#three legged llama

[hannahbarberra162]

4/1 WIP Update :)

Hi friends! I have some exciting news for everyone - I’m dropping everything I was working on to write some new works! I’ll get back to those old boring ones eventually but for now, here’s what I’ve been writing:

> The Emperor’s New Groove AU (Shanks, Beckman x Reader) Shanks has been turned into a three legged llama and it’s up to you to help him reverse the poison.

Beckman, pinching the bridge of his nose: Shanks, why did you drink the poison? 

Shanks, thriving, wiggling his long neck around trying to reach Beckman's good whiskey on the high shelf: Thought it was alcohol.

Beckman: It says LLAMA POISON on the vial and it’s bright purple.

Shanks, accidentally dropping the bottle of whiskey and shattering it on the ground: Thought it was one of those fancy IPAs.

Beckman, sighing: well hopefully we can find the antido - STOP DRINKING MORE OF IT -

Shanks: You're throwing off my groove...

> Bird’s Eye View (Yan Hattori x Reader) In collaboration with @gouraminnow - You’ve been working at the pet store on Eneis Lobby for a few years now and always enjoy when your favorite customer, Hattori, comes in riding on Rob Lucci's shoulder. 

One day you’re closing the store for the night, prettying the displays for tomorrow’s customers. You hope Hattori will come visit with his owner, the cute little bird always makes your day. Mr. Lucci has told you many times how Hattori has a taste for the finer things in life, and his bird feed is no exception. Your store stocks the finest seed and you always make time to chat with the charming pigeon.

You turn off the lights and are about to lock the door to the shop when one strong hand is at your throat, claws piercing your skin. Rob Lucci drags you back to his rooms by force - you’re sure you’re going to be killed then an there. He dumps you in a heap on the floor none too gently.

“P-please, I don’t know what I did -”

“Someone wants to see you.” You look up and lock eyes with Hattori, sitting on his perch and sipping whiskey on the rocks. “I've told you, Hattori has a taste for the finer things in life.”

~

> Scooby Doo AU (Strawhats / Reader) Taking a break from Luffy's quest to become the King of the Pirates, Luffy and the gang decide to solve the Grand Line’s greatest mysteries - and we all know Luffy loves a good mystery. Who is the talking and singing skeleton wreaking havoc on Thriller Bark? The gang’s here to find out!

Nami as Daphne

Robin as Velma

Sanji as Fred

Franky as the Mystery Machine

Usopp as Shaggy

Luffy as Scooby

Chopper as Scrappy Doo AND

Zoro as Zoro

I'm joking! April Fools! I'm not writing these, just being silly.

XOXOXO, back to regularly scheduled writing <3

[p0orbaby]

Teddy Picker

summary: three’s a crowd might be an understatement

warnings: none

a/n: based on this request !

word count: 1k

-

Your bedroom is a war zone, but instead of landmines, it’s littered with plushies. Innocent, wide-eyed plushies. Each one has a name, a backstory, and possibly a retirement plan, because you take this stuff seriously. There’s Mr. Fluffington, the bear who "survived" your university years, Miss Whiskers, a cat with a questionable amount of fur left after years of cuddling, and God knows how many others.

Leah’s in bed, wedged between a life-size llama and a squishy avocado. She’s trying to read, but there’s a giraffe’s neck poking her in the eye, and a penguin is wedged under her knee in a way that defies the laws of physics. The woman’s practically sweating from the effort of not losing it.

“It’s like sleeping in a zoo,” she says, not for the first time. You’re not sure if she’s talking to you, herself, or Mr. Snuggles, the elephant who’s somehow become the unofficial leader of the bed plushies. “Except none of these animals breathe, and they all look like they’re judging me”

She’s not wrong. They do have that creepy, glassy-eyed stare going on. It’s the kind of gaze that says, “I’m cute, but if you fall asleep, I might just steal your soul”

You, of course, are oblivious to this. You’re flitting around the room, busy finding space for the latest addition—a bright pink octopus with a smile so wide it’s borderline unhinged. You plop it down right in the middle of the bed, where it immediately claims dominion over the blankets. Leah watches this, her jaw tightening like she’s about to have a full-blown existential crisis.

“Babe, I love you,” she starts, the tone you’ve come to recognize as the precursor to a very serious, possibly relationship-defining conversation. “But we’re running out of bed”

“We have a king-size bed,” you point out helpfully, like the size of the bed has anything to do with the impending suffocation she’s feeling.

