#but had no space to finish it until this evening

[eupheme]

— i’ll be there

[part iv of sugar, sugar] | [masterlist]

wolverine/logan howlett x neighbor!f!reader

rated e - 4.5k

tags: baker!neighbor!reader, logan pov, soft smut & fluff, oral, fingering, multiple orgasms, manual restraints PiV, creampie, light angst, references to anxiety, guilt, memories of canon-typical violence/ death, logan handling his feelings in his own way

a/n: after finishing part iii, there were two ideas in the back of my mind (this, and then fixing [redacted]) so I am back with a little more 💕

Sometimes, it feels as if he’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Breath held - bracing for a blow that hasn’t yet come, each time the cracks lengthen in his walls. Letting sunlight seeping through.

So sure it’s waiting on the horizon for him, as it always had done. Has been, since that first night you spent together, all those weeks ago.

Finally allowing himself to exhale - for today, at least - in the darkened room.

It’s late when he twists the handle of the apartment door, easing it open. A habit now, how the keys drop into the ceramic mug on the table just inside, clinking against loose change.

His shadow stretching long across the wooden floor, cast by the light you left on for him in the kitchen. Fingers tug at worn laces, loosening boots that are left next to yours.

Funny how he’s able to navigate this space now, without thought. The old fleece from Wade’s closet slung across the back of an armchair. His feet taking him to the edge of the couch, fingers idly brushing over the stitching of the folded quilt left out for him.

One heartbeat passing, and then another.

He moves on.

The bedroom door creaks on its hinges, as he nudges it open wider.

Light pouring in, letting him see where you curl on your side. The space next to you open - as if waiting for him.

As if you knew he’d be coming.

All he’s wanted to do since Wade turned the car around was get back to right here.

Something loosening in his chest. Fingers working at the buttons of his flannel, then dropping to the heavy buckle at his waist. Stripped down, when he draws back the covers, and slides next to you.

You murmur his name, curl into him. Can’t pretend there isn’t a tugging behind his ribs at the sound.

His fingers drift across skin, tracing the strap of your nightgown. You lips curve up, eyes cracking open.

“You have a good day?”

Logan pauses for longer than he should, turning the question over in his head. Chooses to ignore it, for now.

Chooses to let his head dip, to press his mouth to yours, instead. Letting his mind shut off, letting it go silent for a moment.

Focusing on this, instead.

The tug of your fingers as they slide into his hair. Pulling him close - keeping him there, the sluggish movements turning more lucid as he deepens the kiss. Pliant becoming demanding, and even after the day he’s had, he can’t help the chuckle when your hand curls around his shoulder.

Urging, once more. Fully awake now, lips pressing against his jaw as he follows your whims. Settling between your thighs, cock stiffening with the way you nip at his neck. How you roll your hips upward, until he pins you to the bed himself.

“Missed you.” It’s sighed out.

Something inside his chest thrums, his heartbeat kicking up a notch. The answer coming easily, without thought.

“Missed you too, sweetheart.”

He means it.

Had left a little piece of himself behind when he left early this morning. The echo of your goodbye kiss lingering against his lips, as he had climbed into the car with Wade. Going north.

But he doesn’t want to think about that now.

Now, he’s letting his senses take over, an old habit. Focusing on warmth of you beneath him. Eyelids fluttering shut with the sting of your teeth against his throat. A twitching smile as his hands wander - letting you try to mark him as he finds the hem, slips beneath.

Fingertips dragging over bare skin. Rucking the flimsy fabric up higher each time his hips lift. A low sigh when he finally presses against your bare skin, nudging himself against the soft juncture of your thigh.

Your scent washes over him, drowning out the layer of thoughts that have chased after him all afternoon. Vanilla and sugar and you - he’s tried to taste it before, with the wet drag of his tongue.

Sometimes you smell like him, if he’s lucky, in the early morning, still tucked into bed. Cigar smoke clinging, from where you sat with him on the fire escape. Where he’s left himself painted across your skin.

It’s familiar. It’s as comforting as the pretty noises you make. Hungry for him, fingers tracing along his ribs. Slipping down the slope of his back, trying to tug you to meet him.

Logan is used to rushing things - wants to, after the day he had - but in the night, when he knows you don't have to get up early, it feels like time stands still.

He allows his movements to slow.

The mattress dips as he inches down it. Palms finding the curves of your tits, a soft squeeze against the giving flesh before he’s finding the taut peaks in the fabric with his teeth and tongue.

The silk darkens, as you squirm. A whine is wrenched from your chest, as his mouth closes around you.

The tip of his tongue flicking across your nipple. His other hand drifting down, hiking your thigh higher around his waist.

“Let me-“ It comes from you in a rush, hands tugging at the fabric.

He won’t ruin this one. Knows you like it - instead he balls the fabric from navel to sternum in his fist. Tugs, until your tits slip free.

“Fuck, Logan.” It’s laced with appreciation.

With need, as he sucks a mark against your skin. Another on the soft swell beneath, the pinch of his teeth soothed by the drag of his tongue.

Knowing what he’ll find, when he finally moves down. The fingertips that trail down as he kisses your stomach, your hip - ghosting across your folds, coming back slick.

They slide between his lips. An amuse-bouche to the feast laid out before him - unable to resist the urge to taste you, fingers spit-slick when they return.

“‘s for me?” He rasps, and a laugh slips from you - the soft, muffled sound dragging out into a moan as he traces your opening - sinking down to the knuckle.

“Always for you.”

It loosens a breath he’s been holding all day. Coming out as a rough sigh - your thighs inching wider as he kisses your mound.

Hovering then, just shy of where you need him.

“Really did miss me, huh?”

Can’t help it. Another unconscious nudge, seeking reassurance.

Your hips lift, seeking. Hands trailing down, fingers drifting over your tits, your stomach. Down to stroke your thumb against the bristle of his beard.

“Every time you leave.”

He leans into your touch. Eyes focused on the dark glimmer of your own, as he lets your fingers tangle in his hair. Let's you guide him, a low hum as he closes that final inch.

The tip of his tongue stroking against a spot he knows well, as your moan rips through the quiet. His name following with a soft whimper, and it’s then that his eyes shut.

Focused on the way you smear across his tongue. The wet suck of his finger, sinking into molten heat. Trying to grip him already, clenching around what little he’s given you.

A second teases. Slipping inside, as he tongues at your clit. As you pant, whining - nails pricking against his scalp. Thighs pressing into his shoulders, until he’s hiking one over, and then the other.

His hips flexing, rutting himself into the mattress as you surround him. Fingers curling and stroking, until you leaking against him palm. Until the quiet room becomes a chorus, his name a sweet song on your lips.

“Logan.”

Logan, Logan.

A name stamped on a piece of metal, but he’s grateful for it now. Grateful for the way it rushes from you, as if you’ve forgotten all else.

As he winds you up - your grip tightening, but it only spurs him on. Your breath shortens, as his free arm bands across your abdomen, leaving your hips to flex uselessly against his strength.

“Fuck me.” You urge. A hand kneading the flesh of your breast, the other circling around his wrist. Pleading, with the pinch of your brows, as your fingers flex against his iron grip, “Need you, Logan. Want, ah-“

“Come for me first.” It’s close to a growl, his own fingers never stopping. Feeling how you stiffen beneath his arm, on the cusp of something he’s more than happy to give you.

“Want her nice and ready for me.”

You moan at the command. Head tilting back as your body obeys - the “yes” that’s chanted over and over, pitching higher each time.

Stringing out, and then breaking. Your back bows, as the pleasure alights within. Coming hard with rhythmic throb he can feel against his tongue, that tight pulse around fingers.

He doesn’t let up until you’re squirming away from the press of his mouth. Puffy and slick where you warm his fingers, your arousal already leaking down to the curve of your ass. Swollen with desire, and he swears he feels you clench one last time, when he slips them free.

Another kiss pressed against you, one that has you sighing. Wriggling out of the twist of your nightgown, hooking it around a finger until it pools on the floor below.

Still begging for him as he lifts himself up. Closing the space between you as he shifts forward, palms curving against your hips as he kneels between your thighs. Your eyes drunken with pleasure up close - soft and hazy, your smile coming easily.

His hips rock forward on their own in response, unable to help pressing himself against you. A sticky spot of need left behind, smeared against your skin.

Your fingers pinch against his forearms as you push yourself up to your elbows, eyes dipping down. He knows you can see what he can, as his own head tilts - the swipe of his cock against your folds.

How they part for him, when he teases you - slipping the fat head against your entrance. Knows you imagine it - you’ve told him what you think about when he’s away.

How it’s never enough. Never him. Watched you show him how you fit your fingers inside yourself, but you can never reach the places he can.

He sinks into your heat with a slow thrust. You’re heaven around him, tight and slick and familiar. Teeth clenched as you make room, until he’s buried flush inside you.

Can feel your pulse around his cock, when his eyes close. When he lets all his senses narrow down to the space you’re joined.

Could never last, if he stayed that way. Would get pulled over far too quickly with the way you clench needily around him, trying to coax him to move.

And it’s here, as you beg him for more, that he loses himself. Hands flattening against the mattress as he slips half-way out - the jolt it sends through you, when his hips snap forward.

The gasp it pushes from you, your eyes fluttering shut. A sharp pinch of nails again, but it’s welcome - a low grunt, as he drives home again.

Again, and again. Leaning into the snap of his hips. Your hand reaching, drawing him down to you - mouth tipping up to meet his.

A groan, when you taste yourself against his tongue. Letting his sweep against yours, until you’re panting against his lips. The angle deep, with the way he hovers over you.

His hands fisted in the sheets, now. Using them for leverage, the bed creaking as he ruts himself into you.

A growl slipping from his chest when your fingers start to drift. Knuckles brushing the whorls of dark hair across his chest. Following the trail that leads down, past his abdomen.

The tips ghosting against your clit, just a tease before he’s shifting - a hand curling around your wrist. Bringing it up, pinning it above your head.

“Don’t need it.” It comes out ragged, when it passes his lip.

“Just me, right?”

Logan can take care of you. Stoking the lot embers in your belly, coaxing them to a burning flame.

He needs this.

Needs to be the one to give it to you.

“Just you.” The reply comes automatically. Your other wrist offered as you give him the control he desires, lifted to press into the clutch of his grip.

It makes his own muscles tighten. A deep clench, his cock throbbing inside you. Fingers pinching as he sees the way you give yourself to him.

Face tipped up, bare and stretched out beneath him. The pretty jolt of your tits each time his hips snap forward, and it’s enough that he’s closing those last inches of space.

Fitting himself against you, as his nose buries against your neck. Your thigh hooked over his hip as you chase his mouth, until you’re sighing against his lips.

Knows you can come like this, squirming beneath him, as his hips tilt. As he strokes against the places his fingers know well, your lips parting with a cry.

“Come on, honey.” It’s murmured out. Mouthing at your jaw, the word rasped low in your ear, “One more and then I’ll give you what you want.”

His other hand drifting - elbow and knees taking the brunt of his weight. Down past your hip until his palm curves against your thigh, hiking your thigh up higher.

Opening you up further, when he bottoms out. His breath hot in your ear, panted out each time his heavy sack kisses against sticky skin.

Winding you up, higher and higher. Your body arching against his - toes curling, a heel pressing into the mattress for purchase.

“Oh fuck, keep going,” You beg, trying to meet him - unable to do anything more than take it when he has you pinned like this, “Please, I’m so close-”

“Know you are,” He answers with a rough sound - more growl than words. The flesh at your thigh denting with the press of his fingers, keeping you still so he can pound against the spot that has you seeing stars.

“‘ve got you. Come for me, sweetheart.”

The whine that leaves your lips pitches high, the rushed plea dissolving into needy sounds. Muscles stringing tight, head tipping back as your breath grows short.

His eyes fixed on your half-lidded ones, your lips parted in pleasure. Feeling the crest of your orgasm - the flex of your wrists in his hand, the grip of your thighs as they press against his hips.

It’s different, like this. The pulsing clench around his cock, the press of your body against his. The rush that surges through him at the way you come undone for him - always him - how he’s never been able to get enough.

He’s following soon after, with a snarl.

Unable to get a grip on his restraint. Usually can hold out, needing more.

Another. Another. Another.

Not finished until you’re boneless- pleasure-drunk - and only then does he give in to his own need.

But tonight he’s wrenched over with way you tighten around him. Tendons flexing as the steady saw of his hips grows sloppy.

A punch of metal through flesh, as he throbs - that tightly-wound tension snapping as he spills himself deep inside you with a ragged groan, thrusts going shallow as the tight clutch of your cunt milks him empty.

All those muted thoughts inside his head fading to white noise. Drowned out by the panting of his breath, the thrum of his heart.

The rutting of his hips slow, as he comes back to himself. Always losing control around you. That tight leash slipping between his fingers, piercing through. The pillow tucked under your head shredded, looking as if torn open by a beast.

“Shit.” Logan grunts - as he comes back to himself, flesh knitting together, “Sorry, sweetheart.”

A groan, as he leans back - only to find his grip on your wrists had loosened. That your fingers lace through his now, careful of the tender spots between his knuckles.

“I’ll get you another. I’m-“ He’s starting, but then you’re smiling.

“Good for it,” You finish for him, breathlessly - face tipping up to meet his, “I know.”

Still so soft and pliant. Legs still hooked around his waist as his lips press against yours - urging him to stay.

So, he does.

He still hasn’t moved.

Sometimes, it feels as if he’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Breath held as he braces for a blow that hasn’t yet come, each time the cracks lengthen in his walls. Letting sunlight seeping through.

So sure it’s waiting on the horizon for him, as it always had done. Has been, since that first night you spent together, all those weeks ago.

Finally allowing himself to exhale - for today, at least - in the darkened room.

Your nails drag against his shoulders, scratching at bare skin. A little furrow in your brow at the weary sound - unable to help the question that he’s sure has been on the tip of your tongue all night.

“Did something happen at work today?”

It’s met with silence, one minute bleeding into another.

You always seem to know. An innate sense, or far too observant - and if he wasn’t so sure you were human, he’d be think you were like him.

His breathing low and steady as the hours replay in his mind again, a warm exhale against your throat. Still caging you in beneath him, your leg still hooked around his calf.

You don’t push him. He knows what he’s like - that you’ve learned it’s easier to argue with one of the brick walls in your apartment, or to talk sense and logic with Wade, when he gets in one of his moods.

Only when the scratches of your fingers slow to a halt, does he answer.

Finds it comes easier, this late in the night. In this room - his tongue loosened like the rest of him.

“Didn’t go today.”

It’s accompanied by the shift of his hands. Grasping at your waist with a low hiss as he eases from you - your body carefully untangling, as if you’re expecting him to leave.

Logan doesn’t know if he has the strength to, tonight. Instead, he only sinks back against the mattress - his arm sweeping out, tugging you close as you tuck yourself against his chest.

Not knowing where to start, or if he evens wants to - his teeth still pinching at the inside of his cheek. Eyes drifting to the glimpse of the city outside your apartment window. The moonlight that cuts across the angle of his face, a path that you follow with the tip of a finger.

Supposes he could start at this morning.

“Wade’s been talking about X-Force again.” Logan’s fingers catch yours, flattening them against his chest. The words spoken to the ceiling, eyes still unseeing, “Keeps askin’ me to join him.”

You make a low sound at that.

“You don’t have to, Logan.” There’s a twitch of your hand beneath his, “I’m sure he means well, I can talk to him-”

There’s a bloom of affection in his chest, at how quickly you offer. Trying to protect him - as if you could put yourself between him and the ghosts of his past.

“That’s not what I’m getting at.” His eyes drag to you then, crinkling, “Thank you though, sweetheart. ‘s nice of you to offer.”

Unconsciously curling his arm a little more tightly around you when he sees the way you look at him - so fiercely, eyes unblinking. Before he goes somber, loosening his hold on something he’s held close to his chest for a long while now.

“Been thinking about it.” Logan confesses, quietly.

You’re silent, processing his words. The weight of your gaze settling over him.

He gets it - he’s felt the same. Hasn’t said it out loud before - no more than a non-committal sound, when Wade first brought it up.

“Think I liked being a part of something. Back in the void, it felt… good.”

He clears his throat, his gaze drifting from you again. The bob of his adam’s apple as he swallows, fingers twitching against yours.

Had forgotten what it was like. Had rebelled even then - brushing aside the planning until Laura had found him by the fire. Even then he had wanted to discard it. Even as it festered in the night.

But even after everything, he couldn’t let them go alone. Not when he could help, this time.

“So I went today. With him. He was headed up to the mansion, and I thought I could do it. Go in this time, but-”

The sentence hangs, half-finished.

It’s not the first time he’s gone back.

Went the week after he first started staying with Wade. Needed to see if it was still standing.

If the sky was still blue above, instead of being blocked out with ash.

His body had rebelled the whole drive. Had only gone back once in his world. That time no more than a blur and yet the memories had still crashed over him, threatening to pull him under.

Even with the reminder that this mansion wasn’t his rang in his ears, it hadn’t done any good. His mind was never one to truly forget. Spent two hundred years watching places, people change. Ones that once existed, ones that would never look the same - they all existed in him, somewhere.

And even after everything - even after those bouts of not knowing who he was - they still managed to survive, broken into bits and pieces. Tearing its way through his skin to be known.

So even if moss grew high, even as it sat there - overgrown - the memories flooded back.

His feet taking root, at the gate. Unable to make himself take another step further - held in place as if by a force he’d encountered before.

Fleeing, like a scared animal.

But he’d gone again.

And then again.

Drawn back - each time moving just a little bit closer.

Each time still a mile away.

Thought maybe he could do it this time, when he wasn’t alone. Pass over the threshold and inside.

Maybe they’d still be there.

But…

“I couldn’t.” He manages.

Logan knew they wouldn’t be. It had been another knife between his ribs, when he found out they were still gone. The Logan of this world with them, and maybe it was better that way.

He’s met a few that live inside, since. Those who still carried on didn’t bear the hatred that his world did. Didn’t know him like he knew himself.

Didn’t know what he did.

Had only told a few, and even they didn’t look at him the way he was used to - and he still wasn’t sure how he felt about that, either.

Ones like Wade - Wade who had noticed the way he stiffened at the steps to the Mansion.

Grown silent.

If it had been another day, Logan would’ve had something sharp and unpleasant to say about that. But there was a ringing in his ears. Tunnel vision, narrowing down to the old brick.

The dread hadn’t crashed over him this morning. Had been right - Wade’s presence had muted it. Made it bearable, until his eyes had lifted.

Reading the old placard affixed to the stone. The name - worn away, but he knew each letter, the shape of them, by heart.

But it had him giving into the feeling that he shouldn’t be there.

“Five minutes” he had been told. Didn’t know how Wade knew exactly how long five minutes had taken, but he had been back exactly as three-hundred counted seconds had passed.

The afternoon plans dropped - taking him along for a haphazard amount of errands. Laundromat. Grocery Store. Arcade. Discount Outlet. Logan forced to follow, until he’d been able to find himself again. Push down the memories, lock them away, as he always did.

Until it felt like it happened a week ago, instead of this morning. The endless chatter a balm, with its familiarity.

He tells you this now, slowly.

“Thought I was done running.” Logan sighs. A hand scrubbing a little too harshly across his face, pulled from yours, “Guess I was wrong.”

Your brow knits. The look you give him is soft, empty fingers curling.

A breath - as if you’re unsure how he will take what you’ve about to say.

But then it’s slipping from you.

“I don’t think you’re running.” It comes out quiet, but he can tell you believe what you’re telling him.

“It’s okay that you’re not ready. You know that, right? Not everything has to be all or nothing.”

Logan hums.

“Maybe,” You start, carefully. Another breath, and he lets his hand return to yours when you reach for it - resting across his chest.

“Maybe you keep going what you’re doing. Maybe you keep trying. Another step each time.”

There’s an age-old urge to rebel - to push your kindness away. To lean into the voices he’s brought over from his world.

But it’s hard to, with his heart thrumming beneath your palm.

“If you want me to, I’d-”

It drops off - but he’s certain he knows what you were going to say.

That you’d be there.

Go with him, be by his side - if that’s what he wanted.

He doesn’t know how to take it, your offer. Voice pitching low and gruff, as he twists his chest towards you.

The words coming slowly, and he finds he means them.

“Just knowing you’re waiting at home for me is enough.”

Home.

That’s what this place has become, hasn’t it? Wade’s apartment. Yours. This room, with his things tucked among them.

“I will.” You breathe, “Always.”

It’s a promise.

It’s one he thinks he might just believe.

His eyes flick down - and the dance begins once more, as leans into you. Done with words, for now.

The cracks deepen, as his hand slips up your bare shoulder. Cradling the back of your back, as your mouth meets his half-way.

Being the one to keep you close, this time.

Losing himself in you, once more.

Logan wonders sometimes what would have happened if Wade had pulled him into another world.

Would it have been enough, if they had been alive there?

But he might not have met you, there. Things might have not gone the same way, in the journey before. Another path taken, one where he had made it alone into the room with the Time Ripper.

Or worse, if he had been the only one to make it out.

Even those who worked outside of space and time had told him there was no going back.

He couldn’t fix what happened.

He could only move foward.

One step at a time.

Logan huffs, a breath of a laugh, as your own gradually slows. The second round and the late hour catching up to you, in the silence that’s gone soft, and the warmth of his embrace.

So many nights he thought about this. Certain he didn’t deserve it. Deserve you.

Always pulling away.

But tonight, your fingers lace through his. He’s tucked between your back and the wall of painted brick behind him, almost as if you’re protecting him.

Ears keen enough to pick up the faint clattering next door. A low murmur of voices, cadences he’s come to know well.

Maybe once, he can believe he’s safe.

Not everyone gets a second chance. He knows that now, and vows to grab onto it with both hands.

Sink his claws into it, if he has to.

And as his arm tucks around you like an anchor - he finally lets sleep take him.

if you've come back - thank you so much for reading. this series has meant so much to me, so it was very exciting when I was struck with inspiration for two more chapters of their story (exploring some ideas I hadn't yet been able to get to) 💖 I am planning to post another part next week, and this will be holiday-themed!

[littlelamy]

𝒶 𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝒾𝓂𝒶𝑔𝒾𝓃𝑒

author's note: mentions of reader saying she's going on a diet; s4rafe coded. wanted to take a break from posting about burlesque!reader so enjoy! i'm hoping to have one or two more fully edited of rafe and sarah before christmas but i am visiting my family sooo...

rafe’s knuckles went white around the fork as he stabbed at the eggs on his plate. the clink of metal against porcelain made your stomach twist, though you ignored it, focusing on the glass of water in front of you.

"what the hell did you just say?" he asked, his voice sharp enough to slice through the quiet morning.

you hesitated, fingers playing with the hem of your oversized sweatshirt. "i’m going on a diet. i just… i feel like i need to lose a few pounds."

his jaw clenched, the fork stilling midair as he turned his full attention to you. his blue eyes darkened, a mixture of disbelief and frustration clouding them. "are you fucking serious right now?"

"it’s not a big deal—"

"bullshit, it’s not a big deal," he snapped, the fork clattering onto the plate as he stood abruptly. "you think i’m just gonna sit here and let you starve yourself over some dumbass idea you have in your head? hell no."

your stomach tightened as his tone softened slightly but remained firm. "rafe, it’s my body—"

"it’s your body that i fucking love," he interrupted, his hands gripping the edge of the table as he leaned closer, blue eyes locking with yours. "you don’t need to lose anything, y/n. you’re fucking perfect."

before you could respond, he grabbed a plate and started piling it with food—eggs, toast, fruit, and even a slice of bacon. setting it down in front of you with a deliberate thud, he crossed his arms and glared.

"eat."

"rafe—"

"eat the damn food," he insisted, his voice dropping to something dangerously close to a plea. "don’t fucking do this to yourself. you’re perfect the way you are. fuck, y/n, i mean it."

you blinked back the sting in your eyes, his words cutting deeper than you expected.

"please," he added, his jaw clenching like the vulnerability was physically painful.

silently, you picked up the fork and took a bite, avoiding his intense gaze. his shoulders relaxed slightly as he sat back down.

but just as you swallowed, he was suddenly out of his chair again, crouching beside you. his hands gripped your waist, dragging you closer until you were perched on the edge of your chair.

"you know you’re fucking insane, right?" he muttered, his voice low but filled with that same sharp-edged frustration. his lips brushed over yours briefly—just a peck.

you barely had time to process it before he leaned back in, this time slower, pressing his lips against yours with more intent. your breath hitched as his hands tightened on your hips, pulling you closer until there was no space between you.

his tongue slid against yours, the kiss messy and heated, and when he pulled back just enough to catch his breath, a thin string of spit connected your lips.

"see?" he murmured, smirking as he swiped a thumb across your bottom lip. "that’s how much i fucking love you. don’t ever pull that diet bullshit on me again, alright?"

you nodded, dazed, your cheeks flushed as he leaned in to kiss you again.

"good," he muttered against your lips, his tone softening but still firm. "now finish your plate. we’re getting ice cream later."

taglist: @namelesslosers @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @starkeysprincess @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @sstargirln @rafedaddy01 @soldesole @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @aariahnaa @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog credits: @dollywons for the png!

[nanamineedstherapy]

Third Wheeling Your Own Marriage

F!Non-Sorceres Reader X Gojo Satoru X Nanami Kento

Summary: You should be overjoyed that Gojo Satoru & Nanami Kento are your husbands. But you feel your skin crawl as you become the third wheel in your own marriage.

Major Tags: Graphic Violence, SMUT—Minors DNI, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Polyamory, Founders and Executives, Gaming Industry, Canon-Divergence

Additional Tags: The Office-style Commentary, Crack Treated Seriously, Social Media Meltdown, Mendez Brothers Vibes, JJK Headcanons, Hurt Reader, Pregnancy Complications, Regretful Gojo and Nanami, Protective Yaga, Internet Sleuths, Domestic Chaos

Warnings: Emotional Abuse, Poly Relationship Drama, Unplanned Pregnancy, Medical Emergency, Canon-Typical Violence, Social Media Backlash, Emotional Distress, Slight Body Horror

A/N: Before you dive in, remember:

You iz kind. You iz smort. You iz a Bruce Wayne-level CEO who works harder than Gojo avoids accountability.

Your employees? Taken care of so well they’re bored—so bored that they are all unhinged.

You’re remote working this chapter because even god-tier CEOs deserve to peace out occasionally.

Alot of 4th wall breaking in this, but not fr.

This chapter was supposed to be a chill 5k words. Now it’s a 17k monster that eats vibes and spits out madness. Next chapter will probably be shorter. Probably.

Graphic John Wick-style violence & SMUT ahead. Not between the people you wanted (sorry not sorry), but it’s there. If you’re underage, go touch grass. Minors, DNI.

Square brackets are included if you wanna skip the smutty bits, but honestly, why would you?

Smut? Yes. Is it good? It’s only my second attempt, so please bear with me, mi lords and ladies.

Buckle up, ladies, because there’s only madness past the first flashback. Leave your brainz at the door, grab some snacks, and prepare to yell in the comments.

Previous Chapter 1: Home Is Just a Place You Leave (Tumblr/Ao3)

Previous Chapter 2: Collateral Void (Tumblr/Ao3)

Chapter 3 - Corporate Warfare: Protocol The Circus of Two

They thought they knew you—until the battlefield proved otherwise.

The day Gojo had had to kill Suguru, Gojo had run. The moment the deed was done—when Suguru’s body fell lifeless to the ground, his eyes still open in that final, silent understanding—something inside Gojo shattered. He didn’t think. He couldn’t. So after seeing his students off, his feet carried him to the only person who might understand the weight of what he’d done.

Nanami had been in Kyoto Tech at the time, finishing the mission log in the dim light of a conference room, when Gojo teleported outside. The door swung open without warning, Gojo’s figure a silhouette in the frame. He stood there, disheveled, his hair matted and sticking to his forehead. His blindfold was gone, revealing eyes that looked wrong—too bright, too sharp, and yet so utterly empty.

Nanami’s heart was racing, but he didn’t need to ask. The haunted look on Gojo’s face told him everything.

Gojo didn’t move at first, his shoulders trembling faintly as he stared at Nanami like he wasn’t sure if he was real. Then, without a word, he stepped inside, his footsteps slow, dragging like his legs could barely carry him. Nanami didn’t speak as Gojo stopped in front of him, his hands hanging at his sides, fingers twitching like he wanted to reach out but didn’t know how. The silence between them was thick, heavy with things unsaid.

