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ctrlhope · 6 months ago

Note

Please talk about your bug boys all the time!! Any tidbits, thoughts, and, of course, their fics make me happy. I never thought I'd love bugs (scared of spiders), but i LOVE your bug boys!!

I have so many thoughts from cute to morbid about them.

PLEASE I RLLY LOVE TOOOO OMG!!!! Wait okay so below the cut i'll put in little blurbs for each of them so you can get the vibe yk?? Cause I know I havent been able to show much of them through the fics i've put out so far 😭😭 In the rest of the guys fics (save for Hoseok), they'll all be a lot more present 🥺

It makes me so happy that you love the guys as much as I do, though fr. I was never expecting Jimin's fic to receive so much love and even though you're scared I'm so happy you took the chance on reading it <333 I LOVE YOU!!!! 🥺 ALSO PLS TELL ME ALL OF YOUR THOUGHTS!!! CUTE AND MORBID IDC I LOVE THEM ALL!!!!

cw. yandere behaviour, hybrid!bts, toxic behaviour, manipulation, typical stuff lol

Kim Seokjin

⊹ ׁ ݂┊ ⭔ species: blue morpho butterfly

⊹ ׁ ݂┊ ⭔ classification: Dependent Type » 6/10

An architype of beauty. A doll for the rich and powerful. The most sought after species in the entire exotic world. Kim Seokjin knows his place in the ecosystem of humanity well-- knows the titles given to him even better. Knows his value as no more than a monetary scale, a gorgeous pair of wings to show, a creature to fawn over. To bask in the effervescent glow of. He knows his worth. He knows what he's meant to be worth. What he should mean to every human he comes into contact with-- the gem of their collection. The world they now own. So why, why would you just abandon him after purchasing him at the latest auction house? Send him to live at the reserve after he's already decided that you have the honor of being his human, huh?

Kim Seokjin has always been the type to adjust to his reality with every new owner he has, yet he just can't stop himself from becoming fixated on you. From never wanting to leave your side-- not even for a moment. From thinking about you every waking moment you're apart. From wanting to be liked by you. From wanting to belong to you-- not as a pet, but as something so much more. You were kind when you met him, even more so when he sees you at the reserve. You show him things he never thought possible, you let him live. You treat him not as a toy, never force him to do anything, not once. You, yourself, might just be a butterfly. One with their wings clipped. Seokjin has always hated collars. The stupid, diamond encrusted things his past owners forced on him as a show of wealth. But you... with you he wonders hopes that someday you might just don him with the same. Maybe he can put one on you, too.

Min Yoongi

⊹ ׁ ݂┊ ⭔ species: fat-tail scorpion

⊹ ׁ ݂┊ ⭔ classification: Obsessive Type » 2/10

Min Yoongi never thought himself to be much in the world. His mother made sure he knew that ever since he was young. A scorpion is nothing to be proud of. Nothing to shine light on. Nothing that could ever make the world happy in some sort of meaningful way. They are creatures of destruction-- bred for a bid of power. To be used in wars for their poison. To instill fear deep in ones bones from a single glance. So how come, exactly, were you never scared of him? Why did you always seem so light, so happy around the terrible, brooding man? Why did you live with your head in the clouds? Why were you still friends with him even after you knew what he was? What he could do? After the way others looked at you, judged you for even being around him? All questions Yoongi asked, yet never thought to ever find the answers to. Never thought to let himself agree with the simplest conclusion of. Yoongi's entire life he's pushed away the obvious, even more so with his hybrid side. Never letting his true thoughts be heard, nor his wildest whims carried. It's no wonder he's such a stranger from his own feelings, his own instincts. But once you finally accept him... it's unfortunate how quickly it all goes out the window. His restraint lost, his hybrid side taking up much more space than it ever did before. You're all he can think about. All he wants to be around. All he can ever hope to love and exist as in the world. He sees you in everything-- he thinks. And though he tries desperately to hold it back, because of how long he's tried to hold back his feelings, his obsession is only getting worse. Thankfully his new friend Namjoon is ready to help him navigate all of these new emotions bubbling up inside.

** though during his actual fic he doesn't really appear yandere, the further along into his relationship with you, the worse he becomes. Probably maxing out at a 4/10-5/10.