“And yet, somehow, I’m sleeping in the fetal position on the edge of a cliff,” Leah retorts, kicking at a plushie that’s taken up residence near her foot. “Why is there a taco in our bed? We don’t even eat tacos in bed”

“It’s not just a taco,” you correct her, as if this explains everything. “It’s Señor Taco, and he represents my love of Mexican cuisine”

Leah blinks. Slowly. Like she’s buffering and trying really, really hard not to crash.

“And why is Señor Taco touching my leg?”

“He’s being friendly?”

“I swear to God, if one more inanimate object gets near my leg…”

“Look,” you say, climbing into the plushie mountain, where you promptly disappear like it’s some kind of portal to a magical, fluffy realm. You poke your head out, like a meerkat surveying the savannah. “They’re just… comforting”

Leah sighs, closing her book, or at least trying to, but it’s hard when the pages are partially obscured by a duck with a beanie. “I’m sure they are, but it’s like sleeping in a furnace. Do you know how much heat these things trap? I woke up last night thinking I was being smothered by a goddamn Build-A-Bear”

You laugh because, honestly, the mental image is hilarious, but Leah looks dead serious. She probably had a near-death experience with a rogue teddy bear last night, and here you are, making fun of her.

“We can get rid of some,” you offer, half-heartedly, because you both know you’re lying. You’re not getting rid of a single plushie. Not Mr. Fluffington, not Señor Taco, and definitely not the avocado, which you’ve started using as a neck pillow.

“Uh-huh,” Leah says, unconvinced. “And which one of these childhood relics are you going to sacrifice to save our relationship?”

You look around, as if there’s even the slightest chance you’ll willingly part with any of them. “What about the avocado?”

Leah perks up. “Really?”

“No, I was kidding. Avocados are healthy”

Leah groans, pushing the giraffe away from her face. “At this point, I’m pretty sure I’m allergic to plushies”

“They’re hypoallergenic,” you assure her, because you googled that once in a fit of paranoia after you brought home Mr. Snuggles and Leah sneezed for three days straight. She’s giving you a look now, one that says she’s rethinking every single decision she’s made since meeting you.

“Just… maybe… one night?” she pleads, voice softening, appealing to your nonexistent sense of reason. “One night without the army of stuffed animals?”

“Where would they sleep?”

“Anywhere but here. In the living room, in a wardrobe, in a goddamn plushie cemetery for all I care”

You pretend to think it over. “But then they’ll be lonely”

Leah throws her head back on the pillow and stares at the ceiling, contemplating the chain of events that have led her to this moment. “I think you’re confusing your feelings with theirs”

“Maybe,” you admit, settling in next to her, your body flush against hers, although there’s really only so much of Leah you can touch because Señor Taco’s taking up most of the space between you. You snuggle into her shoulder, despite the llama’s best efforts to wedge itself between you.

Leah wraps an arm around you, half-heartedly, more out of habit than actual affection at this point. “One night,” she whispers, like she’s making some sort of solemn vow. “One night where I’m not suffocating under a pile of polyester and fake fur”

You hum in response, already half-asleep, because honestly, plushies are the best. They’re soft, they don’t talk back, and they definitely don’t complain about how hot it is in the bed. They’re perfect, and Leah should really be more appreciative of the cute little ecosystem you’ve built here.

As you drift off, Leah’s already strategizing. She’s probably planning a plushie heist, one where she sneaks out of bed in the dead of night and smuggles Mr. Snuggles and his plushie gang out of the room and into some faraway closet.

But for now, you’re both stuck. You in your plushie paradise, and Leah in her plushie purgatory.

It’s a good thing you love each other because honestly, if there’s anything that’s going to test this relationship, it’s Señor Taco and his posse of cuddly, suffocating friends.

[cameronspecial]

It's All Fun And Games

Pairing: Dad!Drew Starkey x Reader

Warnings: N/A

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 0.6K

Summary: Drew likes to come up with games to entertain his children.

Masterlist

Drew knows that going out in public can be a little boring for his kids, especially since they aren’t allowed screens or toys when they do. So, Drew’s solution is to create games for them. Y/N’s hand is in Millie’s while Drew holds Tristan’s. The family approaches the elevator, which causes the children to release themselves from their parents’ hold. Each child runs to a different elevator and grins at their father once they are ready. “Three. Two. One,” Drew counts down before pressing the down button to call the elevator. They wait for a few seconds and the ding notifies them that they will soon be entering the metal contraption. The doors in front of Millie open and she lets out a cheer. “Congrats, Mills,” Drew congratulation, ushering his family into the elevator. Miller runs to the console and presses the button that Drew shows her. Tristan looks at his sister with a hint of jealousy, “I’m going to win next time.” Drew gives his son a soft smile and picks his son up. “I’m sure you will win the elevator game next time, Tris.”

