#monsters deserve to be carried too >:3

[diaryofamonsterlover]

Thinking about a monsterxhuman love story but they are trying to survive a nightmare they don't know how they got in while being incredibly stupid at the same time.

[nanamineedstherapy]

Third Wheeling Your Own Marriage

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

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

Major Tags: Graphic Violence, SMUT—Minors DNI, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Polyamory, Founders and Executives, Gaming Industry, Canon-Divergence Additional Tags: The Office-style Commentary, Crack Treated Seriously, Social Media Meltdown, Mendez Brothers Vibes, JJK Headcanons, Hurt Reader, Pregnancy Complications, Regretful Gojo and Nanami, Protective Yaga, Internet Sleuths, Domestic Chaos Warnings: Emotional Abuse, Poly Relationship Drama, Unplanned Pregnancy, Medical Emergency, Canon-Typical Violence, Social Media Backlash, Emotional Distress, Slight Body Horror

A/N: Before you dive in, remember:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Previous Chapter 2: Collateral Void (Tumblr/Ao3)

Chapter 3 - Corporate Warfare: Protocol The Circus of Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He couldn’t think about it. Not now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The cycle started that day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Way worse,” the marketing director whispered back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The atmosphere shifted abruptly when the Special Response Team arrived. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it was already too late.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gojo's usually flippant tone uncharacteristically quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nanami’s jaw tightened.

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

“Enough. Stand down.”

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

Nanami didn’t answer, his expression grim.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, but like… hotly.”

“They actually got arrested.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

//

You’d underestimated them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

//

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

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

Employee #1: Kyle from Game Dev

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

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

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

The detective blinked. “Sexy?”

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

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

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

The detective grimaced on your behalf.

Employee #2: Mia from Finance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Employee #3: Jay from HR

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

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

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

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

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

The detective’s fist hit the desk.

Employee #4: Fatima from Legal

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

The detective flipped through them.

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

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

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

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

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

Fatima smirked. “Welcome to corporate, Detective.”

Employee #5: Emma from Sales

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

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

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

“And Nanami?”

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

Break

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

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

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

//

News segment played on TV in the station.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The internet had already imploded.

It started with a single tweet.

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

Replies:

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

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

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

Reddit was next.

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

Top Comments:

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

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

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

Then TikTok exploded.

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

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

Comments:

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

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

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

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

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

Comments:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Comments:

@Financically Challenged: “HR would never approve.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

r/CorporateDrama:

u/ThrowawayEmployee123:

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

Top Comments:

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

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

r/GamingGossip:

AlphaDaddyInumaki69:

“CEO’s SECRET MARRIAGE EXPOSED!”

Top Comments:

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

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

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

//

After Break

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

Employee #6: Lily from Social Media

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

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

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

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

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

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

Employee #7: Vikram from Quality Assurance

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

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

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

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

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

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

Employee #8: Nina from HR

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

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

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

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

“Could’ve fooled me,” she shot back.

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

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

Employee #9: Ramirez from Accounting

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

The detective sighed. “What did you see?”

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

“Anything unusual?”

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

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

Employee #10: Li from Design

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

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

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

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

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

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

Employee #11: Emily from PR

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Break Again

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

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

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

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

After Break

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

Employee #11: Kevin from Game Dev

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Employee #12: Maddie from Product Launch

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

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

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

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

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

Higuruma smirked faintly. “And the CEO?”

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

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

Employee #13: Jake from Sales

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

Higuruma tilted his head. “How so?”

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

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

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

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

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

The detective groaned. “Stop encouraging him!”

Employee #14: Aiko from Game Design

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Employee #15: Ellie from HR

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

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

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

The detective stared at her, speechless.

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

Employee #16: Alex from Marketing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Barely.”

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

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

Memes too -

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

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

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

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

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

By evening, the hashtags were trending.

#PolyPanic2024#TwoHolesForAReason#PolyKaisen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“GOJO, MY THROAT IS AWFULLY EMPTY!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Satoru, I love you!” shouted another.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

//

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But no one could outrun Gojo Satoru and Nanami Kento.

The second time, it would be worse.

//

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 4 - The Gravity of Running (Tumblr/Ao3)

All Works Masterlist

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

[littlemissmentallyunstable]

there’s been lots of requests and comments so here it is PART 3!!! (SHE’S HERE first anon, hope you survived this long second anon and it was not a dream third anon, I’m posting/making it now fourth and fifth anon)

some of you were going feral for part 2 so I hope this lives up the expectation 😭😭 if not I’m severely sorry

title: the dancer and the angel part 3

pairing: grayson hawthorne x reader

synopsis: grayson has just admitted to kissing lyra kane, the girl you’d been worried about, the girl that was stunning, the girl he said didn’t matter… he chose her over you so now what??

parts: part 1 part 2 part 4

warnings: swearing, SPOILERS FOR TGG

a/n: okay so I hate switching POVs but I felt it was necessary here and I know the start is the same as the part 2 but in Gray’s POV but trust me there is lot more

tag list: @tornqdowarnings @whatsamongus @wish-i-were-heather @inmyheaddd @never-enough-novels @sweetlikeanangel @midiosaamor @sweetreveriee @emelia07 @f4iry-bell @zaraaaabear @thoughtdaughter3 @benny1989fredd @elysianwayy77 @maybxlle @sheisntyou @anintellectualintellectual @aleatorio1234 @adalia-jaycee @off-to-the-r4ces @lyra-kane @reminiscentreader @lyrakanefanatic @imaseabear @elizaa31

GRAYSON’S POV

Guilt has chewed me up and spat me out the whole walk back to our shared room. There’s a pulsating lump in my throat that aches relentlessly, reminding me of what I’ve done. I am a terrible person. I never deserved her and now I’ve done the worst thing I could’ve possibly done, that anyone on this whole planet could’ve ever done. And she will never forgive me for it. I wish there was a way to turn back time and alter certain events. As soon as the time machine is invented, no doubt by my very own brother Xander, I’m coming back to moments before now to stop my idiot brain from-

I can’t even think it. Maybe it’s because it makes it more real. It’s like the last few moments of my life have been erased from my brain, it’s a blank canvas and I have no paints. I know what I did but I can’t remember exact details. Still, I can taste her on my lips, an over sweet taste that was almost too sickly has now morphed into something bitter. Her perfume lingers on my clothes and adds to my ever growing headache. I don’t want to smell her, I don’t want the reminder of the awful human I have become. The monster that now inhabits my body, lives in my skin, breathes my air and poisons the people I love. The ones I truly love.

Y/n. At one point she was the only reason I was still existing, still carrying on. She somehow managed to give me the fight to keep carrying on. I got up most days because I knew I would get to see her face. And now I’m going to throw everything away, our whole relationship. Everything we’ve been through or planned to go through together. It will reduced to nothing in a few minutes.

I’m outside the door, my feet have carried me here through muscle memory. I must go in, I must face her I’m aware but I’m afraid. I’ve never felt so pathetic. I wonder if she is still asleep. Though, I can’t work out whether I’d rather she be awake or asleep. I don’t think I could bear to look at her angelic feature either way. Those wide eyes, round lips, heavenly- I can’t bear it, I’m going to lose her, all of her.

I fiddle around with the key, hoping the door will just never unlock so I don’t have to face this. The mechanism clicks, mocking me. I step in silently and face the door to lock back up again. I don’t understand why, I know I’ll be kicked out in a matter of seconds, what good will a locked door be? And yet I’m still facing the door, fumbling with the key, my back towards her. Though I can hear her getting out of bed. She’s awake. My body’s immediate response is to go into a state of paralysis. I can’t move as the guilt ridden cement hardens over my body, creating an outer shell of the cruel creature I’ve become. Her body is behind mine. I can feel her bright presence radiating her usual tentative nature.

“Are you okay?” I hear her whisper as she touches my arm so gently it stings.

It stings so sharply because I know what I’ve done. The shameful crime I’ve committed. I jerk away suddenly.

“Are you hurt?” she asks, deep concern in her tone.

It kills me. It’s a poisoned dagger wedged deep within my heart, hitting every vital artery. Her voice is so soft, so melodic. She cares so much, too much and I’m about to destroy it all. And as much as I could not say a word I couldn’t live a lie, the guilt would eat me alive. How could I look her in the eye and tell her she’d always been the only one when I know she hadn’t? She’d already noticed earlier today my distant mood. She had always been observant, vigilant about those things concerning me and I’d always been grateful. I wouldn’t have that anymore. Lyra had been on my mind earlier and I couldn’t tell her. Now she would realise.

“No,” I reply.

My voice is unfamiliar to myself, it’s sharp and blunt. It sounds horribly harsh. I could feel it hurt her, the air ripples with a touch of dimness when I hurt her. Even with my back to her it’s obvious to me. I know her so well, too well and from this day on we might drift to perfect strangers. That thought hurts me more than anything.

“Where have you been?” she says. Her voice so sweet, so innocent, cruelly naïve.

I don’t want to break her, I don’t want to do it. It would be like smashing a glass ballerina. Something so beautiful, something so delicate should be preserved not purposely broken. I force my eyes to meet hers. I immediately regret it. The soft mellow colour all melts into one, clawing at my heartstrings and ripping the organ to shreds. She’s so beautiful. How had I ever looked at any other? How had I let myself?

Suddenly I’m drowning in guilt. I don’t know how, it just comes over me suddenly. Like a tidal wave I had my back to. I’ve been swept under by an endless ocean of shame. My lungs swollen full of my own black sin. I don’t know how but I manage to choke out two shaky words.

“I’m sorry.”

My voice cracks. My voice never cracks. She knows that. I’m sturdy, I’m strong, I’m the rock that never breaks and here I am. Here I am crumbling into dust. She’s too smart to miss the signs, she’s too clever not to immediately know something so horribly wrong, her mind is too sharp not to have worked half of it out. She’d already been suspicious of Lyra. She’d already seen what might happen between us even before I did, before it did actually happen.

“Gray?” she asks, my name sounding too sweet on her tongue. The next time she says it will taste bitter, I’m sure of it. She barely whispers the word but I hear her, it rings in my mind. It forever will.

I’m full of pure regret and guilt, it wracks my soul, shaking me relentlessly back and forth until I’m dizzy with it. Remorse’s doors suddenly burst wide open, ready for my grand entrance. My hopes and dreams snicker and smirk smugly as I walk down the runway, my head hanging in embarrassment.

I need to tell her. My heart races in my chest and there’s a lump stuck in my throat, so large it’s started to block my airways. I don’t know how to get the words out, I don’t know how to talk. I feel like I’m suffering some sort of aneurysm. She looks at me, her eyebrows pinched in and eyes narrowed and then I see it. Her eyebrows part and slowly sink. She knows already.

“Tell me,” she murmurs, her voice of an angel shaking.

I close my eyes, trying to suppress the tears. I haven’t cried in years I’ve forgotten this feeling, this heavy weighted agony that ripples through me causing water to infiltrate my eyes. I bite the inside of my cheek and still my shaking hands.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her, an uninvited raw desperation ripping through my voice, “I never wanted to hurt you, I never meant for it to happen, I-“

“Tell me,” she grits through her teeth sharply, her eyes glitter so beautifully fierce and fiery, like she wants to kill.

But I know she’s trying to steady her rising sadness by covering up with her fury. I can see through her, like she can see through me. I freeze and the pause elongates. The aching silence is deadly, it’s fatal. I wish she didn’t have to make me say it.

“I kissed her,” I murmur, the words making me feel sick as I say them.

“Who?” she asks, he tone low and ferocious, “who did you kiss? I want to hear you say it.”

I’m twisting a knife into her heart and I know it. But she wants me to cut deeper. She’s a woman of principle, I’ve already hurt her, I might as well do the job properly in her eyes. And I can’t deny her this. Not I’ve stripped her of her dignity, her trust, her love, her everything.

“I kissed Lyra,” I whisper, suddenly aware of the dampness on my cheeks.

A sour taste fills my mouth. The words send lightning sparks across my jaw, sending ribbons of agony down the sides of my face. The truth hurts. Literally. Tears are rolling the side of my face, but I don’t bring my hand to wipe them and nor do I stop them. I’ve never felt more broken.

But she doesn’t care, there is not pity in her eyes. Good. I don’t want he to pity me. She should hate me. She should want me to miserable and hope for me to have a lifetime of the torture I’ve just forced her to endure.

“Get out,” she murmurs, the anger bringing out her natural stunning features. A flicker of boldness in her eyes, the striking angles of her eyebrows, her strong thick lashes and her full lips.

“I’m sorry.” they’re the only words I remember how to say, through my internal fit of torment.

I expect her to hit me around the face, a good strong punch I know she can make or a sharp smack that’ll leave a red hand mark pressed against my cheek. I imagine she might scream at me and ask me all the questions I wish I had answers to. But she does none of that. She only looks at me darkly and utters two last words.

“Leave Grayson.”

I can hear the tears she’s trying to hold back, through the numb façade. I know her better than she’ll ever realise. But it’s not fair for me to stay, not after this. She’s only asking one thing of me when she should be doing so much more. So I do. I turn my back on her again. And I leave.

***

Tears pummel down my cheeks like never before. I can’t remember the last time I cried. I don’t think I’ve ever cried like this. I’m blinded by them as I stumble sideways. I don’t know where I’m going. I stand on the edge of the cliff and sink to my knees, letting out a loud guttural scream. I’m there until my throat is so raw I can’t feel it. I bite my lip so hard it draws blood. And then I’m up again and running, following a path my footsteps are dragging me towards. I can’t think straight, I’m dizzy with pain. Before I know it I’m outside the safe house on the island. My hands tremor on the handle and I swing open the door, falling to the floor for my sobs to take me over. My chest aches and burns and tightens. That’s when I realise I can’t breathe properly. I fumble around for my phone, a tear splashing into the illuminated screen. With uncontrollably shaking hands, I typed no words. Just three numbers.

911

***

The wait feels like years, maybe even decades. Each second taunts me, with a mocking tick. I’d crumbled into the corner of the room at some point and stayed there, curled up and choking on my own sorry sobs. What had I done? What had I done? What had I done?

The question circles around my head like the nostalgia of a distorted tune of a merry go round. I’ve never made such a big mistake and my life and deep down there’s a sinking sensation that is telling me I’m not going to be able to make this better. I sob, loud harsh sobs that hurt my lungs and knock the air out of my stomach. My whole being shakes with every strangled noise that escapes my lips. Grieving. I’m grieving over something I chose to throw away. It’s cruelly ironic. But I think part of me is also grieving the good man I once thought myself to be, that she made me believe I could be.

I turned my back on the one and only person in this world who just cared about me, took me for who I am and believed I could do anything. She only wanted the best, she only wanted happiness and she deserved so much more and here I am, stabbing her in the back and dancing in her blood like a madman. She was my everything and I managed to mess it up, just like everything else in my life. I can’t have normal relationships, I can’t do something without messing it up. I’m one big screw up the opposite of how the old man raised me to be. He’s looking down on me now and I can feel his disappointment, like an infection coursing through my bloodstream. I failed him, I failed my brothers, I’ve failed her, I’ve failed myself.

She thought I was better, she believed I could be more than his expectation. And I was stupid enough to believe it, encourage it and let her belive the lie too. We’re all idiots.

I can recite her favourite song, her favourite flower, her favourite food and favourite colour. I can tell you all about her favourite novels and how she orders her books on an endless bookshelf. I know that she tells people her favourite film is ‘it’s a wonderful life’ but it’s actually secretly ‘tangled’. I know she prefers to stay inside and cuddle under blankets rather than have a night out. I know she’d rather reason a thousand books than watch a thousand movies. I know she wanted a library in her dream house and two, maybe three children with her husband and I know she’d sometimes debate about getting a cat as well. I know how she loves brownie batter more than the actual brownies and can’t sleep with any lights on. I know she still uses the bunny rhyme to tie her shoelaces and how she fiddles with her collarbone when she’s nervous. I know exactly what diamond she wanted in her engagement ring and her favourite country. I know what people she despises and I know what people she adores. I know every inch of her face, every hair on her head, every sparkle in her eyes and every cell on her skin.

I know her.

I know her, but that can’t help me now. Pain ripples across the left side of my chest and my hand clamps over it as I grit my teeth to try and bear it. I hear the door creek open and can’t tell whether it comforts me or not.

“Grayson pookie!” Xander calls out, “we’re here.”

His cheerful voice doesn’t provide me with the cushion to this pain I thought it might.

“And we have some in incredibly strong whisky,” Jameson adds, I can here the mischievous grin in his voice, it’s been the same all of his life.

“My nose hairs are officially burnt off,” Xander agrees.

I can’t speak. I try to call out for them but the words die in my swollen throat.

“Where are you Gray?” Nash calls out, he sounds a little more worried than the other two but is concealing it well.

“Here,” my voice is hoarse and laboured, even I can’t recognise it.

The mood immediately shifts, you can feel it. The air becomes tainted with concern as their footsteps approach my cowering figure. The case of whiskey is dropped as there is an audible thunk as it hits the floor. I can feel their bodies enveloping around mine creating something of a circle of safety. I look up to worried face and shiny eyes.

“Help me,” I gasp for air, greedily trying to gulp down the oxygen that I feel so deprived of, “please.”

“We’re here to help you Gray,” Nash murmurs softly. His voice had always been something comforting, especially when I was younger. I wonder if he will be so kind when I tell him what I’ve done. He’s going to hate me, there’s nothing he despises more than a man who can’t respect a woman.

I shake my head and choke out another struggling sob, instead of the words I don’t know how to say. Jameson’s eyes flit between mine and Nash’s, the concern rippling across his features. He’s never looked this concerned for me in his life. I think to all the times as children I’d helped him settle after a nightmare and wiped his tears that he hated falling when the old man had humiliated him. Oh how the tables had turned. Now it was my little brother wiping my tears.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his touch so gentle it shocks me.

“I can’t-“ I barely get out, wrapping my hands around my neck.

“Gray…” he trails off, unmasked emotion hitting his face like a train.

“I can’t breathe,” I wheeze as the invisible blanket that was set out to suffocate me tightens over my nose and mouth.

“Hey, Gray, look at me,” Nash says, his voice smooth and reassuring, “in and out okay, in and out.”

“I can’t,” I pant, my limbs shaking embarrassingly uncontrollably.

Xander takes both of my hands into his and squeezes them until they still, “yes you can, follow Nash’s instructions okay?”

“Slowly, do it with me,” Nash nods, “in through your nose and out through your mouth.”

I do. In and out, a rhythmic pattern. Each time Nash reminds me how to breathe. There’s an aura of calmness about his voice that lulls my panic into a narcoleptic sleep. Once my breathing is halfway regulated I look at him, dead in the eye, with shaking sorrowful lips.

“I fucked up,” I sob, “I fucked up and I don’t know what to do.”

They all share a look, this is the worst state they’ve seen me and we all know it. I begin to pathetically sob uncontrollably once again, the feelings building up in my chest and tearing me apart from the inside out. It’s like a rabid pack of wolves had been set loose to feed on my internal organs. I don’t know how to stop the ocean of tears, I don’t know how to shut my mind off, I don’t know how to help myself. Reel myself in from this abominable mess I’ve become. I’m hyperventilating, my chest throbbing up and down unevenly. Nash nods towards Jameson, a short, soft, sharp nod of approval.

“Hey! Calm down!” Jameson snaps, giving me a hard slap around the face, “snap out of this!”

The shock shuts me up and the sting stops my tears. I’m back to reality instead of a wallowing mess. Nash must’ve been approving the slap I realise in the sudden cleared head I’d obtained

“Sorry,” Jameson mumbles at me, looking a little guilty.

I massage my jaw, “no I think I needed that.”

He grimaces and then softens his tone, “what happened Gray?”

I tense, growing very still, “I can’t say it out loud, I can’t, I’m awful, I’m horrible-“

“What happened?” Nash drawls.

I choke out yet another unnatural sound. Seems the slap didn’t snap me hard enough into reality. I exhale slowly. I have to say it, now or never.

“I kissed Lyra.”

The words hurt even more this time, that they did when I’d admitted it to y/n. Neither one of my brothers can mask their honest reaction.

“Oh fuck,” Jameson blurts out, “you cheated?”

Anger. He’s fuming with me. I can see the rage trailing through his eyes and blossoming into his expression.

“I didn’t mean to,” I reply, feeling like a small child.

Jameson’s eyes widen and fury flashes across his face, “how can you not mean-“

Nash shoots him a look and his mouth glues shut. Then he turns to me and I can’t quite read him yet. I gulp.

“No one does that kind of thing for no reason,” he says sternly, “I never thought you’d be the one of the four of us to ever do that, seems I was mistaken little brother.”

Disappointment. He’s disappointed. A horrible sinking feeling settles in my stomach. Nash is disappointed in me. It’s one of the worst feelings imaginable. There had only been few times in my life when he had been and I remember the feeling all too well. Shame has me in a chokehold an it’s succeeding in strangling me. I can‘t bring myself to meet his eyes, I don’t want to see that look I can feel is on his face, that look of pure disapproval.

“How did she find out?” Xander asks quietly.

Shock. He hadn’t said anything until now, but his lips had been slightly parted and he’d paled a little. He never thought I’d do this to anyone, he’s yet another person I’ve let down.

“I told her,” I murmur, “the guilt was consuming me.”

“As it should,” Jameson snaps, twitching with a fiery ferocity.

“Jamie,” Nash says, trying to keep some kind of diplomacy.

“No,” he growls, “you don’t do that to a girl, your girl, you can’t do that!”

“Don’t take the moral highground now,” I spit.

“When you’ve cheated on your girlfirend? Yeah I think I will,” he replies, the bitterness rolling off of his tongue like a deadly poison. He doesn’t know I’ve already poisoned myself with my own actions, his words can’t hurt me.

“I didn’t mean to,” I falter.

“Bullshit,” he grits through his teeth, in two definitive and threatening symbols.

“Careful Jamie,” Nash warns.

“All this is your fault anyway,” I continue, ignoring the warning.

“So it’s my fault, you kissed another girl, yeah, okay Gray,” he nods his head with a sarcastic smile.

“It is!” I exclaim, throwing my hands in the air, “if you hadn’t locked me in a room with her-“

“So it’s my fault you couldn’t keep up dick under control,” he quips, interrupting me.

“You could’ve locked me with my one of my sisters but of course you just had choose the only girl who isn’t related to me,” I seethe.

“Odette isnt related to you,” Xander pipes up. I’d forgotten he was there, that anyone besides me and Jameson were there.

“Odette is old enough to be my grandmother,” I scowl at him, immediately feeling bad as the words leave my lips, but don’t dwell on it as I turn back to Jameson, “why did you make me a player in your sick excuse of a game?”

“You can’t use the game as an excuse,” he laughs darkly.

“I will,” I reply sharply, “this is your fault and Avery’s fault too.”

“Avery? Don’t make me laugh,” he rolls his eyes.

“The game never should’ve been created by her,” I yell, “that’s why I’m in this mess!”

“No, you’re in this mess because of you,” he shouts back, “but don’t you dare bring Avery in to this it’s not her fault.”

I feel like I’m one of those circus acts, the ones that lay on a spinning board and get knives hurled at them. Only in my case the knives are the truth and they actually hit me.

“Why did you make me a player?” I ask quieter now, my voice hoarse, “why?”

“I didn’t know making you a player would result in this,” he says.

“It was so irreverent,” I snap becoming angrier by the second, a sudden burst of red overriding any rational sense in my head, “I never needed to play.”

“You can’t pin this on me Gray, if it didn’t happen with Lyra, who knows who else it would’ve happened with,” he hisses.

“So you think I’m just like this? You think this is me?” I ask him, prodding the hollow space where my heart used to be.

“I didn’t before….” he trails off, sighing, “but now I don’t know what the fucking think of you.”

“Jamie,” Nash repeats again, in the same warning tone as before. We both ignore him.

“Just because you and Avery are all peaches and roses-“

“Leave Avery out of your anger issues,” he roars defensively.

“No,” I counter, raising an eyebrow, mirroring his usual argument demeanour, “you think you’re so perfect now you’ve got your dream girl and the two of you are so much better off than the rest of us, because your love is undeniable or whatever bullshit people feed you about it-“

Jameson’s features twitch for a split second. He’s hurt, but won’t show it. He’ll refuse but I know that it hit a nerve that won’t heal for a long time. I stop mid-sentence.

“I am far from perfect, I think we both know that,” he says, in a low voice, “look you’re hurting, I get it, but I’m not going to mollycoddle you and tell you it’s okay when it’s not. I’m not going to stand here and lie to your face because as your brother that would be the worst possible thing for me to do to you.”

“My brother would try and understand what it’s like from my side,” I say, desperation clawing at my voice.

“You’re looking for a fight Grayson and it’s not going to end well, not with me,” he warns, shaking his head.

“Maybe I do want a fight, but you know you do too,” I growl rolling up my sleeves, “so fine, I’ll give you a fight Jamie.”

“I don’t want a fight, I want some justice for y/n,” he states simply, “she did nothing to deserve that Gray, she’s been so good to you, the sweetest soul on this earth and she’s helped you through a lot of shit and this is how you’re repaying her?”

“Jameson,” Nash says.

He ignores him for the third time and I can see his calm facade beginning to drop, “you think because you called a 911 and you’re here crying that I should feel sorry for you?”

“I thought you were going to be here for me,” I reply numbly, my tone dead, “clearly I’m mistaken.”

“I can’t be there for someone with no morals,” he replies, “you cheated and you’re the one who’s upset about it, how do you think she feels?”

“You think I don’t know her?” I fire back, my throat burning, “you think I don’t know exactly what she’s doing right now? I hate myself, I hate myself for doing what I did!”

“Good you should!” he screams back.

Before I know it I feel myself charges towards him, ready to throw a good punch but Nash and Xander launch onto me to quickly and managing to hold me back. Nash’s grip is so tight I don’t dare try and budge.

“Out. Now.” Nash says sharply to Jameson, “go and cool off.”

His tone sends a shiver down my spine that I won’t admit to. Jameson opens his mouth to argue.

“Jameson.”

He skulks away, with a sullen face. We all wait frozen until the door has been slammed shut. Nash lets my arm go, dropping it harshly and Xander follows suit.

“And you’re no better,” he turns to me, placing his cowboy hat on a nearby surface, “I’m only sending him away because you can’t be left alone in this mess and so the two of you don’t rip each other to pieces.”

Silence stills the room. His voice echoes but makes no sound all at the same time.

“Take a second, take a breath and we’re going to talk this through like adults,” he says, “if you want to carry on being a child then leave. Calm down, you’re not a toddler having a tantrum, you’re a grown man, act like it.”

Nash has a way of snapping me back to reality. I nod shakily.

“Talk.”

I begin, “I don’t even know why I kissed her, I didn’t mean to it just-“

“Happened?” he guesses, “no little brother, that doesn’t just happen.”

“The I don’t know Nash,” I say, tipping my head back and resting it on the wall behind me.

I hadn’t meant for it to happen. I didn’t want it to happen. It just did. She was there, just stood there. Her hands looped naturally around the back of my neck, warm and gentle, “someone sent me that ticket Grayson. I thought it was Avery but if it wasn’t…”

She trails off, her voice small and tentative. Her golden eyes filled with the utmost worry. I wanted her to know she’d be okay, that she’d have someone to keep her safe. Her arms get more comfortable around my neck. She’d felt it too, the electrifying spark between us. It was exhilarating but something about it was off, synthetic.

“Then who the hell was it?” I questioned, my hands magnetised to her cheek all of a sudden.

Lyra didn’t pull away and neither did I. I lower my head and she raised onto her toes and titled hers back a little. She was graceful, like a dancer. My lips brushed over hers. They were sweet like honey. For the first few moments it was bliss and the realisation hit, like a stone to my stomach. I jerked backwards suddenly, shaking my head.

“I can’t do this,” I said, my fingers trying to wipe her taste off of my lips, “I don’t- this isn’t-“

I was tongue-tied, not able to explain to her how wrong it was. The words wouldn’t work the way I wanted them to.

“Gray?” Lyra murmurs, a tender voice. Her amber eyes are widened and slightly confused.

“No,” I yell. She flinches and another wave of horribly strong emotion rushes over me, drowning me. “No I’m in love with someone else. I don’t know what that was. I can’t-“

I stumbled backward a few steps and the turned around and ran. Like the coward that I am.

