#... chaos and bickering ensues | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

otkuhotgirl · 9 months ago

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─── 𝐅𝐈𝐅𝐓𝐇 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐒 .

# with black-leg sanji and roronoa zoro.

you are unable to choose between the two men who had fallen in love with you. their solution presents itself in the form of sexual competition.

⎰ & KINKTOBER, day eight. smut (mdni!). threesome. sensory deprivation. double penetration. anal. fingering (reader!receiving). blindfold. bdsm. afab!reader. no y/n used.

WC: 2.5k

zoro and sanji were as similar to one another as the moon was to the sun; the tides were to the flames. one did not suppose there yet existed a single topic with which the pair could agree with. their fighting styles were nothing if not divergent. their taste in alcohol might as well have inspired the water-and-oil analogy. personalities; most favored tastes and colors; fashion sense — or the lack thereof, in zoro’s case; the conception of what was deemed attractive. the two were incapable of meeting a common ground, and those around them had all but quit to witness the instance in which they would share a similar opinion. when one was, too, to consider the amount of women sanji flirted with — the same ones zoro did not felt the urge to spare a miserable second-glance at — not a soul expected their lines to overlap in the romantic field.

which all but made their harbored feelings for you far more surprising. not to misplace the root to such astonishment, for you were neither unattractive nor dull. rather despairing to learn that the only subject of agreeableness between the two also happened to be the one they were willing to compete twice as much for.

whenever sanji strived to serve you heart-shaped pastries, zoro would attempt to counter-attack by lifting weights without a shirt on, in front of you. if you were to comment on a favorite color, sanji was soon to match his ties to it — whereas zoro was soon to throw them out when given the chance. the ensued chaos sure was the worst during re-stocking hours, for if you decided to stroll around the town, the two would bicker and follow. sanji would, naturally, have the upper hand throughout the initial hours — the swordsman had a broken compass for a center, and it was not hard to have him lost within the minute — however, for some obnoxious motive, zoro somewhat had never once failed to reencounter the pair of you, which meant that he would then glue to your side until the late hour of night, striving to make up for the lost time. those specific situations were so stressful on itself that you resorted to chopper to serve as company; the reindeer’s presence and excitement serving as brief reprieve from their constant bickering.

the two-year interval between the crew had been one of hope. distance sure would see fit to resolve the matters of your heart and ensue in a decision. zoro and sanji were prone to be at eternal odds, yet they were not disrespectful whatsoever. the non-chosen one would not hesitate to retreat if your love was to be poured into another. it would be a devastating vision, a never-ending pain and non-healing wound, yet one both were willing to withstand for the sake of your happiness.

the problem was that, as wonderful and selfless as that behavior sounded, you, in fact, had not been able to choose during the time apart. the longing proved itself to be equal, you did not miss one more than the other, so much as you did not prioritize your breathing over your heartbeat. both were important pieces that built themselves a solage in the fissure of your once maimed heart. sanji was warmth and professed love, external affection and sweet-coated sentences; the soothing embrace of spring with a trail of divergent petals. zoro was the mountain whose surface no force could maim. he was the much needed instance of shared silence in the aftermath of a tiring day, the reassurance of a lingering hand. love explicit through protection and care, the guarantee of a fierce guardian even in slumber.

zoro was the steel that sliced those who had dared to maim you, while sanji was the hand that patched your wounds. whereas sanji was the breeze to sway on your kite, zoro was the rock underneath to stop you from soaring far away. but you would never dare voice said thoughts, fearing the negative repercussions. regardless, the postponement in your decision all but started to cause unrecoverable commotion.

the separation led them both to overcompensate — and clash — in order to be given a fraction of your time. yet, surprisingly enough, the discussions weren’t the most obnoxious aspect, for the crew had grown accustomed to them. no. the unbearable lied on the sexual tension, almost palpable enough to be sliced and with its aftermath painful to those with ears. lustful glances shared and caught; zoro’s tendencies on leaving the crow’s nest door unlocked whenever he decided to masturbate; sanji’s barely contained moans when he bathed; your own restlessness and mood-shifts born from the unattended desire. characters such as franky and luffy, chopper and robin, had not a care in the world — the latter going as far as finding it amusing. usopp and nami, however, had enough, and were successful in their plan of setting the three of you in the sunny while the rest of the crew ventured through the newest found island. the ship was large enough for temporary avoidance, yet an eventual clash was inevitable, and the coward duo all but hoped that would serve as an enough motivator to resolve things.

unbeknownst to them, sanji and zoro had agreed on certain terms beforehand, sharing a thorough — oftentimes heated — discussion over relationship schedules and dynamics were you to agree with their solution. sharing altogether was not the sweetest fruit to the palate; yet, was the initial plan to fail, it’d have to be enough.

it started with sanji’s usual pampering. a dessert with a purposefully exacerbated amount of cream; a cold beverage served with a holed-straw, forcing the liquid to drip down your chin and covered breasts. when you retrieved from the deck in search of a change of clothes, zoro had been the one to cage you halfway, sweat-covered chest bumping into your sticky one — with sanji following thereafter, your back pressed against his front. their proposition was quite simple: a shared fuck with a blindfold, for without the aid of sight, you would be unable to assign faces to touches. that who pleased you more would be the chosen one; loser forced to retreat. it was a fair trade — and on god, you’d not be the one to complain.

they had argued; from which room to guide you, to which position would be the most suitable. zoro wanted to use his bandana, whereas sanji wanted to use one of his ties, meaning you ended up blindfolded and with your hands tied behind your back, bare and vulnerable; blind to the external world. although all was to be expected, considering the amount of repressed desire, you were surprised to learn that they planned on being agonizingly slow.

a gloved hand wrapped itself around your throat, for without the absence or presence of calluses, caught-on through touch, you would be unable to guess whose fingers were those. you were sat on a muscular lap — yet another no indicator, for neither lacked in that department. the pair seemed to agree on not speaking at all as well, but you were quite sure their identities would eventually be denounced by their grunts and moans.

the deprivation of sight had enhanced the rest of your senses. your hearing grew more attuned; your skin, twice as sensitive. the rough pattern of the glove left a trail of goosebumps in its wake, fingers guiding themselves down to your glistening core, dripping on the thigh underneath. the sudden contact with an ice cube had you gasping, your head resting on the shoulder of the unknown man. melting-cold water surrounded your pert nipples as that who lingered in front of you teased your breasts; the gloved finger drew languid circles on your clit, eliciting a sudden moan in response. you felt the stiffening of both figures, struggling to contain their reaction.

the man underneath had clenched the muscles of his thigh, gripping the flesh of your waist as the testing roll of your hips ignited your arousal, your cunt all but leaking at the stimulation. ice traveled from your chest to your belly button; above your ribs. your back arched at those mixed sensations, the coldness from above and the heat from below. your nipples were flicked, wet and freezing, before the buds were teased with the brief, tickling touch of a feather. the other shifted ever-so-slightly, the sudden movement causing his thigh to brush harder against your swollen clit; a lascivious moan clawing its way through your throat.

a hiss — zoro. a whimper — sanji. mingled and sudden sounds, hastily muted, with directions unknown. a sudden object, leather-made, was roughly wrapped around your thigh, tight enough to interrupt the blood influx altogether. somewhere, sanji choked, as if disapprovingly, yet the teasing hand lingered; the gloved finger toying with the straps. the fingers to your intimacy made their return, index and middle rubbing against your inner lips; tongue swirling around your earlobe, threatening to penetrate it, wet and loud sucking in pair with the sudden insertion of a finger in your throbbing cunt. you gasped, figure moving yet halting, for the belt constricting your thigh made it all far more painful. the sudden release of pressure had you mewling, all but for the bind to return, constricting the current of your own blood.

yet another ice cube drew patterns on one of your breasts, your nostrils catching on the aroma of a scented candle. the sound of a lighter; the sudden approach of heat. while a set of fingers busied themselves with press of melting ice on your flesh, teasing a hardened nipple with the freezing texture, the other part of your chest fell prey to a gentle rain of candle wax, heated and immediate, the sensation divergence enough to ensue a cascate of broken moans.

earmuffs had been placed, depriving you, too, of sound. the sudden jolt of a thigh had you bouncing; reacting due to mere instinct. when you whimpered, chasing the touch of the finger within your core; leg trembling due to the absence of blood influx, a choir of muffled and unrecognizable grunting and whimpering followed-in-suit. sharp canines dug on the juncture between neck and shoulder at the same time that a nipple was twisted by a foreign finger, coated in hot wax. goosebumps surged without second-thought; heavy breathing fanning above your ear.

the two men were mingling, a converging set in which you were to become the one caught in the middle. ice teased your parted lips, prying them open, the freezing water replaced with the warmth of another’s mouth; a sweet, brief, kiss, all but altered once you attempted to chase it. your lips were then stolen, steel-made grip maintained in your chin. the one underneath did not seem to like that in the slightest, for the pace of a swirling thumb around your clit made itself fast and demanding, your mewls swallowed by the other’s famished mouth — him, too, a moaning mess.

the gloved hand wrapped itself around a nipple, tugging at it before groping your breast. the kiss was broken then, a choir of unheard complaints falling from said man while your back was forced against the chest of the other; your cunt dripping and close to one’s erection. you tried grinding against it, yet the belt at your other thigh made each movement far more painful than it should have been. besides, it seemed as though zoro and sanji had agreed on which holes belonged to who beforehand, and the one underneath did not seem to have his cock meant to your pussy. instead, his mouth latched itself onto your neck, biting and sucking as he had your hips raised ever-so-slightly, allowing his tip to tease the folds of your ass. it traveled in between, coating the flesh with his pre-cum; briefly pressing itself against your entrance before immediate retreat.

you caught on a sudden shuffle, the pressure of the man standing vanishing all of the sudden. instead, he knelt in order to correct the angle of your figure on the other’s lap, his fingers trailing down your butthole. he collected your essence upon the fingering of your then neglected cunt, and the ice made its return; cold water mingled with heated pre-cum. he applied pressure on the tight entrance, his index sliding inside until the knuckle, pumping itself in-and-out, stretching your hole properly before the addition of his middle-finger. the man blew a gust of air against your clit, seeming to drown in your scent, yet not daring to dart his tongue and have a taste — as it seemed, the right to oral had not been a consensus. your butthole was scissored while the flesh of your shoulder was assaulted by bruising kisses, the gloved hand groping your right breast with maiming strength.

at last, yet another sudden shift had a tip pressed against the entrance where the other’s fingers were previously buried inside. the correction, too, had granted one the desired access to your dripping, throbbing cunt, his own tip teasing your folds. you trembled in anticipation, fingers struggling against the fabric of the tie that deprived you from reciprocating said touches.

a heartbeat of silence, all but too brief, before you were filled at once. the cock shoved inside your butthole was larger; the veins were more prominent. that, who stretched your cunt, was larger, the curved tip reaching a further length, finding your g-spot on its first attempt. you howlered, your throat burning at the expense of your sounds of pleasure. their paces were erratic; much too different for a common ground to be found. the one to fuck your ass was harsher; steadier. his balls were a constant against your flesh as he all but forced himself inside, his tongue and teeth licking and biting at whichever inch of bare skin he could find. that man had you stretched and vulnerable; aching and begging.

the one at your cunt was sloppier, far more desperate. he had parted your legs open, tore the belt off your thigh and threw it somewhere you could not see — the sudden absence of pressure all but enhancing the pleasure. the grip on your raised calves were what kept him tethered to that realm, his chest threatening to press itself against your own whenever his shaft was buried inside until the base. he was faster, too, and more eager. whereas the man at your butthole removed all but half of his member to shove yet again with devastating force, the pussy-drunk one retrieved himself entirely, until the tip threatened to spill off your entrance, before lunging his tip back into your g-spot.

it was overwhelming; maddening. it was the most pleasurable experience you had ever experienced. your words became babbles; saliva dripped down your chin at the failed attempts of letting them know you were close. it was unimportant whatsoever, for your high came as though a flood: abundant, never-stopping. you creamed the cock that remained deep inside your walls while the sound of your pleasure mingled with those from the men around you.

your cunt was vacant seconds thereafter, the tip of one’s shaft pressed against your abdomen as a stream of cum smeared your skin clear-white. the other kept plunging into you, the brief overstimulation causing you to squirm and whine before he, too, released himself — only that he had done so inside —, riding his own high and emptying the contents of his balls, the cum enough to slip past the folds of your ass and drip down his own thighs.

you fell limply on said man’s back, breathing heavily, your skin coated in sweat and cum; water and wax. the earmuffs slipped, and you had half-the-mind to decode the ongoing discussion at hand.

“YOU CAME INSIDE!”

“WELL, SHITTY-COOK, IF YOU WANTED IT AS WELL SO BADLY, YOU SHOULD’VE TAKEN DIBS ON THE ASS!”

“RELEASE HER, YOU BRUTE—”

well, at least that served you as a tool to assign faces to sensations.

— 🐈‍⬛ : late but never forgotten! if you’re here from the kinktober masterlist, wondering “where the fuck are the other days?!”, i feel the need to apologize yet again! i’m still a bit sick and hadn’t had the strength to re-read the previous stories, correct minor errors and post them in time. that being said, ace, kid and robin will be posted on the vacant, third week! super SUUUUUUPER sorry!

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kittenan2 · 1 month ago

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Strictly Chaotic

Pairing: Kim Seokjin x Reader Genre: Romantic Comedy, less Smut, more Fluff, Slow Burn, Fake Marriage AU Rating: 18+ (Explicit) Warnings: Explicit sexual content, mild language, fake relationship, age gap (10 years), bickering, sexual tension, soft dom Jin, passionate smut, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it up!), emotional vulnerability, light angst, tooth-rotting fluff. Word Count: ~10k [sorry it's a long one] Summary: A drunken flirt at a bar leads to a six-month fake marriage with the icy, older, and devastatingly handsome Kim Seokjin. Chaos, stolen jams, stolen shirts, and stolen hearts ensue as you navigate living with a man who insists it’s “strictly business”—until it isn’t.

The bar smelled like whiskey and bad decisions, and you were knee-deep in both. Freshly graduated, 22, and buzzing with the kind of reckless energy only a diploma and three cocktails can give, you spotted him across the room. Kim Seokjin, all sharp jawline and tailored suit, sipping something amber and expensive. He looked like he’d walked out of a K-drama, and you, in your ripped jeans and glittery crop top, were a chaotic contrast.

You slid onto the stool next to him, ignoring his raised eyebrow. “You look like you need someone to ruin your night,” you said, flashing a grin.

He didn’t smile. “I’m fine, thanks.”

Undeterred, you leaned closer, the alcohol making you bold. “Come on, Mr. Serious. Live a little. Bet I could make you smile.”

His lips twitched, but it was more pity than amusement. “You’re a kid.”

“Graduated kid,” you corrected, winking. “And I’m fun. You should marry me.”

He choked on his drink, amber liquid splattering his pristine tie. You laughed, delighted by the chaos you’d caused. Before he could recover, his phone buzzed. He glanced at it, and his face tightened. A text from his father: “Settle down. I want you as my successor. Prove you’re stable.”

Jin’s eyes flicked to you, assessing. You were still giggling, oblivious. He sighed, long and suffering. “Be at City Hall. 10 AM tomorrow.”

You blinked. “Wait, what?”

“Marriage. You suggested it.” His tone was clipped, like he was scheduling a dentist appointment. “Don’t be late.”

You thought he was joking. He wasn’t.

"Are you s-serious?" You gulped and asked.

"Dead Serious," he replied.

The next morning, you woke up with a hangover and a vague memory of proposing to a hot stranger. Then your phone pinged: “City Hall. Don’t test me.”

Holy shit, he was really serious.

You stumbled into City Hall in a sundress and sneakers, hair barely tamed in a messy bun. Jin stood there, all Armani and annoyance, holding a folder. “You’re late.”

“It’s 10:02,” you protested, adjusting your sunglasses to block out the world’s judgment.

He thrust the folder at you. “Prenup. Six months. No feelings. No complications. We divorce after I secure my position.”

You skimmed the document, brain foggy from last night’s cocktails. “So, I’m your trophy wife for half a year?”

“More like a prop,” he muttered, signing his name with a flourish that screamed I’m better than you.

You signed, too, because why not? You were 22, broke until you find job, and this was the most exciting thing to happen since you aced your finals. “Deal, robot husband.”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

Moving into Jin’s penthouse was like stepping into a sterile art gallery—white walls, sleek furniture, zero personality. It screamed I’m rich and miserable. Your duffel bag, bursting with colorful clothes and random trinkets, looked like an alien invasion next to his minimalist aesthetic. You dropped it on the floor, and the thud echoed like a declaration of war.

Jin appeared from the kitchen, holding a notepad like a professor about to lecture. “We need rules,” he said, voice clipped. He handed you a sheet of paper, his handwriting infuriatingly perfect.

You scanned it, snorting. “No entering each other’s rooms? No romantic involvement? No interfering? What is this, a prison contract?”

“It’s a boundary,” he said, crossing his arms. His suit jacket stretched across his broad shoulders, and you hated how it made your stomach flip. “This is strictly business.”

You leaned against the counter, smirking. “What if I need to borrow your fancy coffee maker? Or, like, your soul?”

His jaw ticked. “Buy your own coffee maker. And I don’t have a soul.”

“Oh, I’ll find it,” you teased, poking his chest. He swatted your hand away, but not before you noticed the warmth of his skin through his shirt. “Lighten up, robot husband.”

“Stop calling me that,” he snapped, but his ears were pink. “And don’t touch me.”

You grinned, undeterred. “Challenge accepted.”

That evening, you decided to stake your claim. You rummaged through your bag, pulled out a stack of neon sticky notes, and went to town. By the time Jin returned from a work call, his rice cooker was labeled “Emotional Support Husband,” his fridge had a note saying “Feed Me, Daddy,” and his coffee maker bore a winking smiley face with “Property of Chaos” scrawled next to it.