—

Y/N needed some time by herself and Drew could sense that, so he took the kids out to get some ice cream. As he watches his children munch on their ice cream, an elderly lady walks by and sits a few tables down from them. The bag she is carrying almost rivals her size and he points it out to his kids. He leans in closer to his kids, “What do we think is in her bag?” Understanding what their father is doing, their faces light up. “I think she has lots and lots of candy in her bag that she likes to share with little kids,” Millie responds. Tristan thinks about it for a second, “She has many bouncy balls.” Drew chuckles at their responses. “And what would she do with all of the bouncy balls? Millie says she likes to share the candy, so what’s the story behind the bouncy balls?” Drew provokes. Tristan answers immediately, “Because she is a super secret spy, who uses balls to put people to sleep.” “That is a very interesting story,” Drew says. The What’s in the Bag game is one of Drew’s favourites because it shows his children’s imagination. 

—

The last game drives Y/N crazy, but she secretly loves it. The family is running errands at Target when the kids grow tired of the shopping. Drew can see this, so he pulls out the stickers he keeps in his wallet. He hands Millie the sheet with purple hearts, Tristan the one with pink hearts and keeps the orange hearts for himself. He starts off the game by patting his wife on the back while kissing her on the cheek. She doesn’t feel the press of the sticker onto her shirt. The next sticker that finds its way onto Y/N is given by Tristan, who pretends that he wants to be picked up by his mother. He risks placing it onto her shoulder as she picks him up. Millie gets one onto Y/N’s knee when the daughter is playing between the mother’s legs. The game comes to an end because of Drew. He tries the same tactic again; however, this time, he tries pressing it against the hem of her t-shirt sleeve. Y/N separates their lips at the feel of the sticky substance of the sticker on her arm. Drew had missed her shirt. She looks at her husband and then at her children’s wide grin. 

She pieces the puzzle together and unravels herself from her husband's hold. “Seriously, My Love? I thought I took all your stickers,” she questions. He gives her a sheepish smile, “You did, except you forgot that I have my own credit card.” She shakes her head with slight annoyance. “I married a child. I hate these games,” she mumbles as she picks off all the stickers her family has put on her. Drew pouts and nears her with his lips, “Come on, Sweetheart. It’s all fun and games.”

Taglist: @winterrrnight @loves0phelia @thelomlisrafecameron @victory-in-the-llama @drewsmusee @starkowswife

[cheezeybread]

the most funny thing to me about post chapter 3 is that you already know Azul and the Tweels both pretty much tried to shift as much of the blame as they can to the other party to make themselves look better. Floyd pulling the woe is me card sounds dramatic and hilarious. Azul meanwhile tries to sell the idea that the twins are the master mind.

This is literally the basis of their entire friendship, in my opinion. Or at least it is in their time at NRC. I mean, they trust each other enough to push the blame on each other without having any hard feelings about it later.

It started out with the Tweels pushing the blame on one another as children- Jade would steal some money from their dad, and then Floyd would get blamed because the parents saw him as the main troublemaker (Jade was just more sneaky about it), and he would claim it was Jade's fault, but then Jade would start questioning where Floyd was at the time of the incident, and Floyd would defend his own alibi and would interrogate Jade. It turns into a court case every time with the parents playing the judge. They'd be so entertained by it and the cuteness of it all that they'd forget about any stolen money and would just ship the twins off to bed.

But then when Azul comes into the picture, they have an even better time with it! Because three people means you can blame two different people at once! And the trio learned that if they just kept pushing the blame onto one another (obviously when they grew up, the "court cases" ceased to be endearing and adorable), whoever the accusing party was (whether it was a teacher claiming Floyd copied off of Jade/Azul, or a student bringing up beef with one of them) would find it so annoying that they'd just say "forget it" and walk off.

Now....after book 3. There's a lot of blame to go around.

