#who doesn’t like ominous things?
Note
did you know Dissonance also has the Simon wraith.
Yes! And if I remember correctly they are found in the Wailing Way and the Shrine of the Apostates (also known as Heretic’s Grave) both in castle B, which is near where the Smiling Statue (which looks a lot like Carmilla) can be found. :3
Also, the Energy Circle being found here, over a particular seemingly important marble coffin no less, is interesting considering it’s the whip upgrade that lets Juste spin the whip like Simon can in CV4 (albeit in way more neat of a circle lol).
Also on the topic of items, there’s a lot of interesting furniture descriptions too.
The Hero Statue and the Tall Clock seem pretty obvious. Simon would’ve been the most recent hero of the time and really the first of his family to get very much respect for it. The clock just directly mentions Juste’s ‘granddad’ so like yeah.
The Smiling Statue just straight up looks like Carmilla’s mask and is probably a Jojo reference since Carmilla is one lmao anyway but I’m not sure why she’s called a Goddess here, pretty interesting. These other two just had some weird descriptions of a presence in general.
The only thing I can’t figure out is who the Sage Statue is even supposed to be. The other two seem to have a pattern, so I’d expect like a Skull Statue or something to be Death/Dracula (as he was a skeleton ghost in Simon’s Quest) or something, but no it’s just some old guy. Maybe he’s looking so smug because he knows he’s out of place and messing with us lol. And the names of the statues also have some kind of relation to who they are (Carmilla smiles, Simon is regarded as a legendary hero) but the word ‘Sage’ just kinda doesn’t relate to any character I can think of other than like idk one of the random old guy towns people, but why would he get a statue? It’s odd, hopefully I’ll figure it out eventually tho.
Harmony of Dissonance has a lot of really interesting details in it, especially Simon’s Quest references, that make sense considering it takes place right after it and revolves around the plot of Maxim trying to recreate the glory of that last Dracula battle from it while not knowing the context behind why Simon did that, so they’re pretty intertwined in that way, it’s really cool :D!!!
I should probably make more general long analysis posts about these kinds of things sometime if I can actually gather everything into one place, cause this kind of random detail gathering stuff is really fun hehe >:3c. This also kinda just ended up a rant that left the topic and went to others so whoopsie (XwX)
#castlevania#castlevania games#text post#simon belmont#simon’s quest#castlevania harmony of dissonance#OoE also has a loooot of little references and stuff too like#I should do a long post on that hmmm#SotN has some#heck Richter’s downfall plot is partially a reference#it follows the formula of Belmont beats Dracula thinks everything is ok something goes wrong after a significant time skip#something that Belmont’s Revenge also follows!!!#and so does Harmony of Dissonance accept this time without the first dracula and also not a belmont gets possessed whoops—#Castlevania loves to repeat itself like this in different ways and I love it too it’s real for that#yada yada something ‘if you don’t learn history you’re doomed to repeat it’#the Simon wraiths are so cool tho I wanna see Konami do as much weird ominous things they can with them#but konami is a coward and wont#they won’t even make a new game boooooo throwing tomatos#GoS doesn’t count I see that game as canon as Fire Emblem Heroes is to Fire Emblem (Aka not and I don’t like it)#(this is coming from someone who does like non canon entries like CotM too so—)#theory dump#I think???#ask post
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2 + 1 — gojo satoru
synopsis. two times megumi thinks gojo is a lost cause and one time he approves of the white haired idiot
contents. fluff, lovesick!gojo, ooc, misogyny (from the clan heads), he is so pathetic for his wife (nauseating!), slight yandere behavior, violence, in megumi’s pov, not proofread eep
notes. can you tell i've been obsessed with the apothecary diaries? >< also how long has it been since i've posted a fic? anyways... enjoy!
fushiguro megumi has always wondered how that blue eyed idiot managed to marry you. he must have resorted to underhanded tactics; or at least that's what the sea urchin suspects. though he's never voiced it, the question has bothered him since the day he first encountered the both of you.
nobara clicks her tongue. “this is borderline creepy.” her orange eyes are filled with nothing short of distaste.
“there’s more too,” megumi’s voice responded, carefully flipping the page. the delicate artifact in his hand is something that he should have not touched. perhaps he should have wrapped it with a talisman and destroyed it while he had the chance.
it was too late for that anyway, because not even a second later, gojo satoru bursts through the shoji doors of the classroom.
with eyes blown wide as if they were caught committing a crime (they were), the first years who had pulled three seats up to a singular desk stare at him. satoru's eyes widen behind his blindfold as he catches sight of the object of their focus.
there lies in the middle of the wooden desk was the physics textbook that all first year jujutsu tech students were required to read. however, this wasn’t just any plain old textbook. it was gojo satoru’s former textbook. brimmed with doodles of their beloved [name] sensei and gojo himself when they were back in highschool.
any free space that was not filled with words were taken up by drawings of you inside of hearts and sometimes a depiction of a chibi version of the two of you.
a true testament to gojo satoru’s pining and devotion to you.
“sensei, we can explain–” yuji attempts to explain himself but gojo holds up a hand to silence the boy.
unlike you, megumi finds it a lot more challenging to read the white haired sorcerer’s expression with the blindfold on. he wonders if his punishment will be a painful beating disguised as a sparring session (megumi will run to you, who will scare gojo into backing down). you have that effect on him.
it seems like the heavens have answered megumi’s prayers because gojo satoru doesn’t seem to harbor any anger at his shocking revelation.
“i can’t believe you guys found this old thing.” satoru dismisses his students’ personal space by leaning closely to observe the pages. the black haired boy makes a noise of disapproval, but was quickly cut off by his benefactor. “megumi, be grateful that i’m in a good mood today.” he doesn’t elaborate the ominous message, rather choosing to hum happily as he studies his own drawings.
megumi is smart enough to keep his mouth shut.
“i never took you to be the pathetic type,” kugisaki continues to flip through the pages of the textbook. yuji nods furiously, as if to agree to her observation.
“you seriously never noticed?” megumi mutters under his breath.
gojo places a strong hand on megumi’s back, a languid smile on his face, “it was only natural, considering the lengths i had to go through to win her over.” he ignores the way megumi gasps for air.
“seriously?” itadori asks in disbelief.
“seriously.” gojo confirms wholeheartedly.
megumi shudders, recollecting memories of times before gojo tied you down for good.
2009
“sorry i’m late!” gojo bursts through the dingy apartment door with a convenience store bag in his arm. he was breathing heavily, an indication that he had run to the apartment. an uninterested seven year old megumi doesn’t bother leaving his place on the couch to greet his benefactor.
“they’re in the kitchen,” he says in his monotone voice, eyes never leaving the book that you had just gifted him.
“they?” gojo walks up to megumi to ruffle his hair aggressively. he receives a hiss in return.
“tsumiki and [name]?” the black haired kid says it like it was obvious. his sentence is accompanied with an eyeroll.
at the mention of your name, gojo immediately perks up. megumi imagines that if he were a cat, his ears would be swiveling and his nose twitching, attuned to pick up any trace of your presence. he had just learned that from the nonfiction book in his lap.
“[name]?! here? now?” gojo’s eyebrows are raised all the way to his forehead. the white haired sorcerer immediately started fixing his uniform and hair. megumi thinks it was comical. he was a lost cause.
the snarky look on his face is quickly wiped off when he sees gojo leaning down, mouth wide open.
“oi brat, check my breath,” gojo opens his mouth wide for megumi to check. the black haired kid shrivels up into the couch the further gojo leans down. megumi considers summoning his newly discovered jujutsu technique, hoping to avoid his fate.
“—toru? what are you doing?” your voice, like a divine intervention, stops gojo from sending megumi to the depths of despair. a sigh of relief escapes his lips.
now it was his turn to watch gojo squirm. the older male’s face contorts to an awkward smile and all of a sudden gojo is reduced to nothing but a mess.
“don’t worry about it darling!” gojo slowly turns around to face you. “agh—?!”
megumi has to peek around satoru’s big frame to see what elicited such a response from the man.
he’s met with a wave of underwhelming familiarity. there you stand, clad in a frilly apron with a wooden spoon in hand, the essence of domesticity incarnate. the soft glow of the warm kitchen lights dances around you, casting a warm aura that seems to envelop the room.
“welcome home, satoru.” you give him your signature closed eye smile. “i mean, you probably don’t consider it your home but—“
you’re cut off by satoru banging his head on the nearest wall repeatedly. he’s muttering something under his breath that you don’t hear.
to his dismay, megumi's keen ears catch every syllable. satoru's voice, though hushed, carries a hint of longing, "what an angel," he whispers, his words laced with adoration. "just marry me already."
unamused, he watches while you try to desperately pry gojo from his strange outburst.
a lost cause indeed.
2009
in that very year, megumi learns that gojo’s efforts to win your affection had yielded no progress. it had become increasingly apparent that his frequent visits to megumi and tsumiki's humble home were motivated to immerse himself in the semblance of domesticity that your presence offered. megumi almost pitied the man, if it wasn’t for the fact that he knew you deserve someone more sensible.
me
[name]
[nameeeee]
i’m dying.
and it’s your fault t^t
[name] ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡
excuse me?
me
i’ll have you know that i worked the hardest that i have ever worked to finish all of my paperwork so i could see you tonight… only to find out from megumi that you’re on a date?!!?
i feel like my chest is caving in.
i’m going to throw up.
[name] ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡
oh this is what you’re interrupting my date for?
me
i’m going to be sick.
please tell me, is he hotter than me? wealthier? funnier?
megumi quickly looks away from gojo’s phone screen when the white haired male slams it shut and mutters under his breath a couple of curses. he’s pretty sure half of them were death threats. honestly, couldn't you have attracted someone with more dignity?
“change of plans,” gojo claps his hands together. “movie night’s off.”
“what?” megumi protests, confusion etched in his features.
“our beloved [name] is getting swept off of her feet. you wouldn’t want that to happen, right?” gojo continues, his tone light but his gaze sharp as it bores into megumi's soul. something unpleasant coils in the pit of his stomach.
megumi feels a chill run down his spine, his mind racing with the implications of gojo's words. if you choose to date this new guy, he realizes, you won't need him or gojo anymore. and that thought terrifies him. it pains megumi to feed into gojo's delusions.
but he can’t let this unnamed suitor steal you away.
a wolfish grin makes its way to gojo’s mouth when he realizes that he’s won.
“what's the plan?”
2016
it was only years later that megumi had seen the true monster that lurks inside of gojo satoru.
on a hot summer evening, amidst a gathering of esteemed clan heads, he and satoru found themselves in a traditional chamber. while the finer details of the meeting escape his memory, the image of the room that altered his perception of gojo satoru is etched in his mind indefinitely. the wooden walls, adorned with subtle yet elegant designs, speak volumes about the room’s significance as a venue for the most influential members of jujutsu society.
throughout the meeting, he finds himself driving in and out of focus, content to let his mentor represent the gojo clan. however, his attention is abruptly seized by a particular remark that cuts through the haze of his thoughts.
“how’s that whore of yours, gojo?” a clan head jeered, clearly drunk on the sake that was constantly refilled by the servant on the side. his flushed complexion is scarcely discernible thanks to the dim glow emanating from the few lanterns scattered around the room.
there was only one person he could have been referring to: you. underneath the wooden table, his fingers tightened painfully into fists. pretentious bastards, megumi thinks.
another geezer rubbed his beard thoughtfully, “she has a nice body. perfect to be a concubine, but i would marry a more submissive woman.”
megumi's gaze stealthily darts towards gojo, seated beside him.
he’s startled to find the white-haired man wears a wide grin that belies a hidden truth. unseen by the elders before them, lurking beneath gojo's outward expression, is a manic gleam in his eyes—a revelation that sends a shiver down megumi's spine.
“i’d hold my tongue if i were you.” gojo satoru’s voice was dripping with venom. he sounded downright murderous.
"i'm right, am i not? we can share her if you'd like- name the price." the drunkard continues loudly.
megumi senses an instinctive wave of primal dread washing over him, compelling him with an urgent, almost instinctual need to flee or die.
before he can move a muscle, the flames that surround the room flicker before extinguishing in succession by an unknown force. the metallic stench of blood fills the air and all he can hear is the sound of flesh mutilating and bones crushing accompanied by the painful shouts of the men that once sat in front of him. he doesn’t have to see it with his own eyes to be able to sense gojo’s strong curse residue that suffocates the room.
“stand up megumi. we’re leaving.” his voice carries a feral edge, leaving no room for objection.
on their way out of the compound, the two don’t utter a word at what had just transpired.
megumi's gaze remains fixed on the ground beneath his feet, the images of the recent events swirling in his mind, leaving him unsettled and shaken. with each step, he grapples with the unsettling realization that beneath gojo satoru's charismatic facade lies a darker, more sinister nature.
the strongest sorcerer of today, riled up by the mere mention of your name.
megumi supposes he doesn’t feel much remorse for those clan heads anyway. he was never the type to mourn over people he didn’t know dying. especially not people who he knew would live on to do evil. it doesn’t help that they were blatantly disrespecting you. perhaps he could sympathize with the monster inside of gojo.
oblivious to the turmoil that stirs inside of megumi, gojo starts to smile.
“i know what you’re going to say,” gojo hums happily. “gojo sensei, you’re so cool! i approve of you marrying my beloved [name]! kyaa~’” he makes a pathetic attempt to imitate megumi.
the black haired boy grunts. he was going to say something along the lines of his approval for his benefactor, but all desires of flattering the white haired sorcerer disappeared.
gojo watches the black haired boy intently before tutting.
“not that it matters.” megumi is startled to hear how his voice dropped an octave. “i was always going to marry [name] and i’ll be damned to let anyone stop me.”
2018 – present day
after satiating his students with tales from his pining days, your husband comes home often clingier than normal (is that even possible?). the moment satoru enters your home, his arms envelop you, caging you in his hold.
you can't help but giggle as his hair brushes against the side of your neck, his embrace pulling you in close, as if he's inhaling your presence. his muscles flex when you attempt to slip away, keeping you in his tight embrace.
“sato– what is going on?!”
“is it a crime to show my wife some love?” he kisses your neck. when his flurry of kisses stop, he resorts to absorbing all of your features with those cerulean eyes of his.
you don’t bother pushing him away again, choosing to thread your fingers through his soft hair. even after all these years, you will never not feel the effect of satoru’s eyes on you.
“i was telling my first years about you today,” he says softly.
you smile, “is that so?”
he pushes his nose into your neck again, nodding.
“you’re so good to them,” you whisper. despite the initial shock behind satoru choosing to pursue education, you’re extremely proud of how far he’s come.
“mhm,” satoru inhales. “i’d be good to our little ones too.” one of his hands sneak to your stomach.
you delicately guide his face away from your form, your fingers tenderly urging him to meet your gaze. "is there something you want to tell me?" you inquire softly, your eyes reflecting the warmth of your affection.
satoru's smirk deepens, a glint of mischief dancing in his eyes. "perhaps," he murmurs, his touch light as he guides you towards the bedroom. without hesitation, you yield to his lead, eager at his sudden intimate gesture.
from outside your home, three first year students stand, waiting for their sensei’s cue to enter.
“do you think he’s forgotten about us?” yuji furrows his eyebrows, hands full of grocery bags that were going to be prepared for dinner.
extra notes. had the idea of gojo and megumi crashing your date in my drafts for so long. maybe ill elaborate on it if the ppl want to see :,)
#kt.writes.·:*¨༺#gojo satoru x reader#gojo x reader#gojo fluff#gojo satoru x you#gojou satoru x reader#jjk fluff#gojo satoru x y/n#gojou satoru x you#jujutsu kaisen fluff#gojou x reader#jjk x reader#jujutsu kaisen x reader
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Why I appreciate Kabru and Mithrun's relationship in the story (with pictures!)
I just want to express how much I loved reading through the chapter with the 6 days they spent together and how I think their relationship developed in a pretty sweet way.
I feel like a lot of people reduce their dynamic to "nurse and patient" and that makes me sad because I personally got a lot more from it than that.
I do wanna start off by saying I'm here appreciating their dynamic as it is in the text.
Read more (spoilers ofc):
The beginnings
When they first met, there was an air of intimidation surrounding Mithrun as the captain of the ominous Canaries. He demonstrates his proficiency as a fighter and leader which worried Kabru because he knew it would lead to the dungeon falling into elven hands once again. But this threatening aura begins to dim in Kabru's mind as they get to know each other.
Even before they fell down the hole, the both of them ended up relying on each other's abilities a number of times (when the underground governor turned out to be corrupted Mithrun defeated him and Mithrun needed Kabru's deduction skills during the battle on the first floor) which is already the beginning of a great dynamic
(Kabwu is scared but Mithrun just asks for his help)
After Cithis tasked him with "taking care of Mithrun's needs" for the time being, Kabru treated Mithrun with proper respect and doesn't take advantage of his disability, even using his title “Captain” when he knew Mithrun wouldn’t have cared either way after learning about how he lost his desires. This is in contrast to Cithis who immediately took advantage of her position to mess around with Mithrun when she was taking care of him.
(When Cithis was put in charge of taking care of Mithrun)
The whole time Kabru is with Mithrun, he treats him like a person and more than just someone to be taken care of, as also he relies on Mithrun's fighting skills, knowledge of the dungeon, and teleportation magic.
When you reduce their dynamic to just "caretaker and patient", you're ignoring Mithrun's own capabilities and making him seem totally helpless. It actually feels rather ableist. They have a more balanced relationship with what Mithrun brings to the table than you may think. Mithrun couldn't have survived down there on his own, but it's the same for Kabru (who famously dies every time he fights)!
Kabru doesn’t show signs of trying to manipulate Mithrun either, and he's no longer intimidated by him in the slightest once he learns he’s not a threat or after his life. Though he does instinctively revert to his "sparkly" persona to get Mithrun to eat the disgusting mushroom, it doesn’t work so Kabru just has him eat it normally and never tries it again. This is the beginning of Mithrun unintentionally encouraging Kabru to be more honest with others.
(Kabru realizing he can chill out)
(Kabru being unreserved and Mithrun being silly)
bonus funny moment:
Bonding
Throughout the journey they talked to each other, shared things with each other, and ate with each other. And Kabru expresses genuine concern about whether Mithrun is comfortable (which is something he could live without and wasn't something the Canaries told him to do).
(Kabru showing he wants to make him comfortable by making food for him which is a very important part of the narrative)
(Kabru sharing intimate memories with Mithrun)
(Kabru initiating conversation without hesitation or worry. This part also is referencing how Mithrun shared very important details of his life with Kabru. Kabru also ends up trusting Mithrun with information about Laios despite knowing he could possibly tell the other Canaries about him and impede his plans..which he does lol they do end up knowing about Laios before meeting him.)
For a bonus Lycion implies Kabru was taking better care of Mithrun than they had been which is interesting to me.
Mithrun also shows that he has come to trust Kabru's decisions over the Canaries' when he says he wants to stay in the dungeon after fulfilling the caretaker requirement. They did talk to each other a lot, during that time. I wonder what Mithrun's Shapeshifter double of Kabru would look like now?
Here, Kabru goes out of his way to make sure Mithrun doesn’t overexert himself by knocking him out after the demon leaves with Marcille (again, when his time taking care of him is already over), and I think that demonstrates an extra level of concern he holds for Mithrun.
(Kabru holding back a hellbent Mithrun)
(KNOCKOUT!)
He even managed to make Mithrun mad. It's probably because he "let the demon get away" but I think it's cute and funny because would he huff like that at anyone else? Lol
When the demon breaks through the surface
Kabru begins panicking after Laios turns into the giant monster because he's wondering if he made the right decisions etc. If Mithrun didn’t care about Kabru at least a little bit, he would’ve just left him alone when he started losing it (right after Marcille did the same thing and she is technically more to blame for empowering the demon than Kabru was for not allowing Mithrun to go after it), but he went out of his way to snap him out of it.
It also means a lot to me that Mithrun even says Kabru's name, because in Japanese you can go your entire life without referring to someone by name and it wouldn't sound wrong (just rude) and it's the first time Mithrun says Kabru's name on screen (I checked).
Though it was with a slap, I think it says a lot, because if Mithrun didn’t care at all he wouldn’t have done anything and left him alone. It's not like Kabru could've done anything to stop the demon. He didn't even to tell him to do anything even though Kabru looked ready for an order.
(To be honest I don't know exactly why Mithrun starts beating him up here but you can say it's another rare demonstration of emotion Kabru was able to evoke in him lol. Maybe it's payment for Kabru stopping him the first time. That can be interpreted as paying it back and/or paying it forward I think.)
The last few chapters
And in the end when Kabru’s motivating Mithrun to continue living his life, he speaks to him like they’re friends/have no rank between them despite using the Captain title for him the whole time. Even Lycion initially gets upset that he’s acting “too familiar” with Mithrun.
It feels like Mithrun changed so much in the short time he spent together with Kabru and before the final battle, and it’s thanks to Kabru that Mithrun finally starts to be able to move past his lingering obsession with the demon and begin to really heal.
This is despite the fact that he spent so much time with Milsril and the other elves who never managed to break through to him like that.
(Before Kabru) (After Kabru)
And even after his role as Mithrun's caretaker was loong complete, he still shows concern for Mithrun and tells him to take a break when he's using up all his magic to slice the Falin meat (lmao).
He didn't need to do that! But it shows how he at least slightly considers Mithrun some kind of friend.
It all culminates with Kabru helping Mithrun regain his wil to live and Mithrun confiding in Kabru. Their relationship is important. Kabru continuing to do things for Mithrun to me is more of a sign that he just plain cares about him. Isn't it normal when a friend needs medication for you to remind them to take it? I think it's like that.
Kabru is there with Mithrun when he comes out about his feelings of uselessness AND when Senshi helps him put a spin on the 'vegetable scraps' metaphor and he find meaning in his life again. He's the first one to see him cry :')
Along with the fact that it feels like Mithrun is the first person we see Kabru doesn't feel the need to change his personality with or put on airs for since Mithrun doesn't need buttering up and he won't get offended if someone were to say something socially awkward, I think they made a pretty good team!
BUT ALSO the REAL reason I became endeared to them is cute shit like this:
GOD I love them!!!!! There are so many funny sides to Mithrun Kabru was able to bring out, and really show his charm as a character. The true depths of their dynamic also grew on me over time :)
TLDR
All in all it’s so nice seeing how even though Mithrun is a really deadpan person, and Kabru is a really secretive and withheld person, they clearly seem to have developed some kind of bond with while they traveled together and even changed each other to an extent.
Doesn't Kabru feel more honest near the end? Maybe it's because of how much he talked to and shared with Mithrun during those 6 days so candidly...because they taaaalked a looooot like wow.
They mean so goddamn much to me. I don’t need them to be in a romantic relationship but I do want them to be together forever :'))) or like at least hang out when they have off time since they're still in the same country lol. Praying for Kui to make another side comic of them some time (crying).
Thanks for reading if you made it this far, I mostly arranged this because it makes me sad to see people reduce their dynamic to only one singular aspect.
Anyways ya...love 'em (heart hands)
#dungeon meshi#dunmeshi#mithrun#kabru#kabumisu#MITHRUN DESERVES MEANINGFUL RELATIONSHIPS TOO DAMMIT!!!!!#dunmeshi spoilers#i wasn't gonna ship tag it buuut w/e#omg i just came up w something#you can reduce their dynamic...but all you'd end up with...is a nice sauce#for like..steak..get it? reduction..cooking..no ok#also for an extra i think it's highly unlikely kabru met mithrun as a kid because he showed NO signs of recognizing him when they met#like KABRU of all people would remember lol
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f!reader | thinkin abt prone bone with katsuki. he’ll put his full weight on you bc he doesn’t give a single fuck if it’s too much, he wants it. his fat cock slams into you, heavy balls clapping against your clit almost too hard, but you can’t stop him, so does that even matter? your legs are almost spread too wide as he cages you in, but he’ll pull them back open if you try to close them because he wants to fuck you so deep he’s in your guts. maybe his hands are under your chest so he can grope your tits, twist and pull your nipples as much as he wants. he’ll pull your head back hard by the hair to get better access to your neck, keep you from muffling the moans he’s ripping out of your body. he’ll finger your mouth like that just to see you drool, feel your cunt clench and flutter from the humiliation of it. he’ll suck and bite hard marks into your skin along your neck and shoulder, kiss the tender spots that he’s created. maybe he’ll do all of those things while you’re laying with your back against his chest so he is hands have more purchase over your body as he thrusts up into you. but what runs through your head the most when you’re alone is the way he speaks to you. his voice, much like his groans are low and rough, but still soft enough that it gives you chills.
