#and then he has this vision that his family is in danger

[player279achlys]

The golden rabbit's legacy (Hwang In-Ho/Frontman x fem! reader!)

Il-nam's granddaughter will prove herself worthy of being the next hostess, while someone becomes her loyal shadow.

EPILOGUE

Previous chapter: Chapter IX

Pairing: Hwang In-Ho/Frontman x Original!female!Character

Word count: 3,1k words.

Summary: In the shadow of her grandfather’s dark empire, Melinoe, a brilliant young woman in her early twenties, steps into a world of blood, betrayal, and power she was never meant to inherit. As the granddaughter of the infamous Oh Il-Nam, creator of the deadly Squid Games, she is thrust into a brutal legacy that demands she not only survive but thrive as its new hostess. Determined to honor her family’s name and prove herself worthy of the golden rabbit mask, she designs games more cunning and lethal than any before.

But power comes at a cost. Beneath her calculated exterior lies a woman haunted by guilt, trauma, and the faces of those she has condemned to die. And at her side stands Hwang In-Ho, the enigmatic Front Man—older than her, cold, and feared by all, except for her. Since the day he learned of her existence, In-Ho has been deeply, obsessively in love with Melinoe. His devotion is as intense as it is toxic, a tangled mix of desire and protectiveness that pushes him to control every aspect of her life.

As Melinoe rises to prominence, she finds herself navigating not only the deadly games but also the dangerous allure of In-Ho. Their relationship is a powder keg of suppressed emotions, forbidden passion, and fraught power dynamics. He would destroy anyone who comes close to her—including a charming, younger VIP who flirts with her one too many times. Yet, while In-Ho dreams of keeping her safe in his arms, Melinoe dreams of reshaping the games into something darker and more just—her own twisted vision of justice against the world’s worst offenders.

When the 33rd Squid Games begin, everything changes. With her grandfather entering the arena as Player 001 and Gi-Hun as Player 456, the games take on unprecedented stakes. As alliances crumble and bodies fall, Melinoe must contend with the weight of her grandfather’s legacy, the manipulations of the VIPs, and the unrelenting obsession of the man who would burn the world for her.

Will Melinoe rise as the queen of the games, or will the bonds of obsession and love be the end of her?

Warnings: MDNI!!!, Afab!, angst. Sexual language. Fear of losing someone. Smut (light kinda), grumpy x sunshine, dark romance, age gap, possessive, obsessed, paranoid and dominant In-Ho, daddy issues, yandere behaviour, jealousy, violence, murder, typical squid game stuff.

English isn’t my first language, if there are any mistakes, please forgive me. :)

The island was cloaked in its perpetual shroud of secrecy, the heavy sea air laden with an omnipresent foreboding. The aftermath of the games echoed in the minds of its survivors and orchestrators alike, but for Hwang In-Ho, the true game had just begun. He paced the control room, the sharp lines of his mask betraying none of the storm that raged within. Each monitor displayed fragments of the island's routines—the guards patrolling in crimson, the prisoners cleaning the bloodied arenas, and, on one screen, Melinoe.

She sat in her private suite, oblivious to his gaze. Her slender frame was draped in a black satin robe, her hazel-amber eyes scanning a book she held in her delicate hands. Even through the grainy footage, she was mesmerizing—a beacon in a world of chaos. In-Ho’s gloved fingers hovered over the console, aching to reach for her. To hold her. To make her forget everything but him.

But his thoughts were disrupted by the faint beep of an incoming alert. His brother had arrived.

Detective Hwang Jun-Ho had been a relentless shadow to Seoul’s criminal underworld for years, and his most recent pursuit was no different. His target: a convicted murderer who had escaped justice with the help of powerful connections. When Jun-Ho tracked the man to a dock at 3 a.m., the pieces began to fall into place. The whispers he had dismissed as urban legend—stories of a deadly game hosted on a hidden island—suddenly felt disturbingly real.

From the cramped quarters of the cargo hold on the ship to the island, Jun-Ho had kept his presence hidden. But as the ship docked and he saw the guards in their eerie crimson uniforms, the magnitude of the conspiracy became clear. He vowed to dismantle it, no matter the cost.

What Jun-Ho hadn’t expected was her.

Melinoe had stepped into the open courtyard for a moment of quiet. The moonlight bathed her figure, highlighting her sharp cheekbones and the defiant curve of her lips. She wore a flowing dress of deep emerald, a stark contrast to the island’s cold sterility. It was as if she were untouched by the darkness that surrounded her. 

Jun-Ho froze as he rounded the corner, his breath catching in his throat. She turned her head slightly, and their eyes met. It was brief—just a flicker of a glance—but it was enough to ensnare him. She was unlike anyone he had ever seen. A force of nature in human form.

For the first time since arriving on the island, Jun-Ho hesitated. He was here to destroy the games, to expose the horrors to the world. But the thought of harming her, of seeing her hurt—it was unbearable.

He didn’t know that In-Ho was watching.

From the surveillance room, In-Ho’s gloved fist slammed onto the console, the sharp crack echoing through the empty chamber. His brother’s face was unmistakable. It wasn’t just the sight of Jun-Ho that sent a spike of fury through him; it was the way Jun-Ho looked at Melinoe. Like a moth drawn to her flame. Like a starved man looking at a feast. A man who wanted what he couldn’t have.

In-Ho couldn’t bear it. He had spent years protecting Melinoe, sacrificing everything to ensure she remained his. And now, his brother—a man who shared his blood—dared to covet her?

The thought of anyone touching her, loving her, was intolerable. But his brother? It was betrayal on a level that made In-Ho’s chest burn with rage.

He made his decision then and there. Jun-Ho had to die.

The confrontation happened in the shadows of the arena, the steel walls damp with condensation from the sea air. In-Ho had removed his mask, his face a mask of cold fury. Jun-Ho stood opposite him, his weapon drawn but his stance uncertain.

“In-Ho,” Jun-Ho began, his voice laced with disbelief. “You’re alive. And… you’re part of this?”

“I’m more than part of it,” In-Ho replied, his tone devoid of emotion. “I’m its master.”

Jun-Ho’s eyes narrowed. “Then you’re a monster. These games—they’re an abomination. How could you—”

“You don’t understand,” In-Ho cut him off, his voice low and dangerous. “This world is cruel, Jun-Ho. It’s chaos. These games… they bring order.”

“Order?” Jun-Ho spat. “You call this order? Killing people for sport? For money?”

“You’ve already lost, brother,” In-Ho said, stepping closer. “You don’t belong here. And you don’t belong near her.”

Jun-Ho’s brow furrowed. “Her? You mean… The lady? She’s a victim in this, isn���t she? She doesn’t have to—”

“She’s mine,” In-Ho growled, his composure slipping. “You don’t get to speak of her. You don’t get to look at her.”

Jun-Ho’s eyes widened as realization dawned. “You’re obsessed with her. This… this isn’t love, In-Ho. It’s madness.”

“Yes, it is madness,” In-Ho hissed. Knowing that was Melinoe’s meaning: madness. And without another word, he lunged.

The fight was brutal. In-Ho moved with the precision of a man who had spent years mastering control, but Jun-Ho fought with the desperation of someone who had everything to lose. The clang of metal against metal echoed through the arena as their weapons clashed. But In-Ho’s rage made him relentless, and eventually, he overpowered his brother.

As Jun-Ho lay on the cold floor, blood pooling beneath him, he looked up at In-Ho with a mixture of sorrow and defiance. “She’ll see you for what you are,” he whispered. “A monster.”

In-Ho knelt beside him, his voice cold and steady. “She’ll never know.” And with a final thrust, it was over.

That night, In-Ho returned to Melinoe’s quarters, his hands still trembling from the confrontation. She greeted him with a soft smile, oblivious to the storm that brewed inside him. He crossed the room in long strides, pulling her into a fierce embrace.

“In-Ho,” she murmured, startled by his intensity. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said, his voice rough. “Just… don’t leave me.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she reassured him, but he silenced her with a kiss.

The tension between them erupted like a dam breaking. His lips were demanding, his hands roaming over her body as if trying to erase the memory of his brother’s gaze on her. She responded in kind, her fingers tangling in his hair, her breath hitching as he lifted her onto the bed.

Their lovemaking was fierce, a tempest of passion and anger and love. He worshiped her with every touch, every kiss, his devotion evident in the way he murmured her name like a prayer. She clung to him, matching his intensity, her whispered reassurances soothing the storm within him.

When it was over, they lay tangled together, their bodies slick with sweat and their breaths mingling. In-Ho pressed a kiss to her forehead, his arms wrapped protectively around her.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. “No one will ever take you from me.”

Melinoe looked up at him, her hazel-amber eyes filled with an emotion he couldn’t quite place. “And you’re mine,” she replied softly, her fingers brushing against his cheek.

For the first time that night, In-Ho allowed himself to believe it. She was his. And no one—not even his own brother—could ever take her away.

The room was bathed in the faint glow of the moonlight filtering through the slats of the blinds. In-Ho sat on the edge of the bed, his head bowed, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared at his gloves. Blood—his brother’s blood—still stained his thoughts, though it had long since been scrubbed from his skin. The act had been necessary, inevitable. That’s what he told himself. But no amount of logic could quell the churning storm inside him.

Behind him, Melinoe stirred, her hand reaching out to touch the broad plane of his back. Her voice, soft and laced with concern, broke the heavy silence. “You’re restless tonight.”

“I’m fine,” he replied curtly, though the tension in his voice betrayed him.

She sat up, the satin sheets pooling around her waist, and leaned into him, her bare skin brushing against his. “Don’t lie to me,” she said quietly, her tone gentle yet firm. “I can feel it. Something’s wrong.”

In-Ho turned his head slightly, enough to see her out of the corner of his eye. Her beauty, even in the dim light, was almost otherworldly. She was his salvation, his undoing. But how could he confess what he had done? How could he tell her that he had killed his own brother—not to protect the games, not even for the sake of the island, but because of her? Because the mere idea of Jun-Ho wanting her, touching her, had driven him mad?

“It’s nothing,” he said again, his voice softer this time. “Just… the weight of it all.”

She frowned, clearly unconvinced, but didn’t press further. Instead, she slid her arms around him, her touch grounding him in a way nothing else could. “You carry so much, In-Ho,” she murmured, her lips brushing against his shoulder. “You don’t have to bear it alone.”

He closed his eyes, letting her words wash over him. She didn’t know the depth of his devotion, the lengths he would go to ensure her safety, her happiness. And she never would. Some truths were too dark to share, even with her.

But the weight of his guilt—the love and madness intertwining like a strangling vine—was too much to keep buried. Slowly, he turned to face her, his dark eyes searching hers. “Do you trust me?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

She didn’t hesitate. “With everything.”

His chest tightened at her response, a painful ache blooming beneath his ribs. How could she trust him so completely when he was little more than a monster wearing the guise of a man? But her faith in him was unwavering, and he clung to it like a lifeline.

Without warning, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her. It was slow and deliberate, an unspoken apology for the darkness that clung to him. She responded with equal tenderness, her fingers threading through his hair as she pulled him closer.

The kiss deepened, and the room seemed to shrink around them. In-Ho’s hands roamed over her body, his touch both reverent and possessive. He wanted to lose himself in her, to drown out the memories of what he had done with the warmth of her skin, the softness of her sighs.

Melinoe’s back met the mattress as he pressed her down, his weight grounding her. She welcomed him without hesitation, her body arching into his as if to remind him that she was here, alive, and his. The world outside ceased to exist; there was only her—her warmth, her breath, her heart beating in time with his.

Their lovemaking was slower this time, though no less intense. He worshiped her with every touch, every kiss, as though trying to etch the memory of her into his very soul. She whispered his name like a prayer, her hands gripping his shoulders as they moved together in perfect harmony.

When it was over, they lay tangled in each other’s arms, the silence between them heavy but comforting. Melinoe rested her head on his chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns along his skin. “You don’t have to carry it all alone,” she said again, her voice soft but insistent.

In-Ho tightened his arms around her, pressing a kiss to her hair. “I know,” he lied, his heart aching with the weight of the truth he couldn’t share.

Days passed, the island settling into its usual rhythm. The aftermath of the games had been meticulously cleaned, the bloodstains wiped away as though they had never existed. But In-Ho couldn’t escape the ghost of his brother, whose presence lingered in the corners of his mind like an unwelcome guest.

He found himself drawn to the surveillance room more often than usual, watching Melinoe as she navigated her role with grace and authority. She had become the queen of the island, her every move calculated yet effortless. The players feared her, the VIPs admired her, and the guards obeyed her without question.

She was untouchable.

But that didn’t stop In-Ho from keeping a watchful eye. His obsession with her had grown stronger since Jun-Ho’s death, the loss fueling his determination to keep her safe at all costs. No one would threaten her—not the players, not the VIPs, and certainly not anyone who dared to covet her as his brother had.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of crimson and gold, Melinoe entered the surveillance room. She approached him with quiet confidence, her hazel-amber eyes studying him intently.

“In-Ho,” she said, her voice steady. “You’ve been distant.”

He turned to face her, his mask concealing the flicker of guilt that crossed his face. “I’ve been… preoccupied.”

“With what?” she pressed, stepping closer. “You’re not the same. Something’s changed.”

He hesitated, the weight of his secret threatening to crush him. But instead of confessing, he reached for her, pulling her into his arms. “I’m fine,” he murmured, his voice low. “As long as I have you, I’m fine.”

Melinoe didn’t push further. She rested her head against his chest, her arms wrapping around him. For now, that was enough.

But deep down, In-Ho knew the truth: his love for her, his obsession, would never let him rest. And though he had killed his brother to protect her, the shadows of that act would haunt him forever.

She was his light in the darkness. But even light casts shadows.

As the weeks passed, the island seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief after the conclusion of the games. But within the walls of the control center, Hwang In-Ho’s torment festered. He watched Melinoe closely, ensuring she remained unharmed, unchallenged, and unaware of the truth.

Yet his guilt over Jun-Ho’s death began to manifest in subtle ways—his restless pacing, the tightening of his jaw whenever he thought of his brother’s final words, the sleepless nights spent staring at the monitors. Despite his outward control, his mind was a battlefield.

Melinoe noticed. She always noticed.

One evening, she found him in the control room, staring at a screen displaying a feed from the now-empty arena. The stark gray walls and bloodstained floors were a haunting reminder of what they both had endured. She approached him silently, her steps light, but he sensed her presence and turned before she could speak.

“In-Ho,” she began, her tone both questioning and firm. “You’ve been here for hours.”

He regarded her for a long moment, his dark eyes unreadable behind the geometric mask. “I had things to review,” he replied curtly.

“Lies don’t suit you,” she said, crossing her arms. “Something’s eating at you. Tell me.”

He stiffened, the weight of her words striking a nerve. “There’s nothing to tell.”

Melinoe’s expression softened, and she reached out to touch his arm. “You don’t have to shut me out, In-Ho. Whatever it is, we can face it together.”

Her touch was both a balm and a dagger, soothing his frayed nerves while reminding him of the secret he carried. He wanted to tell her, to unburden himself, but how could he confess to killing his own brother out of jealousy? Out of love for her? The mere thought made his chest tighten.

Instead, he shook his head, gently removing her hand from his arm. “You wouldn’t understand,” he said quietly.

She frowned, hurt flashing across her face. “Try me.”

In-Ho hesitated, his fists clenching at his sides. “I’ve done things,” he said finally, his voice low and strained. “Things I can’t take back. For you.”

“For me?” she repeated, confusion lacing her tone.

“Yes,” he said, his voice growing firmer. “For you, Melinoe. Everything I’ve done—everything I’ve sacrificed—it’s all been for you.”

Her brow furrowed, but she didn’t pull away. “In-Ho… what are you talking about? What have you done?”

He looked away, unable to meet her gaze. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken truths. Finally, he said, “I protected you. That’s all you need to know.”

But Melinoe wasn’t satisfied. She stepped closer, her eyes searching his. “Protected me from what?”

“From anyone who would harm you,” he replied, his tone darkening. “From anyone who would dare take you from me.”

The intensity in his voice sent a shiver down her spine. She wanted to push further, to demand answers, but a part of her was afraid of what she might uncover. Instead, she reached up to remove his mask, her fingers trembling slightly as she revealed his face.

His dark eyes met hers, and for a moment, she saw the man beneath the façade—the man who loved her with an all-consuming devotion, who had built walls around himself to protect her. She cupped his cheek, her touch gentle, and whispered, “You don’t have to fight alone anymore.”

In-Ho closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. “You’re the only thing that keeps me going,” he admitted, his voice barely audible. “Without you, there’s nothing.”

She pulled him into a tight embrace, her arms wrapping around his neck as she whispered, “I’m not going anywhere, In-Ho. I’m yours.”

The words sent a surge of emotion through him, and he crushed her against him, his lips finding hers in a kiss that was both desperate and tender. She responded in kind, her fingers tangling in his hair as he lifted her onto the console, their bodies pressed together as though trying to erase the distance between them.

The tension that had been building between them for weeks erupted in a fevered passion. In-Ho’s hands roamed over her body, his touch both possessive and reverent. Melinoe gasped as he tugged her closer, his kisses trailing down her neck and leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

“In-Ho,” she murmured, her voice heavy with need. “I’m here. I’m yours.”

Her words fueled him, his movements growing more urgent as he claimed her. He wanted to mark her, to remind himself—and the world—that she belonged to him. His hands gripped her hips, guiding her as they moved together, their breaths mingling as they surrendered to the intensity of their emotions.

It was rough but intimate, a collision of love and obsession that left them both breathless. When it was over, they remained tangled together, their bodies slick with sweat and their hearts pounding in unison.

In-Ho rested his forehead against hers, his dark eyes locking onto hers. “You’re my everything,” he said, his voice trembling. “I’ll protect you, no matter what.”

Melinoe smiled softly, her fingers brushing against his cheek. “And I’ll stand by you, no matter what.”

But as they lay together in the quiet aftermath, In-Ho couldn’t shake the shadow of Jun-Ho’s final words: She’ll see you for what you are.

He tightened his hold on her, vowing silently that she would never know. She was his light, his salvation. And if keeping her meant carrying the weight of his sins alone, he would do it gladly.

For her, he would endure anything.

Even the ghosts of his own making.

And that’s a wrap! What a journey!

I didn't know I could be so obsessed as an adult until my Lee Byung-Hun obsession came back since 2021 (I was 20, now 23 ahhahaha).

Anyways, like always.

I love you, Achlys.

Taglist: @futuristicdefendorfart

[wildsaltair]

oh we’re back with the Shrek parallels 😂😂 for a sad one, here’s Maximus on horseback in a parallel with Tangled

both racing to save the ones they love 😭

@wildsaltair blame this on the booze, I am a bit tipsy lol

[findafight]

Okay I love the daemon aus floating about and whilst I have no formal knowledge on the subject, I think there's a lot of potential for Steve's Daemon to be a lion.

And how it would contribute to what people view him as. Lions are creatures we know, familiar but exotic to Indiana. Steve walks around the halls with nearly five hundred pounds of muscular lion beside him, full mane brushing his fingers. King of the Jungle... King Steve. Steve "The Hair". He's a predator, he's dangerous, he's just like his daemon.

But they're also a communal species that live in prides. They take care of each other, need each other. That's also Steve. He's not subtle and doesn't try to be with his affection. Lions do the cat forehead bumps and social licking too and I think that's so sweet.

listen I'm just blasting off ideas I just thing Steve the hair harrington with a daemon with iconic mane and that's capable of ripping out an antelope's throat is something that could be explored idk

[sun-marie]

on the subject of post-game Rookanis and Crow politics, "Preybirds" by Rabbitology is a great song, I think, for a non-crow Rook trying to get Lucanis to leave the Crows/deny being First Talon because they can see where that road ends, and only being able to sadly watch for now

[weaselle]

i want to talk about real life villains

Not someone who mugs you, or kills someone while driving drunk, those are just criminals. I mean VILLAINS.

Not like trump or musk, who are... cartoonishly evil. And not sexy villains, not grandiose villains, not even satisfyingly two dimensional villains it is easy to hate unconditionally. The real villains.

I had a client who was a retired executive for one of the big oil companies, i think it was Shell or Chevron. Had a home just outside of San Francisco that was wall to wall floor to ceiling full of expensive art. Literally. I once accidentally knocked a painting off the wall because it was hanging at knee height at the corner of the stairs, and it had a little brass plaque on it, and i looked up the name of the artist and it was Monet's apprentice and son-in-law, who was apparently also a famous painter. He had an original Andy Warhol, which should have been a prize piece for anyone to showcase -- it was hanging in the bathroom. I swear to god this guy was using a Chihuly (famous glass sculptor) as a fruit bowl. And he was like, "idk my wife was the one who liked art"

I was intrigued by this guy, because in the circles i run this dude is The Enemy. right? Wealthy oil executive? But as my client, he was... like a sweet grandpa. A poor widower, a nice old man, anyone who knew him would have called him a sweetheart. He had a slightly bewildered air, a sort of gentle bumbling nature.

And the fact that he was both of these things, a Sweet Little Old Man and The Enemy, at the same time, seemed important and fascinating to me.

He reminded me of some antagonist from fiction, but i couldn't put my finger on who. And when i did it all made sense.

John Hammond.

probably one of the most realistic bad guys ever written.

If you've only ever seen the movie, this will need some explaining.

Michael Crichton wrote Jurassic Park in 1990, and i read it shortly thereafter. In the movie, the dinosaurs are the antagonists, which imo erases 50% of the point of the story.

book spoilers below.

In the book, John Hammond is the villain but it takes the reader like half the book to figure that out. Just like my client, John is a sweet old man who wants lovely things for people. He's a very sympathetic character. But as the book progresses, you start to see something about him.

He has an idea, and he's sure it's a good one. When someone else dies in pursuit of his dream, he doesn't think anything of it. When other people turn out to care about that, he brings in experts to evaluate the safety of his idea, and when they quickly tell him his idea is dangerous and needs to be put on hold, he ignores his own experts that he himself hired, because they are telling him that he is wrong, and he is sure he is right.

In his mind, he's a visionary, and nobody understands his vision. He is surrounded by naysayers. Several things have proven too difficult to do the best and safest way, so he has cut corners and taken shortcuts so he can keep moving forward with his plans, but he's sure it's fine. He refuses to hear any word of caution, because he believes he is being cautious enough, and he knows best, even though he has no background in any of the sciences or professions involved. He sends his own grandchildren out into a life-threatening situation because he is willfully ignorant of the danger he is creating.

THIS is like the real villains of the world. He doesn't want anyone to die. Far from it, he only wants good things for people! He's a sweet old man who loves his grandchildren. But he has money and power and refuses to hear that what he is doing is dangerous for everyone, even his own family.

I think he's possibly one of the most important villains ever written in popular fiction.

In the book, he is killed by a pack of the smallest, cutest, "least dangerous" dinosaurs, because a big part of why we read fiction is to see the villains face thematic justice. But like a cigarette CEO dying of lung cancer, his death does not stop his creation from spreading out into the world to continue to endanger everyone else.

I think it is really important to see and understand this kind of villainy in fiction, so you can recognize it in real life.

Sweetheart of a grandfather. Wanted the best for everyone. Right up until what was best for everyone inconvenienced the pursuit of his own interests.

And my client was like that too. His wife had died, and his dog was now the love of his life, and she was this little old dog with silky hair in a hair cut that left long wispy bits on her lower legs. Certain plant materials were easily entangled in this hair and impossible to get out without pulling her hair which clearly hurt her. When i suggested he ask his groomer to trim her lower leg hair short to avoid this, he refused, saying he really liked her usual hair cut.

I emphasized that she was in pain after every walk due to the plant debris getting caught in her leg hair, and a simple trim could put an end to her daily painful removal of it, and he just frowned like i'd recommended he take a bath in pig shit and said "But she'll be ugly" and refused to talk about it anymore.

Sweet old man though. Everyone loved him.

[aldryrththerainbowheart]

Jason's teeth are sharper than most people. Another funky gift from Lazarus Pit. He's not a full-blown Dracula, but there's a noticeable edge to his canines. There were times in throws of battle when Jason tore someone's flesh off with them chompers. Family dinners at Wayne Manor are a little awkward because everyone at the table is trying to have a normal conversation while they pretend like they don't notice the ease with which Jason is carving meat even using a steak knife. His smiles all the more feral, all the more dangerous. All better to sink into his cute girlfriend. Jason would never hurt you, of course, but he likes to put his mouth on you in all the ways possible and he knows you like it too. Whether it's gentle nibbles on your perfect little fingers that happen to appear in his line of vision, or slow, torturous scraping of his canines along the column of your throat to draw out all those delicious whimpers out of you. You lost count of how many panties and bras and stockings he destroyed because he just could not take them off. No, he has to rip them off with his teeth, shredding them in the process. He always promises to buy you new ones as he nuzzles longingly into your warmth. Speaking of bedroom adventures, he likes to take a generous bite of your ass whenever he's feeling really turned on, then is forced to apologize because you can't sit down without wincing and there's a perfect ring of teeth complete with four deep dentures on your buttcheek.

tags: @thinkingofausername

[oblique-lane]

Spy tf2 and his identity

Character analysis (or at least my vision on him, if you believe my reasoning)

What do we know about Spy? He's a disguise mastermind. He can pretend to be anyone in order to infiltrate into the scene to do his job - quite literally, stab people on the back. But when he's not in the battle, what is he to his teammates? A suave Frenchman, a gentleman with taste, somewhat a leader.

At least, that's the persona he prefers to show. But is he really..?

What if I tell you that this person never drops his disguise?

For a man who always wears a mask and who's identity being secret is a sacred part of his role in this job, isn't this persona too much to show if it is real? Frenchman, rich, ladykiller... Wouldn't it be too easy to decipher his identity with so much clues provided? Wouldn't it be dangerous?

While Miss Pauling and the Administrator definitely know Spy's real identity, hiding it is a major thing for whatever reason. One could assume it might be because of Scout (obvious guess) but I doubt he's a sole reason. Spy very much enjoys being the Spy all by himself. Do what's the deal?

Let's start from the beginning.

Why did Spy join Mann Co. in the first place?

Let's take this assumption as a fact: people come here out of desperation. They are professionals in their field, yet in their past/casual life there is a pattern of them having difficulties that push them into joining this service. I don't see why Spy would be an exception.

The reason for joining is usually money. Some people question why Spy, a wealthy man from higher society, would join Mann Co. if he has it all already.

Well, probably because he really does not.

Have you ever met an aristocrat? Wealthy people don't get so protective about their expensive suits, they can afford cleaning or a new one. Regardless, rich people don't usually get stingy about material goods, especially if they're mass produced.

At least, not those who were born into wealth.

Spy's defensiveness about his "wealthy stuff", his pomp-ness, disgust and arrogance towards "plebs" gives off a man who knows what it means to live in poverty and who doesn't want to be associated with it ever again.

(Not even talking about his own filthy habits such as not washing his mask and pissing on walls? Jesus Christ)

Dare I even guess that he might be not French at all? His French is so broken. (Although, so is Medic's German, but at least he uses his language much more frequently and in more complex sentences, while Spy only uses French to say some basic expressions, occasionally confusing them with other languages). Definitely not a native.

If anything, he's not giving "rich man" at all, he's giving con man. And that fits my picture perfectly.

So, poor upbringing. How old is Spy? If he's Scout's father (and he was young when he was conceived), I'd say he's no less than 20 years older than him. I'd give him a few more years actually. So, approximately Spy is around 50 at the events of the game (1968-1972). Let's assume he was born somewhere in the 1910s.

Even if he's not French, I still agree that he's probably European. Hmm, what was happening in Europe at the time Spy was a kid?

Oh yeah. The Great Depression.

See my picture: imagine, a child from a lower class family during the Great Depression, his parents were most likely to not take good care about him (both because of the economical situation AND as an echo to Spy's struggles with his own fatherhood). He has to run away from home early and start to make money. Any way possible.

Unavoidably, it leads to crime.

Petty theft, blackmail, scams. Changing identities. Selling low quality products and services. Changing identities again. When older, seducing rich women to stay at their homes overnight, be fed and supported. Running away from the police. Walking into a trap of the mafia, and then joining them as their goon.

