#first time posting on AO3

[thepeculiarbird]

have something really important to do but no. Just there, writing about villard because i need more of them.

[thatorigamiguy]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Male Shepard/Tali'Zorah nar Rayya Characters: Male Shepard (Mass Effect), Tali'Zorah nar Rayya, Zaeed Massani, Jack | Subject Zero, Miranda Lawson, Original Male Batarian Character(s), Kenneth Donnelly, Gabriella Daniels, Liara T'Soni, The Collectors (Mass Effect), Normandy Crew (Mass Effect) Additional Tags: Threats of Violence, Smoking, Fluff and Humor, Implied Sexual Content, Weapons, Explicit Language Summary:

"There were times that Tali'Zorah had her patience tested, and much like a switchblade, it left her ready to lash out at a moment's notice... or, in the case of some would-be thugs, ready to vent her frustrations on for interrupting her time off with Shepard." Finally back and doing something different. Will try and get out some more one-shots in the future, until then, I hope you all enjoy.

[zelianthos-capercaillie]

@hashimada-week A sneak peek of my contribution for the HashiMada Week 2023 event Day 6 prompts, “Flowers” and “Sparring”

It’s a Hanahaki AU set in the Warring States Period:

The two grappled on the ground, clawing, biting, kicking, and eye-gouging each other. It was a no-holds-barred fest; the short guttural noises they had been making earlier were now replaced with taunting and taking potshots at each other left and right.

A headbutt landed squarely on a nose bridge.

"Hngh! Not bad. I always knew you were a solid ten—" A swivel of the head to avoid getting scratched in the face.

"Thanks, I—ow!" It was cut off by an eye poke.

"—out of a hundred."

"Ooh, nice one. If only—ghk!" Fingers were inserted inside the mouth in a tearing-off manner, only for them to get bitten. "—if only your techniques are as good as your ‘compliments’."

They were kneeing each other in the groin, grabbing by the balls (?!)—although who grabbed who first, no one would confess was sure—and doing many more acts of pettiness.

At some point, Madara spotted an opening and got on top of Hashirama in a straddle, forcing his right arm down with a wrist grip. He then grabbed the other arm to try and do the same, snarling when there was a painful tug on his hair.

Hashirama kept resisting and tried to take back control by pitching them sideways. Madara mirrored the move, but Hashirama did it again. This continued until the two had rolled deeper into the forest, still tangled up in each other.

Hashirama tried to lodge Madara off of him once more—this time by bucking his hips—but Madara held firm and cinched his legs even tighter. He added more weight by leaning forward and was eventually able to force Hashirama's other arm down by interlocking their fingers together.

This close, they were almost breathing the same air.

"Give up?" The question was practically a wheeze.

"Heh. Give up—" was the breathless answer, "—on me giving up!"

The ordeal should not have winded the both of them; they had done much more strenuous sparring than this, after all. But here they were, panting and sweating against each other, their hearts beating loudly in their chests.

They took a moment to calm down, just staring and smiling at each other.

Madara's smile grew wider as he leaned forward even more, getting closer and closer until the tips of their noses were almost touching. The damn itch in his throat was back, so he had to act quickly.

Hashirama mirrored him and started to tilt his head forward as well, before he snapped his head to the side, finally realizing what Madara had done.

He had weaved a seal using their entwined hands.

The Seal of the Tiger.

When Hashirama locked eyes with him again in alarm, Madara’s only response was a playful wink.

In an instant, huge, roaring flames engulfed the small clearing they had rolled into. Enormous fireballs shaped like dragon heads dove at the ground and fed off of each other’s billowing heat, growing in size and turning the glade into a nightmare of scorched earth and charred wood, with Madara at the heart of the destruction laughing maniacally.

The Mokuton vines that rose up to encase Hashirama at the last second in order to get him out of the blast radius unfurled and deposited him on a nearby tree branch.

Although he was able to get away in the nick of time, Madara saw that Hashirama still got singed in the aftermath.

Good.

"Madara! That wasn’t fair!" Hashirama cried out as the fire died down. "I thought we were going to spar with taijutsu alone?!"

"We agreed to no such thing!" Madara replied in a haughty manner, tossing his hair. "Don’t start making new rules just because you almost fell for a simple Katon, Hashirama!"

Hashirama’s response was to curl up into a ball—how he hadn’t rolled off the tree branch was a mystery—in gloom.

"I can’t believe you tried to set me on fire," he said, as he whispered something else to himself.

"Ah? Speak up, Hashirama, and stop muttering to yourself up there!"

Madara took a step toward him but made a leap instead when towering wooden spikes burst out from below the ground all of a sudden, each one growing another pointed offshoot aiming for him.

Hashirama emerged from another tree branch as the wood clone that was all curled up like a pill bug melted back into the bark.

"Then I guess I’ll respond with my own!" he crowed.

Mokuton briars covered in fine bristles came down from the treetops, their thorns trying to reach for Madara and snag into his clothes. He set them on fire before they could reach him, lest he suffer from another case of the itches. He was not going through that experience a second time.

Madara spat out a loud curse.

"Here I come, Madara!" Hashirama shouted back with glee. The tree branches transformed into wooden hands. "If we’re using ninjutsu, then there’s something I’ve been meaning to test. I dare you to counter it!"

Madara weaved his way out of the demented Mokuton vines as he made the hand signs for another Katon. Two can play this game.

Great Flame Flowers gave chase to Hashirama shortly thereafter.

Madara bared his teeth in a vicious grin. "Bring it, Hashirama!"

[tridentqueen]

Claimed

Aegon II Targaryen/Reader

Word count: 2.6k

Rating: 18+ | minors dni

Content warnings: handjobs, thigh riding, possessiveness, adultery (both Aegon and reader are married to other people), f!reader, no use of y/n, if I forgot to include something let me know

Summary: You are upset when you hear Aegon occasionally still goes to the Street of Silk, so you decide to make it clear to him that you have a claim on how he spends his nights.

Fic also posted on ao3

“I don’t know how Princess Helaena puts up with it,” Yva Ashford confided to you while the two of you sipped tea and nibbled on blackberry tarts in the gardens.

After a week of rain, the first day of sunshine brought many courtiers outside of the castle despite the still-lingering humidity. You and Yva were only one of many pairs of ladies taking their afternoon tea in the rose garden. You knew there were likely even more in the other gardens spread throughout the Red Keep.

Your brows knitted at her comment. “Puts up with what?”

“Prince Aegon,” Yva scoffed. “He goes to the Street of Silk at least twice a week.”

You froze, your cup of tea comically remaining halfway between the table and your lips for a few moments before you recovered.

“And how do you know that?” you asked, praying to the seven that your voice sounded casual to Yva’s ears. That she could not tell how her revelation stung.

“Everyone knows he does not keep to one bed,” she shrugged.

“Yes, but how do you know he goes to the Street of Silk twice a week?” you inquired. You hoped your gentle prodding would be enough for her to reveal her source.

Luckily, it was.

“My handmaid told me. Some of the kitchen helps apparently see him there frequently, and they told the girls they’re fond of, and so on and so forth. Servants talk, as you know.”

You did know. Despite the Red Keep’s size, it seemed as if no one could do anything without the courtiers gossiping about it the next day.

Well, almost.

As far as you knew, no one was aware of your meetings with Aegon. After that first night together, he showed you a way to secretly travel directly from an abandoned chamber to his own. You had been known even before your trysts to walk the corridors of the castle late into the night, having had trouble falling asleep even as a young girl, so no one thought twice whenever they passed you despite the late hour.

You hummed but did not push the subject further. That did not stop Yva’s words from haunting you for the remainder of the afternoon and evening.

He goes to the Street of Silk at least twice a week.

“I’m going to bed, my love,” Roland, your husband, told you two hours after evenfall. Supper had been eaten and cleared away, the hearth lit, and the pair of you spending your evening as you always did - pursuing separate activities.

As every other highborn, your marriage to Roland Redwyne had been arranged without your parents even asking if you liked him. Two years ago, after you both attended the wedding of the heir of one of the lords of the Reach and shared exactly one conversation, he apparently became enchanted by you and begged his father to send a raven to your father asking for your hand. And how could your father, the lord of a much lower house, refuse the Lord Redwyne?

With just a handful of ravens, your future was decided.

You liked Roland well enough. He was kind to you, which you knew was more than some of the other ladies at court could say about their husbands, but even after a year of marriage you still felt that you were married to someone half a stranger.

You will become closer once your first babe is born, your older sister wrote to you a few moons ago. But when that would happen, you did not know. You and Roland coupled perhaps once a week - he rarely initiated, and you certainly did not attempt to pick up the slack.

Perhaps that was why Aegon seemed so appealing to you. You moved to court just a few weeks after your wedding and the prince almost immediately began shooting looks your way that made you feel as if he was undressing you with his eyes. Roland never once looked at you like that. And it was certainly improper for a man who was not your husband to do so.

But you liked it. It made your skin feel as if it was fire. And during the night, when you thought of Aegon, a feeling you had never once experienced for Roland began surfacing.

Desire.

After months of Prince Aegon’s heated looks in your direction, suggestive remarks, light touches whenever you were near each other - one night you finally succumbed to him.

Before Aegon, you did not know women could feel such pleasure. When you and your husband lay together, it felt . . . nice. Intimate. But Aegon made your body writhe and squirm against his, forced sharp cries of ecstasy from your throat, pleasured you until your back arched and your cunt squeezed his cock so tightly his own movements stuttered.

That was three months ago, and you never felt the same again after that first night. You went to his chambers nearly every night, after Roland fell asleep. But some nights Roland stayed up late, keeping you in your apartments. And on those nights, apparently, Aegon sought his pleasure with someone other than you.

You waited a couple of hours after Roland turned into your shared bedchamber for the night before you left your apartments, going straight to the abandoned quarters that would take you to Aegon’s.

Anxiety churned in your stomach at seeing the rooms empty. He was at the Street of Silk. You knew it . Where else could he be? He certainly was not with his wife, as Aegon told you himself once that they barely spent any time together. You did not know how Princess Helaena felt about her marriage - you were not close with her, and you did not want to risk asking the other courtiers, for fear that people would wonder why you were so curious.

As you sat in his empty chambers, your anger and anxiety fed off one another.

Aegon was obviously a lech, why would he view your liaisons any differently than his other dalliances?

Because you were different! You were a married women with a reputation to protect, not some whore. He was lucky you had even allowed him into your bed, that month Roland was away at the Arbor helping his father and brother attend to some business. You feared from the beginning that he would tire of you. But that would not happen without a fight from you. Not now that you knew how good he made you feel.

Finally, after nearly an hour, Aegon returned to his rooms through the secret passageways, confirming that he had gone into the city. His brows rose in surprise at seeing you before his expression turned heated within the span of a few seconds. You were alone in his rooms at night. That could only mean one thing, to him.

You wanted to slap the look off his face, in part because of how your body was already responding to it. Your face was warm and your cunt was beginning to throb.

I am doomed. The seven hells are nothing compared to the torture he can inflict on me with a mere look.

“Where have you been?” you asked him sharply.

“Out,” he responded - maddeningly vague.

Your temper flared at his answer. “To the brothels?”

Aegon walked to his nightstand and poured himself a generous goblet of wine. “What of it?”

Before you could think twice, “I want to be the only one who warms your bed,” spilled from your lips. It was true - you had thought it over and over and over again while you waited for him - but you did not mean to say it aloud.

You knew you were being a hypocrite. Here you were, a married woman fucking a married man demanding to be the only one he fucked outside of his marriage bed.

“And what of my wife? Your husband?” Aegon sneered as he placed his goblet of wine down on the table. He moved to stand within a hair's breadth of you. “Do not think to have any claim on what I do or where I do it.”

His words made you feel as if you had been slapped. In your anger, your breath began to come in heavy pants. Aegon’s eyes moved down to your low neckline, unashamedly ogling your tits as they rapidly rose and fell.

The movement of his eyes set you off. You pushed him so hard he stumbled backwards half a step. It was an extremely childish way to handle your emotions, you knew. The amused look on his face told you that he felt the same.

Wanting to wipe that look off his face, you raised your hands to push him again. This time, he was not caught off guard by your movement and grabbed your wrists. Aegon briefly glanced down at your parted lips - the only warning you had before he brought his lips to yours in a firm kiss.

He bit your lower lip, so hard you immediately opened your mouth wider in shock. His tongue slid into your mouth, moving against yours. A muffled moan escaped you as he let go of your wrists and gripped the sides of your face to ensure you did not break the kiss.

