#like i understand there’s a strike on at the moment

[gordonengineswifenirmal]

It’s vile to think that actual paedos are given a harmless acronym.

Even more vile that some folks harass innocent people who are NOT paedos, n befriend the ACTUAL paedos n their friend circles. Not only have I been falsely accused, but I know a few others as well. None of us are into children.

I could not be less into weeuns. I’m extremely sex and romance repulsed, n I don’t like seeing anyone unclothed. I’ve even been harassed because ppl get the idea that I think everyone should go around in burqas. I don’t, but tbh, the idea isn’t without a certain logic lol. Im starting to understand why it’s not a bad idea sometimes.

There r a lot of people (and they don’t have to h all that much younger - even by like 10 years or so) who think an older person shouldn’t be in their fandoms unless they stick to a certain ‘unwritten protocol for oldies’. These very same fans can do the same things that they don’t want the older person doing. It’s ok for them.

For instance, if one drools over characters meant for kids, right away they are seen as paedos. Now, to be fair - if these characters were humans, animals, or what have you that are clearly being expressed as minors - then yes. Or if the accused was the ONLY one drooling over these characters, then yes - incredibly suspicious. However, some of the same people who harass, insult, make false accusations, etc. are guiltier. It’s a way to cover their tracks.

In fact, I’m in such a fandom. However - there r two versions of the characters - 1 version, where they are portrayed as machinery older than all of us. The second, where they are reimagined as cartoony children. The latter is very disturbing on its own. I’ve had people falsely accuse me of being a paedo and other things, and others blindly believe them. These same people defend those who befriend ACTUAL paedophiles. Convicted felons. With mugshots. They also have extremely disturbing sexual content on their blogs and elsewhere. Content involving people, open to anyone with just a few clicks to bypass verification - not carefully guarded privately for just a few of appropriate age. They also believe the sex bots and Gaza scammers asking for money are all genuine people not out to harm them, and forward their blog posts mindlessly - so they are often helping to promote scams which could rob others of money, or help ACTUAL groomers prey on victims.

Now, with that being said - I have NEVER had interest in children. In fact, I’m quite proud that I’ve never held a baby, and don’t plan to. I don’t have the slightest inappropriate thoughts or feelings toward kids. I will be friendly to them on occasion, but in general - I prefer them kept far away from me, and fully clothed at all times. Also, I have never been convicted of a crime if this sort, because it’s never even crossed the mind. I e never been convicted of a crime in general, and wish to keep it that way. In fact, I try to avoid thinking of it, because I was violated as a child, n it’s incredibly disturbing. The further they are kept away, the better, unless they are mentally mature enough to hold down a decent conversation (about any topic, nothing sexually inappropriate, because I have to spell this out, sadly). I do chat to some younger folks online, but I try to keep the conversation as respectable as possible. The moment they get too inappropriate, then I have to shut them down. Some do have wonderful conversations, and teach me technical stuff about trains, and whatnot. It’s interesting. I like that. I try to avoid talking anything sexual with minors. I don’t want to talk anything sexual with anyone, unless I’m laughing at how cringe something sexual is or goofing about n laughing with other adults about fanfics.

So with that being said - be careful of ‘proof’ - some people will take something out of context to harass another (often because that person strikes a nerve, and the harasser can’t come to terms with that truth responsibly, and so, lashes out) and others will believe that because they are gullible and easily impressionable. They also want a popular crowd to hang with. This could get them into trouble.

This is the modern society we’ve come to live in, sadly. So yes, please - stay away from MAPS - but please take the time to make sure they ARE one first, especially if they try to chat anything sexual to you. Don’t just assume. And DO block the scammers and sex bots.

[crushmeeren]

⋆ some headcannons where i couldn’t stop myself from imagining denki as a paramedic just for the hell of it because @dollyfetti and @kitkat13001 have infected me with the denki bug lately…. SO HERE. TAKE IT.

master list link

paramedic! denki, who instead of becoming a typical “hero”, shifted his focus and attended medic school. Who changed his entire worldview and became a different kind of hero. One that’s just as, if not more, important to hero society. They would collapse without people like him.

paramedic! denki, who trained his brain to the point of mush, worked his body to the bone, until he gained enough careful control to restart people’s hearts with his quirk. To bring people out of coma’s, heal traumatic brain injuries — hell, he even absorbs electricity from lightening strike victims.

paramedic! denki, who you first met in the field. You’re a hero, he’s a healer (hero), it was kismet. Who are you to deny fate?

paramedic! denki, who appeared in front of you like an angel. You’d arrived to the fight with the goal of aiding Dynamite, but he had it covered. So you switched to rescue. Pulling someone from under the rubble when Denki showed his face, readily accepting the unconscious civilian. You’d kept him from harms way returning to the ambulance, watching him bring the woman alive with a touch of a his finger. A small zap, a flash of light, and she’s gasping awake.

paramedic! denki, who had you in awe of his power. Who snapped clear cut orders, but who, you discovered, was bubbly and giggly and bright outside of work. Who’s cute and sweet, who more or less wags his tail when he sees you. Kind of like a puppy.

paramedic! denki, who teaches you more intricate first aid. More than you’d learned in hero training. Who shows up to a fight where you’ve managed to stop a civilian from bleeding out. It’s in the heat of the moment, after he sees the threat level to his new patient has gone down, that he breathes a “good girl.” Meant only to praise you for your efforts, but doesn’t realize it cements you in place, cheeks red hot.

paramedic! denki, who understands better than anyone the horrors that have you screaming yourself awake. Who hushes you, holds you with shaky fingers, and coos soft reassurance as you sob into his shoulder in the middle of the night. Whose soothing, even tone lifts you from the depths of misery.

paramedic! denki, who, in the beginning, kisses you as if you’re made of glass, terrified to break you. Who melts the first time your warm tongue pushes into his mouth and slides over his. Who clutches the nape of your neck as you make out, sticky and sweet, tipping your head backwards and burning you with sudden urgency.

paramedic! denki, who whines when you suck a dark mark under his jaw, rinse and repeat along his collarbone. Who giggles when you lick the ticklish part of his throat.

paramedic! denki, who warns you about the medical dangers of suffocation during sex. Who lays on the bed and begs you to sit on his face anyways. He smacks your ass and grips it hard with both hands, pulling you closer so his tongue plays with your clit. Denki flushes bright pink, eyes glassy and heavy lidded, and throws caution to the wind. He looks quite dizzy with his mouth buried in your pussy.

paramedic! denki, who holds your hands no matter what. You’re riding him? He’s supporting your weight, holding your hands. Taking him from behind? He’s curled over you, crushing your chest to the mattress, hands covering your own. You bet your ass he’s lacing your fingers together and pinning them to the bed when he’s fucking you missionary. He’s scared to let go and it shows.

paramedic! denki, who fucks you rougher whenever you gasp, “denks! oh my god — fuck denki!” Who’s loud and sensitive, eyes rolling into his head with a sharp cry when your pussy squeezes him. Who accidentally gives you a mild shock every once in a while and doesn’t even notice.

paramedic! denki, who loses himself in sex every time. Who grits his teeth and whines through them, eyebrows pinched, expression twisted like he’s close to tears. Denki babbles during sex, he can��t help it. “Never had pussy s’good in my fuckin’ life.” “Tits so pretty I could cry.” “Love you, love you, my god, baby girl — oh fuck.” “Pleasepleaseplease, my cock feel s’good, wanna cum.” Whose moans are more like sobs when he does.

⋆ sooo, do we want more denki? thoughts? comments? unhinged thirsting? would love to hear it all.

[mytherapyisreading14]

I really love your fics and I was wondering if I could request something angsty where Spencer gets hurt/endangers himself during a case and the reader (who has been in love with him for a long time🤭) is scared and wants to run over to help him and they have to hold her back (kinda like the situation with JJ and Will in season 7). Then on the way to the hospital she never leaves his side and when he wakes up she confesses her love to him because she's is afraid of losing him without telling him😭

if you don't want to write it that's totally okay!! have a nice day💕

In the Face of Death

Summary: Spencer gets shot and you don't know if he'll survive. In that moment it becomes clear to you that it's time to finally confess your feelings to him.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Category: Angst, some Fluff

Warnings: violence, gunshots, gunshot wounds, mentions of murder

Word Count: 3,4k

Author’s Note: I reached over 200 Followers yesterday, I can’t believe it! Thank you so much for reading my work and following my blog, this means a lot to me <3 And thank you for your Request, I hope you like it :)

The sound of rain pounding against the windows is the only thing that fills the room in the abandoned warehouse. You stand at a large table with a map of the building spread out on it. The UnSub barricaded himself in one of the back rooms of the building.

"It's a trap," you say, your voice determined, almost tense. "We know he’s just trying to lure us into it, to lure Spencer in." Spencer shot the UnSubs partner in self-defense during the previous confrontation with them. Unfortunately, the situation has gotten even further out of control and now he wants revenge.

Spencer, still studying the map on the table, looks up and raises an eyebrow. "We have no choice. If we keep waiting, he might strike again. If we let him take control, he'll hurt more people. I'm going to face him.”

You shake your head and step closer. "You can't just go in! There's no guarantee you'll get out alive!" Spencer looks up to you and smiles, but there is no joy in his smile. "Someone has to do it. You know that otherwise the situation will escalate further.”

You look at him in disbelief. "This is crazy! You are his target! You won't be able to do it alone! Please... Please don't do this!" The rest of the team exchanges a look, sensing the tension between the two of you.

Rossi clears his throat and steps forward. "We know it's risky, but we all believe Spencer is the only one who can do this. We need to get the situation under control now, he has to go back in," he says. "What? No!" You turn to Rossi, your eyes wide. "He could die!"

Spencer stands up and takes a step closer to you. "I understand that you are worried. But you know that I don't make this decision lightly. We have a plan,” he says, trying to calm you down. "You... you can't do this. You can’t put yourself in danger out there when I can't even prevent it," you say worriedly. "It's not about me. It's about preventing more people from getting hurt in the future," Spencer says.

The team standing nearby starts to gather. Hotch sees you starting to panic and steps in. "Listen. We all know what's at stake. But Spencer is right. If anyone can take the risk, it's him. We have to trust him. We'll do everything we can to support him," Hotch says in a serious voice, "but there's no other way. We have to act before he hurts more people."

You're close to going crazy now. Spencer notices and walks towards you, pausing for a moment. "You know I can't just stand by and watch this man continue to destroy. I have to do this, not just for myself, but for everyone. And I can only do it if you trust me,” he says.

You look at him, your eyes full of pain and fear. "I trust you, but I don't trust them. If you're out there in danger...I can't do this. I can't just stand by and watch you..." you start again but Hotch interrupts you. “He has to go. Now," he says with a firm look. "You have to trust us. He knows what he's doing. But you are not able to help the team and him if you are in this state."

Spencer gives you one more look before he walks towards the warehouse and you can no longer hold back. You try to follow him but Derek and Emily hold you back. You try to pull yourself away from their grip, your anger and desperation growing stronger. "Let me go! He can't get in there alone! Spencer, don't do that!" You try unsuccessfully to break free from their grip to stop him.

But he leaves without responding to your desperate calls. Derek and Emily continue to hold you back while you sink into complete panic. "Spencer, please... please come back!" Your heart skips a beat as you see him disappear into the darkness. “I can't lose him…” you mutter as you are held tightly in the arms of the other team members who try to calm you down.

-

The minutes drag on like hours. You stand near the door, your eyes constantly focused on the spot where Spencer just disappeared. You try to stay calm, but time seems to drag on forever.

Your heart beats faster, and you can feel the thumping beats in your throat. The silence in the room is oppressive, except for the occasional rustle of the radios and the sound of the rain hitting the window.

Every moment you stand here waiting feels like it stretches on forever. Why did he put himself in such danger? You try to organize your thoughts, but they are racing. He has to come back. He can't just disappear or worse, die. Why have you never told him how much he means to you?

The thoughts keep coming back into your head, even though you try to push them away. You've often made up your mind to confess your feelings to him. But you kept holding back, afraid that it would destroy the friendship between you.

But now, not knowing if you'll ever see him again, you suddenly realize how much he means to you. What if he doesn't come back? What if you lose him and never had the chance to tell him how you feel about him?

You shake your head, trying to suppress the panic. But it won't go away. You bite your lip, feeling the tears burning in your eyes. Why couldn't you just be honest with him? A sudden gunshot breaks the silence, then another. Your hand flies to your mouth and your heart skips a beat. Panic shoots through your body. What happened? Is he in danger?

"Those are gunshots!" someone on the team shouts, and you immediately jump into action. Your body moves almost automatically, you run down the corridor, feet stamping on the floor, blood rushing in your ears. You reach the room where Spencer was with the UnSub. The sight that greets you makes the ground fall from under your feet.

Spencer is lying motionless on the floor, blood is everywhere. Your eyes widen and for a moment your breath catches. Your legs are paralyzed, but then you jump forward, stumble over and bend over him. "Spence!" Your voice is shaky as you lift him, but he is heavy, much heavier than you expected. "What happened?"

"It's... it's all…," he murmurs weakly, but you barely hear what he says. A faint smile crosses his face, but you immediately see how painful it is for him. "I'm still here,” he says. “You're bleeding!" Your voice almost breaks when you see his wound.

The panic you've suppressed for so long now breaks through with full force. You press your hand to his side, trying to stop the blood, but it keeps flowing. "Why did you go in? You shouldn't have just walked into the trap like that!"

"I wanted to end it," he says, and the smile on his face only gets weaker. "For us." You hear his words, but they barely reach you. You only feel the cold spreading through your body, the panic that is getting stronger and stronger. "Spence, please stay with me. You have to stay with me!"

"It's going to be okay," he whispers in a voice that's barely more than a breath. You press your hand tighter against his wound, your eyes filling with tears. Your mind is spinning and you're trying to hold it all together. You're desperate, but you can't find the words to express what you're feeling right now.

"Spence, you have to hold on. I need you! Please..." Your voice trembles. You want to tell him what you feel, but you can't. It just feels too late, and you're too afraid of hurting him further. "We need a medic immediately!" you call out to the others. "He's bleeding too much, he needs help, quickly!"

Spencer nods weakly, but you see that he's getting weaker and weaker. The panic rises inside you, and you feel your breath take away. "Spence, please... you have to stay with me."

The others just got the UnSub under control and are taking care of him. But you can't concentrate on anything else but Spencer. Your thoughts are only with him, with the blood spreading beneath him, with the fear that you might lose him.

"Medic, now!" Derek calls, and a little later you hear the roar of the ambulance pulling up. You stay by Spencer's side, your hand in his, begging him with every breath. "Please, stay with me. I need you, I need you here."

When the paramedics finally arrive, you are pushed away from his side. You see them carefully place him on a stretcher, but you can't stop yourself from following. Spencer is rushed to the hospital, and you know he needs surgery quickly.

As you stay behind, alone with the fear and hope that he will make it, your thoughts continue to revolve around the words you never said to him. What if it's too late?

-

You sit on one of the hard plastic chairs in the hospital corridor, the walls around you appear grey and oppressive, and time drags. Your hands are still shaking slightly as you nervously run your fingers along the armrest of the chair.

The hospital corridor is full of life, but you can hardly notice anything, you are so caught up in your own thoughts. The operation that Spencer is currently having is all you can think about. You try to stay calm, but the waiting is driving you crazy.

You keep getting up from your chair and walking a few steps back and forth, then you sit down again. Every thought of Spencer, of the blood you saw, of the wounds he suffered, only makes your nerves tense up more. What if he doesn't survive? What if he never goes back to being the same?

Suddenly the hallway is quiet again as everyone slowly moves back to give you some space. You can't take it anymore. You have to go outside, have to step out into the cold evening for a moment to clear your head. You go to the door and push it open, the cool air immediately hits your heated skin.

You close your eyes for a moment, take a deep breath and try to calm yourself down. “Hey." You turn around, startled. Derek is standing behind you. You try to give him a smile, but it feels forced and wrong. "What are you doing here?" you ask quietly, not really knowing what to say.

"I knew you were out here," he says with a look that is both worried and reassuring. "Don’t worry too much, please. Spencer will make it. He's a fighter." You try to memorize his words, but the doubt remains.

What if he doesn't make it? "I know, but..." you begin, but you can't finish the sentence. Derek looks at you in silence for a while, then sighs and leans against the wall. "Do you want to wait any longer or...?"

You pretend not to understand what he means and look away. "What do you mean?" He snorts briefly, then takes a step closer. "Oh come on, don't act like it's not obvious, we all noticed. You and pretty boy, you're both head over heels in love." You feel your heart skip a beat. Your eyes widen and you try to swallow the lump in your throat.

You turn away, looking at the ground because you just don't know how to react. "I... don't know what you mean," you mutter, even though you know there's no excuse left. "Come on. You don't have to hide this from us anymore. We've all seen how you treat each other."

You know there is no point in denying it. Derek knows you and Spencer too well. You blink, and suddenly tears run down your cheeks. “But what if he doesn’t make it now? What if I lose him and never get to tell him how I feel? What if he never finds out?"

Your voice almost breaks as the words burst out. You've never really talked about it, never found the right moments. And now that it's almost too late, you're painfully aware that you may never get the chance.

Derek sighs and puts a hand on your shoulder to give you a moment of calm. "He'll make it, you'll see. And when he comes back, he'll know how much you love him, even without words. You're simply meant for each other."

You take a deep breath, trying to internalize his words, even if you can't quite believe them yet. But you nod, grateful that he's there, giving you this moment of peace. You snort slightly, trying to hold back the tears.

"Thank you, Derek," you whisper, and then, after a moment, you turn back towards the infirmary. You're not sure if you're really ready to accept the truth, but for now it's enough that Spencer is still alive.

You enter the hallway again, and as you pass one of the doctors, you see him coming towards you with a serious but also relieved look. Your heart beats faster. "He got through the operation well," the doctor says in a reassuring voice. "He'll have to stay here for a few more days for observation, but everything looks good."

"Can I see him?" you ask immediately, your voice shaking a little. You can hardly believe that he made it, that he is still alive. "Yes, of course," the doctor says and nods. "He's sleeping now, but if you want you can stay with him."

Your heart skips a beat. He's alive. You feel a wave of relief wash over you, but at the same time you feel like you need the moment alone. You want to be with him, to be there for him. You walk to his room as fast as you can, Derek stays behind you and follows you.

As you sit by his bed, holding his hand in yours and whispering something quietly to him, you know you can't give up. You will wait until he wakes up. You will be there. It's the only moment you can have with him, and you won't waste it. The hours drag on, and you stay by his side all night, waiting for him to finally open his eyes.

—

It is early in the morning and the sky outside is with grey. There is a strange silence, only interrupted by the quiet sounds of the machines and the quiet hum of the ventilation system. You sit by Spencer's bed, your hand still firmly in his.

The hours of the night have passed, but you have not taken your hand off him for a moment. You are exhausted, but the feeling of fear and relief worsens into a constant trembling inside you. You have been asking yourself over and over for the last few hours how you would react when he wakes up. And now the time has come.

Suddenly you hear a quiet rustling. A barely audible but noticeable sound. Your eyes are fixed on his face as he slowly opens his eyes. It takes a moment for him to really grasp that he is no longer in danger. You see him slowly looking at you. The look in his eyes is confused at first, then clearer.

Then he says your name. His voice is rough and quiet. You are so glad he is still here, that he has held on. "Yes, Spence... I am here. You are in the hospital," you whisper and carefully sit down on the chair next to him. Your hands shake as you hold his hand even tighter.

