#this just reminds me i need to brush up on lore

[cardboardfrnd]

a thought: how do we think the p.i.e team were like in college. who attended who dropped out mid semester who just didnt go at all

[the-fandom-queenxox]

Honestly the biggest question I have for rats 2 is, if Martyn is going to be in it... like in the main cast again or just in the server in general

Cause spoilers for those who don't know, he LEFT the world of the rats. Like literally. He in a easy way to explain "world hopped" out of there

Guess we'll wait and see till we get some news about it...

[dksfml]

off my face - yjw

pairing: jungwon x reader genre: soulmate au, mega FLUFF word count: 6.6k summary: in a world where each person has a soulmate mark indicating where they will be touched by their soulmate for the first time, there’s jungwon—the soccer team captain you’d like to be ruined by forever—who has no soulmate mark at all. what does that make you, someone whose mark has changed color because of him? author's note: finally!! here's your most awaited blond jungwon fic that i skipped sleep for<3333 inspired by this amazing prompt my friend sent me.

One touch and you got me stoned. Higher than I've ever known. You call the shots and I follow. Sunrise, but the night still young. No words, but we speak in tongues. If you let me, I might say too much.

You sat near the front row, posture perfect, eyes narrowed as Professor Min’s lecture on ancient mythology took a surprising turn. Today’s topic wasn’t just history—it was soulmate lore, the mysterious marks everyone was born with, and the myths that surrounded them. The professor’s calm, seasoned voice filled the room, but the air buzzed with barely contained excitement. Everyone was alert, even the usual back-row whisperers, captivated by the promise of something rare: a sanctioned discussion about their most private marks.

“These soulmate marks,” Professor Min began, his gaze sweeping the room with a faint smile, “are said to be the final traces of a bond forged in a past life. Legends tell us that in each lifetime, we may be separated from our soulmates, lost to distance or circumstance. But the marks,” he gestured to his own faintly darkened palm, “are said to be the soul’s way of leaving a trail—a reminder.”

A murmur rippled through the room. Everyone had a mark, a small patch of inky darkness, as distinct as fingerprints, mapped out on their bodies. Some had them on their palms or fingertips, waiting for the day a handshake or brush of fingers would light up that mark with color. Others had them in more curious places, whispering of fated touches in the most unlikely moments.

"The legend says," Professor Min continued, "that these marks were painted by one’s soulmate in a past life, a vow made in hopes to meet again, to find each other across time."

You clenched your pen a little tighter, the faint tickle of wonder battling the urge to keep your expression blank and unfeeling. You’d always kept your interest in soulmate marks private. They seemed so full of mystery, and the idea of your soulmate waiting for you somewhere was oddly… reassuring. You glanced down, conscious of the mark behind your knee, hidden like a strange secret that even you could barely understand. What kind of first touch would even reach there? The thought was both amusing and baffling, and you stifled a wry smile.

Around you, other students leaned in to chat, loud enough that their conversations blended into a steady hum. Your classmate Arin nudged her friend, laughing as she displayed the faint mark on her palm. “I’ve been dying to know who’ll shake my hand one day,” she whispered excitedly, her eyes glimmering with hope.

But your gaze drifted just beyond Arin, landing instead on a familiar figure lounging in the middle row with his legs stretched out, looking every bit like he was born to disrupt things without lifting a finger. Jungwon. Handsome in a way that seemed almost unfair, with striking, dark eyes framed by lashes that cast subtle shadows on his cheeks, and hair the color of midnight that fell in soft, tousled waves. He had this effortless, magnetic presence that drew people toward him, like he knew he didn’t need to try.

As captain of the soccer team and one of the most well-known faces on campus, Jungwon somehow managed to look both sharp and relaxed, as if the attention his looks or reputation brought him meant nothing. You’d been crushing on him since last year, an avid fan always present at his games, cheering him on like a lovesick fool. Whenever he scored a goal, you felt your heart leap, and you couldn’t help but unleash your inner fangirl, your excitement spilling over as you screamed his name. Right now, he seemed half-listening to his friends, a hint of a lazy grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he leaned back, eyes drifting up to the ceiling before refocusing on his friends. It was that easygoing confidence that made him impossible not to notice—and, for you, impossible not to think about.

It was a boy from his friend group, Jay, who interrupted the class chatter by slapping a hand down on the table and teasing, “Come on, Won. You don’t have a soulmate mark, my foot. No one gets off that easy.” The comment was light-hearted but loaded, and more than a few students turned to look.

To your surprise, Jungwon didn’t react with one of his usual witty comebacks or careless shrugs. Instead, he just rubbed the back of his neck, a hint of something almost vulnerable flashing across his face. “No, really,” he insisted, almost apologetically. “I don’t have one. I checked a million times as a kid.”

Your pen paused mid-note, and a slight, irrational disappointment prickled in your chest. It was hard to believe, especially about someone like Jungwon, whose very presence seemed destined to leave a mark on others. Soulmate marks might be rare, but someone like him not having one? It felt impossible, like a missing piece that no one noticed until it was too late.

For a fleeting moment, you wondered if maybe he just hadn’t found it yet. After all, some people only discovered their mark when it finally turned to color. Sometimes it wasn’t a visible spot on the skin but something far subtler—a shadow in the hue of their lips that would only brighten after a first kiss, or a darkness lingering in an eye, invisible until the gentle touch of someone wiping away their tears brought it to life. The thought sent a strange warmth to your cheeks as you glanced back toward him, wondering if Jungwon’s missing mark was just waiting for the right person to unlock it.

Still, he looked surprisingly honest, a faint hint of sadness clouding his otherwise bright gaze. For someone so magnetic, it was as if he was caught drifting in space, without any tether connecting him to anyone at all.

“Alright, alright,” Jay relented, raising his hands in surrender but laughing all the same. “Guess someone’s too cool to be fated to anyone, huh?”

The professor’s voice cut back in, and you forced yourself to refocus, though your mind lingered on Jungwon’s quiet expression and the flicker of something in his eyes, something both resigned and deeply private. Could he really be alone in a world where everyone else was bound to someone?

“Imagine having your mark on your knuckles,” Arin whispered beside you with a grin, oblivious to the moment that had just passed. “You’d probably knock your soulmate out before you even realized they were ‘the one’!”

Another round of laughter scattered through the room, like a shared inside joke. The air felt charged, as if everyone were suddenly curious about each other’s marks, glancing around with new eyes. You let out a small sigh, tapping your pen against your notebook with a faint smile. As much as you tried to keep up the class president, model-student act, the idea of soulmates fascinated you in a way you’d never quite admit.

When the bell finally rang, the room filled with that familiar end-of-class chaos. You started packing up, keeping your head down—until you noticed Jungwon slinging his bag over his shoulder, looking effortlessly put-together, as usual. He laughed at something his friend said, his expression relaxed, his dark eyes flickering with amusement. But you couldn’t help catching the faintest flicker of something else in his gaze as he glanced at his friends—like a momentary, unguarded look that felt… wistful?

Okay, maybe that was just you being overly imaginative.

You let out a little huff as you slung your own bag over your shoulder, shaking off the strange pity you’d felt moments before. So what if Jungwon didn’t have a mark? You barely even knew him. Well, you kind of knew him, but from a distance—and with way more daydreams than you’d like to admit. Still, it was silly to wonder about him, right? With your head full of these thoughts, you walked out into the hallway, lost in a world where maybe, just maybe, he was wondering about you, too.

And as you brushed past a group of friends, laughing and shoving each other, your hand slipped over the back of your knee, where your own mark was hidden—quiet, waiting, and as mysterious as ever.

The sky was an endless blue, stretching wide over the school field as your class spilled out onto the grass for PE. With the teacher conveniently on vacation, today’s instructions were simple: enjoy the free time. Most of your classmates took to the field, breaking off into little clusters for a lazy game of soccer, light stretches, or simple gossip sessions by the bleachers.

As class president, you took it upon yourself to ensure no one went too far or caused trouble. Your duty, as you saw it, was to survey your classmates from a slight distance, keeping an eye out with the calm, serious gaze you’d carefully perfected. Yet even from the sidelines, your eyes found themselves drifting toward a familiar figure on the field, drawn to him like magnets.

Jungwon was at the center of the field with his friends, casual and relaxed, but his every move carried an elegance that made your pulse skip. He was laughing at something his friend said, his eyes crinkling as he kicked the soccer ball back and forth, the glint of a confident smirk tugging at his lips. His ease on the field was mesmerizing, a mixture of strength and grace that made it hard to look away.

You reminded yourself to focus, scanning the field to check on the other groups. But before you could pull your attention back entirely, a voice called out, and you saw Jungwon pivot to chase the soccer ball—only for it to ricochet off his foot, headed directly toward you with alarming speed.

In the split second it took you to react, you felt a sharp thud against the back of your knees. The impact sent you stumbling forward, knees buckling beneath you as you tumbled to the ground. Pain flared up where the ball had struck, but it was drowned out by the shock of it all.

“Oh no—are you okay?” Jungwon’s voice was breathless with concern, his steps hurried as he reached you. You barely had a chance to process his arrival before he knelt beside you, face flushed and clearly panicked. His hand hovered awkwardly as if afraid to touch you, his usual calm replaced with something far more vulnerable.

“I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to— Are you hurt?” he stammered, his voice unusually soft. He reached out gently, his hands carefully brushing against your arm as he tried to help you up. “Can you stand?”

Your mind struggled to catch up to the moment, and it took everything you had to keep your stoic demeanor intact. Jungwon was close, closer than he’d ever been, and the intensity of his worried gaze was unexpectedly disarming. Even as pain pulsed through your knee, you couldn’t help but stare, captivated by how intensely he focused on you, as if everything else in the world had fallen away.

“I’m fine, really,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. But as soon as you tried to stand, pain shot up your leg.

Jungwon’s expression shifted to one of determination, and before you could protest, he slid one arm under your knees and lifted you up, his other arm around your shoulders. The world tilted as he held you in a firm, steady grip, his face barely inches from yours. “We’re getting you to the nurse. No arguments.”

You blinked, momentarily stunned by his closeness, by the warmth radiating from him. “Oh—okay.” The words left your mouth almost on instinct, your brain still catching up with the fact that Jungwon was carrying you, his focus set entirely on you. His hands brushed your arm as he adjusted his grip, and you felt a strange warmth bloom under your skin, something unfamiliar and electric.

The walk to the nurse’s office was quiet, but you couldn’t ignore the way his gaze flickered to you, the gentleness in his expression as he murmured, “Sorry again. I’d never forgive myself if I hurt the class president.”

Your lips parted, searching for something to say, but the way he looked at you—soft, maybe even a bit shy—left you wordless. All you could do was nod, your heart pounding louder with each step as you held onto the feeling of his arms around you, wondering if he could hear it too.

It wasn’t until you glanced down that you noticed it—a faint shift of color beneath your knee where the ball had struck. The mark, once hidden and dark, now radiated a subtle but unmistakable bright yellow hue, soft and warm against your skin.

You froze, eyes wide, as the realization settled in. Jungwon was still mumbling apologies, unaware of the discovery you’d just made. Only he could have caused the mark to change; he was the only one who had touched that spot. The idea left you breathless, your mind scrambling to make sense of it all.

In the clinic, the nurse examined your knee with a quick, professional assessment. “You’ll be fine,” she declared, sending you off with an ice pack and a faint smile. But your thoughts were still racing, tangled up in the startling realization that Jungwon might actually be your soulmate.

The whole walk back to class, you replayed the moment in your mind, trying to make sense of it. Maybe it was a coincidence. Perhaps someone had brushed the back of your knee at some other time, and you simply hadn’t noticed. But deep down, you knew the truth—the mark had only changed when Jungwon touched you.

And when you returned to class, he was there, hovering near the door with a worried frown. He looked up as you approached, eyes bright with relief.

“Are you okay?” he asked, a slight smile breaking through the concern etched into his features. “I was worried about you.”

Your heart skipped as you nodded, doing your best to keep your voice steady. “I’m fine. Just… a bit shaken up, that’s all.” You felt the weight of the new secret pressing down on you, but you forced yourself to smile.

Jungwon’s shoulders relaxed, and he chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck in that effortlessly charming way of his. “I’m glad. I’ll be more careful with my aim next time.”

You smiled back, feeling the weight of the mark’s new color, of the quiet truth only you knew. As Jungwon returned to his seat, your gaze drifted to the back of your knee, where the mark lay hidden under the fabric of your clothes, now touched by color—by him.

In the days following the incident on the field, the world seemed to shift around you, humming with an energy you couldn’t quite shake. The back of your knee, where Jungwon’s touch had changed your soulmate mark to a soft, distinct yellow color, was a constant reminder of the possibility that your crush—Jungwon, the ever-handsome and kind soccer captain—might be something even more significant than you’d ever dared to imagine.

“How’s your knee?” he asked, his voice warm and tinged with that familiar gentleness that made your heart stutter.

“Oh, it’s fine, really!” You waved it off, attempting to tuck your leg further under your desk, hoping he wouldn’t notice the faint new color to the mark that still lingered behind your knee.

Jungwon didn’t seem to buy it. “Are you sure?” he asked, his brows furrowing as he leaned down, intent on seeing for himself. Before he could get a closer look, you tugged your skirt down a little farther, hiding the mark as best as you could.

“I’m sure, really,” you insisted, trying to keep your tone casual. “It’s just a little sore, nothing to worry about.”

For a moment, he hesitated, his gaze lingering on you, unreadable. Then he nodded, standing up with a quiet, sheepish smile. “Alright. I’ll trust you, but only if you promise to let me know if it starts hurting again.”

You managed a nod, clutching your books a little tighter to keep your hands steady. “I promise,” you said, hoping he didn’t notice the flicker of nerves in your eyes.

Your third shared class of the week was English, and just as the teacher assigned the day’s group work, the class began to shift into pairs. Coincidentally (or so you told yourself), the seating arrangement placed Jungwon near you that day.

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft as he approached. He offered you one of his signature, heart-stopping smiles. “Mind if we pair up? I mean…if you’re okay with it.”

With an effort to keep your expression neutral, you nodded. “Sure,” you replied, your voice steady even though your heart was anything but.

Settling at a table near the window, you both pulled out your notebooks. The task was straightforward—analyzing a poem about soulmates. You caught a breath at the irony, and Jungwon, seemingly unfazed, began reading the passage aloud. His voice, low and calm, wove through the words as you listened, though your mind kept wandering to his every movement, the way his eyes flickered thoughtfully over the page, how his fingers held the pencil lightly but with intention.

“What do you think?” he asked, pulling you out of your thoughts.

You cleared your throat, willing your focus back to the assignment. “I think…well, it’s romantic. But it’s also kind of tragic, right? There’s always this sense of waiting—like, what if they don’t meet?”

Jungwon’s gaze flickered up, lingering on your face a little longer than necessary. “Yeah, that’s true,” he agreed, his voice thoughtful. “The idea that you’re waiting your whole life for just one person…it’s a lot of pressure.”

He paused, eyes settling on you, as if searching for something beneath the calm exterior you held so tightly. “Do you… believe in it? Soulmates, I mean?”

Caught off guard, you looked down, your fingers tracing invisible patterns on the edge of your notebook. You thought of your parents, of their own lovely story about finding each other through their marks, and how you’d grown up with those tales of destiny. And now, here you were, sitting with the very boy who might be your own fated match.

“I think,” you began slowly, “that I want to believe in it. My parents…they have one of those classic stories. It’s hard not to believe in soulmates when you’ve heard stories like that all your life.”

He nodded, listening intently. “I get that. I guess…sometimes I wonder what it would be like. But it’s hard to picture when you don’t…you know, have any marks yourself.”

The quiet sadness in his tone took you by surprise. You’d never considered what it might be like to go through life without a soulmate mark, to feel like something intrinsic was missing, a feeling that destiny had passed you by. Suddenly, your thoughts flickered back to the legends the elders told—how markless people were said to carry the weight of unrequited love from a past life, doomed to wander without a soulmate to mark them in this one. The idea hung heavy in the air, mingling with your sympathy for him.

“Maybe it doesn’t matter, then,” you murmured, almost to yourself. “Maybe people without marks find their person too, in other ways.” You couldn’t help but think that perhaps Jungwon was one of those souls, burdened by a love that never came to fruition.

The silence that followed was heavy but not uncomfortable. Jungwon seemed lost in thought, his gaze drifting out the window as he considered your words. And just then, a strange sense of comfort washed over you, knowing that even if he was unaware of it, you shared a connection that went beyond what either of you could see.

“Maybe,” he said finally, and then he flashed you a lopsided grin. “Well, even if soulmates are real, maybe it’s a good thing I’m mark-free. I don’t think I’d want someone to find out I was their soulmate because I hit them with a soccer ball.”

His laughter rang out, and you couldn’t help but join him, but beneath the mirth, your heart clenched. You wanted to tell him everything—to reveal the secret that could bridge the chasm between you. But as the words formed on your lips, fear gripped you. What if you were wrong? What if he truly didn’t have a soulmate mark, and this moment of connection was just a fleeting illusion?

So you swallowed hard, plastering a smile on your face that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Well, let’s just keep that between us, then,” you replied, hoping to mask the anxiety swirling inside you.

Inside, the truth weighed heavy, a secret that felt more like a burden than a bond. Keeping it hidden seemed safer, easier—even if it left you feeling like a ghost, drifting alongside him but never truly reaching out. The thought of him being one of those markless souls—the ones who carried the pain of a love never realized—made you ache. You didn’t want him to feel that emptiness, and yet, here you were, hiding a truth that might shatter the fragile connection you shared.

Perhaps it was better this way. Better to hold onto your heartache in silence than risk shattering the bond you had built, no matter how tenuous it felt. As you returned to the assignment, the bittersweet taste of longing lingered on your tongue, mixing with the thrill of possibility, leaving you torn between the hope of what could be and the fear of what might never come to pass.

Finally, during your biology class, your teacher assigned a laboratory cleaning rotation. By the luck of the draw—or maybe a twist of fate—you found yourself paired with Jungwon. It was supposed to be a simple task, but as the two of you gathered supplies and began tidying up the classroom after hours, you felt the weight of every quiet moment.

Jungwon appeared beside you as you straightened a stack of textbooks, arms full of markers and erasers. His casual, laid-back attitude only heightened the quiet thrill that being near him sparked in you. As he handed you an eraser, your fingers brushed slightly, and you pulled back quickly, heart racing.

"Are you always this… serious?" Jungwon teased, his lips curving into a half-smile. "I mean, you don’t have to look like we’re cleaning the whole school."

You rolled your eyes, fighting back a smile. “It’s just how I work. I take tasks seriously.”

He nodded, still smiling. “You’re impressive, you know. It’s like…you’re always so composed, like nothing rattles you.”

Caught off guard by his observation, you froze momentarily, not sure how to respond. Behind your serious exterior, you were anything but composed—especially around him. Before you could answer, he turned away to tidy the bookshelves, leaving you wondering if he’d picked up on the effect he had on you.

After a while, Jungwon returned to the task at hand, dusting off a few of the windowsills. It was quiet for a few minutes, the sounds of your combined effort filling the room. You both worked in sync, a silent rhythm that had developed without either of you realizing it. And then, with an abruptness that caught you off guard, he spoke again.

“Hey,” he said, hesitating. “I know this might be a weird question, but… where’s your soulmate mark?”

The question hung in the air between you, heavy with implications you weren’t ready to unravel. Your heart thudded as you carefully set down the books you’d been holding, gathering your thoughts.

You felt a flush creep up your cheeks. "Um, it's… it's on my knee," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. The intimacy of the moment made you shy, and you instinctively shifted your weight, the hem of your skirt falling to cover your knee even more.

Jungwon raised an eyebrow, curiosity glimmering in his eyes. “Oh? Is it… already in color?”

You hesitated for a brief moment, weighing your words. “Uh, yeah,” you replied, biting your lip. “It changed a while ago. But it’s not a big deal.” You left out the part about him possibly being your soulmate, feeling the weight of that truth settle heavily in the air between you.

His expression shifted slightly, disappointment flashing across his features before he masked it with a casual smile. “That’s cool,” he said, his voice a bit quieter now. “I guess… it must be nice to have that certainty.”

“Yeah,” you said, trying to keep the mood light despite the sudden heaviness in your chest. “I mean, it’s comforting, I suppose.”

But beneath your words, a sense of longing stirred. You noticed how his gaze faltered for a moment, and it struck you then how much he had hoped for something different. He had seemed eager, maybe even hopeful, and the realization stung a little.

Jungwon cleared his throat, breaking the silence that had settled over you both. “So, um… did you see the last soccer game?” he asked, trying to steer the conversation in a different direction. “I think we really need to work on our defense.”

His attempt at lightheartedness felt slightly forced, and you could see a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. Still, it was nice to see him trying to shake off the heaviness from moments before.

“Yeah, I caught a bit of it,” you replied, grateful for the shift in focus. “You guys played well, though a couple of those goals were pretty close calls.”

He chuckled, the tension easing just a little. “Yeah, I think I almost gave our coach a heart attack with that last-minute save,” he said, grinning. It was an infectious smile, and you found yourself smiling back despite the weight still resting in the back of your mind.

The annual school festival arrived faster than expected, and the campus buzzed with activity and excitement. Classrooms were transformed into themed booths, hallways were draped with handmade decorations, and students wore colorful festival shirts and badges, their faces bright with paint and laughter. You found yourself stationed at the face-painting booth, brush in hand, ready to tackle the endless line of eager students.

You’d always enjoyed events like these—participating in the festival offered you a rare chance to relax and feel connected to your classmates outside of the usual seriousness you maintained as class president. Here, you were just another student, painting stars, hearts, and stripes on familiar faces.

“Hey, what’s up? Need a painter?” your friend Taeyoung called out to the next group approaching your booth. You followed his gaze and felt your heart skip when you recognized Jungwon and his friends heading your way, laughing and jostling each other. He wore a loose festival shirt with sleeves rolled up, a casual look that somehow made him even more handsome. You quickly glanced down, suddenly hyper-aware of your paintbrushes and the paper towels you clutched a little too tightly.

The booth was busy, and with most of your fellow painters occupied, it didn’t take long for Taeyoung to pair Jungwon with you. “Hey, Y/N, looks like you’ve got a VIP customer! Captain Jungwon wants to be a canvas today,” he said, a mischievous grin spreading across his face as he nudged Jungwon playfully.

Jungwon chuckled, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes—an eagerness mixed with a hint of shyness. “Yeah, I guess I’m in your hands now,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “No pressure, right?”

You swallowed hard, trying to maintain your composure as your heart raced. “Uh, right! No pressure at all,” you replied, your voice a little too bright. “What do you have in mind?”

You forced yourself to meet Jungwon’s eyes, fighting back the nervous excitement bubbling in your chest. “So… what would you like?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

Jungwon’s usual confident smile softened a little, and he seemed slightly hesitant, rubbing the back of his neck, a gesture that made your stomach flutter. “Maybe a couple of stars on my cheeks? And… maybe a small cat on my forehead?”

You stifled a laugh at his request, realizing that behind his composed demeanor, he had a playful side you hadn’t seen before. “A star and a cat. Got it,” you whispered, dipping your brush into white paint. You reached out carefully to steady his face, tilting it slightly toward the light. Your fingers lightly touched his cheek, and you couldn’t ignore the spark that jolted through you at the contact.

