#fading scars universe

[iwakuraz]

it's not going too well

[bi-writes]

ok but soulmate au with ghost but it's the fucking opposite of rainbows and sunshine. (18+)

you share his trauma. his stress. his anxiety. you do not know who he is, and yet you know the pain of a thousand punches because it's the only feeling he has ever given you. you know the grueling ache of abandonment and the terrible neglect of abuse and the disgusting amalgamation of all your worst nightmares before you even turn 20. everything that he gives you feels aggressive, like it burns, and he only ever gives you reprieve for so long until you just feel it all over again.

it makes you tired. it makes you sick. at first, as a girl, all you wanted to do was comfort him. you wanted to know who he was so you could kiss the cigarette burns that you feel and soak up the blood you know he bleeds.

but as you age, you begin to hate him. you hate him because he does this to you, he hurts you, doesn't he know that he's hurting you? doesn't he know that everything he feels, you feel tenfold, doesn't he know that the terror and the horror of everything he witnesses weighs down your chest, makes you feel like you're drowning over and over and over again?

for a few years into your adulthood, everything is quiet. you feel little except the ache in his back he never tends to, the creak of his knee joints that he refuses to stretch out. you wish you knew him so you could scold him for it, but you curse at a ghost. sometimes you think about doing something to get back at him--you think about carving a FUCK YOU into your arm, about throwing yourself in front of a bus just so he can fucking understand that his entire life is one fucked-up cycle of pain and misery and horror, but you can't bring yourself to do it.

you can't hurt him. you just can't.

and then, the real pain begins. it brings you to your knees, this pain. you scream, you wail, because it feels like you're being carved from the inside-out. your face burns. your chest heaves. you feel like your ribs are breaking, you can't breathe, you claw at the invisible wounds that your soulmate must be wearing, and you beg him to stop, you beg him to let me go--just fucking die already--please, please, please--

those weeks haunt you. the torture he endures, it is branded to you. you wear no scars, and you never lost any blood, but the phantom flesh that you know is gone follows you in your sleep and never shuts up. it talks, it snarls, it eats at your insides. even when he heals, you are never the same. you wake up from nightmares that you know you share with him. you look over your shoulder for the predators you know he has encountered, and you cry yourself to sleep over the loss of something that you can't even decipher because you have no idea who he is or what he buried to feel this way inside.

he's sick. he's twisted. he's a walking corpse, he has no redeemable qualities, he is selfish and mean and cruel, and you hate him, and if it wasn't for the pain that you would feel, the first thing you would do when you saw him is drive something right through his heart to finally stop the undying infection he spreads to everything that he touches.

you know it is him when you finally meet him. you would know him anywhere; you’d know him just by the scars alone who he is because you remember what it felt like when he got them. when you eye the sleeve of tattoos along his left arm--the fucked, shitty, sunburnt art that made it impossible for you to finish your university exams. the faded, grey circles that line the other, ones you recognize being from the burning cigarettes that you would smell when you closed your eyes. and when he removes his mask briefly, you recognize the scar that cuts above his lip and strikes through his eye--that one left you reeling on the bathroom floor particularly loudly. you thought he might be blind if it wasn't for seeing the darkness of both of his eyes.

you start to cry. you start to cry because as soon as he realizes who you are, as soon as you see that flicker of knowing flash across his eyes, all of the hatred and the anger and the poison that plagued you for all this time vanishes. everything you fought so hard to feel, all the misery you wanted to bestow upon him for making your life a living hell, it's gone.

because the universe is cruel, the universe has done what it has done, and it has made this singular person just for you, and against everything you believe, you know that you love him, and you hate yourself for it, and you hate the universe, too.

you have endured. but maybe you endured so he didn't have to. maybe you endured so that he could have this, the feeling that he feels right now, that feeling of sudden relief.

he slides a large hand over his chest, flinching slightly. he blinks, understanding suddenly that he's feeling your joy, your elation. when you shuffle your way over to him, breaching the conversation the men around him are having, you ignore their confused stares as you fling yourself into his chest.

ghost forces you against him, trapping you to him. he practically chokes, tangling a gloved hand into your hair, and you sob into the warm skin of his neck as he hoists you into his arms, into his lap. you don't pay attention to the curious voices around you, you just bury yourself into him and cry. his body is the evidence of all that has happened to him, and you aren't angry anymore because you're relieved.

he's real. he's alive. he's here. he's okay.

when you pull back to look up at him, you blink away the tears that are falling fast down your face. he stares down equally as intensely, drinking in the sight of those big, wet eyes. when he smooths a big hand down your face, he grumbles when he realizes what you are, how you know him.

he never realized this was what he and his soulmate shared. you in your life had never felt pain like he had--he had no idea what he was doing to you. he had no idea what you were surviving at the same time.

he closes his eyes and rests his forehead against yours, and your lips tremble as you cup his cheeks and hold him close.

it feels wrong to feel this kind of comfort, but he does anyways. he thinks, maybe, that perhaps the only reason he survived was because of you.

because there was someone else, far away, that loved him enough to keep him breathing. even when he thought it was over.

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part twenty-four —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 3k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn’t here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: ily

England passes in beautiful shades of green, the last time you'll see it, so you soak it in. Rolling hills streak the landscape like scars. In the distance, you glimpse faded architecture, imagining people living and working there. An ivy-covered university appears, and you picture yourself dozing off in a lecture. These little fantasies entertain you for the next two hours, but Blue isn't distracted by the same game. When you look at her arm, you notice pink scratches just below where the friendship bracelet hugs her wrist, made by her nails mindlessly.

You tear your eyes from the window and nudge your shoulder against hers. "Hey. What do you call a cow with no legs?"

Her lips twitch at the broken silence and she lifts her azure eyes to yours, a bead of sunlight catching in them. "What?"

"Ground beef."

Those eyes roll. "That's stupid."

Nereida smiles from the other side of her. "Oh, I've got one. What did the ocean say to the beach?"

Blue sighs. "Ghost said that one before. Nothing—it just 'waved'."

A recoil passes over Nereid's kind eyes. "I apologize. That's the only one I know."

Quiet air fills the space again, and when you notice Blue's nails dig back into her wrist, you gently lace your fingers through hers and pull her hand to your lap, allowing her to scratch your thigh, instead. 

When an old theme park erects from the grass, Blue's interest piques. "Woah. What is that?"

"None of it works anymore," Ghost mutters, one hand on the wheel.

"It looks cool, though. I have to pee, anyway. Can we stop here?"

"I could use a little stretch for my legs," Nereida adds.

The pitstop is brief enough to allow Blue the chance to curiously look through the decrepit bumper cars, carousel, and even a small rollercoaster that still has the car sitting mid-track. She grabs Ari's hand to show him, but he doesn't seem as intrigued given the pale look on his face. He ends up rushing to a bush and keeling over.

"The back gets a bit bumpy," Kyle says when he notices your expression. "He'll be fine."

"I'll switch with him for the rest of the way."

"You don't have to."

"It's fine. He can probably entertain Blue better than I can."

Everyone uses the small break to eat a little lunch. You already had some of the beans Ghost packed, so you feel uncertain whether you should eat anymore of his food. You haven't even discussed sharing. Rather, you ration the jerky you made and save the rest. 

It is a small meal, so you eat it slowly to trick your stomach into feeling full. Just before getting back to the truck, you spot a tree by the entrance to Kettering Kastle. Hickory. Paul told you once they make for great arrows, a softer hardwood. Pliable yet strong. This excites you. Your sheath is only half-full, so you grab your serrated knife and cut a few midsized branches to take with you.

Sitting in the truck bed is far from pleasant. The tail wind makes it hard to breathe, and you have to grab the side of the truck to keep yourself from flying out. Kyle notices your struggle and seems amused, but reaches an arm over in offering. You hold onto him and it does some to keep you stable. 

The motorway passes through Kettering, which is a smaller city. The smell is retched, though the only Greys you spot don't take notice to you, trapped between buildings and toppled telephone poles. You make out a sign that reads A14 and figure it is headed to Cambridge. If you continue this pace, you'll reach the coastline by sundown.

Of course, things don't work out that way. The road becomes more obstructed with abandoned vehicles. Ghost has to weave through them like a maze, wasting time and fuel. The sun crawls higher in the sky. Finally, there are a few kilometers of straight road. Speed ticks up only to come to an abrupt halt when he reaches an underpass. You let go of Kyle and stand up to see what has caused the stop—a semi truck completely blocks the way through it.

"Jesus," you mutter.

Consecutive slams of the fronts doors indicate Price and Ghost are checking it out. Kyle hops out with them. After a few minutes, he returns and explains with a sigh, "We'll have to backtrack and find a side street that will lead to another motorway ramp."

"That's going to eat time. The sun will set soon."

He offers his arm again as Ghost begins reversing. "I know. It's fine, we'll just get to the water tomorrow. No rush, yeah?"

It adds an extra hour and a half. The sky turns a remarkable orange that would've had you gawking if not for your irritation of having to stop again. Ghost pulls over just before it gets too dark to set up the tents in a small market town called Haverhill. There's hardly anything here except fields of bright, yellow flowers and little shops with slanted CLOSED signs. It is actually pleasant and well-preserved, until you catch the distinguishable shape of a corpse hanging from one of the telephone poles, a black trash bag over its head.

"Don't look at it."

"Nothing I haven't seen before," you dismiss under your breath. 

A more forested patch of land at the edge of the town is where you make camp for the night.

They eat canned goods and you finish your last pieces of jerky. This means you'll have to find more food for yourself tomorrow, or ask Ghost for some. The thought makes you anxious. The last thing you want is to seem like an extra burden. Dead weight that they'd be better off leaving behind. But he also didn't comment when you ate the beans. The uncertainty of where you stand means you need to make yourself useful.

The men need rest, so you offer to keep watch.

Prices dismisses you. "You don't have to, Twix. The three of us can take turns."

"No, really. I'll keep watch and you guys can all get more sleep. I've just been sitting in a car all day, anyway."

He gives in, visibly fatigued after being up over twenty-four hours.

Ghost and Price sleep first.

That leaves you sitting with Kyle when the stars begin to flicker like bright, little heartbeats against the black night.

You pull out your smoother knife—the one you found back at that base—to carve the sticks you found, careful of your bandaged thumb. 

Kyle lays his rifle across his lap. "First time I am seeing you smile today and it's while carving sticks." 

"Arrows," you correct, holding one up and tapping your index lightly against the sharpened point. "And it's good wood. Hickory."

"You're an easy woman to please," he teases.

"My tastes have changed over the years."

"Really? I can't imagine you as one of those people who cared too much about nice things."

You flash him a raised brow. "Are you saying I was cheap?"

He nudges your knee. "Not what I'm saying. You just seem like someone who would prefer a little movie date over a fancy dinner."

"I liked sushi. Is that fancy?"

He hums. "There were some good cheap sushi spots in London—hole in the wall type places. When there was some kid doing their homework at one of the booths, that's when you knew it'd be good shit."

"You're making me hungry."

"Well, you should've eaten more." He looks at you knowingly. "You're scared to ask anyone for food, aren't you?"

Are you really that easy to read? You place the half-finish arrow across your knees and look at the ground, brushing your fingers absentmindedly through the soft grass. "I just—I am aware of my place here."

"Your place?"

Your hands tightens the grass into a fistful. "I am at the bottom."

"The bottom," he repeats slowly, and his voice lowers. "You really think that?"

You rip the grass and sprinkle it over your boot, glancing up at him. His eyes have darkened, or maybe they are simply mirroring the sky. "I am not complaining. I understand that everyone here has others who they would prefer to keep alive over me, that's all. I just don't want to stick out anymore than I already do."

He reels in your words. "You're forgetting that everyone here has their own perspective, their own wants. It is not as simple as you're making it seem." In a change of topic, he reaches for the arrow on your lap. "Here—let me help."

You hand him the knife and he begins carving expertly as a few minutes of silence ensue. You are lost in your thoughts, keeping your eyes on the surroundings, when he suddenly stops in his handiwork, holding up the knife. You watch him study the leather handle carefully, shake his head to himself, then look at you.

"Where did you get this?"

"Huh? Oh—I found it. At a military base actually."

Your answer seems to strike him, and he releases a disbelieving exhale. "The one near Manchester?"

You nod. 

"It was my brother's."

What?

Reading your expression, he shows you the handle and rubs his thumb over a small etching at the bottom that you can barely make out in the moonlight: PG.

"Patrick Garrick," he explains in a murmur, and your chest tightens. "I didn't even notice it at first. It's been years since I had it. The last time...the last time was when shit happened, and I lent it to a friend of mine at the base."

"Who?"

"Soap," he says, a memory taking over his expression as he rubs his jaw. "He was the other member of our spec ops unit."

"You... Someone mentioned him before. Ghost—he asked you guys about him when you arrived. You don't know what happened to him, right?"

Kyles nods. "He stayed back at the base to keep helping even when Price and I jumped ship. That was the Scottish in him—stubborn as hell. Soap was just his codename, of course. Like mine was Gaz." He looks up at you with a faint dimple. "And yours is Twix, huh?"

"I guess." You press your tongue to your teeth and grab the knife, frowning at it as you try to recall exactly where you grabbed it from. "What was his real name, then?"

"John MacTavish."

"I think—I think your friend is dead. I'm sorry." You gaze at him. "I remember now. I found it in one of the rooms, and there was a skeleton with that name. He... he had it quick, though."

The expression on his typically warm eyes turns unreadable and his shoulders stiffen in the slightest. You wonder if you should have bothered sharing this, but then he shrugs it off with a sigh. "It's okay. Figured as much. Many people have died. He's just another name to the list."

Instinct draws your hand to his shoulder, and the muscles softens beneath your touch. "I'm still sorry."

His eyes find yours. 

He smiles solemnly.

Then, somewhere in it all, he leans over and closes the gap. The sudden, foreign feel of lips pressed against your own stuns you. His lips move gently, cold and soft against yours, and only when he threads a hand through your hair to pull you closer do you fully register what he is doing. Your eyes fly open and you break away, leaping to your feet.

"Why did you—what was that?"

He stands up with you. "It felt right in the moment."

He tries to touch your shoulder but you flinch away. "I'm sorry. I just—I was just trying to comfort you."

"I misread the moment." His eyes are clouded. "So you didn't want it?"

Did you? Your mind feels fuzzy. "I don't know. I need to...I want to be alone right now."

You grab your knife and sticks, rushing around the tents to find solace by the truck, needing to process what just happened. As you move, you bump into a hard chest—Ghost. Somehow you failed to hear the jagged teeth of the tent's zipper. Avoiding his gaze, you try to slip past, but he grips your elbow, holding you in place.

"What is it?"

The lie wedges out of your lips. "Nothing. I just—thought I saw something so I am going to sit over there and keep an eye out."

The difference in height leads to his stare burning into your scalp. "What did you see?" 

"I don't know. Something. Maybe just an animal."

His hold doesn't soften. Stoicism forces itself on your face as you press your lips into a line.

You're easy to ready.

He finally lets go. "I'll take over now. You can sleep."

You find yourself nodding soundlessly, internally glad to be relieved of this duty. 

Sleep offers peace of mind, at least until morning. 

Dawn breaks over the small town in a quiet clatter of spoons against cans and the shuffling of bags being packed up. The dream you wake up from was one of an old life—the last kiss you experienced. But it fizzles quickly from the recesses of your brain the moment your lids shutter open. 

Both you and Kyle seem keen on acting as though nothing happened. More than anything, you are confused. You try to search inside that box of yours for how you feel, but all you find is fear. You've barely been able to keep up with the fear. You busy yourself with helping get everything back in the truck, fitting the supplies like a jigsaw puzzle. You have nothing to eat. A day or two without food is doable until you can properly hunt for something—

"Here."

It is Nereida who catches you by the truck before leaving. She practically shoves a can of tuna into your hands and you look up at her in hesitant gratitude.

"We're all sharing food," she says. "That is how it should be."

"Thank you. Really, this is—"

"Don't thank me. There is plenty for everyone."

For now, your mind chides, but you swallow the thought while scarfing down the meal you pretend is London's finest sushi. 

Once everyone is ready, you head to the back of the truck, expecting an awkward encounter with Kyle, only to find Ghost sitting there beside the kayak, hands relaxed behind his head.

"What are you doing?"

"Needed a break from driving."

You glance at the front to see that Price is behind the wheel, and Kyle is in the passenger side. In a way, you're relieved. You breathe through your nose and hoist yourself up. The bumpy ride is quiet at first. His body takes up space so that each pothole nudges your shoulder or knee against his. The morning ages. You swear you can see there coast at one point, but it must be your imagination, because the passing sign reads Halstead. 

"You really need to work on lying better."

The brash accent registers low against the hum of the engine, and his eyes are closed when you look over. He is leaned back, one leg straight and one bent, seeming to enjoy the seat more than you are. 

"Fine. I'm bad at lying."

"Care to share the truth, then?"

He needn't elaborate for you to know what he is referring to. "I was...I was upset because I found out my knife—the one I took from the base—belonged to Kyle's brother."

His brow ticks.

You continue, "But he actually gave it to Soap, and I—I found his dog tag on a skeleton. John MacTavish. You were friends with him, weren't you?"

His eyes open, but they are too murky to decipher from just his profile. His jaw flexes. "I wasn't a man with friends, Twix."

"You know what I mean."

There is a pause, and then, "He was a sergeant under my command. A good man. Grating, at times. But good."

"Well, I'm sorry he didn't make it. If you of all people say he was a good guy, then he really must've been."

He hums in agreement. Thoughtful. Then—two gloved fingers touch your jaw, turning your eyes to his. "You are still lying, and still bad at it."

You wet your lips. "I wasn't—"

"Help!"

Ghost drops your chin and grabs the gun from his waist.

Your eyes flash around at the sound of a second plea. There is a man at the side of the road, leg draped in bloodied bandages, but there isn't a chance for you to register more of him when the truck takes a sudden, sharp left down a side street and you brace yourself by grabbing the edge with both arms. The small city-scape whirls by in a blur. Ghost swears under his breath, scanning the area as he bends on one knee and keeps the gun secure in his grip. Confused, you grab his arm.