“It did just happen,” I murmur, lifting my head from the wall to look my older brother in eye, “I swear to god, I didn’t intend for it to happen, I didn’t even know I had feelings for her.”

I can see he disagrees still and isn’t convinced. I don’t know how to prove it to him.

“Let’s establish one thing here, who do you like?” Xander asks me.

“I like Lyra,” I say slowly, “but I love y/n.”

Nash shakes his head, “if you loved her you wouldn’t have done that.”

“I made a mistake,” I press on.

“And you will pay for it and regret it for the rest of your life,” he shrugs, “it’s not what you wanted to hear but it’s the truth. Listen, I love Libby and loving someone means so many things. One of those things is that I don’t even look at other women, to me they don’t even really exist. Libby is my world and no one else even comes into the equation, so the fact is someone else came into the equation for you, meaning the love wasn’t there.”

“But it was, I felt it,” I say, my voice breaking as I press my chest.

“What do you feel for Lyra?” he asks plainly.

“I don’t know, she’s intriguing and smart and beautiful,” I murmur, “and I like her, but I don’t know if I have romantic feelings for her.”

“Then why did you kiss her?”

“Comfort? Lust? Greed? Selfishness? I don’t know it just happened,” I repeat for what feels like the hundredth time.

“Stop using that phrase as a get out clause,” Nash shakes his head, “you have to admit to yourself more than anyone that this didn’t just happen.”

“I leaned in and I put my lips of hers, and I didn’t stop it, it didn’t feel wrong straight away,” I admit out loud finally.

“It didn’t?” Xander says, looking wounded.

“No, it didn’t feel wrong until I realised what I’d done,” I say, looking down, suddenly finding my shoelaces to be the most interesting thing in the world.

No one replies for a long while. That’s when I realise how exhausted I truly am and how much I crave sleep.

“I vouched for you,” Xander says quietly, “I told her that you’d never do that, that you weren’t that guy.”

“I’m not,” I say, in denial at first. I take a moment to analyse his sentence and then come to a sickening realisation, “oh my god I am…”

“She was already anxious about where your loyalties were Gray,” he winces.

“I proved her right, I proved every worry she had right, I just proved to her that she shouldn’t have trusted me,” I spiral, hating that I hadn’t seen it sooner.

Xander looks to Nash for support for a reply.

“Yeah,” Nash sighs, “you did.”

“I need to fix this, there has to be a way-“

“Grayson,” the acuteness of his voice cuts through my sentence like a machete.

I freeze and clamp my mouth firmly shut.

“This isn’t a broken vase, you can’t glue it back together or buy a new one,” he tells me softly.

He was referring to a time where Jameson and I had been seven and eights years old. We’d been brawling of course, Hawthorne style and accidentally smashed a vase. Usually it wouldn’t matter, there were vases all over Hawthorne House and they were smashed frequently. But this wasn’t just any vase. It was nan’s priceless vase that had belonged to her daughter, our grandmother, Alice. We were never allowed within a five mile radius of it, but like the rebellious children we were, we didn’t listen. Through our fight we’d smashed the whole thing, it was truly destroyed. The two of us stayed up for nights on need gluing together the pieces only to realise it was never going to look like the original again. So we’d hunted to buy another, problem was, this vase was one of a kind. It turned out after four weeks or trying to ship a similar one in that nan had known the whole time. She didn’t speak to either of us for a good few months.

“This is real life, she is a real person and you hurt her,” he explains, “fixing this isn’t an option. There isn’t a way to fix it, there are no pieces to our back together, okay?”

I’m silent but it’s the loudest voice in the room. My face pinches together in agony. For the first time, a little of the disappointment fades and my brother’s face softens. He wraps a strong arm around me and I flop into him like a lifeless bag of nothingness. I bury my head into his shoulder and try to cry but there seems to be no tears left. He understands and holds me for a moment. Suddenly I’m six years old again and crying in Nash’s in my arms over Jameson hiding my favourite teddy bear at the time, then I’m eleven in his arms with pneumonia after being stupid enough to get caught in the rapids un the dead of winter wanting a good photograph of a rare fish, then I’m seventeen, crying over a redheaded girl who I thought I’d managed to murder. And now here I am, at twenty-two years old in his grasp once again, having made the greatest mistake of my life.

Suddenly I feel another set of arms wrap around the both of us.

“Group hug!” a familiar voice sings.

Leave it to Xander to make me crack a half smile in the darkest moments I’ve ever experienced. After a while I pull away and sigh.

“Do you think she’ll ever forgive me?” I ask, pulling away.

“Honestly?” Xander asks.

I nod

“No,” he says. I wish I could see that little glimmer of a lie in his eyes, but I can’t. And it kills me.

“Think about it like this,” he sighs, “would you forgive Eve for what she did?”

“This is not the same thing,” I reply coldly.

“Eve cheated your trust, she betrayed you,” he explains gently, “that’s exactly how she feels.”

Dread fills my every pore as I murmur lifelessly, “I’m as bad as Eve.”

“No wait,” he says, looking guilty and panicked all at the same time, “that’s not what I meant!”

“I know,” I reassure him so some of his guilt subsides, “but it’s true and now I’ve just realised.”

“Look Gray, you aren’t Eve. You’re never going to be Eve, but think of how you felt then. That’s how y/n feels,” Nash soothes, “she’s not going to just forgive you, that’s not how it works.”

“You just broke her heart Gray,” Xander adds, careful to keep his tone as light as a feather, “for a girl you just met.”

“Why am I horrible person? Why do I always find a way to mess to something good?” I groan, smacking my head on the wall behind me. There’s an audible thump as pain spreads through the back of my skull. I wonder if I can concuss myself to forget all of this, but I don’t attempt the idea.

“You don’t-“

“No I do,” I say firmly, cutting him off, “I’m not meant for love, to love or to be loved, I’m not built for it. I’m not a good enough person for it. I’m never going to find my Libby or my Max or my Avery.“

“Grayson-“ Nash begins.

“Emily knew it and now so does y/n,” I snap.

My brothers still at her name, not moving a muscle. I never bring up Emily.

“Listen to me,” Nash says sharply, getting my attention, “you are meant to be loved. You are meant to love. I love you, Xander loves you, Jameson loves you and y/n loved you too…”

The change of tense makes my soul ache.

“…but this time around, you made a mistake, a costly mistake. But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve love.”

I nod numbly, robotically.

“What can I do to make it up to her?” I ask, my voice beginning to tremble, “to show her I’m sorry? Something there has to be something.”

Nash gives me a grim look and Xander’s face remains blank, they’re the only answers I need. My head sinks into my hands. The door reopens and I look back up. Jameson has returned.

He meets my eyes, “Avery’s with her.”

Blood surges through my heart and I can almost smile. He checked on her. For me.

“Is she okay?” I ask quickly.

Jameson looks at me and for a split second I almost see the ghost concern is his eyes. He shakes his head softly, “no, but she will be,” he replies, it’s an attempt to comfort me and I am grateful.

“Thank you,” I mumble.

“I’m not apologising for what I said, because I still stand by it and you won’t change my mind,” Jameson says, “but I am sorry for being so angry about it.”

“You were right,” I whisper, “you were right about me. I never deserved her, so was nothing but an angel to me and I just turned around and threw it all away. I abused the luxury I had, I stabbed her in the back and then gifted another with the knife, I’m a horrible person.”

“What you did was wrong, but that’s doesn’t make you a horrible person,” he sighs, “you need time Gray, this is going to take a lot of healing. On both sides.”

“I don’t deserve to heal, I deserve to be in pain,” I murmur, the dullness in my tone echos around the empty walls.

“Oh no, we’re not going back to emo Grayson,” Xander says quickly, shaking his head.

“I agree with Xander on this one,” Nash nods, readjusting his cowboy hat.

“I don’t want to hear you blasting my chemical romance at three a.m and then denying it later again, you came out of that phase we’re not going back there,” Jameson tells me.

I bark out a laugh that thaws my icy chest. I then bite the inside of my cheek.

“I can’t fix this, can I?” I say, looking at the ground,

Nash shakes his head softly.

“But that doesn’t mean you can’t be fixed,” Xander says.

“You’ll get through this Gray,” Jamie agrees, “I know it.”

The room grows still.

“Can we drink that whiskey now?” I ask, to cut through the silence. I feel like getting drunk, I feel like I need some relief.

“Big brother,” Xander nods at Nash handing him the bottle.

“Little brother,” he tips his cowboy hat in reply before taking the bottle into his hands and cracking it open.

“Let me pour these things properly,” Nash grins, “Jamie, come help.”

“Wait me too!” Xander jumps up,

“Stay with Gray,” he shakes his head.

“I don’t need to be babysat,” I grumble, annoyance written all over my face.

“I want to watch them pour whiskey properly,” Xander explains, “so I can impress Max.”

My eyebrows fly to my forehead, “Max drinks?”

“No I want to impress her though,” he grins.

‘You’re an odd human,” I almost laugh, tilting my head to the side.

“Why ta very much!” he says, almost skipping away.

Once I know they’re all gone, I lean back on the wall, my heart feeling a tiny bit less heavy. The pain isn’t gone. I think I’ve just gone numb. I feel hollow, empty, nothingness. Guilt is still gnawing at my insides but slower. A satifying clink against the fragile rim of the glass takes me out of my own head for a split second. There are hushed voices from the kitchen, I notice. I walk over to the door that lay ajar, I lean in to listen.

“We need to tell him,” it sounds like Jameson.

“Not now,” the accent indicates Nash.

“Then when?” Xander’s voice asks, “how long can we prolong it.”

“I can hear you,” I tell them, raising my voice a little.

They turn to face me, awkwardly remaining silent. The expressions on their faces don’t offer me comfort.

“Whatever it is, spit it out,” I say, “it’s not like tonight could get any worse.”

They share a look. Apparently it can. I feel sick to my stomach.

I can barely breathe, “who died?”

“No one has died,” Xander says quickly, “yet.”

“What?” I say, my tone deadly,

Nash glares at him, then turns back to me. There’s sorrow laced delicately, deep within his hazel irises.

“Gray,” he says gently, “Gray we hate to do this but…”

“What? What is it?” I ask urgently.

“Gigi’s missing.”

The words shock me to my core. I feel my throat begin the close up as panic returns with a smirk and triumphant greeting. My whole world has collapsed in less than 24 hours.

***

YOUR POV

I don’t hate him. Call me naive or call me stupid. But I don’t. I don’t think I ever could. The kind of love I have for him is unconditional, irrevocable. Time can’t heal a wound this deep and although it is still fresh now, I can tell. But if he were to say sorry I think I would forgive him every time. And if he asked me back I’d fall into his arms into an instant. And I hate myself for it, it’s stupid and it’s a little cruel. How easily I would take him back after what he did. I know I shouldn’t but something inside of me is drawn to him. Like an invisible magnet has been planted in our hearts. I wish I didn’t love so hard, fall so deeply, maybe I wouldn’t get hurt so badly. But it’s in my nature, it’s who I am. I wonder if he knows how much pain I’m in, the rippling agony that rolls across my chest relentlessly with no hint as to when it will cease. I’m tired of being the second choice but unfortunately I wouldn’t mind being his. And I know it’s completely stupid of me to think that way, completely wrong but love makes you do stupid things so they say. I sit on the beach, by the sea in a state of numbness. Silent tears roll down my tears as the waves lap my feet. Deja vu washes over me and the memories of Grayson and I the night of the game flash through my mind.

I grip his hand and run with him as he guides me the just beyond the shore. He sits down swiftly on the sand and pulls me down to sit between his legs. I lean my back onto his chest and let him nuzzle his face into my collarbone.

“I love you,” he whispers, kissing my neck, “only you.”

Only me, huh? Only me…

The waves crash against the rocks, hurtling a salty spray towards me. I hear footsteps and turn around. Avery stands there, a mournful expression over her delicate face. She knows. I stumble towards her and collapse into her arms in a fit of uncontrollable sobs now and she holds me. Her touch is gentle and warm but it’s nothing compared to his. I realise he might never hold me in his arms again and I cry even harder.

***

I don’t hold Lyra accountable. She is not to blame. Some girls in my position might dream about different ways to brutally murder her but I can only ask what comfort would it bring me? My feelings are already dead, what good is more pain doing?

There was a choice that Grayson Hawthorne was given: his dancer or his angel. He chose his dancer and I hope he’s happy. Because angels have wings and we rise up stronger.

idk guys I think I wrote Grayson’s POV really awfully to be honest… also I feel like the 911 meet up was not like their normal ones where they try and like do something (e.g drink or dare) and then talk about the pain but that’s bc Grayson was in such a mess and then they had to drop the bomb that Gigi was missing. so anywayyyss…

I am sorry this took so long and I hope it lived up to any expectation you wanted it too (sorry if it didn’t) and I hope you enjoyed 🤍🤍 thanks for reading as always

TIG masterlist

[blackenedsnow]

ART X A SELF DOUBTING VAMPIRE READER PSLPLSPSLLS!! like they think they taste all rotten and nasty but art doesnt think sooo!

red as snow

WARNING: Self doubt

PAIRING: Art the Clown x Vampire! Reader

NOTE: Omg this is so fun to think about!! thanks for the ask <3 I ALWAYS love writing about vampires OHHHH MAN

SUMMARY: Art doesn’t mind what’s wrong with you. That’s the worst part, really. You can’t understand how someone so perfect in his brutality could ever want something so rotten.

The blood pools around your feet in lazy rivulets, stark and shining against the pale stretch of snow. It’s almost beautiful, in a grotesque sort of way – the kind of beauty you find in shattered glass or a body just before the life leaves it. Art would know what you mean.

He’s doing something behind you, a slow, lilting tune, soft as snowfall. He’s in his own little world, swaying slightly, his bloodied hands clasped behind his back. His clothes look filthy now, stained with deep red streaks.

You think he looks ridiculous. And perfect.

“Do you ever think,” you say quietly, your voice barely carrying over the winter hush, “that I might taste bad?”

Art stops. His head snaps toward you, and even though you know he doesn’t speak, you feel the weight of his question in the tilt of his head, the way his wide eyes narrow just slightly.

“You know,” you murmur, staring down at the corpse between you, “if someone tried to bite me. My blood’s probably awful. There’s something wrong with me.” you glance back at him, watching the way his grin widens like it’s some private joke only he gets. “You’d agree, wouldn’t you?”

You’re half-joking, but it still stings when he laughs – or whatever you’d call that silent, breathy wheeze of his. He’s doubled over, clutching his stomach like you’ve just told the funniest joke in the world.

“I’m serious,” you say, your voice sharper now, a little defensive. You fold your arms over your chest. “Why wouldn’t it be bad? I’m rotting from the inside out, Art. I can feel it. There’s no way it’d taste good.”

He straightens up, wiping at his face even though there’s no tears, no sign of any real laughter – just that grin of his, smeared with someone else’s blood. He takes a step closer, his boots crunching over the snow.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you mutter, turning away. “I mean it. It’s not romantic to drink from something dead.”

He’s behind you before you can finish the thought, his hands curling over your shoulders in a way that makes your skin crawl – and not because you don’t like it. You hate that you do. That you want him to hold you tighter, to crush you in that terrible grip of his.

“I mean, maybe it’s fitting,” you continue. “You’re a demon. I’m a vampire. We’re both monsters. But even monsters deserve something better than this, don’t you think?”

Art spins you around in one fluid movement, his hands dropping to your arms to hold you in place. You can feel the press of his fingers through your clothing, too strong, too insistent, but you don’t pull away. He’s tilting his head again, his grin growing impossibly wider, like he’s daring you to keep talking.

“You don’t believe me,” you say softly.

He shakes his head, slow and deliberate. Then, quick as a flash, his hand moves to his chest, dragging his fingers down like he’s unzipping it, miming something pulling at his heart.

You swallow hard. “You’re just saying that.”

He glares at you, his grin faltering for the first time. It’s subtle, just the faintest twitch at the corners of his mouth, but it’s enough to make your breath catch.

“Okay, okay,” you say quickly, raising your hands in surrender. “You love me. I get it. You don’t have to be so dramatic about it.”

He doesn’t let go. Instead, he leans in closer, his face inches from yours. You can smell the copper tang of blood on him, can see the splatters drying on his skin.

Maybe he doesn’t care what’s wrong with you, doesn’t care if your blood tastes like poison, if your body is too far gone to be anything worth having. He just loves you.

[st3lla-lun4]

this is def one of my favorite scenes in FAITH chapter 3 because of the horrific implications of it.

for some context, shortly before this scene we see john get poked with a needle held by gary (the big bad of the entire game). john presumably goes unconscious for a few moments, and when he wakes up and we walk him to the next screen (which is ominously marked by a trail of blood), we are greeted with what can only be described as a massacre. blood is everywhere, with the seemingly torn apart bodies of many cultists (the pink guys) strewn about. as an added bonus, when you approach one of the cultists, they straight-up beg john not to hurt them.

it is established in the game that john is very weak. if he gets touched by ANYTHING its a one-hit k.o. straight into a MORTIS. the only thing john has to defend himself is his signature cross. all of this is already terrifying in and of itself, but my god THIS SCENE???????

its one of those moments that only has its true horror revealed when you REALLY think about it. john, father john thomas ward; a man riddled with guilt, and now carrying the fate of the entire world on his shoulders, mild-mannered and non-confrontational, frail and meek and delicate like the petals of a lily; he did this. he single-handedly butchered maybe nine cultists with nothing but his bare hands. he is the one who covered this room wall to wall in their blood and broken bodies.

dear god imagine how john must have felt upon realizing this. that he, a simple child of man is the cause of all this carnage. was he even human when he did all of this? no, he HAD to have been some sort of demon when he did all of this. but maybe deep down he knows that the demon has always been inside him. scratching, clawing, yearning to break free. and all it took was a damned needle to force it out of him.

maybe in that moment he thought he was doing the right thing. these cultists have done nothing but lie and manipulate and murder to get what they want, they were too far gone for salvation. maybe some people deserve to die. maybe this is the only way these sick bastards can repent for all the horrible things they've done.

what does john think of himself when he looks down at his hands, drenched in blood. does he see himself as man or monster?

[mintmatcha]

MONSTER FUCKING

Fandom: Dungeons and Dragons

The night continues with Obsidian.

cw: cisfem reader, feminine nicknames, female receiving oral, OC x reader, monster fucking, a TINY BIT OF DUBCON, overstimulation

PART TWO OF TWO (Part one: here)

a/n: again, big thanks to @saetyrn9 and @tyga-lily <3

He doesn’t return until the fire is burnt low, nothing but embers. His figure is nothing but a silhouette against the hall light as he creeps, doing his best to move silently around the room. His dirty clothes are replaced by the sheerest of shirts and pants, thin enough that even in the low light you can see how his scales shimmer in hue, purple and green where the firelight touches. Every now and again he throws a glance towards you, tucked neatly on your side of the bed, and then sighs, low and forlorn. 

It feels wrong to watch him while he thinks you’re asleep. Even alone, he makes his movements so small, crouching to take up little space as he fiddles about, oiling his scales and the other mundane things he has to do before sleep. It hits you that he might be insecure about the space he takes up.

The world is not kind. It is tragedies and maladies, injustice and inhumanities. Tensions are always simmering under the surface, chaos always threatening to boil over. Horrible, awful things plague this world and not a single person is left untouched or unchanged.

Through all of that, Obsidian somehow remained gentle. That’s what you admire most of him- the softness he carries himself with. There’s a bitter edge that clings to you, a callus that won’t come off of your palms. He treats you well anyway, despite it all.

“You never got to ask your questions,” you say, voice only just louder than the last licks of fire.

Obi starts at the sound of your voice, then his shoulders soften. He drags himself to the edge of the bed, hands folded politely in front of him like a scolded child. He smells faintly of lemon and soap: soft, sour, and refreshing.

“Why are you still awake?” he whispers, affection honey sweet in his tone. He reaches to grab your ankle, then hesitates before dropping back to his side. “My curiosities can wait for another day.”

The night air is cool against your cheeks and the sheets are not thick enough. Obi, in all his emotional and physical warmth, is just out of reach. When you extend an arm for him, he doesn't meet you at first, hemming about like a child. It’s goofy, for such a grown man to seem so shy- you have to bite your lip to hold your smile back.  

Instead of waiting for him, you peel back the sheets and crawl to him. It’s impolite and unladylike, but it earns you a smile from him and an outstretched hand. This time, he doesn’t pull away when your fingers loop with his, instead closing tight.

“I’m sorry Kiri said all that.” 

“You don’t have to apologize for her behavior,” he says, eyes never leaving the spot he’s chosen at the end of the bed,  “I heard how you… scolded her.”

The innkeeper had threatened to kick you all out after the way you berated the poor girl, screaming in the hallway in just your nightgown, but the elf had deserved it. She’s barely older than a teenager in elf years, you remind yourself, but that isn’t an excuse for bad behavior.

Tomorrow, when the sun is up and emotions aren’t high, you’re sure the group will discuss it all, but for tonight, you want to tend to Obi’s wounds.

“Was I too harsh?” You trail a thumb across the back of his hand. Knees on the mattress, he’s still much taller than you, able to rest his chin on your head if he wanted. 

“Too harsh? No,” The hint of amusement you’ve come to love is back in his voice, “Too loud? Debatable.” 

Imitating you, he drags his thumb back and forth in comfort, the rounded nail grazing against your skin. Finally, he meets your eye, the green piercing even in the night. The feeling of want is thick, slowing every breath as if your ribs are stuffed with molasses, and all you can think is that you hope he feels this too-- hope he wants this too.“I appreciate you standing up for my honor.”

“Always,” you say. A heat drips into your core as you realize his claws are trimmed and rounded-- just for you.  “Anything for you.”

You rest a hand against his chest and wait in the silence, savoring the luxuriant feelings that fills your throat: want and need and desire and greed and contentment and bliss-- all a muddle you can’t swallow again, filling you, but also leaving you with a hunger that can’t be sated.

“You should rest,” he says as he slides his arms around you, grabbing handfuls of cloth. 

“Ask your questions first.”

Verdant eyes flicker down, marked by his chittering. It’s like a purr, you realize-- a sound of pure contentment. Feline is the way he moves, elegant and fluid.

“Does it really feel good-” His knuckle drags down your chest and hints over the apex of your breast, “When these are touched?”

He hesitates there, a breath away from you, wondering, hoping. The air crackles a bit wilder with magic for a moment- a response to his excitement.

“Obi,” You loop a finger under the strap of your nightgown and guide it off of your shoulder, pushing the neckline dangerously low. “Do you like my tits?”

“You should know that it’s very cheeky to answer my question with a question,” he leans forward and bumps his head against yours, nuzzling ever so slightly The ridges and tiny horns ruffle your hair and all you can do is giggle and squirm into it, bumping your noses together. His touch has wandered dangerously low, cupping under your ass and lifting you into him. 

Then, he sobers, voice lower than ever.

 “Yes.” He takes the satin edge between his fingers and delicately, carefully, lovingly moves the other strap down the other shoulder, guiding it until your breasts fall free. Obi swallows thickly, then runs his tongue across the upper ridge of his teeth as he takes in everything about you. “I like them very much.”

His nose is textured against your skin, grooved yet smooth against your clavicle. Each breath is released so slowly that it blooms with heat, crawling across your chest as he moves down, loving every inch above your breasts. The journey is marked with kisses and nips, the lightest touch of his teeth. The way he reveres the boring parts of you makes your heart flitter and, by the time he’s sucking a bruise into the fat of your tit, your body is trembling for him too.

“I didn’t realize they were so…” Teeth sink into your tit, testing the give. The other is cupped by his wide palm, lifting it into the side of his muzzle.  “Malleable.”

When he opens his jaw again, wider this time, it’s marked with the click and suck of wet. Strands of spit string together for a fleeting moment, following his panting tongue.

Oh, he’s no longer feline. He’s closer to a dog, feral and drooling for you.

The rough edge of his tongue dragging against your nipple rips a gasp from you, but it only serves as a siren’s call. His body presses into yours, folding your legs back and forcing you back into the down of the bed. The sheets crunch under you as you’re moved by the force of the way he indulges. You should scold him or warn him of the way you’ll bruise in the morning, but a heat consumes every aspect of you, robbing you of any thought. The scorch of his mouth, the delicious drip of spit trickling down your ribcage, the ambient heat that’s simply him- it all ignites that pulling, twist, blazing heat in your core, a fever you can’t sweat out.

Obi pulls away just enough to look at you through slitted eyes.

“My fawn,”  he purrs, “Now you are being too loud.”

His hand grips your side hard enough that even the trimmed edge aches.

“People are going to hear you,” he continues,  tongue dragging down the sweat touched valley between your breasts, “They’re going to know you’re being bedded by some beast." 

That makes your stomach flip, then flip again, tying your insides into a sickly knot. Your hands find the ridge of his horns on their own. Their length is surprisingly long for his age, more than enough for you to tug and stop his descent.  Obi glances up at you, giving you the reprieve you need. Both of you lay there, breathing in sync.

"Don’t say things like that," you say once you've caught yourself, "I don't like that. You're not…"

Lemon oil, mixed with the pressing of some sort of shrub nut- that's what he oils his scales with. It makes his skin so soft and makes the air always marked with him. 

"You're not some beast." You rub a thumb down the ridges of his horn, "You're my prince."

 The words feel so corny coming out of your mouth. You're no wordsmith, unlike him, but you can see the statement physically hit. At first, he just slightly draws back, then his eyes go wide before becoming intensely soft. Then, he curls in, tucked his chin and resting his forehead against your collarbone.

"Oh," he says, voice on the brink of laughter, "Oh, my fawn, my princess--"

He squeezes your hips again. "You're going to shatter my heart one day, aren't you?" 

Before you can respond, he's kissing you for real. It's different from anything else you've experienced with humans and elves; his mouth is different, firm lips unable to fully pucker. The feeling is strange, with too much teeth and pressure,but so, so, welcome.

Obi must enjoy it too; he shifts and writhes, finding his place between your awaiting thighs. You can feel how he grinds into the mattress, strokes long and slow and rough, searching for any sort of pressure. You want to touch him again-- no, need to. You need to see his cock for real this time, coax it out of his body for you to ride. 

Another tug on his horns pauses him. 

"Stop, just for a second," you say. He obeys, pulling back fully, and you untangle yourself from him. 

"Are you alright?"  Obi says, a tad dejected, "We can stop-"

You wriggle out of your slip and clumsily push it to the foot of the bed with your feet. A sliver of doubt wrangles its way into your thoughts; even in the dim, you're sure he can see your body and all its imperfections, the scars, the marks, the bits you simply don't like: does he know what to expect? Does he even know what humans look like naked? 

The room is cold without the fire going. You have to remind yourself who the man is on top of you. It’s not some stranger-- it’s Obi. Your Obsidian. A friend, a confidant, a brother in arms, and the kindest soul you’ve even met. It strikes you then that maybe you have feelings for him outside of all of those definitions, something closer to love than simple lust.

"I haven't shaved in a while, I'm sorry-" 

"You have the body of a nymph," Obi blurts out, voice high with surprise, "You're exquisite."

His pupils are fully round, engulfing almost all of the iris as he soaks in the sight of you. 

"Human's do not like this?" He leans down, head just below your belly button, examining when your body meets your cunt. His fingers run through your pubes, "But it's so…"

Mid-sentence he halts, mouth parted just enough that you can catch the jagged edge of his fangs. He swallows deep breaths, sucking more and more until his chest is puffed against yours. Strong, forceful hands loop under your knees and cram your legs apart. You squeal and kick, giddy in your embarrassment and barely able to contain your laughter.

"Oh, you smell so good," he exhales each word, only inches from your cunt. He’s pressing into you, almost folding you in half so he can creep into the bed with you. "That's your quim? That's what you've been hiding?"

He traces two fingers up the clef, admiring it even closer than ever. The rumble in his chest, the purring, is so grand that it shakes your thighs. Like this, strung up and spread apart, you feel so exposed, so vulnerable. You muster up even more embarrassment when fingers part your lips and his steamed breath tickles your most inner parts. 

“Don’t look so closely!” you scold, but he doesn’t listen.

"Humans get so wet." You try to close your knees on instinct, but the mass of his body stops you, "Is this usual? Do you always?"

