#if we're being a little cold or distant it's not personal

[handsoffthefuckinshield]

okay. the collective empathy level has lowered significantly

[fudgeez]

The price of Jaeyi's Love

Synopsis: Jaeyi, after two years of intense, almost suffocating devotion to Y/N, suddenly declares that Y/N has become "boring." She breaks up with Y/N with cruel indifference, mocking Y/N's attempts to understand and even instigating subtle bullying to further distance herself. Y/N, devastated, eventually accepts the reality and tries to rebuild her life, returning to her hobbies and pre-Jaeyi routines.

However, the arrival of a friendly and vibrant transfer student named Seulgi, who immediately gravitates towards Y/N, ignites a possessive rage in Jaeyi.

masterlist

Y/N POV

I chuckled, looking at the finished hand gloves. Jaeyi always complained about being cold, so I'd crocheted them for her. Perfect timing, too—her tutoring session had just ended. I walked over, a hopeful smile on my face, and held them out to her. But something was off. Her eyes weren't warm; they were... different. Cold.

"We should break up," she said, just like that. My mouth fell open. My handmade gloves, meant as a loving gift, suddenly felt heavy and useless. "What? Jaeyi, what are you talking about?"

"We're done." Her eyes, which used to sparkle with affection, were now hard and distant.

She turned and walked away, not another word. I heard her tell her assistant, in a clipped, dismissive tone, "Have her driven home."

It wasn't a question, or even a polite request. It was an order, like I was just something to be dealt with. I stood there, stunned, the soft yarn of the gloves now feeling like a cruel joke.

The rumors started soon after Jaeyi dumped me. Cruel whispers echoed her cold dismissal, branding me with a single, cutting word: boring.

It wasn’t just the sting of rejection that hurt—it was the way she had framed me, as if our entire relationship had been nothing more than a dull, predictable mistake.

And then came the bullying.

It wasn’t random. It was calculated, deliberate. A wave of petty cruelty that felt almost personal.

It started with whispers.

"Did you hear? Jaeyi said she nearly died of boredom dating her."

"No wonder. I mean, what did she even talk about? Homework?"

"I still don’t get why Jaeyi even bothered with her. A bet, maybe?"

"More like a pity project."

I kept my head down as I walked through the hallway, but the words clung to me like static. It didn’t matter if I walked faster, if I ignored them. They followed me, weaving themselves into my thoughts like an unwanted song stuck on repeat.

At first, it was just talk. But talk turned into action.

In the cafeteria, as I carried my tray to an empty table, someone stuck out their foot. I barely had time to react before I stumbled forward, my tray tilting, food spilling onto my sweater. Laughter erupted around me.

"Oops." A girl smirked from her seat, barely looking up from her phone.

"Guess she’s as clumsy as she is boring."

"Maybe that’s why Jaeyi left—couldn’t take another second of her monotone voice."

The laughter swirled around me, sharp and cruel, digging into my skin like tiny needles. I clenched my fists, willing myself to stay still, to pretend this didn’t hurt as much as it did.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her.

Jaeyi.

She had been watching. She had seen everything—the trip, the fall, the laughter. For a split second, our eyes met. Something flickered across her face. Recognition? Guilt? I couldn’t tell. But whatever it was, it wasn’t enough to make her stay.

She turned and walked away.

Just like that.

I swallowed hard, the sting of humiliation spreading through my chest.

Kyung and Yeri were standing nearby, their laughter dying in their throats when they saw me. Their expressions shifted, guilt creeping into their eyes.

Yeri fidgeted with the hem of her skirt, avoiding my gaze, while Kyung’s smirk faltered just a little.

But neither of them said anything.

Neither of them stopped it.

Neither of them helped me.

I wasn’t just being rejected. I was being erased.

Jaeyi’s dismissal had sparked the rumors. The rumors fueled the bullying. The bullying left me isolated. And the more alone I felt, the more I believed their words.

Maybe I really was boring.

Maybe that was why Jaeyi left.

Maybe that was why no one had ever really wanted me here in the first place.

Y/N retreated, the vibrant colors of her life fading into dull gray. She sought solace in her old hobbies, sketching in her notebook, losing herself in the lines and shadows, trying to piece herself back together.  

Then came Seulgi a whirlwind of sunshine and laughter.  

The transfer student, with her bright eyes and infectious energy, sat beside Y/N during lunch, her presence a stark contrast to the coldness that had settled over Y/N’s life.  

"Hey! Mind if I sit here? Everywhere else is packed." Seulgi’s voice was light, casual, but her smile was warm, genuine.  

Y/N hesitated, glancing around. Empty seats were everywhere. Seulgi could’ve sat anywhere. Yet, she had chosen here.  

"Oh, uh, sure." Y/N managed a weak smile.  

Seulgi plopped down, setting her tray on the table before glancing at Y/N’s open sketchbook. Her eyes widened in admiration. "Wow, that’s amazing! You’re really talented."

A flicker of something unfamiliar pride, perhaps stirred in Y/N’s chest.

"Thanks," she murmured.  

"I’m Seulgi, by the way. New here."

"I’m Y/N. Nice to meet you." 

Seulgi's presence was a balm to Y/N's wounded soul. They bonded over art, music, and shared dreams. For the first time in months, Y/N felt a flicker of hope.

A comfortable silence settled between them as Y/N continued sketching. They were at Y/N’s house, lounging in her room, the dim glow of a desk lamp casting soft shadows on the walls.

Seulgi lay on her stomach, chin propped on her hand, watching Y/N curiously.

"So, Y/N…" she began, her voice casual yet laced with curiosity. "Not to be weird, but… why does Jaeyi's fans keep bullying you?"

Y/N stiffened, her pencil freezing mid-stroke.

Seulgi didn’t look away. She didn’t rush to fill the silence with forced chatter. She just waited.

Something inside Y/N cracked.

"Jaeyi… she’s my ex. We dated for two years." The words tumbled out before she could stop them. "And after she dumped me, everything changed. The rumors, the bullying it all started because of her fans."

She expected Seulgi to flinch, to awkwardly change the subject, or maybe even pretend she hadn’t heard. But Seulgi didn’t move. She just blinked.

"Well, that’s stupid. I mean, seriously? They’re that immature?" Seulgi scoffed.

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. "You’re… not disgust? Or distance yourself?"

Seulgi raised an eyebrow. "Why would I?"

"Because… they might target you too. Now that we’re always together." Y/N’s voice was hesitant, her fingers tightening around her pencil.

Seulgi let out a laugh—a genuine, carefree sound. "Please, I can handle myself. And if they try anything, I’ll be protecting you too." She grinned, eyes twinkling.

"They’re just a bunch of losers, anyway."

Y/N laughed—a small, breathy sound, but real.

Meanwhile

They Didn’t Know Someone Was Listening…

Far from Y/N’s room, a phone screen flickered to life. Jaeyi’s eyes darkened as she listened to the audio playing through her earbuds.

She had planted a small recording device in Y/N’s room back when they were together, a careless impulse at the time—maybe for fun, maybe for control. Either way, after the breakup, she had forgotten about it.

Until now.

It had been weeks since she last thought about Y/N, brushing aside the guilt and discomfort with distractions. Not until, in the library, she saw something she hadn’t expected—Y/N, laughing.

With someone else.

Seulgi.

She had watched from afar as Seulgi playfully nudged Y/N, stealing her pencil, teasing her about her sketches. And Y/N… she had let her. She had smiled.

Something in Jaeyi twisted.

So when she got home, on a whim, she reactivated the old device, curiosity gnawing at her. What she didn’t expect was to hear her own name.

"Jaeyi… she’s my ex. We dated for two years. And after she dumped me, everything changed. The rumors, the bullying it all started because of her fans."

Jaeyi’s breath caught.

Y/N still talked about her.

Then came Seulgi’s voice, unwavering and filled with warmth.

"Please, I can handle myself. And if they try anything, I’ll be protecting you too."

Jaeyi’s grip on her phone tightened.

Seulgi was protecting Y/N now? Standing where Jaeyi used to stand?

A strange, unwelcome feeling crawled under her skin.

Jealousy.

Regret.

Something else she couldn’t name.

She had left Y/N behind, convinced it was the right choice. Then why did it feel like Y/N had finally found something Jaeyi had never been able to give her?

Why did it feel like Jaeyi was the one being left behind now?

And why couldn’t she stop listening?

The rooftop was quiet, save for the soft hum of the wind rustling against the railing. Y/N stood near the edge, staring out at the cityscape beyond the school grounds, her mind lost in a swirl of emotions. A lone tear traced a path down her cheek, a silent testament to the pain Jaeyi had inflicted.

"Y/N."

A voice cut through the stillness, a familiar, silken whisper that sent a shiver down her spine.

Y/N turned sharply, eyes widening as she saw Jaeyi standing a few feet away, her expression unreadable. But beneath the surface, a dark current flickered, a possessive hunger that made Y/N's heart pound.

"What are you doing here?" Y/N asked, her grip tightening on the rooftop railing, knuckles turning white.

Jaeyi took a slow step forward, her movements predatory.

"I miss you."

Her voice was calm, too calm, a predator lulling its prey. But there was something in her eyes something dark, possessive, desperate, a burning intensity that made Y/N want to run.

Y/N swallowed hard. "Jaeyi…"

Jaeyi’s lips parted, hesitation flickering across her face before she let out a quiet breath, a breath that seemed to carry a weight of unspoken desires. "Come back to me."

Y/N’s heart lurched, a sickening twist of fear and a ghost of longing. "What?"

"Be my girlfriend again." Jaeyi’s voice was firmer now, edged with something almost demanding, a command disguised as a plea. "I was stupid. I shouldn't have let you go."

Y/N inhaled sharply, caught between shock and something deeper something she wasn’t sure she wanted to name, a dangerous pull towards the familiar darkness.

"You—" She let out a hollow laugh, a sound devoid of joy. "You dumped me, Jaeyi. You left me. And then you let them—" Her voice cracked, a raw, exposed nerve.

"You let them tear me apart, and you did nothing."

Jaeyi flinched, but she didn’t step back. If anything, she moved closer, her eyes glittering with an obsessive light.

"I know," she admitted, her voice low and persuasive. "I know I messed up. But I can fix it. I can fix us. I can make everything like it was before. Better."

Y/N clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms. "Why now? Why come crawling back now?"

Jaeyi’s jaw tightened, a muscle twitching in her cheek. "Seulgi. She’s not right for you. She's stealing you from me."

Y/N scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. "And you think you are?"

Jaeyi’s hands trembled as she reached out, her fingers just barely grazing Y/N’s wrist, a touch that sent a jolt of fear and a strange, unwelcome warmth through her.

"I love you," she whispered, her voice laced with a dangerous intensity.

"You’re mine, Y/N. You’ve always been mine."

Y/N’s breath hitched, a gasp trapped in her throat. A storm of emotions crashed inside her—pain, longing, anger, and something terrifyingly close to the love she once felt for Jaeyi, a twisted, possessive love that threatened to consume her.

Did she still want this? Did she still want her?

Before she could answer, the rooftop door burst open, shattering the tense silence.

"Y/N! I brought your favorite—"

Seulgi’s voice froze mid-sentence, the cheerful grin on her face fading as she took in the sight before her—Jaeyi standing too close, Y/N’s expression caught between conflict and distress, the air thick with unspoken tension.

A tense silence stretched between the three of them, broken only by the wind.

Jaeyi’s fingers curled into fists, her nails digging into her palms.

"Of course," she muttered under her breath, a low growl of possessive rage. "She just had to show up."

Seulgi narrowed her eyes, stepping forward without hesitation, the bag of food still clutched in her hand, a protective barrier between Y/N and Jaeyi.

"What’s going on here?" Her voice wasn’t playful this time. It was sharp, protective, a challenge.

Y/N swallowed, still reeling, but Jaeyi was the one who spoke, her eyes never leaving Y/N's.

"We’re talking." Her tone was clipped, defensive, a warning. "This doesn’t concern you."

Seulgi scoffed, her eyes flashing. "It concerns me if you’re making her uncomfortable."

Y/N felt the weight of both their gazes on her, a suffocating pressure. Jaeyi’s pleading eyes, filled with a dangerous possessiveness, Seulgi’s concerned yet firm stare, a beacon of safety.

"Y/N," Jaeyi said softly, her voice dangerously smooth, a silken threat. "Tell her. Tell her you still love me. Tell her you're mine."

Y/N’s breath caught, a wave of fear washing over her.

Seulgi shifted, her expression unreadable, a silent question. "And if she doesn’t?" she challenged, her voice low and steady.

Jaeyi didn’t look at her. She only looked at Y/N, her eyes burning with an obsessive intensity, waiting, hoping, demanding.

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut for a brief second, a desperate attempt to regain control.

"Jaeyi…" her voice wavered, a fragile whisper. "I…"

A deep inhale. A slow exhale, a moment of clarity amidst the chaos.

"I’m sorry. But i like what im a now."

Jaeyi’s face twisted—hurt, frustration, something unspoken, a dark, simmering rage.

Seulgi took another step closer, her presence grounding, a solid wall of support. "Come on, Y/N. Let’s go."

---  

Jaeyi’s eyes darkened, a predatory gleam in their depths. "You can't have her Seulgi," she hissed, her voice a low, dangerous growl. "She's mine."

Jaeyi sat on the edge of Y/N’s bed, her fingers ghosting over the soft fabric of the blanket. The room smelled the same—warm, familiar, like Y/N. It felt like stepping into the past, into a time before everything fell apart.  

Her eyes scanned the room, stopping when she spotted something on the shelves.  

A small, wistful smile formed on her lips.  

Her gifts—every little thing she had ever given Y/N—were still there. The bracelet from their first date, the stuffed bear she won for her at a festival, the keychain with their initials.  

She still keeps them.

For a brief second, Jaeyi allowed herself to believe that maybe—just maybe—Y/N hadn’t truly moved on. That all of this, Seulgi included, was just a phase.  

But then she saw it.  

A framed picture sitting right beside the memories of them.

Y/N and Seulgi, laughing together, their arms draped over each other, faces glowing with happiness.  

Jaeyi’s stomach twisted, her nails digging into her palm.  

Seulgi was ruining everything.  

Before she even realized what she was doing, her fingers wrapped around the frame. Her heart pounded in her ears, the sound of her own ragged breathing filling the room.   

The glass cracked as she tore the picture from the frame, shredding it into pieces, her breaths coming out uneven.  

"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "No, no, no."

She wouldn’t let this happen.  

She wouldn’t let Seulgi take Y/N away from her.  

Jaeyi exhaled sharply, her grip tightening on the torn scraps of the photo. She had waited too long, watched from the sidelines as Seulgi wormed her way into Y/N’s life, pretending to be her savior.  

Enough was enough.  

She had a plan. And that plan started tonight.

Jaeyi leaned back against the headboard, her fingers brushing over the old bracelet Y/N still kept.  

A smirk played on her lips as she settled in, waiting.  

Y/N would be home soon.

And this time, Jaeyi wouldn’t let her slip away.

Y/N fumbled with her keys, the events of the rooftop encounter still swirling in her mind. Seulgi's comforting presence had been a lifeline, but the echo of Jaeyi's words "You're mine." clung to her like a chilling shadow.

She pushed open the door to her room, expecting the familiar quiet, and froze.

Jaeyi was there.

She sat comfortably in Y/N’s favorite chair by the window, bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun. Her presence was both unsettling and commanding, like she had always belonged there.

A wave of shock, then fear, crashed over Y/N. "Jaeyi? What are you doing here?"

Jaeyi rose gracefully, a slow, knowing smile playing on her lips. "I came to see you, of course."

Before Y/N could react, Jaeyi was in front of her, closing the distance in one fluid motion. Then her lips were on hers.

The kiss was sudden, deep, and intoxicating. Jaeyi’s hands slid along Y/N’s waist, pulling her in, her touch both possessive and desperate.

Y/N stiffened at first, her mind screaming at her to stop this, to push Jaeyi away. But her body betrayed her.

The familiarity of Jaeyi’s touch, the way her lips moved with a hunger that felt all-consuming—it stirred something buried deep within.

She hesitated, caught in the heat of the moment, allowing Jaeyi to take more, to claim more.

Jaeyi smirked against her lips, sensing her surrender. Her hands explored—fingertips tracing Y/N’s spine, pressing into her hips, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them.

Just as Y/N felt herself slipping completely into Jaeyi’s control, Jaeyi abruptly pulled away. Her eyes burned with something dark and triumphant as she stepped back, tilting her head toward the corner of the room.

"Look," she whispered, her voice disturbingly calm.

Y/N followed her gaze on Jaeyi's phone.

And froze.

A large container sat in the corner of unknown room.

Inside—bound, gagged, bruised—was Seulgi.

Y/N’s breath hitched, horror clawing at her throat. "You..." she gasped, her entire body going rigid.

Jaeyi smiled sweetly, almost mockingly. "She was getting in the way," she purred, running a lazy finger down Y/N’s arm. "But don't worry, she'll be fine. As long as you do what I say."

Y/N’s stomach twisted.

"Jaeyi, please... let her go."

Jaeyi lifted Y/N’s chin with a single finger, forcing their eyes to meet.

"Be with me," she murmured, her touch deceptively gentle.

"Be mine, like you were always meant to be. And she won’t get hurt."

Y/N’s mind spun, trapped between a terrifying ultimatum and the magnetic pull of Jaeyi’s presence. She wanted to run. She wanted to fight. But Seulgi—Seulgi was helpless, suffering because of her.

She had no choice.

A deal with the devil.

"Okay," she whispered, her voice shaking. "I'll do it. Just... please don't hurt her."

Jaeyi’s smile widened—a dark, victorious gleam in her eyes.

"Good girl," she murmured, leaning in for another kiss.

Y/N didn’t resist this time.

Jaeyi pushed her back until she hit the bed, guiding her down with slow, deliberate movements. Her lips moved from Y/N’s mouth to her jaw, then down to the sensitive skin of her neck, leaving a trail of possessive marks.

"You belong to me," Jaeyi whispered against her throat, her hands roaming lower, claiming every inch of Y/N as if she were already hers.

Y/N gasped, torn between the horror of the situation and the undeniable pull of Jaeyi’s touch. Every kiss, every movement, was a silent demand—give in to me, and Seulgi lives.

And so, she did.

As Jaeyi’s lips captured hers once more, Y/N let herself drown in the twisted pleasure of the moment. This was her pact, her surrender.

Her price to pay.

And Jaeyi made sure she felt every second of it.

Y/N was making a lot of noise, moaning loudly, because Jaeyi was using her tongue to give her a lot of pleasure. Jaeyi had been doing this for a while, and Y/N was very wet.

Jaeyi teased her, asking, "Do you like that? Do you really like my tongue?" Y/N couldn't answer with words, only moans. She tried to pull Jaeyi's head closer, wanting more, but Jaeyi stopped her.

Jaeyi wanted to control the situation. She wanted to make Y/N wait and enjoy every moment.

She moved her tongue in different ways, teasing Y/N and making her feel very good.

Y/N's body moved a lot because she felt so much pleasure. Jaeyi watched Y/N's face, enjoying how much power she had.

When Y/N was about to have a very strong feeling of pleasure, she made a loud cry.

Jaeyi let her enjoy that feeling, and then stopped.

Jaeyi looked up at Y/N and said, "Good girl," like she was praising her. She enjoyed having control over Y/N's pleasure.

Jaeyi watched Y/N, a predatory gleam in her eyes. Y/N was a mess, completely undone, her body still trembling from the aftershocks of pleasure. Jaeyi savored the sight, the way Y/N's chest heaved with each ragged breath, the way her lips were swollen and parted, the way her eyes were glazed with a hazy satisfaction.

"You're such a mess," Jaeyi purred, her voice laced with a dark amusement. "So needy."

Y/N, still lost in the afterglow, could only whimper, a soft, pleading sound that sent a thrill through Jaeyi.  She reached out, her fingers tracing the dampness at Y/N's entrance, eliciting a gasp.

"Still want more, don't you?" Jaeyi teased, her touch light and teasing. "Can't get enough, can you?"

Y/N's hips bucked involuntarily, a silent plea for more. Jaeyi chuckled, a low, throaty sound that vibrated through Y/N's core.

"Such a good girl," Jaeyi murmured, her fingers slipping inside, slowly at first, then with increasing urgency.  Y/N's moans returned, louder this time, desperate and demanding. Jaeyi watched, her eyes burning with a possessive intensity, as Y/N writhed beneath her touch, completely at her mercy.

"You need me, don't you?" Jaeyi whispered, her voice a seductive poison.

"You need my touch, my control."

Y/N could only nod, her body a testament to Jaeyi's words. Jaeyi smiled, a cruel, triumphant smile. She had won. She had broken Y/N, molded her into the perfect, obedient plaything.  And as Y/N's cries of pleasure filled the room, Jaeyi reveled in her victory, her heart pounding with a dark, possessive satisfaction.

[eloquentlytired]

18+ NSFW. MDNI.

dreamlike — tommy miller x fem reader

warnings: slightly dark content, dark!tommy, smut, unspecified age gap but reader is over 22+, masturbation, handjob, cheating, tommy’s moral compass breaks down, unclothed grinding, surprise ending, sex outdoors, tension, maria ily this isn't personal I just rlly like ur man

notes: hi guys it's been 100 years I'm sorry ily + take this bc im ovulating 😎 tommy miller suddenly making me feel things bc of gabriel luna that's right. likes and reposts are appreciated🥹

“I don't think you've settled down quite just yet.” joel tells him one day while they're eating breakfast together. tommy glances, swallows then responds.

“I don't know what you mean.” but his eyes betray him as they return somewhere for the fifth time; at a distant specific table where you're reading some silly book again.

your food is yet to be touched while tommy’s and joel’s are nearly gone.

“tommy we're too old for this shit, you and I. you're my brother, I already know what you'll do before you even do it.” joel throws the bait and tommy bites it.

“I’m not doing anything joel except—”

“except eating Maria's food while throwing damn heart eyes at her.”

tommy hisses at joel’s truthful interruption, not so much at being interrupted but at the validation of those words.

“I’m just making sure she likes the food.” joel deadpans, tommy does the same right after because of his own words. gods, he is pathetic.

“fuck, just shoot me already.” joel shrugs at his brother's words and doesn't even try to hide the fact that he's grinning. “tell your wife, I'm sure she'll be delighted.”

tommy shakes his head and keeps on eating. he stresses over his thoughts so much that, lucky for you, he misses your piercing gaze and the bite of your lips.

he spends days trying to blame it on something other than him being a terrible person. the breakout, the virus, the living circumstances, the we need to work faster from Maria or that everyone depends on him for the hard stuff.

sure, tommy had chosen this in the first place but he doesn't even know if he wants whatever this is anymore. what does he want?

“mister miller!”

the tension leaves his shoulders as he watches you walk towards him, only wearing that favourite sundress of yours and an oversized jacket.

it's the first real summer that wyoming has felt since the outbreak. tommy only appreciates it because he's too lazy to gear up for winter.

“you’re early.” he says and finds himself smiling as you flop down beside him, sitting on the green weeds.

the snow is still melting but it doesn't make things less cold — but clearly you don't feel the cold he does.

“I helped in the kitchen so they let me off early.” you explain and tommy hums. he thinks about the past months when he'd found you during patrol, covered by the snow and nearly dead. he'd never ridden back home faster, urging for the medics to help you out and thank gods they'd done a great job. now you were here, a few months later, and trusting him more than anyone else while tommy was just a straight up bastard.

he fed you more than others, brought you new clothes that you might like and most importantly showed you his spot. that well hidden spot outside the fences which was an hour's walk away... it wasn't even special but it was spacious and quiet and a little cleaner — and suddenly he was calling it our spot instead of my spot.

for months you'd come here, chat with him and draw in your worn out notebook. the pages were running out and tommy made a mental note to find you a new one. fuck.

“what’s this?�� tommy murmurs while his hand points at a very specific drawing on the left page.

he seems to pale while you just feel yourself growing hot. you'd drew him back in the cafeteria when he was looking at you, when he thought you were so unaware of his eyes but you always knew.

“I just—” you try to find the right words, or better yet the right excuse, but you can't. “I just did it.”

tommy catches on your tone as if you were afraid to receive a reaction. his reply surprises you.

“do I really look at you that way?” he asks and you nod, the strap of your dress falling off your shoulder clearly to test him.

tommy has never succeeded in any tests in his entire life.

you lay on the ground, indifferent about the weeds tangling in your hair. tommy’s face hovers over yours as he kisses you, one of his hands sneaking beneath your dress to squeeze your thigh and nothing more.

“tommy.” he swallows his own name from your lips, his lips kissing you feverishly yet the rest of his body doesn't dare move. tommy just sticks to laying beside you while his elbow achingly supports his weight.

he cannot trust himself to move, to slip between your thighs and only kiss.

the hand he's placed on your thigh earlier starts to retreat but you don't let it as you use both of your hands to capture his wrist.

“sweetheart.” tommy warns, his eyes blown wide with lust while his chest heaves up and down. he’s affected by this, feeling overwhelmingly lustful like he's young again, while also fearing the consequences of this. the aftermath of it.

for the first time you don't listen to him, pushing his hand between your thighs until his fingers come in contact with your soaked panties.

you hear him cursing beneath his breath, fuck this, as he touches you after what feels like forever.

he rubs you through your panties, his massive hand feeling the material soaking further as his thumb finds your clit. your head turns and you bury it in his chest while tommy just rubs.

his breath is hitched and he's in a far worse state than you for a different type of reasons. you drool on his shirt and throb against his fingers because you're excited, you feel good. on the other hand, tommy cups and fondles your pussy possessively while stressing over the limits. he can't do more than this — he shouldn't.