"That man was injured."

His voice is harsh and alert. "He has fucking friends somewhere here. He was just trying to—"

A shattering sound. An audible pop. You're thrown against the truck bed even harder this time as it skids across the street, nearly slamming into a flipped-over car. Ghost covers you, the weight of him keeping you from flying out. The truck swerves to a halt. Everything is black until his weight lifts. He barks an order, jumps out, and pulls you with him.

Pressed against the side of the truck, the world becomes consumed by loud sounds and the distinct smell of gunpowder. Ghost rips open the passenger door and urgently pulls Blue, Ari, and Nereida out, ordering them to keep low. From the other side, you hear Price and Kyle shouting, followed by another series of gunshots.

[tteokdoroki]

the consequences of constellations izuku midoriya ── ᡣ𐭩 ˙ ̟🩰 !!

⋆˙ᝰ about ! you’re in love with your best friend and you’re sleeping with him too… so you count the constellation-like freckles on his back to cope with the idea that he doesn’t love you in the same way. ( 2K )

warnings ! minors blank and ageless blogs do not interact. nsfw, suggestive, smut, angst. characters aged up to 20s, friends with benefits, unrequited love, mutual pining sorta, experimental piece, i wanted to play around with metaphors to do with space, fem!reader, pro hero!deku.

how do you always end up back here?

the answer remains a mystery to you, really. out of all the things that human-kind are capable of, their powers and prettiness, their strength and their stamina — even their knowledge used to invent the space shuttle that traverses the wonders of the uncharted starry abyss…and you still end up here. 

you always end up in the same place — amongst the crumpled linen of pro hero deku’s one bedroom condo. it’s high up enough that it just touches the skyline, it dips past the surface of powder blue skies into the inky black canvas of night to which you find yourself falling victim to sinful touches and muted whispers of pleasure.

it’s the same every time; izuku calls and you answer without hesitation — come rain or shine. you’ll often tumble past the threshold of his apartment with regret and pain pushed to the back of your mind because you’d much rather kiss him and taste the cigarette ash on his tongue in the moment than think logically or have some sense about you. in your world, there’s no better feeling in the world than deku’s masterful, scarred hands spanning out against the base of hour spine or napping out your curves. nothing beats the euphoric high you get from his hips smacking against yours almost in tune with the beat of his heart. 

he pulls you into his orbit. he places himself at the centre of your universe. he fills you up both physically and mentally to the point where every inch of your body and every corner of your heart is overcome with a scorching need for izuku midoriya, like you’ve been engulfed by the sun, it tingles at the tips of your toes and fingers to the top of your head. when he moans your name after every orgasm you share together desire lights up within you like a solar flare — you feel special, desired and maybe even loved.

but this is just sex.

it’s always been just sex, especially to izuku.

there’s a risk in allowing yourself to believe it could ever be anything more, and yet, you can’t stop yourself from indulging in this sweet fantasy every time you end up tangled in the pro hero’s expensive sheets. how could you not when he fucks you like you’re the only woman he’s ever loved. 

playing pretend in your head while he sends shooting stars of ecstasy across your line of sight.

shame and regret always hits you like a truck right after — forcing you to deal with the derailing reality that is loving someone who doesn’t want you back and sleeping with them just to get close enough to that feeling of adoration. it’s bad in the morning, but worse at night after deku has cleaned you up with a tender touch and tucked you in for some sleep — rolled onto his side as his own breathing evens out and his consciousness floats away into the depths of deep, empty space. 

you think that he’s still sleeping when the constellations of honey brown freckles on his back begin to blur and your vision swims from unshed tears and you curl in on yourself. claw marks and crescent moons from your perfectly trimmed nails have left their mark on his golden skin, etched between sun-spotted freckles and a collection of faded battle scars — if you look close enough, one might mistake the surface level wounds you’ve left on deku’s body as an attempt at scratching through the space-time continuum to be closer to him. 

izuku stays awake, hoping that you’ll find the strength to get up and leave him so that he doesn’t  have to turn around and pretend to love you again. though, there’s a selfish wish rooted in the back of his mind, longing for you to stay. for you to play make believe for a little longer, to wish upon the North Star and beg for some kind of grace from god — hoping that izuku midoriya will love you some way, somehow. 

he’ll fake it for as long as he can, if it means being the only person to touch you and hold you and kiss you. he’ll pretend to rip every star in the sky for you and breathe false affection past your lips with every kiss if it means he can replace the pain in your lungs and help you breathe a little easier. because in his own twisted way, izuku cares about your feelings…at least to some degree. he’d rather pretend than end things right here, right now. maybe that’s his saviour complex and his instinctual, dire need to save people who doesn’t need saving. 

maybe it’s because this little arrangement has gone on for far too long, to the point where he can’t tell what hurts you or what doesn’t.

when the bulking pro hero shifts beneath the linen sheets, you hand bolts out to grab him — and, as if you’re protecting the embers of a dying flame, a fading star between your fingers, you pull him back into your chest. grasping onto him, holding out for something. you’re afraid that if you let go, izuku will disappear into space’s abyss and you might never get to have him like this again. another selfish wish. this time from you, not from him. 

don’t go. you want to tell him. don’t fizzle away. you want to say. you know that it’s wrong to want to keep someone you can’t, who won’t love you, around. it’s testament to how much respect you have for yourself, how much self worth you have. which, from the looks of it, is little to none. you feel like you might die without izuku, even if what you have of him is so little. a plant with a crane its neck reaching for even the tiniest bit of sunlight to grow… that’s how you feel about izuku’s…affections for you. even if it’s not real love, you still yearn for it and blossom underneath it. even if you should let him go because you love him, you don’t want to.

out of fear that he may not come back. 

when izuku says your name, whispers it into the black hole of the night — he treats it as if it’s made of gold. the syllables heavy on his tongue, weighing it down with a force of gravity. “are you awake?” he adds, despite feeling the shake of your limbs behind him from crying. he speaks slow and tender, the gravel of the early morning still in his voice. 

your breath hitches warmly against his bare back like a mist over his sun spotted freckles. “no.” a dishonest answer that would have given you away instantly had the evergreen haired hero not already been up and listening to you cry. you sound strained, stuffy and he knows your pretty eyes are probably a putrid red and that there’s snot stains left in tracks on his satin sheets. and maybe, if he loved you like he should — this wouldn’t have happened, he wouldn’t feel so much guilt to the point where he feels sick to his stomach.

loving you is dangerous territory, like a trip to the uncharted parts of deep dark space. the concept alone is terrifying enough to send icy blood through izuku midoriya’s veins where he’s usually so hopeful and fearless. if he lets himself, for even a second, fall in love with you — there would be a chance your life would change for the worse, a chance that you wouldn’t be able to bare the long nights without him or the weeks where he’s gone. you hardly see deku now, how would you cope when he’s finally yours but too far away from you to touch. you could be in the same bed and he would still be light years away, galaxies ahead of your own train of thought because he is constantly thinking of who and how to save next.

not to mention the very fact that his existence is a threat to your livelihood, with villains lurking around every corner just waiting for a chance to make the number one weak…

…loving izuku midoriya would be like standing still in the middle of a hurricane on jupiter. 

no one would be able to withstand the largest storm in the universe, not even you, and the strength you find in loving izuku. 

still, you’re a liar and izuku knows it. even if he’s not supposed to. the bed creaks beneath his weight as he rolls over to face you, freckled cheek sinking into the cotton hills on his pillows as he finally sets his emerald sights on you. “you must be dreaming then,” he laughs fondly through his nose when he speaks, bringing a thumb up from underneath the duvet to swipe away your drying tears. the ones you tried so desperately to hide. water doesn’t fall in out space, it drifts endlessly and becomes a liquid with no form. izuku wishes you weren’t crying over him. 

shrugging, you lean into the man’s touch, letting deku cup your cheeks and trace your smile lines that don’t seem so smiley anymore. the early morning moonlight ( the sun has yet to rise ), illuminates the stars in his mossy eyes that practically plead for you to let go, and your heart lurches painfully. he feels sorry for you. “i hope so.” comes your tired whisper. embarrassed and heartbroken, you look away and tuck your face under the duvet — chin brushing your naked shoulders, skin bare and bitten and bruised from the night before. “if i am, i don’t want to wake up.” 

“what happens in your dreams?” capturing your chin between his fingers, izuku tilts your gaze over to him — inquisitive, cautious as if you’re an alien life form and he’s trying his best not to scare you away. he doesn’t quite understand you, why you keep returning to him , only to find yourself naked, vulnerable and heartbroken the next day. 

“you love me back, i think. we’re more than what we are right now.”

bitter selfishness tacks itself to the back of your throat like bile — you know that you’re being unkind and greedy to izuku by voicing your thoughts out loud, begging him for even the tiniest slither of love but what’s worse is the lack of compassion for yourself. the endless torture you inflict on your being just waiting for the number one hero to maybe love you back. 

in away, it makes you deserving of one another. whatever it is that the two of you have is no healthier than a pack of cheap cigarettes from the combini at the top of the road. a nicotine addiction that neither of you seem to be able to quit. humming into the moonlit void, deku brushes a thumb over your streaked, pudgy cheek — tracing the tear stains and the tracks left by the lines in the pillowcase. 

his eyes shimmer like the Milky Way on a clear night as he looks at you, strands of longing twisting within the vibrant green flecks in midoriya’s eyes. it must be lonely for him out there — he’s in another universe of his own and you can hardly compare to or comprehend it. “are you still dreaming?” he asks.

reaching up, you grab his wrist from underneath the covers — feeling his pulse beat steadily underneath the pad of your thumb. “i hope so.” you repeat your words from earlier, lashes fluttering against your cheeks — heart pounding. 

“then i’ll love you how you like,” midoriya agrees, masking his sadness with his signature hero smile. the one he uses to let the people he saves know that everything will be okay. even when it’s not. izuku treats you like a damsel in distress and maybe you are. you need saving from yourself, from him and he knows it. you both do. “at least until you wake up.” 

nodding, you close your eyes and lock off the rest of your senses — listening to only the sounds your steady breathing mingling in your own personal pocket of space. time freezes for the two of you, you don’t know how many light years it’s been before you speak again — but izuku’s warmth is still there, still enveloping you like the brilliant rays of the sun at the centre of your universe. he doesn’t dare cast you out into the icy cold of space. not yet.

“then i’ll try to keep dreaming, i’m not ready to wake up just yet.” comes your quiet voice as you lean forward to press your forehead against izuku’s freckled one.

not yet.

he exhales, deep and sad, but cups your face a little tighter and draws you in a little closer. “me either, not yet.” 

not yet. together, wrapped up in one another, the two of you decide that you'll stay lost in the web of constellations for a little bit longer. 

not yet.

꒰ end. — all rights reserved © tteokdoroki 2024. do not copy, repost, translate, feed into ai & recommend elsewhere.

[ghoulphile]

wish you'd make me cry | c.h./the ghoul

➥ pairing | cooper howard/the ghoul x f!reader ➥ word count | 2.3k ➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; rough, dom!cooper, frottage, sitting missionary, dirty talk, degradation kink, pet names, teasing, dacryphilia, bareback, drug/chem use (jet), shotgunning, high sex ➥ summary | "You’re such a needy fucking brat." :3c ➥ notes | drabble (that's no longer a drabble lol) request for @tearueful, thank you bby!! this one really got away from me... i had to stop myself from writing lol. un-beta'd atm. masterlist | feel free to send in thots, questions, requests! | feedback is always appreciated ❤️

Setting up camp for the night in an abandoned warehouse, you and Cooper wait out a radstorm that blows in off the horizon. Because while he loves sitting outside with a smoke, soaking in the rads until he’s buzzing with frenetic energy, you don’t feel like hunting down RadAway tomorrow.

It’s quiet apart from the distant sound of super mutants and ferals roaming the city, the sporadic roar of thunder, and rain tinging off the sheet metal roof. There’s still hours left until daylight, and it doesn’t seem like the volatile weather will break soon.

Unfortunately, you’ve read all the Grognak comics you could get your grubby hands on three times over, and there’s not much else to pass the time besides scuff your boot along the concrete floor, and pluck at a stray thread hanging off your tattered sleeping bag.

Meanwhile, Cooper lounges on his side, unbothered. His hand - bare for once - props up his head, the unscarred skin of a commandeered digit stark against angry rad burns and ropey scars. Between the knuckles of his other hand, he rolls a vial of chem over and over in a mesmerizing flick of deft fingers.

A lantern sputters between you as the old battery struggles to keep it lit. Its jaundiced glow banishes the thick darkness; a fuzzy halo of light that elongates shadows and deepens the cuts of his face.

You kiss your teeth, and say, “Hey, you got any more Jet?”

Lazy eyes slide towards you. A hairless brow quirks. “And if I did,” he asks, the vial pausing between his fingers, “why you wanna know?”

“Dunno, I’m bored… wanna get high?”

“Well, shit,” he whistles, bares his teeth. A low, crackling laugh rumbles from his chest. “Why the fuck didn’t you ask sooner.”

You shrug and crack a knuckle.

To be honest, the idea hadn’t occurred to you at first. Now that it has, anticipation curls low in your belly. Not only has it been a long, long time since you last got high (the sensation a hazy, half-remembered dream of fuzzy warmth and whirling thoughts), you know Cooper always carries a top-notch stash.

The little chem fiend, you think fondly.

“So,” you prompt. “Wanna get high together or what?”

“Sure as shit, darlin’. Let’s party.”

He settles against the pockmarked wall beside you with a soft grunt, the grit of concrete digging into his back. Thigh to thigh, his body is a rad warm line of heat. A bloom of suffocating heat in the otherwise biting chill of a wasteland night. Gunpowder and smoke tickle your nose when he leans over to rifle through his bag, leather creaking.

Muted, mellow; everything fades into a silent companionship as you pass the red inhaler between you. With every puff, whorls of smoke curl from your mouths until a murky gray cloud hovers in the air; defining the edges of your crafted universe.

The acrid vapor of chem burns its way through your lungs and into your bloodstream. A bitter taste coats your fattened tongue, lips tingling as your palm smothers little coughs. A flood of static rushes down your nerve endings, sends your head spinning.

As your vision blurs, the tension leeches from rounded shoulders with a bone weary sigh. And with every slow clicking blink, colors spark to life in a distorted kaleidoscope. Head lolling to the side, you watch through heavy eyes as Cooper rattles the inhaler and takes a shallow hit.

When he exhales, little tendrils of smoke caress the plains of his cheek. Dance along the hollow nasal ridge. “Almost out.” He grunts, your fingers brushing when he passes the cartridge back. “Go on, now. Finish it.”

The kind gesture (for him) touches you.

Then a faraway thought flutters.

Snags - settles into a nebulous desire.

And before you can second guess yourself, a rumble of thunder shakes the building. Wipes away the last of your common sense, and reservations. After all, why not? He was nice enough to share. You can too.

To his credit, Cooper doesn’t startle when you slink into his lap - not that you expect him to, even without being chem-addled. He tracks your movements from beneath a heavy brow bone, the dark Nuka Cola of his eyes glittering like shattered glass in the wane light.

“Heh, this that kinda party then, darlin’?” he asks once you settle, your thighs draped over his hips and your ass flush with his crotch. “‘Cuz you’ll be wanting ta extricate yourself if it ain’t.”

—Before I do it for you.

Humming, you dip forward until your breasts brush over the wide expanse of his chest. Interest flickers to life behind your navel; cinders cracking and popping along your spine. While you’d never considered Cooper a sexual availability beforehand (what with his never-ending search for family), the laden weight of his gaze as it pauses on your chin before dropping lower sings through your blood.

Kickstarts your heart into a galloping stutter that thuds against your ribcage as longing hooks behind your navel, tugs sudden and sharp. The world spins.

Maybe, you think, peering at him from beneath the fan of your lashes. Maybe…

“Pervert,” you murmur, biting down on a small smile.

The knife-sharp smirk falls from his lips faster than a comedown from Psycho when your fingertips ghost over the curve of his jaw, turning his head towards you. Like this, you share breath, the scant space between you thrumming with energy.

So close you can see flecks of gold in the amber whiskey of his eyes.

Your forehead brushes over his; the rough drag of gnarled skin sending a shiver through your limbs. “Let’s share the last hit. S’only fair.”

Pausing, he considers you for several long moments.

His gaze bounces from yours to the playful curve of your mouth and back. A small eternity passes like this. And then - when you’re about to crawl away to lick your wounded pride - the most imperceptible of nods grants his assent.

There’s a hiss of aerosol, a lung burning inhale, and then you’re exhaling into the open gash of his mouth.

Wisps of smoke dance off your tongue onto his, the bow of your lips glancing off the swell of his top lip as you squirm closer. You feed him chem in a slow, steady stream until all the air has left you.

He groans - a wounded, low-throated sound.

Your eyes flutter open to find him already staring, his iris a thin ring around the Blackhole of his wide blown pupils. Hooded, hungry: a caged predator. You lick your lips, and in doing so, flick your tongue over his.

Your stomach swoops, “I --”

“You’re such a needy fuckin’ brat, y’know that, sweetheart?”

Whether it was an apology or some other retort stuck to the back of your teeth like hard candy, you’ll never know because in the next moment a rough hand knocks the Jet out of your hand. The inhaler cracks against the concrete with a plastic smack before skidding off into the darkness.

A burning palm curls around your wrist, calloused fingers digging into your fluttering pulse point. “Hey — hngg!”

He yanks you close, and you taste the violence in his kiss.

Harsh lips map out the softness of yours as teeth pinch and roll until your mouth is a swollen mess of tender flesh and smeared spit. Keeping up with the frenzied scrape of his tongue and the deep pulls of his kisses is like trying to weather a hurricane or fight off a Yao Guai with a single bullet.

“W-Wait,” you gasp, fingers twined through the lapels of his duster. “I don’t --”

“Shut up,” Cooper growls, worrying the swell of your bottom lip until a bead of blood bubbles to the surface. He sucks it away with a stifled moan, his hips kicking up against the plush of your ass.

