#i am NOT tagging characters i don't think anyone cares that much to see this post everywhere
Note
OH FUCK I DIDN'T THINK THERE WERE PEOPLE ON TUMBLE WHO CARED ABT OPERA HI!!!
im like. i feel like im quite opera stupid compared to Opera People(tm) but i grew up with it so ive seen a whole lot of em
my parents both work in the biz in the way where like. a normal person doesn't know who the fuck they are but i am trying to be vague bc it's extremely possible you would?
anyway point being i am SO used to this being an extremely lame secret i can't tell anyone abt (i got to be a super once and had to literally BEG my friends to come see me even tho it was a comp ticket and even now they joke abt how the fact they still speak to me after sitting through it is a sign they must REALLY like me </3) so it's SO VERY COOL seeing someone else who likes it out here in the wild blue yonder hi hi hi hi hi
hello!!! there are a great deal many of us who love opera here!!! :)
if you'd like to see more opera blogs like myself the trick is usually to go either to the tags of individual operas or to '#opera tag'- '#opera' is a bit too general and gets overrun with aesthetic blogs and the like, haha. a lot of the blogs i interact w/ are also opera blogs too so feel free to check them out
also the 'opera being this weird thing everyone makes fun of' thing is SO REAL. for much of my life, barring my late grandmother, i was the only person i knew irl who loved opera on the level i did. it was at the level that, before she saw for herself, my mom thought papageno and figaro and the rest of them were imaginary friends or original characters i came up with LMFAO. i was often bullied for it as a kid and it was seen as that Weird Stupid Thing only i liked... the fact i was visibly autistic did not help matters either. for so long i was the only one, and it was only here on tumblr that i found people who liked it the way i did- it was only really after my high school graduation that i found people like myself in person.
and don't worry about feeling Opera Stupid- i regularly feel quite Opera Stupid and i am at a theatre college working towards a career in opera dramaturgy. i think everyone feels Opera Stupid at some point (and people that never do are they actually 'opera stupid' ones...)
i hope you enjoy your stay!! welcome to opera tumblr :)
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HATOFUL BOYFRIEND PRIDE HEADCANONS! ✨
a bit early in the year for it? NEVER !!!!
just a silly set that took WAY too long to do for being a blip of a thought this afternoon
USING SOME SPRITES FROM THE HATO PARABLE because my ass could NOT be asked to dedicate myself to editing on ties & accessories COUGH;;
( flag glossary / few extra details under the cut for anyone that doesn't recognize the flags or just wants to soak up every inch of this post; )
ryouta kawara - open to all pronouns // genderqueer / demiromantic / bi-curious;
( the dressing up + playing up femme characters really got him thinking... )
hiyoko tosaka - uses she/her primarily but anything goes // aroace / pansexual / genderqueer;
( she does not give a FUCK but if she HAD to label herself... wild & free... )
nageki fujishiro - he / they(?) // questioning;
( feels stifled as a ghost & likely forgoes thinking of anything like that, but in an AU where he lives, he's questioning a bit of everything; likely queer )
sakuya le bel shirogane - he / him // demiromantic / queer;
( he's not gotten that far to figure it all out yet, redemption comes first after all! probably into guys ??? )
okosan - he/him primarily but i don't think he cares // aroace;
( i admit i really didn't know what to give him but i don't think he gives a shit about romance OR gender, even if pudding wasn't his ultimate goal - & yet, okosan loves everyone! )
yuuya sakazaki - he/him // omniromantic / demromantic/sexual;
( a massive flirt toward anything that moves, but you're not getting dinner without him getting to know you some! )
kazuaki nanaki - he/him // queer / demiromantic/sexual;
( romance & beyond is the Furthest from his mind at any given time (( like most here )), but hey )
shuu iwamine - he/him // homosexual / aroace;
( this is possibly buried beneath emotional setback after emotional setback, buried underneath research first & foremost )
anghel higure - he/it but he probably goes by all KINDS of pronouns & genders, especially holy ones but... / unlabelled;
( bisexual energy, but i can't begin to summarize all of that in any one label & he DEFINITELY couldn't, so we won't! )
azami koshiba - she/her // pansexual / demiromantic/sexual;
( recently realized pre-love ★ blaster! congratulations azami! )
rabu/hosokawa blaster ★ - he/him // bisexual;
( ALSO recently realized pre-love ★ blaster, during his parting from azami; whoopee! )
kenzaburou urushihara - he/him // homosexual;
( ready to form his own coffee shop au at any given time /silly )
tohri nishikikiouji - he/him // demiromantic/sexual / queer;
( the gayest possible man alive, & yet... still figuring a few things out; )
ryuuji kawara - he/him // bisexual / aromantic;
( he's just. do you understand me. & the bastard died before he could resolve anything this revelation sparked, )
miru & kaku - they/them(???) // christmasgender &/or agender;
( i'm right )
the king - he/him & probably king/kingself pronouns lbr // homosexual;
( moreso explored in another life... but i had to include him for the sake of prohibiting bigger spoilers; )
leone JB - he/him // unlabelled or aroace;
( ESPECIALLY could not care less about any of it, & maybe aroace wasn't the right flag to put here but i feel it also holds true; )
mino ichijou - he/him // homosexual;
( to the one other mino enjoyer out there, isn't he so very gay to you as he is me. gives me hopeless romantic vibes as well; )
#twinkie talks#Hatoful Boyfriend#i am NOT tagging characters i don't think anyone cares that much to see this post everywhere#JUST IF YOU FIND IT YOU'RE VERY LUCKY to hear my amazing opinions#AGAIN i put a NEEDLESS amount of effort into this#& I FELT BAD POSSIBLY NOT INCLUDING SOMEONE SOMEONE MIGHT LIKE so i just did everyone i possibly could#to you my 6 hatoful mutuals; i love you. i did this for you
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You've been reblogging more stuff about female characters getting ignored by fandoms recently and I would be really curious to hear your full views on the topic.
The thing is that... look. I get it. Many fandoms do not have very many women in their canon, many of those women are treated pretty poorly by the canon or aren't given as much depth as their male peers, and if you're at all picky the pickings are kind of slim (I would love to be a fan of c!Niki, if I were able to watch six-hour vods, which I am not). It is not wrong that most works with large fandoms are really, really sexist, and the problem is not just in the fanbase!
But come the fuck on. It is not an accident that the DSMP and the MCU and BNHA, all of which are vast-majority male and the female characters are treated terribly, are megafandoms, and Revolutionary Girl Utena is eligible for yuletide. It is not wrong that if you want to see more female-character-focused fanwork you should go to Sailor Moon and not The Untamed, but it is also kind of missing the point to say that and not look at the difference in size between those fandoms. People can say "it's because the male characters are so often more interesting and have more meaningful interactions," and like, sometimes that's even true, I will be the first to tell you that quackbur has more to it than tinarose, but please compare the Clint/Coulson tag to the Utena/Anthy tag and look me in the eye and tell me that's the only thing driving the trend. With a straight face.
And even more there's a thing where— so, I was a mod in the @ao3topshipsbracket bracket. And femslash ships, once they were in the bracket, did really well. Like, absurdly well, like 80% of the f/f ships entered got to the top 16, and the last one was against blackbonnet which was never gonna lose in round 1. You might notice something about that number, though, which is that there were only five of them entered total, because people love to vote for femslash but they absolutely will not write it. And they won't say anything about it either! I was watching the activity feed the entire tournament, and I can tell you, for all of the "let's go lesbians" that populated our notes, nobody would say anything that was actually about the specific characters who made up their ship. I learned a lot about Naruto fandom, modding that bracket; I still know nothing about CW Supergirl, because the only thing anyone would say about it is "it has women in it". Because women are interchangeable. Because women are avatars of Being A Good Feminist. Because clicking a button is easy, and actually thinking about any specific woman and her traits and her internality is hard.
The thing is that guilt over misogyny does not actually fix misogyny. It gets you a lot of people who vote for women in polls, and who say "he's like a woman to me" about their male faves but notably don't have any canonically female characters they talk about, and who say that the only thing they care about in a fic is if it has women in it but will not ever actually say anything about any specific woman, and who never shut up about yuri but apparently yuri is everything and anything except women who have feelings about one another.
I'm tired! I'm very tired. I want people to actually give a shit about specific women and their specific traits, which do not begin and end with "woman". And, also, to stop treating women exclusively as the wingmen, advice-givers, mom figures, and accessories of men.
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HOW TO BE A DOG. | S. GOJO
⊹ general tags ; fem + afab!reader, reader presents femininely and has some specific character traits (i.e. personality traits, nothing physical), reader is shorter / smaller than gojo but nothing specified, reader is a teacher, gojo carries reader at some point (but he is canonly able to do very insane things physically so)
⊹ content warnings ; dead dove. do not eat, yandere gojo satoru, manipulation, stalking, obsessive behavior, delusional behavior, workplace harassment (not from gojo), victim blaming, canon typical violence, graphic depictions of murder, minor character death, excessive religious imagery, coercion, gaslighting, abuse of power, something akin to stockholm syndrome, graphic depiction of noncon / sexual content, forced intimacy, fingering, hickies / bruises, begging, edging, loss of virginity, size kink, 18+.
all sexual content present in part two.
⊹ wc ; 17.3k / 36.1k
link to extended authors note | ao3 | how to be a dog, by andrew kane.
LINK TO PART TWO
⊹ a/n ; well. its here. i wont ramble too much but i hope you enjoy and if you dont...well don't tell me. thank you to ame for your endless patience. likes and reblogs mean the world. the title is inspired by the poem linked.
⊹ synopsis ; with six eyes to see it becomes clear, you are being watched.
“Of course you must learn to love, to love always and love entirely and to be wounded by nothing so much as the violence of your own love.” - andrew kane, how to be a dog.
⊹ PART ONE : A CHILD BORN IN WINTER MUST NOT LONG FOR SPRING.
There’s a dog living outside of Gojo’s apartment. It’s a collarless, lonely thing. Clever, too.
Though, Gojo doesn’t know much about its life before it started hanging around the area, he gets glances on occasion. It’s not emaciated and it doesn’t look hungry, but it’s roughened up with matted fur and a healed tear in one ear.
More importantly, it doesn’t bother anybody in the neighborhood. Despite its outward appearance and hostility when approached, its aggression won’t go farther than a warning bark or growl. Most of the adults living in the building know better than to try, but some of the kids living upstairs desperately attempt to befriend it. Of course they fail, and Gojo thinks that that poor thing is growing apathetic to the touches of sticky hands.
The whole building is pretty fond of it, surprisingly. Gojo lives in a upend complex in a metropolitan part of Tokyo and the people here can be snobbish. So it comes as a shock that this dog wasn’t shooed away months ago.
Everyones sort of agreed to take care of it. There’s a food and water bowl outside of the security office - and just last week a sign was implemented of Do’s and Don’ts for what food scraps can be left. There’s a donation box to get some proper shots and paperwork - since it looks like the building's doorman has agreed to take it in if everyone chips in for the expenses.
(Gojo suspects this has something to do with those very kids, devastated by the thought of it being gone.)
Warm welcomes from the residents aside, Gojo hasn’t seen it act friendly before. He wonders about that. It seems hesitant to trust anyone and he’s sure there's a good reason. It’s just that it's clever. To be a stray in this area of Tokyo and be so calm is an impressive feat, so he thinks it probably has some grasp of his own situation. If it acted cuter, it could get a warm house and family too. Though the whole aloof and distant thing does the job just fine, Gojo can’t help but wonder what such a clever creature is doing, turning away from living lavishly.
Much like everyone else, Gojo’s contributions have come in the form of food scraps and some donation money to work towards the 5,000 yen goal. On the occasion their paths cross, Gojo sits near it. Sometimes, they share a moment of silence and Gojo talks just to see if it’ll ignore him. It seems like it’s listening. It always makes a grunt of dismissal when Gojo turns to leave and he’s started to count that as a little victory.
Gojo isn’t intrigued by anything as much as that dog. At least not lately. It’s damn near impossible to seriously pique his interest and yet that clever fellow is one of the few things he stops to ponder at.
Today, Gojo is intrigued by the dog that lives on the street of his apartment and the strange woman who’s petting it like some sort of domesticated baby.
He’s very, very intrigued by that.
The rain comes down in heavy sheets. It’s a Wednesday, and he has no classes to teach so he’s home and preparing to run errands. He’s going about his day as usual, basically. When Gojo isn’t swamped with a mission or the reformation of Jujutsu Society - he likes to play the part of the average man.
The plan for today was to take his unused car out of the lot so he could get some dry-cleaning done, go buy a new pair of sunglasses because his old ones are scratched, and go do some shopping. He needs to buy groceries again ( an uncommon occurrence) so that one's on the list too.
He’s dressed down. A black windbreaker is hanging over his shoulders, tight gray shirt and some comfortable jeans. He’s got on his errand shoes, a nice pair of sneakers and his keys are hanging from a loop in his belt. His hair is styled down and he’s got on his glasses instead of his typical mask.
He has a gameplan, a fully fleshed out expectation of how today will go, and it’s derailed by a woman he’s never seen before. He’s drawn to you so naturally it’s baffling.
You’re crouched just in front of the security office. Dressed in a loose skirt and long sleeves, looking down by the local neighborhood stray. For the first few seconds, he just lingers on in utter awe. You’re carrying a comically cute umbrella, clear with flowers and a pink edge. He kind of thinks you look like a peony.
He approaches slowly, quietly.
When he finally gets close enough to really see, he can hardly believe his eyes. That old, menacing mutt is happily getting his chin scratched by you.
“Oh, uhm. Hello?”
The sound of your voice startles him out of his trance. Snapping back to reality, he glances down to where you are and realizes he’s towering over you. In an effort to be polite, he steps back and gives you his most disarming smile.
“Hi. Sorry for the intrusion, I was just,” He glances at the dog who almost looks offended at the interruption “I noticed you were… petting this dog. Guess I was a little surprised.”
“Surprised?”
And your surprise surprises him even more. He blinks slowly.
“Yeah. He’s not aggressive or anything but uh,” Gojo chuckles, concluding you must be a little new “Well, he’s not exactly friendly. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone succeed in well…petting him.”
You’re taken aback by this information. Yeah, definitely new.
“Really?” You glance at Gojo before looking back down at it “I just gave him some treats and waited a bit. He’s such a sweetie. Sure you mean this dog?”
Gojo gets a good laugh out of that. Partially at your cluelessness and partially at your disbelief. He nods, smiling a little.
“I’m very sure, actually. He must really like you,” He says, hands in his pockets. He bends down to join you, but he’s still a little bigger than you at that height “I guess I can see why. You’re pretty friendly.”
You peek over at him. You seem a little shy at the compliment. Gojo feels his interest pique a second time today alone. New record.
“Oh, uh. Thank you. I teach kindergarteners so I sort of have to be.”
He hums. Reaching his hand towards the dog, who sniffs and cuddles his palm (something it’s never done before) in order to win your favor more. It really is a clever little thing, just like he’d always suspected.
“I’m a teacher too. A highschool teacher, though. No need for me to be friendly, I guess.”
You laugh at his joke, smile reaching your eyes as you hug your knees to look at him.
“You seem plenty friendly to me.”
He pretends to think about it.
“Maybe you have a gift for making people come out of their shell,” He says with sincerity, relishing in the fact he’s finally getting to pet the dog in any capacity “I think this little guy could probably attest to that.”
“And you have a knack for flattery.” You quip.
The natural chemistry is noticeable enough for it to catch Gojo off-guard. He grins.
“Hey. I’m not all bad. And what's flattery if I’m being honest right?”
“Sounds like something a flirt would say,” You tease, airy. He laughs a little.
“You seem like you’re having fun giving me a hard-time.” He pouts. You giggle.
“A little,”
“Jeez. How rude of you…” He waits, prompting your name. You smile.
You give him your name. You say it soft and easy. He makes sure to return to the favor.
“And yours?”
“Gojo Satoru.”
__
You live up to your first impression in the time that Gojo gets to know you as his neighbor.
Friendly. The word he’s looking for is friendly.
There’s other words though. Sometimes meek, typically cheery, oftentimes quiet. You’re quite unassuming, and possibly too gentle when compared to everyone else in the general area. You fit in fine, no worries there. And Gojo knows that for certain because he can’t stop himself from watching over you like a hawk.
He doesn’t really understand it himself. Gojo gets along with everyone. He’s always been a people person who likes to talk and likes to get to know strangers. There’s nothing that special about your connection in that way. You live next to him, directly across the hall. You often knock on his door to give him something that you’ve made too much of or ask to borrow some sugar
And it’s not done with any romantic intent. Gojo is good at reading people. He’s never seen someone so blatantly romantically uninterested in him. You’re not even conscious of him as a man, cemented to him by the one time you came to the door dressed in paper-thin PJ’s. He hasn’t recovered from the shock. One of the many times in his life where he was grateful no one could see where he was looking.
He’s had a few months since your first meeting to get an idea of your personality and what things about you he should keep in mind. You noticed that he’s often not in his house, so you’re relatively aware of your surroundings. You’re often up late because your lights are always on well into the evening.
(He finds out later you’re usually making lesson plans or little gift bags or planning birthdays. You really love your job, something he can commend while simultaneously feeling quite jealous about.)
You favor the lovely spring colors like pink and purple because you have so much of it always on you. You dress brightly in general. And you smile, often, and stumble over yourself trying to be nice to the other tenants. The kids in the building adore you. The sheer amount of propositions you’ve received to be someone's full-time nanny could probably keep you employed for another two decades.
And you always put your best into everything, no matter what.
This is probably the aspect Gojo is most fascinated by. It’s not exactly a novel trait. He’s encountered something like it before. One of his most prized students is Maki Zenin. Her whole thing is kicking ass through sheer spite.
But unlike his students or anyone else he knows - you don’t seem to be motivated by spite or anger or frustration. Even when you are angry or upset - you always force yourself into being more understanding. Into being nice, kind, and still giving it your best if you’ve been shorted somehow. He’s tempted to call you a try-hard. It draws on the line of people pleasing sometimes but it doesn’t matter either way. This is a quality in you Gojo likes all the same.
He's always been drawn to people who are earnest. His company favors such things. He cherishes Yuuji for such a reason, and can say something similar for Nanami. It’s a refreshing perspective. He’s not a bitter person, but he’s not an earnest one either. So Gojo likes that you’re so properly, gently sincere.
For the last few months he’s made a real effort to talk to you. So he’s not just the guy next door, but at least an acquaintance and at best a distant friend. On the mornings you both have classes to teach, he walks you to your car and if he wakes up before you - he’ll bring you a cup of coffee or a pastry he knows you enjoy.
You’ll often do Gojo little favors and he’ll return them - joking to each other about being a good neighbor. An inside joke with each other that Gojo is growing increasingly fond of, all together with leftover cups of coffee and glances that linger too long. Some mornings, he takes out your trash when you’re feeling too tired and you’ll do him the favor of getting the stuff out of his clothes that he doesn’t want to dry-clean.
It’s these little exchanges that make up the bulk of your interactions.
He’s even been to your apartment (another reason he’s sure you’re not attracted to him). He went last week to help you cut out little autumn leaves to put on your classroom walls, and you rewarded him with some lemonade.
He’s still thinking about it days later, how you sit on your legs and the way your cardigan hangs off your shoulder. When you’re focused, you leave your mouth open a bit and poke your tongue through your lips. He’s endeared by it.
By you in general.
It’s all boring and mundane, but that’s what makes it. It’s a luxury he rarely affords. Craves, really, which is why he’s starting to go straight home more often than not.
It’s nice that you’re always there. That you’re usually home and when you’re not - Gojo doesn’t have to guess too hard about where you are. It’s so constant. He basks in the feeling of constancy like an expensive silk.
It’s little luxuries like that, he thinks, that make you so special to Gojo without much effort on your behalf. Being up at the top means he is always fascinated by the place closest to the ground.
What’s heaven to a man born there?
__
In your fourth official month of residence, the neighborhood dog finally gets adopted.
He’s not there for the big reveal. He hears it from you while he’s on a mission, through a text message and a photo. He acquired your number early on, but you’ve only started doing these text exchanges recently. Reason being Gojo’s had an unusual amount of cases that need his attention and you’ve been very aware of his absence.
(The first time you texted Gojo after 3 days on the other side of the country, he was scarily happy. After all, most times when he leaves - people are expecting his return. There’s an assurance that he will return alive, that he has to. It’s not often people worry.
It was another thing he learns about himself through you. Being fussed about is refreshing.)
Currently, he’s all the way down in Nagasaki. He’s been investigating what the local government has described as an “infestation in the water,” leading to poison and all sorts of hallucination. It’s been causing all of the local hospitals to fill up and the news is advising people to distill their water if possible when at home. Make sure to buy bottled, and double check on your children.
In other words, there’s an unidentified curse wreaking havoc in small towns and rural areas at an unusually fast rate and Gojo has been sent to figure out its origin. What’s really weird is the location. He’s in Nagasaki prefecture, specifically in Hasami - a town in the Higashisonogo district. He really didn’t have much time to do research on the area, save for a few quick google searches and probing questions to his student, the well traveled Yuta Okkutsu who is a hair more familiar with the region than he is.