In this nightmare of a life he just had to keep pretending to be someone else, someone better and stronger, in order to his ego to not completely shutter. He had to imagine he was an invincible mastermind trickster of some sort, not just a poor boo-hoo victim of poverty who has never knew normal life and care.

And if you pretend for long enough, you become your role eventually... Right?

His true self was long lost forgotten under many layers of new identities. Worse, his true self was never known. And he didn't want it to be known in its ugly and disgusting vulnerability. Narcissism became his lifeline.

It's so much better to be Spy. To be rich and elegant and respected. His ego rebuilt.

[deebris]

The Misteryous Visitor 5

Batfamily x batsis (platonic!)

Synopsis: The argument between Talia and Bruce is catastrophic from beginning to end, and while the whole truth is revealed, neither of them wants to let go of you. Strange was always a greater danger than he let on and was closer than he ever thought.

Warnings: Family discussion; meaningless kiss; aggression; blood; kidnapping; maternal possessiveness;

Word count: 4.5k

Note: Talia has a slightly different relationship with Bruce in my story compared to the canon, being more tense than the impression I got when I watched scenes between the two of them.

I forget to mention that English is not my first language, forgive me for any mistakes.

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6

"Is it true?" Bruce asked quickly, barely giving Talia time to dare say anything before him. The woman rolled her eyes, still with her back to him, and prepared to maintain her confident pose.

She turned to face him and took a few moments to admire the vision, blatantly diverting her eyes to his lips and seeing how the messy shirt had given him a more fierce and attractive aura. Their relationship was complicated, that's a fact, but she could never stop finding the man in front of her charmingly handsome.

"You'll need to be more specific than that," Talia's voice dripped with a sweet and wicked tone as she walked toward him. Bruce violently stood up from the chair when he saw her hand reach towards him and imposed his height over hers to intimidate.

"Don't play the cynic." There was a suppressed fury in his tone, and she was sure he was using the last bit of self-control that still possessed.

"For heaven's sake, Bruce." Talia mocked, picking up the coat she had intended to grab from the beginning from the chair, having recognized it as yours. She grimaced as felt the damp fabric and dropped it in a corner of the room on the floor. The look she was receiving could burn her skin, and when she turned her face back to his, she realized how disturbed he was. "You look horrible. Strange really got into your head, didn't he?"

Talia saw him narrow his eyes with impatient indignation as he snorted. She found seeing him like this very peculiar and thought it would be fun to try and provoke.

The woman brought her face close to his, making her warm breath touch his chin provocatively while boldly wrapping her arms around the broad neck. She tested the waters, seeing how he remained still, and brushed her red lips along his jawline, then moved up until their mouths shared the same breath.

She was going to try to persuade, convince him that he was overthinking, and smiled inwardly when she saw Bruce become disconcerted for a second, completely unresponsive when she sealed their lips together. She managed to seduce him in that second to the point where, unconsciously, he moved his tongue with hers, but tasting her saliva brought him back to rationality.

He left her in complete shock when abruptly pushed her away and grabbed her face in an aggressive manner, squeezing the cheeks and making her squirm until eyes glazed over into his. “You repulse me.” Bruce spat and was glad to see her bold expression disappear. “Tell me once: she is mine?"

Talia tried to take his hand away with hers, but he seemed implacable, and didn't even move a finger out of place. He might be stronger, but she wasn't weak, and that was what made her let out an astonished sob.

"She is my daughter?!" He shouted, shaking her, no longer able to take the lack of response.

"Yes it is true." The confession made him let go of her finally, and she almost stumbled back with how sudden it was.

She massaged her face, seeking relief, and it didn't take long for her eyebrows to furrow in shock. Bruce felt no pity or regret, she deserved much more than he would ever have the courage to do.

"How?" By the way he looked, she knew there was no more room for lies or evasion. She had never seen him like this; Bruce had always been the most balanced man she had ever known in her entire life.

"She and Damian are twins," Talia responded immediately.

"Twins?" Bruce's voice sounded incredulous. He felt that even all the time in the universe wouldn't be enough to process that. It seemed simply unreal. "Why did you hide this? Why did you tell me about Damian and not about her?"

"Because you would have taken her from me!" She shouted, running her fingers over her face to check if her makeup had smeared. "I handed Damian over to you willingly, but if you had found out about him before, you would have brought him here just the same. And with her, it would be no different. You should be grateful to have had the boy."

"How dare you say such a thing?" Bruce threw the chair to the floor in a fit of rage, making a loud noise that echoed even outside the hallway. "And 'handed Damian over willingly'? You only did that because you felt pressured after your father died." He threw it in her face and suddenly remembered something: "You made that boy lie for you." He accused her.

Talia was silent for a brief moment, but her face showed nothing but contempt. "I did, yes." She admitted.

"What's the point of that? Was it just out of whim?" Bruce seemed fragile before her for the first time in so many years. For a moment, she glimpsed an old argument, from when they were still dating and didn't hide feelings from each other as they do today. "Do you hold that much resentment? You know very well why I dismissed the League of Assassins."

"Of course, Bruce. Your morals are too valuable, aren't they?" Talia replied with her chin up, not letting him affect her. "You think you're a good guy, a pure superhero like Superman. But I know you and I know how rotten you are inside. You are not as different from us as you think." She spewed the words in his face like venom.

"You wanted her to come here, didn't you? You and he planned all this?" Comprehension seemed to have hit Bruce, but that only left the woman confused.

"If it were up to me, you would never have discovered her existence. Why would I send her here?" The confession left him silent, not because he wasn't angry anymore, but because he was tired of hearing her voice; he simply couldn't believe anything Talia said. "She is my daughter. And I don't care what you're going to do now, but don't think you're going to drag her with you like you did with all those boys.”

"You think you can offer something better? You, the same person who left her in the hands of that sicko, consider yourself a better option?" Bruce insinuated this with a firmness that made it clear he had no doubt Talia was cooperating with Strange, making her eyes turn red. She could hear many insults from him, but insinuating that she had put you at risk was something entirely different. "You can be sure you won't lay another finger on her."

She knew Bruce was serious, and that he could actually prevent any future contact betwedn you and her. She wanted to kill him right now out of sheer hatred, but she was smart and knew that acting impulsively wouldn't solve anything. So, reluctantly, she tried to change the tone of the discussion to a neutral one. There was no way she could leave without giving him explanations, and if she tried, he would stop her.

"Maybe Strange had been threatening me for some time, possibly before deciding to appear publicly again and attack you." There was a slight irony of indignation in her words. Her gaze was firm and her green eyes shining with the intensity of someone defending their own honor. "Let it be clear: I didn't help anyone; I was as much a victim of this as you were."

"Victim?" Bruce retorted with disdain.

"This threat wasn't for you, Bruce, it was for me. Today you didn't lose anything, quite the opposite." She ignored the acidic tone and continued. "Maybe this contributed to some kind of psychological game Strange is playing against you, but it must be just a bonus."

"Why is he threatening you?" The question contained no compassion or empathy, but it didn't matter to her to receive that kind of consideration from him.

"What did he do to you?" Talia ignored the question, and as a form of childish revenge, he did the same. She sighed and tried a different approach: "If you tell me, I'll tell you too." She needed to know to try to understand the depth of Strange's current intentions or at least get some clue about the plan he was plotting because although she wouldn't say it to Bruce, she was also trying to catch him.

"A photo of my parents," he confessed, trying to sound indifferent before continuing, "Photos of the boys, of Alfred..." Bruce left the sentence hanging in the air and didn't proceed. He would never say more than he deemed necessary to her.

"Damian too?" She asked, worried about her son, and saw Bruce nod affirmatively. Bruce calmly unwrinkled a card while handing it to her.

"He asked her to deliver this to me today." His tone was serious, revealing a determination to deal with the situation pragmatically and directly.

Talia repeated those printed words several times, and every hair on her body stood on end all at once. "Did she…?"

"She didn't read it." He said curtly. "But what I don't understand is how all this seems so convenient and you claim to have nothing to do with it. He had this card perfectly prepared."

"Knowing him well, he must have been waiting for an opportunity for many days, or he induced this to happen somehow." She reflected, scratching the fine texture with her nails right where the text was printed to the point of making it illegible. "The letter that Damian said she picked up took longer to arrive than the others; it must have ended up with him at some point."

"How could he be so close, and you didn't notice?" His voice became aggressive again, the same beastly rage returning.

"I did notice! I just didn't imagine Strange interested in her; I thought it was about Damian. So, I didn't worry because he wasn't with me; he was with you." She raised her voice, trying to match his volume. "Strange has been sending me coded messages. Threats that had nothing to do with my daughter. I thought he didn't know she was yours and therefore wouldn't care about her." She finished, and Bruce clenched his jaw, observing how she increasingly emphasized the expression "my daughter," excluding him.

"Threats related to Damian?" He asked. His muscles were tense and sore, but he endured the discomfort if it meant clarifying everything once and for all. "And, of course, you never considered telling me."

"This started long before I left him with you, Bruce. They were still children." Talia said, growing increasingly frustrated with the conversation.

"What could Damian have done to him as a child?"

"Damian ended up leaving Strange with one less eye. He was already pursuing him because of you, but after losing an eye, all he wanted was revenge." She walked to the bed, leaning on the arms while crossing her legs. A very characteristic gesture of her behavior, which was highlighted when she wore her extravagant dresses, but the cold pants she wore made the movements relaxed. "He was a child; he didn't do it on purpose. He was just protecting his sister."

"How could Strange have known about Damian for so long and not about her? What you're saying doesn't make any sense, Talia." Bruce was frantic, and after a brief moment of melancholy, she sighed:

"I blame my father for this." Her voice almost wavered in front of him, but being the proud person she was, she quickly composed herself.

“What did Ra’s do?” He threw the question into the air, laden with apprehension.

The room plunged into a disturbing silence. Talia remained motionless, while the sound of Bruce's heavy breathing was the only thing breaking the void in the atmosphere. For a brief moment, her eyes met his and captured the storm of emotions brewing there: betrayal, despair, expectation.

She did not fear him, but rather how he might react to this. You were there, nearby, in the hallway, and the last thing she wanted was for the primal figure Bruce was becoming to explode and expel her, taking you to him. Moreover, she needed to remind herself that she was at a disadvantage there. It wasn't just Bruce she would face if things turned worse or physical, but everyone else in the house.

“What did he do, Talia?” Bruce growled, repeating the question with intensity.

She stared at the floor, fully aware that her next words would turn against her later, but at this point, he needed to know. Strange was out there, and he was still as much of a psychopath obsessed with Batman as before, meaning he wouldn’t rest until he managed to take Bruce’s place as a vigilante. So, with a low but icy voice, she moved her mouth to tell him the truth:

“Years ago, Strange sought out the League of Assassins. That lunatic was always smart and somehow discovered the rift between you and my father.” The mention of such an old event took Bruce by surprise. He slightly recoiled and his eyebrows raised, but he restrained himself from interrupting her. “He wanted the League to help him defeat you and vice versa. My father was suspicious, but he was so resentful that he agreed. Your betrayal was still fresh to us.”

“And of course it went wrong, didn’t it?” He asked with implicit sarcasm.

“Strange was so cunning that he managed to manipulate him to his advantage. He provided us with precise and important information about you, but after a while, he wanted to advise my father on how to act. That’s when I started to hate him, realizing how he was controlling.” She shook her head in denial, recalling the memory with bitterness, and continued:

“My father trusted him so much that he allowed Strange to infiltrate us more and more, until one day, by chance, he found damian in Nanda Parbat. Strange was nosy and curious; he tried to extract the information from me, but discovered on his own that you were his father.” Talia blew a strand of hair that fell on her face and decided to add the next part with acidity: “Strange was so fascinated by this that he made an absurd request. We denied it, and then he rebelled against us. Of course, that incompetent couldn’t accomplish anything, and then disappeared, as he always does when things go wrong.”

“Ra’s and Strange working together?” Bruce asked himself. He could never have imagined that two such distinct people could have had a relationship like that in the past. “And what did he ask for?”

“He was obsessed with surpassing you, but it wasn’t just that, he wanted to be you and have everything that was yours. He asked to raise Damian as if he were his own son, can you believe it? Luckily, Y/n never set foot in Nanda Parbat, so he didn’t discover her in that time.” She paused for a moment, reliving the events. “He wanted to prove that he could raise him and make a better Robin. Strange has known your identities much longer than you think; he knew the real Robin was your adopted son.”

Bruce’s face contorted in an expression of disbelief. His eyes narrowed slightly, and his mouth opened as if about to say something, but the words seemed stuck in his throat. He blinked a few times, needing to assimilate what he had heard. “If he never saw her before, how did all this happen?”

“A few years later, when my father hadn’t been dead for long, I returned to live in Gotham City with Y/n, and Strange found out Damian was here too and broke into the apartment where we were. He intended to kidnap Damian, but he used to share a room with his sister, and by mistake, Strange went to her bed.” She spoke with a heavy voice, the last sentence sending chills down her spine, but she persisted:

“I woke up to her frightened scream and a loud noise. I ran and when I saw it was him, I had no mercy. He is intelligent, but sometimes he is blinded by his own obsession and do stupid things. He was already bleeding, with a pencil piercing one of his eyes, thanks to Damian, then fled through the living room. I didn’t initially chase after him because I wanted to make sure Damian was okay; the problem was I hadn’t realized that Y/n wasn’t in the room. Damian had distracted Strange to let his sister escape, and because of my delay, he took her.”

Talia seemed to be in a trance. Each word weighed on her chest like lead, yet she threw them out as if they were disposable. Her usually confident and determined eyes didn’t know where to look. Sitting rigidly on the bed, her imposing posture didn’t waver, as her pride didn’t allow her to show weakness.

“What did he do?” Bruce throat tightened, as if the air was rarefied, as he waited for the answer. Talia might think otherwise, but he could see through her facade. And despite it being selfish to say this, he couldn’t feel a shred of concern for her, especially when someone more important to him was now involved.

After standing for so long, Bruce sat on the bed next to her. He reflected on the sad incident, deeply disturbed. He blamed her. He blamed her for her character, for lying so much, and for hiding from him that his children were in danger. He was grateful that she had fallen silent for a few seconds, as he was mentally preparing himself for a grim scenario, one he wasn’t yet ready to face.

“What happened to her?” He asked, seeing that she wasn’t showing signs of speaking, trying to prompt her to continue.

"Strange carried her through the city, desperately fleeing from me until he ended up in an alley. He encountered a group of drunks who surrounded and wanted to rob him. He's not a good fighter, you already know that, and like a damn coward, he threw her into their midst as a distraction while he escaped again.”

“Unbelievable…” Bruce massaged his eyebrows with his eyes closed, visibly upset. He pressed his temples hard, as if trying to dispel the accumulated frustration. After a deep breath, he suddenly exploded in a shout of frustration and anger, just like at the beginning. “You should have contacted me!"

“Are you trying to blame me?!” She asked indignantly.

"She didn't seem to recognize him when she spoke to me just now. It sounded like she was talking about a random stranger." Bruce was confused.

"I don't know if she would recognize him again, she never wanted to talk to me about that day. And I never mentioned Hugo Strange either, everything she knows about him she sees on the news."

“You and your father are the worst kind of people I could have gotten involved with,” Bruce said, his voice dangerously low this time. “If it weren't for Ra's, Strange would never have gotten close to them. If it weren't for your stupid lie, nothing you just said would have happened. And I don't even want to imagine what the hell happened after that!”

"You would have made sure nothing like that happened, wouldn't you, Bruce? You talk about it with such certainty, but weren't you the one who let the Joker do something similar to that kid… Is Jason his name?" Her mention of something like that made Bruce's ears go deaf. He could clearly hear the sound of his heart beating inside his chest, until her disgusting voice sounded again: "You would have put her in the same disgrace!"

Bruce lost the control he tried so hard to maintain from the beginning. He threw the lamp next to him into the headboard on the wall. The movement was so violent that the wire connecting the object to the socket broke in a strange way and the entire glass part broke into several pieces. The noise was thunderous, and even when he stood up with a piercing look at her, Talia continued with her laughing face, enjoying watching him go crazy.

“Don't try to compare the two things. You didn’t tell me about Strange before because you were embarrassed. It's too hard for you to admit that you can fail. Besides, you always liked having someone to control, to manipulate at your pleasure. You did this to her, didn't you? And even then, you’re not satisfied. You continued to torment Damian, using him.” Bruce took a deep breath.“I thought you cared about him.”

Talia got up too and lifted her chin, her eyes shining with defiance. “You understand nothing, Bruce,” she responded with a firm and cutting voice. “Everything I did was to protect them both. I explained my reasons to you. Do you think hiding them was just my decision? My father would never have allowed it, and I won't deny that I wasn’t against him, but it didn’t depend solely on me. You, with your inflexible morality and your rules, would never understand.”

“Don’t give me that,” Bruce growled, his gaze fixed and penetrating. “You branded the girl with your initials like she was cattle. It was never about protection; it’s possessiveness.”

Like him, Talia stood up. “I may be a woman of whims, as you like to say, but I didn’t hide anything because I was embarrassed”

Talia paused, her voice softening but not positively. “And as for tormenting him… I trained him, prepared him for the cruel world we live in. Do you think you could keep him safe with your mild methods? He needs to be strong, needs to be able to survive, and in those years I taught him to protect her because no one else would. My father didn’t care about a granddaughter; he finally had the male heir he wanted. I had to meet his demands to make Damian perfect, and that allowed me the freedom to raise her away from all that. What I could do, I did. And what I wanted to do, I also did. And I’d do it all again.”

“You always think you did everything right, but everything you’ve said only proves how misguided you are. I remember I gave you a choice, Talia. I told you that you could abandon the League of Assassins and come with me. I told you that your father didn't need to control your life forever,” Bruce said, his voice laden with disdain. “You will never come near her again. You’ll have to go over my dead body first.”

Talia narrowed her eyes in contempt. “Do you really think you can stop me?” Her voice was low and controlled, but each word carried significant weight. “You always saw the world in black and white. Do you really think it was so simple to abandon my entire life and devotion for you, a mere fleeting romance? If you think it’s that easy to give up everything, I challenge you to abandon Batman right now. After all, it’s because of this secret identity of yours that all this started, isn’t it? Isn’t it as easy as that, Bruce?”

She took a step forward, facing him without wavering. “I can repeat it as many times as you want: I am a criminal, I am selfish, and whatever else you want me to say, but the only hypocrite in this room is you.” Her eyes shone with determination, while his wavered before her.

Bruce hardened his expression, sadness hitting him. He wanted to accuse her of being a low person, but deep in his conscience, he feared it was true. But he wouldn’t allow himself to be deceived; she was still the wrong one here. She was the one who completely distorted the situation, making herself the victim and trying to justify everything she did, turning him into the villain of the story.

“Talia, I never wanted you to be any of these things,” he began, his voice laden with anguish. He felt bitterness looking at her face now, as it painfully reminded him of the time when he had been deeply in love with this same woman. “I wanted to believe you could change, that you would be different from your father. But every choice you made, every lie you told… Our relationship was unsustainable, and now the only thing I feel for you is remorse.”

He closed the last distance between them, imposing himself with a somber aura. “Your actions, your alliances… they put her at risk. My duty as a father is to protect her, and I can’t ignore the danger you represent. I never wanted it to come to this, Talia. But if keeping her safe means keeping her away from you, then that’s what I’ll do.”

Talia clenched her fists, her expression hardening even more. “Do you think I didn’t want to protect her too?” Her voice became silky. There was a dark delight in how the words dragged, a subtle poison hidden in each intonation. “You talk about protecting her, but she needs more than simple physical protection. She needs a mother, someone who understands the complexity of her feelings.”

“Look at yourself for a moment, Bruce,” said Talia, her voice icy and full of disdain. “You’re losing your composure. Do you really think she’ll like finding out that her father is this weak and ridiculous man you’ve become?”

The woman took a step forward, fixing her eyes on his with a challenging gleam. “The only thing she’ll feel for you is shame.”

"Do you really think you can tell me who I've become?" He paused, swallowing hard. "I didn't want it to come to this, Talia, but if you don't leave voluntarily, I'll be forced to tell that girl everything you've done. And then we'll let her decide."

He intensified the confrontation, provoking her: "Are you sure she would still choose you after so many lies? After everything you've hidden from her?" His eyes darkened, pupils dilated by the dim light in the room. "Value the good image she still has of you."

Talia was momentarily silent, her eyes meeting Bruce's with a genuine expression of concern. She took a deep breath before speaking, her voice a bit more dangerous than before. "Would you really do that? Tell her everything?"

Bruce replied firmly, maintaining his serious gaze on hers. "It's what I must do, regardless of everything. Continuing to hide things isn't right. But if the only way for you to leave more easily is under this condition, then go now."

Talia took a few steps back, her serious expression showing shock and worry. Her thoughts repeated Bruce's ultimatum continuously, knowing you would not react well to it.

You were a smart girl, but emotionally very fragile. Your bonds of trust were limited to her and your brother, and you two had been apart for so long that having your relationship with your mother destroyed in this way would leave a huge scar on your heart. This would be the best choice, both for her and for you if Talia didn't want everything to fall apart.

She turned towards the bedroom hallway, as if seeking a moment to ponder the consequences. After a moment, she turned her gaze back to Bruce, her shoulders slightly lower. "You are not going to involve her in your vigilante life." It wasn't a request, it was a warning, and Bruce didn't contest it to avoid further conflict. Understanding that she had decided to leave was enough to reassure him.

"I didn't mean to." He walked past her, picking up your coat she had thrown on the floor earlier, checking carefully that it hadn't been damaged by the broken lampshade, and lifting the chair to let the piece dry once more.

"You know where the exit is; don't take too long." Without bothering to be polite, he quickly opened the door, leaving her standing there. He knew she would really leave after seeing how she reacted. She wouldn't risk irritating him by taking longer than necessary.

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[of-many-fandomss]

if you could, maybe a fic where reader is the youngest on the grid, and has lost her father. anyway, she wins a grand prix (whatever you’re feeling, it doesn’t matter which one!), and just immediately runs to charles because she knows her dad’s not there to see her big win. he’s immediately taken back but then understands why she came to him and is there to comfort her

and maybe she invites him up on the podium with her!!

thanks :))

Proud

summary: your father was no longer there, but your next biggest supporter was

paring: charles leclerc x reader platonic

warnings: mentions of parental death

word count: 0.6k

a/n: in honor of my baby lando getting his first win 🥹🧡

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

The blur of your vision no doubt made it borderline dangerous to be driving- but you couldn’t care. Not one single bit.

Not as you pulled into the spot reserved just for you, a p1 resting against the poster right in front of your car that you could barely make out.

A sob raked through your body suddenly and you dropped your hemelt clad head into your hands, breathing shaky and heart rate still accelerated.

You took a moment for yourself, your eyes squeezed shut and your senses buzzing. There were screams of the crowd around you, each one of them celebrating your victory in a deafening roar of pure thrill and excitement.

Finally, you jumped out of your car, ripping the hemelt from off of your head just in time to see an all too familiar Red Bull vehicle pull up to your right and a Ferrari to your left, taking up their respective places by your side.

Whipping around, you paid no mind to the cheers of congratulations from your team, nor the reporters that tried to invade your space as you raced as quickly as you could to the bright red Ferrari.

Charles hopped out of his car just in time for you to crash into his arms, eyes once again squeezed shut as you hugged the man tightly.

The man stumbled back a bit- having already shed his helmet- eyes slightly wide as he looked down at you, but softened as he watched you finally let the tears flow free from your eyes ducts.

He recovered quickly and hurtfully swept you into his embrace, holding you just as tightly as you were holding him, neither of you tuned into any of the hundreds of cameras that were snapping all around you.

After so much hard work- after so much dedication- you had finally done it. You had finally won your Grand Prix- and one on your home track nonetheless.

The tears were partially for the dedication that was finally paying off, but it was mostly for the man that you wish was by your side at the moment.

Your father.

The man that had always been your biggest supporter, through and through.

From your karting days to when you finally signed on with Red Bull just over five months ago when you turned eighteen.

Only two months later, he had passed away from a sudden and quick disease that had left you and the rest of your family utterly heartbroken.

Even before he had been gone, Charles had been quick to take you under his wing. You weren’t his teammate, and yet, he couldn’t help the sense of responsibility that took over him when he had first gazed upon you. He had wanted nothing more than to make you feel welcomed and safe in formula 1.

And that’s what he did.

When you had lost the man that had been your biggest supporter- Leclerc became just as large of one.

“I’m so proud of you,” He murmured in your ear for only you to hear, listening to the way you were hiccuping against the material of his tracksuit, “Your father would be so proud.”

You squeezed him tighter for a moment before pulling away, laughing slightly through teary eyes at him.

Charles smiled, moving a piece of hair out of your face and tucking it behind your ear, “I’m so proud of you.” He repeated.

“Thank you,” You whispered.

Thank you for saying it. Thank you for looking out for me- for always being there.

Though you didn’t say the words, your eyes shone brightly with them and the man understood.

He nodded before taking his gloved hand in yours, “Come on, let’s get you to your first top spot on the podium.”

When you turned around, you were greeted with the sight of screaming, ecstatic fans, and beaming drivers.

Each and every person in that place was so proud of you, but none smiled as brightly as Charles when you mounted the top of the podium and held your trophy up high.

[comatosebunny09]

More late-night thoughts:

You’re visiting your mom for the holidays. Needed a break from being at Sylus’ beck and call. And it’s nice being in your mother's company. 

You’re laughing in the kitchen, prepping dinner while she catches you up on her life, and you skirt around the true details of yours. You don’t think your mom would respond to, ‘Hey, I’m an assassin-slash-seductress working for the most dangerous man in the galaxy’ too well. 

Of course, the topic of who you’re dating comes up. How do you explain to your mom that you have a thing for your boss, who (seemingly) feels nothing for you in return? Your boss who quickly tosses you into the arms of danger with minimal care for your well-being?

With a nervous laugh, you divert the topic. Still, your mind swirls with thoughts of Sylus. You wonder if he’s spending Christmas Eve with Miss Hunter, holding her close and whispering sweet nothings into her ear.

Your mom steps out of the kitchen with a loving squeeze on your shoulder as if she senses your inner turmoil. Says she’s going to grab some wine from the cellar because you look like you could use some. With a small smile, you fall back into monotony in her absence, snapping peas and humming a familiar tune to distract you. 

Gradually, you realize your mom’s been gone for a long time. The wine cellar isn’t too far. But she’s also older and doesn’t move as swiftly as she used to. Wiping your hands on a towel, you call after her with a smile, exiting the kitchen.

She doesn’t answer the few times you call for her. Worry creeps in as you maneuver through your eerily quiet childhood home. You venture into the cellar, a single lightbulb lighting the way. And the sight that greets you when you descend the stairs steals the air from your lungs.

Your mother’s whimper is muffled behind a gloved hand. Tears stream down her fear-stricken face. A man clad in black, wearing a mask that only reveals his eyes, holds her captive, a gun aimed at her temple. 

You take a cautious step forward, hands held out placatingly. The man pulls your mother back, the metal of the gun squeaking because he’s holding it so tight. You stiffen, panic and grief swallowing you whole. 

You didn’t anticipate anything like this happening. Didn’t expect danger to follow you, not when you innocently wanted to spend time with your only family for the holidays. You didn’t think to bring a gun and left your knives behind. Using your Evol in front of your mother is out of the question. 

“Let her go,” your voice wavers. 

The thug chuckles gruffly, holding your mother tighter. “I will if you come with us. Peacefully.”

You take another tentative step forward, eyes shifting between your mother and the man holding her hostage. “Who are you? Who sent you? What do you want with me?” You can only assume he has a vendetta against Onychinus and somehow figured out you work directly under its leader.   

“You’re asking too many questions for someone who doesn’t want her mom’s brains splattered all over the floor.”

You bristle. Briefly scan your surroundings for anything you can use as a weapon. Bottles of vintage wine surround you. Could grab one and shatter it over the thug’s head.

As if sensing your inner thoughts, the man clicks his tongue. “I wouldn’t get any bright ideas if I were you.” To highlight his point, he slowly pulls back the trigger. A surge of dread tears through you. 