Nanami caught it—the unspoken plea in Gojo’s eyes, the desperation he didn’t have the words for. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t an ask. It was something raw, something broken, and Nanami understood.

He got up and stepped forward, closing the space between them, and pressed his lips against Gojo’s.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t tender. It was teeth and tongue and the kind of desperate hunger that tasted like grief, like anger, like trying to drown something that couldn’t be killed. Gojo’s hands finally moved, clutching at Nanami’s shirt, fisting the fabric so tightly it wrinkled beneath his grip. Nanami pushed him back, their bodies colliding with the table, their kisses bruising and violent. Gojo bit at Nanami’s jaw, his neck, dragging his lips down like he was trying to consume him, to pull him into the void that was swallowing him whole.

Nanami let him. He let Gojo take what he needed, even as his own guilt gnawed at him from the inside. He kissed Gojo back just as hard, his hands gripping at Gojo’s hair, his shoulders, as though anchoring him would somehow keep him from breaking apart. They didn’t speak. There was no need for words—words would have made it real.

[The table groaned under the force of their weight as Gojo pulled Nanami forward, their lips never breaking apart, breaths harsh and uneven. Gojo’s hands roamed over Nanami’s chest, clawing at his shirt until the buttons popped, exposing the pale, toned skin beneath. Nanami tilted his head back slightly, a ragged exhale escaping as Gojo’s mouth latched onto the curve of his collarbone, biting hard enough to draw blood—almost. Neither of them were a fan of giving up control, so the fight for dominance was inevitable.

And Nanami had never been passive. He pushed back with equal force, his hands sliding under Gojo’s shirt—sliding it off along with the rest of his clothes, nails raking against his skin. Gojo hissed, his body arching into the touch, but Nanami didn’t let up. He gripped Gojo’s hips, slamming him back against the conference table. The sound echoed through the dimly lit room, but neither of them flinched.

Nanami’s hands moved, pinning Gojo’s wrists above his head as his mouth descended again. Lips trailed down Gojo’s throat, brushing over the rapid pulse there. His teeth scraped lightly before biting down, leaving Gojo gasping, his head tipping back against the polished wood. Nanami’s tongue followed, soothing the sting, as though the pain and comfort were two halves of the same need.

Gojo’s hands twisted above his head, his defiance crumbling under the weight of Nanami’s control. Neither of them had ever been inclined to give up control, but Gojo needed this—needed someone else to take the reins, to silence the screaming guilt and grief that echoed inside him. And Nanami, for all his quiet guilt and simmering self-loathing, would give Gojo anything. His strength, his control, his very life, if it meant giving Gojo a moment of peace.

Every kiss, every bite, every desperate movement between them was laced with the raw edge of grief they couldn’t articulate. Gojo’s hands finally broke free, tangling in Nanami’s hair and pulling hard enough to make him hiss.

Nanami then grabbed Gojo’s thighs, hoisting him higher against the edge of the table with a strength that left Gojo momentarily stunned. Nanami’s lips crashed into his again, cutting off any retort, teeth nipping at Gojo’s bottom lip before sucking it into his mouth. Gojo groaned, his fingers tightening further in Nanami’s hair as Nanami’s hands dug into his thighs, keeping him pinned in place.

The fight for dominance was relentless, neither man willing to yield. Gojo clawed at Nanami’s shirtless back, leaving red welts in his wake, but Nanami didn’t falter. His weight shifted, one hand sliding up to grip Gojo’s jaw, forcing their gazes to lock. The intensity crackled like a live wire between them.

“Enough,” Nanami growled, his voice low but commanding. He didn’t wait for Gojo’s reaction. His next kiss was slower, deeper, taking control with a deliberate intensity that left Gojo breathless. The resistance in Gojo’s body faltered, his defiance softening as Nanami’s hands roamed lower, grounding him in the moment.

Nanami didn’t rush. His fingers traced the lines of Gojo’s chest, his touch firm but reverent, as though mapping every scar, every curve, every part of him that told a story. Gojo arched into the touch, his breath coming in sharp bursts as Nanami’s lips followed the path of his hands, marking him with bites and kisses.

Gojo gasped sharply as Nanami’s teeth grazed over the line of his Adonis belt, his back arching off the table. The tension in his body trembled, the lines between anger, desperation, and grief blurring into something visceral. Nanami’s eyes flicked up, meeting his gaze—dark and intent, grounding Gojo in the present even as his own thoughts warred with the past.

Nanami trailed his lips lower, marking every inch of Gojo’s exposed skin, while his hands traced a slow path down Gojo’s thighs. The sensation was maddening, Gojo’s chest heaving as he bit down on his bottom lip to stifle a groan. The restraint only made Nanami’s expression shift—something raw and predatory flashing in his eyes as he gripped Gojo’s waist, holding him steady.

“Let go,” Nanami murmured, his voice low and steady, almost scolding. His fingers wrapped around Gojo’s cock, stroking him with a maddening gentleness that made Gojo’s breath catch. Gojo shot him a glare, but it lacked its usual sharpness, replaced by a haze of frustration and need.

Nanami let go of his cock and dipped his fingers lower, wet with Gojo’s slick precum, trailing a path to his entrance. He circled the rim with deliberate ease, watching the way Gojo’s body tensed and tried to flinch away, only to be held firm by Nanami’s other arm pressing against his stomach. Gojo’s breathing turned heavier, his half-lidded gaze locking onto Nanami’s with something akin to defiance.

When Nanami finally pushed one finger inside, Gojo’s head fell back, a sharp gasp escaping his lips. The stretch was barely there, but the intimacy of it—the vulnerability—made his chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with the physical.

It was Nanami’s silence that struck him the hardest. The way he didn’t speak, didn’t fill the air with meaningless words, but instead focused on Gojo with a devotion so absolute it made his heart twist. Gojo closed his eyes, the memories of Suguru flashing unbidden. The look in his best friend’s eyes before he’d—

He couldn’t think about it. Not now.

Not with his husband. Not with Nanami. He didn’t deserve that.

Soon Nanami dipped another finger inside, drawing a loud groan from Gojo that echoed in the quiet room. Gojo’s hand shot up, grabbing Nanami’s collar and yanking him down, his lips crashing against Nanami’s in a bruising kiss. It wasn’t about dominance anymore—it was about escape. Gojo bit at Nanami’s lip, his nails dragging against his back as though trying to claw away the weight pressing down on his chest. Nanami dipped a third finger in.

Gojo squirmed, trying to crawl away from the overwhelming sensations building inside him, but Nanami wouldn’t let him run. He kept his arm firmly pressed over Gojo’s stomach, pinning him in place even as his fingers worked him open. The stretch was relentless, the deliberate pace leaving Gojo trembling, his body betraying him with every shiver of pleasure.

“Dammit, Kento,” Gojo hissed, his voice cracking as his head tipped back against the table. His pride was in tatters, but his need was stronger. “Please—” The word slipped out, not mocking like he intended but a whimper, and Gojo hated how much it revealed.

Nanami’s gaze darkened like he’d tasted a new kind of meat, his lips curling into something feral as he withdrew his fingers, leaving Gojo gasping at the sudden emptiness. He didn’t speak—he didn’t need to. He pressed the head of his cock against Gojo’s entrance, his hands gripping Gojo’s waist as he slowly pushed in.

Gojo’s breath hitched, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. The stretch burned, his body trembling as Nanami coaxed him through it with words—Gojo was too dazed to understand—with a touch so steady it made Gojo’s chest ache. His hands clawed at Nanami’s shoulders, pulling him closer until he was forcefully all the way in Gojo’s soul, his lips seeking Nanami’s in a desperate kiss, or was it his desperate need to connect with someone who’d understand?

A single tear came unbidden, hot and stinging, as Gojo clung to him. The memories of Suguru—of his smile, his voice, the way he’d always understood him without any explanations—flooded back, drowning Gojo in a wave of grief that threatened to choke him. “I didn’t want to do it. Why’d I have to do it, Kento,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, broken. Gojo wasn’t asking.

Nanami stilled, his forehead pressing against Gojo’s, his breath mingling with Gojo’s shallow gasps. He wiped away the single tear with his thumb, his touch gentle, reverent. “I know,” he murmured, his voice low and steady, a quiet absolution that Gojo didn’t think he deserved.

When Nanami began to move, it was slow, deliberate, every thrust measured to draw out the tension in Gojo’s body. Gojo gasped, his head tipping back as his legs wrapped tighter around Nanami’s waist. The pleasure was overwhelming, crashing over him in waves that blurred the line between pain and relief.

Nanami’s grip moved back onto Gojo’s waist, tightening, his movements becoming more deliberate, more focused. Gojo’s sobs turned into broken groans, his body trembling as Nanami pushed him past the edge, leaving him gasping and undone. But Nanami didn’t stop. He held Gojo together, anchoring him with every movement, every touch, every unspoken word.

Nanami moved with purpose, his thrusts deliberate and hard, his control unwavering. Gojo’s gasps turned into whines, his body trembling with the force of the pleasure building inside him. Nanami’s grip on his hips tightened, keeping him pinned as he pushed Gojo past the edge multiple times that night.

When Gojo finally shattered for what felt like the nth time that night, his mind became a static blur, reminiscent of an old TV, while his overstimulated body arched off the table. A choked cry escaped him as his hands clawed desperately at Nanami’s back. Moments later, Nanami followed suit, his control slipping away as he buried himself deep, pressing his forehead against Gojo’s.

They stayed tangled together, their breaths mingling in the heavy quiet. Gojo’s fingers traced idle patterns over Nanami’s back, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. Nanami’s arms wrapped tightly around him, his grip firm but steady, as though anchoring them both to something solid amidst the storm of their shared grief.

Neither of them spoke. The silence was deafening, filled with the weight of everything they couldn’t say. But for now, it was enough. ]

The cycle started that day.

Every time the silence grew too loud, every time the weight of what Gojo had done—what they had done—threatened to pull them under, they turned to each other. Which was almost every night. Their bodies collided in the dark, sometimes tangled in sheets that smelled faintly of you. Gojo whispered things Nanami didn’t understand, half-formed words lost between gasps and bitten-off groans. Nanami gripped Gojo’s waist, leaving marks that bloomed like bruises, as if hurting him could stop the ache in his own chest.

But no matter how many times they fucked, no matter how many times Gojo’s hands shook as he held Nanami’s face, whispering pleas like a prayer, it didn’t change anything. It didn’t bring Suguru back. It didn’t make Gojo whole. And it didn’t stop Nanami from feeling like a thief—like he had stolen Gojo from someone who should have mattered more.

It was as if they were locked in a silent agreement. Thus was their wretched loop of avoidance sex, a desperate attempt to connect while simultaneously avoiding the deeper issues that lay beneath the surface. Neither of them wanted to acknowledge Gojo’s depression stemming from killing Suguru, nor did they want to confront Nanami’s guilt for taking Gojo away from the dead man, a guilt that festered quietly in the background.

This unspoken tension ultimately led to the situation they found themselves in today. The woman they had both cared for was left out in the cold, cast aside as they spiraled deeper into their own emotional turmoil. In their minds, they had decided she wouldn’t understand—after all, she didn’t know Suguru, nor did she know the truth about Gojo’s actions that day. They feared that if she found out, she’d leave them; she wasn’t a sorceress and would think that their bond was built on betrayal rather than the complex web of grief and guilt that had ensnared them both. So, they kept her at arm's length, convinced that their silence was a form of protection, when in reality, it only deepened the chasm between them.

Now, Gojo paced the apartment like a caged animal, his sunglasses discarded, his eyes wild and frantic, his hair falling out of place. Every inch of the apartment had been turned over, every piece of furniture moved. The emptiness of it was suffocating.

“She didn’t just vanish,” Gojo muttered, pacing the kitchen with the kind of manic energy that only he could produce. His hands slammed down on the counter, sending a ripple through the glass of water he’d left there hours ago. “She’s somewhere, Kento.”

Nanami stood by the window, his back turned, his eyes locked on the skyline of the city. He looked tired, his tie loose around his neck, his posture broken in a way Gojo hadn’t seen before. “She left because of us,” Nanami said, his voice almost hollow, like the weight of the words had crushed him from the inside out.

Gojo stopped pacing, spinning to face him, the anger burning in his chest like a fire. “So what? We just let her go?!”

Nanami’s jaw clenched. He took a slow breath, as if fighting against the storm in his own chest. “No,” he said, his voice sharp, a crack of desperation. “We don’t just let her go.”

It was a quiet acknowledgment of everything they had broken, but neither of them knew how to fix it. Gojo’s frantic search was a result of the chaos inside him—he couldn’t sit still, couldn’t bear the silence of their shared space without her. Nanami, in contrast, withdrew, still retreating into himself as the guilt gnawed at him, the sense that he had lost something he couldn’t ever get back.

Gojo threw himself into the search, combing every bar, every café, and every corner of Tokyo. Nanami’s focus turned inward, poring over old texts, receipts, anything that could give them a hint of where she might be. Days turned into weeks.

“She’s too smart. She doesn’t want to be found,” Nanami admitted one night, rolling the whiskey glass on his forehead for its cold, staring at the fire. His voice was thick with guilt and self-loathing. His words hung heavy in the air, like the weight of an irreversible decision.

“I don’t care,” Gojo snapped, throwing his glass into the fire, making it explode as the alcohol burned. The desperation leaked through. “We owe her that much.”

The next day, with his arms out of his coat sleeves, as it billowed behind him like a cape, Gojo stormed through the glass doors of your office building in Shibuya, Japan—you no longer operated from, but they didn’t know that—with Nanami, whose presence was no less menacing. The hum of low conversations died instantly. The receptionists froze at the sight of them, barreling in like a hurricane. Nanami opted for dark blue, while Gojo wore black formal attire, both pairing their outfits with white shirts to blend in.

“We’re here to see her,” Gojo declared, his voice booming across the expansive space. His crystalline eyes, unshielded and glinting dangerously. His smile, sharp and humorless, made the newly hired receptionist visibly flinch.

The young man behind the desk stammered, his hands trembling as he tried to maintain professionalism. “S-sorry, sir. Who exactly are you looking for?”

Gojo leaned down, planting both hands on the counter. His height, broad shoulders, and intensity loomed over the receptionist like a storm cloud. “Your CEO,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “We’re here for her. Where is she?”

Before the poor receptionist could crumble entirely, Nanami stepped in. His tone calm, polite even, but carrying a razor-sharp edge. “The founder of this company,” he clarified. “You know exactly who we’re talking about. We need to see her. Now.”

The receptionist swallowed hard. “Sirs, please allow me to check. Till then, please have a seat, and we’ll send someone over with desserts.”

Nanami sighed, but it wasn’t of relief but of poorly suppressed anger. “We’re not here for dessert.”

Gojo turned to him, eyes wide with fake betrayal. “Nanamin, I’m trying to mourn our wife running away, and you want me to not have dessert at her company?” He was indirectly taunting the receptionist who had gotten the response to his question on the Slack channel as he eyed the computer screen conspicuously.

A voice from the crowd mutters, “He’s married?”

Another voice whispers back, “To our CEO. Both of them.”

The first voice gasps. “No wonder she ran away.”

Your poly marriage was not public information given your private nature; only the employees who’d been around for a while knew.

Glancing over his shoulder as if praying for backup, the receptionist stuttered. “S-sirs, I… I don’t have the clearance to schedule a meeting with the founder. You’ll need to leave—”

Gojo straightened, laughing sharply. “That’s adorable,” he sneered. “She’s not answering my calls. She hasn’t answered for weeks. I’m not an idiot—someone in this office knows where she is.”

The receptionist’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. Before he could muster a response, Gojo shoved his phone back in his pocket and turned on his heel, stalking towards the elevators. “Fine. I’ll find her damn office myself.”

“Gojo,” Nanami barked, making Gojo freeze mid-step, his smile sharpening into something more feral.

“Don’t make a scene,” Nanami said, his tone carrying the weight of an order. “She won’t like it.”

“A scene?” Gojo turned back, his smile widening in mock offense. “Me? Never.”

Before the tension could escalate further, the sharp sound of heels clicking against marble echoed through the lobby. The employees instinctively parted, revealing the Chief Human Resource Officer (CHRO). Tall, poised, and impeccably suited, she approached with an air of authority that demanded respect.

“Gentlemen,” she said, gaze flicking between them with thinly veiled disdain. “You’re causing a disruption.”

Gojo turned to her with his signature you-will-give-me-whatever-I-want smirk, though desperation simmered beneath the surface. “Perfect timing. Maybe you can help us. We’re looking for your CEO. She’s my—”

“I’m aware of who she is to you,” the CHRO cut in sharply, her voice laced. “And I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss her whereabouts.”

Nanami stepped forward, his calm exterior cracking slightly. “She hasn’t responded to our calls. She could be in danger—”

“Your phantom concerns are your problem, not ours,” the CHRO interrupted, her tone scathing. “Your personal issues have no place here. She has made it very clear that she does not want to be contacted by either of you.”

Gojo faltered, his fists curling at his sides. ��She wouldn’t say that. Not about us.”

“She did. Explicitly. And I have it documented.” The CHRO’s tone was measured but unyielding, her gaze sharp. “Do you really think her treatment went unnoticed? That no one here saw what was happening? She may not have voiced it, but anyone who worked with her could see the signs. Employees observed your social media overflowing with pictures of you and your husband for months, while her accounts went silent.

"Do you have any idea how damaging that is to the reputation of a CEO of her stature? She’s not just another executive—she’s the head of a global gaming powerhouse, a company on par with Nvidia in scale and influence. Meanwhile, you two are private individuals with no significant public following. Thankfully, her low profile on social media prevented this from spiraling into a major PR crisis. Otherwise, the company’s image could’ve suffered irreparably.

"And let me remind you—I cautioned her against this marriage. I warned her about the potential risks. I take no pride, but unfortunately, it’s clear now that I was right.”

Her words carried the weight of her authority, cutting through any defense they might have offered. Gojo’s jaw tightened, and Nanami stood motionless, his expression unreadable but his posture rigid.

Around them, murmurs began to spread. Employees exchanged knowing looks, their disapproval evident in the sharp, critical glances they directed toward the pair.

It seemed they were the only ones who didn’t notice anything until it was too late.

The DM HR whispered, “I knew those two were bad news; who the fuck is naturally blond and platinum blond in Japan?!”

The senior executive who knew too much whispered back, "Right!!… I always kinda knew something was off. She’d come in wearing sunglasses, looking like she hadn’t slept. Meanwhile, the blonde one’s voice notes were so passive-aggressive I got secondhand anxiety. It’s giving ‘marriage is a scam.’"

The junior game tester joined in, "I don’t know what they did, but I do know this: if you marry someone who wears a suit every day and doesn’t look at memes while the other one only looks at memes, it’s over for you. Trust me."

The art director sighed, "She’s in some other country sipping a margarita while these two out here embarrassing themselves. Goals, honestly."

The barista chimed in as well, "Okay, so we’re all pretending not to simp for the blond one, right? Cool. Cool. But also... is he single now? Asking for research purposes."

There was a collective groan of, “No, Linda, they are both red flags!”

“It’s not what you think,” Gojo started, his voice dangerously low.

“Isn’t it?” The CHRO’s crimson lips curled faintly. “I will not assist you in locating her. Nor will anyone else in this building.” With a swift motion, she turned on her heel, her voice carrying as she continued walking. “I am running late for a meeting. Kindly ensure they are escorted out.”

Nanami exhaled sharply as she left the building, getting in her car, leaving an unsettling silence in her wake. He closed his eyes for a brief moment. Gojo’s shoulders tensed, his six eyes snapping toward one of your old assistants.

“Mr. Gojo, Mr. Nanami,” the assistant said, approaching them with a clipped, professional demeanor—tall, wiry, and clearly regretting his life choices, his jaw tight with tension. “You’ve already been told that Madam does not wish to be contacted. Please leave before this becomes… unpleasant.”

Nanami exhaled sharply, lowering his head momentarily before meeting Gojo’s gaze. “Satoru. Time to go feral.”

Gojo grinned wide like a mad dog just unleashed to spread his rabies further, like a predator released from its cage with a single command, his eyes burning with excitement. He cracked his knuckles, his energy palpable. His voice was calm but laced with a chilling menace. “Oh, we’re well beyond unpleasant.”

Without another word, he moved with blinding speed, a blur that left the assistant frozen in shock. In an instant, Gojo was on him, seizing the assistant by the lapels and slamming him against the nearest wall. The impact echoed through the building, rattling the artwork and leaving a spiderweb crack in the marble.

The memory of last night’s meticulous planning surfaced in Nanami’s mind. They’d known this wouldn’t be a simple task. Your company wasn’t just a tech giant—it was a fortress, a gaming empire rivaling the likes of Amazon and Apple combined. Its headquarters was an impenetrable monolith, a testament to the power and influence you wielded. But the real challenge wasn’t the walls or the tech—it was the people.

The staff here were loyal to a fault, not just because of contracts or NDAs, but because you were a CEO unlike any other. Benevolent, visionary, and fiercely protective of your employees, you had built a culture of unwavering trust and admiration. The perks alone were legendary: comprehensive health coverage that extended to employees’ families, generous vacation policies, and an unheard-of pension plan that not only matched inflation rates but exceeded them. Even retirees were treated like royalty, their benefits growing year after year. You had created an environment where people didn’t just work; they thrived. No wonder they’d fight tooth and nail to protect you.

Nanami had pointed this out last night. “They’ll never betray her. Not willingly. We’ll have to be... persuasive. And tech companies also keep task forces on a leash. We’ll need to be prepared for more than just resistance.”

Gojo had smirked then, the same smirk he wore now. “Persuasion’s my specialty.”

“Where is she?” Gojo was currently growling, crouching down and pulling the assistant’s collar tight, his crystalline eyes glinting with something unhinged.

“I’m not telling you anything,” the assistant spat, trying to maintain a semblance of dignity. It lasted all of two seconds before Gojo’s fist connected with his jaw, sending him sprawling onto the floor with a strangled cough.

“Should… should we call someone?” A voice whispered behind the reception desk.

“What do you think I’m doing?! I’m hiding!” A voice whisper-yelled back.

Across the room, a lead sound designer—stocky, sweat beading on his forehead—had been inching toward the emergency security button. Nanami calmly appeared behind him, like he was Dumbledore and the lead sound designer was Harry Potter putting his name in the Goblet of Fire. His hand shot out, grabbing the man’s wrist before it could reach the button. The lead sound designer yelped as Nanami twisted his arm behind his back, his voice low and terrifyingly calm.

“I wouldn’t,” Nanami murmured, bending low to speak in his ear, his tone smooth, almost polite. “You won’t like where this ends.”

The lead sound designer struggled, his free hand flailing as Nanami yanked him forward and sent him crashing face-first into a coffee table. Sending papers exploding into the air like confetti.

“Holy shit,” a gameplay engineer whispered from under a coffee table. “Did he just suplex Salaryman Kenjiro Tsuda?”

“Kenjiro Tsuda’s dead. He’s gone. He’s not getting back up.” A UI/UX designer shot back, whimpering behind the couch nearby.

“I just wanted to finish my latte...” Their project manager nearly cried behind the large vase.

“You’re wasting our time,” Nanami said coldly, adjusting his coat as though nothing had happened.

Gojo then moved again with his inhuman speed and dragged the your assistant toward the center of the room, tossing him into a coffee table like a rag doll.

“You still haven’t answered his question. Tell us what you know, or we’ll continue this conversation elsewhere you won’t like,” Nanami said, his voice calm but cold as he stepped over the downed lead sound designer and turned back to the assistant. The man was crumpled, his face pale as he clutched his ribs.

“Talk,” Gojo snarled, his foot pressing down on the man’s chest.

“She’s gone,” he gasped finally, his voice shaking. “She left the country. She’s never coming back. I swear, that’s all I know.”

“Never coming back?” he repeated softly, almost to himself. “You’re lying,” Gojo said, his grin widening into something almost feral. He reached down, grabbing the man by the collar again, ready to strike.

“No! I swear! She said she’ll never come back, and she doesn’t even hold video calls for daily sprints anymore, so we have no idea where she is. Last I talked to her, she was feeling cold, but it’s December; every place is cold.” The assistant garbled out, not risking getting his face destroyed further.

The admission landed like a death knell. Gojo’s smirk faltered, Nanami’s expression darkening.

The employees who hadn’t fled watched from behind ferns and corners, their faces pale with a mixture of fear and morbid fascination. A public relations manager whispered to another, “This is like that time in marketing when Cathy somehow exploded the printer, but… worse.”

“Way worse,” the marketing director whispered back.

The sharp clang of boots against marble rang out like a countdown, each step reverberating through the tension-filled lobby. The security guards fanned out, their polished batons glinting as they moved to encircle the two men.

Gojo stood in the center of it all, a smile curling his lips—a sharp, dangerous thing that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not leaving until someone tells me where she is,” he said, his voice low, almost guttural, a barely contained growl.

The guards exchanged uneasy glances, their hesitation palpable. But their leader, a gruff man with a scar bisecting his forehead, barked, “Take them down!”

Nanami winked at Gojo, “Remember, they’re just the warm-up.” Making him momentarily stunned but regaining his composure quickly, Gojo moved first, a blur of motion that defied logic. The first guard swung his baton, aiming for his ribs, but Gojo sidestepped effortlessly, his body twisting like liquid. His knee shot up, driving into the guard’s gut with a loud thud. The man folded, wheezing, and Gojo didn’t miss a beat—he grabbed the guard by the collar and flung him into another like bowling pins.

“Did he just yeet Security Steve?” a junior designer whispered from behind a potted plant.

“Steve’s out,” murmured another, sipping a coffee she’d swiped from the break room. “We’re down to eleven if the others don’t come soon.”

Nanami moved with cold eyes. A guard lunged at him, baton raised, but Nanami caught his wrist mid-swing. His grip tightened, the muscles in his forearm flexing as he twisted sharply. The guard yelped, his baton clattering to the floor, and Nanami didn’t hesitate. He pulled the man forward, slamming his elbow into the guard’s jaw with a brutal accuracy that left the man crumpled.

“Jesus Christ, did he just disarm a guy with his bare hands?” a lead artist whispered from behind a pillar.

“He did the 12-to-6 elbow; that move is banned in MMA for a reason. That’s not disarming; that’s un-aliving,” came the shaky reply by a lead writer.

More guards poured in, the clash of bodies and batons filling the air. Gojo’s movements remained fluid, playful, but his grin twisted darker. He ducked under a swing, countering with a quick jab to the guard’s armpit, his knuckles connecting with a force that echoed like a gunshot.

“God, why is he so hot?” a QA automation engineer whispered from behind a pillar.

“He’s literally committing felonies right now, Karen.” Her trainer reprimanded, hiding behind her.

“You are not being very inclusive right now,” Karen shot back.

Nanami was fighting like a machine, his strikes calculated and devastating. Another guard came at him, swinging wildly, but Nanami sidestepped, his body language calm, bored. He caught the man’s shoulder, driving his knee into the guard’s sternum with a force that left him gasping.

“He’s like… Scandinavian Batman,” an AI programmer whispered reverently from behind the aquarium.

“Except, you know, without the no-kill rule,” came the dry reply from a senior gameplay engineer, beneath the coffee table next to the aquarium.

“Hey! Note that down! We’ll use it for the Viking action-adventure game we need to pitch next week. Fuckers at Rockstar can suck it!!” A game director yelled at her junior character designer from behind a cactus.

The atmosphere shifted abruptly when the Special Response Team arrived. 

“Is that the SWAT team?” a social media manager hissed, peeking out from behind a fern.

“Girl, that’s not SWAT. That’s Jason Bourne’s cousins.” The office manager retorted, adjusting her glasses to get a better look.

 The exhausted HR assistant sighed, "I told my manager we should’ve installed metal detectors at the entrance. Now look—half the lobby is wrecked, the marble’s cracked, and we’re out of espresso pods. This is literally the apocalypse."

These weren’t the standard-issue security guards with clipboards and walkie-talkies. No, these were professionals—ex-military operatives handpicked for their ability to handle high-stakes breaches and hostile intrusions. Clad in sleek tactical gear that screamed government contractor, they moved with precision, their boots hitting the marble floor in perfect synchrony. Each carried state-of-the-art equipment, from compact but lethal rifles to augmented-reality visors that displayed a live feed of the situation.

