shoko, you’ve just been nervous.

But it all ends now! You just need to walk into her medbay and talk to her!

Alas, when you reach the door, you hesitate. What if she hates you and doesn’t want to try and be friends again? What if she can’t get past her disappointment?

But you also miss her, you miss gossiping with her, you miss your inside jokes. No one—not even Yuki has been able to take her place throughout the years, Shoko has always been your best friend and you miss her, so you need to just grow some balls and walk inside.

Hence after a deep breath, you slide the door open and take a confident step inside. And luckily the moment you walk in the medbay, you see her with her back turned to the door, with her long brown hair neatly draped over her doctor's coat and a mug in her hand.

“Take a seat, I'll be with you in just a moment.”

Her voice has changed since the last time you saw her, and compared to those videos you have of her and you on your phone from your youth. It’s a lot more soothing now, she seems to have managed that for her patients and students.

“I hope you can pencil me in,” you break your silence and walk over to the bed, noticing her shoulders tense and her pen stop moving—“it seems that I’ve stopped eating my apples.”

You hear a soft scoff before she drops her pen and sits up. You sit on the edge of the bed and put the present you brought her next to you.

“It’s been a while, Gojo,” she addresses you nonchalantly.

You scoff. “Last name bases? Come on, we’re closer than that,” you tease.

Shoko lets out a feigned laugh and spins her chair around to face you now, letting you see that she's grown into quite a beauty. Albeit she also seems to have grown more exhausted, her eyebags are visible and concerning.

“We were,” Shoko quips. “You stopped talking to me for 11 years, so it begs the question, what are you doing here?”

You grab onto the edge of the bed and shrug. “I came to see a friend,” you mutter. “And I told you I’ve stopped eating my apples.”

Shoko rolls her eyes.

You smile. “It was funny,” you refer to your joke.

“Ehh, I’d hardly call it a joke,” she counters. “But it’s passable, I guess.”

You smile wider, but it quickly falls into an apologetic frown. “I know it’s been a while,” you get right to the matter. “I know I should’ve called or texted. I did want to, trust me I did, but I was scared of how you’d react.”

Shoko’s eyes narrow to a puzzled look and she doesn’t hesitate to probe. “Why would that matter?”

You drop your gaze and shrug. “Because you’re my best friend. I mean I had the others, but your opinion mattered the most, you were my person…that’s why it mattered—it matters.”

You slowly lift your eyes and see her studying you with a small frown.

“Sounds more like you’re in love with me,” she retorts.

You snort and chuckle. “Hilarious. You wish I was. Too bad I’m too much into dick, or else I definitely would’ve married you.”

A sly smirk tugs on her face, but then that expression tugs to a scowl. “You know, I understand why you kept your distance. You were let down, you probably just wanted to distance yourself from it all, and I admired you for that, but then I came to find out that you and Mei-Mei have been talking!”

Your jaw drops and you quickly explain yourself. “Listen, listen it was not on purpose, she ran into me, okay? And I guess after that, I don’t know, we would hang out occasionally. She was my source in some way. And!” You add and slide off the bed. “I told you it wasn’t easy talking to you. I couldn’t handle your disappointment.”

Shoko draws in a deep breath and averts her gaze to exhale and drop her faint scowl. “Why would I be disappointed?” She asks.

“For leaving with Suguru after what he did, and for what I did all those years after.”

She hums and stays quiet for a moment. You step back and lean against the bed as you wait patiently, as you watch her thoughts churn behind her dark eyes.

“Nah,” she says. “Did I think it was stupid? Sure, but I was never disappointed. I was hurt, you know? When I found out you had a kid, and when I found out you got married, I guess it hurt not hearing that from you. That’s all, but I was never disappointed or mad at that.”

A shaky breath escapes past your lips and you nod softly as you take in what she said, and as her words hurt your heart. “I’m sorry,” you whisper and cross your arms over your chest. “I should’ve told you, I wanted to but I was scared, and I’m sorry. And I could say how much I wish that I could take it all back, that I wish you could’ve been there for all those things, but what’s the point in dwelling in the past? We can’t,” you sigh deeply. “Turn back time no matter how much we want to. So I’ll just tell you that I want you to be in my life from now on. I miss you. No one has ever been able to take your place. No one.”

Shoko holds your gaze gleaming with tears and stays quiet for a moment before she offers you a teasing smile. “So you are in love with me,” she teases.

You chuckle.

“I,” she continues more seriously. “Missed you too. I mean I would see you all the time on magazines, screens outside stores, and you know, runways, but it was never the same. You were unreachable.”

The corner of your lips tug to a soft smile and you can’t help but fill with bliss.

“But I’m glad you’re back now,” she says and finally gets out of her chair. “Utahime works in Kyoto, so it’s boring here.”

You giggle and run over to throw your arms around her. Shoko seems caught off guard, but she doesn’t fail to gently return your embrace.

“Let’s never do that again,” you coo. “I really did miss you.”

“I missed you too, y/n.”

You grin and pull back but grab her shoulders. “You need to sleep more,” you point out and study her face from up close. “And eat more.”

Shoko laughs softly. “Are you mothering me? I kinda like it, it's hot.”

You flash her a smirk and step back. “I assume Satoru told you then?” You probe.

Shoko nods. “Yeah,” she says. “That’s all he talks about when he can. He’s like an old grandfather with those pictures in his wallet. He talks about how they have matching slippers, and what games they play.”

You beam at her and nod. “Yeah, they’re pretty inseparable,” you muse. “He’s good to her.“

“Not surprising considering he’s a man-child,” she disses your brother.

You hum in agreement and she then reaches over and grabs your shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she says in a soft and sorrowful voice. “For what happened. And I’m sorry I didn’t go help you through your grief after. I’m sorry.”

You swallow thickly, and don’t dwell in that grief…you can’t. So you draw out a deep breath and take in what she offers with sincerity. “Thank you, Ieiri. I’m…okay now. Thank you.” You sigh shakily and step back towards the bed to pick up the gift bag. “This is for you, Doc. Just something small that I hope you like.”

You step forward again and you’re about to hand Shoko her gift, but your phone buzzes so you take your phone out in case it’s one of your kids. However, you see that it’s actually your brother.

Satoru: Where are you? We’re waiting for you!!!

So many exclamation marks. Tsk.

You: I’m here and on my way now :)

You proceed to sigh as you put your phone away and hand Shoko the gift with an apologetic smile. “I need to go,” you let her know. “I'm late to meet the students, but! Let’s hang out. Let’s go for a drink tomorrow night, yeah? We can catch up and have some fun!”

Shoko smirks and doesn’t hesitate to agree. “As long as you pay.”

You scoff softly and nod. “You bet,” you say and hug her one more time before you head to the door. “I’ll see you later, okay? My number is in the bag.”

“The gift is not just your number, is it? I’d chuck something sharp at you if it was,” she remarks.

You snicker and shake your head. “No?” You tease. “Maybe. Find out.” You laugh mischievously and quickly walk out of the room. Once you’re down the hall you can’t help but smile with relief.

Finally! After a decade you’re finally talking to your best friend again. It feels amazing after so much gloom. So now you can continue with your day and meet this kid with a more upbeat attitude and not so much worry that you’ll face some awkward and tense situation.

Hopefully, he doesn’t hate you after what you did last year. He might’ve not been here last year, but the word spreads so here’s hoping he doesn’t have any odd feelings about it. Hakari and Kirara didn’t, but this kid could be different.

Regardless, when you start approaching the courtyard where you’re meant to meet up, you begin to hear voices travel up the hill. They’re loud and you mostly only hear a girl and boy arguing, whilst your brother's voice interjects.

When you make it up the hill, not one out of the three students notices you right away, your brother does though. “You’re late,” he complains.

You shrug. “I was catching up with Shoko,” you brush him off.

Finally, the students stop arguing and look over at you to see who has caught their teacher's attention. And the moment their eyes land on you, the girl with short ginger hair grabs onto the tall guy with pink hair and begins to shake him gently.

Your brother had described who they were so you can place a name to a face right away; the girl shaking the boy is Nobara Kugisaki, and the boy with pink hair is the guy you’re here for, Yuji Itadori. And lastly, the tall skinny guy lurking behind them both is none other than Megumi Fushiguro. You know about him the most, he's Toji Zen’in’s son.

They look identical—except for the hair actually, Toji had oily flat hair, and this kid looks like he has a sea urchin on his head.

“Hello!” You greet the students warmly and offer them a small wave.

“You’re late!” Satoru repeats.

You hum in agreement and just ignore him as you strut over to reach the students.

“She’s coming over here,” you hear Yuji Itadori whisper before he snaps his head to the side and whispers sharply at the girl. “Stop stabbing your nails into me!”

“Stop talking,” Nobara Kugisaki hisses.

You stop before them and offer them a wider smile. “Hi, I’m Y/N Geto,” you introduce yourself without thinking about what you said, you just smile and bow.

“Yes,” Yuji says breathlessly as his eyes grow wider and stick on you. “You are.”

Nobara pushes him aside and bows quickly before she throws her hand out. “I’m Nobara Kugisaki, call me Nobara, huge fan since your first ever feature in the vogue magazine!”

You shake her hand and flash her a sweeter grin. “Thank you, that’s very cool. That was a long time ago, you make me feel old.” You laugh softly.

Nobara drops her hand and her eyes widen with panic. “Well, you don’t look it. You look great! You look amazing.”

You snicker. “I was just pulling your leg. It’s okay,” you assure her.

Nobara lets out a nervous laugh before her eyes roam your long-sleeved denim coat you wear as a mini dress, and then fall on your expensive knee-high brown boots that coordinate with your purse from Prada.

“I love your whole look,” she muses. “It’s amazing.”

You shoot her a beaming smile. “Thank you so much. You’re sweet.”

One of the guys behind her snorts, and she slowly twists her head around and shoots them a glare before looking back at you. “You look pretty.”

“And old,” Satoru cuts in with a teasing look.

You glare at him and snap back. “Says you. Anyway,” you sigh and step towards Yuji. “You must be Yuji Itadori, nice to meet you.”

The boy blinks repeatedly before he bows. “I’m Yuji Itadori! It’s very nice to meet you too!” He proceeds to stand up straight and you study his face for a moment before you move to Fushiguro before you can dive in and study Itadori harder.

“And you…god,” you gasp in disbelief. “You look just like him.”

“Right!” Your brother agrees with you.

“Hello,” the boy mutters nonchalantly. “I’m Megumi Fushiguro. You must be Gojo’s sister.”

You smile and nod. “Yeah. So he did tell you about me, good. He sucks at explaining shit,” you say before you flash Fushiguro a smile. “It’s nice to meet you, I’ve heard a lot about you too.”

Fushiguro glances at Satoru, and your brother simply smirks.

“Wait, wait,” Nobara cuts in and steps in front of Fushiguro. “You’re his sister. There’s no way!” She laughs.

“Yeah, I know—”

“You’re too cool to be his sister,” Nobara cuts Satoru off, causing him to scoff, and you to smirk proudly.

“Hey!”

“Yeah well don’t I know that,” you play along and step back to face all four of them better. “Well, can I just say I’m honored to meet you all. My brother has only said great things. Uh,” you breathe out. “I’m sure there’s questions, but let me ask mine first. Itadori, can I take a closer look at you?”

The boy doesn’t hesitate to nod his head, letting you get closer and narrow your gaze to take a closer look at the slits under his eyes.

“So he just lives inside you,” you ask, hoping you’ll get some reaction from the famous Sukuna that you’ve only read from history books in your family home, and heard about from different sorcerers. “That’s…so cool. Weird, but cool. I am sorry it happened though, it must be annoying.”

“Yeah, he’s just there talking all the time,” Itadori shares. “He’s super annoying.”

You hum and step to the side to face Itadori directly, causing his cheeks to slowly grow a pink tint on them as he holds your gaze with a widened look.

“It’s okay,” you assure him. “I won’t hurt you. Just curious. My husband would’ve gotten a kick from your situation.” Your smile falters, but you don’t show your sorrow, you just step back and smile at Itadori. “Amazing, truly, I can’t wait to get to know you more.”

Itadori’s cheeks grow redder before he quietly mumbles, “Likewise—”

“Wimp!” A sixth voice cuts him that's a lot deeper and huskier than what you’ve heard anyone have here, so you know who it is right away.

“Was that him?” You probe in awe.

Itadori covers his cheek and nods stiffly. “Yep, like I said, he’s annoying.”

“Why don’t you step closer you jezebel,” the voice cuts in again, and this time you see a mouth growing on the back of Itadori’s hand. “I’ll give you something real to look at.”

It's strange, odd even though you find yourself charmed and allured by the sound of his voice; even if he just insulted you with some old derogatory word.

You still gasp in disbelief though, and feel slightly offended by what he just called you, whilst Satoru chuckles like he's heard the funniest thing in the world.

“That’s not funny,” you grumble at Satoru. “He’s an asshole, I—”

“Whore.”

Your jaw drops but this time you spat back right away. “Dickhead at least I have a body of my own and don’t rely on a child to stay alive. Prick.”

“Do you want to say that again?” Sukuna snaps.

You part your lips, but Satoru walks over and pats your back. “Just leave it alone, he’ll be relentless.”

He turns you around and you grumble. “I’d like to see him come out.” You then peer back and don’t see Sukuna peek out anymore, so you drop your shoulders and focus on the kids instead. “So questions? I hope Satoru let you know why I’m here.”

“I did.”

“Yes he did, he said you’d be helping me until the special grade curses are exorcized,” Itadori says as the three of them begin to follow you down the hill to finally head out and do what Satoru had planned. Which should worry you because he’s being ominous about what you’re going to do. He did make a promise about doing what you want to do to bond with the students, but he’s him, he likes to butt in and be inconvenient.

“But,” Itadori adds. “When he said sister, I never thought it’d be you, Mrs Geto.”

A smile twitches on your lips at the sound of that title being used for you. Yet no matter how much you like it, it hurts to hear it when it’s not coming from Suguru’s own lips, when he’s not whispering it in your ear as he tries to seduce you or make you smile. It slips from your own lips, but it’s when you’re not thinking, it hurts later on when you think about it.

Plus, Mrs Geto is too formal, especially because Itadori is not your student or anything. And he and his friends might feel more comfortable if it’s just your first name. “Just y/n, please.”

“Oh. Really?”

You look back and nod softly

Itadori flashes you a bright smile that causes you to be hit with a sweet deja vu. However, it’s not him that flashes in your head like if you’ve lived this already, no, you actually see…Haibara. Seeing Itadoris smile felt like seeing Haibara show off that sweet and charming smile of his again. It feels so surreal.

“Okay, thanks, y/n!”

You offer Itadori a soft smile and let your gaze linger on him for a moment longer as you keep seeing your friend in him.

“Can I ask,” Nobara interjects, making you slide your eyes to her now—“What are you doing here? You’re a famous celebrity, so why are you here? I know I wouldn't be here if I had your fame.”

You hum softly and answer honestly. “Well, modeling is more of a hobby really. Something I set myself to do,” you share proudly. “It was always a dream so I went out and tried it. Plus I knew it’d piss my parents off that I was everywhere so that’s another reason why I pursued that career, but, it’s not really my job, I help sorcerers, like yourselves. That’s why I’m here, I’m helping. You can do both, you know.”

“Cool,” Nobara whispers.

“I guess,” Satoru grumbles.

“Uh, Gojo, mentioned what you do in a short and terrible way,” Fushiguro interjects, “so could you explain it? I’d like to know before we get sent out on whatever mission Gojo has up his sleeve.”

Mission? He never said anything about any mission.

“Well I have an elemental manipulation cursed technique,” you share and turn around to walk back so you can roll your sleeve up and show them the dragon mark on your arm. “I can create flames using my cursed energy,” you continue and tap into your fire, making the dragon glow red-orange before the flames travel to your fingers and make the veins and flesh under your fingertips glow before flames bask them.

Nobara and Itadori gasp in awe while Fushiguro stays nonchalant.

“And I can also manipulate it,” you add. “Just like air, water, and the earth, but I can’t make any of that, just fire. That’s pretty much the gist of it.”

“That’s what I said,” Satoru rebuttals.

You make the flames disappear before you spin around to face ahead as you continue walking.

“You just said she was like a real-life avatar,” Fushiguro counters, causing Satoru to pout.

“Well it’s true,” he whispers.

You giggle and as you’re nearing a crossroads you come to a sudden halt and feel your eyes widen, and a bright grin spreads on your face as you catch Nanami walking over.

“Kenny!” You exclaim as if you hadn’t talked to him just last night.

Said man stops walking and lifts his head, and before he knows it you run over and wrap him in an embrace.

“What are you doing here?!” You ask excitedly and pull back to face your best friend.

“Now that I am here,” he says nonchalantly. “I’m having a terrible feeling. Your brother called me and said it was an emergency.”

You scoff and walk around him to slide your arm around his shoulders and face the others now around you two.

“You know her too, Nanamin?” Itadori interjects as he points at you, causing you to scoff with amusement as you hear the nickname he used.

“How come you didn’t say anything?!” Itadori demands to know.

You rest your chin on Nanami’s other shoulder and smile as you glance at him as he retorts. “Was I supposed to?”

“Yes! She’s famous!”

Nanami shrugs. “Well, here she is. Y/N is my best friend. Y/N, I hope your brother introduced them.”

You nod. “We’ve all introduced ourselves. But anyway, Kenny and I were classmates,” you share without shame. “We were in the same year. I’ve known him since his emo phase.”

“Stop.”

Itadori and Nobara grow curious and you grow enthusiastic. “He had bangs and long hair,” you giggle. “And he was always so moody and angsty…”

“Stop.”

“I think I have a picture. Do you have one Satoru?”

Your brother nods eagerly and you both reach for your phones, but before you can get them, Nanami steps away from you and he interrupts louder. “What is this about? Why did you call me, Gojo?”

Satoru smirks and keeps his hands in his pockets. “I told you already just some fun bonding stuff. I wanted y/n’s return to be a surprise, but it seems you already know—”

“Told him the moment you left,” you interject proudly.

Satoru hums with discontent. “Well you ruined it but anyway. My plan is still going to happen, so Nanami, please put on a smile, we're not high schoolers anymore.”

You snort and Nanami snaps at him. “I’ll punch you.”

“Gojo!” A familiar voice suddenly calls out.

You look back and see Yaga walking over to your brother, and he doesn’t take long to spot you amongst the crowd.

“Girl Gojo?” He mutters with disbelief.

You shoot him a pointed look and press on that with smugness. “I still hate that.”

“What are you doing here? Satoru explain this right now—”

“I hear you’re the principal of this school now,” you cut Yaga off whilst you continue walking to the car. “No wonder it still looks like shit.”

Yaga’s lips curl to a scowl, and you simply smirk before you look away and lean toward Nanami to whisper, “Satoru didn’t tell them I was coming did he?”

“Based on that reaction, no. Somethings never change.”

You hum in agreement and don’t wait for Satoru to catch up, you end up reaching the car and you run into another friend.

“Ijichi, my man!” You greet excitedly as you let the students climb to the back of the car first.

Ijichi’s face grows red and he gapes like a fish.

“Maybe this surprise thing was worth it,” you tease the man before you climb in the car to sit behind the driver seat, while Nanami sits beside you behind the passenger seat.

“Y/N,” Ijichi mutters as he gets in the driver's seat. “What are you doing here?”

“Hey, you know each other too?” Itadori cuts in as he leans forward.

You cross your leg over the other and nod. “Yeah, he was a first year when Nanami and I were second years. We’d all hang out.”

Itadori hums. “I would’ve thought Ijichi was older,” he says.

You laugh softly. “Satoru stresses him out, huh?”

“Well,” Ijichi parts his lips. Yet before he can continue Satoru appears, making Ijichi go quiet as you watch your brother jog to the car to catch up.

“Hey,” you add curiosily and lean forward to grab Ijichi’s shoulder. “Do you still have a crush on Ieiri?”

“Y/N,” Nanami warns.

You brush your friend off and nudge Ijichi. “Aw come on, we all knew. So tell me are you still in love with her?” You laugh, and from the corner of your eyes, you see the door open as your brother gets in.

“He totally is,” he quickly butts in. “He blushes like crazy when she talks to him.”

You giggle, and Ijichi grips onto the steering wheel.

“How’d you even hear?” Ijichi mumbles to Satoru.

“Uh, Nanami’s window is open,” Satoru points back as he closes his door.

Ijichi sighs and starts the car with a long and worried frown on his face.

“Hey, do you kids like boba?” You ask as you start planning where to go and eat. “I think I’m feeling some boba.”

“I love boba,” Nobara and Itadori both exclaim.

You smile and sit back. “Maybe some ramen after some leisure activities? We could go to that ramen place we like to go to that has that nice old lady cook, Ken?” You ask.

“Yeah,” Nanami agrees. “That place is good. Not sure how she’d feel when you walk in without Satori,” he points out.

The car starts moving, and you hum. “Yeah, that’s true, but oh well. We can go back with her another time.” You then look back over your seat to speak to the students. “Do you guys like ramen? I was thinking maybe we could get some lunch after we do what I have planned. Unless you guys want something else.”

Itadori and Nobara look at each other with disbelief so Fushiguro cuts in for them. “Ramen is good, miss.”

You giggle at the title but nod in comprehension. “Cool, now, Satoru, did you bring your wallet? I forgot mine at home.” You lie as you look at him and put on your seatbelt.

“No, I’m not paying for anything, you waste too much money,” Satoru quickly rebuttals.

You gasp and lean forward. “Huh? Come on, it’s my birthday month, you owe me! Ten years worth of presents.”

“No.”

“Come on,” you try to bribe your brother. “Just today. Plus it's not just for me, it’s for all the students and me,” you add with a small smile. “And Satori. And the twins.”

Satoru hums before he deadpans, “no.”

You cross your arms over your chest and grumble under your breath. “Suguru would never do this to me.”

You proceed to look out the window and watch the passing cars, you lift your eyes and see the cloud-littered sky rolling in grey and thicker clouds as rain begins to approach. You then glance at the people around you and you can’t help but smile down at your lap as you feel nostalgic.

Being in a car like this, being driven by someone in a business suit, and having your friend and your brother riding with you reminds you of your days as a student. And it should be bad, it should make you sad since in that time both Suguru and Haibara were alive, but when you look back at that time now, when you ignore the bad parts, you can’t help but feel all warm and happy when you get hit with past memories.

“I’m surprised the twins didn’t come along,” Nanami breaks the silence.

You look away from your lap and meet his gaze behind his goggles. “They’re with Larue today. Plus, they don’t like Satoru, so they avoid spending time with me when he’s with me.”

Nanami hums and then follows with another question. “And Satori?”

“Well,” you roll out and check the time on your phone. “Right now she’s supposed to be with the horses, so she should be taking care of that pony she was gifted,” you direct a bit spitefully at your brother.

Satoru hears your tone and quickly rebuttals. “She said she wanted a pony, so I got her one. And you have horses on the farm, so what’s the big deal?”

You lick your lips and explain as patiently as you can. “The deal is that you didn’t ask if you could get her a pony. You came with the pony.”

“I said. ‘I’m buying a big gift. Is it okay?’ You said yes,” he argues.

You sigh deeply and maintain your cool. “No, no. You didn’t specify. I thought you were going to get her a bike, or rollerblades. Not a pony, come on, Nanamin, back me up.”