“Alright, alright. Just—” You take another step forward, your mother’s whimpering squeezing your heart. “Just let her go. Please. She has nothing to do with whatever you want from me.”

For a moment, the man looks like he’s willing to negotiate. But your mother’s muffled shriek tinges the air before you can get another word out. Something blunt cracks on the back of your head, and your vision doubles as you careen forward. 

A sharp pain pounding in your skull, you’re loose-limbed on the dusty ground, weakly dragging yourself across the floorboards towards your mother. Your body and voice refuse to work with you, inky spots dancing in your vision before a kick to your ribs punches the air from your lungs. 

She screams bloody murder behind the thug’s hand, struggling against him as hot tears scorch down her face. Your body slackens, and you feel a sharp prick in your back, followed by a raspy chuckle from behind. 

“That was easier than I thought,” says another voice, muffled by the threat of unconsciousness slowly toddling in. “This Evol suppressant should keep her nice and quiet until we can get her back to the boss.” 

The man holding your mother laughs sinisterly. “Hopefully, this’ll bring her boyfriend out of hiding.”

Boyfriend? You can’t make sense of anything going on anymore. You just want to sleep. Want to curl into yourself as pain rips through you.

Try as you might, you can’t fucking move. And as the world slides into black, you’re being hoisted up by your collar while your mother’s cries of your name fade into the void. 

[mercy-burning]

A Study in Anchored Souls

Pairing: ghost!Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Summary: In which the ghost of Spencer Reid discovers that in order to unveil his unfinished business and finally lay at rest, he must somehow enlist the help of the woman who now inhabits his apartment. Category: MATURE (18+) Content: Strong language, mention of weed, ghost shenanigans (?), female masturbation, fingering, oral sex (fem receiving), brief handjob, unprotected p in v sex, Spencer is invisible for all of that LMAO Word Count: 11.8k

MASTERLIST

NOTE: God, I love ghost smut. That was a goddamn blast to write! Like you don't even know how giddy it made me putting these words to the keys. I even put in extra effort and made a little photo banner, which I’ve never done for a one shot before, and I’m kinda obsessed with it ngl 😂 I hope you love this one as much as I do! <3 Written for @imagining-in-the-margins Autumn Air writing challenge!

———

ACT I: Girls' Night

Spencer Reid always knew he would die.

It was a cold, hard fact of life that at one point, everyone would die. It was unsure when or how, but it happened. There was no escaping it. That thought alone was enough to squander most of his anxieties about death— even after a few near-death experiences and the constant danger his line of work tended to throw at him throughout his lifetime.

Still, the one thing he couldn't stand to think about was the "after". He wanted truly to believe that what happened after death was just nothingness, but after his encounter with Tobias, it stirred up all sorts of questions and unexplainable possibilities that were just too vast for even his brain to try and comprehend.

Then, of course, there was the fact that he was currently standing in his old apartment, watching somebody else live her life, completely invisible to her. He tried talking to her, too, but nothing. It was like he wasn't even there.

But why? It's not like he had unfinished business or anything. The unsub who shot him was shot down immediately afterwards. He watched him die before passing out himself. Why was he "awake" now, nearly 5 months after the fact, and not when his friends were grieving him? Where were his friends, and why has the afterlife chosen to tie Spencer to a place rather than the people that knew and loved him?

Logically it seemed reasonable but really, he just missed his friends. He missed his life.

He hated the afterlife, he decided then. There was no reason he needed to keep doing this when he couldn't even leave the confines of the apartment. He couldn't walk through walls or touch anything or sit down on the woman's gross floral couch. If he wanted to enter another room, the door needed to be opened, otherwise he was stuck right there in the living room, the kitchen, and the open dining space that connected the two. If he was allowed to live his afterlife with his mom, or playing Chess with Gideon, or travelling the world, free to go anywhere and see anything without hardship, it might have been different.

But no. He was stuck watching this woman struggle to move furniture by herself.

He didn't know her. Had never seen her before. She wasn't a student of his or a victim he'd saved or even a fling. She was a complete stranger. A complete stranger who unfortunately had terrible taste in decor and an even more unfortunately beautiful face.

Her name was Y/N. From what he could gather, she didn't have any family, at least not nearby. Her two best friends were the only other people in her circle that he'd seen in the apartment, and when they were all together it was... interesting. There was a lot of loud laughter and wine, and oh God, the sex talk...

It felt intrusive, but he couldn't leave. He could migrate to another room, maybe, but his ears still worked, even a little too well. His eyes, too, seemed to be as sharp as ever, any imperfections to his vision completely mended. He was simply over aware of everything, and yet hollow at the same time, and he hated everything about it.

But what could he do? He couldn't even touch anything or communicate to anyone, so how could he possibly figure out what was keeping him here and how he could get out of it? Did his new roommate hold some sort of knowledge or ability to help him solve this mystery, or was he destined to watch her live out her life in this place that he once called "home"? Was there any connection between them at all?

He didn't know.

Usually he liked puzzles, but this one was rather annoying.

He just wanted to rest.

Y/N had been moved in for just over a month (yes, there was a whole month of just standing there learning everything about a stranger because there was simply nothing else for Spencer to do) when finally, there was a small glimmer of hope.

Heavy on the small.

It was Girls' Night. Friday. It always consisted of too much wine and movies and snacks and discussions about whatever they were reading or watching. Despite the differences in the routine, the camaraderie made Spencer miss his friends. He wondered what they were all up to. Maybe, if this all worked out, he could actually find out.

But for now, he had to focus on the baby steps.

When the girls showed up with a Ouija board, he couldn't help the incredulous laughter that escaped him.

Y/N, it seemed, felt the same disbelief. "You guys, what the fuck is that?"

"What does it look like?" the first friend, Maya, retorted.

The other, Robin, added, "You were the one that said you felt like you weren't tooootally aloooone in this apartment..."

Her haunting inflection elicited a backhanded thump to the arm, Y/N groaning as she closed the door behind her. "Yeah, but that doesn't mean I would want to know what or who it is! Besides, I'm probably just paranoid. It's just being in a new place and the anxieties that come with it, that's all. You guys are insane."

"Only one way to find out!"

Was Spencer really going to entertain this? A goddamn Ouija board? He enjoyed his fair share of spooky things and researching superstitions, but that was out of his realm of belief. On the other hand, one could technically consider him a ghost... He could look down and see himself, but nobody else could see or hear him... Y/N had obviously voiced a concern for feeling a presence to her friends, but how much of that feeling was accurate and how much of it was, in fact, 'new home anxieties'?

As the girls unboxed the board and set up their things, Spencer sighed, mumbling to himself, "Only one way to find out..."

Maya closed the curtains and turned all the lights off, meanwhile Y/N and Robin were collecting and lighting any candle they could find. They cleared off the low coffee table in front of the couch where the girls sat and set everything up there, Spencer taking a seat on the floor opposite the group. It was then that Y/N said something that made him laugh.

"Wait, shouldn't we give the couch to the ghost?"

"What?"

"Well, what if it's an angry ghost? And then we make it sit on the floor, and it decides to exact vengeance on us? Maybe we should... I don't know, be more hospitable?"

"Hmmm, maybe you're right," Robin said, standing up. "Do you hear that, Ghost? We're only being nice to you, so please don't kill us, m'kay?"

Spencer sighed. Little did they know, he couldn't actually sit on the couch. Or a chair. Or anything that wasn't the floor. It was like the ground was the only physical thing he was anchored to. Still, the girls had no way of knowing that, so they shuffled their way to the other end of the table, flipping the Ouija board so it would face the other way. Spencer got up and moved then. He'd have to stand uncomfortably in the small gap between the table and the couch, bending down at the waist to use the board, provided he could even touch it.

He had no idea how this was going to work, if at all.

It was all starting to sound and feel absolutely ridiculous.

The girls each put a finger on the planchette, nervous laughter emanating from them, and Spencer gave one last deep breath before reaching out to touch it himself, anticipating the moment of truth.

His hand hovered over the board, feeling a block just before he would make any contact. He couldn't touch it. His hand wouldn't even go through. He retreated and huffed, wondering if there was something he could do to communicate with them otherwise. He tried to blow out one of the candles, but with no luck. He could feel his breath against his own skin (could you even call it that at this stage?), but the objects in front of him were completely oblivious to his presence.

He was about to give up and call it a night, leaving the girls to have their fun, but then one of them gasped.

"Wait, don't we have to use two fingers? Is that how it works?"

"Shit, I think you're right."

They adjusted their positions and Spencer sighed, but indulged them just in case.

His hand lowered again, middle and pointer fingers approaching the planchette in anticipation. He half-expected there to be resistance again, but this time, a cool rush of wind gusted up in between them as his fingers made contact with the wood.

"Holy shit!" all four of them exclaimed in unison.

"Did you feel that?" Maya squealed excitedly. "Wicked..."

"No, not wicked!" Y/N whined. "We should stop!"

"Really? You know for sure now that there's a ghost living in your apartment, and you're just not going to ask it questions to make sure it's not harmful? Be smart about this, bitch," Robin countered playfully.

Spencer wanted to cut to the chase. He moved his hand, spelling out a word, and the girls collectively gasped before reciting each letter out loud hesitantly, like they couldn't believe what was happening.

"H-A-R-M-L-E-S-S"

"Oh my God! You have a Casper!"

Y/N shook her head furiously. "You guys, stop fucking with me, I mean it. This isn't funny."

"I didn't move it!" said Robin.

"Me either," said Maya. "Besides, you felt that wind right? How could either of us have done that?"

"I don't know, because you're a fucking wizard or something! Cut it out!"

"Hey, if you didn't want to do it that badly, you would have taken your hand off the planchette... Hey, Ghost, have you ever seen Y/N naked?"

"Robin!"

Maya cackled and Y/N went pale. If he wasn't already dead, Spencer would have probably gone pale as well.

The truth was, he had. Seen her naked, that is.

He wasn't proud of it. It happened by total accident. Sort of. He was following her around the apartment all day because he was bored, and he'd ended up locked in her bedroom with her. Either he was truly horrible at reading people (which seemed impossible considering his profession) or she had just gotten a random spurt of excitement, because the moment her door closed, she whipped her shirt off, exposing her bare torso to him, and he couldn't move. He was frozen, completely shocked at the sight before him. She reached down to take off her pants, and he turned around then, quickly becoming aware of the situation.

She rustled behind him and he tried desperately to walk through the door. Any time he got close, the barrier would stop him. He couldn't do anything but stand in the corner and pray to whatever that she was only changing.

She was, in fact, not changing.

Spencer swore in that moment at the table that he could still hear the low hum of her vibrator and every single sound that came from her body and mouth that night, and he was absolutely mortified.

He'd only dared to glance back when he heard the end, her breathing slow and the humming gone. It was silent for a while before he turned around entirely, only to find her asleep, sprawled completely bare over the covers. He wished he could have draped a blanket over her, but his hands were more or less tied.

Thankfully she was only asleep for about a half hour before she forced herself awake to clean up and actually go to bed.

Spencer never followed her around the apartment ever again. Just in case.

"Don't answer that, Ghost," Y/N rushed, "Robin's just fucking around. We promise to ask you serious questions from here on out."

Maya faked a snore. "Come on, Y/N, this is supposed to be fun. The ghost is harmless."

"No, the ghost said it was harmless. Doesn't mean it is."

Spencer thought for a moment as the girls went back and forth, and then he spelled out another word— or an acronym, rather.

"It's moving again!" Robin gasped, spelling out the letters.

"F-B-I"

"Holy shit did you work for the FBI, Ghost?" Maya inquired.

Spencer moved the planchette to the "YES" at the top of the board.

"Maybe... Maybe we should stop calling them Ghost..." Y/N took a shaky breath and closed her eyes for a brief moment before nodding. "Ummm... Spirit Who Resides Here..." Robin and Maya snorted. "What is your name?"

Spencer wished he could tell her she didn't need to be formal, but it was amusing watching her do it anyway. He spelled out his name, first and last, and the girls made a collective hum of acceptance. A normal name and not something concerning.

"We should Google him," Robin said matter-of-factly.

Maya hummed in agreement, but Y/N swallowed and asked another question. "Spencer, you're not... Going to hurt me, are you?"

He moved the planchette to "NO," and watched the relief take over her body, relaxing her muscles and her posture for just a brief moment. He could tell she was still wary, but it was a step in the right direction.

"See? Told you he was harmless."

"He still could be lying," Y/N mumbled. Then she sat up straight. "Not that I don't believe you, Spencer. I'm sorry. You just have to understand that I'm a woman living alone, and the thought of a man I can't see haunting my apartment is just... It's extremely terrifying."

He felt bad for her. As annoying as his situation was, he couldn't imagine being in hers. He almost wished he hadn't entertained the Ouija board at all and put her worries to rest, but since it was too late, all he could do was try and reassure her that he wasn't a threat.

His fingers moved again.

"U-N-D-E-R-S-T-A-N-D"

And then a pause, before: "S-O-R-R-Y"

Y/N's eyes dropped, and her friends made a collective "Awwwww," before a knock sounded at the door, jolting them all to move away from the Ouija board.

Spencer was knocked backwards, and he expected his newfound sense of touch to disappear once the connection had broken, but to his surprise, he found himself safely seated on the couch. His hands reached over the fabric, testing, and despite his distaste for the floral pattern on it, the cushions were suddenly the greatest thing he'd ever touched. He was grateful for this couch. And for the Ouija board, and for Y/N and her eccentric friends.

Speaking of which, Robin yelled out, "Pizza's here!" and got up with Maya to abandon the board. Pizza apparently seemed more interesting than a ghost, but for two women who Spencer could now tell (no thanks to his upgraded sense of smell) were a little high, that seemed reasonable.

As her friends happily greeted the pizza delivery man, Y/N reached out to touch the planchette again, just for a moment, and gently whispered, "Thank you, Spencer."

He returned it with an earnest, "You're welcome," but he wasn't sure if she'd hear or not. She looked around the area for a few seconds before turning around, and it wasn't clear whether she had.

But she seemed relaxed now, and that was a start.

As the girls sat at the dining table and ate pizza, Spencer tested out his new senses just a few steps away. He found himself thankful to be in a familiar place, even if the decor was different. The walls were the same and the bookshelves still stood, now filled with bright Romance novels and trinkets and photos that laid out Y/N's personality quite perfectly. He smiled, running his fingers along the spines of the books, missing the feeling even if they weren't his own.

He wanted to see if he could read one, just for the sake of feeling a book in his hands again, but he figured he'd wait until Maya and Robin were gone and Y/N was asleep.

Until then, he continued to touch things without making them move, not wanting to raise anyone's eyebrows.

And then, a gasp sounded from the dining table.

"I found him! I have his obituary right here!"

"Holy shit, let me see!"

Spencer made his way to the table to observe.

The girls passed around Maya's phone, looking at his obituary photo. Robin made a low whistle, then called out into the air on her left. He was standing to her right, unable to help the dry laughter that escaped him at the irony of the situation.

"Spencer, you were hot!"

Maya shook her head and sighed. "Yeah. What a damn shame. Sorry, man."

Robin seemed more amused than anything, turning to Y/N, who was reading through the obituary. "Hey, at least you can rest easy knowing you've got a hot FBI ghost watching over you."

"Yeah, but... Why? Do you think he lived here? In this apartment?"

"I don't know. Maybe we should ask him."

Y/N sighed, handing Maya her phone back. "I'm sure he has more exciting ghost stuff to do on a Friday night than entertain us three. All I know is he promised not to hurt me, so I don't really care if he stays."

He was glad for her ease of anxiety, but he certainly cared if he stayed. However, she sounded exhausted, and it was fair. Finding out your new apartment was haunted by a ghost (even a harmless one) sounded like a reasonably stressful situation. He wanted desperately to figure out how to finally move on, but for now he could accept the simple fact that he could actually touch things now, and let Y/N rest easy.

Even if he couldn't yet.

ACT II: X's and Oh's

Every time she came home, Y/N would greet Spencer kindly. Probably out of precaution (you know, just in case he really was lying about being harmless), but brightly all the same.

"Spencer, I'm home! I... I don't know if you're haunting me or the apartment, but... I hope you had a good day, just in case it's me."

He smiled, wishing he could greet her back.

Eventually, he found small ways to do it.

He fogged up a spot on her bathroom mirror, that way the next time she showered before bed, the heat would reveal a message on the glass: "Good night. —S.R."

Y/N talked to him that night, dressed in her pajamas and walking around the apartment like she was deciding where to talk to him. Eventually she decided on standing in her bedroom doorway.

"Spencer? You said good night so you might not even be in here, but... I guess this is me saying good night back...Thanks for being a nice ghost, I really appreciate it. If... If there's anything I can do for you, let me know, okay? Okay... Goodnight."

If only there was a way she could hear him. Communicating in mirror-notes was hardly good for anything more than a simple "good night," and despite the fact that he could touch things, he couldn't grip them, so writing on paper was out. He'd kept trying to open a door with the handle, and with no luck. It was starting to get irritating, wondering what the next step was to evolving as a ghost.

He couldn't even believe he'd thought up the phrase. Ghost evolution sounded absolutely insane, but he supposed it was his current reality regardless of how it sounded...

Tonight Y/N was out rather late. For a brief moment Spencer started to worry, but then the key turned in the doorway and relief settled in when she finally stepped inside. She seemed rather tired, but greeted him with a gentle smile all the same.

"Hi, Spencer."

"Welcome home, Y/N."

She didn't hear him, obviously, but it still felt rude not to say it back. He wondered if he could try to touch her in greeting. Maybe a brief brushing of hands or a tap of acknowledgement on the shoulder. But he didn't want to scare her, so he'd have to figure that out.

Thankfully, she seemed to have felt his curiosity somehow.

Later that night, as she laid in bed, she called out, drawing his attention from the living room where he tried to open a cabinet. Still no luck there.

"Spencer? Are you there?"

He wandered over to the bedroom, glad to see she'd left the door cracked open so he could get in. He hesitated before moving, hoping she wouldn't freak out when she saw the door open.

When he did finally gather the courage to move the barrier and step inside, he heard her gasp as she sat up in bed.

"Spencer? Was that you? Um... Move the door again if it was..."

He obliged, swinging the door shut gently as he stepped inside the room. The second the door clicked, he realized his mistake.

Now he was trapped in here with her. Not that it was a bad thing necessarily, but the last time this happened, he'd accidentally intruded on a rather intimate moment. His essence warmed at the thought.

"Holy shit. Um... This is kind of weird... I've gotten your notes and talked to you through the Ouija board, but... seeing you move things in front of me is... only slightly terrifying."

Her nervous laughter endeared him but also made him want to comfort her.

He walked over to the side of the bed closest to her body, hoping she'd be willing to communicate more thoroughly somehow. The two of them together could surely come up with something.

Again, their brains seemed to be on the same wavelength.

"If I hold out my hand... Would you touch it? Just to... let me know that it's you?"

Her arm outstretched, and Spencer slowly brought his middle finger down to touch hers, ever so lightly.

The second there was contact, there was a shock. Spencer jolted and Y/N yelled and yanked her hand back, her whole body shuddering as she kicked her legs. "Oh my God, holy fuck!" And then she laughed, reaching out to search for his touch again. He felt... different somehow, but he was still invisible to her. Her fingers wiggled and Spencer helped her out, gently holding her hand to keep it steady, as if to convey, "I'm right here, and it's okay."

"Hi," she said through a smile, her breathing heavy. "It's... Nice to... finally meet you. Kind of. Kind of meet you, I mean... Not kind of nice. I'm sorry."

He rubbed his thumb gently over the top of hers in response.

"I'm still wrapping my head around this whole thing, I... I guess I just wanted some extra confirmation that you were really here. Can I ask you some questions, Spencer?"

He rubbed her thumb again, and she breathed out with a smile.

"Okay um... Maybe draw a circle on the back of my hand for yes and an X for no... That sound good?"

Spencer traced a circle against her skin, and she nodded. "Good! Okay, cool. This is cool. Um... Did you live here? In this apartment?"

A circle.

"Is... that why you're here now?"

An X, and then a question mark.

"No... You don't know why you're here then?"

A circle.

Y/N pondered for a moment. "Could there be something of yours that's holding you here? Something we have to find or a mystery we have to solve?"

Spencer drew another question mark, then sighed. As much as he liked Y/N, he was pretty sure she would not be able to answer any of those questions. But there had to be another way to... level up, so to speak. To make him visible or audible.

"I'm sorry," she said somberly. "From what I've read, you seem like you were a good person. I hope you figure it out, whatever it is. And... I meant it. If there's anything I can do to help you, I will."

He drew a circle on her skin, but kept going around a few times, his symbol of appreciation.

Y/N warmed at the sentiment, smiling and hanging her head to look down at the hand he was holding. He didn't know it, but her skin was tingling at his invisible touch.

"Spencer... I know this is probably going to be weird... But the night I first met you, when my friends were with me... Robin asked you if... you'd uh... If you'd seen me..."

She wouldn't look up, like she was afraid to look at him even though she still couldn't see him. She didn't finish her sentence, seeming to be embarrassed about the punchline, but Spencer didn't need it. He knew exactly what she meant. Before she had time to retreat or move on, he drew a slow circle on the back of her hand.

Her head lifted. "You did see me? Naked?"

Spencer let out a shaky breath. Hesitated. Then drew another circle, followed by S-O-R-R-Y.

"Oh, I'm not upset, I promise. You don't have to be sorry."

Something shifted in her eyes then and she paused, and Spencer realized that before when she'd asked, she wasn't embarrassed. She was simply feeling the water before diving in.

He swallowed hard.

"Did you like what you saw?"

Her voice was soft, but simultaneously hard with mischief. He looked at her then— truly looked at her with his overly-perfect Afterlife vision, and even in the dim light emanating from the open curtains and the streetlights beyond it, he could see her clear as day. Rather than the big tee-shirt she always wore to bed, tonight she was wearing something lacy and lavender.

And her door was closed. He couldn't leave this room.

Although, he had a feeling right then that it didn't matter anymore. Because his hand tightened over hers instinctively and he felt himself get hard beneath the suit pants he'd been buried in.

That's new, he thought through a sigh of excitement, quickly recalling that night he'd seen her. And heard her. Feeling was growing in his joints, and he found himself flexing his hands with a new strength he hadn't felt since being alive.

"Fuck," he hissed, shaking his head in disbelief.

I think she may be slowly bringing me back to life.

He drew a slow, sensual circle on the back of her hand, and she laughed through a grin. "I was hoping you'd say that. I was also hoping that maybe we could try something a little... unconventional. The truth is, I've always hated living alone. It's too lonely, and I hate it... Now that I have you to keep me company, though... It's not nearly as bad."

She shifted her fingers, grabbing his hand and slowly bringing it to her face. Spencer caressed her as he came closer, his knees now touching the edge of her mattress. She closed her eyes and reveled in his touch, goosebumps forming along her skin.

"Will you touch me, Spencer?"

His name falling suggestively from her lips was quite possibly the greatest thing he'd ever experienced, among life and death. The afterlife. Whatever. None of it mattered, nothing mattered right then except for Y/N and her needs.

He drew a circle on her cheek and she laughed, the sound dissolving into a rather wanton sigh when he traced his middle finger down her jaw and over her throat. Just the gentlest of touches, barely even a touch at all.

"You want this just as bad as I do, don't you?" she asked, lolling her head to the side as his finger traced her collarbone and then her shoulder.

"I do." He focused on the way her chest heaved, slowly up and down as she melted into his touch, and then traced the strap of her nightgown until he reached the front, just at the curve of her breasts.

Y/N arched her back and pulled the covers away from her body, revealing herself to him in full as she got comfortable. She scooted and leaned back against the headboard, pulling Spencer along the side of the bed. He gladly followed.

"I give you permission to touch me in any way you see fit, okay? I... I want you to do whatever feels good to you. How does that sound?"

At the invitation, he quickly let his mind wander to extremely filthy places and wondered if he had the ability to taste again...

The thought alone made him twitch beneath his pants, and suddenly there was no going back.

He let out a long breath and touched the bottom hem of her nightgown. It was already short to begin with, but since she'd moved around in bed and her feet were flat, knees pointed upward, the fabric rode up to the very tops of her thighs. He drew another continuous circle right there, just below where it ended, and Y/N instinctively started to spread her knees apart.

Spencer stopped her, gripping one knee and spelling out W-A-I-T before slipping his shoes and jacket off. She arched an eyebrow, confused at first, but then looked down to the floor when she heard his shoes being kicked back and his clothing falling there.

And then, when he was ready, she looked back to the bed in front of her as Spencer climbed and knelt, positioning himself in front of her. Her eyes watched the mattress move, and a flicker of excitement danced over her features, amusing him.

He placed his hands on her knees, and even though she'd given him permission, he asked anyway, drawing a question mark against her skin.

She nodded. "Please."

Slowly, his hands pulled her legs apart. He drew it out as long as he possibly could, curious to know how long he could test her anticipation threshold. He still planned to give her everything she wanted, of course, but there was something oddly erotic about being touched by somebody you couldn't see that she was obviously keen to explore. So he would take his time until she begged him otherwise.

Sure enough, her stare was laser-focused on her body as he moved it to his liking, her breath hitching once her legs were far enough apart for him to realize she wasn't wearing anything underneath her nightgown and he paused. Already she was glistening with arousal, a sight that nearly made Spencer go completely slack.

"How long have you wanted this..." he wondered aloud, overwhelmed and in awe as his hands traveled firmly down her inner thighs. She squirmed under his bold touch, and leaned her head back against the headboard with a soft thud.

"Please," she whimpered, her hands reaching out to grip whatever bunched up fabric she could find on the bed.

He had planned to test the waters a little longer, ever so the scientist at heart, but figured that was as good of a plea as any to give in and finally give her what she wanted.

And so, Spencer ran a gentle, steady hand down through her heat, dragging his middle finger along the seam until he barely entered her, then came back up.

The long, desperate moan that Y/N drew out was like Heaven to his ears, and he'd never been more grateful for his heightened senses than in that moment. Every breath she took, every gloriously wet sound her body made as he explored her, every rustle of her hands through the sheets... All of it was sharp and crisp, and no other symphony had ever sounded so beautiful.

He wanted more of it.

One finger became two, and Spencer looked up to watch her face as he fingered her slowly. Parted lips and focused eyes fighting to stay open despite the pleasure she was feeling made for quite the perfect view, he almost didn't want to look away. But there was so much to beauty see between her soft facial features and the curves of her body and the obvious arousing sight below him. It was overwhelming how hot he felt in that moment, he could have sworn he was glowing.

His pace quickened, and Y/N had finally given into the temptation to close her yes, her head falling back again as she rolled her hips. He was getting impatient now.

With his other hand, against the inside of her thigh, Spencer spelled out "T-A-S-T-E-?"

"Oh, God, please. Yes."

Still hesitant to scare her even though his fingers were already deep inside her, rather than diving in as he so desperately wanted to, he slowly brought his head down to meet the area between her legs. He turned to press his cheek to the soft flesh of her thigh, and she gasped, the sound fading to a low laugh as she took in the feeling of his mouth and his hair caressing her skin. He kissed her then, tentatively darting his tongue out to taste her and sighing with relief once he realized he could actually taste again. Once he had that revelation, there was no going back. He was a man starved, his kisses growing more hungry as they traveled up and up and up...

Once his tongue made curious contact with the hood of her clit, Y/N gasped again, clutching her bed sheets and rolling her hips up to meet him. Spencer groaned, and a selfish part of him wished she could hear it. He wanted her to know just how crazy she was driving him, how much he wanted her. She could certainly feel it, her reaction to the vibrations causing her muscles to flex and her toes to curl, and he decided then that it would have to do. He was just going to have to make her feel his desire so deeply that it rattled in her bones and lingered there for the rest of eternity. He wanted to ruin everybody else for her, to stay with her until the end of time.

She reached and felt around for his head, fingers threading through invisible curls as she cried out.

"Spencer, you're so— so good..."

He hummed his approval at the praise and continued to work her, adding a third finger and sucking on her clit to feel her fingers tugging at his scalp. The sensation alone had him nearly lightheaded, and he wanted to stay there forever, lost in her taste and her touch and her noises.

