#pattern recognition is a curse

[deadandwalking]

if teenage years are the best years of my life why am i apologising to the little girl in my head why am i fearing my family falling apart why am i failing to accept my bio family are not good for me why am i worried about grades and jobs and life why am i preparing to mourn my best friend why am i fearing growing old why do i miss what i never had why do i miss people who don’t miss me why am i disgusted by my own urges, wants and needs why do i cry over the things i love the most why do i seek comfort in fiction because reality is against me why do i fear the touch i crave why do i feel i am dying

[letflowersdie]

I need a hero.com

[noknowshame]

I don't believe in the devil so you probably can't sell your soul to him but I do believe that if you get famous enough that people start treating you like a two-dimensional character instead of a real human being you run the risk of getting trapped on the other side of the fourth wall and once that happens the narrative can Get You. which is basically the same as selling your soul for fame but who knows

[krashlite]

Ok so there’s the canary and widow/smoke in the mines curse BUT I WOULD LIKE TO CALL ATTENTION TO TANGO

Because man doesn’t have a curse in the more traditional sense but there is a funky lil thing with him. There’s been two separate occasions now where c!tango dodged a death through technical issues.

1st was in LL, he was absent the session after bdubs turned red. This is after Bdubs chased him around with a sword, VERY ADAMANT on killing him. Tango survived both because it happened to be the end of the session and he happened to be missing for the next session

2nd was in DL, when he was retrieving the warden. He accidentally hit the it with a snowball, causing it to target him directly (this is the same mistake that cost Grian and Scar their series). But instead of being taken out, Tango times out for a second- which saves him from the sonic beam at the last second (LITERALLY THE LAST SECOND. Go back and watch his e3, you can hear it charge it up)

Ok so the “curse” is that he dodges death?? NO. THERE’S MORE BECAUSE

Both of these seasons where he dodged a death, he lost his final life in a sudden, clumsy way. In LL it was his trap, in DL Jimmy killed the both of them via enderman. These are both easily avoidable deaths, but they’re what got him.

SO I PROPOSE.

I was going to call it the rebound or boomerang curse. He is saved once, doomed later. HOWEVER, I think cheater curse is more fitting. He cheats death and has severe consequences for it (c!tango ofc, the real life irl man isn’t cheating)

[margle]

yesterday I got the wordle in two (after not having done it for months) and thought wow thats lucky I must have good luck today!! and then immediately something very unlucky happened. then today the word was "lucky". im being fucked with I think I have a curse

[eggs-n-ham-sam]

So I was watching church today, and I noticed something...

[witchspeka]

He is Everywhere

[astercontrol]

OMG just ONE more crossover i swear

"So, you're the new security program, I hear."

"Yes I am, mister… Rinz… what was it again?"

"Oh, nevermind what. I just… I just really need all this extremely dangerous coding cleared OUT of me, sir..."

"Not exactly my job. SIR. I can recommend a debugging program, if you like."

"Oh, thanks! Sure! No worries. Sorry, officer, I didn't mean to bother you specifically, you just happened to be here…"

"Indeed I did, mister Rinz. So, what's dangerous about the coding, if I may ask?"

"…Everything! I don't even know what exactly it was written to do, but, officer, it has taken over my actions, again and again, and made me do things I promise I'd never ever actually want to do-- things I don't think I even physically COULD have done on my own-- it has caused SO much destruction you can't even imagine--"

"Virus made you do it, eh? I can't say I haven't heard that as an excuse before. You got a criminal background I could glance through, for reference?… Never mind, I'm already pulling it up from your energy signature… Oh…. Oh my."

"I swear it's not my fault that coding is there…"

"You didn't, perhaps, make the genuine mistake of choosing to go someplace you had good reason to suspect you COULD pick up a dangerous packet of data like this?"

"Please, I didn't choose THIS! Can you get it out of me, or not?"

"…I know a fellow who can. One of the IGORithms... I'll send you to him straightaway, mister Rinz. I've looked through your rap sheet and… well, it's impressive, I can tell you that, but I have to admit, I agree that it smacks less of malice aforethought, and more of incompetence not-thought-at-all. I'll let you off for now. Keeping an eye on you though."

"Thanks so much, officer. Um… where's the debugger fellow you're going to refer me to?"

"I'll take your disk to him myself."

"… Take my disk?"

"You know. Just so you don't leave town."

"Ugghhh. …All right. It's not like I've much choice, have I. Here you go."

"Hmm! Interesting piece of hardware, my good chap. Is that… a sea-turtle engraved on it?"

"It… it came with that decoration, sir…"

"Not a User-believer, then, eh. A Turtle-believer."

