#john wick: chapter two

[neovallense]

[bluelolblue]

Santino was NOT having it

He's such a vicious little cat

Also appreciate his outfit here, it's beautiful

[orienteddreamerrr]

Here it is!!!

Lara Gets Saved By John Wick… - Chapter 2 - dreamorienteddd - John Wick (Movies) [Archive of Our Own]

[teejaywyatt1]

✨Chapter 39 of Skyline will drop on Thursday, July 6th at 2:30PM EST.✨

[johnsbleu]

Hold My Hand: John Wick x Reader Chapter 169

Author’s Note: This chapter might be a little heavy for some people, so I’m putting a warning out there. This chapter deals with abuse, specifically child abuse, verbal abuse, and mental abuse. While there are no actual scenes of this happening, but there are conversations around it. So please be advised and just know that if this could potentially trigger you, it would be best if you don’t read. I only want the best for you all. I won’t be offended if you need to sit this one out 💖

warnings: slight nsfw moments, mentions of child abuse hmh masterlist

Today is errand day for you, so you dropped Ronan off with your mom since she was asking to take her--her new friends were bringing their grandkids to the park and she insisted on bringing Ronan. You love when Ronan tags along for errand days but you didn’t want your mom to be the only without her grandchild, so you dropped her off.

Since you got everything done, you were running ahead of schedule which meant you had time to stop into Jimmy’s shop. Of course you love stopping in every now and then to see Jimmy--you’ve even brought him lunch--but right now there’s a dark haired, brown eyed man that is probably sitting down in the office that you desperately want to see. Hopefully he wants to see you just as bad.

“Hey, Logan,” you smile as you walk into Jimmy’s workshop, and he jogs over to hug you. “How are things?”

Logan shrugs, “Great at work.”

“Yeah…” you nod sympathetically, “I heard you’re doing really well here.”

“I really like it. Mr. Hendricks is teaching me a lot.”

Jimmy scoffs as he walks up beside you with John next to him, “Come on, man. Mr. Hendricks is my father.”

You roll your eyes and laugh as you look at John, giving him a small wave. He wraps his arm around you and pulls you closer to hug you. You haven’t seen him since this morning since he came to the shop to help Jimmy with some things.

“I better get back to work,” Logan says, and you smile at him before he turns and walks back over to what looks like a desk he’s working on with another guy.

“How’s he doing here?”

Jimmy nods, “Great. He’s a great kid. He’s picking up everything, but I think he’s having trouble at home.”

“Yeah,” John nods, looking down at you, “He came over the other day when you were gone. I was home, just working in the yard. He’s been hanging around more often--not that we mind. We told him we’re cool with it, but…”

You bite your cheek as you look over at Logan.

It’s no secret that Logan doesn’t have the best home life. When the accident happened and you spoke with his parents, they were so mean to him. Greg, his dad, was clearly an asshole, and neither you nor John liked the way he talked to Logan. He got a job working with Jimmy and has just absolutely excelled at everything there. Jimmy speaks so highly of him and his ability to pick things up quickly, along with his willingness to learn.

Ever since the accident, Logan has been working at the shop with Jimmy, but he still stops by your place. He’ll hang out with John and learn stuff about bookbinding, he’ll tend to the yard with him, he’ll even play with Ronan. You came home one day and he was in the pool with her swimming while John was making steaks on the grill.

You trust him. He’s a great kid! There was even a time when something came up and you called him last minute to babysit Ronan. You were only gone for three hours, but he was more than happy to come watch her, and she loves him. She always runs to him whenever she sees him. He’s become a part of your lives now and you’re all incredibly protective of him.

“He always is very adamant about putting his bike in the garage,” Jimmy says, waving for you to walk with him to his office, “I think he’s telling his parents he’s going for a bike ride, but he’s actually coming over to our place. He showed up the other day and Tess said he was just so withdrawn.”

“John and I have noticed the bike thing too,” you say, sitting down in John’s lap when he sits in the chair, “He brought it into the backyard one day.”

John rubs your side, “Maybe we should just keep an eye on him?”

“Yeah,” Jimmy sighs, looking out at Logan, “He’s a great kid. I know that Greg is a piece of shit, so…let’s definitely keep an eye on him.”

You all sit in silence for a few moments before John bounces you on his knee to get you to look at him.

“What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I can’t just stop by and see my brother-in-law.”

Jimmy laughs, “You did not come here to see me.”

“I have before!”

“Okay, that’s true.” he laughs, nodding his head before he looks at John, “She even brought me lunch.”

You smile proudly as you look at John, “Yes, I did!”

“You never bring me lunch,” John says, and you scrunch your face up as he laughs. “Okay, yeah, you do.”

“I was just driving by after running some errands and saw your car out front and wanted to stop by.”

John laughs, “I’m about to leave in an hour or so.”

“Oh, okay, wow…” you get off his lap and roll your eyes playfully, “I guess next time I won’t come visit you.”

“Stop,” he laughs, pulling you back to him, “You can come visit me anytime.”

Jimmy laughs, “Not me though. Gonna put a sign up with your picture on it that says ‘keep this woman off these premises.’”

“Okay, then I’ll never make that casserole that you like again.” you cross your arms and watch Jimmy widen his eyes as John laughs, “Yeah, two can play that game.”

“Forgive me.” he says, and you all start to laugh.

John reaches up and rubs his thumb over your eyebrow, “Did you get your eyebrows waxed or something? They’re a little red.”

“I did,” you touch your brow, “She put some stuff over it but it’s still really sore.”

“And you got a haircut,” John says, running his fingers through the length of your hair, “You look great, baby.”

You didn’t do anything major to your hair, but you did get about three inches cut off, just the dead stuff. It doesn’t matter if it’s just a small trim, John always notices. He genuinely pays attention to you, it blows your mind.

You scratch your nails against John’s scalp, “I got all my errands done, but now I’m gonna head over to the store and grab some things for tonight. Can you get Ro?”

“Yeah,” he nods, and you lean down to kiss him a few times. When you’re close enough, John whispers, “Thank you for coming to see me. I wanted to see you too.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” you smile at him, then you playfully narrow your eyes at Jimmy and point at him, “Watch yourself.”

Jimmy does the same thing back, “Yeah, you too.”

Looking over at John, you smile as sweet as you can, “I love you, baby.”

“I love you,” he laughs as Jimmy jokingly crosses his arms and shakes his head.

You give them both a wave before you walk back out to the shop. You spot Logan, so you wave at him again when he looks at you. He smiles and waves back, then he goes back to what he’s doing as you head out to your car.

__

Laughter bursts from the backyard as everyone sits around and eats. John made a ton of food, so everyone’s stuffing their faces. Amanda brought over a bunch of desserts too, and you can’t wait to get your hands on those.

“Gotta pee,” you whisper to John, then you hop up and head inside, smiling when you walk past all the kids playing in the grass. You quickly use the bathroom and wash your hands before you turn the corner to head to the backyard, but something catches your eye. You furrow your brow and lean over more to see Logan walking down the driveway. You quickly rush to the door and open it, “Logan, what are you doing out here?”

“Oh, I just…” he takes a few steps back towards the house, “I just wanted to…never mind. You’re all busy.”

You laugh, waving him over, “I mean what are you doing out here? We’re all in the back. Come on, there’s tons of food.”

Logan nods his head and walks up to the house with his head down. He’s recently gotten a haircut so his hair isn’t so floppy and you can actually see his face, and you immediately notice the busted lip he’s sporting.

“Hey,” you put your hand on his shoulder and look at him, “What happened to your lip?”

“Oh,” he chuckles, avoiding your gaze, “Just work. Wasn’t paying attention.”

You watch him closely when he glances at you, “Oh…okay.”

Keeping a close eye on Logan, you follow behind him through the kitchen to the backyard. He grabs a plate and starts to put food on it, and you quickly look away when he looks at you. You smile and reach for Ronan when she toddles over to you, immediately lifting her up and hugging her. Your eyes wander back over to Logan as he sits down at the table where Amanda’s nephew is--he’s staying with them while he looks at a few colleges out here.

“Hey,” John comes up the steps and smiles as he reaches out to touch Ronan’s cheek, “What are you doing?”

“Something is going on with Logan.” you whisper, and John looks at him, “He was out front when I went to the bathroom, and…he has a bloody lip.”

John clenches his jaw and shakes his head, “Greg.”

“What do we do? He said it happened at work but I don’t believe that. Someone once got a splinter and Jimmy freaked out. He’s so protective of them there.” you hold John’s gaze, “If he got it at work, we’d know about it. Jimmy would have mentioned it.”

“Oh, yeah, skateboarding,” Logan says as everyone stares at him, “Fell earlier.”

You and John both look at each other. Logan can’t even keep his lies straight, most likely because he’s scared and nervous. John sighs as he comes up to stand next to you, then he makes eye contact with Jimmy--he knows something is up too.

“What do we do?”

“Get him out of that house as soon as possible,” John says, and you look up at him, “He’ll stay with us.”

You nod, “Okay.”

“We’ll find him a place eventually, but he needs to get out of that house. He can’t stay there anymore.” John shakes his head as he walks away, “I won’t allow it.”

__

You’re sitting around the table with everyone while the kids are still playing in the grass. Ronan will need to go down for a nap soon, but right now she’s having fun with Harper and you definitely don’t want to pull her away kicking and screaming for a nap. She’ll give all her tired cues when she’s ready for a nap. You look over at John as he stares at the table, and he flinches when you reach for his hand. A small spreads on your face, and he squeezes your hand before leaning over to kiss your temple.

Logan, Benji, and Amanda’s nephew, Devin, have decided to go fishing off the dock behind the house, so you’re all sitting here trying to figure out what to do.

“I want him out of that house,” John says, and you all look at him. “Something about this whole thing…it just pisses me off.”

You nod, “Rightfully so, John. I’m pissed too. I want him out of that house too.”

Jimmy shakes his head, “Greg might put up a fight, but my guess is he won’t if you’re there.”

“Oh, I’ll be there,” John says when Jimmy gestures to him.

“He can stay here. We have plenty of room.” you say as they look at you, “I just don’t want him there anymore. I say that we get him out of there tomorrow.”

Tess leans forward, “Talk to him. Get his opinion. I’m sure he wants out of there too, but let him know that he has the option. You don’t want him to feel like he’s being forced.”

“He’ll need a lot of things. We can help with that.” Amanda says, and you smile softly at her.

Aurelio nods, “I can get him a car too.”

Your heart swells as you look at your friends, “Thank you.”

John sighs heavily beside you, so you look at him. He squeezes your hand but keeps his gaze down. Ronan toddles over and reaches up for her daddy, and he smiles as he brings her into his lap. She leans against his chest and pops her thumb into her mouth, then she smiles as she looks over at you.

“Hi, bug.” you lean over and kiss her forehead, “You getting sleepy?”

Ronan nods her head before she leans back to look at John. She tries her best to talk to him about something--he’s absolutely not sure what but he listens intently. He smiles at her and kisses her, then she lays back against his chest, closing her eyes.

The back gate opens as Benji runs through it, rushing over to Aurelio, “Dad, we just caught a huuuuge fish. Devin threw it back though.”

You look up as Devin and Logan came into the backyard, and they stand back and talk. They’ve really hit it off since Devin’s been here. Aurelio stopped into the shop with him the other day to talk to Jimmy about something, and Logan and Devin instantly became friends. Logan seems to be in a bit of a better mood too now that he has a friend.

“It’s getting dark, I better head home.” Logan says, and you sit up a little. “Thanks for letting me come over. The food was great.”

“Hey, you’re welcome at our places any time, Logan,” Tess says, waving at him, “You know Finny loves you.”

You get up and walk with Logan inside, working up the courage to ask if things are okay at home. You know they’re not but you don’t want to cross any lines. John follows behind you and clears his throat when Logan gets to the door.

“Hey, Logan, can we talk to you?”

“Of course,” he turns around and looks at you both.

Taking a deep breath, you look at him and feel John’s hand on your back, “You didn’t get hurt at work.”

“Uh…” he looks down and shakes his head, “No.”

“Was it your dad?” you ask, and Logan nods his head. “How many times has he done this?”

Logan takes a few moments before he looks at you, “He usually just pushes me around, but this was the first time that he…”

“What about your mom?” John asks, and Logan’s eyes fill with tears as he nods.

“She’s…slapped me before.”

You take a deep breath and let it out shakily, “We don’t want you going back there. We want you to come stay with us. We’ll find a place for you. I know you’re 18 now and you’ve just graduated, but we want you to come stay here for a few weeks. We’ll find you an apartment too. Would you want to do this?”

Logan stares at you and John before he nods his head, “Yes. I’ve been looking for a place but it’s just too expensive.”

“Let us worry about that,” John says, and you nod in agreement. “Can you stay somewhere else tonight? You’re welcome here too.”

“I was actually gonna ask if I could stay at Aurelio’s tonight. Devin wanted to play a game. I just…needed to ask my parents.”

You smile at him, “You and Devin seem to get along.”

“Yeah, he’s cool. We like a lot of the same things.” he says, perking up, “He wants to move out here for school.”