“No, I'm staying out of it.”

You groan and continue nonetheless. “All I’m trying to say is that you have to let me know when you want to do that kind of stuff, okay? That’s all I’m trying to say.”

Satoru draws in a deep breath, and just as he breathes out to respond, Itadori cuts in with a question.

“You have a farm and horses?”

You peer back and nod softly. “Yeah, I have a community for sorcerers,” you let him know and notice the curiosity glimmering in his eyes. “It’s not big, we’re fifty people strong, but they have their own homes. We try to be as sustainable as possible without relying on non-sorcerers. We grow our crops, we have a greenhouse.” You add with a soft smile. “We have a farm with chickens, goats, cows, and horses.”

“Oh, that’s so cool! I want to ride a horse,” Itadori says as he leans forward.

“Maybe you and your friends can come over one day and go horseback riding, you can see the community for yourselves. Now I might be a bit biased, but our community is really beautiful and nice, so I’ll definitely arrange dinner or something so you can all see it!”

Itadori hums and blinks before he probes. “Is that why you hardly answer questions about yourself in interviews?”

You chuckle and nod. “Yeah for the most part. The other part is that I just don’t like non-sorcerers.”

Itadori laughs but you don’t mirror him, you stay with a serious expression on your face, so he quickly realizes you’re not joking.

“Is that what you mean by not relying on non-sorcerers?” Nobara cuts in as she catches that you’re being serious too.

You don’t back down and try to downplay your emotions for their sakes, you simply nod and give them your harsh truth. “Yeah, that's exactly it. Sure there’s still things they make that we use, you know, like my clothes. I’m not as strict as my husband was with that.”

“Can I ask,” Itadori says in a serious way now and with a perplexed look on his face. “Why is it that you have indifferences with non-sorcerers.”

“Itadori,” Fuhisguro warns quietly.

You shake your head and spare him a glance. “It’s fine. I don’t mind,” you assure him and look back at the pink-haired boy. “I have bad experiences with non-sorcerers. I think that they’re the reason curses are born, they're why—they’re the root of this plague we have to take out, that we risk our lives for, and that we lose our lives for. Perhaps they’re not all bad people, but I can never find it in me to care for them again, it’s that simple.”

Itadori’s lips part, and his eyes furrow slightly as he takes in what you said. As this image of you probably breaks the person you really are comes out and burns away that illusion.

Perhaps this is why they say you should never meet your idols.

“I’m sorry if that ruins any illusions of me,” you try to comfort him. “And I know that nothing I say will make my views any better, but just know that I would risk my life for people like you, and you,” you point at Nobara, and then look and point at Fushiguro. “And you. I fight for sorcerers, I built my community for sorcerers so they can find a home in this mess, so they can find help where there is none because people fear them. That’s my truth.”

Itadori’s eyes slowly drift down as he stays quiet and thinks, letting you sigh softly and take one last look at all of them processing your words before you turn back around and continue to look out the window.

This time instead of feeling nostalgic as you reminisce about your youth, you feel your heart ache as you think back to that group mission, the one where Suguru found you beaten and disheveled by that non-sorcerer. He saved you that day, he was your light in that void of darkness. And he’s gone now, he can never be that source of comfort to you ever again.

You sigh deeply and look at your left finger for comfort, for a piece of him, but you remember now as you look at your naked ring finger, that you took your rings off after you couldn't handle the deep ache that you felt every time you looked at them.

They’re safely tucked away in your jewelry box now. And his ring…is with him forever…

“Y/N,” you hear Nanami call out, so you lift your head and meet his gaze. He’s wearing his goggles so you can’t see what he feels, you only see a simple and faint frown, so you take that as concern and offer him a soft and assuring smile.

When you glance out the window again to see if you’re close, you notice that Ijichi passed the exit you need to take to get to the shopping center you wanted to go to.

“Wait!” You interject and sit up straighter as best as you can. “We missed the exit. We’re supposed to go to the shopping center.”

“What?” Ijichi asks worryingly. “But Gojo said we’re going to the mission.”

You snap your eyes to your brother looking out the window with a shit-eating grin on his face, and at that moment you know that he’s been lying. He was never going to take you shopping, or let you bond in a good way with the students, he’s taking you on a mission!

“You!” You growl and slam your finger down to unbuckle yourself and jump over behind his seat to slap your hands over his eyes. “You liar! I’ll burn your eyes out!”

Satoru cackles and grabs your wrists. “I never said we’d go shopping.”

“You could’ve said!” You sneer. “I am not dressed for a mission. Liar!”

“Please, sit down,” Ijichi quietly tries to cut in,

“We’re going to crash,” you hear Fushiguro mutter before Nanami interjects too.

“You’re embarrassing yourself y/n.”

“Only person who's going to be embarrassed Is Satoru when he can no longer use those six eyes of his!” You snap and press his head back, making him laugh harder before he suddenly goes quiet and you feel something wet and squishy on your hand.

“What?” You gasp but stop as you realize it was your brother's tongue that touched you. “Ew! Oh my gosh, ew!” You shout and sit back down but keep your hand out as you feel his saliva on your palm. “That’s so gross!”

You turn to try and wipe your hand on Nanami, but he catches your wrist and shakes his head. “Don’t you dare.”

Your disgust grows, and Satoru laughs menacingly from the front.

“Nanami, it’s drying,” you whine. “It’s drying on my hand!”

“You’re being dramatic.”

You gag and squirm your hand away and turn, making Nobara lean away, and causing a laughing Itadori to lean towards Fushiguro so you wouldn’t touch them either.

“I need hand sanitizer!”

“Here,” Fushiguro says in his nonchalant voice and reaches into his pocket to take out a small hand sanitizer.

You lean over and he squirts some on your palm, letting you rub your hands together rapidly so you can get rid of your brother's saliva before it becomes a part of you or something.

“Thanks, kid, you’re a lifesaver,” you tell him and sit back down.

“You’re almost 28 years old,” Nanami points out.

You shoot him a narrowed look and shrug. “So? That’s still gross and they’d understand if they have siblings. Do you guys?”

“No,” Nobara and Itadori share.

“Yeah,” Fushiguro is the only one that shares that similarity.

“Older or younger?” You ask.

“Older sister. But we don’t get along like that.”

You hum and muse, “yeah, because she’s your sister. An older sister would’ve been nice. Instead, I’m stuck with this rare case.”

“I am a rare case, I’m special,” Satoru says,

You scoff under your breath and nod. “That you are my dear brother. That you are,” you say sarcastically.

——

*LATER*

Abandoned amusement park? Does he actually want to accomplish your death sentence and kill you?

“Is this your idea of a joke?” You sneer. “You should’ve told me.”

A smirk twitches on his lips. “It was a surprise. Surprise.”

You narrow your gaze on him and he lifts his hand to lower a veil.

“Bond with them,” he says and steps back to lean against the car. “We can go wherever you want after. I’ll even let you use my card.”

You huff out and keep your eyes on him until the veil lowers and you can no longer hear him.

“There’s no point dwelling on it any longer,” Nanami says over his shoulder as he follows after the eager students. “You should’ve seen this coming too.”

You flip your brother off before you swiftly turn on your heels and storm after Nanami.

“I'm not changed for this,” you complain, “nor did I pack clothes or the right shoes for this.”

“When are you ever wearing the right shoes?” Nanami quips, making you roll your eyes over to him and groan dramatically.

Nanami drifts his eyes to you and a faint teasing smile tugs on his lips.

“I hate you both,” you grumble and pick up your pace to get past the entrance of this ugly and desolate park. “You kids need to be careful. It’s too quiet here so either the curses are hiding, or they’re waiting to attack. Eyes peeled and stances ready.”

You proceed to reach into your pocket and pull out a small and rolled-up worm curse. He figures out you need him without needing to be told and unrolls himself into his given size, letting you drape him around your neck and scratch his chin thereafter.

“So do you guys have any more questions?” You ask the students.

Itadori slows down and slowly peers back, he parts his lips but when his eyes land on what’s around your neck his eyes widen and he shouts. “Hey! Watch out, around your neck!”

Both Nobara and Fushiguro look back and they look just as confused, but you look at them nonchalantly.

“This?” You point to the worm. “He’s okay. He’s mine. His name is Worm.” You smile and scratch the top of his head, causing it to lean towards your touch, and making the students look at it disgusted.

“He’s very cool and convenient. Suguru took him in a decade ago, and after he died we bonded,” you let them know and walk past them as they stand there in bewilderment. “Now he’s with me all the time. If he’s not on me, he’s in my pocket.”

“That’s so gross—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” you cut Fushiguro off. “He’s helpful. He’s very helpful.” Plus why is he being so judgy? His father owned the worm before Suguru and you did.

“Don’t listen to them,” you tell the worm. “They just don't know you yet. You helped a lot in Egypt.” You smirk and give it one last pet before you sigh and glance around at the abandoned rides invaded by greenery, and ugly-looking by all the rust build-up.

Chills run up your spine as you spot a clown ride hidden between the tall golden grass. “Ew, if we run into a clown cursed spirit I will burn Satoru’s eyes out of his skull.”

“Whatever it is,” Nanami interjects. “It’s big so you might just have to do that regardless.”

Your friend falls beside you and keeps an eye out for any curses while you lean over and whisper. “Don’t you think Satoru relies a little bit too much on his students? He or you could’ve come to do this mission alone. I mean they couldn't identify what grade the curse lurking here was.”

“I suppose he trusts you with them,” Nanami says, making you avert your gaze. “But sometimes, yes I do. But…it’s his way of teaching. He’ll never let anything happen to them that’s for sure.”

You hum and mumble with disappointment in yourself. “I wouldn't know really.” You’ve only seen him interact with your daughters, and he’s nice with them, but you don’t really know what he’s like with his students. It’s a consequence of being apart for so long.

“He wouldn't let anything happen to them,” Nanami reassures his statement.

You hum again as you nod.

“Hey!” Nobara interrupts from behind. “What are you two talking about over there?!”

You peer back and quickly throw something out. “Taxes?”

“You suck,” Namami whispers.

“It’s October,” Fushiguro points out.

You shrug. “I’m a millionaire, I have to start somewhere.”

“Tax evasion,” Nanami says, pulling your attention back to him. “Add that to your list of crimes.”

You feign a laugh and push him to the side. Nanami smiles again, and this time you hear gasps coming from behind you as they see that rare gesture on a serious man.

“I can list my crimes,” you joke.

Nanami scoffs. “It’s nothing to show off actually. So focus, or���maybe that clown curse will sneak up on you.” The corner of his lips tug wider as he walks ahead, and you fake more laughter.

“Can I ask,” you hear Nobara say as she walks up to you. “Why did you defect from the school? Was it for that husband of yours?”

You laugh softly and shake your head. “No, he helped me leave, but no…” you exhale deeply and glance at Nanami. “I decided to leave after I failed to save my friend. It was on a mission, but I failed to save him. I failed my own goal of helping my friends, so it was my last straw. Some things happened after but that’s why I left. I knew I wouldn't be happy if I stayed at school, I couldn't be who I wanted to be so I defected and never looked back. I’m better because of it.”

Nobara ponders for a moment before she quietly brings up something. “But you’re a special grade.”

You nod softly. “Yeah, I always have been. But that’s because of my technique and its potential. I unfortunately had a lot to learn about myself,” you share with her. “I wasn’t naturally skilled like my brother, my technique took a while to really grasp and control. The elements…” you pause and lift pieces of dirt off the ground and spin them around on your palm with the wind, so she can see.

“…Are hard to control,” you continue. “They’re alive, they’re strong, so I struggled, but I learned. I’m still learning, but I’m strong now,” you say and drop the dirt and let the wind go. “Just like you will be too.”

Nobara meets your gaze with disbelief and you nod confidently.

“I’ll tell you something,” you whisper so she could be the only one to hear. “As a woman, many people like to doubt us and our power. They see us and even if we’re special grade or first, they see weakness. That’s why we can gain the upper hand and show off how strong we are. Never let anyone tell you that you can either be strong or a woman. You can be both. Be both and beat their ass.”

Nobara grins and nods eagerly. “Nicely put, I like that!”

You smile and when you meet her gaze your smile falters. “You’re not freaked out? By my views I mean? I understood if you were.”

Nobara looks away. “Well I can’t say I agree with you, or that I ever will,” she says. “I can’t see you the same as before, but I like to think I'm a good judge of character. If you were bad you wouldn't be here risking your life for Itadori. Besides, Gojo talks about you all the time. He might be weird, but if you were bad he wouldn’t trust you with his students.”

Your eyes widen with shock, and you have to quickly pick on that matter. “Really? What does he say?”

It’s probably just about Satori though.

“Well,” she says. “He likes to talk about what you’d do as kids. He’d talk about the things he’d teach you, and that you were always his best student…”

Your eyes begin to sting and a smile tugs on your lips.

“He mentions your uh, years in high school. He really likes to tell stories about his youth with you and his friends. I just never thought it’d be you. He never said your name, and even if he did I never pieced it together. And he likes to mention that we can have lives outside of being sorcerers, just like you.”

She’s a first-year, so you can't know if he’s talked about you to his other students before, you’ve never asked Hakari or Kirara. But now that Nobara has mentioned it, it just seems unbelievable; he’s never mean towards you when he’s at your house or when you spend time together because of Satori, but deep inside you always think that he is mad over the things you’ve done, over the life you chose to live.

The doubt is still pretty much a lively thing. You feel it poisoning your mind every time you see him or talk to him. It just repeats itself over and over again. He’s still mad at you. He's still mad at you…

He’ll never forgive you or look at you the same.

It’s a pesky thing really.

“Hm, well how nice of him,” you muse nonchalantly. “I wish he’d follow his own advice and live a life for himself.” You look ahead and notice a tent ahead so you aim for that to check for any curses. “Now, do you think Itadori will…talk to me again?” You look back and see him walking beside Fushiguro. “He’s been quiet since I’ve talked about my views in life.”

Nobara follows your line of gaze and shrugs. “Yeah once he sees you’re not bad, he’ll warm up again. Just give him time.”

You stretch your arms out and share a comprehensive hum before you sneak over to the tent.

You don’t sense any cursed energy, but you have to make sure so they don’t get a jump on you.

Nevertheless, when you open the flap and peek inside you just see trash.

“Nothing,” you let everyone know before you look at the three students walking over to try and take a peek too. “Do you guys sense anything?” You question them and step aside.

The three of them pop their heads inside and stay quiet as their eyes roam the inside.

“No,” Fushiguro answers for all of them.

You nod. “Good. Always keep your guard up. When there are strong curses they hide. And then they attack when they see your back turned,” you give them some friendly advice before you step out.

“Another thing,” you add. “Clothes. This will apply once you’re out of school mostly. If you decide to stay as a sorcerer that is then clothes matter. Right now your uniforms help, but once you’re out you’ll find something that helps you with your technique, or just simply when you’re fighting. For example, I have two outfits, my jumpsuit, and a dress.”

“A dress?” Itadori questions.

You nod. “It's a light dress that helps me feel the flow of the wind,” you explain right away so they don’t think you’re weird for fighting in a dress. “It helps me also with the flow of my cursed energy, and transferring it to the elements around me. Of course,” you say smugly. “If you see me wearing my dress you should run the other way. I only ever wear it when I mean business. When the fight is extreme. So mostly against another sorcerer.”

“So,” Itadori interjects and walks forward. “Do you change mid-battle, or how does that work?”

“Uh, I burn off my jumpsuit. I wear my dress under my things. Or I use it over the jumpsuit, I just fix it you know so it’s not obvious and it looks like a part of the jumpsuit. It’s cool.”

“You burn it off? Nice.”

You smirk and nod. “Except that I have to carry extra clothes with me everywhere, but!” You exclaim and pet the worm's head. “That’s why I have him, he keeps everything for me.”

The worm smiles and you beam at it, getting weirded-out reactions from the kids.

“Y/N,” Nanami calls out and pulls your attention to him—“there. Pay attention.”

You follow where he points to and see a closed-off roller rink. Before you can reach the entrance you all come to a stop and search for any sign of a curse.

And right away when you focus, you sense a big amount of cursed energy that makes you think it might be a first-grade curse.

So it’s dangerous. For the students.

“Itadori and I will go around the back, you, Fushiguro, and Nobara take the front. Let’s do it like we did in the old times, yeah?” You ask with a small smile.

Nanami sighs but nods in agreement. “Sure. Be careful.”

You nod and then point ahead before you lead the way around the back of the roller rink.

“What do you mean like old times?” Itadori queries.

You smile over at him. “We’d surround the curses,” you reminisce. “Try and get a jump on it and just coordinate our fights so we could work as a team. It’d work all the time…” you trail off and frown as you think back to the one time and the last time it didn't work in your favor.

“We’ll do that again,” you brush off the sorrow. “You take the right, I’ll take the left. Meet up in the middle and jump it. If it gets too bad you take your friends and wait for Nanami and me outside though, understand?”

Itadori narrows his eyes and seems to want to argue but he sighs and nods stiffly. “Fine,” he mutters.

You scoff in amusement and look at the back door you’re approaching. And just before you can reach it, you think of getting out a blade and reach for the worm.

Without any hesitation, the worm opens its mouth and pushes out your blade that you pull out without thought.

“Oh, what?!” Itadori freaks out. “How did it do that?”

You narrow your eyes on the doorknob and slowly wrap your hand around it as you answer. “That’s his skill. He can keep stuff inside without changing size, something as big as a car and down to a penny without ever losing it,” you whisper as you open the door. “That’s why he’s a good companion.”

The worm turns his head to look at Itadori beside you, and from the corner of your eyes, you see Itadori reach for the worm's mouth.

“No,” you stop his attempts. “It doesn’t work that way. He only works with whom it’s bonded to—or serving if you want simpler terms. You’ll just get swallowed or a handful of sticky saliva.”

“Ew.”

“Yeah, but it’s cool.” You smirk and the worm smirks too.

Itadori nods even if you see that he looks creeped out by the worm and you with matching expressions. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “It actually is.”

You proceed to reach for the worm's mouth again, and this time you pull out two daggers. “Here,” you nudge Itadori. “Use them. Just in case. If you don’t need to use your cursed energy, don't waste it, be resourceful, your life may depend on it. Or if that’s not your case, then it’s always just good to carry something extra just in case.”

“Oh,” he mouths and gently grabs the weapons. “Thank you…they’re sticky.”

You glance at him and nod. “Yeah, you get used to it.”

You then tap into your fire and summon flames to your palm to bask the length of the blade in flames so you can see through the darkness that invades the roller rink.

“I’ll go right, you go left,” you remind him a bit quieter. “You get into any trouble, shout, or text me,” you pause and reach for the worm’s mouth to pull out a card. “Here.”

His eyebrows raise in disbelief and he whispers loudly. “For me?”

You nod. “We’ll be working together a lot so it’s better to be friends than acquaintances.”

Itadori meets your gaze and nods with a look of surprise on his face. You offer him a tiny smile before you begin to move towards the right side.

The roller rink is quiet so you make sure to step quietly to keep it that way and double-check the rooms you pass so there aren't any curses hiding around.

And for the most part, the ghost is clear except for when you reach a bathroom door and follow a blood trail to the end of the bathroom. Only a curse isn't lurking there eating a person, there’s only a person bleeding out from his side.

“Help,” he says hoarsely as he slowly looks up at you. “Please something attacked me—oh, I know you. You’re famous, yeah?”

You study the bleeding man and don’t sense any high levels of cursed energy so it means he’s a non-sorcerer.

“What attacked you,” you ask as you come to a stop a few feet away.

The man clutches onto his side and begins to cry, making your face slowly twist with disgust.

“I don’t know,” he cries, “my friend was attacked by something invisible, and it tried to get me too but I managed to run away! Please help me. Please.”

You slowly lower the blade in your hand and lower your chin to express feigned pity and concern.

“I will,” you lie and slowly stride to him as the flames that basked your blade dies and leaves the bathroom dark. When you step on a pool of his blood a smirk tugs on your lips and a menacing look paints in your gaze. You proceed to reach for his hand, but before you can touch him you swing the blade and slice his throat.

“Time for lunch,” you mutter nonchalantly to your worm as the man falls limp on the cold ground. “Come find me when you’re done,” you let your worm know as you pull him off your neck and put him down by the dead man.

One thing you doubt will ever change throughout your life is your hatred for non-sorcerers. You can’t exactly find any easier way to rid this world of them without the help of Suguru, so you’ve put that dream on hold. But that hatred will never change.

Nevertheless, you walk out of the bathroom and ignite the blade again. Before you can walk out of the hall and come across the rink, you hear a creepy cackle, meaning they’ve found the curse. Great.

It better not be some clown or a large spider-like curse. Please, please no.

You reach the double doors and let out a deep breath before you slowly push the door open. As you peek through the crack you groan as you see a large body with a ridiculous dull clown costume, and bright red hair sticking out the sides.

Really? Really?! A fucking clown?

Clowns are fucking scary…

“You’ll pay for this Satoru,” you whisper and drift your eyes past the clown curse and spot Nanami in front of it with his blade out, but you can't see Nobara and Fushiguro, nor can you see Itadori around.

Which is good. No matter how much you should teach them, why should they be on the front lines facing something above their grade if you’re here?

As long as you can, you’ll protect people like you. Even if you hardly know them.

Which is why you tiptoe out before the students get angsty, and quietly watch Nanami kick the clown in the rink.

The clown quickly tries to swing its claw for hands at your friend, but Nanami dodges and slides past it. When he lands behind the clown curse he spots you walking out the back doors, so you hastily point your eyes to the side so the clown won’t see you so you can catch it by surprise.

Nanami nods stiffly as he reads what you want without being told, and pulls the clown's attention to the side, letting you continue to quietly maneuver past turned-over tables and broken wooden chairs. When the clown turns abruptly you quickly go down and hide behind a table.

And as you do you spot Itadori at your far left side hiding behind a booth with greenery growing around it. His brown eyes find you and he steps forward to help his mentor, but you put your hand out and he stops. You don’t want to give out your presence so you mouth to him.

“Wait.”

Itadori quirks one eyebrow up in confusion, causing you to sigh deeply before you close your hand to signal him to hold.

He understands now so he mouths, “oh,” before he nods once in agreement.

You scoff in amusement and continue to move on ahead in your crouched position. When you reach the rink you finally spot Megumi and Nobara on metal vents above ground. So it means Nanami is actually following along with your old plans.

It’s surprising that he is. Even if you agreed to it moments before you still can’t help but be surprised since it’s been so long since you’ve worked together. It makes you happy and eager honestly.

Regardless, you step into the rink and before the clown can see you, you scurry over, and when you get close enough you change your pace to a sprint before you hop off your feet. As gravity pulls you back down you pull the blade up, and just as you get close you rapidly swing down with force and slice down the clown's back, making it cry out and try to swing its arm back.

Yet before he can touch you, you push yourself off his back to land on the floor swiftly and slide back.

The clown's eyes land on you, and it begins to growl, showing sharp black teeth. It then tries to turn completely, but you use your technique and trap its feet using pieces of the ground. Nanami then follows by swinging his blade across its chest.

And the power of his swing is so strong that the clown goes flying back. Albeit just before you can see it hit the ground, a large brown bird shikigami appears from nowhere and grabs the clown with its talons. It then takes it across the rink and slams it against a wall to zap it with purple electricity before it lets it go and disappears through the shadows.

