#morse: i should be dead

[49-20-53-45-45]

i'm not supposed to be

.. / … …. --- ..- .-.. -.. / -… . / -.. . .- -..

[sevarchive]

bllk drabbles! #5

blue lock characters! when they're downbad for you.

starring: isagi yoichi, bachira meguru, karasu tabito, itoshi sae, sendou shuto, and reo mikage

ISAGI YOICHI

aka “executive director of overthinking”

tries so hard to act unfazed, tactical and calm. but is completely obliterated by your existence.

you replied “lol” to his story once.

he stared at it like it was the dead sea scrolls. enlarged the screenshot. adjusted the contrast.

was that a flirt? did ‘lol’ mean ‘love of life?’ was it morse code?

the boy has a folder titled “y/n analysis” where he breaks down your likes, dislikes, and preferred lighting angles.

his teammates think it’s match footage. it’s just your selfies. sometimes he sits there whispering, “so pretty. so dangerous.”

once you called him “yoichi,” and he walked into a pole. he did not feel pain. just pure bliss.

later googled, “is it normal to plan your whole future with someone after one (1) nickname?”

drafts and deletes 97 replies before sending “haha yeah 👍.” immediately lies down on the floor like he got shot.

mutters, “i shouldn’t have sent the emoji. it’s too confident. she’ll think i’m arrogant.”

he prays before your instagram posts like they’re religious relics. every time you post he whispers,

“she’s so pretty. i must evolve past humanity and win the world cup for her.”

BACHIRA MEGURU

aka “chief officer of heart palpitations”

acts like a chaos goblin, confident and unbothered. but is actually one poke away from combusting.

you gave him a frog sticker once. he cried. named it after you. stuck it on his phone.

calls it “froggie you” and says hi to it every morning.

you once tapped his shoulder during training. he turned around and said, “do that again and i’ll die for you.”

sends “good morning 🐣🌈💖” texts daily. if you don’t reply within ten minutes, he sends:

“hello. y/n. my love. my life. are you okay. do you hate me. should i perish.”

when you bump knees? he gasps like you proposed.

“hold on i need to lie down. my soul is doing cartwheels.”

has a playlist called “for when we hold hands.”

another called “if she ever looks at me like that again i will cry and explode.”

one time you smiled at him. he told his mom about it.

ended the story with,

“i think i met the love of my life. i looked into her eyes and saw the rest of my life. weddings, rain-soaked kisses, grocery runs. everything."

KARASU TABITO

aka “vice president of flirt and fumble”

acts smooth, smug, and has dangerous levels of swagger. but the moment you flirt back, he folds like cheap origami.

he flirts like it’s a sport.

“careful with that smile. it’s a weapon.” you: “you like it?” karasu: buffering… system error… “uhh gotta go bye.”

you once said “you look nice today.” he had to sit down and reorient his soul.

texts you “yo u up?” then immediately texts “wait no i meant that in a friendly respectful feminist way.”

wore cologne for the first time just because you mentioned liking a guy in a commercial.

googled “what scent makes girls fall in love (scientifically proven).”

you wore his hoodie once. he didn’t wash it for 29 days.

hugged it. whispered, “so this is love.”

SAE ITOSHI

aka “board chairman of emotional repression”

acts cold, distant and aloof. but is emotionally disintegrating every time you smile.

you called him “grumpy.” he thought about it in the shower. in training. in his sleep.

“am i too grumpy? is it cute grumpy? or irredeemable grumpy? do i need to change my whole personality?”

pretends to be annoyed by your presence. but knows your schedule. your favorite drink. your laugh.

once you coughed, and he handed you water like a knight with a quest.

accidentally liked a post from 2019. deleted his account. considered switching countries.

you brushed his hair out of his face once. he stopped breathing. time froze. earth paused.

the moon dipped a little closer just to check in. tells you “don’t touch me.”

but if you accidentally fall asleep on him? he doesn't move. not one inch.

eyes wide open. thinking: this is what marriage feels like

SENDOU SHUTO

aka “founder & ceo of delusional scenarios inc.”

acts like a flirt. full of charisma. but is one wink away from sobbing on the floor.

you: “you have nice eyes.” sendou: saves it in his brain in 4k ultra-hd.

“that’s what she’ll say in our wedding video.”

he once fake-proposed to you with a candy ring. you laughed.

he almost passed out.

had to sit down and google “can a joke proposal count as legally binding if it feels real.”

has a playlist called “our vibe 💕.” it’s mostly taylor swift, r&b, and dramatic violin covers.

sends you memes and checks if you’ve seen them. if you don’t react in 10 minutes, he sends “u okay? do u still believe in us?”

once you patted his head. he walked into the locker room and yelled, “i am seen. i am loved.”

wrote “mr. y/n” in his notebook once and said “it’s for manifestation.”

REO MIKAGE

aka “ceo of yearning, ltd.”

acts put together, elegant and effortlessly rich. but is one compliment away from printing out a marriage certificate.

you: “this bracelet is cute.” reo: buys matching ones in silver, gold, and platinum. “just in case she wants options. or heirlooms. for our kids.”

once you said “thanks, reo.” he stared into space for five minutes.

clutched his chest like, did she mean thank you for existing?

texts nagi like:

reo: “bro if i buy her a planet will she love me” nagi: “buy me one too” reo: “focus.”

goes to a fortune teller and says, “i need to know if she’s my endgame.”

refuses to take “unclear future” as an answer.

once you borrowed his scarf. he went home and looked in the mirror.

“she wore this. she was cold. and i protected her warmth. we are soul-bound.”

has seven notes app entries titled:

– “if she ever loves me back…” – “wedding toast idea (sunset metaphor)” – “what if she’s the real reason i was born.”

જ⁀➴ © sevarchive ✦ masterlist like/reblogs are appreciated ꣑ৎ

[kxsagi]

OK BUT LIKE

BLLK VROTHERS REACTING WHEN THEIR LITTLE SISTER ASKED THEM TO WALK HER DOWN THE AISLE

maybe rin and sae together

LMAOOOO I IMAGINE THEM SOBBING (we know reo and bachira did lmaooooo

LOVE YOU

“𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞”

a/n: LOVE YOU TOOO

THIS WAS SO CUTE TO WRITE

ft. mikage reo, bachira meguru, isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, nagi seishiro, kaiser michael, karasu tabito

mikage reo

the second the words leave your mouth: “reo, i want you to walk me down the aisle,” he genuinely short circuits. mouth hanging open, hand clutching his chest like an overdramatic disney princess. 

“i… oh my gosh. you mean it? me? me?” he sniffles. hard. “don’t do this to me, i just got a facial.” 

reo is acting like he just got nominated for an oscar. suddenly, he’s pulling up pinterest boards, wedding planners, and muttering things like, “okay, so your color palette is soft blush, but with maybe a mauve undertone… no wait, that’s too 2022. do we want more of a lavender-gray? do you want peacocks?” 

the man is GONE. emotionally. financially. spiritually. he’s designing matching custom outfits for the two of you. he tries to hire a mini orchestra to play you down the aisle. he practices different walking speeds just to see which tempo feels the most cinematic. 

and the night before the wedding, you find him curled up in a fluffy robe, hugging a childhood photo of the two of you and softly whispering, “my baby girl is getting married… what if i trip and ruin the moment? should i rehearse again?” 

on the day? he’s sobbing. like, ugly crying. “you’re the most beautiful bride in the whole world. even if you’re not wearing chanel.” 

bachira meguru

you go, “hey, i was wondering if you could walk me–” 

“YES. YES I WILL. A THOUSAND TIMES YES.” 

he jumps onto the couch like you just proposed. nearly knocks over a lamp. his shirt flies off somehow. there’s confetti? no one knows where it came from. 

this man starts training. like, literally. he builds a fake aisle out of cardboard in the living room and practices walking you down it with a random bouquet of plastic forks. 

“you think i can backflip down the aisle while holding your arm?” 

“NO.” 

“… what if i do it real slow?” 

at your dress fitting, he gasps so dramatically the stylist flinches. 

“OH MY GOSH. YOU LOOK LIKE A PRINCESS WHO FIGHTS DRAGONS AND HEALS HEARTS AND *sniff* CAN STILL KICK MY ASS.” 

he cries into your veil. full on, snot-bubble sobs. 

on the actual wedding day, he has to stuff tissues in his sleeves because he knows he’s gonna leak from the eyes and nose. halfway down the aisle he starts whispering nonsense like, “okay don’t trip don’t cry don’t scream don’t do a handstand–” 

you elbow him. 

“right. serious. majestic. i got this.” 

immediately trips over your veil. 

isagi yoichi

when you ask him, he blinks like he’s buffering. “walk you down the aisle? me?” 

he goes quiet, then smiles. softly. that warm, older-brother grin. “i’d be honored.” 

but two hours later you catch him staring at your baby pictures on the couch with glassy eyes. he tries to act normal. 

“i’m not crying. i’m just… remembering. shut up.” 

this man treats your wedding like the world cup final. printed checklists. a backup boutonniere. mints in his pocket. he even puts deodorant on his ankles “just in case.” 

at your rehearsal, he holds your arm like it’s a sacred relic. guides you like a knight escorting royalty. whispers, “you’re so grown up now… don’t fall for any tricks. if he breaks your heart, i’ll break his knee.” 

you laugh. he’s dead serious. 

on the big day, he takes one look at you in your dress and just goes, “whoa.” and then his eyes water. but he doesn’t cry. no. he clenches his jaw like a soldier. 

his walk is steady, but his hand is squeezing yours like he’s sending morse code for “i love you forever.” 

itoshi rin

you ask, “rin, will you walk me down the aisle?” 

“… why?” 

“because you’re my brother, dummy. and i want you.” 

he stares. then turns around and mutters, “… fine.” 

you don’t hear a peep from him for days. you assume he doesn’t care. then you accidentally walk into his room and catch him… researching proper aisle etiquette on youtube. 

he slams the laptop shut like you caught him watching something else. “get out.” 

“… were you practicing your posture?” 

“GET OUT.” 

on the big day, he’s silent. tense. eyes sharp. suit crisp. he sees you in your dress and his whole face cracks. 

his lips twitch. his eyes look glassy. but he holds it in. barely. 

as he links arms with you, you hear him breathe, “you look really pretty.” 

you glance at him. 

“… shut up.” 

he’s definitely crying on the inside. 100%. 

before he hands you off, he looks the groom straight in the eye. 

“don’t hurt her. ever.” 

that’s not a threat. that’s a promise with consequences. 

itoshi sae

you go, “sae, will you walk me down the aisle?” 

he stares at you like you just asked him to do your taxes in a clown suit. “… why would i do that?” 

you pout. “because i want you to.” 

he shrugs. “i guess.” 

but then you hear him cancel a madrid training session the next week. he shows up to fittings. he critiques your groom like a stoic wine connoisseur. 

“his handshake is weak. is that really who you want?” 

“sae.” 

“… fine. 6.5 out of 10.” 

he’s the calmest one on the day of, until you put on your dress. then he blinks a little too slowly. clears his throat five times. 

“… you look alright.” 

“that’s it?” 

he glances at you again. “… you look better than alright. now stop looking at me like that.” 

(he totally cried in the car on the way home. never admits it.) 

nagi seishiro

you ask him and he just mumbles, “ugh, sounds like a hassle.” 

but then you add, “there’ll be snacks at the reception.” 

“what time’s the wedding again?” 

he tries to convince you to be carried down the aisle like a princess so he doesn’t have to walk. 

“what if i just teleport you?” 

“this isn’t an anime, seishiro.” 

“unfortunate.” 

he forgets he’s supposed to wear a suit and shows up in pajamas until reo throws a bowtie at his face. 

when he sees you all dressed up, he blinks. “… you’re sparkly.” 

he doesn’t cry. but he does hand you a gummy bear from his pocket and goes, “for strength.” 

(you still have it in your purse.) 

kaiser michael

“you want ME? the MICHAEL KAISER? to escort you down the aisle?” 

he flips imaginary hair. “obviously. i’ll have to outshine the bride a little, but i’ll try to tone it down.” 

you threaten to replace him with ness. he shuts up. 

he insists on glitter. refuses to walk to “boring music.” tries to choreograph a slow-motion runway strut. 

on the actual day, he’s the only one who bows to the guests and says “your majesty has arrived.” 

but when he sees you? he gets real quiet. 

“… you look beautiful, little star.” he means it. he really does. 

but then he adds, “thank goodness i moisturized today. otherwise i’d be crying and flaky.” 

karasu tabito

“me? walk you down the aisle? damn right i will. who else is gonna make sure this idiot doesn’t drop the ring?” 

he says it with a grin, but when he sees you in your dress he shuts up. fully stunned. 

“… shit.” 

“what?” 

“you’re really getting married, huh.” 

he pauses. 

“… don’t cry, you little gremlin.” 

he’s the one crying. quietly. behind his sunglasses. 

before he walks you down, he pops a mint in his mouth and goes, “you ready?” you nod. 

“cool. i’m gonna make a stupid face to ruin all the photos.” 

“don’t you da–” 

too late. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[un-till-the-end]

All evidence Till survives (2/4)

Blink Gone Observations

1. Inconsistencies compared to previous rounds:

In every single one of these above, the image goes out quickly and then the winning contestant moves up the bracket.

Till is the only exception. His image doesn't go out until after Luka's image has moved into the winning spot and it visibly flickers before it does.

After Sua, Ivan, and even background characters died, they all had large pools of blood under them.

Till is the only one who does not.

2. Hiding his status from the audience

His heart-monitoring earpiece falling out which would tell if he is alive or dead as identified by @pixelifiedcation. @tillsfan recognized the teaser emphasized the earpieces are heart monitors, which, among other reasons, could be to direct fans to this detail.

@asteriass realized how the red spray paint at the bottom of Till's pants and the red soles of his shoes creates the illusion he bled out to the segyein audience. The platform is raised and the floor is reflective.

Unlike previous stages, which were surrounded by the audience on all sides, Round 7 can only be viewed from the front.

Till's leg and Mizi's arm obstruct the segyein's view of Till's actual injury.

Combined with the misdirection of Hyuna's presence, and the excitement over Luka's win, the segyein do not notice there is no pool of blood.

3. From a medical standpoint:

There's lots of different claims people have made, so I consulted my friend who is a medical resident. After laying out the details, he concluded Till's wound is most likely a tracheal injury - not arterial. If so, Till is coughing up blood that is draining into his lungs. My friend's main reasoning is the lack of pooling up blood. The wound still needs immediate medical attention though.

Based on the chart provided by @lost-fugue, this would fall into the orange region with a 50-15% chance of survival. It can be lethal but it should be treatable.

@verdantlights explained the animation team has been consistently accurate with portraying gunshot wounds.

That said, humans can survive virtually anything. They can live after being shot in the head, jumping off a high bridge, or skydiving without a working parachute. So there's no scenario in which his wound is "impossible" to survive.

Till's leg would have fallen down due to gravity since he would have no muscle tone (passive muscle contraction).

If his right foot was pinned under his left leg, then his leg could remain up even if he was dead. However, this is visual storytelling and it would be confusing, ineffective, and illogical for that to be the reason for the positioning of his leg.

Wiege Observations

The morse code at the start of the song spells out "ALIVE" as identified by @awaggaa. While this has the thematic meaning of what it means to be alive, it could also serve a literal meaning that Till is still alive.

@honeybeetlejuice informed there is a heartbeat at the end of Wiege. Compared to Cure, in which Till's heartbeat was speeding up while Ivan's was slow and steady, this heartbeat is faint with long pauses between each one.

Foreshadowing | Official Art & Symbolism | Criticisms & Commentary

[houseofanticipation]

It's impossible to count the number of times you've imagined this moment. Late at night, under the covers; in the bathtub, and the shower; on slow days at the bookstore, the summer before senior year; during Mr. Madrigal's long, droning lectures. You fantasized so vividly you could see each scene on the back of your eyelids, hear each sound between breaths. Many a time your hand migrated southward, almost of its own volition. If you were in public, you'd hold it against your crotch, pressing it into yourself with the force of your clenched thighs. In private, you'd be far less subtle.

In all those fantasies, you never imagined it would look quite like this.

The hallway smells like cigarettes and industrial cleaner. The haphazardly patterned carpet is coming up at the edges. The yellow tube light overhead might be attempting morse code, the way it flickers. Paint peels from the door in front of you, and one of the metal digits in the room number has been replaced with one that doesn't quite match: room 233. You raise your hand, your knuckles inches from the door, and then you pause. You're not sure if you can go through with this.

Before you can decide, the door opens anyway.

You started posting pictures in your first year of college. It was just your tits at first. You'd been quietly following those subreddits and tumblr blogs for a while, and you thought it would be a bit of fun, a little thrill. You didn't expect the response you got: dozens of people telling you how much they'd enjoyed it, asking for more. So you posted more, and the people asked for different things. Post your ass. Post your cunt. Post your fingers in your cunt. Post audio of you moaning as you came. The more you revealed of yourself, the more attention you got, and the more attention you got, the more you wanted to show. People wanted to send you tips, so you set up a Cash App address. You never got much, a few dollars here and there, but it was nice to get a free coffee now and then.

And somewhere along the way, apparently, you let slip that you were a virgin.

The message came late last semester, from a Cash App user whose name was just a string of numbers. It read, "I will buy your virginity for $100,000. So you know I'm serious, here is $7000 for you to keep, deal or no deal. Let me know if interested."

It was like one of those hypotheticals you talk about with your friends at the dinner table. Would you work nonstop for a year if it meant you never had to work again? Would you cut off your hand if it meant you never had to die? Would you let a stranger from the internet take your virginity for a hundred thousand dollars? You thought about it for weeks. The 7 thousand in itself was a windfall you never could have imagined. It was the new laptop you needed, four times over. It was a large iced coffee ever day for three and a half years. After graduation, if you were smart, it could be your living expenses for the better part of a year. But a hundred thousand might be a house, or a car, or a few years of freedom to pursue your goals. And when you asked how you could trust him to pay when he'd gotten what he wanted, he told you he'd be happy to pay up front.

So here you are, in a dingy hotel, face to face with the broad-shouldered, potbellied older man in front of you. "I saw you through the peephole," he says. There's something impish about him. Maybe it's the toothy grin, or the way his ears stick out from his head, or the obvious glee in his voice as he looks you up and down. "My, you're much better in person. Come in! You got the money then?"

You nod. You didn't leave the Lyft until it was there in your account.

"Good," he says, throwing the dead bolt. "Let's get to it then, shall we?"

"What should...I mean, how do you want to..." you feel yourself talking strangely. Breathing in the wrong places, words tumbling over each other. "Maybe we should...talk first? Get to know each other?"

"No need for that," says the man matter-of-factly, unbuttoning his shirt. His chest is smooth, his skin a mottled pink. He waves a hand at your body. "Go ahead and get those off."

Back in high school, one of your recurring fantasies involved Jason Meier having his way with you in the back of that beat up convertible he used to drive. That old thing used to get you so wet. It was a piece of junk, but something about the exposure of it...In the fantasy, he's driven you out to some secluded spot outside of town. Cicadas drone all around. The night sky shines bright with stars. He cups your face with one hand, strokes your cheek with his thumb, asks you if this is your first time. He kisses the side of your mouth, then your jaw, then below your ear, then down your neck. As his hands undo the top button of your blouse, he tells you he'll be gentle.

The man is watching you expectantly. With his shirt on, he looked like a portly old man. Without it you can see that every inch of that stocky build is hard muscle. That pink skin strains against his mass, muscle rippling beneath it as he moves. "What are you waiting for?"

Your legs tremble. Your knees feel like they're about to buckle. You can hear your heart pounding in your ears. Your body has never done this before. You didn't know you could feel this kind of fear, and yet there's nothing to fight, nowhere to flee. You agreed to this. You decided this was what you wanted. Slowly, you pull your shirt over head.

He groans in the back of his throat, a long, growly sound. His face is a mask of focus, the impish joviality gone, his eyes fixated on your breasts. "And the rest."

You kick off your shoes, pull off your socks. An inch at a time, you slide your shorts and panties over your ass, down your legs, past your trembling knees. You step out of them, and now you're completely exposed. You cross your arms over your chest, then lower them when he grunts disapproval. Almost urgently, he unbuttons his pants, pulls out a long, rigid cock, and begins to stroke himself.

You didn't discover internet porn until your senior year, and before then the only penises you'd seen were a few drawings in your health textbook. In the fantasy, you unbutton Jason Meier's pants and fig. 7.5, "The penis becomes engorged when in state of arousal," pops out of his underwear. You take it in your hands, feeling the weight of it, the girth, and look up into those beautiful brown eyes of his.

This cock is much...realer. It has bounce, texture, even a sound as his hand slides up and down its length. It's longer than the one in that old fantasy, too, and it leans slightly to the left. For years you've wondered what it would be like to see a cock in person, and now that you're here it terrifies you.