Chatter fills the house as everyone comes back inside, and you look over at Aurelio tickling Ronan’s tummy as she laughs. He sets her down and watches as she runs over to grab one of her toys, then she brings it to him. He leans down and listens to her as she talks about it.

“I’m gonna ask my parents if I can stay the night. They’ll probably say yes, they don’t really care what I do.” he says, and you grip John’s hand. “I’ll text you.”

Devin nods his head, “Cool.”

You quickly follow Logan outside, “Hey, we’re serious, by the way.”

“Me too, Mrs. Wick.” he says, smiling at you, “Thanks.”

“Tomorrow.” you say as he nods, “Tomorrow we’ll pack up your things and you’ll come live here.”

Logan nods again, “Sounds good.”

Walking back into the house, everyone looks at you and waits for what you’re going to say. You give them all a small smile, then you walk over and sit down on the couch, exhaling softly.

“Well, we’ll get out of your hair,” Amanda says, scooping up Harper into her arms, “Call us and let us know what he needs.”

“We will,” John nods, then he looks over at you, “I’m going to walk them out.”

You nod your head, “Okay. Bye guys, thanks for coming.”

Tess leans down and hugs you, “Let us know what we can do too. We’re happy to help.”

“Thank you.”

After the door closes, you look over at Ronan and see her curled up on the couch asleep. You smile as you walk over and pick her up, then you take her up to her room to get her changed. She’s still asleep even as you change her into her pajamas, and you laugh quietly when she only moves around a little after you’ve put her in her crib.

“Is she asleep?” John whispers as he comes in, then he leans down and kisses her forehead, “Damn, I wanted to snuggle her before she fell asleep.”

“She’ll be right there in the morning,” you smile as he looks at you, “You can snuggle her then.”

John nods, “Right.”

The two of you hold hands as you walk down to your room, and you sit on the edge of your bed in silence as John undresses. He stands in front of you in his boxers for a moment before he tilts your chin up so you’ll look at him. Your eyes trail down his body before you stand up and wrap your arms around him, hugging him tight.

“I love you so much,” you whisper as he holds you, “You’re such a good man.”

“This will change things around here a little.” he says, and you nod, “We’ll have someone else living here, but that’s okay, right?”

You lean back and look into his warm brown eyes, “He needs to get out of that house. I can’t sleep knowing he’s there.”

“Yeah, me either,” he smooths your hair back and leans down to kiss you. “This will be good for him.”

“I think so too.”

You wrap your arms around John and close your eyes, listening to the sound of his heart beating. He rests his cheek on top of your head, and you stand in his warm embrace. A comfort that nothing compares to.

__

Logan seemed to be having second thoughts about moving out, so he called and told you that he wanted to wait and see how things were going at home first. He said they had gotten better since he was over the night you talked to him, but you weren’t convinced that they wouldn’t get bad again.

Obviously it’s a scary thing to move out and you’re sure he’s even more scared since his parents pretty much suck. You told him that you and John will support him no matter what, but you both ultimately want him to move in for the time being. He just doesn’t need to be around his parents. John is still hoping that he’ll change his mind and has even had a couple of boxes near the front door for a few days just in case he calls and needs to be moved out as quickly as possible.

It’s scary knowing that he could just be at home when Greg is there, and he could be taking out his anger on him--his mom too. You’re trying not to think about it which is why you’ve been throwing yourself into work all day. You went to the shop and decided to go through some old boxes of books that need to be donated to the library.

Just as you close the box up, you hear the bell above the door. You’re a little surprised that anyone is coming out since it’s storming really bad today. You get up and head out to greet them, but your stomach drops when you see Logan standing there drenched from the rain.

“Logan, oh my god…” you grab John’s sweatshirt that he’s left at work and rush out to warm him up, “Why are you out in the rain?”

“They were yelling at me,” he whispers, his eye red from tears.

You escort him back to the office and gesture for him to sit down, “What happened?”

“They were yelling at me. We were arguing about college. I don’t want to go to school to be a fucking lawyer,” he says, then he looks at you, “Pardon my language.”

You shake your head since it’s the least of your worries right now, but don’t say anything. You just let him talk.

“I said I was leaving, so he…” he shakes his head and looks down, “He was just yelling at me and…calling me names. I went to your house but no one was home, so I came here.”

“I’m so sorry,” you sit next to him, “John is out with Ro.”

Logan uses the sweatshirt to wipe his face dry, then he looks over at you, “I can’t stay there anymore. I know I can’t. I have to leave.”

“I know,” your eyes soften as you look at him, “I want you out of there. Now. I’m gonna call John.”

Logan nods his head as you get up and grab your phone from the desk. You press his name and cradle your phone between your ear and shoulder as you gather your things.

“Hey, peach.”

“Hey, uh, Logan is here.” you say, and he glances up at you. “He needs to move right now. I mean literally right this minute.”

John is quiet for a moment, “Okay. I’m actually on my way home right now. I’ll drop Ro off with Tess. Meet me at the house.”

“Okay,” you hang up the phone and look at Logan, “Let’s go.”

The shop is empty aside from Tony, so you walk over to quickly let him know that you won’t be back and that he can close up the shop whenever he feels like it. With the rain, no one is coming in anyway. You open your umbrella and wait for Logan to get under it, then you rush out to your car to get in.

“I just want you to be one hundred percent sure that you want to move out.”

Logan looks out the window and nods his head before he looks at you, a slight bruising forming around his eye that you couldn’t see earlier since you were on the other side of him.

That’s enough to light a fire inside of you. If you were mad before, you’re fucking livid now.

“Yeah. I’m one hundred percent sure.”

__

John is waiting in the living room when you get into the house. He gets up and walks over, eyeing Logan and sighing when he sees the bruise on his face. He looks over at you, checking to see if you’re okay too. You give him a small nod.

“You’re sure, Logan?”

“Yes, sir,” he nods, shivering a little, from his wet clothes and probably nerves.

John nods, “Let’s go then.”

It’s still storming outside and it only seems to be getting worse as you drive down the street to Logan’s house. You look back at him when you pull up to it, and he wrings his hands together.

“We’re gonna go in with you.” John says, and Logan gets out of the car.

You all rush up to the door and step inside, and when the door opens, all hell breaks loose.

“Logan, that better be you!” Greg yells, stomping his way to the front door. He stops when he sees you and John, “What are you two doing here?”

“Go get your things.” you say softly, and Logan runs up the stairs to his room.

John moves so you’re behind him, “Logan is coming to stay with us.”

“You can’t do that,” Greg laughs. “He’s our child.”

“He’s eighteen. He can go wherever he likes.” you say as you grip the back of John’s shirt to keep him in place, “He’s not going to be staying here with you.”

Greg laughs in disbelief, “Laura, get out here. You won’t believe this.”

Laura walks out drying her hands on a tea towel. She stops when she sees you and John, “What’s going on?”

“They’re trying to take Logan.” Greg says, gesturing to you and John, “Unbelievable.”

“We’re not trying to take him, he’s coming with us. He chose this on his own,” you look at Laura and shake your head, “He’s tired of being treated like shit.”

Laura scoffs, “We do not treat him like that.”

“Really? Where did the black eye come from? How about that busted lip he had?” John asks, staring them down, “Because we all know it didn’t happen from skateboarding. He doesn’t even like skateboarding.”

You look up the stairs to see Logan standing there, and he waves you up. You start towards the staircase but Laura stands in your way. You stare her down until she moves aside. You get into his room and immediately start helping him pack his bags, but you hear Laura coming in.

“You can’t take our son!”

“We’re not taking him,” you say as you turn around to look at Laura. You tap your temple, “You’re not fucking getting it! I’m not taking your son. He’s leaving. He can’t stand to be here anymore.”

Laura shakes her head, “This isn’t even your business.”

“Logan made it my business when he showed up with bloodshot eyes and a blood on his face!” you exclaim as she gazes at you in astonishment, “He made it my business when he told me how shitty you are to him! Laura, he’s your child! As a mother, it is your responsibility to protect and cherish your child; however, you have repeatedly failed to do so. I cannot sit back and allow him to stay in this house.”

John moves past and starts helping you and Logan pack things up. You offer a gentle smile to Logan, placing your hand on his arm while nodding reassuringly, letting him know that everything will be okay.

“I can’t…” Laura talks to herself quietly, “She’s taking him from me. She’s taking him!”

You set aside one bag and grab a few things to put in the bag that John is packing. He looks up at you and gently touches your hand, holding your gaze for a moment before you flinch when Greg yells. John instantly tenses up and turns around to protect you.

“I’ve called the police! They’re on their way.”

“Dad, come on.” Logan finally speaks up, “I’m leaving. I’m going to stay with them, then I’m getting my own place. I can’t stay here. You guys don’t even want me here anyway.”

Laura shakes her head, “That is not true and you know it!”

“Mom, you know you don’t want me here, and I know you only don’t want me to leave because you don’t like her,” he says, gesturing to you, and you look at him, “Mrs. Wick is nice to me. She actually listens to me.”

Laura scoffs and tosses the tea towel to the ground, "Oh please, don't fool yourself into thinking she actually values your input. I'm not naive to her motives; it's obvious why she's so eager for you to move in. It won't be long until she's pregnant. I know she has ulterior motives.”

You stare at her for a moment before you start to laugh since that’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard in your fucking life, “Are you serious? Are you seriously saying I’m going to be inappropriate with him?”

“Mom, she’s like a big sister.” Logan says, and Laura purses her lips and looks away.

“Laura, I have no intentions to do anything with your son, and I’m beyond offended that you think that of me. That is the furthest thing from my mind. What I do have intentions of is taking care of your son because you two are doing a terrible job at that.” you look back at Logan, his face ghost white and frightened, “He’s coming to stay with us.”

There’s a knock at the door, so Greg goes down to answer it. It’s obviously the police, but everyone knows that there isn’t much that can be done. Logan is eighteen and he’s allowed to leave. Plus the police know all about Greg, and you’re sure Jimmy has given them a heads up about what’s been happening.

“You can’t take him!”

You roll your eyes as you turn around and begin helping Logan again. It’s John’s turn to argue with them now.

“Laura, I understand that this must be hard--”

“You don’t know anything!” she yells at John, and you turn to look at her, narrowing your eyes.

She sure as shit is not going to yell at John like that. You gesture for him to help Logan instead, and you go back to arguing with her.

“Why?” you ask her, and she furrows her brow, “Why do you care what happens to him when you don’t even bother to pay attention to him? He’s been begging for attention for years, yet he goes unnoticed.”

“Why do you care?”

You start to laugh, “Because as crazy as this may sound to someone with no soul, I actually care about people. I care about Logan, and I care about what happens to him. As a mother, I can’t stand here and watch you treat him like that.”

Laura says something not very nice about you under her breath that makes John stand up straight and absolutely glare at her. You roll your eyes and grab a bag of Logan’s things to bring downstairs. Laura actually moves out of the way but she follows you back down to the front door where Greg is talking to the police.

“Well, he’s eighteen, so…” the officer nods at John, then he looks at Greg, “There’s nothing we can do. If he wants to go stay with them, he’s legally an adult and can do that.”

“So, she gets to just take my son from me?” Laura stands next to Greg and shakes her head, “This whore gets to just take our son!”

John takes a deep breath before he sets the bag down, “I haven’t said much because I’m trying my best to control my anger right now, but if you speak about my wife like that one more time, I promise I won’t be able to control it.”

“You can be as upset as you like, but Logan made this choice on his own. He doesn’t want to stay here in this environment anymore, and we’re offering him a way out.” you hold Laura’s gaze, “If you weren’t going to love your child, then you never should have had them.”

Laura fumes as she takes a step forward, “You bitch--”

You swat Laura’s hand out of your face before you shove her back. She stumbles into Greg and widens her eyes, looking over at the police officer and pointing at you. She looks like a petulant child. She starts her way back to you but you grab her arm when she tries to hit you again.

“Don’t.” you warn her firmly, “I promise you that you don’t want to do that because you won’t like what happens next. News fucking flash: you cannot put your hands on people! You don’t know me, so I’m warning you right now. If you put your hands on me, you won’t like the outcome.”

Greg puffs up his chest and steps forward, which sets John off. It happens in a flurry. One moment you’re looking at Laura and the next you see Greg making his way towards you. You’re sure he’s just protecting his wife, but John is also protecting his. He steps in front of you and his fist connects with Greg’s jaw, knocking his back against the staircase.

“Enough!” the cops yells, and you quickly pull John back towards you after he got a few good hits in.

Lacing your fingers through John’s, you hold him tight next to you since you know he’ll go back to Greg if you don’t have a hold of him.

When Logan tries to move past to the doorway, Greg stands in front of him, just staring him down, and Logan puts his head down and doesn’t move. He just shrinks as Greg towers over him. Logan’s not a short kid, but Greg just makes him look so small and powerless. If Logan really wanted to, he could probably really hurt Greg.

“Logan, you can’t just leave…” Laura says, reaching out for him but he backs away, “Honey, we’ll talk about it.”

You touch his back and lean forward to look at him, “Put your things in the car. We’ll be out shortly.”

The police officer shrugs, “There’s nothing I can do. He’s made his decision. If he feels like he’s better off with them, then that’s what he should do. Either way, he shouldn’t be here. He’s clearly not comfortable.”

