#NET-INTELLIGENCE(EMOTION)

[wokeskarra]

errr does anyone like very strange ocs or

Anyways... Supa Strikas OC but the thing is she's merely digital and not physical! At all! She's called NET-IE or NETTIE. Her color palette is literally just black and white erm

Oh and her voice is basically just. Siri. She got too lazy and decided to use a robot voice instead of her real voice. Helps to hide her.

She only hijacks when IU is playing and "helps" them by changing the score on the scoreboard. (This isn't her true reason for hijacking) She only shows her "true" form as an announcer (when she's bored or frustrated, she'll show up on the scoreboard to passive aggressively tell the team to get their shit together)

Despite being a bot, many people theorize that she's actually a human behind the screen due to her uncanny human behaviour. Many say she's sentient, but who really knows?

Also, she's this blog's mascot! She'll show up periodically.

[ink-bunny2]

something something about autism masking and how it relates to Mystreet Garroth’s character development. something about how Mystreet Aphmau “Has Never Masked Her Chaotic Audhd Once In Her Life” McGee influences Garroth to crawl out of his posh boy shell and goof off and run wild

[llycaons]

any time a fandom type post starts with "I firmly believe" or "you can't tell me that-" it's almost 100% guaranteed to be the most random and unsupported obnoxious fanon. I've noticed it a lot in the mdzs/cql fandom specifically

[wear-your-story]

Airdrop is a great and promising project for emotional intelligence.

[coldhands-sunkeneyes]

Jesus everyone in this spring break trip starts telling me their deepest fears and regrets the second alcohol passes their lips. Girl I’m trying to have fun not clock in as your unpaid therapist 🙄

[neurotica-tales]

Forged in Obsession (Yandere Hiccup x Reader)

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

When you first arrive in Berk, you're captivated by dragons and drawn into the fascinating world of their gentle and ingenious rider, Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III. His kindness, awkward charm, and inventive brilliance quickly make him your closest friend—but beneath his sweet smiles and thoughtful gestures lies a quiet, growing obsession. Unbeknownst to you, every compliment and smile fuels Hiccup’s desperate desire to keep you close. As he carefully hides the intensity of his feelings, the line between friendship and possession begins to blur. Soon, you realize the gentle inventor who stole your heart may never let you leave.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

TW: Obsessive behavior, possessiveness, emotional manipulation, stalking.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Part 2 now up! Click HERE!

Companion Piece: Caught in the Net (Tuffnut's POV)

Next: Yandere Hiccup Headcanon, The First Kindness (Yandere Tuffnut x Reader)

To find my master list, click HERE.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The journey to Berk was harsh -- incredibly so -- and many times, you thought about giving up. You weren’t used to cold air biting at your cheeks or snow crunching under your boots. It was so cold you wondered if you'd even make it to Berk before you froze to death. You ask yourself several times about what on earth was it that possessed you to travel to a place in which you've never been before, somewhere that is freezing 12 months of the year. But whenever the thought passed your mind, you'd console yourself with one word.

Dragons.

You were from a place where dragons were myths, legends spoken about in hushed tones or embellished stories told over fires. But Berk? Berk had dragons like trees had leaves. Living, breathing, majestic creatures that soared overhead and curled beside Viking homes like overgrown, scaly cats. The first time you saw a Nadder swoop across the sky, golden spikes glittering like fire in the sun, your breath caught in your throat. This place was everything you'd ever dreamed of—and more. You desperately wanted to see any other dragons the world had to offer with your own eyes, and this yearning gave you the strength to endure every fierce snowstorm and punishing hailstorm.

You arrived in Berk by ship, cloaked and hooded against the biting wind, your pack strapped to your back and your boots worn from travel. Most people paid you no mind. You were just another stranger come to gawk at dragons or seek wisdom from the famous Dragon Riders. Your eyes, however, were wide with wonder, not awe. You weren’t here for stories or fame. You were here because you believed dragons were more than beasts—you believed they were beautiful

So when you arrived—a stranger with no name recognized and no clan claimed—the Berkians didn't give you a second glance. They were used to wanderers by now. Ever since dragons became allies rather than enemies, Berk had gained a reputation across the archipelago.

You kept to yourself, mostly. Wandered the village. Watched the dragons from afar. But there was one that caught your eye the very first day.

He was sleek, black as obsidian with wide green eyes that shimmered like the sea. He had a broken tail fin—one that had clearly been patched and tinkered with, a mechanical hinge enabling flight. His movements were silent, like shadows on silk, but he had a youthful curiosity to him too. Playful, intelligent.

You didn’t know his name.

Only that you saw him first at dawn, perched on a roof with his tail curled like a cat’s, and ever since… you couldn’t help but follow. Just to catch another glimpse.

You weren’t stupid. You knew he had a rider. Some lanky Viking guy with brown hair and a face full of freckles. People always swarmed around him—called him “Chief,” “Dragon Master,” “Hiccup.” But he never caught your interest.

At least, not at first.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

It took a week.

A full week of tailing Toothless like some lovesick puppy, sketching him, whispering excited nothings to yourself whenever he soared overhead, crouching behind barrels to observe him interact with other dragons. You never meant to be subtle—just quiet. You didn’t want to scare him off. He was just so… beautiful.

Then one morning, you turned the corner by Gobber’s forge and ran smack into a chest.

“Oof—sorry—!”

“You.”

You blinked.

The voice was flat. Not angry… but definitely not thrilled either. You tilted your head and looked up.

Freckles. Green eyes. Leather armor. Slight scowl.

“Uh… Hiccup, right?”

His arms were crossed. “So, are you gonna tell me why you’ve been following me for days?”

The words hit you like a bucket of cold water.

“Excuse me?”

He squinted. “I’ve seen you. Don’t pretend I haven’t. First the market, then the docks, then yesterday by the edge of the cove. Always behind something, always looking like you’re trying not to look.”

Your cheeks burned. “I—I wasn’t following you!”

“Oh, really?”

“I was following… your dragon!”

There was a pause.

“What.”

You pointed past him. “The black one. Toothless, right? He’s… he’s gorgeous. I’ve never seen anything like him. I wasn’t watching you, I was watching him.”

Hiccup blinked.

Then blinked again.

Toothless peeked out from behind the forge, tail twitching curiously. As if on cue, he gave a small purr-like sound and nosed at Hiccup’s hand. Immediately, you pursed your lips as you try to not coo at the sight of something so adorable. This was the closest you had ever been to Toothless, and you honestly admitted that he was even more majestic and cute up close, especially with that sleek body of his and the round curious eyes.

The Chief stared at you in dumbfounded silence, mouth slightly open as he witnessed you gushing over his best friend first hand.

“…Oh.”

You shrugged awkwardly, smile embarrassed. “Yeah. Sorry. If I creeped you out, that wasn’t my intention. I just… I love dragons. I came here hoping to see some, and he’s just so—”

“No, no! It’s fine!” he cut in quickly, scratching the back of his neck. “That makes… sense. Wow. I feel stupid now.”

You giggled. “You really thought I was stalking you?”

“I mean,” he muttered, “it’s not like it hasn’t happened before…”

You gave him a look. He immediately went red.

“I didn’t mean—! Ugh, never mind. I’m sorry for confronting you like that. Just… wasn’t sure what was going on.”

You smiled, holding out a hand. “I’m (Y/N) , by the way.”

His fingers hesitated before closing around yours. Warm. Calloused. Surprising strength for someone so wiry.

“Hiccup.”

“I know,” you teased gently.

He smiled, sheepish.

And just like that, something between you clicked.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

It became routine after that.

You’d drop by the forge in the late mornings, when the air was still laced with frost and the smell of soot and steel drifted from the chimney. The place was warm—cozy in its own rugged, metallic way. Gobber would usually bark orders or wander off on errands, leaving you alone with Hiccup in the belly of the forge where the dragon fire kept the shadows at bay.

He was always there, hammering at metal, sleeves rolled up, soot on his cheeks and grease on his fingers. And when he saw you? His entire face lit up. Not dramatically—but in that soft, quiet way that felt real. Honest. He would glance up from his work, his mouth twitching into a crooked smile, and greet you like you were the only person who mattered in that moment.

And you began to linger.

At first, it was innocent curiosity. You asked about the tools, the gears, the strange contraptions that lay scattered across the tables like discarded puzzle pieces. Hiccup answered with enthusiasm that made you smile—his voice speeding up, his hands moving rapidly to show you how something worked, why it failed, or how Toothless had inspired it.

Sometimes, Toothless would rest nearby, lazily curled up on a bed of furs, purring softly when you ran your fingers across his snout. The dragon’s presence was a comfort to both of you. To him, you were a kindred spirit—gentle, patient, genuine.

But Hiccup... Hiccup began watching you more closely.

At first, it was subtle. You’d catch him glancing up while you were talking, his green eyes lingering a little longer than necessary. Then his gaze would drop to your lips, your hands, the sway of your expression as you talked about home or dragons or life beyond Berk.

One afternoon, after a long explanation about a new gliding saddle he was prototyping, you burst into applause, your eyes sparkling. “You’re brilliant, you know that?”

Hiccup’s breath caught.

No one said that to him. Not like that. Not with sincerity that made his chest ache.

He laughed it off—at least, he tried to. “Brilliant’s a strong word. More like… stubborn with a hammer.”

But you stepped closer, taking the prototype in your hands. “No. You see things others can’t. You think differently, and that’s what makes you special.”

He was silent.

And in that silence, his fingers accidentally brushed yours.

Neither of you moved away.

His hand lingered, the calloused pads of his fingers grazing the side of your knuckle. His gaze dropped to the contact and stayed there. You heard the forge fire crackle behind you. Felt the heat of it on your back—and the warmth of his presence in front of you.

“I… I’m really glad you’re here,” he said quietly.

You looked up, surprised.

“Berk doesn’t get many people like you,” he added, eyes flicking to yours, the barest tremble in his voice. “People who… look at dragons and see friends. Who look at me and don’t just see the Chief.”

