#in every life you and I are linked. in every life you and i are some kind of together

[karemandohan1999]

If you see this article, share it immediately for everyone to see✊

About the most terrifying situations that happened to us at the beginning of the new year 2025 In Gaza 🇵🇸😣😖

Today a bomb was dropped in northern Gaza. The sound was heard, the ground moved, and the windows of houses were broken more than 50 kilometers away. 😖😱😱

An Israeli drone is used that makes the sound of a small child crying loudly, and when someone comes out thinking he is helping him, he is immediately shot and killed💔

We are here in indescribable horror, every day things get worse, every method is used to starve us, if you see this article I hope you help me before it is too late I have created a donation campaign so I can buy food whose price has increased Crazy,

for humanity, for everything, for my 19-month-old baby, help us evacuate to a safe place 😭😭😭💔

My whole story is here.

My campaing vetted by/ @90-ghost here @gaza-evacuation-funds here

Donation link through the campaign 👇

Or through PayPal

Do not hesitate to save a Palestinian family that needs you. Save us from this horror 🙏💔

[rafesplaymate]

Off to the Races

Chapter iv- Date Night (part 1)

Older!Rafe Cameron x Stepdaughter!reader.

ੈ✩‧₊˚ navigation. ੈ✩‧₊˚ masterlist. ੈ✩‧₊˚ series masterlist.

warnings: infidelity (emotional / physical). pseudo / stepcest. dom / sub dynamics. dd / lg dynamics. man-handling. groping. dark themes / adult content.

a/n: finally updating. date will be broken into two parts to build up tension for storyline. enjoy!

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

By the time Rafe is finished getting dressed, putting the finishing touches on himself —the sun is barely settling. Pouring out a beautiful orange haze over Kildare that makes the environment feel all too dreamy. Making him all the more excited for his night alone with his girl, the knowledge that his wife was out of the house satisfying his desire to be alone with his darling girl. He spritzes a couple sprays of colonge over himself before securing his black ‘rolex’ and the gold chain his wife bought him as a wedding gift. A nice gold cuban link that cost her a pretty penny. The memory of receiving it ingrained in his head; reminding him he married her almost 6 months ago and how in fourth months their marriage has changed so drastically.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

The night she gifted him the chain —they’d be in an ambiance of passion. Newlywed, honeymooning in Bora Bora for 2 weeks. Days of passionate sex and meaningful conversations. Strengthening their bond and pushing it over the line of surfaced attraction and reasonings for union. They’d been eating dinner when she presented him it to him, smiling with red painted lips as she watched him open the red velvet box. His eyes widening with intrigue at the opulent piece of jewelry, while she uttered a, “I know how you like chains.” He looked at her with a side smile and grabbed her by the face. Pressing a long and soft kiss to her lips while they smiled into each other —whispering a sweet thank you.

In the moment he’d felt like he was actually sure this was true love. Taking her on their hotel bed, his body laid on top of hers as he buried his face in her neck all night. It wasn’t crazy or intense, but it was satisfying. And it fulfilled him in the moment. His mind pensive with the thought that his days of passionate love-making was over. But he could handle that, because the long-term end goal was something he was willing to build and sacrifice for. Or so he thought at the time.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Now almost 4 months later everything has changed. A complete 180° over taking Tannyhill the moment y/n came bounding into his life. The day his body, heart and soul burned ablaze —her the flame. She completely and irrevocably changed his life, in so many ways. Leaving an indelible mark on his heart. The love he once felt for his wife dissipating by the day as the love he has for his darling girl builds like an uncontrollable flame every, single day. Leaving him feeling subdued and put out whenever she’s not near him —needing her presence like a fish needs water. His mood soured and snappy whenever she’s not hanging off his arm or napping on his office couch while he works.

His stepdaughter is the the most valuable treasure he’s ever found —even more valuable than the royal merchant everyone’s constantly chased around Kildare. Him included at one point. The high of needing that fortune now replaced with something he cherishes way more. Something he wants to keep locked away in his home and near him for the rest of his life; feeling that her beauty and presence alone was too priceless for the leering looks of everyone on the island.

So now as he finally finishes, adjusting his sleek black blazer. Running a hand over his shaved head as he opens the bedroom door. He shuts it behind him, shuffling softly to stand right in front of his stepdaughter’s bedroom door. Listening intently against it and smiling softly to himself as he heard her melodic voice softly singing along to music. What he assumes is makeup products clacking around as she gets ready. He taps a bent index finger two times on the door, leaving small but loud enough knocks. Listening as the music lowered slightly and her sweet voice letting out an inquisitive, “who is it?" Rafe replies almost immediately with a, “you good, princess?” He waited for a response, nothing coming out for a second and his mouth was already opening to ask again —when the door opened. In that moment, Rafe’s blazing body reignited with an intensity —his stomach and chest burning with a potency that almost felt like it hurt.

There she was. His beautiful, little stepdaughter —the apple of his eye. Wearing nothing but a ‘Victoria’s Secret’ robe, the middle undone and exposing the expanse of her body. Yet, covering the parts he was dying to get a glimpse of. Cursing himself for leering on his darling girl but how could he not? She stood there with her pretty eyes already on him, makeup done flawlessly. Their eyes holding onto each other’s for a second as tension noticeably built —once more. His eyes darkening with indisputable lust as he stares into her decorated ones. Hers echoing his as she took him in as well. He held her eyes for a good second, before they began wandering down. First falling on her glossy, pale-pink lips that look every bit as bite-able as they do in his daydreams. His eyes trailing lightly over the soft skin of her delicate neck that makes him want to sink his teeth in. The chain of the white-gold, diamond encrusted initial necklace he bought her sitting wrapped around it. But it’s when his eyes began following it down, did his jaw tick and a harsh breath left him.

There sat the diamond initial between her perky breast, gleaming against her smooth skin that sparkled with body glitter. His eyes moving to both sides of it slowly as he took in the peaks hidden behind the satin layer of robe. Lingering on them as he took in her nipples just barely covered by the ends of the robe. Fuck. They sat there so enticingly; the rationality in his brain fighting with him that he was leering at his stepdaughter. Overpowered by his lustful need as his chest sucked in with a harsh breath and his eyes continued their journey over the flawless architecture of her body. A temple he fought with the desire to defile.

He shakily breathed out as his eyes then wandered down her beautiful torso that was sexily decorated with silver body glitter, each ridge of it looking so alluring —valleys he wanted to explore with the tips of his fingers. His eyes wandering to the peak between her soft thighs decorated with white, lace that did almost nothing to cover it. Her thighs glistening with some kind of oil and glitter; that made him want to grip them in his hands and dig in until grape-sized bruises the shape of his fingertips were engraved in her skin. His eyes falling lower till they landed on her pretty french-tipped toes; her right ankle decorated with her preferred white-gold anklet. The same toes he wants to kiss presses to every time she walks around barefoot or has them decorated with rings.

His lips pursed in a soft, low whistle as he finally broke the long —suffocating silence that overtook them. Cobalt eyes snapping back to hers with a lustful glare. Watching as she bit her lip and her turned in knee swayed, her pretty eyes returning his same lustful glare as the corner of her plump lips quirked in a devious smile. “Hi daddy,” she finally breathed out, her soft voice full of seductive undertone. Her head tilting to the side as she pushed her chest out; nipples threatening to expose as the fabric moved along with her movements. Heat built in-between her thighs after taking in her stepfather the same way he did her.

Rafe’s pink lips quirked into a satisfied smirk at her acknowledgment and the title she’s so rightfully granted him. Bringing a ringed hand to scratch his chin as his bottom lip curling over his bottom teeth; a small scoff leaving him. He walked closer to her, reaching his arms out quickly and wrapping them around her. Holding eye contact as his left hand wrapped around her lower back. Landing on top of her perky butt, and digging his tips in as he pulled to his chest roughly. A small gasp falling from her sparkly lips as he pressed her tightly against him. Her robe falling open with his movements and pressing against the fabric of his shirt. Moaning as her sensitive nipples brushed against the fabric of his black button up. Internally satisfied with the reaction he’s given her.

While his right hand dug into her hair, gripping at her scalp tightly as he pulled her head back and her hair cascaded over his arm. Another gasp falling from her lips, this time pained as he shuffled them forward into her bedroom. His eyes holding hers as he man-handled her forward. Walking her until she was in front of her vanity, hand now gripping her ass and giving it a harsh squeeze before he roughly turns her around. Her robe flailing open with his movements as he faces her to the large mirror of her vanity that shined with led lights on the edges. His hands sat where her waist pinched in, squeezing roughly and feeling the soft grip of skin under his palm. His fingers digging in roughly.

He then moves his right hand back into her hair, forcing her to look into the mirror at herself. His large frame towering over her smaller body as he lowered his head to her left, to level their eye contact. Running the tip of his nose over her silky hair and taking in the sweet smell of her vanilla shampoo —shutting his eyes in satisfaction. Running it all the way down to her temple and then down her cheek with his eyes closed, tugging her head to the right harshly as she let out another soft, pained gasp. His nose then running over her jawline before finally finding its way down her neck; pressing in deeply and sniffing before letting out a harsh purr that vibrated in his chest. Her expensive perfume enticing him, but it was her natural scent that overtook him so much more.

He stayed there for a cool second as she watched him in the mirror, watching as he nuzzled his face into her. His hand on her waist reaching around and covering her stomach to press her right against him —into his erection. Her face contorted in pleasure as she reached her left hand back to cradle his head against her, scratching his scalp with her nails affectionately —while reaching her right hand back and digging into his thigh. Pressing herself against the rock-solid erection pressed right in between her ass. Eyes fluttering shut as she let out a soft moan. The sound causing him to let out a soft groan of his own as his lips then brushed over the expanse of her neck all the way to her shoulder.

He brought his left hand to grip her bare breast, harshly fondling it as he pressed a kiss to her smooth shoulder. Eyes opening and glaring at her lustfully through his eyebrows, watching as she writhed against him with pleasure. His grip on her hair tightened even more and tugged her head back, whispering a gruff “look at me.” That went ignored, she was too caught up in the feeling of his large hands fondling her. Something that not only delighted Rafe but frustrated him all the same, that she didn’t listen to him the first time. She always does.

“I fuckin’ said-“ his large ringed-hand that was fondling her body came to grip her neck; wrapping round it harshly —the desire to grip her face overcome by the knowledge that she will whine at him for ruining her makeup. “Look. at. me.” Squeezing the sides as she gasped louder and her eyes finally fluttered back open, faux lashes making them look oh-so-enticing. Slight tears building up from his handling and the heat of the moment. That’s when they finally made eye contact in her vanity mirror. And the sight in front of them was something that teetered their relationship further over the line of boundaries they loved to push.

Sure, she’d press her lips to his cheeks —as well as her tits to his chest every time he came home. Hard nipples poking against him as she lips a sloppy kiss on his cheek that leaves a glittery mark. Sure, maybe Rafe would meticulously rub sunscreen and tanning oil over her skin while she sat laid in front of him in the luxurious backyard of their home. His large hands leaving no inch unchecked under the guise of being thorough —long fingers daringly ghosting over her breast and the peak between her inner thighs so lightly it almost wasn’t there. And sure, they’ve definitely been tangled in his arms one too many times while he soothes her to sleep or cradles her while she cries about her mom. It’s nothing new for them to share affectionate caresses … but this.

This was something entirely different, and they both knew it. This wasn’t excessive affection under the guise of fatherly / daughterly love —no. This was primal impulse. The suffocating tension that constantly surrounds them being slightly cut into —just enough. The unspoken desire between them disguised by actions of parental affection. It was almost freudian. Yet, neither of them seemed to care. Not even a bit, not even at all. It was a blazing act of paroxysm that pushed them further to teetering off the cliff of their natural inclination toward each other. It felt like it was meant to be and it burned so deeply in both of them they would be branded for life.

After a long moment of unspoken words being exchanged through fiery glances; harsh breathes coming from both of them. Rafe finally let her throat go, his fist in her hair loosening at the same time. Pushing his body slightly back, pushing his erection away from her. He brought both hands to her waist; groping affectionately as he pressed a soft kiss to the crown of her head. Their eyes still on each other, the heat in the room almost unbearable. Rafe then grabbed both sides of her robe, bringing them to overlap one another as he tied it back up for her gently. Pressing a couple more soft kisses to her head before finally turning her around to face him. Her eyes now softening and looking up at him with unadulterated adoration —his gazing into hers with the exact same earnest.

He cupped her face softly in his large hands; careful not to mess with her meticulously done makeup. Pressing the tip of his nose against hers lightly before nudging it slightly; turning their heads to the side as he pressed a soft lingering kiss to her pretty lips. Their eyes falling shut and a harsh breath leaving both of them. After a moment, he pulled back and smoothed his hand over the top of her head to fix her mused hair; giving her a soft smile and pinching her chin. His once lustful gaze now replaced with the same adoration he adorns for her everyday.

“The sun’s setting”, he finally spoke once more. His voice calm and in a low drawl, as if he hadn’t just spoken in her ear with a lustful grit mere moments before. He continued to stroke her chin with his thumb as she gave him her entire regard; hanging onto every movement and drawl from his lips. Her brain going fuzzy and shutting off as she lets her stepfather take reign of her entire being once more. “Should start getting dressed, princess.” He pressed a soft kiss to her lips once more, “tonight’s going to be all about you.” He whispered lowly against her lips, brushing them against hers as they let out harsh breathes into each other. Her hands coming to grip the lapels of his blazer as she whined softly and pressed her self into him. Eyes fluttering shut as she sought out for more kisses. Falling completely into the man who consumed her entire being once more.

Rafe quirked an open mouth smile at her reaction to him, satisfaction settling in his chest with the knowledge that she’s just as whipped for him as he is her. Chuckling lowkey before stopping her movements, and pulling his head back. Watching as her beautiful eyes fluttered back open, another whine falling from her lips as her grip on his jacket tightened —confusion plastered along her gorgeous features. He just smirked down at her with a patronizing quirk of his lips, tapping her right cheek with his left hand a couple times lightly before turning her around once more. Smacking her on her ass lightly, but with a prominent clap as her pushed her toward her closet. Urging her to get dressed as he began strutting his way out of the room. Leaving her mind hazy and not completely there.

“Now, hurry up.” he called behind him as he walked out of her bedroom. His voice growing louder as he descended down the stairs. Shouting out one final, “you know dad doesn’t like waiting long. I have plans for us tonight, princess.” The promise of the night being all about them —about her driving her body into action. Quickly bouncing into her large closest with a pep in her step to get dressed, daydreaming briefly about a life where her and her stepfather were more than the title that was granted them for right now. Her music still playing lowly in the background.

