#even with thread unrollers

[fullscoreshenanigans]

Your analyses are the best. They are so fun to read and I over think everything afterwarrs

Thank you!

For analyses above my level, I highly recommend checking out these if you haven't already read them:

The two chapters of Kei Toda's Reading The Promised Neverland with a British/American Literature Scholar (2020) that have been translated into English by fans (Chapter 2: Religion by @thathilomgirl & @0hana0fubuki0 | Chapter 3: Gender by @1000sunnygo)

Anime Feminist's "Emma’s Choice: The gender-norm nightmare at the heart of The Promised Neverland" article (2018) (good follow-up to Toda's chapter on gender)

Jackson P. Brown's "Thoughts on… The Promised Neverland, and Black Women in Manga" (2018) blog post and Zeria's video essay/blog post (2019) on Krone's depiction

Jairus Taylor's "The Unfulfilled Potential of The Promised Neverland Anime" (2021) which made me more open to the idea of a remake of S1

For tumblr posts (some of these I'm linking through my blog because I either had a minor link addition or think the OP's/prev's tags deserve to be seen and rebloggable, but you can just click through to the original post):

@puff-poff's exploration of the demon world's culture (Part 1 & Part 2)

@just-like-playing-tag's examination of the farm system, Emma character analysis launched by a minute change in S2e02, and mini-Isabella analysis regarding her treatment of Ray (along with her blog just being a wealth of knowledge in general)

@hylialeia's post on the series' handling of Norman's plan/the oppressed and oppressors

@avadescent's analysis of the S2 ED album art (Norman and Emma are perpendicular; Emma and Ray are parallel.)

@linkspooky has a lot of analyses from when the series was running but special mention to this analysis of Norman's character

@vobomon also has a lot but special mention to her Norman is autistic and Norman has PTSD posts

@goldiipond's "Ray is autistic" essay

@emmaspolaroid with some of the best Emma and Emma & Isabella meta in general

@nullaby's post on Isabella and Ray's relationship

[novaursa]

Hello there

Can I request a HOTD! one shot that is Aemond x Younger!Sister Reader in which she is the most beloved of Allicent's children and she nicknames the songbird due to her love of singing and her voice is said to be almost celestial. Many suitors ask for her hand but Aemond being the protective brother he is doesn't want it to happen not only because its his duty to protect her but he also loves her as well and wants to make her his wife. Ill let you go wild in terms of the story, i trust your skills and i love all your other works Thanks so much!

And If They Ask for You

Requests are closed

- Summary: They wanted to marry you off, but Aemond didn't let them. And he never will.

- Pairing: sister!reader/Aemond Targaryen

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial

- A/N: ❤️

The air in the council chamber was thick with the mingled scents of parchment, beeswax candles, and the faint trace of myrrh that clung always to Viserys’s robes. The king, throned at the head of the table beneath a high-arched window that bathed his face in morning light, looked half-asleep and yet strangely lucid this day. His once-robust frame had withered, but his voice, though slow, carried the weight of authority. Around him sat the familiar faces of court—Ser Otto Hightower upright and silent as a sentry at his place, Lord Larys Strong half-shadowed and smiling behind his fingertips, Grand Maester Orwyle shuffling parchments, and Lord Tyland Lannister with his fingers steepled, his gaze sharp.

Aegon lounged across from them, expression bored and fingers idly tracing the edge of his goblet, sipping without permission from the wine set out for Viserys. He was here by command, not desire. But Aemond… Aemond sat upright, his single violet eye fixed, attentive, burning with quiet fire. He was here by invitation—no, by summons. Viserys had looked at him three days past, pale hand trembling atop the armrest of the Iron Throne, and said in his brittle voice, “You must learn the work of kings, my son. Come to the council. Watch. Listen.”

And Aemond had obeyed.

They had spoken first of trade and taxes, of casks of Dornish wine delayed in the Stepstones, of an illness spreading through Lannisport, of the Black Cells overcrowded. Aegon yawned through it all, whispered something lewd to Tyland, and earned a glare from Otto, but Aemond had not blinked. His mind turned over every word, every coin, every name.

Then Lord Orwyle cleared his throat. “Your Grace,” he began delicately, unrolling a scroll and setting it before the king, “there is the matter of your daughter, the princess…”

That name—your name—was not spoken aloud, but it didn’t need to be.

The moment it was implied, Aemond stilled. His fingers curled around the armrest of his chair. He knew what was coming. The talk of alliances. Of offers. Of lordlings come crawling like dogs in heat, drawn by the mere idea of you.

Otto, ever practical, picked up the thread. “She is of age now. Nearly sixteen. A treasure of our house, and the court is flush with suitors. The Lords of the Reach, the Vale, and even from the Free Cities have sent word. They ask for her hand, and rightly so. She is—”

“A songbird,” Larys murmured, lips curved with something that might’ve been admiration or something darker. “Sweet-voiced, gentle-hearted, and beloved by all who hear her sing. There are rumors that she is half-divine, sent from the Seven themselves.”

Viserys chuckled weakly, eyes distant with memory. “She used to sing to me when the pain kept sleep away. Her voice… like starlight through mist.”

Aemond said nothing. His jaw had gone rigid. He stared straight ahead, but his vision had blurred. Not with tears. With rage.

“She would make a fine match for Lord Cregan Stark,” Orwyle continued with no sense of the shifting air. “He is young, powerful, and fiercely loyal to the crown. A union with the North would bring strength. Or perhaps Lord Borros Baratheon. He has four daughters and no sons, and he would cherish a princess of royal blood to elevate his house.”

“She’s too soft for the Stormlands,” Otto noted, “but the Vale has sent sweet letters. Ser Gerold Royce’s son is well-bred and eager to please. Runestone would be—”

“No.” The word rang out like the tolling of steel.

Heads turned.

Aemond rose slowly from his chair, his hand clenched against the pommel of his sword—not because he meant to draw it, but because he needed something to anchor himself.

“No,” he said again. “She will not marry any of them.”

Otto raised a brow. “It is not your place—”

“She is my sister,” Aemond snapped. “She is blood of my blood. You speak of sending her to cold stone castles, of handing her over like coin in a purse. You forget that she is not some… broodmare to be bartered for allegiance.”

“She is a princess of the realm,” Tyland interjected calmly. “Marriage is her duty, and alliances are—”

“And what of Aegon?” Aemond demanded, voice rising like a whip crack. “Was it not decided he should marry Helaena? Was it not called tradition, that blood weds blood to preserve the line? That the gods would smile upon it?”

At that, Aegon sat upright. “Leave me out of your madness, brother.”

“You have her,” Aemond snarled, lip curling. “You—who mock the crown, who drink yourself senseless, who bed whores and maids in the same breath—you were given our sister to wed. And now they speak of giving her away? No. If you may take a sister for wife, so may I.”

The words echoed in the chamber, awful in their clarity.

Viserys stirred in his seat, the mask of age slipping from his face. “Aemond…”

But Aemond would not be silenced. “She is mine to protect. Mine to cherish. No lord in this realm will ever deserve her. And I will not stand by while you sell her name to the highest bidder.”

Then, without waiting for dismissal, he turned on his heel. His boots struck the stone floor like thunder as he stormed from the chamber, the door slamming shut behind him.

In the silence he left behind, none dared speak. Not even Otto. Only the soft crinkle of parchment as Orwyle quietly rolled up the list of suitors, setting it aside—for now.

The storm that followed Aemond out of the council chamber did not break with thunder, but with the quiet wrath that hung from his shoulders like a velvet cloak soaked in blood. He descended the steps of Maegor’s Holdfast with swift, purposeful strides, the sword at his hip jangling with each step, the weight of the conversation behind him pressing hard against his ribs. The whispers of courtiers and gold cloaks brushed past his ears like gnats, but he heard none of it. His pulse throbbed too loudly, his thoughts were thick with you—always you.

He needed to see you.

The gardens behind the Tower of the Hand were still wrapped in early sunlight, the hedges gleaming with dew, the scent of blooming roses and lavender perfuming the air like a whisper from some gentler world. It was there that you often passed your mornings, far from the breathless intrigues of court, laughing softly among your ladies as if the weight of the realm could never touch you. He found you where he always did—beneath the arching white trellis, where the pale roses bloomed year-round, even in cold.

You sat upon a carved stone bench, draped in pale blue and silver, the color of sky at dawn, your hair unbound in waves across your shoulders. One of your ladies-in-waiting was braiding a ribbon into your sleeve while another knelt before you, holding out a small harp that glimmered with polished ivory and gold. You smiled as you spoke to them, your voice like wind chimes in a summer breeze—soft, clear, unearthly. Aemond’s breath caught in his throat.

“My prince,” said the eldest of the girls, rising and dipping into a curtsy the moment she saw him. The others followed, eyes wide, startled by his abrupt approach.

You looked up at him then, your eyes alight, unaware of the fury that still curled like smoke beneath his skin. “Aemond,” you said, your voice gentle, sweetened with delight. “You’ve come to chase the sun with me again?”

His lips parted, but the words would not come. Instead, he simply stood for a moment, drinking in the sight of you, anchoring himself in your presence. The silver threads at your sleeves, the glow of your skin in the light, the way the corners of your mouth tilted up, curious and patient, waiting for him to speak.

“Leave us,” Aemond said, and though his voice was calm, the ladies did not hesitate. They fled like birds startled from a tree, casting backward glances as they went.

You blinked at him once they were gone. “You’re angry,” you said softly. “I can see it in your shoulders.”

He paced once, then again, like a wolf pacing the border of his cage. “I was at council,” he said at last, though he did not speak of what was said. His voice was low, clenched between his teeth. “The air there chokes me. I needed—” He looked at you. “I needed to breathe.”

You tilted your head. “And I am fresh air?”

“Yes.” His eye flickered, sharp and bright as flame. “You are.”

A silence stretched between you, filled only by the distant sound of water trickling from a marble fountain and the rustling of branches above. When he moved, it was with the grace of a predator, silent and sure, until he was standing before you, close enough to reach out but not daring to do so.

“I do not like when they speak of you,” he said finally, quietly, his voice trembling at the edges despite his control. “They speak of your beauty, your voice, your kindness as if you were some sweet thing to pluck from a tree and devour.”

You lowered your gaze, lashes brushing your cheek. “They always speak. It does not reach me here.”

“It will.” His voice deepened. “It always does. They will try to take pieces of you. They will carve away what they do not understand. That is what this court does.”

You looked at him then, your expression unreadable. “And what will you do?”

He stepped closer. “Watch over you.”

His hand lifted—hesitated—and then brushed a lock of hair from your brow with careful reverence. “Always. As I did when you were a babe in the cradle and cried for the stars. As I did when you scraped your knee falling from your pony and bled all over your stockings. As I will do, every day forward, whether I am beside you or not.”

You blinked up at him, a small breath caught in your throat. “Why?”

He said nothing at first. Then, softly, as if the words might shatter if spoken too loudly, “Because there is nothing in this world more precious to me.”

You stared at him, stunned into silence. Your lips parted slightly, but the words faltered on your tongue. He gave you no time to find them.

Aemond leaned forward, and for a moment his forehead pressed to yours. His touch was cool, his breath warm. “You need not understand. Only know this—I will let no one harm you. No one take you. No one change you.”

And then, as swiftly as he had come, he stepped back—his eye lingering, voice gone, heart still burning behind his ribs. Without another word, he turned and strode from the garden, leaving only the imprint of his vow behind, and the echo of your name held in silence.

[multi-fandom-imagines8]

Convenient Inconvenience

Summary: Forced to share a tent on a mission, the simmering tension between you and Xaden finally reaches a breaking point.

Fictober Challenge

This mission had dragged on longer than expected, forcing you to settle in for the night. Luckily, Xaden had packed a small tent as an emergency measure, but he’d only packed one. That had left you frustrated, realizing that it was partly your fault too, for not bringing your own. In your defense, you’d assumed the mission would end smoothly.

A charged silence hung between you both as the reality of sharing a tent set in. You tried to keep your focus on unrolling your mat, but your thoughts kept drifting back to the tension that had been growing between you for months. The cramped space felt even smaller with him inside, every move amplifying your heartbeat as you sensed him close behind, watching you.

The silence became unbearable, heavy with something you couldn’t name, as you lay on your mat trying to feign ease. But your heart raced each time he shifted closer. Every so often, his gaze flicked over to you, lingering a bit too long, and it was both thrilling and terrifying.

You had to say something, break the silence.“You really couldn’t have packed an extra tent?” you muttered, attempting to keep your voice casual but failing to mask the edge in your tone. 

He could’ve argued, pointing out that you’d forgotten your own, but he let it go, opting for a softer response. “Well, I’m sure we’ll manage for one night,” he replied, his words coming out quieter than he’d intended.

A moment passed, thick with unspoken words, and you could practically feel his smirk. He turned onto his side, facing you, his arm brushing against yours. The touch was light, barely there, yet it sent a spark down your spine. You glanced over, meeting his gaze, steady and intense, as if waiting to see if you’d pull away.

“Are you uncomfortable?” he asked, a hint of amusement threading his voice, almost challenging you.

You forced a laugh, shrugging, though his nearness made it hard to think straight. “I’m fine, Riorson. Just… trying to get comfortable.” You avoided his gaze, but his eyes traced over you, trailing over your face, lingering on your mouth.

Another moment passed, the air growing thicker, every breath loaded with anticipation. He shifted again, his hand brushing against yours deliberately this time, his fingers grazing your knuckles, his touch light, almost testing. “Strange,” he murmured, his breath warm against your ear, sending a shiver through you. “You don’t look fine.”

You turned to him, finally meeting his gaze head-on. His eyes were dark, intense, and filled with unspoken desire. “You’re… seeing things,” you managed, struggling against the heat radiating from him and the way his gaze seemed to strip away any defense you had.

“Am I?” he asked, his tone smooth and teasing, his mouth twitching into the faintest of smirks. “Because you seem a little… tense.”

You gaze flicked involuntarily to his mouth, and that fucker noticed, his smirk deepening. “And if I am?”

His hand shifted, his fingers tracing a light, almost absentminded line along your wrist, the touch setting your skin alight. “I could help with that,” he murmured, his eyes encouraging as they locked on yours, his face now only inches away, the question clear in his gaze.

You wanted to tell it was because of him, but you had a feeling he already knew.

You swallowed, your words caught in your throat, the tension between you impossible to ignore. His fingers continued their maddening path, traveling up your arm, igniting every inch they touched. You could’ve sworn he was slowly undressing you with his eyes, ready to ravish you at any moment.

He leaned in, his breath ghosting over your lips, his gaze heavy-lidded, dangerous. “Tell me to stop,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper, “and I will.”

Your mind went blank, no rational thought left. You wanted him, you needed him. So instead of stopping him, you closed the distance, pressing your lips to his. The kiss was soft but deepened quickly, years of restraint breaking in an instant. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer, your bodies pressed together in the small space as the air around you cracked. Each touch, each kiss fueled a fire you’d tried for so long to ignore. You’d probably regret this in the morning, but right now, you didn’t care. All you cared about was him- his touch, his kiss, and everything that would follow.

[hannahssimblr]

It’s an innocuous day in January when, for the first time, I realise my life can come apart just like anybody else’s. Like theirs, mine is a seam, a thousand tiny threads holding it firm, an analogy somewhere about a stitch saving time. Or nine. I don’t remember. My mother is too high class to sew her clothes. When they tear or wear at the elbows and knees, she buys more, because people like us don’t need to repair. 

Friends at school with fraying cuffs on their uniform sleeves, hems of their trousers unrolled and hanging raw about their ankles. Shirts, a rectangular echo of a pocket on the breast of the thing worn for years after being attacked in the hallways by boys who tore them off for fun. Happened to me too. Inevitable. A rite of passage on my first week of school. I wore a shirt still creased from the packet the next day, because my clothes never had to be old, worn, damaged. When something tore, another one appeared in my room. I was from the big house on Vernon Avenue. I had the PlayStation 2 before everyone else. My clothes were always new.

But this, all of this, is like when Jen’s school trousers ripped up the back the time she tried to climb on the cistern to have a cigarette out the window. The threads had been giving for a while. They just waited until that moment to let her know, in a violent display of embarrassment in front of the girls she was hoping to impress. It’s like when the elastic in your swimming togs gives up one day, falling to bits around your body after months of cooperation, eaten secretly by the chlorine the whole time. 

It starts with nothing. A pretzel. The bakery near the university I get my breakfast some mornings. Simple, a bagel and a coffee which I’ll take with me to class. Tuesday, that day. The day I have art history at nine with Steffen, the lecturer that fancies my girlfriend and loathes me. It’s my most dreaded hour of the week, one that calls for the comfort of a pretzel and a coffee, essential to get me through the slog of it, keep me sane while he pretends he cannot understand my German and corrects me sneeringly in front of everyone, determined to embarrass me. 

Card declined. 

“Ah, weird.” Trying again then, and another denying beep. Smiling sheepishly at the barista, explaining I don’t have cash on me. 

“It could be a problem with the machine. You can take it. You come here all the time, so just pay later if you want.”

Thank her. It was nice of her. Tell her I’ll be back in a couple of hours, after my classes, but I won’t be. My card is declined in the little Italian deli where I’ve met Astrid for lunch. It’s awkward this time. They’ve already made our sandwiches up. 

“I’ll pay it,” says Astrid after a long, uncomfortable pause, and presents a little blue debit card while it strikes me I’ve never actually seen it before. Never knew what her debit card looks like, and sort of assumed in some sense she didn’t even own one. Why would she? I think. What does she ever have to pay for?

The sandwiches, I suppose. Tasting worse than ever now, they are spoiled by the pungency of my guilt. We eat them by the river, hands freezing around the tinfoil wrapping, frowning at the water, as the wind lifts white peaks from its surface. “So weird about my card,” I say, but Astrid is disinterested, doing that flippant waving thing with her hand. “Sometimes the machines just don’t work as they’re supposed to. That’s why having cash is good.” She wants to talk about this Iranian film she and Dalia saw in an indie theater. I let her, all the distracted by thoughts of my bank account. It’s fine, surely. I have money. People like me have money. 

Early evening, with my earbuds in on the gym’s treadmill, and I hear a message chime. Jonas. I wipe the sweat from my brow and read it. It’s about the water bill. A message so unbelievably dull that usually I’d ignore it for a few hours, but now my stomach twists. I went back to the bakery after college to pay for my breakfast, and my card was declined again. It looks like I stole that pretzel now. I told the barista I’d come back in the morning with actual euros for her, and she smiled in this vacant way that made me feel like a liar, wanting so badly to explain to her I’m not, like, poor, or whatever. I can pay for it, while knowing that explanation would only make me look worse. 

And now Jonas is asking about the water bill, saying I never paid it. I step off the treadmill and stare at my phone. A drop of sweat hits the screen, magnifying the pixels, little dots of coloured screen, and emphasises the word paid for me, like I didn’t already understand the central theme of the text. As in, I have not paid my share of the bill. 

“I have,” I respond. “It should just come out of the account automatically.”

“It hasn’t,” he says, and sends a photograph of the bill, big überfällige Zahlung across the top of it in terrifying red lettering. Overdue payment. Surely not. My legs start feeling a bit weak, which is very dramatic. It’s fine. I have money. I hold on to the arm of the treadmill anyway, in case I decide to fall over. Someone is asking if I’m still using it. I tell him no and head for the changing rooms. 

I call Jonas from the UBahn on the way home, immediately confrontational on the phone to him. “I paid that bill.”

“Well, you haven’t,” he’s eating something. “If you had, then the letter would not say ‘überfällige Zahlung’.”

“That’s obviously a mistake.”

“I don’t think so,” rustling noises, him unfolding the paper for further examination. “I have never seen a mistake before like this, if that is the case. It’s more likely you didn’t pay.”

“I’ve direct debit set up, so.”

“Okay, then maybe your account is empty.” He says it so casually, mouth full of whatever he’s having for dinner. The nonchalance enrages me. 

“Don’t be so stupid,” I hiss, and someone on the train looks over. “There’s no way. I have loads. There’s something going on with my account today, is all. This is normal.” I have no idea whether it’s normal or not, but am sure there’s merit to saying it with such conviction. 

“When did you last check your account balance?”

Well, I’ve never checked it. The sight of it frightens me and reminds me of the drain and eventual cessation of life. Completely reasonable reason. “Jonas, I am telling you that this is a mistake.”

“You can check. When you get home, check.”

“Yeah,” I say, and hang up as the train hurtles from a station into a black tunnel, rumbling through the darkness. 

“You look unwell,” Jonas greets me as I arrive and untangle my scarf from my neck, choking me now, and kick my boots outside the door. Indeed, I do. My reflection is pale and wild-eyed, hair tousled from grabbing at it, like one of those Wall Street guys in the documentary my economics teacher made us watch to explain the recession. 

“Where’s my laptop?” I already know where it is. Need to look. Can’t bear to. Pushing through the apartment now with everything in a dizzying blur, shaky cam, the smell of Jonas’ cooking, him trailing behind, offering me a plate of it, as if I can even think about putting food into my mouth. 

My laptop is on the bed, tossed all casually on the rumpled duvet. Macbook. How much are these things worth? I never cared before this moment. Jonas is in the door as I type the banking website into the address. My codes then. Fuck sake. Don’t know them. I have to navigate through a chat with my mother to find them, heightening the suspense. Then punch them in. Check balance. 

It’s like being punched in the head, the feeling. Then there’s this long, deathly silence, because Jonas knows without me having to say it. He knows by the look on my face. 

“Do you–”

“I have four euros in my account.”

We look at one another for one endless moment, and I can tell he wants to laugh a bit, because it’s a funny kind of shocking. Four euros. A comically depressing number. 

“It’s fine,” he’s saying now. “You just top it up with more,” and then I look at him with the most scathing look I have in my repertoire, because for the first time, he’s the one who looks like the privileged idiot. I feel I have to speak to him slowly to control the emotion in my voice. Tremors anyway, wobbling there beneath every word. “Where do you suppose I get the money to top it up, Jonas?”

He falters. “I thought your parents gave you money.”

“They don’t.”

“But you… We all thought they were funding your lifestyle.”

“They weren’t.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. Oh.”

“But Jude,” he says, shaking his head at me. I don’t like that. “You were spending so much money all the time. We all thought you had an unlimited amount.”

“I wasn’t,” I snap. “I wasn’t, really.”

“The holidays you went on. The gifts for Astrid, the way you eat at restaurants every day…”

“Those things didn’t feel expensive. I thought I had enough money to cover it, or, I don’t know, I didn’t think. When I sold my car, I–it looked like…” I break off helplessly. “I got an A in maths, Jonas. How can this happen?”

“It’s basic subtraction.”

“This shouldn’t be happening to me.” my laptop fades to black now, the account disappearing from sight, but the reality still ringing in the surrounding air. I think of all I am about to lose. A vision of my life crashing down around me like a house of cards. “Astrid! Oh, God, Astrid. What is she gonna do?”

“She will have to buy her own things for once.”

I groan, head in hands, unable to formulate a response. How can I speak when my life is basically over? Condemned to the streets. One of those people rummaging through skips with holes in my shoes, saying mad things to people at the bus stop, terrorizing the feral pigeons in the town square. There he is, crazy bird man, a cautionary tale. He got an A in maths in his leaving cert, and this still happened to him. 

Jonas, there by the door, deciding it's the perfect time to ask whether I've paid rent this month.

Without looking up. “No,” One glance at my account was enough to show it’s been struggling along for a while. Hundreds becoming tens, whittling down through December to the last few euros. Pocket change. It’s been bad for a while. “No, I didn’t pay rent.”

“Hm,” he says. “And how do you plan to do that?”

Looking at him in despair, considering, briefly, a tantrum of some sort. Pure childhood panic. If I cause enough of a scene, this will all go away. Looking into Jonas’ face is frightening, because I can see it there. He doesn’t know what to do either. He isn’t going to help me. 