You smiled. “I don’t think I’ve ever thought of you as just a chief.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“You don’t have to be perfect, Hiccup,” you continued. “You can just be you.”

Something broke open in him then—some soft, fragile part that had been locked up for years.

He didn’t say anything else. He only smiled.

But after that, the way he looked at you changed.

Each morning, he seemed to sense your arrival before you reached the door. He started keeping little things aside for you—small trinkets, unfinished carvings of dragons, bits of metal shaped like flowers or stars. He told you they were scraps. You knew better.

You caught him one evening, staring at a new piece he was working on. A delicate pendant shaped like a Night Fury’s wing.

He didn’t offer it to you.

Not yet.

But when you left that night, you felt his eyes on your back.

And when you turned to wave, he was still there—standing in the warm glow of the forge, that same crooked smile on his lips.

And something else in his eyes.

Something that made your heart flutter.

You didn’t know it yet.

But that was the moment Hiccup Haddock truly began to fall in love.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

After that night, something shifted.

It wasn’t just that you visited the forge more often—it was that Hiccup began needing you to. He started watching the door before you even arrived, finding himself distracted, irritable when you were late or didn’t come at all. On the days you couldn’t visit, a part of him wilted.

He never said anything about it. Not directly.

But the next day, he would be quieter. Less focused. He’d burn metal or misalign a gear or forget to feed Toothless. He brushed it off when Gobber commented, but Toothless wasn’t so easily fooled. The dragon’s eyes would flick between him and the door, a quiet rumble forming in his throat when he sensed his rider’s unease.

“She’ll be back,” Hiccup would whisper under his breath. “She always comes back.”

And when you did? The light returned to his eyes as if you’d carried the sun in with you.

He started inventing reasons to keep you close. Small repairs he “needed help with.” Dragon anatomy sketches he wanted your opinion on. Flights that just happened to coincide with your daily errands. He never asked directly for your time, but it was clear—he didn’t want to share it.

He didn’t want to share you.

It started with little things.

One afternoon, you were laughing with Fishlegs in the dragon stables. You’d both been admiring Meatlug’s newly polished armor—Fishlegs was animated, nerdy, and incredibly sweet. You admired his knowledge and patience, and the two of you often shared harmless banter.

Hiccup had come looking for you.

He paused in the doorway, hearing your laughter echo against the stone walls.

His eyes narrowed. Not in anger—yet—but in something like confusion. Curiosity. A tightness in his chest he couldn’t quite name.

You turned and waved. “Hey, Hiccup!”

He smiled back, but it was thinner than usual. Forced.

Fishlegs noticed it too. “We were just talking about Gronkles’ eating habits. Did you know they can digest rocks better than any other dragon?”

“I know,” Hiccup said. Then added, quickly, “Can I borrow you for a moment?”

You blinked. “Sure.”

He didn’t touch your arm, didn’t tug you away. But the look in his eyes was heavy. He didn’t glance at Fishlegs again.

Once you were out of the stables, you smiled up at him. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, too fast. Then, “I just… missed you at the forge today.”

“I was helping Gothi gather herbs,” you explained. “She asked for help translating some old runes too.”

“I know,” he murmured, gaze flicking to the side. “I looked for you.”

The words settled between you.

“Oh,” you said softly.

He glanced at you, then quickly looked away. “It’s nothing. I just… I like it better when you’re around. That’s all.”

Your smile was warm. “I like being around you too.”

That should’ve reassured him.

It didn’t.

The next day, you mentioned you’d promised Astrid you’d help her sharpen weapons for the upcoming patrol.

Hiccup nodded. “Of course. That’s great.”

But he lingered longer at the forge that afternoon. Stared at the table even after you left. Toothless whined once and nudged his elbow, prompting him to snap out of it.

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

But he wasn’t.

That evening, Astrid found him on the cliffs with Toothless. He was sketching furiously, wind tousling his hair, eyes red-rimmed from too many hours without rest.

“You okay?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Just thinking,” he mumbled.

“About her?”

His pencil stilled.

“I’m not blind, Hiccup,” Astrid said softly.

He didn’t respond.

“She’s good for you. Just… don’t forget to breathe, alright?”

Hiccup smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Breathing’s never been the problem. It’s what happens when she’s not around that worries me.”

You were becoming his entire world.

And he would do anything to keep you in it.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

At first, Hiccup didn’t let himself think about it.

The possibility that you might one day leave Berk.

But it crept into his mind like a slow-growing rot—subtle, silent, until he could no longer ignore it.

You were a traveler. A wanderer. You didn’t belong to any clan or holdfast. You spoke of distant lands and strange creatures with a wistfulness that tugged at something deep inside him. At first, he’d loved that about you—how your voice lit up when you talked about your adventures, your eyes shining with memories he wasn’t part of.

But then he began to realize: you had a life before Berk. A whole world that didn’t include him.

And what if—after all this—you decided to return to it?

The thought made his stomach twist.

He tried to be logical. You liked it here. You were getting along well with the other villagers. The dragons adored you. And you spent more time with him than anyone else.

But logic didn’t quiet the ache in his chest.

It only made it worse.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

One evening, after the forge had grown quiet and the air outside was painted with the pale gold of sunset, you told him about a storm you once survived at sea.

“It was the worst weather I’d ever seen,” you said, legs curled beneath you on a bench near the fire. “I thought the boat would split in two. But the morning after, the sky was so clear. Like the storm had never even happened.”

Hiccup listened, jaw resting on his hand, eyes fixed on your lips.

You continued, “Part of me misses that—traveling, waking up in a new place each week. Seeing what’s out there. It’s… freeing.”

Something flickered in his expression. His fingers tensed against the edge of the table.

“You miss it?” he asked, voice low.

You nodded absently. “Sometimes. Not as much lately, though. Berk’s grown on me. People are kind. The dragons… well, you know.” You smiled.

He tried to smile back.

But the warmth had drained from his chest, replaced by a cold anxiety that gnawed at his ribs.

You weren’t from here.

And no matter how much he loved seeing you curled up by his forge, laughing with the dragons, brushing soot off your clothes with that little huff you always did—none of it guaranteed you’d stay.

He didn’t sleep well that night.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The next day, he was quieter. Focused—but not on his work. He kept glancing at you, watching the way you moved through the village, laughing with Astrid or feeding a Terrible Terror with one hand as you scribbled notes with the other.

He started imagining things.

You packing your bag.

You waving goodbye.

You boarding a ship that sailed over the horizon and never returned.

And it terrified him.

He’d lost things before. People. Places. The feeling of being understood.

He couldn’t lose you too.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

That evening, as the village lights dimmed and the dragons nestled into their nightly roosts, Hiccup approached you.

Toothless followed silently behind him, watchful.

“Hey,” Hiccup said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Do you have a moment?”

You looked up from the saddle you’d been adjusting. “Of course.”

He hesitated. Then motioned for you to walk with him.

The two of you wandered past the edge of the village, where the cliffs opened up to the sea and the wind tasted like salt. The sky was deep indigo, scattered with stars. Toothless walked a short distance behind, giving you space.

“I wanted to ask you something,” Hiccup said finally, eyes fixed on the waves below. “Do you… do you think you’ll stay in Berk?”

You blinked. “What?”

“I mean—eventually. Not now, not tomorrow. But long term. Do you think this place could be home?”

You studied him. “That’s a big question.”

“I know.” He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s just… I’ve been thinking. You’re not from here. And people who aren’t from here usually don’t stay. They see the dragons, they marvel at the village, and then they leave.”

You took a step closer, your voice softer. “I’m not planning to leave anytime soon.”

“But that’s not a no.”

He wasn’t accusing. Not quite. But his eyes searched yours like he was trying to read a decision you hadn’t made yet.

“I don’t know what the future holds,” you admitted. “I didn’t expect to come to Berk in the first place. But I’ve grown attached to this place. To the people. To you.”

His breath hitched.

“To me?”

You smiled. “Of course to you. You’ve been nothing but patient and generous. I feel safe with you.”

That should have reassured him.

But it only made him more afraid.

Because even love could be temporary.

Even warmth could fade.

And he didn’t want to live in a world where your voice was just a memory.

“I made something,” he said suddenly.

You looked up. “Oh?”

He reached into his vest and pulled out a pendant—smooth, dark metal shaped into the silhouette of a dragon wing, not unlike Toothless’s.

“It’s Gronkle Iron,” he said, voice hushed. “Lightweight. Stronger than normal iron. I carved the runes myself.”

He didn’t mention that some of those runes were ancient tracking sigils that he got from Gothi by bribing her with Gobber's famous yak noodle soup. It's for protective purposes, he’d tell himself. Not invasive. Not possessive.

He held it out to you. “I thought… maybe it could remind you of here. Of us. In case you ever…”

He trailed off.

You took it gently, touched by the gift. “It’s beautiful.”

He didn’t respond.

Just watched you slip the chain around your neck, the metal glinting faintly in the moonlight.

And in that moment, Hiccup made a quiet vow to himself.

If you ever tried to leave—if the winds of wanderlust called you away—he would find a way to bring you back.

Because you weren’t just someone passing through his life.

You were home.

And he would never let home slip through his fingers again.

[innerfare]

Luffy Fluff // Angst Compilation 

Summary: A compilation of Luffy angst and fluff from my multi character posts (You're Wounded, Brushing Your Teeth Together, Flowers, Type of Date, You See His Cabin, Fighting and Making Up, Paradise, Nightmares, I Love You, You're Jealous, Wearing His Hat).

Genre: Fluff // Angst

CW: None // SFW

———

You’re Wounded: 

Makes a light joke, inspects the wound himself even if there’s a doctor present, will help bandage you up if you need it. Pretends to be nonchalant about the entire thing, is panicking inside. Fully realizes the depths of his affection for you, is terrified to realize it’s love.  

Brushing Your Teeth Together: 

Turns it into a competition. “First one done wins!” “Luffy, no!” Also gets toothpaste absolutely everywhere. If he was in the habit of wearing shirts, all of his would have toothpaste (and food) stains on them. 

