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nanamineedstherapy · 6 months ago

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Third Wheeling Your Own Marriage

F!Non-Sorceres 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.

Trigger Warnings: Workplace harassment, pregnancy complications, verbal abuse, grief, and loss. Tags: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Redemption Arc, Workplace Dynamics, Gamer Culture, Mystery Identity, Mild Violence, Pregnancy Complications, Emotional Hurt, Disassociation, Depression.

A/N: Before you start reading— 1. Man, after finalizing this chapter, I was the Ben Affleck meme outside, chain-smoking my sanity away. 2. Minors, DNI. It’s not spicy, but seriously, don’t ruin your innocence here. 3. Our reader is tough as nails, but damn, even I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy. 4. I’ve sprinkled some links, a playlist, and a meme to lighten the vibe, but customize the vibe however you need. 5. Fair warning: the ending’s gonna hurt. If you’re not in the headspace for that, skip the parts marked with { }. Take care of yourself, okay? Let’s get wrecked together.

Previous Chapter 5 - Something Soft, Something Sharp (Tumblr/Ao3)

Chapter 6 (alt ending 1.2) - Veiled Realities

The gaming convention hall pulsed with energy—screens flashing with gameplay demos from various companies, creative souls showcasing their cosplays, excited chatter bouncing off the high ceilings, and the occasional triumphant shout from someone winning a round. You kept your barely see-through-only for you-hood low, blending seamlessly with the crowd as you moved toward your company’s booth. The email from your employee still sat in your inbox, her words playing on a loop in your mind:

“I wanted to bring to your attention a concerning issue that has been occurring within our team. Certain male employees have been engaging in inappropriate behavior towards their female colleagues, making comments that suggest women do not belong in the gaming industry.

Despite providing multiple rounds of workplace etiquette training, these individuals continue to make such remarks, often doing so after the training sessions have concluded. While we have attempted to address the situation discreetly, the behavior has persisted and is becoming increasingly problematic.

I felt it was important to make you aware of this issue, even if no immediate action is taken, as you are committed to fostering an inclusive and respectful work environment.”

You weren’t about to let it slide.

Your gaze landed on your company’s booth, where a small group had gathered. Two men—mid-forties, loud with unwarranted confidence—were smirking as they leaned toward a younger woman who stood stiffly, her arms crossed.

“Come on,” one of them said, his voice dripping with condescension. “You can’t even finish a round without dying. How are you going to tell us what to do?”

“Yeah,” the other chimed in, his laugh grating. “We're not sexist or anything, but gaming’s just not your thing. Stick to HR or something.”

You gritted your teeth, the instinct to step in bubbling beneath the surface. But you held back, watching as the woman squared her shoulders and prepared to fire back. Before she could, you pulled out your phone. With a few quick taps, an email was swiftly dispatched to the CHRO, with the COO, CSO, CMO, and the event coordinator all included in the loop for informational purposes.

The response from the CHRO came immediately: "We’ll start the off-boarding right away."

Within minutes, the two men’s phones buzzed simultaneously. They frowned, pulling them out, only for their faces to pale.

“What the—”

“Fucking hell!”

They stared at their screens, then at each other, and finally back at the woman they’d been harassing. “It’s you—”

Before they could finish, your voice cut through, calm. “You have five minutes to vacate the premises, or security will escort you if needed.”

The woman blinked at you, her surprise quickly replaced by a smirk as the men stammered and shuffled off grumbling to gather their things. You turned away before she could say anything, your hood still obscuring your face.

Then a loud voice rang out. “No, no, NO! Game broken! Is not me! Me loyal fan!”

Heads turned, including yours, to a really tall man with bright white hair and pale skin standing at the demo station, gesturing wildly at the screen. His coat hung loosely around his shoulders, and he wore dark sunglasses indoors. With his striking appearance, he could easily model for Giorgio Armani.

“Mechanics! Broken! No strong! Me? Strongest!” he declared, his English so fractured and accented that it took you a moment to piece together what he was trying to say.

One of your employees—a nervous-looking junior—stammered, “Uh… sir, maybe you just need more practice?”

The man looked personally offended. “Me beat curse! Me GOAT!” He paused, frowned, and then switched to rapid Japanese, clearly too frustrated to stick with English.

The junior blinked, helplessly lost. “Uh… what?”

The woman who had been dealing with the earlier bullying snorted. “Looks like you’ve got competition, Steve,” she muttered, glaring at her now ex-coworker as they left before turning to the man. “Sir, maybe try again? Second round’s free.”

“Free?” His face lit up like a Christmas town. “Yay! Free! Strongest WIN!”

“Stop embarrassing yourself,” came a calm, deep voice from behind him.

You tilted your neck to see another man—a tall figure, though not quite as towering as his counterpart—impeccably dressed in black. Neatly styled blond hair framed his face. With his striking looks, he would make a perfect brand ambassador for Tom Ford or Bironi; he resembled a male Victoria's Secret model. Beneath his green-tinted glasses, his eyes flicked to the white-haired chaos generator with the resigned air of a pet parent.

The white-haired man turned to glare at him. “No embarrassing! Winning!”

“Winning,” the blond deadpanned, glancing at the screen where the white-haired one’s character had just been obliterated.

He pouted, muttering something in Japanese that sounded suspiciously like an insult, and you had to bite your lip to keep from laughing.

The blond man sighed heavily and said something in Japanese. “Sore wa gēmudesu. Kojin-tekina fukushūde wa arimasen.” (“It’s a game. Not a personal vendetta.”)

The white-haired one said something that the blond pointedly ignored. “Sō, fukushūda! Noroi o uchiyabutta. Subete o uchiyabutta, daga kono bakageta... Mekanikku dake wa!” (“Yes, it is vendetta! I beat curses; I beat everything, but this stupid... mechanics!”)

Despite yourself, you couldn’t help but find the men’s voices incredibly attractive, even though they were completely different from each other—or was it the fact that they were speaking Japanese? Anyone with half a brain cell knew how undeniably masculine the language sounded.

“Anata to issho ni kurubekide wa nakatta to wakatte imashita.” The blond said, his tone clipped as he hovered by a different station, playing an older game in your company’s lineup—one that hadn’t done well financially but had won multiple awards and had a loyal following. (“I knew I shouldn’t have come with you.”)

You weren’t usually one to ogle men, but damn, the blond one’s biceps looked very chewable. Underneath his overcoat, you could imagine them flexing as he moved his fingers on the keyboard.

You immediately cringed at your own thoughts and made a mental note to stop spending so much time with your unhinged employees.

The white-haired one ignored him. “More round!” he yelled at the junior, who sighed and let him.

The man launched into another round, biting his lower lip in concentration like a child. Was that lip gloss?!

He was really close to perfecting the strike when the in-game AI learned his moves and took him down. He looked like he was about to cry, and you couldn’t help but chuckle at how adorable he was.

The blond’s gaze shifted to you, his eyes narrowing slightly in recognition—or perhaps suspicion. “You’re enjoying yourself?” he asked, his English perfect, despite the accent.

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

The white-haired one suddenly perked up, finally noticing you. His eyes widened, and he jabbed a finger in your direction. “You! Pretty hoodie lady! Play?”

Caught off guard, you blinked, face still obscured by the hood. “Play what?”

“Game!” He gestured wildly at the screen. “Strongest win! You lose!”

The blond groaned softly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Gojo, stop harassing strangers.”

“Me no harass! Me... invite!” The Gojo declared, beaming at you.

Against your better judgment, you stepped closer, curiosity outweighing caution.

The woman from earlier smirked, stepping up to the console. “Oh, this is going to be good.”

“Think you better?” He grinned, clearly convinced he was about to crush you, then pointed at the blond. “Nanamin, see me!”

“Don’t call me that!” The blond spat at him, making you think—was ‘Nanamin’ a derogatory word in their language?

The blond furrowed his brow, his gaze flicking over you. Something about the way you carried yourself seemed… off. Not in a bad way, but something didn’t fit in his mind.

You slid into the seat across from Gojo, the monitors facing the opposite way. “Alright, fine. Let’s see what the ‘strongest’ has got.”

The first round was a blur of offensive movements and insults—Gojo threw out broken English mixed with Japanese, your focus entirely on the screen.

To your dismay, he was… good. Annoyingly good. You’d come up with the idea and then tested this game for over 5,000 hours. You were basically omniscient in it—knew every trick and exploit, but Gojo’s reflexes and instincts were ridiculous.

So you cheated.

Subtly, of course.

A quick input enabled God Mode, giving you just enough of an edge to win the round.

Within minutes, Gojo’s smug grin crumbled as you utterly demolished him in-game, your hands moving with muscle memory.

The blond, who had been watching silently, let out a low chuckle. “Looks like you’ve met your match, Gojo.”

Gojo froze, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the screen. “You cheat!”

You grinned, leaning back. “No, I’m just better,” you said smoothly, your voice calm. Inside, you panicked a little; he couldn’t have possibly known; your screen wasn’t facing him.

“Yes! CHEAT! Me see!” He tapped his temple. “Muttsu no me! Me see!” Then he made a gesture that encompassed the whole planet with his long, troll-like arms. (“Six eyes.”)

You smirked, but before you could respond, the blond interjected. “Gojo, you’re imagining things.”

“Sōzō janai yo! Kanojo wa hontōni zuru o shita nda! Anata mo mitadesho. Eigo de itte!” Gojo gestured wildly at Nanami, who barely glanced at him. (“I’m NOT imagining! She literally just cheated! You saw it too. Say it in English!”)

“You’re hallucinating,” the blond said flatly.

“I am NOT!”

“Yes, you are. You’re tired. No more video games; go sit down over there.” The blond had seen you cheat, but he wasn’t letting the opportunity to embarrass Gojo pass.

Gojo sputtered, clearly betrayed, while you fought to keep a straight face.

“Impossible!” Gojo huffed at you, but there was no malice in his tone, only a kind of begrudging admiration. “You… strong.”

You shrugged, pulling your hood up just enough to smile. “Told you.”

Gojo’s throat made a strangled sound that suspiciously resembled a mewl; he seemed like a nerd. “Me ahh Gojo Satoru. He Nanami Kento.” He pointed at the blond without looking away from you.

Nanami’s eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary, his expression unreadable.

“So, Gojo and Nanami are your names? I believe Japan has a different naming convention, right?” You asked, steering the conversation away to avoid revealing your own name. Surrounded by a crowd, you felt uneasy about receiving random CVs and taking selfies with men whose hands seemed to wander a bit too freely.

Nanami was caught off guard by your knowledge. “You are correct. No, those are our surnames. He doesn’t know much English.”

He continued eyeing you with a poker face. “I don’t suppose you’d tell us your name?”

You scrambled to respond, giving them your gamer tag, which sounded surprisingly like a real name.

Gojo laughed, while Nanami’s gaze remained fixed on you. “Pardon my English, but I meant your real name.” He looked a bit smug as if saying, I-didn’t-stutter.

Damn! They were too perceptive. “Maybe next time,” you said, already rising to your feet, turning on your heel, and slipping into the crowd before they could press further.

You could feel their eyes on you, with Nanami’s gaze lingering the longest, as if he were piecing together a puzzle.

Later, after you walked out of the convention hall and made your way toward the food stalls, you couldn’t help but smile to yourself. You’d come to check on your team and ended up with a story you’d never forget.

Unbeknownst to you, Gojo was still at the booth, raving about the “mysterious hoodie lady” who was, in his words, “gaming goddess.” Nanami simply shook his head, filing away the memory of your smile for reasons he didn’t fully understand.

Nanami commented, “We never got her name.”

Gojo, beaming, muttered, “Me find her. Strongest reserves rematch.”

Nanami rubbed his temple. “It’s ‘deserves.’”

Gojo waved him off. “Ya ya that!”

Hours later, you stepped outside to go home.

The alley was dimly lit, the faint glow of a flickering streetlamp casting long shadows against the brick walls. You tugged your hood tighter, the weight of the day settling heavily on your shoulders as you made your way through. Just as you reached the halfway point, angry voices broke the quiet, followed by the unmistakable sound of heavy footsteps closing in.

“You think you can fire us just like that?” One of the men sneered, his face twisted with rage as he stepped into view. His friend loomed beside him, cracking his knuckles with an air of smugness.

You stopped, turning slowly to face them. Your pulse quickened, but you kept your tone cold. “I don’t think,” you replied, as you shifted into a defensive stance. “I know.”

The first man lunged, and you dodged, pivoting on your heel to avoid his clumsy attack. Your brain kicked into overdrive, calculating angles and weaknesses as you landed a solid kick to his shin, your heels digging in. He stumbled, cursing, but his friend was already charging at you.

You ducked, your fists up, but you weren’t trained for this. They were bigger, stronger, and clearly fueled by rage. Damn it, you thought bitterly, wishing you’d waited for Megumi—or at least brought your security detail in regular clothes.

“HEY!”

The voice boomed down the alley, startling everyone. You froze mid-dodge, turning toward the source of the voice.

Gojo stood at the entrance, his white hair glowing faintly under the streetlamp. His grin feral, hands shoved casually into his pockets. “What this? Fight? Without me?” His English was awful, the words garbled but unmistakably confident.

Behind him, Nanami appeared with the air of someone ready to ruin someone’s day. His eyes locked on the men, his expression grim. “Let’s divide and conquer.”

What followed was a masterclass in contrasts, a scene you’d replay in your mind for days.

Gojo’s opponent barely had time to process the incoming whirlwind before Gojo sidestepped his first punch with an exaggerated lean, one hand cupping his chin as if bored. “Loser shit,” he said.

The man swung again, and Gojo ducked low, popping up behind him like a magician revealing his latest trick. “Try harder! Or you go home?” His English faltered, and he switched to Japanese mid-sentence, gesturing at the alley’s exit.

Frustrated, the man lunged, but Gojo pivoted effortlessly, his movements mocking. “Ah-ah!” he teased, flicking the man’s forehead with enough force to send him faltering back. He could have actually flicked him through the wall, but he was trying to impress you, not terrify you. Then, with a theatrical spin, he delivered a sharp kick to the back of the man’s knees, sending him crashing to the ground.

“Strongest wins!” Gojo declared triumphantly as the man groaned in pain.

Meanwhile, Nanami was a study in calm brutality. His opponent came at him swinging, fists wild and uncoordinated. Nanami stepped to the side, his movements smooth, allowing the man’s momentum to carry him forward.

The attacker stumbled, and Nanami seized the opportunity. A precise jab to the spine sent the man gasping, doubling over in pain. Without missing a beat, Nanami delivered a swift knee to the stomach, his face utterly impassive as his opponent crumpled to the ground.

“Pathetic,” he muttered, adjusting his collar with indifference.

Within moments, both men were on the ground, groaning and defeated as the security—who’d arrived mid-fight—dragged them away.

Gojo glanced over at Nanami. “Why so serious, Nanamin?!”

Nanami shot him a flat look. That was the only phrase Gojo knew properly.

Gojo turned to you, his grin impossibly wide. “Hoodie lady! You okay?”

You adjusted your hood, making sure your face stayed hidden, though a faint smile tugged at your lips. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

Nanami stepped closer, his gaze lingering on you with quiet intensity. “You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he said, his tone edged with concern.

“I can handle myself,” you replied, though your voice softened.

“Clearly,” Nanami said, his lips twitching into the faintest hint of a smile.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, and you pulled it out to see a notification from your ride. “Well, thanks again for saving me.”

You turned to leave, but Gojo moved faster than you could anticipate, stepping into your space with a speed that made your heart skip. He leaned in, his face far too close as he tilted his head, his eyes still obscured by the ridiculous sunglasses. “Name,” he demanded, his tone expectant.

“Gojo,” Nanami barked, grabbing a fistful of his hair and yanking him back. “Control yourself.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle softly, still obscured by your barely see-through hood.

Well, they did save you, and no one was around right now, but they could be stalkers. So you only told them your nickname, essentially half your first name.

Gojo repeated it, his accent thick as he rolled the syllables around in his mouth like a taste he wanted to savor. Nanami echoed it under his breath, committing it to memory with far more subtlety. You had never loved your name more.

Gojo clapped his hands together, his grin as bright as the streetlamp above. “Okaaay, now us food! You come us!”

You blinked at him, bewildered.

Nanami immediately choked, “My apologies, my colleague means, would you like to join us for dinner?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Maybe next time. My grumpy ride is here.”

Before they could argue, you slipped past them as the soft hum of a sleek black Maserati cut through the alley’s quiet. The car glided to a stop, the sharp lines of its body catching the faint light from the streetlamp. The door opened smoothly, revealing a young Japanese man with sea urchin spiky black hair and a scowl sharp enough to rival Nanami’s deadliest glare.

He stepped out, his tailored suit pristine despite the late hour. His deep blue eyes swept over the scene, narrowing slightly as they landed on Gojo and Nanami. There was no mistaking the barely contained irritation in his expression as he glared daggers at the two men.

You smiled faintly as you approached and side-hugged him; his gaze softened, though the crease in his brow remained.

“You’re late,” he muttered, holding the door open for you. His English and accent perfectly matched yours, so Gojo deduced he definitely hadn’t lived in Japan much.

“You’re crabby,” you replied, sliding into the passenger seat.

“I wouldn’t be if you didn’t insist on wandering into alleys like this,” he said, his tone exasperated but tinged with familiarity. He cast one last glance at Gojo and Nanami, his lips curling slightly in what could only be described as a warning.

“Wait... you sent the security?” You asked, tone surprised.

“Yes.” He clipped, tone not revealing much. You’d later learn that the men who’d tried to hit you disappeared under mysterious circumstances after tonight. When you asked Megumi, he’d just glare at you and mutter about not having time to look into freeloaders.

Gojo tilted his head, his six eyes narrowing as he watched the interaction with growing curiosity. Nanami too had his gaze locked on the Maserati as the young man slipped back into the driver’s seat. The way his hand lingered on the steering wheel, his face scanning you for injuries. His head tilted slightly toward you as you spoke, suggesting something closer than casual acquaintance.

Nanami thought of looking you or the young man up on LinkedIn only to realize he never actually saw your face or knew the man’s name.

As the car pulled away, the faint glow of the interior lights illuminated your face behind the dark-tinted windows for just a moment. Gojo’s grin widened as he caught a glimpse of your smile, and Nanami’s eyes narrowed as he committed the fleeting image to memory for some reason he still didn’t understand.

