#before either a friend or my cousin would come live with me while they are gone

[yoohyeon]

At first I didn’t really realize it, but my dad is saying at least 5 times a day how much days is left before him and my mom leave on vacation of 2 weeks so that mean I’m gonna be alone with Puppy for 2 weeks…I’m gonna d*e of stress 😭

[daycourtofficial]

Falling in Love on the Fourth Floor

Azriel x reader

Summary: you move in with a guy you kind of know who happens to have a really hot brother.

Author’s Note: this is part 1 baby!! Likely 5-6 parts, that is currently what I have planned for this. This part is shorter to set things up for later okay love you 😘

(Part 2)

“Mor I don’t know about living with your long term hook up.”

She rolls her eyes, her blonde hair blowing in the wind over facetime. “He’s great - he’s super sweet, super funny, and he’s really hot. Besides, you’ve already signed the lease. It’s too late to back out now.”

You sit in the u-haul you rented, filled to the brim with your belongings, waiting for the leasing office to open so you can grab your keys. You had just pulled up, deciding to call Mor while you wait the ten minutes for them to arrive.

“I don’t know, Mor. What if this was a mistake?”

You chew your lip while thinking about all the ways this could go poorly. She smiles, her face taking up the screen of your phone. “Sweetie, it’s going to be fine. I’ve known him for a long time. He’s friends with my cousin. Worst case scenario you move out at the end of the year into a new apartment.”

She was right, of course. At worst it would be a year. You’ve met Cassian a few times, Mor bringing him to a couple parties and casual get togethers. You were always awed by his warm presence and ease around anybody, qualities that are great when you’re moving in with someone you hardly know.

You nod your head agreeing, but spot someone walking towards the leasing office. “Hey I gotta go Mor - leasing office person is here. I’ll call you tonight?”

She shakes her head, “I can’t tonight - stupid dinner with stupid family. I’ll have pizzas sent to your place, how’s that?”

You smile, her absence one out of familial obligation. She hated her parents, but they also funded her degree so you couldn’t be upset at the one-off events she had to attend to appease them. You also know she tried to get out of the event tonight, but ultimately you’re glad that there’s a now zero chance your new roommate and your best friend will have sex while you’re moving in.

You pick up the keys, sign last minute paperwork, and hop into the elevator to ride up to the fourth floor. You keep reciting the apartment number to yourself, having double checked with the office and with Mor. You find it, situated at the end of the hall with one other apartment next to it.

You run through how this could go in your head - you could unlock the door and have Cassian be pissed off because he wasn’t sure when you’d be arriving. You could wait for him to come out and act like you were just walking up at the same time. Or you could knock on the door, which you find yourself doing.

The door swings in a moment after your knock and you find Cassian looking at you, a confused expression on his face. Despite the early hour, Cassian doesn’t look like he just woke up. In fact, his hair is tied up in a half bun, he’s dressed in a shirt with the sleeves ripped off (allowing his tattooed biceps to be on full display) and some sweatpants, and you can smell bacon and eggs wafting through the door.

“Why’d you knock - did they forget to give you a key?”

Your cheeks heat with embarrassment, this whole situation leaving you uncertain of what to do at each turn. You look up at him as he stands in the doorframe waiting for your answer. Cassian’s a big guy, easily clearing a foot and several hundred pounds of muscles on you.

“Uh- no they did, I just didn’t want to disturb you.”

He looks at you and you’re certain he can feel the nerves radiating off of you. He chuckles and tells you, “not much disturbs me.”

He opens the door more, allowing you to come in. You hadn’t toured the place before signing a lease, your desperation leading you here without many other options. Living in a college town had it’s benefits, however finding a new place to live in July was not one of them. Not a single complex had a room for you. It was either stay with Cassian or crash on Feyre’s couch in her studio apartment.

The place is decently nice - to your left you see the living room with two couches that face quite possibly one of the largest televisions you’ve ever seen. You peer to your right, the kitchen a little bare but clean. You spy the pan and plate that Cassian had clearly just used to eat his breakfast.

“I can give you a tour,” he tells you, “it’s not much but it’s home.”

You take note of the in-unit washer dryer in a closet off the kitchen facing the front door. “Just don’t leave things in the washing machine,” Cassian told you, “pet peeve of mine is wet laundry sitting. Smells awful.”

He shows you where to find all three remotes for the tv and what each remote does, information your brain likely will never remember. He pulls up to one door, opening it slightly. “This is my room,” he says softly due to you being right behind him. He walks to another door, opening it to show a small bathroom. “This is the extra bathroom - this is usually where guests go.”

You two reach the final door, and as he’s opening it he tells you, “and this will be your room.”

You step in and look around the bare room, feeling so small in such a vast and empty space. The room’s not large by any means, but it���s yours. It’s your first step into independence and that feels vast. There’s no furniture, just a router on the floor that makes you chuckle. The blinds are drawn, the soft light peaking through illuminating the cream colored walls.

It feels like freedom. It feels like this place could be a home.

Cassian, the saint of a man that he is, offers to help bring up your boxes. The two of you make quick work of bringing up all of your worldly possessions, frequent occupants of the building’s sole elevator.

He even helps you bring up the bed frame and mattress you had to buy, just barely fitting into the elevator with both.

The two of you passed the time idly, occasional words spoken between you. Sometimes he’d laugh about the organization of your boxes - one box reading both “tampons” and “fall semester textbooks”.

Eventually everything is up in your room, the space cluttered with your boxes and various things. Cassian offered to help you with the bed frame, and when you asked him if he was doing anything else today, he told you, “I cleared my schedule. Wanted to help my new roommate settle.” He winked at you and you smiled back. You suddenly recall Mor describing Cassian as a “generous lover” once and you can totally see it. The man’s love language was clearly acts of service if today was anything to go by.

The two of you set up the bed frame, bickering over the instructions. No one, not even sweet, gentle giant Cassian is immune to the frustrations of lackluster instructions.

As you’re picking up the mattress and placing it in the frame, Cassian starts speaking. “I should probably mention that my brothers live next door. They’ll probably be over now and again.”

That piques your interest. Setting down the mattress with a huff you ask, “why don’t you live with them?”

Cassian shrugs, looking away from you, “I was initially offered a scholarship at another school, but I got injured, lost my scholarship, so came to my back up school. By then my brothers already had their own place, but they were able to set me up in the same building. That was three years ago and moving is a bitch so we’ve just kept this arrangement. Sometimes whenever Az and Rhys are butting heads I let one of them stay here in my room and I take theirs, but otherwise it’s worked out pretty well.”

You look at him, and you know there’s a bit more to the story by how sad his eyes look at the memory. He offered a piece of himself, so you offer a piece of yourself in return.

“My parents kicked me out,” you tell him, scratching the back of your neck. “They uh don’t really approve of me or my plans, so I got the boot.”

You rub your arms, making yourself as small as they make you feel. “They um weren’t very good parents and I finally stood up for myself and they didn’t like that. They have since disowned me and don’t really want anything to do with me.”

You bounced up and down on your toes during your admission and Cassian’s eyes soften as he looks at you, practically a stranger. You two had met a handful of times, his fling with Mor lasting a few months. He walks out of the room, and you’re worried you’ve offered too much, until you hear the fridge door open and close and he returns with two beer bottles. He opens both with his teeth, causing you to inhale sharply, thinking about a chipped tooth. He hands one to you, holding his out to toast. He speaks after your two glasses make a soft clink.

“Mor knew I had a spare room. The leasing office only charges me for my room, so it’s no big deal. Haven’t done much with it, except use the shower when my drain was clogged.”

He takes a sip and looks around your new room before continuing. “She begged me to let you come here. Told me you were one of the kindest, hardest working people she knew.”

You smile, looking up at your new roommate, “she said that?”

“She also said you had a great ass and an incredible rack.”

You throw your head back laughing. “That sounds like Mor.”

The two of you drink in silence, the weariness of the past few weeks creeping into your bones. Maybe Cassian won’t be so bad to live with after all.

Several hours later you and Cassian were setting up one of your bookshelves when someone walked through the door, a delicious smell permeating the apartment.

“Cass, I’m here with pizzas. When’s the “great rack” supposed to get here?”

You and Cassian are on the floor of your room and before he can respond, you yell back, “the great rack got here about five hours ago.”

You hear muttered cursing when a beautiful male walks in, his short cropped black hair pushed back. Rhysand - Mor’s cousin. You recognized his almost violet eyes and sharp features from her family photos littering her desk, as well as her determination to convince your friend Feyre to go on a date with him. He was taller in person, but not as tall as Cassian.

“My apologies, you know how Mor can get with her physical descriptions of people.”

You laugh, screwing in a shelf. “All is forgiven. There are much worse things to be known as or called. Mor has quite the mouth on her - you should hear her talk about Cassian.” You say, pointing your head in his direction.

His head raises from the instruction booklet he’s reading to ask, “what does she say about me?”

“I believe the words “tree trunk” have been used to describe certain body parts on multiple occasions.”

Your new guest barks a laugh, shaking his head. “Well, I brought pizzas should either of you desire them.”

“That’s really sweet but I couldn’t impose-“

Cassian cuts you off, holding a hand up to stop your sentence. “Too late. You’ve imposed. Guess you have to eat the pizza. Besides I hear the best way to keep a great rack is to keep it fed.”

You smile, thinking that maybe this won’t be so hard. It was a rash decision, living with Cassian. You couldn’t stay at home, your parents had made that abundantly clear. Your plans had been to live with them until you graduated in the spring, wanting to save money on housing.

After all the shelves and furniture were set up in your room, you found yourself sitting on the couch with Cassian and Rhysand, pizza boxes on the coffee table in front of you. Rhys, he had told you to call him, had started a movie that was the third in a series. He spent twenty minutes explaining to you the plot of the first two movies. They sounded like generic action movies to you, but you let him go on about the intricacies of the plot and how cool the main character was.

Halfway through the movie the front door opens and closes softly, and all three of you turn to look at the tall man who entered. He was fit, not as muscular as Cassian was, but still toned, even through his shirt. Onyx curls adorned the top of his head, coming close to blocking his hazel eyes. You’re not sure if you’re even breathing looking at him as he looks around the room.

“Azzy, meet my roommate.”

Azzy, as Cassian called him, looked to Cassian to scold him for the nickname before his eyes met yours.

“Azriel’s fine.”

“Oh, okay,” you laugh, telling him your name with a little wave of your hand. His eyes are still on yours, as if he’s trying to commit to memory the name to the face.

“Mor’s friend, right?”

“Yeah, great ass, incredible rack,” Cassian responds, mining out an hourglass figure with his hands. You kick his foot, telling him “is this how you’re going to introduce me from now on.”

He winces as your foot makes contact with his shin, rubbing the afflicted area. “I mean it tells you everything you need to know about someone. You guys can just start calling me ‘big peen’.”

Rhys chuckles, then starts taking a sip of his drink as you tell Cassian, “I think they’d just call you big head, mysterious third nipple.”

Cassian gasps, eyes widening as Rhys spits out his drink, “I can’t BELIEVE Mor told you that about me!”

Rhys gets up, walking to the linen closet to grab a towel to dry off his shirt. Azriel walks to the fridge, grabbing a beer before heading to sit next to Cassian on the other couch as the two of you continue to bicker. As he walks past, you swear you feel every bit of contact as his legs brush past yours.

And if Azriel’s eyes lingered on you as he sat down - you might just have made that up too.

[notjustjavierpena]

drabble idea - javi and reader at some family/friends party before the kids, maybe engaged already and reader is holding a cousins baby or something. Javi isn’t with her and when he enters the room he’s awestruck. He already knew he wanted kids with her and a family but just seeing her bouncing the baby while laughing at something someone is saying just completely takes his breath away.

Baby (Drabble)

Series Masterpost | Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator

A/N: This is so incredibly adorable, and of course, I will make this come true for you, Anon. I hope you enjoy 💖🫶

Summary: Javier spots you at a party with a baby in your arms. Suddenly, he knows what he wants.

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader (no y/n)

Tags: Tooth-rotting fluff, baby fever, lovelovelove.

Word count: 1k

Baby

Amidst the lively chatter of a family gathering, Javier looks for you in the living room after having had a beer with his father outside on the terrace.

He passes by several tías who pinch his cheeks and compliment his choice of shirt to which he gives you the credit. They call him handsome, and he charms them back as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“No wonder you ended up with such a catch, Javi,” one of them says, referring to you. She nods in your direction but he still cannot see you for all the people having gathered in the tiny house, can’t hear your voice either in between bursts of laughter and screen doors opening and closing. 

He starts to make his way in your direction, craving your gentle touch when he starts to feel overwhelmed by these kinds of things. On his way, he ruffles the hair of one of his nephews who shows him a stack of colorful football cards. 

“Very cool,” he says genuinely as he looks over the boy’s shoulder. He hasn’t been home in so long that he isn’t up to date with the local team anymore, otherwise he would have mentioned that. 

“I’m only missing a few of my favorite team,” his nephew replies excitedly and it earns him another hair ruffle. Javier continues through the crowd afterward. 

There you are, he thinks to himself, and just when he is about to approach you, all the wind is knocked out of him because you are in the middle of a conversation, laughing at something that is being said, and you have Sofía, his cousin’s daughter, on your hip. 

He stops in his tracks, freezing to the spot to watch you. At that moment, he knows that he wants to build a family with you. It becomes so clear as he observes you naturally talk to the baby on your arm, smiling widely down at her only to giggle when you receive a grin right back. He catches a glimpse of the future and the incredible mother you could be and on top of that, the incredible mother that he wants to make you. 

It isn’t that he has never had the thought of starting a family with you before but seeing you navigate having a child in your arms so effortlessly makes him grasp how real and possible it is that it’ll one day be his child you are holding.

A few children run past him, shouting loudly as they chase each other and the noise pulls him out of his trance. All the other grownups have faded into the background, and it seems that his brain can only think of kids, bedtime stories, coloring books, and parent-teacher conferences. His head swims.

Even more so when the noise also makes you look up and catch his eye. You smile at him and it tugs at something in his chest. He needs to be close to you, taking longer steps than normal to get to you quicker.

“Hello fiancée,” he says when he approaches and kisses you softly. You say hello back but seem busy staring down at the baby in your arms. He turns his attention to the little bundle of joy, reaching out to twist the soft hairs on top of her head until it is standing up in a spiral, “Y hola a tí, Sofía, ¿Cómo estás? (And hello to you, Sofía. How are you?)” 

Sofía gurgles at getting further attention. She swings her little fists. 

“Your cousin just asked me if I could take her for a moment,” you explain with a shy smile, bouncing Sofía on your hip. She smiles widely up at you, squealing with delight as you make a face at her, “And you are so cute, aren’t you? Oh, look at her little tuft of hair.”

Javier adores you. He watches Sofía reach out for your earring, trying to yank on it and you grab her little hand but never once look irritated. Instead, you let her hold onto your fingers instead and say something gentle again. 

“We should make one,” he announces quietly so only you can hear it, leaning closer to you to keep the conversation private. You look up immediately but still tickle at Sofía’s tiny palm. 

“A baby?” You ask with wide eyes. It’s a little louder than you intended, and a few heads turn to look at you. You lower your voice, clearing your throat at first, “A baby?”

“Sí, mi amor (yes, my love),” he snakes an arm around your back to rest his hand on your hip, “A dozen of them actually.”

“We’re getting married next year,” you tut, shaking your head as if he is being ridiculous, “I’m not looking like someone who swallowed a soccer ball in my wedding dress.”

“You could wear an old football jersey and I would still marry you,” he kisses the side of your head, “¿Pero qué no (but why not)?” 

“One thing at a time,” you say with a nervous chuckle. Then you shift Sofía in your arms, “Can you take her? I am so damn thirsty.”

“Sure, bring her here,” he holds out his arms, “C’mere, Princesa (princess).”

The transfer is so smooth that one would think you have done it before. He gets a tiny hand in his face, Sofía feeling his cheek. 

“Be right back,” you say with a sweet smile, “Both of you.”

One thing at a time, you said. However, with the way you turn back to watch him with Sofía in his arms as you head for the drinks table, he knows that this is what you want too.

.

.

If you would like to follow my writing then go follow @notjustjavierpena-fics and turn on notifications 💖❤️

[girliism]

being best friends with art and patrick was supposed to mean all romantic feelings were off limits.

“wait so you made out with both of them?” your cousin asked. “first of all i did not make out with either of them it was just a friendly kiss.” you had told her about the kiss you and art shared at formal and then the one you and patrick had yesterday. “friendly kisses don’t last so long that the two of you break away to breathe.” she makes a good point, they were far from friendly. but admitting that means you have to admit how your stomach erupted in a fit of butterflies during both kisses.

“what the fuck is this?” patrick walks over to you and art waving his class schedule in the air. “we don’t have home room together.” the three of you huddle up looking at your papers. “oh he’s right we don’t.” art points out. “at least we have every other class together.” you say. “at least? AT LEAST. we are supposed to have all classes together what if i get stuck with weirdos? who’s homework will i copy? i should get my parents up here.” patrick’s complains “honestly i don’t think it’s that bad it’s just home room pat you’ll live.” art patted his shoulder.

being without the two boys glued to either side of you was weird you felt exposed. “hi, can i sit here.” a voice asked from next you. “yea sure.” you look up to be faced with a boy. he was definitely new cause there’s no way you would forget a face like that. “i’m luke by the way. i just moved here.” you introduce yourself and the two of you talk all class time. “we have three classes together plus lunch which you can totally sit with me at.” you offer. he was new and didn’t have many friends you were being nice. “cool, i’ll look for you.” he smiled at you and you felt your cheeks heat up.

art and patrick were already at lunch when you walked in with luke. “art! patrick! this is luke he’s new i said he could sit with us.” you plop down in between them. art and patrick eye the boy suspiciously “hey, i’m luke.”

you and luke started dating a little while after that and art and patrick were not feeling it. “luke is nice why don’t you guys like him?” you pout just wanting them to get along. art hated him because of the tender way he’d kiss you when he thought no one was watching. but art was watching, burning with jealousy. patrick hated him because now with him in the picture you stopped letting patrick lay his head on your lap and combing your fingers through his hair opting to do that for your boyfriend instead. “it’s just we know nothing about the kid.” art says mouth full of popcorn. “yea this kid could a fugitive for all we know. you don’t want you to get pregnant by a fugitive do you?” patrick ever so dramatic adds. you scoffed. “what is your obsession with my womb.” “i just don’t want anything in it ok. you’d probably look ugly pregnant anyways. i’m helping you.” you stare at him in shock. patrick shows his love in weird ways.

you loved luke he was sweet and funny but he wasn’t art or patrick, and the feelings you were trying to ignore you had for them was getting harder.

“when is art coming this project is due tomorrow.” you flop down on your bed. “he said he can’t make it and to just do it without him.” so you and patrick worked for three straight hours. “uughhh, can we please take a break and watch a movie or something.” patrick groans draping his big body over your pressing your cheeks together. “fine.” you push him off of you getting up to close the curtains turing on a movie.

you’ve been alone with patrick before but this felt different. suddenly you were hyper aware of whenever his arm brushed against yours and how it would made your heart speed up. “are we ever gonna talk about the kiss?” patrick doesn’t know why he brings it up. the question was coming out before he could even think. your eye widen. “what is there to talk about.” you wanted to throw up. “maybe how i wouldn’t mind doing it again.” you can feel patrick’s eyes studying your side profile trying to read your thoughts. patrick always thought you were pretty. “i have a boyfriend.” you whisper looking into his eyes. he just mumbles ok before kissing you.

that was the beginning of something for you and patrick but unknowingly the end for the three of you.

“oh don’t the three of you look adorable. come on say cheese.” it was year end formal and you, art and patrick were standing in the foyer of your house while your guys parents took more than enough photos. “you look good.” patrick leans down to whisper in your ear hand resting lower than it should be. you and patrick have been sneaking around all school year and yea you felt horrible for cheating on your boyfriend but mostly you hated how you were lying to art.

knocks hit your door pull you from your thoughts. “oh! that must be luke.” your mom says opening the door to invite him in. “babe, you look great.” he smiles a you pulling you in for a kiss. art and patrick burn imaginary lasers into his head.

formal was fun much better that last year. you danced with both art and patrick at the same time giggling and stepping on each other’s feet. you snuck to the bathroom so you and patrick could make out in the hallway. this year the seniors let you guys crash their party.

“cassie’s been flirting with you all night art i don’t get why you don’t like her.” you say picking through the chips in the bowl in front of you. “she’s just not my type.” she’s just not you. is what he really wanted to say. “i have to go make a call i’ll be back.” art rushes outside. he’s been acting really distant lately.

you feel hands squeeze at your waist. “come upstairs with me.” patrick whispers in your ear leading you upstairs into a random room.

“you looked so hot tonight.” he pants into your mouth laying you down on the bed then getting onto of you. “thanks” you sigh out as patrick starts kissing your neck. the two of you have never gone farther than kissing and maybe light grinding. “have you noticed how when weird arts been lately.” you had no idea why you brought up art. but it’s be waying on your mind for days. patrick lifts his head up. “i mean he’s been a little quiet these days but if there was something going on he’d tell us.” patrick reassures going back to kissing you.

downstairs art walks back in the kitchen confused to see you gone. he taps some guy on the shoulder asking if he saw you leave. the guy points him upstairs. art walks into something he really wish he hadn’t. he walks in on you and patrick eating each other’s faces. “art!” you’re pushing patrick off of you to chase after him.

“art wait.” he only walks faster before turning around to yell at you. “how long has this been going on? how long have you and patrick my supposed best friends been lying to me. how long have you been lying to luke?” art was angry and sad. “a while.” you admit shamefully. art laughs throwing his head back. “i didn’t plan for this to happen it just did. and we only kept it a secret for you cause i didn’t want to ruin what we three have.” you were crying now, your eye makeup smudging. “oh so you and patrick were lying to protect me? that’s a pathetic excuse really.” art scoffs “you know i liked you first. while patrick was running away with a new girl every week i turned down everyone cause i was waiting for you.” that’s what this was really about. you didn’t know what say. “art i’m so sorry please don’t hate me.” you plead. art sighs completely over this entire night “i don’t hate you. i hate myself for trying to play nice guy all my life when i should have just went for you like patrick did.” “we’re still friends right art? cause i need you. i need the both of you.” you say desperately trying to keep together a dying friendship. “yea just like how i needed you and patrick just now and you two were seconds away from fucking.”

you knew something was going on with him but you were to caught up with your secret relationship with patrick to actually talk to him about it. “why what happened?” you grab arts wrist not ready to let go. art pulls his hand away. “it doesn’t matter. i’m tried i’m just gonna go home. don’t call me tomorrow” your tears are cold against your cheeks “ok. but we’ll still hang out this summer right?” you ask and it’s probably stupid but you really needed know. “can’t my parents are dragging us up to see my grandma she’s not doing well.” “oh. i’m sorry.” art hums “you’ll come back for the fair though.” another stupid question saying anything to keep him here. art sighs looking you in the eye. “i don’t know i’ll try. have a good summer bee.” he called you bee. that stupid nickname he and patrick gave you in second grade during your bumblebee phase.

art didn’t contact either of you all summer. letting yours and patrick’s calls go to voicemail. he also didn’t come back for the fair. the fair was something the three of you did every year. racing each other to the dock on your bikes, making a bet on who’d be the first to throw up after all the fried food and rides. you did break up with luke and officially start dating patrick though.

the next time you and patrick see art was on the first day of school. you three finally had home room together and you waved at him to come sit with you but he pretended not to see.

senior year was gonna suck.

part three

[fanficgirl429]

Mike has feelings for you (fluff)

Prompt: During a family get together, your best friend Mike reveals that he has feelings for you

Pairing: Mike Schmidt x Reader

---

The front door slammed shut behind Abby, who was outside playing with a few kids from the neighborhood. Your best friend was standing in the doorway of the living room, leaning against the door frame. 

“Do you want to come tonight?” you ask him. 

He walks over to where you're standing and wraps his arms around you, pulling you into a tight hug. 

“Do I want to come where?”

“To my grandparents for dinner. It’s Sunday.”

Every Sunday, you had dinner with your extended family. Your dad’s side of the family was large and everyone was close. Mike and Abby used to come most Sunday’s but once Mike had gotten a job as a security officer at the mall, he had to work most Sunday’s. Every now and then Abby would join you but it had been a while since either of them had come. 

You enjoyed it when they both came and Mike liked to see Abby having fun with kids her own age. Abby went to school with a few of your younger cousins and she enjoyed playing with them. 

“Yea, we can come,” Mike answers. 

----

The large house was filled with your family as you, Mike, and Abby walk inside. Instantly your younger cousins spot Abby and pull her away to go play with them in the basement. Mike laces his fingers with yours as you guide him to the kitchen where you mom, grandmother, and aunt are gathered. 

They all greet you and Mike and you don’t miss the glance of your mothers eyes as she looks down at yours and Mike’s hands still laced together. 

Mike and you had been best friends since elementary school and she always said that one day you and Mike would get married. You were constantly telling her no that would never happen but over the years, your feelings for Mike had changed. When you once had seen him as your best friend, you now had fallen in love with him. You weren’t sure when your feelings had changed but they had never disappeared. The two of you were always touching each other but it had always been platonic. 

“Come on,” you say and lead Mike into the living room, where the majority of your family is. 

The two of you are greeted by everyone and it seems as if a few people are more excited to see Mike than they are to see you. Your family had always loved Mike and were always telling you to bring him with you when you visited. 

~~

After dinner was done, you and Mike went your separate ways for a bit. He went into the living room to watch football while you helped clear the table and wash the dishes. 

“So when are you and Mike going to make it official?” your cousin, Lacy, asks you. 

You let out a laugh at her question. “Um never.”

Lacy shakes her head, disappointed by your answer. “It’s going to happen.” 

“What makes you say that?” 

“Did you not see the way he was looking at you all through dinner? Damn, if I had someone that looked at me like that, I would never let him go!”

“He did not look at me the whole time,” you counter. 

“He did! Whenever you were talking, he was looking across the table at you and whenever you laughed, his eyes lit up. That boy is completely in love with you.” 

You look across the room at your best friend, who is currently mesmerized by the large tv screen. He must feel you looking because his brown eyes meet yours and gives you a soft smile. 

Lacy notices the interaction and whispers, “I told you,” before turning back to load the dishwasher. 

When the table is all cleared, you stay in the kitchen talking to your mom, grandmother, Lacy, and a few aunts. Occasionally you glance over at Mike to make sure he is doing is ok. Abby has been in the basement with your cousins and you know that she is not going to want to leave. Hopefully the two of them can come over most Sundays. It was a good way to get the two of them (especially Mike) out of their house. 

Two strong hands grip your shoulders and turn around to see Mike standing behind you. 

“Hey,” you greet him. 

“Hi,” he says, smiling. “Just wanted to check in with you and see how you’re doing.” 

He squeezes your shoulders while he talks to your aunts. 

When the conversation grows quiet, you stand up from the table. “Want to go outside?” you ask him quietly. 

You loved hanging out with your family but after a while, you needed a few minutes to yourself. 

“Yea.” 

Mike follows you out the front door and onto the large wrap around porch. You place your hands on the railing and look out across the large yard. A short distance away is a small pond with a dock. During the summer, the pond was home to a family of ducks and you have memories of sitting at the water's edge watching the ducklings swim across the pond.  

Mike stands next to you, his fingers grazing yours. “My family keeps telling me how glad they are that you and Abby came,” you tell him. 

Mike smiles. “I’m glad we came too.”

Its silent for a few moments and a cool breeze blows, causing goosebumps to scatter across your skin. You let out a small shiver and Mike instantly notices. He pulls off his black hoodie and hands it to you without saying a word. You pull the sweatshirt on and Mike takes a step towards you. He moves behind you and pulls you against him, his arms wrapping around your stomach. 

His body heat makes you instantly warm and you lean your back against him, relaxing your body. 

“So I was talking to Lacy,” he begins. 

“Oh god. What did she have to say?”

If it was anything like the conversation you had with your, youre not sure you want to hear what he has to say. 

“She kept asking," So when are you and Y/N going to be official?” he tells you. 

You let out a laugh and bury your face in your hands. “I had a very similar conversation with her.” 

Mike laughs. “Did you?” 

“Yes! She was like ‘Mike’s into you. He couldn’t take his eyes of you during dinner, blah blah blah.’” 

Mike sighs. “Well she's not wrong,” he says, quietly. 

You're surprised by Mike’s comment. You turn around and look at him. He doesn’t loosen his grip around your waist as his brown eyes bore into yours. 

“What are you saying?” you ask him. 

Mike moves his hand up to your cheek and gently pushes a few strands of hair behind your ear. A slight blush reddens your cheek from his gesture. 

“I’m 100% into you,” he says. 

“W-what?”

“I’m into you,” he says, slowly. 

Instead of saying anything in return, you stand on your tiptoes and press your lips against his. He tastes like the beer that he had drunk earlier as his lips move against yours. 

After a few moments, Mike pulls away but presses his forehead against yours. 

“What if we keep this between us for a few days?” he says. 

You think about his offer for a minute. “Just a few days,” you respond before pressing your lips back to his. 

[katerinaaqu]

Achilles and Patroclus: Friends Lovers or both? (An analysis based on Homeric Epics and some ancient sources)

Yet another analysis requested by my dearest friend @artsofmetamoor while we two explore the complexity of human relationships in our own projects including romantic relationships of various kinds, including homosexual and homoerotic material as well as more traditional notions of family and kinship along with the complexity of values such as companionship and friendship, which we hold in the same regard as in the above so here's one of the most discussed relationships in greek literature. Buckle up with me because it is gonna be a looooong ride!

Achilles and Patroclus are two figures of greek literature and mythology that sparked discussions and analysis from the very first time they were introoduced as characters in the homeric poems in 8th century BC and not for their heroics in Trojan War but rather the nature of their relationship. Not to mention in modern day times we also start the rather overused and kinda ridiculous joke of "Historians say" around. But there might be some truth in some concerns in regards to their relationship.

A small history of their family

Achilles and Patroclus were related by a distant ancestor, Aigina. Aigina had a son with Zeus named Aeacus who in turn got married and had Peleus, who has the father of Achilles. Patroclus comes from the same line for Aigina later marries Actor and has Menoetius with him. Menoetius marries his cousin Damocratea, also possible daughter of Zeus and had a son named Opus who in turn had Patroclus, making Patroclus and Achilles de facto first cousins by the line of Aegina

(Yes...sorry "Troy" haters out there...hahaha Patroclus really WAS Achilles's cousin! ^^; Not that it ever stopped anyone in greek mythology!)

Patroclus was ellegedly exiled from his homeland when he accidentally killed his playmate and he fled to the court of Peleus where he got adopted by him thus the two characters lived most of their childhood together. Patroclus by most accounts is quite older than Achilles so in a way he was also assigned not only as his playmate but also as his "squire" or protector in various occasions. Needless to say that of course the two of them developed a very strong bond together.

Greek Text

To be honest, every time some person who does support the theory of them being lovers is being asked on it and that person claims that "the greek text is quite simple really". Allow me to disagree though. It is not. Quite frankly if it were, it wouldn't have sparked the conversation even to ancient greeks themselves of their time!

Arguably Homer never explicitly describes them as lovers in his poems (as opposing to other figures in the text that are undoubtedly sharing sexual relationships in the Iliad such as Hera and Zeus, Paris and Helen or even, ironically Achilles with Briseis once she is returned to him). However one would be a liar if they denied certain insinuations of a romantic involvement betwen the heroes.