Jungwon closed his eyes briefly, letting out a small breath. You tried to ignore the slight flush you felt creeping up your neck, focusing on drawing a perfect star on his left cheek. You painted in silence, but every so often, he’d open his eyes and glance at you, making your heart race each time.

With one cheek finished, you moved to the other side. He leaned in closer, giving you the perfect angle. The space between you seemed to shrink with every second, the sounds of the bustling festival fading into a distant hum. You were hyper-aware of everything—the faint scent of his cologne, the warmth radiating from him, and how your fingers gently brushed his skin. When you finished with the stars, you pulled back slightly to look at your work, meeting his gaze as you did.

“They look good,” he murmured, his voice softer than usual.

You swallowed, breaking eye contact to reach for a new brush and dip it in black paint. “Now for the cat,” you said, trying to stay calm. “Hold still.”

You carefully moved to part his hair at the center of his forehead. As your fingers brushed through his bangs, you froze, your eyes widening as you saw something strange—a small patch of his dark hair was shifting, lightening to a soft honey-blonde under your touch.

“Um… Jungwon,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath as you stared at the transformed lock of hair falling against his forehead. “Your hair…”

“What about it?” He turned to you with a hint of confusion, glancing up as if trying to catch a glimpse of the change. “Did I mess it up?”

You shook your head, the words tangling in your throat as disbelief washed over you. “It’s… it’s changing color.”

He blinked, clearly caught off guard, then brushed his fingers through the area you’d touched. His movements stilled, the warmth in his expression fading, replaced by something deeper—something unreadable. The air thickened around you, a heavy silence filled with unspoken questions.

“Are you sure?” he asked quietly, his gaze searching yours as if trying to decode the truth hidden beneath your surprise.

You nodded slowly, your heart racing. “Yeah, I… I thought it was just the paint at first, but… it’s definitely not.”

The realization hung in the air, electric and palpable, igniting a spark of tension that sent shivers down your spine. Jungwon’s fingers gently traced the newly lightened strands of hair, his expression a mix of wonder and trepidation. You could feel your pulse quicken, an exhilarating rush flooding through you as you grasped the meaning behind this strange phenomenon.

Time seemed to stretch in that moment, each heartbeat echoing like a drum in your chest. Here he was, the boy you’d admired from afar, unexpectedly transformed before your eyes. Jungwon—the one who had unwittingly painted your world in vibrant colors, now literally changing right in front of you.

Suddenly, self-consciousness washed over you like a cold wave. You averted your gaze, stepping back instinctively. “I—I should go finish with the others. They’re probably waiting for me…” Your voice wavered, betraying the rush of emotions threatening to spill over.

Before you could dwell on it, a paint container wobbled on the edge of the table, knocking into your elbow. In your panic, you stumbled, sending brushes and colors sprawling over yourself. “Oh no!” you yelped, scrambling to clean up the mess.

“Y/N, wait!” Jungwon exclaimed, his eyes widening in surprise. He stepped closer, his hand closing around yours, halting your frantic movements. “Stop. Just breathe.”

His grip was steadying, grounding you amidst the chaos of your racing thoughts. “Let’s find somewhere quiet, okay? You need to clean up.” His voice held a calmness that contrasted sharply with the storm inside you.

You felt a rush of warmth at his concern, but your mind spun with confusion. “But… the booth—”

“Trust me,” he said, his gaze unwavering, a silent promise passing between you. “Just for a moment. Let’s talk.”

With a nod, you allowed him to guide you away from the festival’s noise, your heart racing not just from the moment, but from the undeniable connection building between you. The thrill of discovery was tempered by the anxiety of what it all meant, and yet, in Jungwon’s presence, you felt something shift—something new and exciting, just waiting to be explored.

He led you through a quieter section of the campus, where the walls were lined with colorful murals painted by students, the air filled with the faint scent of paint and creativity. The laughter and chatter from the festival faded into the background, replaced by the gentle rustle of leaves overhead and the distant sound of music drifting from the booths.

As you turned a corner, Jungwon paused, the air around you suddenly thick with anticipation. He glanced around, ensuring you were alone, then leaned against the cool brick wall, his posture relaxed yet focused. His gaze locked onto yours, intensity radiating from him. “My hair… it’s slowly turning blond. Isn’t this what soulmate marks are supposed to be like?”

His words hung in the air, electrifying the space between you. You felt the weight of the moment press down, your heart racing like a wild drum in your chest. “Right… your soulmate mark,” you stammered, the tremor in your voice betraying the chaos inside. “I didn’t want to say anything because I thought it might just be a coincidence, but now… it's all starting to make sense.”

Jungwon stepped closer, the seriousness in his expression deepening. “You mean you knew?” His voice was low, the edge of urgency evident. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

The air crackled with tension, and you felt your pulse quicken. “I didn’t know it was you! I thought—” you cut yourself off, frustration bubbling within you. “I didn’t want to ruin our friendship or make things awkward. You’ve been my crush longer than you’ve been a friend. Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep things from being awkward with you, especially when my mark changed?”

Jungwon’s expression shifted, vulnerability breaking through his confidence. “Your mark... is it.… when did it change? Am I—was it before… or after we met?” His voice was tight, the weight of his words hanging heavily in the air.

You took a deep breath, feeling the memories rush back. “The day you carried me to the nurse’s office, you idiot.”

He blinked, taken aback by your response. “Wait… that day? But I thought...”

His expression softened slightly, the intensity in his eyes shifting as he took a step closer. You held your breath as he knelt down, his fingers hovering over your soulmate mark. The moment felt electric, a mix of vulnerability and anticipation coursing through you.

“Can I…?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, giving him permission to touch it. As his fingers brushed against your skin, a shiver ran down your spine. Jungwon chuckled softly, the sound breaking some of the tension between you. “Can you believe this? It feels just like yesterday when I accidentally hit my crush with a soccer ball at her knees,” he said, shaking his head with a bemused smile. “The same crush I’ve wanted to approach since 10th grade but was always too afraid to mess up, especially with how she glares at boys.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the image of a younger Jungwon fumbling with his words as he tried to impress you suddenly vivid in your mind. “I didn’t mean to scare you off,” you admitted, your heart swelling with warmth. “I thought you were just… confident, you know?”

He shrugged, a hint of shyness creeping back into his demeanor. “I try to be. But it’s hard when you’re crushing on someone who’s out of your league.”

“Out of my league?” you repeated, incredulous. “Jungwon, you’re the captain of the soccer team! Everyone looks up to you.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I’m not nervous around you,” he replied, his gaze locking onto yours, sincerity pouring from his words. “It’s different with you. You make me want to be better.”

The air between you thickened with unspoken emotions, each heartbeat echoing the connection that had always been there, waiting to be acknowledged. You both stood on the edge of something monumental, the laughter of the festival fading away, leaving only the two of you and the promise of what lay ahead.

The next day, Jungwon strolled confidently down the hallway, his head of hair transformed into a stunning honeyed blonde that turned heads with every step. The shift was striking—bold, noticeable, and oddly fitting—making it seem as though he had always intended to embrace this change. Whispers and awestruck glances followed him like a gentle wave, yet beneath that cool exterior, you could see the spark of mischief in his eyes, especially when they met yours.

“Wow, he really went all out,” Arin murmured beside you, her voice a mix of surprise and admiration. “He must’ve bleached the whole thing. I didn’t think Jungwon had that in him.”

You nodded, trying to maintain your composure while your heart raced. “Yeah… surprising, isn’t it?” you replied, though a smile betrayed your nonchalance as you watched him navigate the crowd like he owned the place.

Unaware of the true significance of his transformation, your classmates continued their commentary. “Looks good on him, though,” one girl remarked, her tone infused with genuine admiration. “Like he was meant to have it all along.”

Jungwon seemed completely unfazed by the attention, wearing his new look with a blend of pride and ease, as if his blonde hair was a badge of honor that only you understood. It was a mark that connected the two of you in ways that no one else could fathom—an intimate secret wrapped in boldness.

As the hallway thinned out, he lingered by his locker, his casual demeanor slipping just a bit as he caught your gaze from across the hall. He lifted a hand, brushing back his hair with an effortless charm that sent butterflies fluttering in your stomach—a subtle nod to the secret you shared.

You walked over, your heart pounding just a little faster than usual. “It suits you,” you said, keeping your voice low, the air between you thick with unspoken words.

His eyes softened, gratitude shimmering in their depths. “Good to know,” he murmured, his tone low but filled with warmth. “After all, it’s your fault it looks this good.”

A faint blush crept up your cheeks at his words, and before you could respond, he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice even more as he added, “And don’t worry. The secret’s safe.”

In that crowded hallway, with laughter and footsteps echoing around you, it felt like you and Jungwon were enveloped in your own little world. His blonde hair, like a silent vow, was a reminder of what only the two of you understood: a hidden connection, pulsing with promise and anticipation, waiting to be explored.

[cxvii666]

“DOWN WITH THE TRUMPETS”

“when i get down, i get respect now”

feat. denki k.

wc: 780

mdni 😴

“don't talk with your mouth full, it's bad manners.”

denki kaminari is a yapper.

he can talk for japan.

about nothing, and everything. about his little hobbies and interests, like the time he got really into origami for two weeks and folded fifty paper cranes before getting distracted by baking videos. about a bug he saw one time that kind of looked like pikachu if you squinted. about an anime he watched five years ago that reminded him of a tiktok he saw yesterday—actually, no, it reminded him of two tiktoks, and he’ll pull them both up even though you’re in the middle of eating.

he doesn't even realize he's doing it. he just talks.

before you started dating, he once spent two full hours explaining the entire five nights at freddy’s lore to you. he even brought a whiteboard. he drew a timeline. there were arrows, names, color-coded events. he kept glancing at you nervously, like he was waiting for you to run. you thought he was fucking psychotic, but according to all his friends that was his weak attempt at flirting.

he talks in his sleep too. full conversations. one night, around 3 a.m., he whispered, “gregory… you have to hide.” and you just laid there, staring at the ceiling, wondering what choices in life had led you here. he was completely out. you even poked him and he just mumbled something about “security breach.”

you didn't sleep much that night. he did.

you hear him on the phone all the time. he’s loud. his voice carries. you don’t even need to be in the same room to catch half the story. in group calls, he’s that guy—never letting anyone finish a sentence, always jumping back in because he just remembered another detail, or because he needs to relate something someone said to a completely different topic.

he narrates everything he does. it’s like living with a one-man podcast. making a sandwich? you’re getting a full tutorial with sound effects. brushing his teeth? he gives ratings to the toothpaste flavor like he’s doing a mukbang. finding a sock under the bed? live drama, complete with shocked gasps and a full backstory on how the sock ended up there.

he doesn't mean to talk so much, honestly, he can't help himself. he just… gets excited. he thinks out loud. he loves sharing things. his brain moves fast, and his mouth just tries to keep up.

"s-so sorry baby, your pussy just tastes so—mmf."

so sometimes you have to shut him up. the only way you know how.

his long eyelashes flutter against flushed cheeks, those bambi eyes of his wide and glassy as he looks up at you from between your thighs.

his fingers gripping the fat of your thighs as he drags your pussy back down onto his mouth. tongue greedy, he mouths at you like you're divine. slow, wet, sloppy kisses, tongue flicking then flattening, dipping in and out like he’s tasting something sacred. he hums against you, needy and messy and so, so fucking eager.

but as he pauses to catch his breath, you realise, he's still running his mouth.

with eyes locked onto the sticky mess he's made, his mouth is still moving, lips slick and parted as he mumbles god knows what into your pussy. eyes fixed on the mess he's made, like he's hypnotized. and the worst part? you can feel it. the vibrations, the breathy whispers, the praise he's spilling straight into your cunt. you strain to make out the words, and between the rush of blood in your ears you catch bits and pieces. "t-thank youuu, so fu-ucking good for me, you’re perfect, so warm, so wet, love you, love you, love yo—"

you roll your eyes and cut his praises short with a forceful tug of his hair. not too hard. just enough. it makes him whine into you, the sound all breath and heat, and you feel his hips twitch against the mattress. he loves it when you take control. he melts for it.

"denki, sweetie, what have i told you?" you sigh contently when his tongue starts doing circles on your clit, "no talking while you're eating."

he doesn’t answer with words—he knows better. just moans, all obedient and desperate, nodding his head so fast his blonde locs shake. sweat glistens on his forehead, some strands of hair sticking to it. you brush them away gently, and his amber eyes snap up to meet yours.

they're wide. glassy. brimming with devotion.

he's docile, pliable. he listens, does what he's told.

and for now, he's quiet.

but you'll keep him here until he's learnt his lesson.

[wendichester]

⋆˙⟡ bobby's niece,

summary. dean might kinda be crushing on you

pairing. dean winchester x bobby's niece!reader

wordcount. 657

Dean Winchester has been in a lot of tough situations—hunting monsters, dodging the law, saving the world once or twice. But nothing quite compares to the absolute mess he’s in now.

Because he’s got a massive crush on Bobby Singer’s niece.

And that? That’s a problem.

Not because Bobby ever said anything directly, but because, well—Dean’s pretty sure if he so much as thought about you in a way Bobby didn’t approve of, the old man would skin him alive and use his ribs for spare parts.

But damn if you don’t make it hard to behave.

You’re staying at Bobby’s for a while, helping out in the salvage yard, flipping through old lore books like it’s the most normal thing in the world. And Dean? He’s dying.

Because every time you laugh, it does something dangerous to his heart. Every time you brush past him, smelling like wildflowers and gasoline, he has to remind himself to breathe.

And the worst part?

You’re completely oblivious.

You flirt without realizing it—throwing casual compliments his way, stealing his flannel when you get cold, resting a hand on his shoulder when you lean over to read something. It’s torture.

And Sam? That smug son of a bitch? He knows.

“You’re pathetic,” Sam mutters one afternoon, watching Dean nearly drop a wrench because you smiled at him.

“Shut up,” Dean hisses back.

But it’s too late. You’re already looking over, curious. “What’s going on?”

Dean clears his throat, straightens up, desperately tries to play it cool. “Nothin’. Just—uh, fixing this carburetor.”

You raise a brow. “That’s a fuel pump.”

Dean curses under his breath.

Sam snorts.

And Bobby, from across the yard, glares.

Yeah. Dean is so screwed.

The night gets worse when Bobby asks Dean to help you carry a box of old lore books inside. Not that carrying books is the problem.

The problem is you.

Inside the house, you set the books down on the table, stretching your arms above your head, letting out a quiet groan that makes Dean’s brain short-circuit.

“God,” you sigh, shaking out your hands. “Bobby really needs to stop hoarding every supernatural book in existence.”

Dean forces himself to look anywhere but at the sliver of skin peeking out when your shirt rides up. “Yeah, well, he’s stubborn.”

You smirk, plopping down on the couch. “Runs in the family.”

Dean opens his mouth—probably to say something cocky, maybe to deflect the fact that his brain is still stuck on how soft you look lounging there—but then you really ruin his life.

You stretch out your legs, nudging his thigh with your foot. “C’mon, Winchester. Sit. I don’t bite.”

Dean hesitates for half a second.

Then he folds.

He sits next to you, keeping a respectable amount of space between you. Because, y’know. Self-control.

You tilt your head, watching him with a little smile. “You’re kinda weird, y’know that?”

Dean blinks. “Excuse me?”

“I dunno.” You shrug. “You’re usually such a flirt, but with me, you get all quiet and weird.”

His throat closes up.

You don’t know.

You really don’t know.

He’s about to throw out some excuse, maybe crack a joke—because God forbid he just confess that he’s stupidly, painfully into you—when Bobby’s voice calls from the other room.

“Dean! Need you out here, boy!”

Dean jumps up way too fast. “Yep! On it!”

You blink up at him. “Uh. You okay?”

“Peachy!” He forces a grin. “See ya, sweetheart.”

And then he flees.

Later that night, Sam finds him nursing a beer in the kitchen.

“You’re an idiot,” Sam says simply.

Dean glares. “The hell are you talkin’ about?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “She likes you, dude.”

Dean scoffs, taking a sip of his beer. “Yeah, okay.”

“She does,” Sam insists. “And if you weren’t so busy being a dumbass, you’d see it.”

Dean pauses, fingers tightening around the bottle.

No.

No way.

Bobby’s niece wouldn’t be into him.

Would she?

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @taurus0queenie33 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery ⋆ @krabog ⋆ @itsdearapril ⋆ @nymphet-quenn ⋆ @bluemerakis ⋆ @titsout4jackles ⋆ @lyarr24 ⋆ @hauntedrose555 ⋆ @chevroletdean ⋆ @dulcescorderitas ⋆ @blackmarketfruitrollups ⋆ @impala67rollingthroughtown ⋆ @rulesareshadesofgrey ⋆ @nervoussystems ⋆ @daryls-luvrr ⋆ @sunnyteume ⋆ @drakelover78 ⋆ @angelblqde ⋆ @mostlymarvelgirl ⋆ @whisperingdaze ⋆ @funkenniffler ⋆ @bossyblondie ⋆ @lieutenantchaos ⋆ @iluvnewtie ⋆ @dyhsversion ⋆ @lovewolfspirit ⋆ @kayleighwinchester ⋆ @s0urw00lf ⋆ @cursednevermore ⋆ @onelonelybitch ⋆ @americanvenom13 ⋆ @iluvdeanwinchester ⋆ @idk6505 ⋆ @devilslittlehelper ⋆ @cloverleaf20 ⋆ @giggles1026 ⋆ @idontwannabehere7 ⋆ @beakaleak32 ⋆ @ocelotlist51 ⋆ @lelapine ⋆ @pwin098 ⋆ @lacysretribution ⋆ @globetrotter28 ⋆ @i-love-gvf ⋆ @lemonswinchester ⋆ @4k1vrr ⋆ @bejeweledinterludes ( continues in the comments )

[meganegatari]

heh.. okay, so you asked for different.. rubs hands together villaniously as i materialize from the bottomless shadows..

sub!vampire!ellie biting/bloodsucking denial.. reminding her how much of a good girl she needs to be even when your wrist is practically just brushing past her lips to cradle her face.. or when the weakest bead of blood is pricked from your finger.. flaunting it.. teasing.. goddess bless throw in whatever else you see fit freakmaster

TEMPTATION WAITS

before you read! ▪︎ my masterlist ☆: co-president...this is absolutely divine...shoulda seen the way i dropped everything for this im literally #TWEAKING. new fav thing i've ever written methinks. title song. (vibes aren't there but the title was too good.) ps: if you spot any typos i wrote this with one hand. KIDDING...or am i? divider creds—cafekitsune. ◇: not outright smut, but still suggestive!! and nsfw is described. fluffy end bc i think she earned it, lore sprinkled in because why nawt it's interesting, finger sucking (e! receiving), this is maybe a lil ooc idrc, she's described as looking quite ill in her vampiric form + begs like her century long life depends on it fr, (but also has a bit of an attitude, it issss ellie after all), mean!r, talk of blood/previous bite wounds. ++ 3.3k wc. doesn't need to be that long but atp? take it or leave it LOLL. filing under "oneshots" bc it's way more than usual reqs hehe.

“Please, baby. Just one taste. I'll do anything.” Desperate, shaky pleas spilled from Ellie, her voice noticeably tired from the effort. She's been at this for what felt like forever now, and you were getting tired of ignoring her. Or rather, a little bored.

She was kneeling on the wooden floor by your bed, fisting the creased sheets, trying to capture your attention. The shimmering moonlight was dancing on her features as if it was a sparkle of fireflies, making her oddly colored eyes appear to glow, and highlighting her sickly appearance.

In her vampiric form, her skin was tinted a ghostly—even chalky—white, barely a smidgen of blush dancing on the apples of her cheeks. Her eyes shifted from their original grassy green to a peculiar duochrome blend of emerald and ruby. She really looked unwell, but you knew it was merely a product of circumstance, her gloomy fate.

Ellie donned somber dark circles around her eyes, her lips withered, pale, and thin as a piece of tissue paper. Just behind them though, rested two deadly weapons of her very own—sizeable, razor-sharp, gleaming ivory canines reflecting the scarce lighting as if they were made of mirrored glass.

For the first time tonight, you met her gaze, assuming an unbreakable poker face. Her keen sight could pick out the most subtle of twitches, so you learned to defeat that. The moment you met her line of sight she perked up, her eyes widening in glee, you had finally acknowledged her existence after so long.

Scooting forward you placed yourself right in front of her still kneeling form, sitting so she was in between your legs, but she wasn't allowed to touch you until you said so. What torture.

She began again, “Can I do something to make you change your mind? I'll do anything. Anything in the world. I'll make you feel re-really good, and then I won't ask again…ever even, if that's what you want. Just please let me…I'm so thirsty.” She was rambling a million miles a minute, slurring her words and cutting herself off with hiccups, stuttering like was having a nervous breakdown.

Her chest heaving up and down was visible to you despite the dim surroundings, and you could just make out her facial expression—a pained grimace, as if she was experiencing all of humanity's greatest suffering. When you didn't reply but stayed observing her blankly, she sighed and hung her head in shame, you almost felt bad. Almost.

You extend a hand, twirling a strand of her hair—previously silky and vibrant, now as lifeless and dull as charred hay—and you feel her relax under your touch. You continue raking your fingers through her locks, scratching her scalp with your nails, and you hear her exhale forcefully. She's likely overwhelmed by your scent—it's invigorating, fresh, and full of life.

“Have you been good?” You pipe up with a voice colder than ice, softly caressing the flesh of her tense cheek, and letting your fingertips travel to the underside of her chin. You gently tilt her head up, noticing the way her eyelids flutter to a close. She's soaking up the heat radiating off of you, making sure to feel the sensations of your skin brush against hers as much as she can, commit them to memory for when she's apart from you.

Her lips part, allowing for hushed, woeful whimpers to pour out, and she instinctively bites her bottom lip to quiet herself. Only she forgets about the powerful daggers in her mouth, and almost pierces right through her own skin.

Taking notice, you tut at her, warning clicks of your tongue bouncing off the room’s walls, contrasting the dead of night’s eerie silence. Tsk, tsk, tsk. You push the pad of your thumb down on the plush of her lip, angling her jaw side to side, examining those killer gnashers she's got.

“You could hurt yourself with these y'know, be careful.” Her eyelids flicker open, she's staring up at you with the biggest doe eyes she could muster, somehow all while maintaining such a strong glare you feel as if she's trying to challenge you.

“I'll decide if you can have some, as long as you're good, and you let me have some fun first. Alright?” You explain in a neutral tone, earning a cute “mhm” of confirmation from the undead being before you. “Good girl.”

You slowly slip your thumb into her mouth, avoiding her fangs at all costs, and you let her wrap her slippery tongue around your digit, watching how her cheeks hollow and her eyes roll ever so slightly while she sucks, moaning as she takes in your taste—nothing more than just skin.

You chuckle at her desperation, revel in the power dynamic you have created. “Mmm, you taste so good, so sweet.” She mumbles, swirling her tongue around your thumb, coating the entirety of it in her spit. You allow it for now, but soon enough, to no surprise, she slyly tries to shift to the side in preparation to slice you and get her treat.