Gojo’s eyes remained fixed on you as the guy driving whisked you away, scolding you for not waiting for him.

Nanami was also watching your retreating car in the distance. His thoughts lingered on the brief glimpse of your smile—the only part of you they’d truly seen. “Boyfriend?” He asked.

Gojo smirked, “You are awfully curious today, Nanamin.” Switching back to Japanese.

“Just answer the question.”

“I’m actually not sure. But the boy is a Zen'in; interestingly enough, the one’s father I killed before Suguru ran away.”

Gojo’s smile widened as you removed the hood from your face a few meters away. He had never been more grateful for his six eyes.

Good. He had a face now.

He clapped Nanami on the back. “Hoodie lady is full of surprises.”

Nanami’s expression remained unreadable. “You don’t even know her full name.”

Gojo’s grin only widened. “I’ll find her.”

Little did you know you had just met your future husbands.

After ensuring a safe distance between you and the men he’d encountered, your best friend turned to you, his expression serious. “Stay away from those two; they are sorcerers.”

"But aren't you?"

He immediately cut you off, "I only share the bloodline nothing else. You know what sorcerers did to my father. Besides, I think it was one of them."

You understood the weight of Megumi’s words, but you also knew why his father had been killed. It wasn’t because sorcerers were inherently dangerous, but because he had been too much of a thrill-seeker. “You do realize I’m not your child, right? I’m older than you.”

“Well, that’s too damn bad, Grandma.”

“Heyy!”

He chuckled to himself, but the laughter quickly faded as he asked, “What did they want with you anyway?” He was trying hard not to let you know he was probing.

“Nothing. They just wanted to know my name, and I kept dodging it with pseudonyms. Then they asked me to dinner, and I told them next time. But you don’t have to worry about it. I don’t think I’d ever see them again.” You said this absentmindedly, focused on ordering takeout on your phone before you arrived home.

“Good. Keep it that way. Don’t entertain them again.”

“Italian?” you asked, trying to shift the conversation.

“Get that Spinach and Broccoli Alfredo from that small place. Put it on my card.” He liked the dish, but it wasn’t his go-to for special occasions; it was yours.

“Aww, what’s the occasion?”

“You almost getting beaten up.”

You scowled at him.

“Relax. I’m just making sure you’re okay, or my father will resurrect himself and beat my ass.” He laughed, but there was an edge to his humor.

You thought of the men for a few days, their faces lingering in your mind, but you quickly moved on with your hectic life. You were determined not to let Megumi down. He didn’t have many friends besides you that he’d hang out with, let alone have around with his mom, and with his dad gone, he’d never recover from the betrayal if something happened to you.

But when had you ever listened to Megumi?

Today, you wished you had.

After they’d left you alone, the days bled together in a haze of exhaustion and dread. You busied yourself with the mundane tasks of preparing for the twins, folding impossibly tiny clothes, and arranging bottles on the counter like talismans against the pain threatening to consume you. Sukuna had been true to his word, filling the gaps with his presence and resources, but even his towering strength couldn’t shield you from the memories.

Each kick, each flutter, was a visceral reminder of the life growing inside you—a life you were determined to protect. Yet, every movement felt like a betrayal, a reminder of the faces you couldn’t erase. Gojo’s sharp grin, dulled now by sorrow. Nanami’s stoicism, cracking under the weight of his regret. They haunted you, their voices whispering in the silence of your nights, their hands ghosting over your skin in dreams that turned to nightmares.

One evening, Sukuna returned, his silhouette framed by the doorway. He carried bags of groceries, the muscles in his arms flexing as he set them down with more care than you thought him capable of. His usual smirk was absent, replaced by something foreign: concern.

“You’re wearing yourself thin,” he said, his voice rough but quiet. His crimson eyes swept over you, lingering on the trembling in your hands as you folded a onesie.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, though the lie sat heavy in your chest.

“Princess,” he said again, softer now, and the nickname cracked something inside you. “You’re not fine.”

Your hands froze mid-fold, the fabric slipping from your fingers. The room seemed to tilt, the walls closing in. “I don’t know how to do this,” you whispered, your voice breaking.

Sukuna crossed the room in three strides, his arms encircling you. His touch was firm, grounding, and you let yourself lean into him. “You’re doing it,” he murmured against your hair. “And you’re not alone.”

But the words couldn’t reach the hollow ache inside you.

The next day, the soft knock at the door was more polite than usual, almost hesitant. Sukuna didn’t wait for you to answer—he never did; he never even knocked—but this time, he lingered in the doorway, his hulking frame lit by the warm glow of the sunlight filtering in through the window. His expression was unreadable, though the faintest flicker of something nervous passed through his crimson eyes.

In his hands, he held a large box, haphazardly wrapped in crinkled newspaper and secured with what looked like electrical tape.

“What is that?” You asked, narrowing your eyes.

He grunted, stepping inside and setting the box down on the coffee table with a thud. “It’s for them,” he said, jerking his chin toward your stomach.

You blinked, thrown off by the unexpected gesture. “You got them… a gift?”

He shot you a glare, defensive already. “Don’t make it weird. It’s not a big deal.”

Your curiosity got the better of you, and you shuffled over to the box, careful to lower yourself onto the couch. Sukuna watched, his arms crossed over his chest, as you peeled back the layers of tape and newspaper.

Inside was chaos.

A mishmash of items tumbled out—two tiny leather jackets, complete with spikes on the shoulders; a set of Blobfish plushies; and what could only be described as baby-sized combat boots, polished to a mirror shine.

Your jaw dropped. “Sukuna… what the hell is this?”

He shrugged, his smirk returning, though it was softer than usual. “Gear. For when they’re old enough to not embarrass me.”

You couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up, loud and uncontrollable. It startled even you, breaking through the thick fog of grief and exhaustion that had clung to you for days. “Spiked leather jackets? Combat boots? What are they, tiny bikers?”

“They’re going to be strong,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact as he dropped onto the armchair across from you. “Might as well dress the part.”

You shook your head, still laughing as you held up one of the jackets. It was absurdly small, the spikes dulled for safety. “This is so extra.”

“You’re welcome,” he shot back, though the faint twitch of his lips betrayed his satisfaction at your reaction.

You set the jacket down, your laughter fading into a softer smile. “You didn’t have to do this.”

Sukuna leaned back, his gaze locking onto yours with a rare intensity. “I know,” he said simply.

For a moment, the room was quiet, the air between you charged with something unspoken. He broke the silence first, waving a hand toward the mess of items on the table. “I’m not saying they’ll ever use this crap. Just… figured it might make you laugh.”

Your chest tightened, the ache of loss mingling with something warmer, something unfamiliar. “It did,” you admitted, your voice softer now.

“Good.” He stood abruptly, brushing imaginary dust off his pants. “I’ll pick up something more normal next time. Maybe. Only if you drink enough water.”

You laughed again, shaking your head. “Please don’t. This is perfect.”

Sukuna’s smirk widened as he swaggered toward the door. Just before he left, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder, and said, “I’m not going anywhere, Princess.”

In a moment that could only be described as peak Sukuna, he turned to make his grand exit, only for his nose to collide with the door frame with a resounding thud.

“Stupid... who put this here?” He grumbled, rubbing his nose furiously as if it were the door’s fault for existing. You couldn’t help but burst into laughter, the sound echoing in the room like a cackling hyena.

“Maybe it’s a sign you should start ducking!” You teased, and he shot you a look that was half annoyed, half amused, like a cat that had just been splashed with water, but it was warm.

“I’ll just buy a bigger door!” He retorted, throwing his hands up in exaggerated exasperation.

With that, he turned to leave again, but not before bumping his head against the door frame once more, muttering, “This door is clearly out to get me.” You couldn’t help but laugh even harder.

And then he was gone, leaving you surrounded by the absurdity he’d brought with him. You looked down at the tiny jackets and boots, your hand resting on your stomach as the twins stirred softly. Maybe your laughing did calm them.

Same night, your bedroom was cold, the soft glow of a nightlight casting shadows that seemed to shift with your every movement. You slept in the center of the room, one hand resting on your swollen belly. The twins kicked softly, their presence grounding and tormenting you in equal measure.

The guilt was a living thing, coiled tight around your chest. Sukuna had done everything—more than you could have asked for—but the lie you’d spun had fangs. Each day, it bit deeper, carving wounds you couldn’t heal.

You woke screaming, clutching your stomach as panic clawed at your throat. Sukuna was there in an instant, his hands steady on your shoulders, his voice sharp and commanding. “What is it?”

“They’re going to take them,” your voice raw and broken. “They’ll find a way.”

“No one’s taking anything,” his crimson eyes blazing with an intensity that should have comforted you. But the storm inside you raged on.

“You don’t know them,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “They’ll stop at nothing.”

Sukuna cupped your face, his touch surprisingly gentle in his large hands. “They won’t get near you. Not while I’m here.”

But his words were like whispers against a hurricane. You turned away, your gaze falling to the crib, its bars a reminder of the prison you’d built around your heart.

“I’ll protect you,” you murmured to the twins, your hands trembling as you traced the curve of your stomach. “Even if it kills me.”

The room seemed to hold its breath, the silence heavy and oppressive.

“I won’t let you die.” Sukuna whispered. You turned to look at him only to be kissed by him on your temple. It wasn’t anything passionate; it was as if he was sealing a promise.

The next morning, you shuffled into the living room, your back aching from another restless night. The twins had been unusually active, their cursed energy—or at least what you deduced was cursed energy—pressing against your insides like waves crashing against fragile glass. You’d woken up drenched in sweat, the faint outline of one of their hands or feet briefly visible under your skin before retreating into the shadows of your body. It was horrifying and beautiful, and you hated that you didn’t know how to feel about it.

Sukuna was already in the living room, sitting on the floor, a cup of coffee in his hand. He glanced up as you entered, his crimson eyes scanning you like he could read every thought you were trying to suppress.

“You look worse than usual,” he said, his voice cutting but not cruel.

“Thanks,” you muttered, dropping onto the couch with a wince.

He didn’t respond right away, just set his cup down, straightened and stretched, his maroon hoodie riding up, revealing markings on his stomach. He watched you with an expression you couldn’t quite place. Despite being on the floor, he was somehow on eye level with you.

After a moment, he stood and disappeared into the kitchen. You didn’t have the energy to ask what he was doing.

When he returned, he was holding a glass of water and a small bowl filled with neatly peeled and cut fruit. He handed them to you without a word, his hand lingering for a moment as you took the bowl.

“Eat,” he said simply, sitting back down on the floor in front of you.

You stared at the fruit. “You didn’t have to—”

“Stop,” he interrupted, his tone firm. “Just eat.”

You did, the sweet and sourness of the fruits grounding you. Sukuna watched, his gaze flicking between your face and your stomach.

After a while, he spoke again, his voice softer. “You hate looking at yourself, don’t you?”

Your breath caught; you definitely had a type. Type that kept seeing through your lies!

You didn’t answer, but the way you looked away was answer enough.

Sukuna shifted closer, resting his forearms on his knees. “Can I?”

You frowned, unsure. “Why?”

“Just trust me, Princess,” he said, his smirk faint but not unkind.

Reluctantly, you let him. His hands moved to your baby balloon, his touch firm but careful, soothing you as he pressed his palms against the curve.

“Feel that?” he murmured as one of the twins shifted beneath his hand, the movement almost shy.

You nodded, your throat tight.

“They’re strong,” he said, his voice steady. “They know you’re protecting them.”

Another flutter beneath your skin, this one softer, more deliberate. Sukuna’s hands didn’t move, his warmth radiating through you like a shield against the chill that had settled in your bones.

“You’re not broken,” he said after a moment, his tone uncharacteristically gentle. “And you’re not alone in this.”

“You sure are comfortable touching them now.” You teased.

He snorted. “And here I thought I was helping you feel better.”

You laughed and closed your eyes as the twins settled, their energy calming under the weight of his words. The war inside you felt a little less unbearable.

A few days later, the apartment was warm, sunlight streaming through the half-open blinds and landing in soft streaks across the living room floor. You sat on the couch, one hand absently resting on your stomach while the other scrolled through your phone. You weren’t looking at anything in particular, just trying to distract yourself from the relentless ache in your lower back and the twins’ ongoing UFC match in your uterus.

Sukuna walked in, carrying a bag of groceries like it was filled with feathers as usual. His broad shoulders filled the doorway as he kicked it shut behind him. He looked at you, then at the untouched snack bowl on the coffee table, then back at you.

“You didn’t eat the strawberries I cut,” he said flatly, setting the bag down.

“I wasn’t hungry,” you replied without looking up.

“You’re always hungry,” he shot back, folding his arms.

You finally glanced up at him, raising a brow. “Maybe I’m evolving.”

He snorted, dropping onto the armchair across from you. “Yeah, into a cranky gargoyle. What’s up with you today?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly, your tone too breezy.

His eyes narrowed, sharp and calculating. “Bullshit.”

You sighed, setting your phone down. “I’m fine, Sukuna. Can’t a woman just sit in peace without being interrogated?”

“Not when that woman’s got two cursed powerhouses doing cartwheels inside her,” he replied, his smirk faint but pointed.

You rolled your eyes, leaning back against the couch. “I’m just tired, okay?”

He stared at you for a long moment, his crimson eyes flicking to your stomach, then back to your face.

“You’re not tired,” he said finally, his voice quieter. “You feel weird. About your body.”

Your head snapped up, your mouth opening to protest, but he cut you off with a raised hand.

“Don’t even try to deny it,” he said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “You’re confident, sure. You’re also human. You’re carrying their demon spawns, and it’s messing with your head. I’d feel weird too.”

You blinked, thrown off by the bluntness of his words. “That’s… not exactly how I’d put it.”

“Whatever,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “Point is, you’re not as slick as you think you are, Princess.”

You stared at him, unsure whether to laugh or be offended. “And what, you’re here to be my body image coach now?”

“Very perceptive of you,” he said, standing abruptly. He grabbed the bag of groceries and pulled out a tub of chocolate ice cream and a loaf of bread. Even your cravings weren’t original from your husbands.

“What are you doing?” you asked, watching in bemusement as he started slathering jam on a slice of bread.

“Making you a snack,” he replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Pickle and peanut butter sandwich. Ice cream chaser. Don’t knock it till you try it.”

“That’s disgusting,” you said, wrinkling your nose.

“Yeah, well, so’s the idea of that white-haired one being someone’s dad, but here we are,” he quipped, tossing the sandwich onto a plate and handing it to you.

You stared at the monstrosity, then at him. “This is your solution to my body issues? Weird snacks?”

“No,” he said, sitting back down and gesturing at you with a flourish. “My solution is this: you’re hot, you’re badass, and if anyone says otherwise, I’ll break their spine. But you’re also you, which means you’re allowed to feel weird about turning into a walking incubator for two special-grade cursed-energy gremlins. Doesn’t mean you’re less of anything.”

You blinked. “That’s… oddly sweet.”

“I aim to please,” he grumbled, grabbing the remote and turning on the TV. “Now eat the sandwich before I change my mind.”

You laughed, taking a tentative bite of the pickle-peanut butter monstrosity. It was terrible, but for some reason, it made you feel a little better.

The next day, the air was crisp, the kind of weather that made the leaves crunch underfoot and the sunlight feel softer. Sukuna strolled beside you, a reusable shopping bag slung over his shoulder like a fashion statement, his other hand steadying you as you waddled along the cobblestone path of the farmer’s market, your face obscured by a large mask. The twins had been kicking non-stop since breakfast, and your back felt like it was holding the weight of the world.

“I don’t know why you dragged me here,” you muttered, squinting at a stall of overpriced honey jars.

“Because you’ve been sulking for days,” Sukuna replied, smirking. “And I’m tired of watching you fold tiny clothes and cry about it.”

Before you could retort, he veered off toward a stall selling baby onesies, grabbing one with a print of a cartoon goat that read Mommy’s Little Terror. He held it up, raising a brow. “This fits their vibe.”

You snorted despite yourself. “They’re not even born yet, and you’re assigning them a vibe?”

“Yeah,” he said, tossing it into the bag. “And this.” He grabbed another onesie, this one pink and emblazoned with Future World Domination Leader.

You laughed, leaning on his arm for support as the twins shifted again. Sukuna noticed immediately, crouching slightly to meet your eyes. “Tired?”

“A little,” you admitted, though your body screamed a lot.

Without a word, he scooped you up effortlessly, one arm under your knees and the other supporting your back. “What are you—put me down!”

“Shut up, Princess,” he said, grinning as heads turned to stare at the giant man carrying a visibly and heavily—maybe too heavily—pregnant woman like she weighed nothing. “You’ll thank me later.”

An older woman at a nearby stall clasped her hands together, her face lighting up. “Oh, isn’t he just wonderful? So attentive!”

Sukuna didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, I’m pretty great,” he said, flashing her a cocky grin. “My wife’s a champ, though. Carrying our twins and still managing to look this bewitching.”

You groaned, burying your face in his shoulder. “Stoppp.”

He ignored you, turning his attention to the woman. “I’m so proud of her. She’s going to be an amazing birthgiver.”

The woman beamed, clearly swooning. “You’re both so lucky!”

“Yeah,” Sukuna said, his voice softening just enough for only you to hear. “I am.”

Later that week, Sukuna insisted on taking you grocery shopping. You protested, but he ignored you as usual, guiding you through the aisles with a hand on your lower back.

“Pickles?” he asked, holding up a jar with a raised brow.

You nodded, reaching for it, but he pulled it back. “What’s the magic word?”

“Are you serious?”

“Deadly.”

“Fine,” you huffed. “Please.”

He handed it over with a smug grin. “See? Was that so hard?”

At the checkout, the cashier—a young woman with doe eyes—couldn’t stop glancing at Sukuna, her cheeks pink as she scanned the items.

“These pickles,” she started, clearly searching for a conversation starter. “A craving?”

Sukuna nodded solemnly. “Yeah. She’s eating for three, and I’m eating for stress.”

You choked on a laugh, swatting his arm. “Don’t listen to him.”

The cashier giggled nervously, her eyes lingering on Sukuna a moment too long. He didn’t even notice, too busy helping you into your coat and carrying all the bags in one hand like they weighed air.

Outside, you leaned against him, your feet aching. “You didn’t have to do all of that.”

He smirked, draping an arm around your shoulders. “Sure I did. It’s my job to keep you entertained.”