“Shut the fuck up right now. You know what you was doing - trying ta act innocent when you’ve been gaggin’ for it.”

Flustered, you pull back, “No, that’s not true!”

It’s hard to keep your balance with chem pumping through your veins, and you sway to the side. The only thing keeping you upright is the bruising grip Cooper has on your wrist. “I haven’t been — you’re wr-rong.”

He spits out a mean spirited chuckle. “If that’s what you need ta tell yourself, sweetheart.” A critical eye drags down the pathetic sight you make, crumbled as you are in his lap. “But I know the truth. I felt you looking - pantin’ after me like a bitch in heat.”

“...”

Panic grips you by the throat, your pulse thundering against the thumb he strokes along the curve of your shoulder. You should’ve known better.

Of course, he’d notice.

He was The Ghoul after all - best bounty hunter from this coast to the next. It was his job to perceive everything around him, sus out friend from foe.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“I’m… I’m sorry.”

What else can you say?

He brought you along (for whatever reason, fuck if you know why), and you’ve caused nothing but trouble every step of the way. It’s a wasteland miracle he hasn’t kicked your ass and left you bleeding in the dirt by now.

I have to fix this. Whatever it takes.

“I ain’t wanting you sorry.”

Gulping, you will away the sting of tears, and say, “Please, don’t kick me out.”

“Y’know, sometimes I think it’s a miracle you survived this long at all.”

“You don’t have to be so rude about it…” 

“Listen good and well, sugar,” he says with a roll of his eyes, that tender hand brushing over your neck turning into a collar as he drags you close. His lips whisper over yours with every word. “I didn’t go through all of this bullshit just ta get rid of you. Now--”

Hips rut up into you, dragging the firm line of his growing erection along the soft globes of your ass. “Stop teasin’ and make yourself useful,” he says. “Or you will be sorry.”

Everything after that flicks in and out of focus like a zoetrope: the burning clasp of hands, the slick glide of hungry mouths, the frantic rock of your hips as you both chase after dry friction with a desperation that borders on madness.

Your hands don’t know where to settle, fluttering from the nape of his neck to the breadth of his shoulders to the rippling muscle of his stomach as he rocks into you. Bites at any exposed skin that he can until his teeth leave marks you’ll carry for days.

All the while the hard edges of his body crash into your softness like waves against an eroding shore. Liquid fire blazes in your belly like a raging wildfire, scorching you from the inside out until you’re dumb and dripping.

The chem snaking through your body enhances the littlest of sensations until you feel like one giant exposed nerve. Slick drenched and sweaty, you moan weakly and rest your forehead against his cheek.

“Please,” you slur, thighs trembling where they squeeze at his live-wire hips. “S’not enough - need more. Wanna cum. Please, please, please. Make me cum.”

Cooper bites out a curse, his fingers biting into the fat of your ass. “Yeah, s’that right, sweetheart - d’you think you deserve it for bein’ such a lil brat?”

“Yes, yes, please, I’ll do anything. Just - hhahh, fuck!”

The fabric of your panties clings to your folds, and your pants chafe.

Your clit throbs with every thud of your heartbeat, every firm grind of his cock and low husk of his voice. Want him seated so deep inside you choke - your poor pussy struggling to take his cock as he rides you so hard you cry.

“Anything?” he asks with a breathless chuckle.

The devilish gleam of his eyes rattles your bones, shivers of electric anticipation fizzing through your veins like Quantum.

“Well, shit. Don’t come cryin’ ta me when you regret it. Now, take off those fucking pants and ride my cock like a good girl.”

And when he bullies his way inside, those thick ridges dragging along gummy walls, you almost swallow your tongue. He’s so big - the biggest you’ve ever had.

Every inch is a struggle, a victory. He’s not patient, he’s not kind. You don’t want it any other way, spread so wide your pussy flutters pathetically, trying to push him out.

Then the fat head grazes past the rough patch of your g-spot, sliding home to kiss your cervix. Your knees lock around his ribs, your head tossing back as a high-pitched whine punches its way out of your throat.

“A-Ah! I can’t — oh shit — you’re so,” you babble. “Too much!”

An ache spears deep, roots behind your navel.

“Heh, you asked for it, sweetheart. Look at me.” A scarred thumb wicks away a tear as you peel your eyes open with a sniffle. “That’s it. Shit, you look s’pretty when you cry.”

He licks his skin clean, uses his wet thumb to reach between you and roll the pad over your abused clit. You jump, sliding up on his shaft only for gravity to drag you back down with a solid smack of skin, your limbs jello soft.

The motion slams him deeper and slick drips from you in a sticky gush to soak his balls. You cry out, reedy thin.

Cooper grunts, warns, “You keep doing that and we’re not stoppin’ til you’re dripping cum.”

Though the thick haze of chem and syrupy sweet pleasure, you cobble together a grin and lick your way into his mouth. Tangle your tongues and suck as your hips arch into his. “Please, ruin me,” you breathe.

A possessive greed glints at you from the depths of his hangman eyes.

“Don’t go sayin’ I didn’t warn you, sweetheart,” he promises.

[radioactive-mouse]

i keep thinking about like. how the brutality levels vary between seasons and how secret life is the natural culmination of everything these people have been through and the watchers pushing everything to extremes. i’m going to try to articulate how crazy this makes me

3rd Life: god. 3rd life was a clear cut war. we haven’t seen a season since where nearly everyone has such an intense devotion to their chosen faction. the fact that there’s no precedent that they’re coming back next season, the fact that as far as they know, dying means staying dead, makes just how much they’re willing to go down with the ship that much more heartbreaking. grian ended the season exactly how it was played by damn near everyone else— i love you, i would do anything for you, i would rather die than keep going without you. the season of widows.

Last Life: and then they come back. and then ending things isn’t an option. and all of a sudden it’s not a war, it’s a death match, and damn is the competition is vicious. deaths are more often than not a vague, impersonal thing— not get away from my king, my husband, my charge— just the flash of a knife and a quick sorry, just playing the game! if 3rd life told you to hold the ones you love close, defend them to your last breath, last life urges you to burn that love out of your chest entirely.

Double Life: but everything slows down eventually. no more dying for the one you love— just learning to live with them. double life is about knowing that when you die, you will go together, hand and hand into the dark. a soap opera, the players joke. a small kindness, the universe replies. again, pearl wins the same way everyone else lost— no, not yet, please, just give us a little longer together, i’m not ready, i’m so sorry—

Limited Life: but the clock, unyielding, ticks ever onward. and god, everyone is starting to feel it. that sick, nauseating feeling of dread creeping up on them: what if it never ends? what if this is it, this is all that’s left for us— tearing each other apart over and over and over again, and for what? for a show? to feed those hungry things lurking in the dark? we’ll give them a show. bombs rain from the sky, the world shaking under the weight of it. there isn’t a thing left by the end that’s not rubble. we’re all doomed! the players cry, laughing with nothing but nihilistic, unrestrained joy. none of it matters! we come back again, and again, and again, have a little fun with it! light the fuse, collateral be damned. when death means so little, what’s the point in pretending they don’t take a little joy in it? we settle this like grian and scar before us, scott jokes, armor and weapons tossed to the side. are you insane? martyn thinks, remembering the hollow look that would wash over grian’s face when he thought no one was watching. it ruined him. it will not ruin me. this is a death match for a reason.

Secret Life: and here it is. the natural conclusion. this season is candy colored, the map dotted with cute pink houses and silly builds, the players all running around doing these ridiculous tasks. it’s so easy to forget how bloody this season was. unclosing wounds, bruises that don’t fade, the sting of fire or falling from a simple misstep. the hurt never goes away, but it gets easier to ignore— distract yourself with something silly to pass the time: spyglasses and frogs and the ugliest house you’ve ever seen and matching leather jackets and the doghouse and the relationSHIP and a weird tunnel full of doors and secret soulmates and god it’s almost, almost, enough to forget how much it all aches, how much the grief weighs on you, how many times someone you love has died, sometimes to your own blade. almost none of the grudges you hold are real by now, not really. not when you’re going to live and die with these people for as long as the hungry, many-eyed things delight in your suffering. you love each other, in the strangest way— sure you’ve all killed and betrayed each other in a thousand different ways, but at the end of the day, they’re all you have. clinging to each other in the face of the vast, unknowable horrors that drive you to slash each other to pieces. it’s still a game, after all. they’ve gotta figure out how to be good sports about it eventually.

[last-words-ofashootingstar]

DJANGO

Choi San x fem reader x Jung Wooyoung (heavy hints at ot8)

a/n: nobody talk to me nobody touch me nobody look at me i'm loosing my mind over this comeback you don't even understand

"Ain't nobody mess with Django, call me Django." -ATEEZ

✫彡wordcount: 5.5k (sorry?!?)

(>ᴗ•) genre: smut w/plot

ಠ_ಠwarnings/content: violence and injuries, dystopian/lore universe, lots of cussing, angst, poly relationship, brief mention of drinking as coping, extreme pda LMAO, woo is a bit of a little shit in the first half, dry humping, making out(lots of it), also lots of pet names, multiple rounds, threesome, light choking&degrading, snowballing, oral, boobjob, dp, overstim, teasing, orgasm control, praise kink teehee, dom san/sub woo/switch-sub reader, m x m, unprotected( don't do that🗣️), NOT EDITED

taglist: @calicanbeevil @pansies-garden @kissezfornamjoon @wisejudgedragonhairdo

MATURE UNDER CUT MDNI

The van shook as another vehicle passed, making San groan as you fell down onto him.

"I'm sorry, Baby," you cooed softly, kissing the bruise on his collarbone that you had unintentionally fallen onto. The soaked rag that you cleaned him with was handed back to you from its fallen place on the shag carpet by Wooyoung with a soft laugh.

"You baby him too much, he's a big boy," he claps his hand onto his shoulder, making him groan again- glaring at the younger man, "right, Champ?"

"I'll beat your ass, Woo."

"Oh, I bet you will, you beat up that scrawny little guy too!" He cackles, clapping and leaning away as San swipes at him tiredly.

"He was faster than I expected!"

"You two knock it off," you sigh exasperatedly as you wipe the grime from his swollen pec, rolling your eyes at your boyfriends bickering. Being stuck in such a small space had taken a toll on the three of yours relationship- especially the two men. They were at each other throats more often than not-even it was playfully. "I'll blow our cover just to tell Hongjoong."

"You wouldn't..." Wooyoung eyes you suspiciously as you smirk. "You wouldn't!"

"I will if you two don't give me a second of peace." You cock your brow at him, tossing the rag into the pile that is your dirty laundry, silently cursing yourself for choosing to hide out with them instead of with Yunho and Jongho in their shop. They even had a cool talking bird.

You place a gentle kiss to Sans eye, a healing bruise almost faded under your lips. "Stop getting hit in the face, yeah?"

"Yeah, I'll politely tell my opponents that my girlfriend likes her boys pretty~" he rolls his eyes and whines as your body heat leaves his sore body.

"So what if I do, pretty boys happen to be my type!" You shrug and crawl off of the spent man, over to the other side and into Wooyoungs lap.

He smirks at his boyfriend cockily as you rest your head on his shoulder, "that's why she's cuddling me right n-ow!" His smirk turns to a pout as you flick his chest.

"Can you two manage a peace treaty while I get some shut eye? It's four hours drive to the next town and it's my turn to drive in the morning."

"Of course, Darling." They chime together, silently scowling at one another but keeping quiet as you close your eyes.

--

     "Wakey, wakey," you shake the buff man softly, safely parked in the back alley of the abandoned building. Wooyoung stood just outside of the open van doors, abs on display as he changed into a better looking shirt.

      "Yah, wake up!"

   You glare at him as he startles San awake, who holds you close protectively in his delirium, still scared of the run in you had experienced with HalaTeez months ago. No matter how much he swears to the lot of you that he doesn't feel guilty, the way his eyes sadden when he focuses on the scar over your left brow for too long gives it away. Hala-San, as you call him to real-Sans dismay, had tricked you all too well and after that... you couldn't look at the real, loving, caring San for weeks. You had to split off with Mingi and frequented a bar, drinking away any memory of Hala-Sans torment until Hongjoong found you and picked up the pieces when the bottle ran empty.

     "You dick," San rasps as he rubs your sides, his gentle touch a contrast to the way he gives his cackling boyfriend the stink eye.

    "Rise and shine, Sannie~" he teases, buttoning up his shirt and soothing his long hair down, "time to get your ass whopped again."

     "Oh, like you'd do any better! You'd be demolished!"

     You let out a sigh and slide out of the van, soothing your dress- which in reality is Jongho's shirt with a belt around your waist. "I'll be signing in." You speak shortly before wondering off, leaving them fighting more than ever over how they upset you.

    San insists it's all Wooyoungs fault for being such a whiny shit.

    Wooyoung is adamant that San is at fault for hogging all of your attention.

     They go back and forth for a while until a Strickland patrol vechile speeds by, spooking the both of them into the building.

     Wooyoung immediately wraps his arms around your waist as they find you bent over signing Sans pseudonym, DJANGO, into the fighting brackets. San is busy eyeing everyone around you, both in suspicion of Halateez and Strickland and simply to scope out his potential competition.

     "Entry fee is three k," the woman on the other side of the pop-up table looks as if she's ready to kick your trio out in a single breath when you don't provide the money, eyeing up Sans messy tank top and your days old makeup with distain.

    "That's it?" You pout, tutting your tongue as you turn away from the rude woman, sighing dramatically as you dig into Wooyoungs pockets, grabbing hold of multiple tightly rolled wads of money.

    Both of them smirk at your antics, so clearly eager to prove this stranger wrong about her preconceived notions about you and your lovers as you count the wads, dropping a few down before skipping past her with a wave.

      The crowded arena does nothing for Sans anxiety, his eyes scanning at a million miles an hour as he keeps a possessive hand on the small of your back. Wooyoung has similar feelings as he drapes his arm over your shoulders in a way that clearly shouts, 'don't touch' to anyone who looks your way. You feel much safer on the other hand, both of your boyfriends touching you at once for the first time in what feels like ages, both ready to toss themselves infront of danger if it presents itself.

You all squeeze your way to the front, right up to the edge of the ring, where a fight is already taking place, one of the men nearly teasing the other with the way he bounces around on his tip-toes, not letting the other get a single touch in.

"She said not many fighters showed up," you practically have to yell for the men to hear you, "Strickland cracking down again!" You explain loudly, rubbing Sans lower back in an attempt to comfort his nerves as he stretches his wrists. Wooyoung has split off to make bets with other players, making sure to stick out like a sore thumb with his flashy shirt. "Might have to find a new income soon if they don't back off!"

He sighs, rolling his head back and stretching his neck out, letting you admire the freckles on his skin that he knows you love.

As the quick moving fighter finally wears out his opponent, he gets sloppy, and he starts getting hits in. You slide behind San and hide your face in his back, wrapping your arms around his waist and stroking his stomach softly. "I hate that you have to do this!"

He holds his hands over your own and rubs his thumbs over your skin, watching the man who will clearly be his opponent wailing on the other man.

"Got nine grand riding on you tonight, Babe," Wooyoung slides back into the conversation, cupping the back of Sans neck.

Although they had their on and off moments, he would always be in tune to his emotions and try to calm him. And trying to keep the peace was even more worth it when you were around. Usually, they had Yeosang as a voice of reason but he was off with Seonghwa doing God-knows what in preparation for your next mission.

Being apart was straining and stressful for every last one of you. But groups larger than three were banned by Hongjoong after four of you had caught Halateez's attention a few months back. He didn't want to risk it again and he certainly didn't want to risk a group of nine most wanted outlaws being together. The combined reward for your captures was the largest amount of money you had ever read. You weren't sure how to even pronounce it.

It was almost an entire year of being in hiding.

You didn't know how much more you could take.

    "- DJANGO!!" The name catches your attention over the blaring speaker. How was he up so early? You peek around San and see the fast man catching his breath in the opposite corner. Blood being wiped up and a limp body being carried out.

     "We can always find a new way to get money," you scream to San as he rolls out his stiff shoulders, whining as Wooyoung pulls you away gently. "Seriously, Sannie!"

    "He'll be okay, Darling," Wooyoungs chaste kiss to your head does nothing to calm your raging nerves as San bends down and slides into the ring. You pull away in a hurry and hop up on the ledge, grabbing his top over the ropes.

      "Forgot something?" You lean your torso over and immediately take San into a heated kiss, his calloused hands cupping your face firmly and pulling you close. People all around whistle and call loudly, a blush creeping up Wooyoung neck as he watches your lips meld together.

It been almost a year on the run. Almost five months since any of the three of you have touched one another in an intimate, primal way.

He doesn't know how much longer he can take it. When you crawled into his lap earlier he nearly took you right there.

You always do something after a needy kiss that makes every single one of them feral.

You lick up Sans lips to his cheekbone and moan.

   People start nearly howling, and his opponent looks antsy.

"Fuck him up, Baby," you cup his chin in your hand as you block out the world around you for a moment and take one last good look at him before you know you'll go away during his fights. You can't bring yourself to watch no matter how long he's been fighting. But that doesn't mean you won't hype him up while you can.

      You slap his shoulder softly, making sure to make it look harder than it was in reality before giving his fist a gentle kiss.

     "Fuck him up," you repeated before hopping down.

--

The van door opening makes your head snap, setting away the headphones that play Yeosangs violin melody.

"Hey, how'd ev-"

San jumps on you before you can finish greeting them properly, kissing you deeply and feeling you up like it's the first time he's ever touched you. The clotted blood on his lip doesn't discourage either of you, the pain only stirs him on as Wooyoung climbs in and slams the doors shut behind him.

The dull thud of the duffel bag he drops makes you look over, San letting you breath and nipping at your neck and jaw instead. "Holy shit, Baby, you won?!"

"Fuck yeah, I did, Beautiful," he moans breathlessly, holding himself up above you to speak with a sultry purr, "let me spoil you." He looks over to Wooyoung lustfully. "Both. Let me spoil you both."