You sharply retract your hands from her, removing your finger from her mouth with a pop, disappointed by her greed, her audacity. She turns to the side and pouts, huffing and rolling her eyes with more attitude than a moody teen. “What did I say?” You calmly hiss at her. She whispers, almost inaudibly, “Sorry…taste so good, can't help m’self.” Her voice wavered, and the moonlight illuminated the faintest tinge of red across her features, it was nearly invisible.

But you could tell exactly what was up. She shifts uncomfortably in her spot, grunting with laughable, pitiful attempts to rub her thighs together, fingers toying with the cloth of her pants, putting her frustration on full display. You looked at her struggle, unable to contain your grin.

It was a different kind of high, seeing such a feared and fabled beast kneel before you in such a pathetic manner, but it turned you on like nothing else. It was also evident she enjoyed it as well, no matter how much she didn't want you to be aware of the fact. The extent to which she worships you and handles your body, the way she was willing to beg and let you order her around showed just how much you meant to her—it was beautiful in its own way, how devoted she was to you. You were her person.

The fact she couldn't stifle her desire anymore after all this time suggested a shift in the atmosphere of your wicked games, the tension in the air was getting impossibly thicker, and you were loving every second of it.

Ellie, you've got a short memory.” You tease, then gesture to the gauze wrapped around your forearm, protecting two puncture wounds left by none other than her just the previous night. She looks at it and cocks an eyebrow, grouching, “Yeah, I see that, what about it?” The husky edge to her voice had returned, the defiant attitude you loved to crack was back in full force.

“Hundreds of years old, you even have memories of wars, and you can't remember what happened, like, 24 hours ago? Wow…” Your voice is so patronizing, it's unpleasant and abrasive on the ears, even your own. She shrugs her shoulders, still kneeling on the cold, hard ground at your mercy. “Well let's have a refresher then, shall we?” Tearing the tan-colored bandage apart with a single rip, you reveal the puncture marks—they were still wet and irritated, the wounds reopening immediately at the slightest movement.

Ellie whines like an animal, a crude “ahh”, and she starts pleading harder than ever. “Please, baby, my pretty, my angel, please, please, pleasepleaseplease, just lemme have a drop, just one. That's all, I swear.” Her gaze darkens exponentially, if you didn't know her it would instill fear in your heart, but luckily you were well aware of all her tricks. She snarls, “Fuck you. I'm literally on my fucking knees right now. Why are you doing this?” Her voice breaks angrily, wobbling with great lust and need—the need to have you, the need to drink you and fondle you and taste you in all senses of the word, and at this point she didn't seem to care about preserving a morsel of her dignity, she was simply so drunk on you, you couldn't believe.

You reiterate the previously established explanation, “We have an agreement that says you're allowed to take my blood once a month, so you can have some more each time. Rather than taking a little bit but more often, you requested this yourself. And you already drank lots yesterday. Does that not ring a bell?”

She groans, a gravelly, guttural sound that had you coming back to your senses and realizing, this was technically, a monster who you loved so dearly.

It led you to wonder—to her kind, what was so special about the liquid coursing through your veins?

When you split your lip open as a kid, clumsily tumbling face-first onto the asphalt, or bit your tongue while eating something stubborn, the strange, metallic taste was purely disgusting. It had a certain heaviness to it, both physically with the way it sat in your mouth, but also mentally. Like a subconscious awareness you were not meant to consume it like she does, but to spit it out the millisecond it made contact with your taste buds. There were times where the thought made you queasy, the measly knowledge of just how much of this fluid was inside you, keeping you alive.

But to her, it was a completely different story. She lapped it up with such fervor, such thirst you've never seen before. A sloppy frenzy like there wasn't a single thing more delightfully flavorful.

Her teeth penetrating all the way through your epidermis, dermis, and hypodermis, and straight through the vein wall was a feeling you're likely never going to get used to. It stung, it really did, and you were quick to get all woozy from the blood volume loss, but Ellie knew your limits—even though hers were not even close. Her thirst was insatiable.

The intimacy of the act was a whole separate topic to think about too. It was such an erotic experience, and when probed about it she argues it's better than sex, somehow. When she drinks from you, Ellie is really messy with it, you noticed. Blood dribbles down her chin and stains her lips as if it's a designer lip oil, the distinct deep maroon color sometimes appearing clownish and too intense against her fair complexion.

She was really handsy as well, and you weren't sure if it was purposeful, but you didn't care to ask because you didn't really mind in the first place. It felt nice. Her muscular hands tend to trace your waist as she's suckling, hovering by your ass, and traveling north to knead the supple tissue of your breasts.

And how could you forget about the sheer proximity of it all, even when having sex normally, it didn't feel nearly as intimate or vulnerable as this. Her body would be tightly curled around yours, she couldn't bear to have one meager square inch of her not touching you.

When she drank from your neck, it was bordering on heavenly, you had to be honest with yourself. There was something about the combination of the light headed, dizzying feeling it brought you, her closeness, the licking sensations, and the hungry sounds she produced that all together mixed to form nothing short of a mind blowing, intoxicating concoction.

When you both were feeling it, she'd be able to draw breathy moans to fall from your lips, and would giggle into your skin before sucking harder, leaving bruised marks surrounding the punctures. You read in some folklore that vampires carried a sort of aphrodisiac in their fangs, or was it their saliva? Again, you didn't really know all the details, but the sessions made you both yearn for each other in a way that felt taboo to discuss—midnight feedings often turning into animalistic fucking, sometimes even simultaneously.

Like having Ellie latched onto the side of your neck while she grinds her dripping pussy onto yours, her pleasureful mewls filling your ears, or having her hold your wrist to her mouth while her other hand is pleasuring you into oblivion, prodding against your spongy walls, making your head spin.

The time you spent lost in thought, she had broken the rule of not touching you unless you said so, but all she had done was rest her head on your knee, zoning out, sulking like an injured puppy. Unfortunately for her, you weren't done torturing her just yet. You didn't move her off of you, she was just laying there, grumbling curses under her breath, saying how mean you were, how much she despised you and everything you stood for, although both of you knew the truth—she had said herself, “I've never tasted blood like yours,” and you felt intrinsically bound to her on a subconscious level, these were mere amusements you indulged in, that ended up beneficial for both.

She got her delicious elixir of life, at the cost of you having your way with her for a bit. You hear her sniffle, the little defenseless sound of defeat was able to break your act.

You resume stroking her hair, and she wraps trembling arms around your thigh. “Hmm?” You coo, putting on a sweet facade. “Don't talk to me like that, c'mon man.” She wails, the attempts to regain control over her voice proving unsuccessful.

You took your nails to the newly formed raspberry scabs on top of your bite wounds and picked them off, and she lunges to grab your arm with inhuman reflexes, but once again you emerge on top, having spent so much time memorizing every last one of her behavioral patterns, so much so you knew exactly how she was going to attempt catching you and moved out the way without thinking about it.

“Too slow, you've gotten predictable.” You ridicule her, embellishing your voice with the most fake, sickly sweet tone you could just to irritate her as much as you possibly could. Ellie lays her head on your thigh, sighing. It's like she's given everything up. Her own patience was running out, potentially entering unpredictable territory now.

You squeeze the sides of the hole in your skin to coax a bubble of bright red blood to ooze out, marveling, “It's such a nice color, I see why you like it so much.” You talk to her coolly, ignoring her tearful, yet terrifyingly rage-filled glares, her massive fangs bared as if you were a prey animal she caught herself and was preparing to rip apart.

“Want a taste, Ellie? Have you earned it?” You think out loud, comically tapping your chin to exaggerate the brainstorming act. “Whatever, it's not like I have anything left to say to you.” She sounded heartbroken, you've never seen someone have such sorrow, the sheer misery behind her eyes actually caught you off guard.

"Okay I think you have earned it, just need you to say one more thing.” She nods, a little too quickly, rushing to catch any tears that were planning an escape route down the sides of her pretty face. You cradle her cheek, brushing your thumb against her skin, “Aw, baby, don't cry.” This time however, your tone is sincere.

She doesn't wait for your request, and starts all over again, this is getting old. “I promise everything. I'll make you feel so good, I'll give you whatever you want, please …you're too sweet.” She huffs, “Well, except when you're not.”

She continues mumbling, burying her face in the meat of your thigh, occasionally stopping to lovingly peck where she was laying, quiet smooching sounds. That really melted your heart, you were ready to give her what she needs after so much cruelty. This went on much longer than you had planned, but you were having fun with it. So you decided to abandon whatever you would ask of her. But could anyone blame you?

She slowly reaches for your wounded arm, gauging your reactions, like in the situation you were planning to do something to prevent her, but you come up with a better idea. “I'll do you one even better, Els.” The grin that envelops her face could light up a thousand suns, and melt the coldest of souls. Make vampire hunters quit their careers even, that's how adorable she could be, on the occasion.

You lean back to take your shirt off in one swift motion, and lay back on the edge of the bed, tilting your neck to give her access to the sweet pulsating spot, finding the droplet of drool that falls from her agape mouth utterly hilarious. “Go ahead, I've had my fun.” She hesitates. “But our agreement, I don't wanna hurt you.” “Ellie it's fine, unless you don't want t-” “No I do I do, oh thank you, thank you, thank you. I love you so muchhhh.”

Her gratitude is silly, she's straddling you and kissing all over your neck, face, and collarbones with such care, and you inhale sharply once you feel the familiar sensation of her teeth piercing your sensitive skin.

She has one hand on the nape of your neck, holding you close to her so you couldn't move away, and the other one finds your fingers to intertwine with hers, loud gulping noises filling the room as she messily laps up all that flows from you.

Her bony hips are sat atop your pelvis, and soon enough you feel her start absentmindedly rocking back and forth on you, your breath hitching. You hold her waist to ground yourself, and aid her. She's whispering, mostly to herself, “Fuck that's so fucking good, needed this so bad, need you, fuck- shit. Ah, yes.”

The vertiginous feeling swirls in your head and you feel yourself fading, your grip on her sides loosening, but you don't feel one single ounce of panic, because you know she's got you. No matter what, until the end of time. Or at the very least, until the final bells tolled and you were lowered to your eternal resting place six feet underground.

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[starrylanex]

Hey there! If you’d like to take a request could I please request something where it’s Sam Winchester x Reader and Sam’s hair has grown really really long. Sam needs his hair brushed and the only way the reader is able to get Sam to let him brush his long hair is to deny him kisses until after that task is completed. Hope you’re doing well!!! :)

HAIR FIRST, KISSES LATER

pairing- sam winchester x reader; word count- 1.4k; no warnings; no use of y/n; no description of reader; just pure fluff;

a/n- i am back! kind of? lol sorry for disappearing on you again, but i guess it kind of became my thing to pop in and out of here. but i will be writing more now i promise!

—————

It started with a single strand.

One rogue curl of Sam Winchester's hair that tickled your nose when he bent to kiss your forehead that morning. You batted at it like it was some sentient creature. He chuckled, didn't even notice. You did.

That strand wasn't alone.

No—there were others. A soft, unruly curtain of chestnut and gold that hung just shy of his collarbone now. It used to stop around his jaw, neat and manageable. That was before he decided to grow it out, because apparently hunting monsters, decoding ancient texts, and running on four hours of sleep weren't already hard enough—he had to add shampoo logistics to the list.

You didn't mind. Not really.

Sam was gorgeous, always had been. But something about this new length did something dangerous to your heart. It softened him. Made him look like the kind of person who read poetry aloud to you in the comfort of your bed like nothing else mattered in the entire world, not the guy who could drive a demon back to hell with Latin and a loaded pistol.

You'd kept your mouth shut for a while. But this morning's kiss had pushed you over the edge.

Or maybe it was the knot you saw later, sitting across from him at the bunker's long, creaky kitchen table. A knot, forming behind his ear like it paid rent there. You stared at it while he sipped his coffee and skimmed a lore book like it wasn't committing a crime against nature.

"Sam."

"Hmm?" he didn't even look up.

"You need your hair brushed."

He paused for a second, blinking over the rim of his mug. "No I don't."

You narrowed your eyes. "Yes. You do."

"It's fine."

"Sam." You shifted in your seat, trying not to sound too pushy. "There's a knot the size of a baby possum behind your ear."

He made a face and swiped a hand through his hair, only to wince slightly as his finger gets caught in his hair. "You're exaggerating."

"Am I?"

You both knew you weren't. He knew it. You knew he knew it. But he just shrugged, shrugged and kept reading.

It became a thing.

You'd try to coax him into letting you brush it. He'd deflect with that smug little smirk of his and mutter something about "not needing to look pretty for monsters." You'd argue about hygiene. He'd claim Dean never brushed his hair. You reminded him that Dean also once tried to iron a grilled cheese sandwich.

Still, he resisted. And you got desperate.

So you did the unthinkable. not that the unthinkable also didn't hurt you either, you craved Sam's kisses like you were addicted to them. Scratch that, you were addicted to them.

You weaponized the one thing Sam Winchester valued even more than his independence—your kisses.

It started simple, really.

That night, he reached for you in bed, one hand already sliding around your waist, his mouth brushing your temple. You turned your head, not letting his lips touch you.

"Not until you let me brush your hair," you whispered.

He froze. 

"...Wait. What?"

"No kisses," you said, "until the tangle monster is vanquished."

His eyebrows pulled together. "You're kidding."

You kissed the air next to his cheek. "Try me."

And then you turned over, tugging the blanket up to your shoulders like some passive-aggressive fairytale maiden. even if it gave a weird ache in your stomach, to deny him kisses that you loved just as much.

The next day was brutal. More brutal than you could have thought.

You dodged every attempt with masterful precision. A forehead nudge when he tried to kiss you good morning. You even left the room when he cornered you after lunch, looking so dramatically betrayed it would've been funny if your resolve wasn't made of steel. 

By day two, you caught him standing outside the bathroom mirror, absently combing his fingers through his hair, scowling at a tangle. Progress.

Day three, he got desperate.

"You know withholding affection is a form of psychological torture, right?"

You smiled sweetly. "So is letting your scalp become a wasteland of knots.”

He groaned. "You're serious about this?"

Dead serious. And, okay, maybe your heart fluttered a little every time he sighed and looked at you like you were his whole damn universe, who was currently denying him kisses like you were denying him one thing he needed to stay alive, but this was about principle now.

Eventually, he caved.

It was a rainy Tuesday when he finally padded into your shared room barefoot, holding a brush like it was Excalibur. His hair was still slightly damp from his shower, curling at the ends in soft waves that made your chest tighten.

"Alright," he muttered, plopping down on the edge of the bed. "Let's get this over with."

You beamed, eyes lighting up. "Come, lie down."

He blinked at you, confused. "What?"

"Lie down. Head in my lap. That's the deal."

He raised an eyebrow. "You're going to brush my hair like I'm some Victorian debutante?"

You patted your thigh grinning like you had just won the lottery, which, in your head you did, because it meant no more of denying him the one thing you misses the most as well. "Exactly."

Sam huffed out a laugh, shaking his head as he obeyed. The moment his weight settled across your lap, your hands went instinctively to his shoulders, thumbs pressing into the warm curve of muscle. He sighed—low, tired, comfortable.

And then you picked up the brush.

You started gently, like you were taming something sacred. Because in a way, you were. This was Sam—stoic, brilliant, sometimes frustrating Sam—and here he was, trusting you with something simple and intimate. .

Your fingers threaded through his hair first, separating sections slowly. He was still a little damp, which you were sure was also wetting your pjs, but it helped, even though the knots were real. You found one just behind his ear and worked it patiently, your nails lightly scraping his scalp as you combed.

He let out a hum, and the sound went straight to your stomach.

"You have the softest hair," you murmured.

"You only say that now that I'm letting you touch it."

"Shh. Let me have this."

Another knot gave way under your touch. He tilted his head slightly, cheek resting against your thigh now, eyes closed. His face had softened, tension melting like butter in the rain.

You thought of all the times he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. Thought of the things he never said. The battles he fought that left no scars on his skin but carved deep ones into his soul.

And now here he was, melting under your fingertips.

"I missed this," you said quietly.

He opened one eye. "What?"

"This. Just... taking care of you."

A pause. His gaze flicked up to you, unreadable for a second. Then: "I'm not exactly easy to take care of."

"No. But you're worth it."

He looked away, but not before you saw the flush creep up his neck.

The rest of the brushing passed in silence. You worked from root to tip, slow and methodical. Every now and then, he'd sigh again—content, maybe even a little sleepy. You weren't sure who was more affected, him or you.

When the last tangle was gone, you set the brush aside and ran your fingers through his hair again, admiring how it spilled like silk over your lap now.

"There," you said. "Mission accomplished."

Sam didn't move.

You smiled. "Sam?"

"I'm just saying," he mumbled, voice low and warm, "that if I'd known this was what I was missing, I might've let you brush it sooner."

You leaned down slowly, pressing a kiss to his temple. Then one to his cheek. His jaw.

And finally, his lips.

He responded instantly, hand finding your arm, pulling you closer. The kiss was deep, long overdue, full of all the things you hadn't said for days. It was both apology and reward. And maybe, a promise that you'd do this again.

Eventually, he pulled back, breathless.

"So... does this mean I've officially earned back my kissing privileges?"

You laughed, curling a hand in his now-perfect hair. "Only if you agree to regular brushing sessions."

He groaned, but you saw the smile tug at his lips. "You drive a hard bargain."

You kissed him again.

"You have no idea."

[onlyangel4]

the one that got away. cm punk.

cm punk x ex!reader. finn balor x reader

synopsis: you were his sancturary in a world that saw everything. back when cm punk was at the top of wwe, he found something real in you fiery, fearless, and rising fast. but when he walked away from the company, he left everything behind including you. now, nearly a decade later, he’s back. same brand. same locker room. and there you are, no longer the same girl he left behind. you’ve changed. you’ve grown. and you’re with someone else now. and punk is forced to watch you live you life with someone else. to him you will always be the one that got away

faceclaim: eliza taylor

angel's playlist

wwefan posted a story

written: every so often i am reminded that y/n is not the only one who has this tattoo. she dated punk in 2013 and they got them together. i always forget about their lore.

y/nlover

liked by user1, user2, user3 and 98,283 others

y/nlover: so i love y/n and finn as much as anyone else but i just found these deepcuts and i was reminded how much i miss y/n and punk. they were the first wwe couple that really made me believe in love.

view all 4,384 comments

user1: THIS. like i know finn treats her right but the smile she had when she was with punk was unmatched

user2: it's a bit odd to bring this up when it has almost been ten years since they were together

user3: as long as y/n is happy i don't care who she dates

user4: when i was younger i always wanted a love like they had

y/ninsta posted a story tagging finnbalor

written: thank god for him because there is no way that i could navigate public transport alone

finnbalor posted a story tagging y/ninsta

written: game night with the mrs

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

you sat curled into finn’s side on the couch, the low hum of the tv filling the room. neither of you were really paying attention to it. your phone buzzed again, the same message you’d opened and closed at least three times.

this time, you didn’t ignore it.

shifting slightly, you glanced up at him. "hey, there’s something i should tell you."

finn muted the tv and turned to you, concern flickering across his face. "everything alright?"

you nodded. "yeah. it’s not a big deal. or it kind of is." you hesitated, then sighed. "stephanie texted me earlier."

he didn’t speak, just waited patiently.

you looked down at your hands before saying it. "punk’s back. he’s signed. he’ll be on raw starting next week."

there was a pause. finn’s jaw tensed slightly, but his expression didn’t shift much.

you reached for his hand and laced your fingers through his. "i wanted to tell you myself before it got out online or in the locker room."

he nodded, his thumb brushing against your skin. "thanks for telling me."

you looked him in the eye, your voice steady. "i don’t feel anything for him anymore. that chapter ended a long time ago. i’m with you. completely. you know that, right?"

finn held your gaze, then gave you that quiet smile, the one that always made you feel safe. "i know. i trust you."

you let out a soft breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. leaning in, you pressed a kiss to his shoulder before resting your head there.

"he’s not the enemy", you murmured. "just the past."

finn nodded, pulling you closer. "and i’m your present."

you smiled. "and my future."

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

y/ninsta posted a story

written: see you tonight chicago

wwe

liked by user5, user6, user7 and 827,938

tagged: cmpunk

wwe: what a way to end this year's war games

view all 48,928 comments

user6: knowing the lore between punk and y/n this is kinda nuts

user7: i screamed

user8: i have seen that he will be going to raw, y/n can't escape that man

user9: punk vs balor needed to happen yesterday

user10: everyone talking about y/n needs to stfu. she dated him for eight months ten years ago and has been with finn for four years, they are happy let them be

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

the noise from the arena still echoed faintly down the halls, but back here, it was quiet. too quiet.

punk walked slowly down the corridor, still buzzing from the crowd’s reaction. It had been deafening. surreal. like time had folded in on itself and dropped him back where it all began.

he wasn’t sure what he was expecting to feel.

not this.

ahead, just past a row of equipment crates, he spotted you.

you were laughing, head tilted back, eyes crinkled as Finn dipped his head to murmur something in your ear. his hand was gently resting at your waist, protective without being possessive. the kind of touch that said this is mine and more importantly, i know how to keep it.

punk froze for a second, unseen.

god, that laugh. he hadn’t heard it in years, but it still hit him like a memory you thought you’d buried deep, the kind that resurfaced when you least expected it.

he remembered what it was like to be the reason for that sound.

that should’ve been me, he thought. could’ve been me. if i hadn’t walked away.

you looked so different, and yet exactly the same. older. stronger. happier.

without him.

he swallowed hard, forced his expression blank, and started to turn away

then your eyes caught his.

you blinked. just for a second, your smile faltered. then it came back, softer this time.

"punk", you said, loud enough to carry. "hey."

finn glanced over his shoulder, noticed punk, and gave a polite nod. nothing more.

punk hesitated, but you were already beckoning him closer.

so he stepped forward.

"didn’t expect to see you back here", you said. "hell of a return."

punk gave a faint smirk. "figured i’d crash the party one more time."

finn extended a hand. "welcome back, man. big moment."

punk took it, shook once, firm but not hostile. "thanks. you’ve been killing it lately."

"appreciate that", finn said easily. his arm slid back around your waist like second nature.

punk didn’t miss the way you leaned into it.

you looked at him then, really looked. "it’s good to see you."

punk nodded, but something behind his eyes flickered. "yeah. you too."

and he meant it. even if it twisted in his chest.

because seeing you happy, seeing you loved the way he didn’t love you back then, it was a reminder.

a reminder of what he gave up.

what he lost.

and what he would never get back.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

finnbalor posted a story tagging y/ninsta

written: she said yes!

y/ninsta posted a story tagging finnbalor

written: forever sounds about right

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

the hallway outside the locker rooms buzzed with the usual energy, crew members passing, someone shouting about a production note, a camera being wheeled into position. but punk stood still.

he’d seen the news.

the photo had gone up two nights ago: your hand, held up to the camera, the diamond catching soft golden light. finn kissing your temple. that effortless, glowing smile on your face. the caption had been simple: forever sounds about right.

everyone was happy for you both.

so was he.

mostly.

he spotted finn standing near catering, half-distracted by his phone, and without overthinking it, punk crossed the space between them.

"hey."

finn looked up, then smiled, not wary, not cold. just calm. finn was always calm.