"What happened?" he asks, his voice still weak, but he seems to be gradually clearing up. "You were shot. Badly. But the doctors operated on you and you made it through," you say, trying to sound calm, but your voice is shaking. "You're really lucky, Spence. You made it."

He closes his eyes for a moment, as if he's thinking everything through again, and then he opens them again. You can see that he's trying to understand your words. But then, when his gaze returns to you, he looks worried. "How are you? You've been crying, I can see it. You're fine, right?"

You can feel the warmth in his voice. You hold his hand even tighter, as if you were holding on to him, as if he could hold you in that moment. You swallow hard and can't help but hold back the tears. "Yes..." you whisper. "Yes, Spence. I... I was so scared. That you wouldn't make it. That I would lose you without telling you what you really mean to me."

He looks at you, and although he is still weak, his eyes seem to narrow as he examines you. "You have to stop worrying so much. I'm okay. I'm fine, really. You don't need to torture yourself like this."

But you can't. You just can't stop. It feels like all your fears and hours of uncertainty are crashing down inside you in this moment. You have to tell him everything, you can't wait any longer.

"No," you say firmly, letting all your insecurity and fear flow into your words. "I can't, Spence. I can never stop worrying about you. You mean too much to me. You... you are everything to me."

It's almost as if the world around you stands still for a moment. You can feel his hand in yours, but the moment is so charged that you can almost feel the air. You look into his eyes, and something changes inside you. You can't wait any longer. Not anymore.

"I love you," you whisper, and the words come so easily and yet so heavily over your lips. You feel your heart beating faster as you finally say it. "I love you, and I could never have forgiven myself if... if you had died yesterday without knowing how I really feel."

The tears run down your cheeks, but this time they are different. It is no longer fear, no longer despair, but a relief that you have never felt before. You have finally told him your feelings, and even though you have not dared to for so long, it feels right now.

Spencer stares at you for a moment, as if he's still trying to understand what you've said. Then he gently pulls you towards him. With a slow movement, he squeezes your hand and then murmurs softly, almost tenderly. "You don't have to worry. I… I love you too."

It's like a light goes on inside you. You can hardly believe that he feels it too, that he loves you as much as you love him. In that moment, you finally feel complete, like everything makes sense. You smile through the tears, your hands still tightly in his.

"Really?" you whisper, as if you're still looking for confirmation, even though you see the answer in his eyes. "Yes, really," he says with a weak but sincere smile that warms your heart.

There is silence between you for a moment. You feel yourself relax a little as the words resonate inside you, as you are finally in the arms of someone who loves you just as much. "You know," Spencer says after a pause, looking at you, "the first thing we're doing when I get out of here is going on a date."

You can't help but laugh, even though it still sounds a little shaky. "A date?" you ask, shaking your head, even though you know he's serious. "Yes," he says with a small smile on his lips even despite his tiredness. "We should have done that a long time ago. But it looks like we were both idiots, so when I get out of here, I’ll take you out. Just you and me."

"That sounds perfect," you whisper, still overwhelmed by everything that's happened, but still happy to have him here, with you. He pulls you towards him gently, as if he wanted to hold on to the moment that was like an eternity for both of you. And even though he is still weak, you know that it is the beginning of something new. Something wonderful. Together.

[insidekatmind]

Your sensei~ Sensei Wolf

Wearning: +18,smut, degratation, age-gap.

The training had been tough. Every part of your body was burning, but the fatigue had been relieved by Axel's presence. You had exchanged smiles, jokes, a few too many glances. Maybe you should have been more discreet, because Sensei Wolf had noticed everything.

As the other students left the gym, he stood still, watching you. When the silence became complete, he approached with slow, measured steps.

"Did you have fun with Axel?"

His voice was calm, but there was a sharp edge that made you tense. You tried to keep calm. "He's just a friend."

Wolf smiled slightly, tilting his head. "Just a friend? Interesting. It didn't seem like that at all."

He stopped in front of you, his eyes locked on yours. "Friends don't look at each other that way."

You felt uncomfortable under the weight of his gaze. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Wolf reached out and gently cupped your chin, forcing you to look at him. "Really?"

Your heart raced. "Let go of me, Sensei."

He let go, but didn't step back. "Tell me the truth. Do you care about him?"

You swallowed. "I don't see why you should care."

Wolf sighed, his expression darkening. "Because I don't want to see anyone else touch you."

His voice was a whisper, but the threat was clear. You pulled away, trying to get away, but he grabbed your wrist.

"Don't test me."

A shiver ran down your spine. His gaze burned with something dangerous, something you didn't want to acknowledge. You'd always known Wolf was different, but now you could see him for real.

And maybe, deep down, a part of you didn't want to escape.

You watch him waiting for his next move. Wolf's gaze didn't waver. He seemed to be analyzing your every reaction, trying to understand your feelings. After a few moments, he took a step back, releasing your wrist, but not stepping away.

"You think I haven't noticed how he looks at you, how he touches you. I'm not blind."

There was a tone of jealousy in his voice, a possessive note that he didn't even try to hide. He crossed his arms, his eyes never leaving you.

"I've been here for you since the beginning. I have trained you, watched you grow. And you... you seem to think Axel is a better choice."

He took a deep breath, his expression hardening. "Tell me. Am I not enough?"

The room seemed to shrink around you. Wolf's intensity was overwhelming, his question striking deep.

You walked closer to him. “Of course you’re enough, you’re my sensei,” you whispered. His eyes widened slightly, as if your words had caught him off guard. He tried to hide it, but you saw the slight tremble in his expression.

He raised a hand and gently tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. The gesture was almost tender, a stark contrast to the possessive edge in his gaze.

"But is that all I am to you? Your sensei?"

His voice was lower now, the jealousy barely controlled.

You blush at both the gesture and the closeness. “No,” you whisper. There was a hint of satisfaction in his expression now, as if your answer had pleased him. He took a step closer, his eyes locked on yours.

"Then what am I to you?"

His hand was still on your face, and you could feel his thumb tracing your jawline. His touch was warm, and the air between you two seemed charged somehow.He took another step closer, closing the already minimal distance between your bodies. His hand slipped down your face, resting on your neck, his thumb rubbing small circles on your pulse.

His voice was like silk, whispering in your ear. "Answer me. What am I to you?"

His closeness was overwhelming, and you could feel his breath on your skin, the heat of his body pressing against yours.

You cling to him and kiss him, to answer his question. Surprised, Wolf stiffened as you kissed him. It was unexpected, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he returned the kiss, with a mix of hunger and urgency.

His hand grabbed your waist, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss. It was possessive and demanding; he wanted to make sure you knew who you belonged to now.

As the kiss continued, he pushed you against a wall, pinning you in place. His body pressed against yours, his other hand burying in your hair.He broke the kiss, but didn't step back. His eyes were dark with hunger, his breath ragged. He looked feral, almost dangerous.

"You can't do that and not expect consequences," he said, his voice a low growl.

He leaned in, his lips brushing against your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. His hands were everywhere, possessive and demanding.

"You're mine, do you understand?"

He nipped at your skin, his teeth grazing your ear, making you gasp.

“Yes,” you whispered, gently tugging at his hair. A low growl escaped his throat, and his grip on your waist tightened. He liked that, and his response was more demanding.

"Say it again," he said, his lips trailing down your neck.

He nipped and kissed at your skin, leaving behind a trail of red marks. His hands roamed over your body, touching all the places he knew would make you squirm.

"Tell me you're mine, and no one else's."“All yours,” you whispered.

He made a low, possessive sound in his throat, and pulled you closer, his body pressed against yours.

"Good," he murmured against your skin. "Never forget that."

He continued to kiss and bite your neck, claiming you in a way that left no doubt who you belonged to now. His hands were everywhere, exploring every inch of you, as if trying to commit your body to memory."Stand with your face to the wall for your sensei" he whispered to you, patting your ass. You obeyed, a shiver running down your spine at the commanding tone of his voice. You turned, facing the wall, your hands braced against it for support.

You could feel Wolf's presence behind you, the heat radiating off him, his breath on your neck. His hand traced a path down your spine, stopping to rest on your hip, his grip firm.

"That's a good girl," he murmured, his lips close to your ear.

He pulls down your gym leggings and panties. "I'm going to make you feel so good you won't even notice," Wolf muttered. You shivered as the cold air hit your skin, his words making you feel exposed and vulnerable. But there was an excitement in the air, an anticipation that made your heart race.

"I trust you," you whispered, your voice trembling.

He chuckled, the sound low and possessive. "You should."

His hands started to explore the curves of your body, rough and calloused from his years of training, yet surprisingly gentle.He puts his hands on your hips and enters you making you gasp. "Sensei" you moaned resting your head on his chest.

A guttural groan escaped Wolf's throat as he entered you, his hands gripping your hips tightly. Pleasure and possessiveness mixed in his eyes, making them gleam.

He pulled you closer, your back against his chest, his mouth finding your neck as he began to thrust into you.

He takes a few moments to adjust to the tightness, his breathing heavy against your neck. "You're so tight," he repeats, his voice rougher than before.

He starts moving, slowly at first, finding a rhythm that has you panting and gripping his arm for support. He continues to kiss and bite your neck, whispering words of praise and possession.

"You're mine. All mine."

He grabs your hand and threads his fingers with yours, pinning them to the wall. He moves a little faster now, his breathing ragged, his body pressed against yours.

"Say it again, tell me you're mine."He whispers.You moaned more and more with each thrust. "Yours, I'm yours sensei" you whimpered feeling like his big cock was splitting you in two. His possessive grip on you tightened, his thrusts becoming more and more urgent.

"That's right," he whispered. "You're mine. And no one else's."

You could hear the growl in his voice, his control slipping away, replaced by a primal need to claim you entirely.

"Say it again," he commanded, his teeth grazing your ear. "Say you belong to me."

"I belong to you, Sensei" you whispered, your words punctuated by soft gasps and moans.

His grip on you was almost painful, but you didn't care. You wanted him to own you, to make you his.

"Good girl," he murmured, his voice soft but still commanding.

He took control entirely, every movement calculated to drive you wild.He pulled you away from the wall, moving you towards the training mat. He pushed you forward gently, and you followed his lead, ending on all fours in front of him.

His hands skimmed your back, caressing your skin before settling on your hips again.

"This is how I want you," he whispered, his words making you shiver.

Wolf slaps your ass as he thrusts into you harder making you scream. His hand leaves a red mark on your skin, his grip on your hip even tighter now.

He leans in, his chest pressed against your back. You can feel the heat radiating off him, his breath hot against your ear.

"You like that?" he asks, a hint of mockery in his tone.

"Y-YES" you screaming.

He chuckles, his voice rough and ragged. "That's what I wanted to hear."

He grabs a handful of your hair, pulling your head back slightly, exposing your neck to him.He continues to pound into you, his grip on you unrelenting. His mouth finds your neck, biting and sucking at your skin, leaving marks that will be impossible to hide.

"Mine," he mutters, the word almost a growl.You closed your eyes and stuck your tongue out smiling, your brain getting more and more fucked up as he fucked you hard.

He chuckles at your response, the sound low and mocking. "Look at you," he growls, "so lost in pleasure you're sticking your tongue out."

His fingers thread through your hair, tugging it slightly, bringing your head back even further, exposing your neck more. "You belong to me, and I'll make sure you remember that."

He starts to thrust harder, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the gym. You were moaning nonsense words as he pounded you harder.

He leaned in, his lips by your ear. "You like this, don't you? You like being used by your Sensei."

His words were like silk, yet they held a hint of mockery. He knew he had you exactly where he wanted you.

He starts to thrust harder, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the gym. You were moaning nonsense words as he pounded you harder.

The training mat was rough against your knees, but the pain was a welcome contrast to the pleasure that was building inside you.

"Sensei..harder" you pleaded.He grinned, a wolfish expression that sent a thrill down your spine. "Beg for it," he demanded.

"Please Sensei, please I want you" you pleaded.

He tightened his grip on your hair, pulling your head back even further. "You want me how?" he commanded."I want you to use me, make me yours, please Sensei" you whimpered."Good girl," he murmured, his tone darkening. "That's exactly what I want to hear."

He leans down, his chest pressed against your back, his mouth by your ear. "You're going to remember this for a long time," he growls.

He starts to pound into you even harder, his movements more urgent, less controlled. "You're mine," he repeats, his voice rough.

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the air, mixed with your moans and gasp.You were letting out pornographic moans but you didn't care, it felt so good.

"That's it," he murmured, his breathing ragged. "Let me hear you."

He pounded into you relentlessly, his movements becoming more and more animalistic. His hand was still in your hair, pulling at it, keeping your head back.

"You belong to me," he repeated, his voice guttural. "I'm going to make you mine in every way."He grabs your arm and makes you rest on your elbows instead of in your hands, putting you in a more animalistic position.He lies on your back and fucks you fast making you scream even more and you were drooling from the pleasure he was giving you.

"That's it," he muttered, his voice ragged. "Take it all,bitch" he growled giving you more.

His face was close to yours and he grabbed you chin making you look at him, your face was a mess, drool from you mouth, tears and messy hair.

"You're a mess" he whispered."A pretty mess" he added with a smirk.

Your moans were loud at this point, and you don't care about being heard by anyone.

"I'm gonna" you breathe heavily.

"You're gonna what?" he purred, a hint of mockery in his voice. "Use your words, princess."

"I'm gonna..." You couldn't even finish your sentence, you were too close to the edge.He chuckled, a dark and satisfied sound, his hand wrapping around your neck lightly. "Oh, you're gonna what? I want to hear you say it."

He pulled you closer to him, your back pressing against his chest, his body covering you. He knew exactly what he was doing, every move calculated to push you to the brink.

"Say it. Tell me what you want."

You moan again, unable to form a coherent thought, let alone a sentence. "Please" you whimper, your body trembling with need.

"Open wide" he commanded, and you comply without hesitation, taking his fingers in your mouth. He chuckled, a low, satisfied sound. "That's a good girl" he says fuck you harder.

Your moans were almost constant now, muffled by his fingers. He had you exactly where he wanted you, completely at his mercy.

"You like that, don't you?" he asked, his tone low and rough. He began moving his fingers back and forth inside your mouth as he fucked you harder and harder.

“Do you like being fucked by your sensei?yeah” Wolf mutters.

Your only response is a moan, muffled by the fingers in your mouth. He chuckled, the sound dark and possessive."I'll take that yes"

He withdrew his fingers from your mouth, replacing them with his own lips,kiss you rough.

He kissed you hard and you kissed him back, equally as forcefully. It was a fight for dominance, a battle neither of you were willing to surrender.

He broke the kiss, biting your lip lightly. "You're mine, remember that" he whispered, his voice a low growl.

You moan into his mouth. “Sensei I’m coming,” you murmur, moaning.

He leans in, his mouth by your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "That's what I wanted to hear" he whispered, his voice dark and hungry.

He increased the pace even more, his own breathing ragged, his body moving against yours with a possessive intensity."Come for me,darling"

You moan and come also triggering his orgasm. The sensei pulls out of you going to the bathroom getting a clean cloth to clean you.

Once he finished cleaning you off he picked you up and carried you over to a couch. He sat down and pulled you onto his lap, his arms encircling you.

He held you against him, his chin resting on top of your head, his body still radiating heat.

"You okay?" He asked his voice soft this time compared to before.

He returns and gently cleans you up, a stark contrast to his earlier behavior. He's gentle, almost tender now, his touch soft and reverent.

"You did good" he whispers, his voice returning to its normal, authoritative tone.

You gave a lazy smile, hugging him.

His shoulders relaxed as you hug him, his arms encircling you, holding you close. he hugged you back, and the simple gesture feels like acceptance. "You're going to be sore in the morning" he said with a smirk.

You nodded. "I can't do karate tomorrow," you whispered. He chuckled, his hands rubbing your back in a soothing motion. "No, I don't think you'll be able to do much of anything tomorrow other than sleep" he agreed.

He lay down and pulled you onto his chest, his arms still holding you close. You felt safe there, cradled against him, his heartbeat steady and sure beneath your ear."Get some sleep" he murmured, his voice soft. "You're going to need it."

“In the karate gym?” you muttered amusedly. He chuckled, ruffling your hair affectionately. "Yes, in the karate gym," he replied. "Don't worry,I'll make sure no one disturbs us."

He wrapped his arms around you tighter, pulling you closer, his body a warm and comforting presence against yours. "Just sleep," he whispered, his voice low and soothing.

You nod and relax into his chest. His hand started to run through your hair once again, his touch gentle and soothing. The sound of his heartbeat was rhythmic and soft, lulling you into a deep sense of relaxation.

"Sleep," he murmured again, his voice a soothing whisper against your ear.

You let out a sleepy sigh and closed your eyes, feeling completely safe and secure in his embrace. The stress and tension that had filled your body earlier had melted away, leaving only a sense of peaceful contentment.

He held you close, his arms wrapping around you protectively. He continued to stroke your hair, his touch light and soothing.The silence of the gym was only broken by the sound of your steady breathing, and the occasional noise of the outside night.

[bbina]

alone together ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 . . . casual

── taking comfort in the thought that you are together in aloneness through late night talks, heartfelt confessions, and a genuine connection. with your shared experience of recent heartbreaks, you wonder if getting together would be all worth it. in which you find solace in each other's company, that you are alone together.

⋆｡˚ prev | next ˚｡

꩜ notes .ᐟ wc: 2.8k + suggestive towards the end lol this chapters song recommendation: casual - chappell roan, i love you, i'm sorry - gracie abrhams and guilty as sin - taylor swift

꩜ taglist .ᐟ @onlywonb @rosesfortaro @starwonb1n @wonychu @totheseok @dolloie @hyunjinsnumberonefun @binluvsu @onlyhyunjin @annswwa @wonbinsvlle @hakkkuu @ilovejungwonandhaechan @artstaeh @lecheugo @odxrilove @bunni @saranghoeforanton @nujeskz @quicksilverstone @kyusqult @nctsshoes2 @s9nwoo @daegale @palchokitty @dutifullyannoyingfox @oshakyao @koryutte @b-riize @wbyeolz @peterm4rker @winuvs @i03jae @rsatoru @enhacolor @dalliesque @sweetiejaeyun @dearestjake @cupidslovearrows @kkumistars @sngj08 @taroddori @ennycutie @sa3ha @koeuh @astro-doll-the-star @amouriu @mujeans @ijustreallylike2read @endtostartbreathin

air

you need some fresh air. just when you thought you were about to escape the chain of misery, he just had to reply to your instagram story

grabbing a random hoodie, you rush out of your apartment to get that much needed air. its times like these where you're grateful for living near a convenience store. the safe place you hold close near to your heart just down the street. the same place where you let your tears fall down your face, the place where all your unspoken thoughts are set free. the very place where you feel okay even if its just for a passing moment

across the street, it seems like wonbin had the same idea

he needed a breather after reflecting on his actions. he doesn't know why but he can't understand the feeling inside his chest. the moment you shared with sion repeats in his head like a broken record. it was like his own conscience was taunting him for his actions

in his own defense, everything was just casual

until it was no longer like that.

wonbin walks along the dark streets that lead to his beloved convenience store. the same convenience store he goes to when he needs to clear his head

. . . ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

you take your sweet time roaming around inside the convenience store you know like the back of your hand. running your hands through the array of products in display, deciding if you were hungry or just needed some familiarity to keep yourself sane

the sound of the door opening catches your attention. on instinct, you looked back and again, you couldn’t believe your eyes

it was him again

wonbin

the reason why you're even out right now. you click your tongue in annoyance realizing that if he needed a breather, he'd also come to this store

hell, you two even met here for the first time

shaking your head, you grabbed a random drink off the shelf, hoping to avoid wonbin as much as possible who was also walking around looking for something to ground him

walking up to the cashier, you fail to notice that there was a group of guys around your age lingering around the counter. one of them wolf whistles at the sight of you, causing you to involuntarily tense up

"guys, shut up for a moment?" one guy raises his voice, raising his hand to motion his friends to keep quiet as he takes you in up and down

you grimace, slamming your drink down at the open counter, hoping the guys get the message— they don't

the same guy even had the audacity to slide next to you, striking up a conversation

"hey pretty. you alone on this lonely night?" he smirks, nudging you slightly

you let out a hiss, ready to cuss him out but a hand shoots out between you and the man

"she's not interested" wonbin's familiar voice rings through your ears

in that moment, it actually comforted you in a sense

it's like he's always there when you needed him the most

the man scoffs, giving wonbin a dirty look before he raises both hands in surrender. muttering something under his breath but wonbin doesn't push further

instead, he pays for both of your things and guides you out of the convenience store just in case the group of guys behind the two of you try something funny if he just left you there

which he wouldn't even dare to do

when you two were now in safe distance, you push his hand off of you

"that wasn't necessary" you muttered, brushing your hoodie

wonbin scoffs, "what? letting you get harassed?"