“What do I do?” I ask, as if he knows. Pity in his eyes, watching me flail. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Perhaps you can get a job.”

A job. Oh, Jesus fucking Christ. A job. An actual job. Kill me. That’s the last thread. The one causes the seam to give and ruins my life. You don’t understand. I want to explain. I’m from the biggest house on Vernon Avenue. I had a PlayStation 2 before everyone else. Instead of saying that, I lie here like a corpse, staring at the ceiling, wishing some heavy piece of furniture would crash through it and turn me into one for real. 

“It’s not bad,” he says, not understanding how bad it really is. Unable to fathom the intricacies of my life. 

I don’t bother to answer. It’s the financial equivalent of being pantsed in the schoolyard. The blankets ripped off my sleeping body on a winter morning. I am a creature accustomed to the shade beneath a rock, exposed at last to the light, nothing left to shelter me.

A job. 

Beginning // Prev // Next

[hussyknee]

Made in the USA: Wage Theft, Fraud and Hidden Sweatshops

Unrolled twitter thread by derek guy (@dieworkwear)

4 Oct 24 • Read on X

ALT enabled on all images. Video has closed captions but is not transcribed.

Not trying to create a pile-on here. But let's talk about why something might still be made in unethical conditions even though it bears a "made in USA" tag. 🧵

The first thing to understand is that not all workers are covered by US labor laws. You might assume that workers get paid a minimum wage (after all, it says "minimum"). In fact, many garment workers in the US toil under what's known as the piecework system.

Piecework means you get paid not by the amount of time you work but the number of operations you complete. This system should be familiar to many of you. As a writer, I get paid per word. The pay is the same whether it takes me 100 or 10 hours to write a 1,000 word article.

My situation is fine bc I get paid enough to eat. But for a garment worker, the pay structure can be peanuts: three cents to sew a zipper or sleeve, five cents for a collar, and seven cents to prepare the top part of a skirt. These are real numbers for LA-based garment workers.

Piecework is how companies skirt minimum wage laws. Among labor organizers, the term "wage theft" refers to the difference between what a worker should have earned under min wage laws and what they actually earned through the piece rate system.

This system is incredibly common. A 2016 UCLA Labor Center study showed the median piece-rate worker in Los Angeles scrapes together $5.15 per hour—less than half the state’s mandated minimum wage. Labor conditions are also very bad: poor ventilation, dusty air, rats and mice.

A Federal Department of Labor investigation the same year found that 85 percent of Los Angeles garment factories were breaking labor laws. In 2016, these violations amounted to $1.3 million in back wages owed to 865 workers in a sample of 77 factories. This is wage theft.

In 2021, labor organizers won a fight to get piecework banned in California. But two years later, it's still incredibly common. I interviewed an LA-based garment worker who toils 12 hrs a day for $50. She sleeps in the corner of a kitchen. From my article in The Nation:

Currently, there's a new fight get piecework banned nationwide through the FABRC Act. I would link, but Twitter throttles threads that have outbound links, so I would prefer if you Google how you can support this legislation. Or follow @GarmentWorkerLA for more info.

The other reason why a "made in USA" tag may not mean much has to do with how the label is applied.

When you see this label inside your garment, what do you assume? Think about this before moving on to the next tweet.

The Federal Trade Commission has pretty strict rules on who gets to apply that label. For clothes, the item has to be cut and sewn in the US using materials that were made in the US. The FTC tries to match its rules with the common understanding of what "made in US" means.

If you're a giant company like Levi's or LL Bean, you may have lawyers who are advising you on these rules. This is why you see labels like "imported," which means the item was made abroad. Or "made in the US from imported materials" when they can't meet the MiUSA standard.

But it's incredibly common for companies to violate FTC rules. In 2022, the FTC fined the pro-Trump brand Lions Not Sheep $211k for labeling their t-shirts "made in USA" when the shirts were actually imported from China and other countries.

The company was basically importing blanks from China, ripping out the "made in China" label, screen printing the shirt in the US, and then applying a new screen-printed "made in US" label. CEO Sean Whalen claimed he was being persecuted for his pro-Trump views.

But the whole thing started bc Whalen made a video about how his customers are price sensitive, so he imports blanks from China. That's what kicked off the FTC investigation. So while this mislabeling is common, it's hard to get caught unless you make a video about your crimes.

The truth is that making a t-shirt in the USA according to FTC standards will result in a relatively expensive garment. Heddels and Velva Sheen both produce shirts in the US from US grown cotton. The first is $26; second is $90 for a two-pack.

Once you add things such as screenprinting—or if you want a more unique cut and not just basic blanks—the costs go up. This is why Bikers for Trump sourced their merch from Haiti. They knew their customers would not pay an extra $8 for true made-in-USA production.

Today, there are countless companies that make merch for other organizations. They source their t-shirts from a variety of places—some made in the US, most not—and then screenprint a design and fulfill orders. This way, the other org doesn't have to do any work but marketing.

When you see a screenprinted t-shirt for $20, ask yourself: Where was the material grown? Where were the yarns spun? Where was the cutting, sewing, and finishing performed? Where was the screenprinted done? What were the wages and labor conditions along these steps?

I'm not a nationalist, so I don't prioritize American jobs over foreign ones. But I do care about fair wages and labor protections. Just because something was made abroad doesn't mean it was made in a sweatshop. Just because it was made in the US doesn't mean fair wages.

Paying more for a garment is also no guarantee of ethical manufacturing. But when the price of a garment is so low, you leave little on the table for workers. Just because you see a $20 t-shirt that says "made in USA" doesn't mean it was made fairly.

Please don't harass the person who posted that original tweet. My intention is not to cause harm or stress for anyone. Only to help shed light on what goes into garment manufacturing, fair labor, and labeling. Hopefully, you will consider these issues when shopping.

For the inevitable question: "How do I make sure my clothes were made ethically?" This is very difficult to answer in a thread. My simplest answer is that we should elect pro-worker politicians, fight for pro-labor laws, and empower unions so workers can advocate for themselves.

--------------------End----------------------

TL; DR: Doesn't matter if it's the US, if it's not union it's probably a sweatshop. And not all merch is priced high because of fair labour conditions (looking at Taylor Swift and Beyoncé). Look for supply chain transparency.

[regency-monster-love]

Ok ok ok hear me out for this March request...

Working class male dryder who's a tailor/weaver. Falls for upper class woman who was a childhood friend. Mutual pining ofc. She decides to risk or forgo her inheritance to be with him.

This is a great story idea! I didn’t have time to write the whole thing, but hopefully this snippet gives you a satisfactory taste. I’ll warn you, you asked for pining, so it ends angsty!

Monster March, day 6: drider

Male drider x female human | Regency era | SFW | angst, mutual pining, different worlds

Before ringing the bell, the woman took a moment to stand quietly watching the drider at work in the back of his shop. She couldn't make out all of him through the gap in the curtain separating his working area from his shop, but she was fascinated with what she could see. His human hands were busy at work on some sort of fine needlework, probably embroidery or sewing on small beads, while his palps were sewing pieces of fabric together, simultaneous with his front two legs weaving fabric on a loom. It was remarkable to witness him carrying out all three tasks at once, even though she'd seen it a hundred times by now.

After a minute of watching, she rang the bell on the counter to get his attention, and he looked up at once. A familiar smile overtook his face, and she gave him one back.

He put down all his work and scuttled forward into his shop, coming around the counter to stand directly in front of her, though crouched down on his eight enormous legs to put his face closer to her level, and greet her by name. “How are you?” he asked.

“I'm well enough, though a little tired from the Waltons’ ball last night. I wore the lavender silk and received many compliments on it, which I said I would pass on to you.” As a mere tailor, he had not been invited to the ball. She sometimes reflected on the fact that his hands had been all over her clothing, touching every inch of it. There was a kind of intimacy in that, like his hands had been all over her. It made her feel warm and fluttery inside to imagine it.

She pushed such thoughts aside for now. “Oh, and Miss Hannover was wearing a beaded cream satin that I was sure had to have been made by you, it was so fine, and so I asked her, and she said it was. Exquisite work, as always.”

He merely smiled and nodded in thanks. He had never been one to speak much, even when they had played together as children, but that was alright, because she said enough for both of them.

She told him more of the ball, and he listened attentively to it all. He always liked listening to her stories and watching her move her hands about with great animation while she spoke. There was such a vibrancy to her that enthralled him.

She asked him how things were with him, too. “I'm well. Working,” he said simply.

“And what of your art?” she asked, knowing this would get him talking.

He smiled in a way that looked bashful yet pleased. “It's embroidery, not art.”

“It is too art! It has no practical purpose, only exists to be beautiful—that makes it art.”

He nodded in thanks again. “Would you like to see?”

“You know I would.”

He produced a small roll of fabric, set it on the counter, and unrolled it to reveal a long landscape of their village embroidered out of thread in every imaginable color. Every detail was there, stitched in immaculate precision—the ducks in the mill pond, the crumbling stone wall around the churchyard, the red geraniums in the window boxes of the milliner's shop. The drider had added a few inches more to the picture since the woman had last seen it.

“Oh this is beautiful! I love how you’ve done these trees!” She ran her fingertips over the green thread. “They look real. Masterfully done. You’re so talented.”

He smiled at her, his chest filling with warmth at her kind words. 

And then he began talking, describing to her how he’d done it, and what he planned to stitch next, and it was her turn to listen to him speak. Even when enthusiastic, he was quiet and calm, but she found it charming how his palps twitched when he was excited. She liked how she was probably one of the few people who knew that about him.

When he’d exhausted all that he had to say about his art and rolled it back up, however, it was time to get to the business of why she’d come. “I’ve come to pick up my order.”

His face became serious again, and he fetched several large parcels. They contained a new set of clothes for her to wear to town for the season. Her parents wanted her married, and London was the best place to find a rich husband suitable for someone of her station. It had pained him to make her clothes for this purpose, but he had done it, to his highest standards, as always.

“I was going to send Martin with these,” he told her. He was no longer standing in front of her, but had remained on the other side of the counter after fetching the parcels.

“I wanted to pick them up myself so I could see you before I go. I…I will miss you while I’m gone.”

“It is only a few months,” he said quietly, but their faces both remained somber, for they both knew this wasn’t true. If she was successful, she would marry someone and move into his home in who knows where, and she would be gone for good. The drider would only ever see her again when she was in the village to visit her parents.

“I wish you could come with me,” she whispered.

“I do too,” he admitted. But his place was here, behind this counter, and hers was out in the world of parties and dances and leisure.

She extended her hand over the counter. “Will you shake my hand before I go?”

He curled his fingers around her smaller ones, holding them warm inside his hand, and squeezed gently. Her blue eyes were fixed on his black ones, staring at him with such intensity that it made his chest ache. But he didn’t look away. This would likely be the last time he ever looked on her as a Miss, as someone he might someday be able to have—but that was a foolish thought, because he had never had any chance with someone like her.

The drider squeezed her hand again. “Goodbye,” he murmured, and let go.

~ 😈🎩 ~

Wow well that was heartbreaking. Let me know if anyone wants more of these two.

Thanks to @borealwrites for their Monster March prompt list.

Read all of my Regency monster ficlets and snippets at the tag #my writing or my master list.

[nanamineedstherapy]

Third Wheeling Your Own Marriage

F!Non-Sorceress CEO Reader X Gojo Satoru X Nanami Kento

Summary: You should be overjoyed that Gojo Satoru & Nanami Kento are your husbands. But you feel your skin crawl as you become the third wheel in your own marriage.

<<<<NO HEADER I GOT LAZY>>>>

Previous Chapter 17 (alt ending 2.8) - Invisible (Tumblr/Ao3)

Chapter 18 (alt ending 2.9) - Inheritance of Hunger

0 Sunday

After a lot of back and forth—mainly Gojo threatening to kill himself while Nanami silently (very weirdly) coaxed you into letting him touch you, all the while he blocked Gojo from you—you three were summoned again before you could make a run for your sanity.

Maya decided she was impatient and the homework needed to be discussed right away.

She sat with her legs crossed, clipboard balanced lazily on her knee.

Gojo was sprawled sideways on the couch, his long limbs stretched out. His sunglasses were pushed up into his messy white hair, revealing baby blue eyes that contrasted with his otherwise lazy posture.

You sat beside him, lost in thought, your fingers absentmindedly threading through his soft white hair. Gojo, for his part, was silently pleading to every god he could think of that you wouldn’t realize what you were doing—or you’d stop.

In the corner of the couch, Nanami sat with his back straight, one elbow resting neatly over his knee. His expression was as composed, but his steady golden gaze and the faint, disapproving line of his mouth betrayed his irritation. It was the kind of look that Gojo lived to provoke.

Maya clapped her hands together like an evil CEO about to announce mass layoffs.

"Alright, listen up, my favorite sad llama, mama llama, and mentally insane llama," her smile widening into something mocking. "We're speedrunning this bitch because your wife might be too volatile around nine months of pregnancy, so you’re about to embark on the hardest six weeks of your lives. This is a controlled experiment where I make the rules, and you two—" she pointed at Gojo and Nanami, "—are my little test subjects."

Gojo tilted his head. “So we’re lab rats?”

Maya’s gaze gleamed. “Exactly.”

Gojo’s mouth curled. “How cute. What happens if we fail?”

Maya’s smile widened. “Divorce.”

Both men’s gazes sharpened on her.

“And,” Maya added, "if you really fail?"

Gojo’s mouth thinned.

“I get to name your kids.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Gojo shot forward so fast the room hummed with the shift of cursed energy.

“My children will never know you,” Gojo spoke low, six eyes glaring into Maya’s unflinching gaze.

Maya smirked, unfazed. “Then don’t fail.”

She reached into her pink hello kitty bag and pulled out a scroll, which slipped from her hand and unrolled onto the floor.

Nanami stood to pick it up. “Is this our plan?” he asked, tone measured.

Maya chuckled, shaking her head. “Oh, no. This one’s for non-murderous couples who can actually be trusted.” She tossed it aside and retrieved another scroll, this one written in Comic Sans.

Nanami’s jaw tightened visibly. Gojo’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell is that?”

Maya unrolled the scroll; the paper fluttered ominously under the stale office air.

Maya’s Morally Dubious, Probably Illegal (But Alarmingly Effective) Rules for the Next Six Weeks:

Rule 1: No Speaking to Each Other (Unless Absolutely Necessary)

If Gojo and Nanami so much as look at each other with even a hint of telepathic communication, they must immediately do whatever you tell them.

(Maya turned to you, raising an eyebrow. “No, you are not allowed to ask them to do aflip-off of Everest.” You deflated.)

“And none of this ‘we’ nonsense,” Maya added sharply. "No, ‘we messed up’ or ‘we did this together.’ If you’re going to ruin your marriage, at least take individual accountability.”

No mentioning the other one; pretend he’s Voldermot.

Bonus points if you both cosplay each other.

(Nanami’s soul left his body.)

They also must send pregnancy-related disturbing facts to each other randomly, throughout the week.

Rule 2: “No Touch” Challenge

Both men must go a full 36 hours without touching you.

If they fail? You get to ignore them for 24 hours.

If either of them fails or both fail, then the three of you restart from Week One.

If they succeed, they earn the privilege of taking you on a date. (You’re allowed to leave if it’s not exactly what you wanted—it doesn’t matter if they are telepathic or not.)

Gojo immediately opened his mouth to protest, but Nanami shot him a look so sharp that Gojo actually shut up. No one knew how they’d communicate if they weren’t allowed to talk.

Rule 3: The Random 3 AM Test

Every week, Maya will call one of them at 3 AM with a pop quiz about you.

If they fail to answer correctly, they must run a mile immediately, half naked.

If they pass, they earn a “Get-Out-of-Dumbassery Card.”

(You opened your mouth, but Maya cut you off. “If you protest, I have duct tape.” Gojo was smirking like he’d fail that one on purpose so you’d be all territorial over him.)

Rule 4: “You Will Never Forget Her Again” Rule

Gojo and Nanami must each write a 100-word letter to you every week.

If they skip a week? You are allowed to ghost them for 48 hours.

Bonus: You are not obligated to read them. You can leave them on read.

(Gojo groaned at you to make it stop, “Babe, I don’t even do my office paperwork.” Nanami closed his eyes, resigned.)

Rule 5: Weekly "What Did We Learn?" Presentations

Every Sunday night, they must deliver a PowerPoint presentation on what they’ve learned about you that week.

Requirements:

One genuine compliment.

One sincere apology.

One fun fact about you they didn’t know before.

Three compliments per day—no repeats.

If they succeed, the winner gets to hold your hand—but only if you initiate.

Gojo’s head snapped toward you, his six eyes scanning you like he was memorizing every detail to outdo Nanami, who was already mentally outlining bullet points.

Rule 6: No Skipping “Sunday Alone Day”

If either of them bothers you on Sunday, they must immediately attend solo therapy.

If they make it through the day without bothering you, they earn one hour of bonus time with you the following week.

Whoever isn’t on “custody duty” must spend time on at least one hobby and provide concrete proof of their progress.

Maya paused, her gaze sharpening. “Who’s your worst enemy right now?”

Gojo blurted out, “Fushiguro,” still bitter that you’d called Megumi “Megs” after all these years. Nanami, without hesitation, said, “Haibara,” like he’d been waiting for someone to ask.

“Good,” Maya said, smiling sweetly. “You’ll stay with them when you’re not on custody duty.”

Both men paled.

Rule 7: No Money No Hunny

This time, Maya leaned forward, her gaze dissecting. “Here’s the rule: you can’t spend your own money this week. You need to ask your husbands—well, whoever is on duty—for whatever you want. And don’t worry,” she added, her tone dripping with faux sweetness, “they’re not allowed to reject your requests.”

“Hell no,” you yelled, immediately trying to sit up. But a sharp twinge in your back forced you to slump back into the couch, wincing.

Gojo, who had been clinging to you like some kind of overgrown, emotionally needy barnacle, immediately perked up. His six eyes scanned you with laser focus, searching for any sign of injury. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Do you need ice? A massage? A—“

“She’s fine,” Maya interrupted, her tone clipped.

She studied Gojo for a moment. Then she turned back to you, her expression softening just a fraction. “If you do this,” she said, “you’re allowed to sabotage them as much as you like. Make it difficult. Make it annoying. But you have to ask.”

Your face paled. “But—“

She cut you off, her voice firm but not unkind. “You have hyper-independence issues. We need to fix it. This isn’t just about them—it’s about you learning to let someone else take care of you for once.”

You groaned, slumping further into the couch. “Fine,” you grumbled, crossing your arms.

Gojo looked between you and Maya like he was trying to solve a particularly complicated math problem. “Wait, so… I get to spoil her? Like, no limits? No budget?”

“No budget,” Maya confirmed, her smile sharp. “But don’t get too excited. This isn’t about you. It’s about her.”

Nanami, who had been sitting quietly in the corner, finally spoke up. His voice was calm but firm. “What if she asks for something unreasonable?”

Maya raised an eyebrow. “Define ‘unreasonable.’”

Nanami hesitated, his jaw tightening. “Something that could put her at risk. Or something… excessive.”

Maya’s smirk widened. “If it’s within reason and doesn’t endanger her, you’re not allowed to say no. That’s the point. She needs to feel supported, not judged.”

Nanami nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “Understood.”

Gojo, meanwhile, was practically vibrating with excitement. “Oh, this is going to be fun. I’m taking her shopping. And to that fancy restaurant she likes. And—“

“Gojo,” Maya interrupted, her tone warning. “This isn’t about you showing off. It’s about her feeling cared for. Got it?”

Gojo’s grin faltered for a moment, but then he nodded, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “Got it.”

Final Rule: The “If You Fail Too Much, I Get to Choose Your Third Husband” Rule

If either of them fails more than three times per week, Maya gets to handpick a third husband to “balance out their incompetence.”

Gojo’s face twisted in horror. “Absolutely not.”

“That sounds reasonable,” Nanami said mildly.

Gojo shot him a glare. “WHOSE SIDE ARE YOU ON?”

Maya rolled up the scroll and tossed it onto the table. “So,” she said, her smile razor-sharp. “Who’s going first?”

“I will,” Gojo declared, practically hanging off your arm.

“No,” Nanami said, already pulling a coin from his pocket. “We’ll toss for it.”

Gojo opened his mouth to argue, but Nanami flipped the coin before he could.

It hit the floor with a sharp clink.

Nanami bent down, picked it up, and pocketed it without looking at the result.

“I’ll go first,” he said calmly.

“Why?” Gojo asked, suspicious.

“Because I can’t risk you being alone with her right now,” Nanami replied flatly.

Gojo’s grin widened. “Aw, you’re jealous.”

Nanami’s gaze was cutting. “No. I’m realistic.”

Gojo’s smile turned predatory. “We’ll see.”

You rolled your eyes.

Apparently, you weren’t JUST married to clowns—you were married to 14-year-old clowns.

Maya stood, itching her stomach. “Excellent,” she said, her smile widening. “This is going to be so much fun.”

You sighed. This was going to be a long week.

---

The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding, and soon the three of you stepped into the penthouse. Gojo’s hand rested lightly against your lower back, his touch both protective and grounding. Nanami’s grip on your arm was firm and steady, as if he sensed how close you were to unraveling.

You were exhausted. The therapy session had stripped you raw, leaving every nerve exposed. The idea of splitting your life between them—reduced to a schedule, a custody agreement for your own body and emotions—still burned like a fresh wound.

Your feet were swollen, your back ached, and the weight of the pregnancy pressed heavily on your hips. The twins were restless inside you, their cursed energy pulsing against your skin like a storm waiting to break.

All you wanted was to sleep.

Instead, you walked straight into chaos.

“Ah, Satoru.”

You froze.

The living room was filled with people. A man and a woman stood near the couch—tall, elegant, and radiating authority. Behind them stood an older woman with iron-gray hair tied into a severe knot, her military-cut jacket and steely gaze making her presence feel like a threat. And beside her—your mother.

This reunion was something all three of you hoped would never happen.

Your chest tightened painfully, and you instinctively stepped closer to Gojo, seeking shelter behind his broad frame. His hand moved protectively to your waist, pulling you closer, while Nanami’s grip on your arm tightened, his body shifting subtly to shield you.

The man stepped forward first, his hands tucked casually into his kimono. “Satoru,” he said smoothly, his voice dripping with false warmth. “It’s been a long time.”

“Father,” Gojo acknowledged, his tone guarded.

His mother tilted her head, her lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line. “We heard you got married.”

“You could have called,” Gojo replied dryly, his voice edged with bitterness.

His father’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t tell us.”

“Maybe because I didn’t think you’d care,” Gojo said with feigned nonchalance, shrugging. “You left me with the family retainers the moment I was born. Why start pretending now?”

His mother sighed, as if the conversation were beneath her. “And now we hear you're... sharing.” Her gaze flicked toward Nanami, her distaste palpable.

Nanami’s jaw tightened, his hand sliding protectively to your shoulder.

“You’ll have to forgive us for not understanding the arrangement,” Gojo’s father said, his tone icy. “It seems... improper.”

Your mother snorted from across the room. “It’s humiliating.”

Your stomach churned, and you pressed a hand instinctively to your belly, as if shielding the twins from her venom. “Mom,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “What are you doing here?”

She didn’t answer immediately, her eyes sweeping over the penthouse with disdain. Her designer sunglasses perched atop her head, and her manicured nails tapped impatiently against her arm.

“Well,” she said, her gaze raking over you from head to toe. “I see you’ve… expanded.”

You flinched, your heart hammering in your chest.

She stepped closer, her heels clicking sharply against the polished floor. “You ran away years ago,” she said, her voice dripping with contempt. “I suppose you’ve been… busy.”

“I didn’t know you were coming,” you said, your voice thin and fragile.

“You didn’t need to know,” she replied, her tone dismissive. Her eyes landed on the table, where unopened baby catalogs and receipts were scattered. “Twins? How ambitious. Yet you still parade your stomach around town.”

You pressed your hand harder against your stomach. “Why are you here?”