God, her noises...

She sighed and whined, and stretched and squelched around his fingers, and he was convinced that had he not already been dead, he would have begged whoever was listening to keep him alive just to experience her forever.

The second she struggled to keep her legs open, trapping his head between them, he knew she was quickly approaching her orgasm, and he couldn't wait. He'd heard her climax before, but being right there as it was happening felt like a privilege he would always be grateful for. He wanted to replicate everything he'd heard that night and get to feel it, too— get to be the one to make her feel that way.

"Fuck, don't stop, I'm s— so close..."

Spencer groaned into her as if to say, "I know, I can feel you." Oh, how he wished he could talk her through it, to tease her with his words... Alas, he had no choice but to encourage her with his actions, so he used his free hand to search for one of hers. She gave up her hand to lace their fingers together, and his thumb continued to draw mindless circles into her skin as she clenched and released, over and over again until she was coming.

"Spencer!" she cried to the air, over and over again as if she could will him into existence again. It was a desperate plea, a manifestation, and the both of them secretly hoped that it would work.

She wanted to see him

He wanted her to see him, too.

He felt her climax subside, and then he slowly eased his fingers out of her and trailed his tongue down to keep tasting. A part of him was scared to realize he might not actually be visible like he hoped, but he pushed the potential disappointment aside and luxuriated in the way she tasted. He delved in and gripped the underside of her thighs to keep them steady, and with a delighted groan as he pushed his tongue inside, Y/N gasped.

"Fuck, I can hear you..."

The words excited him greatly.

"Thank God."

Spencer kissed her, tasted her until she was writhing and begging him to stop.

"Please, Spencer, kiss me."

He pulled away and looked up at her, smiling even though she still couldn't see him. "I am kissing you," he replied, pressing his lips to her thigh.

"You know what I mean. Come here..."

He laughed and obliged, kissing his way up her legs and crawling up her body. He slowly dragged his hands up her stomach, bunching up her nightgown and sliding it up her body the farther he got. Her eyes watched in allure as the fabric rode up and up and up, seemingly on its own. But she knew better, she knew who was undressing her and worshipping her, and it made her squirm.

She lifted her arms over her head and let him take the clothing off, revealing her chest to the chilly air. She watched as the fabric flew to the ground, and then felt Spencer's hands return to her skin, gentle fingers raising goosebumps all over. Her nipples pinched and hardened the closer he got to them, and soon enough he was palming her breasts as he pressed his forehead to hers, wedging his body between her legs.

"Kiss me," she breathed, feeling his nose touch hers. His breath was hot against her own, and her eyes fluttered shut. "Please..."

"Anything for you, sweet girl..."

She sighed as his mouth finally collided with her own, the heady and prominent taste of her arousal growing stronger the deeper he kissed her. Their bodies couldn't stop moving, wandering hands and urgent hips, and with his newfound ability to speak to her, Spencer spoke in gentle praises. He sighed out her name reverently, telling her how good and sweet and perfect she was, and she returned every word with a whimper, in awe that he was really there. He was becoming more and more present, and she couldn't get enough.

"I want to feel you," she said against his lips, dragging her hand down his invisible chest. She fingered through every button of his shirt until it was loose and open, and the cool hum of his skin as she explored his torso made her hands numb.

Spencer kissed her jaw and groaned, feeling himself throb at her words. "Let me help..."

He grabbed her hand and guided her to the bulge in his pants, even though she could have just as easily stumbled onto it herself. The intimacy of it all was almost overwhelming, so much so that when her grip tightened softly on his clothed erection, Spencer almost came undone right then and there.

"Fuck, Y/N... I'd say you're going to be the death of me, but..."

They laughed together until she kissed him again, deeply and with a sigh. "You're becoming more and more real, but... this feels like... it feels like a dream."

He understood what she meant, and it filled him with a tinge of sadness, but her hand slowly palming him was becoming harder and harder to ignore. He gripped her wrist and his breath hitched in her ear as he nipped at it.

"Trust me, sweetheart... I am very real."

She shuddered at his words and squeezed him tighter before fumbling for his belt.

"Spencer... Do you think..." Her hands successfully undid the confines of his pants and started to slide them down over his hips, trying not to mess up her words as he sucked marks into her neck. "Do you think that if you fuck me... I'll finally be able to see you?"

"Mmm, God, I hope so," he groaned earnestly, repositioning themselves so he could kick off his pants and rest her head on the pillow. She let him take the lead, her breath getting heavier with anticipation as he positioned himself between her legs and grabbed her wrist. Once again, he was guiding her hand to his cock, hard and, this time, bare. She cursed under her breath as she gripped him and he helped her languidly stroke himself in exploration. His fingers were strong over hers, and he applied just the right amount of pressure to draw out a groan from the both of them.

"Please," she sighed out desperately through shallow breaths. "Spencer, please, I need you..."

How could he resist?

He didn't even want to entertain the thought of trying.

"Then let me take care of you, sweet girl," he cooed, hiking her thighs to rest over his hips and slowly sinking into her with ease.

Once he was all the way in, he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her temple, comforting her through the low burn. He slowly rolled his hips forward as she cried out his name, her fingers coming up to grip his shoulders. "You feel that?" he whispered into her skin. "How perfectly I fit inside you? It's like you were made for me..."

"Uh-huh," she stuttered in agreement.

He stopped teasing her then, pulling back to start fucking her nice and slow as she adjusted to him. Her fingers curled and knotted into the loose material of his shirt. She would have slid it off of him, but the grip on something steady was nice as she let him focus on his ministrations. He seemed to be doing just fine with the shirt on, anyway, and it was hard to even think about anything other than how good he felt.

She wondered then, as he picked up momentum and started peppering kisses down her jawline, what she looked like to the night. If she were standing there, outside her own body, watching herself being thoroughly and beautifully wrecked by something invisible and obviously enjoying every second...

Her eyes rolled back at the image, just as Spencer started going harder. His hips snapped into hers with a strength and precision that felt like it was rattling worlds. It very well could have been, and neither of them had any mind to care; They were so intensively intertwined with each other that it was a different world entirely.

They started to burn hot, that familiar warm chill of impending pleasure creeping up through their bodies and setting them alight. Y/N snaked her arms up to Spencer's neck and brought him down for a searing kiss as she melted into him, and he returned it with a fervor that elicited the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard. He felt it all the way in his bones, felt the waves of pleasure start to drag him under as she squeezed him with her limbs and started to come undone herself.

The atmosphere around them was purely electrifying, bright snaps of skin and sharp whispers of mouth combining to brew a perfect storm that nothing would ever survive. It was wild and unconstrained, glimmering and grand, and in their wake, the two entities left their desire lingering in the air for the dead of night to stew in for as long as it would allow.

Spencer collapsed on top of her with a hefty sigh, and he was grateful to be able to finally share his voice with her. The mystery and simplicity of the X's and O's were fun to indulge in at first, but now that they'd grown closer and created something beautiful and memorable together, he had to tell her exactly how he felt— no symbols, no mysteries...

He kissed her softly and pulled back to look into her eyes, dragging a thumb over her cheekbone as he told her the truth.

"You're perfect."

Her eyes went wide, welling with tears as she reached up and ran a finger softly along the bridge of his nose.

"You're beautiful."

Relief and something else—something warm—stirred in Spencer's chest at the confirmation that she could finally see him, and that she was moved by what she saw. Who she saw...

He couldn't help the smile that adorned his face, and the soft joyous laughter that escaped him as she continued to explore his features with the pads of her fingertips, like she was trying to memorize him from touch alone in case he suddenly disappeared again.

"I mean it, Spencer, you're... even more beautiful than I imagined."

"You imagined me?" he inquired rather suggestively.

With a laugh, she brought him down for a slow, searing kiss. "Duh..."

Even though they were tired, they stayed like that for hours, kissing and exploring and sighing until the sweet lull of sleep took hold and carried them through the night.

For a solid few hours until he awoke, Spencer completely forgot that he wasn't alive.

ACT III: Unfinished Business

Y/N had never done so much research in her entire life. She liked Spencer, and she was more than happy to help him out, but man... Reading dozens of articles and textbooks and blogs about the different types of spirits and how to lay them to rest was a long, exhausting road that led pretty much nowhere. There was no way to know what type of ghost Spencer was or how to help him move on, not that she could see, anyway. She didn't know if he'd age with her, or be 'undead' long enough to become vicious and bitter like a lot of the spirits she read about, and Spencer's research was just about as inconclusive as her own.

A selfish part of her hoped she'd never find out, to keep him around forever... But she also knew that wasn't fair to him. No matter how lonely she was or how much fun they had and how they enjoyed each other's company, well... The fact of the matter was, he was dead.

And he deserved to rest.

In the meantime, in the hours between headache-inducing frustration at the lack of answers, Spencer told her about his life. His friends, mostly— the best people he'd ever known. The way he described them, she had a feeling that they might hold the key to his dilemma. If not directly, perhaps there was something about him that they knew, something that might give Y/N some insight into his ghostly purpose, so to speak. Not that she couldn't ask Spencer directly, but they'd already discussed a lot of back-and-forth on enemies and people that could have wanted to harm him, all of which were surefire impossibilities. Not to mention the fact that he seemed tied to this apartment and not anything else. Maybe that didn't have anything to do with it, but neither of them knew.

It was the only other option she had.

They laid next to each other in her bed, her head laying on his chest. Her ear warmed gently, and tried as she might to hear a heartbeat, all she could hear was a faint white noise, almost like he was merely a figure of tangible energy rather than a body. She supposed that was technically what he was, but as much as she'd grown to know and like Spencer, it was hard to think of him that way. It was... sad to think of him that way.

She frowned and nestled into him, trying to push away that petulant nagging in the depths of her soul that screamed "This isn't fair!" and she told him the most difficult thing she'd ever had the courage to push past her lips.

"I think I have an idea... You can say no if you think it's too weird, but... It might help you. Maybe."

"Mmm, what's that?" he responded, curious but not audibly hopeful. It made Y/N even more sad to think he probably figured he'd never find peace.

"What if I go talk to your friends? Do you think they might know something you don't?"

There was a beat of silence before she felt his chest heave with gentle laughter. "Derek Morgan definitely wouldn't think so..."

Recalling some of the funny stories he'd told her about him, she smiled. Still, she pressed. "I mean it. What other outlets do we have? Where else is there to look? If there's anyone who knows you better than anyone else, wouldn't it be them?"

Spencer sighed, giving it a thought. His fingers raked through her hair and massaged her scalp to the point of gentle, comforting numbness, another one of those domestic moments that had her feeling absolutely conflicted.

And then, he said, "Actually... I think I know exactly who you should talk to..."

———

There was a deep chill in her bones as she approached Penelope Garcia's apartment building, but not because of the lively, rustling October wind. In fact, she wanted to throw up at the thought of having this conversation. But not because she didn't want to help Spencer. She did, more than anything.

She was just afraid of being arrested.

Spencer assured her that it would be fine and that Penelope was harmless, and while the latter she could believe, it still nerved her to wander up to a woman's door and announce that she lived in the apartment of her beloved dead co-worker and needed to help him fulfill his destiny as a spirit. It sounded like a cruel joke.

"If anyone would believe you, it would be Penelope," he'd said, comforting her with a pat on the shoulder.

Maybe it was true, but she didn't want to find out if it wasn't. It was one thing to have the door slammed in your face by a grief-stricken loved one, but a grief-stricken loved one who worked for the fucking FBI was ten times worse; There were a lot more horrifying outcomes that came with that combination.

Still, she trusted Spencer on a level she'd barely trusted anyone else, and he wasn't even alive for God's sake... So she strapped on her boots, threw on her most comfortable jacket, and braced the wind and whatever fate blew with it.

For Spencer.

"For Spencer," she muttered under her breath as she rapped on the door. Three times. Third time's the charm, three's a crowd, three clicks of the heel and you're home... Three seemed like a lucky number. Three was inviting, friendly, not intended to inflict emotional damage.

Please, God, don't let her hate me, Y/N prayed to whoever was listening. Don't let this go horribly wrong.

A bright voice was yelling beyond the door, and with every millisecond that it got louder and closer, her heart started to beat faster. Blood thrummed in her ears, and she kept repeating, "For Spencer, for Spencer, for Spencer," on a loop to remind her why she was going through all this anxiety.

The voice got closer, but still muffled, until the door swung open. Then it stopped altogether. Y/N blinked and stood there with a stiff back and sweaty palms, in front of Penelope Garcia. The woman was obviously expecting somebody else to be at the door, but she didn't look disappointed, just confused.

"Oh. You're not Luke. How can I help you?"

"Um... My name is Y/N. I... Before I tell you why I'm here, I need you to know that I'm not trying to play a trick on you, and I don't want to make you sad or upset, and if there's anything you need or want to know about me in order to trust me, then I'll gladly give you that information, but this is really important and I need you to know that I'm not crazy or harmful, I just want to help him."

Penelope's eyes went wide as she reached out and grabbed her hand. The thrumming in her ears got louder as she took a deep breath and waited for the yelling to start, her body to be thrown to the ground, or a sharp piercing sting of a backhand.

The only thing she felt, however, was a tug at her heart and the gentle dissipation of nerves as Penelope spoke one simple word.

"Spencer."

"How... How did you know?"

"Ever since he... Since he's been... I just knew something didn't feel right. Everyone told me that it was just grief, and for a while that's also what I told myself, but... That feeling was just too... Wait, who did you say you were again?"

Y/N stuttered her name and gripped Penelope's hand tighter, hoping to create some rapport. "I live in his apartment. He's been... Visiting me."

Something in her eyes softened and then saddened at the confirmation that her friend was somehow still among the living. "A visitor in his own home... Poor Boy Genius..."

She couldn't help but smile at the nickname. "He said you called him that often..."

Wide eyes welling with tears, Penelope nodded and tugged at her visitor's hand. "He was the smartest person I ever knew. Kindest, too. Here, come on inside, I'll make you some tea. Do you like tea? Maybe some hot chocolate?"

Her hospitality as she ushered her inside was both comforting and saddening to Y/N. It was in her nature to be that way to guests, even strangers, sure, but it also acted as a shield from the somber feelings she'd been rushed with at a moment's notice, no thanks to said stranger.

"I'm so sorry to bother you, Penelope," Y/N rushed as she shrugged her coat off. "You don't have to make me anything."

"Oh, I know I don't have to, but would you like something warm to drink?"

She was practically begging for the distraction, something to do with her hands as she had time to process and prepare for what was about to happen.

"Tea would be lovely, thank you."

"Perfect, I'll get it started. Make yourself comfortable, Sweets."

She carried her coat over her arms, holding it to her chest like a tether to reality. None of this felt real, even though she could still feel the warm glow of Spencer's energy all around her, like it had burrowed into the pores of her skin and made a home there.

As she looked around at Penelope's bright and colorful space, she thought about him... How often had he been here? What did they do together, and where did they hang out? She imagined the laughter and the stories and the cooking... She wished she would have known him then, been a part of his life. As scary as he told her it was at times, she knew there were also plenty of bright spots, and she knew Penelope was definitely one of the brightest.

Y/N smiled, hugging her coat tighter.

"I like your apartment," she complimented, sitting down at a small dining table in the corner.

"Thank you! I always told Spencer he should get some more color, but... What can I say, he really loved his neutrals."

The familiar detail brought a smile to her face. "That doesn't surprise me. He told me that even though he likes me, he really hates my floral couch and that it looked weird in his apartment. I told him he was boring." And, that technically, it was her apartment now. In fact, her exact words after the fact were, "What are you going to do, haunt me?" before they both laughed and continued making out on said couch.

But she didn't need to remind Penelope of the fact that he was gone. Or to inform her that she was intimately involved with his ghost.

Just the thought alone was enough to make the low, ever-present hum of his imprinted memory on her skin even more intense, and she smiled.

"Oh... I know that look."

Y/N looked up at Penelope, who was grinning with the most mischievous gleam in her eye.

"What look?"

"You think he's cute, don't you?"

"I... I don't..."

"Well, I suppose even if you can't see him, I'm sure he's charmed you anyway. And you probably Googled him."

"How did you—"

"It's what I would have done... So?" she prompted, still waiting for an answer of some kind.

Y/N sighed, defeated and impressed by Penelope's skills at quickly retrieving information. But she also didn't want to lie to her, so she had no choice but to answer her questions with the truth anyway. "Well, I can see him. But I couldn't at first. My um... My friends came over one night, and they brought a Ouija board. We used it for shits and giggles because I'd joked to them after I moved in that I didn't feel totally alone, and well..."

"It wasn't a joke?"

Penelope brought over the tea, steaming and aromatic. Y/N took it with a nod of thanks and sighed as she sat down across from her.

"No. But I didn't actually think I was living with a ghost, I mean... I didn't believe in that stuff. But I also wasn't going to risk pissing him off, so I tried to be nice to him. I only knew his name, and then my friends looked him up and we read his obituary, and... I don't know, I guess I just thought he seemed like a good person, so he deserved some kindness in the afterlife. I said hello to the air every time I came home from work, I yelled out a good night before going to bed... And then he started leaving me notes on my bathroom mirror, and I guess... I don't know, the more he and I got to know each other, the easier things became. Eventually he could touch things, and then soon after he was audible, then visible..."

She conveniently left out the details of that journey, though her skin warmed again at the memory.

"And now that we can communicate, it's become clear to me that he doesn't know where he's going— Why he's not at rest... I feel bad for him. He deserves..." Her breath caught in her throat, and she swallowed hard before looking down at the mug in her hand. "He deserves to move on."

Penelope was quiet for a moment as Y/N sipped her tea. Her hand reached out to grab hers, and the gesture almost had her in tears.

"You sound... Sad about that."

She couldn't help the pressure that pulsed behind her eyes, stabbing at her throat... Still, she made herself speak, barely above a whisper to prevent that inevitable cracking of the voice that would surely break the dam she was trying so hard to keep still and strong. "I... I know it sounds absolutely crazy..."

"You're falling in love with him."

Though the words didn't come from her own mouth, they came flying at her like a sucker punch to the gut. The wind was knocked out of her for a moment, until all she could do was exhale and let the tears fall silently as she nodded.

Penelope let her cry for a minute or two without a word while holding her hand, until she was ready to elaborate. "But I can't... I can't keep him here, it's not right. If he doesn't have any unfinished business, then he should be put to rest. And I... I don't know how to help him. I thought maybe, if I could talk to the people who knew him the best... I could get an idea."

"Oh, Honey, I... I'm sorry, but I don't know any more than you do." She was talking through tears herself, and Y/N squeezed her hand back. "His mother's been gone for years now, and there's no other family that he was close enough with to even consider, other than us, but... Truthfully I don't know if we really count in the grand scheme of things... I'd like to think that we do..."

"You might not be blood-related, but you were his family. He loved you so much, I could tell by the way he spoke about all of you. He... He misses you a lot. I just wish he didn't have to feel that loss anymore."

Penelope frowned. "I wish I could give you an answer... When you go back to him... Will you at least tell him that we love him?"

"He already knows. But yes. I will."

"And I'll keep on thinking. Whatever you need, you got it. I have access to pretty much everything so if there's information to be had, I will get my paws on it, and you will know. Thank you for coming to see me. And for telling me that Spencer's okay... He is okay, right?"

Y/N hesitated. She wasn't entirely sure how to answer without giving away their extra-curricular activities. "I think so. He's tired, I can tell. But I do my best to keep him happy. The last thing I need is to have him angrily haunting me."

Penelope laughed, then sighed. "Unfortunately, I think that means you better get rid of that glorious couch, then."

The laughter was a welcome break from the tears, which had already started to dry on her skin, leaving her cheeks itchy. "I really appreciate you being so kind, Penelope... Losing Spencer must have been absolutely impossible, and having a complete stranger show up at your door and pour salt in the wound... I couldn't imagine..."

"Y/N... If there was any person on this planet who could have moved into his apartment and helped him through this... I think I speak for the whole BAU when I say that he's lucky it's you."

The sentiment made her chest tight, and an involuntary pout tugged at her mouth. "You... You really mean that?"

Penelope laughed and squeezed her hand again. "Oh, Darling, you even pout like him... You're kind of perfect for each other."

"I don't know whether to be happy or sad about that," she replied through a fit of hysterics, and Penelope joined her.

It was clear then that these two women were meant to bond seamlessly over the loss of someone dear, one in life and the other in death. They were two sides of the same coin, a best friend and an anchor to the other side. It was a solace that neither of them had expected, but welcomed with open arms and warm understanding.

They exchanged stories and laughs and phone numbers and hugs, and joked about exchanging addresses, and a while later, just as Y/N was about to go home, fastening her coat, Penelope stopped her.

"Wait... I don't mean to make you sad or anything, and maybe this isn't the answer that either of you were looking for... But after today? If I didn't know any better, I'd say that Spencer's unfinished business is you."

The thought froze her entirely. It would stand to reason that they were meant to find each other, only to let each other go. Because, of course. Nobody was ever that lucky, especially neither Spencer nor his new roommate.

Sensing her overthinking, Penelope continued. "I know it's unfortunate given the circumstances, but... You did say that the more you got to know him, the more... alive he became. At least as alive as he can be. And I've only known you for about an hour, but I can confidently say that you are about as perfect for Spencer as somebody could be for anybody. And..."

She shifted on her feet, unsure of whether she should actually say what she was about to tell her, but obviously needing to make her point with as much context as possible. "You know, he's tried. He watched many of us find love and have families of our own, and he's always wanted that, but... He never got to have it. I think... that was the one thing that he always truly and completely wanted, especially after his mom passed and he had no one left but us... Somebody to go home to, somebody who understood him and cared about him and wanted to spend the rest of their lives with him... A soulmate. And... Y/N, I think it might be you."

Her head was swimming and tears were blurring her vision again. As much as she wanted to believe it, ever the lover of grand romantic endings, it didn't make sense. She didn't really believe in soulmates, did she? Then again, she didn't believe in ghosts, either, until recently...

"How could you possibly know that?" she whispered to Penelope, hoping for a switch in her brain to flip. She wanted to believe it. She wanted to dash home and confidently confess to the ghost living in her apartment that they were made for each other and that she could finally set him free.

And... Then what?

There had to be another explanation.

"I wish I could tell you how, definitively," Penelope answered sadly, "and like I said, I don't want to upset you... But it's just a feeling. And my feelings are hardly ever wrong. Hey, I mean I had a feeling that Spencer was still out there somehow, and that turned out to be true, right?"

"I... I guess," she sniffled.

"Just... Do me a favor, okay? Think about it. Spend tonight with him, like you normally do, and really really think about it. And tell me you don't feel it."

It almost sounded like a playful challenge rather than a request. Y/N wiped at her eyes and sighed. "You're really sure?"

"Positive."

Y/N wasn't really sure if she believed it still, but there was a conviction in Penelope's voice that was too sincere to ignore. And Spencer trusted her, which obviously meant a lot.

So, she promised that she would think about it anyway, bade her new friend farewell, and made her way outside, where the wind had died and left the streets lifeless and quiet.

———

Something was different about Y/N when she came home.

Spencer tried to let her go about the night and refrain from saying anything, but after regretfully informing him that Penelope had no wisdom to offer her about their situation but would get back to her if anything did come to mind, she was... odd. Perhaps she was just as tired as he was in trying to solve this mystery, or just tired in general. But he didn't want to push her if she didn't want to open up, so he did what he could and offered his company.

Still, she didn't seem right.

He thought maybe a flurry of warm, tender kisses along her skin would put her in high spirits, but the longer she let him worship her skin without so much as a sigh in return, it started to sink in that something was deeply wrong.

"Are you okay?" he asked sweetly, stroking her jaw with the back of his hand as he looked her in the eye. She looked at him for only a few seconds before averting her gaze, like if she allowed him to meet her eyes for any longer, he'd pull something from her that she'd rather not share. It sent a small wave of panic through him. "Y/N, talk to me, please... What's wrong? Did something happen?"

"No," she said unconvincingly.

"You don't... have to talk about it if you don't want to... But you're upset about something, and I want to help you. I'll do whatever you need me to. I'll listen, I'll leave you alone, I'll kiss it better... Whatever you want. It's yours."

She squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath, defeated. "God, you FBI people are too good at getting information out of people, it's annoying."

Spencer laughed. "It wasn't my intention to make you feel interrogated. I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay, you didn't do anything wrong. I'm just... I'm..."

She couldn't seem to get out the words, like there was a frustrating lack of understanding how to convey them. He drew continuous circles gently into her palm and waited patiently for her to open up, silently promising that he would be there for her when she finally found the right words.

It was a question that she finally settled on. "Have you ever been in love? Like... Really in love?"

Something inside him jolted at the thought of where this conversation might lead. If he had a heartbeat, it would have raced and thrummed so heavily that the organ might have failed. In truth, he'd been thinking about it for a week or two now. Ever since the night he realized that his interactions with her were the key to becoming more sentient, the thought crossed his mind that perhaps she was the thing he was tethered to.

He didn't dare say it out loud, or to her face, because... Well, it was too soon, wasn't it? And it wouldn't have mattered anyway, because once he was lain to rest, they could never be together.

It was complicated.

"I think I was, a few times," he finally answered in earnest. "And to be fair, just because things didn't work out with them, it doesn't mean I didn't really love them. I did. But... I think deep down I knew they weren't really The One... Does that make sense?"

"I think so... I don't think I've ever been in love before. Even with long-term partners, we said the words, and I felt something that was happy and I thought was love, but..." She paused, avoiding his eye again before rapidly blinking back tears. "Now I feel this... this anchor to you that I can't let go of... I want to be around you all the time and I know it's not fair because you deserve to rest, but I can't help it. Spencer, I... You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. And I'm afraid that once I really admit it out loud, you'll be gone forever."

He knew, then, that this was it. Listening intently as she confessed, absorbing every word and allowing himself to feel and admit what he knew to be true for a while now, his body began to tingle. It was so dull at first, he almost mistook the feeling for 'butterflies'. It felt cruel not to tell her that he was starting to fade, but he didn't want to ruin the moment or panic her. He didn't want to tell her that she was running out of time. That they were running out of time.

So, instead, to try and ease the blow, he told her something sweet.

He told her, "I love you."

Her eyes glossed over at the confession. She reached urgently for his hands, her grip strong and willing like she knew what was going to happen. And maybe she did. Still, she sat there and listened to him, her eyes taking in every inch of his presence and committing him to memory.

He aimed to make it a memory she would never forget.

"I don't know when we'll see each other again, but I don't doubt that we will. Not for a second. And until then, my only wish is that you keep allowing yourself to fall in love. Don't be afraid of it. You shouldn't deny yourself just because I'm gone. Can you promise me that you'll try?"

Y/N blinked away tears and tugged at his hands. "What if I can't?"

"You will, my sweet girl. And I promise, I won't be mad at you."

She laughed despite herself, then almost cried again when she felt his presence start to fizzle and break in front of her eyes. She was desperate to hold on to him, clutching his hands for dear life and breathlessly whispering, "I love you, Spencer Reid," as if the conviction alone would be enough to keep him here. As if whatever cruel deity was putting them through this would see how much she needed him and decided to spare her the misery.

"I wish I could have known you when I was alive," he told her, leaning in closer. "Maybe we could have been neighbors."

She smiled through tears and pressed her forehead to his, the contact making her skin go numb. Silently she hoped that wherever he was going, she would be sucked in with him. "Then I would have invited you over for dinner."

He squeezed her hands, already feeling his grip fading, his essence nearly numbing him. Still, he willed himself to stay long enough to paint this life for the two of them—one they would never get to have, except only in dreams and perhaps in another life entirely. Anything was possible, after all.

"And I still would have made fun of your ugly couch."

"And I would have pushed you onto it and made you take it back."

"And I would have refused."

"And I would have kissed you ."

"And I would have kissed you back."

"And I would have fallen in love with you immediately."

"And I would have sworn that I'd fall in love with you in every universe."

She closed her eyes, feeling the very last remnants of his presence as she whispered, "I think it's safe to assume that you already have."

"And I think I'm inclined to agree."