“tch. listen t’you, so fuckin needy…. such a good girl, lettin’ me fuck you like this. takin’ me so well…. you deserve it, princess. deserve t’be fucked like you belong t’me…. who owns you, huh?…. ‘s right, i do…. so fuckin’ perfect f’me…. fuck, that’s it, pretty girl. lemme have it. make a mess on my cock…. that’s my girl, don’t stop cumming. i need it, don’t fuckin’ stop, baby….”
if you’d like to be added to my tag list, let me know. ♡
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#it’s a bakubrainrot kinda day#if u only think he’s mean i’m telling u ur wrong#bakubunny#aged up characters#bakugou katsuki#bakugo katuski#bakugou smut#bakugo smut#bakugou x reader#bakugo x reader#bnha smut#mha smut#bnha x reader#bakugou x you#bakugo x you#f!reader#bnha#mha#boku no hero academia#x reader
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Completely Yours – Miguel O’Hara
pairing: Miguel O’Hara x f!reader
warnings: non, it’s a good old fashioned hurt/comfort fic 💕
an: I had a lot of fun writing this, there’s nothing more comforting than a story where your love being in danger makes you realize you’re in love. anyway I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think ✨
masterlist
——-
“Ugh, Miguel, you’re brooding too loudly over there.” You groan, pausing the video playing on your tablet and looking at the tall man pacing on his platform.
It’s easy for anyone who knows you to hear the lack of annoyance in your tone, and rather the concern laced within each syllable. As far as friendships go, the one you have with Miguel is the most meaningful one you’ve had with anyone. There’s a sense of home and protection that falls between both of you whenever you’re together, at least on your side of things. You know there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for you, and the same applies to you; he might be taller, stronger, and smarter but you’d protect him with your bare hands if necessary. The fact that you have a ridiculous and hopeless crush on him doesn’t help.
Setting the tablet down, you stand up and shoot a web towards the freakishly ominous platform before hauling yourself upwards. “Did they cancel your telenovela, hot stuff?”
Miguel’s back is turned to you, and he glances at you over his shoulder when you make your way towards him. “It’s more complicated than that.” He sighs and steps aside, gesturing towards the big screen in front of him.
“No internet connection up here.” You say solemnly; from where you stand you can tell the blinking letters on the screen are an error message –a failed code, but you’re not about to tell Miguel that. It would undermine his surprise when you whip out some smart rhetoric in a moment of need. “Tragic.”
“No, smartass, I’m trying to improve our algorithm, but I can’t figure it out how to do it yet.” Miguel’s eyes scan the screen, his hands placed on his hips and his weight settled on his right leg. You shift your eyes from his back to the error message and smile.
“Can I try?” You ask, concealing the mischief that possesses your body at the idea of getting under Miguel’s skin. “Maybe I can fix it.”
The fact that your grump of a friend steps aside to let you take a look at the code speaks on his stress. He’s tired, you can tell, the shadow under his eyes is darker today; he most likely didn’t sleep trying to get this to work. You shouldn’t make fun of it, you know that, and making a joke is not going to help fix this. But you also need you friend to relax before he gets a neck spasm. Miguel is grumpier than usual when his neck hurts.
You step close to the screen and analyze the code, it’s impossible to know what’s wrong at a glance –this isn’t your forte– but you pretend to. Biting your tongue to keep from laughing you tilt your head and hum. “I see what’s wrong.”
“What?” The sliver of hope in Miguel’s voice tempts you to abort mission and leave him alone. But who would you be if you didn’t annoy him?
“There is not a single legible word in this mess, babe.” You shake your head and place your hands on your hips as he always does. “No wonder your computer’s struggling, this is gibberish.”
“I thought you–” Miguel groans and covers his face with his hands staring up at the ceiling. “Por que yo? Por que yo? Por que yo?”
Naturally you start laughing, arms around you stomach when it begins to hurt. “Honestly, it’s on you. Crazy that you didn’t see it coming, baby.” The endearment falls easily off your tongue, all of them do, you gave up hiding how smitten you are a long time ago. It’s not like Miguel is ever going to act on it or make things weird. No matter how much it hurts you on the inside, this is a one-sided thing you’ve gotten used to.
Miguel turns to look at you, clear annoyance in the pinch of his eyebrows before it lessens when you smile at him. He sighs in defeat, shaking his head at you. “Why do I even let you come here?”
“Oh, come on.” You smile stepping closer to the edge of the platform and shooting a web at each opposing wall. “You were so stressed; I’m trying to get you to relax.” Making sure both webs are safely attached, you jump on the makeshift tightrope finding your balance at once.
Miguel’s amused, you can tell by the way his eyes seem to catch on your actions before he goes back to his computer. “This isn’t a game, the algorithm–”
“Is not as serious as you think either, try to relax. You should join my yoga class.” You shrug, jumping up and down on the rope before it snaps. Having seen it coming you shoot a web at the ceiling and catch yourself at the same time Miguel’s red webs pull you back to the platform and towards him.
“Cuidado.”
His eyes lock on yours, vexed at first before the shift into something softer when your arms go around him. You press your cheek on his chest, trying to push your affection onto him, let him know how appreciated he is. You hope the nano-tech allows it. “Sorry.” You mutter, voice muffled.
Miguel’s arms go around you and he holds you to him; you resist melting into his hold. “It’s okay, you were right.”
Those three words are enough to make you step back and look up at him, smirk on your face. “What was that?”
He chuckles under his breath and looks away. “There’s no way I’m repeating that.”
You’re about to say something else when you hear someone call from the lab’s floor “MIGUEL!!”
A chorus of voices follow the initial call, all coming from the lab’s entrance, and you’re quick to jump down and greet the three teenagers that walk in. “Careful guys, he’s moody today.” You warn with a smile.
“Same as always then?” Gwen says before all four of you giggle.
“This’ll cheer you up!” Pavitr says, before messing with his watch and sending something Miguel’s way. “Another mission complete.”
“So you did your job.” Miguel says once the platform’s closer to the ground. “Congratulations, here’s another one.”
Lyla pops up in front of Miles’ face and fixes her pink glasses. “New anomaly on earth 55. It’s a Vulture variant, Gwen takes point.”
“Why is she always the leader?” Miles complains, gesturing towards Gwen.
But the teenager ignores him and nods once, a determined look on her face before Lyla blinks away. “Let’s go.”
“Wait just one more thing.” Pavitr says, stopping Gwen and Miles on their tracks. “I have a question!”
“We’re full of answers.” You shrug before Miguel can shut down the kid. “Ask away.”
“Is there a monarchy on earth 928? It seems too futuristic to have one. Please tell me they got rid of it.”
“Other than the one in here?” You ask, a smile on your face as mischief makes another grand appearance.
Miguel mutters your name in warning, almost as if thinking you’d reveal the details of Miguel’s earth to the young Spider-Man. It makes you throw your hands up in mock surrender. “What? There is a monarchy here! I mean after all…”
Miguel turns to look at you, eyebrow raised and an unamused look on his face. The teenagers wait expectantly as well, until you open your mouth.
“You’re the king of my heart.”
Everyone groans at your bad joke, and you throw your head back laughing. Resorting to humor to let out all the feelings you have for the one you love, pathetic but necessary. Miguel sighs and turns back to his computer, but you’re almost sure he’s holding back a smile.
“Don’t you have work to do?” Miguel calls over his shoulder, arching a menacing eyebrow at the teenagers. It’s enough to make them scramble out of his lab, pushing each other to get to the entrance faster.
“Get ready,” Miguel then tells you. His mask covers his face once more, and you mourn not seeing his handsome face anymore. “Anomaly on earth 7832, you’re coming with me.”
“You got it baby.” You smile brightly, hopping onto the platform again and putting your mask back on.
“Come on.” Miguel huffs, but his tone is lighter than before. The hug helped, you smile in triumph though he can’t see it.
---
“The anomaly is a goblin variant” Miguel explains once the two of you make it out of the portal. “We need to take him away from this dimension.”
As you look at the buildings around you, shiny and modern, Miguel keeps briefing you on the matter at hand. The Goblin is going to Oscorp, thinking he can have his revenge on those who wronged him. However, this Oscorp hasn’t wronged him, it might have before but the goblin from this dimension already took many lives years ago. Miguel needs your camouflage, as you’re the only Spider-Man with this power other than Miles –though you’d rather have his venom powers instead, they’re so much cooler.
“I need you to trail him.” Miguel turns to look at you and places a hand on your shoulder. “Lyla will track him for you, and I won’t be far behind. Just stop him before he gets there and… be careful.” The last two words are said with emphasis, and it makes you smile. He worries so much; it gives away just how much his heart feels.
“Careful’s my middle name, handsome.” You blow him a kiss before you swing yourself off the building.
“Oh really, most of your records might disagree.” Miguel tells you on your watch and you can hear that cocky smile on his face.
“I hope you caught my kiss.” You ignore his jab, smiling under your mask as you swing yourself upwards and let go, doing a flip mid-air and shooting another web. “Lyla, am I close to our guy yet?”
“Closing in.” Her voice comes from your watch. “Three blocks.”
“Better turn invisible.” Miguel’s voice follows, it’s more agitated that before which you know means he’s trailing after you. Though you’re not nervous, a sense of relief washes over you at the knowledge that he’s close. “And no more talking, this is a stealth operation.”
“Sure thing, baby cakes.” You agree, “Catch you in a bit.” You make sure you’re camouflaged one block before you intercept the anomaly, staying silent, and focused on the mission. That is, until you pass a lilac and orange storefront. “Oh that milkshake place closed last year! Can we go back, later. Please.”
Your voice is merely a gasp, but Miguel’s chastises you. “Y/N”
“I’m gonna take it as a yes.” You shrug before going silent once more.
You spot the Goblin when you turn the corner of the last block. He’s green and wears a yellow hood on his head, his glider looks a lot like wings with green lights on the bottom. The anomaly is heading for a window, to break into the building mode likely but your don’t let him.
Shooting a new web and launching yourself upwards, you kick his glider to destabilize him and miss his shot. He’s definitely confused at what happened and even more so when you shoot two webs at his feet and pull. “I’ve engaged the anomaly, where are you?” You ask Miguel, showing yourself to your opponent so he can follow you to the rooftop.
The Goblin is faster than you, especially with his high-tech glider —you’ve never seen one so advanced— and he snatches you from the edge of the building then proceeds to throw you on the rooftop’s floor.
“How rude.” You shake your head at him, camouflaging again and slipping underneath the floating board he’s perched on. You shoot your webs at the blue ventilation system, knowing it will overheat it until it explodes before a series of red ropes latch onto the equipment and pull it away from the Goblin’s feet.
You roll to your right to avoid his body falling on top of you, at the same time an explosion goes off in your vicinity. Miguel stands there, as the glider’s smoke clears behind him, head cocked to the side. “I’m here.” He states when you stop camouflaging.
“You know, you really have to work on your one liners.” You shake your head. “Miss me? Would’ve been a much cooler thing to say.”
Neither of you can do anything else as suddenly six explosives are thrown both your ways. In a second, you shoot your webs are them, pulsing the shooter three times to change the web’s pattern and create a net-like trap you throw to your left. “Excuse me, we were having a moment here?”
The empty parking lot on the neighboring building shudders at the explosion and that’s when the Goblin attacks.
You try to put up a fight, and so does Miguel but the Goblin stronger than you. Though you manage to get some good punches in, his are stronger and knock the air out of you. He’s fast, too fast for one person to catch up with him, and even with you and Miguel running yourselves ragged, it’s hard to keep up. His bombs run out eventually —you kept throwing them to the empty parking lot, which worsened his mood— and you can focus on keeping Goblin still. The issue is, that no matter how many webs you shoot at his limbs, he snaps them easily before going back to exchanging punches with Miguel.
You try to pin his arms one more time, but he sends you backwards with a kick to your stomach.
“CHUCHA!” You scream one of Miguel’s most common expletives, frustrated with yet another failed plan. “Okay. Babe, I have an idea, but you gotta help me out.” You tell Miguel, voice breathless as he struggles with the anomaly.
“Tell me.” He grunts, trying to keep Goblin from escaping the rooftop, if he reaches the door and gets inside there would be too many people to look after.
“I hold him still and you bite him; I think it’s the only way to cage him.”
When you see Miguel nod, you get to work. You begin by shooting webs to the side of the buildings, much like you did back at Miguel’s lab, before attaching them to the Goblin’s body. His arms and legs are next, which you manage to hold down by circling him until they’re tight enough that he can’t move. Miguel uses his red webs to hold him too, and the front of his mask disappears showing his teeth as he approaches the anomaly. But the Goblin’s stronger than anything you’ve fought before and in mere seconds snaps one web, then another, until suddenly and with an ear piercing scream he’s free and sending a well-placed blow to your chest that leaves you breathless.
You’re out of webs thanks to your plan as he stands before you —to finish the job you’re sure— but it’s hard to focus on anything other than your shortness of breath. Miguel’s voice is muffled when it reaches you as he tackles the Goblin, grabbing at his neck with his claws. You take the opportunity to take off your mask, gasping for air and trying to get your rising panic in check. It barely lasts though, because the anomaly gets away, slipping through Miguel’s clutches, and going back to you. His green claw snatches you from the floor, making you grunt in pain as he jumps to the other building. Next thing you know, the Goblin lets go of you between the two buildings and your stomach drops. You activate your web-shooters in the hopes that even the smallest bit of web can help you but it isn’t your lucky day. Your body is in free-fall and the wind mutes the words coming out of Miguel’s mouth.
All you manage to hear is his scream, a desperate sound, followed by him diving to rescue you without hesitation. You can sense how his mind goes over the million ways he can grab and not injure you. Not even his bright-red webs can help you, he’d snap your back in two or detach a limb. But he will help you, you’re sure of that. You see him get momentum from the building in front of you before he dives in your direction, arms tight to his sides to gain speed. Once you’re within reach, his arms go around you, enveloping you completely before he turns around so his body receives the impact as you crash through a glass window on the opposite building.
“Go get him.” You groan, body limp on top of his.
Your lack of comment on your position is enough to worry Miguel. He was expecting something that would make him roll his eyes and hold back a smile as he always does when he’s with you. If you wanted some alone time, you could’ve asked, big guy. Woah, take me out to dinner first, handsome. He can hear it so clearly in his mind that your silence at present causes a wave of anxiety to rise in his sternum.
“You’re hurt.” Miguel states, voice strained as he lies you down gently on the floor.
“I’ve seen worse.” You shake your head. “Go find him, I’ll catch up.” It’s a blatant lie, and you know Miguel can tell. He can see you’re barely awake, how you’ve turned a shade closer to grey, how clammy your forehead looks and a quick glance at your abdomen confirms his first guess. He thinks at once, internal bleeding.
He talks to Lyla through his watch but you can’t make out a single world after the system’s name because you’re trying really hard to concentrate on breathing. Since when do you have to think about breathing? You’re suddenly bathed in tangerine light as a portal opens behind Miguel, and though he’s still in a hurry to get you back to the Society, he takes his time as he picks you up.
The movement is gentle but you still whine in pain, a string of curses flying past your lips. “How do I say motherfucker in Spanish?” You ask Miguel as your eyes fall closed.
“It’ll be over soon. Just look at me, okay?” His voice is tight yet calm despite the disastrous turn the mission’s taken. “Don’t close your eyes, you have to stay awake.”
You open them weakly —it’s so hard to stay awake all of a sudden— and look at his illuminated profile. His chiseled jaw, beautiful but so tense you’re sure he’ll crack a tooth. You’re in pain, slowly feeling like you’re fading away into nothing, but you can’t bear to see Miguel so stressed.
“Hey,” You whisper, and he looks down, his expression softening. “It’s Guasha right?”
“What?” Miguel looks so confused you’d laugh if it didn’t hurt to breathe.
“The secret to your cheekbones, babe.” You mumble.
Miguel squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath, not annoyed but something else you can’t figure out. “As if I’d tell you.” He tells you, rolling his eyes at you in that fond way of his.
He steps through the portal and a moment later you’re back at the society, spidermen walking left and right to their own dimensions and missions. Miguel’s quick to bring you to the med-bay, at least that’s where you assume you are until you pass out.
It turns out, you were put under so the Spider-Medics could operate on you. Everything’s fine, they reassure you when you wake with a start, a couple of needles pricking your skin. Your eyes search for a familiar tall figure, brooding, handsome, the light of your eyes, but you can’t find it. So, you let the doctors run their tests and give you their diagnostics without another word. It takes a whole day for you body to heal and feel better, all while waiting for Miguel to show up.
He doesn’t. Not once.
Once you’re dispatched with an all clear and a lollypop, you immediately open a portal back home. There’s no use going to see Miguel at his lab. If he doesn’t want to see you, that’s fine. You get it, you ruined his mission and he’s gorgeously pacing in front of his many computer screens. But there’s also the gentle way he’d spoken to you, the look he’d given you before you passed out… No, it’s just childish wistful thinking. You’re the last person he'd like to see at the moment. You’re sure of that.
When you get home, you’re quick to turn on the radio and sync it to the police channel. Maybe chasing some bad guys will clear your head, take your mind away from the heartache threatening to consume you –it’s even worse than your previously broken ribs. But you shower and change back into your suit and no such luck; not even a small robbery to stop. With nothing else to do, you go up the fire escape and to the rooftop just in time to see the sun set in the horizon. It bathes your New York in orange; it’s not nearly as modern as Miguel’s but it’s loud and fun regardless.
“One would think that after that fall, you’d avoid heights for a while.” Miguel’s voice comes from somewhere behind you but it doesn’t startle you.
“Occupational hazard.” Is all you say, staring ahead as your heart aches in more ways than one; for your own feelings and his likely regret of bringing you along to Earth 7832. “I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?”
You refuse to look at him, guilt eating you up from the inside out. “Miguel, I ruined your mission.”
“You didn’t.” Miguel sighs. “Why would you think that?”
You huff, then look down at your hands and twist your gloved fingers. “I know you’re mad, don’t lie to me.”
You hear him approach you, his footfalls getting closer before he places something next to you. You look to your right and see it, the lilac paper cup with the orange logo and white straw. What? You take it in your hand and examine it in the sun. “Is this?”
“They closed a year ago, right?”
You turn then, and the sight of Miguel standing there increases your yearning tenfold. He’s bathed in orange light from the sunset, it casts sharp shadows on one side of his face as the wind tousles some rogue strands of his hair. It should be illegal really, to be so beautiful you bring people to tears.
The worst thing is that he’s not mad, you can tell by the way his jaw isn’t tense like a day ago. His brows are relaxed, and his eyes scan your face as if drinking you in. It makes your eyes tear up, much to his shock. If he’s not been angry at you, then he didn’t go to see you because he doesn’t care. You thought you were good friends, despite him trying to conceal it; he’s let you hang out with him all the time, never once has kicked you out of his lab, has taken you with him to multiple missions. Yet…
“You left.” You murmur tearily.
Miguel sighs and sits next to you, his back to the sun and his hands falling between his legs. His shoulder hunch, as he shakes his head. “Do you know how close you were to…”
“They said everything was fine.”
“You almost died.” Miguel’s voice isn’t loud but the pain with which he murmurs those three words make you grimace.
“Oh.”
Miguel shakes his head. “I was scared to lose you.” His right hand reaches for yours and you take it, moving the milkshake to your other side to scoot closer to him. “I might be strong, but not when it comes to seeing you in pain.”
“And after that?” You turn to face him, big fat tears fall down your cheeks, and Miguel wipes them away, setting your skin on fire and comforting you at the same time. “You still didn’t come. I thought we–“
“I was thinking.” He tells you softly, a hushed confession.
“Of course you were.” Even though you’re confused by his words, a grin makes its way to your face. He’s ridiculous. “About what? the multiverse perishing ‘cause of the bad guy we let escape?”
Miguel shakes his head before holding your chin between his thumb and index finger “The fact I was so overtaken by fear when you got hurt I could barely think; that I can’t live without you; that I’m completely yours without even knowing when it happened.”
“You’re mine?” You question, eyes widening in surprise, heartbeat raising at the same time as your hopes with his words. “You mean—”
“That I love you?” He chuckles at your expression, his eyes looking at yours fondly; “According to Lyla, everyone knows I do but you. I thought the milkshake would give it away.”
“Miguel, I thought I was the obvious one. I’m always —”
“You were, baby, you were” Miguel’s hand slowly moves to your cheek, eclipsing it in size as your body lights up at the endearment. “I was hesitant but I’m not anymore.”
“So you got me a milkshake.” You smile, widely this time as you move even closer to him. Damn this man and his acts of service love language.
“I would get you whatever you want, you know that.” Miguel’s voice drops to a whisper at your proximity, his hold on your cheek pulling you closer to his face.
“And you looove me.” You tease him, brushing your nose tenderly against his; there’s nothing you’ve wanted more than to shower him with all the affection you have for him. It turns out you have a chance to do it after all.
He rolls his eyes with nothing but adoration, and love. “Never stood a chance.”
“Wish it didn’t take falling to my death to tell me, hot stuff.” You murmur, brushing your lips against his, drunk with your feelings and the idea of loving him freely, no jokes needed. “You’re the one that bites out of both of us.”
Miguel chuckles and you lean close, closing the gap between you and kissing his lips like you’ve dreamed of for a long while. Your hands move to his hair as you pull him closer and a noise gets caught in the back of Miguel’s throat. His own hand on your cheek tilts your face to the side before his tongue brushes your bottom lip to open you up to him. There’s no testing the waters, no hesitation. No, this is something you’ve clearly wanted for a long time and after the events from yesterday’s mission there’s no way you’re delaying this anymore. You sigh into his mouth, intoxicated in the best way from the taste of him, coffee and something sweet that makes you gravitate even closer to him.
You’re left dizzy and happy beyond words when you part, your lips chasing his for a moment before you press your forehead against Miguel’s.
“Hermosa,” Miguel murmurs. You can feel his eyes on you as he ghosts his lips across your chin, your cheek and jaw, as your mouth shifts to a grin. No one but you knows your moody vampire is so loving.
You move to sit on his lap, your side to his front, smiling widely at the content look you find on his face when you look up. Completely unguarded, for you.
“Okay moment of truth.” You announce, reaching over and taking the paper up in your hands. Your hands cover your face as soon as you take a sip, the creamy chocolate taste coating your mouth and releasing endorphins to your system.
“What?” Miguel asks, his protective mode rising to the surface for a moment before you smile. It makes him shake his head.
“Ohmygod, I missed this so much!” You cry out, taking another sip and sighing in content. “Might have to pop by and get another one every now and then.”
“If there’s another mission there maybe,” Miguel concedes, arms going around your waist to pull closer. “Maybe.”
“You did it though.” You remind him, cheek resting on his chest, making your words come out muffled.
“I’m in charge,” He shrugs, self-assured smile clear in his tone.
“You’re no fun.” You sink against his chest, breathing him in and taking in his warmth. Until a memory flashes in your mind, making you light up and look at him again. “WAIT. Was that a joke earlier?”
—-
*por que yo? (why me?)
*hermosa (beautiful)
*cuidado (careful)
*chucha (common curse word, kind of like yelling shit! Or fuck!)
#miguel o’hara fic#miguel o’hara#miguel o’hara fanfiction#miguel o’hara x fem!reader#miguel o'hara x reader#miguel spiderverse#miguel o’hara fluff#miguel o’hara x you#miguel ohara#miguel o’hara angst#miguel o’hara across the spider verse
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picky eater
– tales of the voracity pathstrider
✎𓂃 leviathan? dog under the table! avvy, won’t you come home in 18 hours 30 minutes? final tribute to you before your release <3
aventurine shows up in your office without knocking, as he often does. you look up from your work, raising a brow – you’ve gotten so used to him doing this that you’ve given up asking him what he wants altogether.
“what, i can’t even visit my own secretary?” he teases, trotting up to your desk and setting down a delicate bag of… something. “lunch, my dear, lunch. you skipped it again, didn’t you?”
you ignore his pet name for you and stare at the bag, then at him, then back at the bag
it’s quite endearing how he tries to make sure you eat regularly
even though your composition doesn’t quite need you to eat the way other people do
not that you can’t, you just don’t really need to, so you don’t
it’s just less effort for you and more efficiency
but who are you to deny your boss’s goodwill?