He stared, horrified. “What the hell is this?”

“Interior decorating,” you said, lounging on his pristine couch with a bag of chips. Crumbs fell onto the cushion, and his eye twitched. “Your place was boring.”

He tore off the rice cooker note, crumpling it. “This is a $500 rice cooker. It doesn’t need your… commentary.”

You gasped dramatically. “You spent $500 on a rice cooker? Does it sing lullabies, too?”

“It cooks perfect rice,” he said, like it was a personality trait. He ripped off the fridge note next, muttering, “Daddy? Really?”

You cackled, tossing a chip in your mouth. “You’re so easy to rile up. This is gonna be fun.”

He pointed at you, note still in hand. “No more sticky notes. No more touching my stuff. And clean up those crumbs.”

You saluted mockingly. “Aye, aye, Captain Uptight.”

He stormed off, but not before you stuck another note on his back: “Grumpy Cat.” He didn’t notice. You laughed so hard you nearly choked on a chip.

Three days into this fake marriage, and you were already testing Jin’s limits. Bored and hungry, you raided his fridge, expecting boring rich-people food—kale, probably, or some sad quinoa. Instead, you found a jar of strawberry jam, the label in French, looking like it cost more than your entire grocery budget. You unscrewed the cap, sniffed the sweet, tangy aroma, and decided it was fate.

You slathered it on a piece of toast, moaning at the first bite. It was like eating a sunset—rich, fruity, with a hint of decadence. You grabbed your phone and texted Jin, who was at some fancy meeting: “Your strawberry soul tastes divine.”

His reply came instantly: “That was $80. Imported from France. You owe me.”

You laughed, licking jam off your fingers. “Worth it,” you muttered, taking another bite. You were halfway through your second slice when you heard the front door slam. Jin stormed in, tie loosened, looking like a man on a mission.

“Did you eat my jam?” he demanded, pointing at the open jar on the counter.

You froze, mid-chew, a smear of strawberry on your lip. “Uh… maybe?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “That was a limited-edition batch. Do you have any idea how hard it was to get?”

You swallowed, grinning. “Tastes like privilege. Want some?” You held out the toast, batting your lashes.

He glared. “You’re a menace.”

“And you’re dramatic,” you shot back, hopping off the counter. You grabbed a spoon, scooped more jam, and popped it in your mouth, making exaggerated “mmm” noises. “Oh, yeah. That’s the good stuff.”

His eye twitched. “Stop eating it like it’s peanut butter!”

You shrugged, licking the spoon. “Too late. It’s mine now.”

The next morning, you found your toothbrush in a crystal cup labeled “Temporary Guest” in his perfect handwriting. You snorted, grabbing a marker and scribbling “Permanent Chaos” on the cup. Then, for good measure, you stuck a sticky note on his precious jam jar: “Soulmate Spread.”

When Jin saw it, he let out a groan that echoed through the penthouse. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, but you caught the faintest twitch of his lips. Progress.

Laundry day was a disaster of your own making. You’d forgotten to pick up your clothes from the cleaners, and your duffel was empty except for a single sock and a sports bra. Desperate, you tiptoed into Jin’s room—breaking Rule #1—and opened his closet. Rows of pristine shirts stared back, all crisp and smelling faintly of cedar and him. You grabbed an oversized white button-down, the fabric soft and luxurious, and slipped it on. It hung past your thighs, one shoulder slipping down, exposing your collarbone.

Back in the living room, you cranked up Dua Lipa’s “Levitating” on your phone, letting the beat take over. You swayed, hips popping, spinning in circles as the shirt flared around you. You felt free, alive, like the penthouse was your stage. The lyrics had you singing off-key, arms flailing, completely oblivious to the world.

Jin came home early, key in hand, and froze in the doorway. His eyes locked on you—hair wild, bare legs flashing, his shirt slipping further down your shoulder. The way the fabric clung to your curves, the glimpse of thigh with every twirl, sent heat coursing through him. His throat went dry, fingers tightening around the doorknob. You were a vision, chaotic and beautiful, and he hated how much he wanted to close the distance between you.

You spun again, unaware, your laughter mixing with the music. His gaze lingered on the curve of your neck, the way your hips moved, the careless joy in your abandon. His chest tightened, a mix of irritation and something dangerously close to desire. He shouldn’t be looking. He couldn’t look away.

Finally, he cleared his throat, stepping back. “Rule number one,” he called, voice rougher than intended. “Stay out of my room.”

You yelped, nearly tripping over the coffee table. “Shit, Jin! When did you get home?”

He raised an eyebrow, arms crossed. “Long enough to see you desecrating my shirt.”

You grinned, unrepentant, tugging the hem down. “It’s comfy. And you weren’t using it.”

“It’s Armani,” he said, like that explained everything.

“It’s mine now,” you teased, doing a mock twirl. The shirt rode up, and his eyes flicked to your legs before he forced them away.

“Take it off,” he said, then winced at how that sounded. “I mean, put it back.”

You smirked, catching the slip. “Make me.”

His jaw clenched, and for a moment, you thought he might actually try. Instead, he turned on his heel, muttering, “You’re going to be the death of me,” and disappeared into his room. You didn’t see the way he leaned against the door, heart pounding, cursing himself for noticing you.

It was 2 a.m., and you were sprawled on the couch, a bowl of popcorn balanced on your stomach, SpongeBob SquarePants blaring on the TV. You’d meant to watch one episode, but three hours later, you were cackling at Patrick’s dumb antics, the remote clutched like a lifeline. Exhaustion hit, and your eyes fluttered shut, popcorn spilling onto the couch as you drifted off, mouth slightly open, snoring softly.

Jin came home late from a meeting, loosening his tie as he stepped into the living room. He stopped short, eyes landing on you. You were a mess—hair splayed across the cushion, one leg dangling off the couch, a kernel of popcorn stuck to your cheek. Your shirt had ridden up, exposing a sliver of your stomach, and you were hugging the remote like it was a teddy bear. His lips twitched, fighting a smile. You looked ridiculous. And… adorable.

He stood there longer than he meant to, watching the rise and fall of your chest, the way your lashes fluttered in sleep. Something warm stirred in him, unfamiliar and unsettling. He shook his head, muttering, “Get a grip, Seokjin,” and grabbed a blanket from the armchair.

He draped it over you, careful not to wake you. His fingers brushed your shoulder, and he froze, the contact sending a jolt through him. Your skin was warm, soft, and he pulled back like he’d been burned. For a moment, he stood there, watching the cartoon light flicker across your face, your lips parted in a soft pout. He wanted to brush that popcorn off your cheek, to tuck the blanket tighter, to—

No. He stepped back, shoving his hands in his pockets. This was business. You were temporary. He turned off the TV, plunging the room into silence, and walked away, ignoring the ache in his chest.

When you woke up, the blanket was tucked around you, and the popcorn bowl was on the coffee table, cleaned up. You blinked, confused, then smiled. “Robot husband’s got a heart,” you murmured, clutching the blanket closer.

Jin’s warning came three days before the storm hit. “My grandmother’s visiting us,” he said, voice tight, as he paced the living room. “She’s traditional. She’ll expect us to act… married.”

You were lounging on the couch, flipping through a magazine you’d “borrowed” from his coffee table. “Married? Like, holding hands and calling you ‘honey’?” you teased, smirking.

He stopped pacing, glaring. “Like sharing a room. She’ll check.”

Your smirk vanished. “Share a room? With you?” Your heart did a weird flip, half panic, half something you refused to name.

“It’s not negotiable,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “Move your stuff to my room. Today.”

You groaned but saw the logic. If Grandma Kim sniffed out the fake marriage, Jin’s CEO dreams could crash and burn. “Fine,” you said, dragging your duffel bag to his room like a kid sent to timeout. His bedroom was a fortress of order—crisp white linens, a mahogany desk, not a speck of dust. Your colorful mess—neon socks, tie-dye shirts, and Mr. Fluffel, your stuffed hamster—looked like a clown explosion when you dumped it on the floor.

Jin followed, eyeing Mr. Fluffel with horror. “What is that?”

“Emotional support,” you said, hugging the hamster. “Deal with it.”

He muttered something about nightmares and started rearranging his closet to make space for your chaos. You watched, amused, as he folded your shirts/ clothes with military precision. “You’re such a neat freak,” you said, tossing a sock at him.

He caught it, glaring. “And you’re a tornado.”

You grinned, sensing an opportunity to mess with him. Grandma wasn’t here yet, but you decided to practice your “married” act—and have some fun. You sidled up to him, looping your arm through his, pressing your cheek against his bicep. “How’s my favorite husband doing?” you cooed, batting your lashes.

He froze, arm tensing under your touch. “What are you doing?”

“Practicing,” you said innocently, but you leaned closer, letting your fingers trail down his arm. “Gotta sell it, right?” You ruffled his perfect hair, giggling when he flinched like you’d electrocuted him.

“Y/N,” he said through gritted teeth, “stop.”

You didn’t. You planted a loud, exaggerated kiss on his cheek, leaving a faint lip gloss mark. “Come on, honey, smile for your wife.”

His face was a battleground—annoyance, panic, and something hotter flickering in his eyes. “You’re enjoying this too much,” he said, voice low, stepping closer. The air crackled, his cologne wrapping around you, making your head spin. “Keep pushing, and you’ll regret it.”

You smirked, heart racing. “Oh, I’m shaking.” You ruffled his hair again, dodging when he reached to grab your wrist. The tension was electric, a push-and-pull that left you both breathless.

When Grandma Kim arrived, she was a petite powerhouse—silver hair, sharp eyes, and a smile that said she missed nothing. She hugged Jin tightly, then turned to you. “Y/N, my grandson’s wife. You’re even lovelier than he said.”

You blinked—Jin had talked about you? You glanced at him, but he avoided your eyes, ears pink. “Thanks, halmeoni,” you said, amping up the charm. Before Jin could brace himself, you latched onto his arm, pressing your body against his side. “I’m so lucky to have this guy,” you said, laying it on thick, your fingers teasingly tracing his bicep.

Jin’s jaw clenched, his body rigid, but you felt his pulse quicken under your touch. “She’s… enthusiastic,” he muttered, trying to extract himself, but you held on, grinning.

“Oh, Jinnie, don’t be shy,” you said, planting another kiss on his cheek. Grandma beamed, oblivious to his suffering. You caught the way his eyes flicked to you—half exasperation, half something that made your stomach flip.

That night, sharing his room was torture. His bed was massive, but you stuck to your side, hyper-aware of his presence across the divide. He lay still, but you could hear his uneven breathing, matching your own. You turned, catching his silhouette in the dark, and whispered, “Night, husband.”

He didn’t reply, but you swore you heard a stifled groan.

For the company dinner, Jin handed you a box. Inside was an emerald green dress, silky and fitted, like it was designed to make jaws drop. “Wear this,” he said, avoiding your eyes. “It’s… appropriate.”

You tried it on, twirling in front of him in the living room. The fabric hugged your curves, dipping just low enough to tease. “How do I look?” you asked, spinning so the skirt flared.

He looked up from his phone, and his breath caught. His eyes roamed over you, lingering on the way the dress clung to your waist, the bare curve of your shoulders. For a second, he looked like a man starving. “Fine,” he said, voice rough, almost strangled. He cleared his throat, looking away. “It’s… fine.”

You caught the heat in his gaze, the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach out. The air felt thick, charged, like one wrong move could spark something dangerous. You stepped closer, teasing. “Just fine? I was going for breathtaking.”

He stood, towering over you, and for a moment, you thought he might close the gap. “Don’t test me,” he said, voice low, and walked away. Your heart raced, body buzzing with the tension he left behind.

The company dinner was a glittering affair—chandeliers, champagne flutes, and stuffy executives droning on about profit margins. You felt out of place in your stunning green dress, but Jin’s presence beside you grounded you. He looked unfairly good in his tailored suit, his broad shoulders filling it out in a way that made your mouth dry. You stuck close, playing the doting wife, your hand resting on his arm as Grandma watched approvingly from across the room.

The chaos started when you wandered to the dessert table, eyeing a chocolate tart that looked like heaven. A junior exec, reeking of cologne and overconfidence, sidled up. “You’re Jin’s wife, huh?” he said, leaning too close, his smirk oily. “Didn’t think he’d go for someone so… colorful.”

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “And I didn’t think they let walking cliches into these events, but here we are.”

He laughed, undeterred, stepping closer. “Come on, sweetheart. You look like you could use some fun. Jin’s not exactly the life of the party.”

You opened your mouth to roast him, but the air shifted. Jin appeared like a storm cloud, his arm sliding around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. His grip was firm, possessive, his fingers digging slightly into your hip. “She’s my wife,” he said, voice low and sharp, each word dripping with danger. “And you’re done talking to her.”

The guy paled, stammering, “Mr. Kim, I didn’t mean—” but Jin’s glare silenced him. He scurried off, tail between his legs. You turned, expecting Jin to let go, but his arm stayed, his thumb brushing slow circles on your hip. The touch sent a shiver through you, and you looked up to find his eyes blazing—not with anger, but something hotter, more primal.

“Jealous, robot husband?” you teased, but your voice was shaky, the proximity making your head spin. His scent—cedar and something uniquely him—wrapped around you, and the crowded room felt like it had shrunk to just the two of you.

“He doesn’t get to talk to you like that,” he said, voice low, almost a growl. His eyes flicked to your lips, and for a heart-stopping moment, you thought he might kiss you right there, in front of everyone. “No one does.” He completed the sentence.

Your breath hitched, the air crackling with tension. Grandma’s voice broke the spell, calling Jin over, and he released you, stepping back. But the heat of his touch lingered, and you spent the rest of the night stealing glances, your heart pounding every time he met your eyes. At one point, you tripped over a chair in your distraction, nearly sending a tray of champagne flutes crashing. Jin caught your elbow, steadying you, his lips twitching like he was fighting a smile.

“Careful, chaos,” he murmured, and the nickname sent a thrill through you. You muttered a curse under your breath, and he chuckled, low and dangerous, making your knees weak.

Back home, you couldn’t resist. “You were totally jealous,” you said, kicking off your heels.

He loosened his tie, avoiding your gaze. “I was protecting our cover.”

“Sure,” you said, grinning. “Your cover’s super handsy.”

He shot you a look, and for a moment, you saw it again—that flicker of something dangerous, something that made your knees weak. “Go to bed, Y/N,” he said, but his voice was softer, almost strained. You went, but sleep didn’t come easy, not with the memory of his arm around you burning in your mind.

The rain came out of nowhere, a sudden downpour that caught you and Jin on your way back from a grocery run (you’d insisted on tagging along to “spice up” his boring shopping list). You were still sharing his room, thanks to Grandma Kim’s visit, and the close quarters already had your nerves frayed. By the time you reached the penthouse, you were both soaked, your clothes clinging to your skin, hair plastered to your face. You shivered in the foyer, teeth chattering, water pooling at your feet.

Jin, equally drenched, looked infuriatingly good—his white shirt translucent, outlining every line of his chest, his hair falling in wet, sexy strands across his forehead. He grabbed a towel from the bathroom and tossed it to you, but his fingers lingered on yours, warm and deliberate. “Dry off before you ruin my floors,” he said, but his voice was softer than usual, his eyes lingering on the way your wet shirt hugged your curves.

You wrapped the towel around yourself, still shivering. “You’re one to talk, Mr. Drowned Hamster.”

He smirked, stepping closer, and you froze as he reached out, brushing a strand of wet hair from your face. His fingers grazed your cheek, and you choked on air, the touch sending a jolt through you. “Careful,” he said, voice low, teasing. “You’re looking a little… flustered.”

You swallowed, heart pounding. “I-I’m fine,” you stammered, but your voice betrayed you.

His smirk widened, and he leaned in, so close you could feel the heat radiating off him. “You sure? You’re turning pink, sweetheart.” The pet name hit like a lightning bolt, and you nearly dropped the towel, your knees wobbling. He was flirting—flirting—and it was lethal.

“Stop that,” you managed, stepping back, but your voice was weak, and he noticed.

“Stop what?” he asked, all innocence, but his eyes were dark, playful, dangerous. He took another step, closing the gap. “Am I making you nervous?” His voice dropped, husky, and he tilted his head, lips so close you could almost taste them. “Because you look like you’re about to faint.”

You choked again, clutching the towel like a lifeline. “You’re evil,” you whispered, and he laughed, low and rich, the sound vibrating through you.

“Evil’s a new one,” he said, stepping back, but not before brushing his thumb across your jaw, leaving you dizzy. “Dry off, chaos. I’m not carrying you if you pass out.”

You stumbled to his room—your shared room now—heart racing, body buzzing. You peeled off your wet clothes, shivering in the air-conditioned chill, and grabbed one of Jin’s shirts from the closet, slipping it on. It smelled like him, cedar and warmth, and it hung loose on your frame, comforting in a way that made your chest ache.

Jin emerged from the bathroom, post-shower, a towel slung low on his hips, water dripping down his sculpted chest. You froze, mouth dry, as he caught your stare, leaning against the doorframe in a way that made his abs flex. “See something you like?” he asked, smirking, his voice dripping with smug confidence.

You squeaked, face burning, and turned away, muttering, “You wish.” His laughter followed you as you dove under the covers, pulling the blanket over your head to hide your flaming cheeks.

Another night, you were curled up on the couch in the living room, hugging your knees, tears streaming down your face after a brutal call with your family. Your parents had laid into you—about your aimless post-grad life, your impulsive choices, how you were wasting your potential. Their words cut deep, reopening old wounds about never being enough. You felt small, broken, like the reckless kid Jin first met in that bar, except now the weight of it all was crushing you.

You didn’t hear Jin come home, but you felt the couch dip as he sat beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours. His presence was warm, steady, a quiet anchor in the storm of your thoughts. He didn’t speak, didn’t ask questions, just sat there, his breathing soft and even, grounding you. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was safe, like he was giving you space to exist in your pain without judgment.