"I don't really believe in much of anything, sir, except something that has it out for me… I can't even remember anymore, I've been through so much…"

"Never mind that. I think we're done here. I'll just take this for now, mister Rinz… ah! here it is. Rinz-wind."

"Yes, officer… what's your name again?"

"Not important. All security programs do the same job, in the end…. I'll see you around, mister Wind. I've got my eye on you."

[illuminaughti-online]

And while I have your attention, please hear out my conviction that Camila Cabello’s song “Don’t Go Yet” flagrantly lifts the melody from Danai’s “Psit psit, giati foras toso konto foustani.” If you downloaded those audios, this is how you repay me.

First, Danai:

Secondly, Camila:

HELLO?? AM I WRONG? I DON’T THINK SO. THIS HAS BEEN DRIVING ME INSANE FOR ABOUT A YEAR NOW BUT NOBODY ELSE SEEMS TO CARE.

Sure it's just a song about a lady in a scandalously short dress, but Danai was also a true badass and scholar who fought Nazis and fascism.

[excessivepyromania]

What the fuck I was watching a stream of a horror game and this bitch jump scares me and my brain thought she was FUCKING SCOUT FROM TF2

[racingmiku2018]

i think ill spend the entire rest of my life grieving

[derinthescarletpescatarian]

I think I've cracked the code of why your writing is an ADHD magnet: you use leading and foreshadowing really skillfully, so it satisfies the pattern recognition part of our brains with puzzles to solve, but then pull out a completely logical and interesting answer that a) creates even MORE puzzles and b) is unexpected, so it gives that dopamine rush.

brought to you by: I, having ADHD, spent a frankly ridiculous amount of time this week rereading TTO:U and am now halfway through Curse Words.

free me, please. I have work to do.

(your work is amazing btw I am having so much fun. it ticks all my interest boxes and I can't wait to see how things turn out for everyone!!)

No freedom for you. The magical children are waiting.

[c0smiclatt3]

SATORU GOJO: SAY DON'T GO

i said 'i love you,', you say nothing back.

☾₊ ⊹ TAGS: angst no comfort, friends to lovers, reader and satoru were classmates, reader defected, post-suguru's death, not proofread yet pls be patient w me i just had this in my drafts for too long

after ten years, you meet again; only this time he's here to kill you - whether he can bear to face you or not.

wc: 4.3k (woah)

You look the same as you did the day you left, and Satoru really wishes you didn’t. Maybe this would be easier for him if your days as a curse user and Jujutsu Tech defector somehow disfigured you beyond recognition. If you’d taken advantage of some other curse user you knew and donned some glamour or disguise.

But no. You look the same as he remembered you. Your name rung in his ears when he saw you from his vantage point atop the abandoned school building, echoing just as it had haunted him since he left.

She’s here. She’s here. She’s—

・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・・

“She’s gone.”

Satoru felt like he was going to choke. The door to your dorm was ajar, Shoko standing beside it somber, an unreadable expression on her face.

The door hinges squealed as it slowly slid open. Lo and behold: A half empty bottle of tea on your desk. Empty bags of your favorite chips in your desk trash bin. The curtains fluttering in the open window like they always did because you liked the breeze while you slept. Your bedsheets made, just as they were every morning when you four set off for the day’s missions and drills for the last few years.

And your uniform, folded neatly on your bed, unworn.

Satoru’s mouth went dry, his hand went slack, uncurling from the fist he’d locked it in as he stormed over moments prior. “No. She’s coming back, she left her tea—“

Shoko interrupts him, "Satoru."

“She wouldn’t just up and leave, she—“

“Satoru-”

“Did Suguru rope her into this? Shoko, you haven’t seen them talking have you? Sure I was a bit preoccupied but maybe—“

“Satoru,” Shoko said, firm but resigned. “She’s gone.”

The longer he looked the more it set in: your bag missing from its hook. Your things missing from your desk. A photo of all of you Jujutsu sorcerers beaming at the camera unpinned from your cork board and fluttered to the floor, wrinkled at the corners from drops of water.

“I see.”

Shoko slipped a hand into her coat pocket.

Satoru turned on his heel and walked off down the hallway.

・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・・

Goodbye.

That’s a word he’s said so much of in the last few years that he doesn’t remember anymore how to say hello. What does he say? What does he say, knowing the reason he was here now — that he was sent to kill you for once and for all?

Satoru had tracked you all the way out here. You’d gotten sloppy after Suguru’s death. The higher ups didn’t think a dirty defector like you had the capacity to mourn like that - they were convinced it was bait. It's why they sent their silver bullet himself. But Satoru knew otherwise. He knew you were too careful, too sharp to make a mistake like that any other day, and here he found you - in an abandoned school building in a small town by the countryside.