Only when you both needed to breathe did Aegon’s lips leave yours, but he lavished your neck and collarbone with bites and sucks and licks. Nothing too hard to leave a mark but enough for pleasured gasps to fall out of your mouth.

His hands moved from your head to caress your sides and back with a gentleness that contrasted with the harshness of his attack on your neck.

You let out a pleading “oh” as he bit the left side of your neck where it met your shoulder, the spot that always got a reaction out of you.

Your cunt throbbing and wetness beginning to pool between your thighs, you moved your hands to the ends of his tunic, pulling it up. Aegon acquiesced to your nonverbal request, removing his lips from your neck to pull the garment up and over his head. He then turned you around and began unlacing your dress. Once loosened, you stepped out of it and took off your chemise before turning back around to meet his gaze.

The two of you stared at one another, both breathing quickly. His eyes held a fire in them that you had come to know well, his pupils so dilated you could barely see the purple of his irises. His cheeks were flushed and his lips slightly parted.

Not breaking eye contact, you placed your palms flat on the planes of his chest and pressed. You did not press so hard that he thought you were trying to knock him down again but firmly enough that he understood what you wanted. He walked backwards, only stopping when his knees hit the edge of his featherbed.

You pressed again, and Aegon sat down on the bed. Looking up at you with hooded eyes, he placed his hands around your hips and pulled slightly. You smirked as you straddled him, your knees on either side of him.

“I do want a claim on what you do and where you do it,” you breathed as you sat on his right thigh.

You unlaced his trousers and wrapped your hand around his hardening cock. You only had Roland to compare, but Aegon’s cock was longer when hard, with more girth. And it filled you up perfectly.

He groaned as you began moving your hand in slow strokes. Once he was fully hard, the head of his cock red and leaking, you removed your hand from him - feeling a surge of power when he whined at the loss of contact - and spat into your palm, maintaining eye contact as you did so.

“Fuck,” Aegon moaned when you wrapped your wet palm around him again, working him at a steady pace as you lightly turned your wrist with every other stroke. Just like he had taught you.

You watched his face contort in pleasure - his brows furrow, his eyes clenching shut, his mouth agape.

“Faster,” he begged, licking his lips as his pants increased.

You happily obliged him.

His grip on your hips tightened and his own hips began gently bucking up when you began swiping your thumb on the underside of the head of his cock on each stroke.

“You always make me feel so good, Aegon,” you quietly praised, causing him to sigh out your name. “You’re so good to me. I want to be the only one that’s good to you. I’ll do anything.” Your last words came out in a breathy moan.

His eyes shot open at your pleading. You could only imagine how much of a mess you looked. Eyes wild, chest rising rapidly, lips swollen from biting them so hard in an effort to keep yourself from rubbing yourself to completion on his thigh while you watched him in the throes of pleasure.

“Do you love me?” he rasped.

“Yes,” you told him immediately. “Aegon, I love you.”

Aegon came with a whine of your name just moments after you said the words, his warm seed coating your hand. You immediately brought your hand to your mouth, licking his release off your fingers and palm. Aegon groaned at the sight.

Perhaps you did love him. Why else would you become so angry at the fact that he still visited whores?

Still panting, Aegon moved one of his hands from your hip to your lower back. Urging you to rub yourself on his thigh. You did not need any extra encouragement, your cunt throbbing so hard it nearly hurt and so wet you knew your slick already stained his trousers. You tilted your hips quickly, so eager to come from how worked up you were from giving him pleasure.

You sighed when he palmed your breast with the hand not on your lower back and released a sharp cry when his thumb began circling one nipple while he wrapped his mouth around the other and used his tongue to mimic the actions of his thumb. You wrapped your hands tightly in his hair, to ensure he did not move away from your tits.

“Aegon,” you moaned as you moved back and forth as fast as you could, waves of pleasure hitting you from head to toe with each pass of your hips, your bundles of nerves rubbing directly on his clothed thigh.

You were already so close.

Yes yes yes oh fuck oh gods

“Say it when you come,” Aegon demanded. The feeling of his breath on your nipple, wet from his tongue, sent shivers down your spine.

You nodded, so blissed out that you barely registered what he said. But you did.

“I love you,” you cried out when your back arched and your cunt clenched. You softly repeated the phrase, and his name, through the aftershocks as your hips slowed their movements.

Aegon removed himself from your chest once your hips stilled, kissing his way back up - the tops of your breasts, the hollow of your throat, your neck, your jawline, your lips.

You returned his kiss hungrily, pushing your tongue in his mouth and moving it against his.

“I want to be the only other woman you fuck,” you told him once the two of you broke away. You looked him straight in the eyes as you said it, so he knew you were serious.

Aegon gave you a look of such tenderness that it made your heart melt. He brought your lips back to his in a gentle kiss.

“You’re perfect,” he told you softly, resting his forehead on yours.

After that night, Aegon did as promised and stopped visiting the Street of Silk. But you made sure to find a way to sneak out of your chambers every night to see him. Just to prevent the possibility.

[secretarysong]

read a really good nsr fanfic the other day and ive sort of been thinking bout aunty ever since

[rexwrendraws]

Sandcastles: Year One, A Sandman Fan-Fic Anthology ⏳

To celebrate The Sandman's one year anniversary this past weekend (how has it been a year already!?), I started a self-indulgent project and decided I wanted to take a crack at typesetting for the very first time.

So, I'm very proud to present: Sandcastles, an 180-page digital anthology that celebrates some of my favorite Sandman fics from the past year! Sandcastle collects shorter fics ranging from gen to mature, and is print-ready and available to be downloaded for free. Through this anthology, I hope others can get the same joy from these fics the same way I did over the past year (think of it as a glorified fic rec list)! (And, if anyone's interested, the print-ready files are available for download as well, if anyone wanted to print their own copy of Sandcastles!)

✨ Download Sandcastles here!

Thank you to all the authors for giving me permission to include their work in this anthology! This is my love letter to all of your work! Please check them out and leave a kind word or two!

The fics included in Sandcastles, in order of the Table of Contents, are the following:

Companions - Picture_Yourself (@anthrossandman)

Fridays - hardly_an_escape (@hardly-an-escape)

Warning Sign - issylra (@issylra)

Snacktime - fishydwarrows (@fishfingersandscarves)

Stray - softestpunk (@softest-punk)

Aulon Raid - moorishflower (@moorishflower)

Unbidden Miracles - mostlybuddingthoughts (@mostlybuddingthoughts)

Available - softestpunk (@softest-punk)

Points of View - cuubism (@cuubism)

Fern-Fevered - notallsandmen (notallmaenads) (@notallsandmen)

The Last - secondjulia (@secondjulia)

Scratch a Little Itch - sanyumi (@valeriianz)

Simple Dreams of Comfort - softestpunk (@softest-punk)

The Apocalypse is Nigh! - cuubism (@cuubism)

To Those Who Dare Wonder - Astrophel_Hireath (@mentallyinvernation)

The Perils of Inebriation - Lilibet (@the-slow-arrow)

Touch - softestpunk (@softest-punk)

Passing the Time - Anonymous

I'm Stuck on You (I'm Mighty Glad You Stayed) - hardly_an_escape (@hardly-an-escape)

Hob Gadling vs. The British Museum (Unknown Artist, c. 2022, Oil on Canvas) - TheAllKnowingOwl (@theallknowingowl)

This also counts as my submission for Day 1 of @mr-sadman 's Sandmanniversary 2023 prompts (Collection) :)

_ _ _ _ _ (Post & files updated — 29.08.2023)

[domi091]

The Struggle of Parting Ways

Tails knew Sonic never cried, it just wasn't him, even if Tails had the chance to witness him tearing up once or twice in his short life, but never cried, his eyes shined sometimes, with emotions more than tears, but they never spell, they well up his eyes and steadily stay there until he blinks them away or they dry of sheer will and stubbornness, that was just his brother, that's how he handled his feelings.

Sonic never cries, and he didn't cry when they sat in silence on the floor in Tails's room, packing up the yellow bag that used to carry their whole life and everything to Sonic's name before they settled in the workshop, tails wasn't going to take it at first, he wanted to grow, he wanted to be his own person, he was taking the cyclone instead of the tornado, he wanted to feel like himself and grow into his full potential without any influence, even Sonic's, especially Sonic's

But the rational part of his brain told him that if anything was going to hold him back it certainly wouldn't be their bag, a piece of worn-out fabric, holding more memories than any other item they have now,

and maybe, just maybe a tiny part of his brain wanted it, wanted to have something of theirs, of sonics, to keep with him for reassurance, it was a childish part, a traitorous one, but his fight over it was weak.

When Sonic showed up at his door holding the bag in his hand and offering to help him pack up before his trip, tails couldn't say no, sonic smiled at him, one of his signature grins almost too natural for the situation,

He didn't cry when he stood in the hangar with a less wide smile but a smile nonetheless still planted in his face, quietly watching tails do the last of many checks on the cyclone and putting away all the things he needed.

There weren't many words to be said, they already had that talk, and soon, the quietness became too much to bear. He was too familiar with Sonic's behavior by now, and could always sense the unsaid words that Sonic struggled to voice or refused to say out loud. However, this time, he felt the weight of the unspoken words in the air around them, and for the first time in a while, he couldn't fill the gaps. He could feel Sonic's gaze on him, and he tried his best not to fidget under the intense scrutiny. When he finally mustered the courage to look up at him again, he found Sonic's arms open and his expression soft. too soft tails almost looked away, He hesitated for a few seconds but soon gave in when Sonic gestured for him to come closer.

Sonic didn't cry as he pulled Tails into the hug, not even when his arms tightened around him too much it was almost painful. He cradled the back of Tails' head with his palm, just like he used to do years ago. sonic remained silent as Tails buried his wet nose in his shoulder and cried, despite his best efforts.

He didn't cry sending him off, tails turned on the engine and nodded when Sonic gave him a thumbs up after checking the way in front of him, all clear.

Tails soared into the sky, he blamed the tears welling up in his eyes on the crisp morning air hitting his face too fast, the fact that his eyes got used to it long ago to tear up went ignored, and the fact that he was wearing his goggles completely forgotten, tails didn't want to look back, not now, not at the start of his own journey, not when he probably looked miserable and childish right now, not when that was exactly what he was trying to grow out of, but he couldn't fight the strong feeling that washed over him, forming a lump in his throat, a tiny voice in his head, sounding suspiciously like his younger self, told him that one last look at his brother won't hurt, one last glance for the road, for good luck, for extra comfort, for the cold nights, he turned.

And he saw him, still standing at the hanger door almost too far to see but Tail's trained eyes didn't miss the small shake in his shoulders, sonic was covering his eyes with his palm and his face was looking down, whether Sonic thought tails was too far away to see him anymore or if he just couldn't hold it any longer tails didn't know, but it was too much to witness.

so he looked back ahead trying and failing to swallow the lump away, he pretended that he didn't see anything and that his eyes were clear and not too blurry to see through, years of practice and the way ahead of him memorized like the back of his paw was the only thing keeping the plane airborne.

[darthraydor]

[fabdante]

The Party Animal and the Goth

Duncan tried to tell her before they showed up that this would be different. She should give it a try. It’d been years since the last party she went to with him (she’d been dating Trent at the time to, something Duncan further blamed for her bad time). Maybe she’d like it now. And Duncan wouldn’t leave her alone, he swore. No awkward hanging out by herself and the dog should they have one. And if Trent was there, Duncan would punch him just for her. Blah blah. All sorts of promises. Well. She wasn’t into it. Like she said she wouldn’t be. Duncan fucked off somewhere else. Like she thought he would. And she saw her ex Trent floating around and she was doing everything in her power to avoid any awkward small talk that would ensue the second he saw her again. Like she feared.  Of course the party was going to be that predictable. She should have put money on it. And there wasn't even a dog. Around midnight she’d gotten sick of the whole thing. But Duncan was off doing something (hopefully not someone) and Geoff found her. They talked. She mentioned maybe looking for DJ and leaving. But Geoff lit up like she’d just told him he won a prize and her night got a little weird. Instead of just saying bye or helping her find DJ or literally anything else, Geoff was instantly offering to talk her back to her dorm. So that got her where she was now, walking with Geoff away from his party.  What the fuck.