Tech companies don’t just build empires—they defend them like kingdoms. These teams are the unsung sentinels of corporate fortresses, trained to neutralize everything from industrial spies to unhinged fanatics who believe their favorite game updates were divine messages.

The lead operative raised a gloved fist, halting the team’s synchronized march. Without a word, they fanned out, forming a perimeter around Gojo and Nanami. The room filled with the muted hum of high-tech visors scanning every inch of the space.

“They’ve got earpieces and custom boots, so hunky!” a compliance officer whispered from behind a couch.

“They’re like the Navy SEALs of HR.” A graphics programmer whispered back.

“Finally,” Gojo muttered, rolling his shoulders as though shaking off the boredom of waiting. “Took you long enough. I was starting to think you guys got lost in the parking lot.” In truth, it had been barely eleven minutes since the CHRO had walked off.

The operatives ignored the jab. Their leader barked a command, and in perfect unison, weapons were raised, laser sights painting the room in jagged streaks of red.

Nanami sighed, adjusting his tie. “You could at least pretend to take this seriously.”

Gojo tilted his head, mock offended. “I am serious. Look at me.” He gestured at his perfectly tailored coat. “I dressed for the occasion.”

Nanami’s eyes flicked to the nearest fire alarm. With a flick of his wrist, he sent his sleek metal pen—one of those metal executive ones—straight into the fire alarm. The glass shattered, and a shrill, ear-piercing alarm filled the room. Water cascaded over the operatives, drenching their tactical gear. They hesitated—just for a second—but it was enough.

“Really?” Gojo smirked. “You couldn’t just use a smoke bomb?”

Nanami remained unbothered. “Subtlety isn’t your style, and I wasn’t about to bring explosives into her building.”

Then, without another word, they quickly but smoothly shrugged off their coats. Nanami folded his neatly before setting it on a chair, while Gojo chucked his haphazardly onto the floor. Rolling up their shirt sleeves with a synchronized efficiency, Nanami tugged his tie free, wrapping it around his right palm. He spared a glance at the advancing operatives. “Remember, we planned for this.”

“Oh, I remember.” Gojo’s voice was low, dangerous, and filled with anticipation. He cracked his neck as he finished rolling his sleeves.

The operatives regrouped, their leader barking, “Engage! Fire at will!”

But it was already too late.

Nanami was on the first operative before the man could steady his aim. He caught the barrel of the Glock 19 mid-raise, twisting it free and disarming him in one fluid motion. The weapon clattered to the floor as Nanami’s elbow connected with the man’s temple, dropping him like a stone.

Gojo, meanwhile, launched himself at six operatives with reckless glee. His movements were a chaotic masterpiece—dodging, weaving, and landing bone-shattering blows. A Sig Sauer P320 was aimed at him, but he ducked beneath it with an almost lazy smirk, countering with a spinning kick that sent the shooter flying.

An operative tried to flank him, but Gojo grabbed the man’s wrist mid-swing, twisting it until the Beretta 92FS fell from his grip. “Nice try,” he quipped, slamming the man into a nearby coffee table with enough force to shatter.

“He fights like he’s straight out of The Matrix,” an IT support specialist whispered, her voice barely audible over the fight.

An overworked developer muttered from behind a snack bar, “You know what? If my ex showed up here demanding answers, I’d just fake my death. But hey, I guess being a genius CEO means you attract unhinged hot guys who can fight security guards like it’s Mortal Kombat.”

Gojo turned back to Nanami as he ducked another swing. “You know, this is way more fun than that yappy meeting with the higher-ups we skipped.”

Nanami calmly dropped another operative with a swift kick to the tailbone. “You might be right.”

“Always,” Gojo dodged a tackle and sent his assailant flying into a wall with a perfectly executed throw.

The air grew oppressive, tension thick enough to choke on, as the lobby’s glass shattered. A hulking armored vehicle—more tank than truck—rolled in with a deafening crunch of marble beneath its tires. The metallic clink of magazines being loaded and safeties clicking off filled the space, a sound that froze even the bravest in place. Men and women in full tactical gear poured out in synchronized formation, their movements efficient, rehearsed, and mercilessly precise. Their advanced tactical vests gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights, patches marking them as the Advanced High-Risk Operations Team—a group designed to handle threats so extreme most civilians wouldn’t survive the first couple minutes of their engagement.

These weren’t just ex-military like the Special Response Team. They were former elite military operatives—snipers, demolitions experts, and tactical leaders. Their specialty? Taking down impossible threats, the kind most people didn’t even know existed. They were armed to the teeth with machine guns, shotguns, and gear straight out of a warzone. They moved like a single, deadly organism, each step to dominate and overwhelm.

Nanami had expected a special response team—maybe a few ex-SWAT officers at most. What he hadn’t expected was this: a team that looked like it had just walked off the set of Sicario. The sheer audacity of it. Gojo tilted his head, an almost childlike curiosity flickering in his eyes as he watched the team fan out across the lobby.

The air thickened with a tension so sharp it felt like it could slice through steel. The Advanced High-Risk Operations Team advanced, their tactical gear gleaming under the cold, artificial lights. Each step they took was deliberate, their augmented-reality visors casting an eerie glow as they moved. This wasn’t just about security anymore; this was war.

Gojo tilted his head, his grin stretching wide enough to reveal the kind of madness that sent lesser men running. “She really went all out, huh? Gotta say, it’s... kinda hot.”

“Focus,” Nanami snapped, his voice steady but laced with something darker, his tie already off and wrapped tightly around his hand like a makeshift gauntlet. His eyes followed the operatives’ every move, tracking patterns and deducing weaknesses. “They have machine guns. Don’t underestimate them.”

“Who’s underestimating?” Gojo rolled his shoulders, his smirk turning razor-sharp. “I’m appreciating. Big difference.” He didn’t seem to care, given he had the biggest cheat code in this gaming company’s building—the infinity.

The operatives spread out, their leader’s hand slicing through the air in a silent command. Rifles raised, safeties off, they moved like predators circling prey.

Gojo leaned closer to Nanami, his voice low, almost conspiratorial. “You think they know we’re not exactly, y’know, normal?”

Nanami didn’t answer immediately, his focus unwavering. But a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “They’ll figure it out soon enough.”

This wasn’t a challenge they had to face. It was one they wanted.

Gojo’s grin was practically splitting his face in half now. The Cheshire Cat would be scared of him, all teeth and no warmth, none. “It’s practically foreplay,” he quipped, already cracking his neck like a boxer about to step into the ring.

Somewhere far away, you joined on a call with your COO, grim-faced, as the tactical team’s live feed streamed across the screen. You had one hand on your heavily pregnant stomach and the other clutching a headset, voice calm but commanding.

“Operative 3, move left. Do not engage head-on. Divide their attention. Nanami will neutralize you with precision if you get too close, and Gojo—” you hesitated, lips pressing into a thin line. “Gojo thrives on chaos. Starve him of it.”

Your COO watched her in stunned silence. “How do you know all this?”

“Because I’ve spent years listening to them yap about how they’d fight their enemies,” you replied, gaze never leaving the screen. “Now, we’re the enemies.”

The operatives adjusted their strategy in real time, your voice their guiding force.

The first shot rang out, a deafening crack that sent shards of marble skittering across the floor. The employees—already huddled behind desks and furniture—ducked lower, their whispered commentary drifting through.

From behind the coffee station, a QA tester whispered, voice muffled, “Are those… machine guns?”

“No, Shivi, they’re Super Soakers. OF COURSE THEY’RE MACHINE GUNS!” came the panicked reply from a QA automation engineer, who clearly had never seen a water fight escalate this quickly.

“Holy shit, it’s John Wick level now,” an event coordinator hissed, ducking even lower, as if the coffee machine could provide cover.

“No, moron. It’s Black Hawk Down,” the Chief Creative Officer whimpered. “If I don’t make it, tell my cats I loved them! And that I left them a very detailed will… in my browser history!”

“They won’t shoot us. They don’t have instructions for that,” the chief of security whispered, his voice shaking as he huddled beneath a coffee table, clutching a stapler like it was a grenade.

“Where did you come from?” they shrieked in unison, as if he had just materialized from the break room.

“Never mind, aren’t you ex-Interpol? Why are you hiding? Go fight them!” a network programmer snapped, clearly forgetting that the only thing he fought was the Wi-Fi signal.

“I have plants at home now!” he retorted, clutching his knees like they were his last line of defense. “They depend on me! Have you seen how needy succulents are?”

The product manager cried fake tears, "I’m sorry, what? The CEO ghosted her husbands? I can’t even get one person to text me back, and she’s out here dodging two supermodels with a God complex and an anger management issue. She’s the whole mood board.” Little did she know, you were also in the same boat despite being married to the two men—who were probably just as confused about their relationship status.

Gojo darted behind a toppled desk, his movements almost lazy in their fluidity. He peered out, his eyes practically glowing. “Pinned down by Nerf blasters. What a tragedy.” They couldn’t use any of their techniques; this was already drawing too much attention now, but they needed answers.

Luckily, all employees were already hiding at the other end of the great hall and nowhere near the fight. 

“Cover me,” Nanami said curtly across from him, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Gojo chuckled, cracking his neck as he stood. “Anything for you, darling.”

Without hesitation, he vaulted over the desk and sprinted into the open. Bullets followed him, tearing through the air, but Gojo moved like water—unpredictable, untouchable. His steps were erratic, yet every movement was to draw attention.

Nanami used the distraction to close the distance between himself and the nearest operative. The man barely had time to register Nanami’s presence before the barrel of his rifle was wrenched upward, a burst of bullets shattering the ceiling tiles. Nanami’s elbow came down hard, connecting with the operative’s nose in a sickening crunch.

Another operative lunged, swinging the butt of their rifle toward Nanami’s ribs. He caught it mid-swing, twisting it free with a motion so smooth it seemed almost effortless. He stepped forward, driving his knee into their stomach, and they crumpled to the ground.

Gojo was a genius tactician, and he was using guerrilla warfare to his advantage. He had taken his theatrics to another level. He vaulted over a couch, landing behind an operative with an almost casual air. “Nice gear,” he quipped, plucking the man’s rifle from his hands and tossing it aside like trash. “But you’re not using it right.”

He spun the man around, delivering a swift uppercut that sent him sprawling into a glass partition. Gojo’s laughter echoed through the lobby. “Man, this is better than Pilates!”

The operatives regrouped, their leader barking orders. “Surround them! Do not engage alone!”

Nanami glanced at Gojo, who was now crouched on top of a desk like some deranged bird of prey. “Stop playing around.”

Gojo grinned, hopping down with exaggerated grace. “Who’s playing? I’m multitasking—kicking ass and staying fabulous.”

The team leader’s voice crackled through their comms, audible even over the noise. “Regroup and contain! Reinforcements inbound!”

Gojo paused, his smile faltering slightly. “Reinforcements? Oh, now they’re just spoiling us.”

Nanami adjusted his tie-gauntlet, his expression grim. “Focus. This isn’t over.”

“Holy shit, it’s like Call of Duty in here!” A game dev muttered from behind another cactus.

“Dude, no, this is Apex Legends. Look at their loadouts!” His team lead corrected, whispering.

“Can someone livestream this? I need content!” A game tester whisper yelled.

Across the world, you leaned closer to the screen, voice calm and clipped as you spoke into the comms. “Switch to suppression tactics. Target their movement patterns. Nanami leads with his left; exploit that. Gojo thrives on unpredictability; isolate him.”

Back in the lobby, the operatives adjusted their strategy, their movements suddenly more coordinated. Nanami noticed immediately, his eyes narrowing.

“They’ve changed tactics,” he said, glancing at Gojo.

Gojo tilted his head. “Well, that’s interesting.”

He vaulted over the reception counter, sliding across its surface as bullets followed him like angry bees. “You guys shoot like stormtroopers!” he yelled, grabbing a fallen baton mid-roll. In a single, smooth motion, he swung it, knocking the rifle from an operative’s grip.

The man lunged at him, but Gojo sidestepped, his baton finding the back of the man’s knee. The operative crumpled with a grunt, and Gojo didn’t waste a second, delivering a sharp jab to his ribs that left him wheezing on the floor.

Nearby, Nanami grabbed another operative’s wrist and twisted sharply. The man’s weapon clattered to the ground as Nanami followed up with a brutal uppercut that sent him sprawling. But even in this situation, Gojo couldn’t resist being Gojo.

As if the fight wasn’t chaotic enough, Gojo’s eyes flicked to Nanami mid-battle. More specifically, to Nanami’s chest. “Damn,” he said, abruptly abandoning his position to sidle up behind his partner.

Nanami had just disarmed another operative when he felt Gojo’s hands clasp over his pecs like a makeshift bra.

“Nice form,” Gojo said, squeezing for emphasis. “You been working out?”

Nanami froze for a half-second, his face twisting into an expression of pure exasperation. Without breaking stride, he drove his elbow backward into Gojo’s stomach, sending him staggering.

“Focus,” Nanami growled, his tone razor-sharp.

“I am focused,” Gojo wheezed, clutching his stomach but still grinning. “Just multitasking.”

“Idiot,” Nanami muttered, stepping over another unconscious operative.

That made your blood boil further. A distorted voice crackled through the operatives’ comms, audible even to Gojo and Nanami.

“Pull back. Regroup. Adjust formation to staggered offense.”

Nanami froze mid-motion, his eyes narrowing. He heard the distorted voice.

Gojo, too, paused, his grin faltering for the briefest of moments. “Wait a minute…”

At home, you leaned closer to the screen, expression unreadable as you switched to a line only the team would hear.

“Do not let them bait you,” you said into the mic, voice cutting through like blade. “You’re dealing with professionals who are used to being underestimated. They’re dangerous because they don’t need their full power to win. Treat them like the threats they are.”

The COO on call with you could only say. “You’re directing them. You’re actually directing them.”

Your gaze never wavered from the screen. “I’m not letting a midlife crisis derail my employees’ lives. Not today.”

The remaining operatives regrouped, their leader barking orders. “Switch to suppression fire! Keep them contained!”

Bullets tore through the air again, forcing Gojo and Nanami to take cover. Gojo crouched behind an overturned couch. “This is fun. Think they’ll invite us back?”

Nanami kept looking ahead at the operatives changing positions as he said, "You have issues but I can't believe I'm saying this ever since I became a special grade, I have developed a taste for this." He adjusted his grip on the broken chair leg he’d been using as a weapon, his voice low and calm. “And even if I wasn't, there’s an old saying about Grade Ones: a tank might not be enough. And I don’t see the government allowing her a fucking tank.”

Gojo’s smirk widened, the faint shimmer of his Infinity flickering to life. “And she’d need something bigger than a tank to take me down. Maybe a ‘Domain Expansion: The Sun.’” He glanced toward the operatives, his tone turning mocking. “Guess they’re settling for machine guns and prayer.”

One of the operatives moved in close, his Heckler & Koch MG5 machine gun aimed directly at Nanami. But before he could fire, Nanami swung the broken chair leg with enough force to stab his thigh, making the man bolt over. He followed with a quick, brutal jab to the man’s throat, dropping him instantly.

“Did he just take down a guy with a chair leg?” The sales director whispered, wide-eyed behind a metal statue.

“He’s built different,” came the recruiter’s reverent reply, next to her.

The operatives shifted tactics, their movements suddenly more calculated, their strikes coordinated in a way that made Nanami pause.

Quickly regaining himself, Nanami lunged from his position, closing the distance to one of the operatives in seconds. His elbow connected with the man’s solar plexus, sending him crumpling to the ground. Another operative moved to flank him, but Nanami was faster, twisting the rifle out of the man’s grip and using it to knock him unconscious in one fluid motion.

Gojo, meanwhile, had somehow disarmed three operatives, all while maintaining a running commentary. “Honestly, you guys are doing great! I’d give you a solid eight out of ten. Nine, if you stopped aiming for my hair—do you know how hard it is to style this?”

The fight raged on, the duo moving like a well-oiled machine despite the chaos. Nanami’s brutality contrasted sharply with Gojo’s chaotic energy, but together, they were unstoppable.

The lobby doors burst open, and another team entered, this one carrying heavier gear.

“Is that… an exosuit?” Gojo muttered, tilting his head like a curious cat.

Nanami’s jaw tightened. “She’s serious.” Under no circumstance did they think this thing would show up.

The tide of the battle shifted when the exo-suited leader charged. His movements almost too fast for Nanami to block. Gojo managed to land a hit with his baton, but it barely slowed the man down.

It was clear whoever it was, was no ordinary opponent. “This guy fights like he’s got the script,” Gojo muttered, barely avoiding a blow aimed at his ribs.

“He’s not cursed, but he’s better than most sorcerers I’ve seen,” Nanami admitted grimly, blocking a strike and countering with a knee to an operative’s gut.

“You two aren’t bad,” the leader taunted, voice cool. “But you’re not winning this.”

“Winning?” Gojo smirked, dodging a blow. “Buddy, we’re just warming up.”

Nanami’s elbow struck the exo-suited leader’s side, a blow meant to disable, but the man pivoted with an agility that shouldn’t have been possible. Gojo, seeing an opening, aimed a strike at the man’s helmet, his baton swinging with purpose.

The crack echoed as the face shield shattered, pieces scattering to the ground.

The room seemed to freeze. The operatives hesitated, glancing at their leader, while Gojo and Nanami stood stunned. The man’s face was visible now—sharp features, familiar piercing eyes that could cut through steel.

Nanami’s breath caught in his throat. “Haibara…” he whispered, his voice shaking.

The man flinched at the name but didn’t lower his guard.

Gojo's usually flippant tone uncharacteristically quiet.

Nanami took a shaky step forward, lowering his hands slightly. “Haibara… Is it…?”

The man’s brows furrowed, but his face hardened again, but there was a weight to it, as if he’d carried the name like a burden.

Nanami staggered back as if the words had struck him physically. The resemblance was uncanny—too much so. If Haibara had lived, this man could have been his mirror. The same age, the same eyes.

Gojo finally found his voice, though it was softer than usual. “So, what, you’re family? Explains the talent.”

The man didn’t respond immediately, his gaze shifting between the two of them. “I was told about you. About both of you. You were… important to him at that cult school.”

Nanami clenched his fists, his voice trembling with barely restrained emotion. “And you’re here to fight us? Why?”

The man’s lips pressed into a thin smile, his expression cocky. “Because it’s my job. Nothing personal.”

“Nothing personal?” Nanami snapped, his composure fracturing. “You wear his face, carry his name, and you think this is just another job?”

The man’s eyes darkened, but he didn’t reply.

Gojo tilted his head, a slow smirk creeping onto his face despite the tension. “Well, this just got a lot more interesting.”

Haibara—if that was truly his name—moved like a shadow, slipping through Gojo and Nanami’s strikes with a precision that bordered on inhuman. Every dodge, every counter, every attack felt surgical, as if he knew exactly where to hit and how hard.

Gojo growled, swinging his baton in a wide arc. The exo-suited man sidestepped smoothly, grabbing Gojo’s wrist and twisting just enough to force him to release his grip. The baton clattered to the ground, and he delivered a sharp kick to Gojo’s ribs, sending him stumbling back.

“Damn it,” Nanami muttered under his breath. He lunged at the man, aiming for a takedown, but the man anticipated it. He caught Nanami’s arm mid-strike, using the momentum to flip him onto the floor.

“Sloppy,” the exo-suited man said, his voice low and dispassionate.

You watched it all unfold on your monitors. A smirk played on your lips as you spoke into the comms only the exo-suited man could hear, your voice calm and instructive.

“His Infinity is predictable. He relies on it too much—press him into close quarters. As for the other one, his technique is strong, but he’s methodical. Exploit his rigidity.”

The exo-suited man didn’t respond verbally, but his movements shifted immediately. He closed the distance between himself and Gojo, moving faster than the sorcerer could react. Gojo’s smile faltered as the man’s fist connected with his jaw, followed by a brutal sweep that knocked him off his feet.

“Focus, Satoru,” The man said, his tone clipped but mocking.

Nanami pushed himself to his feet, blood dripping from a cut on his forehead. He met the man’s gaze, his expression a mixture of frustration and disbelief. “You’re too good at this,” he said, his voice low. “How do you know exactly where to hit?”

The exo-suited man didn’t answer. He simply turned his attention back to Gojo, who was already preparing for another assault.

You leaned closer to the mic, your tone carrying a hint of amusement. “He doesn’t need to know where to hit. I’m telling him.”

Haibara, or whoever he was, his lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smirk, though he didn’t say a word.

Meanwhile, Gojo and Nanami exchanged a glance, frustration etched on their faces. They couldn’t hear you, but they could feel the weight of your absence.

Their attacks grew more desperate, their frustration boiling over. The man, however, remained calm, his movements fluid and unyielding. He fought like a man with nothing to lose and everything to prove.

“You’re really doing this,” he said softly, more to himself than anyone else.

But you didn’t waver. You leaned back in your chair, watching as the fight unfolded.

They had come to find you, but they weren’t prepared for the version of you they’d left behind—the one who had learned to fight back in ways they couldn’t anticipate.

“Who’s calling the shots now?” Nanami muttered, ducking a blow and countering with a sharp jab.

Gojo grabbed an incoming rifle mid-swing. “Whoever it is, they’re good. Like, scary good.”

A faint laugh echoed through the comms, just audible enough for them to catch.

Gojo’s grin vanished entirely. “No way…”

Nanami’s jaw tightened.

The operatives pulled back, forming a tight defensive line. Over their comms, your voice rang out clearly for the first time.

“Enough. Stand down.”

Gojo’s eyes widened, and he turned to Nanami. “Is that—?”

Nanami didn’t answer, his expression grim.

The operatives held their ground, weapons still raised but no longer firing. The tension was palpable, the air thick with unspoken words.

Gojo blinked, and for once, he had nothing to say.

Until an ominous whistle cut through the air, stilling the gunshot sounds.

Higuruma Hiromi stepped into the lobby, his presence commanding. The police officers flanking him raised their weapons, but Higuruma looked in charge. “Stand down,” he ordered. His hand itching to bring out his sword if Gojo and Nanami didn’t comply. Bastard was crazy enough to expose them.

Gojo straightened, his smirk fading slightly as he turned to face Higuruma. “You’re late,” he said mockingly, though his voice carried a hint of exhaustion.

“I’m right on time,” Higuruma replied, his gaze steady. “Unless you’d like to escalate this further?”

Nanami placed a hand on Gojo’s arm, his voice low. “Enough.”

The operatives moved in cautiously, their rifles trained on the duo. Gojo and Nanami didn’t resist as they were cuffed, their expressions unreadable. Even as they were both hit hard with the machine gun’s back square on the face, making them bleed a bit.

The employees emerged slowly from their hiding spots, their whispers filling the air once more.

“Did you see that? They fought armed guards with their bare hands.”

“Yeah, but like… hotly.”

“They actually got arrested.”

“I thought they’d fight their way out,” another replied, munching on a croissant stolen from the cafeteria during the chaos.

As they were led away and shoved into the back of the police car, Gojo’s voice broke the silence, low and filled with a bitter determination. “She’s hellbent on not letting us find her.”

Nanami’s expression was unreadable, his tone flat. “Wouldn’t you?”

Once shoved inside, Nanami leaned back in the cramped police car, his face shadowed by frustration, like a brooding hero in a low-budget action flick. The distant wail of sirens echoed in the background, but it felt more like a soundtrack to his existential crisis than an actual emergency.

“I knew she was capable,” he began, his voice low, almost like he was convincing himself. “But this... this is something else. No tech CEO operates at this level of... preparedness. Even Tesla doesn’t have an Exo-Suited Special Response Team. I mean, what’s next? A drone army?”

Gojo, for once, was silent, his eyes fixed on the streaks of light flashing past the windows, probably imagining himself in a high-speed chase. Finally, he scoffed, his tone uncharacteristically bitter. “She directed them like she’s been doing this her whole life. Like she was trained for it. But she wasn’t. Was she? Did we miss the memo on her secret ninja training?”

Nanami didn’t answer immediately. His jaw tightened as he replayed the fight in his mind—the way her voice cut through the comms like a hot knife through butter, her precise commands, the exo-suited leader’s unerring strikes. “No, she’s never been formally trained,” he murmured, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders. “But she definitely had a PowerPoint presentation on it somewhere.”

Gojo laughed, but it was humorless, almost self-deprecating, like he was trying to laugh away the absurdity of it all. “We spent all that time together, and what do we know? She likes her coffee and hates hot weather. And apparently, she moonlights as a tactical genius.”

“She’s running a gaming empire,” Nanami said quietly, his tone heavy with realization, like he’d just discovered the meaning of life. “Of course she’d know how to fight. She built this company from nothing. I mean, have you seen her spreadsheets? They’re practically battle plans.”

Gojo leaned his head back, staring at the car ceiling, then suddenly looked at Nanami with wide eyes. “Wait… she runs a gaming company. Man, that’s why she knew how to fight. All those late-night gaming sessions were just her training montages!”

Nanami sighed, rubbing his temples as if trying to massage away the absurdity of the situation. “Still, she was too prepared. I never expected her to be into all this. Tactical shit. I thought we were just going to fight a few ex-military guards, not engage in a full-blown ‘Operation Entebbe.’”

“Next time, we should bring snacks,” Gojo said, deadpan. “You know, for morale. Nothing says ‘we’re about to face armed tactical teams’ like a good box of mochi.”

“Yeah, because nothing calms the nerves like diabetes in a firefight,” Nanami replied, rolling his eyes. “Maybe we should just ask her for a tutorial on how to survive higher-ups warfare while we’re at it.”

“Right? I can see it now: ‘How to Negotiate with Hostile Takeovers and Tactical Dinosaurs.'” Gojo chuckled.

After a moment, Gojo spoke with a dark expression. “We’re not stopping.”

Nanami nodded once, his gaze fixed ahead. “No. We’re not.”

//

You’d underestimated them.

A few more weeks into your quiet life in this distant city, the first ripple of their presence reached you: a phone call from your old assistant. Her voice was strained, awkward as she tried to navigate the message she had to deliver.

“Your… husbands,” she said, as if she couldn’t bring herself to say the word, “are here looking for you.”

You didn’t let her finish. You hung up before she could speak another word, your heart pounding, panic clawing at your throat as you got on a call with the COO and handled it.

Now it was a couple of hours later that you leaned back in your chair, one hand resting on your heavily pregnant belly, the other typing furiously.

“Alright,” you began, your voice calm but firm as you addressed the executive team over an audio call. “Here’s how we’re handling this.”

Compensation for Injured Staff: “Each affected employee will receive a one-time payment equivalent to ten times the maximum insurance coverage, along with full medical and rehabilitation coverage. Paid leave until they’re fully cleared by their doctors. If they choose not to return, offer severance packages generous enough to ensure their future security.”

Security Upgrades: “Increase armed security personnel across all locations—minimum 45 per site. Implement biometric access controls for high-level areas. I want Fushiguro Sentinel Security Solutions contracted by the end of the hour. Get Megumi Fushiguro himself to oversee it.”

Mental Health Support: “Offer optional counseling for all employees affected by the incident. Trauma doesn’t vanish just because we’ve handled the threat.”

Legal Proceedings: “Gather all evidence. If either of those men steps foot in any of our offices again, treat them as threats immediately. Coordinate with external consultants to reinforce all protocols.”

Additional Measures: “Expand pension plans to cover additional contingencies. This company thrives because of its people. Their safety is non-negotiable.”

Your CFO cleared his throat. “And the cost implications?”

Your expression unyielding. “The cost of doing nothing is far higher. Do it.”

You addressed the CHRO. “Prepare an official statement. No names, no details. Just reassurance that we’re handling the situation.”

“And what about...” the COO hesitated, “...them?”

Your lips thinned. “That’s already being handled.”

With a final ‘later,’ you ended the call, exhaustion creeping into your posture. Your hand lingered on your belly, a silent promise to the life you were protecting—not just your own.

//

Soon the police station buzzed with the kind of energy reserved for high-profile cases and celebrity sightings. Rows of employees from your gaming company sat awkwardly on long benches, clutching half-empty specialized beverages and wearing various levels of workplace chic—some in sweatpants, others in blazers that screamed, I might be a startup founder someday.

The detective in charge, a middle-aged man who looked like he had seen everything and regretted it, pinched the bridge of his nose as the first employee was ushered into the interrogation room.