“thank you,” you say, giving the entire bag a quick sniff. “the usual?”
“the usual.” he confirms
more like if he gets anything else there’s quite a high chance that you won’t like it
he’s realized that you’re picky as hell
even though you literally eat monsters for fun
okay, maybe not for fun
his point still stands, though
when it comes to your taste buds they’re the most hard to please things ever
it’s okay, someday he’ll find your favorite foods
in the meantime he’ll keep getting you stuff he knows you’ll eat
this information is obtained through trial and error, by the way
read: a lot of trials and a lot of errors. mostly errors
you flash him a small smile under your scarf
he doesn’t miss it; he’s known how to read your expressions by the changes in your eyes now
you set your papers aside and carefully put the few boxes of takeout on your desk
you have limited space on your desk because of the way you set it up
you don’t like big, wide spaces
when you finally pull down your scarf, aventurine’s entire person lights up with joy.
“what?” you ask, because he looks like that every time he sees your face.
“nothing,” aventurine chuckles, “just thinking about how you used to kick me out whenever you had to take off your scarf.”
you look at him from the corner of your eyes, your spoonful of rice half-raised
you are unimpressed
“would you like me to kick you out?” you offer very kindly
so cold
but he knows you’re not actually going to kick him out
still. so cold.
“hey, i brought you food!” he whines
you nod in agreement. “and i said thank you.”
why are you like this
please, as much as he loves these back-and-forths with you, have some mercy
then again the sight of you eating well is really heartwarming
plus the fact that he’s the one who's treating you
worth it 10/10
you’re using utensils like everyone else, but somehow you still eat really quickly?
what in the sorcery
you finish the contents in the boxes that smell familiar
the trustworthy boxes™
and that leaves you with… one delicate little box
it smells… ominous. like a crime against your tongue.
you look at aventurine with doubt in your eyes. what is he trying to feed you this time?
“cake,” he says, “i asked around for the best cafe in town.”
“you asked topaz.” you slowly take off the ribbon and open the box.
ouch, must you be so truthful?
because who else is he supposed to go to for these things?
it’s not like he can just ask anyone!
and he really wants to know your preference towards sweet things
you’ll eat very, very lightly sweetened things
but what about proper dessert?
you’re gentle towards the box; you’re staring at the canary-shaped cake
more examining than staring, actually
seems like you appreciate intricately decorated things
he’s making a mental list of things you like and don’t like
even though you’re not very cooperative with him on this
like
c’mon, he wants to know everything about you! he wants to treat you right! let him!!!
(you do not know of the existence of such a list)
you pick up the mini cake and sniff it
pokes it with your tongue when you think it passes your sniff test
sweet, but nothing too bad so far
time to take it further
you try a tiny bite in the corner
your senses get assaulted by sugar, if that even makes sense
no. 0/10 would not recommend.
but you keep your face blank so as to not be blatantly obvious
“hmm.” you set the pastry down on your desk like you’re deep in thought.
“how is it? you like it?” aventurine awaits your answer eagerly, watching you closely. a little too closely, to be honest.
“please do not ever visit that store for cakes again.” you say, getting a spoonful of the unbitten side and offering it to your boss. “mm.”
you’re telling him to try it?
the way you’re asking is so adorable
not even words, just a little hum and a small wave of the spoon
he does have a try of the cake
and have you feed him while he’s at it
very happy right now
would be better if the cake wasn’t sugared like it’s a day’s calories concentrate
he understands your response now
trying his best to not cringe
also knows to never ask topaz for dessert recommendations again
“if you don’t like it, let’s just toss it out,” he suggests, because he wouldn’t be able to stomach that either
no
you got this from him
territorial snake moment when he tries to take it from your hands
you hiss
jumpscare, he did not expect that
also oddly happy that you’re protective of the stuff he gives you
also concerned
“you’re not going to force yourself to eat that, are you…?”
“what are you saying, of course not,” you say, setting the barely-eaten canary cake on your desk all the while keeping aventurine’s hands away from it.
then your scarf comes and swallows the thing in one gulp.
what.
“it…” aventurine points a shaky finger at the white fabric that morphed into a faceless serpent’s head at the ends. “it ate it? just like that?”
“if it can swallow monsters whole, it can eat an overly sweet cake.” you shrug, finally wiping your mouth and pulling your scarf back up.
aventurine’s jaw would be on the floor if it was physically possible. unfortunately, it isn’t. “i thought you could still taste when your scarf eats things?”
“monsters.” you reply, patting your scarf as it settles into a regular piece of cloth again, “it tastes monsters. not food.”
so that's how you managed to finish even the things you absolutely hate? by having your scarf eat it?
aeons, there’s still so much he has yet to learn about you, isn't there?
#honkai star rail#aventurine#aventurine x reader#honkai star rail x reader#ares's voracity pathstrider tales
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glitter & crimson (it has a title y'all!)
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7
Nervous excitement has Steve out of his bed 25 minutes before his alarm goes off to wake him. It’s not unusual on game days. He gathers ingredients in the kitchen until he hears Robin’s alarm, and then he starts making both their breakfast smoothies.
She fumbles down the hallway a few moments later with her eyes still closed, takes the cup from him, and sits in the middle of their living room floor.
“Pilates today? Or did you get a workout in at the show last night?” She asks after a few sips, and Steve joins her near their mats.
“It’s a tradition, can’t go changing shit now.” He teases, laughing as she throws her head back with a tired groan. Then she’s hauling herself to her bedroom to grab a hoodie.
They exercise on the balcony, like always, but keep it light. Steve tries to get plenty of stretching in on game days, making sure he’s loose and limber before he hits the ice. After about 30 minutes, Robin’s teeth are chattering in the cool morning air, so he calls it, and they head back inside. He gathers his gear while Robin showers, and then they make their way to United.
Steve heads to the locker room to gear up, manages to finish a whole bottle of water before he hits the rink. He takes a few slow laps around the rink as the rest of the team starts to roll in, runs through a few drills on his own before team practice starts.
They keep things minimal on game days; sprints and passes, shots on goal. Steve does a final lap backwards around the rink, before clearing off to the locker room to finish putting on his uniform while the other team takes the ice for their own practice.
As he refills his water bottle, he gets whacked in the shin with the body of a hockey stick. He watches it happen, feels an echo of the impact on his shin guard, before turning to raise an eyebrow at Max.
“Hello to you, too.” He says through a little smile. She rolls her eyes, but smiles back at him.
“They’re here.” She says, in an ominous tone, despite her smile. “You guys seemed to hit it off last night, I’m glad you didn’t scare him away with your weirdness.”
“I’m not weird, you guys are weird.” He mumbles back, kicking the stick from her hand but catching it before it hits the ground. “Last night was fun. I just hope he doesn’t hate the game as much as I think he’s going to.”
“Awfully concerned about him having a good time.” She leans in closer to him to tease, and while he feels his ears get hot, he shoves the hockey stick back into her arms and walks back toward his locker. “Dustin is working in the AV booth tonight, so be prepared for a lot of Eddie on the big screen.”
“You overestimate how much attention I pay to the overhead.” He replies, rolling his eyes and taking a big gulp of water.
He hadn’t exactly considered the consequences of Eddie actually coming to the game. He was bound to draw a lot of attention, but what would that turn into? Steve had, smartly, elected to stay off the internet after he’d gotten home last night, and he hadn’t bothered to check social media before coming in. He was sure there were pictures and videos of him at the show floating around, insinuating things beyond what they actually meant. He was just as sure that there was at least one person who had taken to their feeds to report that Eddie and Steve had hung out after the show; never mind the fact that everyone else was there. Never mind the fact that they weren’t alone.
Except they had spent most of the night alone. Other than a few interruptions, their time at Fatpour had mostly consisted of Eddie and Steve sitting at a high-top table close to the bar, munching on snacks and talking about everything and nothing and whatever crossed their minds. Eddie insisted he was going to make a playlist for Steve, and Steve offered to teach Eddie how to ice skate. And it felt… nice. It had been a while since Steve had that with anyone.
Max just moves on, reminding Steve of which stretches he needs to do now that he’s in his gear, and the coach and captain both give speeches in the locker room, before everyone moves out to the rink. They take the ice as the announcer reads off their name, and Steve taps his stick with the right wing who stakes up next to him.
He glances around, chewing on his mouth guard absently. A part of him knows that Robin and Eddie and whoever else from CC made the trip to the game are in one of the boxes around the upper level of the area, but he hadn’t asked which one when he had briefly texted with Eddie this morning, and now it was too late. But, he figures it’s probably for the best. Not knowing where to look keeps him from running the risk of sparking more speculation about nothing.
______
Even having heeded Steve’s warning to wear layers to the game, Eddie is freezing. He’s wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt under a hoodie under a leather jacket, but he’s still cold. And Robin is bouncing around the box suite in a t-shirt and ripped jeans, looking perfectly comfortable and Eddie doesn’t get it. He zips his leather jacket all the way up and sinks into his seat, bobbing his head along to the music echoing through the arena.
“You’re going to be cold when we’re leaving if you don’t take something off.” Robin chastises, and Eddie just rolls his eyes. Jeff, Freak and Lucas are chatting, sitting in the seats just outside of the box. Inside the box, Gareth looks just as cold as Eddie, chatting with Nancy and Will on a sofa.
Paige returns a few minutes later with a bag of merchandise, courtesy of a voucher from the team, and drops it on Gareth’s lap. “Hoodie for you,” She declares, pulling out a black hoodie with the Blackhawks logo and throwing it into Gareth’s face. “Hoodie for you,” She adds, tossing a red one in Eddie’s direction. She pulls two more thinner zip ups out of the bag and drops them on Jeff and Freak’s heads. When she comes back in, she locks eyes with Eddie, who pauses as he unzips his leather jacket.
“What?” He asks, cautiously, and she grins.
“Got something else for you,” She says, and he’s instantly concerned.
“You’re freaking me out.” Eddie points out as he slips the hoodie he’d worn over his head and replaces it with the fleece-lined red hoodie with “Blackhawks” written across the back shoulders. Robin claps and jumps up and down beside him, concerning him further.
“They put one aside!?” She asks, and Paige nods, before tossing the rest of the bag to Eddie.
When he pulls out the contents, he can’t help but let out a little laugh. “You guys asked them to give me a Harrington jersey?” He raises an eyebrow at Robin, before pulling it over his head. It fits a little loose over the hoodie, but looks similar to how he’d seen other people wear theirs.
“Steve doesn’t know, but I asked. Figured you might like it.” She says, grinning as he turns a light shade of pink he fully intends to blame on the cold.
When the team introductions start, Robin drags Eddie out into the seats just outside the box, so they have a better view. While it’s colder out there, Eddie’s warmer in the new tops, and finds he doesn’t mind it as much.
Robin and the members of the Party in the box break into cheers when Steve skates out onto the ice, and Eddie can’t help the little smile that crosses his face as he watches Steve interact with his team.
The puck drops and Steve manages to slip it away from the Kraken’s center, gliding down the ice effortlessly before passing it off. It’s a tiny thing, trying to pay attention to the puck, so Eddie finds himself just tracking Steve as he zips and twists around. After a few minutes, Steve skates back to the Blackhawks box and jumps in as another player hits the ice.
“What happened? Is he hurt?” Eddie’s confused as he looks at Robin, who gives him a soft smile.
“He’s fine. They only play for so long, before they switch out to keep them from getting tired.”
He tries to pay attention to what’s happening then, with Steve off the ice, but finds himself watching the other sit along the bench. He bangs his stick against the wall a few times, shouting things Eddie can’t hear. When he gets up to go back into the game, he pats the player he’s replacing on the back before hitting the ice.
The next chance he gets the puck, he takes a shot toward the goalie, who stops the puck between his legs. Steve keeps skating, zipping around and getting back into the action. He gets the puck back, but is quickly checked by two Krakens who send him into the boards hard. Eddie grimaces, and a penalty is called on both Krakens for charging.
Steve scores a goal in the second period, and Eddie joins the Party in cheering along. He spots himself on the big screen and grabs Robin, pulling her into frame as she jumps up and down.
The celebrations die down a little, and Robin scooches closer to him. “I can have them knock it off, if you don’t want to be up there. Dustin’s in the booth right now.” She offers, and he shrugs.
“I don’t mind. I kind of expected it, after the TikTok blew up.” He shrugs, tracking Steve back around the ice.
Blackhawks end up winning the game, 5-2, and while Steve doesn’t score again, he assists in each of the following goals. Each time, he has a different celebration with whoever he set up for the goal, and it’s sweet to watch Steve goof off, to hear his friends' excitement as he succeeds. Walking back out of the booth, Eddie feels like his voice is more raw from screaming at the hockey game than it was from last night’s concert.
_____________
“You shouldn’t skip the ice bath, Steve, you took a hard hit into that wall.” Max is lecturing as they move through the arena to where she says everyone is waiting.
“I’m fine, I’ve taken worse hits and I stretched plenty. My shoulder just dug into the pad wrong. I’ll have a bruise, but it’s fine.” He insists, holding the door open for her then following her into the box where chaos immediately erupts.
Mike and Lucas are bouncing around, gushing about how great he played. Steve laughs, squeezing Lucas’ shoulder and ruffling Mike’s hair, before his eyes land on the band. They’re all wearing fresh Blackhawks gear, and Steve can’t help but grin.
“Oh man, I’m so glad you guys were able to come! Did you have a good time?” He asks, moving closer to them.
“Dude, I fucking love hockey. I haven’t been to a game in forever, this was sick. And you were killing it out there. I think I like hockey even more knowing someone who is playing.” Freak says, and Gareth nods along.
“Hockey is the only sport I’d ever really been interested in, so this was fun! Great game.”
“I have never had an interest in hockey before, but it was still cool to learn about.” Jeff admits, and then Steve turns to Eddie. His hands are tucked up inside the sleeves of the jersey, nestled in the front pocket of the hoodie beneath, but he grins.
“I concede, it was a lot more fun than I anticipated. I think it helps that you were awesome out there.”
Steve turns a soft shade of pink, shaking his head before nodding back toward the door out of the box. “Want to grab dinner with us? I’m starving.”
______________
They’re in some bar Steve texted the directions to but Eddie can’t remember the name, when he catches Steve staring at him from his spot between Dustin and Lucas. Eddie raises an eyebrow and waves a little, which seems to snap Steve out of it. He blushes and waves back, before covering his face with his hands. Eddie snorts, before getting up and moving so he’s sitting across from Steve.
“You weren’t mad that I put you up on the big screen, right? I think the team actually put it up on socials at some point, so I hope you didn’t mind.” Dustin rambles at Eddie as soon as he sits, but he’s quick to ease the kid’s concerns.
“It was fun. Don’t worry about it, kid. Really.” He says, watches Dustin visibly relax, but then Robin carts him and Lucas away, giving Steve and Eddie space and tossing a wink in Eddie’s direction. Eddie finds himself growing to appreciate her more and more. “I really did have a good time tonight. Cross my heart.” Eddie says, before drawing an “x” over his heart with his fingers.
Steve laughs, and opens his mouth to say something before he seems to reconsider. He thinks for a moment, before leaning over the table. “Are you wearing my jersey?”
Eddie pauses for a moment, looks down and laughs. He’d forgotten he hadn’t taken it off, and Robin had said that Steve didn’t know about it. “I mean, it’s technically not yours. Just has your name and number on it.”
Steve squints his eyes before he leans back and takes a sip of his beer. Eddie seizes the opportunity to be chaotic, then, decides to take the leap. “I mean, I totally could be wearing your jersey, if you wanted me to. But you’re going to have to take me out of this one first.”
It’s worth it, if for no other reason than Steve starts choking on his drink, coughing loudly and drawing everyone’s attention. He composes himself quickly, but his face is still bright red, and Eddie grins.
“You’re a menace.” Steve accuses, voice hoarse and thick, and Eddie shrugs.
“What are you going to do about it?” He challenges.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I'm going to try reblogging with a tag list this week because it's LONG and I have no idea how else to try to make it work without hitting a character limit. Thank you to everyone who is still reading! I've got so many ideas for this bouncing around in my head, I can't wait to flesh them out and I hope you continue to enjoy!
#steddie#fanfic#steve harrington#eddie munson#steddie au#steddie fic#steddie hockey au#hockey player!steve harrington#rockstar!eddie munson#rockstar!eddie#hockey player!steve#starkidmunson writes#glitter & crimson#stranger things fanfiction
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Kinda wanna read/write a post-canon Bingqiu fic set years later, where during some routine, silly wife plot, Binghe somehow finds out that the soul attached to his husband’s body is not, in fact, the original soul.
Like any person, his first assumption isn’t that his husband had replaced the original SQQ. It’s that an imposter has replaced his husband.
A skilled imposter. One who knows all of his husband’s little quirks, who slipped under even Binghe’s watchful eye.
Binghe takes care to not indicate that he’s noticed. His blood parasites confirm this is still his husband’s body, and he refuses to scare them into running before he can get the imposter out.
Binghe spends weeks researching and practicing, until he’s finally certain he can tear the imposter’s soul apart without hurting his husband. Praying, desperately, that it’s a powerful possession instead of a replacement. Praying his husband is still alive in there.
Finally, he slips into the imposter’s dreamscape, clinging to threads and forcing his way as close to the soul as possible, for the surface-level dreams show him in SQQ’s body. Inside, he finds a small man, with big eyes and stick-thin arms, features far too similar to his Shizun. A cheap, pathetic mockery of Shen Qingqiu, he makes sure to tell them.
They are weak outside of Shen qingqiu’s powerful body. It is all too easy to restrain them, to rage and revile them for their crimes, to question what they’ve done, to tear them apart, limb from limb-
“How long?,”He’d snarled, furious, claws digging into the pathetic parasite’s left arm, yanking it just far enough for the strain to burn.
“Years,”The imposter says, eyes wide and wet. Crying.
Years. Years with his husband that this imposter has taken, has stolen from them. Nights spent entangled, lazy mornings spent curled into each other’s embrace, soft evenings spent watching the sunset.
Binghe yanks the arm the rest of the way out, relishing in the way the parasite screams. It will know pain for what it’s taken from him, for what it’s taken from his Shizun.
XXXX
At first, Shen Qingqiu, formerly Shen Yuan, didn’t know what was happening. He’d thought of himself as Shen Qingqiu for years now, so waking up in his original body had been confusing and disorienting.
When Binghe appeared as well, he knew immediately it was a nightmare. It couldn’t be anything but that. Binghe, his Binghe as he was now, would never look at him like this, like he was the dirt on the bottom of his shoe, the scum of the earth.
It was rare to have nightmares nowadays. Binghe was always watching his dreams too closely to let something like that slip by. But the last few weeks, he’d been absorbed in his newest little pet project, exhausted and stressed by whatever it was he refused to talk about. Shen Qingqiu didn’t blame him for having one night of sleep without constant vigilance.
“So the imposter shows himself,”Dream-Binghe said, and ah, what an odd thing to dream up! Shen Qingqiu was just as good as the original goods, and he knew it! There was no way at all he had such insecurities, and certainly not any strong enough to appear as dreams! If he’d had such dreams before, that was simply a coincidence, a trick of the mind repeating the scenario it’d already created to avoid making a new one.
But Binghe doesn’t rant and rave at him for lying, doesn’t call out his betrayal. Instead, his eyes hard and cold, his claws tight where they dig into his wrists, he questions him.
Why?
I don’t know, Shen Qingqiu has to answer. I woke up in this body.
Where is he?
I don’t know, he answers again.
How long?
Here, Shen Qingqiu bites down a cry of pain as his left arm his yanked painfully out, a loud pop as it tugs out of his socket. The pain is real, he realizes deliriously. It’s real the way the Punishment Protocol had been. The thought makes ice pool in his chest.
What had he done to deserve a punishment from the System?
The hand tightens, the bones in his wrist creaking ominously at the strength of the hold.
The look in Binghe’s eyes hurts far more, though. Shen Qingqiu doesn’t even notice the tears in his eyes until they’re spilling over, until his voice comes out as a broken warble.
“Years,”He whispers at last, aware he’s hammering the final nail into his coffin.
It’s only as his arm is yanked away, as muscle and sinew tears with a sickening squelch, that it occurs to him. The punishment protocol had worked by sharing his dreamscape with the original Bingge. It hadn’t summoned nightmares out of no where.
This wasn’t Bingge. He’d known it on sight. Had recognized it in the curlier hair, the taller build.
This wasn’t Bingge. This was his husband.
And this wasn’t a dream.
XXX
Binghe watches as the pathetic worm scrambles away from him, gasping and hiccuping through his tears. His remaining arm shakes against the jagged edge of his stump, trying to stem the flow of blood. It won’t do a damn thing. This is a dream world, and that form is just a representation of his soul.
“I’m sorry,”It begs, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Binghe forgive me- “
“Do not call me that,” He hisses. This parasite had squirmed its way in, had settled in and gotten comfortable in its place as his husband, but that spot would only ever belong to his Shizun, his rightful Shizun. Everything else… everything else had been a lie!
“No!,”The imposter gasped. Had Binghe spoken out loud? “No, it wasn’t! I really- I really tried to be honest, I- I-“
It gulped, face pale and wan, tears spilling over its cheeks. Its voice dropped to a whimper.
“I loved you. I thought you loved me too.”
Luo Binghe let out a harsh laugh. So that was the plan? Replace his husband and try and make him grow attached? Try to squirm into his heart, when it was already spoken for?
“I could never love a pathetic fake!,”He snarled. “I’ve been planning your death from the moment I learned!”
The imposter sucked in a sharp breath. They stopped scrambling away, simply sitting before him, shaking and curled into themselves.
It didn’t try to run again as he stepped forward. Not even as he grabbed its leg and tore it from its body. It screamed, and thrashed, but made no effort to pull itself away again.
Instead, the insolent wretch began muttering under his breath, a plea and a prayer in one. Begging for forgiveness, for the dream to end, for Binghe to wake him up. Pathetic. Had the imposter really fallen in love with him over the course of its tenure?
He dug his claws into the stump at its shoulder to stop it. The muttering broke into muffled cries, biting their lip as they struggled to hold them back. A habit he recognized from his husband. Disgusting, he thought, holding to the illusion for pity until the very last second.
“You’re just a cowardly weakling, leeching off of Shen Qingqiu. You fell in love with me? Then know this in your heart.”
Binghe dug his fingers in harder, harder, until his claws scrapped against the shattered bone of the socket and dug in. The parasite’s eyes nearly rolled back into its head as it jerked. Binghe lifted it off the ground by the bone, then held still until the worm caught its breath.
“I could never love the man before me. I would never have even looked at you twice had I known.”
Binghe expands his awareness to the dream world around him. From a greater distance, the soul of the imposter is more like a small flickering flame, a little glow between his hands, than a man.
It takes almost no effort at all, to close his fist around it and smother the flame.
XXX
Binghe wakes up in the morning, ecstatic to finally be done with this journey and desperate for love from his husband who he’s apparently not seen in years.
Shen Qingqiu doesn’t wake up with him.
Shen Qingqiu doesn’t wake up at all.
XXX
Anyway now that I’ve officially written a short version of it I want y’all to know that Shang Qinghua would be the one to tell him, after rushing over when he gets an alert that the account of User 002 was deactivated.
Binghe gets to metaphorically self-destruct, realizing everything he said and did was to his own husband and not an assumed imposter. The world shapes itself to Binghe’s wishes, and he still has access to the holy mausoleum, so he manages to bring back Shen Qingqiu. I debated having him bring back Shen Jiu instead but I love the protagonist of any book I read, and that includes Shen Yuan, so instead he brings back his husband whose heartbroken and runs off, with a new level of instinctive terror to go along with it. Binghe really does try to give him room, but that does neither of them good because Binghe drowns in his guilt and the confirmation of his husband’s fear, and Shen Yuan drowns in his heartbreak and confirmation of his husband’s rejection.
The happy ending comes after a slowburn of binghe groveling and breaking himself down(a la Lost and Found in Limitless Clarity) with a side of both being left with new insecurities to add to the existing ones post-canon.
(And if Binghe now dreams of the delicate flicker of a soul between his hands, now jolts awake to the reminder of how small it was, how easy to smother, well-
-it’s the least he deserves, isn’t it?)