Jung Hoseok

⊹ ׁ ݂┊ ⭔ species: warrior wasp

⊹ ׁ ݂┊ ⭔ classification: Sadistic Type » 8/10

Hoseok has always lived his life exactly the way he desires. Spending his days flying around the rainforest, taking what he pleases from others, playing tricks on those below him. Coming home to his nest with his siblings, living without regard or care for anyone other than those he calls family. Living the way a hybrid should live. That they deserve to live. Wasps are practically gods among mortals, aren't they? Stronger, faster, better. That sounds right, doesn't it? A god among men. Something that should be worshiped. It's safe to say that Hoseok himself has a god complex, though he would deny that fact. He would just say he wants to have fun-- that he deserves to have fun, no matter who else might come in the way of that. Cocky, arrogant, mean. He doesn't quiet care how he is described by others as long as he knows their place. And deep, deep in the Amazon Rainforest, there isn't much to stop him, is there? Well, other than the first appearance of humans that he's ever seen. A cute little researcher leading the way, smelling so good. So delicious. Exactly like the nectar of his favorite flower. Like the jungle after a fresh rain. The best part? You wants to know everything about him. Fawn over him like he knows he deserves. Doesn't mind when he plays little games. Wants to know his whole world. You aren't supposed to leave. He knows that with his entire being. Knows you belong to him. You're his favorite toy, his mate. You're not leaving. You're. Not. Leaving. Didn't you know going into this that warrior wasps have some of the most painful stings?

Kim Namjoon

⊹ ׁ ݂┊ ⭔ species: honey bee

⊹ ׁ ݂┊ ⭔ classification: Possessive Type » 7/10

Home to the reserve since birth, Namjoon knows a thing or two about how everything functions. The fine-tuned intricacies interlaced behind the surface, the projects going on throughout, the way the gears grind almost so perfectly together to keep everything functioning so smoothly. It's safe to say he knows everything-- he makes sure he does. The taste of knowledge is so sweet, he knows he could never turn away. He helps the new members of the park adapt smoothly, makes sure to help out with the hive. Oh, and of course help out the sweet little director of the park. He would never be so cold as to turn you down, anyway. You've grown so close over the years-- he was the one to first help you gain your bearings when you first took on the job. He's the one to bring you flowers when you've had a hard week. He's the one to put a blanket over your shoulders if you fall asleep at your desk. He's always there. He just makes sure of it. Because there's just something so beautiful about knowledge, you know? Something so deep, so raw, about knowing every little thing about somebody-- everybody that Namjoon can't turn himself away from. Knowledge enlists power. It instills fear. He wants you. And he knows. He's going to figure out everything about you. Just so he can have you. So he can make you his little puppet. Secrets are such dangerous things. You should know that. You do know that. But he, he knows there's something off about you. And once he finds out what, there's no going back.

Park Jimin

⊹ ׁ ݂┊ ⭔ species: cobalt blue tarantula

⊹ ׁ ݂┊ ⭔ classification: Clingy Type » 5/10

It's just too hard to be a spider!! Jimin's known it for as long as he can remember-- well, as long as he's been at the reserve, anyway. People there think you're scary so they don't give you any snacks, security removes your webs when they become too prominent around the landscape, not to mention the sun!! Oh god, and don't even get him started on his fangs. He loves them, they're so pretty-- he knows he's pretty, but they're just a pain! Nothing to properly bite to take away the itch!! Uhg!! Being a spider is just so hard!! But you, sweet sweet you just make it so easy. Ah! Wait, no. He's getting ahead of himself again. He has to remind himself to be patient-- oh so patient with you. It's not your fault you're just a little human, that you just need a little more coaxing than most. That you need time to understand him. To understand his raw, unfiltered desires. Oh, the things he would do to you if you did. The things he's going to do once you do. It was never his intention to stumble into your home, in fact, he had no inkling to do the sort. But he needed to get out, he needed to leave the reserve. To explore. His skin burned to go, the words of his bestfriend ushering him along the way. It was fate he found your home. A sign that you were meant to be. And every since that day, a moment has not gone by that he hasn't thought of you. Hasn't worked on planning his next move to have you. Because human's are fragile, you know? They need time. They need space. But Jimin-- he wants neither. He wants you all for himself. He needs you to want him like he wants you. Every waking second. Every moment. And maybe... maybe someday he'll wrap you up tight enough, pretty enough to show you what real love is.

Kim Taehyung

⊹ ׁ ݂┊ ⭔ species: domestic silk moth

⊹ ׁ ݂┊ ⭔ classification: Impulsive Type » 9/10

Kim Taehyung... he's another breed of creature entirely. Everyone at the park knows it-- his best friends especially. An amalgamation of nothing and everything. Something that is so easy to read yet difficult to decipher. The type of person to live off of their will alone, not caring for anyone else, nor the consequences their actions may hold. If Taehyung wills it, that's simply how it's going to be. So why... why exactly do you make everything so difficult for him? Things should be so simple-- they always are in his world. He wants a specific tree or cave in the park, the others give it to him. He wants attention from specific visitors, the others leave to let him have it. He wants to leave the park, play another cute little game of cat and mouse with you-- he knows you'll follow him in the end. Or else. He doesn't mind getting his hands dirty. He doesn't care about hurting people to get what he wants. See, it's simple, right? So why the fuck are you so difficult? He doesn't give a shit about all this human garbage. You should feel the same way he does about you. You should just accept his courting gifts without a second thought. You should be his mate and have his mark on you already. You should be living in his nest with him. But you fucking aren't and it's pissing him off. C'mon, it should just be so easy to give in-- he's so nice to you when you behave. He's such a good moth for you. He listens when you tell him no. And eventually you will give in. He knows it. In fact, he's sure you're already in love with him. You're mates. As far as he's concerned, you feel it too. At least, you will soon.