A couple of days later, at the park, Sukuna insisted on renting a swan paddle boat “for the twins.” The boat was comically small for his frame, his knees practically up to his chest as he paddled with exaggerated effort and heavy breaths.

“Why are we doing this?” you asked, trying not to laugh.

“Because I like suffering,” he said, glaring at the water like it had personally offended him.

He was doing it for you, to make you laugh as much as possible.

Then when you finally broke into giggles, he grinned, satisfied.

That night, when you struggled to sleep, Sukuna sat by your bed, massaging pain-relieving oils into your swollen ankles with surprising care. His hands were rough but gentle, his expression focused.

“You don’t have to do this,” you murmured, your voice thick with exhaustion.

He glanced up, his crimson eyes softer than you’d ever seen. “I know,” he said simply, his hands never faltering.

You fell asleep to the sound of his low, rumbling voice, humming an off-key lullaby he’d probably made up on the spot. His humming seemed to soothe the twins into no-cartwheeling sleep, which helped you relax for the night.

Sukuna never thought he could be perfect, but in those moments, he was everything you needed.

The next day, the yoga studio smelled faintly of lavender and freshly cleaned mats. Sukuna walked in beside you, his presence as imposing as ever. His crimson eyes swept over the room, narrowing slightly at the women who turned to gawk. He helped you settle onto your mat with the kind of careful attention that seemed absurd coming from someone like him, crouching to adjust the pillow beneath your knees before straightening to his full, towering height.

The murmurs started immediately. Low at first, barely audible, but growing louder with every second. You could feel the weight of their stares pressing against your skin, even through the mask you wore to keep a low profile.

Sukuna noticed too. His gaze darkened, his smirk vanishing as his eyes darted across the room. “What’s their problem?” he muttered under his breath.

You tried to ignore it, focusing on your breathing as the instructor began leading the class through stretches. But the whispers didn’t stop.

“She’s the one,” someone hissed, loud enough to reach your ears.

“Carrying twins,” another added, voice dripping with disdain.

You clenched your fists, your nails biting into your palms. Sukuna’s head snapped toward the source of the voices, his expression hardening.

And then, of course, Karen appeared.

She strode across the room, her leggings pulled so high they might as well have been a second ribcage. Her smirk was cruel as she stopped in front of you.

The room went quiet. She loomed over you—as you were sitting on the floor—her arms crossed, her expression smug. “What’s it like being the talk of the internet? The woman who couldn’t keep her men in line?”

You felt Sukuna tense beside you, his hand twitching at his side. You placed a hand on his arm, silently telling him to hold back. “I’m here to practice yoga, not entertain you.”

Karen’s smirk widened, her gaze flicking over you like you were something stuck to the bottom of her shoe. “Practice yoga? That’s rich. You mean parading around with your ‘fake husband’ after your other two clowns beat people up? Gave people permanent injuries?”

Then she turned to Sukuna and continued, “Oh, I knew for a fact you were a chum who got stuck with her. I was right, and you lied.”

You kept your grip on Sukuna’s arm firm. You spoke calmly but firm. “Watch your mouth! First of all, don’t bring Sukuna into this. Second, I was the one holding them back. I didn’t incite it. I kept my employees alive that day.”

Karen’s gaze swept over you, landing on your stomach, clearly not ready to back off. “Honestly, it’s impressive,” she continued, her tone dripping with mockery. “First, you marry two men, and then you end up with him?”

Sukuna’s growl was low and guttural, his towering frame eclipsing hers. “Watch it.”

“Karen,” you yelled, “you don’t know anything about my life. You don’t know what I’ve been through, what I’ve survived.”

“Survived?” Karen scoffed. “You mean you survived your ‘unnatural ways’ coming out in front of the entire world? Or is it surviving the fact that no one takes you seriously anymore?”

“Sukuna,” you said, your voice lowering. “Let’s just go.”

Your stomach was churning, the weight of her words sinking in like lead. Sukuna’s hand rested lightly on you, grounding you, but even his presence couldn’t shield you from the growing stares around the room.

Karen stepped closer, looming over you, invading your personal space. It felt as though she might resort to physical violence with you at any moment. Her voice dropped, but the venom in her tone remained unmistakable. “People are calling you a sex addict, you know. Can’t say I blame them. Married to two men, pregnant with God knows who’s kids, and now cozying up to him?” She sneered. “You’re not just a scandal—you’re a disgrace. You can’t live without dick can you! What now? You’ll add him to your harem too, you whore! If I were in your place, I would have killed myself!”

The words hit like daggers, each one twisting deeper. Your breath caught, but before you could respond, Sukuna moved.

It happened in an instant.

You gasped, “Ryo!”

The slap cracked through the studio like a thunderclap, silencing the room. Karen stumbled, clutching her cheek, her eyes wide with shock and disbelief.

Sukuna loomed over her, his towering frame casting a shadow that swallowed her whole. His voice was low, a growl that rumbled through the silence. “Say one more word, and I’ll make sure you never speak again.”

Karen’s confidence crumbled instantly, her wide-eyed shock betraying the venom she’d spewed moments ago. She glanced around the room, searching for someone—anyone—to come to her defense, but the silence was deafening. The other mothers avoided her gaze, their expressions a mix of discomfort and quiet satisfaction.

Her husband wasn’t there, of course. He’d finally had enough of her tirades, her endless need to dominate every room she walked into. The divorce papers had already been filed, and his absence spoke louder than any words ever could. Karen, with her toxic cocktail of insecurity and unchecked cruelty, had been left with nothing but her bitterness.

She didn’t belong here. She wasn’t pregnant and had no intention of ever being so. For years, she’d come to these classes not to bond or prepare for motherhood but to belittle and bully anyone she deemed weaker. She was a relic of high school, clinging to the power she once wielded over others, desperate to make someone else feel smaller to distract from her own failures.

Today, you had been her target. Her divorce had clearly left her hellbent on tearing someone else down, and she might’ve succeeded—she might’ve even turned to violence—if Sukuna hadn’t intervened. You were glad Sukuna didn’t see gender while serving people their karma.

Your heart pounded, but you forced yourself to stand—or try to. A sharp cramp shot through your side, stealing your breath. You stumbled, clutching your stomach as the twins shifted violently.

Sukuna caught you before you could fall, his hands steadying you as he glared at Karen.

His growl cut through the silence. “We’re leaving,” he said, his voice cold and final.

He didn’t move at first, his glare fixed on Karen like a wolf deciding whether the hunt was worth it, like debating whether she deserved another hit.

Finally, he relented, his muscles relaxing as he focused on you. “I’ll get you a private instructor,” he added, his tone softening as he looked at you.

The twins stirred. Pain shot through your abdomen, and you gasped, clutching at Sukuna’s shirt.

“Hang on,” he muttered, his voice softening as he carried you out of the studio.

Behind you, Karen stood frozen, her face pale and her cheek still burning red. No one moved to comfort her. No one even looked at her. The only sound in the room was the quiet creak of the door as it closed behind you.

Once in the car, you buried your face in his chest, your breathing erratic. He held you close, his large hand stroking your hair awkwardly but gently.

“Don’t listen to them,” he said, his voice firm but uncharacteristically tender. “Only you know the truth. Only you know what you went through and how you survived.”

The ride home was quiet. Sukuna carried you inside, settling you on the couch with the kind of gentleness that made your chest ache.

But the silence stretched on, and the weight of Karen’s words pressed down on you like a vice. The twins shifted again, their energy erratic, feeding off your turmoil.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Sukuna crouched in front of you, his large hands resting on your knees. “Don’t,” he said firmly. “Don’t apologize for insecure humans.”

You nodded, but the hollow ache in your chest didn’t ease.

As the hours passed, you found yourself staring out the window, the city lights blurring as tears filled your eyes.

Sukuna stayed close, his presence steady but silent. When the tears finally came, hot and unrelenting, he pulled you into his arms, holding you as you cried.

And though he didn’t say it, his arms were a fortress around you as the world outside kept spinning, cruel and unforgiving. He silently vowed that no one would ever hurt you again.

Days after that, the silence that pressed down on your chest and made it hard to breathe. You sat curled up on the couch, an old photo clutched tightly in your hands. It was worn at the edges, the glossy finish dulled from countless times you’d held it. In it, Gojo was grinning, his arm slung lazily over Nanami’s shoulders. You were in the middle, laughing at something you couldn’t remember now, your face lit with a happiness that felt like it belonged to someone else. The pain it brought was sharp, raw, an open wound that refused to heal no matter how much time passed.

Maybe you didn’t love them anymore—not in the way you once had. That love had been replaced by something darker, heavier. But the ache of what they’d done to you, the way they’d left you to drown in your own loneliness while they found comfort in each other… it consumed you.

You didn’t hear Sukuna until he was standing in the doorway, his broad frame silhouetted against the dim light of the hallway.

“Why do you keep doing this to yourself?” he asked, his voice softer than usual but still carrying that edge of exasperation.

You startled, quickly tucking the photo under your thigh. “I’m not doing anything.”

His crimson eyes narrowed, and he crossed the room in two strides, crouching down in front of you. “Don’t lie to me, Princess. You’re terrible at it.”

You looked away, unable to meet his gaze. “I just�� I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t have left.”

The words tasted bitter on your tongue, but they were out before you could stop them. Sukuna’s expression shifted to something unreadable.

“You’re joking,” he said, his voice flat.

“I’m not,” you whispered, your hands trembling in your lap. “I mean, they didn’t care about me, not really, but… I still left, and so much happened. People got hurt.”

“You kept the people alive!” Sukuna said, his tone sharper now. He leaned closer, his crimson eyes boring into yours. “You walked away because they didn’t deserve you.”

You shook your head, the tears falling faster now. “What if I made a mistake? What if I should’ve tried harder? Maybe none of this would have happened.”

“Stop,” Sukuna snapped, his voice cutting through your spiral. He grabbed your chin gently but firmly, forcing you to look at him. “Do you really think that despite one of them having the gift of six eyes, if he still couldn’t see the life growing inside you, they wouldn’t have taken you for granted through the pregnancy as well?! They’re the ones who fucked up. Not you. They had you—you—and they chose to ignore you. That’s on them, not you.”

The conviction in his voice made your chest tighten, but the doubt still lingered. “But—”

“No,” he interrupted, his thumb brushing against your jaw in a soft gesture. “No ‘but.’ You didn’t leave because you stopped loving them. You left because they stopped showing you they loved you.”

His words cracked something in you, like an old vase you never saw but always sensed the presence of in your heart’s home.

You let out a shaky breath, the photo slipping from your lap and landing face-up on the couch. Sukuna glanced at it, his jaw tightening for a moment before he reached for it. He studied it silently, his thumb brushing over your smiling face.

“They didn’t deserve this version of you,” he said, his voice low. “And they sure as hell don’t deserve the you now.”

The warmth in his words, the unguarded softness, made your heart ache in a different way. He handed the photo back to you, his hand lingering over yours for a moment.

“I’m not saying it’ll stop hurting,” he admitted, his crimson eyes meeting yours. “But don’t waste your time wondering if you should’ve stayed. You didn’t leave for no reason. Remember the past version of yourself in that exact moment when everything was crumbling around you. What you felt. Don’t put yourself through that.”

You nodded, the weight in your chest easing just slightly. Sukuna stood, offering you his hand. “Come on,” he said, his smirk returning faintly. “You’ve been crying for hours. Let me make you something to eat before you wither away. Besides, you deserve better. Better than them. Better than what they gave you.”

Then smugly added, “Someone as amazing as me.”

Despite yourself, you laughed softly, taking his hand.

The first signs came like whispers in the dark—a sharp, fleeting twinge low in your abdomen, a dull ache spreading like ripples in water. You brushed it off as stress, convincing yourself it was nothing.

But Sukuna noticed. He always noticed.

His crimson eyes tracked your every move, narrowing at the way you shifted uncomfortably in your seat, your hand lingering on your belly a beat too long.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing,” you lied, forcing a smile.

His gaze hardened, the muscle in his jaw ticking. “You’re a terrible liar, Princess.”

That evening, as you struggled to stand after dinner, a sharp gasp escaped your lips. Sukuna was at your side in an instant, his large hand steadying you.

“That’s it,” he said, his voice brooking no argument. “We’re going to the hospital.”

You tried to protest, but the look in his eyes silenced you.

// Music

{The hospital was cold, sterile as usual. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, casting harsh shadows on the linoleum floors. The smell of antiseptic clung to everything, making your stomach churn.

You sat on the examination table, the thin paper gown sticking uncomfortably to your skin. The room felt too bright, too exposed. Sukuna sat beside you, his broad frame dwarfing the small plastic chair. His expression was unreadable, but his hand rested on his knee, the tension in his fingers betraying his calm façade. The fake husband playing the role perfectly.

The doctor entered, her face carefully neutral, but you caught the hesitation in her movements.

“Let’s take a look,” she said, her tone professional but soft.

The ultrasound gel was cold against your skin, and the room silent except for the faint hum of the machine. You stared at the monitor, waiting for the familiar sound of their heartbeats.

But the silence stretched on.

The doctor’s brow furrowed, her hand pausing over the probe.

“What is it?” Sukuna’s voice was tense.

The doctor hesitated, her hand hovering over the ultrasound machine as though the pause could soften the blow. Her eyes flicked to you, then back to the screen, her expression unreadable.

“I’m… not detecting a heartbeat.”

The words knocked the air from your lungs.

“No,” the denial spilling out before you could think. Your voice trembled, barely audible. “No, that’s not right. They were moving. Just yesterday. I felt them. I was craving pickles, and I had really bad back pain too; they were moving so much.”

The doctor’s face was heavy with sympathy as she set the probe down. “I’m so sorry.”

You shook your head, the room tilting around you. Your hand flew to your stomach, pressing against the curve as if your touch could summon them back, as if you could will them to respond. “They can’t be gone,” you choked out, your voice breaking.

The doctor took a breath, her voice steady but clinical, as if detachment could lessen the cruelty of what she had to say. “It’s an extraordinarily rare case—heteropaternal superfecundation combined with double fertilization. Their development was… incompatible with life.”

The medical jargon felt cruel, meaningless. Just noise.

Sukuna’s hand found yours, his grip firm, grounding, but it only highlighted how far away you felt. It made it real. His jaw was clenched, his crimson eyes darker than you’d ever seen, but he said nothing. He couldn’t.

Your head spun, the walls closing in, the fluorescent lights glaring like they were trying to expose every raw nerve. The doctor’s voice faded, a dull hum drowned out by the pounding of your own heartbeat.

“They were mine,” you whispered.

Sukuna leaned closer, his hand steady against your back.

The doctor excused herself quietly, the door clicking shut behind her. The silence that followed pressed against your chest like a weight you couldn’t lift.

You sat frozen, your hand still pressed to your stomach, waiting for something—anything. A kick, a flutter, some proof that they were still there.

But there was nothing.

You curled into yourself, clutching your stomach as though you could shield what was already gone.

“They were mine,” you repeated, the words a broken mantra. “They were mine.”

Sukuna’s grip was almost bruising. His other arm wrapped around you, pulling you against his chest.

He didn’t speak, didn’t try to fill the silence with empty reassurances. He just held you, his breath steady against your hair as your world fell apart.

After months of crying, your tears had finally run out. You couldn’t will them now, not that you wanted to.

You were done.

The dissociation came slowly, creeping in like a shadow. You faded into hollow silence, your body still in his arms. You stared at the floor, your eyes unfocused, your mind retreating into a void where the suffering couldn’t reach you.

Sukuna’s voice broke through the fog, low and firm. “Stay with me, Princess.”

But you couldn’t. Not anymore.

The hollowness swallowed you whole, leaving nothing but the ghost of what could have been.

But Sukuna stayed, his presence a steady anchor in the storm, an anchor you couldn’t see.

The procedure to remove them was a nightmare. The machines beeped; the cold metal of the instruments glinted, their sharp edges catching your eye and filling your chest with dread.

Sukuna stood by your side. His hand wrapped around yours like a hazy lifeline, anchoring you to a reality you didn’t care about.

His crimson eyes never left your face, his expression unreadable but tense, his jaw set as though he could will the universe to reverse itself by sheer force.

The procedure began, the doctor’s voice a muted hum in the background. Pressure built in your abdomen, the sensation alien and invasive, like something being torn away from the core of your existence. You bit your lip hard enough to draw blood, the metallic taste grounding you.

But you didn’t scream no matter how much it hurt. You couldn’t bring yourself to care whether you made it or if the universe would be kind enough to end it all through a freak incident of medical malpractice.

Sukuna didn’t flinch, didn’t move, his grip tightening as if to remind you he was there. The machines continued their cold, unfeeling symphony, and the minutes stretched into an eternity.

When it was over, there was only silence. The absence of their presence, a void that swallowed everything else.

The doctor murmured something to Sukuna, her words slipping past you like water over stone. You sat up shakily, the hospital gown sticking to your damp skin, your breath coming in short, shallow bursts. But mind wasn’t there.

“I want to see them,” you whispered. “Please.”

Sukuna was in front of you in an instant, his broad chest blocking your view as he pulled you into his arms. His grip was firm but careful, cradling you as though you might shatter as the doctors moved discreetly behind him.

“No,” he said, his voice low but resolute. “You don’t want to see them, Princess. Trust me.”

You clutched at his shirt with trembling hands. “They were mine,” you choked out, your words muffled against him.

“They still are,” he murmured, his tone softer than you’d ever heard. His hand stroked your back in slow, grounding motions, his presence steady even as his own turmoil blared beneath.

The sight of them would haunt him forever.

He’d seen them as the doctors worked quickly, their small, fragile forms laid out in a shallow steel tray. The boy’s limbs were long, spindly, his jawline so sharp it was almost serrated. His translucent skin revealed a web of delicate veins, branching like cracks in glass. The girl’s features were softer, her tiny hands fused into curling nubs, her face serene despite the unnatural bulge beneath her closed eyelids. Their hair split down the middle—one half blond, the other stark white—a cruel mirror of their fathers.

They were chimeric, a grotesque fusion of too much DNA, as the doctors explained to him later, alone. “Incompatible with life,” they had said clinically, as though that phrase could encompass the enormity of the loss.

They told him there was no recorded case of such a thing ever happening.

Sukuna stayed silent through it all, his hand flexing at his side as if he wanted to destroy the room, the machines, the universe itself. But when he returned to you, he was calm again, his rage buried beneath layers of quiet resolve.