Flowers: 

Not one to buy you flowers. Instead, he picks them. Sometimes they’re weeds he thought looked pretty, other times, he presents you with a lush bundle of pink carnations you think he must have picked from a commercial flower field (this man has no concept of private property). He’s always very proud to present them because he worked hard to secure them; you'd better give him a kiss for his effort. Has, on occasion, accidentally brought you some that are poisonous. Also once brought you a bundle of radishes because he thought you would like the color. Receiving flowers from Luffy can be a bit like receiving a lizard from your pet cat. 

Type of Date: 

Everyone thinks he’d want to take you to dinner, probably to an all you can eat buffet, but this boy would actually drag you to an amusement/theme park. You’ll go on all the rides, riding the scariest ones multiple times over, and by the end of the day, you’ll have a stack of photos taken just before the roller coaster dropped. He’ll probably want to grab a bite to eat afterward, as if he didn’t already sample everything the amusement park had to offer; definitely something casual, like a burger or bbq joint. 

You See His Cabin For The First Time: 

He's literally so proud of just his hammock. Insists it can hold the both of you and could probably hold the entire crew if you tried, asks if you want to try, asks you if you’re sure when you say no. Definitely has a couple of dirty dishes that he’s forgotten about, as well as a few wrappers on the floor. Has some fishing poles, a net, quite a few different games, and a bookshelf that’s full of both comic books and snacks so that he doesn’t have to go all the way to the kitchen if he gets hungry in the middle of the night. 

Fighting and Making Up: 

You fight about his recklessness. You knew who he was when you fell in love with him and you don’t want to change him, but sometimes, it gets to be too much and you lose your cool. One perk of dating Luffy, though, is that he has very high emotional intelligence, so if it’s one of those fights where you just need your space, he’ll give it to you, waiting patiently for you to approach him to make amends (although it does weigh on him quite a bit when the two of you are at odds, like he’s waiting for the hammer to drop on your relationship; he has such an intense fear of you leaving him it’s unreal. He also struggles with the separation because he’s so clingy). He doesn’t really talk through the fight and do the whole apology thing, just pounces on you and kisses all over your face as soon as he can sense you’re good and ready to receive his affection again. If it was a really bad one, he might pick some flowers to give you. 

Paradise 1: 

Meandering through the woods in search of the tallest, most impressive tree, him giving you a boost up to the first branch to get you started before climbing up himself, staying behind you the entire time so he can catch you in case you fall. Finally piercing the canopy and poking your heads up above the forest, his hand on your leg to keep you steady, the two of you grinning as birds fly by, basking in the afternoon sun. 

Paradise 2: 

Escaping the chaos of life and climbing a desolate hill, sharing a late afternoon snack as you stare up at the clouds and point out different shapes, saying, “that’s you,” when you see a funny one. Arguing over which one of you gets to be the dragon cloud, your argument turning into roughhousing and the two of you accidentally rolling down the hill, him laughing and kissing your cheek when he knows you’re okay and then starting the argument again. 

Nightmares: 

He grins at the sight of you standing on a cliffside looking out over the water, tranquil in the peace of night. He hurries toward you and puts his hand on your shoulder to turn you around, ready to place a happy kiss on your lips, only to stop short at the sight of your face. You’re completely devoid of joy, the life and will to live sucked out of you by a force he can’t control. You’re a husk, and he’s powerless against it. He realizes the darkness isn’t from night, that there are no stars glimmering in the sky, that the world has had the goodness sucked out of it, yours along with it, leaving you empty. He wakes up with tears in his eyes and buries his face in his pillow to muffle his sob. 

Wearing His Hat: 

Luffy is very protective of his hat. It’s his most prized possession, given to him by his beloved father figure. He’d fight the bloodiest war in human history to get that hat back should someone steal it from him. It’s for that reason he’s shocked by his own reaction when you get a little tipsy one night and pluck it off his head, placing it atop yours. 

“Call me Captain,” you tell the crew, going member by member and giving them orders, getting onto Zoro’s case for not saluting like Usopp and Chopper did. 

He doesn’t feel the urge to snatch it back, doesn’t feel even a touch of anxiety that you could misplace or damage it. Rather, he feels a sense of pride- everyone knows him by his straw hat, so if you’re wearing it, everyone knows you’re his. And it’s in that moment he realizes that you’re his- not his belonging, but his person. You’re the one he wants to walk through this life beside, the person who chose to wear his hat. 

I Love You: 

He showed it first, asking you to join his crew, making sure you had a safe and healthy place to be yourself, fighting anyone who stands between you and your dreams, saving his funniest jokes until you're around to hear and giggle at them, even going so far as to share a little (really, only a little) bit of his meal with you, but you were the only who actually said it first. He gets severely injured after a nasty fight, and you stay by his side while he sleeps it off like he normally does, though it takes him longer than usual to wake up. When he does finally wake up looking for you and something to eat, you fling yourself on him and tell him how much you love him. You didn’t intend on confessing, but you were so worried about him and the words fell from your lips as soon as you knew he was okay. Your brows are still furrowed, and when Luffy asks why, you voice your insecurity that he doesn't feel the same way. Luffy just laughs at that and ruffles your hair. “Of course I do.” With that, he crawls out of bed in search of food. He quickly falls into the habit of telling you in the morning when you wake up, and it fills you with so much joy, it’s like he’s giving you a happy vitamin to start your day. And saying those words bring him so much joy that saying them is like he's taking a happy vitamin, too. 

You’re Jealous: 

He never told you Boa Hancock was in love with him, and when you find out, you have to remove yourself from the situation before you have an emotional outburst and start something with the Pirate Empress. The problem is, you don’t even know which emotion will spill out of you. Finding out the world’s most beautiful woman, and a powerful Warlord, no less, is desperate to marry Luffy is a whirlwind, to say the least. Luffy can seem clueless at times, but his emotional intelligence is through the roof, and he picks up on what has you upset almost straight away. He knows to give you some space, and when he senses you’re ready, he approaches you with a handful of wildflowers he picked. He doesn’t really say much, just pulls you into a hug, presses a few kisses into your cheek and temple, and says in your ear, “you’re my girl.” 

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

[suzukiblu]

Thank-you sentences for Ten; Billy adopts Conner and it actually goes pretty good! (( chrono || non-chrono ))

Billy, technically, is the kind of person that someone like Superman would literally never even notice when he’s not Captain Marvel. But he’s seen Superman notice exactly that kind of person more times than he can even count, and not say anything patronizing or pitying either to their faces or about them after, and it’s always . . . 

He doesn’t really know how to explain what that feels like to Lynn, he thinks. The wisdom of Solomon is not necessarily, like, the “emotional intelligence” of Solomon. Or at least, not in a way where Billy can always figure out how to explain what he’s thinking to other people. And feelings are so subjective anyway, so–well, yeah. It just gets complicated, and Billy doesn’t even know if Lynn even understands what he’s feeling all that often yet, considering, much less what other people are. He’s still brand-new, and he still mostly just knows what he’s been told, and on top of that Cadmus mostly told him stupid shit, too. 

A lot of stupid shit, it seems like. 

“Important,” Lynn echoes, and then–frowns, a little. “But not ‘valuable’?” 

“Like–everybody’s important,” Billy says, and shrugs again as he sets the plates on the counter next to the stove and starts scooping the veggies onto them. Though maybe he should’ve started with the salmon, because now there’s veggies rolling everywhere, so–shit, okay, this is fine, he can do this and still talk like, all reasonably and normally and stuff. “Not everybody’s got, I dunno, a net worth or a specialized skillset or super-helpful superpowers or anything like that. Or a price tag, I guess. Metaphorically and all.” 

“Eight point two billion,” Lynn says abruptly, his voice clipped. 

“Huh?” Billy wrinkles his nose at him. “What’s–?” 

“Me,” Lynn says, still clipped. “Eight point two billion USD."

[wokeskarra]

[desifemininewoman]

Amazing facts we were never told growing up that will absolutely blow your mind and hopefully empower you a bit too.

Menopause Is Rare

We all know that every species is main purpose, speaking in evolutionary terms, is to reproduce. So, if we really think about it, then why does menopause exist?

Humein bachpan se directly or indirectly yahi sikhaya jaata hai ki we women are only good for breeding. Our main purpose is baccha paida krna. Especially in our society, we are still expected to not continue our jobs, not continue studying, basically drop everything and be a housewife and push out babies.

But guess what? Only 5 species in total experience menopause. And the theory for that is that menopause is the nature's way to slow you down. To limit reproduction. So that women can pass down knowledge and caregiving. This is linked to evolution of intelligence, culture and complex society.

So, the next time someone says ki ladkiya toh baccha paida krne ke liye hoti hai, hit them with this.

Sperm Quality Affects Pregnancy Outcomes

Sperm isn’t just about fertilization. It affects placenta formation, embryo development, and the immune response of the pregnant person’s body.

Poor sperm quality has been linked to higher miscarriage risks, preeclampsia, and even developmental disorders later in life.

AND! Men’s age affects all this—just like egg quality declines, sperm does too. We just don’t talk about it.

We were always told that the whole child-rearing process is solely ours. Bss 2 minute ka kaam hai ladko ka and that's it. The child grows in our belly and the whole process is something only we have to go through.

WRONG!

This just takes out responsibility from the men. In reality, just like we have to go threw the whole 9 month period of growing a baby in our womb, men have to take care of themselves before pregnancy. The whole pregnancy depends on the quality of sperm. Jitna dhyan humein rkhna padhta hai during pregnancy, men should do the same before pregnancy. Cause their sperm health determines how smoothly the pregnancy would go and also the baby's health.

Male and Female Bodies React Differently to Diseases and Medication

I guess most of us know this one. But medical research has mostly been done for male bodies, even for conditions that affect women more. This is why, till date, we have no proper birth control pills or better solutions for PCOD/PCOS and other female related issues.

If you search the net right now, it will still say that all these diseases are incurable which is untrue. No one has bothered to actually do proper medical research on women.