“My old man is a bad man

But I can't deny, the way he holds my hand

And he grabs me, he has me by my heart…”

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

a/n: phew! i am so sorry this took so long i lowkey lost motivation, but we’re so back baby. i hope yall aren’t too made i broke this up into two parts. yes the series is based off “off to the races” by lana. i wanted to build up tension. as always any feedback is always deeply appreciated. much love.

taglist: @xcinnamonmalfoyx @iknowdatsrightbih @inthelibrarybtw @pretty-pink-princess @enjoymyloves @stoned-writer @rafesfuckdoll @unrealmirrorball @khaibdl @idksmtms @queenvane64 @xoxohoneymoongirl @vogueprincess @loonysbarn @heartsforrafecam @cl4uus @spideysimpossiblegirl @littlelamy @sunset-euphoria @slut-4-gojo @katekells @theater-bitch @faephoria @slutforlanadelslay @matthewswifeyy @pillowprincess4him @drewsphwife @rafeysangelbaby @wearemadeofstardust0 @inthelibrarybtw @adrianalovesevispresley @theeternaloptimistt

if i’m missing anyone pls lmk >.<

[nymphoniah]

Nonono cause the way pascals newest video (dis one https://www.pornhub.com/view_video.php?viewkey=6777d97c151e3) is giving such dads best friend Logan vibes?? Even best friends dad if you wanted to branch further, but my god the pussy play on the stairs? The “mr white please”???

imagine calling dbf!older!logan ”mr howlett” whilst hes inside.. I just can’t 🧎‍♀️‍➡️🧎‍♀️‍➡️🧎‍♀️‍➡️ pascal is just so daddy fr

cw: nsfw, p*rn link, dbf!logan, younger reader (in their 20’s)

NO YESSSS I LITERALLY WAS JUST GONNA POST ABOUT IT!!&(&; you read my mind!! 😭

that video is just mwah!!! everything i need 🤌 here’s the link to it for those who are interested in watching it <3

the way he manhandles her makes my brain all fuzzy >_< and also like her crying out for him, calling him mr. white, sobbing, begging for her daddy to cum inside at the end?? and asking for his permission to cum?? ohmygodddddd,,, it’s all i need in life… PLS

i fuckin LOVEEE the idea of dbf!logan wanting to corrupt you, noticing how you always wear revealing clothes whenever he stops by your house. how you struggle to make eye contact when he asks you a simple question like how was your day.

and one day where your dad asks logan watch over you while he’s out of town, you finally take your chance to confess your feelings—and logan can’t hold back anymore :3

he can’t even wait to get you in the bedroom, his rough hands tracing up and down your body, exploring every inch of your skin, feeling you up on the stairs!

omffff i have another fic idea now… thank you anon MWAH

[bitchy-craft]

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[pilgrimattinkercreek1974]

hi @mitha-bukhar do not apologize i love to explain things :-)

PFAS (Per- and polyfluoroalkyl substances) are a class of man-made "forever chemicals" that are found in a lot of everyday materials (e.g. nonstick pans, cosmetics, synthetic fabrics), and when they (bio)accumulate over time they are often linked to health concerns like cancer and endocrine disruption and also very harmful to ecosystems. they are generally impossible to detect by human senses (cannot be seen/smelled/tasted) and have become ubiquitous in water+soil+air+food systems in the last few decades. they've effectively dispersed across the entire planet (have been traced to remote places like deep arctic waters, inside whales) and have half-lives of decay as long as thousands of years. and so they are at once this active ecological/public health crisis and this synecdoche for the industrial-capitalist mechanisms of environmental+biopolitical domination that structure our lives in ways we don't notice unless we pay attention ---- don't forget about them! (further reading - x, x, x)

#2 is about being open to questioning+destabilizing+locating nuance re: broad strokes of assumption in one's life. this is because i spent the back half of this year attempting to reconcile significant shifts to my perception of my own identity at the same time as learning to write theoretical ecology models, a process that heavily emphasizes defining the boundary along which the qualitative dynamics of a system change + dividing potentiality broadly into boundary cases and interior cases. So. reminder that mapping even truth+certainty according to a cartesian coordinate system necessitates investigating what happens at the edges of possibility.

#5 is about the card game spider solitaire, which u can play using 2-4 suits (each added suit=increased difficulty). Actually not every game (i.e. starting configuration of cards) is winnable but a very high percentage are. however, because it can be a difficult and tedious game, people often give up winnable games anyway. a wrong move early on, which u have no way of knowing is wrong at the moment, can make the game impossible to win, meaning u have to go back+retrace ur steps+find out where you might have gone wrong+try again, sometimes over and over and over again until you hit upon a working pathway. and so it becomes this iterative meditative solitary process of exploring an opaque (but mathematically determined) set of possibilities with infinite time, meaning the capacity to win is (mostly) limited only by your own attentiveness to detail and willingness to go on

2025

Locate something redemptive in the sludge

Boundary case to every blanket statement

Create more than you curate more than you consume

Take the long way home

Every game of spider solitaire 4-suit is winnable

Don't forget about PFAS!

The cafe is for being off your phone

Attune yourself to the biogeochemical

Err on the side of subtlety…except in matters of love

Every day is all there is

[nanamineedstherapy]

Third Wheeling Your Own Marriage

F!Non-Sorceress CEO Reader X Gojo Satoru X Nanami Kento

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

Trigger Warnings: Verbal abuse, grief, and loss, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Redemption Arc, Mild Violence, Emotional Hurt, Disassociation, Suicidal Ideation, Depression.

A/N: Welcome back to this emotional rollercoaster, besties. We’ve got everything: cursed pregnancies, emotionally constipated men, and Sukuna trying to out-sass Megumi (spoiler: he succeeds), slow-burn tension finally snapping, emotionally broken men flirting with self-destruction, and a moment that might make you scream into your pillow (I’m not responsible for broken furniture). Warnings for angst, trauma, and me absolutely wrecking your heart while you laugh. If you’re here for a lobotomy, grab your scalpels—it’s about to get messy. Proceed with caution, tissues, and maybe a therapist on speed dial. Also, Megumi in this fic is maybe around mid-20s, and the reader is a few years older than him. He has mastered all his Shikigami's (yes, the 'with this treasure' one too) & is physically a Toji Hybrid. I have added links to show what he looks like. You are welcome. One Reader - Do you accept Cunt-structive Criticism? Me - No, I only accept Cash.

Previous Chapter 7 (alt ending 1.3) - Sapphire Echoes (Tumblr/Ao3)

Chapter 8 (alt ending 1.4) - Fractured Tides

Japan

The news reached Gojo and Nanami through an anonymous tip—a voice crackling over the phone, sterile and detached.

“The fetuses didn’t survive,” the doctor confirmed. “The pregnancy... it was unlike anything ever thought possible. The details are in the report.”

Gojo’s hand trembled as he gripped the receiver, his knuckles blanching as the plastic creaked under the pressure. When the receiver finally snapped, shards scattering across the floor, he didn’t flinch. His vibrant arrogance—the trait that had once made him invincible—was gone, stripped away in an instant. His eyes, previously so full of light and mischief, stared blankly, reflecting nothing but the hollow void inside him.

Nanami stood nearby, his posture rigid, his knuckles white as he clenched the report. The paper crinkled audibly, but his grip didn’t loosen. His jaw was so tightly locked it seemed his teeth might shatter.

“How’s this possible?” He rasped, finally putting it down, his voice horse under the weight of his self-loathing.

Gojo didn’t respond. His silver tongue, always ready with a quip or a plan, was silent. The crushing tide of guilt drowned every thought before it could form.

The hospital report was worse than they could have imagined. The chimeric fetuses were described in clinical detail, every word a knife to the chest.

“Genetic abnormalities beyond comprehension,” it read. “The combination of heteropaternal superfecundation and double fertilization created anomalies incompatible with life.”

The accompanying images were worse than they had imagined.

The boy’s elongated limbs twisted unnaturally, his spine arching grotesquely, like a question mark formed from pain. The girl’s fused fingers curled inward, her malformed face locked in an expression that seemed almost accusing.

Their shared split-colored hair was a mockery—a cruel reminder of the selfish desires that had created them.

Nanami turned away, bile rising in his throat. “They never had a chance,” he whispered, his voice hollow and brittle.

Gojo slammed the folder shut, his chest heaving as if the act of breathing had become insurmountable. For the first time in his life, he couldn’t find a way to fix things.

They tried to reach you. Desperation bled into every call, every text, and every voicemail. Every call went unanswered. Every message was read and ignored.

“Please,” Gojo had whispered into the receiver one night, his voice breaking. “Just... just let us explain.”

Nanami heard him through the door but didn’t offer comfort. The weight of his guilt pressing him further into despair. His gaze was fixed on the amber liquid in his glass, as if it held the answers he sought.

The quiet became their enemy. In the stillness, the thoughts crept in, unbidden and relentless.

Nanami found himself walking along the Rainbow Bridge , which connected to Odaiba, late one night. The icy wind bit at his skin as he gazed out at the dark waters of Tokyo Bay. It was calm, inviting, a stark contrast to the chaos in his mind.

He imagined what it would feel like to let go—to sink into the cold embrace of the water. The thought brought a fleeting sense of relief.

Gojo had begun lingering at the Shinjuku-gyoemmae station, his sunglasses hiding the exhaustion etched into his face. He stood near the edge of the platform, the sound of approaching trains vibrating through his bones.

It would be quick, he thought. Easy.

At home, the pills in Nanami’s medicine cabinet whispered promises of peace. One bottle, one night, and it could all be over.

But neither of them acted.

Every time they came close, the thought of you stopped them. They couldn’t leave without seeing you again, without explaining, apologizing, begging for forgiveness.

But the shame at what they’d done to you, to the babies, kept them from coming to you in person. So they stuck to calling and texting, each unanswered attempt another nail in the coffin of their hope.

They lived in limbo, caught between the unbearable weight of their guilt and the faint, flickering hope that one day you might pick up the phone.

---

The moon cast a faint silver glow over the balcony, its edges softened by a thin mist that clung to the chilled air. You sat on the couch inside, barely illuminated by the warm, dim light of the apartment. A blanket draped over your shoulders, shielding you from the cold but not from the hollow ache in your chest.

Your eyes were glassy, unfocused, fixed on nothing as your fingers absently traced the edge of the blanket. The faint hum of the city below was a distant whisper, meaningless and detached from the void swallowing you whole.

The faint scuff of shoes against stone pulled at the edges of your awareness. A shadow moved across the street in front of your house. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t blink. Your mind was elsewhere in a memory.

His hair was jet black and damp, clinging to his forehead in unruly spikes, his jawline streaked with dirt and exhaustion. He wore a plain black shirt, torn and damp in places, and dark jeans that looked as though they’d seen weeks of wear. His piercing blue eyes were scanning the building before they landed on you.

He didn’t hesitate.

In one smooth motion, he climbed the window ledges on the floor below, then stepped up to the balcony railing and swung himself up, his movements eerily reminiscent of someone—fluid, predatory. He landed soundlessly on the edge, stepping inside with a casualness that belied the weight of his presence.

But this wasn’t the boy you’d known. This was a man carved from desperation and resolve, his presence filling the room with an intensity that felt both familiar and foreign. He looked older than you remembered—taller, broader. His hair was wild, falling in dark, uneven spikes over eyes that glinted like steel. He was dressed in plain clothes.

He frowned, stepping closer, his shadow falling over you. When you still didn’t react, he crossed the room in two strides, crouching down in front of you, his features softening with something close to pain. His hands hovered over your shoulder before finally nudging it.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said, his voice low and rough, carrying the weight of months spent in pursuit.

You didn’t respond.

His brows furrowed as he stepped closer. “Hey,” he tried again, softer this time.

Still, you didn’t move.

His roughened fingers reached for your cheeks, his touch hesitant, a mere brush against the skin. “It’s me.”

Nothing.

His throat tightened, frustration flickering across his face He tilted his head to catch your gaze. “I’m not going anywhere until you say something,” he muttered, his voice edged with exasperation.

When you still didn’t react, he reached out again, this time giving your shoulder a firmer nudge.

Your eyes flicked to him at last, but they didn’t really see him. You stared through him, your expression glassy, as if replaying a memory too distant to touch.

The silence stretched taut and heavy.

His hands curled into fists as he rose to his full height, frustration and worry flickering across his face. He glanced toward the balcony, then back at you. The thought of leaving you like this wasn’t an option.

Then, from behind you, a presence surged forward—dark, commanding, and lethal.

Sukuna.

He appeared as though conjured from the shadows themselves, his crimson eyes burning with a dangerous gleam. His shirt hung open at the collar, his tattoos stark against his pale skin, and his lips curled into a predatory smirk. His crimson eyes burned like embers, and his lips curled in a snarl as his gaze stayed locked onto the man, narrowing with instant suspicion.

“Who the hell are you?” Sukuna’s voice was low, his tone dripping with menace as he stepped forward, placing himself between you and the intruder.

The man’s expression hardened as his stance shifted, one foot sliding back as though preparing for an attack, his eyes meeting Sukuna’s with the unyielding force of a man who’d long since stopped flinching at power. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“Careful, brat,” Sukuna growled, his head tilting, his grin widening in warning. “You don’t know who you’re messing with.”

The tension between them snapped taut, like a bowstring pulled to its limit. Sukuna took a step forward, his fingers twitching as though itching for a fight. The room seemed to darken as his cursed energy spiked, the air thick with its oppressive weight. But the man didn’t flinch. His hand flicked upward, and with a snap, shadows began to writhe at his feet.

“Neither do you,” the man said, his voice sharp. His hands twitched, and the faint shimmer of cursed energy began to gather around him.

“Hey…” Your voice was barely above a whisper, cracking under the strain of its first use in days.

Neither man noticed.

Sukuna’s smirk widened as he cracked his knuckles, his cursed energy flaring brighter. “I don’t care who you are, but you’re about to regret—”

The floor beneath you trembled as the man’s hands moved in a familiar pattern, his fingers forming seals too quickly to follow.

The air shifted, a deep, guttural hum vibrating through the room. The shadow behind the man darkened, twisting and expanding.

“No!”

Your voice cut through the tension like a blade, startling after months of silence. Both men froze, their eyes snapping to you.

You stood, the blanket slipping off your shoulders as you moved to place yourself in front of the man, shielding him from Sukuna. “Please don’t. You both are not threats to me,” you spoke, your voice trembling with frustration.

You turned to the man, your voice rising. “I told you to stop doing that!”

“I thought he kidnapped you. I think that justifies it’s use.” The man muttered, pretending to be annoyed, but immediately moved to hold you.

Sukuna barked out a laugh. “Taken her? Kid, I’m the one keeping her safe from idiots like you.”

You awkwardly reciprocated.

Sukuna raised a brow, his gaze darting between you and the man. For a brief moment, his smirk softened, a flicker of something tender crossing his features as he watched you—you, alive and animated for the first time in months. That’s the most you’ve said in months —he thought to himself. He continued eyeing the spiky-haired man, wondering who he was and if he was a threat, but the way you were comfortable around him, Sukuna deduced he wasn’t connected to your idiotic husbands.

The man, however, frowned, his jaw tightening. “He—”

“Not a threat,” you said lowly. “Mahoraga isn’t for solving your problems with people who talk back.”

Sukuna folded his arms, leaning casually against the doorframe but watching Megumi like a hawk. “Kid’s got issues,” he muttered, his voice tinged with amusement.

“You’re one to talk,” you shot back without thinking, letting go of Megumi and turning on Sukuna with a glare.

He blinked, then grinned, a warmth in his crimson eyes that made his smirk almost fond. “Fair point, princess.”

“You don’t look normal.”

“I’m fine,” you and Megumi both ignored Sukuna, though your voice cracked on the lie. But Sukuna didn’t correct you right now.

Megumi’s gaze kept searching your face for something—anything.