"Only when-- a-aa-ah-"

You find out that he was not looking for an actual answer. Obi takes you by the hips and drags you down into his muzzle, wasting no item before dragging that damned tongue across the entirety of you. He's eager and unaimed, licking and sucking and drooling across every inch of you except where you want him. The crest of his brow digs into the puff of your mound, blocking you from reaching down and playing with your clit yourself. 

The want, the need-- it's dizzying. Words fail you every time you try to speak, your comprehensibility robbed by the hiccupped whines Obi is pulling from you. Teetering on this edge is deliciously painful, but you're already losing patience.

 Frustrated, you grind your hips down and Obi's nose bumps against your clit. The pressure makes your body sing, so you do it again and again, claiming your pleasure on your terms. A laugh rumbles through your skin as Obi chuckles and obliges, lapping at exactly where you need him too. 

Heat sears through you as you cum: hard. It's almost a surprise, boiling over when you least expect it. It’s a flex and release of your muscles, a quick, simple thing that gives you just enough release. It’s nothing life changing, but it’s better than what you get with most men.

You breathe and wait for Obi to move or comment, but he's still, waiting for you to pick up your pieces. 

"That was nice." You say after a bit, "Now, why don’t you come here and let me ride you?"

Whe he doesn’t respond, you sit up slightly, only to be caught. A hand presses down on your stomach and locks you in place against the mattress. Dark eyes glance up at you, narrowed. 

 "Stay still," he says, voice rougher than ever, "I can do better than simply 'nice.'"

Immediately, you regret teaching Obi where you liked to be licked. He abuses that knowledge, focusing on your poor, overstimulated clit until you're nothing but whimpers. Your brain cant think when he's touching you; all you can do is whine. Reaching and grasping for hair that isn't there, your nails run across his scales head and find no purchase.

Then, your own head is tapped by… something. You screw back and realize he's ran you into the fucking wall; you have to extend both hands to stop yourself from being crumpled even further. 

"Shit, shit, shit, shit--" This one's going to be big. You can feel it rolling in, coming like a wave.

Two thick fingers press inside you. If you weren't impossibly slick, the stretch would ache, but there's no friction left to resist the intrusion. He explores a bit, pumping and curling and-- there. That's all you need to tumble again, falling and falling and falling-

Until the drop hits. 

You're left boneless. There's no resistance in your body as he adjusts you again, throwing your knees over his shoulders-

"Obsidian, no," You drum your heels against his back,  "No, no, no, no, I can't take another--"

A deep, rolling growl fills the room as he squeezes tighter, locking you together as his long, firm tongue presses inside of you. You realize he’s speaking an unfamiliar tongue-- Draconic, most likely. It’s sultry tones and clicked vowels, rolling deep and slow into one long slurred sound. Maybe he’s scolding you, maybe it’s praise: you don’t care. He holds you like he owns you-- like he controls you, and you find that you like that.

“Please, please, please, just fuck me already-” You find yourself blabbering, “Need you, need it, just-- oh, Gods and Stars-- Please fuck me, please--” 

You clutch on to the mattress and hope the world stops spinning. “On me--- in me, just-- Gods, fucking cum already-”

“No,” Common slips from his mouth,  “Not yet.”

The night is a blur after that. There’s no possible way to count how many times you cum; they all roll into one in your mind, an unstable peak. He’s everywhere, he’s everything. You always imagined him as a patient lover, but you’re quickly proved wrong. He’s mean and demanding, drawing everything from you until the ache in between your ribs grows unbearable.  Slick runs from your thighs to your knees, ruining the cotton beneath you both. The unbearable sounds of wet fill the room, marked by your occasional protests.

You hate him, you think. Maybe you love him. You can’t tell when your brain is absolutely swimming in dopamine. 

“‘m gonna pass out,”  you whine, weakly batting a hand against his forehead. The dragonborn pulls away with a dot of a kiss, finally listening.

“Then do, fawn.” Obi’s chest and face shine with a mixture of your excitement and his spit, “Sleep. That doesn’t bother me.”

With that, he spreads you open again. You eventually do drift off, too overstimulated and absolutely fucked to even keep your eyes open. There has to be something to it. The taste? The smell? Dragonborns are more sensitive to pheromones, you think. Maybe he's high off of you?

No, it’s too focused to be solely for him; it must be for your pleasure. He must get some sort of sick fucking satisfaction from unraveling you down to your very core and then continuing. You feel unwound, a ball of yarn left to uncoil and flounder in the breeze

In the moments of twilight between sleeps, you manage to catch him moving, legs positioned around your rib cage as he whines, voice tight when he speaks. It’s mumbled nothings, ripping through his broken voice. Draconic seems to be paced so much slower than Common, each word rolling carefully slow off of his tongue.

Exhaustion sits so heavy that you can't keep your eyes focused.  You have to keep one eye closed to even get a glimpse of what he's-

Oh. 

Oh. 

Above you, inches away from your face, Obsidian Vyke fists his cock. Contrary to what he said, his body is not very similar to a humans. All of the important parts are there, of course, but the shape is much, much bigger, with a tapered end and ridges running down the bottom. It's an ashen purple, the same color as his skin under his scales, and his balls are a bit darker, hairless and slick with his precum. The head pulses every couple of strokes and you know he's dangerously close to cumming himself.

You want that. You’ve been begging for it this entire night and it’s there, inches from your face. That needs to be inside me, you think, but your poor pussy is twitching and raw from all the attention. 

You settle for the next best thing. 

With all the effort you can muster, you prop yourself up ever so slightly. You stick up your tongue and the pillow of his cock presses against it.  It only takes a couple of kitten licks for him to spill; he crumbles into a whine and your mouth is suddenly painted with thick, potent seed.

It’s… different from other spend you’ve had the displeasure of tasting. Less astringent, more… you’re not sure. When your ex husband used your mouth, you always winced at the taste, but now you close your mouth and suck. His cock doesn’t stop kicking, dribbling more than a man could ever dream of producing. It’s hot enough that you flinch with it touches the back of your throat, but you don’t stop swallowing, draining it down as fast as you can.

The taste was enjoyable, you realize. You liked that, as if you were a common whore. Before any sort of shame can set in, Obi scrambles away, cooing and stroking the side of your face with his usual warmth.

“Oh, sweet fawn, you didn’t have to,” he says, “Let me get you something to spit that into.” 

You shake your head and open your mouth again, tongue extended to show him it’s already gone. 

"Little minx." Obi speaks with a wild amount of warmth and you bathe in it, letting your eyes close again. "Beautiful, dirty thing.”

There’s no way you’re beautiful now, with your makeup smeared and your hair ruined, but you choose to believe him. The swipe of a tongue against your cheek, comforting, not erotic, elicits a giggle from you. Gods, it hurts to even laugh.

“You’re dripping in sweat. I’m going to steal a towel to clean you up with, alright?” Obi pauses, presumably waiting for your approval, before hurrying about. You can make out the slip of fabric being pulled up, the creak of floorboards, the-

Sleep overtakes you.

The sun is much, much higher than you’d like it to be when you awake. The town is in full force, boys screaming the news, merchants peddling their wares, but you can’t seem to find the energy to join them. Not when the bed is so warm and welcome.

Obi is gone. He’s always been an early riser, so that doesn’t bother you much. Besides, you aren’t sure you want him seeing you like this, knock-kneed and drained as you try to gather yourself together. Down there is unbearably slick still, even after all the time that's passed, and that fills you with a sick excitement. 

It’s not until after your bath that you feel remotely human again. The glitter and lust of last night begins to fade as you strap yourself into your clothes, but a relaxed giddiness still hangs on.

By the time you meander downstairs, the inn is busy serving lunch. The air is tinged with salt and spices-- the familiar kind you haven’t smelt in ages, let alone tasted. Familiar faces are crowded into one of the smaller booths, Obsidian’s comically large shoulders bumping against his two elf companion’s. Tensions have clearly calmed since last night. The elf is busy spooning bits of vegetables out of her stew and plopping them into the dragonborn’s.

“You must take my carrots. I know how you like them,” she demands, “And I’ll have your rabbit, since you don’t eat meat. Does that sound good to you, sorcerer?”

Obsidian is already obliging, cornering the bits he doesn’t want out of the bowl. “If that’s what you want.” 

"You'll take this bread too. I grabbed an extra for you."

"Oi, you didn't grab any extra for me."

"The Sorcerer probably weighs fifty times what you do, he needs more."

Obsidian pats his stomach with concern. "Fifty times?"

“She awakes!”  Tig, Kiri’s lover, croons, head in their hands as they notice you. They are just as lean and beautiful as Kiri is, but painted much, much fairer. “We feared you dead, Rogue!”

“Aye, both of you act as if I would leave her rotting,” Obi bemoans. Both elves turn to the poor man and coo, patting his shoulder comfortingly. Your speech clearly had some effect on the group and that deepens your giddy feeling.

“Did you bathe again?”  Kiri hands her bread over to the dragonborn as promised, “I thought you had done so last night.”

You glance over at your… lover? Friend? You aren’t sure. He watches back, brow quirked, waiting for you to lead this dance.

“Just taking advantage of the water,” You reply as evenly as you can, taking the empty seat. Your relationship news to be figured out before you make it public knowledge, especially since your last relationship ended with such…

The dragonborn slides a roll across the table with a crinkle of his eyes, sparing you a train of thought you’re not emotionally ready for. It steams as you rip into it and cram it into your mouth. Hunger suddenly rips through your body and you perk up, searching for the source of this stew.

“Did you sleep well?” Tig asks between mouthfuls. They aren’t as proper as Kiri; they spread their legs wide and take up as much space as they can, holding their utensils like a shovel. If they weren’t so ethereal and genderless, you’d think that they were a half elf.

“Hopefully I didn’t keep you up,” Obi says, offhandedly, “I’d hate to think I kept you awake.”

Oh, that rascal.  His nose scrunches as he tries not to laugh.

“You bothered me a bit,” you reply, equally placid, “But I don’t mind.”

“What a shame.” He takes a spoonful of the meal and chews it thoughtfully. Then, he pauses, pressing two fingers into the crook of his jaw. “I must have slept strangely because I woke with this awful ache in my jaw-”

A swift kick to the shin silences him.

[flippinpancakes64]

cullens reacting to reader being distant

Cullens with a distant S/O

Thank you for requesting and I hope you like it!

I plan on opening my requests soon so please bear with me everyone, I'm almost through with what I have in my inbox

And sorry I got a little carried away on some of these.... I love you Jasper <3

Edward:

He would know why you were acting this way

Whether it is because you're upset with him, upset with someone else, upset in general, or maybe feeling sick

That doesn't change the fact that he is still concerned

The good part about reading minds is that he knows what people are thinking

Unfortunately it doesn't help him when he needs to actually say something to someone

He has a brief moment of self hatred

He still thinks he's a monster

And if you're pulling away from him for whatever reason then it must be because you think he is one too

But then he just thinks back to the actual reason why you're upset and calms himself down

If you're upset at him about something he did, he is working on fixing it immediately

But I feel like he wouldn't be too good with words

Like he would give you a bunch of gifts and hope that helps

You're gonna have to be the one to sit him down if you wanna talk through it

Now if you're just upset in general he also wouldn't know what to do

He would bring you stuff again like your favorite food, a new outfit (picked out by Alice), or anything else he knows you like

Or if you're feeling sick he'll start taking care of you immediately

(Unashamed plug to my other story about reader being sick 😼 )

Whatever the case is, he is not going to let this blow over naturally

As soon as you start pulling away from him or acting distant he is trying his best to fix it

He has a bit of an obsessive attachment style...

Alice:

She was out running some errands with Esme when she gets a flash into the future of you pulling away from one of her kisses

She immediately drops whatever she was holding and she is on her way

She plays stupid when she gets back home to you

Acting like how she normally would to see if her vision was right

And when it is right, her mind starts going a mile a minute

She didn't get any predictions before this about anything that happened to or with you

She is confused

And hurt

But she will also not let this linger

She wants to get to the bottom of the problem right now

So she sits down wherever you are and just straight up asks what's wrong

And she's not going to leave until you tell her

She may have eternity with you

But she doesn't want to spend a single moment of that apart

If you are avoiding her because of something she did, she would prefer that you just say what it is

She doesn't need sugarcoating

And she will fix it

It doesn't matter what it is

She's very receptive to criticism

For, like, the next week or so she is all yours

You want to do something that she has expressed no desire to do before? Get ready she already has the car packed

She might even let you pick your own outfits if it will make you feel better

She will not leave you alone, though

Another one who is just a touch clingy

Jasper:

Oh don't hurt me

The moment you pull away from his touch or from one of his kisses, his mind immediately starts to assume the worst

You realized how much of a monster he is, you decided you didn't want to look past all of his scars, he isn't making enough progress with being a "vegetarian", you found someone better, you realized you deserve better

Ouch

He leaves you alone immediately

And leaves the house

And maybe the state

And maybe the country

But more than likely he just goes and sits in the woods far away from the house

If he could cry he would

If you're a human, this hits him especially hard

He has been working so hard to be safe and cautious around you, challenging himself every day because he wants to be better for you

But there was always a voice in the back of his head that was saying he would never be enough

And now he feels like it's right

You are going to have to be the one to go get him

If the problem you had was with him, sorry you're gonna have to be the one to make amends

Whatever the problem is that you have with him, big or small, he is changing it immediately

Like I'm telling you if you told this man that you think he's too tall or smthn he is going to Carlisle and asking for his spinal vertebrae to be compressed

If it's just a different problem that you have he is so relieved

Like again he would cry if he could

But out of relief this time

He would pull the moon out of sky and force the sun to stay up longer if you said you didn't have enough time in a day

Rosalie:

Instant flashbacks

Seeing you pull away from her, turn over in the bed while cuddling, give her only a light peck instead of a full kiss

It reminds her of how she was with her old fiance

She didn't truly love him, and he didn't truly love her

She shied away from him, and he never really initiated

Seeing this in you reminded her of herself

And that is not something she wanted to see

She mostly leaves you alone about it

Of course she still tries everything she can

But the more you pull away, the more she stops trying

She doesn't want you to pull away or for your love to end

But tbh she's at a loss for what to do

She has no clue what to do in this situation

About a week passes and it gets to the point where you're hardly talking to her, fully turned away on your side of the bed, not walking with her at school

The final straw that makes her talk to you is when she sees the necklace she got you that you never take off sitting on the bathroom counter

She isn't gentle when she confronts you, she literally walks up to you and goes "what's the problem?"

Very blunt, but effective

She won't let up on it until you tell her what's bothering you

If it's something small that she did, she starts laughing

Like if you say something like "You were talking to Emmett last week more than me" then I'm sorry but she starts giggling

But if it's like an actual problem she gets so serious and vows to change her ways

Emmett:

He's not stupid

The moment he did something wrong, he sees the look on your face, even if it's only for a brief second

So when you pull away from him later, he knows exactly what happened

And he stops it right there

He explains that he knew what he did was wrong the moment he did it

And that he's sorry and will never do it again

And he doesn't do it again

That's what happens 9 times out of 10

But if you catch him off guard?

Okay yeah he is a little stupid

If you start pulling away and acting distant he immediately starts to rack his brain for things that he could have done

If he finds nothing, he is truly at a loss

He lets it fester for a bit, hoping that you'll come to him when you're ready to talk

But he only really gives it like three days max

And then he just goes up to you like

"... So.... uh.... everything okay?"

If it's something he did he curses himself for not thinking of that

And if it's something else that he could have helped with he curses himself for leaving you alone for so long

Either way he makes up for it :)

Esme:

Another one who notices immediately

And gets worried immediately

She is not someone who will let it sit

Like at all

She wants to know what's wrong

If it's something she did she instantly tries to fix it

And she starts apologizing profusely

Like it could literally be something as stupid as her walking on the other side of the pole while you guys were out shopping

And she is on her knees begging for forgiveness

But if it's something else she is on the case to help

If you're pulling away from her because you're stressed with school, work, life in general, literally anything she is now taking at least half of that load

If you work she starts doing your paperwork for you

If it's school she starts doing all of your assignments

It's not like either is hard for her

She will take over responsibilities until you feel like you're ready for them again

And even then she still might keep a couple of them for herself

Carlisle:

He might not notice as quick as some of the others

If you're a human, his schedule is rough on you

He's gone almost the entire time that you're awake

And he gets back super late

So he doesn't find it weird if you refuse one of his hugs or turn away from one of his kisses

He just thinks you're tired

But if this continues for a couple days?

That's when he gets concerned

He takes one of his super rare lunch breaks from the hospital to come home while he knows you're up and awake

If you still act distant then, that's when he knows

And he wastes no time

He's super sweet about it, he starts by asking if you've been more tired recently

But he will pry further if he notices that that's not what it is

If it's something that he did, maybe him being at work so much, he works quickly to fix it

Taking more days off, actually taking his breaks, just being home more in general

If it's something else that he did (*insert whatever scenario here*), he gets upset at himself for not seeing that sooner

He is a caring, compassionate man

And the fact that he did something to hurt you and then completely forgot he did that or didn't consider that it would hurt you

He's disgusted at himself

Name what you want him to do, and it's done

Vampire! Bella:

She's a little clueless

Not as in she doesn't realize that she did something wrong, but moreso that she didn't realize it would hurt as much

She didn't get bothered by too much when she was a human

People making digs at her, people not showing interest in wanting to hang out with her, it didn't really get to her

So her mind doesn't immediately go to that when she sees that you're upset

She's at a loss for what it could be tbh

She doesn't let it go on for too long though

After all she does love you and she does realize that she misses being able to hold and kiss you as much

If it's something she did, she apologizes

Will want to have a talk with you about what you need from her

Like I said she wasn't and isn't as bothered by a lot of things as you might be

And she wants to be on the same page

If it's something else entirely then she will be more than willing to be there for you and comfort you

And help you out if that's what you need

[sunofpandora]

Heyyy so I saw your requests post and I’ve been dying to get this one off my chest, so how about a neteyam x omaticaya! warrior! reader where reader’s a fierce warrior (maybe a protege of one of the higher ups). And we all know Neteyam (the mighty warrior lol) is strong and also one of the best their age, but what if Neteyam had such intense feelings for her that all he wants to do is impress her but whenever she comes around he gets all klutzy and flustered? And of course she finds it funny and cute and all that jazz. Just fluff I NEED FLUFF

P.s. The decision to fulfill this request is yours and I won’t be upset if you decide you don’t want to. As long as you’re comfortable, all’s fine by me.

But yeaaa have a good day/night :)

Authors note:

Hi babes!

So I loved this request so much! So I decided to make my very first actual long series! ‘Virago’ is going to be an original work and one of my first long projects. Unfortunately, I will not have a TON of time to do smaller requests in between chapters but i will def try! I’m very excited for this and i wouldn't have even considered this without the request so thank you so, so much.   

                                     

                                                  V I R A G O                   

Part 1.

The Day the Sky Turned Red.

8.7k words.

𝓭𝓮𝓽𝓪𝓲𝓵𝓼/𝔀𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼/𝓼𝔂𝓷𝓸𝓹𝓼𝓲𝓼/

‘Y/n was made of fire. Oh, a goddess girl with lips of lightning and a caged Phoenx under her skin. Neteyam is just the ashes and remains of the heavens she crushed under her heel.’

When grief plagues the young warrior, Neteyam gives her a gift. But it is enough to console the flames in her heart?

Neteyam and reader having a sun x moon relationship (hello 'diaphanous’ readers <3)

Warnings: Descriptions of death/ parental death/ reader is a war orphan/ as always, spider, the reader, and Lo’ak are a trio/ Lo’ak and Reader being platonic soulmates?/ Spider and Reader being trauma twins/ Neteyam being lovesic/ Neteyam being nervous and shy around reader/ Neytiri being mother/ Jake being the husband i wish i had/ Tuk being a little sister and looking up to y/n/ Mentions of grace’s school.

Mentions of insecurity, blood, war, guns, reader being mommy/

I think that’s it?

Oh right, Reader fell first but neteyam fell WAY harder.

Extra info:

Y/n is one year younger than neteyam, the first part of this chapter is a flashback to when y/n was 15. Kiri, Lo’ak and Tuk are the agesthey are in atwow for the first part of the story. They age up in part 2 (in story)

(Ka’lik is the name of Y/ns father, her mother’s name is Zensira. Both were warriors, but Zensira was the best songstress in the clan. (Ninat go cry to the plant in the corner)) 

Super important note for the request sender:

Hey gorgeous so ik you asked for fluff and don't worry babes. I hear ya loud and clear. Unfortunately the first part of this chapter will be a bit angsty bc the creative juice were flowing and i got carried away but I swear on my grave the rest is nothing but fluff and lovey dovey shenanigans,

Not proofread

☾𖤓✮⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆☾𖤓✮⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

To some, surrender was a comfort. A sanctuary of softly spoken submission.

To Y/n? It was a ‘bitch move’

3 years ago.

Day the sky people returned.

Y/n is 15-16

The Na’vi say, every person is born twice.

That we can redeem ourselves in the eyes of the great mother. 

That being truly evil doesn't mean just craving the pain of others. 

That the life of a single diseased root does not kill the whole tree.

That darkness is deadly, because like the brothers and sisters of bountiful green that dwell in the great mother’s garden, we too need sunlight to grow.

Your mother always told you monsters aren't born from a seed.

They grow when they are deprived of light.

But sometimes, we find solace in even the darkest of places. 

That sometimes there's comfort in the dense night. Where others see hell, you build a home.

Sometimes we thrive in darkness because we feel we do not deserve the glory of sunlight. 

Is it wrong? Is it terrible of you?

To see light where the great mother’s grace and the violence of the sky demons collide?

Things that were not meant to tear the ground of our great mother’s delicate skin.

Their metals and turning wheels, their combat boots and weapons that scream and spit fire.

But did it belong in your hands?

Your father would say, 

“Each person is a thread, weaved within a tapestry that tells a story.”

The thing about stories is that sometimes, they may not always end well, or worse, they end too early. Some people stretch the thread as far as they can, too unsettled to be spread too thin, too soon.

Change is fundamental. Mo’at reminded you “there is no death, only change”

A moral structure that refuses to be severed. You believe that's whats what distincts na’vi from the sky people. Humans are quite flawed creatures. Humans love to dream and dance about stars and rain because their planet refuses to cry for them any longer. Humans dwell with memories that are haunted with light that only exists in the past, lingering behind desire to relive. Humans are afraid of grief, or loss. Of the empty void that lingers behind the shadows. Humans love to selfishly cling to the fantasy they don't live in.

You will never understand why they put themselves through such violent tendencies. To torture themselves. To provide reach towards an unseen daydream just to rip it out of their hands.

Humans remain. Na’vi evolve.

Na’vi find solace within the endless sky. Burning with color, blazing infinite. Na’vi dance on the precipice of the clouds. 

Grief came over like the waves grazing the tide, promising reassurance and return.

Violence was never a necessity. A lingering intrusion of a spark that refused to become a flame. 

But what lies beyond the sky? Was there truly a shadow behind the sun?

When the embers refused to settle.

You found yourself infatuated with open spaces. Abundance found within indecipherable notions.

Cracks in the mountains. Small tears in the tapestry where light leaked through the canopy of the trees.

Nothingness was never a threat.

Not when the promise of warmth remained.

☾𖤓✮⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆☾𖤓✮⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

Y/n met grief when she was only a child.

When she was 15, the RDA returned.

The day the sky turned red was the day the air smelled of sulfur and blood. 

Gray and red were never a pretty combination.

The demon ship’s wings stirred the trees and a storm of dust arise, 

Screaming, everyone running, the distant screeches of ikran and war cries.

The night your parents went out to gather some herbs, and never returned. 

When the pale light of the moon became a blazing, scorching, blanket of blankness that simmered into a forest engulfed in white flames. 

You found your mothers songcord on the ground the next morning.

Her body stained with red.

You stood next to Neteyam at your parent’s funeral.

You watched as Mo’ats hands guided the delicate floating Atokirina to rest upon your mothers chest as she murmured a prayer. 

People have this inherent conception that the hardest part of grief is change.

The loss of warmth in the safest of places, when the shadows loom rather than live. 

In reality, it's this unnamed feeling of a void.

Love is the amplification of a connection. Love distracts. It paralyzes you within its sanctuary of promises.

Grief feels like a shield with a hole blown through the middle. When the connection is shattered, and the sky is no longer protected without the scattered solace of the stars to veil the blank spaces.

Emptiness no longer infatuated you.

The sky without the stars is not a mystery anymore.

Neteyam held your hand. It didn't aid the hollowness within the cup of your palm. Guilt revenues in a realization, that even the great mother’s solace could not soothe this wound. This ache. This pain.

Neytiri’s soft sobs scorch the air with a soreness, the morning mist. Her fingertips, victims of bow strings and arrowhead edges gently brush the flowers placed around your mothers body. 

Neytiri was your mother’s sister. Not biologically. Preservations in our blood don’t always remain unsevered when a bond is born.

Your mother sobbed with her when hometree collapsed. Helped unbraid her hair for her night with Jake. Your mother had saved Neytiri’s life.

All those years ago when the RDA invaded Grace's school. When her body trembled at the sight of sylwanins blood that painted the floor and the walls, your mother walling as she desperately tried to drag Neytiri away.

To have such a bond. The heartbeat of one another emplaced in your bones, to sing a goodbye song with cruel unmeasured melodies. 

Jake held neytiri, gently rubbing circles onto her back, his own grievances had been paid due to earlier. 

Kiri’s tear stained cheeks didnt go unnoticed. She stood close to her father, Tuk’s tiny body squished between them as Kiri sobbed into Jake's shoulder . Kiri had always admired your mother. Chasing her shadow like wisp catching the breeze ever since she was a child. A woman of eywa. A healer. A hunter. Her heartbeat reserved for her home. Her people. Her daughter.

Lo’ak had placed his own tribute to the small spread laid out before the gently laid corpses.

A small carved arrowhead. 

Your father took over your mother’s job when she had other jobs to attend to, as being the one who trained a young group of warriors. Lo’ak included. He was patient with Lo’ak. Never discouraged him. A father liek mentorship had bloomed. So when his time came to join the great mother, Lo’ak contributed his own item of remembrance.

Lo’ak gave his arrowhead.

Tuk gave a small flower.

Kiri gave a small bundle of herbs the omaticaya believed was to aid the departing spirit on their journey.

Neytiri added a few carved beads from an anklet she wore. One your mother, Neytiri and Sylwanin had shared over the years, each of the three contributing beads or small trinkets to the piece.

Jake gave some beads as well. From a necklace your mother helped him make Neytiri when he struggled with the stringing of the oddly-shaped beads back when Jake was training for iknimiya, attempting to woo the young blue-skinned warrior he knew as neytiri.

All the omaticaya came to bear their gifts. Neteyam included, who gave you the gift of his warmth.

He cradled your hand in his, he raised it to his chest when the roots covered your parents bodies. 

You’ve loved Neteyam for many years now. Watching him grow from a boy to a man. 

You grew up next to the sullys. Your heights measured next to theirs as a child. Neteyam, Lo’ak, Kiri, even little tuk had built a circle around you. You were a part of their lives. They were  piece of yours. 

You found him in an irregular-shaped void in your heart that only he could fit in. Nights were filled of him. His voice. His eyes. His hands. The curve of his nose and the coves of his lips. 

His voice was made of tender summers. His eyes were liquid gold.

You saw him. You truly, truly saw him. Not the evascent shell of the perfect warrior or son made of stone. 

You saw him in the bleak day and in the night. When reality rivaled your thoughts of him, when the warmth of his touch seemed ephemeral, the invisible interstellar you swore was not a figment of your fantasies. You settled yourself from afar. Sullied yourself with stains of shame from the secrets you kept from him. The thousands of words you harbored, right next to the stars you swore you would steal for him.

This unrepeatable pattern became tiring, something you yearned to touch but your hands couldnt reach.

To tug on the silver string that dangled from this disguise he wore. This mask. This ruse of your heart.

He was to find the perfect mate. The perfect woman, A women to be the closest to an eywa incarnate. That wasn’t you. That could never be you.

Perfect with no edges. No uncalled for curves and no outward coves.

So you settled once again with the itching of your palms and the aching of your heart.

He was not yours.

Distance became a familiarity because distance was safe. 

There was a time where the itching in your palmsd for his. Now, his had felt hollow as it held yours now.

Grief was a funny thing.

You stood here, your skin feels more like a shell. Your mirror feels more like a window.

Staring at yourself with pity.