"hey, man. what’s up?"

punk shoved his hands in his pockets. "mind if i steal you for a second?"

finn raised a brow but nodded. "sure."

they moved a little off to the side, tucked near a quiet hallway where the noise dulled.

punk exhaled, then looked him straight in the eye. "i wanted to say congrats. to you. and to her."

finn’s face softened, his smile honest. "thanks. that means a lot."

punk nodded, gaze dropping for a beat. "you’re a good guy. solid. i know she’s... she’s got everything she needs with you."

a pause stretched, not uncomfortable, just heavy.

"i wasn’t always good at that", punk added quietly.

finn didn’t speak right away, but his expression was unreadable, not judgmental, just listening.

"i could’ve been", punk went on, forcing a tight smile. "maybe. in another life. if i’d stayed. if i'd been different."

his voice didn’t crack, but something in it strained. like regret carefully folded beneath every syllable.

finn gave a small nod. "we’ve all made choices we have to live with."

punk huffed a soft laugh, the sound bone-tired. "yeah. some of them don’t really leave you, though."

there was silence again. and then, punk looked back up at finn.

"just take care of her. that’s all i ask."

finn met his gaze. no bravado. no tension. just quiet sincerity.

"i will. every day."

punk gave a single nod. "good."

he turned to leave, but hesitated.

"she used to talk about marrying me, you know" he said, almost like he wasn’t supposed to say it out loud. "back then. said she could picture it."

he smiled again, the kind of smile that doesn’t reach the eyes.

"i couldn’t."

and with that, he walked away.

finn stayed standing there for a moment, thoughtful.

across the hallway, you appeared, eyes searching and when you spotted finn, your whole face lit up.

he smiled back at you as you walked into his arms, completely unaware of the man who had just left.

and somewhere down the corridor, punk didn’t look back.

but god, he wished he could.

[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.

A/N: Welcome back, besties, to KDrama Kaisen! 💅✨ Today’s burning question: why is everyone in love with the reader & WHERE do I apply?! 😭 Like fr. Men are getting their lore dropped like boxer shorts at a frat party, so stay sharp. 👀 Also, Takashi is now officially the community's emotional support pet (or at least the polycule’s). Let me know if you want merch. (not really). Don’t worry — this therapy isn’t ethical, legal, or remotely licensed, but it will be effective (probably). 😌 🛑 Easter egg alert: Notice how Haibara talks 👀.

Previous Chapter 16 (alt ending 2.7) - Placeholder: This Should Have Been Love (Tumblr/Ao3)

Chapter 17 (alt ending 2.8) - Invisible

Your POV

The car ride home was... quiet.

Too quiet. The kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful but dense—thick with unspoken words, tension clinging to the air like humidity before a storm.

Gojo held you like you were something fragile, something breakable. His arms curled around you, hands splayed across the curve of your back, rubbing slow, deliberate circles against your spine. The warmth of his body pressed into yours, his breath ghosting over the top of your head, uneven but steady. His hold wasn’t desperate—not yet—but it was close. He needed this; he needed you in his arms like he was afraid you’d slip through his fingers the second he let go.

Despite the heater blaring, you were freezing. The rain had soaked into your skin, settled in your bones, and Gojo’s body was the only thing keeping the cold at bay. He must have been cold, too—his clothes were damp, and every now and then, a shiver ran through him, barely perceptible, but there. He didn’t complain. Didn’t shift away. If anything, he pulled you closer, tucking your head beneath his chin like he was trying to block out the rest of the world.

Nanami’s grip on the steering wheel was tight. Too tight. Knuckles pale under the dim glow of the dashboard. His jaw flexed, then clenched, the only outward sign of the frustration simmering beneath his otherwise unreadable face.

The cabin felt too warm, and still, he reached for the thermostat again. Adjusting. Fiddling. Finding excuses to do something with his hands.

He hadn’t looked back once.

But you could feel him. The weight of his stare burning into you from the rearview mirror, quick glances flickering over the reflection of Gojo’s arms wrapped around you, your body leaning into his. The way Gojo’s fingers curled slightly at your hip, not possessive but present. The way your fingers barely brushed against the fabric of Gojo’s sleeve, the contact featherlight, almost hesitant—like muscle memory more than intention.

Nanami exhaled sharply through his nose. Adjusted the rearview mirror.

Gojo barely acknowledged it.

The motion of the car, the dim glow of streetlights filtering through the rain-speckled windows, the hum of the heater—it all blurred together as you let your weight sink further into Gojo’s chest. You didn’t think. Didn’t speak. Just let exhaustion lull you into something dangerously close to comfort.

Nanami tapped his fingers against the wheel, slow and methodical. His posture remained stiff, shoulders squared, the set of his mouth betraying nothing. But every time the car hit a red light, every time he was forced to pause, his fingers twitched—a silent reminder that he was very much aware.

Gojo hummed under his breath, the vibrations low against your temple. Not a song. Just noise. Just something to fill the space between your pulse and his.

He was waiting.

Nanami was waiting, too.

For what, you didn’t know.

You didn’t ask.

Didn’t care to.

Instead, you leaned back in Gojo’s chest, closed your eyes, and counted down the minutes until you could eat again.

---

By the time the car pulled up to the penthouse building, a headache had already begun to creep in.

And then you saw them.

Two figures sitting on Nanami’s Aston Martin DBS in your garage.

One—tall, heavily built, dark-haired, radiating quiet judgment.

The other—bright-eyed, beaming, the human equivalent of a loaded gun with the safety off.

You exhaled.

How’d you get in my house? This is trespassing. This is an invasion of my privacy. This is freeloading. What do you mean I’m a trillionaire who needs protection, so I should pay? Oh, so now capitalism applies to me? Suddenly, I’m the bourgeoisie? What do you mean this is a tax-deductible expense? This is annoying.

Were the type of questions you’d long stopped asking them.

The second the car stopped, Haibara hopped to his feet.

Too fast. His excitement always came like a sudden impact—like a hammer swung with a little too much force, like a blade that didn’t stop at the intended target. He had that kind of energy—erratic, unchecked, untethered.

“Hey, princess!”

You winced, getting out while Gojo held your arms for support. “Don’t call me that.”

Megumi, still seated on the car, nodded in greeting, hands in his pockets. His voice was dry, unimpressed. “Why are you looking like a wet possum? It didn’t rain today.”

“It rained in the countryside,” Nanami said curtly, parking your Jesko.

Something flickered in Haibara’s expression when he saw Gojo’s hand on your waist—Gojo, who still hadn’t let go of you since pulling you out of the car, his grip on your stomach as he held you pressed-easy, possessive in a way that made something clench in Nanami’s jaw. Haibara schooled his expression back into something casual, grinning wide, but Nanami had seen it.

He barely got out before Haibara latched onto him, an arm slung over his shoulder like they were old friends. “Sorcerer Supreme(ly Clueless) of Dimwits! The Himbo of Hexes! We gotta go kill some people.”

Nanami audibly sighed, running a hand through his still damp hairs, soft blond strands falling gently on his forhead.

You blinked. Gojo still hadn’t let go of your waist. “I’m sorry, what?”

Megumi ignored them, watching you instead. “Do you need a jacket?”

You frowned. “I’m fine.”

Haibara ignored you, already bouncing on his heels. “Got all the intel. Turns out, the people who put the bounty on your lovely wife—” he flashed you a smile, which you did not return, “—are holed up downtown. I say we drop in, kill everyone, and call it a night.”

“What bounty?” Your stomach turned.

Nanami pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why are you like this?”

Haibara’s grin widened. “Why are you still alive?”

For a moment, the tension between them was tangible, something dark curling in the air between them. Megumi didn’t react—he never did, not with things like this—but his gaze flickered toward you, a silent warning.

“Enough,” Gojo cut in before Nanami could actually commit a homicide. His voice, though light, carried weight. “You staying?”

Megumi exhaled. “No.”

You straightened up. “Wait—Megumi?”

The man gave you a look. Something like a silent apology.

“You’re all leaving me here?”

Gojo smiled, too cheerful. “It’s just a little mass murder, sweetheart.”

You stared. “That is not reassuring.”

You had so many questions.

Mainly: Why were they all suddenly collaborating like they’d been a tactical unit since birth?

Since when were Haibara and Megumi capable of coexisting with Gojo and Nanami without someone being hospitalized (or arrested)?

The only logical explanation: the threat was so bad it forced even your chaotic ex-sociopath friends to play nice with your clingy dumbasses.

Which meant you were really screwed.

“Eh, you’ll be fine.” Gojo waved a hand.

Haibara beamed. “I will keep you company,” he announced proudly.

Nanami, who was already battling an existential crisis, sighed deeply. "Are you even strong enough if they ambush us and it’s a trap, given you have bare minimum cursed energy? Practically a grade 4 civilian.”

Haibara scoffed. "Did you forget the day of our heartfelt reunion—which you probably call it—when I was faster than both of you, and you thought I wasn’t even a sorcerer?"

Nanami muttered something under his breath that sounded dangerously close to "I’d rather leave her alone with a rabid dog."

You crossed your arms. “And if I don’t want to be babysat by a sociopath?”

Haibara gasped. “You flatter me!”

Before you could argue further, the men were already moving, splitting off in different directions, the quiet efficiency of it unsettling.

“You should at least change into warm clothes before you go,” you said, softer now.

Gojo leaned down, close—closer than he had any right to be, considering you barely tolerated his presence lately. And yet, he was still there, holding on, like he’d been waiting for an opening.

Now that you’d let him touch you after so long, he wasn’t about to let go.

“We’re dry now. The sooner it’s done, the better,” he murmured, voice low. “But you go and change.”

Your heartbeat stuttered.

“It’s risky, isn’t it?” You said quietly, eyeing him.

Gojo took a slow inhale next to your hair, his fingers twitching like he wanted to tuck a strand behind your ear. He hesitated, barely there, before straightening up, tilting his head, winking. “Don’t wait up.”

And just like that, the moment was gone.

Nanami, watching the whole thing, wanted to die.

So this was what it felt like. Months of feeling like a placeholder, of being treated like an obligation, and then suddenly, Gojo walks back in, and you fit like an equation. Gojo—who never let things get boring, who made your world shift, made you laugh, when Nanami had only ever tried to steady it.

Nanami had always known he couldn’t compete with that.

Haibara leaned down, his gaze locking onto yours with that smoldering intensity only dark romance men could pull off. His soft brown wolf-cut curls fell perfectly onto his forehead and around his shoulders, framing his face like he’d just stepped out of some viking tragedy.

Not that you noticed.

Your eyes were too busy glued to Nanami’s retreating figure, his fingers flexing around the car door when they got to Megumi’s car, walking away in the distance like some kind of heartbreak montage.

Then they were gone.

Haibara didn’t even have time to process the fact that you’d never look at him the same way before something brushed against your sweatshirt. A pair of tiny feet scurried over your stomach.

Haibara flinched back like he’d just seen a cockroach, his suave demeanor cracking.

He straightened, running a hand through his perfect curls, biceps flexing.

You turned to Haibara, still beaming like he hadn’t just sent three of the strongest sorcerers in Japan off on a murder spree.

Your stomach growled.

Haibara clapped his hands together, mockingly dramatic. “Ramen?”

You exhaled. “Yeah. Ramen.”

The two of you walked back to your penthouse in comfortable silence. The second you opened the door, a blur of white fur came charging at you, chirping loudly.

“Takahashi,” you sighed, bending down slightly to scoop up the tiny, wriggling menace. The two-month-old albino raccoon nipped at your fingers, his small teeth pressing in but never breaking the skin. His way of saying hello.

Haibara beamed. “There’s my little demon!”

You barely had a second to react before Takahashi lunged out of your arms and latched onto Haibara’s ankle with all the ferocity of a wild animal. Which, technically, he was.

Haibara, unfazed, crouched down and scratched his head. “That’s right, take your anger out on me. I deserve it for abandoning my precious son with these heathens.”

Takahashi chirped in agreement, gnawing harder.

You sighed, excusing the remaining housekeepers who had been watching the kit for you. “Thanks for staying with him.”

They nodded and left, sparing Haibara a concerned glance before heading out.

---

Fifteen minutes later, you were sitting at the kitchen table, watching Haibara toss instant noodles into a pot like this was just another night.

“So,” he said, stirring the pot lazily. “How’s life as the world’s richest hostage?”

You rolled your eyes, unable to take your nose off his cooking. Only Haibara could make instant ramen fragrant. “I’m not a hostage.”

“Aren’t you, though?” He grinned, flashing sharp teeth. “Trapped with two men who, if I had my way, would be dead by now?”

You sighed. “They’re not that bad.”

Haibara made a gagging noise, sticking his tongue out.

You smirked. “You hate Nanami so much.”

“I do!” He placed a hand over his heart. “It’s the one thing keeping me going. My motivation to live, love, laugh these days.”

You chuckled.

It was easy, sitting here, listening to Haibara ramble about nonsense, slurping down ramen while a full-scale assassination was happening somewhere in the city.

You leaned back, content—for now.

You had noodles.

---

Haibara’s POV

Somewhere between the third ramen cup and a poorly dubbed King Kong movie Haibara insisted on watching, you had fallen asleep on the couch.

The dim glow of the television flickered across the room, casting shadows on the walls. The volume was low—almost a whisper—because Haibara had turned it down when you fell asleep. He told himself it was so the noise wouldn’t wake you, but really, he just needed silence. Needed space to think.

You looked so peaceful, curled up on the couch, your breathing steady, your hand resting against your stomach. It should’ve been a happy sight, but for Haibara, it was like a knife twisting deep in his chest.

Because it wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Gojo had touched you. Held you.

And you let him.

Even after knowing Haibara for years, you had always been careful, always hesitant. Even now, he was afraid of touching you without permission. Afraid of the weight of it, the consequences of reaching for something that had never truly been his. But Gojo? Gojo just took and took, and somehow, you let him.

Maybe if Haibara hadn’t left, things would’ve been different.

Maybe you would’ve been with him.

Maybe you wouldn’t be pregnant, wouldn’t be tied down to a life you had never wanted.

He had known—had always known—you never wanted to be a mother. You had said it in passing, in the quiet moments between classes and late-night ramen runs, when the world was too light and nightmares felt distant.

He had never questioned it. Never tried to change your mind.

And yet, here you were.

And he wasn’t.

Haibara exhaled, running a hand down his face.

He thought about the past, about how easily you would listen to him when you never listened to Megumi.

Haibara had always been a manipulator, the kind of person who did things just because they amused him. The kind of person who could kill a man just because they laughed at his joke too loudly.

He wasn’t like Gojo. Or Nanami. They were idiots, but they were good men.

Haibara wasn’t.

He knew that.

So why had he run? Why had he left you behind?

He looked at you now, at the way you had curled into the couch, the way your hand had instinctively rested against your stomach.

It wasn’t about MI6.

He had never cared for the life of a spy—the secrecy, the missions, the danger. To him, it was just another game, a distraction from the truth.

The truth was much simpler.

He had left because you never looked at him the way you looked at Megumi.

As you approached the end of your teenage years, you began spending more time with Megumi. Perhaps it was because he was closer to your age, or maybe it was the way you listened to him, your wide, thoughtful eyes reflecting the weight of his words.

Megumi had always been better for you—someone who was morally intact, a person who wouldn’t lead you down the wrong path.

Unlike Haibara.

He had always felt like an outsider, watching you and Megumi grow closer while he remained on the periphery. You two had practically woven your lives together, with his family branches becoming a backdrop to your shared memories. Haibara felt too far removed to truly belong, as if he were too old, as if he had never been a kid at all.

So he convinced himself that it was only a matter of time before you and Megumi would become a couple, leaving him alone, abandoned by the only family he had left.

So in response, he ran away, retreating into silence on the pretense of not being allowed to talk, distancing himself from both of you.

But that’s not how it turned out.

What Haibara was now realizing was that you never looked at Megumi—or him—the way you looked at Nanami or Gojo. That realization cut deeper than he could have imagined.

You hadn’t forgiven Gojo. Haibara could see it.

But he could also see that Gojo was still in.

And that—more than anything—was something Haibara couldn’t understand.

Sitting in the dim light of the living room, watching you sleep peacefully, he came to a painful understanding.

He had never truly been afraid of you leaving him.

What terrified him was the thought that one day you would wake up and see him for what he really was.

Because no matter how many times he replayed that day in the infirmary in his head, he always came to the same conclusion: if it were him in another universe, he’d be disappointed; he couldn’t have a family with you, sure. But he’d never ask you to go through this cursed pregnancy. And if you didn’t go through with the abortion? He’d sedate you and get you operated on himself. You’d hate him more than anything in the world, but at least you’d be alive.

So yes, Haibara was fucked up.

Megumi? He wouldn’t do that. He’d hate you for putting him through this, but he’d never take away your choice.

Gojo? He’d probably do the same as Megumi, though he’d make a joke out of it to hide how much it actually hurt him.

Nanami? Now, Nanami was trickier.

From the mission logs he had read to the polar opposite praises to his name, this version of Nanami was selfish and morally grayer than concrete. He’d probably hate you too, but he’d never show it. And somehow that was worse in his opinion because he couldn’t predict Nanami with certainty.

And then there was Haibara. Still the worst possible choice.

Just then, a knock at the door shattered the silence.

Haibara blinked, startled, and looked down.

His fingers were in your hair.

He didn’t even remember reaching for you, but there they were—brushing through the strands like it was something natural.

Slowly, he pulled back.

---

Their POV

Gojo walked in first, tossing his keys into the bowl by the door, his white hair sticking in all directions.

He didn’t look at Haibara. His eyes went straight to you, to where you lay curled up on the couch.

Haibara didn’t tease him. Didn’t acknowledge Nanami, who stepped in behind him.

He just exhaled and stood.

“I’ll take cloud save for the night,” he muttered, picking up Takahashi. The tiny albino, warm and half-asleep, chirped softly before snuggling into Haibara’s chest.

Nanami watched him closely.

He didn’t like that look in Haibara’s eyes.

But Gojo was already moving, carefully lifting you off the couch and carrying you into the guest bedroom.

Haibara left without another glance, carrying the sleeping raccoon in his arms.

Gojo was gentle, pressing a soft kiss against your temple before laying you down on the bed, tucking you in with care. He lingered for a moment, brushing a stray hair from your face, his fingers lingering on your skin

A moment later, he reappeared, now dressed in comfortable sweatpants and a loose shirt, his hair damp from a quick shower.

He didn’t say a word; instead, he laid down on the bed beside you, letting out a soft sigh as he adjusted the blankets around you both.

He coaxed you into his arms, feeling the warmth radiate from your body.

You stirred, your voice barely above a whisper. “Was everything alright?”

He surprisingly did not tease. “Yes, we’re here now. Go back to sleep, sweetheart,” he hummed, his voice soothing.

You were too delirious to stay awake for long, and soon you fell back into a slumber, comforted by his long fingers gently massaging your lower back.

Meanwhile, Nanami stood near the rooftop railings, staring at an unlit cigarette in his hand.

But maybe... just maybe... therapy was the first step.

Maybe that was the only way they could begin to mend what they had broken. As he stood there, the self-loathing gnawed at him, a reminder of his own failures. He wished he could be the one to comfort you, to be the one you turned to, but he felt like a ghost in your life, overshadowed by Gojo’s existence and the bond you shared.

---

Your POV

The morning—or technically, afternoon—started with Gojo shaking you awake.

“Hey, wake up. Eat something, then you can go back to sleep,” he murmured, his voice softer than usual but still annoyingly chipper for someone waking you up from much-needed rest.

You squinted at him, bleary and half-conscious. “What time is it?”

“2 PM,” he grinned smugly, like he’d just delivered excellent news.

You stared at him, unimpressed. “Why didn’t you wake me up sooner?”

“You had a fever,” he said simply, reaching out to touch your forehead again—only for you to flinch back before his fingers made contact.

The reaction was instant, visceral. Like a cringe memory from high school suddenly sucker-punched you at full force—only this time, it wasn’t some embarrassing moment. It was the image of your own hand moving to hold him last night, only for him to look at you like—

Like that. Like the way he was looking at you now.

Gojo immediately pulled back, his smirk faltering for a fraction of a second.

You acted like it didn’t happen, reaching for the coffee cup on the nightstand.

The first sip nearly burned the entire roof of your mouth, but you swallowed it anyway, pretending like nothing was wrong.

Gojo, of course, noticed.

“Too hot, huh?” he teased, lips quirking.

You ignored him. “What was the bounty?”

Something flickered across his face.

“Crispe five hundred billion dollars,” he admitted after a pause. “For you and the babies.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. Gojo, meanwhile, didn’t want to keep things from you anymore.

But you let it slide for now, blowing on your coffee for an eternity before taking another sip.

Then you hummed, thoughtful.

“And it’s still up?”

“Yeah. The money was already set up, so even after the auctioneer’s dead, the bounty still stands.”

You glanced around the bed, then reached toward the nightstand—only for Gojo to move first.

“What do you need?” he asked.

“My phone,” you muttered. Then sighed. “Never mind. Haibara probably took it.”

Gojo pulled out his own phone and offered it to you. “Here. Use mine.”

You took it without looking at him. “I have an idea.”

At that, Gojo was intrigued.

“Not sure if it’ll work, but it’s something I’ve done to kill competition before it starts,” you continued. “I don’t know enough about sorcery politics, so you’ll have to decide if it’s viable.”

Gojo nodded. “I’m listening.”

You exhaled, sipping your coffee. “What if we offset the competition?”

“I’m gonna need more detail than that.”

You glanced at him, a little irritated at the dumb puppy expression on his face.

“I mean, if they can’t cancel the bounty and the sum is already set, then we outbid them. Put up an even bigger bounty—but instead of targeting the asset, it’s for protecting the asset.”

Gojo blinked. Then—pure, naïve Gojo logic kicked in.

“Baby,” he said, so sweetly, like you were an innocent child. “I know you see the good in people, but curses and curse users aren’t exactly out here winning Nobel Peace Prizes. They’d rather kill you for a single chicken nugget than save you for more money. Besides, you’re already protected by the strongest.”

You rolled your eyes so hard, they nearly left orbit.

“No, dumbass,” you said, exasperated. “I don’t rely on morality—I don’t gamble. I make calculated deterrents.”

Gojo looked way too amused by your insult.

“We put up enough money to make them hesitate,” you continued. “You think bounty hunters are all die-hard believers in their cause? No. They’re opportunists. And the second they think there’s a chance of losing money to tougher competition, a chance of them getting killed when they try to get to us, they’ll reconsider.”

Gojo considered this, rubbing his chin like he had a single thought behind those eyes.

“How much money are we talking?” he finally asked.

You just smiled.

And that’s when Nanami, passing by the doorway, muttered under his breath—

“This is not going to work.”

By the time Haibara showed up with your now encrypted phones, you’d already explained the plan in full.

And Haibara, being Haibara, sighed so hard it might as well have been a death rattle.

“If you have so much money,” he muttered, dead serious, “give me some.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Why a fucking trillion? You could have increased it by ten dollars and it would have still worked. And I’m pretty sure if you moved that much money at once, someone would notice,” Haibara continued. “A whistleblower would pop up before you could even blink.”

You smirked. “That’s where you come in. I break your leg,” you explained smoothly. “Then offer you the money in a god-awful public apology. How does that sound?”

Haibara gave you a flat look.

You were joking. Mostly.