“I’m fine,” you repeated, though no one in the room believed it.

"Princess, I need to leave.” Sukuna had said, glaring at his phone. “Will you be okay for a few days? I have arranged for Choso and Yuji to be here within a few hours.”

“I’ll be fine. Megumi is my best friend; he will keep me safe.” You reassured him, while Megumi looked at him smugly with his arms now folded, muscles flexing.

“Call me if you need anything or if there’s an issue.” Sukuna told you, contemplating how mad you would be if he broke Megumi’s jaw.

You nodded as he turned to leave, answering a call. “I’m on my way, woman. Stop irritating me!”

Your heart sank.

He was going to meet a woman?!

Were you in love with him?

But how long would he wait for you?

// Playlist

After telling Megumi everything, the house was quiet now, save for the faint hum of the windchimes. He sat across from you on the couch, his elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly as if they were the only thing grounding him. His features were softened by the dim light, but the weight in his eyes made him look older than his years.

You sat opposite him, knees pulled to your chest, your arms wrapped around them. The blanket draped over your shoulders felt like a shield, though it did little to protect you from the storm inside.

For a long time, neither of you spoke.

“You were right,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

Megumi’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with surprise. “What?”

“I was wrong,” you said, your gaze fixed on a crack in the marble on the floor. “About everything. About them. About leaving you behind.”

His jaw tightened, and he looked away, the guilt in his expression enough to cut. “You don’t have to say that.”

“But it’s true,” you said, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “You warned me. You told me what they were like, what would happen, and I didn’t listen. I was so convinced I could handle it on my own that I pushed you away.”

Megumi let out a shaky breath, his hands flexing as if trying to grasp the weight of his emotions. “And I shouldn’t have said what I did. At the airport, I—” He swallowed hard, his voice breaking under the strain. “I was angry. Hurt. But that doesn’t excuse it. I said awful things to you, and I’ve hated myself for it every single day since. I was a coward, too afraid to reach out to you when you needed me most.”

His eyes glistened with unshed tears as he continued, the pain evident in every word. “Then what happened at your HQ... They were live streaming it on the news, and I was terrified, praying you’d make it out alive. But when they said you weren’t there, my heart dropped. No one knew where you had gone. I felt so helpless, so lost. I’ve been searching for you ever since, haunted by the fear that I might never find you again.”

The words hung between you, raw and heavy.

“I think...” you started, your voice trembling. “I think we both thought we were doing the right thing. You wanted to protect me, and I wanted to prove I didn’t need it, too blinded by what I thought was love.”

Megumi’s lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes glinting. “I should’ve been there. When it all fell apart, when they—” His voice cracked, and he looked away. “I should’ve come sooner.”

“And I should’ve called you,” you said, your chest tightening. “But I was ashamed. I didn’t want you to see how far I’d fallen.”

His gaze snapped back to yours. “You don’t have to hide from me. Ever. You never did. Sure, I’d yell at you or even tell you I was right, but I’d never not help you.”

The words broke something inside you, and for the first time in months, the tears came. They fell silently at first, then harder, your shoulders shaking as the dam burst.

Megumi moved without hesitation, closing the distance between you and pulling you into his arms. His grip was strong, grounding, and you clung to him like a lifeline. “I should have stayed in touch with you even if I didn’t agree with the decision in case you ever needed me.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice rough. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m so sorry, Megumi,” you whispered against his shoulder. “I’m so sorry for not listening, for abandoning you, for never trying again, for not honoring your dad.”

“I’m so sorry for the... the babies.” He spoke low as if he were blaming himself.

You didn’t know how to respond to that, so you cried harder, clutching his shirt.

---

// Playlist

Japan

Gojo sat on the edge of the couch, his white shirt wrinkled and stained, hanging loose on his frame. His eyes rimmed red, their usual brilliance dulled. His hand clutched a half-empty bottle of whiskey, the amber liquid sloshing as he tipped it back.

Across the room, Nanami stood by the kitchen sink, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows. He stared at his hands under the running water, scrubbing them long past clean, as if the act could erase the guilt embedded in his skin.

The silence between them was broken only by Gojo’s muttered curses as he took another swig.

“You should eat,” Nanami said finally, his voice hoarse.

Gojo snorted, the sound bitter. “Coming from the guy who hasn’t touched his plate in days.”

Nanami didn’t respond, his jaw tightening as he shut off the water.

Gojo leaned back, his head resting against the couch, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Do you ever wonder,” he said, his voice slurring slightly, “if it would’ve been better if we’d never...” He trailed off, the words hanging heavy in the air.

Nanami turned slowly, his gaze hard and unyielding. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Gojo shot back, his voice rising. “Say what we’re both thinking? That we—”

“I said don’t,” Nanami snapped. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his knuckles white.

Gojo let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You think not saying it changes anything? They’re gone, Kento. And it’s our fault.”

Nanami flinched, the words hitting him like a blow. He turned away, his shoulders stiff as he gripped the edge of the counter. “I know that,” he said quietly, his voice trembling. “I know that every second of every day.”

The room fell silent again, the weight of their shared guilt pressing down on them.

//

Later that night, Gojo sat alone on the balcony, the cold biting at his skin. He held a cigarette between his fingers, the smoke curling into the air like a ghost. He hadn’t smoked in years, but tonight it felt like the only thing keeping him grounded.

Nanami appeared in the doorway, a glass of scotch in hand. He didn’t say anything as he stepped outside, sitting on the opposite end of the balcony.

They didn’t look at each other, their gazes fixed on the city below.

Gojo’s sudden laugh was hollow, a broken sound that made Nanami’s chest tighten.

“I keep seeing them,” Gojo murmured, his hand tightening around the cigarette. “Every time I close my eyes. I see their faces. Their hair. Their... their little hands.” His voice cracked, and he fell silent, his shoulders trembling.

Nanami’s grip on his glass tightened, the faint clink of ice against glass the only sound he made.

“They didn’t even get a chance,” Gojo continued, his voice thick with emotion. “We robbed them of that.”

Nanami’s expression unreadable. “Every time I close my eyes, they’re there. And her. The way she looked at us... or didn’t. Like we weren’t even worth hating.”

Gojo turned to him, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Then why are we still here, Kento? Why are we still—”

“Because we don’t deserve peace,” Nanami interrupted, his voice harsh. “Not yet. Not until we’ve done everything we can to make it right. Even if she never forgives us.”

Gojo stared at him, his chest heaving as he tried to process the words.

They sat in silence after that, the weight of their guilt hanging heavy between them. The city lights blurred into a haze, and the distant sounds of life carried on, oblivious to the two broken men on the balcony.

Neither of them moved, each lost in their own spiral, but for the first time in weeks, the silence between them felt less like a void and more like a shared burden. A small, flickering reminder that they weren’t entirely alone.

---

// Playlist

The days passed in a haze. Choso and Yuji were sunshines around Megumi’s age, who moved to the lower floor, but you didn’t have much energy to interact with new people. Sukuna called you every few hours.

Megumi stayed with you. He didn’t leave, didn’t push, just existed in your space like a quiet force of nature.

He cooked meals, both your favorites growing up, and sat with you while you ate, even if it was just a few bites. And when the nightmares came, he was there, his hand steady on your shoulder, until the panic subsided.

A few days later, Sukuna returned and obsered it all with narrowed eyes, his irritation barely concealed.

One evening, Megumi was trying to coax you into taking a walk. “Fresh air,” he said, standing by the door with his arms crossed. “It’ll do you good.”

“I’m fine here,” you muttered, sinking deeper into the couch.

“She doesn’t need to go anywhere,” Sukuna cut in from the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a smirk. “She’s safe here.”

Megumi turned, his eyes narrowing. “Safe doesn’t mean healthy. What would you know, old man? You probably can’t walk at your age with your arthritis.”

“I’m not old, brat. I will fight you!” Sukuna shot back, his tone mocking.

“With what? Your walking stick?!,” Megumi snapped, his voice rising.

You couldn’t help it—the sheer absurdity of their bickering—it pulled a laugh from your chest. It was small, tentative, but real.

Both men froze, their eyes snapping to you.

“Did she just—” Sukuna started, his eyes wide.

“She laughed,” Megumi confirmed, his tone somewhere between disbelief and triumph.

You clapped a hand over your mouth, the sound foreign even to you. “I’m sorry,” you said, your voice muffled.

“Don’t be,” Sukuna said, his smirk returning as he leaned against the wall. “If I’d known it was this easy, I would’ve let him insult me sooner.”

“I’d do it for free,” Megumi said, looking at you, fingers twitching to pat himself on the back.

Sukuna’s grin widened. “Of course, it’s not like anyone would pay to watch you.” He fired back at Megumi, still looking at you.

You laughed again, the sound freer this time, and the tension in the room shifted.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the weight on your chest lightened.

After a beat, you calmed down and said, “I’d like to go back to work.”

Both nodded.

//

After that day, it became their unspoken mission to make you laugh as often as possible.

One afternoon, Sukuna conjured a miniature version of himself—barely six inches tall—who stomped across the coffee table, shouting, “Fear me, mortals!” in a voice far too high-pitched to be taken seriously.

Megumi, who was seated at the kitchen island, raised an eyebrow. “That’s the most pathetic thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Oh yeah?” Sukuna shot back, gesturing dramatically toward Mini-Sukuna. “At least I’m creative.”

Without missing a beat, Megumi summoned a tiny shikigami—a shadowy cat with glowing eyes—that pounced on Mini-Sukuna and promptly sat on him.

Meanwhile, you sat at the dining table, trying (and failing) to hide your laughter behind a mug of tea.

//

Another day the apartment was quiet except for the sizzling sound coming from the kitchen. Sukuna stood near the couch, holding a plate of food that looked… edible, but only in the way emergency rations were. His expression screamed confidence, as if he’d just solved world hunger.

In reality he was just jealous that Megumi had overtaken cooking since arriving, and he wasn’t able to feed you.

On the other side of the kitchen island, Megumi was frying something in a pan with the kind of intensity usually reserved for life-or-death surgeries. His sleeves were rolled up.

“You’re going to eat this,” Sukuna declared, stabbing the air with his fork.

“Like hell she is,” Megumi shot back without looking up, flipping whatever he was cooking with the ease of someone who’d spent years perfecting it. “She deserves something decent. Not whatever cursed sludge you’re trying to pass off as food. I’m making her comfort food.”

“She hasn’t touched your so-called food in days. She’s barely eaten anything. Mine’s nutritional,” Sukuna growled, stepping closer to the island.

“It’s an insult to taste buds,” Megumi countered, grabbing a plate and dishing out his creation—a simple, golden-brown omelet.

From your spot on the couch, you sighed, leaning your head against your hand. You weren’t sure what was worse: the fact that they were arguing over who got to feed you or that they seemed genuinely ready to fight about it.

“Hey,” you said, your voice flat, “I’m right here. I can feed myself.”

Both men ignored you.

“She hasn’t eaten properly in days,” Sukuna said, his crimson eyes narrowing. “I’ve been keeping her alive.”

“Barely,” Megumi muttered, sliding the plate across the counter. “She used to like this when we were younger.”

“She’s not a kid anymore, brat,” Sukuna sneered, taking a bite of his own creation as if to prove its worth. “She needs real food.”

“And you think that is real food?” Megumi shot back, nodding toward Sukuna’s plate. “It looks like you scraped it off the floor of an incomplete domain.”

“It’s better than whatever bland crap you’re making,” Sukuna retorted, leaning closer.

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “Seriously, you two—”

“Stay out of this,” they both said in unison, their voices sharp enough to make you blink.

You were trying to hide a chuckle at how serious they both were about their cooking.

Megumi crossed his arms, smirking. “Look, she’s laughing at you.”

“Watch it, brat,” Sukuna growled, his energy crackling faintly.

“Oh, please,” Megumi said, rolling his eyes. “You’re just mad she liked my cooking better.”

“She hasn’t even tried your cooking,” Sukuna snapped, his grip tightening on the fork. “And she won’t, because it looks like a toddler made it.”

“Better than your attempt at weaponized nutrition,” Megumi shot back.

The bickering continued, insults flying back and forth with increasing absurdity. By the time Sukuna accused Megumi of “summoning Mahoraga to chop onions,” you were doubled over, tears streaming down your face as you laughed harder than you had in months.

//

Your employees had welcomed you back with open arms while you still chose to work remotely. But the lack of light in your eyes didn’t go unnoticed.

But instead of bombarding you with questions, they took matters into their own hands.

During a virtual meeting, your CTO appeared on camera dressed as a game character, complete with poorly made props and a monologue.

“Fear not, boss,” he declared, brandishing a foam sword. “I shall vanquish the deadlines!”

The entire team erupted into cheers, clapping as he pretended to fight off invisible enemies.

Another time, your marketing manager created a meme slideshow of your company’s latest release, complete with captions like, “When the servers crash but the players still think it’s part of the game.”

Even Sukuna got in on it, lurking just off-camera during a meeting to mutter sarcastic commentary loud enough for you to hear.

“Do they always sound this unhinged?” he asked during a particularly chaotic brainstorming session.

“Yes,” you replied, your lips twitching into a small smile.

During a virtual meeting, one of your lead designers appeared on camera wearing a cardboard replica of a game console, complete with buttons that actually lit up. “Presenting the latest in gaming technology!” he announced, spinning in his chair.

“Is that a fire hazard?” you asked, unable to stop the corner of your mouth from twitching.

“Probably,” he replied, grinning.

Your PR team wasn’t any better. They sent you a PowerPoint presentation titled, Why Our Boss Deserves to Laugh More , which included memes of your favorite characters, clips of game glitches they’d purposely caused, and an oddly heartfelt slide featuring a stick figure version of you labeled, The Coolest CEO Ever .

---

Megumi stayed for as long as he could and then had to return to take care of his mom and his company once you started to feel better.

The air buzzed with the familiar hum of distant conversations and the faint echo of footsteps on polished floors. Megumi stood by the entrance, his duffel bag at his feet, his shoulders tense despite the calm mask he wore.

“I’ll come back in a few days with Mom, okay?” he said, his voice softer than usual as he pulled you into a hug. His arms were strong, grounding, but there was a hesitance in the way he held you, like he wasn’t ready to let go. “She’s been worried sick since you stopped talking after leaving Japan. She asks about you every day.”

You nodded against his chest, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Tell her to video call me. I miss her.”

“I will,” he murmured, ruffling your hair in that infuriatingly fond way he knew you hated. “The moment I land.”

You stepped back, your eyes darting anywhere but his. “Take care of yourself, Megumi. And her. She doesn’t listen to anyone but you.”

His lips twitched into a faint smirk, his dark eyes flicking over you like he was cataloging every detail. “You should talk, hypocrite.”

Your snort was half-hearted, but it was enough for him.

This goodbye was nothing like the one all those years ago. Back then, his anger had burned through the distance between you, his words cutting deep enough to leave scars you both carried. Now, there was only understanding—an unspoken truce built on shared pain and quiet forgiveness.

Megumi’s gaze shifted to Sukuna, who stood a few feet away, arms crossed and clearly bored. With a tilt of his head, Megumi motioned him over.

Sukuna raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a smirk. “What now, brat?” he muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets as he approached.