Such a weak thing she is.

Sobbing.

What once was warmth and abundant is now hollow and overcast by anguish.

You start to resonate with the corpses that once rested in your line of sight before the roots of the tree engulfed them.

Why is it that the sunlight denies you shelter?

Why must your whole become hollow? The ashes of what it once was line a new path. 

Is the sun falling? Have the stars collapsed? Will anyone catch them for you?

What is this? This pain? This agony? Why must it overcast your morals? Your rationality of peace? This homage harbors the resdiual of what little warmth is salvaged from this sunset of black. 

You feel the merciless fire in your veins. You want revenge. The cage of a Phoenix becomes an eternity of warmth. 

Even with neteyam at your side, the stars are falling. And the sunlight feels cold.

⋆｡☁︎｡⋆｡ ☾ ｡⋆⋆⋆｡☁︎｡⋆｡ ☾ ｡⋆⋆⋆｡☁︎｡⋆｡ ☾ ｡⋆⋆⋆｡☁︎｡⋆｡ ☾ ｡⋆⋆

Later that evening, the clan settled after Jake announced that his clan had to relocate to the Hallelujah mountains, where everyone would rebuild a stronghold and dwell with the loyal humans. To avoid any more bloodshed, Where the humans couldn't find you.

 You sat in the Sully’s Marui, Neytiri behind you as you sat infront of the fire.

She rebraided your hair. You had mo’at and kiri unbraided for the funeral. Neytiri’s soft humming soothes you a bit, but your hands haven’t ceased their small tremors of shaking.

She gently runs her hands through your locks, placing a few beads on each braid.

Th hut is silent, Neteyam sits in the corner, he hasn’t spoken since after the funeral.

Tuk perches on Jakes lap asleep, Kiri at your side, rubbing your back. Lo’ak sat on the other side of you, resting his head on your shoulder.

“My sweet”

Neytiri’s melodic whisper whisked through the heavy gray.

“We leave in a few days time, at first light for our new home,”

She paused, her thought lingering behind a wall of hesitation, she exchanges a look with Jake, who nods at her, gently taking tuk off his lap for a moment,

“Y/n, hon, with what's occurred..-”

He waved one hand around, flicking his wrist against the air to try and demonstrate some kind of invisible concept.

But you know he was referring to your parents deaths.

“We don’t think you should be alone.” Jake adds. Neteyam nods with his dad’s words, attempting to gain some kind of partaking in this conversation without speaking.

Neytiri rests her hand on your shoulder, making Lo’ak lift his head to peer at you. 

“What are you saying?”

It comes out as a breath, the unveiled remnants of the traumatic experience you had endured still fresh on your still-processing mind.

“Ma yawntu…We want you to stay with us when we settle in our new home. To stay in our home. We can take care of you.”

The warmth of the fire feels pale for a moment. I’ts vulnerability. Its shallow. Yet, Its deep, and dark, and you can’t see the bottom. Your’e left unguarded for a moment. 

“I’ll be fine on my own-“

You pause when you realize how hoarse your voice sounds. you clear your throat, your gaze meeting Jake’s. His eyes soften a you an you can tell its pity. Something you would have considered affection becomes an insult. A weakness.

“I’ll be okay. I’m not helpless. I can provide for myself.”

Jake sighs and shakes his head, his words calm.

“Y/n. I know you are strong. Hell, you’re one of the strongest i know, kid. But This is not something we’re going to let you carry alone, I made-”

He pauses, taking a breath, his head tilting down a bit and his eyes squeezing shut before he raises his head to continue.

“I made a promise. To the people. To the clan. To keep everyone safe. And to your parents, we would look out for you if anything ever happened.”

The lump in your throat is dry as you swallow.

Neytiri kisses your head gently.

“Ma yawntu, we will look after you..we will guide you on this path.”

She gently guides you to look at her bow in the corner.

“My father. He gave me that bow as he laid dying.”

The air becomes thick, even the moonlight seems to freeze with its slow creeping up the wall. 

The only sound is the soft 3-beat melody of Tu’ks soft breathing as she sleeps, but her heavy eyes flutter open now and then as she nuzzles into jakes side.

Neytiri squeezes her hand on your shoulder to keep her voice from breaking, her chest tightening.

“He told me to protect the people.”

The pain in her voice breaks through the cracks in the walls that kept the shadows out, cages that kept the anger in.

“I owed your mother my life. I could not protect Zensira. 

I have let the demons take another from me.”

The red in her voice stained the shadows behind ehr words, the sharp syllables in ‘demons’ evident, Kiri closed her eyes and winced at her mothers words, still holding your hand.

She took a breath and gazed at you.

“But yawntu, i will not let them take you. I will protect you. You have always been one of my own at heart. The skyships will not take that from us.

The familiar sting you felt only a few hours ago returned to your eyes along with the ache in your chest.

Jake nodded.

“We can be stronger together, Y/n. Let us look after you.”

The wisp of shallow aches still burn behind your heart but you nod, silently.

Lo’ak smiles in an attempt to lighten the load.

“Just like old times, sis. We used to have sleepovers all the time, now we get to have them every day.”

Neytiri was about to scold Lo’ak for his bluntness until she heard you chuckle,

Tuk’s big eyes blinked open as her tired voice mumbled.

“Now you can play with me more..and braid my hair..”

She mumbes as she smiles to herself. Jake chuckles and ruffles her short braids.

Kiri squeezes your hand and Neteyam’s gaze hasn’t left you since the beginning of the conversation.

You took a walk that night, creeping around the hammocks of the sleeping sully family as you quietly ventured outside the small camp village.

You stand under a tree, the moonlight leaks through the canopy as you start to count the stars. You wondered how the sky and the heavens could still be standing when your whole world had collapsed around you just earlier that day.

When you were small your mother would tell you not to pull on the loose thread of her tapestries she wove. Because the more you pull, the faster it will fall apart.

Thats how you felt. One loose string being mercilessly tugged and then all the colors were fading away, you chased them, you chased them along with the falling stars but no one caught them for you.

Your heart has been thieved. Your light has been stolen.

Sin and soul seem to have a war under your skin, and the soft lllabies of the creatures of your planet seem to have more of a shriek-like quality.

Why did the colors go away? 

Did they chase you to the place i cannot follow when you went away?

“Y/n.”

You jump slightly, the chill in the pale air becoming a prick of awarness as you reach for the knife on your hip, turning around quikcly.

Neteyam stands before you, his wooded-honeyed scent fills your nose, you blink as a breath of his name leaves your lips.

“Neteyam-

Oh Neteyam you scared me, you asshole.”

Usually he would have laughed. But not today, not with the shadow that looms.

He gently touches your arm.

“I’m sorry, truly-

What are you doing awake? Are you hurt? Are you in pain? Did something-

Did someone-”

You laugh at him. But its bitter and its thin. Its forced.

“For eywas sake why does everyone think i am the weak link suddenly-

I am fine. Stop looking at me like i am wounded-”

Neteyam cuts you off.

“Y/n, i would never think such a thing about you, ever. You know this. I want you safe, you can’t expect me not to be concerned when you wonder off in the middle of the night, syulang”

The nickname from whe you were children is a warm familiarity at the least.

You huff and lean against the tree bark.

“I just needed air.”

Its small and muttered.

A shaky breath left your lips.

“I’m trying to find ways to endure my own thoughts.”

Neteyams eyes soften as he steps forward, he gently takes a place y beside you, back against the tree as he stands next to you. Your hand brushes his, but your fingers refuse to interlace.

The two of you stared up at the stars for a moment.

“Teyam?

“Yes?”

“Do you think it’s ungrateful to feel as if you have nothing, even when others orrond you with love and promises?”  

“I’m not sure I follow…”

“Is it wrong to feel alone when your in the arms of others?”

As it falls into place for neteyam, he gazes at you as if you were a mystery in the moonlight.

He tries to see past your walls, to place himself in your shadow.

 He glances at you, then back up at the sky.

“No. It’s not ungrateful. I think we’re all born with some sort of circle around us.”

You pause for a moment, looking over at him.

“A circle?”

He nods.

“A circle. The people we love and care for? the people we would do anything for? The people who make our home, they all belong inside our circle.

My father, my mother, Lo’ak, Tuk, Kiri, they're all a part of my circle.”

He pauses for a moment, his tail swishing behind him.

“And…you are too. You’re apart of my circle, Y/n.”

You gaze at him and he withers under your eyes, averting his eyes and fidgeting with his necklace.

After a moment, he speaks again.

“I can’t imagine loosing people in that circle…things must become so…empty. As if the world seems too small all of the sudden.

So no, it’s not selfish to feel alone when that circle is gone.”

His words spark comfort. The hollowness within your palm seems less heavy.

“Thank you.”

You whisper, and he nods at you.

“You don’t have to be alone, y/n. My family…when they spoke to you tonight about staying with us when we travel to the mountains, it was not because there’s a need to replace what you once had. Y/n, we want you to embrace this new circle-“

“What if I’m not ready to find a new circle?”

The vehement tone you were bearning stunned neteyam for a moment.

“Your mother was right. The sky people will take, and they will kill, and they will hunt, until everything under the sky of pandora is either dead or theirs..”

Your eyes hardened for a moment and Neteyam was still as he took in your words.

You look up at the moon once more; taking a breath.

“I do not wish to fear them anymore, Neteyam.

I want them to be the ones who fear us.”

There was a new found devotion in your heart.

A bitter song of  fire and desolation.

Vengeance.

Each note a new mockery of blood and ash. Every chorus an unfamiliar revelry of hunger.

That night, under the fallen stars and the cold moonlight, the inextinguishable plotted purpose was born within you.

Neteyam sighed; his gaze fitting back to the moon.

“And so you will..”

No. 

Don’t. 

I don’t want to loose you in the fire.

But he didn’t dare speak it aloud.

After a moment, he spoke again.

“I have something for you.”

He felt his heart flutter when your eyes met his.

He reached into the pocket of his loincloth.

“It was a gift I planned on giving during the ceremony.”

You felt twitch of anguish as you recalled the memory.

“You already contributed your gift..you gave that armband my father taught you how to weave.”

He gave you a tender look. The kind whispered in the solace of summer and soft secrets.

“It is for you. Not for your loss.”

His words unclouded a new warmth in your chest.

For a moment, your anger ceased to simmer.

“I made this, for you a long while ago..but I never found the right time to give it to you.

Then..the incident happened and I knew it wasn’t a good time..I was planning on giving it to you on this day..but the plans changed.”

He opened his palm to reveal a small carved wooden spiral, polished and smooth. 3 strings with little charming dangling.

The first charm was 2 purple colored crystal, the second was a wooden bead that wore a Maude color, with a tree carved on it, the last was a stack of small purple beads with marbled colors.

He placed it gently in the palm of your hand, and you cradled it with such delicacy.

“Oh it’s beautiful…”

Your breath truly caught itself in his trap.

“When we were young your mother made you that necklace out of those crystals and small jeweled beads, the one she found in the river?..you were so happy to wear something so colorful..I remember the purple ones were your favorite. You always placed them so that they were in the middle. I’d thought I’d add them as a small bonus.”

He smiled at the memory.

You hugged him, your cheek pressed against his chest, he was stunned for a moment but hugged you back, you looked up at him and your breath caught for a moment, your faces mere inches apart.

You both Depart slightly and avert your eyes.

“Thank you. It’s lovely, Neteyam.”

You said softly, he nodded and smiled at you.

“The spiral suits you. Even now with this great loss you bear. It’s a connection. Even to those who are no longer with us.”

You smiled at him back, and the two of you started to walk back to the village.

How could you not see it? The spiral. A sign of support? Of friendship? Of trust?

No my dear Y/n.

It was how he felt like his soul was steadily orbiting around you. Thoughts of you never ended.

His circle.

His spiral.

You were the center.

☾𖤓✮⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆☾𖤓✮⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆☾𖤓✮⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 

Years later….(y/n is now 18.)

(her code name is “X” neteyam’s name through comms is canonically ‘pathfinder’)

Jake yipped to Neytiri as she raised her bow and looked over her shoulder.

Her face is adorned with war paint, much like yours. She had painted you for the day. Red, purple, blue, the colors of your ikran worn proudly like a hyde of victory.

“Remember the plan.”

Jake says through his throat comms, his volume fighting the wind. You held your two fingers to the small mic on your neck so you could hear through your earpiece.

“Neytiri and I will strike from above, X, you're my Archer. I want you to hit em’ quick and move out fast. Eagle Eye, pathfinder, you two are spotters. Do not engage in close range, or air combat, understood?”

You heard lo’ak groan through his comm.

“Bro, why does Y/n get to have all the fun!?”

You felt a tinge of pride. Knowing you were Jake’s right hand out in the field. Higher ranked than either of his son’s. A skilled Archer. 

“Because I'm older and I have more fun.”

You quipped back, unable to hide the smile in your voice.

“Ya know what'd be fun? If you were to crash straight into one of those mountains and fall in your cocky as-”

“Both of you! No arguing on the comms!”

You refocused as the smell of ash and metal was fast approaching. YOu and the war party arrive on the scene right on time

You flew up above the train tracks and watched as the vehicle crashed into a collision of smoke and ash on the derailed tracks.  The air scorched to sting your flesh with an uncomfortable heat.

Neytiri let out a ululating sound to signal to you as she flew down to help Jake. Behind you were 3 smaller aircrafts. 

You grabbed your bow from the side saddle, mentally commanding your ikran to dive.

Everyone who witnessed Y/n fight swore the wind under her ikran’s wings were grazed with fire.

She was made of red-ribboned rainstorms in a scarlet blaze of uncharted wind and wildflowers.

For a moment it’s all too real. The encore of your arrows, the satisfying stretch of your bow string, Like the last note before the chorus. You dive down, sliding down the neck of your Ikran ever so slightly as the wind stings your cheeks, the sunlight strong. You draw back, a loud call escaping your throat, and the arrow flies.

Its in a blink of an eye the cockpit window is shattered, the pilot now sporting an arrow of yours through his neck as the metal gray bird ceases it’s flight and collapses in a cloud of smoke and sulfur.

You’d usually be celebrating if two bastards weren't behind you.

You grasp two arrows this time, the long wooden shaft in your clutch as you line them up properly for the next shot. 

The pilots pathetically attempt to surf with the wind beneath you, scattering your duo targets into far off spots.

Thats the thing about humans. They tiptoed on the wind as if it was uneven ground. Na’vi warriors like you danced upon airstorms and harsh rains. A swirling spiral of helix grazes your skin as you feel one of their shots fly past you the heat just missing your ikran,

You soothe him before regaining your position, you mentally make a new command to your ikran.

‘Drop’

In a moment, the settled feeling of security that once shaved your bones seems to wither away.

Your ikran free falls, rolling against the wind that whips and wails. Your chest heaves as you ready your shot, the reverberation from your bowstring sings to your fingers as the two arrows fly, hitting both pilots as your irkan regains a flying position instead of a falling one, all adrift in a fleeting shot.

The aircrafts fall together, crashing against the ground.

The ground team jake had arranged comes into view frm the side forest clearing, all watching in awe as if you were the embodiment of phoenix.

They raised their bows and let out warcalls, you pridefully returned, raising your bow above your head and releasing a war call of your own.

Neteyam watched from afar. His ikran synced with Lo’aks as they circled the scene below, na’vi led by Norm gathering all the weapons they could.

But he couldnt let himself focus on the world below when all he could see was the woman made of exquisite inferno and grace was scorching the sky with her blaze.

Neteyam felt the wind brisk through his braids as he looked up, squinting against the sunlight in hopes to catch another glimpse of you.

The light of day made you seem grazed with gold that brushed the cobalt hues.

He watched as you shot down the aircrafts, he watched you shoot two arrows.

To Neteyam, you were made of fire.

Remnants of moonlight and high-tided sea storms. A hellish radiance and a scarlet soul.

Neteyam remembered the night he saw the flame embed itself in your soul. The night he gifted you that carving that was now a charm that rested tied to the long expanse of your bow.

He hated it. How inconsolable he feared you were, how he feared this new alit flame would burn his touch away from you. Useless was an understatement, of how he felt that night, even the stars above refused to guide him down teh right path.

He knew you were angry.

He was angry too.

He wanted to fight just like you did. His hatred for these sky demons simmered beneath his skin. He was a warrior. He wanted to fight next to you and his father. He was a protector of the people.

He had seen what they had taken from his home, from his parents, his family, from you.

At first, he thought it was jealousy.

The way Jake encrusted you to be his main archer. To shoot down sky ships.

Neteyam? He wasn’t anywhere near the fighting. Not anywhere near you.

He knew his father thought him and Lo’ak were “too important” to be fighting.

Jake was trying to salvage the sons made of stone before the heat of war can melt the rock.

Were you better than him?

Stronger than him?

Why did his father trust you more than he trusted his eldest?

As he watches you now, the archer who had her arrowhead aimed at his heart from day 1.

He knows its love. It must be.

It keeps him awake at night. The devoured feeling that gnaws at his heart. You were the center of his sky in all your celestial glory and he wished he would have gifted you the entire universe but instead he gave you that carved spiral.

He loved you because where other struggled to see in the dark you danced with dusk. You were a paradox. Detached, but focused. Because you somehow made the most dissolute and reckless seem graceful. You were real. Imperfect. Unconfined hunger bordered by each beautiful bruise blemish and scar that covered your skin. 

You haunted him.

“Bro!”

And funny enough, it seems eywa created little brothers for a different kind of haunting.

Neteyams eyes flickered to where Lo’ak circled around him on his ikran.

The cold colors tattered across the ikrans purple and blue skin, trapping the yellow large speckles of shapes of the banshee’s skin.

Lo’ak’s echoes dwindle in the gust of wind, the war paint he wore proudly on either side of his face, Neteyam had watched Y/n paint Lo’ak after his begging back at high camp.

Something about Lo’aks smile in situations like these always found ways to disquiet Neteyam.

His eyebrows hover above his eyes as his fangs bare through his smile.

“Bro! We have got to get down there!”

Neteyam shakes his head, a warning look traces his features.

“No way! Dad will skin us!”

Lo’ak shakes his head, the wind uplifting his braids as he dives.

“C’mon! Don’t be a wuss!”

The flushed first notes of an uncertain heartbeat ablaze neteyam’s mind as he dives as well.

“Shit! Lo’ak! Get back you dumbass!”

Lo’ak dived blow into the musk of what might as well be no man’s land. The air wailed and whipped around him as he hopped off his Ikran. Yanking his kuru from his banshees and running towards the chaos in question.

He looked over his shoulder to see Neteyam following suit. He laughed, waving his hand through the dust and smoke.

“C‘mom bro!”

“Lo’ak!”

“Lo’ak come back!”

Lo’ak faltered momentarily when he saw Norm directing some navi’s into a brigade to gather all the weapons from the train’s supply cart. Swiftly swerving to stay out of the dream walkers sight, he joined the forming crowd where around where Tarsem had just opened a new cart of guns.

“Here boy- take this weapon! Go!”

Lo’ak let put a silly war cry and puffed up his chest,

Neteyam came to a halt.

“Lo’ak, you don’t even know how to use it.”

Lo’ak waved the gun around like it was weightless, handling it like one of Tuk’s toys.

“Nah bro. Dad taught me!”

Neteyam rolled his eyes, done with Lo’aks bullshit.

“I’m sure he did-

Let’s go-“

He grabbed lo’aks bicep but Lo’ak shrugged him off.

“Or maybe I’ll just be like y/n and shoot down some sky demons!”

Above the clouds, you circled the ensuing hustle below. Watching the brigades, monitoring the ground team. Your bow at the ready in its position on your saddle sheath.

And then you saw them.

“Son of a bitch!”

You hissed quietly, swiftily diving down to where the duo of your headache embodied currently argued about something stupid.

Lo’ak smiled as he saw you, but it faded as he watched the shadow of your Ikran (which was larger than the average Ikran, granted)

Loom over the both as you hopped down, glaring at them.

“What are you two shitheads doing here!?”

The feathers on your raid top gently shook in the breeze, a few of your beads clanking together in your braids as you made your descend.

Neteyam seemed to straighten, but his breath seemed to form a blockade for his own voice.

Maybe it was the way the brightly covered beads and feathers of your top accentuated your skin. Or maybe it was the way the fathers in your braids matched your waist beads Kiri had made you.

Maybe it was the way your loincloth seemed a bit more perfect than usual as it hugged your hips.

Maybe it was the way the red, blue, and purple war paint on your face outlined your eyes like wings and shed down your cheeks like tears, sorrowed in starlight for you had just been warrior of the wind.

I guess we’ll never know.

Lo’ak spoke for him.

“We wanted to help! C’mon, we have the ground team to be spotters! They don’t need us! I’ve been practicing the trick you taught me with the bow, just let us fly with you- we promise we’ll-“

You shot Lo’ak down before the words flooded further, the scarlet hues ablazed and begged for nothing but obedience in your voice.

“Kehe! You will do nothing-! Go back to your post. Both of you. Now!”

You swatted Lo’ak with your bow, hissing at him, Neteyam tried to drag Lo’ak away.

“Bro let’s go!-“

The sound of heavy mechanical whirring instilled the heightening of your awareness in the moment, your ears pining back as you saw the larger ship approach.

“Gun ship inbound!”

Jake shouted, you saw neytiri hiss and take off on her Ikran.

“Shit! Run!” You cursed, shoving Lo’ak and Neteyam in the opposite direction and making a break away from the approaching enemy.

As it would seem time was not in your favor, your Ikran had already been spooked away by the blast, Neteyam grabbed your hand before you could run, 

“Come with us, now!

Go-!”

He shoved Lo’ak ahead of him as they ran, Neteyam’s hand clutching yours as you kept pace with the two.

The 3 of you climbed over the derailed debris, Neteyam and you scaling the bright yellow RDA logo train doors,

“Bro come on!” Lo’ak called.

A flash of light invaded your vision, the scorching heat of the blast incircled you.

You feel Neteyam attempt to reach for you, but instead all you feel is a tug on your wrist as your senses start to numb. 

Your airborn for a moment, then your body collides with the uneven ground, the rocky surface below.

You groan, your vision blurring. The embers and ash clash against your skin in the harsh sting of the hot air. 

You winced in pain as the adrenaline started it’s course of abandonment. The aching sensation swallows your body. 

Scarlet etched its way in a jagged scratch on your side. The world seemed to darkn as the scarlet hues slowly faded to black. The sky’s golden and blue game of chance changes its rules as your eyelids become heavy.

Neteyam’s eyes shoot open as his vision readjusts itself clearly.

Lo’ak is above him, shaking him awake. Panic in the half-notes of his jagged breaths.

“Bro!? Bro! C’mon, get up we gotta go!”

Neteyam stands to his feet, groaning, but quickly regaining his senses.

He looked down at his hand to see where something small and beaded made its home in his clutch.

A bracelet?

Your bracelet.

It hit Neteyam like a tidal wave.

“Shit! Y/n-“

Neteyam tried to run past when his body collided with a taller one, Jake stood looming over his son’s, placing one hand on each of their shoulders “Hey! Easy, easy, where’s Y/n?! Are you hurt?!”

Neteyam tried to speak but all it was met with is stuttered breaths and a poor panicked exclamation.

“That way! I meant to grab her arm and I grabbed this instead-

The blast-“

Jake didn’t hesitate as he started running in the direction you were in, Lo’ak seemingly still in shock and Neteyam following his father without missing a beat,

“Stay behind boy! Get your brother out of here!”

“But sir-“

“That’s a direct order!”

Norm, quickly dragged Neteyam and lo’ak away to the sidelines of the forest to make their quick escape.

The sound of a screech flooded your ears, the footseps barely audible over the smoke and wind.

“Y/n! Oh child, Eywa please no.” 

You reached for your knife with the last ounce of motor control you could muster, before a hand gently lifted you on your back, the sun’s blinding silver line halo of heat scorched your eyes, you hissed and winced in pain.

The hands were familiar, it calmed you rather quickly.

You knew it was neytiri when the blurry shape of gray purple and green, faintly recognizable as her bone collared-top.

You groaned, the raw rushes of pain encased your vision.

“I’m sorry-”

You mumbled.

“Shh. No apologies, my dear girl. Come, we must go. Quickly.”

The last thing you remember is the gently shrill of her Ikran and her hand around your waist was she settled you in front of her on her ikran. The Scarlet hue no painted the wind.

☾𖤓✮⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆☾𖤓✮⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆☾𖤓✮⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 

When you awake, its to the sound of herbs grinding soflty in a boil. The reverberations of the grinding tool against the small wooden bowl make your ears twitch.

Your vision settles. Mo’at sits infornt of the small fire in the tsahiks tent, Tuktirey by her side.

Her big eyes blinking at her grandmother’s handy-work, her much smaller tail swishing to the beat of each sound.

You sat up slowly, with a small wince. But the pain was significantly better.

Tuk gasps

“Y/n! You're alive!”

She wraps her arms around your waist, nuzzling her little head into your chest. You smile at the smaller girls, roughly a few of her braids, kissing the top of her head.

“of course I’m alive, yawntu! It would take a million Sky People to take me out.”

You teasingly mocked the position of an archer, holding a pretend bow and arrow made out of thin air as Tuk laughed.

Mo’at gently cleared her throat, making her way to you as she placed a hand on your shoulder.

“ Child, your wounds were deep, but they shall heal quickly with the salve. Kiri shall be back with more herbs soon. But please rest, simply until the bandages are removed.”

You nodded greatfully, squeezing her hand in a gesture of thank you.

She was the closest thing you would have to a grandmother, even before your parents began their journey with Eywa. You never got to meet your actual grandparents. They died in the attack on hometree. The only memory you had of them was through the clans' stories.

You wore a choker that was strung with river pearls and brown leather, a small navy-blue colored stone in the middle. A treasured piece your grandmother once wore.

Tuk snuggled up to you in the hammock, and you gently rubbed her back.

A soft rustling made your ears perk up when Kiri slipped through the tent flap with a basket of herbs.

“Tsmuke, (sister)

You are awake.”

Her expression softened, as if tensed up since the moment you returned unconscious. It probably was.

She handed the herbs to Mo’at and kneeled at your side, gently brushing a few of your braids away from your face.

“How are you feeling? Better? I used yalna bark when grandmother wasn’t looking. Was it Lo’ak again? It’s always Neteyam getting in trouble and you getting hurt when that sxkwang gets bright ideas-“

You gently stopped her mid rant. Holding her hand gently to your chest.

“I am fine, Kiri. A few scratches and bruises has never done much harm.”

She chuckled softly, standing back to her feet to assist Mo’at with the rest of the preparations for other wounded warriors.

As the hours passed, and the sun started to set, Kiri had to drag Tuktirey off to bed and Mo’at left the tent for the night. Leaving you alone to find sleep.

Mo’at had insisted you sleep in the Tsahik’ s tent tonight. Get some extra rest.

You didn’t argue. It was better than sharing a hammock with Lo’ak. The boy snored more than what you were almost certain was normal.

It was an understatement to say you nearly killed someone when you heard the tent flap rustle. You jumped, instinctly reaching for your knife.

It was well after hours.

Everyone should be asleep.

Who was it? Were you followed when you left the train?

Was it a sky demon? An animal?

You slowly felt your heart steady once again when you saw a small pale figure enter your tent, the small glimmer of his mask dances in the firelight. Lo’ak is behind him, looking less hyper than usual. Instead, a subtle tinge of gray flickered past his eyes, but it quickly gilded itself to green and gold once it settled on your form. He released a breath of relief and spider smiled.

“See? I told you she was okay.”

It took you a moment to realize that Lo’ak was worried about you.

You gave him a small smile opening your one arm that wasn’t aching, and he slipped himself under it, sitting next to you in the hammock, resting his head on your shoulder.

Lo’ak was your best friend. But really, he was so much more than that.

He was your family. Your ride-or-die.

Your right hand.

It made you feel a bit guilty, that Lo’ak seemed to prefer you over Neteyam sometimes.

Lo’ak wanted you to be his teacher when it came to his archery training and sparring. Lo’ak wanted it to be you who he went on hunts with.

Yet again, he also only lets you braid his hair because apparently neytiri pulls too hard and Neteyam doesn’t know how to tie them off properly.

Spider was a bit of a different case.

As you grew older, you realized how much you envied your motehrs sense of lightness.

Her entire being seemed to be made of golden hour gardens and softly whispered summers.

