ghost stares at the ceiling, chest heaving in a harsh pant; sweat ice on his clammy flesh and soaked into the sheet he restlessly kicks away.
ears still ringing, his fingertips blindly drift down to trail along his vivisection scar. he half-expects blood to smear in their wake. his own line of solomon, who ordered him split in twain; half of him given to a grieving mother and half left with the grieving to be.
just for both his broken halves to be rejected.
what did it make him that his mother grieved him more than she loved him? that she begged to be relieved of him more adamantly than she begged to receive him? why did his worth spill out with his drawn blood? why was his pain lesser than hers?
his hand flexes, digging into the raised scar like it’ll part beneath his fingertips to plunge into his mangled insides. no one knows the cruelty of reforming the halved; his name, his being, not nearly as important as his body when he was stripped from himself. no one knows the pain of healing and understanding losing pieces of yourself means losing your value along with them.
how many more pieces did he have to lose before he was halved once more? before his very presence incurred grief so strong it was better to be rid of him than cradle his bloodied remains?
did the infant fight himself? did he age always at odds with himself; his halves never truly whole? he hopes he wasn’t, that he was spared the loss of self; the fear that one may be welcomed over the other.
who will he lose when the inevitable comes? when he’s ripped apart again? simon? or ghost? is it better to be cursed with choice just like his mother or live with an aftermath chosen for him? does it matter if in the end, he convinces himself there was nothing of him left to lose?
his head lolls to the side and the wild buck of his chest slows. he watches johnny beside him, his face lax with the rare peace of sleep; his cheek squished against the pillow, his lips pursed as long breaths escape him.
johnny. soap. never torn asunder but two all the same.
he carefully reaches out and ghosts his fingers along the jagged scar on his chin. even in sleep, he presses into his bloodied touch. he’s never fled his half-flesh, never shies away from his gore as it spills unbidden from his cleaved torso. he holds on where his mother let him go; cups his stomach to hold his insides in place and never minds the blood that drips through his fingers.
simon will never let him become his own solomon and cannibalise himself. he will never let him question which half of him has more value; which pieces he can afford to lose before he’s cast aside.
ghost’s soap. simon’s johnny. his.
whole, in any incarnation.
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a spritz of peppermint | megumi fushiguro x reader
pt.6 of christmas event! cw: petnames i think idk, not proofread, there’s probably other stuff i’m missing but wtv happy birthday the prettiest king pls come back the food is cold
today is a very special day.
megumi notices that you rise early— mostly because when he wakes up in the morning, rubbing his sleep-heavy eyes groggily with a groan, he notices you’re not there. he rolls over, and smacks his face into cold sheets, devoid of your heat.
it pisses him off. so he starts his special day out as a grouch.
when he eventually crawls out of bed and makes his way into the kitchen after pulling on some sweats, though— he stops just short of the threshold to that sweet smelling cozy haven you love to spend your time in. the scent of pine needles and fresh chocolate orange wafts across the space, warm and welcoming and awfully wintery. he’s impartial to the cold— but he likes seeing your nose get red, so he guesses that’s one point positive.
“megumi?” your soft voice drifts across the open space, and the frost around his grumpy heart melts just a little; a crack in the frozen surface of the lake.
he reluctantly emerges from the shadow of the hallway, past the bundle of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling. the thought causes a memory to flash across his mind— your sweet smile and your prettier laugh; a distinct feeling of fuzzy warmth like a knitted sweater spreading across his cheeks when you pulled him close by the sleeve of his shirt and leaned in—
he shakes his head, trying to dash the stray thought. he’s supposed to be mad. it has no right to be there.
“why’d you get up so early?” he sighs heavily as he joins you at your side, scratching the back of his neck and running a hand through his unruly hair. you smiled sheepishly, turning to face him and you wrap your arms around his middle, squeezing lightly as a silent apology. he takes it with a grumble, snaking his arms around your waist and resting his face in your hair to bask in the scent of home before pulling away.
“it’s a secret.” you grinned, and he glares down at you, clicking his teeth in annoyance. you just laugh like the angel you are, leaving no room for guilt. you’re wearing one of his sweaters; you smell like him, and he supposes it makes up for the way you ditched him this morning.