You watched them from a distance, your old DSLR— Megumi had brought back with him—in hand. The click of the shutter was oddly comforting, a rhythm that let you focus on something other than the ache in your chest. Yuji and Choso hovered nearby, pestering you with questions about aperture and lighting. You answered absently, your eyes never leaving the two figures standing just out of earshot—the most important men in your life. So important, your very essence was tangled with them, unlike the way it used to be with someone else.

//

“What do you want?” Sukuna muttered, his tone dripping with disinterest.

Megumi’s voice was steady; he was smiling, all friendly and unsuspecting. The way he smiled while threatening people—oddly reminiscent of Toji on an adult Megumi. “Keep her safe. Or I’ll gut you alive.”

Sukuna barked out a laugh, loud and sharp. “Bold, brat. But I’m not an idiot like them.” His grin widened, his crimson eyes gleaming. “I don’t take my eyes away from the destination for snowflakes.”

Megumi’s eyes narrowed, his posture shifting slightly, like he was ready for a fight. “She’s not a prize, Sukuna.”

“No,” Sukuna agreed, crossing his arms. “She’s everything. That’s why I won’t screw it up.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a low rumble. “But don’t tell me you’re in love with her, brat. You’re already pathetic enough.”

Megumi’s jaw tightened, his face a mask of calm, but the faintest flicker flashed in his eyes. Before he could respond, Yuji’s voice rang out from behind you.

“Stay in touch, Megumi!”

Megumi groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose as Sukuna chuckled.

Yuji had stuck to Megumi like pollen ever since they’d met. Whenever he walked out of your floor to get anything, or even went to the balcony for air, Yuji would immediately pounce on him like an overbearing puppy, talking like they had always known each other.

“Your fan club’s waiting,” Sukuna teased, stepping back with a mocking wave.

Megumi shot him a cold look before turning on his heel, his suitcase rolling behind him. He paused just long enough to glance over his shoulder at you, still clicking away with your camera.

“I’m getting late,” he said, his voice louder now, directed at no one in particular. “See you around.”

And just like that, he was gone, his silhouette swallowed by the steady flow of travelers.

You lowered the camera, watching the space he’d left behind. Sukuna sauntered over, his smirk still firmly in place.

“Miss him already?” He drawled.

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitched. “Shut up, Ryo.”

He chuckled, his gaze flicking to the camera in your hands. “Better get my good side next time. Wouldn’t want the brat to outshine me in your collection.”

You let yourself mock him. “He’s my best friend; of course he’ll shine.”

“Here I thought we were at least friends by now,” Sukuna shot back, his grin widening as he dragged you back to the car while also wrangling Choso and Yuji.

But nothing could have prepared you for the spectacle unfolding in front of you. Yuji stood precariously on a luggage cart, holding what looked like a security baton he must’ve stolen from somewhere.

“Onward, noble steed!” Yuji bellowed, jabbing the baton forward.

Choso, pushing the cart, sighed heavily. “Yuji, this is dumb. You’re going to fall, and I’m not paying for the damages.”

“You don’t pay for anything anyway!” Yuji shot back, wobbling as the cart veered dangerously close to a potted plant.

“Not my fault you’re the one with no sense of balance,” Choso deadpanned, shoving the cart harder.

“Balance is for losers!” Yuji yelled triumphantly—right before the cart hit a bump and sent him tumbling onto the floor with a loud thud.

You burst out laughing, clutching your camera as you tried to steady yourself. Sukuna groaned.

“Do these idiots have a death wish?” He muttered, glancing at you. “Why do I let them out in public?”

“They’re grown adults,” you replied between fits of laughter, wiping a tear from your eye. “Well... Technically. Have been for a few years.”

Yuji scrambled to his feet, rubbing his ass with an exaggerated pout. “You’re supposed to be on my side, Choso!”

“I was until you called me a steed,” Choso replied, brushing his hands off on his jeans. “You’re lucky I didn’t throw you into that plant.”

“You’re just mad because I’m faster,” Yuji shot back, grabbing the cart again.

“Faster at what? Hitting the ground?” Choso said, raising an eyebrow.

Sukuna snorted, his crimson eyes narrowing as he gestured toward the two. “You know what? Let him break something. Maybe he’ll finally learn.”

“Doubt it,” you said, grinning.

Yuji, undeterred by his earlier failure, climbed back onto the cart. “Round two! Let’s go!”

Choso sighed again, but there was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes as he grabbed the handle. “Fine. But if security catches us, I’m blaming you.”

“You always blame me!” Yuji whined, holding on tighter this time.

“Because it’s always your fault,” Choso replied, shoving the cart with a bit more force than necessary.

As the cart barreled down the terminal, narrowly missing several unsuspecting travelers, you and Sukuna watched in bemused silence.

“You should film this,” Sukuna said, his lips curling into a smirk. “Might go viral. ‘Local lesbian and his Itadorki.’”

You doubled over laughing while Yuji and Choso glared at Sukuna.

//

Later that evening, the chaos of the airport was a distant memory as you and Sukuna sat together on the couch. The quiet was comforting, the kind of stillness that didn’t feel heavy for once.

“Thank you,” you said softly, breaking the silence.

Sukuna turned to you, his expression unreadable. “For what?”

“For… everything,” you said, your cheeks heating under his gaze.

He smirked, leaning back against the cushions. “Took you long enough to admit it.”

You rolled your eyes, but a small smile tugged at your lips. The weight on your chest lifted just a little, replaced by something warm and unfamiliar.

//

But the mornings still clawed at you like ghosts, dragging you into the suffocating reality of what you’d lost. The ache in your chest wasn’t a dull pain but a jagged wound, raw and unrelenting. But Sukuna was there, always.

Without fail, he brought you breakfast in bed, the tray heavy with whatever he decided you needed to eat that day. You’d protest, pushing the plate aside, focusing on pending work, and he’d glare, the kind of glare that made it clear he wouldn’t leave until you took at least a few bites.

When he walked with you in the park, his hand brushed your lower back, a gesture so casual yet grounding it left you disarmed. He didn’t say much, but his presence filled the empty spaces in ways words never could. Slowly, painfully, the walls you’d built began to crack, the light seeping through despite your efforts to hold it all together.

// Playlist

A couple of weeks later, one evening, the two of you sat on the balcony of your new home, the air heavy with the scent of cigarettes and rain-soaked concrete. You rested your chin on your knees, watching the city lights blur into a smear of orange and white.

“You’re not as awful as you pretend to be,” you murmured, breaking the silence.

Sukuna chuckled, the sound deep and rough. He lit a cigarette with practiced ease, the glow illuminating his features. “Don’t ruin my reputation, princess,” he drawled, exhaling smoke like a dragon.

A laugh bubbled up from your chest. It felt foreign, but it didn’t hurt. Not this time.

You reached for the cigarette, plucking it from his fingers. Taking a slow drag, you coughed, the burn familiar but unwelcome after years away. “You know,” you started, voice quieter now, “I never wanted kids. I even got a hysterectomy, but... I think their RCT might’ve worked on me.”

Sukuna leaned back, smirking as if the universe amused him. “Good thing I hate brats too,” he said, his tone laced with mockery but softened by something genuine. “But I’d be fine either way you lean. I care more about you than any kid.”

You tilted your head, a sly smile tugging at your lips. “So confident I’d end up with you, huh?”

He nodded, the movement slow and deliberate.

The words spilled from you before you could stop them. “But I’m sure. I don’t want any more kids. I’m done.”

His grin widened, sharp and wolfish. “Great. Then I’ll have you all to myself,” he said, plucking the cigarette from your hand and taking a drag as if the conversation hadn’t just carved open a vulnerable piece of you.

You watched him for a moment, the question heavy on your tongue before you gave in to it. “Why are you still here? I mean... you’re attractive, Sukuna. You could have anyone. Why’d you help me?”

He exhaled smoke slowly, his gaze cutting to yours. “You really want to know?”

You nodded, feeling the tension coil in the air between you.

“The first time I saw you was at that dingy grocery store near our building in Norway. You were glaring at a Norwegian label like you could burn it into understanding if you stared hard enough.” He smirked, the memory vivid in his mind. “Then some store employee came over, and you covered your belly like you’d fight him if he even looked at you wrong. You were scared—hell, I’ve seen fear before, plenty of it—but yours was different. The kind I’d seen in survivors—the kind that said you’ve been through hell and still haven’t given up. There was this stubbornness in your eyes, like you’d fight to your last breath even knowing you’d lose.”

His voice dipped lower, his eyes locking onto yours. “That’s when I knew I wanted to know you more. Then you walked past me like I didn’t exist. You didn’t even glance my way. I knew right then you weren’t a sorcerer. You were oblivious, but your fear begged me to protect you. Practically dared me.”

A laugh escaped you, soft but real. “Or maybe you just couldn’t handle a woman not noticing you,” you teased, though your gaze lingered on him, soft and awed, like he’d hung the stars just for you.

His grin sharpened, dangerous yet intoxicating. Without warning, he flicked the cigarette over the railing, his hand shooting out to grab your waist. You gasped as he pulled you flush against him, his heat burning through your defenses.

His lips crashed into yours, the kiss anything but gentle. It was raw, demanding, and devastatingly sensual, as if he was trying to claim every fractured piece of you. Your hands instinctively found his chest, but instead of pushing him away, your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer.

The kiss deepened, his tongue brushing against yours, coaxing you into a rhythm that left you breathless. Your head tilted back as his hand tangled in your hair, the other anchoring you to him. The world blurred around you, the city’s hum fading into nothingness.

When you finally broke apart, your chest heaved, your lips tingling from the intensity. His crimson eyes bore into yours, a smirk playing on his lips. “Still think I’m not worth noticing, princess?” he murmured, his voice low and dripping with amusement.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Instead, you smiled, leaning into him, the ache in your chest momentarily quieted by the storm he’d stirred in you.

---

Japan

// Playlist

The apartment was silent, save for the occasional creak of the floorboards and the faint hum of the refrigerator. It had been months since Gojo and Nanami had received the news, but the weight of it hadn’t lifted. If anything, it had grown heavier, pressing them into themselves, into the shadows of their shared space.

Gojo sat in the darkness of their penthouse, the glow of the city outside mocking him with its indifference. The blinds were drawn just enough for the neon lights to cast fractured shadows across the floor. His sunglasses sat abandoned on the table, forgotten. His eyes—once impossibly bright, reflecting the limitless sky—were bloodshot and hollow, the kind of emptiness that no amount of sleep could fix.

His phone buzzed on the table, a cruel reminder of the hundred unanswered messages he’d already sent. He stared at it for a moment, his hand twitching toward it before falling back to his lap.

He chuckled, the sound sharp and bitter. “Why bother?” he muttered to himself, running a hand through his unkempt hair. The white strands fell limply, no longer carrying their usual defiance.

Across the penthouse in your old office, Nanami sat with the glass in his hand, the amber liquid inside untouched. He stared at it, his reflection distorted by the curve of the glass.

He thought of the twins. Their faces haunted him—not as they were in the sterile images of the report, but as they could have been. A boy with Gojo’s wild grin and his own steady gaze. A girl with your sharp wit and quiet strength.

He raised the glass to his lips but hesitated, the smell of alcohol turning his stomach. With a quiet curse, he set it down, the sound of glass on wood too loud in the silence.

//

The train station was cold, the kind of cold that seeped into your bones and stayed there. Gojo stood near the edge of the platform, his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat. The sound of the approaching train grew louder, the vibration humming through his feet.

He stepped closer, the yellow line glaring up at him like a warning.

Just one step.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, the vibration jolting him out of his thoughts. He pulled it out, the screen lighting up with another name that wasn’t yours.

Yuta.

He hesitated before answering, his voice cracking as he said, “What?”

“Sensei?” Yuta’s voice was hesitant, like he was trying to gauge how far Gojo had fallen. “I just... wanted to check on you. You’ve been... quiet. We heard you were suspended.”

Gojo let out a dry laugh, stepping back from the edge. “Quiet’s good, isn’t it?”

There was a long pause on the other end. “You don’t sound like yourself.”

“Maybe I’m not,” Gojo replied, ending the call before Yuta could say anything else.

The Rainbow Bridge stretched out before him, its lights reflected in the dark waters below. Nanami gripped the railing, the cold metal biting into his palms. The wind whipped through his hair, tugging at his jacket like it was trying to pull him over the edge.

He leaned forward, staring down at the waves.

He thought of you. Of your smile before everything went wrong. Of the way you used to laugh at his dry humor, your head tilted just slightly.

The phone in his pocket felt like a lead weight. He pulled it out, his thumb hovering over your name.

What could he even say?

The words felt heavy, impossible. Instead, he stared at the screen until it dimmed, the reflection of his hollow face staring back at him.

//

At home, Gojo stared at the bottle of pills on his nightstand, his hand hovering over the cap. His reflection in the nearby mirror caught his eye—he barely recognized the man staring back.

“You’re pathetic,” he muttered, the words slicing through the silence.

Nanami sat on the floor of his bathroom, his back against the wall. The report sat beside him, its pages wrinkled and stained with spilled whiskey.

“They never had a chance,” he whispered, the words tasting like ash.

Both men lived in the silence, haunted by memories of what could have been. The world moved on around them, but they were stuck, trapped in a purgatory of their own making.

The only thing keeping them tethered to this existence was the faint hope that, one day, you might pick up the phone. One day, you might let them explain. One day, you might forgive them.

But for now, they waited, drowning in the unbearable weight of their own guilt.

A/N: And that’s how we turn pain into comedy and back again. I know you’re emotionally damaged (same). Who do you think was the woman Sukuna went to meet? (Hint: It's not Urame, so use your critical thinking skills). Meanwhile, Gojo and Nanami are one bad day away from booking permanent balcony seats in purgatory. Next chapter, we might actually let Nanami catch a break—or not. What do you think? Should Gojo finally punch Sukuna for calling him a ‘failed Barbie’? But seriously, next chapter—more tension, more heartbreak; maybe someone actually admits how they feel and SUMT (don't expect too much; I'm not very good at it).

Next Chapter will be out in 2-3 Days.

Also I have a seprate fluff series going on which can be read as part of this AU - Bubble Butt Problems - Nanami X Reader X Gojo - (Tumblr/Ao3)

All Works Masterlist

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

Taglist Open - If I missed to tag anyone, please remind me.

[honeyncherry]

pls indulge with me for a second as i work on this joe burrow fic...

He craved you in ways that felt impossible to contain, a heat that burned hotter with every stolen glance and fleeting touch. 

It wasn’t just the physical pull — though that was undeniable. More so the way his pulse quickened when your fingers brushed his arm, a simple gesture that left his skin tingling long after. The way your laugh sent a shiver down his spine, like the brightest melody, curling around his senses and making it hard to focus on anything but you. And the way you looked at him, eyes bright and searching, filled with something that made his breath hitch, something he wanted so badly to claim, to keep, to hold.

But it was more than the way your presence unraveled him. It was the ache of sitting beside you on his couch, too close but never close enough, your knee brushing his as you leaned in to tell him something that had no right being so captivating. The way his gaze lingered on your lips when you weren’t looking, wondering what they’d feel like against his. Wondering what they’d feel like against his skin.

And that was the part that made his chest tighten with shame.