Summery: A classic 'Geoff walks Gwen home' story set in the year of 2013/2014, in which Gwen has decided to leave a party early and Geoff has decided he'll walk her home. (College AU, no camp.)

Words: 4,274

Rating: Teen (swearing)

Read Here!

[one-idea]

Shanks raising ASL part 7

First - Previous - Next

One they get back to the Red force Shanks finds Benn waiting on the deck. Ace had passed out on the way back and was sleeping in Shanks arms. Benn looked the two over smirking at his captain. “Finally got through to the little fighter eh.” He whispered to his Captain. He knew how much the boys had come to mean to his captain, knew that they were part of the crew now. Part of their family. But he wasn’t going to pass up the chance to tease Shanks over his grumpiest son.

Shanks looked down at the little boy he was carrying in his arms. “In more ways than you can imagine.” He whispered back. Then he turned his attention back to Benn. “Where-”

“Where else.” Benn cut him off jerking his head towards the captain’s quarters. He knew exactly who his captain was asking after.

Shanks smiles at his first mate before making his way to his cabin, leaving Benn behind on watch. It was a bit of a juggle to get the door open and not let go of Ace but he managed. Once inside he was greeted by the sight of Mihawk sitting up on a chair next to the bed. In his bed lay Luffy and Sabo all tangled up in the blankets and each other. Mihawk turned to met his eye as he came in, nodding his head down to Ace in a silent question. ‘Is everything taken care of?’

“He’ll be okay for now.” Shanks reassured the unsaid worries. He walked over and gently laid Ace down next to Luffy. Watching as the three boys rearranged themselves subconsciously. Sabo throwing an arm over Luffy to grab hold of Ace, while Luffy snuggled into his returned brother. Ace turned to meet them. Wrapping himself around Luffy and fisting a hand into Sabo’s shirt. “But there’s a lot I need to tell you.”

The two men talked quietly, carful not to wake the boys. Mihawk tried to remain impassive but even he was shocked by the reveal of Ace’s parents.

“How can we protect them Mi? Luffy being Garp’s grandson was already going to take some maneuvering, but Ace? If this gets out the Marines will never leave him alone.” Shanks was sitting on the edge of the bed looking down at his boys, his hand gently running trough Ace’s hair. How could the world be so cruel? That Ace would be hunted down for no actions of his own.

“Then we never let them know.” Mihawk stated smoothly. “We keep the circle small. Only those we trust completely will know. The problem will be once he’s out there on his own, will he keep it a secret?” Mihawk paused. Thinking over an idea. One he loathed but might protect his family.

“I don’t want him to have to lie about who he is. Especially not from his Namaka. I don’t want to make him feel ashamed of who he is, or that he’s worth less because of his parents.” Shanks turned to face his partner. “They were good people Mi. My captain was a great man, Ace shouldn’t have to hide.”

“But he does.” Mihawk knew Shanks had a soft spot for his old Captain. His loyalty ran deep, and Shanks couldn’t stand the lies the Marines had spread about his old crew. But sentiment wasn’t going to keep Ace and his brother safe. It was fine to let the boy know the truth of his parents. On this boat he could be Gol D. Ace and know the man his father was. But the rest of the world couldn’t know.

“To the rest of the world he needs to be Portagas D. Ace adopted son of Red Hair Shanks. Nothing else. Even that last name would be a risk if so many of the Rodger pirates weren’t already wiped out.” He saw the small flinch his lover gave at the reminder of his lost family members. Mihawk didn’t want to hurt him, but for now they to be pragmatic. “We hide him by tying him to you. He’s just some kid you picked up in the East Blue. Nothing more.”

There was silence between them as they both thought over the future. Shanks turned his head to look back down at the boys.

“You said me.” Shanks voice was soft, grabbing Mihawk’s attention.

“Clarify.” He requested, he wasn’t sure where Shanks’ head was at right now.

“You said ‘we hid him by tying him to me’ so I take it you’re not staying.” Shanks had always know that this would come to an end. But Mihawks extended stay with the crew in the East Blue. The time they had spent on Dawn Island with the boys. Seeing Mihawk with his boys, it had allowed Shanks to deceive himself into thinking that maybe this time Mihawk would stay.

He had offered a place on the crew to Mihawk many times, but he understood the call of the sea, the need for freedom. And it had never stopped him from loving Mihawk, as long as Mihawk returned to him, it would never stop him. But that didn’t mean that it didn’t hurt every time Mihawk left. It didn’t mean he wanted Mihawk to leave.

Mihawk sighed. It was an old conversation. Shanks always gave him the option to stay but had long stopped out right asking for him to stay. He was always welcomed on the Red force but it was never home. When he was working his way to the top he had to be able to travel quickly. To hunt down his next opponent. To win his title. Now that he had it, challengers need to be able to find him. Constantly moving was counterproductive to that. Plus he would only hinder Shanks’s own goals. If people kept coming to challenge him, then Shanks and the crew, and now the boys, would be put in the cross fire. And that’s not to mention the influx of marines that would hunt them if they were publicly together. No better to keep them separate.

But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. That he doesn’t want to keep Shanks and the boys safe. That he doesn’t love them….. He’s going to take that stupid offer.

“No. I won’t be.” Mihawk replied keeping a carful watch of his partners movement. How Shanks’s shoulders dropped just a bit and how he wasn’t looking at him. “In fact there’s another offer I’ll be taking.”

Shanks whipped around to look at him. “And just who else’s crew will you be joining?” This was a slap to the face. He thought Mihawk didn’t join his crew because he didn’t want a captain, but maybe he just didn’t want him.

“I’m not joining any crew.” Mihawk dismissed the concern. He never wanted a captain but if he were to have one, he’d pick Shanks. His lover should have no doubts or worries over that. “The Marines have made me an offer.”

“You can’t trust them.” Shanks felt his heart drop. It was his captain all over again. Mihawk would put his trust in the Marines and they would stab him in the back instantly. He couldn’t do this again. He couldn’t lose someone else he loved to the marines. “Whatever they promised you, whatever deal they offer is a lie. You can’t trust them.”

“I know that.” Mihawk would be more irritated with Shanks if there wasn’t a breathing reminder of everything Shanks lost sleeping on their bed right now. His lover had had a long stressful night already and he probably should have saved this conversation for another night. But oh well. “They’re creating a ‘Warlord’ system. A group of pirates who can operate however they please without interference from the marines. In exchange we have to help them deal with certain problems.”

He watched as several emotion flicker over Shanks face. “I don’t like it. And I can’t imagine you enjoying being under their thumb.” Shanks couldn’t understand why Mihawk would even consider agreeing to this proposal.

“Oh I won’t. I wasn’t originally planning on taking up the offer. But I can refuse to help them. If they ever sent me after you or the boys I would refuse, or a least fake my efforts, depending on the situation.” Mihawk agreed with Shanks explaining his reasoning.

“Won’t they come after you if you refuse them.” Shanks questioned his lover’s logic.

“Of course but I’m not taking this position for my own safety.” Mihawk explained. Though his explanation left more questions than it answered for Shanks.

“Then why take it in the first place?” Shanks questioned. Starting to get frustrated. He did not want any of his loved ones near the Marines.

“Come now Shanks, you’re smarter than this.” Mihawk waited for his lover to put all the pieces together. He wasn’t good at expressing emotions. He far preferred actions than words. Luckily Shanks always seemed to know his true intentions behind his actions. He had no doubt Shanks would understand him once he thought it over.

Shanks paused thinking things through. “If you take this they won’t hunt you, and you can do what you please….”

“Meaning they won’t be paying to close of attention to who I’m around. They also are giving us the option of making our own home based on islands in the Grandline.” Mihawk expanded in the privileges given to him by the world government if he took up their offer.

“You hate staying in one place for to long so why…” Shanks was still putting the pieces together.

“Because it would give you a safe place for the boys.” Mihawk finally laid the last card on the table. “You’re a big name Red Hair, but you’re no emperor yet.” Mihawk had no doubt that Shanks would reach that level. He was well on his way there. “But until you make yourself and your crew untouchable….”

“The marines could come after us and the boys.” Shanks finished looking between the sleeping children and his lover.

“So if there was an island the marines couldn’t touch where you and your crew could restock or stay out of sight.” Mihawk continues the thought his lover started.

Shanks bit his lip as he thought over his lovers plan. “That would be helpful. But not at the cost of-”

“My freedom?” Mihawk went right to the heart of the issue. “You’re right if that was the only benefit it wouldn’t be worth it. Which is why I wasn’t going to take it. Until tonight.” Mihawk turned his attention from Shanks for the first time in this conversation. His eyes locking on Ace. “After all, if the world government ever learned about the existence of the pirate king’s son who would they send after him? Marines or Pirates?” He locked his eyes back on Shanks’ wide ones. Understanding finally filling his lover’s gaze. “Wouldn’t it be nice to have a heads up on what they know?”

Shanks couldn’t believe was Mihawk was offering. This was an advantage they wouldn’t get again. But still. “I can’t ask you to do this Mi.”

“You’re not.” Mihawk cut him off firmly. “It’s my decision. Besides it’s not forever. You’re close to being an emperor. You and the boys will be untouchable then. The government won’t send me after you. That gives me 7-8 years to build up trust with the fools. By then Ace and Sabo will probably set sail, and I’ll be in a position to make sure the government isn’t giving Ace any attention he doesn’t earn.” Mihawk smirked at the end. Sure that all three boys will create quite the stir when they leave the nest.

Shanks thought about it. He still hated the idea. The idea of Mihawk being so close to the government, the people who killed his captain, put him on edge. “I still don’t like it.”

“I know.” The two made eye contact once more. Mihawk held out his hand and Shanks reached out to hold it. Mihawk used his grip to pull Shanks over to him, Shanks willingly followed moving from the bed to his lovers lap.

“Can it wait? I’m close to being an emperor. Maybe that will be enough protection on its own?” Shanks knew it was a good plan but he just couldn’t agree to it.

Mihawk sighed wrapping his arms around Shanks. “It can wait for a little while longer. But I’ll have to answer soon. The offer won’t be there forever.” Mihawk already knew his choice. If it would give him an advantage at protecting those he cared for he could deal with being the Marines delivery boy. A few years were nothing in the grand scheme of things. But he would concede tonight. Shanks wasn’t ready to agree, he’s had a long and emotional night. They had time to talk about it again. Once the boys were more settled and Shanks had time to think over the offer. He was a brilliant strategist after all. Mihawk had no doubts he would come to the same conclusion Mihawk had.

But for now he held his lover close as they watched over their sleeping boys.

They had time.

Or the did until a bandit decided to show up at Party bar the next morning.

This kinda got away from me. I’ve always been fascinated over why Mihawk decided to become a Warlord. So here are some of his thoughts behind it in this Au.

[ruershrimo]

take me back (take me with you) | f. megumi x fem! reader | chapter 6: beginning

ao3 link for additional author’s notes | playlist | prev | next | m.list

chapter synopsis:

'“Why else do you think I am the way I am? I may be shy and scatterbrained, or a horrible woman with a muddled sense of morality or what I think should and should not happen, when in reality it’s just what I want to happen. But this is why I’m so resolute, and so stubborn. This is why I love you so fiercely. All mothers are like that to some degree, even if my own would never let me bear witness to it.”

You haven’t told her you love her too in years.'

'And Itadori seems… like a good person. I think it’s good, that… you were able to find a friend like that.”

“It was. He’s a really, really good guy.”

“You love him a lot,” Megumi says.

---

You and Megumi set out to prevent an emergency involving Yuuji and a cursed object. Unfortunately, that doesn't happen. But at least everyone is fine in the end, even if it means you'll have to walk away from almost everything (or maybe it's the other way around).

You're going to be all on your own. Still, now it seems like this will hurt less now.

word count: ~8k; tws: none for now :)

17-6-2018 

The two of you walk down the lane. It’s midnight. There’s a loitering silence in the air, no words exchanged between you and him, and it twists your heart in brief moments of hurt when you’re not trying to keep your mind occupied with other things. Your legs move subconsciously without you caring to think of them, the route to the hospital ingrained in your mind as if intrinsically there. 

At some point, you think your hand with its sweat and its grip is going to leave imprints like a marring on his skin, but it’s of your own selfishness that you choose to hold onto his wrist anyway. 

There’s a million things you could say to him right now, things you’ll forcefully push to the very back of your throat, things you’ll keep under lock and key in a mangled mix of quiet anticipation and sombre anxieties. Right now you’re holding his wrist and that’s enough for you, to have him walking behind you if not beside, to be two people near each other— not together— in silence since any conversation is not an option; any conversation could lead to the last spark needed to be fanned into the flame for it to erupt bigger and brighter than ever before. 