But before Haibara could retort, Nanami—who had been silently seething in the corner ever since you and Gojo had been too close for his comfort—finally spoke up.

“I have some ideas,” he said, voice completely even, “on how we could move the money discreetly.”

“Oh, Barbie’s accountant specializes in money laundering?” Haibara mocked. “I wouldn’t have guessed it, not behind that Squidward-ass exterior.” He deadpanned.

Nanami ignored him.

By the end of the day, there was an offsetting bounty opposite to the murder one.

---

Once Haibara left, you moved on to working the shoot since you had nothing to do until Haibara returned.

You wanted to do everything yourself—set up the angles, adjust the lighting, perfect the frame—but being six months pregnant with twins was no joke.

Your body didn’t move the way it used to. Just standing for too long made your back ache. When you tried to squat for a lower angle, Gojo’s hand was immediately at your waist, steadying you before you could even protest.

“Don’t push yourself,” he said, firm but not scolding. His grip lingered, just a second longer than necessary, before he turned your chin up to look into your eyes. “Tell me what you need.” He rubbed your cheek.

You swallowed.

Gojo, surprisingly, was eager to help, even if he was absolutely useless with cameras.

“Okay, okay, so do I just press this button?”

You whipped around just in time to see him nearly smudge the lens with his disastrous grip.

“No!” you panicked, reaching out instinctively to swat his hand away. “God, don’t touch it like that.”

Gojo grinned but followed your instructions, setting up the tripod and adjusting the frame under your guidance.

He didn’t know much about photography, but he was really trying, following your instructions to the letter, even when he didn’t fully understand them. He handled your equipment with surprising care, adjusting lights and backdrops under your direction—though every few minutes, he’d pause and tilt his head, genuinely fascinated by how much thought went into a single frame.

Nanami listened carefully as you explained lighting adjustments to Gojo, quietly fixing what needed to be fixed without question. Unlike Gojo, Nanami thought he didn’t need to be micromanaged—so if you just told him what needed to be done, he’d do it perfectly.

Gojo, holding a reflector panel at an awkward angle, watched as you adjusted your camera settings, testing the lighting against your skin. He hesitated for a moment before asking, “Would you—uh… would you let me take a photo with you?”

You glanced up from your lens.

Gojo was serious.

You knew he meant it—not as some half-assed joke, not as a play for attention. He wanted to be part of this, part of something you had created.

You didn’t say anything.

Nanami was seething.

He hadn’t said anything yet, but you could feel it, radiating from where he stood, arms crossed, watching the two of you work without acknowledging his presence.

His entire being was stiff with frustration—because you still weren’t talking to him.

Because Gojo was helping, and he wasn’t.

Because he wanted to be useful to you, too.

By the time everything was set up, you were exhausted. Your body ached, and your eyelids felt heavy. “I’ll go change,” you said.

Gojo stayed behind to not let Takahashi destroy all the backdrops because he was trying to hide in them.

The silk of your gown clung to your body like it had been painted on, black ink poured over your skin, molding to every curve, every sharp edge softened by pregnancy. The fabric stretched over the swell of your stomach, emphasizing rather than concealing, the weight of two lives pressing against your ribs. The veil—dark, hand-embroidered—cascaded over your face, rendering your reflection almost unrecognizable. A ghost of a woman. A revenant caught between the past and whatever bleak future awaited.

Except—

Your eyeliner was a disaster.

Your hands kept shaking just enough to mess it up, the fine lines smudging into your skin. You exhaled sharply, steadying your wrist, trying again—

It smeared.

Your jaw clenched.

Then—without looking—you held out the eyeliner.

He stepped forward instantly, taking the eyeliner from your fingers; his movements were calm, precise, and controlled.

Gojo leaned against the vanity, his phone in hand.

But absolutely not using it.

He was watching—pretending not to, but watching. His gaze was heavy, dragging over your lips as you pressed them together, smoothing out the color.

You refused to acknowledge him.

Nanami’s thumb pressed beneath your jaw, firm, grounding, tilting your face just enough to angle you where he needed. His grip was firm, not delicate—masculine in a way that felt intentional. The warmth of his body near yours made something curl low in your stomach, and you forced yourself to focus.

He was close enough that his cologne filled your senses—woodsy, clean, grounding. It took effort not to lean into it.

And it didn’t help that ever since both of them had been suspended, they’d changed.

At first, they lost weight, sharp edges worn down by exhaustion. But now—

Now, they were bulking. Or working out less. You weren’t sure. But it made Nanami’s shoulders broader, his arms heavier beneath rolled-up sleeves, his form solid in a way that made you want to rest against him just to see if he’d let you. And Gojo—

Gojo, with his jawline softened just enough to look boyish again, his absurdly long lashes framing eyes that saw too much, lips that curled like he knew things you didn’t—he made you want to squish his cheeks. It was unfair.

It did things to you.

You exhaled sharply through your nose, forcing yourself to focus.

Nanami traced the line of your eye with the kind of patience that should be illegal. His steady fingers, the way he barely blinked—

You blurted out before thinking, “Why have you always been good at eyeliner? Is it because of your technique?”

Gojo lost it.

A sharp snort, echoing through the room. He doubled over, nearly wheezing.

Nanami’s jaw tightened. His grip on your chin tensed before he forced himself to breathe through his nose.

Gojo, wiping at his eyes, gasped, “Oh my God, it’s because in college he had an emo phase, babe.”

“Shut up.” Nanami’s voice was even, but his eye twitched.

Gojo grinned, absolutely feral.

Nanami’s silence was damning.

You stared. The mental image of Nanami Kento in heavy black eyeliner, brooding in the back of a classroom, listening to Radiohead, was—

Interesting.

But you let it go.

---

Once the shoot began, it was awkward at first.

Not because you didn’t know how to pose—you’d done this before, and you were good at it—but because both Gojo and Nanami didn’t know if you’d actually let them be in the pictures with you.

They lingered just outside the frame, watching. Waiting.

You kicked both of them out.

After closing the door, you set the final adjustments on your camera, lining up the perfect frame. Then, when you picked up the remote for the camera, it wasn’t working. You sighed and opened the door.

“I got it,” Gojo said, strolling in and pretending like he hadn’t destroyed it, grinning like a man who absolutely did not have it.

You narrowed your eyes. “You don’t even know what aperture means.”

“Vibes and prayers.”

Nanami scoffed, arms crossed, strolling in behind Gojo and standing off to the side with his ever-present air of disapproval. “Give it back, Gojo. She should be the one handling it.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, are you a photography expert now?” Gojo gestured broadly. “Have you been secretly moonlighting as a wedding photographer?”

Nanami’s glare was flat. “At least I know how to follow instructions.”

“I have six eyes; I can see more colors, so I’ll be better at it,” Gojo pouted.

“That’s not how it works,” Nanami muttered, then gave up when you handed Gojo the camera and explained to him what you were looking for and how to take pictures while you made him stand in your place and gave him the pre-adjusted settings. Now all he had to do was keep you in frame and press a button.

He didn’t. Nanami spent the next five minutes hovering over Gojo’s shoulder, micromanaging everything, despite knowing nothing about photography.

“No, the angle’s wrong—”

“The shutter speed—”

“You’re underexposing the background—”

“Nanamin, shut up,” Gojo groaned, adjusting the camera, deliberately changing the settings in a way he knew would annoy Nanami.

You watched, chin propped on your arm, as Gojo took the first four shots. They were… fine. The composition was slightly off, the lighting uneven, but nothing you couldn’t fix in editing.

Then, on the fifth shot, something changed.

The next click of the shutter was perfect.

And then the next.

And the next.

Each one was flawlessly framed, capturing the exact aesthetic you wanted.

You gritted your teeth.

This always happened. Gojo fumbled his way through something new for exactly five minutes before mastering it completely.

“I hate you,” you muttered, staring at the photos.

Gojo smirked, eyes glinting. “Canonically perfect husband, remember?”

Nanami, watching this entire exchange with mounting irritation, rolled his eyes.

“Great. Now we’ll never hear the end of it.”

You wouldn’t. Gojo was insufferable for the next ten minutes, throwing around photography terms like he’d been shooting for decades, narrating every adjustment he made just to annoy Nanami.

“Oh wow, look at that shallow depth of field.”

“See how I captured the chiaroscuro here? Really makes the contrast pop.”

“You can’t touch my rule of thirds’ accuracy.”

Then he threw in the dreaded line before people went broke and became jobless photographers. “I think I have a natural gift.”

Nanami, visibly restraining himself, pinched the bridge of his nose.

“If you say ‘chiaroscuro’ one more time, I’m going to beat you with the tripod.”

Gojo winked. “I’ll just take a picture of you doing it as evidence.”

Nanami inhaled deeply, as if contemplating the value of patience.

Gojo, who had been directing you like a film noir heroine for the past forty-five minutes, finally stopped and cleared his throat.

“Would you... let us take some with you? I mean, to hang in our jail cells.”

Nanami didn’t say anything, but the way he glanced away made it clear that he was wondering the same thing.

You exhaled, already knowing you’d regret this.

“Fine. Get in.”

Gojo moved first.

He always did.

He stepped into the frame, slipping behind you, his touch settling at the small of your back like it belonged there. Thoughtless, practiced, easy. He barely hesitated before his thumb brushed along your spine—just once, slow, deliberate. A lingering motion, like tracing something precious. A habit.

Nanami hesitated.

For a moment, it seemed like he wouldn’t step forward at all. His hands flexed at his sides, tension running through the solid frame of his body, his breath measured, controlled. But then, just as carefully, he stepped into position, his palm finding the curve of your waist, fingers grounding.

You did not react.

The three of you stood together, the air between you shifting, thick with something unspoken. Something old and unresolved.

Gojo adjusted his grip, fingers skimming your hip. Then he turned his head, just slightly, tilting—

Nanami followed, his breath a faint whisper against your temple—

The camera flashed.

The weight of history settled between you, suffocating.

The frame captured everything.

Gojo was the first to move, immediately jumping up to check the tripod, his head tilting, squinting at the display. He made a face.

“What’s wrong?” You asked, voice steady. Controlled. Not yours.

Gojo turned, propping the camera back in place. “It’s fine. If we’re trying to cosplay a family of ghosts.”

He ran back before you could tell him to explain.

Before you could take position again, he wrapped himself around you from behind, arms circling you with a familiarity that made your throat tighten. Nanami stiffened beside you, exhaling through his nose. He stepped closer, placing a single arm around Gojo, the movement awkward, restrained.

But Gojo was focused on you.

He was careful—so fucking careful—trying his best not to move his arms too much, not to let his fingers brush against your chest where the weight of pregnancy had already made you more sensitive and this inky black dress was doing things to your breasts even in Gojo’s peripheral vision. But his restraint only made it worse, the tension unbearable. Every shift of his fingers sent heat creeping up your spine.

Then his hands moved too suddenly—startling you—and you leaned into him before you could catch yourself.

Your palm found his jaw, and you smiled.

It was instinct. Muscle memory. The tilt of his head, the way he looked down at you, his lashes casting shadows over his pale skin—

You hated how easy it was.

Gojo’s lips parted, a slow breath escaping next to your ear.

Nanami’s grip on Gojo’s waist turned to iron.

And yet—Gojo didn’t pull away.

Neither did you.

His thumb brushed along the curve of your cheek, barely there, as if testing. As if waiting for you to pull away first.

But you didn’t.

Instead, your fingers tightened against his jaw, just for a second. A hesitation. A betrayal of something you refused to name.

He lifted your veil while his other hand drifted, careful, precise, ghosting over your hip—

And Nanami felt it.

He felt the shift, the weight of something slipping from his grasp. The invisible thread he had been holding between his fingers—tension stretched thin over the past few months, unraveling in real-time.

His jaw tightened.

The camera flashed again.

This was a mistake.

But Gojo’s grip didn’t loosen, and your hand didn’t fall away, and Nanami knew—knew—that you were lying to yourself.

The next shot should have been the last one.

Gojo tilted your face up, fingers cradling your chin, his lips just—there—hovering dangerously close. Your breath hitched. You felt him smile.

Then—

The door swung open.

“Hey—”

Shoko.

Megumi.

Haibara.

“Look who I found outside. By the way, your housekeeping let us in,” Shoko announced, voice dry, like she hadn’t just walked into the worst possible moment in human history.

Nanami had never been more grateful for an interruption.

The tension shattered instantly. Gojo clenched his jaw, stepping back like someone had pressed a gun to his head. You blinked, face impassive, as if nothing had happened. The moment folded into itself, buried under layers of pretense.

Then Haibara waltzed in like he hadn’t just walked into a funeral, grinning too smugly.

Something barely there in his eyes, as he physically inserted himself and Megumi between Gojo and Nanami—the shift in positioning wasn’t accidental.

He shoved them aside.

And they let him.

“What’s this? You finally embracing the Goth Mommy aesthetics?” Haibara’s grin was too wide.

You scowled.

And then—to everyone’s horror—you laughed.

It was a sharp, brief sound, barely more than an exhale. But it was real.

Nanami and Gojo both stiffened. Haibara, sensing that he had done the impossible, leaned into it.

He reached up, plucked the veil off your head, and threw it over his own face, covering himself like a grieving widow.

Your giggles escalated.

Nanami’s hands curled into fists at his sides. Gojo’s cursed energy flickered like a snuffed-out flame, sharp and unpredictable. They were one second away from cremating Haibara on the spot. But they didn’t. Because—

Because you were laughing.

And you hadn’t laughed like that in months.

Haibara flourished a hand. “Now, photoboy,” he said, turning to Gojo, voice light but edged. “Please take a picture of the people who would still stick around after you both—” he gestured to the people beside you—him and Megumi, standing close enough to block any lingering looks from either man, and Takahashi, who Megumi picked up in his arms, “—are off dropping soaps in jail.”

The words hit their mark exactly the way he intended.

Gojo went very, very still.

“That’s rude, Haibara.” You said, frowning.

Haibara waved you off, “I’m only joking.”

You were muttering something at Haibara now.

Gojo moved mechanically, lifting the camera off the tripod and adjusting the angle. The screen flickered. The camera clicked.

Nanami and Shoko stood in the corner, whispering.

And Megumi—

Megumi wasn’t watching the camera.

He wasn’t watching Gojo.

He was watching you.

And whatever he saw there made his grip tighten.

Because it didn’t matter that you were laughing now.

It didn’t matter that Haibara had successfully defused the tension.

It didn’t matter that Gojo and Nanami were standing just feet away, frozen in place.

It didn’t matter because Megumi knew.

Megumi was seething.

His hands curled into fists, jaw locked, his eyes like an open wound. He barely lasted a second before he handed Takahashi to you, turned on his heel, and strode out. “I have to check the security around the building.”

And he was gone before you could get another word in.

The second Megumi stepped out of the penthouse, the walls felt too close.

The air in the hallway sat heavy, thick with the remnants of whatever that had been inside. His pulse climbed fast, rattling beneath his skin, a dull thud echoing in his ears like the slow, measured knock of a death omen.

He pulled his phone from his pocket, thumb hovering over Haibara’s contact.

I have to check the security around the building.

A pretense.

A lie.

He’d just finished doing that before coming to you.

He didn’t need to check it.

He needed to get his head fucking straight.

His fingers twitched, locking the screen before he could press dial. He flexed them, curled them into his palm, then flexed them again, like he could physically force the tension out of his muscles. The hallway was quiet—too quiet. No distractions. Just his thoughts, loud and unrelenting.

You’re losing her. Again.

His jaw locked.

Megumi sucked in a slow breath, rolling his shoulders back. He focused on something normal—the flickering overhead light, the faint buzz of the elevator at the end of the hall, the coolness of his own pulse against his wrist as he pressed his fingers there, counting the beats. A grounding trick from years ago.

Useless.

The doors to the penthouse stayed shut behind him, but he could still see it. The way Gojo had tilted your face up—his hands, his mouth, that fucking look in his eyes. The way you had let it happen. The way you hadn’t pulled away.

He dragged a palm down his face, exhaling hard through his nose.

The worst part wasn’t Gojo. It wasn’t even Nanami.

It was you.

Your expression, the careful way you pretended like none of it had happened.

Because Megumi knew you. He knew you better than anyone in the world. Haibara did too, but who was to say for sure underneath all the unhinged things he did throughout the day.

But Megumi knew every tell, every slight shift in your breathing, every microexpression that meant you were feeling something too much and burying it alive.

And that—more than anything else—was what sent his pulse skidding into dangerous territory.

He braced himself against the wall with one arm, the muscle in his forearm twitching. Sweat slicked the back of his neck, just enough to be wrong. His vision narrowed, edges slightly too sharp, like his body had already decided fight-or-flight before his brain caught up.

This wasn’t happening.

Not again.

Not with them.

His other hand gripped the phone so tight he felt the casing creak.

The elevator dinged. A door opened somewhere down the hall.

Megumi straightened, shaking it off like an animal shaking water from its coat. He rolled his neck, breathed in slow, controlled, shoving the static back into a box deep in his ribs.

It wasn’t panic. It wasn’t anxiety.

It was anger.

Yes. That was easier to stomach.

By the time he walked back to his and Haibara’s penhouse, the only sign anything had been wrong was the fact that he didn’t say a single word when Haibara asked him where he’d run off to.

Not like Haibara didn’t know or wouldn't have done the same. But Haibara was better at controlling his emotions, while Megumi just grew quite until he had a panic attack, which weren’t frequent but just enough to make him hate himself.

Shoko, standing behind you, barely waited before sticking out her fist for a high-five towards Gojo.

Gojo and Nanami glared at her.

---

Shoko’s POV

After you changed and Shoko had stolen more of your blood under the guise of a “routine checkup,” you sighed, rubbing at the faint ache in your arm.

“We are not back together.” Your voice was steady, but there was something distant about it, like you were still convincing yourself. You exhaled. “But they’re very hard to ignore.”

Shoko smirked as she coiled the small blood pressure monitor cables. “That they are.”

She pulled up a chair, studying you with her usual lazy sharpness. The moment stretched, comfortable in a way only Shoko could make it.

Then she got to the point. “I have a therapist.”

“She’s an ex-sorcerer,” Shoko explained. “A little underground, but she’s good at what she does. That is—if you really want to try.”

You rolled a small medical vial between your fingers, watching how the dim light refracted through the glass.

“I don’t know.” The words came out softer than you intended. “I don’t even know if it can be fixed.”

Takahashi was gnawing on Shoko’s stethoscope. You pulled it away absentmindedly, letting him scurry off in search of something else to ruin.

Shoko was still watching you.

“I mean,” she stretched, cracking her neck, “just let me know. She helps with separations too.” A grin. “Like, if you wanna reverse-psychology them into leaving you alone with no alimony or child custody—”

“No.” Your answer wasn’t quick. “I’ll give it a chance.”

Shoko hummed, waiting.

“Just for my sanity’s sake,” you clarified. “But I’m not putting all my eggs in that basket.”

“I think it’s a little late for that.” Shoko grinned against her coffee cup, nodding toward your ever-expanding stomach.

You smiled lowly.

“And you don’t have mania. Don’t let all that get to you. They are not licensed doctors.” Shoko hummed, sipping.

You let out a breath, you didn’t know you were holding.

---

True to their words, the next day, you were now sitting in a marriage therapists office, Dr. Maya.

Couples glared at each other from across the room, passive-aggressively sipping bad coffee. One woman muttered obscenities at her husband under her breath, while another man read a self-help book titled So Your Wife Hates You and It’s Probably Your Fault.

And in the middle of it all, you sat between your two husbands, fidgeting, exhausted, and wondering why the hell you had agreed to this.

Gojo had latched onto you like a sentient baby carrier, pressing you so tightly against him that anyone walking by would think you were his emotional support wife.

Nanami, on the other hand, sat rigidly beside you, stealing glances every few seconds like he was expecting you to bolt.

The room judged you.

The other couples were theorizing.

You could practically hear their thoughts.

"Poor woman. She must have cheated on the serious one with the crazy one."

"God, he's making her come to therapy while pregnant? This is proof men ain't shit."

"Wait, is this some kind of polyamory disaster? Are they opening the relationship??"

“Maybe we aren’t in such a bad place, Braden. It could have been worse.”

A woman actually shamed Gojo out loud, huffing as she walked past. “You should be ashamed of yourself, dragging your pregnant wife to therapy. You failed her.”

Gojo’s jaw dropped. He turned to you, betrayed. “Sweets, do something; I’m catching strays here.”

“I agree with her.”

Nanami barely concealed a smirk.

And then—your names were called.

You entered the office to find Dr. Maya sitting behind her desk, phone to her ear.

"Yes, Shoko, they’re here," she said flatly.

A pause.

"What defines ‘properly’?"

Another pause.

"Yes, I'm properly dressed—" she glanced down at her bright pink Crocs, sighed, and then promptly ended the call.

Then, without acknowledging the men, she immediately shook your hand, like this was a reverse patriarchal society and you were the only important figure in the room.

You took your seat first, arms crossed, leg bouncing furiously.

Gojo slouched into his chair with all the arrogance of a man who thought therapy was beneath him but was secretly terrified of abandonment.

Nanami sat next to him, hands clasped, jaw tight, expression grim—like a man accepting his own funeral.

Maya, meanwhile, clicked her pen shut and stared at the three of you with the gravitas of a divine scholar witnessing historical tragedy.

"Alright," she drawled, glancing at her notes. "Why are we here?"

"I want a divorce," you said flatly.

Gojo made a strangled sound. Nanami exhaled through his nose.

Maya barely blinked. “Fantastic. Now tell me why.”

You inhaled deeply, preparing your monologue.

“They—” you jabbed a finger at your husbands “—spent months fucking each other raw, whispering sweet nothings, and doing whatever gay honeymoon phase nonsense they were up to while completely failing to notice that I was pregnant.”

Gojo looked like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin. Nanami did not blink.

“I found out alone,” you continued. “I went to my first ultrasound alone. They didn’t even realize I was carrying their children until I ran away and they dragged me back.”

Gojo rubbed the back of his neck, visibly searching for an escape route. “Okay, but in our defense—”

"There is no defense," you cut in.

Nanami adjusted his coat like this was a business negotiation. “It was an oversight.”

"An oversight?" you repeated, incredulous.

Gojo immediately tried to recover, leaning forward, putting on his charm voice. "Listen, babe, we—"

"You do not get to ‘babe’ me right now," you snapped.

Maya, meanwhile, watched with mild amusement, like this was a gladiator match and she was here purely for entertainment.

“So,” she mused, scribbling something down, “emotional neglect, poor communication, unresolved resentment. Go on.”

You exhaled sharply. “They knew I existed, but they acted like I was a fun third option instead of a wife. I was going through one of the most terrifying experiences of my life, and neither of them noticed because they were too busy sucking face and pretending they were the only two people in this marriage.”

Gojo opened his mouth to retort—then hesitated. His eyes flicked to Nanami, who looked like he was physically holding back an aneurysm.

Maya hummed, bored but intrigued. "Okay, and why didn’t you tell them earlier?"

Your jaw clenched. "Because I shouldn’t have to."

Nanami let out a long, suffering sigh. "You should’ve."

Your glare could have burned a hole through solid steel. "Oh, I’m so sorry for assuming my husbands—who have never let me so much as sneeze without hovering—would notice when their wife was pregnant with their children."

Gojo muttered under his breath, "When you put it like that, it sounds really bad."