#I really did mean to only type a synopsis#but it got away from me lol#at least it’s out now#considering cleaning it up and posting to AO3#svsss#scum villain self saving system#scum villain#bingyuan#Bingqiu#luo binghe#Shen yuan#Shen Qingqiu#mxtx#writing#edit:#Tw torture#can’t believe I forgot that lol
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Writers who use imitative harmony + the movement of their language to evoke meaning are so great to re-read once you’ve learnt this language, if you’ve read them in translation before, it feels like the best reward. I’m reading Annie Proulx in the original for the first time, and so much of her writing style was just not salvageable by French translators (< my condolences), because she intertwines sound with meaning so often, at least in Close Range, and French just doesn’t sound the same! so by translating the meaning you’ll sacrifice a lot of the style... It reminds me of a haunted house book in French that also made me think “haha RIP translators” because it made great use of sound—a lot of “u / eu / ou” to create a sort of sinister howling effect in some sentences, and one sentence about a closed door used “i” and “rr” sounds to give an ominous “creaking open” sensation without actually opening the door in the text...
This kind of thing always makes me reflect despairingly on how many authors I’ll never get to appreciate fully as I can’t read them in the original, but I’m glad to re-discover Annie Proulx at any rate! I mean compare the sound of a phrase like “a hundred dirt road shortcuts” to the French “des centaines de raccourcis, des routes de terre”... First of all the English phrase sounds clippety-cloppy, it sounds like hooves on a dirt road in a way that’s very hard to preserve in a language without syllable stress, but also the French language demands that you turn it into ‘a hundred of shortcurts of roads of dirt’, so it’s best to dilute it into two phrases, and you just lose the clippedness. It sounds less tight, more leisurely.
Same for the phrase “the tawny plain still grooved with pilgrim wagon ruts” vs. “la plaine fauve encore marquée des ornières laissées par les chariots des pèlerins.” That’s a 54% expansion ratio and once again you turn the tight clippedness of ‘grooved with pilgrim wagon ruts’ into ‘grooved with the ruts left by the wagons of the pilgrims.’ You just can’t avoid it, French words have to hold hands in a long procession rather than being stacked like pancakes on top of one another. And sometimes it makes for lovely stylistic effects too (*), but it doesn’t fit the style of a text like this one, which uses rhythm and sound in a very un-French way—rhythmicality in French tends to rely on long flowy phrasings rather than the potholed ruggedness this story demands. (I saw a NY Times article describe it as Annie Proulx “mining the ore of language out of a gritty Wyoming rockscape”)
The rhythm of this whole bit is so neat, you can snap your fingers along with it: “hard orange dawn, the world smoking, snaking dust devils on bare dirt, heat boiling out of the sun until the paint on the truck hood curled, ragged webs of dry rain that never hit the ground, through small-town traffic and stock on the road, band of horses in morning fog...”
The French version is not finger-snapping material but you can tell the translator did her very best to preserve the author’s intention by creating interesting rhythms in French as well. For “hard orange dawn” she could have kept close to the original with, say, “la dureté orange de l’aube” but instead she chose to turn ‘hard’ into a four-syllable adjective (éblouissante / blinding) to end up with a noticeable rhythm—“les aubes orange, éblouissantes,” one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four (and she made ‘dawn’ plural for the same reason.) She wasn’t able to preserve the g/r alliteration of “GRooved with pilGRim waGon Ruts” (although her translated phrase also has a lot of R’s) but she did preserve the ‘sss’ alliteration of “Smoking Snaking duSt” (“pouSSière Serpentant Sur le Sol”). Even with languages as close as French and English, for every stylistic effect you can save you have to sacrifice a few, or replace them with opposite effects which align better with your language’s notions of literary style (like with the orange dawn bit, doubling the length of a tight phrase so it can sound rhythmical).
You can tell all throughout the book that a lot of thought and care went into respecting Annie Proulx’s writing choices and you still end up with sentences that sound and move so differently. You get to see the limit of translation when authors fully lean on their language’s syntax and melody to help convey meaning, like poets do!
(*) Re: English stacking words and French linking them—this reminds me of an essay I read by an English translator of Proust who despaired of this difference in the opposite direction—saying some long, descriptive phrases in Proust with articles & prepositions linking words, and commas linking phrases with regularity, read like telling the beads of a rosary. And the sensation (or a lot of it) had to be sacrificed because English just does not use as many linking words as French, information is conveyed in a more economical way, so a lot of these sentences with a hypnotic rhythm like “the A, of the B, of the C, whereby the D, of the E, on an F” were often not achievable with English syntax or created redundancy (e.g. having to use ‘that’ or ‘which’ 5 times when French used different tool words). But he said he did try to form sentences that had this continuity, and meditative quality.
I don’t have a conclusion to this post other than to say something precious will be lost if human translation is replaced by AI translation, because literary translation involves creativity and ambiguity and aesthetic considerations and a dimension of instinctual feeling for your own language and the original style, and I don’t think any amount of data and processing power and artificial neural networks will yield the flavour of literary quality that emerges from human sensibility and care, from someone reading a sentence and thinking “this feels like hooves clippety-clopping down a dirt road” or “this feels like rolling the beads of a rosary” and starting from there...
#language tag#not sure if imitative harmony has the same meaning as harmonie imitative now that i think about it#in french i was taught that it’s a broader more ‘diluted’ stylistic device than onomatopoeia#as in writing 'bzzz' about an insect flying is onomatopoeia#writing a sentence about an insect with several 'b' and 'zz' sounds here and there is imitative harmony
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Hello! May I request Diasomnia boys dealing a very sick S/O? Like they will get sick every month. High fever, vomiting, headaches, blocked nose, sore throat, you name it and they have had that illness before. And they're also very behind on their studies because of this.
I had a friend like that too, and she’s currently in another school but we still talk to each other once in a while. This might be a little bit of my own experience mix in this so hopefully it doesn’t sound weird :”))
Diasomnia looking after a really sick s/o
Malleus Draconia
The smallest of a little sneeze from his precious child of man already makes him panic. Seeing you bed-bound with a runny nose, sore throat and headache, he’s getting an actual heart attack.
How can one be so frail??? Malleus might offered casting long lasting healing spell, or try making an elixir to make you permanently well again that no sickness can touch you no longer. But even you think it’s a bit too much when he elaborates how hard it is to find all the damn ingredients.
But Malleus is insistent. “It’s alright, my dear. I will scour the whole continents to find each ingredient.”
After much convincing from you, he reluctantly agreed to just help make simple, healing potions that can last you for a few days before you need to consume them again from him.
He might also consult Lilia on what he should do to entertain you while your bed-bound, and I swear to the SEVENS that he will bring his whole violin as entertainment while having many other brass instruments playing a whole orchestra of soothing music for you like you’re royalty or something like-
He might’ve also consulted with Silver for help and he told Malleus that you probably only wanted his company. To talk to him while you’re stuck in bed for a while until the potion boils finish so that’s what Malleus do. It’s rather peaceful just sitting there and talking to you quietly. It makes his heart feel at ease and he hopes he makes you feel at peace too. <3
Lilia Vanrouge
He’s experienced in taking care of sick people because he had young Malleus and Silver, so he’s pretty much equip to look after you.
Although Lilia has never quite experienced someone who can REALLY get sick and stay sick for a long time, he’s up for the challenge if it means to care for you. You’re his S/o after all!
Lilia is actually really good! He knows how to make the bed super comfy for you to sleep in, his voice always soothes and calms you down, he always remind you to take your meds and drink lots of water while you’re at it. Maybe he’ll ask Malleus to make you a potion to cure your sickness for a while or do it himself!
Just errr…. Don’t eat his cooking because, well, we all know how ominous it looks. And tastes.
Lilia has the habit of reading bedtime stories to you, mostly because he did that for Silver and Malleus when they were younger and he projects that action into you to comfort and soothe you while you’re sick. After all, you won’t feel better if you’re heart isn’t at ease, either.
When you finally fall asleep, Lilia smiles softly before kissing your forehead, sitting on the chair beside you bed and watch over you. <3
Silver
He panics a little, but the first thing he’ll tell you is to get lots of good rest and sleep.
He also tries to mimic what Lilia would do when he was sick during his younger days: singing you a lullaby, try reading bedtime stories (although he might fall asleep halfway), reminding you to take your meds and drink plenty of water.
Silver may also seek Malleus help in making a potion that could help you recover for a while or even lend one of Lilia’s storybooks to help you.
Would stay around you to be company while you’re bedridden, even if he gets sleepy and tired he’ll never leave your side or stop taking care of you.
Might’ve also tried to cook for you, but he only cooks soup because he doesn’t really know what else he can do. He just hopes it can make you feel better at least.
While you rest in bed, Silver, although succumbing to falling asleep, still holds your hand while you rest as both of you fall into a deep slumber together. <3
Sebek Zigvolt
Panicking beyond belief. How can one be so fragile and sickly?! He can hardly believe it and he doesn’t know what to do when you are bed-bound. The smallest sneeze of you already has him all over you with concern, so with your really sick nature, he’s practically made it a point to just be in your life now. Like he shares with you.
Initially, Sebek might’ve come off a little bit insensitive, saying how you should exercise more or something to build up a better immunity system. However, Lilia taught him otherwise to put you first. He knows the boy cares about you so he’s helping him show care in better ways.
He learns to cook soup, pray to Malleus for help in making a potion for your sickness (which the latter helped obviously), might’ve also pulled off the “I WILL TRAVEL THE WORLD FOR THE RARE POTION INGREDIENTS TO CURE YOU FOR GOOD” thing like Malleus which you have to keep on insisting for him to, I don’t know, not be stupid to get himself killed and he RELUCTANTLY listens to you.
He watches over you despite being tired and despite him not being the most lovey dovey or romantic boyfriend out there, you know he cares about you, maybe much more than you know. <3
Reblogs help! ^^
#malleus draconia x reader#lilia vanrouge x reader#twst silver x reader#sebek zigvolt x reader#twisted wonderland#twst#twst x reader#twisted wonderland x reader#malleus draconia#lilia vanrouge#twst silver#twisted wonderland silver#sebek zigvolt#silver#diasomnia#diasomnia x reader#fluff#headcanon#x reader#self insert#twst fluff#twst headcanon
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I’m sorry but you all aren’t listening, lyctorhood itself is not the “indelible sin” and you can pry this theory from my cold dead hands, honestly, maybe not even then. TazMuir herself could not dissuade me until she explicitly tells me otherwise. My proof for this you ask? Pyrrha’s conversation with Varun in NtN chapter 9.
But let’s backtrack for a second. John has stated that the resurrection beasts are after him and the lyctors for committing the indelible sin of lyctorhood, and as such the lyctors can never return to the Dominican System for fear of drawing the RBs back to the Nine Houses. I’ve never believed this was true given the fact that John is always the greatest common denominator when it comes to the presence of an RB and there’s no mention of an RB going after a lone lyctor. Sure, lyctors have been killed fighting resurrection beasts but there’s a huge difference between being caught in the crossfire and starting a firefight. For me, Nona the Ninth only reinforced that what we’ve been told is the “indelible sin” is either John misunderstanding the RBs (doubtful) or lying for his own purposes (more likely).
In chapter 9 of NtN, Nona recounts the story of her disastrous beach trip and towards the end of this recitation Nona says that Pyrrha;
“…crossed to the taped-up window, bottle and glass in hand. To Nona’s awe, she twitched the blackout curtains aside—stood bathed in the hyper-blue light from the sky as Nona held her breath—and she said to the window, “Here’s to Camilla Hect, yet another of devotion’s casualties,” and knocked back the glass. Then she said to the light, quite gently, “No, I don’t blame you, man … He was always looking for things to throw himself on.”
Pyrrha stands in front of Nona, bathed in the light of Varun the Eater, and proceeds to have a conversation with it. We only get one side but based on the context of the last line, “No, I don’t blame you, man … He was always looking for things to throw himself on.” Varun seemingly apologizes to Pyrrha for killing G1deon. It’s proven later on in the book that Varun can speak to Nona, and while it could be argued that since G1deon is dead and his soul is gone the “indelible sin” has been undone this still begs the question; why would the punisher apologize to the sinner?
If Varun and the other RBs are hunting the lyctors to dole out justice for their sins why would they apologize for doing the very thing they sought to do unless that wasn’t their true intent. The “indelible sin” is not the consumption of another soul, it is the consumption of a specific soul. It is John taking Alecto into himself, not being able to house all of her and instead making an exchange. Housing a piece of her in him, and a piece of him in her. Splintering the soul of a great and terrible force into manageable parts. Which explains Varun’s ominous presence hanging over the planet in the first place.
If RBs are hunting Lyctors there are no lyctors on this planet. Palamedes has not consumed Camilla’s soul, G1deon is gone, Harrow is in the River, Gideon is thumbtacked to her dead body, the only soul of any significance to Varun is Nona. Later on in chapter 13 Varun, by way of Judith, says to Nona;
“…what they did to you and what they wrung from you and what shape they made you fill—we see you still—we seek you still—we murdered—we who murder—you inadvertent tool—you misused green thing—come back to us—take vengeance for us—we saw you—we see you—I see you.”
And in chapter 27,
“….what did he do to you, to make you this way.”
What did HE do to you!!! what did HE do to YOU!! To give John credit he doesn’t deserve he may not realize it himself but the RBs have been looking for Alecto this whole time. They don’t want the lyctors, they want what John stole, they want the piece of Alecto inside of him. Want to make her whole again, their misused green thing. She’s almost there. She has her piece back from harrow’s body, united with the piece of her hidden in the locked tomb. She only has 1 piece left to collect. And god knows what will happen when the green and breathing thing is whole once again.
#the locked tomb#Nona the ninth#john gaius#alecto the first#tlt#tlt theories#this has been rattling around in my brain since Gideon the Ninth#John’s explanation of the RBs just doesn’t add up#and you know he has to be lying about it because he straight up lies to Harrow about the number of RBs in HtN
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Golden Girl.
Gojo Satoru x F Reader x Geto Suguru.
Warnings: The psychological damage inflicted from Gojo Satoru's presence, canon-typical violence, Gojo and Geto are both kinda questionable in their own ways.
Word count: 16k.
-Index-
April 1st, 2005.
8:02 a.m.
-
You don’t get it.
This campus is huge. Unbelievably so. If someone said you’d waltzed into the Imperial Palace, you’d believe them, and not just because you’re gullible. Although, that’d certainly play a significant role.
Your suspicions strengthen after you walk over the third arched bridge. That’s an arched bridge too far. No school can have this many fancy-looking bridges, the schools back home are practically held together by chewed pieces of gum and scotch tape. Your jetlagged brain combs through the whirlwind you’ve endured in the past few hours. Did you give the wrong address to the taxi driver back at the airport?
He did look confused, but you hadn’t given it much thought then.
You go as still as a statue.
… What if this is the Imperial Palace? If that’s the case, you’re definitely trespassing, right?
How do you explain that to any guards that might happen by? You can envision the headlines now — Foreigner Extradited for Trespassing, Sentenced to Life, No Chance at Parole. All those hours you spent working on your student visa would be for nothing! And you’d be in prison, which is a bummer, because you’re not rich enough to weasel out of the criminal justice system.
You’ll have to join a prison gang, there’s no way around it. Would they let a fourteen-year-old in? In the event they don’t, you could always form one yourself. Leadership’s never been your thing, but it beats—
“Hey there,” a feminine voice calls out. “You lost?”
You whip your head around to the sound’s source. Instead of seeing an intimidating guard ready to haul you off, there’s a girl about your age. She has brunette hair styled in a bob, a beauty mark beneath her left eye, and an unlit cigarette hanging from her lips.
Unless the Emperor is issuing major budget cuts, this can’t be a guard.
You consider her uniform. The high collar, sheer tights, long sleeves, and brown shoes match yours, but the skirt’s different. Yours flares out and cuts off right above your knees. This minor discrepancy makes you wonder if you’re breaking the dress code on your first day. You push the concern aside for future you to deal with.
“That obvious, huh?” You laugh.
“Just a bit.”
She introduces herself as Ieiri Shoko, a first-year student like yourself. You respond in kind, offering up your own name and grade. It’s a relief to know you won’t be arrested or wandering this complex for an eternity. She walks by you and turns on her heel, tilting her head.
“Gonna come with?”
You nod and happily fall into step beside her. She doesn’t seem to be in a rush, not that you mind. It gives you time to admire the idyllic scenery around each turn. There are lush green forests, gardens, and more traditional buildings than you can count. The only detail you find odd is how empty the area is. Besides Ieiri, there isn’t a soul to be found.
“Ieiri-san, is today a holiday by any chance?”
“Just Shoko’s fine,” she says, feeling around her various pockets. “And I don’t think so. Why? Too quiet?”
“It’s almost like a ghost town.”
Shoko smiles. “Enjoy the quiet while you can.”
Well, that’s a bit ominous, but you’ve yet to meet anyone in the jujutsu world who is 100% normal. You think it might be an unspoken requirement at this point.
Shoko gives up on whatever she was searching for — a lighter, if you had to guess — and tucks the cigarette away. This reinforces your theory that those involved with jujutsu have one quirk at the bare minimum. By that logic, you must have some peculiar quirk of your own. Recalling your earlier Imperial Palace debacle, you realize it might be more than one…
“Oh, by the way. All our classes got canceled,” Shoko says.
You blink.
“On… the first day…?”
“Yeah. Something about a last-minute meeting,” she stretches her arms above her head and yawns. “I’m heading back to the dorms for a nap. I think yours is near mine, there are boxes with your name on them in the hallway.”
What a relief! There had been no word on the packages full of your personal belongings you shipped here ahead of time. The hellscape that is checked baggage had no bearing on you. Immensely pleased with this revelation, you set aside the urge to explore and accompany Shoko to where you’ll be living for the foreseeable future.
In keeping with the spirit of the rest of the school grounds, your room is spacious.
Shoko left you to your own devices. You can faintly discern her presence in the room beside yours, laying down as she said she would. You thought you’d want to do the same, but something about the crisp morning air sliced through your exhaustion. You’ll ride the high and crash later.
Adventure awaits — the exploration of the unknown, the sharpening of a faint, hazy image.
You’re back outside again. It’s amazing how, no matter where you are, you can feel the wind in your hair and the sun on your cheeks. This serves as a grounding reminder that you’re real. Reality and the ambiguous nature of jujutsu are often at odds with one other, fighting to occupy the same space. Each side spins a convincing speech about why you should give it credence while discounting the other.
Unlike a politician’s diatribe, there’s no changing the channel or turning down the volume. This invisible and perennial battle won’t ever gain total victory or retreat. There’s bound to be collateral, such is the nature of war. For some, it’s their life in a literal sense, for you, it’s sanity. Coherence. The incorrigible truth that two plus two equals four.
See, young kids aren’t given enough credit. They’re always watching, learning, and absorbing. They get the basic idea that two plus two equals four before they even know what numbers are. For instance, as a baby, you cry and writhe until your needs are met. There’s a framework. An adult in the vicinity plus wailing equals getting fed. Then later, it gets more complex. Not eating your vegetables plus getting mouthy equals timeout. So on and so forth.
You accrue this network of information that makes life navigable.
Then, while visiting some distant relative in the hospital, a massive hole gets blown into this previously steady network. Such was your experience.
Something strange sat atop the IV in the small, cramped hospital room. The adults exchanged well wishes for the man surrounded by beeping equipment and blinking screens. Everyone present focused on this man, except you. You observed this thing, about the size of a sparrow, that flitted to and fro. Whatever it was, it had too many eyes. Each rolled in a different direction, like a bowling ball that couldn’t stop spinning.
Eventually, a long yet thin appendage emerged from the unidentifiable creature. You stood petrified as it entered the man’s ear canal and sipped. The man groaned, beeps increased, and numbers flew high. It sipped harder. His screams grew louder. Everything got chaotic. People in white and blue entered the room. You heard words like ‘cardiac arrest’ and ‘defibrillation.’ Your parents dragged you away.
The creature continued to sip.
On the car ride home, you asked why no one stopped it. The creature plus its sipping equaled the man’s horrible pain. That’s what you figured, anyway. They asked for clarification. What creature? Where had it been? What did it look like? Since young kids are smarter than they’re given credit for, you recognized the tone that was directed toward you. Disbelief, but in a nice, adult way.
If you insisted on the creature’s existence, they grew worried. When you told your friends — who in turn, told their parents — their worry grew. If every drawing you scribbled tried to depict the creature’s likeness, their worry overflowed. You overheard words like ‘traumatic experience’ and ‘coping.’
So, you stopped mentioning it. This stopped the concerned murmurings you’d overhear. You tried really hard to believe what they said about nightmares and mean imaginary friends. This worked well enough until you noticed similar creatures everywhere. On the playground, bus, graveyards, and abandoned houses. They weren’t all the size of a sparrow either. Some were tiny enough to be mistaken for gnats. Others were huge and salivated large pools against the ground.
It was around this time that you developed a second shadow. A spinning golden ring that could fit in the palm of your hand followed you everywhere. No one else could see it, but unlike the creatures, this ring didn’t scare you. Just the opposite, in fact. You considered it a guardian angel.
If the gnats got too close, it’d slice through them.
When the huge, drooling ones reached out their mangled hand, it’d cut through their wrists.
Later on, you’d learn this ‘guardian angel’ was called a ‘cursed technique.’
Smiling, you descend a flight of stairs. From today onward, you’ll be surrounded by people who don’t discount the equation you spent your early years erasing. They’ll be around your age too! You already like Shoko, she’s pretty and has a calming presence. You wonder what the others in your class will be like. How many will there be? Twenty? Your social studies class topped out at thirty-four.
You hope you can befriend everyone.
The gears turning in your head grind to a halt upon noticing the view. Maybe it’s how the morning sun casts a soft glow upon the verdure, or maybe you’re just easily impressed. Whatever the case, the sight stokes awe inside you. Trees line both sides of the gravel path ahead, their canopies inclining as if leaning down to hear a whisper. Smudges of green streak through the air, accepting any destiny the wind bestows.
What an image, straight from the pages of a fairytale book!
You fish out your new phone, a hot pink Razr V3, recalling its camera feature. Even if the photograph isn’t award-winning, you want to preserve this moment.
You can’t explain it. This intuition isn’t rational, it doesn’t adhere to that ever so reliable two plus two. It transcends. The fall of a domino, a flap of a butterfly wing. Seemingly unrelated yet intimately interwoven by invisible lines.
Whether preordained or the consequence of chain reactions you’d have to trace since birth to understand, what happens next stains you its color. The soul grasps what logic dismisses. And right now, your soul says this moment in time and space should never be forgotten.
As for why, your soul suggests you uncover that for yourself.
Alas, you can’t actually stop time. Perception and reality don’t always agree. While it felt like everything came to a grinding halt, the wheels never stopped turning.
And so the powerful gust soaring from your right punches the air from your lungs.
Gritting your teeth, you dig your heels into the ground. The sheer force pushes you back some inches. Next comes a hail of debris. Chunks of soil, sediment, and splintered wood descend. Recognizing this threat, your mind yells at your body to move. Those earthly implements are soaring faster than a bullet. However, the baleful gale restricts precise movement. You’re nothing but a bag of flesh and viscera to the indifferent swell. It’ll send you tumbling the instant your feet lift off the ground.
Dodging isn’t an option.
Those rocks… your cursed technique could dice them up, but then you’d get pelted with shrapnel rather than stone.
Which is the better outcome? A body littered with numerous holes or a few craters?
Your arms fly up to protect your major organs. You’ll endure what you can.
Except, instead of enduring an onslaught, nothing happens. Nothing hurts, rips, or gets torn to shreds.
The wind hasn’t stopped, but it no longer touches you. You jump back, out of the line of impact. The debris parts like the Red Sea and grants you safe passage. From this vantage point, you’re a witness rather than an unwitting participant. The unrelenting force rages on. You gape at the path of destruction it’s left behind, indiscriminately swallowing trees, foliage, and the ground. It looks like a meteor surged in a straight line through the forest.
No matter what you’d chosen to do, if it weren’t for that abrupt opening, you would’ve died.
Heart thumping wildly, you snap your head toward the direction this miniature storm originated from. Was it a curse? If it is, then you’re hopelessly outclassed.
No, that doesn’t seem right, you think. You’re familiar with how it feels when a curse is nearby. Should it be close to your power level, it’s like getting splashed with frigid water. For curses above your abilities, that sensation gets amplified. It’s as if you’ve been plunged into the Arctic Ocean. Right now, you’re not experiencing either of those sensory nightmares.
A silhouette walks through the dusty haze that destructive force left behind.
“Whoops,” the person within says, “That was close.”