THE END

[moonlightcycle571]

Lantern Corps and a 10 year old Child

In a last post, I said the Lantern Corps would love Captain Marvel because he’s omni-lingual (and there’s so many different species so it makes sense that they would feel comfertable around a guy who can speak their mother tongue, no matter how obscure it is).

And then it came to me in a glorious vision, the Cores would LOVE or absolute HATE Billy Batson, be it as a kid it as Captain Marvel.

First on the Love Captain spectrum:

Red Lantern: that’s the corps that’s the most insistent. Man’s fights littéral Wrath and demons alike on a weekly basis. Man’s go to weekly poker night with Satan and other Wardens of Hell. Why? Because he has his own prison dimension in th Rock of Eternity, who also holds the strongest demons.

Yellow Lanterns: as champion of magic, he holds a lot of weight. Especially for magic users. One flick of a wrist and boom, your magic is gone. The whole concept of ‘The Champion’ is enough for most to fear him. That and one does not play poker with The Devil from The Bible and other figures from various religions, and just have a normal presence. He’s terrifying when he wants to be. In his Cap form, he needs to actively tamp down to appear more family friendly, and not the eldricht horror he knows he could easily look like.

Green Lanterns: Homeless Child Superhero dealing with horrors must adults can’t handle. That takes willpower. Even before Captain, I’m pretty sure off willpower alone he could qualify. But what’s the real ringer is his imagination. The Rock of Eternity has access to magical dimensions that no amount of crack could dream up. Man’s had to learn how to use Looney Toones Logic irl and it works. Man’s got a while Disney Dimension with Ballerina Hippos with their Croc partners. Mans has debates about files with littéral walking talking dinosaurs. Billy is hella creative, and who knows what would be made with a ring.

Blue Lanterns: do I … do I need to explain? There are the lantern corps of Hope, I think the rest is pretty self explanatory. I will say though, he was close to accepting when he found out they got a Corgi. Even closer when Dex Starr, the red lanterns cat got a

Orange Lantern: bro fights the physical manifestations of the Seven Deadly Sins , including Greed on a regular basis. By right of conquest, he really should be wearing the ring rn. They be trying to put a ring on it for ages.

Black Lanterns: he once revived Freddy and or Mary by reconnecting them to the rock, and since then is considered a ‘nécromancer’. Also (similar to the Avatar State) he has memories of past champions, including death, so one can argue he’s in a life and death loop.

White lanterns: same reasons as the Black Lanterns. They’ve been trying to get Billy to also out-do said Black Lanterns (who in turn try to recruit him some more). It’s just one vicious snowball effect now.

Now for the Hate Captain spectrum:

Star Sapphire Corps: The thing about Billy is that he’s AroAce. Very Aro and Very Ace. So those who draw power from love and try to flirt are met with the disgusted face of someone who’s famously nice. It was a devastating blow to the whole corps. At some point Hal decided to hide behind Cap to escape another Star Sapphire who fell inlove with him, and they just, lost their power. No longer had the ability to fly and everything. He’s Ace-ness is crippling. And it did bring memes. The Ace community was winning.

Indigo Tribe: he’s too autistic for them. And while being the warden of multiple dangerous beings fits their MO and all, they ain’t touching the bullshit magical logic with a ten foot pole. That, and the first time a ring was sent to him to recruit him to keep the evil ones in line, he roasted their whole system, their ugly ass uniforms (that particular shade of indigo clashed with his Hero Outfit way to much) and ended with a comparison to them with a guy called ‘King Kid’ and the fucking ‘Easter Bunny King’ that somehow did a much better job at Machiavellic while also being uhly. They never sent a second one. The red lanterns sent more.

Ultraviolet lanterns: again, man’s fights the Seven Sins on the regular, is their warden along with other sick evils, lies to the Justice League on the regular and plays poker with Demons (and wins) despite being one of the most honest people there is. That and he’s so dad shaped, it counters their power of daddy issues.

Bonuse:

It’s not uncommon for various JL members to receive lantern rings. They just don’t want to. So the standard procedure is to find your local lantern, and give them rings. At some point all the Corps made a lantern offers chart (and maybe the JL got a bit competitive).

Problem, that screen was using old alien tech that didn’t have colour. So they knew Cap had the most lantern offers, but they didn’t know which colours. Until it got fixed.

J’le looking at the rainbow that’s Captain Marvels Ring List: …

Batman: Captain, why is there so many red ones?

Billy, sweating: …

Hal, not comfy with the amount of yellow: I… I need to make a few phone calls.

John, the one who’s been receiving all of his rings: Uh, don’t remind me. I’ve been getting cramps with the amount of times I had to input the different colours.

Dinah: I don’t think even I’m qualified for the amount of therapy everyone is going to need.

WonderWoman: How to you have Negative Pink Rings??? You can’t get a negative number in a list

Billy, inputing the Zeta Tube: haha, it’s so weird

John: … do I need to add AroAce as a weakness for the Sapphires???

Bonus points if the results are open to the galactic public, and just wonder who tf are and ‘Billy Batson’ and Captain Marvel and why they are dominating the top ranks. What is in the Terra city Fawcette.

Extra Bonus Point if the JL go: Who tf is Billy Batson, and why is he ranked above Captain Marvel.

I’ve been waiting to do this one for a while. But never got the motivation. Let me know if I missed any, and feel free to write fanfic (please tag me if you do, I wanna reeeeead).

Final note, I want to give a certain someone a comment of appreciation.

@wonderjanga you are my favourite person on this app. You are the reason I decided to get out of my procrastination slump. Thank you for you content, it’s always so creative and I deeply enjoy it.

For those who don’t know them, I recommend checking out their content. It’s genuinely inspiration for me to start writing again. I don’t think I’ll be writing on ao3 soon, but maybe one day.

[cumironi]

DO I EVER GET A CHANCE TO BLOSSOM? : GOJO SATORU, GETO SUGURU

being a mother is a dream for almost every woman. the thought of carrying a child inside them and bringing them into the world is also something you want for a moment, but . . just a second the dream shattered right between your feet.

warning. established relationship au, husbands! gojo geto, angst.

the room feels more like a prison than a place of healing, with its cold white walls, sterile smell, and the incessant, mechanical beeping of machines. everything here is sickeningly clean, stripped of warmth and life, as if joy itself would be too fragile to survive in these surroundings. the sterile, metallic tang of medicine hangs in the air, heavy and unforgiving, mixed with the faint, unsettling clink of instruments being shuffled somewhere beyond the door. each sound, each scent digs into you, weighing down every breath, every thought.

your husbands are by your side, their presence grounding you in the middle of this surreal nightmare. on your right, geto’s hand wraps around yours, firm and steady, his thumb brushing soft, comforting circles against your skin. he hasn’t said a word since the doctor’s visit, but he doesn’t need to; his touch alone speaks volumes. you can feel his silent strength radiating through his hand, an unspoken promise that he’s here, that he’ll be here through all of this.

on your left, gojo’s hand is just as tight around yours, though his grip trembles ever so slightly. for someone who usually seems so invincible, so in control, it’s almost unsettling to feel his fingers shaking against yours. he’s normally the one with a mischievous smirk and an easy confidence, but right now, all of that bravado has fallen away, leaving behind a raw, vulnerable version of him you rarely see. his face is tense, hidden behind his signature sunglasses, but you can sense the turmoil in him, even if he tries to hide it.

you look down at your lap, trying to process everything. you’ve been married for nearly five years now, years that have been filled with laughter, adventure, and a deep, unwavering love. despite their busy lives, constantly being called away on missions and responsibilities, they’ve always made time for you, always come home to you. and together, you’ve built a life filled with happiness, support, and dreams. one of those dreams, the most precious of all, has been to start a family—a child to raise, to love, to share all the joy and strength you have with two people you adore.

for years, you’d imagined what it would be like. late-night talks about what they’d be like as parents, joking about whose traits your child might inherit, wondering if they’d have geto’s calm intelligence or gojo’s playful spirit. you imagined tiny hands reaching for yours, little footsteps running through the halls, shared laughter filling your home. every vision of the future had included this—a family with them by your side, watching as the life you’d nurtured together grew.

but now, sitting in this cold, sterile room, you’re faced with a harsh reality. the doctor’s words replay over and over in your mind, each syllable a weight pressing harder onto your chest.

“your heart condition… the risks are severe. pregnancy could strain your body too much. it could put your life in danger.”

the words echo, and they feel like a physical blow, tearing at the vision you’d held onto for so long. you’d always known you wanted kids, always thought it was something that would happen one day. but now, it feels as if that dream is slipping through your fingers, dissolving into the clinical air of this hospital room.

a deep silence settles between the three of you, thick and heavy with unspoken fears. your hands tighten involuntarily around theirs, desperate to hold onto something, to anchor yourself in this moment. a tear slips down your cheek, and you’re only barely aware of it until you feel geto’s thumb brush against your cheek, wiping it away gently. he leans closer, his face soft yet unreadable, his eyes full of a quiet intensity.

you feel the words catch in your throat, your chest tight with a weight so heavy it’s suffocating. your gaze drops to the cold linoleum floor, but the desperate flicker of hope—however faint—pushes you to look up. swallowing hard, you turn your eyes back to the doctor, your voice barely a whisper, cracked and fragile as you speak.

“there has to be something…” your words come out haltingly, breaking over each syllable. “some treatment, anything that could make it safer… is there any possibility?”

the doctor’s expression softens, but it’s a look of sympathy that does little to ease the ache in your heart. they sigh gently, gathering their words with care, and you feel both of your husbands tense beside you, their grips tightening as they hang on the answer just as much as you do.

“there are options,” the doctor replies, and for a moment, hope flickers—a small, fragile spark in the sea of uncertainty. “but they’re limited, and none of them can entirely eliminate the risks.”

you listen intently, clinging to every word, as if each syllable might hold the key to your dream. the doctor goes on, explaining possible procedures, medications, treatments to strengthen your heart… each one sounds like a glimmer of hope, but as they continue, the reality sinks in. no option guarantees your safety, each one carrying its own set of risks and compromises.

“even with these precautions,” they continue, their tone gentle but firm, “pregnancy would still place significant strain on your body. there’s no way to completely avoid the risk, especially given your specific condition.”

a fresh wave of tears wells up, slipping down your cheeks despite your efforts to hold them back. it feels as though your heart is splintering, piece by piece, each fragment a shard of a dream you’d cherished, now scattering away beyond your reach.

you feel geto’s hand tighten around yours, grounding you, pulling you back from the despair threatening to swallow you whole. you turn slightly, meeting his gaze, his eyes filled with an intensity that’s somehow both gentle and unbreakable. his other hand comes up to cup your face, thumb wiping away the tears that keep slipping out, his touch warm against your skin.

gojo watches your face intently, his gaze following as your eyes drop to your lap. he looks down as well, his focus landing on the interwoven fingers of his, yours, and geto’s, the wedding band glinting softly around your finger.

a single tear slips from your cheek, landing on his skin. the sight alone twists something painfully deep inside him, and he feels a wave of nausea at the harsh reality you’re facing. instinctively, he squeezes your hand, offering silent comfort, before turning his attention back to the doctor as they continue explaining your condition.

the doctor adjusts their glasses and sighs, shifting slightly before beginning to explain the complexities of your condition. there’s a gravity to their tone, an unspoken understanding that the words they’re about to deliver aren’t easy to hear.

“your heart,” they start carefully, “has a condition called cardiomyopathy. it's a disease that affects the heart muscle, making it harder for your heart to pump blood effectively. over time, this can lead to weakness, and during times of physical stress, it puts an increased strain on your heart.”

they pause for a moment, glancing at you and your husbands, gauging your reactions. though both of them remain stoic, you feel their hands tighten around yours, their steady grips trying to brace you. you’re nodding, but the doctor’s words feel like they’re sinking deep into your bones, the full weight of them settling heavily.

“pregnancy,” they continue, their tone clinical yet compassionate, “is one of the most physically demanding experiences the body can undergo. it requires the heart to pump a larger volume of blood to support the baby, often up to fifty percent more than normal. for a healthy heart, this additional workload can be managed… but with cardiomyopathy, this level of strain could be life-threatening.”

you swallow hard, feeling the words settle like lead. the room feels even colder now, and you shiver despite the warmth of your husbands’ hands. “what… what exactly would happen if we tried?” you ask, voice trembling.

the doctor’s expression softens as they consider their words. “there’s a high risk that your heart could struggle to keep up with the demands of pregnancy. symptoms of heart failure—like severe fatigue, shortness of breath, and fluid retention—could appear early. if untreated, these symptoms could escalate, leading to dangerous complications for both you and the baby.”

they hesitate, but continue, knowing it’s important you understand. “in the later stages of pregnancy, the strain on your heart could increase to a point where the risk of heart failure or sudden cardiac events becomes very real.”

the words hang in the air, cold and final. the possibilities—the dreams you’d held close, the life you’d envisioned—feel fragile in the face of these realities.

“are there any options?” gojo asks, his voice thick with barely restrained emotion. “anything that would make it possible without risking her life?”

the doctor nods slowly. “we could look into treatments to help strengthen the heart muscle, medications to manage symptoms, and closely monitored care. there may also be assisted options like surrogacy, though i understand that may be a different direction than you’d hoped.” the weight of the decision settles between you, a choice that’s neither simple nor fair.

geto’s throat tightens as the doctor outlines the dangers your heart disease posed to a potential pregnancy. he knew this disease was serious, but the stark reality of what it might mean for your future—and your dreams together—hits him like a punch to the gut.

he glances down at your hand, the ring he’d given you gleaming softly on your finger, and a flicker of guilt worms its way into his heart. he should have known, should have seen the signs sooner… should have taken better care of you.

his mind races with thoughts, each one a barb of worry and anxiety. the idea of you undergoing all that risk, all that pain, to bring a child into the world is almost too much to bear. but he’s torn, caught between the love he has for you and the knowledge that this might not be the life you’d wanted.

he squeezes your hand tighter, anchoring himself to you as the doctor mentions assisted options like surrogacy. the suggestion is bitter to his ears, a reminder of what might have been.

the doctor’s words continue, listing potential options and solutions—treatments, medications, the possibility of surrogacy. each one feels both hopeful and disheartening—a life preserver offered to someone drowning, while simultaneously being reminded that nothing can completely erase the danger your condition poses.

gojo’s question is direct and desperate, his voice cracking slightly under the weight of his emotions. “how likely is it that the treatments would be enough?”

the doctor sighs, their expression sympathetic. “even with these treatments, there’s no way to guarantee a safe pregnancy. the risk might be reduced, but it’ll still be considerable. and even if you do get through the pregnancy, the risks of delivering a child and recovering afterwards would be enormous.”

the words hang heavily in the air, the reality of what they’re saying slowly sinking in. even with everything they could do, there were no guarantees—only a series of risks and unknowns. the room feels even colder now, the fluorescent lights above bathing everything in a sterile, harsh glow.

geto guides you gently to sit on the cold metal bench outside the doctor’s office, his hand lingering on your shoulder as he kneels down in front of you. he studies your tear-streaked face, watching how your eyes remain unfocused, fixed on a spot on the floor as if it might anchor you to something stable. your expression is empty, yet tears still trace silent paths down your cheeks, leaving faint stains on your skin.

a pang of deep hurt stirs in his chest as he looks at you. he takes a slow, steadying breath, wanting nothing more than to take away your pain, to shoulder it himself if he could. after a moment, he reaches for your hand, squeezing it gently, his voice soft as he murmurs, “just wait here for a moment, okay? we’ll talk to the doctor.”

he doesn’t want you to hear any more—he’ll take whatever they have to say himself if it means sparing you even an ounce of further heartache. in his own quiet, determined way, he’s protecting you, doing what he can to shield you from any more painful words about your condition.

you don’t respond, too lost in the overwhelming weight of it all, the sterile walls and the lingering smell of antiseptic, the doctor’s words still echoing in your mind. everything feels distant, muted, like you’re drifting somewhere far away.

geto’s voice cuts through the haze, soft and gentle as he calls your name. “hey… hey, look at me,” he murmurs, his hand giving yours a gentle squeeze, coaxing you back, pulling you toward him with a quiet patience. “please... just look at me.”

but you’re still trapped in the fog, staring somewhere past him, your thoughts spiraling, unable to reach him. he calls your name again, this time a little firmer, his tone threaded with worry but steady. “come back to me, please,” he says softly, repeating, “look at me, please. i’m right here.”

after a long, silent beat, you finally look up, your tear-filled eyes meeting his. all you can manage is a faint nod, a small, wordless acknowledgment, barely enough to convey all that’s swimming inside you. but for geto, it’s enough. he watches you with a soft, understanding gaze, gently squeezing your hand as if to anchor you, grounding you in the only way he knows how before he slowly raise on his feet and walk back inside the room where gojo is waiting, already talking to the doctor.

gojo is pacing around the office, running a hand through his white hair in agitation, the other curled into a tight fist at his side. his usual carefree demeanor has been replaced by a tense energy, a stark contrast to his usual easygoing self.

the doctor is standing by the window, looking weary and slightly uncomfortable. they’re not used to dealing with such emotional situations, and the distress of both men in the room is clear. geto enters quietly and closes the door behind him, the click of the latch sounding like a gunshot in the otherwise silent room.

gojo spins around as geto enters, his expression tight with worry and frustration. he turns to the doctor, his voice clipped. “what are the risks, really? how high is the risk?” he asked, desperate for the change of the answer. hoping this might be one of your stupid pranks you and the doctor pull.

the doctor sighs, clearly bracing themselves to explain once more. “the risks are significant. even with the treatments we’ve discussed, the risk of complications for both the mother and the child would remain very high. the possibility of heart failure or sudden cardiac events is a serious concern.”

gojo’s eyes narrow, his jaw clenching. “there has to be something more—something we can do to make it safer, even just a bit.”

the doctor adjusts their glasses, their expression empathetic but firm. “we’ve discussed all the options. we could look into assisted reproduction, but even that poses a risk. there’s no easy way around it… this condition makes pregnancy unusually dangerous.”

outside the doctor’s office, you sit alone, the cool metal bench beneath you somehow grounding and yet painfully cold, like the sterile walls around you. everything feels distant, muted, and your mind is heavy with a sorrow that seems too vast to fully understand. you mourn the vision you’ve held onto for so long—the idea of becoming a mother, of holding a child in your arms, of sharing that love with your husbands. the dreams you’d nurtured so carefully seem to dissolve with every painful echo of the doctor’s words, and no matter how hard you try to grasp them, they slip further away.

tears trace slow, hesitant paths down your cheeks, each one carrying a fragment of that hope you’ve clung to. lost in this aching silence, you feel as though the world around you has faded into a blur, leaving only the heaviness of your thoughts and the quiet sound of your own breathing.

you’re so wrapped up in your grief, so deeply entangled in your own thoughts, that you don’t notice at first when someone settles onto the bench beside you. a faint rustling sound reaches your ears, but you dismiss it, assuming it’s just one of your husbands come to sit quietly by your side, respecting the storm of emotions you’re lost in.

but then you hear it—a soft, unfamiliar coo, followed by a tiny, muffled whimper. you freeze, your heart stuttering as the unexpected sound registers in your mind, cutting through the haze of sorrow. it’s the unmistakable cry of a baby.

your head lifts slowly, almost as if in a trance, and you turn to see a young woman sitting next to you. she’s cradling a small, red-faced infant who’s squirming and fussing in her arms, his tiny fists clenched as he lets out a series of hiccuping cries. the woman looks up and meets your gaze, a sheepish, apologetic smile crossing her lips. her eyes are tired, but kind, and she looks as though she hasn’t had a moment of rest in days.

“oh—i’m sorry,” she murmurs, her voice gentle, tinged with an embarrassed laugh. “he’s usually calm, but I think he’s a little hungry, and... well, it’s been a long day.”

she adjusts the baby carefully in her arms, trying to soothe him with a soft shushing noise, her hand gently patting his back in an effort to ease his discomfort. but even as she rocks him back and forth, his cries continue, a tiny, plaintive sound that tugs at something deep within you.

for a moment, you’re speechless, just watching them, taking in every detail—the delicate roundness of the baby’s cheeks, the way his little fists flail in the air, the soft, downy hair on his head. there’s a warmth in the mother’s eyes as she looks at her child, a look filled with an overwhelming, unconditional love that seems to radiate from her every movement.

you feel a strange pang in your chest as you watch them, a bittersweet ache that brings fresh tears to your eyes. the woman notices, her smile softening as she gazes at you, her expression filled with gentle understanding, as if she can sense the sorrow you’re carrying.

the woman shifts on the bench, adjusting the baby in her arms as he finally begins to settle, his tiny whimpers fading to soft hiccups. her gaze falls to the ground, her fingers idly tracing small patterns on the blanket wrapped around her child. she lets out a sigh, one that’s heavy with exhaustion and frustration, and then, almost hesitantly, she begins to speak.

“it’s been… a rough time,” she says softly, her words laced with a bitterness she can’t entirely hide. “my husband… he’s so insistent on having more kids, even though we’re already struggling with the two we have. he just… doesn’t seem to understand how much it takes to raise them, not just money, but time, energy, patience… it feels like i’m the only one holding everything together sometimes.”

she lets out a weak, humorless laugh, shaking her head as if to brush away the heaviness of her own words. her fingers tighten around the blanket, and she glances away, as though ashamed to admit her struggles. “and now,” she continues, her voice dropping to a barely audible whisper, “now i just found out i’m pregnant again… with twins.”

her eyes close for a moment, and you can see the strain etched into her face, the faint lines of worry and fatigue that seem to weigh her down. her shoulders sag under the weight of it all, and her voice trembles slightly as she confesses, “i don’t know how i’m going to manage it. i’m barely making it as it is.”

you sit silently beside her, listening as she pours out her frustrations, her fears, her anger. the bitterness in her tone is unmistakable, each word filled with a quiet resentment, a simmering resentment towards the husband who doesn’t see, doesn’t understand, doesn’t help. she speaks as though she’s been holding these feelings inside for far too long, and now they’re spilling out, raw and unfiltered.

as you listen, a strange feeling settles in your chest—a deep, gnawing sense of unfairness, one that cuts through your own sorrow like a knife. here she is, a woman who already has two children, who’s now expecting two more, and yet… she feels trapped, overwhelmed by the life she’s been dealt. and here you are, with a loving family, a stable life, and yet, the one thing you want most in the world—to have a child of your own—is slipping further and further from reach.

the contrast feels almost cruel, a painful reminder of the injustice woven into life. she has the thing you yearn for, and yet she struggles beneath its weight, feeling burdened rather than blessed. your heart aches with a confusing mix of empathy and envy, a bitter sorrow that deepens with each of her words. the air between you grows heavy, charged with unspoken emotions, as you both sit there, each lost in your own worlds of struggle and longing.

your chest tightens as you listen to the woman next to you, her tales of exhaustion and frustration cutting deep into your already raw emotions. it’s a stark reminder of the very thing you yearn for, yet a cruel twist of fate keeps it from your grasp.

the unfairness of it all weighs heavily on you, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. she has the very thing you want so badly, the very thing you feel you’ve been denied, and she’s drowning in it, struggling to keep her head above water.

the woman turns to you, her eyes filled with a desperate, weary sort of hope. “would you mind… holding him for just a moment?” she asks, her voice barely more than a whisper, as if afraid of imposing. but before you can respond, she carefully places the baby into your arms, murmuring her thanks as she hurries off toward the restroom.

for a moment, you freeze, unsure, feeling the soft weight settle in your lap. the baby blinks up at you, his cries stopping as he takes in your face, his wide, curious eyes locking onto yours as though studying this new, unfamiliar person holding him. a soft coo escapes his lips, and he reaches one tiny hand toward your face, his fingers brushing gently against your cheek. you can feel his warmth, his small body alive and pulsing with the innocent, unburdened spirit of someone just beginning life.

gently, you tighten your hold around him, cradling him close. his skin is soft and delicate, his little body curling instinctively against yours, as if already trusting you completely. the warmth of him spreads through you, soothing some of the ache in your heart. he babbles softly, his small sounds breaking the silence that has weighed so heavily on you.

slowly, you let yourself smile, just a little. it’s a fragile, bittersweet smile as you watch him. your finger brushes over the downy hair on his head, his tiny fingers wrapping around one of yours in an instinctive, trusting grip. the simplicity of it tugs at something deep within you, a feeling of tenderness you can’t quite put into words.

for a fleeting moment, holding him in your arms, it’s easy to imagine what it might be like—to have a child of your own, to hold them just like this, to watch as they grow, to care for them with all the love you have.

as the door to the doctor’s office opens, your husbands step out, their eyes scanning the hallway, but they don’t see you anywhere. a flicker of worry immediately crosses their faces, an unease that tightens with each passing second of not finding you. but before they can start searching, a woman catches their eye, standing nearby, looking distressed and on the verge of tears.

she notices them and hesitantly approaches, wringing her hands, her voice trembling with anxiety. ’excuse me… have you seen a girl?” she asks, describing your features in detail—the features they know all too well. the woman’s words bring a sense of familiarity to them, but her next sentence makes their hearts race.

“she’s… holding my baby,” she adds, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes filling with fear. the words seem to echo between them, and both their expressions shift, alarm flashing across their faces.

gojo’s mouth parts slightly, and he instinctively reaches for geto’s arm, a tight squeeze that mirrors the sudden worry gnawing at them. a thousand thoughts fill their minds at once—where could you have gone, why hadn’t you told them, and how on earth did you end up holding a stranger’s child?

without a moment’s hesitation, both husbands exchange a look of mutual understanding, and, their expressions serious and determined, they begin to search, the woman trailing after them as they walk down the hall, their hearts pounding in fear and urgency to find you safe and sound.

gojo and geto navigate their way through the hallway, their gazes sweeping the area with a growing sense of unease. they had expected to find you sitting quietly in the waiting room, perhaps even in the same exam room, but your absence is concerning and unsettling.

the woman’s description of you holding a baby sparks a moment of recognition, and their worry escalates into genuine fear. the thought of you being alone with a stranger's child and the possibility of something happening to you is suddenly very real.

you look down at the baby in your arms, and a soft smile spreads across your face as he coos again, his tiny voice bubbling up with sounds that melt away the weight of your earlier despair. he looks at you with wide, innocent eyes, filled with curiosity, studying you in his own baby-like way. you can’t help but let out a small laugh, the sound barely a whisper as you brush your knuckles gently over his plump cheek, marveling at how impossibly soft and warm his skin feels against yours.

“my baby,” you murmur, almost unconsciously, as though saying the words makes this moment a little more real, as if he really were yours, even if only for a heartbeat. The simple phrase stirs something deep within you, a fierce, protective warmth that spreads through your chest, and you lean down to press a tender kiss to his forehead. His skin is so warm beneath your lips, carrying a sweetness and purity that makes your heart clench.

you pull him a little closer to your chest, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his breathing as he settles against you, his tiny head resting comfortably in the crook of your arm. It’s like he fits perfectly, as though he were made to be here, to be held by you. one of his hands reaches out, gripping at your shirt in his tiny, determined fist, and the sight of it—the smallness, the trust—makes your breath hitch.

you run a gentle hand over his soft hair, stroking the fine strands that feel as delicate as silk, and he gazes up at you with those wide eyes, his tiny mouth parting as if he’s trying to form words. “you’re so precious,” you whisper, voice thick with emotion as you continue to hold him close, like he’s the most delicate treasure in the world.

he makes another small sound, an innocent gurgle that draws a smile from you, and you find yourself instinctively swaying, rocking him gently, as though your body knows exactly how to comfort him. you lean your cheek against his head, inhaling the pure, powdery scent of him, that soft, warm fragrance unique to babies. for a moment, you let yourself dream, holding him tightly, letting yourself imagine what it might be like if he were truly yours, if this precious warmth in your arms was something you could come home to every day.

you tighten your embrace around him, as if you could somehow keep him a little longer, savoring every heartbeat, every small sound.

gojo’s hand moves to your head, his touch tender as he gently pats you, his fingers threading through your hair in a comforting gesture. his voice is soft, almost a whisper, as he leans close. “love,” he murmurs, his tone filled with both sorrow and understanding, “this… isn’t your baby.”

the words come slowly, each one heavier than the last, and you can hear the strain in his voice, feel the weight of what he’s saying. it hurts him to say it, to shatter the fragile happiness he saw on your face just moments ago. his fingers linger on your head, gentle and reassuring, as if he’s trying to soften the blow, to hold you together even as he reminds you of the reality.

you look at him, eyes wide, lost, the pang of realization settling in. it feels like a harsh slap, one that pulls you abruptly from the small world you’d slipped into—the one where, for just a moment, you let yourself imagine holding your own child. your gaze shifts back to the baby, held protectively in the your arms, and the ache in your heart swells.