She was strong. The strongest woman you knew.

But she was kind.

She wasn’t like Neytiri in the sense that she resented all humans.

Your mother always felt a sense of protectiveness over Spider. A small, pale boy who used his heart instead of brain, chasing shimmyflys and tripping over vines that were larger than him. She welcomed him into her circle. She shielded him from the storms of strange staring and pesky fears.

Your mother always cared for Spider. Helped him re-twist his locs and make him new loincloths and hair beads. Some of your earliest memories were you and spider playing with the small carved toys in your family’s tent, or giggling after dark under the blankets after your father told you both to go to sleep.

She argued when spider had to go back to his foster family, and ended up making bargains with him to stay overnight every few days.

You’re almost positive it’s the only motherly love spider has ever known.

He cried when your mother died. 

You think he might have cried more than you did.

Sobbed for days with you, and it brought you closer together.

You smiled as Lo’ak fidgeted with one of the bracelets on your wrist.

When you were about 8, Lo’ak was 7, spider was 9, your mother carved you these special beads for the three of you to use.

You three decided to make bracelets and your father helped you string them together, all collecting charms and gifting them to one another to add.

The two biggest stones were carved river crystal the two boys collected, Lo’ak rolled the beads between his two extra fingers, sporting a bracelet of his own you and spider made him.

“So, I heard you got your ass kicked.”

Spider snickered. Sitting down in front of you.

You whacked him with your tail.

“Fuck off. Those sky demons ate my arrows.”

Spider groaned, 

“I’m so pissed. I heard you fell down in a explosion and ate shit-

And now one took a picture for me!” 

Lo’ak threw and arm around your shoulder and wiggled his eyebrows.

“Oh yeah. And her Romeo was panicking because he didn’t save her in time”

You flushed, shoving him away.

Spider laughed, standing up.

“I can only imagine-“

He cleared his throat, before making his voice go an obnoxious pitch higher, twirling his locs around his fingers and batting his eyes, mimcmking what was supposed to be you.

“Oh Neteyam! My big strong warrior man! Come save me!”

You hissed in annoyance, but couldn’t help but bite back laughter at the back of your throat.

Lo’ak stood to his feet, puffing up his chest and taking his braid out of the way he tied them back, letting them hang, deepening his voice and stomping towards spider, dramatically holding him in his arms as spider collapsed with a loud rehearsed sigh.

Lo’aks Neteyam imitation sent you over the edge, you were now cackling and had rolled out of your hammock.

“I’ll save you from the demon ships with my bow and arrow!”

Lo’ak, you, and spider all break into a fit of laughter, rolling around on the ground. Lo’ak steadying himself by burying his face in your shoulder as spider banged his fist on the ground, finally, as the laughter died down, the three of you stared at the top of the tent, out of breath, the only sound being the gentle wheezing endnotes of your breaths.

“Glad you kicked some ass today. Those fucking RDA pilots didn’t stand a chance against you and that bow of yours.”

Spider whispered. Nudging your shoulder gently.

You smiled at him, Lo’ak squished in between you.

The three of you said your goodnight s, and you watched the two missing parts of your circle leave the tent before they could get caught after lights out.

You nestled back into the hammock, staring up at the ceiling.

The aching in your arms hasn’t completely vanished it’s fortification of pain in your shoulder.

You gently rub circles around the small carved spiral you untied from the long shaft of your bow when spider dragged it inside.

You played with the small crystals and the beads, gently humming to yourself.

Your fingers traced along the shape, Neteyams eyes invaded your mind.

It was fascinating, really. How a warrior such as yourself had won today's battle and yet the one thing you truly yearned for was still not within your grasp.

It hurts sometimes, to think about how beautiful he was.

The way his irises encompassed golden hour in all its starlight sessions.

The air was thicker in the mountains like this, up here in high camp. Perhaps that’s why the sweltering residual warmth that rippled across your skin like lillies to a pond every time you thought of him

You wondered if he tasted like the sun. Sweet, possibly bitter. Bleak and addicting, such a delicacy deserved to never touch your lips.

Alas the stars did not align for you.

Not tonight.

You trace the spiral one last time before letting your eyes flutter closed.

Your tail flicked as you heard yet another rustling.

The sound of footsteps, slightly heavier than last time.

You groaned.

“Spider did you forget something again?..”

When no answer was heard you grumbled. Standing to your feet and untying the tent flap, only to be met with two two golden hour orbs that had just plagued your mind.

“”Neteyam?..”

authors note:

I’m finally done! I haven’t slept in two days but I’m finished. I can’t decided whether I like the way this turned out but I LOVE some of the smaller little details. Y/n is such a badass and she’s serving left and right. We love to see it 😩👏 this first one was a lil angsty but I PROMISE y’all, this series is NOT angst. I’ve got a ton of stuff planned. I’m thinking maybe a little bit of jealous Neteyam? Some humor? Spider and Lo’ak being the captain of the ship? Mo’at being a sassy Granmda? Maybe some sister bonding with Kiri? AHHH IM SO HYPED. I, about to pass out and I can’t feel my fingers but that’s it for now! Stay tuned for part 2 🏹

-Sol

Jan 2024

“Virago” series, chp. 1.

Taglist:

@plooto

[layraket]

THERE WAS AN UPDATE SLEEPING? WHATS THAT??

first of all we start with this beautiful shot

god thats some cool architecture i have no words clapping

Wind is so ready to kick that lizard's ass i love him

this confirms the fact that theyre in the same place but in a different era (also i swear im convinced that this place takes place at least no far from Hyrule's era, the statue behind Legend and the corridors inside are almost the same as in Zelda1 and 2)

that was the worst joke i have heard today good job rulie lots of kudos /lh

the boys entering a place where they could find the most dangerous shit in all Hyrule, and then there's my girl who is having the best lunch ever

when i first read this i almost spit all my water on my phone cuz. Wars my man these people are like. crazy with dungeon crawl. you can't say that and expect a normal reaction.

their expressions are gold no notes

TIME'S SIDE EYE LMAO

Sky looking concerned, and Wars with the most "i dont know what is everyones problem but alright" face i love him

In a war there's no time to explore or search for things that can be useful, or even search for clues, less with the fact that youre leading an army. There was no puzzle, no mistery to solve or objects that needed to be obtained, just plain fight and confrontation, not leaving space for investigation or even a good rest in town

They have a point, without exploring they wouldn't have the arsenal that they carry; powerful items that can kill a whole army of monsters, a gift left by the hero before them to help, shinies. All that is really useful when you want to save the whole kingdom

lets not forget all the weapons that you can get on HW, there are some that are like, crazy powerful, and the materials get from the enemies are also really helpful

guys i think youre the only crazy people who love to enter a random place full of monsters and maybe a demon lord or smth

OK THIS IS THE PANNEL WHERE I WANTED TO TALK A LITTLE ABT

This reminds me of this short comic where Wild was almost grabbed by a wallmaster, do this takes place some time before this scene?? or just from another time?? I find possible the first option cuz Wild looks more wary the whole update, like if he already found out what will happends if he puts his guard down

Also the fact that the closest thing that he had as a dungeon were the Divine Beast and the shrines, which both of them lacked a lot of things that were usually in the clasic zelda's dungeons, like keys, mini bosses, special object and pots.

Hyrule my guy you dont. have to scare him like that. i hate these things too but calm down.

fucking gremlin /pos

taking this as an opportunity to talk about how Legend's behaviour has been seen changed in the past updates, he's more relaxed and playful, taking a moment to just have fun and prank the rest of the chain

this reminds me

here is left clear that he's still young, maybe not even on his twenties, and now after that stressfull time with Twi being on the verge of death it makes sense that he feels the need of just, goof around to cope after all that

Yes he's the most experienced, yes is maybe the most powerful of them, but he's still a young boy who was dragged to all this, he deserves to have some fun

happy guy :)

and then we have Time, he looks like Not Having A Good Time™

Messy hair Warriors <3

also i know we all put Sky as one of the adults, but cmon he's a little shit as much as the rest, thats why he finds funny Legend's joke

Wild my man you good? like im genuinely asking at this point, it is weird seeing him so serious

god thats such a cool design of a skulltula, its so scary 10/10

Wild has never seen in his life a spider of this size, so it makes sense him just, straight up getting surprised by that thing

OUGHH I FELT THAT

Sky being right-handed looks like a problem in this closed space, soon or later it would make some troubles

Legend no offence but did you see the little accident they had right there. like. that really hurts if you ask me.

Okay Time is really at his limit here, the past days has been hell for him with the stress of almost loosing the one that he might see as his son, and seeing all the boys just playing around is not helping. Theyre all heroes, they should take this danger seriously if they want to stop all danger.

He wants to protect the ones that he cares for, even if he has to snap for it.

Here he might be planning to team up with Twi and Wind? The youngest seems to have gained his attention as his second successor. He will make anything it takes to not let all of them get hurt, and with everything he means it

Just wait when he learns that Legend is also his successor, automatically adopted

NOW MY FAV PARTS WITHOUT COMMENTARY!!!

SOMEHOW I GOT THE IMAGE LIMIT???? I DIDNT THOUGHT THAT IT WAS POSSIBLE ON WEB

anyways have confused warriors as the last one pls aprecciate him

tumblr pls let me eat the art i beg you

art credits as always towards @linkeduniverse! always feeling blessed with all this fantastic work!

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 2 - Under My Skin

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: If you're mad at me for getting any lore or myths wrong through this story, consider that Supernatural themselves cannot track their own lore, and I'm doing my goddamn best.

Chapter title from Akaska Sad by Rina Sawayama

Word Count: 15.7k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Dean and John take on an odd, difficult case, and you try—and fail—to avoid them. Usual warnings.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, monster of the week.

Chapter 1 - Chapter 3

Read on A03!

Lately, Dean’s life was fucking lonely. It was made of long car rides where Dad wouldn’t speak to him, countless cases where he felt almost useless, and restless nights where he’d get up to use the bathroom, look at the couch, and feel a little piece of him die again when Sam wasn’t there.

Every town looked the same. Every girl did too. He didn’t try to talk to them—he never had—but there was still something in him that was so furiously lonely, he was burning through chicks night by night in a desperate plea that they’d offer him something. Sometimes they’d talk to him, and that would become enough. He was never really all that interested—they all had the same voice and same words and same boring, apple pie lives that Dean would never get to be a part of—but it carried him over until the next one. Until he and Dad got the monster, left town, and nobody there would have to spare Dean a thought for the rest of their lives.

He tried to make them remember. He poured all he had to spare into the sex, and making it good enough that maybe—when each woman was married with kids and some sort of boring office job—they’d still use the memory of him to get off. They might not remember his name, or his voice, or his face, but they’d remember how he made them feel. And that did a little more to curb the loneliness. The pit like feeling of uselessness.

But sometimes he’d strike out, and be forced to wake up on an empty, stiff motel mattress. Dad would already be gone—getting coffee or working there leads or just fucking sick of Dean not being Sam—and it would only be Dean in the whole world. And that wasn’t enough. It couldn’t just be Dean. It’s never supposed to just be Dean. When it’s just him, everything gets too loud and too quiet and so hot, but also massive and empty and cold. Corners are shaper and knives are duller and colors are all muted, because only Dean can see them and he doesn’t deserve to. 

And when that happened, sometimes he’d grab his phone and consider calling Sammy. He’d stare at the number—hidden from Dad with a fake contact, just in case—and allow his thumb to hover over the call button, but never press it. He couldn’t. He’d have no way to get to California, Sam probably wouldn’t want to see him, and Dad would freakin’ kill him for even considering it. Dean couldn’t even say Sam’s damn name without Dad’s jaw ticking and an unsettling tension falling over the room.

So Dean stayed lonely. He worked every case lonely, found every bed lonely, and woke every morning lonely. 

But he wasn’t lonely in his dreams. It didn’t matter why he wasn’t, but he wasn’t. That, at the very least, was something Dean could count on. When he slept, he’d never be lonely, because-

It didn’t matter. They were just dreams, and dreams didn’t mean shit. Even it had been the same person starring in them every night—the same beautiful, twisted salvation to the pit that had formed inside of Dean, that he loathed and craved and couldn’t figure out how to get rid of—for the past year, Dean wasn’t some crystals and tea leaves chick who was going to try and find meaning in his freakin’ dreams.

This lady seemed to be, though. She was dressed like she belonged at Woodstock, there were dreamcatchers and random dried plants all over her house, and she kept trying to offer Dean a palm reading. Telling him his aura was strong. That didn’t fucking mean anything, because that shit wasn’t real, and Dean should know. His whole life was figuring out what things were real, and what was fake.

This magic, witchy bullshit was fake. 

The ghost haunting Woodstock Chick’s house was very real.

“You know,” Woodstock frowned at Dean and Dad from across the table. “I’m a little surprised you’re listening to me.”

Dad shrugged. “Well, ma’am it’s routine to investigate complaints. It ain’t our job to judge, just hear what you’ve got for us. Now, we’ve got the objects flyin’ around-“

“It’s just,” Woodstock let out a breathy laugh, shaking her head slightly. “I’ve been filing these complaints for weeks, and all I’ve gotten is made fun of by my neighbors. Then, suddenly, you’re taking me seriously? Sending three officers to talk to me-“

Dean cleared his throat, shooting Dad a weary look. “Sorry, did you say three?”

“Yeah. You two, plus the one yesterday. Young woman, with the rings and lip gloss. She was gorgeous, good skin and hair, bright aura, just like yours.” she smiled at Dean as she continued. “She kind of looked like a,” Woodstock frowned, tilting her head. “Like a cat.”

Dad scowled. “A cat.”

Woodstock nodded. “You know, just like how he,” she nodded at Dean, and he frowned. “Looks like a puppy. It not about their faces, it’s about their energy-“

“And you’re saying this chick had the energy of a cat?” Dean asked, not allowing himself to dwell on the puppy thing. He had too much shit to worry about already. “Ma’am, we-“

“We’re takin’ your complaints seriously, ma’am.” Dad’s voice was firm over Dean’s, and Dean felt a cringe of shame in his chest. “Now, tell us about the lights, and we’ll let you keep goin’ with your day.”

Woodstock continued, Dad asking more careful, smart questions as Dean sat in silence, and the lady’s problem was pretty obviously a ghost. Kind of a douchebag of a ghost, but just a ghost. The hard part was just gonna be figuring out who it was, because Woodstock was insisting nobody had ever died in this house, that she had no dead relatives, and that she’d never even killed anyone.

That last question did get them kicked out, though.

“We ain’t accusin’ you of anything, ma’am.” Dad remained in the threshold of Woodstock’s door, holding the angry woman’s gaze. “It’s a just part of our report-”

Woodstock let out a dry laugh. “Nice try, officer, I don’t know what you’re trying to pull, but I do know that’s a lie. If you come back, come back with a warrant, or-“ Woodstock paused, looking between Dean and Dad. “Send Officer Brown. She was nicer, and didn’t ask me stupid questions.”

The door slammed, Dad groaned—running a hand over his face before stomping back to the Impala—and Dean was frozen in place as Woodstock���s words rang a loud, clean, golden bell in his brain. When Dad shouted at him to haul ass he managed to move, but barely. Everything was far away, because things that were supposed to be trapped in dreams were starting to follow Dean into the real world. They weren’t supposed to. Dean had promised himself he’d keep Her trapped down, where he never had to think about her until sleep dragged Her back to the surface of his brain.

And that hadn’t really been working. Sometimes he’d smell fruity perfume on a woman, and She’d flash in front of his eyes. Sometimes he’d have some random girl next to him or over him or under him, and they’d moan, and it would sound like a siren. The worst was when someone would look at him and a tiny, traitorous asshole voice would whisper She’d look at you better. She’d be better. You’re a piece of shit, Dean Winchester, because She’d been the freakin’ best and you left her.

He hadn’t left Her. He’d escaped her. Outsmarted whatever bullshit she’d been trying to pull on him, whatever scam She’d been running. And it didn’t fucking matter that his brain was clinging onto every piece of Her he’d gotten to see that day—that the bells were made of Her beautiful voice saying Brown’s a cop—because she’d probably stopped hunting. Realized it wasn’t the fun little rush She thought it was and crawled back home to her fancy, stupid life. 

But She’d told him she’d been hunting since she was fifteen.

That had probably been a lie too.

It hadn’t sounded like a lie. 

Well, maybe She’d just been an awesome liar. 

Dean needed to snap the hell out of it. He’d tread down this path countless times, the voice—it seemed to live in his chest, a little to the right of his heart—trying to work out what that whole thing had been, and a good reason for Dean to track Her down and ask if She’d felt it too. 

But She’d been playing him, and he never wanted to see Her drop-dead gorgeous face again. It didn’t matter what he’d felt, because Dad was right. It had probably been some sort of trick, made of all those pretty lies and words She’d been using on him. So Dean didn’t mention to Dad that Brown had been one of Her aliases, because he wasn’t supposed to remember anything about Her. Dad was seething in the driver’s seat—grumbling about lone, stupid hunters interfering in their case—but She wasn’t here, probably, so it didn’t matter anyway.

Another three days passed, and they still couldn’t figure out who the ghost was. Everyone Woodstock knew was clean—and claimed she was too—and everyone in this town died of old age like a bunch of freaking suckers, so they had nothing. This ghost couldn’t chill the fuck out, Woodstock had been telling anyone who would listen about how it had started to throw plates at her head—how she didn’t feel safe—so Dad had them on rotating watches. Keeping an eye on the house from the forest in case Woodstock started screaming while the other kept working it, searching for just one goddamn idea of who the ghost could be.

They hadn’t figured out who the other hunter was, either, but Dean was growing more and more certain it might be Her. He could’ve sworn he saw a flash of perfectly styled shiny hair on the street. He was either going batshit crazy, or he’d heard Her voice in a corner store while he was buying aftershave. And a feeling like gravity had reformed in his eyes, bringing his attention to shadows that might be Her and making his every nerve flare when he smelled something sweet. Most of all, he’d been in the motel parking lot a handful of times and felt it. That odd, light feeling that had surrounded him when he’d met Her, making it so easy to breathe he’d been certain he’d been doing it wrong before. That he’d started to do it wrong again, after She’d left. It had felt so good and been so impossibly to duplicate—Dean had really tried to, as well, in body after body after body—but it was back like a fucking asteroid, crashing into him and obliterating everything he’d thought had been right.

But he hadn’t told Dad. To start, Dad would look at him like he was a fucking idiot, and ask if Dean had watched a chick flick while drinking one too many beers. Then Dean would mumble no, and Dad would roll his eyes and tell him to get his shit together, because they had a job to do.

Dean could’ve told Sammy. He would’ve listened, made a little fun of Dean, and then started to ask a bunch of  questions about what made Dean think it was Her. Maybe Sam would have found an explanation about how the vampire baby made men go crazy or something. Maybe She’d been a monster, and Sam would figure out what kind the moment Dean explained it.

But Sam wasn’t here, and Dean didn’t have any real evidence. He hadn’t seen that fancy car She’d been driving, and when he’d very casually asked the front desk of their motel—the only one if town—if anyone with Her name was in a room he’d gotten a no, but she’d probably be in a real hotel. With good water pressure and room service and little shampoo bottles that she didn’t need. 

She hadn’t been in a fancy hotel last year. But that had probably just been another part of the scam.

So he didn’t tell Dad. Dean just took his shifts to watch Woodstock, worked the case, and fucking prayed they’d wrap this up and he could forget the whole thing. Dad would find something soon, they’d gank the ghost, and it would be done. 

Dad had even said he had a new lead, when they’d swapped the watch. Dean had dropped off the car and gotten orders to stay here until Dad got back, to call only if it was an absolute emergency, and to message if he thought of anything new. 

He’d been trying to. Dad was off working the lead, and Dean really wanted to help, but no matter how long leaned against the trees—watching Woodstock’s house and frowning into the air—he couldn’t think of shit. His brain felt numb, because this was freaking boring, and none of it made sense. It was just a ghost, it shouldn’t be this hard. Shit, with another hunter on the case, the asshole should’ve been ash days ago. Maybe it had been Her, and she’d realized they were in town, and She’d left. Been worried they’d try to turn her in for her bullshit, even though She had no way to know they’d figured her out. 

Maybe She hadn’t wanted to see Dean. Which shouldn’t bother him at all, but the thought made his stomach turn and heart split down the center. He didn’t get it. It shouldn’t hurt, because he sure as hell didn’t want to see Her. He was looking everywhere for Her, but he didn’t want to see Her. He didn’t. He didn’t-

He did. He could. That was fucking Her. Walking up the steps of Woodstock’s house with a large bag, knocking on the door and being welcomed in with a warm smile Woodstock hadn’t offered Dad or Dean. 

She looked hot. Dean wasn’t sure it was possible for Her not to—She’d even looked sexy covered in blood—but she’d somehow gotten hotter. She wasn’t wearing that horrible jacket anymore, but well-fitting, casual clothing that She moved so easily in. Clothing that suited Her, that She looked comfortable in, that Dean wanted to touch to see what fabric She liked. It would tell him more about Her, about what she deemed suitable for herself, what she enjoyed, what she wanted. And if She allowed him close enough, maybe Dean could rip it off Her body-

Fuck. It was happening again. Dean had just looked at Her and she’d dragged him under some sort of trance. The feeling had returned in full force, like an inevitable kind of cancer over his brain that Dean didn’t know how to cure. Part of him didn’t even want to cure it—it felt right and natural and filled up that pit with a shifting light that was shaped like Her—but he had to. He was useless like this. Useless to the hunt, useless to himself, useless to Dad. Dad would smack him on the head and tell him to get a goddamn grip, because a girl wasn’t worth falling down for. Dean’s job wasn’t staring at pretty things and trying to make sense of them, it was creating ash and spilling blood. He was a solider, not a prince who was going to save the damsel. 

And She wasn’t a damsel. She was a bitch. The prettiest, funniest, smartest bitch Dean had ever met, who seemed like Cinderella but was really a stepsister. Dean didn’t need Her, and he shouldn’t be sparing Her a single thought at all. He should just text Dad that She was the other hunter, that She seemed tight with Woodstock, and that She’d been in the house for a long time.

A really long time. 

Too long. It had been almost an hour since She’d disappeared off the porch, and unless she was there for a sleepover, she should’ve been out by now. Maybe the ghost had gotten the jump on Her and Woodstock. Maybe Dean had to go in and save Her, not because it was Her, but because that was his job. And maybe She’d thank him, and kiss him because She was so grateful he’d put his grudge aside to save her life, and it would be awesome and She’d taste like sugar and be soft under his hands-

“Dean Winchester.” 

He nearly leapt out of his goddamn skin, spinning around with wide-eyes and clenched fists that couldn’t seem to remember how to fly and land square in Her pretty, mocking face. She was standing barely three feet away, Her arms crossed and brows raised, her bag nowhere in sight.

“Fucking hell, Princess.“ The nickname slipped out of him without thought, because She really did look like royalty. He knew why that was now—easy to look smoking hot and fancy when you had the money for it—but it didn’t change the fact. Her lips were glossy, her eyes seemed to shimmer with that pretty color that washed over his dreams, that causal clothing really did look like it was made to touch Her, and Dean couldn’t believe he was jealous of a fabric-

“What are you doing here.” Her voice still had that haunting, angel-like quality, but it was flat. Bored. Almost dead.

He gave Her a smirk, and he wasn’t sure why it hurt that She barely even blinked back. “Funny, I was just about to ask you the same thing. What could a bitch like you be doing in a place like this?“

Her eyes narrowed, and Dean could’ve sworn She curled a little into her body. “I asked first.”

Dean shrugged. “I asked louder.”

“I- You know what? I don’t care.” She stood a little taller, her voice somehow growing colder. “Whatever you’re up to, stop. This is my hunt. I got here first, I’m handling it, and you’re only going to slow me down.”

Dean let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Ghosts aren’t really gonna respect dibs, sweetheart.”

Her eyes flashed with something Dean didn’t really understand. “They don’t, but I’m not that worried about it, De. Like I said, I’m handling it.”

He glared at Her, ignoring how something in his chest was humming, trying to get Her to call him De over and over again forever. “Sorry,” he drawled Her name, leaning forward and trying not to think about how she didn’t flinch away. How he could smell that same, fruity perfume and sugar from before. “I guess we’ll just have to let the better hunter win.”

She raised Her chin, holding his gaze. “I’m warning you, Winchester. Leave.“

He chuckled. “I’m good, Princess. Think I’ll pass, but trying to warn me was cute-”

“Listen to me.” She hissed, leaning close enough that Dean could pick out every small bump on Her face, isolate every color in Her eyes. “I’m not asking. Go back to Sam and John, tell them you figured it out and it’s done, and get the fuck out of my way.”

Something brittle snapped in Dean’s spine, his jaw clenching as the words pushed out of him like vomit. “Sam’s not with us. He left.”

He didn’t know why the fuck he’d tell Her that. She wouldn’t care. She seemed to hate Dean as much as he hated Her—probably bitter he’d got the up on Her, didn’t want him to mess with whatever scam she was trying to pull on Woodstock—and She’d met Sam twice. He shouldn’t have told Her that, because Dad hated even talking about it. Hell, Bobby barely knew about it. It was family business, and She wasn’t family, and that perfume had to be some sort of pheromone because it was making Dean a freaking dumbass-

“Is he okay?”

Dean blinked at Her, and her expression wasn’t soft, but it wasn’t empty. She didn’t seem like a statue anymore, and whatever was behind Her eyes looked real. Just as real as it had been last year, like there was a whole universe inside of Her that Dean had wanted to explore. To find out what She was made of, and if it was as similar to heaven as it seemed.

It wasn’t. Dean knew that, in his working brain—rather than his heart that stretched for Her and his dick that ached for Her to be just a little closer—She wasn’t heaven. She was temptation in a beautiful form, determined to make Dean weak and pathetic and soft, everything he couldn’t allow himself to be. But he still told Her the truth. His voice lower and without any venom, his body tensed slightly, his brain spinning as the strange look in Her eyes seemed to glow, dragging the words out of him. 

“He’s fine. Off at college. Decided he didn’t want-“ Dean cut himself off with a small shake of his head. He wouldn’t be that weak or dumb, exposing a gap in his armor she’d use to make him crumble to his knees. “He was done hunting. Wanted a normal life.”

She was just looking at him. Scanning over him carefully, holding one of Her own hands and just fucking staring, like Dean might be an illusion or his words might be a lie, and She was trying to look for evidence of it.

“That sucks.” She finally said, and it sounded so real. Like She might actually give a shit that Dean was lonely. That Sam had left him. “Sorry.”

 “I don’t need your pity, sweetheart-“

“I don’t pity you.” She snapped, Her features growing harsh once more. “I’m saying that fucking sucks, I know you cared about him. I’m apologizing because it’s probably complicated and messy and not all that fun to deal with.”

Dean scowled, something raw snapping along his heartstrings. “I’m doing just fine, Princess. I’ve got my dad, and Sammy’s safe in California. He’s still my brother, and it’s not like he’s fucking dead. So I’m good.”

She raised her brows, an amusement that made Dean’s gut boil written over Her face. “Yeah, you really sound it.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Watch it-“

“Or what.” She hissed, leaning forward until Dean was almost drowning in Her. “You gonna run to John and tell him that the little moroi bitch is bullying you? That you need to hurry up on the hunt, because you can’t stand that I’m going to get this thing all by my fucking self-“

“All by-“ Dean stared at Her. “You’re still hunting alone?”

Her face twisted, her words hushed and furious. “That is none of your fucking business-“

“It is if you’re going to get yourself killed-“ 

She snorted. “Shut the fuck up. Don’t pretend like you give a shit about me-“

“I give a shit if you end up monster chow.” Dean sneered, pretending something wasn’t cracking along his ribs at the certain, settled hatred in Her voice. “The job is saving people, not choosing who. You try and jump in front of that ghost, I’ll stop you-“

“Please,” She scoffed, narrowing her eyes. “I’d like to see you fucking try.”

Dean’s breathing was ragged. His heart was violent in his chest, and his hands were curled at his side, and She was so fucking infuriating. Dean shouldn’t give a shit about Her, but his skin felt like it was being flayed at the thought of Her in danger or pain, and She shouldn’t sound like she was wounded by being the little moroi bitch, because She was, and Dean wanted to grab Her by the neck and slam his lips to Her’s-

“Stay out of my way, Winchester.” She hissed, still so close, and looking so warm and soft, and Dean was so close to figuring out what the hell that fruit was-

She was gone. She leaned back in a rough, sharp movement—like Dean was a magnet and She was only just strong enough to pull herself away—and just walked away. 