You run over, swatting the dust lingering in the air. Anyone close to that force could’ve gotten severely injured. Concern seeps into your being as the figure emerges.
“Are you okay?!”
The first thing you notice is a head of white hair. Next is this person’s height, you have to crane your neck to meet his eyes. Eyes that were, for some reason, covered by circular sunglasses. There’s a sideways grin on his face, the absolute last expression you were expecting. From his uniform, you guess he’s a student like yourself. His most prominent feature isn’t anything visible. It’s the sheer aura he exudes, you’ve never experienced anything similar. There’s no hostility, but it’s intense.
You inhale shakily.
“Never better. You?”
He sounds chipper.
“Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” you reply, giving yourself a once-over.
You pinch your eyebrows together while assessing your condition. The white-haired figure notices this and asks, “Ya sure? Nothing hit you, right?”
“That’s the weird thing, though,” you frown. “I should be covered in dust, but there’s not a single speck.”
His grin widens, like he’s in on some joke you aren’t. This plucks a cord of irritation within you. Narrowing your eyes, you take a step back. You focus on the cursed energy engulfing him, then compare it to residuals left behind by the force. The residuals in the path it carved out are too faint to properly discern. All you have implicating his involvement is a hunch.
You remember how the gust itself felt, though. The ferocity that had every nerve in your body ringing funeral bells.
Your eyes flit between the gaping maw and the sunglass-wearing stranger.
“Want a hint?” He asks. You don’t miss the teasing lilt in his voice.
“You caused that surge,” you deadpan.
“Close enough, I’ll give half credit. Next question! What stopped you from getting buried in layers of dust?”
You have no reason to play along, yet scampering off feels like you’d be conceding something. The competitive nature boiling in your blood refuses to admit defeat. Especially after he subjected you to that terror, without even apologizing! It’s the least he could do. What an inconsiderate jerk. You’ll knock him down from that high horse if it’s the last thing you do.
Crossing your arms over your chest, you consider the information you have to work with. Whatever he did had to involve his cursed technique. Did he apply a shield to you? It’s the most obvious answer, but that doesn’t explain everything. A shield would lessen the damage, not negate it entirely.
How did he pull that off…?
As you’re piecing this puzzle together, someone in the distance yells, “Satoru!” drawing out each syllable. The person before you winces but doesn’t lose his boyish smile. You sense another presence heading this way. After you turn around to face this new addition, two large hands settle on your shoulders from behind. You bristle and try shaking them off, but this weirdo doesn’t let go.
An older man with a severe expression stands atop the staircase. His uniform is pitch black, denoting a different status than a student, if you were to guess.
“One hour,” he huffs out, “One hour, I ask for you to sit still and behave. And what do I come back to? An entire tunnel running through the school grounds?”
“It was for good reason, sensei,” this ‘Satoru’ insists. He squeezes your shoulders. “[First] here mistook a bug for a curse and yelped, ‘Kya, there’s a curse!’ I, being the good samaritan I am, dispatched the threat with what I thought to be an appropriate amount of force at the time.”
You make a face. “Eh?”
“Huh?” Yaga must find this explanation as convincing as you do. His countenance filters through multiple emotions. Confusion, frustration, disbelief, and then, finally, exhaustion. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You couldn’t come up with anything better than that?”
“I didn’t come up with anything! Tell him, [First]! Are you going to abandon your savior when he needs you most?”
Yaga turns his attention to you, pity evident in his eyes.
“Satoru did… sort of protect me from something… in a way?” You mumble.
Satoru’s fingers twitch when you speak his recently learned name.
Yaga sighs. “We’ll discuss this later, Satoru.”
And with that, the first teacher you’ve met walks away, shaking his head. His demeanor reminds you of a disappointed parent. Suddenly cognizant of the unwelcome contact on your body, you jerk your shoulders forward. This time, he releases you. You get the sense he could’ve easily held on if he wanted to.
“Man, you suck at lying,” Satoru whines.
“Me? What sort of cover story was that? If you ever become a defense attorney, your clients are screwed.”
He throws his arms behind his head and grins. “You gotta admit, the impression was solid.”
“That was the most egregious part!”
“I thought it was a nice touch.”
You roll your eyes. Before this back-and-forth drags on, there’s a specific detail that’s nagging at you.
“By the way, how do you know my name—”
“Suguru, how long are you gonna sit back and watch? Voyeurism is frowned upon, y’know,” he cuts you off mid-sentence.
Your eyes practically bulge out of their sockets at his not-so-subtle implication. Thrown back into a weirded-out limbo, you start slinking off. Forget trying to understand how he knows your name despite never telling him. These are the types your parents warned you about, you need to flee! Hormonal high school boys should be sectioned off until they’re no longer threats to society. Nuclear warfare pales in comparison.
“She’ll never want to come near you again if you keep saying things like that.”
Another student calmly strides out from behind a nearby tree. You squint, ensuring this isn’t an illusion. How long has this guy been here? Why couldn’t you sense his presence? Especially when he’s been so close, just a few measly feet back. The black-haired addition gives you a closed-mouth smile. Similar to Satoru, he’s rather tall. You’ll need a neck massage from all this looking up.
“Geto Suguru. It’s nice to meet you,” Geto greets.
You introduce yourself as well.
“It’s your first day here, correct? How are you finding everything? Have any questions?”
“None that I can think of, but thank you! It’s been uneventful, up to a certain point.”
Satoru yawns obnoxiously loud, interrupting your exchange. “Look what you did, Suguru. She’s all prim and proper now. I might fall asleep.”
You shoot him a scathing look but bite your tongue.
“What? No need to hold back. Say whatever you want, I can take it,” he asserts, tilting his head enough for his sunglasses to slide down. Two pools of frosty blues bore through you. You freeze up at the sight. Snowy eyelashes, glittering, gemstone-like eyes, why would he ever hide them? You’ve never seen such a bewitching color.
He strikes like a serpent at the opening you’ve given him.
“All this staring’s gonna make me shy. You can take a picture, if you want. I don’t mind.”
Any spell you were under withers and dies.
“Actually, I was just thinking that you remind me of a celebrity,” you say.
Satoru preens, interpreting your words as a compliment. Before his ego inflates enough for him to float away, however, you give him a smug smile of your own.
“Ever heard of Sanrio’s Cinnamoroll? You two could be twins! It’s adorable.”
His shoulders droop and Suguru chuckles, the sound coming out muffled from behind his hand. You spin around, content, humming to yourself as you walk up the stairs. You block out whatever Satoru shouts in retaliation. His words go in one ear and out the other. Something tells you this is the best strategy for dealing with him.
So far, you’ve met three classmates, and that was enough to exhaust you thoroughly.
You wonder what everyone else is like.
-
Later that evening, Shoko explains it’s just you four in your class.
You finish chewing your takeout, swallow, and then reply, “Eh? Seriously? But this place is crazy big.”
“Not many folks can use jujutsu,” Shoko says. She picks a mushroom up with her chopsticks and places it in your container. “Four students is a high amount, all things considered.”
You plop the mushroom into your mouth. Savory flavors coat your tongue, warming your heart and your soul. Delicious food is the antidote to all woes. Presently, your biggest woe happens to have white hair, unfairly pretty eyes, and a knack for getting under your skin. Recalling your previous encounter makes you grimace.
“Hey, Shoko. Would I get in trouble for spraying Satoru with water?”
Instead of responding, she stares at you, blinking owlishly.
“What’s up?”
“Haven’t heard any student but Geto call Gojo by his first name,” she explains. “We’ve only been here a few days though, so who knows.”
You tilt your head. “Who is Gojo?”
“Satoru. Gojo Satoru’s his full name.”
“... Ah.”
You swipe a pillow from Shoko’s bed and slam it into your face.
“I’ve been calling him by his first name?!” You whisper yell, heat rushing to your cheeks.
That’s far too intimate. This is awful, a tragedy, the end of your life that had just begun!
Shoko rubs your back reassuringly as you process the harrowing information.
-
This has been the first proper school day.
Teachers have come and gone depending on the class. You and Geto have been taking notes, Shoko’s fallen asleep, and Gojo occasionally throws a wadded-up note at the three of you. Shoko’s collection piles up on her desk, Geto throws his away after reading them, and you chuck yours back at Gojo when the teacher isn’t looking.
He catches it with a grin each time, as if you’re playing a friendly game of baseball.
This guy really irks you.
When it’s time to eat lunch, he’s the first to get up.
“What does everyone want from the vending machine?” Gojo asks while clapping, earning your attention. “It’s on me.”
Suguru requests Coca-Cola and Shoko, newly awake, says Oi Ocha.
“I’m okay, but thank you,” is your response.
Gojo swaggers over and you immediately regret sounding so polite.
“First you don’t open my notes and now you won’t accept my generosity? Is this what it’s like to get bullied?”
“I think bullying is typically worse than that,” you respond. His deep frown, although likely an act, still tugs on your heartstrings. Empathy is truly a double-edged sword. “... Georgia canned coffee, please.”
Gojo points a finger at you. “Aha! I knew it! Something about you struck me as a caffeine addict.”
(You throw a pen at him, which he easily sidesteps).
“Does the resident sugar addict have any room to talk?” Geto hums.
“Plenty. When you eat sweets, it’s to enjoy the flavor. In other words, an experience! When you drink coffee, though, you’re only torturing yourself to keep your eyes open.”
“Some people like coffee’s flavor,” Shoko chimes in. She rests her chin on her fist. “You would if it was sickeningly sweet.”
You take in the sight of your classmates bickering. It stirs a warm, pleasant feeling in your chest, like walking outside on the first day of spring. Such a simple exchange instills a sense of normalcy, no matter how fleeting. Gojo’s larger-than-life personality, Geto’s sneaky ways of goading him on, and Shoko’s occasional wry comment; you sear it into your memory.
There’s no real weight to the jabs everyone flings around, it’s like water off a duck’s back.
“You’ll meet lots of interesting folks, I’m sure,” your jujutsu mentor, Ishimoto Akane, had told you. “Make the most of each day. Forgetting to live is the worst injustice you can commit toward yourself.”
Smiling, you retrieve your pen/ammunition, intent on hitting Gojo with it eventually.
-
Drizzle and heat olive oil in a pan. Add grape tomatoes, seasoning, and minced garlic. Stir occasionally until the grape tomatoes break down.
A mouthwatering scent fills the dormitory’s kitchen. The clock reads 10:04 p.m, indicating how late this dinner is. You keep an eye on your pan as different shades of red smear together, forming the basis for your sauce. Content to leave it unsupervised for a spell, you walk to the drawer silverware is kept in.
The plates are up in an overhead cupboard. You stand on your tiptoes, straining your arm to grab a plate that has no business being up so high.
“Need help?”
You could recognize that voice in your sleep. Or, to be more specific, your nightmares.
“I’ve got it,” you insist.
“Yes, obviously, my sincerest apologies,” Gojo's cadence shifts to a somber, apologetic tone. “Please proceed.”
You stretch your body to its limits, the muscles in your arm crying out for reprieve. Your fingertips brush over the plate’s outer rim. Mistaking this for victory, you pull it out at an awkward angle. The porcelain comes tumbling down to its imminent demise. Out of instinct, you squeeze your eyes shut, bracing for impact.
In the moments that follow, you hear nothing shatter.
Confused, you reopen your eyes to see Gojo Satoru holding the still-intact plate.
You stare at him.
He stares at you (from behind his sunglasses, despite the sun not being out).
Remembering your manners, you say, “Thank you.”
Gojo hums. The low note injects dread throughout your system, as you can guess how the melody will continue. You reach for the troublesome plate. In accordance with your premonition, he takes sadistic glee in raising it high above your head. It stays up there as if it were a full moon.
You take a deep, deep breath.
“Gojo-san, can I have that back?”
“Say ‘Pretty please, Satoru,’ and I’ll think about it.”
“...”
He stares at you.
You stare at him.
“From this day forward, you cannot have any more of my cooking,” you announce as if you were a politician making a new law known.
In what’s an exceedingly rare occurrence, Gojo doesn’t have an immediate retort. You may be unable to see his eyes, but you can tell his expression fell at your proclamation by the muscles in his face.
“Wait, really?”
“Really.”
“Really really?”
“Really really.”
Gojo silently hands over the plate with a bow.
“For you, madam.”
His melancholic act is so convincing and disproportionate to the situation that you can’t hold back your laughter. Gojo’s true strength is his ability to annoy and endear in the same breath. For this reason, your irritation toward his antics never lasts long. You’re sure he’s aware of this and uses it to his advantage. So long as it remains innocuous, you’ll play along.
“Start helping by chopping that basil and I’ll reconsider your verdict.”
Gojo gives a hearty salute.
“Yes ma’am!”
-
Geto plucks the manilla folder you’re holding and says your name. Perplexed, you glance at him.
“This isn’t worth rereading a fourth time,” he explains. “It won’t be anything near as dangerous as it’s been made out to be.”
He closes it and slides it across the table. You watch through heavy eyelids, blinking off sleep’s seductive whisper. The contents within — census data, maps, photographs — each piece of information refuses to absorb into your weary brain. You’re amazed you had the cogency to slap some proper loungewear on and stumble to the dormitory’s shared living space.
“S’gotta be somewhat important, though, if we got woken up at three in the morning over it.”
Geto laughs airily at that. “You’d be surprised.”
“What do you mean?”
“He means that anything involving the Zenins gets a fast track to becoming everyone’s problem,” Gojo adds from the doorway.
You turn your head in the direction of his hoarse voice. He didn’t bother to fix his bedhead or put on anything half-decent. He’s wearing a gray v-neck and slacks, unlike Geto, who at least put on a pair of jeans. His trademark sunglasses sit ajar on his nose.
Despite yourself, your heart skips a beat. He’s kinda cute.
Gojo gives you a lazy wave and grin. “Wow, you’re actually awake. I thought we’d have to drag you out of bed.”
“In the spirit of maintaining harmony, I’m going to ignore that comment,” you grumble, getting up from the floor to sit on the couch. Gojo sits to your left, slouches into the armrest, and throws his legs on the table. What terrible posture. “Going back to what you said — who are the Zenins? Are they important or something?”
Gojo furrows his eyebrows.
Geto blinks.
You glance between the two of them, feeling increasingly out of the loop. “W-What?”
Gojo, being the fiend that he is, breaks out into unapologetic laughter. You gape at him, your cheeks going from cold to scorching. Geto shakes his head in disapproval over Gojo’s behavior. Still, a small smile works onto his face, further exacerbating your embarrassment. Gojo loudly poking fun at you is one thing, but you’re used to Geto having your back Or at least abstaining from either side.
Vexed, you shoot up, ready to storm off, but Gojo’s hand encircles your wrist.
“My bad, my bad,” he manages through the occasional chuckle. “Come back. We’ll explain it to you.”
You grumble beneath your breath yet ultimately acquiesce.
Gojo peers at you from above his sunglasses. “Ever heard of the Big Three Sorcerer Families?”
You shoot him an unimpressed look. “Would we be having this conversation if I had?”
“Man, that must be nice. I almost feel bad ruining your innocence like this,” Gojo sighs, ever the melodramatic performer. “Hm… let’s see… think of them as the lame, jujutsu versions of Zapdos, Articuno, and Moltres.”
Sitting patiently, you wait for him to elaborate.
He doesn’t.
“Geto-kun, care to translate?”
“With pleasure. So, since cursed techniques are inherited, families often want them passed on from one generation to the next. The Big Three come from bloodlines that hold some of the strongest techniques. As you can imagine, this has granted them lots of influence and power over the centuries. How they leverage these advantages, well…”
Geto trails off and clears his throat.
“—They use it to advance their own agendas and snuff out any meaningful change,” Gojo finishes for him.
You nod.
“Okay, I think I get it! So they’re like jujutsu lobbyists?”
Gojo bursts into another fit of laughter. “I like that! Yeah, let’s call them that. Most of those geezers aren’t even jujutsu sorcerers themselves. They just sit around in the dark and scheme. It’s pathetic.”
Gojo doesn’t care about mincing words. He’s the type to call it as he sees it, for better or for worse. Rarely do you sense such acrimony festering beneath the surface of his remarks. This matter is different. He’s smiling, but there’s a tense underpinning to how he sets his jaw.
“Wait, okay, so, there’s the Zenins, but… who are the other two?” You ask.
“The Kamo and Gojo families,” Geto answers.
Gojo, gojo… that name sounds awfully familiar, doesn’t it?
This reveal doesn’t knock the breath from your lungs. You’ve been able to guess for some time now that Gojo came from money. How much exactly, you weren’t sure, but his designer clothes raised your estimates high. Your rich kid radar is as accurate as ever.
You point an accusatory finger toward the white-haired male beside you. “We have a double agent in our midst, Geto-kun.”
“It would appear so. How should we proceed?”
You stride over to Geto’s side, creating the appropriate distance between you and the traitor.
“Imprisonment without trial,” you declare, much to Gojo’s chagrin. “Solitary confinement too. Cosplaying as the working class is a federal offense.”
“Hah? What sort of kangaroo court is this?” Gojo complains. He removes his legs from the table and sits properly, then crosses his arms over his chest. Continuing your charade, you pay him no mind. Instead, you stand on your tiptoes, cup your hands, and whisper into Geto’s ear:
“The convict is disparaging our blameless judicial system. Shall we add ten years of hard labor?”
A malevolent gleam passes over Geto’s eyes.
“Let’s make it twenty,” he whispers back. You nod. Great minds think alike.
You return your attention to the couch, intending to update Gojo’s sentence, only to find he isn’t there. Yours and Geto’s deliberation couldn’t have lasted more than five seconds! Where did your prisoner run off to? His presence vanished as well, leaving not a single trace. It should unnerve you how in control he is of every aspect of his being. Maybe it would’ve had you not known him personally.
Warm breath fans against your ear from behind. “I’m taking this corrupt official hostage.”
With that, your legs give out faster than your brain can register. Your equilibrium is thrown into chaos as two arms lift you. The abruptness of it all has your limbs flailing for purchase and a squeak escaping your lips. Gojo takes care to ensure you don’t fall or harm yourself, but he doesn’t bother hiding his sadistic glee. You’re held bridal style against his firm chest.
Trying to wriggle loose is a meaningless endeavor. Accepting your fate, you go limp, but not without requesting assistance.
“Geto, are you really going to abandon me to the machinations of this criminal?”
Geto walks over, consideration etched into his countenance, stoking hope of rescue in your chest. He reaches for you. It’s almost imperceptible, but Gojo’s grip tightens ever so slightly. However, his hand doesn’t pry you from the jaws of the beast. He just pulls down your shirt, which has risen to reveal a sliver of your stomach.
Wow, what a gentleman.
“Did you ever consider that I might be a double agent?” Geto challenges, relishing in your visible frustration as much as Gojo. Such is the plight of those who wear their heart on their sleeve.
“Oh, don’t worry, I’ve learned my lesson alright,” you retort. The foreboding nature of your words isn’t lost on them. They await your next move, which you swiftly deliver. “Gojo-san, let me down. If you don’t, I will bite you.”
You can feel how he beams down at you. “Oh, I never would’ve guessed that’s what you’re into— ah, Suguru, a little help here…?”
Geto assesses the situation. After thinking it over, he helps steady you, then uses his newfound leverage to pull you free. He takes great care in putting you down, holding you steady until your feet are firmly on the floor. Your balance rushes to restore itself. In the meantime, Gojo clicks his tongue, processing the weight of Geto’s betrayal.
You give Geto a thumbs up. “Good work. No one ever sees a triple agent coming.”
“It was a split-second decision,” Gojo dismisses with a wave. His impassive expression morphs into a knowing smirk, like he just had a seismic revelation. “Ah, I get it.”
“You do?” Geto hums.
“He does?” You ask.
“Yes and yes. Suguru, you were holding out to see if she’d use her cursed technique, right?”
Geto doesn’t respond immediately, indicating Gojo’s theory holds some merit. Gojo stuffs his hands into his pockets and slinks back to the couch. His gait radiates smugness, although you can’t imagine why. Is that supposed to be a ‘gotcha!’ moment?
“I’ll admit, I am curious,” is what Geto settles on saying, his smile apologetic. Or it’s meant to come off as such.
“Why didn’t you say so sooner? It’s not like it’s a big secret or anything.”
Geto and Gojo exchange looks.
“You should be careful who you go about revealing information like that to,” Gojo warns. You’re not used to hearing this serious timbre in his voice. “Some cards should remain close to your chest.”
Even if he’s being sincere, you can’t help but feel patronized. You’ll be the first to admit it — certain nuances of jujutsu society are lost on you. Akane wasn’t the type to care for such details. She said worrying about all that bureaucracy would age you prematurely. You half agree with her. Certainly, you shouldn’t let that influence you in the areas it matters most, like combat. However, while you’re in Japan, you’re under their regulations. It wouldn’t be wise to forget that.
You purse your lips. “Obviously, yeah. I’m not going to go blabbering it off everywhere. But, I mean, you two are my friends. This’ll be our first time on the field together. Knowing what cards you have to deal with seems useful to me.”
Gojo turns his head to the side and a few seconds pass.
“Friends, huh?” Geto finally murmurs, testing the word on his tongue. His next smile reaches his eyes. “Who would’ve thought a little sincerity is all it takes to get you flustered?”
Gojo snaps his head back at Geto’s taunt. “Sorry, what was that? Aren’t you the one who—”
You clap to redirect their attention.
“Hey, hey, cut it out already. We’re going to be together for the next few days, right? Let’s all get along.”
“You just care about going back to sleep,” Gojo accuses.
“Yes. Exactly. That is all I care about right now. So, if it’s all the same to you, I’m headed to bed.”
You don’t wait for their response. As stealthily as you can, you sneak through the hallways, careful to avoid creaky floorboards. Upon returning to your room, you kick your house slippers off. The digital alarm clock on your nightstand says 3:53 p.m. Those two kept you up far later than necessary! If this assignment isn’t a big deal like Geto claims, you wish he would’ve said so sooner.
There’s always the option of sleeping during the car ride, but if there’s anything you know about Gojo, it’s that everything in his vicinity can be subjected to torment. You wouldn’t put it past him to draw on your face or blare the horn once you finally nod off.
Your head hits the pillow and you pray for rest to take you soon.
Meanwhile, back in the shared living space, Gojo stares at the spot you once occupied.
“Satoru.”
“Hm?”
“I think I get it now.”
“That so?” Gojo runs a hand through his hair. “As long as you don’t get it too much.”
Geto chuckles. After a pause, he muses, “Neither of us would be very good for her.”
“You gonna let someone else scoop her up?”
“Are you?”
“They can try,” Gojo smiles. There’s no kindness behind it.
Although this conversation could last well into the morning, in an unspoken understanding, they leave it at that.
-
“Emerge from the darkness, blacker than darkness. Purify that which is impure.”
Ink blots descend from above as if the sky were weeping. The viscous teardrops curve downward, creating a dome that swallows the surrounding area. Geto and Suguru have gone ahead, leaving you to carry out basic protocol. You jog to catch up with them. Geto slows down enough to make rejoining them easier, unlike Gojo, who carries on.
“So, this is the stomping grounds of the mean ol’ curse that sent Kenji Zenin packing?” Gojo hums.
“He sustained some serious injuries,” you remind him. Gojo just shrugs. “A fractured sternum and twelve broken ribs… that’s not exactly a walk in the park.”
“A Grade One sorcerer getting whooped that bad by a Grade Two curse? Probably deserved it.”
You sigh, recognizing that Gojo won’t empathize no matter what you say.
The three of you were driven from Tokyo Jujutsu High to Kaizu for this assignment. According to Geto, the information you received likely exaggerated the curse’s capabilities as a way for Kenji Zenin to save face. It looks better for him if the higher-ups deem the threat he faced severe enough to ship off two of the school’s most promising students to handle it. Regarding your inclusion, Gojo so kindly said,
“You’re like the little garnish on top of the entrée.”
You can’t find the energy to get upset if he’s right.
There’s no denying the immense gap in your abilities compared to theirs. You could feel it in the air the instant you met Gojo. For Geto, all it took was hearing a description of his cursed technique. The potential for storing and controlling curses at will is beyond your comprehension. There are so many applications, and so many advantages… you’re utterly outclassed.
Should this demotivate you? Perhaps. You’ll never be as strong as them, it’s delusional to think otherwise. An individual’s proficiency with jujutsu is almost determined at birth. That doesn’t mean it’s static, it just means you have to find ways to excel with what you’re given. Envy is a waste of time. You want to learn from them and hone your abilities. For this reason, you’ve avoided an inferiority complex.