Jeon Jungkook

⊹ ׁ ݂┊ ⭔ species: black garden ant

⊹ ׁ ݂┊ ⭔ classification: Worship Type » 8/10

Jungkook loves his colony more than anything else in the world. It's all he's ever known, all he's ever grown up with, all he's ever learned to care about. The good of the colony is more important than anything else in an ants mind-- of course it is. It's bred into their blood, their genes speaking for them more than anything else. Bring home food for everyone else some days, help with the ever expanding tunnel system the next. Do everything for the sake of the colony, for the queen. Only, there was a seamless little mess-up in poor Jungkook's life. Something an ant hybrid never expects, but cant be more thrilled about. You see, ant hybrids don't have mates. That little thing is a simple fact of nature, of life. Something inherent in their beings for the good of the colony-- to make sure their priorities don't wonder. Of course they still mate, they still breed. But an ant with a mate... that means something far greater than a home colony can hold. Jungkook never anticipated finding a mate. Thought he would just settle down with someone he could be happy enough with. But now... now everything is different. Everything has changed from the second he laid eyes on your form sitting on the picnic blanket. And Jungkook knows he's loved you more than he's ever loved his own queen-- his own colony. Maybe he loves you more than life itself. For when an ant hybrid has a mate, it means the formation of something new, of something greater. Of a new colony, with a new queen. And you, you're everything he's ever wanted. You're his queen.

⊹ ׁ ݂┊ ⭔ interested in more? read the rest relax reserve one-shots here!!

#bts x reader #yandere bts #hybrid bts #jungkook x reader #jimin x reader #taehyung x reader #namjoon x reader #yoongi x reader #hoseok x reader #jin x reader #🧭 ctrl.asks #🧭 ctrl.nonnie #🖇️ ctrl.rest relax reserve

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dearhnymn · 2 months ago

Text

𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭.

PAIRING ⊱ g. karim × fem!reader WORD COUNT ⊱ 3.5k SUMMARY ⊱ when a late-night research session at the archives turn into an accidental lockdown, you and george are forced to pass the time with banter, more haunted case files, and one jar of questionable pickled onions.

The National Archives exuded the musty scent of old paper mingled with a lemony polish that hinted at long-forgotten tales. The air felt thick with unspoken secrets and the slow death of your patience. You flipped through yet another brittle journal, its pages crackling like dry leaves, filled with outdated Type Two classifications and field notes scrawled in a spidery handwriting that only a corpse could love. Across the long reading table, George was in his element—his glasses slightly askew and his face warm and illuminated by the soft glow of a desk lamp.

He paused, gesturing toward the wooden card catalog drawer he had yanked open just ten minutes prior, like a judge in the courtroom. “This filing system is a war crime,” he declared, indignation lacing his voice.

You didn’t look up, tone bored. “Please don’t start.”

　“I’m just saying,” he continued, pulling out a yellowed index card with a flourish reminiscent of a magician unveiling a rabbit. “No one who organizes specter cases under ‘Slightly Corporeal Floaters’ should be allowed near a label maker.”

　“Maybe they were being poetic,” you retorted, unable to resist the urge to defend the outdated system.

��“They were being wrong,” he shot back, slamming the card back in as though it had personally offended him.

With a resigned sigh, you scribbled a note beside a date, the pen scratching against the paper in a rhythm that matched the growing tension in the room. “We’re supposed to be researching the Wexford case, not verbally eulogizing the Dewey Decimal System,” you said, trying to refocus.

George leaned forward, a grin spreading across his face like sunshine breaking through clouds. “You’re only grumpy because I got the last working pen.”

You glared at your own pen, which was sputtering like a dying beetle, refusing to cooperate. “Give me yours.”

　“No.”

　“George.”

He popped the cap off and pretended to write air-notes with an exaggerated flourish. “Sorry, I need it. In the service of truth.”

Unable to hold back your laughter, you tossed a crumpled scrap of paper at him, and it bounced off his forehead.

Despite the light-hearted banter, a comforting rhythm settled in as you flipped through the journals. You found a promising lead in a 1970s field log—something about inconsistent readings and a ghost that changed its voice mid-manifestation. George perked up, his energy palpable.

　“Mimics aren’t supposed to switch tones that fast. That’s more Type Three-adjacent,” he remarked, excitement threading through his voice.