She hummed, circling you like a predator. Her eyes took in every detail—the dark circles beneath your eyes, the slight swell of your skin, the way you shifted your weight to ease the ache in your back.

“This is what you’ve been up to,” she said, her voice low and cutting. “Running away, getting knocked up, and playing house with two men...”

You didn’t answer; your throat too tight to speak.

Her gaze darkened. “Do you know how humiliating that was for me?”

Your heart lurched. “I—”

“Oh, don’t bother,” she snapped, cutting you off. “You’ve always been selfish. Always dragging this family’s name through the dirt.”

You felt the blood drain from your face, her words slicing through the fragile calm you had managed to hold onto.

She stepped closer, her fingers curling under your chin, forcing you to meet her eyes. “And now you’ve let yourself get pregnant?” Her lips curled into a sneer. “By both of them?”

You pulled away, her hand falling from your face. “They love me.”

Her laugh was sharp enough to draw blood. “Love you?” She tilted her head, her smile cutting. “You’ve always been so naïve. They love the idea of you. Of ownership. Of the money you bring in. Don’t mistake that for love.”

You bit down hard on the inside of your cheek, your hands trembling at your sides.

Her voice dripped with venom. “I thought I raised you better than that.”

“You didn’t raise me at all,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Gojo’s mother stepped forward, her mouth curling in disdain. “And now you expect me to believe these... things inside you are even his?” Her eyes cut toward Gojo. “Are you even sure they’re yours?”

Your mother’s lips twisted into a smirk. “That’s a valid question.”

Gojo’s face went blank, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

“Their cursed energy,” Gojo’s father said, stepping closer, “if they’re really yours—”

“Stop,” Gojo said, his voice low and dangerous.

“—then it would only be responsible for the clan to take them in,” his mother continued, her tone icy. “If they’ve inherited your technique, they belong with us.”

Your skin crawled.

“You want my children?” Gojo’s smile was razor-edged, his voice deceptively calm.

“They have potential,” his father said coolly.

“Potential,” Gojo repeated hollowly, his heart pounding thickly in his throat. “You’re talking about them like they're... a product. An asset.”

“They are a legacy,” Gojo’s mother said, her voice cold and final.

“And if they don’t meet expectations?” Nanami’s voice cut, low and edged.

Gojo’s father’s mouth thinned. “They won’t fail.”

Nanami’s great-aunt stepped forward, her presence a wall of restrained fury. “You are all insane.” Her voice cracked like a whip. “This is why I told you,” she said, turning to Nanami, “to stay away from this family.”

Nanami’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond.

“And now,” she continued, her glare sweeping over the room, “you’re tied to this mess, and you’ve allowed my grandson to lower himself into this... arrangement?”

“She’s my wife,” Gojo said coldly.

“And Kento’s,” Nanami's great-aunt snapped, then turned to Nanami. “Kento, you still have time; divorce him and save your relationship with her and the babies. The fact that he’s comfortable reducing her to some kind of political experiment—”

“I’m not reducing her to anything!” Gojo’s voice sharpened, his cursed energy buzzing dangerously beneath his skin.

“Enough.”

Nanami half-yelled, his presence silencing the room. “You’re embarrassing yourselves.” 

But your mother was undeterred.

She glared. “You always let men do the hard work for you, don’t you?”

“You need to leave,” you said, your voice breaking.

She raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“I’m tired,” you said, your voice unsteady. “I don’t have the energy for this.”

Her mouth tightened. “Then I suppose you don’t have the energy to be a good wife either?”

You froze.

“Poor Kento,” she mused. “He’s such a good man. Patient. Responsible. Do you know how lucky you are to have landed someone like him?”

You swallowed thickly. Nanami’s grandmother’s sister immediately zeroed in on Gojo, again. “You,” she said, pointing a finger at him. “You’re the reason my grandson is tied up in this mess. Careless, reckless, and—”

Nanami interrupted, his voice calm but firm. “Stop talking.”

“And you. Divorce him, Kento. You deserve better than this circus.” She snapped.

“And Satoru—” Your mother’s smile sharpened. “Handsome. Powerful. He could have anyone.” Her gaze flicked toward your belly. “Strange, isn’t it? That he’d settle for you.”

You felt your throat close. You pressed a hand over your head.

“And yet,” she continued, “you are here, looking miserable and pathetic. Can’t even bring yourself to take care of them, can you?”

“I’m pregnant,” you choked out.

“And?” Her mouth twisted. “Women have been pregnant before. How do you think I gave birth? No epidural because we worked.”

You flinched. “I do work around the house.” You didn’t know why you were justifying yourself to her; she always thought keeping more housekeeping staff was better than having to save any money for her only kid’s future, because at least she wouldn’t have to carry her bags.

“You should be grateful,” she said, brushing imaginary lint from her sleeve. “You’ve been handed two of the most powerful men in the world, and you can’t even manage to cook them a meal?”

“Mom—”

“You don’t deserve them.”

Your vision blurred.

She stepped closer, her voice lowering to a cutting whisper. “You’ve always been a disappointment.”

Your chest constricted, the world spinning around you.

She smiled like a shark. “Not only that, you’ve gotten fat too.”

Gojo’s eyes sharpened dangerously, his cursed energy flickering faintly beneath his skin. His hands twitched at his sides, as if he were restraining himself from stepping in. Nanami’s jaw twitched, his golden eyes narrowing, but he remained still, his fists clenched tightly. Your hand instinctively pressed to the swell of your stomach.

“I’m six months pregnant,” your voice was sharp. Flat.

Her smile widened. “That’s no excuse for looking cheap.”

Gojo’s hands curled into fists, his knuckles white. Nanami’s gaze flicked toward you, his expression unreadable but his body tense. Their cursed energy stirred beneath the surface, a silent storm waiting to break.

Your mother’s eyes glinted as she surveyed the room. “So this is what you’ve been doing?” A slow, mocking glance toward Gojo and Nanami. “Sleeping your way to the top?”

Your throat tightened.

“You think they’ll stick around when they realize what you are?” Her smile was thin. “Should’ve gotten you taken care of. Well, it’s not too late.”

You knew this moment would come eventually.

But not like this. Not in front of them.

You didn't want the humiliation.

Your mother stood in the middle of your living room, a familiar silhouette of disappointment.

You hadn’t seen her in years, but the sight of her still made your chest cave in.

The babies kicked violently inside you, as if they too could feel the tension twisting through the air.

“How long are you going to threaten to get me raped, Mom?”

The words hung in the air like a gunshot.

Shattering.

Violent.

Both of your husbands gazes snapped towards you.

Gojo’s breath sharpened audibly, his cursed energy flaring for a split second before he reined it in. His jaw clenched, a cold, dangerous stillness. Nanami’s shoulders coiled, his hands flexing at his sides as if he were fighting the urge to step between you and her.

“You can’t stand me,” you said, voice cracking beneath the weight of it. “But you still won’t leave me the fuck alone.”

Your mother’s smile was brittle at the edges. Her hands were clasped neatly, unmoving, as if she’d practiced this posture a hundred times in the mirror.

“Why?” you whispered, the tremor in your throat rising like bile. “Why did you have me if you were only going to hate me? Why did you keep me alive just to sharpen your claws on me?”

Her mouth opened, but you cut her off.

“No, really. Why?” Your breath hitched painfully. “Your marriage not working out wasn’t my fault. I didn’t ask to be born just because you needed a fucking punching bag.”

Gojo’s head lowered, his hands trembling slightly at his sides. Nanami’s fists tightened, his knuckles white, but he remained rooted in place, his jaw working as if he were biting back words.

“You ask me for money,” you went on, breathless and shaking, “but still treat me like I’m nothing. If money’s all you fucking want, I’ll send a check. I can afford that. I can’t afford this. Just—let me go. Pretend I’m dead. A lot of people already do.”

You could feel Gojo and Nanami’s eyes burning into you, but you couldn’t stop. The words were clawing their way out of you, jagged and bloodstained.

“I have given you everything,” you hissed, the rage climbing your throat. “And you give me nothing back but grief and humiliation. I made a career out of nothing, and you still walk around telling your friends how I’m a bum. Because you just want people who don’t give a single fuck about you to give you sympathy because, ‘Oh my god, my daughter is a piece of shit’ is the only line you can use to make friends in your pathetic existence.”

Her smile didn’t slip.

“You want me to read your mind, to bend myself into whatever fucked-up shape you want, and when I fail, you call me a failure. When I succeed, you resent me for doing better than you expected. I WILL NEVER FUCKING GET A SINGLE PIECE OF RECOGNITION FROM YOU, WILL I?”

Your breath caught painfully.

Her mouth parted, but you cut her off before she could speak.

“Mom,” you spat. “You filed a police complaint against me when I was eleven because I yelled at you after you called me a whore—something you’ve been doing since I was four—because I finally had enough. Who the hell was I whoring myself out to at four years old, Mom?”

Gojo’s entire body went taut. His Six Eyes glowed faintly, the air around him crackling with restrained energy. His hands twitched at his sides, as if he were holding himself back from stepping in.

“If Mr. Fushiguro hadn’t saved me that day,” you whispered, “I’d have been in prison. Do you understand how fucked up it is that none of the cops took your side—even when I had no money, no influence? Do you get how messed up that is toward your only child? Does that get into your fucking head, Mom?”

Her smile froze at the edges, a spiderweb of tension cracking through her expression.

Nanami’s jaw flexed, his golden eyes narrowing. His hands were clenched into fists, his cursed energy simmering beneath the surface like a controlled storm.

“And you still keep doing it,” you went on, your voice thin and brittle. “Every time I see a cop, I wonder what lie you’ve told them now. I remember you saying I carried a knife. Then you added pepper spray because you ‘didn’t know why I’d need it.’ ”

Her smile sharpened. “I was trying to protect myself because this is exactly how you react, and I worry you’d wake up and kill me one day.”

You laughed, a hollow sound that scraped at your throat.

“You’re shameless,” your voice hardened. “When I told you everything, Mom, you just laughed. Then you told my ex to beat me because ‘I needed to be kept in check.’ Didn’t Dad used to beat you?”

Mention of your father finally got a reaction out of her.

Her eyes glinted with something cruel.

Gojo inhaled sharply, his cursed energy flaring for a moment before he reined it in. Nanami’s gaze flicked toward you, his expression unreadable but his body tense, ready to intervene if needed.

Her hand raised.

Gojo saw red.

You flinched as Gojo moved faster than Nanami could react.

His hand shot out, catching her wrist mid-air.

Crack!

Her bones didn’t break—but the pressure was enough to make her knees buckle. His Six Eyes burned ice-blue, cursed energy vibrating through the air like a live wire.

“Don’t,” Gojo said, his voice low, frigid, and dangerous. “Touch. Her.”

Your mother’s smile twitched. “You dare—”

“Satoru,” you said, your voice loud and commanding.

Gojo’s gaze whipped toward you, his pupils blown wide.

“Let go,” you said quietly.

Gojo’s grip loosened—but his hand hovered over her wrist like he didn’t trust himself to let go completely.

“She was going to hit you,” he said, his eyes darting across your face, searching for something.

“You will not hit my mother,” you said, your voice steady despite the tears threatening to spill out.

His mouth parted, his breath hitching.

His hand fell to his side, but his cursed energy still crackled around him, a silent warning.

Your mother, meanwhile, had done what she always did.

Started crying like Gojo actually hurt her, gaining sympathy from the other guardians.

Nanami’s golden eyes locked onto them, his voice steady and implacable. “Leave,” he said. “Now.”

Your mother’s eyes flicked toward Nanami. She smiled thinly. “Or what?”

“I don’t need to explain,” Nanami replied, his tone cool and final.

“I raised her,” your mother said, standing straighter.

“Providing basic needs like food, roof and education is not raising a child,” Nanami said flatly, his gaze unwavering.

Your mother’s eyes narrowed. “You think you can do better?”

“I am doing better,” he replied, his voice calm.

“This is what you have married, Satoru?” Gojo’s mother yelled. “She’s making you violent.”

Gojo’s laugh was humorless. “You made me violent ever since you handed me over to the clan to become the next clan head. The last line of defense.  A fucking nuclear weapon.”

Your chest burned, the weight of years of, your and his, pain and anger pressing down on you.

“You don’t get to come into my home,” you said, your voice steady despite the storm thrumming beneath your ribs, “and disrespect me. Or them.”

Her gaze sharpened. “Your home?”

“I own the building,” you said, your tone leaving no room for argument.

“You’ll ruin your children,” your mother said, her voice dripping with venom.

“I’d rather ruin them myself,” you replied, your voice cold and final, “I’d rather take that risk than let you anywhere near them—someone who thinks it’s okay to laugh at a child sharing something so traumatic that they’ll never be the same.”

Her mouth pressed into a thin line.

“You’re going to regret this,” she said, her voice low and threatening.

“Or you will, because you can’t get them to hate me too." You said, voice steady.

Gojo’s father cleared his throat from behind her, his voice dripping with disdain. “Are they even yours, Satoru?” he asked, his tone cold and calculating. “Or are you just playing house with someone else’s children?”

The air shifted. Gojo’s gaze sharpened dangerously, his cursed energy flickering at the edges of perception—a storm about to break. His head lifted slightly, white lashes lowering over those sharp, crystalline eyes.

“Careful, father.”

His voice was low, almost soft. It made the hairs on the back of their neck rise.

Nanami’s hand brushed Gojo’s arm—steady, grounding—a subtle press of fingers against tense muscle. His cursed energy pulsed faintly beneath his skin, a controlled but unmistakable threat. A warning.

Even if the twins weren't of Gojo and were of Nanami, he'd still protect them without a word and so would Nanami. That was always the unspoken rule. Because that's what they did. Protect everyone and be so honest to god they'd die protecting you and this family.

Gojo’s father’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. "You can’t protect them alone. They’ll need to be trained for the inevitable. Besides…" His gaze darkened. "Don’t you have to go back to work once your suspension is lifted? I’m trying to help you, Satoru. It should be soon."

Gojo’s mouth curled into a smile—cold, hollow—the kind that stripped the warmth from the room. The kind of smile you see right before something terrible happens.

"I killed them all, Father."

Gojo’s father’s smile faltered. His face paled. "Who?"

"All the higher-ups." Gojo’s voice was eerily calm, almost conversational. His head tilted slightly, eyes gleaming beneath the stark white of his lashes. "Me and Nanami tag-teamed it. Two days ago. They haven’t been returning your calls, have they?"

His smile widened.

Lower-grades, unlike those of special or first-grade status, couldn’t determine the lineage of the children you carried based solely on cursed energy signatures. This is why Gojo’s parents were unaware of who's kids his wife carried—they were ordinary members of the Gojo clan, with no notable standing, until Satoru was born. His extraordinary birth elevated their status, transforming them into respected figures within the clan. Their sudden obsession with taking his children might have been a calculated move to further ingratiate themselves with the clan’s hierarchy, using his offsprings as a means to secure their newfound position. And Gojo was painfully aware of it but he knew confrontation would not work on them.

"Sadly," Gojo continued, "they can’t even trace it back to us to put us up for execution. Nanami cleaned up everything, and you know his technique — he’s meticulous enough to get away with any murder."

Nanami barely suppressed a smirk. His cursed energy buzzed faintly beneath the surface like a low hum of electricity.

"Let the remaining ones manage it," Gojo said lightly. "And as soon as they get tired, they’ll come crawling back and let me take over. I’ll generously sit at the top." His eyes sharpened into narrow slits of ice. "You wanted me to be successful, Father, and I will be. I’ll be the head of the Jujutsu society—not just the clan."

Gojo’s mother’s face twisted. Her hand clenched into a delicate fist at her side. "Are you insane?" Her voice pitched higher, nearly frantic. "This is no way to talk to your father. Over… this—"

She gestured toward you with a flick of her hand, her lip curling in disgust.

"This… thing."

Your stomach curled.

Nanami’s hand tightened on Gojo’s arm. You didn’t know if it was to steady Gojo or himself.

"It’s fine if you want to… indulge yourself," Gojo’s mother continued, her voice trembling with barely concealed rage. "But you will not speak to your father this way. And you will give us the children once they’re born. They’ll be raised properly. Not by some—"

"You disgust me, Mother."

Gojo’s words were soft, almost weightless—but they fell like a blade.

His mother’s nostrils flared. Her eyes narrowed into thin, gleaming slits. "You think you can just dismiss us? We’re your parents. Those children are our legacy—"

"Your legacy?" Gojo’s head tilted, eyes gleaming like a polished edge. His voice dropped. "You don’t get to claim them. You don’t get to claim me. I’m not your weapon. And neither are they."

His father’s face darkened. "You ungrateful brat." His voice sharpened, brittle with rage. "We gave you everything—power, status, the Gojo name—"

"You gave me nothing." Gojo’s voice cracked like ice underfoot. His smile faded. "You turned me into a tool the moment I was born. You don’t care about me. You don’t care about them. All you care about is what they can do for you."

Gojo’s mother took a step forward, chin lifting in a last grasp at authority. "You owe us, Satoru! You owe this clan!"

Gojo’s jaw flexed. His breath sharpened. His eyes darkened beneath the pale white fringe of his lashes.

"I owe you nothing." His voice trembled with rage. "And if you ever come near my children, I’ll make sure you regret it."

His mother’s face twisted into something dark. Ugly. "You wouldn’t dare—"

Nanami stepped forward.

Gojo’s mother’s mouth snapped shut.

Nanami’s presence swelled—calm, unyielding. His cursed energy rose in a slow, chilling wave. The pressure in the room sharpened—heavier, colder. His eyes gleamed beneath his glasses.

"This is your last warning. Leave," Nanami said quietly.

Gojo’s mother’s eye’s twitched.

Gojo’s father hesitated. His eyes narrowed, mouth parting slightly as if to protest—

Nanami’s cursed energy snapped.

Your mother blinked, her composure faltering for the first time.

Gojo’s mother took a step back, her expression unreadable. His father hesitated, his eyes narrowing, but he said nothing.

Nanami stepped forward, his presence towering and unyielding. “Do not make me repeat myself.”

Your mother scoffed, but the tremor in her jaw gave her away. “You wouldn’t—”

Nanami’s cursed energy flared, the air around him growing heavy.

Gojo’s mother straightened, her chin lifted in a last attempt at dignity. “You’ll regret this,” she hissed, her voice trembling with venom.

“I already do,” Gojo said, his voice cold. “I regret ever thinking you could change.”

She stepped back, her chin lifted in a last attempt at defiance, but the fear in her eyes was unmistakable. Gojo’s parents followed without a word, their earlier arrogance replaced by silence. Nanami’s great-aunt hesitated, her gaze lingering on Nanami for a moment, before she turned and left.

The door closed with a quiet click.

The silence pressed into your lungs, heavy and suffocating.

Gojo’s head was lowered, his broad shoulders hunched as if the weight of the world had finally crushed him. His hands trembled at his sides, his cursed energy flickering faintly, unstable and raw. He looked... broken.

Nanami’s hand hovered near his arm, unsure if he was allowed to touch him, unsure if his touch would be welcomed or rejected. His golden eyes were dark with concern, his usual calm demeanor fraying at the edges.

Your chest tightened painfully, a sharp ache spreading through your ribs. Shame crawled beneath your skin, hot and suffocating.

You shouldn’t have stopped him.

You shouldn’t have humiliated him like that.

You hated it.

You hated yourself for it.

You hated the way Gojo had looked at you—like you were something fragile. Like you were something breakable. Like he had failed you, even though it was you who had failed him.

You walked past them, the crushing weight of shame settling into your chest like a stone. Your footsteps were soft, barely audible against the polished floor, but each step felt like a betrayal.

“Where are you going?” Nanami asked, his voice low and steady, though there was an edge of worry beneath it.

“Don’t worry,” you replied hollowly, not meeting his gaze. “I’ll be around the building.”

These days, you didn’t tell them where you were going, but right now it felt like looking for you might hurt Gojo more. You couldn’t bear the thought of him chasing after you, not after what had just happened.

His gaze followed you as you walked away, his eyes burning into your back. His mouth parted, like he wanted to speak—like he wanted to call you back, to fix this, to make it right—but the words didn’t come. They never did.

Your arms shook as you stepped outside, the cold biting into your skin. The ache behind your ribs tightened painfully, a dull throb that refused to fade. You hugged Nanami’s overcoat around your stomach, the fabric still carrying the faint scent of his cologne. It should have been comforting, but it only made the guilt worse.

You weren’t trying to run.

You just needed air.

The walls of the corridor had been closing in for hours—days, maybe—and you’d spent the last fifteen minutes staring at the massive glass windows, counting the lights flickering in the distance, feeling the restless energy under your skin.

So you walked away.

The building was quiet this late, the freshly polished marble floors reflecting the dim, low lighting. You padded barefoot through the hall, one hand resting on the swell of your stomach as you drifted past the concierge desk.

“Madam,” the receptionist murmured, nodding respectfully as you passed. His gaze flicked toward the gentle curve of your belly, then back to his computer.

You nodded and smiled politely at him, the gesture automatic and hollow. Your reflection followed you along the mirrored walls—barefoot, messy hair falling over your shoulders, dark circles etched beneath your eyes. You looked—

Haunted.

Your hand slid down over your stomach, a reflex. Protective. Instinctual. The twins curled beneath your touch, their cursed energy pulsing in sync with your heartbeat, low and heavy, like distant thunder.

You drifted past the spa, past the rooftop garden, and down the wide corridor that led to the gym. The glass doors slid open soundlessly as you approached.

That’s when you saw him.

“Yo.”

Haibara was walking out of the gym, a towel slung over his shoulder, his hair damp from a post-workout shower. He spotted you immediately, his eyes brightening with recognition—then narrowing when he saw the state of you.

“You look like shit,” he said, not unkindly.

“Thanks,” you muttered, your voice hollow.

He stepped toward you, his expression shifting from amusement to concern. His eyes swept over your face, lingering on the dark circles beneath your eyes, then down toward your chest.

“You’re leaking.”

You froze.

“What?”

“Your—” He gestured vaguely toward your chest. “—boobs. Leaking.”

Your face burned.

You looked down.

He wasn’t wrong—two faint, wet stains had bloomed across the fabric of your shirt.

“Oh my god.”

“Wait—” Haibara was already reaching for his towel.

“I got it,” you said, stepping back quickly. “It’s fine—”

“Haibara?”

You stiffened.

Megumi’s head appeared around the corner, his dark hair slightly disheveled. He walked toward you, his brow furrowing when he saw Haibara standing so close.

“What’s going on?”

“Her boobs are leaking,” Haibara informed helpfully.

“Shut the fuck up,” you hissed, swatting at him.

Megumi’s mouth twitched—then his gaze sharpened. He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as his hand caught your chin while the other pulled down the hood of Gojo’s sweatshirt you were wearing, tilting your face toward the light.

“Your cheek,” he said quietly.

“What?”

His thumb brushed over your skin. A flinch.

You went still.

“That’s a handprint,” he said. His voice was low, dangerous. “Who touched you?”

Haibara’s gaze darkened, his usual cheerfulness replaced by something colder, sharper.

“I’m going to kill her,” Megumi said simply, his tone calm but laced with venom.

“You don’t know that it was her,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“Who the fuck else would it be?” Haibara said coldly. His jaw flexed. “How the hell did she get in? Where is she?”

Your mouth opened, but the words stuck. Your chest tightened painfully. You could still feel the heat of her palm against your skin and the sharp sting of her nails.

“You should be grateful,” her voice echoed distantly. “You don’t deserve them.”

Megumi’s hand curled beneath your chin. His touch was gentle, but his expression was razor-sharp.

“You should’ve called,” he said softly, his voice tinged with frustration and something deeper—something you couldn’t quite place.

You pulled away, your heart hammering painfully beneath your ribs.

“I’m fine,” you said, your voice thin and unconvincing.

“You’re not,” Haibara said bluntly. His eyes were dark, his jaw clenched as he stared at you. “You’re not fine. And you shouldn’t be walking around alone like this.”

