giggling with god

Osaragi adjusted the focus of the binoculars again. Not that she needed to—she could see just fine—but she wanted an excuse to keep looking. Through the cracked windshield of the beat-up car, parked across the street from Sakamoto’s store, she kept her eyes locked on the sliding glass doors.

Shishiba sat in the driver’s seat, half-asleep, lazily flipping through a convenience store manga. He hadn't spoken in the past ten minutes, which suited Osaragi fine.

What didn’t suit her, though, was you—laughing, again—with that Chinese girl inside the shop.

Lu.

The scene played out like a poorly written soap opera, but with too much meat bun and too much lingering eye contact. You had followed Nagumo in hours ago after your mission, said you’d wait a bit while he caught up with Sakamoto. Osaragi hadn’t thought much of it. She figured you'd stay quiet in a corner like you always did, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded, waiting to be dismissed.

But now? Now you were smiling. You looked like a damn puppy. Tail wagging in spirit. You had something warm in your hands—probably Lu’s famous meat buns—and Lu’s hand was still barely brushing yours, lingering like it meant something. You didn't pull away.

Osaragi blinked. Once. Twice.

Her thumb tightened around the binoculars.

“You’re going to snap that thing in half,” Shishiba muttered without looking up.

“I’m not,” she said flatly, though her fingers twitched again.

He hummed. “You’ve been staring for exactly twenty-seven minutes. What is it, a hostage situation?”

“Worse.”

Another laugh drifted through the glass storefront. You leaned on the counter now, Lu showing you something on her phone. Probably a meme. Maybe a stupid dog video. Your head tipped back as you laughed again—soft and unguarded. Osaragi had never seen you like that. Not with her.

Not even close.

She dropped the binoculars in her lap and crossed her arms, slouching low in the driver seat. A sulk settled over her like a weighted blanket. She hated that feeling in her stomach—cloying and ugly, like she'd swallowed something hot and sour. She wanted to go in there, grab you by the wrist, and—

No. That wasn’t fair. You weren’t hers.

Not yet.

“Whatever. Not like I care,” she mumbled.

Except she did.

Enough to watch your every move from the car like a deranged pigeon with expensive binoculars and a mission.

When the store bell finally chimed and you stepped out, the sun caught your smile first—still chewing, still holding that stupid half-bitten meat bun in your hand like it was some sacred relic. Your head tipped back as you laughed again, Lu following close behind, her shoulder bumping yours with casual familiarity—like the two of you had known each other for years.

Osaragi’s jaw tensed.

She didn’t move as you crossed the street, didn’t uncross her arms, didn’t even blink when the car door creaked open and a wave of humid summer air slipped inside—carrying with it the infuriatingly chipper voice of Nagumo.

“Yooo~ you wouldn’t believe how fast Y/N fell in love with Lu’s cooking,” he announced, flopping into the back seat like he paid rent. He dropped a plastic bag on the floor—Sakamoto’s takeout—and flashed a lazy grin at Shishiba. “Meat buns. For the two grumpy twins up front.”

Osaragi still didn’t look at him. Her jaw tightened further.

Shishiba barely glanced up. “Took your time.”

Nagumo snorted. “Well, I couldn’t just rip them apart, could I?” He leaned in toward your shoulder, voice syrupy with mischief. “They were bonding, right Y/N?”

“Yeah! I hope you guys haven’t been waiting too long,” you said with a sheepish smile as you settled into the middle seat beside Nagumo.

Shishiba grunted something unintelligible and flipped a page.

Osaragi said nothing.

You blinked, sensing the atmosphere shift. “Everything okay?”

She turned her head just enough to look at you, eyes unreadable beneath her bangs.

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

You blinked at her tone. “I don’t know. You’re just… staring like you want to kill me.”

“I’m always like this.”

“That’s a lie.”