Φιλέω-ώ= to love < > φίλος=friend, companion (Substantive), beloved (epithet)

Quite frankly Homer as we said before he a master of words and none of his words is picked at random. And the term φίλος is no exception. The word is being explicitly used in Homer by various of characters. The term can be translated interchangably from either "friend" to "beloved" depending the context. One of the most infamous and touching moments this word is being used is at the lament of Achilles when his mother asks him to speak up on why he laments so hard:

With heavy groans, fast in feet Achilles responded to her: "Oh, my mother! The Olympians have done what they had predicted for me! But what joy remains for me, for my beloved comrade Patroclus is gone! I lost him! The one that I valued most among my other companions, equally to my own life!"

(Translation by me)

In here the concept of "φίλος" is clearly an epithet or plays the role of one since the actual word that we are looking for as a substantive is the word "ἑταῖρος" which stands for "companion" or "comrade" (a term used generally throughout the poems to indicate bonds in army or of friendship or even husband and wife at some cases). In here it clearly means "beloved" by the general text for the word "φίλος" is not used as a substantive. Other cases such as this appear in other parts of the poem even with the fullest form φίλτατος which means "the most beloved"

However it needs to be noted that the term φίλος as the essence of "friend" comes directly from this term "to love" which means someone "you are close with" someone "of your own kin" someone "dear to you". The ancient greeks do not seem to be making a distinction between love as in lovers and love as in family or relatives when using this verb and the words coming from it (one good example is Thetis referring to Achilles as "φίλον υἱὸν" which means "beloved son" and here has no romantic implications at all).

The term is being used interchangably throughout Homer to speak about characters with close relations of kinship that are not linked to romantic essences at all. For example the way Menelaus adresses Odysseus as such in the Odyssey:

Oh, how strange! That has come to my house the son of a man much beloved to me; who for my sake has suffered so many ordeals!

(Translation by me)

In here Menelaus again is usingthe term φίλος but he doesn't speak out of romantic intentions at all. He speaks with the warmest words but in here it is the most intimate form of friendship and kinship and is followed by the implication of gratefulness, how he adds up how Odysseus suffered "for his sake" aka to fight the war and be lost afterwards. And before someone says "it is not the same amount of warmth" one must think again because before Menelaus speaks about how because of the agony he feels for his friend he does not eat or sleep properly and given that it has been 10 years already since the last time they saw each other that is a damn long time.

But all of them I do not grieve as much, even if I mourn for them, as much as I do for one man, because of which I both detest sleep and neglect to eat, for there is no one of the Achaeans that suffered more than what Odysseus suffered and endured

(Translation by me)

So not only Menelaus feels like Odysseus suffered the most out of them (and strictly speaking one can look at fates of other heroes like Diomedes to see they are not far behind in suffering) but that the way he constantly wonders about his well-being makes him unable to sleep or eat and that seems to be happening for years and years which shows the true depth of their friendship.

So no, strictly speaking the word "to love" is not used by the greeks to imply only romantic love and it can be used pretty intimately even if it is not referring to romance. And the difference can be perceived by the same writer as well not just some play that was written several centuries later in which, inevitably, we could talk about some alterations of meaning to the words over the course of time

However there seems to be another phrase used to express intense feelings of love which is κεχαρισμένε θυμῷ which means "dear to my heart" and in Iliad ironically that phrase is spoken by no other than Briseis herself!

Oh, Patruclus! Dearest to my wretched heart!

(Translation by me)

This interesting shout of love coming from Briseis is also interesting for it could be implying both emotions of romantic love but also of affection in general. Which is another phrase that researchers have looked upon in search for hidden meanings of romance but once again it was often used either as such or with the term "φίλος" instead to speak of relationships of family or kinship. But grieving scenes such as the one of Briseis might also be indicator of romance although not exclusively referring to that.

The Lament

Quite frankly speaking, Achilles's lament is one of the most infamous and well-known in greek literature exactly because of its explicit nature. We do see characters lament in plays before but it is not as frequent to see lament SO strong coming from a male character and so openly (see for example in the Odyssey how Odysseus tries to hide his own tears many times or how his men are wrapped up in veils in lament for their own lives and their fallen comrades' but by n large the male lament is more subtle, more silent). Achilles is different. For example when he is first told about the news of Patroclus's death the result is nothing less but the ultimate emotional collapse:

So they spoke and black mist of distress covered him: With both his hands he gathered smoky sand and he poured it over his head and disfigured his face: his nectarous chiton turned black with ashes. And he himself dropped in the dirt and stretched over his lying (here: the corpse) friend/beloved pulling out his hair in lament. The slaves given as war price to Achilles and Patroclus, released a great cry of sadness and they approached all to the sides of mourning Achilles, beating their chests with their hands, and their knees each. Also Antilochus with them was lamenting and pouring tears holding the hands of Achilles: for he was moaning with his noble heart: worried that he would cut his throat with iron (here: a knife).

(Translation by me)

There is no words to express such an intense display of pain given by Achilles from second one when he receives the news of the death of Patroclus. He immediately pours ash over his head (quite a common trope for mourning done by many characters before.) and "disfiguring his face" which means he was digging his nails down his cheeks which was again a trope of mourning in greek literature. The intensity of his lament is so great that Antilochus feels the need to hold his hands just in case he would want to comit suicide in his pain!

Ironically for most part in this lament does it mention that Achilles was making any sound at all during the process, which somehow makes it even more disturbing to think that Achilles simply drops to his knees, covers himself in ashes and scratches his cheeks while lamenting over the body of Patroclus hardly making any sound at all. It is the slave women who arrive later that release the cries that undoubtedly are within the soul of Achilles. Somehow his lament is extreme and yet no audible hint exists for most part of the text EXCEPT the final one where it says "moaning with his noble heart". It almost seems that his body does most of the talking till the women arrive and cry out like he so much wants to and then his mouth also makes sounds. It is not a scream; it is a moan. It is possible of course that the clip refers to Achilles constantly moaning but I do like this as a possible food for thought that if Achilles was firstly responding to pain with his actions and then with his voice and in a way the moment he actually made a sound was the moment Antilochus truly began to worry!

There is a certain theatricality to this scene of lament and drama which of course as many analytics before me would say, it seems to be hinting to some other infamous laments of mythological characters and more specific the laments of Apollo. Apollo is one of those figures for whom we have no doubt he was lamenting his lovers and some classical examples are Hyakinthus and Cyparissus both of them transformed into a flower and a tree respectably. The associations of Achilles and the grieving god seem to be more than just a possibility here. Which of course enforces even further the idea of them being lovers. It is also the amount of time that Achilles mourns plus the intense way that he refuses to let go of the body of Patroclus to which he seems to be holding on from the 18th rhapsody when he first finds out of his death till the moment that she arrived with his armor one rhapsody later. Quite a gruesome scene is when she enters the tent and finds Achilles crying while clasping Patroclus onto him:

And she found her dearest son still lay there, clasping Patroclus and crying woefully and his comrades around him mourning

(Translation by me)

And at this point Thetis hasn't yet given nectar and ambrosia to the body of Patroclus to prevent the sepsis from happening, which happens a few lyrics later. So Achilles was holding the dead body for the entire day even after it was cleaned and prepared showing the intense pain Achilles was expressing and going through. And he seems unwilling to part from him till Patroclus's spirit itself arrives in his sleep and requests a burial so he can rest.

Of course it needs to be noted that intense lament is not exlusive to lovers in greek mythology. To name a few Athena grieves intensely the loss of her friend Pallas and by some accounts she does take her name as her epithet post-mortem. Antigone intensely mourns her dead brother and laments his disgrace when she finds that the ritual burial she performed had been disturbed. And the acting of killing oneself out of sorrow again is not strictly remaining to the love affairs. For example Ismene killing herself after learning the deaths of her family members in general and Antigone in particular. Another most prominient example is king Aegeus who throws himself into the sea when he sees the black sails of the ship coming from Crete, thinking his son was dead.

So the exessive expression of grief are not just dedicated to lovers or husbands and wives in greek literature but rather it is expanded to all people who mourn someone dear to them regardless of the nature of the bond between them. In the case of Achilles of course he does seem to be having a specially strong mental breakdown every time some important person in his life that is said to be romantically involved with him dies or is taken from him starting with Briseis for whom he expresses his emotions many times in the Iliad and she is the first reason of his anger, of course Patroclus and Penthesilea for whom he apparently has feelings for a few monets after he sees her face after she dies. In Posthomerica it is even said that his lamentover her dead body is "the same as the one over Patroclus" and of course Antilochus later according to the Epic Cycle when he died protecting his father, caused another explosion of anger to Achilles which was fated to be his last one.

It is possible since his love is clearly stated in the cases of Briseis and Penthesilea that the same can have occured for Antilochus and of course Patroclus which was the most heartbreaking of them all and for good reason. In fact the case of Patroclus seems to be that he plays every role in the life of Achilles. He is his friend, his companion, his squire, his advisor so why not his lover too.

The Same Urn

Now of course where people surely think they have a clear case of romantic bond seems to be the request of Patroclus to be burnt but his bones to be kept in the same urn that is to be used for Achilles as well. The passage happens in the 23rd rhapsody:

And one more thing I ask for you to excecute; do not place my bones apart from yours, Achilles, but together just like we were raised in your chambers, when I was brought to your land by Menetoios as a little boy from Opois because of the grievous manslaughter, for when I was a child I was foolish and killed the son of Amphidamas without wanting to, for I was mad over a game of dice: there I was accepted to the chambers of the horseman of Peleus who kindly took care of me and named me your squire. And the same way I want for my bones to be together with yours in the same golden box, the one your divine mother prepared for you.

(Translation by me)

So apart from the fact that it is a highly emotional scene, seeing your dead companion arriving at you and begging to be let go (this is literally Patroclus saying "Let me go, Achilles...just let me go" for Achilles literally refuses to give up his body not even for a burial) it is also the scene that seems to be winking to the fans of the idea of them being lovers as a proof that they are together. And quite frankly I can absolutely see why and it would be foolish to ignore this possibility especially given how tenderly Achilles calls him "my beloved" (or "as loved as my own life") after the whole request is done from the spirit of Patroclus which is more than clear indication for many accounts and that makes perfect sense.

The custom of co-burial was known in Greece from the earliest times of its civilization till the end (because quite honestly I am not sure the custom will stop existing in Greece since despite the lack of cremations, we still have the custom of common graves even if it is only for those who can afford have a family monument). We often find urns contain bones of multiple individuals and yes more often whatnot they are maritable partners and the obsession of words that mean "together" in this passage such as; "μή (...) ἀπάνευθε" (not apart), "ὁμοῦ" (at the same place, together) or "ἀμφικαλύπτω" (cover each other) seems to be pointing to the direction of a romantic relationship and it won't be the only time someone is co-relating the mingling of ashes and bones with "marriage" (and example is The Hunchback of Notre Dame, where Victor Hugo describes the way Quasimodo and Esmeralda's skeletons turn into inseparable dust as "Quasimodo's Marriage")

However on the counter-talk, co-burials were also common among family members (which is exactly what Achilles and Patroclus are). Ironically from the excavations to Mycenae several co-burials were discovered that were not related by blood but they were theorized to be connected to some relations of adoption (which again seems to fit the case of Achilles and Patroclus from the time Patroclus was brought in and ellegedly adopted by Peleus)

I am also convinced that the fact Patroclus gives us some good portion of his background story here was not just a random thing. It seems that Patroclus places emphasis on why he wants to be in the same urn as Achilles; because they were raised together, they were together all their lives and he wants them to be together in death as well. It absolutely could be a romantic insinuation on Patroclus's part however it seems equally possible that the background story serves as a lever to make the public understand how the two of them were raised together and wished to remain together. It almost feels like Homoer wants either to stimulate the idea that the past is an extra point towards their romantic relationship or yet another point of the closeness of their kinship or both (to me it seems the latter)

However another factor to this urn seems to be Antilochus. Antilochus who was close to the age of Achilles, the one who was in charge to bring the news of Patroclus's death to Achilles and the one that we saw consoling him and trying to prevent him from doing something foolish seems to be added to this circle. In fact in some future sources he is featured as the reason Achilles died, for he was driven in yet another furious attack against the Trojans, forcing them to fall back when he saw him fall dead protecting his father from the Ethiopian king Memnon. In some accounts, even possibly Homer included, is insinuated that Antilochus was also included in the funerary urn with Achilles and Patroclus although in the Odyssey it is clearly stated that his bones are not in it:

Your mother gave me this golden amphora (here an urn with two handles); a gift from Dionysus she said to me, made by the renounced Hephestus, in which lie your white bones, radiant Achilles, mixed with the ones of dead Patroclus son of Menoetius, but without Antilochus, whom he honored above all his comrades after Patroclus died.

(Translation by me)

So in the Odyssey it doesn't seem like they were indeed in the same urn (unless somehow Nestor could tell the bones apart and took them out? hehe) but they all thee of them are joined in one tomb and worshipped as heroes. So in a way Antilochus seems to join them just not in the same box. However the three of them are indeed seen together in the underworld as one trio literally. They are apparently joined after death according to what Odysseus saw in the underworld.

Once again seems like the romantic as well as the kinship theories could be true interchangably or even at the same time.

Ancient Greeks on their relationship:

As I mentioned above many ancient writers and not just the infamous "historians" everyone mocks on the internet, seem to have placed their own guesses and opinions on the relationships of the two heroes.

Aeschines seems to be contemplating the idea they are lovers (aka he says that Homer "hides their love") and he even reads Patroclus's story as "an intercourse they had once". He names their relationship έρως aka romantic love (eros). Aristotle in Nicomachian Ethics and Rethoric he uses the term "comrade" to talk of them, choosing to focus more on their friendship. His teacher Plato though was a different story. He was convinced that they were not only lovers but he had also figured their roles in their relationship as presented in his Symposium, naming Patroclus as ἐραστής aka "the one who gives love" and mentions how Achilles is in love with Patroclus. Plato remains one of the most...great "shippers" of the two having no doubt about their love affair. To the other end is Xenophon who is adamant that they are not lovers, in his own Symposium. A large number of greek writers seem also to comment on both possibilities, it seems to me quite interesting how many different readings the homeric poems provide.

More mordern readings:

While it is true that there is a certain confusion to the public since a large number of texts either were deliberately modified or genuinely mistranslated (given again how terms like φιλώ means "to love" in general in ancient greek and not just romantically or that the term ερώ does mean "to love as a lover" in some contexts but it also means "to desire very much" and it was used in various of contexts) and these double-meanings were taken advantage of to translate the texts differently and that is because when someone in modern times says "my beloved" by n large they refer to a lover which was something that was greatly hushed up in public

Of course as we stated above for ancient greece that was not the case since the term "beloved" could be used in various contexts and it showed intense emotions of kinship between two people regardless of the nature of their relationship.

However in some accounts the obsession upon trying not to show intense potentual homoerotic material made many of these translations unreliable. There were exceptions to the rule of course but the real breakthrough wouldn't really happen till later in the 19th century where we also have more samples of printed work. Translations like Butler at the end of 19th century are far reliable to the text and seem to follow the spirit of Homer. Quite frankly there was already a breakthrough to homoerotic material thanks to not only the neo-classisim but also gothic literature such as the vampire novelle Carmilla so many writers became more bold into translating the tender words of love as they were and leave the public decide upon their nature.

However this effort to hush up the tender words spoken in Homer out of fear that they might be interpreted as homoerotic created of course this modern uprage in which we have the other way round; that people are afraid to talk about friendhsip and kinship because they will be hushed up by the readings of the text as homoerotic

(see my other post for this)

This, in my opinion simply removes all the abive context; that love can be expressed between family members or friends or people who have been through a lot. Quite frankly as you can see not only I am not denying their energy as lovers, I like to believe I am also supporting this theory a lot because there is a lot of possibility in it just like there is on the direction of tenderness and affection. I do think today people are afraid to speak up on the other side exactly bcause nowadays the most famous way to see them is as lovers as opposed to the previous periods that did the other way round

Conclusions:

I have no doubts that Homer, even though not clearly speaking about it (for example referring to sexual acts) he seems to be insinuating that the two of them were sharing romantic bond or feelings for each other

(it needs to be noted that it is not entirely clear that if there WERE romantic feelings that they were confessed or known by both parties, which could potentially mean the two of them loved each other romantically but did not fulfill their love which could be another tragic note to their story)

Homer seems to be sending several hints to his viewers/readers that one could interpret them as lovers given the tender dictionary they use between each other and for each other, allowing his...fans to decide for themselves. It is also highly possible that he too saw them as star-crossed lovers, for he gives them all the elements of various other stories that involve homoerotic romance, even the tragic end to their story.

However I am equally sure that he also wanted to say that their friendship was of equal importance. There is no doubt that Homer considered them close friends (for he gives us a small hint of their backstory, how they grew together) and their story is being projected like many other duos and characters in the Trojan war that are linked together with bonds of kinship and companionship; stories that flourish at war. He might not straight out tell us that they are the case of story "from friends to lovers" but he absolutely seems to be letting us know that their kinship is there!

And I am grateful to Homer for his writing because it seems to me he wanted both sides to equally enjoy the story; whether they are those who do think their closeness is romance and those who think it is close kinship, strong family bonds or friendship. I am almost convinced that Homer deliberately used that as a way to please both sides of the audience or to give a more tragic aftertaste to their story since closeness is much more impactful to the face of separation.

I like them both and in fact I support them simoultaneously for honestly there is no best lover than your best friend; someone you can trust with everything you have. If I had to support one form of love, this would be it but at the same time I do support the idea that friendship is already a powerful bond of two people and that romantic love in this case would come as a bonus. Somehow Homer does seem to entertain this idea in his writing given again the extreme tenderness and the tragedy of these two while at the same time leaving the door open for his audience to speculate, make interpretations and enjoy the story in their own perspective.

If that is not art I dunno what is.

Okay guys this is only but scrapping the surface of this relationship that lasted for 3000 years now! Hahaha but I hope you like this! It took me several hours to synthesize but I hope you like it.

[mrsevans90]

Puppy Love

Captain Syverson x OFC Emma Miller Part 1

Summary: Austin Syverson has returned to Texas after retiring from the military and starts his own contracting business. Syverson is used to being alone and thinks he prefers it that way. While at work he stumbles upon an injured and abused puppy. When he meets the new veterinarian in town, Emma Miller, he is immediately smitten with her. It turns out Emma has some baggage of her own. Will they be able to make it work? Or is it just a case of fleeting puppy love?

Pairing: Henry Cavill as Captain Austin Syverson x OFC Emma Miller 

Word Count: 3,502

Warnings: Abused animal, domestic violence, stalker ex-boyfriend, mention of nightmares/PTSD, smut in future chapters.

MINORS DNI! Must be 18+

I do not authorize any copying/pasting, stealing of my work, or using my words as your own. 

This story is not beta’d. All mistakes are my own.

A big thanks to @shellyshellshell for encouraging me to write this story!

A/N: I am an imperfect person who makes mistakes. All that I ask is to please be kind and if you enjoy it then please comment and REPOST! I appreciate any love, comments, and reposts more than you could know. Thank you for reading! 

*Syverson POV*

It’s certainly difficult to leave the cool air conditioning of the house to head to work when the weather forecast predicts another scorching Texas summer day where the humidity makes your clothes immediately stick to your skin. It’s nothing I’m not familiar with having grown up in Texas my whole life and then spending two tours in the desert before returning home. You’d think I would move somewhere cold, but the south is all I know. I certainly couldn’t leave Nana and Pawpaw either. After finishing my last tour, I came home and bought an empty house in disrepair and spent the better part of a year ripping it to studs and rebuilding. I was really struggling with returning to civvy life after spending the majority last ten years in the sand pit. Originally, I had just planned to fix up my house so that it was comfortable and hell, livable, until I discovered what I wanted to do outside of the army. Remodeling my house taught me that I really enjoyed working with my hands and building things. I guess you could say taking a broken, outdated home and making it beautiful and functional again really resonated with me on a deeper level. I was lucky to leave the army with only some mild PTSD and nightmares. Hell, I had all of my limbs and was alive which is more that I can say I deserve. Staying busy helped me cope so after working towards getting my contractor’s license, I decided to start my own company, Syverson Contracting. It was still a small operation with only about seven employees including my cousin Alex, but we got by just fine.

After getting ready for the day and sipping on my cup of coffee on the porch with my German Shepard, Aika, I put my boots on and headed to the truck for the first day on a new worksite. Like usual, I called Nana on the way to work to check in. My grandparents lived about fifteen minutes away from me, but I still called to check on them every morning and make sure they’re doing alright. As I drive, Nana starts chattering all about how her friend’s granddaughter is single and I should be looking for a good woman to marry and settle down with. We’ve had this conversation umpteen times before but I can’t seem to get it through my stubborn grandmother’s head that it’s useless. I’ve been burned by too many women in the past as a young and naïve man and I just don’t want to bring someone into all of my problems. Yes, I go to therapy at the VA to help with my PTSD but it still doesn’t stop the sleepless nights and nightmares that immediately send me back to wartime in the desert. As much as I’ve always wanted a partner in life; a beautiful wife to come home to, a couple of kids and the proverbial picket fence, I just don’t see how it could be in the cards for me now. I’m too fucked up. Nana of course would never understand and I certainly don’t want to drag her into it so I just listen to her drone on and on about some chick named Susanne and then tell her that I’ve got to go.

After speaking with my team and giving instructions for the job, I went to Alex’s flatbed truck and we all started unloading the materials. The home we were working on was owned by a young couple expecting their first child. It was a simple job, replacing the flooring throughout the house, building a shed in the backyard for lawnmowers and other garden tools, and repairing some dry rotting siding near the fireplace. The great thing about my team is that I could get them started and didn’t have to micromanage them. After several hours in the walloping sun, we all broke for lunch. After cooling off and reenergizing at the local Wendy’s, we all headed back to the house to continue our work. Since I was used to being in these weather conditions, I decided to head out toward the edge of the woods in the backyard and start building the garden shed. When I went to lift up some of the plywood, I was beyond shocked to find a shaking and filthy little tan dog who appeared to be injured and terrified.

“Shit. Heya buddy, I ain’t gonna hurt you. It’s alright pal. Let me take a look atcha.”

As a true animal lover, I was immediately enraged. Someone had intentionally abused this poor defenseless animal and either abandoned it or it was able to limp off to the woods. The little male pup, couldn’t be older than a year was bleeding from four different wounds on the side of his sand colored body. The second I scooped him up, he was whining and cowering in fear.

“You’re alright little man. I’m gonna take care of ya. Let’s see if we can getcha to a vet.” I call Aika’s vet office and unfortunately there is no answer. Janet must still be taking her lunch break.

I see Alex walking outside to grab some of the flooring to bring inside and yell for him to come here.

“What’s up, Sy?”

“Just found this little guy beat to hell by the woods.”

“Jesus. What kind of bastards do that to an animal?” Alex ponders as he was looking at the injured and sick animal. 

“I’m gonna see if Dr. Robinson’s in. Hopefully I can get the little feller in today but I need you to run the site until I get back.”

“No problem, Sy. Didn’t she just have another kid? I’m not sure if she’ll be there but I know Jessica said something about them hiring a new vet so I’m sure someone will be around.”

The veterinarian’s office was only a fifteen-minute drive from the site so after giving the poor thing some water, I loaded him up and drove there.

On the ride over, he seemed to relax a bit and not shake as bad as he had been and I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

“Oh Austin! How good to see you! Did your Aika have an appointment?”

“Hey Ms. Janet, is Dr. Robinson in? It’s not for Aika. I found this guy by the woods and he’s been hurt something awful.”

“Heavens to Betsy! Poor little angel! Elizabeth is out on maternity leave but we’ve hired a new vet. You'll like her. Let me check with her and see if she can work you in.”

“Yes ma’am.”

A few moments later, Janet scurries back and directs me to an exam room with the little guy. I guess I could have just dropped him off and went back to work but my heart just couldn’t stand it. Hell, I fought to bring back Aika from Afghanistan because of how quickly I fell in love with her and she’s been the best dog ever. I can’t imagine leaving this little guy to potentially die from his injuries without a friendly face nearby.

*Knock Knock!*

The door opens and my heart stops at the same time. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen enters while carrying a clipboard and a stethoscope. She’s a petite little thing only reaching to my shoulders with long blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, and crystal blue eyes that feel like they see straight to my soul.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Emma Miller. I hear you found this little guy in the woods?”

“Uh, yes ma’am. Hello there, I’m Austin Syverson. Yeah, I uh, I found him and he looks like he’s been abused.”

She smiles brightly and shakes my hand when I introduce myself and the moment I touch her soft skin, I can hardly think straight. Why the hell do I feel so jittery? It’s just a beautiful woman Sy. Get ahold of yourself. I tell her exactly what I found and she quickly starts examining him while speaking to him in a sweet voice.

“Hi sweet boy. You poor thing! I’m so sorry someone has been treating you so horribly. We’re going to take care of you, yes we are. You’re going to be good as new! I’m going to give you some fluids because you’re dehydrated little guy. Once we get some fluids in you, I’ll try giving you some food. How about that little man?”

I can’t help but smile as she baby talks to him while inserting an IV in his tiny arm and starting him on fluids. She examines the wounds more carefully before retrieving a pair of things that look like tweezers.

“If I had to guess, I would say this guy is about 10-12 months old. I suspect these wounds on his side are from a BB gun. Would you mind holding his head? I’m going to give him some pain relief in his IV to help him relax and then try and clean the area and see if I can remove them. We’re a bit short staffed at the moment with Dr. Robinson out and two of our techs calling in sick so I’ll need your help if that’s okay?”

“Fucking BB guns.” I murmur under my breath. Damn some people are just the worst.

“I’m happy to help.” I tell her quickly and take up residence next to the puppy’s head to hold him still.

“Thank you.” She replies quietly while concentrating on rubbing some brown cleaner across each wound.

I can’t help but watch her as she focuses on removing all four bb’s and placing them into a metal bowl. She’s so effortlessly beautiful and incredibly adorable as she works on the dog who seems to be feeling so much better with the medication and fluids that he has received. She sews up each wound quickly and efficiently. The pup seems to be almost as captivated by her as I am. When she’s done, he even attempts to wag his tail for her. Dr. Miller explains that he will need a flea and tick bath before she can dress the wounds because he has several fleas on him and she doesn’t want them getting into the incisions.

“Mr. Syverson, I hate to keep you from your day. Would you want to just come back for him in a little while? I have to do an exam on a yorkie with diabetes but then I’ll bathe him on my break and get his wounds dressed.”

“Sugar?” I ask.

“I’m sorry, pardon?” She responds a bit flustered.

I smirk as I see the blush tinting her cheeks. “The yorkie. Is it named Sugar?”

“Oh! Yes! Someone you know?”

“My grandma’s neighbor, Mrs. Clayton, has a yappy little yorkie named Sugar and I believe I overheard that it has diabetes.”

“Yes, well that would be her.” She smirks back.

“I don’t mind waiting with the little guy. Is it alright if I stay and help you bathe him? Since your short staffed and all?” I ask with my most charming smile.

Her beaming grin tells me all I need to know. “Sure, Mr. Syverson. Can you give me about twenty minutes?”

“Only if you’ll call me Austin or Sy. Mr. Syverson is my pawpaw.” I say with a grin.

“Alright Austin. I’m going to leave you with some wet food on the table for this little fellow, but can I trust you to only give him small amounts slowly? We don’t know when his last meal was so we don’t want to overwhelm his belly.”

“Yes ma’am.” I mock salute at her with two fingers and she giggles when she leaves the exam room. I swear the moment she did I was a goner. I need to find a way to hear that giggle more.

“Well little guy, it looks as though we are helping each other out, huh? You ain’t the only one broken and battered.” I say as I give the dog a small plastic spoonful of wet dog food that he almost swallows hole.

“What should I call you?” I hypothesize aloud while the pup continues eating sloppily from the spoon I’m holding.

“Since Dr. Miller here patched you up, how about Miller? We can call you Mills for short. What do you think about that? I like it.”

Emma finally returns to the exam room and is happy to see that the Mills has eaten the food I gave him and kept it all down. Due to the food, medications, and fluids he received you can already tell a slight difference in his demeanor.

“Let’s get you all cleaned up, shall we?” She says while carefully picking him up and carrying him to the back of the building before pausing. “You coming, Austin?” She asks.

God, I hope I will be soon. I think before I rush over to open the exam door for her and follow her to the back.

“You know, I’m breaking rules by letting you back here so don’t make me regret it.” She says to me teasingly as she carefully sets Mills into a large stainless-steel sink and begins to bathe him with medicated shampoo.

“You don’t have to worry about me, Dr. Miller.”

“No, if I have to call you Austin, you have to call me Emma. It’s only fair.”

“Well, Emma is a beautiful name so that will be easy. If you don’t mind my asking, where are you from? We haven’t had a new vet in town since Dr. Robinson came and that was probably ten years ago.” I watch as Emma carefully removes three ticks from his fur and want to outwardly cringe. Ticks are the devil’s bug.

“I’m from Alabama. I’ve only been in Texas for about a month but just started working in the office this last week.” She tells me as she very carefully continues to clean Mills.

“What brought you all the way out here? Did your husband get transferred out here or something?”

She side eyes my question with a smirk. “Nope, just the job. No husband or kids. No boyfriend either in case that was your next question.” She remarks sarcastically.

My stomach flips with excitement even though she caught on to what I was really fishing for.

“Well, I’m certainly glad you’re here. For Mills’ health needs of course.” I add quickly while gesturing to the pup.

“Mills?”

“Yup. Short for Miller, after the doctor who’s taking care of him.”

Her cheeks blush bright red as she runs a flea comb gently through his fur. “Well aren’t you just the charmer. I’m surprised Janet didn’t warn me about you. She’s been clueing me in on pretty much the entire town.”

“Ah, good ole’ Janet. She knows there’s no need to warn you about me. She’s known me since I was in diapers so that should tell you enough about my character if she didn’t warn you off.”

“That’s good to know. So, are you planning on keeping little Mills? Or are you wanting us to adopt him out once he’s all healed?”

“Oh, I plan on keeping him if that’s alright. As long as my girl, Aika, is okay with it I’ll keep him. Can’t imagine sending him off to a stranger after what he’s already been through.”

“Well, if your girlfriend isn’t on board with keeping him just let us know and we can see about arranging a foster for him until he’s able to be put up for adoption.” She says while stepping a little further away from me.

Girlfriend? Oh dumbass, you made her think Aika is your girlfriend.

“Aika’s my German Shepard. I don’t have a wife, kids, or a girlfriend either.” I said poking fun at her sarcastic comment from earlier.

Emma grins but just continues to rinse Mills off. She notices that one of his paws looks a bit swollen but she can’t find any cuts or wounds so she thinks it may just be bruised from trying to run from his abuser.

Once we get him dried off, I hold his head again for her to clean and dress the wounds on his side and I’m dreading leaving.

“So, I’ll need to see little Mills in 3 days to check his wounds and remove the stitches. I need you to clean and redress the wounds one time a day like I’ve shown you. I’ve got his medication and antibiotics here and a couple of cans of that wet food that you fed him earlier. I recommend continuing to feed it to him slowly so that his tummy doesn’t get upset. Nobody likes waking up to a dog throwing up or having diarrhea in the house. If he does okay with that food we can discuss increasing his food intake at the next appointment. Do you have any questions, Austin?”

“Just one. Can I get your number, Emma? You know, in case I have questions about your prodigy, Little Mills, here.” I add with a smirk.

“I’m sure you have the number for the vet’s office.” She smirks.

“That I do, but I’d like yours as well, please.” I ask with my most convincing smile.

“Alright, alright. Just don’t advertise it. The last thing I need is people like Mrs. Clayton calling me after hours.” She concedes with a giggle and I can’t help my boisterous laughter at the last part.

“Nobody wants someone like Mrs. Clayton calling them all the time. That woman would talk to a wall just to hear her own voice.” I hand her my phone and she quickly types her number and I save it under “Mills’ Future Mama” and smirk to myself.