　“That’s not a real classification, George,” you countered, rolling your eyes.

He held the log up, tapping a line with fervor. “It’s in ink. It’s real enough for me.”

You leaned closer, pointing with a sense of purpose. “That says ‘possibly mimetic residue,’ not ‘Type Three.’ You’re reading what you want to read.”

　“You’re insufferable.”

　“And correct.”

The playful scrutiny continued—snapping back and forth like fencing foils—but there was something undeniably nice about it. The atmosphere was comfortable and familiar. You exchanged journals across the table like a secret language, he refilled your tea without prompting, and you corrected his notes with a red pen, each mark a silent understanding between you.

Then, in a moment that felt charged with electricity, you both reached for the same volume—a thick, battered record bound in cracked leather—and your fingers brushed against each other.

Silence stretched, thick and full of unspoken words.

His fingers paused above yours, and you both looked up simultaneously.

His eyes widened behind his glasses, a spark of surprise mixed with something else. There was a brief pause—more intimate than you expected—before he cleared his throat, pulled away, and muttered, “You can… you can take it.”

And so you did, though you felt your heartbeat quickening slightly, a vivid sense of awareness washing over you as you quietly claimed the book.

Neither of you spoke for what felt like an eternity after that.

The desk lamp flickered twice, a hesitant heartbeat in the quiet, before the overhead lights emitted a loud click and dimmed to half power, casting strange shadows across the room.

You both froze, tension settling over you like a heavy fog.

　“Was that...?” you began, uncertainty creeping into your voice.

A second click followed, more deliberate. Metal echoed in the distance—doors slamming with a heavy finality that sent chills down your spine.

You shifted your posture, sitting up straighter, heart racing as anticipation gnawed at your stomach. George tilted his head like a bloodhound catching a scent, his expression sharpening with awareness.

　“I think that was the front lock,” you said slowly, the realization hitting you.

He stood, urgency coursing through him as he moved toward the main hall. “Yup. Yup. That was the deadbolt.”

You followed closely, dread rising like cold fog enveloping your thoughts. “You said we had until ten.”

George snorted, reflecting your mounting anxiety with a hint of humor. “I said probably ten. Archives policy says nine-thirty. And you didn’t check the clock, did you?”

　'I was busy doing actual research,” you shot back defensively.

　“And flirting with footnotes, clearly.” He reached the door and yanked it hard. Nothing. He rattled the handle once, twice, for good measure, then pressed his forehead against the thick glass, frustration mingling with concern.

　“Well,” he said after a beat, frustratedly running a hand through his hair, “we live here now.”

You stared at him, disbelief washing over you. “We what?”

He turned to face you with a tight-lipped smile. “Welcome to the night shift, partner.”

With a scoff and a dramatic eye roll, you pivot back to the chaotic mountain of yellowed files and timeworn newspapers that cluttered your desk. In the midst of the disarray lay a haphazardly stacked collection of messily scribbled notebooks, their pages crammed with frantic ideas and half-formed thoughts. A plate of biscuits, brought in earlier by George and now nearly emptied, sat temptingly close, their sweet aroma still lingering in the air—a moment of indulgence swallowed in mere minutes.

　“Best get back to it then,” you murmured to yourself, a hint of resignation lacing your tone. You pulled your chair out with a creak that echoed the weariness of the day, sinking into its familiar embrace. With a heavy sigh, you leaned over the journal sprawled open before you, its blank pages seeming to taunt you as you fought against the tide of exhaustion and the daunting task that lay ahead.

Behind you, George let out a soft whistle, his silhouette crossing the dusty spill of moonlight filtering through the tall windows.

　“Locked in with nothing but dusty manuscripts, ghost taxonomy, and my sparkling company,” he said, plopping into the armchair across from you. “Truly, a dream come true.”

You didn’t even look up. “If I vanish tonight, you’re going to be the prime suspect.”

He grinned around a biscuit. “If you vanish, I’m eating the rest of these in your memory.”

You gave him a long look, the corners of your mouth twitching. “You already ate most of them.”

　“Exactly,” he said, raising a brow. “Wouldn’t want them to go stale.”

Despite everything—the flickering lights, the locked doors, the oppressive quiet—you felt the tension ease, just a little. The familiar rhythm returned. You scribbled notes while George mumbled half-formed theories aloud, flipping between sources and occasionally tossing a book your way like you were his very reluctant lab partner.

　“So,” he began, flipping open a journal so worn its spine groaned in protest, “do we think the Wexford ghost is a mimic, a restless residual, or just an unusually noisy radiator?”

You flipped a page. “If it’s a radiator, it’s the first one to whisper children’s lullabies in reverse Latin.”

George blinked. “Touché.”