She didn’t respond, but the slight twitch in her eye betrayed her. You slid into the backseat anyway, the warmth of Lu’s meat bun still lingering in your palm. You bit into it again and sighed, completely unaware of how that sound made Osaragi want to crawl out of the car and throw herself into oncoming traffic.

“You want a bite?” you asked, leaning forward between the seats and nudging the bun slightly in her direction.

Osaragi turned slowly.

“Why would I want your half-eaten, saliva-soaked bun?”

“Because it’s really good?” you offered, grinning.

A silence stretched too long.

Then—

Shishiba closed his manga with a sigh. “For the love of god, just take a bite or shoot her. You’re ruining the air conditioning.”

Nagumo cackled from the back. “Ohhh, she wants to bite, alright. Just not the meat bun.”

“Shut up,” Osaragi and Shishiba said in perfect sync.

You blinked, confused. “Should I be scared or…?”

Osaragi finally snatched the bun from your hand—not looking at you—and took the tiniest bite imaginable. More of a graze than a chew.

You stared, wide-eyed. “You actually—?”

“I didn’t say I wanted it,” she snapped, shoving the bun back at you. “It was falling apart. Structural integrity compromised.”

Shishiba snorted.

Osaragi’s eyes narrowed, her gaze locked on the road now, knuckles pale against the wheel. But you didn’t notice. You were too busy nibbling on the now slightly less structurally sound meat bun, humming at the taste.

“Lu’s really sweet,” you said absentmindedly, eyes on the window. “I thought she’d be more guarded, but she’s funny. She’s got that dry sense of humor. And her cooking’s insane.”

You didn’t see the look Osaragi gave you—quiet, sharp, like a knife under the table.

“Maybe I’ll stop by again sometime,” you continued. “She said she’d teach me how to fold the meat buns properly.”

“She doesn’t even like you that much,” Osaragi snapped.

You froze. “What?”

“She acts like that with everyone. Don’t read into it.”

You sat up a little straighter, voice calm but edged. “I wasn’t reading into it, Osa. And... you didn’t even talk to her, did you? Like properly?”

“She doesn’t need to talk to me for me to know,” Osaragi muttered, eyes on the road. “People like her are easy to figure out.”

You frowned. “That’s kind of harsh.”

“She’s not special.”

“She was nice.”

“She was fake.”

You looked at her. “And what would you know about fake?”

Osaragi’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. The silence that followed was thick—like the inside of a storm cloud.

Nagumo let out a low whistle. “Whew. Okay. That’s enough estrogen for one afternoon. Maybe we all just need to… drink water or touch grass.”

Shishiba muttered, “Or chloroform each other and start over.”

You crossed your arms, annoyed. “I’m not fighting. She’s the one being weirdly possessive.”

“I’m not being possessive,” Osaragi said stiffly. “You can do whatever you want.”

“Clearly not. The moment I do, you start acting like I’ve committed treason.”

“You’re free to embarrass yourself. Don’t let me stop you.”

Your jaw dropped. “What the hell is your problem?”

Osaragi turned, just slightly—her eyes flicked to yours in the rearview mirror, dark and unreadable. “You. You’re the problem.”

The Order’s nondescript black sedan rumbled along a side road lined with stone walls and half-closed shops. Somewhere in the distance, thunder growled. The kind of route they only took after a job—somewhere between civilian roads and shadow operations. Shishiba had flipped open a different manga now. Nagumo was chewing on a lollipop like it might explode. You were staring down at the meat bun like it had betrayed you.

Nagumo patted your shoulder awkwardly, eyes still forward. “For what it’s worth, I think the bun was structurally sound. Like… solid B-plus. Bit of slippage on the edge but solid seal overall.”

You sighed. “Thank you, Nagumo, for introducing me to Sakamoto-san’s family. They were really kind and welcoming.”

Nagumo grinned, lollipop perched in the corner of his mouth like a cigarette. “Lu’s a gem, right? Sakamoto keeps her around 'cause she cooks the best meat buns this side of Tokyo.”