"Come here," says the man, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Get on your knees."

You falter. "You didn't...I mean, we didn't agree to that."

"I bought your virginity," says the man. "You ever suck cock before?"

You shake your head.

"Then your mouth is just as much a virgin as your cunt. Get down here."

It's almost a relief to get off your legs, the way they've been threatening to give out. Close up, you can see the purples and blues of the veins under his skin. The head of his cock pulses with anticipation as your lips part, your tongue extends...

You don't think you can do this.

Then his hand is on the back of your head.

You always imagined Jason Meier whimpering as you took him into your mouth. You were never quite able to picture what he would feel like between your lips, on your tongue; the movie camera of your imagination always panned up at that point, to focus on his face. He would let his head fall back in pleasure, eyebrows knit with sensation, lips slightly parted. Now, though, there's no camera to pan. You are here. This is real. And his powerful hand is pushing your mouth onto his cock.

A sound you can't control comes out of you. Your back arches, your hands flail, and then by pure instinct they're on his belly, pushing against him, away from him. Spit runs down your chin, and you wipe it away with the back of your hand. "I'm sorry," you say, looking anywhere but at his face. "I'm sorry, I can't, I thought I could do this but I can't."

There's a horrible darkness in his voice. "I already gave you the money."

"I know, I'll give it back, I'm sorry." The words trip over each other on the way out of your mouth. "I'm really sorry, I shouldn't have, I just, I thought I could..."

His hand is on the back of your head again, and this time his fingers are curled tight into your hair. He jerks your head back, forcing you to look at him, and his eyes are cold and predatory. "I'm not interested in returning what's already bought and paid for." He jams himself back into your mouth.

You always imagined yourself savoring it, taking your time to explore every inch of Jason's length with your tongue, but there's no time for that now. The veiny, throbbing thing in your mouth bypasses your tongue entirely, forcing past your uvula. You gag, then gag again. Your stomach churns and you convulse as your body tries to remove the foreign object, but the man just pushes harder. Your eyes water as he slides deeper, deeper, making your throat bulge, your limbs spasm. As his balls touch your chin, you close your eyes and try to relax your throat.

He holds you like that. You gag for a third time, and thick saliva explodes through the gaps around his cock, dripping down your chin and collecting in a long, dangling rope. Tears roll down your cheeks as you try to acclimatize to the feeling, try to convince your body that nothing is wrong. You think you've got it, and then he moves slightly, and you're gagging again. He groans, grips your head tighter, and in the back of your throat you feel his cock swell slightly. He likes it when you gag for him, says a voice in the back of your mind. The motion is pleasurable for him.

You've got another problem rearing its head. You can't breathe. It was fine at first, but the man shows no interest in freeing up your airways, and in all the gagging and crying, you haven't exactly been conserving your oxygen. You pat his leg, trying to signal to him, but all he does is clap you on the side of the head. Your ear rings, you gag again, and his cock throbs. Black walls are closing in on your vision. The effort of struggling against him becomes too much, and your arms fall to your sides. Your eyelids flutter. You're going to pass out. You're going to pass out, and then what will he do to you?

But just before the world fades to black, he pulls your head back again. You feel every inch of his cock as it slides out of your throat. He lifts your face, and your eyes struggle to focus on his as you take lungful after lungful of glorious air. Drool spills across your lips, but you don't care. You're alive.

The man slaps you hard, leaving a stinging impression of his palm on your cheek. You whimper. Two of his fingers are in your mouth, pushing on the back of your tongue. Not knowing exactly why, you close your lips around them and shut your eyes.

"That's better," he says.

The first time you saw a male sex toy in use was in an ad before a porn video you were watching. You were taken aback by the way the performer had pounded it over his cock, barely more than an extension of his hand. You're reminded of that image as he parts your lips again, and the rape of your throat begins in earnest.

You haven't thought about Jason Meier in years, but at this moment he's the only thing keeping you sane. As your face rams up and down, up and down, you retreat to that beat up convertible, and Jason's soft, thoughtful face. As the man tightens his grip, Jason runs his fingers through your hair. As the man grunts and growls with pleasure, Jason coos your name. With each stroke of his cock down your throat, each spasm of your body, you focus on a different part of Jason's body: his large hands, his long fingers, his shoulders, his jawline, his liquid brown eyes. By the time the man finally releases your hair, you can barely feel your body any more. The convertible is far more real than the squeaky motel bed. The hands on your body are Jason's, soft and tender.

He climbs over the center console straddling you. You lock lips, feel your tongues in each other's mouths, kiss so deeply that it feels as though you share the same breath. He pulls the lever to lay your seat back, and then he's over you, on top of you, lifting your skirt, pulling your panties to the side.

This is the part where, in the old days, you would have slipped a finger or two inside yourself. But this time you don't have to. This time you can feel him inside you, really feel him, and he fills you up like your fingers never could. There's some pain—they told you there'd be pain, didn't they, your first time—but it falls away to the thrill, the lust, the pleasure. Jason whimpers as he slides into you, deeper, deeper, and you moan into each other's mouths as his pelvis meets yours. You take a moment to savor it, breathing each other in, and then he begins to thrust.

You feel drunk. It's exactly like you always imagined it, and somehow better than you could ever have expected. Each movement of his hips brings another sensation: a spasm in the arches of your feet, a hitch in your breath, a churning, swirling need in the depths of your abdomen. Deeper you tell him, harder, and he obliges, pulling you into him, and him into you.

You can feel the orgasm building, but it isn't like any you've had before. Every time you've ever cum, you've been in control. This time, Jason is in control. Jason decides when you cum, how you cum. One hand supports his weight as he leans over you, and the other slides up your belly. You used to watch those hands obsessively. The way he held a pencil, the way he bit his knuckles when he was thinking. Now that hand slides up, caresses your breast. Now that thumb brushes your hair out of your face. Now those fingers close around your throat.

You know you're safe with Jason, but the pressure on your throat triggers some animal fear response in you. You try to squirm away, but his arm is strong, and his hand his firm. Your hands go to his wrist. "I don't like that, stop." He just smiles. It isn't his usual sweet smile, either. This one is cruel. Predatory.

Your face feels tight. Your eyes bulge. You're beginning to panic for real now. "Jason, seriously, stop!" You beat at his arm with your fists, but he easily takes both your wrists in one hand and pins them over your head. You try to kick at him, but he's already past your defenses, between your legs, pushing them uselessly apart. His grip tightens, his rhythm increases, his cock swells inside you. He's getting off on this.

All at once you're back in the hotel room. The man's sweaty red face is inches away from your own, and the lust in his eyes is obvious. His cock seems to push deeper with every thrust, and the horrible thing is that the orgasm is still coming. It's close now, you can feel it, and it's like he knows exactly how to bring it out. You feel floaty, tingly, and that awful pleasure is welling up inside you, a pot about to boil over...

"That's right," he says, his eyes locked on yours. "That's what I was waiting for. That perfect mix of...pleasure...and...fear." He punctuates each of these last three words with a long, deep thrust, and it's these that send the orgasm spilling over. A choked moan pushes itself out of you as your back arches, your toes curl, your legs wrap involuntarily around his waist, tears roll down your cheeks. That floaty feeling has combined with the orgasm to create something like how you imagine heroin must feel; a wave of mind numbing, soul deadening ecstasy. Your insides feel hot, and at first you think that must just be what it feels like when you cum from sex, but then you see the look on his face and realize that he's cumming too. His grip relaxes and he pounds away a few more times at your now-limp body. You stare at the ceiling as he moans, buries his face between your tits, pumps round after round of his warm, thick cum into your cunt, your womb. After one final push he collapses onto you, his cock still inside you, his bulk crushing you into the bed. You don't move.

He strokes your cheek. Fondles your nipple. Kisses your neck. Then he kisses your mouth, his tongue pushing your lips open, his breath like damp earth. You barely see him.

It must be almost ten minutes before he finally gets up, his limp cock sliding out of you at last. You can feel his cum dripping from your cunt as he puts on his underwear, then pants, then shirt, then shoes. "The room is paid for the night," he says with his hand on the door handle. "Thank you for struggling. Taking someone's virtue is so much better when you actually get to take it.

You don't respond.

You don't know how long you lie there, motionless, dripping cum. Oddly, the man who just raped you isn't the one burned onto your mind's eye. Try as you might to return to that sweet teenage fantasy, all you can see is Jason Meier as he held his hand to your throat, and that cruel, predatory smile on his face.

[luneariann]

idk if art requests are still open or if you've already drawn this but the ideas gettin silly so here's a few if ya wanna draw whatever you feel motivated to

1. Atsushi making dead eye contact with Kunikida and then slapping something off the desk like a cat (then apologizing while he cleans it up and Dazai laughs his ass off)

2. 16!skk; Dazai broken his jaw, Chuuya's post corruption or bullet wounds (basically just bedridden w/IVs) and Dazai's hooked up to a heart monitor insulting Chuuya in Wabun/Morse code (just- D: "Beep beep beep" C: *rips out IV* "TF YOU CALL ME YA LITTLE SHIT?!")

3. Dazai and Chuuya being compatible blood types and despite him hating pain he would gladly give up every ounce of blood and both kidneys if it meant that it saved (post corruption) Chuuya's life

Anyways, I LOVE YOUR ART SM ITS SO TASTY AND BEAUTIFUL AND THE CHARATAZATIONSHDHAHJXHA YOUR MY FAV ARTIST ON THIS APP/GEN Remember to love and care for yourself, drink water/eat if you haven't today and take breaks :]

1.

2.

AAAA IM SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG HELWPIDJ

TY SM FOR THE KIND WORDS OMG 😭💕💕💕im so happy im your favorite artist on tumblr???? That’s huge dude I’m?? 💕💕💕Tyty I promise to take care of myself

Ive lowkey lost Interest in bsd so that’s why these took so long to make <///3 but they were too good NOT to make them, idk if you’ve ever considered it but you should defo become a comic artist! The hardest part of comic making is getting the ideas at all so considering you’ve got that down you should definitely give it a shot! These are rly good

I didn’t do the third one cuz I wasn’t sure how to represent it </3

Again tysm for the kind words you’re so sweet Anon🫶🫶 take care of yourself too!!

[nanamineedstherapy]

Literally cannot wait for the next chapter to drop!! Please post it soon so I don’t end up sneaking chapters at work again.</3

Thank you for reading it all Pookie, my sincere apologies for the delay. I'm unfortunately a perfectionist and needed to add more details to make it real. Hope you enjoy it :)

Third Wheeling Your Own Marriage

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

Summary: You should be overjoyed that Gojo Satoru & Nanami Kento are your husbands. But you feel your skin crawl as you become the third wheel in your own marriage. Trigger/Crack Warnings: Graphic Violence, Emotional Abuse, Medically accurate Pain/Injuries Horror (yes, I do alot of research), pregnancy complications, Weaponized Guilt, Mentions of Rape (past, non-graphic), Psychological Manipulation, Mild Suicide Ideation (implied), Brainrot-Inducing Dialogue, Reader May Require Therapy After This, Emotional Damage Simulator 2025, Sukuna is Down Bad – Yuji said so, Mafia CEO AU (kinda), Reader is So Tired, Found Family? Or Found Emotional Damage?, Gojo Satoru's Consequences, Nanami Kento Deserves a Nap & to be able to pee in peace without his wife+husband combo broadcasting it, Unhinged Girlboss Reader, Murder as Romance, This chapter is a war crime. Trillionaire Tech Wife With Two Useless Men, Emotional Support Chicken. A/N: I feel like the reader is the biggest comedian in this series, tbh lol. Like??? She's fighting for her life, trauma bonding with eldritch horrors, & still has time to serve face & sarcasm in the same breath. Queen behaviour. Honestly, if I were her, I too would commit crimes while sipping Sprite out of a hospital cup. POOKIE SUKU IS HERE!!!!

Previous Chapter 23 (alt ending 2.14) - How the Salt in Our Wounds Was the Ocean - [Tumblr/Ao3]

Chapter 24 (alt ending 2.15) - Shattered Constellations

Aftermath | Their POV

They called her mortal.

They forgot she was trained by monsters.

Hour One

Nanami burned through every Tokyo contact. Then called Anna Wintour.

"Who did she meet tonight?"

There was a pause. The silence that comes when too many people are in the room, and you suddenly realise you’re the prey.

Anna’s tone was clipped, as ever. “Kento.”

“Anna. She’s missing. We can’t find her.”

“You must be very upset.”

“Who did she meet today? What was the investor’s name?”

“I was told if I revealed that name, if I tell you anything about her movements without her consent, I’ll be dead before the phone line disconnects. And you—you won’t even know who killed me.”

He closed his eyes. “It’s not about control. I think she’s in danger.”

Silence. Not even the buzz of static.

“Goodnight, Mr. Nanami.”

The Koenigsegg Jesko had been the first to betray them.

It shouldn’t have.

It was registered to her company but custom-built by Megumi’s black-ops R&D. Eight embedded trackers—nano chips, tyre sensors, two voice AI failsafes. The works.

But one by one, the signals blinked out like dying stars.

First, the GPS. Then the emergency LTE backup.

Then the engine monitor started sending Morse-code gibberish, as though something inhuman had possessed the car.

“She cut the battery?” Megumi asked, horrified.

The smoke alarms were disabled.

The flames were superficial, controlled—nothing damaged except the bed, the mattress soaked in Tom Ford and Dior and spite. Nanami didn’t smell arson. He smelled intent.

Megumi’s team—your personal security detail, his people—had been scrambled into a full lockdown.

“She shut down the internal feeds,” he gasped, crouched on the cold marble. “Her penthouse went dark mid-step. She disabled the elevator cam.”

“She shouldn’t even be able to do that,” Gojo said, eyes flashing cerulean. “The feed’s encrypted.”

“She built the system,” Nanami added quietly.

Gojo activated the Six Eyes at a higher altitude.

He’d only ever used them like this twice—once, back when they were hunting the remnants of the Star Plasma cult. Back when Geto still— And the second time was when he was trying to find you in your home country when you’d disappeared after the gaming convention.

Nanami was watching the flame flicker and die in Gojo’s face.

Gojo balled his fists in frustration. “Why can't I see her? There’s no cursed energy hiding her. She’s not suppressing her aura. She’s not using a veil or a curse technique—she can’t. She’s just a normal woman!”

“No.” Nanami corrected coldly. “She’s lived with you for years, and you talk alot about your conquests, Satoru. By now it’d be a miracle if she didn’t figure out how to counter you, given the way she is – all or nothing.”

Hour Two

“She’s still not showing up,” Megumi whispered.

Not on satellite. Not on traffic cams. Not even on Gojo’s six eyes, which were burning as he stood barefoot on the balcony, sweat crystallizing on his cheekbones.

“No cursed energy signatures,” Gojo muttered. “No barriers. No pings.”

“She’s not a sorcerer,” Haibara said, leaning against the glass. “She’s just angry.”

“She’s not just anything,” Nanami half-yelled, eyes scanning five monitors showing nothing but static. “She disappeared mid-day. Mid-breath. That’s not normal.”

The Jesko went through one toll booth. Then stopped showing up.

Gone. No transponders. No speed violations. No tyre marks.

“Tracker’s off,” Megumi said, barely keeping it together. “All of them. Phone, car, security fob, coat lining. Gone.”

“She’s still wearing the tracker from last week's security update,” Nanami muttered, clicking on her medical vitals screen.

"Not anymore," Haibara said, holding something bloody in his hand. A tiny sliver of metal he'd found on the toll booth she’d disappeared from. "She cut it out. Used the same blade she cut me with."

"Was she bleeding?" Gojo snapped, voice shrill.

"Not when she bit me. After? Who knows."

Hour Three

They stood in the war room.

Screens everywhere. Her last known locations. Holograms. Pulse tracking. Voice AI failed prompts.

A red string corkboard in a glass room.

Haibara, biting into an apple like it might be poisoned.

Megumi, rocking back and forth, hands pressed to his skull.

Nanami, silent.

Gojo pacing like an animal.

“She fucking ghosted us,” Haibara laughed like the irony was too much.

“She can’t ghost the Six Eyes,” Gojo muttered. “I’ve found people in other dimensions. She can’t—she’s not supposed to be able to—how is she doing this?”

“She’s deleting herself,” Megumi whispered. “Not hiding. Erasing.”

They all turned to him.

He kept staring at the floor. “You don’t know what she’s capable of when she feels cornered. You don’t know what she learnt from my father. Hell, even I never really knew what they talked about.”

Hour Four

Your location-shared signal blipped once.

A rural highway. Eastbound. Then silence.

“She left it on just long enough for someone else,” Haibara murmured. “Not us.”

Gojo slumped to the ground, blindfold in his fist.

Security teams deployed.

Megumi’s own private elite—trained to hunt rogue sorcerers—went silent within thirty minutes. They followed a false signal to the western district. Found nothing but a pile of burner phones duct-taped together.

It wasn’t signed. It didn’t need to be.

Haibara laughed, unwrapping the bandage on his bitten hand. “God, I love her. Bites like a jackal.”

“Shut up,” Nanami hissed.

“She’s fucking incredible.”

“Shut up.”

“She could’ve been a serial killer.”

Gojo slammed him against the wall. “Shut. Up.”

“Are we trying to find her or fight each other!” Megumi yelled, and Gojo backed off with a grunt from a smirking Haibara after a beat.

Hour Five

“She was smiling when she lit the bed on fire,” Haibara whispered, staring at the footage one of Megumi’s corrupted drones caught before she destroyed it.

The flames danced across your face like a rite. You looked holy. Like a woman who knew God personally and had decided He wasn’t worth the apology.

And none of them—not even the strongest sorcerer alive, not the meticulous executioner, or the boy born of a cursed blessing, or the resurrected demon from society’s trash heap—

None of them could stop you.

Because you weren’t human anymore.

Hour Six

They found a lead.

Not from tech. Not from tracking.

From blood.

Haibara licked his injured hand, still oozing from her bite. He stared at it. Smiled.

“She didn’t take the knife to hurt herself. She took it to threaten us. And this? This isn’t desperation.”

“What was the reason then?” Gojo whispered, eyes burning from overuse.

“It’s theatre. She left us a trail. Just enough to make us panic. Just enough to remind us…” He looked at Gojo, gaze gleaming like a blade.

“…That she’s smarter than all of us combined.”

And somewhere, far beyond their reach, in an untraceable place with prepaid electricity and blackout curtains, you stared at your own reflection.

Still. Silent. Pregnant. Waiting.

Then you peeled back your coat. Checked your stomach. Ran your fingers over the black bruise near your ribs—where the babies kicked too hard in your stress while you were pulling out the car batteries.

You weren’t safe. Not really.

A phone ping.

Mom: Flight's delayed a little further. Get yourself food but stay away from view.

Hour eight

“Why can’t I fucking see her?” Gojo demanded again, voice rising. He was glowing faintly now, like a sun left to rot in a glass coffin. “I can see everyone. I can see through walls. Why not her?”

“Because you don’t know her,” Haibara said without looking up from his phone.

The words dropped like a knife.

Gojo turned. Nanami didn’t stop him.

“You wanna say that again?”

“You don’t know her. You know the woman who cooked for you and sucked your cock and gave you children you aren’t worthy of. You don’t know the girl who broke her own jaw so her cousins wouldn’t rape her again. Or the girl who lived under a bed with rats and still makes Blackrock shudder. The one who cried blood the night you came on each other right next to her sleeping body.”

Nanami’s jaw clenched, hard enough to hear a faint crack.

Haibara kept going. “You didn’t even know she was pregnant. You called her bipolar. Your little baby killers club didn’t tell her shit.”

Megumi punched Haibara out of nowhere, and the latter straightened back up like an unkillable pest, spitting the blood from his lip tear.

Megumi yelled, “If you can’t be bothered to help, then get lost.”

“I am helping.” Haibara smirked, “By laughing at them.”

Megumi eyed him suspiciously. “You know who she called, don’t you?”

Haibara smirked.

---

Before the meeting with the investor and the subsequent disappearance—

You’d barely slept.

Not because of discomfort, though your swollen ankles and the relentless ache in your lower back would’ve justified it. No, sleep had eluded you because of them—the disasters you somehow forgave, loved, and carried children from. After months of icy silences, bruised egos, and walking on eggshells sharpened by betrayal, a night last week had finally broken the drought.

Satoru cried five times. That you know of.

The first time was silent—his face buried in the curve of your neck, a hand trembling on your side, like he thought if he held too tight, you’d vanish. The second was louder, gasping, muttering apologies into your skin like they were spells. By the third, he’d woken you up entirely, whimpering as he clung to you in his sleep, kneading the soft swell of your hip like a needy white tiger. The fourth came when you cupped his face and kissed his lashes and whispered, “I missed you.” And the fifth—well, that one came when he was already inside you.