Wooyoung smiles at him. Genuinely. For the first time in weeks.

    If there's one thing that makes him weak it's being spoiled by his lovers. So when San lifts you up and settles you in his lap and climbs into the drivers seat, he doesn't complain: he simply dives into your lips like a man starved.

     And he is, lips suctioned onto yours so deeply and passionately that neither of you notice as the van lurches to life and begins speeding away. You fall to the floor ontop of him and hold him tightly. Like he's an illusion that will disappear like smoke if you let go.

     He body feels so right on yours. Clinged together on the shag floor. Melting together. The outside world and all of its problems fading away as his hands wander your body.

       How you've managed to keep your hands off one another for this long is a world's greatest mystery.

       "Fuck," he moans as you lap at his lips, his hands sliding up the edge of your dress and cupping the round of your ass. "Fuck, Princess, please," he whines.

       You can hear the smirk in the way San chuckles from the front seat, but it doesn't stop him from speeding up. He loves how whiney Wooyoung gets just as much as you do.

     You clumsily undo his bottoms and pull them down just enough to press your heat to his growing bulge. The thin layers of cloth separating you doesn't stop the feral groan that he lets out, holding your hips with a bruising force as he grinds up into you. If anything, the soft fabric pressing into your clit with each of his uncoordinated thrusts makes it feel more euphoric.

     "Oh, God~"

    The soft moans you let out have Wooyoung rock hard and San palming himself. "Ffffuck, Baby," you groan, hugging his neck tightly as his hips buck below you.

      Everyone got the 'Babyyy' treatment when they were good or needed a pick me up. The way it rolled off of your tongue was like a drug to them. Even more so when it's so deep and passionate. Even more so when their cock is pressing against you.

     Sans eager left turn has the both of you rolling on the floor, laughing as he apologizes loudly from the driver seat. "Sorry, continue!"

     "You heard the man," you laugh from below Wooyoung, "continue."

      And he does, burying his face in your neck and biting and licking and sucking as he rubs his bulge against you like it's the last human touch he'll ever experience. "M'cum," your moan has him rolling into you with a new purpose in life, nearly growling as he holds himself back from painting his underwear white, "shit, Youngie!" You wrap your legs around his waist tightly as you release, shivering and shaking with your jaw slack.

      He isn't far behind by even a second, his gut clenching as he turns his bottoms sticky with his own pleasure, panting into your ear as he continues to roll into you, drawing out your euphoria and making you mewl out, clawing at his scalp.

      In your bliss, you fail to notice that Sans parked outside of a double story motel and ran out with a wad of cash, clearly in a hurry.

Yours hands are wrapped in each others hair, breathing deeply with your foreheads pressed together, almost as it trying to meld your souls together with passion.

    The doors behind the both of you open and flood you in the neon light of the motel signs, and you peek around Wooyoungs frame as he falls over you protectively from what he thinks is prying eyes. "Sannie~" you call, making Wooyoung relax ontop of you.

       "You alive, Foxy?" San teases as he climbs in and crawls to you both.

     "Mhm," he moans into your jaw, "very alive." He gasps as San pulls him away from you by his neck, taking him in a feverish kiss as you watch on in awe. You can tell San his slipping his tongue into Wooyoungs mouth by the way he holds his jaw open, the way Wooyoung grinds his bulge back into you.

     "Youngie, Baby," you whine as he rolls his self into your swollen clit, but it only makes him go faster, his hands finding purchase on Sans waist. "Ah s-" You writhe below him, stopped when one of Sans hands comes and holds you in place by pressing on your stomach: all the while he never opens his eyes or pulls away from your boyfriend. "Fuck, please don't tease!"

He chuckles into his lips, gently stroking his neck. "C'mon, I got us a room for a few days."

Wooyoung begrudgingly slides out of the van, gathering your few bags and bouncing in anticipation as he fixes his pants to the best of his ability. San scoops you up to his chest and you cling to him like a koala bear, kissing all over his face as he carries you up the stairs and down the balcony hall.

Wooyoung drops the bags at the entrance of the room and immediately goes to investigate the single bedded room and bathroom before urging San in, latching the door shut behind him.

You're dropped to the bed and bounce with a soft laugh, opening your legs wide to fit Sans large frame as he slots himself between them. Wooyoung slides next to you and is immediately latched onto your neck as he unbuttons your dress.

"Ah fuck," you mewl out, cradling his head close as your head spins, San slipping off your panties and shimmying down. He holds your thighs apart as he licks a slow, deep stripe up your soaking heat, reveling in the way you moan for him. He wastes no time diving in and eating you out like it's his last meal. His tongue flicking and swiping against every inch it can reach. His nose pressed against your clit as his head bobs.

You're lost in the pleasure between your legs so much so that you don't notice that you and Wooyoung are both naked until he climbs onto your stomach, his hot member gliding between your breasts. Despite how long it's been, your body has its muscle memory from how often you two would do this.

You cup your breasts and push them together, encasing his length in the soft flesh as he grips the headboard roughly, the tip of his cock leaking on the base of your collar bones.

It's hard to appreciate just how beautiful he is while San is ravaging your cunt with his tongue, but you manage. Looking up with blown irises, he's so pretty. His long hair softly framing his face, bouncing with each of his rough, slow thrusts against your supple skin. His swollen lips parted with moans. Toned abs expanding and constricting as he heaves.

"Foxy," you whisper out, catching his eyes with a deep blush on both of your cheeks, "so pretty, Baby."

He curses loudly and reaches one hand down, cradling your face so gently in comparison to how he fucks your tits. "My woman."

The words make your eyes roll back, a wave of your arousal coating Sans tongue as you cum, gripping your breasts tightly and whimpering out as the sensations continue well past your peak.

      Wooyoung wills himself to hold back from cumming until he's told, and San holds himself back as he laps up your juices-grinding his hardness onto the bed slowly. Both of your moans are a magic melody to him, and he can't help but crave more. He pulls away and joins Wooyoung over top of you, wrapping his arms around the younger man and spooking him. He slides his hands up his naked torso teasingly slow, grinding on his backside.

"Shit, Babe," he groans, tossing his head back on his shoulder and simultaneously trying to bury his cock in your warm skin and grind back on San's bulge. "Fuck, I ne-"

"Cum, Youngie." The command from the both of you at the same time has him painting your collarbones and neck in a millisecond flat, jaw slack as San continues to stroke him even as his hips stop.

"Fuck, fuck, please, oh my God," he stirs back to life from his void of pleasure as you bend your neck and lick his sensitive tip. He tries to back away only to bump right into Sans girth on his bare backside. "Oh God~"

        "Need a breather, Sexy?" San coos as he slowly moves Wooyoung off of you, already knowing that he can't cum back to back. He needs at least five minutes at that's all San needs to get you ready for what's about to come.

        Wooyoung comes crawling back into you, lapping up his own seed with a quiet moan as San slides down your body and hooks your legs over his hips. "Ready, Darling?"

      "Yes, holy fuck am I ready, please give it to me," you babble on, only silenced as he inches into your sopping core. He's by far the girthiest man you've even been with. And the stretch always feels so delicious.

       Wooyoung takes advantage as your jaw falls open, leaning over you to drip all of his release into your mouth. The moans and whimpers of pleasure are unstoppable as you swallow all of it down eagerly, hands wrapped up in his hair and pulling him impossibly close. His body follows his head, almost snuggling you as he presses his body flush to your side, one leg hooked over your hips as he grinds his hardening member into your hip.

It's all so warm and welcoming, a familiar and comfortable feeling washing over you along with the overstimulation of your third orgasm building up as San thrusts into you with a steady slow pace. "Fuck," you moan into Wooyoung, "so big," you whimper as your cunt uncontrollably clenches around him. He swallows up all of your noises as he moves his lips against yours zealously, and sneaky hand rubbing the column of your breasts and up to your neck, simply resting: bouncing with each of Sans increasingly rough thrusts that bounce your body.

  "Take me so well," Sans praise has you leaking onto the blanket, panting like crazy and slapping at Wooyoungs shoulders as he bites at your lips hungrily, "pretty Angel, made just for us, hm?"

       "Mmhmph-" Your affirmative moan turns into a yelp as Wooyoung tightens his hand over your neck.

     Damn them. When they decided to be on the same team they were almost scary at how well the schemed without even speaking a single word. San held your hips in place and drilled into you. Wooyoung assaulting your ear with kisses and bites, squeezing your neck in time with Sans hips.

      "Pretty Angel looks like she wants your cum," Wooyoung teases as you swirl your hips in Sans hold, holding you down securely with his hand pressing your neck into the mattress as he looks down at where you're connected.

      "Mmh, she does," San groans loudly, hips snapping into you needily, "looks like a bitch in heat." His words make both of you moan out, your eyes rolling into your skull for a moment before he buries himself to the hilt and stops.

    "No, no, no, please! I wasn't going to cum, pleaseee, Sannie Baby~!" If there's one thing that gets San off, it's when his lover begs him for permission. When their with someone else- cum as much as you like. But with him? Grovel at his feet and beg him for a release only he can give you. "Fuuuck, shit, please, I need you, fuck me!"

Wooyoung watches you with gazed over eyes, holding you still as you attempt to writhe and get more stimulation. "She wants it's so bad, Babe~" He smirks as San, a look that makes his cock twitch inside of you, You muster up your best begging pout and let go of him, reaching for San's hands that are gripping your hips with a bruising force as he holds himself back until he's satisfied with your begging.

"I want you to make me cum, please, Django?"

    All of the breath is fucked out of your lungs as he pounds into you. Fast and hard and nearly animalistic in the way he buries himself in your sopping heat with a string of curses, his fingers interlacing with yours in a soft intimacy that makes your head fuzzy. You can barely moan, how good it is. But he knows. Wooyoung knows.

    As you finally come to your senses and scream out with your release, the whole district must know how well Django is fucking you.

He stops himself with a deep groan as your walls flutter and clench around him, squeezing your hands to ground your soul to your body as Wooyoung dips his head and laps at your hardened nipples. You squeeze his hands tightly, arched off of the bed in pure ecstasy as he fills you with his warm cum.

San slips his arms under your arched back and holds you close to his chest as he flips the two of you, a squeal of pleasure leaving you as he hits an all new angle. He holds you securely as he looks at Wooyoung, almost silently communicating.

He slips behind you, the feeling of his leaking tip prodding at your stretched hole has you gripping Sans shoulders tightly, rolling your hips back into him. "Oh, fuck, yes yes yes yes y-" Sans lips catch yours and silence you as he ravenously slips his tongue into your mouth and licks at your tongue, feeding on all of your moans as Wooyoung slides in with him.

"So good, my woman," his mind is gone, unaware of how your walls grow slicker with his praise as he slowly sheaths himself into you fully.

He nowhere near as thick as San, but dear lord that man has length to make up for it. The both of them together is making your stomach feel hot, the hair on the back of your neck standing up.

San pulls away panting, his lips swollen and wet with your saliva. "Beautiful Angel," you official feel lightheaded as he cradles your face oh so gently as he moves his hips. Wooyoung follows suit, holding your back and fucking into you ruthlessly, rubbing against Sans girth inside of you like it's his favorite thing to do in the universe and it's about to be ripped away.

All you can do is moan and gasp with them, a melody that your neighbors must be cursing as the headboard bangs into the thin walls.

Your chest is pressed into Sans roughly, faces barely an inch away as you all move together. His hands cupping your cheeks and keeping you upright as your body threatens to give out. "Sannie, please, n'cum," he can just make out your slurs over the panting and slapping of skin in the humid room, the smell of sex already soaking into the air.

His brain is nearly gone as he feels Wooyoungs length twitch against him along with your cunt squeezing mercilessly, only nodding at the both of you for permission as he himself lets his soul float away in a wave of pleasure, squeezing you to himself possessively as he cums inside of you. Wooyoung isn't a moment behind, the second he feels Sans warmth flood you, his is joining. And the feeling of both of them soaking your womb makes you lose yourself, dunked in pleasure.

Wooyoung falls ontop of you, sandwiching you between their body warmth. San reaches around and hugs his arms around both of you, heavy breaths lulling you to sleep.

"Holy shit." Is all that can be said.

--

    The next morning you decide to take advantage of the running water that San must have paid extra for, washing away the grime that stuck to you despite how many bird baths Wooyoung have you on the side of the road.

   San, despite you and Wooyoungs best begging, went off on his own to meet with Hongjoong after he got a call on the prepaid flip phone in the middle of the night.

    Wooyoung noticed you eyeing the bag of dirty laundry when you woke up and immediately offered to go wash them and grab some food for the both of you.

      You're so wrapped up in the welcoming feeling of the warm water pelting your body that you fail to notice the door opening, letting the steam rise to the ceiling of the motel room. You sung one of Jongho's songs sung softly, the sound echoing on the fiberglass and acrylic shower wall.

"Darling?"

You grab the knife you left on the edge and swipe the shower curtain back. "Jesus!" Both of you yell. Wooyoungs hands fly up in a defense position as you aim the knife at him for a moment.

You flip it in your hand and hand it over to him by the handle, visibly relaxing as you see it's only your sneaky boyfriend. "Perv~" You tease before sliding the curtain shut dramatically. You can hear him shuffling around, and the sound of his zipper confirms your suspicions.

     He steps over the tub edge and joins you, hugging you close from behind and kissing your neck gently. "Did you-"

     "Mhm, foods on the bed, Princess." You laugh softly before turning in his arms and hugging his neck loosely.

     "You're the best, you know?"

     "I sure do~"

     He reaches over you and grabs the travel size bottle of shampoo, cursing them silently because he will most definitely have to go get some more from the main desk before your stay is over. He lathers it up in his hands a bit before massaging your hair tenderly. "You miss them, don't you?"

     His question catches you off guard for a moment, wondering just what he means until you realize that he must have heard you singing the song Jongho wrote all those years ago on The Illusion.

     Those times were so much simpler. A group of pirates and the open sea. Beautiful blue water and all the time together that you could ever ask for.

    "Don't you?" The way your eyes glaze over is enough to tell him. You miss them just as much as he does. You wish this would end just as much as he does.

     "It hurts like hell."

     "I know, Baby."

     "I want to kill them."

     Hala-Teez, the Strickland officials? All of them. "Me too, Baby."

     He leans your head back carefully and rinses away the coconut scented soap from your hair gently. "I love you." You speak. Just  above a whisper. But he catches it even over the raining water.

  

     "I love you, Darling. This will all be over soon." He doesn't promise because he knows he can't. He doesn't know how long this situation will last. You could be on the run from Strickland and looking over your shoulders for Hala-Teez until your last breath.

      "Joong will figure something out." You don't promise. Because Hongjoong hasn't. He can't. He won't promise something that he doesn't know he cant follow through with. He could be trying to come up with a plan for decades.

      You stand in silence for a moment as you wash his hair gently before he speaks again, "don't cry, Love."

     "What?"

    When you look up, he's blurry. When did you start crying? How did this happen?

   He closes his eyes and hugs you close with his head under the stream of steaming water.

     After a small cry-session in the shower together, you and Wooyoung curled up in the bed and ate your takeout, watching one of the decade old dvd's on the laptop that Yeosang managed to get to you guys a few weeks ago.

The ban from being together for safety didn't stop small run ins with a familiar looking delivery man. Be it disguised as a food delivery man, a mailman, an exterminator- Yeosang always found a way to travel around the city and deliver small gifts from one member to another along with messages from Hongjoong when the phones were down.

A wave of laughter is cut off by a knock on the door. His hand immediately grabs a small hand gun on the nightstand as he stands, your own going to your knife that's sandwiched between the mattress and bed box as you slam the laptop closed.

      "Delivery!" The voice makes you relax.

    "Fucker," you huff as you jump over the bed and beat Wooyoung to the door and smile at the helmeted man. You can't see him, but you know who it is. "Goody~" You peek out into the halls and spot a few suspicious looking people, so you pretend to slip him some money before taking the box and take one last look as he walks away.

     "Open it," he urges impatiently, nearly knocking you over to get to the pizza box as you set it on the small table.

Ontop of your favorite pizza. A small piece of paper. Sans handwriting.

let's bounce

--

[imjustdelusionalok]

yandere!dc: goddess! darling

ⁱⁿᶠᵒ ᵃᵇᵗ ᵗʰⁱˢ ᵈᵃʳˡⁱⁿᵍ۫ ꣑ৎ

darling is a god from another world who just so happens to immigrate into the dc universe after a very long time of probably embodying... well, everything.

firstly having to live for love as a human, and then ending it all to fight for the beauty of life as god.

she is the reason for existence, from the big to the miniscule.

(so basically op goddess reader who has wayyyy too much power in their hands-- ex: nothing can kill them, nothing can put an end to them, etc--)

the least you could do is seal away her powers, but even that would truly not be enough because your only sealing away 0.000000000000001%. (i mean that 💀)

*cough* anyway... aside from goddess reader backstory, lets go to the inspiration <33

she's a mix of Madokami from Puella Magi, HoF Kiana Kaslana from Honkai Impact, and mostly of Ishtar Ashtart/Space Ishtar from Fate Grand Order <3

originally kind and lighthearted after becoming 'God', but as time passes and stars dimmed, she has become... well... neutral. not good, but DEFINITELY not bad. like this!

"let me help you :)" to "...From the dawn of creation. Man has come from the ground not by his hand but mine. go back to the land and return to dust."

summary: lawful, void, alien... yet beautiful, destructive, human.

sooooo. yup.

:p

ʰᵉᵃᵈᶜᵃⁿᵒⁿˢ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ۫ ꣑ৎ

...she has met the justice league before. because, who in their right minds would ignore the giant falling 'star' that came out of a very visible tear in the sky caused by said celestial body???

dramatically crashing down the surface like a meteorite, you lowkey may have destroyed a 'few' buildings... whoopsies :p

they are surprised. this... girl, no- alien, exudes endless quantity of power, leaking from every blurred pore. it also seems like they might be power themselves...

batman goes bazingas at the amount of destruction caused by your fall leading to an airheaded you getting towed to the JL headquarters and any sort of refusal or fighting back is unallowed. (even tho your more than capable of destroying anything AND everything you still oblige)

though cool as ice, you are so confused deep down. head tilted, vacant expression, the usual from the emotionally detached goddess albeit with a little change. 'what are these humans talking about?' you think, 'what threat?' you think again, unaware that you are the threat being spoken of.

the white slits of the vigilante's mask narrows at your disposition. everything about you seems... off. from your oppressing aura, to the... heavenly allure your blankness brings.