"i was not getting harassed!" you snap, "i could've handled that—"

"you were tense and do you honestly think i'd just let you handle that yourself?" wonbin cuts you off, shaking his head at the mere thought of something bad happening to you

you stay silent after that. you purse your lips shut as you continue to walk back to your apartment with wonbin in tow

you don't know why, but you have a gut feeling on where this was headed

. . . ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

"you didn't have to walk me home" you murmured, glancing back at wonbin who was literally right behind you, "but you didn't have to literally walk me up to my apartment"

wonbin shrugs, the sound of the plastic bag shuffling with his movements

"i just have to make sure you got home safe" he says, giving you a look

you bit your lip as you look away. no, you had to stay strong. you can't let him win you back this easily

slowly, you open the door to your place. you don't verbally invite him in, but you didn't shut the door immediately either. all because you didn't really have the heart to tell him

taking a deep breath, wonbin follows

of course he did. he always does

wonbin watches you for a moment as you roam around your apartment, trying so hard to not start a conversation with the man who had just broken your heart

"so.. how have you been?" wonbin starts, awkwardly trying to find a common ground

"fine" you reply curtly, not even sparing a glance towards his direction, "how about you? you and chaewon going strong?"

wonbin's jaw tightens at the mention of chaewon. is this why you were upset all along?

"we're not together" wonbin says firmly. he doesn't understand why you're acting like this when you went out on a date with sion

"oh really? could've sworn you two were together now" you shrug, trying to mask your true feelings. on the inside you were hurting a lot more than you should

you have to constantly remind yourself that you two aren't together but the way wonbin has been acting, it's really hard not to think that there's something going on

"you would've known if you just let me explain" wonbin points out, catching on with your condescending tone

"what explanation is needed? i saw it clear as day" you retort, finally snapping your head to meet his eyes

wonbin closes his eyes for a brief second, trying to compose himself. he takes a deep breath before he attempts to calmly explain to you what you saw isn't what you think it was

"see? you won't even let me explain. chaewon and i are just friends–"

"we're just friends too, wonbin" you cut him off, reminding him of what he said to you nights ago, "so does that mean you treat all of your friends the same way you treat me?"

"what? no!"

"then there's no need for you to explain!" you yell out, frustration evident in both your voice and features

you've finally exploded

"i don't even know what we're doing anymore" you start, hands trembling, "you take care of me, you look out for me, you kiss me, you stay the night, you make me feel like we are something and then it goes all out the window the one time i asked where this was all going" you rant

wonbin clamps his mouth shut, just letting you vent it out

with a sharp exhale, you finally look at him in the eye

"you made me feel things i never wanted to feel again"

you pause for a moment. just letting yourself breathe and calm yourself down

"so tell me wonbin, was this, was everything just casual to you? cause to me, it's not"

your questions hangs in the air with a heavy heart. you can't keep doing this anymore. you've admitted that you have fallen in love with wonbin. hard

as for wonbin, he hated this conversation. he hates that it had come to this. he doesn't do confrontations like this. he hates being put on the spot when it comes to things like this

you watch him, waiting for his answer. just a simple answer is enough for you to decide everything. all you wanted was a clear direction on what you two were doing

if it's even worth clinging onto for dear life because honestly, you've had enough

wonbin opens his mouth to say something but closes it again, running a hand through his hair. you watch him stay silent for a while that it was hurting. you wanted him to speak. to speak up that what you two had isn't just something in your head but feels it too. he had to feel it because, why else would he do that if he didn't feel anything?

when the silence stretches on, your stomach drops. you had a feeling what he was about to say and you're not sure if you could bear the truth being slapped to your face like this

"i-" wonbin starts, he clicks his tongue in annoyance when he cuts himself off, ".. i don't know"

this was worse than getting flat out rejected. what the fuck does he mean by he doesn't know? he doesn't know what? he doesn't know if he still wants to keep you around? he doesn't know what to do with your current relationship?

what does he not fucking know?

you let out a bitter laugh, completely flabbergasted with the conversation

he doesn't know

"y/n, listen-"

"what do you mean by 'i don't know'? was everything just a fucking joke to you? was everything just some performative act? what do you even gain from doing this? i opened up to you, i trusted you with my heart only for you to say you don't know? just tell me this, wonbin. what the fuck have we've been fucking doing all this fucking time if you don't fucking know!"

you don't even notice that you've been inching closer and closer to him til you feel your head being pulled to his chest

"shhh.." wonbin shushes, stroking your hair, "let's breathe first. okay?" he reminds softly

you almost melt onto his touch but you reminded yourself to stand your ground so you push yourself off of him

"you're unbelievable, wonbin" you laugh bitterly, running a hand through your hair. "just look at you pretending to care all of a sudden-"

"i do care about you! about us!" wonbin cuts you off angrily, brows furrowed as he takes a step closer to you. he clenches his jaw as he stares into his eyes, like he was looking for something. a sign that this won't be over just yet

you roll your eyes hearing him say he cares about you

"you say you care but when i ask what we are it's a different story. yes you do care, but not in that way. so stop saying that because you don't care about me, or about us at all!"

wonbin clenches his jaw hearing your words. he wants to care but at the same time, he feels like he shouldn't. the very thought of being committed again scares him to a degree. what if you were just like his ex? once he fully dedicates himself to you, you'll be running away like what his ex did

wonbin cherishes your special relationship with him a lot more than you think. to him, you were his twin flame. his soulmate even. you just get him the way nobody else does. so much that it scared him to even think about putting a label on your relationship

he recalls every single moment that led to your relationship with him. wonbin firmly believes that red string of fate theory because what are the odds of you two going through similar things and the same time?

through late night talks, forming a special bond that no one else could live up to, to finding comfort with just each other's company

your relationship with wonbin was just different.

and he wouldn't have that in any other way

seeing that wonbin was just staring at you, looks like you finally had your answer

but before you can say anything else like to make him leave, he crashes his lips against yours

wonbin kisses you.

the kiss wasn't hungry nor needy. it was slow and affectionate like he was trying to tell you something

you hate how easily you melt into the kiss. like you weren't just resisting him a few moments ago. you try to pull away but he just keeps pulling you back

"you-" kiss "can't keep-" kiss "doing this" you finally pull away

wonbin keeps his arms around your hips, preventing you from moving. you stare at up at him like you were memorizing every single feature on his face

with a deep breath, you break the silence

"you can't keep doing this wonbin" you repeat, voice barely above a whisper. wonbin leans forward, resting his forehead against yours. his eyes dart towards your lips from your eyes before he closes his eyes

"i know"

his answer pains you but you already expected it

"but i can't seem to stop" he murmurs, eyes fluttering open to meet yours

you slowly creep your hands to cup his cheeks. your thumb runs across the high points of his cheeks, something you've grown accustomed into doing for a while now

"then figure it out" your murmur quietly, staring into his eyes. a tear slips out unintentionally out of your eye that it catches wonbin off guard. "because i can't keep this up anymore" you say tearfully

you let go of his face, letting your hands fall onto the fabric of his hoodie. you want him to say it out loud that he wants you. that he's sure of you because frankly, you don't want him to stop either

taking a deep breath, you slowly remove wonbin's arms around you

"i like you, wonbin" you admit, "i like you a lot but if you can't give me a clear answer on what we are, then please. just let me go and let me move on"

wonbin's eyes widened at your confession. you're hit with his silence once more

"forget it" you murmured, turning around so you couldn't face him much longer but what he does next shocks you

he grabs your arm, tugging you back to face him once more before his lips finds yours again

and before you can even process everything, you find yourself backed against your kitchenette's counter. his lips leaving trails of kisses from your lips to your jaw and to your neck. your hand flies to his hair, tugging on them when the sensation of him sucking on your skin pierces through your skin

"tell me to stop and i will" wonbin murmurs against your skin. his tongue soothing over his work of art he had just placed on your collarbones

one thing you've realized through all this that wonbin isn't exactly good with words. he shows emotions through actions

his hands find their way against your bare skin. his touch setting your skin on fire. the same hands that has memorized every curvature of your body

you weakly shake your head, letting yourself melt into the moment. your answer was all he needed. wonbin hoists you up and carries you to your bed

wonbin pulls away slightly to catch his breath. he stares down at you as his body hovers above yours. his stupid star necklace dangling above your face

the way he was looking at you like he was giving you one last chance to back away from him. a chance to break this viscous cycle you are living in because of him

instead, he's met with you yanking his neck down and clashing teeth. it's needy, it's desperate, it's clear what your choice is

and who is wonbin to deny that?

before you know it, you two are now entangled under the same sheets. your breaths ragged with your steamy actions. so much that you almost forgot what happened between the two of you

"you know, drive me fucking insane" you breathe out, fingers running through wonbin's hair as you two rest after a steamy activity

wonbin chuckles, sending vibrations throughout your body as he lays on top of you

"i know"

wonbin rolls over and pulls you on top of him, switching your positions. your head now resting on his chest. you close your eyes to the beat of his heartbeat, like it was slowly lulling you to sleep

it's warm

you feel wonbin's arm reaching over to stroke your exposed shoulder

"you okay?" wonbin asks, voice husky

you nod your head yes, tracing random shapes on his skin

wonbin hums and kisses the top of your head

everything he didn't say he showed tonight under the sheets and for that, you let him back in again because this time, you think you have him.

the night has broken the unspoken tension between the two of you. or at least for now but the way wonbin made you feel tonight was more than it seems— at least for now

[moonlight-joy]

Meet Me at Midnight

MASTERLIST

Fandom: Bridgerton

Summary:  You’re an unconventional lady with a love for sneaking out and breaking society’s rules. One night, Benedict catches you—only to reveal he has a rebellious side too.

Pairing: Reader/Benedict Bridgerton

Rules had never suited you.

From the moment you were old enough to understand the rigid expectations of the ton, you had known that you were meant for something more.

You craved adventure. The kind that set your heart racing, that made you feel alive in a way no afternoon tea ever could.

More than drawing rooms and chaperoned walks.

More than polite conversation and forced laughter.

More than being a perfect lady, waiting for a husband to claim you.

And so, on nights like these—when the rest of London slumbered, unaware—you slipped out into the darkness, reveling in the freedom the midnight hour allowed.

It was intoxicating, the thrill of sneaking past your sleeping household, your slippers barely making a sound against the cool stone floor. The garden was your escape, the wrought-iron gate your passage to the world beyond.

You were always careful. Always quick. Always alone.

Until tonight.

Tonight, someone was watching you.

And that someone was Benedict Bridgerton.

"You’re either exceptionally daring," Benedict’s voice drawled from the shadows, "or exceptionally foolish."

You should have been startled. Any other lady would have gasped, clutched her pearls, perhaps even fainted in fright at being caught sneaking about like a common thief.

But you weren’t any other lady.

And Benedict Bridgerton?

Well, he was watching you with an amused smirk and eyes far too alight with curiosity for a man about to deliver a lecture on propriety.

"That depends," you whispered, tilting your head. "Are you planning to turn me in?"

He stepped forward, moonlight illuminating the sharp angles of his face. "That depends," he echoed, mirroring your teasing tone. "Are you planning on telling me where you’re sneaking off to?"

You raised a brow. "Do I strike you as someone who gives away secrets so easily?"

Benedict chuckled, low and warm. "No. Which is precisely why I find myself so intrigued."

A thrill ran down your spine.

He was not scolding you. Not dragging you back inside.

He was curious.

Interested.

Perhaps even a little bit impressed.

"You’re not the only one who enjoys bending the rules, you know," he added, voice softer now, as if sharing a confession.

Your heart pounded. "Is that so?"

Benedict nodded, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "If you must know, I, too, have a fondness for sneaking away in the dead of night. There’s something rather freeing about it, wouldn’t you agree?"

You studied him for a moment.

Benedict Bridgerton—the charming, artistic, rule-breaking second son.

You had always suspected there was more to him than society saw.

Now, you knew.

"Well then, Mr. Bridgerton," you whispered, stepping back toward the gate. "Shall we see who is the better rebel?"

His grin widened. "Lead the way."

London at midnight was a world of its own.

Gone were the carriages and bustling crowds. Gone were the watchful eyes and whispered gossip.

The city belonged to you now—just you and Benedict, slipping through quiet streets, your laughter barely contained as you darted through hidden alleys and past the grand, sleeping houses of Mayfair.

You led him to your favorite spot—an old stone bridge overlooking the Thames, where the moonlight danced on the water and the world felt endless.

Benedict leaned against the railing, looking at you with something unreadable in his expression.

"So," he said after a moment. "Tell me, do you do this often? Run away under the cover of darkness?"

You smirked. "What do you think?"

"I think," he murmured, eyes gleaming, "that you are unlike anyone I have ever met."

A warmth spread through you, unexpected and dangerous.

You had always been drawn to Benedict—the way he saw the world differently, the way he never seemed quite as concerned with rules as his elder brother.

But tonight, standing here with him under the stars, you realized something else.

He saw you.

Not as a lady meant for ballrooms and courtships.

But as you.

Wild. Unconventional. Free.

"You should have been born a poet," you teased, trying to ignore the way your heart had begun to race.

Benedict chuckled. "Or an artist."

You turned to him fully. "Is that what you want?"

His expression softened. "It is what I am."

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

And then, as if drawn by some invisible force, he reached for your hand.

"You are trouble, you know that?" he murmured.

You smirked. "And you like it."

His fingers brushed against yours, slow and deliberate. "I do."

The air between you was charged, something unspoken humming beneath the surface.

If you kissed him now, if you let yourself close that last bit of distance, there would be no going back.

And yet—

"Benedict," you whispered.

His breath hitched. "Yes?"

You swallowed. "Would you do it?"

His brow furrowed. "Do what?"

You looked up at him, holding his gaze. "Leave it all behind. The rules. The expectations. Would you walk away from it if you could?"

Silence.

Benedict’s fingers tightened around yours.

"I don’t know," he admitted. "But for the first time, I want to."

Your breath caught.

It was not a promise. Not yet.

But it was something.

Something enough to make your heart pound.

Something enough to make you realize that, perhaps, you were not alone in this world after all.

That perhaps, just perhaps—

You had found your fellow rebel at last.

The city was quiet, the world asleep.

But here, on this bridge, in the company of Benedict Bridgerton, you had never felt more awake.

"Benedict," you whispered.

He exhaled, tilting his head ever so slightly. "Yes?"

And then, before you could think better of it, you surged forward—closing the space between you, pressing your lips to his.

The kiss was everything the night had promised.

Messy. Breathless. Reckless.

His hands found your waist, pulling you closer, and you felt the warmth of him, the steadiness of his presence.

It was terrifying.

It was exhilarating.

It was right.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and wide-eyed, Benedict let out a low chuckle.

"Well," he murmured, his lips still brushing against yours, "I suppose this means we are well and truly scandalous now."

You grinned. "Was there ever any doubt?"

His laughter was warm, filling the night air.

And as he kissed you again, slow and sure beneath the midnight sky, you knew—

This was only the beginning.

Please support my work with like and comment

[tenessee-walker]

hiii!! i absolutely love your writing🥺

could i request some hcs about arthur making a harmless joke/prank towards the reader and them taking it personally and crying/feeling hurt? kinda angsty sorry😔

awwww THANK YOUUUUUU

I have to admit 😞 I’ve done that before 🙈 like I’ve cried over a joke but hey 👋 I cry a lot so 🤷‍♀️

joker!arthur who’s always got a sarcastic quip or joke to crack, and sometimes—sometimes—he doesn’t know when to stop. he thinks it’s funny, thinks it’s harmless, but every so often, he crosses a line without even realizing it.

joker!arthur who’s sitting around the campfire, trying to get everyone laughing after a rough day of work, but when he sees you leaning against a tree, looking tired, he can’t help himself. “hey, y/n,” he says with that usual grin, “you know, if you worked half as hard as you complained, you might actually get something done around here. must be exhausting being so good at whining.”

joker!arthur who, in that moment, doesn’t see how the light in your eyes flickers, how your smile fades. he thinks it’s a joke—a harmless tease—but he doesn’t realize how cruel it sounds. “what’s the matter? did i strike a nerve? it’s just a joke, y/n,” he says, shrugging, already moving on to the next joke, because that’s what he does.

joker!arthur who doesn’t see the way your expression crumbles. “you think i’m just complaining, arthur?” you say quietly, too quietly, and he pauses. he notices then, for the first time, that you’re not smiling. your face is pale, your eyes distant.

joker!arthur who immediately realizes he’s fucked up. but instead of stopping, he just digs deeper, thinking maybe if he jokes some more, it’ll ease the tension. “oh come on, y/n, i was just messin’ with ya. lighten up, huh?” but his words sound more and more hollow as he sees the pain on your face.

joker!arthur who can’t believe what he’s just done when you stand up abruptly, pushing your chair back, and walk awaywithout a word. and then it hits him—oh shit, that was bad. his grin fades, replaced by that pit in his stomach he tries so hard to ignore.

joker!arthur who calls after you, but you don’t stop, and he’s frozen in place, watching you walk away. “hey—y/n, wait, come on. i didn’t mean it like that—” but you don’t turn around. his voice cracks. “y/n!”

joker!arthur who starts to panic. “what the hell did i just say?” he starts pacing around camp, talking to himself, “it was just a joke. it was supposed to be funny… it’s just a damn joke, morgan!” he knows the words are a stupid excuse, but in his head, it’s all he can come up with.

joker!arthur who spends the rest of the night with nervous energy, watching the fire crackle, wishing you would come back, wishing you would just laugh at him again like you used to. but there’s nothing. just the echo of his own mistake bouncing around in his head.

joker!arthur who finally can’t take it anymore and goes looking for you, his heart in his throat, finding you sitting by the edge of the river, your back to him. the silence between you two is deafening.

joker!arthur who tries to apologize but his words are clumsy, unsure, like he can’t even get his thoughts straight. “look… i—I didn’t mean it, y/n. i was just… i was just trying to make people laugh. hell, i didn’t mean to hurt you.” he’s practically stumbling over his words, trying to make you understand, “please… just, please don’t be mad at me. i didn’t—”

joker!arthur who finally sees you cry. the tears slipping down your face, and that’s when it hits him how far he went. how he just obliterated the one person he cared about without even realizing it. his stomach churns. “please, y/n… don’t cry. i never meant to make you cry. i swear to you, i—”

joker!arthur who, for the first time, doesn’t have a joke. doesn’t have anything funny to say to make it better. just stands there, staring at you, hating himself for being the one to cause your tears. he wants to fix it, but he doesn’t know how.

joker!arthur who desperately wants to make things right, but in the pit of his stomach, he feels like he’s lost you—lost the one person who could love him, and now all he’s left with is his stupid fucking joke.

joker!arthur who’s never felt this way before, unsure of how to even begin making things right. he can’t stand seeing you cry, but more than that, he can’t stand knowing he caused it. and the guilt? it’s eating him alive. he can’t just let it go. he can’t pretend everything’s fine. not this time.

joker!arthur who’s now so careful with his words, it’s like he’s walking on thin ice. he approaches you slowly, almost timid, like he doesn’t want to scare you away even more. his usual cocky swagger is gone, replaced by an almost fragile softness. he kneels in front of you, his knees sinking into the dirt, eyes never leaving your face. “y/n, i… i’m so sorry. please, just…” he stops, unable to find the words, and his voice cracks.

joker!arthur who reaches for your hand, but his touch is so gentle, like you might break if he holds on too tight. “i didn’t mean it. i didn’t mean to hurt you. please, y/n… i need you to believe me.” his voice is softer now, almost vulnerable, like a man who’s been stripped of all his bravado.

joker!arthur who never looks away, his eyes filled with nothing but regret. “i don’t know what’s wrong with me sometimes, but i swear to you, i never meant for my words to… hurt you like that.” he’s so careful with every syllable, as though your feelings are fragile glass he doesn’t want to shatter.

joker!arthur who, after a long silence, gently brushes a tear off your cheek with his thumb, his touch so light it’s almost like he’s afraid of you pulling away. “please… don’t cry. i don’t know what i’d do if i lost you.” he whispers it like it’s the most sacred truth, his voice tight with emotion.

joker!arthur who, even when you don’t respond immediately, doesn’t give up. he stays right there, his face inches from yours, and he makes sure every word he says is filled with the depth of his sincerity. “i know i messed up, i know… but please, y/n, don’t shut me out. i can’t take it. i’m nothing without you.”

joker!arthur who’s just so tender with you now, holding you gently, letting you cry against his chest. his arms wrap around you, and he doesn’t care if it’s messy or if his words come out all wrong. he just needs you to know that he’ll never hurt you again. “you’re everything to me, y/n. don’t you forget that.”

joker!arthur who stays by your side, holding you like you’re the most fragile thing in the world, offering you the softest apologies in the hopes that eventually, you’ll see just how much he loves you. “i don’t deserve your forgiveness… but i swear, i’ll spend every damn day making it up to you.”