If you asked about Tsumiki right now, or why either of them never bothered to speak to you since 2016, it could break you apart, of that you’re sure. And even without words it threatens to do so to you like a chandelier of melting wax candles hanging above you being suspended precariously from the ceiling or light lightning soon to be thrown down mercilessly from the sky. 

“The turning to Sendai Hospital is on the right.” 

“I know the routes better,” you let out, and rather disappointingly it sounds brasher and more derogatory aloud instead of the unobtrusive tone you were aiming for— you hope it doesn’t hurt him but then wonder why you still even cared that much about how he felt about what you said or did anyway, “I got myself accustomed to taking the one on the left that leads you through. Quick shortcut and all.” 

You’re not looking back, but the light pull of his hand from the hold of your wrist seems to suggest his slight reeling back in a small sense of surprise and an equal amount of shock, as if suddenly remembering the fact you were your own person, that you had your own autonomy as one, because somehow everyone thought you weren’t. 

It’s strange to look back at how you were before: meek, timid. Too shy to speak up. Too innocent to be angered by anything. Always dreaming, mind bleary as if on a cloud in blurred skies, hiding behind the backs of others like a petrified forest critter. 

And now you’re this— this person who frowns and disagrees and retorts at every little thing, and as much as you have to, as much as it was nearly inevitable the way you turned out, all you can think you share with the person you were when you first met Megumi and Tsumiki was your need to be useful— and even that has been exacerbated by how you’ve grown, how you’ve become this person you grew into. And a part of you— no, just you as a whole— doesn’t like yourself at all. 

Your father was right. That little girl was hopeful, obedient, kind, caring— you don’t know why even then you were dissatisfied with the way you were, or why your dissatisfaction would matter because at that time you’d cared so little about everything besides caring for people and having fun with the pair of siblings that you were so rarely bothered by it, that it was still just a slight whisper from the back of your head that could be shushed or tuned out with library visits and nights in front of the TV and the glow of old cartoons. Your father was right and this is proved even more by the fact that the whole situation just infuriates you on the surface, and just makes you feel like an empty, hollow shell left behind when you reach deeper into yourself. 

That little girl had potential, potential to be useful but kind, obedient and close to the people who raised her even if it meant abandoning her own ideals. But you’d been so devoted to them, you think, that she was killed and destroyed in the world she grew up in, and now there’s a space for her that’s left vacant due to the way she wasted away. You miss her, the girl you once were, you miss being her, how easy and lighthearted everything was and how all of you felt so content in every sense of the word. But you don’t want her back. Now that’s just what makes you miserable sometimes. 

Self-reflection just made you feel revolted by yourself. You keep your eyes on the road. 

“It’s here,” you state, pointing at the building in front of you. 

Sendai General Hospital is an institution made out of bare concrete. Its walls are yellowed and close in on its wards like a prison, coloured using old paint that hasn’t been repainted over and is as pallid-looking as the skin of the people sitting on the beds it is inhabited by. Just being in it feels like a hit to the body and the brain and the senses, too. There are old-fashioned tiles on its floors, their pale beige hue muted yet the blinding shine on them harshly mopped clean. Inside it reeks of an imminent presence of sickness or death or illnesses and conditions never to be able to be defeated and sterile sanitisers. Looking at the latex-blue curtains in it feels like a blindfold unwantedly, forcefully pulled over both your vision and your ears. 

“You and that Itadori seem close.” 

“We are,” you say, then you add, not really knowing why, “He’s my best friend.” Maybe you’re trying to make him jealous, rile him up a bit. But even then you wouldn’t want him to be riled up, nor would you be satisfied if he were to keep silent. Maybe you just wanted to hurt him, to hurt him back or something, if only for something small, even if you’d already resolved not to do so. 

You’ll make sure not to do that again, though. 

Instead he does something else, takes another route instead. “Then it seems you visit his grandfather often.” 

“Uh-huh,” you nod as the two of you enter the hospital, and you have to blink a few times as always in order to adjust yourself to the light and how it reflects off the detachedly clean floor. “My mother’s here, too.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry— is she alright?” 

“She’s okay, I… think. She… she got sick a while back and stays here now,” you explain, “Let’s not talk about that…—I mean, I… don’t really want to.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“You don’t have to keep saying that.” It just makes people feel worse. 

He doesn’t push further and you suppose that’s okay. Your chest hurts a bit, like phantom pain on a wound that’s still there. There’s not really a way to explain it but almost everything makes you feel that way these days. Everything makes you feel horrible to some degree. Maybe it’s being a girl, maybe it’s being a teenager, but it’s not quite either, you guess. 

“He won’t be here for a while,” you say, “He’s either still in the room where his grandfather is or he’s buying flowers for him.” 

“Then I’ll just contact them and let them know the whole situation first.” 

Who’s ‘them’? 

“Okay.” You turn your back on him, “—wait.” 

“What?” 

“Do you have any emergency contact or something? Like, a trusted adult who could help you with any of this? In case things go really bad?” 

“...why would you need one?” he questions. 

You roll your eyes, “Just give it to me, damn it… if there’s anything I have nowadays, it’s probably foresight for stuff like this. For emergencies.” 

He gives you the number, albeit a bit begrudgingly. Why’d he have to be so pissy about anything and everything? 

“Okay, thanks. I’m going to visit my mother now.” 

The air and the colour from it seems distant as always, the ward she was basically imprisoned in smelling of the indistinguishable mix of sanitiser and sickness. There her body chains her to her bed, and there is little she can do besides rely on and weakly cling to the nurses who assist her, a frail shadow of what she once was. 

“Hi, Mummy.” 

She turns to you, and your chest constricts. Her hair, once much longer, the type that you dreamed to have as it billowed in the wind, the type that invited you caressively to bury yourself in and take in that heady scent of roses that emanated from it— that hair is now replaced with a cloth wrapped around her head. Radiation. Chemotherapy. 

The wrinkles on her face make the difference between her now and her years ago all the more stark. Every visit you come back here, you’ve forced yourself to be acclimated to this new reality, one where she isn’t waiting at home no matter how tedious the fights get or how exhausting it was eating with someone who remained silent, someone who chose to continue suffering if it meant she could hurt and turn her daughter to guilt (as if that would change anything). At least she was there. 

Cancer is a terminal illness, especially the type your mother is facing— regardless of how much chemotherapy she would struggle through and how much you didn’t want to acknowledge a truth so plain and conspicuously bare, she would be confined to this bed until her final days, her illness like gyves tying her limbs and forcing her earthbound; the bed a cage she could never be liberated from. 

Sometimes she made it a point to you that she didn’t want to liberate herself from it anyway, and you’d never been so depressed yet irked by anything else. (You’d regret everything— not spending time with her, not appreciating her nearly enough— except for your decision to be involved in the Jujutsu world, if not as a sorcerer then as a doctor. That was, and is— your ultimatum. Your end all be all of this whole situation.” 

“Hello. Where’s that Itadori boy?” 

“Not here today, he’s still with his grandfather— maybe later.” You swing your bag over your shoulder, rummaging through it a while before pulling it out. “I’ve something for you, by the way.” 

“Oh! These,” she exclaims, and she smiles faintly, bits of colour rushing back to her face like watercolour dots on moistened paper. “I used to make them for you, sometimes. They used to be your favourite when you were really little.” 

“I know,” you explain, “That’s why I made them. I don’t like them anymore, but… I can’t remember your favourite food or if I ever asked, and I know you don’t like the food they give you here as much as… I don’t know. Your own cooking, I guess.” 

“It’s not my favourite,” she states, matter-of-factly, bluntly, “But thank you for the effort. My favourite will always be my own mother’s cooking.” 

Silence. 

“Now that I look back at everything, there are so many things I regret. Things I should have done but never did out of fear; things I should not have done and never apologised for out of pride. I’d like it if you could be different. Your grandmother went out the same way. At least, even if you had the same illnesses as we did, which I hope the genes for which have been curbed by your father’s— at least you would not leave the world with regret,” she looks down at her hands, staring down at them solemnly like a shadow, an excluded figure. “But it was a good life.” 

“...then maybe you can tell me more. While you— while we still have time. What was your childhood like? What was your mother like?” It feels strange, imposturous, maybe— to be referring to someone basically a stranger as “grandmother”, to name someone so far away from you so intimate, even if the only generation between you, tying the two of you together, was your mother’s. If you had a daughter it would be the same for her, most likely. There’s a part of you that would find honour in becoming your mother once you’d grown, but there’s a part of you that would think being such would accost you horribly, for all time. 

She sighs, “I’ll tell you later. There would be so much to say, like compressing all my words into one tiny paper. The stories have weight in them the same way letters and words in handwriting can be firm and large. But if I were to start,” she begins, “I’ll say that I was born as the daughter of two very powerful sorcerers. Now, I know how much this would sound like some nonsense spouted by your mother, but I think you should listen anyway. 

“My parents loved each other a lot, but my mother had come from an obscure clan whose name I can’t remember, but who had high hopes in them having a child with a powerful cursed technique as their last resort, since, if I recall correctly, there had been a crisis within the clan for it to keep surviving. 

“I still remember when they found out I had no cursed technique and how terrified they were. In me I had a bit more than the relatively normal amount of cursed energy most people have, and so I was expected to have techniques as powerful as they did. They loved me and treated me preciously, like a fragile object, so long as I was quiet and demure— and I guess to some extent I still was and still am today. They wondered what they could do to run from the clan, as if they didn’t have enough power when they were supposed to protect me despite my father’s bullheaded industry and my mother’s patience-formed strength. They lacked grit to grapple against them, and only in this did they lack it, I think; only against my mother’s family did they not have the ability to resolve things whether peacefully or violently. And eventually they just gave up and thought they would just… surrender me over when I entered my adolescent years. I was their daughter. I… suppose they didn’t love me enough. I know it sounds awful— thinking that they should have always protected me, through and through—” 

“No, it wasn’t.” 

“—when it could have been the clan itself that would have been mostly to blame.” 

“But they were still supposed to protect you! They were your parents—” 

“Why else do you think I am the way I am? I may be a shy and scatterbrained or a horrible woman with a muddled sense of morality or what I think should and should not happen when in reality it’s just what I want to happen, but this is why I’m so resolute, and so stubborn. This is why I love you so fiercely. All mothers are like that to some degree, even if my own would never let me bear witness to it.” You haven’t told her you love her too in years. 

“But then when I was an adult I met your father, who was a bit like a country bumpkin, but a formidable sorcerer and a kind, honest person, and I couldn’t help but fall in love with the person he was both inside and out. And for the next few years we struggled to have a child until I found out I was pregnant with you,” she continues, “Even though by that time I was well into my late thirties, we were overjoyed and decided to keep you.” 

Suddenly you wish there had been more time before things were ruined. Time for you to know her better, the beginning of your existence. You would have begged her for old photos, stories, mementos of her and your father. 

“And now the clan’s faded into obscurity, finally. The younger members left and the older ones passed away peacefully. Happy story, right?” 

“...yeah.” It all ended well, but you don’t know if you can say the same for your mother’s. At least, you hope, when she goes away, it can be swift and peaceful like the way her relatives did. 

Then suddenly there’s a buzz in your pocket. An inconvenient one, out of the blue. 

“You should go get that first,” she says. 

“...okay.” 

You lift it up to your face and feel like crushing the damn thing. Old number. Stupid number. Number you haven’t called in months because you’d given up on that bastard— oh. The two of you were working together now. 

You turn away from your mother, creeping to the edge of the room. “What’s wrong?” 

“I just talked to him, but I think it would be easier if you came back and was there with him too since you know him better than I do. And he… doesn’t seem like the brightest. He may think that it’s not important enough to hand over unless you ask him to or something.” 

You muffle your voice with your hand and whisper, “Hey, you shut up, you know nothing about him. He’s way smarter than people give him credit for. But I’m— I’m with my mother right now. Wait for a second. Just ask him to wait for me first; he wouldn’t need any of my help for all of this yet. Make a friend or get a life or something.” 

“...fine. But you’ll have to join us later. He’s bound to ask about you.” 

“Then just tell him I’m with my mother!” you snap, still whispering. 

“I’ll see what I can do.” 