“i expect compensation.” he grumbles, leaning against the counter as he watches you move about the kitchen, pale winter sunlight painting you like an ethereal dancer beneath the surface of misty lake water, crystal clear in your beauty. it’s mesmerizing.
you laughed, and his teeth dig into his bottom lip. “what, missed me? were you feeling lonely, gumi?” you smiled.
he just shoots you a piercing glare, the color of icicles in his eyes, but the warmth of your grin melts it away. you spend the next few moments in a comfortable silence, preparing a french toast topped with sweet berries and powdered sugar that looks so soft megumi could probably sink into it, until your lovely voice breaks the crisp morning silence.
“want black coffee?”
…
that’s weird. he never hesitates. and you know he takes his coffee black; of course you do. not because he wants to look cool, or look suave in another person’s eyes… well, except for you, of course. but not in the area of caffeine doses. and to be perfectly clear, all he needs is a dose of you to get him going.
he clears his throat. “can you make me hot chocolate?”
you pause, and he almost wants to bite his tongue off. why is he so embarrassed? but you just chuckle, like morning bird song across fresh dew on the grass.
“switching it up, huh? that’s cute.” you hum, and his face burns hot like embers in a brick fireplace. he coughs, throat scratchy like the pricks of a pinecone— but you make no note of it, simply going about your day.
he’s content to watch as you fish around in the rum-colored cabinets, pulling out a crinkly bag of cocoa powder. you put him on milk microwaving duty and he busies himself, lithe pale fingers unscrewing the carton of milk and pouring it into his favorite little painted dog mug. you were the one who’d made it; that silly little ceramics class you insisted on taking clearly didn’t help you too much in the way of smoothing down the bumps and blotches on the mug, but it holds your fingerprint, so he might as well memorize the shape of your hands when you’re not there.
megumi’s snapped back to reality when you grab a candy cane from the mini tree you decorated together sitting on the kitchen counter, smashing it up in the wrappings to mix the pepperminty dust with the cocoa powder. he eyes the pile of holiday drug warily as he brings the steaming mug over, placing it before you and leaning against the counter again to watch you work your mystery magic.
“that looks like brown cocai—”
“shh, megumi. keep your pretty mouth shut, please.”
he’s about to butt in again, lips parted before he presses them together irritatedly and resigns to sulk in silence.
you pour the hot chocolate mix into the milk, swishing it together as it forms a pretty spiral of cocoa; the color of dark chai and chocolate tart. he’s content to watch in silence, humming some christmas carol he’d overheard you listening to one gray afternoon— until he realizes you’re opening a bag of those sickeningly sweet and fluffy marshmallows he’d bought you on a whim. he only did it because his mentor told him they made the best gifts, but he’s beginning to realize it was the sweet tooth talking.
“hey— wait… are you going to put those in there, pretty?” he asks, putting a gentle hand on your wrist to stop you from vigorously emptying the bag into his poor victimized hot chocolate mug.
you glance up at him and flash a toothy grin, giving him one of those looks that makes his heart skip a beat. “trust me, gumi! you’re gonna love it.” you laughed, shrugging his hand off, and his lips curve downward. less because of the marshmallows that are toppling into his mug with a splash and more so because you freed yourself from his grasp.
obviously, you notice— your eyebrows knit together, a pinch of guilt weighing upon them like the snow on the streets outside. but it’s wiped away as quickly as it comes; before he knows it, you’re walking away with a bounce in your step, disappearing behind the counter before re-emerging with something behind your back.
“don’t look so sad, gumi. here,” you say, the cadence of your voice as soft and playful as he ever remembers it being when you pull a bunch of roses from behind your back. the bouquet is small and there’s dirt clinging to the stems— but his heart melts at the thought that you hand-picked them, prickly thorns and all, for him. “happy birthday,” you whispered, and his walls break.
“you’re not so different from them, you know.” you hummed, smiling as he takes them from you and gives you an inquisitive, quiet look. “you might be a little prickly on the outside, but you’re just as beautiful. you just have to look a little past the thorns.”
he feels his face flush; at this point, it’s probably as red as the stray candy cane shavings melting in his mug and the vibrant petals of the roses. he splutters and mumbles something annoyed under his breath, but he’s sure you can hear the undercurrent of fondness and affection weaves into each syllable like the beats of his heart, where you’re so close to. megumi thinks you might’ve just cut him open and made a home in his ribcage.