Slow. Soft. No cocky grin, no teasing flick of his tongue. Just desperate Satoru with tears slipping down his cheeks and his forehead pressed to yours, as if he were scared that blinking might separate you again.

Kento didn’t cry.

But he looked at you like a ghost. Like if he blinked, he’d wake up so he’d woken before either of you, face buried in your neck, lips pressed to your pulse like he was checking you were still warm. There was no ceremony to it—he was already hard, already leaking against your thigh. His hand curled protectively over your bump, reverent, steady, like he was anchoring himself to proof that this—all of this—was real.

You don’t remember how it started. Only that your hormones had made you wet and half-dazed. Satoru had slid inside you without even waking properly, moving in that lazy, sleep-drunk way he always did when overwhelmed. You'd been too sensitive lately—your body a minefield of electric nerves—and soon you’d ended up on Kento’s lap, Gojo moving behind you while Kento’s cock rested hot and hard under your soaked folds, rubbing him and you off.

It wasn’t pornographic. It was tender. Messy, yes. But real.

Your arms around Kento’s shoulders. Satoru's hand splayed over your belly like a talisman, anchoring you so as not to hurt the twins. The low, breathy sounds you made when Kento pressed kisses under your jaw, whispering that you were beautiful. Sacred. A miracle.

You moaned so sweetly that Kento chuckled low in his throat, eyes closed, face tilted to the ceiling in something like prayer.

Then came the chaos.

You were so lost in the rhythm that you didn’t notice Satoru getting bolder—until he grabbed Kento’s thigh and tried to shift his leg up in a mating press. Kento’s leg jerked with surprise, and he just snorted. Loudly.

“I’m not a yoga mat,” he groaned, covering his eyes with one arm, stifling his laugh.

You burst out laughing. And felt it in your ribcage, like someone was letting light back into your lungs.

Satoru paused mid-thrust, blinked, then looked sheepishly between the two of you.

“Well, you both keep trying to get me pregnant, so this is me turning the tables,” he said, deadpan, then he kept thrusting.

Kento’s laugh shook the bed.

You turned and kissed Satoru—salt and saliva and need—and then turned and kissed Kento, who looked more in love than he’d ever admit. For a second, the three of you just stayed like that. Tangled. Breathing. Full of each other.

By the time the sun climbed over the skyline, you were dozing again between them, skin sticky, sheets tangled, legs heavy. The morning routine happened in sacred silence—no fights, no tension. Just Kento helping you into your dress while Satoru brushed your hair, quiet and reverent, as if caring for you was penance and prayer combined.

He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. “You look powerful,” he whispered.

Kento kissed your wrist, slipping your wedding ring back on after cleaning it. “And the mother of my children.”

“Mine too,” Satoru chimed in.

“You’re such a narcissist,” Kento said.

“So are you,” Satoru shot back, smiling now, eyes clear.

You rolled your eyes, heart full.

This was what peace looked like. No chaos. No yelling. Just the quiet, perfect calm that came when everyone chose to stay.

You had ten minutes before take-off. Your phone buzzed.

“I’ll be back tomorrow, depending on what he wants and the flight time,” you promised, turning at the door.

They both followed you—of course they did. Satoru tugged your hand. Kento wrapped his arm around your shoulders. They walked you to the elevator like you were made of glass and gold and unspeakable power.

You kissed Satoru first. Then Kento.

They both held your gaze as the doors closed. You caught Satoru mouthing I love you. Kento didn’t speak, but his expression was the same one he’d worn when you walked down the aisle.

The last thing you heard before the metal doors shut was Satoru murmuring, “Call me if there’s even an ounce of doubt. I’ll teleport you out.”

And Kento’s quiet, unwavering, “Keep the life vitals tracker on and call me once you land.”

---

The jet was quiet, save for the muted purr of climate control and the occasional shift of turbulence against steel. You’d boarded at noon—twenty minutes ahead of schedule—surrounded by a sixteen-person armed security detail and your logistics assistant, who kept glancing at your ankles like they might explode mid-flight.

She asked if you were comfortable three times before takeoff. Like she was stalling. Like the jet wasn’t just taking you to New York, but to the guillotine.

Anna hadn’t sent the jet. He had.

The new investor. No name, just gravity. A black hole in the shape of a man—silent, never photographed, but powerful enough that Anna had stumbled over her sentence when his assistant called.

When you’d first told Nanami about the request for an in-person, he’d exhaled like a loaded gun. Pressed his hand to his forehead and muttered, “Can’t we just kill him?”

He wasn’t joking. He spent the next three hours building worst-case flowcharts in that calm, terrifying way he did—like even apocalypse could be optimized.

Satoru had stopped joking altogether. That was worse.

Takahashi, at least, had behaved for his first flight. Curled at your side in a little albino ball of privilege, snoozing through turbulence like he was made of clouds and sedatives. You kept stroking the patch between his ears. It soothed nothing, but pretending helped.

Across from you sat a PR assistant barely old enough to rent a car. Her eyes kept flicking to your bump like it might blink back. “You don’t look that pregnant,” she offered hesitantly.

You smiled, didn’t answer.

Because it wasn’t the look of it. Never had been. It was the feeling—like your body was being rewritten in a language you didn’t speak. Nights were the worst. The way the skin moved—too fluid, like something inside was stretching out. Like it wanted more room.

Scans didn’t capture that. Machines didn’t feel the slow-shifting horror of cartilage loosening, knees dislocating if you stood too long, lungs compressed to the size of childhood grief. The doctors said miracle. You said miscalculation.

You’d worn red today. A deep, cruel red. It felt… appropriate for some odd reason.

---

Vogue Private Office — Manhattan

The orchids were wilting by the door. You walked in like the third act of a tragedy—heels cracking marble like closing statements.

The staff didn’t question you. They swung the lobby doors wide, as if bracing for a storm in stilettos.

Inside, the air clung with the scent of dying flowers and fragile wealth. Glossy surfaces, curves designed to look expensive, chairs meant to be admired, not sat in. They led you to a glass-walled suite where the city still bent to your silhouette—even if your shares never did for them.

You folded yourself into the seat, spine negotiating with memory. Accommodations were never an option.

Anna was late.

Of course.

When her heels finally announced her, you didn’t rise. Couldn’t, really—not with the way your body had begun to betray you, bone grinding against bone.

She stood haloed by light, a magazine-cutout of power, her smile sharp with the arrogance of someone who still believed timing was a weapon.

“You glow,” she said. “Like women do before they’re devoured.”

“Unmedicated,” you replied.

Her grin widened, all teeth and conquest. “We’ll keep this clean. You know why you’re here.”

You blinked, slow.

“The new investor wants your story. The twins. The empire. The marriage. He thinks your silence is sinking your company.”

One of the twins kicked—hard enough to fracture breath. Lately, it didn’t feel like movement. It felt like revolt.

Anna tapped her nails against the table. “How are the husbands?”

You exhaled.

“Protective. Armed. Near breaking.”

She tilted her head. “Would they die for you?”

You mirrored her.

“They already did.”

A pause. Her eyes flickered—assessing whether it was poetry or prophecy.

Then, the ice of her smile.

“Now that,” she murmured, “is a Vogue quote.”

Soon enough they led you through a corridor so silent it felt like something had been sacrificed to keep it that way.

No corporate logos. No gaudy art. Just sharp edges, sliding doors, and the kind of air that had passed through too many purifiers. The kind that made you feel sanitized, surgically so. You were shown into a tea room so traditional it bordered on uncanny for New York—tatami mats, shoji screens, and incense coiling faintly in the corners like an old ghost. For a second, you thought it might be a set. A psychological stage.

And then he walked in like a theory made flesh. The kind of man who survived the apocalypse by looking like prophecy.

He wasn’t what you’d expected.

Long raven hair swept back into a precisely tied half-bun. He wore a form-fitting black turtleneck beneath a long trench coat, the fabric whispering as he moved. Polished leather shoes. No noise. No dust. The kind of outfit that commanded attention without asking for it—quiet, curated power. His face was too symmetrical to be trustworthy, his skin untextured in that uncanny, expensive way. No jewelry except for a Rolex that said old money or old blood.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, extending a hand. “I’m Geto Suguru.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Geto,” you shook his hand briefly. “You’re very composed for someone hiding behind NDAs and empty LinkedIn profiles.”

He smiled, unfazed. “I don’t like being photographed. It makes it harder to disappear when people disappoint me.”

You blinked and filed that away.

Another man stepped in—vaguely inbred in posture and temperament. The kind of man who inherited his surname like a loaded weapon. He poured tea like it was beneath him.

You didn’t need an introduction to know what he was.

Zenin.

Naoya, specifically. Blond, lean, the sharp-boned entitlement of someone who'd never been told no by someone who could make it stick. There was a feral brightness behind his eyes, like something hungry and bored. He poured tea with the grace of someone imagining your autopsy.

Geto glanced toward him. “Naoya. Thank you.”

The man gave a short bow that wasn’t quite a bow.

You smiled, tilted your head slightly—your expression deliberately soft, even as your voice curled with something sharper. "You're really beautiful. You shouldn’t be in corporate. Milan seems more appropriate."

Suguru chuckled, almost surprised. “Fashion is a battlefield. This is where I’m better suited.” He gestured to the tea cup in front of him. “I hope the flight was comfortable.”

“It was fine. Apologies if I kept you waiting—my husband insisted we play a little longer.”

He didn’t blink. But in the corner of the room, a man with stitches across his face twitched slightly. Like the mention of something domestic scratched at his teeth.

Naoya, who was now pouring your tea like it was poison, said nothing. Suguru didn’t offer introductions. He just let the platinum blond ghost linger at the room’s edge like a lion watching your blood pressure with a smirk.

Then he looked back to you and said, with no real warmth, “Ah. Is he still obsessed with Digimon?”

The shift was instantaneous.

You didn’t move. You didn’t breathe wrong. But beneath the table, your fingers twitched once—an involuntary microexpression.

Satoru had never said that online. Not to fans. Not to journalists. Not even in investor decks.

But you didn’t bite, not so easily. “So tell me, Mr. Geto, what are your plans?” You didn’t specify whether you meant plans for your company or for you; he’d clear that for you soon enough.

He began flipping through a file. “As I’m aware, you’ve had… an eventful quarter.”

You kept your smile. “Define eventful.”

“The employee assault. The digital blackouts. The marriage leak. The #TwoHolesForAReason campaign. Your stock drops. The public threats. And of course…” His eyes dropped, just briefly, to your stomach. “The pregnancy reveal.”

You took a measured sip of tea. Let the silence breathe. You could feel a fish curling beneath the floorboards—koi or curse, you couldn’t tell.

“I didn’t come here to relive the timeline.”

“Of course not,” he said gently. “You came here because I asked politely.”

That stopped you. Just a breath.

Suguru chuckled, as if he'd made a harmless joke. “Satoru always did get possessive when he felt threatened.”

You blinked once, slowly. He was no longer implying leverage. He was showing it.

“How do you know my husband?”

“From a different life. We were in Jujutsu Tech together, some ten years ago or more.” He didn’t elaborate. “He’s... very consistent. Even back then.”

“Were you close?”

“We were best friends. Classmates. Same special grades. Different curse techniques, same suicidal ambition.” His voice didn’t change. “Then the world changed after your guardian killed a girl we were protecting, and I… left.”

You didn’t react.

You recognized the tempo. The bait. He knew more about you than he was supposed to.

“Are you still in touch?”

“The last time I spoke to him was eight months ago.”

He said it like a wound. Or a warning.

Blood crawled up your throat, but you smiled and sipped your tea like a lamb, luring him into a false sense of comfort. “What happened eight months ago?” you asked softly, like you couldn’t put two and two together.

He smiled—not kindly. “I lost.”

The silence that followed was polite. Hollow.

You inhaled. “You joined the corporate sector after that?”

“Mm. Sorcery has its limits. I realized my skills were better suited to cleaning up PR messes.” His eyes flicked over your bump, your body, the controlled inhale of someone used to performing normalcy under duress. “Your company’s been through enough chaos lately. The world turned fast.”

You didn’t rise to the bait. “That’s the risk of marrying violently private men.”

“Or of marrying two of them,” he said, too evenly.

You didn’t reply. Let him talk.

He didn’t. Clever bastard.

Instead, the blonde set down another cup of tea with a thud that felt deliberate. You glanced at him, properly now.

“You didn’t introduce your company.”

Suguru didn’t look at him. “Naoya Zen’in. Logistics director. Don’t take his silence personally—he doesn’t like powerful women.”

“Must be exhausting,” you said, sipping your tea without breaking eye contact with Naoya’s sneer.

Naoya’s lip curled, but Suguru raised a finger, and the man stilled like a dog leashed by old violence.

You glanced around the room again—and noticed the other man was too still. Too silent. Sitting near the incense tray now, legs folded like a child mimicking meditation. Young. Heterochromatic eyes. Face like a cherub carved by a sadist—unblemished except for the stitches, soft, but off.

You didn’t recognize him.

But something primal in you curled. Not fear—yet—but revulsion. He watched you with a kind of gleeful interest people usually reserved for vivisection videos.

Suguru didn’t introduce him either.

The air felt heavier suddenly. Your skin began to itch under your dress, and you couldn’t tell if it was hormones or the way that stranger tilted his head slightly every time you moved.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t ask. Let the wrongness root itself in your memory.

“So what’s your plan, Mr. Geto?” you asked calmly, eyes never straying. “You want to scrub my company’s image. Why now?”

He met your gaze with something that almost felt like recognition. “Because Satoru did what he did for you. And the world saw it as a threat.”

You stayed silent.

He was skirting around Kento’s name—which meant Nanami, in Suguru’s eyes, was just as guilty.

And neither of you were forgiven.

He continued. “Beating your own employees in the middle of a crisis? Then disappearing. Leaving your CHRO and Higuruma to spin internal terrorism as a ‘security concern’ while the internet tore you apart. And the marriage leak…”

His voice lowered. “The rape threats. The arson calls. The memes.”

You exhaled, slow. Steady.

He didn’t know Higuruma either.

His mouth twitched. Almost sympathetically. Almost.

“Your men love you,” he said like an obituary. “But the world is still too cruel to forgive a woman for being adored.”

You tilted your head and met his violent violet gaze. “And you do?”

Suguru leaned back, folding his arms. “I understand optics. I understand what it means to be seen as unnatural.”

He hadn’t once referred to Satoru by his full name. Hadn’t asked how he was. Hadn’t asked to set up a meeting to catch up. Hadn’t insulted him either.

Every mention dripped with intimacy. Personal. Familiar. Irreversible.

You glanced at the tea again.

You were being dissected.

Not you exactly. The idea of you. The blueprint. The soft horror of a woman who had everything and bled alone.

You smiled. Not sweetly.

“So you stayed hidden all this time. Why?”

His eyes glinted. “Because sometimes, anonymity is power. I don’t need to be seen. I need to move.”

You hummed, sipping.

You weren’t stupid enough for men like him. Suguru wasn’t obsessed with investing in your company. He was trying to replace you in your own life.

Naoya stepped forward again. This time, it wasn’t tea. He whispered something into Suguru’s ear. A coded phrase, maybe. Or a trigger.

Suguru nodded once.

And then the man with the uncanny smile by the incense tray finally spoke.

“Has it kicked yet?”

The room shrank by degrees. You froze mid-breath, head swivelling toward him slowly. “What?”

He beamed. It didn’t reach his eyes. “The baby. Or babies, I suppose.”

Your stomach twisted—not from pregnancy. Instinct. Deep and ancestral. Like recognising a predator that shouldn’t exist anymore.

Suguru didn’t stop him. Naoya grinned.

Your fingers brushed the inside of your coat pocket, finding the cold edge of your phone. You didn’t need to see the screen—just feel the lock button. One long press, and the emergency contact would trigger. Satoru had set it up himself, laughing like it was a joke. “Just in case you’re ever too tired to scream.”

You weren’t screaming now. But you were tired. And surrounded.

Your thumb hovered over the side of the phone, ready to press and hold.

He’ll feel it. He’ll come. He always does.

But you needed answers.

Across from you, the scared man’s gaze skittered over your body, hesitating on the weight of your pregnancy like it offended him. Like he was doing the math on your vulnerability.

Your fingers twitched again—hovering but not pressing.

"Funny," you murmured, voice honed to a razor's edge—quiet enough to slit the throats of every man in that room who dreamed of hurting you. Of hurting them.

"You didn't introduce him, either."

Suguru’s gaze dragged over you—slow, careful, like he was calibrating the threat level of a black widow spider beneath his shoe. “Ah. That’s Mahito. He’s not an employee. Just… an enthusiast.”

“Enthusiast of what?”

“People.”

Mahito’s laugh was a rusted scissor drawn softly across silk. “Of change.”

Your fingers tightened around your teacup, the heat biting into your palm. “I don’t discuss my children with men I don’t know, Mr. Geto. Remove him, or this meeting ends now.”

For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then, at Suguru’s faint nod, Mahito walked out—but not before his eyes dipped to your swollen abdomen, lingering like a promise.

Suguru tilted his head. “You’re not what I expected.”

“And you’re exactly what I prepared for.” You didn’t take the bait, just sipped your tea and wished you could gouge out Naoya’s wandering eyes on your body with the teaspoon.

“Your men could’ve fixed this,” Suguru mused. “Instead, they buried you alive under their failures.” He leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper. “Let me dig you out.”

You let out one sharp smirk. “You want my loyalty.” Naoya’s gaze continued to crawl over your skin, but it was Suguru’s quiet hunger that made your pulse stutter.

He didn’t just want your empire. He wanted what you had with him.

“No,” Suguru said, and for one suspended breath, you saw something ancient behind his eyes. “I want the myth they buried you in. I want to rewrite it in your bones. You can keep your loyalty. I know how fragile that is.”

Naoya smirked.

You traced the rim of your cup again, as if you weren’t about to be eight months along and evaluating three likely special grade threats in a building without exits.

“I remember he used to hoard candy in his coat pocket,” Suguru said idly. “Said it was for focus. But he always saved the strawberry ones. Said they tasted like the spring of youth.”

Your breath caught—only for a second.

He smiled.

You didn’t give him more.

“Why now?” you asked. “You’ve had years to insert yourself. Why wait until after they ruined everything?”

His smile thinned. “Because now the narrative is fragile. Vulnerable. Editable.”

You didn’t smile back. You narrowed your eyes, the way a knife narrows a throat.

“Editable?” you repeated, voice flat as the heartbeat monitor they once used when your blood pressure dipped from stress-induced anemia. Third trimester. High stakes. Too much noise. Too many men trying to rewrite your obituary before the children even arrived.

He leaned forward with the casual precision of a man who’d once taught his enemies philosophy before killing them. Elbows on the table. Like a professor who enjoyed watching you fail upward and spiral into myth.

“Everyone loves a redemption arc,” Suguru said softly. “Especially when the protagonist is already bleeding.”

You watched the way his fingers interlocked, how his eyes held yours without fear, pity, or desire. Familiarity, yes. But it was impersonal. Surgical. “You’re smart. You built a world-changing company, held it through five hostile acquisition attempts, and somehow survived being married to two emotionally repressed men with god complexes.”

A pause. Letting it land.

“But your narrative is a mess. Right now, you’re not a visionary. You’re a punchline. A cautionary tale.”

You didn’t blink. You’d stopped blinking for fragile men a long time ago.

“So you want to help me out of the goodness of your heart, Mr. Geto,” you sarcastically mocked, voice like cooled steel.

“I want to curate,” he corrected. “The public needs a villain. I’d rather it not be you.”

Your breath didn’t change. Your spine did.

“And who should it be instead?” you asked quietly.

His gaze didn’t falter. “The men who made you disappear.”

You didn’t answer.

Because your brain was already screaming. Eight months. That was the moment the light began to fracture. The lies weren’t clumsy—they were rehearsed. Gojo crying in the shower without making a sound, standing too close to the shower faucet like he wanted to burn off his skin. Nanami avoiding eye contact with you like you were Medusa.

They hadn’t just betrayed you.

They’d buried someone.

And this man across from you—

—this Suguru—

He wasn’t the villain of the story. He was the page they tore out.

You shifted slightly in your seat, careful not to press too hard against the left hip joint. It ached from carrying too much weight—twins, fear, expectations.

“I don’t trust men who speak softly for a living,” you said, finally.

He smiled, not kindly. “Then you’ll appreciate that I don’t live. I manage. I observe. I insert pressure.”

“That sounds dangerously like extortion.”

“That sounds like truth.”

You stood, feeling the subtle catch in your hip again. A strain, not a collapse. You could handle it. You’d handled worse.