“Wh— you little— oh, don’t you hang up now—” 

Weird thing is, he probably wasn’t even being so infuriating on purpose. And you wouldn’t have burst out at someone for being that way anyway. It was only because it was him, specifically. 

You’d sworn to put that past you. 

Your immaturity strikes once again. 

“If you have to go now,” your mother says, “You should. Just come back again next time. I can tell you the rest. Thank you again for the food, [Name].” She doesn’t call you ‘darling’ anymore, doesn’t she? Just your name. 

“Okay. Sorry.” 

You swing the bag back over your shoulder, wearing it this time instead of taking it off, easing your way out of the room. 

“It’s okay,” she assures you, “Goodbye. I love you.” 

“...I love you, too,” you say, but it’ll mingle with all the other sounds in the hospital, and it’ll be drowned out like a ship in the middle of nowhere, your voice soft and thoroughly soused by the cacophony of bleak noises like telephone rings and beeps from electrocardiographs outside of her deafeningly quiet hospital room. 

“Hi, Yuuji,” you greet them in the dimly lit waiting area, “...and Megumi. Sorry to keep the two of you guys waiting for so long.” 

“Oh, hey; it’s okay!” he goes, although in his voice it seems that there’s been some of his usual energy seeping away from him. “Didn’t know the two of you knew each other until just now or that you were a part of some magic curse society. Are you guys childhood friends who met because of all that cursed stuff or something?” 

“Something like that,” Megumi explains. 

“It’s a long story,” you say, not exactly denying him nor conceding his words anyway. Once again, there’s a trace of anger despite your promise to be untethered to your puerility like this. “Anyway, are you okay, Yuuji? How’s your grandfather?” 

He pauses. “Oh, about that… he just passed away.” 

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Yuuji…” you hold the fabric of his jacket (sometimes it still feels wrong to try and hold his hand— it just makes your heart ache again like a scab being clawed at) and pull him into a brief caress, patting his back as gently as you can manage. 

“It’s okay, I’ll be fine,” he smiles as you pull yourself away, “Grandpa wouldn’t want me to be crying right now anyway. So don’t worry.” 

“Okay, I won’t. But if you’re sad, just know you can always talk to me.” 

He laughs, softer than the boisterous manner he usually does so in, “Yeah, I know.” 

Megumi clears his throat, pointedly trying to make a sound, “Anyway. Itadori Yuuji—” 

“Just call him Itadori. You don’t have to be so uptight.” 

“Nah, [Name], I’m fine—” 

Megumi sighs. “Anyway, we need you to give the cursed object now.” 

“Oh, yeah, that,” you start, “So, Yuuji, do you have the thing that Megumi would have explained to you? The cursed object? We need it for everyone to be safe, and all.” 

“Yeah! Hold on, let me get it. I told you I didn’t have it already, but here’s the box,” he says, tossing it over to Megumi. 

He retrieves the box. It’s ancient and wooden, the craftsmanship behind it elite and adroit, and the paper on it has the words for a buddhist sutra written on it like an inscription. You’ve heard of it before, the kind of curse it was meant to seal, but it definitely couldn’t be— 

He opens the box. 

Holy shit. 

“Where is it?” 

“It’s empty…” Megumi panics, “Wait— hold on!” 

Things are bad— as in, they couldn’t get any worse— not only was the school doomed by the loss of its cursed object, the cursed object was Sukuna Ryomen’s finger itself. 

You blame your inadequacy, your inability to have stopped everything sooner— if not for that nobody would have gotten hurt. If not for that there wouldn’t even be a risk of anything happening anyway. You should’ve tried harder to sense it, and you should’ve focused more on it to keep the student body safe and sound. 

It was your fault. No one else was to blame but your useless self, and even if that were wrong, you’d still have the most to be blamed for. 

Megumi has a hand on Yuuji’s shoulder, keeping the other boy from moving, his breathing erratic and his eyes wide in frantic shock. 

“...well, they were saying, ‘let’s open it up to see what’s inside it tonight’,” Yuuji clarifies, standing a few centimetres away from the door, “Why? Is that bad?” 

Sasaki and Iguchi? 

The air in the hospital feels particularly chilly tonight, gooseflesh terrorising your skin all over, and for all the kinds of reasons that would cause anything like such. 

“It’s way worse than bad,” Megumi declared, fear and grim so thick in his voice they were tangible enough to be cut through with a knife. “Your friends are going to die.” 

“We’ve got to go,” you rush, “Now! Quick!” 

It passes by like a blur, as if you’re in that moment and out of it simultaneously. Your mind has been bombarded with and pressed so thoroughly onto the moment, like tissue on a wet surface, that it seems it’s being blanked out, while your legs continue to run despite your mind nearly forgetting, at this point, why you’re running— as if your legs moving so frantically to help them was something intrinsic, something you didn’t need your mind for. 

Sasaki and Iguchi are in danger. Sasaki and Iguchi are in danger. 

You didn’t know them all too well, really— just through Yuuji, and Yuuji himself wasn’t as close to the two of them, being their junior and all. And although a part of you was doing this just because you could, like the way you did when you first discovered your cursed technique, you knew that another was doing this for Yuuji. If in any way they were hurt or could not survive, he would blame himself to no end. He possessed such a kindness within him, so much that it hit the depths of your soul sometimes; shattered your heart so gently a million times over or heated it in the kindly way mothers heated pans on stoves despite the heat of it being greater than that of blue flame. If anything happened to them, no matter how much or how little he knew of them, he wouldn’t be able to live after that. 

The two of them are near the barrier separating the school from the street before you (you struggle with catching up to them— one’s a star athlete and another has been training for much longer than you, you’re sure), the gates tall and enveloped in darkness. You didn’t think much of school except for when it came to your grades and being with Yuuji, thinking of these gates— the ones that you and Yuuji use when you’re running super late— in particular as just a shortcut entrance you paid little attention to, just something treated with indifference as you passed through them whenever you were late. Yet now they echoed denial, refusal, and slim chances— it was unlikely that they’d be alright, especially since this cursed object in particular was the finger of Sukuna Ryomen. 

“Is that the building?” Megumi questions, “Where are they?” 

“Fourth floor— guh!” Yuuji seems to come to an abrupt halt, nearly slamming into what seems to be an invisible wall. A veil. 

“Yuuji!” 

“I’ll handle this,” Megumi declares, hopping onto the metal wires, more directed to Yuuji than you. So even he can tell how selfless Yuuji is, even after only having just met him. 

“I may not know those two that well, but—” Yuuji starts, “But they’re friends! I have to help!” 

“You’re staying here,” Megumi commands, “[Name], if you could— get your father or any sorcerers you know to come here and help.” 

He climbs over the gate. 

He’s going away from you again. Slipping away from your grasp. And now, all you can do is watch. There’s nothing else— nothing else you can do, at all. If you went inside now, you wouldn’t be able to help except— what?— tend to their injuries? Manipulate your own cells into weapons? The former wasn’t possible with how much you’d strained yourself from running so quickly earlier, and the latter was too dangerous: you hadn’t even started with the basics of that yet, on your father’s obstinate insistence that even if he’d let you play doctor he wouldn’t let you manipulate any of the cells in your body into any kind of usable weapon. Any simple wrong move could make things turn south in the most drastically terrifying of ways. If you went in there, you’d just die, and there’d be more casualties, more trouble, more problems caused by you and you alone. 

You can’t even call your father, either. That would always be your last resort— because even if you fought, you still needed him to rest. You didn’t want him overexerting himself by using his cursed technique at all. 

(You were selfish. You didn’t want to lose your father. You didn’t want to have to visit not one but two parents lying sick and tired and grey in matching hospital beds.) 

“Yuuji?” you start, turning to him. “You’re…deathly quiet. Are you okay?” 

His lips quiver slightly, a faint whimpering noise coming out of him. Is he crying? 

“Yuuji, look at me. Are you okay?” you ask, as gently and softly as you can right now, despite your ragged, unsteady, unathletic-addled breaths. You place a hand on his shoulder, slowly rubbing up and down from his shoulder and crook of his neck to his back. “It’s okay. …Megumi’s a good and… capable, strong person and jujutsu sorcerer. He’ll be okay, and they’ll be okay too. Just… just put your trust in him, okay?” 

“I’m sorry, [Name], but I’ve got to go,” he tells you, “You stay here, and call for help or something. I’m sorry, but I’ve just really got to do it!” 

He hugs you, quickly, deftly. And then he crosses the gate, leaving you all alone like Megumi did. You wish he’d hug you longer, that you could take care of him for a little longer— it was your last way to be useful now. 

Still, there’s someone you could call, now that you remember him.

The emergency contact. 

You snatch your phone out, resolute. 

“Hello! Gojo Satoru speaking,” the voice on the other line says. 

You’ve heard it plenty before by accident. 

When Gojo and Megumi are back, Yuuji’s in the form of a figure slung over Gojo’s shoulders like he’s been reply entrenched into slumber, his body seemingly limp and his torso completely bare. There’s barely an ounce of movement in him, except for slow exhales and inhales you can see on his chest. Sasaki and Iguchi are both nearly the same, the former covered in bruises and in a deep, panicked haze, and the latter as asleep as Yuuji seemed to be while harbouring injuries he may never recover from. 

The only non-roughed up one here is Gojo, it seems; Megumi has a stream of blood running from the top of his head in rivulets, staining his sweaty, scraped forehead. 

“Wh— you two, what happened? Why are they all asleep? What happened to Yuuji? Are they okay? What—” 

“Calm down, kid,” Gojo says, “They’ll be fine. I mean, there’s a 100% chance that your friend can be executed, but…” 

“Executed?” you almost scream, “What the hell happened? You said things would be okay!” 

“Uh-uh, again, calm down. I mean, we don’t even know when they’re gonna make him kick the bucket! He ate Sukuna’s finger, by the way.” He holds his arms up in faux surrender. 

“Gojo you ignorant slut! Don’t you fucking dare tell me to ‘calm down!’ He ate Sukuna’s finger? Why weren’t you able to stop anything? What’s going to happen to him now? You know what— give him to me!” 

“You know, it’s not like I’m scared of being hunted down by your father if you use your cursed technique— I mean, I’m leagues stronger than him— but the stuff was too strong. It’s not like you’ll be able to get rid of the finger in your little boyfriend.” 

“He’s not her boyfriend!” Megumi interjects.

“Thank you, Megumi!” Your face is going hot like a campfire fanned by the wind. 

“Oh?” Gojo adds, a teasing lilt in his voice. “Anyway, we’re going to get him to a place where we can cover everything with talismans to surround him.” 

They’re going to execute him at Jujutsu High after.  

“I’m coming with you.” 

“You sure?” Gojo asks, “Your father isn’t going to like you travelling so far away without telling him.” 

Megumi shifts, a little sombre. “[Name], you don’t have to.” 

“...I’m doing this for Yuuji, not for you.” 

“You okay?” Gojo asks while the three of you are back in the hospital. (You hate this building so much.) Iguchi’s been transferred to a ward, Sasaki having woken up and insisting on staying with him. “I’ve got kikufuku if you want some. You must be really tired since it’s so late, huh?” 

The whole situation is so incredulous you’re unsure of whether you want to burst out laughing or dismember someone. 

“...nothing. Wait, let me see Yuuji again.” 

Everyone is asleep, it seems— all except for you and Gojo. Yuuji’s been knocked out, and Megumi’s stuck in the world of his dreams. 

You can’t sleep. There’s just nothing to put your mind at rest. 

At least if there’s one thing you can do it’s this. 

Gojo picks him up by the sides of his torso (now temporarily clothed with a spare white shirt) like a child with a heavy book. “Woah— he’s pretty heavy for a fifteen year old kid.” 

You lay Yuuji face-up on the line of hospital chairs. There are thin scarlet marks right under his eyes— Sukuna’s eyelids, you’ve been told. 

You should’ve done more to protect him. 

Slowly, reticently, you kneel by the side of the chairs. You press your fingertips onto that pair of thin tiny lines. 

Nothing happens. You can’t picture his cells being able to grow back. It’s as if there’s been a slit on his face and its outline has been replaced with brand-new skin. His cells don’t budge. 

“Why don’t you help Megumi? I bet he’s got plenty of healable injuries.” 

“…I don’t think I’ll be able to help much. I could faint if I try helping him now. It’s better to leave it to Dr Ieiri or something.” 

“Pft,” he scoffs, “Shoko? She’s definitely not going to heal all of him. It’ll just be a waste of her time. You can just help him with the tiny scrapes and bruises first. And I’ll even tell her that you did it. She’s really fond of you, you know.” 