You sat in the crumbling classroom, knees to your chest on a rickety chair covered in cobwebs, tracing patterns on the dust on the desk surface. You look up, your expression neutral. You weren't surprised to see him here, like you expected him, even knowing that meant certain death. It almost made him want to laugh.

So you were feeling nostalgic, huh?

It was sunset on a quiet late summer evening, the clouds streaking along the horizon like pink and golden brushstrokes against a violet sky. What a beautiful day to die, you think to yourself. Pink. Gold. Violet.

And there he stood, silhouetted save for his eyes.

Blue. Stunningly blue.

Perhaps this is mercy, then.

You speak first.

・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・・

“It’s a pleasure to meet you!” Hands at your side, you bow deeply and snap back up to attention. Your mother coached you extensively before you departed for Tokyo on how to be respectful to the city folk, and you rehearsed the self-introduction she taught you to a tee. Fresh-faced, thirteen and bright-eyed, from the moment the train stopped at Tokyo station you put on your brave face.

The boy standing in front of you, however, was not terribly impressed. He stared at you blankly for a few moments.

“Right,” he mumbled, before turning on his heel to walk away.

“H-hey!” you go red in the face, “I wasn’t done-“

He holds his hand up. “Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard enough.”

You scoff at his bluntness. Well this was no way to start off a relationship with someone she was meant to call her classmate. “You’re not going to bother telling me who you are?” You call out after him. He stops.

“… You’re being serious?” he looks at her over her shoulder. His eyes flash blue - blue enough to rival the hue of the sky above them. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen eyes that blue before.

“… Well yeah-“

“Damn,” he turns back around, though rather than venom in his voice there's almost a sense of amusement and curiosity. “They weren’t kidding. You really are a country bumpkin.”

Regardless, you felt a burning in your chest as you clenched a fist. “I’ll show ya a country bumpkin,” you muttered.

“Huh? Couldn’t understand your accent, country girl,” he called out over his shoulder. You grit your teeth.

“Oi!” you call out after him, “At least give me your name so I know what to call ya while I kick ‘yer ass!”

There was something endearing to him about someone who actually didn’t know who he was for once. Who didn’t approach him like some god or some weapon. He mutters your surname to himself. He remembers Yaga-sensei telling him something about how you came from an insignificant family of sorcerers in the countryside. Out of your entire lineage, only you turned out with a technique that could actually be useful. Of course you wouldn’t know much about Jujutsu clan politics or the heavyweight names. Alright. He’ll bite.

“Won’t need it. I’ll have your ass in the dirt first, kid.”

“Who ‘ya callin’ kid!” Your fists clenched at your sides. He raised an eyebrow.

“You gonna punch me, kid?”

“I’m the same damn age as you, don’t act cocky!” In your twintail braids and with your tiny stature it was hard to take you as a serious threat.

“You’re a little thing. Why would I be scared of you?”

You threw a punch. You didn’t know what would be coming next - of course you didn’t. Your hand hit an invisible wall and you yelped, withdrawing your hand back and feeling the stinging pain in your knuckles. You look at him with a sense of challenge, but also a sense of amazement. Who the hell was this guy?

“You wanted my name? Well, here it is, kid—“

・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・・

“Satoru.”

As if understanding just how his name coming from your lips made him feel, the clouds parted to allow a stream of sunlight to illuminate you like a spotlight. The doomed antiheroine of today’s tale, in all her tragic glory, looking up listless like the soul had long been drained from her eyes.

Why, oh why did you have to say his name like that?

“I think we both know why I’m here.”

You nod. You look away from him. You’re not sure if you can bear to look at him now. “It’s been a while since we’ve sparred, Satoru.”

He swallows. “That it has.”

“Maybe today is the day I finally catch up to you after all these years.”

He shrugs. Somewhere in that nonchalant shrug is the unbothered kid you knew all those years ago. “You can try.”

But you both knew how this ended and somewhere deep inside you knew you deserved it anyway for your sins.

You can’t stop yourself from cracking a bitter smile. “Well, then,” you drop your satchel to the ground, laying out your knives before you, and as if pulled by strings they rise around you on guard. “One last spar. For old time’s sake.”

Satoru’s lips curl into a smirk.

・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・・

“You’re on.”

You crack your knuckles. The other Jujutsu sorcerers may underestimate your technique, you remember your mother saying. Don’t let them. You put your hands on your hips and grin.

“Don’t underestimate me, though!”

“Can’t make any promises, country girl!”

You raise your fist and Satoru stands at the ready —

But your fist slams on the window behind you instead, shattering the glass. Satoru looks at you, confused —

And then the shards begin to levitate, forming a circlet around you.