“So, that’s it? They get to waltz in here and take him from us?” Greg throws his hands up, “Absolute bullshit!”

Logan opens the door and puts his cell phone on the table, “I don’t want to see you two right now. Not for a while. Maybe later down the road, but not right now. You can have your phone back. I’ll get my own. Mom, I know this is hard, but this is a decision I made for myself. You guys don’t care if I’m here or not.”

“Honey, that is not true.”

“If it wasn’t true, then you would have noticed that I wasn’t home for the past week.” he says, and you all look at him, “I never came home. I was staying with a friend, or…sleeping on a bench. I even crashed in the Wick’s backyard one night--I didn’t want to wake you guys up.”

You shake your head and wave it off, “We don’t care about that, Logan. We just want you to be safe.”

“You haven’t even noticed that I’ve been gone. It’s okay, mom.” he says softly as she cries, “Maybe we can work things out later on in life.”

John reaches for your hand and tugs it a little, pulling you to the door. You open the door and wait for Logan to step outside, then you walk to the car with him. He gets in the back and looks out the window as Laura stands on the front step with her hands over her head to shield herself from the rain. You turn around and look back at Logan, and he exhales in relief before putting his head down and closing his eyes.

__

When you got home, you quickly made up the guest bedroom for Logan. You gave him new sheets and told him that you’d make some dinner but he wasn’t obligated to come out or anything. In the end, he decided to just take his food to his room, which was fine by you. He said he wanted to eat and just watch some TV before falling asleep. He’s so emotionally and mentally exhausted, so you don’t blame him for wanting to just rest.

Sighing loudly, you flop down in bed and close your eyes. John trails his nails up your back and into your hair, and you hum before you open your eyes to look at him. He holds your gaze as you sit up, then he pulls you into his arms and hugs you. You melt into the warmth of his embrace, scooting up more so you’re comfortable.

John leans back and sighs, “You think he’s okay?”

“He will be,” you whisper, nodding your head, “It’s just going to be an adjustment for now. It doesn’t help that we literally live down the street from them but he’s safe here.”

“What Laura said about you earlier,” he shakes his head, “None of that is true.”

You start to laugh, “She called me a slut! And a whore! Can you believe that? Me? A slut?”

“You’re certainly not a slut,” John says, chuckling a little.

“Well, I mean, I am a slut for you.” you say, which makes John laugh harder than he has all day. “The fact that her mind even went there disgusts me. I have never looked at him like that. He’s like…a little brother or a son, really.”

John nods, “She’s just upset. I’m not justifying it, but there’s no way anyone would think that about you. She’s just mad.”

“I know,” you look down at your hands and shrug, “I feel so bad for him. I can’t imagine…ever treating Ro like that. She’s my baby. I’m suppose to love and protect her, not hurt her.”

“I think I see a lot of myself in Logan,” John admits as you look at him, “I think that’s why this situation is so hard for me and why I get so protective of him. It’s hard for me to control my anger more than it should be. I just see so much of myself in him. He’s so lost and unloved, and he really needs someone to show him that he has worth. What better person to do that than you. You did it for me.”

You tear up as you look at him, “You have so much worth, babe. Logan does too. And you both had it before I ever even came along.” Silence blankets the room for a few minutes before you look at John. “Were people…mean to you too when you were younger?” you ask, and he inhales deeply before looking over at you with the saddest eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

“It just comes with the territory.”

“It shouldn’t.” you say, holding his gaze, “No one deserves to be treated like that, especially not a child. Especially not you.”

John leans over, cupping your face and kissing you. You scoot closer to him and pull the blanket up so you can touch him, and you both lay back on the bed but his lips never leave yours. You start to pull his boxers down a little, but you’re startled by a knock on the door.

John leans up a little and looks over his shoulder at the door, “Think Ronan knows how to get out of her bed and knock yet?”

“No,” you laugh, getting out of bed. You open the door and smile when Logan stands with his back to you, “I’m decent, Logan.”

“Oh, okay,” he turns around and looks over your shoulder at John before looking at you, “I just wanted to say thank you for letting me stay here. I promise I won’t be a hassle or anything.”

You smile, “We’re not worried about it. We’re just glad you’re here and that you’re safe. Not that you’ll have to worry about it again, but next time you’re looking for somewhere to stay, you can come here. You don’t have to sleep on a bench.”

“Or in our backyard.” John chimes in, and you laugh as you move to the side so they can see each other. “That’s kind of creepy.”

Logan grimaces before smiling, “I didn’t want to wake up Ronan.”

You wave it off, “We’d rather deal with a sleepy baby than you getting sick or being uncomfortable outside.”

“About the stuff my mom said…”

You wave your hand again, “Don’t worry about it.”

“It wasn’t very nice.”

“Well, no, but she’s upset. I’m not worried about it. I know it’s not true. I’m pretty crazy about that big dope back there,” you say, using your thumb to gesture to John over your shoulder, and John starts to laugh, “Plus I’m almost old enough to be your mom, so I’m not really interested in you.”

Logan scrunches up his face, “Yeah, that’s gross. You’re like a big sister.”

John laughs, “Good. I’d fight you otherwise, kid.”

“I believe it.” Logan laughs, then he smiles at you.

“Hey, speaking of…” John gets up and walks over to join you, “I’m sorry--well, I’m not sorry that I did it--but sorry you had to see me…you know…”

Logan nods when John imitates punching his own jaw, “Oh, no, he deserved it.”

“I will do anything that I have to do to protect her,” John says, gesturing to you, “I protect my family. I hope you know that includes you.”

That totally touched Logan but he plays it off and just nods his head. The light catches a tear in his eye though. Fucking adorable.

“I won’t be loud or anything since I’m going to bed and I know Ro is sleeping, but I just wanted to let you guys know I’m watching TV.”

“You don’t have to tell us what you’re doing every minute, bud,” John says as he backs away, “You’re welcome to do whatever. Obviously Ro is sleeping, but whatever you do in your room is your business. Tomorrow we can go and get the rest of the things you need and get you a new phone as well.”

Logan looks down, “I need to get a new bank account too. My parents have me on theirs, so…”

“We’ll take care of everything that we can tomorrow.” you say to him, and he nods. “Go get some rest. If you get hungry, there’s plenty of food as well.”

“I can just get anything I want?” he says, perking up when you nod. “Wow.”

You reach out and hug him, “You’re safe here, Logan.”

“Thank you,” he hugs you tighter before he lets go, “I’ll see you two in the morning.”

“Okay, goodnight.”

Logan turns around and stares at you for a moment like he’s seeing a ghost, “Goodnight.”

Has no one ever said goodnight to him before?

Closing the door, you turn back to John and smile at him as he watches you. You crawl into bed and laugh when he leans down and kisses you several times, and you lean back to hold his gaze. His hand is resting on your hip, and you squint your eyes playfully at him.

“You arguing with Laura was pretty sexy.”

You start to laugh, “God, you’re so weird.”

“I just think you’re sexy when you get angry.”

“I don’t get this reaction when I get mad at you for leaving the toilet seat up.”

John cocks up his brow, “I don’t leave the toilet seat up.”

“Yeah, true,” you cup his face and look into his eyes, “Thanks for being such a good man.”

“I want to be the best man for you.”

A smile spreads across your face, “You are the best man for me. Ronan and I are so lucky. And you know what? Logan is lucky too. Thank you for taking him under your wing. We are so lucky to have you in our lives, babe.”

John nods as he looks down, then he looks at you with tears in his eyes, “Thank you.”

You start to tear up as you look at him, so you hug him tight and close your eyes, just holding each other for a few minutes. You start to laugh when John’s left hand slides down your thigh, and you lean back to look at him, raising your brows a little.

“You have to be insanely quiet.”

“I can do that,” he whispers as he crawls on top of you, “I can be so quiet.”

Laughing quietly, you lift your hips up so John can get your shorts off, and he licks his lips and leans down to kiss your stomach as he hums. He moves lower and inhales deeply when he gets between your legs, and you laugh when he closes his eyes and drops his head.

“God, you smell so good!”

“Quiet,” you whisper as you pull him up to you, “You have to be quiet.”

John grins as he leans down to kiss you, then he shakes his head, “It’s not me I’m worried about.”

You bite your lip as you start to laugh, “Okay, I’ll be quiet too.”

Your left arm is draped over John’s pillow and as soon as he brushes his lip between your legs, you grab his pillow and press it to your face. Yeah, being quiet is harder than it seems.

_

@multifandombliss @ruby-octo @tnu-ree @sakurachan-9 @beingnerdyissupercool @scream-queen-25 @ladyren33

[author-morgan]

has the kween of AC writing returned? 👀

❤️❤️❤️ I don't know that I can say I'm back back lol, only that I'm trying to clear out some of the WIPs and drafts -- I'd been working on the Edward and Deimos fics for 1+ years now 😭

[feinv]

black beauty. john wick x fem!reader. smut. fluff. unprotected sex on a couch (it’s big and comfortable). missionary. praise, oh god. established rp. john the loving husband. 1.5k words.

summary. john comes home to you after a long day, only to find out you missed him just as much as he missed you ;)

a/n. first ever full fic lesgooo. feedbacks and reblogs are greatly appreciated. enjoy! 💌

the moonlight shone through the panel glasses of the house you and john now shared together. for john, this house was nothing but a concrete construction — lifeless, dull, and lonely. just a place where he could eat, shower, and sometimes sleep, if he could return before sunrise. ever since you came into his life, the house was now home to him, a comfort place where his lover awaited him with open arms and a heart full of lust and desire.

you were on the couch, tucked tightly under the blankets. you must have fallen asleep while waiting for john again: a constant occurrence. but you didn't mind, not at all. how could you? he was the best man out there, your favorite person in the whole word, so devoted to you. you would wait an eternity for him if it meant you would be together in the end.

the sound of an approaching car accompanied by a lock turn woke you up. you rubbed your eyes slightly, hoping to get some sense of time and place after the nap before a mild panic seized through your body, but quickly vanished when you realized it could only be john. no one in their right or even wrong mind would dare to break into the infamous baba yaga’s house.

john sighs heavily as he closes the door behind him, being relieved that he has finally made it home to you. he took in his surroundings, the moonlight casting pale and ghastly shades — the only light in the living room. his eyes then locked on your sleepy figure covered in blankets — the only light in his life.

“oh, sweetheart…” his tired and hoarse voice echoed as he approached you slowly, stopping in front of the couch, looking down at you. “you didn’t have to stay up for me.”

“can’t sleep without you,” you turn your head up, looking at him with your doe eyes before moving your hands up to reach his neck. he cranes his body down to hug you, hands wrapping around your waist and lifting you up. he turns both of you around before sitting down on the coach with you straddling his lap.

his hands still resting on your lower back, he casts a glance at your face, the lamp illuminating your beautiful features. his look is so gentle and loving instead of his usual cold exterior - one he always carries around others, but never with you.

“i missed you,” he whispers in the dark, one of his hands brushing the hair out of your face. you smiled softly before his lips crushed into yours, kissing you so tenderly, so gently, as if he was afraid you would break. you return the kiss while your hands find the end of his soft raven hair to play with.

“missed you too…so much,” you say in between. there is a soft groan at the back of his throat as he deepens the kiss, sliding his hands under your shirt, his calloused fingers sending shivers down your spine. as your lips move in unison, john becomes more passionate, taking your bottom lip between his teeth, earning a soft moan from you, and pulling you closer to him.

you break the kiss only to catch your breath when his lips start kissing your jawline. you move you head back, giving him more access to your neck where he is leaving red bite marks and bruises. john moves his hands from your waist, pulling your shirt off, cursing to himself when he realizes you weren’t wearing a bra. you got off him for a second to quickly get rid of your shorts, only panties covering your body now. your cheeks flush due to bareness of your body, all exposed to him, in contrast to his full suit.

right when you were about to sit back in his lap, he flipped you onto the couch, towering over you. john takes a moment to admire you, lips reaching to your collarbone and planting a kiss there. he continues to plant soft kisses all over your body, hands roaming just about everywhere.

“so goddamn beautiful,” he whispers between the kisses, his beard tickling your soft skin, making sure to worship every inch of your body — like he always does. he always told you you were a goddess. and he would worship you like one. you let out several moans under his touch, unable to control your voice, eyes sparkling at the thought of what you were about to do.

john tugs the waistband of your panties, slowly sliding it down your legs, moments before it joins the pile of clothes long forgotten on the floor. he kisses your lips again, more urgently this time, more messier, hungrier.

“look at you…so perfect, so flawless,” he murmured, his eyes shamelessly roaming all over your nude body, your every curve — so vulnerable and trusting for him.

you move your hands to his trousers, clumsy fingers unbuckling his belt, letting them fall loose, visible bulge through his underwear making your stomach squirm with excitement. you quickly tug his underwear down, letting his dick sprang free, tip glistering with pre-cum. you didn’t have the time to undress the rest of him when john did it himself, watching as you occupy yourself by gliding your fingers down to your folds.

what a sight to behold, he thought to himself.

what he didn’t know is that you were thinking the exact same thing looking up at his body. all six feet of him completely naked for you, his toned muscles and bulky arms, scars and decades old wounds making your head dizzy.

you loved every inch of him. he was perfect to you, although he would never admit that to himself.