The wall behind the clown crumbles, welcoming in natural light from the outside, while the clown itself tumbles down.

You know it’s not done yet though, it got weakened, but it’s done fighting. However, Nanami and you still approach it cautiously. And just as predicted the clown suddenly throws its hands out and they suddenly stretch out towards Nanami and you.

You get ready to attack, but then in a blink of an eye, you’re surprised by how fast Itadori slams his body against the clown’s arms before he wraps his own

arms around one and pushes it towards the other. When the arms are pressing against each other a dozen nails impale both arms.

Nobara lands before Nanami and you, and with a simple snap the nails implode and blow both arms to pieces.

“Wow,” you gasp through the silence with a proud smile. “Satoru once again has an impressive bunch here.”

“He owes us for lying though,” Nanami mutters.

“Yeah, he’ll pay,” you agree and listen to the clown begin to cackle again. “Careful,” you warn the kids. “It’ll probably heal its arms back.”

Megumi jumps off the vents and lands beside Nanami, while you narrow your eyes on the clown and begin to walk towards it. The clown then suddenly goes quiet, and before you know it the clown throws its body out as it enlarges so big its head hits the ceiling. It then reaches for a flower on its chest and when he presses it water shoots and aims at Nobara, so you change your pace to a run.

However, when you get close to her you slide forward on your feet, and then lift two fingers to use your technique and split the water in half before it could touch Nobara or you.

The clown cries out at its failure, and you flash it a cocky grin while you also manipulate the water to travel around Nobara and you.

“Cool,” Nobara muses before you shoot the clown's own prank water at its eyes.

The moment water hits the clown's eyes, you see steam rising and watch the clown try and grab its eyes as the water seems to melt away his eyes.

“Well,” you joke to lighten the mood. “Good thing we didn’t get splashed by that huh?”

Nobara scoffs, and Itadori uses this time while it’s distracted to run over and throw it a strong right hook that hurls the clown to the side. And rather than stumbling, you see Megumi meet it with a punch that sends it back to the left.

You take advantage of this moment and sprint forward before you hop and impale the curse through the jaw.

The clown begins to laugh menacingly, but before it can attack, both Megumi and Itadori come at it from the sides and use the daggers you had handed Itadori to impale the clown's eyes.

With that last move, the clown goes limp and you pull your blade out and let yourself fall to the ground. When Megumi and Itadori land on their feet, the clown's corpse begins to disappear, bringing an end to this fight.

“It's over,” you assure them and let out a deep and relieved breath. “Good job.”

“Save it until we see if the veil fell,” Nanami counters you and walks past you to walk to the gap left on the wall.

You quickly follow after him and push yourself past his side to poke your head out. Luckily rather than seeing a dim sky you can’t help but smile as you see the vivid blue sky and fluffy grey clouds.

“See,” you nudge Nanami. “Over!” You spin around on your heels and shoot the kids a grin. “Great job everyone, you all did amazing. Great teamwork, and great quick thinking!”

They all seem to look a bit surprised by your compliment but they smile softly and take your compliment with a sweet thank you.

Your worm curse finally shows up and the moment he sees you he drags himself as fast as he can to reach you.

“Why don’t we get out, huh?” You suggest. “Maybe get some well-deserved boba.”

When the worm reaches your feet you pick him up and hang him around your neck before you put away your blade and step outside through the gap.

“Y/N,” you hear Itadori call out before he falls beside you.

“Hm?” You hum and look at him with a curious look.

Itadori holds the daggers out and offers you a faint half-smile. “Thanks for letting me use them, they came in handy.”

“Oh,” you say and smile. “No problem.”

Instead of grabbing them, you offer him an assuring nod, and he grins and tucks the daggers in the worm.

“Sick,” he laughs.

You smile softly at him in admiration as you see a flash of Haibara again. They also have the same sweet look in their eyes, that warm kindness and bright glimmer even after they’ve seen the worst thing imaginable.

“Look,” you interject softly. “I’m not sorry for the way I think. I have my reasons, I won’t preach my views to you either, I just hope,” you sigh and earn his undivided attention. “That we can look past our indifferences. At least while we work together. It’d be very awkward if we had tension.”

Itadori drifts his eyes away and looks ahead before he responds in a kind voice. “I don’t agree with the way you think, but I’ve gotten to know your world and I can say that it isn’t easy, and I can never know what happened that made you think the way you do,” he says in such a deep and wise manner even though he's only fifteen years old.

“But I do respect you,” he continues, catching you by surprise. “You helped fight this curse today. You didn’t have to. You helped Nobara and you didn’t have to. For that I respect you. Besides, Nanami and Gojo trust you too, and I trust their judgment, so I trust you too. Plus you’re so much cooler now that I’ve seen you in action.”

You laugh softly.

“I’m looking forward to working with you, y/n,” he finishes saying, making your smile soften.

“I’m looking forward to working with you too,” you mirror sweetly.

Itadori offers you a tiny smile, making you pat his shoulder and give him another compliment. “You did good kid. Now, do you want to see some pictures of Nanami when he was in high school? I have videos saved here too.”

“Oh, can I?!” He exclaims.

“Y/N, don’t you dare!” Nanami shouts.

You peer back and pull your phone out in a taunting manner. Your friend glares at you and you turn your phone on and unlock it before you go to your camera roll.

“You never change,” he mutters.

You smirk. “You’re so annoying,” you mock him by saying what he’d tell you all the time when you were students yourselves.

“You’re almost 28.”

“You’re almost 28,” you mimic him, making his lip curl to a soft scowl. “Anyway!” You laugh and click on the folder where you have the old pictures. “This is us. And that’s him.”

Itadori takes your phone away from you and laughs. “Whoa! Nanamin your hair!”

You giggle and see Nanami clench his jaw.

“I want to see!” Nobara exclaims before she runs over and pushes Itadori slightly as she holds the phone to look too.

“You can scroll through that folder,” you assure them. “You’ll find Ieiri and Satoru there too.”

“Hey, look, it's Master Gojo!” Itadori shouts excitedly, making Fushiguro quietly walk over to look at the pictures with his friends too. You, on the other hand, slow down to catch up to Nanami.

“Reminds me of us,” you muse softly.

“Except neither of them is a spoiled rich girl,” he tries to get back at you for revealing pictures of his youth.

“Your hair is pink and super short!” Nobara points out.

“It was a phase!” You counter.

“A mistake,” Nanami corrects you and laughs quietly. “I told him it was too light.”

You giggle. “He got the measurements all wrong. He wasn’t good at math.”

Nanami shakes his head in agreement with your comment. “No. No, he was not.”

You sigh deeply and your smile fades. “You think everything’s going to be okay?” You ask quietly as you watch Nobara, Itadori, and Fushiguro talking and smiling as they look through the pictures and watch the videos you have saved—“they deserve better than what we had.”

Nanami lets out a deep breath and nods stiffly. “They do, but there’s no way of knowing,” he doesn’t hide the truth.

You’re thankful for that even if it gives you a bad feeling in your gut.

“All we can do is hope and fight for them to get better, right?” You add another question to feel some comfort through the bad feeling forming like a storm.

“Yeah,” Nanami whispers. “That’s right.”

You hum softly in comprehension and continue to watch them with admiration and a soft smile even though the storm continues to brew within you.

.

.

.

.

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A/N- Let’s enjoy these moments :/….

Tagged- @deniseabad1928 @secondary-character-25 @starlightanyaaa @notsaelty @d4rno @moonnime @kodzukein @yozora7154

[wttcsms]

daylight [pt. ii] ; colt grice.

pairing colt grice x f!reader word count 19.2k synopsis colt grice's life has never been easy, and it's about to get a hell of a lot worse. content contains sw!reader, canon discrimination against eldians, derogatory terms towards women author's notes if you count part one, it took nearly 32k words for them to share their first kiss. who says the pwp writer can't have range? also, i'm always in a constant state of thanks to @mochalate, who constantly motivates me to work on this fic <3

part two: no kissing 

Colt Grice’s first kiss catches him off guard. 

He’s sixteen, and the positives that come from puberty are finally showing up. Now, instead of waking up with achy bones and joint pain, he’s nearly six feet tall. All traces of boyhood have been shredded, and in its place is a face with sharp features and nice bone structure that has spent years being hidden under baby fat. Like every other hopeless case living in Liberio, Colt enlists in the military because there aren’t many other options for him out there. He joins later than the others because up until he was fourteen, he wasn’t a hopeless case.

Then, Dad got sick. Bills needed to be paid. Colt was more than ready to sign up for the Marleyan military considering the fact that the average starting age is twelve — for “late bloomers,” that is. It had been this whole entire embarrassing ordeal, really. He stood out from his first bunkmates, all gangly bones and a less-than-sunny disposition on the world and its current state affairs compared to the hopefulness his younger fellow cadets all seemed to harbor. 

Colt doesn’t want Marley to go to war. He doesn’t want to die; he only enlisted because his family needed him to, even if they begged and pleaded with him not to. His paychecks get sent directly to his family, by his request. 

The uniform fits him awkwardly, too, at first. He thinks this is why he probably wasn’t on the receiving end of positive female attention. He sticks out like a sore thumb during mandatory lineup because he’s a whole head taller and several years older than everyone else who’s getting in formation. His pants fit weird, stopping at an odd point that’s an inch too high above his ankles, and the strap on his helmet is too tight and digs into the skin of his chin, resulting in him walking around with a constant red impression on the bottom of his face. He gets promoted quickly because of his test scores and ends up surpassing all his peers in his proper age bracket, too. It’s around this time that he starts taking charge, too used to having to play big brother for his original cadet class (with their chubby faces and short statures, they reminded him all too much of Falco and what he had to leave behind; settling into this role came too naturally). At this point, the uniform fits perfectly. 

The yellow armband he’s rewarded with fits just right, too.

At age sixteen, Colt Grice is officially transferred to the Warrior Unit as a Candidate. He has to prove his devotion to the cause; this means choking down more propaganda to the point where everything that comes out of his mouth is coated in Marleyan ideals, and it’s this whole entire thing where he stands up and does an oath, swearing his eternal, unwavering allegiance to Marley. It’s a public affair. The Unit makes him out to be a role model, the poster boy of sorts, for the Warrior Unit. To show the world that while being an Eldian makes you equivalent to cannon fodder, that doesn’t mean you can’t be thankful. 

He’s the closest thing this shithole has to a success story. 

Armed with what can be considered a Marleyan stamp of approval, and the fact that Colt now fills out his uniform quite nicely, in that primitive, hyper-masculine way that makes the female hindbrain go buckwild at the sight of him in it, he gains an insane amount of popularity. 

Colt isn’t a stranger to having so many admirers, now, but sometimes he still feels like that awkward fourteen year old boy playing at being a man. It’s why he’s so shocked when the girls who pursue him turn out to be very forward.

He doesn’t even expect the kiss. He’s back in the internment zone for a holiday break, and Susie had asked him to pretty please meet her behind the old schoolhouse. Colt doesn’t suspect anything will happen, but he does mentally prepare himself to give the usual response that he gives to all the confessions he receives: you’re a very nice girl, but I can’t give you the time and care you deserve; my current and only devotion lies with the military.

Susie is a very nice girl. With her short, curly brown hair and hazel-colored eyes, Colt is certain that there are plenty of boys who wouldn’t mind a love confession from her. She was one of the most popular girls back in school, or at least, Colt thinks she was. And her parents are one of the more well-off Eldians in the area; her dad’s a doctor. Her dad is Dad’s doctor, the recipient of a fourteen year old Colt’s meager military stipends. He wonders if she knows this, if she cares, if it would make a difference.

She doesn’t say anything to warn him that the kiss is coming. She rounds the corner, spots him in her line of vision, and heads straight towards him. He thinks she’ll stop at the last second, but she doesn’t, and by the time she’s too close for comfort, it’s too late.

Her lips press against his, and her eyes are closed. He knows her eyes are closed because his are wide open from shock. It lasts for two seconds, and it’s because that’s how long it took for him to regain control of his body and pull back. 

Then he apologizes and tells her that that wasn’t supposed to happen, and he can’t be with anyone right now. Shock is still clearly in his system because without even thinking too hard about it, Colt immediately turns his back on her and runs straight home. To this day, he feels bad about how he handled the situation, but last he’s heard is that Susie is married now. 

He licks his lips reflexively as he stares up at the ceiling. He wonders what your first kiss was like. He hopes for your sake that it was good, or as good as a first kiss can be. Then, he feels an unfamiliar, uncomfortable pit in his stomach at the idea of you kissing some nameless, faceless stranger. It gets even worse when he imagines that the kiss is good, that it’s something you enjoy. And then he just feels pathetic when he realizes that it’s jealousy he’s experiencing. 

It’s unfair of him to be envious of any of your past partners because Colt knows that he does not have a claim on you. He does not own you, nor does he believe that you are a possession, that you’re something to be owned. He is well aware that you are your own person, with your own experiences, and a whole lifetime lived before and without him. For all he knows, he’s just a footnote in the story of your life.

This thought makes him sad.

Fuck. He wants to turn his body and plant his face into his pillow and scream. He won’t do that because he’s nothing but courteous to his bunkmates, but this has been such a recurring urge lately that Colt is wary that this is going to be a problem if he doesn’t get his shit together, and fast. 

He finds himself thinking about you — he wouldn’t dare to go so far as to describe it as being “more often than he would like” because the fact of the matter is that he enjoys thinking about you, doesn’t mind you being the one singular thought that remains on his mind — and that’s the core of the issue. 

He repeats your name in his head like a mantra, until he’s certain that he can formulate sentences using your name as the only word. He says it in his head with different cadences, stresses the syllables in a different way every time, wonders if you ever think about him in a similar manner. 

It’s been a week since he last saw you. The bruises on his face have healed up quite nicely, and the cut isn’t even going to leave a scar, according to one of the nurses. As a result of falling asleep in your bed and having to limp back to base at the crack of dawn, Colt’s punishment is that he isn’t allowed to leave the grounds for the next two weeks. 

“What the hell were you doing, boy?” Commander Magath has the type of voice that is always booming. He is consistently loud, and Colt has long since discovered that that’s just simply how Magath sounds. Colt recalls flinching at his commanding officer’s question (re: he’s still recovering from a mild concussion, and Magath’s loudness isn’t helping much in the healing process), and, because Colt happens to come back at the odd period of time where the soldiers on watch are doing their shift changes, there’s an audience. 

Colt knows he’s stuck in between a rock and a hard place. He would rather run one hundred laps around base than ever admit he missed curfew because he was at a brothel. He also knows that he doesn’t have it in him to directly lie to an authority figure, especially when it’s a Marleyan officer. Looks like indoctrinating children really does have some lasting side effects. 

“I fell asleep, sir.” 

“Well, no shit!” 

Colt attempts not to wince when some tiny droplets of spit fly out of Magath’s mouth and land on his cheeks. He thinks it would only piss off the commander some more.

“I think it’s because of the concussion, sir. I thought going into town would help clear my head, but I ended up knocking out before I could even remember to head back to base.” Not a lie. Colt would never willingly fall asleep on you because he knows most of his time with you is limited. He has to make the most of it. 

At the mention of the injuries sustained, Colt thinks Magath’s expression somewhat softens. It must be a trick of the light, though, or maybe his head got more banged up than he realized because Magath is back to berating him, saying that he would expect this dumbass behavior from anyone else in the Warrior Unit but him — which could be taken as a sort of compliment, if only he didn’t follow it up with a reminder that everyone in said unit is such a breed of stupid that a common idiot off the street could be considered a genius compared to them. Well, idiot or not, Colt’s well aware that Magath’s definitely insulting him and his peers.

But when his only punishment is to remain confined to the base, he knows better than to try to argue his way to a lighter sentence. 

On nights like these, nights where he can’t seem to fall asleep because every slumber pales in comparison to the one he spent with you, he stares up at the ceiling of his bedroom and prays to every power in the universe that you are having a good night. 

As far as bad nights go, you think this one might top the list. At minimum, it ranks somewhere in the top ten worst nights of your life. 

Ramzi is sick. You would think that being exposed to the elements on a daily basis and eating food well past its prime date for consumption would make Ramzi immune to most common ailments, but if anything, it makes him even more susceptible to sickness. While he’s plenty grown up now, being sick seems to make Ramzi revert back to a little kid, to indulge in the boyhood he never had the luxury of enjoying. 

“You can’t leave me! I don’t feel well!” 

Even with a runny nose, a persistent cough, and his ongoing battle against his body’s fluctuating temperatures (he’ll throw off his blankets because he’s overheating only to be shivering not even five minutes later), he still has just enough strength to test his luck and see if his complaints will be enough to get you to stay home. 

His antics, while proof of his love for you, are starting to get on your nerves. The time you spend running around, trying to get him situated when his one goal in life is to act like he’s unbearably uncomfortable so you keep tending to him, is making you late. The other girls who live in this camp had stopped by earlier, asking if you were ready to leave. At that point, you had been in the process of bundling Ramzi up in several blankets (he frees himself ten minutes later, complaining that he was getting “too hot”) and told them to go along without you.

Now, you realize you’re going to be late to your first scheduled appointment of the night. 

Fuck.

If you leave now and run like the hounds of hell are nipping at your heels, you could probably make it to the brothel at a decent enough time to where Willa wouldn’t have to intervene on your behalf. You know things are bad if Willa gets involved. 

Before you lose your patience and snap at Ramzi, the opening of your tent is being pulled back. 

“No work tonight?” Malik asks. 

“I wish.” And then, “Did you need something?” The I’m kind of busy goes unsaid, but it’s clear in the agitated tone of your voice. 

“Just wanted to stop by and check up on you two. It’s been a while.” 

Malik doesn’t apologize. Probably on account of the toxic masculinity that seems to run rampant around this camp — this whole society, really — but he means well. Most of the time. From what you can see, at least. 

You know him stopping by and saying this is his idea of extending an olive branch to you. Usually, you would tease him at this point, ask him if he forgot how to say the words “I’m sorry.” All you can think about, though, is that he has the worst fucking timing. 

“Yeah, I guess it has been.” You tell him, opening up your trunk and pulling out the pair of socks Colt had gifted to you. In the box containing all of your meager possessions, the ointment lays on top of everything. You’re not facing Malik, anymore; instead, you pull on this pair of socks before slipping into your shoes. 

The stark whiteness of the cotton stands out from the usual colorful swaths of fabric prevalent in the camp. It’s too bright, too squeaky clean, to properly fit in your life of once-grand clothes that have retained only a fraction of the beauty and boldness it once held.  Malik innocently asks you where you got the socks from. 

“A customer.” You answer, and this shuts him up for now. If there is anything in this world that Malik hates more than admitting his fault and apologizing, it is any discussion of what you do for work. It’s an unspoken rule that the two of you don’t talk about your time at the brothel. For once, you’re glad about it. 

“I’m about to go to work right now. Could you do me a favor and watch over Ramzi for the time being? He’s sick, and I’m worried how he’s going to feel later on in the night.” Minding your manners, you look Malik in the eyes and tack on a please at the end of your request.

“You know I don’t mind.” He doesn’t break eye contact with you. You think you detect something different in the intensity of the stare he’s giving you; more serious, with an almost broody concern evident in those dark eyes of his. “I’ll be waiting here when you get back. We’ll talk more then, okay?” 

You’re already running horribly late. You don’t have time to argue, to remind him that the last thing you’re in the mood for is a conversation you’re unprepared for, especially after a long shift. Instead, you give a slight nod in acknowledgment, and practically sprint out of the tent. 

The cold wind whips you in the face as you make your way to the red light district. Usually, the sun is just barely starting to set when you make your journey; it’s jarring to see how different the walk feels when you’re by yourself, and it’s starting to get dark out. 

The closer you get to the district, the more the fact that you are a woman, alone, in a more dangerous, more lawless area of the city, starts to loom over you. You tighten your coat around your body, practically hugging yourself as you try to quicken your pace. The cold air bites through the fabric of your clothes, chills you to your bones, leaves goosebumps all over your flesh. 

The streetlights are dim, the pavement cracked, and you are well aware that the cold soaking through your skin right now isn’t just from the weather, but from the lecherous stares of the men walking down the street. This is the same path you’ve taken for years now, but tonight, it is entirely too different. You never noticed just how tiny you are compared to the heavyset frames of the men standing outside, with their burly shoulders that could easily knock you down if they were to accidentally run into you. 

Even the scenery feels different. You’ve walked down this street enough times to recognize where the deep potholes in the road are, and usually the buildings lining the district are a source of odd comfort to you. There’s a familiar bar, but its usual warm glow of light emitting from within doesn’t serve as a means of brightness anymore. Now, the lighting from inside casts weird shadows on the faces of the passerby, distorts their features, gives your paranoia something to feed off of. 

“Hey, girlie,” a raspy voice startles you. It’s been so long since you’ve had to worry about yourself — always choosing to focus on the surroundings for the sake of the other girls, always never having to because girls develop a sort of stupid invincibility when they link arms and take the town together — that you’re caught off guard by the sudden feel of a man’s hand on your shoulder. 

Fight or flight. 

You choose the weakest of the options: freeze. 

You realize that you’re scared to look at the man. Your eyes dart nervously down the street, taking in the surrounding buildings, but you realize that there is no one here who will be able to rescue you. Survival instincts kick in, and you find yourself able to back away from him, but his hand grips down on your shoulder even harder. Like a claw, like a shackle. 

“You one of those streetwalkers?” His words come out like a croak. You reason that it doesn’t matter what exactly he says; as long as it comes out of his mouth, with his dry, thirsty, cracked lips, spitting out sentences in between yellowing and rotting teeth, the words are going to sound disgusting regardless. 

“Or ya just a whore for free?” 

You take another step back. With what little light that shines from the streetlamps (that have certainly seen better days), you’re hyper aware of more figures approaching. Sometimes, there are other women who stand outside, some women who are the “streetwalkers” the man has accused you of being, but you know that they cannot come to your rescue. If they were to witness this scene right now, a scene that they’ve probably endured every night out here, they might not even recognize your plight. 

“What’s going on here?” An authoritative voice cuts through your panic, and in the low lighting, you almost think it’s Colt that’s approaching this scene. 

Wishful thinking is a silent killer. Like drugs and alcohol, the high you get from it, the relief, only lasts for so long. Coming down is even harder. 

You know you shouldn’t feel disappointed at the sight of your savior, but this soldier is clearly Marleyan. For all you know, he’s just gotten done with a session with one of the girls you patch up every night. 

He grips the man’s wrist, yanking it from your shoulder and assessing him. 

“I asked you a question.” This blond-haired soldier shoots such a sharp, disgusted look at the man that you’re certain the effect would be similar to how it feels when a blade pierces through one’s intestines. 

“Look, I don’t want no trouble.” The man snarls, pointing a grimy finger at you. “She’s the one solicitin’ people for cheap sex. Go arrest her, officer.” The way he spits out the title shows he harbors the same amount of respect for prostitutes and the police. The only thing stopping him from putting his hands on this soldier is probably the high chance that he’s got a weapon on him. 

“Big fan of the law, are you? Should I take you both down to the station with me, then? We can file a report together, and you can tell my superiors what exactly your business being down here is.” 

“Fuck you.” 

You’re debating if you should test your luck and run. There’s a chance that the soldier would rather chase after you than deal with this man’s verbal assault and hair-pin trigger temper. However, the last thing you want is to get indicted for prostitution. Not because it’ll go on your record; you couldn’t care less about that. It just sounds like filing an official report would take a long time, possibly the whole night, and you can already picture all the money you’re losing by standing here instead of being in your room, ready to greet guests. 