“can I touch your cock?” you whisper almost too shyly and tommy wishes joel would have just shot him when he had asked the first time.

your hand unzips his trousers and takes out his cock because tommy has obviously agreed, because it's your fault for looking at him with those sparkling eyes.

your foreheads collide as tommy touches you and you touch him.

his fingers eventually sneak beneath your panties because he wants it to be fair, you're touching his bare cock so he's entitled to your pussy right?— or maybe he really is just an asshole deep down.

nothing like the tommy that maria loves, nothing like the tommy that everybody respects. no, once again he's the tommy miller that only joel knows.

your fingers circle around his cock, feeling it at first, before caressing every inch of skin you can get. your eyes are on tommy’s as your foreheads keep touching and a soft smile occupies your face while you stroke his cock.

you're smiling and touching his dick and tommy likes it too much.

“you need a new notebook, don't you?” tommy asks through gritted as your fingers squeeze around his hard cock. because it's definitely the right time for conversations.

you nod, mouth slightly agape as his fingers circle your swollen clit and then dip between your lips, feeling you dripping.

“anything else?” he asks too softly while his nose brushes against yours, offering some intimacy that isn't just sexual.

“pencils?” you don't order him or demand. you ask because you care and tommy likes that you care in that way. it's always only if it's okay with you and that's exactly how he needs it.

“notebooks.. pencils.. whatever you say, it'll happen.” he slaps your pussy, not too hard, and you whimper.

you can feel your nipples hardening beneath your dress while your pussy simply leaks for tommy miller. your legs shift and you spread them.

tommy sways his hips, fucks his cock into your tight but soft fist and curses.

the summer breeze carries your soft whimpers and tommy’s gentle grunts. your hand strokes him a little faster as your thumb purposely brushes against his sensitive slit and you don't fail to notice the way tommy’s hips twitch when you do it.

the front of his shirt is a mix of your drying drool and his sweat but it doesn't bother him. his solid focus is to fuck your small fist and, of course, to pleasure you which is his first priority.

tommy can handle you, his middle finger circling your wet entrance slowly before he pushes in, the slide smoother than he'd expected. he adds a second finger minutes later, then a third.

you stroke his cock as he thrusts his fingers inside your pussy and for a while nothing else really matters.

the squelching of your cunt is loud and tommy curls his fingers inside you, reaching a place that makes you see stars. “tommy!” you gasp in that angelic voice and he goes a little crazy, fingers digging into your sweet spot as he becomes a little desperate with his thrusts.

your lower tummy shudders with delight and your thighs flex as his fingers thrust into your tight pussy recklessly, poking at those sensitive nerves every damn time.

tommy thinks you warn him about your orgasm but he's also not sure as he's too busy watching your face and your pussy reacting simultaneously. your eyebrows furrow and your mouth forms a small ‘O’ as your walls are suddenly gripping his fingers too tight, too deep.

you cum with a shuddering moan of his name and coat his fingers generously, becoming a spectacle. you squirt for him, because of him, and he'd draw out more if it wasn't for time running away from you two.

tommy seems confused when you push his hand away but then everything happens so fast. he can't stop it, he swears.

he watches as you roll to your side, your chest brushing against his, and slip his cock between your thighs. tommy can't breath when his entire girth slides between your pussy lips, soaking through, until his tip kisses your clit.

“no sweetheart—” tommy warns weakly but you're already moving, swaying. his cock is wet with your juices as it slides against your pussy, harder than ever, and he is utterly defeated.

“please cum on my pussy.” you mumble against his lips and he kisses you otherwise he might do worse. he satiates himself with this situation, sucking your bottom lip while thrusting his hips upwards and taking half of what he wants. something he doesn't deserve.

his balls swell and then clench as he orgasms, lowering his hips a little to cum on your pussy. he fulfils his promise, painting the surface white with his cum before resting his forehead on yours again. spent.

it's quiet for a long time as his arms remain lazily wrapped around your body. you melt against him, into him, and you two do your best to catch your breath.

when he looks at you again, the sun is setting right behind you and making you look surreal. you're like a dream while tommy is just there with a stupid smile on his face and half indecent because of what you've done.

then suddenly he doesn't feel real, his body is all too light before it gets incredibly heavy.

he hears his name being called out repeatedly tommy tommy tommy and he jumps, looking around with sweat dripping down his back.

maria stands over him as he lays on the couch because he's home — not outside the fence. not with you.

“I told you to cut day drinking with joel. he's bringing back old habits.” his wife tells him, pressing a kiss on his forehead before walking away.

tommy rises and stumbles to the window. the snow is still there, white and thick, while the red calendar on the wall reads December 25 like it's a fucking joke. like he'd never met you secretly in the spot that belongs to you and him.

reality hits hard as you pass by his house, that familiar notebook resting against your chest as you hug it preciously. you look at him instinctively, as if feeling his burning gaze, and you smile.

“merry christmas, mister miller!” you yell cheerfully and tommy nods, forcing his best smile.

miracles can only go so far and in the end, tommy can be content with just dreams.

[petrichoravis]

So professional. | s.r.

masterlist | navigation | PART TWO

summery: when the team finally has a break through in a case that seemed endless and you and Spencer are assigned to search an abandoned laboratory together, old feeling come to the surface.

word count: 7,3k (it got away from me, sorryyy)

what to expect: ex!spencer reid x fem!bau!reader, kinda like lovers to "enemies" to ??, a lot!! of banter, morgan calls r 'doll', 'princess' and 'sugar', criminal minds typical violence; torture, shooting, gunshot wound, parental/domestic abuse (abusive father/husband), hyporeflexia (the absence of reflexes), medical inaccuracies? I’m sure, English is not my first language.

a/n: aaaa this is so far out of my comfort zone!! I hope you’ll enjoy this while I’ll go into hiding🙈🙈

────── ⋆｡𖦹°‧

This case was endless until it wasn't. Until everything happened so quickly, all at once.

All of the victims had been burned to the point that the ME couldn't figure out the cause of death, until Eleven year old Amilie Porter was found on the side of the road by a passerby.

She had been cold and traumatised and wouldn't speak to anyone, so they brought her to the hospital, who alerted the police that then called you. The BAU.

Now, Spencer and JJ were crouching next to her hospital bed to seem less intimidating. Everything was going great, she wasn't speaking, but engaged in the conversation by nodding or shaking her head to their questions.

Until Amilie accidentally grabbed the mug of hot tea JJ handed her by the burning hot part, but instead of flinching she just held it there, as if it wasn't burning her fingers.

"Woah, hey hey hey!" Spencer took the cup from her before any more damage could be done. "Careful, that's still hot."

But his squeaked comment only made Amilie retreated into herself.

"Sorry, I'm—I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. Did—" he frowned, he wasn't been sure how to ask her what he wanted to ask, given that she was eleven and still in shock.

"Did you not feel how hot that was?" He asked gently.

Amilie only nodded.

"Yes, you didn't feel how hot it was?"

She shook her head.

"So…you felt it, but didn't pull back?" He was trying his best not to come across as too impatient, keeping his voice low and soft.

He went on as she agreed to the question, "Let me ask you this, Amilie. Did—did the bad man do this?"

When Amilie nodded her head in answer to his question, Spencer glanced up at JJ, nodding as well. He could tell Amilie was exhausted and needed rest, his questions were probably not helping much.

He didn't blame her for being unresponsive, what happened to her must have been enough to traumatise a person with a fully developed brain. He could only calculate what damage it had done and will do to her life.

JJ's voice brought him back into the glaringly white hospital room. "Thank you, Amilie, you helped us very much. We're going to call the nice nurse back in, okay?"

She took Amilie's turning away from them as a yes and they made their way to the reception desk. After they were sure that the nurse was on her way, they walked back to the car.

"What did you see?" She asked him as they walked out of the hospital, onto the parking lot. Sirens were coming from every direction, so they had to speak a little louder.

"Wait—can you drive? I'll call the team." Spencer said, already pulling out his phone and dialling the first contact.

Which, unfortunately, was you.

"Reid? What did she say?" Your voice was usually distant, as if you were scared that letting any emotion into you voice would break the dam.

He pressed a hand over his ear to hear you better.

You see, when you and Spencer got together, you had to promise Hotch that you would stay professional when you would break up. A great prophecy for the rest of your relationship, right? Having to talk about your hypothetical breakup on the first official day of your relationship.

Both of you really tried to stay professional, but working with an ex was hard enough, working with an ex you haven't really talked it out with was harder.

"I think he might be torturing the victims until they loose their reflexes." He clamped the phone between his ear and shoulder as he unlocked the car door, holding it open for JJ, handing her the keys and getting into the passenger seat after she was securely in the car.

"Hyporeflexia? Do you—wait let me put you on speaker." There was shuffling on the other side of the phone. "You have Hotch and I. Do you know how he does it?"

"No. I have theories, but nothing concrete. There are a few ways to accomplish the absence of reflexes, drugs like K779 or Leuprorelin, for example. But I doubt he is using a drug, it would have shown up on the toxicology report and the chances of these drugs causing Hyporeflexia are too slim."

"What's your guess?" Hotch piped up.

"Well I think he might be damaging their nervous system. You see, motor neutrons send messages between the spinal cord and brain. Collectively they send messages to the rest of your body to control muscle movements. It's possible that the UnSub is damaging the sensory nerves, spinal cord or motor nerves to cause hyporeflexia." He rambled off the facts and you could practically see the wild gesturing of his hands.

"How is the girl?" You asked.

"She's quiet, but in good hands," he reassured you. "She'll be okay in no time."

"Are you on your way back?" Hotch asked, crossing his arms.

"Yes. We're driving to you now."

"Drive safely." You said, purely for performance purposes.

"I'm not driving." He replied dryly.

"That's why it was meant for JJ."

"She always drives safely." You tried not to roll your eyes as Spencer just hung up.

Being professional when the person you used to plan your future with was now your worst enemy was hard. And while you might spite him a lot, you were sad about it more than you were angry.

But anger always came easier to you than admitting to yourself and him that the break up really hurt you, that you want nothing more than to be friends if you couldn't have him as a partner. You wanted to hold him in your arms again, to fall asleep to his heartbeat every night.

You couldn't tell anyone that, of course, your pride would be in shambles.

So you took a deep breath and turned back to Hotch.

── ⋆｡𖦹°‧

When Spencer and JJ got back to Quantico the team reassembled for the briefing. Everyone shared their thoughts and theories and Spencer explained what had happened at the hospital.

"Um…I know that there is a poison called curare, it's won from various plants and causes paralysis by binding to the acetylcholine receptor of the junction where two nerve cells dock together and therefore prevents nerve impulses from activating skeletal muscles. Could it be something like that?" You asked into the room.

Spencer was quiet for a moment and you're unsure whether he was impressed by your knowledge or just thinking really hard about the possibilities. "Well, we obviously can't tell because the bodies are burnt. But it's unlikely that he is using curare, given that Amilie wasn't paralysed, but developed Hyporeflexia."

Never mind, he was just thinking of a polite way to say, you're so far from the point, stupid.

"Right. So what do you think?" You almost added oh almighty! but were able to stop yourself. Because you're professional.

"As I already said," he gave you a look, "he is probably damaging the nervous system."

"Right, sorry. I meant, how is he doing that?" You had been able to sound so unfazed until this moment.

"I don't know," he frowned at you, as if his answer was obvious (you would like to state that it was not), "or I would have shared it already."

The team was nice enough not to comment on your little dispute, but it's clear that it was getting on their nerves. Especially Hotch, who was looking more stoic than usual, Morgan was finding it more amusing than anything.

"I'll get Garcia to search for similar occurrences in the area." You said quickly, already hurrying out of the room and away from the pending lecture.

Spencer watched you scurry off with a sinking feeling in his gut.

He didn't know why he bitt like a wounded dog every time the two of you spoke. He would like to think that it was because he just genuinely didn't like you anymore, but he knew that wasn't true. Hating you would be easier than this.

On the other side of the office, you ripped open door of Penelope Garcia's office and slammed it closed behind you, leaning back against it with a heavy sigh.

Penelope startled upright, turning her swivel chair to look at you with wide eyes. "Well, hello. Are you alright?"

"No," you whined dramatically. "All of this is so incredibly fucking fucked."

"Oh, love," she patted the place next to her. "He, who shall not be named again?"

You nodded, slumping into the chair. "He's just so—I just feel so…ugh. All we do is spite each other. When will this get easier?"

She looks at you with so much pity, you can't stand it. "I'm not going to tell you that it will pass with time, because, well…" She gave you a look that said nothing less than because you're quite dramatic, over the rim of her glasses.

While you huffed in response, you couldn't quite find a good argument that spoke against her unspoken statement, so your mouth stayed closed. But you didn't refrain from sending her a glare.

"What?" She asked innocently, if anything about Penelope Garcia can ever be called innocent.

You gave her a look. "Constructive criticism? Didn't we just talk about that?"

"I didn't even say anything! It's not my fault that you interpreted something into my very lovely face."

You decided that this was totally fruitless, your fault for thinking that you had a friend in her. "Can you look into past histories of people with hyporeflexia? Anything you can find. People who have been diagnosed with it in the past…let's say fifteen years, suspicious reports of it, someone being especially interested in it, maybe a lot of it happening in one area. You know the drill."

"Yep, totally, ma chère. One sec." She turned her chair towards the computer screen and began working her magic.

After what feels like three seconds—thank God for Penelope's speed on the keyboard and swift fingers—she piped up, "Hyporeflexia is quite a rare official diagnosis, so I cross referenced it with torture or unnatural causes and I found," a few more mouse clicks. "…a Theodore Wilson, who has been in and out of the hospital for severe burns and bruises a lot when he was young."

Frowning, you lean over Penelope's shoulder to look at the screen. "And that's relevant because…?"

"That, my gorgeous girl," she booped your nose with her fluffy pen and you scrunched your nose. "Is because they look suspiciously similar to our victims and…" She paused for dramatic effect. "Theodore's father was a biochemist best known for his research on Hyporeflexia."

You frown deepened. "Is his father still alive?"

A few clicks later, Penelope replied, "Nope." She popped the p. "He died last month, but Theo's mother still lives in Virginia."

"If we consider Theodore a suspect, his father's passing could have been the stressor. Thank you, Pen. Could you—"

"The address is sent to your phone." She smiled up at you as you got up and walked towards the door. "But don't think our talk about you-know-who is over!" She sing-songs just before you could leave.

You rolled your eyes. The nicknames were getting excessive.

"I can't hear you!" You called back just before closing the door behind you.

You froze when you turned and saw the team gathered in the bullpen area. "Um," you glanced at Spencer for just a millisecond to see how much he has heard, but his face seemed impassive. Looking back at your unit chief, you continued, "Penelope found a lead."

Hotch nodded for you to continue and you made your way closer to the group. Recognition flickered across Spencer's face at the name Don Wilson, but he said nothing as you continued to explain what Penelope found.

"Penelope send the address of his mother to me already." You said as you finished.

"Do you think he might be the first victim or the UnSub?" Hotch asked.

"Possibly both. That's what I'd like to find out by talking to the mother." You replied, taking the last steps towards the team.

Hotch nodded. "Morgan, you accompany her."

Great, just what you needed. Relentless teasing from Derek Morgan, fun!

The devil grinned. "Let's do this, doll."

── ⋆｡𖦹°‧

You ignored Morgan the whole drive.

No, seriously, you didn't say a word to him besides giving him the directions. Of course that only stroked the fire.

When you finally did arrive at the house of Theodore's mother, you felt like you had just taught a class of first graders.

Morgan was in the middle of something like, "—come on, we're all waiting to hear what happened between you and pretty boy—" when you got out of the car and slammed the door shut. You couldn't stand to listen to even one more second of it.

But of course he just continued after exiting the car, too. "That bad, huh?"

If you didn't know any better, you might have thought there was some pity in that comment. "It's fine. And also really none of your business."

"You and Reid are kind of making it everyones business, princess."

Rolling your eyes at his statement, you sped up your steps along the gravel path. The faster you got to the door, the faster Morgan had to get into work mode and could finally stop behaving like an assho—

The door opened unexpectedly.

"Oh," an elderly woman—she must have been in her late sixties—startled back at the sight of the both of you. She had shoulder length red-brown hair that was frizzy and clearly not washed for at least two weeks. Her hands were fiddling with a button of her worn down brown cardigan.

Undoubtedly the woman you saw on the picture on Penelope's computer.

You quickly pulled out your badge, animating Morgan to do so as well. "Mrs. Wilson? We're with the FBI. My apologies if we startled you."

"The FBI?" She frowned, clutching her cardigan tightly around herself like an armour. "Why would the FBI come to my house?"

"Ma'am, we have reason to believe that your son might be involved in the case we are investigating right now." You said carefully, not knowing how much she could handle before having a heart attack.

"What? No, that—that's ridiculous! He—he…" she seemed to have forgotten what she was saying, now studying the ground for dirt.

Morgan and you glanced at each other. This was going to be difficult.

"Ma'am?" Morgan tried again. "Could we come in?"

She frowned up at him. "Yes, yes, of course. How rude of me." She made a sound that could have been a laugh as much as it could have been a sob.

"Make yourselves at home, dears. Oh, my apologies it's a little messy." She hurried across the room, gathering scraps of fabric and dirty dishes.

"Uh," you weren't sure how to say this politely, but you were in a rush and sour mood.

Luckily, Morgan saved you from having to come up with something polite. "Mrs. Wilson, we'd like to ask you some questions about your son, Theodore, if that is alright with you?"

"Oh, Theo," he fingertips touched her lips and her eyes welled up a little. It was a nostalgia only a mother could feel. "We—we don't talk a lot anymore, now that he is at university."

You frowned. There had been no evidence of Theodore being at university. "What is he studying?"

The woman seemed frozen in her thoughts. "Physics. No, that's not right…Chemistry, yes. He is studying chemistry at Princeton. He told me that."

You gave Morgan a signal to fact check that with Penelope and he left the room, leaving you to talk to Mrs. Wilson alone.

"Did he always like chemistry?"

"Yes, yes. When he was young, he always used to…no, I think that was biology." She laughed almost hysterically. "Can't keep up with that boy. So many talents."

Bingo. Biochemistry. His father's influence, no doubt. And it fit the theory of Theodore taking on his father's murderous tendencies. Just a little more and you had him.

"Was there any particular niche he was particularly interested in?"

"Yes, but…but I don't remember. You see, Don, my husband—Theo's father, he would know. He—he was the one who always went to the laboratory with Theo."

Laboratory? You froze at the mention of a possible secondary location. Double bingo, a place to hide the victims and possibly burn them. A place where his father could have taught him his ways, pass the torture down like some families might pass down jewellery.

"This lab," you asked cautiously, not wanting to come across too pushy or desperate (which you very much were). "You don't happen to know where it is?"

"Oh, it's abandoned now, run down, I'm certain. They stopped going there after Don got sick…" she couldn't finish the sentence, her eyes fogging up with grief.

You doubted that he just stopped going, but she didn't need to know that. "Is it possible that you find out where it is located?"

She nodded, mumbling something about a postcard before disappearing into another room.

Morgan came back from the hallway.

"There is no record of him at Princeton. No pay checks, nothing." He whispered to you.

That was to be expected. You just nodded.

All of this left you with a horrible, nauseating feeling in the pit of your stomach. This woman had lost everything—her husband, her son, her sanity—but the hope she clung to was that her son was in university, building a life of his own, making a name for himself.

Now you were working on destroying that hope. It might ruin her entirely. Irrevocably.

She came back a second later, a postcard in her hands. "That's the address, I think." She held it out to you.

But as you went to grab it, fingers closing around it, she didn't let go, keeping a tight grip on it. Like a lifeline. Like a part of her knew, that if she let you have it, there was no going back to the normal she once knew.

"Mrs. Wilson…?" You tested carefully.

She startled. "Oh! I'm sorry." She let the paper go. "Here you go. I hope it helps with your…"

Her face creased up, thinking hard of a reason why two FBI agents could be in her house, asking for her perfect son who was studying chemistry in Princeton.

Morgan, ever the escape artist, waved politely, "You have been very helpful, Ma'am. We best be going then, have a nice day."

"Yes, yes, of course. You must be busy kids." But just as you stepped through the door, feet just hitting the gravel, she called after you. "Agents?"

Both of you turned. "Yes?" You asked politely.

"My son, when you visit him at Princeton, could—could you tell him I was sorry?"

"Of course, Ma'am." You let your voice trail off, hoping she would clarify what she was apologising for.

Mrs. Wilson leaned against the door with one hand, as if stabilising herself. "We had a fight, you see. The night before he left for Princeton. I never got to apologise to him."

You were tempted to ask what the fight was about, but you held back. It might be important for the case, but not enough to dig up the rotten bones. "Of course. We will tell him, Mrs."

"Thank you—thank you. Tell him I love him, too, would you be so kind?"

You nodded. "Of course."

Morgan and you walked away, then. Leaving the woman behind.

You didn't recall reaching the car, didn't recall Morgan unlocking it and even holding open the door for you to climb in. Too deep in the past, too caught up in the future.

The conversation with the mother affected you more than you'd like to admit. A fight could ruin so many relationships, it could make you go crazy, make you say things that caused you to drift further and further apart. Until you didn't know each other at all anymore, but you still clung to the past yous that you once were.

You only came to yourself when you felt the seat under you, when the engine started to hum.

"We had a fight." You mumbled as Morgan reversed out of the parking space.

"What?" He looked over at you shortly, confused. He couldn't recall having fought with you.

"Spencer and I. We fought. That's why we broke up."

Morgan felt a little like laughing. "You broke up because of a fight? Must have been one hell of a fight, then. The both of you were always so inseparable."

When you didn't laugh or react, Morgan glanced over at you again. You looked sad, in thought. With a big pout-slash-frown on your face, fingers fiddling with the sleeves if your button up.

"Hello? Earth to earthling?" He waved a hand in front of your face.

"Sorry." You glanced up at him. "I don't know why I brought it up, I don't like talking about it."

Bless him, Morgan's face softened a little. He wasn't heartless enough to keep teasing you when you clearly had a hard time. Well, okay, he had his moments.

"You don't have to talk about it."

"No, it's okay. We—We fought a lot, leading up to the break up. Silly things like the dishes, different opinions on different things.…The real issue was this job, though." You swallowed around the urge to bolt.

"The job?"

You nodded. "We brought it home with us, made it the centre piece of our relationship."

Morgan winced. It was the mistake every agent was afraid to make when entering a relationship.

"Yeah," you breathed out. "I know. But you know us, we work, that's just who we are."

"Workaholics." Morgan coughed to lighten the mood.

In any other situation you would have dug your elbow into his side, scowled at him. But not in this one.

"It got too much in the end. The fear, the paranoia. We just…snapped. We talked it out, funnily enough that conversation was quite calm. Though we were naive enough to think we could stay friends." You sniffed.

It surprised him, to find out you were struggling so much in the past months leading up to your break up. "You always seemed so happy at work. Everyone agreed when I said you two were meant for each other."

"Yeah, well, things that are meant for each other aren't always the right thing."

"Do you really believe that? Or are you scared that it won't work out if you tried again and you opened yourself up for nothing?" He lifted one hand from the wheel to put air quotes around the word nothing.

You glared at his side profile. "Okay, Mr. Therapist."

"What?" He looked at you again, before focusing back on the road. "I'm just saying. Reid is so far gone for you, opening up to him would never be for nothing. If you want it to work you have to work for it."

"Since when are you an expert on relationships, Derek 'has a new girl every week' Morgan." You rolled your eyes. But you couldn't deny that his words stirred something inside you.

"Okay, you're just being mean now, sugar. I'm incredibly wise." He pretended to push glasses up his nose.

That got a laugh out of you. A real, stomach ache inducing laugh. Maybe you were hysterical now, too.

Morgan smiled at that. He was glad to hear that sound again, after months filled with frown lines and sharp tones.

After you calmed down, you got back into work mode, calling the team and telling them what you had discovered. You told Penelope to check the address and she confirmed that it was an abandoned laboratory.

Now everything happened quickly. Hotch ordered you to drive to the lab and wait for the team, to be on alert for anyone entering or leaving the building, but not to—under any circumstances—enter or separate from each other.

── ⋆｡𖦹°‧

Not even twenty minutes later, you and Morgan arrived at the laboratory and prepared by putting on your vests and checking your guns.

The other black SUVs lined up in front of the main entrance shortly after.

You caught Spencer's eyes as he got out of the car. He scanned you from head to toe for injuries. When he found none, the concern on his face melted away quickly enough for you to consider you had imagined it.

"No one has entered or left the front door in the time we were here." You said when the team reassembled.

Hotch nodded. "Morgan, you and Prentiss go in from behind and search the lower level. JJ, Rossi and I search the second floor."

"But that means—" Spencer started to protest but Hotch has already pointed at you.

"You and Reid, go to the upper level."

Because you were so focused on the case (totally not because you want to show Hotch you could be more professional than Spencer), you just nodded.

"Good. Let us not waste time we don't have." Hotch frowns and everyone goes their separate ways.

Spencer glanced at you and you glanced at him. This was the first time you had been alone together since the break up and you were both unsure what to do with each other.

"Is your vest secure?" Spencer asked after a short awkward pause. He took a step closer and you try your best not to flinch back. Professional, you remind yourself like a mantra.

"Yes." You retort steadily enough, but he was already reaching out to tug on the straps.

You frowned at the display of worry, but decided on letting him have his moment. Purely to save energy, of course.

"Fine, let's go up." He said as he was satisfied with your vest. Together you made your way up the stairwell onto the upper level.

As you sneaked through the eerily quiet lab, the only sound heard was the clacking of your heeled boots on the resin floor.

Spencer glared at you. "Couldn't have worn a worse shoe for this, could you?" He whispered.

"I could've hardly worn my crocks." You snapped back. "Focus."

Both of your guns were trained around the corners as you carefully assed the situation. So far there was nothing that seemed too out of the ordinary for an abandoned laboratory. Broken glass, dusty workstations, pipes…Nothing to accompany you and Spencer but silence.

Until a shot rang out. And you wince.