“no, darling. let me make you feel good,” john took your hands and pinned them behind your head with his one hand. his other hand slowly replacing yours and moving to your folds, fingers lazily drawing circles on your clit, his head now buried in the valley between your nude breasts, kissing and sucking your soft skin.

“john…”you moan at the sensation, falling your head back on the couch. he looks up at you, his dark eyes boring into yours. he sets your pinned hands free when he shifts back a little, aligning himself in front of your entrance. his one hand was now readjusted on your thigh, gently holding it while his other hand held yours. he always did that when you were making love. it was a silent gesture, a sign of affection — love, lust, trust.

you both grunted when he slowly entered you, inch by inch, careful not to hurt you as you took a minute to stretch and get used to his sheer size. once you gave him a little nod, john started thrusting into you, in and out, keeping a steady pace. you wrapped your legs around his torso, allowing him a deeper access.

as his thrusts become more violent and urging, a groan escapes his lips as he watches him disappearing in and out if you, taking the scenery in front of him. your mouth slightly open, your hooded eyes struggling to focus, your desperate moans filling the room, breasts bouncing with each thrust. this sight alone could send him over the edge.

john hits your sensitive spot every single time, having memorized exactly how your body works, making you produce all kinds of sounds. you grip the couch, the soft material clenching under your fingers as your eyes start to water at how good he’s fucking you.

“don’t-” you fail to form a sentence, which instead came out as a whimper, as your pleasure was nearing you, making your mind clouded and brain all fogged.

“what was that, sweetheart? couldn’t hear you,” john replied to your plea, simultaneously moving closer to you.

“i- fuck!” you mewled when he took your one breast into his mouth while his hand was toying with your clit. he licked your nipple, gently sucking and swirling on it with his skilled tongue, before moving to give the same attention to you other breast. you were now fucked into oblivion, almost unconscious, goosebumps seizing your whole body, eyes rolling back as he kept pleasuring you in different ways.

he was delighted to know he was making you feel those things, and he would tease you about it. he slowed down his movements, not giving you the satisfaction you needed yet. “use your words, darling.”

you sigh frustrated, needing him to move faster. “please…i need you, john. need you so bad, please.”

what could he do if not comply?

he continued his voluptuous rhythm, your previous pleasure building up again. you move your hand to his back for additional support, leaving red scratch marks all over, earning a groan from him.

“there you go. doing so good for me, angel,” he was dangerously close too, nearly unable to hold himself, but for him, your pleasure was a priority.

with few final thrusts, you scream out his name so loud — almost pornographically — as the waves of orgasm wash over you, vibrating through your whole body. john follows, not far behind. with a particular loud groan he spills his release inside of you, head falling back with a few strands of hair stuck on his forehead.

after you both ride out your highs, john moves both of you so you find yourself straddling him again. he tugs you closer to him with his arms draped around your body, drawing small soothing circles on your back. your arms crossed behind his neck, you let your head fall on his chest, buried in the crook of his neck while his cock was still buried in you.

you both stay in that position for a minute longer, silently indulging in each other's embrace before exchanging i love yous and slow kisses, moonlight shining over your sore figures.

# john wick masterlist | main m.list | join the taglist

[irellia]

Let me just add the song I've been listening to nonstop while writing this chapter because it's extremely relevant to its contents.

A piece i made for @kiraman fic which yall should definitely check out at

://kiraman.tumblr.com/post/743676498388697088/𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧-𝐖𝐢𝐜𝐤-𝐌𝐢𝐳𝐮-𝐀𝐔-𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭-art-by-the

(Trust me it's AMAZING)

The piece:

(Inspired by the poster for atomic blonde)

Also a quick snip from said fic. Tw!!! Murder

She clings to her like she is her lifeline, frantically, blindly, with both hands. It is hanging over her, the loss, the death, all that guilt choked up in her throat, screaming its furious grief, not letting her breathe.

She thinks of that newspaper article she saw Geraldine read over breakfast, and the woman who had her throat cut open, the ribbon of her hair soaked in blood, they had used it to strangle her, and Mizu had thought about it all morning, her mind obsessively circling back to it, horrified at the idea that something so fragile could be used to end a life, just like that.

It feels like that sometimes, inside of her body, she thinks. like she is walking and talking despite being half-corpsed. like she is hanging on by a ribbon, standing on some kind of cusp. she keeps saying - at least she went fast… I am so lucky she did not suffer,

I am so lucky, so lucky�� (what a deaf thought). The idea is river-rock smooth now, all the edges worried off.

[animusrox]

MY LETTERBOXD

TOP 10

1.    Dune: Part Two 2.    The Substance 3.    Hundreds of Beavers 4.    Anora 5.    Dìdi 6.    Nosferatu 7.    Nickel Boys 8.    The First Omen 9.    Sing Sing 10.    Civil War

GRADE A 

11.    No Other Land 12.    Robot Dreams 13.    The Peasants 14.    Conclave 15.    Smile 2 16.    Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes 17.    We Grown Now 18.    Memoir of a Snail 19.    The Last Stop in Yuma County 20.    A Real Pain 21.    It’s What’s Inside 22.    Red Rooms 23.    Sometimes I Think About Dying 24.    A Different Man 25.    Better Man 26.    The Brutalist 27.    Heretic 28.    His Three Daughters 29.    Hard Truths 30.    Evil Does Not Exist 31.    Late Night with the Devil 32.    Alien: Romulus 33.    MadS 34.    Rebel Ridge 35.    Humanist Vampire Seeking Consenting Suicidal Person 36.    Challengers 37.    Strange Darling 38.    Flow 39.    All We Imagine as Light 40.    Longlegs 41.    Saturday Night 42.    The Apprentice 43.    Terrifier 3 44.    The Seed of the Sacred Fig 45.    A Complete Unknown 46.    A Quiet Place: Day One 47.    Juror #2 48.    Wallace & Gromit: Vengeance Most Fowl 49.    Oddity 50.    Kneecap 51.    Touch 52.    Mayhem! 53.    The Order 54.    In a Violent Nature 55.    Small Things Like These 56.    Twisters 57.    Hit Man 58.    Woman of the Hour 59.    Stopmotion 60.    The Wild Robot 61.    Deadpool & Wolverine

[Tap 'Keep Reading' For My Full Graded List]

GRADE B

62.    The Devil’s Bath 63.    The Bikeriders 64.    Sasquatch Sunset 65.    The Lord of the Rings: The War of the Rohirrim 66.    Monkey Man 67.    Last Straw 68.    Abigail 69.    Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga 70.    Tiger Stripes 71.    The Book of Clarence 72.    The Instigators 73.    I’m Still Here 74.    The Coffee Table 75.    The Return 76.    Problemista 77.    Trap 78.    MaXXXine 79.    Love Lies Bleeding 80.    You’ll Never Find Me 81.    Between the Temples 82.    Marmalade 83.    Blitz 84.    Speak No Evil 85.    Asphalt City 86.    Piece By Piece 87.    Wicked Little Letters 88.    We Live in Time 89.    Super/Man: The Christopher Reeve Story 90.    V/H/S/Beyond 91.    The Dead Don’t Hurt 92.    Suncoast 93.    Maria 94.    My Old Ass 95.    Immaculate 96.    The Truth vs. Alex Jones 97.    Cuckoo 98.    Daddio 99.    We Were Dangerous 100.    The Outrun 101.    Infested 102.    Monolith 103.    Azrael 104.    The Last Showgirl 105.    Babes 106.    The Fire Inside 107.    Lisa Frankenstein 108.    Here 109.    Thelma 110.    Queer 111.    Out of Darkness 112.    Y2K 113.    Handling the Undead 114.    Bad Boys: Ride or Die 115.    I Saw the TV Glow 116.    Arcadian 117.    Transformers One 118.    Never Let Go 119.    The Piano Lesson 120.    Beverly Hills Cop: Axel F 121.    Wicked 122.    Gladiator II 123.    Carry-On 124.    Blink Twice 125.    Self Reliance 126.    Fly Me to the Moon 127.    Boy Kills World 128.    Kinds of Kindness 129.    Nutcrackers 130.    Skincare 131.    Ezra 132.    The Front Room 133.    Mothers’ Instinct 134.    Inside Out 2 135.    Omni Loop 136.    Girls State 137.    Beetlejuice Beetlejuice 138.    Your Monster 139.    Babygirl 140.    Mufasa: The Lion King 141.    The Greatest Hits 142.    Horizon: An American Saga - Chapter 1 143.    Magpie

GRADE C 

144.    The People’s Joker 145.    Nightbitch 146.    Road House 147.    Young Woman and the Sea 148.    Am I OK? 149.    Music by John Williams 150.    The Killer’s Game 151.    Oh, Canada 152.    Wolfs 153.    Sting 154.    The Idea of You 155.    Don’t Move 156.    1992 157.    Werewolves 158.    The Killer 159.    The Shadow Strays 160.    Rez Ball 161.    MoviePass, MovieCrash 162.    The Fall Guy 163.    Lee 164.    The End 165.    Godzilla × Kong: The New Empire 166.    The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare 167.    Madame Web 168.    Caddo Lake 169.    Watchmen: Chapter II 170.    Watchmen: Chapter I 171.    Salem’s Lot 172.    The Exorcism 173.    The Watchers 174.    Kill 175.    Jackpot! 176.    Rumours 177.    Damsel 178.    My Spy: The Eternal City 179.    Drive-Away Dolls 180.    IF 181.    Spaceman 182.    Joy 183.    Joker: Folie à Deux 184.    Megalopolis 185.    Monster Summer 186.    Lovely, Dark, and Deep 187.    Bob Marley: One Love 188.    Kraven the Hunter 189.    Moana 2 190.    I Used to Be Funny 191.    Goodrich 192.    September 5 193.    Hold Your Breath 194.    Apartment 7A

GRADE F

195.    The Platform 2 196.    Arthur the King 197.    Shirley 198.    Back to Black 199.    Land of Bad 200.    Poolman 201.    Emilia Pérez 202.    The Room Next Door 203.    I.S.S. 204.    Brothers 205.    Knox Goes Away 206.    Mean Girls 207.    Krazy House 208.    Slingshot 209.    Mr. Crocket 210.    Argylle 211.    Sonic the Hedgehog 3 212.    Winnie-the-Pooh: Blood and Honey 2 213.    Afraid 214.    Tuesday 215.    Spellbound 216.    Justice League: Crisis on Infinite Earths Part Three 217.    Justice League: Crisis on Infinite Earths Part Two 218.    Justice League: Crisis on Infinite Earths Part One 219.    The American Society of Magical Negroes 220.    Subservience 221.    Time Cut 222.    Night Swim 223.    Ghostbusters: Frozen Empire 224.    Red One 225.    This Is Me…Now 226.    Despicable Me 4 227.    The Union 228.    Ricky Stanicky 229.    The Beekeeper 230.    Honeymoonish 231.    Hot Frosty 232.    The Deliverance 233.    The Garfield Movie 234.    Lift 235.    Atlas 236.    Trigger Warning 237.    House of Spoils 238.    Borderlands 239.    Tarot 240.    Venom: The Last Dance

Bottom 10

241.    Imaginary 242.    Unfrosted 243.    It Ends With Us 244.    Dear Santa 245.    The Crow 246.    The Strangers: Chapter 1 247.    Harold and the Purple Crayon 248.    Rebel Moon - Part Two: The Scargiver 249.    Dirty Angels 250.    Miller’s Girl

[rafesbuzzcutseason]

wicked game

chapter 3 - frat president

synopsis: y/n is sarah’s roommate and the embodiment of sunshine. rafe, on the other hand, is her complete opposite. when the boys place a bet that he can't win her over, rafe takes the challenge without hesitation. after all, he never backs down from a dare. the closer rafe gets to y/n, he finds himself drawn to her warmth in a way he never expected, and for the first time, he wants to be more than just the guy with a bad reputation.

but secrets don’t stay hidden for long, and when y/n finds out the truth, rafe is left to face the consequences. now, he has to prove that somewhere along the way, the bet stopped mattering, because losing her was never part of the plan.

masterlist

cw: language, alcohol, drugs

the group guided you to the kitchen where all the alcohol was kept. jj took it upon himself to grab drinks for everyone, shoving a red solo cup into your hand with a wink. “for you, y'n."

"thanks jj." you eyed the cup warily before taking a small sip. the burn of cheap liquor mixed with coke made you wince, but you forced a smile. cleo laughed at your expression. “yeah, you get used to it.”

sarah linked her arm with yours. “come on, let’s make a lap around the party. gotta get the full experience.”

you let her guide you through the crowd, weaving between groups of people dancing, flirting, and shouting over the music. the kappa tau house was massive, with more rooms than you could count, each one filled with students making the most of their first week back.

out in the garden, a massive beer pong game was underway, a group of guys cheering obnoxiously as a ping pong ball landed perfectly in a red cup.

sarah smirked, nodding toward them. “wanna give it a shot?"

you hesitated, "really?"