Employee #1: Kyle from Game Dev

Kyle slouched in his chair, his hoodie emblazoned with “I paused my raid for this?” barely containing his indifference. He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and gave the detective a bored stare.

“So, you’re telling me you saw two men—your CEO’s husbands—engage in what can only be described as a brawl royale with armed guards?”

Kyle shrugged. “Yeah, but like… it was kinda sexy? No homo.”

The detective blinked. “Sexy?”

“Yeah. Like, Mr. Nanami was giving off ‘dad who knows how to use a grill but also owns a sword’ energy, and Mr. Gojo? He’s got that unhinged hotness. Like, he’d ruin your life, but you’d thank him after, y’know?”

The detective stared at him, unamused. “No. I don’t.”

Kyle sighed, leaning back. “Look, I don’t even know why you’re asking us. The CEO is fine. She’s probably somewhere sipping an iced tea, plotting how to save the company from whatever PR disaster her husbands bring next. She’s like the gaming industry’s Tony Stark, but nicer. And hotter. Wayyyy hotter.”

The detective grimaced on your behalf.

Employee #2: Mia from Finance

Mia swept into the room, her oversized blazer barely concealing the “I heart NPCs” T-shirt beneath. She placed her iced coffee on the table like it was a prop for a monologue.

“Let me just say,” she began, her voice dripping with theatrics, “that our founder is an icon. THE queen. The moment.”

The detective sighed. “Can we focus on the incident—”

“Icon,” Mia repeated, cutting him off. “She’s literally married to the human equivalent of menace incarnate and a tax auditor (or my floor manager)’s wet dream. Like, opposites attract, am I right?”

The detective raised an eyebrow. “Did you actually witness the fight?”

“Oh, I saw everything. Mr. Nanami broke a guy’s body like he was folding a paper plane, and Mr. Gojo? He threw someone into a wall, and it was like—BAM! Pure art.” She paused, sipping her coffee. “Honestly, I was rooting for them.”

The detective scribbled something on his notepad. “You realize this isn’t a sports match?”

“Okay, boomer,” Mia replied, waving a dismissive hand.

Employee #3: Jay from HR

Jay adjusted his pastel tie, his laptop bag slung awkwardly across his chest. “First of all, let me just say, as the HR liaison, I do not condone violence in the workplace.”

The detective nodded approvingly. “Good, someone reasonable.”

“That said,” Jay continued, “Mr. Gojo and Mr. Nanami are, like, built. I wonder how much they bench press. Did you see their arms? I don’t even like men, but I get it. You know what I mean?”

The detective dropped his pen. “No, I don’t. Can you please just tell me what happened?”

Jay frowned, pulling out a tablet. “I made a PowerPoint, actually. Slide one is a detailed breakdown of Mr. Nanami’s fighting stance—very efficient. Slide two is Mr. Gojo’s ‘feral cat energy.’ Slide three is a pie chart of how many employees think they’re hot versus terrifying.”

The detective’s fist hit the desk.

Employee #4: Fatima from Legal

Fatima entered, heels clicking against the tile, her expression unreadable. “I’ll keep this brief,” she said, setting a stack of papers on the desk. “These are affidavits from the employees. They’re… unhelpful.”

The detective flipped through them.

Testimony 1: “Mr. Nanami looks like he drinks black coffee and hates fun, but man, can he punch.”

Testimony 2: “Mr. Gojo has main character energy. Like, if life were an anime, he’s the guy who shows up shirtless for no reason.”

Testimony 3: “Madam Founder’s taste in men? Impeccable. Very disturbing, but impeccable.”

Fatima crossed her arms. “Frankly, I think this whole thing is a waste of time. Our founder will probably pay off the damages and add a bonus to everyone’s paycheck for the inconvenience. She’s that kind of person.”

The detective looked up, incredulous. “You’re saying she’d reward people for being attacked?”

Fatima smirked. “Welcome to corporate, Detective.”

Employee #5: Emma from Sales

Emma, the youngest employee, clutched her bubble tea like it was a lifeline. “Okay, so, like, are we getting extra PTO for this? Because I was traumatized. Like, literally.”

The detective pinched the bridge of his nose. “You saw the fight?”

Emma nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, Mr. Gojo threw a guy into the cactus I named Greg. Poor Greg. RIP.”

“And Nanami?”

“Oh, he broke three ribs on that big guy from the response team. It was… beautiful.” She sighed dreamily. “Honestly, our CEO is living the dream. Two hot men fighting over her? Dream.”

Break

As the employees filed out, the detective stared at the pile of testimonies, his faith in humanity dwindling.

One officer leaned over, muttering, “So… what do we do with the husbands?”

The detective sighed. “Honestly? Let’s just hope their CEO comes back before they burn the city down.”

//

News segment played on TV in the station.

Anchor:“In a shocking incident at a company’s headquarters in Japan today, two unidentified men stormed the building, engaging in what witnesses describe as ‘Hollywood-level combat’ with security forces. Eyewitness footage shows the men, dressed in business attire, taking on armed guards with hand-to-hand combat skills that defy explanation.”

A clip plays, showing Gojo disarming a guard with a grin while Nanami methodically neutralizes another.

Anchor:“Social media users have been speculating wildly about the identities of these men, with theories ranging from disgruntled employees to members of organized crime. However, sources have confirmed that the men are not affiliated with any criminal organization.”

Tech Analyst:“What’s even more surprising is the revelation that these two men are reportedly teachers at a private academy—one known for its... unorthodox curriculum. And here’s the kicker: they’re allegedly married to the CEO.”

Anchor:“Married? To the CEO? Both of them?”

Tech Analyst:“Yes, it appears to be a polyamorous marriage, which was previously undisclosed to the public. Social media is now ablaze with debates over how two ‘regular teachers’ possess such combat skills—and why they would confront a company known for its impenetrable security.”

Anchor:“This story keeps getting stranger. Are they former military? Yakuza? Or something else entirely? And why storm your own wife’s company? Stay tuned as we dig deeper into this unfolding drama.”

The internet had already imploded.

It started with a single tweet.

@GameNewsNow:“BREAKING: Chaos at a gaming company’s Japanese HQ as unidentified intruders engage in combat with security. Witnesses report hand-to-hand combat, shattered glass, and… exosuits? Details unfolding. #TechWars”

Replies:

@PixelPrincess: “Wait, isn’t this the gaming company with the smart CEO? What is happening?

@CoffeeAndCode: “Nah, this is real. My friend works there. She said the intruders were FIGHTING SECURITY WITH THEIR BARE HANDS.”

@KDramaKween: “Exosuits?? Is this a promo for their next FPS game?”

Reddit was next.

r/TechDramau/InsiderGameDev: “Two guys stormed the Japanese HQ, and apparently, they’re just… teachers? One’s a blond with weird goggles; the other looks like a pissed-off salaryman. They fought like action movie stars. Who are they?”

Top Comments:

u/YakuzaWatch2024: “Teachers? Yeah, right. This screams Yakuza.”

u/CyberNerd93: “Plot twist: They’re her secret bodyguards.”

u/TinfoilHat47: “Jeff Bezos definitely paid them.”

Then TikTok exploded.

@HQBaristaVibes:“POV: You’re hiding behind the coffee station while two men in suits literally suplex security guards.”

The video shows Gojo vaulting over a desk while Nanami delivers a brutal elbow to an operative. A whisper in the background: “I’d show up to their Magic Mike Show!”

Comments:

@GamerGorlly: “This is giving Halo vibes. Is this a movie?”

@BossLadyFan: “WAIT, a woman can marry two hot men and not get arrested?! Plot twist of the century.”

@BigYakuzaEnergy: “Teachers don’t fight like that. I’m sticking with the Yakuza theory.”

Another TikTok showed Gojo yelling, “YOU’LL NEVER KEEP US FROM HER!” before being tackled by five armed men.

Caption: “These men are TEACHERS. At a school. Who TF approved this hire?!”

Comments:

@CultLeaderSuguru’sUnwashedSocks69: “Okay, but how do I apply to this cultist school?”

@WeedFinanceBro420: “Nanami can destroy my 401k; I’d still say thank you.”

@MommyIssuesInc: “Gojo screaming like he’s in a shonen anime is sending me 😭😭😭.”

Then came a shaky, vertical video posted to TikTok under the caption: “Me watching the CEO’s husbands wreck the office like it’s WWE 🫠 #CorporateDrama #TheyHotTho”

The video opened with Gojo throwing a security guard into a potted plant, the sound of shattering ceramic audible over the chaotic screaming in the background. Nanami steps into frame next, calmly adjusting his cufflinks before delivering a devastating elbow to another guard.

Text overlay read, “Who are these men?? And why are they fine while committing felonies??”

The video cuts to a shaky zoom on Nanami’s face, looking utterly unbothered while dragging another guard to the ground like a trained killer.

Caption updated to, “Is he single?? Asking for my friend (it’s me).”

Comments:

@Financically Challenged: “HR would never approve.”

@CorporateTea: “She really deleted her account before the tea spilled.”

@ILoveMyGamerBoysLite: “THEY’RE FINE, BUT WHY DO THEY FIGHT LIKE STREET FIGHTER CHARACTERS?”

@Man-whore: “I’d like to thank whoever recorded this masterpiece. My serotonin levels are soaring.”

Fan accounts dedicated to your company were flooded with reposts of TikToks and blurry images from the incident.

One post, in particular, gains traction: a screenshot of Gojo being escorted out by Higuruma, still grinning like a maniac. The caption reads: “Find you someone who looks at you the way Gojo looks at the camera. 🥰 #CoupleGoals”

Meanwhile, Reddit threads dissect the entire event like it’s a true crime case.

r/CorporateDrama:

u/ThrowawayEmployee123:

“I work in the cafeteria, and I swear one of them stole a cherry tomato before elbowing a guard.”

Top Comments:

u/NoHRLeft: “This has to be staged, right? Like a marketing stunt? No way two hot dudes just... do this.”

u/DefinitelyNotNanami: “They do. Trust me.”

r/GamingGossip:

AlphaDaddyInumaki69:

“CEO’s SECRET MARRIAGE EXPOSED!”

Top Comments:

u/BlueEyes6’5”Simp: “Gojo Satoru is a whole ass menace. I respect it.”

u/CoffeeAndGuilt: “Nanami could throw me through a window, and I’d thank him.”

u/TakadaChanSimp9000: “Focus, people. What does this mean for her company’s next game launch???”

//

After Break

The detective’s patience wore thinner with every passing second, while Higuruma Hiromi, now leaning casually against the wall with a cup of tea in hand, watched with the faintest glimmer of amusement in his otherwise stoic demeanor.

Employee #6: Lily from Social Media

Lily adjusted her oversized cat-eye glasses and placed her iced matcha latte on the table. “So, like, first of all, you should know this isn’t the worst thing they’ve done. Did you hear about the time they took Madam Founder to karaoke? There’s a whole thread about it on our company’s internal social media site. It trended for days there. Someone recorded it while they were there too.”

The detective rubbed his temples. “Miss, this isn’t about karaoke.”

“I’m just saying, they’re iconic. Like, I don’t condone violence or whatever, but when Mr. Gojo ripped that baton out of a guard’s hand and spun it like a lightsaber? I mean, c’mon. That’s main character behavior.”

Higuruma took a slow sip of tea. “Main character behavior,” he repeated dryly.

“Exactly!” Lily pointed at him like he’d just validated her existence. “And Mr. Nanami? He’s the broody love interest with a tragic backstory who you know secretly listens to metal while making cute teddy bear bento for his wife. You can’t be mad at them.”

The detective glared at Higuruma, who raised an eyebrow in return. “Don’t look at me,” Higuruma said. “I’m just here for the tea. Literally.”

Employee #7: Vikram from Quality Assurance

Vikram, who looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks, slumped into the chair with a half-eaten bagel. “So, here’s the thing. I respect the CEO, right? She’s like the mom who brings donuts to the office but also could fire you with a single email. But her husband's? Absolute gremlins.”

The detective perked up. “Finally, someone reasonable. Tell me about the fight.”

“Right, right.” Vikram gestured vaguely. “So, Mr. Nanami’s out here breaking bones like he’s crinkling bubble wrap. Efficient. Terrifying. Meanwhile, Mr. Gojo? He’s musically laughing as he bashes people’s stomachs in.”

“Did they say anything about why they were there?”

Vikram frowned, taking a thoughtful bite of his bagel. “Not really. But I did hear Mr. Gojo call one of the guards a ‘budget James Bond,’ so there’s that.”

Higuruma chuckled softly, earning a glare from the detective. “What? That’s objectively funny.”

Employee #8: Nina from HR

Nina walked in like she owned the place, her heels clicking with purpose. She set her iced Americano down and crossed her arms. “Look, I’ll make this simple. Mr. Gojo Satoru and Mr. Nanami Kento are walking red flags. And I say that as someone who’d climb those flags like a jungle gym.”

The detective choked on his coffee. “Excuse me? Aren’t you from HR? What happened to your policies?”

“You heard me.” Nina adjusted her blazer. “Do I think it’s unprofessional that they destroyed company property and assaulted multiple guards? Sure. Do I also think they’re the human equivalent of the ‘Enemies to Lovers’ tag? Absolutely.”

“Ma’am, this isn’t Wattpad,” the detective said, his tone exasperated.

“Could’ve fooled me,” she shot back.

Higuruma leaned forward slightly, his expression neutral but his tone amused. “Did they say anything about their intentions while breaking noses?”

Nina tapped her chin. “Mr. Gojo said something about how he’d ‘burn the world down’ to find the CEO. Very dramatic. Mr. Nanami, though? He just glared at people. I think four guys quit on the spot and then never sent the resignation letter because of our amazing pension package.”

Employee #9: Ramirez from Accounting

Ramirez looked unbothered, scrolling through her phone as she sat down. “Can we speed this up? I’ve got a meeting in fifteen.”

The detective sighed. “What did you see?”

“Mr. Nanami snapped someone’s arm in half like it was a breadstick. Mr. Gojo threw a guy into a cactus. Typical Tuesday.”

“Anything unusual?”

She glanced up, smirking. “Unusual? Detective, our CEO is married to the human embodiment of a power imbalance and a walking midlife crisis. Nothing is unusual anymore.”

Higuruma stifled a laugh behind his tea, earning another glare from the detective.

Employee #10: Li from Design

Li leaned back in his chair, twirling a pen like it was a baton. “So, here’s my hot take: Mr. Gojo’s like that guy who talks shit in the group chat but shows up to the fight in Crocs. Mr. Nanami? He’s the one who silently carries the whole team.”

The detective rubbed his temples. “What does that even mean?”

“It means Mr. Gojo’s unhinged but sexy, and Mr. Nanami’s the Dilf who actually gets things done.”

“Why does everything come back to their attractiveness?” The detective snapped.

Li shrugged. “Because it’s distracting. You ever seen a man fix his cufflinks while choking someone out? It’s an experience.”

Higuruma nodded, thinking of Nanami. “It really is.”

Employee #11: Emily from PR

Emily entered, visibly stressed, clutching a planner filled with color-coded tabs. “I’m just here to confirm that the company’s official stance is ‘no comment.’ Also, the CHRO would like everyone to know that all damages will be covered, and the guards are being compensated handsomely.”

The detective leaned forward. “Does the CEO have anything to say about her husbands?”

Emily hesitated, flipping through her planner. “She said… and I quote, ‘They are on their own.’”

Higuruma snorted, setting his tea down. “Smart woman.”

The detective groaned, slumping in his chair. “I give up.”

Emily adjusted her glasses. “Oh, and she also said the cactus will be replaced.”

From somewhere in the station, a faint cheer could be heard. “Greg lives on!”

Break Again

As the employees filed out, the detective stared at the mess of notes on his desk, each one more absurd than the last. Higuruma stood, brushing imaginary lint off his suit.

“Well,” Higuruma said, his tone dry but amused, “at least we know one thing for sure.”

“What’s that?” the detective asked wearily.

Higuruma smirked faintly. “Your suspects might be unstoppable, but their PR game? Immaculate.”

After Break

The interrogation room had become a revolving door of chaos. Higuruma, sipping tea like he was on vacation, had taken over the questioning, his demeanor a sharp contrast to the detective’s rapidly fraying patience. The employees were less helpful than ever, and now more of the game dev, product launch, and sales teams had joined the fray, bringing their own flavor of madness to the mix.

Employee #11: Kevin from Game Dev

Kevin slouched into the chair, his hoodie covered in suspicious crumbs. He adjusted his gamer headset like he was about to stream instead of give testimony. “Okay, first of all, can I just say? The way Mr. Nanami handled those guards? That’s the kind of realism we need in our combat mechanics. Man’s a walking motion-capture studio.”

The detective groaned. “We’re not here to discuss combat mechanics.”

Kevin shrugged. “I’m just saying, if we had that level of precision, our next release would bankrupt Mojang Studios.”

Higuruma leaned forward slightly, his expression unreadable. “And what about Gojo?”

Kevin snorted. “Mr. Gojo? He’s the kind of guy who’d spam the emote wheel mid-fight. You know, hit you with a ‘Haha, loser’ after parrying your attack, just to flex.”

The detective slammed his notebook shut. “This isn’t a video game!”

Kevin blinked. “Tell that to the cactus. That thing got ragdolled.”

Employee #12: Maddie from Product Launch

Maddie walked in wearing oversized sunglasses and carrying an oat milk latte like she was on the front row of a fashion show. She flipped her hair before sitting down. “So, let me get this straight. You’re asking me to snitch on them?”

Higuruma raised an eyebrow. “We’re asking for facts, not snitching.”

“Facts?” Maddie laughed, leaning back. “Here’s a fact: Mr. Gojo Satoru is the moment. When he threw that guard into the no-sweetener coffee machine? I felt seen.”

The detective pinched the bridge of his nose, which was reddening now with all the pinching. “Did you actually witness anything useful?”

“Useful?” Maddie repeated, looking offended. “I’ll have you know I was taking notes.Mr. Gojo’s movements? Chaotic but controlled. Mr. Nanami’s? Pure tactical perfection. They’re like the yin and yang of violence.”

Higuruma smirked faintly. “And the CEO?”

“Oh, she’s living the dream,” Maddie said, twirling her straw. “I mean, married to those two? Goals. Sure, they’re a walking HR violation, but I’d take one for the team.”

“Noted,” Higuruma replied dryly, while the detective muttered something about needing a vacation.

Employee #13: Jake from Sales

Jake swaggered in like he was pitching a deal. “Alright, gentlemen, let’s talk ROI—Return on Insanity. Those two? They’re the best marketing campaign we’ve ever had.”

Higuruma tilted his head. “How so?”

“Think about it,” Jake said, gesturing wildly. “We’re a gaming company, right? And now everyone’s talking about us. I mean, sure, there was some... collateral damage. But viral marketing? You can’t buy this kind of exposure.”

The detective’s pen snapped in half. “People got hurt!”

Jake nodded sagely. “Yeah, but did you see the way Mr. Nanami disarmed that guard? That’s brand synergy right there. We could use that in our next trailer.”

Higuruma chuckled softly. “You’re not wrong.”

“Thank you,” Jake said, winking at Higuruma with reddened cheeks.

The detective groaned. “Stop encouraging him!”

Employee #14: Aiko from Game Design

Aiko plopped into the chair, her arms full of sketchbooks and concept art. “Okay, so I’ve been working on a character design inspired by Mr. Nanami. Picture this: a stoic modern-day Viking, his suit pristine, his tie a weapon—”

“His tie is not a weapon,” the detective interrupted.

“Not yet,” Aiko countered, flipping open her sketchbook to a detailed drawing of Nanami mid-fight. “But it could be. Look at these sketches. Imagine the animation potential.”

Higuruma leaned over to examine the art, nodding thoughtfully. “Impressive detail.”

“Right?” Aiko beamed. “And Mr. Gojo? He’d be the chaotic rogue archetype. I’m thinking glowing six eyes, a blindfold that doubles as a grappling hook—”

The detective banged his fist on the table. “This isn’t a brainstorming session for your next game!”

Aiko shrugged. “Could’ve fooled me. This whole situation is giving side quest energy.”

Employee #15: Ellie from HR

Ellie, the most normal-looking person yet, sat down with a clipboard. “So, I’ve compiled a list of damages and injuries. It’s... extensive.”

The detective perked up. “Finally, someone useful.”

“But,” Ellie added, flipping through her notes, “I’d also like to propose a company-wide Mr. Gojo and Mr. Nanami Appreciation Day. Morale has been low, and honestly, they’ve brought us closer as a team.”

The detective stared at her, speechless.

Higuruma chuckled, setting down his tea. “I like the initiative.”

Employee #16: Alex from Marketing

Alex entered with a PowerPoint presentation. “Okay, hear me out. A new ad campaign: ‘Work Hard, Fight Harder.’ We feature Nanami and Gojo as the faces of the brand—”

The detective stood abruptly. “We’re done here.”

“Wait, there’s a slide on cactus replacements!” Alex called after him.

As the employee left, the detective slumped into his chair, glaring at Higuruma. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Higuruma shrugged, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “I find it... enlightening.”

The detective groaned. “Enlightening? They’re turning this investigation into a fan convention!”

“Better than a riot,” Higuruma replied, his tone mild.

“Barely.”

Another video on TikTok popped up, as these things often did now, apparently. As the grainy, zoomed-in footage of Gojo and Nanami leaving the station hit every corner of social media, the internet collectively lost its mind. Fancams were already being made. The soundtrack? A slowed-down, reverb-heavy version of Britney Spears’ “Toxic.”

Caption: “Gojo Satoru—chaotic, probably rich, can’t keep his mouth shut. Nanami Kento—stoic, terrifying, boss you wanna fuck. You—genius CEO, hot.”

Memes too -

@FinanceBroFails: “Poly relationships are for the weak. Imagine being married to two dudes, and neither answers your calls. Couldn’t be me.”

@HimboAppreciationSociety: “Y’all are simping over these men, but what about the poor employees??? My guy, salaryman Kenjirô Tsuda, is still unconscious in the corner.”

@PolyKaisen: “We need a new game where Gojo and Nanami fight for love and also commit tax fraud. #FreeTheHusbands”

@PolyAmoristsUnite: “This is why we can’t have nice things. People ruin it by marrying two hot men and leaving the rest of us to suffer.”

@FanCamForLife: [Fancam of Nanami disarming a guard in the office fight, set to Billie Eilish’s “You Should See Me in a Crown.”]

By evening, the hashtags were trending.

#PolyPanic2024#TwoHolesForAReason#PolyKaisen

But it wasn’t all jokes. Hate comments rolled in too.

@MoralHighGround: “Polyamory is unnatural. No wonder this mess happened. Pick one partner and stay loyal.”

@TraditionalValuesStan: “This is what happens when corporate culture goes woke. First, it’s diversity hires, then it’s this.”

@PolySkeptic99: “Imagine running a billion-dollar company and thinking two husbands was a good idea. Peak bad decisions.”

Higuruma, scrolling through Twitter, raised an eyebrow at a tweet:

@InLawerDaddyWeThurst: “Higuruma Hiromi in a suit? Is he single? Asking respectfully (not respectfully).”

Hiromi sighs, muttering to himself, “Why does this always happen?”

The detective beside him groaned. “Stop reading it.”

Higuruma continues, hiding a smirk as another notification pops up:

@FiddlingWithBothLawAndOrder🍒: “Hiromi can prosecute me any day 😏.”

The detective, who’s fully checked out, whispered to Higuruma, gesturing at Nanami and Gojo, who were sprawled in a cell quite beaten up by the armed guys who’d arrested them. Gojo’s long legs Sprawled awkwardly over Nanami’s lap, who rubbed them absentmindedly as they both stared at the bulb like they were mothmen, "Do they know they’re walking memes? Like, are they self-aware? Or is this just how they live? Because I’m five seconds from retiring and starting a blog called ‘Hot Men, Bad Decisions.’”

Yaga stormed into the station, his face a mask of barely contained fury. He zeroed in on Gojo, and Nanami sat in the holding area; they were cuffed but unbothered.

After the paperwork was done, Yaga shoved the station doors open, leading the way. Behind him, Gojo and Nanami stepped out, walking with the kind of swagger that screamed, ‘We did it, and we’d do it again.’

A crowd had gathered outside the station, barricades barely holding back a mix of paparazzi, reporters, and what could only be described as the thirstiest group of people Tokyo had ever seen.

“Nanami, are you single? Rearrange my guts, please!”

“GOJO, MY THROAT IS AWFULLY EMPTY!”

The cameras went wild. Gojo smirked like he was on the Met Gala red carpet, tilting his head for the best angles. “Ladies, please,” he said, his voice dripping with charm. “I’m married. You’re breaking my husband’s heart.”

Nanami, trailing behind, adjusted his disheveled sleeves and shot Gojo a glare. “Don’t involve me in your theatrics.”

“You’re literally my husband,” Gojo quipped, tossing his hair dramatically. “You’re involved by default.”

As the reporters’ questions grew louder, Yaga finally snapped. “Shut up, all of you!” he roared, spinning around to face the two men. “Married?! Since when? To each other? And the CEO?! What the hell is going on?”

Gojo looked entirely unbothered, raising his hands in mock surrender. “You didn’t know? Thought it was obvious. We’re very progressive.”

Nanami pinched the bridge of his nose. “It wasn’t exactly public information, Satoru.”

“Well, it is now!” Gojo said cheerfully, waving at the crowd like a pageant queen.

But the crowd didn’t care about the details. The thirst was too real.

“Nanami, I’ll be your wife!” Someone screamed, holding up a sign with his name in glittery gold letters.

“He’s mine!” Gojo muttered under his breath.

“Satoru, I love you!” shouted another.

Gojo paused, smirking at the camera. “Thanks, but I love my husband. And my wife.”

Yaga shoved both men into the back of the car, the force rattling the frame. He slammed the door so hard it was a miracle the glass didn’t shatter. “Unbelievable,” he muttered as he climbed into the driver’s seat, his voice a low growl.

Gojo sprawled out immediately, legs taking up more space than necessary, his hands resting lazily on his lap. “That wasn’t so bad,” he said, tone light and airy, as if the past five hours hadn’t been a descent into insanity. “Honestly, I think I handled it pretty well.”

Yaga’s hands gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. “Handled it well?” His voice cracked like a whip, sharp enough to slice through the air. “You turned it into a goddamn circus! And I just found out my students are married. To each other. And someone else. What the hell is wrong with you two?”

Nanami stared out the window, jaw tight. Gojo, of course, couldn’t resist. He turned to Nanami, a pout tugging at his lips. “See? No one appreciates me.”

Nanami didn’t look at him. “You did turn it into a circus,” he said flatly, his voice calm but laced with quiet exasperation. Then he glanced at Gojo. “But that’s your specialty.”

Gojo grinned, the pout vanishing instantly. “Aw, thanks, baby. That’s why I married you.”

Yaga slammed a hand on the steering wheel, the car swerving slightly. “Are you serious right now?!” His voice was dangerously close to a shout. “You’ve drawn too much attention. The higher-ups are done with your antics. Indefinite leave. Effective immediately.”

Nanami’s head whipped around, a flicker of surprise crossing his usually stoic face. “Indefinite leave?” he asked, though there was no disappointment in his voice.

“Do you even know what indefinite means?” Gojo chimed in, leaning forward with mock curiosity.

Yaga glared at him through the rearview mirror, his expression thunderous. “Shut up, Gojo. You’re lucky they didn’t lock you both in the basement for the next decade.”

Nanami, however, was leaning back in his seat, arms crossed, looking... content. “Perfect,” he said quietly.

Yaga blinked. “Perfect? You’re suspended!”

Nanami glanced at Gojo, a rare spark of energy in his eyes. “Finally. Time to focus.”

Gojo’s grin widened, somehow more unhinged. “On finding her.”

Then behind Yaga’s back, Gojo raised a fist. “C’mon, Nami. Forced vacation means forced bonding time. Fist bump for the road?”

Nanami sighed, clearly annoyed but humoring him. He bumped Gojo’s fist lightly.

“HEY!” Yaga barked, catching the exchange in the mirror. “What the hell is wrong with you two?!”

Gojo shrugged, throwing an arm around Nanami’s shoulder. “A lot, apparently.”

Nanami shoved him off. “Don’t touch me.”

//

You sat in your small apartment, the television blaring the evening news as you unmuted it.