You smirked behind your notes, and for a few minutes, you both worked in a companionable quiet. Only the occasional sound of paper rustling, a pen scratching, or George mumbling something vaguely intelligent under his breath punctuated the stillness. The library, despite its locked doors and aging woodwork, felt less like a trap and more like an eccentric sleepover—if sleepovers involved crumbling files, mild existential dread, and at least one person who brought an entire pantry in their satchel.

Time lost its edges sometime around the third footnote dispute.

You were half-curled around a cracked volume of Spectral Residue and Other Oddities, fingers smudged with ink and dust, George cross-legged beside a tower of marginally useful witness statements. You’d both settled into that strange, caffeine-fueled rhythm where silence didn’t mean disinterest—it meant concentration, immersion, a truce forged in mutual exhaustion and the shared pursuit of answers.

　“No way this one’s real,” you muttered, nudging a tattered page toward him, the thin paper crinkling under your fingers. “A headless monk and a cursed weathercock? Bit greedy for ghost stories, don’t you think?”

He didn’t even look up, his focus laser-like as he studied the contents. “It’s from the St. Wythorne collection. They added embellishments to everything. One file claims a ghost interrupted tea with Queen Victoria.”

　“Now that’s the haunting I want,” you said, grinning at the absurdity of it. “Imagine getting cursed over chamomile—it’s practically scandalous.”

George flicked a page pointedly, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes, yet he stayed stubbornly silent.

Minutes later, he found himself snorting as he read another witness account—so overwrought it could have been a poorly-written romance novel. He tapped the edge of the page, incredulous. “This woman claims the ghost moaned at her window for ‘fourteen consecutive nights.’”

You leaned in closer, your curiosity piqued, and replied, “Romantic.”

　“She was eighty-three,” he said, incredulous.

You raised both eyebrows, a grin creeping onto your face. “Still romantic! Well, in a way.”

He rolled his eyes, but he didn’t pull away when you leaned closer, your breath stirring the hair near his temple. The small space felt electric, the proximity igniting an unexpected connection between you.

For a little while, the atmosphere shifted. You both fell into a rhythm, the dim light of flashlights illuminating the array of notes, files, and journals scattered around you. He read aloud in exaggerated accents, and you couldn’t help but correct his footnote citations. It was in those moments, as laughter punctuated the silence, that the task transformed into something deeper—a shared experience, strange yet exhilarating.

Then, without warning, your flashlight flickered.

Both of you looked up, the stillness of the room pressing in, curtaining off the outside world. The clocks had long ceased their ticking, leaving an unsettling silence in their wake.

　“Alright, this is unbearable,” You declared, stretching. “We need cushions, snacks, and a morale boost! Preferably in that order.”

　“You mean we need to make a camp,” he replied dryly, looking up from his notebook.

　“Yes, exactly! Every good stakeout has a proper base of operations,” you said, beaming.

Albeit reluctantly, George helped you gather supplies—dragging a few neglected coats and archival binders from a shadowy back corner, rearranging a reading rug and a stack of encyclopedias into something that vaguely resembled a fort. You, as always, pulled more snacks from the cavernous depths of your bag: crisps, boiled sweets, a squashed chocolate bar, and, to your horror, pickled onions.

　“Absolutely not,” George protested, recoiling.

　“You say that now,” You replied smugly, placing the jar beside the biscuits with the reverence of a curator unveiling a masterpiece. “But give it an hour; you’ll understand.”

George didn’t argue.

You both settled cross-legged on opposite sides of the makeshift rug, flashlights propped upright like guardians between stacks of books, casting a soft, warm glow around you. The scent of the biscuits lingered in the air, mingling with the dust and the musty aroma of the old pages. For a moment, time lost its weight, and the quiet felt like a comforting embrace. Your shoulders, once tense from the work and the atmosphere, began to relax. The pages took on a gentle blur, but it was a blur you didn’t mind—one that wrapped you in a sense of calm.

Eventually, the quiet fractured, giving way to scattered conversation. You shared your worst field assignment, a tale of a collapsed root cellar filled with ancient animal bones and a lingering odor that had haunted your coat long after. George responded with a story of nearly falling into a canal during a night stakeout, trying to impress a girl.

　“Did it work?” you asked, your curiosity sparked.

He smiled faintly, a hint of nostalgia flickering in his eyes. “She laughed at me. But I still kind of liked her for it.”

You laughed, the sound mingling with the shadows of the room as you reached to grab another file. Your flashlight caught the edge of one of his open notebooks, and you paused, squinting at the scribbled pages before you.

　“George,” you said slowly, the words lingering between you, “is this… your handwriting?”

　“Allegedly,” he replied flatly.

　“It looks like someone tried to summon a demon using only their left foot,” you snorted, unable to hide your amusement.

　“That’s rude,” he shot back, clearly offended “My left foot has very elegant penmanship, thank you very much.”