But there wasn’t much for him to find. Hasami is known for the porcelain it produces. The population is a little under 15,000 and the weather is nicer in spring than it is in summer where it gets too humid. It’s considered a small town, though that number is relative in consideration, and currently the local officials are sending off reports about the water supply.
Even when doing deep research using official means, there was nothing that unusual about the place. No major criminal incidents or occult presence or some other thing that would make this occur naturally. Gojo is no stranger to small town violence or bullying and they can often produce the most volatile curses.
But he’s currently on his 3rd day here, where he’s taken up talking with the locals and he can’t find any specific attitude that would foster a special grade.
It had led him to a conclusion, but one he was deliberately avoiding. That someone planted the curse here in Nagasaki, or maybe somewhere else. Which really complicates the whole affair, because then this is an investigation and not just a situation of fate. It also means that this curse was likely harvested somewhere and that Gojo can’t be sure it’ll be easy to get rid of.
Most importantly, all that fanfare means he’ll be home late.
Given how much he’s longing to see you, it’s the thing he’s been dreading most.
It’s weird. He’s never dying to see anyone, with the exception of an old friend long gone. But Gojo has been desperate to see you for the few weeks he’s been away from home.
(He can’t tell if it’s normal to long this much for a person he truthfully doesn’t know that well.)
But, while he’s away from home, the thoughts of you play on loop in his head. Like white noise, static yet constant - there, all the same. As he walks the rainy streets of Hasami, hands in his pockets - he can’t help but wonder when the next time he gets to see you will be
It’s like some sort of miracle (aren’t you always one?) when Gojo hears his phone ring, buzzing against his abdomen.
He’s drawn back into reality when he feels it. In front of a store that sells handmade plates and glasses, he lets it go for a while. Feels it buzz against his pocket while he settles his thoughts. He examines his surroundings, notices the cars, and the mother with her daughter across the street and the gray sky - all before he picks it up. Your name flashes him on screen, and something itches deep in his chest.
The clouds open up. And it’s still raining, but there’s a ray of sunlight cutting through them. For a minute Gojo feels worldly, grinning with damp skin before he slides his thumb across the phone.
You’ve never called him before.
“Hello?” He greets, wondering if it was an accident. Then you come through the other side of the line.
“Hi ~,” You say, clearly doing something in the midst of talking “How’ve you been?”
“I’ve been alright. Very shocked you called me, yanno?”
You laugh quietly.
“Sorry about that. I just wanted to check in. And I wanted to say thank you.”
“I mean… I’ll accept but I feel like I should know what for.” He jokes. Your tone goes sincere, marshmallow soft and twice as sweet.
“You paid the rest of the fees for the dog out of pocket, didn’t you?”
He smiles to himself.
“Ah. Busted. That was supposed to be a secret between me and Mr. Security-Man,”
“He didn’t tell me. I just…guessed. Seems like something you’d do.”
His first instinct is to disagree.
“It’s not like I did it out of the goodness of my heart, okay? It was looking a little sad sleeping during the cold seasons. It was very pitiful. So bad, so sad.”
“Why’d you do it?” You ask, probing but not too deeply “Like… really. It was really nice of you, but it was a couple thousand and that can’t be cheap.”
He relents, head leaning back on the wall behind him.
“The kids, remember?” He murmurs, eyes staring up at the gray clouds “You said they’d be sad if the dog didn’t get adopted soon.”
“The way you’re talking about it makes it seem like you’re doing this for me.”
“And if I was? Would that bother you, hm?”
You wait a minute, hesitating with your words.
“Well…no. I guess not, I just—thank you. I guess I’m just a little… embarrassed about it or whatever.”
“Shy, huh? Cute.”
“Jeez,” You huff. Gojo can practically hear your grinning from the other side; it makes his heart flutter. He wants to go home, to wherever you are “And you always say you’re no flirt.”
“I’m not a flirt. I’m just telling it how it is.”
“Yeah? Well, thanks anyway then. It made them really happy. You should’ve been there to see it. Maybe you can tell them when you get back?”
“Don’t wanna.” He states outright.
“You didn’t even think about it!” You exclaim.
“Mm, because I don’t have to. I definitely don’t want them to know.”
“Why not, though? You’d be their hero, y’know?
Maybe it’s something in the air. The damp weather out closer to the ocean, or the distance between you. There’s a tiny echo in your words, mechanical through the speakers. The word hero leaves a melancholy in his mouth, floating in the back of his throat like liquor refusing to go down. He chuckles.
“Ooo, are you into that kinda thing? Like, super charming knights in shining armor? Or superheroes, maybe?”
You giggle on the other side of the line. If you notice him avoiding answering you, you have the courtesy not to say anything.
“Isn’t everyone? I don’t know. I think if a really good-looking guy saved my life, it’d probably make my heart race a little, yeah. I’d catch feelings over that for sure.”
He takes a deep breath. Everything smells like rain.
“Is that so?” He says, chest blooming with warmth “I’ll keep that in mind.”
__
Gojo returns from his mission empty-handed.
He was out there for a long time, at least longer than usual when he’s traveling for a mission. He’s not used to hitting so many dead ends. The problem kept growing, but every trail he’d uncovered went cold in about a day. Just before he gave up hope, he was called in by Yagi. Since the issue has spread into other parts of the city, it’s no longer his solo jurisdiction.
More hands on meant more time for Gojo to be teaching. It also meant that he would finally see you after so long. You waited for him outside the day he returned to Tokyo - wearing a cream colored sweater and the prettiest smile Gojo had ever laid eyes on.
Gojo returns from his mission empty-handed but it’s not entirely pointless. Upon returning - he had a somewhat shallow epiphany about the way you make him feel. About the way he’s affected by you, which is arguably more valuable than some lead.
Being away from you for so long is something that makes him so irritable. He’s had some time between then and now to come into terms with it.
Falling back into his routine, it was obvious. Suddenly there was a gap he’d never noticed before that blew wide enough for him to fall through. He actively avoids not seeing you if he can, and ever since your permissive conversation a few weeks ago - it’s harder to notice the way his desires fester.
There’s not much he wants out of his life. So when anything noteworthy pops up, Gojo is always eager to get a hold of it before it’s too late.
He usually soothes that by reminding himself of your position as a civilian, a kindergarten teacher at that. The responsible thing to do is make sure you’re safe. To play the hero from the sidelines and ensure you don’t encounter anything from his line of work. That’s his whole life's work. To create a life like that, and it helps to stay on that path when he believes you’re sheltered from that reality.
That’s why, when you tell Gojo you can see curses, he feels the entire floor collapse from underneath his feet.
He receives such devastating news over a cup of coffee at that.
It’s closing in to Fall slowly and Gojo has decided to take you out to eat as an apology for his disappearance. He intended to give you another half-truth about his job so you wouldn’t lose any sleep over him.
When it happens, it’s less that you tell him, and more that you keep glancing. Just over his shoulder, with this terrified expression that Gojo couldn’t not notice, even if he tried.
You’ve got your hands around a warm drink, in a white, ceramic mug but your gaze keeps diverting to the place behind him. When he looks over to that same place, a curse is there. Small. More insignificant than a bug, but there.
It’s risky to mention it. Because if Gojo is wrong, it’s not something he can brush off. He’d have to come up with something to excuse himself, and he isn’t sure how to lie out of that (even with his natural disposition of being a trickster.) But when you keep looking, his instinct kicks in. There’s no way you aren’t seeing it.
He doesn’t ask you directly. That’d be too incriminating, so he lowers his tone. Watches you briefly as you tremble in fear.
(A small, small part of him is only asking because he doesn’t like how distracted you are from him. Killing the curse seems like it’d relieve that annoyance too.)
“Can you see it…?”
The question makes you jump out of your skin. You reel back, eyes widened before the realization really sets in.
“....It?”
Gojo looks around the cafe for a minute, to make sure no one is listening before he turns around and points to the cursed spirit behind him.
“It,” He says, thumb pointed at the deformed curse moaning in one of the booths.
When it dawns on you that Gojo sees what you see, you cup a hand over your mouth in shock. He can’t describe the way getting that confirmation feels. It raises so many questions about who you are. More than he had before, at least.
No longer are you the innocent, clueless civilian and that changes every interaction he’s had with you since the start. Though it’s not uncommon for people who can see curses to fall through the cracks, he can feel his own curiosity dig into his skin like seeds taking root. He doesn’t think he should be excited, but he is.
He’s excited watching your fearful tremble. He’s never seen you like that.
“Yes,” You say, voice a little shaky this time “I can see… it.”
He takes the spoon out of his latte and cleans it with his mouth. Studying your expression momentarily, he takes a deep breath before standing to his feet. The terror is so subtle, the kind he can only catch because he’s so familiar.. He knows those emotions better than he knows most.
Curses aren’t phobias. Not illusions or ghosts, but tangible madness. Impactful to those who can see it, but nothing to those who can’t. Fear like that, which can’t be shared with anyone, has a specific look when it shows up in someone. Gojo hasn’t felt that fear since he was very, very little. He watches curses with the same bland expression he might watch a horror movie, but he can understand your reaction at least. He knows it like the back of his hand. All the people he’s saved, who could see them too, always wore the same one.
Still, he’s caught off guard. He feels bad that you’re scared. But the proximity between you and him which was once oceans wide has decreased significantly in no time at all. That feels good. Even better than he would’ve imagined.
“Are you scared?” He questions intently, maintaining a sense of neutrality.
You swallow a lump in your throat, eyes glued to the table in front of you.
“Yes,”
Your voice is a hoarse whisper. The corners of his lips twitch upward.
When he’s sure no one is looking, he stands up and walks over to the table behind him. Pretending to look for something so he doesn’t look out of place. It doesn’t take more than a second to destroy it. It’s tiny, something he’d never think of fighting since it’s so harmless. The curse equivalent to a fly.
He gives it a violent death and sees you look on with horror in your expression. He finds himself pleased with that, wiping his hands on his pants before returning. Maybe you recognize his strength when he sits back down. Still, instead of pulling away again, you fold your hands in your lap.
“T-Thank you,”
He grins at you.
“Of course,” He says “Can I ask you something?”
You nod your head and sip your tea.
“Do you know who I am?”
You look confused.
“...Are you a celebrity?”
He laughs hard at that. Hearing that makes him not want to tell you.
“I’m Gojo Satoru,” He reintroduces. You nod slowly “I’m a sorcerer.”
Another lie of omission. The strongest, he should say. He takes a sip of his latte, frowning at the bitterness. Through his mask, he watches as you fiddle with your hands. He stacks the empty creamer cups together before opening two more sugar packets and stirring them.
“A sorcerer…” You look perplexed. Confusion settles into the lines of your face. Sheltered, Gojo concludes. Only parents, who shelter you wouldn’t tell you what a sorcerer was despite your ability to see them “What does that… mean exactly?”
“It means I kill curses for a living” He replies simply.
“I thought you were a high school teacher.”
He smiles.
“Smart cookie. I am, but the school I teach at specializes in cursed technique and sorcery.”
“Oh.”
You look befuddled.
Gojo thinks he might be an opportunist.
“Do you really not know anything about them? It’s rare for people to be able to see them and not know anything about them.”
You shake your head, eyes peering into your drink. He watches how the image reflects in your eyes.
“Uhm. Not really. My parents told me to do my best to stay away from it. We lived in the countryside but I had to move out into the city for work so I kept… running into them. I can’t like… kill them. And I don't always see them.”
“You can’t use cursed techniques?”
“I guess that’s what that is. I don’t think I can, no.”
Vulnerable.
“Hmm. What circumstances,” He says, purposeful in weaving concern in his words.
“Is it that bad…?”
Not really. His job and the job of his peers is to make sure civilians make as little contact with curses as possible. There are more people like you, and because curses feed off of negative emotions - many dangers can be shafted by just not reacting. Even so, it’s customary for people to have some semblance of protection. A weapon if nothing else, for anyone who can see them.
“Do you carry anything with you?”
“Like a weapon? I have mace for when I take the train late at night.”
“Not that kind of weapon,” He says gracefully. He can tell you’re out of your element, and some small and twisted part of him would like to keep you in the fateful dark.
“What other kind would there be?”
“There’s a lot you don’t know,” He half answers. Your frown deepens. He puts his palm over the top of his coffee cup but doesn’t feel any warmth “Aw, don’t be like that. I’m just teasing. You’re always so calm and collected, I was surprised to see how scared you got, you know?”
“Everybody gets scared sometimes.”
“Mm,”
His non-committal response leaves you nervous again. Fidgeting with the edge of your cup or the loose threads in the sleeves of your clothes. What a bundle of nerves you are. Gojo puts all the comfort he can in his voice, dredging up some sense of sincerity.
“Well, since it scares you and I’m such a nice guy, I’ll protect you if you get into any trouble.” He says, snapping his fingers and pointing at you.
That makes you relax. Makes your shoulders droop, a smile gracing your pretty face. Gojo can feel the floor underneath him sinking as you tease him. His eyes trace the curve of your neck. He’s glad you can’t see him or where they look.
“Oh, what? Are you gonna come running every time I need help?”
He smiles.
“I’ll be your personal Superman.” He promises, making a silly expression trying to make you laugh. It feels good when he succeeds, the weight of his words softened by it. If you feel how heavy the comment is, it doesn’t show up on your face.
You snort, taking a sip of your drink and there’s something so kind in your expression that Gojo aches over.
“That right?” You hum, smiling over the edge of your ceramic mug “You’re my hero.”
__
Since then, Gojo’s kept quite busy.
The last time he saw you at all was at the diner a few weeks prior and little has been different since then. You send more nervous messages than before, but aside from that things are the same.
He’s done a good job, he thinks. Partly of ensuring you, partly of instilling healthy fear. Your eyes always widen like you’re caught off guard by his comments - sometimes washed away with a laugh but other times genuine. Gojo likes to keep you on your toes. A bit of harmless fun and endlessly amusing.
Gojo would be there to protect you just like he promised before, so even scaring you isn’t something he thinks of as bad. It’s not untrue that you should be a little more vigilant, but just telling you to do so is no easy feat.
He would like to be spending time with you today just the same as he has before, but he’s home alone instead. There’s been a brief reprieve between cases so he’s on his own to unwind. There’s nothing he wants to do, so he decides on a movie.
Gojo is the only one of his friends who still has cable TV. According to Shoko it’s a luxury purchase but for him it’s one less choice he has to make when coming home to relax.
It’s an American film on now, some psycho-killer classic that he’s already seen a handful of times with Japanese subtitles.
None of the lights are turned on, so the TV illuminates the room in flashes of color. He grabs a soda from his steel-gray fridge and cracks it open, listening to the soft fizz that comes to a slow halt. Pulling it to his mouth, he travels slowly back to his couch. The leather squeaks under the weight of his body. The weight of his back creates a divet that he can be comfortable in. He rests his head, glancing back again at the screen.
A scream rips through the house, agitating his every nerve. He picks up his remote and turns it down just a tad before watching the movie with a sort of disinterest. Horror movies aren’t his favorite, admittedly. He pretends he scares easily, but the opposite is true. Gojo has seen too much for it to be entertaining, no less scary.
He likes movies based on their creative merit. He’ll watch one on its creative merit.
But to be scared? For frights? Not really. Very little gets his heart pumping hard like that. Sometimes the storytelling is good. Other times there’s something cathartic about the formulaic death. The final girl, the call from inside the house. The dependable and clean ending of tropes. Even if it’s messy or sinister, it’s fantastical. Fictitious and detached.
Gojo enjoys that. For anyone else, it’s probably a twisted way to think about it but to Gojo it only feels natural. He doesn’t examine that detachment very deeply. He’s just aware of it, lingering in the back of his head.
He takes a long sip of his drink. The sickly sweet taste slowly coats his mouth. Fizzy and smooth, it goes down easily. He sits up in his seat, making himself comfortable as he tries to pay attention to the movie. The main girl is hiding in the bathroom, and the killers' steps are echoing through the house. The broken, somber string instruments in the background, fill the white noise with apprehension and terror.
Gojo doesn’t feel a chill down his spine. His eyes are still fixed on the screen though, with slight anticipation of what's next even though he already knows. It’s nearing the end and he’s seen this movie before. She’s not going to make it, and Gojo knows that.
He watches intently in spite of that. The door bursts open and there’s a knife in her chest - and screams. It’s horrific and ugly, blood-spattered and graphic.
He doesn’t flinch until the whole way through.
It’s brief, but the thought passes his mind. Lately, the only thing that Gojo seems to react to is you.
But he doesn’t think about it too deeply. There’s no need to.
The TV goes to commercial and Gojo realizes he’s finished his soda. He stands back up, onto his feet to toss the can and grab another. This time, he grabs some snacks too. Piles them onto a plate, dried meats, and something mildly sweet for after before he returns to his living room. Sitting back down on his couch, he scrolls through his phone for anything interesting but comes up short of any results.
He sits up a little straighter as the next movie plays.
__
Spending time around curses is a necessary part of the learning experience.
Things you can’t learn in all the lessons and tutoring in the entire world. Even though Jujutsu Tech exists, and even given Gojo’s lineage - when he started working officially, he didn’t know everything. You can’t. No matter to what extent you study, there’s some things that you can only gauge through experience. Going through something over and over, like muscle memory.
Gojo spent a lot of his life wanting it to make sense. Wanting curses and the way they showed up to make sense. This is a lesson in truth, divine truth you can only take up in experience. Curses are human emotions, which means that they are finicky and everywhere. And the dangers of them will always look like the aftermath of destruction.
Sometimes, there’s nothing you can do to prepare for why things happen. It’s why Gojo is always grasping for light where he can find it.
Gojo Satoru stands in an empty parking lot all the way in Osaka. He examines the sight in front of him and can’t find anything he’s learned to prepare for what's next.
Fog has rolled in thick clouds over every inch, limiting his vision. The air tastes of smoke, and the earth underneath him is damp. The wet concrete squeaks under the weight of his shoes as he takes in the surroundings. The parking lot of an animal hospital, in particular - where all the staff were reported to have fallen unconscious. After being rolled out by the proper authorities and after all the animals were moved into a different location - Gojo was left to examine the remnants of the incident.
The reports are similar all across the country. Not the location. but the symptoms. People falling sick and ill. The initial reports of a water-borne illness didn’t progress far past the first city. It’s evolved since then. People get sick, pass out and hallucinate and animals lose all control.
The aftermath isn’t very messy so luckily it doesn’t attract too much attention. There’s no bodies, or blood - nothing heinous thereafter. The effects appear later in the people affected, taken over by an unnamed madness that appears to turn their internal experience to ruins. Gojo would’ve preferred the first situation. Violence like that becomes easy to digest with enough exposure.
These kinds of symptoms are always hard to stomach. Civilians get answers that placate them. The truth is that there's something bigger out there at play and they were just so unlucky to bear witness to the terror. With altered memories and the badge of trauma, what they don’t know can’t hurt them.
Gojo knows though, and sometimes he envies their ignorance.
He makes his way into the building. A set of glass doors greets him when he turns the sidewalk, with a blinking sign. Osaka Animal Hospital is written at the top in neon, accompanied by the words 24hr service. Gojo only glances at it briefly before sighing, hands on the bar to push himself through the heavy glass doors. He has to lean some of his weight to get through, and there’s just another set beyond those where he has to do the same.
Then, he’s inside.
The presence of the curse and of cursed energy ignites familiar caution within him. It’s here, in some capacity - or it was recently. The perpetrator is here too. Why that is, Gojo can’t quite understand. It seems a little backwards to linger here after everyones been evacuated and there’s no doubt someone would come to investigate.
All Gojo can think is that maybe they weren’t expecting him. But by now, they must know he’s there too. Gojo’s presence is intentionally oppressive - by nature it must be. Now it’s a waiting game, a quiet one at that.
Hospitals are always echoey and this one is no different. The squeak of his boots bounces off the walls as he takes steps towards the receptionist desk just to see if he’ll find anything.
He leans over it, to stare at the left over records - untouched by the authorities. Everything looks like it was left in a hurry. Strew pens and a corded phone just barely back in place - with computers on a blue idle screen. All the daily documents are still out sitting on the desk with no organization to indicate they’ve been filtered through. No paper clips or post-its telling the next person working about what to do.
Instead of walking behind the counter, he climbs over it with relative ease. Once he’s behind it, he takes better note of his surroundings. He doesn’t find anything completely relevant. There’s painting of animals, and some certifications for bills of health as well - but nothing that warrants his attention. He redirects through the papers in front of him, coming across a stack unexamined. Those answer sheets they give you to fill out so they can assess the situation before meeting you.
They’re split into two piles it looks like, though that could just be some coincidence. Still, he flips through them. Directing his attention to the little comment box with the prompt what are you being seen for?
It’s nothing serious. Normal things an animal owner would be upset or worried about like bowel movements and eating something that shouldn’t have been consumed. A minor injury or a worrisome behavior - but nothing that sticks out. For pages and pages, Gojo flips through the little packets trying to find anything.
It’s not what he sees, but what he doesn’t. A blank packet of papers, with no name for the owner or the pet. Only a description in the prompt box, neat handwriting in a single line.
“Showing signs of anxiety.”
Gojo smiles to himself. Interesting.