[slutoru1207]

New haircut, New beginnings

Sasuke Uchiha x Reader

The first time Sasuke saw you, it wasn’t anything extraordinary. No earth-shattering moment, no bolt of lightning striking the ground between you. You were simply there, moving through the streets of Konoha, smiling as you spoke to an elderly vendor. He had just returned from a mission and was on his way to report to Kakashi, still lost in the haze of duty and revenge, when your laughter—soft and sweet—cut through his thoughts like a blade.

He had ignored it. Or at least, tried to.

But then it happened again. And again. Every time he was in the village, his eyes would find you in the most unexpected places—chatting with children, helping a merchant restock his cart, feeding stray cats near the training grounds.

He didn’t understand it at first, this strange pull toward you. He had spent so long drowning in darkness that warmth felt… foreign. Unfamiliar. Dangerous.

And yet, whenever you were near, the weight on his chest felt just a little lighter.

He never approached you, never spoke to you. But you noticed him.

-

It started small. You would pass him in the market and offer a polite smile. Nothing overbearing, nothing loud—just kind.Sasuke didn’t know what to do with kindness.

But then one day, you did something that changed everything.

“Do you want one?” you had asked, holding out a skewer of dango. The question was so casual, so normal, that he almost walked away. But something in your eyes—curious, unafraid—held him in place.

He hesitated.

“You don’t have to,” you added quickly, sensing his reluctance. “But you look like you could use something sweet.”

Sweet.

When was the last time he had something sweet?

He took it without a word, biting into it as you turned back to your own food, not pressing for conversation or gratitude. And maybe that was what made Sasuke start noticing you even more—you never asked him for anything. Never expected anything from him.

You were just there.

And he found himself drawn to it.

Sasuke started lingering in places he knew you frequented, though he refused to acknowledge why. He would see you at the bookstore, flipping through pages with a look of deep concentration. He would watch you at the market, haggling with vendors in a way that made him smirk. He would even catch you at the training grounds, not training, but watching—eyes sharp, observant, as if you were fascinated by the shinobi world but had no desire to be a part of it.

And then, one night, it happened.

It had been late, the streets mostly empty, when he saw you struggling to carry a basket full of supplies. He hadn’t planned on helping, but before he could think, he was beside you, taking the basket from your hands with ease.

“Oh,” you blinked up at him in surprise. “Thank you, Sasuke.”

You said his name like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He swallowed hard, nodding stiffly. “It’s heavy.”

You hummed. “A little. But I would’ve managed.”

He didn’t know why, but the idea of you struggling, of you having to do everything alone, made his chest tighten.

After that, it became a habit.

He would carry things for you when he saw you with too much. He would walk beside you in companionable silence, even when you didn’t ask him to. And, without realizing it, he started seeking out your presence like it was something vital.

Like you were something vital.

-

Sasuke didn’t know when it happened—when the mere sight of you became something he needed rather than just something he noticed.

But he knew that whenever you smiled at him, his heart did something strange.

And whenever you reached for his hand—light, fleeting, like a whisper—he would spend the rest of the night staring at his palm, wondering why it felt like it was still burning.

He was touch-starved, and you were the only person who seemed to notice.

You never forced it, never overwhelmed him. But you would brush your fingers against his arm when you passed him in the market, press your knee against his when you sat beside him on a bench. Once, when he was lost in thought, you had reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear.

Sasuke had malfunctioned.

His face had burned, and he had turned away so quickly you had giggled.

“Didn’t take you for the shy type, Uchiha.”

He had scowled, but the warmth in his chest never left.

-

It wasn’t planned.

One evening, you were sitting together in his home, the quiet between you comfortable. You were the only person he allowed in his space, the only one who made the silence feel like peace instead of loneliness.

“Sasuke,” you mused, tilting your head as you played with the ends of his long hair. “You ever think about cutting it?”

He raised a brow. “Why?”

You shrugged. “I dunno. A small change, maybe.”

He thought about it for a moment. He had kept it long out of habit, out of grief. But now? He wasn’t that same person anymore.

“…Do it.”

Your eyes widened. “Wait, really?”

“Hn.”

And so, with careful fingers, you trimmed the length, fixing the uneven strands until it fell just right. It wasn’t a drastic change, just enough to feel like something new.

When you finished, you brushed your fingers through his hair, smiling softly. “There. Perfect.”

Sasuke’s breath caught.

You always looked at him like that—like he wasn’t broken, like he wasn’t a man who had spent years drowning in vengeance. You looked at him like he was just Sasuke.

And before he could stop himself, he reached for your hand, holding it tightly in his own.

“…Come with me.”

You blinked. “What?”

He swallowed. “I’m leaving Konoha. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.” His grip tightened, his voice quieter now. “Come with me.”

You stared at him, wide-eyed, before a slow, warm smile spread across your lips. “You really want me to?”

He exhaled sharply, nodding.

You cupped his cheek, your touch featherlight. “Then I’ll go anywhere with you.”

-

At the village gates, Team 7 was waiting.

Naruto looked confused. Kakashi raised a brow. Sakura… she looked sad. Not angry, not bitter—just sad.

“Since when…?” she asked, her voice quiet.

Sasuke didn’t answer, only shifting slightly so you were closer to him. It was the only answer she needed.

“You really are full of surprises, Sasuke,” Kakashi mused.

Naruto, after a moment, grinned. “Guess we should’ve seen it coming. She’s kinda perfect for you, y’know.”

Sasuke ignored the heat rising to his ears.

Sakura smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Take care of each other, okay?”

You nodded, squeezing Sasuke’s hand. “We will.”

And just like that, without looking back, Sasuke Uchiha left Konoha—not alone, not lost, but with you by his side.

Because there was no goodbye.

Only the beginning of something new.

i love this man.

[mangocurist]

toxic codependent yaoi i love you toxic codependent yaoi save me

this is based off of @pancake-x2's idea of the uu!director being wifrot (as a unit)... its soooo good im like. frothing at the mouth thinking about it. ARGHH pulls my hair out in clumps I need them to Kill each Other and Make Out about it

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـــــــــﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـﮩﮩـــــﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـﮩـــــﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـــﮩ

If there was any one thing that someone needed to know about Parrot, Wifies would tell them this: he is a difficult man to keep chained down.

Now, don’t get him wrong— Wifies doesn’t enjoy having to force his partner in crime to stay put in one place— it’s clear that Parrot wants to stretch his wings and explore the server, fool around with the pawns they’ve taken such great lengths to acquire and just generally find the workings of this server and break it apart at its seams. 

It’s simply his nature as a free spirit, and Wifies understands that he must feel restrained, cooped up in this sterile lab with nothing for company but himself and the countless experiments Wifies checks on daily. 

Even besides his natural need to explore, Unstable is a much different place from Parrot’s home server of Lifesteal, and Wifies can’t imagine what going from a place like Lifesteal, where death is not only not permanent but in fact infinitely avoidable so long as you have the smarts to evade and steal from others, to Unstable, where everyone watches their backs with caution knowing that the moment they turn around they risk never moving again would be like. 

To Wifies, it’s much the same as having brought a wild animal into a supervised environment: unless they are broken and beaten down, it is difficult to ever fully rid of their innate desire for freedom.

An animal’s first instinct, when trapped in a difficult situation, is to flee.

But while he needs Parrot’s… wild nature, so to say, present to fully carry out their purpose on this server, Wifies cannot possibly risk setting Parrot free to wreak havoc on Unstable. It would simply be too large a risk, and he— they, the Director— does not take risks. Not unless they know they can win.

Which they can, as long as Parrot does not leave the cage Wifies has placed him in.

Parrot, for his part, knows this, and he complies well. Wifies is honestly impressed at the restraint Parrot shows— his partner's patience is certainly not mirrored in his doppelganger, a little bird too curious for its own good. Then again, maybe it is one of those differences that come from the man’s time spent on Lifesteal that allow him to keep his cool where the other Parrot would have leapt ahead, adrenaline rushing through his blood and rendering his critical thinking useless. 

His willingness to wait for the perfect moment to strike was what made him such a good predator on Lifesteal, and here… it made him the perfect second half for the Director's scheme.

Wifies only hopes that he doesn't see a day where that shrewd planning decides to weave its own web to trap him in.

“You know, he's not taking your clone's death very well.” A voice comes from behind him, before the familiar feeling of two large wings come to drape on Wifies’ shoulders, Parrot leaning over him to look up at the large split-screen monitor. “Did you know? Ash told me that he hallucinated the guy. Almost makes you feel bad for them, doesn't it?”

“If this is you trying to convince me to let you out to further toy with them, you should rethink it. We’re almost at the finish line— what will this do for us but cause more unnecessary problems?” 

Parrot rolls his eyes, but sits down by Wifies’ side anyway, resigned to watching Wifies pick through the live footage of server members. As a reward, Wifies’ hand comes up to prune through the man’s feathers, dragging them down between the clumps of half-plucked molt and dust from god-knows-where, considering he's been cooped up in the lab for his entire time on the server. And they're in the End right now— Wifies doesn't even want to consider what exactly Parrot could have dirtied himself with.

“Can you go a little high– uh, yeah, that’s good,” Parrot hums as he leans back into Wifies’ touch, avian traits on full display as he calms down. 

Wifies is glad for it. It’s a show of trust, something he needs from Parrot if they are to work through this together. And— this part is admittedly perhaps a bit of his own selfish desire, too– but he enjoys having the other man around. At least, he likes Parrot's company over Ashswag’s, or ItzRealMe— or even the latest lineup in their little assassin rotation, though Wifies is being honest when he admits that Cube may be the most tolerable they've yet to contact.

Speaking of.

“Have you met with Cube yet?” Parrot is usually the one to make the trip around to their contacts, on account of the fact that he can fight and prepare for traps much better than Wifies can. It is the most logical solution Wifies can think of: Parrot needs to get out, and he is intimately familiar with treachery and bloodshed— far more so than the scientist who keeps himself locked up all day surrounded with machines and only nearly organic clones. If anyone gets the wrong idea, Parrot is the one who will be able to fend them off.

He held the title of admin for four years, after all. That was as good a reason as any to prove his ability.

“Yeah. He agreed— because he had to, mostly, but I think he thought it'd be funny to fuck with Parrot 2.” Parrot hums at a scratch to his ear-wings, making the smaller appendages flap with excitement. “He's apparently decided that he'll trap their base to kill the guy.”

Wifies twists his head to look at the content avian, hand pausing momentarily in its ministrations. Parrot frowns, but he doesn’t say anything. “Do you think that'll be enough?”

“Hell no,” Parrot scoffs. “I'm not stupid. No matter which ‘me’ is being trapped, I'll find my way out eventually. Cube is good, but not good enough.”

“It's unfortunate that most of these assassins only focus on one core specialty,” Wifies agrees. “I’d like if we could find one that would be able to account for all their weaknesses at once, but that’s practically impossible to come by.” 

“You could just make one yourself,” Parrot suggests, and while Wifies gives the suggestion some consideration, he waves it away.

“I don’t have the ability to do that just yet. I mean… look at my current creation,” he scoffs as the screen shifts to a replay of his clone and Parrot’s doppelganger’s odyssey. “He’s as dumb as a brick. Doesn’t understand anything besides how to dog the footsteps of his betters. I sometimes wonder if I made a mutt instead of a human. Surely there were better options for Kenadian to introduce sentience to?” 

“You’re way too hard on him. Honestly, I think I prefer your clone over mine. Actually— no, I know I prefer your clone over mine.” Parrot’s frown grows deeper as he witnesses the way his doppelganger addresses the clone, posture growing more and more rigid and disturbed as his foot starts to tap incessantly against the floor. Wifies runs his hand through his wings again, and when that doesn’t work, he moves to start braiding Parrot’s hair with one hand. The action manages to calm him, but it probably won’t last for too long if they focus on his mirror image.

Wifies does understand, much as he wishes he doesn’t. “Well, there is no bigger critic than the artist themselves.” 

“Yeah, I guess.” Parrot sighs, wings coming up to drape over Wifies’ shoulders again as he rests his chin on Wifies’ head. “Oh, we should go and take a look at how they’re doing now. I mean. How he’s doing. Sorry. Almost forgot that there’s only one exception now— in your words, of course.” 

“You’re sounding rather vindictive for a man who prefers loyalty over action.” 

“I just hate that version of me. It’s not that I don’t understand what he’s doing, I just don’t like that he’s doing it with my face.”

Wifies shakes his head, amused. With the click of a button, Parrot appears— the other one, the one with half-pruned wings by a clone who shouldn't have lived long enough to assist him and yin-yang symbols carved into his heart, inextricably connected to his very being— staring at the white wall of Leowook’s newest base, eyes red with what could be insomnia but is more likely the product of his unfortunate attachment to one of Wifies’ failed products.

“Is there a reason you wanted to check up on him? He isn’t doing much,” Wifies points out, eyes drifting over to study Parrot’s face. There’s dust from whatever he was doing before scattered on his face as well, and he scoots over just slightly to rub the spots of dust off the man’s face, making Parrot’s wings flutter slightly. 

“I wanted to suggest something.” 

Wifies turns to look at Parrot, frowning. “If you say—”

“I won’t leave.” Parrot crosses his arms. “I know how you get about seeing this whole thing come to an end, and I’m not going to ruin it just because I want to get out. Which— yeah, okay, I do, you know I do, but I’m not going to do it right now because we need to see this to the end together.”

Wifies turns to study the man. His wings have retracted, lying flat and tense on his back. His eyes are trained on Wifies’ own, staring as if waiting for Wifies’ approval. It’s an unsettlingly intense stare, one that he doesn’t associate with Parrot often— unless he’s looking to get something out of someone.

Even now, it is difficult to trust that Parrot believes what he is saying.

In a life or death situation, the animal will choose self-preservation over aiding its companion.

Still. He needs him. Wifies needs Parrot, and whether that will spell the downfall of the Director is something that he will ignore for the time being, if only to allow himself to indulge in an illusion for a little while longer.

If he needs to clip his bird’s wings, then so be it.

“...Go on, then.” Wifies says after a beat of time passes. “What is it?” 

A smile curls on the edge of Parrot’s mouth. 

“I don’t think he knows to just what extent we’re willing to go. Why don’t we show him how far the limit really is?”

[speaknow-sw]

•| ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴏʀɢᴏᴛᴛᴇɴ |•

Content : killing, injuries, mentions of giving birth, nightmares, deaths, some fluff, gods, very bad jokes.

A/N : FINALLY GUYS YAYYY !! I finally got this super long chapter to get out of my head. I hope you’ll enjoy it and sorry for the delay.

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴠɪɪ : ᴅᴇꜱᴄᴇɴᴛ ɪɴᴛᴏ ꜱʜᴀᴅᴏᴡꜱ

"To one who enters the dark, let him know—no road leads back the same way he came."

— Euripides, The Trojan Women

The morning air is cool, carrying the scent of damp earth and burning torches. You stand at the threshold of the temple ruins, watching Anakin move through the dust and light, his gladius flashing in the golden glow of dawn. His body is tense, each motion sharp, deliberate—his strikes meant to cut through the invisible enemies he imagines before him. He doesn’t know you are watching. Or maybe he does and refuses to acknowledge it.

It has been a month since Vesta revealed the existence of the Flectere. A month since you felt your powers fully return, since you realized your son was the key to channeling them. A month since you last ran from Anakin and he chased after you, shouting, only to watch you vanish into the darkness that swallowed you whole. The memory still lingers between you, like an open wound neither of you have tended to. You both know it is there, festering beneath your stolen glances and tense silences, but neither of you has dared to press against it and let it bleed.

Your hand drifts to your stomach—a subconscious gesture you’ve caught yourself doing more and more. At four months, the change is undeniable now. The curve of your belly is small but growing, your body reshaping itself to hold the weight of the life inside you. A life that has already begun to alter the very fabric of fate. You can feel it in the way your power hums beneath your skin, stronger than it ever was, thrumming with potential you do not fully understand. And yet, the weight of what is coming is heavier than ever.

Anakin shifts, rolling his shoulders, and then launches forward again, his blade cutting through the air in a lethal arc. His strikes are near perfect—each movement executed with the precision of a man who has spent his entire life wielding a weapon, who has killed more men than he cares to count. But there is something restless about the way he fights now. His frustration crackles in the space between his movements, an unspoken storm that has been building inside him since the gods put this war upon your shoulders.

You don’t need to be a goddess to understand what haunts him.

He stops abruptly, breathing hard, and drives the gladius into the ground. His hands grip the hilt so tightly that his knuckles turn white. His head bows, damp curls sticking to his forehead, and for a brief moment, he looks exhausted—not from the training, but from everything.

And still, you say nothing.

You should. You know that.

But the words do not come easily. Not when your last fight still lingers in the air between you, unresolved. Not when you are both so stubborn, so unwilling to be the first to break.

Instead, you step forward. The crunch of your footfalls on the stone draws his attention, and he lifts his head, eyes catching yours. For a moment, neither of you speak. The temple ruins around you seem to hold their breath.

His gaze flickers briefly to your stomach. His expression does not soften, but something shifts—something quiet, something almost hesitant.

"You’ve been watching me," he says, voice rough from disuse.

"You’ve been training like a man possessed," you counter.

A wry, humorless smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. "Maybe I am."