You forced yourself to turn toward the door. “I need to go.”

They didn’t stop you. 

As you moved through the dimly lit space, you could feel their eyes on you, a mix of concern and something darker simmering just beneath the surface.

You didn’t look back, but you could almost hear the unspoken words hanging in the air, the mingling frustration and helplessness.

You walked back through the building in a daze, the hallways stretching unnaturally long in front of you. Your chest ached. Your skin burned where her hand had been.

The penthouse was dark when you returned. The only light came from the city sprawling below through the floor-to-ceiling windows, a glittering reminder of the world that didn’t care about your broken edges. The silence was heavy—oppressive—pressing into your lungs until it hurt to breathe.

Gojo was standing by the glass wall, his hands buried deep in his pockets. His white hair was slightly rumpled, his broad shoulders tense beneath the loose fabric of his shirt. His back was to you, but you knew he’d sensed you the moment you entered. He always did.

"You left."

His voice was quiet, almost fragile.

You swallowed hard, throat tightening painfully. "I just needed air."

He turned.

His eyes were bright, but there was something frayed beneath them—something raw and brittle, barely holding together. His gaze slid over you, taking in the dark circles beneath your eyes, the fading mark on your cheek, the tension in your shoulders.

"You should’ve told me," he said, voice low.

"I can handle it," you replied, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Can you?"

Your chest tightened painfully, the words cutting deeper than you expected. You looked away, unable to meet his gaze.

"I’m tired," you said quietly, your voice trembling.

Gojo’s hands stayed in his pockets, but his cursed energy flickered beneath the surface—sharp, restless. His shoulders stiffened. "You can’t keep doing this," he said, voice breaking slightly. "Shutting us out. Shutting me out."

"I know." Your throat burned. "I know."

Gojo’s gaze softened, his lips parting slightly as if he were about to speak—but no words came out. Instead, he stepped closer, his hand brushing your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his. His thumb smoothed over the red mark on your cheek, his touch so tender it made your chest ache.

"I hate seeing you like this," he whispered, his voice breaking. “I hate that I couldn’t protect you. That I couldn’t fix this for you."

Your breath hitched. His hand on your face was warm—steady—and you leaned into it without meaning to. His thumb brushed over your cheekbone, his touch lingering. You could see the guilt in his eyes, the way it pooled behind the brightness, the way it stuck to his skin like tar.

"I know." Your voice cracked. A tear slipped down your cheek, and his thumb caught it, brushing it away with a tenderness that made your heart clench.

For six months, you had kept him at arm’s length. Six months of stolen glances, of aching silences, of longing that neither of you dared to voice.

But now, standing there with his hand on your face and his breath mingling with yours, you finally felt the walls you’d built begin to crumble.

"I didn’t know about your mother."

Your breath stalled.

Gojo’s voice was quiet, strained. His thumb lingered beneath your jaw. His mouth twisted, something dark and sharp flickering behind his eyes.

Your chest burned. Your mouth opened—closed.

"Why didn’t you tell me?" Gojo’s eyes softened, his brows drawing together.

"I don’t know."

His eyes were so painfully blue in the dark. His breath hitched. His hand curled against your jaw. "I would’ve killed her."

Your breath wavered. "Satoru—"

"No." His voice sharpened. His eyes darkened beneath the soft light of the city skyline. "I mean it." His hand slid from your jaw to your throat—not to squeeze, not to hurt—just to feel the rapid beat of your pulse beneath his fingertips. "You think I don’t understand? You think I don’t know what it’s like to be used—to be simply never thought of?" His breath hitched, his eyes widening slightly, pupils trembling. "You think I don’t know how it feels to love someone who only loves what you can do for them?"

Your heart stilled.

"You think I don’t know how it feels to hate them for it?" His eyes glistened. His thumb brushed against the hollow of your throat. "I grew up in a house full of ghosts." His mouth twisted. "I learned how to haunt people before I learned how to live."

Your breath trembled.

"I didn’t know it was that bad," he said softly. His hand slid up the back of your neck, curling into your hair. "I should’ve known. I should’ve asked."

"You were busy," you whispered. "With Nanami."

Gojo’s breath stalled. His mouth parted. His hand tightened in your hair.

"I never meant—"

"I know. I'm married to him. Trust me I know."

“Deflecting through humor is my thing baby,” Gojo’s eyes burned. His mouth lowered to yours, his breath trembling against your lips. His hand on your jaw was careful, hesitant—like he was scared you’d pull away.

You didn’t.

He kissed you slowly, trembling and hesitant, his lips pressing softly against yours. It was a question, a plea, a promise all at once.

His lips brushed yours softly—barely there, a ghost of a kiss, as if he were afraid you’d shatter under the weight of it. Your breath hitched, your hands curling into the fabric of his shirt, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded.

He kissed you again, slow and hesitant, his lips trembling against yours. Your eyes stung, tears spilling over as your fingers tightened in his shirt, pulling him closer.

You didn’t push him away.

You couldn’t. Not anymore.

His hand slid to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he deepened the kiss. It was desperate and tender, a collision of six months of longing and heartache. His breath hitched against your lips, a quiet sob escaping him as he held you like you were the most fragile thing in the world.

And then, just as quickly as it had begun, it was over.

“Enough.”

Nanami’s voice cut through like a blade, cold and sharp.

His hand was fisted in the back of Gojo’s collar, yanking him away from you with a force that left no room for argument. His face was set in stone, but his eyes—his eyes burned with something raw and unspoken.

Gojo stumbled back, his chest heaving, his lips still parted as if he were trying to hold onto the taste of you. He turned to Nanami, his expression a mix of anger and guilt.

Nanami’s gaze flicked to you, his eyes softening for just a moment before hardening again. “This isn’t the time,” he said, his voice low and firm. “Not like this.”

You swallowed hard, your hands trembling at your sides. Gojo looked at you, his eyes pleading, but you couldn’t find the words to respond. The moment was gone, shattered by the reality of the world around you.

"She’s exhausted," Nanami said, his voice low and even. "She doesn’t need this."

Gojo’s gaze darted toward you, his chest heaving, his lips still parted as if trying to hold onto the taste of you.

"She’s my wife too," Gojo said, his voice low.

"And you’ve done enough damage for one night." Nanami’s tone was razor-sharp. His gaze flicked toward you, softening briefly. "Go to bed. Both of you."

Gojo’s jaw flexed. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. His gaze lingered on you, his eyes filled with a mix of longing and regret.

"Fine," Gojo said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Nanami’s hand slid down Gojo’s back, guiding him toward the hallway. Gojo’s head lowered slightly beneath the weight of Nanami’s touch. He didn’t resist.

You stood there, shaking, your hands pressed to your chest. Your heart was still racing, the weight of everything crashing down on you all at once.

Gojo glanced back as Nanami pulled him away—his gaze hollow and tired. But beneath it, beneath the fear and guilt and longing—there was something else.

Understanding.

You stood there, shaking, your hands pressed against your chest. Your heart was still racing, the weight of everything crashing down on you all at once.

---

Sometime later after you fell asleep.

Group Chat: Dad Crimes 💀

Father Time: Did you know that oxytocin, the bonding hormone, spikes in fathers when they spend time around pregnant partners? 

Daddy: Uh-huh. 😏 

Father Time: Which means you’re probably more emotionally attached to her right now than you’ve ever been in your life. 

Daddy: So what? 🥰 

Father Time: Which also means if you lose her, your brain will likely enter a state of prolonged emotional withdrawal, comparable to drug addiction withdrawal. 

Daddy: 🧍🏻‍♂️ 

Father Time: In other words, you’ll be biologically incapable of functioning. 

Daddy: …I don’t like where this is going. 

Father Time: Better pray nothing happens to her then. 

Daddy: KENTO. I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE KENTO. 

---

You don’t say anything at first. Just stand there, watching them like they’ve grown extra limbs. There’s blood pooling under Nanami’s shoes, soaking into the fine lines of the marble.

Gojo notices you first. His head tilts, the thin line of red trailing down his jaw catching the faint glow of the overhead lights.

“Oh,” he breathes. A weak, barely-there smile. “We handled it.”

Nanami’s eyes flick toward you next, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. He’s got that resigned expression—the one that says he knew this was going to happen eventually, even if he hates himself for it.

Your heart is hammering. It's hard to breathe.

“What the fuck,” you whisper.

Nanami steps toward you, careful, like you’re the one who might break. His hand starts to rise—to touch you, maybe—but you step back so sharply your heel smacks into the wall. His hand falls to his side.

“You killed them.” Your voice cracks. “You—”

Gojo takes a step closer. The faint sheen of sweat on his forehead glistens under the lights. His grin is gone now. Just blankness.

“They were going to kill you,” Gojo says softly.

“No,” you snap. “No, you don’t get to make that decision—”

“We do,” Nanami says, his voice low and firm. His gaze pins you in place. “We have to.”

Your jaw tightens. Your hands are shaking. “You think you’re protecting me?” you hiss. “By slaughtering people?”

“Yes,” Gojo says, simple and certain.

Your breath stutters.

There’s this horrible rush of heat under your skin, this crawling sense of inevitability.

You’re surrounded. Caged.

Nanami’s hand finally touches your wrist. Warm. Steady. And you hate how your pulse jumps at the contact.

“I’m not asking you to understand,” he says. “But I need you to trust us.”

“Trust you?” You laugh bitterly. “You think trust is built on blood?”

Gojo’s eyes sharpen. His smile returns, slow and dangerous. “You think it isn’t?”

Suddenly, you were running.

With blood on your hands.

Their hands.

The bodies were still warm beneath your feet. The marble glistened darkly under the glow of the overhead lights. It seeped into the cracks.

You wanted to scream.

Your mouth opened—

Hands. Cold around your throat. Familiar hands.

Gojo’s grin flashed too wide, his pupils blown out. Nanami’s hand lingered on his shoulder. His mouth parted.

“You think trust isn’t built on blood?”

Their voices echoed and split — harsh, distorted—

Then—

Sharp pain. Crawling heat beneath your skin. The pressure mounting—

They weren’t touching you.

But it felt like they were.

The blood started to rise. Over your ankles. Up your legs.

It was warm. It smelled—

Your chest felt tight. It was hard to breathe—

And then—

Hands.

Pulling you up. Holding you down.

“Wake up.”

The nightmare cracked apart.

Your eyes flew open.

Nanami’s hand was on your cheek, steady and firm. His brow furrowed, his mouth tightening as he registered your rapid breathing.

“Shhh,” he murmured. His thumb stroked the side of your jaw. “You’re safe.”

You were shaking. Your whole body was soaked in sweat, and you couldn’t stop the trembling.

Gojo’s hand pressed lightly to your wrist. “You’re okay,” he said softly. No teasing in his voice. Just quiet reassurance.

Your breath stuttered painfully. You pushed yourself upright—or tried to—but Nanami’s hand slipped to your shoulder, gently guiding you back down.

“You were having a nightmare,” Nanami said.

“No shit,” you whispered. Your throat was raw.

Gojo’s gaze sharpened. “What was it about?”

You hesitated.

Nanami’s brow ticked up slightly. “You can tell us.”

“You,” you said hoarsely. “Both of you.”

Gojo’s mouth pressed into a thin line. Nanami’s hand tightened slightly on your shoulder.

There was a beat of silence. Then Gojo spoke, low and even.

“Well, it’s not our fault you dream about us.”

You opened your mouth—but then—

A strange warmth spread across your chest.

It took a moment to register.

Gojo’s head tilted. His gaze dropped—

“Oh.”

Nanami’s gaze followed. His lips parted slightly.

You looked down.

Wet spots. Two of them. Spreading darkly through the thin fabric of your nightshirt.

“No,” you whispered. Your cheeks burned as you covered yourself more. “No, no, no—”

Gojo’s mouth split into a grin. “Oh?”

“Oh my god,” you hissed.

Nanami’s eyes darkened. His mouth twitched. “Well.”

“You’re leaking,” Gojo said cheerfully.

“Shut up.”

Gojo ignored you completely. His grin stretched wider. “I think it’s a sign.”

Nanami exhaled slowly. “A sign of what?”

Gojo’s gaze flicked toward you, his eyes sparkling with unholy amusement.

“Milk,” he said.

You groaned, dropping your face into your hands. “Please kill me.”

“Oh no,” Gojo said smoothly, shifting closer. His hand pressed lightly against your stomach. “I think this is a bonding opportunity.”

“Leave me alone,” you groned.

“Technically,” Gojo mused, “I could help.”

Nanami’s expression sharpened. “We are not discussing this.”

“Why not?” Gojo’s grin widened. “It’s a biological function. We’re your husbands. Isn’t it our duty to—”

Nanami caught Gojo in a headlock. “Enough.”

You groaned louder. Your cheeks burned. “Please tell me this isn’t happening.”

Nanami’s gaze softened as his other hand brushed down the side of your face. His mouth curved faintly.

“You’re fine,” he said. His voice was warm and even. “It’s normal.”

“It’s humiliating.”

Gojo finally pried Nanami’s arm away from his mouth. “It’s hot,” he said.

Nanami shot him a sharp look.

Gojo raised his hands innocently. “What? I’m just appreciating my wife’s biological complexity.”

“I’m going to kill you,” you muttered.

Gojo’s grin sharpened. “You can try.”

Nanami’s hand slid down to your shoulder, grounding you. His expression softened. “You’re not alone,” he said quietly. “Even when you dream about us.”

Your breath caught. You hated how much that steadied you.

Nanami’s thumb stroked the inside of your shoulder. “You’re safe,” he said.

"Oh, you are totally safe,” Gojo agreed, grinning. “Except from us.”

Your eyes snapped open.

“Go to hell.”

Gojo beamed. “Only if you come with me.”

Nanami exhaled sharply. His hand lifted to rub at his temple.

You groaned and rolled onto your side.

“I hate both of you.”

“Sure you do,” Gojo said sweetly, leaning over you. His hand slipped beneath the blankets, warm against your thigh.

“I’m leaving,” you warned.

Nanami’s hand tightened slightly on your wrist. “No, you’re not.”

Gojo’s grin softened slightly. “Stay,” he murmured.

Your chest tightened painfully.

“You’re such assholes,” you whispered.

But you didn’t move when Gojo’s arm slid around your ribs. You didn’t pull away when Nanami’s teeth nipped lightly on your shoulder.

You closed your eyes again.

“Fine,” you muttered.

Nanami’s hand stroked down your spine.

Gojo hummed softly.

You hated how much you believed them.

Your eyes snapped open, heart pounding. 

It was dark—maybe midnight, maybe later—and you realized your nightmares had finally crossed over to wet dreams territory.

The penthouse was quiet, the city lights flickering weakly through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The room was warm, but your body was overheating—which made sense, considering you were currently being smothered to death.

Your head throbbed. Your ribs ached. Something heavy—suffocating—was wrapped tightly around your throat.

You turned your head slightly.

And there they were.

Your husbands.

Gojo was sprawled across the bed like he owned it—limbs akimbo, mouth slightly parted, one absurdly toned bicep resting directly on your throat like he was trying to kill you in his sleep. His bicep was cutting off your airway, and his long legs were tangled with your blanket. His white hair was sticking up at odd angles, messy from sleep, and his breath was coming out in soft, even exhales that would’ve been cute if you weren’t two seconds from suffocating.

You elbowed him. Hard.

No reaction.

You kicked him.

Still nothing.

You turned to your right.

Nanami.

The man was sleeping like he was dead, except his arm was locked steel-tight around your waist. His cheek was resting against the curve of your shoulder, and his breath warmed the side of your neck with each slow inhale. You could feel the weight of his chest pressing into your side—solid muscle and heat—and his grip was practically cutting off circulation to your hip.

Two of the hottest menalive, according to social media—kind that made fangirls lose their minds and cause “incidents”—sprawled out like oversized dogs on your bed, limbs everywhere.

You sighed. You were stuck.

This was not how you imagined pregnancy.

Being married to two hot people sounded great in theory.

In theory.

But in reality?

They were giants. Absolute skyscrapers of men. Gojo stood at 6'3" like he had been custom-built to make ceilings nervous—all casual swagger, lean muscle, and long limbs that never seemed to stay in one place. Meanwhile, Nanami—somehow quieter yet equally imposing—clocked in only a couple inches shorter at 6 feet something, built like a damn Norse god sculpted out of marble and stress.

And now, thanks to fatherhood paranoia, they were bigger than ever.

Nanami had always been sturdy—broad chest, biceps carved like stone—but now? He’d somehow gotten denser. Like someone had stuck him in a forge and hammered him into something stronger.

Meanwhile, Gojo—lean and cut like a swimmer—had finally started bulking up. You didn’t know if it was from stress or hormones, but the man now filled out his compression shirts more than enough to make his fangirls faint at the gym.

Nanami was built like he fought wars for a living—because he did. His forearms alone could make a nun rethink her vows. And Gojo’s thighs—

Nope. You were not going there.

But the problem wasn’t the hotness.

The problem was the sheer size of them.

Because Gojo wasn’t just tall—he was casually tall, like he didn’t even notice the way his head scraped against doorframes. Nanami was the same, except he was somehow even heavier in his sleep. It was like being pinned beneath a statue. A hot statue—but still.

And here they were—two enormous walls of muscle—trapping you like a 6-months-pregnant, exhausted damsel in distress.

You shoved Gojo’s arm off your throat. He made a low noise in his sleep and immediately curled it back around you.

"Oh, for fuck’s sake."

You shoved him again. Harder. His arm slid off you for about five seconds before it drifted back like he was magnetized to your body.

"You’re trying to kill me, Satoru," you hissed.

No response.

You shifted again, and Gojo’s arm—that massive slab of bicep—squeezed around your throat like he was determined to make you a ghost.

"This man," you thought bitterly, "wants me dead."

You’d tried to move him five times already. Five minutes later, his arm would be back—heavy, solid, like he was determined to smother you in your sleep.

But what could you do? The man was out cold.

Gojo had been a light sleeper his whole life—until now.

Since accepting that he was going to be a father—and with his suspension keeping him at home, far from missions or the constant expectation to save the day—Gojo had finally learned to rest.

So now? He slept like the dead.

Meanwhile, Nanami—oh, people thought Gojo was clingy?

They hadn’t met tired Nanami.

The man had you wrapped so tightly against him you were convinced he thought you’d sleepwalk off the balcony. One arm hooked beneath your waist, the other braced across your side like you were a steel beam he had to stabilize.

Your ribs hurt.

Takahashi, your-spoiled-wearing-designer-only-terrorist baby of a raccoon, was crammed into the tiny gap left between Nanami’s arm and your belly, looking personally victimized by your choice in men.

"Alright," you thought, swallowing hard, "time for drastic measures."

Step One: Eliminate Gojo.

You twisted slightly, lifted your foot, and kicked Gojo square in the ribs making him roll off the bed on to-

Nothing.

The man didn’t even twitch. Just hovered in the air, his dumb Infinity instinctively activating in his sleep like a lazy security system.

You stared in disbelief. "Are you kidding me?"

You tried again, aiming this time for his shin.

Your foot sank into nothing—Gojo still unconscious, still floating like some smug god of slumber.

Fine. Whatever.

Step Two: Eliminate the Wall.

You turned toward Nanami, already knowing this was going to be harder.

Kicking him off was pointless—his ratio blades would protect him automatically and might even slice the bed in the process.

But you had something better.

Your secret weapon.

You flexed your hand thoughtfully. Then, carefully, you slid your fingers into his hair and began scratching gently at his scalp.

Nanami’s breath hitched.

You smiled.

It was your favorite unknown fact about him—one you’d never even shared with Gojo.

Nanami Kento, the golden boy of self-control, the no-nonsense sorcerer, the terrifying man who could take down an entire domain with a fucking blunt object—was basically a golden retriever when you scratched his head.

Nanami exhaled deeply, a low, rumbling noise like a dog being scratched in his favorite spot.

Success.

Nanami’s jaw slackened. His head tilted toward your shoulder as a low sound—almost a growl—rumbled in his throat.

You bit back a grin and kept going, scratching lightly in slow, careful motions. His grip loosened. His face, relaxing like he’d just been sedated.

You kept scratching, and his arm went limp, sliding off your waist.

You felt both arms go slack.

Grinning like a lunatic, you took the opportunity and shoved him off the bed.

Nanami hit the floor with a loud, heavy thud.

He groaned, rubbing his face as he sat up. His hair was sticking up in soft blond tufts, and his shirt was rumpled in a way that would’ve made him furious if he’d been awake enough to care. He squinted at you through sleep-heavy eyes.

You snuggled closer to Takahashi, smiling contently under the blanket, pretending to be asleep.

Mission accomplished.

…Or so you thought.

Moments later, you felt movement.

Nanami’s groggy footsteps shuffled toward the other side of the room.

His shadow moved over Gojo’s still-floating form.

Thwack!

Gojo hit the floor like a sack of potatoes.

“What the hell?!” Gojo yelped, thrashing wildly like a startled cat.

He blinked up at Nanami, dazed and wide-eyed. His hair sticking up in every direction.

He looked like he'd been mugged in his sleep.

Nanami just stood over him, face impassive. “You were crowding her.”

“I WASN’T EVEN TOUCHING HER!” Gojo’s voice cracked indignantly. “You almost cut off the blood supply to her uterus. Which, you know, is where the babies are."

"I was holding her," he said, tone flat.

"Yeah." Gojo’s smile sharpened. "Like a python."

Nanami moved, and Gojo instinctively floated toward the ceiling.

"No need for violence, babe." Gojo’s grin was wide and bright, but his Six Eyes were sharp beneath the glow of the city lights.

Nanami cracked his neck. "Get off the ceiling, Satoru."

"Make me."

Nanami grunted. “If you start a fight and wake up Takahashi, I will make your life miserable.”

Gojo and Nanami stared at each other.

Gojo groaned, limbs splaying out across the ceiling like a man facing death. "I hate you."

"Good." Nanami turned back to bed.

You continued to pretend to be asleep, being very, very still.

Nanami crawled back into bed carefully, adjusting the blankets over your bump. His hand slid protectively over your stomach, his fingers warm against your skin.

“I know you’re awake,” he murmured lowly.

You didn’t answer.

Nanami sighed heavily, lips brushing your temple. “I’ll let you get away with it this time.”

Your eyes stayed shut. You couldn’t risk smiling—not when victory tasted so sweet.

Takahashi shifted slightly, curling closer to your side. You heard Gojo grumble from the ceiling, muttering something about how "this family sucks" and "why am I always the victim?"

You were halfway asleep when you heard Nanami’s quiet voice again—so low you barely caught it.

"…I hope they have your smile."

You kept your eyes closed, pressing your palm gently over your own heart.

---

Group Chat: Dad Crimes 💀

Daddy: Kento. Did you know female breasts can SENSE nutritional deficiencies in babies and adjust the milk content accordingly? 😏 

Father Time: …Yes. 

Daddy: 😏😏😏 And did you ALSO know—If someone ELSE latches on, the breast could misread it as a baby and adjust the milk content incorrectly? 😈 

Father Time: Do not finish that sentence. 

Daddy: Sooo theoretically… if someone were to… you know… 

Father Time: Stop typing. 

Daddy: …It wouldn’t be nutritionally balanced anymore 👀 babies would be deficient.

Father Time: Are you suggesting— 

Daddy: I’M JUST SAYING! It’s SCIENCE! 

Father Time: You are a degenerate. 

Daddy: And you’re thinking about it 🥵 

Father Time: [Seen 1:24 AM]

Father Time: Did you know that the male body can sometimes produce prolactin when around pregnant partners?

Daddy: …What. 

Father Time: Prolactin is the hormone responsible for milk production. 

Daddy: WHAT. 

Father Time: Technically, if your body produced enough prolactin, you could theoretically lactate. 

Daddy: WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN, "LACTATE"?????? 

Father Time: You might even start producing it if you’re overstimulated enough. 

Daddy: STOP TYPING. 