The bullet just barely grazed your upper arm but it was enough to make a crimson blotch bloom on your white button up.

Spencer pulled you behind a corner before you could get hurt even worse and presses his hand over your wound.

He wrapped a hand around your wrist to hold your arm still and assessed your arm. "Does it hurt badly?"

"It's fine. Focus on the UnSub." You scowled, pushing against his shoulders with your free hand. Spencer didn't budge. "Reid, I'm so serious—"

"No, I'm serious," he said your name sternly. "Answer my ques—"

Another shot rang out before he could finish repeating himself, but it thankfully didn't hit anyone.

You gave him a look that says see? I fucking told you so. and pushed him away to glance around the corner to fire some shots at the guy.

"The suspect is in the upper level." You said into the microphone. "He's wearing a black bomber. Brown hair. I can't tell much. He's armed and shooting." You listed off.

"Copy that." Answered JJ's voice back to you.

"Get," Spencer grumbled, "behind the wall."

"You almost sound worried." You grinned and taunted him by doing the direct opposite of his command, leaning further around the corner.

"That's because I am. It doesn't look great on my report if I just let you die." He bitt out, pulling you back by your wrist that he still hasn't let go of.

Unfortunately, he ended up slamming your back against the wall in the process.

You made a noise that could only be described as a grunt. "Oh, and manhandling does?"

Both of you were now pressed against the wall, with Spencer's arms caging you in so you couldn't make a run for it and do something even more reckless.

"I'll just put it down as keeping you from sabotaging the mission." He was panting, and for a moment the thought of just how attractive he was crossed your mind. Until you shook it off.

Just as you opened your mouth to taunt him some more, you ear piece crackles and Hotch's voice was heard saying yours and Spencer's names, "—what is your position?"

"We're still—fuck!" Another shot rang out before you could finish the sentence, hitting a pipe on the opposing wall and causing you to flinch. Steam hissed from the hole. Spencer shushed you and you were tempted to snap at him, but you lowered your voice instead. Staying quiet was in your best interest, to make the shooter believe you were hit and the danger passed.

"Still on the third floor. He's got us cornered." You continued quietly.

And because Spencer just couldn't leave it at that, he added into the mic, "She's hurt, we will need an ambulance when we're out of here."

Glaring, you retorted, "I'm fine, a bullet just grazed my arm."

"It's still important to get it checked out!" Spencer replied in a harsh whisper. He was really pushing your buttons now.

"We're on our way up. Try to get him into the stairwell." Is the only response you get from Hotch.

You breathe out. "Okay, let's try to get to the stairwell."

Spencer nods, gesturing for you to take the lead and finally stepped back to free you from the cage of his arms. (And the suffocating urge to kiss him.)

With your gun stretched out in front of of you, you carefully take step after step along the eerily quiet hallway.

"You go right," Spencer murmured, "I'll take the left."

"What? No—" But it was an impossible task, stopping Spencer Reid once he was set on doing something. He had already disappeared into another hallway.

"Does he learn nothing from his mistakes?" You mumbled to yourself, but do as he demanded nonetheless.

You placed one foot in front of the other with caution, rounding the corners not before listening into the silence.

Suddenly there was a noise. You didn't know if it was Spencer, your imagination or the UnSub, but all of your body was braced for battle.

Taking a deep breath, you rounded the corner. The hallway ended with a wall adorned with two doors. One lead to the stairwell, spiralling down into the second floor.

The other door was open. It looked like a lab to you, but you didn't have a good enough angle to see what was inside. The walls specked with dust and grime, mold forming in the crevices.

You caught movement in the room and walked slowly towards it. You had a half formed though to signal to Spencer through the mic, but before you could execute it, you had already entered the room.

A man stood with his back to you at one of the work stations. You took another step towards him, but your boot crushed a shard of glass under its heel. You froze.

Theodore spun around in panic, picking his gun up from the counter. "You—You should be—I shot you."

You breathed in deep to steady your voice. Theo's choice of words struck a match of hope in you. Maybe he didn't know that Spencer and the rest of the team were in the building, too. Maybe he just saw you.

"The bullet graced my arm." You confirmed, taking a step closer to him.

"Get back. Get back!" He screamed, forcing you to walk deeper into the room with his gun, so his back was to the door. "If you shoot, I'll go down pressing the trigger and you will go down, too."

His hand was shaking around the gun, he looked like he might drop it every moment. The room was dark, just a little sliver of light coming through the small window.

You watched it flicker and tried to come up with something to say, but your brain blanked on the profile.

Being a profiler had taught you a lot, but in this moment all you could focus on was that Spencer was somewhere in this building and you had no idea if he was safe.

"Theo, I know what your father did to you, how he would train you to take every hit without flinching, the burning." You said carefully.

"Don't—don't talk about my father like you know anything! Because you don't—you don't know anything!Lower you gun!" He spit out.

Just as you were trying to find a way to tell him that there was no way you would lower your gun, you saw Spencer through the doorframe behind Theo, gun pointed at him, too. You tried not to look at him as you continued.

"I won't shoot if you don't give me a reason to, Theo. I—I talked to your mother." You tried in a last desperate attempt to deescalate the situation.

That seemed to get his attention, he lowered his gun a little, before taking a step closer to you pointing it at you again. "Leave my mother out of this." He growled.

You continued anyway. "She told me that she was sorry, about your fight before you left. She is so, so proud of you, Theo. Told me to tell you that she loves you. Nothing could make her stay mad at you forever, she just wants you in her life again." You tried not to look at Spencer as you spoke the words to Theo that were really meant for him.

Tears formed in Theo's eyes. A sight that you had seen just forty minutes earlier, in his mother's. "Stop! It doesn't matter if she's proud. I lied to her! I lied."

"Of course it matters, if you put the weapon down and come back with us to the station, you could see her again. You could be her son again."

His laugh is hollow as he said, "Do you think I'm stupid? You're trying to get me to surrender. What do you called it? A talk down? Making false promises just to get me locked up. You never end up keeping them." His grip on the trigger tightened.

Another thing you learned as a profiler was not to get attached to victims or UnSubs. And while most of the team had failed at that, you had always considered yourself lucky—or heartless, for that matter.

But as you watched the pain on Theo's face, you understood. Maybe not everything he did, but you understood the cause. Understood that all of his life was set up for him to end here, in this lab, two guns pointed at him.

Behind him, Spencer nodded towards the stairs and you tried to signal to him that you didn't understand without exposing his location. He just gestured towards them again, frowning at you to just do as he said.

He took a few steps deeper into the room to clear the doorway, somehow managing not to get caught by Theo. It was a gamble he gladly took if it meant you were safe. "Theo, you don't have to do this."

Spencer's voice startled Theo and for a second you were terrified that he was going to shoot. But instead, he just turned around quickly, panicked pointing the gun at Spencer.

Your moment to run. Just to get help and come back to him. You sprinted out of the room, past Theo and Spencer. Theo shouted "No!" but it was too late, you were already half down the stairs.

You silently begged Spencer to hold on for a little longer. But just as you practically jumped of the last step in a hurry, you heard a gunshot.

Freezing on the bottom of the steps for the fraction of a second, you tried not to panic, but just as you turned to sprint back up the stairs, an arm wrapped around your middle, the other covering your mouth.

"Shh," came Rossi's voice from behind you. You struggled as he dragged you out of the building.

Fresh air hit your face as you were forced to exit, but all you could think about was the fact that Spencer's dead body might be lying on the third level of an abandoned laboratory.

You tried to pull back from him but he wouldn't let you. "No—Spencer. Spence is still—Spencer!" You struggled against his grip.

"You can't go back in there—" Rossi said your name. "The kid is smart, you know that. He—"

Before he could finish, there was another gunshot, this one closer. You almost sank to your knees as everyone around you prepared to take down the UnSub.

And were rebuild when Spencer emerged from the building a few seconds later, hands raised, "Don't shoot, he is injured, but breathing." He gestured behind him somewhere.

Rossi finally let you go when Spencer was far enough away from danger.

Not wasting a minute, you ran towards Spencer, almost crashing into him in the process.

Emily, JJ and an EMT passed you in a blur as they went into the laboratory to secure Theo. You barely registered them.

"What happened?" You didn't know whether to push him or to kiss him. You opted for the first, pushing against his shoulders. "Why would you tell me to leave? I—We had it handled. Together. I—I—You fucking scared me."

Spencer just pulled you to him by your good arm and wrapped you in a tight embrace. He didn't say anything for a while, just letting you process your feelings.

The fear of loosing Spencer for good, the pain of the break up, the conflicting feelings of having to work with your ex (that you're still very much in love with). You clung to him as your emotions overtake you. And, fuck, your arm hurt!

"Shh, it's okay. I'm okay. Here—" he pulled back with some difficulty, given that you had quite a firm grip on him, and took your hand in his, placing it on the side of his neck. "Can you feel that? I'm okay."

You nodded. "You're okay." You breathed out, looking from your hand on his pulse point, to his eyes. "Why would you do that?" Tears pricked at your eyes.

"I didn't think rationally. All I could think about was that there was a gun pointed at you and all my brain would come up with was stupid ideas to make him point it at me. Please forgive me."

He looked at you with his big, sad, brown puppy eyes, while his thumb brushed softly against the skin under your eye to catch your tears before they could fall.

You would have said something flirty like, you might have to make it up to me some more, if you weren't so terribly mad at him. "Maybe. I can't promise anything."

He smiled softly despite your answer. Maybe even because of it. It was a silly thought, you not forgiving him. "I can work with maybe."

An EMT whisked you away shortly after, but Spencer's hand stayed in yours until they slipped apart and his arm fell to his side.

He wasn't sure if he could just follow, he stayed away and watched you get checked out by the EMTs.

All of it—the story of you and him—reminded him of Cassandra witnessing the fall of Troy. It was stupid to compare two people who were so insignificant to history to two of histories most known tragedies, but it fit like he still did into the palm of your hand.

He had known that he would never be able to get over you. No one had believed him, telling him that time heals all wounds and that he couldn’t see the bigger picture yet, because he was still in it.

But he had known, and it still rang true. You were it for him and he would never find anyone that made him feel more like himself. It was foolish to think he could survive the break up, foolish to think he would get over it.

Hell, he had taken being on the receiving end of your spite over being your friend because it meant you'd look at him and feel something.

Taking all of his courage together, Spencer decided to approach you after the EMT finished patching you up.

"Hey," he said gently. This was the first time you talked without snarling at each other outside of work since the break up and it felt like finally breathing fresh air again after living purely off of carbon dioxide. "Doing good? How is your arm?"

You looked up at him from the steps on the back of the ambulance. You looked rough, exhausted. The sleeves of your shirt were rolled up to allow the EMT to bandage your wound.

It felt different now, talking to you. The moment of adrenaline had passed and he had no idea how to talk to you. The times of snarling seemed to be over, but the ones of kissing and I love you's were long gone, too.

"I'm okay. All patched up. I don't think I will ever take my reflexes for granted ever again." You tried to smile, but it didn't reach your eyes. "How are you?"

He wanted to deflect, to twist it back to you, but he humoured you. "Exhausted, but I'm good. I'm just glad you're safe."

What he actually wanted to say was: I love you, I'm glad you're speaking to me again. Let's never split up again. Please. And: I miss you, I don't know what to do with myself. I feel like everyone is running laps around me for the first time in my life.

Of course, he said none of it, this wasn't the time to dig that hole. Instead he just looked at you.

The blue of the sirens flickered on your face and even though you looked exhausted, he could't help but think you were the most beautiful thing Mother Earth has sculpted. The Grand Canyon was nothing in comparison to the frown lines on your face, the stars nothing compared to your freckles and birthmarks.

You looked back at him then, but thankfully didn't question the look on his face that without a doubt read, I love you.

Instead, you rested your head on his shoulder in a silent, I love you, too.

There was so much to talk about, so much to tell him, but when he insisted on taking you home, because he wouldn't let you drive home alone after the events of today, all you cared about was that he was there again. Fully. Without snapping, without pretend hate. Just the old you and the old him again.

You fell into your bed that night, the glaring blue light of your digital clock telling you that it was 3am. Earlier than a lot of other late nights at the BAU.

Spencer didn't hesitate to take off your work clothes, didn't ask where your pyjamas were, didn't stop to think what this all meant for you now. He didn't need to, all of this was an Obvious.

You didn't tell him to lay down next to you, to climb under the covers and flip the light off, to let you rest your head on his chest. He just did all of it. Because it was a routine, the known in all the unknown that was your relationship now. A Constant.

In the morning, you would talk about it. While he was changing your bandage with careful fingers. But right now, the sound of Spencer's heart beating your name lulled you to sleep.

In the end, fear and worry had been the best matchmakers.

──────────── ⋆｡𖦹°‧

PART TWO

thank you so much for reading! please remember reblogging, commenting and liking if you enjoyed the fic. feedback is appreciated!! 𝜗𝜚

[jellykyunnie]

˗ˏˋ Jinwoo x Nerd! Fem! Reader: Drabbles ◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡ ˎˊ˗

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚𝕊𝕦𝕟𝕘 𝕁𝕚𝕟𝕨𝕠𝕠˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

・┆✦ Entry : 037 ✦ ┆・

╰┈➤ ❝ [ Moonstruck ] ¡! ❞

Jinwoo can be what you call a jock . Is he not? 6 feet tall, a finey built body fit for the demanding sport he chose, undeniably attractive to the ladies with his looks that of an idol— You get the point.

But to him, he wouldn't have it any other way. Not that he is narcissistic of course.

It's just... Well,...

This life is way better than what he had to go through when the gates were open. Sure, he hasn't completely sealed the gates away, but this peace is still uncomparable.

As he looks up at the grey skies, he finds himself tearing from the clouds and looking at your distant figure from the bleachers busily jotting down something in your little notebook.

He heard of you from his many friends, or should he remain with them with how snarky they are? They often described you in degrading means, openly mocking your appearance, and discussing well... Your interests.

From what he heard, you were quite the eccentric person back then. Almost everyone in this class came from the same elementary school after all. They said you used to be the loudest most obnoxious girl in class, which led you directly into being the figure of mockery for young kids.

It was obvious that history made you into the reclused person that you are today. He never really pays attention to anyone, but Jinwoo somewhat knew of your presence around him— After all, he sat behind you.

Other than that? He never knew anything else about you.

⋅ ˚ ₊ ‧ ଳ ‧ ₊ ˚ ⋅ ⋆ ౨ৎ ˚ ⟡ ˖ ࣪

Jinwoo sighs as he packs up his notebook after the subject has ended. He was feeling deathly bored despite the fact that he needs to think about the research project that the previous teacher had assigned.

"..." He feels two gentle taps on his shoulder.

"U-uhm..." Jinwoo looks back, looking back at your awkward demeanour. "...Erm... We're assigned together for this project?.."

"Ah right," Jinwoo hums, "Wanna talk about it now? It's a free period after all"

"Sure..." You fidget in your fingers, actively avoiding Jinwoo's eyes that he found intriguing but didn't point out.

"The teacher wants us to discuss something about geology something" Jinwoo says boredly. "Any ideas?"

"..."

He watches you shrink to yourself and he clears his throat.

I must have come off as cold, he thought.

"I'm fine with anything," He said. "I'm not too good with these stuff so..."

"Twilight..." Jinwoo hears your small voice.

"Pardon?"

"We can do... The twilight zone." You say.

"???" Jinwoo tilts his head. "What's that?"

"...!" He watches you perk up, a distinctive glimmer in your eyes as you start shaking your fists a little. "I-it's uhm... The twilight zone or the mesopalagic which is underneath the epipelagic and is beneath the ocean surface and erm... Well, it's 1000 meters deep and since it's so deep it's really really dark, the only light you can see are the occasional bioluminescense flickers which is like a small light made by the deepsea creatures. I-it's basically made by a chemical reaction between luciferin and luciferase which are respectively a light-emitting molecule and luciferase is an enzyme. S-since the mesopalagic zone is really dark compared to the epipalagic zone that can still has a bit of light and algae can still have photosynthesis. The mesopalagic zone instead uses chemosynthesis that happens around hydrothermal vents and uhm... Methane seeps. Bacterias on the uhm sea floor, the very very bottom or inside other animals use the energies in err... Energies that are stored in chemical bonds of some stuff. We can use that for our research."

"..." Jinwoo felt like he just died three seconds into your little rant trying to explain what the twilight zone. He can't even recall one or two words from all that talking you did which he in turn felt a little guilty for. "S-sure... Let's go with the mesopela....Thing."

And that was the start of your friendship with Jinwoo.

He didn't really think much of it, the two of you managed to get a perfect score in the research project because of your extensive knowledge of the deep sea.

Jinwoo thought that would be end of his interactions with you, and yet he slowly finds himself looking for your presence. At first, it was just simple goodmornings and hellos whenever you both pass by eachother by the hallways during lunch— To him starting some small talk with you.

It really started so simple, it really did. But slowly, Jinwoo found himself purposely triggering your nerdy side.

At first, it was just him making an excuse to prolong the conversations. But now? He was actively listening to whatever you tell him to. He still had trouble memorizing or processing the many names and chemical, biological stuff you yap on and on about but in the end— He finds himself wanting to know more about it.

He wanted to learn more about you.

The sea really seemed to make you the happiest seeing how you perk up as you start explaining the life cycle of a sperm whale, or how beautiful the cetaceans are in general.

Because of your non-stop obsession with the deep, Jinwoo finds himself listening to whale songs that somehow helped him relax more at night.

He'd always have multiple nightmares whenever he slept, sometimes he dreams of his father's death, most times it's him relieving the agony he had gone through leveling up and the phantom pain of dying multiple times— Despite his age they still haunt him.

And when Jinwoo finds himself in the torturous cycle of death and misery, he hears the distant hum of whales. In his nightmares, he would follow those songs and get pulled out of his hell.

And he swears, that in every nightmare you would be the one to reach your hand out and taking him into paradise. He would wake up with his outstretched palm towards the ceiling, a tear falling down his cheek.

He craved to touch your fingers at that very moment, he wanted to feel the gentle caress of your digits on his face, the warmth of your skin against his, the sound of your tender voice reverberating in his ears as you explained to him all about the things you love.

Jinwoo would never really realize that he himself is growing soft on you. He knows that his friends would never shut up about how gentle he is around you, but he never really believes their words.

What's so wrong about him wanting to bask in you anyway?

He just wants to bask in your presence, drown in the moment just as you are with your love for the ocean.

⋅ ˚ ₊ ‧ ଳ ‧ ₊ ˚ ⋅ ⋆ ౨ৎ ˚ ⟡ ˖ ࣪

"My king" Igris's small head appears, hovering over Jinwoo's shoulder. "The queen, she's"

"Out with it," He says immediately as he had just had just finished changing out of his track suit.

"...She's hyperventilating, a few unruly morons decided to mock her of her unfortunate past and she is unwell," Igris explains. "Your orders, my lo—"

"Shadow Exchange."

Instantly, Jinwoo had transported himself to where you were. He wasn't too worried about you catching him, since you were too distracted pacing back and forth nibbling at the edge of your fingertips.

He shakes his head, knocking on the desk to catch your attention.

To which it did but it startled you.

"A-ah, Jinwoo..." You sputter, not meeting his grey eyes again as you fumble on yourself. "I... Didn't see you there."

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you" Jinwoo smiles gently, "Wanna go somewhere cool for a bit?"

"But... We're in school?" You tilts your head, watching him offer up a hand, waiting for you to accept his offer.

"It's okay, just trust me in this" He said.

You were hesitant at first, but eventually, you place your palm on Jinwoo's. He pulls you a bit close, his towering figure in front of you. But somehow, you felt completely safe as long as he is here.

The ground beneath you both would shift, from the pristine while tiles of your school to blue water reflecting your images. You throw your head up above your head, and up in the sky you could see fluffy and full white clouds moving ever so slowly.

"H-how?" You asked, baffled, your knees trembling as you feared that you will fall into water since you don't know how to swim.

"It's okay, it's okay" Jinwoo cooes, gently lifting your chin up. "Look at me. Look at me."

His grey eyes were so gentle, full of tenderness as it gazes upon you.

"Don't be scared," Jinwoo smiles, "It's all mine, so there's nothing to be scared of"

He then brings another hand out and flicks his finger, where the lovely sound of whale songs would catch your attention.

Your gaze would befall to your right, where a giant and majestic humpback blue whale would gracefully swim on the air.

More would appear around the both of you, from giant cetaceans to different species of jellyfish as well as sharks would fill the sky— All of them swimming about.

You find yourself so utterly mesmerized, your heart almost drumming out of your chest as you reach your hand up in the air, to which a few fish would come to your direction and nuzzle your fingers.

"It's kissing my fingertips, tickling me..." You say, your gleaming eyes looking at Jinwoo who was just watching you the whole time.

In his mind, Jinwoo would recall the conversations he has with his friends. They would never shut up about how he cant stop himself from hovering around you. How Jinwoo can't stop himself from ghosting his fingers around you. How his eyes cant hide away the adoration in them whenever you are in his sight. It was like he's this lovesick puppy.

And they're right.

He is utterly and completely devoted to you. He wants to give you everything that he has in his person, he wants to give you his paradise. If he can, he would rip his heart out and offer it to you.

He wanted to give you the world.

Everytime he listens to your ramblings, he finds himself lost in your presence. It was as if you yourself was his very own version of a lullaby.

And he wanted nothing more than to protect and love you.

"It's okay," Jinwoo says, intertwining his fingers with yours before bringing the back of your hand up to his lips— Where he would lightly kiss your knuckles. "Everything here, so long as I'm around you— You'll be safe and sound."

"Nothing and no one can ever hurt you, alright? So please, just keep talking like you always did, I like hearing about your love of the ocean. I want to see the prettier things of this world, so won't you tell me more?"

⋅ ˚ ₊ ‧ ଳ ‧ ₊ ˚ ⋅ ⋆ ౨ৎ ˚ ⟡ ˖ ࣪

That was the day that Jinwoo became your boyfriend. Days spend with him are full of love and adoration... Minus the little anxiety you have in your heart as a lot of kids in your grade would disappear. The only similarity with them was that they all used to be your past bullies that you would tell Jinwoo and people who would mock you behind your back. But since you have Jinwoo, you'll be alright. The police will be in charge of that. That is,... If they are even smart enough to figure out who this little serial killer is.

꒰ 🪼A/N: I swear I will make the Jinwoo vs Sylus soon as well as the sequel to the Assassin au. But as of now I'm still stuck in writer's block with those and I am still figuring out what to do with everything else. ꒱

ʚ(੭´͈ ᐜ `͈)੭ .｡✧･ﾟ: ~♡ — All stories written by kyunnie; translations, reposts, plagiarism are strictly forbidden.

[mtkay13]

Wen Kexing!! My focus here was to channel his coolness even through warm colors, and to get his... "essential vibes" through one picture. More (rambling) below! (this is essentially a post about WKX's personality)

A big case can be made about "who or what is the 'true' Wen Kexing". So; let's be real, I don't know if anyone makes a "big case" out of it, but I sure have seen people seemingly arguing against a vague 'common opinion' regarding Wen Kexing's personality. The """common""" opinion (allegedly): the true Wen Kexing is [insert one of WKX's facets] (or something along those lines) The case against it: all Wen Kexing's are the true Wen Kexing Now I do agree with the fact that "all Wen Kexing's" are Wen Kexing, technically. For clarity, let's list and name those various facets (most are commonly accepted, some I'll just name on the go): - Wen Kexing: I'll use his full name for the personality we're first met with in the book. Someone cold, rather quiet, analytical and distant. Giving off strange vibes in social situations (ZZS thinking he's weird, other jianghu figures being creeped out by him or thinking that he's up to no good), contemptuous - Philantropist Wen: The more extravagant, (bullshit) storyteller, outrageous and shameless flirting enthusiast version of WKX. - Valley Master Wen: cold, calculating, quiet, cruel, unbelievably patient, dislikes fun and games, barely feels anything - Wife Wen: The over the top dramatic wife whose life is made difficult by his difficult and shameless husband, essentially a lot of roleplaying the good littol domestic wife and whatnot - The wooden man: similar as Valley Master but demure and apparently subservient? (for calculated purposes) Okay they could be more I guess, but the point is, we have an array of WKX personas and personalities and the actual consensus (I think, my sample is like 10 people so....) is that every one of those is "true" to WKX and that not one of them is a fully constructed persona. Now, while I agree, I guess that what I wonder is: what is WKX in his resting state? If nothing is happening and that he's not in a particularly social or specific situation, what do we get to see? I think that the answer mostly resides in extra 4, which is an INCREDIBLE retelling of TYK from WKX's perspective; someone who thinks quite a lot, and for long, someone who observes things with distance and little to no emotion. Someone who is used to having one goal (revenge, taking care of ZZS during his coma), and who will probably go through a lot of quiet thinking when finally faced with the void of not having one specific thing to aim for. Someone who will have to learn to find joy/happiness, and who probably doesn't... get there "naturally"? (and by that I mean, without ZZS or without directly following ZZS around). Someone whose ties to his own emotions have been severed a long time ago, I guess. Someone still quite contemptuous of many things and people and who has a whole life he didn't plan for or even consider ahead of him. Which is............ what I tried to draw............ here..................... (That and also I wanted to draw a pretty looking hanfu in sepia colors) (but I SWEAR that was not the main goal) (I think) (anyway please ignore me)

[athousandbyeol]

i can't stop thinking about this scene.

it was so light-hearted. sheng wang was all-smiley after finishing (perhaps multiple rounds) of revising and studying. but the lively atmosphere simmers down into this thick and stifling tension once jiang tian opens his closet.

honestly, if i were sheng wang, i would have so many questions too. why is he packing? is he going somewhere? but where? so, whatever sheng wang is thinking or feeling at the moment is valid (to me, at least, it is.)

i think it has so much to do with sheng wang's expression here (liu dong qin, the actor you are) that breaks my heart into tiny, million pieces.

it's in the way his eyes follows every movement of jiang tian, but particularly directed at the opened luggage, that has me thinking of sheng wang's fear of separation. the trauma he experienced when he was just a little boy.

i can't imagine how he felt when he saw his beloved mother collapsing to the ground—at the age so little to grasp the situation—to comprehend the meaning of sadness and grief and death.

he was broken. he was devastated. but those feelings as a child were just feelings. but the adult sheng wang now understood that those feelings come with bitter memories and realisations that death is inevitable, and death is permanent. his mother won't come back to him no matter how frequently she visits him in his dreams (and wake).

his heavy breathing. his fixated stare. that feeling of abandonment is washing over him again. they're coming in slow, steady and destructive.

so when jiang tian approaches him with the said book that has more extensive questions, he still can't look away. not until jiang tian realises that sheng wang's attention is now elsewhere.

and he finally asks,

i personally adore how benjamin acted this scene out. jiang tian immediately glances over at the luggage, somehow already knowing the context/direction of this conversation. (it's in the subtlety of benjamin's acting here that has me going nuts.)

when sheng wang asks this question, it reminds me of this scene in episode 1,

jiang tian was looming in front of sheng wang's house, wondering if he should stay or leave. possibly his only destination would be uncle ding's house. maybe he has nowhere to go, to be honest.

sheng wang immediately called him, voicing out his thoughts. and the context is similar—are you leaving?

although jiang tian answers sheng wang's question, not leaving him hanging the way he did in episode 1, it's still not enough. the reason being, as of right now, we're knowledgable of sheng wang's past. but what about jiang tian? we know nothing about him. we just know this boy is closed off and distant and cold and grumpy. but why?

these questions are the answers. but sheng wang doesn't know. not yet.

they could have just dropped the conversation here. but this is one of (the many) things i notice about sheng wang: he's always curious. always seeking answers. even in his studies, he would ask crab (i love you, friend) for the solution. and we saw some instances where jiang tian would share the method he used, etc, only to help him. and i think it's being presented at a different light here. sheng wang is waiting. he's waiting for jiang tian to give him answers.

as jiang tian says it's a habit, it might not be the answer sheng wang wanted, but it was needed, at least, only for the night.

it's so overwhelming to me how jiang tian has always been providing sheng wang with safety, happiness, anger, irritation, fun, answers and questions. how susceptible sheng wang is with everything jiang tian is. they are like mirrors reflecting one another. because for me, jiang tian is like a closed book, but i could understand him once i start reading. but sheng wang, he's more layered. he's open but also secretive. he expresses emotions, but not everyone reciprocates and understands him. not until jiang tian.

and i'm no longer sane in the head because of this.