As if sensing your agitation, the soldier glances at you and then claps the man on the shoulder, guiding his hand upwards until it’s circled around the back of the man’s neck. He pulls the man closer to him, and because of the soldier’s height, he has to lean down slightly to get eye-level with your harasser. 

Silence. You can feel the fear radiating off of the man, undercut with his drunken defiance. If there’s anything men have in common, no matter what race or class, it’s certainly audacity. 

“Y’know what, I thought you had a bit more fire in you. ‘Fuck you’, seriously?” The soldier turns his head and looks at you, making a face as if trying to ask you can you believe this guy? “I know you can do better than that.” He takes his hand and pats the back of the man’s head. “Tell you what. I’m going to walk this lovely lady home, who was certainly not soliciting you, and then I’m going to come right back here. By the time I come back, you better come up with some better insults, or I’m going to be very disappointed.” Straightening himself up, he extends a hand to you; thankfully, not the hand that has touched that man. 

What else are you supposed to do in this situation other than take it?

The longer you walk with this man, the more you study him. The more you study him, the more you realize that it was foolish to believe even for a second that he was Colt. They have similar builds, but Colt has a leaner figure, lighter hair, soft brown eyes. The way they carry themselves is different, too. This man walks with his arms swinging by his side, and while the first glance of him can fool people into thinking he’s a perfect soldier, upon closer inspection, you realize that his uniform is missing a button, his pants are slightly wrinkled, and there’s a strand of hair in the back that’s sticking up. 

“So, you work at the Gentleman’s Club.” It’s not a question. His tone is light enough, though, to where you’re not on edge. He had let go of your hand the second you two left the immediate vicinity of the man. 

“Yes.” There’s no point in lying. 

“Don’t suppose you’ve run into many of them there.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Gentlemen.” He clarifies. “I don’t think you’ve dealt with many gentlemen there, right?”

“The name’s all for marketing.”

“Hi, All For Marketing. Bit of a mouthful of a name.” 

You don’t laugh at his joke, but he does, and he does so in a manner that indicates that one, he doesn’t care if people laugh at his jokes or not, and two, he’s very accustomed to people not laughing with him. You can’t tell if you like him or not. 

“My name’s Michael.” He adds, after settling down. “Willa told me telling you my name would make you feel better.” 

“Willa told you that?” You narrow your eyes at him. “How do you know Willa?” Willa’s the reason why any of the girls feel remotely safe in the Club. She’s older than you, but only by a few years. With the life she’s led, you’re only surprised that she’s not older — or dead. 

“She kicked me in the nuts once, and I was a goner ever since.” 

You can’t tell if he’s joking or not, and he doesn’t clarify. Instead, he drops you off at the front of the brothel, not even saying goodbye. He just turns right on his heels and starts to whistle an unfamiliar tune. You don’t tell him that this part of town isn’t the area where you want to whistle as you skip down the street, but considering the fact that you hadn’t felt any more slimy stares directed at you as you walked with him, maybe he can handle himself just fine. 

“Is everything okay?” Willa rarely calls anyone to her office. Tucked away in an odd corner of the brothel, it’s almost as if she doesn’t want anyone to know where her office is. The first and only time you’ve been in here had been on your first day of work, when she made you tea and told you that this is going to be a horrible experience, and that her job isn’t to ensure the girls’ comfort but rather their survival.

She’s the first person to truly ingrain this idea into your head: survival over everything. She’s the only other person who will continuously remind these girls that there are worse things to be in life than uncomfortable. 

The three jagged scars running down her face, starting from an inch below her left eye, down her cheek, traveling all the way to her throat, surely must have been more than just an uncomfortable ordeal. But here she is now, standing tall, pouring hot water into cups. The smell of tea brewing fills the small room. 

“Yes, of course.” You tell her, not sure why she had been waiting for you in the lobby, only to usher you into her office. 

“Hmm.” Her back is still turned to you. Her desk isn’t spotless like you would imagine it to be; she runs such a tight ship in this brothel, you envisioned that every other aspect of her life must be dictated by her militant extremes. There are papers covering every surface, pinned to the walls, even, and books stacked on the floor. You can’t imagine finding anything in this mess. Anything of importance would most likely be hidden in plain sight.

“Is this about the two appointments I missed? Willa, I—”

“Already handled it.” She turns to face you, offering you a teacup. The warmth travels from your hand and spreads to the rest of your body. You didn’t even realize just how cold you are.

“Are you going to fire me now?” The newfound warmth in your body immediately dissipates. You’re not above begging. If it comes down to it, you’ll do anything to keep this job. The sounds of Ramzi’s coughs fill your mind as you continue speaking, “Willa, I have never been late before this—”

“I’m not going to fire you.” She takes a seat on the edge of her desk, some papers falling to the ground as a result. “I just wanted to talk.” 

“About?” 

She shrugs, placidly, but you’re certain it’s just an act. She’s sitting too rigidly on her desk, and Willa is not the type of person to waste time (time is money, after all), especially just to shoot the shit. Finally, after the protracted silence, she sighs.

“Don’t you wish you could hop on a ship and leave this shithole? Sounds pretty nice, right?” 

You allow yourself three seconds of some more wishful thinking, but the idea of ever leaving Marley and having a life that’s better than the one you’re currently living right now seems so out of reach, your mind can’t even wrap around such an idea. 

“Wherever I go, I’d still be me.” 

“It’s a total hypothetical, [Name]. What if you ran away and had a whole new identity?” Her green eyes are very sharp. Actually, every feature of Willa is pointed and sharp. Depending on the lighting, she either looks delicate like a doll or downright dangerous. 

“What’s the point? What’s the point of living if you’re not yourself?” 

She smiles at you, almost like the two of you are sharing some intimate secret.

“I should probably go.” You tell her. You didn’t make this trip just to leave the brothel with empty pockets. There’s only so many hours left in the night. “Thanks for the tea.” 

You set the cup back on the small table crammed in the corner of her office. You didn’t even take a single sip.

Your hair is a matted, tangled mess, some strands sticking to your sweaty face. Regular customers range from the dregs of society to silent men who like to think themselves unemotional and cold but fuck with a vigor and passion that has them grunting out the name of the woman they truly wished was under them. For the most part, you don’t mind the men who fuck you with this sort of detached lust. 

Some nights, it’s even mildly entertaining. 

Tonight, it just hurts.

It’s like every man who stumbles into your room tonight has a lover in his head. Lover might be too sweet of a word, though. You can’t picture any of these men being loving, but sometimes, you can hear it in their distressed groans. Something animalistic and wounded, filled with want and desire. 

You wonder what the big fucking deal is. If you’re infatuated — even foolish enough to think yourself in love — with somebody, why are you paying to have sex with someone else? What’s stopping them from pursuing these women freely? The fact that they’re losers?

Your pessimistic thoughts give way to something more personal, though. When you’re left to sit in the silence after hearing the nonstop exclamations of every woman’s name but your own — each of them said in such a desperate, longing manner, it was probably a love confession — you realize that only a select few people outside the refugee camp know your name. 

You stare at your door, willing it to open. 

Hoping. Wanting. Waiting. 

Just like every other night this past week, just like every other night that followed after you acted just as foolish as these men and whispered your name to him, he doesn’t show up. 

You sink into your mattress. 

Hope’s going to kill you before anything else gets the chance. 

Colt stares at his reflection in the barracks’ bathroom. There’s a tiny crack running down the mirror that hangs over the sink he used to wet his toothbrush and rinse his mouth — the one with the perpetual leaky faucet — and the constant drip drip drip of water slowly plopping down in the discolored porcelain does nothing to ease his nerves.

Tonight is his first night of renewed freedom. 

There’s little to no trace of the sparring match from two weeks ago. Claire had been right in her assessment: there is no lasting scar from the cut. He feels himself tracing the areas on his cheek where the bruises formed. There’s nothing left of them, now, but he can trick himself into feeling the ghost of your touch when he does this.

The only good thing to come out of not seeing you for two weeks is that he has considerably much more money saved up, allowing him to purchase more of your time. 

The crack in the mirror travels from the upper-right hand edge down to the lower left-hand corner. It’s jagged, but faint; just enough to distort his reflection, make it look like he’s some messed up puzzle where the two pieces aren’t aligned right yet. His haircut came courtesy of his enlistment, so it’s no surprise to him when he finds he can’t style it in any other way besides the military guideline approved gelled parting. It usually doesn’t matter, considering he’s either on base or hiding his hair underneath a helmet, but now he’s standing in this cold bathroom, hyper aware of his looks.

He knows that he’s considered to be handsome. Handsome in a rather generic way, he thinks. He holds none of the rugged appeal some of the girls claim Porco possesses, nor does he hold the same amount of inviting charm Michael seems to waste, since every time he manages to attract a girl, he opens his mouth and they start running in the other direction. His looks are nothing special. This realization wouldn’t bother him on any other day, but when he’s spent two weeks thinking about reuniting with you, in all his plain glory, he feels like heading back to his room and never seeing the light of day again. 

But he’s a soldier, a Warrior Candidate, the next inheritor of the Beast Titan. He brought pride to his family, proved to everyone that he was at least someone worth giving a damn about, and—

—he wants to see you again.

Wanting is proof that he is human. Animals survive on a basis of need. They eat the food that they can hunt because they need to survive. They burrow into holes in the ground or sleep on rocks because they need to survive. They claw at each other, spitting mad, snarling, sharp teeth, bloody paws, all because they need to survive. A textbook from his childhood, a textbook still included in Falco’s curriculum, states that Eldians are more animal than human.

Colt is aware that he’s done lots of things for the sake of survival, out of need, but there is something wonderfully human that continues to live inside of him, an ache in his body that can only be relieved by giving into his wants. 

He thinks back to earlier this week, when Zeke calls for him so they can toss a baseball back and forth to each other. Colt always gets the feeling that Zeke is in a perpetual state of holding back. He’ll talk to Colt and make the occasional joke, drops an insignificant anecdote from his earlier years, all of which are scraps that Colt clings to because it won’t be long until Zeke isn’t here anymore. He’s well aware of how morbid it sounds, but Colt doesn’t view death in the disgusting, grotesque way most people do. He’s sappy. He softens it, like how he softens most things. He likens it to a well-earned rest.

He collects these little bits and pieces of information from Zeke so that at least his memory won’t be buried in the grave with him. He accidentally lets this slip out when they’re done tossing the baseball, and they’re just leaning against the brick ball, enjoying a break away from the other soldiers. 

Zeke had asked him why he cares so much, and after getting his answer, Zeke fumbles around in his front pocket, procuring a lighter and a cigarette. 

After lighting it and taking a long drag, he tells Colt, “You’re a good person, you know.” 

Zeke isn’t the type of guy who says things just to flatter people. In fact, most of the Warriors seem to go out of their way to push their luck and see what types of out of pocket things they can get away with saying. Porco tops all of them, easily. 

“Thank you,” Colt isn’t good at dealing with praise. Most of the superior officers here aren’t keen on giving compliments to Eldian soldiers, and so Colt gets used to savoring the silence in between insults.

“But, you know that memories get inherited, too, right? Can’t remember if they wrote it in the damn textbook or if I mentioned it to you before.” 

“Both.” Colt answers. He remembers, because the camaraderie of it all had sounded so appealing to a young Colt. Later, he realizes that it’s because all blessings come attached with a curse; unimaginable power and a means to do right by the people you love and your state, but you die shortly after. Maybe it’s only fair that memories get passed down, to make up for all the memories you won’t ever get to make. 

“So, what’s the point in trying to remember all the stuff I tell you?” 

The rough exterior of the bricks digs into Colt’s back. “What if not all memories get transferred over? Maybe the ones I remember on your behalf don’t pass over, but since I know them, they get to live on.” 

Zeke appears to be thoughtful for a minute, letting the words sink in, soak him straight to the bone. “Can’t argue with that.” Zeke can actually argue quite well; Colt knows this. What Zeke means to say is that he doesn’t want to argue. Zeke digs into his pocket, pulls out a carton, and offers it up to Colt. 

“I don’t smoke.” 

“Good for you. Don’t start.” The advice seems insincere, since Zeke tosses the butt of his cigarette to the ground and immediately lights up another one. 

Maybe if he had regenerative abilities and didn’t have to worry about black lungs, Colt would also try out smoking. Probably not. His mother is always reminding him to take care of himself and taking up Zeke on his offer of cigarettes would feel like a betrayal to her. 

Zeke is no stranger to smoking. Colt would go so far as to call it an addiction, what with the way his fingers seem to always naturally find their way to a lighter and a cigarette. The smell of smoke clings to his jacket, and you can occasionally see him reflexively twitch his fingers when he’s gone too long without a smoke. 

Colt wonders what would happen if he goes too long without seeing you again. Would his knee bounce anxiously? Would his hands clench and unclench, just from the strain of having to resist the urge to run to your side? He’s not familiar with such a concept; it feels insane to be reduced to nothing but his wants. 

“Do you regret starting?” Colt nods to the cigarette burning in Zeke’s hand. 

“Not really, no.” 

The crunch of gravel being grinded underneath his boots, the way the tiny embers of a persistent flame clinging to the cigarette are immediately extinguished, just from one well-aimed stomp from Zeke, had Colt excusing himself to prepare for his meeting with you.

Thinking back on this, thinking about how Zeke showed no regret over his addiction, his reliance, his sole source of relief, Colt finds the courage to walk out the bathroom and head to the red light district.

“And then he fucking coughed on me!” Alize is an animated storyteller. You can see the disgusted look on her face, almost as if she’s reliving the very scene she’s describing in horrifying detail for you all. As one of the only Eldians working here, Alize gets some of the worst clients. The type to fetishize her for the armband she’s mandated to wear. 

“No!” Margaret gasps, like she is oh-so shocked at such a thing happening, even though this is a very tame thing in comparison to a lot of the situations everyone encounters. All the girls sitting in the circle are laughing, and it feels good, truly, to have a chance to gather like this and rehash traumatic events together like girls gossiping at a sleepover. If you can’t make fun of it, what’s the point of enduring it? 

Nadia is sitting next to you, back slightly hunched, knees pulled up to her chest so her little chin can rest atop them. She’s not laughing, and she’s not sharing her own stories. 

“Why don’t we ever share any good stories?” You ask, and that brings up another round of laughter. Good? In this place? Get real.

But when you’re surrounded by these girls, sitting close together, enjoying each other’s company, it’s almost easy to forget that anything bad has happened here. You want Nadia to see that. 

“I’m being serious, come on. All of us can remember at least one good story.”

“Well, there was that one guy who used to come in and dress me up in lingerie. Brand new panties and bras every week; the good stuff, too. I’m talking lace.” Margaret leans in to the circle when she says this, and everyone’s hooked. Lacy lingerie? That’s a luxury. 

“Mags, that’s not a good story! His wife caught him spending all his paychecks on playing dirty dress-up with you, and she came down here, causing an absolute ruckus!” Delia feels most passionately about this because she happened to be in the lobby when the man’s wife came around, and then got accused of being “that whore.” Delia never lets Margaret forget that she took a slap to the face for her; as if Margaret would ever forget that.

“You know what I’m not hearing? Anything good.” You point out. 

“What are you looking for? A fucking love story?” Alize snickers, before you make eye contact with her, subtly letting your eyes flicker to a hopeless looking Nadia. Alize understands immediately. 

“You know, there is that rumor about that one girl who met her husband here.” Alize starts but is immediately met with interjections.

“Not this again—”

“Get real, Ali—”

“Shut up! I’m telling the story, here, aren’t I?” Alize gives everyone in the circle a warning stare before continuing. “He was a businessman.”

“Okay, businessmen are the worst, I don’t—” You knock your body against Margaret’s, effectively getting her to quiet down so Alize can actually finish her story before you all have to head to your separate rooms to get to work. 

“And he wasn’t looking for love, by the way. Don’t get it twisted, girls. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that men don’t come to girls like us with the game plan of meeting their one true love. Got it?” The reminder seems to be aimed at Nadia, who begins to peek out of her shell at the word “love.” 

“So, this businessman, he ends up at this place because he’s new to the area and some cab driver totally screwed him over. Pulled right outside our lovely little area of the city and robbed him! Now, he’s broke, but looks way too good to be in an area like this. And our girl, Nadia—” The name of the girl who gets the happy ending always changes. No one has any idea how this rumor started; apparently, it always happens to be right before the time the oldest girl at the brothel started. By the time people start requesting for someone to tell this story, it’s usually not for their sake, but for pulling out some other girl from the darkness of this place. Nadia is definitely latching on, allowing herself to be rescued. Even if the story is just a fantasy, it’s still better than wallowing in a pit of despair.

“—she spots him. She’s about to head to our little club here until she spots him. He looked so out of place and like easy pickings. If she didn’t approach him, who knows where he’d be?” 

“Dead in a ditch, probably,” A voice pipes up, followed by quiet giggles.

“Naked, too. You know they would’ve robbed him for anything he had.” Margaret adds in, resulting in another round of laughter. You smile at her response; she’s not wrong.

“Well, isn’t he just so lucky to have met Nadia, then! Anyway, Nadia finds this hopeless case of a man and is like, ‘you’re not from around here, are you?’ and he goes, ‘what gave it away?’, and she says, ‘you’re not unzipping your pants at the sight of me.’ Oh, Nadia. What a class act she was.” Alize sighs. “She takes him to the brothel and lets him go straight to her room, and she tells him, ‘you can spend the night here.’ Of course, he’s a businessman. He knows nothing in life is free. So he asks her, ‘what’ll it cost me?’ And she tells him a price that’s worth three nights of work! He agrees to it, but tells her he doesn’t have any money to pay her right away. Now, Nadia is a little risk taker, because me personally? I’m not doing a damn thing for a broke man under this roof. But she trusts him! Guess he had that type of straight and narrow look about him. Only, instead of sleeping, he strikes up a conversation with her!”

“Now that’s unrealistic.” Delia mutters under her breath. “What kind of a man just wants to talk?”

“And they stayed up all night just talking, and the businessman and Nadia both have never felt so seen by someone else. So, she sends back to the nice side of town, and he comes back during the night with twice as much money as he promised. He starts visiting her every night, bringing her gifts and whatnot, and on the last day he’s about to leave town, he shows up with a ring and, well… It’s a good story. We all know how it ends.” Alize waves her hand in the air like she can’t be bothered to tell the rest. “Clearly there’s hope for us all. Especially you.” Alize reaches over to gently poke Nadia’s leg. “Maybe our little Nadia will meet a nice businessman.” 

She no longer looks like she wants the ground to swallow her up, but it’s not a fairytale from Alize that Nadia is searching for. She looks up at you, searching hard for any dishonesty when she asks you, “Has anything good happened to you here?”

You’ve come to terms with the fact that Colt is never coming back. Even thinking about his name fills you with regret because you gave up a part of yourself that was supposed to remain forever locked away in your ribcage. You haven’t thrown out the ointment or the socks yet; not because you’re sentimental, but because you’re not wasteful. Both items are kept buried in your trunk, though, underneath piles of your more familiar, more worn out pieces of clothing. Pretending that Colt has never walked into your life would protect your heart and state of mind. Admitting to the kindness he showed you would keep Nadia going. You already know what you’re going to say. 

“There used to be a soldier who would visit me and all we would ever do is talk. He didn’t even want to lay in bed.” You can hear surprised whispers from the other girls, but you focus only on Nadia. “He brought me socks and ointment for a bruise I didn’t even tell him I had. He just…had a way of noticing things.”

Nadia is raised within the same cultural environment as your own. Her eyes only further widen at the mention of the gifts he brought you. “And food? Did he bring you food?” 

It sounds silly to the Eldian girls in the room, but you can feel the watchful eyes of your neighbors. You shake your head. “No.” 

“Not yet.” This is the most certain Nadia has ever sounded about anything. “But he will. I know he will.” 

“Get ready, girls!” Willa knocks on the door, signaling to them that the fun is over. It’s time to go to work.

Before everyone can file out, little Nadia grabs your wrist, making sure you stay to hear what she has to say. Everyone is trying to be polite, but they are noticeably crowding around the door but not actually exiting.

“So then the next story girls tell when they want to talk about love will be yours. At least it’ll be a real story this time, too.”

Willa doesn’t enter your room, but she does let you know that someone has booked you for the whole night. 

Pro: guaranteed money.

Con: only a real freak would do that.

You’re not sure what to expect, but you do prepare yourself for the worst. 

If you survived everything before this, you can survive this. 

You repeat the mantra in your head until you get sick of it, and by the time the door swings on its hinges, you are nothing but calm and collected. 

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. 

Fresh, clean, and looking even better than your memories cited him to be, Warrior Candidate Colt is standing in your room. 

“Hi, honey,” you greet him, same as you would anybody else. There’s a sadistic sort of satisfaction that settles in your system when you see a wounded expression on his healed-up face. The sad puppy dog eyes he unknowingly gives you is almost enough to shatter your resolve. 

Good stories don’t come from places like these. There is no man looking for love here. Don’t act like a child and hang on to some stupid hope. 

“Hi,” he says, and it sounds like how people who have their heads underwater for a prolonged period of time gasp for air the moment they’re able to have their head above the surface. Like he needs air, like life is being shot right back into his system. Like how the men from those nights before had groaned those women’s names.

“You plan on just standing there the whole night?” Like a good hostess, you pat down the empty space on the bed next to you. He swallows hard, eyeing the bed, staring at it like he’s remembering the last time he was in here with you. 

“If that’s what you want me to do.” 

There he goes again, with the wanting, with the letting you take control. You want to ask him why he left you alone for two weeks, but that still won’t account for why it hurt you so much. You want him to tell you that he’s sorry, but you know he doesn’t owe you an apology. He’s technically nothing to you, or at least, he should be. You want him to sit down on this bed so you can play with his perfect hair and admire his perfect face and play pretend that this is the type of good story where the man loves the woman, and everything ends happily. You want, you want, you want. 

But that’s not the role you decided on. You are not The Girl Who Wants. You’re a prostitute who calls people honey and doesn’t form any emotional attachments to the men who walk into this room. This character — she knows nothing about bruise ointment and thick socks, the fear of seeing his bruised face, the peacefulness of him sleeping soundly in the bed, the gentle way he whispered your name in the dark, half-asleep but determined to say it still. The curve of his lips, the smile on his features after he said it — none of that has happened to her.

“Oh, come on, honey. Don’t be shy.” You cock your head, looking at him and wishing to see nothing but a stranger in his place. “Don’t tell me it’s your first time?”

Oh, Colt realizes. So this is what it’s like to be stabbed. 

He wonders if he was so insignificant to you that he truly didn’t make a lasting impression. The faint memory of his hair being played with, the careful way you applied the ointment, everything, was all just a fleeting moment in time. What he has spent time savoring, clinging onto, reaching for, has meant nothing.

“I should go.” He blurts out, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. 

What would this character do? Let him go? Let him walk out and celebrate how you have a peaceful night to yourself and you’re getting paid? Tease him? 