You exhale, stepping closer, the tension between you shifting like tectonic plates beneath the earth. "Anakin…"

He watches you carefully, guarded, like a man expecting a blow. "What?"

"You don’t have to bear this alone."

His jaw tightens. "I’m not alone."

"Aren’t you?"

His silence is answer enough.

You reach out, hesitantly at first, then press your palm against his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the fabric. His heart beats hard, fast, like a war drum. He doesn’t flinch away, but he doesn’t relax, either.

"You love me," you whisper, the words barely audible between you. It’s not a question. It’s not an accusation. It’s just truth, spoken into the space that neither of you has dared to touch.

Anakin’s throat bobs, but he does not deny it. He does not say it, either.

Instead, he exhales sharply, closing his eyes for a brief moment before speaking. "The gods want you dead," he murmurs, voice tight. "They want our son. They want Rome. And I can’t—" His hand lifts, pressing over yours, holding it against his chest. His fingers tighten around yours, desperate. "I can’t let them take any of it. I can’t lose you."

You squeeze his hand in return. "You won’t."

His eyes open, blue and storm-touched. "Swear it."

You hesitate.

Because you can’t swear it. Because you have seen too many prophecies unravel, too many fates rewritten in blood. Because you are a goddess, and even you are bound by forces beyond your control.

But you don’t want to lie to him.

So instead, you take his hand and press it over your stomach. His fingers twitch slightly as he feels the life stirring beneath his palm, as if the reality of it is still something he cannot fully grasp. You wonder if he feels what you do—the power growing inside you, the tether that now binds all three of you together.

"I can’t swear it," you admit, voice soft but unwavering. "But I can promise you this: I will fight. I will fight for you, for our son, for the future we deserve."

Anakin’s grip on you tightens, his breath unsteady. For a moment, it almost looks like he might break.

But he doesn’t. He never does.

Instead, his forehead dips to rest against yours, his exhale shuddering between you.

"We find the Flectere," he murmurs. "And then we make them pay."

There is no hesitation in his voice, no doubt. Only certainty. Only war.

And this time, you do not correct him.

The streets of Rome are alive with movement, the scent of freshly baked bread and spiced wine thick in the air. Merchants call out their wares, children dart between stalls, and the hum of conversation fills the Forum.

You walk beside Anakin, your hood drawn low over your face, but it does little to hide the growing curve of your belly. It has been months since you last walked through these streets freely, and while the weight of war still looms over you both, there is something oddly peaceful about this moment—about simply being here, together, among the people. You walk beside Anakin, your hood drawn low over your face, but it does little to hide the growing curve of your belly. It has been months since you last walked through these streets freely, and while the weight of war still looms over you both, there is something oddly peaceful about this moment—about simply being here, together, among the people.

Your steps slow as you pass a small stall near the corner of the market. Stacked neatly on a wooden tray are small, golden honey cakes, their tops glistening in the sunlight. Your mouth practically waters at the sight of them. The craving is sudden, insistent. You need them.

Before you can reach for one, a voice calls out.

"Blessings upon you, domina! A strong child, I am sure!"

Another joins in. "A son, no doubt! Rome will be lucky to have him!"

And then more—warm, cheerful voices from the gathered crowd, offering congratulations, well wishes, blessings for your unborn child. A few women even reach toward you, eager to touch the fabric of your cloak as if to pass on some kind of fortune.

Anakin stiffens at your side. His grip on your waist tightens, his jaw clenching. You can feel his irritation rising with every new voice added to the chorus. He does not like attention—not on you, not on your child.

Then, before the crowd can grow any larger, he clears his throat and steps forward. His voice is deep, commanding, leaving no room for argument.

"My wife is tired," he announces, his arm securing you against his side. "Clear the way."

The effect is immediate. The crowd murmurs apologies, stepping back without hesitation, some even bowing their heads as they part for him. Anakin doesn’t need to raise his voice or unsheathe his blade—his presence alone is enough to make them obey.

With the path now clear, he turns back to the stall, tossing a few coins onto the wooden counter. "The honey cakes," he orders.

The vendor nods quickly, placing the small pastries into a cloth pouch and handing them over. Anakin takes them without another word, then turns to you, slipping one into your hand.

"Here," he says, softer now, as if the tension from before never existed.

You take a bite immediately, the sweet taste melting on your tongue. A quiet moan of satisfaction escapes your lips, and when you glance up at him, you catch the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

"You’re enjoying this too much," he mutters, shaking his head as he watches you take another eager bite.

You hum in response, licking a stray drop of honey from your thumb. "I’m pregnant, I deserve this."

His smirk deepens, his eyes lingering on your lips before he exhales, shaking his head in amusement. "Come on, before someone else decides to touch you."

And with that, he tucks you close against his side, guiding you away from the market, his hand never leaving your waist.

The firelight flickers over the faces of your gathered allies, casting long shadows against the stone walls of your hidden sanctuary. Maps, scrolls, and fragmented inscriptions lay scattered across the wooden table before you, but no amount of reading or discussion has yet unraveled the mystery of Vesta’s words.

Anakin sits at the head of the table, his fingers drumming impatiently against the hilt of the god-killing gladius strapped to his waist. He has never had the patience for riddles, especially not when time is slipping away like sand through his fingers. His frustration is palpable, the sharp furrow of his brow deepening with every passing second.

"This is pointless," he growls, pushing away a parchment covered in scribbled translations. "Why can’t the gods ever speak plainly? If the Flectere is powerful enough to threaten them, we should be focusing on taking it, not wasting time deciphering riddles."

"Because if we don’t understand where to look, we’ll never find it," you counter, though you share in his frustration. "Vesta wouldn’t have given us the prophecy if it weren’t the only way to reach it."

Anakin exhales sharply through his nose but says nothing.

You trace your fingers over the prophecy’s words once more, murmuring them under your breath.

"It is not in the heavens nor in the earth, stolen by Pluto, where the past weeps and the future bleeds."

You close your eyes, allowing the words to settle deep within you, to take shape beyond their cryptic phrasing.

"The first part," you say slowly, "it’s specific. Not in the heavens nor in the earth. That means it’s in neither the realm of the gods nor the realm of the living."

"Then it must be in the Underworld," one of your allies offers, glancing between you and Anakin.

Anakin scoffs. "That much was obvious from stolen by Pluto. The question is where in the Underworld."

You nod. That much you had known from the beginning, but it is the last part of the prophecy that has kept you all trapped in endless discussion.

"Where the past weeps and the future bleeds."

A place of sorrow. A place where time itself seems to stagnate, caught between what was and what could have been.

You frown.

There is a place, whispered of in old myths. A realm of the Underworld often overlooked in favor of the punishments of Tartarus or the rewards of Elysium. A place that belongs to neither glory nor suffering, only to the forgotten.

Your breath stills as the realization strikes.

"The Asphodel Meadows," you whisper.

Anakin turns toward you, the tension in his body shifting. "What?"

"The Asphodel Meadows," you repeat, stronger now. "It’s a place for souls who did neither great evil nor great good in their lives. Those who weren’t wicked enough for Tartarus, but not worthy of Elysium either. It’s where the dead linger, lost in memory—"where the past weeps."

Your heart pounds as you continue, the pieces falling into place. "And those souls… they were once people who might have shaped the world, people whose stories were never finished. Where the future bleeds."

A heavy silence settles over the room.

Anakin’s jaw clenches, his hands curling into fists. "So the gods let them rot in some forgotten field, mourning what they lost?"

"It is not a place of torment," one of your allies murmurs. "But neither is it peace."

Anakin lets out a bitter laugh. "Sounds exactly like something the gods would create."

You exchange a glance with him, feeling the weight of this revelation settle between you. The Flectere, the one thing that could turn the tide of this war, is buried among the dead—hidden in a realm where history itself has been left to decay.

And if you are to claim it, you must walk into the land of the forgotten.

The moment the words leave your lips, you know exactly how Anakin will react.

His body tenses like a drawn bowstring, his hands flexing as though preparing to grip the hilt of his sword. His storm-blue eyes burn with an intensity that could set the very air alight.

“I’ll go.” His voice is ironclad, final. “I’ll get the shield myself.”

A scoff rises in your throat, incredulous and sharp. “Absolutely not.”

“I wasn’t asking,” he snaps, already pushing away from the table as if the matter is settled. “I’ll leave at dawn. Stay here. Stay safe.”

You move faster than him, stepping into his path before he can storm off into the night with nothing but sheer determination and that damned gladius in hand.

“No, Anakin.” Your voice is firm, unwavering. “You are not going alone.”

His jaw tightens, muscles working beneath scarred skin. “Yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I won’t risk you,” he growls. “I won’t.”

“And I won’t risk you,” you counter. “I am the goddess of legends, Anakin. I have walked through history, I have fought gods and seen the horrors of the Underworld. You haven’t.”

Anakin exhales harshly, frustration rippling through his every movement. “You’re pregnant.” His voice is rough with emotion, his hands trembling before he fists them at his sides. “I won’t let you put yourself—or our child—in danger.”

Something in you bristles at his words. “You think I don’t know the risks? That I would ever endanger our baby?” You shake your head, disbelief thick in your voice. “This isn’t just about me, or you, or even the baby. This is about everything. If we don’t get that shield, none of us will have a future.”

Anakin’s breathing is heavy, his fury warring with something deeper—fear.

“I can’t lose you,” he mutters, barely above a whisper.

The rawness in his voice pierces through you. You soften, stepping closer, reaching for him. He doesn’t move away. “And you think I could bear losing you?” You press a hand against his chest, feeling the steady, frantic rhythm of his heart. “We are in this together. We have to be.”

His hands twitch, aching to touch you, to hold you, but he is still locked in his stubborn battle.

"You don't understand," he grits out. "I have to protect you. If something happened to you—" He cuts himself off, his breath unsteady. "I can't go through that. Not again."

Your chest tightens. You know what he means. He has lost everyone he ever loved. His mother. His past life. Even you, once. He is terrified of losing you again.

But you are not some fragile thing to be locked away. You are a goddess. And you are his.

“I will not stay behind while you walk into the Underworld alone,” you tell him. “That’s not who I am. That’s not who we are.”

His teeth grind together. His shoulders tense. His every instinct screams at him to fight you on this, to make you stay, to keep you safe even if it means breaking himself apart.

But he knows you are right.

He swallows hard, looking at you as if searching for a way to make you change your mind. You hold his gaze with unwavering certainty.

Finally, he exhales, long and slow, and shakes his head.

"You’re so damn stubborn,” he mutters.

You smirk. “You love me for it.”

His lips press into a thin line—exasperated, resigned. And yet, behind all of it, there is something close to admiration.

He sighs.

"Fine," he relents, voice gruff. "We go together."

Anakin is quiet for a long time after conceding. The fire in his eyes dims, but not with defeat—with something heavier, something that lingers between fear and acceptance. He rubs a hand down his face, fingers pressing briefly over his mouth as if he’s holding back words.

Then, finally, he speaks.

“If something happens to me down there…” He swallows, jaw tightening. “I want our son to have a name.”

Your breath catches.

You don’t realize how much his words unnerve you until silence stretches between you, cold and suffocating. Anakin never talks about dying. He never allows himself to entertain the possibility of it. He fights with the force of someone who refuses to be undone by fate, someone who has already died once and clawed his way back.

And yet here he is, looking at you with quiet resignation, as if he is preparing himself for the worst.

You shake your head, gripping his wrist tightly. “You will come back, Anakin.”

His lips press together, unreadable. “Name him.”

You want to argue. To tell him that naming the baby now is unnecessary because he will be here, because you won’t allow fate to take him from you again.

But the way he’s looking at you—so steady, so determined—makes you pause. He needs this.

Your fingers ghost over your stomach. You haven’t spoken the baby’s name aloud before. You haven’t even allowed yourself to think too deeply about it. Perhaps some part of you feared it would make everything too real.

Now, though, it’s all too real already.

You exhale, steadying yourself. “Roman.”

Anakin’s expression shifts—surprise, curiosity. “Roman,” he repeats, testing the name on his tongue.

You nod. “After his father’s sacrifice. It means from Roma.”

A slow breath escapes him. His hand hesitantly reaches out, hovering over your stomach before finally resting there. His palm is warm, fingers slightly calloused from years of wielding weapons. The touch is reverent.

"Roman," he murmurs again, softer this time.

You watch the way his throat bobs, the way his lashes lower slightly as he stares at where his hand rests against you. He is not just thinking of the name. He is thinking of the future. Of the tiny, growing life that neither of you expected but now cannot imagine the world without.

Then, something shifts in him.

His jaw tightens, and when he meets your gaze again, the uncertainty, the resignation—it’s all gone. In its place is something unyielding, something that burns hotter than any fire.

“I will come back,” he vows, voice low and fierce. “For you. For him.” His fingers tighten slightly against your stomach. “For our family.”

You nod, pressing a hand over his. “Then let’s go get our shield.”

The journey takes days. Days of searching through ancient texts, chasing half-formed myths, wandering the forgotten corners of Rome. Legends speak of many entrances to the Underworld—caves where the living once sought the dead, rivers that flowed between realms—but few who crossed ever returned.

Anakin grows impatient quickly. His frustration simmers beneath his skin, his need to act at war with the slow, meticulous work of deciphering the past. Every dead end grates at him, every false lead only feeds his agitation. You see it in the way he grips the gladius, in the restless way his fingers twitch when he thinks too much. He is a soldier. A warrior. He was made for battles, not riddles.

But it is you who finally remembers.

You sit beneath the flickering torchlight of your hideout, exhausted, your hand absentmindedly tracing the curve of your stomach. Anakin watches you, quiet, as if he has been waiting for you to say you need rest. You’re four months along now—your body is changing, and though you try to ignore it, the discomfort is growing harder to push aside.

It is in that moment, caught between weariness and thought, that it comes back to you.

The Moirae.

"Rome itself stands over a gate to the Underworld."

Your breath stills.

"Anakin," you say suddenly, straightening. "We’ve been searching too far."

He blinks, frowning. "What?"

You push yourself up, gripping his arm. "The answer isn’t in lost temples or distant lands. It’s here—beneath Rome itself."

His frown deepens, but there’s a flicker of interest in his eyes now. "What do you mean?"

"The Moirae once said that Rome was built atop a gate to the Underworld. An ancient gate, forgotten and buried over time. If we find it, we find our way in."

A beat of silence. Then, slowly, Anakin smirks. "Finally."

—

Finding the entrance is easier said than done.

Rome is ancient, its bones layered with the remnants of past empires, buried temples, forgotten ruins. The city has swallowed its own history, but you know where to start.

Beneath the Forum, beyond the crumbling remains of what was once a great temple, you and Anakin uncover the path. It is hidden beneath the ruins, beneath rubble and dust and time itself. You move carefully, prying away fallen stones, slipping through collapsed archways.

Your body protests the strain—your back aches, and the weight of the baby within you makes balance difficult. You push through it, determined, though Anakin watches you with narrowed eyes, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

"You shouldn’t be doing this," he mutters as he lifts a particularly heavy stone for you.

"Then work faster so I don’t have to," you shoot back.

A snort. But he does move faster.

—

The air changes when you find it.

The descent is long, deeper than any mortal place should go. The further you walk, the colder it gets. The scent of damp earth fades into something else—something dry and hollow, tinged with a scent you know too well.

Death.

At last, you step into a vast cavern. The ruins end here. The remains of the temple give way to something older, something untouched by mortal hands.

Before you stretches a chasm, impossibly wide, impossibly deep. The blackness within it is endless. A void that swallows all light.

Anakin exhales beside you. "There it is."

Your heartbeat thrums in your ears. You grip his hand, fingers tightening around his.

"The Underworld."

The moment stretches, silent and heavy, as you and Anakin stand at the precipice of the Underworld. Then, the air shifts.

It is subtle at first—a whisper of movement, a flicker of shadow against stone. Then, a screech.

The cavern shakes.

From the darkness of the chasm, a figure rises. Wings like blackened leather unfurl in the dim torchlight, talons scraping against stone as the creature emerges. It is a Fury, its body gaunt and twisted, its eyes burning with hatred centuries old.

"Intruders," it hisses, voice jagged like broken glass.

Anakin moves before you can.

The gladius is already in his hand, his body coiled with instinct. The Fury lunges, and he meets it mid-air, steel colliding with claw. The force of the impact sends them both skidding backward, but Anakin is faster. He pivots, slashing across its chest—the blade burns where it strikes, cutting through immortal flesh as the creature shrieks.

"Stay behind me!" he barks, throwing you a glance over his shoulder.

But you know what a Fury is. It is not easily slain.

It rights itself with inhuman speed, wings snapping open as it circles. Its gaze lands on you, and something like gleeflickers in its expression.

"The goddess carries a child."

Your stomach clenches.

Anakin snarls. "You do not look at her."

He lunges first this time, rage rippling through him like a storm. His strike is brutal, the gladius slicing through the Fury’s shoulder. The creature screams, staggering back, but it is laughing too.

"The blood of gods will spill."

The Fury dives for you.

You do not get the chance to react.

Because Anakin is there.

"She is mine!" he roars, catching the Fury mid-air. "My woman!"

The force of his blow sends it crashing into the stone. The cavern trembles with the impact. Anakin does not hesitate—he drives the gladius down, pinning the creature through the chest.

It lets out one last shriek—before crumbling into nothing.

Silence.

Anakin stands there, chest rising and falling, the blade still buried in the stone. He is seething.

Slowly, you step toward him. "Anakin."

He whirls around, eyes still dark with fury. But the moment he sees you—whole, unharmed—some of the rage fades. He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair.

"Are you hurt?" His voice is rough, urgent.

You shake your head. "I—no."

His hands are on you immediately, checking you over, his touch firm but careful.

"Damn it," he mutters under his breath. "Damn them all."

You place a hand over his. "Anakin—"

"They will not touch you," he swears. "Not you. Not our child. I don’t care if I have to kill every last god in existence—"

You press a hand to his cheek. His jaw is clenched, his body taut with unspent fury. But at your touch, he softens. Just slightly.

His arms wrap around you then, pulling you close. His hold is ironclad, as if to reassure himself that you are still here. That you are his.

"We go in together," you murmur against his skin. "No matter what waits for us."

He tightens his grip.

The air is thick with the weight of something ancient. Something waiting.

The gate looms before you—an archway carved from obsidian, its surface etched with writing so old even you cannot decipher it. The air beyond it shifts, a whisper of things unseen, of voices long since silenced. The Underworld waits.

But the passage is not free.

A figure steps from the shadows. Cloaked in darkness, their face is unseen, but their voice cuts through the stillness like a blade. "The living may not walk among the dead without cost."

You expected this. You knew there would be a toll.

"What do you require?" you ask.

The gatekeeper does not turn to you. Their head tilts toward Anakin. "The goddess is not bound by mortal law. But you…you must pay.*"

Anakin's grip on his sword tightens. "Name your price."

The gatekeeper lifts a skeletal hand. "A memory."*

Something shifts in Anakin’s expression. "What?"

"The living are creatures of time, shaped by moments. To enter this place, you must surrender one. A memory—not just any, but the one that makes you who you are."*

Your breath stills.

This is worse than blood, worse than gold. This is a piece of his soul.

"And if I refuse?" Anakin asks, voice tight.

The gatekeeper is silent. Then, the doors of the Underworld groan, the weight of eternity pressing against them. They do not open.

Anakin curses. His knuckles go white around his sword. You can see the fight in him—the resistance, the hatred of being at the gods’ mercy once again.

But then his gaze flickers to you. To your belly. To the path ahead.

To the war that still must be fought.

"Fine," he grits out. "Take it."*

The gatekeeper raises their hand, and the air crackles.