"It is really bad, you moron," you shot back.

Maya tossed her notebook onto the desk, sighing. "This is a mess."

Then, without missing a beat, she turned to Gojo. "I assume you’re the problem?"

Gojo’s offense was instant. “Wow. Incredible. Haven’t even started and you’re already playing favorites?”

Nanami barely suppressed a smirk.

Maya leaned forward, elbow on her desk, chin resting on her palm. “I don’t need to ‘start’ to diagnose you as the issue. You have the energy of a man who has never been held accountable for anything in his life.”

Gojo looked personally victimized. “Excuse me, I have suffered.”

Maya clicked her tongue. “Did you suffer, or did you just face consequences for your own actions?”

Nanami actually choked on air.

Gojo’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. “Are you even a real therapist?”

Maya gestured vaguely to her degree on the wall. “I passed the exam.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re a therapist—”

"That’s literally what it means."

Gojo turned to Nanami, betrayed. “Are you just gonna sit there and let her talk to me like this?”

Nanami didn’t even look up. “This is the best therapy session I’ve ever attended.”

Maya sighed. “Okay, let’s try this again. Nanami, why do you want to fix this marriage?”

Nanami, after a brief pause, answered simply:

“Because I don’t want to lose her.”

Gojo’s jaw tensed. Your throat tightened.

Maya hummed, finally satisfied. “Okay. Good. That’s something.”

She turned to you. 

“Honestly, I don't know why I'm here but Shoko told me there'd be cake.” You sighed.

“Oh that's a lie we tell children to get them to come here.” She told you. 

Then, she turned back to Gojo.

“Your turn.”

Gojo stared at her.

Then at you.

Maya leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "Look, normally I’d say we could work through this, but I’m going to be real with you. You don’t need couples therapy. You need individual therapy. All of you. Separately."

There was a beat of silence.

"Wait," Gojo said slowly, "are you saying we’re too fucked up for couples therapy?"

"Yes," Maya said without hesitation. "One hundred percent. You three are a walking disaster. You need to get your own shit together before you can even think about fixing this mess. I mean, look at you—" She gestured at Gojo. "Emotionally stunted man-child with abandonment issues."

"Wow," Gojo murmured. "Harsh."

She turned to Nanami. "Too serious, too literal. Overworked, repressed, and chronically disappointed in humanity."

Nanami didn’t deny it.

Maya tapped her chewed-up pen against the desk, staring at the three of you like a scientist observing the results of an experiment gone horribly wrong.

Then, she pointed directly at you.

"And you? Massive avoidance tendencies. Instead of confronting problems, you vanish like a dad going out for cigarettes. You literally ghosted your husbands while pregnant out of pure spite."

You blinked. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

Gojo snorted. Nanami massaged his temples.

Maya ignored both of them.

“Consequences have actions,” you added, confidently.

Then, immediately grimaced. That was not how that phrase worked.

Gojo perked up. “Hey, that’s what I sa—”

“Shut up,” you snapped.

Maya exhaled loudly, reclining so far in her chair it creaked under her weight. “Alright. My professional diagnosis is that you’re all a train wreck.”

She sat up.

“Like, genuinely, the most disastrous case I’ve ever seen."

Gojo beamed. “Aww, you really think we’re the wors—”

She cut him off. “You three should not be in the same room until you figure your own shit out.”

Then, without missing a beat, she grabbed her phone and called her assistant.

“Kick out the rest of my patients. These ones are too entertaining.”

Nanami visibly flinched. Gojo turned pale.

Then, Maya hung up and turned back to you.

“Separate therapy. Right now.” She waved a hand lazily. “Whoever the hell is Nanami—you’re up first.”

Gojo started sweating bullets. “D-Don’t we have to go home and reschedule our appointment?”

Maya narrowed her eyes. “Why? Do any of you actually have jobs to go to?”

Silence.

All three of you, defeated, shuffled out of the room like scolded children.

Gojo looked at Nanami.

Nanami looked at you.

You all turned back to Maya.

"Wait," Gojo said, genuinely concerned, "so does this mean the divorce is still on the table?"

Maya threw her entire pen at his head, then continued like nothing had happened, “And no type of physical intimacy for the next two months. I have seen far too many cheating couples end up having sex and regretting everything.”

The three of you walked away like she wasn’t talking to you.

---

Session One: Nanami Kento vs. His Own Guilt

Maya had never seen a man look so much like he wanted to disappear into the wallpaper.

Nanami Kento sat stiffly on the couch, posture perfect, hands clasped, gaze cold and distant—exuding all the enthusiasm of a man about to be executed.

Maya, meanwhile, perched on her chair like a gremlin high on caffeine, one leg bouncing, eyes glinting with predatory excitement.

"Alright, salaryman,” she chirped, clicking her pen. “Let’s get into it. What’s eating you?"

Nanami inhaled slowly through his nose. "I… took Satoru from his best friend."

Maya blinked. “Okay. Didn’t expect you to jump straight into Catholic guilt, but I’m paid to hear it.”

Nanami didn’t react.

Maya tapped her pen against her notebook. “Who’s this best friend?”

Nanami hesitated before answering. “Geto Suguru.”

“Never heard of him,” Maya said cheerfully. “Explain.”

Nanami hesitated again, but then—perhaps because he had been holding this in for years—he spoke.

He told her about the golden years, about Satoru and Suguru moving like twin stars through the sorcerer world. About how they were supposed to be inseparable. And then he told her about the fall. About how Suguru walked away, about the atrocities he committed, about how Satoru was the one who had to put him down.

Nanami’s jaw clenched. “Satoru came to me right after. And I—” He swallowed. “I was there.”

“For what?” Maya tilted her head.

“For everything that came after,” Nanami admitted. “The grieving. The distraction. The—” A muscle in his jaw twitched. “The relationship.”

Maya narrowed her eyes.

"Ah," she said, understanding dawning.

Then, she grinned.

"So, what—you think you were his rebound?"

Nanami exhaled slowly through his nose, shoulder tense.

Maya leaned forward, grinning wider.

"Interesting," she purred. "And how long have you been coping with this by working yourself into an early grave?"

Nanami’s eye twitched.

“Would you like an exact number of overtime hours?” he deadpanned.

Maya threw her notebook on the desk.

"Nanami," she said seriously, "what if I told you that’s not normal?"

Nanami deadpanned, voice flat, "I’d be shocked."

Maya slapped her knees, laughing. "Oh my God, I love you guys. You’re all so deeply maladjusted."

Nanami looked at her blankly. "Is that your professional opinion?"

Maya smirked. “My professional opinion is that you should be a case study in what happens when you repress your feelings for too long.”

Nanami exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I should have known this wasn’t going to be real therapy."

Maya beamed. “Oh, this is therapy.”

Then, without breaking eye contact, she reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of vodka.

Nanami stared.

Maya popped the cap open.

Nanami blinked slowly. “Is this legal?”

Maya took a massive sip.

Then, exhaling, she smacked her lips.

“I don’t know, Nanami,” she mused.

Then, grinning, she added, "Do you?"

Nanami frowned.

Maya smiled—a little too shark-like, a little too much like a predator enjoying the taste of blood in the water.

“That’s cute,” she said.

Nanami frowned. “I don’t see what’s amusing.”

Maya twirled her pen between her fingers, tilting her head. “You genuinely believe you stole Gojo Satoru from a man who abandoned him?”

Nanami’s frown deepened. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is that simple,” she countered immediately. “Geto left. And whatever they had? It ended the moment he chose something else. You didn’t take anything. You were just there when Satoru had no one left.”

She leaned forward, elbows on the desk.

“Unless, of course, you think he should’ve been alone?”

Nanami looked away. “…Of course not.”

“Then shut up and stop being a martyr,” she said, waving a hand lazily. “Not everything is a Greek tragedy.”

Nanami sighed, rubbing his temple. “…I still don’t know how to fix things with her.”

Maya perked up immediately, like she had been waiting for this exact moment to flex her terrible methods.

“Well, first of all,” she said, “you and Gojo need to stop suffocating her as a unit. I mean, come on, do you really think she wants to be around both of you at the same time when you’ve done nothing but remind her of how excluded she was?”

Nanami remained silent.

Maya smirked. “Here’s my magical solution.”

She leaned in conspiratorially.

“You both avoid each other for now.”

Nanami’s brow twitched. “…What?”

“You get her for half the week. He gets her for half the week. No crossing over, no sudden tag-team emotional ambushes.” She gestured between them. “Keep your mess separate.”

Nanami looked skeptical.

“…And you think this will work?”

Maya grinned.

“Trust the process, salaryman.”

Nanami exhaled slowly through his nose. “I’ll consider it.”

Maya beamed.

“That’s therapist speak, for I have no other options, so I’ll take it,” she said brightly.

Then, clapping her hands together—

“Next!”

---

Session Two: Gojo Satoru vs. The Most Unhinged Therapist Known to Man

Gojo walked into the therapist’s office like it was a movie premiere—sunglasses inside, oversized hoodie hanging off his frame, a full bag of snacks in hand.

Maya took one look at him and decided this man was going to be her greatest enemy.

"Alright, doctor," Gojo drawled, flopping onto the couch like a Victorian woman fainting. “Fix me.”

Maya squinted at him. “I’d have to kill you and rebuild you from scratch.”

She flipped open her notebook with an alcoholic burp. “What’s on your mind?”

Gojo stretched like a cat, tossing a chip into his mouth. “Well, I was thinking about Digimon.”

Maya stared at him. “…Come again?”

“You know Digimon, right?” Gojo propped himself up on his elbow, grinning. “Like, if I had to compare myself to one, I’d probably be Omnimon, but part of me feels like—”

“Oh my god.” Maya rubbed her temples. “This is what you’re opening with?”

Gojo ignored her and kept rambling.

For twenty full minutes, he went on about Digimon evolution trees, power scaling, lore accuracy, and why Adventure 01 had superior storytelling compared to Frontier.

Maya just sat there.

Expression neutral.

Watching him the way a cat watches a mouse who thinks it’s safe.

She did not interrupt. She did not react.

She waited.

And then—when he finally ran out of steam—she slowly leaned forward, reached under her desk, and pulled something out.

A pristine Digimon card binder.

Gojo sat up so fast you’d think she had electrocuted him. “No way.”

Maya smirked, flipping it open. “First edition, holographic cards.”

Gojo was already halfway across the table. “Is that a BlackWarGreymon?!”

“Limited release,” she said smugly.

Gojo gasped. “Please trade with me.”

Maya snorted. “No. Now, why did you really come here?”

Gojo blinked, still distracted. “What?”

“You’re deflecting,” she said, flipping another page. “People who are fine don’t spend twenty minutes talking about Digimon instead of their feelings.”

Gojo’s jaw tensed. For a split second.

Then, he shrugged. “I just… like Digimon.”

“Yeah,” she said. “And I just like bullshit.”

Gojo’s smirk faltered.

Maya turned another page. “You ran straight to Nanami after something.” Her tone was casual, too casual. “What was it?”

Gojo looked away. “…Nothing.”

“Liar,” she sang. “What was it?”

A long silence.

Then—

“…I had to kill him.”

Maya stopped flipping the pages.

"Kill who?"

Gojo’s fingers dug into his pants. His posture—previously lazy, careless, unconcerned—was suddenly rigid.

"Geto."

The room went still.

Maya watched him carefully. Her usual chaotic energy dimmed, just slightly.

“…That was your best friend, wasn’t it?”

Gojo let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah.”

Maya leaned back, stretching her arms behind her head. “And you ran straight to Nanami after?”

Gojo exhaled, rubbing his face. “I thought he’d understand. We’d both lost people. We’d both had to… make choices.”

Maya studied him for a beat.

Then—cheerfully—

“So instead of grieving, you attached yourself to the next person who made you feel less alone.”

Gojo was silent.

Maya smirked. “And that’s why you didn’t notice your wife was pregnant.”

Gojo groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “Fuck.”

“Yep,” she said, popping the ‘p.’

After a long pause, Gojo asked, “What now?”

Maya’s grin returned.

"Magical solution time."

Gojo sighed. "This is gonna be dumb, isn't it?"

“Oh, incredibly,” she confirmed.

She pointed a perfectly manicured finger at him.

"You and Nanami are banned from existing in the same space when it comes to her."

Gojo squinted. “What.”

“You get her half the week. Nanami gets her half the week. No overlapping, no acting like you two are a packaged deal.”

Gojo stared. “You’re trying to separate us.”

“I’m trying to get her to not murder you both.”

Gojo blinked. "And... this will fix everything?”

“Oh, absolutely not,” she said cheerfully. “But it’ll slow the bleeding.”

Gojo sighed. “I guess that’s better than nothing.”

“That’s the spirit,” Maya said, clapping her hands together.

Then, without hesitation, she threw a marker at his head.

Gojo dodged. “What the hell?!”

“You talk too much. Now get out. I’m very excited for my next patient.” She finished, taking another sip from a vodka bottle she’d pulled out from under the table.

Gojo yelled, standing up. “I’m calling Shoko. You are not a licensed therapist.”

Maya smirked.

“Be my guest.”

Five minutes later, Gojo stood outside the office, phone pressed to his ear, eyebrows furrowed.

"Shoko," he said, dead serious. "Are you aware that Dr. Maya is clinically insane?"

Shoko yawned. “Maya’s methods are… unconventional.”

Gojo blinked. "She bribed me with Digimon cards and then emotionally dismantled me like I was a child."

Shoko sounded amused. "She’s good with children."

Gojo’s eye twitched.

"Shoko," he repeated, voice flat. "She’s not a real therapist."

Shoko chuckled. "She’s certified."

Gojo ran a hand through his hair, deeply disturbed. "You’re lying."

Shoko yawned again. "I trust Maya’s methods."

Gojo hung up immediately.

---

Session Three: You vs. the Truth You Didn’t Ask For

The door creaked open, and the air inside was too thick, pressing against your ribs like something living, breathing, watching.

Maya was already lounging in her chair, eyes bright, caffeinated, and unhinged, like a woman who hadn’t known peace in years and had learned to thrive in the chaos.

She didn’t look up as you entered. Didn’t even acknowledge you at first. She was too busy clicking her pen, scribbling something down in her notebook like she was writing your eulogy before you even sat down.

"Ah, there she is," Maya finally hummed, flipping to a fresh page. She tilted her head, observing. "Come on in. Take a seat.”

Just walked in, sat down, and stared at the floor, your fingers clenching the fabric of your pants.

You weren’t sure what to say.

Weren’t sure if this would help.

Therapy had never worked before.

It had always felt like throwing words into a void, like handing someone the sharpest parts of you and watching them try to dull them down into something digestible.

And you were too tired for that now.

Maya studied you, tapping her pen against her teeth, her smile disarming, too light, too casual to be sincere.

“Did they send you here to make you feel better, or are you actually looking to fix yourself?”

Your shoulders twitched at the bluntness, but you didn’t flinch.

Didn’t answer.

Because what was there to fix?

You had been alone.

You had gone to your first ultrasound alone.

You had felt your body change, warping, becoming something unfamiliar, something monstrous—and you had done it alone.

And they had made that choice for you.

Maya let the silence hang, watching you with something too calculating, too sharp to be called kindness.

Then, she sighed, flipping her pen between her fingers. “You know, I don’t bite. I just ask questions.”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

Your chest tightened, fingers twitching, itching to do something—to move, to run, to leave.

To disappear, like you always did when things got too much.

Maya leaned forward, unblinking.

“So. Let’s start easy.”

A pause.

Then—

"What brought you here?”

A breath. Then, an exhale.

Your voice, soft, hollow, slid out—

“They ignored me.” It sounded like a child throwing tantrums to your own ears.

Maya’s pen stilled mid-air. “How long has this been going on?”

“Months.”

Your voice cracked.

“Months and months. They—" You stopped, swallowed. “They didn’t tell me anything. I don’t even know what happened. It just—” Your fingers dug into your palms, nails biting deep.

“It just felt like they shut me out.”

Maya didn’t immediately respond.

She just watched. Studied. Waited.

Silence was a therapist’s greatest weapon.

And, like clockwork, you cracked.

Your words came faster, frantic, unraveling.

“I didn’t deserve this. I waited for them, and they—they chose each other. They’ve always chosen each other.”

Your face was drawn and pale, your eyes tired but burning, the same ache you had been carrying for months sinking deep into your bones.

Maya paused her note-taking and focused fully on you, but her eyes were far too sharp, as if calculating. “I see.” She leaned back, allowing the silence to stretch. “You feel like you were abandoned. Left out of something important.”

Your eyes flickered toward her, wide with that all-too-familiar ache. You nodded slowly. “I don't even know what happened. One day they were there, and the next they weren't. And when they came back, it was like…” You trailed off, gaze falling to your lap again. “It was like I was invisible.”

Maya smirked. "And where does that leave you?"

Your head snapped up. 

"I don't know. But I don't think I can take it anymore."

Maya hummed, twirling her pen. "You’re jumping to conclusions. What makes you think you weren’t enough?"

You laughed, but it was wrong, something brittle and full of splintered edges.

"Because they—" You stopped. Exhaled. "Because they didn't think I was worth telling the truth."

Your voice dropped.

Soft. Small. Distant.

“Whatever they did.”

Maya studied you carefully, unblinking, unphased. “I’m not going to tell you everything,” she finally said. “Not now. But sometimes, the truth we think we know is not the truth at all. Sometimes, the pain we’re feeling is about things we don’t even understand yet.”

You blinked rapidly, confusion thickening your mind. “But... how could I not understand? How could I not know what happened? What did I do to deserve this?”

Maya’s voice lowered, almost soothing, “You didn’t deserve to be left in the dark, no. But they had their own pain, their own burdens, and you were... outside of that. They didn’t want to bring you in, not because of you, but because of them.”

“But—”

“Shh,” Maya cut you off gently. “Sometimes, the truth is too much. Sometimes, the ones we trust don’t tell us things because they think they’re protecting us.”

Your jaw locked.

You thought about Gojo’s voice, light and teasing even when he was lying through his teeth.

You thought about Nanami, quiet, methodical, but just as guilty.

You thought about the months of silence, of whispers you were never meant to hear, of conversations that ended the moment you walked into the room.

And suddenly, you were angry.

Maya saw it.

She leaned forward, watching the shift.

Good.

That was progress.

“Are you justifying it?” You snapped.

"No. You didn’t deserve this,” she said. “But they had a choice. And they made the wrong one."

Your mouth went dry, heart pounding in your chest. “But... I needed them. I needed both of them. How could they just—” You broke off again, voice crumbling. “How could they just leave me?”

Maya nodded slowly, her eyes never leaving yours. “And that’s what you need to understand. You were never invisible; not to them, so it was a choice. But the truth was too much. And now?” She smiled, though it wasn’t a kind smile. “Now they have a problem to fix. And they don’t know where to start.”

Your face twisted in silent confusion. “But they—” You stopped, shaking your head. “What truth? What didn’t they tell me?”

Maya pressed her lips together, a trace of something unreadable in her expression. “You’re going to have to wait for that.” She leaned forward again, almost eagerly, her voice dropping to a low, almost conspiratorial tone. “But for now, let me give you something to think about. You’re going through all seven stages, and that’s okay. You’re grieving the space you thought you had in their lives.”

You stiffened.

“But listen closely,” Maya continued, her smile just a little too sharp. “You have to let go of the idea that it’s your fault. Because it’s not. But they... they might have to make a choice. And maybe, just maybe, that means you can’t have them both, at least not right now.”

Your breath caught. “What... what does that mean?”

Maya leaned back in her chair, her eyes flickering with something darker now, like she was savoring the unraveling. “It means, for a while, Gojo and Nanami won’t share you. They’ll have to take turns. One week with him, the other with you. It’s messy, but that’s what they get for fucking everything up, isn’t it?”

Your mind raced, heartbeat picking up in a panic. “Isn’t that cheating?”

She brought up a hand and snapped it at you, “GIRLLL.”

You understood that.

Maya raised her hand. “You can. And you will. Because what’s the alternative? You let them continue to tear you apart, or you force them to take a step back, one at a time. It’s not your fault—well, not the main one at least; we’ll talk about your going-to-the-milk store-tendencies later, but it’s their responsibility to fix it first.”

You sat back, hands trembling. Was this the answer? Was this what would make it better? Could it really fix anything?

Maya leaned forward again, the manic gleam still in her eyes. “Think about it. I’ll send you the homework tomorrow. See you next week.”

She propped her legs on the table, groaning and chugging neat vodka like she was at a rager. She fmbled with her phone when all of you had walked out and shot a quick text, “It’s done.”

---

Unknown POV

On the other side of Tokyo, in an office that smelled of old paper and the kind of leather that cost more than most people’s annual salary, a man sighed.

"Small woman.”

The word dripped off his tongue like a slow, measured insult.

“How hard is it to schedule one fucking meeting?”

The speaker crackled slightly before the CHRO responded, tone flat with the kind of exhaustion only a corporate job could inflict.

“She’s on leave. We can’t do anything. You’ll have to meet with the current CEOs if you want to go ahead with the investment.”

The man exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing his temple.

“I’m investing a fuck-ton of money,” he said, voice deceptively calm, the way a venomous snake might speak if it suddenly gained the ability to. “The least you can do is let me meet your founder.”

"Respectfully, sir, if you are budgetarily impaired, maybe you shouldn’t be investing with us... or any company for that matter.” CHRO sang; her favorite time these days was to annoy this guy who’d call her 60 times a day just to be able to have a meeting with you.

“Where do you live, small woman?” The voice was eerily quiet.

CHRO backtracked. “Sir, she’s unwell.”

There was a pause.

Then—

“Okay,” the man said. “So what do you want?”

“Excuse me?”

“A bag. A car. A man. Food. Travel. Tell me anything. I’ll get it for you.”

The CHRO smirked, leaning back in her chair. “I flirt with this lawyer online, and he doesn’t know it’s me.”

“Do you want his body beheaded or with the head?”

“What the fuck?”

The man barely blinked. “What? Do you only want his dick cut-off?"

“No! I meant I enjoy talking to him! Why the hell would I want him dead?!!”

A slow, deliberate sigh.

“You corporate small women.” He sounded disappointed. “No vision.”

“Absolutely not.”

The line went dead.

The man stared at his phone for a second before setting it down carefully, as if the act of not destroying it took effort.

Then he started pacing.

Long, slow strides.

Like a caged predator in a too-small enclosure.

His fingers twitched at his sides, itching for something—violence, entertainment, a meeting that should not have been this difficult to arrange—but instead, he exhaled, tilting his head just slightly, cracking his neck.

Then he smiled.

---

A/N: This is it, besties. The clowns have officially taken the wheel of this fic. 🤡 It’s going places. I don’t know which places. But it’s getting there nonetheless. But don’t worry, these ideas might sound like clownery right now—but trust. I’ll try to wrap this ending up in like five chapters, but don’t sue me if it’s a little up or down. You all want an earned ending, right? And we still have lore to reveal — Haibara’s, Megumi’s… This fic isn’t writing itself (although sometimes it feels like it is). Also, yeah, Haibara is yandere now — but like a self-aware yandere. Oh, btw — do you guys still like Haibara? If not, lmk so I can scrap his ending. Or would you rather have Sukuna instead? Because honestly, Sukuna would absolutely pull the same shit Haibara is doing. He might not even tell you you’re pregnant until he’s sure it’s safe. I’m talking about this fic’s Sukuna — not canon Sukuna. Canon Sukuna would probably just laugh and slice you. Also…who do you think the unknown POV was? 👀 Was it Sukuna?? Let me know if you found the easter egg about Haibara. 👀 Don’t leave me hanging, besties. Check out the Ao3 for more notes.