Father Time: Wouldn’t it be ironic? After all those breastfeeding jokes— 

Daddy: YOU SHUT YOUR MOUTH RIGHT NOW. 

Father Time: Did you know that during pregnancy, male testosterone levels tend to drop by about 33%? 

Daddy: 🤨 

Father Time: Lower testosterone levels have been linked to reduced aggression and increased emotional sensitivity. 

Daddy: What are you implying, Kento? 

Father Time: That you’re biologically engineered to be more submissive right now. 

Daddy: 🧍🏻‍♂️ 

---

1 - Monday

You had a system. A brilliant system.

Gojo, being Gojo, never bought his own headphones. Why would he, when he could just yoink yours like a gremlin?

But you were smarter than that.

So you gave him your slightly janky pair—the ones that were technically fine but drove you insane because the audio was just off enough to make your inner audiophile sob quietly.

And it worked like a charm. Every time, without fail, before Gojo could break them, lose them, or somehow turn them into a modern art installation, and then—like clockwork—you’d give him your latest, a brand-new, ridiculously expensive pair.

It was a flawless plan. A masterpiece. A legacy.

So why did today have to start like this?

It was the sound of the frying pan that woke you—sharp, rhythmic sizzles cutting through the early morning haze.

Your phone buzzed. Then buzzed again. And then—music.

"It was only you, doin' what you do…"

You blinked, the fog of sleep peeling away as the distinct sound of your headphones playing your playlist filtered in from the kitchen.

The hell?

Dragging yourself out of bed, you shuffled toward the noise. The scent of butter and garlic wrapped around you as you rounded the corner into the kitchen—and froze.

Gojo Satoru was standing at the stove.

Shirtless.

Platinum white hair tousled, half-dried from a recent shower, strands sticking to his forehead. Sweatpants slung low on his hips, the sharp cuts of his v-line disappearing beneath the waistband.

He was holding a spatula in one hand and—Jesus Christ—the raccoon in the other.

The Armani hoodie-clad raccoon’s little paws were stretched out in the air, helplessly dangling while Gojo bobbed him up and down.

"Yeah, we called a truce, then you got me..."

His voice was low, easy, the kind of singing you’d expect from someone who absolutely knew he sounded good.

You wished whichever one was his baby got his voice, and so did Nanami’s.

You leaned against the doorway, half-hidden, crossing your arms over your chest. He hadn’t seen you yet.

Gojo’s hips moved as he twisted toward the stove, lifting the spatula like a microphone.

"Eenie meenie moe, hold me down, I'm losing my cool…"

He rolled his shoulders. Smooth. Unbelievably smooth.

A lazy, liquid kind of movement—the kind that was calculated to look effortless.

And then he winked at the raccoon.

The raccoon made a sound somewhere between a wheeze and a gasp.

Gojo laughed—a low, throaty sound—and spun, arms outstretched.

"Catch a tiger by its toe."

He flicked his hair as he said it.

You bit your lip.

Feral Rizz flailed helplessly in his grip. Gojo didn’t seem to care.

He flipped the spatula in his hand with one hand, the raccoon in the other, and swayed toward the stove.

"Did you steal my headphones?" you asked.

Gojo turned—slow and easy—and smiled.

"Good morning, my beautiful wife."

You raised a brow. "I am your only wife. Now answer the question."

Gojo's grin grew smug. "I might have borrowed them."

Your gaze dragged over him. Slowly. Deliberately.

Bare chest.

Sharp planes of muscle catching the early sunlight.

The sheen of sweat gathering along his collarbone.

The soft ridge of his hip bones peeking above the waistband of his sweatpants.

You inhaled through your nose.

Gojo’s grin widened. He set the raccoon down on the counter, leaning one hip lazily against the edge of the stove. "You checking me out?"

You rolled your eyes. "No."

He laughed. A slow, easy sound. The kind of laugh that made you feel watched.

"Want me to put on a show?"

"Absolutely not."

He leaned toward you. Arms braced behind him, muscles flexing as he tipped his head.

"You sure?"

"Gojo."

"Say it again."

"Gojo."

"God, you sound so cute when you’re angry."

You threw a dish towel at his head. His infinity caught it without him even looking, spinning the spatula in the other.

"Seriously, though," he said, turning back toward the stove. "How do you want your eggs?" Then turned to wink at you, “other than fertilized.”

"Unbothered."

He grinned. "You’re no fun."

"You know what’s really no fun?" you said, stepping toward him. "When my husband steals my headphones."

Gojo’s mouth curled.

"You know what they say," he said, setting the spatula down and turning toward you. "What’s mine is yours."

"And what’s mine?"

"Also mine."

"Asshole."

He stepped toward you. Slow. Measured. Eyes gleaming beneath silver lashes.

"You’re cute when you’re angry."

"You’re annoying when you breathe."

Gojo smiled. "You married me."

"Biggest mistake of my life."

"You wound me," he said, pressing a hand to his bare chest.

"Do you have a heart?"

"Only for you."

"Die."

"You’d miss me."

Gojo smiled. A soft, lazy smile as he staired at your lips.

You hated that it made your heart stutter.

"Sit down," he said, straightening up. "I’m making you breakfast."

"I’m not hungry."

Gojo’s smile sharpened.

"Who said it’s for eating?"

You stared at him.

He stared back.

The raccoon sneezed.

Nanami loudly cleared histhroat like he was trying to dislodge a lung, and you turned towards the bathroom.

---

Sometime before afternoon.

Group Chat: Wife Support Network 💅 Horny, Helpless, & Heavily Pregnant

Shoko: How’s it going?

You: He made me a five-course meal and served it on fucking porcelain dishes. Had non-alcoholic wine pairings. He wore cufflinks.

Shoko: Naturally.

You: When I said I wasn’t that hungry, he nodded and said, “I anticipated that.” Then pulled out a smaller five-course meal. For "LIGHTER DAYS."

Shoko: Nanami’s idea of casual is never casual.

You: Gojo FaceTimed halfway through.

Shoko: What’d he say?

You: “Oh my god, you’re cheating on me with a BETTER man.” Then he cried the entire time—like, full-on snot and tears. But the thing is, he was in the other room.

Shoko: Understandable. What else did Nanami do?

You: He scheduled the day like a business meeting.

Shoko: Did he send an Outlook invite?

You: OMG, YES! Why won’t he switch to Google Calendar like a normal person? I swear to god, he’s the only reason I still have Outlook installed. BRO.

Shoko: Ikr. But get back to the point.

You: Okay, so the agenda had bullet points.

Shoko: For what?

You:

"Discuss relationship health"

"Eat lunch"

"Walk in park"

"Touch base re: emotional connection"

Shoko: I’m sweating.

You: He brought a notebook and took notes. Like, bro, use a tablet like a normal person; why waste paper? I don’t understand what’s with Japanese people being obsessed with paper. No offence—I love stationery just as much, but I like hoarding it, not wasting it. TREES, SHOKO. TREES!

Shoko: I know, right? That’s why I don’t even give prescriptions. BTW, what did he write?

You:

"Subject seemed more relaxed after feeding."

"Subject held my hand for 0.34 miles."

"Subject declined dessert. Potential area of concern."

Shoko: I’m crying.

Maya: Girls, what's this I’m hearing about both still with you?

You: Yes, one of them never left.

Shoko: Maya, don’t interrupt. I need to know more.

You: Gojo sat on the couch with his legs spread. Called me over.

Shoko: And you sat?

You: No. Ofcourse not… But I thought about it.

Shoko: Lust towards a man is the fastest way to hell.

You: You would’ve folded too.

Shoko: …No, I would have broken his jaw. But I get you.

Maya: Why the fuck are they trying to touch you?

You: Shoko! Just now, suddenly, the baby kicked, and Nanami put his hand on my belly. And then he said, "It’s okay. Daddy’s here."

Shoko: ???HELLO????

You: I think I need to go sit in a church.

---

Sometime in the afternoon.

The room was too small. Or maybe it was just Gojo, who had somehow managed to take up the entire couch despite Nanami sitting stiffly at one end, his cuffs perfectly straight and his jaw tighter than a coiled spring. You perched on the armchair, knees drawn up, trying to make yourself as comfortable as possible so your back didn’t hurt as much. The air felt heavy, like it was pressing down on all of you, and the silence was broken only by the faint ticking of the clock on the wall.

Gojo flopped backward, his head hanging off the edge of the couch, his white hair brushing the floor. “I’m not doing it,” he announced to the ceiling, his voice carrying that familiar, petulant edge. “I’d rather die. Literally. Like, right now. Watch me.”

Nanami sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “No one’s going to watch you die.”

“Oh?” Gojo sat up, pointing an accusatory finger at Nanami. “You’re the one who—what was it last night?—blocked me like some kind of territorial guard dog. What even was that?!”

Nanami didn’t flinch. He adjusted his glasses, his expression unreadable. “I was ensuring the rules were followed. Unlike you, who seems to think they’re optional.”

“Rules, schmules,” Gojo muttered, slumping back down. “This whole thing is a waste of time. We don’t need therapy. We need—” He paused, gesturing vaguely in your direction. “I don’t know. A vacation. A drink. A break from this nonsense.”

So yes, you thought bitterly, the one who was supposed to leave today didn’t move out and now thinks therapy is a scam just because he doesn’t want to live with Megumi.

You opened your mouth to respond, but Nanami cut in, his voice low and steady. “What we need,” he said, his gaze flickering to you for a moment before settling back on Gojo, “is to take this seriously. For once.”

Gojo rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful. “Oh, spare me the lecture, Mr. Perfect. You’re not exactly winning any awards here either.”

Before Nanami could retort, the door swung open, and Dr. Maya strode in, her heels clicking against the floor. She didn’t bother with pleasantries, just dropped into her chair and crossed her legs, her notebook balanced precariously on her knee. Her eyes scanned the room, taking in Gojo’s sprawl, Nanami’s rigid posture, and your hunched shoulders.

“Well,” she said, her tone dry, “this is cozy.”

Gojo groaned, throwing an arm over his face. “Kill me now.”

“Tempting,” Maya replied, flipping open her notebook. “But let’s start with the homework instead. Who wants to go first?”

Silence.

Nanami stared straight ahead, his jaw working like he was grinding his teeth.

Gojo had gone suspiciously still, his arm still draped over his eyes.

You sank further into the armchair, wishing you could disappear.

Maya raised an eyebrow. “No one? Alright, then. Gojo, let’s hear your PowerPoint.”

Gojo sat up so fast it was a miracle he didn’t give himself whiplash. “What? No. I didn’t—I mean, I started it, but—”

“But?” Maya prompted, her voice dangerously sweet.

“But it’s not done,” Gojo finished lamely, running a hand through his hair. “I got… distracted.”

“Distracted,” Maya repeated, her tone flat. “By what?”

Gojo’s gaze darted to you for a split second before he looked away. “Stuff.”

Maya didn’t blink. “Stuff.”

“Yeah, stuff,” Gojo snapped, his defensiveness flaring. “You know, life. Hobbies. Existential dread. The usual.”

Nanami let out a quiet scoff, and Gojo rounded on him. “Oh, like you’re any better, Mr. ‘I-Wrote-A-Whole-Essay-But-It’s-Too-Personal-To-Share.’”

Nanami’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a neatly folded piece of paper, which he handed to Maya without a word.

Maya unfolded it, her eyes scanning the contents. After a moment, she looked up, her expression unreadable. “Nanami, this is... a grocery list.”

Nanami froze. “What?”

Maya held up the paper, revealing a meticulously itemized list that included things like:

“whole-grain bread”

“organic almond milk.”

“You handed me a grocery list.”

Gojo burst out laughing, doubling over on the couch. “Oh my god. This is priceless. I take back everything I said—this is the best day of my life.”

Nanami’s ears turned red, but his voice remained steady. “That was a mistake. I must have grabbed the wrong paper.”

Maya leaned back in her chair, her lips twitching in what might have been amusement. “Alright, then. Let’s try this again. Where’s your actual homework?”

Nanami hesitated, then reached into his pocket again. This time, he pulled out a small notebook and handed it over.

Maya flipped through it, her eyebrows rising slightly. “Well,” she said after a moment, “this is... thorough.”

Gojo leaned forward, his curiosity getting the better of him. “What’s it say?”

Maya ignored him, turning to you instead. “And what about you? Did you complete your reflection?”

You nodded, pulling out your phone and mailing her the audio file you’d recorded. Maya glanced at her laptop, her expression softening slightly. “I’ll listen to it and share my findings in the next week's individual session.”

You nodded.

She was going to find out later that you hadn’t recorded shit.

You were going to be difficult this time.

---

"Business as Usual" (Imagine this as Noir.)

On the other side of Tokyo.

The room was freezing. It wasn’t just the temperature—though the AC was definitely on too high—it was the kind of cold that settled into your chest and stayed there, pressing down like something alive.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

The only sound came from the distant hum of the city below, muffled by triple-reinforced glass. From this height, the skyline seemed smaller, less impressive. It was easy to forget that millions of people were down there, living their lives, blissfully unaware of the power concentrated in this single room.

Your mother sat at the far end of the conference table, her hands neatly folded in her lap despite the rope binding her wrists. Her expression was controlled—a mask of brittle calm that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

And on the other side of the table sat Haibara Yu.

He was slouched comfortably in a leather chair, legs crossed, his tie loosened just enough to suggest he'd been working late. His gaze was sharp, his mouth curled into the suggestion of a smile that never quite reached his eyes. His suit was flawless—bespoke, of course—but there was something unsettling about how easily he wore it, like it was a costume he could peel off at any moment.

Across from him, Megumi Fushiguro sat perfectly straight, his hands steepled beneath his chin. His dark hair was slightly tousled, but his crisp black shirt was buttoned up to his throat, and his eyes—those sharp, calculating eyes—were locked on your mother with clinical detachment.

Neither of them had spoken in several minutes.

Your mother’s breath hitched, but she didn’t speak either. She wasn’t stupid. She knew the weight of the silence.

Eventually, Haibara sighed and leaned forward, resting his chin on the back of his hand. "Shall we try this again?" His voice was light, almost bored.

"I told you everything I know," your mother said, her tone even.

Haibara smiled, slow and thin. "No, you didn’t."

Megumi’s gaze sharpened. His eyes tracked the nervous flick of her pulse beneath her jaw.

"You’re wasting your time," your mother said coolly. "If you’re going to kill me, get it over with."

Haibara’s smile widened. "Ah. There it is." He slid his hands down the smooth surface of the table, fingers resting lightly against the polished wood. "That’s the tone I remember. Like you’ve already decided the outcome, and now you’re just waiting to see how it plays out."

Megumi’s gaze didn’t shift. "How did you get into the building?"

Your mother’s lips curled. "Wouldn’t you like to know?"

Haibara’s eyes darkened. He leaned forward slightly, his expression sharpening into something harder. "Yes."

Your mother’s gaze flicked toward the door. Calculating.

"You’re not getting out of this," Megumi said. His tone was steady, his voice almost soft. "We’re not in a hurry."

Your mother’s jaw tightened. "I helped you."

Haibara blinked slowly. "Helped?"

"You were children," she said, her tone flattening. "You don’t remember how much I did for you. How often I put myself out to give you opportunities. And this—" her gaze sharpened, "—this is how you repay me?"

Megumi exhaled through his nose, a sound of quiet amusement.

"Ah," Haibara murmured, sitting back. "She’s playing the martyr card."

"I’m not playing anything," your mother snapped. "I supported you. Both of you. You’d be nothing without me."

Megumi’s eyes narrowed. His head tilted just slightly to the side. "Supported?"

"I encouraged her to befriend you," your mother continued. "I let you stay in our house. I let you follow her around like pathetic little shadows. I—"

"Let."

The word was so quiet it took a moment for her to register it.

Megumi’s gaze was steady, cold. "Let us?"

Haibara’s smile was gone now. "You didn’t ‘let’ us do anything. We tolerated you."

Your mother’s eyes narrowed. "Watch your tone."

Haibara chuckled. "There she is."

"You think I didn’t know?" your mother hissed. "You think I didn’t see the way you both looked at her? The way you followed her around like stray dogs? It was pathetic."

Megumi’s hand shifted. His thumb brushed lightly over the edge of the table.

"Pathetic," he repeated softly.

Haibara hummed. "You know, it’s funny…" He rose to his feet, hands sliding into his pockets. "I think you’ve gotten this backwards. You see, we were never pathetic."

"She protected you," your mother spat.

"And we protect her now," Megumi said. His voice was quiet, but the weight behind it made your mother’s breath hitch.

Your mother’s mouth tightened. "Then why is she still so fragile?"

The room went deadly still.

Haibara’s smile sharpened into something thin and dangerous. "Careful."

"She’s weak." Your mother’s lip curled. "All that power, and she still falls apart so easily. You think you’re protecting her?" She laughed. "You’re just prolonging the inevitable."

Megumi’s hand flexed. His jaw twitched.

Haibara exhaled through his nose. "Alright."

Your mother’s head snapped toward him. "Alright?"

"You had your chance." Haibara rolled his shoulders and loosened his tie. "We tried. I even thought, maybe for a second, we could walk out of this civilized. But you—" His smile was all teeth. "You just couldn’t help yourself, could you?"

Megumi stood. The sound of the chair scraping the floor was deafening in the stillness.

"Tell us who sent you," Megumi said.

Your mother’s jaw tightened. She said nothing.

Haibara’s hand drifted toward the back of her chair. He leaned down, voice low. "Or don’t. I really don’t care."

"Some old man," your mother hissed. "Long hair. He said…" Her gaze darted toward Megumi. "He said she was wasted on you."

Haibara’s smile sharpened. "There it is."

Megumi’s hand settled on the back of her chair. "Any last words?"

Your mother’s breath hitched. "You wouldn’t—"

"You hit her," Megumi said softly. His hand flexed over the wood. "You spent her whole life breaking her down, and now you expect mercy?"

"I raised her," your mother hissed.

"No," Haibara said quietly. "You broke her. And now…"

Megumi’s fingers twitched.

"You don’t get to touch her anymore."

Your mother’s eyes widened. "Wait—"

It was quick. Efficient.

Megumi stepped back, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt as her body sagged lifelessly in the chair.

Haibara straightened his tie. "Shame."

Megumi exhaled. "Clean this up."

Haibara smiled. "Already on it."

As they turned toward the door, Haibara glanced at Megumi out of the corner of his eye. "So, dinner?"

Megumi’s lips curled faintly. "Pick somewhere nice."

And then they walked out, leaving the room—and its mess—behind.

Next chapter 19 - The Anatomical Weight of Neglect in Infinite Drops (Tumblr/Ao3)

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[notablenotions]

Masks of Nobility – Chapter 19

Henry had never expected his life to include embroidery circles, but here he was—seated under the soft shade of the courtyard awning, needle in hand, trying not to bleed on the fine linen. Opposite him, Jikta stitched with the precision of a surgeon, calm and methodical, as if they weren’t two people entangled by the same man, but instead an old married couple, discussing crop yields and tool designs like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Which, to Henry’s surprise, it was.

Jikta glanced at his clumsy attempt at a double satin stitch and sighed, not unkindly. “That’s a disaster.”

Henry frowned at the uneven threads. “I’m a blacksmith, not a seamstress.”

“And yet, I’ve seen you thread a needle to stitch wounds. Try thinking of it like repairing chainmail.”

Henry grunted, adjusting his grip as she leaned forward, guiding his hand with clinical precision.

“I’ve something for you to look at.” She set aside her hoop and pulled out a rolled parchment. “Schematics. A theoretical plow design. More efficient for the common folk. I need your eye—would it be practical? Easy to forge?”

Henry unrolled it, studying the lines. “With the right tools and materials, aye. Might cut time in the field by half.”

“Good.” She resumed stitching. “I’ll have it drawn up for the smiths if you think it’s sound.”

The conversation drifted to more mundane topics—grain shipments, the new mare in the stables, Mags’ increasingly prophetic disdain for Hans’ antics. It was peaceful, almost comfortable, as if they’d been sitting here for years, weathered companions managing a house. Not a husband’s lover and said husband’s wife.

Henry didn’t mind it.

Not until the tranquility shattered.

---

He heard it first—the honking.

Then the shuffle of webbed feet across the stone courtyard.

Henry looked up to see Black Bartosch striding toward them, smug as sin, with a goose in tow—dressed in bright yellow, a near-perfect mimicry of Hans’ most garish hunting outfit. The goose flapped its wings once, then stood still, terrifyingly calm.

“Good day,” Bartosch said, voice casual, as if he hadn’t just declared war. “Lovely weather. How’s the stitching?”

Jikta didn’t look up. “Peaceful. Was, anyway. I suspect that won’t continue.”

Henry was still staring at the goose. “Is that—?”

“Yes,” Jikta answered. “Yes, it is.”

The sound of rapid footsteps thundered from above, followed by the slam of a door and the unmistakable yelling of a man unhinged.

“You bastard!” Hans stormed down from his office, cloak billowing, hair a mess, looking like he’d seen the gates of hell—and it wore feathers. “What is this treachery?!”

Bartosch gestured at the goose, deadpan. “A gift. For the pig.”

Hans pointed dramatically, voice cracking, “I renamed a pig—one pig! You’ve brought an abomination! Dressed like me!”

“It honks less,” Bartosch noted. “Better behaved.”

The goose waddled in circles, pecked at Hans’ boot, and honked.

Hans shrieked, flailing. “Why does everyone think I’m a goose?!”

Henry, without missing a beat, muttered, “Because you’re a silly goose.”

Hans gasped, clutched his chest like Henry had stabbed him, and flounced off with a trail of dramatic curses, shouting about betrayal, mockery, and a distinct lack of appreciation for his greatness. The door slammed behind him with all the subtlety of a war hammer.

Jikta didn’t even blink. “He’ll sulk for hours. That’s your job now.”

Henry blinked. “What? You’re Lady Capon.”

She fixed him with a look. “And you’re more of a wife than I’ll ever be.”

Henry stared. Opened his mouth. Closed it.

She wasn’t wrong, and he hated that.

He sighed, rolling up his sleeves. “Fine. I’ll go soothe the goose.”

Behind him, Bartosch called, “Tell him I’ve got another cape for the goose—if he wants to match.”

Henry didn’t look back. He couldn’t risk laughing before reaching Hans.

[kawaiijohn]

Good morning. Where do I even start today- trying to keep up with disaster relief is tough since a lot of my normal sources are without power or incredibly focused on doing the actual recovery.

I guess I'll start with one of the sources I get a lot of breaking news from and what he said yesterday:

Ryan Hall is a YouTube weatherman with an incredible team that delivers free weather broadcasting through his YouTube lives during major events. He's from east Kentucky and is very invested in Appalachia weather recovery and awareness. The man's a local and he's part of the reason I'm even aware of the risks heavy rains can bring in this region of the states.

And this post from the national weather service office in Greenville - Spartanburg SC, that serves a wide area around it;

"this is one (forecast) we wanted to get wrong. this is the worst event in our office's history."

This thread concludes: media was sent to Florida and so a lot of people don't quite know what's going on in appalachia- if you can I suggest reading this person's entire thread, which is too long for me to type or try to post on here and keep it readable, so try the second link under here for an unrolled thread that'll be easier for screen readers;

Minor update from yesterday's post: the governor of Tennessee finally fucking declared a state of emergency after his shitty day of prayer and fasting announcement. It took him like six hours to get off his ass and do it.

The power is still majorly out as of this morning in a vast area of the states. As you can see, a majority is in Appalachia, central Georgia, and the Florida big bend. Florida, I know for a fact, has tons of electrical technicians working to restore power and cell service.

This map really highlights the state divide from eastern Tennessee/Kentucky and the Carolinas too.

Despite the doom and gloom, a few things are starting to get better.

Quite a few dams managed to hold, and some roads in west NC are more passable, but there are so many people reporting that it was taking them upwards of seven hours to get out of Asheville, which is a major city.

Below has a few pics and statements about the state of roads late last night/early today.