The hospital was a blur after that, like you were seeing through water. Sukuna dealt with the hospital staff in his usual manner—efficient, cold, terrifying. He had the remains cremated, sparing you the finality of their lifeless forms. You barely noticed when he disappeared to speak with the staff, his voice low and clipped, or when he returned, his presence looming beside you like a shield you didn’t ask for.

When you asked about the remains, your voice hollow and detached, he didn’t sugarcoat it. “It’s already done,” he said simply, his tone leaving no room for questions.

You nodded, not because you agreed, but because you didn’t care enough to argue.

“Let’s go home,” he said, his voice steady as he helped you to your feet.

You clung to him as he carried you out of the hospital, but your expressions remained unreadable. The hollow ache in your chest felt endless, but Sukuna didn’t let go, his presence a fragile shield against the unbearable weight of what you’d lost.

The days after were an endless cycle of nothingness. Sukuna filled the void with his relentless presence, taking over everything he already used to manage. He cooked meals you barely touched, cleaned the apartment with medical precision, scheduled your appointments, and arranged therapy without asking.

“You need this,” he said when you stared blankly at the brochure he placed in front of you. His tone firm, final.

You went because it was easier than refusing. The therapist spoke gently, her words carefully chosen, but they washed over you like white noise. You answered her questions in monotone, offering just enough to keep the sessions moving. He drove you to and back from your appointments and waited for you in between.

“It’ll take time,” she said once after your session, her voice warm with reassurance. Sukuna nodded. You didn’t respond.}

At home, you spent hours by the window, staring at the sea. The waves rolled in and out, unchanging, as if mocking the chaos that had become your life. Sukuna hovered in the background, his movements quiet. He never pushed, never demanded anything from you.

Sometimes he’d sit nearby, reading or scrolling through his phone, his presence grounding in its consistency. Other times, he’d leave you entirely alone, his heavy footsteps echoing down the hallway as he gave you space you didn’t know how to fill.

When nightmares came, they weren’t violent anymore. They strangled you silently. You’d wake in a cold sweat, your chest heavy with an ache that felt like it would never leave. Sukuna was always there, sitting at the edge of your bed, his hand resting on your shoulder or his voice a low murmur in the dark. Had he stopped sleeping? You were too dissociated to argue.

“It’s okay,” he’d say, though you didn’t believe him.

One night, you woke to find him standing in the doorway, his silhouette stark against the faint light from the hall. He didn’t notice you watching as he muttered under his breath, his voice low and dangerous.

“If they ever come near you again, I’ll kill them.”

You didn’t ask who he meant. You didn’t want to know.

No matter what Sukuna did—his soft gestures, his quiet presence, his unwavering care—you remained numb.

He brought you flowers once, bright and vibrant, placing them on the table with a small, awkward shrug. You glanced at them briefly before returning to your spot by the window.

He cooked your favorite meal, setting the plate in front of you with a forced smirk. “Eat, Princess,” he said, but when you pushed the food around with your fork and left the table without a word, he didn’t stop you.

Even when he tried to make you laugh—muttering sarcastic comments about the people outside, rolling his eyes dramatically when the news played something ridiculous—it barely registered.

The world felt distant, like you were watching it through frosted glass.

Sukuna’s presence was the only constant, but even that felt like something happening to someone else.

And though you didn’t react, didn’t acknowledge the weight of his efforts, he stayed. Silent, steady, unyielding.

One night when the pain got too much, you walked to his room and cried in his chest. After months.

He held you the way he always did, but it was stronger this time, as if trying to anchor you in a storm that wouldn’t pass. He didn’t fill the void with empty reassurances, nor did he push you to speak.

The next day, things went back to you staring at nothing.

Japan

Gojo sat slouched, manspreading on the couch, his T-shirt messy like his hair, eyes uncovered, hands dangling between his knees, a photo clutched so tightly the edges were crumpled. The room was dim, lit only by the gray haze of a city that never quite slept. His six eyes scanned the image for the hundredth time, even though he knew every detail by heart—the grainy black-and-white outline of two unmistakable shapes, curled together like yin and yang. He’d gotten it from the hospital you visited before leaving.

He let out a hollow laugh, the sound breaking the oppressive silence. “Twins. Our twins.” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard.

Nanami stood by the window, staring out at the endless city lights. His sweater covered with alcohol stains, his sleeves rolled up to reveal veins that looked ready to burst.

Gojo tilted his head back, his eyes burning as he stared at the ceiling. “Do you think she—” He stopped, his voice failing him. He tried again. “Do you think she hates us?”

Nanami’s face was as if it had been carved from stone, but his eyes betrayed the storm beneath. “She doesn’t hate us,” he spoke lowly. “She… doesn’t trust us. There’s a difference.” It sounded more like he was trying to convince himself.

Gojo’s laugh was sharper this time, almost cruel. “Trust? Trust died the night we left her alone in this goddamn drawing room. Remember that? Her silently crying, begging us to tell her we cared, and we…” His voice faltered, and he shook his head. “We crawled into bed together like cowards.”

Nanami’s jaw tightened, his hands clenching, shattering the glass he’d forgotten he was holding. But before Gojo could look up, his own RCT healed him. He stared at the disappeared wound like he wanted it back. “I remember, but I don’t think that was the final straw. I think it was the same weekend.”

Gojo stayed silent for a long time at that and then asked, “do you think they’ll look like her?” His voice softened, and he stared down at the photo, his thumb brushing over the image. “Her smile…”

Nanami’s gaze dropped to the floor. “I hope they don’t look like us.”

Gojo’s head snapped up, his six eyes narrowing. “Why the hell would you say that?”

Nanami’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Because we ruin everything we touch.”

Gojo leaned back, letting the photo fall to the coffee table. His hands ran through his hair, tugging hard enough to sting. “They’re better off without us.”

Nanami walked over and sat across from him, the weight of the moment pressing down on both of them. “Everything hurts.”

Gojo’s lips twitched, almost forming a smile before falling flat. “Hurt? Nanami, this… this is beyond hurt. This is…” He gestured vaguely, words failing him. “I’m empty. She’s gone, and I…”

Nanami reached for the photo, his fingers brushing against the image. “At least we have this,” he said, his voice steady but tinged with something raw. “Something to know it was real.”

He paused for what felt like an eternity and then added, “She’ll protect them.”

Gojo’s six eyes dimmed, their usual brilliance dulled by exhaustion. “Yeah. She’ll protect them. From us.”

Nanami’s grip on the photo tightened. “From the world we brought her into.”

The two men sat in silence, the photo lying between them like a ghost of what could have been. The air was thick with grief, regret, and a despair so deep it felt like drowning. Neither spoke again that night.

A/N: Okay, y’all, save the rage essays for after the next chapter—then hit me with your 14-page death threats. This pain was necessary for the redemption arc, but I promise groveling starts in the new year. Pain first, comfort later—like a good skincare routine. Drop your theories, death threats (creative ones pls), or tell me if Gojo should be banned from gaming conventions forever. Your comments = my serotonin boost, so don’t hold back. Did this chapter ruin your day, your week, or your will to exist? Let me know. 😘"

Chapter 7 (alt ending 1.3) - Sapphire Echoes (Tumblr/Ao3)

All Works Masterlist

Tag-list = @lady-of-blossoms @stargirl-mayaa @dark-agate @tqd4455 @roscpctals99 @sxlfcxst @se-phi-roth @austisticfreak @helloxkittylo @itoshi-r @kodzukensworld @revolvinggeto @luringfantasy

If I missed to tag anyone, please remind me.

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cscorvid · 2 months ago

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Pretty When You Cry

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x gn/afab!Reader

Tags: NSFW, dacryphilia, CNC (consensual non-consent), manhandling, spit, overstimulation, degradation/praise mix, crying kink, choking (light), aftercare, filthy talk, dark/domestic vibes.

You’d been a brat all damn day.

Pushing buttons. Testing him. Smirking like you thought he wouldn’t do anything about it.

But now you’re here. Mouth stuffed full of cottony breaths and whining under your breath, wrists pinned to the mattress like they belong there. Because they do. At least in Ghost’s hands.

You tried to act surprised when he finally snapped, but the glint in your eye gave you away. You’d wanted this. Had begged for it in your own stubborn little way, sassing back, swaying your hips when you passed him in the hallway, letting those smart little comments drip from your lips like honey laced with arsenic.

“Don’t stop now,” Ghost growls, dragging the backs of his knuckles down your flushed cheek. “All mouth earlier. Where’d all that attitude go, sweetheart?”

Your words stick in your throat. Maybe it's the weight of his body between your thighs. Or the belt still looped in his fist, dangling like a promise. Or maybe it’s the way his eyes look right now, black and burning, pupils blown wide as they drink in your trembling form splayed beneath him.

He doesn’t need your answer.

Ghost reaches up, wraps his hand around your throat, not tight, just there, and leans in. His breath is hot against your ear.

“I told you what’d happen, didn’t I? Act up, and I’ll take you apart.”

And he does.

He takes you slowly, methodically, like he’s got all the time in the world to ruin you. Like your body’s his personal project and he’s determined to break you down to the studs.

The first tear slips out before you even realize it.

Just a prickle at the corner of your eye when he grinds down harder, when his fingers dig deep into the meat of your hips and hold you still while his cock splits you open inch by inch.

But Ghost sees it.

Of course he does.

He stills, one hand planted firm beside your head, the other brushing your cheek with a touch so reverent it makes your chest ache.

“Oh…” he hums, eyes softening, voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Look at that. Cryin’ already?”

You try to shake your head. Try to say no.

But he shushes you with a mock-sweet click of his tongue and slaps your thigh, the sting making you jolt.

“Don’t you dare try to hide it from me,” he says, leaning in, licking the salty trail from your cheek like a man possessed. “Fuck, you’re pretty when you cry. You know that? All glassy-eyed and gasping like you don’t know what to do with yourself.”

You clench around him involuntarily, and he laughs, low, dark, proud.

“Oh, you like that, don’t you? Filthy little thing.”

Your body betrays you again, hips rolling up, chasing friction, throat keening with need. You’re a mess, and he’s only just started.

“You wanted to be ruined. This what you were beggin’ for with that smart mouth, hm?”

You nod, tears slipping faster now. And maybe it’s shame. Maybe it’s relief. But it just fuels him.

Ghost’s hand wraps around your jaw, thumb pressing into the corner of your lips. “Then open up.”

You do, obedient and needy, and he lets spit fall from his mouth to yours with a grin so cruel it makes your stomach twist.

“Swallow.”

You do that too.

And it breaks something open in him.

He fucks you like a promise, hard and relentless, fists bunching in the sheets beside your head. Your cries go high-pitched, hiccupy and raw, but he doesn’t stop.

Won’t stop.

Not until you’re shaking and soaked with your own tears, blubbering broken little pleas into the mattress.

“Ghost—please—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.”

His voice is pure gravel, wrecked with lust. He cages you in with his body, pounds into you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do, and with every thrust you feel yourself unraveling further.

“You’ll take it. You’ll cry for me like the perfect little mess you are.”

And you do.

God, you do.

Your body writhes beneath him, pushed to the edge and shoved off it again and again until all you can do is cry. It spills out of you, tears, gasps, wrecked moans, and Ghost drinks it in like it’s his lifeblood.

You don’t even know when you came.

The first time.

Or the second.

You just know you’re empty and full all at once, pain and pleasure braided so tightly they’re indistinguishable.

He groans, hips jerking, pace stuttering.

“Fuck—look at you. Ruined. Tears down your face, mouth open, beggin’ for more even when you’re all used up.”

You whimper when he pulls out. He’s not done, but you can’t imagine taking anything more.

You try to blink the tears from your eyes, but they keep coming, hot and heavy and endless.

He coos something soft, just a breath, and wraps his arms around you, pulls you close against his sweat-slicked chest.

“Good,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “So good for me. Did so fuckin’ well.”

You shake in his arms, your body still caught in the aftershocks.

His hand rubs circles into your back, slow and grounding. The contrast of that, of his gentleness now after how brutal he was, makes something crackle in your chest.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “Safe now, yeah?”

You nod, pressing your face into his neck. The salt of your tears mixes with the scent of him, sweat and sex and something earthy underneath.

He tucks the blanket up around your body and kisses your temple again.

“Next time you get mouthy,” he breathes with a smirk, “you’ll remember what happens.”

But there’s no venom in it. Just promise.

#fanfiction #cod fic #call of duty #cod #fanfic #x reader #smut fanfiction #call of duty fanfic #call of duty smut #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost #ghost cod

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084thoughts · 1 month ago

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Ravi Fics (Part 3)

Separated into categories and listed by word count from least to greatest. AO3 ratings are highlighted -> Gen Teen Mature Explicit Not Rated (NR)

🔥 labeled fics are some of my personal favorites!!

Please read tags/descriptions before to avoid any triggering or explicit content. Many of these fics discuss childhood cancer, chronic and mental illness, explicit sexual activity, and/or traumatic injury.

Basically all of the romantic/sexual pairings w Ravi are rarepairs (because 9-1-1 can't seem to bother giving him character development 🙄) so if you don't vibe w a ship, just don't read it. I included some great non-slash fics, and a entire section for Buddie-centric fics.

Ravi Lore 📚

dance with me tonight (like everything's alright) by stayeven for sp1dergal | T | 2.6k | Autoimmune Diseases, Long-Term Hospitalization, Panikkar Family, Diwali, Heartfelt ravi begins by shortndiaz | G | 6.2k | Ravi joins the 118, Whump, Cancer Treatment, Minor Character Death, Family (Ravi’s and the 118), Childhood Friend, Chemo 🔥more than a body, more than a name by diabolicaldean | M | 6.6k | Cancer Treatment, Family Feels, Angst, Ravi’s Brother, Journey to Becoming a Firefighter

118 Friendships 🚒

What We Didn't See, Who We Almost Lost by ReySmitty813 | NA | 1.1k | Follow-up to got time to bleed (just one thing i need), The 118 reflect on how they've been treating Ravi, Whump, Hospitalization, Injury, Apologizes 🔥Patti by firehosebuckley | T | 3.5k | Ravi accidentally gives Buck a nickname, Malayalam, Idiot White Boy Buckley, Ravi & Buck Friendship, Jealous Eddie, Mutual Pining A place we could escape sometimes by endversebuddie | NR | 3.1k | 5 times Ravi comes out to someone + 1 time someone comes out to him, Found Family, Short & Sweet 🔥Please Report to HR (And Bring Snacks) by Buddiepls | M | 3.5k | Ravi & the 118 Friendships, Ravi/OFC, Drunken Shenanigans, Fluff & Smut, the plot twist in chapter 2 (!!!) HITS 🔥If You Fall Asleep Down By The Water byfruitsdoesnotknow | T | 5.3k | Ravi officially adopted by the 118, Family Feels, Concussion, Minor Injury, Unconditional Love, Birthday Celebration, Ravi is appreciated!!!

Whump ⚡️

Funeral Fun Time by ferager | G | <1k | Bobby's funeral spec, Post 8x14/15, Survivor's Guilt she’s the angel of small death (and the codeine scene) by Rebel_material_girl | G | 1k | Ravi NDE, Internal Dialogue, The 118 A-Shift Curse, Fire 🔥give me your hand (i am your friend) by theoreticlove | G | 1.3k | Ravi trapped on an accident, Flashbacks, Childhood Cancer, Traumatic Injury, Angst got time to bleed (just one thing i need) by doveious | NA | 3.2k | Ravi is injured during a rescue, May/Ravi, Injury, Blood Loss 🔥I Hate Hospitals by Buckleys_Girl911 | T | 8.1k | Ravi and Maddie bond over shared childhood trauma, Flashbacks, Cancer, Daniel Buckley, Post 8x15, Everyone is alive, Angst, Hurt/Comfort Smoke over a blue sky by ferager | T | 9.8k | May and Ravi are taken hostage, NDEs, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Kidnapping, Canon-Typical Injuries 🔥sorry, can't stay (i gotta run, run, yeah) by rainny_days | T | 21k | Ravi and Buck are trapped in a time loop, 8x14, Temporary Character Deaths, POV Buck, POV Ravi, Trauma Bonding, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Childhood Cancer

May/Ravi 💐

🔥strange, you never knew by cranberrymoons | T | <1k | 8x16 Coda, Bobby's Funeral/Wake, Mourning, Grief, Sorta First Meeting, they are both sad and lonely grounds for affection by doveious | T | 1.1k | May/Ravi, Meet-Cute, Short & Sweet, Coffee Shops Ornamental Traditions by RileyMasters | G | 1.3k | May/Ravi, Christmas Traditions, Flirting $1000 per video by ferager | T | 1.8k | Mavi go public on Tiktok, Crack, Harry bullies them into getting cancelled, 118 as a Family The Dinner Guest by ferager | G | 1.9k | May/Ravi, Bathena, POV Athena, Relationship Reveal, Fluff 🔥all that glitters by ferager | G | 2.5k | May/Ravi, Established Relationship, Valentine's Day, Gift Giving, Fluff

🔥the first day of my life by glitterjemstone | G | 2.6k | Pre-Relationship May/Ravi, The 118 as a Family, Bonding, First Meeting, Flirting The Captain's Daughter by BangPop91 | G | 2.9k | May and Ravi over the course of their relationship, Friendship, Speculation, Cute & Fluffy 🔥relief / disbelief by ferager | T | 3k | May and Ravi find comfort in each other after Bobby’s death, Angst, Mourning, Hookup Five times Ravi and May were almost caught (and one time they were) by ferager | T | 5.2k | May/Ravi, 5 + 1, Secret Relationship, Fluff 🔥A Guide to Getting Caught by ferager | T | 10k | May/Ravi, Failed Secret Relationship, 118 Family Feels, Hijinks, Making Out

Other Pairings ❤️‍🔥

sensin some undertone (bad idea right?) by withmeornotatall | M | 2.2k | Buck/Ravi, Post 8x14/15, Hookup, Mutual Assured Self Destruction, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, both of them are traumatized temporary fix by screamingcolours | E | 2.6k | Buck/Ravi, Hookup, Angst, Explicit Sex, 8x14 Coda

Buddie Centric 🏡

Flirting by CallmeG | G | 1.2k | Ravi questions Buddie, Short & Sweet, Flirting, Crack Treated Seriously, how s4 should have gone 🔥maybe i'm trapped with you, but you also trapped with me by abichaf | T | 1.3k | Crack, 8x17/18 Spec, Ravi has had enough, idiot4idiot 911, I'd Like to Report a Hate Crime (aka Operation: Gaslight Ravi) by undercoverwillshaper | T | 1.4k | Ravi hazed by the 118, Evil Power Couple Buddie, One-Shot, Silly Goofy just a boy (not a threat) by Keiylle | T | 1.5k | Minor Buck/Ravi, Scene taken from TLOU Part 2, Dina/Elle Winter Dance scene, Past Buddie, TW Gerrard (as Seth obv) what's a DILF? by on_mars for hexensalbei | T | 1.6k | Ravi trolls Buddie, Crack, Idiots in Love, Getting Together Ravi, Rattled and Realizing by prairie_gentian | G | 2.6k | 118 Family Feels, Ravi is weirded out by them, Annoying Buddie two gays with one stone by daylightsashley | M | 3k | Buddie + Ravi Third-wheeling, Getting Together, 8x18 Spec, Trapped in a hole 🔥i got you, i won't let go by rainny_days | E | 6.2k | Follow up to sorry, can't stay (i gotta run, run, yeah), Jealous Eddie, Ravi & Buck Friendship, Post-Time Loop, Buddie Getting Together, Kitchen Sex (!!), Ravi is a sweetheart

@cal-daisies-and-briars @doveious @queerpanikkar @hoediaz @bipitybopitydoo @strawberryspence @thetalee @to-be-a-dreamer @rainbow-nerdss @exhuastedpigeon @fruitsdontknow

@waveridden @chromatophorica @vgreysoncellars @sammyunhinged @likeshipsonthesea @shelfthe-reader @harpermiller @thirteenredvampirebites @sailorbadger

@whim-prone-pirate @palzeddie @inell @mariiverse @queenofravens01 @nightmareglitter @clockwork-stars @moonlightandromache @aashiqeddiediaz @fallingthorns

@timeshareindestin @hotcinnamonsunset @palzeddie @buddivorce @eddiesprius @odythreesome @tweetsongs @cowboy-eddie

⭐️ i apologize if you are not tagged as one of the writers for these works - lmk if i missed your @ so i can credit you 😊

⭐️ leave a tag or comment below to fuel my 911 obsession!!