“Um, before I do, I just wanted to give you this.” He pulls out a plain black box. When he walks over to hand it to you, you instantly feel the smoothness of the fabric. It’s velvet. Expensive, and it’s not even the gift, just the case it’s in. “If you don’t like it, I can always return it.” He cannot. The jeweler on base had been very adamant that he does not do returns. Kids in the military fancy the idea of marrying young, but if the jeweler accepted every returned ring and necklace that came his way, he wouldn’t have money, just refurbished jewelry. Who the hell wants to buy a returned engagement ring? The jeweler had asked him. Sounds like a fuckin’ curse.

Inside the case is a simple silver watch. It has a thin band, with a tiny face, but it’s shiny and pretty, and it looks way too nice. You hesitantly remove it from the case, only to realize that it has some weight to it, too. Clearly, this wasn’t cheap. 

You look up at him, shocked, surprised. You know you hurt him and if you felt bad for your treatment of him before, you feel infinitely worse now. 

“Time seems very important.” He explains, sometimes staring at his polished shoes as if he’s never seen them before, sometimes letting his eyes flicker up towards your face, almost like he wants to gauge your reaction. “I figured a watch would be useful. To track time. To make sure that no one wastes yours, or tries to claim that they spent less time than they actually did—”

“I love it.” You tell him. 

There’s that pleasant warm feeling he gets inside of him every time you praise him. You like — no, love — something he’s picked out for you! He wants to launch into the story of how he got it, tell you how he spent two hours in that store trying to get it just right, how he’s happy that you like it because he can’t return it. He doesn’t, though. He just gives you a small smile and is about to head back to base until you ask him,

“Why were you gone for so long?” 

You’re in a tiny room, and yet, you want to make your voice even tinier. You say the words like you’re scared they’re going to come alive and punch you in the face. If there is one person in the world who wouldn’t use how small you feel against you, it’s the soldier standing right in front of you.

He drops to his knees immediately. 

“Oh.” He looks like he wants to reach for you, to cradle your face. It’s a military feat, the type of self-restraint he possesses. All those years of depriving himself, of telling himself he’s not allowed to want, are suddenly paying off. “No, no, I swear to you I didn’t stop showing up because I didn’t want to see you anymore. After the last time I was here, I missed curfew, and my commanding officer wouldn’t give me permission to leave until today. Please, look at me.” The last sentence comes out all strangled and pained, like if you don’t, he might just do something stupid, like run out into traffic. 

It is an odd feeling to be the one who looks down on someone for once. He’s so tall, even on his knees and even with you sitting upright on the bed, his eyes are still practically level with your own. Sincere.

That’s what he is. 

You can tell just by looking into his eyes. He may stutter and choke on his words, but his eyes tell you enough. He is pleading with you, he is searching for forgiveness that he should have never needed in the first place, he is everything.

“Colt.” You remember thinking to yourself, how would it feel to hear someone say your name with such rampant desire? You should’ve been wondering, how does it feel to be the one who desires? 

You say his name, and he knows it means forgiveness. You say his name, and he knows it means want. You say his name, and he knows it means something, but he doesn’t dare to dream so big, not yet. 

“You forgive me?” 

It’s hard to say no to someone who looks like that. With the way he’s staring up at you, all hopeful and earnest, you realize that he truly has no idea of his effect on people. 

“Help me put this watch on, soldier. Pretty please?” You get to swing your feet a little, happily extending out your wrist so he can wrap the watch around it for you. 

“Too tight?” He asks you, brows furrowed, focused on the dainty piece. You’ve never realized just how big his hands are. One of these nights, you’re going to convince him to let you take a finger and trace the whole entire expanse of his broad hands. 

Colt handles things gently. You wonder if it’s hard to be so soft and caring all the time, especially when he so clearly has a soldier’s hand. All rough calluses and thick fingers. Maybe being soft and caring is just in his nature. His chemical makeup is all sugar. 

“Nope. It’s perfect as is.” 

He clasps it for you, a tiny, satisfying click locking it in place. He takes a seat next to you on the bed, and it creaks under his weight. 

“Did you really think I just left you?” He sounds hurt, and once again, the overwhelming feeling of not being a very nice person comes back to hit you in the face. 

You try to think of how to properly word it in a way that wouldn’t make him feel any worse.

“In my line of work, it’s usually the man that does the leaving. I’ll still always be here, so I guess that makes it easier to find me if they ever decide to come back.” You shrug, like it’s just that simple. Judging by the wounded look on his face, it’s clear that you weren’t successful in your task to not make him feel any worse. 

Colt normally doesn’t have an issue with speaking without thinking. He’s always been held to a much higher standard than any of his other peers, and he’s always used to treading carefully. But he can’t seem to help himself whenever he’s around you; you look at him, and all his carefully constructed self-restraint evaporates.

“I can’t imagine anyone wanting to leave you.” 

You think back to your group of giggling girls — sisters, or at least, the closest thing you will ever get — and how it’s in all of your instincts to look out for one another.

Be careful of the smooth talkers, Alize always warns you all. They seem like they’re the nicest men you’ll ever meet. They’ll fatten you up with sweet kisses and hope, only to let you down in the end. You’ll say, ‘but Alize! He would never hurt me in the same way all these other men do!’, and I’ll tell you right now, he might not hit you or choke you or even call you filthy names, but no matter what he does, he’s going to find a way to disappoint you. To reveal that he is not sweet. 

And that betrayal is going to hurt the worst.

Just a couple of days with Colt, and his absence left you desperate, lonely. Who’s to say that he just won’t leave you again? You search his eyes, looking for a hint of dishonesty, for uncertainty, for boredom — anything that will tell you that he doesn’t mean what he said. That he’s just talking. That this is all just a game, a soldier wanting to stir up a different kind of war. 

Survival instincts, a choice to be made: fight or flight. 

You’ve seen your fair share of handsome men. Believe it or not, attractive people frequent brothels too. You don’t normally make a habit of studying your clients, but Colt’s face is so close to your own, and the last time you had a chance to look at him in such close proximity, he had clearly just lost a fight. 

The tall bridge of his nose is slightly crooked, noticeable only when you stare at him too closely and for too long. It looks like it was broken and the doctor hadn’t cared to make sure he was even straightening the bone when he fixed it. The tips of his blond hair hang over his forehead, casting tiny shadows, adding dimension to his face. His eyes aren’t the plain brown they appear to be. There are tiny flecks of lighter hues, almost golden, little rays of sunlight filtering his point of view. 

You don’t want to go about life always in a constant state of survival. You want to live.

“And are you? Going to leave?” A challenge. A soldier pulling back the safety on her gun, hands shaking, but the barrel is still pointed straight at him. Finger on the trigger.

“Only if you want me to.” 

Disarmed.

Colt’s finishing up a retelling of his first kiss. You think it’s cute how he gets so easily embarrassed, and it doesn’t help that you keep asking questions he doesn’t anticipate, prolonging the story. 

“Was she cute?” You ask. You’re laying on your belly, body spread comfortably over the mattress. Colt resigns himself to the floor, sitting criss-cross applesauce. The floor must be cold and uncomfortable, but he doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest, and it makes you wonder about his training. 

You think about Colt’s life a lot. He’s the most open and honest person you’ve ever encountered, and sometimes, you forget that all you have to do is ask him, and he’ll tell you.

“She was considered to be pretty, yes.” 

“Diplomatic answer!” You point at him, laughing. Happy. “Did you think she was cute?”

“I did.” He says, looking down immediately after, playing absentmindedly with a piece of lint on the floor. 

“You did? Well, gee, what happened to her?” Colt doesn’t seem like the type to judge based on physical appearance. You think about Willa’s scars, and then picture them on your face. Would Colt still look at you the same way if your face’s flaws were staring back at him, head on?

“Nothing. She’s actually married now.” 

“Oh. So you don’t have a thing for married women?” That seems like the type of respectful mannerisms Colt would possess. The more time you spend with him, the more you realize that he truly is a good man. Not for glory, not for praise, but good for the sake of being good. 

“Sure.” He doesn’t tell you that no woman looks attractive to him after he’s seen you. It would sound sappy, or even worse, disingenuous. “Let’s go with that.” 

You narrow your pretty eyes at him, almost like you’re trying to appear stern, to get him to give in and tell you the full answer. Instead, you relax your face, the left side of your cheek pressed against your arm as you stare at him sideways. “I bet you’ve been with a lot of pretty girls.” It’s supposed to be a teasing remark, but to your ears, you are nervously aware of the hints of jealousy creeping in your tone. 

“My bunkmates will have you believing that.” It’s a running joke within the soldiers to make fun of Colt. One year, a list got exposed, where the girls in all the units voted on who they thought was the most handsome soldier. Colt had won by a pretty wide margin. A landslide victory. He had stayed hidden in his room, only leaving when absolutely necessary, for a whole week. 

“Tell me about your first girlfriend.” 

“I never had one.” Admitting it out loud to you makes him feel like a loser. 

“So you’re a—”

“No!” He’s blushing. “I—”

“You totally seduce women into warming your bed every night, and then you kick them out! You probably don’t even wait ‘til the morning! You make them leave right after you’re finished!” The exaggerated accusation makes you laugh, and you can’t stop because the horrified, distressed look on his face is so cute, it’s so obvious that what you said is far from the truth. The satisfaction you feel from Colt’s unchanging relationship status makes you feel gross, like you’re an awful person for taking pleasure in having him all to yourself.

You’re aware, of course, that the two of you haven’t even touched, save for your fingers on his face that one night. In the future, Colt is probably going to marry some beautiful, blushing bride, and he will have forgotten all about you. Foolishly, you cast aside those self-preserving thoughts, the ones that warn you not to get too attached. It’s been so long since you didn’t have to share with anyone else; who can blame you for wanting to take all of Colt’s attention? 

“I would never!” He exclaims, his indignation endearing.

As stoic as your soldier appears to be, you know the truth: Colt is a reactive person. You can read him from the way his brows are furrowed, or from the rush of blood and heat to his cheeks and ears, or even from the imperceptible movements of his fingers, of his hands. Colt is one hundred percent alive — full of life. Brimming with it. Overflowing with it, and sometimes, you get lucky, and you get to snatch up some of the excess, jar it, save it on the cold, dark nights where he can’t come and see you.

“I know.” You’re smiling at him. 

In fact, you would tell him that you’re damn near certain that he gets a big fat A-plus for aftercare. You can tell how  a man will treat you by how he handles everything else. Colt is careful with his hands, with sure and steady movements, and he treats fragile things gently. You think about how it felt to have the tips of his calloused fingers brush against the palm of your hand when he brought you the ointment, how it felt like a shot of adrenaline. 

Feeling pity for him, you toy with the threadbare sheet underneath your body. You want to look him in the eyes when you tell him this, so he knows you’re not just playing coy or teasing him. You want to fill him up with the same sincerity he seems to effortlessly give to you. 

Colt is deceptively cute; with his flushed expression and defensive stance on his character, it is too easy to overlook the fact that he’s a soldier, built for battle, bred for war.

Being honest is scary. You don’t know how he manages it every second of his life.

“I’ve never been kissed before.” 

Colt doesn’t know what to say to that. You don’t even know what you’re expecting him to say. 

“I hope it’s good. When you do get kissed.” He tells you. “You deserve to have it be good.” 

Oh. You didn’t know that this was what you wanted to hear until he went out and said it. 

“We’re going out for drinks tonight,” Pieck says, with her body draped all sorts of way across the couch. Lounging. Like a cat, Colt thinks. 

Porco pokes her back, and she shoots him a lazy, half-assed glare with no real venom behind it. “You’re takin’ up all the space on the couch.” 

“I just got back from an assignment. This feels comfortable.” As if doubling-down on her decision, Pieck shimmies her body, getting more settled in. Colt feels like she’ll sink into the cushions if they leave her unattended. 

Porco grumbles something, and then speaks up when he asks, “What’s the point of going out for drinks anyway?”

“It’ll boost morale.” Pieck says. “We captured an enemy port, and soldiers were sent back home. Might as well go out and celebrate.” 

“The port we captured was tiny and not worth a damn.” Porco points out. 

Pieck ignores this very factual statement. “All the Eldian units will be going out tonight. There’s no harm in attending.” 

“Whose idea was this, anyway? For all we know, this is a Marleyan officer’s ploy to get most of us too drunk off our asses to notice them ushering us into a navy ship so they can shoot us out of cannons.” 

At the beginning of the Mid-East War, Marleyan citizens were hopeful that this would be a conflict resolved swiftly and succinctly. With the two year anniversary and no end in sight, the effects of war are starting to settle in the country. More posters are being hung up about not wasting food or precious resources, more colorful pamphlets filled with propaganda are being delivered to schoolhouses, and every week, organizations are taking up donations to help cover military costs. If Porco doesn’t shut up, a Marleyan officer might hear and take him up on the offer; it’ll save on ammunition costs, at least.

Seeing Porco’s stance on the invitation (a pretty obvious rejection), Pieck turns her attention to Colt. “You know, there are some Eldian nurses who would like to meet you.” 

“He has a girlfriend. I told you this already!” Porco interjects. 

“Is that true?” She asks Colt. “You have a girlfriend?”

Now Porco’s staring at him. Colt feels very much like he’s being put on the spot, and he doesn’t enjoy this feeling one bit. 

“Well, she’s a girl. And I would say we’re friends.” 

Porco groans. “Don’t be so pathetic, Grice.”

If Pieck was feeling up to it, she would have slapped Porco on Colt’s behalf. Instead, she tosses him a lifeline. “You could bring her to the bar. Girlfriend or friend that’s a girl; whatever she is. It’ll probably help you out if your plan is to not get approached by girls tonight.” 

Colt latches on, grateful. “Sure. I’ll ask her.” 

He does ask you, albeit not as smoothly as he initially plans on. He wants to toss out the question, all casual-like, like no big deal, but I was wondering if you wanted to get drinks with my friends and fellow soldiers? 

What ends up happening is that he starts rambling. Somewhere between his nervous declaration that “it’s entirely your choice, and I don’t want you to feel obligated” and his speedrun of his relationship with everyone attending (“Porco only sounds like that, but he’s a nice guy when he tries, so just don’t take anything he says to heart”), you laugh.

He doesn’t know what it means to you, the fact that he doesn’t mind being seen with you. In front of, not just strangers, but people that he actually sees when the sun is up. 

“Well, with a business pitch like that, how could I say no? What night are you taking me?”

“It’s tonight.” Colt says, and you just stare at him, like he’s from a different planet. “Does tonight not work for you?” He knows that he bought all your time for tonight, just in the hopes that you would say yes. 

“I’m not dressed appropriately to go out to a bar and meet all your friends!” You point at your nightdress, the almost-translucent gown that would glow in the moonlight, if only you actually had a window in this room. The clothes that you wear on your way to the brothel are folded neatly in your dresser next to the bed, but somehow those feel like rags compared to what you’re sure his friends and their girlfriends are going to be wearing. 

“I could walk you home first, and you could change.” He suggests helpfully, but the idea of Colt stepping foot in your camp only serves to add to your panic.

“No!” You wince when you realize how loud you got, how harsh it sounds. “No, we can’t go to my place. My brother is probably sleeping, and I don’t want to bother him.” Again, it’s not a lie. But as the weeks go by, as months pass by, you are aware that you are falling deeper and deeper into Colt’s pull. Having him stand inside your home feels too intimate, like you’ll be past the point of no return if this were to happen. 

“That’s okay.” He tells you. “I don’t care what we do. I just want to spend time with you.” 

Right when you think he can’t pull you any deeper, he says something — says it so sincerely, too — that grabs you by your ankle and tugs you back to his side. You let yourself get pulled away.

“I have a change of clothes here.” You say, pulling open the dresser drawer. Colt looks like he’s about to say something, but then you start yanking your current nightgown over your head, and after taking it off yourself completely, you’re still only met with silence.

His back is turned to you. 

“Is something wrong?” You ask him, daring to step a couple steps towards him, even going so far as to brush your fingers against his shoulder, a silent plea for him to turn around.

“No.” The word comes out sounding tight and tense. 

“Colt, did I do something wrong?” 

He shuts his eyes even tighter, willing himself not to turn around. The ghost of your touch lingers on the surface of his shoulder, and the flash of skin he glimpsed at before he realized you were undressing lives rent-free in his mind. Are you still undressed right now? The thought of you being near naked, saying his name so sweetly, is torturous. 

“No. You didn’t do anything wrong at all.” He breathes out. He tries to focus on mundane things. He tries to think about the slop they served for lunch on base. He tries to think about tossing a baseball back and forth with Zeke. He thinks about Porco, who chews with his mouth open and burps without warning. 

“Then why aren’t you looking at me?” 

You do something to him. He doesn’t know what, isn’t sure if there’s a word in the dictionary that would properly describe it, but you do. 

“You’re getting undressed. It wouldn’t be…proper of me to look.” 

You didn’t think hearts could feel this way, with this tightness that surely isn’t good for your health. He says the silliest things sometimes, and it gives your tummy a nervous, fluttering feeling. All the men who have seen you naked don’t even know your name. Colt is standing here, knowing more about you than all of those men combined, and he won’t even look at your body. You wonder if he would turn around if you asked him to.

You wonder if you want him to.

Scared of what your answer might be, you’re quick to throw on the dress you originally left the house with, awkwardly smoothing it down even though you don’t think there are any wrinkles. 

“You can look now.” 

He turns around slowly, almost like he’s afraid that you’re tricking him, but then he takes you in. Takes in the faded yellowness of the dress, and the peek of white cotton that sticks out from your shoes because the socks stop right above your ankle. He likes seeing you dressed in colors, he decides. If this is how good you look in the dark, he can only imagine seeing you in the daylight. You’d have him frozen in the middle of the street with just a single glance, he reckons.

“You’re beautiful.” 

He says this, and it strips you naked. Not in a way that you’re used to, either. You feel seen, like he sees everything about you and still isn’t disgusted. You’ve been called a lot of things, but never beautiful. You think you could continue living in this wretched brothel for the rest of your life with just the memory of this high to keep you going. 

“So, you’re the girlfriend,” 

You know, instinctively, that this is the “Porco” Colt had attempted to warn you about. You adjust the thick jacket hanging on your shoulders. It’s a cold night and a long walk from the district to the bar; you don’t know how Colt didn’t freeze to death in just the thin long sleeve he wears underneath his military uniform. 

“Is that what he told you? That I’m his girlfriend?” 

“Not explicitly. But it was implied.” Porco does not mention that it was certainly not implied, but rather was an idea that he kept forcing upon Colt, and really, no one likes arguing with Porco. It’s best to just go along with whatever he says and hope he gets bored and leaves you alone. 

“It was not implied,” someone new enters the conversation, taking the stool next to Porco. She’s a very pretty girl. A flash of white-hot envy burns in your heart, sizzles down to your stomach, makes you hyper-aware of your body and sense of self. She’s sporting a red armband, same as Porco. 

“Hi.” She smiles at you, soft and incredibly friendly. “I’m Pieck.” 

You smile back, too afraid to open your mouth and accidentally say something wrong. Colt is on the other side of the bar, trying to calm down the rowdy soldiers who are all repeatedly screaming at him to take a shot. They had dragged him away from you the moment the two of you entered the bar together, and he shot you such a panicked look that you realized you would have to be the strong one and remain calm. 

As if feeling your gaze on him, he turns around. Locking eyes with him from so far away, in such a public space, makes this feel even more real. The weight of his jacket keeps you grounded, makes you not slip off the stool because you’ve never seen him look at you so intensely. 

“Shot! Shot! Shot!” Cheers erupt from the crowd of soldiers as they gleefully watch Colt finally take the damn shot. You watch the way he tips his head back, the way his angular jaw seems sharp enough to cut, the way you can see him swallow down the alcohol. The small glass looks impossibly tinier when it’s being held in his hand. 

You don’t realize how hard you’re watching him until loud laughter breaks your concentration.

“I can’t believe it! Grice really does have a girlfriend. Or, at least a girl who likes him.” Porco wipes at the corner of his eyes, as if he’s been laughing so hard, tears sprang up. Pieck rolls her eyes at her friend’s antics, mouthing out an I’m sorry, before tugging on Porco’s arm. 

“Let’s go. You’re being annoying.” She shoots you an apologetic look. “He’s drunk. And probably jealous. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but he doesn’t exactly get as much attention as Colt.” 

“Hey, I’m still here!” He grumbles. 

“It was really nice meeting you. I hope we’ll get a chance to meet again.” As she drags Porco away, you catch snippets of their conversation. Mainly from Porco, whose loud voice seems to boom over every other loud noise in this bar. 

“She’s not Eldian. What the hell is Grice thinking?”

The warm buzz of happiness from tonight dissipates. Porco isn’t wrong; you aren’t Eldian. This hadn’t seemed like such a major issue up until now, and before you can get up to try and get some fresh air, to regroup and think about what your next move should be, Colt appears. 

“Hi.” He says, cheeks pink. He’s been drinking some more. If the soldiers put as much effort into fighting as they do in goading Colt Grice to drink his weight in alcohol, the Mid-East War would have been over a year ago. 

“Hi.” 

“How are we doin’?” His words come out a little slurred, sliding off his tongue but getting jumbled up together in the process. 

“I’m doing fine. I’m not so sure about you, though.” You poke his stomach, but are only met with the feel of hard, taut muscle underneath the fabric of his shirt. 

He frowns. “I’m happy you’re here, y’know. But us — how are we doing?” 

“I think we’re doing just fine, too.” You gesture to the stool next to you. “Take a seat, soldier. You look like you’re going to fall over any second now.”

He ignores your suggestion, still frowning. “You’re lyin’. What happened?” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about right now.” 

“Every time something’s wrong with us, you make that face.” He shakes his head. “I like everything about your face, don’t get me wrong, but it’s this look you give me. Like you hate starin’ at me, like it makes you sad. And every time you give me that look, you say something, like callin’ me ‘honey.’” 

You thought men were supposed to be oblivious creatures. You feel like Colt Grice is the first person to notice everything about you, and you thought you would hate it, the feeling of being utterly exposed, and maybe it would be, if it were anyone else. But it’s Colt. For a soldier, he hasn’t turned anything into a weapon against you yet, and you’re starting to think that maybe he never will. 

You decide to be just as unfiltered as he is. 

“I’m not Eldian. Your friend pointed it out.” 

“Who did?” And then Colt turns around, his movements loose and a bit unsteady. “Who said that to you?”

“It wasn’t an insult, Colt.” You play with the sleeve of his jacket. “He was probably just being realistic.” 

“Porco.” Colt says this flatly. “Porco told you that.” 

“No, he told it to Pieck when she was dragging him away. I don’t think I was supposed to hear.” 

“But you did. And now you’re having second thoughts.” 

“I’m not, it’s just—” You tighten his jacket around your shoulders once more, breathing in the familiar scent of the soap he uses. “I wouldn’t fit into your perfect life. I know you’re popular around here, that girls are lining up to date you.” Your sentences come out shaky. Vulnerability sucks. You never want to grapple with it ever again. 

“Hey,” he says softly. His hand reaches up to cradle your face. You can feel the warmth of his hand pressed against you, gently tilting your head until you’re staring up at him. His thumb caresses the top of your cheekbone. He thinks you feel softer than you look, and he doesn’t think it’s possible for you to be made out of flesh and bone, like a regular human. He thinks you’re made of something softer, sweeter, otherworldly. Like a cloud, or cotton-candy. He’s so, so scared that he’s going to blink, and you’re going to disappear. 

The overwhelming urge of want kicks him right in the stomach. He wants to kiss you, wants to feel the shape of your lips and see how they align with his. He wants to bundle you up in his clothes, this senseless want making his brain act all possessive over you. 