He jumps back over onto the other side once he’s seen it. It’s strange. Why would they go to the lengths of premeditating it like that? Whether it’s the curse itself or some third party, it’s an unreasonable thing to do.
“Not like people like this are usually reasonable, but,”
He saves the rest of the thought, sighing. The room has two hallways to go down. Both directions have some lingering cursed energy, but the hallway leading to the overnight area is much stronger. It’s separated by a big metal door, so Gojo braces himself to go through it.
He walks towards it slowly and through the doors even slower. It’s a long, empty hall. The ceilings are low, white fluorescent lights over his head like a falsified halo. They flicker on and off, with the ones at the very end of the hall having fizzled out completely. Gojo can hear, feel, and see everything. He can hear his own breathing and the artificial crackling of electricity. Feel the lingering presence of sickness, the sediments of a curse preparing itself to emerge like a butterfly from a cocoon.
He peeks into the different rooms of the hallway. One half of the hall is kennels, once again empty and left in the same messy state as the front desk. The other half of the rooms look like surgery rooms, with a storage closet tucked into one corner. The hall comes to an abrupt stop at the end, a painted gray wall with nothing to offer at the end.
But when Gojo is half-way through, he hears it. A heart-beat. A human one, slow and steady like it’s not worried at all. Not moving or running, just there. Thump, thump, thump.
Gojo perks his head up as he walks, leaning over to get a look at every room. Empty, empty, empty.
Then, in the very last one is a shadowy figure. The sound of the heartbeat is louder and the feeling of cursed energy is so strong it’s nauseating. Gojo pauses when he peers in, waits for there to be any response to his presence. There’s no way whoevers lurking doesn’t know he’s there, but there’s nothing that makes him react. He frowns.
His hand reaches for the handle of the door with a sigh, the mechanism inside clicking to let Gojo know it’s open. He takes a deep breath before opening it, stepping inside and shutting it behind him.
Even with the room as dark as it, the person inside is clear to his vision. A young girl. Probably no older than 17 with…
He furrows his brow. With a dog, from what it looks like. No ordinary dog, obviously. A curse in the form of a dog, with teeth too sharp for its mouth and fur that looks like a smear of charcoal and nothing like hair at all. It’s on a long leash, the chain wrapped around the young woman's palms.
The dog seems to tense up at the sight of Gojo. The eyes are empty and white - almost transparent. It’s a snarling thing, muzzle over the mouth and clearly on edge. Gojo looks at its owner, the perpetrator in this instance. Who looks calm, black mask tucked over face and long dark hair with bangs cut sharp.
Gojo doesn’t know what to say here. He wasn’t expecting to make contact this easily with a curse and its master. It’s been months now, the authorities chasing after this special grade from city to city. She’s obviously strong, and so is that curse that’s strained against its collar like it’s ready to rip him in half if he moves. Not stronger than him, because no such thing ever happens - but strong enough for him to be cautious.
He doesn’t step forward. He stops by the door and tilts his head. He’s sure she can’t see his eyes, but they make eye contact all the same. None of it makes any sense, but making sense of it isn’t Gojo’s job.
Instead of introducing himself, he opens the conversation with a question.
“Why’re you still here?”
“I knew I was going to get caught soon.”
An answer he couldn’t predict even if he tried. Gojo huffs.
“There was some time between the authorities coming and this investigation. You could have left before then, no?”
“Doesn’t matter. Something would’ve stopped me.”
“What a weird kid. What led you to that?”
There’s a minute where the dog (?) starts barking, but the noise is nothing like a bark. It’s cosmic and strained, and sounds more like a distorted radio than an animal noise. It’s in the shape of an animal but it isn’t one, like it couldn’t complete itself to be one. Gojo winces at the sound, intensified in the closed walls of the room. It’s piercing, and a little annoying.
When she soothes it, it calms down quickly. It’s obedient.
“Uh. A vision. Closer to a premonition. Fate.”
“Fate said you were going to get caught today. Right.”
“Aren’t you a shaman? Shouldn’t be that hard to believe.”
“Point taken. How did you know I was a shaman and not some murderer?”
She gives Gojo a pointed look.
“Look at you. Plus, I can feel that you’re a shaman.”
“Another premonition?” He asks, this time sincerely. She shakes her head.
“No. Your aura.”
Gojo stares ahead.
“...Right, yeah. It doesn’t look like you’re planning on attacking me.”
“I don’t think I’d win. I’ve never met anyone stronger than me.”
“I’m the strongest there is, so I guess not. How did you wanna go about this, then? Famous last words?”
“You go first. I’d rather talk to you than the other officials.”
“Hm. Don’t know if I have any questions, kiddo. My job is catching you, not interrogation. I guess I am a little interested in why.”
This makes her deflate a little. It’s hardly noticeable, but Gojo sees it anyway. The dog seems to react, snarling at her discomfort. He’s starting to understand the connection between them.
She thinks for a minute longer before sighing.
“Well. I guess I should start about why, right? It’s an old story. I came from a small village. I used to walk miles to school everyday and I’d get bullied a lot since my granny was a shaman. It was just us growing up. A nice old house with not a lot of modern anything,”
Gojo crosses his arms, leaning back on the wall and nodding his head. He figures she’ll tell him top to bottom, so he doesn’t give any input.
“My granny died a few years ago. I didn’t have any family so I moved on my own. Even back then, the only other thing I cared about were animals. I started working at a shelter and then I met Senbei.”
The more she talks, the worse he feels. Gojo already knows how this story will end, but he doesn’t interrupt her as she pauses between her sentences. Being 17 and bearing the burdens of loss is something he regards as a nightmare.
“Senbei was my best friend. Most loyal dog ever. And you know, I started my job with high hopes and kept him by my side. I wasn’t always angry. Working in that shelter and watching animals come in trembling every time I fed ‘em made me angry. How cruel and sick people could be.”
Her explanations are jumbled and clumsy. She sounds angry but it’s not that simple, curling in on herself the more she talks. Noticeably, she doesn’t try to justify it. She says it easily, with acceptance that it happened. He thinks that acceptance is harder to bear than delusion. Gojo can’t help but commend her silently.
“I’m sorry you went through that.” Gojo replies.
He’s being sincere.
“Should you be sympathizing with me?”
“Doesn’t matter. I just do.”
Her expression softens. She looks sad, and it’s not like Gojo doesn’t understand. She keeps going though, hands shaking in her lap. Gojo thinks she might’ve been waiting to tell someone.
“I don’t know when I stopped seeing the good in people….I always thought about—about my granny and how no one—no one came to see her. She was always taking care of everyone and no-one—“
“I know, kid,” Gojo says with a sigh “I get it.”
“Then you know,” She pauses, taking a deep breath. There’s frustrated tears pouring down her cheek this time. What a strange, sad thing she is: “That you can’t go back. Even if you forget. It just—it changes you.”
Yeah. Gojo knows something about that, too.
“I was already pretty desperate when Senbei was alive. Just trying to hold on. When he was killed, I lost it. I just fucking— I lost it. I’m sure you understand. You get it right?”
Gojo looks at her confused. She shakes her head, looking down in her lap at the curse in her hands.
“I can tell you're like me. That's why your aura is so tainted and… fucked up and malicious. It should be crystalline blue kinda like spring water—but it’s muddy. Rigid.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The fact you’re hanging on by a thread. You can feel it too, right?“
Gojo remains quiet at her observation. He doesn’t know how to react.
“When you want something so bad, it just— does something to you. Either because it won’t happen or because it needs to take your life to exist. Happened to granny, to me. It’ll happen to you, too.”
“I doubt that,” Gojo says, your face flashing in his mind. He shakes his thoughts away.
“You’re thinking about it too literally. You want something, so you chase it and lose yourself in the process. You’re dead. No longer you, all tangled and in ruins. It’s not too late, but if you keep going—that thread is gonna snap.”
“A premonition?” He says, partially sarcastic. She shakes her head.
“No, a prediction. You don’t have to consider it if you don’t want to. I just thought I’d tell you since you gave me some last minutes with this Senbei.”
Gojo shakes his head.
“I don’t have any reason to be forceful if you comply. Take your time. I don’t have anything better to do.”
Gojo glances at her as she pets it, having resigned herself to silently gazing upon it. He can’t stop himself from thinking about everything she’s said, so he averts his gaze to the ceiling and pretends otherwise.
The silent stretches, a pregnant pause before she speaks one more time. She has a look on her face Gojo can’t read.
“You know, it’s funny. Everyone thinks dogs are loyal to their masters, but that’s because we made them that way. We can’t stand being alone or unloved so we made something that can do both without ever seeing any less of us.”
“You’ve had a lot of time to think about it.” Gojo says, unsure of how to reply. She isn’t expecting anything, but remaining silent fills him with a sense of dread.
“Guess so. You should take some time to think about it too,”
She says to him, petting the curse that whines like it’s been hit in her small hands. Gojo takes a deep breath.
“…Yeah. I’ll do that.”
__
The case ends anti-climatically.
Gojo finds it funny. The officials came and the young girl was promptly arrested. He never even got a chance to ask her name. He learned through some probing that she only made two asks before being taken.
The first, to keep her curse dog with her, and to send her thanks to the sorcerer who had apprehended her in the first place.
On the news, much later in the week - a news report surfaces. “Danger in the Deep,” giving reasonable and logical explanations for the events that occurred in cities across Japan not even a few weeks ago. New studies show, experts say, here’s a word from your local—a barrage of fancy language to pad the publishing, add depth and realism. The public is none the wiser.
Gojo has to admire the commitment to keeping the peace. The case ends, and the girl gets arrested and put on trial. He doesn’t know if he’ll be seeing her again any time soon, though he’s sure he has the power to intervene.
He’s hesitating to do so. Why stick his neck out for her in a situation like this one? Over other situations, more dire ones at that. She’d make a good ally.
Their last conversation hasn’t left the back of Gojo’s mind. He’s conscious of it, albeit it hasn’t slowed him down. He’s not looking for another assessment of who or what ghosts are haunting him. He’d prefer to put it all behind him now
So life, in some capacity, has returned to its baseline. It’s normal. He has cases but they don’t take him more than three days. He’s able to do his usual chores without anything impeding them. He’s been teaching, no longer forced to make his students fend for themselves.
He’s been seeing you again regularly, too.
He’s getting ready now to do just that. Scheduled to get another coffee together (something of a tradition now) and pick up some conversations. You’ve been busy, though Gojo doesn’t know the details of what.
He wants to know. He’s even tried asking but as soon as he gets close to the subject, you slink into yourself like you’re trying to disappear. Besides, he doesn’t want to intimidate you into telling him.
(Though, it would be so easy to do. You’ve got a record for being a scaredy cat, and as much as it endears him - he is entirely too hung up on the potential for exploitation to admire it kindly. It’d be easy to turn the notches up, pressure you. With how easy going you are, you’d let him do it. Gojo bets you’d cave. He thinks the face you’d make would be entertaining too.
Above all, the offer is tempting.)
In spite of your refusal to discuss the specifics, Gojo does want to cheer you up in whatever capacity he can. So, he’s taking you out for a while and hoping a comfortable environment and the presence of other people will soothe your nerves a little.
He’s getting dressed for it now, rifling through his closet for decent casual attire.
He’s got his hair styled down, a pair of new sunglasses on the table and his clothes folded on his bed before he tries them on. Most of his closet is uniforms, plain black and boring. For now, he’s settled on a black crew neck and blue jeans - ripped at the knees.
He looks over his appearance in the mirror, posing in it. Arms flexed and stretched over his head before putting them out in front of his body.
He takes his time to take part in the ritual. He slips his boxers up over his legs, waist band tight around his torso and clinging to the curves of his thighs. He pulls his jeans up, low at his hips with a belt buckled through the front. Then comes his sweater over his abdomen.
He wants to look nice. Though, he could be deluding himself - lately you seem a little more aware of his appearance. It makes him happy that his good looks haven’t failed him in the instance they matter most.
As he puts on his accessories (in this case a watch and a ring) his phone buzzes atop his dresser. He stops to pick it up, a message from you on the screen. He peers over so his face can be read, then smiles.
(sent 11:15am) Ready ~
He laughs to himself.
(sent 11:16am) Almost ready. Need to look my best for such a tremendous occasion.
(sent 11:16am) For coffee?
(sent 11;17) For coffee with my favorite kindergarten teacher ofc ♡
You send back a simple reply telling him to hurry and come out. Gojo chooses to interpret your embarrassment as a sign. It puts some pep in his step, and he hurries to finish dressing up.
He steps out of his house, locking his door from the outside before shuffling down a single flight of stairs and out into the front entrance of his complex. He notices you waiting at the front gate from where he’s standing.
The neighborhood dog (officially named Pokupan) is asleep by the security office. You’re the same as always. Today's outfit is a dress with long sleeves and colored tights. It suits you. A splash of warmth in an otherwise dreary world, Gojo stands in place as he watches you for an unidentified amount of time. Minutes feel like seconds as you pace back and forth. Your phone must be in your purse because he can’t find it anywhere on you.
He’s delighted when you finally turn your head to look at him. You cup your hand and give him a kind wave which he laughs at and returns enthusiastically. His stride is long, walking towards the gate.
You have to tilt your neck up to look at him (making his chest squeeze unhelpfully) but you smile when you do so.
“Hey,”
“Hello there Miss. Waiting for a special someone?” He jokes. You flush.
“They’re an important friend,”
He tries not to let his smile falter. Friend.
“Then, is it a bother if I ask to take you out?”
This time you falter. Gojo notices it out of the corner of his eye, the briefest brush of nerves that makes it seem like you’re warming up to him after all. It’s gone as quickly as it came but it’s there and Gojo etches it into the back of his eyelids for memory. He smiles at you as you look away, flush
“Not at all,”
He grins, again, even brighter. Then he sticks his arm out for you to loop in. You hesitate again. This time Gojo can’t be sure why.
“I’m just being a gentleman, you know?” He pouts. His frown takes effect as you loop your arms together. He keeps it friendly. Too much pushing and you’ll skitter away right before his eyes. Still, even this much progress feels good. It feels whole and light and good.
It’s a pleasant sort of day.
Not that it’s warm, or even sunny. It’s cold, on the edge of Autumn that dances into Winter. Freezing but bright out, the kind of sky where everything is clear. During the day the sky has no clouds and no stars when it comes to night time.
Nonetheless it’s nice. The cold is the kind that makes you want to cozy into someone for warmth, so Gojo doesn’t mind walking in. The walk itself isn’t very long either. The cafe is near your complex, just about 15 minutes worth of walking. There’s no snow or ice to trip on, and because it’s freezing - you shiver every time you stray too far from the heat of his body so the walking is done exceptionally close together
There are kids and parents walking together on the street alongside you, dogs and their owners, street vendors with hot tea. It’s that kind of day where the cold doesn’t keep anyone indoors, in fact everyone seems to relish in the fact they can run and run and run without overheating. It feels like everything is in sync with each other, comfortable and harmonious in spite of everything else.
After 15 minutes, you’ve arrived at the store front. Not long enough for Gojo, but that’s okay. There’s next time he has to look forward too.
(He tells himself this every time. It’s never enough for him. He can never get enough of listening to you talk. He could probably mimic your cadence without having to try. It’s a sound he doesn’t get sick of―a miracle, another one, because Gojo hates so many sounds―yet there’s one he always looks out for.
There has to be a next time. If he forgets to tell himself as much, he gets so restless he can hardly stand.
The cafe is nice. It’s one of those places that you see on Instagram often with plenty of sweets for Gojo’s taste and plenty of fancy teas for yours. The outside has beige-colored brick and a brown sign decorated with cutesy drawings. You spend a good amount of time crouched beside it, taking a picture or two to later post on your story.
“You have to tag me, okay? It’s your payment for wasting our precious time together,” He jokes.
You stand to your feet and brush off your pants, the material of your coat rustling as you do.
“Yes, yes ― I promise. I’ll have to ask who drew them when we get in there.”
Gojo smiles at your enthusiasm before opening the door for you. Another one of those glass ones with a logo printed on the top half and the metal tinted brown. A little bell chimes above your head as you head in first, and Gojo heads in after you. He has to duck not to his his head on the top of it.
It’s not too crowded at this hour. A handful of people sit among the many tables and booths. Your head is turned to the menu and Gojo trails behind you like a shadow. One to compliment all your light.
It smells delightful inside. Like warm cookies and vanilla and tea. Gojo feels his sweet tooth kick in the minute you two stand in line. The barista is a doe-eyed blonde college student. There’s another employee with long dark hair and thin, narrow eyes. It reminds Gojo a lot of that girl he met a few weeks ago but he tries to put that thought out of his mind.
He sticks his hands in his pockets and eyes the menu. The special item is a yuzu cream cake, the picture of it hanging on the wall like employee of the month. There’s a glass display of all the other items and the menu matches the rest of the decor.
“This was a good choice,” Gojo says, entranced by all the desserts around him. You laugh, turning your head slightly to look at him.
“Are you complimenting yourself right now?”
“Am I wrong?”
“Your sweet tooth is so bad,” You say through giggles “Your poor dentist,”
He gasps in offense.
“I will have you know I keep my pearly whites pristine. Not a single cavity for the record.” He says back, placing emphasis on the last words. You snort a laugh.
“I’ve never had one either,” You repeat back, perhaps mindlessly before saying “There’s a lot we don’t know about each other yet.”
Yet. Yet. Gojo’s subconscious will hold onto that word for too long. It makes his heart beat too loud. He’s relieved that you’re nothing like him. If you were in this very moment, you would hear the thunder raging inside of his ribs.
Instead of saying anything, he scoffs playfully.
“I bet you were such a goody two-shoes that you never ate sweets before bed-time.”
Your eyes widen in surprise followed by embarrassment, where you tuck your chin into your sweater.
“Ugh,” You say, so weakly Gojo can’t stop himself from laughing “What’s wrong with being a goody two shoes, huh?”
Gojo feels almost feline in his self-satistication. “I didn’t say anything was wrong with it, just that you were one.”
Your frown deepens.
“I don’t care for your tone, mister.”
“Are you gonna scold me like one of your students?”
“If it gets you to be nice,” You say firmly, in that Teacher voice that Gojo has caught glimpses of over the last few months. He does a fake salute.
“Yes, ma’am!,” He proclaims, soft enough so only you hear it. You break out into another set of his giggles, melting his cold heart. It’s not the smile so much as it is yours. The line moves up just a little bit. Gojo steps in front of you before you have a chance, his figure shadowing you.
“What do you want?”
“I think I’m gonna get one of those fruit teas and some cake.” You say absentmindedly. He smiles at you playfully.
“Heard,”
Gojo turns to order for you both, laughing through your obvious protests about his paying for you. He’s able to block you from getting in the way as the cashier looks on the both of you bemusedly. When the order is placed, Gojo taps his phone against the reader before moving aside where you stomp your feet and follow him.
“I told you I would get it this time,” You whine. He hums.
“Mm, there’s always next time?”
“You say that every time!”
“So you never know? Maybe it’s next time for sure.”
You seem to realize that this is a fruitless conversation and that he’s not going to relent. With a flush on your face, you cross your arms and pout.
“I’ll get you back one of these times, I swear….Anyway, thank you.” You add the last part quietly. He hums.
“It’s only fair, you know. After all, who else would come here to eat sweets with me?”
You look taken aback but Gojo doesn’t retract his statement. He’s sure there’s someone he could ask. But there’s no one who would agree to it as easily as you have. The environment wouldn’t be so welcoming, either. Someone who would do something like this with Gojo is long lost. It almost feels foreign to him now.
In order to ease the tension, you look up at him warmly.
“Then, I’m glad you asked me.”
There it is again. That warm, sort of fluttery feeling he gets in his chest being around you. He wonders if he’s allowed to be so happy.
The food arrives at the counter, the young woman calling out for Gojo. You and Gojo split the task of carrying the plates, picking a nice booth in the corner with the top covered, You slide in across from him, situating your bag.
You and Gojo go back and forth, setting up everything so it looks nice under the lights. Gojo takes on taking the photos this time, clicking from a few different angles and stopping to show you after each photo.
“I’ll send you the picture later, okay?”
“Don’t forget.”
“I won’t, I won’t. Let’s eat, okay?”
You nod enthusiastically.
__
You and Gojo eat and chat comfortably for a while.
He’s not sure how much time passes. He wasn’t checking because why would he? He’d like to be with you a bit longer, so he refrains from thinking about it and hopes you do the same. Just a bit more, he tells himself. Until you really, really have to go.
There’s nothing major to catch up on. You tell Gojo about your job, mostly and how you saw some friends from out of town the week before. Winter is coming and you want to do something nice for the holidays. You’re getting along well with your fellow teachers which is good. He was worried about that, but he can’t keep eyes on you at school.
(Not for not having tried. He’s thought about it, but his presence would be too noticeable and he doesn’t trust anyone else to the task)
So it’s relieving. Your only complaint has been that some of the students have the sort of parents you can’t handle. Pushy and involved in a way you can’t ignore but can’t tolerate either. Gojo jokes to take care of them, gesturing to his arm like he’s ready to knock someone's lights out.