"more alien than the actual alien," a familiar scarlet speedster jokes, in an attempt to lighten the heavy mood. (he failed horribly btw) said alien rolls their eyes and sighs. though he has to admit, you lowkey look kind of cute... but he stops, remembering lois.

once you say your side of the story, they go all shocked pikachu faces again. your a god from another seperate world??? i mean dont get them wrong though, they had their fair share of situations like these, as some dc villains and heroes they know arent even from here originally. but they cant help but feel a bit different about you, something about you makes their soul writhe... and its not in a bad way.

so once B confirms your not a threat despite your extreme potential to act like one, everybody is relieved. you just need a littleeeeeee supervision, thats all :3

and oh look at that, your actually not that bad. your cold demeanor fades once they got to know you, and that void in your eyes is filled with a light comparable to the twilight star's soothing glow— pure, tranquil, and ever so mystifying.

every step you take, life seems to exist and flourish all around you. life heals around you. not only that, but also... them. the dead part of them actually, that died from complications now too complicated to be retold and remembered.

you fill the void they never knew they had, and all their aching scars were no longer painful but tolerable. bearable even, and its all because of you.

at this point, everybody knows how this all plays out. this ordinary tune, twisted into a fanatic's song.

their once innocent admiration has now spoiled into something darker, the more you stay in this world. holy eyes peeked at it, not at them but at the abyss that is their 'love.'

...you were starting to get aware. and a rarity occurred, you were... 'saddened'. for eternities you lived alone, and in an attempt to reconnect with that sliver of humanity you hid and kept, you went here to feel something again. and you did, and you were so successful.

too successful, in fact.

they loved you; so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, sooooo much. without you, they would die! :(

and that, in your eyes, is what makes you 'sad'. if your presence drives your beloved mortals to insanity's grip, then you must fly.

fly away from this despair, fly away from this madness.

your 'love' is your undoing, and ultimately also theirs.

their eyes widen as the sky is torn once again, and a familiar star flies back into it, meaning that you--- left. left? left. left? left... left.

something inside them breaks. both hearts any sense of rationality and morality left.

there is no reason to exist without you it seems, and they will do everything just to see you once more, even a second's glimpse.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

...you can't help but feel something you havent felt for a very long time. what was it again, sadness? anxiety? fear? you dont know. the endless rows of your ivory silks flutter even in the slightest movement. something tugs at you, your mind and heart. something tugs at you, telling... that it is far from over.

they call for you, their cries drowned in obsession masquerading as love.

you never answer, as your supposed concern and care for them lessens and your patience dwindles. reality is cruel, but never crueler than you. and that's when you realized it.

...they make your skin crawl. they make you want to vomit. they make you want to scream and cry. they make your ichor run cold. and if they touch you again, you'll--

...huh. who would have thought that was how you truly felt, goddess.

[shmooseee]

My preliminary headcanon's for Jason's face over time:

Explanations and uncensored version below the cut:

TW: gore

1.Jaybin

Headcanon that once Jay was living with Bruce and Alfred, he got a lot of baby fat on his face- he has wavy curly hair in my head. Teal eyes - very smiley.

2. Jaybin :(

No way that explosion and building collapsing didn't do some physical damage. In this the skin below his eye has been torn and ripped open, it was ripped to the bone - and his left cheekbone was fractured- I also imagine tears around his forehead and back of his skull from the crowbar - but kind of hidden by his hair. Also his hair was frizzled by the explosion and smoke.

3. Post revival - pre-utrh

I was gonna draw him at his revival but forgot :( -might draw this later but I imagine his mortician reconstructed his face - and since it was a closed casket funeral it didn't have to be super clean. His skin was kept together with staples -

post revival- in his time in the hospital catatonic, it healed super wonky and (based on my own surgical scars) it keloided in some areas and sunk in in some others - and because he wasn't able to treat them- they're super tough and pull at his skin and don't fade properly to white like they should. The scars from the staples are still there. The scar is also a little shiny where it keloided- idk why but my scars do it in certain lighting.

His face is a lot more masculine and older but it still has a decent amount of baby fat (he's still super young). This is about 2 years post revival so hes around 17 - very recently after his time in the pit. (I feel like 15-17 for a lot of kids has huge body and face changes so imagine mentally 15 yr old Jason suddenly so grown- might revise this to make him more baby looking)

The white hairs just begun to grow - i kept the baby curls because of course i did.

I bounce between whether or not the pit healed his scars or not because I find both so compelling- but as an artist i like drawing cool scars more.

4. Post-utrd

His face is a bit more defined again. - now featuring the batarang scar. I haven't put to much though into his other face scars yet so these may change yet again.

His scar has faded slightly but it still tugs on his face massively - it won't go white. He cant smile without it tugging uncomfortably- sometimes even hurting. He smirks instead. He frowns as his resting face both because hes a bitch but also because of the position of the scar.

Featuring the batarang scar yayyyyyyy- i also headcanon that the doesn't treat it correctly (do you think he has time to massage it and moisturize that many times a day??) so it tugs every time he turns his head.

The white hair has fully grown out and he got a haircut.

I also did one for his body scars - and one for arkham knight jason but i want to redo them with a little more research - quick preview of that though - arkham knight - dealing with the effects of malnourishment from his childhood and from his year with the joker - only grew to about 5'3. And mainline jason that didn't die grew to about 5'6. Will do a comprehensive headcanon list for different universe jays.

[evilminji]

You know... >.>

My Dad always used to tell me, if I get a Genuine Genie(tm)? Get a lawyer first. Before I make my Wishes(tm), so they can help me word them correctly.

Obviously, a human lawyer would not be foolproof... BUT! What about a Ghost Lawyer?

Like? Obviously Desiree would be PISSED. How DARE you twist HER wish twisting! Her THING is "what you believe is your heart's desire always comes at a terrible cost" which is what she DIED to learn.

So obviously she would NEVER, willingly, bend her Obsession for ANYONE. And you'd have to make a DAMN good case to that Lawyer for why he ISNT breaking the law by helping you. Probably some "you can: save the life of an unconscious person against their will/shove an unobservant person OFF the train tracks, even if they get hurt, to save their life" clause.

Like? Using a ghosts Obsession against them? Bad. Illegal.

Using it against their will, to save OTHER ghosts, who are in immediate danger? Not illegal, but they will be PISSED. Still not great though, you will want to apologize and fast.

So like??? Reality Bending Power. Patrick Star Method of "what if we MOVED the city... somewhere else?" Considered at 1am. Team of Ghost Laywers, acquired.

Amity and all Limnals are REMOVED from the DP-verse.

Wish worded juuuuust so. Any ghost that forms there? Yoink! Instantly removed to the Zone. Natural Portals? Cut off. Let the whole Reality fade out at an accelerated rate, as no NEW energy is fed into the system. Entropy will do, what entropy does. Exactly as they wished it.

They hated Death so much, they speed up the heat death of their ENTIRE universe by Eons. Congratulations, you guys "Won". Enjoy the wildly more fragile flora, fauna, and general ecosystems. Now that none of you have that ambient Ectoplasm strengthening your bodies. Yeah, the things you used to shrug off? Those are gonna maim or kill you now.

Doesn't MATTER if you "learn your lesson" though! Cause this is WAY past that point! This is "cutting off the tumor before it kills us" territory, and buddy? Amity ISNT the tumor. Go forth a grow, just like you wanted.

They won't be here to fix your messes anymore.

Because Danny got himself a dictionary thick "I Wish..." contract. Which was worded, as it needs to be, in one loooooooong run on sentence. Shouted "I Wish what's written on THIS, as it is currently, and without any form of editing or negotiation!" As fast as he could. Yote the document in Desiree's direction. And Flew like an INCANDESCENTLY pissed off Genie was trying to set his everything of fire.

Which she was.

Thankfully, Paulina came in clutch with her History of all things Jewelry, world fashions, and Make-Up knowledge. That, coupled with the Power Of Rich Friends(tm)? (Sam. Her mother was THRILLED to take her Jewelry and clothing shopping for something other then blacks and dark purple. They went on a jet setting whurl-wind tour. Sam actually kinda liked a some of what she found.)

They have Apology Bribes.

They shamelessly HIDE behind the mountain of Apology Bribes, while they explain themselves. Is Desiree HAPPY? No. But those bracelets are magnificent and she DOES deserve nice things. Those silks will really bring out her eyes. And she... DOES... admit...

Maybe...

That things are not... SAFE. Any longer. Danny TRIES. Everyone else can see it. And he's made incredible strides! Even convinced his lunatic parents. Though they're still not quite POPULAR. (WAY too pushy and invasive with their questions, for most people.) But the fanatics in white?

They nearly killed Box Lunch. If her father hadn't BEEN there...

And the poor man will have that scar on his back for the rest of his afterlife. Desiree can see why Danny is pushing. Does she LIKE it? No. But...

She supposes she will content herself with the suffering of the Fanatics in White and all who support them. THEIR wishes, twisted. Their ugly heart's desires.

Fine.

"SO YOU WISH IT. SO IT SHALL BE!"

And? The ghost town of what WOULD of one day grown into Amity, had the witch's there not been found by those they had fled from, which sits in long rotted ruins, amongst the trees in nowhere Illinois? Poof! Two "Towns" are switched.

The roads out of town coming to a clean line stop, meeting not even goat paths. Just trees. Old growth.

But it's not ALL of Town, is it? Faces missing. New, confused, faces from every corner of the map, taking their place. No Limnal left behind. No supporter of the GIWs genocide, brought along. Family's kept together where they could be. But by the few, scared and upset, green flashing eyes of children in the crowd?

It seemed for some, it was easier to fear and hate, then love their children.

Already they were being gathered up by school teachers and PTA parents. As everyone tried to figure out what had happened. Concerned, quite muttering a dull roar as everyone tries to coordinate.

Red Huntress joins Danny and Dani in the Sky. She doesn't get a word in. Wanted to know what the HELL was going on. She was with her dad in Chicago! Dani was in Taiwan! Literally! As in, sitting in a SUBWAY station one second, the next? Outside!

But they don't get to demand those answers. Because there is a sonic boom on the horizon. And then? Floating... weird... not ghosts?

Uuuuuuhhhh?

Hi?

That much blue... sure is a Statement. Like the cape and... bloooomers? Shorts. Bikini bottoms? It.. it's a Cool Look, dude! No, really. They are being VERY supportive here! If YOU like it? That's the only thing that matters!

Red Huntress smacks the Danny/i's Repeated upside their heads and demans to know what the Not-Ghosts are doing in their airspace.

Oh YEAH. Good point! What she said! And can it WAIT? They're kinda going through A Thing right now...

Kon? Wants it on record he loves these guys. They're hilarious. The LOOK on Clark's FACE?? He wishes he could frame it. Preserve it for future generations. Thing is? There was NOT a town here a second ago.

Well, bout 30 minutes or so, but you get the idea. One moment? Tree noises. Bam! Thousands of people! Obviously the checked it out. Only to be met with two... three maybe? Heros who have NO IDEA who they are.

Clear Reality warping shenanigans. Might be time travel or multiverse. Question is... are they STAYING? And if SO? What now...

@hdgnj @ailithnight @the-witchhunter @nerdpoe @dcxdpdabbles @mutable-manifestation @hypewinter

[piastrisun]

soft as yesterday.

pairings: franco colapinto + fem reader.

summary: reminiscing memories with your childhood friend sometimes bring feelings back, maybe even confessions.

genre: fluff.⠀word count: 2.1k.⠀ warning: none.

notes: i don’t know how to feel about this but i live for friends to lovers trope!!! it’s everything to me.

the car hums softly as franco reclines his seat just enough to gaze out at the stars above. the midnight air slips through the slightly open windows, carrying the lingering warmth of summer—a perfect backdrop for the shared memories dancing between you. the laughter between you has faded into a warm silence. franco steals glances at you in the driver’s seat, both of you enveloped in the comfortable intimacy of the moment, his arm resting just close enough that you can feel the heat of him. you’ve spent the entire day together, a reunion of sorts with old friends—nico, matías, and paula—reminiscing about teenage memories. the weight of nostalgia pulls at your heart as franco glances your way.

“remember that time when nico tried to teach me how to skateboard?” you chuckle, brushing your fingers over your knee, the familiar warmth of the memory pulling you in. you glance down at the faded scar—a reminder of youth and recklessness. "i still have that scar."

franco lets out a low, warm laugh, the sound wrapping around you like a cozy blanket. his shoulder nudges yours, the space between you narrowing with ease. "yeah, and you said you were going pro after one lesson," he teases, his voice holding that familiar note of affection. “ambitious much?”

you bump him gently with your elbow, the playfulness dancing between you like it always had. "hey!" you protest, your lips curving into a grin. "i was fifteen. everything seemed possible back then."

his smirk deepens, eyes gleaming under the dim streetlights. "fifteen and apparently already getting kissed by him, too," he says, nudging you back, his words laced with mock scandal.

heat flushes your cheeks at the mention. you turn away for a moment, unable to resist glancing back at him, your heart fluttering at the sight of his amusement. "oh my god, not that," you swat at his arm, laughing despite yourself, but the laughter comes out softer.

franco chuckles, leaning in a little more, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath. "oh yes, that," he says, his grin widening. "we can’t forget about it."

you laugh, the sound resonating in the quiet of the car, your body relaxing into the moment. "it was a dark time for both of us," you admit, shaking your head, trying to keep the mood light.

he’s smiling, but there’s a flicker in his eyes, a change that you catch, though he tries to hide it behind the playful tone. "but you’ve dated other people, too," franco continues, a hint of something new creeping into his voice—an edge of insecurity he rarely shows. "he’s on the list."

you let out a breath, shaking your head again with a soft smile. “it’s not the same,” you say, trying to reassure him, but he’s still watching you, the joke not landing as it usually does.

his voice drops, a bit more serious now but still continuing with the banter. "but your first kiss was with him,” he points out, his gaze no longer teasing. “and you dated for a while."

the easy laughter fades as you roll onto your side to face him more directly. "c’mon, it was for like a month and we were kids," you say, trying to shrug it off.

franco turns onto his side too, propping himself up on one elbow as he looks at you, his eyes softened by the glow of the stars. "that stays in the history, though. you can’t delete that," he says quietly, almost like he’s testing the waters of what that past means to you now.

in the stillness of the car, with the vast universe above and the soft hum of the engine, you feel the shift between you, the lightheartedness evaporating. you two never really talked about the topic after it happened. you roll onto your back again, staring up at the sky as you gather your thoughts, then finally, you speak. "it was wrong in so many ways," you admit, "nico is family, and the same thing goes for matías and paula."

you feel him tense beside you, waiting for something, his breath catching slightly in the stillness of the night. he looks over at you, his voice almost hesitant now. "and me?" franco asks, his tone barely above a whisper. "what about me?"

your heart tightens in your chest as the air between you shifts again, heavy with unspoken things. as you look at him, really look at him, the boy you've known for years, the one who has always been there. no one has ever made you feel this way, not nico, not anyone else from your past. you always look for the right moment to confess, but it never seemed to come; it’s always been him, and admitting it now feels monumental.

you take a deep breath, the weight of the moment settling into the air between you. your voice is soft, but steady—carrying the quiet truth of what you’ve always known. "you’re different, fran. you always have been."

you don’t look at him right away, your gaze drifting toward the ground as if the confession might feel lighter if you don’t meet his eyes. but you can feel him shift beside you, his body suddenly still in a way that makes you aware of every inch of space between you. the stars above feel closer now, pressing down with the weight of what’s unsaid.

franco’s hand twitches beside yours, as if he wants to reach for you but isn’t sure if it’s the right move. "different, huh?" his voice is low, barely above a whisper, but there’s a roughness to it now, a vulnerability that wasn’t there before. he clears his throat, his confidence faltering for once. "is that… good?"

you finally glance at him, meeting his eyes, and the look there makes your heart skip. there’s something raw, unguarded, in the way he watches you, like he’s letting down a wall you didn’t even realize was there.

“it’s good,” you murmur, your voice almost lost in the night. the words feel bigger than they sound, echoing between you with more meaning than you’ve let on for years. he glances at you, his eyes searching yours, but he doesn’t reach for your hand just yet.

he shifts slightly, leaning back into his seat as he studies you, the moment hanging in the air like the stars above. “may i ask, different how?” his voice is low, barely more than a breath.

you smile, feeling warmth radiate from his gaze. “no one else has ever mattered like you do.” your words hang between you, heavy with the truth they carry, and as the confession leaves your lips, you feel a sense of relief, of finally letting go of everything you've been holding back.

he opens his mouth to speak, but for a second, no words come out—just the soft rise and fall of his breath as he takes it all in. “do you really mean that?” he asks, his voice quiet, almost like he’s afraid to break the fragile spell between you.

you nod, holding his gaze. “i do.” his eyes, those warm, familiar eyes, are full of emotion now—no longer teasing, no longer holding back. it’s all there, laid bare before you.

“i’ve loved you for as long as i can remember,” he admits, his voice soft but filled with raw, unfiltered sincerity. “i tried not to. i told myself it was just friendship, that what i felt wasn’t real, but it never went away. every time i saw you with someone else… it hurt. but i didn’t say anything because i didn’t want to lose you.” his hand trembles slightly as he reaches for your hand instead, grasping it firmly between both of his. you can feel the weight of all the years of buried feelings finally bubbling to the surface, coming undone.

you open your mouth to respond, to say something—anything—to ease the ache you hear in his voice. but franco shakes his head quickly, his thumb pressing lightly against your lips, silencing you. “wait,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. his eyes are almost pleading as they lock onto yours. “i just need to get this out. i can’t hold it back anymore.”