You smiled again, soft and genuine. “I hope I can visit her again soon. I really like her—”

Before the sentence could finish, Osaragi jerked the wheel and made a sharp, unnecessary turn around a corner. The sudden force threw you into the car door, your head lightly thumping against the window.

“Ow—what the hell?”

“My hands might’ve slipped,” Osaragi muttered flatly.

“Use both hands when driving,” Shishiba said without looking up, as though reading from a manual he wrote himself.

You rubbed your temple with a frown. “Seriously, are you mad or something?”

“No,” Osaragi answered far too quickly.

Nagumo snickered in the back. “Don’t take it personally, kid. Osaragi gets like this when someone else pets the dog she secretly claimed ownership over.”

“I said shut up,” Osaragi snapped, shooting him a look through the rearview mirror that could kill.

“You okay?” you asked her quietly, your voice tinged with concern now.

Osaragi didn’t answer at first.

The city lights streamed past her window, flickering over her face like gold dust. She gripped the steering wheel a little too tightly, jaw clenched. For a long moment, the car was silent except for the hum of the engine and the distant click of Shishiba flipping to another manga page.

Then, softly—so soft you almost didn’t catch it—Osaragi muttered, “You smiled a lot back there.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

“With Lu,” she said, still not looking at you. “Didn’t know you had that many teeth.”

You snorted. “Are you saying I shouldn’t be friendly?”

“I’m saying I’ve never seen you laugh like that before.” Her voice was quiet. Almost tired.

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words didn’t come. You looked at her profile—stoic, composed, but something in her eyes twitched, almost imperceptibly. You thought of the way she had taken that tiny bite earlier. Of how she didn’t give the bun back gently, but like it burned her fingers.

Your fingers itched to reach over, to touch her hand on the gearstick. But instead, you said, almost teasing, “What, jealous?”

Osaragi didn’t reply.

The silence returned. Louder now.

Then, just as the car slowed at a red light, she glanced sideways at you. Her voice barely above a whisper.

“You should smile like that with me, sometime.”

The light turned green. The car rolled forward again.

But your heart didn’t.

thank you so much for reading this! if you ever come across the same au on ao3, that’s my account—feel free to drop by and say hi, hahaha. but seriously, if you made it all the way to the end, thank you for taking the time to read this au of mine.

You’ll know she likes you if she lets you stand within buzzsaw radius and doesn’t immediately slice your arm off. That’s affection—for Osaragi, anyway. Unlike when she’s with Shishiba or Nagumo, where someone always gets nicked or scared half to death.

She remembers everything you say—especially the random stuff. You mentioned once that you liked sour gummies as a kid? Mid-mission, she hurls a bag at your chest like she’s tossing a flashbang. No explanation. You think it’s a grenade and nearly scream. She just walks off like nothing happened.

Her affection is borderline homicidal. If someone hurts you, even if it’s your own fault, she’s holding a grudge that spans generations. “Why’d you let them hit you, huh? That’s stupid. I hate that. I'm killing them now.”

She’s clingy when no one’s looking. Like, “pretending-to-fall-asleep-on-your-shoulder-during-anime-night” clingy. She’ll scoot close and then act like you’re the weirdo.

Can’t cook, won’t cook. If you ever get food poisoning because she tried to “make breakfast,” she’ll just scowl and beat up the microwave like it’s the enemy.

Just like with Shishiba, Osaragi has a habit of muttering “I wanna eat something” mid-fight, like she’s talking to herself or tossing a thought into the void. You’ve heard her say it tons of times—usually with Shishiba right there to respond.

But one day, she turns to you during a mission, saw still whirring behind her, and says, “I’m hungry. Let’s eat after this.”

It’s the first time she’s ever included you in that weird little ritual. Your heart does something stupid and traitorous in your chest. She doesn’t wait for a reply—she just keeps walking. But you’re grinning like an idiot for the rest of the mission.