“Today, the gaming world was shaken by an incident,” the anchor said, barely hiding their glee. “The CEO’s secret polyamorous marriage was exposed when her two husbands—yes, you heard that right—stormed the office and engaged in physical altercations with security personnel.”

The screen cut to shaky footage of Gojo grinning smugly as police cuffed him. “Ladies, I’m married,” he said, winking at the camera. “And no, I won’t entertain such things. Besides, Nanami here, my husband would de-ball me.”

Nanami, standing beside him, glared at the reporters and muttered, “You have no tact.”

The news continued: “The CEO, known for her philanthropic efforts and innovative leadership in the gaming industry, has yet to comment. Sources suggest she is out of the country. Social media has been ablaze with reactions.”

For a split second you saw them—Gojo and Nanami; they were staring at you directly like they knew you’d be watching. It made your skin crawl.

You turned the TV off, unable to watch anymore. The words echoed in your mind: “secret polyamorous marriage” and “shaken the gaming world.” You buried your face in your hands, the stress of it all threatening to overwhelm you. The twins inside you shifted uncomfortably, as if responding to your distress.

They don’t even know what they’ve done to me, you thought bitterly. They didn’t even care enough to notice me begging for their attention. And now this?

Your eye flicked to the news flashing on the corner of your laptop screen, “Genius CEO Married to Chaotic Duo? Security Incident at Gaming HQ Leaves Internet Thirsting.”

Your head falls into your hands as you mutter, “This is why I deleted social media. They’ve turned my life into a meme.”

The twins kick inside you, as if to remind you they’re still there, and you sigh deeply. At least someone in your life listens to you… sometimes.

Megumi had come through, and by the end of the night, your offices worldwide were in lockdown, with new measures being implemented to ensure this never happened again. Your heart ached for the lives that had been disrupted because of you, but you refused to let their suffering be in vain.

Later, as you sat in the quiet of your new home, far from Shibuya, you stared at the screen of your phone. The urge to reach out to them lingered, a phantom ache you couldn’t shake. But you knew better.

They had chosen this path, and you had chosen yours.

For now, all you could do was protect the people who relied on you and hope they found their way back to themselves, away from you—without destroying everything in their wake.

But no one could outrun Gojo Satoru and Nanami Kento.

The second time, it would be worse.

//

Later that evening, Gojo slouched on the couch, lazily scrolling through his phone. Nanami sat across from him, surrounded by maps and books, his hoodie’s sleeves scrunched up.

“So, she’s somewhere cold,” Gojo said, tossing his phone onto the table.

Nanami didn’t look up. “We don’t know that.”

“Sure, we do,” Gojo replied, leaning forward. “Her assistant said she was cold. And she hates being cold indoors. That means she’s somewhere where the cold is... unavoidable. Nordic country vibes.”

Nanami frowned, flipping a page in his book. “That’s a stretch.”

Gojo grinned. “Is it? Think about it. Quiet, isolated, and full of tall, serious people. People who mind their own business and won’t notice a powerful CEO roaming around. Won’t snitch to the Gojo clan. She fits right in.”

Nanami’s brow furrowed as he considered it. “She’d hate the lack of convenience.”

“Which makes it the perfect place to hide,” Gojo countered, already standing and stretching. “Pack your overcoat, Nami. We’re going to Scandinavia.”

Nanami closed his book with a snap. “You’re an idiot.”

“An idiot with good instincts,” Gojo quipped, heading for the door. “Let’s go find our wife.”

A/N: Fanart by @Todo269 on Twitter - https://x.com/todo269/status/1834376289526186336 The bomb meme was made by yours truly and the other one I found randomly on pinterest. Did anyone see Special Grade Nanamin™ coming? I sure didn’t, but here we are. Also: Haibara or his lookalike? Yes, that’s for the one person who asked. You’re welcome. @sxlfcxst

Cast your vote in the poll, and don’t hold back in the comments. Let’s hear those unhinged takes! 👑 Because your girl needs validation. Bonus points if you paid attention to the usernames.

Oh, and this update came fast, but don’t get used to it. Friday updates are my fragile sanity’s limit. Don’t break me, please.

All Works Masterlist

Tag-list = @lady-of-blossoms @stargirl-mayaa @dark-agate @tqd4455 @roscpctals99 @sxlfcxst @se-phi-roth @austisticfreak @helloxkittylo @itoshi-r @kodzukensworld

[lechrts]

Could’ve Fooled Me. ✷ Ollie Bearman

Pairing: Ollie Bearman x Schoolmate!reader

Summary: When Ollie does something “probably stupid.”

Word Count: 2.1k

Vera's Voice! this was so stupid not gonna lie. Jusr. Just read idk. Lmk. Bye. have fun.

Your dynamic with Ollie had always been a strange one. A mix of heated arguments and undeniable chemistry that made everyone around you raise an eyebrow.

He was infuriatingly confident, with that perpetual smirk like he already knew the answer to a question you hadn’t even asked yet.

You weren’t sure when your mutual distaste turned into something resembling... whatever this was. It wasn’t quite hatred anymore, but it wasn’t exactly a friendship either. It was more like a magnetic pull���one you both resisted fiercely.

Until, of course, you were paired for a history presentation.

So cliche.

“Fate’s a cruel thing,” You muttered under your breath the day your teacher announced the pairings.

Ollie shot you a grin as you plopped into the vacant seat beside him. “You know, if you wanted to spend more time with me, you could’ve just asked.”

You rolled your eyes, but the sharp pang in your chest at his teasing felt alarmingly like excitement.

It was supposed to be simple. You’d meet at his house, finish your slides, rehearse your presentation, and be done with it.

In and out, no distractions.

You stood outside his door, the chill December air biting at your fingertips as you hesitated. The nerves in your stomach were new, unsettling. It wasn’t like you hadn’t argued with Ollie a hundred times before. It wasn’t like you hadn’t sat next to him in class, stolen pens from his desk, or rolled your eyes at his sarcastic comments.

This just felt... different.

When he opened the door, wearing a plain sweatshirt and grey joggers, hair messy like he hadn’t bothered to tame it, you almost forgot how to speak.

“Are you gonna keep standing there, or are you coming in?” He asked, leaning casually against the doorframe.

“Just soaking in the joy of this moment,” You replied sarcastically, stepping inside with mock dramatics.

When he led the way to his room, you were shocked to see how neat it was. It smelled faintly like him—some mix of cedarwood and mint that you hated how much you noticed. The space was tidy, a little more put together than you’d expected, with a sleek desk by the window and shelves lined with racing memorabilia.

“Wow,” You said, gesturing to the small shrine of karting trophies, back from when he still raced. “How modest of you.”

He smirked, sitting on his bed. “What can I say? I’m amazing.”

“And humble.”

“And humble,” He echoed, grinning.

You rolled your eyes, plopping down on the carpeted floor next to his bed and pulling your laptop out of your bag.

“Alright,” You said briskly, needing to focus. “Let’s get this over with.”

But working with Ollie was, as expected, impossible.

You closed your eyes, counting to three.

Do not murder him in his own home.

Do not murder him in his own home.

Do NOT. murder him in his own home.

“Fine. You pick the font,” You said, shoving the laptop toward him since he had been pestering you about the title screen for the past ten minutes.

“Gladly.”

He leaned over, now sat beside you ever since he joined you on the floor many moments ago. You hated the way your heart jumped when his arm brushed against yours. It wasn’t even a full touch, just the faintest contact, but it sent a ripple of awareness through you.

“So!,” He said after a moment, his voice annoyingly casual, “Why do you hate me so much?”

“I don’t hate you,” You said automatically, though it came out a little sharper than intended.

He glanced at you, one brow raised. “Yeah, right.”

You sighed, focusing on the textbook in front of you to avoid looking at him. “You’re just...distracting.”

“Distracting?” He repeated, his tone shifting. He leaned back slightly, but you could still feel the weight of his gaze. “How am I distracting?”

“Because you never take anything seriously,” You said quickly, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “You joke about everything. It’s like nothing gets to you, and it’s—”

“It’s what?” He pressed, his voice softer now.

“Annoying.”

He didn’t respond right away, and the silence stretched, thick and heavy. When you finally glanced up, he was watching you with an intensity that made your stomach flip.

“What?” You asked defensively, suddenly self-conscious.

“Nothing,” He said, leaning back against his bed. His smirk was gone, replaced by something unreadable. “You’re just....”

He shook his head, looking almost embarrassed. “Never mind.”

Your chest felt tight, like the air between you had shifted into something you couldn’t name. You tried to shake it off, focusing back on the slides, but it was no use.

When you reached for your pen, he reached for it at the same time. Your fingers brushed, and you both froze.

Neither of you moved, the air suddenly crackling with tension. His hand was warm, his touch hesitant but lingering.

“Um.. ” He said quietly, his voice lower than usual, clearing his throat as if he had something to say.

Your heart was pounding, so loud you were sure he could hear it. “Hm?”

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Do you really think I don’t take anything seriously?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What are you talking about?”

“I mean it,” He said, his voice steady now. “Do you actually think I don’t care about anything?”

The vulnerability in his tone took you by surprise. You hesitated, then shook your head. “No. I just think... you hide it. Behind all the cockiness and idiocy.”

He didn’t deny it. Instead, his eyes searched yours, like he was trying to figure something out.

And then, suddenly, his hand was on yours again—not hesitant this time, but deliberate.

“Um.” You cleared your throat. “What are you doing?” You whispered, your voice shaky.

“Probably something stupid,” He murmured, and before you could respond, his lips were on yours.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. It was everything you’d been holding back since the day you met him—frustration, anger, and all the butterflies you refused to admit you felt. His hand cupped your cheek, pulling you closer, and your brain short-circuited as the world tilted on its axis.

You kissed him back, your fingers tangling in his hair before you could think better of it. It was messy, intense, infuriatingly perfect.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless, the rosiness on both of your cheeks clearly evident.

“That,” You managed, voice shaky, “Was definitely stupid.”

“Yeah?” He said, grinning despite the pink tint to his features. “Then why’d you kiss me back?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came.

Because he was right. And, worse, he knew it.

You sat there, blinking at him, your brain still catching up to what had just happened. Ollie was looking at you like he’d won something—smirking, flushed, and utterly insufferable.

“Well?” He asked, his voice annoyingly smug. “No witty comeback? No insult? Should I be concerned?”

You narrowed your eyes, shaking off the daze. “I’m just... processing the fact that you have the audacity to act like you weren’t the one who kissed me.”

“Oh, I absolutely kissed you,” He said, confidently admitting it as he straightened his posture, “But you kissed me back…”

“With enthusiasm, might I add.”

You scoffed, though your cheeks were burning. “You’re delusional.”

“Am I?” He leaned closer, his smirk widening. “Because I’m pretty sure you had your hands in my hair. Very passionately..”

“That doesn’t mean I wanted to kiss you!” You argued, pointing at him.

He tilted his head, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Right. You were just being polite. Kissing me back to avoid hurting my feelings?”

“Exactly,” You said, chin tilting up. “It was a momentary lapse in judgment. A... reflex.”

“Hmm,” He mused, clearly not buying it. He tapped a finger on his lips, pretending to think. “So, if I kissed you again, purely as an experiment, you wouldn’t kiss me back?”

Your stomach flipped at the way he said again, but you refused to let him see it. “Exactly. No hesitation. I’d push you away immediately.”

He raised an eyebrow, leaning closer still. “Immediately?”

You hated how his voice dropped, soft and teasing, like he knew exactly what kind of effect he had on you.

“Yeah,” You said firmly, though the word came out weaker than you intended.

His eyes flicked to your lips, then back up to meet your gaze. “Prove it.”

“What?”

“Prove it,” He repeated, his voice low and challenging. “If you’re so sure you wouldn’t kiss me back, let’s test your little theory.”

Your breath hitched as the space between you seemed to shrink. “Your ego is insane.”

“Maybe,” He said, grinning, “But, you still haven’t moved.”

And damn it, he was right.

You hadn’t moved.

In fact, you were leaning in ever so slightly, your resolve crumbling under the weight of his presence.

“Ollie,” You said, your voice more a warning than anything else.

“Hm?,” He hummed back, and then he kissed you again.

This time, you had no excuse. No reflex, no momentary lapse in judgment. You kissed him back because you wanted to—because, for once, you didn’t want to fight it.

But you weren’t about to let him have the last word.

When you broke apart, his hands still framing your face, you couldn’t help but smirk at him. “Happy now?”

He let out a breathless laugh, resting his forehead against yours. “Very.”

“Well, don’t get used to it,” You said, pulling back slightly.

He cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, I’m definitely getting used to it.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re a terrible liar,” He shot back, brushing a thumb along your jawline.

You swatted his hand away, though your heart was still racing. “This doesn’t mean anything, you idiot.”

“Sure,” he said, his tone so casual it made you want to throttle him. “It’s just two people who hate each other making out in my bedroom. Totally meaningless.”

“It was meaningless.”

“Right.” His grin was maddening. “That’s why you’re still blushing.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “I hate you so much.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You just kissed me,” He reminded you.

“That doesn’t mean I don’t hate you!”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

You glared at him, but it was no use. The butterflies in your stomach betrayed you, fluttering wildly every time he smiled at you like that.

“Well,” You said finally, attempting to stand up and closing your laptop, “This has been a colossal waste of time. I’m leaving.”

“Oh, no, you’re not,” Ollie said, grabbing your wrist and pulling you back down. “You’re not running away from this.”

“I’m not running away!”

“Then stay.”

You hesitated, your pulse quickening. “Why should I?”

“Because,” he said, his voice softening in a way that made your heart ache, “I like you. Even when you drive me absolutely insane.”

You stared at him, the weight of his words sinking in.

You wanted to argue, to deflect with some sarcastic remark, but the sincerity in his eyes stopped you.

“Fine,” You said after a long moment, your voice barely above a whisper. “But only because we still have work to do.”

His grin returned, but it was softer this time, more genuine. “Sure. Work.”

You straightened back up, opening your laptop and pretending to focus on the screen, but you could feel Ollie’s gaze burning into you. He leaned against the edge of his bed, his smirk far too knowing.

Far too confident.

And then, after a few moments of tense silence, you sighed and closed your laptop with a sharp snap.

“Hm,” Ollie drawled, his voice dripping with amusement. “Giving up already?”

You shot him a look, your heart pounding so loud you were sure he could hear it. “We both know we’re not getting any work done tonight.”

His smirk faltered for a second, replaced by something softer, something that made your breath hitch. “Yeah,” he murmured, his voice low.

Before you could overthink it, his hand cupped your jaw, pulling you toward him. And then his lips were on yours again, and this time there was no hesitation, no awkward fumbling.

It was pure, unrelenting gravity.

You kissed him back again, with everything you had, your fingers finding the back of his neck, pulling him closer until there was no space left between you. He tasted like spearmint gum and something undeniably him, something you couldn’t get enough of.

Ollie’s hands slid to your waist, pulling you closer, like he couldn’t stand the distance. Your heart raced.

“You’re ridiculous,” You mumbled against his lips, barely able to catch your breath.

He grinned, his forehead resting against yours. “And you’re impossible.”

“And yet, here we are,” You shot back, your voice breathless but still laced with defiance.

“Here we are,” He echoed, his fingers brushing along your jaw before tilting your head back for another kiss. This one was slower, deeper, like he was taking his time memorizing every detail.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew this was a terrible idea. But in that moment, with Ollie’s lips on yours and his hands keeping you grounded, you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

When you finally pulled away, your lips swollen and your heart pounding, you stared at him. He looked just as dazed as you felt, his hair slightly tousled, his lips red from kissing.

“Yeah,” You said, breaking the silence, “We’re definitely failing.”

Ollie laughed, his smile so wide and genuine it made your stomach flip. “Worth it.”

You groaned, dropping your head back and covering your face with your hands. “This is such a mess.”

He laughed, tugging your hands away so you had to look at him. “Maybe,” He said, his tone softer now, “But, it’s a good kind of mess.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at your lips. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Your idiot, maybe,” He teased, leaning down to steal one last kiss before you could argue.

“Oh, hush it.” You laughed as the antics continued anyways.

And even though you would never admit it, you didn’t really mind whatever this was.

Could’ve fooled you.

likes, comments, & reblogs appreciated! ^_^ let me know if u wanna be apart of my permanent tag list!!! :3

tags! @planetpedri @halfwayhearted @wdcbox @freyathehuntress

[annebd]

winter warmers, day 17: public sex/hot cocoa ~2700 words. this fic is based loosely off the pics and my tags on this post.

“Final grades are already submitted, mate. The time for bribery has come and gone.”

“Very funny, Daniel.” Max places the cup of hot cocoa on Daniel’s desk. A little bit of the whipped cream has sputtered out of the hole at the top. He swipes at it and licks the foam off his finger. He watches Daniel watching him. “Extra whipped cream and a sprinkle of cinnamon, like you like it. And anyway, it’s not a bribe because you are not my teacher anymore. That’s the point."

Max slouches off his backpack and dumps it in a heap on the floor in front of the threadbare armchair next to Daniel’s desk. He throws off his jacket, too- slings it over the back of the chair- before slumping to sit, his legs spread wide. He’s spent the better part of the semester in this exact position, big blue eyes staring raptly at Daniel across the desk, counting down the minutes until this moment. Now it’s Daniel’s turn to stare.

“Max…” he warns.

The door to Daniel’s tiny, cramped office is wide open, but it’s quiet. It’s late into the evening on the last day of the semester. The university is almost entirely deserted by now. All of the students abandoned campus the moment they finished their last exams over the week, and the professors have all gone home for the day, leaving their TAs to put together the final touches on grading for the end of the semester.

Daniel’s office is at the end of a long corridor in the dingy, mostly unused section of the English department. There’s a janitor’s closet next door that contains nothing more than a single mop and a broken plastic bucket. The empty office across the hall has a bigger desk than his and an actually functioning window, but when Daniel asked if he could move over there instead, his advisor had thrown around words like “seniority” and “tenure” and “paying his dues.” So he’s been stuck in this shoe closet for the past two years, while a perfectly good office lies empty just a few steps away. He likes to complain to Max about it when he’s feeling particularly resentful about some university bullshit or other. Max just likes to listen to him talk.

The office is, as usual, empty. As is the janitor’s closet. As is every other office or storage room down the hallway, all the way to the elevator bank, where the lone lightbulb is flickering intermittently, casting dancing shadows along the wall. They’re alone in the building for now. No one else is around.

Max tells Daniel this.

“No one else, huh?” Daniel leans back in his own chair, matches Max’s slouching posture. He takes a sip of the cocoa. Savors it. Takes another. “And what exactly am I supposed to do with that information?”

“You know what, Daniel. You are not my teacher anymore. This stupid class is over. No more Beowulf, thank god. And now I can have you. You said.”

“You can have me?” Daniel cuts himself off. “Jesus, Max. That’s definitely one way to phrase it.”

“Always you and your phrasing. I still am upset about when you took points off my essay for that, by the way.”

Daniel laughs.

Max doesn’t. He glances at the open door, which offers a clear view down the hallway. Still empty. Not so much as a faint footstep click-clacking in the distance.

He stands and turns Daniel’s swivel chair outwards a little so that he has enough space to kneel down in front of him. 

“Max,” Daniel warns him again, but his voice is softer this time. He’s not protesting. He’s looking down at Max, who’s already sliding his hands up and down the soft, worn denim encasing Daniel’s thighs.

“You have to say yes. You already said we could, but you have to say you want this now.” Max sits back onto his heels, and immediately feels colder being even six inches further away from Daniel. “Will you say yes, for me? Say that I can have you?”

Daniel runs a hand across his stubbled cheek, lets it cover his mouth for a moment. Max watches the light catch on his gold rings and dance across the wall. Daniel pulls off his glasses (an affectation, he’d once told Max. His prescription is so weak that he can get by fine without them, but they help sell the look. PhD student in English Lit, rather than tatted bogan) and looks at Max with wide eyes. Max looks back.

“Yes,” he says. “All right? I’m saying yes. You can have me.”

“Okay,” Max agrees and pushes Daniel’s grey sweater up so that he can lean in and suck a bruise into the center of his chest. He pulls back to look at it. His own mark on Daniel’s skin. Daniel has told him about some of his tattoos, and he’s seen some, of course, but he knows that there are others yet to be discovered. He’ll find every last one with his eyes and then his tongue. For now, he’ll add a few more of his own.

Daniel groans when Max sets his teeth against Daniel’s nipple. “Fuck, babe. Not even a kiss first? Right to the nipple play, huh?”

Max pulls back. Daniel’s right: they should kiss. He lets the sweater fall out of his hands and pulls Daniel by the back of the knees so that he slides lower in the chair. Max pushes into the space between Daniel’s spread legs so that they’re chest to chest.

Daniel looks soft like this, vulnerable, as he looks up to where Max hovers slightly taller than him. Max is used to Daniel taking up so much space: big laugh, big personality, big hair. But here, underneath Max’s hands, he’s small. His baggy sweaters hide a narrow waist, tapering to bony hips- delicate wrists extending to long, nail-bitten fingers. Max wants to cover him completely, hide him from the world, keep him for himself. That wouldn’t be fair, though. The world would be so much smaller without Daniel in it.

He cups his hand around Daniel’s cheek, his beard prickling ticklishly against Max’s palm.

“Hi,” Daniel says, quietly.

“Hello, Daniel,” Max says and then leans in for a kiss. It’s softer than he’s expecting, given the stubble situation. Daniel’s lips are warm against his, and they press together for just a moment before Max pulls away to look at him. He never gets tired of looking at Daniel.

He moves back in, harder this time, Daniel’s mouth opening for his, and he licks his way inside. He sucks on Daniel’s tongue, where the taste of cocoa and cinnamon is still lingering. Daniel kisses back- biting, bruising kisses that send a shock of pleasure direct to Max’s cock. He could spend hours here, days, years, just feeling the pressure of Daniel’s mouth on his.

But he has plans that extend beyond just a few heated kisses.

He has wanted this since the very first day of the semester, when he walked into that stupid Brit Lit classroom with his stupid copy of Beowulf and saw the hottest person he’s ever seen in his life sitting cross legged on the desk upfront, waving him in and telling him to grab a seat, that they’re just getting started.

He’d sat in the closest seat to the front, dead center, and spent the next three months contributing minimally to the in-class discussions that Daniel led, and instead, daydreamed about bending him over the lectern and fucking him until he cried. He did fine on exams, wrote marginally passable essays (phrasing issues aside), but couldn’t be bothered to contribute to the inanity of the conversations around him when he could spend that time imagining the taste of Daniel’s golden honey skin if he licked him all the way from his collarbone to his cock.

Soon enough, he’d started showing up to Daniel’s office hours twice a week, and then inviting himself to sit in the office whenever he knew Daniel would be there. He’d plop himself in the armchair and tap away at his homework for other classes (“the ones that matter, Daniel”) while Daniel worked on grading essays and occasionally tapped away at the doc that will eventually become his thesis.

And in that time, Max’s fantasies turned from the desk in the lecture hall to the desk right here in this cramped office. He’s spent many an afternoon sitting in the ratty armchair and watching Daniel work, while picturing doing exactly what he’s doing now: pressing his lips against Daniel’s and sliding his hand underneath his sweater to pinch a nipple, drawing out a low moan.

Daniel had always said no. Not until the semester was over; not while he was still in a position of power over Max.

And now they’re here. The semester is done, Daniel is no longer his TA, and Max can live out every last one of his fantasies.

Without breaking the kiss, he grabs Daniel around the waist and levers him up and out of the chair so that he can spin him around to sit on the edge of his desk. He leans around Daniel’s side to close the lid of his laptop and set it on the chair, which frees up the space he needs to lay him out flat on his back and start pulling at his clothes.

“Off,” he says, and shoves the hem of the sweater up so that Daniel will remove it completely. He reaches down to take off Daniel’s boots and then unzips his jeans and pulls them off. Between the two of them it’s quick work until Daniel is naked, save for his socks and the gold chain around his neck. He’s on his back with his ass at the edge of the desk and his thighs already falling open for Max to fit perfectly between.

Max takes a moment to appreciate the sight in front of him. Daniel’s tan is still a perfect golden, even now in the startling cold of mid-December. He’s lithe, deceptively muscled for how slender he is, further camouflaged by the baggy sweaters and hoodies he’s usually draped in. But like this, all of him on full display for Max’s pleasure, he’s a perfect specimen of toned muscle.

There are more tattoos even than Max expected- his thighs especially are a quilt of color. Max ignores them for now. There will be plenty of time for them to become more intimately acquainted later. For now, Max has other issues to attend to- like licking that stripe across Daniel’s torso. Collarbone to cock, and then back again.

He must stare for a hair too long, because Daniel starts to curl in on himself, shy in a way that Max has never seen him before. That can’t stand. Max leans down to kiss him again, pressing his hardening cock, still trapped inside his jeans, against Daniel’s, which forces his legs wide again. He wraps them around Max’s back and tugs him in closer.

They kiss lazily for a while until Max is so hard that the press of his cock against his zipper is a physical ache. He unzips and pulls himself out, immediately thrusting into the hollow where Daniel’s hip meets his thigh, precome slicking the way.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” he says, no beating around the bush.

He makes quick work of sliding on a condom and then slicking his cock and Daniel’s hole with a tiny packet of lube, both of which he’d tucked into his pocket earlier this evening.

He pushes in and feels the warmth of Daniel surrounding his cock. Daniel’s eyes widen and he gasps when Max bottoms out. He’s not huge, but his cock is thick, and he can feel Daniel’s hole fluttering around him to accommodate his girth. He moves slowly, letting him get used to the stretch.

“Fuck, Max,” Daniel chokes out as Max thrusts in to the hilt again. “More, please.”

“So polite for me. Of course, Daniel. I’ll give you everything you want.” And he does. For long minutes, he focuses on nothing more than the connection between their bodies, Daniel’s entirely naked and Max’s still fully clothed. He’s insane with the sensation, the knowledge that Daniel is giving himself over to Max so completely, letting Max take care of him.

He’s on the verge of coming when Max feels Daniel still beneath him for a moment, his gaze focused over Max’s shoulder. “Max, the door.”

“Yes. It’s still open. Anyone could walk past and see us. They could see you all spread out for me. For my cock. They could hear you, too, of course. Because you’re being very loud with your moans, Daniel.” He pushes in deep, makes sure to stroke firmly across Daniel’s prostate. He waits for him to moan and then does it again. “Just like that.”

Daniel shudders and clenches down around Max’s cock. It’s Max’s turn to moan out loud. He can feel Daniel starting to tremble beneath him. He reaches for Daniel’s cock and starts jerking him roughly.

“Now, Daniel,” he says. “Come for me now. Please.”

Daniel closes his eyes and pulls Max down over him, presses their mouths together. He licks across Max’s teeth as he comes. Max follows immediately behind, filling the condom and wishing they could do this bare. Imagines the feeling of filling Daniel instead, spurting deep inside him. He groans again as his hips kick up reflexively. He adds that to the mental tally for next time. There will absolutely need to be a next time.

They take their time cleaning up. Max grabbed a stack of napkins when he brought Daniel’s hot cocoa earlier. They don’t make for the most glamorous post-fuck clean up, but they’ll do.

When their clothes are back in place and they look mostly presentable again, Max tugs teasingly at the chain around Daniel’s neck, pulls him in for a kiss.

“Thank you for waiting for me,” Daniel tells him softly.

Then, he grins big for a second. “Oh, and for the cocoa, too. Delish, mate.”

Max just rolls his eyes. “You’re welcome. For both. Now, come. I need to take you home and fuck you some more. On a big bed, where I can take my time.”

He waits for Daniel to gather his things and turn out the lights in the office. He’ll finish his last bit of grading over the weekend, he tells Max.

They walk down the hall to the elevator, Max with one hand wrapped around Daniel’s hip and a thumb tucked through his belt loop.

As they near the elevator bank, they both freeze. Just a few doors down from Daniel’s office, they see light streaming out from Dr. Lambiase’s office, light that definitely hadn’t been there when Max showed up earlier.

They turn to look at each other, their eyes huge. Slowly, they walk towards the open door and freeze again when a familiar voice calls out from a familiar face. “Evening, boys. I thought I was already done for the day, but I had to come all the way back to campus to grab a couple of folders before break. You two all done for the evening?”

Neither of them says anything. Dr. Lambiase raises an eyebrow at them.