I pay and make the next appointment for Mills and then head to the local pet store for a collar, leash, dog bed, and more dog food. Luckily, Mills sleeps on the ride home and I can’t decide if he’s finally realized I’m not going to hurt him or if he’s still drowsy from the effects of the meds he received. I head home and send Alex an update that I’ll be back at the site tomorrow.

When I get home, I bring everything inside before carrying Mills over to Aika and carefully introducing him. After the initial excitement wears off, Aika heads outside to the backyard and I’m relieved that she seems to accept him. She’s always been such a good dog so hopefully I can rely on her to show our little rookie around and teach him our routines.

I go about showering and eating dinner, but I can’t seem to get my mind off Emma. I obviously want to play it cool but she has infiltrated my mind to the point where I just can’t think of anything else. I know this is a bad idea but I can't stop myself. I decide to take a picture of Mills in his little bed and text it to her.

Sy: <attached image>

Mills’ Future Mama: I’m glad to see my namesake is adjusting to his new life. I take it that his sibling accepts him?

Mills’ Future Mama: Also, you’re lucky I opened that picture text. Typically receiving a picture from an unknown number is never a good thing 😖

Sy: Sounds like your mind is in the gutter or you have some seriously unhinged acquaintances, darlin. Aika has accepted him into the pack without hesitation.

Mills’ Future Mama: More like, men are nasty and will take any opportunity to send an unsolicited dick pic to even the most unwilling recipients. Glad you found the little guy. He seems right at home.

Sy: He is. You should come visit him sometime.

Mills’ Future Mama: Why would I do that when he’ll be in my office in three days?

Sy: Maybe to see his owner?

Mills’ Future Mama: I’d imagine his daddy will be the one bringing him back to my office though?

Sy: Alright then, how about I make you some dinner at my place? Say tomorrow at 5pm?

Mills’ Future Mama: Make it 5:30 and I’ll be there. Just know I’ll be sending your information to my best friend in case you try and murder me.

Sy: What type of people were you surrounded by in Alabama? 🤨

Mills’ Future Mama: I was actually in a super safe town. Just watch too many crime shows to make careless mistakes.

Sy: Smart lady. You can tell whoever you want, darlin’. I’ve got nothing to hide and I appreciate a woman who has some self-preservation skills.

Mills’ Future Mama: Trust me, I’m very skilled at many things. 😜

Sy: Damn woman, I’m trying my best to be a gentleman here. It’s not fair to tease me.

Mills’ Future Mama: Not teasing. Just stating facts. 🙃

Sy: Tomorrow can’t get here soon enough. Here’s my address. Any food allergies?

Mills’ Future Mama: Nope! I’ll bring dessert. I’m interested to test your cooking prowess.

Sy: You’re killing me.

Mills’ Future Mama: See you tomorrow!

Part 2

Taglist: @shellyshellshell @henryownsme @caramariehurst @beck07990 @mollymal

[theesirenteller]

𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐫

ＷＡＲＮＩＮＧ ! ! DO NOT READ WHAT'S STATED BELOW IF YOU"RE TRIGGED ➷ ➷

【 This chapter contains Gun Violence, Abuse both psychological & physical】

Chapter Five; 𝕴𝖓𝖈𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖎𝖛𝖊 | Masterlist

"We have a problem."

"We? No, you have a problem."

"Oh no, we have a problem."

"And how does my cousin banging some stripper affect me?" Nick questioned with a chastising grin. 

Over the last month, Christopher and Epiphany had been more friendly in the public eye. It didn't take a genius to figure out they were seeing one another or at least messing around. Annie had yet to tell Beth about Epiphany's casual bragging about her and Christopher's sex life. Despite Beth being her older sister, Annie didn't want to be seen as a rat or lose someone she had considered a friend. She liked having Epiphany as a friend and didn't want her relationship spilling into her sisterhood. On the flip side, Beth took notice of just about everything Rio did. He wasn't one to be flashy or make a scene. His behavior over the course of the three years she'd known him was either consistent or spontaneous. Nowadays he'd drop by the club more often and never on the days when Epiphany wasn't working. Drop and pick-up days were whenever Epiphany worked. The two would share smiles at one another from across the room. He would stay to watch her perform solos on stage and then they'd share a drink at the bar. Or Beth would see him leave and then Epiphany would leave right after. If not that, it was the shared touches. His hand would pat her back on his way out or if he was close enough, Epiphany would kiss him on the cheek.

And Beth loathed it all.

Keeping your friends close and your enemies closer was something that Nick learned and lived by. After Beth had set him up to be locked up and he'd gotten her back 'where it hurts' things were back to 'normal'. Well, as normal as he and his brother wanted things to be. The blonde councilwoman at her beck and call, open to being bent in whichever direction they could push her in. The brothers were still playing the long game with her. Beth was the perfect spokesperson to appeal to rich, white, privileged investors in across states better than Nick could. And when things go to shit, Beth is set to have a hard time. Both Rio and Nick would be sure of it.

"It affects you because it affects me," she hissed, "I'm not close to him like that and I doubt you two are close after…last year's events." A teasing glint in her eye and a smug smirk laid across her thin lips as she saw Nick's smile slowly diminish. "Anyway," She started off with a higher pitched voice and chirpy tone, "Your cousin, brother, whatever is involved with the Japanese. I don't know what the details are but I want in. "

"You want a percentage of that deal." Nick clarified while he relaxed back in his office seat, "How do you know he's even in business with them?"

"He moved eight SUV trucks filled with Japanese yen through my strip club and my second dealership." She informed before shrugging her shoulders with a subtle hair flip, "We're partners, it's only fair that I'm cut in."

Nick looked at her with amusement in his eyes. He was amused but still impressed with how far she had come. She was more like him than she could ever admit, if not worse, "Right," he replied casually with a slight nod."I can't be involved, that'd be a conflict of interest-" 

He was quickly cut off by Beth, "How? This affects you because then we have nothing to pin on him with the feds!"

"It's personal. I don't know how close they are or how he feels about this chick. So either one of us removing her without motive causes unnecessary heat. You can't just kill her because he'd banging her," Nick replied with a raised voice and sharp tone. He didn't miss the way her eyes widened, or how she gulped and clenched her jaw. Her discomfort was loud without words needing to be said,  "You're gonna have to create a shadow. Set her up in some way, get photos, and then you get rid of her. That'll be your reason and he'll have to understand because it's just business. Take a page out of his book." he advised.

Beth quickly grabbed her designer tote bag and stood up, "Well thank you, councilman, I heard you loud and clear." and with her passive-aggressive statement she spun on her heel and strutted out of his office.

"Happy to help, Councilwoman!"Nick ridiculed behind her with a chuckle just before the door shut.

When she arrived at her home, Beth had done exactly like she was told but not without adding her own details. Beth had a four-bedroom, two-bathroom luxurious home in a more upscale area of the suburbs of Detroit. She lived in luxury now with her new position and she enjoyed the space that was solely hers. Seeing her children every other weekend was good enough for her, nowadays. Her old life felt like another world but she couldn't deny that she didn't miss it. She was powerful now. She was somebody who people either loved or feared. She felt invincible. "Annie, could you come down here for a second?!" 

"What's up?" the short-haired dirty blonde questioned a few minutes later. 

"Hey, do you think you could set up lunch between your little stripper friend and me?" Beth asked, " I'm thinking that Ruby and you need to be there as well."

"Yeah sure, but uh what for?" Annie replied as she raised her bushy eyebrows.

"Just lunch," her voice softened as her eyes lowered to a more 'saddened' look, "I have to talk to her about Rio. He's dangerous and I don't want her ending up like Lucy," she sighed with faux-sorrow.

"Or is it that you're jealous." Annie smirked and wiggled her brows. 

"Oh please, Annie," Beth rolled her eyes, " I am not jealous of some bimbo stripper hooking up with him. Believe me, she's keeping him out of my hair."

"Mhmm, whatever you say," Annie teased with a sing-a-song tone, "But yeah I'll set it up."

And she did just that. Annie had set up a lunch date the following weekend with Epiphany at Tony's diner. Saturday afternoon to be exact. Epiphany had gotten ready at Christopher's apartment. It'd become a routine for the pair to hook up in the middle of the day instead of grabbing lunch. Sometimes, a quick lunch date was after an hour of indulging in each other's bodies. As usual, Christopher had left first then thirty minutes later, Epiphany had left. 

She had gotten into an Uber and two of Christopher's henchmen weren't far behind. They tailed behind unbeknownst to her, all the way to the diner. As soon as she walked in and the suburban mothers spotted her, almost immediately judgment flashed across their eyes. Their eyes ranked her attire thaat consisted of; A short green-camo mini skirt with green sequin scattered across it,  a tight-fitted white cropped camisole that read 'AS IF' in big bold gold letters, a dark green jean bolero jacket, and knee–high heeled boots hugged her thighs.

"Oh hell no…"Ruby scoffed. 

"Geez, you can take the girl outta of the strip-club but can't take the club out of the girl,"Beth added.

"Wow…uh…that's a lot for lunch," Annie cringed and bit at her lip.

Epiphany raised her left eyebrow as she looked at the three women before her eyes narrowed in on Annie, "I thought you said we were having brunch. As just the two of us."She proceeds to take a seat in the booth seat across from the trio. Her arms soon folded under her ample breasts as an expression remained unmoved.

"I know and I'm sorry I didn't clarify there would be more than just the two of us but-" Annie was cut off by Epiphany in the midst of trying to apologize and explain herself.

"But, you wanted to ambush me." Epiphany stated in a matter-of-fact tone, straightening her shoulders back as she sat up straighter,

"We're not here to fire you," Ruby stated.

"No. Not at all!" Annie protested.

"Look, we're just here to talk to you," Beth sighed, "To warn you."

"Oh? About what? Is the club shutting down?" Epiphany questioned them, her eyes moving across the three women back and forth until they settled in on Beth.

"Look Epiphany, I know we haven't exactly seen eye to eye-" Beth attempted to reason but was cut off.

"We haven't?" Epiphany mocked with a higher pitch to her voice and a slight head tilt, "...Why would you think that?"

"Well we haven't had a full conversation over a cup of cof-" Beth giggled before she was cut off once again.

"And who's fault would that be? I've never thought we had beef. In fact," Epiphany licked across her bottom lip as her eyes swept up and down the Detroit council woman's face, "I don't think of you at all."

A look of bewilderment washed over the three women's faces. The nostrils of Beth's nose flared and her peach lipstick-covered lips curled. Before anyone could utter a word, the waitress came trotting over, "What will y'all be having?" she asked with an impatient tone.

"Well, all have Cobb salads." Beth ordered for everyone but Epiphany quickly jumped in after to switch her order, "I'll just take a black coffee."

"Look here, we're trying to warn you that you're getting involved with a very dangerous man." Beth hissed before rambling on, "You don't know the vile, horrible things he's done to people. Like our friend Lucy, he seduced her with his kindness only to kill her when she was no longer of use to him. And me, he's used sex and exploration to control my every move. It took me outsmarting him many times to get out of being murdered by him."

"And he kidnapped me!" Annie was quick to mention.

Epiphany's lips stretched at the sides into a tight smile before she started to laugh. her laugh came off as a subtle and serene giggle, "Who are you even talking about? Who is he?"

"Oh for the love god, the gang leader that's going to pound town on you!!" Ruby sighed in annoyance.

"Rio."

"Gangfriend!"

Annie and Beth both said different names at once. That was when Epiphany knew it was time to go. She had heard enough. "Sounds like you ladies have got whoever's fucking me mixed up with whatever you've got going on." She said as she stood up from her seat, "If the person you know is so horrible, why not get restraining orders? and dip out? Or I don't know…get rid of the person?" Epiphany suggested as she got out of the booth. She then proceeded to turn around and start heading out of the diner.

"Girls a lost cause." Ruby sighed.

" Good riddance." Beth scoffed.

"What do you think we should do now?' Annie asked as they watched Epiphany walk down the street from the window. 

"Plan B," Beth smirked before pulling out her phone.

Their words didn't fall on deaf ears. Epiphany thought of what they had said throughout her day on campus. She sat through her lecture in airplane mode. Denting her pen with bite marks she stared aimlessly out the fourth-floor window. These claims…these accusations…they sounded familiar. Eerily familiar. 

'Watch yourself'

'Cassius did a number on his last girl, Está locõ. Un Díablo.' 

'Do you even know what his family does to people? You don't wanna marry into that.'

The images of Cassius's brown skin covered in black and blue reddened flesh from fingernails that broke his skin. The screams and cries of men being burned alive, of it replayed in her mind. Or how the boys who spared her glance and shot her a smile at The Kitty Box ended up disappearing left & right.  'Was Chris similar? Or was he worse?' Epiphany wondered to herself throughout the day.  Why was it that she attracted dangerous men? And why did she find such jovial comfort in that? A sense of security and importance. After all, it's what she always dreamed of. She dreamed of having the life of women like Elvira Hancock, Carmela Soprano, and of course, Ginger McKenna. 

The remainder of her time in lectures blew by in the blink of an eye. Since she couldn't be bothered to pay attention in class, Epiphany decided to settle herself in a cafe on campus with a series of notes that she brought from one of her classmates.

"Hmph…I always thought you only looked best on your back but this is a slightly nicer view."

Cassius. Surely, Epiphany must've been hearing things. She didn't dare peel her eyes away from the notes that laid against the table. Her mouth grew dry. Then her palms grew sweaty. The underneath of her breasts began to moisten. Only hot air escaped her lips as she breathed outwards. He wasn't here. He couldn't be here. But he was here. In Detroit. In a cafe on the campus where she attended. And he sat right across from her. His sandy-brown-tanned hand reached over and laid upon hers. Epiphany let out a choked moan of pain, of agony. It felt as though he had burned her with a hot iron. His skin was always hot. Very hot as if he had a furnace built within his body. As she snatched her hand away, Epiphany's eyes finally settled on him. He looked exactly the same as the day she left him. Shiny bald head, Smooth, poreless brown skin, and a full, thick goatee that nearly covered his lips. He was dressed like a reaper, in all black from his leather parka-jacket to his Timberland boots.

"What the fuck are you doing here." Epiphany had finally gotten the courage to say, with her shoulders back and a sharpness to her tone, "Better yet, who told you I was here? My mother?" 

To this, Cassius scoffed, "A whore like that doesn't care for her child overnight, don't flatter yourself." He then folded his large hands together on the table. The diamonds within his chunky rings reflected off of the silverware on the table, "You called me."

"And why would I do that?" She questioned with a tilt of her head slightly to the side, her eyes nor her face gave away that she was shocked. Epiphany sat there with a stoic expression. Never would she have called him. She left Las Vegas behind and everyone in it for a reason. To be normal. As normal as a girl with a not-so-stellar past could be. But, she was only twenty-three and tried to remind herself that life was only just starting. Her childhood felt like adulthood but this era of her was her freedom. 

"Because you need me. You said it over the phone. You said what I already know. You can't live without me, you and I both know you can not function in a civilized world without being taken care of. Look at your job now, A whore on a pole." He tsked and shook his head. Cassius as always thought so low of women. Especially those who worked in the sex work or entertainment industry. Yet he and his family endorsed it all. They funded all if not the majority of the clubs in Dubai and Los Vegas. Or at least that's what he and her mother told her. 

And his words angered her. It made her blood boil and her skin crawl. Her teeth dug into the meaty flesh of her bottom lip as she stared across the table at him. Her mouth was no longer dry as she collected spit from the sides of her mouth before she hawked spit in his eye, "Hijo de puta! Even with all the money in the world, you're still a useless trick with nothing to offer but your money. You're lower than a whore."

Cassius's ears grew reddened as the corners of his jaw tightened in. His bushy brows started to narrow in as he got up at the same time she had. Only, he flipped over the cafe table causing a squad of campus security to bum rush into the spot. The man began cursing in Arabic as he lunged for her but Epiphany was quicker than him. She ran behind security and they tackled him to the floor. Her day had gone from annoying to bad. How did he find her? He said he had spoken to her and that she discussed needing him. These were the questions that plagued her mind as she was placed in the counselor's office alongside the police. She filled out various forms before the restraining order was put in. 

None of the day's events made sense. Beth, Annie, and their friend had no business 'warning' her about Christopher or as they called him, Rio. Rio had no knowledge of her and Epiphany wasn't important enough for his enemies to track down her ex to 'take her back'; Somehow, she felt like Beth was involved. Why, other than petty jealousy? Epiphany had no clue. It all overwhelmed her. The web of backstabbing, sex, personal gain, and who knew what else. Everything that transpired within the last three hours had caused Epiphany to form a severe headache along with body pain. Stress started to take a toll on her body. And after questioning and fillings were done, she was driven to her apartment and taken upstairs by police.

The moment that she got inside, she flopped herself across the couch; and let her mind go numb.

The scent of sewer water, shit, along with the feeling of a warm hand against her cheek had awoken Epiphany from her deep slumber. Her groggy eyes slowly opened and as her vision became clear, Christopher stood in front of her. She was seated on a wonky metal chair in an underground area that looked like a sewer storage locker. Epiphany, winced at the sight of her new setting and instantly latched her hands onto his forearms and stood up on her feet, "Chris? Chris what's going on?" she whimpered in fear.

His usually big brown eyes were dark. And the subtle smirk on his lips made her grow weary with fear. This was the first time she felt truly intimidated by him. His stature; The way he towered over her five foot two frame with his six foot one. Tears started to form at the corners of her eyes as her chest began to rise and fall quickly, "P-please..please don't hurt me." she begged. Not him. Anyone but him. He was the only aspect of her life that made her feel alive. His gentleness, The romance he brought to her life in such a short amount of time was overwhelming and she feared that ending more than her own death.

"Shh, relax. I'm not gonna hurt you, baby," his tone was mellow as he raised his left hand and laid it against the sides of her face. Christopher dipped his head down, his narrow nose brushing along her button one. His fingers gently caressed the side of her chubby cheek and side of her jaw, "But you tryna hurt me." his once gentle tone darkened, lowering to a baritone octave that sent chills down her spin. Before Epiphany could protest, she felt the coolness of metal riding up the middle of her breasts. His signature golden Glock kissed her bare skin, firmly pressed to the side of her temple. This caused a sequel to escape her lips and before she could utter any type of rebuttal, he hushed her with his lips placed on hers. The kiss was gentle, sweet, and slow. His right arm wrapped around her waist.

Epiphany didn't know whether to grasp him closer or fight him off. But what she could feel was his heart pounding like a punch against hers.

It all felt so surreal. Like a nightmare and wet dream all at once. Gentleness mixed in with the threat of violence. All she could feel was fear and confusion. Epiphany's body trembled against his. And she knew he felt. He had to have felt her. Her fear, her anxiety, her heart.

"Why do I got the feeling that…you're gonna be the bullet that puts a hole in my head, hm?" he hummed against her mouth with the slickness of a snake. He moved the barrel of the gun from her temple to his when he mentioned 'hole in my head' before laying back to her temple. Her tears sprinkled onto his cheek, "Did you get enough info on me to run it back to those bitches?"

"Wha-? You think I'm Beth's rat?"

Her pushing up into a frowning pout as she looked directly into his eyes. Her eyes of uncertainty changed to a look of disbelief, "Why?"

"I could ask you the same thing. That little lunch date looked real interesting,". Christopher hissed and with each movement his lips made, she could feel the brush against her mouth.

"Oh, Rio it was." she rolled her r's when she seethed his name, "Annie set me up with Beth to warn me about you."

He stood still and the menacing look he once possessed of narrowed eyes, a tightly clenched jaw, and striking eye contact had slowly begun to relax. The crease between his brows slowly smoothed out. His eyes flicked back and forth between looking at her and looking above her head. Christopher was debating. Not only with her but with himself. "And what did she say?" She, Beth. He didn't care for what the other two stiffs spoke about because it usually was a rehearsal of what she said.

"The short version? You're a fucking serial killer who uses sex and manipulation to exploit and get what you want, the long version? a lot of secrets were spilled out in the open." Epiphany replied, she spoke through her nose with a slight whisper to her voice.

An ounce of a smirk peeled on the right corner of his lips as he rolled the gun along the side of her neck. He didn't confirm or deny but he coyly asked, "What you think about that mama?"

"I'm thinking what the fuck does that have to do with me and you and why you have a gun to my head?!" she cried out, anger laced in her outburst. Her hands shook at her sides as she didn't push him away due to the gun. The fear of it going off in her face or throat was far greater than her anger. "I'm not involved!" she protested.

"Oh no, see you've been involved sweetheart." Christopher argued, "It's just a matter of whose side you're on."

Fool him once, shame on them. Fool him twice, shame on him….there wouldn't be a third time. Christopher was no fool and the moment the Boland woman walked into his life was when he realized he'd gotten a big…soft. And Epiphany just seemed eerily close to business for his liking. He needed undying loyalty, control, and if she was truly for him then he needed her in line. Love could come later…after sacrifice.

"Unless…" Christopher began to chuckle but the sound wasn't from happiness, "Unless you don't wanna be involved then you can leave right now." he took a few steps away from her and aimed the gun at the dark, wet hallway to the left.

Epiphany's eyebrows knitted together as she looked up at him in confusion. His play on words and attitude switch was causing gears to twist and bend in her mind. They spent every day together. If not day then night. Leave where?

Blinking rapidly as she stood there. She didn't move. She only stared at him. "What do you mean? " she questioned before licking at her lips, "Wi-...will I see you later?" uncertainty in her voice. And his smile made her stomach twist and turn, "You do mean I don't have to be involved with the club right or with whatever shit you've got going on with those women…right?"

She needed clarification and he gave her none of that. "Nah darlin, I'm afraid this is the end of line for us. You're off the hook." He dismissed her casually. His tone is deep and delicate. It was almost like a goodbye kiss. But he never moved, his eyes still settled in on her like a lion waiting to be challenged. Which let Epiphany know he wasn't done.

"No."

"No?" He challenged with a slight head tilt as his eyes looked her over.

Despie how fearful, how anxious she felt, Epiphany still chose to stand her ground and challenge him, "The moment I turn around you'll put a bullet to my head. Because you don't believe I'm not involved con esa perra concejal" (with that bitch councilwoman)

Sassily, she crossed her arms against her chest and cocked her hip slightly to the side as she stared at him. "Even if you don't kill me-"

"How bout you kill for me?" He proposed.

Epiphany's eyes widened as Christopher stalked towards her. "Come on champ." His hand latched to the back of her neck, forcefully making her walk in front of him down the dark tunnel. She followed him with stumbling feet and squinted her eyes in an attempt to see where they were going.

And then Christopher began to whistle and a light turned on in one of the rooms. Epiphany was led into that room and came face to face with Cassius. He'd been hung upside down with his hands and feet taped up. His left eye was swollen shut, shaded in dark plum purple and blue. His right eye was completely gorged out, by the looks of it…he'd been burned. "Actually, I shouldn't have said to kill for me. It's for you, a gift." he chuckled, "I thought the unmarked SUV was the fed tailing you but turns out it's this sorry looking Hijo de puta."

Epiphany cried as she looked at her ex-lover in horror. Sure, he was fucking vile. And everyone eventually would die. But, she couldn't take a life. "Chris, no. Please no, I can't." She weeped.

Christopher tilted his head back and inhaled deeply before he slowly straightened up and eyed her, "You will." he swiveled the gun around his finger and then offered it towards her. "He's your problem and you gotta get rid of em'. "

"You think he's gonna let you go? A girl like you…" his eyes trailed her body from top to bottom in admiration with a sinister smirk, "Ain't easy to let go."

"Someone will come looking for him!" She protested, "He's well connected in Vegas, his parents own everything."

"He ain't shit but a bootleg con artist. A janky ass car salesman at best." Christopher revealed with a dismissive tone. He then grasped her jaw in his hand with a gentle touch. Once Epiphany looked in his eyes, he leaned his head down and whispered "Do it. You don't gotta worry bout nothing else, I'll handle it. I take care of what's mine." His tone was reassuring.

"And I'm yours?" She sniffled with a flustered, wet face.

"Only if you wanna be." He rasped as he laid the gun firmly in her hand.

Breathing in deeply, She held it with two hands. Christopher switched from being beside her to standing behind her. His hands laid over hers as he steadied her arms up. His feet nudged her legs open and pushed one of her feet forward.

"Come on mamitá, show me how much you want this." She could feel his warm breath in her ear, a gentle caress of his nose nudging at the side of her earlobe. "Make me proud."

Her head hurts so bad, her chest aches as the vile metallic taste jumbles up in the back of her mouth. Christopher, Rio was all that they said he was but worse. But, she wanted him. She wanted him to stay. She wanted him to keep making her feel seen, wanted, cared for, and maybe even loved. Cassius was right. She couldn't function in a world without being taken care of. Not because she lacked the skill set or had any type of disability holding her back. No, it was because she didn't want to. Her hands gripped the base of the gun. Its heavyweight in her small hands felt as though she was holding someone's heart in her hands. And in a way she was. She was holding someone's lifeline.

BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

[frozenartscapes]

Everyone’s talking about that P.O.W. line from the most recent chapter so I’m going to throw in my own (maybe crazy) theory:

It’s not about Anya’s parents. It’s about Yor’s.

Ok, hear me out: based on everyone’s ages, I would guess this takes place either just before the adults in the main story were born, or were very little. This flashback storyline seems to be taking place near the start of the war, however we shouldn’t assume that the rumoured experimentation wasn’t happening before the war started, either. So what if this experimentation wasn’t about getting a telepath, but rather a super soldier?

We know Yor lived in East Neilsberg but I don’t believe it’s been explicitly stated that her family is from there. Her mother was likely “from the South” due to her using a customary ingredient from that area in a recipe but that doesn’t necessarily mean she’s from Southern Ostania. She could have come from the southern border region in Ostania/Westalis. On top of that, if either one or both parents weren’t from Ostania, it may explain why she has (supposedly) no other extended family within Ostania who could have helped her raise Yuri. No aunts or uncles, grandparents, cousins… Not even family friends or third cousins once removed. Have they all died due to the war/sickness/etc. or do they just not live in the country?

So, what if either both parents or at least just her mother were taken in as prisoners of war (either from being soldiers for Westalis or maybe even civilians from a border town swept away in the chaos). The experiments were to try and gain a Winter Soldier-esque weapon of war, and then preferably more of them to create an army. The experiments were extreme and killed most of the test subjects but Yor’s mother survived. And what if it was because she was pregnant?

She gave birth to a beautiful little girl, and then thanks to what the bastards had done to her and her motherly instincts being turned up to eleven, she breaks out with her child before they could determine if the experiments had any effect on the baby. Yor’s parents then escape to a quiet corner in the southeast of Ostania, believing it to be too risky to try to get back to Westalis. They raise their little girl with kindness and love, trying as hard as they could to give her a life free from the horrors they faced themselves. Eventually, they have a second child and all seems well. Both of their children are bright and happy and strong… Perhaps a little too strong in the case of the daughter. Even their son is more resilient than most kids. But their abilities aren’t the things that would make them the weapons those researchers wanted: it was who they were as people. And Yor is such a compassionate, innocent little girl despite her ability to bend inch-thick metal at the age of seven. And Yuri is so passionate and loving despite his ability to bounce back so quickly from broken bones.

But then they’re discovered. The parents do what they must to protect their children, and it works…but they don’t come home that night. Or the next night. Or the next.

Yor realizes what must have happened - that her parents had died while they were out running errands - and it left her in charge of the household. (And to go deeper: because their parents were trying to hide from the Ostanian government, they didn’t carry accurate identification so in the event something like this happened, officials wouldn’t be led back to their children. This is why no one discovered that there were two now-orphaned young children living alone and either forced them into a relative’s custody or an orphanage.)

And from there, we get to what we do know: Yor struggled to take care of Yuri until she was discovered by Garden. Her natural strength came in handy (but I also maintain that Shopkeeper also looks for specific personalities as well, so Yor’s unwavering bravery and her deep capacity for empathy and kindness also were key) and she was trained up to be on of the best assassins in Ostania. Garden would have done a great job in ensuring her super strength remained hidden by training her to control it better. It also would have provided the necessary cover and support to keep her and Yuri from falling into suspicion from the government.

Due to their desire to protect their children, Yor’s parents never talked about what happened to them. As far as she and Yuri are concerned, they were born in Ostania and are citizens of Ostania. (And technically that is the case for them both, although Yor’s birth certificate was forged since the scientists in the lab didn’t care enough about a baby that may not even live for very long to create one.) How they find any of this out, I’m not sure, but it opens up some interesting plot beats.

Yor would find out her strength really is unnatural, and that she’s technically a human test subject (but that would also further deepen her connection with Anya, and maybe would mean Anya would be more willing to open up to Yor if she hasn’t already). Yuri would discover that the country he’s been sacrificing so much for has not only tortured and experimented on his parents (and sister) but also is the reason they were orphaned (and all the hardships that came with that). Maybe there’s a chance then that one or both parents actually survived, and are just waiting for another conflict to be trotted out as the weapons that they are. Or there are relatives in Westalis who are more than thrilled to be reunited with their lost family.

(And this would work logically for the type of experiments these shady labs were doing: during wartime and the build up to it they would focus on things that would put them ahead of their enemy from a weapons standpoint. Focusing on boosting their armies’ capacities would be the priority at the start of the war. But toward the end, and then going into the Cold War, they would shift to intelligence-based research. Anya’s telepathy and Bond’s future sight would be more beneficial in a war of intelligence than an actual war, hence the shift toward that around the time that Anya was born. And I know Code: White isn’t technically canon but there’s a particular character in that movie that further suggests that Ostania was trying very hard to turn people into weapons.)

So yeah, that’s my theory (this became a much longer post than I first thought it would be).

[mytragedyperson]

possibly unpopular Pjo Opinions

Also, if you disagree, that's fine. people are allowed to have differing opinions. But, if you decide to be dick about it in the comments, the comment will be deleted. we can disagree but there's no need to be rude about it. However, if you'd like to respectfully and civilly discuss the differences in opinion, I'd be happy to. I always enjoy hearing different opinions. However I will warn you, while I'm not strictly anti-percabeth, there are some anti-percabeth or negative towards percabeth opinions in this post. If you're one of the toxic percabeth stans who hates on anyone who dislikes or says anything negative about the ship, you have been warned, any toxic comments will be deleted. I won't be arguing with you because it would be pointless. You're not going to change my mind and I'm not going to change yours. civil and respectful discussions only

Is it bad that I don't like Bianca Di Angelo. Like, don't get me wrong, I don't hate her, I don't think she's terrible, she's 12, she's a child, but try as I might I just can't understand her choice. I get that she's 12 and left to take care of her brother but they have no one else at that point and the first chance she gets she agrees to leave him. She agrees before they even get to camp, before she's even made sure it's safe and I've said it before I don't think there's a world where Nico stays at Camp Halfblood. I don't think Bianca necessarily dies in every universe. There must be at least some where she actually listens when told not to touch anything or even where she, an untrained, inexperienced 12 year old isn't picked for this quest where they know one of them will die because it's been prophecised, but I do think Nico, at least in every universe where Bianca agrees to join the Hunters, always leaves camp after discovering he's a son of Hades, and then he's really not safe. they're each other's only family and she chooses to leave him. In 2 years he'll be the same age as her, and a year after that he's older. He'll live his entire life while she pops in and out when they can, maybe sees him if he's at camp halfblood at the time. and, to be fair to Bianca, I don't think the Hunters should offer this to 12 year old anyway. but, no, Bianca will either be dead, or 12 forever as he younger brother grows older, as he nearly dies trying to save his friends and help his family. Although I would love to see her and the Hunter's reaction when Nico shows up in the fifth book, same age as Bianca, with 3 gods and, if I'm remembering correctly, an army of skeletons, as she realises her younger is growing up. Honestly I could see them finding a way to send messages and Nico, despite knowing there's no place for him there, going to Camp Halfblood when he knows the hunters will be there so he can see his sister. see, i like the idea of alive Bianca that lives in my head, because i love the angsty idea of her seeing her brother get older and get married and make new friends and meet the half sister and her still being physically 12 but so much older mentally and wondering what could have been if she hadn't agreed to be a Hunter. But canon Bianca? i get that she's young but, maybe it's because I'm the youngest of a family with quite a few cousins that are very close but I can't imagine a world where my older brother or one of my older cousins agrees to just leave me somewhere without first making sure it's safe, even if they were 12. and the fact that they're each other's only family on Earth at that point? and then in book 4, instead of appearing directly ti Nico and telling him not to come to her, she uses Percy as a middle man? Nico is not Percy's responsibility. No, you agreed to join the Hunters, you agreed to go on this quest when you were untrained and inexperienced (because somehow there was no one more qualified or better suited after the other Hunter couldn't go).