“You think some stupid glass is gonna protect you?” Satoru scoffs. “You’ve got no idea what you’re up against here, squirt.”

You grit your teeth, close your eyes and concentrate. The shards go flying at Satoru. He’s got his eyes on you, his eyes on the shards —

And then your figure flickers. It flickers then it’s gone. He looks around, sensing that the cursed energy thrumming in the shards has grown stronger, almost humming with immense power. One shard passes just in front of his face, another just behind him, but rather than his own reflection in the glass he sees you.

You and a proud smile. You flicker behind him, and—

・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・・

The first punch is thrown.

His movements are fluid. Graceful. Like conducting the orchestra of life and matter itself. He’s gotten even better since you left. You didn’t even know that was possible.

Your glass knives go zinging around him just as he remembered, but your technique was no match for a man who could see everything. All you had to do to try to keep up was to be faster. Faster. Faster.

But you were fighting a hopeless battle and you knew it. This was Satoru Gojo and at the end of the day you were a curse user. You knew how this ended. At this point the back and forth was just a formality.

His punches landed like they always did, the familiar blasts of red and blue that you learned to dodge all those years ago — only something was different. Something was off. His punches just barely you, just close enough to feel the breeze around his enclosed fists. He was holding back. You knew him well enough to know that.

Your grit your teeth, “Don’t go soft on me now, Satoru.”

“Who said I was?”

What a horrible liar.

“Terrible time for you to suddenly grow a conscience,” the quips are bittersweet in your mouth, rolling over your tongue like the tooth-rotting sugar of a childhood candy. Something in this back and forth felt nostalgic. Something in this back and forth made your heart lurch. Something in this back and forth made you feel as if any minute now you would dust the dirt off your pants, sigh in defeat, and walk off with him and. the rest of your class for a popsicle at the 7-eleven nearby. But this wasn't what this was. Suguru was dead. Yuu was dead. You defected years ago. And Satoru was sent with a mission that he was going to finish, no matter how much it pained him to. You just prayed it would be over quickly.

You grit your teeth, "I thought I was fighting the strongest!" Another blast just barely misses you.

"You are," his palm extends outward, a thundering force tunnelling along the concrete to your position, stopping just there before your feet.

God, this would be easier for you if he could just kill you like a cold-blooded killer. If in the last few years since you left the Satoru you knew had been successfully replaced with the sharpened knife the higher ups spent their whole life training him to be. But the hesitation in his attacks said otherwise in the most heartbreaking way possible. The words left unsaid over the last ten years came through in every missed attack, every pulled punch. Even now, even after everything, he was protecting you.

"Then hit me like you mean it!"

Like you mean it. If Satoru did anything right now the way he meant it this would be going a lot differently. If he could do this the way he meant it he would've stopped a long time ago. He would have extended his hand, flashing that arrogant smile he knew annoyed you to no end and helped you back to your feet.

But you want a fair fight and you'll get it. It'd be an insult to the sorcerer you'd grown into for him to hold back now at this crucial moment. All those hours, all those extra missions you took on while you were peers, all those promises and challenges, if you were going out you wanted to go out right. That was the least he could give you after all, wasn't it?

And so what did it mean when his attacks began to ripple through the concrete, forcing you to jump and weave around his blasts until you could feel your legs giving out? When his attacks forced you to concentrate all your energy into whizzing around between your blades, the sheer focus of reading his attacks and focusing your cursed energy draining your mind? That he acknowledged you. That he would fight you here and now as the sorcerer he respected. As the sorcerer he admired.

Your movements are angles, refractions, jets of blinding light and flickering reflections against his tremendous power. Slivers of light streams shooting between each blade - here, then here, then here - distributing your cursed energy across them so it would be more difficult for him to detect, David against Goliath. A battle of light against matter.

Until you shattered.

You lay on the concrete and hear the crunching of Satoru's shoes as he walks toward you. He walks slowly. He's giving you more time on purpose and you can tell, as if willing you to get up and fight, if only to prolong the inevitable. So he could avoid it for just a minute longer. He could have killed you long ago. But he hasn't.

The ground seems to simmer, rumbling with the sheer intensity of Satoru's cursed energy as the dust clears. He'd shot you down to the ground and here you were again.

"Barely even a scratch and you're on the ground already?" The quip is obviously meant to get a rise out of you but his voice is tinged with sadness. Get up. Get up, please.

You cough once. Twice. You feel something warm trickle from your lips and the taste of iron. "Cut the pleasantries, Satoru. We both know how this ends."