That makes you laugh, and following it you have this melancholy look that sends alarms blaring in Gojo’s head. You don’t broach the subject at all afterwards. You talk about everything else you can. The sale on radishes at the market, thinking about getting a car just to have it, maybe visiting your parents sometime soon.
Gojo listens. He doesn’t have much to add. His work is strictly classified to people who aren’t in the field and it’s nothing fun to begin with. He does tell you what he can - usually about some antics his students have gotten into during training. He can at least talk about that.
He tells you about the movies he’s watched, how he went drinking with his co-workers last week, and how he thinks Pokupan is starting to act friendlier to him.
It’s fun because it’s you. Gojo likes feeling like he’s involved with you intimately. He likes hearing you talk. The sound of your voice is such a pleasant contrast to his own. You talk with a kind of joy Gojo could never hope to carry, all gestures and smiles and interjections - trying to make sure your point comes across. How you don’t think the kid sitting in the front is a bad kid, just needs guidance. How the material of your sweater isn’t really cashmere but more of a blend.
Time passes comfortably that way. The drinks and food have been reduced to crumbs and cold drops of tea, glasses emptied and phones abandoned.
But neither of you have made any move to leave, and Gojo is still listening to you talk with a pleased smile on his face. It was a pleasant sort of day, remember?
“So it was fine in the end, but the classroom was such a mess seriously―”
So, it throws Gojo off when you stop speaking so abruptly. How easily the atmosphere melts, and what an unpleasant film it leaves behind.
It feels like an axe hammering on a stop, a sharp and near violent thud that cuts off the end of your sentence. The air becomes tense in the blink of an eye. Gojo can feel it, the sensation of cursed energy. It’s stagnated, little like pebbles at the bottom of a creek. But it’s there, and Gojo can feel it creep over your shoulders like a sixth sense. Like someone skipped a stone over that same water. He senses it in the air like dust in the light.
He sits up straight, focusing his attention on you.
“Hey,” He calls out, softening his voice as much as he can. Trying hard to identify what's wrong exactly “You okay?”
Your hands shake as you lay them flat on the table. You’re almost completely spaced out by now. It all happens in the blink of an eye.
Gojo stares at you, calling to you a second time.
“Hey. Hey, look at me?”
When you finally hear him, you jump in your skin. Your shoulders relax when you realize it’s only Gojo. Normally that would make him happy, but not like this. Your hands are shaking. A nervous fidget in all of your movements that he’s never seen before, like you’ve been shocked with electric wire. He hates it. The taste of your fear (this fear) is different and unfamiliar.
He doesn’t like it.
You turn your head to look at him then avert your eyes again. He can’t follow your gaze as it shifts. It’s too erratic.
“No, uhm. It’s just, uhm.”
“Woah! Hey, Miss. I wasn’t expecting to see you here,”
Everything feels like it slows down as Gojo watches your eyes snap up. Your expression drops again, even lower, and if he listens close enough he can hear the sound of your heart. Your discomfort is tangible. It leaves a metallic taste in Gojo’s mouth as you suddenly curl in yourself, shoulders hunched and peeling skin off your nails.
You don’t even look to Gojo for help. Instead, your words go soft. You become helpless in front of his eyes.
“Oh. Yes, hello.” You bow your head trying to say as little as possible. Gojo stares as you shake like a leaf in the wind. Something ugly curls up inside of him, a knife twisting in his chest.
“Aw, c’mon? What’s with the unfriendly act? Is it ‘cause you’re here with your boyfriend?”
You look up at him panicked. Not because of the comment, but because of his tone. Gojo hears it too. How sinister it is. Like he’s blaming you for it somehow, like you’ve wronged him. The feeling inside of him is so ugly, it’s so wretched. His knuckles turn nearly white from how hard he’s closing his fist. You put your hands up and go to explain yourself anxiously.
It makes Gojo sick. He smiles, turning his head just a little so he can see. He opens his eyes and stares, focusing his vision on remembering every detail of the bastard's face.
“I’m not her boyfriend. We’re neighbors,” He explains, tone as cold as ice but smiling.
Gojo puts pressure in the atmosphere. His natural and suffocating aura returns to him easily. He smiles and remains unnervingly still, waits in quiet for the man to respond. He scratches the back of his head, still indignant.
“Uh. Okay. I guess that’s good. Wouldn’t be appropriate for a teacher to be out on a date like this huh?”
Again. This guy, whoever he is, turns his head like he’s trying to talk down to you. Diverts his perversion and sadism towards you that leaves Gojo wondering what his head would look like against concrete. A bitter, heinous feeling waits inside of him, nesting into his ribs as the sound of every voice in the room comes to be muffled. All Gojo can hear is his heart. How long it's been since he’s heard it.
It’s loud. A cacophony, or a hymn. Divine rage in the sound of his soul leaves has him unsure of how to proceed.
Gojo glances at you. Your eyes are rounded, full of desperation. Pleading.
Gojo hates whoever this is. Gojo wants to save you. He thinks you deserve to be saved.
He stands up. He has enough height on the guy to be intimidating, the guy just barely coming up to his shoulder. Gojo stares down wildly, pulling his glasses to the bridge of his nose to peek briefly over the edge. The bastard stops talking immediately, words coming to a stutter, It’s satisfying.
“Who are you?” He asks.
“Wh-why is that any of your concern? Can’t you see I’m talking to―”
“I didn’t ask about who you were talking to. I asked who you were,”
He hears you from behind him “He’s a parent from my school,”
“Ah, okay. Interesting. Since you’re a parent, we wouldn’t want to make this a confrontation right?” Gojo says, bemused “It’d be a real issue for everyone if it turned out that way,”
Gojo puts a hand on his shoulder, tightening his grip hard enough to hear him gasp. He’s weak, but that’s to be expected.
“So, I suggest you turn around and head home, hm? Since we wouldn’t want it to be a big fuss.”
Gojo can see it now. With a little pressure, he could turn the blade of his shoulder in sawdust and watch him fall to his knees. He’d let out a cry, a sharp pathetic wail like a hit dog. Gojo would make him say sorry to you before he lets up his hand from his skin. He’d do it infront of everyone in the store so they could hold a little fear in their hearts.
He won’t do it. Just for now. If it complicates your work then you wouldn’t be able to support yourself. What would he do if you ended up somewhere far away? Out of his sight, something like this could happen again and Gojo wouldn’t be able to take care of you.
So he doesn’t crush it. He pushes his palms into his shoulder blades and whispers quietly, just so the two of them hear. He pulls away and watches as his face goes pale, a simple stutter leaving his lips. Something about how he’ll see you later and that somethings come up before he turns around and leaves.
Gojo watches as he does. The door chimes again, and the man disappears. The patrons who might’ve glanced turn away again like it was just a simple altercation, which is good. Then finally, Gojo looks at you where you are. Your hands are trembling so hard, a shake of relief in your shoulders as you cover your face. You look like you’re getting ready to cry, so Gojo takes it into his own hands. He cleans up all the food, wipes the table, and even grabs your jacket and bag as you take a minute to collect yourself.
He taps your shoulder lightly afterwards, waiting for you to look up. Once you do he smiles, reaches a hand out to you so you don’t have to think twice.
“About time to get out of here, huh?”
You nod, so slowly. You look so relieved, even as you sniffle. Your hand is so small compared to his. He squeezes it protectively as you slide it into his own, and helps you walk out of the store together.
The air is cold, the same as before, the temperature having warmed just a bit. The bell above the door rings as the two of you finally leave, standing in the street. Unlike before though, there’s something bitter in the air. The sun has hidden itself completely in the clouds and the streets feel emptier, lifeless.
Gojo turns to you with a somber expression, trying to smile. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Do you want to go somewhere to talk about it, maybe?”
You chew your lower lip then sigh “...Yeah. Probably should, huh?”
You and Gojo decide on a place not too far from where you are. It’s a small park, a good place to end off an otherwise good day.
You have to take the bus to get there, but there’s not many people. Gojo eventually gives you back your things, lets you slide your jacket on and fix your face - but ultimately takes your hand and holds it on the ride there. He brings it to his lap and you don’t pull away even though you seem to fidget the whole time.
The bus finally stops in front of the park. It takes hardly any time, but Gojo finds he’s unable to let go of your hand so he doesn’t. Instead, he holds tight and lets you trail behind. You let him lead you quietly out back in the street. You give your thanks to the driver as the doors close.
He can’t let go of your hand, though he knows now would’ve been a good time to do it. His grip only grows tighter.
“Let's go find somewhere to sit,” He offers. You squeeze his hand this time and don’t look away.
“Okay,”
He tries to keep pace with you this time, instead of walking ahead. Your strides are shorter than his so he’s careful that you don’t fall behind. Your eyes still have that watery look to them but you’re no longer trembling from fear. Just the cold, if anything.
And your heartbeat no longer sounds so hazardous. Gojo is still restless, still fidgety. His thumb is rubbing circles into your skin but it’s not really for you.
You find a bench, eventually - in the middle of the long walk-way just a distance away from a playground. Gojo juts his chin out towards it, before turning over to look at you.
“Let’s go sit,”
You nod as you walk together towards it. You sit first, and Gojo finally lets go of you. He sits besides you. There’s a minute where the whole world is deathly quiet. There should be something calm about it, but it isn’t. You’re no longer terrified, and a distance away. There’s no danger lurking in the dark and there’s no cars passing or children crying.
Everything is calm and silent, but Gojo couldn’t feel more unease if he tried. He thinks he hides it well. But there’s that itch again, in a place behind his ribs he can’t reach into and he finds it hard to breathe.
“So,” He starts, breaking the tension “I’m guessing it’s not a friend,”
The stupid joke makes a smile appear on your lips. It’s small, but Gojo takes some comfort in it anyway. You wipe away your lower lash gently, a wet laugh leaving your mouth.
“No, not a friend. He’s uhm… a parent from my school.”
“The one who’s been bothering you for all these weeks?” Gojo supplies. You turn your head, eyes widened in surprise. Gojo lets out a breathy laugh.
“You….knew?”
“Not about him specifically, but I could tell something was bothering you,” He admits, and then adds “I always pay attention to my favorite person, you know?”
The addition has you looking away, but Gojo doesn’t mind. You sigh, rubbing your face with your palms before leaning back against the bench with your head hanging off the edge.
“He’s the parent of one of my students. Akio, he’s a good kid. A really well-behaved one but… too well-behaved. Never raises his hand, never complains or says he won’t do something.”
“I’m guessing that sent off an alarm bell, huh?”
You nod softly.
“Yeah. I figure it was something at home, but I’d met his mom prior and she was a real angel. Then, his dad came to visit. The man we met at the store, and I knew right away.”
Gojo feels his jaw clench listening to you talk.
“But still, you know, my job as a teacher is to be as respectful as I can. I always politely declined him when he would make comments and remained professional. Eventually, his mom stopped coming altogether and—I tried, I really—but he…” You trail off, a lump in your throat. He watches as tears form in your eyes, his anger getting more and more tangible. He tries not to express it, putting a hand on your knee “He just… kept pushing. A-and once, he looked like he was gonna get violent. I made a report, you know, to the school. But you know how they are,”
“They never even bothered investigating huh,” Gojo sneers. You laugh a tired sort of laugh.
“Of course not. After that, I just tried to endure it. And I know he hasn’t done anything technically, but it doesn’t really feel like a matter of if but when,” You explain haphazardly. Gojo squeezes where his hand rests.
“I believe you. It’s okay,” He says as soothingly as he possibly can “It’s okay. I’m here,”
There’s a sense of relief that washes over your whole body and before he knows it, you’re breaking down. He feels a lot of emotions all at the same time, watching your little frame as you lose it so easily in front of him. A part of him is so furious he wants to make it everyone's problem. Another part of him is so deeply sad knowing you’ve suffered all on your own.
And the most notable part of him is the sense of protectiveness, burrowing inside of him. A sense of possession. It sinks into him like teeth, seeps into his blood like the venom of an animal so that he bleeds and breathes it. Gojo can’t shake that deep sense of urgency, a nameless and faceless desire that consumes him. He shudders.. He holds it in, all of it. Cups his hands so desperately so that it doesn’t spill over and touch you, the ink of ruining the soft white of your clothes.
In a world that you have made beautiful, desire is ugly. Hideous and infectious, it tears Gojo limb from limb. It makes Gojo feel on edge. Gojo should not desire for any more than what he was. People always die when he does.
But maybe they don’t have to. Maybe, he can protect you. He can keep you safe. He wants to keep you safe. He wants to keep you all to himself.
It’s in an effort to soothe those feelings that his arms find themselves around your form. It’s the first time you’ve hugged in such an intimate way. Where expects you to turn away - you don’t.
Instead you cling, your arms around his jacket and your face in his chest. You cry and weep and sob and you look so small like that. You look like you’ll collapse and Gojo holds you. Says it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay as you let it all out. It must feel good to finally let it all out, after everything and he doesn’t intend to stop you.
“I promise I’ll always protect you from now on,” And he says it, and means it. If you feel the weight of his statement, you don’t let it show “It’s okay. You can cry if you need too,”
You cry and cry and cry.
And Gojo thinks the call of heaven is nothing in comparison to the sound.
__
In the end, Gojo can’t forgive him.
It’s not without effort. He tries to do it at your request, because after all the tears he wants to help. He says he can maybe pull some strings. But that gentle heart you have declines. You don’t want it to become a big deal. You feel a little better knowing he knows. In the end, you don’t want it to affect that brats reputation.
“You know how kids can be,” You say, voice full of concern for everyone but yourself “I don’t want to make school life anymore difficult than his life at home must be,”
So, Gojo tries to listen to you. But days pass, and days turn into weeks. In the end, a month goes by and Gojo is full of terrible and divine anger.
In the end, Gojo won’t forgive him. Gojo can’t let it go. He feels so righteous in it, he starts avoiding his own eyes in the mirror. There’s something inside of them he has no desire to look at. Eyes that tell all, Gojo turns away from their gaze. Gojo is angry for you, and it’s not in his character to do nothing about it.
He decides on less of a whim that it looks. He wonders about alternatives, if there’s anything that can stop this feeling from imploding inside of him but nothing comes.
When he decides that nothing can be done, Gojo goes out of his way to start watching him.
Like any mission, he needs enough background information to map out a plan. He wants to make sure that it has virtually no pushback for you. There’s always a possibility you’ll get caught in the crossfire and that’d be the worst possible outcome. Gojo can protect you from a lot of things, but he’s not as confident about the law.
(Not that he can’t. Just not in the good, right way he’s sure you want him to protect you in. Gojo’s love is divine, not right. There’s nothing in this world Gojo can’t shield you from, because he’s the strongest.)
He also can’t make anything obvious or leave any room for interpretation. If there’s anything that feels off when the reports go live - you’ll stick your nose where it doesn’t belong. He thinks in the instance you find out (about all of it, the premeditation especially) you’d probably tuck your tail and run.
(Gojo would find you. But the chase means there’s some time you’re apart. The thought is almost nauseating.)
He likes that you’re curious about everything. In most instances anyways. But he thinks it’s better to leave you in the dark sometimes. Having you worry about it would ruin the point of this. And sometimes, it’s better not knowing every detail. Honeytraps are more ethical than nets.
He’s doing it for you in the end, like he does most things. And the kid will benefit, maybe even get some sympathy from his classmates for a while about the tragedy that befell his father. Gojo thinks it’s a good plan because no one loses. It’s a lot like killing a curse.
It only takes two weeks to learn virtually everything there is to know. A guy like that doesn’t have much he can hide.
The name of his target, he learns, is Nobu Watanabe. Father to Akio Watanbe and ex-husband to Akiko Watanbe. He’s a recently released felon (let off on good behavior) with a battery and assault with a deadly weapon charge. He’s a college drop-out, and has been working a lot of odd-jobs since he was 16.
His personality is bad, worse is his drinking and smoking habits. He’s often found drunk in the street, and has a track record for single nights spent in a cell. His ex-wife is usually the one bailing him out. Gojo can’t help but feel sorry for her. Somehow, he doubts that he’s good to her. He’s a deadbeat father through and through. He only offers to pick up his kid to harass you. At least from what he can tell.
He isn’t as awful to his kid as everyone else. Gojo doubts that was always the case. Akio isn’t a bad kid, but it’s hard not to notice the way the light in his eyes disappears when his father comes around to pick him up. A head always looking towards the floor, hands tucked in his pockets.
It’s difficult for Gojo to feel any guilt about what he’s doing. After everything, he can’t find it in himself to feel any regret.
His target is currently working at a dock, not too far from the city. He seems to work there most days, working at a bar on the weekends. It’s a big company that handles foreign goods that he does physical labor for. Lifting and moving boxings, checking inventory - it’s not a complicated affair.
If there’s not a major shipment, he still seems to clock in so he’s definitely paid some kind of hourly wage. He smokes often on the job, but works diligently when there is something to do. An easy but physical job, he’s strong. Gojo can understand what intimidates you about him.
Gojo, though, isn’t intimidated by him at all.
He waits a week before he takes action. To shake off anyone or anything that might be trailing him, and to make sure that everything is the same as he observed. That his schedule wasn’t going to change. A week passes, and when Gojo has confirmation - he decides to do what he does best.
Gojo Satoru decides to play God on a Sunday.
Sunday is a day shipments come in and a day he often works alone. The pay is better on Sunday and Nobu is the only one on his shift who takes it. He’s not expected to finish the strenuous work because he’s alone for such a long stretch of time - just to make a dent in it. The people at the next shift are the ones who finish the job.
He starts his day as early as 6am. It’s near winter, so the world is painted in a miraculously melancholy blue. Gojo follows him that morning. He knows the route well enough to trail behind him and not attract any attention. They pass together, turning corners and taking bus rides until Nobu’s finally in at his job.
There, they part briefly. His target goes into the big white building and he goes on top. Gojo has to teleport to the roof because everything is gated with security cameras covering every inch of the property. Following him puts Gojo at risk. So he waits on top of the building, hands in his pocket and pacing until Nobu comes out the otherside to the docks. His jumpsuit put on haphazardly, only half-pulled up to his waist, with a clipboard and pen as a bunch of boxes waiting for him to check them.
After Gojo confirms that he’s alone, he lies in wait. He sits and waits - watching as the clouds pass. Watching the open sea, how it remains unchanging no matter what boats pass through to shore. He looks at his phone every now and again to check the time.
It shouldn’t be too difficult to actually do it.
You know, if Gojo turns his infinity on, there’s nothing in the world that can touch him. He can touch it, but it can’t touch him. There will always be a barrier between his hands and the world. Between him and the known universe, a bridge that started burning the minute Gojo was born into it. If Gojo turns on his infinity, there’s no way to leave traces of him behind.
Did you know? If Gojo turns on his infinity, his fingerprints don’t show up. There’s no DNA to find. Not a trace of him in the world that he hasn’t left purposefully. Even if Gojo chokes him with his hands bare hands - he wouldn’t be touching him. But Gojo can feel it. Feel his pulse, feel his breathing come down slowly.
If there’s such a thing as heaven or hell, Gojo wants to ask God about being homicidal. If it was a flaw of human design or their Lord reflected inside of them.
He lies in wait on top of the roof until 7.
When 7 hits, the world around him is still so dark. No one kills in broad daylight. The heavens are murky, sky full of black clouds like puffs of smoke. It’s freezing cold, a spine-tingling chill making its way up Gojo’s skin and hardening his hands. . Gojo waits for the doors of the garage to creak open. When the sound echoes into the air, a metal screech in the void, Gojo stands to his feet.
He jumps to the ground, landing with a dull thud. He comes out unscathed, a cat on his feet. He dusts off the front of his pants. Nobu hasn’t taken notice of him. Gojo takes a look around them. There’s no cameras in the warehouse. Gojo waits alone in the dark.
Five minutes. It’s five minutes when all of the lights go out.
“What the fuck?” Nobu mumbles, dropping his clipboard on top of a bunch of boxes, running a hand through his hair. Gojo waits in silence, watches as he turns around.
When he finally does, he jumps back in shock. Gojo feels a cold chill run through his body.
“What the fuck? Who the hell are you?” Nobu asks. Gojo grins.
“Ah, you don’t remember? We met a few weeks ago! We had a nice little exchange and everything.” He says, voice going higher by an octave. The man in front of him stares, off put by Gojos’ presence. He stumbles in his thinking, his body tensing up.
“Who the…what the fuck is going on?”
“Hey, don’t be so scared,” Gojo says, then uses his teleport to phase himself closer. Nobu’s eyes widen, shocked. Scared out of his wits, with the story of heartbeat like he’s being hunted. “Tough guy like you has nothing to be scared of, does he?”
“W-w-what…how did you…”
Gojo shakes his head.
“Don’t worry about it, man.” He says, voice calm and smooth and even. He’s surprised by how his emotions feel in his body. Like he’s so angry that he’s not. There’s something inside of him, the white waters that wade, that Gojo can feel. It’s strange “We’ve got about 5 minutes till the lights come back on.”
For a while, they stand at a draw. No one moves. Not him, or Nobu, or the open oceans. It’s quiet for a dock. Even quieter for a dock in Tokyo, and Gojo’s not even using his abilities. He probably won’t need too, other than infinity - there’s not any good reason for him to exert himself any more than he must.