"JADE AND FLOYD TRIED TO DROWN US AND STOP US FROM GETTING THE PICTURE!" Jade and Floyd, obviously, push the blame onto Azul (who they make a point of calling "boss-man" to emphasize how he's deeeeefinitely the head honcho here). Azul claims he had no idea about it all and that the Eels acted of their own volition, that they were violent sociopaths with a long history of violence (hahaha Talking Llamas with Hats reference....haha-)

"AZUL YOU OVERBLOTTED WHEN LEONA DUSTED YOUR PAPERS, AND YOU HURT ME" Azul tried to innocently suggest that maybe one of the tweels had hurt you instead? Certainly he was too much of a gentleman to hurt a poor defenseless soul such as yourself, even if he was overblotting at the time. Jade points to Floyd, making a gesture that seems like he knew Floyd hurt you instead. Floyd just points right back at Azul, making some outlandish claim like "Azul legit tried to bite your leg what are you talking about??" Azul did not legit try to bite your leg, in fact. It all lies! ALL OF IT!

[bitchinbarzal]

Hi! Could you do something with the killers on the off season or the break? Maybe in a day that Clay has no practice and has a full dad duty. Could be like a small getaway or whatever you would like :)

Clayton woke up to sunlight filtering through the blinds and one undeniable fact:

Kaia was not in bed.

Instead, there was a sticky note on her pillow.

I love you. I’m going to the spa. Good luck.

– K

Panic set in fast.

A second later, Elodie burst into the room in a tutu and swim goggles. “Daddy. There’s syrup in the Lego bin and Weston’s feeding waffles to the Roomba.”

It took forty-five minutes to get everyone dressed.

Not well dressed just clothed.

Clayton stood in the entryway with Miles strapped to his chest, Weston wearing a backwards shirt and one sock, and Elodie fully prepared for a princess-themed survival mission.

“Where are we even going?” she asked, arms crossed.

“We’re doing a fun day,” Clayton announced. “Daddy’s in charge.”

Stop 1: The Petting Zoo

It smelled terrible, Elodie tried to smuggle out a baby goat, and Weston got licked by a llama and told it they were now brothers.

Miles pooped twice.

Clayton earned a medal just for surviving.

Stop 2: The Ice Cream Shop

Elodie ordered cotton candy bubblegum marshmallow disaster flavour. Weston got chocolate and wore 98% of it.

A lady in line asked, “Are you babysitting?” and Clayton, without hesitation, said, “Nope. I made these.”

He didn’t even realise how proud he felt until Elodie leaned against his leg and whispered, “You’re actually doing good, Daddy.”

Stop 3: Mini Golf

Clayton thought this would be a chill end-of-day activity.

Weston took off with his club like a sword and challenged two elderly women to battle. Elodie gave herself two holes-in-one he knew didn’t happen. Miles fell asleep upright in the stroller and stayed that way.

Clayton only cheated once, and he was pretty sure that still counted as a parenting win.

By the time they got home, all three kids were snoring in the backseat. The car looked like it had been attacked by a snack tornado. Clayton didn’t even try to move them right away. He just sat there, sun dipping behind the mountains, windows cracked, music low.

Kaia came out a few minutes later, fresh from her spa day, hair wrapped in a towel and a soft smile on her face.

She peeked in the back window. “You did it.”

Clayton grinned. “I did it.”

“You took three children out into the world and brought them all back.”

“With minimal injury.”

Kaia leaned down and kissed his cheek. “How was it?”

He looked over at his chaos crew covered in dirt, one with gum in her hair, one with a binky still in his mouth.

“Best day I’ve had all summer.”

[nanamineedstherapy]

Third Wheeling Your Own Marriage

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

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

<<<<NO HEADER I GOT LAZY>>>>

Previous Chapter 17 (alt ending 2.8) - Invisible (Tumblr/Ao3)

Chapter 18 (alt ending 2.9) - Inheritance of Hunger

0 Sunday

After a lot of back and forth—mainly Gojo threatening to kill himself while Nanami silently (very weirdly) coaxed you into letting him touch you, all the while he blocked Gojo from you—you three were summoned again before you could make a run for your sanity.

Maya decided she was impatient and the homework needed to be discussed right away.

She sat with her legs crossed, clipboard balanced lazily on her knee.

Gojo was sprawled sideways on the couch, his long limbs stretched out. His sunglasses were pushed up into his messy white hair, revealing baby blue eyes that contrasted with his otherwise lazy posture.

You sat beside him, lost in thought, your fingers absentmindedly threading through his soft white hair. Gojo, for his part, was silently pleading to every god he could think of that you wouldn’t realize what you were doing—or you’d stop.

In the corner of the couch, Nanami sat with his back straight, one elbow resting neatly over his knee. His expression was as composed, but his steady golden gaze and the faint, disapproving line of his mouth betrayed his irritation. It was the kind of look that Gojo lived to provoke.