The pills that they give us for such issues does more harm than good in the long run but we are just never warned about it.

Male Birth Control Exists—But Was Stopped Due to Side Effects Women Face Daily

This one just blew my mind man. There has been a lot of tries with male birth control pills. And one was so damn successful also. 320 man were taken for this study. The sperm count went down significantly when they used that pill but it was stopped because some men reported they faced acne, mood swings and fatigue.

Meanwhile, these are side effects women have endured for decades on the pill.

The Uterus Can Contract in Response to Emotional Stress

That pain during anxiety or heartbreak? Real.

Emotions trigger physical responses in the uterus—like tension, cramping, and bloating. That’s why stress can delay or worsen periods.

So, that's all on my facts bomb train for today.

[teyamsilly]

dark red

pairing: neteyam x metkayina! reader

tags & warning: arguments, short tempered reader, soft spoken neteyam, neteyam has emotional intelligence, a bit angst

summary: neteyam missed your dates four times in a row because of his ikinimiya training— that he insisted on having because your father wants yourself a mate who's done ikinimiya the metkayina way. you brushed it off, but when you saw him smiling at another girl at the time your date is supposed to happen, you snapped.

index paskalin - honey

word count 1.2k words

a/n posting this at midnight and half asleep because i suddeny had an idea 💪🏻

Sighing, you gently took off the shells Tsireya attached to your hair for decoration. The top you wore was especially meant for special occasions. You wanted to appear nice for Neteyam since you spent shorter and shorter periods with him.

This was the fourth date that he couldn't come to, and he sent Lo'ak to tell you. Neteyam told you the first time that he was preoccupied with last-minute training. He told you the same thing the second time. However, on the third occasion, Kiri informed you that he had been engrossed in training yet again. And it was his brother this time.

Something bad is 'bout to happen to me

I don't know it, but I feel it coming

Neteyam would be so worn out thereafter that he would immediately fall asleep. You sympathise with what he's going through because you've been there yourself. Complaining made you feel insensitive and unreasonable, also he was doing this for you. It never felt right to voice your concerns about the amount of time you're spending together lately.

But you miss him so much. The warm touch of his skin against yours, his lips pressing against yours, and his warm smile that never fails to make you fall for him all over again.

You huffed, deciding to meet him halfway when he goes home and give him the longest hug, because it finally hit you: you missed him too much.

You left your marui, feeling the net dipping slightly at each step you took. However, you stopped your movement when your ears twitched at a particular sound.

Neteyam's voice.

You peered ahead, brows pinched together, as his figure approached. He wasn't alone, though. He was with a girl you knew. Ila'yu was one of the best hunters in the clan. She's strong and bold. The two of you trained together and completed ikinimiya at the same age, there was no competition whatsoever.

Yet you cant help but feel possessive.

Ila'yu said something, making gestures as she did so, and Neteyam broke out a laugh. They didn't notice your presence until they were five feet away from you.

Might be so sad, might leave my nose running

I just hope she don't wanna leave me

Neteyam's eyes brightened up at the sight of you, oblivious to your harsh demeanour. Ila'yu noted your expression and remained firm on her spot as he approached you happily.

"I will see you tomorrow, Neteyam," says Ila'yu. She sent a nod towards your way, but you didn't return it.

He nodded, and grinned, "Thank you for today."

Once she was gone, Neteyam looked back at you with every intent to put all of his attention on you. He cupped your face with his rough hands, thumbs carressing your cheeks softly. "I haven't seen you in a while, paskalin." The boy leaned in for a kiss, but you pulled away and left him there standing, dumbfounded.

Neteyam was stumped. He was processing what had just occurred and began to recount all of the things he had done to you that would have hurt you. His sole thought was that he had missed another date, so he rushed inside your marui.

You were fuming, ears pinned against your head. You looked so much like your mother, it intimidated him a bit.

"What was that?" you seethed.

"What was what, paskalin?" he asked softly, stepping closer to you but you walked farther away from him. 

"What were you doing with her?"

Neteyam attempted to hold your hand, but you just slapped his hand away. "She assisted me with training. Your father couldn't observe the people in training, so he assigned her to teach us. Nothing happened," he explained.

You scoffed, "And you just happen to walk home together?"

"She accompanied me-"

"Right."

"Paskalin," he exhaled gently.

"We haven't spent time together anymore, and I was fine with it because you had training. Each time, I asked for Kiri and Tsireya's opinions on what to wear because you work so hard. And then I see you with her? Are you fucking kidding me?" you raised your voice. "You two look so happy together, must be nice to spend some time together! Oh, why don't we invite her to our mat? She can sleep with-"

Neteyam pursed his lips, exhaustion setting in. He knew that he had neglected you for a while within reason, but it still felt wrong. Every time he tried to make amends with you, something would get in the way. With your ferocious outburst, he wondered how long you'd kept to yourself.

Don't you give me up, please don't give up

Honey, I belong with you, and only you, baby

"Paskalin," he cut you off with the same gentle tone. "I don't want to argue with you. You're angry, I understand. But I don't want us to speak to each other like this. Why don't we take the moment to calm ourselves and then we talk about it?"

You blinked when he responded softly. He didn't appear upset or enraged, but simply patient. Neteyam interpreted your silence as agreement and gently grasped your hand in his. You couldn't deny the butterflies bursting in your stomach.

Neteyam sat down with crossed legs, and you followd his actions hesitantly. His thumb brushed the top of your hand delicately. You forced yourself to look away and focused your glare on the ocean, your lips slightly pouting.

You were so stubborn, and that's what Neteyam found about you so endearing. You're driven and hold yourself with confidence.

After a while, Neteyam noticed that you looked more relaxed than you were earlier. "Are you ready to talk?" he asked carefully.

You sighed, "I just… I miss you 'teyam. It feels like everyone sees you more than I do lately, and I don't like that. I know I sound selfish and ungrateful, but that's how I feel. Then when I saw her, I just snapped."

"Paskalin, I promise you that she's only been nothing, but a good friend to me. She gives me tips about my ikinimiya because she knows how much I want to be with you. If I knew it would bother you this much, I would have put my distance a bit. I'm so sorry for missing our dates, and that you had to feel this way. It was never my intention."

Only you, my girl, only you, babe

Only you, my girl, only you, babe

Tears welled up in your eyes. Now, you feel stupid.

"Please don't apologise, yawne. I'm sorry for yelling. I'm not angry or jealous that you were with her, I just felt really sad." You leaned closer, and pecked his cheek. "I feel foolish now for shouting."

Neteyam shook his head and brought your face closer to his, pressing his lips against yours. You sat on his lap and locked your legs together at his back, arms snaking around his neck. He deepened the kiss, before he pulled away.

You whined at the loss of contact.

"Don't feel foolish, my love. I'm glad that you told me this even if it wasn't in the way I expected it to be." He stared deeply into your blue eyes. "Is the problem resolved now?"

"Definitely." 

You pulled him for another kiss, and Neteyam couldn't help but chuckle against your lips for how needy you are. But he was just the same, maybe even worse.

He wouldn't want it any other way.

support banner by @cafekitsune <3

[feminist-space]

"In a recent study, radiologists in a hospital in Germany were shown mammograms accompanied by “AI-generated” diagnoses (the diagnoses had actually been faked by the researchers, and some of them were deliberately wrong). These trained specialists, some of whom had been practising radiology for more than a decade, spent more than 40 minutes on average looking at the scans. But the “AI” diagnosis often persuaded them to go against their training: they regularly agreed with wrong diagnoses, led by “automation bias”. Having agreed to hand over some of their confidence and intelligence to the machine, they skewed towards trusting it.

Generative AI is currently repeating the pattern followed by social media platforms from the mid-Noughties. It wasn’t clear how much value, if any, the technology would create. Everyone knew it would have downsides. But it was unstoppable, because if the market decides you’re going to take over the world, you probably will. The founders and early investors in social media companies became very, very rich, long before anyone else could decide if they really wanted what they were selling. The outcome for Mark Zuckerberg was a net worth of nearly $200bn. As we are belatedly realising, the outcome for the wider population was a tidal wave of fraud, bullying, anxiety and narcissism­.

Generative AI has much of the same momentum behind it today as did social media. But it offers to replace still more of what makes us human – not just our connections to other people, but the emotions and principles from which those bonds are made. Now is a good time to exercise some consumer choice about whether those are things you want to hold on to."

[intermundia]

saw this and i cannot help but think of this in the context of the jedi.

"peace doesn't mean no conflict" can be unpacked on both a personal and political level. for the individual, inner conflict is not something to be eradicated or denied. the ideology of the jedi is not the suppression of all emotions, but rather the acceptance of them and finding the wisdom that comes with that allowance. it's about cycles of conflict and resolution, identification of the problem and release from the crisis, letting go and moving forward. so inner peace is not the absence of inner life, but rather an attitude towards the fullness of it, accepted as it passes through. the jedi try not to get stuck, clinging to and warped by their passionate attachment to an outcome that fights against external reality, as that leads to suffering, not peace.

on the higher political level, the peace of the larger civilization of the republic is not the same as the suppression of all individuals and societies into a single order, or a single imposed hierarchy of power. there is inevitable conflict between people when there is difference and history, and the jedi are there to help resolve boundaries between rivals to create a wider net of tolerance that is galactic civilization. they are diplomats and problem solvers, creating a kind of emergent peace that is different than the totalitarian order of the sith. they are not trying to kill anything that doesn't obey their vision, but rather finding a vision of peace that respects all parties as best as possible.

"how you handle the instance of any conflict" is how they try to use negotiation first, understanding all different points of view and adjudicating between claims, thereby "setting boundaries, and opting for serenity over chaos." if there is violence, they finish the fight in a limited, personal way with lightsabers, keeping the scope of violence almost surgical in nature to the body politic. they are not there to impose their own vision by force, they're ones with the "emotional intelligence" and higher perspective to find the harmony in a chaotic situation.