The end of this tweet says "this is an absolute mega disaster for Western NC on the order of hurricane Katrina."

With how long the recovery might actually take, I'm certainly hoping it's handled better. One of the responses on this thread mentions no military presence/help as of 20 hours ago, but this has since changed with the national guard finally deploying in some areas.

Overall, fooding hit historical levels in a lot of states, with Atlanta GA even declaring a flash flood emergency at one point, which is the highest risk level of a flash flood warning - it means "get out and get up high NOW"

Rescue and recovery operations are on the way.

Local groups, storm chasers, and organizations are on the way. The national guard is deploying and helicopters are coming from volunteers and the military alike in the most affected areas.

Chris Hall, a storm chaser who works with a lot of organizations, has been driving around doing things like setting up starlink access in Asheville and helping serve hot food with a Florida based disaster recovery group since Friday.

Hell he even posted this, which if you know the waffle house index, is a little neat to see- for context, fema will look at waffle house closures in areas hit by natural disasters to gage preliminarily relief need.

Waffle houses are infamous for never closing. So for a limited menu to be served, it means this spot in GA was still hit pretty hard.

If you want to and can, here is one place with local donation resources for west NC

And different organizations and weather community types to help that are boots on the ground type volunteers with a bit more of a national focus;

If you are good at adding alt text or doing text description for screen readers, please help me with these posts. It is incredibly hard to do those sorts of things on mobile due to my own limitations.

Please be safe.

[fun-sized-pocket-prince]

Shamelessly promoting my own Twitter 🧵 to all the Tim Roth lovers here 🤭: come over!

I was lucky to be in Galway yesterday and attend the 2.5 hour masterclass with Tim about his career, as well as the screening of Poison in the evening. I made some mental notes during the masterclass and summarized what I remembered afterwards (it was a strict no photos/videos policy). I hope it is interesting for some fellow Tim fans! I really had an amazing time and wanted to share it. ✨

If you have a question, ask away! 🤗

ETA, unrolled 🧵 can now also be found here:

[thiniceofeternalyouth]

MISLEADIN' ME SERIES: CHAPTER TEN

MY BEST FRIEND

⊳ Gojo Satoru x f!reader

series masterlist

Genre: angst, fluff, sci-fi, cosmology.

Words count: ~12k

⊲ previous

You'd been in the hot water so long that all the skin on your fingers had shriveled to look like old one, and even afterward you still felt haunted by that cold - your body shuddered every now and then.

Even though you'd asked Frank for a bunch of hygiene supplies, you'd only used shampoo and body wash because when you looked at your body and saw a bunch of small sores, you involuntarily swallowed, putting the scrub jar away.

Refusing to look at yourself in the mirror, you quickly pulled on clean clothes and grumbled grudgingly - you wanted something more substantial than a plain T-shirt. You opened the door ajar. "Frank," you shouted into the emptiness of the big house. "Where's your sweater?"

The rattle of tableware could be heard from downstairs. "What sweater?" he echoed your shout.

"Ya know, the white one that still survived the Paleozoic," your head was already fully out from behind the door, and you froze waiting for an answer.

An imposing figure appeared on the stairs. "Be quiet," the man hushed you. "Ya'll wake the kids."

"I'm sorry," you whispered in a panic. "So where am I supposed to find a sweater?"

"It's got more holes in it than threads," Frank said clearly angered by your choice of clothing.

You shrugged naively. "It's warm, though."

"I'll look for it," he patted you on the head. The hand was so heavy that you almost hit the floor. "Ya go on downstairs. I made some food."

Your stomach didn't rumble at the mention of food. Instead, it felt like a sticky, thick mass in your chest that you wanted to spit out. "Okay," you said swallowing hard.

When you went down to the kitchen, something delicious was waiting for you - a plate of creamy pasta and chicken, and a bowl of fresh vegetables next to it. As you sat down in front of the food, you felt incredibly stuffy. You put the blame for the overheated air on the stove, which still hadn't cooled down.

All you did was wrap spaghetti around your fork and unroll it, and if you were younger, you would have gotten a thousand reprimands for playing with meal. For the first time in your life, you could barely eat.

After the void, it was like this. Even in the same silence, there was room for background noise - all the ringing, beeping, rustling. You wanted to tell everyone what you'd found or to lock yourself in your room and never come out - at least not until the thoughts in your head was quieter.

You threw your fork into the plate disappointedly, and it clattered with such a clang that you involuntarily squeezed your eyes shut. The insistent rumbling sound was impossible to push away, and it only tightened the nauseous knot in your throat more. "... here?" someone's voice, like spokes, began to unravel the tangle of ringing thoughts. You jumped up before someone's hand was on your shoulder. 

Dany stood in front of you - all skinny and frightened. "Ya here?" she asked quietly, barely moving her lips. Her glistening gaze darted around haphazardly, scrutinizing your face as if trying to search for the truth. "It's really ya, isn't it?"

"Hey, bun," you said smiling involuntarily, and with all your remaining strength, you pulled the girl against you. Her gaunt figure responded easily to your actions - she collapsed helplessly in your embrace. "It's me."

Under her weight, your legs began to give way and shake. Holding Danielle by the waist, you pulled her to a chair and sat down beside her. She sat glaring at the table, but you noticed that she occasionally glanced at your plate. "Ya hungry?"

Danielle nodded uncertainly. "Just a little."

You rose from your seat. "Then wait a minute...," you were cut off at half a word by the squeak of a plate against the countertop. You stared in utter amazement at Dany who was already shoving a second forkful of pasta into her mouth. "Have ya not been fed here at all?" you blurted out dumbfounded, looking at her sudden appetite. "Uh, no, wait a minute...," you scratched your forehead thoughtfully, putting the mosaic together in your head. "What are ya even doing here?"

"Couldn't be in that house anymore," Danielle's voice was already weak, but her mouthful of food made it almost impossible to make out the words at all.

"Something wrong?" you alarmed.

You don't think you've ever seen that shade of red on her face before, though you've seen her embarrassed or flustered more than once. "Are ya kidding me?" she snapped angrily, throwing her fork on the table - the force she exerted caused it to fly off into the far corner of the kitchen. "Ya just disappeared!"

"Dany, but I'm back..." you started softly and reached out to her trying to wrap your arms around her shoulders.

Danielle straightened up sharply and pulled away avoiding your touch. "This isn't about ya right now!" she shouted. "I couldn't even breathe properly in that house, I-I broke up with Megumi because of it, I thought...," she sobbed and went silent for a second trying to quiet the growing pain in her throat. "I thought this would happen to me at some point too, I'd just disappear even though someone would wait for me," the girl mechanically began to shake her head from side to side as if denying everything that could happen to her.

You were taken aback by this outburst of emotion, and you blinked your eyes in confusion and tried to touch her again. "It's okay," you said quietly, wiping away a tear that had appeared on Dany's cheek. "Maybe it wasn't like that yesterday, but it's fine now. What did ya...," you fell silent for a second, rubbing your temple as if that might take away the approaching headache. "Ahem, what did ya say about Megumi? Did ya two really break up?"

"I didn't want the same fate for him," Danielle mumbled taking your hand away from her face - this time her movement was neither angry nor wary. Quite the opposite, she squeezed your palm in hers. "So... It'll be easier for both if us."

"Dany, if ya just don't like him anymore, that's one thing," you said smirking slightly.

"It's not like that!" she blurted out indignantly, and if her eagerness had been a fraction stronger, there was a chance your palm in her hand would have crunched. "I already explained that!"

"I don't doubt ya had noble goals in mind," you said nodding meaningfully. "But don't ya think it should be up to the two of ya to decide?" exhaling noisily through her nose, Dany frowned. "It's not like I even asked about it, though," you pointed out reasonably. "He agreed to break up with ya?"

Danielle faltered. "I, uh... I just confronted him with the accomplished fact."

"So mature of ya," you patted her hand condescendingly while smiling broadly - and even though Dany couldn't see it, she could clearly sense it in your voice.

"Everything's a joke to ya, isn't it?" she hissed, jumping up from her seat. "Though what was I even counting on?" she asked, grinning bitterly. "I doubt ya'll ever understand me. Ya and the topic of relationships are... well, ya know. Incompatible," she waved her hand disappointedly leaving your dialog behind and headed for the second floor.

You would have called out to her if it hadn't been for a impudent misunderstanding between you two. What upset her so much? What did you say wrong?

In this blind journey, the feelings of one person never reached the feelings of the other. All the words got lost and dissolved - you were silent. You were silent and watched her disappear into the darkness of the second floor.

"Ahem," Frank coughed pointedly, coming down the stairs just after Danielle left. "Here ya go," he said, holding out his old sweater to you.

You frantically pulled the sweater over you, catching your breath. Once your head was through the collar, you exhaled disappointedly. "Ya heard everything, didn't ya?"

"Not on purpose," Frank replied idly, picking up his fork from the floor. "Young lady, is this how I taught ya to act around food?" he said, turning his attention to the plate in which the disheveled spaghetti rested.

"I'm sorry," you pressed your lips together guiltily. "I didn't feel like I can eat anything, and Dany... Well, she just didn't finish it."

"Ya need to go to the doc. We’re leaving," Frank sternly retorted.

"Frank, it's late and-"

"I said we’re leaving!" he bellowed, slamming his fist down on the table - the tabletop was clearly not ready for such a thing. There was a pitiful cracking sound. You bit your tongue and your eyes widened for a moment - if you'd ever seen Frank like that, it was so long ago that you couldn't even remember.

"Frank, I'm fine," you said, choosing your words carefully. "I'll go see him tomorrow morning, 'kay?"

"Why in the morning?" he said warily, pushing back a chair and gesturing for you to sit down - the sweep of his hand somehow looked like an invitation to an execution.

After hesitating, you walked over and sat down - as instructed. "There's something I need to do. I don't think I can eat or even just sit still until I do."

"What exactly?"

"I really need to see the higher-ups," trepidation turned your voice into a squeak and you coughed, embarrassed at what you heard.

"Why?" Frank tapped his fingers harshly on the damaged tabletop.

You faltered, staring at your lap. "I want to see if there's someone else among them," you said so quietly that Frank could only understand your words when he read your lips.

"What?" he interrogated incredulously. "Ya really think there could have been some trash among them?"

"Yeah, I think so," you replied firmly. "Though no, I'm not sure. Not all the way through. It's just that I think so. God," you buried your face tiredly in the palm of your hand. "That's exactly why I want to check."

Frank was dumbfounded, for nothing like this had ever happened before in his memory, nor in the stories of his father and grandfather. "No, ya can't do that," he objected. "Think about it," noticing your skeptical expression, Frank switched to a conspiratorial whisper. "Ya can't just barge in and test them like that. What if the demon isn't among them? What if one of them die in the process? There'll be tons of witnesses that ya did it, and ya have to realize what'll happen. And even if ya do find a demon among them, what then? At best, ya'll have to fight it, and look at ya!" he said indignantly, grabbing your skinny hand. "And if ya're unlucky, ya'll just scare the bugger away. No, ya can't do that," he shook his head. "We have to be smarter, more cunning. Fish them out one at a time and check them out. If one doesn't make it and still dies, there'll be no witnesses.  I'll give ya an alibi. Ya were at my place tending the roses," he squeezed your palm gently. "Yeah, tending roses," the man nodded confidently. "To check on everyone, ya need to recover, though, so we're going to the dock. No arguments."

"I guess ya're right," you mumbled guiltily, then bit the inside of your cheeks for a moment - all out of frustration. "I'm just... I'm just in a hurry."

Frank ruffled your hair, smiling cordially. "What did I teach ya? It's just like eating, isn't it? If ya hurry, ya'll get indigestion," he said, standing up and putting the plate of pasta in the sink. "Besides...," he began tautly after a brief pause; the sound of the plate clattering against metal sent shivers down your spine. Since when did that sound become so creepy? "Food is supposed to be enjoyed."

You glimpsed the man, his face shrouded in shadows for a moment. "Frank," you began mundanely. "Ya said we going to doc? Ya going with me?

The shadows immediately dispersed as if by obedience to a lighted lantern. "Sure!" he exclaimed resolutely. "I must see to it myself."

"It's not like I'm a kindergartener," you whined.

Frank hummed skeptically and protractedly. "Maybe not, but to me ya're still a little pain in the ass."

You continued to whine. "I'll get there myself!" 

"No bickering," Frank ordered confidently but gently, raising his palm in the air - you were immediately silenced.

"Fine," you frowned, pouting your lips. "But can we still go in the morning? I'm too tired right now," you muttered, getting up from your chair, but only to get to the couch and flop down on it. "Can't we at least watch something?" you hissed angrily, waving your hand toward the TV. "Some stupid show, movie or series, whatever. I just really miss TV."

Frank sat down next to you. "Certainly we can," he said, turning on the TV.

Pictures appeared on the screen. Bright juicy images that made your eyes water, but you were glad of that because the color purple hadn't given you anything but a migraine in a long time. Frank switched channels until you saw something that looked interesting and watchable.

You settled down and stretched out on the couch to your full height, throwing your legs unceremoniously over Frank's lap. All your attention was on what was happening on the screen, so you didn't even notice how Frank smiled at first, and then, noticing the calluses and sores on your feet, swallowed worriedly. "Aren't ya expecting anyone?" you suddenly blurted out your question, shifting your gaze to the door.

Frank, taken aback, shook his head. "No," he drawled hesitantly. "I'm not expecting anyone. What's the matter?"

You glared at the door for a few more moments. "No, nothing," you muttered quietly, returning your attention to the television. "How long ago did Dany and Megumi break up?" you asked, gently poking the man's stomach with your foot.

He immediately exhaled sharply and irritably as if he'd been waiting for you to ask that question. "As soon as she moved here!" he spat out, clapping his hands. "This boy comes here almost every week to talk to her, and she doesn't even leave the room. She can't even tell me what's troubling her! Her wording is so vague... I just want to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until she comes to her senses!" he slapped your leg with heat, and you hissed involuntarily. "Sorry!"

"It's okay," you said, though it felt like an electric shock was still shooting through your leg. "I'll try to talk to her, though ya heard it yourself... Maybe Kyle should be the one to ask. He's good at, well, uh, how to put it..."

"Support people?" finished the man for you.

"Yeah," you nodded. "Sorta."

"Yeah, he came by already, tried to," he waved his hand irritably. "It's like she can't hear anyone."

"We have to get her out of this state," you declared, fidgeting restlessly. "I don't want her to do anything stupid."

Frank squinted suspiciously, looking at you. "What kinda stupid thing is that?" you looked at him meaningfully, pursing your lips. "No," he said with a huff. "She wouldn't dare."

"She's a teenager," you remarked, sitting up and tucking your legs under you. "Teenagers have a rough time of it. First and most often unrequited love, adjustment, successful or not-so-successful socialization, misunderstanding from parents who devalue their problems-"

"Ya'll have to excuse me, but most of the time teenagers don't have real problems," Frank said, but noticing your nostrils starting to flare, added: "I said most of the time. Not always."

"Everyone judges the depth of a puddle based on their own height," you subdued the man with a look. "And they haven't grown up yet. They may brush it off or laugh about it in a dozen years, but right now it's a real problem for them," you burrowed deeper into the collar of your sweater as if hiding. "And it's all just about ordinary life. Now imagine what life is like for Dany in our world."     

"So maybe we should let her go?" suggested Frank quietly.

"That's for her to decide. And anyway, she has no mother or father left, where are we gonna let her go?" you objected. "I'll still try to talk to her again after a while. No, I'll at least try to get her out of the room first, and then I'll see how it goes."

Frank glanced over his shoulder, straight for the stairs. Nothing was heard - no fuss, no footsteps. "All right," he said. "But after what ya said, it makes me wanna take the door off its hinges in her room now."

"Ya're supposed to be improving her condition, not making it worse," you muttered unhappily.

Frank, to signify his defenselessness, threw up his hands. "I said what I wanted to do, not that I was really gonna do it."

Without answering anything, you were running through your head thinking that you wouldn't have taken the door off its hinges. You would have just installed cameras. At Frank's questioning look, you slapped yourself on the forehead for allowing such an idea. Frank hummed longingly as if your entire chain of reasoning was right there in plain sight and he'd followed it. "We're not gonna do anything like that!" you protested, jumping up on the spot.

"Honey, ya okay?" the man asked worriedly, grabbing your shoulder and bringing you back to your original position.

"Yeah, yeah," you nonchalantly waved it off, leaning back on the back of the couch. "Look, but guys... I mean, Kyle, Rachel, and Issu, they... they went on without me, right?"

"Sure," Frank confirmed, squeezing your shoulder. "They're responsible persons," you felt light. No doubt you'd felt it before, whether it was your lean body or your home surroundings, but this was a different feeling. Not lightness. Relief. Frank noticed the wrinkles in your forehead finally relax. "What is it?"

"Frank, I found a settlement."

The man, startled by what he heard, gave an amazed gasp. You felt a large hand scoop you up, and all you had time to do before you were pinned to his chest was squeak. "Oh," Frank chuckled nervously. "The darkest hour is nearest the dawn, yeah?"

Frank stroked your hair and seemed to be saying how good you were - the lack of oxygen in his arms made you dizzy, and you couldn't tell if he was saying it or if you were just imagining it. It felt good, though. "Uh-huh," you muffled out.

When the man finally loosened his grip a little, you were able to take a few full breaths and come to your senses. Your gaze automatically drifted to the front door again. "The fuck is this," you cursed, getting up from your seat. In one motion, you were at the door and opened it with a jerk. No one.

You ran out onto the porch, looking around - no one was lurking behind any bush or tree. You rushed out to the backyard. Still in your right mind and sneaking carefully between the beds so as not to damage anything, you hung over the low wooden fence and looked down - the path that led to your house was indeed someone running. Someone small and thin, probably a child. The last thing you saw before the child finally ran down the hill and disappeared behind the other house was something glinting on his hand.

"Who's there?" shouted Frank, standing at the beginning of the beds.

You looked once more at the house behind which the unknown guest had hidden. There was nothing to be seen. "I have no clue," you said, still keeping your eyes on that house and hoping someone would show up. "It looks like it was a kid."

Frank, resting his arms at his sides, snorted. "What kinda kid walks this late?" waiting a little while for you to level with him, he strode beside you back into the house. "Okay, ya stay here and I'll go and go around to everyone," he said, stepping over the threshold - only to grab his jacket. "Maybe one of the adults didn't look out. It's no case for a child to be out alone so late. Even in Hopetown," Frank kissed you on the top of the head and left you alone with the show on TV.

***

The series was interesting. You didn't even notice the morning had come when you were watching people who had survived a plane crash trying to survive on an island far away from civilization. Frank, who had returned in the middle of the night, had fallen asleep on the couch where you were sitting, muttering quietly to himself that no one had lost anyone.

The man slept so soundly that he was not disturbed by the birds whose beautiful singing in the morning seemed annoying, nor by the sound of the alarm clock on his phone, which pissed you off more. "Frank, turn it off," you muttered, but he didn't respond. You kicked him defiantly in the thigh, and only then did he perk up, jabbed something randomly at the phone screen, and his head fell back against the pillow. "Frank, the geese won't feed themselves," you said, climbing up and sitting down on the back of the couch. "Get up, ya sloth!" planting your feet on his back, you attempted to shove him off the couch. The man's body wouldn't budge, and the alarm clock rang again.

You were distracted from the action by a thin voice. "Y/N-ie?" there was Tris on the far step, clutching a tattered stuffed cat. Frank jumped up on the spot, and you tightened your lips skeptically - a tank shot wouldn't have woken him up, but a child's voice brought him to his senses.

"Ya woke her," you hissed, jumping off the couch. You walked over to Tris and squatted down in front of her. "Hey," as soon as you reached for her, she immediately pulled away and almost tripped on the step. "What's wrong?" you worried, frowning your eyebrows.

"You're ugly," the girl stared at you with frightened eyes and clutched the toy harder to her chest. "Don't touch me."

You opened your mouth, but closed it again. "She's not ugly," said Frank, scooping Tris up in his arms. "She just hasn't been eating enough. Now do ya see what happens to people who don't eat enough?" he questioned instructively, walking over to the fridge.

You should have spent more time with her. She rarely saw you, and this time you came home looking like that. You knew exactly why she'd acted the way she did, but you couldn't help the pang of annoyance.

You walked over to her, sitting meekly on Frank's arm and examining the contents of the refrigerator with him, and immediately intercepted the little girl - she immediately started kicking and squealing. "Let go! I don't wanna!"

You pulled her against you, ignoring the childish but precise blows of small fists against your body. "It's me, it's just me," you babbled, never losing your grip, though you cringed every time a fist hit your bulging spine. "That's me. Bun, look at me," just hearing the nickname startled Tris. She frowned at you, and though she still didn't trust you, she stopped whipping you.

"You used to come more often," tears could be heard in her voice. "Why did you stop coming? Y-you don't love me anymore?"

"What?" you blurted out in confusion. "No, no, of course not. I just got worked up. I'm sorry," you said, pulling her tighter against you.

If her tears had been silent before, now she burst into sobs. "S-so you love work more?"

"No, no, don't say that. I love you equally," came the clank of a plate and Frank turned around and looked at you so fiercely that you immediately realized your mistake. "That's not what I meant to say! Of course I love ya more. It's just... I need to make some money," you said quietly, shielding Tris from any other more detailed explanations as to why you were doing this.

Frank rustled the kitchen utensils harder, drawing attention to himself. "Honey," he addressed Tris, though you both raised your heads. "What do ya want for breakfast?"

Tris sniffed weakly through her reddened nose. "Omelet with cheese," she said quietly, and snuggled into your neck again.

Frank's phone rang again - you snorted irritably, thinking it was another alarm clock, but to your surprise, he tapped the screen and put the phone to his ear. Who's calling him this early? "Yes," he said into the receiver. "Yeah, she's here," he answered monosyllabically, giving you a glimpse. "Yeah, I got it," he dropped the call and stared dumbly at the screen for a few more seconds. Coughing, Frank slowly walked over to you. "Higher-ups are calling."

For some reason now, thinking about last night's strange guest made your insides boil - just like the water in a kettle, only this one had an automatic shutoff, but your insides continued to seethe. "What the hell?" you whispered angrily, looking up at the puzzled Frank.

As you walked along the tired road, ignoring the streetlights that had been there for a hundred years, you kept thinking about that child. Had they really fallen so low as to ask the child to watch you and, more importantly, what had the higher-ups offered them? Or did they take advantage of the little man's unselfishness?

The snow had melted and the masonry was still covered with fallen autumn leaves. Had it occurred to any of them to pick up a broom and clean up the mess? Out of frustration, you tried to kick one such leaf - it mockingly flew aside, and you almost fell. "Careful," Frank said, grabbing you under the arm.

Despite your condition, you tried to keep your posture as straight and your head as high as possible, even though it made you uncomfortable. As soon as you were distracted for a second, your body folded in on itself and your head fell back. "Did ya tell them?" you asked, realizing the absurdity of your question.

"No."

"I had to ask."

"I know," Frank said understandingly.

No matter how much you walked, it was as if the wide wooden doors were never coming closer. "Was it a good idea to leave Tris and Mike with Danielle?"

"I'm not sure," the man shook his head sadly. "But I couldn't send ya alone, either. And Danielle... Maybe she'll be distracted for at least an hour, who knows."

"Or maybe she needs some peace and quiet right now and we've only made things worse," you put forward a disappointing suggestion.

Frank's face turned stern, which foreshadowed the grumbling. "That's it, enough. We can't keep up everywhere and always do everything right."

"Is this about your cheese omelet?" you giggled.

Frank immediately exploded. "I did everything right!" he thundered. "Why didn't she like it?"

You bit your lip, trying to suppress a sly smile. "Tris told me that Gojo's was better," though Frank's face was covered by a thick mustache and beard, you could see that his face was turning red, and the increasing wheezing could be picked up even by a hearing impaired person. "Don't be so jealous," you encouraged him, shoving him lightly with your shoulder.