Maya clapped her hands together like an evil CEO about to announce mass layoffs.

"Alright, listen up, my favorite sad llama, mama llama, and mentally insane llama," her smile widening into something mocking. "We're speedrunning this bitch because your wife might be too volatile around nine months of pregnancy, so you’re about to embark on the hardest six weeks of your lives. This is a controlled experiment where I make the rules, and you two—" she pointed at Gojo and Nanami, "—are my little test subjects."

Gojo tilted his head. “So we’re lab rats?”

Maya’s gaze gleamed. “Exactly.”

Gojo’s mouth curled. “How cute. What happens if we fail?”

Maya’s smile widened. “Divorce.”

Both men’s gazes sharpened on her.

“And,” Maya added, "if you really fail?"

Gojo’s mouth thinned.

“I get to name your kids.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Gojo shot forward so fast the room hummed with the shift of cursed energy.

“My children will never know you,” Gojo spoke low, six eyes glaring into Maya’s unflinching gaze.

Maya smirked, unfazed. “Then don’t fail.”

She reached into her pink hello kitty bag and pulled out a scroll, which slipped from her hand and unrolled onto the floor.

Nanami stood to pick it up. “Is this our plan?” he asked, tone measured.

Maya chuckled, shaking her head. “Oh, no. This one’s for non-murderous couples who can actually be trusted.” She tossed it aside and retrieved another scroll, this one written in Comic Sans.

Nanami’s jaw tightened visibly. Gojo’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell is that?”

Maya unrolled the scroll; the paper fluttered ominously under the stale office air.

Maya’s Morally Dubious, Probably Illegal (But Alarmingly Effective) Rules for the Next Six Weeks:

Rule 1: No Speaking to Each Other (Unless Absolutely Necessary)

If Gojo and Nanami so much as look at each other with even a hint of telepathic communication, they must immediately do whatever you tell them.

(Maya turned to you, raising an eyebrow. “No, you are not allowed to ask them to do aflip-off of Everest.” You deflated.)

“And none of this ‘we’ nonsense,” Maya added sharply. "No, ‘we messed up’ or ‘we did this together.’ If you’re going to ruin your marriage, at least take individual accountability.”

No mentioning the other one; pretend he’s Voldermot.

Bonus points if you both cosplay each other.

(Nanami’s soul left his body.)

They also must send pregnancy-related disturbing facts to each other randomly, throughout the week.

Rule 2: “No Touch” Challenge

Both men must go a full 36 hours without touching you.

If they fail? You get to ignore them for 24 hours.

If either of them fails or both fail, then the three of you restart from Week One.

If they succeed, they earn the privilege of taking you on a date. (You’re allowed to leave if it’s not exactly what you wanted—it doesn’t matter if they are telepathic or not.)

Gojo immediately opened his mouth to protest, but Nanami shot him a look so sharp that Gojo actually shut up. No one knew how they’d communicate if they weren’t allowed to talk.

Rule 3: The Random 3 AM Test

Every week, Maya will call one of them at 3 AM with a pop quiz about you.

If they fail to answer correctly, they must run a mile immediately, half naked.

If they pass, they earn a “Get-Out-of-Dumbassery Card.”

(You opened your mouth, but Maya cut you off. “If you protest, I have duct tape.” Gojo was smirking like he’d fail that one on purpose so you’d be all territorial over him.)

Rule 4: “You Will Never Forget Her Again” Rule

Gojo and Nanami must each write a 100-word letter to you every week.

If they skip a week? You are allowed to ghost them for 48 hours.

Bonus: You are not obligated to read them. You can leave them on read.

(Gojo groaned at you to make it stop, “Babe, I don’t even do my office paperwork.” Nanami closed his eyes, resigned.)

Rule 5: Weekly "What Did We Learn?" Presentations

Every Sunday night, they must deliver a PowerPoint presentation on what they’ve learned about you that week.

Requirements:

One genuine compliment.

One sincere apology.

One fun fact about you they didn’t know before.

Three compliments per day—no repeats.

If they succeed, the winner gets to hold your hand—but only if you initiate.

Gojo’s head snapped toward you, his six eyes scanning you like he was memorizing every detail to outdo Nanami, who was already mentally outlining bullet points.

Rule 6: No Skipping “Sunday Alone Day”

If either of them bothers you on Sunday, they must immediately attend solo therapy.

If they make it through the day without bothering you, they earn one hour of bonus time with you the following week.