He might be stuck here forever—on the edge of the woods outside Woodstock’s haunted house—his body trying to cling to her and his brain trying to erase Her forever. It was something he’d been trying to do for a year, something he’d never managed, and something that was made so much more difficult by the fact that She looked back. That their eyes met one last time, and it was like lightning through his blood.

He would have chased Her in Dad hadn’t called right then. He spent the next two days trying to convince himself he wouldn’t have, but it was a fucking lie. He wasn’t sure what he would have done when he caught Her, but he would’ve chased Her. Rushed after Her and asked why had She lied, why did She look like she wanted to punch Dean when She’d been the one to hurt him, if She had looked back because she could feel it too. Feel the gravity, feel the drug, feel the storm that threatened to consume Dean in Her name. Ask if She dreamt of him, ask if She saw him in shadows, ask if She was a monster and beg her to set him free.

But he hadn’t chased after Her. So it didn’t matter. Dad had picked Dean up—long after She’d been gone, Dean still rooted in place, his head still spinning—and he hadn’t seen Her since, so it didn’t matter. Maybe She’d left. Maybe She’d just skipped town, and Dean would never see her again.

That shouldn’t feel horrible. It should be relieving, the idea that he’d won. That he’d gotten the hunt, gotten Her away from him, gotten a justification for why he hadn’t told Dad he’d seen Her. It would mean that She was gone, and Dean could pretend that had never happened at all. But it still felt like fucking shit, and Dean couldn’t figure out how to stop it. It ate away at his brain as the days blurred together, and they hit dead end after dead end. She remained at least out of sight, Dean still didn’t tell Dad that She’d ever been in town, and the hauntings just fucking stopped. No more lights, no more temperature drops, no more screaming Woodstock. 

It couldn’t have been Her. There were no graveyard disturbances, She hadn’t entered the house since their conversation, and it wasn’t like the EMF was gone. On the second day of no activity they’d had broken into Woodstock’s house, checked to see if it was gone, and it wasn’t. It had just stopped haunting.

Dad was losing his mind. He was barely speaking to Dean, shooting down all his ideas, and mostly just reading book after book and grumbling that it didn’t make any goddamn sense. Ghosts just didn’t stop, they still didn’t know who the hell the son of a bitch was, and they couldn’t leave until this thing was dealt with.

Dean suggested drinks—the motel room was starting to feel like a cage, they both needed it, and maybe the answer would be one or two bottles deep—and Dad had grunted an agreement. It was a small victory, but a victory all the same. Maybe Dean could find a woman there to distract from this disaster, distract him from Her-

He didn’t need to be distracted from Her. There was nothing to distract from. Dean might be dreaming about Her still—dreams where he did grab Her and kiss her, She fell to her knees and he went right down with Her, and it was fucking awesome—but She wasn’t anywhere real around him, so it didn’t matter. Every shadow on the darkened street was shaped like Her, but shadows weren’t real. That gravity in Dean’s chest was trying pull and pry Dean open so She could take a look, but that was just an emotion, and Dean wasn’t about to be some sort of pussy about his feelings. The whole bar seemed to smell like that strange fucking fruit and sugar, but Dean could just be losing his mind. The woman in the booth looked exactly like Her, and sat with her knees tucked up like she did, and was wearing the same shirt-

Shit.

“Dad, I don’t feel great, maybe we could-“

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

Dean felt the blood drain from his face. Dad had seen Her. His face was drawn in a scowl, the glare he used during hunts was furrowing at his brow, and there was a glint in his eyes that set everything on edge.

He was fucked. She was going to tell Dad they’d run into each other, Dad would fucking murder him for not mentioning it, and She’d just fuck off and get herself killed with the ghost. Dean didn’t know why that last one felt just as terrifying as Dad’s wrath, but it might actually be worse. Dad wouldn’t actually kill him. He’d get yelled at and probably banned from driving for a month, but Dad would never hurt him. 

Dad would hurt Her. He was already stalking over to Her booth—She hadn’t even looked up, which didn’t increase Dean’s faith in Her lone hunting abilities—with white-knuckled fists that would have probably collided with Her face if she wasn’t a chick. Dean barely ran after him in time for them to reach the booth, to stop at Dad’s side right as he slammed his hand on the table.

She flinched slightly as she looked up, and the air around them became wired and electric.

“What the hell are you doin’ here, girl.” Dad lowered himself down to Her eye level as he spat the words out. “Ain’t no way you’re in town just by fuckin’ coincidence.”

She huffed a dry laugh, holding Dad’s gaze as she answered. “Not a coincidence. Just me, having the worst luck in the world.” Her attention finally turned to Dean, he felt alive, and Her words remained just as flat as before. “Hiya, Deano. You look like shit.” She looked back to Dad, her pretty lips curling into a smirk. “You both look like shit.”

“You think you’re smart-“

She snorted, cutting Dad off with a bored grin. “I am smart. Sit down, you’re drawing attention.”

She waved a loose hand around the bar, and She was right. People were wide eyed, watching them nervously, and they didn’t need that. Attention was bad in this line of business. It was downright dangerous. And Dad knew that, so he gave Dean a curt nod to listen to Her, and slid into the booth once Dean was settled across from Her. 

It was a little freaking insane, how She only got prettier. How in the low, golden light of the bar she seemed to have a halo around Her head. But it wasn’t real. Nothing about Her was real, and Dean would have to remember that. Dad was real, was looking at Her like she’d tried to key the Impala, and Dean needed to figure out where that hatred for Her had gone and bring it back. Convince Her to skip town—because She’d get in the way, not because the idea of Her being thrown across a room by a spirit made him sick—and cover his own ass, because he was still in danger of Her snitching on him. 

But She was hardly looking at him. Her attention was divided between Dad, her own hands, and the neon red, cherry and ice and paper umbrella drink in front of Her-

“Are you drinking a fucking Shirley Temple?” Dean spoke before he could stop himself, and She shot him a glare.

“You got a problem with that, Winchester?”

“Nah,” Dean shrugged, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I just didn’t know you were that much a prissy little princess-“

“They’re good drinks, dick.” She snapped. “It’s called having fun. Something you two buttheads,” She gestured between Dean and Dad. “Clearly know nothing about.”

Dean learned forward, bracing his elbows on the table. “I know plenty about having fun, sweetheart. Some might call me a master at it.“

She snorted. It was freaking adorable. “Some might call you a manwhore-“

“Watch yourself, girl.” Dad snapped, and Dean’s whole body tightened. Everything was rigid from the fury on Dad’s face—all directed at Her, all sick in Dean’s stomach—and raw from Her words. 

Manwhore. She wasn’t wrong, and he’d been called a lot worse, but it still stung like a freaking hornet along the cavity of his chest. There was no way for Her to know that, unless Dean’s whole face just screamed lonely. Lonely fucking trash to be used up and forgotten. It didn’t. He was so goddamn careful to ensure it didn’t. Even Dad didn’t know the extent of that pit, so it was impossible for Her to, and why did it feel like She’d just punched him in the gut-

“Listen to me,” Dad hissed Her full name, and it was a low threat that snapped Dean back into his body. “Skip town. This is our case, and we don’t need some fancy brat gettin’ in our way.”

She glanced at Dean, and he almost didn’t catch the small frown on Her face. It was fleeting—barely a flash on Her gorgeous features—but strong. Reaching all the way to Her eyes and filling them with an emotion Dean didn’t understand.

But then it was gone. And when She looked back to Dad her face was in bored and taunting once more. 

“I’m hate to break it to you, buddy, but ghosts don’t care about dibs.” Her lips curled into a smirk, and this was it. She was going to rat Dean out, he was dead-

“Lucky for you,” She picked up Her drink and leaned back in her seat. “It’s not a ghost. So maybe if you ask it really nicely, it’ll refuse to be killed by anyone but you.”

Dad scowled. “What the hell are you talkin’ about, girl. This ain’t another moroi thing, this is a fuckin’ ghost-“

“It’s not.” She grinned at them from around Her straw, and shit She had nice lips. They were a little puckered, Dean could still remember how soft they’d been, and they’d probably look even better wrapped around Dean’s-

“Whatever game you’re playin’,” Dad hissed at Her, snapping Dean out of his thoughts. “Cut the shit and say what you mean.”

She hummed, still wearing a bright, mocking grin. “You think it’s a ghost.”

“It is a ghost,” Dean muttered, watching Her carefully. “You’re not stupid, Princess, EMF plus random flying plates equals evil Casper.”

“That’s true.” She dropped Her empty glass on the table, leaning toward with a shrug. “But it’s still not a ghost.”

“You heard Dean, girl, it’s a ghost, plain and goddamn simple.”

“Have you seen it?” 

Dean glanced at Dad, and he’d bet a lot of money that their expressions were identical in pure freaking confusion.

“We don’t have time,” Dad grunted, his voice low and edged. “For fucking riddles. You-“

“It’s not a riddle.” She raised her brows, picking a cherry out of the glass. “Have either of you actually seen your alleged ghost? Did Maggie Rose tell you she saw it?”

Maggie Rose. Woodstock. The woman who would’ve definitely seen the ghost by now.

And who hadn’t mentioned it a single goddamn time.

“I’m guessing you haven’t found remains either.” She hummed, picking the cherry off the stem with Her teeth. “And you’ve been looking for who the ghost could be, but you’re not finding anything. You’ve been looking in the wrong place. Poltergeist’s don’t have to haunt the places where they died, and they often have little to no connection with their victims.”

Dad’s eyes narrowed. “This thing ain’t nearly violent enough to be a poltergeist-“

“That’s because it’s been getting enough attention so far. Maggie’s been screaming about it, and it’s found that satisfying enough.” She spun the stem between two fingers, looking between Dad And Dean with a triumphant grin. “Poltergeist.”

Dean was pretty sure Dad was going to leap across the table and strangle Her. His jaw was clenched, his body stiff at Dean’s side, and his words—when he finally spoke—were pushed through his teeth. 

“Dean.” He grunted, not looking away from Her. “I have to make a call to your uncle. Deal with her.”

“Yes, sir.” Dean nodded, and Dad slid out of the booth without another word. Leaving Dean.

But not alone.

Dean blinked at Her. Dad was gone, and She hadn’t mentioned that they’d seen each other before. Shit, She hadn’t even mentioned Sam, and his obvious absence. Dad would just chalk that up to Her being a bitch, but Dean was clinging to it. She should’ve said it. She had every reason to. But She fucking hadn’t, and some part of Dean was desperate to know why. To know if it was because the idea of him in trouble made Her feel like her skin was being ripped to shreds. It felt like that for Dean, whenever he was reminded that She hunted alone. Whenever a memory of Her covered in blood flashed through his brain. 

And he could still feel it. Feel the electricity in the air that was so different than before. It was charged and tense, but in a way that made Dean feel like he was breathing. He could feel things that didn’t make sense, but they were right. She was right. Across the table, running Her hands over her calves and watching Dean like he might try to take a bite of Her, She still felt like she could fit against him like another piece. 

“You’re not going to deal with me.”

Dean frowned at Her. She wasn’t meeting his gaze, poking the paper umbrella around the glass. “What?”

“What your dad said,” She muttered. “He told you to deal with me. You won’t.”

“What makes you think that?”

She finally looked at him. Really looked at him, for the first time since last year. On the curb She’d seen him, but not looked at him. Not like before. Not like that. Where Dean felt like She was seeing right into the pit—how empty and fucking pathetically worthless he was—and filling it up with something peaceful and silver and molten in his gut, like a melted star lighting him up from the inside. He wished it was real. Dean wished, more than almost fucking anything, that he didn’t know that this was part of Her scam or game. That She was looking at him like that because he made Her feel stripped and raw too. Because She saw something in him she wanted, and just kept digging for more without fear of him breaking Her.

But he also wished he wasn’t so fucking lonely that he could care about that. That he could get a hold over himself and just deal with Her. That She wasn’t giving him a strangely soft smile, and he wasn’t caving from how it made his heart freaking glow like a night-light. 

“Because,” She said, like it was simple. Like Dean should just know what she meant. “You won’t.”

“I might.” He leaned forward, holding Her eyes on his as he smirked. “You’re putting yourself in danger, Princess. Dealing with you would be the responsible thing to do.”

“Really.” Her voice was dry, disbelieving. “How would you deal with me, Dean Winchester?”

God, She was trying to kill him. She was looking at him like that, and there was a smug smirk on Her full lips, and Dean had spent the last year hating Her but now all he could think about was how the universe that existed in Her eyes, and how he wanted to see every inch of it. Bare skin and brilliant eyes that had been phantoms in is sleep, now real and touchable. He had a million ways he’d like to deal with Her, and all of them started with those blinding fucking eyes. Rolling back in Her head and fluttering under him and sparkling on his. Her voice saying his name like it was more than just a breath, like it was the blood in Her veins-

“I’m afraid that’s top secret, Princess.” Dean dragged himself together to shoot Her a wink, and he could’ve sworn she flushed. “But I’ll tell you if you give me that answer you owe me.”

She gave him a strange look. “We were even.”

Dean shook his head. “You had asked me two questions. I only asked you one.”

There was a small, frowning pout on Her lips, and Dean realized She might be trying to work out if he was lying. He wasn’t. That conversation lived in the corners of his brain all the goddamn time, he couldn’t forget it if he tried. And he had. He’d bet his life that he was right. She’d asked him two questions about Dad and Sam, called him De, and his whole brain had short-circuited. He’d only realized on the drive back, and he’d been planning to use that to try and get Her to do the game again, but-

But She’d been tricking him. A con-woman and spoiled bitch who had been planning to use him. He’d seen the evidence. He knew that’s what was real. That between them, Dean wasn’t the liar.

He should care about that more. He should stand up and leave, or threaten Her to get the hell out of Dad’s way, or at least stop fucking smiling at Her. But She’d nodded, dropping Her knees down to lean closer, and he was drugged on Her voice and smell and face.

And he stayed.

“Fine.” She said, and Dean felt a thrill-like rush through his body. She was so pretty. “Go.”

He didn’t have a question ready. He hadn’t really expected Her to agree. But She had, and now he was staring at Her, trying to find something. Anything at all that didn’t make him look like a gaping dumbass, lost in Her eyes and high on her smell. He should ask everything he’d wanted to scream at Her on the street, and throw in a shout of why the hell didn’t you tell my dad I knew you were here. It didn’t make any goddamn sense that She hadn’t, and Dean needed to know why. That’s what he should ask. He should just freaking ask why.

“Where are you staying?”

Son of a bitch. That wasn’t what he’d meant to ask, now She was staring at him like he was some kind of creep or asshole, and Dean had to figure out how the hell he could justify asking that.

“For the case,” he added quickly, his voice drained of most of the artificial, cocky arrogance he prided himself on. “Ya’ know. In case we need to find you.”

“You won’t.” She said, Her finger running over that scar on her palm. “This is my case-“

“Yeah, and you’ve got it handled.” Dean drawled, raising his brows. “You gonna answer the question?”

She sighed. “Same motel you’re at. Down the road.”

He shook his head. “No, I haven’t seen your car-“

“You remember my car?” 

He felt a little heat rush to his face, only worsened by how there was a little, dancing light in Her eyes that was trying to draw him into Her, as if he was only a moth and she was the freaking sun. And of course he remembered that car. It was Her car. He’d felt something seize in his chest every time he’d seen one like it for the last year. 

“I like cars,” Dean grumbled—hoping She wouldn’t see it for the half-lie it was—and a small smile pulled at her lips. It looked a little too real.

“Like your dad’s.” She nodded, starting to fish ice cubes out of Her glass. “The Impala.”

It was Dean’s turn to grin. “You remember my car?”

She definitely flushed that time. “Yeah,” She mumbled. “It’s memorable. Shut up and answer my question.”

Dean raised his brows, remained silents, and tried to bait Her into saying it again. It worked.

“You’re such a-“ She cut herself off with a sigh and roll of Her eyes. “How would you deal with me.”

“I’m so glad you asked,” Dean drawled Her name, feeling his grin overtake his face, every bit of his confidence returning—stronger than before—as She swallowed under his gaze. “I’d deal with you however you’d like.”

She blinked at him, and he was certain Her voice was higher than before. “I don’t, um, I-“ She glanced down at his lips, Her tongue poking out between her teeth. Dean wanted to bite it. “What?”

“However you tell me to,” he winked, and She looked like he’d shot her. Good. “I’ll deal with you. My question is how?”

“How-“

“How would you like me to deal with you, Princess?” 

Dean was pushing it. Shit, he didn’t even know what he was saying anymore, or why he couldn’t bring himself to sneer at Her, or mock her, or deal with her the way Dad had definitely meant. But he did know that Her eyes were wide and blown out, and Her lips looked soft, and he wanted to know if could get Her to be speechless. To gape at him all needy and dumb, so he could show Her exactly what fire She’d been playing with. That he wouldn’t roll over like a puppy, that whatever spell She’d cast on him—whatever aphrodisiac she’d been using—Dean might not be immune, but he could give better than he got. Maybe he’d get Her to bend enough that She’d admit what she’d been doing last year, and Dean would forgive Her because he didn’t know how not to. Because She was like tattoo on his brain that he didn’t want to get rid of.

Maybe he’d get to keep Her.

Maybe they could start over.

“I…” She trailed off, and Dean wanted to smash his lips to Her slack, open ones and start over. She was still gaping at him with a wide, open expression, and fuck he wanted to start over so bad. Against every bit of willpower and intelligence he had, Dean wanted to give into this strange instinct and start over.

“C’mon.” He drawled Her name, shooting her a wink. “Use some words.”

She glared at him, something hot flashing in Her eyes. “Pass. Ask me a different question.”

Dean scoffed under, dropping his voice to under his breath. “Who’s not fun now-“

“I heard that.”

“Course you did.” He rolled his eyes. “Fine, party pooper. What do you like?” 

She blinked at him. "What do I like?"

"Like you said, sweetheart, I like cars." Dean said, trying to make his words sound casual. Like he wasn't desperate to learn everything about Her that she'd offer. "What's your thing?"

"My thing." She said slowly, still looking at Dean like he was insane. "That I like."

He nodded, watching Her carefully, and she frowned into the air as she continued. 

"I don't know. Books? Movies and music?"

Dean gave Her an amused, flat look. "C'mon, you can gimme more than that-"

"No, I can't." She snapped. She was really hot when she snapped. "Movies and music is my answer, Winchester, deal with it."

Dean drawled Her name. “Everyone likes movies and music-“ 

“That doesn’t make it any less important to me.” She said, narrowing her eyes. “How would you like it if I said everyone drives cars-“ 

Dean scoffed. “They don’t drive them like I do, Princess-“ 

“And you don’t watch movies and listen to music like I do, Deano.” 

He chuckled, raising his hands in surrender. “Alright. Point proven.” He titled his head at Her. “What’s your favorite movie?” 

She laughed. A real laugh, and it sounded like music and rain and a soft summer breeze that shot right into Dean’s blood like a drug. “It’s my question, De. But nice try.”

He grinned at Her, clicking his tongue. "Bossy-"

"Shut up." She tilted her head at him, and Dean just grinned. "What's your favorite movie?"

"Untouchables." He said with a shrug. "Your turn."

She just looked at him with a small, teasing grin, and Dean realized she was waiting for him to repeat the question.

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Fine, sweetheart. What's your favorite movie?"

Her face split into a wide, full grin, and God, he was fucked. Nothing in the world seemed to matter more than that smile, and the way it made him feel like he was circling the sun, crashing down to Earth in a ball of fire, and turning to steam as She swallowed him in her gravity. He really didn't give a shit if it was real. Maybe Dean could get himself to be bloody and bright enough to match Her, and she'd feel this too. She'd feel this, and stay, and offer an explanation about last year. An explanation that would prove it wasn't all that bad, and that She was just as fucking empty as Dean was, and he'd fill Her up-

Fuck, he couldn't think that. Not right now, when She looked like that—beautiful in a way that might be deadly—and was smiling at him, and he couldn't get a damn grip and just hate Her. He wasn't supposed to be crashing back up into Her. Dad would be so freaking disappointed that Dean was dumb enough to fall for this act again.

But he was. His jeans felt tight, he couldn't stop grinning at Her, and that siren-like voice kept Dean in her orbit, with absolutely no desire to leave.

She had a million favorite movies. And She hadn't been lying. She watched movies differently than Dean did. Differently that anyone did. He'd never heard anyone use so many big art words in a row, followed by about twenty, very creative swears at a speed he could only describe as frantic. Like if She didn't get Dean to understand exactly why Indiana Jones was the perfect adventure movie, why chick flicks had irreplaceable cultural value, and sitcoms could be the best medium of television, the world might end.

And it should be reminding him that they weren't the same. That Dean was trapped in the mud—he'd been born here, he'd die here, and he belonged here—because it was the only place for things like him. Gut covered weapons, made of rust that would crumble to dust before they made it out alive. And She was just visiting. Using the mud to make Her feel alive or important until she could return to a world of people with ivory and marble who all spoke like this. She was using Dean to do the same, maybe more. Maybe worse. Maybe trying to pry him open and steal what little he had inside him. 

But, son of a bitch, She could have it. He'd stay right here with Her for a million freaking years, just as long as She kept smiling and rambling and giggling at Dean's small jokes between Her breathes. Maybe he could take that bite out of Her. Taste sugar and fruit and whatever else he was starting crave. He could take Her flesh and blood and call it even for what She’d done, because She was still so pretty, and Dean felt like he could be valuable under Her bright attention.

He’d repay Her for that bite by offering himself. He'd be that smeared, dulled weapon for Her. He shouldn't be. Dad would kill him. But he wanted to be. He wanted to stay here forever. And when the waitress came over—with plastic tits and syrupy words—he didn't even fully realize until She cleared her throat and jerked her head to the side. Even then he just frowned at Her, a drunken trance of her voice and smile still clouding his attention, because what the hell could possibly be more interesting—more important—than listening to Her talk?

Then the waitress leaned down, almost blocking Her from view, and Dean frowned.

"What?" His voice was irritated, impatient, but he didn't really care. He needed think lady to freaking move, before She somehow vanished like a dream through Dean's fingers, and he was alone again.

"You want anythin' to drink, handsome? The waitress asked, and Dean nodded. He could use a beer—it might help dull the raging wildfire inside him, trying to tear him between his hatred of what he knew She was and the raw, feral instinct to latch onto Her and never let go—and Her glass was almost out of ice cubes. If he got Her another glass, he could keep Her here just a little longer. As long as he could.

"Beer for me," he raised two fingers, pointing between Her and himself. "Virgin Shirley Temple for the lady."

The waitress blinked at him for a second, but got the message. Dean had Her. He didn't need to company of another pretty face, because none of them could be prettier that Her's. Shit, it wasn't even a fair comparison. Leaving this booth for anything—leaving Her for anything—would be like trading a burger for a fucking salad. Insane and pointless.

When the waitress finally moved, She was gaping at him, her words suddenly soft. Almost nervous. 

"You, um-" She shook her head slightly. "Thanks."

Dean shrugged. "Not a big deal, you blew through that fancy girl drink in like a second anyway-"

"No, that's not-" She frowned at him, and Dean realized she was touching that scar again. "You remembered. That I don't drink."

"Oh." Dean stared at Her, his tongue almost glued into his mouth, his brain a little warm and soft from Her almost vulnerable gaze. "Yeah."

They were just staring at each other, and all Dean could manage to do was clear his throat, scratch the back of his neck, and force himself to speak. 

"You, uh," he swallowed, fidgeting with the cuff of his jacket. "Never mentioned why."

"Why-"

"You don't drink."

"I'm not twenty-one yet, Winchester, I don't think I-" She cut herself off, leaning a little away from Dean with a small frown. He waited, the silence resuming for a long, heavy second that sat and froze in Dean's lungs. She wasn't looking at him anymore, twisting a ring on Her finger, and when She spoke again, her voice had dropped to a mumble. "I want a clear head. It's safer."

"Safer?"

"For our job." She curled a little into herself, like Dean was trying to peel her apart. "I mean, I can't really afford to get drunk. It could end, uh, badly."

Something became sharp over Dean's skin. That wasn't it. It wasn't a lie, but Dean could read it all over Her—he wasn't sure how, but he could—that there was more to it. But that's not why there was a sore prickle rooted in his muscles. 

"Because you hunt alone."

She nodded, bringing Her knees up to her chest, and the ache worsened. 

"You could drink." He muttered, leaning back with a slight slam of his hand on the table. "If you'd hunt with a partner."

She sighed. "I'm not going to hunt with a partner-"

"Why?"

He'd snapped. He hadn't meant to, but the ache moved to his mouth and he needed Her to understand. To get that hunting alone was fucking dangerous, and would get Her killed, and he cared about that so goddamn much for no real reason. He shouldn't care. But the thought of Her covered in blood make his gut twist and his heart burn in his chest, so She needed to get it. Now.

She narrowed her eyes, finally looking at him. "Why what."

"Why won't you hunt with a partner." He grumbled, holding Her gaze. "What would make that so fucking bad, sweetheart?"

"Because, as I've told you all week, I don't need to.” Her words were firm, dropped to a hushed sneer. "Anyone else would get in my way."

"I haven't even seen you since the freaking house," Dean said Her name with a low huff. "How could that be getting in the way-"

"I'd be fucking babysitting." She hissed. "I don't need a bunch of assholes tell me what to do, how to fight, how to kill something, how to-"

"Be safe?" Dean cut Her off with a sneer. "Not act like you're too good for anyone else?"

"I never said that, you asshole." She was starting to hug herself, and Dean felt ill, but he wouldn't be the one to break. "I am not too good, I just refuse to be a little hunter fuck-doll beating bag."

Dean blinked. "What?”

She sighed in flat, unamused disbelief. "Hunter's don't have great track records with women. I mean, be fucking real, dude. It wouldn't be the monster's that kill me."

"You," he shook his head. "That's- There are assholes out there everywhere, that doesn't mean you just roll over and accept death-"

"So what should I do?" She raised Her brows. "Be your partner? Be you and your father's little fucking toy until one of you puts a bullet-"

She cut herself off, and Dean gaped at Her, fire crawling over his veins.

"I-" She swallowed, and Dean wished he didn't give a fuck how She suddenly seemed so small. "I'm-"

"Do you seriously believe," Dean muttered, unsure if the fire in his voice was for himself, Dad, or how She looked like a wounded animal. "That we'd- Shit, are you fucking kidding me-"

"It's- I-"

"Save it," He snapped. "We are not killers or fucking savage trash-"

"That's not-"

"You listen to me, Princess-"

"No! I just-" She sounded panicked. Cornered. "I’m sorry, I didn't mean it like that, it's complicated-"

He scoffed. "Not that complicated, sweetheart, you think I'm just as bad as that shit we hunt-"

"No I don't-"

"You do," he hissed Her name. "Drop the act. And, just so we're clear, I'd never hurt you-"

She laughed, shaking Her head. "You can't be fucking serious. That’s-“ She tensed, her face twisting slightly as she scratched at Her skin. "You don't get to tell me what I should and shouldn't do, Winchester. You don't get to act like you give a fuck if I hunt alone."

Dean's hand curled into a fist. "Nobody should hunt alone, it's, fuck, it's stupid-"

"I am not stupid-"

Dean huffed a dry laugh. "I got that, Princess. But you know what? I think," he leaned forward, letting the words fall out of his mouth before he could think about them. Before he could stop them. "That you're just too much of a crazy bitch to have anyone stick around."

It was silent, and She was just staring at him, her features moving through a million emotions that Dean couldn't understand. He'd won. She looked like he'd taken a knife right to Her heart, and she wasn't fighting back, so he'd won. And he couldn't fucking breathe. He felt sick, and faint, and freaking awful-

"Choke on my dick, Winchester.” She snapped, but there was something weaker in Her voice. Something that told Dean he’d hit on something fragile. That he was a piece of fucking shit that went for the killing blow because he couldn't help it. Because he was the very fucking, lower-than-the-sewers trash She'd just accused him of being-

He opened his mouth to say something, anything, to take it back or say they'd both gone too far, and he felt like shit and still wanted—despite literally everything—to start over. To at least ask Her to tell him the truth, to at least tell Her how hating her like this made him feel wrong-

But She was gone. She'd left the booth and stomped out the door before Dean could even make a sound, and he just goddamn sat there. She wouldn't come back, but he was still just sitting there. Dad was probably waiting for him, ready to demand a reason why he'd taken so long, but Dean still just sat there. Shit, they might have a poltergeist to deal with, but Dean wasn't freaking moving.