Honestly, maybe my problem is more with the Hunters than Bianca herself now that I'm thinking about it. The way they act like they're better than everyone's else but get upset when they retaliate. The way they hate all men. There's just something about their attitude in the third books I hate. Maybe it's because it's from Percy's POV but, I don't know, they just rub me the wrong way. Maybe it's because they're supposed to be feminists but they're written by a man who thinks the extent of feminism is "we as women hate all men and think we're better than them" which, while is admittedly how some women are, is not supposed to be the point of feminism. I was taught feminism was equality between men and women, not one being better than the other, not hating on one while hating one the other, both men and women being equal. Is this where I realise that my problems actually boil down to problems with Rick Riordan writing women and girls? Zoe's dislike does make some sense and I do like her character but it feels like the other Hunters are, like, radical feminists who believe men and women should be separate?

Also while I'm here, might as well add, as someone who read the first five books but does plan to read the others, Percabeth means literally nothing to me. I don't hate them but I don't ship them either. They're fine as friends but as a couple? I'm sure there are much more interesting ships for both of them. The first five books is more or less them not being together but getting jealous of anyone of the opposite who talks to them, (though Percy's is also annoyance because, you know, Luke tried to kill him and Annabeth still has hope she can get through to him even though he's betrayed them. Percy's fatal flaw is loyalty, he doesn't take betrayal well, we saw how he reacted to Nico's perceived betrayal), and (Usually Annabeth but Percy sometimes) picking arguments. Ah, yes, the old married couple. Now, the moments where they actually bond outside of quests and camp halfblood? Not many of them. They have a couple of cute moments but, as a couple, I don't really care for it. I don't mind them as friends but, as more than that, not really. Annabeth chose Percy over Luke? oh great, and so the rest of camp Halfblood, the others who stay there all year? They mean nothing? If it was't for Percy, she would've just left them? Interesting. Percy gave up immortality for Annabeth? Not really, sure, she may have been part of it, but the main part was making sure children of all Greek gods had somewhere safe to go and would be claimed. also, why would a depressed, possibly suicidal teen want to be immortal? want to be with the gods who have just used him and his friends and half of whom hate him? Also, next to Annabeth Percy is always made out to be the dumb one but he's not really. Sure Annabeth is better at planning but Percy is better at improvising when things go wrong. See: him tricking Crusty. Also in that first book Annabeth also makes some not so smart choices. See: going to the Arch to sightsee in the middle of the quest. Percy is also the one who figures out The Lotus Hotel situation, not Annabeth. They have different types of intelligence but Percy is not dumb.

[homielander]

the most interesting character detail about maeve through which i have extrapolated at least half my understanding of her is that she prefers to be called maeve. i frequently see "maggie" pop up in meta and fic as her chosen name, but quite literally nobody calls her that, including (and most significantly) elena. elena is maeve's tether to her humanity and her refuge away from vought, yet even elena only ever refers to her as maeve. (and in season 2, we learn that maeve started dating elena before she joined the seven -- before queen maeve's popularity would have become so inescapable that she would feel compelled to introduce herself by that name.) it's especially notable that in her final scene, maeve refers to starlight as annie for only the second time, but she is still called maeve by both annie and elena.

here's what we know about maeve's life as maggie: she had a rocky relationship with her father whom she doesn't seem to speak to anymore, she's from a "cousin-fucker hick town" as described by homelander -- i can't imagine this place being terribly lgbt-friendly, and she generally lacks connection with anyone she would have known before becoming queen maeve. she doesn't have fond memories of this time of her life, and perhaps that extends to all associations with it, including the name maggie.

i tend to think that becoming queen maeve was, in many ways, self-actualizing for her. the act that garners her national attention and earns her a ticket to vought is a heroic one -- she breaks every single bone in her right arm to save a school bus from falling off a bridge. and i know madelyn says she is responsible for the mythos of queen maeve, but this character was still aspirational, and likely someone maeve wanted to live up to. in any case, this new identity gave her a purpose and tools to achieve it: she wanted to help people! by her own admission, maeve enters vought bright-eyed and hopeful, not far off from annie. (maeve is also one of the only supes in the seven not to know about compound v -- she doesn't strike me as religious but believing she's among the very few born with powers would have strengthened her internal drive to be a hero.)

it's for the same reason that i think maeve actually... liked having powers? of course she says otherwise in her last season, but season 3 maeve is cynical and weary from about two decades of dealing with vought and homelander's abuse. they've used her first as the token woman and then the token gay person of the seven. after growing largely passive to the brutality of the job, the flight 37 incident forces her to confront all of the violence she's witnessed and tolerated. she's given pieces of herself away and she loathes the husk of herself that's left. i don't find it surprising that she would want to relinquish every single connection to vought, including her powers.

assuring herself that she will be better off without her powers comes with an added benefit: she gets to distinguish herself from homelander, who would be lost without his powers. and i think she is eager to make this distinction in her mind because there are some uncomfortable similarities between their initiations into vought. the mantle of homelander allows him to exert agency for the first time in his life, just as the mantle of queen maeve endows her with purpose for the first time in hers. (crucially, none of his current circle call him john, either.) they both enjoy being the most powerful superheroes in the world, the unending public adoration, and (in my interpretation) each other. they're also both overwhelmingly lonely and they know it -- homelander teases her multiple times about how she has no friends with a bit more bite in every passing season, while maeve is keenly aware of his isolation and exploits his yearning for love pretty effectively.

maeve steadily grows disillusioned with her position at vought because she still has a moral code, suppressed though it may be. even so, she nearly relents to homelander's vision: that they will be lonely at the top but lonely together. she's pulled out of her miserable state of inaction by annie and elena. annie reminds her of what a hero should be (what she was, once); elena offers her a way out of vought, serving as maeve's light at the end of the tunnel, so to speak.

she escapes that tower as maeve, not maggie. she rejects homelander's god complex which engenders his cruelty towards regular people and 'lesser' supes -- no one will call her queen maeve ever again, at least -- but it is still important to her to be a hero, and for better or for worse, she found that as maeve. i feel like she'd struggle to exist without her powers (possibly the self-awareness hasn't settled in yet) for all the reasons mentioned above. i like to think that eventually, she'll circle around to helping people and resisting vought however possible -- albeit on a smaller, more covert scale so she can continue living a peaceful life with elena.

[sunkissedscribbles]

Prejudiced - Chapter Four

this is only a part of the series, the previous and next chapters can be found here

a/n: things are gonna get complicated soon haha

word count: 4676

tw: mention of sex, cursing i guess

summary: the events of the world cup haunt cass but it’s not easy for mattheo either.

<previous chapter next chapter>

dividers by @chachachannah

Like every summer, Ki's parents invited me to stay with them three in Italy for two weeks. And in return, as every year, we took Ki with us to Greece with mom in the following two weeks.

It was, as always, fascinating; being at the sea again, wearing the clothes from my summer wardrobe — my favourite thing on earth, — speaking Greek with the family, taking long hikes, and of course, enjoying the lively nightlife of first Rimini and then Skiathos.

The summers with Ki were always full of fun — and adventures. She seeks adventure more at parties while I'm more into being outside, doing whatever; hiking, swimming, running, collecting rocks and seashells. So, I'm the one navigating during the day and she's the one to do it at night. But one thing we can agree on is living life slowly on some days, going on picnics with the food I made while she was the entertainment (screaming Shout at the Devil from the top of her lungs), painting by the ocean or in the woods and reading in each other's company (not even the same books, but we always share the big events from them).

So, coming back to London was rather depressing: leaving the 30 degrees we got used to over the previous four weeks and having to get used to the maximum 24, again.

And, honestly, I wanted nothing more than to go back which I would've done on a broom even, even if Zeus and Poseidon both had decided to foil my plan of flying over the ocean back to the peaceful life I've been living in the past month.

I would've done it because August 18th, was a disaster.

I've never experienced such contrast before; one minute we are in our tent with Ki, cheering, in a chinwag about the World Cup, about which I had to explain most things during the match since Ki only came because of me, and now, I'm running frantically, shouting her name because I don't know where and when I've lost her. I only know that one second I was running, holding her hand, wand in my other hand, and now there's only my wand that I'm gripping.

The whole thing is a blur, a complete mess in my head as I'm trying to make sense out of everything. Seeing the crowd of those wizards, practically carrying a muggle family in the air overhead — not seeing any of the wizards' faces because they were wearing masks and hoods, just a minute ago has me worried. Where is she?

"Ki!" I shout, my throat already sore, my voice trembling. I don't get any response. "Kiara!" on the verge of crying, I don't even know what to do, in the fear of losing my best friend. In the fear of losing my sister.

I hold my wand out as I hear footsteps coming my way, ready to duel if needed.

"Draco?" I look at my cousin, completely gobsmacked and I lower my wand just a bit.

"Thought I'd see you with Potter," he retorts snarkily. He looks completely calm, not bothered by the situation and the chaos going around more than about me running around with Harry or not.

"Where are your parents?"

"None of your business," he barks back. I miss the times we were friends — when he was actually acting like we were family.

I get a flashback of the hooded and masked people marching through the campsite and I have a strong suspicion about where his parents — or at least his father — may be, getting the answer to my own question. "He's among them, isn't he? Lucius," I raise my wand back again, pointing at him.

"Regulus would be disappointed in you," he spits instead of answering, making my eyes widen in disbelief. That little prick.

"My father wasn't one of them!" I raise my voice. "He didn't torture people! He was nothing like our family and nothing like your father!"

Draco steps closer, talking in a way-too-calm voice, almost asking to be hexed.

"Then why did he die? He couldn't bear his duties, couldn't bear the trust he was given."

"You take that back! You take that back now," I raise my wand.

"Cass!" I hear Ki's voice from behind and she's only watching us for a moment as I'm waiting to get a reaction out of Draco. "Not again," she mutters under her breath before gripping my wrist and pulling me away from my cousin.

"Go on, run away like your cowardly dad!" He smugly spits after us and this is where I lose it; I free my wrist from Ki's grip and taking a step closer to Draco, not giving him any time to react more than making his self-satisfied smirk disappear from his lips, I punch him in the face, hearing the bone in his nose crack as his head tilts backward with a flash of his platinum-blonde hair.

"You filthy blood traitor!" He yells after me as Ki now pulls me away for real and Draco practically runs in the other direction.

"You are a mad woman, boyfriend material, almost," Ki says with a satisfied smirk and this is the point where relief washes over me as my mind gets clear just by hearing this very Kiara comment and I pull her closer, hugging her tightly.

"You are alright, are you? You got hurt?" I grip on her t-shirt as I hug her.

"I didn't," she reassures me, returning the gesture with just as much affection.

"MORSMORDRE!" I hear from the distance, pulling back from Ki, but not letting go of her hand.

We both turn in the direction of the voice, seeing a green flash of light in the sky light up the whole area of the camp, forming a skull with a serpent emerging from its mouth like a tongue.

"What... is that?" Ki's grip on my hand tightens and so does mine on hers.

"The Dark Mark," I reply with a shiver and a gulp. I've seen it countless times when reading about my family's past or the past of the Wizarding World in general.

In the remaining ten days of summer break, I'm absolutely knackered. I can barely sleep, thinking about Draco's words and what happened at the World Cup. And when I try to sleep, the events haunt me as nightmares, feeling as if I was near dementors all the time; siphoning and squeezing all the happiness and hope out of my body, the experience adding up to me thinking about where Sirius might be all summer long. Harry, my only source of information on the topic, hasn't told me anything in his letters; maybe he hasn't heard of him either. But still, why do I care about him when I've never even met him? And why do I care when he clearly has no intention of changing this, after what I made out of Harry's words last schoolyear.

About what happened on that ominous night in August; it blew up the whole Wizarding community, causing everyone to freak out currently. Ki and I have come to the conclusion that something is up and stinks like a whole load of dung bombs.

On the first of September, after saying goodbye to mum we get on the train, looking for our friends. We find Mattheo, sitting alone in a compartment, only Enzo's bag is there next to his on the overhead luggage rack, but the boy's nowhere to be seen.

He doesn't notice us until I kick his right foot gently, smiling down at him, "Hiya."

He smiles back, his gaze wandering for a moment on me. Somehow, his smile got... brighter? That's not the right word. But it somehow changed a little bit. He gets up to give me a short hug, which gives me just enough time to notice he indeed got taller and how nice he still smells, "You're... different," he states.

"I got taller," I grin.

He pulls back a little, looking at me as if he could just tell how many centimeters I am exactly and he says, laughing: "Bollocks, you did not."

"No, I didn't," I shrug with a smile, plopping down into the seat opposite his to let him greet Ki as well.

And while he does that, my gaze lingers on him for a moment, admiring his dark curls, long lashes, and outfit choice, the same short-sleeve over long-sleeve thing but it's something I do a lot too and I love. And it suits him. But something is different about him; maybe he looks a bit more mature — not too much, really just slightly. But he's clearly got taller too, I felt it when he hugged me. It was... different.

Mattheo and Ki both sit down and I can't help but feel caught as he looks at me. I look up at the luggage rack, eyes setting on Enzo's bag.

"Where's the bloke?" Ki asks as she looks at it as well.

"Shagging," Mattheo shrugs casually, making me frown.

"Enzo, shagging someone?"

"Yeah," he nods.

That's something new. He wasn't the type to just go about his day and seduce girls in this mean. Sure, he's always been a bit of a flirt, but never has he taken it this far, and it has never been serious, the flirting I mean; when he likes someone he usually just stares and smiles awkwardly when caught. And like, he's just turned fifteen. Exactly a month ago. This is new and for some reason, frustrating. Never would've thought he'd be the type to do this so easily and nonchalantly.

"Piss off, he isn't," Ki shakes her head, gobsmacked.

"He is!"

"No, he's not! Sweet baby Enzo doesn't even dare looking at girls he likes because he's afraid of talking to them, the coward prick," Ki refuses to believe and I can't help but chuckle at her statement.

Mattheo shrugs with a hint of mischievousness, "He's changed. And he doesn't even know the girl."

Now this really is something new. Never seen him like the kinda guy to just... get someone to hook up with, to be frank.

Ki and I share a look, my surprise reflecting on her face as well.

Right on time, Enzo steps into the compartment, adjusting his belt.

"You disgusting little prick, what have you done to Enzo," Ki starts, not even greeting him, no, jumping right in the middle of scolding him. Though she's only joking about the scolding part, we both still are astonished.

"Hi to you too," he turns to Ki with a roll of his eyes, slightly frowning before looking at me with a small smile, "You look-"

"Different, yes," Ki cuts him off. "And stop looking at her like a piece of meat. Keep your hands away from her."

"Okay, enough," the boy shakes his head, Matt hiding how much he enjoys the scene in the seat next to him. "What's got into you, Kiara?"

"Piss off, I know about your business and you're not shooting your shot with her," she grabs my arm. I swear she's like a brother who tries to keep everyone away from me even when it's not necessary sometimes.

"Business?" he frowns.

"Shagging, Enzo!" she retorts with a grunt.

"I was at the loo!" he says, offended, also blushing. I look at Mattheo, who can barely keep in his laughter.

"But with who, hm?" Ki squints her eyes and I kick Matt's foot again. He tries to regain his control over his about-to-burst laughter and I see through him almost immediately.

"Alone!" Enzo frowns, annoyed, gesturing with his hands.

Mattheo can't hold it anymore, snickering can be heard from his direction. Ki and Enzo both turn to him.

"You twat," Enzo counters with an annoyed look on his face. "Did you really tell them I was with a girl? Or a guy?" his eyes widen.

"Fuck, you're right, that would've been funnier," Matt flashes a smug grin, earning a middle finger from Enzo.

"Ki," I say calmly with a small hiding in the corners of my mouth, my eyes already wrinkling from the expression, "I'm not in need of an arm amputation at the moment," I refer to her still gripping my elbow.

"Right, sorry," she lets go of it while the door slides to the side, Theo stepping into the small room, immediately whistling.

"What a beautiful sight!" he grins at Ki and I before plopping down next to Enzo. "Alle ragazze sono cresciute le tette." (The girls grew boobs.)

I frown, not understanding a word, looking at Ki, who suggestively smirks at the boy.

"What did he say?" I ask but she just shakes her head.

Theo flashes Ki a grin, talking somewhat seductively — or it's only the Italian accent. "I miei pantaloni stanno diventando sempre più stretti. Puoi finalmente aiutare?" (My pants are getting tighter and tighter. Can you finally help?)

To that, Ki's face flushes red and Mattheo opposite me frowns with a disgusted expression. "Bloody hell man, I didn't need to know that!"

Ki finally speaks up, not even looking away from Theo, "Right here and now?"

I'm waiting for a kind of explanation, looking both at Theo, Ki, and Mattheo but when no one says anything, I shift my gaze at Enzo who shakes his head with the same look in his eyes as I have in mine; being left out, being the only two who don't understand anything.

Theo then turns to me and says with a small, genuine smile "Sei più bella che mai."

I have, again, no idea what that meant, but I assume it wasn't as... risky as what he's said to Ki. But it sounds beautiful, especially because Theo said this one so gently, even with that thick Italian accent of his. "Translation?" I say finally.

"You are more beautiful than ever," Mattheo says, locking his gaze with mine, answering when Theo and Ki have only opened their mouths, yet to do so, and Enzo turns to him with a facial expression I'd call slightly frustrated. I can't help but smile, biting my lip as I'm met with those shiny brown eyes. He says it as if these were his own words, but that I just shove to the side.

Then I turn to Theo as I shake myself out of my thoughts, still blushing lightly. "You can't complain either," to that, he grins at me, then speaks up, "So, how was summer y'all?"

"Horrible! This bitch kept me outside all summer! Plus you don't want to know what it's like to get woken up by such shit of her leaving for her run every day at five! Five! In the morning!" Ki starts before anyone else could.

"Says the one who actually glued me to my bed..." I retort, making the boys laugh.

We get to hear about Theo's summer in Italy and how he got a girl to blow him for concert tickets — reactions contain such controversial things as "Mate, that's not cool!" and "Fuck man, great deal!"

Matt doesn't say much, we only get a "nothing much happened" and "was with Theo."

As for Enzo, he talks about how he went to France with his father.

"Now about the World Cup," Enzo says quickly after he finishes his report about his summer, leaning a little bit forward and so do Theo and Mattheo as if we were about to let them know about some secrets.

"Which part?" I ask, trying to avoid the incidents with Draco. "Because I mean, that Wronski Feint was amazing and-"

"Not about that," Theo cuts me off but I can see a small smile hiding in the corners of Mattheo's lips as I mention the trick. "About what happened after the match."

We tell the boys what happened, from the start of the Death Eaters causing fire and such, through us losing each other in the crowd to the point where the Dark Mark appears in the sky.

"...and she punched Malfoy in the process," Ki states proudly, squeezing my shoulder, to which the boys' eyes widen.

"You should really consider switching houses," Theo smirks, suggestively wiggling his eyebrows.

"What did he do this time?" Mattheo asks and I'm about to tell him he was simply disrespectful toward half-bloods and muggleborns, which of course was not the exact reason for me to punch him, but the door of the compartment opens, sliding to the side once again by the Head Girl of the new school year.

"Ah, great, almost all of you are here," she starts, looking at Ki, Enzo and then me. "Come with me, we'll inform you about your duties as Prefects, now."

We both nod, getting our bags from the rack overhead and waving goodbye to Theo and Matt. I forgot about this part. I've been excited about this all summer — Ki wasn't because she hates kids but she still liked the idea to have an excuse to be out of bed after curfew — but now I just want to stay here.

As we leave the compartment, I'm following Beatrice close behind. "Who's the other from my house?"

"Cormac McLaggen," she answers with a sigh. I bet she knows him just as well as everyone else — the guy has a reputation for being a pompous prick.

I frown, wanting to just simply end my life here and now, and Ki's snickering can be heard from behind me.

"You're fucked, girl," she starts, an empathetic hand on my shoulder but she's grinning. "And if it's on him, you should take this literally."

Patrolling with Cormac McLaggen is what I'd call exhausting torture; listening to him talk all evening (after the feast, eating until I feel sick and tired of everything, and after the big news of the Triwizard Tournament) about how I should dedicate my first Hogsmeade Saturday to him and how gorgeous I've grown over the summer is tiring and extremely annoying and I swear it's a million times worse than having a Mandrake scream at you from up close.

Turning onto another corridor with Cormac's irritating non-stop chatter, I spot Mattheo — but so does Cormac, the twat. I mean, he's not a twat for noticing a guy clearly out of bed, away from the Dungeons where he should be in his dorm. He's just a twat in general.

"What are you doing here, Riddle?" McLaggen steps forward, blocking my way of walking and seeing Mattheo. He's going to the Astronomy Tower, of course.

"Sleepwalking," Mattheo states, annoyed, making me smile. I can tell just by his voice that he's rolling his eyes. Okay, let's forget about this. I sounded like a creep.

Cormac grabs my arm and starts pulling me back as if defending me, "Come on, Cassandra..."

"...Cassiopeia..." I hear Mattheo correcting him with a snicker, but Cormac clearly doesn't.

"...he's dangerous. I'll keep you safe," the bloke finishes and as he pulls me with greater force, I angrily grab my wand with my other hand, pointing at him from behind.

"Confundo," I call out, causing a pale pastel pink light to hit McLaggen and force him to let go of my arm. He starts to walk away, back to his dorm where I intended to send him.

I turn back, seeing Mattheo still standing there, watching with his big brown eyes sparkling at the little mischief.

"I befriended the devil," he grins at me as I move closer to him.

"Should've sent him to the Black Lake for a date with the Giant Squid," I mutter, taking Mattheo's hand as I start to walk toward the door to the Astronomy Tower. I unlock it and disappear behind it with the boy's warm hand still in mine before anyone can notice us.

"This boy will be the death of me, I swear. If I don't end his life first," I let out a deep sigh, leading Mattheo up the stairs.

"Shouldn't you send me to bed? Or deduct house points?" he tilts his head lightly and I turn my head to look back at him. "Or are you going to beg on your knees to be shagged?" he asks with a suggestive raise of his eyebrows and a grin. I smack his arm with an angelic smile in return.

I immediately let go of his hand as I get this is quite unnatural for him and me — this physical stuff.

"Why have a Prefect friend if not for sneaking you out of bed?" I smirk at him.

"Alright, fair," he laughs softly as we make our way up to the tower.

I stop suddenly — we both only come here when we need some time alone. And I planned to come here after patrolling, anyway.

"Why are you coming here?" I look up at him who's yet to notice I stopped a few steps prior.

"Why are you coming here?" he turns around, looking down at me.

"It's not an answer. And I asked first," I point out with a furrow of my brows.

"I'll tell you if you do too. And if you finally tell me why you broke Malfoy's nose," he stretches his arm out for me to take his hand as an offer, to go up with him and talk.

I look at his hand in front of me, hesitating. Not because I don't trust him and don't want to tell him — but because this physical touch thing is utterly new with him.

"The two things are actually related," I sigh, finally taking his hand. His face lights up slightly which makes me smile a little bit.

"You start, then," he smiles, leading me up to the top.

"The prick disrespected my dad," I tell him as soon as we sit down by the railing, letting our legs down under the metal by the edge of the tower. "See, he's always been a sensitive topic I guess... and Draco told me he would be disappointed..."

I take a moment before continuing, sighing. Godric, why is it so hard to talk about this?

He takes my hand again, squeezing it, to which I smile empathetically.

"...In me. He'd be disappointed if he saw I disrespect our family and such... not following their views. Not following the legacy. Then I hit him when he called dad cowardly."

The words are resonating in my ear. My own words, about how I hit someone. Hit. Someone. I. I hit someone. My actions are only now sinking in; two weeks after it happened.

"I would've done the same," Mattheo looks at me, searching my face, reassuringly rubbing my hand with his thumb, his touch creating a warm sensation on my skin. "I mean, not if he was disrespectful towards my... father, you know. If I were you, I mean. He deserved it."

"But you're a boy," I state.

"And he's your cousin. It's like a... brotherly fight, isn't it? And your family is problematic on it's own so it's not a surprise you can't keep your temper in check," he smirks. His words are true though and I can't deny it. But still, I hurt someone.

"So then, is this why you wanted to come here? Because you hit someone who deserved it?" he looks into my eyes and I shake my head.

"No... it's just... what I saw at the World Cup. That night," I look away for a moment, letting my guard down.

"The... mark?" he says the word with pure disgust, and with a sigh, I nod.

"And the people. They were... you know. His followers," I look back at him. "And I have this feeling that something is up... and I really hope I'm wrong for once. Because as much as a nerd I am, I've read some books and articles on the topic. And I'm just... afraid. Because after more than a decade, it's odd how they all show up all of a sudden."

"I have nightmares," Mattheo says suddenly when I stop talking. "I-I used to have them but I didn't have a single one in a really long time. And those I had before were different. But now... this summer, I had a lot. I was hoping they didn't mean anything and my gut feelings are usually wrong but... after what happened," his voice is a little shaky; I've never seen him this vulnerable and it makes me worry. "I can't be sure anymore."

He looks away, trying to hide his feelings by doing so. I squeeze his hand as his words sink in. He has nightmares, and Death Eaters were at the World Cup, causing chaos, and torturing muggles and muggleborns. Something stinks.

"I'm just kind of scared because... what if something bad happens?" he admits, to my genuine surprise.

"Yeah, mate, I don't have a good feeling about it either," I shake my head, intertwining our fingers for more comfort for the both of us. Strange, this newfound physical comfort with him. But it's definitely something I like and could bear more often.

"And like, the new Dark Arts teacher seems kinda dogdy. His eye scares the shit outta me," he smiles lightly as he looks up from our hands to meet my eyes, trying to enlighten the mood after letting the conversation sink in fully.

"He's the most famous Auror, actually," I laugh. I can't disagree with his reasoning about Moody's eye but I somehow find it fascinating. Strange, but fascinating. Rather grotesque. "I mean, it's kinda cool, he looks like someone who fought against werewolves and vampires and survived."

"But like, what if it has x-ray capability?" he chuckles, making me laugh.

"Then it's something McLaggen would really like to use," I shake my head with a laugh, looking back into his eyes.

"Theo as well," he points out, making me remember what he said on the train.

"Speaking of whom," I start. "What did he tell Ki?"

"My pants are getting tighter and tighter. Can you finally help?" he quotes Theo's exact words with a frown.

My eyes widen and my mouth hangs open. I mean, I get why it made Kiara blush.

"You'd like to hear that from someone too?" he grins, seeing my slight blush in the starlight. "From McLaggen maybe? Or shall I call him McCharming? McDreamy?"

I can't help but almost burst out laughing at his suggestions but he makes me blush embarrassedly at them, just with the whole conversation and where it went.

"McPrick would be perfect for him. Or McICan'tCountUpToTen," I suggest, making him laugh.

Once our laughter dies down, I move a little bit closer to him, leaning on his shoulder, thinking through this extremely long and exhausting day.

"Did Theo really make a move on Ki? Or was it just the causal banter?"

"Dunno. The bloke kinda has a thing for her," he would shrug if my head wasn't on his shoulder.

"Yeah, that one I could tell. How come you speak Italian though?" I point out.

"Theo's mum taught me."

One thing I might have not mentioned before is how after You-Know-Whose disappearance, the Notts took Mattheo in. I don't have many details because Theo doesn't really like to talk about his family, especially not his mum since she died when the boys were young, years before we started Hogwarts. Even the thought of losing mum is painful, of course I don't pressure them into talking about her.

I suddenly remember how he translated Theo's words to me on the train. When he said I was 'more beautiful as ever' and I feel this urge to ask if Theo's words are true. Not to fish for compliments — just to know if he agrees at least a little bit. If he thinks I'm beautiful. At least a little bit. It's strange and I don't know why I'm even thinking this.

He clears his throat after some time, "But if you tell the others about my nightmares I'll put a dung bomb into your bag."

I just smile lightly, nodding, my head still on his shoulder, "Noted."

i hope you enjoyed this one! next chapter next wednesday<3 comment to be on the tag list.

tag list: @reyys-letters @mqstermindswift @inksoakedparchment @sweetcolorfulies

[iheartgirlzn]

ANGIE IN THE RIORDANVERSE HEADCANNONS

🐡 notes: get to know me as a child of poseidon at camp half-blood! inspired by @sunnitheapollokid , @child-of-apollo & @pinkdiorluvr (ik i wasn’t tagged BUT THIS IDEA IS SOOO COOL!)

depending on when i arrive at camp, i don’t know when i’d be claimed. like if it’s before percy shows up maybe a month? but if it’s after him a week at most.

but i do know i’d be claimed before i become a teen, like 11 or 12 at oldest !!

i also don’t think i’d be a year rounder, but i’d 100% go during the holidays if i’m not busy

ANYWAYSS it’d probably happened when i was alone - maybe swimming or sunbathing and BOOM! there’s a trident above my head

i’m not sure if it would’ve been a surprise to some people, but i think some campers would be like ‘yeah makes sense.’

i the other options were ‘they’re a hermes kid’ or ‘that’s probably hypnos’ child.’ (ignore the fact those two gods couldn’t be more different)

until percy shows up it’d be just me.. so obvi i’m the head counsellor 🫡 the cabin would be SO clean with me running the place.

campfire sing alongs are defo my favourite part of the day (if i didn’t have anxiety i’d be a theatre kid just saying </3)

and i don’t play any instruments anymore, but if i could i’d totally play the guitar around the fire 🤸

either way i WILL sing any musical that comes to mind with no shame whatsoever (mamma mia.. hamilton.. epic.. encanto..)

i like to think that i’d be close with percy and tyson!

me and perce wld clash sometimes but we’re related so ig we’d HAVE to get along /j (coming from someone with 2 younger siblings 😣😣)

↑ SPEAKING OF MY OTHER FAMILY i’m also close with all my other cousins and nieces?? nephews??

i’m closest with the og trio (grover, annabeth, and percy), children of apollo, aphrodite and hephaestus!!

(↑ me and leo would be bffs.)

and maybe the hypnos cabin cuz i love sleeping and i will be visiting them often 👀

BUT I LOVE ALL THE DEMIGODS ANYWAYS AND WLD PROTECT THE YOUNGER ONES W MY LIFE!! i love kids (don’t take that weirdly.)

but also speaking of sleeping i cannot fall asleep without a bit of light. like EVEN NOW I CANNOT THE PITCH DARK SCARES ME SO BADD

my relationship with my mum would be fine, she’d just miss me a lot and be overprotective !

my powers are breathing underwater and controlling it and whatever else percy has.. and maybe a tail — JUST LET ME LIVE MY MERMAID DREAM

my weapon of choice would be two celestial bronze daggers or like a giant golden trident /hj

i’d defo train with piper or annabeth bc of this

i couldn’t care less if that meant getting beaten up by two gorgeous women — #bipanic 🤭

my favourite chb activities would be the sword fighting lessons/archery/or capture the flag!! (i love archery irl too sooo)

i LOVE HUGS!! so i’m always hanging off of someone if they don’t mind :P

I ALSO LOVE SWIMMING!!!! lowkey duh tho cuz my dad’s the god of the sea.. BUT I LOVE SWIMMING

wears glasses. i hate wearing glasses but i hate contact lenses even more.

closest friends with rachel dare, annabeth chase, leo valdez (ik i said this but we a chaotic duo frfr), the stolls, piper mclean, etc!

speaking of me and leo being a chaotic duo WE WOULD TOTALLY HANG OUT LOADSS

and if i’m not with him then i’m by the lake or in the strawberry field eating them all 🗣️

obsessed with the art ‘n crafts cabin — will be in there painting or doodling away OR with rachel in her cave and drawing while she does oracle stuff

anyways i like to think of myself as a cool older sibling to the younger campers bc i’d let them do whatever they want (within reason) but also wld protect them w my life !!