“Here I am, thinking I’m the one who doesn’t deserve you.” His thumb traces your cheek. 

You think he’s going to kiss you now. You think you’re not going to stop him. 

A loud crash comes from nearby. Two men sitting further down the bar are getting into it now, and as if his body forgets that he’s drunk, Colt moves quickly. He instinctively moves his body in front of yours, shielding you from any potential danger. He assesses the situation, eyes narrowing at how more people seem to want to pile on top of the men. 

“I think it’s time we called it a night.” Colt mumbles, helping you off the stool and pressing you to his side as he guides you to safety. 

“Do you want me to walk you home? Just to make sure you get there safely. I won’t interrupt your brother’s sleep, or anything.” He asks you, taking special care in making sure that you don’t accidentally trip on anything. It’s dark outside, after all. 

“You can just take me back to the brothel. I normally walk back home with the other girls.” You try to stifle your yawn, but of course he notices. 

“Let me know if you get too tired. I can carry you back.” 

If he kissed you, you would have definitely let him. You would have even kissed him back. 

You know it’s supposed to be a cold night, but with his jacket draped over your body, you don’t feel a single breeze.

“Ramzi! Stop throwing stuff around! I just cleaned.” You chastise your brother, refolding his blanket and placing it inside his trunk. 

“I don’t get it. Why are you cleaning so much?” He mumbles, crossing his arms and pouting at you. You’re in too good of a mood to let his attitude bother you. Instead, you pinch his cheek, already mourning his future loss of baby fat. 

“Because someone is coming over to visit.” 

Colt’s jacket is folded neatly, freshly washed and even ironed. The night he took you out to the bar seemed to have solidified your relationship with him, or at least, it eased any leftover doubts you had. Colt Grice is a good man.

And he wants you. You! It’s been a week since the night at the bar, and Colt keeps telling you that he doesn’t need the jacket back, that he doesn’t mind you wearing it, but you’ve been searching for an opportunity to see him again. Rather than just flat-out admitting to him that you want him — trust him enough — to finally see you in the comfort of your own home, you like to mastermind situations, just to test his receptivity. 

When you tell him, feigning a nonchalant attitude, that he can stop by the camp and pick up his jacket, you try to gauge his reaction. He can’t even contain his smile, which makes you drop the whole “cool” act and smile right back at him. 

Your fingers brushed against his as you passed him the piece of paper detailing where he could find you. Before Colt, you figure you could spend the rest of your life never being touched by another man again and be just fine. After feeling the contact of his skin touching your own, always innocently, always fleeting, all this want started building up in your body. You’re overflowing with yearning. The only consolation you have is knowing that he feels the same way. 

Porco is an opinionated person. Colt is well aware of that. Sometimes, it even feels like Porco goes out of his way to be as reactionary as possible, just because he likes to push people’s buttons. 

“Did you hear about the Eldian couple that went missing? Brass doesn’t even give a single shit. The officers assigned to the case are just dicking around.” 

Occasionally, though, Porco will have a point. The world is most likely ending when that happens. 

“I’m not too surprised. Some officers don’t take missing persons reports seriously.” The answer is about as opinionated as Colt dares to get. Ever since childhood, he’s had the sinking feeling that he’s always being watched. For all he knows, the whole entire base is bugged. 

Porco makes a disgusted face. “You mean when it comes to missing Eldians, they don’t take the reports seriously.” 

Colt doesn’t correct him, which in and of itself is a confirmation of Colt’s stance on the matter. Seeing that complaining about the situation isn’t going to change anything, Porco sighs before continuing to walk alongside him. 

“Where’re you going so early in the afternoon? You’re going to miss lunch. Heard it might actually be edible today.” 

“I’m visiting someone.” 

“The girl.” Porco shakes his head. “When are you gonna give her up, man? I’m not saying it to be an asshole—” That would be a first, Colt thinks. “—but get real. Are you seriously going to mess up everything for a Marleyan girl?” He at least has the decency to whisper the last part, lest the two of them get taken out back to get shot in the head. 

“Porco,” Colt says calmly, trying to hold in his laughter. “She’s not Marleyan. She’s a refugee.” 

“Well, fuck!” Porco whacks Colt’s shoulder. “Good for you, Grice. Knew you weren’t that stupid.” 

Colt certainly feels stupid. He looks over the note you gave him, but no matter how many times he rereads it, he still can’t find your tent. 

There are people outside, walking, laughing, kids running and playing make-believe. Honestly, it’s a similar scene as any other neighborhood in Liberio, Eldian or Marleyan. The only difference is that instead of pavement and sidewalks, it’s nothing but green grass and a sparkling lake in the distance. He knows that the living conditions might not be ideal, but taking in the camp and viewing it under the sun, it looks peaceful. Like home.

He can see why you wouldn’t trust just anyone to enter.

He ventures further into the camp, but all the tents seem to blur and blend in with each other. Most are mainly built with some type of white cloth, but the whole place seems to be bursting with color. Different colored curtains dot the landscape. He spots people rolling out intricately designed rugs. He smells spices sizzling in a pan. 

He’s acutely aware of the watchful eyes of everyone around him. Colt is no stranger to public scrutiny, but it feels different this time around. He doesn’t want to do anything that would make them hate him. You told him, once, that everyone here knows your name. He knows that that’s important to you, which means that these people are important to you.

Colt pauses, tries to take in his surroundings, ground himself. Maybe word will spread that there’s an idiotic soldier traipsing around people’s backyards, and hopefully it’ll reach your ears and you’ll halt the manhunt for him. A reasonable person would ask someone for help, but he’s aware of how he’s viewed. For all he knows, reaching out would do more harm than good. Believe it or not, he knows when people are scared of him. 

“Excuse me, are you looking for someone?” A tiny voice pipes up, and Colt looks down. There’s a girl speaking to him, with wide eyes and a long braid running down her back.

“I am, actually!” Colt places the paper back inside his pocket. “Do you think you can help me?” 

“You’re looking for a brothel worker, right?” 

Colt wonders if you’ve ever spoken about him to anyone else. He doesn’t need to wonder why he likes the idea of that. 

“I am.” 

The stares get more intense when he has this girl skipping by his side. She tells him her name, Nadia. He tells her that’s a very nice name, and he means it.

“Did you bring her food?” She asks, sounding eager. 

He didn’t, but now he’s thinking he should have. Are you hungry? Is he supposed to bring you food? He had been so excited at the prospect of seeing you, of getting to be with during the day, that he didn’t think much about anything else. 

Before he can answer, you’re sticking your head out the tent, smiling brightly.

“Colt!” 

Breathless. That’s how he feels. 

He thinks you were made to be seen in the sun. 

“You found me!” Your smiles come easily when you’re at home. He wants so badly for you to always be like this: happy and carefree. 

“Nadia helped.” He nods to where the girl should be standing, but she had already sneaked off the moment she saw you come out. “Should I have brought food?”

“Oh, that’s just… It’s a cultural thing. From our country. Don’t worry about it.” You grab his hand, tugging gently. “Come in, I’ll give you a house tour!” 

He follows you, but he’s thinking over your words. Since you told him to specifically not worry about it, Colt knows that he is going to spend many restless nights doing the exact opposite of your request. 

The tent is spacious. The way it’s arranged, it’s comfortable to stand in, even without fear of your head hitting the ceiling. The carpet cushions the hard packed earth underneath, and there’s a wooden table in the middle. You’re watching him closely, trying to catch the first signs of disappointment or disgust, but all you see is pure curiosity. 

“Well, one thing ruins the whole place.” He says, shaking his head like he’s sad he has to say this. “It’s so ugly, I can’t believe you left it in here.” He picks up his jacket, wrinkling his nose. “Seriously, I’m surprised you didn’t toss this outside.”

You laugh, relief flooding through your veins. “You’re the most unserious soldier I’ve ever met.” 

“I don’t believe that. I’ve seen the state of our military.” He slings his spare jacket over one shoulder. He’s not sure what you had planned for today, but he’s hoping you want to spend it with him.

“They should make you their leader, then. I think you’d straighten them all out.” Reaching for his hand comes naturally to you, and he doesn’t ever say anything when you slip your fingers in between his. Walking back out to camp, Ramzi comes barreling towards the two of you.

“Ramzi, what’s wrong?” You immediately crouch down to hug your brother, who’s gasping and panting for breath. 

“You can’t marry this soldier! You can’t!” Peeking his head out from the embrace you have him in, Ramzi’s eyes narrow at Colt. 

“Ramzi!” You pull back, shocked. You’re clearly embarrassed, and Colt wants to tell you that there’s nothing to be embarrassed about, but he’s not sure if that would actually help. “Why would you say that?”

“You promised Malik you would marry him!”

“I— Ramzi, go inside. Now.” Your voice is shaking. Nerves. Anger. Panic. You know that Ramzi looks up to Malik. The minute you told Ramzi that a friend, a Warrior Unit soldier, would be coming, he had been excited. He ran out, in search of the toy soldier figurines he let some other children borrow because he wanted to present them to Colt. 

You’re not sure when discussions of marriage came up.

It’s true that Malik intends on proposing. For a while, you even accepted it, resigned to your fate. Nothing was ever official, but he had been the one to make sure that you and Ramzi were taken care of when you first landed in Marley. He brought you food during times when there wasn’t even enough for his own family to eat, and before you started at the brothel, he always took care in securing you clothes and blankets. He watches over Ramzi, just like he would his own little brothers. You don’t think you’re capable of love, not in the romantic sense, and you’re fine with that. True love is a rare commodity, and you’ve been living in survival mode for so long, you didn’t even see the point in searching for it.

Besides, you could do much worse than Malik. 

On the night when Ramzi was sick and the sounds of his sniffles started mixing in with the memories of those men and their groans of those unreachable women’s names, you weren’t in the mood to talk. Malik had been sitting on the ground, tea cups sitting on the table. He stayed up, watching over Ramzi, as promised, but also to make sure you would make it home and so he could have a chat with you, as promised.

You sit across from him, tucking your feet underneath you. The tea brewed at the camp isn’t as strong as Willa’s, and you regret not drinking what she offered you. The cup Malik slides over to you pales in comparison. It’s cold, you realize dejectedly, when you take a sip. It’s cold, and bitter.

“We’ve known each other for a long time now.” He clears his throat, looks you in the eyes. “You must know my intentions?” 

“What intentions?” 

You’re not blind. You know Malik is handsome, with his tanned skin and dark curls. He fills out his shirts well, from all the manual labor he does around the town, twelve to fourteen hour work days depending on how fast it gets dark outside. As far as options go, Malik might be the best person to shack up with.

“I would like for us to get married.”

Colt had been gone. The bad part about having someone take up space in your heart is that you realize what an empty organ it is when they disappear. At this moment, you’re exhausted, and cold, and you don’t want to talk anymore. You want to curl up next to Ramzi, and sleep this whole entire year off, and maybe, if you’re lucky, you won’t even wake up. 

“The proposal ritual. Are you saying you’re going to go through with that?” 

“There’s only one last thing to do, right?”

He says it in a way that makes you feel like a whore. You don’t waste your time daydreaming because there’s simply no point in it. Sometimes, though, you give in. Close your eyes. Picture a nameless, faceless man as your husband. When your husband fucks you, you think sex will be different. It’ll be making love, even. The euphemism always made you giggle; how corny, you would think to yourself. Call it what it is: fucking. 

But wouldn’t it be nice to want to feel someone’s touch and know that they love you? 

No. People in love are always the corniest people in existence. You think infatuation must cause some horrible imbalances in the body and brain or something, because the moment someone meets their One True Love, they start acting irrational. All the girls in the brothel made a pact: if one of you ever falls in love and starts acting a fool, you all have permission to slap the offending girl out of it.

In your culture, a man proposes through a series of tests. Considering the circumstances, the elders are willing to acknowledge the bare minimum. First, the man must present the girl with clothes and then food. It proves that he’s a provider. Then, the potential couple lays together. When she lets him in her bed, it’s her acceptance to the proposal. 

“Three months,” is what you tell Malik. “Three months, and I will give you my answer.”

The deadline for your answer is fast approaching. There’s barely three weeks for you to decide whether or not you allow Malik into your bed. Three months ago, you considered your answer to be a reluctant yes. What else could you say? No? You thought about it, thought about spending the rest of your life living on your charm and resilience. How much longer could you survive in the brothel? Youth and beauty sells — not old, damaged goods. Now, when you brush the grass stains from your skirt, you look at Colt and feel conflicted.

You need to give Malik an answer — and soon. Before Colt re-entered your life, you knew what you needed to do to ensure survival. Now, you know what you want in your life. Needing versus wanting. Surviving versus living. 

“Want to walk me to an exit?” Colt offers a hand to help pull you up. You can’t read the expression on his face, and you realize it’s because he’s purposely working hard to shut you out. You can’t even be upset with him for it.

The two of you walk together in silence. 

“It’s not official.” You offer up, when you can’t take it anymore. You’re not a very talkative person, but it feels weird to have something hanging over the two of you, left unsaid. Even if he never wants to see you again, you want to lay it all out. 

“Your brother seems passionate about it.” Colt points out. 

“Ramzi doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” 

A beat.

“If it’s not official, there’s definitely something unofficial going on, though, right?” 

“I guess.” 

“Is he nice? The man giving you an unofficial proposal?” 

“He’s Malik.” You say flatly. “He is… The best option.” Your only option.

“But does he treat you well?” Colt presses. 

“What does it matter?” You snap, stopping so you can turn to face him. You will not cry. “Who cares if he’s nice?”

“It matters because it’s you! I care, I want to know that you are living well. That you get the life you deserve.” He doesn’t raise his voice, but the intensity of his words wraps around you, squeezes you tight. 

That’s the issue with Colt, you think to yourself. He makes it so damn hard to hate him. 

“Maybe I do deserve this. Maybe this is as good as it gets for me in this life.”

You turn your back on him, heading right back to your tent. You will not cry. Colt is so stupid. He probably thinks marriage is built on silly things, like love. You will not cry.

Putting one foot in front of the other takes a tremendous amount of effort, but you make progress. When you think you’re a far enough distance to not run immediately back to his side, you dare to turn around.

He’s still rooted in the same spot you left him, staring at you with the most wounded, tortured look you’ve ever seen on a person.

When you’re so far that your figure becomes a tiny speck in the distance, and then that tiny speck disappears, only then does Colt move from his position. He continues to walk, hands shoved in his pockets, staring at the ground. He only looks up when he feels a presence.

“Did she say no?” Nadia asks him. 

“Didn’t even stand a chance.” He smiles sadly at her. It makes sense that you would have suitors lining up to propose to you. Official or not, Ramzi seems certain that it’s a sure thing between you and Malik. Colt feels the pressure of his armband on his bicep. Who was he trying to fool, anyway? It was stupid of him to even bother in the first place. He kicks a rock, watches it skip down the slope of the land. 

“I don’t believe that.” She says. “I think she likes you a lot.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Nadia.”

“I’m not just making things up! I know if you proposed, she would marry you. She would pick you over any other man in the world!” She pauses. “It’s because you didn’t bring any food.”

“She’s upset with me because I didn’t give her any food?” Colt raises an eyebrow. You didn’t seem hangry. Nadia’s childlike conclusion is refreshing, though. If only things were that simple. He would bring you dinner, and everything would be settled. 

“You gave her socks, and I saw her wear your jacket.” Nadia points to the one slung over his shoulder. “Now, you bring her a big meal to prove that you can provide for her and keep her well-fed, and then she invites you to bed.”

“She doesn’t have to invite me to her bed.” Colt quickly looks at everything but Nadia’s earnest expression. 

“You would do all that for her for nothing?” She shakes her head, like she thinks he’s an idiot. Maybe he is. “That’s how you propose. You provide, and then you show her your devotion in her bed, and then she decides if she wants to spend her whole life with you.” Nadia eyes him up and down. “I think she would like your devotion very much.” 

Colt has no answer to that.

“Were you burning something?” He asks instead, nodding to the large bonfire that has fizzled out. All the remains are burnt pieces of wood and ashes. 

“Oh, no!” Nadia gasps, rushing to it. She grabs a stick and pokes at the pile, but nothing happens. “This isn’t supposed to happen!”

“What’s the matter?” 

“Usually, there’s a roaring fire here, so people can gather here and try to warm up during the night. It was harder to get wood these past few days, and they keep sending the men out to work earlier and earlier. I guess the fire was built too fast, and now it’s gone.” She tosses the stick to the ground. “By the time the men get back, it’ll be too dark out to go to the woods and collect enough kindling to get a large enough fire starting.” 

Colt glances down at his watch, then looks up at the sun still hanging high in the sky. 

He’s got time.

By the time he hauls all the dead wood he can find, he’s well acquainted with both the campground and the surrounding woods. Nadia eventually gets a cart on wheels from one of the older ladies, and she brings it to him so he doesn’t have to constantly walk back and forth for small hauls. 

Once he collects all the kindling necessary, he gets to work on starting the fire. He’s sweating, and he thinks Magath would be proud — or as proud as Magath can get, anyway. Today was supposed to be a free day, and here he is, tossing off his military jacket in an attempt to cool down. 

Wearing only his undershirt, Colt takes the ax Nadia offers him, and he begins to chop away at the logs. He wants a decent stash for them, so that way on the days they can’t collect wood, they’ll still have this stockpile. When he gets the fire going, a crowd has already started to form around them. They cheer when they watch the flames grow higher and higher, and for once, Colt almost forgets about you and Malik. 

And then he catches you in the crowd, and the pleasure he feels from not being hated or feared by the people in this camp evaporates. 

Women are approaching him. He catches snippets of their gratitude, their invitations to bring him to their tent, the not-so subtle remarks on their unmarried daughters. He smiles at them, but he doesn’t stop moving until he’s standing in front of you. He didn’t even consciously think about it; his feet just guided him there.

“If I marry him, I won’t work at the brothel anymore.” You tell him. 

As if sensing this is a private moment, the crowd disperses. It’s all an act, though. They’re clearly trying to eavesdrop. Neither of you seem to care.

“That makes sense.”

“If I don’t work at the brothel anymore, I won’t ever see you again.” 

“So this is goodbye, then?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” 

“But we’re never going to see each other again.” He points out.

“If I marry him.” You point that right back at him.

“Are you going to marry him?” 

This seems to be the direction you planned the conversation on heading towards. He’s never seen you so shy, so demure. This nervous silence, the reluctance, it doesn’t suit you. He wants you to confront him head-on, in your usual bold manner.

“Do you see a future with me? One where I’m not the girl who you have to pay to meet in the shady part of town?” His answer determines your answer to Malik. 

“I already don’t see you in that way. You’ve never been just the girl I pay to see.” A glint of silver catches his eye. It brings him back to the sparring match, the one with the Marleyan boy who brought the knife to his face. It’s not a blade, but something on your wrist.

The watch. You’re wearing the watch he gave you. 

“But a future.” You press. “Do you see a realistic future for us?”

Colt’s never given much thought to the immediate future. Most of the time, it feels like his life has been planned for him since the beginning. The cards he’s been dealt with aren’t the greatest hand, but he feels like he makes it work. He doesn’t complain, doesn’t wince, doesn’t go insane. He doesn’t even ask the universe for much. Even when he does make a wish, it’s always for the benefit of others.

If he closes his eyes and pictures a future with you, what does he see? Church bells, and you dressed in white? Kids? No more barriers between the two of you, no more fronts. In an ideal future, you are happy, and you want him by your side. 

Things can’t ever be that simple, but damn it, he at least has to try.

“Yes.” He takes a step forward. The setting sun causes a warm glow to be cast on your face; it envelopes your whole body, actually. You are radiant. He thinks he should tell you that and then wonders if that sounds corny. Probably. He figures he’s said plenty of dumb, cheesy stuff already, and you’re not backing away from him. 

“Radiant?” You repeat, giggling softly. 

You wonder what you look like from his point of view. Colt Grice stares at you in a way no one’s done before, and his refusal to look at you when you’re half-naked comes to mind. He looks at you, and he undresses you, but it’s not clothes he’s trying to take off. He’s peeling layers of your masks, making you shed your faux skins all over the place, in some insignificant corner. Colt Grice stares at you, and he sees you, and it makes you feel special. You’ve spent a majority of your life feeling like gum stuck on the bottom of someone’s shoe, only worth their time when they’re scraping you off, swearing at what an inconvenience you are. 

You notice the watch on his wrist, and you’re pleased to realize that it looks similar to your own, just wider. More masculine. Like “his and her” goods. The feeling of being special only grows. 

“Colt.” You’re going to do something very stupid now. You’ve been feeling it for weeks now, that feeling of him pulling you past the point of no return. If you do this, you know that you’re never going to be able to give him up. Everything will change afterwards. Somehow, the thought of that doesn’t seem as scary or daunting as before. “Can I kiss you, please?” 

This is a real shining moment, Colt thinks. He’ll remember this forever, and when he inherits the Beast, he hopes that this memory gets passed down for all generations. Even if nothing else gets remembered, this certainly will leave its mark on history. 

Your lips are soft, and he tastes something sweet, and he wants to savor it, savor you. He keeps himself in check, forcing himself to not deepen the kiss, and then you’re pulling back from him. 

So this is what kissing is all about, you think to yourself, touching your lips. 

Confession time: sometimes you feel like you don’t know how to be human. You think you spent so long always on edge, always afraid, that you’re starting to forget the fun stuff about being alive. Your job is to do what people are supposed to consider the most ultimate act of intimacy, and you spend all your time disgusted by it. Dissociating from it. Perfecting the art of detachment. 

You give him nothing more than a simple, chaste kiss on the lips. Not even a second (you would know; you feel for the tick of the watch against your wrist). But it’s enough to charge you, leaves you feeling wired, electrified. 

Alive.

You’re aware of your neighbors witnessing this scene. You almost forgot about them, too focused on the man standing in front of you. You watched him, the flex of his muscles and the way he selflessly spent his time to help out the camp. He didn’t have to do that; he doesn’t owe them anything. You think you broke him for a second, turning your back and leaving him like he was nothing. He had every right to just walk out of here and be done with this camp for good. 

But he didn’t. And if he can do that, you can put a stop to Malik’s proposal ritual. You won’t let him in your bed. You won’t let him in your heart. You won’t let anyone in. 

The lingering effects of the kiss still rests on your lips. You don’t realize how hungry you are until you get a tiny taste to whet your appetite. You like kissing, you decide. You wonder why the hell you haven’t done it before.

Colt’s grin is so wide, it makes it hard for you to not try to mimic that happiness. Smiling comes easy when you’re with Colt. It’s like his shiny disposition is infectious, contagious. 

No. You know why you’ve been saving your kiss, your name, the space inside your life, all of it—

—all of it was reserved for this golden soldier.

Colt is still riding the high of the kiss — of the kisses — you gave him. 

Maybe this is finally the universe turning his luck around. Good karma. Every ounce of good he’s done in this lifetime, and he’s finally cashing out. You kissed him. You kissed him. You kissed him.

He can’t even wipe the dopey grin off his face as he checks back into base. He feels like Michael, like he wants to swing his arms and whistle silly tunes. He thinks he could get punched in the face right now, and not even feel a thing. The next time he sees you, Colt decides, he’s going to bring you a feast, and then he’s going to kiss you like a man going off to war.