"Let your man cook for her now, then," he muttered unhappily.

You didn't blush, you didn't flinch or swallow your tongue - it all sounded like one big joke to you. "He's not my man," you dismissed.

The door seemed closer and closer. It was only three lanterns away. "For how long?" snorted Frank. "He even took Shaya's-"

"That's it, I'm going," you cut him off halfway through.

The man froze in place, and you stopped abruptly with him, for Frank still held you under his arm. "What does that mean? I'm coming with ya."

"No," you objected softly. "Just in case, I need ya out of the area of potential danger."

Frank jerked you to stand in front of him - he stared into your eyes, trying to find your plans in them. "I told ya not to do anything rash."

You squeezed his hand gently. "I won't. Just being reassuring."

He squeezed your palm in response. "Fine, but I'm gonna stand here. One more thing - if ya're not back in ten minutes, I'm coming after ya."

You giggled, childishly and shyly nodding. "Okay."

Without looking back, you made it the rest of the distance to the door much faster than you'd expected, and what surprised you even more was that it was closed. You leaned your forehead against the wooden surface - of course you would have liked to kick the door with your foot to secure your long-held opinion of yourself, but you could do nothing more than push. The door gave way with great difficulty, shuffling and scratching the floor - not for a moment did you feel as if you were moving a mountain, for you had done your best, and it had hardly moved an inch or two.

You pushed again, and the door gave way as easily as if it weighed nothing - it flew off with a bang, causing you to slam face down on the floor. "Eh...," you mumbled. There was no blood - but the sharp sensation in the bridge of your nose made you start to sniffle. You raised your head - five pairs of eyes were staring at you. All of them. "Howdy," you muttered, rising to your feet and shaking yourself off. "Couldn't ya open it?" you asked grudgingly, pointing behind you. "It's heavy."

Christian glanced at you from head to toe, slowly stroking his chin. Only Nathaniel greeted you with a nod of his head. Old Ellie sat next to him. You could see through the magnifying lenses of her glasses that her eyes were slipping shut. A couple, a man and a woman, who didn't even glance in your direction, but only continued to talk quietly about something, occupied the remaining two chairs on Christian's left hand. "Ooh," you drawled contentedly. "Even the married ones are here. Ravona, Yoichi, hey," you waved at them, and the woman finally graced you with a glance. You chuckled quietly as she raised her eyebrows haughtily and went back to cooing with her husband. "What can I do for ya?" you turned to Christian obligingly.

"A cockroach, indeed," Christian said absently, and he was no longer looking at you, but through you. "You came back last night."

"Yes-"

"It wasn't a question," Christian said, flailing his palm lightly in the air. "You should have come here right away," you bit your cheeks and lowered your head sharply, all because you felt a growing anger – like the anger a child feels when a parent scolds him for something as trivial as that. "You're aware of that, too, so you're not being as cheeky as you usually are."

"Yeah I just wanted to take a bath and rest for a while," you blurted out, splashing your hands dramatically at the injustice. "What's wrong with that?"

Christian barely audibly clucked his tongue. "People could have gotten hurt 'cause of your cravings," he stated, rising from his seat and carefully picking up the clerical shears from the stand with his fingers. "You know the terms under which we agreed to maintain neutrality, so if you'd be so kind...," he stepped close to you - so close that you could smell his breath mixed with the scent of minty mouthwash. "Hold still."

Christian raised one arm, the loose shiny fabric falling away, exposing his forearm. "What are you doing?" bellowed Nathaniel alarmed. "That's not protocol!"

"Silence!" Christian hissed loudly, throwing his scissor hand into the air. Nathaniel stopped abruptly and put his hand to his mouth - you could see from the corner of your eye that he was trying to separate his stitched lips with his fingers.

Something under your eye prickled. When you touched the pad of your finger to the sore spot and looked at it, you noticed blood, and then you turned your gaze to Christian, eyebrow raised disapprovingly. "I apologize," he said courteously, lowering the hand that was clutching the shears and bringing it to his bare forearm. "I was careless. It won't happen again. Now...," he ran the edge of the scissors across his skin without thinking, leaving a long deep cut that immediately began to bleed.

For everyone here, it started to flow. For you, it started to ooze. Breathing steadily, you tore your gaze away from the scarlet liquid and stared into Christian's eyes. No surprise, there was a condescending, barely perceptible smile on his face as usual. Saliva began to pool in your mouth, but you didn't dare swallow, not to let on that all you felt was dread hunger.

Dread hunger was always something unpleasant, even painful and unbearable, but you were in nothing but excruciating pain - as if every bone in your body were being broken in three places and all your nerves were being slowly pulled out from under your skin. For a second, you wished the man standing in front of you would turn into a mirror - just to make sure you were all right. In fact, Christian did reflect your condition because if anything had happened to you, his haughty smile would have turned into a nasty one.

Nathaniel rose from his seat again, drawing attention to himself. Christian reluctantly turned around, hardly taking his eyes off you. "That's enough. She's fine," Nathaniel said sharply, and you took advantage of the confusion to finally swallow the thick saliva that had accumulated.

"Well," Christian sighed, and after waiting for the wound on his forearm to heal, walked to his chair. "I won't keep you any longer," he said carelessly over his shoulder.

You couldn't even roll your eyes, and with the last shred of pride you could muster, you turned and walked away from the place. Your throat felt like it was churning, and it seemed to you that as soon as you opened your mouth, either vomit or blood would pour out.

You were beginning to forget your own language, so when you saw Frank on the horizon, you couldn't swear properly - even your thoughts were a mess of letters and sounds instead of the usual words. Your legs began to shake. The last thing you saw before you bent in half was Frank running toward you. "Honey," he whispered, picking you up by the waist. "Does it hurt too much?" he worried, trying to look into your face, but you didn't rise it. You didn't even hear him. "Let's get ya to the doc," the man said softly, scooping you up in his arms.

[May 30, 2020; 09:43 am; hunters' hq]

Your vision was so blurred that even the silhouettes were a mishmash of faded colors. You couldn't feel your own limbs, and you shook your head sluggishly as someone's hands tried to shove something into your mouth - the tip of your tongue picked out several small, smooth capsules, and then your mouth was filled with water; you coughed - someone instantly pressed their palm against your lips, forcing you to swallow it all.

Finally, the mess in your eyes began to blur - you saw a doc's coat disappear through the doorway, like a snow-white dove that had flown away. "Hey," the face leaning over you was nothing, though you caught a glimpse of green. "Sunshine, ya okay?"

Rolled onto your side, you squeezed your eyes shut a few times, and when you opened them, you saw Kyle in front of you. You wanted to jump up and pounce on him, but he hugged you faster. "Kyle!" you exclaimed in relief. "God, it's so good to see ya again!"

"Hey," he reached out softly, burrowing into the top of your head.

You squirmed impatiently. "Kyle, that was awful!" you complained. "I had to lie on the bare floor, my lower back hurts like hell, no hot water or food, no toothpaste, I'm ninety percent sand, my knees hurt, and my ears are still buzzing like there's a train coming!"

A chuckle escaped Kyle's lips - he was relieved at the sound of your confused babbling as confirmation that you were indeed back. "Easy," he grinned, laying you back down on the couch. "Ya still have a high fever, so don't jump up."

You snorted. "How many people do ya even know who died of high temperature?"

"Read about the Inquisition, that's fucked up," he joked, pulling the blanket over you and tucking the edges under your squirming legs.

You hesitated a little and watched the procession, your lips tightening uneasily and you pulled yourself to a sitting position again. "Look, Kyle... Out there in the void-"

He looked at you despondently. "Don't even start," he retorted grimly.

"We need to get back there as soon as possible-"

"Enough!" he bellowed angrily. "Ya just got back, and all ya doing now is complaining, snapping at me, and also claiming ya need to go back! Have ya even considered how I feel, no?" his voice broke on the last words, and it happened as suddenly as it did easily - as if someone had accidentally snapped a thin dry branch in two. "Don't ya dare," he panted, shaking his head tiredly.

"Kyle," you began softly. "I told ya I'm really happy to see ya-"

"It's a bare fucking minimum!" his broken voice turned to a shout, and as he gave you his disappointed stare, you discerned in the fluorescent light the redness of his eyes.

As you struggled to swallow the threads of resentment and injustice, you thought about the fact that maybe you deserved this kind of bias on his part, but that didn't give Kyle the right to interrupt you. "I just wanted to tell ya that I found a settlement, that's all," you muttered, playing with the edge of the blanket with your fingers.

"Oh, shit," Kyle marveled, and now without the veil of anger in his eyes, he sat down gently on the bed and wrapped his arms around you again. "I'm sorry," he mumbled guiltily. "I... I was just really worried, ya know."

"Screaming wasn't necessary," you mumbled grumpily into his shirt. "That's why I have to go back there, or show ya, so ya can at least start without me."

"I know, I know," Kyle said understandingly, stroking your head because he now shared your excitement with you. "But in order to show it, ya need to recover. Ya can't go into the void yet. Even if ya don't get broken in half, if Doc finds out about it, he-"

"Will cut off my legs," you finished for him doomfully. "I'm aware of that."

Kyle hummed thoughtfully. "Ya know what we should do? Why don't ya take a couple weeks off for now, and then ya can show me, where the settlement is" you grimaced irritably at the time he'd given you. "And I'll show Rach and Issu, and we'll start without ya. And when ya finally recovered, ya'll join us. Deal?"

"And what will ya do for those two weeks?" you sourly inquired.

"For now, we'll run like we ran, since raids can't be interrupted. I think we won't even run, but walk," he grinned. "Saving our strength. Maybe we'll come across another settlement," you didn't answer, only sighed disappointedly and longingly. "Stop sulking," Kyle gently tugged at your ear, and feeling you shudder, chuckled. "Lemme get my laptop and we will watch something, 'kay?"

"Okay," you replied, watching him get up from the couch. "Bring me a snack, too."

Kyle opened his mouth, and when he realized the words weren't coming out, he closed it back up. He glanced toward one of the bollards where something was lying on it. "Ya know...," he began carefully, afraid to see even a hint of tears in your eyes. "There are some problems with that."

You followed the direction of his gaze, and when you saw several bags of glucose for the IV, you despaired. "No," you exhaled bitterly. "No, no, no!" you banged your fists stubbornly on the bunk. "Don't do this to me, please. I'm gonna die, I'm gonna wither and die."

"Don't be dramatic," Kyle laughed, looking at your stricken face. "Doc said it's only for a couple days. Keep your cool, and I'll be right back," he said as he walked out the door, but stopped immediately. It was as if he was staring somewhere in the emptiness of the hallway, not blinking or averting his gaze. You gingerly threw back the blanket, and swung your legs over as quietly as you could, a pleasant chill traveling down your feet as they touched the floor. "Hey," you jerked back when Kyle spoke again. "What ya doing here?"

Megumi appeared in the doorway. "I... I'm sorry, I just heard you were back," he glimpsed at you. "I just... I wanted to talk, uh… About Dany, but I guess I choose wrong timing. Um... Are you feeling okay?"

"As you can see," you chirped, smiling, but all Megumi saw was a couple hundred bones held together by a thin layer of skin. "It's all good. So what's the deal with Dany-"

"I'll go," Megumi mumbled awkwardly, and turned on his heels and scurried away. You gave Kyle a puzzled look, and he returned you the same one, shrugging his shoulders.

[May 30, 2020; 4:53 pm; hunters' hq]

[04:51pm] Oldman: Ward seven on the left. She's not feeling well rn, so go easy on her

Gojo kept staring at the message, stroking the small scratch on his phone's screen - a scratch that had formed just recently, the moment he'd first read it. Standing in front of the door to the infirmary, he consciously made a fist and only unclenched it when the pain of his nails digging into his skin made it clear that he was awake.

Gojo finally entered the corridor of the infirmary and took a step. Then another step, and another, and another, and another, and another, each one faster than the last, and his mind was racing with the thought of not running. Why was he walking so fast? The ward was already so close, and he was afraid he wouldn't have time to quiet that excited yet aching feeling in his chest, lest he look like an immature teenager who couldn't control his feelings. 

He stopped in the doorway. He didn't just stop, he froze. How tired are you if you didn't even look at him? And if you didn't hear him at all, what happened to you?

You were sitting on the bed, staring at the phone - his ribs were stabbing. So you had a chance to send him a message, but you didn't.

Gojo tapped on the doorjamb to get your attention, and when you finally looked at him, he wanted to laugh. Your eyes did look three times as big against your gaunt face, but he didn't see you as just a skeleton covered in skin. Gojo thought only that you reminded him so much of a lemur. "You just got back," he grinned, looking at your clothes - a shapeless, holey sweater and pants that were three times your size, whether they were men's or whether you'd gotten so skinny that all your previous clothes hung on you like a sack. "And you've already had a clothes fight with some beggar?" 

The snow had long since melted, washing away all the winter moping and despair, and the spring drops had long since played their inspiring choruses, but he was still here. "Hey," you said softly with such a joyful exhalation that Gojo bit his lip, not knowing why, either to suppress a silly smile or to muffle a painful whimper.

Your husky voice should have dispelled all his doubts about the illusory nature of what was happening, but he still couldn't believe you were back.

His unfamiliarly warm gaze made you catch up to the very chimera and grab for it, but even holding it with both hands, you still couldn't believe he stayed.

"Hey," he echoed you, keeping the quiet motifs of the chamber. "You look awful." 

His words were hardly encouraging, but to you they sounded like a compliment. You watched Gojo approach the bed and sit awkwardly on the footboard, tucking his legs under him. He looked exactly the same as the first day you met him, though a mysterious blue under his eyes peeked through. "And ya're still beautiful." 

He grinned affectionately. "Shut up," he mumbled shyly, moving closer to you.

You had no idea how much courage it took for him to press his forehead against yours, for he did it without hesitation, confidently. However, you, for your part, looked down like a coward. "I...," you began excitedly, swallowing. "Honestly, I didn't think ya'd stay," a nervous chuckle escaped your lips - you wanted to color your words with indifference, but it came out the other way around.

You felt Gojo's arms around your waist. He would have pressed you against him for all he was worth, but due to your condition, he had to sacrifice his desires. "I know I've given you reasons not to trust me. It won't happen again," he whispered into your neck, and you knew what he meant. He stayed yesterday, he'll stay tomorrow.

He'll stay with you.

Even though he couldn't hold you tighter, he selfishly tried to pull you closer, even though there was no more space between you. When he unintentionally pressed his knee against one of the sore spots on your leg, your whole body tensed involuntarily. Sensing this, Gojo raised his head and stared at you. "What is it?" 

You shook your head, tucking your leg deeper under you. "It's okay," you declared, but the words came out through clenched teeth.

"What have you got there?" he asked worriedly, gently grabbing your ankle. "Let me see."

"It's not a pretty sight out there," you said, stubbornly trying to remove his hand. "Don't."

Your attempts were unsuccessful - if you could handle one of his hands, you couldn't handle two. Gojo pulled your leg out and rested it on his knee. "I actually exorcise curses," he announced smugly, rolling up your pant leg. "Do you have any idea how nasty they can look? I got one once, in the shape of a wormy di-"

"I got it!" you exclaimed, waving your free hand. "I got it, don't go on," you buried your face in your hand in embarrassment, and Gojo laughed softly. 

Nudging your shin, he examined it. The usual calluses and a few sores - Gojo didn't feel anything nasty or repulsive. "Well," he drawled thoughtfully, looking around the ward. Gently placing your foot on the couch, he stood up and began rummaging through the drawers. 

Even as you heard the sounds of searching, you couldn't move your hand away from your face. "What ya doing?" you mumbled in frustration.

The sounds and rumbling intensified - some things seemed to be flying to the floor. "Looking for ointment...," he muttered under his nose. A drawer door slammed. "Oh, found it!" you tried to disconnect from everything that was going on, but his hands, that once again encircled your shin and brought it back to his knee, stubbornly prevented you from doing so. "Hold still," if you didn't have your hands right now, you'd be staring at the ceiling. If you were forced to look, you'd be gouging your eyes out. You could feel Gojo gently circling certain places on your leg as if inspecting, and only then a cool sensation that dulled the pain. If the gel was so cold, why did you feel so warm?

You sighed in relief when he finally put your leg back on the bed, and you were about to pull your hand away from your face, but when Gojo started on the second one, you pressed your palm back with such force that you nearly evened the bridge of your nose with your eyes. 

He'd never thought or suspected that such a thing existed - that he could touch a person so easily, and even when he touched the affected areas of they skin, he wouldn't be disgusted. On the contrary, Gojo wished you had at least two more of them on your feet. 

You heard a smack. "What the hell?"

"A mosquito," he mumbled, rubbing his sore cheek and shaking his head as if to ward off that stupid thought in the form of that imaginary mosquito. "Uh, well...," he said quietly, slowly running his fingers down your calves from bottom to top, admiring the result. "I think that's it," despite the finished work, his palms, as if enchanted, couldn't get away from you.

Soft touches that dulled or took away all the pain, from blisters to days in the cold, godforsaken wasteland. You never knew that touches could be that gentle, and they could be like that fictitious pill that cured every disease - from slight to severe, from physical to mental, but no one had warned you about the side effects. Breathing became difficult, your lungs ached. 

The more he touched you, the quieter the days he spent in your workroom in the clutches of loneliness and agonizing waiting seemed. He could feel all the cold that had accumulated in you on his skin. He desperately tried to banish it with his hands. Neither curses, nor demons, nor the forces of nature dared to touch you – just him and him alone.

When Gojo's hands were under your kneecaps, you shrieked and jerked up, a sharp pain hitting your forehead. "Fuck," you whimpered, rubbing the sore spot and leaning back against the pillow.   

"Everyone in your family chooses violence, don't they?" he mumbled, and you immediately reacted to the sound, opening your eyes to find him sitting in front of you, his head tilted back and holding the bridge of his nose.

"God, I'm sorry!" you squeaked, but you didn't even have time to jump out of your seat, for he immediately plopped down beside you, throwing one arm over you, pinning you to the bed. "No blood? Lemme see," you rolled over onto your side in a way you regretted. Gojo's face was only a few inches away, and there wasn't even a hint of blood, though there was something red on his face. His cheeks. This state of affairs didn't suit him, so bringing his hand up to your face, he pinched your nose through your mask. "Hey, what for?" you muttered, sniffling quietly at the growing ticklish feeling.

"Wanted to," he snickered, and with a soft movement, he brushed the unruly strands of hair away from your face. Something tinkled, and you grabbed his arm. "Did ya get a new watch?" you asked, looking at it almost up close, not even noticing how his face was half sunk into the pillow in embarrassment, and Gojo was watching you with only one eye. You saw it, and that was enough for him. 

Hearing him mutter something in agreement under his breath, you hummed thoughtfully, which made him even more nervous. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"No, it's nothing," you kept looking at his wristwatch, but with a furrowed brow. "I just have a feeling I've seen them somewhere before."  

He pulled his hand away and hid it under the blanket. "Well!" he exclaimed. "That's a popular one, you know." 

Gojo didn't dare to ask you if you liked it, foolish though it was, for fear of causing your suspicions. Nevertheless, he hoped you thought it beautiful, for in his mind you were destined to wear them. "Um...," you muttered, averting your gaze. "Is there anything else I should know about?"

"No," he answered quietly but firmly. "Really. I won't hide anything from you ever again," he leaned his forehead against yours, his hand stroking your lower back as if he knew that was where you were hurting.

"Then ya can ask your question again."

He furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, but when he realized what you meant, he smiled in a way that made him look ten years younger. Even though you'd never seen him as a teenager, you felt like that's what he looked like in that bygone and almost forgotten time. "Do you wanna be my best friend?"

"I wanna be your best friend."

[June 1, 2020; 05:28am; hunters' hq, training field]

When it dawned, you realized what you had done. The entire area of grass in front of you had been torn up, but even that didn't make you spare the surviving blades of grass, and you glanced anxiously at your phone again. After you'd seen Kyle off, you sat down to wait for Rachel to return, but it was past five in the morning, and she was still gone.

What kept her so long? Knowing her character, you hoped she was all right, and memories of her combativeness turned your hope into faith. After all, you'd always thought that the more enemies she had around her, the stronger she'd become, but there was a rotten worm inside you, twisting and turning, reminding you that Rachel's fiery temper might someday fail her.

Unconsciously, you reached out to touch the grass and realized that all that was left was bare ground. You snorted irritably and moved a little to the side - there was still plenty of grass to torture, but as you reached out, you realized you couldn't see anything else.

You jumped to your feet and tried to open your eyes, but they closed back up as if in protest, trying to avoid the sharp pain. You turned from side to side, but you couldn't feel any danger, except for someone else's presence.

You rubbed your clenched eyelids with the back of your hands and tried to blink. You could see the silhouette, but more importantly, you could see a lock of red hair. It seemed you'd been thinking about something else, and you'd been so slow to catch the violet flash that you hadn't had time to cover your eyes, and you'd paid for it.

Wiping the tears from your lower eyelids, you tried to see your sister again. She was hobbling, her uniform cut and torn in places, and there was a huge laceration on her side. "Rach!" you alarmed, running closer to her. "Hey, hey," you picked up her falling head on your chest by the chin.

"Adoptee," she said softly, smiling with bloodstained teeth. "Ya alive, aren't ya?" your appearance seemed to give her a little strength - she smacked her forehead into the top of your head. "Ya've noticed too? There are too many loners," she gritted angrily through her teeth. "Look!" she raised her head and stared at you; there were tears in her eyes. "Look at that!" she sobbed, trying to reach her red tail with her hand and extend it in your direction. Part of it wasn't even cut off - it was torn off, like a bunch of old strings. "Look what those scums did to my hair!" she nervously and frantically tried to smooth her ponytail, but when she felt that all the strands were different lengths, she burst into tears. She didn't even seem to notice that there was some flesh missing from her side. "I'm gonna fucking kill 'em," she squeaked in a muffled voice. "And ya!" she tried to shove you away resentfully. "It's all 'cause of ya," she forced herself to say, wiping away nonstop tears with her hand. "If ya hadn't disappeared, I wouldn't be distracted by thoughts of ya, and none of this would be happening!"

You scooped her up by the waist, trying to stay out of the wound. "I know. I'm sorry," you mumbled guiltily, pulling her closer to the house. "Let's just go to the doc, 'kay?"   

"Shove your apologies up your ass," she bellowed, but her body went limp in your arms - it felt heavy, but despite her words, she still seemed to rely on you. 

***

You'd hoped that Rachel's injury would distract the doc for a while so he wouldn't harp on the fact that you should have stayed in the ward the whole time, and it had worked. Now you stood in front of the fridge, staring at the contents, trying to figure out what you could do to placate the big sister. Your stomach rumbled as you perused the bacon, shrimps, yogurt, and chocolate dragees. When you stopped your gaze at the fresh berries, you almost burst into tears. Maybe it was for the best that you couldn't eat them now - Rachel loved them, too.

You caught a glimpse of a silhouette sitting down at the dinner table. "Hey."

You glanced over your shoulder and noted the dark hair sticking out in all directions. "Hey," you greeted Megumi cheerfully. "Can't sleep?"

"Just used to getting up early," he said, shrugging indifferently. "Y/N?" he turned to you after a brief silence.

"Yeah?" you hummed, pulling out a package of berries.

"I... Um, I overheard that you found a settlement," he began awkwardly. You closed the refrigerator door abruptly - Megumi shuddered. You stopped in front of the boy, staring straight into his eyes. "I-I just thought, since I happen to be able to enter the void as well, maybe...," he fidgeted in his chair, trying to look away from you, but the bonds of your gaze were so strong that even a hunting knife wouldn't do the trick. "Maybe I can help you-"

"No," you replied sharply and headed for the infirmary door.

There was a rustling sound behind you and the sudden creaking of a chair. "I just wanna help. By taking me, you can carry more supplies for the people there," when you turned around, he was staring at the floor, but his fists were clenched. "I passed the isolation easily. Doesn't that prove I'm worth something?"  