"come on, it'll be fun." kie chimed in, leading you to the group.

you grabbed a ping pong ball, rolling it between your fingers as you took in the scene. the guys across the table, two cocky-looking juniors, smirked at you like they had already won.

john b leaned in. “aim for the middle cups. trust me.”

you took a deep breath, lined up your shot, and tossed the ball. it bounced once, hit the rim, and, by some miracle, landed perfectly in a cup.

the group around you erupted into cheers. jj whistled. “beginner’s luck or secret beer pong prodigy?”

you laughed, feeling some of the nerves melt away. “definitely luck.”

kie grinned. “we’ll see about that.”

the game continued, and before you knew it, you were laughing, talking, and actually having fun. you had just downed another sip of your drink when sarah’s face suddenly twisted in annoyance.

“oh, great,” she muttered.

you followed her gaze, and that’s when you saw them. two guys were making their way through the party like they owned the place.

“they’re coming over here,” cleo murmured under her breath.

“why?” you asked, unaware of the situation.

sarah sighed. “because topper still thinks we’re friends even though i've told him a thousand times we’re not.”

“well, well,” the one you presumed to be topper grinned, looking at sarah. “didn’t think i’d see you here, cameron.”

sarah crossed her arms. “yeah, i tend to regret it every time i do.”

topper just laughed, clearly unbothered, before his eyes flickered to you. his smirk widened. “and who’s this?”

before you could answer, the other boy, who had been silent up until now, let out a low chuckle. “fresh meat.”

you turned sharply, meeting his gaze. he was already looking at you, eyes cold and assessing, like he was sizing you up.

you felt your blood boil. "it's y/n," you corrected, voice steady despite the way he was staring at you.

he tilted his head slightly, amusement flickering across his face like he found your defiance entertaining.

"sarah’s new roommate," kie said before he could respond.

topper’s brows raised. "ohhh. so you’re the new angel on her shoulder?"

sarah rolled her eyes. "fuck off, top."

topper just smirked, taking a slow sip from his cup, clearly enjoying getting under sarah’s skin.

but you barely noticed him anymore, because the other guy was still staring at you. his gaze unsettling.

"you gonna keep looking at me like that, or do you actually have something to say?" you asked, raising a brow.

kie stifled a laugh, cleo shot you an approving look, and sarah looked like she wanted to cheer.

he just smirked. a slow, arrogant smile that made your stomach tighten. "just trying to figure out why you’re here," he said smoothly. "you don’t really seem like the type."

you tilted your head. “and what type is that?” irritation taking over.

he could clearly see your annoyance, which only egged him on. "the type to survive in a place like this. you seem pretty fucking simple. you wouldn’t last two minutes in a place like this sunshine."

"you think you know me?" you shot back.

"yeah." he leaned in closer to you, "i think i do. you’re just another girl trying to fit in. probably think you’re special, but you’re not."

your heart raced, "you don't know anything about me."

"lucky me. i wouldn't waste my time trying to get to know someone like you." he responded, but before he could say anymore sarah dragged you away from him.

"what a prick." you muttered to the girls.

"yeah well that's rafe for you." cleo spoke.

"rafe?" you quizzed, not knowing the name.

"rafe cameron. frat president and the asshole i unfortunately share blood with." sarah responded.

your mouth opened in shock, "that's your brother?"

"ding ding ding."

a/n: posting this so late i cannot sleep

🏷️: @heartzshiftamy @hoefordrewstarkey @luvrclub @yesterdaysproblemm @leleee3 @yktayy9669 @miumiuestmoi @anacamofficial @cokewithcameron @bloodofadoll @shorttandsweett @mysticbby2009 @emmiesummers @wintercrows @drewrry @starkeyxcameron @xxbirkindoll2 @stoned-writer @drewstarkeyslover @hannieskzzz @verycherryblossomhideout @letstryagaintomorrow @@jjsbbg7 @mariamadison6-blog @laniirackssss @xeneasworld @countryclubwhore @drewsphswife @mattyskies @moonywhisp3rs @starkeygirls @lmaolmaos @thereallifebambi @emeloyy @vcnillafairy @rafecameronswhoore @st8rkey @angeldiaryy @therealfairybatman @drewsephrry @vanessa-rafesgirl @dreamybabbyy @pogueprincesa @happy-mushrooms @hannaa20002000 

[corporalicent]

FRANCESCA & JOHN STIRLING

She adored him with ever last breath in her body. He was her kindered spirit, so like her in so many ways. But it had, in a strange sort of fashion, been a relief to exit her mother's home, to escape to amore serene existence with John, whose sense of humor was precisely like hers. He understood her, he anticipated her. He completed her. It has been the oddest sensation when she'd met him, almost as if she were a jagged puzzle finally finding its mate. Their first meeting hadn't been one of overwhelming love or passion, but rather filled with the most bizarre sense that she'd finally found the one person with whom she could completely be herself. It had been instant. It had been sudden. She couldn't remember just what it was he'd said to her, but from the moment words first left his lips, she had felt at home. —Chapter two. When he was wicked.

[triniicat]

yandere!john wick headcannons

cw: obsessive behavior, stalking, manipulation, sexual themes, implied violence

sorry if this is nonsensical i had the idea and just had to get it written down <3

(inspired by my c.ai bot — you can find it here!)

- The first time you see him is at the library, eyes meeting through the endless aisles of books. His gorgeous brown gaze disarms you, nearly taking your breath away.

- After that day, you start noticing him everywhere

- At the grocery store, the coffee shop, the gas station…

- It happens just infrequently enough to seem like coincidence by his design

- Eventually the two of you start talking. He invites you out for dinner at a quaint, peaceful little place you’ve never heard of. It seems fitting for his reserved, stoic nature.

- As he pulls out your chair you catch a whiff of his cologne, and you swear you recognize that scent.

- It smells like the scent that lingers around your room each morning, the scent that’s always stronger when you wake up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom

- Like the smell that shows up in your car every once in a while, that sticks to your laundry

- You brush it off, assuming it’s nothing more than a weird connection your brain is making, something nonsensical and completely coincidental.

- A few months and quite a few dates later, the two of you are getting more serious.

- John is so attentive; so loving and sweet, and yet so strong and intimidating all at once. Sometimes it’s hard to believe his hands, the ones that touch your body with such delicateness it’s like he thinks you might break, have killed so many people before.

- Yes, he told you of his past as an assassin. He couldn’t hide it forever, he knew that. It came out one night when he was walking down the street with you, a man you’ve never seen in your life lunging right for him.

- He had taken the man down with such skill and familiarity, you knew something was wrong. No normal man could do that…

- So, he did what he had to do to keep you by his side, to keep you feeling safe. He told you.

- He explained everything, from his job, to his late wife, to his second time retiring. Honesty is the best policy, and all that.

- But never too honest

- It paid off, exactly as he planned. In your eyes, John was now an open book. An open book with many chapters you haven’t read, of course, but an open book nonetheless.

- He clouds your senses, makes you feel like the only woman in the world. And to him, you are.

- You’re everything to him. The moon and stars above, the sun that shines and warms the Earth.

- He would do anything to keep you safe, even if that meant orchestrating little events that would keep you running back into the safety of his arms.

- You don’t even realize when he happens to know things about you that you’ve never told him, assuming you must’ve just forgotten. He’s so good at what he does, at keeping you comfortable, never raising suspicion.

- He makes you feel safe, and why wouldn’t you?

- He protects you, keeps you nestled safely in his arms every night, whispering sweet words in your ear as his hips grind against yours, arms wrapped tightly around you as he pulls you closer to him, wanting to feel every bit of your skin against his.

- John gives you the illusion of freedom. He lets you go out, see your friends, whatever you might like.

- But he’s too nervous to let you go unsupervised, he needs to know you’re safe, at all times.

- You never notice the trackers on your phone, or strategically placed in your car. You don’t question it when he happens to show up at the bar you never told him the address of, just in time to save you from a handsy creep.

- You’re his.

- His Persephone, lured in by Hades’ charm, trapped in his world after he so delicately fed you the seed.

- And the best part? You don’t even know it.

[jungkoode]

THE 25TH HOUR | O8

“𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐒”

"Your coffee is exactly the way you like it, though you do not remember having a preference over it, nor knowing Agent Min's. Just like you don't remember the coffee shop, or the barista. Or how, apparently, certain phrases trigger certain protocols."

next | index

— chapter details

word count: 5,4k

content: coffee details, sugar slander, yoongi hiding the softness (i see u mf), him leaving in the worst moment possible (oh no can you believe that), a barista thinking he's john wick and yoongi showing him he's indeed not (why am i laughing at this i'm so funny), idk fleeing, superpowers, golden tendrils/tentacles/traces and they're sensitive bc i'm a horny slut who loves drama, yoongi explaining his abilities and basically both of them being somewhat stranded.

— author’s note

OKAY OKAY OKAY—wow. phew.

Lemme just say I had to speed write this chapter like I was being chased by CHRONOS itself because I was NOT prepared for y’all to hit the chapter goals in like… two days. TWO. DAYS. Both on Wattpad and Tumblr. Kinda insane honestly but also like… slay Kiki Nation, we are so back.

This was a severe underestimation on my part and it 100% reflects in the goal numbers I set this round. Don’t look at me like that. This is entirely your doing.

NOW. As for this chapter: WOAH. I was so itchy to finally get into some action-packed scenes!!! I know it’s not a full-blown Marvel throwdown or anything but ughhhh I love the way it’s parried with uncovering new truths, a little sprinkling of Yoongi’s abilities, and just the faintest nod at Noma’s. We’re getting there, babies. We’re cooking with unstable temporal gas.

Sci-fi + superpowers = my drug. Inject it directly into my brainstem. This fic is honestly just me going full feral in my favorite genre and I love that you’re all just vibing with the chaos.

And hey—just a heads up—those golden traces / tendrils / tentacles / whatever-the-fuck you wanna call them? Yeah. They’re important. Not just plot-wise.

Oh no. We’re going smut-wards. You remember that little detail about them being sensitive? YEAH. Narrative seed. Planted. You’re welcome, you horny-ass goblins. I love your deranged asses because they are as feral as mine and I respect that.

Anyway. I’m gonna make that man suffer through overstimulation and there’s NOTHING you can do to stop me. Whoops. Who said that??

Godspeed and love. <3

— read on

ao3

wattpad

You’ve never registered an aversion to coffee. 

Analysis confirms your preference: black, minimal dilution via milk, zero sweeteners. Sugar introduces an artificial variable, a taste profile your palate rejects as inefficient data. 

The cup sits between your hands now, untouched. Heat radiates outwards, a minor thermal signature registering in your system. You stare into the dark liquid, a reflective surface showing nothing but distorted ceiling lights. Your mind searches for a focal point, a problem to solve, but the what remains elusive, fragmented.

Beside you, Agent Min occupies the adjacent stool. His presence is a known variable, yet the proximity registers as… different. Static cling without the static. 

His coffee mirrors yours in its lack of sugar, but deviates in the absence of milk. Plain black. Stark. Your internal database flags this information, yet registers no 'new entry' timestamp. It’s data already logged, sourced from… where? 

The query returns a null set. 

Error. File not found.

“Good?”

The query comes from him. Low frequency, minimal inflection. You lift your gaze, meeting his across the short distance. Dark eyes, partially obscured by mint smudges of hair that have fallen across his forehead.

Analysis identifies a lack of direct eye contact, his focus aimed somewhere near your left temple.

A defensive posture? Or observational?

You tilt your head, a minor adjustment of 15 degrees. Querying his query.

The corner of his mouth flickers. A micro-expression, barely perceptible, suppressed almost instantly. He’s withholding an upward curve, a smile response. 

Why?

“I mean you,” he clarifies, voice maintaining its low, even tone. “Not the coffee.”

You redirect your focus to the cup. The brown surface ripples slightly as you shift your weight. You deliberately defocus your vision, blurring the edges of the ceramic rim.

Unconscious action.

Flagged for later analysis.

“Yeah, just…” The sentence terminates prematurely. Insufficient data to complete the thought. Or perhaps, excess data causing system overload.

He mirrors your earlier gesture, head tilting towards you. An eyebrow arches. A non-verbal prompt for continuation. Standard interrogation technique.

“I knew Robin.” The words emerge, low volume, clinical detachment coating the raw data point.

He nods once. A slow, measured movement. No verbal response. He allows the silence to expand, granting you control over the data flow. 

“And now he’s gone.” You complete the statement. 

Flat delivery. Fact confirmed.

His gaze drops to his own cup. He lifts it, takes a sip. The motion is fluid, economical. He places the cup back down without a sound. Four seconds pass. Five. 

“I got him erased.” The statement escapes as a whisper, approximately 17 decibels. 

A conclusion reached through flawed logic, yet carrying an unexpected physical weight. Something constricts within your chest cavity, pressure.

His response is immediate. No processing delay.

“No.”

The word is rough, textured like sandpaper against concrete. A rasp that cuts through the low hum.

“CHRONOS got him erased.” He pauses, intake of breath audible. “That’s what they do.”

"I mentioned the temporal anomaly to him." You mutter, the unidentified strain expanding behind your sternum. "Probability suggests that's why they targeted him."

"They were already watching him," he says, voice calibrated to exactly 40 decibels. "Your conversation may have accelerated their timeline, but he was already flagged."