"peace requires maturity, insight, and the power of learning beyond one's ego" which is foundational to the jedi philosophy. they are the moral authorities of the galaxy, the ones trained to resist corruption, ideally offering the most mature perspective in a room. they aspire to be impartial and fair, to see reality how it really is, and not just how they want it to be. they have to accept it all, and not cling to what can not be kept, which is a huge part of maturation. the bigger picture of the objective reality of the force is what they align themselves with, rather than trying to force reality to align with their own egos. their insight is so valuable because it's not beholden to the interests of a party inside the conflict, it's a perspective from outside, without attachment to any particular outcome—just seeking true peace, whatever that looks like for any particular context.

[save-the-villainous-cat]

hero x villaim but hit them with the "with everybody watching us, our every move, we each have reputation" (NOT A WRITING REQ UNLESS U WANNA DO IT !!!! just a silly thought I'd share bc . theyre so doomed) :3 -🐏

“You’re upset with me.” The villain chose their words carefully. In a situation like this, it wouldn’t be smart to let their emotional side win over.

“I am. I am very upset with you,” the hero said. They still looked terrible from the fight. Scratches and bruises covered their face as if the hero was the night sky and their wounds the stars. Even though the villain knew not to rush into things, they only wished to tend to the hero’s wounds.

“You know I couldn’t let you die.”

“I begged you to save those people instead of me,” the hero argued.

“It sounds horrible but I didn’t care about these people. My decision was made in an instant. I decided to save you, I decided to reach for you without even considering.” The villain wanted to explain it, wanted to make sure the hero understood. It had been an easy decision. It was cruel but it was the truth.

And now, the hero was starting to cry.

“I asked you to save these innocent people. These ten innocent people that had lives and families and jobs. These people who were important, who were someone’s entire world. Ten of them!” they choked out between sobs.

“You will save more people in the future than all of them would have combined,” the villain tried to argue but they knew, deep down they knew, how their weakness of logic and reason got in their way. They couldn’t help but see the world as patterns and effects. With explanations and conclusions weaving around them — a big terrible net of information.

They knew it wasn’t what the hero wanted nor what they needed to hear but the villain couldn’t give them what they deserved, they couldn’t find the comforting words.

They couldn’t even find a solution this time.

“That’s not the point. People aren’t numbers. People aren’t data,” the hero said. By now, tears streamed down their face and the villain wondered if they’d let them brush those tears away for them. Probably not. “I wanted you to save them. I wanted you to do the right thing.”

“The right thing was saving you. I’d do it all over again.”

“I thought you could change.”

“I thought you’d understand.” The hero shook their head and wiped their tears away with a bruised and swollen hand. A mission going south. Partly because the villain had been present. It wasn’t easy to take the blame but the villain supposed this was the least they could do if finding the right words was impossible already.

“People are chess pieces to you. You move them around how you want and you don’t care. You truly don’t care what happens to any of them,” the hero said. The villain could see their red ears and their shaking hands. And in this very moment, the villain saw themselves as the monster that they were, as the horrible human being the hero saw them as.

“I care about you, isn’t that clear enough?” they asked. The villain’s voice was shaking.

The hero took in a deep breath. The villain wanted to hug them. They wished their hero could understand. They wished they’d stop crying.

It hurt that the hero hated them in this moment.

“You’re supposed to care about others, too. You’re — you’re supposed to use your intelligence for the greater good. For other people, for humanity. I thought you understood me.”

“I do,” the villain said. “I do understand you. But in that moment, deciding between you and those people was easy. I’m sorry.”

The hero stared at them, speechless.

“You will always be my priority,” the villain said. “Even if you hate me. Even if you kill me eventually. I won’t put up a fight.”

“Do you like being hated?”

“I like you more than I care about being liked,” the villain said. They weren’t sure if they’d ever see the hero again after this.

“And I loathe you for that. I loathe you for the person that you are.”

They didn’t see each other for a long time after that conversation.

[jesncin]

huh that’s interesting. About the whole “everyone knows who superman is they just hide it” thing I always thought that was more to do with community? Like I’ve seen the trope a lot (usually with like Spiderman) and I always viewed it as a kind of protecting the community thing? In the way that like people lie to ICE to protect their marginalised neighbours. Admittedly that kind of view only works if it’s like legitimately a small group of people and not everyone but I thought it was meant to be a fantasy fulfilment thing in the way that it means seeing how much people support you and are willing to do to support you and having that safety net? I never really saw it as “wow superman sucks at acting” and more some people willingly turning a blind eye but the different ways that tropes can be interpreted and viewed based off like context and how it’s presented is really cool!

Oh I know where this "Everyone knows Clark is Superman so they hide it" hc/take is coming from, emotionally. And yes it touts itself as "community allyship" because you're protecting the undocumented immigrant by communally agreeing to protecting him. I do want to make the distinction clear that compared to characters like Bats and Spidey that Superman's identity includes a marginalized element to it that the other characters don't have. Clark grew up Other, in a way Bruce or Peter don't. Neither of those guys are getting deported.

The times people have shared this "Everyone knows who Clark Kent is" hc to me, it always came with "because he's bad at acting" or "his lies don't add up (so he's bad at living a double life)" and that being the reason Lois/Jimmy/The Entire Daily Planet do an invasive background check and figure out who he is. Even in a logical narrative sense, then even Lex would figure it out and wouldn't play along. But beside that- this hc relies on taking away Clark's agency and competence/intelligence in order to function as his savior. Clark doesn't get to trust and tell people who he is. Because apparently everyone already knew and conveniently are all politically aligned in a way that don't rat him out. The conflicts his secret identity carries are all gone now.

What about Clark's time in Smallville? Was he bad at acting back then too but everyone also conveniently didn't bother? How conveniently progressive of everyone in Kansas! Surely he decided to hide himself for a reason. But that's the key emotional beat missing in these hcs. Why Clark is hiding to such an extent. It's too focused on how cool it would be to be an ally to Clark.

The only way I'd like a take on "somebody (not everyone/small group) knew about Clark's secret identity" thing is if it was handled with the sensitivity of the I Think Our Son is Gay manga- where it focused on only one character knowing, and being humbled into learning how to be a good ally for her son to trust her with his life without breaking a boundary.

[nanamineedstherapy]

Third Wheeling Your Own Marriage

A New Couple is in Town Elrdrich King!Haibara x Galatic Emperor General F!Reader F!Non-Sorceress CEO Reader x Gojo Satoru x Nanami Kento F!CHRO Reader x Higuruma Hiromi A/N: Haibara's Ending is Finally Here Part 2 Previous Chapter 26 - The Empress Is Bored - [Tumblr/Ao3]

Chapter 26 - The Empress Is Bored - Part 2

Internal Mind Mapping Sequence: Fragment 001

Anyway.

Here's how I became the punchline of God's longest-running joke.

It started, obviously, with the cheating.

No lipstick, no accidental touches, no gut-wrenching mistake with a stranger.

Not even fun cheating.

Not even “oops, I tripped and fell on his dick” cheating.

No.

My two dumbasses—Gojo and Nanami—my husbands—plural, yes, we don’t do small—cheated.

With each other.

That was the joke.

Like I wasn’t even enough emotional labor to split between two grown men with the combined communication skills of a teaspoon.

I wasn’t just insufficient.

I was obsolete.

Redundant emotional labor in a throuple where I was supposed to be the glue.

I was the axis they bent around, until they didn’t.

Until they folded into each other like I was a misprint in the plan.

So I divorced them. Quietly. Legally. One of them cried. (I won’t insult your intelligence by saying who.)

Kicked them out without even any alimony from me.

But the universe?

Oh, she wasn’t done clowning me.

Because it wasn’t enough to shatter a woman mid-pregnancy with twin gods.

No, that would be mercy.

Instead, I got a tragedy arc.

I gave birth half-conscious, spine shredded from the inside out.

Pelvis cracked open like a cathedral floor mid-earthquake.

No cursed energy to patch it up.

Just a body that couldn’t scream loud enough for how much it hurt.

I woke up paralyzed.

No legs.

No safety net.

No Megumi—he didn’t exist in my universe.

No Haibara either—I only knew the name because Gojo used to mutter it in his sleep sometimes, like a prayer or a punchline.

I don’t know which.

I had nothing. No sorcerers. No clan. No family—I lost them long before, around the time I refused to keep being their punching bag.

Toji had helped me once, years ago.

Neighbour. Not friend. Not savior.

Just someone who happened to hear the screaming through the wall and did something about it.

He didn’t stay. He couldn’t. And I didn’t ask.

Then Sukuna came.

Not this world’s Sukuna.

Not the pining, reincarnated half-curse of this world.

Not your suave, half-possessed martyr with tattoos and trauma.

Not yours. Mine.

The real one.

Original flavor. Bloodborne eyes like extinction.

The Shibuya-Shinjuku one.

He saw my infants as threats—cosmic anomalies, living errors. Wanted to turn them into cursed objects like collectible sins. Said they smelled too much like their fathers. Said they'd unravel the world if left unchecked.

He wasn’t wrong.

But I didn’t care.

And what happens to the girl who never belonged to anyone?

Who grew up invisible, disposable, until two gods in human skin offered her something resembling permanence?

What happens to her when those same gods choose each other, die anyway, and leave her behind with nothing but their howling offsprings, and a body that won’t move?

She survives.

Barely.

I didn’t scream when they told me—not when I woke up, paralyzed, staring at two twins with split-colored hair like their fathers and no features of mine.

About Shibuya. About Nanami.

I remember blinking. Just once.

The doctor asked if I understood. I said yes. I didn’t.

Sukuna chased us like a bloodhound on meth.

But I still had hope.

Gojo was just sealed.

He would come.

Of course he would.

He was late for everything.

Maybe he’d bring those glitter-stained flowers for the kids and a new switch for me.

Say sorry. Laugh and say it wasn’t real, that he’d fix it, that we could fix it even if not me.

I’d even take him back. For the twins.

He’d be here for their Omiyamairi. Their Okuizome.

Might try to feed the babies actual sweets or make a joke about their first meal being takeout sushi.