You give him a shy, modest smile. “Thanks, then.”

It’s time to get to work. 

Megumi’s skin is smooth like a baby’s just like the last time you felt it, though the frown on his face, ever-present, is bound to cause wrinkles there in less than a few decades’ time. You place your hands on him, bruised and bloody, watching in your mind and directing his cells as they work. 

Once the smaller injuries have been dealt with, you stop. “I can’t really work on the one on his head, since then you’d get another fainted person to carry around, but he should be fine with some bandages and patching-up there, because I’ve already kind of catalysed the start of that area’s healing process a little. Other than that, he should be completely fine. I’ll give it, say… two weeks or so for it to get better completely.” 

“Good work!” he smiles, the outline of his cheeks visible on his blindfold. 

“By the way, Mr Gojo…” 

“You know, I appreciate the respect you’re giving me now, but just Gojo is fine.” 

“Okay, Gojo. Do you think Yuuji will be okay?” 

“I mean, I’m pretty sure. And I’m going to ask them to suspend his sentence. I’ll just see whether he wants that or not once he wakes up.” 

“That’s the thing. I’m not sure if he even will.” 

Gojo laughs. “Don’t worry. He was really strong, and able to switch between being possessed by Sukuna and being himself at will. We haven't seen that kind of talent in a millennia! I’m sure they’ll listen to me, anyway.” 

“Thank you,” you sigh. Thank goodness. “If you need any type of payment, um… teleport to my house whenever you get inconvenient little cuts like bruises and stuff. I can help.” 

“Nah, reverse cursed technique’s got me covered.” 

“Oh, wait— I forgot about that— um… I can…”

“Just leave it to me! No payment required,” he exclaims, holding both thumbs up. “And for the record, the one who wanted to save Yuuji was actually Megumi.” 

You wouldn’t have imagined that would happen. Megumi— pragmatic, serious, unkind when he needs to be (no matter how kind of a person he actually is— no, was— at heart), different from Tsumiki in so many ways. There was no way he would have been the one vouching for Yuuji, someone he’d only just met, to be spared. 

“Really?” you ask, “I… wouldn’t have thought he was the one who would do it. I thought, maybe, you were just… really kind tonight or something…”

“Well, maybe it was because he saw how much you cared about Itadori and did it for you, or maybe he had met Itadori, liked him, and just wanted to save a good person,” Gojo suspects, “But if there’s one thing for sure it’s that your old friend saved your new one.” 

“...oh.” 

You’ll have to bring it up with him next time— maybe, if he’s still there tomorrow…

“I know you’re mad at him, but a lot has happened,” Gojo states, voice lower, softer like a schoolteacher’s, “Still, I won’t tell you that you have to give him a chance or any of that. If you don’t want to, you don’t have to thank him or anything. I’m sure he did it out of his own volition without expecting anything from you. He knew he probably didn’t deserve to if it were you.” 

You pause. “No, it’s just… I’ll talk to him again the next time I see him. Alone, most likely. And I can figure something out. I think that would be the best way to go around things. Thank you, Gojo.” 

18-6-2018 

The aftershocks are still there, although you’ve come out unscathed. 

Last night was a mingled mess, a blur. You’d tried your best to help Iguchi by the time Yuuji was placed in the room of talismans and you could come back to the hospital and visit, but in the end he still needed better help than that. His injuries were too large of scale for how you were at that moment, already tired after healing some of the numbers done on Megumi. 

(You were useless. You couldn’t help anyone. You couldn’t prevent Yuuji from being hit with such soul-striking guilt., couldn’t help Sasaki from being traumatised, couldn’t help Iguchi enough for him to be back at school soon—) 

Sasaki’s injuries were limited to bruises and scrapes, but though you could help her physically, there was nothing you could do to assist her emotionally. 

You stayed with them for a few hours in the ICU and then one of the hospital wards (a floor under your mother’s), your father calling you once the sun had risen. 

“Gojo Satoru told me about everything that happened.” 

“Yeah. I know you’ll scold me, but… not now. I’m sorry, I’m just really tired.” You hang up. 

For all you spoke of wanting to be useful, the night when your powers were needed the most was when you were at your most useless— you couldn’t help them, you couldn’t help attack the cursed spirits, and the only thing you could do was call for an adult’s help like a little, scared and helpless girl. 

You needed to train, and train harder than you had been doing for the past few years. 

There’s a knock on the door, a dot-dot-dot-dot-dot. dot dot. It’s Yuuji, you know it is. How ever could you not? 

Timidly, movements quiet like the room itself, you pull the door knob, seeing him there, relatively unscathed. You sigh in relief, a moment’s respite before you return to the panic you had been living in before since you deserve the respite less than other people do— no, you don’t deserve such a break at all, you’re absolutely sure of that, not after what you pulled, how horribly and utterly useless you were, you’ll remind yourself of that again and again and again— the heart-piercing guilt and the worry and the constant need to care for the people around you, almost like a mother, maybe, but you don’t like that thought as much as you think you should. Maybe if your own mother knew, she’d disagree— maybe she’d tell you that you should be a mother, maybe she’d ignore that you were also a child at certain times— the most convenient ones, probably. When she thinks it good that you, a child, were someone’s caretaker because women should take pride in and appreciate that, she would encourage you to be one; when she thinks it bad that as a caretaker and a so-called ‘adult’ you can have your own autonomy, agency and opinions, then maybe she’d remind you that in her eyes you knew nothing of the world. But maybe, just maybe, there was also a chance that she wouldn’t be like that in any way. 

But you wouldn’t put it past her. 

“Yuuji, are you okay?” There are questions about to spill out of you, tears about to fall like gushing rivers, but you’re just happy he’s alive at this point. 

“Yeah.” His voice is soft. Your chest twinges; it hurts like an awful, intransigent little bruise. “Hi, [Name].” It feels so unignorable, the way it’s filled with such sorrow and worry that it weighs his usually loud and boisterous voice down. 

“I thought that—” you start, lips trembling, “I thought there was a chance I couldn’t lose you. The only thing I could do was—” you sniffle, “Hope that they could delay it or something.” 

“Yeah. I’ll explain it later,” he says, his voice sincere. 

You squeeze the wrist of his sleeve. “Don’t do things like that ever again,” you plead, “Promise me that at least.” 

“I promise.” 

“And keep your promises.”

“I will.” 

“...want to come inside?” 

He walks inside, and you step back to make way for him. 

“Sorry I came so late,” he says to you and Sasaki, who shakes her head in reassurance. “Hello, Sasaki,” he greets, “Is Iguchi okay?” 

They speak for a while— you don’t feel like it’s much of your right to join their conversation, since you did nearly nothing at all when they were most in danger, so you leave them be for a while. It would be better not to bother them right now, anyway. They’ve both been traumatised until it reached beneath their bones within the past twenty-four hours. 

When you leave the hospital, Sasaki tells you that she’s going to stay. You tell her to take care, squeezing her hand one final time. 

You let her, patting her on the back. You’ll call them later— she’d given you her contact— just to check on the two of them. 

“Where’s Megumi?” you ask Yuuji. 

“Oh, Fushiguro? I’m not too sure, but that Gojo guy said he’ll be there soon.” 

“Where, though?”

Sheepishly, in peak Yuuji fashion, he scratches the back of his neck. “Actually, another reason why I came here was also because… I mean, I know you and him weren’t close, but I’m going to the place where they’ll keep Grandpa’s ashes, and I think… you know, you could come with me. I… I don’t think I’d be able to do it really well alone, even though he had definitely made it clear he seriously didn’t want me moping around after his death and all. Gojo and Megumi will probably be there, but I thought it would be better if you were there because I know you better than those two, and you’re my friend. So… could you come with me? I know that he never really showed it, but I think he had always liked you a lot. Like, he was happy we were friends and stuff.” 

“...mhm. I’ll always be happy about that,” you tell him, before pulling him into a hug. The guy must need one right now. You’ve never hugged him before. Your heart hurts. 

The air is hot and humid with the breath of summer, bundles of mosquitoes bound to be breeding new ones these next few weeks. Up in the sky is the sun, bold and bright, glaring down harshly at the two of you. 

“Before he passed away, Grandpa actually said something. He… kind of cursed me, if I’m being honest,” Yuuji starts. “He said I was a strong kid, so I should help people. And I’m going to do that. So that was why when Gojo asked if I wanted to be executed immediately or just eat all the fingers before dying, I chose the second option. I… I think I want to help people that way.” 

‘You’ve already helped people enough. You helped me,’ you almost tell him. 

You frown, because that’s the only thing you can do right now. You search for words to say the same way you do looking for dog books in libraries chock-full with those of other genres. “I’m… disappointed, I— I know I should be grateful, grateful that you’re still going to be alive and all, but… you’re still going to be in danger, and you’re still going to be executed one day. I mean, again, I know I should be happy you’re going to have more time alive and that I can still see you, but what if things don’t go as planned? What if you lose control of yourself once you reach, like, the fifth finger or something?” 

You’re selfish like that. In a way, you’re just the way your mother is. You should’ve always known— you were her beloved daughter after all, and the people you know would be loved the same way she did you since the day she knew of your existence, and maybe even before that. 

“Don’t worry,” he grins, wide as always. Even in an over-enveloping darkness he still manages to be the light. “I’ll be just fine. I’m a strong kid, after all. And we’ll always be friends!” 

Gojo asks if he and Yuuji can talk in private for a while. You wonder if this was how your mother felt as she had to give the person she loved most away (but you will have to go away, one day), because you can briefly tell what Gojo is going to ask. You wonder if she felt this twice. 

Yuuji can’t stay with you forever. In the same way you can’t remain by your mother and father’s sides for all eternity. 

This won’t be the last time you’re here, you think. For a place of death, it’s quite a bit beautiful how there’s such large masses of grass and plants surrounding it. 

Megumi nearly walks past you, his eyes on the old photographs of the deceased all around him. 

“Megumi.” 

He turns around. 

“I just wanted to thank you for wanting to save my friend, even if you may not have wanted to do it for me, specifically… um… I didn’t expect that you’d still be here. Are your injuries okay?” 

“I’m okay,” he answers you. “And also, I…” he hesitates, the first time he’s talked to you for something actually related to the two of you in a long time— nearly two years if you’re counting correctly, but the thoughts in your head are a bit too jumbled to count at the moment. “I didn’t really do it for you, though. It… it was for Tsumiki.” 

“Oh.���

“Wait! I’m sorry, that didn’t… come out right. But I should also apologise for something else. You wouldn’t have been thrown into this world anyway if not for my own demon dogs years ago.” 

“No, no, it wasn’t your fault. And I would have wanted to be in it anyway. There’s not many who can heal other people and all, so I just thought… even if I can’t do as much yet, since I don’t have reversed cursed technique and the drawbacks that come from mine are really bad, I can still help people sometimes if they’re dealing with relatively minor injuries. I can, um… make things easier for people. I can be useful like that. I’d keep to it anyway, because I’m stubborn, but… yeah. It wasn’t your fault, really.” 

“Okay. That’s good to hear.” 

“Yeah. Anyway, I’m happy to know that Tsumiki is okay.” 

Silence again for a while. The air turns a little more sombre, and a lot more awkward. 

“She is. And Itadori seems… like a good person. I think it’s good, that… you were able to find a friend like that.” 

“It was. He’s a really, really good guy.” 

“You love him a lot,” Megumi says. 

“I do. He’s a really good friend. If there’s something I’ll always know I know that, at least.” 

“I can see that. It doesn’t seem like he loves you back in the same way, though.” 

“...wow. Way to be blunt, Megumi. And yes, I do know that, too.” 

“Let’s just… change the subject.” 

“You’re the one who introduced it in the first place.” 

“Okay. How… how are you?” 

“I’m good. Wait, I think you should… go back to them. Maybe they’ll need you there right about now. He’s probably going to have to go to Jujutsu High, right?” 

He pauses. “Yeah. I’m sorry, [Name].” 

“No, no. That’s okay. I expected it. It’s just that I’ll miss him a lot,” you tell him, “He took care of me, kind of. You know I’ve always been a bit of an awkward or shy person, but he still approached me since I was new and we ended up hitting off as friends, kind of. We did a lot of stuff together.” 

Sounds pretty familiar, huh. 

“If you want I can make sure he’s safe for you.” 