Max nudges Daniel to answer; he’s the TA. Not Dr. Lambiase’s TA, of course, but still. Max is just a student.

Daniel hurries to spit out, “Yeah, yep, we’re all done. Max just had a couple questions from the final exam, but we’re all good now, so we’re gonna go, have a good night, see you later.” He waves, prompts Max to do the same, and then speedwalks them down the rest of the hallway, where they wait in silence for the elevator to arrive.

“Oh my god,” Daniel says as soon as the elevator doors close. “Oh my god!”

“Well,” Max intones. “I guess we can check that one off the fantasy list, then?”

They look at each other silently for a second and then collapse into each other in a pile of giggles. Yeah, Max is definitely going to cross that one off the list.

[tkpuke]

jayvik with 16/lee!vik?

Jayce + Viktor - 16. “Put the book down and pay attention to me!”

The sound of chalk harshly hitting against a blackboard kept repeating, Viktor drawing a equation that took half the space in a hurried manner as if the ideas flowing in his head would vanish any second before he could write the rest down. Viktor was deep in thought, having spent around three hours already in the lab alone. No distractions so far, which he was thankful for.

Until the door swung open.

Jayce comes in, immediately taking a seat while dramatically running his hands through his hair; an anxious habit. “I need to rant real quick.” He starts, but Viktor only glances once and keeps writing away. “It’s this upcoming speech,” he fetches something nearby to fiddle with. “I’m so nervous I can’t even think straight. I don’t even have a speech prepared!”

“Mmm.” Is all Viktor responds with, now taking a little step back to view his work so far. Something’s missing. He grabs a book that was on standby the entire time, flipping through the pages to see what went wrong with his equation.

“I don’t know how much Insight I should give the people about Hextech and its potential. Will it scare them? Will it bring hope?”

“uh huh.” Viktor says again, but he wasn’t truly listening. He has been too caught up on what he’s currently doing, it’s impossible for him to drop it all suddenly and put full attention on anything else. Don’t get him wrong, Viktor deeply appreciates that Jayce comes to him for advice or just to be a shoulder he can lean on, but right now wasn’t a good time. Jayce seems to be a little slow on picking that up, though.

The man sighs, resting his cheek on his palm. “I really wish you could be up there with me, Viktor. I know you already declined but it would’ve put me a lot at ease, y’know?” Silence was all he was met with. He could hear the wall clock ticking, pages being flipped and a occasional chalk meeting the blackboard, but no reply from Viktor. The only sound he was looking forward to hearing.

Jayce finally looks over, seeing Viktor’s nose buried deep in a book. This entire time was he just being ignored? Annoyance starts to fuel Jayce’s entire body, making him stand up to creep over to Viktor quietly. He doesn’t even hear him, of course, his mind somewhere else.

Viktor’s racing thoughts suddenly ripped away from him by a hand placing tiny squeezes on his side. The book was dropped, Viktor grabbing onto Jayce’s wrist tightly but not doing much to push it away.

“Put the book down and pay attention to me!” Jayce nearly pouts as a joke, still squeezing away on Viktor’s side while his other hand supports his back so he won’t fall from all the helpless squirming. “Wahait! Stohohop, I wahahas!” He shakes his head in the midst of all the squirming, loose hair strands starting to almost cover his eyes. Jayce stops abruptly but with the hand still there, almost like a warning.

“Then what was I talking about?” Jayce clearly sees Viktor trying to mentally recall, his silence speaking volumes. “uhm….err…” Viktor hesitantly looks up at him, who stared back unamused. Then, the tickling started back up again.

“It’s not looking good for you, Viktor. Maybe this will jog up your memory? Worth a shot, right?” The squeezes started to intentionally get lower, Jayce evilly seeking out for that bad spot: the hips.

And Viktor knows this. Hence why hitting weakly at Jayce’s chest, trying to signal a tap out. “noHO!—JAHAYCE!” He pretty much squeaks, cheeks slightly flushing from embarrassment. Viktor absolutely hates the sounds he makes whenever he gets tickled silly, but if you ask Jayce?

He adores them.

“That is my name.” Jayce answers innocently, honing in on just that spot. At this point, he doesn’t even care if Viktor had actually listened to him or not. At first, this was for the sole purpose of a bit of fun revenge. Although it always finishes out to be Jayce wanting to just hear his partner laugh like there’s no tomorrow, his reactions so priceless. How can someone not enjoy tickling a person that scrunches up their nose when you target there, or squeaks like a mouse when you tickle here?

It would’ve gone on for a few more minutes if Viktor didn’t bump against the blackboard in the midst of all his squirming, accidentally erasing some of the equation he had written. They both halt; Vitkor staring at the half erased problem in disbelief and Jayce staring because he’s about to get scolded by him any second, which is not a pretty sight.

But Viktor didn’t scold. He instead slowly turned, faces so close they can feel each other’s breath hit their skin. What Jayce failed to see from the corner of his eye was Viktor starting to flex his fingers.

“You’re going to pay for that.”

[silent-stories]

𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐃 𝐀 𝐅𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐘 - 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄

Pairing: Noah Sebastian x reader

Series summary: When Noah was left alone to take care of his daughter about two years ago, he never thought he would find someone else he would trust enough to include in his little family. But things can change.

Tw: drunk jason

Series masterlist

That evening, after Noah’s flight, your phone buzzed with a message from him. His words weren’t as distant as you’d expected, and you found yourself exhaling a quiet breath of relief.

Noah♡: We’ve landed! Everything’s good here so far.

You: Glad to hear. How’s the weather?

Noah♡: It’s a bit colder, but no big deal. I’ll survive.

Noah♡: How’s Luna doing?

You: She’s great.

You: We’re having fun. No worries here.

Noah♡: That’s good to hear

Noah♡:Hope she’s not getting into too much trouble

You: She’s been perfect. Just finished watching cartoons.

Noah♡: Nice!

Noah♡: Well, I guess I’ll let you go

Noah♡: Catch you later

Noah♡: Bye

There was no "I love you" at the end of his message, something that would’ve been so automatic just days ago. But somehow, it didn’t feel like a cold goodbye. It felt like he needed a bit more space, and maybe you did, too. You held the phone in your hands for a moment longer, letting that thought settle.

You: bye! Have a good show.

You sent the last text.

The rest of the evening passed as smoothly as expected. Luna’s energy and creative stories kept you both occupied, and you found yourself laughing more than you had in a while. She told you a wild story about how Mr. Flop had to fight off Broccoli Man, who had been stealing all the vegetables in his garden, trying to turn them into broccoli soldiers to take over the world.

The entire thing was ridiculous, and you couldn’t help but smile at her enthusiasm.

"Mr. Flop is really strong, though, right?" Luna asked as she leaned closer to you, "Like daddy!"

"Of course, he’s a superhero." you replied with a grin, "Mr. Flop, not Noah."

Luna nodded seriously. "He’s going to save the universe from Broccoli Man! And then everyone will be able to eat all the strawberries and carrots they want!"

You laughed softly, gently tapping her nose. "I think you’re right. That’s a pretty good plan."

Luna beamed and threw herself back onto the pillows, giggling. "And then he can fly to the moon!"

"Why not?" you said, settling next to her. "He’s Mr. Flop. He can do anything."

Luna snuggled into the blankets on the couch, her eyes fluttering as she fought to stay awake. "And he’ll get all the carrots in the world." she mumbled.

"I think it's time to go to sleep for someone."

"Mh. Who? Not me."

"Actually I think it's you." You laughed as you picked her up and brought her to her bedroom.

Luna, however, didn't give up right away and insisted until it was your turn to create a story. You came up with a tale about a family made up of a big but kind bear (inspired by Noah), his daughter, a rabbit (obviously Luna), and a cat who was, of course, you.

It was so silly and Luna giggled the whole time, until her eyes started to close.

You softly brushed a lock of hair out of her face. "Sweet dreams, Luna," you whispered.

"Mhm," she hummed, already drifting into sleep, "Goodnight."

After Luna fell asleep, you quietly slipped out of her room. You took a moment to pause outside her door, listening to the soft sound of her breathing before making your way into Noah’s bedroom. The bed was neatly made, but as soon as you climbed under the covers, the familiar scent of Noah’s pillow surrounded you. It smelled like him—faintly of cologne, warmth, and something distinctly him.

For a brief moment, you let yourself linger in the comfort of it, breathing deeply as you settled into his space.

You lay there, your mind racing. Thoughts of Noah and the tension between you both circled in your mind. But as you tried to clear your head, you focused on the rhythm of your breathing and the warmth of the bed surrounding you.

Things were still up in the air, uncertain, but for now, you hoped everything would work out. Maybe Noah just needed time to process everything, to clear his mind. You knew he loved you.

With that thought, you closed your eyes, letting sleep gently take over. You thought about the way he’d said goodbye, the way his hand lingered on your back before he left for the show, and the way he had smiled, though it felt a little strained.

You had a weird feeling in your stomach and conflicting thoughts in your head.

You wanted to believe that the time away, even if only two days, would help both of you figure things out.

Maybe things would be okay. Maybe this space would give him the time he needed to work through the mess of feelings he had. You just hoped that when he came back, things between you would be a bit different—better. That he would understand that Jason was part of your past.

You drifted off, letting the night surround you, hoping everything would fall into place. The silence in the room felt comforting, and you whispered to the empty space next to you, "Everything will be fine. We’ll make it work, Noah. I know we will."

You closed your eyes and fell into a deep sleep, the thought of Noah lingering in your dreams.

“This is his city, Jo,” Erika said to her friend, almost in awe, gesturing around with a wide sweep of her hand as the two walked through the city center. “Can you believe it? This is where Noah fucking Sebastian lives."

I mean, I can’t even process it! I’ve been a fan for so long, and now I’m actually here... in the city where he fucking lives.” She grinned, practically glowing with the thought of it. “I just hope we spot him while we’re here, like... just walking around or something. You know, like fate. He’s gotta be back in town in a couple of days, right? After that concert I was too slow to get the tickets for."

Jo, who had been listening with half an ear, couldn’t suppress a smirk. “Yeah, sure. You’re totally gonna run into him and play it cool, right?”

Erika shot her a playful glare. “What? What do you mean ‘play it cool’? Like, I’m supposed to act casual about it?”

Jo raised an eyebrow, leaning in slightly as if to mock Erika’s dramatic flair. “Well, yeah, I'm sure you would start screaming like you lost your mind.”

Erika’s eyes widened. “Pfft, honestly? I would totally scream. What if we’re just walking down the street, and he... like, just walks by us? Imagine if we catch him going to the grocery store or something. We’d just—”

“Freak out? Like a total sane person would do?” Jo teased.

“Uh, yeah. I’d probably lose my mind. You don’t even understand. Imagine me yelling out his name when I see him walking past us.”

Jo sighed, rolling her eyes dramatically. “You’re such a fangirl, Erika.”

“Guilty,” Erika admitted, smiling widely. But then her grin faltered for just a moment. “I mean, imagine though, if we actually do run into him. Like, what if... what if he doesn’t look like a god on earth in person? What if he’s all... unshowered or something? Would I love him less? Probably not, honestly."

Jo chuckled, but then her expression shifted slightly. “Wait. Isn’t he... isn’t he in a relationship right now?”

Erika’s face lit up as she leaned in to gossip. “Yeah, apparently. You’ve seen him holding hands with that girl in the pics I showed you, right? I mean, she’s cute, but... it’s Noah fucking Sebastian we’re talking about here. Everyone thought he was gonna stay single forever after the big break up with his ex. But nope, turns out he’s taken now. But you know what the fans are saying, right?”

Jo rolled her eyes again, though this time there was a hint of genuine curiosity in her tone. “What, are the fans still convinced they’re gonna break up? I swear, Twitter is just full of delusional people.”

Erika’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Hey, I’m on Twitter too, you know.”

Jo smirked. “I know.”

“So you know the vibe,” Erika said with a shrug, her grin returning. “I’m just saying, Twitter’s pretty sure they won’t last. I mean, they’re like, ‘Noah’s gonna wake up and realize he can’t be tied down, blah blah.’ You know the drill.”

Jo snorted, crossing her arms. “Yeah, because Twitter has such a good track record when it comes to relationships.”

“Hey, sometimes they’re right,” Erika said. “There’s always some truth to the madness.”

Jo shook her head exasperation, but there was a bit of amusement in her eyes. “Alright, fine. Whatever. Let’s just hope you don’t have to chase him down the street screaming.”

“Who says I wouldn’t?” Erika winked, and Jo just laughed.

They continued walking for a while, Erika practically floating on her own excitement. “I know he’s not in town right now, though,” she repeated, her voice suddenly quieter. “But hopefully, he’ll be back soon, and I’ll get the chance to run into him. I mean, we’re here for a whole week. Who knows? Maybe we’ll be lucky.”

Jo gave her a teasing look. “So you’re gonna hang around for a week, hoping he’ll just pop up out of nowhere?”

“Well, yeah. What’s the worst that could happen?” Erika grinned, her optimism unchanged. “If fate wants us to meet, it’ll happen. And if not, well, at least I can say I was in his city.”

Jo rolled her eyes playfully. “You're hopeless.”

Erika shrugged with a smile. “What can I say? It’s Noah fucking Sebastian. A girl can dream.”

"Maybe you'll meet his girlfriend."

"God, don't make me think about that."

As they continued walking through the city streets, Erika couldn’t help but imagine all the ways she might accidentally run into Noah. Maybe it wouldn’t be today, but she’d hold onto the hope that someday, somehow, she’d get that moment of fate.

And, if that moment did come, she’d make sure she was ready to scream.

The morning sunlight poured in through the windows, casting soft beams across Noah's living room, where you and Luna were sitting on the carpet. The air was warm, the peaceful hum of the quiet house making it feel like an ordinary, calm morning.

Luna, her dark hair tied back into a little ponytail, was sitting cross-legged beside you. Her tiny hands were busy, gathering the colorful perlite beads, placing them neatly in front of you both. She handed you a strand of elastic thread, her eyes wide with concentration as she carefully picked up the beads one by one.

"Here, these are for your bracelet." she said softly as she passed you a little pile of pink beads.

"Thanks, Lu," you replied, taking the beads from her hand and threading them onto the string, forming a delicate bracelet. Luna had decided you two should make matching ones, with one for you and one for her. But when she had asked, if you could also make one for Noah when he came home, you had agreed with a warm smile. The thought of the three of you having a tiny shared piece of something meant so much to you, more than you could explain.

She glanced up at you, her brown eyes focused and intent on your every movement as you worked on the bracelet.

"I like this one," Luna said quietly, as she looked at you working on it. "Very pretty."

"You can keep it for you, if you want," you replied, your voice soft as you gave her a reassuring smile.

"No, no. It's for you. You need a pretty bracelet too."

"Alright." You chuckled.

You continued working side by side in peace, you made some comments about how hard it actually was and Luna laughed every time.

She passed you the beads to make Noah's bracelet too, some were white and some pink. You laughed at the idea of Noah wearing it.

After a while, you finished with the last few beads of Noah's bracelet, tying the ends of the threads and holding it up. "See? We all have matching ones. He's gonna love it."

"I love them too! They are all so cute!"

Luna’s eyes sparkled as she reached out to take her bracelet from you. You carefully tied it around her little wrist, making sure it was just the right size. She looked down at it with a sense of satisfaction, before lifting her arm up to show it off.

"Y/N," she said softly, her voice filled with warmth. "Thank you for making these with me."

You smiled at her words, your heart melting just a little at the simplicity of it all. "It was fun, Luna. I’m happy we made them together."

Then, you put your own bracelet on the left Noah's one on the coffee table.

The two of you sat back for a moment, admiring your handiwork. The quiet was comfortable, peaceful. It wasn’t about grand gestures or big moments. It was just the two of you, making something simple, yet meaningful, that made you feel even more part of the family.

During the early afternoon, the air was just enough chill to feel refreshing but not too cold to keep you indoors. Luna was beside you, skipping along the sidewalk as you made your way to the café. She had been asking for the cookies there all morning, and you’d promised her you’d get some.

"Luna, don’t run off too far!" you called as she darted ahead, her tiny legs moving with a quickness that matched her energy.

"I'm just going to see if I can spot the cookies through the window!" she called back over her shoulder, already well ahead of you.

You arrived at the café, the familiar jingle of the door opening greeting you as you stepped inside, already feeling the warm aroma of freshly brewed coffee and baked pastries wrapped around you. Luna headed straight for the display case, eyeing the rows of cookies.

"Well, look who finally decided to show up," Grace’s voice came from behind the counter, dripping with sarcasm. She didn’t even glance up from her phone. "I thought you weren’t coming in today."

You sighed inwardly, already knowing where this was going. "Hey, I told you I was gonna stay with Luna for a couple of days. But she wanted the cookies."

Grace scoffed, still not bothering to look at you. "Yeah yeah."

Luna, blissfully unaware of Grace’s sharp tone, pointed to the cookies on the counter, eager to get her hands on the treats. Grace grumbled under her breath as she grabbed a jar of cookies, setting them down on a plate.

"Here. Your usual."

"Thanks, Grace," you replied, a little too sweetly, grabbing the cookies from the counter and leading Luna to a table by the window. She plopped down happily, already tearing into one of her cookies.

After a few moments, Grace walked over to your table, her eyes narrowing as she folded her arms across her chest. "So, how’s the rockstar boyfriend of yours?" she asked.

You raised an eyebrow, already preparing for the usual jabs. "He’s fine."

Grace leaned in a little closer, her lips curling into a sly smile. "Really? That’s it? Just fine?" She paused, her tone laced with amusement.

You clenched your jaw but tried to keep your cool. "Yeah, he’s fine. He texted me a couple of times, he seemed chill. Maybe the distance helped calming the waters. He’ll be home tomorrow morning."

Grace chuckled, scanning your face as though she were trying to pick out any crack in your calm exterior. "Well, alright. But- oh. Look who's there!"

You turned around to the sound of a familiar voice calling your name. Standing in the doorway of the café, was Jason. He gave you a slight no and a little smile, but you could almost see the tension in his posture. However, you noticed the way his eyes softened when they met yours.

"Hey," he called, walking toward you.

"Jason." you said.

It's not the right moment, it will never be the right one. You wanted to say. But the words died in your throat.

"I need to talk to you," he said, his voice low but urgent.

"Jason-"

"Please."

You hesitated for a moment, then you stepped away from the table, walking a few paces toward Jason, keeping a cautious distance between you both. You casted a quick glance over your shoulder at Grace, who was chatting with Luna at the table.

"Alright," you said. You didn’t know what this conversation would bring.

You could hear Grace talking to Luna in the background, her voice casual but with an odd warmth to it.

"...Your eyes are so big and pretty, you know that?" Grace’s voice drifted over to you, and you found yourself smiling a bit. You couldn't deny that Grace had her sharp moments, but you always knew there was more to her—more than just the snarky attitude and sarcasm. You never really understood what had made her so cold, but you knew she wasn't actually a bad person. She just had a way of hiding it.

Focusing back on Jason, you tried to push aside the strange feeling that had crept into your chest. "What’s up?" you asked, doing your best to keep your voice steady.

Jason took a breath before speaking, his gaze locking with yours, blue eyes staring right into your soul. "I—" He paused, as if weighing his words carefully. "I can’t stop thinking about you. Since I got back into town, it's like I never left. And I know things ended, but I need to tell you the truth."

Your stomach twisted, but you forced a calm smile. So Noah was right. "Jason, I'm happy with Noah," you said, your voice firm but gentle. "He's—he's good to me, and things are really good right now. I’ve moved on."

A little part of the sentence was a lie, but he didn't need to know that. Things weren't "really good" but they were going to be.

Jason's eyes dropped for a moment, and when they met yours again, they were filled with something raw. "I get it. You’re happy. But I’ve changed. I’m not the same person I was when we... when we ended things. It hurts, seeing you with someone else, but I don’t want to lie to you anymore. I still care about you, Y/N."

The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard, and for a moment, you felt that familiar pull—the one that had once made you believe you could fix things between you two. You swallowed hard, shaking your head softly. "I’m happy, Jason. I’m really happy with Noah. I... I think you need to move on, too."

Jason stared at you, his lips pressing into a thin line. "It’s hard," he muttered. "But I get it. I just wanted you to know."

You gave him a small nod, feeling the weight of his words settle in your chest. But it didn’t change anything. "I’m glad to hear you’ve changed, Jason. But this is my life now."

With that, you turned on your heel, walking back to the table. You could feel Jason's gaze still on your back as you went, and when you reached Grace and Luna, you tried to put on a brave face. Grace raised an eyebrow when she saw the look on your face, but Luna didn't notice anything amiss, still happily munching on her cookie.

Jason didn’t say anything else. He left without another word, disappearing into the street, and the door of the tattoo shop slammed shut behind him.

Grace gave you a questioning look, but didn’t pry. Instead, she shrugged casually. "Everything alright?"

You took a breath, trying to shake off the weird tension that had filled the air. "Yeah, it’s fine. Let’s just eat."

Jason slammed the door of the tattoo shop behind him, the quiet hum of the neon sign above flickering as the shop fell into a tense, suffocating silence. He walked toward the counter, his fists clenched at his sides, his jaw grinding with frustration. Rick, still sitting where Jason left him before going to the cafè, glanced up at the noise, raising an eyebrow at the storm brewing inside his friend.

"Jesus, man. It didn't work out?" Rick asked, his tone low but laced with curiosity.

Jason didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he slammed his fist down on the counter, the wood groaning under the force of the impact. Rick flinched, his eyes widening, but he didn’t move. He’d seen Jason angry before, but tonight was different. This wasn’t the usual frustration; this was something deeper, more explosive.

After a moment of silence Rick tried again, playing with a pin on his leather jacked with his hands.

"She fucking shut me down, Rick," Jason growled, his voice shaking with rage. "I had it all planned out! I was going to tell her those bullshits, show her that I’m not the same guy I was when we broke up. I thought, maybe, if I played it right, she'd—"

Jason cut himself off with a bitter laugh, raking a hand through his short light brown hair. He kicked a chair out of his way and began pacing back and forth across the floor, his eyes wild with frustration. Rick just leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching his friend unravel.

"But she didn’t bite," Jason muttered darkly. "She just fucking shut me down, like it was nothing! No hesitation. No second thoughts. Just—'I’m happy with Noah.' Like I didn’t even matter!"

Rick let the silence hang in the air for a moment before he spoke again. His voice was steady, as if trying to cut through the storm of Jason’s anger. "So, what do you wanna do now? You can’t just sit around pissed off about it. She made her choice, man."

Jason’s gaze snapped toward Rick, eyes flashing with a mix of disbelief and fury. He slammed his fist into the counter again, this time harder, the sound of wood cracking under the pressure ringing out in the big space. "What the fuck do you think I’m supposed to do, huh? Let it go? Just walk away and pretend this didn't happen? I can't lose! Jason Clarke can never lose! You hear me? He cannot!" He tapped his index to his temple a few times while shouting like he was trying to spat out everything that was going on his mind at the moment.

"You could just try to move on too," Rick said with a shrug. "I mean, she told you. She’s happy with Noah. Maybe it’s time to face facts."

Jason’s eyes narrowed. "No," he spat, stepping closer to Rick, his voice a low growl now. "I’m not just gonna let it go. I want her. I fucking need her" He paused, his fists flexing at his sides. "I want her to want me again."

Rick’s expression softened for a moment, but he didn’t say anything. Jason’s eyes darted to the closed sign hanging in the window and the empty tattoo chairs around them. The weight of the silence pressed down on him, but then something shifted in his eyes—a flicker of realization.

He stood still for a moment, staring at Rick, his mind working at a pace that seemed almost dangerous. The anger faded, replaced by a sly, almost mischievous glint in his eyes.

"What are you thinking?" Rick asked cautiously, already suspecting what was coming. It was going to involve him too, he was sure.

"Rick, my brother" he said, his voice dropping to a more dangerous tone, "you free tonight?"

It was late, well past midnight, when you finally decided to lie down. The house was quiet, save for the occasional creak of the wooden floors beneath the weight of the night. You had just finished watching My Neighbor Totoro with Luna, who, despite her attempts to fight sleep, was already tucked into bed, clutching Mr. Flop tightly, in her soft pink pajamas.

She had asked if her dad would be home tomorrow, to which you had softly replied, "When you wake up, you dad will already be here."

That was enough to comfort her, and now, the house was dark and quiet.

You slid under the covers, trying to ignore the unease still lingering from the earlier conversation with Jason. But you tried not to think about him. Just relax, Y/N. You’re with Noah now.

But then came the sound.

At first, you thought it was just the wind—the soft, eerie whisper of the trees outside—but then, you heard it again. A light scrape, then a thud.

"Fuck." Someone muttered.

You hesitated for a moment, listening. It was unmistakable now.

Someone was out there.

Your heart skipped a beat as you slowly got out of bed, your bare feet cold against the hardwood floor. You tiptoed to the window, the one that overlooked the porch. You peered through the curtains, and for a split second, you thought you were imagining it, but there he was.

Jason.

He was standing on your porch, swaying slightly, his body unsteady as he gripped the railing for support. The faint glow of the porch light caught the bottle in his hand. He was drunk.

Drunk? He looked completely wasted.

Your heart raced. Why was he there? It was well past one in the morning.

You rushed to the door, flung it open without thinking, and before you could say a word, Jason stumbled over, nearly knocking into you.

"Y/N," he slurred, his eyes blurry, "I love you. I... I love you."

You froze, taken aback by his words. The heat of his body, the stench of alcohol, and the recklessness of his presence hit you all at once, you put a hand on his chest to slightly push him away and to avoid a possible fall. "What the hell are you doing here?" you spat. "It’s fucking late and you are drunk. Go home."

Jason shook his head, his eyes glassy. He reached for you, his voice pleading, "My friend... he played a joke on me. Left me out here. I don’t know where to go. Please... let me in."

You felt your stomach drop as you looked him over. He was shivering in a light jacket, his eyes half-lidded as he tried to steady himself. The chill of the night air was sharp and biting, and he looked like he might collapse any second.

"Jason I- God. I fucking hate you."

"Mh... please." He mumbled.

You didn’t know what to do. Every fiber of your being told you to shut the door, to send him away. This isn’t your problem. But your conscience—your heart—had other plans.

You took the bottle from his hand and put it on the ground, then stepped aside, grabbing him by his jacket as he swayed again, and helped him inside, closing the door behind you with a click.

"God, Jason," you muttered, glaring at him as you took in his disheveled state. "What the hell were you thinking? You’re drunk off your ass, and it’s freezing outside. How do you even fucking know where Noah lives?"

Jason didn’t respond right away. Instead, he collapsed onto the couch with a defeated sigh, his eyes half-lidded. "You’re beautiful," he muttered, his voice soft. "Even without makeup... in your pajamas."

You rolled your eyes. "This is so messed up. This is so fucking messed up. You can’t just show up here like this. Do you have someone to call?"

"Someone to... I don't have anyone."

"Be serious."

"I swear. My only friend is the one who left me in the middle of the street."

"Jesus Christ. Jason you... fuck you, Jason. For real. Noah’s going to be back in the morning. You need to leave before then. Got it?"

Jason nodded, but you could see the drunken fog in his eyes, clouding any attempt at sincerity. "I’ll leave," he slurred. "I promise. Before Noah gets here... I’ll go."

But you couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He shouldn’t be here. But you didn't even know where he lived and couldn't even drive him there.

"You should have never come," you hissed, rubbing your temples in frustration. "Why would you think this is okay? It's Noah's house! His daughter is sleeping in her bedroom right now!"

Jason blinked slowly, a smile tugging at his lips despite his condition. "You didn’t leave me out there," he muttered, as if that was some great revelation. "That’s what I always liked about you. You’ve got a good heart."

Before you could respond, Jason’s words trailed off, his body slumping further against the couch. His breathing deepened, and within moments, the rhythmic sound of snoring filled the room.

You stood there for a moment, watching him, trying to process what had just happened. This wasn’t right. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Jason, drunk, and seeking comfort from you, was far from what you had imagined.

That was crazy. You didn't want him there. He shouldn’t have been there.

But despite everything, you couldn’t bring yourself to just leave him outside. He was still human, still someone you had cared for, once. And that damn heart of yours... Maybe I’m too soft, you thought bitterly. Maybe I’m too kind.