What could be better than learning from the best?
The atmosphere inside the curtain is dingy. It’s like a dark filter glazed over your eyes, maiming any bright or vibrant colors.
Grass crunches beneath your feet despite summer’s abundant rainfall. Nature itself flees the scene, retreating into the woods surrounding this derelict nursery. The briefing you were given went over the business’ murky past. In the seventies, there was an unprecedented boom in births around this area. Working parents needed proper childcare until their children were old enough to attend school. What few facilities existed nearby found themselves overwhelmed. Then an older, childless couple, Mikami and Fujikawa Tetsuo, purchased a plot of land outside the town with their retirement money. They cited the picturesque scenery as their reason for choosing this location, believing that the unpolluted air would be good for the children.
The nursery was built and opened. For years, parents entrusted their little ones with the tight-knit staff headed by the Tetsuo’s. Nothing of note occurred until early in the eighties. On March 24th, 1982, a child was hospitalized after crying ceaselessly for three hours straight. The mother reported that when she picked her daughter up from the daycare, her daughter had been unusually distraught. She didn’t think much of it at first. Toddlers are known for being emotional. However, as time went by and her screams became hoarse, she felt something was terribly wrong. The little girl was given mild sedatives and IV fluids as her body began to suffer from dehydration.
The next day, all seventeen children at the daycare suffered the same mysterious ailment.
Each child underwent tests ranging from bloodwork to brain MRIs to determine what the inexplicable cause of this nightmare could be. Professionals in every area, ranging from renowned neurologists to child psychiatrists flew in from around the world. Naturally, an investigation was opened into the nursery and its owners. No formal charges were made against Mikami and Fujikawa, since no evidence of foul play could be found. Regardless, the community ostracized them and any employees present during the incident.
Tragically, none of the eighteen children recovered. From the instant their sedatives wore off until they were administered again, they’d screech, thrash, and display aggressive behavior toward nurses and family members alike. Parents were faced with the impossible decision of keeping their child ‘alive’ through life support, holding out for a cure that may never come, or granting them a peaceful yet permanent rest.
Only one family kept their child on life support. He remained in a vegetative state and died from complications related to an infection two months later. The seventeen other families, who had grown close through the harrowing ordeal, turned the machines keeping their little ones alive at the same time.
This report might be one of the worst things you’ve read.
Scanning the area, you note faint residuals of cursed energy throughout the decrepit playground. The swings, slide, and both sides of the seesaw contain trace amounts. Did curses form as a consequence of what happened here, or did a curse initiate the disaster? It may not matter now, but all those families never receiving proper closure makes your chest feel tight.
Painfully so.
Considering the officials never found physical evidence, you believe a curse was the cause. What were the victims supposed to do? What could they do? Non-sorcerers can’t perceive curses, much less defend themselves. They have to be chewed, swallowed, and digested.
You kneel at the playground’s edge, inspecting the planks of rotten and peeling wood. It must’ve been assembled by hand. Each piece was planned, cut, and dutifully laid down. All to hold the wood chips that’d protect the kids as they ran, laughed, and played. This place should’ve been a fond memory for them to recall throughout their life.
Instead, it’s the reason they’d never got to have one.
“The cursed energy is concentrated in the nursery room itself,” Gojo determines.
You follow his line of sight and squint. You could tell the building was submerged in cursed energy, but you couldn’t pinpoint an exact location.
“It’s moving in the same pattern, like a grid,” Geto says. Another observation you couldn’t make. “Starting in the top left corner, ending in the bottom right, then starting the process all over again.”
Standing up, you dust the dirt off your skirt. “Why would a curse do that?”
From a tactical standpoint, moving predictably is reckless. Any combatants could use the knowledge to their advantage. Curses have some degree of self-preservation, hence why they don’t waltz everywhere without a care in the world. They’re intelligent enough to avoid spots that sorcerers frequent. Fly heads are the lone exception, but that’s because they lack the intellect necessary to care for their survival.
A curse capable of inflicting such serious wounds on a Grade One sorcerer can’t be that weak.
Gojo exchanges glances with Geto, a semblance of understanding connecting them. You’ve witnessed this wordless exchange before. No matter how much they bicker over conflicting values or petty non-issues, they maintain the ability to synchronize their thoughts and actions.
“What is it?” You snap. As soon as the acrid words leave your mouth, you regret it, although they don’t react. Taking a deep breath, you try again. “Communication is important for these missions, guys. Keep me in the loop… please?”
Geto parts his lips, but Gojo cuts him off. “There are eighteen cribs inside. The curse is fixing the blankets in each one.”
You shiver.
“... Oh.”
“How do you want to go about this, Satoru?” Geto asks. “It can’t be as simple as walking in and exorcising it.”
“Why not? Its cursed energy is consistent with what you’d expect of a Second Grade. We both know this job’s smoke and mirrors, anyway. Let’s wrap it up already and head home.”
“Isn’t it strange the curse hasn’t been drawn out, despite a curtain being cast?” You point out.
For the first time since exiting the car, Gojo looks at you. You stare back at the two black circles that obscure his omnipotent eyes. Something’s been off ever since you embarked on this mission. It’s like an itch you can’t scratch, as its location shifts elsewhere whenever you try. His words have had an edge to them when directed at you. You’re used to his lackluster manners, but this is different.
This cuts and it cuts deep.
Are you that incompetent to him…?
Gojo redirects his gaze toward the ramshackle building.
“I’m getting this over with,” he says. Simply, decisively. Leaving no room for argument.
Leaving no room for you.
Massive tendrils of cursed energy coil around him, flowing unimpeded like water through a rushing brook. You step back solely from reflex. Anticipation thrums through the air and ignites every nerve in your body. You’re left wide-eyed and breathless as it gathers and grows, its potency hundreds of times greater than anything you’ve been able to achieve. It feels as though minutes have dragged by, reacquainting you with the surreal sensation you underwent upon meeting Gojo Satoru that fateful day.
“Cursed Technique Lapse: Blue.”
Up until this point in your life, you thought you knew destruction. What hubris, what naivety. Gunfire, grenades, tanks, bombs, missiles; they are nothing but ants before the looming skyscraper that is Gojo Satoru.
This is destruction in its raw, purest form.
This is what it means to be the strongest.
… Somehow, you feel lesser than that ant.
A speck of dust would be a more fitting description.
You expect total disintegration when you reopen your eyes. You aren’t disappointed.
Concrete, wood, glass, steel, plastic, stone, and fabric alike were eviscerated. The ground where the nursery once stood is gone. A bygone era wrought with tragedy. The force behind this apex of energy blasted the wood partition around the playground, leaving nothing but a shadow to signify it ever existed.
Gojo lowers his hand and turns away from the wreckage.
“Don’t you think you went a bit overboard, Satoru?” Geto’s tone reminds you of the many scoldings Yaga has given the white-haired menace.
“Just wanted to ensure the threat was dealt with, so Kenji can sleep through the night without wetting himself,” Gojo replies, smirking. “Alrighty then, who wants to sightsee—”
“Naptime… naptime…” A garbled voice intones from the aftermath of Gojo’s attack.
The deformed curse lifts itself like a marionette fastened to invisible strings. It’s tall, with an emaciated build and haggard skin. Long clumps of thick hair emerge from its scalp, greasy and matted. Each feeble step it takes is accompanied by a snapping sound, as if its joints are begging for collapse. The humanoid shape disturbs you most of all. Cracked lips, bloodied eye sockets, chunks of deathly pale skin sloughing off brittle bones; this curse looks more like a corpse than anything else.
Most damning, however, is the sheer power it’s radiating.
“Do… they… slumber…?” It croaks.
Suguru assumes an offensive position, but Gojo puts an arm out, stopping him.
“Something’s off,” Gojo warns. If you thought he sounded serious before, that doesn’t compare to his timbre now. “Don’t attack it.”
The curse’s legs give out. That doesn’t stop it from crawling on. Lanky fingers claw at the rubble, searching desperately.
Geto summons a handful of curses in its radius. He keeps them on standby while the three of you track every movement, every ebb and flow of cursed energy. The curse grabs and cradles the sediment in its crooked hands, then rocks the amalgamation as if it were a baby.
“Did you hit it?” You whisper, knowing fully well the question is pointless. You don’t care. You need any semblance of control possible when confronted with the terrifying unknown.
“I did. The impact inflicted zero damage,” Gojo removes his sunglasses and tucks them away.
“A special condition, then?” Geto proposes. “One that makes it impervious to all harm until…”
You hear a sniffle.
Then a whimper.
And a gurgle.
“Hush, hush, hush, hush, hush, hush, hush—”
The curse repeats this mantra with increasing aggravation until its shrill voice is all you can hear. The cursed energy that enveloped it seconds prior flows out in multiple directions, like a heart pumping blood to the rest of the body. The energy is absorbed. Not a meager trace remains, every drop was sucked dry by multiple sources.
All is still.
All is silent.
A bloodcurdling wail reverberates throughout the curtain.
Eighteen appendages propel out of the curse in the middle, puncturing it from the inside out as if the limp mass was a cocoon.
There’s no need for deliberation.
The three of you scatter in different directions.
“Cursed Technique: Ophanim.”
Two glowing, golden rings the size of wheels manifest by your side. The outside surface is adorned with closed eyes, each arranged individually on top of the other rather than in pairs. The two rings work in tandem to slice through the appendage barreling toward you. You recall them to your side, running at a breakneck speed to avoid the five fleshy appendages still seeking your demise.
Gojo and Geto are in a similar predicament. Running, leaping, and dodging the seismic attacks that leave massive craters in its wake. A single hit from that would crush your body in an instant. Then there’s the disorienting wailing, originating from multiple locations throughout the curtain’s interior. You can’t pinpoint where the sounds are coming from.
Adrenaline pumps through your veins, oxygen rushes with each sharp inhale, and your muscles strain to keep up with the demands you make of them.
The sixth appendage, which your cursed technique cut through, lurches from above. Whole and better than ever. Unlike before, its momentum is lightning-fast. The change is so instantaneous that you have no time to respond accordingly. Death’s harbinger looms, engulfing your existence in its hungry shadow. Instead of slicing it off at the wrist, you propel your rings up, accelerating their spin at the cost of speed. Flesh and cartilage rips above you in the shape of a thin slit.
The appendage plummets down.
Through the ringing in your ears, you hear voices yelling out your name.
An unpleasant, viscous substance coats you from head to toe.
You grimace and wipe off what you can. Geto’s curses managed to cut the appendage off at the joint, preventing it from rising and trying to crush you again. Your rings barely managed to carve a hole big enough to span the width of your body. That doesn’t mean you’re safe just yet — the five remaining appendages that have you as their target are seconds away. Unlike the one you just faced, their speed is manageable.
The more damage inflicted, the faster they are after healing, you think. This must be why Gojo and Geto are dodging instead of going on the offense.
However, since you remained still to avoid getting crushed by what your rings hadn’t cut through, the other five appendages are inbound. They’ve fanned out, blocking any angle you’d use to dodge.
You dismiss your cursed technique.
What can be done here? This curse is easily a Grade One. The centermost part is invulnerable and the eighteen limbs growing off it speed up when damaged. Summoning more rings so you can escape this attack means the next will come swifter, building and building to unimaginable speeds. You know your limits. The second healed limb was a hair below the fastest you’ve ever run.
Gojo and Geto could handle the levels above that. Maybe there’s a limit to how many times the limbs can regenerate, reaching that could exorcise the curse. No curse is truly invincible, even if it seems like it in the moment. You must be the reason why they haven’t commenced a counterattack. They knew anything above a second regeneration would do you in.
Is that really the only way?
Something wet drips on your head.
You use what little time you have to glance up.
Suspended midair is a small outline, made visible by the viscera that spurted from your cursed technique’s earlier attack. Sluggishly, you blink, wiping the blood from your eyes to ensure you aren’t hallucinating. The outline’s edges wriggle and squirm. You realize that it’s doing so in time with the incessant wailing.
“What do you think you’re doing, spacing out in the middle of a fight?”
Gojo must’ve warped in front of you.
You recognize the hand motion he’s making, and cry out, “Don’t! That’ll only make it—”
“I know, I know,” Gojo launches a devastating blow that obliterates the five incoming appendages, reducing them to pitiful scraps. “I didn’t just run a marathon for you to give up and become a pancake.”
“I didn’t give up,” you snap back.
He glances over his shoulder and grins. “Good. Cause we need to hose you off as soon as possible.”
You let out a noise in between a laugh and a cry. How can he crack jokes under these dire circumstances?
“Gojo—”
“Ah ah ah,” The menace cuts you off, “Satoru. Call me anything else and I’m leaving you to handle this on your own.”
While speaking his untimely quips, he continuously forms and releases his Cursed Technique Lapse, Blue. This forces the broken appendages into a cycle of stitching themselves together only to get destroyed again. It stuns you, how he can casually hold a conversation while performing a technique that’d use all your cursed energy to execute once. Never mind countless times in rapid succession.
“Satoru,” you try again, to which he hums, “This… thing above me, do you think it’s…?”
“The weak spot for this Ju-On ripoff? Yeah. Just noticed that. Suguru’s curses are self-destructing near them, so their invisibility’s useless.”
The six appendages that tracked Satoru join the fray, granting Geto additional space to maneuver unhindered. Floating blobs covered in the innards of curses appear one by one like macabre lanterns in the night sky. You can’t stop yourself from admiring how effortless they make it look. It was all you could do to avoid the curses’ attacks, that required every ounce of your cognition. Meanwhile, they pieced together the curses’ gimmick and started countermeasures.
“Anything broken?” Satoru asks.
“Just a few sprains.”
“Great. Now, I’m about to ask for a lot, but it’s nothing I don’t think you can’t handle.”
You exhale shakily.
“There’s another application of your cursed technique, right?”
How does he know that?
You’ll worry about this oddity later.
“There is, but,” you stare down at your blood-soaked hands, “Why are you asking?”
Satoru takes a moment to consider his response. The gory splatters are reforming faster and faster, you’ve lost count of how many blasts he’s used to cut them down. It’s almost imperceptible, but you can tell he can’t keep this up forever. Each subsequent use of Cursed Technique Lapse: Blue requires more energy than the last. If he’s a sliver off in his calculations, then the appendages will heal instantaneously and skewer your body faster than death can claim you.
Geto leaps down from a hovering curse.
“There are seventeen sources, just like you said,” he huffs, wiping the perspiration trickling down his temple. “Each one is visible now.”
Seventeen sources?
“This eyesore’s a distraction. Those screaming curses — they’re the real target here,” Satoru says.
You consider the curse a few feet above your head. “So we should attack them, right?”
Geto shakes his head. “We tried that. They didn’t sustain any damage.”
“Seriously?”
“This is just a theory, but,” Satoru takes a deep breath, “Seventeen of the eighteen victims from this place had their life support pulled simultaneously, right?”
Huh. So he did read the briefing after all.
This conjecture prickles at your skin like tiny needles. The screaming, the small stature these curses have, every detail comes crashing down at once. Maggots writhing beneath your skin would be more pleasant.
It isn’t them, you tell yourself, because you have to. It’s an echo. The curse they left behind.
You steeple your fingers. Cursed energy thrums around and through you, reverberating in your bones, and crackling throughout your soul. Simultaneously. That’s the key here. These curses can pull off their various immunities by using conditions to their advantage.
The two warding off the original curses’ attacks before you are strong, yes, but this niche fits you well.
If you’re able to perform it properly, that is.
You accept every drop of cursed energy your body can handle. Once you’re filled to the brim, it’s expelled, rushing through the air like geysers.
“Cursed Technique: Null.”
Your ability is versatile if not simple.
You can call forth golden rings that perpetually spin clockwise. Their size, speed, and sharpness are determined by you. At this point in your training, you can maintain two of these rings without sacrificing speed or sharpness. Should you bring out any more, they will dull and slow down for each addition made. Two could slash through steel, four could cut the same slab halfway, six would make a sizable dent, eight would leave a scratch; so on and so forth.
There’s an additional application beyond this.
Cursed Technique: Null — the pinnacle of the innate ability you inherited, Ophanim.
The sorcerer creates three rings around any object or organism. One spins around the target horizontally. The other two slant left and right respectively, all spinning counterclockwise. The closed eyes adorning the ring’s outside fly open. Unblinking, hypervigilant. If what they’re enclosed around is significantly weaker than the sorcerer, it can halt the movements of whatever or whoever is within.
Your record is halting thirty mice for a total of two minutes and four seconds.
Afterward, you can either dispel the rings or pull them toward the epicenter. The rings then slash through the target like a fruit slicer.
You see the seventeen silhouettes emphasized with blood.
As you will it, three golden rings surround each one. The cursed energy swaddling them hisses and resists your designs. Their wailing crescendos, culminating at an ear-piercing pitch. The fussing stops abruptly as the eyes on each ring open wide. Seventeen different targets, fifty-one rings… it is draining cursed energy from you fast.
Four seconds. This is as long as you trust the halt to work.
That leaves the issue of cutting through them.
These aren’t the used soda cans you’ve practiced on. They are curses, Semi-Grade One if you were to guess. You’re a Grade Three sorcerer. The chasm here won’t be bridged by a miracle, you’ll have to risk catapulting across and plummeting to your demise. Satoru’s likely unaware of your technique’s specifics, as even you required trial and error to determine this much. You never found documentation on Ophanim. Every unraveled facet is owed to you.
These fifty-one rings are too dull. They won’t make so much as an indent.
What you need here is a binding vow. Your own strength isn’t enough. Risk, danger, and death breathing down your neck; these are the ingredients you require. There’s a chance it won’t work and you’re condemning yourself to an early grave. If you don’t try, though, you don’t know how long Satoru and Geto can keep those appendages down.
Time to leap across.
For every second I don’t exorcise these curses, ten of my bones will break, you think. Should I reach ten seconds, my heart will stop.
Cursed energy surges through you. It finds the prospect of your end tantalizing, but without providing itself, won’t have the opportunity to claim you.
One.
(The rings gain immeasurable speed).
Two.
(It hurts, but the curses will hurt too).
Three.
(Simultaneous incisions are made through seventeen curses).
The wailing stops.
…
So does your breathing.
-
August 15th, 2005. Grade One Curse ‘The Caretaker’ and Semi-Grade One Curses ‘Little Ones’ were exorcised at 9:34 p.m. in Kaizu.
-
Hospital rooms aren’t renowned for their interior design.
Flimsy pillows, scratchy gowns, thin blankets, bright yellow lights, ghostly white walls, it’s an affront to the eyes. You almost want to continue resting if that’s all you’ll get to look at. Considering how stiff your neck is and how your limbs feel heavier than a grand piano, you assume you’ve done enough sleeping.
You prop yourself up as much as you can. This slight shift makes your body complain, nice and loud.
Footsteps rush over to your bed. You hear your name spoken, intermixed with a relieved sigh.
“You don’t stay knocked down for long, do you?” Geto muses. His smile is gentle and his eyes crinkle in delight. “Welcome back. How do you feel?”
“Like I got run over by a train,” you rasp.
You’re in desperate need of some vocal warmups.
Geto grabs a water bottle from the windowsill and hands it over. While you gulp the heavenly elixir down, he continues speaking.
“You weren’t out for long — two days. Well, two and a half days. It’s noon now.”
You relax after hearing this. Geto knew how to assuage any worries you might have before you dared to voice them. Everyone has their own way of bringing kindness into the world, this happens to be his.
“Seriously? I was expecting you to say it’s the year 2010 or something. No flying cars yet?”
“None that I’ve seen,” Geto’s laugh sounds light and airy. “Shoko’s reversed cursed technique is truly a marvel. It accelerated your healing, but I imagine the pain will linger a while longer.”
You’ll have to cook Shoko one of her favorite dishes when you get back. You don’t want to think about how long it would’ve taken for you to heal naturally, much less if it’d heal right. Bones are finicky like that. You imagine yours weren’t happy at how you offered them up on a silver platter.
She spared your family so much pain. You’ll forever be indebted to her for that.
Glancing around, you notice three mismatched chairs surrounding your bed. Geto follows your line of sight.
“Shoko and I finally chased Satoru out about an hour ago. He’s lived in this room since you were admitted. Didn’t sleep a wink either,” Geto gives you an expression you can’t quite place. “Around the forty-two-hour mark, he started making strange suggestions.”
Heaviness seeps into the air, thick and palpable, like a noxious gas.
“What kind of suggestions?”
“Suggestions like killing the higher-ups, for starters.”
Your thudding heart leaps to your throat. “... Huh?”
“It’s not anything he hasn’t said in jest before. This time, however,” Geto fixates his attention on the intravenous line threaded into your arm. You can feel the weight of his stare. “He wasn’t joking.”
It feels like you’re in one of those dreams that mimics reality so well, the line separating the two becomes increasingly distorted. You entertain the theory briefly. A single sweep of the room dispels the illusion. The loose thread on Geto’s shoulder, the sounds of carts rolling down the long hospital corridors, the lemon-tinged scent from cleaning supplies; could a dream be this detailed?
You don’t think so.
Sensing your haziness, he clarifies, “I talked him out of it by speaking in your stead. I assumed you wouldn’t want that.”
“What… what do the higher-ups have to do with anything…?”
How do they factor into the two plus two equals four equation?
Geto pulls a chair over to your bedside, sits, and contemplates. Such a grave visage doesn’t belong on a fifteen-year-old’s face. It reminds you of a father preparing to explain why he and their mother are getting a divorce to their children.
He weighs his next words on a scale only he’s privy to.
“Satoru had a gut feeling that there was more to the Kaizu mission. He must not have wanted you to have that in the back of your mind out on the field, since all it takes is one mistake to—”
He cuts himself off. His complexion takes a pallid shade.
You give him a gentle smile. Geto is more considerate than you initially gave him credit for. Ignoring the dull ache, you lean forward, placing your hand over his.
“It’s okay. You can keep going.”
The tips of his ears turn red.
He blinks rapidly, clears his throat, and then soldiers on. “R-Right. Well, you saw how he acted. With his Six Eyes, he spotted the remains of another sorcerer when he looked at the nursery. The briefing conveniently omitted the fact that Kenji wasn’t alone. This confirmed Satoru’s suspicions. He wanted to wrap things up fast to get you out of there, but… that curse proved challenging.”
“I’m getting this over with.”
Ah. So that’s why he came off that way, you think. Still… couldn’t there have been a better way? Why is blocking people out his go-to?
“We believe the Zenins — those in Kenji’s immediate circle, to be specific — hoped that you’d be… killed, to emphasize how formidable the threat he faced was. Since this job was assigned through the school, some of the higher-ups must’ve known and granted their blessing.”
“... Oh.”
The room’s air conditioning whirrs to life, billowing the beige curtains draped over the closed window. Outside, a cicada crawls over the glass pane. It pauses to recite its buzzing melody. Since it’s summer, you can expect to see and hear these insects until autumn’s chill sweeps away the heat.
You hope Satoru witnessed a similarly trivial scene while sitting in this room.
It’s important to remember just because you feel stuck, the world won’t stop spinning onward.
“Would it be okay if I called you Suguru?”
He nods without hesitation.
“Suguru, earlier you said that you changed Satoru’s mind by voicing my perspective since I couldn’t,” you start, your cadence gentle. You handpick each word with great care. “Does this mean that, personally, you agreed with him?”
His countenance is like that of a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar. This look doesn’t overstay its welcome. Once he assesses you, from your open posture to your soft stare, he’s back to his usual self.
“Busted, huh? And here I thought you’d be too groggy to pick up on anything incriminating.”
“A corrupt official such as myself must remain vigilant,” you reply with a cheeky grin. Then, you reorient yourself to communicate what’s been gnawing at you properly. “There’s a lot I don’t know about these ‘higher-ups’ or ‘Zenins,’ that you keep referring to. What little I do know doesn’t paint them in a favorable light. For all I know, they could be irredeemable in every sense of the word. But…”
“... Even though this is a selfish wish, I’m making it anyway. Say they do have to go. That it’s 100% certain they’re just that bad. I don’t want you or Satoru to be the ones to carry it out. Intentionally killing someone… could there be anything worse than that? Doesn’t a part of yourself die with them?”
A lump grows in your throat. You force it down.
“So, thank you for stopping him and yourself. Sorcerers are meant to fight curses, right? Protect those who can’t protect themselves. That sort of stuff.”
Suguru squeezes your hand gently, as if you were made of porcelain.
It stops you from shattering.