You leaned in, the space between you narrowing. “Is this the word ‘lantern’ or ‘lemonade’?” you asked, caught between laughter and curiosity.

He examined it, shrugging with a playful grin. “Yes.”

You burst out laughing, the sound brightening the dimness of the room. George’s expression shifted; he beamed as if winning a small victory, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on you with an intensity that sent a shiver of warmth down your spine.

There was something softer about him in this light—no bravado, just the raw and unpolished boy who always had too many thoughts swirling in his head and never enough notebooks to capture them all.

　“Truth is,” he said, almost absently, “I like this part better.”

You looked up, intrigued by the unexpected candor in his voice.

　“This—research. Sitting still. Books don’t shout or disappear through walls or throw things when they’re angry,” he continued, his gaze growing distant as if he were lost in a memory.

You tilted your head, taken off guard by the sudden shift in tone. “Books don’t scream,” he added softer now, the weight of his words hanging in the space between you. “They just… wait for you.”

The silence that enveloped you felt pregnant with understanding, a shared moment that spoke volumes without uttering a single word.

　“I used to be scared of libraries,” you offered after a beat, the vulnerability in your voice surprising you. “Back when I first started. One time, I stayed late to finish filing a report, and the building creaked like it was breathing. I thought I was alone.”

George raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting to one of rapt attention.

　“Then I heard someone say my name. My exact voice. But I hadn’t spoken,” you continued, your heart racing just from the memory.

He didn’t joke, didn’t interrupt. He simply listened, his silence an invitation for you to share more.

　“I didn’t sleep for three nights after that. I never went back in without backup again,” you finished, the lingering fear of that experience weighing in your chest.

There was a pause, his hand shifting a little closer to yours, the warmth of his presence grounding you amidst those memories.

You didn’t say thank you. You didn’t need to.

The world outside the windows had succumbed to darkness, the kind of pitch black that pressed against the glass like a wall, isolating you in your little haven. Your limbs ached from being curled up for too long, and George, seeking comfort, had sprawled beside you, close enough that your knees brushed together every time either of you shifted.

At some point, you leaned over to pass him a chocolate biscuit, your fingers grazing his. It was a subtle touch, but it sent a quiet thrill coursing through you, an understanding unspoken, lingering in the air between your hearts.

Eventually, your head found its way to his shoulder, a gentle surrender to the moment. It wasn’t a deliberate choice; it just happened. His shoulder was an unexpected refuge—warm and inviting—his coat soft against your cheek, the fabric a cocoon that shielded you from the world outside. You could feel the steady pulse of his heartbeat, a calm rhythm that matched the rising and falling of your breath, grounding you in this space between uncertainty and comfort.

George remained motionless, his body relaxing into the shared silence, a quiet acceptance that spoke volumes. It was as if this was the very outcome he had yearned for but never dared to hope would come true. There was an unspoken understanding between you, a thread woven from the moments that had brought you here, binding your fates in a tapestry of emotion both delicate and profound.

Neither of you felt the need to fill the silence with words. It wasn’t that there was nothing to say; instead, the air around you vibrated with unexpressed thoughts and feelings—an intimacy that transformed the quiet into something tangible. It was a soft, full, golden silence, rich with promise and unfulfilled desires. The kind that seems to whisper, stay here a little longer, as if the universe had conspired to suspend time just for the two of you, inviting you to linger in the warmth of each other’s presence.

The first sound that stirred you was the slow creak of the library doors swinging open. Not the phantom sounds you'd imagined all night—the ones you’d half-convinced yourself were ghosts or dreams—but something real. Solid. Morning had arrived with it, golden and certain, spilling into the dusty quiet like it belonged there.

Your eyes blinked open, sluggish and unfocused. The world smelled like old books and fading candle wax, and something warmer—someone warmer. A slow, steady heartbeat not your own, the whisper of shared breath.

Books were everywhere. Notes trailed across the floor like breadcrumbs, mingled with biscuit crumbs and half-drunk tea. You shifted slightly—and that’s when you felt him.

George.

At some point in the long, ink-stained night, he had drifted closer. His head rested gently against yours, as if it had simply found its way there in sleep. His coat was wrapped around both of you, one side slipped over your shoulder like a quiet promise. And his hand—his hand was curled around yours. Soft. Thoughtless. Like it had always been there.

Your breath caught. And across from you, his did too.

For one suspended moment, neither of you moved. The silence between your fingertips was louder than anything you’d ever read in a haunted case file.

Then came the second sound: Lockwood’s voice, far too smug for this hour. “Well, well. Hope we’re not interrupting.”

You jolted upright, heart lurching painfully in your chest. George twitched like he’d been struck, narrowly missing a precarious tower of case files. Your hands tore apart, clumsy and sudden, as if you’d been caught with a spell half-cast.