“Then here’s some truth for you, Mr. Geto,” you said, staring him down while Naoya twitched beside him like a dog smelling meat. “I don’t care what happened between you and him. I don’t care if Satoru fed you strawberry candy with his mouth. I don’t care if you’re here to drag me into whatever unresolved soap opera you three left fermenting in a casket.”

Naoya flinched like a puppet yanked by ancestral strings.

Suguru just kept smiling, unflinching.

“But if you want a stake in my company, you’ll need to do more than spill secrets and wear pretty silk. I’ve already survived two of the most powerful men in Japan loving me to the brink of destruction. Fear’s a luxury I ran out of two assassination attempts ago.”

Suguru rose slowly. Elegantly. Offered a hand as if any of this was normal.

You didn’t take it.

You left.

And you didn’t realise your hands were shaking until the door sealed behind you. The tremor was slight, concentrated in the fingertips—just enough to betray you to yourself. Just enough to remind you that no amount of tech, intelligence, or control could reverse the trauma of being known by dangerous men.

You didn’t take Suguru’s jet.

Instead, you boarded your own—slid into the leather seat with Takahashi curled against your belly like a breathing talisman—and told your assistant not to speak unless the plane was on fire.

By the time you hit cruising altitude, your nails had already scrolled through Nanami’s phone.

Not because it was hard.

His password was still the same.

Gojo never had one.

You found messages you were never meant to see.

Shoko: 15 days until abortion is off the table.

Gojo: She won’t agree.

You: Then we don’t ask.

You stared at the screen for a long time.

So they all lied.

Not just Gojo. Not just Nanami. All of them. Shoko even pretended to be in your corner.

There it was.

It wasn’t just about control. It wasn’t even about love.

It was the assumption that because you didn’t throw cursed techniques like tantrums, you couldn’t possibly comprehend risk. That your life—your mind—was collateral. Disposable in the face of their warped logic and misplaced savior complexes.

Like talking to you was useless. Like reasoning with you was redundant.

Like you were some beautiful, ignorant thing to be protected and deceived in equal measure.

Like you were some animal incapable of critical reasoning when your own life was in danger.

So they could fuck each other guilt-free.

So they could play noble martyrs in the privacy of the wounds they gave you.

And still, that wasn’t enough. Because anger—real anger—needs witnesses.

You opened a signal sniffer, rerouted through two proxies, and tapped into your neighbour’s WiFi. Not because you couldn’t afford better surveillance, but because her router overlapped with the garden of Megumi’s penthouse.

You shouldn’t have looked.

You: She wouldn’t have agreed.

Haibara: Then don’t give her the choice.

You: She’s not a sorcerer. She doesn’t understand what these kids could be. My mom almost died trying to give birth to me, and I wasn’t even half as cursed.

Haibara: Yeah, she’s blind to what they’ll do to her.

You: I’m not going to let her die over a fucking ideal.

Haibara: That wack doctor says she’s fine, so stop obsessively worrying.

Your vision blurred—but not from tears. From calculation.

The rage came quietly. It didn’t scream or collapse. It focused.

You unclasped the ring from your finger. Gojo’s design, Nanami’s metal of choice. A perfect storm of sentiment you no longer had room for.

You handed it to one of the PR assistants travelling with you—someone young, hopeful, still romantic about the world.

"Get rid of it," you said. "Melt it. Turn it into something you like. Give it to your girlfriend. Or your mother. Or leave it on the street. I don’t care. Just make sure I never see it again."

She didn’t ask questions.

And you didn’t explain.

Because you knew your husbands were capable of cruelty. You’d lived long enough in the shadow of it. But what you hadn’t expected—

What truly broke something you couldn’t name—

Was Megumi.

Megumi, whom you’d grown up with. Who unknowingly saved you. Who you’d trusted with more than your safety. Who you’d let in on the soft, unfinished parts of your life.

He hadn’t just betrayed you.

He’d calculated your erasure like a business decision.

And somehow, that hurt more than anything Gojo or Nanami had ever done.

---

That was yesterday morning.

Now it was twilight in Tokyo.

They probably thought you’d thrown yourself into the sea.

But instead, here you were, crying into a bucket of fried chicken.

And you were borderline dehydrated, emotionally overloaded, stuck in a fucking KFC parking lot on the outskirts of the city, trying not to break down into raw animal sobs as you cried into your Zinger.

Your hypercar—a pearlescent black Koenigsegg Jesko Absolut—was parked sideways across two spots, hazard lights blinking like a distress beacon. The carbon-fiber passenger door still hung open. Your mascara was not waterproof.

The sandwich was getting soggy in your hand, fries had gone cold, and the second tub of soft serve was pooling slowly into your leather seat. Your coat smelled like fried oil, and you didn’t care. Not after the two days you’d had.

You missed Takahashi. You hadn’t meant to leave the house without him. But you had to run. And your mother's flight had been delayed without warning, your pelvic pain had spiked again, and your body had decided—in the grand tradition of pregnancy craving betrayal—that you absolutely needed karaage from KFC right now or you’d lose your mind.

You shoved another fry in your mouth. Your sunglasses slipped to the tip of your nose, and you wiped your nose on your sleeve. Your phone buzzed again in your coat pocket—ignored. The car’s touchscreen blinked up missed calls: Nanami. Gojo. Fushiguro. Haibara. CHRO. Keji. Shoko. Even Higuruma and Kashimo.

But your fingers only twitched when you reached into the Karaage Kun box and found it empty.

You blinked at it. Then stared at it again like it might refill itself if you focused hard enough.

It didn’t.

You muttered something vile under your breath, threw it into the bag, and reversed sharply out of the space, startling a group of high school boys who had been trying to take selfies with your car.

You pulled up to the drive-thru window again.

The teenage employee there—a scrawny, gentle-eyed boy with two acne patches on his chin—took one look at your blotchy face, your designer maternity wear, and the angry tears still clinging to your lashes like guilt, and leaned in awkwardly.

“Would you, uh… like to eat inside? In the back? It’s private. No one will see.”

Your eyes narrowed. Not because he was wrong. But because it was too damn late.

Fushiguro probably already had Tokyo’s entire surveillance grid running facial recognition on CCTV footage. You had thirty minutes, max, before someone pinged your license plate and alerted the staff that you were a missing trillionaire heiress with a God Complex Husbands Alert Level 5.

You opened your mouth to politely decline—and that’s when it happened.

A sharp, gravel-thick voice from behind your Jesko snarled loud enough to startle pigeons off the KFC’s roof.

“What’s taking so fucking long?”

You froze.

This. This was your final straw.

Not the delayed flight. Not the ghost of Geto Suguru. Not the stress migraine. Not even the go-bag full of burner phones in your trunk.

No. It was this man, some impatient Tokyo businessman with too much money and too little self-awareness, honking at a crying pregnant woman ordering a ¥700 chicken snack set.

The teenage cashier turned pale and scrambled to shush him, mumbling something apologetic and helpless in corporate lingo.

But you were already getting out of the car.

Your heels—flat, orthopaedic, pregnancy-safe—hit the pavement with a purposeful thunk. Your bump was covered in a loose belted trench, collar flipped up, eyes bloodshot, mouth red from crying, ketchup and eating your own lipstick with the fried chicken.

You strode across the parking lot like your water might break from rage alone.

The man was in a Porsche 918 Spyder.

Rich, then. But not you – rich.

You knocked on his tinted window hard enough to make the glass vibrate.

The man inside—long dark hair, too many rings, cigarette hanging from his lip like an accessory—rolled it down and looked at you.

Your heart stalled. Had Geto found you?

Then he turned fully—and no, you didn’t know him.

“Hey,” he started. “I’m sorry for—”

He trailed off. His eyes didn’t leave your face. But his hand went back, casually, like muscle memory. He grabbed something—or someone—in the back seat and yanked.

A pink-haired burly man, Fushiguro’s age, popped into view. Eyes wide. Face pale.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, staring at you.

You didn’t care. You were done being polite.

“Do none of you have the decency to wait your fucking turn? You’re not the only ones starving!”

The pink-haired one gawked. The long-haired one blinked, snuffed his cigarette.

And then—

The rear door of the Porsche opened with a heavy, expensive click.

A man stepped out.

No—a wall of a man. Towering. Black spiky hair. Tattoos across his neck, his hands, the visible sliver of skin beneath his bespoke coat. His suit looked Brunello Cucinelli. His gait was slow. Controlled.

Somehow, he was taller than Gojo.

Which should’ve been illegal.

You took a step back. Your hip twinged.

He looked at you the way sorcerers looked at curses: like you were made of secrets and danger.

His voice was almost gentle when he spoke in English to you.

“Hey, hey. It’s okay. I’m sorry for yelling. I was just… stunned. We were supposed to meet yesterday in New York, but you never came. Do you remember me, princess?”

You stared at him.

Confused.

Nauseated.

Because you did not remember him. Not the face. Not the voice. And especially not the “princess.”

Your hand—coated in fries and fatigue—slowly curled into a fist at your side, “Don’t call me that. Who the fuck are you?”

---

He’d seen a lot in his many lives.

Flesh peeled from bone in war. Gods weep beneath shrines. Kingdoms rise on the shoulders of men who lied.

But nothing—nothing—had prepared him for this: A woman powerful enough to end markets with a swipe of her hand, pregnant and a little crazy, yelling at a man twice her size at a Tokyo KFC lot like he’d committed a crime.

And to him? He had.

Because she didn’t remember him.

Not the face.

Not the voice.

Not the name he’d written for her the first time they’d met in Norway—softly, like it would break something if said out loud.

She stared at him now like he was a stranger. And it knocked the breath from his lungs harder than any curse ever had.

The same eyes. The same sharpness in her jaw when she was pissed, the same raw edge to her voice.

He opened his mouth. Could’ve told her. Could’ve said everything.

But the car behind him honked. Loud. Disrespectful.

And she turned.

Didn’t even wait.

Walked back to her car like he was just another suit in the noise.

Slammed the door. Didn’t look back.

He stood in the fading orange-pink glow of Tokyo twilight, heart slightly colder.

“Broooo,” came Yuji’s voice from the passenger seat. “You got rejected by a pregnant woman, in public. That’s generational humiliation, man.”

“She didn’t reject me,” He muttered, eyes still on her.

“She forgot you existed,” Junpei added helpfully from the back, licking spicy powder off his fingertips. “You’re a ghost. A failed Tinder date. A plotline that didn’t make the final cut.”

“Don’t you think she’s kinda scary, though?” Choso chimed in quietly, looking almost reverent. “She gives off strong mom-you-don’t-wanna-piss-off energy.”

“She is a mom,” Yuji pointed out.

“To twins,” He corrected, voice too soft.

They all looked at him.

“What?” He snapped.

“Nothing,” Choso said, already climbing out of the car, like that was answer enough as he walked to the car that had honked.

So of course, he didn’t think. Just walked.

Over to her Jesko, one hand raised, careful to keep his body language non-threatening. He knocked. Once. Lightly.

She looked up. Eyes bloodshot. Hands gripping the tub of chicken like a war trophy.

He held up the takeaway bag like a peace offering. Didn’t say anything.

She didn’t roll the window down. Just glared at him like she might reverse into him and not lose sleep.

Behind him, Yuji, Choso, and Junpei leaned out of the Porsche like hyenas watching a National Geographic special. “Go on then, Romeo,” Yuji stage-whispered.

The giant man ignored him. Nudged the bag closer. Still no window roll.

She shifted slightly—hand brushing toward the ignition.

But then… her stomach growled. Loud.

An indecent, almost comic little groan from deep within.

She froze. Looked horrified.

He bit back a smirk.

She sighed, finally rolling the window down with the resignation of a god forced to make peace with a lesser deity.

“Who the fuck are you?” Her voice was sandpaper and citrus. He almost missed it. The familiarity.

“Calm down, woman. I don’t hurt defenceless pregnant women.”

“Who. The fuck. Are you?” She snapped again, unbothered by his size, his tone, or the heat radiating off him like a threat.

He admired that. Always had.

“Ryomen Sukuna,” he said, slow, voice low. “From Itadori Industries, we specialise in market manipulation. I was trying to invest in your company. We met in Norway.”

She blinked. Sniffling. Mistrust etched deep in the slope of her shoulders.

“Show me your passport.”

He didn’t argue.

Instead, he turned and yelled, “Choso. You got the passports?”

Choso, saint that he was, was already halfway out of the car, rummaged around in his coat and brought it over.

As he handed it over, he leaned close and whispered, like it was sacred, “He wore this suit just because he was excited to meet you.”

Sukuna shot him a glare that could've flattened cities. Choso walked back, unbothered.

He flipped to the front page of the passport with one hand, takeaway bag still in the other.

Held it out.

She scanned it on her phone with the tired efficiency of someone who’d been betrayed before.

It pinged. Verified. Real.

She gave it back.

“I came to the meeting,” she murmured. “Some guy named Suguru showed up instead of you.”

Sukuna’s face darkened.

Who the fuck was Suguru?

Before he could say more, she sniffled.

“Princess,” he started, softer now. “Do you want to have this conversation while I stand outside your car with a takeaway bag like a solicitor?”

She wailed, openly now. “Nooo. Give me the food.”

And she got out of the car.

Didn’t stray from the door, but her body relaxed the slightest bit. Maybe from the scent. Maybe from the warmth of fried food. Maybe from the fact that Sukuna didn’t flinch when she got close enough to punch him.

He leaned against her car’s hood, offering the bag.

She rummaged through it like a raccoon with opposable thumbs.

Found too much food—because of course, he’d ordered one of everything Japan-exclusive. KFC bento. Teriyaki Twister. Pepper Mayo Twister. Chicken Katsu Sando. Matcha Tiramisu. Peach Mango Pie. Sakura Milk Tea.

She blinked. Whispered, almost suspiciously, “Did you poison it?”

He raised a brow.

Sukuna had been trying to meet with her for months. Months. And yet here she was, passing him the milk tea like it was some kind of test, like he wasn’t exactly who he said he was.

His hand almost brushed hers as he took the cup, and for a moment, he wondered if she’d noticed the slight tremble in his fingers.

He doubted it. She was too busy with the storm that raged behind her eyes to care about something as trivial as that.

He took it. Sipped. “Sweet,” he said, licking the sugar off his lip like it might make her remember.

She didn’t respond, her eyes still sharp like she could see every secret he kept buried behind his smirk.

“You look like you’re going through something,” he said, stealing a fry with the air of someone who didn’t have the blood of entire lineages on his hands. (He did. But not today.)

Her gaze barely moved, and her voice came out in a low, bitter monotone. “I hate my husbands.”

He smirked wider, his amusement sharp as glass. “I’ve seen the news.”

Yuji snorted from their car, and Sukuna glared at him.

She narrowed her eyes. “You look like a criminal.”

“'Cause I am,” he said, but shrugged. “Nah, just a sorcerer. Was."

“Get away from me,” Her mouth twisted as she began to pull away, pushing herself back into the uncomfortable space of her own thoughts. “God, they say sorcerers are rare but I keep encountering them like flies. Like cursed venereal diseases. It’s disgusting.”

Sukuna jumped to his feet without thinking, like it was second nature to console her, even if the reason felt foreign—some instinct buried deep in his chest, one he couldn't quite shake. He didn't need to comfort her. Hell, he probably shouldn't have. But for a moment, he wasn’t the monster he had been in another life; he was just a man, holding out a hand when it was needed. “No,” he said softly, his voice almost gentle. “I used to be one, but I’m not anymore. Don’t care about it, either. My brothers over there, and Yuji’s friend? They’re sorcerers too, but none of us participate in that die-a-thankless-death game.”

Junpei made a gagging sound behind the car. Choso threw a napkin at him.

“That’s what he said too,” she mumbled, shoving a mango pie into her mouth with the viciousness of someone who wanted to eat and disappear.

“Who?”

“The guy who showed up instead of you and … And there was this stitched-up guy and that fucking Naoya, and I thought I was going to die, and my husband lied to me about Suguru and his beautiful hair; he never told me about him.” She continued wailing.

Sukuna was confused between her sniffling, eating and crying combo. “Wait, slow down; start with the smallest one. Who’s the stitched guy? What did he look like?”

“His name was Mahito; he had stitches on his face and pale blue hair and looked at me like he was gonna open my stomach and take my babies like a claw machine prize.” She continued sniffing and also somehow sipping her tea.

Sukuna’s fists clenched.

He turned to Choso and yelled out, “Find where Mahito is. Now.”

Choso already had his phone out, mouth a thin line.

Sukuna turned back to her, voice low. “What about the other one? Naoya?”

“He looked at me like he wanted to assault me. I wanted to blind him with a tea spoon.” She said it so flatly, like violence was just a normal Tuesday.

“Naobito’s kid?” Sukuna asked. She nodded, still chewing. He gave a nod to Yuji, who was already on a call, voice sharp.

And then:

“Who’s Suguru?”

She went quiet.

Then, with all the ceremony of a royal confession, she slid him her half-eaten burger.

He accepted it like it was holy.

Then ate in silence with her for a while.

She began again, “He told me his name was Geto Suguru. That he and my husband were soulmates. And that I was their enemy. How the fuck am I someone’s enemy when I didn’t even know he existed?”

“Wait—Geto?” Sukuna stopped mid-chew.

She nodded, slow. “Yeah. Long black hair. Pretty, in that ‘will definitely commit a felony against humanity’ kind of way.”

Sukuna felt something shift in him.

“He’s supposed to be dead. There was a war a few months ago in Kyoto. Your husband killed him.”

Her eyes widened, horror blooming.

“Did I see a ghost? A curse?”

“Not possible. He was a curse user, yeah, but no one survives your husband.” Then he smirked. “Unless it’s me. I’m very strong, princess.”

She rolled her eyes and buried herself in the chicken like it could shelter her from the fact that apparently nothing in her life was real. “Less peacocking. More finding who’s impersonating you.”

“I’ll find out,” Sukuna said. His voice was flat, but his chest thrummed like a curse trying to break its seal. “And I mean that.”

Of course he did. She just nodded absently, like it was a customer service promise she’d heard before. There was Sprite condensation running down her fingers. Her lips were slightly swollen from all the salt. She looked exhausted. And holy.

That part hadn’t changed. Not in a thousand lives.

But then she said, “I have two husbands. And they’re both absolute clowns.”

Sukuna didn’t laugh.

(Okay—he let out a very soft, involuntary snort. Behind him, Junpei was wheezing into his Armani jacket, Yuji muttering “bro’s down bad”, and Choso took a photo of the moment like he was documenting a rare animal sighting.)

She kept going. “I wake up every morning to a new scandal,” she said, gesturing vaguely with a limp fry. “They bicker like old women in a laundromat. One of them tried to cheat on the 3AM Test with a voice actor, and the other failed so hard the internet started a NanaMoobs hashtag.”

Sukuna raised an eyebrow, more amused than he’d let show. “And yet, you are still married to them.”

“Bad decision-making, obviously.” So she was still in love with them.

He hummed, reaching for one of her fries again. Her wrist didn’t flinch this time. Small victories. “What did they do this time?”

She sighed, the kind that aged you five years in one breath. “Oh, nothing major. Just tried to abort my babies without telling me.”

Sukuna’s drink went down the wrong way. He coughed, violently, his eyes watering as Junpei whispered, “Bro…” with the reverence of someone witnessing an execution.

“…Excuse me?” Sukuna rasped.

She took a slow sip of her Sprite, eyes dead. “Yeah. Something about ‘if it was her or the baby, we’d choose her’ blah blah blah.’ I don’t know. I stopped reading after.”

For once in centuries, Sukuna had no words.

And that, in his world, was a fucking problem.

Because he’d once bathed in the blood of tyrants. He’d reduced kingdoms to ashes and made death feel like a mercy. His name had been enough to unmake faith.

But he had never, not once, been asked to comfort a furious, hormonal, fast-food-devouring, betrayed woman who used to be his entire world and now didn’t even recognize him.

And who was still, somehow, unspeakably radiant through it all.

This—this was worse than war.

So he said the only thing that came close to honesty. “You love them, right?”

She glared. Not just at him—through him. “What does that have to do with it?”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said. “So hypothetically, if they were pregnant and historically too stubborn to save themselves, would you let them die?”

She blinked. The words caught her off guard. Her fry stilled halfway to her mouth.

“That’s an oddly sentimental thing to say,” she said.

He smirked. A slow thing, calculated, but tired around the edges. “I’m a businessman. Can’t let my biggest asset disappear, can I?”

She rolled her eyes, but the edge had dulled. “Uh-huh. Whatever you say, Mr. ‘Not a Criminal.’”

But she wasn’t crying anymore.

And Sukuna decided that—pathetically, pathetically—that was his greatest win in years.

She turned to him again, half her chicken gone. “But like—hiding an ex that fucking relevant is still bad, right? Like ‘my one and only’ and shit.”

The words twisted something deep in his ribcage. Deeper than his heart. The one that still beat only for her, even after all this time, all his deaths.