You wiped your eyes, but the tears kept coming, and your voice cracked when you finally spoke. “They think I’m a failure,” you whispered, barely audible. “Like I’m just… throwing my life away. Maybe they’re right.”

Jin shifted, his hand hovering near yours on the couch, close enough to feel its warmth but not touching. “They’re not,” he said, voice low but firm, like he was stating a fact. “You’re not a failure. You’re… you.” He paused, as if searching for the right words. “You’re messy, reckless, and a complete pain in my ass, but you’re not a failure. You’re applying for job profiles, figuring it out, which role suits your interest. That’s more than most people do.”

You sniffled, looking at him through blurry eyes. His face was soft, unguarded, the usual sharpness in his gaze replaced by something gentle. The cartoon light from the TV flickered across his features, highlighting the curve of his jaw, the sincerity in his eyes. Your chest tightened, not from pain but from the warmth of his presence, the way he saw you when you felt invisible.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you admitted, voice small, hugging your knees tighter. “I thought I’d have it all together by now.”

He let out a soft huff, almost a laugh, but it was kind. “No one has it together. Not at 22. Not at 32. Not ever, probably.” He shifted closer, his shoulder pressing more firmly against yours, a silent reassurance. “You’re here, living in my penthouse, driving me insane with your sticky notes and jam theft. That’s… something.”

You choked out a laugh, wiping your eyes again. “You’re terrible at this pep talk thing.”

“I’m trying,” he said, and the faintest smile tugged at his lips. “You make it hard to stay cold, you know.”

Your heart did a weird flip, and you leaned into his shoulder, just a little, testing the waters. He didn’t pull away. Instead, his hand finally settled over yours on the couch, warm and steady, his thumb brushing lightly against your knuckles. The touch was so small, so careful, but it felt like a lifeline, pulling you back from the edge.

He stayed there, silent but close, until your tears dried and your breathing evened out. You drifted off, exhaustion winning, your head resting against his shoulder. When you woke up, you were still on the couch, a blanket tucked around you, and Jin was gone—but the warmth of his hand lingered in your memory, a quiet strength that carried you through the night.

You woke up feeling like death warmed over—head pounding, skin burning, body heavy as lead. You tried to get out of bed, but the room spun, and you collapsed back onto the pillows with a groan. Jin found you like that, tangled in sheets, muttering deliriously about “needing more jam.”

He pressed a hand to your forehead, his touch cool against your fevered skin. “You’re an idiot,” he said, but his voice was laced with worry. “You’re burning up.”

“‘M fine,” you mumbled, but your teeth chattered, betraying you.

He sighed, disappearing and returning with a tray—water, medicine, a damp cloth, and a bowl of soup. “Sit up,” he ordered, helping you prop yourself against the headboard. His hands were gentle but firm, and you hated how much you liked it.

He pressed the cloth to your forehead, the coolness a relief. “You’re a disaster,” he muttered, but his eyes were soft, scanning your face for signs of worsening. “How did you even get this sick?”

“Rain,” you croaked, remembering the downpour. “Your fault for not sharing your umbrella.”

He snorted, but his hand lingered, adjusting the cloth. “You stole my towel, not my umbrella. Drink this.” He held a glass of water to your lips, steadying it as you sipped, his fingers brushing your chin. The intimacy of it made your chest ache, even through the fever haze.

You drifted in and out, time blurring. At one point, you woke to find him sitting in a chair by your bed, reading a book, his glasses perched on his nose. The sight was unfairly endearing, and you mumbled, “You look like a hot librarian.”

He glanced up, smirking. “Fever’s making you honest, huh?”

You groaned, hiding your face in the pillow. “Shut up.”

He stayed, though, through the night. You woke once to find his hand resting near yours, his head tilted back, asleep in the chair. His breathing was soft, his face relaxed, and you felt a pang of something you couldn’t name. He stirred, sensing your gaze, and pressed the cloth to your forehead again, his touch lingering. “Go back to sleep,” he murmured, voice low and soothing. You did, lulled by the warmth of his presence.

It started with a fight, the kind that had been brewing for weeks under the surface of your shared space. You’d borrowed Jin’s car without asking, desperate to run an errand, and returned it with a fresh scratch along the driver’s side door. You’d braced for his reaction, bragging about his $90,000 car, but when he stormed into the kitchen, his eyes weren’t on the car keys you’d tossed on the counter—they were on you, wide with worry.

“Y/N, what the hell happened?” he demanded, voice sharp but laced with concern. He crossed the room in three strides, hands hovering near your shoulders, scanning you like he was looking for injuries. “Are you okay? You could’ve gotten hurt.”

You blinked, thrown by his intensity. “I’m fine, Jin. It’s just a scratch on the car.”

“The car?” He frowned, like he’d forgotten it entirely. “I don’t care about the damn car. You were out there, driving in that mess of a city, and you didn’t even tell me. What if something happened to you?”

His words hit you like a punch, the worry in his voice unraveling your defenses. You stepped closer, voice rising despite yourself.

“You’re freaking out over nothing! I’m not some kid who needs babysitting. I can handle myself.”

“Handle yourself?” he snapped, eyes blazing, but it wasn’t anger—it was fear, raw and unfiltered. “You’re out there being reckless, and I’m stuck here wondering if you’re okay. Do you know how that feels?”

The air crackled, charged with weeks of unspoken tension—every stolen glance, every lingering touch, every moment you’d pushed his buttons and he’d pushed back. You were nose-to-nose now, breaths heavy, the space between you electric. His eyes darkened, a storm brewing behind them, and you saw his breath hitch, his chest rising and falling too fast. You opened your mouth to argue, but then his hands were on your face, and he was kissing you—hard, desperate, all teeth and heat.

You gasped into his mouth, caught off guard, but your body responded before your brain could catch up. You kissed him back, just as fierce, hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer. His lips were relentless, tasting of mint and the faintest hint of whiskey from some earlier meeting, and the world narrowed to the heat of his mouth, the press of his body. Buttons popped as you tore at his shirt, and he growled, low and primal, lifting you onto the kitchen counter with ease.

He broke the kiss, lips trailing hot and open-mouthed down your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin below your ear. “Tell me to stop,” he murmured, voice rough with need, his hands sliding under your shirt, fingers grazing the bare skin of your waist. “Tell me, Y/N.”

“Don’t you dare,” you gasped, arching into his touch, your nails digging into his shoulders. His shirt was half-off, exposing the taut lines of his chest, and you couldn’t look away, couldn’t think past the fire coursing through you.

He tugged your shorts down in one swift motion, tossing them aside, his hands roaming your thighs, parting them with a gentle but firm grip. His eyes locked on yours, dark and searching, as he knelt between your legs, his breath hot against your inner thigh. “You sure?” he asked, voice low, almost a growl, but there was a flicker of vulnerability in his gaze, a need for confirmation.

You nodded, breathless, threading your fingers through his hair. “Please, Jin.”

That was all he needed. His lips found your core, slow and deliberate at first, his tongue tracing a path that made you shudder, a soft whimper escaping your lips. He was meticulous, exploring every inch, his hands gripping your hips to keep you still as you squirmed. The heat built, unbearable, his tongue circling with a rhythm that had you gasping, your head tipping back against the cabinet. You tugged at his hair, urging him on, and he groaned against you, the vibration sending a shockwave through your body. He alternated between soft, teasing licks and deeper, more insistent pressure, drawing out every moan, every shudder, until you were trembling on the edge, your fingers tightening in his hair as you cried out, pleasure crashing over you like a wave.

He didn’t stop, not until you were boneless, panting, your body limp against the counter. He rose, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes still locked on yours, burning with a hunger that made your breath catch. He shed his pants, boxers following, and you couldn’t help but stare—his body was a work of art, all lean muscle and sharp lines, and the sight of him, hard and ready, sent a fresh wave of heat through you.

“You sure?” he asked again, voice low, his hands settling on your hips, pulling you to the edge of the counter. His eyes searched yours, and you saw it—the flicker of fear, the need to know this meant something.

You nodded, pulling him closer, your legs wrapping around his waist. “I’m sure. I want you.”

He entered you slowly, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust, a low groan escaping his lips as he filled you. The stretch was intense, delicious, and you clung to him, nails digging into his back as he set a deliberate pace, each thrust deep and measured, like he was savoring every second. His hands gripped your hips, anchoring you, his eyes never leaving yours. The kitchen was filled with the sounds of your breaths, your soft moans, his quiet curses, and the steady rhythm of your bodies moving together. It was tender but fierce, each thrust pushing you closer to another edge, his lips brushing your temple, your jaw, whispering your name like a prayer.

When you came again, it was overwhelming, your body trembling, your cry muffled against his shoulder as you clung to him. He followed moments later, his face buried in your neck, a shudder running through him as he groaned your name, his voice raw and vulnerable. You stayed there, tangled, catching your breath, his forehead pressed against yours, the intimacy of the moment wrapping around you like a blanket.

“This didn’t feel fake,” you whispered, voice shaky, your fingers tracing the curve of his jaw.

He met your eyes, and for once, there was no mask, no coldness—just raw, unguarded emotion. “It wasn’t,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, and the weight of those words settled deep in your chest.

Morning light filtered through the penthouse windows, casting soft shadows across the kitchen where you and Jin had unraveled the night before. You woke in his bed, your body warm and languid from the memory of his touch, his scent lingering on the sheets. You reached out, expecting to find him beside you, but the bed was empty, the sheets cool. Your heart sank, a quiet ache blooming in your chest.

You found him in the kitchen, already dressed in a crisp suit, his back to you as he poured coffee into a mug. The air felt heavier, colder, and he didn’t turn when you entered, didn’t acknowledge you. The silence was deafening, a stark contrast to the intimacy of last night.

“Jin?” you said, voice tentative, wrapping his shirt—still stolen from his closet—around yourself like armor.

He glanced over his shoulder, his expression unreadable, eyes guarded in a way they hadn’t been in weeks. “Morning,” he said, voice flat, like he was addressing a colleague. “Coffee’s on the counter if you want it.”

Your stomach twisted, the dismissal cutting deeper than you expected. “What’s going on?” you asked, stepping closer, searching his face for a hint of the man who’d held you last night, who’d whispered your name like it was sacred. “Last night—”

“Last night was a mistake,” he interrupted, his tone sharp but not cruel, more like he was trying to convince himself. He set his mug down with a deliberate clink, still avoiding your gaze. “You’re young, Y/N. You’re still figuring out your career, your life. I shouldn’t be distracting you from that. We got carried away, but this is still… business.”

The word hit like a slap, and you froze, your breath catching. “A mistake?” you repeated, voice rising despite yourself. “You’re telling me that was just—what, a lapse in judgment? Because I’m young? Jin, I’m not a kid. I know what I want.”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, you saw a flicker of something—guilt, fear, longing—but it was gone as quickly as it came. “You’re 22,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost pained. “You’ve got your whole life ahead of you, and I’m… I’m a decade older, tied to this company, this life. You need to focus on finding your path, not getting tangled up with me. Feelings weren’t part of the deal.”

You stared at him, hurt blooming into anger, your hands trembling at your sides. “You don’t get to decide what I need,” you said, voice shaking but firm. “Last night wasn’t a mistake for me. It was real, Jin. I felt it, and I know you did too. You can’t just hide behind ‘business’ because you’re scared of what this means.”

He finally met your eyes, and the crack in his armor was there—his clenched fists, the tightness around his mouth, the way his gaze softened with regret before hardening again. “I’m trying to protect you,” he said, voice low, almost broken. “You deserve better than being a temporary prop in my life. One and half month left, Y/N. Let’s not make this harder than it has to be.”

The words cut deeper than anything, a rejection wrapped in concern that made your chest ache with a mix of love and betrayal. You wanted to scream, to shake him until he admitted what you both knew—that he was running from his own feelings, not yours. But his walls were up, impenetrable, and the coldness in his voice told you he wouldn’t budge.

“Fine,” you said, voice barely steady, tears prickling but unshed. “If that’s how you feel, I’ll make it easy for you. I’m moving back to my room. No more ‘complications,’ right?”

His eyes widened, a flash of panic crossing his face, but he didn’t stop you. You turned, grabbing your duffel bag from his room, your colorful mess spilling out as you hauled it to the guest room you’d barely used. You slammed the door, the sound echoing through the penthouse, and sank onto the bed, hugging Mr. Fluffel as the tears finally came. The room felt foreign, sterile, nothing like the warmth of Jin’s bed, his presence. You’d grown used to him—his scent, his quiet breathing, his rare smiles—and now it was gone, replaced by a hollow ache.

You spent the day replaying last night, every touch, every look, trying to make sense of his retreat. His words stung—you’re young, you need to focus—like he’d reduced you to a naive kid when you’d been clear about your feelings. You weren’t just some reckless graduate; you were falling for him, and he was pushing you away because he couldn’t handle it. The “Soulmate Spread” note on the jam jar, still in the kitchen, mocked you now, and you avoided the fridge, unable to face it.

By evening, Jin hadn’t returned, and the silence was suffocating. You curled up in the guest room, the bed too big, too cold, Mr. Fluffel a poor substitute for the warmth you’d felt in Jin’s arms. Grandma’s words echoed in your mind—she’d pulled Jin aside before leaving, her voice low but clear: “You’re in love with her, even if you won’t admit it.” You’d heard it, and you’d seen the way his jaw tightened, the way he didn’t deny it. But now, with his coldness ringing in your ears, you wondered if you’d imagined the softness in him, if you’d built it up into something it wasn’t.

Sleep didn’t come easy, the guest room’s silence a stark contrast to the nights you’d spent listening to Jin’s breathing across the divide. Every creak of the penthouse made you hope it was him coming to talk, to explain, to fix this. But he didn’t, and the distance between you grew, a chasm you didn’t know how to bridge.

Five months in, and the weight of Jin’s rejection was unbearable. The push-and-pull, the fleeting moments of warmth followed by icy distance, had worn you down. You’d moved back to your own room, but it hadn’t eased the pain—every corner of the penthouse reminded you of him, of the life you’d built together, fake or not. You couldn’t live like this anymore, caught between the man who’d held you like you were his world and the one who’d dismissed you to “protect” you. Your heart was heavy, bruised from the hope you’d clung to, and you knew you had to leave—for your own sake.

You packed your bags in the quiet of the morning, each item a reminder of the chaos you’d brought into his sterile world. Your neon socks, your tie-dye shirts, Mr. Fluffel—they didn’t belong here, just like you didn’t. On impulse, you grabbed his favorite hamster mug, the one you’d teased him about on day one. “Cute like you, but now it's mine,” you’d said, and the memory stung now, a bittersweet ache. It was a petty theft, but it felt like reclaiming a piece of the joy you’d lost, a piece of him you could hold onto.

You left a note on the counter, your handwriting shaky: “Taking the hamster. Good luck, robot husband.” The words were flippant, but they hid the pain tearing you apart—the pain of loving someone who wouldn’t let himself love you back. You dragged your suitcase to the curb, waiting for a cab, tears streaming as you stared at the city skyline. This wasn’t how you’d imagined it ending. You’d thought, maybe naively, that he’d fight for you, that the man who’d kissed you in the kitchen would show up before you could leave. But the street was quiet, and the cab was coming, and your heart was breaking.

Inside, Jin woke to an eerie silence. He shuffled into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and froze when he saw the empty spot where his hamster mug always sat. His gaze landed on your note, and panic hit like a freight train. He read it once, twice, the words sinking in like a knife. “Taking the hamster.” You were gone. He checked the guest room—empty, your colorful mess vanished, leaving only the sterile order he’d once craved. The sight of the bare room, stripped of your chaos, made his chest tighten, a hollow ache spreading as he realized what he’d done.

He’d pushed you away, not because he didn’t love you, but because he did—too much. You were 22, vibrant, still carving out your place in the world, and he was terrified of holding you back, of being the anchor that kept you from your dreams. That night had been real, too real, and he’d retreated behind his walls, convincing himself it was for your sake. But now, standing in the too-quiet penthouse, he saw it clearly: he’d been a coward. He loved you, had loved you since the first sticky note, since you’d danced in his shirt, since you’d made his orderly world a beautiful mess.

He ran outside, still in pajamas, hair a mess, heart pounding. The rain had started again, a light drizzle that soaked through his thin shirt, but he didn’t care. He saw you at the curb, suitcase in hand, your back to him, and the sight of you—ready to leave him—tore something open inside him.

“Y/N!” he called, voice raw, desperate, nothing like the controlled tone he usually wielded. “Where the hell are you going?”

You turned, startled, your eyes red from crying. The sight hit him like a punch, guilt flooding him. “I can’t do this anymore,” you said, voice breaking, tears mixing with the rain on your cheeks. “You pushed me away, Jin. You called it a mistake, told me to focus on my career, but I’m in love with you, and it hurts that you don’t trust me to know what I want.”

His breath caught, your words cutting deeper than anything. “I trust you,” he said, stepping closer, rain dripping down his face.

“I trust you more than anyone. I pushed you away because I’m scared—scared I’ll hold you back, that you’ll wake up one day and regret tying yourself to me when you’re still so young, still building your life.”

You shook your head, tears falling faster. “That’s not your choice to make. I want you, Jin. I want this—us. I’m not some naive kid who doesn’t know her own heart. That night meant everything to me, and you threw it away.”

He closed the distance, hands shaking as he reached for you, pulling you into his arms. “I didn’t throw it away,” he said, voice low, urgent, his forehead pressed against yours. “It was everything to me, too. I love you, Y/N. I love your chaos, your sticky notes, your damn jam heists. I was trying to protect you, but I was wrong. I need you—not for six months, not for some deal. Forever.”

The words hung between you, heavy and real, and before you could respond, he kissed you, fierce and desperate, like the world was ending. The rain soaked you both, but neither of you cared, lost in the heat of his lips, the way his hands cupped your face like you were something precious. The hamster mug sat on the curb, forgotten, a soggy symbol of the chaotic love you’d built.