Weeks of planning, weeks of watching, weeks of waiting. Nothing feels like it matters at the moment. He wants it to be over soon-ish.
It’s not that Gojo is particularly sadistic.
It’s just that, everything feels like it’s teetering over this very moment. He thinks it to himself quietly like someone trying to remember where they last left their keys.
Briefly, Gojo thinks “I can’t go back,” after this. In the back of his head he just knows.
He envies this aggravating strangers' ignorance, too.
“What do you want from me?” He says, stuttering - a gasping breath of fear in his lungs that snaps Gojo out of his thoughts. Gojo shrugs.
“Nothing, really. I’m not short on money, you know? I make a good living,” He says, spouting off about nothing as he closes the gap between them. Stepping closer infinitely until Gojo backs him into the garage, into the tall tower of boxers where there’s no cameras and no witnesses “Hm…is there anything you can do to fix this?”
No, Gojo answers mostly to himself, But wouldn’t that be nice?
“P-please, I have—”
“A son right? And an ex-wife, and a dead mom in Saitama. You didn’t think I came here without doing any research, did you? We’re the same in that way you know, I might be a frivolous - but hell if I’m not diligent,”
He looks like he’s going to throw up. Gojo remains indifferent.
“Who are you?” He asks, this time really wondering. With that hoarse voice of curiosity, of defeat.
Gojo hums.
“Good question. Who do you think I am?” Gojo poses and lifts his hands up. He puts them around his neck, pushing hard until his back is against the stack of boxes. It’s dark but Gojo can see everything. He keeps his open, tightening the grip of his hands slowly.
Nobu tries to spit something out but the words get sputtered, muffled by lack of oxygen.
“Do you think I’m a devil? An angel? God? I wonder,” Gojo says, staring. With his mask on, but his eyes opened wide. “Guess I’m kind of like a boogeyman,”
Gojo can feel it. His body underneath his palms, gasping and struggling for air. He can feel his hands try to pry his hands off. He can feel his body slowly start to lose its air, how he deflates like a balloon. Gojo is unmoving, unfazed, unworried. He’s near motionless except the hard grip of his hand on his neck and the pulse that slows gently under his palms.
It takes 5 minutes, maybe less, with all the strength in both his hands. Gojo isn’t counting. He holds on for maybe 2 minutes after that, just to make sure it’s not a fluke. He waits till the heart stops sounding in his ears and until the body is completely limp except for where Gojo is holding him away. He goes out sad. Useless, even.
When Gojo stops, Nobu’s body drops to the floor with a dull thud. He stares at it for a while, then sighs. It’d be nice if he could just leave it there, but he does his due diligence. Picks it up from the ground with relative ease, over his shoulders.
He walks it out towards the dock - the very edge, before tossing it in water and watching it sink. When it disappears from his sight, Gojo is left with his reflection in the deep blue. He meets his eyes for the first time in weeks, and knows he’s seeing exactly what he thought he would.
His anger has settled, just barely. Just enough to be able to see the change in his own vision. With his Six Eyes, Gojo can see that there’s no turning back.
With his mask on, he looks at himself, warped in the vision of the sea. The vision of him—crystalline and white and blue—murky and moving.
Gojo jumps to the roof and turns the light on again. The power comes back.
A dog barks distantly, over and over and over. Gojo watches the sun rise alone.
__
The following weeks pass without a hitch. Gojo feels like nothing has changed.
(But that’s not true. Everything is different. The same but different)
At the two week mark, winter has set in and Gojo is spending time with you in your apartment together. Currently, you’re cooking dinner (after carefully instructing Gojo to stay put in the living room.) Gojo is sitting watching T.V. He’s helping you grade papers at the coffee table, humming to himself.
It’s about 7 when the news starts to play. A local news channel and a familiar face on the T.V. Gojo is surprised when the breaking news report airs.
“Two weeks ago, a missing persons report was filed for ex-convict Nobu Watanbe. Sources say he was last seen working at a Dock in Tokyo - which experienced a power outage. It’s reported that Nobu seemed to have gone missing at the time, and hasn’t made contact with anyone since then. Could this be the work of a…”
The rest of the report Gojo tunes out. He turns his head slightly to see if you’ve noticed. Your eyes are glued to it., standing and staring silently. You place your spatula on a towel on the counter.
“We got word about a week prior to this,” You say, breaking the silence after some time without Gojo prompting. He looks at you “Akio started coming with his mom again and she gave me the story. It wasn’t unusual for him to up and disappear, but he hadn’t done so since Akio was born,”
“That so?” Gojo says, nonplussed. You nod.
“I feel guilty but,” You trail off, rubbing your arm anxiously “I can’t help but be… relieved. Just a little. I don’t want the guy to be dead or anything, but it,”
Gojo stops you in the middle of your sentence.
“You don’t have anything you need to feel guilty about,” He corrects, voice stern. You give him a sad look but he remains firm in his stance “He was harassing you for weeks. It’s only natural that you feel relieved, you know?”
You’re not entirely content with the response, but you seem to know well enough this isn’t something Gojo will compromise on. You sigh, looking down at the floor.
“Yeah. That’s true I guess, but still. I wonder what happened to him, or if he just decided to run away,”
Gojo pretends to think about it.
“Maybe. Otherwise…guess it was God’s divine punishment,” He says, continuing to grade papers. He doesn’t even look up as he says it. You let out a puff of air through your nose in amusement .
“Yeah,” You say, “Maybe. I should thank him some time,”
Gojo hums.
“I don’t think that’s a bad idea,”
#gojo x reader#jjk x reader#manipulation cw#writing tag#dark content cw#yandere cw#noncon cw#murder cw#yandere!gojo#stalking cw#i tried to add the most major tags#lmk if you need more#ok. gn#part two will be out whenever ame has read lol
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if i could turn back time
for @steddieholidaydrabbles prompt 'time travel'
rated t
wc: 997
cw: mention of canonical character death
tags: fix-it, light angst, happy ending, first kiss
-------------------------------------
"I'm telling you Robin, this is probably when things went wrong!"
"And I'm telling you, things probably went wrong in the 60s! This isn't gonna change anything!"
Eddie shouldn't have been listening by the door of the RV, especially not when they thought he was hiding in the back, but he couldn't help his curious nature.
Curiosity killed the cat, but it entertained the banished.
"What are you gonna do, huh? Stay with him and Dustin? Sacrifice yourself? I'm not letting you do that!"
Eddie's brows raised.
"No, but with the three of us, we can remember to close everything off this time so none of us have to sacrifice ourselves. It keeps us all safe."
The voice suddenly stopped and Eddie barely managed to get away from the door before it was flying open and Steve was storming inside.
Alone.
Robin must have gone to help the kids and Nancy with their weapons.
Steve sat down on the couch, put his head in his hands, and groaned.
"Alright there, big boy?"
Steve jumped, his face turning to see Eddie awkwardly standing in the doorway to the back.
"Fine, yeah. Just stressed," Steve relaxed a bit, though Eddie could still see his white knuckles against his knees and his jaw clenching.
"You and Robin having a lover's quarrel out there?" Eddie asked, knowing damn well they weren't together.
He didn't have to know to know that Robin wasn't interested in Steve for the same reason Eddie wasn't interested in Robin.
"We just don't see eye to nose on some things," Steve shrugged. "She knows I'm right, she's just stubborn."
Ignoring the eye to nose comment would go down as one of the most impressive feats of Eddie's life, but he decided to focus on finding out what they were actually arguing about.
"She thinks you're gonna get hurt?" Eddie asked, moving over to the couch.
"More like killed."
Eddie couldn't hide the flinch at his harsh words.
"None of us are gonna die, man. We've got a plan."
"Yeah," Steve sighed. "I'd feel better if I was with you and Dustin though."
"I won't let anything happen to him," Eddie said softly.
He knew how much Steve cared for Dustin, felt that same protectiveness for the kid.
"It's not him I'm worried about."
"I'll be fine. I mean, even if not, it's not like we're friends. You'll all be fine," Eddie shrugged.
Maybe a part of him actually believed that, believed that everyone would go about their days if something happened to him. He didn't think anyone but Wayne would actually miss him, and he'd be fine eventually.
Steve was blinking at him.
"No, we won't." Steve's hand grabbed his knee, squeezing. "You think you don't matter to us, but you do. You have no idea how much you mean to everyone. When something happens to you, none of us will ever be the same."
Eddie's mouth felt dry, and then it hit him what Steve said.
"When?"
Steve's eyes widened.
"I meant if!"
"Steve. Does this magic girl you keep talking about know something? Did someone talk to her?" Eddie stood up and started pacing. "I know I said it'd be fine if something happened to me, but I'd rather not know. And now I'm thinkin' you might know something I don't and maybe Robin does too and-"
Steve grabbed his face between his hands, his grip almost hard enough to leave a bruise.
"Eds, I promise you, I am not letting anything happen to you. Not this time."
Eddie had a million questions, but as he looked into Steve's haunted eyes, he decided to wait.
He decided to trust Steve Harrington.
"Okay. Nothing's gonna happen to me."
----------------------------------
When Eddie made it back through the gate in the trailer, a few bruises on his shoulders and arms, but alive, Steve was there.
Looking at him in a way Eddie couldn't quite recognize.
And then touching him in a way Eddie wouldn't have expected.
His hands were everywhere, feeling along his arms and neck and shoulders, taking inventory of his bruises and cuts, the one bite mark he had on his side.
"You're okay?" He asked breathlessly.
"I'm okay." Eddie responded, just as breathless. "Steve. I'm okay."
His tone made Steve stop what he was doing and look in his eyes.
"Fuck, Eddie," Steve fell into him, pushing his face into his neck, breathing Eddie in as Eddie wrapped his arms around him.
"You gonna tell him or should I?" Robin asked from behind them.
Steve just whimpered in response and Eddie felt a wetness against his skin.
"Are you crying?" he asked, trying to push him away to see if he was okay, but Steve just held him harder.
"He's just happy you didn't die this time," Robin said.
"This time?"
"Yeah. You died the first time and it destroyed him. When we woke up back here, he spent so long trying to focus on you living, he forgot we had a real job to do. No offense."
"None taken," Eddie said. "Stevie, you gotta breathe."
Steve had started gasping for air against him, his whole body shaking as he came down from the adrenaline.
It took ten minutes, a cleared out room, and gentle hands massaging his back for Steve to calm down.
But Eddie sat with him and held him, talked him through whatever he was feeling and assuring him that he was okay.
"We all made it, sweetheart," Eddie whispered against the top of his head.
Steve stiffened in his arms, then instantly relaxed.
"Was it..." Eddie let out a long breath. "Before. When I died. Were we something?"
Steve shook his head and Eddie tried not let the disappointment be visible.
"We weren't yet. But I think we would have been. I wanted to be. Didn't get the chance."
"But this time you do."
Steve's lips pressed against his collar, lingering for a minute before he pulled back.
"This time we do."
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There's a reason I always moderate comments but i approved this one so people can see how truly vile it gets sometimes. I'm not arrogant. I don't think the way I write is better at all. Exploring them on an authentic level means exploring this, or any, version of them with wholehearted passion, not that this is the authentic interpretation of them. Writing intense stuff isn't a brag, it's a warning so people can be prepared for stuff like arguments and confrontations. I always over-warn for CW stuff so that, again, people are prepared. I never once have asked people to read it. It's just there and I've tried my best to a) write something i loved and b) thoroughly warn those who might read it. Any interpretation of the characters is valid and worth exploring. It's so sad to see a reeled off list of all the way Steve "should be" and the implication that nothing but strict canon adherence could ever be a passionate, worthy exploration. It's... only fanfic? It's not real. They're not real. Nothing is real and everything is possible and that's supposed to be what's fun about it.
I write the characters very intensely, so yes, they are often out of character, sorry for... warning about that? I write different backgrounds for them and play with the negative space of possibilities and potential and i do this with authentic curiosity and passion because I love doing it and i get very into it. Sorry for warning about that too, I guess? When I first started writing in this fandom, some people pointed out to me that I could CW warn for them being OOC and that was new to me, i didn't think I had to warn for that. I thought people would read the tags, like in other fandoms, and understand that the story would do different things with the characters but it became clear that this was actually solid advice as this was a fandom obsessed with "canon adherence" and policing. So I thought I would CW as thoroughly as I could so no one would be shocked or disappointed and then maybe they wouldn't leave an essay of hate in the comments.
But ultimately, people like this would only be satisfied if I deleted everything and stopped writing. I barely participate in this fandom as it is beyond answering asks and writing. I don't rec my own work. The thing i don't ever want, and this is why it was worrying seeing something like YD becoming "popular", is for people to feel like they *should* read my work without having gone and looked for it via the tags. Without having found it naturally, just by browsing and thinking "that's definitely for me". I've only ever posted for small rarepairs in the past so a couple of comments on a fic always made me so happy. I write for myself and the few others in the world who might like it. I have never written for an audience. If you don't like something I wrote, it's not for you. Genuinely. Move along to the next, no? That's what I would do.
This was so spiteful and targeted. YD is so old at this point, I just don't understand people who do shit like this. I don't bother anyone and I try to be here for anyone who needs me. I CW as thoroughly as I can. I don't think I'm better than anyone. I think every single iteration of these characters is worthy and valid and what matters is how fun they were to write, for the author. I had so much fucking fun with these stories that seeing this miserable little rant seems pointless to me. I don't care if you didn't like it. I don't care if it wasn't to your taste. Writing it was what I wanted. Sharing it is secondary, always. It's fanfiction, written for free in my spare time. I didn't take up space, I didn't trample anyone. There is no reason for this beyond spite.
I am sorry about the vest/jacket mixup, however. Truly, genuinely from the bottom of my heart devastatingly sorry about that. I know it'll take time for people to forgive me and maybe no one ever will, I have to make my peace with that.
Anyway, thanks for loudly projecting your feelings onto me and my work.
💜💜💜
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Are your requests actually open for bullfrog? If so, is it alright to request for yandere headcanons of him? ( or oneshot if that fits more to your liking! ) With human reader that possibly works for eden?
It doesn't has to be anything bloody! Any yandere scenarios that fits him are fine, You can change the scenario if you want it too
And sorry if im misunderstood it! You can just delete this request if i did so!
A/N: Yandere looks so out of character of him. But I give it a try for you dear anon~ Yan!Bullfrog and a worker of Eden? (It's not like humans and hyberds already have a complex realationship enough) Oh jeez. We are going in a big rollercoster ride here, so buckle up your seats guys! 😏👀☕️💦
I need one more thing to say. There is a similar ask like this one. A reader working for Eden. So I'm gonna change this request a slightly bit, so both wouldn’t cross much. I hope that's alright for you :)
AND SO SORRY THIS IS SO SHORT AAAA--
Bullfrog x h!reader HEADCANON-ish? (It's a bit diffucult to tell with what I write here :')
Warnings: blood, dead bodies, possesive behaviour, ooc
Masterlist
Word Count: 1.1k
Taglist: @blorbostation @eateableworm @livelaughluvvfaithyy @darkchanx @astoraa
Btw does anyone want to be in the tag list?
Dear anons; I would really appreciate it if you could choose an emoji while sending your asks and requests (and stick with it) so I can tell you apart. Thank you~
×Anouncment: I am no longer writing for Yangere Bullfrog. It's so out of character of him and I don't want that. Please don't ask me to write about it again my dear readers~ Thank youu. (I'm also so bad at writing yanderes oh my god 😭)
You both already knew each other when it all started
"Hey, do you have any gum?”
"Gum?" You glance at your soldier friend.
"Yeah, I like to chew on them. Do you have any?”
"Uh... no sorry." But you checked on your pockets anyway. Who knows? Maybe you actually have it. Before you can even lift your head a breeze past you.
A breeze? In the middle of the hall where no windows open?
You glance at your side, seeing what is left of your friend on the ground, his throat ripped open as he choked on his own blood and died in mere seconds. You stared at him as his lifeless body lay down motionless.
"I was talking to him.”
"Pas désolé, he is pretty much dead now."
You glance at him unimpressed while he stared up at you with a smile, a sweet sickening one, making you feel annoyed even more. His bloody blades disappearing behind his wrists.
"You need to stop your little visits. They will notice our talks one day. And it's not gonna be pretty for both of us.”
“We never agreed it would be. Qui a dit que ça m'intéressait de toute façon.” He grinned at you as he connected his hands behind his back.
How do you two know each other? Well, you two met when you started to work for Eden, seemingly. You're an agent observing Eden's work and informing your superiors. That's it. That was your job. Being a spy. Dangerous you need to say. Thankfully, if someone notices your act, you know how to fight.
It wasn't long before the assassin and spy met in unfortunate circumstances. Forcing you to fight side by side in a station where both of you are in grave danger. It was in the past now. Either you regret meeting him or not… you weren’t sure.... yet
After that day, he didn't seem to forget about you. Or your purpose. It looks like you managed to catch his attention from the first moments.
He started to show his face whenever he could to the point you can't ignore anymore.
You did get irritated by that a lot of the time, especially in the beginning. But now you just… get used to it? You don’t know. It’s not like he listened when you told him to go.
Thankfully whenever he kills your ‘comrades’ he helps you to not get caught because of his reckless actions? You actually started to think he's doing it on purpose too. Just to stay a bit longer and interact with you more.
You don’t actually care who he kills. You just want him to not ruin your cover.
But when you start to notice every person you talk to starts to disappear or end up dead? You start to worry. Like a lot. How can you not? Your life is on the line.
You know it was him doing it. But you just didn't get why. You are more than capable of handling yourself.
What was he thibking doing all that? Risking your whole mission- YOUR life- To get you caught? There need to be more to it. There is something really wrong with him…
And you were proven right when you found one of your agent friends covered in his own blood, near him only stood and stared Bullfrog while he slowly... died. Like he wanted to teach him a lesson in his own mind.
His blades were bloody. There was something horrible the way he just… stared. What shocked you even more was what he uttered out to the body laying motionless, to the soulless eyes.
“No one… no one can take her away...” he slowly wiped the blood from his mouth.
Your eyes widen with that. How does a normal person would act in this situation? Run away for their life? Scream? Cry? Grow in anger? Probably. But you were a skilled agent. You stepped inside, even you couldn't belive how calm you were, he quickly got aware of your presence and tilted his head with a smirk. He never hid that glint in his eyes.
“Bonjour, mon lumière. How was your day? Good I hope?”
You shook your head, and went straigh to the point, “What have you done?” It was the only thing you could let out at the moment. A lot of things went trhough in your head but you just stood there and actually hoped to hear a manageable answer?
He opened his arms towards you and approached, he actually believed in what he said, “He was going to get in between like all the others. I couldn’t let that happen.”
The more he came closer the more you stepped back, you shook your head, “You are not even making any sense. You are sick, you are—“
You yelled in pain and dropped down on your knees before you could even put up a fight to get away. He cut your ankles. Not actually cut them in two but that still hurted like hell. You hissed and suck in a breath. You grimiced and tighten your fist. You are not going to show any weakness to him.
You panted in pain as he held you in his arms, caressing your back. You growled in anger on his shoulder, wiggling in his strong hold, trying to get away but he didn't even move an inch and continued holding you tightly, not very affected. How could he be so strong?
“Don’t worry, ma vie. You will soon understand that I’m freeing you from the burden of working under an organization as vile as Eden. You’ll be at peace with me. I promise." He caressed your head ‘lovingly’. “Nous serons ensemble pour toujours.”
Your angry yell muffled in his chest. As his eyes stared blankly into space with a smile on his lips.
Everything got so much worse after that...
#bullfrog x reader#bullfrog#captain lazerhawk spoilers#captain lazerhawk#reader#x reader#allenwrites#yandere#headcanon#oneshot#I can't write yandere bullfrog#captain laserhawk#I fuck it up Qwq
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this might be an unpopular opinion but actually i think that in homecoming mcu peter was very well characterized? i thought he brought the sass and was very headstrong and i think that's why that film is my favorite out of his, he was throwing himself into situations without deliberation with just a very restless and agitated feel to him at points, and actively driving the plot forward in a way that to me felt very baby peter. i think that fanon (like irondad, woobifying him in fics etc) has contributed to a perception of him that isn't super strong in actual canon. i also think the writers would benefit from reading your tags on that post lol, cause mcu spidey is at his best when HIS choices are actively driving the plot, and at its weakest when hes reacting to things happening to him like in far from home. there's potential for spidey 4, there's a lot of room for angry, broken, but hopeful peter, and i'm sure the mcu will disappoint me but i am a fool and live in hope :')
i guess you have some kind of a point there, and i can see the point you're making - but – i think where it doesn't work is that we never actually get an inkling as to why peter's restless and agitated. why he cares so much about being a hero. why he wants to. when like, in civil war he actually kind of didn't want to get involved with the avengers. he was blackmailed into it. so why that 180?
no consistency in the mcu. no consistency at all. i hear that writers don't even consult each other between movies, and i believe it ,, considering how much whiplash i consistently get from mcu character motivations. (constantly thinking of civil war where hawkeye tells scott "you might go to jail for this", and scott says "yeah well what else is new" nonchalantly, like he didn't just fucking have an entire movie where is whole motivation was "i do not want to go to jail because i want to be with my daughter." what the fuck?? what the fuck mcu??? what the fuck?????????? the mcu does this with literally every character too. tony destroying all his armor in one movie and the next one making ARMOR FOR THE WORLD??????????????? 180s just across the board. we're gonna do a thing and then 3 seconds later we're gonna do the exact opposite thing. i hate the mcu.)
in the comics we entirely understand why peter is agitated and restless. we've seen it. we see his justification literally on the front page of his first appearance in amazing fantasy #15.
the world mocked timid teenager peter parker. so peter wants the world to see the awesome might of spider-man. there you go. that's why he put on the stupid tights. we get it. two sentences and we get the whole schtick.
we pointedly do NOT get to see what kind of kid mcu peter parker was before the spider-bite. we never get to know. we do not know what changed. he doesn't even talk about it. not even freaking once. he never laments that he used to be weak. he never expresses the sentiment that his life has improved now that he has powers, or even what having powers really means to him. just a "i've got powers now. guess i have to become a hero. i guess." there's no motivation for him at ALL. power doesn't mean a thing to him. he's just some kid who has powers i guess and who else is kind of super? uh? tony stark?? yeah okay i wanna be tony stark i guess.