#oldersistercore

[fantasy-so-far]

(Count)Down to Dawntrail - Heavensward

            Evie sat back in the beach chair and stared out at the calm, glittering water. While she had hoped to get more balance practice on the waves, she was content enough to watch the day waste into the horizon. Beside her, Eerie wasn’t quite as content.

Since they met at the All-Saint’s Amateur Tournament in Ul’dah, the pair had been forging a strange relationship. They were opponents in the tournament who became peers in the pugilist guild after. They transitioned from training partners to traveling cohorts as the guild sent them out on assignments. Now, as they both took passive roles in the guild so they could pursue other callings, they were simply friends sharing drinks on a beach.

“I leave tomorrow,” Eerie reminded Evie for the third time in a few bells. “I cannot believe I am going back.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?” Evie asked easily.

The sincerity of her offer touched Errette deeply, but her response was the same every time they had this exchange. “No. You wouldn’t be treated well. The nobles of Ishgard follow the Holy See blindly and while you might be welcomed with the other travelers from the south, if you are seen with me that would be short lived. My family…my people…they will not bow. But if there is really hope of peace between Ishgard and Dragons, then I must be there to see it. Or I must be there to protect my people when it all goes to shit.”

Evie studied Eerie quietly while nodding slowly. She looked back out at the water, finding calm and grounding. While she had been born in a landlocked place, something about the sea made her feel like she was home at last.

“But you will take the linkpearl, right?” Evie asked when she started to realize that feelings of home were precisely what called Eerie away.

“Yea, but I am still pissed you bought it,” Eerie grouched. “You need to save your damn gil to find a place to live. You cannot just stay camped on the beach. You will either find a place to work or live here, or you will return to the guild. Do you hear me? This little tumbleweed routine you have going on is getting ridiculous. How do you even get the sand out of your pants?! I have been here for a whole three hours, and I am convinced I will be carrying the beach with me when I leave.”

Evie laughed and raised her coconut when she shrugged. “I guess it comes with living in the desert.”

Eerie rolled her eyes and sat back in her chair while taking a spiteful sip of her own drink.

The timer was reset for the moment, but in the hours before Evie saw Eerie off at the aetheryte she would have a version of the same conversation five more times. Eerie was viewed by many as a taciturn and severe woman, but Evie could practically feel the waves and wake of anxiety that churned around her. Right before Eerie left, Evie grabbed her hand and looked up with tears in her eyes.

“When there is peace, and I do mean that, please send for me. I want to come and see your home. I want to meet your people. I want to celebrate with you. You are my friend, and it would mean the world to me if you would share that with me.”

Eerie refused to look at Evie for a few moments as she fought a losing battle with her own. She managed a stiff nod before pulling away and taking her turn to travel along the rivers of aether.

Evie believed there would be peace, and while eventually there was, Eerie’s call never came because she didn’t survive to see it. Their moments at the Limsa Lominsa aetheryte plaza and the days on the beach before, were the final memories Evie would make with Errette Chauntelle, and the final call from Eerie’s linkpearl was actually placed by a cousin. He reported sadly that Eerie had died during a failed siege on Ishgard. He gave Evie the location of where Eerie’s remains would be buried but cautioned against visiting. The call was a calloused courtesy for the young man, a dying wish fulfilled in all technical definitions.

It wasn’t until months after the defeat of Nidhogg that Evie made the trip to Dravania. When she stood at Eerie’s grave, she stood alone. Her tears turned cold on her cheeks as she read the epitaph that stood in honor of her fallen friend.

“Here lies Errette “Eerie” Chauntelle, whose life now blends with the heavens to paint the sky upon which dragons take wing. Until we soar together again, sister.”

[lab-trash]

So, uh, I was reading my Milton x Jack google doc, and I came across this. And I'm pretty sure I haven't posted it. So here ya go. And it's a long one, so strap in.

SHIP QUESTIONS

PRE-RELATIONSHIP

How did they first meet? - Jack kicked ass on Milton’s behalf

What was their first impression of each other? - Jack thought Milton was sort of dorky-seeming. That he would like to be strong, but never had really the real opportunity to do it with his skinny little bones and muscles. - Milton obviously was extremely impressed with Jack, no surprise there. We see it. We know it. 

Did any of their friends or family want them to get together? - I think that Mika would see it like… so quick. She would pretend she thought they were already dating just to nudge them along. 

Who felt romantic feelings first? - Jack. I am 100% on the side that Jack was a complete mess about his feelings for Milton while Milton had no clue that either of them were queer • Jack had a big ol’ gay crisis, fite me

Did either of them try to resist their feelings? - Absolutely, both of them. Like, we see it in the show; Jack has the most internalised homophobia a man has ever had. Like, he looks so uncomfortable when he’s with Kim, but like he’s obligated to, y’know?

If you had told one of them that the other would be their soulmate, what would they think? - Telling Jack: He’d deny it, he would flat-out deny it.  - Telling Milton: I feel like he’d get really confused and flustered about it. 

What would their lives be like if they had never met? - As we see in the show, it is not pretty. But I also chose to believe that it would actually not at all be like that. - I mean, come on, even if Jack didn’t join Wasabi, I don’t think he’d turn into a black dragon. He literally hates his cousin’s morals so much, and he’s a black dragon. I know that Kai became a black dragon only halfway through the show so if Jack hadn’t become a Wasabi then maybe Kai wouldn’t become a black dragon, but they still have the same morals. - I think it’d be a lot more like Kickin’ It On Our Own. - Jack would become committed to skating, a skatepark would’ve really been built at Jack’s petition and Kim would’ve never found the vole bc they weren’t friends.  - Milton wouldn’t have dropped out of school and become whatever tf he was in the wonderful life episode, he would’ve switched to Swathmore.  • Note to self, write a version of the Swathmore AU where they don’t meet until Milton goes to Swathmore.

GENERAL

Who initiated the relationship, and how did it go? - Milton. I feel like there are multiple points where it could happen, but Milton is always the one to start it. Here are some of my favourite points for their relationship to start.

Wrath of Swan. Milton comes back after dropping off Carrie and they dance and they’re gay. 

My Left Foot. Milton feels all sort of warm that Jack is encouraging him to quit football if it makes him happy and Milton kisses him before going out onto the field. They don’t talk about it until the after-party

Milton claims that kiss is the only reason he made that goal 

New Jack City. This is the one with Carson (BooBoo Stewart) if you don’t remember. After the fight, Milton approaches Jack saying that he feels guilty and that he couldn’t believe that he didn’t trust Jack before considering his feelings. This one is more of an accidental reveal

You may also remember that as the episode where Milton slapped Jack’s ass. That has nothing to do with the episode choice, I just felt like mentioning it. I don’t think they’re into that stuff, but I do think it made them both feel awkward in a flustered way. 

Kickin’ It On Our Own. Milton admits that he didn’t really like continuing his life without Jack in it. 

Meet the McKrupnicks. I don’t even know exactly how it would happen, I just like the idea of it. 

Two Dates and a Funeral. Milton takes Jack’s hand on Mount Seaford and it snowballs from there. 

Mama Mima. Milton apologises for causing all sorts of drama during the news thingy.

School of Jack. After the show, instead of hugging, Milton and Jack kiss. 

The Return of Spyfall/The Boys are Back in Town. Grey is really observant about Milton and Jack’s feelings about each other and peer pressures Milton to ask him out. It works. 

RV There Yet? Milton yells a love confession off the cliff before he knows Jack is alive. 

Did they have an official first date? If so, what was it like? - Yes, but I feel like it’d be often interrupted by Rudy, Jerry, Phil, Joan, etc. 

What was their first kiss like? - Oh boy, was it awkward. Their redo was better, and they consider that their first.

Were they each other’s first anything (kiss, relationship, etc.)? - I’d like to think they were each other’s first boyfriends. Not their first relationship, but first boyfriends specifically. 

What’s their height difference? Age difference? - I don’t think they have much of a difference between those things. Like, they have a size difference, since Jack has more mass, while Milton is kind of just a stick man.

What’s their relationship with each other’s families? - Jack’s mom is definitely happy that Milton is Jack’s partner, she likes him very much. Milton gave her his tamale recipe and she made a spicier version for her and Jack (it’s cannon Jack eats spicy food without even flinching lmao) - It is my personal belief that Jack doesn’t really see his dad, so I’m skipping past his dad’s opinion on Jack - Milton’s dad is trying his best to be an ally, so he is automatically supportive of their relationship albeit a bit awkward. He does like that Jack protects Milton though.  - Milton’s mother is… Well, she either doesn’t know their dating and approves of their friendship, or she knows their dating and doesn’t bc she’s homophobic imo. - Jilian likes Jack. She definitely likes messing with him in regards to Milton, who we’ve seen she’s very protective of, but she does like Jack. Jack is mildly afraid of her, for good reason.  - The McKrupnicks all like Jack, it’s very much one of those like… when he enters the room, they’re like “Jack!🍻”

Who takes the lead in social situations? - Jack. Well, most of the time. If it’s regarding their relationship, then it’s Milton, as he’s much more comfortable with his sexuality than Jack is.

Who gets jealous easier? - I think it’s about the same. But it’s different kinds of jealousy. Jack gets like… jealous in a sad possessive way, while Milton gets jealous in an anxious way. Does that make sense?  - Like, we see him get jealous of Carson and his friendship with the Wasabi Warriors, and he doesn’t really get possessive in an angry ‘mine, only mine,’ way, he gets jealous in a ‘but… mine… ;(‘ way. Milton is afraid Jack will leave him, and I’m counting that as jealousy.

Who whispers inappropriate things in the other’s ear? - I think that neither, for the most part. Jack is way too flustered to do that, in public or not, and Milton is afraid of getting caught. But sometimes he isn’t. And it is a mess for Jack. 

LOVE

Who said “I love you” first? - Jack, but mostly because Milton didn’t want to push Jack to say anything. 

What are their primary love languages? - I think they’re both cuddly bitches, but Jack also likes giving gifts and casual praise.

Who uses cheesy pick-up lines? - Both, but like… as a joke. They tell each other pick-up lines for fun and laugh at them. 

How often do they cuddle/engage in PDA? - They cuddle as often as they can, even during the beginning of their relationship, though it’s usually private. - During the beginning of their relationship, they absolutely do not engage in PDA because Jack feels bashful at even the idea of that, but once they get into the later months of their relationship, you’ll pretty much not see them not touching each other.  • Jerry complains about it a lot; calls them clingy. 

Who initiates kisses? - Milton at first, then Jack, then both. Most often, rather. 

Who’s the big and little spoon? - They trade because they both have weird relationships with their masculinity. 

What are their favourite things to do together? - Karate, obviously. But they also enjoy bowling. And sometimes Jack will play guitar and Milton will sing. - Jack also makes sure to be in every Swords and Magic game once they start dating.

Who’s better at comforting the other? - I think Milton for Jack, but that’s mostly because when Jack has lows, they’re really fucking low, meanwhile Milton is used to the hills and valleys and doesn’t really need to be comforted because he’s already got coping mechanisms.

Who’s more protective? - Jack 1000%. Like, do I even have to explain?

Do they prefer verbal or physical affection? - Milton prefers physical. Jack prefers receiving physical, but likes praising Milton any chance he gets— especially when/since people push him around. 

What are some songs that apply to their relationship, in-universe or otherwise? - I don’t know, I haven’t thought of it. But Jack’s favourite song ever is Nowhere to Go because Milton sings it. 

What kind of nicknames do they call each other? - Milton has a habit of just varying Jack’s name. So like Jack-Jack, Jackie, Jackson, Jack Attack, etc. - Jack calls Milton regular pet names + kitten. • No one else is allowed to call Milton those things.

Who remembers the little things? - Jack, he likes remembering little details about Milton’s life and hobbies. 

DOMESTIC LIFE

If they get married, who proposes? - I feel like it’s just sort of something that’s brought up casually. Milton would bring it up, but they’d decide on it together. 

What’s the wedding like? Who attends? - Milton plans their wedding, obviously. It’s awesome. Jack nearly cries during their vows. - The Wasabi Warriors (and the honoraries), Izzy Gunnar, and some of their family. 

How many kids do they have, if any? What are they like? - I think they’d foster kids, and consider Sam like… their nephew. 

Do they have any pets? - I love the idea of them having a rabbit. 

Who’s the stricter parent? - Milton.

Who worries the most? - Jack

Who kills the bugs in the house? - Whoever doesn’t spot it. The person who spots it is in a stunned state, so the other has to swoop in.

How do they celebrate holidays? - They usually like to just spend time together, since they’d both be off work. For things like birthdays and christmas, I think they’d have both a private celebration and one with the Wasabis.

Who’s more likely to convince the other to come back to sleep in the morning? - Hmmm… Okay, I think that they’d be the sort of couple who both get up and be productive pretty quickly. But on days when they’re supposed to be productive and he just doesn’t feel like it, I feel like Jack would ask Milton back to bed, and on days they have off from work, Milton would ask Jack back to bed. 

Who’s the better cook? - Every urge to say Milton, but that one episode where he bakes that cake has me torn, but I have to remember Invasion of the Ghost Pirates. So Milton can cook, but Jack has a weird secret talent for baking. He doesn’t like doing it, but if Milton asks real sweet-like, he will. 

Who likes to dance? - I have not watched the show in a hot minute, ngl. So I’m gonna say that I can be totally wrong on this, but I feel like they both do, in the comfort of privacy. But I like the idea of them sort of just swaying together while Milton is cooking, or when they’re tired.

[linkcities]

wormwood | gojo satoru/reader

Curious. His interest is piqued; you realize your mistake.

“Really, now?” He tilts his head, lips angling themself near your own ones; if either of you move, you’re certain something unfavorable would happen. “And how about you? What do you want?”

I want to live a life far from how my mother lived hers, is what you want to tell him, though no sound comes out from your mouth, no word of protest or affirmation or anything: you stare at him, dumbfounded, clueless as to what to say without breaking the rules inside this wretched, cruel clan. The Heiwa clan does not cause disputes. You repeat it in your head like a mantra. If I entertain this folly, people will come for my head. My mother is a widow because of him.

But another thought enters the forefront of your mind: I want to marry Satoru.

Absence festers in the presence of little yellow wormwood flowers, and you come to learn about how it goes hand in hand with lingering bitterness when you meet Gojo Satoru.

or,

As the young God's only friend, you are punctured with the burden of his companionship, regardless if you deem yourself unworthy of it.

―

pairing | gojo satoru/reader

tags | angst with a happy ending, canon compliant, childhood friends to lovers, emotional hurt/comfort, mutual pining, codependency, new beginnings, healing.

warning/s | domestic abuse, abusive parent/s.

word count | 25,270 words.

ao3 link | spotify playlist

―

The sun pierces through the crevices of the paddle. The light flashes across your arm as soon as the surface hits the hago, successfully sending it straight to the ground—and then your feet momentarily leave the grass, jumping high while hitching the ends of your kimono up—light shines brighter and it pools against the surface of your cheeks, gleaming. 

“I won!” It’s a joyful exclamation: your opponent, a cousin of yours, can only offer you a meek expression in return. “I’m the greatest!”

The hagoita slips off of your careless hand, though you find yourself not caring about it at all. You circle the nearest patch of flowers, cheering and skipping, tainting the hem of your clothes with mud and soil; you could almost hear the impending disdain that your mother would let you hear as soon as you were fetched for lunch; at the moment, however, you were far too consumed in your pride to ever dwell on what comes next. 

“That’s not true,” a voice, quite as small as yours, “I am.”

You slowly stop running around, your head tilting immediately to the side, a grimace overtaking your previously ecstatic expression. There’s a certain kind of blue in the distance, faint like ice cubes though they shine like glitters stuck in glue, and you think to yourself that it’s growing on you the longer you try to focus on what shade it is. “But I was the one who won at hanetsuki.” 

“I could beat you.” The boy walks closer toward you, taller people trailing directly behind him, wearing yukatas that bore a more muted shade of his attire. You didn’t know this boy. You didn’t know the women behind him, either. Though your previous opponent seems to know him, judging how she immediately ran away at the sight of him. “Do you want me to?”

“You’re mean.” You pop out your bottom lip, clenching your fists beside you. “I don’t want to play with mean kids.”

You watch him tug on the silk ribbons hanging by the hips of his guardians, ushering them to bend down to his size. You stand there, unknowing, oblivious to whoever this boy was and the purpose of his presence. You don’t question it; instead, you chant it inside your mind, the words of your mother: refrain from something-something questions. You’re visibly confused now. 

“She said she doesn’t want to play because I’m mean.” He copies your action from before, tilting his head to the side as well, almost as if he picked up the context of the gesture. This somehow only irritates you. “Is it because she’s weak?”

Your ears perk up, and you’re close to exploding, but the boy’s guardians immediately step in front of him as soon as you pick up your fallen paddle and wave it menacingly towards his direction. Barely six years old, and he was calling you weak! Your mind is going rampant; but you’re a kid, too, and you’re also barely six years old, but you deem that fact irrelevant inside your own brain. The women send you an apologetic glance, instead kneeling down to help straighten your kimono. The boy remains quiet with his shade of blue, uttering no words.

“Dear,” one of the ladies calls out to you, “I apologize for that. Would you like to take me to your guardian?”

You push your eyebrows together, hard as you could. The lady doesn’t waver. After a few minutes, you’ve convinced yourself already that she’s prettier than your mother.

“Okay.” You extend your hand towards her, though it’s too short to quite reach her person. “Will you hold my hand? I think I messed up the rocks in the garden when I was running around. I don’t want to trip. I’d scrape my knee if I did.”

She does not pause at all. You find her charming because of it. “Of course.”

Your opponent from earlier was long gone, but the boy with snowy hair was still there, and he’s behind you, and you’re forcing yourself to ignore him before you say something rude. That would show him.

“I can take you to my mother, pretty miss.” Your formalities are still a work in progress, but the woman shows her understanding when she pats your head, a beautiful smile casting itself on her expression. You’re in awe.

“Alright, little one. What should I call you?” She asks, soft as she could. You ponder on the question for a few minutes, blinking uncertainly three times before finally comprehending her query.

“My sisters call me [Name].” You smile at her. “I don’t know how to spell it, though…”

“Heiwa [Name]. That’s okay. I got it,” was her only response; you drop it after that. The sun is setting, you point out. Your little fingers are wrapped securely around the nice lady’s hand, and only when you smell the distant fragrance of the fireworks do you remember that it’s New Year’s day. You’re beaming, possibly more cheerful than you ever were before, almost as if you were not at all close to bursting into a fit of irrational irritation earlier. So, you twist your head until you can see the boy through the corner of your eye. You force yourself to remember his head of white hair.

“I won’t lose to you if we play! I won the first round, which means I have ultimate luck this year!”

You stick your tongue out, and he copies you again. You make a fool of him inside your head: you snicker to yourself when you address him as the boy who knew not of hanetsuki. Though this would not be the last time you’re meeting Gojo Satoru, you are praying silently, in that little head of yours, that it was.

―――

You’d come to know, later on, that the boy with hair much like snow has a personality that heats up quicker than the sun: not because he’s warm, but because he possesses the same kind of grandeur. Most powerful man alive. Your cousins whisper rumors of a young God walking within the estate, and you wonder if that’s what he is.

―――

There’s a patch of healthy soil in one corner of the garden directly outside of your quarters in the clan's estate; it’s empty, and it’s dying soon, but you don’t know how flowers work, and you’re too stubborn to ask for help. You’re past the age of eight but you’re still, undoubtedly, the one who fills the Heiwa clan with boisterous noise. The servants know better than to try and subject you to their scoldings; they know their words have no place in your mind.

It’s an unspoken fact around the estate. The only person whose words carry weight is your mother.

“Master Gojo will be visiting again later.” Your mother, with ugly wrinkles below her lashes, tells you over a cup of tea one morning. “You will play nice, won’t you?”

You stare at her and her empty brown eyes. Your mother was the eldest daughter of her clan; conservative, unspeaking, as though she was but a vassal with a ring on her finger. Her hands hold the tea cup as if it were the most precious thing to her at the moment, and you find it compelling—how she tends to clutch onto the most mundane objects in your household, how she does her duties with utmost urgency in spite of how little they matter, how she sees the importance despite the dull, gray, lifeless ceilings of the estate. The wrinkles under her eyes are prominent; the years of her exhaustion are painted keenly on her face.

In your head, you try to acquiesce her life as something you’d soon have in the future. It sends nothing more than shivers down your back.

“What does the Gojo clan want with us?” Your lips curve downward. “The Heiwa clan has nothing worthwhile to offer.”

Sharp glare; however accustomed you are to your mother’s piercing glances, the lingering fear remains, swirls unsteadily on the forefront of your brain—that if you do not keep your words in line, she will one day treat you as a duty and not a daughter: clutch you tightly until you’re suffocating from your lack of control. She knows you’re afraid of her. 

“Quiet, stupid girl.” She hides her lips behind the rim of her teacup, eyes fluttering close. “If they hear you, you are finished. Not even I can save you should that happen.” There’s a pause in between her words, a bitter lump in her throat. You nod slowly. Nor would I want to save you. Somehow, the words she left to die in her throat roared louder than the ones she spoke. Eyes down on the floor, no higher. Barely nine years old, and yet you are already grieving for the life you have to force yourself to be satisfied with in order to survive.

“The Gojo clan is the top sorcerer family,” this time, she gently pushes an empty cup toward your side of the table along with a woven rattan coaster, soon pouring tea resembling liquid gold in it. “They do not need us for anything at all except for companionship. We are the only clan who will not bring harm to that boy as he continues his education.”

You urge her to continue, taking in the aroma of the tea. Golden rooibos, most probably with caramel. Her favorite brew.

“Do not forget what I am about to tell you,”

The wife of the Heiwa clan chief stares at you with eyes that look as though they’re about to pop out; you’re terrified in the calmest way possible, unnerved by your mother’s demeanor. When you nod carefully after a few seconds, she eases her posture.

“Gojo Satoru,” she begins, ignoring the grimace that creeps up your expression, “will inevitably become the greatest sorcerer alive, if he is not that already. Do not think, even for just one second, that you will one day be worthy to stand beside him. You are here now only to entertain. You will be gone soon enough.”

You blink twice, and things start to make sense. The wrinkles beneath your mother’s eyes are not the results of years and years of hard work around the household: they are the proof of her responsibility, how she bore a child for her now-obsolete clan and how she was raised to act exactly as she is at the moment. Thirty-one years old and the values her clan engraved in her head are seeping out through the words she’s telling you now. You will not matter if you are not useful. You are unworthy because you are nothing. You will remain nothing if you do not fulfill your duty. 

You do not know how to tell your mother that you do not want to end up like her—so you keep your mouth closed. The silence is overbearing. You do not understand why you were already labeled unworthy before you could even prove otherwise. You do not understand the weight of your worth yet.

“My lady,” a servant interrupts, entering the room, “the Gojo family has arrived.”

Your mother sends the servant away with a flick of her wrist. Somehow, when she keeps her eyes glued to the floor, you are more terrified of her than before. You steal a glimpse of the garden right outside your open window, flowers and shrubs lined up neatly near an empty patch of soil, painting the landscape with vibrant green and dying yellow. When you hear your mother blowing away the steam of her tea, you gently stand up from your seat, bowing first before exiting through the door.

And there he is.

It’s the same head of white hair—like snow. Much, much like snow. He’s your age, you’re almost sure, though you are still taller than him by a few inches. You don’t feel like a kid when you see him: you feel as old as your mother, that when he waved you over, you imagined long, tired lines beneath your eyes, as though you bore the very same wrinkles she had on her skin.

Gojo Satoru notices your despondence, your bitter frown, though he does not care about you enough to ask. This is your sixth time meeting, and yet you feel as if you’ve known him for hundreds of lives prior to this one. Soon, the vestige of his pupils glean with arrogance; he’s about to open his mouth, but you decide to beat him to it.

“Are you really the greatest sorcerer alive?” You whisper.

The young God looks at you with interest, as kids often do. You pull painfully hard on the braid holding your hair captive, sucking the insides of your cheeks in until you were keeping your gums hostaged between your teeth. Gojo stares at you.

“I am.”

You do not allow yourself another second of hesitance. “Then teach me how to garden.”

He raises his eyebrow, “I don’t do stuff like that at home.”

“Then,” you turn away from him, eyes falling to the grass at the same time your foot prances on it. “Doesn’t that mean you’re...not that great at all?”

He whistles a tune, trailing behind you, and you recognize it as the nursery rhyme you often heard from your tutors. “Not being good at one thing doesn’t discredit my strength.” He points to the healthy patch of soil in the distance, and then he snaps his fingers, “though I bet I can still plant better than you even if I don’t know how to.”

You tilt your head, curious, “That’s just stupid. I watch our gardeners everyday. You are okay with losing to me?”

“I won’t lose to you.” His tone isn’t cruel, though his next words almost pierce through your heart. “You’re weaker than me.”

You point to the garden, now your turn to copy his actions. His blue eyes are reflecting the sun; you would find them to be a lovely shade if only you weren’t driven down underground every time you look at them. The shade is still lost in your head. Faint like ice cubes, though they shine like glitters stuck in glue. Hypnotizingly so.

“Let’s do it, then.” You flash him a small smile. “But you can’t call me weak anymore if I win.”

He laughs at your statement, his small fists stuffed neatly inside his haori’s pockets. Gojo does not say anything for a while, only stares at you with amusement. In the back of your head, you’re trying to ascertain whether or not he was patronizing you.

Gojo gets a hold of your sleeve and tugs you to his guardians. You find yourself thinking if the continuous act of obliging is what you were born for.

“Follow me.” On his lips is the widest smile you’ve seen him fashion out of the six times the two of you have met, “I saw a pack of wormwood seeds somewhere.”

―――

You are the second daughter of the Heiwa clan’s current head, though you can count the times you’ve conversed with him with only your fingers in one hand. That’s normal.

You hear he’s kind and soft-spoken in spite of his rugged exterior; your father has a scar, slashed straight across his left eye, and it curves all the way to the top of his head. You were taught, at a young age, that you were not to disturb the head of Heiwa unless you were at death’s door. The guards in the estate stood beside the entrance to his dojo, hands clutching the handles of their swords, almost as if they did not wish to waste too much time swinging them out of their scabbard when danger approaches. You understand, of course. Your father is an important man; although polite, he is still a diplomat first before he is ever anyone’s friend. The servants in the estate know that. The guards know. You and your siblings know; which is why his absence mattered very little to all of you. With only the recurring presence of your mother in tow, and occasionally the presence of your younger sisters, you were subjected to a life free from the company of a patriarch.

Even still, he constantly gave his daughters enough attention to inform them that he breathes the same air. Your father wishes for you to finish reading the Kojiki within the day; the book awaits you in the library. Your father requests that you perfect your Nihon buyō lessons in a week’s time. Your father is in the middle of preparing calligraphy lessons for you and your older sister, my lady. It was always these abrupt lessons, always interjecting when you’re trimming your bushes and watering your flowers. Truth be told, though, at age 12, you were only beginning to grasp the true meaning of what it means to be the second daughter; a secret known only by you—and, well, a certain friend as well.

The Heiwa family resides in Nakatsugawa, a quaint city nestled between Kyoto and Tokyo, with rivers and valleys that trail on for miles. The clan was established shortly after the peak of sorcery in Japan: the finishing years of the Heian period. Heiwa Tsukeniyo, the very first leader of the family, was on the run from life as a sorcerer when he built the foundations of the ancestral home. It is written in the transcripts in the library, in dark ink that’s been restored and printed on durable parchment.

Tsukeniyo longed to spend his remaining days in peace; growing trees, playing shogi, recording the compatible flora in the ancestral home’s surrounding area. Since then, the clan hasn’t been recognized to be particularly strong, though it’s well-known to be a family of great silence, comfort, as members do not stray from the ancestors’ traditional values. You do not know anything else about your family’s history—however, you do know that Tsukeniyo was said to be deaf, bleeding and half-dead, when he wrote the detailed description of the cursed technique that was to be passed down for generations to come among Heiwa women. Cursed Sound: Cacophony. The technique was out of your territory, however, as only the elders and as well as the inheritors of that ability were allowed to truly touch upon the topic.

As a non-sorcerer, your duty as one of the honorable daughters was to prove that you were a woman worth marrying. A bargaining chip of sorts, to maintain the peace that your clan upheld, to strengthen its relations with other sorcerer families. Your fate has been sealed, and yes, in spite of being only 12 years old, you dedicate most of your time to making sure that you do not disappoint the high elders.

A good wife is obedient and wise; though her intellect is needed rarely, there could be no harm in honing her brain with history and culture. That is all women are good for. No politics. Nothing of the sort. A good wife has a husband for those things. 

It’s baffling, really. History and culture are inherently political. Perhaps their brains are the ones in need of honing.

“What are you reading?”

Admittedly, though, you never expected that one of the bridges you would have to cross in order to become a Heiwa daughter worth honoring is the companionship of the boy who altered the balance of the world—that is, tolerating him and his annoying, silly questions whenever he visited you. 

“The Kojiki.” You yawn, not bothering to rip your gaze off of the page you were reading. “Have you not read this, Gojo?”

The male scrunches his nose, abruptly placing his chin on top of his palm as a means of support. Gojo huffs, leaning forward to catch a peek of the page you were on. Almost immediately, he ends up rolling his eyes.

“It bored me.” He shrugs. “Pay attention to me instead.”

You shake your head, grumbling. “What are you? A child?”

“I’m twelve. Of course I am.” Playful glare; you feel his focus glued on you. “And you are, too. Come on, act like one already!”

“No.”

“You are so boring.” He groans, rocking your chair back and forth with one hand. God, this kid is irritating. At this point, that was all you could think of; if he weren’t regarded as the most powerful, strongest, what -fucking- ever sorcerer in the entire world, you would have punched him square on the jaw. He’s relentless. “Play with me already, Heiwa!”

Light pink dusts the high points of your cheeks when he calls out for your last name; you brush it off before it gets worse. “Please stop. You’re making me dizzy. I still have an afternoon filled with lessons and assignments to trudge through.”

He cocks a brow. “Geez, what even for? They should just make you attend those standard elementary schools. You’re not a sorcerer, anyway. You’re so normal and boring and—”

“Weak. Yes, Gojo, you are absolutely correct.” In recent years, you took pride in the fact that his words never went past the guards around your soul; the boy, in general, is hard to predict and even harder to understand, though you were certain of one thing—the names he calls you, the insults, the words he utilized in order to remind you that he was stronger were said with little to no thought. Most times, he didn’t even mean them. “However, the lessons are necessary in order for me to fulfill my duty as the Heiwa leader’s daughter.”

Curious. Gojo pokes your side. “And what duty is that supposed to be, anyway?”

You fake a cough, covering your mouth behind the sleeve of your yukata. You refuse to look at him.

“To marry into a sorcerer clan,” you begin, voice going an octave lower, “in hopes of bearing a child who possesses our family’s cursed technique.”

Gojo’s eyes widened in surprise, almost as if your response was something he wasn’t at all expecting to hear. You get it. Just getting reminded of your responsibility is enough to make you pause and speechless; to this day, you could not wrap your head around the idea of meeting suitors and getting yourself mixed into an arranged marriage.

He’s quiet; that even when he speaks, his voice no longer has the same volume. “That’s stupid. You’re stuck in the seventeenth century. You’re no better than that Zen’in clan from Kyoto.”