#ravi panikkar #ravi panikkar 911 #ravi fics #911 fic recs #may x ravi #buck x ravi #buddie #911 abc #911 #911 fics

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yandere-wishes · 6 months ago

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DC series I want to write.

DC makes me so feral for so many characters lol. Will I get to all these in this lifetime? Probably not but hey a girl can dream!!

Fairy Tale AU: 2 parts out so far.

Villian Addict: Probs the most self-indulgent thing(s) I've ever written. It's literally about the reader being their henchwoman/Harley Quinn equivalent. And how they slowly start to fall dangerously in love with her.

Hero's Fangirl: I NEED to get Tim's part out, it's been gnawing at my brain like crazy!! Dick's part is literally just cute vibes there is no plot. Bruce's part is just pure angst and I'm frothing at the mouth to write it!!

DC comic HC: Pt1 out, Pt 2 & 3 soon to come.

Yandere! Batboys x Villian! Reader: just Batman x Catwoman in 5 different fonts. I've been seriously so enamored with the dynamic between Bruce and Selina (especially from the animated series) that I really want to explore the other batboys taking after their father and falling for a villain/anti-hero reader. I guess technically I did that with Yandere! Jason x reader

Especially a Yandere!Damian Wayne x Catgirl! Reader. It'd be so delicious to write an incarnation of Catwoman and Batman, exploring a macabre romance that bleeds from generation to generation. Some never-ending loop of doomed romance destined to happen.

Idk how well it relates but this story has been scratching my brain deliciously for the last couple of days. Hear me out Batsis! Reader x Harvey Dent. The twist is that she's so obsessed with her dad's (ex?) best friend but after they spend some time together, he starts to develop borderline-lethal feelings for her. Just a Yandere version of she fell first but he fell harder trope.

There are like 50+ other stuff for non-batfamily/bat-rogues characters I want to write but those are mostly one-shots. I should probs make a proper master for all these lol.

Anyway let me know if anyone ever wants to discuss these stories/wips or which ones you guys like more so I can get to work on them lol.

#this is me just rambling so I don't forget these ideas #just something to reference lol #batfamily #batfamily headcanons #batfamily x reader #bruce wayne x reader #harvey dent x reader #jason todd x reader #damian wayne x reader #dick grayson x reader #tim drake x reader #yandere #yancore #yandere x reader #yandere x you #genie rambles

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tagamantra · 6 months ago

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Turning The Wheel

For SUNDANG RPG, I wanted to write a different kind of turn-based system. I stand on the shoulders of giants: PbtA’s Conversation-As-Procedure and “No Combat Minigame.” My goal was to make a battle system that had the free flowing, no-minigame feel of a PbtA/FitD game, but had a bit more structure to satisfy the action-heads.

One of the bigger inspirations for revolutionizing the turn-system is my obsession with The Raid: Redemption and The Raid 2, two seminal Silat films that have some of the best action sequences and choreographies in all of cinema. To me, it stands among Police Story 2 and Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon as the current peak of cinematic action.

A few things to lay down to help center the thought-processes I had:

I am of a theater-academic background. My fascination and hyperfixation on RPGs stems wholly from the Role-Playing aspect. My friend group loves to extract stories and narratives from gameplay loops, but we want to Role-Play In A World first and foremost.

Therefore, I value the Role-Playing Experience above everything else. This is no doubt colored and informed by what RPGs I began with: Vampire: The Masquerade and Mage: the Ascension. RPGs are world-portals to me, ways to experience, interact, and interrogate realities.

I don’t consider Mechanics to be separate from the “Fiction”. I might even deem a game’s rules to be the “Infrafiction,” the Fiction underneath everything else that arises from a game. The Fiction that demands to be told. The specter that suffuses every rules interaction.

Tangent: This idea was first spurred on because of idle daydreams while playing and finishing my current run of Final Fantasy XII. For those that don’t know, Final Fantasy XII has the ADB or Active Dimension Battle System (which is funny because ADB is also the acronym for Asia Development Bank, one of the major enemies of National Industrialization in the Philippines). ADB is the evolution of the popular ATB battle system or the Active Time Battle System. It’s called ADB because you aren’t squared off into a different screen when you enter combat. Instead, you go into combat as you’re exploring the world. Combat and Dungeon segregation barriers are effectively destroyed. This is actually one of the reasons why I love FFXII so much, and so much of what FFXII worked is what I also love from its CRPG contemporaries such as Star Wars: The Knights of the Old Republic and Dragon Age: Origins. (It’s also very similar to the Combat System found in Xenoblade!)

So for SUNDANG, I had the following goals for combat and turn “order”:

Non-Minigame Combat, or Nondivided Combat Mechanics from the rest of the world/Conversation, taking inspiration from ADB.

No “Turns” just continuous “Action.”

Never-Not-Your-Turn vibe.

Skill-Based Combat.

Brutal, dangerous combat. Skull-cracking, bone-twisting, blood-drawing. Thrilling in the sense that a Horror movie is. A horror movie with wuxia protagonists.

The Action

Action Economy is when, on your turn, you have a number of “Actions” that you can do, and you cannot do anything beyond the number of actions (of course you can do anything which you can justify as an action). This will define not just how your character moves in combat, but how they think of themselves throughout their progression. The most common form of Action Economy is “Move + Action” as seen in most d20 games, especially D&D 5e.

One of the very first things that I’ve had to unattach myself from is the Action Economy. One thing I noticed while developing SUNDANG was that every aspect of the game mechanics felt like it had to justify itself within the Action Economy. This was problematic to me for 2 aspects:

It centered combat completely. Since Action Economy only really mattered in combat, every little trinket that I had to write suddenly had to have some sort of interaction that could be done when you pressed the “Interact” action during combat.

It required “mechanization.” One of the major ideas I had for SUNDANG was to provide a mechanical base that centered on the gamization of the “fluff” without the designer having had a hand in it. If something said “This is a mallet, useful for evening out dinks and repairing machineries” it should be able to be used for that without having to interact with a subsystem. Through this, we annihilate barriers between “fluff” and mechanics, creating a more “immersive” world-space that is more conducive to Role-Playing.

While nothing is wrong with something requiring mechanization, I want it to be as invisible as possible, hence why the mechanical base of SUNDANG is built for such an experience: at creating an immersive interactive world.

One of my problems with Action Economy is that combat becomes about Action Economy. This is a problem that you can see so deeply within some of my favorite games: Final Fantasy Tactics, Tactics Ogre, and Final Fantasy XII all have Speed Stats that are affected by Weight, etc. Since having more “turns” is infinitely valuable in a game about getting more chances to reduce an opponent’s HP to 0, Speed-generating strats dominated those games’ upper mechanical ceiling.

While I think that’s cool, it’s not what I wanted to do with SUNDANG. It makes strange mechanical repercussions, dominations of certain strategies and therefore a larger gap between what is used and what is not used. I don’t want to make a game where you have to “solve” it through buildcrafting. I wanted to make a game where you can express yourself in.

So, away with the Action Economy. What do you do on the turn now?

The Turn

“On your turn, you can do X and Y.” This is the basic assumption in most RPGs. In OSR and NSR games this is the common assumption as well. Move + Action is elegant, simple, and gets things moving along. It gets the system out of the way so people can keep focusing on the fiction.

More importantly, the Turn splits combat into every acting character within the current situation, context, or scene. Gives everyone a chance to act. Pins everything down into spacetime.

For SUNDANG, this was not the vibe I wanted to give off. It felt too spartan, in a way. I wanted people to be constantly moving, constantly turning. More importantly, as the RPG is a player-facing medium, I want there to be the vibe of “never-not-your-turn.” This is a problem I face with much of my past RPGs and with other combat-heavy RPGs.

You take your turn and then you sit back and wait for your next one. If you’re invested in the game, you watch as the situation and gamestate changes. If not, you wait until someone calls you out and then you ask what has happened and what has changed. In all honesty, my position is that this is not a bad game design quirk. In fact, if you design around it, it could be a good quirk. Being able to do something while it’s not your turn helps a lot with Attention Deficiencies, for example.

But this isn’t something I wanted to do with SUNDANG. I wanted it to be Never-Not-Your-Turn.

So I stole a bit from Fire Emblem. There, in Fire Emblem, a “Turn” isn’t a single character’s turn to move, but rather, an advancement of the combat time-space. You often have objectives where you have to “Rout Enemy In 40 Turns” or something along those lines.

So I revolutionized how I thought about Turns. What if Turns weren’t each individual being’s turn, but an entire group of people’s turns? Now this is phase-based or side-based initiative, common (and good! I actually love side-based initiative) in OSR games. It’s very wargame-y and, honestly, conducive to strategy. But that’s not what I wanted to do here.

So I turned the Wheel again. What if Turns were chunks of time in a combat? What if turns were just Rounds? Often, the existence of a combat minigame is so that people can “zoom-in” into the action, because this is a matter of life or death! You can get killed here! Hence why we zoom in, stop time, focus on the details because the details means the difference between kill or be killed.

So I focused on that aspect.

Turn The Wheel

In PbtA, one of the major schools of RPG Design that I profess to have arisen from, combat doesn’t have a “Turn System” or a “Combat System.” Instead, it flows naturally from the conversation. It is contiguous to the rest of the system, not requiring special attention. What you can do in normal roleplaying, you can do in combat! That’s what that meant. When you sequester combat away into a new set of rules, you implicitly change the game unless you explicitly design for it to be a microcosm of the game’s already existing rules. Due to this change, I believe the mindset then becomes that you have to play the game according to this new set of rules unless you’re particularly good at improv-ing or are some form of designer/GM yourself.

I wanted that. So SUNDANG’s “turn system” has no Action Economy, no Initiative, no Reaction (no Reactionaries!) When you want to do something, do it. But it will most likely require a roll, and it will change the state of the situation.Everything has an equal amount of appropriate consequences. This is already how PbtA “combat” goes, since it’s not separate from the Conversation, the combat is also a conversation. You do something, the world does something, you react to that, then the world reacts to that, and so on.

I therefore fused the “Turns as divisions of action space-time” and “Combat-as-Conversation.”

A lot of this clicked after listening to a Robert Kurvitz interview about how he wanted to do Skill-Based Combat Scenes. Which aligned with what I wanted to do. Check it out!

For arguments of space, such as movement rates, the normal movement rate is 5 tails (roughly, 25 feet) per second. One can then infer how much a character can move in a single Turn through that as well as the modifying, environmental factors (harsh terrain, labyrinths, and so on). This allows it to be played on a Grid with the Grid as a space-representer, with shifting distance-scales for each grid square. The more interesting consequence is that, when you move, what about the world that's actively trying against you? That will then necessitate a Check, making even movement volatile and situation-changing.

Turn-Based Combat: Never-Not-Your-Turn

First off the bat, this conception of Turn-Based Combat arises also from Clocks and Skill Challenges. The difference is largely the Presentation, mentality, and structure.

Additionally, SUNDANG’s Skill System is integral to this conception of combat. SUNDANG is a 24-Skill System inspired by the likes of Artesia: Adventures in the Known World and Runequest, where the majority of the Skills are not even combat-focused Skills, which color a player’s expectations for how combat could go (why be chained to the 3-4 Combat Skills when you can potentially agitate your Creativity to try and use the rest of them?)

So in SUNDANG, Turn-Based Combat is as follows:

If you enter into a situation wherein life-or-death is in the details, set up a 4-, 6-, or 8-segmented circle, known as The Wheel. Segment it according to the time you have left.

Find something within the world to be the temporal anchor, the World-Time. It could be the moving train, the skyskiff (that you might or might not be on at that moment!) plummeting into city streets, the wheels of a horse-carriage heading into a crash, the juggernaut battering ram barreling through enemy trenches. You can use this to lengthen the timescale of a battle. A day-long duel between two masters might have the Sun as their World-Time.

Turn 1 begins when you point at one segment and say it does. During a Turn, all the relevant PCs must do something.When they do something, the world then does something back. As always, this is just the conversation. When a PC goes and swordstrikes a pirate captain, the pirate captain will probably swordstrike back (dealing damage if that’s the PC’s consequence or threatening damage if not). Keep the conversation going.

When all the PCs have done something, mark out that segment of the Wheel. Turn to the next one adjacent to it, and say “Turn 2.” This is called Turning The Wheel. When you Turn The Wheel, before the PCs do anything, describe how the temporal anchor moves forward in time, and ascertain the consequences of that happening:

The skyskiff breaks through the high-rises. (Now there are potential people watching, now there are potential casualties, and so on.)

The horse carriage bumps against a tree and barrels closer to the cliff. (The carriage might have chunks broken off, some combatants might be knocked off, and so on.)

The Sun begins to sink into the horizon. (Dark becomes to impair vision, a nocturnal sea predator might breach soon, and so on.)

The juggernaut battering ram flies over enemy heads and moves closer to the city walls (there might be some warriors firing projectiles at you now, and so on.)

Finally, when all the segments are filled, a Revolution happens. Something Big. Throw away that Wheel. The situation changes. It has to. That’s the only real thing in this world.

The skyskiff crashes into the city plaza.

The horse carriage flies off the cliff.

The Sun sinks completely into the sea, ushering darkness.

The battering ram slams into the city walls and breaks it open.

Often, this change in situation ends Violence. You have to deal with the consequences now. In SUNDANG, you get XP for surviving Violence, not winning it. But SUNDANG is also a wuxia-western-silat game of wandering justicemakers and hotshot swordsmen. If this happens, set up another Wheel and choose another world-time.

You somehow survive the crash, and now must fight in the city plaza amongst hundreds of watchers.

The horse carriage plummets into a jade jungle, and you must fight upon its descending carcass.

The Moon rises now, as the fight continues on.

The King’s Man-At-Arms now charge toward the juggernaut to swarm and destroy it, with you still inside it.

The Violence continues. Deal with the consequences of your actions. Look forward to another Revolution.

If this piqued your interest, SUNDANG is currently out on my Patreon and I'm running pseudo-playtests of it on the Patreon Discord!

#ttrpg #sundang rpg #devlog #blog #gamedev #rpg #dnd

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the-s1lly-corner · 2 years ago

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Hey I was just wondering if you could do a tadc x reader who dies their hair very often? like every month or so they dye it a different color and no one knows what color it'll be next

TADC cast x reader who dyes their hair a lot!

UEUEUEUUEU hope this is okay! i must admit i was a little uwuwuawua on ideas for a lot of the characters </3 grr finding new songs to play on loop to get me into writing is hard; though currently antonymph by vylet pony is doing things to my brain

CAINE:

makes a huge deal of things whenever you dye your hair simply because he thinks what you do with yourself is cool; and since its the digital world you can get away with dying your hair as often as you want! cant damage what technically isnt real! probably makes hair color suggestions and is absolutely thrilled when you actually follow through within the coming days. prepare to have some weird combos, though... probably changes the color of his suit to match your hair... even adds stripes if your hair has stripes, or any other pattern dyed into it

POMNI:

honestly? more power to you, thats her reaction mostly. would pomni dye her own hair, or otherwise get anything to modify her appearance? probably not... but she thinks you look great with it... probably asks why you chose the current color you went with, as well as asking whenever you change. nothing like "oh WHY? why THAT color?" but like genuine non-rude curiosity... doesnt like outwardly betting or wondering what color youre going to pick outloud since she doesnt want you to think shes rude or something

RAGATHA:

has probably made multiple color variations of accessories she has made for you so you can wear anything without having the colors clash... thinks your hair is pretty, me thinks! doesnt matter what color it is, could literally be the unpleasant green-pink-brown color gradient meme and she would still find something nice to say about it... does sometimes wonder what color youre going to choose next... probably has a hush hush bet going on between her jax and zooble on what color youre going to choose next... huh what no jax didnt just get all moody because you walked in with aqua blue hair- no hes not passing something to ragatha, what are you talking about?

JAX:

as mentioned above he makes bets with some of the other circus members on what color youre going to rock next... if you ask him for any suggestions on what color you should change to next, dont expect any serious answers. even if he is being serious, jax doesnt strike me as the type to care much about colors and shades so hes probably going to drop the most basic colors. ..

"purple."

"what KIND of purple? light? dark? pastel? reddish or bluish?