You trusted him. Confided in him. Looked at him like he was safe, like he was someone you could depend on. Oblivious to the storm raging inside him, the way his thoughts twisted into places they shouldn’t go. The way you were so unapologetically yourself, completely unaware of the effect you had on him, the way you consumed his thoughts long after you’d left.

And every time you smiled at him, every time your voice softened as you said his name, it was like his world tilted on its axis, pulling him closer to something he couldn’t resist even if he tried. And God, he tried.

He wanted you in ways that went beyond words, beyond reason. He wanted to feel the heat of your touch, the weight of your gaze when it wasn’t just friendly. He wanted more, and the ache of it was enough to unravel him from the inside out.

And yet, he felt guilty. Sick with it. These feelings clawed at him, made him feel like some twisted, selfish impostor in your life. How could he sit beside you, pretending to be the friend you thought he was, when every inch of him ached to be more? When every thought betrayed him?

It was wrong. It had to be. But no matter how much he told himself that, no matter how many times he tried to shove the thoughts aside, they always came back.

link

[sirhamburrger]

Can I get a earl grey with 100% sugar and a crossiant on the side for Rin Itoshi 🙏(the link didn’t work for the post 💔)

sure! let's double-check your order first, shall we? ➼ earl grey -------- friends to lovers ➼ (100% sugar) --- fluff ➼ croissant -------- drabble/oneshot ➼ for r. itoshi ------ who's only ever got soccer on the brain... and you! ➼ total ------------- 649 words ➼ contents -------- slightly possessive rin, pda, bad pacing, pda at the end, it also probably doesn't get good until the end alright, here you go! presenting...

on soccer and you (r. itoshi x reader drabble) courtesy of kai’s cat café! - 150 followers event

café menu || order progress asks closed.

rin itoshi's life revolves around soccer. if he’s in a good mood, soccer is probably the reason why - a good game, maybe, or a new skill learnt. if he’s in a bad mood, it’s probably also to do with soccer. busy? likely busy with soccer. even if he’s not busy, his mind is probably fixated on his next game or practice session. rin itoshi lives his life as if the world were a soccer field and every moment, a match waiting to be played.

so, naturally, he does everything like he plays soccer.

he does his schoolwork like he plays soccer. cautious, careful, calculating. you see it in every clinical movement, every learned thought spoken aloud, every smooth glide of his pen across paper. his handwriting is as precise as his passes, sharp and deliberate. he doesn’t rush, doesn’t stumble; every stroke of his pen carries the weight of strategy. 

he eats like he’s fueling for a game. every meal is a calculation, a perfectly balanced equation of proteins, carbs, and nutrients. there’s no indulgence, no whim - just discipline. he knows his body is his weapon, his tool, his masterpiece, and he treats it as such.

even in casual moments, when others laugh and talk freely, rin is observing. his sharp teal eyes scan the room like he’s analyzing a pitch, reading movements, predicting plays. it’s not that he doesn’t want to relax; he simply doesn’t know how. soccer has taught him to always stay one step ahead, to think three steps forward - a permanent lens.

and his relationships with other people? they may as well just be another match to him, since he approaches them with the same mindset: cautious, intentional, always thinking about the long game. emotions aren’t things he shows easily; they’re like the ball at his feet - kept close, controlled, never exposed unless absolutely necessary.

and then there’s you.

if he’s the star player, you’re his number one fan, his cheerleader. always watching from the sidelines, supporting him. this is how it’s been since the two of you met in elementary school. people might think rin's more than a little scary, but that’s not true; he’s the best friend you could ask for. you go to all his matches, and if you have some kind of play, or art exhibition, or piano recital, he’ll be there. 

in a way, he’s your number one fan as much as you are his.

being around you doesn’t feel so much like a game of soccer, and that’s precisely what he likes about your friendship. with you, he can finally be his true self, and not what other people think he should be.

you’re worried that will change when you start dating him. going from being best friends to being in a serious relationship - well, the transition itself isn’t all that hard. but you’re worried that he’ll change the way he sees you, change the way he treats you. and in a way, he does. every date is planned out to perfection, every element falling into place like the pieces of a puzzle.

but, as everyone who’s seen him play knows, he gets unpredictable when he gets excited during a match.

he brings you huge bouquets of flowers sometimes, so big you need three vases to fit them all. you’re craving a really specific food? he’s running down to the convenience store at 2am for you, or looking up a youtube tutorial for it. when guys hit on you - in his presence, no less, the nerve of them - he’s pulling you into a heated kiss that leaves you stuttering and breathless. 

and he kisses you in front of the crowds too when he wins his games, uncaring of hundreds of people seeing your public displays of affection.

so yeah, he’s unpredictable when he gets crazy over you, just as he gets crazy over soccer. but you’re sure not complaining.

end.

a message from the café owner:

this request was pretty fun to work with, thanks for this anon! rin is getting to be one of my favourite characters so i'm probably going to be writing for him more and more (and two seperate times within this event LOL) and sorry about the link 😢

café menu || order progress

© sirhamburrger || [general m.list]

[rampagerslife]

look all i know is from stareing at hrtwiki pages for hours and finding pages with data showing that if you digest estrogen pills instead of taking them sublingually that the amount of estrogen taken into the body and the duration of which it's circulating in one's system is much much lower than sublingually

i can't provide a specific link because for gods sakes who actually saves every link to every page they ever read online in their life?

but like i said this i know is from somewhere on the hrtwiki site

hello little fumoshino, its time to take your estrogen tablets!

(original art by Haqlue)

[queenjunothegreat]

The Tumblr link thing won't work so have an ugly ass hyperlink, I GUESS

Alrighty! It's time to ring in the new year, and I think it's only appropriate that my first post of the year is HoJ! :D @demigod-shenanigans and I were talking about what scenes I should do from MoA and we talked about Charleston and Jason not really remembering (or really even knowing) what happened there with Reyna but he DOES know that his best friend kinda got weird and distant, so he's got all this anxiety about Piper going to talk to that very same entity. Instead, I wrote this. Sorry, bestie <3

Now, may I present LEO Takes a Tumble: A Mark of Athena Scene

As Leo fell once again, he realized that he hadn't been scared when he was falling before. He hadn't been scared because he knew Jason was there and he knew with every fiber of his being that Jason would catch him. Jason wouldn't let him fall. But now they were both falling, and Leo wasn't really sure whose job it was to catch Jason. *** Leo free falls to his certain death. This is only really about half as dramatic as it should be.

As Leo fell through the air following Frank ‘Butterfingers’ Zhang’s spectacular performance (seriously, how did a giant eagle manage to drop him? Leo was suspicious of a deliberate attempt on his life) his only thought was a deep, heart-aching regret at the thought of the salsa he'd made the night before. It had been good right after he'd finished it, obviously, but after a night of letting it rest? Of letting all those flavors marry and meld? There wasn't much that could beat that. But now he'd never get to have it because Frank had gone and dropped him right above a demigod free-for-all throwdown. Somehow, the crew of the Argo II was managing to hold their own against the platoon of soldiers who'd attacked them, which was honestly a little embarrassing for the Romans, come to think of it. 

Before he could think too much about that, he was tackled in midair and brought in close to a remarkably familiar chest. He looked up to see Jason, all of his features sharpened with concentration, and he couldn't help but bite his lower lip in a grin and waggle his eyebrows. “Well, if it isn't the one and only Superman himself. Come here often?”

“Focusing right now,” Jason chided, ignoring the pink on his cheeks. “Be quiet.”

“You know me, Mr. Serious here. I'm practically stoic.”

Jason scoffed. “Yeah right.”

Unfortunately, even that brief moment of distraction was enough to sign the warrant on their certain doom. There was an explosion in the air right in front of them (Leo blamed Hedge) and Jason didn't have time to react. He didn't drop Leo, but he did lose control of the winds and the two of them were suddenly tumbling through the air like abandoned dolls. 

As Leo fell once again, he realized that he hadn't been scared when he was falling before. He hadn't been scared because he knew Jason was there and he knew with every fiber of his being that Jason would catch him. Jason wouldn't let him fall. But now they were both falling, and Leo wasn't really sure whose job it was to catch Jason. 

“Jason! Hey, man! Can you hear me?” Jason just continued to stare at nothing with that same dazed expression on his face, so Leo squirmed one of his hands out from where it was crushed between their chests and gently smacked Jason’s cheek until blue met brown. “Wake up, Jason!”

Jason blinked hard a few times to focus his vision, and when he did his eyes widened in terror at the sight of what Leo assumed was the rapidly approaching ground beneath them. “Hang on! This is gonna get rough!” he ordered over the sharp whistling in Leo’s ears. Then he tucked Leo’s head under his chin and squeezed him tight right as a powerful gust of wind slammed into them from the side. 

Leo clung tight to Jason, hands fisted in the front of his shirt, as the two of them tumbled through the air like one of Leo's failed projects. They were headed straight for a nearby hill, which Leo assumed was Jason’s plan, and Leo braced himself for a very hard landing, followed by getting squashed into a pancake by 230 pounds of solid Roman demigod muscle. Only, that didn't happen. The landing was hard, even harder than Leo had originally assumed it would be, but at the last second, Jason jerked in midair, making sure he hit the ground first. They rolled a few times, which did definitely squeeze the air out of Leo’s lungs but left him otherwise unharmed, until they settled with Jason sprawled out flat on his back and Leo on top of him.

Leo blinked hard a few times to get the stars out of his eyes before his attention turned to Jason. He was lying there, completely still with his eyes closed, and Leo was horribly reminded of the sight of him in the infirmary bed after New Rome. Panic welled in the back of his throat and he started smacking his cheek again, a little harder than he had in the air. “Jace? Jace, you there? C’mon, man, please? Houston to Superman: Come in, Superman!”

“Superman to Houston: Stop hitting me, please,” Jason groaned, weakly batting Leo's hand away from his face.

Leo didn't care. He grabbed both of Jason’s cheeks up in his hands and gave him an absolutely blinding smile. “Jace!”

Jason just smiled back at him for a moment before his eyes went wide and he sat straight up, forcing Leo to sit up with him. His hands started patting Leo down before he desperately raked his fingers through Leo’s hair and cupped his hands around his jaw. “Leo! Oh my gods! Are you okay?”

“I'm Gucci, bro,” Leo grinned through his forced fish face. Jason just wrapped him up in a hug so tight, Leo couldn't help but wonder if they were going to start their free fall again. He frowned when Jason started trembling. “Jace? Are you okay?”

“You were falling,” Jason muttered quietly from where his face was hidden in Leo’s shoulder. “I don't like watching you fall.”

Leo felt his heart twinge in sympathy, and he patted the back of Jason’s head. “Hey, man, don't sweat it. I never do. I've got my own personal Superman to Lois Lane me when I need him, remember? He'd never let me fall too bad.”

Jason huffed out a quiet chuckle before he emerged. He carefully pushed Leo off of his lap and got to his feet so he could scowl down at the demigods fighting below. “Dammit. This is not how I planned for this to go.”

Leo’s eyebrows shot up. “Yeah? How did you plan it? Were you looking for a hot date down in Charleston? Gonna hold somebody's hand while you walk them through the fort and gush about Civil War battle formations?”

Jason flushed maroon and he scowled at Leo, which just made him grin. “Shut up.”

“It's okay, buddy,” Leo comforted, patting him on the arm. “Next time we find a historical site, you can hold my hand and tell me stuff I won't listen to, if you can't find a real date.”

Somehow, Jason got even redder. “Shut up.”

Leo mimed zipping his lips, and Jason rolled his eyes. “Come on,  Houston. We need to get back to the ship.” He held out his arm like he was offering Leo a side hug. “You ready?”

“For you, Superman? Always,” Leo grinned as he took up his position. Jason's arm wrapped around him, and they shot off into the sky.

[aroaceleovaldez]

what's your opinion on the trials of apollo series? (if you already have a post like this, you could link it below, i just haven't seen it if so)

I think it has an interesting concept and introduces some interesting worldbuilding, plus some nice new characters, but overall it's not executed well and is an unnecessary third series. A lot of TOA kind of ends up breaking the theses of the first series by creating a premise that basically every character involved needs to be retconned to be able to fit within. It also focuses way too heavily on unnecessary cameos and retcons/overcorrecting previous mistakes. Not to mention how much new stuff it introduces that is... not great. Altogether it's kind of a mess. But I can see promise in some of the core concepts.

My two main sort of main "takes" on how I think TOA could be improved is either: a.) remove Calypso from HoO and instead have her be re-introduced in TOA as a tritagonist in a trio with Apollo and Meg, with the focal point of the trio's dynamic being the intersection of their experiences and how they relate to one another - with a lot of emphasis on Calypso being a mirror to Apollo in both being stripped of their immortality and thrown into the mortal world and having been unfairly punished. Then have Calypso join the Hunt in approximately TTT (essentially her way of taking control of her own life again and regaining her immortality) so the finale is Meg and Apollo on their own and Calypso's absence is naturally felt because we're used to trio dynamics in the franchise. It'd be a great way to break the convention of the series while also playing with this feeling of loss but also hope leading up to the final fight in a meaningful way without having to lean so heavily on unnecessary (and poorly executed) character death. Calypso is gone because she got her happy ending, and now it's Meg and Apollo's turn.

or b.) - and this is apparently controversial - instead of having the protagonist be Apollo, have it be Ares. Otherwise the overarching plot is the same. This way you can keep the plot structure but not have to entirely retcon Apollo's character to fit the story concept. It also finally ties up that loose thread about Ares never seeing repercussions for his actions and allowing him to have a positive character arc that way more naturally touches upon events from the previous series. As a bonus it also allows for bringing PJO!Ares closer to how he's mythologically portrayed and examining some of his mythological themes and what exactly he's the god of. Mars is an agricultural god! Having his deuteragonist being a daughter of Demeter would be really fun to highlight that! Mythologically he's usually portrayed as a really good father! Let's allow him to have some character development where he stops being such a jerk!

One of my core problems with TOA is Apollo's character is retconned entirely for TOA to even begin, he doesn't have any actual true flaws that he needs to work on throughout his character arc, and by the end he's literally just back where he started with his characterization in PJatO. It's a total net-zero. Why? Having Ares be the protagonist instead would be a great opportunity to take his currently very stagnant character from PJatO (and the very little he shows up in HoO) and have him change dramatically for the better. Doing so would also fit way more with the themes of the first series.

[papasbaseball]

The Wizard x Reader (Wonderful Wonderful Girl) | Chapter 10

Pairing: Wizard x F!Reader

Rating: Mature (Rating to Increase)

Warnings: Power Imbalance, Boss/Employee Relationship, Graphic Depictions of Violence

Summary: Being a maid in the Royal Palace of Oz is not half so bad. Despite the meager wages, everything else is provided for you for an honest day's work. It can be unnerving working for the most powerful man in Oz, but you are able to avoid him most of the time. This changes during Lurlinemas, your paths soon becoming inextricably intertwined.

Word Count: 2,425 of 27,089

Start | Prev

AO3 Link

We don't talk about the kiss. I spend most of my time in the hallway, reading one of the books he had gotten along with our set of winter traveling clothes. None of the clothes are green, all of them varying shades of brown and beige. I feel as if a storm has picked us up and blown us into a different dimension, stripped of any finery or verdant life, stripped of friends and family. I'd give anything to be able to talk to even Emily right now. When we pull into Wittica, I'm glued to the door, hand on the handle even before the train pulls to a stop.