“i didn’t want to ruin what we had,” he continues, his voice low and earnest, every word weighted with the truth of his feelings. “i kept thinking i missed my chance, that you’d never feel the same way. and i couldn’t stand the thought of losing you because of it. i told myself it was better to keep quiet, to be your friend… but every time it killed me a little more.”

he closes his eyes for a moment, his breathing uneven as if he’s fighting with everything in him to stay composed. but when he opens them again, his voice trembling. “you have no idea what it’s been like,” he whispers. “seeing you laugh with them, knowing they got to hold you, kiss you… when all i wanted was for you to be with me.”

you can feel the desperation in his words, the way his grip tightens on your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, a soothing gesture that feels far more intimate now than it ever did before, like he’s trying to memorise every inch of you. your lips part again, wanting to say something, but you’re too lost in the flood of emotions that has overtaken you to talk. every inch of you is drawn to him, as it has always been.

he lets out a soft, shaky laugh, his lips curling into a sad smile. “i was terrified,” his voice cracking with the weight of his confession. “terrified that if i told you how i felt, you’d run. that i’d lose you completely, and i couldn’t bear that.” his voice lowers to a whisper, his eyes searching yours desperately. “but i can’t do it anymore. i’m done acting like i’m not in love with you.”

you lean into him, your hands slipping from his to rest on his chest, feeling the erratic beat of his heart beneath your palms. the heat of his body less than half a meter from yours, the tremble in his hands, the way he’s looking at you like you’re his whole world—it all feels like too much, and yet, not enough.

“you never lost your chance. how could you when no one ever made me feel the way you do?” you finally manage to say, the words tumbling from your lips like a long-held secret, and you can hardly breathe as you lay your heart bare before him.

franco’s expression shifts, surprise washing over his features. his eyes widen slightly, a mix of hope and disbelief flickering there.

“i never wanted anyone else,” you continue, your heart racing as the vulnerability of the moment sinks in. “you’ve always been the one i cared about. the one who made the world feel brighter, the one who understood me in ways i never thought anyone could.” your voice softens, laced with a sincerity that makes your pulse quicken. “for the longest time i tried to convince myself that i only thought about you all the time because we’re friends, but every laugh we shared, every moment we spent together—they were pieces that only fit with you.”

his lips part slightly, the flicker of emotions in his eyes reflecting what you’ve felt all along. you can see the surprise melting into something deeper, a longing that mirrors your own. “i want you, franco. i’ll never stop wanting you,” you finish, feeling the warmth rise in your chest, a wave of relief washing over you as the truth finally spills into the open.

as your words linger in the air, you hold your breath, waiting for his response, the world around you fading away as the moment stretches, filled with unspoken possibilities.

“i thought it was just me,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper, laced with a raw intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. “i thought i was the only one.”

there’s a flicker of understanding between you, something that feels as if it has always been there, waiting for the right moment to break free.

“guess we were both too scared to say it,” you say softly, a nervous laugh escaping your lips, though it’s tinged with relief.

the corners of his mouth lift into a tentative smile, though there’s a hint of disbelief in his eyes. “yeah,” he says, the word heavy with meaning. “i just didn’t want to ruin what we had.”

you’ve both walked on this tightrope for so long, balancing between friendship and something deeper, and now, with every heartbeat, the air crackles with possibilities.

“it was never going to be ruined,” you say, your voice steadying as you lean in slightly, bridging that last gap. you reach up and cradle his face in your hands, your thumbs gently brushing against his cheeks as you look deeply into his oceanic eyes. the warmth of his skin beneath your touch reassures you. “not with you.”

©⠀piastrisun original work. please don’t translate, claim or repost any of my writing, 24’.

[sweemmy]

Darkness had never been a problem for Vi. She had grown up in it, embraced it as both a refuge and an ally in a world that gave her no quarter. But now, the darkness within her is different. It suffocates, ravenous—a beast that feeds on her deepest thoughts, on her obsession with you.

You are a glimmer in her shadowed world. At first, you seemed to bring a fragile light to her broken life. But that light didn’t heal her; it didn’t soothe. It was a spark that ignited everything she had left intact within herself. Vi knows this isn’t love in its purest form—love shouldn’t hurt like this. It shouldn’t burn through every fiber of her being. But what else can she call it when her entire existence revolves around you?

Sometimes, when she’s alone, her mind drifts back to the past. She sees herself as the girl she used to be—a girl with hope, with unyielding morals, with a sense of justice that brought meaning to her chaos. Those images feel so distant now, as though they belong to someone else. But they weren’t always this blurred. Vi remembers how she clung to that version of herself, struggling to reconcile her principles with the choices she made for you. Until one day, she stopped trying.

“Look at what I’ve become,” she thinks bitterly, staring at her hands, hardened by fights and scarred by the things she’s done in your name. Her knuckles, always marked, tell stories of the lines she’s crossed, of the faces she’s struck simply for coming too close to you.

The first time she stepped over the line, it was almost accidental—a punch thrown harder than it needed to be, a moment she couldn’t take back. But the effect was instant: a surge of power mixed with a dizzying rush that left her trembling. After that, it became easier, darker. Each decision pulled her further away from the Vi who once vowed to protect Zaun, the Vi who believed in something greater than herself.

But it’s not the actions that haunt her the most. It’s the constant thought, the unrelenting mantra she cannot silence: “I would let the world burn for you.” It plays in her mind like both a prayer and a curse. Because she would. Because she is. Every choice, every sacrifice, every boundary she’s destroyed has been for you, and she knows she’s losing herself in the process.

The darkness isn’t just in her mind—it follows her like a living shadow. The nights are the worst. When silence fills the room, the endless hum of her thoughts becomes unbearable. Every shadow on the wall seems to mock her helplessness, her lack of control. She dreams of a world without you, where she might find freedom again, but those dreams are fleeting and bitter. Because even in her fantasies, your absence feels like an abyss she cannot escape.

She watches you from a distance, trying to understand how someone like you can hold so much power over her. Sometimes, your words confuse her. “You don’t have to do this,” you say, but the smile on your lips betrays the truth. You enjoy being the center of her universe, though you’d never admit it. And Vi, caught in the web of her own obsession, can no longer tell if what she feels for you is love or self-destruction masquerading as something else.

Vi fights it sometimes. In rare moments of clarity, she tries to reason with herself, to remember who she was before you. But even those memories are fading, because everything that came before now feels insignificant. She wonders if her obsession began as love or if it was always this destructive force wearing the mask of something pure. But it doesn’t matter anymore. She doesn’t know how to let you go, how to tear you from her chest without bleeding out completely.

Every time she looks at you, she feels that toxic mix of devotion and despair. You are her salvation and her damnation, the anchor keeping her afloat and the chain dragging her down. And Vi, so proud, so stubborn, doesn’t know how to ask for help, how to admit that she’s losing this battle within herself. That her love for you isn’t saving her—it’s destroying her.

In her mind, the scenes replay: the faces of those who fell beneath her fists, the chances she missed to do what was right, the Vi she might have been if she’d never met you. But those images fade quickly, consumed by the fire burning in her chest. “It doesn’t matter,” she tells herself, “as long as you’re with me.”

When she closes her eyes, she sees it all burning: Zaun, Piltover, the entire world consumed in flames. And at the heart of that inferno, there you are—untouched, existing solely for her. The smell of smoke, the searing heat, the ash choking her lungs… all of it vanishes when her gaze lands on you. She knows there’s no turning back. Her love for you is her undoing, and though it hurts, though it scorches her to the core, she wouldn’t change it.

Sometimes, she imagines a different ending—one where she lets you go, where she finds redemption, where she becomes more than the chaos she’s created for you. But those fantasies are fleeting. Because at the end of the day, the truth is she doesn’t want to let you go. She can’t.

This love has turned her into someone she barely recognizes. But if that’s the price of having you, she will pay it without hesitation.

[lqvesoph]

Right person, wrong time || LN4

lando norris x childhood sweetheart/ex gf!reader

summary: lando and reader haven’t seen each other since their break up 6 years ago, now at a grand prix where her current boyfriend is invited, they meet again

kind of like the "in a room full of people i know who i would run to but i also know who i would stare at the whole time"

masterlist | taglist

You really did hope you wouldn’t run into him today…

But standing opposite of the Mclaren hospitality and inside your boyfriend’s arm, you knew it was a lie. Because who are you kidding? The whole time you have been inside the paddock you looked around you, almost waiting to catch a glimpse of the curly headed McLaren driver.

But now you locked eyes with him from opposite of his teams home and all the emotions dared to come up.

Lando shook his head as if to escape the trance the eye contact with you had put him in and turned around, walking hastily back into the hospitality.

"Right, baby?", you heard your boyfriend Theo smile and felt his hand squeeze your hip. You tore your eyes away from the orange building and put a fake smile on your face. "You never were really into motor racing growing up? That was until you met me", Theo repeated, helping you with the conversation.

"Oh, yes totally! My dad is a huge fan but I rarely watched", you lied. "Of Mercedes, I hope", Toto Wolff joked, making you chuckle. "In fact, he is."

*~*~*~*~*~*

The sight of Lando didn’t leave your thoughts for the rest of the day.

He looked so much different. So much taller, broader and older.

Theo was off with a few team members showing him this years car while you stood back a little.

"Y/n, is that you?", an all too familiar voice asked behind you, making you turn around. "I thought it was you", George Russell smiled, opening his arms to give you a hug. "It’s been ages! I haven’t seen you since you and Lando-", George started talking but let his words trail at the end.

"Anyways, how are you? What have you been up to?", he quickly put a smile back on his face. "I‘m good, thank you! I just finished university", you told him. "Interior Design still?", George smirked, remembering what you had told him over six years ago. You chuckled and nodded. "Yes, Interior Design."

George had always been one of you best mates when you and Lando were together, you just clicked. But when Lando and you called it quits, you disappeared from the paddock, cutting off everyone and everything that reminded you of Lando.

You even stopped watching Formula 1. You tried to but when they showed a nervous small Lando before his first race in Australia, you started bawling your eyes out at the feeling of missing him.

You thought now, six years later, the memories and scars would have faded at least a little while, which is why you agreed to join your boyfriend when he was invited by Mercedes. But now being here, back in the paddock, the wounds still felt as fresh as on the first day.

"Darling, you have to see this!", Theo called, a huge smile on his face. George and you turned around. A frown creeping its way on George‘s face as he connected the dots, figuring out that the guy that had called you must be your boyfriend.

"Coming!", you called, giving George a smile and hurrying over to your boyfriend.

Seeing George reminded you of Lando and of memories you tried so hard to push away.

*~*~*~*~*~*

After Theo had excitedly explained to you the different parts of a Formula 1 car to you, you told him you need to get some fresh air and would be back in a few minutes.

Theo didn’t know about your past in this world, including Lando. You knew every little part of that damn car, you even sat in one when Lando tested the McLaren cars the year before he debuted in Formula 1.

You quickly walked down the paddock, breathing heavily at the thought of all those memories until someone called your name, making you stop in your tracks.

You closed your eyes until you felt a hand on your shoulder, sending sparks through your whole body.

"I can’t believe it’s really you", Lando whispered as you turned around.

Being this close, you could even see the dark stubbles on his chin, smiling at the memory of 17 year old Lando complaining about not being able to grow a beard.

"Hi", you breathed, not quite knowing how to act. Lando chuckled. "Hi."

"Uh- what… what brings you into the paddock?", he then asked, nervously fiddling with his fingers, a habit that he hasn’t broken in all those years.

"I‘m here with my boyfriend", you said, watching as hurt flashed before Lando‘s eyes and a frown sneaked on his face.

"Oh", he simply said, trying to play down the hurt he felt. "That‘s- uh great."

"You wanna come to the hospitality?", Lando changed the topic. And against your better judgment and your head screaming at you not to say yes, you nodded, making a relieved smile make its way on Lando’s face.

You tried to ignore the glance the two of you got when you walked passed the McLaren team members and up to Lando‘s driver room.

You hesitantly looked around the small room as Lando closed the door.

"So, what have you been up to?", he broke the silence, making you move your attention to the curly headed boy. "I- uh just finished university and we‘re moving to Spain this fall", you told him, still avoiding his eyes.

"Spain, huh? Where in Spain?", Lando continued, ignoring the 'we'. "Madrid." Your reply made Lando frown. "Why not Barcelona? You love Barcelona!"

"Well, Theo liked Madrid quite a lot so…", you said, making Lando huff. But you ignored it.

"How have you been?", you asked. "Good, uh, yeah. The car‘s pretty good and the team is just amazing", he smiled, but you could tell it was forced. "That‘s great!", you said, wondering why you even agreed to come to talk to him. In private. In a closed room. In his driver room.

A rather awkward silence settled over you until Lando broke it once again. "What happened to us?", he carefully whispered which made you close your eyes. You assumed this conversation would eventually lead to this point.

"We grew up, Lando", you replied quietly. "But why didn’t we grew up together?", he asked, looking directly at you. "We didn’t want the same thing anymore or more like we couldn’t have the same thing anymore", you said, still not looking at Lando.

You never had a proper conversation about what led to your break up. Maybe it was because you were too young and the pain of it overshadowed all the logical thoughts on how to handle it.

"I, for my part, was so happy for you. I knew this was all you dreamed of. But somewhere between summer and winter of 2018 we started to drift apart. You were busy and away quite a lot, and I‘m not entirely blaming you for that, I also didn’t really put in an effort and for that I’m sorry", you spoke softly, thinking back on your teen years.

"I‘m so sorry, darling. I should’ve made more of an effort, to visit home more often or to at least call", Lando apologized, fiddling with his fingers. "Me too, Lando, me too", you mumbled, feeling the tears forming in the corner of your eyes.

"You were the person who taught me everything. Taught me how to ride a bike, how to have fun and most importantly how to love. But Lando we were kids, merely 18 years old. We both weren’t mature enough to actually hold that relationship. Hell, we weren’t even mature enough to talk about our break up", you spoke, your eyes on the verges of tears.

"But what about now?", Lando asked hopeful and reached for one of your hands, wrapping it in his.

You let out a painful laugh. "I‘m in a relationship and I love Theo, so much", you muttered. "Then why are you still in here with me?", Lando posed the question that you had asked yourself already, not daring to give yourself and answer.

"Because… a part of me will always love you. But sometimes that just isn’t enough", you whispered, pulling your hand away from Lando‘s and standing up.

Walking back to your boyfriend, all you could think about was the conversation you just had and if you had made the right decision.

You forced a half smile when Theo spotted you and opened his arms. "Where have you been, the race is almost starting", he smiled, pressing a kiss to your temple.

"You know just wandering around, discovering the paddock", you lied, settling in your boyfriends’ arms and focusing your attention on the TV.

But without meaning to, your eyes immediately searched for Lando during the national anthem, your heart beating slightly faster when they showed the line up and even more when he overtook Max Verstappen to take the race lead after the first corner.

Still, you stood in Theo‘s arms till the end of the race, watching Lando up on the podium from afar.

masterlist | taglist

@im-an-overthinker @buendiabebeta @hungryhungariann @ohthemisssery @kenopsiababe @sawendel @enjoymyloves @ricsaigaslec @ravenqueen27 @temqr1 @leclerc16s @theamazingsimplethings-blog @coldmuffinbanditshoe @hotchnisscm97 @andtheworldiscrashingdownonme @moneymasnn @justme2042 @amulhermaisfelizdomundo @pleasantducktimetravel @anthonykatebridgerton @lisannehus @hannahholland1811 @lighttsoutlewis @mydutchproblem @dan3avocado @alwaysclassyeagle @cocomiracle @allthisfortommy @soleilgrec @cheeryara-blog @person2345-blog @aquamariene-me @judespoision @sbgal @teti-menchon0604 @darleneslane @flower-name @mehrmonga @paolexsstuff @paolexsstuff @kiskso

[marcyvamp1re-blog]

❛ FUTURE FICS ₊✩‧₊

             𝐈'𝐌 𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐘 𝐆𝐋𝐀𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔!

𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐏 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐄𝐒, 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒!

🚨—⠀๋ ♡⃘ ⠀. Every post uploaded here is just ideas and possibilities, not realities, so they may or may not be uploaded. If you want more information about them such as possible departure dates, questions, etc., send me a private message!⠀💭 ︵๋͜︵♡

Kaleidoscope

Fandom. Steven Universe

Parings ─── Pink Diamond/Rose Quartz x Human! Reader

Synopsis; In a world where towering demons emerged from the elements, you were a warrior accustomed to the chaos of survival. But everything changed when she descended from the sky—a pink being from another reality, as dazzling as she was incomprehensible. She showed you wonders you had never imagined, and together you forged an improbable love in a landscape of war and destruction.

The scars of that time remain, etched on both your skin and your memory. But to your son, you tell a different version: stories filled with heroism, dancing lights, and adventures under a pink sky, as if to shield him from the shadows that still weigh on your heart.

Because, in the end, battles are not always won with swords, and the love you shared with she was both a blessing and an unshakable wound.

Kamikaze Girl

Fandom. DC Comics

Parings ─── Yandere! Batfamily x Clone! Reader x Yandere Superfamily.

Synopsis; (not yet)

CRUEL INTENTIONS

Fandom. Adventure Time

Parings ─── Finn Mertens x Lich! Fem! Reader

Synopsis; This time, everything would be different. Revenge was within reach, darkness embraced every corner of your being, but him... he always had to be the hero. Despite the scars the past left, his light kept shining on your path, like a constant that never fades. Why couldn’t he let you fall into the shadow, like everyone else? Why did he have to be the savior, even when your soul was already lost? The battle wasn’t just external, but between what you were and what he wanted you to be.

A/N ────── AAAAAHHHH The same blog has been deleted like five times or more, augh, damn shitty Internet. Well, these are future projects that MAY or may not happen. Some are old projects that I uploaded on Wattpad once, requests and/or gifts that friends make to me, or intrusive thoughts that have not yet come to fruition.

Every time a story is uploaded or discarded, it will disappear from this post.