You shush him, your eyes panic-stricken, quickly scanning if any of the servants tending to the shelves in the library heard Gojo. “Are you crazy? My family will hear you!”

“They can’t touch me.” He’s too confident, you tell yourself. “I’m stronger than everyone here.”

“That’s besides the point. Our family values tradition, they uphold it, I cannot simply just run away from what I was born for.” You glare at him, the book you were enjoying now lying idle on top of the table, closed and bookmarked. “You wouldn’t understand. As you’ve never failed to remind me, Gojo, you are strong. That is the difference between us.”

Gojo scoffs, soon getting a hold of the Kojiki, turning to a certain page and pointing at one of the illustrations. You follow the tips of his forefinger, and you recognize the drawing from the first volume. It was of Izanagi and Izanami, the deities who solidified the ocean in order to shape the first landmass; getting wed thereafter. It’s your turn to raise an eyebrow at him.

“We could be like them,” he beams at you, too irritatingly wide for your liking, “just marry me, then. So you can drop your boring book and pay attention to me all the time.”

You flush, losing composure. He does not yield. 

You do not bother pointing out that Izanagi, in their far off future, sees what remains of Izanami’s decaying figure in the underworld and denies her of his love; in your head, you wonder if he knew that, too. You wonder a thousand times with pink cheeks and a quivering frown if Gojo would leave you once you’ve grown out from your appearance; it stings. The thought of being left behind by your only friend to date. The fact that you knew anyway that Gojo could visit you each summer, spring, each free week without training, and still he’d always leave, regardless of your attachments.

You stand up from your seat, head held high and away to avoid his careful gaze.

“Gojo, you are so annoying.”

―――

Days after that, the young God asks you to call him Satoru. The rest of the world knows him as Gojo, he says, but Satoru is reserved for those he cares for. Gojo would carry on to be the strongest. Satoru would carry on to be the most beautiful; stringing along with him various packs of garden seeds, offerings for when he visits you. You think this must be what it feels like for divinity to cast its gaze on you.

―――

The anxiety that came with you when you strutted through the door of your father’s premises dwindles down when the entrance shuts close with a harmless squeal. You did not turn back, and instead chose to bow your head down, your knees indefinitely glued to the wooden floor. You felt his eyes on you; you understood on the spot that your father is a kind man to his constituents, his peers, although significantly colder when face to face with his children.

First, he recited your name in a way that made him sound hesitant, as if he was unsure if that was even your name; then, “Raise your head.”

You did as you were told, not quite eye to eye with him yet. It was his turn to understand.

“The Heiwa clan does not cause disputes. We do not participate in feuds.” He spoke calmly, a stick of cigar sandwiched between his lips. “That said, I am formally entrusting you with the task of keeping Gojo Satoru company when he is within our estate. It would be foolish to make him an enemy.”

You swallowed a thick lump of words you could not say down your throat, your hands practically shaking. He stared you down as hard as he could, and you were one step away from running away and succumbing to the punishments he would bestow on you thereafter. You crumbled under the gaze of the clan leader. Everyone did. Your mother, your sisters, the clan elders. 

“Do you understand?”

You do. The tension deviantly crawls out from your throat. The smell of smoke blew past you, your nose scrunching in instinct. “Yes, father.”

You feel yourself going back to earth shortly after, a catalyst breaking you out of your trance. You suck the insides of your cheeks. That memory was one of the longest, if not the actual longest, conversations you’ve had with your father. You’re 15 years old now, and it’s been quite a few years since then, but you still cower under the intensity of his gaze. Or, cowered, anyway. 

The worst has happened.

You direct your attention to the woman who forcefully pulled you back to the ground, staring at her unknowingly, unable to ascertain what your purpose is. She’s clad in black, her hair disheveled, and she’s ripping through the paper of the shoji in front of you. You do not know how to extinguish her anger; you do not know where it stems from.

“That fool,” she mutters, over and over, and there’s nothing else you can do except watch. “How dare he die before I did?”

She doesn’t stop repeating the words, each time speaking them with more venom, more spite. You don’t stop staring at her either. In the back of your head, you’re trying to figure it out. Your sisters are all standing beside you, it’s the first time that all of you remained in the same room for longer than 30 minutes. You wonder if they’re trying to make sense of what’s happening to your mother, too. But they’re just there: they’re like you, just standing there, barely keeping up with what she’s doing.

In the back of your head, you wonder if your mother hated your father. If she’s loathed him ever since, then you didn’t notice at all. It’s the end result of having to be married off to a cold man—of having to be forced to marry someone she did not love, of having to instill it in her mind ever since she was young that she had to follow what was laid out for her. Her responsibility, role, her lack of freedom and control of her own life. It is the end effect of now having to bear the weight of the duty your father left behind. The clan elders decided two days after his parting: your mother would assume the role as clan leader, and she was to fulfill the things he left untouched until a more suitable candidate presents itself.

The worst has happened. Your father has died.

“[Name].”

Someone tugs on the hem of your yukata; you have to coerce yourself to pry your eyes away from your mother, soon learning that it’s one of your younger sisters, Yasu. You kneel down to level with her, combing her hair, albeit you weren’t quite close enough to be doing so. She doesn’t seem to mind, anyway.

“What is it?” You whisper, eyes on the floor. Always on the floor.

“Someone’s waiting for you outside.”

You place a chaste kiss on her forehead, rendering Yasu just as surprised as you are, before nodding in acknowledgement and turning away from the scene you were fixated on. Your sisters send you reassuring glances, some even going as far as squeezing your shoulder as a means of comfort, and you find it endearing that they actually seem to be nice girls. You do not have enough space in your head to wonder if you would have gotten along with them smoothly if your circumstances weren’t so perplexing.

You escape through the back door, taking silent steps to not trigger your mother’s mania further.

It doesn’t take long for you to see your visitor, and in all honesty, it doesn’t surprise you at this point that it was none other than Satoru, without the presence of his usual guardians. He’s wearing a uniform, full-black, with round sunglasses of the same color adorning his face. Your lips quiver, and he notices in an instant.

“Hey,” he waves, pushing himself off of the wall he was previously occupying, “Let’s take a walk.”

As soon as you nod, he gestures to you to follow him. There’s a certain kind of silence that overtakes the surrounding atmosphere; not quite uncomfortable, though you can’t say that it didn’t leave your mind wandering off to obscure places. The night is growing darker with each step the two of you take towards the empty garden across the pond in your estate, in the left wing. The two of you are five meters apart and the bridge you have to cross in order to head to the flowers you frequently tend to doesn’t seem to be wide enough at all to accommodate your distance.

You’re walking side by side now, and he stops you, tapping your shoulder before leaning on the railing for support. You copy him.

“So,” he begins, voice flowing like honey, “how’d the old man go?”

You wince upon hearing the question. You don’t want to answer it.

“He was ambushed,” because of you.

“Any names come to mind? Did he have enemies?”

“No.” You sigh, instinctively smiling when you say your next words. “The Heiwa clan does not cause disputes.”

He was killed for protecting you.

Satoru immediately rolls his eyes, a small smile adorning his lips. The moonbeams carve through his hair and you take note, inside your head, of how it resembles the streaks of clouds in the sky whenever it’s bright. No longer like snow. You shake the thought away.

“What-fucking-ever. Sounds stupid.” He grimaces. “Your clan is too conservative.”

You stick your tongue out at him, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear before soon trying to locate the sentences to speak next. That’s neither here nor there, you almost want to tell him; but the silence is back. You don’t like it. It feels empty, devoid of anything substantial.

“Did you come here to say goodbye, Satoru?”

He visibly flinches, concealed eyes directing themselves to your figure. You allow yourself to lean on the railings until you could swing your foot playfully out of the boundary, nearly slipping a few times.

“On the contrary, I came here to say hello.” Satoru grins fondly, pointing to one of the buttons on his uniform. “Before I leave for Tokyo again, anyway.”

“Jujutsu Tech, huh.” You hum in response. He watches you with his careful eyes. “One step forward towards taking over the sorcery world, I suppose.”

The boy clicks his tongue, one eyebrow raised. Fifteen years old and he still looked like the Satoru you met almost nine years ago; he’s never going to change. Not in your eyes, at least.

“Two steps forward, actually.” He shrugs. “If you decide to marry me.”

The tension is back to how it usually is when it’s just you two—sweet, light, almost with a hint of love mixed into it, though not the romantic kind, you assure yourself. He flicks your forehead, and you don’t quite register that into your head until his face is only a few inches away from yours.

“What’s it going to be?”

This is tradition, you tell yourself, and then you smile. “Satoru, please. I do not wish to give my father a heart attack in the afterlife. That is not what he would have wanted.”

Curious. His interest is piqued; you realize your mistake.

“Really, now?” He tilts his head, lips angling themself near your own ones; if either of you move, you’re certain something unfavorable would happen. “And how about you? What do you want?”

I want to live a life far from how my mother lived hers, is what you want to tell him, though no sound comes out from your mouth, no word of protest or affirmation or anything: you stare at him, dumbfounded, clueless as to what to say without breaking the rules inside this wretched, cruel clan. The Heiwa clan does not cause disputes. You repeat it in your head like a mantra. If I entertain this folly, people will come for my head. My mother is a widow because of him.

But another thought enters the forefront of your mind: I want to marry Satoru.

And you realize, almost as quickly as the thought arrived, that Satoru was more cruel than your family, your elders, your upbringing. He was cruel for dangling the idea of a good life alongside him with empty words. Cruel, evil, heartless of him to get your hopes up only to inevitably crush them in the end. You were weak, you are weak, and he knows that—you hate him for it. You hate him for being strong. You could hear his steady breathing, you could see his unyielding arrogance spilling out through his facial expression, and you can feel his hand slightly inching towards where yours was placed on the railing. He’s testing just how far you could go without breaking away from what your family taught you. You hate him for being strong. Maybe if he were weak—weak like you —then maybe you two could be together without being tied down to fear. Satoru is a cruel, cruel man and you want nothing more than to give in already to his petty games.

But the harsh truth is that you cannot— must not.

“I want…” You look away, gently pushing his chest until there is finally enough space for you to breathe again. “I want you to have an enjoyable time in Tokyo.”

Satoru looks almost disappointed—you refuse to believe in that, however. He shrugs, now raising his head to turn towards the sky, carefully picking out his next course of action.

“I’ll visit every week, you know.” He states confidently. “So don’t get too lonely.”

“Every week? There’s no need for that. You act as if we will no longer be seeing each other because of your big move.” You poke his sides teasingly, red filling your cheeks. “Besides, Tokyo is only four hours away.”

He hums in agreement. “You say that like you have plans to visit me.”

“What do you know? Maybe I will.”

“And risk your flowers getting mishandled by your sisters? Yeah, right.”

There is no more serving of awkward silence, no more traces of uncomfortable air. In the corner of your peripheral vision, you sneak a glance at your garden; the growing flowers on them. Satoru whistles a tune beside you.

“I’ll be busy over there.” He says.

You nudge him lightly with your shoulder. “I know.”

“You should write to me if you have time.”

You turn to face Satoru and you meet him with a grin, the thought of your father now only idle in your head. You’d have to pay your respects later, you think to yourself, as you do not know just yet how to make Satoru leave your brain. He’s a cruel man. He doesn’t even think of just how lovely his presence is, how he affects you more than he should, and how he makes you want to tell your responsibilities to go to hell, so you can pull him until you’re but a cusp of a breath away from each other.

“Satoru,” you mutter. Your voice captures his attention; he’s wrapped around your finger, though you do not have even the slightest idea, “I don’t need to write to you, idiot. We have phones.”

―――

Your days, ever since your father’s passing, consisted of tending to what needed attention inside the estate. Your eldest sister had been married off as soon as she turned 18 years old; your mother sat as the matriarch of the clan, which meant that the mundane was left for no one except you to take care of, being the second daughter of the current clan leader, anyway.

Even though they passed by relatively fast, certain days felt like long seasons filled with only the harshest wave of winter; you wake up to the cold, the chill, you are freezing even when you’re wrapped in your delicate kimono, even when you’re under the heat of the sun. Between working, working, working, and non-stop studying of your history and other prerequisite lessons needed for you to get a certificate that indicates your completion of home-education, frankly you’ve been exhausted: as though the bags weighing underneath your eyes would gradually grow to be the same lines that your mother had beneath hers.

At 17 years old, however, your days of working will not come to an end yet, nor will it disappear so easily.

“Sister,” Your sibling calls out to you. She looks similar to how you look, the main difference being her wide eyes and distinguishable mole. She goes by Ichika; ten years old, barely even scratching the surface of what it means to be a Heiwa daughter. You tilt your head to the side.

With a hagoita on hand, you hit the incoming hago, successfully receiving it and watching it flutter towards your younger sister’s side of the game. “What is it?”

She lunges forward, struggling to hit the hago with her paddle, though she manages to do so anyway. Her hair blocks her eyes for a moment, disheveled and curly, urging a small smile to creep up your lips. Over time, you’ve learned to develop your relationship with your sisters, one by one befriending them until they feel comfortable enough to search for your company. You do not want them to grow up like you did: alone, terrified, shackled only to responsibility without a means of leisure in tow.

The eldest daughter is known as Kameko. She’s older than you by a year, bearing the same hair color as you, although her eyes are much more similar to that of your father’s. You are the second daughter: [Name], with features that automatically associate you to your clan. The third daughter, one of your younger sisters, is Yasu; four years younger than you, freshly 14 years old. She’s quite quiet; the most elegant one out of all of you, in your eyes. The next one is Yua, just a year younger than Yasu. Intelligent; she had her nose stuck inside a book all the time. The next one is Ichika, the one you’re with right now—as said before, she’s ten years old, being only three years younger than Yua.

The sixth daughter is possibly the one most detached to the rest of you: Chiasa, seven years old, plagued with the burden of inheriting the cursed technique. She’s typically busy inside the Heiwa dojo; if not with her combat, then with her music lessons, with her fencing lessons, whatnot. The youngest ones in your family were Ikuyo and Chiyoko, a pair of lovely twins that had a habit of poking fun at everyone in the estate, manners be damned. Two years younger than Chiasa; five years old, though they were only two when your father passed away.

“Your birthday’s coming up, isn’t it?” Ichika’s voice is as high-pitched as a ringing bell, but it’s eloquent all the same. You ponder on it for a few minutes all the while keeping your head in the game.

You affirm with a hum. “You’re right. I wouldn’t have remembered if you didn’t point it out.”

The sun rains its fury down on the both of you, kissing your skin fervently, each time burning the surface of it until you want nothing more than to wallow under a shade. Your sister remains rather enthusiastic, however, rendering you unable to satiate your exhaustion. She has her focus on the hago swinging back and forth between the both of you, though you could safely say that she’s planning to tell you something, judging solely on how she keeps opening her mouth and closing it in order to focus on hitting the target with her hagoita. You find it endearing.

“You’re turning eighteen this year,” she pauses. “Doesn’t that mean you’ll have to find someone to marry soon?”

You fall apart slowly, and then all at once.

Slowly: your eyes glimmer when they see the sun and your lips instinctively curve up to a smile, a formality. You kiss your teeth.

All at once: your world cambers over and you’re given insufficient time to realign it to its rightful place. You stop dead on the spot, your eyes fixated on the incoming hago, though you cannot feel your hand doing anything to receive it and pass it toward Ichika’s side. There’s a subtle ringing against your ears. You feel your throat closing up, and when the hago finally hits the pavement, you flinch away from your sister. Ichika frowns.

You smile at her, a formality, though it comes out stiff.

“Ah.” You rub your nape. “I lost. That means you’ll have great luck this year.”

Her eyes stay glued on you, and you know that she’s noticed just how uneasy you’ve become. She takes a few steps forward, her hand extending to reach out for you, but you refute her actions by turning your back on her and walking away.

“Sorry. I have to go make a call.” You take note of your hands, how they were gradually growing more numb the longer you stayed there, “I’ll leave my hagoita here. Maybe ask Yua to play for a while.”

You bolt out of the area, crossing the familiar bridge, skipping through the puddles near the pond. You run and you refuse to heed the calls of the servants and relatives you’re passing by, most of whom are asking if you’re okay, why you’re running away, but you don’t need their comfort—not when they’re not going to stand up for you when the time comes, not when they’re all accomplices to this wretched tradition of marrying away children in order to maintain the peace that they all disgustingly uphold, when they’re never going to be willing to help you. You hate it here. You hate everything. You can’t breathe.

Your knees give up on you behind a particularly tall shrub, your skin now riddled with light scars that came from the rocks you slid against. Hot tears cascade your cheeks: you look ridiculous, you’re almost certain. Not marriage-worthy in the slightest—which still remains irrelevant in the grand scheme of things; this family will not, will never, fail to see their goals through when they put their minds to it.

In a flurry of panic, you take out your phone, flipping it open and quickly skimming through your contacts until you finally reach his number. You’re flippant. Angry. Explosive. You want nothing more than to accept his offer and live a life free from the hands of your family; always dragging you by the ankle, down, down, down until you ultimately turn into the likes of them. The Heiwa clan does not cause disputes. You are a Heiwa daughter. You must not let us down. You must not fail your duties. You must not be the first to rebel.

The plants around you are blurred out by the tears: it reeks of herbs, freshly watered, and it reeks of wormwood, rosemary, and sage.

[name]: satoru, i am accepting your marriage proposal.│

You stare at your email. You can no longer rein yourself towards your responsibility: not when it’s too difficult. This is the last of your patience.

[name]: satoru, i am accepting yo│

You can’t bring yourself to click the send button.

[name]: satoru, i am acce│

You’re running out of time; something’s chasing you. You’re running out of time and you do not know how to get to the finish line: when will it all end? How long do you have to endure, endure, endure?

[name]: s│

The last of your message dissipates into the screen, the backspace hitting its limit. Your tears are still apparent, staining your cheeks, but the remnants of your desperation fade alongside whatever resolve you had in the past. You are shackled to your family and running away from your fate is as futile as it could be: destiny has cast its gaze on you and it told you to endure, endure, endure until your dying breath. You know better than to involve Gojo Satoru in your own fate. Why would a young God trifle with a life as pathetic as yours? No reason for that at all.

[name]: i hope you are doing okay there, satoru. visit soon.

sent 01/01/2008

―――

Gojo Satoru does not visit for a while, and you hear whispers of a man named Geto Suguru going rogue. The sorcery world is in shambles. When Satoru returns to you, he is splintered and bruised and drowning in insurmountable grief.

―――

You do not know how you ended up in this position.

Or, more specifically, you do not know how you ended up standing on the peak of Mount Ena, 45 minutes past one in the morning, huddled over on the ground with your head buried in Satoru’s chest. You’re shaking, though it’s not because of the cold breeze that December often brought with it, and the ground, as far as you could ascertain, is as stagnant as it could be; so it couldn’t be because of that. Your limbs are numb. Satoru is staring at you cluelessly, having no idea how to comfort you.

Twenty-two years old, and you’re falling apart against the chest of the most important person in the world. His arms are flat beside him, however, as though he does not know which parts of you he can touch without breaking.

“I’m a failure.” Your voice is riddled with choked sobs, breaking open each syllable to the point that you’re barely coherent, “I’m a failure, Satoru, except I do not know what I did to deserve to be one.”

That rings the truth. You’ve paid your dues. You have done good deeds, you have strayed away from the bad, from anything that could possibly instigate your downfall, and yet still you are 22 years old, deemed unmarriageable, all because the world thinks you have been dirtied by Satoru’s hands. Your life is over. Your mother, the elders, they’re all looking down on you and you have no choice but to keep your head low: eyes on the floor, always on the floor, as you are always the one cowering under their stares. You are always the one inconvenienced by their traditions.

“I have done everything. I have studied, I have trained myself, I have forced myself to accept my fate and I have tried, Satoru, I have tried so hard to endure.” You’re speaking quickly. You can’t help it. The words are spilling out and there’s no way to stop them now—almost as if the dam has been broken open and the water will keep gushing past, regardless if you want it to stop—and they wrack your body until you could feel nothing else.

“Stupid girl,” he whispers, though it’s softer than he probably intended for it to sound, “your first mistake is letting them dictate your life for you.”

You clutch the fabric that clung on to his torso, a bitter laugh escaping your throat. He doesn’t say anything more. “Big talk, hotshot. You act as if you are the one who chose to bear the weight of the shaman world.” You shake your head. “You will never understand, no matter how hard you try. You and I live in different worlds. Vastly different worlds.”

Satoru huffs, one hand reluctantly finding its place on the top of your head. “Stupid girl.” He says, this time with more emphasis, “that’s irrelevant. You choose to be weak. You have me. You can tell me to have your clan dissolved and you’d be free. But you’re too weak for that. Weaker than you’re supposed to be. You can’t handle it.”

Even with each stab of his knife, you could not bring yourself to hate him and his words, regardless of how cruel they are when they reach your ears. You’ve endured so much. All you did in that house was endure, accept, endure again until you’re sucked dry with no ambition left inside your body. Until you’re an empty shell they can easily fill with their own desires. Satoru’s right. He could have the Heiwa clan dismantled if you so graciously asked him; he’d probably do it faster than an apple could reach the ground, even. 

But you are too dragged in, too scared. Gojo Satoru notices your dejection, debility, your suffering, and he does not know what to feel about it. There’s something similar to anger—the loose threads of it, the beginnings of it, though you’re too worried of the outcome if ever you were to aid him in unraveling it. “I’ve always known that I’m weak.” You mutter. He clicks his tongue. “So allow me just one night to grieve for the life I will never come to have because of it. One night, Satoru, and I will go back to enduring,” slight pause; the tension is strangely palpable, “and you can go back to not caring at all.”

The breeze carries something terribly sweet in the air as though it is mocking you for being so undeniably angry at the world during the beauty of winter. Your sobs are worsening, his jacket’s absorbing most of them, and he’s shushing all your cries by stroking your hair awkwardly. He doesn’t do this kind of thing—not well-versed in the art of caring, art of comforting. Caring is one step away from loving. Satoru thinks he is meant for a lot of things, nearly everything, except that. He doesn’t do love. Not since Suguru. Perhaps not at all, perhaps never once more. A cruel thing.

You’re speechless against him. You want him to put his arms around you. You know he won’t.

This began during the early hours of the morning: initially, you were going to be summoned in the main hall to meet a few suitors from middle-rank sorcerer clans hailing from Kyoto. You were up at around six in the morning, in order to begin the preparations, to tidy up yourself before the meet; after all, three years have passed ever since you began looking for one, and you were still left with no viable options. You were growing restless. You wanted things to be over and done with already.

Come lunchtime, or at least an hour before it, representatives arrived in your suitors’ stead, all poise and held certain candor in their person. They spoke of their sudden disinterest, their reluctance to be associated with your name specifically, all because they heard that Gojo Satoru had his eyes set on you, and that he had tarnished you already. It’s all over the sorcerer world, Heiwa. Do you truly expect your daughter to marry at this rate? Try your luck with the next one. No one would want to marry those who have been touched by that Gojo.

Your mother made sure that you could feel her disappointment, her utter aggravation because of how worthless you are in the end; she made it clear when she slapped you straight across your face with her cane, leaving the color chartreuse on your cheekbone, eyes red from how hard you cried in front of her. As I expected. No one wants to marry Gojo Satoru’s whore. What am I supposed to do with you now?

Eventually, after hours of crying, you found yourself dialing Satoru’s number a few minutes past 11 in the evening; he answered with the same glee, though he was met with the sound of your whines. He almost instantly hung up on you, leaving you to your thoughts, but you’d come to realize that Satoru could warp now—which was hard not to figure out, seeing as he made it from Tokyo to Nakatsugawa in a matter of seconds.

A few hushed whispers inside your room, and you had your arms thrown around his shoulders, feeling his all-consuming cursed energy surround the both of you until you were, undoubtedly, on the peak of Mount Ena.

Currently, you could feel his chest reverberating with light laughter. An hour has passed.

Satoru repeats his words; warranting you no time to get hurt by them. “Stupid girl.” He faces upward, nose held up toward the sky, eyes staring at the sublime as though he had an idea of what the constellations across the heavens were even called. “Stop being so stubborn and marry me instead,” he says in gentle waves, almost careful. He pushes you backward in order to meet you eye to eye. “What better way to fuck with them than to marry the strongest man alive?”

You sniffle. This is tradition. Keep your eyes on the ground.

“I cannot marry you, Satoru.” 

Your mother’s words echo in your head, like distant gunshots, You are unworthy. You will never live up to Gojo Satoru. To bask in his presence is a luxury. Know your place.

Satoru looks at you displeased. You scoff inwardly. He is so, very, terribly cruel to you even when you’re most vulnerable. You want to hate him so much that it hurts—but you don’t know how to. You’re wrapped around his finger and like him, unaware of just how far you’d go just to appease him, just to feel as though you could have a place in his world.

You are nothing and you will stay nothing. You are worthless. Know your place.

“Why not?” Toothy grin. You were trying to stifle your tears, and he’s out here looking as if this is just another day in his life. The moonbeams never fail to weave wonders whenever they shine on his hair; he looks exceptionally, undeniably lovely. Like milky streaks of the lune. “Think about it. You’d get out of there. We can reform the world however we please. Maybe I’ll kill your mother for you. You won’t miss her.”

You stare at him as if he’s a mad scientist professing profusely incoherent formulae of topics barely comprehensible; and although you know that that’s exactly what he is, he couldn’t possibly be serious. There was no way in whichever universe that his words rang true—not when he’s always been cruel. Not when he’s said these before and done nothing to show for it. Not when his promises have always been empty, hollow, selfish.

You deflate alongside with the wind. “You should choose the people you associate yourself with. It would be too much of a burden for you to marry one as weak as me, no?”

There’s a shift in his reaction, a sudden surge of irritation, it’s palpable and thick that you couldn’t bear to even remain near him so much that you take a step back. It happens quietly. A breeze swishes through and he purses his lips into a thin line, bathing underneath the light of the sky once more, but unmoving this time. It happens quietly. You wonder if this is his anger—if it is, then it’s just as beautiful as he is, and you hate it—or if this were just another one of his cold, blatant personas, reserved for those he despises. It happens quietly. Maybe he despises you.

A hitch gets caught up inside his throat, and you barely notice it. “Since when has that been,” Satoru hisses, wrapping one arm around your back, “for you to decide?”

The wind whistles past again and the two of you are near the edge of the cliff, free to fall anytime if either of you choose to make the wrong move, but instead you’re focused on each other, both fiercely trying to figure out what to make of this conversation: you’re certain now that you hit a nerve, but it’s unfair—he’s been insufferable, for almost two decades now, but you’ve never been in the position to complain. His eyes meet your own and you fixate your gaze on the space in between his. Decades have passed, and yet you are unable to look at him, still. You stare each other down, neither of you refusing to yield.

Until—surprisingly enough—he does. It’s his turn to keep his eyes glued to the ground.

(Satoru is the first one to look away, but the both of you know who truly lost.)

“Doesn’t matter if you’re weak or strong.” I’m always going to be stronger. An unspoken thing. He interlocks your arms together, drawing out a small squeal of surprise from you, “I still have to do my job, either way.”

Before you could ask him what happened, the same feeling from earlier surrounds your body; the flow of his cursed energy rendering you speechless for the nth time that night. In a matter of seconds, you’re back to your room, and the clock is only further adding to your anxiety with its constant ticking. 

“Satoru.” You mumble out, tugging on his jacket. “What’s going on?”

When Satoru quickly lets go of your arm, the cold seeps through your bones more quickly this time.

“Whatever. It’s nothing.” He whispers, getting ready to part ways, “just think about what I said.”

―――

In dreams, the both of you fall off the cliff in Mount Ena and you are able to experience what it feels like to be at peace. In dreams, Satoru is as strong as he says and he does not hold back from saving you; he is not broken and torn and as weak as you are. He is whole, he does not mask away his mourning, and he does not put you on the receiving end of his cold blue eyes. 

―――

“Okay,” You reach out for a hair tie, leaving it hanging on your lips while your hands work to comb your hair, “and then what happened?”

Looking forward, you watch the sunshine bounce on the frame of your silver laptop; although the corners were riddled with scratches from being overused, you brushed over that detail and stared at your screen once more. Painted across the surface of your monitor, Gojo Satoru looks even more unreal; the years have made themselves apparent on his skin, but not in a way that made him look unflattering. Not exactly. Not in the slightest, even.

“I exorcized it, of course.” He shrugs. Based on the interface, Satoru was inside his room, wearing an exhausted white shirt with noticeable folds on it. “When a curse is about to swallow a colleague, I don’t think there’s anything else you can do.”

You roll your eyes, sticking your tongue out at him. “Smartass. I was making an effort to sound invested in your story over here.”

Satoru feigned offense, his hand clutching the left part of his shirt. If you could see through the bandages wrapped neatly around his eyes, you knew you’d be facing the most sour eyebrow furrow in the entire world. You chuckle silently at the thought of that.

“Are you telling me you’ve been faking the whole time?” He shakes his head. “And here I thought we were having a nice conversation. Am I not enough for you these days?”

You hum in response, watching him spiral down within his faux dejection even more. “These days? Please, Satoru. You know I never would have been interested in you if not for my family duty.”

The both of you throw your individual arguments back and forth, not once pausing to take in a breath in fear that you’ll be forced to log out of your Skype account again any second now. The blue frames in your screen taunt you as you brush your hair: and you stare at them, at Satoru as well, memorizing each pixel as though this would be the last time you’re seeing it.

Life within the Heiwa clan estate was humbling, but not frugal. Of course, your family lived off of generational wealth and as well as the livelihood of the sorcerers in the clan; there weren’t many, but there were some. You knew that your older sister was one—Kameko, who was recently widowed—and you knew that one of your younger sisters was set to become a sorcerer as well; a few aunts and uncles, but none relevant enough to remember the name of. Technology was still widely new to the clan, and quite frankly, it wasn’t as accessible as you and your sisters had hoped. Even the laptop you were using now was a present from Satoru nearly a year ago.

Now, at age 24, over two years after the events in Mount Ena, you put on your most vibrant satin dresses all for the sake of landing a suitor. Your name was still clouded with bad rep, and yet the search did not yield; your mother, ever stubborn and ever prideful, would not let one of her daughters forget, after all, that they will suffer the same fate she did. 

“You are so dramatic.” You finally say after a while, leaning comfortably against your chair. You watch the ends of his lips curve up to form a smile, unfolding his arms in order to lay them quietly by his side. 

“Theatrics have never hurt anyone,” he leans forward, his face taking up most of the screen. You scrunch your nose. “Not that you would know, anyway. Have you even stepped foot inside a theater?”

“Hey! You know I’m a homebody.”

“Are you? I think you stay at home because they don’t allow you to leave,”

Satoru grins at you even as your glare pierces through his screen. You choose to ignore it, instead basking in the comfortable silence that followed suit. You turn towards the mirror situated right next to your device, soon picking up your brush again and dabbing it lightly into the powder; soon bringing it up to dust your face with the mixture. Satoru watches you idly.

You know he’s about to ask what you’re preparing for again when he attempts to open his mouth; but you stumble over yourself, you sputter out words faster than he could, “Fushiguro! He’s—Well…how is he?”

He purses his lips to a thin line, studying you through his side of the screen. The warm breeze of summer swishes through your room, billowing the puffy cloak wrapped around your shoulders. You pondered if your screen had lagged again; but you knew Satoru simply took his time.

After a while, his shoulders slump down and he leans against his chair. “He’s doing okay. You can call him Megumi, you know. He doesn’t mind.”

“You sure?” You pout. “I haven’t met him in person yet. I’m not even sure if we’re friends.”

As soon as you finish talking, the sorcerer flares up with laughter, his laptop nearly falling off his desk when he slammed his palm on top of it. You tilt your head to the side, defensively holding your cheek brush in front of you. “What are you laughing so hard for?”