What Kind of S/O Osaragi Would Go For

Someone who’s quiet but not a pushover. If you’re all bark, no bite? She's already bored. But if you keep calm while standing your ground? Yeah… she’s watching.

A person who can handle her impulsiveness and mood swings without walking on eggshells. She’ll 100% complain that you’re annoying and then secretly admire how you don’t let her walk all over you… That said, she will hold a grudge. Just a tiny one. Forever.

Someone with lowkey gremlin energy—not chaotic all the time, but someone who can match her unhinged side when it counts. Like if she’s chasing someone across rooftops and you casually go, “Want me to throw something at them?” She’ll glance at you, expression flat, and mutter, “That one’s mine. Touch it and I’ll saw your leg off.”

Honestly? She likes someone who’ll listen. She won’t talk often, but when she does, it means something. If you’re the type to sit beside her in silence or reply simply without pushing—she’ll stay.

Bonus: you can’t be too soft. She’s dangerous. She knows it. She needs someone who can handle that without flinching.

Columbina sat beneath the altar, legs tucked neatly beneath her like a child in prayer. Her hands, folded at her lap, were crusted with dried blood — from the roses. Or the mourning. Or perhaps from something older. Her mouth was stained dark with red wine she hadn’t touched. She hummed.

A lullaby not meant for the living.

From the side door, footsteps. Precise. Measured. Not quite human.

“I must say,” Columbina said, not looking up, her stitched eyelids twitching slightly. “You’re looking very young today, Doctor.”

Dottore stepped into view like a vulture emerging from shadow. The wax lights of the cathedral flickered in disdain at his presence.

“You know very well I do not take that as a compliment,” he snapped. His voice was all edges and copper. His coat was spattered with melted snow and something darker.

Columbina tilted her head, smile curling sweet and slow. “Where’s the Segment in the prime of his life, then?”

“Busy,” Dottore replied, narrowing his eyes. “A little experiment in blasphemy. You’d appreciate it. Lots of screaming. Nerve endings like violin strings.”

She gave a delighted hum. “You always know how to flatter me.”

There was a silence then — thick and humming, as though the cathedral itself had drawn breath. Dottore circled her once, slow and assessing. Then:

“I wonder…” he murmured, almost to himself. “If I carved you open, would you sing as sweetly?”

Columbina’s head turned toward his voice. Her smile widened.

“You’d be disappointed,” she said. “I have no heart.”

That made him pause. His lip curled.

“Pity,” he said, then turned and left, the hem of his coat licking at the marble behind him like spilled ink.

She continued to hum.

-

Arlecchino came hours later, after the storm had thickened, after the last member of the Eleventh Fatui Harbinger had long departed. She said nothing as she entered — just let the heavy door sigh closed behind her. Her heels thudded against the floor like the beat of a forgotten war drum.

Columbina didn’t greet her.

“You stayed behind,” the Knave finally muttered, voice hollow, unfamiliar in the quiet.

“I never left,” Columbina replied. Her voice echoed up into the ribbed vaults, as though it were older than the stone itself. “I was singing Rosalyne to sleep. She was afraid of the dark, wasn’t she?”

Arlecchino clenched her jaw. Her gloves were wet with snowmelt. The fabric clung to her skin like decay.

“She’s dead. She doesn’t feel fear anymore.”

Columbina giggled. “You sound so certain. How sweet.”

A pause.

Then Columbina added, gently, “You didn’t come to mourn her, did you?”

Arlecchino turned away. Her breath fogged in the cold.

“I came to be alone.”

“You’re not.”

Arlecchino’s hands curled into fists. “I can leave.”

“You won’t.”

Columbina stood. Slowly. Her movements were fluid, like a marionette freed from its strings, delicate yet wrong in ways the eye couldn’t quite catch. Her bandaged wings dragged behind her like the hem of a wedding dress stitched from funeral shrouds.

She walked down the steps toward Arlecchino.

“I can feel it,” she whispered. “The screaming beneath your skin. You’re still burning, even in all that cold.”