You broke the kiss, breathless, tears still falling but softer now. “You mean it?” you whispered, searching his eyes.

He nodded, brushing a wet strand of hair from your face, his touch tender. “I love you, chaos. I’m done running. And you can't leave after stealing my peaceful life.”

You laughed, shaky but real, and kissed him again, the rain washing away the hurt, leaving only the warmth of his arms, the promise of something new.

A year later, your life with Jin was a whirlwind of chaos, love, and everything in between, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. You’d dragged him into your world of reckless abandon, forcing him to do things he’d never dreamed of—things his once-orderly self would’ve balked at.

You’d convinced him to join you in a neon-paint glow-in-the-dark 5K run, his pristine running shoes splattered with pink and green by the end, his laughter louder than your own as you both collapsed in a heap, glowing like human canvases.

Another weekend, you’d roped him into a karaoke bar, shoving a mic in his hand and cheering as he tackled an off-key rap of "Loner", his ears pink but his grin wide, the crowd roaring for more.

You’d even persuaded him to build a blanket fort in the penthouse, fairy lights twinkling as you binged SpongeBob and fed each other popcorn, his stiff dance moves softening into playful twirls when you blasted Pop songs at full volume.

Every morning, you woke tangled in each other’s arms, his warmth enveloping you, his breath soft against your neck. His once-sterile bedroom was now a riot of your colorful mess—neon socks on the floor, your tie-dye shirts next to his Armani, Mr. Fluffel perched proudly on the nightstand.

One morning, sunlight streaming through the curtains, Jin stirred beside you, his arm tightening around your waist. He propped himself on one elbow, gazing down at you, his hair adorably mussed, a sleepy smirk on his lips.

“How did I end up with you?” he teased, voice low and playful, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your hip.

You raised an eyebrow, a mischievous glint in your eyes. In one swift move, you rolled him onto his back, straddling his hips, your hands pinning his wrists above his head. His eyes widened, a mix of surprise and heat, as you leaned down, your lips brushing his ear. “You can think of it as purely good luck, Mr. Kim,” you purred, rocking your hips teasingly against him.

He groaned, his head tipping back, but his smirk didn’t fade. “Good luck, huh?” he murmured, voice husky, his hands flexing under your grip. “You’re trouble, Mrs. Kim”

You grinned, releasing his wrists to trail your fingers down his chest, feeling his muscles tense under your touch. “You love it,” you teased, leaning down to kiss him, slow and deep, your hips moving in a deliberate rhythm that had him cursing under his breath. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer, and you spent the morning lost in each other, laughter and whispers filling the room, the world outside forgotten.

When you landed a job at a digital marketing firm—a role that felt like the first real step toward your dreams—you couldn’t contain your excitement. You waited at the penthouse, practically vibrating with energy, until Jin walked through the door, loosening his tie after a long day. The second you saw him, you launched yourself at him, a squeal of joy escaping you. “Jin!”

He caught you effortlessly, his arms strong and steady, laughing as you wrapped your legs around his torso, clinging to him like a koala. “What’s got you so hyper, chaos?” he asked, but his eyes were already sparkling, sensing your news.

“I got the job, Jin! I did it!” you said, voice bubbling with pride, your hands cupping his face as you beamed down at him.

His face lit up, a grin spreading so wide it crinkled his eyes. “You did?” he said, voice warm with admiration. He spun you around, your laughter echoing through the penthouse, before pulling you close and kissing you deeply, his lips conveying every ounce of his happiness for you. “I’m so proud of you,” he murmured against your mouth, his hands tightening on your hips, and you felt your heart swell, the moment perfect and electric.

Life with Jin was never dull, especially with your knack for chaos. You’d sneak into his home office while he worked, his brow furrowed over spreadsheets, and steal kisses when he least expected it. You’d perch on his desk, ignoring his mock protests—“Y/N, I’m working”—and lean in, brushing your lips against his jaw, his cheek, his lips, until he’d pull you into his lap, surrendering with a sigh and a smile. “You’re impossible,” he’d mutter, but the way he kissed you back said he didn’t mind one bit.

Cooking, however, was a lost cause for you—you didn’t know the “C” of cooking, as Jin loved to tease. So every evening, he took over the kitchen, his sleeves rolled up, hair pushed back, looking unfairly hot as he whipped up dishes that smelled like heaven. You’d hover nearby, stealing bites of whatever he was chopping, earning playful swats with a spatula. “Out, chaos,” he’d say, but he’d always sneak you a taste, holding a spoon to your lips with a fond smile. The hamster mug, chipped but cherished, sat on the counter, filled with coffee you shared, a quiet reminder of the chaos that brought you together.

The penthouse was no longer sterile—your sticky notes still littered the fridge, now joined by new ones like “Husband of the Year” and “Feed Me, Chef.” The toothbrush cup in the bathroom read “Forever Wife” in your messy scrawl, a winking smiley face beside it. Every night, Jin pulled you close, his lips brushing your forehead as he whispered, “You’re my chaos, and I love every second of it.” You’d grin, stealing one last kiss, knowing you’d turned his world upside down—and he was all in for the ride.

A/N: Thanks for diving into Jin and Y/N’s chaotic love story! Hope their messy, heartfelt journey brought you some laughs and feels.

Taglist: @the-djarin-clan . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @mytaegiheart . @dear-mono . @lilyficrec . @janeluvwonuuuu . @k-fan-fics . @iztrouble . @pikajooni . @namluvili . @alonahh . @paradise172 . @stay-tiny-things . @micdropitlikeitshot . @softhaes . @littlebluhellfire . @niqueesthings . @nocturnalsingularity . @syudoeslove . @namjoonbaby17-blog . @mar-lo-pap . @naesarang07 . @diame93 . @themwordsblog . @crizoosblog . @bebabido

#seokjin fanfic #seokjin smut #jin fanfic #jin smut #bts smut #bts fanfic #jin fanfiction #bts fic #BTSFanfic #SeokjinSmut #seokjin x reader #jin x reader #bts x reader #kittenanwrites #kim seokjin #seokjin #bts jin

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flightlogmcu · 4 months ago

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Everyone wants 2012 Avengers Tower fics (which I love) but I want new Avengers in Delacroix fics so here's some head canons

Obviously Bucky and Sam live together down in Delacroix. Thing is, they keep having a revolving door of people that always comes to visit even though THEY HAVE A WHOLE PLACE TO GO TO FOR WORK UP NORTH but their house is the "safe space" for everyone else

All the school bound Avengers (I.e., Kamala, Riri, Eli, Cassie, etc.) go to their house to study because it's calming

Joaquin has his own room in Delacroix at this point

Bucky and Sam constantly bicker about interior design choices of said house

Sam hosts a Sunday lunch and if you're available you come and bring food to contribute pot luck style

I see your "Clint in the vents" and raise you "Scott has a tunnel system in their backyard". It was supposed to be just for the ants but...he got carried away

Yelena does not have a key to the house and yet pops up out of nowhere constantly. They've updated their security system and yet she still finds a way through and they end up finding her sitting on their couch eating chips

Sparring in the backyard to settle disputes

Someone coming in the middle of the night because they had nightmares/stressed/didn't know where to go and neither Sam or Bucky can refuse them

If you stay over on the weekend YOU WILL take part of Saturday or Sunday cleaning butt early in the morning. No questions or warning. Sam will have R&B/motown greatest hits blaring at 7am and tell you to sweep the porch with water

Grocery. Run. Into. Town. Chaos ensues.

Alpine and Joaquin have beef over being the favorite child™

EVERY holiday is hosted at their house. It started out with just Christmas and Mardi gras. Now they have to host Lunar New Year, Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, and so many more events.

Feel free to add more or tag me if you use any of these

#marvel #avengers #sambucky #sam wilson #bucky barnes #marvel headcanons #joaquin torres #scott lang #falcon #ant man #yelena belova #mcu #kamala khan #ms marvel #eli bradley #cassie lang

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apt502-if · 10 months ago

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what are some of your favorite sitcom tropes + what are some we should expect in the story? 👀 sorry, i just love sitcoms!

trying to focus on more "big picture" tropes instead of the small ones (like when someone stalks to the bathroom only to scream when they see someone they don’t know showering :P) here HMMMMM

the episode where each character has their side of the story and the episode tells each perspective in flashbacks (my favorite)

drunken confessions,

GETTING STUCK IN AN ELEVATOR,

going to another location to stay (like going to a log cabin in winter or going hiking),

game night episodes,

chaotic weddings,

public grand gestures/confessions at said weddings :P

main character has two dates on the same night and jumps between the two,

attractive neighbor has no water and goes to apartment to shower and chaos ensues

landlord pays a visit

visiting a hometown for a serious or unexpected reason

sibling from out of town drops in unexpectedly and stays for a while

the gang getting trapped somewhere (like in a basement) and one of them is freaking out

Halloween party with costume misunderstandings

Christmas party episodes^ the grand gesture at the airport

^going on vacation at a resort and more chaos ensues

when two “friends” accidentally kiss in the most ridiculous way

when the other roommates trap the two bickering roommates in a room and refuses to let them out until they resolve their issues

there's a lot :P you can be sure to see tropes like these in 502 :P

#mail

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alicethenobody · 9 months ago

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My headcanons about the Sparda twins coming back from hell.

-They’re stuck for about 11 months, after they find a way out after managing to sever those stupid roots so they don’t bother anybody anymore.

-Just in time for Patty’s 19th birthday party!

-Somehow they accidentally end up there, and chaos ensues.

-Patty scolds Dante for missing her birthday party last year and cries tears of joy at the same time knowing he’s finally home, she’d visited DMC everyday to see if Dante had turned up and now she doesn’t have to wait anymore to see him again. After the scolding she gives him as tight of a hug as she can. Dante promises to make it up to her and reassures her he didn’t mean to neglect her on her birthday. Patty demands double the presents, and even though he doubts he can afford much he’ll try to find a way. He can’t say no to Pattycakes.

-Btw for those who don’t know the novel reveals Dante planned on seeing Patty after handling Urizen, he just didn’t want to go to the party itself because he feels uncomfortable and like a freak around “normal” (his words) people like Patty’s friends and thinks he’s dangerous to be around.

-Vergil is confused. Very confused. They act a lot like family. Could Dante have had a kid? He never said anything about that.

-Nope. They’re just really tightly knit found family.

-Patty eventually starts roasting Dante like usual, mainly for how he smells horrible and his hair is a mess. She demands that he showers right now.

-Vergil decides he likes Patty already and teams up with her to roast his brother and tells him “Do what she says, Dante. You wouldn’t want to make her upset.” In the most smug way fucking possible.

-Dante wanted to go back to the shop right away considering he’d been gone for so long, but again, he really can’t say no to Patty.

-They return to DMC after that. Nero is there and he’s silently shocked for a moment when the twins walk through the door, in the middle of an argument about something really stupid. Probably about pizza toppings. Nothing really serious just normal sibling banter.

-“GUYS! GUYS! GUYS! Can we please talk?!”

-Dante, realizing Nero is there, is giddy to see his nephew. However… Nero gives him a swift uppercut to the jaw.

-This leads to Nero dragging Dante somewhere they can talk alone. He demands an explanation as to why Dante never told him about anything.

-This will be difficult, but Dante knows he needs to explain stuff to him. It’s only fair. He has a right to know.

-He doesn’t open up about his trauma that lead to all this, that’d be out of character. But he does explain to Nero the best he can that the Sparda family has a long, bloody and traumatic history and he thought if Nero got involved he’d get hurt and he didn’t want the only family he had left to get hurt, or ruin the happy life he was living with Kyrie.

-He expects another punch from Nero, he thinks he deserves it, but instead Nero crushes him with a hug.

-“Never fucking do that again, idiot. From now on we’re family, you got it? No more secrets.”

-Dante nearly cries as he says “You have my word, kid.” in the goofiest, most overjoyed way possible. Also he’s kinda nervous about it at first because he’s not used to receiving affection anymore but he hugs Nero back.

-Vergil on the other hand? Having a… relationship with him is gonna be difficult as hell. It’ll take a while before Vergil and Nero are comfortable around each other. Kyrie and Dante play a big role in helping the two, though Vergil was a lot more reluctant at first to accept his little bro’s help.

-Also Vergil lives with Dante and let’s just say the business is a lot better with him around. They still bicker a lot but it’s out of love because what siblings don’t annoy each other?

Will Nero ever learn about the Sparda family’s history in better detail? I have a lot of thoughts about that, as well as possible plot points in a DMC 6 type scenario but I just wanted this post to be about the immediate return from hell.

Edit: Wanted to mention I also have thoughts about Nero’s side of things while the twins were in hell about what he was doing and how he was feeling and all that stuff but this post is mainly about this twins.

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sonotpattismith · 8 months ago

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my blues for my brain (megumi fushiguro x reader)

word count: 8.7k inspired by: fate by grey reverend content: angst, fluff, mentions of car accidents, hospitals, invisible string theory, me pretending gojo is still alive for my mental health

“Please don’t leave me here.”

These words were ones all too familiar to you, in an all too familiar scenario. The difference was, it wasn’t you clinging to life with blood soaked skin. Instead, it was the strange boy that had just raced out of the over-priced cafe that you worked at to make a dime during your summer semesters.

You could recall the exact, desperate words falling from your own lips as a good samaritan crouched in front of you just a few years back, your fingertips just a hair away from death’s door. In an act that would serve to veer you off any sense of understanding for your purpose in life, that person didn’t leave you to die, despite the chaos that was ensuing around him. When you woke, you had more questions that filled your prayers than thanks.

Why did you live if others had died the same fate that was allotted to your own life? There was meaning to everything that happened in one’s life— at least that’s what everyone told you when you woke in your hospital bed. What was the meaning of this though? Were you meant to find a new purpose in your life; was this meant to steer you in the right path? If so, why did you end up working a minimum wage job as you scraped up enough money for a college education you still had little to no clue what you wanted to do with yet?

Up until that day, as the pale stranger’s desperate grip on your hand slowly weakened with his waning consciousness, you were sure you had failed whatever god saved you all those years ago. As the man before you opened his eyes for the briefest of moments to beg for your mercy, you thought meaning had finally found you.

“You’d think for a café in the middle of one of the busiest streets in Tokyo that there would be a little more excitement in here every once and a while.” Your coworker droned as she stared at the front door, which hadn’t opened in exactly forty-one minutes. Who was counting though?

You shouldered into her with a half-hearted smile as you made yourself a mid-shift drink. Today’s choice happened to be a matcha latte, though you often switched it up for the sake of having something new to look forward to everyday. Peering back at her and then toward the hustle and bustle just outside the shop, you sighed dejectedly. What meaning did standing behind this counter for hours a day have? Perhaps you should be enjoying the life that was granted back to you so fortunately, you thought as you trailed an absentminded finger down the scar that ran down your arm.

Snapping from your haze, you offered her the most encouraging smile you could muster in the midst of your perpetual existential crisis.

“Staring at the door isn’t going to make customers appear.” You scolded, and she peered over at you with a bored glare, to which you chuckled lightly. “Quick, pick a syrup, and we’ll put it in my matcha to see if we’re horrible at our jobs or not.”

At this, an amused smile stretched across her face, and she quickly straightened up to look over the options. As you two bickered over which of you had more abysmal taste than the other, the rare chime of the front door interrupted your concocting session. The both of you snapped up like dogs who just heard their food bowl rattle in the next room.

Appearing slightly out of breath and frantic, a man stepped into the café. There was a determination in his step as he rushed over to the register and rested his hand atop the counter to lean in with purpose. There were prominent, pink scars lining his face, so large in size and quantity that you wondered what kind of trouble someone seemingly your age could have gotten himself into already. Forgoing your growing curiosity, you mustered up a welcoming smile.

“Welcome! Can I get—”

“Did you see anything strange passing around here just a second ago?” The two of you spoke at the same time, but he paid no mind to your cut-off question as he stared expectantly at you.

Your mouth slowly shut, brows furrowing in the process as you tried to recall anything that had happened in the last five minutes, but the only memories that surfaced were you trying to decide between lavender or hazelnut syrup.

“Maybe we have, but we reserve the right to withhold answers for paying customers, actually.” Your coworker chimed in with a mischievous smile, clearly just desperate for any business on this slower-than-usual day. The raven-haired man sighed indignantly.

“This is serious—”

“So is our no loitering policy.” You had to repress a tickled smile at her persistence. She smiled triumphantly as he grumbled and frantically fished a few spare yen from his pockets and slammed them on the table.

“A black coffee!” He growled his order at her before returning his attention to you, a scowl set deeply on his already intimidating face. Beside you, your coworker mumbled something in reference to his boring order before working to prepare it. “Now what did you see?”

You almost felt bad after the fact, that you could only pathetically shake your head at his question.

“I’m sorry, I really haven’t seen anything. What are you looking—”

A frustrated grunt from the disgruntled man cut you off, and before you knew it he was storming out of the café. An amused scoff escaped you as you watched him leave, and your coworker leaned against the counter beside you.

“Just our luck— we ask for entertainment, and we get crazy.” She commented with a shake of her head. “He left his coffee, too.”

This made you tear your gaze from the door to the lidded, brown cup she set down on the counter. His yen were still sat messily before you, and you suddenly felt bad for having coerced him into buying something. Peering out to see him speaking to a few pedestrians just outside the shop, you grasped the cup and exited your post behind the register.

“Hey!” You called out, ignoring your coworker’s questioning as you poked your head out the door. Sighing when he appeared too preoccupied to notice your calls, you prepared to try one more time as he continued his frantic trek through the bustling city. “You forgot your—”

The blaring sound of a truck’s horn sliced through your attempted good deed of the day, and you could only watch in stone-cold horror as the offending vehicle slammed into your distracted customer. His uniform-clad body jolted across the street with a velocity you had trouble keeping up with. Your eyes wouldn’t allow you to stop following the movements no matter how hard you tried though. The steaming cup in your hands slipped from your trembling fingers before splattering across the ground in tandem with the stranger’s blood across the street.