As I slide the door open, I breathe in the cold, thin air. It's harder to breathe up here, something that I hadn't thought much about as the iron beast tore and climbed through the Pertha hills. Those same hills had gone from simple rolling mounds of winter yellow grass to wide and sturdy mountains. As I look across the city skyline, I can see the barest covering of snow on top of them, as if Lurline herself had come through in the middle of the night to dust them with a powdered sugar. The entire village seems to have thanked her for this honor by stringing thick garlands weighed heavy with oranges and cranberries and salt dough cookies from every gutter, every unionist steeple, and even the train station lampposts.

Beside one of those lampposts is an older woman dressed in an elaborate gown of lavender silk with beaded vines of pink and midnight blue that creep up the side of the skirt. Her eyes light up as the Wizard disembarks behind me, stepping forward to meet us.

"Still alive, I see," she says, dry amusement in her voice.

"And wouldn't you know it," he replies with a smile, "I feel better than ever." He kisses her once on each cheek as they embrace.

I can feel my cheeks burn. It feels as if I'm looking in through the window of a neighbor far away. Presumably, she must be our guide for the day – even if a tad overdressed – but it's clear that the Wizard knows her priorly if he wasn't a true friend completely of hers. I’ve come to know him more in-depth this past month, but I have never seen him get even remotely close to anyone he'd ever met the way he has with her.

"The train hasn't been too bad, has it?" she asks, cocking her head to the side in care.

"Hey, it's only as bad as you let it be. First night was rough, but it's gotten better."

Ouch. His words feel like a smack. Was I really that intolerable that sequestering myself in the hallway was preferable to him than spending time with me in the living compartment? I bite the inside of my cheek, inching closer to the two of them.

"Well, we have a lot to discuss and I've reserved us a private room down at Florio's tea shop. You know how I love-" She stops mid-sentence, giving me a quick look up and down. "Is there something you need from us? The train will depart again soon. I'm sure you have much work to do."

I blink at the assumption, but the Wizard steps in, putting an arm around me, and introduces me to her. "She witnessed the ambassador taking the Grimmerie," he says quickly. "An invaluable resource when the time for trials comes. Now, about that tea shop."

Morrible looks me over, letting her eyes linger on the dirt brown skirt and white blouse that I had picked for the day. Satisfied that the Wizard was telling the truth, she turns from us and leads the way down the platform. The Wizard offers me his arm, but I just look at it before following after Morrible.

"It's a nice break coming here, away from children," she says as we step out onto the dark purple brick streets of Wittica. Where Settica had been all oatmeal and drab, the facades of Wittica seem to have taken it as an offense, painting themselves in warm hues of orange and yellow that stand out against the fresh blue sky. We must have arrived at the right time because the platform is empty and there isn’t much foot traffic out on the streets. It's probably just past the lunch hour.

"How's that whole thing going, by the way?" the Wizard asks. I startle at his voice because, despite having refused his offer of an escort, he is still right beside me. I roll my eyes and continue following Morrible as she takes us through a main thoroughfare.

"Are you asking if I've found any exceptionally talented witches or wizards?" she says, looking over a beaded shoulder. "Hardly. More of the same. The farther we get from the Ancient Ones, the more rare magic has become."

"I could really use a powerhouse right about now," he sighs. "You really got nothing?"

Morrible gives him a disapproving look before taking us down an alley that has been strung with lights overhead. A wooden sign in the shape of a crescent moon hangs above a doorway, painted in pastels to read "Florio's Teas".

We step into the shop and it almost feels like home. The sweet and spiced aromas mixed with fresh cookies could have come straight from the kitchens back at the Emerald Palace. Lurlinemas is only a few days away, so the cinnamon and oranges are stronger than ever, and every table has been set with a cranberry red lantern, a candle flickering happily inside. I'm drawn to the counter, spying some particularly cute gingerbread cookies that are shaped like reindeer, but Morrible leads us back past all of the tables and into a room with paned bubbled glass doors. There is already a feast of small treats and teapots that have been set at a little table for two.

"I didn't think that we would be having any guests," Morrible explains. "Your letter didn't say anything about a stowaway."

I wring my hands, looking around. "I could just sit outside," I say. I wish I had brought my book knowing that I was going to be such a burden.

"What?" the Wizard says. "No, no... no, look here-" He picks up one of the cafe chairs from outside and sets it so it's perpendicular to the other two chairs. Morrible's lips curl into a frown, but she takes a seat at one of the chairs and the Wizard closes the doors. I take a seat in the bony cafe chair that the Wizard had brought in, tucking my hands beneath my skirt and thighs.

"I spoke to the Lord-Mayor," Morrible says. "He is not eager for war, but could be persuaded if the price is high enough." She pours herself a cup of tea that has a purple tint to it. There's a tag on top of the pot but I can't make out what it says. I don't even have a cup to pour any tea into, but my eyes light up when I see some of those reindeer cookies from earlier. I pluck one off of the tiered tray and take a bite of spiced antler.

"Yeah that figures," the Wizard says as he sits down. "How high are we talking?"

"I'm sure some tax breaks to Gillikin as well as taking his grandson into your service as a young diplomat," Morrible replies.

"No," the Wizard says, waving off the idea. "I don't do children. They get in the way and touch all your things..." he shudders and I think I have the same vision as him of a little boy slapping a sticky hand on the control panel for the mechanical head in the throne room.

"It’s nothing to worry about. His grandson is sixteen and well-behaved: a quiet boy," Morrible says, setting down her cup of tea.

The Wizard takes one of the gingerbread reindeer and points it at Morrible. "You should have gone into politics," he says before biting off the head of the reindeer.

Morrible gives him a coy smile, picking up her teacup again. "No. That's what I have you for." She takes a sip of the tea and says, "Politics disgusts me. I'd rather tell someone I hate them to their face."

The Wizard leans back in his chair, copying her smile. "And do you hate me?" he asks, taking another bite of the reindeer.

"This war is giving me a headache," she says. "I hate you for that."

"I might hate myself for it too," he laughs.

I bite the head off of my reindeer as I watch the banter flow easily between the two. When the Wizard wasn't busy intimidating those beneath him, he had an uncapturable charm that could soften and woo, winning you over to his side with a laugh and a warm touch even if he was getting you to agree to drink poison. What he had to offer Morrible certainly wasn't poison, but it hinged on the Emerald City and its allies breaking the siege: the promise of peace and a secured spot at the table, but nothing more. Morrible doesn't look like the type to fall for easy trickery and a wink of an eye, but her eyes now shine with a certain thrill and her cold demeanor has melted away entirely.

"I am not privy to information regarding the defense force," she says, "but if I were, I would say he could probably lend you a thousand of his guards."

"Hey, a thousand? That's not bad," he says excitedly, "but we're talking about- to siege a city... he must have at least five thousand. I haven’t heard anything from the palace guard yet."

"I have tried telling him this," Morrible says, "but unless you offer much more, a thousand will be all you can get."

"I sent Thropp a letter," he says, "but I haven't heard back from him. You wouldn't by chance happen to have..." his hand waits poised, as if he were trying to pick the right word out of the air.

"Spoken with him? No," she says.

"Could you? I mean... It wouldn't hurt," he says.

Morrible sets her teacup down again, folding her hands into her lap. She says, "I'm not familiar with him the way you are."

"Could you get the Lord-Mayor to send something? Some reassurance that there will be others?" the Wizard asks.

"I'm a very busy woman," Morrible says, getting up from her chair. "I've already asked too much from him."

The Wizard rises too, and I watch as if it were magic the way he moves, like a well-rehearsed dance, taking her hand in his, wrapping his other arm around her decorated shoulder. "I really appreciate you coming out all this way. I'm sure you have school to get back to – I wouldn't want to keep you, of course – but I'll see you at the safe house?" He brings her hand to his lips, placing the sweetest of kisses on it. I watch as he drinks her deeply in with his amber eyes, and just for a sliver of a second, she shies away in a blush, before meeting his eyes again.

I want to run or throw the whole tray of cookies at him. I'm glued to my chair, as I watch him flirt with her, not begging on his knees, but getting the exact same effect. In my heart, I know that this isn't the first time he's sweet-talked her like this, nor the farthest he's ever gone. They are made for each other, the way they dance in tandem, like a perfect waltz, even better than Fiyero and I, for they have had years of practice. The urge to throw something at him subsides, washing away to reveal a basin of emptiness at the realization that these were the tricks he plays and that I mean nothing to him. Even if I had ever meant something, it was less than whatever was well-aged and rich with Morrible.

"I'm going to wait outside," I say. It strikes me that it's the first time I've spoken since we entered this awful tea shop. I hurry out and shut the door behind me before the tears can pour out in front of them. We hadn’t spoken since the kiss, but I thought he would have cared at least a little bit if he was jealous enough to prevent Fiyero from kissing me. It was a stupid thing to think that he ever actually cared about me at all, a naive conception that I had nursed into a fantasy. I bite the inside of my cheek as a punishment. I wonder if I might not be back in the Emerald City with Fileah by now if I had just accepted that everything was a mind game to him, and I couldn't trust a word out of his mouth. The Wizard doesn't care if I'm safe: he just wants what's best for him. He will always put himself first, even if it means making me fall in love.

I shake my head at the ridiculous notion. Using the cuffs of my blouse, I dry my eyes. It’s not long before the Wizard and Morrible exit the private room.

"I'll send word to the Lord-Mayor and see what I can do," Morrible says. "Maybe there will be even more troops that he can spare." A clock on the wall chimes, striking the hour. Had we really been in there that long?

"Ah!" she says. "I have to go. The next train back to Settica leaves in 20 minutes. Please enjoy the rest of the tea. It has already been paid for." She leaves the tea shop, not in any particular hurry, and I wonder if she'll make it back to the station in time.

"Did you want some more tea?" he asks, resting a hand on my shoulder. My veins feel cold as he brushes his thumb back and forth along my shoulder blade. I can already feel the tears welling up again.

"Can we just go back to the train?" I say softly, trying to hide the way my voice is constricting.

"We can do whatever you want," he says, squeezing my shoulder. The last ember of hope in me thinks she hears the tones of a father, trying to comfort a disappointed child, but I close it into my fist, suffocating it.

"Okay.”

[family-from-palestine]

Don't skip it 🆘🆘Stop

A simple donation can make a big difference 🙏🙏

“From Rubble to Hope: Help a Gaza Family Reclaim Their Future”

Dear Friends,

Imagine waking up one day to find your entire life reduced to rubble. This is the reality my family and I now face. My name mahmoud esmail a 20-year-old Palestinian from Gaza—and this is the story of how a single bombing changed everything for us.

Our home, once a place of warmth and hope, was destroyed in a single moment. Along with it, we lost not only our shelter but everything that made life bearable—our belongings, our books, our tools, and even the medical equipment my siblings used in their studies.

This is our beautiful house after it was bombed. We miraculously survived, thanks to God.

This is our beautiful house after it was bombed. We miraculously survived, thanks to God.

My sister, who was studying medicine, had their dreams shattered when they could no longer attend university. I was also forced to postpone my education. What used to be days filled with learning and striving for a better future turned into endless struggles to secure the basics – food, water, and safety.

On top of this, my youngest sister, Aya, who is only 7 years old, now suffers from constant anxiety, panic attacks, and overwhelming fear. The terrifying sounds of bombings and explosions have left her emotionally scarred. Every night, she wakes up crying, unable to sleep, as the trauma haunts her little heart.

Today, we have nothing left. The dreams we worked so hard to build have been shattered, replaced by an overwhelming sense of loss and hopelessness.

But we refuse to give up. With your help, we can begin to rebuild. Your generosity can help us secure shelter, basic necessities, and the opportunity to resume our education. We hope to raise $70,000 to rebuild our lives and give Aya, and the rest of my family, a sense of safety and hope again.

Every donation, no matter how small, brings us closer to hope. Together, we can turn our pain into progress and give my family a second chance.

Donation link here 👇🙏

Your support is more than just a donation—it’s a lifeline for a family that refuses to give up on their dreams.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Please share our story with your friends and family—it means more than words can express.

@pnatreactionpicoftheweek @wellwaterhysteria @nabulsi @irhabiya @sar-soor @appsappsapps @fancysmystery @just-browsings-world @mothblogging @aleciosun @serica @fluoresensitivearchived @katherineonlyoneperson-blog @khizuo @lesbianavocado @transmutationist @schoolhater98 @timogsilangan @appsappsapps @buttercupsticksntricks @sayruq @malcriada @palestinegenocide @sar-sora @akajustmerry @annoyingloudmicrowavecultist @sar-sora @riding-with-the-wild-hunt @flower-tea-fairies @tsaricides @visenyasdragon @tortiefrancis @ear-motif @tortiefrancis @kordeliiius @brutaliakent @raelyn-dreams @troythecatfish @theropoda @tamarrrra @4ft10tvlandfangirl @queerstudiesnatural @northgazaupdates2 @skatezophrenic @awetistic-things @baby-girl-aaron-dessner @nabulsi27 @irhabiya

[jihadal-hamayda]

When will the nightmare end?🕊️🇵🇸

Our life turned into hell, we don't know how long this nightmare that is eating in our bodies will end, how long we live in a life of burning fires, sounds of explosions of bullets and fear that destroys us, when I sleep and I am afraid to wake up losing one of the ends of my body or return to our tent, I see it burning with fire until when my voice and the voice of my family does not hear. I have the right to live. I am a child and I deserve to live like any young child at the beginning of his life wherever you are. I want to see hope. I want to see the sun that I was filming before October 7

This is my brother Adam, an 11-year-old child who knows huge terms. My brother loves life differently from the rest of the children. He loves to live the crazy adventures. The meaning of life. My brother changed better in the war with fragments and fractures in his body. His body does not respond to treatment because he is a child who cannot eat good food because of the incredibly high prices. My brother, a child wants to regain the taste of life, he just wants to live safely. He screams now in front of you, he begs for you. I hope you destroy my brother's dream🥹💔

My sister Lian is the fruit of my sister's family, she tries to support the family like me. She is a girl who has a lot of dreams stolen by the occupation. My sister dreams of becoming an engineer builds beautiful houses full of warmth and love. She does not want the idea of continuing to live in a tent that falls due to the strong winds. The occupation stole her school from her many of her friends. So far, she lives a very shock. My sister has become a missing a passion. I can't stand seeing it with that painful picture. I hope you feel our stories that you do not deprive us of the right to live safely🥹😭

This is our link⬇️

This is a gift from a friend of Saif, there is the smell of Al-Aqsa Mosque because I am my friend Saif, a resident of Jerusalem, and this sun is the hope we wake up to every day. We all have dreams. My message is to save my family. My message is to fight for me. My message is to get your support by donating for my family. I send all the love to you❤️