What finally got him was the waitress, making her way back to the table and saying some snide comment about his girlfriend not appreciating him. Dean didn't even spare the woman a look as he shot up, shoved past her, and marched out into the parking lot to find Dad and get the hell out of here. If Dad asked, Dean would say he'd taken care of it. Not of Her—She'd looked like he'd torn Her to shreds with his teeth—but the situation. She'd probably be gone by morning, not wanting to be anywhere near two mud and gut covered hunters. Near Dean.

Dad was still on the phone when Dean saw the Impala. Sitting in the front seat with a frown, the windows rolled down to combat the flat heat of air, speaking in a low, gruff voice to whoever was on the other end of the line.

"I don't care," he was muttering as Dean approached, his voice carried on the wind. "I can get the asshole no problem, Bobby, the poltergeist ain't my issue."

It was a poltergeist. If Bobby said it was a poltergeist, it was a poltergeist. She'd been right. And as Dean got closer, Dad obviously couldn't see him in the shadows, so he should probably say something to alert Dad that he was here

"Obviously it's the fuckin' girl." Dad snapped, and Dean froze. "Shit, she just shows up again? On another weird fuckin' case, bein' right about what it is, sinkin' her claws into Dean-"

Dad stopped talking—Bobby was probably saying something Dean couldn't hear—and Dean's breathing was shallow. He shouldn't be eavesdropping. Dad would kill him, and he just shouldn't. He trusted Dad, and if this wasn't something Dad wanted to hear, it wasn't something he had to hear. But She hadn't sunken Her claws into him. She'd just scratched him over his brain and scarred him, but Dad couldn't see that. She just haunted him, and drove him mad, and made him want to-

"She's the one Dean's obsessed with."

Dean frowned. He was not obsessed with Her. 

"She's a hunter alright. That moroi case me and the boys worked-" There was a small pause. "Yeah, moroi. Freakin' nasty little vampire baby shits. She-" Dad huffed, and Dean could hear the muffled sound of Bobby's voice. It sounded urgent. 

Then Dad said Her full name into the speaker, and Dean could hear his frown. "You heard of her, Bobby?"

Bobby must have said no—there was no reason for him to know Her—but whatever he did say made Dad's hands grip the wheel with white knuckles.

"The hell you mean you have to go- Bobby-" John groaned, the click of his phone being closed snapping through the air and Dean swallowed. The call was over. Time to pretend he wasn’t a piece of fucking shit that had been invading Dad's privacy.

Dean moved out of the shadows and opened the car door, Dad barely waiting for him to be seated before he started talking.

"We got a poltergeist." He grunted, turning on the engine. "Let's go."

Dean blinked. "Go? Like, now?"

"Damn right, now." Dad shot him a raised brow. "Why, you fuckin' waiting for somethin'-"

"No, sir." Dean shook his head, and Dad nodded, still watching him carefully.

"You take care of the girl?"

"Uh, yeah." Dean hated that the words tasted rotten in his mouth. "She's gone."

Dad nodded. "Remember, son. No pair of tits are worth more-"

"Then family." Dean finished. He'd heard that sentence enough to recite it in his sleep. It didn't matter. She didn't matter. Dean felt like a fucking asshole, but She didn't matter. "I know, Dad."

"Good." Dad muttered, pulling out of the lot. "Let's kill this fuckin' poltergeist and get the hell out of here."

—————————

Bobby doesn't know you're here. He thinks you're in Louisiana still, dealing with the kelpie.

You're not. You're in Illinois. Trying something on a poltergeist.

You'll tell him when you get home. Explain that you'd just wanted to test your ghost ritual again, and if you'd told that him before, he would've snapped that testing that stuff was dangerous, and the thing had already worked once, so there wasn't any goddamn reason to risk it again. 

And he was right. The rituals and spell and curses that had started to come to you in the dead of night—when it was just you and the White in the world, and the darkness became consuming—weren’t exactly safe to test on hunts. Not because of the rituals themselves, but because of the exposure. The danger of using magic where you could be discovered by another hunter. But you had to test them. You didn't know where they were coming from or how to stop them, but they always worked. You wake up and know that, if you said all these words and mixed these things together, you could make a veil between dead spirits and the living. A barrier that didn't kill the ghosts, but stopped them. A blockade that could be torn down, but bought you plenty of time and minimized any casualties. 

It was why Bobby wasn't stopping you. He insisted you stay far away from other hunters, and update him after every test to make sure you hadn't blown yourself up or worse, but he wasn't trying to hold you back. Convince you to just drown in the darkness until it eroded the White, and you lost control forever. But he still wouldn't be happy about the second test. And you could've justified it by pointing out that this was actually a poltergeist, so you'd had to figure out how to alter the ritual, but then you saw the Winchester's Impala in your motel parking lot. 

Which meant this it would be stupid to keep working the case. It meant you were in danger, because they were probably hunting the same poltergeist you were trying to do magical experiments on. 

Worse, it meant Dean was here.

And you're going to fucking scream.

He'd never left your brain. You haven't stopped moving, you never stop moving, but Dean has followed you everywhere. Into your head every second, still circling around his handsome face and pretty face and beautiful smile. Into the darkness when it started to slip out of you, fueled by an echo of unworthy and sick, edged with the phantom feeling of his body at your side.

He was in countless, lonely motel beds where you looked to the side and expected him to be there. He was on the curb when you were covered in grime and monster guts, and you looked up to find the shadow above you only a shadow. He was in your bag, because you’d never thrown out his shirt. It didn’t smell like him anymore—he was there too, in wet grass in the spring and the spice of cheap aftershave on a man in a bar—but you were still holding onto it. Holding onto Dean.

You weren’t sure what could make you let go. You’d even started to fish for information about him from Bobby with careful questions about the Winchesters. What they usually hunted, so you could avoid them. What Sam and Dean were like, in case you ever ran into them, so you’d know what to expect. If they always hunted with John, or if they ever went off on their own. Bobby would always give you a strange look and a short answer—whatever they ran into, they’re good boys in the same shit situation as every other hunter, and John never let them hunt alone—but you’d pieced more from what you already knew. Sam hated hunting, and Dean loved it, their relationship with John was complicated—you could’ve gotten that one yourself—and Dean was what Bobby called eager with women.

He slept around. He’d probably been trying to sleep with you, and given up when he realized that you weren’t easy. That you were tired and rough and so, so angry all the time. That you might be beautiful, but the same was a thunderstorm is beautiful. The same was a statue is beautiful.

Something you shouldn’t touch. Something you shouldn’t try to hold, even for a night.

Something that wasn’t worth Dean Winchester time. Something he’d seen, turned away from, and then left you. He’d left you because he’d seen you for what you were, and he hadn’t wanted anything from you in the first place, but he’d still fucking left you. And you hated him for that, because you’d been ready to offer him whatever he wanted. Against all reason and logic and caution, you’d wanted him more than you could describe. 

And against all your willpower, you couldn’t let go of him. Because you’d seen the Impala in the parking lot—the one you’d been searching for on every highway, in every small town and city—and the force of Dean is here had hit you like a hurricane. Everything had felt so fucking big, and you couldn’t hold onto the darkness in your body as your breathing became heavy and you attempted to keep yourself together. Nails digging into your skin as the wind howled through your room, the peeled paint on the walls cowering from you as your attention became vigilant, everything crashing back down into you when you bit down, and a lightbulb shattered across the room.

You’d avoided him. You’d hidden in crowds on the street when you saw him, and ducked behind shelves when he entered the corner store. You’d kept your shades angled so you could see the parking lot, and pushed down the way the White howled at the sight of him coming and going. You’d planned to handle the hunt in silence, and then just go.

The house owner was a sweet hippy who agreed to let you do the ritual when you told her she had the aura of a swan. You’d give it a few days after to ensure the barrier could hold, get rid of the poltergeist for good, and then leave without the Winchester’s ever even knowing you were here.

Then you’d seen Dean in the woods, and you couldn’t resist talking to him. He’d seen you anyway, so there wasn’t anything left to lose. And he’d still been so pretty, and your knees still felt weak, and the White still whined for him no matter how much of a dick he was being. It was insufferable, you’d left with darkness eating at your blood, and you’d looked back. You couldn’t stop looking back. Every time you had run on the street you’d turned around to see if he was frowning in adorable confusion around the busy sidewalks. When he was in the parking lot you’d checked to see if he was still pretty, even though you knew he would be. Of course he would be. He was an asshole like that. 

You’d looked back outside of the poltergeist house because you had to. You had to see if he was real or just another flickering dream, and you couldn’t resist the desire to see him—staring at you on the street and suffocating you with that same smell from last year—one more time. It’s why you hadn’t skipped town right after. It’s why you’d stayed so long in the bar. You just fucking had to. You could fight against his winks and grins and smooth words, making you smile when you hated him, making you laugh when you should’ve been running. It had seemed—for whatever strange reason—that Dean hadn’t told John you were here, but he definitely knew now, and you were certainly in very real danger. But Dean had carved you open again, and you’d stayed in that stupid booth until he’d given you a good reason to leave.

And it was a great reason. It would’ve been kinder to shoot you in the temple than say that. At least he would’ve killed you, and you wouldn’t have had to wage this war in your body. The war between your hatred of him, and how you want to go back. He’s such a fucking asshole, but you still want to turn around and go back. To ask him why he left, why he cares, how he seems to know your every raw nerve and if he's still feels this too. If he felt it before. 

You don't really want to know that last one. Because if he felt it before, that means he felt it and left. That he can feel it now and hates you for it. 

Because he does hate you. If it wasn't in his words, it was all over his face. How he’d laughed like you were just a silly little girl. How he’d looked right into you like he could see the darkness. How he’d grinned at you like a wolf, like he wanted to rip you apart. He sees what you are, and he despises it.

And you were fine with that. You despise him. He was an arrogant, smug, dickish, charming, controlling, annoying, handsome, caring, selfish, funny, sexy, adorable, funny, strong, sweet-

God fucking damnit. He was an asshole. He'd left you, he hated you, and you wouldn't fall for the cowboy-in-shining-leather thing again. You were going to take care of this poltergeist now, and leave town right after. Dean and John could be here another week trying to figure out if it was even dead for all you cared. You just had to go. Before this all got worse.

You've barely parked when your phone starts to buzz. You don’t look at the contact when you decline it—you don’t have the time—but then it just starts buzzing again. 

It’s Bobby.

You still don’t answer. If he’s in danger, he wouldn’t call you. If it’s an urgent question, he can handle it himself. If it’s a non-urgent question, he can wait for this to be done. If he was dying-

You almost pick up the phone. The thought flashes through your brain, a small stone grows in your throat, and you reach for the phone with a frantic movement. You’re about the dial him back when the first message comes through, and you sigh in relief.

You better call me back now, kid, we need to talk.

Not dying. Can be dealt with later. You’ll call him back when you’re done, because this will be quick, and you’ll get through it. You always do.

You’d convinced the homeowner to get out of town for a few days, to stay with her sister until you were done. The purification ritual was in the trunk of your latest stolen car—you’d meddled with the ingredients, giving it an extra kick—and this would be quick. 

There’s no blur as you start. You’re alert for your barrier to break—keeping in iron poker in your hands—but there’s no disturbance, so you just go through the motions. The basement is finished in five minutes, the first floor in ten, and you’ve only got two bags left when glass shatters downstairs, and the blur starts to cloud your head. Something cracked in the ritual, maybe because you’re almost done, but now you have to fight-

“Dean, you got the guns?”

You freeze as John Winchester’s voice sounds from down the stairs, and everything becomes too sharp. There’s a creaking sound from downstairs, the darkness is starting to spread up your spine and over the white popcorn ceilings of the house, you’re fucked, and the White is reaching out to-

“I got it, Dad, but I thought poltergeists-“

“Son of a bitch wants attention.” John snaps over Dean, and you might crush the bag in your hand. “We’re gonna give him some until he shows himself, and we find the asshole’s remains and burn them.”

This is bad. That’s not how poltergeists work at all—you’re a little shocked John thinks it is—and they’re going to fuck up your barrier, and you can’t tell them they’ll fuck up the barrier or John will turn one of those guns on you-

“Is the hippy chick home?” Dean asks, snapping you out of your panic as the White howls inside you. “I can deal with her while you take care of-“

“No need. Car ain’t in the driveway.” There’s a pause, and you can hear them shuffling downstairs. “Plus I know how you deal with the vics, Dean. We don’t need that right now.”

Something’s bitter in your mouth that has no right to be there, and no right to vanish at Dean’s grumbled words.

“I didn’t mean it like that, Dad-“

“I don’t care how you meant it. Focus up so we can get this shit done.”

There’s another few muffled sounds, an unmistakable click of a gun, and you’re moving before you think better of it. 

“Stop!” You’re almost shrieking—dropping the poker and shoving your last two bags into your pockets as you run down the stairs—and barely stop your body from colliding with Dean’s in the entrance hallway.

“What the fuckin’ hell are you doin’?!“ John’s roar makes you flinch, his rifle aimed right at your head. You take a stumbling step back as darkness wraps around your hands and your heart kicks into a rapid, frantic rhythm you can hear in your ears. John can see you. He’s going to kill you. You going to die, and they’ll burn your body, and shit you never called Bobby but the darkness is going to burst out of you and John’s going to kill you-

A hand steadies you by your shoulders, grass and spice and leather ease the darkness down, and you wish you didn’t relax into the warmth of behind you, that the pretty, rolling voice a little over your head didn’t soothe your panic.

“Woah, Dad, it’s just-“ Dean says your name, and John scoffs, not lowering his gun.

“I know who it is, Dean, that ain’t my issue.” John’s eyes narrow on you, hatred painted all over his face. It’s worse than Dean’s somehow. There’s something pure about it, like John didn’t have to look into you to see what an atrocity you are. He just senses it. “Why the fuck are you here, girl.”

“I’m hunting my poltergeist.” You snap, forcing your voice to sound angry and not terrified, your face to be a mask of annoyed and not painted in dread. “What possible other reason could I have.”

“Could be looking at real estate.” Dean mumbles with a shrug, and he’s still touching you. You can’t help but glance back as you jerk away from him, and the expression on his face is unreadable. Guarded but cautious, like when he’d watched you and John snap at each other in the booth. Like he’s waiting for a bomb to go off. “I hear this is a good neighborhood.”

You give him a flat look. “This house is haunted.”

He shoots you a wink, clearly fueled by you not just ignoring him. “Won’t once we’re done with it-“

“Once I’m done with it.” You narrow your eyes at him. “This is my hunt, Winchester. I was here first.”

“Poltergeists don’t respect dibs, Princess.” Dean snaps. “And you don’t even have a freakin’ gun.”

“I don’t need a gun-“

Dean lets out a dry, shouting laugh. “I take back what I said earlier, you are stupid if you’re about to try and kill this thing without a freakin’ gun-“

“You’re stupid if you think I’m just going to let you fuck this up-“

“We’re saving your ass from getting whacked by a poltergeist, some gratitude might be nice-“

“You’re getting in my fucking way-“

“You’re-“

“Enough!” John’s shouts over Dean, and you both freeze. You hadn’t realized you’d been shouting, or how close Dean had gotten. You can see his every freckle, every shade of green in his eyes, how his lips are slightly parted so his breath fans over your face-

“I don’t want you two talkin’ unless it’s telling me where the poltergeist is.” John hisses, and you force your body away from Dean’s. “We’re killin’ this thing right fuckin’ now, got it?”

Dean nods, bowing his head slightly, and you just glare at John. All you have to do is get upstairs place the last two bags, and you’ll be fine. If agreeing to work with them does that, you’ll do it.

You split up. John goes to the basement, Dean takes the first floor, you rush upstairs. The bags are in your pants, and you’re so close, but John and Dean are waving around guns and talking about ganking the poltergeist, and it can definitely fucking hear them. The paintings shake on the walls as the temperature drops, and it’s trying break through. You get the first bag just as the lights begin to flicker, and you sprint down the hall to the last wall. Just one more and it will be done, and you can leave-

“Fuck-“ Dean shouts right as you reach the spot, and your blood goes cold. “Dad! It’s on me- shit-“ 

Then he roars your name, and you’re moving before you can think. Grabbing the poker, half-falling down the stairs, and reaching Dean just as his gun is yanked out of his hands by nothing at all. His eyes widen as they meet your, his mouth opens to say something and-

“Dean!” You can barely hear your own scream as he flies across the room, his head knocking on the counter. 

His body slumps, and you’re not in a blur. This is a rush. Everything is wide around you, there’s an airy chill in your lungs, and the darkness is pouring out of you as the lights grow too bright and the windows bang on a windless night. The darkness starts to ignite over your hands—a phantom flame you’re not sure is real, burning and stinging at your skin—you whirl around, and, on instinct alone, shove the air. There’s a high, shrill, horrible sound of pain as the air goes up in flames, and then it all comes down. The room grows warm, the house goes quiet, and the darkness returns to you without a fight.

And Dean’s still slumped on the floor. 

“Dean!” You fall to your knees at his side—rolling his face to the side, grabbing his hand to take a pulse—and only notice John as he silently joins you, taking Dean’s face between his hands with a set jaw. 

You don’t know how long he’s been there.

You don’t know what he saw.

“What the hell-“

“Poltergeist.” You whisper, watching John examine Dean’s head. “Threw him across the room.”

John scowls. “You just let this shit happen-“

“I didn’t- I got the asshole.” You hiss, clawing at the skin near your nail until it stings. “House purification ritual, which I was already doing before! Nothing would’ve happened at all if you didn’t jump in with fucking guns-“

“Just-“ John raises his hand, and you fall silent. You’re still holding Dean’s hand. You don’t let it go.

“He’s okay.” You mumble, mostly for yourself. Mostly to fight the bile in your throat at the sight of him, sweaty and pale, not bleeding but moving, eyes fluttering but not waking up. “He’s gonna be okay.”

You almost miss John’s strange look. You almost forget about the axe over your head, and how he might know what you are. All you can really think about is Dean. You barely hear John order you to stay here while he grabs the car, and it feels a little pointless. You would’ve stayed here no matter what. 

He’s groaning. Dean keeping making low noises of pain, and his hand keeps flexing in yours, but he’s breathing. Shallow breathes, but he’s breathing. And he’ll be okay. He has to be okay. It’s just a Poltergeist, not even a strong one, and he’s young and strong, and he’ll be okay. Your breathing has become a little uneven, and you can feel the White rioting and bellowing inside you as he shudders slightly, but he’ll be okay. You won’t let him not be. He feels clammy when you press your hand to his brow—your fingers brush his hair, and it’s soft, and that’s not important but you’re going to think about it for a million years—so you shrug off your own jacket and toss it over his body. He’s still holding onto you, so you don’t drop his hand. When John gets back you loop his arm over your shoulders, your own arm around his waist, and haul his dead-weight up until John grabs the other side. 

When you reach the Impala—you working in silence with John to slide him carefully into the backseat—he clings to you. John drops his arm and it shoots over your stomach, his head falling onto your chest as he makes another low grunt of pain. And there’s such little color on his face, and he’s still shuddering when you move the jacket back over him, and you could fix this. You’ve never healed anyone before, but you could. You can feel the darkness moving into the tips of your fingers and over your heart as Dean takes a stuttered breath, and you have to-

“Get out.”

You look up and find that John has walked around the car and opened your door. “I-“

“Leave.” John grunts, not even sparing you glance as he speaks. “Now.”

You shake your head, and it’s a weak movement. There’s that feral instinct of survive still in your bones, but it’s not bigger than Dean. Nothing’s bigger than Dean. “No, I-“

“I ain’t askin’-“

“It’s not up to you-“

“My car. My rules.” John’s words sound pushed through his teeth. “Out.”

“I,” you swallow, glancing back down to Dean. “I could help-“

“You’ve done enough.“

“I could fix him!” You shout, and your sounds pleading. You feel like you’re pleading. It’s pathetic, and you don’t care because Dean makes a low, strained noise and you feel like you’re choking. “I could-“

“Listen to me very fuckin’ closely.” John sneers your full name, finally lowering down to meet your gaze. “The out of my fuckin’ car, and stay the hell away from my son. I don’t need you fixin’ him, because he’s not broken, and if he was the last thing he needs is some high horse brat making him weak.”

There’s a high ringing in your ears, and your voice is soft. “I-“

“He’d be fine if you hadn’t interfered with our work.” John snaps. “You’re out of your little pond, girl, and if I ever see you distractin’ Dean or fuckin’ with his brain again, I’ll put a bullet in yours. Got it?”

You nod, something vast and numb spreading over your chest as you carefully climb out of the car—making sure not to disturb Dean, or make his head worse—and leave John without another word. But you look back. You can’t help yourself from turning and watching the Impala pull away, from digging your nails into your skin as you cling to yourself until their headlights vanish around a corner. 

You’re already packed. Everything’s in your car—clothing, tools, books, makeup and hygiene products, first aid kit—and you could just drive out of town, but you don’t. You toss the last purification ritual bag into the truck, sit behind the wheel, just stare into the darkness.

You need to call Bobby. You need to go. John wouldn’t kill you with an injured Dean to care for, but he’d seen. He had to have seen. And not leaving now would be a death sentence. 

But you just sit in the car. Sit in the cancerous darkness that’s alight in your body, the image of Dean’s pained features burned into your eyes, flashing in front of you whenever you blink. All that boiling hatred for Dean is gone. Evaporated into thin air, leaving you ill and pained and empty. John was right. You hadn’t been fast enough, and Dean got hurt. Your barrier against the poltergeist made it violent, and Dean got hurt. You’re the sick one. It’s why he left to begin with. 

He was better for it. He didn’t need you—no one needed you—and John’s threat hadn’t been empty, so you need to drive away and never look back.

And yet you end up in the motel parking lot. Hunched in your seat as you wait for just a little proof that Dean’s okay. That you hadn’t held him and shattered him, like he’d shattered you. You’re there until the sun breaks the sky, until it’s beating over your head and you have to crack the windows. 

You’re there when your phone starts to ring, and you realize you’d forgotten to call Bobby.

You’ve barely picked up when he starts shouting, and you flinch away from the speaker. 

He uses your full name. First, middle, and Singer. He only uses your full name when he’s proud of you, or furious. And this feels more like the latter. You’re in trouble.

“You wanna tell me,” he hisses. “Why John fuckin’ Winchester knows who you are?”

“I, uh-” You swallow, twisting a ring with your thumb. “I don’t-“

“And I ain’t gonna buy your bullshit, kid, that shit doesn’t work on me.”

You sigh. “Bobby, look-“

“No, you look. I didn’t teach you to be a goddamn idjit dumbass,” he snaps your name, and you curl a little further into your seat. “You know what he’d do to ya’. Shit, what are you plannin’ on doin’ if you have a slip? If he sees that hoodoo shit happen?”

“Um, he might have already seen it.”

There’s silence on the other end for a long second, then a low, “What.”

“We just finished a poltergeist case.” You mumble, hoping he’s too angry to catch onto the why are you on a poltergeist case part. “And it attacked Dean. And I killed it.”

Bobby says your name slowly. “How the hell did ya’ kill a-“

“With my hands. I just, um, burned it.” You take a long breath. “And I think John saw.”

“And he just let ya’ off the fuckin’ hook-“

“Dean got hurt.” You whisper, and the words sting your tongue. “He was focused on that.”

“Balls.” Bobby mutters, and you can picture the frown on his face. “Well, you’re outta there now, we can-“

“No.” You sigh. “I can’t go, I have to-“ You cut yourself off, because it sounds stupid in your head. You do not have to make sure Dean’s okay. He hates you, everything logical in your brain says that you should be remembering how to hate him any time soon, and he’s not yours tocare about. John made that clear with his threat. Dean made it clear by leaving. But you’re still in the parking lot. And you still have to make sure Dean’s okay.

Bobby says your name through the phone, his voice slow. “You gonna tell me what happened last year. On that moroi hunt.”

“I ran into the Winchesters-“

“I ain’t slow, kid, I worked that part out. What happened that made you call me and flop around the house like a widowed fish for a week.”

You bring your knees up to your chest, shaking your head. “It’s… I can’t-“

“What if I ask if that was Dean’s shirt.” Bobby grunts. “That you were wearin’.”

“Yeah.” You drop your head back on the seat, letting out a heavy exhale. “It-“ 

You freeze, watching Dean finally step outside like he’s been summoned. He’s walking slowly, but walking, and he seems really okay, and he’s looking around the parking lot with a frown-‘

Shit.

You drop down in your seat, out of the view of the parking lot, and pray he didn’t see you.

“Bobby, I gotta-“

“You ain’t goin’ anywhere, we still got some shit to sort out-“

“I’ll come right home.” You keep your voice hushed, in case it could carry on the wind. “And you can yell at me there.”

Bobby sighs. “I wasn’t gonna yell-“

“Yeah you were-“

“No-“

“Lying is a sin, Bobby.” You smile, carefully pulling the car keys out of your jacket. “You’re not a very good role model-“

“Well, I’m gonna fuckin’ yell at ‘ya now!” He snaps, but you can hear the slight amusement in his voice. “Get home quick, and we’ll deal with this. John don’t know you’re with me, and unless Dean needs a week after your hunt-“

“I think he’s fine.” You mumble, craning your head up to see Dean gone from the lot. “I’ll be safe at home.”

“Not if I kill ya’ for pullin’ this shit on an old man.” Bobby grunts, and you grin he falls silent, a long moment of static before- “You okay, kiddo?”

“I’m okay.” You mumble, and you’re not, but you will be. You always are. “And I’m really sorry for-“

“Apologizin’ ain’t gonna help us,” Bobby mutters. “Get home, and keep outta trouble till we sort this.”

You nod. “I will.”

You’ll try. Dean’s still pulling at you in your chest and consuming your head, but you’ll try. If only for Bobby’s sanity, you’ll really try.

You’ll pretend you don’t stay in the lot for a minute longer to watch Dean walk back to his room, that you don’t glance back at the room as you drive away, and you’ll keep yourself away of trouble. 

Away from Dean.

End Note: I’d say this story is about to be John vs Bobby on who’s a better dad, but that would be like making a mouse (John) fight a dragon (Bobby).

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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[josgalaxy]

MY PERSONAL RANKING OF BALDUR'S GATE 3 COMPANIONS FROM WORST TO BEST (spoiler alert!!!)

Of course this is just my humble and personal opinion, let me know if you agree! Trigger warning, I have a lot to say:

11. The Emperor

I know he's not technically a companion, but let's be honest, he is with Tav since day one. Let's just say this one is a shady bitch. From the get go I didn't trust the Emperor, and going forward with the game my suspicions were confirmed. Not only he literally exploited everyone that could help him reach his goals, but he shows no true loyalty to anyone but to himself.

Proof that the Emperor is just a gaslighting bastard: 1. Lied to the whole party by changing his appearence to seem more trustworthy 2. Killed his dragon bestie Ansur that was just trying to find a cure for him. 3. Kept a Gith prince imprisoned to exploit his power and was willing to eat his brains out to get more powerful. 4. Tried to sleep with Tav and secure their trust (btw, a kinky bitch). 5. LITERALLY SIDED WITH THE BIG BAD NETHERBRAIN as soon as Tav was not okay being manipulated anymore (like babygirl, you spent the entire game telling me we had to kill that thing and now you're ending up siding with it? Excuse me??)

So, yes, The Emperor deserves to rot and I was very happy to fry that calamari.

10. Minsc (and Boo)

So, I haven't played bg2, so I don't have that kind of attachment to the old characters. I don't mind that he is juts this brainless hunk, and I like the fact that he carries a cute hamster with him. He kinda reminds me of Kronk, and I love Kronk so he gets a few points for that. But other than some muscles, dumb jokes, and Boo, what else is there?

Let's just say that he made me smile a couple of times, but I got bored of him (but not the hamster) almost instantly.

9. Jaheira

Same here folks, I appreciate Jaheira but I don't feel that attached to her as the rest of the companions (probably because of the fact that she and Minsc are introduced in the game quite late). I mean, you get this badass milf Elf (mother is mothering) that can turn into a panther and has a cute accent... how can you not like her? But do I find her as interesting as other chatacters in the game? Not really.