[blackenedsnow]

IT'S ME AGAIN! YES I KEPT THE PROMISE AND I HAVE AN IDEA AGAIN BUT THE OTHER FIC INFECTED ME SO BAD I HAD TO GIVE PART 2 OR SUM?!?!? And I see that you have A LOT of request lately please do take care of yourself sometimes! 🤍

Anyways hold your tits! I'm explaining the part 2 of forgotten project AKA Raiden shogun!reader, (I don't know if you've ever received a request about yandere sonic characters or a love triangle with sonic characters but being the first one is flattering for me 😼)

After the massive attack on the city and litte bit of drama teader and shadow made up with each other (she made peace with Sonic, of course, and she apologized all of them) months later they all wanted to hang out together it was of course Amy's idea, but reader didn't know shadow was starting to like her...but I think it is little to like he was obsessed with her, Knuckles were coming from behind shadow because every day she and him would go to protect Chaos Emerald(s) on the angel island. And Shadow and Reader would hangout in a quiet place talk about their past or what happened to her after 50 years ago. Anyway, I'm getting to the point. They all came to the picnic together (she convinced/begged shadow and knuckles to come to the picnic) but there was only one problem..reader was getting a princess treatment by the two of course reader was cold to them because she was surprised like.....lemme give a scenario ↓

↝Reader didn't know how to tie shoelaces while everyone was waiting in the car she was in her room trying to tie their laces, then shadow and knuckles came into the room a few minutes later, and when shadow saw her pathetic state, she put him on the bed and tied her shoelaces as knuckles brushed her hair cuz her hair was messy, after doing their princess treatment for her she stared at them for a while before immediately leaving the room.

It may seem normal, but you can't call it normal when an obsessive person falls in love with you, but let's say reader/she already has a boyfriend, she was hanging out with her boyfriend, shadow and knuckles were watching them in the shadows/dark places.

One day when reader came to her house which is all of the sonic team lived of course they we're outside so sonics werent home,she was tired because of her last mission but when she entered the kitchen she found her boyfriend dead on the floor the blood was everywhere she trembled and dropped the bag in her hand to the floor, just as she was about to ran away, she turned to her back and there were two shadows infront of her..she closed her eyes after screaming for help.

I LEAVE THE REST TO YOU BECAUSE SOMETIMES YOUR FICS CAN BE SO TERRIBLE (what I mean, it can be so scary that I think of a lot of ideas, long story short..youre doing it perfectly)THAT MAYBE I CAN COME BACK WITH ANOTHER IDEA WHICH IS PART 3 OR SUM BUT I DON'T WANT TO BOTHER YOU!! PAY ATTENTION TO YOUR HEALTH!! TAKE CARE!! 🤍

twisted

WARNING: Yandere behavior, obsession, possessive behavior, murder, gore, violence, angst, manipulation

PAIRING: Yandere! Shadow the Hedgehog x Reader, Yandere! Knuckles the Echidna x Reader

NOTE: I'm so happy to see you again, and I’m thrilled you enjoyed the first part! Your idea for the continuation is absolutely amazing, and I loved writing it! Thank you so much for your kind words; I’m definitely taking care of myself too! Hope you enjoy part two! 🤍

SUMMARY: After the battle for peace, things should have returned to normal. But obsession runs deep.

FIRST PART: Here

The sky over Angel Island was a quiet expanse of blue, broken only by the distant cry of birds. It was a stark contrast to the chaos that had unfolded months earlier—the storm, the destruction, the agony that had coursed through your veins like lightning. Now, the world had quieted. You had quieted. But in the silence, something far more sinister was brewing.

You glanced at Shadow, walking beside you in the stillness. His eyes were focused ahead, sharp and brooding as always, but there was a weight in his gaze that hadn’t been there before. His presence was more intense, his proximity something you could feel even when he wasn’t touching you.

There had been a time when his company brought a strange sense of comfort, his silent understanding of the chaos within you something you had clung to. But lately, that comfort had begun to morph into something else—something darker, more suffocating.

Knuckles appeared behind you both, his usual gruff demeanor softened as he fell into step beside you. He had become your protector in recent months, always by your side when you made the daily trip to the Master Emerald. His presence was different from Shadow’s—warm, grounded, safe. But even his quiet companionship had taken on an edge, a possessiveness that unsettled you.

You’d been so focused on piecing yourself back together after everything that had happened that you hadn’t noticed the shift between them.

A picnic. A simple suggestion from Amy, who always seemed to know how to bring everyone together. It had been months since the attack, and she wanted things to feel normal again—to heal the rift between you and the others. Sonic had forgiven you, of course, with his usual breezy smile, as if the destruction you’d caused had been a bad dream. Tails had been cautious, but understanding. The others had followed suit, but things between you and Shadow had... changed.

And Knuckles—sweet, stoic Knuckles—had become something of a quiet shadow himself. Always there, always watching.

Now, the two of them flanked you as you all made your way to meet the others, the air tense with something unspoken. You were lost in thought, your fingers fidgeting with the laces of your boots as you had stopped walking to tie them. The delicate motion distracted you from the strange tension building between your two companions.

The sun was no longer warm on your back as you had reached your room, but the laces still wouldn’t cooperate. Your fingers fumbled again and again, tying knots that weren’t quite right, your frustration mounting with every failed attempt.

Just as you were about to give up, a voice cut through the quiet like a blade. "Need help with that?"

Shadow’s voice cut through the silence like a blade, low and calm. He was already standing by the door, watching you with that unreadable look he always had.

You didn’t answer, but before you could react, he was there. In a blur of movement, he was in front of you, kneeling down. Without a word, his gloved hands moved over your boots, undoing the messy knots you had made. His touch was firm, precise, and his closeness sent a strange chill down your spine. You opened your mouth to protest, but the words didn’t come.

And then, as if the atmosphere wasn’t already thick enough, Knuckles entered the room.

You hadn’t even heard him approach, but suddenly he was there, his large, strong hands reaching out to gather your hair. You froze, your breath catching in your throat as you felt his touch, surprisingly gentle for someone with such raw strength. You hadn’t realized your hair had gotten tangled, hadn’t felt the knots forming in the strands, but he worked through them with an almost methodical care. His fingers brushed against your neck, feather-light and deliberate, the sensation making your skin prickle with a strange mixture of unease and warmth.

You stared at the two of them—Shadow tying your laces with mechanical precision, Knuckles carefully brushing your hair, their actions so casual yet so heavy with meaning. You should have felt comforted by their care, but instead, unease twisted inside you like a vice.

“There,” Shadow said, his voice soft but steady. He rose to his feet, his eyes locking onto yours with a depth that made your pulse quicken.

Knuckles was silent as he finished with your hair, stepping back just enough to let his hand linger on your shoulder, a quiet reminder that he was still there.

For a long moment, the room was thick with tension, their presence pressing in on you from both sides. You could feel the weight of their stares, as if they were waiting for something—waiting for you to say or do anything.

You forced a smile, standing quickly and brushing past them. "I’m... going to get my bag. We should head out."

The picnic was a welcome distraction, but the air was still heavy with an undercurrent you couldn’t ignore. Shadow and Knuckles stayed close, hovering like silent sentinels while the others laughed and talked as if everything were normal. Amy was her usual bright self, Sonic’s laughter ringing through the air as he teased her. Tails was chatting with Cream, and everything seemed perfect on the surface.

Except you weren’t sure what was real anymore.

Shadow’s dark eyes followed you everywhere, a silent intensity behind them that made you feel like prey. And Knuckles... He was different, too. His usual grounded presence felt more like a protective cage, his every glance heavy with meaning.

But it wasn’t until later—when you found yourself alone in the quiet shade of a tree with Shadow—that things began to unravel.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” Shadow said quietly, his voice deep and soft as the two of you sat under the trees. His eyes were piercing, and there was something dangerous beneath his calm tone. "You’ve changed. We’ve changed."

Your heart raced in your chest, and you swallowed hard, unsure how to respond. The intensity in his voice sent a shiver down your spine, and you felt the weight of his gaze like a physical thing, pinning you to the spot.

“We’ve both been through hell, haven’t we?" he continued, his hand brushing against yours, his touch cold and firm. "But I’ve realized... you’re the only one who understands.”

His words lingered in the air, heavy with an implication you didn’t want to acknowledge. You pulled your hand away from his, standing quickly as the unease in your stomach twisted into something darker.

"Shadow, I—"

Before you could finish, Knuckles appeared, his eyes narrowing as he saw the two of you together. His usual calm demeanor had a sharp edge to it now, and for a moment, you could feel the tension between him and Shadow flare like a fire ready to burn out of control.

The following weeks were a blur of confusion and tension. Shadow and Knuckles were always there, always watching, always too close. You tried to tell yourself it was nothing—that they were just being protective after everything that had happened. That they were just being good friends, looking out for you.

But then there was your boyfriend—the one source of normalcy in your chaotic life. His presence was a breath of fresh air, a reminder that things could still be okay. You spent time with him whenever you could, clinging to the feeling of peace he brought.

But Shadow and Knuckles... they didn’t like it.

They would watch you from the shadows, their eyes always on you when you were with him. Their jealousy was palpable, their obsession growing with every passing day. And you... you somehow noticed everything except for that.

One night, you returned home late, exhausted from whatever the hell it was you were doing. The house was quiet, too quiet. You set your bag down on the kitchen table, rubbing your temples as you tried to shake off the lingering fatigue.

That’s when you saw him.

Your boyfriend. Lying on the kitchen floor, motionless. His body twisted in a way that no living person could survive. Blood pooled around him, staining the floor, the scent of death thick in the air.

You froze, your breath catching in your throat as terror clawed at your insides.

"No... no, no, no..." You dropped to your knees beside him, your hands trembling as you reached out to touch him—only to pull back as the reality of the scene hit you like a sledgehammer.

He was dead.

The blood... it was everywhere.

Before you could react, a shadow fell over you. You turned, your heart slamming against your ribs as two figures emerged from the darkness—Shadow and Knuckles, their expressions cold, unreadable.

“Why?” you whispered, your voice trembling, your eyes wide with disbelief. "Why did you—?"

Your world shattered in an instant. The weight of your boyfriend’s lifeless body lay heavy in your mind, the blood on the floor an all-too-vivid reminder of what had just been taken from you. It was impossible to process—the violence, the senselessness, the betrayal. You couldn’t make sense of any of it.

Knuckles and Shadow stood before you, shadows in the dim light of your kitchen, their figures imposing and silent. The air was suffocating, the silence more deafening than any words they could have spoken. It felt like time had slowed to a crawl, the seconds stretching into painful, excruciating moments where nothing made sense.

Your voice cracked as you tried to find words that wouldn’t come. "Why...?" you whispered again, your gaze flicking between the two of them. Their expressions—so cold, so calculated—stopped you in your tracks. This wasn’t them. This couldn’t be them.

But it was.

Shadow was the first to speak, his voice low and eerily calm. “It had to be done.”

His words sliced through the air like a blade, their weight knocking the breath from your lungs. You recoiled, stumbling back from your boyfriend’s body, as if distance might somehow undo what had already been done.

Knuckles, ever stoic, looked down at you with something far more unsettling than anger. There was no regret in his eyes, no hesitation in his stance. “He was in the way. We couldn’t let him hurt you.”

"Hurt me?" The words felt foreign on your tongue, your mind reeling. You had been through so much, survived countless battles and moments of chaos, but this—this was a different kind of horror. "He didn’t... he wouldn’t..."

Shadow stepped forward, his presence overwhelming in the small space, his red eyes glowing faintly in the darkness. "You don’t understand. We had to protect you. He was weak. You deserve more than that."

Tears welled up in your eyes as you shook your head in disbelief. "Protect me? You—You killed him! How is that protecting me?"

Knuckles knelt beside you, his frame making the room feel even smaller. His hand reached out, brushing against your cheek with surprising gentleness. “We did what we had to. You’ve been through so much, and we can’t let anything hurt you again.”

But it wasn’t comfort you felt from his touch. It was dread. Every word they spoke sent chills down your spine, their distorted sense of protection wrapping around you like a noose.

"You’re safe now," Shadow added, his voice unwavering. “With us.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, the panic setting in fully. Safe? Safe from what? From them? The very people who had taken everything from you in the name of protection? You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, the room spinning around you as the full weight of the situation pressed down on you.

"Please," you begged, your voice shaking, "this isn’t what I want. You’ve... you've gone too far."

But they didn’t hear you. Or worse—they heard you, and they didn’t care.

Shadow’s hand closed around your arm, his grip firm but not painful, as if he believed what he was doing was for your own good. "You don’t have to be afraid anymore."

Knuckles rose to his feet, towering over you, his expression softening just a fraction. “We’ll take care of you. No one else can do that like we can.”

It was suffocating, the weight of their presence, their obsession. How had you missed it? How had things gone so wrong?

You tried to pull away, your breath coming in short, frantic bursts, but their grip—both literal and metaphorical—was unyielding. You were trapped, caught in a web you hadn’t even realized had been spun around you.

"I didn’t want this," you choked out, tears spilling down your cheeks as the reality of the situation settled in. "I never wanted this."

But your protests fell on deaf ears.

Shadow’s eyes softened, just a fraction, and for a moment, you thought you saw something normal beneath the intensity—a flash of something almost like tenderness. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by that same unwavering determination.

"You’ll understand in time," he said, his voice almost... soothing. "We’re doing this for you."

Knuckles stepped closer, his large hand resting on your shoulder again, his strength radiating from him like a silent promise. “We won’t let anyone hurt you. Not ever again.”

But in that moment, you realized the truth. The ones who were hurting you... were standing right in front of you.

[cmdrfupa]

“Perfect match.” Was all Shoko could say before she introduced you to Kento upon his return to the world of sorcery. It was always no marriage until he retired from his role and Nanami knew he should’ve kept his word. But you were a welcomed change to his always-exhausted mental and a challenge to his monotonous life. He just wishes he could pinpoint where it went wrong.

Hello! Refer here for information about this ongoing series! I appreciate you reading and sharing! I hope you enjoy ✨

REFORM

We're only a train ride away. Love you, and come to us anytime.- Iori

You read the attached card to the cotton percale duvet set Utahime and Shoko got you months ago. They never saw the light of day during your separate room trial. Nanami and you seemed to find yourself in the comfort of each other's arms against your therapist's better judgment every time.

The room echoed as you shuffled around, throwing the rest of your undergarments in your duffel. The new room smell had been gradually overtaken in the past few weeks by the orchid-scented soy wax candle you had treasured in your once-shared bedroom.

"It is important to maintain physical and emotional boundaries while you sort through your emotions."

Your brain was buzzing with your therapist's words as you rechecked the dresser's drawers for good measure. 

You were used to the house being cold, as you and Nanami agreed that anything above 68 degrees was inhumane. But the lack of furniture in the guest bedroom brought it to a bone-chilling cold. 

Air humidifier quietly hummed in the distant corner, the last bag of belongings on your shoulder as you walked down the hall one more time.

"Ken?" The living room showed no signs of him, and his keys were gone.

Was probably for the best he wasn’t there.

You left the note against a short glass on the wet bar in den. “Can’t say he didn’t see it if it’s sitting here.”

No argument. No tempting to keep you home.

You were gone.

  Divorce was going to be your demand until your mother said that was too harsh for a couple who hadn't tried counseling yet. Initially, you and Nanami decided on therapy and a few more date nights.

After the first two sessions, you both promised to make the pertinent changes to save your marriage. You almost had a bit of faith for a while as you made minor adjustments per your therapist's suggestion. But that never occurred from his end. 

You asked for a separation that would become legal once you figured out the following steps: living arrangements or possibly going back to your sorcerer clan and training whoever Gojo sent to you. Your options were not only limited but far more depressing than you realized. That night, Kento watched you move your belongings to the guest bedroom, giving up on making things right far too soon.

Living in the same home but being separated created a surreal and often uncomfortable atmosphere Nanami didn't expect. 

After six years of marriage, a sense of familiarity came with your daily routine—the smell of Chickory coffee brewing promptly at 6:30 as you hummed your gentle tunes, precisely putting on your makeup was his wake-up call. However, the feeling of being disconnected and distant became far more prominent when he reached over, and only a decorative pillow was in your place. Your hums were too far away to enjoy. Another rough morning. He sat on the side of the bed, gruffing as he scooted his feet into the slippers.

The sleep wore off as he walked towards the kitchen, the bright, smelling coffee filling his nostrils with each slothful step. As he hit the threshold, your familiar happy hum hit his ears. With your back to him, you stood there tasting your coffee, your robe hanging off your shoulders, your scarf wrapped to protect your hair loosely held on. "Mm. Just a little more creamer."

"Think of agreeing on scheduled times to use spaces like the kitchen. They can still make enough coffee for both of you if they like, but allow the other person time to make their coffee and leave the kitchen before you go to make yours."

The therapist gave the piss poor idea, and you ran with it. A stranger telling you what needs to be done regarding your marriage. And yet he did it because he wanted to make anything work with you, even if he genuinely thought it was a waste. You knew him; you knew everything about him. You'd known him at his worst and wanted marriage counseling to help pick apart something good from Kento's perspective.

He turned and stood in the hallway, putting himself directly in line with you. His heart ached, wishing he could steal a kiss and wrap himself around you the same way he had for years.

_____________________

The ticking clock filled your den's silence as you and Kento took a break from verbally jousting for the fourth time that week.

He'd come home after not calling you back much earlier in the day. You’d heard about a special grade curse roaming between the school and the local city hall he volunteered to see about. No communication, no sign of remorse.

"We've made strides." Kento slumped back into the chair, watching how your leg shook with each empty moment he created. "I'm home more; only every other Saturday is mandatory now, and we've been going to counseling. Is this not enough for you? Am I the only one expected to change?"

"We've gone to two sessions. Which the first you left early and the second you showed up in the last 15 minutes." Patience had run thin and the grace you were always willing to extend had worn. "You avoid discussing scheduling the next one even when its a good day for you. I have done everything but change my fucking first name for the sake of trying, Kento."

Kento swirled the bourbon absentmindedly. The conversation was going in circles yet again. "I have changed everything you've complained about. I asked what you needed from me as your husband, and you gave me nothing to work with other than you want to know how I'm feeling. Honey. I'm fucking tired is how I’m feeling and this isn’t helping. What's missing?"

You could only muster a laugh to keep the flood of tears from invading. "I feel like I'm forcing you to tell me anything more than half the time, Ken. Like I only get parts of you while everyone else gets all of you. Do I not deserve that? What's changed? What are we doing?"

His rich eyes found yours for a quick moment. "We're doing what you've been begging me to do. We're talking now."

—————————

"Well fuck, you said that? No wonder she's staying with Utahime."

A bitter taste punched the back of Nanami's throat before he looked over in Gojo's direction. 

It had been four months since that night, and he'd made it everyone's problem since. More annoyed than usual at work, Nanami had a quicker temper towards all staff and was facing his hell going back to an empty house night after night.

  "Despite me being the hottest, most desired person you've known since high school-"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Let me finish, Nanami." Gojo sipped his piña colada and licked his lips in the most bothersome manner possible. "Despite being gorgeous and desired, I am also very knowledgeable about relationships and everyone else's business."

From the end of the bar, Kento signaled for another whiskey sour.

"Alright. Tell me what you've perceived, six eyes."

Gojo sat up straight on the bar stool as if he had an audience to entertain. "Your wife often called me when she couldn't contact you. She called me asking if I'd heard from you when you would go on missions alone. I was giving her status updates on you. Why?"

Celebratory sounds filled the bar as the college students slammed another round of shots in the brightly lit booth in the corner. 

The ring on Kentos' finger suddenly felt five sizes too small.

"Utahime, of all people, called me when you weren't answering because she showed up scared shitless." boisterous cheers filled the space as someone named Jai chugged a pint down. 

"Your partner got on a 3 1/2 hour train ride to Kyoto when she didn't hear from you. When were you upset about seeing me at your house after midnight that night? I was there because I happily drove over 6 hours back and forth to get your wife."

"Enough, Gojo," the drinks seemed weaker as he downed this one in a single gulp before getting the barkeep's attention. "Another one, please."

Gojo knew he had a few more buttons to press before he could stop. "The day after her birthday, she called Shoko and started crying. Sobbing, really." slurping the last remnants of his colada, Gojo sighed heavily.

"Gojo." Nanami gripped the glass before him, muttering his name.

"Upset that you found something to nitpick before completely shutting her out. You're a real piece of work, you know."

Gojo had no time to move before Kento grabbed him by the collar.

"If I shove the stem of this glass through your ears, how far do you think it'll go?"

"Someone's touchy, Nami." The bar quieted by a few decibels as nearby patrons watched Nanami hold Gojo by his neck. "Those whiskey sours are starting to get to that blonde head of yours." Gojo's cheeky tone was like that of a toddler who had gotten someone in trouble.

Gojo cheesed as Kento let go of his collar.

Nanami downed the remainder of his drink, and the bartender wasted no time making his next one.

"Wanna talk now instead of making empty threats?" Gojo drank a sip of water before licking the sugary rim of his glass.

"I fucked up, Gojo." He was left with this: a late Saturday evening at a college bar, talking to Satoru about his failing marriage. Patting his breast pocket, Nanami seethed at the words written on the note you left him. "She said she doesn't recognize her Kento. That I'ma ghost of him or whatever."

Part of Gojo hated seeing Nanami sulking this way. Sure, they never saw eye to eye for years, but you were a common factor in their lives.

A positive one. And Nanami knew just as well as Gojo that they were the two men who knew you best.

You were hurting, but so was Nanami. And Gojo knew why.

"Nanami. Talk with your wife."

"We talked every damn day."

"No. You talk to her like she’s some intern you have a grudge against. It would help if you talked with her like a man who's afraid of losing his wife."

"How the fuck do you know so much about this?" Nanami managed to squint, his vision officially tanking as Gojo became a slightly hazy figure of himself.

"Elle magazine talks about shitty husbands pretty frequently. I read it often and can confidently say you aren't alone in the shitty husband community."

Sleep wasn't coming easy for you. You tossed around for 3 hours before getting up to sit out on the balcony, hoping the late-night breezes would calm you. The clouds broke sparingly, allowing the moon to peek through while you watched the stars try to shimmer through the thick blankets.

Four months of staying at Utahime's old home back in Kyoto led you to return to Tokyo because you knew putting off the divorce was doing more harm than good. You weren't running away. You just needed a break from seeing him in every hallway or advisory meeting.

With some help from Gojo, you hired a great lawyer who drew up the divorce papers within 12 hours, giving you a chance to serve them yourself when you stopped thinking about how the opportunity to do it would come up.

Feeling slightly more relaxed, you shuffled back in, locking up until a recognizable tone struck your ears.

"It's your husband. Please open the door," A familiar voice groaned from the other side of the door.

"Please. Gojo told me you were back in town staying with Shoko." His words slurred as he pounded on the door. The neighbors were definitely not pleased to hear a drunken ruckus this late.

"I need to see you. I need you." A thud got you to move swiftly to the door, opening it to find Kento with his forehead against the wall next to it. "Thank fuck." He lifted his head slowly as if it weighed more than the earth.

"What are you doing here? Did you drive?" The warm air of the hallway rushed into the condo as you stood in the doorway.