"purple."

stuff like that, i think! probably fiddles with your hair, especially if you dye your tips a different color... jax fidget headcannon strikes again

KINGER:

on a bad day he might just not recognize you for a short moment... i originally said that as a joke but considering he sometimes forgets gangle is literally standing right next to him, i dont... think thats much of a joke... but after the initial confusion, i think he would really like whatever color you choose! likes playing with your hair, if you let him! he finds it soothing in its own way, and now he just has pretty colors to look at! cant explain why but i feel like he would be very good at identifying colors, so if you come in rocking some new color hes going to ask if its (insert specific shade of red that no one knows the name of. like. amaranth red.. or something..)

ZOOBLE:

honestly, they get it! i like to think that they swap out their pieces in order to fit whatever look or vibe they want for the day; aaaand i personally hc that in the real world they would dye their hair and get a bunch of piercings! though, they dont really remember much stuff from the real world, at least not clearly... but the point still stands, you guys probably get together to make a new look together! though, on days where they dont give any input on what hair color you choose next, theyre making bets with jax and ragatha... dont know why but i think zooble wins the most in the bets... shrugs

GANGLE:

oh she thinks its so pretty! has probably always loved things like that, since its a form of self expression! and she can kind of relate to that since shes an artist, albeit her medium is paper rather than her body... thinks... probably gives shy recommendations for colors if you ask her, is also bad at masking (lol) her surprise when you actually take her idea into consideration and follow through with it... makes her feel some type of way that someone cares enough about her ideas that they literally apply it to their appearance, you know?

#tadc x reader #the amazing digital circus x reader #digital circus x reader #caine x reader #pomni x reader #ragatha x reader #jax x reader #kinger x reader #zooble x reader #gangle x reader

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gamerbot-22 · 3 months ago

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Blinding Lights

Prompt: Dancing

TW/CW: Boothill's non-swearing, Transcribed Cowboy Accent, Boothill's got some funky shit going on with his eyes, I didn't set out to write this with Boothill/Aventurine but something came over me and the vibes are not not there, barely proofread and I appreciate spellchecks!

Word Count: 1,400

A/N: And so we come to the last ficlet in this series (for now!) I am. So insanely proud of myself for managing to be so consistent with a project for this long, especially one so expansive. Boothill being the final subject is also really like... is serendipitous the right word? He was the reason I even downloaded the game in the first place. I was drawn in by his Western Energy and Gods I am. So glad I was. HSR has become one of my favorite games in recent memory, and it's helped me get my writing mojo back. So thank you Boothill, thank you HSR, and thank everyone who's read the ficlets posted in this series <3 Also also, post writing this-- I CAN MAKE TWO OF MY FAVES BANTER AS A TREAT.

Likes and Reblogs appreciated (reblogs > likes) and Requests are Open! Read this story on Ao3 here! My Ao3 account got suspended for stupid reasons, so there’s no cross post as of right now. On Friday, April 11, this and the following fics will be posted there.

<- Previous Ficlet | Collection Post | Next Ficlet ->

The dividers in this post were made by @/gamerbot-22 (me!) ☆

"Be subtle." Can you believe that? "Be subtle," like that was something he needed to be reminded of. Wasn't his fault that a bounty so big meant folks were on the look-out for him on just about every other planet he landed on. Didn't matter what he did or how he did it, the IPC and its lackeys would always come sniffing around, and then he'd just have to move on to the next place.

Sure, starting out he bothered trying to "be subtle," but after all his time running from the long, gilded arm of the law, it was easier to just be himself. He wouldn't go out of his way to draw attention, but that didn't mean he was staying quiet either.

Case and point: If recon and intel gathering took Boothill to a place with a dance floor, he was going to use it. And neither hell nor high water would stop him from cutting a rug.

This place was definitely different than what one might expect to find a guy like Boothill inside. The lights were bright, reflecting off of the mosaic of coloured glass on the back wall and back onto the dance floor, creating patterns and images for the dancers to follow along with. And the dancers--shirt--they were a whole other beast. Every gown and suit was insanely elaborate, embroidered from shoulder to shoulder and down, with trains and feathers pressed and curled into swirling loops that put some exotic, off-world birds to shame. He had to stifle a laugh at the idea of every single person here simply being some kind of pheasant or chicken all dolled up for the night. Everything in this ballroom was pure spectacle, going as hard as it possibly could just to say it could. He respected it, even if it wasn't fully his thing, and since his contact had decided to keep him waiting for so long, he might as well make the most of it.

Most of the folks on the dance floor were moving in pairs, which only added to the mental image of a bunch of chickens trying to make an impression. He could probably get away with dancing by himself off to the side--and realistically that should've been what he did, considering he should stay easy to grab for when his contact showed up--but all that sounded boring. He wanted to dance, dangit, and he wasn't going to let a little thing like a lack of a partner stop him.

No sooner had he pushed off a decidedly ungilded wall, though, he laid eyes on his contact.

"Aw, what the fork--"

Violet eyes shone from across the room, only growing brighter, more prideful as their owner walked over. He was in the local fashion alright, sporting a modified version of his usual gaudy gambling jacket with a train that dragged behind him. If everyone else was a chicken, Aventurine was a peacock, as per dang usual.

"You're here early," Aventurine said, half-walking Boothill back to the wall, away from the dance floor and back into the only somewhat shadowy place there was in this aeonsforsaken light show. The cowboy's disappointment was immeasurable and his night was just about ruined.

"I was here on time," he countered. When Aventurine turned to look at the crowd, doing one quick survey to make sure no one was watching, Boothill pulled his hat down lower. As if that would do anything to detract attention from this horseshirt. "What, needed to preen all yer feathers before you came in?"

"It's called blending in," the gambler's eyes snapped back to Boothill immediately. Clearly there was no threat. "Something you couldn't be bothered to do, it seems." He didn't bother to stifle his chuckle as he looked Boothill over. True to form, he was in his usual poncho and boots. Aventurine decided not to ask how Boothill managed to get in dressed like that.

"Ain't exactly like I can go to a forkin' tailor and have a costume made up on such short notice."

"You could've tried for something. Honestly, even a normal jacket would be enough t--"

Boothill sneered, sharp teeth branded like knives. "I don' think us just standin' over here whisperin' n' shirt is a great play either, Mr. Fancypants."

Aventurine brushed off getting interrupted. He could work with difficult. It's how he made it this far. And now he had the power to make it fun.

"Is this you offering me a dance, cowboy?"

"Not with that attitude."

The blonde feigned insult, then apology, letting his head tilt over his shoulder as he brought a gloved hand to rest over his heart. "Fine, fine, if you want to dance while we talk, let's. You're right, it probably will make us blend in a little more."

Boothill didn't waste another second. He didn't stop to take Aventurine's hand or guide him along or anything. He just got up from against the wall again, fixed his hat so he could see where he was going, and started to move right to that prismatic, shifting light on the dance floor.

They both made it to the center of the floor, the crowd ebbing and flowing like waves around them, like they were in the eye of a gaudy, gilded whirlpool. It was actually kind of a lot for Boothill's eyes, even with the upgrades. Maybe because of them...

"I take it you're leading then?" Aventurine's voice broke Boothill's concentration, as well as his hand coming to rest on the outlaw's shoulder. At least, for a second, and then the colours started to get to him again.

"As enchanting as it is to dance with an outlaw, you know, I do have places I need to be--"

Boothill lowered his head and shook it. "Huh? Yeah, yeah, I can lead."

"Are you alright?"

"'M fine!" He blinked like a camera shutter, trying and failing to filter out the shifting colours. "Just gimme a second. Gotta get my bearin's. The forkin' lights're... a lot brighter up close."

"Alright, then I'll lead." Aventurine swung around to Boothill's front, taking his right hand in his left one and lifting it to shoulder height. "I take it you know how to waltz?"

He was still catching up. Squinting was helping to make it easier, but the nebulous hues of the lights were bothering him. And then Aventurine had the gall--

"'F course I know how t' waltz, what kinda hick d'you think I am?"

Aventurine's fingers flexed, only holding onto Boothill with his thumb to emphasize his shrug. "Alright, I just wanted to be sure. Be a good lead and all that."

"Yeah, yeah, just get your other hand in place before I change my mind."

"Are you okay? You seem especially prickly." Aventurine leaned his head forward, looking up into Boothill's face to try and get a read on him. He was squinting, and his lips were starting to draw back into another sneer, which were obviously not good signs.

He didn't have the patience to lie. "It's the forkin' light on the back wall. It's makin' my head ache."

"Alright, then let's just--" Aventurine turned so the two of them swapped positions. "There. Better?"

The outlaw's eyes did that camera shutter blink again. He held his eyelids open, focused in on the violet-cyan shine of Aventurine's eyes. It took a moment, which only served to make his dance partner's brows furrow with impatience, but... "Yeah. Better. Thanks."

"Alright," Aventurine sighed, "then follow my lead and listen closely, cowboy, because there's not a lot of time before people come looking for one of us." He shifted his weight to begin, quickly running over the steps to a waltz in his head. The gambler knew how to dance, but it wasn't often that he was away from roulette tables when he was out of his office and in places like this...

Only for Boothill to quickly take the gambler's waist, bucking his arm up onto his shoulder, and swing him around in a circle. Now that he could see clearly, he wasn't going to pass up a chance to lead. The sudden motion pretty succinctly took Aventurine's breath away in shock.

"Well?" Boothill smirked, flashing his sharp teeth and leaning down over him. No wonder the IPC couldn't get their hands on him, he recovered fast. "Get talkin', Mr. Fancypants."

#Rosie Writes #Boothill #Aventurine #Honkai Star Rail #HSR #Honkai Star Rail Fluff #HSR Fluff #Honkai Star Rail Fanfic #HSR Fanfic #Daily HSR Ficlet

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hugzsz · 4 months ago

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Thriller/horror movie and show recommendations from a self proclaimed non thriller/horror watcher (in no particular order + reasons + no spoilers)

Hot Fuzz: This plus shaun the dead and dawn of the dead were the movies that got me in LOVE with thriller comedies. It's comedic, it has mystery, it's a thriller. It has the perfect combo of all of these things + great cinematography + great writing

2) A Killer Paradox: You accidentally kill someone. You get away with it. You are pained by it..but you realise you have a lnack for murdering bad people and getting away with it. I am a sucker for the visuals of this show, it has the slightest hint of Wes Anderson vibes. It's definitely a crime/thriller and makes you question your own morals because of the morally grey main character. It stars Choi Wooshik and Son Sukku and this is making me realise maybe I like most shows they're in. Anyhow heavily recommend this.

3)Miss and Mrs Cop: It's an easy, comedic, crime-thriller. It's easy to enjoy and easy to get excited by.

4)Re/member: It's a fun mix of high school, horror, fantasy, time-loop movie with the slightest hint of romance. It was definitely a nice comedic horror watch that I as a horror disliker didn't find scary but enjoyed a nice sense of thrill and liked the comedic aspect of it.

5) The Call: Now this on the other hand I found scary. Like the thought of it is scar and the way it was portrayed I found scary. It was also very intriguing as I am a LOVER of anything to do with time-loops, time travel, inter time blah blah blah, so this really hit the spot.

6)Bloodhounds: I love love love this. I love the friendship dynamic. I love the comedic elements. I love the thriller/crime scenes. Though I did skip parts with the plot lore, I just wasn't in the mood for corporate corruption explanations. Also this is just a classically good Korean crime/thriller + it has a second season on the way.

7) A Shop For Killers: You find out your uncle has been an arms dealer and now that he's not here his enemies are after you. I am also a whore for single day, single location setting. It makes it work and it doesn't get boring. It has plot twists I couldn't see coming. It is a little gory for anyone whose not a fan of that just be mindful, but I just skipped past the really gory parts and it was fine.

8)Moving: A fantasy thriller with some romance and comedy. I found this truly enjoyable to watch. It really kept me hooked from the start and had me there till the credits. I lived for the action. I lived for the family scenes. I lived for the romance. It has great acting. Thats it I've got no more to say go watch it.

9) Midnight Runners: Two police rookier take a case onto their own hands. Has the same vibes as Bloodhounds and Miss and Mrs cop. It has a great friendship dynamic that provides a good comedic balance to the thriller/crime action going on. It really keeps a good balance of the two and has good acting.

10) Okay! Madam: It's a good comedic, thriller movie that starts with a good plot twist that really swung in from left field for me. A family on their first international flight to Hawaii run into an incident on the plane that reveals secrets and past lives. Really a great watch if you're looking for an easy action filled watch. Has similar vibes to Exit and Extreme Job.

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wrestlingwiththoughts · 6 months ago

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Anarchy in the SLA: Austin "Mad Dog" Connelly vs. 1 Called Manders

Sometimes, you just need to see a couple of unwashed, rugged dudes kick the starch out of each other for a good long while to feel alive. We got a taste of that unadulterated violence in the running El Hijo del Fishman vs. Mascara Sagrada feud that took American/English-speaking lucha libre discourse by the throat last year. Let's give that a chaser with its non-union American equivalent, the Austin "Mad Dog" Connelly vs. 1 Called Manders feud was the highlight of Saint Louis Anarchy and American independent wrestling in 2023 and 2024.

This feud's reputation was the primary reason I was so excited that Luke Jacobs vs. 1 Called Manders took place (unannounced) at GCW You Wouldn't Understand 2024 (even though I hadn't seen any of Connelly vs. Manders matches). Manders impressed me with his physicality and energy in that match, so my reaction created a feedback loop to feed my interest in finally digging into this feud.

I. Austin Connelly vs. 1 Called Manders, Saint Louis Anarchy (SLA) As Seen on Anarchy, April 14, 2023

Connelly and Manders set the tone for the feud with their first match at SLA As Seen on Anarchy. After a staredown, Manders and Connelly pummel each other; Manders and Connelly work hard to make the height disparity mean nothing in the staredown and in the exchange of blows. I really liked the moment where Manders tried to throw Connelly by the back of the head and failed, lending verisimilitude to the match. The action spills to the Spaulding Hall floor; the venue's warehouse vibe works in the match's favor. Manders starts one of his leitmotifs throughout the feud by biting Connelly's forehead, and Connelly answers with the gutwrench suplexes that would be his main weapon going forward. Connelly wrestles barefoot, so Manders does the logical thing: he stomps on Connelly's feet to stop his momentum. Later, Manders takes it further here, as he will in future matches, by biting the man's gross foot.

Manders and Connelly also run the sequence where they run the ropes perpendicular to each other to set up Connelly's powerslam on Manders. After trading more punches and suplexes (gutwrench for Connelly and exploder for Manders), they collapse in exhaustion. They've been going at a fast and hard-hitting pace from the start, so this is no surprise.

Alluding to future matches, Manders grabs Connelly's chain and Connelly Manders's rope, but Manders settles for a meaty lariat instead. Both men are tired and desperate now, so they're taking bigger risks. Connelly seizes the advantage with a short dive from the ring to the floor and presses on with a disgusting powerbomb on Manders.

Manders survives and hits his Iowa Stampede running powerslam. Connelly answers with a simple but effective punch to Manders's face and a fancy (for a guy going for the caveman aesthetic) running dropkick in the corner. Manders is stuck to the mat as Connelly stomps away, and though Manders raises a middle finger in defiance, he has no choice but to submit to Connelly's brutal hanging choke submission. This was a lot of fun, and the escalation felt well-paced. This also felt like just an appetizer for the carnage to come. This match is free to view on SLA's YouTube.

II. Mad Dog Connelly vs. 1 Called Manders, SLA Circus Maximus X-8, July 28, 2023

The first match established some of the running bits at play in this feud:

Manders will attack Connelly's bare feet for this advantage

Connelly favors the gutwrench suplex, while Manders prefers the exploder

Manders likes to stand and fight, while Connelly is willing to fly a little off to the floor

Connelly and Manders will run the ropes against each other, and Connelly will get the better of Manders by hitting him with a powerslam

The first match was in the middle of As Seen on Anarchy, and given the hatred Manders and Connelly exhibited, it made sense to schedule this rematch as the opener for Circus Maximus X-8. Connelly and Manders get right into it as Connelly ambushes Manders during his entrance, and they brawl a little aimlessly around the ring. Manders escalates by once again trying to bite Connelly's gross foot.

Connelly responds by teasing a gutwrench suplex from the apron, but it's not time for that level of violence...yet. We start to see variations on the established themes when Connelly hits a gutwrench...powerbomb (!) on Manders on the apron. The two men brandished the other's accoutrement at each other in the first match, and they follow it up by choking the other with parts of Manders's ring entrance gear here.

Whereas Manders and Connelly were on fairly even footing in the first match, Connelly has the upper hand consistently here since Manders is hampered with a bad back from the gutwrench powerbomb. Manders is able to force Connelly back with a knee to the stomach and a struggle gutwrench suplex, but Connelly comes right back with a series of gutwrench suplexes of his own. Only a desperate lariat from the corner gives Manders some much needed recovery time.

Back on their feet, they engage in a short chop battle before Connelly escapes an Iowa Stampede attempt with a criss-cross powerslam. Again, they're remixing some of the highlights from the first match very effectively. We go back to headbutts and strikes as I'm starting to fear that we've run out of ideas, but Manders lures Connelly into chop and reverses him into a front suplex and a distressing bottom turnbuckle Iowa Stampede. Manders is still slowed by his hurt back, so he can't make the immediate cover.

Manders takes a risk and climbs the turnbuckles, but Connelly is able to counter him for an avalanche gutwrench suplex and a running dropkick in the corner. In the first match, Manders could only give Connelly a middle finger in defiance after the running dropkick, but Manders opts for the smarter play here by grabbing the ropes when Connelly went for a pin after the dropkick. Frustrated, Connelly goes back to the stomps to set up the hanging choke, but Manders slips out and hits Connelly with two big lariats to finish Connelly and even the score.

Again, this was a lot of fun, and it played with the running bits from the first match while adding some new notes. It felt like the two had pushed it as far as they could without bringing some outside gimmicks in, and since they teased us with a rope and a chain, we seem to have a pretty obvious way to escalate the violence for their third match. This match is free to view on SLA's YouTube.

III. Dog Collar Match: Mad Dog Connelly vs. 1 Called Manders, SLA Gateway to Anarchy 2024, January 26, 2024

One quick note about the production: the commentary and camerawork feel pretty amateur, with the commentators blowing out their microphones in the first two matches. However, given SLA's size and overall vibes, I'm willing to give the production quality a pass. It fits the mood of two gritty, meaty men pounding each other in what looks like a warehouse.