Next chapter (Tumblr/Ao3)

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[writerwrabbleswords]

Bookish | Wolverine/Logan Howlett X [Male Librarian] Reader

 What made libraries so special? Logan might have answer to that, and it's the guy behind the desk.

 Quick notes :  This was an idea that came to me randomly! I liked the idea of having a more softish reader since it’s a personality that contrasts so well with Logans - think opposites attract! As usual, this story is set from Logan's POV (I’ll do Reader POV at some point, most likely in a oneshot rather than in these drabbles)! There will most likely be a few things (or many) that aren’t accurate to the X-Men comics/movies lore, and this is because I have yet to see the movies… I will be changing this shortly, however! [Side note, I will be completing a request sometime today and posting it alongside a part 2 to the Iron Man variant reader drabble.]

Story Details :  About 1,300 words, Male Reader referred to as ‘You/Your,’ Reader has a soft personality, Reader’s outfit is vaguely described, inaccurate implied history of mutants and their evolution, so much fluff, Logan slightly OOC (?)

Chuck wanted him to go to the damn library. He didn’t even like the library. Apparently the old telepath needed some specific books on mutants for a presentation he was going to give to the students at the school. So, of course, he sent Logan. Asshole.

  The older mutant pushed one of the front doors open, stepping into the building with his mouth set in a firm frown. A few of the guests looked up at him, but otherwise remained focused on their own book searching or reading. He huffed, his brows furrowing slightly as he took in the large area of books - not counting the second floor. Logan did not want to spend the whole damn day in this stuffy library, so he swallowed his pride and approached the librarian desk nearby.

 To his surprise, however, he was met with you. You had a knit sweater on, with a button-up beneath it and a pair of dress pants; Logan couldn’t help but admire your form for a beat, taking in the small details about you. It took a moment before you looked up from the book you were reading, a warm smile gracing your face as you set it aside and gave the mutant your full attention. 

  “How may I help you, sir?” 

  Your voice made something flutter in Logans’ stomach, but he pushed the feeling aside. He cleared his throat, shoving his hands in his pockets as he looked away in an attempt to straighten his thoughts.

  “Does the library have books on mutants and their history?” He asked gruffly, fixing his eyes on you once more as he continued, “Specifically the mutation history?”

  The way you blinked, pursing your lips in thought as you rubbed your chin made his heart thump oddly; why were you so… cute? At the thought, the mutant shook his head slightly, trying to clear his mind and focus on the task he’d been assigned.

  “We have a mutant section in both fiction and nonfiction, but what you’re looking for is more likely in our history catalog,” you reached forward, typing something into the computer just beside you as you tapped your fingers against the wooden desk, “It might be in nonfiction, though. Is there a specific book you’re looking for?”

 Logan watched you closely, his fingers twitching subtly as he felt the sudden urge to smoke; a cigar would’ve helped loosen him up, he guessed. He blinked when you suddenly addressed him, his focus shifting to what you’d said as he nodded and pulled out a small sticky note from his pocket. Written down in Chuck’s neat handwriting were the titles of the four books he needed, and the mutant handed it over with little a word.

 You took the note in your hand, your fingers brushing against his as a shiver ran up his arm at the contact. The small hum that left you was, admittedly, kind of cute - it reminded him of a puppy trying to remember a command it was learning. As you scanned the list of books, a small smile graced your features, making the large room practically light up.

  “Ah! We have three of these books!” You stated excitedly, turning back to your computer and presumably typing in their titles, “I know the one on mutant evolution in cells should be in mutant nonfiction - numbers 400 through 500 - but the other two I’m unsure of.”

  When you got the answer you were looking for, your hand swooped as you scribbled out the location of each of the books Logan needed on a small slip of paper, the smile never leaving your face.

  “They’re all very good books, you know,” your voice brought him out of his thoughts, “I’ve read the one on cell evolution and mutant development over the decades; they’re both packed full of information I think more folks should know.”

  The fact you were pro-mutant - something so rarely seen these days - made a small part of Logan feel almost grateful. He had been expecting you to be closed off and aggressive (he didn’t know why that was his expectation, but considering how mutants were treated, he figured it was just how it was when he went out and about), but the way you so openly discussed that you thought people should learn more about mutants made him reconsider his opinions. After a pause, with the only sound nearby being the scratching of your pencil against paper, Logan spoke up.

  “Do you have any other recommendations?” His fingers flexed, “On mutant history, that is.”

  He watched as you seemingly perked up, the smile on your face turning to nearly a grin as you typed out something on the library computer,

  “Actually, I do!”

  When you found what you were looking for, the older mutant watched as you added a few more titles to the list of what he wanted and their location within the library.

  “There’s a book on mutant inventions I always recommend, as well as one on the PTSD epidemic currently affecting mutants - that one is less history focused, but it’s still rather insightful,” He listened as you spoke with such certainty and excitement, as if the topic was one you were deeply invested in, “The only other one I could recommend would be by Dr. Hancock, a leading mutant researcher in cracking the X gene in mutants. That one is the last one on this list.”

  With a slight tilt of your head, you set the paper with the list of books down on the desk in front of him, tapping it with your fingers as you seemingly thought for a pause. Logan glanced down at the paper before taking it in his hand, his eyes scanning your writing as he let out a grunt of approval - you were quick and efficient, and that was something he could appreciate.

  “Can I ask you a question?” The mutant found himself asking, unable to keep the words from leaving him.

  You simply nodded, still smiling so kindly as waited for him to ask.

  “Why are you so… interested in mutants? You seem to know a lot,” 

  It was a harsh question - incredibly straightforward and blunt, just as he was - but you seemed to take it in stride, simply rubbing your chin as your gaze went upwards in thought. Logan decided he liked the way you looked when you were pondering something; it reminded him of something, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

“Well, my interest started primarily because I had a mutant friend when I was younger,” you admitted honestly, finally refocusing on him, “They taught me quite a lot - about the oppression and lack of rights - and after that I devoted time to learning as much as I could because I never wanted to make a mutant feel less than.”

  Your answer had Logan pause, his eyebrows near lifting to his hairline as he stared down at your seated form; that was not the answer he was prepared for. He was prepared for you to say something like ‘I wanted to learn about others,’ or, ‘Mutants are fascinating,’ not that you wanted to make them feel equal. The thought had a slight smile tug at his expression, the sincerity in your words ringing true even for him.

  “Bleeding heart, then,” He said with an amused huff, looking back down at the list in his hand before he gave you a slight nod, “Thank you. For the help.”

  Logan watched as you laughed softly, picking up your book and flipping to the page with your bookmark in it,

  “I’ll be here if you need more of it, sir.”

  The smile on his face widened slightly as he finally stepped away from your desk, his fingers brushing over the paper he held as he began to step towards the part of the library you’d indicated was where the books he needed would be.

  It was only when he found two of the books that he realized he didn’t have a library card. Fuck.

[actuallybean]

Bunker Fever | Part One

Busted ribs, a stubborn Winchester, and nowhere to go—being stuck in the bunker with Sam is starting to mess with your head in more ways than one. *Contains sexual material: Minors DNI Pairing: Sam Winchester x reader Tag List: @mostlymarvelgirl Part two Supernatural Masterlist | Main Masterlist

You didn’t think it would be this bad.

Sure, you’d been stuck in the bunker before. You’d even spent days without a case, nothing but dusty lore books and old vinyl records echoing through the halls. But this time was different. This time, you were broken. Literally.

Three busted ribs courtesy of a pissed-off shapeshifter and Sam playing guard dog while you “recovered” meant two things: no leaving the bunker... and no escaping him.

You’d been stuck here for five days.

Five days of watching Sam pace the library like a caged animal. Five days of feeling his eyes on you when he thought you weren’t looking. Five days of forced stillness in a place that never quite let you forget the silence.

And it was messing with your head.

The painkillers had mostly worn off by now—just enough ache in your ribs to remind you not to laugh or move too fast—but the real problem wasn’t your injuries.

It was Sam.

He was everywhere.

In the library, shirtless and sweaty from working out. In the kitchen, barefoot and sleepy-eyed in the mornings. In the hallway, brushing past you with his warm hands and deeper-than-necessary "how are you feeling?"

And then there was the room situation.

Yours had a broken vent making it a wind tunnel of noise. Which meant you were in Sam’s room. His bed. His space.

You kept telling yourself it was temporary. You were injured. It made sense. Practical, even. But nothing about sharing a bed with Sam Winchester was practical.

It was a slow torture.

Because it wasn’t just the way he smelled—like cedar and old books and something warm. It wasn’t just the low timbre of his voice when he murmured “good night” in the dark.

It was the closeness.

The tension.

The way your body tuned into every inch of space between you, like a live wire humming just under your skin.

It was the way you’d woken up last night to his arm slung over your waist, his chest pressed to your back, and stayed there—pretending to still be asleep just so you wouldn’t have to move.

God, you were in trouble.

And tonight? Tonight was going to break you.

“Still hurting?” Sam asked from the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, damp from a post-shower towel wrapped low around his hips.

You blinked. The book you weren’t reading slid a little from your lap. You didn’t answer right away—mostly because your brain had short-circuited.

“I’m fine,” you said, a little too fast, a little too sharp.

He quirked a brow. “That was convincing.”

You rolled your eyes and looked away, trying to ignore how obscene it was that he just casually existed like that. “I mean it. It’s just ribs. Not dying.”

Sam took a step closer. “You sure? I could take a look—”

“No,” you cut in quickly, heart tripping. “I’m good. Really.”

He paused, then smirked, and damn if that didn’t heat your entire bloodstream.

“Alright,” he said softly, voice dragging a little like he knew exactly what effect he was having on you. “But I’m here. If you need anything.”

He left the door open behind him. You didn’t realize you’d stopped breathing until he was gone.

Later that night, the bunker felt too quiet. You’d tried sleeping early—bad idea. The bed was too warm. Or maybe it was just him. Sam had slipped in beside you about an hour ago, careful not to jostle the mattress, careful not to press too close.

And that carefulness was driving you insane.

You were lying on your side, facing away from him, eyes wide open. Every nerve was buzzing. You could feel the heat of his body behind you, not touching but close enough that your skin itched with awareness.

You swallowed hard. Then said it.

“I can’t sleep.”

A beat of silence. Then, “Yeah. Me neither.”

You shifted, turning to face him. Even in the dim light of the room, you could make out his features—soft, a little shadowed, his hair mussed from the pillow.

His eyes met yours. Neither of you looked away.

“You know this is driving me crazy, right?” you whispered.

“What is?”

“This.” You gestured vaguely between you. “Being stuck here. You. Me. This stupid bed.”

Sam’s gaze darkened a little, jaw ticking. “It’s not just you.”

There was a pause. A dangerous one.

“You’re not injured anymore,” he said, voice lower now.

“Not really.”

“So what are we doing?”

You exhaled, your heart thudding in your chest. “I don’t know.”

He leaned in a little. “Because I think about you, you know. All the time.”

Your breath caught.

“In the library. The kitchen. In this bed.” He moved even closer, now barely an inch away. “I wake up thinking about you. I go to sleep thinking about you.”

“Sam…”

“I’m tired of pretending I don’t want you.”

The silence cracked like thunder between you.

Your hand moved before your brain could stop it—fingers threading into his hair as you pulled his mouth to yours.

The kiss was searing.

No hesitation, no slow burn—just heat and hunger and too many nights spent wanting. His mouth moved over yours like he’d been starving, and maybe he had. Maybe you both had. His hands were gentle at first, careful not to hurt your ribs, but you tugged him closer, needing more, needing everything.

When he finally pulled back, both of you breathless, he rested his forehead against yours.

“You okay?” he murmured.

You nodded. “I’ve never been more okay.”

He laughed softly, eyes crinkling in that way that made your chest ache. “Guess we caught a case of bunker fever, huh?”

You grinned. “Speak for yourself. I’ve been infected for months.”

Sam chuckled again, kissing you slower this time, deeper.

You woke up warm.

For a moment, you didn’t remember where you were. The room was still dark, the heavy curtains blocking out the morning light, but the slow, steady rise and fall under your cheek was a dead giveaway.

Sam.

You were wrapped around him like a second skin—your leg thrown over his hips, one arm tucked against his chest, your face buried against his throat. His arms were locked around you, strong and solid and immovable.

Safe.

You breathed him in, that familiar mix of soap and salt and something just purely Sam, and your heart clenched so tightly it almost hurt.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. You weren't supposed to fall into him so easily, so completely.

But God, it felt right.

He shifted slightly under you, the muscles in his chest flexing, and you froze, worried you’d wake him. But instead of pulling away, Sam murmured something low and sleepy against your hair—and tightened his hold.

"Stay," he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

You smiled against his skin, your heart doing a stupid, fluttering dance in your ribs. "Not going anywhere."

And you meant it.

You let yourself drift for a while longer, content in the heavy silence, until you felt his fingers slowly brushing up and down your spine. Soft. Unhurried.

"You awake?" you whispered.

"Have been," he admitted, voice still rumbling and rough from sleep. "Didn’t wanna move. Didn’t wanna risk you slipping away."

You lifted your head, just enough to look at him. His hair was a mess, pillow-creased and wild. His eyes were soft, open in a way you hardly ever got to see—unguarded.

"You’re kind of a sap," you teased gently, but your voice was too full of affection to land the blow.

Sam huffed a laugh and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "Yeah. For you? I guess I am."

The weight of that hit you harder than any monster ever could.

You shifted, slowly, straddling his waist with careful hands braced on either side of his ribs. His hands slid down to your hips like it was second nature, fingertips pressing into the curve of you with a kind of reverence that made your breath catch.

"You know," you said, voice dropping to a whisper, "if this is how we cure bunker fever... maybe we should stay quarantined a little longer."

Sam smirked, his hands running up under the hem of your shirt, palms hot against your skin. "Best idea I’ve heard all week."

You leaned down, kissing him softly at first—then deeper when he responded with a low, needy sound that lit your whole body on fire. His hands roamed with more confidence now, every touch making it harder to think, harder to breathe.

He kissed you like he wanted to memorize you. Like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to this earth.

And maybe you were.

Your fingers tangled in his hair as you lost yourself in him, in the heat building and building like a tidal wave that refused to break.

But before things could spiral too fast, Sam broke the kiss, resting his forehead against yours, both of you panting.

"We can go slow," he whispered, searching your face. "We’ve got time. You’re still healing."

You blinked at him, heart swelling in your chest. He wasn’t just offering patience—he was offering everything.

"I’m not going anywhere," you promised again, threading your fingers through his hair. "You’re stuck with me now."

Sam’s answering grin was crooked and perfect.

"Good," he said, pulling you back down into another kiss, this one sweet and lingering and full of promises that didn’t need words.

Because in that bed, in that bunker, tangled up with him—you realized something.

You weren’t stuck.

You were exactly where you wanted to be.

[aventurineswife]

❤ The Language of Flowers | 008

❤ | Your options shall be: Sunday, Aventurine, Dan Heng, Veritas Ratio, Boothill, Jing Yuan, Blade, Phaimon, Mydei or Moze. Whoever you think suits this prompt.

❤ | Flower & it's definition: The Strelitzia flower | symbolizes joyfulness, paradise, freedom, anticipation, and excitement. Furthermore, it represents faithfulness, love and thoughtfulness.

The Language of Flowers

Tags: Sunday x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Phainon x Reader, Fluff, Angst, Romance, Emotional Depth, Symbolism, Slow Burn, Introspection, Tender Moments.

Warnings: Brief mentions of trauma, Emotional vulnerability, Inner conflict, Gentle introspection and Mild melancholia.

A/N: Phainon's part is written before his character lore release, so it might be ooc

Sunday stood on the Astral Express observation deck, gazing out at the nebula-strewn expanse of stars. The soft golden glow of his halo reflected against the glass, framing him in an ethereal light. You approached quietly, a bouquet of vibrant Strelitzias cradled in your hands. The sight of him, poised as if contemplating the mysteries of existence, made your heart stir.

He turned at the sound of your footsteps, his eyes softening when they met yours. “Ah,” he murmured, his gentle voice carrying an airy, almost dreamlike quality, “you’ve brought a piece of paradise with you.”

“Not just for me,” you said, offering the bouquet. “I thought they might remind you of freedom—and faith.”

Sunday hesitated, his wings behind his ears fluttering faintly. “Strelitzias,” he murmured, as if tasting the word. “The flower of paradise… You’re thoughtful, as always.”

He accepted the bouquet with a reverence that took you by surprise, cradling it in his gloved hands as though it were a fragile treasure. For a moment, you thought he might deflect the gesture with one of his usual philosophical musings. Instead, his expression softened into something far more vulnerable.

“They’re beautiful,” he said finally, his gaze lingering on the blooms. “And they remind me of you—bright, unyielding, and full of anticipation for what’s to come.”

You felt your cheeks warm. “I just thought they might brighten your day.”

“They’ve done more than that,” Sunday replied. His eyes met yours, gleaming with unspoken emotion. “In their petals, I see a promise of freedom. But it’s not the freedom of escape—it’s the freedom found in connection. The kind you’ve given me.”

His words hung in the air, weighty yet delicate, like the fragrance of the Strelitzias. Before you could respond, he stepped closer, his scarf brushing against your arm.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice tender. “For reminding me that paradise isn’t a place—it’s the moments we create together.”

Aventurine’s office was as extravagant as the man himself, the walls adorned with gold accents and the faint scent of cologne lingering in the air. He sat behind his desk, flipping a golden coin between his fingers as if pondering his next gamble.

You entered, cradling a bouquet of Strelitzias, their fiery petals bright against the muted green of their leaves. Aventurine’s eyes locked onto you immediately, his ever-present smirk widening.

“Well, well,” he drawled, leaning back in his chair. “If it isn’t my lucky charm. And you’ve brought me a gift? Careful now, sweetheart, I might start thinking you’re trying to win my heart.”

You rolled your eyes, placing the bouquet on his desk. “Maybe I just thought your office needed some color.”

He raised an eyebrow, his grin turning playful. “Oh? And what’s the occasion? Or do you just like spoiling me?”

“They’re Strelitzias,” you explained, ignoring his teasing tone. “They symbolize paradise, joyfulness, and… anticipation.”

Aventurine’s fingers stilled on the coin, his expression shifting ever so slightly. For a moment, he seemed almost… serious. “Anticipation, huh?” He picked up one of the flowers, turning it over in his hand. “You know, I’ve always thought paradise was overrated. Too perfect, too predictable. But these…”

He glanced up at you, something softer flickering in his gaze. “These make me think maybe paradise isn’t a place. Maybe it’s a person.”

Your breath caught, his words catching you off guard. Aventurine chuckled, setting the flower back in the vase. “Don’t look so surprised. Even I can be thoughtful once in a while.”

He stood, moving closer until he was just inches away. “So, tell me,” he said, his voice low and inviting, “what kind of paradise are we building together? Because I can’t imagine anyone else I’d want to take the gamble with.”

The city of Aedes Elysiae was a vision of white marble and golden light, but even its splendor paled in comparison to Phainon as he trained in the courtyard. His hair glinted under the sun, and his claymore gleamed with every calculated strike.

You approached with a bouquet of Strelitzias, the vibrant flowers tucked carefully in your arms. As if sensing your presence, Phainon paused, turning toward you with a smile that lit up his striking eyes.

“You brought flowers?” he asked, his voice warm and cheerful. “For me?”

You nodded, holding them out to him. “They reminded me of you—joyful, faithful, and… full of anticipation for what’s to come.”

Phainon’s cheeks flushed faintly as he accepted the bouquet, his calloused fingers brushing against yours. “You always know how to make my day brighter,” he said earnestly. “Thank you.”

He studied the flowers for a moment, then looked back at you. “Did you know the Strelitzia also represents freedom? It’s fitting, isn’t it? For someone who’s always chasing the dream of a better world.”

You smiled. “I think it’s fitting for someone who inspires others to believe in that dream.”

Phainon’s gaze softened, and he took a step closer. “If that’s true, it’s only because of people like you—people who remind me why I fight. These flowers… they’re not just beautiful. They’re a promise, aren’t they? That even in the darkest times, there’s still a glimpse of paradise waiting for us.”

His words carried a quiet determination, and you felt your heart swell. Before you could reply, he placed one of the flowers in your hand, his touch lingering.

“Keep this,” he said with a gentle smile. “So you’ll always remember that paradise isn’t just a dream. It’s something we’re creating, together.”

[Navigation]

[dilly-dahlia]

guys i’ve been going about my Garroth x reader Hadestown au all wrong

so originally I had it where Aphmau is Persephone and Laurance was Hades for reasons being that Laurance was so in love with Aphmau that he ended up doing all this stuff he didn’t realize was hurting her and throughout the series Aphmau never really reciprocated and is sometimes in love with him sometimes not yada yada. I decided NO; Irene is Persephone and Shad is Hades

but that didn’t seem quite right. and then. I realized that Shad should be Persephone, and Irene should be Hades. walk with me.

now obviously Shad the Destroyer, Irene the Matron, matron = life and healing—the obvious choice for them is Shad as Hades and Irene as Persephone but remember that Irene turned their daughter into a relic to give Shad eternity so the Divine could protect their world

now I’m not completely brushed up on my MyStreet/MCD lore, but if I remember correctly then Irene used that cannon thing to sacrifice other human lives to create the relics, not just that of her daughter

now also consider Hades in Hadestown (not looking at political undertones); he misses Persephone so much that he starts making stuff in the Underworld to remind himself of her in her absence—even if the means to do it are inhumane and it ends up having weird consequences. he makes it hot to resemble the spring and summertime Persephone brings. he makes it bright to remind himself of the sun on her skin, which he initially fell in love with

IRENE SACRIFICED THE DAUGHTER SHE HAD WITH SHAD TO PROTECT HER LOVED ONES.

now obviously I need to workshop it more but I rest my case. Shad the Destroyer as Persephone, Irene the Matron as Hades

[particular-one]

oh, i was raised on little light.

synopsis. 5 times that blade listed every reason why he can never be with someone like you, and the 1 time you proved him wrong. pairing. blade x gn! reader cw. hurt/comfort, a lil angsty on blade's part with brief mentions of blade's insistence on dying, implicit spoilers about blade's lore in general author's note. i have been itching to write a 5+1 fic for the longest time now....i was listening to northern attitude and it reminded me of blade so bad. hello blade nation i know i understand why he’s so angst-ridden appealing to write for 🙁

when blade met you for the first time, everything in him knew you would be different from the rest of the group. you were the newest addition to the stellaron hunters, whom elio took a great fascination towards — why so, he never figured out, but this landed you in the same ranks as him, kafka and silverwolf.

you easily found a friend in both kafka and silverwolf; blade knew that much because he had watched as you indulged in kafka's innate interest in beauty despite the clear confusion in your eyes. he had seen how you would chat with silverwolf about the latest games that she's invested most of her time into.

but he would merely observe you; if, in any way, you had tried to interact with him, he would brush you off with a cold shoulder, never responding to your rather inquisitive words about him.

he didn't understand why you wanted to know so much about him, nor did he expect to be greeted with the same smile and greeting despite constantly keeping you at arm's length.

that was when he knew that you were too nice for your own good, but most of all, you were too nice to someone like him, who'd push you away even when every inch of his soul did not want to.