@schoolhater @schoolhater98 @schoolhatergirl @schoolhaterfoodlover-blog @schoolhaterlunchlover @sayruq @sayruq @francescamarchese @fawfulthegreat64 @fsdsdfsdfsdgfsrwegfdsjpg @fsacre @timetravellingkitty @meaganfoster @briarhips @vakarians-babe @mahoushojoe@rhubarbspring @schoolhater @pcktknife @transmutationisms @sawasawako@ot3 @aces-and-angels @terroristiraqis @commissions4aid-international @wellwaterhysteria@deepspaceboytoy @post-brahminism @junglejim4322 @kibumkim @neechees@mangocheesecakes @kyra45 @marnota @7bitter @tortiefrancis @appsa@toiletpotato @fromjannah @omegaversereloaded @vague-humanoid @criptochecca@aristotels @komsomolka @neptunerings @riding-with-the-wild-hunt @heritageposts

@fancysmudges @brokenbackmountain @motoriginal @aleciosun @sericate @fluoresensitivearchived @khizuo @nesmamomen @transmutationdice @schoolhaterfoodlover-blog @timogsilangan @appsa @buttercuparry @sayruq @malcriaada @palestinegenocide @sar-soor @akajustmerry @annoyinglypsychicmilkshake @feluka-blog-blog @tortiefrancis @flower-tea-fairies @tsaricides @riding-with-the-wild-hunt @visenyasdragon @belleandsaintsebastian @ear-motif @kordeliiius @khangerinedreams @raelyn-dreams @troythecatfish @theropod @tamamita @4ft10tvlandfangirl @queerstudiesnatural @northgazaupdates2 @skatezophrenic @awetistic-things @camgirlpanopticon @baby-girl-aaron-dessner @nabulsi @sygoldenhair-blog @junglejim4322 @heritageposts @cagandante-communistoide @corvidaedream @dlxxv-vetted-donations @illuminated-runas @imjustheretotrytohelp @carusocarousel

@sar-soor @appsa @akajustmerry @annoyingloudmicrowavecultist @thatdiabolicalfeminist @sayruq @tortiefrancis @tsaricides @riding-with-the-wild-hunt @vivisectionmoth @belleandsaintsebastian @kordeliiius @brutaliakhoa @raelyn-dreams @troythecatfish @ot3 @the-bastard-king @pcktknife @4ft10tvlandfangirl @queerstudiesnatural @northgazaupdates2 @90-ghost @skatehani @awetistic-things @baby-girl-aaron-dessner @variantsofblue @thedigitalb

@feluka @good-old-gossip @heritageposts @heliopixels @90-ghost @nabulsi @wellwaterhysteria @tamamita @northgazaupdates2 @ot3 @opencommunion

[amethystarachnid]

hi! i hope im not too late but can i request lost holiday spirit for loki x female reader?

maybe it could go something like loki and (avenger) reader both live at the tower and aren’t that close but reader hears about lokis lost holiday spirit and tries to get him to celebrate christmas in really cute ways and they end up together at the end? maybe due to some mistletoe and loki ends up celebrating christmas with the rest of the avengers. thank you!!

MR. GRINCH

⤷ LOKI LAUFEYSON

ᯓ★ Pairing: Loki Laufeyson x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, fluff

ᯓ★ Request from: MARVEL Holiday special

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 3.8k

ᯓ★ Summary: what the ask said

ᯓ★ TW(s): nothing

ᯓ★ After this event is done I was thinking of writing a part two with Loki meeting the rest of her family if y'all want to read it!!

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The Avengers Tower sparkles like a snow globe come to life. Twinkling lights are draped over every railing and banister, a giant Christmas tree dominates the common room, and stockings hang above the roaring fireplace, despite its purely decorative function. You flit around like a sugar-fueled elf, adjusting ornaments, humming along to Mariah Carey, and basking in the glow of your favorite time of year.

Your enthusiasm is infectious to most. Tony grumbles about the electricity bill but still orders another dozen boxes of lights. Steve pretends to roll his eyes but secretly joins you for late-night cocoa sessions by the tree. Even Natasha doesn’t protest when you drape a little tinsel around her chair.

Loki, however, is a different story.

The resident God of Mischief is an enigma at the best of times. His presence at the Tower is still a relatively new and tentative arrangement, a diplomatic olive branch between Asgard and Earth. You’re not sure if he’s here to redeem himself, learn from Thor, or just avoid Odin’s wrath. Either way, he’s the ultimate Grinch in your holiday wonderland.

You first notice it when he steps into the kitchen one frosty morning. You’re perched on a stool, munching on gingerbread cookies and debating whether the kitchen needs a wreath (it does). Loki glides in, all dark robes and haughty demeanor, and pauses mid-stride when he spots the garlands you hung around the cabinets.

“What is this excessive display?” he asks, his voice dripping with disdain.

You blink. “Christmas decorations.”

He narrows his eyes as if you’ve just declared your allegiance to an enemy kingdom. “Why?”

“Why?” You repeat, incredulous. “Because it’s Christmas! It’s festive and joyful and magical. Why wouldn’t you want decorations?”

“Because,” he says slowly, as if explaining to a child, “it is frivolous and nonsensical. A mortal invention to distract from the bleakness of winter.”

You gasp, clutching a cookie to your chest as though he’s just insulted your firstborn. “You don’t like Christmas?”

“I don’t dislike it,” he replies coolly. “I am indifferent.”

Indifferent. To Christmas. The thought sends a shiver down your spine. It’s not just an opinion—it’s an affront to everything you hold dear.

“Loki,” you say, your tone turning serious. “You can’t live here, surrounded by all this cheer, and not feel even a tiny bit of joy. I won’t allow it.”

He raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “I was unaware my emotional state required your approval.”

“It does now,” you announce. “Because I’ve just decided that you’re my new project.”

His lips twitch, almost forming a smirk. “A project?”

“Yes. I’m going to make you fall in love with Christmas.”

“And how, pray tell, do you intend to accomplish such a feat?” His voice drips with sarcasm, but you detect a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

You grin, undeterred. “Oh, you’ll see.”

Day One

The next morning, Loki walks into the living room to find you perched by the stereo, scrolling through your phone. He doesn’t need to ask what you’re doing—Bing Crosby croons “White Christmas” as your grin widens.

“Ah, perfect timing,” you chirp. “I’ve made a Christmas playlist for the Tower, and I’m sure you’re going to love it.”

“Highly unlikely.”

Ignoring him, you press play, and the room fills with the unmistakable harmonies of Wham!’s Last Christmas. Loki sighs loudly, but you’re already dancing around him, singing off-key and attempting to get him to join in.

“You might as well embrace it,” you say. “There’s no escaping Christmas music in December. Resistance is futile.”

“I am not ‘resisting.’” He makes air quotes that somehow look aristocratic. “I simply fail to see the appeal.”

“Come on,” you coax. “Even you must have some fondness for a holiday that inspires such happy tunes.”

Loki regards you as if you’ve sprouted antlers. “My ‘fondness,’ if it exists, is reserved for silence.”

You pout dramatically. “Not even a little head bop?”

He ignores you, sweeping past toward the library. But later, when you catch him humming faintly under his breath—whether to mock you or not—you count it as a small victory.

Day Two

Your next strategy involves decorating the massive tree in the common room. Everyone else is busy, so you commandeer Loki, much to his chagrin.

“This is ridiculous,” he mutters, holding a string of lights like it’s a venomous snake.

“You’re tall,” you counter. “And I need help with the top branches.”

With great reluctance, he levitates to reach the higher sections. His magic comes in handy, and despite his complaints, you catch him inspecting the ornaments with genuine curiosity.

“What is the purpose of these trinkets?” he asks, turning a glittery bauble over in his hands.

“They’re not trinkets—they’re memories,” you explain. “See this one?” You point to a slightly crooked star. “Steve made it during his first Christmas in the Tower.”

Loki snorts softly. “It’s hideous.”

“Hey! It has character.”

You work side by side for an hour, and though he pretends to hate every moment, you catch him smirking when you struggle to untangle a particularly stubborn string of lights. By the time the tree is finished, it’s a masterpiece of shimmering ornaments and warm golden lights.

“You did good, Mischief,” you say, nudging his arm. “Admit it—you had fun.”

“I did no such thing,” he replies, but his tone lacks its usual venom.

Day Three

You escalate your efforts with a Christmas movie marathon, complete with a platter of cookies and the richest hot cocoa you can muster. Loki takes one sip and eyes you suspiciously.

“What is this concoction?”

“Hot chocolate,” you say, waving a candy cane for emphasis. “A Christmas essential.”

He takes another cautious sip. Then another. When the cup is empty, you wordlessly slide him a second.

You spend the evening watching Home Alone and Elf. Loki scoffs at the absurdity but doesn’t leave the room. You can’t tell if it’s the cocoa or the ridiculous antics of Will Ferrell that keep him seated, but you’ll take it.

By the time December 5th rolls around, you’re cautiously optimistic. Sure, Loki still rolls his eyes at your caroling and glares at mistletoe like it’s cursed, but there’s a softness in his demeanor. A flicker of something you can’t quite place.

And if he lingers a little longer by the tree at night, bathed in its golden glow, you don’t mention it. Not yet, anyway.

Day Four

You’ve discovered Loki’s Achilles’ heel, and it’s not his ego or his penchant for dramatics. It’s hot cocoa. Rich, creamy, decadent hot cocoa. Since the movie night, he’s been making increasingly frequent appearances in the kitchen whenever you’re whipping up a batch.

Today, you’re prepared.

You’ve set up a veritable hot cocoa bar: steaming milk, bowls of chocolate shavings, marshmallows, whipped cream, and even a jar of crushed peppermint. When Loki strolls in, feigning nonchalance, his gaze lands on the spread and narrows suspiciously.

“What is this?” he asks, though his tone betrays faint curiosity.

“It’s called variety,” you reply, grinning. “I figured if you’re going to keep stealing my cocoa, you might as well have options.”

“Stealing is an exaggeration,” he counters, but he steps closer, eyeing the setup. “What is the purpose of… these?” He gestures at the candy canes like they might attack him.

“Toppings! You can customize your drink.”

You demonstrate by ladling hot cocoa into a mug, adding a mountain of whipped cream, and delicately balancing a candy cane on the rim. Loki watches, his expression unreadable, before taking the ladle himself. He prepares a cup with precise movements, eschewing the whipped cream and opting instead for a sprinkling of chocolate shavings.

He takes a cautious sip. His expression remains stoic, but the way his eyes briefly close in satisfaction doesn’t escape your notice.

“Good, right?” you prod.

He nods minutely, still cradling the mug. You bite back a triumphant grin and lean against the counter, watching him sip the drink like it’s an elixir of the gods. Which, to be fair, it might as well be.

“You know,” you say casually, “you’re starting to get the hang of this Christmas thing.”

He snorts. “Do not mistake my tolerance for enthusiasm.”

But there’s no bite in his words, and you’re certain you’ve won another tiny battle.

Day Five

You decide to escalate your plan with a baking session. After all, what’s Christmas without cookies? Loki is less than thrilled when you inform him of this.

“You expect me to assist you with… baking?” he asks, incredulous.

“Yes,” you reply cheerfully, tossing him an apron. “Think of it as alchemy. But delicious.”

He glares at the apron like it’s made of nettles. “This is beneath me.”

“Oh, come on,” you cajole. “You’ve got magic. Surely you can handle a little dough.”

He grumbles but ties the apron on with a dramatic flourish. The sight of Loki, Prince of Asgard and God of Mischief, wearing a plaid apron that reads “Santa’s Favorite Helper” is almost enough to make you collapse in laughter, but you wisely keep it to yourself.

The baking session is… an adventure. Loki’s “assistance” involves levitating ingredients and conjuring unnecessary bursts of green light for dramatic effect. At one point, he grows bored and attempts to enchant the cookie dough, resulting in a sentient lump that tries to crawl off the counter.

“Loki!” you shriek, swatting at the rogue dough with a spatula. “This is not what I meant by teamwork!”

He smirks, watching your struggle with barely concealed amusement. “You did say I should use my talents.”

By some miracle, you manage to wrangle the dough back into submission. When the cookies finally emerge from the oven, golden and fragrant, you plop one onto a plate and shove it toward Loki.

“Taste it,” you demand.

He takes a cautious bite, his expression neutral. Then he takes another, slower bite.

“Well?” you press, bouncing on your heels.

“Adequate,” he says, but the way he reaches for a second cookie says otherwise.

Day Seven

It snows overnight, blanketing the city in a layer of white. The morning brings a rare moment of quiet in the Tower. You’re staring out the window, a steaming mug of cocoa in hand, when Loki appears beside you.

“Do you often waste time staring at frozen precipitation?” he asks, though his tone lacks its usual bite.

“It’s beautiful,” you say simply. “Have you ever played in the snow?”

He looks at you like you’ve suggested he jump into the Hudson River. “Play?”

“Yeah. You know, snow angels, snowball fights, building a snowman?”

“You forget that I hail from Jotunheim,” he says dryly. “I am quite familiar with snow.”

“Great,” you say, grabbing his arm and tugging him toward the door. “Then you’re already a pro.”

Despite his protests, you manage to drag him outside. The courtyard is pristine, untouched by footsteps, and you can’t resist flopping down to make a snow angel. Loki stands over you, his arms crossed, looking deeply unimpressed.

“You’re missing out,” you tell him, brushing snow off your gloves.

“Am I?”

You decide to take matters into your own hands—literally. Scooping up a handful of snow, you pack it into a ball and lob it at him. It hits him square in the chest.

For a moment, there’s silence. Then he looks down at the snow on his robes, then back at you, his expression unreadable.

“You dare?” he says softly.

“I dare,” you reply, grinning.

What follows is an all-out snowball war. Loki cheats, of course, conjuring multiple snowballs at once and launching them with precision. You counter with a combination of speed and sheer determination, laughing so hard your sides ache.

By the time you call a truce, you’re both soaked and breathless. Loki’s hair is damp, and there’s snow clinging to his robes, but his eyes are bright, his lips curved into a genuine smile.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him look truly happy.

Day Ten

You’re sitting by the fire, sipping yet another mug of cocoa, when Loki joins you unprompted. He’s carrying his own mug, which you’re fairly certain he made himself—a small but significant victory.

“You’ve been unusually persistent,” he says, settling into the chair beside you.

“It’s called holiday spirit,” you reply with a grin. “And I’m rubbing off on you. Admit it.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he gazes at the twinkling lights on the tree, his expression thoughtful.

“I will admit,” he says slowly, “that there is… a certain charm to this season. Though your methods are insufferable.”

You laugh, raising your mug in a mock toast. “I’ll take it.”

For the first time since you started this endeavor, you feel like you’ve genuinely reached him. And as you sit there, sharing the quiet warmth of the fire, you realize that maybe—just maybe—Loki is starting to believe in the magic of Christmas after all.

Day Eleven

The fireplace mantel remains unfinished—a glaring imperfection in your otherwise flawless Christmas wonderland. You’ve been putting it off, unsure of how to best arrange the garlands, candles, and lights. This morning, however, you find Loki standing in front of it, arms crossed, a contemplative look on his face.

“Are you admiring my handiwork?” you tease, stepping up beside him.

“I’m considering how to fix it,” he replies. “It’s… lopsided.”

You tilt your head, squinting at the decorations. “It’s supposed to look whimsical.”

“It looks haphazard,” he counters, glancing down at you with a faint smirk.

“Fine, Mr. Perfect. Show me how you’d do it.”

What starts as a playful challenge turns into a surprisingly intimate collaboration. Loki’s hands brush against yours as he passes you a strand of lights, his touch sending an unexpected warmth up your arm. He leans close to adjust a garland, his voice low as he critiques your “questionable” taste in ribbon colors.