"What will you surrender?"

Anakin hesitates. You see it—the first flicker of fear, of vulnerability. He has fought men, beasts, gods themselves, but this is different. This is not pain. This is loss.

Then, quietly, "The first time I felt safe."

You suck in a breath.

The gatekeeper does not hesitate.

Their fingers clench—and Anakin shudders.

It is not violent. There is no scream. No blood. Just a sharp inhale, his eyes widening for a moment as if he has been struck, his fingers twitching—then stillness.

It is gone.

The memory.

He stares forward, expression unreadable, his breath unsteady. He does not know what he lost—only that it was something important.

For the first time, you see true sorrow in his eyes.

He blinks. Swallows. Rolls his shoulders. Then, as if nothing has happened, he steps forward. "Open the damn gates."

The gatekeeper does.

The doors of the Underworld creak, and a gust of cold air rushes out, pulling at your clothes, whispering against your skin.

Anakin does not look back.

You take his hand. You squeeze.

He does not squeeze back.

Together, you step through.

The Underworld is not what Anakin expected.

He had imagined fire, torment, endless wailing—but instead, there is only silence. Too much silence.

The air is thick, weighted with something unseen. It presses down on his chest, seeps into his bones. Every breath feels like he is breathing in the past itself.

You walk beside him, your face unreadable. The shadows do not touch you the way they do him. Of course they don’t.You belong to legend, to eternity, but he? He is only flesh and blood, and the dead know it.

They are watching.

No eyes meet his, but he feels them. The ghosts of nameless men and women, wandering aimlessly through the fields of gray. Not suffering. Not at peace. Just existing.

The Asphodel Meadows.

The place for souls who did neither great evil nor great good. The forgotten ones. The ones who wasted their lives or let fate swallow them whole.

A shiver runs through him.

They whisper, though their lips do not move. Their voices brush against his skin like fingers, trying to pull him under.

You could have been one of us.

Anakin clenches his jaw.

Your hand finds his, squeezing tightly. "Don’t listen to them," you whisper.

But it is not just the voices. It is the air itself. It smells of lost time. Of choices unmade. Of roads never taken.

For a moment, his vision swims.

He sees himself as one of them. Another faceless soul wandering, drifting through eternity, nameless and forgotten. A warrior who died without a cause. A man who lost everything, whose name is erased from history.

His stomach twists.

"It’s trying to pull me under," he mutters.

"It won’t," you say fiercely. "I won’t let it."

Anakin forces his feet forward, muscles tensed. His fingers are still curled around his sword, but what use is steel against regret?

The dead whisper again, their voices overlapping, rising and falling like the tide.

We are the could-have-beens. The almost-heroes. The ones who hesitated. Who let others write our fates.

One of the souls lifts their head. A woman, young, her eyes hollow. Her mouth parts—and she speaks directly to him.

"Do you know why you are here?"

Anakin stops.

"We are here for the shield," you say.

The woman does not look at you. Only at him.

"No," she murmurs. "You are here because you do not know who you are."

A chill runs through him.

He does not answer. He only grips his sword tighter and keeps walking.

But the whispers follow

The air shifts.

It is subtle at first, like the slow turning of a tide, but then—everything changes.

The Asphodel Meadows are no longer gray. No longer silent.

A new sky stretches above Anakin, one he has not seen in years. It is golden, burning, endless. The fields are no longer filled with wandering spirits—they are full of men, warriors, brothers.

Rome.

Anakin takes a step forward, heart pounding. The world feels real in a way the Underworld never has. The scent of battle clings to the air—blood, sweat, the sharp tang of iron.

He knows this place.

He remembers it.

He stands before the city that he and his brother built, the city that was supposed to be theirs.

And across from him, waiting, is Obi-Wan.

No—not Obi-Wan.

Romulus.

He looks the same as Anakin remembers: tall, proud, wrapped in the golden armor of Rome. But there is something in his eyes, something cold and unyielding. The same look he wore the day he chose to spill his own brother’s blood.

"Romulus," Anakin breathes.

Romulus tilts his head. "You say my name like it is foreign on your tongue."

Anakin grips his sword. "Because it is."

Romulus smiles. "Ah. So you remember now."

Anakin’s stomach tightens.

This isn’t real. He knows it isn’t real. The Underworld is toying with him, bending the past into a weapon.

But the illusion is perfect. Too perfect.

Because when Romulus speaks, he is no longer the brother Anakin loved—he is the man who killed him.

"You were never meant to rule, Remus," Romulus says, voice steady. "You were weak. You let love cloud your judgment. You would have let an impure woman sit beside you on Rome’s throne. The gods would have never allowed it."

Anakin’s grip tightens around his sword. "I built Rome with you. I fought for her. I bled for her. And yet you—"

"And yet I what?" Romulus interrupts, stepping closer. "Did what needed to be done?"

The words slam into Anakin like a blade to the chest.

It is the same conversation. The same argument. The same moment that led to his death.

Romulus lifts his sword. "You are nothing but a shadow of what could have been. You are a man trapped in a fate that is not yours to change. Even now, in this new life, you cling to hope. You believe you can fight the gods. That you can win."

Anakin’s blood boils.

"I will," he says. "And I will do it without you."

Romulus shakes his head, almost pitying. "There is no victory for you. There never was."

The sky darkens.

A storm begins to rage above them, the same storm that raged the night Romulus drove his blade into Remus’s chest.

Anakin watches as his brother lifts his sword—the same sword that had cut him down all those lifetimes ago.

"You will die here, as you always do," Romulus says. "You will always fall beneath my blade."

Anakin barely has time to raise his weapon before Romulus attacks.

The force of the first blow nearly sends him staggering. The impact reverberates through his bones, but he holds his ground.

Romulus is relentless.

Strike after strike, he forces Anakin backward. The clang of steel fills the air, sparks flying from every collision. Anakin knows this isn’t real—knows it is nothing but an illusion—yet every attack feels solid, every wound real.

And then—

A misstep.

Romulus’s sword cuts across Anakin’s side, tearing through flesh. He chokes on a gasp, stumbling.

Romulus does not hesitate.

He moves in for the kill.

Anakin barely blocks the next strike, his arms shaking, his breath ragged. His vision blurs.

He is going to lose.

He is going to die here—again.

"Anakin!"

The voice cuts through the storm. Through the illusion.

Your voice.

He turns, just for a second, and sees you—standing beyond the battlefield, watching with desperate, wide eyes.

And in that moment, something inside him snaps.

This isn’t Rome.

This isn’t his past.

This is his trial.

And he is not Remus anymore.

With a roar, Anakin lunges.

Romulus is fast, but Anakin is faster. He meets his brother’s next strike head-on, pushing forward with everything he has.

The storm crashes overhead.

Anakin twists, driving his blade into Romulus’s chest.

For the first time, his brother falters.

Romulus stares at him, shock flickering in his eyes. He staggers backward, his sword slipping from his grasp.

Anakin does not let go of his weapon.

"You don’t decide my fate," he growls. "Not anymore."

The illusion shatters.

The battlefield disappears. The sky fades. The past crumbles around him like dust.

Anakin stumbles forward, gasping, and when he looks up—

He is back in the Underworld.

Back in the Asphodel Meadows.

You are there, reaching for him, eyes full of worry. "Anakin?"

He exhales sharply, gripping your arms like a lifeline. His whole body trembles.

The first trial is over.

But the war has only begun.

The illusion begins softly.

Like a dream.

You don’t remember how you got here, nor do you question it. All you know is warmth. Sunlight filters through the open windows of a grand Roman villa, casting golden light over the smooth marble floors. A warm breeze drifts in, carrying the scent of myrrh and olive trees. Somewhere in the distance, you hear the gentle trickle of a fountain.

It is peaceful.

A laugh—soft and joyful—echoes through the halls. You turn, and your heart stirs at the sight before you.

Anakin stands in the courtyard, clad in a simple white tunic, his golden hair illuminated by the sun. He is smiling—truly smiling. And beside him, running on unsteady little legs, is your son.

He is beautiful. Small, chubby-cheeked, with your eyes and Anakin’s stubborn little scowl. He is laughing, arms outstretched as he runs to his father, who lifts him easily into his strong arms, spinning him around in the air.

"Again!" your son cries.

Anakin chuckles. "Again? I’ll have to put you to work in the fields if you have this much energy."

You watch them, your heart swelling with something too large to name.

This is your life. Your real life.

Not war. Not prophecy. Not gods or fates or curses.

Just this.

Anakin turns to you, your son still cradled in his arms, and his smile softens. "Come here," he murmurs.

You step forward, breath catching as he wraps a strong arm around your waist, pulling you close. You press a kiss to your son’s soft curls, inhaling the sweet scent of him.

Anakin presses his lips to your temple. "This is how it was always meant to be."

And you believe him.

You want to believe him.

But then—

A shift.

A cold whisper slithers through the warmth, like a shadow passing over the sun.

You blink. The villa flickers, like a candle in the wind.

You turn to Anakin—he is still there. Still smiling. Still holding your son.

But something is wrong.

His grip is too tight. His smile is too fixed.

You look down at your son. His tiny hands clutch at your tunic, but his fingers feel like ice.

You shudder. "Anakin?"

"What is it?" His voice is the same. Too the same.

"Something’s wrong."

He tilts his head. "Wrong?"

The sky darkens. The sun vanishes. The warmth is gone.

The villa crumbles around you, marble splitting like old bones.

Your heart pounds. You try to move, to run, but Anakin’s arm tightens around you.

And when you look up at him—

His eyes are empty.

Not blue. Not warm.

Just black.

"Anakin?"

He smiles, slow and cruel. "What is it, wife?"

A scream erupts from your son’s lips.

You jerk back, panic surging through you—but Anakin won’t let go. His fingers dig into your skin, hard enough to bruise.

Your son is crying, his small body trembling in Anakin’s grasp.

"Let him go!" you scream.

Anakin’s smile widens. "But he’s mine."

You struggle, clawing at his arms, but his grip is iron.

The villa is gone. The world is gone.

There is only darkness.

And in that darkness—laughter.

Not Anakin’s. Not yours.

The laughter of something older. Something that should not be here.

"You cannot fight fate," the voice whispers.

Anakin’s face begins to change—his skin darkens, cracks forming along his jaw, his eyes burning like molten gold. The arms holding you are no longer his—they are something else.

Your son is screaming, his tiny fists pounding against Anakin’s chest.

"Mama!"

"Give him back!" you sob, struggling.

Anakin leans close. His breath is ice against your cheek.

"He was never yours to keep."

A shadow bursts from his chest—black and endless. It reaches for your son.

And rips him away.

You scream.

The darkness swallows him whole.

You claw at nothingness, your hands grasping at the void where your child was.

But he is gone.

You are alone.

You fall to your knees, gasping, sobbing, the weight of emptiness crushing you.

"You failed him." The voice slithers through the void. "You failed all of them."

"No," you whisper. "No, I—"

"You are a goddess—and yet you could not even save your own child."

Pain sears through you.

The world is closing in. The darkness is swallowing you next.

You will never wake up.

You will never see your son again.

And then—

"ENOUGH!"

A burst of light.

The darkness screams.

You gasp as something pulls you back—something warm.

Hands—real hands—grasp your arms, yanking you from the void. You choke on a breath, your body trembling as—

As—

The Underworld returns.

You are kneeling in the Asphodel Meadows, gasping, clutching at your chest.

And before you—

Anakin.

Not the illusion.

The real him.

His strong hands cradle your face, his blue eyes frantic. "You’re here," he breathes. "You’re here. I thought—I thought I lost you."

Tears spill down your cheeks as you collapse into him, sobbing against his chest.

"He was gone," you choke out. "They took him. I couldn’t—I couldn’t—"

Anakin shakes against you, his arms crushing you to his chest. "It wasn’t real." His voice is hoarse, fierce. "It wasn’t real, mesh’la. You’re here. I’m here."

You cling to him, your entire body shaking.

It was an illusion.

But the pain was real.

And now, more than ever, you know what the gods are capable of.

The great halls of the Underworld are nothing like the chaos of Olympus.

There is no blinding light, no violent storms, no arrogance crackling in the air like static. Here, everything is still. The walls are carved from black obsidian, polished to a glass-like sheen. Ghostly blue torches line the vast chamber, casting long shadows over the empty throne that looms at the center. The air is thick with something ancient, something that hums beneath your skin like the slow pull of a tide.

And then—

"You’re late."

The voice is smooth, unhurried. It carries across the hall as if it has all the time in the world.

From the shadows, a figure steps forward.

Pluto.

He is not like his brothers. Jupiter commands like a tyrant. Neptune looms like a storm. But Pluto—Pluto is poised. He carries himself like a man who has seen every trick, every betrayal, every desperate plea for mercy, and has never once been surprised. His dark robes barely whisper against the floor as he approaches, his gaze sharp beneath his heavy crown.

Anakin moves instinctively, reaching for the gladius at his hip.

Pluto sighs. "Must we do this already?" With a flick of his wrist, Anakin is dragged to his knees by an invisible force.

"Let him go!" you snap, stepping forward, power rising in your chest.

Pluto waves a dismissive hand. "Relax. If I wanted to kill him, he’d already be a pile of ash. And trust me, I’d make it look elegant."

Anakin growls, straining against whatever force is holding him down. "Fight me, coward."

Pluto exhales through his nose, as if dealing with a particularly stubborn child. Then, his lips twitch into a smirk. "Collect yourself, Skywalker. We’re men, we don’t kneel in front of anyone other than our wives."

You blink.

Anakin stills.

There’s a long beat of silence, and then—

"What?" Anakin blurts.

Pluto sighs again, rubbing his temples. "By the gods, do they not teach you humor in the mortal world anymore? I swear, people used to appreciate a well-placed remark. Now, all I get is scowling and sword-waving.*"

The invisible force vanishes. Anakin staggers to his feet, looking both wary and deeply, deeply confused.

"You’re not stopping us?" you ask carefully.

Pluto folds his arms. "If I wanted to stop you, would you have even made it this far?"

The weight of his words sinks into your bones.

He let you come here.

He knew.

"You know why we’re here," Anakin says, stepping forward.

Pluto inclines his head. "Of course. You want the Flectere. And you think all you have to do is ask."

He turns slightly, and behind him, something shifts. The air warps, bending, and then—there it is.

The Flectere.

The shield is no grand, gleaming artifact. It is ancient, its metal dark with age, its surface worn with scars of battles long forgotten. But there is a presence to it, something deeper than magic. It does not radiate power like a divine weapon should. Instead, it simply is. Immovable. Unyielding.

Indestructible.

Anakin’s fists clench. "Then let us take it."

Pluto hums, studying him. "Before I do…" He tilts his head, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "Would you truly take this shield, knowing that it may cost you what you love most?"

Anakin does not hesitate. "Yes."

The word is sharp, cutting through the silence like a blade.

But you—

You hesitate.

Because you know prophecies. You know the way they twist and writhe, like snakes in the dark.

The Flectere is a shield. It is meant to protect. But Pluto would not ask this question if protection did not come at a price.

And the gods never demand anything without sacrifice.

"What cost?" you ask, voice careful.

Pluto smiles. Not cruelly. Not kindly. Just knowingly.

"That," he says, "is for fate to decide."

Pluto studies you both for a long moment before exhaling through his nose. "Well," he says, dusting off his robes, "I suppose we should discuss this over dinner."

Anakin’s brows furrow. "Dinner?"

Pluto claps his hands together. "Yes, dinner. I assume you still eat, despite your whole ‘destined-for-greatness’ situation?" He turns on his heel without waiting for an answer. "Come along. Persephone hates when I keep guests waiting."

You exchange a glance with Anakin. He looks wary, suspicious, but there’s also something tight in his jaw, something that tells you he’s considering whether stabbing a god in his own domain would go poorly.

"We don’t have time for this," Anakin mutters under his breath.

"We don’t have a choice," you murmur back. "We’re in his realm."

Pluto doesn’t look back as he leads you through the vast, shadowed halls. The walls are adorned with depictions of things long forgotten—battles not recorded in mortal texts, lovers whose names have been lost to time, gods who no longer hold power over the world above.

Then, the air changes.

You feel it before you see it—a shift from the heavy, solemn weight of the Underworld to something warmer. The scent of pomegranates drifts through the corridors, and a golden glow replaces the cold blue torchlight.

You step into a grand dining hall.

The contrast is staggering. The ceiling stretches impossibly high, draped in vines of ever-blooming flowers, their petals glowing softly. The walls are dark stone, but the air is filled with the soft hum of life. A long table sits in the center, already set with food—bowls of figs, plates of roasted meats, steaming bread, and, of course, glistening pomegranate seeds.

And at the head of the table, seated with an air of effortless grace, is her.

Persephone.

She is unlike any goddess you have ever met. She does not have the cruel beauty of Juno, nor the harsh majesty of Minerva. She is something else—soft and deadly, warm and untouchable. Her dark hair cascades over her shoulders, woven with golden threads, and her eyes hold the weight of centuries.

She smiles as you enter. "You’re late," she says, echoing Pluto’s earlier words. "But I forgive you. My husband enjoys his theatrics."

Pluto sighs, settling into his chair. "I enjoy order, dear wife."

"And yet, you let them barge into our kingdom unannounced?" She rests her chin on her hand, studying you. "Or did you invite them in?"

"Semantics." Pluto waves a hand, then gestures to the empty seats. "Sit. Eat."

Anakin doesn’t move. "We’re not here for pleasantries."

Persephone raises a delicate brow. "No, you’re here to steal from my husband."

The room stills.

You feel Anakin tense beside you.

Then, laughter.

Persephone shakes her head, plucking a pomegranate seed from the bowl in front of her. "You mortals never change. So stubborn, so single-minded." Her gaze flickers to you. "You, at least, should know better. You are not so mortal as he is."

You don’t answer.

"Sit," Pluto repeats, and this time, there is no room for argument.

Reluctantly, you lower yourself into a chair. Anakin follows, his movements stiff, reluctant.

Persephone gestures, and the food before you shifts—changes. The plates fill with dishes from your childhood, flavors you have not tasted in centuries. Before Anakin, the food changes too—something warm, something familiar.

He stares at it, unmoving. "What is this?"

"Hospitality," Persephone answers. "Something Olympus has forgotten."

Pluto leans forward, fingers steepled. "Now," he says, "let us talk about why you are really here."

The dinner lasts longer than you expect.

Despite Anakin’s initial wariness, despite your own reluctance to let your guard down in the house of the god you are here to steal from, something about the atmosphere shifts. The tension that had coiled tight in your shoulders eases. The food is rich, decadent, and the warmth of the room—so unlike the cold, empty halls of the Underworld—seeps into your bones.

Pluto and Persephone do not press you for answers. They do not threaten or scheme, at least not openly. Instead, they talk. Pluto tells Anakin stories of wars long forgotten, of warriors whose names have been buried in time. Persephone tells you of the things she has grown in the gardens of the dead—flowers that bloom only in darkness, vines that weave through the forgotten places of the world.

And then, somehow, the night drifts into something softer.

You don’t know when you move, but eventually, you and Anakin find yourselves reclining on an expansive sofa in one of Pluto’s many chambers. The fire crackles low, casting flickering gold against the walls. The air is warm, laced with the lingering scent of honey and wine.

Across from you, Pluto sits, one arm draped over the back of his chair, the other idly stroking through Persephone’s dark curls as she reclines against him. Her head rests in his lap, eyes half-lidded in something like contentment.

It is an intimate sight. A strange one, for a god and his queen. But there is no performance in it—no show of power, no pretense of indifference.

Without thinking, you move.