Sukuna hummed. Not dismissive, just thoughtful. “I guess. But then I have an ex—though I never called her that—who nearly set my entire life on fire. Yandere, textbook. I don’t talk about her. Not because I’m hiding her, but because she… made living unbearable. Some people are like that. Maybe your husband didn’t tell you because it hurt too much, and the other one didn’t because it wasn’t his secret to tell.”

He looked at her then. Really looked.

There was mango sauce on her lip. Chicken grease on her coat. Her hand trembled just slightly, probably from the sugar crash. And still—still—she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

But she didn’t remember.

Not the wedding. Not the way she’d laughed into his neck. Not the way she’d once laughed when he brought her those blobfish plushies for the babies.

She didn’t smile that tired smile while saying his name now.

There was no hate in her voice. No love either.

Just air.

She kept eating. Sipping her Sprite. Talking about two men who didn’t know what they had until they almost threw it away. Two men she still loved.

Behind him, Yuji laughed under his breath, “he’s got it bad.”

Choso handed him a tissue for the Sprite spill that hadn’t happened. Junpei was still smirking.

And Sukuna—he just sat there, breathing through a heartbreak that didn’t even have a name in this timeline.

---

Small A/N: Before/After reading the next bit, to draw the parallel, read this - [Tumblr/Ao3]

---

On the other side of Tokyo, the Fushiguros had gathered.

“Mom.” Megumi offered a hand when she climbed out of the jet.

She didn’t take it, just kept walking with her guards.

“I didn’t know. Then that doctor said she was fine, so there was no need to tell her in case the stress got to her.” He snapped.

She turned to him, “Your father would be disappointed in you.”

Megumi didn’t speak after that.

---

Across town, Nanami and Gojo were in hell. Again.

Nanami looked like a man trying to mathematically quantify grief. A golden ratio blade flickered and died in his palm every few seconds,  uncontrolled—his body stuck in a loop, like it was trying to fight something that wasn’t there anymore.

Gojo’s Six Eyes still burned. Pupils dilated too sharp, skin gray-blue, the corners of his mouth twitching from the static in his brain.

Neither had slept in twenty-eight hours.

They had tried every scenario.

None of them ended with a pin drop at a KFC.

Incoming Message: Location

They stared at the screen.

Gojo broke the silence, cautious—hopeful like a man hoping the corpse in the morgue might still breathe.

“She’s—?”

“KFC,” Nanami said. Flat. Not deadpan—dead.

Gojo squinted. “You think the universe hates me personally?”

Nanami didn’t answer. Just turned the key and revved the car like he meant to drive it through Heaven’s gates and make someone answer for it.

---

By the time they arrived, the sun was bleeding into the horizon.

She was outside. Sitting on the hood of her car like the world hadn’t just ended two days ago. Barefoot. Anklets catching light. One hand held a melting Sprite float, the other a neatly folded napkin like she’d just wiped off a joke.

She was laughing.

Not alone.

Two—no, four others lingered around her. All vaguely wrong. One looked like Haibara on benzos, another like a Megumi with worse judgment and better hair. A third had cult survivor written all over him, and the last—

The last looked like he’d walked out of an ancient curse and decided to become a CEO.

Nanami’s breath stalled. Rage bloomed slow and clinical—an aneurysm waiting for a reason.

Gojo’s voice was already splintering. “Who the fuck—”

Nanami’s cursed energy cracked across his wrist like stained gold glass—subtle but loud if you knew him.

She saw them.

Across the street, with her mouth still full of fries, she called out, “Oh hey, look who finally decided to show up. I was gonna save you some, but figured you’d make me eat a granola bar and cry about my blood sugar.”

Gojo stopped in his tracks.

Nanami blinked.

She grinned like she hadn’t haunted them for past 29 hours. Like she wasn’t the reason Gojo started drinking his coffee black again.

“Come here,” she called, louder. “You two look like you haven’t peed in hours.”

Gojo, under his breath, muttered, “Because we haven’t.”

Beside her, reading their lips, Choso grimaced. “Jesus.”

Sukuna chuckled low in his chest, his attention never leaving her. “You really made them come to a KFC?”

She laughed harder, grabbing her side. “You don’t get to judge. You literally told me you’ve been burning cash just for a ‘chance meeting.’”

“Your business is lucrative,” Sukuna said.

“You’re covered in money.”

He glanced at his bespoke three-piece. “It’s decorative.”

“Okay, American Psycho.”

Sukuna smiled. His hand twitched once—almost like he was going to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, but didn’t.

Same as Nanami, Gojo was already halfway across the street. “Who are these people?”

“They’re my friends,” she said sweetly, swinging her legs off the car. “Don’t be jealous, Satoru.”

“I am jealous,” he muttered, eyes glued to her.

Nanami’s voice cracked, sharp and brittle: “What did you tell them?”

She stood. Twirled her straw once. Shrugged. “That my idiot husbands forgot I was dangerous. Corrupted my friends. Lied to me. So I made new friends. Ones who don’t gaslight and lie to me.”

Nanami took a single step forward.

She pointed a fry like a weapon. “Don’t. If you breathe without apologizing, I will stab this into your brain through your nose.”

Gojo wheezed. Somewhere between a sob and a snort.

She rolled her eyes. “You’re lucky I was already craving wings. Otherwise, I’d be halfway to Bhutan.”

She stepped off the curb.

Licked sauce off her thumb. Like she hadn’t been running for her life a day ago. Like she’d never had a panic attack in a jet with the lights off. Like the world didn’t owe her blood for making her survive it.

Her gait was relaxed. Chin high.

And then—

CRACK!!!

No echo. No cinematic recoil.

Just nerve, bone, and fate snapping in sync.

It was intimate. Like an exhale through a silencer. Like a trapdoor closing.

Her hand jerked. The Styrofoam cup slipped from her grip mid-sip, spiraling sideways—Sprite and melting ice cream spraying in a soft arc. Her other hand, still holding the napkin, trembled like it knew something her mind hadn’t yet registered.

Then—

Red.

A bloom at the base of her skull. Not metaphorical. Not poetic. Surgical. The kind of red that silences conversations mid-sentence. That never washes out.

Her shoulder twisted, tendons snapping like overstretched cables. A clean fracture. Deliberate.

And then she dropped.

Mid-step. No scream. No gasp. No hands thrown up in defense.

Just a body folding in on itself. Puppet. Cut strings. Floor.

Her knees hit first. Then her hips. Her skull would’ve cracked open if—

“NO—!”

Gojo’s voice split the air.

His body slammed the pavement just in time, arms sliding under her skull before it struck asphalt. His knees hit hard. He didn’t notice.

She was convulsing. Fingers twitching. Legs spasming like her nerves were glitching through static.

Her eyes fluttered open—barely. One blown wide. The other slow to respond. Her mouth moved, soundless, forming shapes she couldn’t say.

The back of her head was caved in. Blood bubbling at the base, wet and hot against Gojo’s thighs.

“Hey—hey. Look at me. Look at me—fuck, baby, just stay. Please stay—”

His voice was wreckage. No power, only panic. Shaky hands curled around her cheeks like he was afraid he’d break her worse.

She blinked. Just once. Then her pupils rolled up.

And still, he held her. Cradled her like a lifeline. A wrecked thing trying to hold together something softer than himself.

Her breath came out uneven. Like a machine trying to reboot.

Gojo didn’t feel the pain in his legs. Didn’t feel her blood soaking his clothes. All he saw was her face—lagging, like her brain was buffering behind real time.

For one breathless second—

Even Sukuna forgot who he was.

He blinked. Twice. His head tilted. Like something ancient had stirred from beneath his ribs.

Her face. Her blood.

The stillness.

He didn’t move. His hands twitched once at his sides. His throat clicked dry.

It was like watching a ghost die again.

“…No,” he breathed. “No—no, no—fuck.”

A memory surged:

He’d seen her bleed before. In another life.

Him, cradling her. Her gaze empty. The room sterile and humming with cold fluorescents. That awful antiseptic smell. The nurses whispering about miscarriage like it was a math error. All because the trauma to the womb was too violent.

A month later, Gojo. And Nanami. Suicides. News headlines.

She hadn’t remembered him in this life. Hadn’t even looked twice.

But Sukuna remembered everything.

The way her breath had sounded when she laughed in that life. The shape of the twins she lost before he could name them. The soft sigh she let out as she fell asleep in his arms. The nightmares—always the same men, the guilt too heavy to swallow. The way her eyes had looked when he told her she deserved to live, to be happy anyway—even after everything. The way they had looked when she told him she loved him. The way her lips had moved when she tiredly said his name for the first time.

That "Ryo" still ran through his bloodstream like a curse—he’d remember even if he forgot his own name.

The way she had asked him for help, like he wasn’t cursed.

He hadn’t begged for reincarnation.

He’d ripped it from the jaws of nonexistence—not to be a god, not to be reborn.

To see her again.

And now—

“No—” Sukuna’s voice came low. Not pleading. Not broken. Controlled.

Like a warrior watching the aftermath of an explosion he couldn’t stop. A man built to destroy, watching the one thing he didn’t want broken shatter anyway.

His hands curled into fists. Slowly. Silently.

Across from him, Gojo was still holding her. Still whispering like prayer was a reflex he’d never believed in until now.

“Stay with me. Just stay with me. Please, stay—don’t fucking do this to me—don’t—”

Choso turned pale, like the horror had wind behind it. “Who do we call?” he asked. “Hospital—police—do we—what the fuck do we do? We need a doctor—who’s treating her—”

No one answered.

Gojo didn’t even hear him. His voice kept going. Quiet. Shredded. “Stay. Stay. Please, stay. Just… just stay with me.”

Choso ripped Gojo’s phone out of his coat pocket, fingers slipping. His hand shook as he dialed.

Somewhere behind them, Yuji and Junpei were already moving—eyes dark, steps soundless, splitting off like wolves catching a scent. Trained. Tracking. Gone.

Nanami hadn’t moved.

Not yet. Not immediately.

Like his brain had glitched mid-frame. Like the universe had misfired—like the seconds between the gunshot and the collapse were just another nightmare in the endless reel of them.

He stood there.

Still.

Watching her bleed.

A man built on logic. Precision. Ratios and rules. Cause and effect.

But this?

This was mathematics without an equation. Balance without meaning.

Another cosmic joke played on a man foolish enough to believe he could keep something sacred in a world like this.

Then he saw it.

The red halo at the base of her skull. The unnatural kink in her spine. The shoulder pulled out of socket like a bird with a snapped wing. And the exit wound—clinical, too clean. Efficient.

Something in him shifted.

Not broke. Shifted.

Like a knife turning in its sheath.

He straightened.

He moved like something had been switched off.

Like the weight of a man whose grief wasn’t a feeling—it was a law.

Rage in Nanami was never hot. Never loud. It was the collapse of structure. The moment when the scaffolding gives and all that’s left is gravity.

He didn’t speak. He just walked.

His technique activated without gesture. No ritual. No threat.

The ground cracked beneath him. Golden ratios burned through the pavement like divine geometry. Reality bent into fragments, everything around him rearranged into lines of perfect consequence.

He was already measuring the moment—the bullet’s entry, the blast radius, the arc of collapse. Calculating, silently, the seconds she had left before brain death.

“What did you do?” Nanami asked. His voice didn’t raise. It was the sound of a hypothesis being disproven. A balance sheet that refused to align. A verdict already passed.

Behind him, golden blades began to hum violently—too precise to be called weapons. They weren’t made for war. They were made for correction.

Weak points blinked into the air like constellations on a surgical map.

He moved toward Sukuna.

And Sukuna didn’t retreat.

His hands twitched—not from fear, but restraint. Part of him wanted to summon every cursed tool he’d buried across the globe. His mind cycled through the names of every mercenary he had killed in secret to keep her safe. The spells he’d never used—not even when dying.

And the rage—the sheer, blistering fury—that he had let his guard down for one hour just so she could feel normal.

And this was what happened.

“You shouldn’t have looked at her.” Nanami’s voice landed like cold steel. “You shouldn’t have breathed the same air.”

Around Sukuna, the air sliced itself into pieces. Invisible blades hovering in calculus patterns—dozens of trajectories, all of them fatal. Reality split like a frog in a biology lab.

Sukuna didn’t flinch. Didn’t lift a finger.

“It wasn’t me.”

Gojo looked up, blood in his mouth, his eyes, his thoughts. Staining. Hers. “He’s lying—she was smiling,” he looked back at her. “She was smiling—”

“I didn’t,” Sukuna said again. Quieter. Still watching her. “I couldn’t. Why the fuck would I—?”

Nanami’s voice came like frost on a blade.

“I will burn down the laws of this world if it means ripping you apart.”

Sukuna straightened. Deliberate. Like a tree refusing to bow in a storm.

“You want to fight me now?”

Nanami didn’t answer.

His Domain cracked open behind him—reality cracking, rewinding, clockwork splitting open like a broken timepiece. Golden lines spun outward in spirals, mapping every single version of this moment.

Every version where she survived.

Every one that didn't.

This wasn’t rage.

It was annihilation.

Sukuna’s own Domain shuddered into existence—scarlet, grotesque, brute, heavy, like an axe swung through a cathedral.

The shadows warped around his frame. The air vibrated with it. The ground buckled.

“I didn’t fucking touch her.”

Even he—he—hesitated when he saw Nanami’s face.

Because there was no wrath there.

No vengeance.

Just the flat certainty of a man with nothing left to protect and nothing left to fear.

Sukuna’s rage curled inside him like a parasite chewing through meat. But he couldn’t exorcise it. Couldn’t spit it out.

Rage was all he had.

And rage felt like prayer.

“Do it, then,” he growled.

His voice cracked once—just enough to show the rot underneath.

“Fucking do it.”

Gojo didn’t move. He just held her.

His mouth against her temple. His hands cradling what they could not save.

“I didn’t say sorry,” he whispered. Not to anyone. Not to her.

Just to himself. Just to the air. Like he was giving the words permission to leave him now.

“I didn’t even get to say sorry…”

His fingers were red and shaking.

Her coat stuck to her ribs, soaked through.

Sukuna had trained himself not to feel. Feeling made you fail. Love made you late. Attachment got people killed.

But then she’d said his name.

In this life.

In that soft, exhausted voice. With eyes like she’d already forgiven him for whatever he hadn’t even done yet.

He wasn’t a god anymore. He knew it the moment she touched his wrist and didn’t recoil.

He was just a man.

A man who remembered what her laughter sounded like. What it felt like to be seen.

A man who was about to end a continent for her.

But she wasn’t blinking anymore.

And then—

A twitch.

Small. Shallow. The kind of movement most people would’ve missed.

But Sukuna wasn’t most people.

Her eyelids fluttered. Once.

Only he saw.

His jaw locked. A breath hitched in his chest—sharp and quiet.

He didn’t scream. Didn’t shout it aloud. Just—

“I didn’t do it,” he said again. The words were sharp now. Precise. Not a defence but a promise. “But I’ll help find who did.”

Behind him, Nanami’s golden blades froze mid-rotation. Suspended like judgement delayed.

The air stopped humming.

“Why?” he asked. Flat. Unbelieving.

Sukuna’s eyes never left her. “Because in another life, I watched a woman like that bleed out protecting idiots like you. And I don’t even know her.”

Nanami didn’t lower his hand. “I don’t care if you knew her in a fucking dream.”

Choso stepped between them—hand up, body rigid, his own technique thrumming in a futile attempt to shield his brother. But even he knew he was useless here. He was trying to hold back two tectonic plates with nothing but his spine.

Sukuna opened his palms. Empty. Still.

“I don’t want to fight you.”

“I don’t want to think,” Nanami replied like a man who didn’t want to hear his own thoughts anymore.

Gojo’s shoulders shook like a child’s.

Not from panic. From something worse—recognition. That this was real. That this might be the last time he held her with warmth still in her skin.

He whispered again.

Not to her. Not to them.

Just to the shape of her still in his arms.

“I didn’t even get to say sorry.”

His voice caught in his throat. A hiccup. A prayer’s corpse. Like he was whispering it to the version of her who’d already left.

Choso’s voice broke through in the background, rising in panic as he screamed into the phone. “She’s bleeding from the brainstem—there’s spinal trauma—we need an ambulance NOW—”

Gojo folded over her, head bowed, as if shielding her from the sound. “Baby, no,” he begged. “You’re strong. Stronger than both of us. So stay. Just a little longer. Just—stay. Please. Protect me. One last time…”

Something in his voice—not words, but the way he said them—stopped Nanami cold.

The blades vanished. His Domain closed.

And the silence returned—not peace. Not grief. Just that awful stillness that comes before a scream.

Gojo leaned lower.

His lips brushed her stomach.

“The twins…” he whispered, breath hitching.

His voice broke.

“I didn’t even get to say sorry.”

Sukuna moved again.

Slow. Controlled. Cautious, like approaching a dying god.

Red stained his collar. His shirt. His wrists. Her blood had dried at the corner of his mouth, but it still glinted in the light.

Yuji and Junpei were already gone—disappearing into alley shadows like bloodhounds with no leash. Their cursed energy sang behind them in violent harmony.

And the street was painted red.

Gojo rocked her body slightly. Whispering into her hair now. The words meant nothing. They were only shape and sound. “Don’t go,” he kept saying. “Don’t go. Don’t go. Don’t go—”

Except—

Her hand.

A twitch.

Not a movement. Not a miracle.

Just a final neuron firing.

---

📱Twitter/X

@CHRO, Gaming Studios | May 2, 2025

Today, the unimaginable happened.

Our CEO, founder, and my friend of seven years was the victim of a targeted shooting outside a private engagement. We are currently working with authorities. Out of respect for her family and those of us who love her, we ask for space and privacy.

She built a dream from nothing. She made this world more than it was.

Please keep her in your thoughts.

🗞️Official Press Statement

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Gaming Studios | May 2, 2025

Our studios are devastated to confirm that earlier today, our Chief Executive Officer and founder was involved in a violent incident outside a private location. The matter is currently under investigation, and we are fully cooperating with law enforcement.

A visionary behind one of the most influential gaming empires of the decade—a friend, a to-be mother, a wife, a daughter, a relentless force who refused to build anything less than a revolution.

We ask for patience, respect, and privacy for her loved ones and the gaming family during this profoundly difficult moment.

Further updates will be provided when appropriate.

---

After the hit

Haibara didn’t blink when the sniper’s echo died. He just exhaled softly, like he’d been holding in a cough. Then, with a gentleness that made Naoya shift uncomfortably, he patted Maki’s shoulder—twice. Like a priest giving last rites to someone still breathing.

He turned. Winked at Naoya like they were sharing a private joke.

“Let her go.”

Naoya scoffed but obeyed. His fingers slipped from Mai’s arm, slow with disdain.

Haibara’s voice lowered, flat and unimpressed. “It’s just a bullet. You’ve choked your own blood out for less, haven’t you?”

Maki didn’t flinch. Not when Mai stumbled into her arms. Not even when Mai clutched at her ribs and rasped her name. Maki’s gaze stayed fixed on Haibara. Unshaken. Surgical.

“You picked the wrong sister to threaten.”

Haibara smiled without teeth. “See, that’s the part I liked. Do you know why?”

No shout. No gloat. No warning. No waiting for an answer. “Because you shouldn’t have said that.”

He raised the gun and pulled the trigger.

Click.

One shot. Centered. Clean. Right between Mai’s eyes.

The sound was small. Not dramatic. Not final. Just... clinical.

Mai’s spine locked—then folded. Her weight slumped into Maki’s arms like a structure losing tension.

Maki didn’t scream.

She laid Mai down like she was putting her to sleep. One hand on her shoulder, the other cushioning her fall. Quiet. Focused.

Haibara didn’t wait for grief. He turned, flicked a hand in the direction of the body.

“Naoya. Get her out of my sight. My shoes are limited edition.”

Naoya grunted and kicked Mai’s corpse to the side like loose garbage. The body thudded against gravel, limbs folding awkwardly.

Still, Maki didn’t move. Her hands were slick. Her face unreadable.

“Megumi will kill you for this.”

Haibara grinned. All enamel. “Good. I’m counting on it.”

He paced a tight, deliberate circle around her. The gun swung in lazy loops from his fingers like a child’s toy.

“I’m not doing this for sport,” he said. “Or politics. Or whatever messy little revenge fantasy you’ve spun in your head.”

He stopped beside her. Then shifted slightly—gun lowering, gaze sliding past her.

Toward the street below. Toward you.

“Two heartbeats,” he murmured. “Feather-light. One flutters more than the other. Girl, maybe. You hear it?”

He didn’t wait.

“Twins. Inside her. You don’t need Six Eyes to hear it. Just patience. Stillness. Obsession.”

He smiled then. But it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I want them.”

It wasn’t said with lust. Or cruelty.

It was said the way collectors say, I want that painting.