Lockwood stood in the doorway like it was a stage entrance. Behind him, Lucy held two takeaway coffees and a smile that hovered somewhere between genuine delight and knowing mischief.

“Didn’t know the research division had turned into a sleepover club,” she said sweetly.

“We were—locked in,” you blurted, your voice hoarse with sleep and something else you didn’t want to name.

George ran a hand through his hair, his curls standing on end. “Very haunted door,” he offered. “Wicked personality. Wouldn’t let us out.”

Lockwood gave him a long look. “You’re not assigned to a haunting.”

“No,” you said, too quickly, stumbling to your feet. “Just… archival cross-referencing. For future cases. You know. Standard protocol.”

George stood as well, smoothing his shirt with shaking hands, eyes flicking everywhere but at you. But his ears were pink. So were yours.

Lucy’s gaze drifted over the mess—the blanket-fort of paperwork, the twin mugs gone cold, the trail of sleep-drunken scribbles—and she raised her brows. “Well, this explains why no one answered their phones. I was this close to assuming one of you had fallen into a cursed filing cabinet.”

“Oh, that almost happened,” you said in grinning sarcasm. “Very narrow escape. Tragic.”

Lucy rolled her eyes and stepped in to help as you fumbled through gathering the scattered notebooks and wrappers, your hands clumsy, your thoughts louder than they had any right to be. Lockwood’s grin was sharp, Lucy’s knowing. George joined you wordlessly, his fingers brushing yours again in a moment so fleeting it could’ve been missed.

Neither of you said anything about it.

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cloudspotters-club · 1 year ago

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Overlapping cirrocumulus passing by

#cloud appreciation #cloud appreciation society #clouds #cloudspotting #cloud classification #cloudcore #cirrocumulus #gif

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justcloudsonly · 1 year ago

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10/01/2024 13:30

Cirrus Floccus and Cirrus Uncinus + uhhh what is that flat smooth part with the ragged holey ends ?? anyone know?

#clouds #just clouds only #cloud photography #cloud classification #afternoon clouds #winter clouds #cirrus floccus #cirrus uncinus #cirrus #cirrus clouds

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nanamineedstherapy · 1 month ago

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In Ratio Veritas: Someone got Nanami Kento Pregnant & it's not Gojo Satoru

F!Pregnant Reader x Gojo Satoru x Pregnant Special Grade Nanami Kento

Previous Oneshot Chapter [Tumblr/Ao3] | Main Series [Tumblr/Ao3]

A/N: This fic will be equally upsetting to biologists, theologians, HR departments, and anyone who thought Nanami was immune to life's worst plot twists. You are welcome.

Nanami hadn’t spoken in two hours.

That alone wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was the silence had weight to it—not his usual melancholic withdrawal or exhausted tolerance of Gojo’s existence. No, this was weaponized stillness. A silence that could sit across a kitchen island and gut you alive.

You’d broken something.

Not a plate. Not the sacred morning coffee ritual. Something bigger. Something cellular.

“Are you sure it’s mine?” You asked, for the seventh time, voice barely above a whisper.

Nanami looked up, slowly. His expression was unreadable, a perfect mask of corporate detachment, like he was about to fire you from your own marriage.

“You were the only one inside me,” he said flatly, sipping ginger tea.

You blinked. “I wasn’t trying to be inside you—”

“It happened.”

He punctuated that with a glare sharp enough to sever timelines.

It had happened. One late night. There was blood—just yours. Gojo had been out of town. You’d both been emotionally vulnerable (and three drinks into the rare Nanami-approved wine). And then there was the cursed object you definitely shouldn’t have touched. It pulsed once, muttered something about fertility and legacy in Akkadian, and exploded like an overripe peach.

Three weeks later, Nanami threw up on your Birkin rug.

“I thought it was food poisoning,” he said, as if blaming you for your tragic biryani attempt.

“Nanamin,” you said, stepping carefully around the part where he looked genuinely ready to tear open his own stomach. “Men don’t get pregnant.”

“I’m not ‘men.’ I’m a goddamn special grade,” he growled. “And apparently, you’re the sort of reckless sorcerer who gets her partners cursed with divine-level mpreg.”

You flinched. “That’s not a real classification.”

“I had a meeting with Shoko. She made a new one just for me.”

Oh no.

You sat down. Slowly. Hands folded in your lap like you were at a parent-teacher conference and the fetus had already been suspended from school.

Nanami’s breathing had evened out. Too even. Terrifyingly composed.

“So,” he said, finally. “Do we keep it?”

You looked at him.

At his clenched jaw. The flicker of fear behind his lashes. His giant cursed-enhanced hand already resting low over a stomach that wasn’t showing yet, but you both knew would be. Too soon. Too fast. Like everything in this hellish life.