By the time the mantel is complete, the room feels cozier—not just from the flickering candlelight but from the unspoken connection simmering between you.

“Admit it,” you say softly. “This was fun.”

Loki’s gaze lingers on you for a beat longer than necessary. “Moderately enjoyable,” he murmurs, the corners of his lips twitching upward.

Day Thirteen

You’re perched on a ladder in the common room, attempting to hang a sprig of mistletoe from the ceiling beam. The ladder wobbles precariously, and just as you’re about to lose your balance, strong hands grip your waist, steadying you.

“Careful,” Loki chides, his voice unusually gentle.

You glance down at him, your heart racing—not just from the near fall. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t let go immediately, his hands lingering as he helps you down from the ladder. When your feet touch the ground, you realize just how close you are. The mistletoe dangles above you, unnoticed, as you find yourself caught in his intense gaze.

“Traditionally,” Loki says, his voice dropping to a velvet whisper, “there’s a custom associated with this particular plant.”

You swallow hard, your cheeks heating. “Oh, yeah? I hadn’t noticed.”

His lips curve into a sly smile, but he steps back, breaking the moment. “Perhaps next time,” he says, and you can’t tell if he’s teasing or serious.

Your pulse remains uneven long after he’s gone.

Day Fifteen

You can’t sleep. The glow of the Christmas tree calls to you, and you find yourself padding into the common room, wrapped in a blanket. To your surprise, Loki is already there, seated on the couch with a book in hand.

“Can’t sleep either?” you ask, settling into the armchair across from him.

He closes the book, regarding you with a softness you’ve come to recognize in these quiet moments. “I find the stillness… agreeable.”

The conversation flows easily, shifting from light banter to deeper topics. He talks about Asgardian winters, and you share memories of childhood Christmases. There’s an openness to him tonight, a vulnerability that makes your chest ache.

At one point, you notice him watching you intently, his gaze tracing your features as if committing them to memory. “What is it?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“You’re unlike anyone I’ve met,” he says, the honesty in his tone catching you off guard. “Your insistence on joy, your… stubborn optimism. It’s infuriating. And yet…”

“And yet?” you prompt, your heart pounding.

He leans forward slightly, the space between you charged with unspoken possibilities. “And yet, I find myself drawn to it. To you.”

The admission leaves you breathless. You don’t know what to say, so you settle for a soft smile, hoping it conveys everything you’re feeling.

Day Seventeen

A freak snowstorm traps everyone inside the Tower. While most of the team grumbles about canceled plans, you can’t help but see it as an opportunity. You organize a board game marathon, but when Loki declines to participate, you seek him out in his room.

“Too good for Monopoly?” you tease, leaning against the doorframe.

“I prefer my games to involve a certain level of sophistication,” he replies, though there’s no malice in his tone.

“Come on,” you coax. “It’ll be fun.” But when you understand the won't give in you try another tactic, just sto spend time with him. "Teach me chess instead,” you say, pulling a dusty board from a shelf.

The two of you spend hours by the fire, the snowstorm raging outside, as he teaches you the intricacies of the game. His patience surprises you, as does the way he occasionally lets you win, though he denies it every time.

At some point, you realize you’re no longer focused on the game. Instead, you’re studying the way his hair falls over his shoulders, the way his lips curve when he’s explaining a strategy.

“You’re not paying attention,” he accuses, though his tone is amused.

“Sorry,” you murmur, feeling your cheeks heat.

He leans closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Perhaps I’m more distracting than the game.”

You don’t deny it.

Day Twenty

The Tower is quiet after dinner, most of the team having retreated to their rooms. You and Loki are the last ones in the common room, the tree lights casting soft shadows across his features.

“You’ve done well,” he says, nodding toward the decorations. “This place feels… alive.”

“Thanks to you,” you reply, nudging his shoulder. “You helped more than you’d like to admit.”

“I admit nothing,” he says, though there’s a glimmer of warmth in his eyes.

You fall into a comfortable silence, the air between you heavy with unspoken tension. When he reaches out to brush a stray hair from your face, your breath catches. His fingers linger, his gaze dropping to your lips.

For a moment, time seems to stop. You’re certain he’s going to kiss you, and you lean in ever so slightly, your heart pounding. But then—

“Y/N!” Tony’s voice booms from the hallway, shattering the moment.

You both pull back, flustered, as Tony strides into the room, oblivious to what he’s interrupted.

“I swear he has the worst timing,” you mutter after Tony leaves.

Loki smirks, but there’s a flicker of frustration in his eyes. “Indeed.”

Day Twenty-Four

The Tower hums with a warm energy on Christmas Eve. The team is gathered around the massive tree in the common room, the scent of pine mingling with the aroma of spiced cider and freshly baked cookies. You sit cross-legged on the floor beside Loki, the two of you half-listening as Thor attempts to recount a boisterous Asgardian holiday tradition.

Despite the chaos around you—Steve trying to untangle fairy lights, Clint stealing cookies from the tray, and Tony programming a robotic Santa to distribute presents—you feel grounded. Loki’s presence beside you has a magnetic pull, and you find yourself sneaking glances at him every few moments.

He looks relaxed, a rarity for the God of Mischief. His usual sharp edges seem softer tonight, the flickering glow of the fireplace highlighting his high cheekbones and the glint in his emerald eyes.

“Enjoying yourself?” you ask quietly, leaning slightly toward him.

His lips curve into a faint smirk. “More than I expected.”

The gift exchange begins, the room filling with laughter and playful banter as everyone tears into their wrapping paper. You watch with amusement as Natasha tries not to laugh at the gaudy scarf Clint has given her, and Bruce chuckles at the chemistry-themed mug he receives.

Loki remains apart from the main commotion, though his eyes sparkle with quiet amusement. As the night winds down, the others begin to retreat to their rooms, leaving the two of you alone by the tree.

“You didn’t join the exchange,” you say, turning to him.

“I prefer to give gifts with intention,” he replies, reaching into his pocket.

He produces a small, elegantly wrapped box and hands it to you. “For you.”

Your heart stutters as you carefully undo the ribbon and lift the lid. Inside lies a delicate silver charm bracelet, each charm meticulously chosen: a snowflake, a steaming mug of cocoa, a tiny chess piece, and a star. You recognize each one as a symbol of a moment you’ve shared this month.

“It’s beautiful,” you breathe, your fingers trembling slightly as you lift it from the box.

“I thought you might appreciate a memento of your… relentless holiday enthusiasm,” Loki says, though his tone is soft, almost vulnerable.

“I love it,” you say, looking up at him with a wide smile. “Thank you.”

You hesitate for a moment, then reach for the small gift bag you’d hidden earlier. “I, uh, got you something too.”

He raises an eyebrow but accepts the bag, pulling out the contents with a curious expression. Inside is a beautifully bound leather journal, embossed with intricate patterns that remind you of Asgardian designs.

“For your thoughts,” you explain, suddenly shy. “Or plans, or whatever it is you write about. I thought you might like it.”

His fingers brush over the cover reverently. “It’s… thoughtful,” he says, his voice unusually gentle.

Before you can reply, a movement above catches your eye. You tilt your head back and groan. “Oh no.”

Loki follows your gaze, his expression shifting into one of amusement as he spots the sprig of mistletoe hanging directly above you.

“Ah,” he murmurs, his smirk returning. “The infamous custom.”

You open your mouth to say something witty, but the words evaporate as Loki steps closer, his gaze fixed on yours. The air between you feels charged, and your heart hammers in your chest.

“Wouldn’t want to break tradition,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, though there’s a glimmer of something deeper in his eyes.

Before you can second-guess yourself, his lips are on yours. The kiss is soft, unhurried, and yet it sends a spark through your entire body. His hand finds your cheek, his touch warm against your skin, and you melt into him, forgetting everything else in the world.

When you finally pull back, you’re both breathless. Loki’s hand lingers on your face, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheekbone.

“Mistletoe,” you manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Convenient,” he replies, his lips curving into a rare, genuine smile.

The two of you stand there for a moment, the world around you quiet and still. You glance down at the bracelet on your wrist, then back up at Loki, and you can’t help but think that this is the best Christmas Eve you’ve ever had.

[octuscle]

Peter's body was his temple. He worked hard to make every woman wet when she saw him and every man freeze in awe when Peter flexed his muscles. And his job as a construction worker gave him plenty of opportunities to do so. Although he actually only used the construction site as an extended training ground for posing, and although he spent every free minute in the gym, he had a successful career, was popular with all his colleagues and had nothing to complain about. And yet sometimes he envied his colleagues who went out for a beer after work and stuffed themselves with fast food during their lunch break, while Peter drank gallons of water and otherwise ate only raw meat and salad without dressing.

Peter started his Friday afternoon with a round on the stationary bike while surfing Instagram. “Fancy a weekend of boozing and having fun without regrets?” The ad on Instagram struck Peter like a bolt of lightning. A guy with a paunch was standing at a bar with friends, his T-shirt wet from the beer flowing out of the corners of his mouth as he drank. Shit, yes, Peter used to fancy that. He really wanted to. He clicked on the account. Pictures of fat guys in bars, bowling, in fast food restaurants. Peter actually found that disgusting. A real man shouldn't have an ounce of fat on his body. But really letting himself go for once? Shit, that would be awesome! “Pling” Peter had received a message. From the owner of the account. “Peter, don't dream, just enjoy! How cool would it be to play a round of darts tonight and stuff yourself with chips and beer!” What the hell?!?!!?! How did the guy get his name and address. He hadn't liked anything or anything. Still, the guy had struck a chord with him. “Tell me more,” he replied. “Meet me at the diner, Lincoln Ave. on the corner of 2nd Street. 20 minutes.” Peter was harder than he'd ever been in his life. A weekend of fun. What could possibly happen?

Peter stopped the training. Chuck at reception looked questioningly as he left the gym after just half an hour of training. "Forgot a private appointment!" Peter called apologetically over his shoulder and held his sports bag protectively in front of his boner. Shit, he was really horny at the idea of letting all discipline go for once. The diner was a pretty run-down place. It reeked of old chip grease and cheap cleaning fluids. No wonder there were hardly any customers. Except for one. It was clear that this had to be his contact person. A fat, unkempt pig! With a portion of burger and chips in front of him.

Naked, flabby torso. shit, yes, that's exactly how Peter wanted to spend his weekend. He wanted it so much. No idea where this untamable desire came from. “Hi, call me Zac,” the guy said with his mouth full, spitting chunks of his burger around. “And you want to have fun for a weekend? Do everything you usually deny yourself?” Peter, who couldn't normally complain about a lack of self-confidence, nodded silently with a dry mouth. “Okay, I'll send you a link. Just accept it, tick both terms and conditions and off you go.” Zac wiped the remnants of food from the corners of his mouth with his forearm. Peter's cell phone vibrated. He opened the link. He ticked the box. He clicked on okay. He looked up. He froze.

Something else mingled with the smell of chip fat and cleaning agents. The smell of pure masculinity. Of fresh sweat. Of well-worn sneakers. It smelled like Peter smelled. He no longer noticed the smell on himself. But the man who was suddenly sitting in front of him exuded this smell in masses! Peter felt his hard-on. But his boner was… Smaller! Much smaller! And he was no longer horny at the idea of spending an excessive weekend. He was horny because of the guy in front of him. Shit, what Peter would give if he fucked him now…!

“Dude, thanks a lot! I thought I'd never find another idiot who wanted to swap muscle for fat.” Zac tensed his biceps. “So, makes you horny, doesn't it? Do you want me to fuck you? Not a chance, Piggy! But you can suck me off if you want.” Peter was in a trance. He didn't understand what Zac was saying. Why did he call him Piggy? Peter was still as muscular as ever. But fuck, he had to suck that cock. The place was still almost empty. Peter crawled under the table. There were puddles of chips and Coke on the floor. Zac pulled his boner out of his gray sweat pants. And Peter sucked greedily. The sweat on his balls and cock was pure musk. Yes, it was the perfect start to the weekend. He had never blown a man before. But he knew damn well how to do it. Zac groaned. A large precum stain formed in Peter's pants. And shortly after Zac had squirted his load in Peter's face, Peter squirted too. He had greedily swallowed Zac's load. A little bit still dripped onto his shirt. But there was still more on his shirt than in his pants. Peter was a wanker. Three or four times a day. His balls never had a chance to fill up enough to produce a load like Zac. “Good Piggy!” said Zac, ”Here, this milkshake is your reward, I don't drink that shit anymore.” And without another word, Zac got up and left the diner.

Peter was hungry. Hugely hungry. He didn't care about the stains on his pants and shirt. In fact, they had already dried up. There were a number of similar dried stains. Peter stood at the counter. Three bacon cheeseburgers, two large portions of chips with nacho sauce and a large Coke. That should be enough. For a start. The waitress asked if he wanted an ice cream for dessert. Peter asked for a large portion. An hour and three more burgers later, Peter got up. He stroked his stomach. He vaguely remembered the washboard stomach he had once had. A roll of flab bulged out from between his shirt and trousers. He wiped his ketchup-smeared hands on his greasy trousers. It was almost 5:00 pm. Time to get ready for bowling night with the boys. “Pete's Handyman Service” was written on his pickup truck. It had been a good year since he had started his own business. About the same time he'd said goodbye to the gym. Pete made his way home. Showering before bowling would be silly now, he'd be sweating like a pig again. But he put on a fresh pair of shorts and a fresh T-shirt. And grabbed the bag with his lucky ball and shoes. A glance in the mirror. Yes, he looked good. He was a real guy. Not an effeminate model.

It was around 9 p.m. when Pete threw his last ball. He was finished! It had been a busy week and he'd rarely had as much exercise as he'd had in the last three hours. For the rest of the evening, he was content to talk football with the boys, drink beer and stuff his face with nachos. And waiting for Mike to finish at the bar. Because then he would shag Pete. Mike was a really handsome guy. Actually straight, of course. But for some reason, which Pete was grateful for, he loved fucking Pete's fat ass. Pete didn't fight back! By the time he was lying in bed in his trailer at 02:00, his transformation was complete. It had been ten years since he had changed his life. Since then, he had been living on fast food and beer. He loved his cigars and chewing tobacco. Shit, yes, he was panting like a locomotive after only 200 meters on foot and he could only see his cock under his belly in the mirror. But shit, he had fun in life. His boys and he went bowling, sometimes they went fishing or football (Pete more in the passive observer position). And someone who loved to fuck his flabby ass could always be found. There were a surprising number of fans of his on Instagram and Gaydar. Tomorrow he would do the bookkeeping on the fucking computer. In the past, he'd had someone to take care of that stuff. But business was only so-so… So he had to struggle through it himself…

There was an e-mail in his inbox, sent at around 4 p.m. on Friday. Some shit with terms and conditions that he was supposed to have accepted. Probably some kind of crazy spam. He had a message from Zac on Insta. Phew, how long had it been since he'd been in contact with him? Must have been about ten years. “Piggy, I have to cancel our date on Sunday night. I don't feel like living without this body anymore. Have fun, you fat pig!” Probably spam again. Piggy, er Pete, couldn't remember a date for Sunday night.

Inspiration by @billowingpillowboy

Pics by @ki-kink