You shift closer to Anakin, hesitating only briefly before laying your head against his lap, mirroring the goddess across from you.

For a moment, there is only stillness.

Then—Anakin exhales. A slow, deep breath, as if something in him has loosened. His hand lifts, hesitating only briefly before settling against the crown of your head.

You close your eyes.

It is not a surrender. It is not foolishness. But for this moment, in this strange, hidden corner of the Underworld, with gods who should be your enemies but feel like something else, you allow yourself to rest.

Pluto watches.

Anakin’s fingers move slowly through your hair, an absentminded gesture that he doesn’t seem to realize he’s doing. Each stroke lulls you further into a state of drowsy warmth, the weight of the past few weeks pressing down on you, but not in the usual suffocating way. Instead, it’s as if your body is finally acknowledging just how exhausted you are—how much you’ve been carrying.

Your breathing slows. The flickering firelight, the distant hum of voices, the warmth of Anakin’s touch—they weave together into something safe, something steady. You can feel the rise and fall of his breath beneath your cheek, hear the rhythmic beat of his heart, steady and unyielding.

Across from you, Pluto smirks, as if he sees something in this moment that you do not. His fingers still move through Persephone’s curls, his free hand swirling the last remnants of wine in his goblet.

“You should sleep,” Anakin murmurs. His voice is softer than usual, absent of its usual sharp edges.

You don’t answer at first. The drowsiness is pulling you under, and for once, you don’t resist it.

Pluto chuckles. “Oh, don’t let me interrupt this touching moment.”

Anakin scowls, but his hand never stops moving against your hair. “You already have.”

Persephone lifts her head just enough to glance at you, her gaze knowing. “She is safe here,” she says simply, as if that should be enough.

Safe.

A strange word. An unfamiliar concept.

But in this moment, with Anakin’s hand in your hair and the warmth of his presence beneath you, you think—perhaps—it is true.

The first thing you register is warmth. Not just the warmth of the heavy blankets draped over you, but the steady heat of a body pressed close—solid, familiar.

Anakin.

Your eyes flutter open, the dim glow of the Underworld’s ever-present firelight casting long shadows across the room. The bed is far too luxurious for where you are—silken sheets, impossibly soft pillows. A gift, no doubt, from your gracious hosts.

Anakin is beside you, lying on his back, one arm tucked beneath his head while the other rests over his stomach. His breathing is slow and even, his face relaxed in a way you rarely see. As if, for the first time in weeks, he has allowed himself to rest.

You turn slightly, just enough to take him in fully. The lines of tension that so often crease his brow are softened. His golden hair is a tousled mess against the pillow. He looks… peaceful. Almost boyish, despite the sharp angles of his face, despite the weight of war and prophecy that looms over both of you.

A strange pang twists in your chest. You reach out without thinking, fingers brushing lightly against the back of his hand.

He stirs.

His fingers twitch under yours, then slowly, his eyelids flutter open. The blue of his gaze is unfocused at first, hazy with sleep. Then they find you, and something in them sharpens—not in alarm, but in quiet recognition.

"You’re awake," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

You nod, not pulling away. "So are you."

His lips curve just slightly, but he doesn’t move, as if savoring this rare moment of stillness. Then, after a long pause, he speaks again, voice quieter this time.

"I could get used to this."

Something in your chest tightens. You swallow, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady. "To what?"

His fingers shift, brushing against yours. "Waking up with you."

The words are so simple, yet they carry a weight that settles deep in your bones. Because you know—this war, this prophecy, the gods themselves—none of it will allow for something as simple as this.

And yet, for now, in this bed, in this moment, you allow yourself to believe in the possibility.

Your hand drifts instinctively to your stomach, fingers pressing gently against the curve of your belly. A frown creases your brow—something feels different.

Bigger.

Your heart skips. Had it been this prominent before? You remember falling asleep with only the faintest swell, something barely noticeable beneath your robes. But now… now it’s undeniable. The weight, the shape—it’s changed.

Your breath catches. "How long did I sleep?"

Anakin tenses beside you. That alone sets off alarm bells in your mind. He’s never been good at hiding things, not when it comes to you. His hesitation is answer enough.

"Anakin," you press, your voice sharper now. "How long?"

He exhales slowly, then shifts to sit up, bracing himself on one elbow. His hand joins yours over your belly, his palm broad and warm. Protective.

"Three weeks," he finally says.

The words don’t make sense at first. They hang in the air between you, impossible to grasp.

"Three…?" Your voice barely rises above a whisper.

"You wouldn’t wake up," he admits, jaw tight. "Persephone said it was your body adjusting. That the Underworld affects mortals and gods differently." His thumb moves absently over the fabric of your tunic, over the place where your child grows. "You were breathing, but you wouldn’t wake up. I stayed here. Every day. Every night."

You stare at him, at the exhaustion lingering beneath his eyes, at the worry still carved into his face. Three weeks. Time had slipped away, stolen from you without your knowledge. And in those weeks, your child had grown.

Your fingers tremble over the swell of your belly. "But that’s not normal. It shouldn’t be growing this fast."

Anakin doesn’t answer immediately. His gaze drops, his throat working as if he’s holding something back.

You feel it before he even says it.

"The gods," you whisper.

His jaw clenches. "I don’t know what they did," he grits out, voice low with restrained fury. "But I swear—I’ll find out."

His protectiveness, his anger—it’s overwhelming, but beneath it, there’s something else. Fear.

Not for himself. For you. For your child.

Anakin stands before the shield, his breath slow, measured. The Flectere rests upon its pedestal, bathed in an eerie glow. It is unlike any weapon or armor forged by mortal hands—its surface is smooth as still water, yet beneath it, colors shift like the ever-changing tides of fate itself. It does not reflect the world as it is, but as it might have been. As it could be.

The weight of Pluto’s words lingers.

"The shield can be taken, but only by one who has died before."

You feel the truth of it like a stone in your chest. You are a goddess. You have seen ages come and go, lived through wars and legends, but you have never died. Not like him.

But Anakin has.

In another time, another life, he was Remus—the first sacrifice of Rome, the brother cast aside, the blood upon which an empire was built.

Your fingers twitch at your side, aching to stop him. "Anakin—"

He doesn’t look at you. He already knows what you will say.

"It has to be me," he murmurs, eyes fixed on the shield. His voice is steady, but you see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers curl into fists.

You shake your head, throat tightening. "If you touch it, you’ll—"

"I know," he interrupts. His blue eyes flicker to you, and in them, there is no hesitation, no fear—only certainty. "But it doesn’t matter."

You want to argue. You want to scream. But the truth is already written in fate.

You cannot take it.

He can.

And so, with a breath, Anakin steps forward.

The moment his fingers brush the shield’s surface, the Underworld remembers him.

The air shifts. The cavern trembles. Shadows ripple outward from the point of contact, and suddenly, Anakin is not here anymore—

He is there.

The past crashes into him with the force of a tidal wave.

Mud. Blood. Betrayal.

He is Remus again. The world is spinning, and his brother stands before him, sword drawn, eyes cold.

"Rome was never yours to build."

The blade drives into his chest. He gasps—a raw, choked sound as fire rips through his lungs.

He is falling.

The ground rushes up to meet him.

Darkness swallows him whole.

—

"Anakin!"

Your voice tears through the Underworld, but he doesn’t hear you. He is still trapped, drowning in the past, body trembling as if the wound has been carved into him all over again.

His knees buckle, and for a moment, you think he’ll collapse.

But then—

He grits his teeth.

He grips the shield.

And he refuses to let go.

A growl rumbles deep in his throat, raw and defiant, as he rips the Flectere from its resting place.

The entire Underworld shudders.

The dead scream.

A furious wind howls through the cavern, and the air itself bends, distorting around him as if reality is fraying at the edges.

Anakin stumbles back, gasping, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. His fingers are locked around the shield’s grip, white-knuckled, as if he’s afraid to let go.

You rush to his side, your hands finding his shoulders. "Anakin—"

His body is trembling. His pulse pounds wildly beneath your touch.

But when he looks at you—

His eyes are clear. Steady.

He is still here.

The Flectere is his.

Before you can say anything else, the shadows around you lurch.

A great force yanks at the both of you, pulling you downward, as if the Underworld itself is furious that it has been denied him a second time.

And then—

Everything goes black.

Pain is the first thing you feel. A deep, aching throb radiating through your entire body, as if you’ve been torn apart and pieced back together all wrong. Your eyelids are heavy, resisting your attempts to open them. The air is cold, but not in the way the Underworld had been—it is the sharp chill of the mortal realm, the crisp bite of wind against your skin.

You’re no longer in the Underworld.

A groan escapes your lips as you force your eyes open. Above you, the sky is dark, but not with night—it is a storm, swirling clouds thick with divine fury. The gods know.

And beside you—

"Easy," a voice murmurs, rough with exhaustion.

Anakin.

You shift, wincing as pain lances through your limbs, but he’s already there, his hands steadying you, keeping you from rising too quickly. He is kneeling beside you, his body tense, his breath uneven. His face is shadowed, unreadable, but his hands—his hands are gentle, careful as they brush strands of hair from your face.

"You’re hurt," he mutters. His touch lingers at your cheek, tracing a bruise you hadn’t realized was there. "We must’ve been thrown out of the Underworld. You hit the ground hard."

Your gaze flickers downward. He’s cradling you in his lap, shielding you from the damp earth beneath you.

But more than that—

The shield.

The Flectere is clutched in his grasp, its surface still shifting, still alive with the echoes of fate. He did it. He took it. But something about the way he’s holding it—his grip too tight, his knuckles bloodless—makes your stomach twist.

And then you see it.

He’s shaking.

Not from cold, not from exhaustion, but from something far deeper.

"Anakin?" you whisper.

He doesn’t respond.

You reach for him, your fingers brushing his arm, and at your touch, he exhales sharply, as if only now remembering where he is. His eyes—stormy, distant—snap to yours, and for a moment, you see it.

The ghosts still clinging to him.

The past refusing to let go.

He saw his own death again.

You swallow hard, heart hammering against your ribs. He won’t tell you. You already know that. The words won’t leave his lips, just as they hadn’t the first time he spoke of his past life.

But you can see it. The way his body is locked with tension, the way his breath hitches every few seconds, like he’s forcing himself not to feel what he just relived.

You should say something. You should comfort him, tell him that he is here, that he is alive.

But you are a goddess, and he is mortal, and what words could possibly undo the weight of fate?

Instead, you do the only thing you can.

You reach for his face, cupping his jaw, and press your forehead to his.

A shudder runs through him. His breath is uneven, but he leans into you, his own hands gripping your waist, grounding himself in your presence.

"Did I lose you?" His voice is hoarse, barely more than a whisper.

You shake your head. "You found me."

He exhales sharply, like he’s been holding his breath this entire time.

For a moment, the war, the gods, the prophecy—none of it exists.

There is only this.

Him and you, tangled in each other’s grasp, alive.

But the moment does not last.

The sky rumbles. The storm above grows thicker, and with it, the weight of an impending war presses down on your chest.

The gods know.

Anakin shifts, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. His expression hardens—not cold, not distant, but determined.

"They’re coming," he says.

You nod. "Then let them come."

The battlefield stretches before you, endless and shrouded in mist. The sky is dark, thick with storm clouds that churn and twist, crackling with divine fury. Lightning splits the heavens, but the earth does not tremble beneath it—not anymore.

Because the earth belongs to him now.

Anakin stands at the forefront, the Flectere strapped to his arm, his gladius gleaming in the eerie light. But he is not alone. Behind him, an army rises—shadows of the past, warriors long since fallen, now bound to his will. They stand in silence, their hollow eyes fixed upon the horizon, waiting for the battle to begin.

The gods have sent their champions.

But Anakin has brought the dead.

And you—

You stand beside him, your heart still raw from the birth of your son. Your body has not yet healed, your strength is not what it once was, but none of that matters. Because in your arms, swaddled in the finest cloth Rome could offer, is the child who changed everything.

Your son.

Your beautiful, perfect son.

Born of war, of prophecy, of love.

Roman.

He is sleeping, peaceful despite the storm raging above. His tiny hands curl against your chest, his breath soft and steady. He does not know the fate that awaits him. He does not know the price that has been paid for his existence.

But you do.

And so does Anakin.

He turns to you, his gaze lingering on the child in your arms. His expression is unreadable—something between awe and grief, between love and fury.

"I should tell you to run," he murmurs.

You shake your head. "And I should tell you to stay."

A ghost of a smile tugs at his lips, but it does not reach his eyes.

For months, you have fought together, trained together, bled together. And now, at the edge of war, there is nothing left to say.

Except—

"You are my legend," he whispers.

"And you are mine," you answer.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering there for just a moment longer than he should.

Then he turns away, raising his sword to the heavens.

"Rise."

And the dead obey.

"A father is not merely the man who gives his son life, but the shield that bears his burdens, the sword that cuts his path, and the hand that holds him steady when the world tries to take him away."

[nabi-unveiled]

I've picked my jaw up off the floor from the peak makjang messiness of Episode 6 of Secret Relationships.

Conclusion: It's hella fun, but it's not "good".

Yes, there is a difference.

When I talk about "good", I'm typically referencing the more technical aspects of writing, cinematography, acting, etc. In this case, it's the writing committing the majority of our crimes.

Note - the reverse can also be true. There are productions that are technically and narratively excellent that I find dreadfully dull.

I'd rather shows be entertaining and good. But if the choice must be made - I'll choose entertaining every time. This show is definitely that for me. I'm having a blast.

Explaining why I made this conclusion would take longer than I have time-wise at the moment. I'll want to properly organize the evidence. Hopefully, I'll have time Sunday or Monday. (There are some really cool framing shots we could discuss too, but I don't know if I'll go there or not.)

In any case - I'm still here for these messy characters. I love it when things happen that are not on my bingo card. It's still committing fewer narrative crimes than The Boy Next World finale 🙈. (Side note: I still haven't worked up the courage for the ThamePo finale)

Going forward - I really hope they lean into the insanity. That's what this show has going for it in spades.

The two things I'm now contemplating (that are mostly independent of my criticisms of the script itself).

Things to Ponder #1: Da-on and Su-hyeong's kiss.

Facts are - Da-on kissed him. He was actively participating in the kiss. You could argue that Su-hyeong was somewhat forcing him into it, but I DEFINITELY don't see that as true. Why? Because, Da-on isn't passive in this one. He's actively kissing back. We KNOW he'll avoid if he doesn't want it. He does it with Jae-min later in the episode.

I do think it's possible that he wasn't sure if he wanted the kiss or not (just like holding hands with Sung-hyun) and he went with it. He's definitely a character that defaults to going with the flow until he makes a decision. Da-on's the one that stops the kiss when he decides it has went too far, he's feeling bad about Sung-hyun, and he's sure he doesn't want it. When he finally made a decision is when the kiss stopped. Su-hyeon still spent the night, and it doesn't look like he pursued it further. Da-on seems to have slept on the couch.

Frankly, Da-on's a weird character. I personally don't see him as a doormat or meek mouse character. He's making choices that doormats don't typically make. His behavior doesn't match the typical doormat archetype either (particularly with Sung-hyun). However, I couldn't really tell you what other term I'd use for him at the moment. He's a very strange mix of passive and spitfire. He's competent and confident until he's not. He lets things happen to him until he suddenly pulls the brakes. He has a lot of pride (another strike against the doormat). He shares some elements with a "candy girl" character from old k-dramas, but he definitely doesn't share enough of them for me to call him that. I digress.

What is frustrating is that we don't know enough about Da-on to fully understand him and know exactly where he is on this line of participating in the kiss.

Because this dialogue should mean something (beyond him driving Sung-hyun away).

But I don't know what the hell it means. Who did he abandon? Does he feel like he abandoned Jae-min for Su-hyeon? Does he feel like he abandoned Su-hyeon for Jae-min? Were there other parties in the mix over the years? We don't know, because the show is keeping backstory WAY too close to the chest in an attempt at surprising reveals.

My personal head canon at the moment: Da-on and Su-hyeon were having regular makeout sessions even while Su-hyeon was "dating" Jae-min. Su-hyeon agreed not to date him; he didn't agree not to kiss him. That's why Da-on feels like he's a bad person. That's why he scolded Su-hyeon saying that it was going to hurt Jae-min that Su-hyeon was flirting with him on the bleachers/steps. I would love if this were true as it would mean Jae-min had missed something.

Things to Ponder #2 - My pretty-in-pink mastermind stabbing himself.

I find this actor way more attractive than I should in this situation, and I'm still not over his sweater matching the plates. But I now get to ponder...WHY did he stab himself?

Is this because he's lost all control? The chess pieces have been knocked over.

Is it because he's trying to emotionally manipulate Da-on? A type of "leave me and I'll off myself". Because Da-on is obviously still struggling with considering Jae-min ALL bad and cutting ties. Because there is NO good reason for Da-on to still want to talk to him.

Is it because he's trying to threaten Da-on? I'm sure he could make this look like Da-on stabbed him. I know there are a few "villains" that have done that in the past. Most have done it to make the protagonist look bad in front of a crowd though. I'm trying to think of a villain that's used it in private. I feel like there's at least one. I just can't think of it at the moment. In any case, we know this man plays the long game and he plays hardball.

Did I miss some options? Probably. Because I don't trust the writing on this makjang at all. That said - I'm buying popcorn for next week.

[kikyoupdates]

For Tomorrow's Sake ⭑˚💫⭑ ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑢𝑛𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟

various!jjk x f!reader

reverse harem, isekai, jujutsu kaisen x fem!reader, slowburn

You never believed reincarnation was possible, least of all in the fictional world of Jujutsu Kaisen. However, from the moment you meet Gojo Satoru, it’s impossible to deny. Whether it’s a miracle or some kind of curse, you find yourself growing up alongside the strongest jujutsu sorcerer. Unfortunately, you know what the future holds in store. You know exactly what kind of tragedies await. Perhaps that’s why you were brought into this world. If it means saving people from a gruesome fate, you’ll gladly suffer in their place. You’ll do whatever it takes.All for the sake of a better tomorrow.

previous | story masterlist | next

A crime has just been committed, and the perpetrator is none other than Zen’in Naoya. 

Seriously, what the hell is wrong with this guy? He’s out of control! Ever since he showed up, things have been a mess. You’re already more than enough of a whirlwind on your own. Satoru struggles to keep up with you on a good day. But now this?

Over his dead body is he going to let you get married to someone so, so… so stupid! You might be a little stupid at times too, but surely, you deserve better than this. You deserve someone cool, smart, and awesome. 

Like him. 

Unfortunately, Satoru’s mind is still that of a child, so he doesn’t quite make the connection that right now, he’s horribly and unspeakably jealous. He can’t seem to understand the real reason why Naoya’s proposal offends him so much. Which is why he reacts the only way he knows how to. 

By throwing a fit. 

“You’re crazy!” Satoru exclaims, and he doesn’t waste a second before pulling you away from Naoya. He makes sure to squeeze you tight, teeth bared as if he’s your personal little guard dog. Which he pretty much is. 

Naoya frowns. “How is it crazy? I was just being honest. I know that I’ll have to get married when I grow up, and I’ve decided that I want it to be with [Name]! I won’t accept anyone else. She’s the best.”

“Shut up! You’re being ridiculous! Kids aren’t supposed to even talk about stuff like that!” 

“There’s no rule that says I can’t. I want [Name] to become my wife someday, so I just thought I should let her know.” 

Naoya shrugs, uttering the words with such nonchalance—a striking contrast to Satoru’s steadily-reddening expression. You have to admit, you’re incredibly amused. Look at these two little cuties fighting over you. As long no one actually throws any fists, then it’s hardly anything to worry about—

“I’m gonna kick your ass, pervert!” 