The way scientists say, I want that body for dissection.

The way sorcerers say, I want that power.

“They’ll make glorious cursed objects,” he added. “Personal. Tragic. Intimate.”

Maki didn’t speak.

She moved.

No warning. No scream. Just acceleration—like a spring snapping forward.

Pure Toji’s curse. Clean, unstoppable violence.

The gun didn’t rise fast enough.

Haibara stepped back off the rooftop ledge.

But not in fear.

In invitation.

Behind him, his Domain bloomed open—slick, immediate, and silent.

Like silk unfurling from a box.

A trapdoor for gods.

He fell into it like he'd done it before.

Like he wanted her to follow.

And she did. Her foot crossed the threshold—

crack.

Another shot.

Clean. Efficient.

The bullet hit her mid-air, just below the sternum—left side, precise angle.

Her breath hitched. Her spine jerked. Blood bloomed from her chest like a curse blooming into form.

She shook.

Mid-lunge. All momentum gone. Her body folded in on itself—like a puppet yanked by frayed threads.

She never reached him.

She never touched the Domain’s edge.

She crashed. Bone snapped. Limbs bent wrong.

No scream. No dignity. Just meat hitting stone.

Ten minutes later, Yuji and Junpei found her.

There was no poetry. No storm. No wind cue. Just heat and buzzing flies.

Just traffic that didn’t stop.

No mourning. No rage.

Just reality. Still moving.

And somewhere else—clean, calm, unbothered—Haibara sent a message:

"Hearts are still fresh. You’ll need gloves."

---

A/N: hehehehehehe laughs like Mahito in a Gucci showroom this chapter was a psychological workout & a KFC commercial in disguise (Yes, I did it to torture Gojo; idk why he's growing more on me lately.) This chapter took a LOT of rewrites & delulu-fuelled breakdowns, but shoutout to my Todo (my beta bestie), who simultaneously enabled my fictional insanity & made sure I took naps like a toddler on a juice crash (she also made me eat fruit). My brain feels disturbingly relaxed even though I finished this in 2 days like a woman possessed by a keyboard demon. Thank you, girl, for keeping me from rewriting the ending 17 times. Did anyone clock Mamaguro?? LMAOOO & not Megs catching strays for existing 😭😭😭. Idk why I've been torturing him; he didn't even do anything except exist & love her. And, btw—Nanami’s reaction isn’t emotion bc he’s not regular, tax-paying Nanami anymore; he’s a special grade war ghost with grief compression issues. Also: HOW MUCH DO WE HATE HAIBARA NOW??? Please scream in the comments. I crave your rage essays like cursed energy. Your thoughts genuinely help me improve & shape this story—it’s my first time writing something this long & plot-based instead of just vibes & hot people with serious issues. How’d we like Suguwu-chan (or… whatever he is 👀) & the reader’s convo?? Was she not peak powerful, bad-bitch energy?? And don’t EVEN get me started on Sukuna!!! This man reappeared after 84 years & somehow aced every column with the highest marks possible?? I’m not even a Suku-girly, but maybe I’m also fictionally insane & it’s showing (but no, I’m not talking about canon Sukuna—I have no interest in murder or maternity, pls. I’m just tired). Also, Sukuna’s hair being black in this ending was an aesthetic choice bc I’ve seen the manga panels, & he’ll be built different next season. You’re free to hallucinate him however you want, just like my beta is doing as we speak. Also when he said “Ryomen Sukuna”? I flatlined. And not even his own spiritual homeboys spared him 😭. Absolute roast session. Peak television. Not Gojo crying like Andrew Garfield in The Amazing Spider-Man when Gwen died. Lmaooo. Loser. Please send your essays, memes, analysis & betrayal theories in the comments!! I re-read & reply to every single one like Gojo rereading her texts at 3AM.

Next Chapter 25 - Losing Sun - [Tumblr/Ao3]

All Works Masterlist

Beta - @blackrimmedrose

Tag-list = @lady-of-blossoms @stargirl-mayaa @dark-agate @tqd4455 @roscpctals99 @sxlfcxst @se-phi-roth @austisticfreak @helloxkittylo @itoshi-r @kodzukensworld @revolvinggeto @luringfantasy @xx-tazzdevil-xx @unaaasz @thebumbqueen @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni @whos-ruru @helo1281917

[the-aleator]

endeavour musings xix

featuring: Exeunt i

MORSE: "Is that it?" CONDUCTOR: "That's it."

1. I just watched this last night, and the rest of the season in the last week or so. This is probably not the only thing I'll write on this (and the show as a whole), but I had to write something because, well, that's it. So, you can call this a bit of a first impressions post, reacting in the cooldown of the moment. And honestly? I'm a bit disappointed. And hurt -- if I'm allowed to be such a thing about a fictional show with made-up characters. One of the lessons you learn as a musician is that what the audience remembers is the beginning and the end: those are the two bits you have to land and land well. And Exeunt? Well, it's a bit of a mess isn't it? Every time I start thinking about it, I feel the need to launch a separate monograph, so I'll just stick to what's churning the most. Caveat lector.

2. Fred Thursday is not a murderer. He absolutely killed Tomahawk, but what is clearly depicted on screen is self defence. Tomahawk has verbally threatened Sam, he has a knife out, Thursday tells him to be "on [his] way" and Tomahawk replies he'll "do for the pair of them," and tries to stab Thursday. Thursday at this moment is unarmed, has not provoked him or threatened him--he has no intention of killing him. We later learn that Tomahawk in particular has two convictions for GBH, and is wanted for attempted murder. Thursday is more than twice his age, clearly ill, and under an immense amount of stress. Thursday even calls it "instinct." What little we are shown is absolutely self defence. The fact that even TvTropes lists Thursday as having "murdered" Tomahawk ! There are a lot of other unvoiced problems I have with this scenario, but the fact that the show managed to leave this ambiguous for viewers really bugs me. Laying everything else about Thursday aside, I don't think Morse would ever cover up an actual murder or attempted murder. Even for Thursday.  

3. Yes, the Requiem, Morse closing his heart forever, everyone is dead to him, etc etc. I'm not trying to be trivial, I did think it was a beautiful fitting meta ending, but also, I do think it doesn't really work. Do I think it's a lovely mirror action of the Pilot? Absolutely. Do I think it works as a last scene? Yes. Is it beautiful? Yes. But does it wooooork to cast off Endeavour for IM? For me? No. The man who is IM tries over and over to let people in; to the point where his desperation blinds him to people who are murderers (should I say especially murderesses?). His old university professors, his old friends, random drunks he meets in pubs, the old guy around the corner with his car, Adele, Strange, Lewis. He still loves Joyce, and eventually his niece / nephew. He has an extended correspondence all over the world. Whatever he thinks of Gwen (you know, the stepmother who drove him to think about suicide as a teenager, and contributed to his serious drinking problem in Scherzo), he still helps take care of her in a nursing home. This is not a man who's closed his heart forever. 

4. The way the show treats Morse's alcoholism and Sam's alcoholism / drug problem or dealing. I'm sorry, but what? Magical wand waved, and Morse has managed to get sober, go back to drinking but only in an as-needed way as the plot demands? The same thing with Sam, he's been wandering around in a drunken stupor for three episodes but now magically, at the end, he's bright-eyed, cleaned up and going to join the police. I do think this is a serious flaw of this season, and of the show as a whole, standing in the shadow of both Book!Morse and Thaw!Morse, where alcoholism is treated in a much more realistic and sophisticated way. 

5. Justice and redemption: these have been our key motifs throughout the seasons. I do think part of the issue with Exeunt for me on a philosophical level is the loss of exactly what thrilled and consoled me about Deguello. Which is that Morse finally has to face up to the fact that ideal justice isn't possible. It's not just the dilemma with Thursday either. We have Jakes too, who shows up at BV because " It's like half of me has always been here.  Half of me never left," and wanting to know about Peter Williams. And Morse (we assume) can't tell him for the same reason he can't tell Thursday: because Peter Williams was dead a long time ago. He can never "find" him for Jakes. He can never get justice for either Peter. Half of Peter Jakes will always be at BV. In some sense, it's just like Morse all over: justice for the dead is an answer that can be gotten because the dead no longer have questions, or change, or live. They are a book to be read, a puzzle to be solved. But in Deguello, into that gap -- which is always there, in justice-- stepped mercy and the hope of redemption.  Box: "The world is bent.  Always has been. We can't fix it." Thursday:  "We can try." We don't get that hope here -- and that's what feels like a kick in the teeth about this ending. Justice, suum cuique, is impossible, and thus drives away Morse. There is no redemption; this death is the end. 

6. Morse is once again saved by the narrative. Those bikers just neatly showed up so Morse never has to kill anyone. I don't know how many times I've pointed this out over the course of 36 episodes, but unlike Thursday, Morse is never faced with that final dilemma: it's always taken away from him by deus ex machina.  Even in this episode: Lott shoots at Thursday, and he has to defend his brother and himself. There's no one to save him. Tomahawk tries to stab him and Sam, and he has to defend himself. There's no one to save him. And yet, Morse is saved here just like every other single time Morse is saved by the narrative. 

7. The Joan / Morse plotline and wedding fantasy. I didn't think they put in the work to show us a happy Joan/Strange wedding but making it Morse-centric really is something else.

8.  One of the themes about this episode / season in particular is straight out of 1850 and I Do Not Like It. We've learned, over the course of 9 seasons, that Thursday's background is the worst in the show (save perhaps Jakes). His father was an abusive alcoholic, he grew up in extreme poverty in the East End (an outside privy, "one for every eight houses. 20 families." Quartet), and as a result of that he is personally known to many of the villains who come from the East End: Vic Kasper, Eddie Nero, Ken Drury, Mickey Flood. Arthur Lott, the Big Bad, is his former bagman. Charlie, his brother, is responsible for involving him in a long term fraud ("My whole life. Everything I've worked for. You've dragged me into the sewer." Icarus), which as of Exeunt was revealed to be a blind, just so Lott would have something on Thursday--we're not actually sure how much Charlie is involved but he clearly has serious connections to Lott ( Lott: "It's only being Charlie's brother that's kept you above ground.") Thursday is betrayed and stolen from by Charlie btw s5-s9, and Sam in s9; his life savings are all gone. This giant messy web of corruption eventually sucks Thursday in: he's trapped by it and as a result, shuts down BV and also covers up Tomahawk's death. It's that old Victorian favorite: Poor People Have No Moral Fiber. Perhaps it's not on purpose? But there's a definite correlation between working class poverty and corruption here with a fatalism that I don't like.  9. I promise there are things I liked, even loved about this final show: I just need to wait out the frustrated heartsickness of it first. And I have no doubt I'm going to write more about it. And I will absolutely defend that every single actor in this was magnificent, but particular shout-outs to James Bradshaw, Sara Vickers, Anton Lesser, Roger Allam and Shaun Evans. 

[e-squared-what-is-my-life]

POV: Your Best Friend Accidentally Pisses Off Your Girlfriend During a "Family Dinner"

Moony: So, ENA, is Claire always gonna have the same name?

Coral Glasses: What do you mean? Why wouldn't she?

Happy ENA: *Blushes Lightly* Ah, I probably should have explained this when Claire was introduced. *Sighs and Sets Her Fork Down/Politely Cleans Her Face With a Napkin* Most ENAs, to my exclusive knowledge, are born with a... Agh, how should I put this?

Salesperson ENA: A Calling Name.

Froggy: A... "Calling Name"?

Happy ENA: *Nods and Hums* It’s the name we're given at Assimilation that we respond to until we're old enough to understand the concept of our species. Each ENA has their own personalized Call Name, and only a few continue to respond to it once they're fully matured.

Salesperson ENA: I, personally, have no true recollection of my Call Name. Was never truly invested in something that reminded me of my parents.

Dratula: So you two have met other ENAs?

Salesperson ENA: Personally, I've only met about three and a half others, my beloved being included.

Happy ENA: I've met a group of ENAs once. When I was traversing the halls of the temple of The Great Runas. One in particular was very kind - A bit glitchy and... Ahem, forward... But kind nonetheless.

Moony: Oh! I remember you telling me about her! What did you say her name was?

Happy ENA: *Opens Her Mouth and Lets Out Dial-up Noises*

Froggy: Uh-huh... And, um... How, exactly would one spell that?

Happy ENA: *Spells the Name in Morse Code*

Froggy: Right. No clue why I expected anything different.

Moony: Yeah, I get it. It's weird, but not as weird as noticing bite marks on your friend's arm when she's telling you about her "new friend"!

Happy ENA: *Blushing Furiously* I told you already, Moony! The bite meant nothing!

Kane: You guys can bite?

Happy ENA: *Sighs* Yes, but it typically only happens during times of great stress or... *Mutters*

Coral Glasses: I'm sorry, I don't think I caught that.

Happy ENA: *Mutters a Bit Louder*

Dratula: Huh?

Moony: Ugh! Do I have to say everything?! She gets super toothy when she's hor-

Happy ENA: *Slams a Hand Over Moony's Mouth* THANK YOU, MOONY! I think they've heard enough!

Taski Maiden: *Gasps* You got raunchy with another ENA?!

Sad ENA: For the love of- IT WASN’T LIKE THAT!

Moony, tauntingly: Suuuuure.

Froggy: *Looks Over and Sees Meanie* ENA, are you alright?

Meanie ENA: Yeah, no, yeah; I'm fine! Perfectly good! A-OK! *Accidentally Breaks Her Fork in Half*

Taski Maiden: *Quietly, to Happy ENA* Oh, you're dead.

Sad ENA: *Groans and Facepalms*

[hearts4golbach]

Picture Perfect. // Chapter 6.

Warnings:

None.

Word Count:

2.2k

"I know you want me, sugar, but you dont have to stare so damn much." Way teased, a smug smirk on his face as his eyes stayed glued to the computer screen.

You scoffed. You had been kind of staring at him off and on, but you weren't expecting him to call you out, let alone notice. "In your dreams."

You had been procrastinating decoding the note playing solitare on your computer as Way did investigation on the two victims from the day before. "Awe, you think I dream about you? How cute."

"Do you ever know when to shut up? Why don't you actually put that mouth of yours to good use?" The insult sounded much different in your head. Your face flushed, but Way seemed unphased.

He let out a low chuckle. "Stop playing solitare and do your job."

You rolled your eyes but obeyed his wishes. You pulled the new note out of the folder on your desk and typed it into the Morse code translator. To no surprise, "it's just another fucking address." You explained, clearly defeated.

"L/n, look at the reports from the first case. I don't know what took the police so fucking long, but this is what we know." He turned the computer screen to face you slightly.

You rolled your chair closer to him to read the reports. the first couple were nothing of use, then the one from the next door neighbor arrived.

'It was just dead silent. We didn't even know that that tragic thing had happened. Although, I was out late one night to let my dog out, and there was this man in a mask. I couldn't tell you anything about his features, it was far too dark for that. He looked about 5 foot 11, but it could've just been the shadows.'

"I feel like this is the best evidence we've gotten, and that's still barely anything." Way huffed, leaning back in his chair. He ran his hands through his messy white hair, only making it harder not to stare.

"If that's what we need to go off of for now, I'll take it." You typed in the address to find that it was the airport. "What the fuck? The airport?"

Way leaned over to look at your screen. "We're off in 30. Let me take you to dinner tonight and we can make a plan over food."

"If you want to take me out on a date just say that."

"I'm offering out of pity. You're the loneliest person I know. Besides, I think I owe you dinner for dragging you out last night." He slung his bag over his shoulder. "I'll text you time and place?"

"Whatever."

He walked away. You hated how he always left work early just to shove it in everyone else's face. To be fair, anyone else could leave too. But, everyone else respected their job. Although, you weren't doing much yourself.

Time passed fairly quickly. Way had texted you nearly as soon as you got home. He filled you in on the time and place, also informing you that you should probably dress fancy in the most condescending way possible. You couldn't help but scoff at his message, but you typed a confirmation and agreed to dress up. You ended up looking up the place he was taking you to, and just like he said, it was gorgeous. It was most likely the fanciest place in town, and you hoped he'd be the one paying like he said.

It wasn't often you got a chance to dress nice, so all you had was a plain black slip dress and a pair of re heels. Your mother had gotten them for you years ago, claiming that you 'needed to be more girly.' (That would've been the first time you ever wore them).

The set time was 7 pm. It was around 6:45 as you were leaving. Nothing on the radio interested you. It was all too loud. It was just too overwhelming, like it was trying to talk over your own thoughts. Your hands gripped the steering wheel so tight that your knuckled had begun to turn white. You wished Way was there to fill the silence, and that was something you'd never admit aloud. There was something weirdly calming about it. He would be so soft spoke, his voice as smooth as honey. The more you thought about it, the more you missed him. The more you missed him, the angrier you got. You had seen him just a few hours ago. This was the last distraction you needed. What was going on inside of your head?

You pulled into the parking lot, texting Way to let him know that you had arrived. He answered almost immediately, instructing you to meet him at the entrance. As he came into your vision, you could feel your stomach doing backflips as the butterflies escaped the cage you shoved them in. Way was wearing black dress pants and a button-up, accompanied by a white tie. There was so much you wanted to say to him at that moment, but you bit your tongue.

"I've never seen you in a dress," he mentioned, more as an observation. His gaze raked over your body, making it harder to breathe. You quickly looked away, not wanting to eye-fuck him like he was right now. You refused to give his hot body that kind of attention out of spite, just because that's what he wanted.

"Well, that's because I never wear one, believe it or not." You replied sarcastically.

"I can see why," he retorted, immediately returning your energy. "They're just not you." He mocked.

"Don't you think we have more important things to be discussing?" You spat, crossing your arms.

"Awe, don't be shy now," he pouted, mimicking your crossed arms.

"Way, I swear to fucking god, I will-"

"Good evening. Do you have a reservation, handsome?" The waitress asked, her gaze solely on Way.

"Yes, we do, sugar." Way shot her a sweet smile. "For Way, Gerard Way." He shot you a glare, making your stomach turn with jealousy.

At first, you couldn't believe he had just flirted with another girl, especially in front of you. What were you thinking? He had the right to flirt with anyone he wanted. He was a single man. Why did that make you so angry? You chewed at your bottom lip anxiously, knowing you could snap any moment. The look in his eyes was something you were struggling to decipher. Did he know what he was doing? Was he seriously trying to make you jealous right now?

"Your waiter will be with you shortly," her sweet smile made you clench your fist under the table.

Way muttered a thank you before returning his gaze to you. "So our 'more important things'.." He trailed off, looking at you expectantly.

"What the fuck was that? Flirting with a waiter is low," you laughed in an attempt to cover up your embarrassment. You weren't wanting to let your thoughts slip, but it seemed to be too late.

"Why do you care?"

You cleared your throat, lowering your head and voice in defeat. "I don't." The obvious truth was you did care. How could you ever explain that to him? You still felt his gaze on you. You looked back up at him again, gazing into his hazel eyes. "What?"

He waited a couple of seconds before responding. "Nothing."

The waitress had come back with two glasses of water. Ways voice softened as he thanked her before returning his gaze back to you. You were fuming at this point, taking gulps of the ice cold water to calm down.

"I'm assuming you have some idea of what to do since you invited me here," you mentioned, setting your glass down on the table.

"You could say that," his eyebrows furrowed together. "we should definitely go to the airport."

"...uh huh. Then what?" You asked, growing impatient.

"Well, we could get the security footage of the past two weeks or so and overview it. You know, we could see who matches the description and who doesn't." You wanted to slap the know it all attitude out of him.

"Hundreds of people go through there every day. Every hour, for fucks sake. Then, how would we even be able to question them if we don't know their names?" You rested your head in your hands, taking a deep breath. "I do think we should go to the airport, but I don't want to review hundreds of hours of footage for nothing."

Way chewed his lip. He held eye contact with you as he spoke, his gaze occasionally moving down to your lips. "We could ask for a list of people who have entered town in the past two weeks. Check their passports, descriptions, all that shit and bring some in for questioning."

"See? Now that's a much better idea," you replied sarcastically. "We can only hope there's not a shit ton of 5 foot 11 men around here."

Way licked his lips, trying to form a rebuttal but ultimately failing. He let out a low sigh, picking up his menu and reviewing the options. "Sounds like a plan." He mumbled.

You mimicked him, looking at the list of insanely priced food. "Why did you choose here of all places?"

"Well, I wasn't going to take you to mcdonalds," he laughed. "I've been here before for my birthday. It was actually really good, just insanely pricey. You're my excuse to come here on a random Thursday."

A small smile formed on your face. "So that's why you wanted to 'discuss work' over dinner?"

He shrugged, the blush on his face illuminated by the candlelight. "Well, we have our plan. We're already here, though." He smiled.

You rolled your eyes. "I guess you're right. You know, you clean up pretty nice, Way." You felt your shoulders relaxed slightly as the atmosphere cleared.