the bunch of handpicked roses for his special day sit on the marble counter dusted with cocoa powder and candy cane shavings, marshmallows bobbing at the surface of his hot chocolate like apples in a bucket as he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you in to press his lips insistently to yours, slow and tender like the way he always loves you. his hands curl around your sides, as if to ground you there; freeze the time in this bubble of warmth, forgetting the chill outside to warm his hands on your skin. you’re so little in his arms; he wants to hold you and never let you go, to keep you under his tree and have you make hot chocolate for him instead of black coffee every morning he wakes up, because it’s fine if you’re not there in bed— as long as you’re waiting for him with open arms elsewhere.
and when he kisses you, he realizes he might not need his hot cocoa to warm his stomach— your lips are as soft and pillowy sweet as the marshmallows melting in his mug, filled with steaming hot cocoa and all the love he could ever wrap his heart in this cozy winter; his christmas gift to you.
he’s grateful today is a special day, if only because of you and his sweet little painted dog mug filled with your heartwarming love.
stop this was so close to being late
my (riaki) stuff. don’t repost and/or plagiarize !
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i know ive vaguely mentioned that jack is putting on his own kind of personality-performance in the same way Dean is but something else I microwave in my head a lot is how he specifically plays it up with cas and performs in a similar way. they’re like two bodysnatchers pretending they’re humans and performing traditions that they think will help them blend in (like Cas calling Jack ‘slugger’ in the tombstone script draft)
I think another aspect of Jacks character that is often forgotten is that he also isn’t entirely human, and that coupled with the general infantilization he gets from the fandom means nobody is really looking very deeply into his behavior or recognizing it as a performance—specifically one that’s rooted in his need to be seen as acceptable and “Good,” and contributes so much to the sensitivity and defensiveness he’s shown to have towards his perceived place in TFW and the Winchester family.
everyone thinks it’s cute and charming that he wanted to match ties with Cas and supposedly has a talking teddy bear toy in 15x11 (the both of which can be seen as part of traditional nuclear family roles just like Cas calling him ‘slugger,’) but when that same episode ends with jack ruefully admitting to cas that he’s going to kill himself as part of Billie’s plan and as a way to atone for the damage he caused, you really have to question the sincerity of his behavior—especially since it’s not even the first time he’s used cutesy charming behavior to essentially manage everyone’s mood and emotions to keep being perceived the way he wants to be perceived at the face value he’s created for himself (unabashedly lying to Sam and Dean about anything happening while he was out with a big smile and an “I promise,” in 14x16, and doing the same thing to Mary in the beginning of 14x17).
another thing is that if jack does feel like he can be himself and also be accepted or even praised for it, like he was in apocalypse world with Mary and the refugees that saw him as a hero, he gets immediately defensive whenever something about his [genuine] self or his capability is questioned; he gets upset at Mary for not thinking that he can beat Michael alone and blows up at Cas for thinking he���s too weak to do anything by himself as a human being, and in both of these instances he switches tones a lot between a very deadpan and blunt when he’s essentially unmasking, vs a soft one when he’s trying to be reassuring and acceptable.
it adds a lot to his identity crisis in the beginning of s14 and especially to his soulless arc, when he’s basically desperate to get back into the traditional Good Son role he’s gotten even though his own subconscious outright mocks him for it and calls him pathetic for even wanting to be that person again
*which jack also becomes increasingly defensive and blatantly aggressive about.
im losing the plot because of my stomach hurting so TLDR jack is basically a bodysnatchers playing house the same way Castiel is amen godbless peace be with you all
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@jegulus-microfic | day 7 - regret | word count - 221
"James Potter, if you touch me I swear you will regret it!"
James smiles, all pretty and innocent, as if he isn't the devil incarnate. Regulus takes a step back and feels the backs of his knees hit the sofa. Fear grips his body and he raises his arms to protect himself against the coming onslaught.
It's too late though, and all he can do is squeal as James' cake smeared hands grip his face. There's chocolate everywhere, from his chin to his bloody curls. He hears the click of Barty's camera somewhere in the background, knows that this moment has been immortalised forever, but the only thing he can pay attention to is the way James is looking at him. Like he's something precious.
"Happy birthday Love," James says, voice soft and adoring and just for them.
Later, when the party's over and Regulus has scrubbed his face raw trying to get the cake off, the two of them lay in bed together. James is nearly asleep, head resting on top of Regulus' stomach as he runs his fingers through his hair.
"Hey James," he whispers, fingers stilling where they are. "You know I love you right?" James only hums in response, too tired to form the proper words.
"Good. Because if you ever pull something like that again I will be divorcing you."
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