Vehicle’s horns were blaring behind the truck that had come to a screeching halt. Behind you, your coworker rushed out, shouting words you couldn’t process in your shell-shocked state. You watched with vast, unblinking eyes as his body finally rolled to a stop, and he twitched out in agony. With unwavering precision, you could swear you knew the exact pain that was coursing through his body at that moment; the fear that must be setting his wounds ablaze. It wasn’t that long ago that it was you, laying in uncertainty, at the mercy of whoever might have felt your life was worthy enough to try saving.

So, you ripped your arm out of your coworker’s frantic grip, and your legs raced toward the scene. The truck driver was stumbling out of the driver’s seat, a horror-stricken expression etched onto his features as you dropped down to your knees beside the barely conscious man. Blood coated the corners of his lips as he continued to weakly sputter up the substance.

“Oh my god,” You babbled mindlessly, hands hovering over him as you contemplated what to do. As if reacting to your voice, his head swayed in your direction, but his eyes remained shut. He was pale— dare you say even paler than he was when he walked into your shop just moments ago. “Call an ambulance!” You shouted at the truck driver, who seemed to be too shell-shocked to spring into action himself. Upon hearing your frantic order, he immediately began fumbling with his cellphone.

Turning your attention back to the stranger, you noted he was now struggling to pry his eyes open, a deep navy color squinting back at you.

“Can you hear me?” You questioned, fingers twitching with the urge to turn him on his side in an attempt to prevent him choking on his own blood. You didn’t know what was broken though, so you opted to carefully tilt his head toward you. He only stared deliriously up at you as blood began to ooze from the side of his mouth. “Is there someone I can call?

Megumi’s mind was in a state all too familiar to him though. It clung on the border between life and death, and, in the past, it was a constant struggle of whether or not it was worth fighting to get through. Now though, he was desperately grasping at the straws of his consciousness. It was his first mission by himself after the trauma his mind and body had endured during the Culling Games. After everything he’d gone through, all the battles he’d fought and the mental strife he’d worked through, this couldn’t possibly be how he left this world. A meaningless and pitiful death— is that what he would have to show for when his friends asked what became of him in the end?

“Hey, hey, stay awake, okay?” Megumi was pulled from his wallowing thoughts by the frantic voice above him, and it sounded as though he was under water, though it wouldn’t surprise him if there was blood in his ears as well. His lips parted, but all that left them was a strangled groan. Your fingers, still warm from his black coffee that had just been clutched in your hand, squeezed gently at his cheeks as though to rouse him from sleep. They slipped from his face and fell into his hand, giving his fingers a soft squeeze. “Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”

Weakly, you felt his trembling fingers grasp back at your hand. You found yourself smiling encouragingly at him, though you doubted he could see it. The sirens of an oncoming ambulance had you looking behind you, and you could see the flashing lights in the distance cutting across the traffic. From your peripheral, you saw your coworker racing out toward you, pushing through the small crowd that had formed.

“He just— it came out of nowhere. He’s—”

“He’s suspicious as fuck.” She finished for you, concern pooling in her eyes as she grabbed your free hand in an attempt to tug you up. As you stumbled a bit, you felt the stranger’s cold hand grasp at your wrist, turning your attention back to him. “Let’s go, the ambulance is already here. This guy was probably caught up in some seriously shady shit.”

She was right, and you knew it. It was evident from the grotesque and oddly placed scars that lined his face, the strange uniform he donned, down to the odd questions and abrupt departure he had graced you with before the accident. Still, your memories of meeting the exact same fate kept you empathetically tied to his side as you peered down at him apprehensively. He opened his eyes once again, and it appeared as though he was mustering every last bit of strength he had left. His fingers wrapped around your wrist desperately as his lips parted to plea with you.

“Please don’t leave me.”

It was a cry that was so uncharacteristic of him, but he only knew one thing at the moment. The warmth of your hand and the soothing sound of your voice was the only thing tying him down to the land of the living. Without your grounding, he felt he may slip away, resigned to the fate he had just fought so valiantly to avoid.

The plea clutched at your heartstrings as the paramedics rushed to the scene. They were bustling around you, asking you questions while simultaneously shouting foreign terminology at each other as they immediately began tending to the situation at hand. Your eyes remained locked on the stranger’s as they slowly drifted shut, and he offered one last desolate squeeze to your hand before darkness seemed to consume him.

“Ma’am,” The gruff voice of the paramedic beside you pulled you from your trance, and it was then that you noticed the tear that slipped down your cheek. Blinking it away, you looked up at the man, still shell-shocked. “Do you know this man?”

“I…” Your words got caught in your throat as his final plea rang in your ears. Glancing up, you saw your coworker on the other side of the sea of medical personelle, shaking her had at you with wide eyes. In your palm though, the limp, cold hand of the stranger still lay. “He’s my partner.” You lied in a haze, watching as they prepared to carefully shift him onto a stretcher.

Your lie earned you a ride in the ambulance beside him, staring in an absent haze as the team moved like ants around him, peeling his lids back to check his eyes with a tiny light, cutting his shirt down the middle to check his vitals, prying an oxygen mask over his parted lips and expertly starting an IV on his limp arm despite the rustling of the fast-paced vehicle. They attributed your inability to answer any questions to your shock, which was partially true, but you also feared revealing your white lie to them with the wrong responses.

Police were awaiting you at the hospital when the ambulance came to a screeching halt. They questioned you about the accident and what you had seen. You complied easily, however couldn’t help but grow nervous once the staff at the hospital asked you to fill out paperwork on your ‘partner’s’ behalf.

The pen in your hand shook as you stared down at the first blanks.

FIRST NAME

LAST NAME

Of which you knew neither.

“Is everything alright?” The soft voice of a compassionate nurse questioned as she typed away at her computer, likely awaiting your information to complete his admission.

You looked up at her patient eyes, and you couldn’t hold back your lie any longer, explaining to her what had actually happened. Her slow nod made you feel guilty, as she thanked you for your honesty and explained the paperwork would be different now as they had no way to identify the stranger. He had no identification on him, and the cellphone they’d found in his pocket had shattered in the midst of the accident.

Perhaps you should have gone home after you’d given them all the information they needed, but you stayed in the small waiting room, anxiously bouncing your leg and chewing on your lip. As hours seemed to pass by, you’d perk up each time someone would come in, hoping any of the visitors would be coming to claim the stranger that was currently being tended to in the intensive care unit. They each came and went though, and you remained the only one awaiting him under the fluorescent lights.

Your eyes were beginning to burn when the nurse you had spoken to hours prior walked carefully up to you, that compassionate smile everpresent on her lips.

“I know there’s no relation, but I thought you’d like to know his condition is relatively stable as of right now.” She offered, causing you to sit up in the stiff, plastic chair.

“Thank you— really.” You sighed breathlessly to which she nodded in return. For a moment, you wondered if you were overstepping by asking for anymore details. Casting your eyes down to your lap, you chewed pensively on your lip. She seemed to take note of your bashful apprehension, smiling knowingly.

“You’re currently the only contact we have for him. There wouldn’t be a problem if you wanted to pay him a visit.”

So, with your fingers wringing nervously at the hem of your shirt, you followed the nurse through the unit and to the room he was occupying. Though you had seen first hand the damage the accident had done to him, you still had to bite back a shocked gasp upon seeing the various monitors he was hooked up to, as well as the clear tube running into his mouth and down his throat. You had endless questions for the god-sent nurse, but she had already mentioned that her shift was ending, so you didn’t want to hold her any longer.

“He hasn’t woken up yet, but they can still hear you, you know?” She explained with an encouraging smile as she leaned against the doorframe. Tearing your gaze from the various lines and tubes connected to him, you peered back at her in shock, but the nurse only nodded affirmatively at you. “It helps. Especially since he’s by himself.”

Following her polite goodbye with a promise that she’d be back on shift tomorrow morning, you were left alone with the stranger. It was silent in the sterile room, only the persistent beeping of his monitors filling the space around you. A shiver ran down your spine as if the below normal temperatures of the hospital were finally catching up to you as you shifted your weight from one foot to the other.

“This would’ve been a lot easier if you had stayed back to drink your stupid, black coffee.” You began hesitantly as you circled the raised bed. Pursing your lips, you slowly sat down on the chair beside him. Toying with the end of the blanket that hung off the bed, the ragged rise and fall of his chest caught your attention, and you wondered how much of it was thanks to the tube running down his throat. “I wonder if you ever found what you were looking for.”

As an assistant came in to check on him, you peered awkwardly down at your lap while they checked his vitals. Once done with the routine checks, you watched her move the blanket back over him and gently adjust certain chords to settle more comfortably around him. It made your heart warm that they seemed so attentive to his comfort, even if he wasn’t conscious enough to notice. You thanked her quietly as she departed from the room.

“You know the nurse’s assistant was the only one in the room with me when I first woke up after my accident.” You explained to the unconscious man before you. A fond smile settled onto your lips. “My parents had stepped out for a while just to get some food. Just their luck, huh? He held my hand while I was waking up so I wasn’t all by myself. It meant the world to me.”

It felt as though Megumi was trapped right back in the barrier between his mind and his soul— helpless to find an escape. This time around though, he had more of a will to fight. There was no way he had gone through everything and exhausted his mind, body, and soul, all to meet his demise because he didn’t look both ways before crossing the damn street. Another part of him wondered if this was fate granting him mercy. Perhaps if he didn’t die here, hooked up to all these tubes and machines, his cards held something sacreligious— a gruesome and grotesque death rather than the comparably mundane one that had befallen him. After all he’d been through, maybe this was blissful; the only happy ending that could be promised to him.

As he lay in that strange veil of unconsciousness though, as if at the bottom of a pool, looking up and barely able to see the sun’s light poking up from the surface— someone was there with him. Your voice sounded as though it was just above the feet of water that separated him from life, muffled but still familiar. It was the same voice that had coaxed him into trusting his body to let go, not knowing whether or not it would be strong enough to reemerge again.

His brows furrowed— that he could feel, and he willed himself to swim up to the surface as the soft hum of your tired rambling filled his ears. Why were you here? Why were you still here? The sorcerer needed to know, and the urge pushed him to keep struggling against the surface pressure that weighed him down.

You weren’t sure how long you had sat there mindlessly babbling to the unresponsive man. Wariness was beginning to weigh down on your eyes and shoulders though, likely because you had been up since four that morning to prepare for your shift. If you stopped talking, you thought you might flop over and pass out yourself. He couldn’t be by himself when he woke up, you determined.

Some staff had come in and dimmed the lights in the room what seemed like hours ago, so they weren’t so harsh in your tired eyes as you tilted your head back to stare at the ceiling while spewing out anything that came to mind.

“My coworker finally texted me, you know. She said the only weird thing that passed by the shop today was you. Are you in some kind of gang? It would explain the uniform and all the…” Your rambling slowly died out as the sound of sheets rustling filled your ears. In an instant, you were sitting up properly in your uncomfortable chair. His hand twitched against the sheets, and you breathed out in anticipation as you watched his face contort in discomfort. The chair you had been occupying for hours slid back as you stood up abruptly to get a closer look. “Hey— can you hear me?”

Megumi forced his eyes open with what seemed like all the energy left in him. He half expected to be in Shoko’s infirmary with his friends hovering obnoxiously over him, or even in his room where he’d awake in his bed and realize he’d dreamt the entire scenario. The blinding, white ceiling tiles above him were different from the ones he’d grown accustomed to over the years though, and the dull ache radiating through his body served to remind him that he certainly hadn’t been graced by any reverse cursed technique.

Those mysteriously dark eyes stared incredulously up at the ceiling, and you could see the confusion begin to morph onto his features. All too soon, that confusion shifted into panic as he tried to speak, only to be met by the grueling realization that there was a tube shoved down his throat.

“It’s okay!” You quickly reassured, placing a careful hand on his shoulder to redirect his attention. With the little he was able to move, his eyes shifted as fast as he could manage to look at you, wide in subtle horror. You took your eyes off him for a second to push the nurse call button to alert them of his waking. “You were in an accident. You’re in the hospital.”

As he peered down at the state of himself, he only seemed more unsettled. You figured it was the mangled state he was left in that freaked him out, but what was going through his head was the mission he’d left behind, along with the curse that was likely still running rampant. Still, his inability to speak paired with his limited mobility certainly didn’t do much to settle his nerves. You watched him become more agitated as he attempted to move each limb to no avail, likely thanks to the arsenal of drugs coursing through his veins.

“It’s alright, you’re okay.” You insisted, peering out the open door to see if the nurse was nearby. Looking around the room, you left his side for a moment to quickly snatch up a marker from the white board on the wall. You uncapped it and placed it in his hand, securing his weak grip around it before offering your arm. “Is there someone we can call? What’s your name?”

As he stared incredulously down at your offered up arm, your questions were a jumbled mess in his disoriented mind. All that kept running through his head were questions of who the wide eyed, eager girl at his bedside was, and why her voice had been the only thing he could recall from his supposed accident. Megumi’s fingers trembled as they fought to lift up the marker. A muffled grunt escaped him as he tried to get a grip on it, and it clattered to the floor along with the last string of his patience.

The sound of the marker clanking against the squeaky clean floor rang in his ears, taunting him in his weak state. Just as he began his attempted thrash against the scratchy sheets, the nurse finally stepped in, picking up her pace a bit as she saw the state of agitation he was in. In an instant, she was dialling someone for help, though you couldn’t be bothered to listen to her, desperate to get any answers out of the stranger. Once again, you offered up your hand to him, placing his fingers against your awaiting palm.

“Trace it on my hand, something—”

“Don’t push him.” The nurse urged as more staff members seemed to flood into the room. She was maneuvering over to the line of his IV with a syringe as she attempted to deescalate the situation herself. “He wasn’t supposed to wake up; if he becomes too agitated he can injure himself further.”

“Wait—” You attempted to stop her as she pushed what you assumed was something to calm him down into his line. Logically, you knew it was in his best interest, however your gnawing curiosity had you hoping he would stay conscious for the least bit longer to provide any answers. It only took seconds though, as the drug flooded his system, and the tension in his shoulders seemed to settle back against the flat bed. His eyelids moved torturously slow as he blinked hazily, and you knew the opportunity had found its way to evade you.

“I-I’ll wait outside.” The dejected reminder fell from your lips, though you were sure the staff were too occupied to pay you any mind. Just as you moved to get out of their way though, the stranger’s weak fingers laced around your hand. With the waning of his already deplorable strength, you felt the pads of his digits press against you, urging you to stay. Looking up with a quiet gasp, you found his half-lidded eyes on you, a desperation in them that seemed so misplaced on his hard features— even if you didn’t know him.

Megumi thought maybe if he held onto the now familiar presence that had been beside him all this time, that it would be the one thing to keep him alert enough to continue pushing through the haze of his unconsciousness. Whether it was your continuous, honied voice that pulled him from his drug-induced coma, or the fact that he’d pulled himself out of the depths of chains much stronger than the pharmaceuticals currently in his system, he didn’t know. What he did understand, was that your gentle fingers brushing against his knuckles was practically the only thing he could still feel, and it brought him a comfort he was not prepared to surrender just yet if he were to be pulled under again.

So, you clung on to his hand as his eyes slowly shut, bleary irises focused on you till the very end as the staff bustled around the room and spoke with the doctors. Even as you felt your own lids growing heavy that night in the darkness of the intensive care room, you couldn’t bring yourself to untangle his fingers from yours. Unable to fight the gravity that weighed down your body to remind you you had been up since four that morning, your head slumped forward and rested on the edge of the bed beside your conjoined hands.

You hadn’t the energy to think about how odd you may have looked clinging to a complete stranger as you snoozed. Instead, the embarrassment hit you when the kind nurse from the previous day, seemingly having recently clocked in for her shift, gently woke you the next morning with a prepackaged breakfast sandwich. With burning cheeks, you used your free hand to frantically smooth your disheveled hair down and wipe at your under eyes that were undoubtedly smeared with yesterday’s makeup before accepting the food with a shy but grateful smile.

You waited for her to finish her morning checks on her patient before tearing into the sandwich as your rumbling stomach was demanding of you. In the meantime, she updated you on his condition with jargon that you tried hard to keep up with, but it was offensively early in the morning. Nodding along, you suddenly wished you had paid more attention to all those hospital dramas your roommate used to watch incessantly. A relieved sigh escaped you when she departed, letting you know to press the call button if you needed anything.

“You’ve really gotta get it together soon, dude.” You commented through a mouthful of bread as you peered over at him thoughtfully. At the very least, you thought, his hand seemed warmer than it had yesterday, and you could only hope that was a good sign. “This hospital food sucks.”

Tossing the wrapper into the small trash bin nearby, you huffed out a sigh. Leaning in closer to him, you hesitantly pushed the thick, black hair away from his face, brushing it gently back against his scalp. A gulp forced its way down your throat at the sight of the thick scars that lined his eyes, and you found yourself carefully brushing against them with baffled curiosity.

“Who are you?” You whispered, and for a moment you could swear his brows twitched into a furrow.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s bad luck to cheat death?” A smoothly amused voice beckoned from the doorway.

You instantly flinched away from your hovered state over the stranger, the hand that was grasped in his tightening in surprise as you looked up. Leaning against the entry was a tall man that nearly took up the entire door frame. His hair was a striking white that almost rivaled the blinding lights of the hospital room. Though concealed behind dark-rimmed sunglasses, you caught a glimpse of his startling blue eyes as he seemed to tilt his head in amusement at the scene before him. What captured your attention most of all though was the uniform he donned— one nearly identical to the one the mystery patient had been wearing during the accident.

“Geez, after all you’ve been through, and a truck is what takes you out?” The man’s quip was this time directed at the John Doe, shaking his head with a smile as he slowly strolled into the room.