After a few minutes, your erratic breathing settles. He whispers your name like he’s making a promise.
“You’re right,” he says, a newfound resolve built into the very fabric of those two words. “Protecting the weak is what matters most. Tossing everything into disarray would threaten that. It’s easier to fix what’s broken than to demolish and rebuild from scratch.”
… Is that what you meant?
Exhaustion clouds your senses. You must’ve burnt through your scarce reserves of energy. You can vaguely discern Suguru running the pad of his thumb over your hand, before detaching himself. He readjusts your pillow so it supports your head better. After murmuring your gratitude, you sink into sleep’s warm embrace.
Right as you’re traipsing the fine line between wakefulness and the unconscious, there’s a light sensation of something brushing your hair back.
This unknown doesn’t inspire fear or outrage.
Instead, it lulls you further into the recesses of peace.
-
You’re discharged from the hospital later that day.
An auxiliary manager from Tokyo Jujutsu High drives you back. You spend the car ride staring out the passenger side window, taking in the bustle of busy citizens and dazzling lights. It never fails to amaze you how people wordlessly maneuver around each other to maintain the flow of traffic. It’s a tempo that can’t be instructed, rather, one must adapt in real time without a conductor.
Can non-sorcerers truly be considered weak?
The description torments you as if it were a thorn in your side.
Your fingers drum over the dashboard.
What does it mean to be strong, anyway?
-
The next time you activate your cursed technique, you can summon and maintain four rings without sacrificing sharpness or speed.
For the past few days, you’ve been playing around with different formations. Four rings orbiting your body provide considerable defense from projectiles and close combat. Then, if you let two out, you gain the means to attack. Lastly, ditching defense to pour everything into offense is a viable option as well. Your biggest obstacle is how mentally taxing it is to track and manipulate four rings at once.
It requires great concentration. This isn’t an issue if you’re alone, but you doubt that curses will play nice and let you stand perfectly still.
You flip your My Melody notebook to the next page and scribble down,
Two rings uptime — twelve hours.Four rings uptime — one hour. Four rings uptime w/ distractions — ten minutes. Maximum distance — one hundred meters. Maximum rings at once — sixty. Uptime on maximum rings — five seconds.
Thinking back to The Caretaker, you twist your lips.
If you’d been sent on that mission by yourself, would this have been enough to win the fight? You’re alive because you were with Satoru and Suguru. There’s no denying the infallible truth. You can’t always rely on reports to accurately grade a curse. There’s also the chance once certain conditions are met, the curse can gain strength throughout the fight, and—
“Cute handwriting.”
“Eek!”
Hugging your notebook to your chest, you jump back, indignation rushing through you like molten magma. Who snuck up on you? How did they do it? You can ascertain the presence of others in your vicinity well. You know when Shoko’s sneaking out through her window at night, if Suguru’s about to enter the room, or when Utahime is seconds away from busting into the classroom to lecture Satoru about levitating her lunch onto the roof again.
Squinting, you assess the assailant. Pearly white hair, round sunglasses, a lean and towering figure…
“Satoru? You’re back?”
According to Shoko, Satoru was called to Kyoto for business relating to the Big Three not long after they returned from the hospital. It’d been two weeks since then. You’ve gotten so used to having him around, that his absence felt pronounced. Shoko mainly lamented that her ‘walking free meal ticket’ was gone whereas Utahime rejoiced. You’ve never seen your upperclassman so ecstatic.
Her hopes and dreams will be dashed come morning.
“Just got in, yeah. Why? Oh! I know! You must’ve missed me terribly. Here, here. It’s alright. C’mere and tell me all about it— oof!”
There is a barrier that separates Satoru from everyone and everything.
‘Infinity,’ he calls it. The ability to slow down encroaching mass to such a degree that it appears as if it stopped. He can keep it activated for long lengths of time. One day, he intends to reach a level where he’ll never have to turn it off. Anyone else who proposed a goal like that would either be conceited or delusional. The amount of cursed energy necessary to pull that off is immeasurable.
Satoru isn’t just anyone, though.
So when he sets an impossible goal, it enters the realm of feasibility.
His infinity is active once you leap toward him, lasting up until the very last millisecond. When you breach the threshold that denies access to anyone else, it recedes, rushing away to accommodate your presence. Infinity remains present, molding itself around your shape. The top of your head, the slope of your shoulders, down to your soles; for a fleeting moment in time, infinity chooses you over Satoru’s parameters.
Your cheek hits his chest. He has to steady you so you don’t go tumbling back. While he does this, you snake your arms around him, squeezing him tight. In doing so, yet another anomaly occurs.
You’ve rendered Gojo Satoru speechless.
When you pull back, you notice his sunglasses are crooked. You straighten them out for him and nod in approval. Smiling ear to ear, you chirp,
“Welcome home, Satoru!”
He scratches the back of his neck, uncharacteristically quiet.
“... Isn’t this a school, though?” He finally manages to get out.
“Pfft, I didn’t think you were the type to get hung up on details like that,” you laugh. “Home’s anywhere you want it to be. For me, that’s here.”
You gesture to the surrounding area. Tall trees sway per the wind’s wishes, their green leaves painted blue and silver by the night sky. The moon overhead serves as your silent witness. No matter where you are, it will find and pursue you to the ends of the earth. Crickets chirp, cicadas buzz, and frogs croak by ponds rippling with their young. The night air is damp, but the coolness granted by the sun’s absence makes it tolerable.
“Honestly, I don’t know what to make of you sometimes,” Satoru tries painting a veneer of nonchalance over his words, but you can see through the cracks. You’re getting better at doing that. “Suguru said you were as peppy as ever; I didn’t believe him. They checked for brain damage, right? How many fingers am I holding up?”
(He holds up two).
“Ten,” you reply without missing a beat.
“Funny girl.”
“I learned from the best.”
You both silently size one another up. Or, in Satoru’s case, down, because he’s freakishly tall. You’re the first to break the supposed standoff. Laughter rings through the air, just yours at first, but it’s soon joined by his. The two of you stand in the middle of a forest at midnight cackling like a bunch of witches before a sabbath.
You feel absurd and giddy in a way that only comes from being around Satoru.
Some point after the laughter dies off, you can feel Satoru’s eyes scanning over every dip and curve of your being.
After reaching some conclusion, his shoulders droop. The dopey grin on his face shifts into something more neutral, more reserved. His hands find their way into his pockets. He kicks a pebble into the woods, and you both listen to it tumbling downhill until the sound fades away. The thickets shift from wildlife’s constant antics, accommodating what little fauna lives inside Tengen’s barrier.
“I’m not going to take back what I said, because I meant it,” Satoru asserts. He doesn’t have to elaborate — you know what he’s referring to. “Had you… had that mission gone as they intended, I wouldn’t have hesitated.”
An owl hoots on a distant tree branch.
Chills nibble all over your skin like little bug bites. You hug yourself to stave the sensation off.
“Even if you knew that isn’t what I’d want?”
“Even then.”
“So, you’re admitting it’d be for your sake?”
“Most things are.”
“I don’t buy that,” you frown. “You’re kinder than you realize.”
His eyebrows pinch together and his rosy lips part. It takes him a moment to dislodge the words stuck in his throat.
“... Not many people would agree,” he smiles thinly.
“Fine, just me then, since that’s easier to prove,” you hold up a single finger and raise another for each subsequent point. “One, you always leave my favorite coffee cans where you know I’ll find them. Two, whenever we’re facing a curse, you step in front to guard me. Three, if I look all sad and homesick, you make stupid jokes to take my mind off things. And four, there’s what happened in Kaizu. You—”
“I told you to use a technique you weren’t ready for.”
You blink.
He tucks his sunglasses away, removing yet another barrier. His crystalline eyes shimmer beneath the moon’s glow.
“How much do you know about your mentor’s history?”
Ah, yes, your mentor — Ishimoto Akane.
She stands at 5’8, boasts piercing green eyes, short, tousled black hair, and a tattoo of a thorny rose that envelops her entire left arm. When it came to reading the room, no one could fail as spectacularly as her. She never minced words, found basic tasks boring, and doted over her iguana named Wormwood like he was the second coming of Christ. When she wasn’t pampering Wormwood, she could be found in her very disorganized garage, tinkering with cars or motorcycles. Her neighbors filed numerous sound complaints thanks to her speakers blasting disco at unholy hours. Somehow, she never got caught.
For lack of a better word, your jujutsu mentor is eccentric.
Most notably, she saved you and your parent’s lives from a curse when you were six. You’ve been joined by the hip ever since.
As for her history…
“Um, well, I know that she’s from Omachi. She moved out of Japan in her late teens because ‘jujutsu sorcerers are an absolute drag,’ or something like that.”
“That’s a start,” Gojo hums. “Let me fill in the blanks. The Ishimoto family goes back a ways. They might not be as influential as the Big Three, but their connections are nothing to scoff at. They’re like little leeches, sustaining themselves off others. Arranged marriages are their whole thing. Akane was set to marry some third son of a Zenin bigwig. She dipped on the day of the wedding.”
That sounds like your mentor alright.
“Personally, I find that hilarious. Her family and the Zenins aren’t of the same opinion. They essentially disowned her. Anyway! Fast forward a few years. Rumors spread that the infamous Akane is popping up in Tokyo every now and then, with some kid by her side. Ring any bells?”
You point to yourself and he nods.
She took you on training trips under the guise of an ‘exchange student program’ in the summer, which your parents considered to be an excellent opportunity. You felt bad for deceiving them, but explaining the whole ‘fighting invisible monster things with emotion magic’ would’ve made for a rough conversation.
“It wasn’t until a couple of months back that I ran into her. I came right out and asked what I’d been curious about — why did she come back? She just shrugged and said she was done being a teacher. That answer didn’t satisfy me. She’s stubborn, I’ll give her that. I’m far worse though,” he boasts, fully looking and sounding the part. “In return for picking up her tab at an izakaya, she fessed up the truth.”
He steeples his fingers together, pantomiming a hand motion you’re intimately familiar with.
“Cursed Technique: Null, the advanced application of Ophanim. Akane’s convinced an ability like that, at its full potential, would be crazy strong.”
She never said anything like that to me, you think.
You shake your head. This isn’t the most pressing matter now.
“Satoru, what are you getting at here?”
“That you shouldn’t think I’m kind. I wanted to judge your technique’s potential for myself, so I had you take on more than you could handle.”
“You wouldn’t have let me die, though.”
He chuckles mirthlessly. “And what a hero I am for that.”
You purse your lips. You’ve never seen Satoru be this hard on himself. His cadence is the same — lighthearted, easygoing — but there’s an underlying acrimony to it. His smile doesn’t reach his brilliant eyes. He comes across as a spirit mimicking another’s likeness. This should unnerve you, maybe it will upon further reflection.
Right now, however, you just want him to get across that you aren’t upset. What’s done is done.
“It’s—”
Satoru puts a hand up, stopping you prematurely. “Oh no you don’t. Don’t forgive me, not yet, anyway. You need to get better at looking out for yourself. You’re nice to a fault.”
You glare at him halfheartedly. “What’s so wrong with being nice?”
“Living in a world like this, where there are people like me.”
“A world full of Gojo Satoru’s… that is a terrifying thought,” you murmur. His lips twitch upward, but he catches himself. “Bleh, what is it with you people and rejecting basic human decency! Akane was the same way. I’m fed up with it!”
You storm toward him, your eyes narrow and jaw set tight.
“I’m going to be who I want to be and that’s that. Maybe I’m naïve—”
“—Oh, it isn’t a maybe, you definitely are—”
You hush him by placing your finger to his lips, much to his surprise, if his wide eyes are of any indication.
“—But you don’t get to tell me how to act or think or feel. That’s my business. I forgive you, alright? Now cut it out with the brooding. Let’s be real here. Doing that’s for you, not for me.”
There’s an intensity to his stare you’ve never experienced prior. It makes your head feel light and hazy. Remembering yourself, you pull your hand back, heat rushing to your face. You may have gotten carried away. He isn’t wrong about you exercising more vigilance, but something about him critiquing a core aspect of your identity stings. The description ‘oversensitive’ can join the same limbo your ‘nice to a fault’ and ‘naïve’ proclivities hang out in.
Finding your current predicament too overwhelming, you break eye contact.
“Alright, alright, I get it, quit scowling. Remind me never to piss you off again, it’s scary,” he sounds more like himself, much to your relief. “I thought of a happy medium, just for you.”
Satoru compromising? Did you die during that fight after all? You never thought you’d see the day. Shoko isn’t going to believe you.
“And that happy medium is…?”
His dumb grin makes a triumphant return. He knows he’s got your attention, no matter how cool you try to play it.
“Keep being your sweet little self. If anyone tries taking advantage of that quality, and I mean anyone, come tell Suguru or myself. We’ll take care of it.”
What is he, a member of the mob?!
Whatever, it’s a step in the right direction. You think. Maybe.
“I’m not a snitch,” you huff.
“Fine, I’ll use my own discretion then.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re gonna have to get used to it.”
You quirk an eyebrow. “How do you figure?”
“Call it intuition,” he hums, smoothly sliding his sunglasses back into place. It makes you angry how cool he looks while doing so. “Or, better yet, love at first sight. Yeah. Let’s go with that, actually.”
Wait, what?
Your heart thunders against your ribcage and you gape at him like a fish.
“You…! Y-You can’t just say something like that!”
“But I did.”
“Ugh, I’ve had enough. I’m headed to bed. Go find somebody else to mess with.”
Satoru pauses, considering the words you’ve spoken without any real bite. Then he smiles. Not in the cocky, arrogant manner he’s infamous for either. The curvature is gentle. Almost sentimental. It takes you aback and makes you wonder if your eyes are malfunctioning.
“I can’t,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “It has to be you.”
It has to be you, it has to be you, it has to be you…
These five damning words loop in your head like a mantra. Who gave him the right to sound so sincere?
“Sleep well. You get all grumpy if you don’t. Having one Utahime around is more than enough, I don’t need you getting on my case too.”
Satoru turns around, pulling one hand out from his pocket to wave halfheartedly. You observe his retreating figure before snapping out of your daze. He drops a cryptic line like that and dares to casually waltz away, whistling while he does so! The nerve! The audacity! The whistling is off-pitch too! Jujutsu Tech seriously needs to consider adding music theory to the curriculum.
You jog to catch up with him and his stupidly long legs.
“Hey, Satoru!” You call out.
He stops and looks at you from over his shoulder.
“If you’re gonna watch out for me, I plan to return the favor,” you say, your tone leaving no room to argue. “You hear me?”
He waits until he’s facing forward again to respond. For this reason, you can’t see his expression. All you can make out is the outline of him giving a thumbs up, the edges of his skin swathed in silvery moonlight.
“Mhm. Loud and clear.”
-
December 23rd, 2017.
8:02 p.m.
-
You assess the man in front of you.
Pearly white hair, bandages wrapped around his eyes, a lean and towering figure… it’s Satoru, alright. There’s no mistaking his remarkable cursed energy. You could sense it — sense him — even in your deepest sleep. Amongst those at Jujutsu Tech, you’re the only one who can tell when he’s about to warp out of thin air. It’s become a running joke of sorts. Gojo Satoru has the Six Eyes and you possess a sixth sense for him.
Or so you thought.
“Are you hearing yourself?”
He sighs and runs his hand through his hair. “Loud and clear, yeah.”
“This isn’t funny, Satoru!”
“I’m not laughing, am I?”
“No, but,” you inhale shakily, wisely taking a second to tame your tongue. “You’re not taking this seriously— not taking me seriously.”
He frowns. You come close to regretting your words, falling just a few inches short. Arguments aren’t your forte. Determining when to surrender ground, bolster your defenses, or charge into enemy territory; this is a skill that requires practice. Especially when facing Satoru. You don’t want to consider him an opponent, but that’s what he feels like right now. An imposing wall blocking you from the road you have to take.
You regret turning up the duplex’s heat. Chilly as it is outside in the throes of winter, the air in this room has become scorching.
“Is that genuinely what you think?”
And there it is. He already knows the answer, as do you. He simply wants you to have your confession on record.
You grab the water bottle you left on the kitchen countertop, drinking enough to help ease the lump in your throat. This isn’t the time to cry. Not yet. Not before anything major occurs. The crisis hasn’t taken the stage, Christmas Eve holds that honor. Illogical as it may be, you don’t think you’ve earned the emotional release crying brings. That should remain a consolation prize to you in the future.
The you who will witness the horrors Geto Suguru plans to orchestrate.
The you who will learn how this decade-long saga ends.
Can the human heart endure anguish worse than this?
Tomorrow, this question will receive an answer, whether you want it or not.
“... It isn’t.”
“Good,” he says, somehow soft and firm. He opens up his arms. “C’mere.”
You’re sinking into him before he finishes the word. He secures you against his chest and the two of you tangle together like you’d unravel should you part. Satoru rests his chin on the crown of your head, mindlessly tracing patterns into your back. Or so you think, until you recognize the distinct grooves and curves of the characters which form Gojo.
He engraves it into you over and over again as if casting a spell.
This action must soothe him. You count each thump of his heart, noting how it settles into a steadier rhythm as the seconds tick by. The world’s strongest sorcerer is made of flesh and blood just like you are. It’s easy to forget that those you love and admire are mortal, regardless of how well they hide it. Those close to godhood must act the part, lest their audience murmur in suspicion.
“I don’t think I could do it, Toru.”
He doesn’t need to ask what you mean.
“Intentionally killing someone… could there be anything worse than that?”
No, you desperately scream to your younger self, as if there were any way to make her hear you. There really isn’t.
“I know.”
“... Could you?”
Satoru’s muscles stiffen. From this alone, you can glean his answer. From your lack of prodding, he must piece this together too. Talkative as you both are, it’s in these pockets of total silence that your communication shines best. Everything from the subtle hitching of breath to the twitch of one another’s lips reveals streams of information to sift through.
You can tell he doesn’t want to let you go, but you manage to wriggle out of his vice-like grip, creating a few inches of distance.
Reaching up, you undo the bandages around his eyes. He leans down to aid you in your task. Once the last strip comes off, you fold the linen neatly and put it aside. Satoru’s pretty eyes follow your every movement. When your attention returns to him, it’s impossible to overlook how hard he’s straining to fight back a smile.
He quickly abandons the farce.
Large hands seek out yours. Subconsciously, you meet him halfway, automatically drawn to him as if you were both different ends of a magnet. His slender fingers interlace with yours. His countenance radiates such fondness, such unfiltered reverence, that you find yourself getting embarrassed.
“W-What?” You choke out.
“Just thinking about how I’m the luckiest guy alive, is all,” he hums. His grin widens at how his unabashed compliments fluster you. Shame isn’t in his lexicon. “You went from looking like you wanted to bite my head off to doting on me.”
You roll your eyes yet chuckle nonetheless. He visibly perks up at the sound. He must’ve made you laugh thousands of times over the years, but he still treats each instance as if he’d experienced the most delightful composition.
He whispers your name.
“You trust me, right?”
“Of course.”
“Then do this for me, baby.”
“But…” you trail off, unable and perhaps unwilling to reinforce your argument, “Everyone is going to be risking their lives. Nanamin, Ijichi, ours and Iori’s students; even Shoko’s going out on the field. How am I supposed to sit still knowing that?”
“You don’t have to sit still, my little energizer bunny.”
The deadpan look he receives has him (wisely) reconsidering his word choice.
“I’m not asking because I don’t trust you, I’m asking because there’s no one I trust more,” Satoru tries again. You bite your lower lip. It’s unfair how much his rare glimpses of sincerity move you.
“And this is all based on a hunch?”
“Mhm.”
Satoru lifts your left hand. He caresses your skin, his smile softening into something tender. An expression that’s exclusively for you.
“Historically, my hunches are rather reliable.”
You can’t argue with the truth.
Suguru appears to have some unknown design for Okkotsu Yuta, who is to remain at Jujutsu Tech during the Night Parade of a Hundred Demons. The special-grade curse Orimoto Rika poses too many risks for him to be on the battlefield alongside allies. Since everyone down to the Ainu society is being called upon to deal with this threat, you’ve been awaiting your assignment. There’s no way they wouldn’t utilize every resource available.
Satoru ruined this assumption.
He personally requested that you remain on standby at the school.
He didn’t even tell you this himself. You found out from Maki of all people, who earlier asked why you were stuck ‘babysitting the exchange student.’ You were confused. This made her confused. Then you both remembered the menace that is Gojo Satoru and everything started adding up.
His explanation upon answering the phone?
“Oh, I was just getting around to telling you about that!”
Needless to say, you didn’t share his enthusiasm.
“Alright,” you sigh. “I’ll keep an eye on Yuta until everything is finished.”
Content, he squeezes your hand. As he does so, the gemstone on your ring finger catches the light, mesmerizing you both.
You close your eyes and smile.
‘Call it intuition,’ huh?
#gojo x reader#gojo satoru x reader#satoru x reader#geto suguru x reader#geto x reader#suguru x reader#jujutsu kaisen#reader insert#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jjk x reader#golden girl#my stuff
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Making Trouble
For the girlies on the Marc’s Girls discord, and specifically to whichever one of you requested this:
Possessive marc who decides to fuck reader in Jakes car to further piss of jake, praise kink, (maybe a little mirror action to make sure jake sees)
About this: Marc finally finds where Jake stashes his car when he isn’t fronting. Marc/fem!reader
—-----
“You can open your eyes now.”
Nearly breathless from the suspense, you finally open your eyes to see—a parking garage. You blink, taking in its tall, squat appearance, the teenager manning the little booth to let people in and out, her face in her phone. When Marc had said he had a surprise for you during your day out together, you had spent plenty of time considering what it might be. Knowing Marc, it was either painfully thoughtful or way too on-the-nose.
“Is it the parking garage, or is it in the parking garage,” you deadpan.
“I bought you a parking garage,” Marc deadpans back, obviously unimpressed with your deductive skills.
Mouth twitching, you ask: “You…bought a car?”
“Better,” says Marc with a grin. “I found a car.”
On the fourth level, you stand shivering amongst the dreary concrete scenery, mouth agape.
Marc holds up a key fob. The expression on his face is distinctly wicked, eyes dark and narrowed, mouth tilted in a smirk which makes him look years younger. He jingles the keys before pressing on the automatic lock. Within the car, you hear the soft sound of the doors unlocking. The taillights come to life, flashing an ominous red: warning, warning, do not fucking touch.
“We can’t,” you gasp, even as if you watch Marc open the driver’s door. Out comes a hint of Jake’s scent: leather, tobacco, cologne. How Marc and his alters can even smell different, you could never understand.
Marc is already stepping into the car. He turns to look at your gasped warning, but there is no fear nor trepidation on his face. He just raises a brow and says, “Seems easy enough to me.”
He ducks his head and disappears into the driver’s seat. You glance around, conscience guilty. It’s not like there is anyone who would dispute your right to be in the car; the thing is in Marc’s goddamn name! But you can’t help but feel eyes on you, like Jake knows what you are doing. For months he had stringently refused to reveal where he stored the flashy ride, despite your best attempts—and Marc’s, and even Steven’s who couldn’t resist a good mystery. He obviously did not want any of you encroaching on this, on his territory.
The thought of his punishment has you shivering, and not with fear.
You swiftly move to the passenger side, open the door, and duck inside. It is like another world within: all dark leather, cool against your overheated skin. The tinted windows make it dim, even with the soft glow of the overhead light (which disappears once you shut the door). You sit in the seat beside Marc, breathing in the experience. Jake never lets anyone in his car—that he doesn’t plan to kill. The adrenalin has your heart racing. You turn to look at Marc in the driver’s seat with a wide, giddy grin.
“So where should we go? I feel like fucking Ferris Bueler.”
Marc snorts softly. He reaches down between the seat and the door—and he pushes his seat back as far as it will go, creating copious space between himself and the steering wheel. It doesn’t look like a very comfortable way to drive. All at once, you realize that Marc isn’t intending to drive. He has not even put the keys in the ignition.
“Marc,” you say, low and warning and scared and excited all at once.
“Come here,” says Marc, just as lowly. He pats one jean-clad thigh. “Come sit on my lap.”
It isn’t a question. But for the first time you are caught between the authority Marc has over you and the authority Jake has over everyone. The rules are simple: do not touch his car. Do not look at his car. Do not think about his car. Definitely do not go looking for the parking garage which houses his car. And if you should find it? Definitely don’t fuck in it.
“What if he gets mad?” you ask, running your fingers over the natural creases of the leather seats.