His spirits are still high as he enters his bedroom, ready to lay down on his bed and relive those kisses over and over again until exhaustion takes control of his body, but he pauses when he sees the thick cardstock folded on his bed. 

It’s closed, sealed with wax that has the Marleyan military coat of arms imprinted on it. He rips into the paper, eyes scanning over the letter quickly. He sees what he’s searching for, letting the paper drop to the ground. 

Fuck. So much for good karma.

This letter serves as your official deployment orders from the Marleyan Military. You are hereby directed to join the offensive operation aimed at capturing Fort Helena. Upon receipt of this letter, you are to report to the designated assembly point where you will receive further instructions and join your assigned unit. Your role in this operation will be briefed in detail upon your arrival.

It is imperative that you prepare for immediate deployment. Ensure your personal affairs are in order, and report with full combat readiness.

[nametakensff]

Cat For Grabs (D/isco E/lysium) (M)

Okay, here is 4.3k of cat allergy K/im K/itsuragi because why the fuck not 🐈‍⬛️💞

J/ean and K/im arrive on scene at a murder, where the victim's pet cat takes a particular liking to K/im. Allergic misery ensues

(Set in the kind of AU I've cobbled together where H/arry and K/im are an item, maybe like 8 months post M/artinaise. They hook up with J/ean regularly)

~~~~~

Content:

M/M/M mentioned and ongoing but mostly in the bg, cat allergy sneezes, spray, handkerchiefs, rapid sneezes, stifles, nose blows, mentions of anal sex, mentions of hay fever sneezes, mentions of blowjobs, H/arry has a sneezing fetish (but he isn't here), J/ean and K/im flirt a lot

CW: Graphic descriptions of a dead body at a crime scene, K/im performs a brief autopsy, mentions of gun violence, they are cops so you know. Just doing cop things

NSFW - Minors DNI!

Jean was the first to arrive on the scene, alone. Absolutely not ideal – he was at real risk of danger if the shooter – or multiple shooters – were still on the property. The precinct was in absolute maelstrom - an unprecedented amount of crime this week, even for Jamrock. Jean had driven here by himself once he realised Harry was entirely incapacitated. He’d fixed him a look of annoyance until the older man had returned it with a look of his own that said ‘please don’t be mad at me, I’m drowning.’

Jean had sent out a general radio request for backup to any nearby officers for this apparent shooting, which had taken place in a fairly quiet and respectable part of town. He’d been grateful to hear Kim’s confirmation that he would be there within minutes, as well as some other patrol officers affirming the same. Jean should have waited outside, perhaps, but he had a gut feeling as he pulled up to the small, bungalow-style apartment that it was empty. A quick search with his gun held steadily in front of him confirmed that he was entirely alone.

Unless you counted the gory remains of the sole resident splayed out on the kitchen floor.

“Well.” He said to the corpse, nudging its ankle with the toe of his boot. “You’re certainly very dead.”

The metallic scent of blood in the air was overwhelming. An even more overwhelming and unpleasant scent of sewage indicated that the bullets littering the torso of the corpse had also passed through the colon multiple times. Jean wrinkled his nose and covered it with his hand. He almost wished his hay fever was still hindering his ability to smell.

But god, this was a bloody, violent murder. The surrounding cabinets were littered with bullet holes that appeared to have been sprayed in wide arcs across the room indiscriminately. It had to be the work of an automatic weapon. Jean spared another glance at the corpse, then made his way back into the living room. Poor guy didn’t stand a chance.

He thought it better to wait for Kim to perform a conclusive field autopsy. He didn’t want to leave himself distracted and vulnerable to any potential attacks by performing one alone now. And, if Jean was being honest with himself, Kim had a stronger stomach for corpses - perhaps thanks to his time and experience in Processing - and a markedly weaker sense of smell. He glanced at his watch. Shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.

He peered round the room. It always felt intrusive entering people’s apartments like this if he had spare time to overthink. This particular home was exceptionally drab; hardly any items or photographs to indicate personality or interests. Just ugly greys and browns and lumpy furniture. There were a few books stacked on a coffee table, but their covers looked just as banal as everything else.

A sudden shuffling sound to his left made Jean jump and reach for his gun. He looked round frantically, cursing himself and half expecting to see some crazed gunman crouched behind one of the armchairs, ready to mow him down like the man in the kitchen. Thank the lord, he did not. What he did see, however, was a visibly well-fed cat with thick black fur emerging from underneath a nearby bookshelf. Heart beating wildly in his chest, he let out a long sigh of relief and regarded the doddering approach of the supremely rotund animal. Come to think of it, he had noticed a litter-box in the bathroom.

The cat slumped at his feet, looking incredibly at ease and not at all as if its owner’s bullet-riddled corpse was resting in a pool of his own red-black blood just one room over. It mewed at him, butting his boot with its head before rolling onto its side. Jean couldn’t resist kneeling down and getting closer. He scratched gently behind an ear and smiled as the tip of a little white fang stuck out of the cat’s closed mouth, giving it an endearingly goofy appearance. A small blue collar was secured round its neck (no bell, just his luck) with a metal nametag hanging from a loop of metal. He lifted the tag up with his thumb and forefinger to examine it.

“’Beau’.” He read the name out loud. “Well, you are a handsome boy, aren’t you?” He cooed down at it, stroking it from head to tail once it was clear he wouldn’t be leaving the encounter in receipt of a mauling.

Around thirty seconds later, he could hear the familiar rumble of an approaching Coupris motor car. He kept his hand on his gun just in case, allowing his arm to drop to his side when Kim made his way through the living room door, gun outstretched before him. His orange bomber jacket was a sight for sore eyes against the surrounding bleak topography. Once Kim spotted Jean on the floor looking back up at him, he lowered his own gun in relief.

“My apologies, Detective Vicquemare – I came as fast as I could, there was some congestion nearby.” He peered at the cat for a moment, then back at Jean’s face. “The premises is secure, correct?”

“Would I be on my knees playing with a cat if it wasn’t?” Jean muttered, scratching under the cat’s little chin and smiling in adoration as it closed its eyes in pleasure. “We have a single body, in the kitchen.”

Kim nodded, holstering his weapon and scanning the living room with a perfunctory glance. The cat shifted under Jean’s broad palm, turning to face the source of this most recent disturbance. The second the lethargic feline lay eyes on Kim, it jumped to its feet and strode away from Jean and towards the Lieutenant, tail raised high. Kim froze in his tracks and glanced down in what looked to Jean like mild dismay as it drew closer. The cat began without a moment’s hesitation to wind itself lovingly between Kim’s ankles, nuzzling into his legs and pressing every inch of itself against him. It meowed loudly between little rumbles and purrs.

Jean couldn’t deny that it was both an endearing and amusing sight. The cat had certainly been friendly enough to accept his pets, but for whatever reason, it appeared to be especially enamoured with Kim. He didn’t think the feeling was reciprocated; Kim lifted an ankle, tsking as the cat, instead of moving away as intended, reached up with its front paws until Kim put the foot back down. It then resumed its figure 8 of adoration whilst Kim looked down in a gentle kind of exasperation.

“He really likes you.” Jean smiled at Kim, getting to his feet and brushing cat hair from the knees of his uniform.

“I can see that.” Kim did smile softly then, regarding the happy little creature, but made no move to reach down and stroke it. If Jean had been on the receiving end of that magnitude of love from a cat, he would have scooped it up into his arms in seconds.

“Not a fan of cats?”                     

Kim looked up at him for a moment, then back down at the cat, frowning slightly as it increased the intensity of both its purring and nudging.

“It’s not that. I like them well enough. It’s j-just…!”

His breath wavered, and Jean watched as he brought a gloved fist up to his face. He recognised the desperation of the pre-sneeze expression on the Lieutenant, and patiently waited for him to finish. Under normal circumstances and with anybody else, he probably would have looked away for the sake of the other person’s dignity - but he’d seen Kim sneeze more than enough times in extremely abnormal circumstances to bother with any pretence.

He didn’t share Harry’s interest in sneezing in quite the same way, but there was an element of enjoyment in watching Kim fall apart. No matter how he sliced it, he couldn’t deny the analogous nature of sneezing and orgasming; Harry had long since hammered that into him. And so, he watched with a certain degree of appreciation as Kim’s eyebrows drew up and his jaw fell open in surrender, before his entire expression cinched tight, the tickle cresting.

“Hh! Hh’gxkt! Ng’xt! Hh’Ddtch!! NGxt’tsziew!”

They were quiet, polite and almost perfectly restrained – much like the Lieutenant himself. Both he and Kim were prone to multiple sneezes, but it seemed to take a lot more out of the older man to strangle them into submission. Jean had always sneezed in small, ticklish fits that rarely resolved the irritation without multiple repetitions. Every now and then he was prone to a more productive and vigorous sneeze, especially following prolonged attacks that forced him to take in a final, desperate gasp of oxygen to round off the fit. It didn’t make too much of a difference to him physically whether he stifled them into silent little shivers or not. It honestly depended on company whether he would bother.

He wasn’t sure why Kim bothered holding back when it was just the two of them. He’d save himself a lot of congestion and sniffling down the line if he let those sneezes out now - Jean could honestly say he knew that from numerous past observations. But he wouldn’t mention it - it was best to leave Kim alone and let him do what he wanted. He was a bit of a control freak – not that Jean could really fault him for that, being a stubborn ass himself – so there was no point in nagging him. He himself hated when others commented on his frequent and persistent sneezing, especially when his allergies were killing him. Most of the Major Crimes unit now knew to leave him well alone, particularly on his most miserable – and therefore volatile – hay fever days.

With the exception of Harry, of course. In a completely inconvenient and Pavlovian fashion, he had almost come to associate his hay fever with sexual gratification. Both he and Harry knew his initial rejections of Harry’s advances were merely for show, and a matter of pride. Every time his superior officer would sidle up to him and suggest they find some privacy, he would eventually break and let the older man fuck him, or suck his cock. He may as well get an orgasm out of the endless torture that plagued him throughout late spring and summer. It wasn’t even that bad, being fucked and sneezing your head off at the same time. Aggravatingly, if he were to be honest, it was actually rather fun. He supposed he was more or less an expert at this point.

Kim was more recently initiated into the whole fucking and sneezing thing. For what it was worth, he seemed like a perfectly kinky motherfucker who enjoyed watching Harry squirm. And there was almost no better way to do that than to tease him with this fetish, which Kim took to like a duck in water. Jean had to admit whenever the three of them fucked around and Harry inevitably begged to be indulged, it was reassuring – and very fun – to know that they had the numbers against him. Brothers in arms. God, what a life.

Kim lowered his fist with a shaky exhale, looking worn out by the onslaught for just a moment before his regular placid countenance was restored. His nostrils flared briefly with an audibly damp sniffle.

“À tes souhaits.” Jean offered.

“Merci.”

Kim looked up at him and flashed him a sheepish sort of ‘haha. Look at us. Sneezing in the wild’ conspiratorial glance. Jean smirked at him.

“As I was saying. I don’t dislike cats. I just dislike that they tend to make me sneeze.”

Jean nodded and looked round at the flat. Cat hair covered most surfaces, if only sparsely. A beam of sunlight coming through one of the narrow windows illuminated a few stray hairs dancing round on the currents of air. He winced a little in sympathy. The sight even made his own nose tickle a little; he subconsciously reached up to rub the side of it with a crooked finger.

“You’re shit out of luck, then. It’s cat hair heaven in here.”

Kim sighed wearily, accepting his fate. As if picking up at last on Kim’s less-than-satisfied state of being, the cat paused in its motions to drape itself over the toes of Kim’s boots and glance up at him with a sweet ‘Mroww’, which Jean could swear lilted up in pitch as if to question the Lieutenant. Kim looked down at the cat with soft eyes.

“It’s not your fault, little one. Don’t worry.”

He hesitated for a moment before reaching down and gingerly stroking the top of the cat’s head with a gloved hand. It was an awkward and brief motion; he pulled back before the cat could nuzzle its docile head into his palm. Both Jean and Kim watched as even the minor scritches unearthed a tiny cloud of soft black fur. Kim jerked upright almost violently, and Jean had to stifle a laugh.

“I’ll be paying for that in a while,” Kim sighed again, rolling a pair of black nitrile gloves over his leather ones with a pleasing snap. He gently shifted the cat off the toes of his boots one foot at a time; it went easily, seemingly exhausted by its own outpouring of affection and allowing itself to sink into the carpet like a puddle of fur. It really was a lazy motherfucker. Jean was quite in love with it.

“Excusez-moi.” Kim muttered as he stepped over the liquid pile of cat, purring happily in its heap.

He looked up at Jean as he made his way over, doing a small double-take as he noticed the way Jean was beaming at him.

“What?” His lips quirked up ever so subtly, thankfully taking the taller officer’s grin in good humour.

“Nothing. You’re just cute with animals. Awkward.”

Kim just smiled at him, warmly.  

“I should really get to work.” He said, moving past Jean into the kitchen. “In here, you said?”

“Yep.” Jean followed behind him. He could see that the numerous rotations the cat had made around Kim’s legs had deposited a great deal of soft black fur sticking to the camo. He would help Kim get rid of it all before he got back into his MC. He watched as Kim knelt next to the body, careful to avoid the coagulating puddle of blood that spread outwards on the cheap linoleum floor.

“Have you had a chance to examine the victim?” Kim ran his hand over the chest of the body – it was practically shredded through with bullet wounds. He performed a brief ‘Stations of the Breath’ ritual before resuming his inspection.

“Not extensively, but enough to see all of this.” Jean gestured to the wounds and the endless shards of glass spanning the ground. “Looks like he was shot through the window with an automatic rifle. He fell onto the glass, and some of it is implanted following the initial explosion of the window shattering. Most of, but not all of the blood is from the bullet wounds.”

Kim nodded, inspecting the body more thoroughly. Jean continued.

“He looks to have died around the time that gunshots were reported forty-five minutes ago. Definitely not long enough for his cat to start eating his face.”

Kim wrinkled his nose at that, uttering a small sound of disgust.

“Gross.”

“Not as gross as this mess.”

Kim nodded his head in grim recognition. He dictated notes to Jean as he conducted the examination but couldn’t find anything counter to Jean’s initial conclusions. The cause of death and injuries to the body were easily explained. The reason for this extremely violent murder – not so much. Kim extracted a wallet and driver’s license from the victim’s jeans – not a name or face either of them were familiar with from any ongoing gang related investigations.

“This was overkill.” Kim murmured, righting himself and removing the nitrile gloves. “Far too extreme for a run-of-the-mill civilian.”

“I agree.” Jean nodded. “Since the shots are from outside, and I can see no sign of disturbance inside the apartment, it doesn’t look like a break-in or burglary. I – oh.”

He paused, noticing the slight sneer Kim was wearing as he fought off another allergic tickle, nostrils flared wide. He was wildly unsuccessful, whipping round and into the raised collar of his bomber jacket seconds later with a violent series of sneezes.

“HdDDZT’Tzshieww!! Hgkt’tsh!! ‘TTSCH’uu!!”

The first one burst out of him in angry, dizzying rush of spray through teeth clenched just a moment too late to provide any effective suppression.  The next two he managed to bite down on, barely, shoulders jumping under the pressure. Jean reached out to grab him firmly by the bicep as he shook, threatening to unbalance himself and, heaven forbid, topple down onto or next to the corpse. Though not remarkably loud, the sneezes were forceful and audibly desperate. The smaller man sighed once he was done, and Jean released his arm.

“Bless you!” He offered, a little impressed by the display. He imagined Harry would have jizzed on the spot.

“Ughh, Merci. Désolé.” Kim replied, sniffling and blinking one itching eye shut. A single tear of irritation started a slow descent down his cheek. Jean reached under the frame of Kim’s glasses and swiped it away with his thumb on a whim, before realising he had been petting Beau with that same hand. He felt relieved when Kim didn’t fight him on it, perhaps not even realising his mistake.

“Carry on, detective.”

Jean continued to explain his theory surrounding the murder whilst Kim pulled out a neatly folded handkerchief and tended first to his bleary eyes, then to his twitching, irritated nostrils. The skin on their rims was left slightly pinkened after some uncharacteristically rough manhandling. He must be more allergic than he let on, Jean thought, and began leading the pair of them out of the apartment.

He jumped when in the living room Kim jerked forward with another desperate fit, halting their progression and eliciting a sudden, loud meow from Beau. Said cat watched on with expressionless green eyes from his position stretched out on the sun-warmed carpet as Kim shuddered, sneezing into the hastily raised cover of his elbow.

“Hh’GXTSsshhh!! ‘GXT’Tchieww!! HDd’TZSchh!! ‘TSCH’oo! Ahh, mon dieu.”

These sneezes were particularly viscious, wrenching themselves out of Kim and leaving him bleary-eyed and shaky in the aftermath.

“God, Kim. Bless you.” Jean offered, his hand rubbing absently at the small of the Lieutenant’s back.

“Thang’k you. Let’s go.” Kim said, snuffling into his handkerchief and walking out through the front door without a second to spare. Jean cast a glance at the cat, mewling again as its beloved Lieutenant marched away, and followed him out of the door without a word.

“Hmm. No known or suspected connections to any street gangs or drug cartels. He may have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Seen something he shouldn’t have.” Kim offered as they leant against the wall of the building. He blew his nose softly. It didn’t sound at all productive as his sinuses started to swell. “Somebody meant to silence him.”

“Maybe.” Jean took a drag on his cigarette. “But the MO is unlike any of the regular gangs in this area. I mean, a machine gun?? For one unarmed guy, at home? It’s too messy, outlandish and loud – in other words, way too risky.”

Kim nodded and paused for a moment. Jean wondered if he was going to sneeze again, but he spoke up after a beat.

“There…was another murder, a few months ago – on the other side of Jamrock, with fatal injuries confirmed to have been sustained via an automatic rifle. I’ll have to check, but the circumstances are shockingly similar. That victim also had no apparent connections to any gangs, or a previous criminal record.”

Jean made a small noise of recognition. He remembered, now – the case was still ongoing. It had intrigued both Harry and himself, but had been brushed aside as several more inflammatory and pressing cases had arisen. They’d passed it off onto some junior officers that had recently joined the Major Crimes unit, enticed by Harry’s newfound sobriety and the assurance of Kim’s fastidiousness. He would be taking that case right on back.

“That was also a murder in a residential area – some kids say they saw somebody hop a fence but couldn’t give us any more details.”

Kim looked up at him, nodding. He scrawled a couple of notes in his notebook before slipping it back into his pocket.

“We should look into that. It’s not much to go from and the cases appear unrelated, bar these few details but – we can’t afford to write it off. They’re both too irregular.”

Jean put out his cigarette on the wall next to him, ignoring Kim’s look of disapproval.

“Right. I’ll call in to the station and update them.” He looked at his watch in annoyance. “There were supposed to be more officers on the scene twenty minutes ago. Where the fuck are they?”

“Before I left the station earlier it seemed frantic – I think it’s just a particularly bad day.”

Jean grumbled but conceded. The entire reason he had arrived alone and Kim had joined him en route from another crime scene was because Harry was buried with the recent influx of crime on top of the years of unprocessed paperwork. He knew that. To Harry’s credit, he had cut down the latter a significant amount, despite the slow and confusing process of dealing with his memory returning in sporadic and often extremely stressful bursts. Jean was secretly very proud of him, if he even had any right to be.

“We need to get in contact with the victim’s relatives, if any – can you do that?” Kim asked, sounding a little shaky as he finished. Jean turned to watch him shudder into a fairly rapid-fire quadruple of sneezes.

“hh’dztch-T’zschh-Tschht! Huh-!! AESSCH’uu-!! Merde!”

He had sneezed entirely uncovered and straight out in front of him. Jean pretended not to notice the resultant light aerosol that hung in the air for a fleeting moment, glittering in the late morning sunlight. Kim clapped a hand to his face immediately afterwards as if suddenly remembering he was on public display, sighing into the leather of his glove.

“Bien sûr.” Jean answered. “And bless you, again. You’re starting to sound like I did over summer.”

Kim replaced his hand with his handkerchief, scrubbing at his pink nostrils through the soft cotton. He pushed his jostled glasses back up his nose when he was done.

“Thank you. Fucking cat hair.”

Jean smiled and lit another cigarette. It was always delightful to hear the Lieutenant drop an F bomb. He and Harry were clearly rubbing off on him.

“I’ll sort out the family – and once the other chuckle-fucks arrive, we can start questioning witnesses and get the body taken to the morgue.” Jean offered.

“Good. I need to head back to the station and submit some reports – I can relay what we’ve discussed here to Harry.”

“Great.” Jean exhaled heavily, thankful for the soothing rush of nicotine. He’d seen enough dead bodies this week to last anybody a lifetime – Kim probably twice as much. But c’est la vie. There was always another body.

“Can you wait until the cavalry arrives?” Jean asked him. “I know things are fucking batshit insane right now and you’re needed elsewhere but I’d rather not be the only officer here.” He looked pointedly at the surrounding houses and the curious faces lingering in the windows. More pressing than warding off curious bystanders, however, was the very real risk of the murderer returning to the scene and spraying him dead with bullets.

“Of course.” Kim patted his arm. “You should never have been here alone – I’m sorry I didn’t get here faster.”

“Thanks.”

They spent a couple of minutes in companionable silence, interrupted only by another small fit of sneezes from Kim and an emphatic blessing from Jean whilst they listened out for the sound of approaching sirens. Kim sniffled a couple of times while Jean was working on his third cigarette, audibly stuffed up. Jean said nothing. Harry would be fretting over Kim more than enough once he got back to the station, anyway.

“Hopefully the victim has family that can take on the cat.” Kim broke the silence.

Jean beamed at him.

“His collar said his name was ‘Beau’. You sure you don’t want to adopt him?” He smirked around his cigarette.

“Funny.” Kim deadpanned. He was struggling to pronounce his ‘n’s around the congestion.

“Maybe I’ll take him.” Jean teased. “He’s a cutie. And then he can visit you.”

“That would mark both the end of our friendship and my capacity to engage with you on any level beyond professional.”

Jean laughed.

“You’re no fun.”

“That’s not entirely true.” Kim smiled at him, voice low and flirtatious. “Don’t you dare let Harry know that a cat is up for grabs. Contrary to what I let him get away with, I do like being able to breathe through my nose.”

“Something I’ve discovered,” Jean took a drag on his cigarette before continuing. “Is that orgasms are actually pretty effective as a decongestant.” His eyes glittered as he looked over at Kim.

“Good to know.” Kim returned that look with an equally mischievous glance from behind the thick lenses of his glasses. “But I think I’ll leave Beau out of this arrangement. Three is already a crowd.”

Jean choked on his latest puff of smoke, laughing and coughing in turn. Kim looked incredibly pleased with himself.

“Compose yourself, officer. This is a crime scene.”

Jean wiped a tear of mirth from the corner of one eye.

“Yes sir.”

[sorcerous-caress]

I know requests are closed but I just wanted to say that I found the Halsin x Durge!Reader delicious

Imagine if he did get mad though once he found out about her druid savagness and gets mad and decides breeding her would calm her down more bhaalspawn for her though

I mean, at least you're the only person who acknowledged the fact that my requests are closed while requesting. I gotta give you some points. Others just shoot the request one after another no matter if I say it's closed or not.

You're talking about this fic I assume?

I think he'd feel betrayed. Heartbroken yes but mostly betrayed and robbed, anger is a only a passing madness in Halsin's case that will drive him to march into your tent and drag you by the ankle to offer an explanation, beg for mercy or maybe both.

Have you seen this clip of him being angry? Actually angry? It's during the confrontation of when you murder the grove but let him live.

Imagine that intensity with the fact that it's also his own heart you "played" with. At least from his slightly toxic point of view, he thinks that he was owed you being heroic and innocent. So by being...yk durge, you completely robbed him of his fantasy and shattered that stained glass view he had of you.