Instead, he didn’t even come to see his fucking kids.

Then, on the day of his fight, I sat in a wheelchair with Kaito on my lap. His small fingers curled against my sleeve, gripping tight without understanding why.

I gestured toward the screen—toward his father.

Kaito didn’t smile. Didn’t react. No flicker of recognition crossed his face, no warmth sparked in his eyes.

But he latched on.

Emi had stopped crying.

She wasn’t watching the fight.

She was watching the colors—watching the way his purple bled across the screen like a storm unraveling.

The sound of the broadcast droned on, but it felt distant.

Felt hollow.

Because neither of them knew.

Not really.

But I did.

I knew he’d come. 

Then I saw...

He died.

Not for me.

For the children, probably.

I tell myself that sometimes. On good days.

The twins wouldn’t latch. They just cried.

Like they were waiting for fathers that would never come home.

And I?

I waited, too.

For something to make sense.

For the pain to mean something.

For their bodies.

Because here’s the part people don’t get.

Yes, I left them. Signed the papers. Threw them out.

But love doesn’t die on command.

You don’t scrub it off like a curse mark.

I loved them both.

Inconveniently. Entirely.

And in losing them, I lost the last part of myself that had ever wanted to live like a human being.

Slowly it sank in—the fuckers died.

One in Shibuya, one in Shinjuku. 

Both exits so cinematic they might’ve been choreographed by the fates themselves.

Like they needed their deaths to mean something, as if I wasn’t already bleeding significance enough for all three of us.

I didn’t even get to stand while I was left holding the twins. Literally.

Then Sukuna, once done with Yuta, Yuji, and whoever else bled loud enough to entertain him, turned his gaze on me.

No—worse.

On my fucking kids.

You think you know fear?

Try being paralyzed, holding two premature gods in your lap, while a man made of ancient famine and planetary-level ego sniffs the ground like your children are rot he’s owed.

Gojo and Nanami were gone. I had “divorced” them, sure. Signed the papers. Said the words. But love doesn’t dissolve in courtrooms. They were the only ones who made me believe I was human, once. Not an accessory. Not a mistake. Just… a person. Held. Kept.

And now they were gone.

And I couldn’t even walk.

The twins wouldn’t latch. They screamed day and night.

Their cursed energy flared every time they cried—which was often—until it was thick enough to set off seismic sensors.

They were 3 months old and already emitting energy levels that made grown sorcerers sweat.

They didn’t know how to turn it off.

I didn’t know how to teach them.

Only their fathers could’ve taught them.

So we hid.

Because that’s all I could do.

In bunkers I built before the world went to shit—paranoia pre-dated my grief. I was a trillionaire before I was a widow. CEO of the most powerful gaming-tech and AI firm on the planet. Every bunker had a fake floor under a fake life under a decoy firewall with a heartbeat monitor keyed to my pulse.

It wasn’t enough.

Sukuna hunted like it was instinct. Something primal and unspeakable. His cursed technique could sift through satellites, sniff out despair like blood in water.

My tech failed more every week. His rage didn’t.

We made it two months in Bunker-016 before the kids blew a hole through the ceiling with an emotional surge.

Keiji died that day.

He’d been with me since the IPO. My shadow.

Former assassin turned jujutsu bodyguard. Always in a suit, always two steps ahead.

He didn’t flinch when I screamed.

Just threw me in the emergency evac chair, handed the twins to me like they were just briefcases, and told me not to look back.

I didn’t listen. I saw him fight. I saw him die.

I remember his shoe landing sideways like it didn’t know he was gone.

After that, I stopped sleeping.

We moved every three days.

Ate protein sludge. Hooked up nutrient bags to the babies’ feet when they refused formula.

My back rotted inside out from bed sores.

I couldn't lift my legs anymore without throwing up.

I started hearing things.

People whispering in vents.

Nanami humming in empty hallways.

My own voice, echoing from the baby monitors.

I stayed alive for one reason: they couldn't.

Not without me.

The thing about trauma is—it doesn’t kill you. It eats your morality first.

So when the tech started failing, and the walls felt thinner, and the kids’ energy cracked through steel and firewalls, I stopped hoping for rescue.

I started engineering it.

We had tech prototypes I wasn’t allowed to sell. Neuro-linked exoskeletons. Black-budget AI surgical units. Brainwave readers that could write code straight from trauma responses.

And I used them.

I injected stem cells from my own spine into carbon wiring. I mapped my neural pain responses to synthetic muscles. I fused nerve endings to military-grade bionics with duct tape and threat models.

I dissected cursed spirits.

I kidnapped criminals. Sorcerers.

Anyone strong. Anyone desperate.

I told myself they were volunteers.

I stopped asking for signatures.

I cut into the skull of a philosopher who used to write treatises on AI ethics—uploaded his brain into a memory chip just to get his notes on godhood.

I wired my chair to my spinal cord.

When the machine walked, I screamed.

When I screamed, it walked better.

Eventually, I didn’t scream anymore.

Eventually, I stood.

On legs made of synthetic nerves, grafted metal, and everything I had once sworn I’d never do.

I wasn’t a mother anymore.

I wasn’t even a person.

I was function. Firewall. Empire.

In under 11 years, I pushed the planet’s tech forward by 80.

My bunkers were invisible to satellite.

My AI could read intent before people formed words.

Every person who even thought of harming my children triggered kill protocols in servers buried beneath extinct volcanoes.

The twins grew up learning not to cry too loud.

And Sukuna?

I fought him for years.

Sometimes it was a chase. Sometimes a massacre. Sometimes a cold war with no witnesses.

Until one day, he just stopped.

Shaved his head.

Sat cross-legged in the dirt.

Called himself a monk.

Never spoke again.

I don’t know if I broke him.

Or if he just looked at me and saw a mirror.

Now I rule an empire built on dead men. My men.

Every living thing is tagged and tracked.

Every AI and satellite on the planet carries my grief in its code.

I don’t let my children out without armed shadows and androids.

Call me Darth Vader if it helps. He lost his legs too. But he still needed a master.

I didn’t.

He was a coward. And I wasn’t stupid.

I was the final girl. But the story didn’t end.

Because morality’s a luxury for people who aren’t prey.

So—naturally—I snapped.

I’m not proud. But I’m upright.

I went from disabled mother of two to biomechanical Emperor-General in… what? Eleven years? Tops?

Then came Haibara.

Not your Haibara.

Not sunshine-in-a-body, not the tragedy people romanticize postmortem.

Not the Haibara who dies like a prayer someone forgot to finish saying.

The main monster.

Born in a fractured timeline and carved out of nuclear grief.

Not yours. Not mine. His. Another reality.

Naturally strong. Immortal. Looks like heartbreak in boots. He watched his own world rot and decided love was real, but governments were optional.

In his world, Gojo died during childbirth. Never developed Six Eyes.

Never even opened them.

And the version of me from that world? Was born a Nanami.

Kento was never born.

She inherited the mantle.

She married Haibara—that Haibara.

They were gods and knives in love.

But his technique wasn’t meant for humans. It was… eldritch. A living thing.

A curse that grew teeth and memory.

It gave him power, yes, but also bloodlust.

He turned when he started noticing that the people had gotten desensitized.

She saw it coming.

Tried to kill him before the spiral finished.

Died in his arms, whispering that she loved him more than anything.

He never forgave Nanami.

He crossed timelines looking for another chance.

Looking for her. Or something close.

And then he found me. Scarred. Mostly-machine. Fully armed.

He looked at me—cracked bones, AI-stitched spine, babies on my chest, blood still drying—and just said, “Yes. That one.”

Like I was a feral cat hissing under a war machine, and he thought, “wife material.”

And I let him. After he spent 11,000 years convincing me.

Because when the world tries to eat your babies, you grow fangs.

He didn’t love me like he loved her.

He loved me beyond her.

Beyond himself.

Not a rebound. Not a substitute.

He isn’t loyal to any version—only to me.

Only to this twisted, vicious, bionically-wired echo of who I was supposed to be.

He wants this insanity, because it’s his.

And I loved him, too. In the way only people who have stood inside annihilation and screamed back can.

You don’t understand what “I’d do anything for you” means to him.

Most people mean “I’d take a bullet.”

He means "I rigged their bloodstream with nanobombs in case you get nervous."

He means "The planetary death toll was acceptable."

And I let him.

Because I stopped thinking in morality.

I started thinking in survival.

So yeah. I became her.

The woman who built an army of AI-controlled exosuits. The woman who made the planet’s tech curve scream 80 years ahead because she wanted her kids to walk in peace. The woman who cracked time, spat on quantum laws, and turned grief into architecture.

I broke time. Stole quantum blueprints. Hacked grief into architecture.

But people forget—

I wasn’t always like this.

I used to laugh.

Bake cookies.

Be afraid of the dark.

Now I own it.

Because the rent’s due.

And I’m the fucking landlord.

And this version of me—the girl in this reality?

She's soft.

She has friends.

She wears hoodies with pixel mushrooms on them, makes jokes about capitalism, and thinks heartbreak means crying alone in a bathroom stall.

Adorable.

I wonder if she'll survive what I couldn't.

Or worse—what I became.

So yes. We built a life.

The kids call him “Dad.”

I sent androids to drag Toji out of his feral exile.

They brought him in like a wounded wolf with a job to do.

Because you can’t trust humans. But machines?

Machines remember the mission.

A machine knows loyalty if you treat it right.

Humans would take it as entitlement.

I know something isn’t right with me.

But it’s what’s kept me alive.

And then…

Haibara fell.

Not in battle. Not in glory.

He got sick.

Cell death. Neuro-splintering. A slow-motion unravel.

I cloned him. Again. And again. And again.

Every iteration collapsed.

Too unstable, too sentient, too aware.

He fought sleep.

He fought regeneration.

He fought death.

So I put him in a deep cryo-coma. 15,000 years, suspended.

Waiting.

While I hunted for a cure across the multiverse.

Remaining clones were coded to search for resonance.

To ping me when a solution emerged.