He was like a lost puppy. Warm eyes low like he couldn't look at you without guilt eating him alive. "No. No no. Gojo got me a cab." You saw blood on his hand as he brought his phone to your face. "Can you tell him I made it safely?"

Gojo got him a cab. Here. You'd be talking to him about this stunt later.

"Ken, you're bleeding."

"It's just a small scratch. It'll be fine."

Come in, and I'll wake Shoko to look at it."

"She already hates me for being a shit husband to you." The gash in his palm wasn't urgent, but the amount of blood on his arms showed it still needed attention. He finally dared to look you in the eyes as he spoke, "I'm fine."

"Can you fucking stop and let me help?" You tried hiding your longing behind your voice's assertion, but that didn't escape him. He couldn't stop trying to push you further away. Distance, at this point, felt like the only solution.

"I'm fine. Stop." The firmness in his voice forced you to take half a step back.

This wasn't a buzz from a few drinks with Shoko after work; this was Kento hammered, which was hard to get to but possible.

This state of drunkenness only happened once, and it was after being released from the hospital post-Shibuya. You watched him drink himself to sleep for months, telling yourself everyone has a vice while trying to have understanding. But it became too much for you and everyone close. Nanami's drinking was getting unmanageable yet again.

You grabbed his uninjured hand and led him into the apartment. Inert moonlight streamed across the room, and the dimly lit recessed lights were your only lighting source. You placed him in front of the kitchen sink, letting the water run over the wound. "Stand here, don't move your hand from under the water, and don't talk."

He watched you march away to rustle through the guest bathroom cabinet before emerging with a first aid kit. Without uttering a word, you stood beside him, watching the pinkish-red water circle down the drain until it cleared.

Gently patting his hand dry with gauze before spraying saline solution around the wound, you broke the silence. "How did you cut your hand."

A deep breath that smelt of pure alcohol filled the gap between you. "Grabbed a broken glass at the bar." hiccuping, Kento pressed up against the counter. "Broke it after some guy said Gojo and I were a cute couple."

Surely, you misheard him. "What? You tried to stab him?"

Kento smirked as he watched your bewildered eyes. "I'm not one for stabbing. You know I'm more of a slashing type of man, baby."

It's like the wires in your mind got sewn together. The tired smile growing on your face soothed that itch Nanami had for weeks. "I suppose."

Nanami scanned your arms and shoulders as you remained in close contact with his left side. He knew your skin was just as soft as it was months ago. Supple and warm when he would run his knuckles across your thighs during his evening unwind. A dull pain from the cold feeling of tweezers in his hand brought him back. "Shit." grunting through the uncomfortable feeling.

Small glass fragments clanged into the dish as you dropped it. "None of the pieces got too deep into the wound."

As you finished cleaning the wound, a few drops of blood surfaced. You quickly grabbed another clean gauze, tenderly covering the wound before applying gentle pressure to Nanami's palm. His fingers instinctively gripped around your hand as if holding on to you would make sure you wouldn't vanish from his side.

The close proximity made your throat dry as you dried the wound again, patting it more than necessary to avoid his knowing gaze. "Almost done." You opened the sterile pad and placed it on his wound, holding it down while you tried unraveling the rolled bandage with the chin and hand combo.

He watched you intently, knowing that all he needed was for you to look at him. He was burning to see a sign that you still hadn't totally given up on him. Kento needed to know he had someone with his best interest at heart, even if he couldn't be vulnerable without being an intoxicated mess.

You carefully tore the bandage and expertly wrapped it around his hand before tying it off. "And there we go." Trying to prolong the cleanup only made the air heavy while Kento watched you closely. For every two steps you took, he took four to stay close to you. "Are you close enough?" the heat from his upper body radiated on your back as you wiped the counter down. "Unfortunately, no. I'd rather be under your skin and inside of you, but I'm trying to work on earning that privilege back." "Kento." "Yes, my love?" Any attempt at a casual facade was gone, unable to shake the emotions that threatened to consume you both. "You can take the guest bedroom, and I'll take the couch. It's too late for you to go anywhere." Kento closed in a few inches. "We could both sleep in the guest bed. Ample space, no?" The low lights in the kitchen cast a warm, intimate glow over the room, and you became keenly aware of the scent of whiskey and his Initio Phsychadelic Love cologne as you moved closer. "Nothing more than sleeping." "Nothing more than sleeping. What else would we do in bed?"

There would always be a chance of falling back into the same routine. Apologies, sex that silenced the blaring alarms in your mind, a week of cohabitating in peace before the cycle of low-effort communication and quiet dinners would resurface. But, you allowed the only intimacy you yearned for the last month.

His arms surround you like a tight-fitting sweater taking you in. His arms were your shelter, and your heartbeat motivated him to live. You'd settled into the queen-sized bed after both successfully fighting off very apparent sexual tension marinating between you both. His lips traveled across your chest. Faint kisses left on every available part of your skin as you combed through his light locks. "I want to go back to therapy. I promise I'll be open and try." The feeling of his stubble-covered chin rested on your sternum. Looking down to meet those glossy brown eyes that showed exhaustion and the early stages of sobering up.

"I want honesty. No half-ass truths while there, Kento." "No half-ass truths from me as long as you are transparent about your thoughts. You can't HR yourself out of sharing your raw thoughts." Sticking your pinky out, you waited for Kento to link his. No hesitation, he locked his pinky around yours.

"We'll make it work. I swear on my life.”

[rebelliousneferut]

finding you | lando norris x model!reader

summary; in the midst of social media pressure you find your soul mate

genre; smau, fluff? i'm not really sure

face claim; angelina michelle

note; english is not my first language

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡�� ❀˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

f1wags

liked by f1gossip, y/nfans, norris.updates and others

f1wags rumors have been circulating since the beginning of this year about formula 1 driver lando norris and model y/n l/n being in a relationship.

there had been some photos of them being together with friends and they were also captured by some paparazzi but neither of them had confirmed these rumors until today.

this is the photo that lando shared through his Instagram stories.

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username oh... this is weird

username how weird?

username do not misunderstand. i love her and i think she is a very good model, but she looks a little... cold? to be with him

username this is how you perceive her on the internet, but you don't know her and you don't know her true personality. so don't assume those things.

username am i the only one thinking that this is like marketing or smt?

y/nxlando i actually think they are a very good couple ❤️

username how the hell you might already have an account dedicated to them

y/nsource as long as my girl is happy i will be happy too

y/nl/nuser

liked by landonorris, f1gossip, y/nsource and others

y/nl/nuser ✨

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f1gossip lando doesn't miss any post of her

username just like all of us

y/nsource you are always so stunning 😍

❤️ liked by the author

y/nsource she liked my comment!!!!!

y/nxlando mommy slayyyy!!!

username i can't imagine lando dating her, he's so outgoing and she looks so cold

username you assume that just because of a photo. you do not know her so leave her alone

username yes but still

landonorris cute

❤️ liked by the author

username cute??? seriously??? there's no way you could have gotten his attention like that.

f1gossip 🤭🤭🤭

f1wags we need you in the paddock!

username i think she and lando are dating for pr, they don't seem in love

username i agree, they are trying to give her a lovely image

username i genuinely think she is too much for him.

username can you fight lando?

the camera flash is my constant companion, a blinding beacon in the manufactured world i inhabit. every smile, every pose, is a carefully constructed facade. i am a mannequin, a living, breathing doll, expected to embody perfection. the weight of this expectation is crushing my spirit.

behind the scenes, the laughter is forced, the conversations shallow. i am a ghost in my own life, a character trapped in a script I didn't write. the world sees me as a flawless goddess, but the truth is a stark contrast. i am lonely, insecure, and desperately yearning for authenticity.

then, there's lando. amidst the chaos of the fashion world, he is a breath of fresh air. a world away from the superficiality, he is grounded, genuine, and possesses an infectious laughter that makes my heart skip a beat. our paths crossed at a normal day, a chance encounter that ignited a spark.

in his company, i feel seen, truly seen. his eyes hold a depth that mirrors my own longing for something real. there is an understanding between us, a silent acknowledgment of the masks we both wear. in his arms, i find a sanctuary, a place where i can be myself without fear of judgment. lando is my escape, my reality check in a world of illusion.

"what are you thinking about?" lando asked, noticing my distant gaze.

i sighed, my phone still clutched in my hand. "people are saying we're incompatible. that i'm only with you for the image." disappointment laced my voice.

he squeezed my hand reassuringly. "don't let the online noise get to you, love. they don't know us. i love you for who you are, even the cold parts."

i couldn't help but chuckle. "i'm not always cold."

"i know," he replied with a tender smile. "and i love you for that too."

we shared a long, comfortable silence, filled with unspoken understanding.

the following weekend, we walked into the miami gp paddock, hand in hand, ready to face the world together.

f1wags

liked by norrislando.fans, y/nsource, username and others

f1wags lando and his girlfriend y/n arriving at the paddock together today. it is their first public appearance as a couple and also the first time y/n attends a race.

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y/nxlando i love them sm

username of course she was going to be there

y/nsource my girl is so beautiful ofc

username he seems tired of being with her 😂

username for god's sake, get a life

f1 and mclaren

liked by y/nl/nuser, username, norrislandofans and others

f1 LANDO NORRIS WINS HIS FIRST GRAND PRIX 🤩

#f1 #formula1 #miamigp

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y/nsource that was y/n's influence

norrislandofans he won his first race with his girlfriend being there for the first time 🥺🥺

y/nxlando she is his lucky charm for sure

lando.fans my boy did it!!!

username our*

landonorris posted a story;

[caption; my lucky charm ❤️]

y/nl/nuser

liked by landonorris, y/nxlando, franciscacgomes and others

y/nl/nuser miami you will always be so special ❤️

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landonorris i love you

❤️ liked by the author

norrislandofans please don't miss you any race 🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽

y/nxlando what a beauty moment you two shared after the podium

username fr! for everyone that was saying that they weren't in love

y/nsource i love you!!

we emerged from the storm stronger than before, choosing authenticity over the perfect facade. the world saw us as a couple, but we knew we were soulmates.

standing on the balcony of our secluded retreat, hand in hand, we watched the sunrise. the outside world faded into a distant hum. all that mattered was this moment, us, and the promise of a future filled with love, laughter, and unwavering support.

it was a world away from the superficial life I once knew. now, i was living my truth, a story written by my heart, not by the demands of the industry. and by my side was lando, the man who showed me the beauty of being real.

together, we were a masterpiece, an unfiltered portrait of love.

[starkeyslibrary]

LINGERING GLANCES

synopsis: three months after a messy breakup, you and Rafe Cameron are forced to face each other again at a group hangout. Tension runs high, and sparks fly as old feelings resurface, leading to a heated encounter that leaves you both questioning if the past is truly over.

pairing: you x rafe cameron

inspired by season 1, episode 16 of The Vampire Diaries.

It had been three months.

Three months since the shouting match that ended it all, since the tears, since the silence that followed. Since Rafe Cameron had gone from being your person to just another name in your phone. Since you decided that pretending to be over him was easier than actually trying to be.

It wasn't messy anymore. Not on the surface. Just... distant. Cold. In a familair way. Enough time had passed that you were both managing the whole "friends in the same group" thing. Barely.

Tonight, though - tonight was the first time you'd both brought someone new to a hangout.

You were sitting on a beach blanket with Cleo and Kie, passing a bottle of wine between the three of you, toes dug into the sand as a soft ocean breeze tangled through your hair. A few feet away, a fire crackled, throwing gold across the group.

Everyone had gathered: Sarah and John B curled up together like always, Pope leaning against a log while JJ cracked open a beer, Kelce already half-drunk and yelling about something dumb.

And then there was Rafe.

His legs were stretched out, a girl perched a little too confidently beside him - blonde, model-y. She laughed too loudly at things he said. She didn't fit here, not really, but maybe that was the point.

The guy you brought, Eli was sweet. He had kind eyes and a gentle smile and he was doing his best to talk to Pope about some podcast they both liked. But every time Rafe spoke, your focus wavered.

John B let out a low whistle. "Okay, okay, I know we're trying to be chill, but can we please talk about the Ferrari we saw in town earlier?"

"That thing?" JJ leaned forward, squinting. "Bro, that car was insane. V8 twin-turbo, matte green. You couldn't pay me to drive it slow."

"Man, you couldn't afford to drive it at all," Pope muttered, laughing.

"Fast cars are overrated", the girl next to Rafe interrupted, twirling her hair like she was on a reality show. "You can't even make out in them properly."

Your wine bottle stopped halfway to your lips.

A beat passed.

JJ snorted. "Damn. Guess we've been doing it wrong, boys."

Kelce wheezed with laughter. "Speak for yourself, Maybank."

But Rafe didn't laugh. He shifted slightly, leaned back on one arm, then tilted his head in that way he always did when he was about to say something he knew would hit.

"Sure you can", he said, voice smooth, a little cocky - but there was something under it. Something that made your pulse skip.

He looked right at you when he said it.

Not a glance. Not a slip-up.

A choice.

The air shifted.

You felt it, and so did the rest of the group. Cleo's eyes flicked between you and Rafe. Pope went quiet. Even JJ paused mid-sip, brow lifting in silent question.

But your mind was racing. Because you knew what he meant. Because you remembered every curve of his car, the fogged windows, the way his hands had moved over you like he already knew you by heart.

You forced a smile and looked down, willing your cheeks not to flush.

Rafe’s girl didn’t seem to notice. She laughed, brushing a hand along his thigh. “Oh, so you’ve tried, huh?”

“Yeah,” he said without looking at her. “A few times.”

Your stomach twisted. You wanted to scream. Or leave. Or rewind time and un-hear it. Un-feel it.

Because it wasn’t just a dig. It was a memory, delivered with just enough venom to remind you it still lived in his head and maybe in his heart too.

The worst part? It worked.

It hit.

Cleo cleared her throat, cutting the moment clean.

“So anyway,” she said quickly, “what’s the dumbest place everyone’s ever hooked up?”

“Middle school hallway,” JJ blurted without hesitation. “During a fire drill.”

“Oh my god,” Sarah groaned, laughing. “JJ, what—why?”

“Time was of the essence.”

Pope looked horrified. “You’re the reason they started locking those doors.”

As the group dissolved into chaos again, you leaned back, letting the fire mask the heat on your face. You felt Eli shift beside you, oblivious to the storm you were trying not to drown in.

Across the fire, Rafe was still watching.

And for a moment, it felt like none of the time between you had passed at all.

The night wore on.

Eventually, the laughter faded. The fire crackled lower, embers glowing soft and red in the hand. One by one, your friends peeled off. Sarah and John B wandered toward the twinkling lights of the chateau, arms wrapped around each other. Kie and Cleo disappeared into the beach house to grab blankets. Even JJ had stumbled off to crash on a couch inside.

Eli had gone home early—an early class, he said. You hadn’t argued. The vibe had shifted after that conversation. He felt it too, the way your eyes kept drifting. The way Rafe's never stopped.

Now, it was quiet.

You were still sitting on the edge of the fire pit, picking at your nails.

Then you heard it—his footsteps behind you, slow and deliberate.

Of course.

You didn’t turn around.

“You always that quiet when your flavor of the week dips out early?” you called over your shoulder, voice dripping with fake sweetness.

Rafe gave a low chuckle. “Was wondering when the claws would come out.”

You finally looked at him, he was standing there with that stupid cocky smirk, hands in his pockets, sleeves pushed up like he knew exactly what he was doing. Because he did.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you said, standing up and brushing off your jeans. “She’s sweet though. Looks like she’d bake cookies for your court date.”

“Don’t be jealous, Y/N. It’s not a good look on you.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. “Please. You think I brought Eli just to make you jealous?”

Rafe raised a brow, stepping closer. “Did you?”

You tilted your head. “You think everything revolves around you, don’t you?”

He grinned. “It usually does.”

That smugness lit something in you, annoyance, maybe? Or something worse.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re still thinking about that night in the car.”

Your jaw clenched. “Don’t.”

“Oh, come on,” he said, stepping into your space like he owned it. “She said something about not making out in sports cars, and you practically choked on your drink.”

You stepped back, smirking. “Yeah, because I was trying not to laugh. At you.”

“Mhm.” His eyes dropped to your lips for just a second. “Tell that to the way you were staring at me all night.”

You scoffed. “You’re delusional.”

“I’m right.”

You crossed your arms, raising an eyebrow. “Rafe, your ego’s got its own time zone, and it’s way ahead of reality.”

That made him grin wider—he loved when you got like this. Fire for fire.

“You’re cute when you’re mad,” he said.

“And you’re hot when you’re not talking,” you snapped back.

There was a beat. Silence. A staring contest laced with heat.

Rafe’s smirk faltered just enough to shift the mood.

He stepped in again, voice dropping low. “You can sass me all night, Y/N. But we both know if I kissed you right now, you wouldn’t stop me.”

You laughed once, sharp. “Babe, try me.”

He leaned in—close enough that his breath hit your cheek, his cologne all familiar and dangerous—and for a second, neither of you moved.

“I missed this,” he murmured.

You arched a brow. “The sexual tension or me threatening to knee you in the balls?”

His mouth curved. “Both. Kinda does it for me, you know.”

You bit your lip to keep from smiling. Dammit.

You hated this. You loved this.

“You’re so full of yourself,” you muttered.

He tilted his head. “Then stop looking at me like you still want me.”

You didn’t reply, because neither of you needed to say it.

And when he leaned in this time, you didn’t stop him when he kissed you.

And you didn’t stop yourself when your hand fisted in the front of his hoodie and tugged him closer like you hadn’t spent the last three months pretending he meant nothing.

Because this wasn’t nothing.

It was every unsaid word, every unresolved fight, every stare across a crowded room that ended with both of you looking away too late.

When you finally broke apart, you were both breathless. His forehead rested against yours, and for a second, there was no sound but the wind and the dying fire.

“You still drive that car like it’s stolen?” you murmured.

His lips quirked. “Only when I’m trying to forget you.”

You didn’t reply.

Because you knew what came next. You were already walking, slow and silent, the space between you vibrating with something electric. He followed without a word. Like it was inevitable. Like it had always been.

The Range Rover was still parked where he’d left it. Same black paint, same tinted windows, same leather seats you’d gotten to know a little too well.

He opened the door for you—not out of chivalry, but habit.

You slid inside without looking at him.

He climbed in on the driver’s side, closed the door, and just... sat there. Like maybe this was a mistake. Like maybe this was real.

You turned to him, lips still tingling from the kiss. “Well? You gonna drive or just brood dramatically?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “God, I forgot how much you talk.”

You smirked. “Funny, I forgot how much you liked shutting me up.”

That did it.

He leaned across the console, hand curling around your jaw as he kissed you again—this time slower, deeper. Less fire, more ache. Like he was remembering you. Like he was trying to memorize you all over again.

Your back hit the seat, and his hand slipped to your waist, familiar and sure. His touch was confident but not rushed. Like he knew exactly how far you’d let him go—and exactly when you’d pull him in closer.

“You still smell like summer,” he muttered against your neck.

You tilted your head, giving him access. “You still talk too much when you’re turned on.”

He laughed softly, but there was a catch in his breath.

His hand found yours, fingers threading together like they hadn’t forgotten how to fit.

You looked at him, something soft slipping past your defenses. “This doesn’t mean anything.”

“I know.”

“It can’t mean anything.”

“I know that too.”

And the second his lips met yours, it wasn’t soft. It was a challenge. A dare.

But you’d never been one to back down.

Hand in his hair, nails grazing just enough to make him grunt against your mouth. His hands found your waist, dragging you closer across the center console like he still had the right.

“You really brought me all the way out here just to relive your glory days?” you said, breathless, eyes locked with his.

Rafe’s smirk was instant. “What can I say? The car has... history.”

You snorted. “You mean trauma.”

He leaned in, lips brushing your jaw. “You never complained before.”

“I did. You just never listened.”

“Lies,” he murmured, his hand sliding up your thigh, slow and cocky. “I always listened. I just liked it better when your mouth was too busy to talk.”

You grabbed his wrist mid-way, eyes flashing. “And I liked it better when you remembered who was really in control here.”

That stopped him. Just like it always did. Because you were the only one who ever made Rafe Cameron fold. Not out of fear. Out of need.

You slid across the console in one smooth motion, straddling him in the driver’s seat, your knees bracketing his hips. The tension crackled between you, your breath in sync, your eyes daring each other to flinch.

“You think you’re in charge just because you drive the car?” you whispered against his lips. “Cute.”

His hands gripped your hips, knuckles white. “You gonna show me how wrong I am?”

You rolled your hips once—slow, on purpose—and watched his head tilt back against the seat.

“Still think you’ve got the upper hand?” you asked sweetly.

He groaned, biting his bottom lip. “Fuck. I forgot how annoying you are when you’re right.”

“You didn’t forget,” you said, fingers curling around the collar of his shirt. “You love it.”

He looked up at you, eyes dark and dilated, like he was already halfway undone.

You kissed him like you had something to prove.

And Rafe—Rafe fucking Cameron—let you. Because no one ever kissed him like you did. With fire. With precision. Like you could destroy him and knew it.

His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs brushing under the hem of your shorts like he was trying to remember every inch of you through his fingertips. But you weren’t letting him lead. Not this time.

You rolled your hips over his, slow and steady, and watched his cocky smirk falter just enough to feed something deep in your chest.

"Still think you're in charge?" you whispered, breath ghosting over his jaw, lips brushing his ear.

He exhaled sharply, chest rising beneath yours. “God, I missed your mouth.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” you murmured, dragging your nails lightly over his scalp.

You grabbed the front of his hoodie, pulling him forward just enough for your mouths to brush—not kiss, not yet. His breath hitched. Eyes locked on yours, glazed and hungry.

“Say it,” you whispered.

“What?” he rasped.

“Say you missed me.” Your hands slid under the fabric at his waist, nails grazing warm skin.

He hesitated for half a beat—pure pride—then caved.

“I missed you,” he said, low and wrecked.

You smiled. Not sweet. Triumphant.

And then you kissed him again—deep and messy this time. Your tongues slid together, and his hands tightened on your hips like he was trying not to lose control completely. You rocked into him with purpose, and he let out a choked sound that lit you all the way up.

His mouth trailed from your lips to your neck, open-mouthed kisses and soft bites that made your thighs clench around him.

His hands slid under your shirt, palms hot against your bare skin, thumbs tracing the underside of your bra like he was testing the limits of your control.

You didn’t stop him.

But you did grab his jaw, forcing his gaze back to yours. “You don’t get to rush this. You don’t get to win.”

That did something to him. His eyes darkened, breath stalling. “You gonna drag it out? Make me beg?”

You leaned in close, lips brushing his. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

The windows had already started to fog.

Your legs locked around his hips, your fingers still tangled in his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him hiss between his teeth. Rafe’s chest was rising fast beneath you, every breath a battle between restraint and desperation.

You shifted your weight slightly, rolling your hips just right—and his head tipped back with a low, guttural groan.

“Fuck, Y/N.”

Your smirk was feral. “Language, Cameron.”

He opened his mouth to throw something back—some cocky line, some Rafe-brand arrogance—but you rocked forward again, deliberately slow, dragging your center along the thick press of him through his jeans.

And just like that, he forgot how to speak.

Good.

His hands were all over you now—gripping your waist, skimming your back, sliding up your shirt again like he couldn’t get close enough. You let him touch, but only where you wanted him to. His fingers found the clasp of your bra and paused.

You raised a brow. “Ask.”

Rafe blinked. Swallowed. “Can I—?”

You unclasped it for him. “Now you can.”

His groan was pure reverence.

When his mouth replaced his hands, you gasped—heat flaring between your thighs, pulse thudding in your ears. His lips, his tongue, the way he worshipped every inch of skin he uncovered—it was almost too much. Almost.

You watched him. Made him see how undone he was. How undone you could make him with just your body and a little restraint.

He looked up at you from beneath those lashes, pupils blown wide. “I fucking hate how good you are at this.”

“You love it,” you whispered, rolling your hips again, slower this time, just to tease. “You live for it.”

He groaned, hands clutching your thighs like a lifeline. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You leaned down, lips brushing his ear, voice low and lethal. “Then die grateful.”

His hands slid under your shorts, thumbs pressing into your hips like he was already coming undone. You felt him, hard and twitching beneath you, straining against the denim, and god—you could feel the way he was holding back.

“Take it off,” he rasped, tugging gently at the waistband of your shorts. “Let me see you.”

You leaned back just slightly, eyes gleaming. “Say please.”

He hesitated for a second—just one. Then his jaw clenched, eyes locked on yours, and he gave in.

“Please.”

You peeled the denim down slow, letting him look—letting him want.

And when his hands returned, they weren’t tentative. They were desperate.

He kissed you again—hard, open-mouthed, hungry. His fingers sliding between your thighs, coaxing a moan from your lips that he swallowed greedily.

You arched into him, gasping. “You always do this,” you breathed.

“Do what?” he asked, voice rough.

“Ruin me.”

He grinned against your skin. “Only fair. You ruined me first.”

As his lips found yours again, deep and bruising, you realized it wasn’t just the car, or the heat between you, or the way his hands made you forget everything else—it was him. All of him. And in this moment, maybe you were both just too damn broken to walk away.

And as you kissed him, again and again, you knew this wasn’t over. It had never really been over.

[chosos-mascara]

gojo's bride

𝙨𝙖𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙪 𝙜𝙤𝙟𝙤 𝙭 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆 - as part of the ryomen clan, your life revolves around organised crime. when your father tells you you're destined to marry naoya zen'in, you're left with little choice but to run.

𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 - mafia au, violence, arranged marriage, guns, killing/shooting in one scene, you're on the run, bounty hunter toji, marriage

side characters: suguru, sukuna and toji

5.4k words

Throughout childhood, an image of marriage is painted by your family. A contract between soulmates; a display of love to a person. Notes of a traditional wedding decorated with chairs of close friends and relatives, smiles wide and eyes glassy. Or, maybe you were better suited to a romantic elopement followed by a getaway, littered with intimate moments before announcing yourself a wife. In the end, the outcome is the same, one drilled into you by your parents since a young age. Perhaps while innocent, you had indulged within the images of a princess-like gown and florals winding around an ornate staircase - though with age and your growing understanding of your father's business values, you'd understood this wasn't a day to look forward to. 