“You know him?” You breathed out in relief, watching the fond expression on the man’s face as he scanned over the injuries.

“Hm? Oh, yeah, he’s my student.” He responded casually, hands shoved into his pockets as he circled the bed curiously. “I assumed he was just ignoring my calls. Go figure, huh?”

The casual lightheartedness in his tone only served to confuse you. You couldn’t wrap your head around the fact that of all the people that came to claim this stranger, his teacher was the first? On top of that, how was he not brimming with concern upon finding the student he seemed so close with in intensive care? Your eyes skimmed down the strange uniform on his long body, lingering just a tad too long on the swirled button on his chest.

“So, what’s the deal? You a girlfriend he didn’t tell anyone about?”

Snapping up from your trance, you felt your face heat at his accusation, and you quickly shook your head. The corners of his lips twitched up in amusement.

“I saw the accident happen.” You explained, allowing your gaze to drift back down to the patient. The edges of your teeth sunk into your bottom lip as you recounted the events of the last twenty-four hours, and you were struck by the absurdity of it all. “He… he asked me not to leave— you know, before he passed out.”

“So you didn’t?” His question sounded more like a statement, you noted. You nodded with a soft sigh. Peering up at the teacher with a pursed lip, your free hand reached up to graze the oddly-shaped scars on your upper arm.

“I’m sorry if I overstepped. I just… was in a similar accident not too long ago. So, I empathized with him— that kind of fear, you know?” You felt the need to explain it to him, as you were sure you looked like some sort of stalker at the moment. The man didn’t respond, peering pensively down at you for long enough to make you squirm in your seat. “I guess I should go now.”

A wave of unnecessary guilt crashed in your chest as you slowly stood from the chair you had been in for countless hours. Giving once last, lingering regard to the unconscious man, you gulped down the confusing lump in your throat and smiled softly.

“I hope you find whatever you were looking for.” You whispered, gently sliding your hand from his and placing it carefully over the blanket. Nodding respectfully at the man who had been silently watching the entire encounter, you began walking toward the exit. As you hand grazed the door frame, you turned around apprehensively to find the white-haired man already peering back at you knowingly. “What—What’s his name?”

With a fond smile, the man looked back down at his student as if to say we have a lot to catch up on when your ass wakes up before looking back at you.

“Megumi.”

His name rang through your mind in the droning days that followed your fated encounter. With every order you rang up, his frantic entrance replayed in your head. Each unfruitful study session paved way for the cinematic replaying of his awakening, projected onto your imagination over and over until it became your favorite film that lulled you into relentless, insomniatic nights.

You wondered if his condition had improved, if he had left the hospital, if he was wondering about the girl who he clung onto at his most vulnerable. As the days dragged on, and you wistfully poured out a customer’s black coffee, you realized you had left those answers behind in the hospital room that morning. Still, the more logical part of your mind told you it was for the best given the concerningly curious circumstances of his accident. Additionally, the equally mysterious man that had come to claim Megumi only fanned the flames of your suspicions.

Despite the impending sense of danger that came each time that supposed teacher’s words rang in your head—

“After all you’ve been through, and a truck is what takes you out?”

You weren’t sure if it was your concern over his recovery, or the gnawing curiosity about the life he led that had you walking back into the hospital almost a full week later. Whichever it was, it was strong enough to push down the nerves fluttering in your stomach as you walked up to the familiar reception front desk. It was the same woman that had you fill out the paperwork when he was first admitted, and, despite it taking her a bit, she remembered you.

“Listen, I’m really sorry, but the process isn’t as easy now that someone signed his paperwork. I can’t disclose any information to you.” She explained apologetically as you slumped forward on the cold desk. There was a certain sorrow in her eyes as she watched you sigh in defeat.

“I mean— could you just tell me if he’s okay?” You pleaded, already dreading the thought of having to leave that day with no answers.

“I wouldn’t even be able to confirm or deny that that patient is still in our system.” It seemed it was upsetting her just as much to deny you, and it wasn’t your intention to make her job anymore difficult than it was. “I wish I could have been of more help to you.”

You nodded in silent understanding, offering a grateful smile nonetheless as you pushed off of the desk to take your walk of shame out of the building. Perhaps it was a sign; the thought fleeted into your mind on what seemed like the endless trek to the door. This denial was the closure you needed to move on from this bizarre, chance encounter that happened to mimic one you witnessed firsthand just years ago. In stark terms, whatever seemed to be lying at the bottom of the mysterious well that was Megumi— wasn’t your business.

In the same notion though, maybe it was fate that that oddly large, white haired man was strolling into the very doors you were trying to exit, coffee and a paper bag clutched in his causal grip. Your mouth opened and closed as you looked up at him, unsure if he’d even recognize you or care enough to acknowledge your being there. As if sensing your silent stare, he glanced up from his phone for a moment, doing a small double take upon seeing you.

“Pick up another straggler?” He teased, sliding his phone into the pocket of his uniform with a known smirk. His head tilted toward you. “What was it this time? Just so happened to be around when they mysteriously fell out a window?”

Despite the fact that his seemingly playful nature was making you feel more comfortable, you still couldn’t help the heat that rushed to your face. Attempting a breathless chuckle, you smiled nervously at the man.

“The hospital should start paying me commission, huh?” You quipped with apprehensive amusement. A short but genuine laugh broke through his teasing facade, and he nodded for you to walk with him. Pushing past the slight shock of how easily this was going for you, you stumbled after him.

“I’m assuming you’re not here to see me?”

Chewing on your bottom lip, you watched the bright tiles passing under your feet as you followed him through the hospital. Once again, you were hit by the realization that you were meddling in something you seriously had no business in. Still, the nonchalant man leading you through the hallways didn’t seem to have any sort of reaction to your curiosity.

“I’m really sorry if I’m overstepping, it’s just been kind of eating me alive.” You confessed with a halfhearted chuckle.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, our little overachiever isn’t in intensive care anymore.” He informed with an almost proud smile.

“Really?” You didn’t intend to sound so relieved, but it was an almost instantaneous reaction.

“Yuuup. Officially graduated.” He confirmed as he wiped mock tears from under his sunglasses. “Go see for yourself, his room’s right here.”

As he stopped in front of a cracked open door, you hadn’t even realized the man had been leading you to pay Megumi a visit. Glancing up at him unassuredly, you didn’t have a chance to ask if he was sure before he was waving you off nonchalantly.

“Actually, if you don’t mind taking my stuff in there.” The teacher requested, not giving you a chance to protest as he shoved the coffee and bag into your hands. “Forgot my phone in my car.”

Your brows furrowed for a moment, cause you could have sworn you had just seen him slip the aforementioned phone into his pocket just as you ran into him. There was no time to question it though, because in an instant, his freakishly long legs were traversing him back down the way you came in. With a barely noticeable huff of disbelief, your gaze drifted to the cracked-open door in front of you. You shook your head before pushing in anyway, trying to be mindful of the nearly overflowing coffee cup that was desperately trying to spill onto your hand.

“Shit.” You muttered under your breath with a flinch as you felt a scalding drop offend your skin.

“You’re not Gojo.”

“Shit!” You repeated with a start, posture jolting up to face whoever it was that damn near just sent you to the afterlife.

What you hadn’t expected to see was the very awake and very alert Megumi sitting up in his hospital bed. His mouth was free of the tube that once restrained it, though you could still hear the after affects of it in the rasp and crack of his voice. In fact, the only thing he appeared to still be connected to was an IV pole and what looked like a heart monitor.

You could have killed the tall stranger, whom you presumed was the Gojo character he was talking about, for not thinking it important to warn her that Megumi was no longer unconscious before you waltzed into his room so nonchalantly. In truth, you expected to drop by, see with your own two eyes that the man hadn’t succumbed to his injuries, and be on your merry way.

“Ow! Fuck,” You were babbling at this point, pacing around for anywhere to put down the damned coffee cup that had just scalded your hand in tandem with your startled jump. The black haired man watched you silently, almost moving to get up to help you before he remembered the brace that wrapped his right ankle. “I’m so sorry— I had no idea you were awake.”

Your frantic apologies continued spilling from your lips as you ran your stinging hand underneath the sink that sat in the corner. You did it partly to soothe the pain, but another part of you just didn’t think you could face the poor man after completely invading his privacy.

“That weird guy with the sunglasses told me to come in, but then he just—”

“You were the one that stayed with me after the accident, right?”

Unable to gage the flat tone in his voice, you slowly turned the faucet off before finally turning to face him. In the time you hadn’t been looking, it seemed he had pushed the hair out of his face, and he was sitting up a little higher in the bed than you remembered. The book in his lap laid open and forgotten, his large, dark eyes focused intently on you.

“Uh, yeah.” You admitted softly, wiping your hands nervously on your bottoms. “You were outside the cafe—”

“I remember.” He stated flatly, making you bite down harshly on your bottom lip. Megumi was coming off as rude, guarded, irritated— he knew he was, but he couldn’t for the life of him gather his thoughts well enough to express the gratitude he felt for you. Even more so though, he couldn’t possibly bring himself to understand the curiosity and fondness that had been festering over the past few days in your absence.

A silence enveloped the room, and you suddenly wondered where the hell his teacher was— desperate for anything to break the tension.

“Well, I should probably go.” You finally mustered out, setting the bag and cup down onto the counter before turning to leave. “I-I’m glad to see you’re doing better. Sorry again to—”

“Wait,” Megumi urged, leaning forward so quickly it had him wincing with the pressure on his injured ribs. Your hair swayed as you whipped your head back at him in question, and you thought you saw the slightest pink hue on his cheeks. “Sorry, I’m… on a lot of meds. You don’t have to leave.”

His excuse made your brow slowly quirk up, an amused smirk barely concealed on your lips. Attempting to push down your amusement, you pursed your lips and glanced out the door for any sign of Gojo’s return. Upon seeing only the hospital staff bustling around, you slowly made your way over and sat down on the chair beside his bed. For a moment, the two of you simply stared at one another in silence, both of you unsure of what to say next.

In your brief study of his now conscious face up close, you noticed each sharp feature of his, from his straight nose, to the strong line of his jaw. Somehow, despite their dark hue, his wide eyes seemed to soften his face even if just minimally with every caress of his long, thick lashes against his cheekbones. You wanted to avert your eyes to stop the incoming flush in your cheeks upon the sudden realization that Megumi was incredibly attractive, but you couldn’t seem to tear your eyes away.

In a last ditch effort to preserve any dignity, you were grasping at straws to say anything.

“What were you look—”

“Why did you stay?”

The both of you began simultaneously, but his question made you clam up. There wasn’t malice in his tone, but a raw curiosity instead, an urge to understand. His brows were slowly settling into that familiar furrow you remembered seeing on his sleeping form constantly.

“I— You asked me to.” You answered simply, your voice quieter than it was before. A small huff of breath raced out his nose at your response.

“So you just do whatever strange men you just met tell you to do?”

“I think I preferred you when you still had a tube down your throat.” You laughed breathlessly, a little shocked at the sass that emanated from the seemingly reserved man. Almost immediately, he rolled his pretty eyes at your comment, but there was a ghost of a smile threatening to assassinate the cool-boy persona he had built up.

“Why did you stay?” Megumi asked again. There was more conviction in his rasped tone this time. Subconsciously, your hand creeped up to grasp at your scarred upper arm, and he followed the motion intently. His gaze narrowed slightly at the raised skin, a hint of recognition flashing in his eyes as he continued to stare.

“Two years ago, I was in a similar accident. There was all sorts of hell breaking loose in the city, so I didn’t think anyone would help me, you know?” You recounted with a sad smile, feeling your breath tremble at the memory. “I still don’t know how they got me out— some guy that was around. He almost ran right past me. I never got to thank him, or ask him how he got me out from under the car. I was already in the hospital when I woke up.”

He processed your words for a moment, blinking slowly down at your scar as the puzzle pieces seemed to click together in his mind. It sounded too familiar— just as the marks on your arms were ones he’d surely seen before.

“And that scar— you got it from the accident?” He assumed, though he already knew the answer. You nodded, looking down at it yourself and allowing the tips of your fingers to trace each curve. The corners of his lips twitched up on their own accord, eyes softening with the revelation that fate had always been on his side. “Kind of looks like a bite.”

There was a subtly bemused tone in his voice. You didn’t quite understand where it was coming from, but as you inspected the mark closer with this perspective, you hummed in fascination.

“I don’t really see it.” You mumbled.

In an instant, his fingers had reached out to fold gently around your arm. Your eyes fluttered up to look at him in surprise, but he was still focused on your mark with a soft fondness. Swiping his thumb over the raised skin, the pads of his fingers mapped out the familiar canine marks of his demon dog.

As if the feel of it ignited his memory, he could almost perfectly recall the sight of the large hound tearing through the wrecked car as Megumi exorcised the curse that had been at the cusp of the mangled traffic jam. Working on his command, the boy watched as the dog emerged, dragging a girl out of the rubble by her arm. The skin around the bite was already bloodied and bruised, but you certainly still had more of a chance of survival than you had before the damned bite.

At once, there was an understanding in his still foggy mind that the machinery of right and wrong he had grown accustomed to over the years was far more prophetic than he ever cared to give it credit for. It didn’t matter what reason you gave him for staying by his side that night, because he already understood it wholeheartedly on a much different level than he had anticipated. Megumi had always been the type to search for reason in his own kindness while cynically picking apart the kindness of others. After all he’d been through, perhaps this was the final nail in the coffin of his nihilistic pattern of viewing his moral compass.

“See, Megumi? I told you your knight in shining armor would come back for you!” That familiarly sarcastic voice that you had now been able to name Gojo, had the both of you flinching back from the unexpectedly intimate moment. Megumi’s face seemed to sour instantly as the man strolled into the room with a wide smile. “This kid was driving me insane, asking me about you as soon as they pulled that tube out of his throat.”

The patient grumbled, and if he had more strength and less shit hooked up to him, he would have thrown a pillow at his teacher. Glaring dangerously at him, Megumi swatted his hand away as the older man began to ruffle at his hair in mock affection. Despite his clear mortification, you smiled amusedly at the scene before you.

“Thanks for looking after the little guy for me.”

“I’m starting to think I should get a job here.” You joked back as you stood from your chair. You looked back at Megumi, who’s hard gaze was slowly melting into subtle confusion as he watched you rise. “I’m really glad you’re okay.”

You bowed in thanks to Gojo before making your way to the door.

“You’re leaving?” Megumi stopped you at the exit for the second time that day. Had you looked now, you would have caught the deadly glare he shot his sensei’s way for ruining the moment.

With your hand on the door, you turned around to offer him a warm smile, one that had his shoulders slumping forward as if enveloped in the most welcoming of blankets.

“Gotta get to work.” You explained regretfully, chewing on the inside of your cheek. In a spark of confidence that was surely spurred on by the fact that you still had endless questions for the man, you continued with a bashful grin. “But you know where to find me. Maybe you can actually stay for your order this time, hm?”

Gojo almost had to turn away to hide the laughter bubbling in his chest upon seeing the dumbstruck expression on Megumi’s face as he could only muster up a small nod. You found yourself nodding along with him.

“I’ll have your order ready.” You teased with a wink. “Black coffee, right?”

The boy breathed out in disbelief, watching with pink tinted cheeks as your hair swayed behind you while you took your leave. He wished with everything in him, since fate seemed to be playing so mercifully with him these days, that his ankle would miraculously heal in time for him to chase after you to catch one more glimpse of your glittering eyes and incandescent smile. Perhaps he had already had his fill of fate’s luck for one lifetime though, because he could only remain seated dumbly on the hospital bed, jaw hanging down just a hair as he breathed out.

“Right.”

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navvyu · 5 days ago

Text

Your WHAT?

Synopsis: (Most of) The Chysos Heirs find out about Aglaea's 'secret' wife. // Aglaea forgets to tell people she has a wife, chaos ensues. (Then you go on a date)

Cw: OOC, set pre 3.0/no prophecy au, made up Amphoreus holidays, reader is implied to be not a chryosos heir, reader uses feminine terms, not beta read

The holy city was alight with energy. Love lingered in the air; young couples sharing fleeting glances, children giggling among each other, people holding hands in the streets, women holding flowers, and men holding small boxes of chocolates, the like. Aglaea couldn't help but smile, even her lifeless threads seemed more lively this time of year. Being blessed by the romance titan had its perks, the light-hearted energy carried into her heart. Her mind was occupied entirely by you, Aglaea was basically counting down the seconds until she was graced by your presence.

In the spirit of the minor holiday (and celebration of Aglaea's ‘blessing of romance’), Tribbie wanted to hold a small party between the Chrysos Heirs. Agalea almost laughed at the flippant excuse, but agreed anyway. What's the shame in a little celebration between friends?

Despite the lively party surrounding her, Agalea's thoughts still lingered on you. Tugged from her thoughts, Hyacine gently set a glass of wine in front of Agalea, smiling at the blonde, she said “Here, Miss. Aglaea, I heard this kind of wine is good, I think you'll like it!” Aglaea gingerly took the glass, smiling back at the girl. “Thank you Hyacine.” Aglaea drifted back into her thoughts. The golden wine in her cup somehow always tasted sweeter when in your company. The blonde was pulled from her thoughts again, Phainon grinning at her. “A toast?” Aglaea laughed softly “Hm. Of course.” The seven people raised their glasses, clinking together. Aglaea gingerly tapped the rim of her glass to everyone else's. Phainon’s gaze landed on Aglaea, this smile on his face barely wavering as he said, “Say, Aglaea, do you have plans? I'm sure you have plenty of admirers vying for your attention..” Phainon laughed light-heartedly. Castorice glanced at Phainon, her gaze then turning to Aglaea, curious. Mydei gently nudged Phainon's ribs, a grumpy expression on his face “Deliverer. Don't be rude.” Phainon hissed softly, his hand cupping where Mydei hit him. “I'm just saying, I didn't mean anything by it!” Tribbie laughed at their bickering, a smile painted across her face. “Aha, [Reader] would kill her!”