"It was an accident," you replied coldly.

"Whatever," he went on stubbornly. "Even so, but doesn't that mean I'm worthy?"

You grinned sarcastically, squinting your eyes. "Worthy of what? Getting kicked around in the cold wasteland? Such an honor."

"Saving people," he whispered and finally looked at you, and in his eyes lurked the answer.

"Megumi, what are ya talking about?" you worriedly said. "Ya're already saving them-"

A chuckle or a sob escaped his lips. "Really? How many people did I save while Sukuna was walking around in my body?"

The answer was voiced, but you remained adamant. "I got ya, but ya're still a teenager and there's still a lot ya can accomplish. Ya'll still have time to make things right. So... No. Sorry, but no," hoping that would be enough, you tried to walk away again - both from the boy and the conversation.

Megumi knew what he was doing was dirty, but he realized there was nothing else he could do. "Do you have the right to refuse?" Megumi's voice was firm. "You're supposed to train anyone who asks. You have an obligation," he was still drilling his gaze into your back. "Am I wrong? There are only four of you left," what a miracle - the firm voice suddenly trembled.

What a familiar song. What a familiar, annoying, ear-splitting song. Your nostrils must have flared at that tone. Or the truth that had just burned your ears. You turned around. Along with the boy, you saw his inner core. You stared at each other for a few more moments. Both of you stubborn as hell. "I should call him," you surrendered, reaching into your pocket.

"Don't," Megumi said almost pleadingly. "I wanna decide for myself this time."

"He's your guardian," you reminded him.

Megumi grinned bitterly. "His guardianship began and ended when he took me from the Zenin clan."

"Oh, really?" you inquired, arching an ironic eyebrow. "I take it food and clothes have been falling out of the sky for ya all this time?"

"You may be right," he nodded briefly. "But you can't say he loved me much."

"And ya?" you nodded defiantly toward the boy. "Did ya love him much?" Megumi looked at you perplexed as if you were speaking to him in a foreign language. He opened his mouth but didn't say a word, and with a shake of his head, he immediately closed it back up. "Okay, well...," you scrunched your forehead. "At six in the morning, I expect ya on the practice field. Ya'll run until you spit out your own lungs," your tone made Megumi shiver - as if the temperature in the room had plummeted. "And ya know what? Ya're already late," you barked before finally disappearing behind the infirmary doors.

Ryan and Axel had already run away from you, and they'd done it so fast that they'd probably already made it around the Earth and back to the starting point, while you and Megumi had barely run about seven miles. Even such a run was hard on your recovering body, but it seemed to be harder on the boy as you glared at him from time to time. Sweat was pouring from Megumi's flushed face, and he was forgetting how to breathe properly for such exertion. Something was crunching. Maybe it was the branches under your feet, or maybe it was your knees.

You always tried to find solace in those jogs through the forest, but not now, you were worried about Megumi. Did he take your words so seriously? He was clearly unwell. His legs had already buckled for the fifth time. "Hey," you called out to him quietly. "I've got a calf cramp, let's take a little break," you said, grabbing his shoulder with one hand and your side with the other, trying to catch your breath. He nodded silently, and you moved off the path a little, sitting down by the roots of one of the trees. "Thirsty?" you asked courteously, taking your backpack off your shoulders.

"Yeah," Megumi replied on an exhale. He'd been trying to hold back his own inhalations and exhalations the whole time, so that you wouldn't hear that he'd been crying inside for the last two miles, but he'd only trapped himself more - the lack of oxygen made his body protest harder, and his vision began to darken.

Megumi took the bottle from your hands and took a couple sips, trying not to be greedy. "Now, time for a little breathing exercise," you chirped, taking a seat across from him. "Come on, right with the noise. Inhale," you sucked in air so loudly and forcefully that you scared away a squirrel that had snuck up and was interested in you. When Megumi repeated after you, you exhaled just as much, expecting him to repeat after you.

After doing this a few more times, you noticed that Megumi was feeling better - though he was still glistening with sweat, the redness on his face was starting to fade. "There ya go," you said enthusiastically, sitting down next to him again. "Much better, wouldn't ya say?" you nudged his shoulder softly with yours.

Megumi twirled the water bottle in his hands thoughtfully. "I apologize for speaking to you like that," he said guiltily. "I just didn't know how else to affect you."

"It's fine," you replied indifferently, waving it away. "I just don't understand why ya'd wanna do that anyway."

"The cursed world gave me nothing," he lied, not even realizing he was lying. Sure, the cursed world had given him, and given him a lot, except that Megumi would probably give it all back for free. "And the desire to save people hasn't gone away, and most likely never will," he would no longer be able to plunge into the routine of ordinary life knowing the other side of it - dark and mysterious, as cruel as it is elusive to ordinary people.

These were the kind of people Megumi wanted to protect, wishing that they would never know what lurked behind that door without a doorknob.

"I just...," he began reservedly. "I just don't wanna feel helpless anymore, 'cause if I feel that way, how can I help others?" his restraint immediately broke along with his voice. "When Sukuna took over my body, I just wanted to die."

"I understand," you replied quietly, swallowing.

He smirked wistfully. "I'm sorry, but I doubt that. I remember everything. I was hurt. I was sick. And there was nothing I could do about it," he buried his face in his hands as if the past appeared from behind one of the trees, and it appeared in a most unpleasant guise.

"Let's do this," you said, slapping yourself on your legs. "I promise I'll train ya for a while, and in return, ya promise me to think less about all the bad things that have happened to ya. Deal?" you rubbed the top of his head affectionately.

"Deal," mumbled Megumi into his palms. "Only why 'for a while'? I can handle intense training too."

"You offered to help us," you pointed out. "Not to become a voidrunner."

"But-"

"Let's go home. Ya've had enough for today."

***

You'd already opened the door to the workroom, but you couldn't help but cast one last sympathetic glance at the boy. He was sluggishly shuffling his feet up the stairs, and his torso was as still as if it had been separated from his lower body - arms dangling tiredly along his body, his torso tilted, his head slumped against his chest. "Megumi," you called out to him, and Megumi stopped, though he didn't seem to find the energy to even turn in your direction. "I'll meet ya at the same place tomorrow morning at six," his head twitched, and you took it as a nod. You were about to leave him alone, but you remembered something. "Ya know, let's get together a little early, though," you shouted after him as he opened the door. "Come to my workroom at five, I need to take your measurements!" the door that slammed shut sharply only answered you.     

When you finally entered the workroom, you froze like a dumbfounded deer before lights. Gojo was standing across from you, equally motionless and looking at you questioningly. "Ya're back already?" you inquired softly, watching his hand with the towel frozen at the back of his head - it looked like he'd just gotten out of the shower. "I, uh...," you swallowed nervously. "I can explain everything." 

You flinched when he moved, so much so he had resembled a statue before. "Oh, come on," he smiled carelessly, stepping closer to you. You exhaled as Gojo walked past you. "I knew you were a thief, didn't I," his muffled voice came from the bathroom. Getting rid of the towel, he appeared before you again, but he didn't even glance in your direction. "So it was only a matter of time before you got to my students, too." 

You watched helplessly as he passed by you and moved farther and farther away, and the doubt that it wasn't just about the growing distance between you in the workroom clenched and sought to explode in your soul. "Aren't you angry?"

"Me?" asked Gojo carelessly over his shoulder in your direction. "Angry. I'm so angry," he laughed softly, and you sat down on the edge of the bed, carefully making your way around the room. "At myself."

You waited for him to pay attention to you, and when you caught his gaze, you patted the spot next to you. Gojo hesitantly approached, and you unconsciously reached out to him, so relieved when you realized the distance between you was gone. He gently picked up your palm and sat down next to you. "So...," he began, hesitating. "Megumi has both cursed and dark energy now? That's how a generation grows up," he grinned wistfully, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. "That's what I wanted, isn't it? I wanted to raise a generation of strong sorcerers. The kind that would be on par with me. No, even stronger. So strong that one day they could leave me behind." 

"Why do ya say that?" you asked half-heartedly. "Why would they leave ya behind?"

"Why else do you think everyone needs me?" Gojo swallowed, looking at your intertwined hands. You were just now realizing how elaborate his ideas about human relationships were in his head, and if they were only there that would be half the problem, but something told you that there was a quiet but all-consuming chaos going on in his soul as well. "I screwed up even here, though. I was so consumed with realizing my own goal that I didn't even notice... No, rather, I forgot that my students were just kids. I was ready to kill anyone who would take their youth away from them, and I ended up taking it from them myself. I guess I really am a shitty teacher, so... Maybe Megumi would be better off with you," he unconsciously released your hand from his.

"Satoru, stop it," you commanded softly. "Ya are not your power. Ya're just a human being, and I think everyone realizes that."

"Oh, really?" snapped Gojo sarcastically. "You wanna say that if I didn't have this power, you'd let me strut around your workroom like this and you would put up with all my scattered stuff? Don't be ridiculous."

"But I've never seen your power," you whispered hurt. You'd heard rumors and stories like the ballads they write about heroes, but you'd only seen it once. In his fight with Sukuna, you'd only caught glimpses of tiny, evaporating drops of his power. Did he think you were holding on to something so ephemeral?

To be honest, he didn't think about it. He couldn't think of any other reason why you'd accepted him and why you'd tolerated him. Staying true to his habits, he couldn't say the words of apology out loud, but he relied on the touches - with any luck, they would say it all for him. "Ya said Megumi would be better off with me," you said into the top of his white hair as his hands tentatively held your waist. "But ya're wrong. He'll be better off with us."

The word 'us' made Gojo think of you and the other hunters, and he didn't even dare to get in between in those thoughts, but when your hands closed around his back, it was like opening all those doors he'd never been able to open. Behind those doors was a bright light, so vivid it hurt his eyes. He had no choice but to stay on one side of the door and burn with his regrets and unfulfilled hopes in that desperate flame, or to step forward and let it burn to the ground, but  without him.

Gojo stepped through. Beyond that door was his future and it existed, it glowed, and it was right beside him.  

next ⊳

[moonlightreal]

The Mermaid Magic post

I guess Rainbow needed a show to prove they could still make shows with season 9 taking so long, so they made a little Netflix-length thing called Mermaid Magic. And it’s good fun!

And, I think, it’s the practice run for season 9.

Mermaid Magic stars young mermaids Merlinda, Sasha and Nerissa. Merlinda is the princess of Mertropia, and is basically Bloom with different hair. Her color scheme is even aqua and pink. She’s brave and determined and when she discovers that her father and the kingdom are in danger she heads to the mystic portal to Earth to find the magic pearls they need.

Sasha has the name they almost gave Stella, and she’s kind of an airhead and very social media obsessed. Sasha also gets the most derp faces. The animation is quite good in general but when it does go wrong it seems to always go wrong by stretching Sasha’s face in weird ways. Sasha has a pet merpuppy named Beau Junior who runs around being cute.

Nerissa is leader of the royal guard and the princess’ bodyguard. She’s athletic and very protective of Merlinda. And yeah, she’s kinda Aisha.

I really like the look of the show. Yeah, Sasha gets weird-face but in general the characters are able to make facial expressions and have some body language. The male characters are noticeably less good than the female ones, so I’m not sure how the Specialists are gonna look. There are a lot of background citizens in Mertropia and they all look different from each other so that’s good. And it’s pretty! The transformations when the girls turn into their warrior form are really good! Their magical girl-ed up tridents look great!

When I first was the warrior mermaid forms my thought was, “Ooh, I hope the Winx get a transformation like that!” and… wish granted, in the video we talked about last time! Now my wish is, “I hope the Winx get transformations that AREN’T like that, eventually!” The look is very structured and warriorish, so this CG can definitely handle something like Bloomix. But softer looks like Enchantix? We’ll have to wait and see if the animation program can handle something that looks like softer fabric.

As for the story of Mermaid Magic, it is in a word, predictable. Not one single thing happened that I didn’t see coming a mile away. Gee, I wonder if they’ll get rescued by a cute human boy? Gee I wonder if they’ll find themselves having to go to human school and be humorously fish-out-of-water? Gee I wonder if there will be signs of Merlinda’s lost Mom? Gee, I wonder if they’ll do a bit of idol singer-ing sooner or later?” “Gee, I wonder if that mysterious merman is Merlinda’s uncle?” So yeah, the story didn't surprise me or wow me or even make me laugh, but it was a nice chill time watching the tropes unroll. I do hope Winx doesn’t go quite THIS predictable though. The joy of Winx is how it does dumb stuff with style and panache and that’s why it’s the show I love!

Mermaid Magic is ten episodes. It does tell a complete story but there are some threads left dangling for a second season, and I hope it gets one. In the last episode we have one villain still undefeated, Merlinda’s mother still missing, and the school’s mean girl just discovered our heroines are mermaids.

And I think this mean girl will have a big part in future seasons, because she has interesting hair.

So since I had good luck predicting season one, I’ll have a go at predicting season 2! The remaining villainess will recruit the mean girl and give her a magic doodad that turns her into a mermaid. They’ll start making trouble and the cute boy and his sister will call their mermaid friends to come help. Then... hmm... Merlinda's going to want to get her mother's magic ring back from the villain and well, of course in the end they find Merlinda's mother. Yeah. Now we can wait and see if I'm right or not!

My friend Lisa over at The Princess Blog is more of an actual professional blogger than I am, here’s what she thought of Mermaid Magic.

[the-last-rat-standing]

Both @justagibbsgirl and @i-run-with-scissors39 made a really good point about the Gibbs absence in the Ducky tribute episode- if we'd had a funeral scene, we would've gotten a much deeper emotional impact from a eulogy, the camera could've panned the gathered guests to show a myriad of former characters we've missed over the years, AND, they could've shown Gibbs in the back, unseen by the guests, paying silent tribute to Ducky. Brian Dietzen said Mark Harmon didn't come back because of 'scheduling conflicts', but as @i-run-with-scissors39 said, they could've filmed it separately at any time, because it would've just been him.

But none of this happened. In fact, what really happened in that episode that was memorable? Besides Tony showing up. (I'll get back to that in a minute.) McGee had 1 flashback, Vance had 1 flashback and Jimmy had 4. Jimmy also had the most screen time and was given the most emotional scenes. A lot of that is understandable- he was the only one left with the strongest connection to Ducky. But there were other people with connections to him, too. And we didn't get to see that. The only person outside of the regular cast of season 21 to show up was Tony. I mean, think about that, just for a second. No character outside of the current squad showed up. Not even Tobias! Instead, they handwaved the work/money (?) involved to make something more meaningful happen by showing flowers and Polaroids.

Even the Crime of the Day fell flat. So some girl we've never met is getting hassled by her college because her dead dad's getting slandered in the press by a senator. A senator who, I guess didn't get arrested at the end? Just stepped down from his position? Why did the senator pick that Marine anyway? (I know he served with him, but what was the point in naming that particular Marine?) And if I see one more reference to someone gifting someone a scholarship fund, I don't know if I'll be able to unroll my eyes. And yes, I know the MCSF was a big thing for David McCallum, so it made sense in this context, but the fact there's a Leroy Jethro Gibbs Scholarship Fund joke almost undermined the whole thing. (Would've been nice if they'd had a link at the end of the episode to the MCSF.)

Instead of this random girl and her dead dad, how about a cold case Ducky was working on? Maybe Jimmy sees it on Ducky's desk (or finds it in the secret spot behind a picture /eyeroll) and decides he's going to solve it. The team wants to help but are sceptical it can be done, but Jimmy's absolutely determined to do it, to the point of almost obsession. It would be his way of putting off dealing with Ducky's death while also making one last connection with him. They end up solving it because one of the flashbacks gives an indirect clue. You know, like Ducky's cryptic message to the team about where to find the nothing file behind the photo in his office. /eyeroll again

I loved the fact that Jimmy never took off his lab coat, even though he didn't do any lab work the entire episode. Him walking around the bullpen in his lab coat solving a case was just... well, I guess that's where the show is now, yeah? Sean Murray didn't want to step forward as the face of the show, so Brian Dietzen did. And you know what? Good for him. It's a hell of an arc over 20 years for him. But whether he meant to or not, he ended up making this episode about him. Every emotional thread went through Jimmy; every emotional moment was Jimmy's. When Diona Reasonover's voice cracked in the bullpen ("Any suggestions as to how to do that?"), it felt like the only real moment given to anyone other than Jimmy. Probably because 3 of the team didn't really know Ducky, so they could only experience the loss through other characters. It's why we got Knight reading Ducky's journal to bring up a Gibbs flashback, and it's why Torres did the same with McGee. It's why Parker was in charge of the flowers or something. And I try to remember they're new when I hear Knight say, "Dying quietly in your sleep isn't the worst way to go." JFC, lady.

I dunno. Kate was on for 2 years and I felt the show handled her death with so much more emotion. Her loss rippled through the team and we felt it because we saw the characters feel it. The Ducky episode was a lot of telling rather than showing, and what showing they did was through Jimmy instead of a handful of the hundreds of people whose lives Ducky touched in 20 years.

Oh, and Tony. Great to see one of the Originals, and Tony, in small doses, can bring the depth the scene needs. But being tacked onto the end of the episode made it fell exactly what it was- a surprise cameo to wow the fans rather than a true nod of respect to Ducky/David.

It should've been more. It could've been more.

[hussyknee]

Unrolled twitter thread by Progressive International (@ProgIntl)

30 Sept 24 • 4 minute read • Read on X

On 30 September 1965, the Indonesian military, working closely with the US government, initiated a coup that would depose President Sukarno and install the brutal, 30-year dictatorship of General Suharto.

In the dark years that followed, the dictatorship massacred over a million Indonesian communists, with the CIA and US diplomats drawing up “kill lists” for the Indonesian military. The operation would become a template for the US’s regime change operations for decades to come.

Major-General Suharto with Indonesian Army in 1966

In 1945, President Sukarno led Indonesia to independence from Dutch colonial rule. He championed the Non-Aligned Movement and hosted the historic Bandung Conference, a meeting of Afro-Asian states, in 1955.

First President of Indonesia Sukarno making a speech circa 1945

Opening the conference and forecasting what was to come, Sukarno said: “We are often told ‘Colonialism is dead’. Let us not be deceived or even soothed by that… Colonialism also has its modern dress, in the form of economic control, intellectual control, actual physical control by a small, but alien community within a nation.”

Leaders attending the Bandung Conference 1955 in Bandung, Indonesia. From left: Indian Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru, Ghanian Prime Minister Kwame Nkrumah, Egyptian Prime Minister Gamal Abdel Nasser, President Sukarno, and Yugoslavian Prime Minister Josip Broz Tito.

By 1965, Indonesia possessed one of the world's largest communist parties, the PKI. The PKI had a mass membership and mobilized vast numbers of people in the battle against Indonesia’s ruling class.

Campaign of the Indonesian Communist Party (PKI) in September 1955.

Terrified by the strength and organization of Indonesia’s people, the Indonesian military’s 30th September Movement began to purge the PKI.

Men suspected of being IPK members being transported under guard by an armed Indonesian soldier

In the early hours of 1 October, a group of military conscripts murdered six high-ranking generals. Blaming the deaths on the PKI, Suharto used the attacks as a pretext to seize power. CIA communications equipment allowed him to spread false reports around the country and begin a long campaign of anti-communist propaganda.

The US had tried to overthrow Sukarno for years; in 1958, the CIA backed armed regional rebellions against the central government. In 1965, they did all they could to aid Suharto’s murderous power grab.

The campaign soon became genocidal. On islands like Bali, up to 10% of the population was massacred — and luxury hotels soon began to appear over the killing fields.

One US embassy staffer told the US press that Suharto’s military “probably killed a lot of people, and I probably have a lot of blood on my hands, but that's not all bad.”

Time Magazine referred to the killings as “the West’s best news for years in Asia”.

A cable from the US embassy’s first secretary, Mary Vance Trent, to the State Department referred to events in Indonesia as a “fantastic switch which has occurred over 10 short weeks”. It also included an estimate that 100,000 people had been slaughtered.

Cementing his power, Suharto became president in 1967. His ‘New Order’ policy allowed Western capitalism to exploit Indonesia’s cheap labour and plunder its natural resources. Civil rights and dissent were suppressed.

In one of the world’s most populous countries, any possibility for the emergence of a new, democratic political project was eliminated. Richard Nixon described Indonesia as “the greatest prize in Southeast Asia”. Suharto would not leave office until 1998.

U.S. President Ronald Reagan stands with Indonesian President Suharto in the White House South Lawn at the arrival ceremony for Suharto's State Visit. Oct 12, 1982

CIA officers described Suharto’s rise to power and anti-communist purge as the “model operation” and “Jakarta” soon became the codeword for anti-communist extermination programs in Latin America, where hundreds of thousands were massacred in regime change efforts engineered by Washington.

[rejectory]

HI okay so quick question, in your rules you state "no plotting", does that mean you don't write/discuss anything pre-established?? such as we've skipped first meeting threads and our muses know each other on a very basic level already OR something more if desired. i'm not a follower ( tho we share mutuals and i've always loved seeing you around ), but i was thinking of following and i just wanted to make sure i understood correctly before i did so! hope this ask made sense it is very late and my brain is eggs. thank you, i hope your day/night goes well!

hi, the contrary is true, pre-established is king. i avoid plotting as understood in the local sense, i.e. an exact pre-script of every pit-stop on the way to the destination is my enemy and so is "just wait until so-and-so does this and that". can think of nothing drier, don't tell me that. aw no you're telling me that, which means in my brain (and yours) the gratification has been achieved, and i now have zero interest in seeing it re-done in writing. winging it or throwing an idea or two in the blender is what i like, then unrolling from there, with the occasional beat collaborated on, fine, but even those will likely not happen as sketched out if i have something to say about it. if you mean just talking about our characters, i have indeed been experienced by other ppl doing that, and that i like. it's about the unsaid and communicating through writing. surprise me like i surprise you instead of having me vet things :]

[robotlearnstolove]

2025-03-12

Night of Mending

~490 words

As Prag undressed, the glassy, undulated surface of the river below stared up at him without judgment while the moon stared down with its cold brightness. Everything he wore was either torn or about to tear in one place or another and so he took great care not to further damage them as removed them. The process was slow but that didn’t deter him. Even in mere moonlight, he could see the dark bloodstains all over his garments some old and a couple new. Each piece he removed he folded neatly so that, when he was done, there was a neat stack on the rock next to him, twenty or so centimetres high. Then, placed his belt and pouch on top of the stack.

Naked, he stood up and stretched, letting the gentle wind caress his body. Then, he took two steps forward, jumped off the rock and fell feet-first into the water. The icy shock lasted only a few seconds before it was replaced by invigoration. He let himself be transported by the current for a half a minute. Gently, he bobbed under water and occasionally bumped into a rock. He could almost feel the dirt and grime falling off of him. When he felt the need, he kicked and paddled his way up for air. He breathed deeply and then swam back to the shore. About twenty metres upriver, he could see his square stack of clothing on the shore where he’d left it. He took another moment to feel the wind against his body. His wet, bare skin was so much more sensitive to the breeze, especially now that it wasn’t quite as dirty. When he was ready, he went back to the place where he’d jumped in.

Sitting on the rock with his feet in the river, he rifled through his pouch and drew from it a tightly-wrapped cylindrical bundle and unrolled it. The outermost layers were pieces of green fabric as dirty and tattered as his clothes. Some were scraps that he’d found others were torn from old articles of clothing. The innermost scrap had a small collection of needles pinned into it and they were all wrapped around a spool of thread. He laid all of it out in front of him, cut an arm’s length of thread from the spool and threaded it onto one of the needles.

Starting with his trousers, Prag mended his clothes. He put patches over the most worn part. He restitched seams and even old patches that were coming undone. When he deemed a garment to be sufficiently repaired, he brought it to the water, gently rinsed it in the current and laid it on the rock to dry. It was a long and arduous process; in all, he had one pair of trousers, two shirts, one vest and a short jacket. By the time he was repairing the jacket, his trousers were just dry enough to put on.