“...you should be able to do that regardless of whether it’s my wish for you to do so or not…” you state, “But that would help, I guess. And I’m sorry for my attitude towards you for the past few hours or so. Thank you again.” 

“...I’m sorry I never spoke to you for so long, by the way,” he says abruptly. ‘By the way’? Classic Megumi… 

“I could tell you were. It’s… it’s okay. The two of you kind of have a habit of doing that.” 

All your rage, your loneliness, your feelings of abandonment— and this is all you can do. This is all you can say. You can only just let it go, in the end. 

“I’ll explain it all one day.” 

“You don’t have to if it’s hard.” 

He stays. “No, I will. I promise. And I promise I’ll start to talk to you again, as well. I was just… scared of a few things, maybe.” 

“That’s okay.” 

The two of you aren’t quite friends again yet, but it’ll happen soon. Maybe. And even if it doesn’t, you’re finally able to say, with an open, honest heart, that that doesn’t matter as much anymore. 

“I guess this is goodbye again, then.” 

“Not really.” 

“Oh, right— promise to keep in touch, okay? My patience is running thin with you,” you chuckle at that last part, attempting to joke and make things lighter again. 

“Promise.” 

“I’m going to go home now, by the way. Please tell Yuuji that I wish him the best and I’ll visit when I have my own money to visit Tokyo and all.” 

“I will.” 

“And help me say goodbye to him for me,” you add, “Hope that’s not too much for you to do. Sorry for the trouble. It’s just that I’d actually just about cry if I had to do it in real time right in front of him. Be good to him and be good friends, okay? Keep that promise, at the very least. That’s the one thing that I wish for the most.” 

“Bye, Megumi.” You turn back in the direction opposite of his. 

“Wait—!” 

His hand is on your wrist. Now you’re in front of him, like yesterday, and he’s holding your wrist, albeit a bit gentler than the way he used to pull it a whole eight years ago. 

His eyes are cast away from you, slightly avoidantly and in a way that’s a bit abashed. “I’ll miss you, [Name].” 

“It won’t even feel like I’m not there,” you say. Though his grip is slightly tight, he loosens it as soon as you try to slide it up, as if he’d let you be free of it if you want him to. 

You squeeze his hand instead, turning to face him. It feels warm. It feels like there’s blood coursing through you, the sensation more tender and tangible than it’s ever been. 

“Goodbye.” 

“Goodbye, [Name]. I’ll… I’ll call.” 

“Thank you.” 

Now you’re the one slipping away from his grasp. You move your hand away and walk back. The door slides open. 

2010. Springs, summers, autumns, winters. Hands on wrists, a back faced to your eyes, wide with innocence. Warmth and laughter and happiness and love. Days coloured with vibrant hues and time spent with dog books and in libraries. Frowns were greeted with smiles. Hesitance was non-existent. You didn’t feel a need to compensate for your uselessness. You were a child. You didn’t feel useless at all. You just felt this: a constant leaping in your heart, the corners of your mouth twisting up into a juvenile grin, braiding someone’s beautiful brown hair and tying it with a pretty cherry hair tie. 

You want to cry as you walk back home. 

You’re pretty sure you do. 

taglist:

@bakananya, @sindulgent666, @shartnart1, @lolmais, @mechalily, @pweewee, @notsaelty, @nattisbored

(please send an ask/state in the notes if you'd like to join! if I can't tag your username properly, I've written it in italics. so sorry for any trouble!)

[fag4dykestobin]

i kind of sat down and thought about steve and robin cooking together, and then i entered a fugue state and came out of it with a little over 1.7k words written about them being domestic besties (domesties?). so um. enjoy :)

-

Robin has destroyed one of her mom’s pans again, so she’s been banished to Steve’s house.

Well, okay, let’s back up.

Robin, waking up and feeling especially productive, had taken it upon herself to make some scrambled eggs. Nice and simple, right? So she had grabbed the first spatula and pan she could find, and… scrambled those eggs! She even remembered the salt and pepper! Unfortunately, as Robin had remembered after she oh-so-lovingly scraped off the nonstick coating, metal utensils and nonstick pans didn’t really get along. Oops. Panicking, she had scraped her mess into the trash and called Steve to pick her up. So, really, she had banished herself, preemptively.

“How the hell did you even do this much damage?” Steve asks, holding up the pan. The look of befuddlement on his face is picture perfect; you could teach children how to identify emotions with that face. Robin would pinch his cheek if she wasn’t so embarrassed.

“I don’t know! I just tried to make some eggs!”

“Rob, there’s like, a solid cube of—”

“A cube is a 3D object, dingus.”

“This is a 3D object!”

“Not in that way! It’s not a cube! You mean a square!”

Steve throws up his hands, one of them brandishing the pan and waving it around. “Fine! There’s a solid square…” Steve gives Robin a look. She nods her head at him in acquiescence. “... Of coating rubbed off of this thing. Why were you punishing your eggs like that?”

Robin leans back on the counter she’s been sitting on, legs swinging. Her heel hits the cabinet once, and Steve’s eye twitches, but he says nothing. Because he loves her. But she tries to avoid doing it again, for his sake. “I had to get that yolk distributed! I was working fast, Evie, the burner was on and I wanted it evenly mixed—!”

“So why didn’t you mix it in a bowl before that?!” Steve looks so stressed. It's kind of funny, given how unimportant the subject matter is. Robin suppresses a grin.

“I forgot! I was groggy!”

Steve groans, setting the ruined pan down and rubbing a hand over his face. “... When we move in together,” he says, pointing an accusatory finger at Robin, “I am keeping my metal utensils in a locked safe.”

The warm, fuzzy feeling that always appears when Robin is reminded of their future together, their permanence in each other’s lives, it fizzes and pops in her chest like a sparkler. It’s still such a comforting feeling, even after all these months.

It doesn’t stop her from antagonizing him a little. “Like I don’t know what combination you’ll set it to,” she scoffs.  “I could just break in. To spite you.”

Steve sits with that for a moment. “You’re breaking my heart, Robbie, you know that? You break my heart.” Not a real comeback. She’s won their battle of the bits, this time around.

“Well, anyway,” Steve continues, “I am really hoping you didn’t eat those eggs after seasoning them with metal filings.”

“It wasn’t— I don’t think the coating is metal. I don’t know what it is, actually, but I don’t think it falls under metal filings.”

Steve hmms. “Well, it’s not, like, plastic, right? Or silicone? That would just melt.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Well, it can’t be metal, because it loses a fight with metal spatulas.”

Steve thinks for a second. “Is… God, I mean, I guess there are other, other uh… what’s the word? For, like, not from plants?” Robin scrunches her brow in thought. “Synthetic? Inorganic?”

Steve snaps his fingers. “Yeah, both of those work. There’s probably things that aren’t plastic or metal that can be used to cook with, but it feels weird. That there’s another category out there.”

Robin nods in agreement, and they sit in companionable silence for a moment, contemplating on the nature of cookware.

“Anyway, no, I still haven’t eaten.”

Steve curses, gets up from leaning on his kitchen island, and steps over to the cabinets where he keeps his pots and pans. “Yes, God, okay, let me feed you. Still want eggs?”

“You know it!” Robin says, and Steve gets to cooking, bustling around the kitchen with practiced motions. It’s nice to watch him cook. He gets very focused, in a way that doesn’t usually come naturally to him. Steve doesn’t usually like talking while he’s cooking, but he hums bits of songs, bobs his head to the beat.

In no time at all he has a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of Robin, and she hops off the counter to sit at a stool at the kitchen island. She grabs the plate from Steve and smacks a wet kiss on his cheek, making him roll his eyes with a smile and subtly wipe her spit off.

Steve takes a seat across from her, and she notices that he doesn’t have anything. Did he already eat? “Did you already eat?” Robin asks.

Steve blinks. “Oh. No, I forgot.” He has a tendency to do that; when he cooks for someone, he can get so caught up in it that he forgets to make some for himself, and is left to scramble afterwards. “I’ll make myself some eggs after you’re done.”

An idea comes to mind. An attempt at redemption, maybe. “Let me?” Robin asks.

“And let you ruin my pans? No thanks.”

A flash of genuine hurt passes through Robin, and she lets it show on her face in the form of a pout. The comment isn’t unfounded, but… “No, please! I know what I did wrong, I’ll do better this time. I’m not sleepy anymore, either.” She just wants to take care of Steve like he takes care of her. She wants to feed him eggs, goddamnit! When was the last time anyone fed him eggs? Actually, if she thinks about that one, she’ll get sad, so she stops thinking about it.

Steve can obviously see her earnestness, and he softens. And rolls his eyes. But that’s just him being Steve, so Robin loves it. “Whatever you want, Birdie. Just don’t burn them. Oh, and use garlic powder.”

So Robin practically inhales the rest of her eggs and toast (very tasty, as always) and gets to work. Steve sits at his stool at the island, trying and failing not to watch Robin like a hawk as she bumbles around his kitchen (“That’s not enough garlic powder, Rob, put some more in there, it won’t bite!”  and “Use the small pan on the top shelf— no, the other small pan. No, the other—”), but she does eventually get a plate of eggs and toast in front of him. Not as good looking as the one Steve presented her, but it smelled good, and didn’t have weird inorganic pan flecks in them. Steve gives her a sloppy kiss on her cheek this time, over-exaggerating and putting way too much saliva in it, seriously, was he a dog or something? Robin BLECH’d and rubbed at her cheek, but he looked happy at his plate of food, so. Overall success, even if sacrifices had to be made.

Robin leaned on the island on her elbows, face a foot away from Steve’s as he picked up a forkful of egg. He side-eyed her.

“Do you… want some…?”

Robin waved a hand at him. “No, dingus. Eat it! Do you like it?”

“Okay, okay!” Steve rolled his eyes and ate his forkful. Robin stared at him as he chewed, looking out for emotions such as delight and wonder, but also disgust and revulsion.

She found nothing. Steve looked normal. He ate another forkful, eyeing her.

“So?” Robin prods.

“They’re eggs?” Steve says, mouth still half full.

“Swallow!” Steve rolls his eyes and does as she asks. “Nothing else? They’re just eggs?”

Steve nods, shrugging a little. Robin feels a little let-down. The first time Steve had made her eggs, it was life-changing. He put heavy cream in them. Robin doesn’t think her parents had ever bought heavy cream in their lives.

Robin guesses that it makes sense, though. This is just how he makes eggs, duh. Still, it makes her feel kind of bad, that she couldn’t give Steve the same feeling he gave her.

Steve seems to sense her inner turmoil. “They’re— it’s good, though! You did a good job. I do like it.” He seems kind of… embarrassed, but grateful. “You didn’t have to make them for me. Thanks.”

Robin bumps his shoulder with her own, and then retreats to her seat, allowing him a bit more personal space. But not too much! She kicks at his shins, and he kicks back, a smile on his face.

Cleanup is easy as Steve washes the dishes and Robin dries. It’s the small, domestic things, like this, that make her so excited to eventually live together. It’s so easy and companionable, full of chatter about band practice and Dustin’s latest science experiment. She can’t wait to graduate.

After the dishes, though, they’re both at the kitchen island again, silently staring at the pan Robin had ruined at her house earlier.

“... It seems like a waste to throw away,” Robin complains.

“I know, right? But it’s, like, useless now.”

Robin hums. “I mean, no, it’s still like… metal. I feel like we should be melting it down.”

Steve stares at her. “In what world would it be more useful melted down?”

Robin squawks, indignant at her idea being challenged. “You know what I mean!”

“No I don’t! Do you just want a, a… what’s the word? A bar of metal.”

“Ingot.”

“Do you just want an ingot hanging out on our mantelpiece?!”

“Well, I didn’t before, but now I do!”

They look at each other for only a moment before dissolving into simultaneous giggles, shared joy crackling and leaping between them.

Steve settles down first. Still grinning, he turns to put the pan at the very top of a relatively bare cupboard. “Fine, we’ll just… keep this to be melted down later.”

Robin can’t do anything to stop the twin grin on her face, not that she would ever want to. “I love you, Evie.” The words come easy, and the delight and surprise on Steve’s face is as wonderful as always. He pulls her into a hug.

“I love you too, Rob.”

[supercalvin]

Do you ever get over Merlin? I don't think so. I walk around thinking "These people don't even know about BBC Merlin... Wild..."

[cookeybg]

Unexpected Cohabitation a JonDami fic

Before we get to the story I have a few words to say...

First of all, Hello!