━━━━━━━ ˖°˖ ☾☆☽ ˖°˖ ━━━━━━━

the second time was when you had accidentally found out about his despondency with immortality's curse and in turn, everything that blade had wanted to hide from you.

when you had approached him about it, blade immediately went on the defensive and angrily asked you to stay away from him. he didn't — couldn't bear to see the hurt in your eyes when he snapped at you, thus, the stellaron hunter turned his back on you and fled. which had exactly been the source of the never ending spiral of thoughts that was slowly consuming every fibre of his being.

he's done it now. he's blown any chance that he could form anything meaningful in this ruined life of his.

he had not noticed your presence in the common room, until you made a clanging noise that was the result of two porcelain cups making contact. blade was startled to see you here, especially when he had just uttered those spiteful words to you. he stood up to take his leave, when you called his name.

even the way you said his name had a gentle tenderness to it; he hated how melodious your voice had sounded, hated how he watched as you gingerly set down two porcelain tea cups filled with jasmine tea, one quite noticeably for him, hated how you took the seat in front of him and told him that you were sorry, and that if he ever needed someone to talk to, that you would always be there for him.

but most of all, he hated how his heart rose at your promise, and how much he clung to your words since that night. all the while fully knowing that he could never subject you to being intertwined with the likes of him.

━━━━━━━ ˖°˖ ☾☆☽ ˖°˖ ━━━━━━━

the third time was much more of a painful wakeup call — quite literally. blade had always prided himself in diving straight first into battle without a single thought, desperate to die and get on with it. this mission was no different, but now you had been watching over him and ready to provide support if needed.

today's battle was much more vicious than his usual ones, but blade had always enjoyed the thrill of fighting. it had been the uncertainty of whether it would finally be his time that allured the stellaron hunter.

but… things had gone quite differently today. for the first time, blade was not seething in his obsession to die when he had seen you valiantly fight off the enemies that had threatened to overwhelm him. ha, as if they could.

he had not noticed that one was charging straight at him with his spear raised, and for a split second could quite literally see his long life flash before his eyes just as he narrowly avoided a fatal injury if it weren’t for the fact that you shouted for his name.

"stay still. i still need to bandage your side." your voice had inevitably brought him back to reality, just as you wiped off the last of his injuries with a warm towel. you had insisted on patching up his wounds yourself, and even when blade had told you that it would just magically heal by himself, he learned that day that it was rather hard to say no to you when you pleaded.

also, he could barely say no when he saw how you were radiating in concern and worry for him. not to mention how your eyes had gleamed like stars in the sky, but that was besides the point.

at the touch of your hand, blade suddenly winced at the contact. you immediately retracted your hand and mumbled an apology, but blade could see that your eyes was moving towards where he covered up the scars he's accumulated for fighting for over a century.

"are you wondering about my scars?" you seemed rather surprised at his question, but most likely due to the sudden indulgence to what you had been obviously looking at.

you slowly nodded. "do they still hurt?"

"not anymore." not any more than his painstaking wish to be free from the shackles of immortality.

you had started to set down the alcohol and bandages on the floor just as blade averted his gaze from you. the silence that proceeded was rather deafening, even for someone like blade who would rather sit in uncomfortable silence than deal with something intimate.

which was ... quite the contradiction to what he had previously allowed you to do, but you had slowly become the exception to many things in his life.

"there, all done. don't be too reckless next time, okay?" you smiled at your handiwork, and even if blade couldn't exactly benefit from whatever you had just done, he somehow felt a thousand times better than he's ever felt in a century. a flicker of a smile could unmistakably be seen in his features, and whether you had caught that or not, he saw you grinning all the same.

on a normal day, blade would have found himself grumbling about losing yet another chance at death, but instead, here he was, smiling at you.

the thought of dying at last had evidently crossed his mind more than once, but never did the thought of dying for someone else. blade very well knew that he could never be that selfless; maybe he had been once upon a time, but that had only costed him the sweet liberation of death.

and yet, the fact that he feels that greatly for you was enough to keep him up the rest of the night, the image of your blinding smile forever seared in his mind.

━━━━━━━ ˖°˖ ☾☆☽ ˖°˖ ━━━━━━━

the fourth time these thoughts had started to creep up to him again was when the both of you coincidentally crossed paths at an ungodly hour, that you had the bright idea to go gaze at the stars together.

the thought of doing something together made his heart clench, but blade, against his better judgement, allowed you to take his hand in yours as you searched for the perfect spot to watch the stars from from their location.

the skies were clear that night, as if the universe had anticipated that two sleepless beings would be standing at the dock and watch the stars align before their very eyes. with a watchful eye, he stared as you could hardly contain your own excitement. "look, look! there's the brightest star — oh, i never thought we could get such a proximate view from here!" you kept flailing your hand everywhere and he wondered where exactly you had found that energy.

that was when he realized you had never let go of his hand, and instinctively, blade found himself clenching your hand in an attempt to let go. noticeably, your gaze flicked towards him, a momentary glance but the emotion it held in it was enough to send a chill down his spine. he could feel your grip on his hand loosen slightly, but blade didn't want to be a fool any longer.

something in him told him to keep holding onto you, as his fingers interlocked with your hand and held it firmly. blade could hear your breath hitch at his sudden gesture, but naturally, you just smiled and squeezed his hand back.

oh, how your smile had always made his heart ache.

"beautiful, isn't it?" you whispered under your breath, as your eyes were now fixed on the sky above the both of you. the world felt dangerously quiet, but he did not mind the fleeting peace it gave him. blade simply hummed in approval, his mind lost in the moment but he never found the urge to peel his eyes away from you.

to him, you were the brightest star that night and how he foolishly hoped that you’d never get tired of shining your light on him.

“yes, it is.” but foolish dreamers could never get what they want.

━━━━━━━ ˖°˖ ☾☆☽ ˖°˖ ━━━━━━━

the fifth time was the last time, the time where blade had fully convinced himself that he could not possibly get involved with someone as great as you.

you were sitting across from him as you shared another cup of tea with him. blade could vividly remember the first time he had done this with you like it had only happened yesterday. still, it had been months since then — but you still haven't changed at all.

"is there something in your cup?" blade hadn't realized that his gaze became fixed on the porcelain cup that you handed to him minutes ago, that he barely even touched it. "no. it’s nothing.”

whether you had sensed his avoidance or not, you didn’t comment on it further. blade ended up taking a sip of his tea just as you were fiddling with the detailed carvings on your cup. now, it was probably his turn to sense that you had been avoiding something. “is there something on your mind?”

you looked up at him suddenly, no doubt wondering if blade had just said what he said — not that blade was particularly good at providing a form of care like you did, but his silence had always made him a good listener.

“you know, i really appreciate that you’re spending time with me.” you started, as blade watched your fingers graze over your cup for the millionth time, a habit that you had often done when you were nervous. how he knew that was something he’ll take to the grave.

blade didn’t say a word, only resorting to taking another sip from his tea. what was there to say? that he felt the same but a million times more in magnitude? it would be uncharacteristic of him to admit something that embarrassing. maybe, it had been his lack of response, that you continued to talk.

“sorry, i know you would prefer much quieter companions,” you spoke with a suppressed laugh, the same distinct chuckle that blade could recognise even from a mile away. “truthfully, i thought you even disliked me.”

it was his turn to be perplexed, as blade looked up to meet your gaze that was … on him. you sheepishly smiled at the sudden confession, before you took a big gulp of your tea. his head was spinning, and maybe it had been something in the tea, but blade could feel his tongue loosen with the many things he had been holding back. “i did. i do.”

a twinge of hurt crossed your eyes for a moment, before you casted your eyes downward. “oh.”

“i hated how nice you are,” he blurted out. “i hated how you would look at me with a great deal of concern in your eyes like i am someone to be pitied.”

“i hated how you’d still try to be there and talk to me, even when i had pushed you away before.”

“i hated how you are able to read me like the back of your hand. i hated how you could easily make me feel safe with your smile.” blade had wanted to stop talking, but the words kept going.

“i hated how gently you would tend to my scars, how your eyes would sparkle at the mention of something you love and how downright mesmerizing it is for me.” he watched as your eyes widened, before they were plunged in a tirade of emotions that were no doubt a result to his words.

he wasn’t finished yet, though.

“but most of all, i hated how whenever i’m around you, or even think about you, dying is the last thing i’d ever wish for.”

the uncomfortable silence settled in between them again, save for the whirring of the machines that blade was suddenly grateful for. he couldn’t bear to even look up at you, lest he’d see the hurt in your eyes again. “blade...”

“sorry. that was very unbecoming of me. i can go.”

“blade...” he took the last gulp of his tea before bringing the cup down with a clang. “thank you. for the tea, as always—”

“blade.” he looked up to finally meet your gaze that was only a breath away from him, before he could feel your hand gently cradling his cheek before you leaned your forehead against his.

oh. oh. you didn’t say anything more but still singlehandedly calmed his largest worries with just a simple gesture.

“you know, you could have just told me you liked me a lot.” typically, the cheeky and teasing tone in your voice would make him groan, but only this time, he allowed himself to smile. “also, what did you mean by the tea?”

now he was confused. “didn’t you give me tea?” you shook your head. “what the hell was that then?”

you could hardly suppress a grin. “you said you wanted rice wine one time, so …” so that’s why all those words spilled out of him … a groan escaped blade just as you laughed at his mishap, but not that he completely regretted it.

he knew that no matter what he did, he could never deserve someone like you — but he would choose to die for you a million times, that much was certain.

but for now, blade could most definitely contend for choosing to live for you instead.

written by carlyle (@particular-one) copyright: all content belongs to particular-one on tumblr (2023)

[hannahdalaney-blog]

Carvings in your skin

jacearys x plus-size reader

warnings: none. pt1

summary: more lore and talk about thrones. I'm making up the readers family cuz I want too. Jace is veryyyyy down bad for reader.

An arranged marriage was still a marriage, a permeant bonding between husband and wife. Your husband is now bound to you for life. His face inches from yours was so peaceful you would have thought him dead.

You had woke before he did the sun burning your face. When you felt the weight of his arm lying on your waist you almost forgot your long and extravagant ceremony. You are wed to jacearys.

Turning to look at the prince you were reminded of how lucky you got, the gods blessed you. Many have been put in your position but you have a beautiful husband who is also a prince. The gods have blessed you indeed. His curly hair brushing over his face, you left up your hand to push some of the curls away.

"Princess?" Simon knocked, his voice raised. You gasp, snatching your hand away. You shot straight up and rush off the bed ignoring your groggy prince.

"Is everything alright, Sir Simon?" he smiled taking in your morning state. The little panic in your eyes and rising chest seems to amuse the knight.

"You have a meeting with the Queen my lady." taking a deep breath you nod.

"You made it sound as though something had happened." you glare at him pushing the door wider. Servants made their way in your room pulling out dresses and hair pins.

"A meeting?" you turn from Simon who took his post outside your room. Jaceary's eyes half open as he questions you, your face slipped cracking a little smile.

"Yes seems so." you close the door swishing from the prince to the servants in waiting.

"With my mother, I shall go too." he stated. The servants grab your arms giving you a gentle push into the washroom.

You hadn't any time to question Jaceary with having to look presentable for a meeting with a Queen. The morning had just began yet it feels as though you had been up for hours.

Once dressed in black and sliver with the hint of red being in your hair pins, your servants left. You had never worn such colors they were saved for this royal house. The feeling stung a little, were you no longer allowed to wear your family colors? Colors that have been passed down from fighting and clawing their way to the throne.

You sharply inhaled soothing down your dress. Your husband seemed to make himself scarce in the time you were put through torcher. Maybe he has forgotten about his statement and went about his day. It took far less time for a man to make himself presentable.

"Shall we go." you whip you head looking at your said husband. He was dressed in the same colors his hint of red being a small brooch hooked on the right side of his chest. It was closer to his shoulder than chest but you decided not to dwell on such things.

"Yes, best not to keep her waiting, my prince." he nods, taking his hands from behind his back he turned his palm up holding out his arm. Taking his hand made your skin tingle the feeling sending a little blush to your cheeks.

"You look lovely, my princess." he squeezed your hand brushing his thumb over your knuckles. Opening the door rushed a rather much needed breeze across your face. Simon stood in his post nodding to you as you appeared.

"Is he joining us?" jacearys brows crease a little.

"Just outside the room, I will never be too far from the princess." Simon takes a mater of fact tone with the prince.

"Sir Simon has been with me since I was a bebe, I trust him most." you spoke softly trying to gloss over Simons rude tongue.

"Then I shall trust him too." he spat out quickly turning you on your heel, practically pulling you away.

The Queen wanted a formal meeting you thought as you glanced around the room. A wide and long table with seven chairs even sat around it. She had not yet arrived her servant guiding you and jaceasry to your chairs. You sat on opposite sides while a chair larger than all the others takes up the space between you and your wed.

Jaceary stands as soon as the servant leaves his mouth opening. The doors swung open his Mother marching in. She was the perfect example of a Queen when she walked she did so with the weight of power.

"Jace! I wasn't informed you would be joining us." she looks from her son to you, swiftly taking her seat in the large chair.

"She is my wife." he states before he slides back down in his seat.

"Yes she is, but the topic at hand is about her throne." she glances at you. Your throne? Panicking a little you look from your mother to jaceary.

"My throne? your grace." you ask a slight tremble in your voice.

"Now that you are wed we must disuse what that means for our thrones." you knew this was coming, having to talk politics was never your specialty.

"Would my mother not be better for this my Queen?" your hands sweat in your lap.

"You are her heir are you not?"

"Yes your grace." she smiles her crown shining in your eyes.

"Our houses are now mixed meaning your first born will have a claim to both thrones." she states looking from you to your husband.

"If you don't mind your grace I would rather our first born take my throne." Jace relaxed in his chair smiling at his mother.

"You do not wish for your child to sit on the iron throne?" her voice was laced with disappointment.

"I wish for my child to sit on my throne just as you wish for yours. I must keep the throne in my bloodline, your grace." You sit up a little straighter, her eyes burning your skin.

"Do you agree Jace?" she snaps her head to her son.

"Yes I fully support my wife mother." Jace nods, his face a mix of shock and pleased. He didn't plan on letting this go and neither did his mother but he was hoping to slowly push her to the right decision.(Their decision)

He's just seen that his wife was a strong one, in many ways like his mother. Just the thought sent shivers down his spine. He supposed it was a good thing to have at the throne but not so much in a wife. Or maybe it was he's never been married before.

"Well I suppose we should leave it here, for today." she glares at her son before raising out of her chair.

"I shall see you both at dinner." stepping away from her chair you and Jace stand as well.

"Yes your grace." you say keeping a good balance and straight back bow watching her leave the room. You turn to your suspiciously supportive husband finding him smiling at you.

You thought it rather strange that he backed your decision to his mother. A man has far more loyalty to his mother than the woman he just wed. But his face remain relaxed as he smiled at you.

"Shall we eat?" he asked crossing the table to stand next to you.

"Yes, my prince." he holds out his hand palm up, you take it felling his skin against yours. He was a very warm man, you noticed. Every time his warmth meets your skin it felt like he was made of fire.

He lead you to a small room, you supposed it was a dining room. The table already set for two as servants rush in with food. He sat you in your chair pulling it out, his touch never leaving. Then it did leave and your body went cold at the loss of contact.

"So how is your mother these days?" he asked. You internally rolled your eyes. He was asking about your mother's health a day after being wed. Men, all they want is power and children.

"Perfectly fine my prince." you chirp. picking up your glass of water the cool crystal adding to the cold feeling in your body.

"Good, she shall live a long life." he smiled a little. You put your glass down watching the servants place food in front of you.

"Yes. Do you know anything about my family?" you ask. Most noble men didn't know much history about families other than their own. You could see him thinking about it, watched the gears in his head turn.

"I figured as much." you nod to the servants as they leave.

"My family is the complete opposite of yours, our dragons live under the sea. Our family fought for our throne they clawed their way up and took what they claim." you glance at him. He was listening his eyes focused on your face.

"I take much pride in my history, I wish for my family to do the same. My love." you smile.

"I'm..I don't know how I don't know a single thing about your family." his face twisted into confusion.

"It's not your family." you say leaning into him.

"I will forgive you this once, my prince." you wink, straightening your back you began to eat.

"I'm so lucky for wedding a forgiving wife." he smiled. Though the conversation left a little sting in his chest. He didn't know much about his own wife's family. He knew about the dragons under the sea and he know about what parts of the world your family owned. But that was it that was the extent of his knowledge.

Maybe he should ask you more, get you to tell him everything there is to know about you. Jace didn't think he could care so much about this woman he just wed. But he couldn't help but want to touch you to make sure everyone knew how crazy he was about his wife.

He would show you just how crazy he was too, maybe even tonight. Smirking at the thought he finally started eating.

[smilingangel582]

Hiiii I just finished Cyno's second story quest and it's beyond amazing! I love it! The best story quest so far for me... seriously!

I really really want a Sethos and Cyno fic now... bjt at the same time I want a Lisa and cyno too...

Eh, I'll just write both. Man it's been a while... since I wrote for genshin impact.

Hehe

Warning spoilers for Cyno story quest 2 and his lore about his powers.

Ler!sethos, Lee!cyno

Summary: Sethos really wants to beat Cyno. Tcg is out of the question... what can he do? He really needs to find his weakness... nonetheless, a certain Fennec decides to spill a little secret.

Temple of laughter

Ugh... again... Cyno, the general of Mahamatra, beats him again.

That'd thr seventh time in a row.

"You really need to brush up on your strategic skills." Cyno casually states, his tone serious anf genuine regardless of Sethos mentality.

Sethos has his head lowered on the table. Utterly broken and defeated. He looks up with fatigue, "Seriously Cyno, isn't there any other way that I can best you in?"

Cyno thinks, actually wondering to what he can help with Sethos. How's your sense of humour with jokes? I've known to have the best puns in Sumeru... perhaps from Teyvat"

"Don't go spouting puns on my watch, Cyno," Tighnari intervenes as he joins them briefly after a rain forest mission.

Cyno sigh, "Just admit that my jokes are superior and you can't hold in your laughter..."

Tighnari rolls his eyes, sarcastic now, "Oh yes I'm gonna die laughing every time he says a pun joke..."

Cyno, naively believing him, folds his arms proudly, "See, even the most serious ones know how great my -Ah!"

Tighnari poked him on the side, looking sassy, "How about try a tickle fight?"

"That's dumb..." Cyno scoffs but flinched defensively when Tighnari threatens to poke him again.

Sethos blinked. Could that be it? The general mahamatra can't possibly lose to something as simple as that...

Tighnari, seeing Sethos who's also curiously watching Cyno, smirks with an idea popping to his mind. His ear twitched in excitement as he swiftly began, "You know Sethos, you and Cyno can wrestle and see who's stronger."

Cyno, unaware of his ulterior motives, looks up in confusion, "That's unexpected... why suddenly?"

Tighnari cheekily points out, "Oh? Are you afraid that you might actually lose to someone younger than you?"

"N-no, of course not... geez, fine, I'll play along!"

Green eyes brightened at the thought of how Tighnark set him a perfect chance to get Cyno back. However he should be careful when Cyno retaliates. He's pretty ticklish too... perhaps even more than Cyno.

It's too absurd to think Cyno is ticklish... it might be a path to death if he attempted it. Still it's worth the risk.

"Fine Sethos, ready whenever you are," Cyno says, his hands up against his chest to a defence stance.

Sethos takes his chances, inhaling and exhaling. Praying thar Cyno will be at least a bit ticklish...

"The ribs and armpits... and pretty much his back and thighs are bad..." Tighnari whispered to him on his way out from the room where they've been duelling TCG.

Sethos looks back, tearfully and gratefully. He should remind himself to treat Tighnari to a meal sometime.

He lunged, and as expected, Cyno dodged most of them. After keeping up the charade, Sethls strikes by throwing himself on the general, grabbing his waist.

Sethos swiftly tickles his ribs causing Cyno to jolt on surprise, "H-ha! Wait... what a-ahahare you...?"

Getting more confident by that reaction, Sethos began to tickle up his armpits, causing Cyno to jerk again, more violently, he giggles in a low voice.

"Ah... I never knew the general Mahamatra to be this sensitive..." Sethos responds fondly. Seeing the uncontrolled movements of Cyno, squirming and rolling to the side to avoid his sensitive spots but Sethos was already on to him, his tickles nimble and effective.

"H-hahaa cohohohome on! Thihihihis isn't fahahahair!" Cyno squirms now, trying to figure back but Tighnari had give away all his worst spots to Sethos and luckily he can't even tickle him back properly. Every time Cyno reached to tickle him back, Sethls tickled his armpits.

"But you weren't fair when you tried to make me play a game. I never had a chance to win..." Sethos said, feigning hurt, "Oooh but general... you look more ticklish than me... what if an eremite finds out?"

Cyno was not prepared for Sethos to switch him on to his stomach, and scribble his fingers on his back. Unable to defend himself, Cynl writhes and laughs, more like cackling like a madman, "AhaHAHAHA NOHOHO MORE! AHA!"

"Do you yeild Cyno?" Sethos grins, expectantly but Cynl cackles. Not responding...

"In that case..." Sethos and Cyno both hears a voice, Tighnari leaning by the door frame, watching fondly, "Sethos aim for the back of his thighs... its so bad that he will scream like a girl"

"Ihihihi dohoho nohohot screeeheheheam like a gihihirl -EEEEK!"

Tighnari shakes his head amusedly, and he did...

Sethos freeze by that sound when Cyno lets a shrilled, high-pitched cry as his fingers swiped the back of his thigh.

"O-oho wow... I didn't expect that..." Sethos somewhat feels bad, but... he couldn't help lightly run his fingers over the thighs, causing Cyno to yelp now, "N-NOT THERE!"

Maybe just a little longer...

Sethos teases him, "Wait... are you really begging me Cyno?"

Cyno grits his teeth, but giggles angrily when Sethos, merely used to tap the sensitve spot, and even his hips making him flinch again.

"Cynoo~ which funny bone will it take to break you?" Sethos had to make a joke as he squeezes his hip, Cyno shrieks and that made Tighnari laugh, "Well I can guarantee Sethos has a better sense of humour than you..."

"Nooohooohoo"

Sethos didn't know if it's the tickling or the fact that Tighnari said he was funnier than Cyno triggered him.

"So tough but ticklish..." Sethos murmurs, now Cyno reached his limit when he got his knees.

"Fohohor thehehehe love ohohof teheheyvat y-yohohou win! You whihihihin!"

Sethos looks happy, suddenly whooping as he got off of Cyno, "Finally! I beat Cyno!"

Tighnari giggles now, proud, "Nice one, Sethos... Cyno is finally put to his place"

Cyno groans, trying to sit up despite his fatigue and flushed face, "J-juhuhuhust don't think I'll not get rehehehevenge on you and Tighnari"

Sethoa merely grins.

Worth it...

Ignore the grammar pls thanks