[noira-l]

Just the Two of Us

chapter summary: amid a heated argument about Megumi and the pressures from the higher-ups, tensions flare between you and Satoru, but the exchange ultimately softens into mutual understanding. The realization that both of you are stretched too thin underscores the need for a break, as small gestures of comfort remind you that you’re still in this together.

pairing: gojo satoru x f!sorcerer reader

wc: 5 k

warnings: swearing, argument, adult life is kinda hard, higher-ups are old geezers, Satoru is tired, reader is also tired and frustrated, summer heat, Megumi is an angsty teen a little, mentioning of Suguru defection, mature themes, slight mentioning of sexual activity, spoilers (manga, anime, movie).

author's note: well, we began here. I hope you like it, and I can write you more. I'm still experimenting with style, and genre, so please be understanding. You're welcome to leave some notes and comments to help me grow :3 I would appriciate it.

𝗧𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸 𝗵𝗮𝘀 𝗯𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝗿𝗲𝘄𝗿𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻.

s.masterlist

𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝟭 - ����𝗻𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵 𝗶𝘀 𝗲𝗻𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵

You used to love summer.

The air always smelled like sun-warmed asphalt and blooming hydrangeas, and every day felt like an invitation to adventure. Long bike rides carried you through the tucked-away veins of Tokyo—where narrow streets whispered secrets in the afternoon light. Suguru would race ahead, teasing you to keep up, the arcade flashing neon promises of victory just around the corner. The beach trips with Shoko and Utahime stretched until the sky burned orange, your laughter rolling in with the waves.

Those were the golden days.

Now, you hate this time of the year.

Curses appear in countless numbers. The heat clings, suffocating and heavy, as if the sky itself is pressing down. Every cicada drone feels like a countdown to something inevitable. Summer no longer promises joy; it carries the echo of every unraveling thread. It started with the Star Plasma Vessel incident - that cursed spring that shattered something in all of you.

Since then, summer has become the season where things fall apart. The universe picks these bright, endless days to deal the hardest blows.

And this summer is no different.

Tsumiki - her condition lingering in that fragile space no one could define. An illness the world had no name for, as if even the doctors and sorcerers were afraid to label it.

Megumi - dragged down by it all, the weight of his sister’s fading light pressing harder against his shoulders. His scowl, already permanent, had sharpened further, each glance carrying the frustration of powers that refused to bend to his will. You’d seen him grit his teeth at small failures, but now, there was something raw behind his eyes. Something like helplessness he’d never admit to.

And then there was Satoru.

Oh fuck, Satoru.

You’d never seen him this angry. The higher-ups were always cold toward you - dismissive, cruel - but that wasn’t news. You’d long learned to live beneath their gaze. But now? Now they suddenly had an issue with Megumi attending Jujutsu High?

It was absurd. Hypocritical, even.

Your visits to this dark, barely lit room, where the air smelled of dust and old age, intensified. Old voices mingled with each other in a cacophony of excuses, supposedly existing rules and discussions about traditions or other nonsense.

Your home, once a refuge, had become a minefield of barely contained frustration. It felt as though anger and bitterness pooled in the corners of every room, waiting for the slightest misstep. Every conversation bled into arguments over the most trivial, meaningless things. Half the time, you weren’t sure who started it. Grudges were born in silence, festering where none should exist.

Every day you woke up wondering - what would set things off this time?

You knew if things didn’t change, those wounds would sink deep into each of you, carving scars time wouldn’t erase. And you didn’t want that.

Because even if your marriage was nothing more than ink on paper, you genuinely cared for him. And Satoru - he cared for you too, in that strange way he always had.

After Suguru left, you’d been certain no one could possibly understand the hollow ache his absence left behind. But Satoru proved you wrong. Somehow, in that strange, upside-down way life worked, you found each other standing on the same fractured ground. Grief echoed in both of you, so familiar and jagged, that it bound you closer than either of you expected.

You didn't want to call it love. You were too afraid of that statement, although it often crossed your mind. But it was something, an alliance forged from shared ghosts and a mutual understanding that no matter what hell fate dragged to your doorstep, you’d face it together.

The foundation of a perfect marriage? You almost laughed aloud at the thought. If anything, it felt like the blueprint for survival - convenient paperwork and easier custody battles wrapped in familiarity.

There was no wedding, no rings, no grand gestures to pretend otherwise.

When you graduated, you both left school with broken hearts, old hurts and the hope that your dream of a better future for the young would become a reality.

You are both just good friends who grew up to become good parents. Always complementing each other.

The beginnings were hard - no point pretending otherwise. You were both still so young, fumbling your way through responsibilities no one had prepared you for. Jujutsu High never offered classes on raising two children or how to balance grief with teaching about life and scraped knees.

Time passed. You both grew up. Some things changed; others never did.

At first, Satoru was just a strange but steadfast friend. The kind you could bicker with one minute and lean on the next. A presence that lingered even when you wanted solitude. Then, somewhere along the line, he became a partner - someone who stood beside you not because he had to, but because he chose to. The lines between duty and loyalty blurred until you couldn’t tell which was which.

Your feelings toward him had always existed in that strange, in between space - tangled and contradictory. Close enough to touch, yet distant enough to feel worlds apart.

Even now, after everything, there were days it felt like he stood just beyond your reach. And maybe that’s why neither of you ever tried to name what existed between you.

On the fifth anniversary of your paper-bound marriage, boredom - and maybe a hint of obligation - nudged you both into acknowledging it. Five years deserved something, even if it was just symbolic. Satoru dusted off the sake bottle Nanami had gifted you on your first anniversary. A gift, he’d said, for saving his life on what was supposed to be your day off. By the end of the bottle, you were sprawled together on the couch, loose-limbed and laughing in that way only alcohol allows - when the weight of everything else fades into background noise. And then, somehow, one kiss turned into another.

The kind of mistake that tasted sweet in the moment but came with a headache the next morning. You fucked like the reckless, hormone-fueled teenagers you still were somewhere beneath all the years. Satoru, unsurprisingly, couldn’t hold his liquor. By sunrise, the hangover hit hard - both physically and morally.

It was easier not to talk about it.

With matching grimaces over strong coffee, you silently agreed: best to leave that night in the past and pretend it never happened.

But forgetting wasn’t so simple.

Satoru never did understand personal space. Everyone who knew him could vouch for that. But what surprised you was how naturally you’d become an exception. Somewhere between the shared responsibilities and late-night talks, you’d crossed the invisible line into his real space - he part of him he didn’t let anyone else near.

Years of sleeping beside each other had dissolved even the boundaries Infinity should have kept intact. His cursed technique fell away when he drifted off, and his body sought yours instinctively. You used to find it strange, the way he’d tug you closer in his sleep without a second thought.

Now, the thought of sleeping alone felt stranger.

It wasn’t romantic, not entirely. Just a familiar, silent comfort. But comfort had a way of blurring lines, and sometimes you wondered if either of you really knew where those lines even were anymore.

You caught yourself multiple times, drifting - half-asleep on the ride home - dreaming not of victory or rest, but of his arms around you, anchoring you to something solid after another mission that left too much weight on your shoulders.

You knew he had the same thoughts. The way he’d return late at night, shedding his uniform with tired hands, slipping beneath the covers without a word. You’d feel him press in, wrapping himself around you like it was the most natural thing in the world. No explanations. No need for them.

You’d both fallen into that rhythm, crawling deeper into the routines that made life feel bearable. Somewhere between the late-night missions, shared exhaustion, and quiet mornings, you’d built something fragile, but real. You dared to call it home.

It wasn’t perfect. It never could be.

The life of a jujutsu sorcerer rarely allowed for perfection. Blood, sacrifices, and impossible choices littered the path you walked. But this, the life you’d carved out of sharp edges and exhaustion, was yours.

Yours and his.

And despite everything, you were proud of it. Proud of how you’d both stitched together the fragments of your brokenness into something that could hold, even if just barely.

You weren’t going to let one brutal summer unravel what the two of you had bled to protect.

You weren’t sure how to face the storm brewing between you and Satoru - how to bring up the lingering frustrations or the pressure threatening to tear at the seams of what you’d built. But one thing was certain: you weren’t giving up.

There was something about this time of year - like summer itself was cursed, lingering over your lives with unwelcome familiarity.

You sighed as you stepped inside the flat, the keys clicking softly in the lock. The weight of the day melted away as the quiet hum of home greeted you.

"I'm back!" you called out, voice carrying just a little louder than necessary. Megumi should be home by now, and even if he wouldn’t respond, you liked to announce your return.

The rustle of shopping nets accompanied you into the kitchen, the weight of the day settling gently into the familiar routine. You unpacked the groceries with practiced ease, lining up fresh vegetables and seasoning along the counter, leaving out only what you needed for tonight’s dinner.

A small box of strawberry mochi emerged from one of the bags, and you smiled faintly to yourself. Lately, Satoru had been circling them like a restless cat, lingering too long in the sweets aisle whenever you dragged him along. You placed the box on the counter with a flourish, pressing a bright heart-shaped sticker onto the top.

The stickers had started as a joke - Tsumiki’s idea during one particularly dull afternoon. But somehow, they stuck. Literally. Now they were on everything. Megumi rolled his eyes at them, but you’d caught him carefully peeling them off packaging more than once, tucking them into his notebooks.

My little Tsumiki…

The thought twisted inside you, uncomfortably sharp.

You swallowed against the ache, the weight of helplessness pressing harder on your chest. No one could explain what had happened to her. No label, no cursed energy readings that made sense. Only vague theories and trial-and-error treatments that felt more like rolling dice in the dark.

You blamed yourself for not catching it sooner - for not defending her against something none of you could name.

Like a parent should.

The guilt lingered like a bruise you couldn’t stop poking.

"What’s for dinner today? I’m starving, honestly~"

His voice drifted in from behind you, soft but unmistakably teasing, carrying the faintest undercurrent of exhaustion. You turned, already knowing who it was before your eyes landed on him.

Satoru stood lazily in the doorway, his uniform jacket slung over his arm as if he couldn’t be bothered to hang it up properly. The white shirt underneath clung slightly, creased from the day’s wear, and a few strands of his white hair stuck to his forehead, though whether from sweat or cursed energy, you couldn’t tell. His bandages were gone, leaving his bright eyes uncovered, half-lidded with something that wasn’t quite his usual playful confidence.

"Oh, Satoru." you said, keeping your tone light but watching him carefully "I wasn’t expecting you this early. How was the mission?"

The chopping board clicked steadily beneath your knife as you resumed slicing vegetables. Steam curled up from the pan, filling the kitchen with a soft sizzle.

Satoru dropped into one of the stools at the kitchen island, the scrape of it low and familiar. With an exaggerated sigh, he flicked a pencil between his fingers - one Megumi must have left lying around. He twirled it absentmindedly, gaze distant.

"Can we not talk about this shit?" he exhaled, tossing the pencil down like it had personally offended him.

Oh. It’s bad, isn’t it?

"We can." you replied without hesitation, your hands moving a little faster through the ingredients. You almost hated how easily you could read him now - how the slight downturn of his mouth or the way his shoulders curved forward told you more than words ever could.

"I bought you something." you added quickly, nodding toward the small box you’d left on the counter. The faint gloss of the sticker caught the light, heart-shaped and bright against the simple packaging.

Satoru’s head snapped up instantly, eyes flicking to the box like a cat spotting something shiny. The tension in his face eased as that familiar grin curved his lips.

"Aww~ Is that for me?" his long fingers snatched the box before you could answer, and he popped the lid with all the reverence of opening treasure "Did I mention you’re the best wife in the world?" he teased, his laugh spilling out, warm and infectious.

Loud enough for the neighbors to hear, you thought, shaking your head but smiling despite yourself.

Satoru’s love for sweets wasn’t a secret, but he swore up and down that the ones you brought home tasted better. You always chose carefully - never the generic store-bought kind but something from the little shops tucked away in Tokyo’s side streets, the ones he liked to pretend he’d "discovered" first.

"Sometimes." you replied, dropping the chopped ingredients into the sizzling pan. The sound crackled to life, filling the air with the fragrant blend of soy sauce and garlic.

"I should say it more often then." he mumbled around a mouthful of mochi, cheeks slightly puffed as he leaned one elbow on the counter. His eyes softened, half-closed in that rare, satisfied expression that crept in when he thought no one was watching.

And, somehow, that sight - his simple happiness - settled something small and warm inside your chest.

"Where’s Megumi?" you asked, stirring the pan with steady hands. The scent of dinner started to thicken in the air.

Satoru’s chewing slowed. He swallowed with an exaggerated sigh, his hand already reaching for a second mochi.

"I asked you to avoid difficult topics." he said, muffling the words behind another bite.

Your eyes narrowed. Wordlessly, you crossed the room, plucking the box from his hand before he could claim another.

"Hey - why? You’re so cruel." he whined, watching in dismay as you tucked the sweets back into the cupboard. His lower lip stuck out in a dramatic pout.

"You can have the rest after dinner." you said pointedly, shutting the cupboard with a firm tap of your knuckles.

Satoru rested his chin on his palm, gazing up at you like a scolded puppy "You know, I always thought love was about sharing." he muttered, voice dripping with mock betrayal.

You raised an eyebrow "So… where’s Megumi?"

His eyes flicked toward the ceiling, as if you’d asked him to recite complex theory "You know how kids are these days. They just disappear. No explanation, no note. I think it’s called youthful rebellion." he offered casually, waving a hand in the air as if to punctuate his point.

Your sigh was long and heavy, dragging down from somewhere deep in your chest.

"You two fought again, didn’t you?"

Satoru leaned back against the counter, tipping his stool onto two legs. He waved a dismissive hand "Ayay, fought is such a strong word. I prefer ‘mutual disagreement.’ He’s been rebellious lately. It’s part of growing up. Aren’t you proud?"

You pinched the bridge of your nose, resisting the urge to groan aloud.

"And how long ago did he leave for this... ‘rebellion’?"

Satoru glanced lazily at his watch "Hmm… maybe three hours ago?"

You froze, eyes narrowing dangerously "Three hours?"

"But I’m not sure." he added nonchalantly, as if that softened the blow.

Your silence was deafening. You're going to lose my mind.

"And you let him have these rebellions at this hour?" your voice came sharper than intended, but the frustration felt too heavy to suppress.

Satoru barely glanced up from his spot at the counter, offering a lazy shrug "I don’t know what you mean. If he wants to go out, let him. Megumi’s more than capable of handling himself. He’s unlocked his powers -"

"But not as much as we would like." you muttered, trying to focus on the steam rising in front of you "Not as much as he would like."

You slammed the wooden spoon into the pan a little harder than necessary, the sizzle flaring like the irritation curling in your chest. The tension coiled tighter as you stirred with unnecessary force, as if pouring every ounce of frustration into the pan would somehow bleed it away.

Satoru leaned forward on his elbows, watching you with a half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

"You’re being dramatic." he said lightly, as if the whole conversation was an amusing distraction "Sure, he’s got a ways to go. But Megumi has more potential than anyone I’ve seen in years. I believe in him. Which doesn’t mean -" he added, stretching the words out with deliberate slowness "—he’s not a little weak right now."

Your hand stopped mid-stir.

The wooden spoon hovered over the pan, trembling just slightly in your grip. His words struck something buried deep, pulling memories to the surface with unwelcome familiarity.

He had said something like that to you, too.

Back in high school, when his words cut sharper than the edge of any blade, and he wielded them just as carelessly. Satoru could spend hours poking at your insecurities like a child prodding an open wound - mocking your lack of cursed energy, ridiculing the gaps in your abilities with that insufferable smirk plastered across his face.

He never held back. Never thought to.

And back then, there was only one place you could go to escape it.

It was always Suguru who found you afterward, leaning silently against some forgotten corner of the campus, arms open in invitation without asking for explanations. He never needed them. His understanding lingered in the spaces between words, grounding you in a way Satoru never could.

But time has a way of shifting things when you least expect it.

Because one day, after Suguru was gone and all your fragile, half-formed plans had begun to solidify into reality, Satoru’s laughter finally died in his throat. You remembered it clearly, standing across from him in the soft morning light, your eyes reflecting the exact same iridescent glow as his. You didn’t say much. Just explained, calmly and matter-of-factly, why his cursed techniques refused to respond to him that day.

The shock that bled into his features had been a sight to behold. A rare vulnerability etched across the face of someone who thought he had everything figured out. He never apologized.

That moment - the stunned disbelief in his eyes - became its own kind of repayment. Not enough, but something. A quiet victory you held onto, even now.

But part of you still holds onto the smallest ember of anger for that lack of apology. For every mocking jab you’d absorbed in silence, convincing yourself not to flinch, not to let him see the cracks forming beneath the surface.

You know what it feels like to be weak.

You know the weight of isolation, of wondering if the people around you are right - if maybe you should just give up. You remember what it took to claw your way out of that pit, the countless times you trained alone, trying to prove to yourself that you were worth something. That you weren’t a lost cause.

And you refuse to let Megumi feel that same powerlessness.

Especially not from Satoru.

"Did you tell him that?" you asked, your voice low and steady, but the sharp edge was unmistakable.

Satoru barely looked up, still idly spinning the pencil between his fingers "Tell him what?"

"That he’s weak."

"I didn’t necessarily use those words." Satoru muttered, eyes dropping from your face to the pencil he had been relentlessly spinning.

You said nothing, sliding the frying pan off the heat and replacing it with a pot of water. The rhythmic clink of utensils filled the space between you, grounding you just enough to keep from snapping.

You took a breath, measured and deep, swallowing the frustration burning at the back of your throat. He had a knack for testing the limits of your patience without even trying.

"You can’t just toss words like that around." you said, turning to face him. You kept your voice steady, though the tightness in your chest threatened to unravel "Especially not you."

Satoru tilted his head slightly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his features.

"I don’t see the problem. I told the truth, and besides, I also pointed out he has poten—"

"Of course everyone is weak to you, Gojo." you cut in, the weight of his last name slipping off your tongue like ice. His grip on the pencil stilled. That alone told you he’d caught the shift.

When you addressed him like that, it was never good news.