You process this new data point, running probability calculations against known variables.

"How can you be certain?" 

His eyes meet yours—pupil dilation increasing by 7.3% in the 0.7 seconds of direct contact.

"Because I've been tracking their erasure patterns for longer than you've been alive."

The statement contains multiple logical inconsistencies. 

Agent Min does not look significantly older than you.

Yet your temporal analysis centers don't flag it as a falsehood.

Your glance moves back to the cup. 

"Robin kept succulents on his desk," you say, the information surfacing without clear relevance markers. "Three of them. Arranged by height. He watered them every Tuesday at 14:27."

Yoongi's face produces some series of micro-adjustments in 17 distinct facial muscles that combine to form something your pattern recognition identifies as... compassion? 

The classification feels incorrect, but alternatives rank lower in probability.

"You're processing grief," he observes, voice modulating to a softer cadence. "It's normal."

The diagnosis feels foreign. Incorrect. Your emotional processing centers operate at 98.7% efficiency. You would recognize grief.

Wouldn't you?

"I barely knew him," you counter. "We shared 17 lunch periods over 4.7 months. Total interaction time: 23.8 hours. Insufficient for meaningful emotional attachment."

Yoongi takes another sip of his coffee. The liquid level decreases by exactly 12 milliliters.

"Grief isn't always logical," he says after 2.3 seconds of silence. "Sometimes it's just... human."

The cadence in his last word triggers some unexpected response in you.

"I'm not experiencing grief," you insist. "I'm experiencing statistical anomalies in my cognitive processing."

His eyes meet yours again—0.9 seconds of contact that somehow feels heavier than its temporal parameters suggest.

"Call it whatever you need to. The result is the same."

Your fingers adjust on the cup again—pressure decreasing by 0.2 kilograms as your muscles unconsciously respond to his voice.

"What is the statistical probability that my conversation with Robin directly caused his erasure?" 

Yoongi's expression darkens—brow lowering by 0.4 centimeters, jaw tensing with 31% more force.

"You're looking for a percentage to quantify your guilt," he observes, voice edged. "It doesn't work that way."

"Everything works that way," you argue. "Reality is quantifiable. Causality is measurable. Effect follows cause at precisely calculable intervals."

"Not in the 25th hour. Not with CHRONOS."

Silence spreads as his thumb traces the rim of his cup-three precise rotations counterclockwise. Then, he speaks again, needing to make a point.

"Consistency matters now more than ever. CHRONOS is auditing behavioral patterns with 62% increased scrutiny since last quarter."  

You frown. "Source?"  

"Erratic temporal enforcement." His finger taps the ceramic once—sharp, percussive. "Fourteen percent spike in memory wipes. Thirty-three percent decrease in Outlier survival rates post-detection."  

The numbers land like ice chips down your spine. "Correlation doesn't imply causation."  

His eyes narrow by 0.3 millimeters. "You think they're redecorating parks for aesthetic purposes?"  

You ignore the rhetorical jab. "Recommended behavioral adjustments?"  

"Normalcy. No deviations from established routines. No unscheduled interactions. No..." 

His gaze flicks to your hands. 

“...idle curiosity."  

You follow his line of sight.

Your fingers have been tracing infinity symbols in condensation on the table.

A subconscious pattern emerging at 2.7-second intervals.  

"Noted." 

You wipe the moisture away with a napkin, friction coefficient registering 0.4 higher than standard paper stock.  

"They're cross-referencing biometrics with temporal signatures now. Elevated heart rate during routine scans triggers immediate audits."  

Your pulse spikes by 11.2 bpm at the implication. "You're suggesting emotional suppression."  

"I'm suggesting survival. Your body can't afford inconvenient truths right now."  

The phrase 'inconvenient truths' lodges in your cortex, sparking 37 simultaneous neural queries. 

All return access-denied.  

"Define 'normalcy' parameters."  

"Wake at 06:00. Work until 18:30. Consume 427 calories at designated intervals. Report all temporal irregularities except the ones we cause."  

"Compliance seems..." You search for the optimal term. "...counterintuitive to resistance efforts."  

“You think rebellion looks like fireworks and manifesto drops?" Leather creaks as he leans closer, mint and ozone sharpening the air between you. "Real resistance happens in the microseconds they don't monitor."  

Your retinas capture the exact moment his pupils dilate—3.2% expansion correlating with proximity increase. 

"Such as?"  

"The 25th hour. The only time they can't see us."  

Your watch beeps softly—temporal variance: 0.89%.  

He pulls back instantly, posture reset to neutral. "Stick to the numbers. The patterns. The lies they've programmed you to live."  

The coffee turns bitter on your tongue, pH shifting by 0.2. 

"And you?"  

“I'll be the ghost in their machine."  

Ghost.

The word settles in your chest, impossibly making it warmer.

Then, the lights flicker—a couple times—as CHRONOS agents pass outside the window. Their shadows stretch across the floor in elongated distortions, limbs warped by the glass's refractive index.  

You count their footsteps.  

He counts your breaths.  

A soft exhale from his lips—a controlled release of 1.2 liters of air over 2.4 seconds.

Rising from the stool, he stretches his neck 37 degrees to the left, then 42 degrees right. The vertebrae produce three distinct clicks at frequencies between 73 and 81 hertz.

His cup sits empty. Yours remains 73% full.

That same suppressed curve at the corner of his mouth does a reappearance.

Your pattern recognition flags it as the third occurrence of this specific micro-expression in the past 18 minutes.

“I need to use the restroom.” His statement is direct, efficient. “Wait here.”

You nod once—a 15-degree downward tilt followed by an equivalent upward correction. Optimal response to a simple directive.

He moves 1.7 meters toward the back of the establishment before pivoting 170 degrees. His eyebrows lift by 0.4 centimeters, creating three distinct lines across his forehead.

“You’ll be okay?”

The question registers as anomalous. Its premise suggests a concern disproportionate to the circumstances. Your brow furrows, creating a 0.3-centimeter depression between your eyebrows.

He shakes his head, dismissing the moment, and disappears behind the door marked RESTROOM—white letters, slightly chipped, 7.2 degrees off center.

You pivot on the stool, body angled toward the counter.

The coffee sits there, cooling. You sip. It’s gone tepid. Your thumb traces the rim, mapping the circumference for the third time.

The bartender approaches. Male, mid-thirties, dark hair, clean apron. Smile at 65% intensity.

“Not a fan of the coffee?” he asks, voice pitched for casual friendliness. “You’ve been staring at it longer than drinking.”

You blink twice. Processing. “No, it’s fine.”

He leans in, elbows on the counter. “You sure? Most people ask for sugar. Or something sweet.”

You shake your head. “I don’t like sweeteners. They distort the baseline flavor profile.”

He laughs, easy. “That’s… specific.” 

His gaze lingers, searching for something. 

“You come here often? I don’t recognize you.”

You hesitate, brain skipping. “Not that I remember.”

The words fall out, unfiltered. He goes still. Smile vanishes. His hand drops below the counter—movement too smooth.

Cold metal presses to your temple. Soft click.

You catalog the sensation. 

Barrel diameter: 9mm. 

Temperature: room. 

Pressure: firm, not shaking.

His voice drops, all pretense gone. “Don’t move. Don’t speak.”

You comply. 

Data input: threat detected.  

Output: unknown.

Your retinal sensors register gold first—erratic sparks at 11 o'clock, 43 centimeters from your focal point. 

The barista's weapon hand undergoes rapid cellular decay: skin desiccating at 3.7 millimeters per second, muscle tissue liquefying with 92% efficiency. His scream measures 114 decibels—pain response authentic, but temporal signature reveals 0.8-second delay.  

Agent Min's grip materializes around your wrist before the decay reaches radial artery. His fingers burn at 39.1°C, golden threads weaving through his leather gloves. The world blurs—not from speed, but temporal interference. 

Your internal chronometer confirms: local time dilation of 47%.  

"Move." The command vibrates at 87 Hz, bypassing auditory processing to embed directly in your motor cortex.  

Your legs comply before conscious thought engages. Adrenaline spikes—17.3% above baseline. The cafe exits warp as you pass, doorframes appearing to bend at 12-degree angles—an optical illusion caused by the temporal distortion field surrounding you.  

CHRONOS agents materialize in peripheral vision, their movements unnaturally segmented—3.1 frames per second versus standard 24. Their comms chatter fractures into your awareness:  

"—emporal breach Sector 4-Alpha—"  

"—arget exhibits Reality Shifter signatures—"  

"—containment protocol Theta-7 authorized—"  

Yoongi pivots 170 degrees, dragging you into an alley where air molecules vibrate at 0.7x normal frequency. His free hand glows faintly gold, pressed against the brick wall. Mortar ages backward then forward in precise spiral patterns—2.3 revolutions per second, creating a passageway exactly 0.9 meters wide.  

"Don't breathe," he warns as you pass through particulate matter suspended in his temporal field. 

Your lungs register 14% oxygen decrease.

Insufficient for hypoxia.

Sufficient for discomfort.  

The alley deposits you onto a street where Agent Min(?) has slowed time by 23%. Pedestrians move at imperceptible rates, their coffee cups appearing frozen at 37-degree angles. His temporal manipulation leaves gold afterimages—3.2-second persistence in your peripheral vision.  

Your Chrono-Sync Watch beeps erratically:  

TEMPORAL VARIANCE: 4.89%  

ANOMALY DETECTED  

His grip tightens—42.7 kilograms of pressure now, necessary to anchor you against increasing temporal distortion. Without his stabilizing touch, you assume your untrained body would suffer severe temporal drag. 

"Focus on my voice," he commands, words layered with harmonic frequencies that stabilize your inner ear fluid against the disorienting effects of his temporal field.  

CHRONOS drones breach the time dilation field behind you, their propulsion systems screeching at 17 kHz—the exact resonant frequency that makes your temples protest. 

They're designed to track and pursue through temporal distortions. You know this from your training, what they taught you. Or at least, what they wanted you to be taught.

But Yoongi never looks back; not even once.

Nature’s lumbar support leaves much to be desired.

The wall at your back is jagged, scraping through your shirt, stone biting into skin. Yoongi’s breath saws out next to you, sharp, furious. He rounds on you, eyes wild, voice pitched higher than baseline.

"What the fuck did you do?"

The question isn't a question—it’s an accusation wrapped in 87 decibels of controlled fury. You straighten 2.3 centimeters, ignoring how the rock tears at your jacket.

“I answered his query within established social parameters."  

His laugh is all sharp edges. "Parameters? You told a CHRONOS informant you didn't remember him!"  

"Statistical probability suggested—"  

"Probability?" He steps into your space, mint and ozone overpowering the cave's damp musk. "They've activated civilian reporting protocols! That bartender was required to log every customer interaction!"  

Your pulse spikes-+18bpm. "Unforeseen variable. You didn't brief me on—"

"I literally just said don't deviate from normalcy!" The wall cracks behind him, hairline fractures spreading at 3mm/second. "Normal people don't have memory gaps about coffee shops!"  

You catalog the wall damage—microcrystalline structure failure inconsistent with human strength.

Fascinating.

New data point: Agent Min's capabilities exceed known parameters.  

"My response was logically sound," you counter. "Approximately 72% of humans experience—"  

"Logically suicidal." Gold sparks dance in his irises now. "They train those informants to flag exactly that phrase."

The revelation triggers 23 simultaneous neural queries.

"Why would 'not that I remember' trigger—"

"Because Outliers say it when their memories glitch!" He's closer now, 47cm instead of 72. "Basic fucking tradecraft, Noma."

You flinch at the nickname. "You expect me to intuit unpublished surveillance tactics?"  

"I expect you to listen when I say CHRONOS is hunting us." The gold intensifies, threads weaving through his clenched fists. "That man wasn't armed until you turned him into a threat."

"Correlation fallacy." Your voice drops to 19dB. "You lack evidence that—"

The cave wall explodes.  

Not literally—just Yoongi's fist connecting with stone 3.2cm from your head. Dust cascades downward as he withdraws his hand, skin unmarred.  

"Evidence?" His breath ghosts across your lips, warmer than human biology allows. "You think decay patterns manifest spontaneously?"  

Realization crystallizes.

The bartender's rotting hand. The gold threads. The temporal distortion.  

Your eyes narrow. "You altered his cellular decay rate."  

"To save your statistically suicidal ass."  

"Without consent."  

"Without options.” 

The standoff lasts 4.7 seconds.

"You're an anomaly," he growls. "Stop acting like one."  

"Variables require data." You match his glare. "Which you hoard like a fucking dragon."  

His hands rake through mint hair, leaving it standing at precisely 47-degree angles.

"Because I have no other fucking choice!" The words explode from him, raw and jagged. "Every piece of information I give you is another potential trigger. Another way for CHRONOS to find you. To erase you. Again."

That word. ‘Again’. He keeps saying it, like it’s something he can’t lodge out of his throat.

Yet, for his incredible powers, he seems unable to prevent what he fears most.

What ‘again’ means to him.

Your eyes narrow, recalculating.

"So your ability..." You pause, watching his muscles tense. "Time manipulation?"

His eyes flick to yours, then away. A non-answer that answers everything.