The sun sets below the horizon as he walks over, casting a shadow on your crumpled figure. You spit blood onto the concrete and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, lip stained scarlet. You're the picture of a pathetic and battered curse user, and you hope that the sight he sees before him now would be alien enough to him, that he wouldn't prolong this torture any longer. That his muscle memory would activate seeing something cowered before him and he would lift his hand and finish you off sooner or later. You hoped this way you wouldn't need to face him in this state, wouldn't need to get a torturously close look at the man you could have known in some other life had you chosen a different life.

The man you could have had.

To your anguish, he speaks. "I didn't want it to end like this."

You look away. You can scarcely bear to look at him right now without your heart aching. "...I know."

"I always hoped you'd come back on your own."

But that was wishful thinking. A sorcerer like you, after all that you' had done, would never be allowed to waltz right back into Jujutsu society, to return to that world and it's secrets and privileges as if you had never done the things you did when you followed Suguru all those years ago. No matter how much you might have daydreamed about it on occasion, no matter how many times you found yourself stopping by those campus gates and wondering what would happen if you walked your way back inside. Whether the key you kept in your pocket, a useless memento now, would still slot into your old dorm room. If your pictures would still be up on the wall, the hung up receipts from weekends out at the mall with Ieiri and Iori, the sticky notes Satoru had thrown at you in the middle of classes, ticket stubs from past missions.

And Satoru would be lying if he didn't say the same, if he didn't spend the first few weeks you left stopping by the freezer on his 7-eleven runs to reach for your favorite ice cream before remembering there was nobody to hand it off to. If he didn't learn a new trick or technique and didn't run to the dorm building to show you before stopping himself. If he didn't watch his students sparring from the bleachers, wondering if you would have been sitting by his side watching them too.

"They'd send me straight for the execution chamber and you know that-"

"You never should've left," he speaks bitterly, regretfully, as if his voice was straining just saying the words, "You should've stayed at Jujutsu Tech, you should've been there with the rest of us, we could've-"

You cut him off before he keeps talking and makes either of you ache any longer. "It's over now, Satoru."

"It didn't have to be, I -" he looks down, his mouth fumbling for words he can't find. His mind scrambles for any idea he could possibly have for bringing you back, and just as quickly as they come they form they dissipate, like a fistful of powder.

He squeezes his eyes shut, his voice breaking. "What am I supposed to do with you now..."

Your next words are spoken with finality. "Exactly what you were told to do."

The words make your throat tighten, make your arms tremble and struggle to hold yourself up. You keep your head down.

After a few moments he finally mutters a few words. "You're making this difficult."

"I'm sorry."

"Why," he whispers, "why did you do it?" His voice breaks. "Why did you leave me?"

Your face burns. You don't have the heart to tell him that when Suguru spoke, he spoke so convincingly. That after you saw the dead eyes of Riko Amanai in her shroud, young enough to be your classmate, young enough to be your sister, then walked back out into the swarming Tokyo streets wondering what she died for you wanted to throw up.

When you saw Satoru walk around like a living corpse, when you saw him have to force himself back into his usual self, that life had to somehow go on after all that had happened, you felt sick - sick.

So in your youth you thought that Suguru had found an answer. Some way that would bring us anywhere but here. Some world where you and everyone you loved wouldn't have to live and die like this.

"I thought I was doing the right thing-"

"You were one of the few good things I had left."

A silence settles between you two. Your eyes meet his.

Once upon a time he looked at you with the twinkle of a challenge in his eye, waking up in the morning looking forward to whatever stupid shenanigans you and the rest of your classmates would get up to that day. The way he looks at you now, with ten years in between your last meeting, since the last time you saw those eyes truly full of light and hope, he looks at you with the eyes of a dead man.

You couldn't live. You shouldn't. Or those eyes would haunt you forever.

When people look into the eyes of Satoru Gojo, they practically look into the eyes of God. The man who holds the balance of life in his very sight. Jujutsu sorcerers and cursed spirits alike cowered under his icy gaze.

But just as you had all those years ago, when you looked at him you only saw a boy. A boy whose heart left with you ten years ago.

You reach your hand up, sliding your fingers between his, and before he can even process it, his hand gently squeezes yours.

Please. Please.

For a moment he is quiet. For a moment his pulse jumps in his throat. For a moment he almost believes all those delusions in his head, that there was some way for you to return to Jujutsu. Return to him.

Your fingers fold around his, sliding and twisting his hand into a point directed straight to your forehead. You close your eyes.

"Satoru."

His name sounds devastating on your lips, the way you speak his name knowing it may be one of the last things you say and, God, if there was the right final word let it be his name.

Your name passes from his lips like a whisper in return. You two refuse to say anything more. You know if you say what you want to you run the risk of cursing him, and your shadow has loomed on him for long enough. Yours and many others'.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

The words sit, shapeless on your tongue. You don't dare speak them - for his sake. As much as it will kill you. As much as it would kill him either way.