It would take a lot to get him to that state, he'd try to argue with anyone who says otherwise that you aren't really responsible for your less than ideal actions, that it's Bhaal controlling you like a curse or something. That you can't possibly enjoy it let alone enthusiastically go along with these dark whims.

A front row seat to one of your gorey shows is all it takes to flip his world upside down.

You're not some fawn learning to balance or a rabbit hiding between his feet. He sees you clearly for the venomous snake that you were, that you are. Curling around him, sinking your body and teeth into him. It must be you why Silvannus hasn't been answering his prayers lately, why the animals in the forest flee from your lingering scent on his body.

Death is too kind of a revenge. You deserve something more cruel, redemption. Willing or unwilling Halsin will drag you to the brighter side, the nicer side, the morally right side. Part of his stubborn hope stems from the fact he grew too weak of a soft spot for you to even consider the idea of ending or harming you in any way. So either you make him worse or he breaks you into being a better person first.

Kick punch and claw at him, it will not phase him. He will hold you down whenever that gleam of sadistic glee shines in your seemingly innocent eyes at the curious squirrel sniffing your hand.

Drown your threats of violence and promises of a bloodbath of gore and viscera to passerbys with his tongue down your throat. Kissing you as if he may purge the evil from within if he got you to melt into his arms.

As a result he becomes harsher in bed, not that you're complaining. If anything it's him who's suffering the most from the way his once gentle grip on your thighs turned bruising and possessive. His once soft slow thrusts became feral and merciless. The way he used to coo praises and apologise against your neck became litters of insult in elvish at how much of a traitor and a snake you are, how you deserve each bite he leaves behind.

He loathes himself, like a poison sinking into his stomach and refusing to resurface. Droplet after droplet falling to weight down his body each time you force his hand into breeding you for an inch of your life so you may do no harm to others nor fulfill your dark destiny as a child of bhaal.

What has he become? How can he call himself a druid?

It feels like it's his job now to keep the evils at bay, to keep the hungery wolves fed with his own flesh, to take care of the monster he has created. You are his responsibility.

It seems like you're getting closer to breaking him by day, especially since he already does half the work himself for you by simply antagonising himself and every loathsome action you force him to take.

[theramseyloft]

I know the Classic old frill has come a long way from being ideal in its original standard then breeders prioritized looks over functionality but now it’s back!

What are some qualities of the breed that made you so drawn to them in the first place and are there any other pigeon breeds who have been brought back from bad breeding practices vice versa

(Pic of Suki the black laced Satinette Hen for the frill tax)

Here is the entire standard, copy pasted from the breed club's website:

The Classic Oriental Frill is an exhibition breed of pigeon from the Owl family. It is also known as the Old Fashioned Oriental Frill and the Old Style Oriental Frill. It is the precursor breed from which the modern Oriental Frill was created. It is a beautiful ancient pigeon breed, which can now be seen on exhibit at major American and Canadian shows. 

GENERAL IMPRESSION: 

A small to medium sized (average weight 11-12 oz) cobby pigeon, with a jaunty disposition. Stations at near to a 45-degree angle with the tip of the tail just clearing the floor. Typical characteristics include a breast frill, peak crest, grouse muffs, and a medium-short thick beak. Satinettes are shield marked / tail marked birds with white bars or laces on their shield and Moon Spots or laces on their tail. Blondinettes are whole colored birds which also possess white bars or lacing on the shields and Moon Spots or lacing on the tail...Some varieties have the lacing extending over most of the body. 

HEAD: Roundish to slightly oval, substantial, wide. Arched forehead that flows in a smooth, continuous curve from the tip of the beak to the tip of the peak. Wattle small and neat. 

EYE: Large, bright and prominent. Eye cere fine in texture and flesh colored. Bull eyes in Satinettes. The eye in Blondinettes to be yellow gravel to deep red brown depending upon the variety. 

BEAK: Medium short in length, substantial/thick, blending into the forehead in a smooth, uninterrupted curve. Flesh colored in Satinettes, flesh to horn to black in Blondinettes, depending upon the variety. Wattle small and smooth. Classic Old Frills can feed their young and do not need feeders. 

CREST: Needlepoint Peak Crest. Upright and central. Rising at least as high as the highest part of the head. Peak crest supported by a well-developed mane, without any sign of a mane break. (The indentation between the Peak Crest and the mane.) 

NECK: Short and strong, appearing thick due to the mane at the back of the neck, and the gullet. Held proudly, and upright so that the eye is directly over the juncture of the toes with the ankle. There should be a pronounced gullet extending from just under the lower mandible down the throat into the frill. 

FRILL: The frill should extend from the middle of the gullet and continue into the breast (ideally 2" in length). It should be well developed and profuse. A shorter, more profuse frill is preferred over one that is sparse but greater in length. Feathers to grow outward to both sides uniformly. Feathers that grow only to one side or disproportionately to one side will be penalized. Rose shaped frills will be penalized. 

BREAST AND BODY FORM: Breast is broad, well rounded, held forward prominently and tapering toward the rear of the bird. Size is small to medium with Body Form to be firm. compact and cobby. 

WINGS: Strong, lying close to the body, covering the back, without "sails", and lying flat on the tail. 

LEGS: Short, profusely covered with grouse muffs all the way to the toenails. Toenails to be white in Satinettes flesh to horn to black in Blondinettes depending upon the variety. 

PLUMAGE: Well developed, tight, lying flat with the exception of the Frill and the Peak Crest. 

FLIGHTS AND TAIL: Flights short, resting flat on the tail. Flights and tail to be shorter rather than longer. Tail to be no more than 2 feathers in width. Tail just clearing the floor when in show position. 

STATION: Upright station at near to a 45-degree angle, which causes the tail to be held downward rather than horizontal. 

COLOR: While no preference is given to any one color, all colors should be bright, smooth and even. In laced birds the lacing should be clear and distinct. In barred birds the bars should be clear, narrow. long and even. The color inside the bars or laces should be white. The color inside the Moon Spots or tail laces should be white. The factors which give the Oriental Frill its unique coloring are Toy Stencil and Frill Stencil, in combination. Toy Stencil affecting mainly the body and Frill Stencil affecting mainly the tail. Without these factors in proper combination, various shades of color will be produced, from normal coloration to bronzes/ sulphurs and a root beer coloration, in their various hues. Toy Stencil and Frill Stencil causes the whitening effect that one sees in a well marked Oriental Frill.

RECOGNIZED COLORS:

Blue Silver (Dilute Blue)  Brown Khaki (Dilute Brown)  Ash Red Ash Yellow (Dilute Ash Red)  Black (Spread Blue) Dun (Spread Silver)  Lavender (Spread Ash Red & Ash Yellow) Recessive Red  Recessive Yellow 

There will also be a class for AOC, for other factors which fanciers successfully transfer over to Classic Frills, such as milky, reduced, opal, etc. It should be noted that these factors must also have the telltale marks of Oriental Frills, and that is the Toy Stencil and Frill Stencil Factors, in combination, so that the same requirements stated in other parts of the standard are applicable to any new color factor added to the gene pool. 

COLOR NAMES: 

Bluette: Blue Bar Satinette  Silverette: Silver Bar Satinette  Brownette: Brown Bar Satinette 

COLOR / PATTERN / MARKINGS: 

Satinettes are white except for a colored shield and colored tail (including about half of the rump and the wedge to the vent). Ash Red birds are to have clear and obvious tail color and markings (It should he noted that it is most difficult to achieve the same quality of tail markings in Ash Red/Ash Yellow birds as in other color varieties). The shield is laced or barred. Spread birds have a laced tail. Non-Spread birds have a barred tail with white Moon Spots. The shield bars are to be White. The inside of the laces on the shield are to be White. The inside of each Moon Spot is to be White. The inside of each laced tail feather is to be White. There should be a clear delineation between the lacing and the ground color. The bars should be clear, long, even and narrow. The ideal is 10x 10 white flights, always with colored thumb feathers. White thumb feathers will be penalized. 7 to 10 white flights are allowed, with even numbered flights preferred over odd numbers of flights on opposing wings. There is to be an even line of demarcation across the rump between the colored tail and white back. This line falls about half way between where the wings first separate and the actual beginning of the tail feathers. An even line, both top and bottom, is more important than the actual location of the line on the rump. The same description applies to the Blondinettes with the exception that the Blondinette is a whole colored bird and has no solid white feathers. In Spot tail version of Blondinettes, usually just the tail and the wings show Toy and Frill Stencil. In Laced Tailed varieties, the lacing usually extends over most, if not all of the body--these are usually the spread factor birds. 

---------------------------------------------------------------------

I know that is an absolute brick wall of a read, but here is the single biggest thing that made this breed stand out to me:

BEAK: Medium short in length, substantial/thick, blending into the forehead in a smooth, uninterrupted curve. Flesh colored in Satinettes, flesh to horn to black in Blondinettes, depending upon the variety. Wattle small and smooth. Classic Old Frills can feed their young and do not need feeders.

I bolded and italicized it, but I did not add that last line to the standard by which the breed is to be judged.

The COF was developed using Oriental and modern frill culls that had too long a beak, by fanciers that loved the look and color, but wanted a beautiful bird that could function as a bird.

They are a recreation of an ancient Turkish Breed called the Hunkari.

I honestly fell in love with them on sight.

They were the first pure breed I sought out to raise for myself, and that decision was set in stone when I saw that part of the standard and learned the origin of the breed.

I don't know of any other pigeon breed brought back that way or with such safeguards written into the show standard.

[everythingisliminal]

Day 20 of 75 Hard

When I complete today, it'll be the furthest I've ever been in this challenge (made it through day 10 then day 19 in 2021).

The journey so far:

Two 45+ minute workouts, 3+ hours apart, at least one of which must be outside. Because I work 10 hour days in wetland restoration navigating mucky, watery, and steep terrain with ~40lbs on my back, I count those 4 workdays as my outdoor workout. Yes it's already part of my routine, but I wasn't going to not do this challenge just because I'm not fitting another workout in before work.

My other outdoor workouts are all walking and/or running around the neighborhood or on trails. My indoor workouts are push, pull, and indoor cycling days with my buddy, bowling with my husband, and following walk/dance/box/lift/yoga vids at home.

Saturdays are wild because I need to get a walk/run in, then go straight to cycling, and then 3 hours later bowl bc my afternoons are booked and I have to get that outdoor workout in but 3 hours away from another workout. Making it work, though!

I did put together an idealized workout schedule to train for the 5 mile trail run my buddy and I signed up for 2 weekends after we complete 75 Hard. Already had to adjust because I twisted my ankle yesterday, so I used that opportunity to try Qigong (followed by 45 min yoga). We'll see if I should stick with walking today or if I can throw in a few 3-4 minute runs.

Honestly, the toughest part of this rule is the scheduling and getting started. I really enjoy the physical activity when I'm in the flow of it.

Take a progress picture. This has been beneficial for me in a way I couldn't predict. The mirror has always surprised me, like "oh, that's what I look like?" It always shows me as curvier, less athletic than I picture myself. Might stem from a grey area of body dysmorphia and gender dysphoria. It's one of the things I'm talking with my therapist about.

But now that I'm taking a picture of my body every day, I'm realizing that what I'm seeing in the mirror looks better than what I'm seeing in the photo, giving an element of valuing what I see in the mirror. Like, I can more positively accept that that's me. So that's cool.

10 pages of reading a "think about your life" nonfiction book. I read The Book on Mental Toughness, which the creator of 75 Hard wrote. 3 of 5 stars. I might write an extended review, but a lot of the book was like watching a car crash. Yeah, the author's mentally tough, but he's not very well read sociologically. It'll be a tougher read for anyone who's nonbinary, living with intergenerational trauma, or can't stand editing/formatting issues. But there was some insightful info about 75 Hard and the continued LIVEHARD program, and I really benefited from the chapter on drinking water.

Currently reading Weave the Liminal: Living Modern Traditional Witchcraft, which I'm fully enjoying.

Books I'm considering reading next are Rest is Resistance: Free Yourself from Grind Culture and Reclaim Your Life / How to Make Friends & Influence People / The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius / Pleasure Activism: The Politics of Feeling Good / and Keeping It Living: Traditions of Plant Use and Cultivation on the Northwest Coast of North America.

If anyone has a recommendation for books on Inanna, Ishtar, Astarte, or Aphrodite/Aphroditus, I'm looking to learn more about their part in trans history.

Drink 1 gallon of water. I have to stick with a 90oz goal. I've tried multiple times in the past to drink a gallon a day and always wound up with a horribly sore throat after a few days. Last time, it made me sick for 2 weeks. So 90oz of unflavored water is definitely way more than I'd drink normally (32oz on a good day) but without dipping back into unhealthy territory. There are some days that I can drink more (allowing me to get in some Gatorade, preworkout, or BCAAs), but I also have a steady supply of good cough drops at hand.

I try to get in 32oz before lunch, another 32oz by 5pm, and 26oz+ before sleepy time.

Follow a diet. No cheat meals or alcohol. I'm focused on getting 100+ grams of protein a day (macro balancing and calorie deficit are secondary but seem to be happening naturally). I've also cut out chocolate (this is how I know I mean business), sugary drinks, gluten, and microwavable mac n' cheese type meals.

This is really forcing me to get my act together when it comes to planning/prepping. No more going to the coffee stand for a burrito and red bull before work. I have to either cook breakfast or nom on a protein bar. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, and at least 2 snacks all have to be protein-centric for me to meet my goal. It's wild to think of how little protein I must have been getting. But now I'm full, and then I'm hungry! There's no middle ground of kinda-hungry filled with chips and milk teas. All this meal prepping and forcing myself to eat well for 75 days will probably be one of the most beneficial things I've ever done for myself.

Tangentially, cutting out chocolate meant cutting out my herbal calm chocolate supplements I always had at night to help myself wind down. Now I have to get off my phone earlier and stretch/meditate/read to get myself prepped for bed. It's good stuff.

Also, I don't drink alcohol, so there's no challenge for me there.

Overall: I'm so glad I'm doing this. This is helping me live my life the way I actually want to live it. I'm developing daily discipline and gaining insights into myself. I've lost 6lbs, my clothes fit better, and I can navigate terrain more easily. I'm enjoying trails in my free time. I was wishy-washy about my goals when I tried 75 Soft a couple months ago, and so didn't stick with them. With 75 Hard, my commitment is unquestionable. This is what my life looks like for the next 56 days. Afterward, I'll take what I like and ditch anything I don't.

If you're considering 75 Hard yourself, do make a game plan. Figure out what your diet is going to be and shop for it. Know how you'll track your water. Schedule a week or two of workouts that help you fulfill a goal (finding out what's fun for you, increasing strength/flexibility/speed, getting outside, hanging out with someone, whatever). Get a book. Give yourself this Day 0 to set yourself up for success.

Then START :D

[reilleclan-blog]

I know no one is really gonna care when I post this but that's ok,

So "Cyberpunk 2077" is a pretty fun game, it's complex, and focuses a lot on existence, "who are u" and "who do u want to change into" also correct me if I'm wrong, the UNIVERSE OF CYBERPUNK 2077 THE GAME, is based off of our society's reality but "different"

So in this game, gender is what it is a "social construct" ppl dress how they want. Even change their looks from skin to their ankles. There are no boundaries when it comes to expressing one's self. There's no "racism" or "homophobia" b/c the society of 'Cyberpunk 2077' doesn't care for it in their universe.

So those two out ten trillion white supremacy ideals have been cast aside. But what about the pollution, climate change, and poverty, and oh yeah the abusive law enforcement. That's ALL STILL THERE. So why does a game talking about fascism, and breaking down gender and homophobia, still have audiences STILL be homophobic or racist to the people part of the cyberpunk fandom.

Cyberpunk would be called "Woke propaganda" to others. But why is it so hard for ppl to just let others express the way they want/are. I started posting on Reddit and joining different forums regarding Cyberpunk b/c this has been the most fun game I've played in 4 years. I join the forum it's ppl mad at other Cyberpunk enjoyers for being gay or even liking black characters like River and Panam.(there was literally a mod made to make Panam white)

I think this is just the poison of triple A gaming, it's just so frustrating cause no matter where I go I'm never "fully accepted"👏🏾 and the racism and isms on Reddit is so normalized. I guess it's my fault maybe I should take a break from social medias but that won't change the fact that racism is everywhere I go. When I'm online, watching a movie, watching anime it's always there. Even in my own head cause surprise surprise internalized racism is a thing.

My point is, ppl really missed the point of Cyberpunk. Why is it always like that idk. Like a show will make a commentary on our society and ppl will be like "haha edgy, I agree" lol idk. Makes me think of Rick and Morty as well, cause it wasn't fully "incelly"

I guess that also comes down to ppls' able to think for themselves. And be able to see past "propaganda" but i realized years ago that not many ppl can critically think for themselves. But if a game so popularly loved can cast out harmful shit like racism and homophobia, why can't we do that in our "society" so we can focus on the real threat which is "white supremacy"(white supremacy comes in many forms btw, ppl that deny racism is also part of the many forms that white supremacy takes)

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This has been on my mind cause ppl really be hating black ppl 24/7 so unwarranted. And non black ppl will tell us "racism doesn't exist" while gaslighting us when we can't even wear our own hairstyles at jobs or in our schools. Cause it is deemed "unprofessional"

[joyburble]

The mourning suit. This is the costume that instantly made me go "WHAT? oh, no" Because look at it. It looks like it's made of wool. This is the moment it appears, half way through episode 33. What.

There's no embellishment, no shine of any kind, no transparency unless it's backlit. I can't tell what the material really is, but it looks like a fine dark grey wool with a subtle richness of shade in the weave, and a sort of crepe edging (which the sleeves also have).

That seam along the top of the shoulder is surprising: visible seams hardly happen in his other costumes, except when they're revealed by patterns, and specifically not there.

None of these high-necked, imperious undershirts. No glitter. No train. No storm-clouds of gauze, no explosions of gold, no river of velvet in five shades of honey, no roots of the forest, no flames, not even the black satin or the silver moonscapes he wore in the human realm. Just a leather belt on top and skin underneath. Not even a buckle.

The total effect of he way the sleeves hang, the textures, and the composition of the shot above, is to make him look tiny in relation to Shangque. Our eyes are invited to abandon the delusion that he is tall or imposing, and recognise the body of a dancer.

The headpiece points down more than up, and hardly even shines. It could be jet, and you can hardly see it from the front, it just makes absurd little antennae above the ears.

It's ankle-length, and there's no train at all; the shape is relatively practical, like the hunting dress, or like Shangque's outfit.

Of all the costumes, I think this has two other outstanding, and contradictory, properties:

it's the one that can only be created instantaneously out of the fabric of fantasy spacetime by the character's state of mind. In the previous scene, in the same location, he was still wearing the Fire Gown. What purpose or occasion could possibly explain this having ever been made for him? It's intentionally unclear how either clothes or bodies are supposed to work in-universe, but can you imagine this sitting in a sandalwood chest in Moon Palace waiting to be magically summoned? It's a nope from me.

It's the one that's most explicit about someone having made it. There's a visible shoulder seam, and another that joins the sleeve.

This outfit is an extreme contrast of visual texture with every other thing the character has worn, up to this moment.

And, to my Western eye, the colour and unadorned texture, not to mention the lapels, bring an association of ideas which I will call on the art historian Anne Hollander to explain. She's writing about the genesis of the modern Western suit, about 1810:

"Formerly the play of light on rich and glinting textures had seemed to endow the gentleman with the play of aristocratic sensibility, and made him an appropriate vessel for exquisite courtesy, schooled wit, and refined arrogance without having to reveal the true fibre and calibre of his individual soul any more than that of his body. ... ... Brocade and embroidery had once indicated the generic superiority even of quite inferior individuals, and had displayed the beauty of the costume, not the man. Careful fit witout adornment, on the other hand, emphasizes the unique grace of the individual body - indeed creates it, in the highest tailoring tradition. The man's rank, or even his deeds, are irrelevant to the fine cut of his plain coat; only his personal qualities are shown to matter. ... ... The perfect man, as conceived by English tailors, was part English country gentleman, part innocent natural Adam, and part naked Apollo the creator and destroyer ... expressed not in bronze or marble but in natural wool, linen, and leather, wearing an easy skin as perfect as the silky pelt of the ideal hound or horse, lion or panther."

Anne Hollander, Sex and Suits, pp 90-91

As a visual comparison, here are three actual suits being worn in masterly fashion by (l to r) Tony Leung, Wang Yibo, and Eric Wang in the trailer for Hidden Blade (2023), which happens to be on my dash:

You see Hollander's point about the panther, right?

I also think it's a great illustration of another point she makes: the similarity of these three different suits focuses your attention on how different these three men really look. But that's another story.

I should spell out here that it's possible, and likely, that my association of ideas here was mostly a coincidence based on the very first glimpse, and the mood they were really going for with this costume is nothing more than humility and grief. The concept of a suit is not just texture and colour and visual simplicity: the complicated, multi-layered inner construction that uses the unique structural properties of wool cloth to create that illusion of panther-like simplicity is important, and tailoring is not being used in that way for this costume, at least not visibly. Other costumes have more fit-and-cut going on than this one.

But, either way. The drastic visual contrast is telling us that we are down to business now, the setup is over, it's all unwind from here.

So, I called this the mourning suit, since that's what he's mostly doing in this series of scenes, and I can't resist the opportunity for a pun that goes with the colour scheme.

And I felt like I was being told: now we find out who he really is and what he does when the chips are down. I for one was delighted to see that "who he really is" still includes "hilarious bitch", among other things. Pour one out for Lady Chiedi. Changheng is right there. The grey underlayer has a subtle pattern.

He continues to wear this right through episodes 34 (this beautiful scene where he tries to be a dick and then silently concedes Shangque's point). The dark top layer is split at the sides, which creates this cute fanned-out tail, like a bird.

Shangque is such a good friend.

The breakdown in Ep 35. This was the nearest I could find to a full-length view of this outfit that's close enough to see anything.

It's still with us when a revelation triggers "RTFM: The Comeback" (see this):

In another visually shocking departure from everything we've seen before: there's no long under-sleeve covering the wrists. The big sleeves just fall back as the 'rescue' theme rises in the music.

The goodbye snog. This grey underlayer actually seems to be two layers, which brings this to the usual number of visible layers, it's just that the inner layer hasn't got the high neck we were seeing before, and the top layer goes under the belt rather than over.

The dramatic exit - and I was delighted to see that as well as "the bitchy part" and "the part that Reads The Fucking Manual and compares it with the data", we also still have "the dramatic flouncy part" of his personality.

Minus glitter, dramatic eyeliner, rivers of velvet or clouds of gauze, he's still backing himself to seize the situation by the throat, and I love that for him.

After this, it isn't worn again.

Anyway: the point of this costume is to pack an emotional punch by its contrast to everything else, and it does that very well.

The DFQC costumes master post is here.