The room paused. Cipher's ears twitched. “Huh?” Phainon tilted his head, Castorice glanced at the others, confusion written across all of their faces. “[Reader]...?” Tribbie seemed just as confused at their reactions. Seeing that her memo wasn't caught, Tribbie continued “Yeah. Mrs. [Reader]! You know..?” Aglaea hummed in quiet agreement.

Phainon glanced at Mydei, Mydei stared back, seemingly just as lost. Tribbie once again continued, “Agalea'a wife, [Reader]!” Cipher almost spit out her drink, ears perked up. Cipher half leaned over the table, eyes wide as she stared at Agalea “Wife!? You have a wife!?” she exclaimed. Phainon looked at Agalea, horror crossing his face, “You have a wife? How did we not know you had a wife!? Aglaea!?” Mydei's brow furrowed, even more confused than before. Hyacine gasped, “Your what? How did we not!?” The pink haired girl held her face, stumbling over her own words. Raking her mind for any mention of a wife she might have missed, obviously very confused. Castorice almost looked betrayed, glancing around the room like it would grant her answers. Tribbie half glared at Agalea “Agy! Did you not tell them!?”

Agalea paused. Had she *really* forgotten to tell anyone but her teacher about her being married? Agalea could have sworn she told everyone… Upon racking her brain, scanning for any time she might have mentioned her wife, she came up negative. Agalea felt a pang of guilt in her heart, her dearly beloved, completely unknown to her dearest friends? Some blessing of romance that was… The blonde was torn back to reality by Tribbie hurriedly explaining to the others. Agalea spun the wine glass in her hands, taking a deep breath and preparing for the fallout.

“Yes, I have a wife. I guess I neglected to inform you all.. apologies..” Cipher was in Agalea's face, tail thrashing around, voice high and questioning. “How do you forget something so important? Tell us about her!!!” Hyacine was right beside her, equally as curious, rapid firing questions of her own “When did you get married? How long were you dating?” Castorice perked up again, she fiddled with her cup, obviously just as curious, leaning close. Mydei put his hand to his head, groaning quietly. Phainon snorted at Mydei's reaction, glancing at Cipher and Hyacine.

Agalea sighed, “I truly don't know how I forgot to mention you to them through the years… Im sorry..” she laughed softly, a gentle smile gracing her lips. Despite being blind, Agalea looked at you with pure love in her eyes. Her hand held your under the table, wine abandoned. She gently hugged her hand away, instead cupping your face in her hands. She pressed a kiss to your lips, her smile blooming into a grin. A laugh bubbled up in her throat as she peppered your face in more kisses, mumbling praises. “I love you, I truly, really do love you…”

A/N: first time writing a full scenario, can you tell 💔 anyway happy pride month #forthegirls also vaguely inspired off a zhongli x reader fanfic I read a long time ago that I really liked link here if I find it.

WC: 835

Masterlist

#navvyu writes #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #aglaea x reader #hsr x fem reader #honkai star rail x fem reader #hsr imagines #honkai star rail imagines #hsr scenarios #honkai star rail scenarios #aglaea x you #aglaea x fem reader

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mya-valentine · 9 months ago

Text

Debating Hearts

Synopsis: As fierce academic rivals, you and Alhaitham constantly clash in heated debates. But behind closed doors, you're secretly in a relationship—until Kaveh walks in on a passionate moment. Chaos ensues as you desperately try to maintain your academic reputation.

A/N: This is probably my favorite thing ever

The bustling streets of Sumeru City were awash in the midday sun, casting a warm, golden glow on the myriad of scholars rushing through the Akademiya. Among them, two students stood out—Alhaitham and you. Both of you were notorious for your sharp minds, and even sharper tongues. Every debate, every discussion, every single word exchanged between you two seemed to spark an inevitable fire.

Today was no different.

“You’re oversimplifying the mechanics of elemental resonance,” Alhaitham said, crossing his arms, his gray-green eyes locked onto yours with that familiar condescending edge. “If you’d actually read the primary texts instead of cherry-picking from the summaries, you’d see how flawed your logic is.”

You bristled. “Summaries exist for a reason, Alhaitham. It’s called efficiency. Not everyone has the luxury of pouring over every single word like you do.”

“Only a fool would call it efficiency when it leads to inaccuracies,” he shot back, his voice calm but with that hint of smug superiority that drove you absolutely insane.

Oh, how you hated him. Or at least that’s what you told yourself. Because underneath all that animosity, there was something else. Something no one else knew. Something that would flip Sumeru on its head if anyone found out.

You were dating Alhaitham.

Not that anyone would suspect it. The public bickering, the endless arguments, the way you seemed to enjoy tearing into each other intellectually—it all painted the picture of two people who couldn’t stand one another. But behind closed doors? That was a different story.

---

You made your way toward his house after the latest Akademiya debate, a fire still simmering in your chest. The thrill of clashing with him always left you a little exhilarated, your heartbeat still thundering as you knocked on the door. Alhaitham opened it with a smirk already tugging at his lips, as if he knew you were still riding the high of your argument.

“You’re still wrong about the elemental resonance theory,” he said before you could even step inside.

You rolled your eyes but let him pull you in by the wrist, shutting the door behind you. “You just can’t handle being wrong for once.”

“Incorrect,” he replied smoothly, guiding you over to the couch in the middle of the room. “I just can’t handle you spreading misinformation.”

You were about to retort, but then his hands were on your waist, tugging you closer, and all those brilliant counterarguments you’d been preparing slipped away as he leaned down to press his lips against yours.

It was always like this. The fire that sparked in your arguments burned just as brightly when you kissed. There was a fierce intensity in everything you two did—whether it was trading intellectual blows or tangled together on that couch, fingers gripping at each other like you couldn’t get close enough.

Your hands found their way into his hair as the kiss deepened, the heat between you escalating quickly. He pushed you back against the cushions, his lips never leaving yours, even as he spoke between kisses.

“You—still—didn’t—prove—me wrong,” he muttered, voice husky as he kissed down your neck.

You smirked, tilting your head back to give him better access. “Maybe if you weren’t so busy kissing me, you’d have a chance to think.”

He laughed against your skin, his hands roaming your sides before pulling you back up to meet his mouth again. The clash of teeth and lips was electric, the debate still sparking even amidst the haze of passion.

But then, the door swung open.

Kaveh, returning home earlier than either of you expected, burst in, humming some tune to himself. He stopped dead in his tracks, eyes wide as saucers as he took in the sight before him—Alhaitham, shirt slightly rumpled, lips locked with you as you straddled him on the couch, both of you far too engrossed in your little "debate" to notice his entrance right away.

“What the—by the Archons!” Kaveh’s voice was a mixture of horror and disbelief. “What in Sumeru is going on here?!”

The sound of his voice snapped you out of your heated moment, and you instantly shoved Alhaitham away. Your heart leaped into your throat as panic surged through you. If anyone found out about this… your academic reputation, the teasing, the scandal!

Without thinking, you slapped Alhaitham hard across the face.

The sound echoed in the room, followed by a tense silence.

“What the hell are you doing, Alhaitham?!” you shouted, pointing an accusatory finger at him as if this entire situation was somehow his fault. “I thought we were having an academic discussion, not… whatever that was!”

Alhaitham blinked at you, his hand slowly rising to touch the reddening mark on his cheek, bewilderment written all over his usually composed face. “What? You—”

Kaveh, for his part, was standing frozen near the doorway, eyes darting between you and Alhaitham like he was trying to make sense of the bizarre situation unraveling in front of him.

“Oh no, don’t you dare make this about me!” You continued, crossing your arms and glaring at Alhaitham as if he had been the one caught in the act. “I’m just here to have a reasonable debate, and you—”

Alhaitham opened his mouth to respond, looking genuinely confused for once in his life. “You slapped me!”

“Damn right, I did!” you shot back, cheeks burning with both embarrassment and anger. “What was all of that? Trying to kiss me in the middle of an academic debate?!”

Kaveh, still watching this bizarre scene, finally found his voice again. “What in the name of Sumeru is happening?! You two—what—how—WHY?”

You turned to Kaveh, feigning as much indignation as you could muster. “He ambushed me, Kaveh! I was here to debate, and suddenly—ugh!” You huffed dramatically, throwing your hands in the air.

Alhaitham stared at you, utterly bewildered. “We’ve been dating for months—”

You quickly cut him off, stepping on his foot. “What? You’re delusional! Don’t try to make up excuses now!”

Kaveh’s eyes grew impossibly wider as the pieces slowly clicked into place. “Wait… you two have been dating?”

“NO!” You and Alhaitham said in unison, though for very different reasons.

Kaveh blinked, clearly caught between shock, disbelief, and a building sense of dread. “Oh Archons, I need to lie down,” he muttered, backing away from the chaotic scene in front of him. “I… I’m going to pretend I didn’t see any of this.”

As Kaveh disappeared down the hallway, muttering under his breath, you turned back to Alhaitham, who was still rubbing his cheek where you had slapped him.

“You’re going to explain that later,” he said flatly, his tone exasperated but not entirely angry. There was still that glint in his eye—the one that always appeared when he was both annoyed and slightly amused by you.

You huffed, crossing your arms. “I had to save face, okay?”

“By slapping me?”

“Yes.”

Alhaitham shook his head, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he pulled you back down onto the couch. “You owe me for that one.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your lips tugged upward. “I’ll make it up to you,” you murmured, leaning in to kiss him again, the earlier embarrassment fading as you resumed your little “debate.”

For now, Kaveh’s horror was just another amusing chapter in your strange, secret relationship.

Masterlist

#genshin impact alhaitham #al haitham #alhaitham #alhaitham x reader #genshin alhaitham #al haitam x reader #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin #genshin x reader

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clumsydolly · 20 days ago

Note

Hello, can you do OM!Brothers (and maybe the dateables if you want) x Maomao!reader? (From Apothecary Diaries)?

Obey me x Maomao!Reader! Part 1!

Warnings!⚠️: none but if you catch anything tell me!

Thank you for the ask! 🩷 Please send more I love these!

Lucifer

You were a curiosity to Lucifer from the moment you stepped into the Devildom.

Not because you were human—he had encountered countless humans before—but because you were unlike any he had met. Reserved, observant, and possessing an unsettling calmness, you navigated the chaos of the House of Lamentation with a detached grace that piqued his interest.

While others were quick to react to the peculiarities of the Devildom, you remained composed, often more intrigued than alarmed. Your eyes, sharp and discerning, missed nothing. You analyzed your surroundings with the precision of a seasoned scholar, noting the subtle shifts in magic, the hidden tensions among the brothers, and the unspoken rules that governed this realm.

Lucifer found himself both impressed and slightly unsettled by your demeanor. He was accustomed to being the one in control, the one who observed and assessed. Yet here you were, a human, matching his scrutiny with your own.

One evening, he found you in the library, surrounded by ancient tomes on demonic flora and fauna. You were engrossed in a text detailing the properties of a rare Devildom herb, your fingers tracing the intricate illustrations with reverence.

"Studying late, are we?" he inquired, his voice smooth and commanding.

You looked up, meeting his gaze without hesitation. "The Devildom's flora is fascinating. So many plants with unique properties. Some could be quite useful... or dangerous."

A hint of a smile played on his lips. "Dangerous, indeed. One human such as yourself, must be cautious when handling such things."

You tilted your head, a glint of amusement in your eyes. "Caution is important, but understanding is paramount. Fear stems from ignorance."

Lucifer chuckled softly. "Spoken like a true scholar."

Over time, your interactions with Lucifer became more frequent. He would find you in the greenhouse, tending to exotic plants with meticulous care, or in the kitchen, experimenting with ingredients to create concoctions that were both medicinal and, occasionally, explosive.

Your knowledge of poisons and antidotes was unparalleled, and Lucifer couldn't help but be impressed by your expertise. He began to consult you on matters involving rare toxins or magical ailments, valuing your insights and analytical mind.

Despite his initial reservations, Lucifer found himself drawn to your quiet strength and unwavering determination. You challenged him, not with defiance, but with intellect and composure. It was a refreshing change from the chaos that often surrounded him.

One day, during a particularly tense family meeting, a minor dispute escalated into a full-blown argument among the brothers. Voices were raised, tempers flared, and chaos ensued.

Amidst the turmoil, you stood up, your voice calm but firm. "Enough."

The room fell silent, all eyes turning to you.

"This bickering is unproductive," you continued. "If we focus on the issue at hand rather than personal grievances, we might find a solution."

Lucifer watched as his brothers, chastised by your words, settled down. He felt a surge of admiration for you. In that moment, you had managed to do what few could command the attention and respect of the seven demon brothers.

After the meeting, he approached you. "You handled that well."

You shrugged modestly. "Sometimes, a different perspective is all that's needed."

Lucifer nodded. "Indeed. Your presence here has been... enlightening."

You smiled softly. "I'm glad to be of assistance."

As the days turned into weeks, Lucifer found himself seeking your company more often. Whether it was discussing ancient texts, sharing a quiet meal, or simply enjoying each other's presence in comfortable silence, he cherished the moments spent with you.

You had become an integral part of his world, a steadying force amidst the chaos. And though he rarely expressed his feelings openly, Lucifer knew that you had captured his heart in a way no one else ever had.

Mammon

You confused the hell outta Mammon.

Not in the “you’re from the human world” way he was used to that. Not even in the “you’re smart” way there were plenty of nerds in the Devildom (Satan alone accounted for 80% of them). No, you confused him because you weren’t scared of anything.

Not demons. Not curses. Not Lucifer. Not the borderline-lethal concoction you found bubbling in a forgotten hallway that you sniffed before saying, “Huh. Shouldn’t be reacting like that. Someone’s messed up the ratios.”

Mammon had watched you from behind a pillar like you were the terrifying one.

You didn’t talk much unless you had something to say, and when you did talk, you’d say the most unhinged, hyper-specific things with complete calm like suggesting that Asmodeus might want to stop using a certain brand of bath oil because it would probably cause mild hallucinations in lower-tier demons.

“H-How do ya even know that?” Mammon asked once, after watching you neutralize a potentially lethal jellyfish with two herbs and a death glare.

You blinked at him. “I used to be a poison tester in the imperial court.”

“...You what?”

He started following you around after that.

He claimed it was because you were “just a weak lil’ human who’d totally get kidnapped without The Great Mammon lookin’ out for ya,” but he was clearly more afraid of you than for you. He trailed after you like a confused stray cat, half-tempted to steal your weird apothecary satchel but too scared of what might happen if he touched anything in it.

“You got like—death flowers or somethin’ in there?”

“No. Those are in the other pouch.”

You didn’t smile much, but when you did tight-lipped, sardonic, often after diagnosing someone with you absolute idiot poison yourself again? Mammon’s brain short-circuited.

And yet, he still tried to flirt.

“You ever think about ditchin’ all this poison stuff and goin’ into business with me? We could open a potion shop. Or like… a crime-solving duo thing. You know, brains and beauty.”

“Which one are you supposed to be?”

“I—I’M BOTH, OBVIOUSLY—!”

But your sarcasm never felt cruel. Just… dry. Focused. You were like one of those super rare stones he saw in cursed auctions: plain on the outside, but the longer you looked, the more intricate you realized it was. The mystery only made him want to dig deeper.

You never gushed over him like other humans did. You didn’t even blink when he name-dropped himself as The Great Mammon. Which hurt his pride a little, but also made him spiral into wondering why he wanted your attention so badly.

And then came the day he nearly died.

It was a dumb bet with Levi, something about who could handle a cursed snack from a shady Devildom vending machine. Mammon took two bites, collapsed, and was foaming at the mouth by the time you got there.

You didn’t panic.

You crouched beside him, sniffed the half-eaten snack, and muttered, “Dumbass,” before jabbing him in the neck with a silver needle from your pouch and muttering an incantation under your breath.

He woke up ten minutes later, drooling and half-conscious, with your jacket rolled up under his head and you quietly cataloging the cursed ingredients.

“You—you saved me,” he croaked.

You looked up, unamused. “You’re not allowed to die until you pay me back for that mess you caused in the potions lab last week.”

Mammon turned beet red. “T-That’s your way of sayin’ you care, right?! I knew it! You do like me!”

You stared at him. “You’ve been poisoned for less than fifteen minutes and you’re already back to being an idiot. I should’ve waited longer.”

Mammon called it flirting. You called it honesty.

But after that, he followed you with a different kind of urgency. Less of the showy bravado and more quiet awe. He brought you snacks (after making you test them first), asked you endless questions about apothecaries, and even tried to memorize your antidote recipes, though he forgot them the second you stopped talking.

He never stopped calling himself your bodyguard, but now it came with an odd mix of reverence and pride like being near you made him smarter, braver, better.

And though you rolled your eyes every time he got in your personal space, you stopped pushing him away.

Some poisons, you realized, didn’t need an antidote.

Leviathan

Leviathan knew you were dangerous the moment you corrected a potion label in front of Satan.

He didn’t even know it was wrong and that was Satan, the walking library. But you just stood there, arms folded, expression flat as you looked down at the bottle and said, “That’s not mandrake root. That’s detura. If you drink it, you’ll hallucinate a five-day fever dream and probably confess a decade of unresolved guilt to a wall."

Leviathan had never seen Satan go speechless. You just turned and walked out after that. Didn’t even gloat. Just dropped the bomb and vanished like a cutscene NPC who leaves the party after revealing tragic backstory.

Levi's respect for you skyrocketed instantly.

He didn’t talk to you for three days. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he didn’t know how. You were like one of those elite SSR gacha characters with maxed-out poison resistance and triple damage intelligence stat. A mysterious loner with a morally questionable skill tree. And worst of all, you were calm.

Like, actually calm. Not shy, not awkward just… quiet. No wasted words. Unbothered. The kind of person who could say something absolutely horrifying, like "This mushroom could make a man think he's married to a table leg," in a voice so deadpan Levi would spiral about it for an hour.