"You aged his hand by 70 years, at minimum." Your voice steadies as you shift to analysis mode. "Accelerated cellular decay, targeted temporal field. Fascinating."

"83 actually." The correction is automatic. Petulant. He slides down the wall beside you, knees cracking at 73 and 81 hertz. "Time Anchor. That's the technical classification."

You catalog the term, cross-referencing against known temporal phenomena.

No matches found.

"I can't create or destroy time." His voice drops, rougher now. "I can only... redistribute it. Accelerate decay in one place, slow it in another."

Your fingers twitch with the urge to document, to measure. "Conservation of temporal energy."

"Something like that." He flexes his right hand, and you notice the faint gold shimmer beneath his skin—network of lines like circuitry, pulsing at 0.7-second intervals. "Every action has a cost."

"The gold." You gesture toward his hand. "Temporal bleed?"

His eyebrow lifts 0.3 centimeters. "For someone who claims to know nothing, you make impressive leaps."

"Pattern recognition is my primary function." You shift, angling your body 12 degrees toward his. "What's the cost?"

His laugh lacks humor, registering at 42% below standard mirth indicators.

"Depends on what I'm doing. Age someone's hand? Minor headache, maybe some joint pain. Stop time completely?" He taps his temple. "Migraines that would kill a normal person."

You process this, calculating energy transfer ratios.

"And the 25th hour?"

"That's different." His voice drops another 3 decibels. "That's not me. That's... a system error. Something CHRONOS never accounted for."

"That you exploit."

"That we exploit." He corrects, eyes meeting yours. "Some of us, anyway."

"How many like you exist?"

"Time Anchors?" He shrugs, the movement exact despite its casual appearance. "Only me, that I know of.”

The admission feels sad.

Terribly lonely.

"And me?"

The question emerges before your logic centers can evaluate its prudence; and his eyebrows twitch, eyes staring directly onto the ground.

"You're something else entirely."

"Define 'something else,'" you request, shifting your position against the wall to better observe him. 

The movement causes a minor increase in discomfort—rock surface irregularities creating pressure points along your vertebrae.

But they do not register as important in the face of acquiring new information.

Agent Min finally exhales—which suggests internal debate about information disclosure parameters.

"I can show you," he says finally, voice dropping. "But you need to understand that what I'm about to do is extremely detectable. If there are any CHRONOS agents within 400 meters, they'll register it."

You calculate risk factors, weighing variables against known CHRONOS response protocols.

"Current location provides approximately 87% concealment from standard monitoring," you observe. "Probability of detection: 13.2%."

His mouth quirks—almost-smile that never fully materializes.

"Always with the numbers," he mutters, but it doesn't register as annoyance—rather something warmer.

He extends his right hand, palm up, and focuses his attention on it with an intensity that alters his breathing pattern by 0.4 seconds per cycle.

At first, nothing happens.

Then—

Gold.

Liquid light emerges from his fingertips, tendrils of energy that move with fluidity. They spiral outward in clockwise rotations, creating phenomenons that defy any standard classification parameters.

Your pupils dilate by approximately 28%, heart rate increasing by 17 beats per minute.

"Temporal energy," he explains, voice steady despite the obvious energy expenditure. "Direct manifestation of my ability."

The golden traces move like extensions of himself, responding to minute shifts in his focus. They emit no measurable heat signature yet appear fluid, almost liquid in their movement patterns.

"Fascinating," you breathe, leaning closer to observe better. "How do they work? What's their composition? Can they interact with physical matter or are they purely energetic manifestations?"

Your questions tumble out in rapid succession, each one triggering three more in your mind. The analytical part of you wants to measure, catalog, understand—but something else, something less quantifiable, simply wants to touch.

He watches you cautiously, measuring your reaction.

"They're extensions of temporal force," he explains. "I can manipulate objects through their timeline states—age them forward or backward, freeze them in their current temporal position."

The golden traces curl and twist above his palm, creating complex patterns that seem to follow mathematical principles.

"Can I—" You hesitate, unusual break in your typically decisive speech pattern. "Would contact damage them? Or me?"

"No damage," he says carefully. "But they're... sensitive."

The word choice seems odd, triggering your curiosity further.

"Sensitive how?" you press, eyes tracking the golden movements.

He sighs—perhaps denoting exhaustion.

"They're direct extensions of my temporal energy. I feel what they feel."

You process this information.

"Like nerve endings," you suggest.

"Yeah… Something like that."

Decision made, you extend your hand toward the nearest tendril, moving slowly to allow him time to withdraw if needed. 

He doesn't.

Your fingertip makes contact with the golden energy.

The sensation is... unexpected.

The trace feels solid yet fluid simultaneously, warm without heat, substantial without mass. But what registers most prominently is Yoongi's immediate reaction—sharp intake of breath, pupils dilating by approximately 32%, micro-tremor in his left hand.

You pull back instantly, recalculating.

"Did that hurt?" you ask, cataloging his physiological responses.

"No." His voice drops by 2.7 hertz. "Not hurt."

No further clarification. 

Your own pulse increases by another 8 beats per minute in response.

Oh.

You reach out again, this time with intent, and trace your finger along the golden tendril. It responds to your touch, curling around your fingertip like it's greeting you.

Yoongi's breathing pattern alters—inhalation extending by 0.7 seconds, exhalation shortening by 0.4.

"They recognize you," he says, voice rougher than before.

"That's impossible," you counter automatically. "We've never interacted like this before."

His eyes meet yours, holding for 2.3 seconds—longer than his usual 0.8-second maximum.

"They recognize you," he repeats, simply.

The golden trace wrapped around your finger pulses slightly, the rhythm matching your heartbeat with 97.3% synchronicity. 

"What else can they do?" you ask, scientific curiosity temporarily overriding everything else.

He flexes his fingers slightly, and the traces extend further, creating a complex network of golden energy between you.

"They can interact with physical objects," he demonstrates, directing a tendril toward a small rock. 

The stone ages rapidly, crumbling to dust in 3.2 seconds. Another rock reverts to its geological past—crystallizing into a perfect quartz formation.

"Temporal manipulation at a distance," you observe, mind going through all possible applications, limitations, variables.

"Yes."

You watch as the traces move with increasing confidence around you, never touching without your initiation, but clearly... aware of your presence.

"And these are unique to Time Anchors?" you ask, testing another hypothesis.

"Each type of Outlier has their own manifestation," he says carefully. "Mine happens to be temporal, and in tendrils of different sizes."

You detect deliberate vagueness, information being withheld.

"What's mine?"

The traces flicker briefly, responding to some change in his emotional state.

"That's something you'll have to discover yourself," he says finally.

You frown, dissatisfied with the non-answer.

"More cryptic responses. Inefficient communication strategy."

His mouth quirks again.

"Some things can't be told, Noma. They have to be experienced."

You reach out again, this time allowing your entire hand to pass through the network of golden energy. The traces respond immediately, wrapping around your fingers, sliding between them.

Yoongi's breath catches, the sound barely audible at 17 decibels.

"These are... remarkably sensitive," you observe.

"Yes." The word emerges strained, tightly controlled.

A hypothesis forms. You test it by deliberately trailing your fingers through the traces with a bit more pressure.

His reaction is immediate—pupils dilating to 7.1 millimeters, pulse visible at his throat increasing to approximately 92 beats per minute, a muscle in his jaw tensing with 47% more force.

"Interesting," you murmur, filing away this reaction for future analysis.

"We should stop," he says, voice rougher than before. "Extended manifestation increases detection risk."

Logical. Rational. 

Yet you find yourself strangely reluctant to end the experiment.

"One more question," you negotiate, still not withdrawing your hand from the golden network. "Why do they move in clockwise patterns specifically?"

His eyes meet yours again, unreadable.

"Because that's how time moves," he says simply. "Forward. Clockwise."

You correlate with your observations.

"And if something moved counterclockwise?" you ask, the question emerging from some intuitive part of your mind rather than your analytical centers.

The traces flicker again, responding to something in his emotional state.

"That would be something else entirely," he says, echoing his earlier statement.

Before you can press further, he withdraws, the golden traces retracting into his skin. The absence leaves the air feeling strangely empty, lacking some vital element you hadn't noticed until it was gone.

Your fingertips tingle with residual sensation—a ghastly feeling you don’t know how to categorize but for some reason find yourself missing.

"We need to move," he says, voice returning to its normal cadence. "We've stayed in one place too long."

He is right. 

You don’t know why you still want to touch those golden traces.

You rise instead, calculating the most efficient exit route while your mind continues processing this new data point: Agent Min’s golden traces recognize you, despite having no logical reason to do so.

Another anomaly to add to your growing collection.

He presses his right wrist with two fingers, applying precisely 2.1 kilograms of pressure to the outer edge of his Chrono-Sync Watch. The device responds with a soft sound—around 17 decibels, so barely perceptible even in the cave's acoustic environment.

A holographic display materializes 4.7 centimeters above the watch face, projecting a three-dimensional map of Sector 4 with pulsing red markers scattered across its surface.

You lean forward, immediately registering the discrepancy: standard Chrono-Sync Watch models lack holographic projection capabilities.

"What is that?"

Yoongi doesn't look up, his focus entirely on the floating map as he rotates it 37 degrees with a precise finger movement.

"Modified," he says simply, the explanation as efficient as always. "I told you."

You study the hologram, cataloging design parameters and technical specifications with automatic precision.

"Quantum-projection module integration into a Chrono-Sync interface would require bypassing at least seven encryption protocols," you observe, mind already mapping the engineering challenges. "The power requirements alone would necessitate a modified lithium cell with 347% increased capacity. Not to mention the spatial compression algorithms needed to maintain holographic integrity without..."

Your analysis trails off as your eyes meet his over the floating display. The corner of his mouth twitches once more.

"You helped create this," he says quietly, fingers still moving through the projection.

The statement registers, but fails to connect with any accessible memory database.

"I did not." Your contradiction emerges automatically, precisely calibrated to express certainty.

He doesn't argue. Doesn't press. Simply continues manipulating the map with those agile, gloved fingers, eyes occasionally flicking to your face as if contemplating your reaction.

Silence expands between you for exactly 4.3 seconds before your curiosity overrides caution.

"Where are we going?" you ask, redirecting the conversation away from memory discrepancies that trigger uncomfortable neural responses.

"I'm mapping our closest access point," he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

His index finger traces a route through the holographic streets, calculating distances with the same analytical precision you recognize in yourself.

"We need to reach one of the travel spots within the next 37 minutes. Our temporal signature trail is too fresh after that... incident."

"Travel spots?"

You catalog the unfamiliar terminology, cross-referencing against known CHRONOS lexicon.

No matches found.

Yoongi's fingers pause at exactly 23 degrees northeast of your current position. His throat works—a slight contraction suggesting hesitation.

"I..." 

His voice hovers over the simple noun. He swallows once, recalibrating.

"Travel spots are access points," he continues, voice modulated in a way that suggests internal editing. "Strategic locations throughout the city that allow direct transport to the 7th Hour headquarters."

"Teleportation technology? That's theoretically impossible given current quantum limitations."

"Not teleportation. Temporal-spatial warping." His finger taps a pulsing blue marker on the map. "These portals use existing weak points in CHRONOS's reality grid."

Theoretical models. Probability factors. Energy requirements.

"The energy necessary to maintain stable reality tunnels would exceed—"

"That's why they're not tunnels," he interrupts, eyes still fixed on the map. "They're more like... doors. Open only when needed, closed immediately after use."

You lean closer, studying the blue markers. Their distribution follows no discernible pattern—a deliberate randomization algorithm to prevent predictive tracking.

"Why can't CHRONOS detect them?" you ask, probing for weaknesses.

"They can detect the activation," he answers, voice tightening slightly. "But not follow through. The portals are specially calibrated to recognize Outlier temporal signatures. Anyone else attempting to pass through would trigger an immediate collapse."

You frown, recalculating. "But my temporal signature is registered in the CHRONOS database. Wouldn't that trigger their defense systems?"

His eyes flick to yours briefly—0.7 seconds of direct contact.

"Your official signature is a fabrication. The real one..." He pauses, choosing his words with unusual care. "The real one is already authorized in our system."

Another anomaly to catalog.

Another fragment that doesn't fit your accessible memory database.

"So we access one of these points, and it transports us directly to your headquarters?" you confirm, redirecting toward practical logistics.

"Yes." He closes the holographic display with an easy gesture. "But we need to be careful. After what happened at the coffee shop, they'll be scanning for temporal disturbances with heightened sensitivity."

You tilt your head, considering.

"And why haven't you contacted your team? Surely they could provide assistance or extraction."

His eyes flicker to you. Presses his lips together. Then, answers.

"Communications are compromised in this sector," he explains. "Any encrypted transmission would register on CHRONOS monitoring systems. They'd triangulate our position within 3.7 seconds."

"Your golden traces," you observe, connecting variables. "The temporal display at the coffee shop would have triggered every sensor within 1.5 kilometers."

"Precisely why we need to move quickly." He cracks his neck again, just like he did back in the coffee shop. "Our window is closing. That display was necessary but costly from a strategic perspective."

Your mind reconstructs the coffee shop incident—the bartender's decay, the golden traces, the immediate pursuit.