Those unspoken words hang in the air, and Satoru breaks the silence.

"I-"

"Don't."

"Please-"

"I said don't-"

HIs voice begins to rise. "Please just say it, say something, anything-"

"You know what would happen if I do."

"I do! And does it look like I give a damn?! Don't leave me again, God, don't leave, stay with me this time. Give me that much, just don't go-"

"No," you say firmly, and you want to crumble when you feel the way he winces at your interruption. "... Please."

Satoru's hand trembles.

He swallows.

・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・・

“Another win for yours truly,” Satoru grinned, his hand held out to you. “Seriously, you’d think in three years you’d learn a thing or two,” he pouts pitifully.

“I’ve learned you’re an asshole!” You cross your arms over your chest, rolling onto your side. You huffed, a puff of dirt rising as you did. You hated meeting his eyes when he was gloating, he was always so full of himself after a match.

“Come on, don’t be like that,” he throws his head back laughing as he leaned over you, nudging you with his hand, “get up and let’s to already. You’re covered in dirt, country girl. I mean look at yourself,” he picks up one of your glass shards and holds it up to your face so you can see your reflection. He sticks his tongue out and mock gags. “Uuuugly.”

“Shut up, Satoru!”

He laughs again, a sound warm like the sunshine itself.

“Come on, come on. I’ll buy you an ice cream.”

You turn onto your other side and huff again. He rolls his eyes, exasperated, but smiles at your stubbornness. He shrugs and lays down beside you. “Or is the dirt that comfortable?”

The two of you lay there for a moment under the setting sun, wrapped in the warm of the golden hour. His eyes meet yours and he’s stumped into a pause. It’s been three years since you arrived at Jujutsu Tech and you both have grown since then - him into a young man and you into a young lady of your own right. The light strikes your eyes just so, making them glitter like the sunlight on the sea. Had your eyes always been so beautiful? Had your hair always fallen perfectly around your eyes? Had the little sun freckles on your skin from your childhood in the fields always been so endearing to him?

His heart flutters.

His silence stuns you too. Satoru Gojo was never quiet. When you turn over you see his perpetually smug expression soften, lips parted, eyebrows relaxed, opening those famous blue eyes to you. A breeze passes, the wind rustling the trees above you, and you realize your so close that some of your hair could brush his cheek from here. His silence makes you feel compelled to whisper.

“Satoru?”

In that moment he almost feels compelled to say something stupid. So stupid. With your face this close to him his head is filled with stupid questions. Stupid thoughts.

Instead he flicks your forehead. You yelp and your hand flies to rub that spot.

“What in the world was that for?” you cry out.

“For making me lie on the dirt when it actually sucks.”

“I didn’ make you do anythin’!” There was that little accent slipping out again. He laughs to himself as he gets up and stands over you again, waiting for you to join him. You look up at him and look up at the sky.

"One day," you huff, "one day we'll settle this for once and for all. And I'm gonna win."

He smiles down at you. "I'll be waiting."

writing masterlist | bot masterlist

☾₊ ⊹ AN: omg about time i got this out of my drafts. i wrote like 80% of this on the plane and then had no idea how to actually end it, so i sat on it for a few days and hopefully this ended up working out idk. this is definitely longer compared to the other stuff i've done so i really appreciate it if you did end up reading all this way. byyyye!

[letsquestjess]

To Be Held (Crosshair x GN!Reader)

Summary: Crosshair struggles with the tremor in his hand, but you are there to comfort him.

Word count: 1.2K

Warnings: Brief descriptions of nightmares and depression. Contains some spoilers for season 3!

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You rounded the kitchen with a tune on your lips, collecting packets and paper bags and arranging the fresh produce onto the chopping board. A potato rolled from the pile, bouncing off the outstretched elbow you extended in an attempt to slow it. As it tumbled from the worktop, a hand darted out. 

“Nice catch,” you said to Crosshair as he straightened and picked out a few other vegetables from the hefty bundle. 

“I can help get these chopped up,” he offered, rolling up his shirt sleeves. “Although I have to ask, are you trying to feed the entire island?”

“Just your brothers,” you returned.  

The sniper chuckled to himself, lips curving into an endearing grin. He and his brothers had grown up on a diet consisting mostly of ration bars, protein drinks, and whatever meagre soups and over-baked breads the cafeteria served. Upon arriving on the picturesque island, the sheer variety of food options available had daunted him, but the more he tasted, the more he acclimated to the distinct tastes and innovative pairings. 