“i know it’s hard,” gojo continues, his voice barely above a whisper, each word wrapped in the tenderness he reserves only for you. “but… taking someone else’s baby… that’s not what you want. we’ll… we’ll figure this out, alright?” he tries to offer you something, anything to cling to in this moment, his thumb brushing lightly against your temple, hoping his presence can ground you.

your lips tremble, a soft, almost inaudible “no...” slipping from your mouth as your whole body shakes. you instinctively tighten your arms around the baby, pulling him closer to your chest as if protecting him from the world, as if he truly belongs to you. the warmth of the baby against you feels like the only thing real in this moment, the only thing that makes sense in a world that’s suddenly come crashing down around you.

you shake your head, eyes wide with panic and desperation, as though refusing to accept the truth. the baby’s tiny, innocent face is a sharp contrast to the turmoil you feel inside, and it’s all too much to comprehend. the joy, the love, the ache in your heart—it all blurs together, overwhelming you. you can feel the weight of his small body, so delicate, so perfect, and for a brief moment, in your arms, you allow yourself to believe that he’s yours.

as you tighten your hold on the child, gojo's heart aches at the sight. your refusal to let go, your desperate attempt to keep the baby as close as possible, speaks volumes more than any words could. he watches you, seeing the pain and confusion, the longing and the pain, all painted across your face, reflected in the tears that shimmer in your eyes. he knows, more than anyone, how deeply you yearn for this, how painful it is to be reminded of what you don’t have.

he leans in closer, his hand still caressing your head, trying to soothe you. “baby..”

he leans in closer, his hand continuing to stroke your hair, trying to soothe you. “baby,” he murmurs, his voice tender but firm. “i know how much you want a baby… believe me, i do. but… this child, he’s not ours. it’s not right to take him like this.”

gojo’s words hang heavy in the air, each one a painful but necessary truth. his eyes gaze at your face, filled with a deep understanding, but also the weight of a reality you both must face.

before you can even react, the baby is suddenly lifted from your arms. startled, you instinctively reach out, panic flashing across your face. turning around, gojo sees geto standing beside the baby’s mother, who’s holding her child tightly to her chest, her expression a mixture of fear and anger. her eyes narrow as she looks at you, her gaze searing, resentment clear as she holds her baby protectively.

you stand up, the panic rising in your chest as you take a step forward, almost pleading, “it’s my baby…” the words escape your lips, raw and broken, a desperate echo of the fragile dream you were just holding in your arms.

the woman’s face hardens, her glare cutting through you. “how dare you,” she snaps, her voice laced with fury. “how could you just take him? you… you had the nerve to call him yours?” her hands clutch her child even tighter, shielding him as if to ward you off.

you feel the words pierce you, shame and sorrow mixing painfully in your chest. your hands tremble as you lower them, your heart racing, still caught between the desperate, fading hope of a future and the cold reality in front of you. gojo steps closer to you, his hand finding your shoulder, his presence grounding you as you struggle to catch your breath, feeling a sharp ache in the hollow space where the baby had just been.

gojo’s touch on your shoulder is a lifeline, anchoring you to the present while your heart is still clinging to a dream. he stands beside you, his presence a shield against the woman’s anger, his grip on your shoulder steady and firm, as if silently telling you that he’s there for you, that he understands.

he watches as the woman holds her baby away from you, protective and fierce, her eyes filled with a mix of anger and fear. the baby’s cry pierces the air, adding to the painful truth of the moment.

gojo’s touch on your shoulder is like a lifeline, grounding you in a moment where everything feels like it's slipping away. his hand rests gently yet firmly, a silent promise that he's there for you, even as everything inside you screams to hold on to what’s slipping through your fingers. you’re trembling under the weight of your own feelings, but his presence is a small comfort, the only thing that makes you feel like you’re not entirely lost.

you glance at the woman, her eyes blazing with anger and protectiveness, clutching her baby away from you. the baby’s cries are sharp, filling the air with an undeniable reminder of the painful truth. it’s hers. not yours. the desperate ache in your chest intensifies, and you can't help but look at the tiny life in her arms, wishing, hoping, that somehow, it could be yours.

geto, standing beside gojo, looks at you with the same heavy expression that mirrors his, his gaze filled with a sorrow that matches the pain you're feeling. his eyes soften as they meet yours, but there's nothing he can say to ease the ache in your heart. he feels it, too—the agony of watching you break, and it pulls at his soul.

you look at the baby now, tears falling freely as you watch the little one’s cries intensify in the mother’s arms. you can’t help but whisper, “he’s crying because he doesn’t want her...” the words come out like a plea, a desperate attempt to make sense of everything, to try and convince yourself that maybe, just maybe, the baby wants you instead. your voice shakes, raw with emotion, but before you can take a step closer, geto’s hand wraps gently around your arm, stopping you.

his grip is firm, but his eyes are soft as he looks down at you, silently asking you to stop. you try to pull away, but he moves to your other side, standing between you and the woman, as though to shield you from the unbearable truth.

your eyes lock with geto’s, and for a moment, your world narrows to just him, the one person who has always been there for you. you silently beg with him, your expression pleading, but his face remains unreadable. you turn your gaze back to the baby, the ache in your chest deepening.

“please...” you whisper, the words a broken cry as you speak to the woman. “give me the baby... you’re struggling with money, and you have two children already... my husbands and I, we could give him a good life. we could provide for him. please.”

your voice cracks as you continue, your heart breaking more with every word. you sound pathetic. desperate. it’s not a side of yourself you’ve ever shown, but the unbearable weight of this moment has shattered everything inside of you. you know, deep down, that you’re asking for something impossible, but the dream of having a child, of raising a family, drowns out everything else.

you feel small in the moment, exposed, vulnerable in a way you’ve never been before. and even though you know you’re not supposed to be doing this—taking another woman’s child—you can’t stop yourself. the desperation is consuming, the longing for what you can’t have swallowing everything else around you.

gojo’s heart shatters as he hears the pain in your voice, the raw plea for something you want so badly, but can’t have. he can feel the weight of your despair, the aching desire for a life that seems just out of reach. he wants nothing more than to take away your pain but there’s nothing he can say, nothing he can do in this moment to make it right.

the woman’s face is set in a hard, unmoving expression, her eyes filled with a mix of anger and hurt, and the baby’s cries only serve to intensify the tension.

the woman’s eyes narrow with fury, her grip tightening around the baby as her emotions boil over. her voice cracks, sharp and furious as she screams at you, her words slicing through the tension in the air. “how dare you?!” she spits, her voice thick with anger, as she glares at you with pure disdain. “how dare you ask a mother to give up her child?! even if i’m struggling, he’s still my son! no one is taking him from me!”

the words hit you like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, the world feels like it stops spinning. the rage in her voice is palpable, her protective instincts flaring as she stands her ground. your heart aches, but you can’t look away. you feel the sting of her accusation, the weight of her anger pressing down on you, and despite the deep sorrow inside, there’s a small, quiet voice that tells you she’s right.

you can’t take someone’s child, no matter the reason. the reality of what you've done, of what you’re asking for, sinks in, making you feel smaller, more insignificant than ever. her words echo in your mind as you stand there, trembling under the weight of your own mistake. you want to explain, to tell her that you didn’t mean it like that, that you only wanted to help, but the words die in your throat.

the baby in her arms continues to cry, and you instinctively want to comfort him, but you know now that it’s not your place. not your baby. and even though the longing still burns in your chest, the reality is clear now. you can’t force something that wasn’t meant to be.

you stand there, your words tumbling out in a frantic rush, a desperate attempt to salvage some semblance of control over the chaos swirling inside of you. “i’ll give you money,” you say, your voice trembling. “every month. for compensation. i can help you, just—just give me the baby.”

you look at geto, searching his face for something, anything, to support the madness spilling from your lips. “right, suguru?” you ask, your voice pleading as you turn to him, desperate for him to agree, to somehow make it all okay.

but the moment the words leave your mouth, you realize how irrational, how out of touch with reality they sound. your husbands exchange a glance, and the look in their eyes is enough to break your heart all over again.

geto’s face tightens, his jaw clenched as he watches you. the pain in his eyes is overwhelming, like a weight pressing down on him. he doesn’t respond immediately, as if trying to process what you’ve said, what you’re asking. his silence speaks louder than anything he could say.

gojo, standing beside you, looks just as torn. his usual calm demeanor shattered, replaced with a raw, vulnerable expression. his hand grips your shoulder, not in comfort, but in a desperate attempt to bring you back, to snap you out of this madness.

but it’s clear to them both that you’ve lost yourself in this haze of grief and longing. nothing makes sense. the reality of your situation has overwhelmed you so completely that the words you speak are the frantic pleas of someone who feels like they’re losing everything.

both of them are hurting. deeply. watching the woman holding the baby, and seeing the desperate, disoriented look in your eyes, they feel the weight of your pain, but also the crushing responsibility of your actions. they can’t support you in this. not this. they both want to hold you, to make the pain go away, but even they know they can’t fix everything, no matter how much they wish they could.

as you turn to geto, your pleading eyes searching for validation in your words, the heavy weight of your request hanging in the air, he can feel his own heart breaking. the words you’re speaking, the desperate plea, are like a daggerpiercing his chest. he can’t help but wish he could say yes, that he could fix this situation, that he could make you happy. but the truth is crushing, and he can only shake his head, the words trapped in his throat as he tries to find a way to reply.

but it’s gojo who speaks first, his voice soft but firm. gojo's hand tightens on your shoulder, his voice strained as he speaks, “love...” he begins, his tone quiet and heavy. “you... you know we can’t do that.”

each word feels like a blow, and he can see the pain in your eyes as you listen, as his words sink in. “you know we can’t take someone else’s child,” he continues, each word a lance to your heart. “we can’t just... we can’t just ask her to give up her baby, love. that’s not right.”

you look at gojo, your expression lost and pleading, as if none of this makes sense to you. “but… why not?” your voice is barely above a whisper, thick with desperation. you sound so genuinely confused, like your mind is struggling to grasp a reality that feels so wrong, so unfair.

“she’s struggling, satoru,” you say, gesturing weakly toward the woman. “she doesn’t even have money. she can’t give him the life we can, the life he deserves.” your words are raw, your gaze flicking between the baby nestled in her arms and gojo, searching his face for some understanding.

“she’s having twins. twins. what harm could it be to… to just give us one?” your voice breaks, the plea in your tone aching and vulnerable. “we’d be helping her, making things easier for her. why can’t you see that?”

gojo looks at you with an ache that mirrors your own, his eyes red-rimmed, struggling to hold back tears. his grip on your shoulder is firm, grounding, but his silence cuts deeper than anything. he wants to make this okay for you, to take away the hurt.

gojo’s heart breaks at the pleading tones of your voice, the desperation that seems to cloud your judgment. he wants more than anything to fix this, to make the world right for you again, but the truth is unbearable. the reality is that taking another person’s child is wrong on every level and no amount of pleading, no amount of convincing, can change that.

“love,” he whispers, his voice strangled. “it’s not about how much we can give him, or how much she can. this child is hers, and we have no right to take him.”

he can see the anguish in your eyes before meeting geto’s for a second and back to you, the way you’re struggling to make sense of a world that’s suddenly become so unfair. but the fact remains— this isn’t about what’s easier for the woman or what’s better for the child. it’s about doing the right thing, and the right thing is to leave that child with his mother.

gojo’s hand reaches up, his fingers gently tracing your face, wiping a tear from your cheek. the look in his eyes is filled with pain and sorrow, but more importantly, it’s filled with understanding.

“i know...” he says, his voice strained. “i know how much you want a family. i know how badly you want a child. but love, this... taking someone else’s child isn’t the way...”

you ignore gojo’s words entirely, your heart and mind spiraling as you drop to your knees in front of the woman, desperation pouring out of you. your hands tremble as they reach out, clasping her knees, and you look up at her, your face streaked with tears, eyes wide with a raw, unfiltered plea.

“please,” you whisper, voice breaking. “please… if you can’t… if it’s too much for you, give him to me.” your words tumble out, nearly incoherent in their urgency. “or… or sell him to me,” you add, the words slipping past your lips without thought, your desperation clouding everything else.

the woman stares down at you, her expression shifting from shock to anger, but you don’t stop. you press the top of your head against her knees, bending forward as you sob, shoulders shaking with each breath. “i can’t—i can’t get pregnant,” you manage, voice choked. “i’ll never… i’ll never be a mother. please… please, just… please let me have him.”

the room seems to close in around you, all sounds muted except for your own quiet, desperate cries. your husbands stand nearby, their faces etched with pain and helplessness as they watch you, seeing the extent of your suffering laid bare.

gojo’s hand hovers over your shoulder, uncertain, as if afraid to break the fragile shell of your sorrow, while geto’s gaze is fixed on you, his face drawn with grief. they feel every ounce of your pain, yet are bound by the truth they can’t alter—no matter how deeply they wish they could take this agony away.

gojo steps forward, his face tight with remorse as he looks at the woman, who clutches her baby protectively to her chest. “i’m so sorry,” he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “please… just go. thank you for your patience.”

the woman stares back, her expression a mixture of confusion and hurt, but she nods slightly before turning and hurrying away, the baby’s soft cries fading as she disappears down the hall.

as the door clicks shut, geto moves immediately, sinking down beside you, his arms reaching around your trembling form. he pulls you close, wrapping you in a firm embrace, one hand cradling the back of your head as you press against him. he holds you tightly, his touch a gentle anchor amid the storm inside you, grounding you even as you break down, sobs spilling from your chest in waves.

gojo watches as the woman and the baby disappear down the hallway, his heart aching in his chest. the silence that follows is heavy and oppressive, the atmosphere thick with sorrow and disappointment. he feels a pang of guilt, realizing that his words, despite being true, couldn’t soothe your pain, couldn’t change your reality.

he sees geto pull you against him, the way you cling to him, your body trembling with sobs. gojo stands there, his hands balling into fists at his sides as he struggles with the feeling of helplessness that washes over him.

seeing you like this, so vulnerable and broken. seeing you so shattered, so utterly broken by something he can’t fix, is like a dagger to his heart. he wants to fix it, to make it all better, but he can’t. and that realization, the feeling of being powerless to bring you the happiness he knows you deserve, is eating him alive.

geto’s gaze drifts up to meet gojo’s, and for a moment, they share a look—one filled with a profound helplessness neither of them is used to feeling. gojo’s jaw tightens, his hand resting on your shoulder as he murmurs softly, “let’s get her home. she don’t need to be here anymore.”

geto nods, his expression heavy with sorrow as he carefully slides his arms beneath you, lifting you into his embrace with gentle strength. you curl into his chest, clinging to his shirt as if it’s the only thing keeping you tethered. he cradles you close, his grip secure, yet tender, as though he fears you might shatter any moment.

gojo walks ahead, clearing a quiet path as they make their way through the sterile hospital corridors and out into the fresh air. every step is quiet, purposeful, the weight of the moment hanging between them. they reach the parking lot, the cool breeze offering a slight comfort as they move toward the car. gojo opens the door, waiting as geto settles you gently in the backseat, tucking a blanket they always keep in the car around you as if it might shield you from the ache of reality.

both men share another look—one that speaks of the hurt they’re carrying for you, the unspoken promise that they’ll stay by your side through it all, no matter how heavy it gets.

geto sits beside you in the backseat, his hand gently combing through your hair, his touch a silent reassurance. gojo starts the car, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror to check on you, his heart clenching at the sight of you, bundled in the blanket, your eyes empty and vacant, your body still trembling lightly.

the car ride is silent, the only sound coming from the hum of the engine and the occasional sniffle from you. gojo keeps his eyes on the road, his fingers tightened around the steering wheel, his thoughts a turmoil of worry and despair.

“she’s asleep..” gojo notices you’ve fallen asleep in the backseat, the exhaustion of everything you’ve been through evident in your closed eyes and the deep breaths coming from your lips. he looks back a few times, his heart constricting each time he sees your weary form.

he glances over at geto beside you, who’s watching silently as well. the two men exchange a look, a thousand wordless thoughts and emotions passing between them in that instant, before gojo diverts his attention back to the road.

geto keeps his gaze on you, his hand still gently stroking your hair, his fingers tracing soft, slow circles against your scalp, as if hoping the rhythmic motion might offer some comfort in your sleep.

the rest of the car ride passes in a silent, heavy tension. neither gojo nor geto speak, the depth of their worry and despair is too great for words. they both feel as though they’ve failed you, even though they know they’ve done everything they can.

finally, after what feels like an eternity, they pull into their driveway. gojo cuts the engine, the sudden quiet only adding to the heavy atmosphere. he looks over his shoulder at you, your face still and peaceful in sleep, the pain and sorrow gone for the moment.

gojo steps out of the car first, moving around to open the door for geto as he carefully lift you from the backseat, working in tenderness to carry you inside, his hands and arms gentle and protective against your body.

once inside, he leads the way down the hall, heading straight for your shared room and gently laying you on the bed. he pulls off your shoes and slides you further up the bed, pulling the sheets over you as you continue to sleep. geto looks down at you, concern etched into his features, his heart aching in his chest. he sits beside you on the edge of the bed, watching as your chest rises and falls with each breath.

gojo stands in the doorway, his face drawn and weary, his eyes tracing over your sleeping form with a mixture of pain and heartache. seeing you like this, so vulnerable and broken, is tearing him apart, the knowledge that he’s powerless to ease your suffering gnawing at his heart.

“she’ll be okay…” he whispers, more to himself than to geto, a silent hope that speaking the words might make them true. geto doesn’t respond, his eyes glued to you, his hand resting atop the blankets that cover your form. he’s just as worried as gojo, just as hopeless. he knows better than anyone that time is the only healer in situations like this, and time can be a brutal remedy.

gojo steps outside the room, letting the door open, his movements mechanical, stiff—as if keeping himself together is all he can manage, leans back against the wall, the cool surface grounding him as he shoves his hands into his pockets, fingers curling into fists. he tries to steady his breathing, tries to force himself to be strong for you, for geto. but the weight of everything finally breaks through, and the tears begin to slip silently down his cheeks. he doesn’t wipe them away, just stands there, letting the grief settle in his chest, heavy and unrelenting.

inside, geto still sits on the edge of the bed, his gaze locked on your hand resting atop his lap. he swallows thickly, feeling the tightness in his throat as he lets himself tear up, his vision blurring as he studies your wedding ring—the small, delicate circle that symbolizes the promises they made to you, promises they feel helpless to fulfill. his thumb gently brushes over the ring, and he bites down hard on his lip, the pain a small distraction from the ache in his heart.

for a long moment, geto just sits there, his hand never leaving yours, grounding himself in the warmth of your touch. he wants to say something, to offer you comfort, but he knows words would fall short. so he simply stays, his silent tears falling as he holds your hand, hoping that maybe, somehow, his presence can bring you even a small measure of solace.

gojo stands just outside the room, his shoulders slumped, the weight of his grief and helplessness evident in every line of his body. he watches as geto’s shoulder trembles slightly, the quiet sobs that geto tries to suppress as he sits beside you on the bed. gojo feels his heart break further each time he sees geto struggling to hold it together, knowing he can’t ease his own or geto’s pain right now.

he wants to step forward, to offer comfort, a hand on a shoulder, a word of reassurance, anything. but he can’t move, a part of him afraid that the moment he steps into the room, the dam holding back his own tears will break for good. instead, he just stands there, the sound of geto’s soft weeping echoing in his ears, a silent testament to a pain that refuses to stay hidden.

it had been days since that painful incident, and each one weighed heavily on you. you’d barely left the bed, consumed by a deep, silent grief that kept you withdrawn, the hurt sinking deeper with every passing hour. you barely ate, barely spoke. you’d turned away from your responsibilities, from jujutsu high, from the life you’d built with such dedication. instead, you lay in bed, letting exhaustion take you each night as tears ran dry against your pillow.

tonight, though, the weight of your sorrow pulled you from bed in the middle of the night. in a daze, you found yourself drifting to the walk-in closet, your only escape from the endless loop of sorrow. sitting on the carpeted floor, you pressed your back and head against the shelf, drawing some comfort from its solidity as you sat there, letting soft murmurs slip from your lips—whispers of thoughts you barely registered yourself.

in the dark bedroom, geto stirred, reaching out instinctively for you, only to find the sheets cool and empty. he blinked, the room settling around him as he sat up, trying to piece together where you could be. beside him, gojo still lay asleep, his face etched with lines of exhaustion and worry, even in sleep.

then geto saw it—the faint glow of light spilling out from the closet, and he heard your soft voice drifting from within, quiet, like a sorrowful melody he couldn’t quite make out. with a sigh, he slipped from bed and moved toward the closet, the sound of his bare feet soft on the floor.

as he reached the doorway, he found you there, sitting alone on the carpet, your figure almost blending into the shadows, shoulders slouched, your head leaning back as you stared blankly ahead. slowly, you turned your head toward him, your expression so exhausted, so worn, yet somehow you mustered a weak, fleeting smile—one that tugged painfully at his heart.

“hey,” he whispered, his voice soft and tender, laced with the worry he felt deep within.

“hey,” you murmured back, your voice barely audible, like the faintest crack of light through a closed window.

geto lowered himself onto the floor beside you, his eyes gentle as they took you in. he reached out, his hand finding yours while the other arm wrap around your shoulder. his thumb tracing delicate circles over your knuckles, grounding you both. for a moment, neither of you spoke. there was nothing to say that hadn’t been said already, no comfort that could ease the ache you both felt. but his presence, solid and steady, brought a small glimmer of warmth to the cold grief wrapped around you.

gojo slowly blinked open his eyes, the absence of your warmth on the sheets drawing him from sleep. confusion clouded his vision when he found the bed empty beside him, and for a moment, he simply lay there, the lingering remnants of sleep still holding onto his mind.

then, the low murmurs of a quiet voice drifted through the silent room, pulling him completely into wakefulness. his eyes focused in the darkness, and in the faint glow spilling from the crack in the walk-in closet doorway.

he sat up in bed, the covers pooling around his waist as he listened to the familiar cadence of your voice, the strain in your tone a harsh contrast to its usual smoothness and strength.

he could pick up snippets of your quiet, almost broken-sounding whispers, but the words were indistinct in his ears, lost in the haze of sleep and worry. the only thing that was clear was the sorrow, the despair that seemed to linger around each syllable.

gojo threw off the covers. the floor was cold beneath his feet, the hardwood offering no comfort against the icy chill that seemed to settle in the absence of your presence in the bed.

the cool night air hit gojo’s bare legs as he threw off the covers, the warmth of sleep vanishing with every step toward the closet. each step on the hardwood felt like a jolt to his heart, the icy chill settling not just in his feet, but in the aching place where you should’ve been beside him.

he found himself pausing at the doorway, his gaze softening as he took in the sight of you and geto on the floor, hunched together in the glow of the closet light. geto’s hand was gently intertwined with yours, his other arm wrapped protectively around your shoulders as if he could somehow shield you from the sorrow that weighed you down.

gojo forced a small smile, leaning casually against the door frame, as if to lighten the mood. “having a party without me, huh? i see how it is,” he joked, trying to inject a little warmth into the quiet room. “the invite must’ve gotten lost in the mail.”

you looked up, and for a moment, that familiar sparkle flickered in your eyes, even if just for a second. your lips lifted in a sad, faint smile as he crossed the small space and sat down beside you, pressing his shoulder against yours with a gentle nudge.

“oh, satoru,” you murmured softly, holding up the tiny, delicate baby clothes in your hands. “i… i bought these without thinking.” your fingers ran over the soft fabric, as if the touch itself was soothing, but your gaze was distant, lost somewhere else, somewhere softer, somewhere that felt far away from this pain. “they were so cute. i couldn’t help myself.”

you managed a laugh, but it was hollow, filled with sorrow. “i… i thought, maybe… one day, you know?” your voice cracked, and gojo’s heart clenched as he saw the tear slipping down your cheek. he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pressing you gently against him, while geto’s hand tightened around yours.

you looked at the tiny clothes again, a fresh wave of grief in your gaze. “i was just about to throw these out,” you whispered, barely meeting their eyes. “they’re just… they’re just a reminder now.”

gojo’s throat tightened, the sight of the baby clothes clutched in your hands, a painful reminder of what might’ve been. his arm tightened around you, pulling you snugly against his side as geto’s grip on you tightened too, the three of you creating a silent bubble of comfort in the dim light of the closet.

“you don’t have to throw them away if you don’t want to,” gojo said quietly, his voice soft as he took in the delicate fabric, the innocent symbolism of a future that was so suddenly snatched away.

your fingers traced over the fabric, trembling as they glided across each tiny fold and seam. the baby clothes were soft, achingly so, and it was like holding a piece of a dream that had slipped through your fingers. your lips quivered, a quiet murmur escaping as you whispered, “it’s... so soft.” the words fell from your mouth, barely more than a breath, but they carried the weight of everything you’d hoped, everything you’d imagined.

your hand lingered, stroking the fabric as if comforting yourself through the gentle touch. tears welled up in your eyes, blurring your vision, and you couldn’t look up at gojo or geto—couldn’t face the pity, the sorrow that mirrored your own pain. instead, you kept your gaze on the tiny clothes in your hands, clutching them as if they were a lifeline, a piece of the child you’d longed for.

“i thought... i thought one day...” you choked on the words, a tear slipping down your cheek, dampening the fabric. “i thought one day they’d be filled. they’d... they’d be his. or hers.” your voice was a trembling whisper, barely holding together under the weight of your grief.

gojo’s heart ached with each word, each broken confession that echoed in the quiet of the closet. the weight of your sorrow, the quiet pain in your voice, it was all too much. he swallowed past the lump in his throat, his grip on you tightening—a silent, wordless offering of comfort.

“you can keep them.” gojo said, his voice quiet but firm. he leaned closer, his arm around you pulling you a little closer, his fingers tracing small circles on your shoulder, “if... if it helps. you don’t have to let go.”

geto, his fingers still intertwined with yours, listened silently, his eyes on you, watching the mixture of pain and longing that played across your face. he could almost feel the weight of your sorrow, the ache in his heart matching yours.

he gently squeezed your hand in his, his thumb brushing over your knuckles as he spoke, his voice a low, comforting murmur. “you don’t have to do anything right now,” geto said, echoing gojo’s sentiment. “we’re here. we’re right here with you.”

your voice was barely a whisper, the words thick with the weight of everything you’d been carrying for days. you rested your head on gojo’s shoulder, your body trembling with the sobs you tried to suppress but couldn’t hold back any longer. “i’m sorry,” you muttered, your voice shaky and fragile. “i’ve been so... so sad all these days, and... i just... i can’t help it.”

your hands gripped the soft baby clothes tighter, as if holding onto something—anything—that might make the pain just a little more bearable. you could feel their presence around you, the warmth of both of them, and yet the emptiness inside felt overwhelming.

gojo pulled you even closer, his face burying into the top of your hair as he held you tight, his arms strong and comforting around you. “don’t be sorry,” he said fiercely, his tone brooking no argument. “don’t you dare apologize. you’ve been through something unbearable. you don’t have to pretend to be okay. we’re here, and we’re not going anywhere.”

geto moved in closer too, his knee bumping against yours as he shifted, his voice firm and reassuring, “you’ve done nothing wrong. you can feel whatever you need to feel, we’re here for you,” he echoed gojo’s words, his hand holding yours, the warm, tangible contact a lifeline in the sea of grief that surrounded you. he moved slightly, his free hand gently brushing the dampness from your cheeks, his touch tender and soothing. “you don’t have to hold back. not with us. you don’t have to be strong. not right now.”

tears welled up again, threatening to spill over, and you couldn’t stop the overwhelming flood of emotions. “i don’t want to keep hurting you both,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath. “you’ve been so patient, so kind, and i just feel like i’m breaking apart... and i don’t want to drag you down with me.”

but even as the words left your lips, the warmth of their embrace told you everything you needed to know. gojo’s hand rubbed soothing circles on your back, while geto’s fingers gently brushed through your hair, both of them offering their quiet support, their unspoken understanding.