You sat down on the couch next to him, unable to ignore the wave of conflicting emotions that washed over you. You didn’t want him here, didn’t want to help him. But the truth was, you couldn’t leave him there, not when he was like this.

It was wrong. So wrong. He was in Noah's house.

So so fucking wrong.

But what else could you do?

As you sat in the dim light of the living room, your gaze locked on Jason’s peaceful face.

Almost like the old times.

This was a mistake.

You didn’t know how to fix this. You didn’t know if it could be fixed.

And as the hours stretched on, you were left alone with your thoughts, the sound of Jason's snoring filling the empty spaces between your anxieties as you were still sitting on the couch, processing everything.

Tomorrow would come, Jason would leave and Noah would be back, and everything would change again.

But for tonight, Jason was here.

And there was nothing you could do about it.

Erika and Jo stumbled down the sidewalk, their laughter echoing through the quiet streets. The night had been a blast, full of music, drinks, and dancing, and they were finally going to the apartment they rented for their vacation.

"Seriously, though," Erika laughed, wiping a tear from her eye, "did you see that guy trying to dance? I swear, I thought his legs were gonna give out."

Jo chuckled, adjusting her jacket against the cool evening air. "Oh my god, I thought the same thing. He looked like he was having some kind of seizure. But you have to admit, he was really trying. Respect for that."

"Yeah, yeah, he was trying," Erika laughed. "Trying to give us secondhand embarrassment. But it was kind of adorable."

They walked in silence for a few moments, the streetlights casting soft halos on the sidewalk, until Erika suddenly froze in her tracks. Her eyes narrowed, her grin faltering as she stared down the street.

Jo, still walking, bumped into her and almost knocked her over. "Erika? What’s up?"

Erika didn’t answer immediately, still focused on something a little further up the road. She pointed towards a house, a slight tension in her voice now. "Wait... Jo. Look over there. Is that...?"

Jo squinted in the direction Erika was gesturing to, where a porch light illuminated a figure standing outside a front door, speaking to someone.

"No way," Erika muttered, her breath catching in her throat. "That’s—"

"What? Who?" Jo asked, frowning. "That’s just a girl... opening her door at... what time is it?"

Erika’s eyes were wide with disbelief, but there was no mistaking the recognition in her voice. "No, Jo. That can’t be... That’s her. That’s Noah’s girlfriend."

Jo stared at her in confusion. "What? Are you serious right now?"

Erika’s heart was pounding in her chest. She pulled out her phone, her fingers shaking slightly as she zoomed in on the scene. The girl was talking animatedly to the guy standing in front of her—no, not just any guy—this guy was tall, attractive, with messy hair, and he seemed way too close to the girl on her porch. But it was you Erika was focused on.

"Look!" Erika hissed, thrusting the phone towards Jo. "Look at her! It’s totally fucking her. Look at her hair. Oh my god. I know it’s her."

Jo blinked and took the phone, squinting at the picture. "I don’t know, Erika. Are you sure? She looks a little different than in the photos... and it’s kind of dark, so—"

"I’m telling you, Jo!" Erika almost whispered, her voice tight with excitement. "It’s her! I’ve seen her in those pictures online a million times. It’s definitely her."

Jo raised an eyebrow. "Okay, but... what about the guy? That doesn’t look like Noah."

Erika’s gaze hardened. "I don’t know who he is, but it sure as hell isn’t Noah."

Jo crossed her arms, uncertainty creeping in. "Erika, don’t you think you’re jumping to conclusions a little? It’s the middle of the night. You can’t just—"

"Shh!" Erika cut her off, practically hissing as she lowered her voice. "I’m not missing this. I need proof."

Before Jo could protest, Erika started recording the scene on her phone. The porch light illuminated the two figures clearly now, and Erika focused the lens. You were still talking to the guy, though Erika couldn’t hear the words from this distance, but the exchange looked... intimate. Too intimate. He was close to you and at some point, your hand was on his chest.

"What the hell, Erika?" Jo whispered, her voice filled with disbelief and a hint of concern. "You really shouldn’t be recording this. It’s none of our business."

"Are you kidding me?" Erika scoffed, not taking her eyes off the screen. "This is totally our business. People need to know about this. You’re just jealous because I’m about to break the internet."

Jo shook her head in disbelief. "You're insane. You know this could cause trouble, right?"

Erika shot her a look, one part playful and one part defiant. "Trouble? Jo, come on. People love drama. Imagine the reactions on Twitter when I post this. It's going to blow up. You know they’ll go wild over this. Everyone is obsessed with Noah's love life right now."

Jo rolled her eyes. "You’re unbelievable. Do whatever you want."

Erika laughed, her attention still fixed on the screen. "You’ll thank me when this goes viral. Now get ready for some real fangirl action."

As she kept recording, Erika couldn’t help but smile to herself, despite the nagging feeling in her gut. She didn’t know why, but something about this whole scene felt... off. But at the same time, she couldn’t stop herself from capturing it. After all, it wasn’t every day that you got this close to the drama of Noah fucking Sebastian’s personal life.

And if there was one thing she knew for sure, it was that this was a moment she couldn’t afford to miss.

Twitter was gonna love it.

Tags: @anything-more-than-human @ladyveronikawrites @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard @fadingangelwisp @xmads-omensx @iwasntstable @thisbicc @pathion @flowery-mess @into-the-grey @lacy1986 @tosoundlessdarkistare @stardustsirenmelody @thewrstinme

TBAF Tags: @klutzy-kay24 @mrscevans @concreteangel92 @iconic-taurus @niicoleleigh @cheyyyyr @supersquirrel1996 @respectfulrebel @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @clickmedead @missduffsblog @whenyouwannafindlove @chey-h @kenjipepsi1

[ebongawk]

gimme kiss #41 😎

41. A kiss out of spite

"Chrissy will you–– Hey, man move it–– Will you please just talk to me? Chrissy! Babe, wait up!"

Chrissy was resolute in her marching through the party, red solo cup held above her head to avoid knocking into the swaying bodies. Avoiding the possibility of covering either herself or someone else in wet.

Though she'd swapped her vodka soda out for a water as soon as she saw Jason walk through the doors of the house party they were apparently both attending. She'd have to be sober if she wanted to remain resolute in this breakup.

Her defenses never failed to fall when she got tipsy, and she absolutely refused to take Jason back again. No way, no how, no sir. He was an asshole, and yeah, it had unfortunately taken her most of high school and half of college to realize it, but she couldn't exactly un-realize it now.

Of course, he would just happen to be at the one party she decided to attend this semester since the breakup. After vetting his calls for the past three months and being conveniently out of her apartment whenever he came around (she sent a silent thank you to Heather and Robin for playing up how busy she was as she hid in her bedroom while he was at the door), of course he was doing his absolute best to grab her attention here, of all places.

In public.

It would be mortifying if it wasn't so sad.

Dipping into the basement, Chrissy made her way through yet another throng of bodies before shoving herself into a small clearing. A deep inhale and an exasperated exhale ignited a chuckle from across the way, and Chrissy glanced up.

Oh.

What a pretty boy.

Blinking some of the haze out of her eyes, Chrissy watched the way he tilted his head to one side in curiosity as his eyes darted from her feet to her face. Then, making the trek again but far, far more slowly, Chrissy felt something heated curling dangerously in her stomach.

"All good, toots?" he asked, his voice just loud enough to carry over the din of noise. "Seems like you just ran a marathon. Not all that to find little ol' me, I assume?"

Those dark eyes were alight with some unnamed mischief Chrissy suddenly found herself desperate to identify. He was alone, sitting in the corner of the basement with a cigarette between his lips and a half-beaten lunchbox at his feet. Like some nefarious prince on a deserted island, there was a strange berth of space around him. People milling about but never daring to get too close.

But his question was like a welcoming hand stretching the distance. He'd lowered a moat over crocodile-infested waters and was waiting for her to cross.

She didn't hesitate his extension of refuge.

Plopping wearily down on the small stool he had cleared for her next to his armchair, Chrissy groaned as she rubbed her temples. Setting the red cup at her feet and taking yet another deep, slow breath.

"So, uh," the guy began, sitting forward until he could catch her eye before she let her head droop between her knees. "You come here often?"

Snorting, Chrissy rolled her eyes.

"What, dingy basements at parties?"

"Dingy basements in general." He sat back, crossing his arms over his chest and drawing Chrissy's attention to the stretch of his t-shirt beneath the leather jacket he wore. "Not to, y'know, toot my own horn, but they're kinda my domain, and I've never seen you around."

Once more looking her up and down and igniting that same detrimental heat in her gut, he winked at her. Chrissy almost swooned, cheeks growing warm under his obvious appreciation.

"I'd remember," he finished.

Clearing her throat, Chrissy crossed her legs and smoothed her skirt down.

"I'm not a frequent flyer, no," she admitted. "I don't often even come to these parties, to be honest, but––"

"Ah," the boy said, grinning. "Knew it. You looked like more of an upstairs gal. Never deigned these poor basement dwellers worthy of your presence."

That wasn't necessarily a lie, and Chrissy pursed her lips to quell her indignation. Basements had reputations at parties like this. It was where dark corners lit up with the haze of marijuana and various other substances.

"I don't hold myself to that high of a standard," she muttered instead, making the boy laugh.

"Well, color me lucky, I guess," he chuckled. "That your first foray into the dark might've put you in my path, I mean." Waggling his eyebrows, he let his gaze dip down, then back up. "Maybe having a pretty thing like you on my arm will drum up some business."

"Business?" Chrissy questioned just as her eyes, for the first time, glanced away from the boy and toward the stairs. Pulled by peripheral motion, Chrissy watched from her perch as a familiar head of blond hair came flouncing down each step. Half-hidden by the crowd, he hadn't yet seen her, but she had the vantage point to see him searching for her.

"Oh, nuggets," Chrissy whispered, glancing frantically around for a better hiding spot before Jason found her. The boy at her side seemed to clock her sudden spike of anxiety, his eyes following hers to the new arrival and narrowing.

"Hey, princess, you alright?" he asked, leaning toward her. "You, uh, need me to, y'know, take care of anything?"

His insinuation went entirely over her head as the panic set in, but a different idea somehow managed to infiltrate the static mess of her thoughts.

"Would you kiss me?" she asked, her voice pitched with desperation. The guy's eyes widened impossibly, drawing attention to the thick, unfair ring of eyelashes that framed them. Eyes darting toward Jason, who was facing the other direction, then back again, Chrissy punctuated her question with a little, "Please?"

"Fuck," the boy muttered, ashing his mostly-ignored cigarette in a nearby tray and tangling his fingers in her hair. "Yeah, uh, yeah, sure, whatever the lady doth request."

He tried to pull her in, but the distance between his chair and her stool was too great. Chrissy scrabbled to her knees, hitching a leg over the arm of the chair and half-landing on his lap. The boy chuckled, the sound mingling with Chrissy's giggle as he rested his free hand on her waist and drew her in properly.

"This alright?" he asked, his lips centimeters from hers. Making her heart drum violently in her chest. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the exact moment Jason noticed her, picking his way through the room with demands that people move out of his way.

"This is perfect," she responded, letting her eyes linger just long enough to grab Jason's attention before she was turning back and closing the gap between her lips and the boy's.

And she forgot, all at once, that she was trying to get back at her ex-boyfriend.

He was a flavor she was unaccustomed to, but suddenly craved. Cigarette, yeah, but it was more than that. It was a deep earthiness melded with something minty, like he'd been chewing gum, maybe. Chrissy moaned, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and pulling herself closer. Sliding from her awkward perch on the arm of the chair and completely into his lap, Chrissy lost herself entirely in his kiss.

He felt so incredibly solid. The hand in her hair pulsed slightly, fingertips gently scrubbing against her scalp with every breathy sound she made. His other hand on her waist squeezed slightly, his palm warm and pleasant on the slight amount of skin she had showing between her top and her skirt. His thighs were sturdy beneath hers, muscle hidden beneath all that black denim.

Someone said her name, she was pretty sure. Yelled it, actually, making the boy growl as he pulled away from her dazed, bee-stung lips.

"Hey, man, fuck off," the boy demanded. "I'm trying to have some quality time with my girl."

Without the hush of the boy's kiss calming her mind, she could hear Jason behind her positively seething.

"Your girl?" he asked, his voice pitched with anger. "She's my girl, dick!"

Still, he dared not intervene. The guilt of his own actions outweighing his apparent claim over their dead relationship. Trying to resuscitate one half of a heart that had happily flatlined months ago.

Looking at her, then over her shoulder with a little smirk, the boy shrugged. Every gesture he made was so incredibly close, and Chrissy cataloged them all in her mind. Filing them away for later dissection.

"Really doesn't seem to be the case, my guy. Why don't you run along home to your little jock itch teammates and try to circle jerk the infection away, huh?"

Jason said something else, but Chrissy didn't hear it. Because the boy was pulling her back in, the heavy rings on his fingers tangling in her hair as he angled her head in just the right way to slip his tongue past her teeth. Chrissy moaned, her body going fully molten in his hands as he drew her in and drank her down, sip by sip by sip.

Far, far too soon, he was gently easing himself from her embrace again. Eyes on her for a long moment before darting away ever so briefly to scan the room.

"Pretty sure he's gone," the boy murmured, his lips nearly close enough that she could feel every syllable. Or maybe it was just the vibration of him, the way he'd somehow, miraculously, already tuned her boy to feel it. "Christ, toots. That fucker an ex of yours, I'm assuming?"

"Unfortunately," she sighed, forcing her fingers to untangle where they'd come to rest on the nape of his neck and slide down his chest. She gently smoothed out the lapels of his jacket. "For, like, months now, but he doesn't seem to take the hint."

"Oh, I think the hint was definitely taken this time, sweetness," the boy smiled, his thumb tucking beneath her chin for a brief moment. "And if not, I mean. I'm always open for a round two, y'know?"

"Yeah?" she asked. "You gonna be in every dingy basement of the party I happen to attend every four-to-six months?"

"Maybe," he shrugged, his eyes glinting with that same unnamed mischief. "Wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility. These assholes are paying for my college education, after all."

"And if, um," she began, her hands curling around his shoulders. "If I said I wanted round two... despite an audience." Dropping her head, Chrissy looked at him from under her lashes. Attempting to appear as coquettish as possible. "Or, maybe, regardless of an audience?"

The curl of his grin was echoed in her stomach, her insides twisting and morphing until they were the exact same shape as his teeth.

He was going to eat her alive, and the only thing she'd be able to say at the end was thank you.

"Yeah?" he asked. "You, uh, thinking now, or you thinking four-to-six months from now?"

"We can start with now," she shrugged, "and see where we're at in four-to-six months."

The boy threw his head back, letting out a long, loud cackle that had Chrissy clinging to him through her own laughter.

"Eddie, by the way," he said, sticking his hand in the scant space between their torsos. Sporting a wide, feral grin that made Chrissy forget all about her discomfort of the night.

Curling her fingers around his, Chrissy shook his hand.

"Chrissy," she introduced herself.

"Chrissy," he repeated, and she was fascinated by the way his tongue curled around her name. The way his lips parted on the second syllable, accentuating the second 's' in a way no one ever had. "Gorgeous."

"I bet you say that to all the girls that fall into your lap and beg you to kiss them to chase away their exes."

"Only the especially gorgeous ones," he shot back easily. "Hey, uh, not to be, like, too forward, but can I kiss you again?"

Her smile tasted sweet on her own lips. She wondered if Eddie would say it tasted the same.

"Not too forward," she soothed. "You can, um. You can kiss me anytime you want, Eddie."

"Shit, baby, don't threaten me with a good time."

kiss roulette!

[mapicccc]

this is a wip I'm not sure I'll ever finish but I do like the direction it was headed so posting it here still... was for lifestealtober day 28, possession.

A tug on his arm brought Zam to the waking world. It wasn't often he was woken up in the middle of the night anymore, one of the biggest benefits to his pacifism. But tonight broke that streak, with Mapicc standing across from him, still holding onto Zam's sleeve.

"Hi Mapicc," came his groggy voice, still catching like the rest of his body to Mapicc's wide awake form.

He finally blinked with the assurance Zam was awake enough to listen to him, saying exactly what he came here for, "tomorrow we're building together." He quickly stepped away, almost forgetting to drop Zam's sleeve.

Zam stayed awake a little longer just to watch and see what Mapicc was up to. It was clear he had no plans of leaving soon, seeing as he was shuffling through Zam's chests and pulling out several blankets.

Once he had placed them all on the ground near the edge of Zam's bed and began moving the nightstand Zam decided to stop it. He rolled over and patted the space next to him, an offer Mapicc instantly took up. It was a tight squeeze, but also not the first time they had shared a bed. Often it was out of necessity, and although you could argue this time it wasn't, Zam was sure Mapicc wouldn't agree.

He hadn't known about this part of Mapicc until season four, after he had betrayed Team Awesome, and had come back to fight against Pangi. It was something he hadn't expected, not when it seemed clear they only worked together due to the mutual enemy, but Mapicc had asked if he and Ro could stay the night, and despite his suspicions, Zam said yes without even telling Subz.

They pushed 3 beds next to each other, Zam's in the corner, Mapicc next to him and then Ro. There was a fog of akwardness that Mapicc broke through like a lighthouse, uncaring of the violent seas of Zam and Ro's mind's. Despite the clash of swords between them the next day, for this moment, they were really friends.

Zam smiled to himself, the memory of betrayal far away. Things were better now, the distinct lack of words between them a quiet proof. He pushed his head into Mapicc's chest, succombing to the pull to go back to sleep.

As the world faded, a rumble traveled through Mapicc's chest and his voice followed, "Goodnight…" Zam swore in the moment something else was said, but it was quickly lost to peaceful dreams.

[txjuns]

That’s so true

Pairing: reader x Heeseung

Inspired by “That’s so true - Gracie Abrams”

I highly recommend listening to it while reading this

Synopsis: You and Heeseung had been broken up for almost two months. You were highschool sweethearts. When both of you went to college, things got harder on both of you. You couldn’t see each other because you were constantly busy, so you both just decided to end it.

Warnings: angst, sexual themes, smut (kinda?), pretty sad imo

A/n: here’s a little something I wrote a while ago while I’m busy writing another part for my Taesan fic.

Night of the break-up

You and Heeseung were laying on the hood of his car, watching the stars. The cold air was nipping at your exposed arms which sent a shiver through your whole body. He noticed immediately and pulled you closer.

You looked up at him, a faint smile softened his features.

“I forgot how quiet it is here” he said, his voice low, almost like he didn’t want to disturb the stillness around you.

You nodded against his chest, “You get used to it after a while. The city’s more exciting anyway.”

“It is,” Heeseung admitted, “but it’s not home”

The words lingered in the air between you, heavy and bittersweet. Heeseung had been back in town for just three days, a fleeting visit during winter break. You’ve been counting down the days since he left for college, imagining what it would feel like to see him again, but now that he was here, the reunion felt more fragile than you’d expected. Like something beautiful you couldn’t quite hold onto.

“What’s it like there?” You asked, needing to fill the space between you. “College, I mean.”

He exhaled, his breath visible in the cold air. “It’s… different. Fast. Loud. Everyone’s trying to prove something.” He turned his head to look at you, his voice softening. “It’s not bad. Just… not what I thought it’d be.”

You hesitated, then asked the question you’d been avoiding. “Do you think you’ll stay there after graduation?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he pulled you closer. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I think I’m supposed to. There’s more opportunities there, you know? But…” He trailed off, his gaze returning to the stars.

You didn’t need him to finish. You knew what he meant—what he wasn’t saying.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, your voice trembling just enough for him to notice. “We knew this was going to happen.”

He looked down at you and you could feel his arms loosening around you. “Y/n—”

“It’s okay,” you repeated, cutting him off. You forced a smile, even though it hurt. “We can’t hold each other back. You have your life, and I have mine. It’s just… not the right time for us.”

“It doesn’t mean it’s over,” he said, his voice urgent. “We’ll find each other again. When it is the right time.”

You looked at him, your heart breaking and swelling all at once. “Promise me?”

He reached for your hand, his fingers lightly threading through yours. “I promise.”

For a moment, you stayed like that, your hands clasped, the stars above you indifferent to the ache in your hearts.

—

You were moping around your apartment, with a ringing in your head. You’ve been stressed, because of all your classes. The lingering feeling from 2 months ago wasn’t helping either.

You and Heeseung haven’t talked since that night. Which was strange, because you both promised to stay in touch. The kiss goodbye at the airport gave you a little bit of hope that things would get better, but now you felt stupid for thinking that. I think about your dumb face all the time.

You looked at your phone and the time read 6:45. You plopped onto your bed, thinking you were going to have an early night. That was until you received a message from Yunjin. “Party tonight. Look hot. It’s not a question.”

You groaned in protest. Promising Yunjin to go to that frat party with her was probably your biggest mistake ever. You didn’t feel like partying at all, let alone get drunk. She never knew when to stop. It was always shot after shot, and not even a sip of water in between. That girl is a real party animal.

—

The music thumped through the walls, a bass-heavy beat that seemed to vibrate in your already aching head. You weren’t sure why you decided to come to the party. You hated these kinds of things, the noise, the press of bodies.

“You need to get out, have fun,” Yunjin said, dragging you out of your sulking state. “I know things are hard right now, but that’s why you need to unwind and set your inner animal free.”

You rolled your eyes at her, “The last thing I want to do to “unwind” is go to a frat party.”

Yunjin grabbed your arm and dragged you into the kitchen, “You need a drink asap.”

As Yunjin was pouring your drink, you saw someone approaching out of the corner of your eye.

“Y/n! You came?” You turned towards the voice and saw Jungwon.

Your eyes widened. “Jungwon? No way!” You squeeled and immediately went in for a hug, nuzzling your nose into his shoulder.

Jungwon is your best friend since your first day of high school. Ride or die homie since day one.

He went off to college 2 hours away. That didn’t stop him from regularly coming to visit. You guys would have sleepovers with Yunjin and Sunoo. Your only two friends who stayed in town.

You pulled away and looked at him in disbelief. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” You smacked his shoulder.

He let out a chuckle, “I wanted to surprise you,” he had a bright smile on his face and that iconic eye smile. “It was all part of the plan, right Yunjin?”

Yunjin giggled and you smacked her arm too. “You knew about this?!”

“Well it was a surprise,” she said with a warm smile.

You and Jungwon were sitting on the couch, catching up on everything. Yunjin disappeared after saying she needed to dance.

“How is everyone else?” You asked, trying to remeber everyone’s faces. They haven’t had the chance to come visit yet.

“Where do I begin?” He thought for a second. “Niki got an audition to join a major dance crew, Jake is the captain of the college football team, Sunghoon’s ice-skating career is sky-rocketing, Jay is in a band and Chaewon has her own art exhibition.”

Your mouth fell open hearing about your friends’ successes. You felt glad that they were doing well for themselves.

“Oh, and Heeseung is captain of the basketball team” your heart sank when you heard his name.

Jungwon noticed your change in behavior when your head dropped, “Listen, I heard what happened. I’m so so sorry, Y/n.”

You didn’t know what to say, so you just stared at your lap.

Jungwon grabbed your hand and gave it a squeeze. “If it makes you feel better, which it probably won’t, I haven’t talked to him since. None of us have.”

You held onto his hand, “It’s okay. It was bound to happen.”

“Can I get you another drink?” Jungwon said as he stood up.

“That would be lovely, Jungwon. Thank you.” He grabbed the two cups and made his way to the kitchen.

Your head started thumping again so you dropped it onto your hands that were propped up on your knees. The music made it so much worse. You looked around the room, watching people dance against each other, spilling their drinks and some even making out.

Your eyes locked with his. Those eyes were all too familiar. So much so that every inch of pain you felt that night, came rushing back. He had a crooked smile on his lips, that once was yours.

Your breath hitched in your throat when you saw the girl holding onto his arm. What. The. Fuck.

The girl was beautiful and effortlessly put together, the kind of girl who seemed to belong at parties like this. She leaned into Heeseung’s side , her hand resting lightly on his arm as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

You felt the ground tilt beneath you, the world narrowing to just the two of you. You could still feel the ghost of his promise, whispered under the stars just two months ago: “I’ll come back for you.”

You noticed that he was wearing the leather jacket that you gave him on his birthday. All while his arm was around another woman. You wondered if she could still smell your scent when he wears that.

But here he was, like you were nothing more than a memory.

“Y/n? You okay?” Jungwon’s voice snapped you back to reality. You turned to find your friend watching you with concern, his brows knit together. He handed you your drink.

“I’m fine,” you lied, your voice hollow. You took a long sip from your cup, hoping it would dull the ache that was spreading through your chest.

You turned back toward Heeseung just in time to see the girl laugh, her head tipping back, and him leaning closer, his expression warm, familiar. I’ve been there too.

You couldn’t watch anymore. “I need some fresh air.” You said and Jungwon pressed his lips into a thin line and nodded. You set your cup down on the nearest surface and turned towards the door, the pounding music fading into the background as you slipped outside.

The cold air hit you like a slap, but you welcomed it. You pressed your palms to your face, trying to breathe through the wave of emotions crashing over you—anger, sadness, disbelief.

Two months. That was all it had taken for him to move on.

You heard the door creak open behind you and stiffened. For a second, you thought it might be him, coming after you, but it was Jungwon again.

“Y/n, what’s wrong?”

You shook your head, your voice breaking. “He’s here. With someone else.”

Jungwon’s face softened, and he stepped closer, pulling you against his chest. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

You let yourself be held, your tears hot against the cold night air. Jungwon’s heart broke when he heard your sobs, so he pulled you even closer. You knew you couldn’t stay here, couldn’t face him again—not tonight, maybe not ever.

You wiped your tear-stained face. Jungwon convinced you to stay since you haven’t seen each other in so long. You just had to avoid him and his new girl. No, I know, I know, fuck off.

—

You’d told Jungwon you wanted to leave, but something in you refused to go. Maybe it was stubbornness, or maybe it was that little, traitorous part of your heart that still wanted to see him—to see if he was happy without you.

You walked into the house and saw Yunjin standing in the corner. You went over to her and she immediately saw your reddened eyes. You caught up on what happened and she gave you a massive hug.

Yunjin was watching you carefully, her eyes darting between you and Heeseung across the room. Finally, she grabbed your arm. “You’re not hiding over here all night. Come on.”

“Yunjin, no,” you hissed, panic flashing across your face.

“Yes,” Yunjin insisted, pulling you toward the kitchen where Heeseung stood with his new girl. You dug your heels into the floor, but Yunjin wasn’t having it. Before you could protest again, you were there, standing just a few feet away from him.

Heeseung looked up, and when his eyes landed on you, his smile faltered for the briefest of moments. But then he recovered, the easy grin returning to his face. “Hey, Y/n,” he said, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the music.

Your throat tightened, but you managed a small smile. “Hi, Heeseung.”

The girl turned to look at you, curiosity flickering in her brown eyes. She had the kind of energy that lit up a room—effortlessly magnetic. “Oh, is this Y/n?” she asked, her voice warm and friendly.

You blinked in surprise. “Uh, yeah. That’s me.”

The girl beamed and stuck out her hand. “I’m Karina. Heeseung’s told me so much about you. I’ve been dying to meet you!”

For a moment, you didn’t know what to say. You glanced at Heeseung, who looked slightly uncomfortable, like he wasn’t sure how this was going to go. But Karina’s enthusiasm was infectious, and you found yourself shaking her hand. “Nice to meet you too.”

Karina tilted her head, her smile widening. “You’re even prettier than Heeseung said. And let me just say, you have great taste in music—he played me that playlist you made him. Absolute fire.”

You blinked again, caught completely off guard. You glanced at Heeseung, who rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, clearly regretting sharing that detail.

“I—thank you,” you managed, a small laugh escaping your lips despite your true feelings.

Yunjin, sensing the tension easing, jumped in. “Karina, where are you from? You’re not local, right?”

Karina launched into a story about her college and how she’d met Heeseung in one of their classes. As she spoke, you found herself relaxing, drawn in by Karina’s easygoing nature. She was funny, genuinely kind, and effortlessly charming. But I think I love her, she’s so fun. Wait I think I hate her.

You couldn’t help but wonder what Heeseung saw in her that he hadn’t seen in you—or maybe he had, and that’s why he’d chosen someone so different.

But then Karina said something that made you freeze. “You know, Heeseung says he’d never have survived the first semester if it wasn’t for all the advice you gave him. You’re kind of a legend, you know.”