“Man, you’re really worried about whether or not you’re friends with an eleven year old.” Satoru combs through his hair, shaking his head. “You must have nothing to do over there.”

There are three blunt knocks on your door, and all too quickly, one of your sisters peeks inside your room to gesture you out, brows glued together. Yua’s fingers furl and unfurl themselves; you hear Satoru humming in confusion, something-something What’s the matter? What’re you looking at? You tune him out, surprisingly enough. When your sister finally takes her leave, your grip on your brush tightens. You dwell over that simple thing for a few seconds—you hate it, you finally ascertain, you detest the way you hold onto things tighter than you should. You peer at Satoru, and you realize you do the same thing with him. Your mother did it too. She held onto teacups, fans, wrists with a death grip as proof that she had control, authority over mundane things, as if mundanity was the only thing she had.

You put a pin on it. Spiraling down was out of the question today.

“Hey.” You start, finding it rather difficult to string your sentences together. “I have to…go. Somewhere. I have to get going.”

He stares at you for a while.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Satoru grins, propping his chin atop his palm. He shakes his head. “No, actually—you know what? You look like I just asked you to marry me again.”

When you laugh, it rings insincerely against Satoru’s ears. For a moment, his face twists into a brief expression of distaste, you immediately know he doesn’t like it.

“Yeah.” You raise your hand, waving dismissively. “Don’t miss me too much, okay? Be careful over there.”

Satoru clutches the left part of his shirt again, now without a look of disbelief to accompany it. In its stead, a smile rests on his lips, his other hand presumably reaching for his computer’s mouse. “Can’t promise you that. I’ll see you around.”

The line ends after that. It was an unspoken rule between the two of you: you could call him whenever you needed a distraction at any point of the day, but he has to be the one who ends it. Something about him knowing you’ll end it as soon as you start to shy away. Something about not wanting you to hide away from him as well.

You close the lid of your laptop. It was an unspoken thing as well, you thought; the way you knew, almost instinctively, that Satoru was always going to be careful for the rest of his life.

―――

The train hums down, the faint squeals from before blending into the sound of the bustling station in the heart of the city. You pull your hat further down, waiting for the other passengers to finish pushing themselves out of the train. In your head, you remind yourself that this is unlike quaint Nakatsugawa; no, Nakatsugawa had less than 100,000 in population—Tokyo had millions. If you lag behind now, you’re going to regret it for the rest of your life.

Still, you swallow thickly; it’s completely normal for your legs to feel like they’re about to give up, right?

You stand abruptly from your seat in the train, now holding onto one of the handles to keep your balance. The line towards the exit was relatively neat, but you could subtly feel people shoving each other in order to finally get out of the cramped space. You knew that Tokyo’s morning rush hour was hectic as hell, but you had nothing to base it on back at home; had you known it would have been this bad, you would have opted for an earlier ride.

You string together small Excuse me’s and Sorry’s as you make your way out of the crowd, clutching your bag closer to your chest. In exchange, you receive a bunch of Get out of my way’s and Watch where you’re going’s. Neat. City folks are interesting.

Once you are finally able to step foot outside of the public transport, you heave a sigh. Within mere seconds of your arrival, you see Satoru—clad in a black sweatshirt, plain black jeans, and a black mask over his eyes in lieu of the usual white bandages—waving at you in the distance, soon showcasing a small salute.

The sun was not at its peak yet, and you already felt like melting. Nine feet away, Gojo Satoru still resembled the annoying kid you grew up with. Though he was taller now, and maybe stronger as well, he looked no different from how you remember him. He fashions a shit-eating grin, his free hand hidden inside his pocket; you wave back at him, jogging towards his direction with a smile etched on your expression as well.

“Look at you, city girl,” he shoots you a wink, “How was your trip?”

You give him a light slap on his shoulder, more relieved than you are annoyed. It’s been a year and a half since you last saw Satoru in person; up until now, it had mostly been video calls on Skype or continuous emails. He’s been busy with work (“Tokyo’s a shitstorm right now. You wouldn’t get it.”) , and you’ve been busy with preserving the estate (“Clearly you haven’t seen Nakatsugawa during winter.”); so when the opportunity came up, the opportunity being your mother heading to Osaka to meet with some relatives, you contacted him immediately and got on a train bound to the beloved capital—consequences be damned.

“It was a bit cramped in there, but I managed.” You reply, proudly patting your bag as though it were your chest. “Do you mind if we eat first before I show you my itinerary, Satoru?”

Interlocking his arm with yours, he hums, “I do mind, actually. I have an itinerary of my own, so you better adjust your pace to mirror mine, sweetheart.” Satoru, ever the menace, drags you forward with him without even letting you protest—combing through the sea of people quickly, checking every now and then to see if you were still conscious.

You were going to kill him before the day ends. The both of you know that. You tug on his hand. He stops walking.

Then, Satoru cocks an eyebrow. “What?”

“I’m seriously going to pass out if I don’t eat,” you reply, your voice slurring around the edges, ”I know you’d hate that. So, please?”

It’s his turn to roll his eyes, dragging you to the nearest vending machine, slipping in a few coins in order to get you a tuna sandwich. You flick the back of his head.

“What was that for?” He exclaims, smoothing out the folds on his sweatshirt.

Grumbling, you reluctantly take the sandwich he acquired, stuffing it inside your satchel. “You’re so stingy, Satoru. Can’t even take me to an actual restaurant.”

He winks at you again, before nudging your sides. Your irritation slowly bubbles up inside.

“That’s for tonight, baby.” The nickname makes you blush, but you try to pay little attention to it. “I told you, didn’t I? I have an itinerary of my own.”

— ꕤ —

Your first few hours in the city go swimmingly. Satoru makes sure to hold you close enough to him, especially during hectic crowds, so that you don’t get lost and get stuck in the middle of nowhere.

As it turns out, Satoru wasn’t talking out of his ass; he did have an itinerary. He planned the whole day, in fact, down to the tourist spots to visit, to places to eat during lunch, snack time, and dinner. See, he’s never been one for planning—thinks that spontaneity has its own quirks to it, something something—so it surprises you, beyond reasonable belief, when he pulls out a sheet of paper (neatly folded, too!) from his back pocket. He doesn’t show you anything specific on the page, but you steal a few glances midway and make out the time slots allotted to each activity he had scheduled for the day.

It’s precise and actually coherent.

(You have two theories. First: he somehow got Megumi to draft it out for him, either through coercion mixed with extortion or annoying persuasion. Second: trip-planning is unexpectedly another one of his natural, god-given talents.)

(The latter is most likely the answer, but it feels ridiculous to admit.)

He took you to the former Yasuda garden, firstly. He had signed the two of you up for a full tour beforehand, and he even took you straight to the stalls lined up near the entrance in order to purchase a variety of memorabilia and souvenirs. You were opposed to the idea of visiting a garden at first, especially since you already see enough plants back at home anyway, but Satoru promises to make it worth your while.

And, he delivers. You end up crying amidst the shrubberies. The green is so terribly, wonderfully healthy that you fall apart. (“Don’t you think it’s poetic, Satoru? Healthy roots still run through the ground of this land, in spite of the blood and anguish it’s witnessed before.”) (“Please stop crying. The other tourists are staring.”)

You end the tour on a good note. He buys you pastries from the vendors nearby. 

Next, he warps the two of you down to the Kameido Tenjin Shrine in Koto City, which wasn’t a far jump from Sumida, but he insists that there isn’t time to lose today. The token purple flowers from the garden there were out of season, but he pulls out a shard of hardened resin from his pocket: inside, there are violet wisteria flowers, pressed and dried and pretty, it makes you swoon. There’s a chain attached to the top of the shard, and you realize shortly after that it’s meant to act as a necklace. (“It’s unorthodox, I know. But I heard it’s trendy these days to propose without a ring.”) (“I’m not marrying you. Thanks for the necklace, though!”)

You take a lot of photos with him. Next to a random tree, next to the tall walls surrounding the shrine, next to the field of not-so-blossoming flowers. In most of the pictures, you and Satoru smile as wide as the other, and his arm is covertly wrapped around either your shoulder or your waist.

Nakamise shopping street was the third place on the list, apparently. Before you went there, the two of you spent a few minutes (close to an hour) wandering around the food vendors, trying out street food and beverages. Satoru pays for everything, unsurprisingly. Something about being ‘loaded as hell’? You tried your hardest to tune out his cockiness, so you remain unsure.

Once you reach Asakusa, minutes begin to drift to hours. The two of you spend an awful lot of time hanging around each nook and cranny of every intriguing store.

By the end of it, Satoru warps out momentarily to drop all of you guys’ shopping bags to his apartment. His absence is brief, but you feel it strongly. When he returns to you after no more than five minutes, you cling onto his arm as you weave through the busy crowd.

The afternoon sun strikes through your pupils, but you think it to be lackluster next to the way Satoru smiles at you. 

— ꕤ —

Hours after that, you feel your entire body closing in on you. 

And that shouldn’t even be possible.

After visiting the busy shopping district, Satoru teleports the both of you to a restaurant. Chanko Tomoegata. Sumida again, according to the sign, and the aroma immediately flows through the air when you enter, so much so that it makes your mouth water. You don’t realize just how tired you are. Not until you sat down in one of the empty booths, your feet finally finding some remedy beneath the warm cloth of the kotatsu. 

When your forehead meets the top of the table, it’s enough for Satoru to realize that you’ll be out of it until further notice: so he orders on your behalf, beaming at the waiting staff. You tune him out.

Minutes later, when the steam worms its way to cloud your face, you raise your head only to be greeted with the sight of your companion watching a video on his cellphone. You yawn, before stretching your limbs out. “How long was I out?”

“About fifteen minutes. The pork’s almost done cooking.” He tells you, stirring the pot situated in front of you two. 

You blink twice, adjusting your eyes to the light of the room. “Are we heading to your place after this?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I’ll pour my soup down your pants. Tread lightly.”

“I’m joking!”

“It wasn’t funny!”

Satoru pokes you with his elbow, a smile gracing his lips. He shrugs after that. “We’re not heading back just yet. We still have to visit one more place. And then I’ll let you steal my bed for the night. Alright?”

Satisfied, you nod. “Alright.”

You don’t say much after that, too exhausted to strike up another topic. You’ve been talking to Satoru non-stop ever since you got to Tokyo, and although the two of you were technically catching up because you haven’t seen each other in months, his affinity for being absolutely insufferable for no reason drained you out impeccably. 

When you feel as though you’re back to being a functioning human being (and not an empty battery shell), you take in the ambiance of the restaurant. Chanko Tomoegata is a fairly small restaurant, with quaint interiors and a lively staff to juxtapose the plain, cozy feel of the place. The cloth entrance to the restaurant is bordered with a red wooden doorframe, a few festive ornaments positioned near the windows and doors, signifying the coming holidays. The place is crowded tonight, mostly by couples and families. It has a certain familiarity to it—this restaurant, as though people have come here time and time again and worn out the furniture enough to make the room scream home. It’s a silly thought. You get lost in it, anyway.

“You okay?” Satoru asks you, after minutes of evident silence, momentarily dropping the stirring spoon down on the small plate right next to the pot. “Are you really that tired? You want me to carry you later?”

His question elicits a small laugh from you. “No, it’s fine. I’m just a bit tired.” Shaking your head, you think you like how he cares about you. Satoru is typically very affectionate, but often he hides it under the guise of being unbearable, so it appears unapparent. But you know he cares, he shows it during moments that matter: maybe not through words all the time, but it’s always been enough for you.

It takes you back to your childhood with him, more than anything. Cheek pokes in the library, distasteful jokes when you’re crying, hiding your plant seeds from you when you’re sick. Tasting food first for you, getting you a glass of water when you’re tired. Folding your blanket in the morning.

You sigh. He does a lot for you.

“Do you ever miss it?” Choosing your next words, you lean your head against his shoulder. “Nakatsugawa, I mean. Our estate. You used to stay there a lot.”

Satoru sends you a questioning stare. “I don’t go there for the estate, so why would I miss it?” After that, he flashes you a cheeky grin, his chin perched atop his palm. He plays with the straw of his drink. “Is that your silly way of asking if I miss you?”

Your cheeks flush a light shade of red. Embarrassed, you turn away from him, training your focus on the bowl of food presented neatly in front of you. You huff. He was being annoying, as usual. It’s not like you wanted to know if he missed you just as much as you missed him. No, not really. Not at all. You pick up your chopsticks, deciding to dig into the hot pot already as a way to ease the feeling of having his attention fall all on you. “No. I was just wondering, idiot. You’re so full of yourself.”

Satoru pouts. “How can you say that, when I’m paying for this sick ass meal?”

“I can say what I want!”

“And you say I’m the one who’s full of myself.”

You stick your tongue out at him after that. He chuckles lightly, taking hold of one napkin and using it to wipe the broth beside your lips. It’s a simple thing, and you’re used to it, so your cheeks cooperate with you this time around. You don’t blush a deep shade of red, but you feel your pulse beating through the cuffs of your jacket. Satoru hums a tune under his breath. You try to focus on that instead.

“Have you been eating well?” He asks, suddenly. “Or are you skipping your meals again?”

You ponder on his question for a bit, before answering, “I’ve been eating better, I suppose. You know, I cook my own food now.”

The young God grins again, and then he reaches out to pat your head. He keeps doing this when you two are together—touch you, hold you, anywhere. Satoru is typically very affectionate. It could just be his pinky finger grazing the back of your hand, it could be his palm finding its place on top of your head, or his arms snaked around your waist. It was always like this, in recent years. You’re used to Satoru living loudly, but you’ve come to notice that he lived especially obnoxiously around you. It’s an intimate thing. You understand why, but it’s foreign, still.

“That’s good to hear. Don’t want you passing out under the sun when you’re gardening, now, do we?” Satoru chuckles, later straightening his posture and picking up the chopsticks that were laid out for him, too. He breaks it apart, before blowing the steam off the bowl he served himself. “You’ve got to cook for me sometime, nerd.”

You roll your eyes. “Why would I do that?”

“‘Cause I told you to, of course.” He sips his broth. “Can you say no to this gorgeous face?”

“Quite easily, actually.”

“Come on!"

— ꕤ —

The darkness combs through the sky faster than you’d realized, and the cool air it brought along squeezes itself through the slits of your clothes. You stare down at the world, from over 400 meters above the ground, with your hands clasped tightly on top of your chest.

Below you, the city twinkles like minute christmas lights, flickering all over. In fractions of different hues, blinking towards the next and the next and the next, until it all blends into a portrait of frenzied gradients. They glimmer all over, and it’s difficult to find a focal point.

So, you choose to stare at the most beautiful thing, instead. You lean the back of your head against the glass, and then you train your eyes to Satoru, beaming. “I don’t know how I can enjoy my hometown after this. I love it here.”

“I keep telling you.” He bumps his shoulder against your own one. “You should just marry me. You won’t need to go back there if you do.”

Before exiting the restaurant earlier, Satoru specifically waited for the daytime sun to dip down the horizon. The setting sun colored the clouds with a duller shade of orange as you were walking towards your next destination, blending into the golden hues of the sky perfectly as eventide neared. You remember distinctly—he reached out to take off the fabric masking his eyes, eyelids relaxing upon being touched by the sun’s rays. The blue in his eyes mirrored the vibrance so perfectly well; it fluidly circled around his pupils each time he directed his attention elsewhere, pristine and wonderful and startlingly beautiful. 

Satoru has always been lovely; his eyes, most especially. Unmasked, they looked up from the depths and immediately caught the sun: and somehow Satoru was able to shine along with it. Somehow somehow somehow. 

You sigh in displeasure. Now, at Tokyo Skytree, the top floor is devoid of other people. The halls are empty, save for the two of you, and it evokes a specific kind of anxiety and peace at the same time. You're not quite sure what to make of it yet, but you know there's satisfaction underneath it all. In that moment, in the one you’re in now, and perhaps in more moments to come, you could think of nothing else that you would want more than being able to be an onlooker for the way Satoru effortlessly dares to be the most beautiful man alive. You think you might deserve it. You would like to feel like you do, maybe one day, maybe now, maybe soon enough. 

But you don’t. What have you done to deserve someone as grand as him? Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Your head throbs, so much so that you remember the words of your mother. You think you might deserve it—what? What do you deserve? Remaining to be within reach enough to watch Satoru from afar? A scoff wants to escape your throat, and you hate how easy it is to mock yourself over your desires. Meek as they are. When it comes to him, there is no question of what you deserve. The only thing that matters is if he has gotten tired of having you around. It is not a question of whether or not you are worth something to him—no, not really—because so long as he thinks your companionship is necessary, then there should be no complaints on your end. You don’t deserve to be his friend, and yet you are, so you swallow the pain even if it tastes like tiny shards of glass. You are worth nearly nothing, and yet he spends his money on you as though you aren’t. So, what? Be thankful, then. Say nothing and be thankful. That’s all there is to it.

You do not deserve him. It doesn’t make sense for you to deserve him. One as weak as you and one as strong as him? No. No. No. It wouldn’t make sense. No. Not really.

You should just marry me. He says it so often, but he doesn’t mean it. Satoru doesn’t owe you honesty; that’s why he keeps asking, no? On some level, he knows the tradition just as well as you do. He keeps proposing because you keep shooting him down. Your rejection is inevitable, and he gets to live normally the next day. Satoru does not love you enough to take you seriously. He cares about you, that much you are certain, but he does not love you enough to offer you truth. 

But you do.

“I am already engaged to a man from the Zen’in clan.”

Quiet.

You refuse—no, incorrect—you can’t look him in the eye. You can’t bring yourself to. “We are to be wedded in two years.”

You say this in a way that evidently shows that you’re waiting for a reaction from him. Anything, really. Satoru knows you more than anyone in the world, which meant that he knew the ins and outs of everything that went on inside your head. He probably already knows that you don’t want this marriage. He knows that you’re doing this for your mother. 

He knows that you cannot verbally tell him all of these things, and he knows you are waiting for him to make the first move. It’s a silly thing, really. Awaiting his compassion. As though you deserve to have it. 

(You don’t. Nobody does. Gojo Satoru does not owe the world anything at all.)

The city lights continue twinkling underneath, and it’s starting to feel more like chaos.

Though Satoru’s grin stays plastered on his expression, and it grounds you. “That doesn’t sound like a no.”

―――

I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m s-

The hurt does not subside regardless of how relentless your pleas are. You keep your eyes shut: as though doing so would help you tune out the world around you.

It doesn’t. It will never.

“Should’ve known you would be a failure,” the ghastly widow says, loose hair curled up against her sweaty forehead. She nibbles on the tips of her fingernails, pacing around the room tirelessly, the heavy pounding of her steps posing as enough reason for one to avoid the room the two of you were locked in. Your yukata rises above your knee, barely covering each patch of cold violet; they are reminders. Reminders of all the times you have failed the family. “Should not have put it past you to be such a disgraceful whore. Had I intervened sooner, I—” Your mother clutches the skin of her cheeks tighter than anything else she’s ever touched. “—I could have stopped this from happening. You could have been sold off to another clan. I would not have to be stuck with you.”

I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I never meant to-

The wedding has been postponed. Somehow, the announcement hurts the mother of the bride more than it should— way more than it should. The elders from the Zen'in clan are on the brink of pulling out your supposed fiancé and calling off the ceremony altogether as soon as they found out about your trip to Tokyo with none other than Satoru. The rest is history. Now, your mother yells as if she has no more daughters left to pawn off to disgusting rich men; like she has realized that her appearance alone is enough to scare a toddler; like she has finally gone mad, once and for all.

Inwardly, you snort. No. Heiwa’s widow has been mad long before she was the clan’s matriarch.

“They think two years is enough to tighten you up.” 

Tighten you up because you have been sullied by Gojo Satoru. What good is having a whore for a wife? Give her two years more. That ought to make her clean enough to marry. 

Gojo Satoru. Satoru. Your Satoru. He’s not here, he’s not anywhere, he’s nowhere to be found. Where is he? You don’t bother whispering it out; your voice can’t take it, anyway. Where is he? He’ll get here soon. I know he will.

“How long will I be stuck with you? How long until you run back to that arrogant man and restart the process all over again?”

She walks closer towards you, kneeling on the floor. It’s quick. She makes it quick enough. She gathers her hands and she places it around your cheeks. Takes hold of your temple soon enough. Quick. She makes it quick. She runs her hands through the sides of your head and then she pulls your hair—you hear your scalp tearing out, and a scream dies down in your throat—she cries with her forehead placed directly in front of yours. Quick. Quick. Quick. The pain lingers but her fingers leave the scene in an instant.

The ghastly widow stands up and she turns her back on you, her face nears the crackling embers of the fireplace. You pray for her to be one with the ashes.

“You will never learn, will you?” She shakes her head. You watch from your corner in the room, folding yourself smaller and smaller and smaller and smaller. “What must I do to make sure it sticks?”

Her hands find a home in the fire poker beside the spare wood in the room, keenly soaking it into the flames. 

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I never did anything wrong. Where is he? I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.

“Yes, yes, yes, that.” She cackles. Sobs wrack through your whole body. “If I write it in seething characters, maybe he’ll leave you alone.”

I never did anything wrong I never did anything wrong I never did anything wrong I never did anything wrong I never did anything wrong I never did anything-

Your mother has always had sharp eyes, and you used to think they burned you like no other.

She makes you eat your own words when the poker carves through the skin of your shoulder, hot and sharp and slow. She hums a quiet tune under her breath, her free hand holding you in place as she engraves your skin with marks that’ll stay. It burns. 

Quick. Quick. Quick. The pain is slow but your mother is quick with writing. En - Mei. The name of your betrothed. 

The ghastly widow looks like your mother, but she is anything but. You stay rotting in that corner for weeks. The ghastly widow forgets where she left you. 

―――

The name forged on your shoulder continues to sting months after it was burned. Not because the scar still hurts, but because you’re unsure of what Satoru would think if he knew you had a man’s name eternally drawn on your skin. Could you still be his? Would he even want you?

―――

The crown molding is barely visible now that the ornaments are there to cover them. Truth be told, no amount of gold in the world could make you like the interiors of this place, anyway. The guests were widespread across the hall, each one either trapped in conversation with clan elders, stuffing their faces with the food served on nearly a dozen tables, or gushing about the portrait of you and your betrothed on the wall.

The party’s boring. You’re sitting beside your supposed husband; people are rushing over to talk to Enmei, and you’re barely there to them, they barely spare you a minute of their time, much less a second glance. You fear the day you’d get brushed over completely and be regarded as nothing more than just his wife, albeit you already knew that this is ultimately the beginning of the rest of your life.

“Why the long face?” You snap your head immediately to the source of voice, already feeling more upbeat. “You’re going to get uglier if you keep at it.”

“Satoru…” You smile, your shoulders relaxing. “You’re here.”

“Well, obviously. Did you secretly have me banned, or something?” Satoru doesn’t even look at Enmei, but you can see through the corner of your eyes that the latter’s not too happy to see your friend.

“I’d ban you as loud as I can, if possible. Surely, you know me better than that?” You patronize.

He doesn’t take his sweet time trying to humor your request for an argument, instead offering you his palm, now standing upright in front of you. “Why don’t we take advantage of the music,” he gestures to the dance floor, “for old time’s sake?”

Politely, you give your fiancé a small smile, only to acknowledge his presence, before reluctantly placing your hand on top of Satoru’s. There’s friction at first, and you feel almost scared to completely graze his skin; but he takes the opportunity to beat you to the tackle by fully entwining your fingers together, now trailing behind him as he led the both of you to the middle, where the other dancers were.

“You allowed me through infinity again,” you smile at him, sounding almost solicitous, though he knew you well enough not to let it get to him. “I must be very special, huh.”

“Not really.” He clicks his tongue, playfully spinning you around, readying himself to reiterate the same thing he’s been saying since you two were six years old. “You don’t pose a threat. You’re still much weaker than me.”

He puts his free hand on top of your waist thereafter; the music slows down, and the both of you melt into it. The silence is obscure tonight. He’s not talking, though he doesn’t at all look disinterested; you like him better when he cares, you take note, enjoying the way he’s hesitating to pull you towards him. You don’t miss a beat—you’re the one who takes the initiative this time, the desire to spread the remnants of his cologne on your dress growing at a rapid rate. You’re dancing with Gojo Satoru, unarguably the strongest man alive, but you want so much more of him that it still doesn’t feel enough.

“It isn’t too late to take me up on my offer, you know.” He grins, it’s frivolous and light, far too casual that you want to wipe it off his expression on the spot. He sways you on the dance floor, lips moving dangerously close beside your ear, “Why don’t you marry me instead?”

The world is steadily crumbling down and you’re letting it. The walls aren’t walls at this point, they’re something out of a dream, or a nightmare, and the paper’s tearing off with each step the two of you take in sync. The whispers around the room are dying down; you’re trying to think of the time that the voices weren’t so brittle. 

You don’t want to look around the room and lock eyes with the people you could never disappoint; so you keep your gaze on him, on Satoru, your Satoru, with your lips quivering ever so lightly. He does not miss the way it does. 

“Satoru.” Your breathing is growing erratic. “I’ll do it.”

He looks pleasantly surprised; almost satisfied with your answer, though the way he dips you down is quick and brisk and it does not spare you a second longer to figure out exactly what expression he adorned as soon as you responded. The world is continuously shattering into smaller pieces: he isn’t ready to pick them up for you just yet. Satoru’s clutch on your waist tightens; he’s getting so painstakingly close, you could feel the intensity of the room thickening. All eyes on the two of you.

“Just what is your family subjecting you to,” he pauses, his breath tickling your neck, “for you to become so desperate?”

You should hate him for that, but you reserve your anger for the day he doesn’t speak the truth. He’s right. You were desperate. He knew how to get the answers out from you with just his stupid, little jokes. They hurt less than staying in this life: than staying and taking all the burns and reading every single book they ask of you all because you must, and not because you can. Sick and tired of tossing and turning every night, wishing for some miracle, wishing to wake up in another person’s body. You were—you are—so, so desperate to get out. You’ve endured long enough, haven’t you? The burns on your shoulders are an indication of all that you have given up. Have you not paid more than what you are worth? 

You try to give him a genuine chuckle, though it falls flat. As if I could tell him all of those things. “Am I engaged to two people now?” 

He holds you closer than ever; even with the fabric around his eyes, you could make out his impossibly perfect pupils, wishing inwardly to see it—one last time, before the walls of Enmei’s abode cave in to gradually replace the world you’ve worked so hard on to establish. In the end, it’s true: Gojo, however strong, however powerful, is not mandated to save you, will not benefit from wasting time in order to pull you out of your situation, will never marry you no matter how many times he asks for your hand.

“No,” Satoru’s close, too close, and he’s getting your hopes up with every second that his fingers remain wrapped around yours. “Just one.”

―――

But Satoru doesn’t come back for you after that.

You lay still in the cold corner of the estate, where the empty patch of soil used to be, watering the flowers, the shrubs, the seedlings that would eventually grow to be trees. Hours spent curling and uncurling your toes on steel dry grass, green and prickly and riddled with weeds you’re too exhausted to pull out. Hours spent starting the day seated on the bridge across the pond, hours spent staring at the sun until the light couldn’t pierce through your irises anymore. Days pass by until they turn into grueling weeks that you wind up forgetting. Satoru doesn’t come back to you. Weeks turn into colder months and you think you’d soon forget the shape of his face—eternally erased from your mind, but only because attempting to remember it only further contorts the idea of him you’ve built up for two decades now.

The young God looks human, and most days he is.

In hush murmurs, the servants gossip about Gojo Satoru and the adventures he gets himself into each day: he exorcized a curse in the middle of the sea, he paraded around an abandoned village killing curses left and right with no second to spare, catching rays of the pale moonlight in his eyes each time he fights someone at dusk. Master Gojo probably won’t be visiting for a while. Did you hear? He brought in a new student. Took him in this month even though the kid stuffed a bunch of his classmates in a locker.

Everyone was keenly updated with everything that he did: he lived loudly, unapologetically. Occupied an unusually large space. If he had most of the world wrapped around his finger, where did that leave you?

Maybe you were coiled around his arm, obsessively finding a place to melt in on his palm. Hands roaming around his shoulder, clinging onto it for dear life, because that’s all you’ve ever known. You grew up knowing you could never be worthy of him and yet you think you are important enough to save. You aren’t.

Gojo Satoru has always been unblinking, restless, and you have always been easy enough. Back then, it used to feel like he was millions of worlds away from you, and on some level you know that to be true, but he has been close to you more times than you can count: the young God, although untouchable and great and heavenly and strong, has always been incredibly human beneath it all. Made for grandeur, too weak to take it. Onlookers watch his every move, and yet they fail to see how frail he is at the end of it all. The young God who has everything only has everything because people give him what they think he’s worth. Maybe he used to take, but now he is unmoving and relentlessly yearning, and you feel you are the only person in the world who is able to understand that.

It’s a fickle thing, his desires. He wants something one moment and then he doesn’t the next—because he thinks that is not something he should dream of deserving, thinks wanting small things would be an insult to the people who have given him more—and the cycle goes on and on. He burns like crackling firewood. Fueled by everything people drop on him.

Where did that leave you?

In Nakatsugawa, of course, hands deemed too stained and dirty so they’re tucked inside your pocket at all times. There is a ring in your finger, but the boy from the Zen’in clan thinks there could be no harm in waiting a few months longer before pushing through with the wedding. 

(He says you are past your prime, anyway. What’s a few months more?)

You don’t think he is cruel. You think he’s on the same boat as you are. Nursed with care growing up, to make imprinting clan values easier in your head; only to be tossed aside, treated like dirt, forced to face the reality of everything years later all at once, but never rebelling against the traditions you were instructed, all your life, to follow and uphold. In turn, it makes you either miserable or angry, sometimes both, sometimes numb, so it’s neither. Enmei has grown to be the spitting image of his clan elders. Snarky remarks in exchange for a few laughs. Glares that fall flat, because he is not as angry as they are. In fact, when you saw him for the first time, he looked almost as pitiful as you did—cowering underneath the gaze of those that mattered to him, shoulders slouched and tense, hands tucked inside his pockets. Like you.

But, still, he is a man, so the circumstances are different. He is treated like a savior for marrying you. You are taught to be grateful. He doesn’t understand it yet, but he is not as favored as he thinks himself to be. Because if the Zen’in clan valued him so much, then why would he be engaged to you?

His words sting, but you can’t bring yourself to resent him. It doesn’t feel worth it.

“How are your plants?”

A tiny voice, soft and beautiful, unlike anything you were used to. You don’t take your eyes off of the empty flower pot in front of you, too invested in the intricate ways it was made. You hum. “They’re fine. I can’t say much about them.”

Her shadow looks over you, until you could finally make out the silhouette of her person. Kameko, your older sister, crouches down beside you, poking through the garden tools that you had laid out on the ground earlier. “Why not?” She asks. “You don’t like them?”

“I do. I just don’t have anything to say right now. They’re fine. That’s all.”

Kameko offers you no rebuttal after that, choosing to find a place beside you on the grass in the end. She moved back into the estate a little over a week ago, and you know she’s unused to being back to this place. Kameko, your older sister, was forced to return to her little life in Nakatsugawa after her husband passed away at age 28. She’s been unsociable ever since. Cooped up in her old room, painting on empty canvases, though rarely finishing them. Or maybe you were wrong. What do you know about art? When do brushstrokes end, and when do they begin, anyway?

Your ears ring incessantly. Don’t think too much. Kameko, your older sister, probably sleeps wide awake. Encumbered by grief, dragged down by her mourning. You wonder if her baggage is heavier than yours.

After a few careful seconds, she speaks again. “Yua called me the other day. She said she’s settling in at her new house.” 

You nod. “Is that so?”

A smile takes over her lips, albeit solemn. She takes hold of the garden trowel. “Yes. She and Yasu are set to visit sometime next week, hopefully. A few days before Ichika’s wedding. That should be fun.”