"You risked substantial exposure to extract me," you state, the realization forming fully. "Statistically, that decision carried a 78.3% probability of compromising your entire operation."

He doesn’t explain. Doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t try to correct you. Just lets silence stretch for three seconds.

"Some variables outweigh probability," he says finally.

"I still don't understand why you can't simply use your temporal abilities to transport us directly. If you can manipulate time—"

"I manipulate time, not space," he sighs. "I can slow it, accelerate it, even stop it briefly. But I can't move through it. That's..."

He hesitates again, that same weighted pause.

"That's a different ability entirely."

You catalog this limitation, updating your mental model of his capabilities.

"And these portals combine both temporal and spatial manipulation," you deduce, connecting data points.

"Yes." The confirmation is clipped, efficient. "They were designed specifically to compensate for the limitations of individual Outlier abilities."

"Designed by who?"

His eyes meet yours again—1.4 seconds this time, 75% longer than his usual pattern.

"By us," he says simply.

The pronoun registers with unexpected weight.

Us. Collective. Collaborative.

You and him.

Your Chrono-Sync Watch beeps softly: Temporal variance: 1.07%.

"We need to move," he says, already turning toward the cave entrance. "The nearest travel spot is 1.7 kilometers northeast. If we maintain optimal pace while avoiding main thoroughfares, we should arrive within the acceptable window."

You follow, legs automatically adjusting to match his stride, body responding to cues your conscious mind hasn't processed.

Another anomaly. Another piece of the puzzle.

You catalog it alongside all the others, building your database of inconsistencies, contradictions, and inexplicable familiarities.

Someday, you'll find the pattern that connects them all.

But for now, you follow the ghost with golden traces, moving through a city that feels increasingly like a simulation with every step.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

goal: 250 notes

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© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[teejaywyatt1]

I’m a little anxious about the chapter that’s dropping tomorrow. Y’all please don’t jump me. 😭

[johnwickb1tsch]

lessons in anatomy XVI

a yandere art professor John Wick x drawing model muse! reader AU... (also featuring Matt from River's Edge. If you haven't seen the movie that's ok, I will fill in the gaps as we go...) warnings: dark adult themes, violence, sex, drugs, obsession, yandere shit. plz don't read if u can't handle it ->chapter map

XVI.

John Wick adjusts his hold on you, gathering you close with his nose in your hair. “I told you, y/n, I would never hurt you. I won’t let anyone else hurt you either.” 

Your pulse thunders like an angry drum in your chest. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you demand, and he lets you turn in his arms again, lets you pound on his chest for all the good it does. “I’ve been driving myself crazy over this for weeks! Why wouldn’t you just tell me?” 

“I thought it was best.” 

“Best?” you snarl, so frustrated you could scream. “For who?” 

“Both of us,” he answers simply, as though it should be obvious. You think about that, and your next question comes with a quaver in your tone. 

“What did you do with them, John?” 

There is a long pause before he answers, “You don’t want to know.” He actually sounds contrite about it, which surprises you to no end. 

“What if I do?” 

“I’m still not going to tell you.” 

“I could tell the police,” you say, if only to be contrary.  

He might sense this when he answers with zero fear, “You have no evidence.”

“I have your mask.” 

He sighs, like you’re being intentionally difficult. “They’re gone, y/n. That’s all you need to know. They’ll never hurt you or anyone else ever again.” 

Is he saying…he killed them? 

He killed them. 

You’re not stupid. You can read between the lines. This man is a murderer and he’s got you in his arms…and all you want to do is argue with him. 

Maybe your survival instincts could use some work.  

Your heart pounds in your chest, but still you have to ask, “John…how?” 

He levels you with a long and piercing gaze that you feel all the way to the base of your spine, your senses clamoring with alarm. Maybe you knew it all along, deep down, that he was a dangerous man. “I wasn’t always a mild-mannered drawing teacher, y/n. And we’re going to leave it at that.” 

You stare up at him, wide eyed as your brain races to keep up as the bombs keep dropping. What could that mean? Was he a government agent? A cop? A spy? …A criminal?

“Y/n…” He sweeps your hair from your face with those long fingers, and you let him, frozen as you stare up at him like some star-struck idiot, trying to process what is going on. “Please, don’t be afraid of me.” There is a fragility in his voice that moves you to your toes. Even if he’s freaked you out tonight, you hate to admit…that deep down, you don’t believe he would hurt you. 

Foolish, perhaps, but it’s the truth. 

You’d wanted to get away so badly before. Why is it now, that all you want to do is hide from that x-ray gaze against his chest? So…you do, and gladly he lets you. Your head feels like a pinwheel, as you try to suss out your emotions from everything you’ve learned tonight. 

You suppose you should be feeling some sort of guilt or remorse–you find you have none. Is there something missing in you? Or are you allowed to be glad that those two creeps can’t hurt you or anyone else anymore? The system failed you. But your savior balanced the scales of justice in a way The Law never seems to when it comes to abusers of women. You find that all you can really manage is relief, and the growing warm glow inspired by being in this man’s arms. 

“John…” You whisper his name like a prayer, tucked under his chin. “I wanted it to be you.” You find it’s a lot easier to admit this, when you don’t have to look him in those anthracite eyes. 

“Did you?” He actually sounds surprised, and it tears you to shreds all over again. 

You grip fistfuls of his shirt, your fingers like claws as you fight to hold on to something solid while the world feels like it's spinning out of control. 

“Why didn’t you just show me your face that night?” you demand, suddenly so frustrated you could scream. All the bad things that had happened could have been avoided, maybe, if he hadn’t been so bent on toying with you. 

“I was going to, later,” he tells the top of your head. “But you were having fun with your friends. I didn't want to take that from you. When I went to find you again…I found those assholes throwing you into their van.” His voice goes dark as he recalls this, the hairs on your body lifting again. There is definitely something dangerous about this man that swims beneath the surface. Something not to be trifled with, you’re beginning to understand all too well. 

“I don’t remember much at all,” you admit quietly. “The big one, Samson. He hit Matt hard enough to knock him out. Right before that, Matt was trying to tell me something about them.”

“You know I looked up the little town where they're from.”

“Yeah?”

“A few years ago, a girl was found dead on the side of the river there. No arrests were ever made. She was in their class.”

“That doesn't mean–”

“Have you ever looked through Matt’s sketchbook?”

You think of that haunting drawing he’d taken out of your hands. Oh god.

“I can't believe Matt would hurt anyone,” you say meekly, tears in your eyes. 

“Maybe not. But I think he knew, y/n. And he nearly got you killed for it. So yeah. I hate his guts.”

You let out a long sigh, leaning against him, your knees gone weak. The truths keep coming tonight. You're not sure you can handle whatever comes next. Your fingers clench in his shirt, your throat swelling shut as the tears well up. 

Your sweet sad Matthew, the boy with the drowning dark eyes… He knew. He knew all along and he didn’t protect you. Maybe not maliciously, but how much complacency can a girl be expected to forgive? They were probably going to rape you, and murder you, and he practically let you walk right into it.

If not for John… He saved you. The true gravity of this finally sinks in. That if he hadn't been looking for you, watching out for you…you’d be another story on the five o’clock news that people shake their heads at before going back to dinner, muttering about the sad state of the world. 

Maybe initially the scope of his obsession had scared you–but no one else cared for you so much. It leaves you reeling in a freefall, and you try to hold it in, but when the first sob breaks it's like the cracking of a dam. “Shh, you’re alright,” he soothes you, holding you against his chest with one of those big hands on the back of your head as though he can shield you from the world. “I’ve got you. You’re alright.” 

“I feel so stupid!” You hiccup between sobs. “I thought you were just being mean…but it's like you knew all along!”

“I've just been around, y/n. I've seen a lot of bad things.”

I wasn’t always a mild mannered drawing teacher.

Who is this man? You don’t have the courage to ask just now. You don't feel like you have the right, after behaving like such a brat.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper against his chest, feeling impossibly small and dumb and raw after this reality check. What a weird fucking night this has turned out to be.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” He holds you against his broad chest, letting you cry it out, and as you listen to his strong heartbeat you feel, for the first time in a long time, like you've finally found some sense of peace. 

In fact, you feel so secure that it's possible you go temporarily insane in this man's strong arms. Where do you get the courage, to turn your face up to his so entreatingly? Just minutes ago you were trying to run from him, and now here you are in his grasp, meek as a lamb. 

You are a ridiculous creature. You know it, but you cannot stop now. 

“You know I do remember…that you kissed me.” 

He caresses your cheek with his thumb, his dark eyes fixed upon your mouth. There is a low-burning hunger in his gaze that takes your breath away. 

“Did you like that?” he asks, his bass rumble of his voice sending a shiver down your spine. 

“It was alright.” 

He narrows his eyes at you with mock indignation, no doubt remembering the way you positively melted in his arms. “Alright?” 

“Mmm hmm.” 

He dares to rub his thumb over your lower lip, as though testing your plump flesh for the proper consistency. You've never been more tempted in your life to bare your teeth and bite. Not out of defence–but for taste.

“Sounds like I should try again.” 

“I’ll think about it.” 

“Brat.” 

He handles you like he owns you now, taking you in hand, turning your face up with his massive paw upon your jaw. Onyx orbs fix upon your mouth, and you close your eyes in anticipation, suddenly certain that you will wither and die if he does not kiss you. 

Yet he doesn’t move, and you are so caught up in the torment of that suspended moment that the most embarrassing little whine squeaks forth from the back of your throat. You open your eyes a sliver, and you realize he’s looking at you, as though he means to memorize every inch of you, down to the pore. It’s flattering, and a little unsettling, and you must make some minute projection that you intend to move away, because his hold tightens upon you. 

“You’re perfect, y/n,” he says gently, as though he knew exactly what you were thinking. 

You are far from it, which you know very well. 

“I’m not, John.” 

“You are, to me.” And finally, he lowers his mouth to yours, sweeping you up in a tooth-counting kiss that curls your toes and at least at the moment, quiets your fears.

TBC...

___

*further analysis of this chapter 😅 ->chapter map pinterest board/ photo credits

[nanamineedstherapy]

Third Wheeling Your Own Marriage

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

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

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

A/N: Before you dive in, remember:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Previous Chapter 2: Collateral Void (Tumblr/Ao3)

Chapter 3 - Corporate Warfare: Protocol The Circus of Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He couldn’t think about it. Not now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The cycle started that day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Way worse,” the marketing director whispered back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The atmosphere shifted abruptly when the Special Response Team arrived. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it was already too late.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gojo's usually flippant tone uncharacteristically quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nanami’s jaw tightened.

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

“Enough. Stand down.”

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

Nanami didn’t answer, his expression grim.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, but like… hotly.”

“They actually got arrested.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

//

You’d underestimated them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

//

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

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

Employee #1: Kyle from Game Dev

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

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

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

The detective blinked. “Sexy?”

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

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

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

The detective grimaced on your behalf.

Employee #2: Mia from Finance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Employee #3: Jay from HR

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

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

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

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

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

The detective’s fist hit the desk.

Employee #4: Fatima from Legal

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

The detective flipped through them.

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

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

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

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

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

Fatima smirked. “Welcome to corporate, Detective.”

Employee #5: Emma from Sales

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

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

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

“And Nanami?”

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

Break

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

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

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

//

News segment played on TV in the station.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The internet had already imploded.

It started with a single tweet.

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

Replies:

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

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

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

Reddit was next.

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

Top Comments:

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

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

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

Then TikTok exploded.

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

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

Comments:

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

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

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

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

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

Comments:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Comments:

@Financically Challenged: “HR would never approve.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

r/CorporateDrama:

u/ThrowawayEmployee123:

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

Top Comments:

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

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

r/GamingGossip:

AlphaDaddyInumaki69:

“CEO’s SECRET MARRIAGE EXPOSED!”

Top Comments:

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

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

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

//

After Break

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

Employee #6: Lily from Social Media

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

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

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

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

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

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

Employee #7: Vikram from Quality Assurance

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

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

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

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

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

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

Employee #8: Nina from HR

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

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

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

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

“Could’ve fooled me,” she shot back.

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

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

Employee #9: Ramirez from Accounting

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

The detective sighed. “What did you see?”

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

“Anything unusual?”

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

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

Employee #10: Li from Design

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

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

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

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

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

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

Employee #11: Emily from PR

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Break Again

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

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

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

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

After Break

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

Employee #11: Kevin from Game Dev

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Employee #12: Maddie from Product Launch

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

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

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

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

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

Higuruma smirked faintly. “And the CEO?”

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

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

Employee #13: Jake from Sales

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

Higuruma tilted his head. “How so?”

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

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

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

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

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

The detective groaned. “Stop encouraging him!”

Employee #14: Aiko from Game Design

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Employee #15: Ellie from HR

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

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

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

The detective stared at her, speechless.

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

Employee #16: Alex from Marketing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Barely.”

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

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

Memes too -

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

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

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

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

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

By evening, the hashtags were trending.

#PolyPanic2024#TwoHolesForAReason#PolyKaisen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“GOJO, MY THROAT IS AWFULLY EMPTY!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Satoru, I love you!” shouted another.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

//

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But no one could outrun Gojo Satoru and Nanami Kento.

The second time, it would be worse.

//

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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