Not sure if this will reach anyone, but I had an itch to write, so I did. I almost never post anything. I have reposted a couple things but I'm mostly a lurker and enjoy others creativity and thoughts, I like to think of myself as a cat with few brain cells.

Anyways, I read a manga YEARS ago and enjoyed it greatly and thought to myself, "Wouldn't it be funny/interesting if Jon and Damian were stuck in this situation?" Let's see if anyone eventually gets what manga I was reminiscing.

Now, this is the first time I've ever posted anything I've written and I am not confident AT ALL if this is going to be any good, but I really hope someone out there enjoys reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it...Also not sure if I should post it on Ao3???

Well enough of my ramblings on to the story.

Title: Unexpected Cohabitation

Main Characters: Jonathan Kent and Damian Wayne (some of the others show up too, the list is too long)

Eventual relationship: Jonathan Kent/Damian Wayne (my fave)

Stuff to know: No capes, reverse robins, high school AU, no smut, no Brucie Wayne, I know nothing about sports but it will show up, (aaand I think that's it, will add more if it comes up)

Part 1 - Chapter 1

Jon placed his lunch tray next to Kathys’ as he discreetly looked around the lunch room trying to catch a glimpse of his crush. He had only briefly seen him at the mall during summer break and in a panic hid from him behind a rack of clothes. He had regretted not saying hello and had daydreams of himself going up to him, all cool and complementing the brown eyed boy’s pink fluffy hair and then asking him out to watch a movie at the mall theater. Sadly, the daydreams would come crashing down when he remembered his mother placing shirts in front of him and trying to measure him up before heading into the dressing room. It’s not that he was embarrassed of his mom its just, he was wearing sweats and an old hoodie since none of his clothes fit him anymore due to his growth spurt and, well, his mom could be a bit much, sometimes. Throughout the whole shopping trip when she would meet an acquaintance or friend she kept gushing about how quick kids grew and how she wished they would just stop sometimes. Jon would have to bury himself if anyone from school had been exposed to that.

“Looking for Jay?” Kathy asked. Jon looked at Kathy like a deer caught in the headlights and immediately turned red. He sat down abruptly causing his tray to nearly tip unto him. He scrambled to right his milk carton before it fell. Once settled, he sighed and mumbled, “That obvious?” Kathy smirked and bit into her carrot stick making a loud snap. Jon squirmed while opening his milk carton, he took a big swing, pointedly ignoring Kathy’s stare. “Why don’t you just confess?” Kathy asked. “Confess?” Jon spluttered, “He doesn’t even know I exist!” “Jon, you two were in the same history class last year. He knows who you are.” “Yeah. But we never talked.” “Then, how about you talk to him?” That would be so awkward…” Jon bit into his chicken strip. Kathy rolled her eyes and sighed in exasperation. Jon smirked and leaned in conspiratorially, “But I have a plan.” “And that is?” “I’m joining the journalism club.” “What!” Kathy yelled in surprise and then moderated her voice when some people who she startled glared at her, “ I thought you were going to join the baseball team this year, since, you know, your not in a cast anymore.” “The doctor has given the all clear and physical therapy is all done. The doctor was very impressed with how quickly I healed.” “Will they even let you do both clubs?” “Yep, I asked!” Their conversation was cut short when a murmur spread through the cafeteria like a wave. The main players of the baseball team stepped through the open double doors, all nine wearing their letterman jackets. In the lead was the most popular guy in school, Damian Wayne. Whose father was nicknamed the Prince of Gotham. Who in turn married an actual princess from some far off land, giving Damian actual royal blood. Girls wanted him and guys wanted to be him, but from what Jon had heard, guys wanted him too. Damian’s bright green eyes stood out against his brown skin, his gold earring glinted under the florescent light. He scanned the cafeteria with what looked like a sense of boredom. Colin, Jon called him Damian’s second in command, had one arm casually draped around Damian’s shoulders gesticulating wildly with his free hand. The group laughed at whatever the Colin said, but Damian only smiled as he started walking towards their unofficial table. Colin and the rest of the group broke off shoving and cracking jokes at each other while making line to pick up food. Kathy whistled beside Jon, “Now he’s someone who doesn’t know you exist.” “He looks and probably is, conceited.” Jon said offhandedly. “Look at him, he has reason to be.” “Doesn’t mean it’s cool.” “Doesn’t mean he’s not hot.” Jon turned to look at Kathy, but she wasn’t paying attention to him. Instead she was looking in Damian’s direction. Jon looked around and noticed that many were doing the same. He dragged his eyes back to look at Damian. The dude sat straight backed, elegantly eating his homemade meal from some fancy lunch bag that was probably more expensive than anything Jon owned, and scrolling on his phone completely ignoring the many eyes staring at him. Colin returned with the rest of the group nudging Damian and dropping his lunch tray with a loud smack, receiving an unimpressed glare in return. Colin smiled and placed a fruit cup in front of Damian. Jon personally didn’t get the allure. The couple of times he had seen Damian interact with others it was usually acerbic. Somehow that did not lessen his popularity and it left Jon dumbfounded. I good person should be good to others and being polite was a given, his Grandma said so and she was never wrong. Jon shrugged and went back to eating his school lunch. The rest could keep Damian he very much preferred Jay.

I hope you enjoyed it! Will post more soon, hopefully.

[justastrugglinghotchocolate]

Ya’ll I used to jokingly consider this, but nah, there is enough evidence in the book to suggest:

Henry ruins Dorian out of spite and jealousy towards Basil for moving on from him.

Let’s get right into this. 

I went back into the book because I wanted to review the post I made about Henry and misogyny earlier. Besides the usual annoyance at Henry’s dumb stupid rant, I noticed this line:

“I had buried my romance in a bed of asphodel.”

And then it hit me that Henry’s worst rants about women only come after the topic of marriage, but more specifically, commitment. Which then led to an even more interesting idea: I’m pretty sure Henry mostly uses ‘women’ as cover to complain about Basil and Basil’s ‘lack of commitment to him.’

I want to note that there’s a lot of interesting things in regards to Henry and his relationship with women that I’d love to go into, but this will focus solely on him and Basil.

Here’s what Henry says in his misogynistic ass rant after Sibyl dies. (This is from the 1891 ver):

“But [Sibyl] would have soon found out that you were absolutely indifferent to her. And when a woman finds that out about her husband, she either becomes dreadfully  dowdy, or wears very smart bonnets that some other woman’s husband has to pay for.”

Basil is often considered ‘unfashionable’/‘dowdy’ by Henry’s standards. This is only further proven in what he says about Basil’s disappearance:

“Why should he have been murdered? He was not clever enough to have enemies. Of course, he had a wonderful genius for painting. But a man can paint like Velasquez and yet be as dull as possible. Basil was really rather dull. He only interested me once, and that was when he told me, years ago, that he had a wild adoration for you and that you were the dominant motive of his art.”

But that isn’t all. The last part of that quote matches one to one to Henry’s claim about women (or Sibyl, specifically). Basil was not only ‘dull’, but his only ‘fashionable’ attribute, his art, grew ‘dowdy’ once he discovered Dorian’s indifference to him.

Henry also says this about women:

“Good resolutions are useless attempts to interfere with scientific laws. Their origin is pure vanity. Their result is absolutely nil.”

And later:

“But women never know when the curtain has fallen. They always want a sixth act, and as soon as the interest of the play is entirely over, they propose to continue it. If they were allowed their own way, every comedy would have a tragic ending, and every tragedy would culminate in a farce. They are charmingly artificial, but they have no sense of art.”

Guess who makes resolutions regarding goodness? Basil, who refuses to believe that Dorian is nothing but a good, pure man. 

“[Basil] could not bear the idea of reproaching [Dorian] any more. After all, his indifference was probably merely a mood that would pass away. There was so much in him that was good, so much in him that was noble.”

Basil’s arc traditionally should have ended once Dorian rejects him. Between that chapter and the chapter where Basil dies, there is no mention of Basil in any form. By all means, Basil’s role in the story is over—and then he demands the ‘sixth act’ to confront Dorian.

And finally:

“Besides, nothing makes one so vain as being told that one is a sinner. Conscience makes egotists of us all. Yes; there is really no end to the consolations that women find in modern life. Indeed, I have not mentioned the most important one.”

“What is that, Harry?” said the lad listlessly.

“Oh, the obvious consolation. Taking some one else’s admirer when one loses one’s own.”

Now before I point out the obvious irony of Henry literally 'taking someone else's admirer' (henry actually has a lot in common with his 'criticisms' of women), I want to bring your attention to a key part we don’t discuss enough about in the book.

““Life has always poppies in her hands. Of course, now and then things linger. I once wore nothing but violets all through one season, as a form of artistic mourning for a romance that would not die. Ultimately, however, it did die. I forget what killed it. I think it was her proposing to sacrifice the whole world for me. That is always a dreadful moment. It fills one with the terror of eternity. Well—would you believe it?—a week ago, at Lady Hampshire’s, I found myself seated at dinner next the lady in question, and she insisted on going over the whole thing again, and digging up the past, and raking up the future. I had buried my romance in a bed of asphodel.”

So I’m gonna make an educated guess and say Henry is lying his ass off here. He did not have a ‘romance’ with a woman. He certainly did not get an emotional, romantic attachment with a ‘woman’. I feel comfortable saying this because 1) his general distaste for women literally points to this being bullshit and 2) a significant change that was made from the 1890 version of the book to the 1891 version.

This is the quote in 1890:

“I once wore nothing but violets all through one season, as mourning for a romance that would not die.”

This is 1891:

“I once wore nothing but violets all through one season, as a form of artistic mourning for a romance that would not die.”

Well, well, well, who is the arti—It’s Basil. He’s literally talking about Basil here. AND GUESS WHAT VIOLETS MEAN IN VICTORIAN FLOWER LANGUAGE?

A couple of things actually, but the top three are:

‘Faithfulness, Modesty, and Love.’

Henry emotionally had been faithful to Basil. While I doubt he was monogamous in anyway, Basil held a special place that no else would ever have. Not even Dorian.

And this brings me back to the quote that originally sent me down this rabbit hole:

“I had buried my romance in a bed of asphodel.”

In the 1890 version, it says:

“I had buried my romance in a bed of poppies.”

Poppies are known to mean death and would have fit perfectly if Henry was saying he felt nothing for the relationship, but what does asphodel mean?

‘Love Beyond The Grave’, ‘Remembered Beyond The Tomb’ and sometimes, ‘My regrets follow you to the grave’. 

(NOTE: please keep in mind floriography could mean certain things based on the color and the type of flowers. That being said, considering Wilde described the shit out of every setting he wrote, the lack of detail about the flowers suggest the most broad meaning is meant to be taken.)

Henry isn't over Basil. He couldn't kill the love, so he buried it and took Dorian as a consolation and revenge. He will never be able to get over Basil until Basil or himself dies.

BOY DO I HAVE GOOD NEWS FOR HENRY/s

[brainrotwriter]

Spydad rejection fic! You remember how I said I like the idea of Scout being completely indifferent to spy being his dad? Yeah, I finally got around writing it out XD this is just a little unedited teaser BUT I already written the whole thing out and am just finishing up the editing ^^

Edit; the fic is finished! I reblogged it ^^

------------

Spy was on his third glass and ninth cigarette and it hit Scout, he was finally going to tell him.

Then spy took off his mask, and it hit Scout harder, he was going to do it properly.

Scout downed his glass, his first, and let it dangle loosely from his fingertips.

"Jeremy," he starts, his voice stupidly soft and barely above a whisper "I need to tell you something." Spy took a deep breath and Scout straightened up. No, he can't have the satisfaction. Scout won't give it to him. He doesn't deserve it, nor does he deserve the closure.

 

"I am your-"

 

"I know." he cuts him off, his voice bored as he reaches to fill his glass again. Grimacing at the sweet smell. Spy looks absolutely dumbfounded, seriously, how stupid did he think be was? Because he wasn't. Scout wasn't really bright, but he wasn't stupid.

"How..." Scout resists the urge to roll his eyes at Spy's whisper, feeling suffocated in the cigar reeking room "Knew before we even started working 'ere."

Spy doesn't jolt, no, but the movement is close enough as he gets up "When did you-" Scout cuts him off again, his hands feeling sticky with non-existent blood as Spy clearly makes an effort to not use any French words and not let his accent get too strong "Who do ya think popped the tires of your Bizzarini while you were making kissy faces at the waitress at that cafe?"