It was how he had met you. Market days on Pabu were an island-wide event, and Wrecker, ever eager to delve deeper into the culinary arts, dragged him along. His excuses ranged from wanting to experiment with new seasonings to needing help with meal planning, but he eventually admitted he just wanted to spend time with him. From that moment on, Crosshair attended every week without fail. 

Some months into their visits, you bumped into each other. Quite literally. After steadying the overflowing bags in your arms and assuring him you were unharmed, you both exchanged sheepish smiles and apologies, and parted ways. He saw you again the week after, and the week after that, your eyes meeting in silent recognition, until Omega intervened and nudged her brother to approach you. 

The thought of your first encounter comforted him, immersing him in a daydream that shattered the instant his hand began to tremor. He grumbled and clenched his fists, resolved to shove the annoyance aside and focus on assisting you with dinner. 

But you noticed. You picked up the irritated huff and the flex of his fist. “Are you all right?” you asked, setting down the knife and scooping the chopped vegetables into the simmering pan of water. His silence hung heavy, and you stopped what you were doing. “Cross?” 

“I’m fine,” he replied, gruffer than he intended. Squeezing his eyes shut for a brief second, he refocused and carried on slicing the washed potatoes into chunks. 

Over the last few weeks, you had observed a subtle tremor in his hand and a faraway expression. It never lasted for more than a few minutes, but you sensed he was confined in that desolate cell once more, on that unrelenting experiment table. He had spent countless months trying to regain control, confronting his past rather than avoiding it. 

The risk of a relapse always remained, but you wished he wouldn’t endure them in silence and solitude. Omega’s meditations had offered a small reprieve, and the therapy he stuck at untangled the knotted vines in his head, allowing him to process his thoughts. But it was getting to him again, wriggling its way back in like an insidious vibroblade slicing into a disintegrating shield, smashing the defences he had fought so hard to maintain. 

As he brought the knife down, the blade grazed dangerously close to his finger. He jerked away and hissed a curse. 

“Okay,” you said with a gentle but resolute edge, taking control before the situation overwhelmed him further. “Sit down.”

“Dinner needs doing,” he insisted. 

“It can wait. Sit, love, please.” 

Reluctantly, the sniper snatched a dining chair and sank into the plush, patterned cushion tied to the back bars. 

After wiping the vegetable juices from your palms on a dishcloth, you brought his hands to your chest and pressed firmly, grounding him in the present and to you. “Can you feel the rhythm of my heart?” you asked. 

Crosshair nodded, wearied gaze lifting to meet yours. “Yes.”

“Close your eyes. That’s it. Concentrate on your breaths.” 

Within a few rounds of deep inhales and slow exhales, the trembles relaxed. You squeezed his hands, thumbs caressing the dry, calloused skin on his fingers. 

“I am so proud of you,” you said, softly, patiently. “You have fought to be where you are, Cross, and you never gave up. No matter how challenging it became, or the obstacles that stood in your path, you persevered. If only you could see yourself how others see you, you would understand how brave, and caring, and dedicated you are.” 

His eyes blinked open, and a subtle smile reappeared. “You missed ‘stubborn’ off that list.”

“How could I forget?” you chuckled.

He brought your closer by your hips and settled his cheek on your stomach. You were warm. Familiar. When the shadows crept in, you emerged as a shining beacon, restoring his sense of self and holding aloft that steadfast belief in him. Despite no longer being controlled by the Empire or serving in the army, the fear of relapsing haunted him, and he dreaded he would become that again. Cold and cruel to those he loved, and alone for the rest of his days.

“If you needed more therapy, or wanted to try something else, I am right here with you,” you told him, stroking the thick, silvery tufts he had been growing out. “Whatever you need.” 

Expressing himself had never come naturally to Crosshair. He attempted to reach out to his siblings after Tantiss, and in time you. In his mind, he recognised the intensity of his emotions, the words he longed to express, but he couldn’t get them past his mouth. It required an immense amount of effort for him to let his guard down, and in moments like these, when he wanted to vanish into some secluded corner, it became even harder. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against your stomach, his grip tightening as if you might slip away. “I just feel so…” 

Sacred. Frightened. Weak. You knew how that sentence ended. You’d heard it often enough on the nights he woke doused in sweat and hauling in trembling breaths, grasping for anything to bolster him in his safe reality. 

“It will all be okay,” you soothed, cradling him to you. “You are not alone. You have me, and your siblings, and an island of people here who cherish and appreciate you. We love you more than you know, and we will do whatever it takes to get you the support you need.”

“Right now,” he muttered, “I only need to hold you.” He nuzzled closer, burying himself in the solacing lift and fall of your stomach and the steady tempo of your heart. Each beat called out to him, and he eagerly listened. 

“I suppose I could allow that for a little longer,” you said brightly as he gazed up at you, the tattoo around his eye crinkling with a tired but hopeful smile. 