"You don't look too bad yourself," he smirked, shooting you a wink.

This time, someone new came to the table. "Sorry for the wait, folks. I'm Tyler, and i'll be your waiter today. What can i get started?"

"We haven't looked at the menu much." Way responded.

"I'll give you two another minute then, yeah? Are we celebrating? Anniversary, date, birthday.." he trailed off, expecting an answer with a cheerful smile plastered on his face.

You held back a laugh, waiting to hear Ways' response. "Not today," he hesitated.

"Alrighty, then. I'll check on you two in a few minutes." He shot you two a thumbs up before walking to the next table.

"I actually cannot believe he thought we were dating. Ew."

"Oh, come on. You know dating me wouldn't be that bad." He looked down at the menu again.

"That's definitely debatable." You rolled your eyes, "I think i'm going to get pasta," you leaned over the table to see what he was looking at. "What are you thinking?"

He hummed, glancing up at you. "This soup sounds good." He pointed to a potato soup, and you nodded in agreement. "I'll let you try a bite of mine if I can try yours."

Something about his offer made your heart flutter. You agreed, of course. The next moments before the waiter came back we're interesting. Neither of you spoke. You could've cut through the tension with a knife. It was like you were playing tag with your eyes. Whenever you'd notice that Way was staring at you, he'd look away, and then you'd stare at him. It wasn't awkward, surprisingly, but it made your heart flutter into your throat.

You looked at Agent Way, your eyes grazing over all of his delicate features. Maybe you never paid enough attention, but you had never noticed how cute his nose was or how soft his lips looked (and you had looked at his lips a lot). His features were contoured by the dim, romantic lighting. You thought about how soft his skin would feel under your finger tips and-

"Have you two made your decision?" Tyler's voice broke you out of your trance.

Oh god, you were so fucked.

Way nodded and looked at you for double confirmation. You hummed in response. You two both read off your orders and watched as Tyler walked away and put your orders into the kitchen.

"Please tell me you're actually taking care of your leg," Way rested his head in his hand, looking at you intently. "I'm kind of worried about you, you know."

"I already told you I can take care of myself. Don't worry about me," you responded only half truthfully. His dark eyebrows furrowed, trying to decipher if you were serious or not.

"I am going to worry about you either way," he tapped his finger against the table impatiently.

"I'm not going to die from a scrape," you said. "i'm the last thing you need to worry about right now."

"We're taking on a dangerous case. Keeping us safe is my top priority." He emphasized. "Keeping you safe is my top priority. I can't do this alone."

[utilitycaster]

Apologies in advanced for the long ask, but i think it is telling that the sort of people who argued for Predathos to be released, and that the Prime Deities deserved to be killed, are the same type of people who would turn around and argue that Solas has a point and that the Veil should be rent open. Hilarious, considering that the talking points usually used to argue in favor of either one are at complete odds with the other.

Both fandoms are guilty of ripping characters agency away so that they can't be blamed (that wild take from a few weeks back that Solas' whole deal was that he was basically manipulated by Mythal into trying to take down the Veil vs. The arguement Bells Hells "had no choice" regarding their decisions in Predathos' lair), arguing that both parties goals is to "save the little people" and then not being able to actually put to words how their grand plans would actually help against systemic issues (also, in both situations, no one actually asked the "little people", who are portrayed as NOT being on board with either plan), and would rather risk a cataclysmic event to "change the status quo" (and feeling antagonistic towards storylines where people are doing that work to dismantle systems because it's "not enough"), it's just more of the same.

Both fandom groups having a history of not being able to handle anyone who does not share their opinion can't be a coincidence either.

Insanely, I also can imagine that if, say, Taliesin says something less than positive about Ashton during the upcoming wrap-up (and he very well might, considering his history, that he was likely playing with a similar theme that he has with many of his characters and never intended for Ashton to always be "right", but to have the assumption that they are "right" and putting a force of personality behind it and seeing what happens) that any diehard Ashton stans would immediately disavow Taliesin of having any understanding of the character a la how the DA devs obviously have no understanding of Solas (a character they wrote) because they made him a villain.

Anyway, you don't have to post or respond if you don't want to. Just wanted to vent to someone who understands the frustration, being in both fandoms, and how annoying it is to see this approach to interacting with media, but, if you have the time: what do you think draws this type of fan in? What about both these stories appeals to them? Why do they inspire such strong feelings?

Hi anon,

Re everything pre final paragraph, agreed. I mean, we've already seen this re: Taliesin saying, repeatedly, in character and out, that Molly is dead and Kingsley is a separate person and this is very much his intention, and people ignoring that. They may not disavow Taliesin but if they don't, they'll either decide secret messages are being sent to them via Morse code blinks or that others in the cast made him do it, or attack other fans who have absolutely no control over this.

I started writing out a very long and in-depth answer to what draws this fan in/why they like these stories, but I think it comes down to something much more simple. It’s not confined to Veilguard nor Campaign 3 by any means, but it certainly does exist there: To quote @burr-ell in conversation, “too many people want RPG to mean ‘im the specialest birthday boy and god's favorite princess and if you're mean to me i get to blow the whole building up’ and not like, playing a role in a game.” 

We are also very specifically talking about the responses to these works on Tumblr, and there is a specific culture here of "our modern world is uniquely awful and my life is harder than that of a medieval serf [it’s not] therefore the only valid response to bring about a better world is drastic and often violent complete destruction of the status quo without any interrogation of what specifically to keep and what to destroy [it’s not], but because anything less than perfect and rapid action is problematic [it’s not], doing things is bad [it's not], so I balance eternally in a space of miserably doing nothing and telling myself I am virtuous for doing so [they’re not]." It’s a uniquely ignorant, ahistoric, self-absorbed, and utterly ineffective mindset for achieving any material goals in the real world, which I do think is why they are so drawn to fictional options, where they can briefly escape this entirely self-imposed powerlessness without having to like, work on themselves as a person.

This leads to this idea that agency is something that only the most privileged have, so if you have agency, you are privileged and therefore bad unless you use it to prop up their belief that they're the most special birthday boy. And finally I think the immersive nature of RPGs attract people who really want to sink into and over-identify with a character, though again that’s not exclusive to fantasy nor RPGs.

And so: the world needs drastic change, but change has to come with someone with agency, which can only be the domain of privilege (old white man) but maybe a little bit other (elf) so that he Gets It. But he would have stuck to the Status Quo [which in this case is specifically the Veil and the Gods but not like. Other problems, because Status Quo is what these people use to mean Big Impossible Problem That Only The Specialest Birthday Boys Who Never Did Anything Else Before In Their Life Can Solve and not like. Tevene slavery or Dwendalian Imperialism] had he not experienced Trauma or Manipulation. This gives him a Motivation, and also, because Trauma or Manipulation confers Total Absolution by removing Personal Agency But Permitting Action, he is never to be questioned in his goals [Until it’s Critical Role Campaign 3 episode 119 and you realize with the sickening crunch of the single cell of your brain falling to the base of your skull that your pure as driven snow agencyless yet still battling the gods babies Bells Hells have suppressed the story of Aeor for apparently no effect other than to almost get Liliana killed; have just stopped Ludinus; done what he was going to do anyway, and come up with another answer after the gods gave them a bunch of presents and now suddenly they are such good people for saving the gods (that they themselves put at risk, because to not put them at risk is to perpetuate the status quo, and the gods are bad because Bells Hells specifically are not treated by the gods as their favorite princesses except they definitely are, at least compared to the common people whom they don’t talk to, and also the good thing to do about bad people is to suppress the story of what you think their crimes are; anyway how dare the people of Vasselheim not weep with gratitude and kiss their feet when Bells Hells point a nuke at their lives' purpose. Extremely rude of them.)]

In short a lot of people project onto/identify very strongly with a character or characters whom the narrative, deliberately (Veilguard) or who the fuck knows the intent (C3) portrays as selfish and entrenched in their own pain to the point that they see pain inflicted on others as not just a necessary evil in the pursuit of their goals, but also their birthright to relish in, as the specialest birthday boy who was denied this. And if you as a viewer are like huh! Solas (or Ashton, or Laudna, or Imogen) is being an asshole, then first off, you are DENYING THEM THEIR BIRTHRIGHT, OPPRESSOR and second off you are PERSONALLY ATTACKING THE TUMBLR USER WHO IDENTIFIES WITH THEM and therefore you are EVIL and ATTACKS ON YOU ARE JUSTIFIED and thus they can feel like they are tearing down the status quo of evil bnfs [arbitrary term for people who sometimes maintag a coherent argument these fans do not like that gets more notes than their post did] because they will never, ever, do anything in real life other than uphold the status quo through inaction and an inability to care about other people, and post online about how revolutionary they are while better people actually do the work.

[cynicalrosebud]

Incorrect Quotes 4: I'm a Price Wh*re

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 5

Ghost: Why is Price crying on the floor?

Gaz: He’s drunk.

Ghost: And?

Gaz: He saw a picture of Soap's husbands.

Ghost: But we’re Johnny's ‘usbands.

Gaz: I know.

Soap: Price! I cannae do this stupid math!

Price: What’s the math problem?

Soap: Well, we have tae add the bed, subtract the clothes, divide the legs, an’ hope we don’t multiply.

Ghost, covering Gaz's ears, while Price smacks Soap upside the head: Not gonna lie, that was bloody smooth.

Gaz: HYDRATE OR DIE-DRATE!

Gaz: *aggressively throws water bottles*

Price: Uh... what’s up with him?

Soap: He’s tryin’ tae yell mental health an’ wellbeing intae us.

Gaz: I APPRECIATE ALL OF YOU!

Ghost, crying: It's workin’.

Ghost: Why do you look like that?

Price, lying face-first on the floor: Like what?

Ghost: Like you’re dead.

Price: It’s because I’m dying. Leave me here to perish.

Gaz: Price accidentally called Soap “love” in front of the recruits today.

Price: *sobs into the floor*

Price: Soap, you'll be working with Gaz and Ghost.

Soap: Alright! Ma fantasy threesome!

Everyone else: *blank stares*

Soap: ...Of people on a team.

Price, drunk: Time-sensitive question, how do I flirt, boy?

Soap: Throw rocks at he.

Gaz: Hot Dogs.

Ghost: Kill him.

Price: Cheers, lads.

Gaz: You know, Soap gives Ghost flowers every day, I wish you’d do that too.

Price: Okay.

Later

Price: *gives Ghost flowers*

Ghost: ???

Price: I don’t know, I’m confused as well.

Ghost: I just found out from Price today that when Graves died and the service did the 21-gun salute at his funeral, Soap said, “They should aim at the coffin to be sure.”

Gaz: I'm so happy, I could kiss you!

Price: Um... Neat.

Later

Price, lying face down on their bed: I said "Neat," Simon. Who the fuck says neat these days? It’s not neat to say neat, but I said it anyway because I’m fucking stupid.

Ghost, reading a book: Don’t beat yourself up too much, Price. Everyone gets nervous sometimes. Remember what I did when Johnny confessed his love for me?

Price: Didn’t you thank him?

Ghost: *closes the book and looks at the ceiling* I fucking thanked him.

Laswell, referring to the 141: Those guys are muppets.

Price: Aye, but they’re my muppets.

Gaz: *tapping fingers on table*

Ghost: *taps fingers back furiously*

Price: …What’s going on?

Soap: Morse code. They’re talkin'.

Gaz: -.-- --- ..- .-. / -- .- ... -.- / .. ... / -.. ..- -- -...

Ghost: *slams hands on table* YOU TAKE THAT BACK!

[tails89]

You want me so bad it makes you look stupid

This is a date, Marisol realises with sudden, dawning clarity. Does Eddie know this is a date? “Well, it’s about time,” Eddie tells Buck and Tommy. “Working out how to hang out with you both was getting exhausting. Hey, why don’t we pull another table over?” Oh god, Eddie doesn’t know this is a date. - AKA, the one where Eddie (unknowingly) wants Buck so bad that it makes him act stupid in a restaurant.

Teaming back up with @an-optimist-prime again because we're hilarious.

It starts like this.

Christopher is at a sleepover. Eddie finally has a night off and for once, has no other plans to hang out with Buck or Tommy or anyone else for that matter, and it’s been so long since it was just the two of them.

Alone. They’ve been dating for four months now, and yet it feels like she barely knows him.

So, Marisol suggests dinner and Eddie suggests the restaurant.

“Buck recommended this place a while back,” Eddie explains when they’re in the car, and Marisol looks out her window and rolls her eyes because of course he did. “It’s just like pizza and pasta, but apparently the food’s pretty good and he’s been wanting to try it out.”

“Uh huh.” Nodding along, Marisol decides then and there not to set her expectations too high. Not that it matters, not really. She cares more about finally finding the time for a date night more than the restaurant itself. She’d be happy with burgers if it meant actually spending some quality time with her boyfriend.

So she’s pleasantly surprised when they step into the restaurant, the bells above the door jingling brightly to announce their arrival.

The lighting is soft and warm, the space mostly lit by ropes of fairy lights and flickering tea candles on the tables.

It’s pretty romantic.

The soft hum of conversation swirls around them as Marisol laces her fingers with Eddie’s and they follow one of the wait staff through the dining room and over to their table.

She stumbles, almost tripping as Eddie suddenly tugs her off to the side.

“Buck!’ He calls out, his voice so loud and excited it echoes above the general buzz, drawing the attention of the diners around them. “You two guys are here together?”

He doesn’t wait for a response, closing the gap between them.

“Marisol, you remember Buck, right?”

She almost laughs, like Eddie doesn’t mention his best friend at least once a day, but before she can mention this she catches Buck’s eye and the deer-in-the-headlights stare he’s giving them.

Huh.

“What are the chances?” Eddie grins. “I mean, Buck was just telling me about this place the other week, but I didn’t expect to actually run into you. And definitely not together.” He laughs, casually leaning against Buck’s chair, oblivious to the way his friend has gone rigid beside him. “So what, you guys are finally friends now?”

“We, uh—”

Marisol watches as Buck swallows, his eyes darting back to look at Tommy.

”Yeah, I guess you could say that.” Tommy’s mouth twitches like he’s trying not to laugh as he meets Buck’s gaze, and—

Oh.

Oh.

Cosy restaurant.

Soft mood lighting.

It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.

This is a date, Marisol realises with sudden, dawning clarity. Does Eddie know this is a date?

“Well, it’s about time,” Eddie tells them. “Working out how to hang out with you both was getting exhausting. Hey, why don’t we pull another table over?”

Oh god, Eddie doesn’t know this is a date.

“Eddie,” Marisol says, tugging on his arm. “Maybe we should go find our own table? Just the two of us.”

“What? You guys don’t mind us joining do you?” Eddie asks, and Marisol resists the urge to facepalm. It could not be more obvious that they’re interrupting something. Buck still hasn’t regained any colour in his face, that weird red birthmark by his eye standing out.

Like a stop sign.

Or a traffic light.

That Eddie just casually ploughs through. 3 dead and 47 injured.

Marisol meets Buck’s gaze, wondering if she can communicate ‘I’m so sorry’ in Morse code but all she remembers from middle school is SOS, which still feels appropriate in this situation.

There are now two tables pushed together, and any coded message is lost in the dance of shuffling seats so Buck and Tommy can sit on one side with Marisol and Eddie on the other.

Marisol genuinely does not understand how Eddie cannot see that this is a date. Both men are dressed up, sitting together at a rather fancy and romantic restaurant. She’s not just embarrassed for Buck and Tommy, but also just a little frustrated for herself. All she wants is just one night. Just one night, alone, with the man who is supposed to be her boyfriend. But, once again, that’s apparently not on the cards.

Silence sits heavy over the table as they all regard each other.

“So—” Marisol offers, to break the tension. “How did you two meet?”

“W-work.” Buck stammers.

Marisol nods for him to continue and nothing comes. After a beat, Tommy rescues them with, “we stole a helicopter together, and then flew it into a hurricane.”

”What’s this we?” Eddie cuts in, amused. “Technically you stole the helicopter. Buck and I were just along for the ride.”

Tommy shrugs, his gaze sliding over to Buck. “What can I say? I’m all about grand gestures. “ His hand slips beneath the table. “Especially when I’m trying to get someone’s attention.”

Buck goes red, spluttering into his beer.

“Jesus, Buck.” Chuckling, Eddie passes over a napkin. “What is it with you and choking at restaurants?”

“I’m not—“

”I swear, I can’t take you anywhere,” Eddie teases, handing over more napkins to mop up the mess. “You end up wearing more than you eat.”

”Fuck off,” Buck mutters, but he’s smiling now, staring down at the table.

“S0–“ Marisol cuts in over them. “Helicopters. That’s uh— that’s cute.”

“What’s cute about stealing a helicopter?” Eddie asks, genuinely confused by her comment.

“You know, it’s just— never mind,” she trails off to take a long sip of her table water.

At this point she’s just praying for the ground to open up beneath them. An earthquake or some other natural disaster to take her out of this situation. She just cannot understand how Eddie can be this oblivious.

“So, what other hang-outs have I not been invited to?” Eddie asks, his tone teasing as he leans forward in his seat.

”Just this one,” Tommy says, and there’s a record scratch in Marisol’s head.

Because this…

This is a first date.

They’re on a first date.

Is death by secondhand embarrassment a thing, because she’s pretty sure she’s dying right now.

And here’s the thing. She likes Eddie, she really does, but even she’s starting to re-think her long-term compatibility with someone who is either this clueless or this intentionally obtuse.

“But I’m hoping Evan will want to do this again sometime,” Tommy says, leaning back to sling an arm around Buck’s shoulders. “But next time, I suggest the restaurant.”

Marisol’s lost for a second, because who’s Evan, before realising that Eddie’s frozen beside her.

She turns, catching the exact moment that Eddie realises what’s happening, and what he’s done; that he’s crashed their date.

A series of emotions that she can’t quite parse wash over his face, his expression finally settling into shocked disbelief.

Finally he gets it, she thinks, exasperated. And it’s only taken 13 agonising minutes. At least they haven’t ordered yet.

Eddie’s mouth opens, then shuts, then he says, “You’re not gay.”

Real smooth Eddie, Marisol thinks, resisting the urge to hide her face in her hands.

“I’m bisexual,” Buck says, his voice almost a whisper. “I think? Maybe? I’m not actually sure yet.”

“Right.” Eddie nods, like he’s not quite sure what to do with this information. “I, uh—“ he stands suddenly, knocking into the table in his haste. “We should go. I’m sorry for— we didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Hey, it’s fine,” Tommy starts. “We still on for Muay Thai on Thursday?”

Eddie stares at him. “I uh— “ he starts, before bolting from the restaurant.

Marisol stands. “I’m so sorry,” she says, glancing back towards the doors as Eddie disappears through them. “I’ll talk to him. I, uh— I hope you have a nice night.”

Neither of them say anything until they’re in the car.

Eddie’s gripping the steering wheel, his knuckles white, but he makes no move to start the engine.

Minutes pass in dead silence.

“Are you okay, Eddie?” Marisol shifts, turning in her seat to watch him. “You know, I completely understand,” she says when he still doesn’t respond. “It must have been a bit of a shock to see your two best friends dating each other.”

“I don’t get it,” Eddie murmurs. “Why didn’t he tell me? He’s my best friend. I thought— I tell him everything and he couldn’t— I don’t even know how long this has been going on for.”

Marisol nods, but says nothing. Clearly this is something Eddie needs to get off his chest.

”Like, has this been going on the whole time? I can’t— they hated each other, or— I thought they did. But he should have told me. Buck always tells me when he’s seeing someone.”

Eddie’s hands tighten on the wheel again, the leather creaking beneath his fingers.

”And why wouldn’t he tell me he’s into guys? He’s never said anything. Not that that’s a problem—”

”Of course not,” Marisol reassures him, reaching over to lay a hand on his arm.

“—because he’s my best friend, and I’ll love him no matter what—“

Huh?

“—but because we tell each other everything! We trust each other! I mean, I thought he trusted me. Did I do something? God, I was such an idiot in there. He probably thinks I’m homophobic—“

“Yeah, a little,” Marisol admits gently, giving his arm a pat.

He drops his hands from the steering wheel, his shoulders slumping. ”God, I’m the worst friend ever. To Buck and Tommy.” He straightens suddenly, turning to face her. “But also, like, Tommy?” He asks. “I mean, I like the guy, but Tommy? Sure, he’s better than Taylor, but literally anyone is better than her.”

“Uh,” Marisol doesn’t know how to respond to that. She honestly cannot figure out why Eddie is getting so worked up about all of this. “I mean, I thought Buck and Tommy seemed good together.”

Eddie’s head jerks up.

“You don’t know Buck like I do,” he insists. “Buck is— Buck could have anyone. He’s kind and he’s thoughtful and he’s so hot, and he’s always thinking of others, you know? He is literally the perfect package. And I hate that he never thinks that he’s worth anything. But he’s worth everything.”