When those in your clan would mention a prospective husband, someone your father would pick by hand, your heart would race excitedly, hands grasping over your chest as you swooned in adoration. There had been a semblance of what you'd pictured your future husband to look like, though that had since dwindled. When hitting twenty, reality setting in that this was another thing you would not experience normally, you tried to push the idea away. To your family, you were a pawn, and your marriage would be nothing other than an advantage to them; because when born as a woman within the world of Japanese illegitimate business, there were more hurdles than most. Your life had been seemingly filled with one sacrifice after another, and marriage was looking to be the largest one yet. 

Which is why, a courthouse wedding planned only twelve hours prior hadn't been what you'd envisioned. Despite the loss of formality and tradition there had still been anxiousness bubbling within the pit of your stomach, hands clammy as you took hold of the man you'd barely known while reciting an unbreakable oath. Instead of a dress, you'd been in cargos and a long sleeved top, though Gojo had displayed a little more care over the ordeal - a crisp blue shirt and slacks, black lenses over his eyes an a Rolex on his wrist. He slid the ring over your finger, delivering vows that had meant very little to either of you, and you'd repeated the action moments later, heart racing when the officiant had announced that you were now bound by law. Geto and Sukuna signed the certificate, and the four of you left to return to the shitty apartment you'd been hiding within for the past week. A weight had been lifted, but a new one had only taken its place. 

"Now, the reason we're gathered here is due to an important announcement within the family." Your father spoke, lips curving upward into a smile as his eyes darted to your own. It had been obvious when your parents had requested your presence for dinner there had been an ulterior motive, with yourself being left alone unless there had been news, or you'd been in need of discipline. It had usually been the latter, with being in your twenties and having a powerful father while being rebellious to his rules, there had been frequent fall-outs. Though within the moment his cold stare met yours, you'd understood exactly what he'd been about to say. 

"I've picked a partner for my daughter, finally." Through his thin smile, jagged teeth had shown. "Next week, she'll become a Zen'in, and our clan will reap the benefits of being united with one of the top three." For such a disgusting statement, he spoke with confidence, watching through beady eyes as the chatter of close and distant family members erupted, though mostly from excitement.  "What?" The quiet protest fell between conversations of others, any further objections died on your tongue. He looked down at you, a vacant stare before continuing. Your gaze fluttered to your mother to ask for a semblance of empathy, yet you were met with the same ruthless eyes. 

"Naoya Zen'in, my future son in law, will aid in managing business, merging with his father's company." The name had rang alarm bells through your already cascading mind, oblivion on the horizon. Naoya, a bigger misogynist than any man within your clan, a person referred to as scum by anyone with half a brain. 

There had been an uncomfortable cough opposite you, your panicked gaze meeting the dark eyes of your cousin. He's raised a brow, placing serviette beside plate as his head tilted toward large wooden doors - the only exit from the dining hall. You took a moment to think, mouth agape and heart racing, before standing. A large push through your daze of emotion had been all it had taken to activate the flight response, leaving your seat to run toward your room.

Once your head had hit pillow, tears flooded through your eyes, face plush to soft sheets in order to drown out the sobs raking over your body. The Zen'ins had been one of three leading clans within the mafia, alongside Kamo and Gojo. Three lineages known to be the dirtiest of all, though due to honor had been treated as if royalty. You'd heard Sukuna speak of Naoya in passing, and his disgust with the man he'd only met in passing.

"Hey," Sukuna's voice filled the air between muffled cries, body shaking and breaths heavy as you'd turned to face the figure walking through the room. Shifting, you sat with your back against the headboard, a pillow in your lap as the mattress dipped to allow space to your only friend. "I'm so sorry-" Sukuna began, bringing a hand to his face and sighing. "This is bad."

The weight of the situation before you had grown heavier when your cousin had admitted his own alarm. Sukuna feared no one, and had taught you to follow him on the same path of callousness; jobs executed with little remorse or care. Your partnership had resembled siblings to outsiders in the sense that you'd been family no one would cross, even if Ryomen had been a relatively new name within this world. With the company founded by your grandfather, there had been just enough time to spread word of the name, though when comparing feats to that of Gojo or Kamo, Ryomen had appeared ant-sized. 

"I can't," You stuttered over words between labored breaths, a harsh squeeze over the pillow clutched within your grip, pressing into your stomach. "Sukuna, I really can't do this."  Brown eyes scanned over you once more, concern riddled within the pupils, down turned eyebrows creating a crease at his forehead. He hadn't seen you like this before; distraught, scared. Since childhood, the pair of you had pushed emotion from your psyche, swearing vow to be honest only with the other. Each of you had promised to be the only person to trust in the harsh world you'd been brought into. In adulthood, you'd met with him significantly less, and Sukuna had built a name for himself as the Ryomen with the dirtiest hands. Yet, the vow would not be broken.

"There's a place downtown," Sukuna's voice had been hushed, a sigh from his lips before continuing. "Tonight, we'll leave. You can stay until I find a way to get you out of this mess." The statements he'd spoken had been frantic as he'd tried to make sense of the visions in his head - if he would've simply been born with more intelligence, perhaps he'd have been better aid when you'd needed him most. 

"What's that going to do?" You laughed through helpless sobs, rolling eyes at the promise he'd made - though with trembling lips and fingernails scratching anxiously over the skin of your arm, your body had demonstrated the true terror within you.  "Dad's not going to cancel a deal halfway through, not with the Zen'ins." Reiterating your point, you tried to push him away from an ill-planed escape, however much you'd needed him to give his all.  "We'll figure this out, okay?" Tattooed fingers smoothed through his hair, dullness within his gaze as he watched over your deflated form.

It had been midnight when you'd left. With only a backpack for belongings, you'd stuffed it to the best of your ability before slipping through the bedroom window, prayers whispered as you'd absconded the building. Hopefully, your family would notice your disappearance after you'd left their surveillance lines. 

Sukuna had waited a block away, engine running as he'd awaited your presence in the passenger side. It hadn't taken much pleading before Suguru had agreed to house you, only having to hear the Zen'in name before allowing you to seek refuge, though he couldn't deny his concerns of being found even while in a safe house. After holding his breath while waiting for you, you'd finally emerged, slumping against the passenger seat. Sukuna had now been in control of your fate, shifting into drive. 

The journey hadn't been long, reaching the building within a half hour, though concern riddling your mind upon entry. A run down apartment block, ivy curving into single-pane windows to grow along the white-washed brick inside, cracked tiles beneath your feet left unwashed and elevator jolting upon movement. Your travels had been led mostly in silence, each remaining expressionless despite the mental hellfire you were wading through. 

Stopping at a wooden door, a brass 206 nailed into the middle of the wood, Sukuna had only had to knock once before it had opened. Stomach dropping, you stepped back, frantically looking to your cousin to voice your shock and betrayal when seeing the blue eyes behind the door. It hadn't made sense why Sukuna had brought you to a Gojo hideout - one of the leading clans alongside the Zen'ins. 

"Don't worry." The familiar brown eyes met your own, stern countenance and monotone voice as he'd placed a hand over your shoulder, a light push forward. "Satoru isn't like his family."  After Sukuna's reassurance, the Gojo had opened the door wider, stepping to the side to accommodate both you and your cousin as you passed through. The apartment's interior hadn't reflected the halls outside, being well decorated and clean. Following Sukuna through to the kitchen, you watched as he seated himself at the table, inked hand reaching to his pocket to fish out a carton of straights, pulling one from the pack and setting it to his lips. The amber of his lighter emerged after only one flick of the steel, lighting the end of the cigarette and taking a drag. 

"This is Gojo Satoru." Sukuna broke the silence, gesturing toward the white haired male you'd met with moments prior. The smoke drifting upward from the end of his cigarette wafted as he waved his hand, stopping as a painted nail pointed behind you. "That's Geto Suguru." Turning, you were met with a new face, though a name you'd recognised. 

Both males introduced had been tall, differing builds yet similar black ink etched into their skin. Satoru had been lanky, yet his height and demeanour gave an aura you hadn't often experienced, one of importance. Gojo's limbs had been decorated, though the most notable artwork had been the clan mark of Gojo: an eye on the right side of the neck. An immediate sign of strength for those who understood its meaning. Geto had been much broader, manner radiating from physical build rather than an intense aura. His physical strength had been clear. 

"Goes without saying that you can't leave the apartment." Sukuna's words had been low, eyes fixed to you with an intimidating stare. The heartfelt and honest personality he'd shared with you had switched when in the presence of others, Sukuna instead watching through an emotionless gaze as you reacted to his words. The instruction had been one that had your brow furrowing and arms crossing, though Geto had interrupted before you'd had the chance to counter.  "Naoya Zen'in is dangerous." Geto leaned back on a countertop, both hands supporting his weight as he continued. "Not because he's strong - it's because he's weak. People follow him only through fear." Geto shifted, eyes straying to the floor before meeting yours once more. "Naoya doesn't kill - he tortures, molests, creates hell for those who don't give him his way. Even then, he's too cowardly to do anything with his own hands." Suguru's statements had your blood running cold, a lump forming within your throat. 

"If he finds you, it's over." Sukuna continued from his friend, another puff of smoke passing his lips. He leaned back, usual stoic expression saddening you after the anomaly of sympathy he'd displayed earlier that evening.  "It's not just your life on the line right now; if they know we're involved, there's consequences-" One thing you'd despised throughout your life had been being treated as if a child, awfully long explanations from those who'd considered themselves smarter than you; almost always describing words of common sense.  "I know." Quick to interject, you'd stopped Geto's lecture, straightening yourself. "I'll stay here." You met your cousin's eyes as he stood from the chair, opening the window situated behind the sink to throw the smoked-cigarette through, closing it once discarded. 

Sukuna had departed shortly after, cautious as not to raise suspicion. Between his few visits, you would be on no-contact, careful not to expose your whereabouts to your own family, or any clan allied with them. After twenty hours, your parents had reported you missing, stomach churning when details of a bounty had been explained in grueling detail by Gojo. He'd sat through an uncomfortable conversation within his own clan's meeting, reciting the disdain from the Zen'ins when the topic of Ryomen had been brought up in passing. 

It had been three days before Sukuna had visited once more, tense body radiating nothing other than intense stress. He'd attempted to appear un-phased by the events surrounding you, but when seeing the tired eyes and hunched back, you'd understood he'd been suffering. He'd slumped down in the kitchen chair once again, lighting up a cigarette before beginning to formulate words. The actions had mirrored that of your first evening in confinement, a feeling of deja-vu as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. 

"They're getting restless." He spoke, deep voice much rougher due to lack of sleep and an increase in his smoking habit. Gojo sighed, taking a seat beside him. You fiddled with your thumbs above the table, helpless to the strains both you and your cousin had faced. "Sukuna." Speaking his name had caused his eyes to flicker up and land to your expression. "I don't think there's anything we can do." His stop-off at the apartment had been limited, agreeing between the four of you that his visits should not exceed ten minutes. His departure had grown closer with every passing second, but a conclusion had yet to be found. 

"We'll find something." His reassurance had fallen to your deaf ears, instead of bringing comfort, his statement had instead made you feel as if your concerns were brushed off. He'd began to slip away, leaving yourself seated at the table, still helpless to the world surrounding you. There was nothing you could do in the small apartment, even if you'd wanted to aid in finding a loophole, or a solution. 

The following morning had marked four days missing, in which you'd grown increasingly depressive and bored. The new roommates you'd gained had often left for jobs and abandoned you to your own devices - which had been daytime television and chores. Being on the run had meant you were unable to use a phone or computer, and being alone most of the time had eradicated the chance of passing time through conversation or games. 

On the odd occasion only one of the males had been home, there had been one you'd preferred to the other. Gojo's presence had felt much greater than Geto's (even if he'd been more annoying). Gojo had at least made attempts at conversations. When overcoming the sense of pity Gojo had displayed toward you, he'd been pleasant to talk with, speaking of shared interests such as movies and music. Gojo had been passionate, often becoming excitable when remembering certain scenes or moments within his favourite media - though he could become equally as shut-off. There was a darkness within Gojo you knew he'd held close, and when childlike wonder had worn off, there was a very different person beneath. 

Geto had been mostly silent, though you could feel the heavy judgement through his body language. His gaze had been heavy on your skin, eyes narrowing with each movement and shoulders tense. It had been clear Geto did not trust you, and had more reluctance toward befriending you than Gojo had. 

Bringing a damp garment to hang over metal pole, you threaded fabric through the bars of the indoor clothes-horse, hanging them to dry. Much of your time spent in the apartment when both men had been home had been within the kitchen, mostly as not to burden the others with your presence. Though as you grabbed another shirt to dry, you'd noticed a tall figure at the door. 

"Are you doing laundry?" Gojo questioned, shoulder pressed up to the frame as he watched your movements. You nodded, returning back to the task at hand. "My bag was small so I've run out of clean clothes." Exhaling, you drooped the cotton over, straightening out a few creases. He smirked, finally pushing himself from the wood to waltz toward the cupboard, pulling a bag of sweets from a shelf and tearing it open. Placing a hard-boiled candy between his lips, he gestured the bag toward you.  "Want one?" The query had been muffled and accompanied by a few clicks of the sweet against his teeth. You shook your head, a small smile as if to thank him before he'd shrugged and brought the bag back toward his chest. 

Instead of leaving, Gojo had seated himself at the table, the perfect view to the chore you'd been partaking within. His eyes had burned into you, yet you'd attempted to continue as usual, facing away from the blue eyes to push cotton over wire. But after hanging another garment, you sighed, head over shoulder to lock your gaze once more. 

"Am I entertaining you?" He hadn't replied until you'd finished, your body turned to face him fully, eyes locked onto yours as he shrugged, a crack of the candy between his molars.  "Never done it." He commented nonchalantly, picking another sweet from the bag. The rustling lasted a few seconds before he was back to eating, a dramatic exhale from his nose.  "That's cause you were a trust-fund baby." Walking toward him, your bare feet tapped against the tiled floor as you brought an arm upward, fingers outstretched and sight locked onto the bag within his hand. Just before you'd been able to dive a hand into the plastic, he moved it to the side, leaving your fingertips bare. 

"Feisty for someone who's living in my apartment." He commented, blue eyes narrowing as he watched you roll your eyes yet admit defeat through your gestures, instead flopping down on the chair beside him. You sat in silence for a few moments, eyes wondering to the window above the sink - the only window within the apartment that hadn't been covered by curtains and allowed some semblance of light to cascade through. Although you'd appreciated this, there had still been some annoyance to the reminder of the outside world, and how you'd been unable to step foot within it. 

The fifth day, you'd finally brought yourself the courage to ask. 

At the table during breakfast, the opportunity had arisen in which you had both men seated with you, coffee situated before each body.  "Can you bring me shopping today?" The request would likely be denied, a faint memory of Geto's obvious distrust and worry that you'd be seen and captured if stepping foot outside. But, you'd hoped that being on the outskirts of Tokyo, you were unlikely to be recognized, and with both men beside you, you'd be well-protected. Perhaps the idea had been completely idiotic, and when met with Geto's stern expression and furrowed brow, you'd understood the likelihood had been slim to none. 

"Well," Gojo had began first as expected, the less stern presence easing your anxiety. "We're meeting Sukuna first-"  "She's not coming." Geto had been quick to shoot the idea down before Gojo had allowed a semblance of hope to form. He stood, bending over the table to gather the plates from breakfast. As he leaned across, his shirt had lifted upward, revealing a handgun against his stomach that he'd had tucked into his trousers. You hadn't allowed your sight to linger too long on the weapon, though it had crossed your mind when pleading with him. "I'll keep my hood up, please Geto-san." You bowed your head, squeezing eyes closed while trying desperately to find an excuse. Swallowing back your pride, you continued. "I need tampons." 

You hadn't looked up until you were sure Geto's expression would have softened, though when returning your gaze upward, he'd been visibly taken aback, eyes wide and lips parted.  "Whaddya say Geto-san?" Gojo's added emphasis on the term had caused you to outwardly cringe, a reminder of one of the lower moments in your life.  "Be quick." Short and spiteful, yet the words you'd wanted to hear most. You'd fought to hide the growing grin across your face, undeniably shocked by the permission you'd been granted. Gojo laughed at the display, hand languidly laying itself upon your shoulder before giving you a light shove. "Get your coat, sweetheart." 

When approaching the pink haired Ryomen, you'd expected a foul expression, rant, or some form of physical punishment - yet instead he'd remained still, face unreadable. He'd been leaning against broken brick, cigarette in hand, pushing himself from the back-wall of some run-down establishment to stand upright. Seeing him like this had feared you more - Sukuna wasn't one to be lax over broken rules. There would be a significant reason he hadn't reacted to your presence. 

"She insisted-" Geto had began his defensive speech, though had stopped when Sukuna had raised a hand with the shake of his head. Holding the half smoked cigarette had been bloodied fingers, cuts decorating pale knuckles. "Probably better she's here for this." The words had your chest tightening, drop within your stomach when your gaze lingered over the wounded hand, being left to imagine the face that had been on the other side of his fist. "They've got a bounty on you. Saying we owe them money - the Zen'in's own you now." 

There hadn't been long to process his statement as he'd taken a step forward, another drag of his cigarette through stiff lips. "They've got Toji on her." 

Although you hadn't understood the weight of this comment, you could feel the men beside you tense, a quick glance toward Geto telling you all you'd needed to know. His skin had paled, and eyes widened. 

"Are you armed?" The question had added mass to your shoulders, a realization that your freedom had been coming to a close. Toji would have to be bad for all three men within your vicinity to be uncomfortable.

"Sukuna, we can't-" Eyes watering, you'd traced over the handgun tucked within your waistband, metal cooling trembling fingertips. "You can't do anything. This is it." 

Sukuna shook his head defensively, quick to begin a bitter reply and deter you from a path of righteousness. Though, the pop of a gunshot had taken stage before he'd had a chance to stutter more than a syllable, hands flying toward belt. Your fingers wrapped around the grip of the weapon you hadn't intended to use as you searched the alleyway for a body, adrenaline fueling your faster reaction time. Two men had stood at the entrance, the taller of the two aiming his own pistol in your direction. As he took steps toward you, the sunlight had hit his face, revealing a tilted smile, lips kissed by a thick scar. 

"Hands up, pretty girl." His voice had been rugged and deep, teeth bearing as he'd awaited your movement. You'd hesitated before raising both hands, persuaded only when his friend had taken a step forward, shotgun between his hands aimed toward Geto, who had been stood closest to the alley's entrance. 

"Toji. She's not armed." Sukuna's monotone voice didn't waver as he'd glanced at his allies. He'd hoped his lie would pass - you could sense his tension if the other's hadn't. "Ryomen. This your cousin?" Toji exhaled in amusement. "Been looking for her. Healthy bounty on your head, kid." His laughter had been entwined with malice, blood running cold as you'd met with green eyes. 

"You hate the Zen'ins. What changed?" Sukuna had asked, though had been shut down through Toji's quickfire response.  "Money's money. Hand her over, 'n we'll let you live." He'd used his left hand to usher you toward him, jagged smile increasing the panic you'd felt frozen by. 

Sukuna had withdrawn his own weapon, and Toji's expression soured at his movement. 

It had been a split second decision. 

You pulled your pistol from your jacket, aiming toward Toji's chest and pulling trigger. His eyes had widened in shock as he'd stumbled backward, wounded. It hadn't been fatal, though enough to stun him as your barrel aimed toward his partner.  His body had fallen backward much faster than Toji's had, a clear display of you accuracy. Before the black haired half had time to react, you'd ran, left hand instinctively grabbing hold of Sukuna's wrist. 

Only when Sukuna had slumped against the kitchen table, drops of blood dripping over the aged wood, had realized he'd been wounded. Your eyes set over the bullet hole in his bicep, a crimson patch darkening his jacket sleeve. 

"You were shot?" Your concern had been evident as the question had came to fruition through a concerned shout. He'd smiled in amusement, a gentle shake of head and pained laugh through chest.  "When you shoot someone who's aiming a gun, they'll pull the trigger." There was a tightness in his voice as Gojo had pulled his arm through the final layer of clothing, revealing the injury over skin. Geto had already placed a few items over the kitchen table, latex gloves stretched over hands after pushing his sleeves back, inspecting the wound. 

"Satoru, tourniquet." With Geto's voice quiet, Gojo disappeared for a brief few moments before re-emerging with a tie in hand, wrapping it over Sukuna's upper arm and pulling it tightly. "You're lucky that Zen'in had started to stumble before he shot, or you would've had Sukuna killed." 

"Zen'in?"  "He doesn't like the name, goes by Fushiguro. But, he's a Zen'in." Gojo explained while taking a seat at the table. Sukuna had leaved forward, wincing as a needle threaded through the wound.  "And, you're lucky there was an exit wound." Geto had added to the statement. "Though, your quick thinking likely saved one of us - so thanks, I guess." It had been obvious that the gratitude had pained him to say, though you'd accepted it anyway. 

"Do you think they'll find me soon?" You questioned, picking at the hem of your shirt as Geto finished the stitching. The fact you had little control over the outcome of both you life and your allies lives had irked you, a heaviness residing in your chest.  "It's likely they're already narrowing it down - Toji will tell them what he knows if they offer him enough money."  "You should just give me over, Sukuna. Get the money." A half joke, an attempt to lighten the mood. Though, when the tired, annoyed eyes had met your own, you'd realized the words had only hurt him more than intended. 

"What if you returned home with a husband?" Getou's abrupt inquiry had caught you off guard, but you considered the scenario nonetheless, fighting the urge to question why he'd asked, instead manifesting an educated answer.

"My father would have him killed." You spoke with a sourness, eyes remaining to cling to the floor. His attempts at a solution mirrored thoughts you'd had over the past week, though no fix had been found. The only options you'd had were to remain in hiding, or to accept your future as a Zen'in, benefiting everyone other than yourself. 

"What if you married someone they couldn't kill?" His suggestion left you dumbfounded, a muddled flurry of stutters as you'd exhibited your confusion to his ask. "Good luck finding someone powerful and willing to marry me." 

A person the Zen'ins couldn't touch would be a rarity within this world. Now your name had been made known to them, your place as a pawn in the Ryomen and the Zen'in's game, there had been an impossible chance of escape. You were raised purely for the benefit of your clan.

"I know someone." Geto's comment pulled you from your thoughts, another bought of self-deprecating laughter and rolling eyes shot toward him. There had been a glimmer of hope within your mind, yet you wouldn't display it to the men before you, instead residing back into refusal to protect your own ego. If you'd taken his words as banter, you would suffer less pain than to cling onto the premise of false-hope. 

"Satoru." Geto stated, gesturing to the pale, white haired and blue eyed friend beside him. Gojo's reaction had reflected your own; bewilderment. The brunette glanced between the two of you as you'd remained in mutual silence, awaiting his explanation.  "Satoru, think about it." Your eyes met Gojo's briefly before he'd returned his attention to his friend. "You'll be in her position soon - the strongest of you family and heir of Six Eyes; do you think your father will die before you give him a grandson to continue the business?" His theory had weight to it, but you brushed him off, watching Gojo's expression change from confusion to thought. "Geto, come on-" You began, voice gaining his attention. 

"I'll do it." Gojo spoke through upturned lips, both gazes returning to settle over his face. "I couldn't turn down the opportunity to mess with affairs that weren't mine to begin with - and fucking with my family is an added bonus." His playful grin paired with the prospect of being legally bound to him had sent heat through your body, mouth ajar while you'd lost yourself within the vision of a wedding day between yourself and Gojo Satoru.

"Gojo, this is serious." You began, narrowing your expression when looking into his own. "This is your future on the line." You took a sharp breath inward. "Not to mention, marrying me would mean having children down the line-" The rant had started, and Gojo had allowed a playful smirk to etch over his features.  "I'd be happy to fu-" His interruption was much to your distaste, the unwanted suggestion causing your stomach to churn.  "Use your brain for a minute and think about this as an adult!" The sudden outburst caused his eyes to widen before relaxing, mouth still curved upward as he leaned into the back of his chair.  "I've already decided, sweetheart. We'll go to the registry office tomorrow - Suguru and Sukuna can be our witnesses."

For a marriage planned with less than a day prior, it had been executed with ease. The four of you had been brought into a small room, a registrar stood to your left as you'd taken Gojo's hands within your own. As he'd held your fingers between his, a cheap ring Sukuna had sourced from a nearby jewelers slid over your finger, you'd swallowed back your anxieties and listened as he'd recited his vows. 

You'd repeated the action, his calloused hands maintaining the gentle contact between your own as you had spoken much more timidly than he had. Though you'd done so with some reluctance, you had looked into his eyes as you'd repeated after the registrar, a fluttering in chest. Even if this wasn't real, nor was it love, there was some form of excitement within your fear. Though, you wouldn't tell a soul. 

After only ten minutes, you'd left bound by law' a much larger meaning within your families than to yourselves. From this day forward, you were to be labelled as a Gojo. You had expected that crippling weight to ease as you held the wedding certificate in your palm, yet somehow, it had just changed into a new anxiety. 

You had gone against your parent's wishes, as had Satoru, and for that, you knew there would be a cost. 

reblogs and comments help creators more than just liking <3

a/n: after posting the teaser for this in MARCH, i have finally finished it!! i hope you enjoyed :,) i'm putting tags below, i'm so sorry if you forgot about this and are confused by the notif !!

tags: @ritsatoru @tomiokas-lunchbox @outrofenty @cherryblossiren @thisbicc @obitohno

[pixiehe4rt]

What does Pixie think

about...?