Indeed, the commentators are "horny for violence" as the match starts. Connelly has a cleaner haircut for this one, and there is a fun contrast to start. Manders is smiling and confident, while Connelly might be feeling the pressure of the need to win his signature match against someone who's met him blow for blow. They yank the chain at each other to start before Manders takes the fight to the floor. From here, no more jerking around as Connelly whips Manders's back and ribs with the chain, once again targeting Manders's back. Manders baits Connelly into punching the ringpost with his chain-wrapped fist, and it's notable that both men have gone from traditional strike battles to simply choking each other and gouging at each other's eyes, nostrils, and whatever else their fingers can find purchase. It's a subtle escalation in savagery by the third match.

Manders and Connelly remix Manders's defiance in the face of Connelly's stomps from the first match here, where Manders can only try to protect himself and protest his treatment with curses and middle fingers as Connelly repeatedly pulls Manders by the chain into a ringpost. We go back to the hits as Connelly hits Manders with a gutwrench suplex on the floor, and both men are bleeding. Back inside the ring, and Manders echoes his front suplex in the second match with a whip of the chain at Connelly's stomach and a suplex onto the top rope.

I see what I think is a bruise above Manders's right ear, and I am disgusted. Manders goes after Connelly's bare feet, as you do, because Connelly has a chain and he shows feet for free. Turnabout is fair play for these two as Manders whips Connelly in the stomach and on the back with the chain, but Manders's attempt at hitting Connelly with the gutwrench suplex backfires, as usually. To escape, Manders punches Connelly's bare feet, but that doesn't save him from the disgusting gutwrench powerbomb right onto Manders's neck on the chain.

After pummeling a sitting a Manders in the face with a chain-wrapped fist, Connelly tries the running dropkick, but, as the commentators astutely observe, the chain prevents Connelly from getting the distance for it. Manders tries something on the top turnbuckle, but Connelly slips to the floor, which tugs Manders by the neck down too. It's probably an unintentional slip by Connelly, but it's compelling to see them work around the mistake and for Manders's (probably) real (enough) reaction to having his body pulled neck first by the chain.

Manders drags Connelly back inside the ring, and they escalate the way they used Manders's ring gear in the second match. Manders uses a spur from his boot to cut at Connelly's face, and Manders shows no fear by licking the spur after. I don't think it's really that much worse than biting Connelly's feet. Connelly counters the lariat that had worked so well for Manders with a chain whip to the bicep and hits a lariat of his own.

I can't believe the man in the neon yellow Harley-Davidson can sit ringside with no reaction while Manders and Connelly punch each other with fists in chains. On the other hand, Manders is talking a little too much in this match for my liking. Manders eats a bunch of Connelly's punches, which inspires him to try to eat Connelly's face. Connelly's headbutt has been his secret weapon in this feud, and he catches Manders again, launching him to the corner so Connelly can hit a jogging dropkick. Manders hasn't learned that trying to hit Connelly with one of his own moves simply doesn't work. He tries a chain-assisted hanging choke, but Connelly is able to escape and hang Manders over the top rope. Manders has no choice but to tap out.

Obviously, this is a huge escalation in violence from the previous match. Between the blood, the sickening use of the chain, and the incredible ending, this is the high point of the feud...so far. This match is free to view on SLA's YouTube.

IV. Texas Bull Rope Match: Mad Dog Connelly vs. 1 Called Manders, SLA Circus Maximus X-9, July 26, 2024

We're more than a year into this feud now, and my concern going into this match is that Manders and Connelly will have reached the end of their creativity. Let's see what they have in store.

Since Connelly has claimed the dog collar match as his specialty and their last match was in Connelly's wheelhouse, it's only fair that they have match that's more in Manders's zone too. This seems like the appropriate reaction to Connelly:

Once again, Manders is happy to see Connelly, or more likely, happy at the prospect of inflicting tremendous pain on Connelly. We see some of the familiar beats: the clothesline that takes both men to the outside, the tug of war across the corner of the ring, and Connelly whipping Manders with the cowbell and rope across the back. We get our first variation with Connelly hitting a running dropkick, a move that's served him well in this feud, from the apron to a seated Manders in the first row.

The suffering must continue until morale improves as Connelly grabs his aching tailbone after the dropkick. This gives the bloodied Manders the window to go on the offense, first with a lariat, then with the dinged up cowbell, and finally with the rope itself across Connelly's mouth. Manders follows up with punches to Connelly's head and stomps to Connelly's bare feet as the match slows down so Manders can gloat.

It's a good thing there are blue plastic mats of dubious quality around the ring as both men are now bleeding from their foreheads. Manders paints his chest in Connelly's blood. All this does is give Connelly time to catch his breath, and he rises to start a big chop battle with Manders. Chops become straights to the jaw, and once again Manders takes the shortcut by stomping on Connelly's foot. We get an escalation here as Manders tries to cut Connelly's bare foot with the sharp edge of the cowbell that had already drawn blood from Connelly's forehead. This reminds me of Marty Scurll's old papercut in the webbing between fingers bit but with the key differences that 1. it doesn't involve the disgraced Marty Scurll and 2. seem like it would linger longer than a papercut in the webbing.

Manders finally gets his comeuppance for going after Connelly's feet when Connelly trips him, strips him of his boot, and bites his foot. That opens Manders up for Connelly to scoop Manders up and slam him in the corner, where Manders gets stuck because his toes are caught in the turnbuckles. Connelly goes to the floor and chokes Manders from behind with the rope, and Manders can only throw up a defiant middle finger once again. Also, once again, I can't believe there's a gentleman dressed in neon clothing placidly staring down at something (a phone) while this battery is occurring so near.

Somehow, Mander survives the choking and a wild swing and a running dropkick from Connelly. Back on their feet, each man reaches back to reliable standbys (Connelly the gutwrench suplex, Manders the Iowa Stampede) unsuccessfully. So, there's nothing left to do except get on the mat and bite each other's exposed feet. That's not enough, so they move to punches, then lariats, but Manders is slightly quicker on the draw. Connelly exposes his neck, so Manders wraps the rope around it and chokes the life from him, forcing the referee to call for stoppage. Manders has tied the series with Connelly.

This match was of excess and climatic. Like the last film in a blockbuster series, we got callbacks to previous highlights, reversals of situation, and other variations on what came before. It felt like they cannot raise the stakes or the violence further in SLA; they'd have to move outside of Spaulding Hall. And, as it turns out, Connelly and Manders did carry this feud to wXw in Germany for one more match, another dog collar match for the ACTION Championship.

While the fourth match is pretty satisfying on its own, I highly recommend watching the entire series so that you can see the progression over time. The drawback is that you don't see much character change from either Connelly or Manders; you don't sense that they've learned much about themselves or each other after all of these matches. Still, you come to these for the violence, and they deliver that by the bucketful of blood.

This match, like the others, is free to view on SLA's YouTube.

#pro wrestling #wrestling #1 called manders #mad dog connelly #sla #saint louis anarchy

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dicktozier · 2 years ago

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Losers Club Big 3 in Astrology

with snippets of notes I've taken that stood out to me on why that placement makes sense for each of them.

Richie Tozier

Sun - Pisces

Flexible, adaptable, and good at blending in with others. Can appear elusive when interacting with others. Romanticize life deeply. Caring and compassionate about other people. Cry baby. Feel like they are beyond anyone’s understanding. Loves to escape reality. Lives contain moments that feel spiritual, fateful, or universal. Prone to mental illness and identity crises.

Moon - Gemini

Only shows you a part of themselves. Need an outlet for their thoughts and ideas. Can’t stand still. Have a difficult time with silence. Anxiety from the moment they wake until the moment they fall asleep. Must find a way to deal with their emotions rather than look at them as something to fix. Mothers had a different plan for them than they do. Always has a sense of humor about everything.

Rising - Leo

Part time entertainer, part time hype people. Fun vibes in the friend group. Love to stand out. Usually the one cracking jokes. Will laugh at any time. Have a great laugh. Have a contagious smile. Don’t mind spending money on things that will make them feel beautiful, and also love giving gifts. Generous people that want to make everyone feel loved.

Eddie Kaspbrak

Sun - Scorpio

Stubborn. Hot headed. Non-nonsense approach to life. Always observing. Plotting and planning from the shadows. Very emotional and they feel everything. Destructive when pushed past their level of patience. Transform through pain and suffering. Never remain the same person for a long time.

Moon - Virgo

Practical, thoughtful and value routine in their lives. Caring and looking out for other’s well-being. Invented anxiety and hating things. Self-critical. Struggle with expressing their emotions openly, preferring to analyze and rationalize their feelings. Ignore the fact that they’ve been stuck in the same loop of problems for years. Mother had strict rules and disobeying them disappointed her.

Rising - Aries

Deals with the world in a straightforward manner and fiery energy. Driven and direct. They prefer to let people know where they stand rather than beating around the bush. Extremely loving and loyal to their friends and family. Masks uncertainty with assertiveness. Warmth attracts others, but insecurity can push them away.

Stanley Uris

Sun - Cancer

Have a tender heart. Inspired to help others and nurture them. Tend to use humor to comfort or heal others. Moodiness and irritability. Retreats back into their safety net. When they get an idea in their head, it can be difficult to get them to give up. Hold grudges and have difficulty with forgiveness.

Moon - Aquarius

Have a hard time with emotional encounters in the moment, and need a moment to read into it. Overanalyze their own feelings and others. Overthink. Can see their future and don’t always know how to get there, but have an intuitive sense of direction on how to get there. Don’t disturb them in their hermit moments. Love to share their viewpoints.

Rising - Virgo

Come off as reserved and shy, but are not really. Appear unapproachable and distant. Tend to be neat and put together. Pay attention to details and have a keen eye. They seek practical solutions and prefer to rely on facts and logic. They enjoy analyzing and gaining a deeper meaning.

Ben Hanscom

Sun - Gemini

Naturally curious and have a thirst for knowledge. Adaptable and can easily switch roles in different situations. Innate ability to connect with people from all walks of life. Find humor in any situation, making them a joy to be around. Kind and considerate of others.

Moon - Libra

Some of the kindest people you’ll ever meet. Shine best when surrounded by people. Will consume anything to help block out their thoughts. Genuinely scared of being alone. Can focus on the downsides of life. They invest in relationships and focus deeply on that person.

Rising - Taurus

Enjoy the lovely things in life and prefer to take things slow. Calm and collected presence attracts people. Being around them feels like the crackling warmth of a fireplace during a storm. They give often. Committed to aspirations. Very patient, steady and enduring. Have a complicated relationship with food.

Mike Hanlon

Sun - Cancer

Have a tender heart. Inspired to help others and nurture them. Retreats back into their safety net. When they get an idea in their head, it can be difficult to get them to give up. Always know little facts about the gossip and surprise people with unknown facts. Known for their intuition and deep understanding of the world around them.

Moon - Virgo

Caring and looking out for other’s well-being. Self-critical. Ignore the fact that they’ve been stuck in the same loop of problems for years. Reserved in showing emotions. Find solace in routine and organization. If you have a problem to solve or analyze, they’ll often have a set of solutions.

Rising - Taurus

Have some of the best energy. Very down to Earth. Calm and collected presence attracts people. Very patient, steady and enduring. They are about setting traditions and foundations, and it doesn’t have to be outdated. Driven to help those that are suffering. Resistant to change by nature.

Bev Marsh

Sun - Aquarius

Won’t ever let anyone tell them who they are. Goes against the grain and rebels against norms. Straight to the point and no nonsense. Don’t lie. They want to make a change in the world and will call out what’s not right. On an odd emotional wavelength. Very clever, witty and intellectual. Value personal freedom.

Moon - Cancer

Nurturing and sensitive emotional nature. They feel others' emotions strongly. Probably tends to other people’s emotions before their own. Good at sensing problems and insecurities and putting words to them. They need as much validation as they give. They will do anything for their family (or found family).

Rising - Scorpio

Magnetic and powerful aura. Have the ability to transform or persevere. Have often witnessed a lot of unfair situations or been in one, and had to work their way around that. People become inspired by them or fear/hate them. Amazing gifts in creativity and art. Maintain a sense of mystery around them.

Bill Denbrough

Sun - Aquarius

Won’t ever let anyone tell them who they are. Weirdos. Feel like aliens. Aloof. Inspires others to see what’s possible and available to all of us. Hard to understand, hard to open up, but worth it once they do. Can be surprisingly stubborn. Equality and fairness are important to them.

Moon - Pisces

Powerful intuition. Cool and attractive personality. Struggles with escapism. Visionary and artistic. Give the feeling that no emotion is too much and that everything is allowed. They tend to follow what they want to do, and this makes people admire them. Their unwavering presence and support makes them a pillar for those in need.

Rising - Aries

Extremely loving and loyal to their friends and family. Extremely passionate and unstoppable. Their life has set them up to lead. Hold down the fort for everyone. Can end up carrying the world on their shoulders. Masks uncertainty with assertiveness. Warmth attracts others, but insecurity can push them away.

#honestly kinda put them order of how confident i am on where i placed them lol #losers club #it #long post #my posts #my stuff #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #stan uris #ben hanscom #mike hanlon #bev marsh #bill denbrough

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bowyer35 · 1 month ago

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How time-travel ⏳️⏰️🌗 /dimension-hopping could be used in future seasons:

Will they actually go there and reveal "The Board" is somehow future/alternate MDR/O&D Alliance members?

I doubt they would go this far...but, maybe. They kept teasing working together as Kier always intended. But nothing became of it yet.

With Keanu being the Lumon Building voice, anything is possible, but I would envision the vibe would quickly switch to a Bill & Ted Excellent Adventure with an emotional anchor pulling heartstrings.

Would they show everyone becoming Kier's children then use time travel to undo it?

I think there is morbid curiosity both ways. We want to see what a full world-building exploit would be like if everyone on earth became severed, but we also know how miserable it would be and how unsustainable the administration would be trying to maintain it. Lumon wants all the control, but is so bad at managing said control. The humor we could witness is almost limitless as Murphy's Law would make for highly entertaining cat & mouse cause and effect TV. SO revealing that the MDR twins and Watchers and "Man in Hallway" were iterations trying to break through and prevent a Kier's Children Apocalypse would be very exciting and hype the stakes involved.

And with Walter Bishop already being Fields, anything is possible. Requiring a sacrifice, revolving back into a S1 LOOP (from half-loop to full loop), preventing the original prototype chip from ever being created, preventing Harmony from ever attending ME (Myrtle Eagan)// preventing Jame Eagan from ever creating the situation where he sires in the shadows, etc., it would be sad yet noble if it meant that saving the world from 24/7 severing meant Helena Eagan had to either never be born or never do the PR stunt and thus never allow Helly to be born. We still need to know how Helena's mother fits into everything and if Fern Scout is a key player.

A new timeline would be created and whatever "The Board" currently is would probably fade away and we would see a Lumon not focused on world domination, but on non-invasive pain management.

#severance #season 3 shenanigans #make the clock reverse #bring back what once was mine

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gobbluthbutagirl · 3 years ago

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nfts moodboard brought to you courtesy of google image search for “ape attack gifs”

everything i learn about nfts makes me want to start behaving like an ape. and not a bored one either!

#i had 9 saved but one turned out to be non-looping so it killed the whole vibe

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simpingcowboy · 2 years ago

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On The Clock

Gif by pedro-pedrito-pascalito <3

Pairing: bottom Javier Peña x top agent M!Reader, reader is publicly out

Word Count: 4.2k+

Warnings: SMUT! mistaken homophobia (quickly rectified), slutshaming (both the kinky and non-kinky kind), humiliation/degradation kink, crude language, fighting for dominance, work place relationship, semi?public sex, oral sex, fingering, spit as lube, protected anal sex, aftercare

Summary: A few words spoken out of jealousy lead Peña to confront you... "What?" He cuts you off with a growl. "Now you're sorry? You wanna show me how sorry you are?" Javier asks, a soft tilt of his head

A/N: Listen I don't think slutshaming was technically a word in the 80's but you get the vibe. Someone had to put this man in his place!!! This one was alot of fun to write :))

"There he goes again." One of the two male agents before you says with a sigh.

You look up from your desk, eyes following the two other agents' to see Javier Peña hitting on the newest transfer. He's got her closed in by the water dispenser, an arm propped up on the wall behind her. The opposite hand is tied into the belt loops on his waist as he pops his hip out, doing all to make his small behind seem more prominent. Those stupid sunglasses still perched on his nose despite being indoors.

"Jesus, does that man ever take a break?" The senior agent to your left remarks, rolling his eyes at the interaction.

"Wasn't he just seeing the receptionist? The blonde one?" You chime in.

"Nah, Peña gave her the boot last week. He was taking that CIA girl out last I knew."

The older agent clicks his tongue, “Keeping track of all of his girls is damn near impossible.”

You resign back to your work with a sigh. “Well you know Peña,” you say unoticing of the DEA agent quickly approaching your desk, “he’ll fuck anything that moves.” A sharp nudge to your shoulder pulls your eyes back up from your paperwork. Catching the dark haired agent breaching earshot.

“Hey Agent Peña,” the senior agent says smoothly, silently praying Javier didn’t hear your comment, “What can we do for you?”

“Yeah…actually I was wondering...” He lingers, pulling the pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and hitting one out into the palm of his hand. The thin cigarette is placed between his plush lips, as his eyes glare up into yours through the amber aviators, “Any of you got a light?”

A collective exhale is let out between you and your colleagues. Thankful that there would be no fights breaking out in the office today.

“I uh think I got one.” The younger agent pats his pockets, finally finding one in his back pocket. “Gotcha.” he says, offering the lit lighter to Peña.

“Thanks.” the DEA agent mumbles, leaning in close to catch the light on the end of his cigarette. He takes a deep inhale, blowing out the puff of smoke down onto your desk with a sly smile. “Think I dropped mine out in the field, you know how it goes.” Javier drops your gaze to look off to the far side of the room, taking another deep inhale of the cigarette.

As annoying as you find him, it’s useless to deny the pure unadulterated sex appeal of the man. It’s easy to understand how he gets so many women in his bed. He even makes smoking look good. Hip popped to his left, hand sitting right above his tight ass. Right hand holding the cigarette to his lips. Broad shoulders squared off facing you. Making it easy to oogle at his physic. His strong chest, practically pulling against the half undone button up shirt. A small waist, cinched in by his tight belt and painted on jeans. His turned neck pulls focus on his strong neck, and mesmorizing side profile.