I would probably share a drink with the tho, to hear all the stories from back in her day.

8. Wyll

Before any of you come for me for putting The Blade of the Frontier this low, let me explain. I like Wyll, I like the fact that he is a dancer, he's romantic, and that his main goal is to help people. I mean, he made a pact with a literal devil to save his city! Don't get me wrong, I think I would be friends with him irl, but as for character growth and depth, I think he passes off to be more bland than the rest of the companions, probably for his too goody two shoes attitude.

Let's just say if he was a spice, he would be flour. Sorry.

7. Minthara

You see, a long time ago my first playthrough, when I met Minty, I seriously contemplated killing all the Tieflings just to be with her. This is just to let you have an idea of the hold this woman has on me. HAVE YOU SEEN HER? Apart from being a hottie, and incredibly useful in combat as a paladin, she is hilarious without even trying. When you see an [ ! ] over her head you know for a fact she is about to tell something UNHINGED. I'm gagging.

Anyway, just so you know I haven't sacrified the tieflings to recruit her. I'm not a monster. I simply knocked mommy out and found her in Moonrise Towers.

6. Lae'zel

I believe Giths and Drows are quite similar: they both crave violence and see any kind of kindness and compassion as weaknesses. But what makes Lae'zel a better character than Minthara, is the fact that she evolves from her prejudices and violence, while the drow doesn't. She starts off as this ruthless and closeminded character, but later on she learns to challenge authority and her tyrant, save her people, find compassion in others and fall in love.

I think her romance is one of the best ones in the game. It starts off as a simple one night stand where she tries to dominate you, pure physical, but then she starts to soften and open up to Tav. I mean the rooftop scene where she calls you Source of my Joy?? Sounds more like Bae'zel to me.

5. Gale of Waterdeep

To be honest, Gale is literally my type irl: a hot scruffy nerd whose ideal Saturday night is reading a book and drinking some wine in front of the fireplace. Also, he has a cat! He is a bit of yapper, I know, but I find him quite charming, even though he eats magical boots from time to time in order not to explode and kill everyone in the vicinity

I believe Gale had the potential to be a heart-throb, but the only thing that gave me the ick about him, was the fact that he is too obsessed with his ex! I get it, she is the goddess of magic, but that doesn't change the fact the she literally groomed him since he was a child. He was willing to go full Manhattan Project just to get her approval. You are cute magic man, but you need to get over your ex.

4. Halsin

May the Oakfather protect me. He is such a dreamboat. He is kind and forgiving with everyone, loves animal and nature - duh, is great with kids, and let's not forget he is absolutely gigantic (points for him). He even carves out a wooden duck for you at the end, so cute! I love the fact that he knows his boundaries and is particularly attentive to respect everyone, like when he flirts with Tav but will wait for them to speak with their partner in order to have an open relationship.

I know he may not have the same depth some other characters have, but who cares?? Teddy Bear over here is fine as he is. What can I say, I'm a sucker for big men that try to be gentle.

3. Shadowheart

Shar's favourite Princess is one of my favourite characters in the game. She starts off as being wary and skeptical about Tav, but she quickly opens up as soon as one shows her kindness. Which is heartbreaking since she led her life following the Lady of Loss, hence without any kindness or compassion. Her backstory is particulary well made, so that you can truly see her growth: from standoffish, she ends up being such a goofy and sweet character. From putting all her faith in a goddess that has literally taken everything from her, she then learns how to discover herself and prioritise her feelings for the first time. I love that for her.

She is quite frustraing sometimes since she keeps missing in combat, but we love our emo babygirl anyway.

2. Astarion

So, the only reason I didn't put Astarion in first place, is because I know for a fact that in real life I would LOATHE the man. But we're not irl, so his gaslighting and manipulative tricks are overshadowed by his witty answers, his flirtatious expressions and the incredible velvety voice of his (thanks Neil Newbon). And to think that I thought I had successfully avoided the Vampire phase... well, I hadn't met this diva right here.

His backstory is one of the most heartbreaking, and with the right choices, I believe he can grow more than any other companion, which is why he is such a fan favourite among the fans. He starts off as being a vain and manipulative twink, but as you get to know of his past and the horrible things he has been through, you realise he is simply a victim that doesn't know any better.

I just love his confession scene to Tav: "I had a nice, simple plan - seduce you and manipulate your feelings. All you had to do was fall for it. And all I had to do was not fall for you... which is where my nice simple plan fell apart." EXCUSE ME?? WHAT ARE WE TALKING ABOUT??

1. Karlach

She's an icon, she's a legend, and she is the moment.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Karlach officially is the most likable companion of this messy rank. From the first moment you meet her, it's so difficult not to fall in love with this fireball of energy and kindness. Her backstory is probably the saddest of them all: a hopeful kid that gets betrayed and forced to live with a deadly engine that will one day burn her from the inside, like a tragic metaphor for an illness.

She is also smocking hot (and not just because she is literally burning), I mean, the tats, the muscles, the badass hair and half horn?? Child, she ate and left no crumbs. She is a total smokeshow, and despite her bubbly personality she is not afraid to be a bit sexy and flirtatious. Can we talk about the: "I wanna ride you 'till you see stars" YES MA'AM, PLEASE MA'AM.

But in spite of everything bad that has happened to her, Karlach is always smiley, loves her friends deeply and uses every moment to be a goofball and dance around. She is too pure for this world, which is why you feel that her horrible fate is particularly unfair to someone like Karlach. To be honest, her scene in the harbour after defeating the brain is heartbreaking.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

So folks, here it is my personal ranking from least to most likable companions of Baldur's Gate 3.

Let me know what do you think!

[captainpondlilly]

Okay! The Gilear plush has arrived. This is my best attempt at all of his lines. Two have been unintelligible to me, and several are pretty long and fast which made it hard to follow.

My search history is.. hospitals near me, foot stuck in object, head stuck in object

You're low, he's low, It's Gilear's day baby!*

A guy on the street kicked me in the nuts as hard he could

I don't like "lunchlad"

Help me to understand what I have done to deserve this

My horoscope says "today is a good day to die motherfucker"

I ate a quick cup of yogurt on the way over here to bolster my spirits after I changed, I'm ever so sorry

What do you mean "When" life gives you lemons

I went to apply for the guidance counselor position but I was usurped by a drug dealing werewolf named Jawbone

In my haste to put the armor on I buckled the leg plate and think I clipped the tip of my penis against one of the leg plates and Everytime I move it feels like it might fall off so I ASSURE you demon I have no pride to speak of!

In highschool I was voted "Most Likely To Get Pushed Out Of A Tree"

My car was repossessed by the ride share app that I was working for

It's actually a good thing that no one came to my birthday party because the bounce house flooded and was swept out to sea

I just discovered that *all* of my emails have been going to everyone's spam

Unfortunately I have been banned from that hot air balloon service not because of anything that happened to me in particular but the guys who run it just sort of know my whole deal

Mmm this yogurt tastes like *potatoes*

I asked the woman at Home Depot why my plants kept dying and she said it seemed like they were reaching away from the sun

I've found out recently that one of my shoes is so filled with mildew because a pipe in my bedroom is leaking and I've developed a fungal infection in my foot which I didn't know was possible for elves to get

I don't think that I've ever "Peaked" in that we started neutral and have been going downhill ever since

I am currently trapped in a storm drain. The bottom half of me is above the ground, the other is below

Another Own Goal for Gilear Faeth, yes

Everyone knows you eat 7 spiders in your sleep every year, but I have a bunch coming into me the backway

My sandcastle I'm afraid was destroyed, as I was about to finish it, the tide came in and with it a man holding a bazooka who shot me and killed me

I know you're not going to believe this but Ive just been kicked by a snake

I found out the hard way that people can legally reject status as an emergency contact

The title of my autobiography is going to be Gilear Faeth: Please Stop

On my way here I was carrying a large bowl of Italian wedding soup which shattered on the ground in front of me and several of the small pasta balls rolled through the cracks and alerted vermin to my presence. I've since learned after a trip to the hospital I am deathly allergic to the sting of millipedes which is a way of me saying I need someone to come down to the hospital and pay for this. There is a doctor holding a gun to my head and now that I think about it this clinic is in the back of a storage unit and I think have gone to the wrong place

he said and I quote "he'd stomp my goon ass" if I ever got on his bus again

Gorthalax it was very nice to meet you, you've made a cuckold of me

We're the throw up boys!*

I've been informed that the brownies I consumed were laced with cannabis and rat poison

I am completely unprepared for the perils ahead and am deeply frightened, I'll go get the coffee

A gorilla monster punched me so hard in the back of the head I died

Today I have been hit by 3 scooters

Everytime you squeeze my hand it breaks several small bones

My imaginary friend as a child ghosted me because he said I was too depressing

Do you want me to go back? I warn you, it will break me

Can I interest you in an herbal soda? You must understand I am an intern at a ponzi scheme*

When I go to sleep at night I dream of a world where I might be able to walk through a field without stepping on a rake or gopher hole

If anyone needs me... I will be surprised.

If it wasn't for bad luck, Id have no luck is both true and what was written upon the billboard I crashed through

I wonder if any of these will feature in Junior year 👀

*Thanks to @cappa-cappa for telling me the lines I wasn't able to make out!!

[matchaxberries]

Gaara Relationship Headcanons

Gaara Sabaku (Naruto) x Gn!reader

Drabbles/Headcanons, Not requested, SFW

Summary: Gaara of the sand is perfect, no debates. Cute relationship Headcanons, fluffy.

Warnings: Talk about insecurities and nightmares, pet names, I don’t think there is anything else.

(A/N) Gaara is one of my favorite characters of this series. He deserves so much, and is soft. I do not care who thinks he’s terrible, he is perfect. If it’s requested at all I might make a smut version of this, or if I just feel like doing that. I also for the most part always will put the read more under the gif for my posts. I think it looks clean. :3 If anyone thinks I should change it, do suggest something else.

Gaara is insecure of himself, that’s obvious in the show. He likes physical touch, and words of affirmation.

In public, he isn’t too big on touch though. Being the Kazekage, he wants your relationship a bit more closed. He wouldn’t want anything bad happening to his lover because of his status.

He will melt into grains of sand if you play with his hair while sitting behind him. If you’re taller, he wouldn’t mind sitting right in your lap, or in between your legs. If you’re shorter, he would sit in the floor in front of you, while you’re in a chair just so you run your hands through his red locks.

He would be very flustered by any nicknames, he likes kind words, but pet names turn him the color of his own hair. Bright red. He isn’t going to tell you to stop though, no. He’s going to enjoy it, and pretend he doesn’t like it, and he will turn away from you so you can’t see his expression.

Back on him being insecure, he gets jealous or possessive over you fast. He sees you talking to someone who makes you laugh a bit more than usual? He is by your side in a moment, wrapping his arm around your shoulder. “What is so funny, (y/n)?” He will question, right in front of the person.

They will be scared, he is Kazekage. “Sorry, lord Kazekage-“ they’ll quickly let out, turning heel and getting away from you.

You’ll pout at Gaara, saying they weren’t saying anything with bad intentions. But he doesn’t say anything back, only drags you back to his office so you can tell him how much you love him, and how he’s the only one for you.

While you are laying and about to rest, randomly tell him how you love something about him. He doesn’t mind if he’s heard it before, it helps him fall asleep.

Gaara has nightmares frequently, he doesn’t want to wake you at all, but sometimes he jerks awake and you get jerked with him since you sleep right on him.

“I’m sorry my dear, I didn’t mean to wake you.” He will say, while out of breath. “Don’t worry Gaara, are you okay?” He will only nod, and hold you closer. He doesn’t like to talk about his nightmares, they’re often about things that would happen in his past. He’s afraid you’ll leave him if you find out that he’s a ‘monster’ in his own words.

Gaara doesn’t have too many facial expressions, at first it worried you, thinking you were boring him. But he assured you he just doesn’t react well, but he loves you very much, and finds you very entertaining.

Gaara likes to carry you around on his sand. He thinks it is fun, and you get to enjoy yourself watching over everything. He will have you float just a bit behind him, up a bit higher, but never out of his reach or sight.

His preferred pet name from you is love, sweetheart, and pretty boy. They all fluster him a lot, but those are his favorites to hear. He likes to call you dear, my dear, and on occasion darling. He keeps them to a minimum, and keeps them kind of professional. He will fluster himself by calling you something pretty out there.

Word Count: 571

Character count: 2,974

(A/N 2) The word and character counts on these might not be 100% accurate. I paste everything into a random thing on Google, so it might be a bit wrong. I might make a part two for this, but for now this is all, it wasn’t too much but I just wanted to write something more.

Masterlist

Request Rules

[xzaddyzanakinx]

Okay so I have a request 😭 at some point could you PLEASSEEEE make a series where it’s Anakin x reader with bipolar? I’m pretty sure Anakin already suffers from borderline but I personally suffer from bipolar and 1. Could be such good angst , 2. Anakin could literally be insane and the reader would probably want to be around him bc bipolar sometimes craves danger, and 3. I feel like it would be really nice to see Anakin comfort a bipolar reader during a really bad episode where they’re like hysterical and then manic

(I’m so sorry this was so long)

Yes, Anakin has been diagnosed with BPD by many therapists!

That’s part of the reason I love him so much. I also have BPD and I really resonate with him. Because I get it you know? He’s obsessive, he will do ANYTHING for his Favorite Person.

He’d even spill blood.

The way it would pain him so deeply to see his FP in such anguish… he’ll punch a wall and cry about it later but right then he’ll be emotionless, he’d put on the best mask of comfort he could so he could soak up all your pain and take it away.

I got carried away. Oops. Warnings: inner monologue of: Self pity, gaslighting, verbal abuse, depression, self deprecation, co-dependency, death/suicide

He’d be so strong and solid for you because you need him, but internally he’d be shattered. What if he caused your episode? What if you leave him some day when you’re manic and feral for change no matter what the consequences are? What if you never loved him in the first place and he made it all up and somehow you’ve just went along with it this whole time? What if he doesn’t actually love you and he’s just been using you because you’re vulnerable and you make him feel needed and important?

Isn’t he just some attention hungry monster? He did this to you didn’t he? He triggered this episode for the simple fact that you would be in pain, you would be dependent, you would be reliant, you would see that there is no way you could leave him because he’s the only one who can handle you. You’ll see that won’t you?

God he’s just insane isn’t he? What a sick fuck. Treating you this way for personal gain. To hell with the fact that sometimes a Bipolar episode just sneaks up on you without a reason at all. Anakin knows he did this to you. Even if he didn’t… he’s still a horrible piece of shit because he can’t fix it for you.

Or even worse: what if he’s being used? What if you are playing him and he’s been too blind with infatuation to see it? That’s what’s happening isn’t it? You’ve fucking taken advantage of his kindness, his selflessness, his undying and unconventional love for you. You’re faking it.

When you snap out of this ‘episode’ he’ll lay into you about your true intentions with him. He’d call you out on your selfishness.

He’s better than this. He deserves more than this, can’t you get that through your thick fucking skull? How could you be so stupid? How could you be so dense? Did you truly believe he actually cared about you? No, he just felt sorry for you.

He felt so fucking sorry for you. Pathetic little clingy thing. He’s given and given and given to you and you’ve been nothing but ungrateful. You didn’t even try to get better for him. You rejected his help and this is the last fucking straw. He’s given you every chance, he’s given you everything.

Oh god he’s given you his entire soul. He’s laid his entire being out onto a platter for you to pick apart and terrorize but you’ve done… the opposite. You’ve coddled him when he didn’t deserve it. You made him happy when the world around him was devoid of anything but insufferable, heavy, suffocating despair. You were the light at the end of the long, cold tunnel.

And he’d almost extinguished you.

You were the key to every emotion he couldn’t attain on his own. You kept his happiness, his love, his joy, his contentment, his comfort, his calm.

Without you he’d be nothing.

You should leave. You should run. You should leave.

You should change your name and flee the country because he would stop at nothing to prove himself to you again.

He needs you. You are the air he breathes and the blood in his veins. You are perfect, pure, angelic.

You are heaven on earth and he is a demon walking through the flesh world.

You deserved better. You needed better. You know you deserve better.

But you won’t leave him because you are too kind and loving, you are so sweet and caring. You won’t ever stop. You won’t let him hide. You won’t let him believe he is unloved. You won’t allow him to crawl into himself and go mute. You won’t allow him to let his mind go blank and his flesh move about on autopilot. You won’t allow him to convince himself that he is unworthy.

You won’t give up on him.

And that’s why he has to leave. Permanently. That’s the only way you’ll ever be truly happy and free. He won’t be there to feel the all consuming sorrow every fucking day. He won’t be there to make you watch him drown, suffer as he claws at the surface of the water. So fucking close to air and unable to reach it. So, when he gives up, he won’t drag you down and force you to wallow at the bottom of the lake of despair with him. He won’t suction the life out of you anymore.

He’s selfishly sponged up every drop of life you’ve given him and he knows you must be exhausted from the never ending battle of trying to make him feel human.

It’s better this way. Maybe you’ll meet in the next life and things will be different. Or maybe your soul will recognize his and urge you to escape as quickly as possible. Either way, in this life, Anakin is setting you free.

Because if you love something, you should let it go.

You should let him go.

Don’t cry for him when you find him, feel the sweet relief of all your pain having died with him.

After all, he did this for you.

[absolutebl]

This Week in BL - Top 3 Are HEATING UP

Organized, in each category, by ones I'm enjoying most at the top.

Dec 2023 Wk 2

Ongoing Series - Thai

Honestly, 3 are neck & necking for top position! They are all so good in different ways. But The Sign had me hooting with laughter this week, so it scooped #1.

The Sign (Sat YT) ep 4 of 10 - This show is literally everything (except straight) all at once. It's BL, queer, band of brothers, romcom, erotica, paranormal, fated mates, mystery, suspense, slasher, and horror. It’s the king of genre mash-up chaos. I have no idea what I’m watching but I’m ON this ride. Is it a roller coaster? Is it a haunted house? Is it a twirl & hurl? Is there candy floss? Am I even tall enough? Who tf cares. All through the second scene, I was laughing. It was legit funny. Billy has great comedic timing. Guess he’s not just a pretty face.

Everyone should be watching this. Sure, it's madness but there is genius in it.

Last Twilight (Fri YT) ep 6 of 12 -  Yech. August may be one of GMMTV’s least likable characters ever (and that is saying something). Meanwhile, MOAR language play! They spoiling me!

Mhok letting Day go then walking away at the party hurt so bad.

Argh this show is great!

Ep 6 so that kiss was right on schedule. I’m looking forward to the boyfriend eps before doom & pain in the new year. Carry on GMMTV. 

Speaking of...

Cherry Magic (Sat YouTube) ep 2 of 12 - Oh they’re great. It’s great. It’s paced oddly, moving quickly through most of the key scenes of the original JBL in these first 2 eps. I think it’s intending to encompass more of the manga series than that one did. Which is good, cause that will get us all the way to The Library Kiss (TM). It's the best kiss in the manga. I also like the sides in this show (better than the JBL version). 

My Dear Gangster Oppa (Thurs iQIYI) ep 8fin - What a lovely slightly unhinged little show. Tew, can we talk? Un-ironic suspenders, that takes courage. Also, the revolver was a crazy gun choice. 

Final thoughts:

This show is just as ridiculous as its title. About a gaymer who falls in love with one of his in-game teammates, who just happens to be a IRL gangster. A real gangster, the kind that actually kills people regularly. The lead pair is doing their best with a ridiculous story and shoddy script, but I enjoyed it. Although I was grateful it wasn’t very long, what we got was oddly satisfying if, frankly, a little bit silly. Recommended. 8/10 

That said, what's important about this BL is not the show, but the production and style. Let me explain... no, too much, let me sum up.

This is a chimera BL. Regarding characters: it has Japan's style otaku + Korea's style gangster + Thailand's style friendship group. It used Thai talent + Korean money (Kakao) & IP (adapted from a manwha) but aired on a Chinese channel globally (iQIYI). I'm delighted by the eclectic insanity of this production and truly doubt that any other genre but BL could ever produce like this. It's like diplomat's BL and it's the great wonder of our age that it happened at all. This BL deserves its place in the history books on production alone, even if that place is only in the footnotes. A remarkable little monster.

For Him (Thurs iQIYI) ep 3 of 10 - The sides are… messy. Using the same actor for the old bf is… odd. But in the end, this show leaves me smiling. Which means, I like it despite myself. 

Bake Me Please (Mon Gaga) ep 4 of 6 - It's decent. It’s basically what I wanted Antique Bakery to be when I first watched that way back when (not to mention Bite Me). But there’s been so much BL since then that, for some reason, this is falling flat. I think it’s moving too fast for a Thai series. Although, say what you like, Ohm has to be one of the best soft kissers in the industry. He's just good at mouth tenderness.

Ugh, that doesn't sound right. But you know what I mean.

Twins the series (Fri GaGa) ep 7 of 10 - I love how First is so upset when Sprite starts chatting and being nice to Koh. Sprite is just a sweet easy-going likable boy. I enjoy Sprite as a main character, he’s a bubbly little communicator. And they had a cute kiss.  

Pit Babe (Fri iQIYI) ep 5 of 14 - Because there was more Alan and Jeff and they were more key to the plot I was more into this ep. I do compare it to green smoothie down the pants in the Trash Watch.

Cooking Crush (Sun YT) ep 3 of 12 - Look OffGun are truly great. But I’m just not sure we need them in BL anymore. That said, it’s nice to see Off as "the one with the crush" for a change. Also, this show is only good when OffGun are on screen together, otherwise it kinda, well, sucks.

Night Dream (Sat YT) ep 1 of 6 - Cafe setting featuring a cook and a writer. *Seems awfully familiar.* Except these two are exes and this is a reunion romance. It’s stiff and very pulp but not bad (no crap sound effects) and I am a sucker for a reunion romance. That said, Rookie Thailand is not to be trusted, proceed with caution.

Absolute Zero (Weds iQIYI) ep 12fin - I'm grateful this is over. It was tense but for the wrong reasons - sadness and confusion. This final episode was fine, but that’s because it was mostly them being together + flashbacks. Plus all the familiar actor faces of the grown-up friends (hi, Karn my lovely, still stunning I see). But 2 of 12 episodes is not enough for the 10 of suffering and confusion that came before.

In conclusion:

A man is killed on his 10th anniversary resulting in a time paradox, for which the only solution is him never meeting his childhood sweetheart until later in life. Both lovers cycle back to the past at different ages, so that they each become their own 1st & 2nd great loves, but every time it ends in pain, until each also endures 10 years of separation. Finally it gets fixed, but leaves them with multiple memories of time's failures like temporal PTSD, and everyone around them has chronic deja vu. Me? I got both. This is one of those BLs that is high-quality with great acting but poor story. If you like your BL dwelling, maudlin, and tense due to angst and suffering, then you might enjoy this. But I just regret it, 6/10. Recommended only if you like confusing time travel emo pain.

In which case, just watch Tokyo in April is... instead. Give over Thailand, Japan does it better.

Middleman’s Love (Fri YT & iQIYI ep 6 of 8 - While our main couple isn’t working for me... the side couple isn’t working for me either. I really wanted to give LeoTai a chance, this is the 3rd show I’ve seen them in, and still nope. I like Jade a lot more when he’s sad. He’s a much more pleasant screen experience depressed. I would like him to stay hurt for a couple of eps, just so I can enjoy this show a tiny bit more. But then he just goes unhinged again. Argh. I just don’t like it. 

My Universe (Sun iQIYI) Pisces of Me ep 17 of 24 - Codependent boyfriends in middle school planning for high school dealing with stuff. Including other boys being into them. 

Playboyy (Thurs Gaga) 5 of 14 eps - Dear Playboyy, it's not you, it’s me… I hate you. You’re about as deep (and as palatable) as a shot glass of cum. While I'm sure you’re someone’s kink, you're my weakest link. Goodbye. DNF 

Ongoing Series - Not Thai

VIP Only (Taiwan Fri Gaga) ep 5 of 10 - It’s cute but I don’t think BL in this short format is Taiwan’s strength these days. And this is quite slow and dull. Perhaps they should have whacked it down to 6 eps, not 10.

Sahara-sensei to Toki-kun (Japan Fri Gaga) ep 3 of 8 - This is one of those JBLs that I should like on paper but is failing me. The drag bit was ridiculous but handled gently. The kiss was… well… something wasn’t it? It’s all very odd. I like the photographer cutie character. 

It's Airing But...

The Whisperer (Sun ????) 10 eps - Thai horror BL that ALSO involves cheating (what joy is mine). I don't think even the perfect single dimple can motivate me to watch. Word is... it's terrible.

7 Days Before Valentine (Weds WeTV) 10 eps - Giving me Luminous Solution vibes. I'm waiting to binge if it's safe.

Beyond The Star (Weds iQIYI) 8 eps - House of Stars meets Boyband. I was NOT impressed with ep 1. Been told I shouldn't bother.

What Did You Eat Yesterday Season 2 AKA Kinou Nani Tabeta? Season 2 (Japan Gaga) 10 eps - I find this series more fun to binge, so I'm waiting until after it completes its run next week.

Dear Kitakyushu (Thai/Japan movie) in theaters in country only, I know nothing about distribution.

Behind the Shadows (Korea movie) this is a historical I was interested in, but I've been told they kill the gay so I'm OUT.

Next Week Looks Like This

Still coming:

12/23 Dead Friend Forever (Thai horror) iQIYI

Original 2023 forthcoming BL master post (see comments, some are inaccurate, NOT KEPT UPDATED). With the end of the year upon us I'll do an "announced for 2023 but never happened list" soon.

THIS WEEK’S BEST MOMENTS

He so pretty.

I forgot how likable TayNew are, and frankly I think New is a better version of this role for me, personally. I like him a lot. He's a conscientious sweetheart. And a good egg. (Cherry Magic)

Ah the rooftop my old friend. (Last Twilight)

I would like to point out that it's no accident the naga's sex dream happened in the shower, he's a water creature after all. (The Sign)

(Last week)

[zu-is-here]

Zu! Long time no see! ^^ Happy holidays, and hope you've been having a spectacular end of 2024. Hope this next year is filled with blessings and cute skeletons for you, your friends and family! :D

So, I was taking a look again at your deliciously drawn Cream artworks and comics (They give me life <3) and I remembered something. In all your comics where bones are showing, I noticed... well, bones. (Like in Aiming for Your Soul, the cute rattling one and Aim's birth) instead of the common "ectobody" headcanon most of the fandom goes with! It's nice seeing boned bodies getting some love.

Do you, perhaps, have any other skeleton monster anatomy headcanons to share with us? :3

OH hii Bliss!╰(*´︶`*)╯It's so nice to see you again, thanks a looot <3 Hopefully you're having wonderful holidays too, lots of love and skele-joy to you! (๑˃̵ᴗ˂̵)♪

I'm really flattered to hear that you enjoy them too, your sweet artworks (especially the latest chibi drinks) are a feast for my eyes and soul (〃ω〃)

We're naturally attracted to bodies rather than bones, though these are no less aesthetically pleasing and interesting to work on than ecto ☆ After all, skeletons deserve to have their own body charms ;D

Might add more later so feel free to share yours:

✧ They indeed can rattle, both unconsciously (shiver but like teeth chattering) and intentionally (intimidating heh);

They can feel cold and heat, but for the most part they're resistant to temperature changes since they have no skin;

✧ They don't have joints but still can crunch bones since these are held together by magic as well;

A fracture is always painful, but what about the detachment of a limb? Maybe it is possible and in fact not so painful since magic is not physical and shouldn't imply pain... Another question is how to attach the limb back—

Can the skull rotate 360 ​​degrees, or is it firmly attached to the cervical vertebrae? Gotta check later XD

What if Blue's baby Flicker did it and never fixed it— :'D

✧ They still have tears, sweat, saliva, it's part of their magic; as well as breathing, soulbeat, redness, etc.;

NAIL POLISH OMG ˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧༚

The function of reproduction is taken over by the soul (carrying the souling inside) or by magic (intentional or accidental appearance of a ship child :'D);

FR that explains the difference!! (*⁰▿⁰*)

Thanks to @/clownyclowns for the idea! (*ﾟ∀ﾟ*)