IT ALL MEAAAANS nothing!! ! ! ! ! ! nothing fucking at all!!!!!! it's actually SO SO missing the point of spider-man entirely to not pay any mention at all to who peter parker was before the spider-bite. that lives in him every day. it's an ANXIETY that lives in him every day of his life. it's something really important for you to know about peter. in every issue spider-man is IN, this anxiety manifests in some kind of way, in everything he does.
we never see what's changed for him, how it affects his dynamic with his friends, with aunt may, with anyone. it's barely a source of tension for him because actually, his secret identity is thrown around like it's a joke. it baffles my mind how much the mcu misses the mark with spider-man, actually. whenever i think about mcu spider-man i discover some new way they misunderstood spider-man. i didn't even think about how much is missing from just the omission of pre-spider-bite peter parker. it's such a vital part of spider-man's motivation that's been wiped. his motivation in the mcu is so, so vague. his motivation is the same as any kid who has seen an iron man movie. "hey that guy can fly. i want to fly too. and i want to buy iron man action figures and i want a cool suit too." uhh?? yeah?? what kid doesn't?? lame. lame and weak. mcu peter parker doesn't have a unique personality trait to differentiate him from any 10 year old who's watching these movies. weak and lame.
#sci speaks#sorry i wanted to be more on your team anon because your ask is sweet and optimistic and i wanna be sweet and optimistic too#but every time my brain gears start churning over the mcu i find new ways to hate it#sci talks movies
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Getting to know each other again
Pairing: Steve Rogers X Reader.
Word count: 400 words.
Rating: Teen.
Summary: All Steve wants is to get you back.
Major Tags: Fluff, angst, mention of amnesia.
Additional tags: This is my gift to @sinceimetyou. HAPPY BIRTHDAY GABY!
You can read it on Wattpad and Ao3 too.
My native language is Spanish so I wanna improve my writing skills in English if you notice any mistakes, please let me know and I will correct them.
I don’t give any kind of permission for my fics to be posted on other platforms or languages (I translate myself my work) or the use of my graphics (my dividers are included in this), I did them exclusively for my fics, please respect my work and don't steal it. There are some people here who make dividers that anyone can use, mine is not this type, please look for the other people. The only exception is the ones I gifted 'cuz now belong to someone else. If you find any of my works on a different platform and are not one of my accounts, please let me know. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Marvel's characters (unfortunately), except for the original characters and the story.
Add yourself to my taglist here.
My other media where I publish: Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.
If you like it, please vote, comment, and give me feedback to improve my skills and reblog.
Tags: @unnuevosoltransformalarealidad @navybrat817 @angrythingstarlight @shield-agent78 @charmed-asylum @pandaxnienke @real-fbi @Smokeandnailz @white-wolf1940 @tenaciousperfectionunknown @xoxonotme @bluemusickid @leyannrae @Harrysthiccthighss @Marvelatthisone @caplanbuckybarnes @sapphire-rogers @lizzieolseniskinda @notyourtypicalrose @hallecarey1 @nana1000night @talia-rumlow @writingshae @alexxavicry @azulatodoryuga @daemonslittlebitch @chaoticcollectivenightmare @endlesstwanted @chemtrails-club @marigoldreamer @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @Here4thefanfics @theestorm @patzammit @kmc1989 @somegirlfromasgard @rogersbarber
Steve woke up agitated again. Again, he had that nightmare about the day you disappeared and how your body vanished between his fingers. If they had left him, he would have finished off Thanos himself with his own hands.
He had searched through many books, through your things, everywhere. He needed a solution, a way he could bring you back.
The emptiness of being without you was enormous, and nothing could fill it. He tried to occupy his mind with different activities, but one way or another, everything always came back to you.
Several times he thought that there must be some way to go back in time, and he didn't even care if he had to start all over again; he was able to do whatever it took to bring you back.
He ran as fast as he could when he saw they were coming back. He didn't want you to be alone; it would probably be too confusing. He didn't have much time to think about how he was going to explain to you what had happened.
He stopped when he was close; he took a breath; he needed to calm down first; you couldn't see him so upset either; although it was obvious that he couldn't hide what had happened, he couldn't wipe the passage of time from his face.
“Y/N," Steve said carefully.
You looked at him confused; you didn't know what had happened.
“What happened? What am I doing here? “you questioned, looking around you. Steve was about to answer you when you interrupted him. “Who are you?"
Now Steve was the one who was confused, but then he remembered that maybe there was a slight possibility that you had suffered a blow to the head just before you disappeared; in fact, you were unconscious when he hugged you before you vanished.
He bit his lip, trying to contain all the feelings that were welling up inside him. He managed to convince you to go with him.
"Y/N has amnesia." Those words kept echoing in Steve's head, but he wasn't going to give up hope, not this time; somehow he was going to make you regain your memory, and if not, then he was going to make you get to know each other again, like in the beginning, until you fell in love with him again.
He wasn't going to lose you again.
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Okay, I’ve been a bit scared because I’ve been observing from the sidelines, but I do want you to know this isn’t a hateful or troll ask, I’m genuinely asking for clarification.
In my experience, “pro-shipping” has always meant ‘problematic shipping’, and all of the people I’ve talked to about this have said the same thing.
Am I the one who’s misconstrued? I really don’t get it.
Being called “pro-harassment” or “pro-censorship” is hurtful and confusing as all hell.
I don’t harass people for what they create. I don’t care to do that. I block and move on, and warn people if I know they could be upset by the content.
But I also don’t understand how certain things are justified.
I am personally not bothered by much, but I have watched friends and acquaintances go through visceral traumatic reactions because people have decided to air out their coping by sharing it with the public. (I.E, people who write romantic incestual fics, etc)
I don’t give a shit what people write. I really don’t. But it feels harmful to use the excuse of coping when you, in turn, could be hurting dozens of others.
Like I said, I genuinely am not trying to be hateful here. I’m confused, and still distraught that all of this is happening. I don’t think anyone deserves to be harassed. I just also don’t get the logic here.
Pro-shipping never once meant problematic shipping. It meant opposite of "anti" because antis would come and invade the tags and asks, calling them all kinds of names if they found their ships distasteful.
Sorry that being indirectly accused of supporting harassment hurt your feelings. Imagine how I felt, being DIRECTLY accused of supporting rape in real life because of my taste in fiction. You are throwing in your lot with people who can't distinguish fantasy and reality.
I don't like incest fics either, anon. They are triggering for me. So you know what I do? I don't read fics tagged as incest. For that reason, I have never been triggered by an incest fic. I suppose I would be if I read an incest fic that wasn't tagged as much, but you will never find a single pro-shipper who defends posting such content without a tag. You are responsible for your own experience online; it is your job to curate the content.
If it was just seeing that the fic exists that triggered the response, then I'm sorry to say they're still in the wrong. As a survivor, learning that triggers exist and how to navigate those triggers is on you. We are responsible for how we deal with our trauma. Your friends didn't deserve their traumas, and they deserve kindness and support, but requesting that people never be allowed to write distasteful fiction so that they don't have to be upset by the idea that someone somewhere shipped incest is not reasonable. Their feelings are valid; it's totally reasonable to be triggered, to strictly curate your online experience. It's reasonable to block everyone who ships the upsetting incest ships, to put an "incest shippers DNI" on your page, all of it. It's not reasonable to call them supporters of IRL incest or to accuse them of causing your trauma. It isn't hard at all on AO3 or Tumblr; they even give you the option to blacklist/filter out certain tags so you can avoid it without blocking users. There's easily half a dozen safeguards that already exist that are a lot less radical, a lot less likely to be weaponized against queer users, and a lot easier to enforce than trying to remove them.
Me writing fics, such as a character using kink to cope, can only harm a user who doesn't curate their feed (and who reads fics they know will trigger them, which I can only assume would then be a purposeful form of self-harm). Denying other survivors their coping mechanism, though, IS a direct form of harm. Stigmatizing recovery by saying that survivors are in any way akin to abusers for creating fiction is a direct form of harm.
It sounds to me like you've absorbed some very harmful and very narrow ideas of what recovery should and should not look like, and what is and isn't a good/valid survivor. You might want to reflect on why you're turning your attention to policing what survivors do to cope so much.
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if not for you ! daniel r. x ofc (måneskin member! ofc) // toto w.
SPIN OFF for COLOUR ME YOUR COLOUR and RUSH
"there'll be no spring if not for this love of mine"
summary: posts and tweets exchanged between lester and others during the baku race weekend as she babysat toto and tilly wolff's children. OR chaos ensues in the paddock and the hospitalities as the wolff kids and an asshole ex-lover (is he really?) made their presence known to almost anyone
content warning: character-centric, mentions of questionable man, appearance of characters not yet shown in the series colour me your colour, toto wolff being canonically fashionable, use of explicit language, faceclaims used for the kids, danny is full on babygirl in the instagram comment section. f1 drivers being messy.
note: sorry for the awol guys, i was walking my fish. tomorrow is the start of the canadian gp 2023 and i am sad that i am not there. maybe next year when i have the money? or maybe when i work for pr. who knows. since i'm not there, i'm just celebrating and writing this.
ALSO!! should i do a blurb or something relating to lester babysitting the paddock kids- like the wolff kids? i've started on it but...
enjoy xx
masterlist
[first image dialogue: i don't normally look at the time because i dress faster than this. i even dress ren and tia for less than seven minutes and they're always dressed nicely for their music classes]
[second image: if they're dressed ten minutes after, that's not my doing; toto dresses them and he struggles a lot. he mostly gets them ready if he's taking them to work or if i'm off to a meeting in milton keynes]
[third image: we've made a lot of trips to ralph lauren and tommy hilfiger because he thinks that he can just mix and match the clothes that we got there for the bunch. said it's a "capsule wardrobe." that's what happens when you're married to a fashion expert, i suppose.]
[fourth image: you'll be able to know if he dresses them once you see the jumper/dress shorts/trousers combo or the dress/jumper combo. you'll know he did the preparing if tia's hair is put in place with a hair clip. she loves it when her papa puts in barrettes in her thin hair.]
tagged tillywolff, mercedesamgf1, redbullracing
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carlossainzjr ay, i didn't know they were running a barber shop! i need a haircut
tillywolff i don't recall buying that toy set for them 🧐
charles_leclerc maman said to get it for them so it can remind them of their mamé pascale
tillywolff thank you so much for taking care of ren and tia! i've been told they enjoyed being with their zia lori. maybe you can take care for adelmo next time? liked by loressandro
loressandro i will definitely set up a playroom for the next time!
landonorris thank you so much tillywolff for the best hairstylist ever 😇 i got the best trim in the grid right now and no one can outdo it
mercedesamgf1 boss is asking who's responsible for allowing one of the wolff puppies drink red bull? just asking for research purposes 😊
charles_leclerc maxverstappen1
lewishamilton maxverstappen1
user1 LMFAOOOO not lewis and charles snitching on their in-law 😭
charles_leclerc user1 i need to be in toto's good graces again.
maxverstappen1 it's a red bull water bottle 💀 stop trying to push me back at the starting level mf charles_leclerc
user2 those kids are so toto coded 🥰
user3 if you can survive lando, you can survive the wolff kids 🙌 liked by loressandro
danielricciardo if you can survive the wolff kids, you can survive our kids 😘 liked by loressandro
thomasraggi_ yeah but try surviving her kids 💀
ykaaar you're about to have the BEST years of your life, danny
ethaneskin alessandro-ricciardo kids bout to treat the tracks like mario kart deluxe 🤡
loressandro guys please... this is the only man who's willing to put up with me. stop scaring him away
danielricciardo i'm not scared, i am challenged 😎
landonorris danielricciardo mental health wise? bc same.
danielricciardo when are we having our little ricciardo??
loressandro depends if your swimmers are still working in few months or years. also if you stop laughing at your own nephews and nieces, dickhead
danielricciardo got it ma'am. anything just to have your kids <3
#formula one fanfiction#formula one fic#formula one imagine#formula one smau#formula one x oc#daniel ricciardo x ofc#daniel ricciardo imagine#red bull racing imagine#f1 crack#f1 smau#toto wolff x oc#toto wolff fic#toto wolff imagine#f1 imagine#f1 x y/n#f1 fic#f1 instagram au#f1 memes#formula one instagram au#danny ric
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More Nonsense from My Ambrosius Stan Account Post:
As someone who got on Tumblr a couple years ago not really knowing the culture and rarely posts because I don't think anyone cares about the silly worms in my brain I'd like to give everyone who thought it was funny and left a like or a tag or a reblog a very I Love You and here is some more thoughts about it I had through the day that I thought nobody would care about but am posting now
The account was named @gold_loin_love and gained notoriety for being the only stan account Ambrosius actually followed
During the live stream Ballister answered the questions (that he had his followers submit beforehand) while still in character, despite the fact that he was laughing his ass off and Ambrosius was with him.
Example: "'Do you think Ballister and Ambrosius are going to get divorced?' Absolutely. They're terrible together and honestly not even cute. They probably had some cringy beach wedding with their weird pink child officiating. Ew, next question"
Ambrosius would frequently interject
"Do I think Ambrosius was toxic for cutting off Ballister's arm?"
Ambrosius, stealing the phone: "Yes he needs to be cancelled immediately."
Ballister, taking it back: "Wrong that weird creep deserved it to be honest"
He read a couple questions that were defending him and after giving them his joke answer about how they were wrong, thanked them sincerely
(sad time) The first thing he posted after the events of the movie, during which he obviously wasn't posting although how fucking funny would it have been to be Ambrosius and see Ballister's fake stan account post "lol get his ass I hope he died" over footage of him MAIMING HIM in light of all that was happening was "I'm sorry that I've been gone, the death of the Queen really took a toll on me, she was a real role model and inspiration of mine. I'm especially sorry to Ambrosius. I wish I hadn't run away. I wish I'd been there for you through all this, I know it must have been so hard. I really hope everyone forgives him."
(sad time over, silliness resumed) He'd use the account to make fun of Ambrosius and himself in every capacity imaginable
"Check out what Ambrosius wore to the national conference, I love how it's so shiny you can't tell how busy and incongruent the patterns are 😍 we love a maximalist king!!!"
"Ballister Ballhard surprises nobody wearing armor he got at the emo booth of a Renaissance Fair."
There is so much potential for this and I'd love to see more of Ballister being a silly goofball
#nimona#ballister boldheart#ambrosius goldenloin#goldenheart#idk tumblr culture if i do something wrong pls tell me#im always scared to post if i might commit a faux pas#and to the people who said they'd want to draw this or write or read about it#you have my every permission#and i love you#if someone made something inspired by my cringe brain?#id cry so hard i threw up from love#ive stolen so many people's headcanons for the jumbled fic in my google drive that will never see the light of dat
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Pink Scarf - PART 17 (Elvis/Austin!Elvis x Reader)
Character/Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)
Requested: kinda
(Read more here--Pink Scarf Series Masterlist!)
Prompt: You are part of Elvis Presley's coveted inner circle, and the currently-disgruntled wife of one of the members of Elvis' famous entourage, the Memphis Mafia. After Elvis' dynamite first performance in Vegas, you find yourself in deep water when his magnetism finally gets to you after all these years. [ Fem!Reader ]
TW: SEXXX. Verbal Abuse. Assault, both sexual and physical. Blood. Violence. ANGST. Cussing. Infidelity. Historical inaccuracies in the Vegas timeline. Priscilla doesn't exist in this timeline.
Rating: Explicit/Mature (NSFW, 18+, so minors Do NOT Interact) || Word Count: 10k
A/N: PREPARE YOURSELVES, cuz this is an INTENSE roller coaster ride, y'all. Also, PLEASE READ THE TRIGGER WARNINGS. I'm not gonna say much else, other than this is a beast and I cannot wait to hear the unhinged responses after. And thank you for your patience!
As always, to all my babies, honeys, and lil' mamas supporting me out there, YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL and your reactions, reblogs, messages, asks, and comments you've given me have been a blessing beyond expression. You all are the best community a writer could ask for! Thank you so much for your support. I am loving getting to know y'all better! I love every single reaction and comment and ask, and I'm sorry if I don't get back to them all as soon as I'd like but know that I love you all and am so excited to be making new friends! And a big "Hey, Y'all!" to our friends from Elvis Twitter, Elvis Discord, and Elvis Instagram--I see and appreciate you coming over to join us! 👀💋
If you feel so moved, please let me know what you think or how you're feeling (or send me asks)! I think I put everyone on the taglist who requested it, but please let me know if there are any issues or if I missed anyone. There seem to be some issues with tagging that I can't seem to fix, so please know I'm not leaving you out intentionally! Also, if you comment on a previous part that you want to be tagged, I might not always see it, so feel free to message me if I miss you!
I imagined this with Elvis in mind, but Austin!Elvis works here, too, whatever floats your boat!
Apologies in advance if there are any grammatical errors or TW that I didn't catch.
(I did start cross-posting Pink Scarf to my long-neglected AO3 account (which some of you already discovered!), so if you are so inclined, you can check it out over there!)
“You need me?” you question him, honestly taken aback by the sentiment, even though he has said it before. It’s just still so hard for you to believe that a man like this needs a woman like you. Running your fingers through the soft, damp hair at the nape of his neck, you look at him with wide eyes.
“Yeah, baby, I do. I really do,” Elvis says, wrapping his arms tight around you and pulling you close. His head buries in your neck, in your hair, breathing you in.
“Show me,” you whisper in his ear, surprised by your own boldness. But his declarations have you some kind of way and that coil is still like hot coals smoldering in your belly. You feel his body stiffen against you, knowing that he is even more stubborn than you and doesn’t want to give in to you just yet.
You run your hands over his exposed chest and under the deep V of the fabric, grazing over his nipple with your fingernails. He twitches and jumps under your touch, despite his efforts to stay neutral.
“I need you,” you breathe, pitching your voice up the slightest bit as you look into his eyes. And you do. You desperately need him, in every way. If you could crawl inside of him, you would. You need to believe his promises are true, that he will take care of you and be everything you need. You need him to show you.
This must read on your face, because he cannot seem to mask his response this time, his azure eyes widening and pupils dilating.
“Take care of me,” you say, your voice nearly a whine.
That’s the ticket. “Fuck, okay…yeah, let me take care of ya,” Elvis breathes in your mouth as his lips find yours, your sins forgotten for the moment, if not forgiven completely. His lips devour yours and your hands can’t get enough of him, starved from before when he had you tied up. They roam over his chest, wind around his neck and into his hair before scraping down his back and clawing at his waist.
Elvis pulls back for a moment and surveys the space in the room. You can see his wheels turning, then how his lips curve up in a smile as he figures out how he wants you. He leaves you hanging for a moment as he pulls a chair right in front of a huge, floor length mirror. Sitting in the chair, his legs spread wide, he beckons you to him.
“Come sit on my lap, baby,” he purrs at you, and you immediately obey, settling on one of his strong thighs and burying your head into that deliciously long neck of his. The salt of his sweat stains your lips. His strong scent surrounds you, magnifying your need for him. You suddenly feel very small in his arms in addition to that need. He seems to sense this, letting you first cuddle into him a bit before winding his large hand below your jaw and peppering kisses down your neck.
“Gonna be a good girl and do as I tell ya?” Elvis asks, his voice low and gravely as he grabs your chin.
You nod. He truly fucked the fight right out of you before, over there against the wall.
“That’s my girl. Now turn and face the mirror for me,” he says, guiding your hips to swivel in his lap. He pulls your dress up and over your waist, leaving you in your lacy panties. You feel a little self-conscious looking at yourself perched on his lap like this, your cheeks a flaming shade of red. You are very close to the mirror, too close. But you watch as your eyes go wide when he grabs your inner thighs, spreading them open with his large hands while sliding his strong thighs in between to keep yours apart.
The lacy fabric of your already-soaked underwear strains as he massages your legs from your knees to your hips. The groping shoots fire through you and you press back into his lap, encouraging him to continue. When he ghosts over your core, it steals your breath away, and you are so incredibly ready for whatever he has to give you.