Relationship chart

Skipp: "Well, he's my boyfriend! i think that speaks for itself. He's sweet, caring, considerate, affectionate, kind... not to mention he's really cute too! He's a beautiful soul, unique amongst the many other residents of this city. I was not too sure about his intentions at first, but he ended up indirectly teaching me that the warmth of kindness can grow even in the coldest of alleyways, something that not everyone is willing to grow in them. I'm lucky to have him in my life. How can i not love him?"

Vinnie: "I remember the first time we met. She was skeptical about me and my intentions, and she clearly showed that she didn't like me at all. I understand why she was like that, high class people can sometimes have nothing but a hole where their hearts should be. I find it funny, how she used to always keep an eye on me when i was around them, and now she tells me about anything that crosses her mind as if we're lifelong friends! And even if she's very intense and bold–and a bit annoying at times–, i still love her as a sister."

Stone: "He's not the most talkative person in the group, but it's not that hard to have a good conversation with him. As Vinnie, he didn't like me much at first, and it was harder to get him to trust me. But once he gets comfortable, he makes a great companion! Stone can also be an awesome listener, too. He sucks at comforting people and he's in that weird drunk-ish state 90% of the time, but that doesn't mean he can't be an amazing friend!"

Pebble: "I'm still confused about him. What is he exactly? How am i able to see him if i'm not the one that's high? The more i think about it, the more questions i get. He refuses to explain, and no matter how much i beg him to do so, he never does. So i guess i only can keep being annoyed by his constant teasing and nagging whenever he's around. He's sometimes funny too though, but he's a very weird guy. Quite literally Stone's alter ego."

Tre: "Despite everything, he's still here. Ever since our first encounter, we've gotten along so well. Our friendship meant, means and will mean everything to me, forever. Some people might find him annoying–I must admit he can be a little overwhelming sometimes, but that was never a problem to me. But it pains me to know that he's still going after scraps, including my friends, and other people. Maybe if I had asked his parents if I could stay with them since day one, things would be different for me. And despite everything, he sometimes comes to visit me, to just hang out like we used to; despite everything, he's still here."

Maroon: "If she was a color, she'd be an orangey brown. Strong, reliable and warm. But also distant and cold. I'm glad she took care of Tre and I, she takes her job very seriously, and maybe being friendly was part of it, but it made me happy to have someone else so close to me. I don't know much about her yet, but i hope she trusts me as much as I still trust her."

[reilliane]

Fatalism ⊱⊰ Scaramouche

✤ she/her ✤ words: 9.5k

The oh-so-great Balladeer was a puppet on strings. Despite this, he has a dream to fulfill, and he would do whatever it takes to achieve it—even if it meant forsaking his 'heart'. But pride always comes before the fall. He could never ever write over fatalism.

✤platonic angst :) ✤we're going to break him all over yall

“Awaken.” commanded the Electro Archon as the heavens growled. 

The violet pool within the golden laver swirled, the entwined hands coruscating with a divine spark of Electro. Her command was obeyed, and two pairs of eyes opened at the same time. 

His birth was most unorthodox. Disparate in the sense that he wasn’t born of flesh and blood, but of methods inexplicable to human comprehension—even to him. 

It began with a tranquility like no other, enclosed in a spacious black void in which no other creature lived but his consciousness. But in that cloister of nothingness, he felt safe, he felt a closeness to something he couldn’t pinpoint. The contiguity would be ascertained soon after he heard an obdurate voice calling- ordering him to be roused from slumber. 

So he did. 

And he bore sight to his creator, his mother, the Electro Archon, as she regarded him with a countenance that spoke little of what she felt. Her hand upon his forehead was warm, but her eyes withheld an everlasting winter that bespoke of no potential summers.

She murmured something under her breath before withdrawing her hand and turning her back for a moment. An inauspicious action.

This churn of discomfort was set aside upon recognizing the same warmth somewhere on his limbs and he followed its origin. With a short incline of his head and a twist to the left, he blinked.

There were two sets of long tables, occupied by two figures, him included. His left arm was outstretched to the side, dipped into a gilded laver that contained a liquid tinted with violets that reminded him of his creator’s eyes. It shimmered and emitted a sense of divine power.

But what kept his hand warm in the cold pool was the hand of another. 

Her gaze upon him was a mirror of his own upon hers. She spoke not with her tongue but her [c] eyes, and he too, did the same. They were parallel to one another, distant yet entwined by their fingers that had the same length, down to the fingertips. 

They were both without a name, without a defined personality. Canvases that were white and stark, hoping to be filled with color. Hoping to be a magnum opus. 

He wouldn’t be able to utter anything in that moment, as they were then separated, whisked away by strangers that appeared to be of service to the Electro Archon. He would only see his mother and that girl he reckoned to be his twin sibling later in a privy room, where the tall woman would first come to his sibling, who dipped her head. 

Her figure would close in on itself, glowing [c] until she became nothing but a small accessory floating upon their creator’s palm. It—his sister—had become tinier than his own hand. 

“A pawn piece,” a voice came from the left, and a sly-looking woman with pink hair hummed. “How appropriate for you to liken her to one.”

“But of course,” responded his mother. “If the puppet is to hold the Gnosis, then I must first see if he can handle something in its likeness. She holds at least half of the power, and for that I see no reason not to shape her as a pawn. I surmise it is the only piece in the board untouched by the Heavenly Principles.”

The foxy woman smiled impishly as she concluded. “For though pawns are capable of attaining majesty, they are still expendable.”

“Precisely. Now..”

The Electro Archon came upon him, her violet gaze stormy and steely as she neared the floating ‘pawn piece’ closer to his chest. “May your being be emboldened by that which is meant to be your core; a prototype heart of power.” 

Like congealed water, the piece disappeared through his clothes, into his skin, and into his very being. What previously was a mere accessory took a different shape in his consciousness, and he felt whole.

Complete. It was a feeling like no other. 

Raiden Ei hummed, satisfied at the sight of the spark of life in the puppet’s eyes. “So it has worked.” 

“A good thing, isn’t it?” Yae Miko questioned, her tail swaying leisurely at her back. “But her very case is a pseudo-power half of what is authentic, no?”

“Yes and no.” The little puppet did not understand what they were speaking of, there was only the innate kind of euphoria provided by the comfort of the pawn piece within him—his own heart. It was his twin sibling, his other source of power, if he managed to comprehend the conversation correctly. 

He felt full, like when he first opened his eyes and saw his mother. Felt safe, when he saw that his birth was in synchronicity with his heart. 

So when the hand plunged back into his chest like nothing to retrieve the small pawn, it felt as though he was engulfed in a banquet's inferno. His limbs lit with flames and it was difficult to get a grasp of his environment, mind befuddled, voice lost.

He could barely see the way the priestess scrutinized him as a different item was thrust into his chest. 

It was bigger and weighed much more. It was a heart that thrummed with so much divinity and power that he turned statuesque in its glory. The difference was profound. 

His little heart—his twin, rather—held a peace akin to a nest of comfort, but the heart his mother had newly provided was laden with somber wisdom. He sensed not the presence of the girl who bore only the slight likeness to him, but he felt that of a different one, kind and prudent, yet desolate with life. It was so much that it brought tears to his eyes.

And thus, with a sharp, narrowed look of his creator, the decision was set in stone. 

Not even a fortnight—no, a fortnight was most generous. Not even a week, and they’ve been forsaken.

“I need not a vessel whose gaze was more scrupulous than callous. He isn’t fit for the purpose I built him for.” 

Haunting words.

“And what of the nexus you built with him? Essentially, they are one.”

Sickening truths. 

“... She is a prototype I am not disposed to confine, either.”

Vexing failures. 

Reminders of the reason as to why he had pursued this path. Too many betrayals, too many faux promises, and too little mercy in a world that was filled with naught but the evil end of the spectrum. 

The puppet clicked his tongue as he gazed upon the lacerations on his skin, his clothes torn and tattered, fringed off the hems with licking flames. He stared at the remnants, condemning the beasts inwardly with a series of curses only unfortunate peers ever had the tragedy of knowing. 

“Closer,” he murmured as the mob dispersed, only for another horde to approach. “Closer, and closer..” to greatness. 

The Abyss was even more ruthless than the surface world of Teyvat, yet he found the darkness within it reminiscent of the void that came before his creation. He ignored the sting of his injuries and opted to gird himself with the beckon of power. 

“Don’t push yourself.” the warning was in his head, but it sounded as if the voice came from behind him, always in his shadow. “I can’t have the Doctor poking needles into you as though you’re a labrat again.”

Funny, isn’t that what he was to that man, anyway? Besides, that sort of event happened each time he returned from his expeditions and battles in the Abyss. 

“Kunikuzushi.” the voice was stern. 

“Fine.” 

He always meant to go overboard, that was a metier fit only for someone of his constitution. Fragile and enervated humans couldn’t hold a candle to his sturdiness as a puppet, and it was primarily this facet of his existence that corroborated his mileage to the Fatui.

So, he welcomed it with open arms, for he knew this path, though toilsome and arduous, would pave the road to his fate as a god.

He had forgotten the exact length of his ‘tarry’ in the sinister Abyss, but the darkness was a close companion that he’d known for his whole life. 

In the rare interludes in which there would be no scourge or cataclysm in his stygian ventures in the otherworldly realm, he would rest and allow the extent of his injuries to overwhelm him. Only then would there be an effulgent flicker in the suffocating coat of black, coming upon his will.

His twin sister embodied that light, as she was a creation more mystifying than he was in essence. 

She was—as he recalled his creator called her—his heart, who awoke in his moment of sheer desperation when he tried to ask the Electro Archon for help many centuries ago, and who had been with him ever since. 

Humans were born with one, and he was created with her in a similar aspect, and both their eyes opened at the same time. 

A puppet with a heart.

Kabukimono and Nisemono. 

Kunikuzushi and Kenkoroshi.

Names that undoubtedly would only stockpile on the other as they traversed this path to their shared dream. 

His heart was his main source of power.

Yes, he was strong on his own, but his sister was created from the godly power of Raiden Ei, emboldened by the influence of the Gnosis—the piece that was meant to be his. It meant that his sister was essentially a lesser version of the Gnosis, a facsimile—an imitation.

 

It was a connotation that conjured a frown on her usually blank face, but one that was wiped off with ease whenever Kunikuzushi would remind her that he was a literal puppet created in the likeness of their creator. There was a peculiar comradery in their shared existence as imitations, but that did not void their identities as ‘creatures of their own’. 

Kunikuzushi would receive word from one of Harbingers themselves to return to Snezhnaya sometime later when he would be in one of his seldomly taken respites. The puppet would wordlessly stare at his hand, which was in the grasp of his twin sister, who had taken up a corporeal form to accompany him in the physical realm.

He never failed to assert that it wasn’t needed—for he could literally hear her voice in his head—, but she also never failed to exhort that accompanying him physically was a different kind of company in itself. He disliked how it was a sound reason, so he relented every time. 

This mutually indulgent quietude was infrequently broken by either two, but it was fractured by the ‘pawn’ the second they arrived in Snezhnaya. Personally escorted by a handful of Fatui soldiers upon the Jester’s management following the order to return from the Abyss, she tugged away at his sleeve. 

“Something weighs the wind.”

During times like these, when she would speak in riddles and figures, the puppet would be less than enthused, yet he humored her. It was inexplicable, but his twin always seemed to have some kind of prescience. 

“It doesn’t feel dangerous, though.” Ah, so that meant it was something good. 

Kunikuzushi could not help the snark in his voice as he responded. “I’m disposed to believe that you’re lying in the face of our ‘life’s’ usual pessimism. When has anything remotely good ever come to stay?” 

“This one will, perhaps.”

It was unnecessary to tone down their voices, even though their peers regarded them with puzzlement. Why should they? No one would understand the context of their conversation, anyway. 

The factuality of Kenkoroshi’s presage would be ascertained in a castle bespeckled with the rigidity of snowflakes. Diamond flakes annealed with solemn ‘love’, sharpened as though to appear like icy dirks, yet refined as if they also symbolize frozen tears. 

The loveless motherland of Snezhnaya was a wintery Kingdom he had only come to at least once or twice. Little did he know, as his twin retreated back into the pawn piece in his chest, that he’d later be acclimated to the snow that was as pale and bleak as his perspective of life. 

“You are hereby appointed as the Sixth Harbinger, take upon a new name as Scaramouche, the Balladeer.”

Ah. So that was what the entourage was for. 

The Tsaritsa was with the voice of a daemon, yet the undertone withheld the echo of a lamenting cherub. Time was scant to bother wondering over why—after all, it wasn’t like it was a responsibility or duty of his to answer to the Cryo Archon’s emotions. He was yet to even cross his own quagmires. 

His inauguration as the Sixth Harbinger, the Balladeer, was well-received and esteemed within the Fatui, but he had no doubts that it was because it was mere pleasantries. The rest of the Harbingers could hardly be impressed, but that was his own personal conjecture, for they showed probable facades that probably belied their ennui. 

The celebration lasted a week, and he came to admit the complication in adjusting to the sudden attention brought with the bestowment of a rank he had come to travail over. 

On the eve of its final day, he was ‘alone’ in his personal quarters that were leagues above what he was used to. Or perhaps he should rephrase that and mention that it had been a long time since he had chambers he could call his own, one that supposedly matched the majesty of his identity.

The last time he had something of this splendor, he was still on the watch of the Electro Archon, and that lasted less than five days.

What an irritating reminder. 

“Is this everything you sought for?” as always, Kenkoroshi’s hand was void of any kind of temperature–she was insipid in a literal fashion, and it wasn’t meant to vilify her existence as an imitation. 

For a moment, Kunikuzushi—no, Scaramouche, was quiet.

It had been a long and exhausting week of celebration, no matter the novelty and pride it brought him to be able to reach such a monumental stone in his ‘life’.

He looked down at the hand on his own, finding [not admitting] the gesture comforting. It was a reticent gesture between them, to just hold hands whenever they were alone—it was homage to their ‘birth’, when they awoke to an unknown world.

They had nothing, no knowledge, just the hand of the other and their presence and existence split as two but deemed as one. 

“No.” He answered later, “I wish for what was meant to be mine.”

The Gnosis. 

In a fleeting moment, he sensed her slight tension before it was easily awashed with her usual nonchalance. “... Why do you covet it so much?”

He scoffed. That was a stupid question, why else would he want something that was his in all putative angles of logic and reason? He was solely created for it.

“My purpose—no, my destiny. It was mine, that power.”

“And my power is not enough for you?”

Snezhnayan winters were algid—bone-chilling. Albeit he was far too acclimated to such temperatures and was far from being bothered, he could feel its biting frost on his skin, still. It was something that a measly hearth in the far left of his chambers could ever hope to drub.

Yet the question that she asked sent a chill down his spine. She asked it with the same, monotonous delivery, but for some reason, it sounded much heavier in his conscience. He despised it. 

“Adequate enough.” He deigned to respond, their hands motionlessly entwined, still.  “Enough to last until my birth as a god.”

There was no response. He despised that, as well. 

For the first time that night, he turned to her—only to find her [c] gaze pointed towards the crackling flames of the hearth. He almost heard the crisp sound of burning wood and could almost smell the scent of burning flesh, but that was a memory in the crevices of his mind. Imageries and sounds that forego his mission to be divine. 

“You’ll help me, won’t you, my dear twin.” there wasn’t exactly venom in his voice, just a poignant edge that prompted the [c]-haired pawn to look at him. When she said nothing again, he clicked his tongue. 

“Kenkoroshi.” he admonished. 

Finally, she answered.

“I will.” He could tell that it was genuine, it just took her some time to respond. 

Good. With that, he turned away, and she did as well, though their hands remained connected. It wasn’t sooner when he spoke again, his tone carrying a sense of realization and pride altogether. 

“We’ve to think of a new name for you. I’ve already taken up another. Any grand ideas?” 

Silence. He wasn’t surprised. He was the one that offered to establish themselves with new names each time they decided to leave a piece of unwanted tragedy behind, so it came to perspicuous reason that he was to do the honors again—

“[Name].” in awe, he turned to her. “I’ll go with [Name].”

The astonishment would’ve lasted had she worn an actual expression on her face. He did not give any sort of critique about her chosen name, however. He simply nodded, testing the name on his tongue. 

“Good.” he squeezed her hand. “A new chapter burns bright. One step closer to the finale.”

Their work was cut out as a Harbinger, although, technically speaking—[Name] wasn’t the Harbinger. Missions for the Tsaritsa and her endeavors proceeded without fail, and under those zealous quests, she was aware that the Harbingers had personal assignments of their own. 

It was ostensible in an organization like the Fatui, she knew, that people’s interactions were transactions in their own right. Her twin brother preferred to intuit it the same way, in contrast to her own beliefs. When she told him of this, that she thought that there needn’t be any ulterior motives to causeries, he rolled his eyes.

“I looked at the world similarly once.. Look where that landed us.” he had sardonically quipped, and the conversation ended there.

Still, even with the facts transfixed, the way she conceived things did not change. It was to the chagrin of her sibling, but he did little to dissuade her from thinking otherwise—for she knew that as long as it wasn’t an impediment to his goal, he’d let her do and think as she pleased. 

He was bitter about it, though, later on mumbling that the ‘ginger-head war addict’ must’ve influenced her. He spoke of Tartaglia, the young soldier who somehow found and believed that there could be goodness in a league that founded morally questionable coups and schemes, the pawn noted.

Although she never truly met the youth who eventually came to be promoted as the Eleventh Harbinger face to face—her existence wasn’t broadcasted for the entire organization to know—maybe, she thought, maybe she was influenced a tad.

Or perhaps she always was just meant to be on the spectrum in opposition to her twin. 

It had always been that way since the start of their lonesome ventures and idiosyncrasies about the nation of Inazuma. 

When he had gotten jaded over the betrayals the world had thrown them in, he swore to scrub every trace of emotion that stained him until not even vestiges could be sensed. Yet, here he still was, the one who felt emotions the most. It was not to disregard the fact that she could also feel, but rather, he was just a feelings-kind of puppet and there was nothing wrong with that. 

Scaramouche said that it was because he had her, his heart, so he could feel. 

[Name], ever circumspect, was worried—but she knew it to be true. If he had no heart, if he just had power, then what would he be like? She didn’t want to imagine it.

What, exactly? Didn’t want to imagine him without a heart? Or didn’t want to imagine him with all the power he could ask for? She didn’t know, either, and that in itself was frightening. 

He assured that he would not get rid of her, however, he always did—for they were twins, they were two beings as one. Kabukimono and Kunikuzushi said it himself, and she took comfort in that. 

But a wise man knew better. Someone, a third party guided and led by pragmatism and reason, stated otherwise. 

“While it is true that you were created as an expendable tool, even the most churlish will know that your power is valuable.”

[Name] merely shook her head, her legs swinging absently as she sat on a rather tall, metal table that surely must’ve felt cold to most humans. “I’m not interested in your spiel, sir. Spare me the talk.”

The Doctor was that wise man, Dottore, the Second Harbinger. From the start, he had been fascinated by their existence as one being split in two, and whether he was intrigued by which one if specificity was in context, well, she didn’t know. 

He unnerved her; his wisdom, his tact, and his rationales. 

“Come now, there’s no harm in being honest, is there? The Balladeer isn’t awake.” 

She didn’t like how he somehow knew how to transfix ideas through her head, a feat none other than Kabukimono could do. The former was a formidable man, and she had forgotten how many times she expressed that to the puppet. 

“I would not have furthered this level of strength without Dottore’s pricking needles,” he had told her before. “So just put up with it.”

Kabukimono was powerful with her, but the Doctor unsealed the hidden strength—that was a truth that she could not deny. So, as advised, she tolerated the Sumerian. Her patience was running thin, however. 

The number of Dottore’s laboratories exceeded the amount of fingers a human had. Throughout her time in the Fatui, she had gone to visit them all, and aside from the location of each tool and table, the interior looked ever the same—not to mention the scent of rubbing alcohol and antiseptic. Nowadays, or ever since he had unlocked the full capacity of Kunikuzushi’s powers, it carried the scent of something inexplicable. 

It might’ve come from the odd, violet substances she always saw him inject into her sibling.

“You may try to hide under that expressionless facade, but I know you are just as emotional. Not even he knows that, does he?”

The Doctor’s footsteps reverberated in the silent laboratory, coupled with the clinks and clanks of the tools in the metallic tray beside the equally metallic table. 

She ignored him, opting to regard the place where Kunikuzushi laid to act as some kind of distraction. To Sandrone, it was an inventing table as much as it was a dissecting one. She mentioned that the names differ with purpose, so if she were to account that into the present, then was it something akin to an inventing table??

The Doctor stopped in front of her, and since her line of sight was pointed to the floor, she was staring at his neatly shined footwear. By then, with him up front, she knew there was no use in blocking out whatever he wished to blabber about. 

“It’s precisely the reason why he exploits your power. Because someone who can’t ‘feel’ is therefore less apt to act out on sentimental grounds. They simply obey—like a tool.” 

Ah, if he meant to incite something by means of depreciating—more like likening—her existence to her twin sibling, then it was unlikely to work. From the genesis of it all, she already knew who she was. What she was. It came with innate acceptance, so there was no way she’d ever think of herself as more than that; a tool. 

“Because that is my purpose for living, to be used as his source of power.” 

“Purpose for living or existing? There’s a difference.” Of course, the Doctor always had a rebuttal, and they were eloquent. “Are you truly alive?”

A good question to ruminate over; was she alive? She was, but was she living or existing? 

The answer, albeit unsaid, was reticent between them. She was simply existing because she came to this world as such. Beyond the names and purposes she had been given, there was nothing of her own will. Or at least, nothing that extended beyond her will to serve as a means of power.

There was nothing wrong with that… she liked to believe. 

It was like being a Vision to a Vision-holder. 

The sight of the Doctor’s feet ambling away recaptured her attention, and so, she looked up for once. She glanced at him with his hands at his back, his steps taken leisurely as he wandered about the cold, sterile laboratory. She wished she hadn’t though, for it seemed like he knew whenever someone looked at him, for he tilted his head to meet her eyes with a small, sharp smile. 

“You mention being more than fine with being used, but I doubt that it doesn’t bother you, not when you know of his objective.”

He turned to her and she stiffened.

“You don’t wish to see him be a god, am I correct, [Name]?”

The place grew even colder than it normally was. 

She felt as though she was being adjured and criticized at the same time as the Doctor detoured to traipse back to her location upon the table next to the sleeping figure of the Balladeer. Subconsciously, she scooted closer to the latter, his presence her sanctuary, be it awake or not. 

Her lacking response seemed only to serve as reason for him to continue and oh—

“Because once the Gnosis is fully in his hands, then he will have no use for you anymore. And you don’t want that, no?”

—how she hated it. 

“Be quiet.” she mumbled. 

He did not stop. “As far as I know, the Electro Archon created both of you at the same time; him, in the likeness of your mother, but to be a vessel. And you, in the likeness of a Gnosis, you are his heart…”

“Be quiet.” she demanded, this time transferring her gaze to her sleeping twin brother in dire hopes of the sight of him easing the turmoil in her chest. It was rare that she felt willful acrimony, as more often she was influenced by Kunikuzushi.

But now—now she felt its poignant swath within, which left no room to circumvent the intense emotion. The Doctor knew this, of course, he always knew when anyone’s buttons were pressed, it was in his repertoire of endless moxies. 

“... A heart that he’ll willingly cast aside in favor of reclaiming true divinity.” he whispered close to her ear and she snapped.

“I said be quiet!”

Dottore retreated with a smile as he felt an invisible shockwave cleave through the atmosphere, distorting space itself. His laboratory, which was pristine and kempt a mere second ago was now in complete disarray. Broken test tubes and glass lay scattered, metallic tables and shelves were capsized, and charts and papers were either torn or a mess.  

Tiny zips and zaps of electricity surrounded [Name], ensconced by the power that was created in imitation of a true Gnosis. It flickered and jolted like a shield, warning the Doctor not to take a step further—ah, she was an elaborate picture of power. Her [c] hair floated all around her figure, [c] eyes gone, replaced with stark white. It looked like she could float off the ground at any moment or launch things to her will. 

He understood thoroughly her ability, despite being ‘faux’. It was the power the Balladeer often harnessed.

A power that still held hidden potential. 

“Mother? Sister? There’s no such thing as familial bonds to a pawn and a puppet. It is as you said, you are just an expendable pawn.” he spoke, noticing how in spite of the destruction from her rare outburst, the table Scaramouche was laying on remained untouched.

Oh, how she cared for him. The Doctor grinned. Perfect.

“But I can make you greater than you are now.”

The gradual return of the pawn to her ‘docile’ state cemented his conjecture; he had her hook, line, and sinker.

“What do you mean?”

[Name] was seldom swayed by promises. Compared to Kunikuzushi, she had always been a tad more cynical, but the Second Harbinger was a man of his word despite his devious and unscrupulous manner of handling affairs. She knew he was genuine—and that was what made his offer so tempting that she could not resist asking him to elaborate. 

And he gladly did. 

“I’ve only tapped and tinkered with the gears of your ‘twin brother’, and have unlocked a myriad of possibilities. What if I were to do the same unto you—his main power reserve? In theory, you will become far better than what you are now.”

He was not vigilant, he was far too complacent as he trailed his steps back to her, his towering figure peering down from his mask. 

He snapped his fingers. “You mentioned that taking up a physical form and consciousness demands power from your very being, no? This means that if you seal your consciousness and become a simple pawn piece as you were originally created, then he will be able to use your power as freely as he wishes. Without thresholds.”

Sacrifice her consciousness and physical form to be a raw core of power-?

“You will be enough.” he added. “Don’t you want that?”

She sucked in a breath. “I..”

It was everything she wanted; being enough. To her chagrin, she was reminded of the night of her twin’s inauguration as the Sixth, in those chilly, chilly quarters where she took up a new name. She recalled asking the question she dreaded the most.

“And my power is not enough for you?”