“Leave him to me. Come sit on my lap.”
You climb across the center console and into his lap. Your skirt rides up your thighs. Marc leans back in his seat looking like a god, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, one hand braced behind his head like he is relaxing and nothing more. The bulge you can already feel in his jeans says that as relaxed as he appears, at least one part of him is as eager as you are.
“Undress.”
You gasp, like this is unexpected. Like you expected him to ask you to sit in his lap and then the two of you would talk about the weather. Even though the window tints are thick—standing outside the car, you cannot even see the swirl of shadows behind the glass—your eyes are drawn towards the windows around you. Can you undress here? You would feel so exposed…but the way Marc is looking at you is exposing as well. Like he sees your thoughts and is watching them bounce between arousal and terror in the ping-pong match of the century. Like he sees your thoughts and enjoys them.
He says nothing, just sits patiently, chest rising and falling softly with his each breath.
Yeah, alright. You pull your shirt over your head, reaching back to unclasp your bra. Marc takes each article of clothing and tosses it into the backseat. There isn’t enough space to comfortably slide down your panties while on his lap, so he perches you on the center console and works the lace down your legs, testing the texture between his fingers.
He opens up the dash console and puts your panties inside.
“Marc,” you whine. “Come on, you’re going to get me in even more trouble.”
“You’re trouble,” Marc says, lifting you with ease to set you back in his lap. The denim of his jeans is rough against your bare thighs. He is so thick that you’re spread uncomfortably wide, and your cunt—hungry, leaking—can’t even grind against the bulge in his jeans. Once you’re seated, Marc palms your ass in his broad hands, spreading you apart, eyes glued to the sticky place between your legs. “How else am I going to remind Jake that you belong to me, huh?”
Marc’s possessiveness makes you shiver. Maybe it’s some unevolved part of your hindbrain that craves such a thing, something that makes you want to rub yourself all over him until his scent is your scent and no one can refute it. Whatever it may be that makes your heart pound and pussy clench tight when Marc makes such comments, it must also be the same thing that makes you want more.
“I belong to him too, you know,” you tease. “And Steven.”
“Steven knows his place,” Marc says darkly. He reaches up and threads his fingers through your hair at the back of your skull, clutches tight and close to the scalp so that he has utter control as he tugs you forward and down until you are nearly nose to nose with him. “Jake sometimes needs a reminder that you are mine, first and foremost. Maybe you need that reminder too.”
You go to shake your head, but Marc holds it firmly in place by your hair. He tightens his grip (though not to the point of pain) and makes you nod in affirmation.
“Yes?” he asks, with mock surprise. “Yes, you need reminding? You need a lesson?”
“Marc,” you breathe. There is nothing else to the sentence. There is nothing else in your brain, just Marc.
“I’ve got you,” he coos. He pulls you in for a kiss, searing and consuming and all too short. Your mouth tingles after he pulls you away, lips quirking at the way you strain against his hold, eager to kiss him again. But he just says: “Take my cock out.”
Your fingers scramble for the button against the denim. Perhaps if you weren’t tingling all over, it would be easier to unfasten them—but then you get distracted by Marc, Marc who is reaching up to the rearview mirror and adjusting it.
“What are you doing?”
“Don’t worry your pretty little head,” says Marc. The grin he gives into the mirror is like a shark’s. Toothy, mean, hungry.
You try not to. You focus on his cock which you are finally able to work free from the denim. He is achingly hard, a familiar velvety rod of steel in your palm. So much changes about your three lovers when they are fronting: accents, expressions, mannerisms…but this is one thing that never changes. You adjust your grip, let your thumb trace over the crown of his cock. When you stroke over the slit, your thumb comes away wet with his precum.
Marc uses his grip on your hair to gently turn your face downward until you are staring at him: ruddy, deliciously thick, a length that already has your legs shaking just at the memory of the places it can stroke inside you. At the tip beads more precum, and you watch, mesmerized, as you spread it across the sensitive head turning it shiny pink and eager.
“See my cock?”
“Yes,” you laugh.
“Then why aren’t you sitting on it?”
A good question. You shift upwards. Marc helps, hands braced against your waist as he lifts and twists and turns you to his liking. By the time the thick head of his cock nudges at your entrance, he has turned you around until you face away from him, your palms on the dashboard, the steering wheel nearly brushing your breasts.
Marc slips inside you. It’s always a tight stretch, no matter how wet you are for him. You whine, rocking forward and backward as your cunt spasms, eager for him and fighting his intrusion all at once. His hands are burning hot on your hips, your ass, your waist as he rubs at the skin firmly, murmuring soft encouragement beneath his breath. At last you relax enough to take the last few inches of him, and when the head kisses your cervix, it feels like it pushes the breath from your lungs.
“Marc,” you groan.
His hands, tan and strong suddenly reach for your own where you have braced them on the dashboard. He interlaces your fingers and then pulls back—he makes you put your hands on the wheel. You know why straightaway; because beneath your grip you feel the grooves worn into the steering wheel from Jake’s touch. You shutter all over, cunt squeezing Marc’s cock.
“Hold on,” Marc says. You tighten your grip.
Then Marc takes your hips in his hands and begins to fuck you on his cock. That’s the only way to describe it. His strength makes it easy for him to bounce your body the way he likes, as fast or as slow as he likes, as deep or as shallow as he likes. And you know that’s what he’s doing. You can tell that he’s taking you like this for his own pleasure, and the thought drives you fucking wild.
You turn your head, searching for his mouth to kiss—
—but Marc is too busy staring into the rearview mirror.
“Is he—?”
“Watching?” Marc pants. “Yes.”
“What’s he—?”
“Saying?” Marc laughs. “Cursing me. Threatening me. Telling me all the filthy things he’s going to do to you to punish you, to try and reestablish his claim.”
Marc’s teeth bury themselves into the junction between your shoulder and your neck, making you cry out and tighten around him. His tongue soothes the sting of the bite. The message is clear: stop asking questions about Jake. Right now there is only Marc. A few pointed, bruising thrusts push the remainder of your thoughts from your brain. You arch your back to soften the intensity, to let his cock stroke against that spot inside you that makes your legs shake.
Behind you, words begin to pour from Marc’s mouth, dark and sinful:
“Pussy this sweet, I can’t blame him,” Marc says through his teeth. He slows his thrusts, slows the speed with which he bounces you on his cock though the force remains the same. “The sweetest little toy for me to fuck. But this pussy belongs to me. I am the one who broke it in. Remember the first time I fucked you? You shook like a leaf in the wind just at the sight of me. ‘Will it fit?’”
Your face goes hot at the mocking way he pitches his voice. You didn’t sound like that…
“I made it fit, didn’t I baby? Didn’t I split you open? You cried like I was killing you—except you were begging me not to stop, so tight, like I had to push your guts aside just to get balls deep. I broke you in, baby. Steven and Jake just help me keep you loose, don’t they?”
Marc’s cock seems to do more than rearrange your guts. It scrambles your fucking brain. All that comes out of your mouth are broken gasps of his name, half formed pleas—and when you take a hand off the wheel to touch your clit, a warning. You’re about to cum.
Except Marc lets go of your hips to grip your arms just below the elbows. He tugs your hand away from between your thighs and twists both arms behind your back with practiced ferocity, no rougher than he needs to be as he makes your arms fold and hooks his arm through them, binding you. His hand against your upper back pushes you forward, forward until your chest meets the steering wheel, breasts against the cool material.
“You’ll cum on my cock or you won’t cum at all,” Marc warns you darkly, digging his heels into the floor so he can snap his hips up into the cradle of your thighs. He thrusts with such force that he balls tap your clit with each one, the light rhythmic pressure nothing compared to the firm rub of your fingertips, but still pushing you higher…higher…can you cum like this? With just the barest touch?
“I’m getting close,” Marc warns cruelly.
You try to say something back, some garbled plea, but it is inarticulate. Marc speaks the language, though; knows what your frantic little sounds and whines mean, well-versed in this tongue. He uses his free hand to grip one ass cheek, spreading you until he can see the stretched entrance of your pussy thanks to the arch of your back.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “That’s it, cum for me. Come on. And look in the mirror while you do it. Show me those pretty eyes.”
But when you glance up to the mirror, the dark eyes that look at you—pierce into you, flaying you open and laying you bare—do not remind you of Marc. They remind you of the real person Marc wants you to make eye contact with. The one who is watching.
It’s a good thing you can’t string syllables together, otherwise you might have shouted Jake’s name (and wasn’t that a lesson that Marc had already taught you!). Your cunt clenches down like a vice, back arching like a cat as the sensation explodes inside you, slick dripping down your thighs onto Jake’s leather seats. Your shouts and yaps and whimpers have nowhere to echo within the enclosed space, forcing you to listen to your own pleasure in high quality.
Marc groans in satisfaction, slowing his thrusts to languish in the spasms of your pussy.
“Good girl, that’s a good-fucking-girl!” Marc says, voice a little too awed and overjoyed to appropriately coo the cruel way he often does. He pulls you up from the steering wheel and makes you lay back against his chest.
“Marc, too deep,” you hiss, shifting in anxiety at the hard thrusts which must be coming.
He just hushes you, rocking his hips more than thrusting, one hand cupping your breast while the other finds your aching clit and begins teasing it, stroking your sex deeply.
Your breath catches—as if you had ever managed to catch it in the first place. Already you feel that fire within your belly swelling, Marc’s fingers and the way his cock splits you wide acting like a lit match on dry kindling. His fingers make slick sounds, so loud in the enclosed space that you would be embarrassed if there were room for it inside you. But Marc’s cock must push that out of you, too: your shame, your brain.
“Come on, baby,” Marc whispers tenderly, his other hand teasing your nipple as he rocks into you gently. “Come on, give me another. Milk my cock.”
You do. You’d do anything that Marc told you to, but it’s impossible to even consider disobeying when his fingers stroke through your folds, when you feel his cock twitch where it’s buried practically in your guts. One of your hands scrabbles at the seat, scratching the leather. The other reaches up to bury itself in Marc’s hair, mussing the slicked back curls. His breath stops, head falling back against the headrest as his cock jerks and fills you with his warm seed. The sounds of his thrusts into you grow slicker, even wetter with both of your spend. His cum seeps out around his cock with each thrust in, smearing both of your thighs.
At last he wraps an arm around your waist and pins you to him, his cock still buried within you. His heavy pants brush your neck as he catches his breath, and your fierce grip on his hair instinctually turns into a soft pet. You definitely muss the curls a little more than necessary; you can’t help how much you like them.
“He’s going to be so pissed, Marc,” you breathe. But there is laughter in your voice.
Marc snorts softly. He reaches up and pinches one of your nipples softly. “Yeah. He’ll live.”
He helps you dress, cleans your thighs and his own with a pack of tissues that he finds in the glovebox. You sit in the passenger seat, eyes on him. It is strange seeing him behind the wheel of Jake’s car.
“Ready?” Marc asks at last, glancing to you. It’s only then that he notices how much you’ve been watching him, and the fact that he can look flustered after everything he’s done and said to you today is a true feat.
“Ready.”
You face goes hot again as you step out of the car, even though there is no one around to see you. Orienting yourself, you spot the lift and begin towards it, a spring in your step. If you plan to make it home before Marc’s cum leaks out of you, you’ll have to be hasty. The last thing you want to do is ride the tube with cum dripping down your legs.
Marc lingers. He glances back into the car, eyes searching for anything the two of you might have left behind. Besides the panties in the glovebox—let Jake find those. When there is nothing, he shuts the door softly and locks it with the fob. Fucking you in Jake’s car is one thing; leaving it vulnerable to any proper London thief is another. He wants to piss Jake off, but he would never wish to hurt him.
There is a smudge on the window. Marc wipes it away with his jacketed elbow.
“Go easy on her, hermano,” Marc teases his reflection. The one that is glaring back at him.
“Marc,” you call, squinting back towards him from your spot by the lift. Your voice echoes off of the concrete. “Are you coming?”
“Didn’t I already?” Marc asks the window. He snorts at his own joke, tapping the nose of his reflection before turning and sauntering away.
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colby brock smut alphabet
pairing: colby brock × fem!reader. posting one more time.
A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex) He'll let you catch your breath and after will be so affectionate and sweet, nuzzling his head into your neck and giving you little kisses. “You make me feel safe” after fucking the soul out of you.
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s) His arms and his throat, for obvious reason too. He knows his arms are one hell of a looker, and he loves the way you grip them for dear life as he shows you a good time. Taking a dominant role, he tries not to reveal how much he sinks into the ground when you passionately kiss his neck. The way he rolls his eyes shows how pleased he is, but no more than for a fraction of a second. He wants to see you writhing beneath him and not take his eyes off you even for a millisecond. As for you, he treats your body like a goddamn sculpture. He’s totally obsessed with your thighs. He loves to squeeze, kiss and bite them just to tease you. And it always works.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically) He loves it when you give him head, loves the way his warm seed spills between your lips as you try to swallow it. He loves grabbing your roughly by your chin, smashing his lips onto yours to get a taste of himself. He is absolutely a slut for eating you out and he would go on and on about how good you taste.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs) He actually enjoys being a sub quite a lot. Even though he prefers to dominate, you can't count how many times he called you “mommy” when you were taking care of him. After giving him commands, he acts like an obedient puppy. Phrases like “Who's momma’s good boy?” only make him weaker.
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?) He exactly knows your sensitive spots and there is no way he doesn't know what in hell he's doing. He's charming and knows how to use it to get what he wants, even if it's just a quick handjob or blowjob.
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying) “I want to sit on your face.” He’s already sold. And when you sit on his face, all of the joyful things he loves about oral sex become magnified. You love being admired by him, which gives him a lot of pleasure. He keeps a bruising grip on your thighs, adoring the creases and valleys that your body makes.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.) More than you'd think. He’s definitely a tease, so there will be moments where he pokes a bit of fun and the occasional ominous sadist smile.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.) He tries to keep up the maintenance, but sometimes he forgets. He doesn’t expect someone to shave for him if they don’t want to. He’s just glad you enjoy having sex with him.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect) He is more filthy and mouthy than romantic during sex. He likes to hear you call him ‘daddy’ and ‘sir.’ I think after sex, he’s all goofy and romantic. He gives you lots of praises and romantic words.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon) Well, if he's horny, he just goes to you.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks) Choking, daddy kink, and cockwarming are Colby’s all-time favorites. He loves choking you, but if you say your safe word, he’ll drop everything and make sure you are okay. Colby loves nicknames, but he loves hearing you call him “Daddy”. He just wants to protect you, and of course, he loves the baby girl and daddy kink role play.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do) Colby isn’t the most adventurous when it comes to location. He would hate to give anyone some leverage over him, especially regarding his personal life so he keeps the private places. But when at home it’s a different story; the bed, the shower, the bath, any counter or table, his libido could rise at any moment leaving you with very little time before he’s pressing you down on the nearest surface, always making sure to keep his eyes on you at all times.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going) When someone else flirts with his partner. He gets jealous very easily, despite what some might think. He would protectively slide his arm around your waist and introduce himself as your boyfriend, even if he isn’t. Another simple thing that would get him going is when his partner calls him Cole, preferably in a sweet little whine.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs) He would never do anything to hurt you. Yeah, he's into pain, but only when it comes to himself. He can't bare the idea of doing anything to inflict pain upon you.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.) Oh he definitely prefers receiving. Pulling your hair behind your head to help guide you, feeling you gag around him struggling to take his length he loves all of it. And, oh my god, seeing you on your knees sucking him off is truly one of the most beautiful sights he has ever witnessed.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.) He fucks you hard and fast, so rough and brutal that you’re seeing stars.
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?) He tires you out good and proper pretty much every single time he fucks you.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.) Colby’s pretty loud. He whimpers, moans, groans, sometimes growls, pants a lot. It honestly spurs you on more when you hear what sounds he makes.
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards) Colby could fall asleep quite quickly afterwards, but he wouldn’t be able to sleep until he knew you were okay and well looked after. He stays awake longer than you most nights, watching sleep take you.
#colby brock#colby brock fluff#colby brock smut#hell week#sam and colby#sam golbach#colby brock fanfic#sam and colby smut#sam golbach smut#sam golbach x reader#colby brock x reader#colby brock fanfiction#colby brock imagine#colby brock x y/n#colby brock x you#colby brock x oc#sam golbach x you#sam golbach x colby brock#sam and colby x reader
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“Nobody is going to die here,” Dick says, trying to project a confidence he doesn’t feel.
If this were the Titans, he’d probably get some acknowledgement. Titans together. A clap on the shoulder. Something. But it’s not the Titans, so instead Cass Cain flicks a glance at him and then goes back to scowling at the wall, and Jason says, “Would you fucking quit it with the inspirational speeches, leader-boy?” and Tim says, “I think we should prioritize getting Dick out,” as if Dick isn’t even here.
“I’m fine,” Dick says. Because he is. Mostly. It’s not like it’s exactly fun to get whipped and then tied to an ominous black altar in a room with no obvious doors after successfully talking a cult into deciding you’re the optimum sacrifice of their four captives. But it’s certainly better than the alternative scenario in which the Dark Leader Whatsisface had listened to Tim’s pitch.
“Weakness in the wall,” Cass says. “…Here.”
“Yeah, weak walls would be great, if we had C4,” Jason says. “Except for the part where we don’t have C4, because somebody took my stash and my helmet. Some fucking insufferable team of fucking idiots who like to mind everybody else’s business—”
“Kick, maybe,” Cass says to Tim, who’s still trying to pick the lock on one of Dick’s manacles.
Tim frowns. “I don’t think even you can kick a wall hard enough to—”
“Not… the wall. Kick him,” Cass says, nodding at Jason.
“Oh fuck you very much,” Jason says, with more heat than Dick expects. Jason’s edgy, beneath all the bluffing, and it’s hard to tell why, because although the situation admittedly isn’t great the countdown timer still has half an hour to go before the cult starts punching whatever buttons outside the room that will set Dick on fire—or get him eaten by a dragon, it hadn’t been very clear through the chanting.
Anyway. They have time, even if Cass’s shoulders are tense and Tim’s face is strained and Dick’s back is killing him—they strapped him with his back down after the beating, and he’s trying not to think about the likelihood of blood stains on this altar thing—and the sweat from the heat is getting in his eyes.
A hand. Tim’s wiped the sweat away, which is both a comfort and kind of humiliating. Tim’s lips are pinched—he’s furious at Dick, it’s obvious, only not acting on it because they’re in front of Jason and Tim, at least, understands the importance of presenting a united front. So it’ll be a fight, once they get out, but Dick’s not sorry. If he’s totally honest, he’s a little angry himself. Trust me, Tim had muttered, when they all first got grabbed, and then he’d raised his voice and asked to speak privately to the leader, and Dick only realized too late what he’d been after, when the cultists came back and explained how Red Robin was going to be their sacrifice to the dragon-god and everyone else could live and watch in order to marvel at their lord’s demonic glory or whatever.
“Cass, listen,” Tim says. "I think if you help me with the manacles—”
“No,” Cass says. Tim’s been trying to get her to come back to the altar to mess with Dick’s bindings; Cass has been ignoring him. A splinter in an otherwise seamless partnership.
"If you put pressure on the other side while I pick the lock," Tim says.
"No," Cass snaps. Cass doesn’t believe in united fronts, Jason or no Jason—Dick should know, she once threw him into a wall—but Dick doesn’t think she’s actually mad at Tim, just impatient. “Manacles broken, not broken… doesn’t matter. No good if we’re still here. Need to get out. Then Nightwing.”
“I vote we leave him here, actually,” Jason says.
“Jason, shut up,” Tim says.
“What, is this suddenly not a democracy? Do I not have the right to an opinion? Are you against voting, Replacement?”
#dick you're lying to yourself it would've been even worse with the titans#my fic#i have no idea where this is going i just had it in my head and needed to get it out#dick grayson#tim drake#cassandra cain#jason todd
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𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓’𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐈𝐓 𝐈𝐒.
‘malaysia, ah. . . yeah, malaysia —kuantan would be nice.’
☀︎｜nanami kento x female reader. fluff (or is it?) + heavy angst. jjk spoilers (season 2, episode 18) / chapter 120. you’re married. mentions of blood. sad / bittersweet ending. major character death. don’t show your friends who stan nanami this, they might jump from a building <3
sunny weather with a gentle breeze and the sounds of the crashing waves eventually landing ashore. the peace and quiet that most long for.
“kento, you’ve been reading for a while now.”
ah, and the voice of his lovely wife whom he cherishes most. a perfect setting — a safe space for someone who doesn’t know what right or wrong is anymore. for someone who’s tired of the way the world is.
time seems frozen when you spend it with the one you love most. and when you spend it somewhere you wish to actually be.
kento looks up from his book, eyes meeting the alluring clear stretch of ocean and the blue sky that held no clouds. his gaze then falls back down on the page he had last read — or, perhaps it was the previous page that he had been reading. or maybe the one before that. or perhaps he hadn’t even started the story.
he doesn’t know anymore. the pile of books that laid next to the rocking chair were all but a beautiful mystery. he had opened them, read them over and over, yet not a single word had been remembered.
kento doesn’t remember.
“kento?” your voice calls out once more. the sorcerer tilts his head back to look up at the one calling. there you were, standing next to him, hands on his shoulders with a gentle smile on your face.
you looked angelic. you looked like all he wanted. all he needed — a perfect complete picture.
kento hums and simply nods in response before looking down at the unknown novel in his hands, “yes, sorry, darling. i got a bit too caught up in the book.”
typical him.
a calming sound of laughter leaves your lips and kento instantly relaxes his shoulders — which he didn’t even know were tense in the first place. as if on cue, your fingers move to massage the muscles.
kento closes his eyes and sighs. he doesn’t bother putting a bookmark between the pages before closing the hardback. not like he needs it if he couldn’t even recall what he had skimmed through.
his eyes move under his eyelids — almost like they’re searching for something under the darkness of the curtains that were casted. the only thing he was focusing on right now were the noises on the beach and your sweet voice.
kento furrows his brows; the sounds of the crashing waves had soon overwhelmed the soft sound of your voice. a moment of peace was disturbed by the loud waves—waves that sounded more aggressive than gentle like they were seconds ago.
waves that sounded like continuous slashes.
a droplet of something warm falls on his skin and his eyes flutter open.
the sea was still there. the beach was still there. the house he had bought was still there. but most importantly, you were still there. though, there was an undeniable change in the atmosphere.
“you’re having a nosebleed.”
your worried comment makes kento stare up at you in confusion. a nosebleed? the pad of his thumb grazes over his upper lip. and there it was; the crimson stain slowly flowing down his finger, “oh.”
kento remembers. he remembers everything clearly. the sudden calmness in his surroundings that were once hectic; why he couldn’t recall what he had read; why the sounds of the waves had changed into something more ominous as the moments passed.
the realisation dawns upon him — and it hit hard.
“i’m tired. i really am tired.” the sorcerer mutters at last. his body was exhausted. his eyes were droopy. things were beginning to fade. the realisation was beginning to kick in. the effects of the hallucinations was starting to wear off.
he gazes at you one more time. his weak hand reaches out to yours and he interlocks your fingers. it pained him to see your eyes filled with sorrow and worry. even if you were but a fraction of his imagination.
maybe that’s how you actually are sitting on the couch in your shared home. maybe you are waiting on him to come back to you.
kento wouldn’t blame you if you did. he did promise that he’d be back, as did he do every other day. and he did come back as promised each time.
well, except for today.
“i didn’t know you were here.” the blonde sorcerer’s hoarse voice calls out once his peaceful surroundings had disappeared into thin air.
malaysia, kuantan — the beach — you. all but a nice dream. perhaps an alternative reality which he wished he could be in right this moment.
“yup. the whole time.”
kento looks down at the familiar face. the blue-haired executioner who was on the brink of finishing his lifetime once and for all.
one last sigh leaves kento’s lips; his life flashing before his eyes. both his regrets and satisfactions—his achievements and hopes.
and lastly, the moment of peace he had experienced before his time was over. you had helped him until the very end — giving him the peace he much needed during his suffering. a dream in the form of all he wished to have; of you.
the dream was a sweet replica of what could have been. but unfortunately, human dreams must always come to an end — and reality is what must be faced once they do.
that’s the way it is.
#sttoru writes.#jjk x reader#nanami kento x reader#jjk x y/n#jjk x you#nanami x reader#nanami x you#nanami fic#jjk angst#jjk fic#jjk spoilers
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