“you’re not breaking us,” gojo murmured, his chin resting on the top of your head, his breath stirring the fine strands of your hair. “you could never break us,” he said, his voice strong and sure. “we’re here for you. through the good, through the bad. we’re not just going to abandon you because you’re hurting.”

geto’s hand slid to your cheek, his fingers gently tracing along your jawline, his gaze filled with pain and love, “you’re our wife,” he said quietly. “our soul. our everything.”

your head lifted slowly from gojo’s shoulder, your eyes searching his face with a flicker of something new—something more hopeful. for the first time in days, there was a spark of determination, an ember igniting in the midst of your grief. your fingers trembled slightly as they reached up, brushing through gojo’s hair, as you locked eyes with him, a faint smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

“maybe...” you started, your voice shaky but gaining strength as you went on. “maybe we should try. maybe the doctor was wrong.”

you could feel your heart race at the words, a mix of vulnerability and hope swirling inside you. you wanted to believe it, needed to believe it. that maybe, just maybe, things could work out—despite everything that had happened. despite the crushing weight of loss you still carried. maybe you weren’t as broken as you thought.

“what if we give it a shot?” you whispered, eyes darting between your two husbands, your gaze now full of hope. “maybe there’s a chance. maybe... we could try again.”

“no,” geto’s voice is quiet, answering without hesitate, the gentle steadiness in his tone somehow making the words sting even more. “i know how much you’ve dreamed about having a family, raising a child together.”

his words are comforting yet heartbreaking, an acknowledgment of the unspoken fears you both share. you feel a tightness building in your throat as you fight to hold back tears, feeling the weight of his hand grounding you. but it’s gojo’s voice that breaks the silence next, and it’s strained in a way that cuts right through you.

“but… we can’t lose you.” his words come out in a whisper, barely above a breath, and there’s a tremor to it you rarely hear. he looks down, his head hanging low as he grips your hand, his knuckles white with the intensity of his hold. “i don’t… i can’t imagine… if something happened to you.”

gojo’s grip on your hand tightens, the thought of losing you, his lifeline, too much even to speak of. geto's hand on your cheek feels like an anchor, keeping you grounded, even as your heart races in anticipation of gojo’s next words.

“not at the risk of losing you. never.” he continues, his voice firm despite the strain. “i can’t… i’d never be able to forgive myself if something happened to you.” he lifts his gaze from the floor, his eyes meeting yours, a mix of love and fear swimming in the blue depths. “i would give up everything, give up the idea of family, if it meant keeping you safe. losing you would be an emptiness… a pain… that i wouldn’t survive.”

gojo’s gaze shifts up again, from geto before meeting yours, the depths of his love and worry so achingly clear in his eyes. “i can’t lose you,” he repeats, the words catching slightly in his throat. “i can’t risk it. i’m not willing to gamble with your life. you’re too precious to us. too precious to me.”

geto’s hand moves to your chin, gently guiding your gaze towards him. his expression is gentle, filled with care, and yet there is an almost unbearable sadness lurking in the depths of his eyes. “please understand,” he says softly, “we value your life above everything else.”

you opened your mouth to protest, but geto’s soft, steady voice stopped you before you could speak any further. his hand on your chin held you gently, but firmly, as if trying to ground you in the moment, to make sure you understood his words clearly.

“no buts,” he murmured, his gaze unwavering, a quiet plea in his eyes. “this isn’t about what you want, love. it’s about your life. and we’re not willing to risk it. not for anything, not for anyone.”

his words hit like a cold wave, each syllable piercing through the haze of desperation you’d been holding onto. you felt your heart falter, the overwhelming urge to fight back, to keep grasping for that sliver of hope, but deep down you knew the truth in his voice. the painful truth that your husbands loved you far too much to let you endanger yourself again, no matter how much you wanted to try.

“you mean everything to us,” gojo added softly, his voice barely a whisper, as if he too was struggling to keep the weight of it all from breaking him. “we can’t lose you. not like this.”

geto’s thumb gently brushed your cheek, his expression softening, even as sorrow shadowed his gaze. “we would do anything to see you happy, but we can’t let you sacrifice yourself for a dream. your health, your life... that’s what matters most to us. not the baby, not anything else. just you.”

the words wrapped around you like a vise, heavy and final. it felt as though the very thing you clung to—the hope of motherhood, the thought of a family—was slipping through your fingers. the ache in your chest deepened, but as you looked into the eyes of both your husbands, you saw only love, only the raw, painful care they had for you.

you swallowed hard, the tears that had been on the edge of falling finally breaking free. you didn’t want to admit it, didn’t want to let go of the dream, but you knew—they were right. the risk was too great, and they were asking you to protect yourself, even if it meant letting go of a piece of your heart.

“i understand,” you whispered through the sobs, your voice small, fragile.

gojo’s arm pulled you closer, wrapping tightly around your shoulders, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back and his face burying into your hair. his body trembles slightly, fighting back his own tears as he holds you fiercely.

“we love you,” he whispers hoarsely. “so much. please, understand that this... this isn’t about not wanting a family with you. it’s about keeping you safe.”

geto’s hand moved from your chin, his fingers tracing down your neck, the touch gentle, as he stepped closer, his own eyes glossy with unfallen tears. “we want a future with you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with love, “a long, long... safe and happy future. and we won’t take any risks with that.”

he gently pulls you to his chest, holding you close, his arms wrapping around your frame as he cradles your body. his heart is hammering against yours, the rhythm a quick, nervous staccato that speaks of the fear they’re both feeling.

“please, please understand,” gojo’s voice is a quiet, desperate plea, “it’s not that we don’t want kids with you. it’s that we want you to be safe. we want to keep you safe. we both do.”

geto’s hand is stroking your hair, his lips pressed softly against the top of your head as he holds you closer. the pain in his voice is evident as he adds, “we want you to be healthy, happy… with us… for a long time.”

you nod slowly, pressing your face against geto’s chest as a defeated “okay” slips from your lips, barely more than a whisper. your voice trembles with the weight of the word, laden with acceptance and heartache all at once. the surrender in your tone brings a wave of relief mingled with sorrow to both your husbands, who tighten their embrace around you as if shielding you from the pain of letting go.

geto’s hand gently strokes your hair, his lips brushing your temple in silent reassurance. his hold is steady, strong, grounding you as you lean into him. gojo’s hand finds yours, his fingers intertwining with yours after he wraps his arms from behind, squeezing gently, offering a quiet reminder that he’s here, that they’re both here.

gojo's head rests on yours, his forehead against your hair, his breathing soft and steady against your neck. his body is a warm, solid presence behind you, a shield against the emptiness, a constant that you can rely on.

geto leans down, his mouth brushing against your ear as he murmurs, “we're here. we'll always be here.”

the room is silent, the quiet interrupted only by the shared, steadying rhythm of your breaths. in the comfort of their embrace, there is a heartbreaking beauty to the moment, a quiet strength in the simple act of being together.

gojo’s hand gently releases yours, his fingers tracing up your arm in a slow, careful path. it comes to rest on your waist, the thumb tracing soothing, repetitive circles against your hip. a silent, gentle touch, an attempt to soothe your aching heart as he continues to lean into you, his body curved around yours.

geto’s hand in your hair is now a gentle, almost massaging motion, his fingers slowly sliding through the strands, his touch both comforting and intimate. they hold you—not as if you’re fragile or broken, but as if you’re precious, valuable, worth every

breath and second of their time. gojo and geto’s silence speaks louder than words—the steadiness of their presence, the tenderness of their touch, the quiet strength in their hold. they love you, they love you so desperately, and you can feel it with every beat of their hearts, every soft exhale as they hold you.

in the quiet of the car, geto’s fingers tap rhythmically on the steering wheel as he stares at gojo, both of them caught in the tension of their unspoken thoughts. they glance into the backseat, where two small, confused faces peer back at them. the boy with pink hair and brown eyes clutches the sleeve of the other boy with jet black hair and striking blue eyes, looking to him for reassurance, even in their silence.

geto sighs, voice low and uncertain. “i don’t know how she’ll react. bringing two strangers—two kids—into the house... especially when she’s going through so much.”

gojo shifts uncomfortably, running a hand through his hair. “i know,” he says, his tone hesitant. “but we can’t just… leave them. we found them because they were being hurt—abused by the villagers just because they have jujutsu. we can’t turn our backs on them now.” his words are resolute, but his expression falters. behind his cool, stoic front, there’s a softness, an unwillingness to abandon these two boys who have already been through so much.

geto looks away, taking a moment to weigh their choices. he knows gojo’s right, knows he doesn’t have it in him to just leave these kids to fend for themselves. not after what they’ve seen, and not when they have a home to offer, even if things are complicated. but he also knows you, and he knows how fragile things are right now.

the pink-haired boy shifts, sensing the tension, and tightens his hold on his friend’s arm. the boy with blue eyes stares back at the two men, his gaze unwavering, as if waiting for them to make a decision, as if he’s already used to uncertainty and the discomfort of being unwanted.

geto glances at gojo, reading the determination in his face, the concern for the boys, and sighs. he can feel a sense of responsibility for them too, the same feeling that has him glancing at the boys’ faces in the mirror, their wide eyes silently pleading.

he turns back to gojo, his own expression torn, “you don’t think she’ll… react badly?” he asks softly, his voice filled with worry. “after… everything that’s happened, i don’t want to overwhelm her.”

geto’s words hang in the air, the weight of their implications obvious—the fear of further straining the delicate balance of your current state, the worry of adding to the emotional burden you’re already carrying.

gojo’s gaze flickers to the boys in the backseat again, their innocent faces watching them, waiting. he can feel the tension in his own chest, the conflict of wanting to help these kids and protecting you from further sorrow.

gojo lets out a quiet, resigned sigh, his hand running through his hair one last time before he nods toward geto. “let’s just… see how she reacts. if it’s too much… if it hurts her more, we’ll figure something out.” his voice carries a tone of forced steadiness, but geto can see the conflict still etched in his eyes. he’s trying to reassure himself as much as he’s trying to reassure his friend.

with that, gojo pushes open the car door and steps out, the night air feeling heavier than usual. he circles to the backseat, pausing as he looks at the two boys through the glass, their small faces gazing up at him with a mix of uncertainty and trust. he softens his stance, letting his usual intimidating presence melt away, and carefully opens the door.

kneeling down to their eye level, he offers a gentle smile, his voice as soothing as he can manage. “hey… you’re safe now, alright? no one’s going to hurt you here.” his hand extends, and the pink-haired boy looks at his friend before they both reach out to gojo, taking comfort in his calm demeanor.

“come on out,” he says softly, his hand light on their backs as he guides them out of the car. “we’re going to take you inside. there’s someone very special to us who lives here too, and she’s… she’s going through a tough time, so we’ll need to be gentle with her. but i promise, you’re safe.”

the boys nod quietly, their small frames pressing closer to gojo as he stands, keeping them close as they walk toward the house with geto following behind. his heart aches, knowing they’re stepping into something complicated, but he feels a flicker of hope as they near the front door.

gojo can hear the quiet, anxious breaths of the boys standing next to him, their hands gripping his shirt. their wide eyes are fixed on the door, filled with both fear and anticipation. he glances at geto, their unspoken understanding of the situation heavy between them.

he gently pats the boys’ heads, hoping to soothe their uneasiness. “don’t worry,” he murmurs, his voice low and reassuring. “everything’s going to be alright.” he reaches out, his hand wrapping around the cold, brass doorknob, and with a soft inhale, he pushes the door open.

the soft creak of the hinges seems unusually loud in the quiet night, a prelude to the quiet of the house and the unknown that awaits inside. gojo feels the boys’ grip on his shirt tighten slightly, their small bodies tensing with nerves.

he leads them quietly inside, their footsteps muted against the smooth wooden floor. the house is still, as if holding its breath, the only sound coming from the boys’ soft breathing and the slight creak of the old floorboards beneath their feet.

geto places a steady hand on gojo's shoulder, a silent agreement passing between them as he asks him to stay with the boys in the living room. gojo nods, a gentle understanding in his eyes as he watches geto head outside.

in the backyard, you sit quietly on the bench, your face softly illuminated by the last light of the day. the glow of the sunset dances across your features, casting a gentle warmth over you. at the sound of approaching footsteps, you slowly open your eyes, turning to see geto’s familiar figure walking toward you.

he gives you a soft smile, the kind that holds a thousand unspoken words, and sits beside you, close enough that you can feel his presence in every quiet beat between you.

“hey…” he whispers, his hand reaching out to brush a few strands of hair from your face. he lets his fingers linger for a moment, tracing gentle circles, a small comfort as he gathers his words.

“i need to talk to you about something,” he says, his tone tender, careful. you can see something in his eyes—an unspoken depth, a mixture of love and worry. he holds your gaze, waiting for you to take in the moment, as if he knows how much you’ve been through and wants to ease you into whatever’s coming next.

under geto’s touch, your heart stutters, the familiarity of his gesture settling something deep within your chest. you lean your head into his hand, relishing the small comfort it offers, but you can feel something in the air, a tension that he’s trying to hide behind his soft smile.

you listen as he speaks, your eyes never leaving his. you can tell he’s carefully choosing his words, threading a delicate needle between what he needs to say and your current fragile state.

geto’s voice is soft, almost tentative, as he begins, “love… there’s something i need to tell you.” his hand remains a reassuring presence on your shoulder, grounding you as he carefully chooses his words. “gojo and i… we brought home some kids.”

you blink, a flicker of surprise crossing your face, and he takes a breath before continuing. “during our mission, we found these two boys. they were… kept in a cage, treated like they were less than human, all because of their cursed energy.”

he watches your expression closely, as if bracing himself for your reaction, hoping he’s not overloading you. there’s a slight sadness in his eyes as he speaks, feeling the weight of what he’s just shared.

“we… we couldn’t just leave them,” he adds, voice laced with quiet conviction. “i talked to gojo, and we both agreed—they don’t have anyone else. they were being hurt for something they can’t control, something they were born with. we… we couldn’t just turn away from that.”

he pauses, waiting, his hand gently tracing soothing patterns on your shoulder, his gaze never leaving your face as he lets the gravity of his words settle between you.

before you can even form a response, geto’s words rush out, almost in a tumble, “just for a night or two, love,” he assures quickly, his tone soft but slightly anxious. “we’re… we’re not trying to make this more difficult for you. it’s just temporary, okay? just until we figure something else out.”

he gives you a small, hopeful smile, his hand still on your shoulder, trying to soothe any worries that might be surfacing in you. “we don’t want you to feel overwhelmed. i know things have been… heavy lately. we’ll handle everything, i promise. you don’t even have to see them if you’re not up for it.”

he’s watching you with a gentle, pleading look, his gaze searching your eyes, hoping that his words are enough to ease any anxiety. it’s clear he’s trying to make this as easy as possible, fully aware of all that you’ve been carrying.

his voice is gentle, yet it’s clear that he’s worried about how you’ll react. he gauges your expression as he speaks, watching for any sign of distress or discomfort, all while maintaining a soothing rhythm with his hand on your shoulder.

his words rush out, trying to provide reassurance while also pleading for your understanding. his anxiety is evident, the weight of the situation heavy in his voice. despite all of this, there’s a hint of hope in his eyes, a hope that you will understand, that you will accept the temporary situation for what it is.

“what about their parents?” your quiet question hangs in the air, and geto’s expression falters, a brief flicker of sadness crossing his face. he sighs, his gaze dropping to his hands before looking back up at you. “they… they don’t have any,” he says softly, his voice laced with a quiet grief. “the villagers… they saw them as a curse, something to be feared. they were going to leave them to fend for themselves.”

he pauses, taking a deep breath, his thumb brushing lightly over the back of your hand. “we couldn’t just walk away,” he adds gently. “not after everything we saw… and knowing what could happen to them.”

he glances back toward the house, where gojo is no doubt keeping the boys company. “they’ve been through so much already. we thought… maybe we could give them a little safety, even if just for a short while.”

you nod, your lips forming a soft, understanding smile as you look up at geto. “okay,” you whisper, a gentle acceptance in your voice that makes the tension in his shoulders ease. he lets out a quiet sigh, his hand moving to rest over yours, squeezing it in silent gratitude.

geto’s expression softens as he looks at you. your quiet acceptance seems to ease some of the tension in his shoulders, a small sigh of relief escaping his lips. he reaches out, his hand covering yours, giving it a gentle squeeze of gratitude.

he continues to watch you for a moment, the weight of the situation still hanging in the air. but there’s a sense of peace between you now, a quiet understanding that you’ve both come to an agreement, albeit a difficult one.

“thank you,” he murmurs, his voice low and gentle. “i know it’s a lot to ask, but…” he trails off, his gaze dropping to your joined hands, his thumb tracing small, comforting circles over your skin. he looks up at you again, his eyes filled with a mix of gratitude and concern. “i just want to make sure you’re okay.”

and it’s been two days since the boys came into your home, and your husbands can already see the change in you. they watch from the kitchen as you sit in the living room with the two boys, your laughter echoing softly through the house. after weeks of grieving the news that you couldn’t have children, they see a lightness returning to your face—a spark they’ve missed more than they could say.

geto leans against the counter, arms crossed, a small smile tugging at his lips as he watches you. “she’s really taken to them,” he murmurs, his voice low but warm.

gojo nods, eyes glued to the scene before him. you’re talking to the boys, both of them wearing oversized shirts from your wardrobe—the smallest clothes in the house, yet still comically large on their tiny frames. the boys look up at you, wide-eyed and smiling, completely enraptured by your presence.

“look at her,” gojo says softly, unable to hide the fondness in his voice. “i don’t think i’ve seen her smile like that in… a long time.”

geto’s gaze softens, the sight of you laughing and at ease bringing a sense of peace he didn’t realize he’d been longing for. “maybe,” he begins cautiously, glancing at gojo, “maybe they’re what she needs right now. maybe… this is good for her. for all of us.”

gojo looks over at him, a faint smile forming. “yeah,” he agrees, the hope in his voice barely contained. “maybe it is.”

you step into the kitchen with a soft, purposeful stride, moving toward the fridge without a word. your husbands watch you carefully, their attention fixed on your every movement. it’s become a familiar pattern over the past few days—when you’re about to say something, your movements always slow down, like you’re gathering your thoughts before speaking, even if you haven’t fully decided what to say.

the fridge door clicks open, the cool light inside casting a gentle glow on your face. you reach for the soy sauce bottle without thinking, your fingers brushing over its smooth surface. the motion is casual, almost instinctive, yet your husbands notice the slight pause in your movements as you close the fridge door behind you.

they exchange a brief glance, both noticing something subtle but significant in your expression—the way your lips are pursed just slightly, the furrow between your brows. it’s a look they’ve come to recognize all too well; a mix of hesitation and contemplation. your thoughts are racing, but you haven’t yet found the words to match the emotion brewing inside.

gojo is the first to break the silence, his voice soft but steady, knowing that his wife often speaks in ways more subtle than words. "what is it?" he asks gently, his gaze never leaving your face. his eyes are understanding, attuned to the nuances of your silence.

his question hangs in the air, his tone comforting but expectant, waiting for you to share whatever’s on your mind. gojo can tell that it’s something important, something he knows you want to express but haven’t quite found the courage to. he doesn’t push, but his eyes are full of quiet concern, urging you to open up, to let him in.

geto, standing beside gojo, also watches you closely, his expression softening as he notices the way you clutch the soy sauce bottle a little tighter than necessary, your fingers wrapped around it almost protectively. his gaze meets yours, waiting for a response, his usual calm demeanor barely masking the worry in his eyes.

the kitchen feels suddenly small, the air between you thick with unspoken words.

the silence in the kitchen is almost deafening, the only sound coming from the steady, comforting breaths of your husbands. you can feel their eyes on you, their gazes unwavering as they wait patiently for you to speak.

gojo’s question hangs in the air, his voice soft but firm, his eyes searching yours. geto stands beside him, his body taut with anticipation, his eyes fixed on your face, waiting for you to give them any hint of what’s going through your mind.

you look up at them, your gaze soft, almost tentative, as if afraid of what their reaction might be. you hesitate, your fingers still gripping the bottle of soy sauce, though it feels almost distant now, like you’re holding it just to keep yourself grounded. you take a deep breath, your voice barely above a whisper, “have you figured out what you're going to do with the kids yet?”

the question hangs in the air, fragile and uncertain, your words quiet, as if testing the waters, as if you don’t want to bring up something that might undo the small comfort you’ve started to find in the chaos of it all.

your husbands exchange a brief glance before turning their attention back to you, the weight of the question settling between the three of you. the truth is, they haven’t figured it out, not yet. they haven’t really wanted to talk about it, not after seeing how much the boys have seemed to brighten your spirits. since they arrived, you’ve been lighter, more like yourself again—laughing more, talking more, playing with the kids. the last few days have felt like a breath of fresh air, a small but much-needed respite from the heavy grief that had been hanging over you.

but now, standing in the kitchen, the reality of the situation is unavoidable.

geto lets out a long, soft sigh, his eyes flickering to the floor for a moment as he rubs the back of his neck, thinking over his words carefully. he then looks up at you, his expression soft but weary. “no,” he says quietly, his voice almost regretful, “we haven’t figured it out yet.”

the silence that follows is thick, uncomfortable, the words unspoken between you three hanging like a shadow. geto’s gaze never leaves yours, as if he’s trying to read the very depths of your thoughts, hoping to understand what’s going on in your mind.

gojo steps closer, his usual confident demeanor softened as he looks at you with a gentle understanding. he places a hand on your shoulder, his touch grounding but also filled with reassurance. “we didn’t want to bring it up,” he admits, his tone low, “not when we see how happy the boys have made you. not when you’ve seemed… better.”

you can feel the hesitation in their words, the fear of adding more weight to your already heavy heart. they’ve seen how much the boys have meant to you, how much joy they’ve brought back into your life. it’s hard to bring up the reality of the situation when it feels like the kids are part of the healing you’ve started to experience.

the air between the three of you is filled with unspoken emotions, a quiet understanding passing between you.

in that moment, the glimmer of hope in your eyes is unmistakable. you gently place the soy sauce bottle down on the counter, the weight of the decision momentarily forgotten as you step closer to them. your hands tremble slightly as you reach for both of their hands, your fingers curling around theirs with a quiet desperation. your gaze locks onto theirs, and for a moment, it’s like the world narrows down to just the three of you.

“maybe… maybe the kids can stay here,” you say softly, your voice thick with hope, a plea more than a suggestion. “maybe we can make it work. they don’t have anyone else, and I—I don’t want to see them hurt. not when they’ve already been through so much.”

your voice falters, but the sincerity in your words remains. you search their faces, waiting for any sign of understanding, any indication that they might agree with you. the thought of the kids leaving, the idea of them going back into the world where they were mistreated, tears at your heart in ways you can’t quite explain.

the more you think about it, the more the idea of them staying with you feels like the right choice. your heart aches with the thought of giving them a home, a family, the safety they so desperately need.

you squeeze their hands, your voice more pleading now, “i know it’s a lot, but maybe... just maybe, we can make this work. they deserve a chance, don’t they?” your words are soft, but the conviction behind them is undeniable. “please..”

the look of hope in your eyes is like a knife through their hearts, a mix of desperation and longing that neither of them can deny. your words hang in the air, almost pleading, your voice shaky as you ask them to let the kids stay. your grip on their hands is strong, your fingers trembling ever so slightly as you silently urge them to understand. you’re terrified of losing the sense of comfort and fulfillment you’ve found in them, and the thought of sending them back into the world that has hurt them so much is unbearable.

geto can feel his heart breaking as he listens to your words, your pleading, geto’s hands cradle your face with gentle tenderness, his touch so soft, yet firm enough to ground you. his expression is a careful balance of guilt and love, his eyes soft as he searches yours, trying to understand every layer of your emotions. he sees the hope, the hesitation, and the underlying fear that lingers in your gaze—the same fear he carries in his heart.

“okay,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion, a soft promise wrapped in the usual warmth and love he always offers. his words are gentle but resolute, as if this one word, this one decision, is all that matters in the world right now. “we’ll make it work. we’ll take care of them.”

the silence between them is thick as they share a lingering stare. geto’s gaze holds steady, a silent challenge in his eyes, but there’s no anger—just resolve. after a long beat, geto turns his attention back to you, his smile softening as he sees the light returning to your face. he reaches out, his hand slipping behind your neck to gently pull you closer, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “okay, baby,” he murmurs, the words filled with tenderness.

and when he pulls back, his eyes meet gojo’s once more, the tension between them palpable, unspoken. his arms wrapping around you, holding you close. you rest your head on his chest, feeling the weight of the moment settle. gojo’s gaze is still full of disapproval, but there’s a deeper understanding in it now, a recognition of the weight of geto’s decision. he doesn’t agree, but in the end, he knows this is something that can’t be undone.

before you can respond, a heavy silence hangs between you, filled only by the weight of what’s about to come. from behind you, gojo’s voice slices through the air, sharp with disapproval. “suguru,” he warns, his eyes narrowed and cold, a storm brewing behind those intense blue orbs. the tension in the room thickens, like a wire pulled taut.

geto doesn’t flinch, doesn’t break his gaze. he’s made up his mind, and there’s no going back now. he knows what he’s risking, knows the weight of his choice, but he also knows this is what you need. “i’m doing this for her,” he says quietly, but his words ring with finality. “if giving them a chance, if keeping them here with us, makes her smile again, if it gives her some peace—then i’ll take the risk.”

there’s no anger in his voice, only the raw honesty of someone who’s willing to do whatever it takes to see the woman he loves happy again—even if it means defying the man beside him.

gojo can feel his jaw clenching, the muscles taut with frustration as he watches you lean into geto’s chest, your head resting against his shoulder. a wave of protective anger runs through him, but beneath it, he can feel the beginnings of understanding—the slow but gradual realization that geto is serious, that this isn’t just a fleeting decision made in a moment of rashness. his eyes dart from you to geto, his expression a mixture of anger and regret.

gojo’s jaw clenches tighter, the muscles in his face twitching as a storm of emotions swirls within him—anger, frustration, and the gnawing ache of helplessness. he watches you, nestled in geto's arms, the gentle curve of your body fitting so perfectly against him. his protective instincts flare up, but there's something deeper, more reluctant, stirring within him too: the creeping recognition that geto’s decision is not a momentary whim. this is something serious, something geto believes in with all his heart.

gojo’s gaze flickers from you to geto, his eyes narrowing in conflict. he sees the quiet certainty in geto’s expression, the way he’s holding you, the way you’ve allowed yourself to lean into him, to trust him with your vulnerability. and there’s no denying it—geto’s commitment to this, to you, to this family, is real.

then his eyes move to the two boys, laughing and playing, oblivious to the tension in the room. gojo watches them for a moment, their innocent joy a stark contrast to the complicated emotions running through him. he feels a wave of guilt mixed with frustration—it’s not just about what’s best for you anymore. it’s about the kids too, the responsibility, the choices they’re all going to have to face.

with a defeated sigh, gojo pulls his gaze away from the children and looks at geto once again. his expression softens just slightly, a resigned acceptance beginning to seep in as he meets geto’s knowing smile. there’s no more fight left in him—not now. it’s clear that geto’s made up his mind, and somehow, gojo knows this isn’t a battle he can win.