“I… I’ll do whatever you want,” you said honestly, voice catching. “You didn’t ask for this.”

He didn’t respond.

He stood up, walked over, and placed your hand over his stomach.

“I didn’t ask for you either,” he murmured, eyes flicking down. “But here we are.”

Your throat closed.

A long pause.

“I will murder Gojo if he finds out,” Nanami added grimly. “He’ll never shut up.”

You nodded. “We could fake a hernia.”

“Make it look like an ectoplasmic tumor?”

“Say the baby’s mine but from a different cursed object?”

“I’m not telling the raccoon,” he said sharply.

Cloud Save, from under the sofa, chirped in betrayal.

---

Three weeks later.

Nanami, visibly pregnant, in maternity trousers you custom-designed with a built-in tactical holster, sat on the edge of your shared bed, eating pickled mango and glaring at your feet.

“You did this to me,” he reminded you.

“I made you tiramisu,” you reminded him back.

“I hate sweet things.”

“I added anchovies.”

He paused. Then nodded, grimly. “Acceptable.”

Gojo burst into the room seconds later. “GUYS. WHY IS NANAMI HOTTER THAN ME AND PREGNANT—wait, whose demon spawn is that?!”

Nanami drew a blade.

You handed him a ratio-boosted nursing pillow.

The saga had just begun.

VOGUE INTERVIEW EXCERPT—Sorcerer Dads & The Gender Conspiracy: Inside the Quiet Storm of Nanami Kento’s Pregnancy

Is masculinity over? Did Gojo Satoru invent mpreg?

Interviewer: So, to clarify, Nanami-san has always identified as a man?

You (blinking slowly, deadpan) : Yes.

Nanami (tight smile, visibly pregnant, flipping through Economist mid-interview): That is correct. I’ve never not been a man.

Gojo (sipping bubble tea with two straws, one for himself, one for your belly) : I told him to let me take the fall. I offered to be the public face of this pregnancy. But nooo, Mr. Fiscal Responsibility wants full custody and the moral high ground.

You: You’re not the father.

Gojo (gasps): We agreed we’d never say that on record!

Online reaction — hours later:

@theREALbabywitch: Nanami has always been a man? Lmfao, okay. And my dad didn’t leave me.

@satoruslegs.official: If Gojo isn’t the father, why does the fetus have white hair on the ultrasound?

@mpreg4liberation: What we’re NOT gonna do is erase Gojo’s struggle as a transracial, interdimensional birth doula.

@KaoriMyChildUgly: This is good motivation. I’ll try harder with my husband.

DELIVERY ROOM: 3:24 A.M.

Shoko’s voice is calm. The lights are too bright. Nanami’s death-grip on your hand is fracturing your wrist and your worldview.

“They said it was a girl,” he pants, his face soaked in sweat, salt, and silent regret. “They said she’d have your brain.”

You are sobbing. Gojo is passed out on the floor. Feral Slay: livestreaming.

You hear the cry. Something is placed in your arms. It's... glowing?

And then—

You wake up.

Room dark. Curtains drawn. Sheets warm.

You’re in bed. No beeping monitors. No blood. No fan edits of Nanami breastfeeding on your Twitter feed.

Nanami’s asleep beside you, arm over his eyes, the peaceful expression of someone not gestating anything except contempt for capitalism. Gojo is sprawled on the floor, hugging a pillow he thinks is you.

Your hands go to your belly.

Round with yours and their twins kicking.

Soft.

Human.

Real.

You inhale. Exhale. Roll over. Reach out.

Touch Nanami’s face—thumb gently tracing the sharp cheekbone, the faintest curve of lips that still, somehow, pout in sleep.

He stirs.

“Mmm?”

“Nothing,” you whisper, letting your head rest against his chest. “Just checking.”

His arm finds you in the dark, protective. Solid. Not pregnant.

You sigh.

Thank god.

(And yet—deep inside—a tiny part of you wonders: would he have kept it?)

---

A/N: It’s easy to laugh at cursed mpreg until you realize the real horror was always the possibility of loss. If your chest aches a little tonight, blame me—or better yet, blame the gods who cursed Nanami to care so much in a world built to break him. (P.S. No, you’re not getting Gojo’s doula playlist. It’s just thirty remixes of "Take Me to Church.") (P.P.S. No raccoons were harmed during the birthing scene, though Gojo might sue for emotional damage.)

Previous Oneshot Chapter [Tumblr/Ao3] | Main Series [Tumblr/Ao3]

Next Chapter - Quiet Luxury Husband, Loud Wife Antics - [Tumblr/Ao3]

Another fic where you got TrueForm Sukuna & Gojo Pregnant - 🤰 Help! I'm a Woman & I Got My Two Male Boyfriends Pregnant 🤰 [Tumblr/Ao3]

All Works Masterlist

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