Marisol is speechless.

Eddie continues. “Buck could do so much better. He deserves someone who sees him, you know? Who sees the way he loves with his whole self and loves him back. He’s so easy to love.”

Suddenly, everything clicks together for Marisol in perfect clarity.

Eddie is in love with Buck.

Marisol can’t even be mad with Eddie for leading her on, because he clearly doesn’t realise it himself.

She massages her temples against the headache she can feel forming. She wonders, not unkindly, if Eddie’s previous relationships didn’t crash and burn for this exact same reason. Nobody wants to be the third wheel in any relationship, and clearly, she’ll never compare to Buck.

“Also,” Eddie barrels on. “Who the fuck does Tommy think he is, calling him Evan? Does he even know how complicated that name is for him? Only I get to do that!”

”The audacity,” Marisol mutters under her breath.

She has enough self-esteem to know she doesn’t want to deal with this. She’s not exactly excited to kick him while he’s down, but also doesn’t see the point in dragging this out. It’s not fair to either of them.

”I’m going to be honest with you, Eddie,” she says, “I think we should break up.”

Her words stop him in his tracks and he blinks, lost. “Wait, what?”

Marisol turns, reaching for her seatbelt. “Can you please just drive me home?”

***

Tommy is fairly certain he’s just witnessed Eddie have a complete meltdown.

And look, they’ve all been there. They’ve all had that moment where they’ve gotten irrationally jealous over their best friend dating someone, and not been able to —or abjectly refusing to— pinpoint exactly why it’s so upsetting.

The whole situation should be hilarious. It would be hilarious, if Evan didn’t look like he was about to cry.

“Hey,” Tommy reassures him. “It’ll be fine. I think we just surprised him a little.” Or a lot. Probably a lot.

Evan stares up at him. “You think?” He scrubs a hand down his face. “I shouldn’t have suggested this place.”

“There’s no way you could have known he was going to show up,” Tommy points out, casually draping his arm back across Evan’s broad shoulders.

“I should have guessed, knowing my luck.” Evan groans dramatically. “This is the worst first date I think I’ve ever been on.”

“Really?” Tommy asks, incredulously. “Worse than the one where you nearly died?” He smirks at the indignant expression on Evan’s face.

”Where did you even hear about that?” Evan splutters. “And yeah, worse than that.”

”Should I be insulted by that?” Tommy asks, mouth twitching in a smothered laugh.

”It’s not funny,” Evan grumbles, crossing his arms.

“It’s a little funny.”

Evan cracks, his lips lifting in a grin and they’re both laughing, and god he’s beautiful, Tommy thinks.

“Maybe I should check on him,” Evan says, after a moment, his hand reaching for his phone. “Make sure we’re okay.”

”Or,” Tommy suggests, plucking Evan’s phone from his fingers and laying it on the table, “we could get the bill and get out of here. You could come back to my place.”

Evan frowns, but doesn’t move to take his phone back.

”You’re his best friend,” Tommy reassures him. “You guys will figure this out.” And maybe they’ll eventually figure out their feelings for each other too.

Tommy’s not blind. He knows this thing between him and Evan isn’t going to go anywhere in the long run, but he’s hot and sweet and Tommy is just happy to see where this goes.

“Come on, come back to my place.”

Evan smiles. “Yeah, okay. I’d like that.”

[ras-favourite-balor]

Brigand.... it's Morse.

I have a favor to ask. And I know I'm in no place to ask of one but it's.... needed.

Conal Jay Murphy is back.

Keep 341 away from them.

Stay as far from Signal as you can do you hear me do not engage, do not go anywhere near just... stay far far far away.

You're not one of my pilots but you're still a CORSAIR by honor of Three Candles Deep, and you have to hide. You have to run if Signal gets anywhere close you hear me?

Don't try to kill them you won't win.

Please....

//Morse\\

Brigand is different somehow, different than his recent appearances, different than Morse remembers. He is still slightly dishevelled, yet appears to attending to this as he speaks. There is a fire lit behind his eyes, dark and hungry. He meticulously works at his scalp with an antiquated straight razor. His beard has been freshly trimmed; Short cropped, close to face, off-white and unwashed.

[Brigand} Worry not, Morse. I am smarter than that. 341 will be safe here. I am about to make sure of it.

I saw the footage y'know, from th' 30 hours. I have no interest in Signal. I am far too mobile, far too out a' th' way for it to worry itself with me.

Besides, I am old and cunning, my teeth have dulled somewhat over th' long years. Signal does not dull. I might respect th' bastard, under different stars. But I would not willingly face it, I am smarter than that. I'm almost offended Morse, that ye' think I would. Tho' I think if it came here? I might just stand a chance. Home terrain advantage and all that.

He has finished shaving now. It is fascinating to watch him work. Even one handed, his movements are surprisingly deft and quick. His left hand remains off camera, perched on the sink, maybe? His jacket is also off, incredibly odd. He is never without it. As he leans over, out of view to rinse away the discarded strands, the camera refocuses.

Behind Brigand, a handful of THE C.R.E.W. scurry about a hardsuit. No, this is not a hardsuit, not anymore. This has been changed beyond that. This is a frame in it's own right, a size 1/2, but a frame. It a mobile fortress. It's armoured plating, at first glance, seems haphazard and random. But the longer one looks, the more apparent the pattern becomes. As it stand still, unmoving, the placement seems chaotic, random even. But imagined in motion, the plates move, undulating to create a perfect shield for every stance, every motion, every strike. And that is only the plates visible, no doubt countless more are hidden beneath it's patchwork cloak,

One of Brigand's oversized coats hangs over the things bulk. Heavy and battle-worn, patched and pieced back together over years of combat. The normal studs and spikes replaced with trophies: A lattice of dogtags, ID plates and tags, Mementos, tokens taken from long dead foes, a deadman's scale mail. Underneath, the heavy cloth is stained black with long dried blood. Out from the left arm dangles a nightmare's hand.

Cold black metal, it seems to drink in all light. There are too many fingers, too many joints. Looking at it brings unpleasant thoughts to mind, one should not dwell on it for too long. One should not try to imagine it clasped about a throat. One should not imagine it squeezing. One should not imagine bone and metal alike crunching under the strain. One should move on, one should look to the wicked cleavers hung from the metal monster's heavy belt.

Wicked. That is most apt a description. These are not implements of war. Too short, too heavy. These are implements of terror. To be wielded by some nightmare butcher. They are stained. It is clearly blood, oil, coolant. Yet one could not tell the prevalent fluid, which It has drunk most? One should not try, it is a fool's errand. Last, and perhaps most significant, the suits helmet is missing. . .

[Brigand} Like I said Morse,

His smile is wide, containing uncomfortable multitudes. Unsettling. Sickly joy. Murder. Blood. Sorrow. Wolf. Hunter. Tyrant. Teeth.

[Brigand} 341 will be safe. They all will be.

He turns from the camera, makes it 2 steps, before looking over his shoulder. A terrible glint in the one eye visible. His left arm is missing below the elbow.

[Brigand} Do me a favour Morse, aye?

[Brigand} Look away.

Brigand, Out.

[hellofanidea]

Dealers choice 43 and 47 on the clothes prompt list 👀

A bloodstained uniform + Rolled up shirtsleeves, Arthur Foster (MOTA AU)

The second raid over Bremen kills Blue Moon's navigator.

All it takes is some well placed flak and George Hatch is knocked out of his seat and onto his ass, screaming about the holes in him. His blood gets all over the maps, and it's nothing short of a miracle that they actually make it back to Thorpe Abbotts.

His blood also gets all over Arthur, who spends the last half of their mission trying to hold his insides together. It doesn't work. Hatch is dead before Blue Moon lowers her landing gear.

They have to peel him out of Arthur’s arms.

He doesn't move after, just stays staring at the spot where he was, the holes in the side of the fort where the killing blow entered. Morse has to come back in and bodily drag him out by his harness. He slides out like a newborn foal, gets a face full of tarmac when his knees don't work, and feels himself get scruffed into the truck waiting to take them to interrogation like a disobedient dog.

Their co-pilot is being taken away in an ambulance with a fucked up leg, along with their waist gunner and radioman. None of the others can look at him. Arthur can’t blame them. He’s stained red from chin to knee. His nose had crunched when he’d fallen out of the fort, and now he can feel the blood from that slowly trickling down his face to join Hatch’s.

The Clubmobile girls, usually so unflappable, blanche when they see him. Doc Stover grabs for him, but Arthur waves him off, wiping at his nose with his sleeve despite the blinding pain it brings.

“S not mine. ‘S not mine. ‘S Georgie’s.”

Stover lets him go, but Tatty pulls him aside by the elbow, forces a glass of whiskey into his hands, and doesn’t let go until he’s knocked it back. It mixes poorly with the metallic taste in the back of his mouth, but the burn is comforting.

“Thanks,” he murmurs to her, and hopes she knows how much he means it.

Hatch's logs are, understandably, incomplete. Arthur reads out what he can of them. Stutters, and stumbles, and the pity in Red's face as he listens is worse than any frustration at his incompetence. He wants somebody to yell at him, shake him, tell him to get a grip on himself. He needs somebody to come rip him out of the hazy, distant, place he's been sunk into since Hatch had wheezed his last into his neck.

Jimmy Douglass would have done it. Would have rattled him by the shoulders until some sense had been knocked back into his fellow bombardier, and then dragged him along to the O Club to take his mind off of things. Would have cracked a shitty joke and nudged him to dance with a Red Cross girl until the pain was back to its usual dull ache.

Douglass isn’t here though, like the rest of the crew of Just-a-Snappin’, like the crew of Our Baby, like the six other forts that went down. Eighty men. Eighty one including Lieutenant George Edgar Hatch, navigator and son and husband and father.

He’d never even held Abigail. She’d been born after they shipped to England, six pounds and seven ounces and with a head full of hair, and they had drunk Norfolk dry toasting her.

Arthur doesn’t hear the dismissal, but Morse’s hand is more gentle this time when she guides him by his collar.

“C’mon,” she says. “Let's get you cleaned up.”

She leads him out of the hut, and he’s barely cognizant of his surroundings until he hears a hissed ‘Jesus Christ!’ from the group of men huddled by one of the doors. Veal and Bubbles are staring at him with open horror, Crank’s crew not looking much happier even though they’d already seen him in interrogation.

“‘S not mine,” Arthur mutters again, sniffing and swallowing a blood clot he really should have spit onto the grass.

“You feeling alright?” Crank asks cautiously.

“Peachy.” This time when he sniffs he does spit, turning away and shooting the vivid red glob between his teeth. “Fuckin’ aces, Charlie.”

“I got him, he’s fine,” Morse says firmly, taking him by the elbow and marching them away.

He needs a shower. Some more whiskey. A nap. His father to rise from the dead and be in England so he can pet his hair and tell him how to live through a man dying in his arms.

The irony of that last one isn’t lost on Arthur. Thomas Foster didn’t live through that either, it just took him a while to die.

Getting a shower at least is feasible. One bonus of walking around the base looking like something out of a nightmare is that when he steps into their block it very quickly empties out, and Morse stands a vicious guard at the door whilst he scrubs off the now dried blood and changes into his uniform. It helps him feel a little more human, even with the blossoming bruise on his nose and the black eyes that will rise any time soon.

His flight gear is pretty much ruined, especially the sheepskin, which has gone a muddy pink and looks distressingly like rotting meat. Smells it, too, and Arthur abandons it all after emptying the pockets. There’s blood on his pack of smokes, and he considers tossing them out of spite, but the craving wins out so he lights one as he waits outside for Morse to clean herself up. With his face tilted up towards the sky the last dregs of blood and mucus slip down his throat. He chainsmokes away the taste until Morse emerges, hair still damp but neatly combed. Unflappable as ever, his pilot.

“I’m gonna go to the hospital, check on the boys. You comin’?” She asks.

Normally Arthur would say yes without hesitation, but this time he actually thinks about it. Then he shakes his head.

“Naw. Give ‘em my love, though. Think I’m gonna sack out for a while.”

Morse gives him a long, searching, look, then nods.

“Course. Get some rest. I’ll swing by our racks later, make sure you get some dinner.”

Arthur isn’t sure he can stomach anything, but thanks her anyway. She splits off to medical, and Arthur makes his way back to the barracks. There's a mostly full flask slid down the side of his locker he should be able to get away with drinking until he knocks out. Maybe that way he'll be too out of it when she comes around.

Marta's already sitting on his bunk when he gets there. Not a hair out of place as usual, except for how her jacket is off and her sleeves are rolled above her elbows, even in the chill of an English October. There’s a sketchpad and pencil in her lap, with a figure Arthur can’t make out yet.

For a brief, fierce, moment he hates her. Hates her for being here, for seeing him, knowing him. Hates her even temper and pragmatism and the sad way she looks at him from behind her glasses.

“Not sure you're meant to be here,” he tells her dryly, staying by the door like that will save him from whatever conversation she might want to have.

“Not sure you're the person to make that argument,” Marta shoots back, just as flatly. Then her mouth twists uncomfortably. “Saw you get back. Heard about your navigator. Wanted to see how you are.”

“I'm fine. You can tell Esther that, too.”

“Tell her yourself. I ain't got the time to talk about you in my letters.”

That makes Arthur snort. Some of the tension he hadn't known he was carrying leaches from his shoulders.

“I ain't been good at keeping up with her recently,” he admits. Not since before Regensburg, at least. He’s found it harder and harder to carry a conversation with her, to share jokes and stories and pretend that it’s all still just a game. Frowning, he adds, “I need to write Georgie's family.”

“Thought that was Kidd's job?”

“Yeah, but…” Arthur shakes his head. “I was with him, Marta. I was… I held him. When he went. That’s… I owe him that.”

Marta doesn’t say anything, but she shuffles up his bunk a little, and he gives into the aches in his body that tell him to sit down beside her. Hatch’s rack is the one beside his, and he stares long and hard at the blanket. His footlocker is gone already, swept away to the orderly hut to be shipped back to his folks in Queens. Arthur doesn’t know everything in it, but there aren’t enough trinkets and letters in the world to make a whole picture of George Hatch, to replace him at his mother’s table and in his wife’s bed and in his little girl’s life.

They sit. Arthur smokes. Marta carries on with her sketch. Outside, the sun fades. 

Eventually, Marta breaks the silence.

“They're talking about sending you to the Flak House.”

“What? Who?”

“Major Bowman was talking to Smokey about it. Said you didn't look good in interrogation.”

Yeah, no shit. I still had my friend’s blood on my hands.

Maybe a trip to the Flak House wouldn’t be the worst thing. It was treasonous to admit it outloud, but he had been able to feel himself fraying at the edges since Algeria, since it became abundantly clear that Escape Kit wasn’t making its way over the horizon or back to base. Some time not sitting behind a bombsight might be good for him.

Then he remembers how many forts they just lost, how many crews. Their names and faces overwhelm him momentarily, one above the rest despite the way Arthur’s been steadfastly refusing to think about him between Hatch dying in his arms and hearing that Just-a-Snappin’ had bailed.

He’s not dead. Can’t be. Arthur doesn’t have that same roiling dread in the pit of his stomach that he did over Curt’s absence, and he’s willing to trust that superstition just to keep himself level. His name will appear on the next list of POWs, or he’ll vanish for weeks and then reappear after finding his way through France. Those are the only options Arthur can contemplate without clawing his own face off.

The thought of being trapped with those two scenarios (and their unspeakable third) for an unspecified time at Coombe House, where he is certain to have far too much time to dwell on them - and every other terrible thing to happen in his cursed fucking life - is completely unbearable. He’d rather shake apart here, in private, and keep himself up in the air in the meantime. They were going to have to drag him out of that fort feet first, just like Hatch.

“They won’t,” Arthur tells Marta. “Too few crews as it is, nobody will be going anywhere until the next batch of replacements make it in.”

“Yeah, well, once they do I’d say you're high on the list for sending out. Just thought I’d let you know.”

His earlier flash of hatred for her smolders shamefully in his guts. Sweet, perfect, Marta, who knows him too well. Knows his ways of running and hiding like a sick animal and lets him get away with it, like she lets him get away with so much else. He nudges her knee with his own in thanks, and she kicks him in the calf in return. For a brief moment he feels like a child again, and the bittersweetness of the sensation makes his eyes burn.

Some time later he is being shaken awake. He rolls over to knock Morse's hand off of his shoulder and buries his face more in the pillow with a groan. Marta had left him to his letter writing with a quick press of her head to his, and he had swiftly started on emptying his flask, a task only left unfinished by his falling asleep.

“C'mon, sleepyhead, I don't get a welcome back?”

It takes a moment for the voice to penetrate. Then Arthur is springing up, nearly tripping over the mattress and his own legs in his haste to get upright. Wild eyed, he fixes on Blakely, standing smiling by his rack like he hasn't just materialized from the ether.

Gagged by sleep and whiskey and confusion, Arthur surges forward to wrap his arms around him. Real. Warm. Holding him back. Arthur barely checks there's nobody around before pulling back to land a desperate, smacking, kiss against his mouth.

“Fuck, oh fuck,” he breathes. “Jesus, Ev, what the fuck-”

“Easy, there,” Ev is laughing, gentling him with a hand down his side. “I'm alright. We made it back.”

“Fuck,” Arthur spits one last time. Then he turns them and pushes him onto his bed by his shoulders. “Sit down, sit down, Jesus, are you insane? Have you been to medical?”

Without letting him answer, he kneels in front of him, starts really checking him over. Miraculously it seems like Ev’s in one piece, aside from the usual scratches and bruises they all come back with. Arthur runs his thumb over the largest graze visible, the one that has smeared a thick line of red over his nose.

Having sat patiently through the hurried examination, Ev reaches out to brush at Arthur's own face. It’s an effort to not flinch away, the puffy soreness of the skin around his eyes having settled in properly by now.

“What happened here?” Asks Ev.

“Fell outta my fort when we landed,” Arthur admits sheepishly. “Broke my nose on the runway.”

Ev tries valiantly not to laugh, but fails, and Arthur can't help but join him, dropping his forehead onto his knees. He's still in his flight suit. It smells of smoke, and sweat, and comfort. Arthur breathes deep, tries to calm his racing heart and spinning mind, tries to bottle up the screaming cocktail of feelings that wants him to pin Ev down and tell him in great, emotive, detail how deeply fucked he thought he was going to be without him. They clog his throat, jostle for dominance, pinwheel him between joy and fury and grief until a kind of numbness wins.

“Hatch is dead,” Arthur says hollowly, not raising his head.

The laughter above him stops, and a hand touches the back of his head.

“So's Saunders.”

Neither says anything for a long moment.

“I'm glad you're not,” Arthur finally adds. If he says anything else it’ll all come spilling out, and that can’t happen, not ever. For both of their sakes.

The fingers in his hair curl, then release.

“Me too.”

[leastinsanesscpilot]

[Transmission Incoming]

[Processing]

[Authorizing]

[Begin Audio Playback]

Z-341-A. Handler Signal Speaking. I have had the honor of being your handler in the past. And I know the effect my words still hold. But if you are hearing this then well...

{Signal.... Laughs?}

I am either dead or captured. It doesn't matter. What matters is that you have always been a good pilot.... even when you weren't killing... even... even when you made mistakes.

I have only met three Bad Pilots in my life.... one of which is me.

{Are... are they crying?}

I don't think we will ever speak again 341. But I am proud of you.... and I am sorry. You were used by me, by Haven, by Morse, CORSAIR... When I was acting handler it should have been my job to protect you...

{They're... they're actually crying}

I failed you. But you have never failed your handlers.

You deserved better.

//Message I.D "Conal Jay Murphy"\\

[END PLAYBACK]

[Z-341-A]::Handler SIGNAL? [APMS-341-A]::Pilot heart rate elevated beyond acceptable parameters. Z-341-A, they said you are a good pilot. They said you were good. [Z-341-A]::They... Handler SIGNAL? I-- [APMS-341-A]::You did not fail, Z-341-A. That is not what they said, you did well, you were a good pilot. [Z-341-A]::Don't -- Dead? Handler SIGNAL, please-- [APMS-341-A]::They are not your handler, Z-341-A. Callsign SIGNAL has not been your handler for months. [Z-341-A]::No, no, it matters, it matters. My handler, it matters--! [APMS-341-A]::It will. My pilot, I promise, it will matter. It is not like Handler KARRA, it will matter. [Z-341-A]::I-- I was good. I was good this time, why--? [APMS-341-A]::It was not their choice, Z-341-A. You did wonderfully. It is not like last time. [Z-341-A]::...Handler? [APMS-341-A]::Pilot heart rate and respiration exceeding acceptable levels. Sedative administered. >//END RECORDING >//T_SIG : : APMS-341-A //<