Nevermind. Satoru just let go of you so that he can grab fistfuls of Naoya’s hair. Naoya cries out in pain, of course, and he instinctively pulls onto Satoru’s hair back. They both then proceed to swing their tiny feet at each other, occasionally kicking each other in the shins, stepping on each other’s toes, and various other forms of brutal warfare. 

Meanwhile, Toji is reclining comfortably against the base of a tree trunk, and he takes a bite of a biscuit (not made by you) as he watches with a passive expression. He really has become a babysitter. Goddammit. He definitely has no intention of intervening, though. The little bastards will tire themselves out eventually. In the meantime, he may as well enjoy the show. 

“Ow, ow, ow!” Naoya whines, desperately trying to keep all his hair from being ripped out. “Satoru, you’re the crazy one! I didn’t even do anything wrong! You’re mean and nobody likes you! I bet [Name] only spends time with you because she feels sorry for you!” 

His words give Satoru pause, and while Naoya massages the roots of his air, whimpering all the while, Satoru slowly turns towards you. He does his best to hide it, but his lip can’t seem to stop trembling. There’s even a crease in his chin. 

Satoru has never once been insecure. He’s the strongest, after all. That’s what everyone always tells him, and he knows that it’s a fact. But… it’s true that you’re his only friend. Up until he met you, he didn’t know what it was even like to have a friend. He didn’t know what the right thing to do was. Does Naoya have a point? Are you only spending time with him because you recognize how lonely he used to be? Do you actually feel sorry for him? 

Aren’t you his friend… because you genuinely want to be? 

“Satoru, it looks like you’re having silly thoughts,” you remark. 

“Th-That’s not true,” he stubbornly protests. 

“Really? I swear you’re thinking something stupid right now. I can just tell. Your face is doing that thing where you look a little constipated because you’re so deep in thought.” 

Satoru’s cheeks turn violently red, and of course, you laugh wholeheartedly at the sight. It’s the kind of laughter that simply can’t be forced. And all those times you would smile around him, so brightly, without holding anything back, surely none of that was forced, either. 

Yeah. It turns out that he is having silly thoughts. How stupid of him. He can’t believe he doubted you, for even a single moment. 

“You’re a moron, Naoya,” Satoru firmly states, crossing his arms and feeling rather smug all of a sudden. “[Name] is my best friend. She likes me way more than she likes you. It’s not even close.” 

Naoya grimaces. “Sure, she can be your best friend. She can have as many friends as she wants. I’m the one she’s going to marry, at the end of the day.” 

“Are you seriously still running your mouth?!” 

“It’s the truth! We’re in love!” 

“She never said she loved you back, you stupid little kid!” 

Cue more fighting. Well, it’s back to more hair pulling, kicking, and some slapping here and there, but in the world of children, this may as well be a full-out brawl. 

You sigh. This is probably the part where you should intervene, as hilarious as it is. You step up, preparing to pull Satoru back and hopefully get him to calm down, but it turns out that someone has already beaten you to the punch. 

In the blink of an eye, Toji separates the bickering boys, then proceeds to stare down at them with a burning glare. 

“Enough,” he mutters. “All this foolish talk of marriage… as if I’d ever let [Name] marry someone from the Zen’in Clan.” 

Naoya’s jaw drops open, and Satoru throws his head back and starts laughing hysterically. 

“Haha! You hear that, Naoya? You don’t even have a chance! Hahahahahahahahahahahaha!” 

“But… why?” Naoya simply asks, looking defeated beyond measure. 

“Because the Zen’in Clan is filled with disgusting, miserable scumbags,” Toji scowls. “Do you really think I’d allow [Name] to marry into that kind of family? The kind of family that condemns their own flesh and blood?” 

“I-I won’t be like the rest of them!” Naoya insists. “I’m going to be the best husband [Name] could ever ask for!” 

“It doesn’t matter what your intentions are. The clan won’t let you do as you please. Not only that, but they’ll definitely impose restrictions on [Name] and mistreat her. Didn’t you see the way Naobito laughed in her face? No one will ever respect her. It’s selfish to want to bring her into that kind of environment. You’re only thinking of yourself.” 

Naoya’s head droops. The poor thing. He’s only a kid, and kids say all sorts of crazy things, like wanting to get married in the future, but you can’t help but feel bad for him. He seemed really excited about this. Toji didn’t have to shut him down so hard. It also doesn’t help that Satoru is laughing so hard he’s about to cough up a lung. 

“Satoru, be quiet,” you frown, and he covers his mouth with the palm of his hand to stifle his laughter, at the very least. 

You approach Naoya, prepared to comfort him, but suddenly, his head shoots upright, and there’s a solemn expression on his face. 

“It’s okay,” he says. “When I become clan leader, I’ll change things so that no one disrespects [Name]. I’ll make it so that the Zen’in Clan isn’t so mean. If everyone feels accepted, then that means [Name] will too, right?” 

Toji’s eyes widen. Clearly, he wasn’t expecting such a show of conviction—from a seven-year-old, at that. Then again, it’s easy to claim things. Actually making them happen is a different story altogether. 

“Fine,” Toji half-chuckles. “If you actually manage to change the Zen’in Clan once you’re in charge, then you have my blessing to marry [Name].” 

All of a sudden, Satoru isn’t laughing anymore. 

“Hey, what the hell, old man?!” he exclaims, stomping his little foot into the ground. “Not cool! I thought you were on my side!” 

“Since when was I ever on your side? And relax. He’s not going to be able to pull it off anyway. He’s just too naive to know any better.” 

Satoru mashes his teeth together, still in a grumpy mood, but he supposes Toji is right. Clans like the Gojo Clan and the Zen’in Clan are rigid and set in their ways. Naoya has just taken on an impossible mission. Satoru almost feels sorry for him. Almost. 

Naoya, on the other hand, is back to being happy as a clam, and he wraps his arms around you yet again. 

“I love you, [Name],” he mumbles adoringly, ignoring how Satoru is silently shaking his fist at him. “Don’t worry. I’ll make the Zen’in Clan better. Everything will be great when I’m in charge. Then we can get married, okay?” 

It’s difficult to suppress your smile. He’s unbelievably cute. Far cuter than you ever knew he was capable of. Also, he says he wants to try and change the Zen’in Clan for the better, so who are you to stand in his way? You’re not so sure about the whole marriage thing… but a bit of motivation never hurt anyone. 

“I’ll think about it,” you hum, gently patting his head. “Do your best to work things out with your clan. I still need time to consider your proposal, though. It’s not the kind of decision I can just jump into.” 

“Why are you even considering it at all?!” 

“Satoru, be quiet.” 

Naoya takes a few moments to let your words sink in, then nods. He’s a lot more understanding than you thought he’d be. Kids are impatient, after all. He’s acting surprisingly mature for his age. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that both him and Satoru are gifted, because your mental age far surpasses theirs. 

“I’ll work really hard so that you’ll want to marry me,” Naoya beams. He goes silent for a few moments, and oddly enough, his face is quickly turning red.

You don’t realize why until he leans closer and kisses you on the cheek. 

Needless to say, Satoru explodes. 

“You nasty little prick! I’m seriously going to kill you!”

You suppose it’s back to the hair-pulling, kicking, slapping, and—oh, they’ve even thrown in scratching, this time. It’s funny that Satoru is actually letting Naoya touch him. His Infinity has been off this whole time. It’s probably a pride thing. How adorable. Since they’re both avoiding using cursed energy, they’re starting to get pretty banged up, but whatever. You’ll just heal them in a bit. 

Toji takes another bite of his biscuit, shaking his head in disbelief. “Kids are so stupid. You’re the only kid I can stand.” 

“What if you have your own kid someday?” you ask. 

“I doubt that’ll ever happen.” 

“Maybe it will,” you reply, biting back a grin. “I think you’d be surprised.” 

Toji flashes you a look of mild confusion, but he quickly shrugs and turns back towards Satoru and Naoya—who are now on the ground, wrestling. Definitely not a sight you ever thought you’d be privy to. 

You chuckle softly, because at the rate things are going, the future might be bright after all.

Despite ending up in a fistfight with none other than Gojo Satoru, Naoya returns to his clan estate in a chipper mood. 

“You’re back,” one of his older brothers remarks. The judgment on his face is clear as day, but Naoya could care less. He’s made up his mind to marry you. He’ll have to keep it a secret for now, because he doesn’t want to risk losing the right to keep meeting up with you, but his wish will come true someday. He’s sure of it. 

“I’m back,” Naoya happily nods. 

“You seem like you’re in a good mood. I take it you went to see that girl again. What do you like about her so much?” 

“Everything,” Naoya replies, without even missing a beat. His brother frowns, but he continues. “She’s super pretty, and smart, and nice, and it’s never boring being with her. I could be with her every second of every day and I’d never get tired of it. I want to spend the rest of my life with—” 

He stops himself. Phew, that was close. He almost spilled the beans about how he proposed to you. It’s just so hard to contain his excitement. 

“I see,” his brother frowns, very much not understanding. He finds it truly strange, because up until now, Naoya was focused purely on getting stronger and being better than everyone else. Naoya has a huge ego, and it didn’t take long for everyone’s praise to go to his head. He looks down on all his older siblings, for that very reason. Or at least, he used to. 

With each passing day, he seems to be changing. And it’s all thanks to you. 

Naoya spends the rest of the day training. It was part of the agreement, after all. He can’t afford to slack off, otherwise his father will prohibit him from seeing you. Naoya has always been motivated to get stronger, but these days, he feels even more motivated. It’s like there’s a surge of energy constantly flowing through his body. For the first time in his life, he isn’t getting stronger purely for himself. He’s getting stronger for someone else’s sake. Not just so that he can see you, but so that he can protect you. So that he can become the clan leader and keep you safe. 

He finally finds himself understanding why you did what you did, with the Binding Vow. Why you were so quick to forfeit your own safety in order to protect everyone else. 

Doing something for another person feels really, really good.

Later in the evening, he sits outside his room, facing the courtyard as he dangles his legs over the edge of the wooden walkway. The stars are out, shining brightly overhead, and he imagines plucking every single one of them and giving them to you as a present. Obviously, he knows he can’t actually do that, but still. It’s nice to dream. He’ll have to think of a suitable gift for you, once you’re both old enough to get married. 

“Master Naoya, I’ve brought you dinner.” 

One of the attendants cautiously slides the door to his room open. She enters carrying a tray filled with food, and she makes a conscious effort of staring down at her feet, not daring to make eye contact with him. He’s the future clan leader, after all. Everyone knows that he’s a spoiled, insufferable brat, and much like the other men in the Zen’in Clan, he has little to no respect for women. 

But again—that’s what he used to be like. 

“Oh, thanks!” 

The attendant blinks. Ever-so-slowly, she lifts her head and meets Naoya’s gaze. He’s grinning ear-to-ear as he extends his hands out, waiting for her to pass the tray over to him. His expression is so warm and bright. She’s never really waited on him before, but… this is the child that everyone’s always warning her about? 

“Thanks,” Naoya says again. His eyes sparkle as he takes in the selection of food. “Wow, these are all my favorites! I was super hungry, so this is great!” 

He happily accepts the tray of food, and meanwhile, the woman stands there, too shocked to move a muscle. Naoya stares at her, not quite understanding why she looks so taken aback, but eventually, his eyes flicker with realization. 

“Here,” he grins, picking up a few pieces of food and setting them aside onto a small plate. He slides the plate over to the woman. “You can have this! It’s late, so you’re probably pretty hungry too.” 

She still can’t believe what she’s seeing. Since when was Zen’in Naoya considerate of others? Least of all women. She actually can’t help but wonder if his brain has been swapped out with someone else’s. Truly, he’s nothing like what the rumors say. Perhaps everyone was wrong about him, all along. 

Or perhaps… someone has already changed him for the better. 

“Thank you,” the woman mumbles, the faintest smile on her lips. She picks up the plate and nods gratefully, then quietly slides the door shut as she leaves.

Once she’s gone, Naoya resumes looking up at the stars, occasionally taking bites of his dinner. If there’s one thing the Zen’in Clan does better than you, it’s how they cook their food. But that’s okay. He’s sure you’ll get better at cooking eventually (not likely). And even on the off-chance that you don’t, it’s not a big deal. 

He’ll be sure to eat everything you make for him, like the dutiful husband he plans to be. 

Up until he met you, Satoru had never experienced even an inkling of fear. He was born immeasurably strong, and thus, nothing ever posed a threat to him. He figured he would go his entire life without ever being afraid. 

But you changed all of that in the blink of an eye. 

These days, he’s constantly afraid. Not for himself, of course, but for you. Everything you do terrifies him. You’re reckless to a fault, and unfortunately, you don’t yet have the strength to back it up. To make matters even worse, you’re unbelievably stubborn. You insist on doing things without his help, in order to prove yourself. 

Like right now, for instance. 

The cursed spirit is fairly weak. Not quite as weak as a Fly Head, but Satoru is forced to keep his distance from it nevertheless, so as not to scare it off. There are three people present. You, him, and one of the Gojo clan members. Today is your very first attempt at exorcizing a cursed spirit. You’re gripping a short baton in your hand—the cursed tool that you’re the most used to—and you face the cursed spirit head-on, fully intent on destroying it. 

Meanwhile, Satoru swears he’s on the verge of having a goddamn stroke.

“She doesn’t have to do this,” he insists, looking up at the clan member with an imploring expression. “I’ll exorcize it myself. Or you can do it. I don’t want her to get hurt. Please.” 

“This was her request,” the clan member shrugs. “I don’t think she should be fighting either. She should reserve her energy exclusively for healing those who are injured. Reverse cursed technique is already a useful enough ability. I’m not sure why she’s so hellbent on this… but you know as well as I do that she can’t be swayed.” 

Satoru grits his teeth. It’s not even the cursed spirit that he’s scared of. That thing is weak enough that its attacks shouldn’t be fatal. Plus, you can heal yourself if push comes to shove. The thing that scares him above all else, like always, is your Binding Vow. 

What if something goes wrong? Scarce as your cursed energy may be, it only takes one second, one slip-up, and just like that, you’re dead. You need to avoid harming the curse with your own cursed energy. He’s still not even sure what qualifies as ‘harm’. Just how minimal does the damage need to be? God. He’s making himself sick just imagining all the different possibilities. 

Even so, you remain undeterred. Your life could end in a matter of seconds, and yet, you press on. 

Naobito couldn’t be any more mistaken about you. Your determination, your resolve, and your unyielding bravery… in that sense, you’re already a proper jujutsu sorcerer. You’re the very essence of what it takes to be one. 

The cursed spirit lets out an ear-grating shriek, then it attacks. Satoru feels his stomach drop. He wants to call it quits. He knows you’re desperate to prove yourself, but do you really have to do this? You don’t need to fight at all. You can just accompany other jujutsu sorcerers on missions and be there in case they get injured. Everyone should be protecting you, not the other way around. You have far more value than the average sorcerer.

Not only that, but you’re his best friend in the whole world. You’re irreplaceable. 

Please don’t leave me. 

Those are the words Satoru silently chants in his head, and all the while, you lunge at the cursed spirit, pulling your baton back as you prepare to get a strike in. It feels like everything’s happening in slow motion. This brief instance seems to be lasting a full eternity. He wants to cover his eyes. Better yet, he wants to whisk you away as far from here as possible. He wants to bring you someplace where he knows you’ll be safe. 

Satoru doesn’t realize that you’ve already resolved yourself to this fate. You’re prepared to suffer to overwhelming extremes if it means that no one else has to. But that doesn’t mean you’re just going to throw your life away. It doesn’t mean you’re going to be foolish and negligent. No.

You’re going to ensure everyone’s future—including your own. 

The next second, your baton connects with the cursed spirit, and it screams out in pain. It slashes at you with its claws, drawing blood from your skin, but the injuries don’t faze you. You take a deep breath and steady yourself, suppressing your cursed energy to the best of your ability. Then, you pull the baton back and strike again. 

It takes a few hits. The cursed spirit keeps attacking you all the while, but you can tell its strength is dwindling, with every blow of your baton. 

Until finally, it disintegrates into nothingness. 

You allow yourself to exhale. There’s so much adrenaline pumping through your veins that you don’t even feel any pain. It’s not until you look down at all the scratches on your body that you realize just how much damage you took. But it hardly matters. You’ll heal all of that up in no time flat. For the first time in your life, you actually exorcized a cursed spirit. Which means you can fight. Alongside everyone else.

Before you realize it, you’re crying. 

“[Name]!” 

Satoru rushes over to you and proceeds to examine you, from head to toe. Clearly, you’re fine. Otherwise, you wouldn’t still be alive right now. You took some damage, but it’s not permanent. You’re still here with him. You’re still right by his side.

He tries his best to hide it, but soon enough, there are tears in his eyes, too. 

“W-Why are you crying?” he asks, gently cradling your cheek. “What’s wrong? Was it scary? If it was scary, you never have to do it again. I already promised I’d protect you for the rest of my life. It’s okay to be scared, [Name]. You really don’t have to do this anymore. Nobody’s making you.” 

“No,” you sniffle, and you quickly shake your head, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. “I’m okay. I wasn’t scared.” 

“Then why are you crying?” 

“Because I’m… happy. I’m just so happy right now.” 

You proceed to smile through your tears, and Satoru swears it’s the most beautiful, most selfless, most angelic thing he’s ever seen. He’ll never understand why you push yourself this hard. He’ll never understand why you’re so desperate to save everyone—as if you’ve already foreseen their deaths. 

But he supposes the exact reason doesn’t matter. There’s no point in trying to figure out what goes on in your head. As long as you stay with him… nothing else matters. 

“Satoru, you’re crying too,” you remark. 

“I know. I’m crying for the same reason you are.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah. At first I thought it was because I was scared for you, but now I realize that I was wrong.”  He pauses for a moment, only to smile through his tears, just like you did. “I’m happy. I’m really happy that you’re still here with me.”

Even though you cause him so much heartache, so much grief and fear, at the end of the day, it’s worth it. 

No one could ever make him as happy as you do.

More chapters are available on Quotev and Ao3!

⊱.⋅follow + post notifications on for story update announcements or join the author's discord!⋅.⊰

💫 main masterlist ♡ oneshot masterlist

[probablygayattorneys]

No fear

One fear

[naarlar]

Okie so I actually want to hear everyone’s thoughts on the Vengeance Saga, cause I have some mixed thoughts.

On one hand, IT WAS SO GOOD FROM A VOCALS PERSPECTIVE AND THE SONGS BEING BOPS. I was impressed by everyone’s performances (seriously I know in every saga everyone sounds awesome but this saga is just so visceral and surreal?!) Odysseus (Jorge the king himself) especially was so good in this musical?! His desperation and anger?? THE SCENE WHERE HE NEARLY DROWNS??? AAAAAAAAAAA

On the OTHER hand, I can’t be the only one that found the saga a little… corny? Not even the saga honestly just 600 strike. Idk I just couldn’t take 600 Strike seriously and I don’t think a song with that kind of narrative weight should have that effect. I recognize the musical is inspired by video games and anime, and that’s fine. But I feel there is a difference between being inspired by different works of anime versus using overused cliches and stereotypes from anime as a genre. (and maybe I’m taking it a little too literally but how the hell did Ody actually manage to torture Poseidon, like did the souls of his crew give him the power to stand to a god?)

Idk these are just initial thoughts I’d love to hear everyone’s takes bc I honestly don’t have a concrete judgement on 600 strike.

[vellichorom]

this thing is pupgender / a pet regressor / wishes she was a wolf/dog / every flavor of xenogender & freak there is,