But they degraded. Snapped. Went insane enough to end planets.

One found your world.

This soft, sweet, idiot timeline.

That clone wasn't even supposed to interact with her; he was coded not to.

She’s a version of me, yes—but one with hope. Joy. People. Friends. Megumi.

He was coded to observe and report.

But he fought his code, his biology. 

Something no one walks out alive from me for.

He fell in love.

My creation betrayed me for her.

And when I looked at her, you know what I thought?

That I wasn’t jealous or even sympathetic.

I just pity her.

weak.

Weak girl.

Wearing my face.

Soft hands that never held death.

Eyes that never saw gods bleed.

I pity her. Not because she has him.

Because she never had to earn him through hell.

So I woke my Haibara. The true one. The god-sick original.

And now I’m here.

In your perfect little rotting world.

To replace you.

I will not leave until he lives.

Even if I have to wear her face, her name, her memories.

Even if I have to slit every version of myself open to find a cure.

Switching places through dimensional bleed is effortless when you’ve had 50,000 years to perfect it—when time is no longer a constraint but a well-worn path, carved into existence by the weight of your own inevitability.

It’s not skill anymore. It’s instinct.

And when most of your body is machine—wires woven with memory, circuits infused with the echoes of thousands of choices—it’s less about movement and more about placement.

You don’t slip through the cracks in reality.

You decide where the cracks will be.

And when you’re smarter than God, the universe stops being a question and starts being an answer you’ve already rewritten.

Even the clone thought he was the real one.

I let him believe it.

Let him love her like she was me.

Then I killed him. Your Haibara.

Clean. Tactical. Necessary.

Her Haibara died with your face in his hands.

But my version of him?

The true Haibara.

He’s… still sick. Still dying. Still strapped to a bed of code and cryo-fluid. Still fading.

And I’m running out of timelines.

So now I’m here.

In your perfect little rotting universe.

Laughing like a cat who already ate your kids.

And I will not leave until he lives.

Even if I have to break every law of reality and ethics to do it.

Even if I have to erase every version of myself to make it happen.

You don’t understand.

You think I’m trying to play God?

No.

God’s slow.

God has feelings.

God lets children die and calls it “mystery.”

God lets infant animals get raped by man and calls it “karmic debt.”

I’m just the only woman in the multiverse smart enough to fire him.

Because now?

Now I am something else.

And the universe better pray it does not meet me again.

Because the compatible human is here.

---

POV: Alt-Her from this Reality

After asking for him, you’d promptly passed out again.

Shoko had told them it was normal—expected, even. She’d used phrases like delayed neural synchronization and cognitive whiplash . Coma-brain, she’d called it, with a shrug and the same weariness you’d once admired in her.

So they’d filtered out—Gojo, Nanami, Fushiguro, Mom—all of them. Off to eat, take meds, pee. Do human things. Small, necessary rituals to soften the edges of grief.

Now the hospital hums with a silence that isn’t peace.

It’s maintenance-mode silence. A kind of stillness that doesn’t cradle but waits. Like a waiting room at the edge of the universe. Cold. Fluorescent. Too clean. Too white. Like it’s been scrubbed of the people who were here a minute ago. Like even their ghosts were disinfected.

You're awake. Barely.

Your skin itches beneath the sheets. The babies are asleep. Your mouth tastes like old pennies and blood suppressants. Somewhere under the hum of machines and far-off doors, the air hurts. It presses in on you—not with weight, but with emptiness.

Something’s missing.

The kind of missing you can’t name. Not a thing. Not a person.

A presence.

You feel it like a skipped heartbeat.

You’re not alone.

“Hey.”

The voice comes from just beyond the curtain. Familiar. Casual. Low.

But off.

Sweet in the way knives are—gleaming before they turn.

“They told me you were alive,” the voice says. “But I didn’t believe it until now.”

Your breath stutters.

“…Hai?”

He steps in before you can ask again.

Same crooked grin. Same tired eyes. Same bastard-sweet voice that used to hand you candy after tests and call you “cookie” like it was a prayer and a joke.

He looks… almost right.

Like a photo printed with just slightly off colors. Like someone wearing his face through a lens with 1% distortion.

Still—your body moves before your brain catches up. You wrap your arms around him, IV lines tangling, and whisper, “Where were you?”

He hesitates— just enough. Then a soft pat on your head, awkward and worn-in. “There there, lil cookie.”

You want to cry. Or maybe scream. Or maybe just hold him until the hole in your chest stops bleeding.

“I lost my phone,” he mutters, still patting with one hand. “There was this, uh… train thing. Fire. Real dramatic. But I’m here now, okay?”

“I was awake,” you whisper. “Hai—I felt everything. And you weren’t here.”

You pull back. Look into his face.

You’ve never hugged Haibara like that before. Never needed to.

He always came when you called. Always.

But something inside you feels hollow.

Like something already slipped away.

And maybe you do believe him. Just for a second.

Because you need to.

“Can you help me get to the bathroom?” you ask.

“Of course,” he says too quickly. Like he rehearsed it.

He slips his arm around you—strong, stable. Too strong. Haibara was fit, sure, muscular even, but he wasn’t this—not impenetrable, not precision-guided like a tactician trained to navigate you like a liability.

You chalk it up to adrenaline. Shock. Hallucination. You’re recovering. The brain makes ghosts out of anything it can.

The walk is short. Your legs are jelly. The walls tilt like a dream’s ending.

He drops you at the bathroom door and gently shuts it. “Yell if you need me,” he calls.

You nod, then stumble toward the sink.

Turn on the faucet.

Cup your hands.

Cold water. Anchor.

You look up into the mirror.

And freeze.

There’s someone behind you.

It’s not a reflection.

She has your face—but sharper, older, wrong. Her hair’s styled with surgical precision, like war dressed up for a funeral. Her skin’s paler. Lips darker. She stands wrong—the way predators do when they know you can’t outrun them. She's dressed in matte-black biotech armor, half AI, half curse-metal. Her eyes glow faintly at the seams. Her presence hums.

Not kind. Not you.

Behind her, you spot him.

Toji.

Leaning against the wall like this is casual. Like he didn’t die more than a decade ago.

“Hi, kid,” he says.

Your breath disappears.

But something is wrong, he looks younger than the age Toji died in.

You were with Megumi and his mom on Mount Asama when he scattered his father’s ashes.

“Mr. Fushiguro?” you croak.

He shrugs. “Zenin. Never married.”

You don’t make it to the door. Your legs barely twitch before—

CRACK!!

Your face hits the mirror.

She slammed you. Once. Hard. Glass shatters like regret into your mouth. The sink blooms red.

“Be fucking careful,” Toji snaps, stepping forward. “She’s pregnant.”

“I was too!” she screams.

The sound rips from her throat like it’s been waiting 10,000 years to leave.

Toji flinches. Toji. Flinches.

You slump—but she catches you. Gently. Cradles you like broken glass. Not a stranger. Not a killer.

Like someone holding the version of themselves they lost a long time ago.

She presses her forehead to yours. Your blood streaks down her face like warpaint.

Then she stands, straight.

Turns to him. Calmly.

Her voice is scorched earth. “This little trauma-club dropout in the hospital bed? She’s not your kid. I am. I was your failure. I was the mess you left. So don’t you dare come here acting like Father of the Fucking Year.”

Toji scoffs like he’s tired. “I’m not your father. I didn’t raise you, Little Ghost.”

"Little Ghost" sounds like a curse he can’t exorcise.

Like her or even your name never meant anything but afterthought.

She doesn’t scream again.

She just holds your unconscious body tighter.

Because even though she's the one who broke you—

She still remembers what it was like to be you.

Before she lost her Nanami and Gojo.

Before she became the villain in every mirror.

Before the future turned her into this.

And outside, beyond the layers of sterile rooms and AI-monitored corridors, your Haibara is already dead.

You just don’t know it yet.

But your body does.

And somewhere deep in your nervous system, a scream is still waiting to surface.

“No shit,” she hisses, stepping between you and Toji’s gaze like a guillotine.

“But you could’ve helped when Sukuna was after us. But you didn’t. So now you don’t get to pick her. You don’t get to nod at her like she’s something earned. If you even look at her again, I will drop you into a pocket reality made of fucking child support collectors and fish sauce. Do not test me."

Toji lifts a brow. Shrugs. “I’m not interested in raising kids. Never was.”

“You should be interested in obedience,” she snaps. Her voice turns jagged, staticky—like a radio tuned to war crimes. “You're lucky I even brought you here. Her version of you died during an escort mission with a bleeding-out middle schooler. You owe me for killing the Zenins and making you clan head. You owe me for fixing you.”

He steps forward, slow. “You planning to stay long?”

She smiles—sweet, lethal. “Long enough to sterilize this timeline of mistakes.”

And then Haibara steps in again, hers.

He lifts the unconscious girl in his arms like she’s a thing to be stored, not saved. He glances at her face with an eerie kind of reverence. Then hands her off to Toji, who’s already dragging her away.

“She’s lighter than you,” he says once Toji’s left with the girl. “She doesn’t even flinch the same.”

She tilts her head. Not smiling. Not blinking.

“Do you miss her, Yu?” she asks softly. “Or your old one?”

He grins wider. Shows teeth. “I don’t even remember their name.”

She beams. “Good boy.”

Then she kisses him. Fast. Wet. Claiming.

It's not about passion. It’s about property.

He kisses back harder, hunger deep and ugly in his throat.

Toji grimaces from outside the window, loading the girl into a chute.

She breaks the kiss and licks Haibara’s bottom lip, slow. “You are so cute.”

He picks her up in one smooth motion and puts her on the counter, “I’ll show you cute.”

Her breathless laugh is interrupted by his kisses.

---

The bathroom is silent now, just her. She pulls gloves over her fingers, wipes down every surface. Then steps into your place.

Literally.

She changes into a similar hospital gown like you were wearing. Tears it in the same places. Reapplies your bandages with identical pressure. Stuffs her ankles with gel weights until her feet swell just like yours had at 34 weeks. Adjusts the tension in her face with microcurrent pulses until her expression settles into the same coma-soft, sleep-deprived weariness.