“Anyways-” He cuts off your wandering gaze snapping you back to the moment, “I gotta go see what Murphy is up to. See you guys around.” Is all he says, before whisking away to the DEA sector of the floor.

“Whatta weirdo.” The man to your right announces with a roll of his eyes. “I don’t get what all the ladies see in him.”

To that the senior agent laughs, “You’re just jealous!”

“Am not!” he defends. “I bet I could get the new transfer’s number if I wanted.”

“Yeah right!” The agent to your left chuckles, but the conversation is lost on you. Your mind muddled with the tantalizing image of Javier Peña. “Hey!” He snaps, bringing you back to reality. “You there?”

“Y-yeah” you stutter, suddenly aware of the semi you were sporting under your desk. “Sorry guys, I really gotta get going on this paperwork.” Not exactly a lie, but not the real reason for your wandering mind.

They sigh, but get up off your desk. “See ya tomorrow!” They each wave goodbye.

The day drags, the pile of paperwork not much smaller than when you’d first began. Your brain appartently fixated on one Javier Peña. Your cock twitching with every intrusive thought about the DEA agent’s tempting figure. Before you know it, the floor is cleared. The office growing darker and darker as the lights go off one by one. The receptionist makes her final round, always staying far later than neccesary. She bounds around the corner, shooting you a kind smile.

“You’re still here?” She asks, with a soft tilt of her head.

You huff out a chuckle, “Paperwork won’t do itself.” you say with a shrug.

The receptionist smiles at you in the dim room, “Well have a goodnight Agent.” She says with a nod of her head, about to turn towards the exit. “Oh and goodnight Peña!” She waves to an unseen figure behind you.

“Night Sweetheart.” He calls back from the shadows, stepping forward and resting a heavy hand on your shoulder.

Fuck. You think to yourself, your breath catching in your throat. Silently hoping the kind receptionist will find a reason to stay. Much to your dismay, she promptly shuts the door behind her. Leaving you alone with the DEA agent.

“You know she likes you?” He says from behind you.

“She’s not really my type...” You bite your tongue to keep from saying anything more. The girl was kind. Pretty. But you only had eyes for a certain one person in this office. The one currently leering over your shoulder.

“What is your type then?” Peña leans in close to your ear, the huff of his breath blowing over the side of your face.

“I uhh” you gulp, trying to keep your composure. It wasn’t exactly a secret that you liked men, a small fact that slipped during an undercover job with the Cali cartel, but you far from appreciated the condescending tone in Peña’s voice “like dark hair…dark eyes.”

Javier chuckles at your side, a smug smile on his face. “Sounds alot like me.” He teases.

“Fuck you Peña!” You get up from your desk, pushing his hand off of you. “I’m not gonna take this shit from yo-”

He stops you, hands quickly grabbing your waist and pulling you against him. Wordlessly catching you in a heated kiss. Plush lips pressing against yours, a low groan escaping the other man as he grinds his hard cock on your hip. Thick hands find their way into your back pocket, cupping your ass. He pulls back, barely separating himself from your lips. “Didn’t mean it like that, Hermoso.” He whispers, dark brown eyes blown out with lust.

"Peña you…” Your hands brace themselves on Javi’s chest, as your mind still reeling from the turn of events, “You like men?"

He scoffs at you, offering a half hearted smirk, "As you said. I fuck anything that moves, right?"

A wave of guilt comes over you, face going hot with embarassment. "Fuck Peña I-"

"What?" He cuts you off with a growl. "Now you're sorry? You wanna show me how sorry you are?" Javier asks, a soft tilt of his head. Hands freeing themselves from your back pocket; sliding up to your face. His thumb gliding over your bottom lip. "Get on your knees." He commands, hands dropping to pull at his belt.

Part of you wants to hit him for having the audacity to fuck with you like this. But all the blood rushing to your cock makes it difficult to care. You drop down onto your knees, looking up at him expectantly. Watching eagerly as he tears those way too tight jeans off his thick bulge. Your eyes go wide as you realize, the motherfucker doesn’t even wear underwear. His beautiful cock springing out proudly, damn near jumping in front of your face. It's long and girthy with a weeping uncut head. A perfect patch of dark brown curls coating the base.

"Too much, Baby?" Javi teases with a cocked smile. Obviously pleased with your assessment of him.

You shoot a glare up at him, "I can take it."

With that you down his cock as best you can in one go, pushing the tip down to the back of your throat. Swallowing around the sensitive head. One hand working the bit of him you can't take all the way down.

Javi hisses as you take him down your throat. "Ohh you're good at that." He exclaims, head thrown back in pleasure. Hands bracing on the desk behind him as his hips thrust up to meet your bobbing head.

Precum spills from the uncut head, languishing your tongue in his taste. He tastes salty and just a tad bitter. Taking him down to the base, you catch the scent of his clothes. He smells like cigarettes and gunpowder, but there’s more. A remnant of sweat heavy on him, filling your nose with Peña’s own delicious scent. It’s earthy yet bright. His thick pheromones go straight to your already hard cock, making it throb in your pants. Uncaring of what Peña thinks, you reach down to grind against your hand. Moaning around his cock at the sweet relief of friction.

"Fuck" Javi groans, watching as you touch yourself. "Is this what you wanted, Guapo? My cock? Got jealous of all those pretty girls, hmm?” He asks, snapping his hips down your throat. “I bet you just wanted me all to yourself." The DEA agent says with a self assured smirk. He lets you continue on, enjoying the sight of you on your knees. Before pulling you off, “Don’t wanna cum down your throat, wanna cum in your cute ass.”

You get up off the floor with a smirk of your own. “No way, Peña.” You push up close against him, grinding your cock against his hip, taking his hard member in your hand. “Who knows where that thing has been.”

Javier winces as your hand squeezes around him. An indisputable throb running up his cock at your cruel words. A warm blush creeping up his cheeks. “D-didn’t mind it in your mouth.” He half-heartedly retorts, obviously affected by your words.

“Keep mouthwash at my desk for a reason, Peña.” You tease, though that was not the reason, you knew that Javi’s lust filled mind wouldn’t be able to reason against it.

His heavy cock jumps in your hand, as he lets out a soft whine. “Y-yeah okay” he says with a groan.

“You want me to fuck you?” you ask with a raised eyebrow, surprised with how quickly he changed his mind.

He nods swiftly, a squirt of precum leaking over your hand. “I want it.”

"Fuck okay. I'll take care of you, Baby." You assure him, moving to rub your hands soothingly along his sides. Hands sliding up his shirt. "You got a condom?"

Javier nods, sliding one from his pocket into your hand. "H-how do you want me?" He asks shyly, obviously nervous.

God, he looks so cute like this. All shy and flustered. You deliver a soft kiss to his lips, which he melts into, relaxing in your hands. "Can you bend over for me?" You ask in a hushed voice, needing to walk him through it.

"Y-yeah." He squeaks out, pulling away from you and bending over the desk, elbows resting on the smooth oak. Another soft whine escapes him as you shuck his pants down. Though you'd never be able to tell by the tight pants the DEA agent sports, he is actually just slightly self conscious of his backside.

"Fuck that's pretty." You moan, hands gliding over the petite globes of his ass. His tight hole flinches at your touch."Peña, have you ever?"

"Once…or twice." The man admits with a hot blush, almost unbelieving he's about to let you fuck him like this.

"I'll go slow." You assure him. You take your thumb in your mouth, wetting it to the best of your ability before slowly pushing it in. "Relax. Let me in." The small digit slowly sinks into him. Earning you a loud moan from him.

"Fucking christ-" He cusses beneath you, leaving a quiet reminder to himself to start keeping some lube on him.

Your thumb rocks slowly in and out. Opening him up for you. "Doing so good, Peña-"

"Javi." He cuts you off abruptly. "Call me Javi."

You can't help the smile that comes over your face, "Okay…Javi. Can you handle more?"

He nods, head falling between his hands. "Yeah. I can take it."

With that, you retract your thumb. Bringing your index and middle finger to your mouth to wet them. You lean in close to his hole, and spit on it. Javi's mouth drops at the feeling of your warm spit against his ass. You work your two fingers into him. Sliding them in slowly. You bite your lip as he encompasses your fingers in his warmth; imagining how good he'll feel around your cock. After a few moments, he begins rocking back against you fucking himself open on your fingers.

"M-more." Peña moans. "Your cock-."

"Shit, Javi are you sure?" He was still so tight around just your two fingers.

Peña reaches back, pushing you off of him. He turns around standing up right and grabs you by the back of the neck. Pulling you into a sloppy kiss. His tongue finds solace in the confines of your mouth; the taste of himself still heavy on your tongue. That neat mustache rubs abrasively against your upper lip. You eagerly swallow down every greedy moan he releases into you. Thick hands find your hips and push you down into the desk chair.

"You wanna fuck me, Agent?" Javier leans in, looming over you, breathing hard. "Get to it then." He says, a hand grinding down on your throbbing bulge.

"Fuck. I got you." You groan, sitting Javier back on the desk. "Needy thing."

You both work to remove your clothes. Javi pulling off his pants and unbuttoning the remainder of his top. You rip your shirt off, throwing it back behind you. Pulling at your pants, desperate to relieve some tension. Finally, freeing your cock from its constraints. Making quick work of the condom and rushing to roll it down over yourself. A pair of legs wrap themselves up around your waist, pulling you closer.

"Hermoso…" Peña pleads, big puppy dog eyes staring up at you. His cock throbs heavy against his stomach. His pretty body is on perfect display beneath you. Just the edges of his broad shoulders were still covered, that pink shirt he wore barely clinging to him.

"I know, I know." You say softly. Spitting into your hand, trying to make everything as slick as possible for him. You lean in close, pressing your forehead to his. "Tell me if it hurts, okay?"

A small quiver in his voice comes through at the softness of your words, "Y-yeah I will…" a tinge of red evident on his cheeks.

"Good boy." You say as you slowly push into him, hands on his hips. Sinking deeper and deeper into Javi's tight hole. Enveloping you in his warmth. Every inch of your cock getting squeezed by his insides. He feels like heaven around you.

Javi is just as enraptured in you. The weight of you pressing against him makes him throb. Your slow breach of him has stars bursting behind his eyes. The stretch stings just slightly, but the pleasure is too overbearing for him to care. He doesn't miss the softness of your words and actions. The sweetness makes his ears go red, and heightens the delinquency of the situation; that is you fucking him on your work desk. A matching moan spilling from both your lips as you bottom out.

"Fuck Javi-" you hiss, rolling your hips out slowly. "You're so tight."

"Mierda." Peña groans out, eyebrows pinched and head thrown back in pleasure.

Another tentative roll of your hips has him loosening up around you. His body eagerly accepts the intrusion. His slender hips hesitantly rocking to meet yours. Bottoming out with each long slow thrust. He feels so fucking good, a desperate need to rut into Javier builds in you. And apparently in Javi too.

"More." He grits out between clenched teeth. "I need more." He repeats pulling you in closer by the back of your neck.

A small smile pulls at the corners of your mouth. Javier Peña likes it rough and you were happy to oblige. On the next roll of your hips, you slam back into him. The corners of the old metal desk Javi is sat upon creaks. He rewards you with a loud whine, cutting himself off with the bite of his lip. You continue. Fucking into him with quick sharp thrusts. Though slightly looser, his tight hole is still gripping you like a vice. It took a lot of work to move yourself in him, having to carve room for your cock from his insides.

The words escape your lips before you even have time to think. "You really don't bottom a lot, huh?" Though a fact, one he'd shared himself earlier, it comes out much more teasing than intended.

He whines in response, ears going red "N-no…"

You don't miss the way his dick jumps. That's when you realize, he's not just putting up with your teasing, Peña likes being degraded. "Fuck- but you like that dick don't you? Needed some cock, Baby?"

"Mierda- yes!" He huffs, eyes rolling back as you grind into him particularly deep.

"Being so good for me. Letting me fuck you on my desk- such a good whore."

That catches his attention. Ears going red. No one had ever called him that before- least not to his face. Sure, he was known as a womanizer but to be called a whore by the man bottomed out inside him? Felt downright humiliating. Javi loved it.

"Gave up that pretty ass so fucking easy." You whisper low into his ear.

Peña's face burns bright with embarrassment. But his cock is throbbing with arousal. A flood of precum running down his throbbing member. A whine coming up from his throat.

You eat up every second of it. Every word spilling from your lips, turning Javi's usual golden skin, flushed red. Even spreading across his beautiful chest. The usually over confident cock DEA agent reduced down to this shy man beneath you. "What? Dirty slut too cock drunk to say anything?"

Javi bites his lips, struggling to maintain your harsh gaze. "S-shut up an-and fuck me." He manages to get out between clenched teeth. Fighting to stave off his orgasm.

"Thought I already was. Or do you want more?" Your eyes glide over his body. Down his broad chest, filling the line of his stomach, and finally to his hard cock. The head is purple and throbbing with need. "Want me to touch you?"

"Fuck yes-" he says with an eager grin. Hips rolling up in anticipation. Needing some relief.

"Beg." You demand with a terrible smile.

"W-what?" He whimpers. Big brown eyes staring up at you, a soft pout on his plush lips.

"Beg me to touch you."

Peña bites his lip to stop the words from coming out; not wanting to give you the satisfaction. Javier Peña has never begged for sex in his life. But with the way his cock is practically pleading for you, he supposed now is as good of a time to start as any. "Please…" He begs, his hand wrapping around your bicep. "Please touch me."

"Good slut." You reward him by taking his cock in hand. Which causes him to grow tighter around you. There's sufficient precum to jerk him in time with your thrusts. With the way he throbs in your hand, you can tell he's close.

"G-good…so perfect- fuck" Javi mumbles incoherently. Rocking his hips below you. Moving himself back and forth between your hand on his dick and your cock in his ass. Letting you get even deeper inside him. Pushing the head of your cock against that perfect spot inside him, that has him seeing stars.

"Fuck Javi-" you moan at the way he clenches around you. Tight and hot. "Want you to cum for me." You say, snapping your hips harder into him. Your own body tightening as your orgasm builds.

Javier's mouth drops open. Legs closing around your hips, pushing you deep inside him. His cries echoing through the empty office. Fingers digging into your back, pulling you close. Javier cries out your name with a choked moan as his hips jerk beneath you. Cum splatters up over his stomach and chest. Head thrown back in ecstasy.

The delicious sight below you has you teetering on the edge of your own climax. You can't help but lean in to take a taste. Dipping your head down to Javier's golden chest, lapping at the warm cum splattered upon him. Another breathy moan escaping the DEA agent as he watches you taste him. His warm brown eyes glued to you.

It's too much. Those eyes on you. His arms and legs wrapped around you. The way his body pulses around you. The salty taste of him on your tongue. And with another half dozen harsh thrusts you finish inside him, filling the condom.

"Javi- Javi!" You moan against his shoulder. Slumping down against him, arms braced on either side to keep some of your weight off of him.

"Fuck…" he breathes out between pants, coming down from his orgasmic haze. Nudging his arched nose against your cheek, leaning in for a soft kiss. Uncaring that he can still taste himself on you.

You happily accept his soft kisses. Enjoying the fuzzy post orgasm feeling. Smiling at the feeling of his fluffy mustache on your lip. Large hands find their way to your face, cupping your cheeks. Reluctantly, you pull off him.

"Javi, I need to slip out, okay?"

He affirms with a nod.

"Relax for me." You say softly, leaning back off of him. Taking one last look at the mess you two made; you grip the condom and pull out. Quickly tying off the end and tossing it in the waste bin.

You look across your desk for the box of tissues, sighing as you survey the damage done to your work space. Your paperwork was scattered. Folders disorganized. Pen holder tipped over. Not to mention the stench of sweat and sex hanging heavy in the air. But all that could wait.

Taking a handful of tissues, you begin cleaning up Javi. Running the paper over his exposed body, gathering the remnant of his orgasm. A soft hiss leaving him as you clean up his softening cock. Another as you gently wipe his slightly gaped hole.

As you turn to clean yourself up you ask, "Are you feeling okay?"

"Y-yeah." He answered simply, slowly rebuttoning his pink shirt. "I'm good."

"Good…here!" You call, tossing him his pants that he'd thrown to the side.

"Thanks." He says, finally unseating himself from your desk.

In a comfortable silence, you each get dressed. Just the soft sound of fabric filling the air between you two. The rustle of pants. The familiar sound of a zipper being pulled. The clink of a belt. It continues until you're both back in your clothes. If it weren't for the mess around you, and the taste of Javi still on your tongue; you'd almost think you'd imagined the whole thing. When you look over at him, he's already staring back. Lit cigarette in hand. Warm brown eyes on you. He's the first to speak up.

"So uhh …round two?" He asks with a lift of his eyebrow, taking another puff of his cigarette. "My place?"

"Fuck yeah." You answer with a smile. Swiping your jacket from the back of your desk chair. Half heartedly reorganizing your desk. Just enough that it wouldn't be so suspicious come Monday morning.

Peña is just as eager. Dipping away momentarily to snatch his leather jacket from his desk across the office. He jogs back over to you, "Ready to go, Hermoso?"

"Yeah, all good." You confirm, letting him guide you out of the shared office building.

You can't help but notice the other agent's usual swagger seems impeded. His typically confident strides were replaced with a shuffle. Each step falling short and heavy. He'd definitely be feeling the events of tonight for the next couple days. Peña brings you to his car, holding the door open for you. Quickly sauntering over to his side of the vehicle.

Once seated, Javier pauses "Listen…that slut shaming shit. Keep it between us? Not on the clock. Deal?"

"Fuck…yeah. I am sorry...really. I was just jealous."

Javier smirks, taking the final huff off his cigarette. "Guess you don't have to be jealous anymore."

"Guess not…" you return his mischievous smile, plucking the end of his cigarette from his lips. Burying the glowing end into the ashtray. "You know, if you need something to suck on I've got something for you."

Javi scoffs, "Only if I'm topping this time." He responds, shifting the car into drive.

"We'll see about that Peña." You roll your eyes, wondering just how many of his buttons you can press before you arrive at his apartment.

#am writes #javier pena x m!reader #javier pena x reader #javier pena fanfic #m!reader #javier pena fanfiction

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