She did not have a heart of her own, but she could easily grasp the emotion she always felt whenever she was with him in the aftermath of his tragedies; dread. Fear. 

“Adequate enough.” his voice was still clear in her mind, “Enough to last until my birth as a god.”

That time, the world blanked out on her—she had so many things to say. So many things to ask. 

When had he become so detached from their inherent bond to the point of saying without hesitance that he would disregard her as soon as his godly form was built? As soon as he was fit to centralize the Gnosis he had taken from their [mother] creator? They had been together for so long it was not even an exaggeration.

For centuries, through the names, there had been no one but her and him. And countless tragedies that shouldn’t be named. 

Wasn’t it she that held him close when they awakened in the domain as he shuddered and cried when they realized that they were abandoned? Wasn’t it she that was with him through thick and thin, holding his delicate hand that refused to leave hers when Katsuragi and Niwa welcomed them in Tatarasuna? Wasn’t it she that accompanied him in the Abyss? 

She, that promised that she would not let their story as twins be as tragic as the supposedly blessed encounters they had with humans.

[Name] had done her part, she had done exceedingly well, she knew. He even told her countless times. So why—why, why, why did he even begin to entertain the idea of casting her aside? It was unfair, it was unacceptable. 

Ah! She was to blame. 

There was bliss in ignorance, and she chose to be willfully ignorant. Ever since the death of the child that succumbed to Tataragami, he burned and charred the ambitions he usually had. She remembered watching the little doll in his likeness turn into ash and couldn’t help but assimilate it to him.

For in a way, he and the little doll were one and the same. 

Except, the little toy doll had no heart of silver, but Kunikuzushi had one; her. 

She had refused to believe it then, but the moment he denounced emotions, he denounced her existence. Sure, it wasn’t her that directly influenced how he felt, because even without her in his chest he could still feel—but in essence, wasn’t that the ability of a heart?

To make one feel? So when he anathematized emotions, he condemned her willfully.

Shared dream?

No, it was but a mere bandaid to swathe over her insecurity.

It was only her dream because it was her twin’s. There was only one thing that they shared—the same fear of abandonment. Kunikuzushi had grown strong, he chose not to consort with humans any longer for they were the progenitors of their angst and pain. It would no longer hurt if he was the one to shut down and do the abandonment. 

Where did that leave her? 

The signs were all present ever since the Doctor and the Jester gave him a place in the Fatui organization, in a land of loveless frost. He was set on obtaining the Gnosis, set on becoming a power of pure and utter authentic divinity like he was meant to be. 

And that path did not include her, because she was a simple imitation with a power that was only half the legitimacy of the Gnosis’ power. 

He sought more, and that ‘more’ was something she could no longer provide—or so she thought. 

“Well, [Name]?” she became aware of where she was at the moment and blinked. 

For once, she was not doubtful nor fearful of the Doctor, she was hopeful. And it was a dangerous thing to feel around the guileful scholar, but at that very second, she did not care. In the face of a promise that would serialize and cement her future with her twin sibling, how could she start to care about anything else?

Power… she needed it to be enough. 

If she was powerful enough, then he would not need to cast her away. 

“I–”

There was shuffling from the other end of the room that prevented her from speaking further. 

“What’s all the racket for?” Kunikuzushi was waking up with that permanent scowl on his face, his eyes briefly glimpsing the mess that was the laboratory. He looked confused, but not enough to warrant his actual concern. “What, an experiment gone wrong?”

“No. The doctor just got clumsy.” [Name] responded stiffly as she turned to walk over to the Sixth Harbinger.

The Doctor nodded, raising his hands. “My hands do get rather shaky sometimes.”

A stupid lie that was. 

Obviously, it did not work on Kunikuzushi, but he remained indifferent. The pawn knew that as long as it had nothing to do with him, then it did not matter. 

She held his arms to steady him as he swung his legs off the table, but he shrugged her off. It was rude at worst and nonchalant at best, but with the pitiful memories fresh in her mind and the fear throbbing in her, it affected her immensely. Her fingers twitched. 

He did not notice as he gruffly said, “I can walk fine on my own.”

He could and he did. He was stronger. During the first line of experiments he was put through, he required her assistance to get by, but he didn’t now. Did he remember, or was she the only one who relived those times? 

Who am I kidding? She thought with a lump in her throat as he passed by her without so much as a second glance. He dares not think about episodes that entail any of his weaknesses. 

He had grown so much during the course of the centuries, and he had developed a zealous attitude that was admirable as it was intimidating. Intimidating and fearful on her side, because she knew she was shackled on borrowed time. 

Wordlessly, she followed after the Sixth Harbinger, her head kept straight despite the weight she felt that tempted her to look down. As she passed by, Dottore’s words were quiet, serving to be heard by no one else but the one who had the need to hear it. 

“Think about my offer, will you?”

She did think about it. In fact, nothing else had been in her mind except for the offer he proposed; a promise of power. Whilst accepting it may not vouch for her stay as her twin’s heart, it presented a chance.

And to her, a chance was all she needed. 

“Kunikuzushi,” she called one day after he had overlooked the progress of building his godly form, Shouki no Kami. She had been in his mind when she spoke, and could not deny the sting of alarm when he regarded her with frustration, demanding what it was she required. 

“Scaramouche.” he corrected. 

She conceded. “Scaramouche.”

He had been rather perturbed the last few days because of the Traveler, but that aside, he was delighted. She could feel him agog with the idea of finally claiming the Gnosis, of finally being dubbed a rightful deity. 

“Must you really seek the Gnosis?” she questioned without tact. No beating around the bush, just a direct question, which surprised him, she knew. 

The puppet stopped in his tracks, the shadows cast by the sunset across the colonnade enshrouding him in its twilit curtain. Over the centuries he had been with his sibling, not once had she asked about their shared dream. He thought nothing of it, but he was oddly irked that she did—perhaps it was because of the Traveler that she did. 

[Name] always was the most acquiescent between them. He wouldn’t be surprised if the Traveler’s spiel about morality had managed to dent her thinking process. 

“What do you think?” he remarked, resuming his steps. “The Gnosis is my objective for the last hundred years. Do you think I’d replace it for anything else when I am one step closer to reaching my goal?”

There was silence in his head. For the last few days, [Name] had been quiet, there was nothing new to that, but her current muteness was unsettling.

The bitterness within him gyrated his thoughts and spun them negatively, but before he could speak, she already beat him to it.

“If I’m powerful enough,” he did not like where that phrase was going. “... if I’m powerful enough, will you not take the Gnosis?” 

A look of incredulity arose from his expression as he proceeded to traipse towards the workshop, the towering gears and turning wheels welcoming his arrival. 

“Do you realize how ridiculous that question is, [Name]? I’ve been created for the Gnosis, it was my destiny to seize.” his words were acerbic and factual, but why would that matter when it was the truth? Besides, [Name] was used to it. There was no need to worry. 

“Besides,” he gruffly stated as the elevator took him up to the next level where his godly form awaited, powered by the Electro Gnosis. “We both know you’re a mere imitation of the Gnosis, your power is only ‘half of what is authentic’, a pseudo-power, if you will. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten that?”

“I haven’t..” her voice was tiny, but it was firm. 

“Good.” 

He huffed as he was brought to the top floor, wherein he was greeted with the mighty mechanical form that he will soon occupy. The Sages that have turned from their pitiful Dendro Archon were already present, alongside the Doctor, who passed a small wave of formality. 

Of course she wouldn’t forget that piece of crucial information, it was the very definition of her being; a tool used for empowerment. 

He began to walk towards his future, but with each step he took, he found it heavy to press on. His eyebrows furrowed and his chest twisted. There was only one explanation for such sensations and he knew what it was and where it was coming from. 

“Where will I go when you acquire the Gnosis?” her next question made it harder to walk forward. “What will happen to me, Kunikuzushi?” 

“Don’t call me that.” he gritted his teeth. 

The Sages and the Doctor were too preoccupied with whatever conversation they were having to notice his balking. Whatever—he preferred it that way. 

His voice low, he proceeded to snap. “And how am I supposed to know? We may be twins, but we’re two different beings. I’m not in charge of delegating what you wish to concern yourself with after I become a god. Do whatever you want.”

His body felt cold. 

“We’re not different,” she protested. “I’m your heart. I’m a part of you.” 

“Then do you support me gaining a new Gnosis?” he asked. “If we are one and the same, then my ideals are yours and so are my dreams. Tell me, do you want me to be a god to fulfill that dream?”

Silence. The world was slow as he waited, unbreathing. 

When the answer came, he was not surprised—not any longer. 

“I still want to stand with you.” 

It was not a direct answer to his question, but given that he had known her for so long, he knew the implication she endeavored to convey through those equivocal words. To this, he laughed sardonically, feeling his chest twist in some kind of bitter acquiescence.

“In other words,” he chuckled. “No, you don’t want me to be a god. You want me to remain shackled to your inadequate power when you know that I seek more?” 

“I can be stronger!” her voice rose in his head and he faltered in genuine surprise. Not once had he ever heard her raise her voice. But that awe gave way for resentment. 

Scaramouche balled his hands into fists, feeling his anger rise and bubble. There was no use in hiding it because this conversation was pointless! From the moment he burned that child’s house down and left everything in the ashes of time, he had made up his mind—he was resolute in becoming a true deity.

They both knew what that implied. 

“Even if you can, you’re just a phony Gnosis.” the words cut and stung, he knew. He was not reviling her in any way because it was the cold, hard truth. “Why else would she create you in the likeness of a measly pawn piece in the chessboard?”

“Even pawns are capable of attaining majesty!” ah, yes, Guji Yae said that herself, that even pawn pieces could be Queens and any other stronger pieces upon reaching theend of the board, but this was no chess game. 

It did not remove in essence, the fact that his twin’s power was not authentic. There was no ‘end of the board’ for her to reach—this was her limit and they both knew that. 

Baring his teeth, the Balladeer trudged on despite the heaviness in his chest weighing him down. He refused to be swayed by a sentimental sibling. Zealous in his steps, he disregarded the growing feel of dread for he knew it was not his emotion, but his twin’s.

It was a sickening feeling and he despised it, so he forwarded with zero hesitation. 

“Quit it. All I hear is my own twin sister refusing to let me achieve the dream I’ve always chased after.” 

He had hoped they would be on the same page—after all, hadn’t it always been the world against them? Them against the world? It left a hollow feeling inside and he swore he felt his eyes burn, but he did not succumb to such a pathetic weakness. He wasn’t a human, nor did he want to be. 

“Our dreams were meant to be shared.” he heard her voice falter. “We were meant to work together.” 

He never thought her to be this sentimental. But he supposed that after that conversation they had a few days ago, she was more inclined to feeling emotions just as he was [forcibly].

The Doctor welcomed him as he stopped in front of them, his hat tipped down to obscure his expression from their prying eyes. He answered his twin sibling sullenly, in a mere whisper. 

“Yeah, I thought so, too.”

“Kabuki—”

The Balladeer thrust his hand in his chest, retrieving the pawn piece—his sister—from the spacious dimension within him. Immediately, her voice ceased to exist in his mind and all was silent. Withdrawing, he looked at the small item in his hand, glowing a faint [c], as if urging, insisting—begging him to return her where she belonged. 

But he could no longer look at it with distant fondness. Now, there was only betrayal. 

I thought so, too. He repeated his own defeated response in his head as the Doctor stepped forward. 

“It’s time, Balladeer.” Dottore smiled. 

The puppet looked up at him, then back at the pawn piece, which he gripped tightly in one hand, as if willing himself to shatter it into pieces—but he did not. He realized that, even with her gone, his chest was hollow. But that did not matter, for he would soon be filled with a power that could void the emptiness inside. 

“I know.” he scowled, pocketing the faux Gnosis as the Sages adjusted the mechanical body, opening the cockpit which held a number of tubes and other small equipment. 

He stepped into it as the familiar aura of the Electro Gnosis captured his attention, glimpsing it just in time before it was inserted in the center piece of the body that bore the insignia of Electro. He looked back as the Doctor spoke, though the latter’s line of sight seemed to be directed elsewhere on his person.

“We will begin the process. Are you prepared?” Dottore smiled placidly. 

What a stupid question. It seemed like he was being bombarded with tons of it today, but no matter, for this coming dawn was to be a divine advent. 

Scaramouche allowed his hand to fall beside him, subtly feeling the figure of the small piece of faux power in his pocket as he answered.

“Of course I am.” 

He was awakened not as the perfidious Sixth Harbinger that had absconded his position, but as a newly born god. It was a dreamless sleep, filled with the thrum of divine power. 

“Do you remember?” Cloaked from within the penumbra of a false sky, two beings stood—not quite human, yet capable of humanity, regardless.

One so refused to act on it, not any longer, at least. And the other remained in the grey.

The wind was howling with the nightly breeze of Sumeru, cold, and chilly, but it affected neither. A voice spoke, sounding blank. “I do not understand the need to tirelessly search for a heart… when you’re already capable of feeling, anyway.”

“Such outdated information, I don’t seek a heart any more.” Cut a voice so sharp the wind stopped. “I’m looking to crush these filthy emotions. You should, too.”

Silence. It wasn’t the uncomfortable kind, but it was tense with acquiescence, a muted clash of perspectives, ones demanding to be forced upon the other. The response came, sounding bland, if not defeated.

“No.”

That was the last proper conversation they had—it was annoying to recall such things, especially during a time when he was battling against the pesky Traveler who knew nothing but to scupper his plans.

He didn’t know why he would recall it now out of all times, as he heaved breath after breath, the power from the tubes slotted into the sockets of his back not enough to cement his victory.

“I don’t think I will.”

So annoying, so, so infuriating everything was. Everything be damned to hell.

He could almost see her stupid blank face in the back of his mind; he knew she would be disappointed, but when was she not? For someone who put emotions on such a pedestal, she knew only how to be dismayed by him. Well, good riddance.

“I quite like feeling.”

Good riddance, indeed,  as the ginormous mechanical figure that housed a supposed god fell to its knees. What a weakling he was, putting himself above others who he deemed unfit for the world; humans who succumbed to desperation like a beggar to a coin.

Yet there he was, the same miserable picture of the puppet he swore to no longer be, hand outstretched towards a Gnosis meant to be his, but arbitrary fate deemed should never be.

The pain of hitting the ground was dull compared to the various other experiments he went through in all the years being a subject to the Doctor’s experiments—and though he thought his own consciousness would pity and leave him be, it did not.

Through the ringing of his ears, he heard Buer usher the damned Traveler elsewhere. And the fact that they did not once acknowledge his pitiful descent only went to show how he truly was a puppet strung along in the grand scheme of a play dolled up by the fate of this accursed world.

“Scaramouche.”

He could not move, no, he did not have the strength and will to move at the moment. His crushing defeat was like a torrent that swallowed him underwater, flooding his being and forcing him to think of nothing but it as he drowned further.

The Doctor’s figure as he hovered over him, like what a scientist would to a specimen, displayed the kind of hierarchy there currently was in the battlefield meant to be the location of his rise as a god.

A failed one.

“It may be difficult to see, what with your pitiful state right now, but you’re far from being average, are you not? So, you are still capable of response. Now tell me.” The man hovered something above his line of sight. “Is this familiar to you?”

He dared not to feel, he swore not to feel—yet he could not help the churn in his empty chest.

A pawn piece. Its homely [c] glow beckoned him to reach out to it, and he did so with a weak, trembling hand as he struggled against the lapse of his consciousness.

It was a reaction out of instinct—to grasp for something that was his, that belonged to him, that was a part of him. 

But then it was whisked away and he swore it felt as though he crashed to the ground for the second time. He disliked the nagging trepidation in the back of his head as he shifted to adjust with all that he could, suddenly deeming the tubes that made him powerful a while ago now heavy, burdened with the reminder of his shameful defeat in a war that he began. 

What on earth did that Harbinger planned to do? How was he able to take her? 

He took her with him in his newly assembled form. 

“Dottore…” his voice was weak and he hated it. “How..”

What was he going to do– what did he plan to-

The Doctor laughed as he stepped away with a flourish, gloved hand allowing the piece to float above his palm as he recounted a time of long ago.

“My word! But I thought you sought the bonafide power from an Archon and not from some prototype!” he grinned, “Didn’t you say… that you have no need for her? You fallen ‘god’?”

He wasn’t going to-

“Dottore-!”

“I’ve given you what you want, is it not only fair for me to take my share?” resumed the victor in this play. 

And that measly reply was all that poor Scaramouche needed to understand what the Doctor intended to do.

The realization seized him like a serpent, and all of a sudden he loathed his nihilistic, pragmatic view that everything to the world was a simple transaction.

Yes, he wanted Dottore to make his dream a reality. But what did that spell in exchange?

[Name]. 

Hearing the puppet’s spasming breaths made Dottore huff. He initially had no plan to further taunt someone who was already so pitiful, but he could not resist the morbid pleasure it brought him; a puppet who was a puppet through and through.

Being a god was none other than a foolish position unfit for the latter in the first place.

The hand that shot to wrap around his ankle prevented him from taking another step, and instead of feeling irked, he was only amused. 

“What desperation…” he commented.

Deciding to take things up a notch for his own entertainment, he bent on a knee over the piteous Scaramouche, the once great Balladeer, who was now in the shambles of his own mechanical body.

He had to commend him, for despite the obvious asthenia, the fire in those violet eyes were never snuffed out.

“You once wished to be a mortal with a heart, so enlighten me. Between the two of us, who is the closest thing to a weak human being now?” he allowed the piece to float closer to the loser, and he could see the natural effect it brought.

The Balladeer’s easing body, the slight serenity in his expression at the thought of being so close to the being he had with him from the very start…

… And the absolute desperation on his face when the Doctor pulled it away.

“Dottore!” ah, that scream of madness as he clawed the ground, breaths heaved between demands. “Do not… even think of laying a hand on her! She’s not yours! She’s—!”

“Yours, then?”

Dottore asked upon the shambled excuse of a god, the floating item in his possession that glowed a faint [c] and resembled a pawn piece in the chessboard being hidden into his coat.

Over his heart, where it throbbed the same color of [c], almost tauntingly.

“No…” he smiled, kicking off the clasp around his boot, and walking away. Leaving the puppet to the isolation he was so used to. “I don’t think you’ve any right to say that anymore.”

Truly, he wished to stay for a moment longer to watch the show of the desperate Balladeer, whose actions at the moment bespoke nothing of the menacing Harbinger he once was. But the desperation and agony of someone who was once just Kabukimono.

But alas! There were things to be done, and places he needed to go.

Agony—the ugly, distasteful twist of his chest was the sole reason for why he wanted to rid his emotions. To be a superior being incapable of it, for feelings were weak.

He no longer desired a heart, so he threw it away.

Yet at that moment, the godforsaken feeling of having let go brought about a pain and denial that no words could ever describe. He was helpless. Again. To the hands of fate and his own failure. Who was he to be mad, when he had been the one to forsake his heart?

It was beyond hypocritical if he were to ask for it back.

Oh, and where was he now? A measly bug on the cold stone floor.

On shaking arms, he attempted to push himself up. With nonexistent strength, he urged himself to move, but it was the very equipment engineered and produced by the Akademiya that reined him back like a literal puppet on strings—and he was soon crashing back to the floor. But he was nothing if not recalcitrant. 

“No- no, don’t-” the consciousness he earlier begged to be taken away was doing its job, and he realized for certain that he would be rid of it.

To his utter desperation.

“Get back here, this isn’t what we agreed on… !”

Deep in the crevices of his mind there resounded the voice so raw with emotions he wished to burn. An ache—a defect in him that he could not, for the artificial life of him, destroy.

His chest hollowed as the Doctor went farther and farther away, carrying with him, the prototype heart he had replaced for the Gnosis.  

Anything but her— no more- don’t take any more from me!

[How bastardous he was, to forsake her but in the end demand that she not be taken away from him? What irony.]

That time, he wanted nothing more but to curse everything and himself as he shook. With fear or anguish, he no longer knew.

The [c] glow he had been acclimated to over the centuries was vanishing, just like he wanted to, but now selfishly wanted to take back. Was it because he failed that he wanted her again? He didn’t know anymore—he was afraid to know. 

Black spots bedecked his vision, the bile of emotions rising into his throat, threatening to spew in hysteria. Words died in his chest and his voice faded, but still, even with his fading consciousness, he dragged his body across the pavement, fixated on the Doctor’s back, who was now walking away.

Far.. far.. away. 

Scaramouche, Kunikuzushi—Kabukimono raged and cried with a hand that could not reach for anything.

Not his goal of transcending into a deity.

Not his mother and creator, the Archon of Inazuma.

With the last of his consciousness and strength, he cried out. “[NAME]!!” 

Not the heart he called his twin sister. 

His hand fell and his consciousness left, leaving him in the swathe of familiar blackness. One that spoke without the company of the one who knew him most. 

It wasn’t fair—this wasn’t fair. 

But alas, perhaps fatalism had written that, even if he was far from being a powerfless human being, he could still do nothing to determine his own fate.

That of which included his desertion of his heart, his defeat, and the grand consequence to a dream he had ambitiously chased for himself. 

a/n: boop. see you post-irminsul, boy.

also, mc's as "kenkoroshi" is made up of the kanji 剣 [ken/sword] and 殺し [koroshi/kill], so whilst kunikuzushi is literally country destroyer, i opted to have mc be named something that implies her nature as a weapon. 偽物 [nisemono], on the other hand, means 'fake'. or in fatalism context, she's a fake/imitation of a Gnosis.

This has been stewing in my mind for,, a year and a half? Finally out of the basement.

[peachjagiya]

It’s interesting to me how everything Tae says he values in his friends or what’s important about his friendships with Wooga, is exactly what we see when he’s around JK. Plus obviously another layer on top. But it’s so clear if you observe Tae around JK, tnat he feels accepted, safe and comfortable. That he can be himself without judgement and that he’s meet with understanding, care, support and physical affection. And vice versa, with JK Tae can be the person he wants to be without holding back cause JK accepts and welcomes it. It’s just beautiful beautiful to see how well these two click and how they get each other blindly and how they clearly are themselves around each other without second thought. It’s such a natural, magical and special connection and bond. Never not in awe when we get little glimpses like these ones e.g.

https://x.com/girllytkook/status/1885964034174079328?s=46&t=VGR0B9a59mdmL-KO7fDdLg

https://x.com/loveazaleav__/status/1885506681494466848?s=46&t=VGR0B9a59mdmL-KO7fDdLg

https://x.com/regalkv/status/1885569570465079658?s=46&t=VGR0B9a59mdmL-KO7fDdLg

https://x.com/tkvk95972/status/1885361507107508604?s=46&t=VGR0B9a59mdmL-KO7fDdLg

🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

I think about Taehyung disliking being called 4D and alien and how we're invited to believe he's cold, distant and weird.

I don't think Taehyung is weird. I think he's a unique thinker, uniquely self-determined and uniquely principled with a very dry sense of humour but I don't find it weird. What I find weirder is how hard army work to call him weird and pretend he has no redeeming qualities. I think other people, including some members 😬, perpetuated this alien idea long enough that it got into the general OT7 consciousness that he was a strange loner.

I can't speak for Taehyung but I'm sure it can't have been fun having your kindness, humour and warmth squished out of the story in favour of "lol Tata language" or making him look argumentative.

It's evident from their early years that whatever "weird" Taehyung was supposed to be, Jungkook got him for who he actually is. It must mean a lot to know his best people don't think of him in such cartoonish ways and it tracks in who Tae continued to hang with consistently even when he didn't contractually have to.

In fact:

Works in reverse too. Taehyung isn't prone to the same kind of reductive narratives about Jungkook that others have.

I genuinely think no matter the full nature of their relationship, they are safety and acceptance for each other.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for hiding a new relationship from our friends?

My friends (A (F20), B(F18), and E(F18)) and I (F18) are freshmen in college. A few weeks into the beginning of the year, E & I started hooking up (FWB situation) and A & B got together (more serious, but an open relationship). Eventually E clearly got fucked up about some stuff happening at home and we stopped having sex because I was concerned it was affecting our friendship/was uncomfortable with how we were interacting-- this was amiable. shortly after B became very irritated with E's behavior (mostly her behavior toward me), started being rude to her and attempting to remove her from our group (made E's anxiety worse-- she was throwing up constantly).

One night the three of us were drinking without E so that B could have some vent space (I disagreed with a lot of what she was saying, but this was the situation I was in) and when B left to go to their dorm for the night I stayed in A's room for a while to sober up. During this time A and I hooked up for the first time. A told me not to tell E or B until she felt more sure of her feelings.

The next morning, E asked me point blank if I had been with A + B the night before and I told her I hadn't. Later, she saw us kiss (while we were all drunk)-- I panicked, kissed her too, and told her not to tell B. She asked me later if anything was happening between A and I and I told her no. Throughout all this, A + B were still together, although A was spending more and more time with me. I'm a naturally flirty person, so B suspected something and started being cold to me.

Finally, about two weeks later we tell B and then A. B takes this very badly and doesn't talk to any of us anymore (she spoke with A shortly after but spent most of the time calling the two of us names), while E sort of shrugged it off but has been a little weird. E says that she thinks B has a right to be upset because part of B + A's open relationship was an agreement that they would say if they started hooking up with other people, and B saw me as her best friend here after her relationship with E fell apart. A + I think that it's fair to want time to explore a brand new relationship before you tell your friends, plus I was just respecting her wishes about who we told and when. I never lie, and told E that I would never lie to her outside of this situation, which was just because A asked me to. B + E don't talk and A + E have a tense relationship now. E (still my best friend after A, although we r much more distant now) says that she's worried about A hurting me because of how our relationship started.

I'm worried that our friend group falling apart is my fault. AITA here?

(Bonus-- A + I are together now and still hang out with E a lot. A has ADHD and is really slow at getting ready to go places. Sometimes that means that, even with my best efforts, we're an hour+ late to plans with E and she has to wait for us alone. AITA for this?)

What are these acronyms?