You glanced at Heeseung, who was looking at the floor, his ears turning pink. “I didn’t say it like that,” he mumbled.

Karina laughed, nudging him playfully. “Oh, he totally did. And I get it now—you’re great.”

For the first time that night, you felt a strange sense of peace. It wasn’t the painful confrontation you feared, nor was it the awkward reunion you dreaded. Karina was fun, Heeseung seemed happy, and you realized that he genuinely feels nothing for you now.

Yunjin leaned in, whispering in your ear, “She’s cool, huh?”

You nodded slowly, your lips curving into a genuine smile. “Yeah. She is.” You said, though you hated to admit it.

When you looked back, Heeseung was staring at you. It was as if he could sense every emotion you were feeling. Or he noticed your redened eyes and felt somewhat guilty for what he’d done.

You couldn’t be around them anymore. As much as you like Karina as a person, thinking of them doing the things that you used to do hurt too much.

—

You rembered the night you and Heeseung had your first intimate moment.

It had been late September, the air still warm but tinged with the crispness of fall. You were in Heeseung’s room, a small lamp casting a golden glow across the space. You just returned from one of your long walks around town, the kind where you’d talk about everything and nothing, letting the conversation flow as easily as your laughter.

That night had been different, though. There was a quiet tension between you, the kind that wasn’t uncomfortable but instead felt electric. You both knew something was shifting, something you couldn’t quite put into words but could feel in the way your hands lingered when you touched or in the way his gaze seemed to hold yours a little longer than usual.

He sat on the edge of his bed, his guitar resting against the wall nearby. You remembered teasing him about his music taste, laughing as he defended his love for cheesy 2000s punk songs. But as your laughter faded, the silence between you grew heavy again, charged with unspoken feelings.

“You’re staring at me,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Can’t help it,” he replied, his lips curling into a small, nervous smile. “You’re beautiful.”

You rolled her eyes, but your heart pounded in your chest. He reached for your hand, his fingers brushing yours so softly it made you shiver. When he pulled you closer, you didn’t resist.

He presses his lips against your, slow and tentative at first, as if he was testing the waters. But soon, the hesitation melted away, replaced by something deeper, something raw and unguarded. His hands found your waist, your arms looped around his neck, and the rest of the world seemed to blur into nothingness.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice filled with both desire and concern.

You nodded, your cheeks warm but your eyes steady. “I’ve never been more sure about anything.”

What followed was a dance of discovery, a clumsy but tender exploration of each other. You whispered nervous jokes and stifled giggles as you fumbled with buttons and zippers, the intimacy of the moment both exhilarating and terrifying. He had been so gentle, so careful, checking in with you every step of the way.

Afterwards, you laid tangled together under his blanket, your limbs intertwined as if you were trying to become one. You remembered the way his fingers traced absentminded patterns on your arm, the soft kisses he placed on your forehead, and the way he whispered your name like it was the only word he wanted to say.

“I love you,” he said, his voice so quiet you almost thought you imagined it.

You had looked up at him, your heart full and aching all at once. “I love you too.”

—

You closed the bathroom door behind you and leaned against it, the muffled noise of the party outside suddenly distant. Your hands gripped the edges of the sink as you stared at your reflection in the mirror. Your cheeks were flushed, your breath uneven. Seeing Heeseung with Karina—laughing, smiling, and fitting so seamlessly into a life that didn’t include you—had been harder than you thought.

There was a knock on the door.

“Occupied,” you called, trying to steady your voice.

“Y/n, it’s me.”

Your stomach sank. Heeseung.

You hesitated, but then you unlocked the door and opened it a crack. He was standing there, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, his face drawn tight.

“What do you want?” You asked, your voice sharper than you intended.

“Can we talk?”

You sighed but stepped aside, letting him in. As soon as the door clicked shut, the tension between you were suffocating.

“What’s there to talk about?” You asked, crossing your arms.

“You’re upset,” he said, his voice low.

You laughed, a bitter sound. “Upset? What gave you that idea? The fact that I had to watch you with your new girlfriend all night?”

“Karina’s not my girlfriend,” he said quickly.

“Oh, sure,” you shot back, rolling your eyes. “She’s just a random girl you bring to parties and laugh with like she’s the best thing in the world.”

Heeseung’s jaw tightened. “She’s a distraction, okay?”

That made you pause. “A distraction?”

“Yes,” he said, his voice rising. “Because it’s easier to pretend I don’t miss you when I’m with her.”

The words hit you like a punch to the chest. “What?” You whispered, your arms falling to your sides.

“I miss you, Y/n,” he said, his voice breaking. “I miss everything about you. I thought maybe if I… if I tried to move on, it wouldn’t hurt so much. But it does. God, it hurts every day.”

You stared at him, your anger melting into confusion, then something softer. “Then why, Heeseung? Why her? Why didn’t you just call me?”

He ran a hand through his hair, his frustration evident. “Because you told me to let you go. You said we couldn’t hold each other back, remember? I thought I was doing what you wanted. What was best for you.”

You felt tears prick your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. “I didn’t want you to forget about me,” you said quietly. “I just wanted you to be happy.”

“I’m not happy,” he said, stepping closer. “Not without you.”

The air between you were thick with unspoken words, unprocessed feelings. Heeseung hesitated before reaching for your hand. You let him, your fingers intertwining like they used to.

“I still love you, Y/n,” he said, his voice trembling. “I don’t know how to stop, and I don’t think I ever will.”

Tears finally spilled down your cheeks, but you smiled through them. “I still love you too,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, you just stood there, holding onto each other like you were the only solid things in a spinning world.

“What do we do now?” You asked, your voice cracking.

He squeezed your hand. “We figure it out. I’ll drive here every weekend if I have to. I’ll write you letters, I’ll call you every night—I don’t care how hard it is. I’m not losing you again.”

Your breath hitched as the tension in the small bathroom became almost unbearable.

He stood so close now, his hand still holding yours, his thumb gently brushing against your knuckles. His gaze softened as he searched your eyes, and the way he looked at you made your knees feel unsteady.

"Y/n," he whispered, his voice heavy with emotion, "I mean it. I'll do whatever it takes. Just tell me you'll let me."

Your chest tightened, the intensity of his words pulling you closer to him in ways you couldn't fight. "I don't know how to stop loving you either," you admitted, your voice trembling. "I tried, but I couldn't."

Heeseung's free hand came up to your face, his touch warm and familiar. He cupped your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw as though he couldn't believe you were real.

You leaned into his touch, closing your eyes briefly as your defenses crumbled.

"Then don't stop," he said softly.

Before you could respond, he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that was soft at first, almost like he was afraid you might pull away. But you didn't.

You kissed him back, your arms wrapping around his neck as all the pain and longing of the past months melted into something warmer, something that felt like home.

The kiss deepened, and suddenly, the cramped bathroom didn't matter. He pressed you gently against the sink, his hands finding your waist and pulling you closer. Your fingers tangled in his hair, and you could feel the way his heartbeat matched yours. Fast, frantic, and filled with everything you hadn't been able to say.

"Y/n," he murmured against your lips, his voice thick with emotion. "God, I missed you."

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your forehead resting against his. "I missed you too," you whispered, your hands trailing down to his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

For a moment, you just stood there, holding onto each other like you were afraid to let go. Heeseung's hands slid up your back, his touch slow and deliberate, like he was memorizing every inch of you. You shivered under his touch, your heart racing as he pressed another kiss to you lips, this one deeper, more urgent.

"Are we really doing this here?" You asked breathlessly, a small laugh escaping you despite the intensity of the moment.

He chuckled, his lips brushing against your temple. "I don't care where we are, as long as it's with you."

You felt your resolve dissolve completely at his words. You tugged him closer, your fingers slipping under the collar of his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders. The sound of the party outside seemed distant now, like you were in your own little world where nothing else mattered.

As the make-out grew more passionate, he lifted you, sitting you on the edge of the sink. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, and you could feel the strength of his hold on you, grounding you even as the moment felt overwhelming.

"I love you," he whispered again, his voice a mix of need and reverence.

"I love you too," you replied, your voice breaking slightly as you pulled him closer.

For the first time in what felt like forever, everything else faded away. There was no distance, no uncertainty-just the two of you, finding each other all over again in a moment that felt both fragile and infinite.

He pressed his hips into yours, and you could feel his length growing against you with every kiss and touch. His hand played with the hem of your skirt before he lifted it.

His lips traveled down your neck as he rubbed his thumb over your clothed heat. You pressed your hips forward, into his touch. You craved it.

His other hand pulled your straps down your shoulders, exposing your chest, your shirt now sitting around your waist.

“God, how I’ve missed every part of your perfect little body.” He whispered in a low tone.

He pulled your panties aside, and rubbed circles into your clit. You let out a soft moan as your head fell back onto the mirror.

You were now onto your third orgasm, bent over the sink as he pounded into you hard. His one hand was in your hair, forcing you to look at him in the mirror, the other had a tight grip on you hip.

“Fuck,” he whimpered, his head falling back. He could feel you tighten around him as you neared your orgasm. He was close too.

Your breathing was heavy and the pleasure was overwhelming. You let out a stiffled moan as you felt a knot in your stomach, threatening to explode.

[fuyuu-chan]

Why I Fell For You

Pairing: Sylus x Reader

Genre: Fluff

Fuyuu-chan: I really enjoyed making this one 🫶🎉 this time i was inspired by the song "Those Eyes" by New West, i listened to it while making this fic. So if you want 👀 you should go listen to it while reading this✨ Hopeeee you enjooooooy 〜⁠(⁠꒪⁠꒳⁠꒪⁠)⁠〜

✧⁠◝⁠(⁠⁰⁠▿⁠⁰⁠)⁠◜⁠✧

(pic from pinterest)

✧⁠*⁠。Things that Sylus loves about you ✧⁠*。

♡ He had always admire and love your smiles, your eyes and especially your kindness. But he doesn't want anyone to take advantage of that especially in this society and people and so he took it upon himself to always protect you, especially that smile of yours that always brighten up his day whenever he sees. Mostly because its easy to lose someone's smile due to this society.

♡ He also admire how you always prioritize others before you, he loves that about you but he hates it at the same time. Basically a love-hate relationship. He doesn't like how you are so selfless. He wants you to take care of yourself. But you always seems so stubborn, he likes that until you became so stubborn when it comes to your health. I mean how would you survive without him? Thankfully he's there to take care of you.

♡ Sylus also felt love and cared for whenever you do things for him, help him, and those times you always took the chances to spend more time with him. Like for example, you tag along here and there to his missions, you watch him race, compete (which sometimes you would join in or team up with him), cook with/for him, and more.

♡ He also loves your gentle touch and your attention whenever he is around. He definitely loves loves your hand on him especially on his hand, it was just so soft and warm (or cold like mine, that he will take on his own and warm with his hands). But most of the time, you would always be there, playing with his hair whenever he was done with his work while he cuddles on you. You always give him your full attention and cuddles making him relax after a long annoying day at work. You are literally Sylus safe space and home.

♡ One time you gave him gifts, and that was his first time receiving such a genuine gift and even the thing he likes, to top it off it was you who gave that which he really appreciates. Yes he was used to be the one spoiling you but for you to do the same thing to him? He loves that A LOT <3 He would treasure it and make sure to take care of it, I mean its you who gave it to him. So it means a lot to him. He cant help but love that about you too, it makes him fall for you more. You took the time and thought about it.

♡ Sylus adores the way you always inform him if you have mission and after your mission is finished. Even though yes he always watch you, he still appreciates whenever you're the who inform him about where you are or what you're doing. I guess that's also the reason he doesn't constantly watch you, because he trusts you and always look forward to your updates.

♡ When he misses you (which is always), he always kept a picture of you. In his wallet, in his phone (wallpaper and lockscreen), and a picture of you and him in a frame on his desk. You two even exchange polaroid pictures of each other. He always look at them and smiles to himself. Its enough to make him get through the day, but his day would be lighter if you're actually there in person, in his reach. Though even if he cant look at those pictures (which is not really true since he always does) your image will be forever in his mind.

♡ The way you care about the elderly and children also caught his eyes. He loves how you get along with everyone with different ages. You communicate well and socializes with them. Even offering to assist the elderly, to look after the children. Your kindness and caring personality for the people really surprises him. You really are too precious for this world.

♡ He also can't help but watch you and notes the little things you do. Even though its mundane or not that much important but for him its those small things, little details that makes you, you.

♡ Your dedication and willingness to do something you set your mind off, he admires that as well. One thing that took his interest when you two just met and just trying to get to know each other.

✧⁠*⁠。Things that you love about Sylus ✧⁠*⁠。

♡ One thing you really love about Sylus was that he is always there for you, he protects you, and always make sure you were safe. Whenever you would leave he would sent Mephisto to be with you or Kieran and Luke. And the fact that whenever you need him, he would drop anything that he is doing at the moment to come for you, even if he was in a middle of an important meeting. I mean work can wait, you come first.

♡ He cooks for you. This mans cooking is literally 5 star, it could even go beyond that. Because it was *chef's kiss*. Even if you were picky with food, he would cook the dishes you like, or if you wanted to try something that you didn't like before he would make sure you would love it this time, i guess that's why the foods that you like these days had become a wide variety because of Sylus. He makes you love the dishes you don't like before. And you're thankful for that.

♡ He's patient. Whenever he teaches you things, he would make sure to do his 100% and make sure to make it simple for you to learn but effective.

♡ You were also happy whenever Sylus joins in your shenanigans (but most of the time he is your victim). He definitely matches your energy, but of course he would make sure its safe.

♡ Whenever you two are just walking around or just outside in particular, and someone came up to you. Sylus would shield you especially when he knows you don't know the person, he would step in front of you and glare at the person. It always works since his glare could already kill. But if that person just don't back off. Then bye bye. Sylus would hunt them down and deal with them personally.

♡ Sylus can also tell whenever you want something, or if something is on your mind base off of your expressions and mostly just by looking at your eyes. You two bonded for a long time that he have gotten used to and learned the different actions or things you do whenever you're in a particular situation.

ฅ⁠^⁠•⁠ﻌ⁠•⁠^⁠ฅ

Please do not copy, translate, repost to any other social media, Thank you.

[doublejango]

Blitz let them move away; don't smother him, he told himself, even if it left his heart aching because all he wanted was to be close. He stayed on his side of the couch, listening, taking it all in, and fighting to keep his expression calm as panic rose. This was going to be hard. Fuck, this was going to be so fucking hard.

When Stolas finished, Blitz climbed up to sit on the back of the couch. Resisting the urge to reach out, he held his tail on his lap and fidgeted with it instead, to keep his hands occupied. There was so fucking much that needed to be said and all of it was ridiculously important; if he started with the wrong thing, would it make everything worse? That was a tempting spiral, but Blitz had to force himself to stay out of it. Things couldn't really get much worse, right? So as long as it was any kind of step forward, it was better than nothing.

Besides. He wasn't going to let his fucking fears get the best of him. Stolas needed to be able to let it all out right now. He needed to be able to mourn, to feel his emotions, to let them breathe. He needed space to break--which meant Blitz needed to be the strong one for them, and he accepted the burden with a fierce, if frightened, love.

"So, first of all... Stolas, you saved my life. I was what, a tenth of a second away from death? If even that? And you saved me. You know that like, is a huge deal, right? You were brave as shit, when you... you didn't really have any reason to be. Cause you don't know how much I..." Hesitating, his eyes dropped for a moment and he frowned. With a small shake of his head a moment later though, Blitz looked back up and met their eyes again.

Don't say that yet, he told himself. Keep it simple. Don't overwhelm the man you love.

"It was huge. You doing that. And I hear you on being upset that you think you almost tore us apart, but Stol's... the way we, I mean imps and Hellhounds, the way we live, we're only ever one bad day away from the end anyway. The risk of ruin is like, always right there for us, you know? We're always on the edge, but the ground is tilted so we're always slowly sliding. So it's not like... as shocking, I guess? For me to almost die? As it might feel to you."

He let go of his tail, holding up a hand. Blitz closed his eyes, needing a moment more to compose his thoughts, hoping to go on uninterrupted. When he had everything in order, he let out a tight sigh and opened his eyes again.

"I know you'll help out more. When you can, you'll chip in for the utilities and shit. Stolas, I know that. Cause I trust you, and know you have a good fuckin' heart. But you don't need to rush into that.

"Babe, you... you got wounded. Pretty badly. Maybe not on the outside, but you can't tell ne the wound isn't there. You got hurt. Bad. And the last time..." Blitz's voice had been calm up until now, but as shame heated his face, his voice trembled. "The last time you got hurt, I didn't even come see you in the hospital. I should've. And maybe if I had then everything would be different now and--" No. Fuck. Calm the fuck down. Blitz reined it in. Another deep breath. Back to gripping his tail with both hands.

"My point is, I know you've just been hurt again. So much worse this time. And when we get hurt, sometimes we need to take time to heal. So I think... if you're... if you're okay with this idea. The best way for all of this to start? Is for you to just.... just take a few days. Try not to worry about how to fix shit, or help out, cause we'll get there together. Just... take a few days to rest, like you got the shit kicked out of you. Watch TV with me. Maybe like, maybe you can talk some sense into that fucker in the corner," he added, nodding back over his shoulder towards a squat, smirking houseplant that had half a jacket firmly gripped in its roots. "Fucker stole Loonie's favorite jacket last week and won't let go. But I mean, keep the focus small for a few days. Treat your body like it needs some time, cause your spirits sure as fuck do.

"Maybe we can start with me getting a start on breakfast while you find a book to read? I don't got a lot of them, and they're all trashy romance, but that librarian lady's real great and she lets me check 'em out. Even if you don't got the juice to actually start reading, dig through em and find one that maybe you'll want to?"

He felt a little like a dick for giving Stolas a task, especially something that might seem so petty and small, but they were going to have to one-step-at-a-time this shit. And on the plus side, Blitz's reading level was still fairly low, so he was bringing more simply written books home as he worked on improving it; hopefully, without the language being complex, it wouldn't be so hard for Stolas to just sort of mindlessly consume them a little when he was ready.

Blitz didn't know if he was doing any of this right, but it was worth it to try. Whatever it took to try and help his baby, it was worth it to try.

A soft, barely audible self-soothing coo is emitted. It still felt surreal. Impossible. But seeing the light in Blitz’s eyes and the curl of his tail — his chest aches. A warmth blooms through him. Blitz is safe and most importantly, alive. When he feels the soft touch of claws against his face, Stolas can’t help but lean into it. Stars, he has craved this tenderness. He wants it so desperately. There was only one thing stopping him from pulling Blitz into his arms and holding him there until every last tear was wrung from him until his throat felt too tight, too dry, and the impression of the imp’s body was permanently etched into him. Himself. 

He listens, hanging off of every word like a hopeful and saddened flower turning towards the sun. That’s what he is, after all. . . his Sun; the brightest star in the sky. A constant and powerful thing that chases every lingering fold of darkness out of its path. But Stolas doesn’t feel as though he’s deserving of that patch of sunlight; doesn’t think he’s earned the warmth that radiates from Blitz, least of all now. No matter how badly he wants to sink into it and nest within the comfort and safety being offered to him. And though he holds Blitz’s gaze through it all, Stolas winces. His own hands rise, framing the imp's face, gentle and afraid — as if his touch might invoke some horrible event all over again. ❝ Blitz, you almost died because of me. How. . . How can you . . . ❞ He gives an exasperated sound, withdrawing to press the palms of his hands against his eyes. He can’t stay still. It was too much. The owl carefully extracts himself from the couch, practically climbing over it to put the furniture between them. Now he averts his gaze.

❝ How are you not infuriated with me? What I suggested, what I did, what I established between us put you in danger in the first place! I should have known better. There is so much of what has happened that I wouldn’t dream of taking back or changing, and Stars! If I would have thought of it sooner, if I could have — it would have saved us so much. . . and maybe, just maybe none of this would have happened. But you cannot. . . . You can’t offer me sanctuary and family when I damned well nearly ruined yours! You have a daughter, Blitz! You have friends and an established career and all of that nearly came crumbling down — you almost DIED because of what I did. I need. . . .❞ Tears spill from red eyes, bright but not shining. Stolas turns away, beak clicking the moment he thumps the top of his head on the ceiling fan once more. This time it doesn’t threaten to fall, and the impact is less jarring. Nevertheless, he glares at it before hugging himself tightly. 

❝ You say I do not need to earn a place here, but why not? I think I do. I should! How can you just give me a place to stay and care for me? How can Loona so readily offer clothes to the one who nearly took her father away and ❞ But Stolas can’t conjure the words. He dissolves, and with the trembling that overtakes him, doesn’t trust his body to move. So the owl lets himself drop rather ungracefully to the floor. Drawing his legs close, Stolas buries his face and lets the wreckage of his emotions spill. He could not keep it in, could not hold his mask. But he can hide his face and do his best to stifle the sounds. 

❝ I will. . . I will do my best. ❞ He resigns himself to that and does not dare promise anything outright. Because he was already half of who he was; he felt so empty, so lost, and everything was uncertain. He tried desperately, over and over to remind himself it was only one hundred years. But it already felt so impossibly long, and he had no way of knowing what Via would think of him. They would become strangers.

Stolas wasn’t certain he could survive the aftershocks. But he would try. Maybe not for himself. He could do it for Via, and even for Blitz, but not himself. There was something tragic in it all, and he felt like sand slipping through fingers. Too small, too insignificant, too easy to miss or let go of. Just a pretty decoration to put in a glass and show off.

[beidak-art]

sleepless night

[thevegetablewhichnoonedaresname]

I'm starting Mission to Zyxx Season 5 now, and I have feelings about that.

First, it generally scares me when people hype anything up at all because there is no guarantee that anyone values the exact same thing I do to the same degree. Even if I trust the creators of a thing to value something and try to do right by it, that doesn't always necessarily mean it will be successful, especially if that involves doing something wildly different than what made it good in the first place (I have been burned this way before). I guess I'm just hoping they continue the format of goofy improv shenanigans for the majority of it with something more planned and emotional in the finale if they want, like they've been doing all along. I'd think they would, and I've heard nothing bad about the ending, but I guess it still makes me nervous because I'm so close to the end and I want it so badly to stick the landing. I'm setting my expectations on the floor so I can be surprised instead of disappointed, but honestly, I don't need it to be better, I just need it to be on par with the rest.

Second, and more briefly, I'm happy it's (hopefully) ending before it has a chance to decline. I am so on board with that philosophy. But on the other hand, finishing a thing that I really, really like and knowing there's not another one out there gives me a special kind of heartache. Like, I know there will be other good media, and stuff that's good and unique in other ways, but I know for a fact that there are no other podcasts out there that have the same mix of a balance of off-the-wall improv and structured narrative, quality comedy, fantastical sci-fi setting and loveable characters, and high quality production. There are other things out there with many of those qualities, but nothing that checks every one of those boxes. It's a lightning-in-a-bottle thing that very much feels like the right people had to be in the right place at the right time to do it. Attempts to do it again would feel hollow because it had to be born out of necessity and passion and the talents of the people involved, so if you switch out the people it loses the reasons it's great, and if the same people tried to do it again it'd feel tired. That makes me so, so grateful it exists, but also so, so sad that it doesn't, and I'm 80% of the way done. When it's over, it's over.

Anyway. Now that that's all out there, I'm just gonna finish listening and have fun. Wish me luck.

[katierosefun]

something about horror something about tragedy something about that moment when the characters think they’re safe, they’ve escaped the clutches of the fate planned for them, they’ve escaped the haunted house or something but then they realize that someone is missing or they realize that the ghost is still there, just biding its time for the others to come back, or maybe they turn around just as they’re about to reach the exit, something about horror something about tragedy something about no matter how hard the characters try to escape the thing haunting them, there’s no other way to end the story, the end of the story was decided from the start, she was dead since the beginning and etc

[sirfrogsworth]

How do you take a photo of time?

I've been watching the track events at the Olympics since I was a wee lad. It was a tradition in our family. We'd gather around our ancient low-definition 19 inch CRT television and watch tiny blobs compete against other tiny blobs and root for our country.

It was a bit like watching YouTube on your phone in 144p.

Several heroes emerged.

Jackie Joyner-Kersee was amazing.

You can't forget about Flo-Jo.

And then the Olympics decided NBA players were allowed in the competition.

Which formed... The Dream Team.

Was this fair?

Well... they won each game by an average of 44 points.

So... no. It was not fair.

Though it became more fair as time went on.

But, umm... yeah. The other teams looked like the Washington Generals and the US looked like the Harlem Globetrotters if they stopped screwing around half of the game.

But my absolute favorite Olympian was a runner named Michael Johnson.

He was cool as heck.

For one thing... gold shoes.

But he also had this crazy, upright, Tom Cruise-ish sprinting style that just made him look like a running robot on the track.

And in the 1996 Atlanta games he just trounced EVERYONE. I mean, it wasn't even close.

Yikes. Those losing blobs are probably really embarrassed.

Last night I decided to invigorate my nostalgia and watch the track events again. And I got to see one of the wildest races in history.

It didn't even last 10 seconds but it was one of the most exciting sporting events I've ever witnessed. Almost every runner won the race.

After I saw that initially, I was like... who the heck won???

Even in slow motion I wasn't sure.

This was one of the closest finishes in history. There has never been a race where all 8 runners were within this margin.

The arena was silent as the winner was being confirmed. The runners just kind of paced around waiting for official word. My best guess was the Jamaican runner, Kishane Thompson. But then the loudspeaker announced Noah Lyles.

The last tiny morsel of American pride burst out of me with a big "Wooooo!"

I forgot what it was like to be proud of my country. I wish it happened more often. But this young man, despite being last place in the first 3rd of the race, turned on the afterburners and won in a photo finish.

And that's when my inner nerd took over.

Because when they showed the photo finish image, it looked super weird.

Why is the track white?

Why do all of the runners look all warpy like that QWOP game?

So I went down a research rabbit hole to figure this out.

Photo finishes are actually fascinating. The first photo finish captured the end of a horse race in 1890. But that was mostly luck and timing. The actual photo finish mechanisms weren't used until 1937.

Originally they would film the finish line through a physical slit.

And the first horsie head that appeared in that slit would be the winner. This technology ended a huge aspect of corruption in horse race fixing almost overnight.

But we have come a long way since then. And I'd like to introduce you to the Omega Scan 'O' Vision Ultimate.

This slow motion camera sits fixed on the finish line of every race. The concept of the photo finish has remained remarkably similar to the 1930s approach. The camera sensor is specially designed to only record a vertical slit.

Only the finish line itself is actually captured.

And because it limits what it records to only that slit, it can capture 40,000 frames per second to get amazing temporal resolution.

So why don't the photo finishes just look like, well... this?

That is because the camera takes a picture of time more-so than dimensional space. I guess it would be more accurate to say it *assembles* a picture of time.

As the runners cross the finish line, the camera combines all of the little strips of pictures into a single image.

It's almost like if you tried to reassemble a piece of paper after it had been shredded.

Imagine each strip of paper is a picture of ONLY the finish line, just at a slightly different point in time.

What if someone stopped on the finish line and didn't move... what would that look like?

Once they got there, the same part of their body would just be repeated.

So the right side of the photo finish picture represents earlier in time and it just assembles the image strip by strip as time passes and you literally get a picture of time itself.

NEAT!

Okay, but how do they determine the winner from the photo finish?

I mean, that shoe looks like it is ahead of Noah Lyles!

Clavicles!

The IAFF rules state the foremost part of the torso must cross the finish line first. And the endpoint of the torso is the outer end of the clavicle.

So if you get this bone across the finish line first, you win the race.

Two more fun facts!

The start of the race is actually just as carefully timed as the end of the race. There are sensors in the starting blocks of each runner.

The starting gun also has an electronic sensor.

They have determined the fastest a human can react to the sound of a gun is roughly 100 milliseconds. So if you start running before 100 milliseconds they know you didn't actually hear the gun, you just got antsy and started running too early.

And the final fun fact...

Did you notice the Omega logo at the top of the photo finish?

That isn't superimposed or added after the fact. That is captured by the camera.

But if this image is composed only of tiny little slivers, how did they get the Omega logo to show up?

That is a little display. And it is synchronized with the Scan 'O' Vision Ultimate to show a little sliver of the Omega logo for each frame captured.

So when the final image is stitched together, it looks like a cohesive logo at the top of the photo.

Pretty clever, Omega!