“alright,” gojo mutters, his voice low but tinged with finality, before leaning down to press a soft kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering for just a moment. it’s a silent promise, an acknowledgment of your pain, your grief, and the decision he’s now forced to accept. his heart aches as he straightens up, but there’s a flicker of something else there too—maybe it’s love, maybe it’s just the weight of the situation, but gojo knows this is the path they’ve chosen now.

he turns his attention back to geto, his eyes locking onto his husband’s with a mix of weary fondness and reluctant understanding. “don’t make me regret this,” he warns softly, giving the man a kiss on his forehead, his voice carrying an edge despite his acceptance.

geto’s expression softens, his eyes filled with an understanding that can only be gained through years of being together, through the trials and tribulations that they’ve faced together. he knows what gojo is going through, the inner struggle of weighing risks and the weight of responsibility. “i won’t,” he replies quietly, his words carrying a promise and a plea, a reassurance that he has thought this through, that he has considered every angle, every possible outcome.

geto’s eyes flick to you, still resting against his chest, your head tucked beneath his chin. he rubs your back gently, his touch firm yet gentle, a comforting gesture filled with love and reassurance. he sighs quietly, his chin resting on the top of your head, watching you both with a mix of love and concern.

gojo can feel the mix of emotions swirling within him, a maelstrom of feelings, each one pulling him in a different direction. there’s anger, frustration, a deep-seated protectiveness, and a lingering sense of helplessness. but as he looks at geto, as he hears his husband’s gentle reassurance, he can also feel a strange sense of acceptance, a reluctant surrender.

sighing, he concedes, “i know you won’t.”

gojo expression softens, the tension draining from his shoulders as he lets out another soft sigh—a sigh of acceptance, a sigh of resignation to this new reality. “just... just make sure we don’t end up with more kids here than we can handle,” he murmurs with a hint of sarcasm as he give you another kiss on your head, a small attempt at humor to ease the tension.

geto chuckles quietly, a dry laugh that holds a hint of agreement. he looks down at you, his hands holding you gently, and smiles. “don't worry,” he replies, his tone a mix of certainty and sarcasm, “the last thing i want is to see you two get even more gray hairs from the stress of looking after a bunch of little brats.”

a soft laugh escapes you, amusement bubbling up as geto’s dry humor cuts through the tension. you lift your head from his chest, meeting his gaze, and there’s something warm and unspoken in his eyes—a mixture of love, understanding, and that hint of playful sarcasm that always lightens the heaviest moments.

with a grin, you rise on your toes and press a gentle kiss to his cheek, feeling the way his expression softens in response. then you turn to gojo, who’s still watching the two of you with a mix of reluctant acceptance and warmth in his gaze. without missing a beat, you place a kiss on his cheek too, feeling his arm instinctively come around you, grounding you between them.

“thank you,” you murmur, your smile sincere, gratitude shining in your eyes as you look between the two of them. they’ve given up a lot for you, bent themselves around your happiness, and this choice feels like a gift—a promise that you won’t have to face the heartache alone.

“so,” you add, glancing back at the two boys in the living room as they continue to play, “should we go shopping?” your tone is light, but there’s a spark of excitement there too, the promise of a new beginning. “y’know, for the kids..” you added, fingertips touching gojo’s collar playfully.

gojo rolls his eyes at your words but his lips curve into a small smile, still wrapped around you. “shopping, huh?” he murmurs, his hands settling on your hips, his fingers tracing absent circles there. “you just like spending my money, don’t you?” he teases, a hint of playfulness in his voice.

geto’s arm wraps around you from the back, his chin resting on your shoulder. “don’t worry,” he adds, his voice tinged with an amused fondness, “i’m sure we’ll find plenty of things the kids need,” he laughs quietly, his breath warm against your skin, “and maybe a few things that we adults can…” his words trail off, the implication clear, his lips brushing your neck softly.

you chuckle, your eyes sparkling with mischief as you look up at gojo, giving him a small, playful pout. “the kids need clothes, hubby,” you say with a soft huff, feigning indignation, being mischievous with the hubby word. “and, y’know, probably everything else, and for us, ‘adult’ too.”

his fingers continue tracing those gentle circles on your hips, and you can feel the warmth of his hands anchoring you. he raises an eyebrow, clearly amused as he watches you try to hold your pout, a teasing gleam in his eyes.

gojo laughs quietly, his hands moving down to give your hips a gentle squeeze, his fingers warm and firm against your skin. “and just what kind of ‘adult’ things do you have in mind?” he asks, his voice a low murmur, a hint of playfulness in his tone. “because if my memory serves me right, we’ve got plenty of those at home already.”

geto laughs too from behind you, his chin still resting on your shoulder, his hands wrapped around your waist, his lips pressing a soft kiss to your neck again.

you hum softly, a knowing smile curving your lips as you let your gaze flick between the two men. but instead of answering, you slip out of their hold, leaving them standing there, anticipation sparking in their eyes. with an easy, confident stride, you head toward the living room, throwing a casual wave over your shoulder.

“yuuji, megumi,” you call, your voice light and inviting as the two little boys perk up, their eyes wide and curious as they look at you. “let’s go spend my husbands’ money.”

their faces light up with excitement, and they quickly scramble to their feet, hurrying toward you with delighted grins. behind you, you hear the surprised chuckles of gojo and geto from the kitchen.

the two men stand there for a moment, their gazes fixated on you and the two boys. gojo looks bewildered, a hint of amusement playing on his face, while geto has a mixture of shock and humor in his expression. “spending our money, huh?” gojo mutters, his eyes narrowing slightly in mock indignation.

geto laughs, shaking his head in disbelief. “oh, this is going to cost us a fortune…” he muses, a smile tugging at his lips.

the boys rush over, their little bodies bumping into you, their hands reaching up to grab onto yours. you can feel their excitement as they giggle and chatter with each other, their voices high with anticipation.

“where are we going?” yuuji asks, his eyes wide with curiosity.

megumi, on the other hand, is quieter but just as curious. “shopping?” he asks, his small fingers gripping your hand firmly.

you hum with excitement, giving each boy’s hand a reassuring squeeze as you answer, “that’s right! we’re going to get you two everything you need.” yuuji’s eyes sparkle with glee, and even megumi lets a small smile slip as he squeezes your hand back, his quiet curiosity bringing a warmth to your heart.

turning around, you glance over your shoulder at your husbands, a radiant smile lighting up your face—a look they haven’t seen in too long. your eyes glint with happiness, a genuine joy that makes you look like yourself again, the shadows of recent weeks nowhere to be found.

for a moment, gojo and geto just stand there, captivated by the sight of you, your laughter mingling with the boys’ giggles. neither of them can do anything but follow, exchanging a quiet look that says more than words ever could. they know they’re in for an adventure today, but neither would trade it for anything.

as they fall into step behind you, a sense of peace settles over them. maybe this wasn’t the life they’d planned, and maybe things hadn’t gone as expected. but seeing you happy, seeing you whole again as you lead these two bright-eyed boys out the door—it’s worth every risk.

[david-talks-sw]

Debunking myths in the GFFA: Luke Skywalker isn't the One True Jedi™ and doesn't "reject the Jedi teachings."

The myth:

Luke's Jedi mentors - trained to be dispassionate and mission-driven - callously tell him to let his friends die in service of a greater cause.

"In The Empire Strikes Back, Luke becomes Yoda's Padawan, and there are echoes of Anakin's training and the dilemmas he faced. Like Anakin, Luke is told he is too old to begin the training. Like Anakin, he has a vision of his loved ones suffering in captivity, and receives cold advice from Yoda, who tells him to sacrifice Han and Leia if he honors what they fight for." - Jason Fry, “Family Tradition; Rejecting the Jedi Teachings” Star Wars Insider #130, 2012

The intended narrative:

The Jedi are actually right on all points. Luke isn't ready or fully trained and he's arrogantly letting his emotions rule him and rushing into danger. By ignoring them, Luke gets himself into a spot of trouble that actually jeopardizes the lives of the very friends he tried to help, as they now need to rescue him.

“It’s pivotal that Luke doesn’t have patience. He doesn’t want to finish his training. He’s being succumbed by his emotional feelings for his friends rather than the practical feelings of “I’ve got to get this job done before I can actually save them. I can’t save them, really.” But he sort of takes the easy route, the arrogant route, the emotional but least practical route, which is to say, “I’m just going to go off and do this without thinking too much.” And the result is that he fails and doesn’t do well for Han Solo or himself.”

“Luke is making a critical mistake in his life of going after- to try to save his friends when he’s not ready. There’s a lot being taught here about patience and about waiting for the right moment to do whatever you’re going to do.”

“Luke is in the process of going into an extremely dangerous situation out of his compassion— Without the proper training, without the proper thought, without the proper foresight to figure out how he’s gonna get out of it. His impulses are right, but his methodology is wrong.”

The myth:

The Jedi want Luke to repress his feelings and kill his father, to destroy the Sith, their religious enemies. As emotionally-detached Jedi, it is inconceivable that a Sith would come back from the Dark Side, and thus wrongly believe that the only solution is to kill Vader.

"It's easy to miss that Luke disagrees sharply with his Jedi teachers about what to do. Obi-Wan and Yoda have trained Luke and push him toward a second confrontation with Vader. He is, they believe, the Jedi weapon that will destroy both Vader and the Emperor. When Luke insists there is still good in Vader, Obi-Wan retorts that "he's more machine than man-twisted and evil." When Luke says he can't kill his own father, Obi-Wan despairs, "Then the Emperor has already won."  But Obi-Wan could not be more wrong. It is precisely because Luke can't kill his own father that he defeats the Sith." - Jason Fry, Star Wars Insider #130, 2012

The intended narrative:

The Jedi never tell Luke to "kill" his father. That's just a fact.

They tell him to "confront" and "face" him.

Their bottom line is that Vader and the Emperor need to be stopped.

If Luke can manage to do so without killing his father, that's great.

"In Jedi the film is really about the redemption of this fallen angel. Ben is the fitting good angel, and Vader is the bad angel who started off good. All these years Ben has been waiting for Luke to come of age so that he can become a Jedi and redeem his father. That's what Ben has been doing, but you don't know this in the first film." - Star Wars: The Annotated Screenplays, 1998

(credit to @writerbuddha for finding the above quote)

The problem is: Darth Vader has a track record of murdering loved ones who refuse to kill him. Be it his wife...

... his father/brother...

... and if you're going by Canon, his little sister.

As such, there's a very strong chance that Vader might do the same to his son as well.

“A Jedi can’t kill for the sake of killing. The mission isn’t for Luke to go out and kill his father and get rid of him. The issue is, if he confronts his father again, he may, in defending himself, have to kill him, because his father will try to kill him.” - 1981 story conference, from The Making of Return of the Jedi

Now, as the last Jedi left, the fate of the galaxy rests entirely on Luke's shoulders.

If he dies, then the galaxy and its billions of inhabitants are doomed to live in a tyrannical dictatorship forever.

“He knows a confrontation is brewing between Luke and his father. Ben hopes Luke will either save his father or kill him, because whatever extra powers Luke's got in his lineage, he is the one person that can probably fight his father and win.” - The Star Wars Archives: 1977-1983, 2018

There's a time for talking things through... and a time to do your duty. Above all else, a Jedi's duty is to end conflict.

Obi-Wan was once tasked with this same duty.

And while he managed to weaken Vader considerably (thus avoiding the catastrophe of a full-powered Vader being unleashed onto the galaxy)... because of his attachment, he failed to kill Vader.

Twice, if you include the Kenobi show.

(A show which, per Pablo Hidalgo, is one of George Lucas' favorite recent Star Wars projects, a tidbit that doesn't surprise me one bit considering how much the series perfectly aligns with what Lucas said about Star Wars (see here, here and here))

Point being: because Ben failed his duty, the galaxy suffered for it.

Luke is now in danger of doing the same.

If he's unable to end the conflict in a peaceful way, then Luke needs to be ready to do so in a more permanent manner. Because while Luke has qualms about killing his father, there's a very big chance that the feeling won't be mutual.

So Luke isn't rejecting his teachers' orders to kill Vader. He's saying he's unable to confront Vader altogether, because he'll be half-assing the task. In the (very likely) worst case scenario where reasoning with Vader fails, Luke is concerned he won't be able to follow-through and do what he must.

Further, there's also a worse outcome to Luke dying: Luke joining the Dark Side and becoming yet another asset of the Emperor, more dangerous than Vader himself.

It's thus essential that Luke steel himself and mask his emotions, because the Emperor is a master manipulator who'll likely attempt to corrupt Luke via the strong emotions he has for his friends.

Obi-Wan is not telling Luke to repress his emotions. On the contrary, he acknowledges that these feelings do Luke credit. But the fact remains that when your opponent can jiu-jitsu those feelings against you and your friends, you need to keep a poker face.

And judging by how close the Sith Lords come to seducing Luke to the Dark Side...

... that advice is completely on point.

The myth:

"It isn't Jedi teachings that save the galaxy, but bonds the Jedi tried to forbid - such as the love of a father for his son, and a son for his father. Emotional attachments, in other words." - Jason Fry, Star Wars Insider #130, 2012

The intended narrative:

In Return of the Jedi, Luke isn't doing anything different than what other Jedi have done.

He does his best to avoid lethal force unless he deems that it is necessary (see his fight against Jabba's hostile forces).

He sacrifices himself for the greater good and let himself be captured, in order to allow the mission to be carried out.

He tries to reason with his enemy, hoping to avoid conflict.

He spares his enemy, showing mercy.

That's all standard Jedi stuff. We've seen other Jedi do all those things, both in the films and The Clone Wars.

If that isn't enough, just look at how Lucas describes what Jedi normally do (left), versus what Luke does in Return of the Jedi (right):

See what I mean? There’s pretty much no difference.

In Lucas' narrative, Luke isn’t “better than” or “rejecting the teachings” of the Jedi who came before him. He’s following the Jedi path. And he's really good at doing so.

Because this idea that Luke "rejects the teachings" makes no sense! They're Lucas' teachings. He agrees with the Jedi, they're the mouthpieces he uses to deliver the audience his own values.

Lucas having his main character do something he'd ideologically disagree with is something that doesn't make sense.

And part of this confusion comes from a misunderstanding of the word "attachment", in Star Wars.

It doesn't mean "emotional attachments" or "feelings" or "affection." It comes from the Buddhist principle of non-attachment.

It's not about depriving yourself of relationships or affection, it's about accepting that everything comes and goes and letting go of those very things you hold on to, when the time comes.

Lucas makes a distinction in his discourse between attachment and compassion.

"The whole idea of the movie, ultimately is that you have the Light Side and the Dark Side. The Light Side is compassion, which means you care about other people. The Dark Side is you care only about yourself. And you are obsessed with yourself. Getting your pleasure and getting all your stuff. The other one, you give it to everybody. You give goodness and health to everybody else.  So the issue of love... there’s a line between loving somebody compassionately and caring about them and helping them. But the other line is not to be greedy or... once you are greedy then you get fearful. You don’t want to lose what it is you have that you are getting. So you have to learn to give up everything. And ultimately for a Jedi Knight, it’s very easy to give up." - Celebration V, Main Event, 2010

In-universe, this is something Anakin knew the theory of, but never really applied all that much.

Luke on the other hand, was able to learn the lesson and apply it.

Speaking in Lucas lingo, it's not Luke's attachment that makes him spare Vader. It's his compassion. And in turn, that compassion inspires Vader to do the same.

"It really has to do with learning. Children teach you compassion. They teach you to love unconditionally. Anakin can’t be redeemed for all the pain and suffering he’s caused. He doesn’t right the wrongs, but he stops the horror. The end of the Saga is simply Anakin saying, ‘I care about this person, regardless of what it means to me. I will throw away everything that I have, everything that I have grown to love - primarily the Emperor - and throw away my life, to save this person. And I’m doing this because he has faith in me, loves me despite all the horrible things I’ve done. I broke his mother’s heart, but he still cares about me, and I can’t let that die.’" - The Making of Revenge of The Sith; page 221

Or, to put things more simply:

Attachment (selfish love), is what makes Anakin do this:

Compassion (selfless love), is what makes Luke do this:

Now, could Lucas have made his narrative more explicit, to avoid confusion? Maybe.

But I think it's also fair to point the finger at the biggest cause of these muddied waters:

Simply put, the Expanded Universe (the Star Wars books, novels and games that spun out of the films) established new lore elements that didn't necessarily align with Lucas' vision of things. Namely:

Jedi can get married, and Luke marries Mara Jade.

Jedi can begin their training as adults, and Luke takes on many apprentices that are already adults.

When considering George's minimal involvement in the development of EU stories, it's easy to see why these plot points were allowed to come through.

But when he made the Prequels, his headcanons came to light and the above plot points needed to be retconned.

George Lucas' narrative:

"Nope. You can't be a Jedi and be married."

This isn't actually coming out of left field.

When Timothy Zahn asked for Luke and Mara to be married or engaged, back in 1993, Lucasfilm initially vetoed the idea.

And over the years, Lucas and other Lucasfilm employees have made it it clear that "Luke getting married" did not align with his vision (so much so that it's a plot point in Attack of the Clones).

So the question becomes: why can't Jedi get married?

It's about commitment.

Simply put: you can't have two marriages. Eventually, your commitment to one of them will falter and you'll ruin them both. A Jedi is already married to the cause and to the Order.

If they want to get married, they have to leave the Jedi.

"One of the things [the Jedi] give up is marriage. They can still love people. But they can’t possess them. They can’t own them. They can’t demand that they do things. They have to be able to accept the fact, one, their mortality, that they are going to die. And not worry about it. That the loved ones they have, everything they love is going to die and they can’t do anything about it. I mean they can protect them as you would ordinarily protect, you know, ‘Get out of the way of that car.’ Somebody charges you with a gun, you knock the gun out, but there is an inevitability to life which is death and you have to accept that." - Celebration V, Main Event, 2010

And this is another example, really, of how Lucas' own values and past experiences shape the Jedi's teachings.

Marcia Lucas divorced George because he was constantly working on Star Wars, even when he wasn't directing it, which she said led to an emotional blockage in their marriage...

... and this leads us to the reason why George didn't double-down on the success of the Original Trilogy: he decided to take time off to raise his three kids as a single Dad.

He learned his lesson, reasoned that he wouldn't be able to be both a good, present father and a successful blockbuster film director.

When you're dealing with time-consuming commitments of this scale, you need to make a choice, or you'll end up (half-assing and thus ruining) both of them.

"Nope. Jedi get taken in as babies for a reason."

Once again, this has to do with Lucas' definition of "attachment."

"Jedi Knights get taken from their families very young. They do not grow attachments, because attachment is a path to the Dark Side. You can love people, but you can't want to possess them. They're not yours. Accept that they have a fate. Even those you love most are going to die. You can't do anything about that. Protect them with your lightsaber, but if they die they were going to die. There's nothing you can do. All you can do is accept that fact. In mythology, if you go to Hades to get them back, you're not doing it for them, you're doing it for yourself. You're doing it because you don't want to give them up. You're afraid to be without them. The key to the Dark Side is fear. You must be clean of fear, and fear of loss is the greatest fear. If you're set up for fear of loss, you will do anything to keep that loss from happening, and you're going to end up in the Dark Side. That's the basic premise of Star Wars and the Jedi, and how it works. That's why they're taken at a young age to be trained. They cannot get themselves killed trying to save their best buddy when it's a hopeless exercise." - The Star Wars Archives: 1977-1983, 2018

Jedi need to maintain objectivity and neutrality, in their day-to-day lives of mediating peace between planets.

And learning to "let go of your attachments when the time comes" is part of that training. But it is something that takes discipline and time, and thus the child needs to be young enough to develop this skill. Otherwise, they end up like Anakin, who always struggled to properly learn it and eventually was doomed by his greed.

This being part of Lucas narrative is also evidenced that in his earlier plans for the Sequel trilogy, he'd have Luke train children, not adults like he does in the EU.

"Luke is trying to restart the Jedi. He puts the word out, so out of 100,000 Jedi, maybe 50 or 100 are left. The Jedi have to grow again from scratch, so Luke has to find two- and three-year-olds, and train them. It’ll be 20 years before you have a new generation of Jedi." The Star Wars Archives: 1999-2005, 2020

The EU's retcons of Lucas' narrative:

Now, obviously, the addition of all these rules and other elements such as midi-chlorians... it does something to the older audience. They grew up on the Original Trilogy, dreaming they could be a Jedi too if they just believed enough. Now that bubble is burst.

"Wait, if I'm a Jedi I can't get married?! And I need to be taken in as a toddler, with a certain kind of blood score?! That's bullshit!"

More importantly... it goes against about a decade's worth of established EU lore (which Lucas never factored into his storytelling)!

So what does Lucasfilm Licensing do? They go with it.

They take these "weird" rules the older audience and authors don't like, and retcon a new narrative around them to ensure both the books and the new films all stay canon within the EU own continuity.

George Lucas revealed new information about his universe in Episode II that ran counter to earlier stories of the Expanded Universe. Among the surprises: the Jedi Order is monastic, with love and marriage forbidden to its members. This would necessitate reforms to the Jedi Code over time to separate the ancient era when Nomi Sunrider was married to a Jedi, seen in the Tales of the Jedi (1993–94) comics, as well as the post-Empire era when Luke Skywalker married Mara Jade in the comic series Union (1999–2000). LucasBooks also needed to create plausible exceptions for Ki-Adi-Mundi, a Jedi Master who had multiple wives in the Prelude to Rebellion comics (1999). - Pablo Hidalgo, The Essential Reader’s Companion, 2012

When it comes to Luke specifically, the narrative becomes:

"Uh... y-yes. The old Jedi Order forbid marriage, only took in toddlers and had a blood pre-requisite... which was weird, wrong, too detached, too systemic, and part of why their Order failed! But, uh, Luke's New Jedi Order allows marriage, unlike his dogmatic predecessors, because anyone can be a Jedi guys!" Hahaha! (fuck's sake George)

But as already explained above: those new rules aren't meant to be perceived negatively. It would make no sense if they were, they're based on Lucas' own values.

You know what it does do, though?

It cements the narrative that Luke is the One True Jedi™, who rejected the dogmatic teachings to forge a new path forward.

That's not the intended narrative of the Original Trilogy, nor the six-film saga as a whole.

If you've made it this far in the post (congratulations) and are interested to read another all-encompassing post about that, you can check out the link below :)

[marsneptunes]

Someone on twitter said Jenna Ortega would be the perfect Agathario’s daughter and now I can’t unsee it. So here is me, in full fanfiction mode!

I’m gonna just pretend they had a daughter too.

After Nicholas death, Rio thought Agatha could made a deal with their daughter too, so she took all the memories from both Agatha and their kid.

She grows up knowing she is a witch, that she have two mothers, but can’t remember them, just the feeling of being part of a family and be loved. She has this feeling of grief, like she lost someone, but can’t remember her twin brother and his death. She is a mind and blood witch, she can have visions of her mothers, and things happening to them, but she can’t see their faces, or know if the things she is seeing is in the past, present or future. Her power can be very manipulative of thoughts and intentions. So she made herself a famous person and did movies about the things she sees, in the hope her mothers can find her in a way she can’t find them.

She is ambitious, like Agatha, and made herself a truly famous and rich person. As the daughter of The original green witch and Lady Death she values and respect the flow of life. She feels really connected to nature, but don’t know about her mothers powers. When not using her powers for manipulation, she can be supportive of people having difficulty dealing with their own emotions, bad or good, without taking their agency on it.

The visions get scarier, more violent, she doesn’t know if it is because her mothers are in danger or her mind power is getting out of control. She goes after other witch to help her, meeting Lilia. Having other witch help, her powers gets stronger, the Salem Seven found her, Rio senses the danger on her daughter’s life and goes after Agatha, breaking the memory spell.

And finally, the path of the three crosses.

Names? A thought of Morgana, but sounds obvious.

Agnes would be kind of bittersweet, like Agatha picked this name, on wandavision time, because that was something calling her to it, but she couldn’t know exactly why, like she wanted hold this name close to her. As she senses it is the perfect name to trying to manipulate someone, like her daughter’s ability. That would fit well with her helping Wanda with the twins, when she had twins too, and she liking Billy more, as she could feel she had a kid with mind powers.

I like Selene too, can be the personification of the moon, who is very associated with emotions, for someone who can play with it.

As someone who loves drama, I will say Agnes Harkness-Vidal.

Ok now I will stop!

#EDIT:

Oww

Here is Agnes, getting her mother, LADY DEATH, to an award ceremony with her. She made Rio promise that she wouldn’t be taking any soul in the ceremony!

Rio being like “Well, he’s kind old, just one, can I?”

[ily-sunghoon]

The Omen of Sterling | ENHYPEN

Pairing : vampire!enhypen x fem!oc

Genre : vampire, kingdom, reverse harem <3, fluff, angst, smut on some chapters

Summary : The name Sterling hits like thunder for the royal bloodlines. Sterling is the most dangerous vampire family throughout the ages. After they left Krashoviel due to their sweet human daughter, twenty-one years later the same daughter came back for help... or the omen that Cairneyes warned the others about.

WARNINGS : mdni, heavy content, deep world building (i went kinda crazy), blood, murder, manipulation, gaslighting, toxic behavior, curses, religious theme mentioned sometimes, obsessive, (more to add later). DO NOT PROCEED if uncomfortable

Disclaimer : THIS IS PURE FICTION, ALL THE BEHAVIORS OF MY CHARACTERS ARE NOT RELATED TO ENHYPEN REAL MEMBERS AT ALL!

Note : hi, guys. i finally contribute to the enhablr community by publishing this old draft that i wrote years ago. it was inspired by one of my loooong dream that i had on christmas eve night back then in 2020. i decided to stick on the original names that i have for them. all the fem characters doesn't have any face claims, i leave them to your imaginations. some random male idols might appear in the future as relatives/enemy/friends. without further do, meet the characters and i hope you guys enjoy!

CHAPTERS — PROLOGUE CHAPTER I CHAPTER II CHAPTER III CHAPTER IV

Introduction to our vampires:

Jestel Sinflame

/jé-ssel/ 299 years old — The rightful crown prince of Krashoviel. Choosing peace over war right now (living under the same roof as his brother-like best friends rather than in the sucking dry and toxic castle). A little bit classist like his family, Sinflame, except towards Ricardo, who he saw the potential of that kid himself. His parents died during the Red War and now he’s trying his hardest to contact his brother, Holstein, who also got lost in the war.

Sarco Phelanflame

/sár-ko/ 288 years old — Phelanflame has always been the first row at wars. They’re the leader of the soldiers. Very strong since birth with a little sadistic tendency. Their personality is cold, much colder than the other vampires around Krashoviel. If not cold, they’re always a little bit of an oddball. All the elders in his family were deceased during the last war. Now, Phelanflame only has three members, including Sarco and his two other cousins.

Ricardo Nikolai

/ree-kár-do/ 20 years old — Came from an orphanage, Ricardo is a third-class vampire in Krashoviel. He got lucky because Jestel and Sarco saw his potential while visiting his orphanage, they took him home and gave him all the facilities he needed. Ricardo likes to play fight with almost everybody, but his favorite activity to do is disturbing Jusarlie’s peace.

Jasper

/jæs-per/ approximately 23 years old — A new vamp who was found in the woods during their monthly patrolling. No one knows about his background, he lost his memory, so they named him Jasper.

Saine Cairneye

/sāin/ 201 years old — Grandson of the current Queen on the throne. His mother died during the war. The Cairneye bloodline is in charge of magick, witchcraft, astrology, omen, and so on. Their current job is reading people intentions and possible-futures with their crazy personality tests. They are blessed with good physical appearance, and all of them look like elves. They have a silly little hobby, which is accidentally having a vision that scares the royal family a.k.a Sinflame!

Jusarlie Grieffang

/jou-sār-lee/ 297 years old — Grieffang, the fang of Krashoviel. They are the greatest strategists and professors, Grieffang is one of the keys of Krashoviel’s endless winning of wars. They’re still relatives with Sinflame. Jusarlie is Jestel’s distant nephew, though their age gap is not far. Rival kingdoms tried to kidnap and use Grieffangs against Krashoviel during their wars, but it was no use, Grieffangs are loyal and far smarter than them. Plenty of them are still alive after the wars along with Sinflames.

Hiael Von Ruden

/heeæl/ 314 years old — His original nation is Slevado, Hiael was a crown prince. He turned his back after the Red War, and it creates a huge controversy. He is now working under Jestel’s command and is currently busy training Jasper. He’s reserved, calm, to the point where it becomes scary rather than comforting for his surroundings. No one knows what is on his mind, but for Jestel, as long as he has made a blood pact then he’s good.

© ily-sunghoon, 2024 DO NOT COPY, STEAL, PLAGIARIZE, OR REPOST ON OTHER PLATFORM DO NOT TRANSLATE WITHOUT PERMISSION