"It doesn’t mean people want to hear it." you continued, crossing your arms as you leaned against the counter "Do you even understand what he’s going through?"

You let the question hang in the air, already knowing the answer. After a beat of silence, you added bitterly "Of course you don’t. You’ve always been the strongest." you regretted the words as soon as they left your mouth, but you didn’t take them back.

You knew Satoru wasn’t capable of truly understanding what it felt like to struggle. But that wasn’t the real issue. What gnawed at you was how casually he flaunted that superiority, as if it were a fact of life that the rest of you had to accept.

"You are not weak." he said suddenly, the weight behind his voice catching you off guard.

You blinked, meeting his gaze.

"And how long did it take for you to figure that out?" you asked, softer now but no less biting "You spent years putting me down. The only reason it changed was because I finally showed you my technique."

Why did you sound disappointed?

Satoru shifted uncomfortably in his chair, but didn’t deny it. The truth was unavoidable. His respect for you had shifted the moment your cursed technique became undeniable. And while you knew he cared, you couldn’t shake the lingering ache of all those years he hadn’t.

"You know the higher-ups are still dragging their feet about letting Megumi attend Jujutsu High." you said, steering the conversation back to familiar ground "I don’t understand why now, of all times, you feel the need to call him weak."

Satoru let out a groan, slumping forward dramatically against the counter "Can we not circle back to this? We were having such a family atmosphere." he drawled, voice dipping into exaggerated complaint.

"What do you mean? I’m the one who had to defend him again today—"

"You act like I didn’t do the same thing yesterday." Satoru shot back, his voice rising in tandem with yours. He ran a hand through his hair, fingers tangling briefly before dropping to his side "They send me out like an errand dog on every cursed mission they can dream up. I haven’t had a second of rest, and now I’m avoiding them like the plague. I’m sick of listening to old men stuck in a world that doesn’t exist anymore. And, not to mention, the Zen’in clan has to have a problem with everything."

"As if your clan is any better." you muttered, narrowing your eyes.

Satoru’s head snapped up indignantly "What’s that supposed to mean?"

You smirked faintly, savoring the rare opportunity to turn the tables "I saw your mother today. She made it very clear she’s expecting a grandchild."

He groaned, visibly deflating as he dragged a hand down his face.

"She mentioned it was my ‘duty as your spouse'." you continued casually, tossing ingredients into the boiling water. You caught his slouched figure in the corner of your eye, head in his hands as if trying to physically block out the conversation "Apparently, our secret wedding still stains her pride. It surprises me that she is eager to make such statements, not being the head of the clan and still having a problem about what was almost eight years ago."

"I’ll talk to her." Gojo sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

You needed a break. From curses, from the higher-ups, from the constant weight of responsibility that never seemed to lift. Satoru needed one too - you could see it in the way he carried himself, even if he pretended otherwise.

Leaning against the countertop, you stared at the pot, watching the water roll and churn as steam fogged the edges of the lid. Your thoughts drifted somewhere far away, the warmth of the kitchen doing little to untangle the knots that had settled deep in your chest.

Then, without warning, the soft press of fingers brushed against your waist.

You blinked, startled from your thoughts. Satoru’s silhouette slipped into view, his frame settling easily against your back. His arms wrapped around you, head dropping onto your shoulder like it belonged there.

"I’m not the best at words." he murmured, voice quiet in the stillness of the kitchen. His breath fanned lightly across your skin, carrying the faint scent of perviously eaten mochi "Or expressing feelings, as you’ve probably noticed a few dozen times now…" his hold on you tightened "But I don’t want you to feel like shit. These last few weeks—I know. You’re tired too."

Gojo was known for not respecting other people's personal space, this time he used it in a good way.

You let the tension bleed from your body, turning in his arms to press yourself into the solid warmth of his chest. His heartbeat thudded steadily beneath your ear, grounding and familiar. For a moment, there was nothing else - no missions, no higher-ups, no lingering frustration - just the two of you in the quiet hum of the kitchen. He casually turned off the cooker, when he decided that what you had thrown into the pot, had cooked.

Satoru’s hand threaded through your hair, the movement slow and absentminded. His chin rested lightly atop your head as he drew in a deep breath, the faintest hum of contentment escaping him.

You hadn’t even realized how much you needed this.

His uniform smelled distinctly like him - clean but faintly musky, despite the fact you’d picked it up from the laundry just the day before. It was funny how that scent had become synonymous with safety, how somewhere along the line it shifted from just being him to something that meant home. Maybe it was the memory of that mission - the one where he’d carried you the entire way back, his arms tight around you after you nearly didn’t make it. Or maybe it was just years spent by his side.

Either way, standing there in his arms, you could’ve fallen asleep right then and there.

The sudden gurgle of your stomach shattered the moment.

Your eyes widened in embarrassment as you glanced up at him, met immediately by Satoru’s amused, lopsided grin.

"Well~" he teased, one brow arching as if he’d just uncovered your deepest secret "I guess that settles the argument. Dinner first, existential dread later."

Before you could reply, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. The touch was brief but lingering enough to leave you blinking, caught entirely off guard.

You stared at him, slightly dumbfounded, and he caught it instantly.

"What? Don’t look at me like that." he said with faux innocence, though his smirk betrayed him. His hands slid from your waist, settling on your shoulders as he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes "It’s a rare display of affection. You should cherish it."

You scoffed, though warmth pooled somewhere beneath your ribs.

"Find Megumi first." you said, crossing your arms but unable to fully suppress your smile "Then you get your share of dinner."

Satoru groaned dramatically, dragging a hand down his face "You are cruel."

Satoru let out a soft snort, the sound full of quiet amusement. His grin widened, eyes flickering with mischief as he leaned just a little closer "So that’s how it is now? You’re giving me orders?"

You rolled your eyes, tapping the spoon lightly against the rim of the pot, letting the sound punctuate your response "I wouldn’t call it orders. Let’s call it… a challenge."

"A challenge, huh?" his voice dipped with mock intrigue, as if you’d presented him with something far more interesting than finding Megumi. He tilted his head playfully, watching you like a cat sizing up its prey "And what happens if I win this little game of yours?"

You met his gaze with a smirk of your own "Then your dinner’s warm. If you lose, you’ll be reheating it yourself."

Satoru clicked his tongue, crossing his arms over his chest in exaggerated thought "Hmm. That doesn’t sound like much of a prize."

"Would you rather starve?" you teased, arching a brow.

"I’d rather negotiate." he shot back, his grin sharpening "How about dessert for the winner? Something sweet~"

"You can negotiate with Megumi when you find him." you replied, turning back to the stove "That’s if he doesn’t make you work for it."

His laughter echoed softly behind you, but the warmth lingered.

"I could get used to being bossed around by you." he teased, voice light as he stretched dramatically.

Before you could respond, he was already moving, vanishing around the corner with that fluid ease that somehow made him feel more like a ghost than the strongest sorcerer alive. The kitchen settled into silence once more, save for the gentle bubbling of the pot.

You exhaled softly, shaking your head with a small, fond smile tugging at your lips.

© noira-l | all rights reserved. do not copy, translate, modify, or redistirbute my work without permission.

[pastorpresent]

Major TW for sui/sui thoughts, SH and alcoholism.

Thinking about if Logan had opted to go back to his own universe at the end of dp3.

Him and Wade had been through a lot, sure, but he still doesn't want to impose. Looks around at this family Wade's built. The girl he's in love with, their hands atop of each other, and he knows he definitely can't do all that again. Had done it for far too long with Jean and Scott, and it had irrevocably destroyed a part of his heart forever. He couldn't do that again, didn't have enough heart to risk on Wade Wilson and his kind eyes but ultimate obliviousness.

He couldn't just be a spare part in Wade's life. An intruder. So he leaves after a few days. Thanks Wade, pretends he can't tell the merc is crying under the mask as he throws him one last hug.

As if it was for Wade. No, Logan was just weak. Couldn't leave him forever without just a miniscule taste, especially because he knows when he goes 'home', he won't feel the gentle touch of another person... ever, probably.

He steps through the portal. He's back in his world. His shitty apartment. It might be objectively better than Wade's- but it's so, so much worse, because it's just him and the fucking bare walls. There's blood dried into the carpet from when lashing out at inanimate objects isn't enough. Empty bottles are piled in the trash, and everywhere else.

He thinks about the hello kitty posters plastered on the walls of Wade and Al's apartment. The fading stickers of that pony show Wade watched in the mornings stuck on the TV stand. The curse words and crude drawings carved into the coffee table with Wade's baby knife.

(Logan's initials are carved in there now. He hadn't seen Wade do it, but when he'd noticed it his vision had blurred with tears.)

He'd mocked all of those things aloud. Childish. Fucking stupid, was he five?

His wallpaper was peeling and slashed with three identical cuts here and there. His TV was settled on a cardboard box. There was nothing carved into the wood of his coffee table, and even if there had been the cluster of beer bottles would've hid it from view.

He leaves. Goes and drinks himself to death in a bar. Not the nearest bar, because that's where Wade found him, and he'd sooner gut himself on the pavement that step foot in there ever again.

He stumbled home shit faced. He doesn't know what time it is. Skips the shower, collapses into his bed with a manic chuckle, a bottle of whiskey replacing where Wade was supposed to be. He cuddles up to it pathetically. It's cold and hard against his chest. It's not Wade, as much as he wants it to be, and he clutches it too hard, as if that'll change that basic fact.

It shatters. The glass cuts open his skin as quickly as his body stitches it closed. The dredges of alcohol soak into the mattress and his shirt.

He passes out shortly after, and when he finally finds sleep he sees him.

Wade's lying next to him, smiling softly, the golden glow of the sunrise floating over his scarred skin.

"Morning peanut," he says, eyes shining.

Logan almost chokes on the sob that builds in his chest, swelling up and suffocating him, "Wade."

"I'm here."

Logan reaches out to touch, hand shaking, and Wade cries out, impaled on claws he doesn't remember unsheathing.

Bloods going everywhere, and he's panicking, because Wade isn't healing. He's going pale, and he's still bleeding, and his eyes already look dead.

He wakes up screaming his name, in a sticky patch of drying whiskey. He adds vomit into the mix for good measure, still gasping and trying to catch his breath as he throws up onto the sheets.

He decides sleeping is the issue, so he will just not do that. He drinks, and drinks, and lives in bars and on his couch. He doesn't sleep, even if his body begs for it. Goes as far as filling the bath and holding himself under for a few seconds to wake himself up.

The ptsd-esque flashback it triggers from the tank, his procedure, makes him destroy his bathroom entirely. The shower curtain is slashed into ribbons. The mirror is shattered in the sink. The tiles are literally hanging off the walls.

Somehow he'd still rather be drowning repeatedly as metal gets grafted to his skeleton through what felt like a million needles than back on that bed with Wade smiling over at him. Even before he... that scene alone had been the sickest form of torture he could conjure up. Wade, mere inches away, happy, his. A big fucking lie.

He used to have similiar dreams about Scott and Jean. Lying between them as they stroked his hair and told him they loved him, only for them to laugh at him when he tried to touch. Call him deluded and sick and all the other words Logan felt like he needed etched onto his bones as some form of repentance.

Of course, because his brain fucking hates him, he starts seeing Wade when he's awake. It's like it clicked on to his plan and tutted down at him, scolding him for avoiding a clearly deserved punishment.

Or he's just dangerously sleep deprived. Thinking your brain was conspiring against you probably also fit nicely into that narrative.

He sees Wade sat on a barstool a few feet away out the corner of his eye. Walking the streets from his window. In the line at the fucking liquor store.

He'd gotten his drunk ass beat on more than one occasion for grabbing strangers, calling them his name only to be met with a face he'd never seen before, absent of scars and that painfully soft smile.

He's losing his mind. He's going entirely insane.

An adamantium bullet to the skull doesn't sound too bad. It might not kill him, but it would rid him of the memories. He sits with the barrel of the gun pressed to his forehead sometimes, pictures it being Wade holding it there, and his finger itches for the trigger but he can't quite do it. He hears Wade's voice whispering to him when he has the cool metal against his skin, "no, peanut. Put it down please."

His thoughts of Wade hurt, but he wasn't ready to erase them entirely because he was a fucking coward. He's too fucking weak to get rid of those eyes, the memories of that touch, even as all of it tortures his brain onto the brink of fully fledged insanity.

It's three weeks into his destructive routine. The only sleep he's had is that of which he's been forced into when his body shuts down from too much alcohol. Wade's always there. On the bed. Smiling.

Sometimes they talk. Sometimes Wade asks him to come back. It always ends the same, though - screaming and begging as the man in front of him turns into a corpse.

Three weeks. The adamantium bullet is on his nightstand, ready when he is.

He's considering tonight. He's going to shower, get dressed and get dinner from his favourite take out place. He's going to think of Wade and every word he'd ever said to him, and then he was going to do it.

There's a knock on his apartment door that morning, which is bizzare. He has no one in this universe. Absolutely no one, so who would be pounding on his door at ten in the morning?

He pushes his breakfast (vodka) aside and goes to the door, pulling it open and.

And... he needs that bullet in his skull right now, because this is just fucking cruel.

"Hey, peanut."

And Logan can't take this. He can't fucking do this anymore! It's not fucking fair, why is his own head trying to kill him?

He remembers unsheathing the claws this time, but he immediately buries them in his own torso, blood dripping all over the carpet. He's mumbling, incohesive even to his own ears as he drags the claws down, feeling them pop his lungs like balloons and slice through organs.

"Logan! Logan, what the fuck? Stop!" Wade yells, his voice reaching a panicked pitch, his eyes wide in absolute horror.

"You stop! I can't- I know I've done horrible, horrible things but stop fucking showing me this! Stop letting me fucking see him!"

He's screaming at himself, at his own goddamn psyche, and that's probably how you know you've lost it entirely, right? Screaming at thin air? Yelling at yourself?

Solid hands reach out and snap onto his wrists, pulling his claws out. Wade pushes him to the ground, landing atop of him with a thud and pinning his wrists above his head.

Logan doesn't struggle. He can't. He's too busy staring at Wade with wide eyes.

"How- you're touching me. I can feel you," he says, voice raw. He can feel Wade's fingertips pressing into his skin like burns.

Wade's staring back at him, his face twisted up in confusion, "yeah? Because I'm a person with a body and I'm touching you with it? Not like that, this is not that kind of fic-"

He wrapped his arms around the merc and pulls him in, even though he's getting blood all over him. He can smell Wade. Feel his body heat. Feel the lines of him pressed against his own body and... it had never felt this real before. Was he dead? Had his body finally given up on regenerating his stupid ass? He supposed there might be a limit on liver damage even for him.

"Logan? What's going on? Not that I'm not enjoying this, because trust me I really am, but I expected a bit more.. hostility? Because you said you wanted to go home, and I get it because I'm annoying as fuck, but I sort of really missed you and I had to bribe the TVA just to get an hour visit and then wasted ten minutes of that figuring out which apartment was yours and-"

An hour. Wade was here for an hour. He was actually here. It wasn't in his head. He was here.

"Don't... please. Please. Don't leave me here I- I can't do it anymore," he begged, clinging onto Wade ridiculously, his nails digging into his back.

"Logan..."

"I'm sorry. Shouldn't- shouldn't of left, 'm sorry. I don't want to ruin your life, wanted to stay away so you wouldn't be stuck with me, but I can't do it."

He was crying. Couldn't feel the tears but could feel the tightness in his chest. He should be pushing Wade off. He needs to push him off and let him go home, but he can't. He wants to go home, and he knows that this place, this hell, isn't home.

Wade's apartment is. Wade is.

He'd be the intruder. Be the spare part. Watch Wade fall deeper in love with Vanessa and be good, watching from the sidelines and taking whatever Wade would give him. Would never ask for more than that, because that's what brought his thing with Jean and Scott crashing to the ground.

He'd do all of it, because at least then he'd get to see Wade and hear the idiots ramblings and feel fucking alive again. He can't stay here, not when he feels like some sort of ghost, doomed to living out the same depressing day over and over until he finally feels the blissful release of death.

Wade sat them up, pulling Logan up with him, holding both his hands in his own, "is that really what you think? That's why you left?"

"It's true. You have Vanessa, and a life to start. Last thing you need is me hanging around. But just- please, Wade. I'll find my own place and- and I'll leave you alone, with her- I really will. I just... I can't breathe here. I'm fucking dying. I can't sleep, or eat, or function and I- I just can't. I need you," he was being too honest, probably. Would likely just scare Wade off and send him running back to his own universe sighing with relief at dodging that paricularly unstable bullet.

But he couldn't help it. He needed to plead his case, and it didn't help that he hadn't really had anyone to talk to about this stuff. Fuck, his human interactions since he returned were limited to the transactional ones in order to purchase more alcohol, and the ones entirely in his own head.

Wade grabs his face, "Logan Howlett, you are the biggest fucking idiot on earth. Scratch that, the whole universe, probably."

"What?"

And then Wade is kissing him, hard. Hard enough that Logan finds himself having to use his arms to brace himself on the stained carpet just to keep upright as Wade uses a hand on the back of his head to pull him ever closer.

They part. Logan is panting, pupils blown, unable to form a cohesive word nevermind a sentence or two.

"Me and Ness agreed to just be friends. She broke up with her boyfriend and asked me for another try, but it's not fair on her to do that when I'm in love with somebody else."

Logan still can't speak. His brain is short circuiting, unable to fathom what Wade is saying to him.

"Truth is, I've been miserable without you Peanut. Turns out even after just a couple of nights with you in my bed, I can't sleep without you either," he shrugged, his own eyes shining with tears, "I wasn't going to ask you to come home with me, because I really was trying to respect your decision here but... fuck. I had to see you, even if those assholes would only give me an hour. I needed to see you, peanut, or I was going to lose my shit and probably go massacre an entire town or something equally as drastic."

"Wade," Logan finally managed, the word coming out all strained and choked up, "take me home, please."

Wade beamed despite his own tears, grabbing him and pulling him in, and Logan held onto him tightly.

"Of course, baby. Never letting you out of my sight again."