You nod again. There is nothing else to draw from you.

“Are you okay?”

Another nod.

“Have you grown to resent me, too? For leaving?”

Kameko, your older sister, perfect eyes and perfect hair, the most desirable among you and your sisters, looks vulnerable and dejected but pristine and untouchable all the same. She asks you in a way that makes her voice shake, a decibel lower than usual. She had to leave; how could you hate her for that? She followed through with her obligation, duty, responsibility. Whatever. You turn towards her. An act of defeat.

You shake your head. “No, of course not.” You push the flower pot away from your hands. “Have you?”

She copies you. “No. Why would I?”

The sun kisses your forehead. You cross your legs atop the grass. Then, “I want to ask you something, if it’s alright.” She urges you to continue. “How have you been?”

She smiles at you, and you feel it might be genuine. Kameko tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear, hitching the hem of her cardigan up so as to not tarnish it with dirt. “Better. Mornings are still difficult, but I’ve been missing the sun lately. I’ll be okay.”

“Are you grieving?” It’s a stupid question, you note. “Did you love him?” Better.

She looks down. “He wasn’t cruel to me.”

You tilt your head. “That’s not an answer.”

Kameko smiles vaguely at you before shrugging. You turn your focus to the grass.

God, it all felt so indisputably miserable. A life such as this. Having to settle for a husband, having to grieve for his death regardless if you loved him or not. He wasn’t cruel to me. Like that’s enough reason to grieve. He made sure I was treated fairly. Like that’s enough reason to leave home and start a family. You think, No. You don’t start a family because you are asked to carry over a bloodline. You start a family because you are ready to have an extension of yourself, to love that extension, wholly and unconditionally. You think, you think, you think. You start a family because of love. The absence of cruelty doesn’t make it love. That’s tolerance. Tolerance isn’t love. It’s one step closer to hate.

No. Don’t think too much. You do, anyway. Your mother has a penchant for grievances; thrives when other people are just as lonely as she is. That’s why things had to be this way. Kameko knows this. Yua and Yasu will come to understand soon enough. Ichika, too. Each and every one of your sisters will come to realize that being a Heiwa daughter means being forced to be one with the ghastly widow—her pain, her joy, her grief—and there will be no way around it, unless someone finally breaks the cycle. Internally, you scoff. None of you will.

“How about you? How have you been?” You’re back on earth when your sister taps your knuckles. Lightly, hesitantly. “Your friend, too. Gojo. Has he visited lately?”

The young God has other worldly problems. He does not have time to entertain you and your silly desires, whims, wishes. You wonder if Kameko knows this as well as you do. “I’m okay. Not much has changed ever since you left.” You glue your lips together tightly. “And, no. He has better things to do over at Tokyo. He hasn’t visited in a while.” A year and nine months. That’s how long it’s been.

You hear a hum from her, and then a sigh. “Do you miss him?” She asks.

Don’t think too much. You do, anyway. Gojo Satoru is fleeting and fickle and there is no one else on earth you miss more, and you want to tell your sister this—you want to tell everyone, really—but you won’t, because your longing does not have a place in this world. Don’t think too much. You miss Satoru like how the moon chases the sun. Irretrievably. You miss him because you know nothing else than that. Pining is the only thing you were allowed to do when it came to Satoru. You miss him, but this is also tradition: him leaving, you waiting for him. Satoru always comes back. Waiting has always been worth it. 

Quietly, you say, “I do.”

“Why don’t you seek him out, then?”

Because seeking him out means the hurt will be tenfold if he decides to leave. There is a certain kind of devastating vulnerability to be found when one seeks out a god, after all. You stare at your garden shears. You wish you could tell her the extent of your feelings, but your throat could not echo such words anymore. You’ve been out of commission for a while now.

You tug the sleeves of your sweater closer to your body, and you feel the etched mark on your shoulder sizzle lightly underneath. A reminder. There is a certain kind of devastating vulnerability to be found when one seeks out a god, only to be met with cold desertion.

“What would be the point of that?” The trees rustle. “He’ll leave in the end, anyway. He always does.”

“But he returns, doesn’t he?”

Don’t think too much.

“Sometimes.”

She frowns. “Are you okay with that?” It’s a stupid question.

You look down.

“He has better things to do over at Tokyo.”

Kameko tilts her head. Solemn.

“That’s not an answer.”

―――

Ichika gets married three weeks before you do and she is whisked away from the estate, quicker than you could bid farewell. The young God does not return to you, and you think yourself to be irrelevant now, so you forget the way his first name sounds on your tongue. Like commonfolk, like everyone else.

It burns you like no other.

―――

He watches you shake your head timidly, the sound of your chuckles repeating inside his head. Somewhere deep inside his ribcage, something aches terribly.

You’re all I’ve ever known. You’re all I know, nowadays, too. Each day, he finds more and more words to say to you. But I’ll lose you too, won’t I? But he speaks none of them out loud. He thinks there would be no meaning in doing so—no satisfaction, either. Just a desperate attempt to humanize himself.

He feels your hand cling tightly on the sleeve of his sweatshirt, your head finding its place on his chest. “I just thought you should know that. You’re invited, after all.”

It feels like a sick joke he doesn’t have the capacity to understand. Something aches. “I haven’t told any of my sisters yet, but I’m sure they know already. I just,” you pause, sucking in a deep breath, “I wanted to tell you this in person. I feel like I owe you that. Does that make sense?”

It does. He’s your best friend. There’s no doubt about it. He nods silently, wrapping both of his arms around your torso.

You’re all he’s ever known. But he’s losing you, too. It's happening too fast. It's happening again.

“Thank you for taking me here, Satoru.”

He hums in response. “Don’t mention it.”

“All the flowers we saw earlier were lovely, too.” You begin, the cracks in your voice growing more audible the longer you speak. “But I love this part the most. I've always wanted to see all of Tokyo with you.”

It feels like farewell. Satoru holds you tighter. “You still haven’t seen it all, you know.”

“I know.” You smile at him. He doesn’t want to let you go.

So don’t go just yet. “We’ll get together some other time, then. I’ll take you sight-seeing again.”

“You don’t have to, Satoru.”

“I’ll take you everywhere. Don’t worry about it.”

“You’ll be there with me?”

The view of the city from the top of Tokyo Skytree will come to haunt him in his dreams, after this. A poignant reminder of that which he left unfulfilled.

“I will. I promise.”

Gojo Satoru is twenty-eight years old and he feels as though he will grow to be no more than that.

Within the comforts of his ancestral home, he washes the blood off of his clothes. Gojo Satoru is twenty-eight years old and he is too young to have killed the one most dearest to him—but life has a way of fucking things over until the fruit is too rotten to eat, so he accepts his sins and he shoulders Geto Suguru’s suffering as well. He thinks there might be a meaning to that. Doesn’t know what it is yet, quite unsure if he’ll ever find out, and still he holds onto the sliver of hope that he will.

Unlike his boarding in Tokyo, the Gojo clan’s ancestral home in the countryside houses tall trees and dull grass, untainted with blood. The security within the estate was strict to the point of suffocation. He was the only one who knew how to bypass it. Teleport straight to the center, nine feet to the right. His designated place in the garden. A blindspot—covertly hidden from the eyes of those watching. Snow covers his hair and it soaks through the garments of his clothes as it melts slowly. Gojo Satoru is twenty-eight years old and he is filled with grief much bigger than the space he is used to occupying. Geto Suguru lies idle inside his head: his rotting corpse, the blood on his chest. Geto Suguru dies idle inside his head. Over and over. Gojo Satoru puts him out of his misery. The only person he curses is himself.

First, Gojo Satoru buries himself underneath waves and waves of his coldest regrets. One way or another, he knows he’s bound to do this; drown, that is, under a sea of everything he’s come to fall short on. So much for being the strongest sorcerer alive. He carries the suffering of everyone he has met. Doesn’t understand the weight of their crosses, though he carries them anyway. The burden that comes with wielding power—people start to forget you can only carry so much, too blinded by the light of salvation, that they disregard your well-being altogether. I will carry your crosses as if they were mine. But I will not pass onto you the weight of my pain because it is too heavy for anyone else. He is on the receiving end of everybody’s sins but he is forced to carry his own all alone. The peak is the loneliest part of the pyramid.

Second, he basks in the stillness of the wind. The trees rustle in the distance. During winter, stars are often out of sight in the sky because pounds and pounds of clouds cover them up; not a problem for the young God with Six Eyes—not a problem at all—but he wishes he could see them without feeling the ache of his ability. The hurt takes away the beauty. He knows beauty is supposed to hurt; thinks it shouldn’t be that way.

Third, he weaves through memories he’s long since forgotten while he sits in the middle of an empty garden. The servants are eating inside. It’s Christmas eve—his cousins are probably quietly whispering inside the dining hall, he wonders how many of them he’s actually spoken to. Wonders if anyone is still alive. It’s been ages since he returned to this place; Nakatsugawa had nothing to offer him, and he knows that returning here would only bring him more things to fret over. Nakatsugawa is nestled between Tokyo and Kyoto. Nakatsugawa is quaint and small, and he grew up traveling back and forth and back and forth all because people wanted to be able to meet the young God with Six Eyes. Six Eyes that glew a dazzling shade of blue. He weaves through memories but he has forgotten them long ago. He remembers only snippets of a girl and the packs of seeds he used to send out at the start and end of each season.

Gojo Satoru is twenty-eight years old and he has not allowed himself to think of you for the last two years. He can’t. The same ache resides in his heart whenever you enter his mind—even more palpable each time he remembers Geto Suguru. Two people he has lost all because of things he had no control over. So much for being the greatest person in the world. So much for being a young God. I carry so much. Too much.

You, to yourself. Suguru, to time. Gojo Satoru has lost it all and he feels his hands growing more numb by the second. The snow blankets his arms until he could no longer see the droplets of blood on them.

Gojo Satoru is twenty-eight years old and yet he feels as if he were back to being twelve. Lonely. Freezing. Indifferent. He is too young to have loved this much. Too young to have lost so much.

Last, he takes off the bandages wrapped around his eyes and he opens them and he sees the stars. Through the misty white clouds. Through the tears streaming down his perfect porcelain cheeks—chiseled and beautiful, like he was crafted by deities—and he thinks that the pain is worth it sometimes; even if it tires him out, even if it sucks him dry. He lies down on the snow until the cold has swiveled through his clothes, until the wind has carried itself in through each crevice of the fabric.

Today he had killed his one and only. Tomorrow he would see the one he wanted to love get taken away from him by another man. So much for being the strongest. I can’t even protect the people I care for. How could he deserve good things when he doesn't even know how to inflict anything other than anguish?

Today he had killed Geto Suguru and he has forced himself to stop mourning. Tomorrow he will grieve for the loss of someone else: inside his head, he imagines a version of you clad in white clothes, ornate golden jewelry, smiling through gritted teeth with makeup covering the dark bags underneath your eyes. He imagines someone else holding you close and he imagines the wince you’ll be choking yourself over for years—he knows you can’t be heard sighing, whining, complaining: knows you’re only supposed to be prim and proper—and he imagines the rising and setting of the sun and the dread that creeps in each time you wake up, only to do it all over again, over and over, tirelessly, no end. Left with no choice to endure. 

Today he had killed the second person he has ever had the pleasure of growing with. Tomorrow he will lose the first one as well.

Gojo Satoru laughs at his misfortune, the irony of it all; the bitterness coats his tongue until it’s all he could taste. The only salvation he could ever know is the end of the knife.

―――

The mirror bears your reflection, and you see the years taking its revenge on your skin.

You resemble your mother, and your loathing is spilling through the hollowness of your irises.

After Ichika’s wedding, you’ve had little to no time to care very much for yourself. Day and night, you’re out and about preparing for your wedding, getting accustomed to the traditions they so greatly uphold in the Zen'in clan. For a while, the most fulfilling thing you could do in one day was to watch the gardeners trim away the grass outside of your residence; listen to the sound of the soles of their boots crunching the crisp grass during summer, their shears flattening out the long leaves during spring, the sound of sweeping when it’s autumn.

The mirror bears nothing interesting today. It’s the day of your wedding, you’re dressed now, you have all of your jewelry embellished on your skin. All that’s left is to seal the deal and live forever as someone who can only look out of the window.

And throughout months of leaning on the window pane, hitching your kimono higher from your knees, staring blissfully as each flower blossoms and falls with the changing seasons—you’ve imagined a life where Gojo Satoru came back for you.

Most days, you imagine him knocking on your door at night, with a pack of flower seeds in his hand. He’s too prideful to give you a bouquet. You know he’d flatter you with an excuse—something, something You could grow better flowers, anyway —and you imagine him telling you to run away with him, leave everything behind the both of you and never look back; in the house you live in, nothing was worth sparing a second glance. Not since they subjected you to a forlorn life of being kept indoors. Most days, you imagine Gojo pulling you out of your prison and helping you get back to the world you carefully crafted with him in the past, when you were children.

Much to your dismay, he never did do any of those things. After years of always falling like putty in his palm, you don’t have the capacity to think that crumbs of reciprocity were ever present in even just a sliver of his person.

It’s real this time , you force yourself to think, I hate him to the point of no return.

He’s a hypocrite. He’s told you over and over and over again—you can only save those who want to be saved. You used to believe him, too. Maybe that was your fault. Or maybe it was his. Maybe your mother was right, in the end, that nothing good will bear fruit from continuing to frolic within Gojo’s world. Everything you could juice out of that pipeline was gone as soon as he graduated high school; he dignified that truth the moment the assassination attempts ceased. And while it was generally a good thing to stop fearing for your life every goddamn minute of every day, it was solemn and painful all the same: it was as though the world was made aware of how irrelevant you were to him. Maybe he screams it out. Or maybe he doesn’t talk about you at all. You don’t know which would hurt more.

Maybe that’s why he never understood. Maybe it’s his fault. Maybe it’s not yours, even though it is. How many times has he given you a chance to escape? Plenty. And yet each time he inches closer to asking the right question, you put a firm hand against his chest and you push him away: there is always hesitance, you’ve come to observe, there is always hesitance whenever he backs away. Like he could save me any time but I have always been stubborn and I have always been careful of how to be with him; because being with him is all that I know how to do and I fear that it will change the moment I say yes to the things I’ve always said no to.

Like Satoru lets himself get pushed away because love is something he does not know how to put an end to; because if he dives in, there is no guarantee that he won’t drown me with him; because I am terrified of what comes after and he knows that I am too weak to take a chance on what happens next. 

Like ‘I could save you any time, but what if I forget to love you?’

You’re pulled out when you hear the blunt sound of something solid knocking on the glass you’re too familiar with. It’s inevitable. His return, that is, because that has always been tradition. 

Your eyes fall to the floor. No higher. You try so hard to tell yourself that he's too late. 

Even in the moment, you’re reminding yourself that he's taken too many things from you. To the point that you're sick and tired of just the sight of his hand, always appearing to be there to help you, only for them to quickly turn into instruments that ultimately only mock your entire existence. Gojo has taken too many, too much, and he's about to reach out for you and add insult to injury. And you're sputtering around the room, absolutely ready to do what he asks of you. Give what he requests from you. It's not an honor anymore to be friends with the greatest man alive; it's a curse.

But he slides the window to your room open, so you begin to list down everything he's stripped away from you. The ability to accept your fate.

He's stepping closer, dusting off his shoulders, moving forward with a smile on his face and you hate it. “It's been a while, hasn't it?" 

You’re pinching your arm underneath your sleeves, wondering if you’re imagining him again, but that doesn’t even seem relevant anymore. Waiting has always been worth it, but you’re unsure if that still rings true. His return to you has always been inevitable. It’s tradition. It is. But you waited too long this time, so you remain unmoving.

“What are you doing here?” The despair you grew up with. You're breathless, you feel almost hopeful, pulling on your wedding attire to inch away from him. It does nearly nothing, but Gojo takes note of your apprehension, anyway. You do the same thing. Hope is something difficult to resist, more so when it is given by the young God.

It’s the morning after Christmas eve, and somehow the room is increasingly colder not because of the winter air or the yuletide snow: it’s the two of you, whatever pathetic tension’s circulating the area you’re both in. He’s quiet; so are you. You dislike it.

You watch him carefully analyze the room, and before you know it, he's opening your closet, he's rummaging through your clothes. But you're still there, awestruck and angry at him, for leaving you all alone for almost three years right after his promise of a tomorrow you can live with. You don't know what to say. The ability to breathe when he's around.

“Take it off.” His focus is fixated on digging through all the clothes you have. “Take off your dress.”

You don't know what he's saying—you have no idea what he's doing here, what he's referring to, what he's tormenting you for. You could hear the distant ticking of the clock on your wall, taunting you of the minutes left before you're successfully given to the Zen'in clan, but even still, you refuse to budge.

Gojo snaps his head to your direction. “Can you not hear me?” He's tilting his head to the side again, and now you want nothing more than to run to him. Gojo picks up casual clothes for you to wear and pushes them in your direction.

“Change out of your clothes.”

Nearly all of your words.

You reluctantly stand up from your dresser, loosening the knots of the ribbons tied around your dress; your waist feels free after short moments of tugging—after a while, you've stripped down to only your undershirt and white shorts, your confusion growing with each second. You haven’t seen him in three years—you’ve gone on longer with little to no contact with him, but somehow he’s returning to you this time and he’s changed; for the better, you’re still unsure, but you can see yourself in him; the dark bags under his eyes, covertly hidden beneath his mask, the faint lines on his face. Gojo looks as exhausted as you, if not more, as though he was mourning for something that he could not rest without.

“Gojo.” You whisper. “Where are you taking me?”

He helps you put on the sweater he picked out, his fingers combing through your presently-ruffled hair. He carefully places your arms through the sleeves of the top, straightening the crumples. You can’t pry your irises away from him, you realize, as though he was the flurry of fireworks that flash across the heavens during summer festivals. Not before long, he opens his mouth to respond, and in the process, raises a portion of his blindfold that covers his right eye.

“Getting you out of here.” He pauses, his breath lingers on your forehead; he’s freezing cold. “We can live in Tokyo.”

Every ounce of love you're willing to give out.

Tears are streaming down your cheeks now and he's wiping them away for you; you can't move, can't feel your legs, you feel so happy that it's utterly nauseating. He understands. Wordlessly, Gojo—no, Satoru assures you a lifetime filled with reparations of his past mistakes when he gently aids you in dressing up; sliding the jeans up to just below your torso, buttoning them close, not even attempting to joke around to thin out the tension. He takes off his mask entirely like he's done caring for whatever consequence his Six Eyes brought him. You stop yourself from counting after that. His eyes are blurry in your vision; the tears are taking up too much space, but you tell yourself with certainty anyway that his shade of blue puts to shame all scenic views you’ve seen in your life.

And he's done it, you realize, you're a goner. Satoru has taken everything from you and you're in love with him; or you were, and it’s been years since then, but now he's ready to give it all back.

Though the fight's not over, far from it—he's acting as your support as you walk around inside your room together, packing only the important things inside the duffel bag he found somewhere. Your eyes are swollen from welling up with tears. Satoru’s laughing at you. He's squeezing your hand. Calling out your name. You let him. It feels right for once, because it is, and the way it slips off his tongue reminds you of when the two of you were younger: every time he jokingly proposed, all of his antics, the competitions the two of you created and your wins and losses. The fight’s not over, though it certainly feels like time is ready to provide you two with the rest you need. The road has been treacherous, and it has been cruel to the both of you—whether together or apart, that was irrelevant. 

You think you hear him speak; low whispers of I’m sorry for leaving. You’re never going to lose me again. Promises. Short ones. I won’t leave you this time. I’ll make you happy again. We can start over. Apologies. Promises. Ones that you knew he’d fulfill. I won’t forget to love you. I won’t.

The minutes are catching up, but you have all the time in the world, and you're ready to waste it all hand in hand. The walls are falling away, the world is steadily going back to its axis. He’s aligning himself with the stars in your sky and still he’s the one scooping you in his arms. 

There’s a container in the corner of your desk, and it doesn’t take long for you to realize that he’s retrieving the pack of freshly pressed flowers, carefully placing them inside his pocket before tightening his grip on you. Then, the window slides open with a squeal again, and you're inside his arms; his shirt smells like summertime, the scent of the wind when the annuals are blooming, the distinct fragrance of wormwood—except there’s no bitterness anymore, nor will there be absence. Satoru, your Satoru, is soaring up the winter clouds with the snow blending into the shade of his hair and you decide, then and there, that you are never going to let yourself look away from him again.

―――

“Plants must hate me.”

“That’s silly. Plants don’t hate you. I’m just better than you at gardening.”

The young God shrugs nonchalantly, rattling his new pack of seeds in his hand. You are kneeled down on the ground with your knees carrying the weight of your person, desperately trying to ignore the way they ache. Gojo watches you with his shade of blinding blue, and yet you could not bring yourself to hold his stare. 

Among the two patches of soil, only one had sprouted beautifully into a herb. Yours grew to be small and short; vaguely resembling weeds more than shrubs. You recall your deal from half a year ago. ‘No more calling me weak if I win, okay?’

“This means I win, right?” Gojo starts, plopping himself down on the ground, “I win and you lose,”

Evidently, it doesn’t sting when he says it like that. You lean closer to him, trying your hardest to ascertain whether that coy smile of his was genuine or laced with mockery. He doesn’t yield, his smile growing wider the longer you keep your eyes on him. You had pretty eyes. You knew he liked your eyes just as much as you liked his.

A question comes to mind. Followed by another and another and another; until you are eye to eye with Gojo, intently focused on seeing just how long you could keep his gaze without faltering; without letting your eyes fall back down to the ground, no higher. You wonder if young Gods entertained questions from kids like you. You wonder if you two were friends. If you were, then could he keep coming back for you? Maybe he would want to.

“Are you angry?” He asks.

You shake your head, later tilting it to the side. “Why? Would it bother you if I were?”

Curious. He slowly nods his head.

“I think it would,” he musters out, poking your nose with his forefinger. You find it endearing. “Maybe. I’m not sure if I care for you yet. What do you think?”

You hum. “I think you like me.”

He gestures to you to proceed, silently pursing his lips into a thin line. You think Gojo looks best when he’s not gloating or moving. Like a neat porcelain doll. Thick white eyelashes that made him look otherworldly: he stood out, that much was true, especially considering that your clan consisted of heads of long, dark hair. He was beautiful. Always has been. You always knew that, too.

You shrug, in the end. “Not because you want to like me, but because I’m the only person you know. Can’t really like anyone else if you don’t talk to anyone else, right?”

“Okay.” Gojo pauses, almost like he was trying to make sense of what you were saying. “Then what about you?”

“I don’t know if I like you.” You test carefully, afraid of being on the receiving end of his anger. Gojo doesn’t react to that; he only keeps staring at your pupils. Like they were the most interesting things in the world. And they were. “You never seem to take me seriously.”

He’s about to respond to that, batting his eyelashes at you as though he was about to rebut your last statement. You don’t let him. Instead, you cut him off before he could even begin.

“But I like your eyes,” it’s your time to smile. “I love your hair.”

You’re betting he’s lost inside his own head, because he leans forward and you don’t want to believe that he’s doing that knowingly. You raise your hand, tracing the edges of his messy fringe, lightly patting the top of his head thereafter: and when his hair flows along the gust of wind that follows, the sunlight seeps through the strands.

You force yourself to look away from him. 

“And whenever I look at them, I think to myself—” slight pause, your finger taps his chin carefully, “maybe I could like you, too. As you are. And not because of your family name.”

The first and last time you hold his stare, Gojo decides that he’d like it if you thought of yourself as worthy of him. He’d like to be worthy of you, too. 

Salvation comes to you in the form of an empty garden and an even emptier bedroom, though Satoru promises you a lifetime’s worth of flower seeds and memories. He promises to tell you about the man he loved before. You’re unsure of who Satoru is to you, but you know you used to love him. You’re unsure if he loved you back then as well—but you know he could love you now.

The timing is off, but the two of you are happy. There is no room for complaint.

The Heiwa clan has long since banned you from ever returning to them, and you’re certain that a few of your sisters have grown to resent you for leaving; however, you know that your older sister understands, and you know that she’s working earnestly in order to help the rest of them understand as well.

Your mother has subjected herself to total isolation, and now there are rumors of the clan being dismantled altogether. Unsurprisingly, you haven’t decided yet if you’re concerned about it. Life has been slow. You’ve been walking alongside the pace it follows. None of your family members seem to be extremely concerned with getting you to come back; understandable, really. You know you wouldn’t want to come back for someone who was taken by Gojo Satoru. You know they think it best to just finally leave you alone. 

Though, even still, you think you miss the estate. Tokyo carries a vastly different aura. It was unlike Nakatsugawa. Much unlike the valley you grew up in. You think you miss the patch of dried soil there, barely fertile enough to house the flora you’re interested in growing, and you think you miss all the rooms in the estate where Satoru and you used to hide in as kids. And Satoru thinks it’s funny— hilarious, even—that you are sentimental enough to miss the literal dirt of the home that never gave you any other option than to endure. And he thinks it’s ridiculous of you to miss the rooms. He thinks it’s ridiculous of you to reminisce. If you keep holding onto the past, how are you going to move forward to the future? The past gave you nothing but grief. 

(Most days, you wonder if you could tell him the same. The past gave you nothing but grief as well, Satoru. You cannot move forward without mourning. You know that as much as I do.)

You curl your toes on the grass, barefoot and satisfied, the prickly points of the green lightly scratching the soles of your feet. How many hours a day do they try to justify their excuses? To satiate the lingering guilt, rapidly swirling inside them somewhere, because even though they did not take part in chasing away the esteemed young God’s most longest companion, they chose to watch cruelty unfold in front of them? You wonder if they resent you, too. Your grandmothers, your uncles, your cousins. Or if they blame you for having the sorcery world’s eyes on them now. Or if they even feel sorry enough to carry half the crosses you were forced to bring with you when you left.

The last one seems far-fetched, but you give them the benefit of the doubt. You forgive your mother a thousand times over because you find her pitiful the most. You forgive, in the end, even if the thought of doing so alone ravaged the entryways of your throat until it burned.

The sunlight glimmers in the distance, and you could only squint. Winter is not as harsh this year. You could make out the intricate linings of the sun even through the misty white clouds.

“Get your head back in the game, stupid girl.” Satoru waves the paddle to your direction, tossing the hago up and down to catch your attention. He’s clad in beige and muted green, the ends of his yukata trailing just below his ankle. His hair frames the sides of his eyes—shaped like rough paper cranes, folded amongst themselves. You nod in response, shrugging off the nickname he used on you as though his words weighed nothing. Sometimes, you believe that’s the case. Most times, you know he says that out of love, or at least something vaguely similar to that.

“Ultimate luck again,” you whisper cautiously, daring him to serve the shuttlecock. “Hit me. I bet I can win this time.”

“You used to say that every year,”

“Don’t get too cocky now. I had some help back at home.”

The word slips out before you could even analyze the repercussions of what it implied: home, that is, and you do not know what you think of when you say it. Your mind paints a pretty picture of a garden—nourished and delicate, with hanging flowers and crawling fruits, lovely pink, yellow, purple, and orange overpowering the green of it all. Your mind goes back to a decade back: the paddle you dropped to the ground, the sister you left there calling out for your name, the message to Satoru that you erased long before you could even send it.

Your mind is reeling. You say home but you really mean something else. A house, the estate; more than four walls, safekeeping memories both good and bad. Your sentiments feel foreign on your tongue. You think of home, and you wonder if you could paint a different picture. You wonder if an empty room and an emptier garden could be the something new you’d been searching for all your life. 

The world stills down, but you stay moving. The brightly colored shuttlecock is passed around between you and Satoru, the tapping ceaseless. The sun drips down in the form of light. Kisses your skin until you could feel no other.

Home. Maybe this could be. Or maybe you were cursed with never having one. Maybe Satoru was the same—or maybe he had it, once, like you did, and he ended up having to search for a new one as well. Maybe the both of you could be something similar to each other—like warmth in midwinter and coats and bottles of scorching alcohol; like wooden closets and worn out socks and hair down the shower drain; like freshly cooked meals, detergents spilling outside the washing machine, broken clothespins. Like having both of your names written on a mailbox, mails addressed to the two of you, words meant to be shared between the two of you, the two of you.

When you pass him the hago with your hagoita, he doesn’t swing it back with a paddle. He catches it with his hand.

You stay adrift, barely awake. “What are you doing?” Confused, you tilt your head to the side. “You know that means you lose, right?”

He emits a low hum, strutting over towards you with his hands stuffed neatly in his coat’s pockets. You watch him with careful eyes, a smile on your lips, and a flushed nose. When you look at him, you remember everything you went through. You remember your old laptop, the Skype calls, Tokyo tower from years ago. The bridge in the estate; the library, the garden, the peak of Mount Ena. When you look at him, you think of the way you used to choke on your own breath all because he took up an unusually large space: he lived rather loudly, one of his charms. Always worked to his favor.

You look at him, you see hope. You used to see nothing.

“Aren’t you cold?” He leans forward, now tossing the hago up in the air and catching it immediately, doing so for a few more times. “We can head back inside if you are.”

“No, it’s okay,” you whisper, fixing your gaze on his hands, “I’m okay. Are you?”

He throws the hago towards your direction, and it flies past your shoulder. “I am.” He says.

You turn around, forefinger pointing towards the shuttlecock. “What are you doing?”

“Cold hands.” Satoru laughs softly. “Must have slipped.”

You roll your eyes fondly, later flicking his nose, and twisting around to pick the hago up from the ground. The feathers are fading out, and you knew that this one’s nearing the end of its cycle already. You’d have to craft a new one before winter. Somehow, it’s comforting to have something to look forward to.

You hold the hago in your palm. Steady and still. When you turn back to face him, Gojo Satoru is down on one knee with a box sitting neatly on his hand. 

“Satoru, what are you—?”

“I want you.”

You pause.

“And for as long as I live,” he continues, neither corner of his lips curving up. The silence is palpable. You stare at him, wide-eyed, charged with fireworks coursing rapidly through your veins, “I will continue to want you.”

The grass is covered with melted ice, but still you could feel the warmth of it all. You wonder why you’re not freezing yet; instead allowing your toes to curl against the ground again, almost as if you weren’t close to completely going numb. You kneel down in front of him, too, cupping either side of his cheeks. You nod, a response enough to urge him to continue, bringing your forehead closer to his.

He breathes carefully, calculated, almost afraid. “I’d give you everything if I could.” Slight pause. It’s him who can’t seem to hold his stare this time—you tell yourself that he kind of looks like you; eyes plastered to the ground, no higher. Always to the ground. Were you worth that much? You’d never know unless he’d tell you. You’d never know unless you learn to believe him. “I’d give you everything if that’s what you’d want.”

Then, a thought. His question from before. The day of your father’s burial, atop the bridge, lost in the very little time that had already passed. And how about you? 

“If you’ll have me,” Satoru takes the ring off its box, letting the cube drop down to the ground afterwards. He’s careless when he’s not fighting. He’s careful when it’s you. “If you could love me again,” he hasn’t changed at all, you note, and you think you could affirm his statement after this. You could love him again. “Then I wouldn’t want anything more.”

What do you want?

It happens quietly.

You stare at his shade of blinding blue, his hair covered with snow. You take the ring off his hand and you slip it through your finger.

I want to marry Satoru.

There is no harsh truth this time, you note. No room for that, no room for cruelty. There is only sincerity and grief and forgiveness and peace—and more room to grow in, too. More room to learn and relearn everything that he has come to forget. More room to get used to saying Satoru again.

Over the years, the sun has proven itself to be grander than the both of you, and yet you still bask under its loveliness when he kisses you in the end. Your mind paints another picture—this time, more beautiful than the last. Caged within his arms: no more absence, no more bitterness. You’re through with searching. Home.