“Let get these off,” he says, tapping your clit over your panties and causing you to jump with the sensation. Nearly frantic, you shuck them down and off with lightning speed, along with your heels. Elvis chuckles, spreading you open even further when you sit back in his lap. Your muscles strain with the stretch, but you don’t care.
“Be a good girl and put your feet up on the mirror for me,” he instructs, and albeit confused, you do as you’re told. “Nice and wide for me, honey. Yeah, just like that.” He scoots your hips down a bit as you adjust and cradles your upper body with his, his head resting over your shoulder, looking at you both in the mirror. You are completely exposed and utterly vulnerable before him once again.
“Now look at that,” he breathes almost reverently, “You’re stunning, in every way.” You both watch in the mirror as he runs his fingers down your face, your jaw, then over your body. You shiver in his lap, earning his famous lopsided smile in return.
Elvis gets more serious as his fingers reach your core. “But ain’t this the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen,” he whispers in your ear, running his pointer finger ever-so-lightly over your folds as you watch. The combination of sensation and the visual you are not used to seeing has you squirming in his lap, aching. He locks his other arm around your pelvis, pressing you against him and immobilizing you.
“Be good, baby. You promised,” he says in your ear, and you watch yourself nod furiously, stilling. He commences his lecture. “I wantcha to see what I see, baby. Look at how pretty and red you are for me like this, all slick and swollen and needy,” he says, watching intently, hungrily, as his finger grazes your lower lips, up one side and down the other. You whine and grip his arm for purchase, feeling like he is calling all the blood in your body to gather in your cunt. It feels heavy and pulsing, burning with need for him.
Elvis brushes up to your clit. “Hmm, one of my favorite little spots,” he hums, circling it softly, making you keen as you lean back into him. Then, obscenely, he uses his first two fingers to spread your lips apart. “Christ, baby, look at that,” he says, voice filled with lust and awe, “You’re fuckin’ weeping for me.”
Your eyes travel down to your exposed hole, and sure enough, you are literally dripping with arousal, both yours and his. It glistens as it gathers, a slow, eager little drop sliding out. You cannot stifle the low moan that escapes your lips at the erotic nature of this little show, your pussy buzzing with heat and want, on display for all to see.
Elvis senses you need more, and he lets your folds wrap around his long middle finger, dragging it up and down through your slick as you watch.
“Oh, god,” you sigh, thankful for the friction, your hips automatically rolling for him.
“Touch yourself, baby. Don’t worry, I’ll help you,” he says, moving your hand over your mound and guiding your fingers in slow circles over your clit before he returns to rubbing in between your slick lower lips. The wonderful combination makes your eyes flutter closed and your head fall back onto his shoulder.
“Nuh uh! Eyes open!” Elvis nudges you, and your eyes pop open. “I want you to watch yourself come, baby. I need you to see what I see.” He smiles, and it’s almost boyish in its mischievousness.
It’s not going to take much, considering how primed that coil was before you even sat down, and how strangely erotic this whole scene is. How it’s making you feel lightheaded and buzzy and hot all over. You begin to work your clit furiously, watching as Elvis runs his fingers over then through your sopping, swollen folds. When he dips one long finger, then another into your weeping hole while you watch, the string of curses that leaves your lips is utterly filthy.
Your senses are overloading, which you imagine was his intention. The sight of you swallowing his fingers so needily, so readily, your arousal shining, the wet suckling sound coming from your cunt as he expertly works his fingers in and out of you pushes you headlong to the edge. Coupled with this and your barrage on your clit, you hit your climax hard with a loud cry, pressing your heels into the mirror with such force, you’re afraid you might crack it.
“Look, look, look, baby,” he pants, forcing your focus back to him, back to what he’s doing to you. “Look at how you flutter around me!” He’s right; you watch, mesmerized as your hole clenches at his fingers through your orgasm, and fuck if that isn’t amazingly hot.
You whimper at the sight, shuddering and panting at the exertion. He chooses that moment to curl his fingers, pressing that special spot inside you that is only his, and another wave of pleasure shoots through you so strongly that you lose your breath. You crest the hill again, stars shooting through you, forgetting that you ever came here to break this off, to run away from him.
There is a wild, desperate look in your eyes that you’ve never seen before as you writhe against him in your ecstasy, keeping you fucking down onto his fingers even though you are sore from before. You can’t stop the waves that keep crashing over you, engulfing every inch of you as you watch it happen before your eyes.
And Elvis looks gorgeous, those blue eyes flashing with his magnetic sexual energy, his pouty lips open and pink and panting right along with you. He is hard again, his length pressing into your spine through his suit as you furiously roll on his fingers, and you can feel him begin to shudder underneath you. You know he gets off on watching and this is quite the show. You rock your hips more deliberately now, feeling the length of him slide between your ass cheeks, and he groans.
“Am I gonna make you come in your pants, E? Gonna make a mess for me?” you mewl seductively, wanting to push him over the edge, too. “You like watching me get off on your fingers, don’t you?”
“Jesus, baby, yes,” he moans, “but I need to watch you come again. Come with me, honey.”
You’re not sure you can. You are overstimulated and over stretched and near hysterical with pleasure. Your heart is thrumming so fast you can barely breathe.
“You can do it. I’ve got you. Let me take care of you, baby. Watch me take care of you,” he pants heavy in your ear, his eyes glassy, unable to take his eyes off your pussy. He moves his hips in tandem with yours now, then without warning, slides a third finger inside you.
Your eyes are glued to the mirror, seeing just how well you take him. You automatically adjust to him, and he works you as only he knows how. You work your clit and grit your teeth as you feel that coil poised to spring again.
“E-El-El-vis…F-f-fuckkk!” you cry breathlessly, coming completely undone around him again.
“Oh, fuck, honey…GodDAMN!” he groans into you simultaneously as he slams his hips up with a violent shudder that matches your own. You can feel the heat pulse under you, dampening the fabric of his suit.
But you continue to shake and shiver on top of him, your orgasm ripping through you, stealing everything you have left, draining every ounce of energy from your reserves, which isn’t much considering the insanity of the last 24 hours. You sense much too late that your body cannot keep up. Your heart is too fast, your breathing too labored, and your muscles too weak.
You shouldn’t be surprised, then, when your body goes limp, the blood drains from your head with a cold rush, and the world goes dim and then black.
*
“Y/n! Y/n! Jesus, Satnin, c-come on baby, w-w-wake up!” you hear Elvis’ panicked voice from far away, but you are so very tired and just want to sleep, thinking maybe it’s a dream.
…no, no! Oh, God, don’t—please don’t go. I-I lo…The faraway echo of long-ago words in this too familiar panicked voice fades away like a dream. You slip back into darkness.
It’s the piercing fear in his voice when he calls your name again that has you finally coming back into yourself. You blink a few times, willing the world to come back into focus, confused.
“O-oh, shit. Oh, t-thank God,” Elvis breathes. He is right above you, his eyes bright and flooded with fear, near tears.
“Wh—what happened?” you murmur, feeling buzzy and strange, and like things aren’t moving fast enough.
“You scared the shit outta me is w-what happened!” he looks down at you, now placed on the couch, his eyes quickly shifting from fear to anger. “You—you just fuckin’ collapsed!”
Your eyebrows furrow as you try to remember what happened. You’d come here to break up with him, to tell him you were leaving…then you argued. Then you fucked. The mirror.
Oh, god, had you passed out from coming too hard?
You start to giggle at that, uncontrollably.
“Baby, what the fuck? It’s not fuckin’ funny!” Elvis fumes, leaning over you.
That just makes you laugh more. “I came…s-so h-hard I p-passed out!” you hiccup out.
“That’s not normal!” he cries, throwing his hands up in the air.
Another peal of laughter at the absurdity of it rolls through you. He’s not wrong, but whatever is happening to you seems to be overpowering your sense of self-control.
“Are you on something?” he asks suddenly, grabbing your jaw to get you to focus. He looks over you carefully and then a flash of horror comes over him at what you assume is the thought that he’s somehow taken advantage of you.
“N-no, of course not,” you finally manage to get out. You are shivering now though, and suddenly freezing. “S-something’s not r-right,” you finally chatter out.
“No shit,” Elvis mumbles, eyes narrowed, obviously trying to figure out what’s wrong with you. “Baby, when was the last time you ate?” he asks.
You blink at that, trying to run through the last day in your mind, but all the days have been running together. You honestly don’t know.
“I-It’s been at least a day, I think,” you finally eek out. “Maybe l-longer?”
“’Maybe longer?’ Goddammit, y/n, you can’t just go without fuckin’ eating!” he yells, getting up from the couch and storming over to the phone at the other end of the room. You hear him ordering someone to bring food immediately as you attempt to sit up, but your dizziness has you lying back down quickly.
Yeah, well, maybe if I wasn’t in a constant swarm of emotional and physical upheaval for the last week, I would remember to eat, but who’s fault is that?
Elvis slams down the phone and paces back over to you. “When was the last time you slept, y/n?” he angrily asks now, his eyes a churning gray-blue, as he pulls your dress down modestly and throws one of his plush robes over you.
“Um, on the r-roof,” you get out.
“Christ, that was barely sleep,” he mumbles, obviously frustrated as he continues to pace the room. “You have to take better care of yourself, y/n!” he erupts.
You recoil a bit but are touched by his anger, knowing it is fueled by concern. But you are also annoyed because it isn’t all your fault.
“Well, I’ve been a b-bit busy,” you manage.
“Not that fuckin’ busy!”
He’s not getting it. You shake your head, tears coming to your eyes.
“Th-this is part of the problem, E. I’ve been burning the candle at both ends, I’ve been so s-stressed, I don’t know which way is up…” you shiver out.
He halts. Your words must be sinking in because the blood drains from his face and you’re suddenly afraid he might pass out.
“This is because of me,” he finally says. The way he phrases it, you’re not sure if it’s a question or statement.
“It’s not—” you start, not wanting him to spiral more than he already is.
“Goddammit, you’ve been tellin’ me you’re strugglin’, and I been yammerin’ at you to trust me to take care of you and then I did the opposite. Shit,” he curses. “I’m so sorry, baby.” Elvis deflates onto the couch next to you and pulls you into his arms, kissing your forehead, your cheeks, your eyelids.
You are too tired to respond other than to brush the errant tear that runs down his cheek with your thumb. You wish you could see this sensitive side of him more often.
“Okay, here’s what’s gonna happen: I’m gonna get some food in ya, then I’m sending Jerry with you upstairs so you can rest—”
You open your mouth to argue.
“There’ll be none of that,” he hushes you. “There’s no way you’re doin’ the show tonight. And Jerry’ll get you woken up before we come up after the show, and everybody’ll be none the wiser.” He gives you a stern look.
There’s no point in fighting him or telling him how his plan could go wrong. You’re still confused exactly how things with Jack are going to be handled or if anything Elvis said while fucking your brains out earlier was going to come to fruition, but you’re not in the frame of mind to try and solve that this minute. So instead you just nod.
The food comes, somehow all of your favorites. He knows my favorite foods? runs through your mind, but you are too hungry to dwell on it. Then, as he instructed, you head upstairs with Jerry, who without judgement, sends you into Elvis’ suite to rest. You think your mind won’t possibly let you sleep, but between the food and your exhaustion, you drift off before your head hits the pillow.
*
Circle G Ranch, February 1967
You wake up early, your eyes blinking out the dull winter morning light streaming through the window. Well, it’s not early for normal standards, but in Elvis’ world, most haven’t even gone to bed yet, you think, looking at the clock. You being awake now is likely due to the fact you couldn’t keep up with the partying last night and had excused yourself much sooner than usual to go to bed.
It takes you a moment to realize where you are. Being at Elvis’ newly acquired ranch in Mississippi has been a welcome change of scenery yet is still a little disorienting. You are used to Memphis, and even occasionally California, but this place is new for you all.
Completely dissatisfied and not having any semblance of control with his career, Elvis recently decided that he wanted a place in the country, a place where they could all come to relax and ride the horses he’d bought for all the men and their wives. A place where they could work the land and have a little fun. And you wonder if he just wanted to feel a little normal for once, thinking that a ranch would do that for him, that it could give him the control he so desperately craved. That maybe it might bring him some of that happiness and zest for life that had been bled out of him for all these years, turning him into someone you barely recognized.
So, Circle G Ranch was purchased, and you’d all arrived to take in its splendor and fresh air. And it was working. Elvis seemed happier here than he’d been in a very long time, the sparkle beginning to return in those expressive eyes of his. And when Elvis was happy, everyone else was allowed to be happy too, theoretically.
You think maybe all that horseback riding and fresh air is part of the reason you were so tired last night. Turning over, you notice that Jack hasn’t come to bed. Your heart sinks, though out here in the middle of the country, it’s not like he can get in too much trouble. It’s just likely the guys are still awake.
Either way, there is an emptiness in your chest that misses your husband. Each time he leaves with Elvis, less of the man you knew returns. You are hoping that some leisure time on the ranch will help him, too. There is less temptation out here, and more opportunities for you two to spend time together.
Unfortunately, he has not been very receptive to that so far, opting to hang with the guys more than you. But considering that he has been drinking more, part of you is glad for it. If the last couple of years have shown you anything, it’s that Jack is a mean drunk, just like his father.
With that thought, you decide to get up instead of dwelling on things you cannot change. As you get dressed, you hear the door of the trailer slam.
“Jack? Is that you?”
“Who else would it be?” he replies belligerently. The tone of his voice tells you immediately all you need to know. Your heart speeds up as a warning discomfort blooms in your chest. You steel yourself before walking out into the living area.
“Morning, sweetie. Want me to make you some breakfast?” you ask in a light and easy voice. If nothing else, food might help sober him some.
Jack’s response is a grunt in the affirmative, and then he shoots you a glare, his brown eyes dull but cutting all the same. You have no idea what you may have done to upset him, but he is obviously not happy with you. The tightness in your chest increases and you force a smile, not wanting to set him off. If you act like everything is fine, he might forget what is bothering him. It happens that way sometimes and is generally the best-case scenario when he’s like this.
“Okay, I’ll get that started,” you smile, and he settles with a huff on the couch. Scurrying off to the kitchen, your smile falls and you get to cooking as quickly as possible. Steak and eggs, you think. That’s his favorite and will help clear his head.
Your mind races as you cook, trying to find a reason for his ire. You dissect every moment from the day and night before but cannot pinpoint anything in particular that you might have done to make him upset. This has you feeling uneasy, on eggshells. If you knew what you’d done, you could apologize and make up for it before things get out of hand, but it occurs to you that he might be too far gone for that anyway.
Lost in your thoughts, it takes until you smell the meat smoking to realize you may have cooked it too long. You are hoping he is too drunk to notice. With renewed focus, you plate your breakfasts and walk to the tiny table.
“Soup’s on, babe!” you say in a cheerful sing-song voice. Part of you cringes inside to hear yourself like this.
He grunts off the sofa and stumbles to the table, plopping down with a screech of the chair. You keep yourself from wincing at the sound, wanting to stay as sunny as possible as you begin to cut into the meat. You’re unable to keep from looking up at him to check his body language, his affect, as he begins shoveling eggs and toast into his mouth without so much as a word to you.
You pick at your own breakfast, your appetite low because you feel so on edge. You can sense the tension in the room and know better than to speak at this point.
“What the fuck is this?” Jack grumbles, throwing his knife and fork clattering onto the plate.
You look up quickly, your heartbeat skipping. He’s fuming now, his eyes bloodshot and narrowed at you, his scar an angry red with the flush on his cheeks. You don’t have time to piece together whatever has happened before he continues, his voice shaking low with anger.
“First, you embarrass me by taking off in the middle of everyone having a good time last night. Everybody asking, ‘What’s wrong with her, is she okay?’ blah, blah, blah,” he says with a mocking venom that sends a chill right down your spine. “And now you can’t even make me a decent breakfast. Can’t even get that right,” he growls, pounding on the table.
The table rattles and you start to shake a little, frozen to the spot. You realize that maybe Jack is more than just drunk, that maybe he took something on top of it that has him worse than usual.
“I…I’m sorry, I was just tired from all the activity yesterday, and I can make you a new—” you sputter out quickly, but still unable to move, trapped in his furious gaze.
“I don’t wanna hear your fuckin’ excuses, you stupid bitch!” he screams, exploding out of his seat, the chair toppling over behind him with a clatter. “What I want is a fuckin’ steak that’s not cooked to death!” he roars, then picks up his plate and hurls it over the table near your head. You barely have time to register what’s happening, leaning out of the way at the last second on pure instinct, and the plate careens into the wall behind you with a crash, sending food and ceramic flying everywhere.
Your brain misfires and your heart leaps to your throat, the terror in your veins pulsing through you so intensely that all you can do is turn and run. You have to escape because you don’t know what he’s gonna do, he’s never thrown anything at you before, and he’s yelled, yes, but not done anything to hurt you, and oh, god, you have to get out, get out, GET OUT.
You fly past Jack, his rage too consuming and his senses too dull to catch you as you go, and you are out the door of the trailer in a flash, not stopping to see if he’s following you. No, all you can think is you have to get away, you have to escape, and you fly through the rows of trailers housing the other men and their wives. Your heart slams against your ribcage, fueling your body forward as you sprint down the dirt road towards the barn in the distance. Your socks stick to the cold ground as you run but you don’t care—all you need is to get to the horses. You’re not sure why, but you just know that if you can get to the horses, you’ll be safe.
You run and run, only hearing the crash of the plate in your ear, feeling the splatter as it shatters behind you. Only hearing Jack’s screams, “You stupid bitch! You stupid bitch!” You don’t even register the tears burning down your cheeks as you finally reach the barn, flinging open the door with what little strength you have left and frantically looking in the stalls for the horse that Elvis gave you.
Moonbeam. You finally see her near the other end of the barn, her gray and white coloring standing out in the sea of darker equines. You skid to a stop in front of her. Knowingly, as if she can sense your distress and your need for her large, calming presence, she turns and pokes her head out of the stall, nuzzling your tear-stained face.
“Oh. Oh,” you gasp, completely out of breath from the exertion. You cling onto Moonbeam’s strong neck, her coat soft and warm under your shaking arms. Your chest heaves, desperately trying to take in air. If you could, you would jump right on Moonbeam’s back and ride as fast and as far as you can, but she is not saddled, and you have no idea how to get her ready.
The light tap on your shoulder sends you flailing into the stall door with a shriek.
He’s found me he’s found me he’s found me, is all that runs through your head, though if you were anywhere near logical, you’d know that Jack was in no state to chase you all the way to the barn.
“Hey! Hey, y/n, it’s okay! Honey, it’s just me!” You turn toward the warm, familiar voice and are met with concerned deep blue eyes, a far cry from Jack’s bloodshot and brown glaring ones.
“Oh,” is all you can manage to huff out as you look at Elvis, your muscles starting to burn and shake. Your heart is still beating too fast.
“Are you okay? What the hell happened?” Elvis says worriedly but gently, looking over you, seeming to sense how on edge you are. He goes to touch your shoulder, but you reflexively shirk backwards, knocking your elbow into the door with a thud. He quickly backs away a step, putting his hands up in a non-threatening way.
You suddenly slam into the present moment, realizing that you must look insane. Your hair is windblown, you are makeup-less with tears streaking down your face. It’s the dead of winter and you are without a coat or shoes, your socks dirty and torn and bloody from your sprint. You have food splattered down your left side, and you are gasping for air like you’re drowning.
“Y/n, I need you to tell me if you’re okay,” Elvis says, quiet and calm, as if talking to a spooked horse.
You glance over his shoulder, suddenly afraid that Jack could stumble through the barn door at any moment. Wide-eyed and frantic, you look back at Elvis. You realize he’s between you and the door and that gives you some comfort. Jack would have to get through Elvis to get to you, and while you know you’re not in your right mind, you are completely certain that Elvis wouldn’t let Jack hurt you.
With this relieving thought and your adrenaline beginning to wane, you suddenly feel extraordinarily tired as well as embarrassed that Elvis is seeing you like this. You realize he’s waiting for an answer, but you cannot speak. You don’t want to bother Elvis with any of this, so you nod your head, bobbing it up and down quickly.
Elvis tilts his head and looks at you perceptively. Of course you’re not okay, and Elvis reads it all over your face and appearance. You finally give up under his watchful gaze, shaking your head. It falls back against the door behind you, and you choke back a sob. Your exhausted body shakes with cold and the remnants of your fear, and you slide down the door, unable to support yourself any longer.
“Oh, shit, okay. Honey, it’s okay,” Elvis coos at you, stepping quickly to your side but not wanting to touch you and invade your space, lest you freak out again. Instead, he slides down the door with you, letting you lean into him for support. And you do. As you reach the cold, straw-covered ground, you lean your head onto his shoulder, his warmth radiating comfortingly into your side. You begin to shiver.
“Here, baby,” he says, taking off his thick coat and wrapping it around your shoulders. Immediately, you feel calmer, as the heat and his distinctly Elvis scent of musk and Old Spice, coupled with the woodsmoke from last night’s campfire surrounds you like a blanket.
You both sit in silence for a while as your body comes back down from the fear of Jack’s outburst. He’s yelled at you before, even called you names, but he’d never gotten so close to actually physically hurting you.
He must’ve been on something, you think. Jack would never hurt me.