There were difficult times ahead, more nightmares, more lapses, more quiet in which his mind returned him to those days as a captive of the Empire. But through it all, he remained hopeful, and that was all you ever needed him to be. 

TAGLIST (Message if you’d like to be added, 18+ only)

@skellymom @freesia-writes @the-hexfiles @theeyesofasoldier @multi-fan-dom-madness @savebytheodoresnonjosestuff @tech-aficionado @techsriduur @dangraccoon @starrylothcat @jediknightjana @mssbridgerton @trixie2023

[definitelynotshouting]

grian's new episode being an hour long is both a blessing and a curse bc on the one hand WE FEAST and on the other hand i (autistic, chronic backseat gamer, also a tango viewer familiar with the game) had to sit there FOR AN HOUR watching him flail around in circles while setting off every single shrieker in level one like his sole mission in life was to get mauled by a vex. never have i sympathized so hard with the ghost experience than while watching someone on youtube with zero pattern-recognition attempt to navigate a deadly maze

and i havent even BEGUN scar's ep yet

[dean-winchesters-clit]

hold my hand until it bleeds

Story by: dean-winchesters-clit (night_belongs_to_us on AO3)

Art by: @chaoticmessofmymind

Rating: Explicit

Word count: ~40-50k

Tags/Archive Warnings: Castiel/Dean Winchester, trans!Dean Winchester, mentions of rape/non-con, self harm, suicide attempt, blood kink, canon-typical violence, canon divergence, post S14E10: Nihilism, psychological horror, psychological torment, intrusive thoughts, visual hallucinations, auditory hallucinations, Dean POV, Cas POV, Castiel and Dean Winchester have a profound bond, angel soul bonds, angel wings, wing fic

Summary: Michael stops pounding against the door of his cage almost immediately, deciding to take a more subtle approach in order to make Dean break. Visions, hallucinations, voices whispering in the back of his mind; Dean becomes paranoid and starts losing his grip on reality. With Rowena’s guidance, Sam and Castiel locate a cursed angelic artifact known by the Church as mani in fedé or ‘hands clasped in prayer’. The Church used it to subdue their enemies and keep their congregation in line, but it is rumored to have a different purpose that could destroy Michael and save Dean. With Dean rapidly running out of time, Castiel will do anything to save him, even if it means he will no longer be able to hide his feelings.

Preview:

Dean’s throat tightens into a vice, sucking in a gasp of air, and one of his whiskey fingers ends up on his sleeve at his sudden stop. He curses but ignores the soaked fabric in favor of focusing on the dark figure standing just around the hallway corner ahead of him. When he does, it vanishes. He blinks, shakes his head a couple times, looks again. It’s gone.

Dean sets the whiskey glass down and pulls his handgun from his waistband, quickly checking the clip before taking the weapon properly into his hands. He rounds the corner slowly, gun out in front of him, one hand on the grip and one supporting the base. The dark figure stands just down the hall from him, not even six yards away, but it vanishes again the moment his eyes and barrel are trained on it. Dean lowers the weapon and steps further down the hall.

Despite what Sam might say, Dean’s always been the quicker thinker and problem solver between the two of them. Sam may be a walking nerd-cyclepedia of lore and magic, but Dean has a finely sharpened sense of observation and a perfect score in pattern recognition.

He walks until he reaches a branching hallway, keeping his gun lowered but held tight in his hands. He stops just before the corner where the two halls meet and forces his gaze to fall to the floor. Dean allows his vision to blur, lets his eyes lose their focus and stare into nothing.

Then, in a shadow just around the corner, the figure reappears. Dean fights every instinct to immediately lock eyes with it and assess the danger, willing it to stay in the edge of his line of sight so he can figure out what the fuck it is.    

It doesn't move, doesn't take a single step, doesn't even seem to be looking at Dean.

It's humanoid and skeletal, wearing some sort of long crimson robe or dress that trails around and behind it in tatters. Even if his eyes were focused enough to make out any distinguishable features, its head and face are shrouded by the shadow it stands in. Creepiest of all is that it's familiar somehow, like something Dean once saw in a dream, and god does he hope that there's no way in hell his dreams could-

The sudden shiver that runs down his spine feels like frozen lightning in his nerves.Dean's dreams of hell went from a nightly occurrence to a weekly occasion to a monthly happenstance over the course of a few years. Nowadays, with a decade of distance between him and his time in the Pit, his nightmares of hell are more of a once-in-a-blue-moon chance meeting than a common happening. But when he does dream of fire and brimstone... he dreams of them.

Coming to Dean🔪Cas Horrorfest this October! @deancashorrorfest

Listen to the playlist while you wait!