Even the bruising under her eyes is correct.

She stares into the mirror.

Practices your breath pattern.

Matches the little hiccup in your inhale, the flutter when you whisper “Hai?” like he’s still yours.

The hair is next. She deliberately tangles it. Pats it flat on one side.

Adds the glint of old dried blood in places Megumi’s mother didn’t reach.

She even copies your limp.

Every step she takes toward the door is a performance. But her audience doesn’t know they’re watching a replacement.

Not yet.

Haibara comes back in like a sentinel.

He tries to kiss her again, this time trailing lips down her collarbone, but she pushes him off with two fingers and a narrowed eye.

“Later,” she mutters.

He grins like a good dog.

He’s copying this world’s Haibara a bit too well, and she’s still deciding if she likes it or hates it or can pretend it’s roleplay.

They step into the waiting room.

You—not you—walk through the hospital doors like nothing’s changed.

Like you weren’t dead. Like you didn’t just beat another version of yourself into unconsciousness and dump her with Toji, who may or may not betray you for her.

The air smells like flowers someone left in case you didn’t wake up.

The kind of funeral-ready lilies that rot if ignored.

Gojo’s already there.

Perched on the armrest of a hospital chair, one leg bouncing like he’s forgotten what stillness feels like. His glasses fogged, sleeves soaked—he’s been crying into the crook of his elbow like a child. Or a man who never stopped being one.

He sees you.

And he breaks.

“Baby—” he chokes. His body moves before his brain does. Feet stumbling. Voice too thin. A shadow of his old cocky rhythm.

He crashes into you.

You let him. You fold your arms around him exactly as she would—exactly how he remembers.

But your muscle memory isn’t love. It’s just repetition with blood.

He clings like a drowning thing. Wraps his arms around your waist like he’s trying to fuse his ribs to your bones.

“I thought—I thought I lost you,” he whispers, voice hoarse with guilt. “I could’ve stopped the hit. I couldn’t—fuck.”

You reach up. Take off his sunglasses. Fold them carefully and tuck them into his hoodie pocket.

You stroke his back like she would’ve.

Like you did in another life to your Gojo when he came home tired from missions.

You clock the change in his gait, the looseness in his grip.

The way he smells more like dried sweat than six eyes.

He’s gone soft around the edges. Or maybe he was always soft.

“Oh, Satoru,” you coo sweetly. “You never know anything.”

He laughs. Wet, broken. Doesn’t realize that was an insult.

Across the room, Nanami stands stiffly.

Collar slightly skewed. Hair longer.

There’s a new scar above his temple, but his eyes—tired in that way that makes you wonder if he slept standing upright at the door.

He gives a slight nod. “We’re…glad you’re safe.”

You smile. Soft. Sweet. Razor-sharp.

“I am. Now.”

You study him like he’s an equation with missing variables.

There’s a blankness in your mind where his image should be.

Like something’s been redacted.

Your heart trips over itself trying to recognize him, but there’s nothing.

No scent memory. No sensory trigger. Just a phantom ache.

It pisses you off.

You stare at him longer than necessary.

Try to memorize him now, in this light.

The line of his jaw.

The angle of his watch.

The slight flinch in his eye when Gojo holds you like he already lost you.

Your smile is flawless. “Kento,” you say. “You look tired.”

And somewhere behind your voice, behind your pulse, behind the noise of Gojo sobbing into your gown—

Their wife bleeds in a car with Toji.

Unconscious.

Forgotten.

Unaware that her life has already been stolen by someone with her face, her memories, and a hunger to burn this timeline clean.

Haibara—the imposter, but yours—lurks by the fruit basket someone brought. He’s sipping from your mug like he’s earned the right. Sits too comfortably in your chair. His back leans against the sunlight like it’s an accessory he designed.

When no one’s watching, he winks at you.

But you see it—the tightness in his grip. The way his fingers wrap the mug like they’re waiting to crack bone. You don’t wink back. Not here. Not yet.

He’ll get his reward later.

You let go of Gojo.

Megumi hovers near your hospital bed, stiff. Watchful. His arms crossed, body angled protectively—toward you or away from everyone else, you're not sure.

He looks at you like you’re holy. Or fragile. Or both.

“You should rest,” he says quietly.

You shake your head. “I’ll manage. You’ve done enough, Megumi. You always do.”

His shoulders lower. Like you handed him absolution for a sin he never confessed to, for something he never said out loud. Like he’s still waiting for the punchline of your survival.

Nanami’s now holding a paper bag. Artisan kimchi, most likely. Your craving. The one that made your hands tremble at midnight, the one that gave you nosebleeds and hallucinations and that blood-pressure spike that almost took you and the twins both.

But then in your time, he never handmade it for you.

He sets it down gently. Comes closer.

You clock the way he studies your stomach—tight and swollen under the gown, distorted with movement. For a split second you wonder if the AI is mimicking the cursed signatures right. Then one of the twins kicks hard enough to visibly ripple your side. He flinches.

Perfect. It’s working perfectly.

“Still active,” he mutters, clinically.

“Still yours,” you reply, flat.

He blinks, eyes softening just slightly. His jaw shifts—tiny micro-expressions that once made you feel chosen.

Now they just feel like camouflage.

Like he’s searching for a version of you he thinks is still in there.

Nanami reaches out as if to touch the bump, then stops himself.

Too late. You’ve already noted the hesitation.

A timeline ago, he would’ve kissed your belly, whispered something about happiness, and pressed his forehead there like it held absolution.

Now?

You turn your head. Look away.

Quiet falls.

Deliberate. Heavy. Uninterrupted.

You let it stretch.

Let them believe the silence means peace.

Let them believe that the coma mellowed you. That pregnancy softened you. That this whole ordeal bleached the violence from your bones.

Let them dare to dream.

And then, in the gentlest, most honeyed tone your throat can manage—

“Anyway… now that we’ve all cried and trauma bonded… I want a divorce.”

Silence.

The word is a guillotine.

Megumi looks alive for the first time in his life.

Gojo’s smile freezes. He blinks like you’ve just spoken French. Or Latin. Or poison.

Nanami’s jaw tightens so hard you hear his teeth creak. “This isn’t funny,” he says, voice low.

“It’s not meant to be,” you reply lightly, already walking toward the bedside chair to sit over it like a queen shedding armor. “You’ve had your fun cheating, I’ve had my fun forgiving. Now we’re all bored, aren’t we?”

Gojo’s hands rise, twitching. “W-wait. We talked about this. You said you forgave us. We didn’t even—”

“Oops, forgot that part. Should’ve taken it in writing,” you interrupt. “Like you both forgot me when you fucked each other behind my back. Or next to me. Either way, you lost your vote.”

Nanami steps toward you, controlled. Measured. Calculated. “Darling, this is emotional whiplash. You just woke up. You’re not—thinking clearly.”

You turn, smile like a blade unsheathed. “I am. I’m thinking clearly for the first time since I married you two. And I’m done.”

“But we’re—” Gojo’s voice cracks. “We’re a family.”

You laugh.

Not cruel. Not mocking. Just a little too amused.

“Yeah? A family where I do the childbearing, the espionage, and the emotional laundry while you two do psychological foreplay in hotel suites until your sudden and violent deaths? No thanks.”

Gojo sinks. Drops into a chair like the weight of your words knocked him out of the air.

Nanami stands frozen. But the fracture is in his eyes now. The slow crumbling of whatever plan he thought he had to win you back.

“I’m moving in with Haibara and Megumi,” you say airily, checking your phone. “Shoko cleared me. Your services are no longer required.”

Haibara throws up a triumphant peace sign behind them. High-fives Megumi, who immediately glares like he wants to press charges. He’s still trying to figure out where the hell Haibara’s even been.

“You don’t mean this,” Gojo whispers. His voice is shaking like a streetlight in wind. “Please, you can’t mean this.”

“I do.” You grin. “I mean every syllable with my whole spine.”

Nanami moves closer, slow.

His voice dips—gravel and steel. The one he uses before an interrogation. Before a clean-up.

“Darling,” he says. “Think carefully.”

You tilt your head. One hand on your belly. The other already dialing the next life. “Think carefully before what, Nanami? You raise your voice? Raise a hand? Try it.”

A long pause.

He doesn’t.

Of course he doesn’t.

Because no matter what happened, one thing was absolut, Nanami or Gojo would never hit you physically.

You said it to hurt him, to make him think you’ve lost all faith in him.

Because you're not the soft girl with ambition in her eyes anymore. You’re a god in skin.

You turn to Megumi. The only one who still looks at you like he sees something worth protecting.

“Megs, sweetheart?” you ask softly. “Can you take me home? I’m exhausted.”

He blinks. A little stunned by the intimacy of your tone, still echoing from a childhood when you bandaged his knees. “O..of course.”

You nod toward Haibara. “Yu. Grab the bags.”

Haibara sets down the mug. Slings both bags over one shoulder like a victory banner. Leers at Nanami and Gojo on the way out like he’s won a prize in a war he wasn’t invited to.

And as you pass them, you murmur with the softness of a lullaby—

“Try not to cry too hard. You’ll ruin the hardwood.”

---

Later that night, Gojo is on the balcony, half-drunk. Crying into an old bottle of aged sake he once saved for anniversaries.

It tastes like ash.

Like melted sugar.

Like you don’t want him anymore.

Inside, Nanami still stands in the kitchen.

Shirt unbuttoned. Pulse jumping in his neck.

He hasn’t moved since you left.

He’s still staring at the door.

Like if he stares long enough, you might come back.

Or maybe he’ll see you step out bloody, limping, begging for help.

Because somewhere, in some locked wing of the hospital, one question still hangs in the air:

Did they bring the wrong woman home?

And if so—

Where is the right one still bleeding?

---

Next Chapter 27 - Counterfeit Gods & Pregnant Lies - Part 1 - [Tumblr/Ao3]

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