“Don’t,” Arlecchino warned. Her voice broke, sharp as broken glass.

But Columbina stepped closer.

“You came here to bury a friend,” she said, the smile in her voice like silk wrapping a knife. “But I know what you really want. You want to be unmade. You want to know what it’s like to kneel before something older than war. Something divine. Something filthy with grace.”

Her fingers touched Arlecchino’s cheek.

“I can give you that.”

Arlecchino did not move.

Her breath was steady, her eyes flat — but inside her, the ice cracked.

She reached up, slowly, as if underwater. Something ancient unspooled in her chest — not longing, not love — just the ache of proximity to something she could never name.

Her cold fingers cupped Columbina’s face, mirroring the gesture.

She searched the stitched eyes, the curve of her mouth, the serenity of someone who did not need to see to see.

"You shouldn't speak like that," Arlecchino murmured, voice hoarse. "You talk like you're holy."

Columbina smiled wider. “I am.”

Their foreheads touched, gently — not a kiss, not yet — just two blades leaning into one another.

And then:

Columbina opened her mouth — just slightly, just enough.

A silent invitation.

Arlecchino’s still holding her face, brought her index finger to those parted lips. Like a sacrament.

And Columbina — ever the good host — took her in.

Not all the way. Just enough to feel the fingertip between her tongue and teeth.

She hummed low in her throat, something ancient and obscene dressed in lullaby, and closed her lips around Arlecchino’s finger.

The Knave’s eyes fluttered, just once. Her mask cracked. Her breath hitched like a child trying not to cry.

Neither of them moved.

In the silence, in the ruin, the world tilted.

Somewhere, Rosalyne’s corpse was still frozen. But here—

Here was something warm. Wrong. Waking.

Something that did not deserve to live, but would be fed anyway.

Columbina’s mouth curled, lazy and sweet, around Arlecchino’s fingertip — a gesture too reverent to be mockery and too obscene to be pure.

And Arlecchino — who had torn throats open for less — smiled.

Not with her lips, not at first. It started in her eyes, the barest twitch, the way a wound might smile just before it splits wider. Then the corners of her mouth followed, trembling, dragged upward by some quiet, collapsing force.

Her smile was all teeth and ache. It looked like it hurt. It looked new.

Columbina withdrew her mouth, slow and deliberate, her lips trailing off the skin with a softness that felt ceremonial.

Arlecchino’s hand lingered, still cupping her face, as though she couldn’t bear to lose the warmth.

"You smile so easily," Columbina said, licking the taste of her finger from the corner of her mouth like blood. "When it’s pain you’re given."

Arlecchino didn’t respond. Not right away. Her smile stayed. It didn’t belong on her face — not the Knave people feared, the one made of marble and doctrine — but it stayed.

And then she spoke.

“I don’t know what this is,” she said. “But I want to kneel in it.”

Columbina’s head tilted. Her stitched eyes, shut and serene, somehow saw everything.

“You want to be destroyed,” she murmured. “But not by cruelty. Not by fire. Not even by love.”

She stepped in closer, until their chests nearly touched, until the Knave could feel the faint pulse of her breath.

“You want to be ruined by grace.”

Arlecchino nodded — once, shallow, helpless.

And then, as though answering a prayer spoken in a dead tongue, Columbina took Arlecchino’s wrist gently and lowered her hand — brought it to her own ribs.

There. Right beneath her heart.

No beat. No warmth.

Just silence.

"You see?" Columbina whispered. "You are the only one alive here."

Arlecchino’s breath caught again. Her smile deepened, wicked and devout.

Her forehead touched Columbina’s once more, this time not soft — needy. Anchored.

“I’ll kill for you,” she said. “I’ll dig through the snow and tear out hearts, if it means I can come back to this.”

Columbina smiled again — and this time, it reached her stitched lids. A joy too strange to be mercy. She leaned in, her voice curling like smoke into Arlecchino’s bones.