He started inventing reasons to hover near you.

“Oh wow, is this the hallway that leads to the cursed greenhouse? Whoops, guess I took a wrong turn for the sixth time today.”

You didn’t even look up from your mortars. “Stop breathing like you're trying to do a boss battle. I can hear you."

Levi yelped and almost dropped his D.D.D.

You never mocked him, though. Never teased or pushed or prodded. You just… observed. Like he was some weird little amphibian in a tank. One day he asked if you even liked people and you just stared at him, blinked slowly, and said, “They’re loud. But not entirely useless.”

It was the nicest thing anyone had said to him that week.

You two bonded slowly, in the weirdest possible ways. You’d hand him a potion without speaking, and he’d take it like you’d just passed him an ancient relic. He’d offer to show you his favorite magical girl anime and you’d shrug and say, “Fine. As long as there are poison scenes I can fact-check.”

You had notes. You always had notes.

“That’s not how belladonna works. If she really drank that much she’d be blind and speaking Latin."

Levi was enchanted.

He started compiling a “Y/n Factbook” on his D.D.D. — a private entry log of everything you said, from trivia about demon flora to mildly threatening advice like “never trust someone whose hands smell like vanilla and rust.”

He didn’t know if he liked you romantically or if he wanted to be the sidekick in your morally ambiguous spin-off series. Either way, you were already living rent-free in his head.

One day, you caught him muttering to himself in the corner of the library, panic-sweating over a failed alchemy assignment.

“Why are you whispering the instructions like a confession to your diary?”

Levi jumped. “I—I wasn’t! I mean I was, but like—respectfully! I just—can’t get this transmutation to stabilize and I don’t want to fail again and let everyone down and—”

You interrupted his spiral with a precise flick of your wrist and calmly adjusted his ratios.

“Your catalyst is too wet. Dry it with wyvern salt before the reaction.”

He blinked. You weren't judging him. You were helping. Quietly. Effectively. Like you were just… used to people falling apart around you.

“...Thanks,” he said, after a beat. “Why’d you help?”

You tilted your head at him. “Because you looked like you were about to cry, and if someone cries in the library again, Lucifer said I have to clean it up.”

He laughed. Not because it was funny, but because you were. In that unintentionally deadpan, wildly competent, emotionally unavailable kind of way.

From then on, you two became a strange little unit. You’d make dry comments, Levi would overreact, you’d roll your eyes, and somehow it worked. He’d bring you obscure potion-themed anime, you’d roast their scientific inaccuracies, and he’d listen, nodding like you were revealing forbidden lore.

You weren’t touchy or affectionate you were factual and deeply suspicious of affection. But Levi? Levi was patient. He liked puzzle boxes. And you, Y/N, were the most interesting one he’d ever found.

Satan

It starts with an argument in the library.

No raised voices, no drama just a quiet but intensely sharp back-and-forth over an old Devildom pharmacology text. Satan insists that the listed dosage of wolfsbane in ancient hex cures is symbolic. You, Y/N, tilt your head at him and calmly say, “No, it’s just incorrect. That amount would liquefy someone’s liver in under ten minutes. Symbolism doesn't cause renal failure.”

He blinks.

You blink back, unbothered.

That’s when he knows he’s doomed.

Satan spends most of his time surrounded by people who are loud, arrogant, or too busy trying to impress him. You? You stroll into his favorite reading space, sniff a sample herb someone left on a desk, and casually go, “Hm. Trace arsenic. Someone here’s got clumsy enemies.”

And then just sit down like it’s not the most suspicious sentence he’s ever heard.

Satan doesn’t even know your full background yet all he knows is that you showed up at RAD one day, ignored everyone’s nonsense, and only spoke when something was wrong. Terribly, poisonously, scientifically wrong.

You didn’t flirt. You didn’t grovel. You just existed like a quiet, exhausted cat who wandered into hell and decided it was mildly tolerable.

And that? That was fascinating.

He tried to test you. Not in a mean way, more like an academic curiosity. He’d “accidentally” misquote a potion theory in front of you to see if you’d catch it. You always did.

“You’re using a 4th-era stabilizing method. That formula was disproven in the 6th century after it exploded in a royal alchemist’s face.”

You didn’t gloat. Just corrected and moved on. Like facts were facts and anything else was a waste of time.

Satan was obsessed.

He started inviting you to the library more, and was always just “coincidentally” around when you were there. At first, you didn’t seem to care. You had the emotional range of a highly judgmental squirrel one eyebrow permanently raised, zero small talk. If you had feelings, you buried them beneath seventeen layers of medical analysis and herbal notes.

But he started catching little things.

The way your fingers tapped when someone else said something incorrect. The tiny lift in your lip when a rare text surprised you. The sharpness that dulled slightly when he asked your opinion instead of assuming it.

One day, after a long silence, you looked at him and said, “You’re smarter than I expected. For someone who collects cats and grudges.”

Satan grinned like he’d just been handed the demon equivalent of a marriage proposal.

You two formed a rhythm not quite friendship, not quite rivalry, but something crackling and intelligent. You didn’t fill space with meaningless conversation, and he stopped trying to impress you with big gestures. You’d both just read, share knowledge, occasionally argue, and sometimes exchange sharp little observations like daggers dipped in honey.

“You know,” he murmured once, closing a book, “I’ve read hundreds of texts on poison. But I’ve never met anyone who could explain them in such... coldly vivid detail.”

You glanced up. “Most authors don’t work in death wards or test antidotes by taste.”

He paused. “You’ve tasted poisons?”

“I mean, not on purpose. Mostly.Mainly.Somewhat."

That was it. He was in love. Or in awe. Or both. It was hard to tell, and honestly, he didn’t care. Your mind was like a maze of sharp corners and unexpected traps, and he wanted to run through it until he either solved it or got bitten.

You weren’t openly affectionate you didn’t have the time or energy for that. But you started leaving rare medical texts at his desk. You made offhand comments about his bad sleep habits. Once, you handed him a cup of tea without looking and muttered, “Don’t drink the others. Mammon’s has a mild sedative.”

He didn’t even ask how you knew. He just drank yours.

Satan, who usually hated being underestimated, didn’t mind how you always looked at him like you were calculating how many ways he could die in a locked room. He liked it. It meant you took him seriously. And in a world where everyone either tiptoed or exploded, your steady apathy was oddly comforting.

One day, during a walk through the gardens, he said, “You know, most people are intimidated by me.”

You replied, without looking up from your sketch of a poisonous toadstool, “That’s because they don’t know what you’re really capable of. I do.”

He stared. “That supposed to be comforting?”

“No,” you said. “But it’s honest.”

Satan smiled, heart pounding far too hard for someone who just got lightly threatened in a whisper.

He decided then and there: honesty with you was better than flattery from anyone else.

Asmodeus

Asmodeus never expected to be caught off guard by someone like you.

He’s the Avatar of Lust, after all, the center of attention, the king of charm and flirtation. But then you appeared, Y/N, with your quiet confidence and a kind of cold, clinical brilliance that made him rethink everything he thought he knew about attention.

It started when you arrived at RAD. Unlike the usual adoring fans or awkward admirers who blushed and fawned, you barely spared anyone a glance. You moved with purpose, eyes scanning everything but rarely meeting anyone’s directly. Your hands were always busy jotting notes, examining herbs, or carefully handling little bottles filled with suspiciously lethal substances.

Asmodeus was instantly intrigued. Here was someone who didn’t care about appearances or popularity, and that was a new challenge entirely.

He tried to get your attention the way he always did—grand entrances, teasing smiles, and compliments dripping with double meaning.

“You know, darling,” he said one day, lounging on a velvet chaise near the potion table, “most people would be dazzled by a prince’s charisma. But you? You look like you’d rather be dissecting a snake than talking to me.”

You barely looked up from your vial, calmly replying, “I’m not here for entertainment. I’m here to test poisons. They’re far more interesting.”

That was the moment Asmodeus realized this wasn’t going to be a typical game. You weren’t like the others who chased his light, you were perfectly content in the shadows of deadly substances and hidden dangers.

He started lingering around you, under the pretense of curiosity about your poison tests. He’d watch you carefully, noting how your face changed when you identified a new toxin or discovered a hidden antidote. There was a strange kind of beauty in your precise, almost surgical movements, how you handled things too dangerous for most demons with an ease born of experience.

One afternoon, you caught him staring and said with a dry smile, “Do you want to learn something, or are you just here to look pretty?”

Asmodeus blinked, then laughed. “I’m always here to learn. And to look pretty, of course.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Pretty doesn’t survive long around poison.”

He leaned closer, voice dropping to a playful murmur. “Maybe that’s why I need someone like you—someone who knows how to handle danger.”

The banter between you was sharp and constant, like a duel of wits with no clear victor. You’d correct him when he mispronounced the names of rare herbs, and he’d tease you about your serious demeanor, calling you his “deadly little enigma.” There was an electricity in every exchange a tension built on mutual respect and something more teasing, more intimate.

Despite yourself, you found his confidence infectious. He never pushed too hard, never asked for more than you were willing to give, but he had a way of making even poison-testing sessions feel like an adventure. You started to look forward to his visits, to the sound of his voice cutting through the sterile air of your workspace.

One evening, Asmodeus showed up with a bouquet of strangely fragrant flowers. You raised an eyebrow.

“For you,” he said with a wink, “because even poison testers deserve a little softness now and then.”

You took the flowers carefully, studying them like you would a new specimen. “These are... safe?”

“Absolutely. Unless you want me to test them for you.”

You smirked, the corners of your mouth twitching with amusement. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Over time, you found yourselves sharing more than just the chemistry of toxins and antidotes. You talked about your pasts, his life of endless parties and masks, yours filled with hidden dangers and silent battles. You found in him a rare vulnerability beneath the layers of vanity, and he found in you a strength that didn’t need to shout to be noticed.

Your relationship was unconventional neither loud declarations nor grand displays. It was a quiet understanding, a dance around danger and desire, a blend of sharp intellect and softer moments stolen in between.

When Asmodeus teased you about your serious face, you’d reply with a sly grin, “Don’t mistake professionalism for coldness.”

He’d just smile back, eyes gleaming. “I like it when you’re cold. It makes the moments when you thaw all the more special.”

You might not have been the typical admirer, and he wasn’t the usual partner, but somehow, your worlds collided perfectly. Poison and perfume. Danger and desire. Science and sensuality.

And in that clash, you both found something worth holding onto.

Beelzebub

Beelzebub never imagined meeting someone like you would change the way he saw the world.

The Lord of Gluttony is known for his big appetite and easygoing nature. He loves food, comfort, and laughter, always making sure everyone around him feels cared for. But when you arrived at RAD, carrying your notebooks and vials of poisons with calm precision, he was curious in a way that went deeper than his usual playful interest.

You moved with an unshakable focus, eyes flicking between herbs and formulas, your hands steady as you tested substances that could kill if handled incorrectly. There was no trace of fear, no hesitation, just a determined calm that seemed to contrast with Beel’s warm, carefree energy.

At first, Beel watched from a distance, unsure how to approach someone so serious. You didn’t seem interested in parties or sweets, the things he loved. But then one day, he found you hunched over a tray of plants, carefully grinding leaves into powder.

“Hey,” he said gently, trying not to startle you. “What’re you making?”

You glanced up, expression cool but not unkind. “A new antidote. Someone might need it soon.”

Beel’s eyes lit up. “Whoa. That sounds important. You’re like a real-life hero, huh?”

You paused, then allowed a small, almost amused smile. “I prefer ‘poison tester.’ It’s less dramatic, but far more accurate.”

That honesty, paired with your quiet competence, drew Beel in. He started spending more time near your workspace, often bringing snacks and sweets to share, hoping to see that rare smile again. He’d joke about how you needed to eat more, but you’d just roll your eyes and remind him that poison didn’t mix well with sugar highs.

The contrast between you was striking, his easy warmth to your focused seriousness, but it was what made your friendship grow. Beel learned about your meticulous work testing every sample, your patience when experiments failed, and the weight of responsibility you carried to keep others safe.

One afternoon, he caught you examining a strange-looking mushroom with a magnifying glass. “Careful with that,” he warned softly. “Could be dangerous.”

You looked up, meeting his worried gaze, and said simply, “That’s why I’m here.”

Beel admired your bravery. You handled lethal substances without blinking, balancing risk with knowledge, and he felt a protective urge swell inside him, not because you needed saving, but because you deserved to be cared for.

He started sharing stories of his own struggles, moments when he felt overwhelmed by expectations or loneliness beneath his jovial exterior. You listened without judgment, offering thoughtful observations and practical advice in return. Your sharp mind and calm demeanor were a balm to his restless spirit.

“Sometimes,” you told him one evening as you both sat in the garden, “knowing what can kill you is the first step to knowing what’s worth living for.”

Beel nodded slowly, touched by the weight behind your words. “I get that. You’ve got a strength I never knew I needed.”

Your bond grew beyond simple friendship. Beel began to see you not just as the serious poison tester but as someone who could laugh, dream, and share quiet moments away from the chaos of RAD.

He’d bring you favorite fruits and gently tease you to take breaks. You, in turn, let your guard down enough to accept his warmth, sometimes even letting him hold your hand when the stress of your work weighed too heavy.

Their connection was natural, a balance between his big-hearted kindness and your sharp intellect. You challenged each other in the best ways he encouraged you to enjoy life’s sweetness despite its dangers, and you reminded him that strength came in many forms.

One day, Beel surprised you with a picnic under the stars, a quiet celebration of friendship and trust. As you sipped herbal tea, safe and carefully brewed by you, he smiled and said, “You’re my favorite mystery, you know. Complex and dangerous, but worth every moment.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Careful, or I’ll start thinking you’re flirting.”

Beel laughed, that warm sound that filled the night. “Maybe I am. Maybe I’m just glad to have you here.”

There was no need for grand declarations, just a steady presence, a shared understanding, and the unspoken promise that whatever dangers came, you’d face them together.

In a world where poison lurked in every corner, Beelzebub and Maomao found a rare kind of sweetness: a friendship that nourished the soul and a bond that could survive even the deadliest of tests.

Belphegor

Belphegor didn’t trust you at first.

You were far too quiet, far too observant — eyes always narrowed in calculation, mouth set in a line that said “I’m tired of your nonsense before you’ve even opened your mouth.” It was a bit too familiar. You reminded him of Lucifer, if Lucifer were tiny, female-coded, and came with a tray of deadly mushrooms and a habit of muttering chemical formulas in the corner of the room like a gremlin.

So naturally, Belphie’s first instinct was to poke.

He’d lean over the back of the couch where you were scribbling notes about herb interactions, yawning loudly and asking, “So, if I wanted to poison Lucifer, how long would it take him to die if I mixed this with his coffee?”

You didn’t even glance up. “Depends. Is he drinking it on an empty stomach?”

That was the exact moment Belphie fell in like.

He wasn’t used to humans who could match his energy or, more accurately, laziness-disguised-as-malicious-compliance energy. You, with your unimpressed stare and unshakeable calm, were different from the other exchange students. Where others panicked, you planned. Where others fumbled through Devildom chaos, you studied it like a patient scientist poking a venomous snake.

He once watched you calmly explain to Mammon that the “weird buzzing” in his ears was not, in fact, a hex, but likely dehydration and stress. And then you made him a bitter tonic that tasted like despair and herbal resentment. Mammon cried. You didn’t blink.

Belphie was obsessed.

At first, his affection came in the form of mild torment. He’d sneak into your apothecary workshop and move your vials two inches to the left. He’d rearrange your note pages just enough to ruin your filing system. He even let a small gremlin demon loose in your lab once.

You countered by placing a slow-acting itch powder in his hoodie. He didn’t figure it out for two days. He was impressed.

Your war of casual menace slowly gave way to something more companionable. Belphie would crash in your workroom, curled on the floor like a lazy cat while you crushed dried petals or scribbled toxicology charts. He didn’t talk much, and neither did you, but the quiet was never awkward. It was the kind of silence you could rest in, the kind where no one demanded anything of you.

“Why do you care so much about poison, anyway?” he asked once, eyes barely open.

You stared into your steaming beaker. “Because poison doesn’t lie. It either works or it doesn’t.”

Belphie cracked one eye open. “That’s... surprisingly dark. I like it.”

He didn’t say it, but he understood your obsession with control, with knowing outcomes in a world that constantly shifted. It reminded him of what it felt like in the attic, alone, uncertain, relying only on himself. You were the same: guarded, meticulous, always keeping a wall between you and everyone else.

So Belphie stopped trying to knock it down.

Instead, he leaned against it. Teased you gently. Sat close without crowding. Asked questions without expecting answers. He became a quiet, sleepy presence at your side, someone who didn’t demand vulnerability but made space for it anyway.

And you, in your own slow-burning way, began to let him in. You brewed tea for him when his insomnia got bad. You mumbled out dry compliments when he helped you move crates. You even admitted once, in a whisper so fast he almost missed it, that you didn’t hate his company.

“I’m honored,” he said, grinning, and you smacked him with a notebook.

One night, after a long day of chaotic demon politics and poisoned pastries (long story), you both lay sprawled on the floor of the observatory, staring at the ceiling.

“You know,” he murmured, “if I died from one of your potions, I’d probably forgive you.”

You snorted. “You’d haunt me and rearrange all my ingredients.”

“I’d spell insults in dried rosemary.”

You let the silence stretch between you for a while before quietly replying, “You’d probably be the only ghost I wouldn’t mind.”

Belphie blinked. Smiled.

No grand gestures. No big confessions.

Just two tired minds tangled together in quiet companionship, finding comfort in the certainty that neither would ever be forced to explain themselves too much.

And for once, that was enough.

Thank you so much for reading! 🩷 I hope you all enjoyed! Please send more asks! As usually Reblogs are encouraged and appreciated!😋

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