I should’ve been more careful with the breakfast. I should’ve paid more attention. I should’ve stayed up last night with him. The thoughts run through your head, as though if you examine them enough, you can possibly avoid setting him off in the future.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Elvis asks quietly, sensing the wheels turning in your head as only he can.
Humiliated, you shake your head vehemently. Elvis does not need to know the specifics of your marriage. He does not need to know of your failures.
But part of you wants to tell him he’s created a monster.
Without Elvis, Jack might never have gone into the bottle. Without Elvis, he wouldn’t be taking other shit that makes him fly off the handle at any moment. Without Elvis, without Elvis, without Elvis…
You are too exhausted for blame and anger right now, though, so you bury it instead. It is what it is.
Elvis doesn’t push you, though you can tell he wants to know everything. You can practically feel that he’s quelling some deep instinct to protect you, his muscles tensing and releasing, his jaw working. But maybe he begins to piece it all together himself because he remains quiet. You are safe now, and that’s what matters, right?
And perhaps it is your heightened emotions, but you suddenly crave the nearness of the man who used to be your best friend. The man that, for reasons you don’t entirely understand, time and circumstance somehow stole from you when you weren’t looking.
So you lean into him, into his strength and sensitivity and his unique power to draw you to him, even when part of you wants to blame him for everything. Even after all these years of confusing behavior and emotional distance, you can’t begin to imagine your world without Elvis Presley in it.
And now you sit here on the cold floor of a horse barn in the middle of the Mississippi countryside in the dead of winter, wondering how in the hell your life became this.
*
Jerry wakes you gently with a whisper and a poke on your shoulder but you startle anyway, pulled out of the dream violently with a gasp.
“Sorry, y/n, but everyone is on their way up soon. EP told me to wake you,” he says apologetically.
The room is dark, and you are still exhausted, but you are somewhat grateful to be pulled out of that dream-memory. It leaves a bad taste in your mouth and a sick feeling in your stomach. You can’t help but chastise yourself for letting Jack grovel the way he did after he’d sobered up that day, for how you forgave him so easily because it certainly was not the last time he went crazy like that on you.
“Thank you, Jerry. I’ll be right out,” you say blearily. You blink the sleep from your eyes and stagger into the bathroom to make yourself presentable.
Anger at Jack festers like an open wound, but the dream has also reminded you of your anger towards Elvis about all of it. That makes you feel uneasy, especially coupled with that nagging feeling that he is hiding something from you. You don’t want to feel angry at Elvis, but some of his actions over the years have contributed to your overall dissatisfaction with your life.
You didn’t fully realize until now how upset it had made you that he just stopped being your best friend one day. You still don’t understand all of it, though you feel like these unearthed memories are trying to get you there. But it doesn’t change the fact that both he and Jack abandoned you in different ways. And this pisses you off.
Fucking men, you think, touching up your makeup and straightening your dress. Your unease deepens when you realize you are going to face the group very soon and you have absolutely no idea what Elvis is going to do or even if he will do anything. Is he just going to pull you to his side and tell Jack to go fuck himself? Is he going to act like it never happened at all? You’re not sure which is worse.
Your stomach churns and you desperately need to talk to Elvis before he does something stupid. Panic rises, but you slam it back down, willing yourself to just be normal for the time being.
Be normal. What a laugh. As if any of this is remotely normal.
Steeling yourself, you head out to the living room just as people start walking through the door. Sandy finds you immediately, giving you a concerned and questioning look. You can’t tell if she’s surprised to see you or not, but you turn from her, still annoyed that she ratted you out (even if it was in an attempt to help you).
As the room fills and bustles, something is itching at you, poking at the corners of your mind. You think maybe it is paranoia. It feels as though Red keeps shooting knowing, snide looks your way. You can’t help but examine everyone around you, searching for signs that they know. You squirm in your skin, unable to get comfortable.
It doesn’t help that Jack slides in behind you when you aren’t looking, wrapping his arms around you a little too tight. He reeks of whiskey and cigar smoke so badly you choke. “Where you been, treasure?” Jack asks a little too pointedly, suspiciously, as if he knows something is up. Your heart plummets and you resist the urge to push him away but can’t help but try to worm your way out of his clutches as Elvis strolls in the room.
Elvis’ intense eyes find you immediately, and you watch his jaw clench as he keeps himself in check. You manage to slip out of Jack’s grasp and Elvis relaxes a bit, distracted by one of the guys. It seems like he doesn’t want to make a scene over the two of you in front of the group, which has you breathing a sigh of relief.
What doesn’t have you relieved is that Jack is once again all over you as everyone finds a seat. You feel trapped as the conversation begins to flow, wanting nothing more than to go hide in Elvis’ room, far away from the fumbling hands of your husband. His hands are heavy on you, creeping up your thigh, drawing circles on your shoulder with his fingertips. It used to be a comforting gesture, but now it feels possessive.
He knows. Maybe Red already told him, you panic. Your heart gallops in your chest and you try not to lose it.
No, don’t be an idiot. He wouldn’t be this quiet if he knew, right? Jack is a few drinks in at this point, and the more he drinks, the louder he generally gets. Though based on his hands, you think that he is feeling something else altogether.
You can feel Elvis’ jealous eyes bore on you as Jack touches you, but you are caught between a rock and a hard place. If you shirk your husband’s advances to obviously, it will seem strange and garner attention, but if you don’t, you fear Elvis will give you both away. And you aren’t ready for that, not before the two of you come up with a cohesive plan.
If you are going to leave Jack (no, when you leave Jack, you remind yourself), you certainly don’t want to do it in the middle of an afterparty with the whole gang listening in.
“I’m going to get something to drink,” you finally whisper, excusing yourself with a forced smile, needing to escape Jack’s clutches. “You need anything?” you ask.
“Oh, I need something alright,” Jack breathes sloppily in your ear, attempting to be seductive and failing. But it has an edge to it that worries you.
“You’re hilarious, babe,” you say as sweet as you can while standing to make your escape. Jack takes the moment to grope your ass and you can almost feel the wave of irritation coming off Elvis from across the room. “I’ll get you a drink,” you sputter out, sliding out of Jack’s grasp, shooting Elvis a quick, warning glance to not do anything stupid. Then you scurry away as fast as you can without seeming strange.
Instead of heading to the kitchen, you make a beeline for the bathroom, desperately needing a moment away from all the eyes you feel are on you tonight, wanting things from you that you cannot give.
Fucking men, you think again, closing the door behind you.
To your shock, it doesn’t close. Jack pushes in and your heart drops into your stomach. The look in his dark and muddled eyes bodes nothing good.
“Hey, treasure,” he slurs with that disturbing edge to his voice, grabbing your waist and pulling you in for a sloppy, whisky-tinged kiss. You try rather unsuccessfully to not cringe at the feel of his lips on yours.
Maybe he’s too drunk to notice, you hope.
“I thought you were going to get drinks,” Jack says suspiciously. He locks the door behind you, warning bells exploding in your brain for a multitude of reasons, one being Elvis breaking the door down, another being whatever Jack expects of you.
“I had to pee first, babe,” you say as evenly as possible, “Now get so I can!” You playfully swat him on the shoulder, as you’ve done a million times before in your life together, but this time is different. This time, Jack’s chocolate eyes blacken as he grabs your wrist.
Your breath catches, and your heart starts to speed up as Jack’s hand tightens. “Honey, you’re hurting me. Let go,” you whisper.
His dark eyes rake over your body with what you think is lust, but it is tainted with something frightening. “Oh, I think you came in here because you wanted something else,” he says, backing you into the vanity. “You know, some of the guys are saying that you’re stepping out on me. Can you believe that?” His head buries in your neck, his lips dragging roughly against your skin.
Fucking Red.
“W-What? That’s ridiculous,” you manage to eek out, trying to lean away from his touch, but there is nowhere for you to go. Your heart is in your throat, but before you can say anything else in your defense, he’s changing the subject.
“You’re wearing this scarf again?” Jack questions because it impedes his barrage of his mouth on your neck. He unties it and you watch the pink and black silk flutter to the floor.
“It goes with my outfit,” you reply. You attempt to push him away but get nowhere, his broad chest stubbornly immobile. “Seriously, Jack, I need to pee,” you whine now, hoping that will do the trick. Every nerve in your body is on alert as he kisses your skin, as he presses into you. You can feel the bulge in his pants growing, poking into your pelvis.
Every fiber of your being wants out of this enclosed space, a space that only a moment ago felt like a refuge but now feels like a prison. You don’t want this, and if Elvis finds out, there will be hell to pay. But Jack is too far gone to listen and too strong for you to move.
Jack picks you up easily and places you on the counter, his hands pushing the unyielding fabric of your dress up your thighs so he can spread them open and step between them. It feels cold—nothing like the warmth and passion you felt when Elvis did the same thing earlier.
“I told ‘em, ‘Not my treasure. She knows her place. Besides, who else would want her anyway?’” he laughs cruelly, grinding into you. The words cut, as he intended, and you become fully aware that you are in trouble. Your stomach rolls, nausea consuming you.
“Jack, seriously, stop it. I don’t want to do this right now. You’re too drunk,” you protest, pushing your palms into his chest to try and put space between you.
But he seems to take your protests as being coy, or perhaps he just doesn’t care, and chuckles darkly into your neck. “Didn’t stop you from sucking my dick the other night.” He lathes his tongue against your collarbone, causing an icy shiver down your spine that he interprets as positive, smiling on your skin. His hands roam to your back and unzip your dress.
You squirm, but it only serves to assist in his attempt to undress you, his hands roughly pulling down your sleeves and bra straps.
He stops abruptly, to your relief. “What are those?” Jack asks, suddenly on edge, his tone changing completely. He pulls back from you and for that you are grateful but confused.
“What’s what?” you reply as he stares at your chest, his eyes narrowing, the lust being replaced fully by anger.
Jack is on you in a flash, too fast for you to register what’s happening and then he’s yanking down the front of your dress, your bra, exposing your breast.
“Jesus Jack! What are you doing?!” you shriek, trying to pull away as he manhandles you, but you have nowhere to go.
“What the fuck are those?” He pulls you roughly off the counter and spins you around to the mirror, pointing to the series of purple welts on your breasts.
Oh, fuck.
“I…uh…I…,” you sputter incoherently. Your brain misfires, too panicked to think of anything clever or even anything at all. There’s no logical explanation for the dark bruises other than them being what they are. Your mind flashes back to the other night, how Elvis had claimed you, his pouty mouth suckling your skin roughly as he’d fucked you into oblivion on the couch.
You hadn’t even thought to cover them with makeup, since Jack hadn’t seen you naked in eons.
“You stupid fucking slut! Who are you screwing?!” Jack screams, ballistic, swinging you back around to face him.
You’ve never seen him this angry, his face and scar turning beet red, his eyes like daggers. But this reaction is rich coming from him, which triggers your own anger as much as your fear.
“Really, Jack? You barely come home and when you do you smell of cheap perfume, but me, I’m the slut?!” you yell back at him, your body shaking all over, as you pull up your bra and dress. You certainly hadn’t planned to do this here, now, but you’d known in your heart for days that this was coming.
The vein in his forehead pulses dangerously, and he looks like he truly wants to hurt you. He grabs your wrists painfully as you try and zip up your dress. You’ve never seen him look at you this way, even in his worst moments, and it send a shudder of fear through you. “You’re my goddamn wife! Nobody touches my wife!” he yells, his spit flying in your face, ignoring your reasoning completely, too far gone.
Then, he unlocks the door and yanks it open so hard it slams into the wall with a crash, and then pulls you into the hallway, dragging you behind him.
“Jack, stop. You’re hurting me!” you say, trying to wrench out of his iron grasp. “What’re you doing? This isn’t the place for this,” you hiss frantically, scared of what he might do or say next.
Jack manhandles you into the living area where people are conversing and laughing at someone’s jokes, and roughly pushes you into the middle of the room.
The laughter dies out quickly as all eyes turn towards you.
Your heart pounds in your chest and heat burns your cheeks. You are furious and scared and now embarrassed, the back of your dress undone in front of everyone. You watch as Sandy’s eyes widen, immediately gleaning what’s happening, and she starts to stand, but Jerry grabs her arm to stop her.
You rub at your raw wrists, but you don’t turn to look at Elvis, who is behind you. That would give it all away, and for now you at least have control over that.
“Who is it, huh? Who are you fucking? All of them?” Jack shouts at you in front of the group, pointing aimlessly at the men. There are confused and alarmed glances on most faces, though Sandy, Jerry, and Red all attempt to cover their knowledge with surprise. Some are better than others at concealing it, but Jack is too busy looking at you to see them.
“Hey, man, cool it,” Elvis says from behind you, trying to be nonchalant and deescalate the situation, but you can hear in his voice the effort it’s taking him to be calm.
Jack whirls you around roughly by the arm to face Elvis, as though he’s trying to shame you at court in front of the king. Elvis looks at you, unable to hide his concern and budding fury completely, and you shake your head the smallest amount, for only him to see, telling him to lay low and not give himself away. You may be fucked, but this can still be contained, at least until Jack has calmed down and not everyone is watching.
“This ain’t your problem, EP!” Jack yells. It’s as though the most obvious has escaped Jack’s rage-addled mind, since he’s not even considering Elvis when he’s the biggest threat of all.
But one doesn’t yell at Elvis. Not without repercussions.
“The hell it isn’t, not when you come in here drunk and hot like this, fixin’ to ruin everyone’s mood,” Elvis warns, standing slowly. He’s not yelling yet, but his eyes are starting to turn hard and dark. Elvis can be incredibly patient, but if his temper turns, it won’t be pretty. And he was already done with Jack before this wretched display. The tension in the room thickens to a heightened degree, leaving everyone on edge.
So hot with fear and embarrassment and anger, you think you might burst into flames right here. Your heart is thundering against your ribcage and you can barely breathe. Your legs itch to run, but you are surrounded by prying eyes, trapped between the two most important men in your life.
Jack is incensed, fuming, and not backing down. He’s gearing up for a fight, which is bad. His grip on your arm tightens and you can’t help but wince. You watch as Elvis takes a step towards you both and you shoot him a look to stay put.
“Jack, stop this,” you say as calmly as you can. “Let’s just take a breath and talk somewhere else and let the party go on.”
Jack’s chest heaves and he turns on you. “Shut the fuck up, you whore!” he snarls.
Then his fist brutally collides with your face.
Everything feels like it’s moving in slow motion after that. The pain is instant, radiating through your cheek and your jaw, up into your eye socket. The metal of his rings snag at the corner of your mouth and scrape your face. Shock and disbelief course through you as the air rushes out of your lungs and hot tears spring to your eyes. The momentum of his strike sends you careening to the floor, and you manage to throw your hands out to catch yourself just before you hit the carpet.
A stunned silence falls over the group.
He hit me. He fucking hit me, you think in disbelief, through the pain, through the ringing in your ears.Jack had never, ever laid a hand on you before. You reach your hand up to your face, and it comes away bright red, bloody, your lip split. You can’t hold back the choked, shaking sob that escapes your lips.
Everything explodes at once.
The roar that comes from Elvis is like nothing you’ve heard before. The anger he’d shown you is but a fraction of what you see now as he crosses the room, a menacing bull after a matador. He strides so quickly and fiercely with those long legs of his that Jack barely has time to register what is happening before Elvis punches him square in the jaw, then rapidly again right in the nose. You can hear the sickening break of it which turns your stomach. Or maybe it’s your own pain doing that, you’re not sure at this point.
Elvis doesn’t even say anything, so blacked out with rage that he can’t even speak. You watch from the floor as Jack stumbles back and his eyes widen in shock, then confusion.
“EP? What the—?” Jack starts to say, holding his nose as it starts to bleed down his face, but before he can get it out, Elvis has him by the throat. Those long fingers wrap around and begin to squeeze as Elvis walks Jack back into the wall. Shocked, you watch from the floor as Jack’s face begins to turn red and he begins to sputter, clawing at Elvis’ hand and arm. True fear begins to play over Jack’s features.
Suddenly, the guys are all yelling and rushing around you. Sandy’s hands yank you up and back out of the fray, and you feel dizzy, swaying on your feet. You’re not sure how, but she manages to get you on the couch, zipping up your dress in a flash, and then examines your injuries.
“Are you okay? Y/n, are you okay?” she asks frantically, but with the commotion in the room and the fuzzy white noise in your head, she feels a million miles away. Your eyes are locked on the insane sight in front of you, freezing you with shock.
The guys are desperately trying to pull Elvis off Jack, but his hand is like a vise around Jack’s throat. He’s strangling him, truly choking him because you can see Jack’s face start to go purple and his eyes begin to roll back.
Three of the guys are on Elvis’ back now while Red chops at his arms, trying to break his hold on Jack’s throat unsuccessfully.
Oh my god, if Elvis kills him, I’ll lose them both and it’ll be all my fault, you realize.
You rise to your feet, ignoring Sandy’s protests, ignoring the dizziness and throbbing in your head, and you somehow, through pure will, push yourself through the throng of men to Elvis’ side.
“Elvis! Elvis, you have to stop this,” you say firmly, staring into his beautiful, terrifying face. His eyes are black and unyielding, almost unrecognizable. His jaw is so clenched in his murderous fury that you think he’ll crack his teeth. You’re not even sure if he can hear you because he doesn’t give any indication that he can, but you have to get him to stop.
“Baby, you can’t do this. You’re killing him. You can’t kill him. Satnin, I can’t lose you and if you do this, we’ll both be lost,” you murmur, pleading in his ear for only him to hear, hoping against hope it gets through to him.
You watch Elvis blink a few times, as if waking briefly from his trance, his shoulders relaxing just enough that when Red slams down on his arms again, they give way. Jerry pulls you backwards with a yelp, as Jack coughs, sucking in deep, rattling breaths as he slumps down the wall.
You do not go to him.
Elvis’ lapse in rage is short lived, for he sees Red and turns on him quickly with another roar, throwing brutal punches. You see on Red’s face that he knows exactly why Elvis is coming for him. A few punches land hard, and you hear more of the crack of flesh on flesh. You can’t help but smile a little inside at Red getting what’s coming to him, but horrified at yourself, you push that thought right out of your brain.
But there is a reason Red is Elvis’ bodyguard. He’s tough and scrappy and much more prepared for a fight than Jack was. You can see he doesn’t want to hurt Elvis but blocks and dodges some of his punches more readily. Four of the Mafia surround Elvis now, grabbing his arms, his waist, holding him back from Red, holding him down.
Elvis struggles against them and lets out one last terrifying primal cry before they get him subdued, pushing him to his knees. His chest heaves as they continue to hold his arms, his chin lowered, those lethal blue eyes peering out from under the black hair falling in his face. They still home in on Jack and Red, who are licking their wounds at the other end of the living room.
Adrenaline courses through you, your heart threatening to pound through your ribs, the blood rushing in your ears, as you watch four men have to hold down the man you love to keep him from killing the men that hurt you. And you aren’t entirely sure how to feel about that. A small part of you is frightened by this side of Elvis, how he is gone so deep into his rage that the man you know is barely there at all. And you can’t help but feel responsible for this turn in him.
But another part of you feels vindicated and relieved and almost proud of his defense of you. Part of you swells with so much love for him that you want to fall to your knees and kiss him as if your life depended on it.
“You sonofabitch. You fucking wife-stealing asshole,” Jack rasps out bitterly at Elvis, cowering on the floor with Red and a couple of the other men surrounding him.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” some of the guys cry, having to hold Elvis back from going ballistic again. His glare at Jack is so fierce, you think the look alone might kill him from across the room.
But you don’t stop to find out because you wrench out of Jerry’s grasp and somehow make it over to Jack before your brain catches up with your body. You don’t even have time to think twice before your hand pulls back and slaps open-handed across Jack’s cheek, the smack reverberating in your ears and stinging through your hand and up your arm.
But you don’t care.
Silence falls over the room once more. Jack stares up at you wide-eyed, with shocked indignation.
“Shut the fuck up, Jack,” you seethe, now fully infuriated that the man you once loved had hurt you so badly, in so many ways. “You lost me a long time ago, and Elvis had nothing to do with it, you cheating, lying, drunken bastard!” You lean over into his face, your voice low and biting, “And don’t you ever, ever, lay your hands on me again, or next time I won’t stop him from tearing you apart.”
You watch the mixture of surprise and contempt and fear play over Jack’s features for a moment before stepping back. You look back at Elvis and see his lip curl into a sly grin.
And then it all hits you at once. All your mistakes. Everyone staring at you in shock. Your dirty laundry aired out for all to see. The blood and pain bruising on your face, your head pounding, your vision hazy. The mortifying violence that has occurred in your name. Your lover almost murdering your husband.
Oh, god.
Suddenly, vertigo hits you hard and you are so dizzy that the room swims and sways in front of you. The bile rises so quickly that you don’t even have time to process what is happening before you are hurling your dinner onto the shag carpet.
Something is quite wrong, you realize. All your anger and doubts and regrets and love drain from you with a tingling coolness, and everything and everyone feels very far away, their cries muffled by the pain in your head. Then you fall into a dark oblivion, leaving the pain and consequences of your actions far, far behind, and you wonder fleetingly if it was all worth it.
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