Whoever isn’t on “custody duty” must spend time on at least one hobby and provide concrete proof of their progress.

Maya paused, her gaze sharpening. “Who’s your worst enemy right now?”

Gojo blurted out, “Fushiguro,” still bitter that you’d called Megumi “Megs” after all these years. Nanami, without hesitation, said, “Haibara,” like he’d been waiting for someone to ask.

“Good,” Maya said, smiling sweetly. “You’ll stay with them when you’re not on custody duty.”

Both men paled.

Rule 7: No Money No Hunny

This time, Maya leaned forward, her gaze dissecting. “Here’s the rule: you can’t spend your own money this week. You need to ask your husbands—well, whoever is on duty—for whatever you want. And don’t worry,” she added, her tone dripping with faux sweetness, “they’re not allowed to reject your requests.”

“Hell no,” you yelled, immediately trying to sit up. But a sharp twinge in your back forced you to slump back into the couch, wincing.

Gojo, who had been clinging to you like some kind of overgrown, emotionally needy barnacle, immediately perked up. His six eyes scanned you with laser focus, searching for any sign of injury. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Do you need ice? A massage? A—“

“She’s fine,” Maya interrupted, her tone clipped.

She studied Gojo for a moment. Then she turned back to you, her expression softening just a fraction. “If you do this,” she said, “you’re allowed to sabotage them as much as you like. Make it difficult. Make it annoying. But you have to ask.”

Your face paled. “But—“

She cut you off, her voice firm but not unkind. “You have hyper-independence issues. We need to fix it. This isn’t just about them—it’s about you learning to let someone else take care of you for once.”

You groaned, slumping further into the couch. “Fine,” you grumbled, crossing your arms.

Gojo looked between you and Maya like he was trying to solve a particularly complicated math problem. “Wait, so… I get to spoil her? Like, no limits? No budget?”

“No budget,” Maya confirmed, her smile sharp. “But don’t get too excited. This isn’t about you. It’s about her.”

Nanami, who had been sitting quietly in the corner, finally spoke up. His voice was calm but firm. “What if she asks for something unreasonable?”

Maya raised an eyebrow. “Define ‘unreasonable.’”

Nanami hesitated, his jaw tightening. “Something that could put her at risk. Or something… excessive.”

Maya’s smirk widened. “If it’s within reason and doesn’t endanger her, you’re not allowed to say no. That’s the point. She needs to feel supported, not judged.”

Nanami nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “Understood.”

Gojo, meanwhile, was practically vibrating with excitement. “Oh, this is going to be fun. I’m taking her shopping. And to that fancy restaurant she likes. And—“

“Gojo,” Maya interrupted, her tone warning. “This isn’t about you showing off. It’s about her feeling cared for. Got it?”

Gojo’s grin faltered for a moment, but then he nodded, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “Got it.”

Final Rule: The “If You Fail Too Much, I Get to Choose Your Third Husband” Rule

If either of them fails more than three times per week, Maya gets to handpick a third husband to “balance out their incompetence.”

Gojo’s face twisted in horror. “Absolutely not.”

“That sounds reasonable,” Nanami said mildly.

Gojo shot him a glare. “WHOSE SIDE ARE YOU ON?”

Maya rolled up the scroll and tossed it onto the table. “So,” she said, her smile razor-sharp. “Who’s going first?”

“I will,” Gojo declared, practically hanging off your arm.

“No,” Nanami said, already pulling a coin from his pocket. “We’ll toss for it.”

Gojo opened his mouth to argue, but Nanami flipped the coin before he could.

It hit the floor with a sharp clink.

Nanami bent down, picked it up, and pocketed it without looking at the result.

“I’ll go first,” he said calmly.

“Why?” Gojo asked, suspicious.

“Because I can’t risk you being alone with her right now,” Nanami replied flatly.

Gojo’s grin widened. “Aw, you’re jealous.”

Nanami’s gaze was cutting. “No. I’m realistic.”

Gojo’s smile turned predatory. “We’ll see.”

You rolled your eyes.

Apparently, you weren’t JUST married to clowns—you were married to 14-year-old clowns.

Maya stood, itching her stomach. “Excellent,” she said, her smile widening. “This is going to be so much fun.”

You sighed. This was going to be a long week.

---

The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding, and soon the three of you stepped into the penthouse. Gojo’s hand rested lightly against your lower back, his touch both protective and grounding. Nanami’s grip on your arm was firm and steady, as if he sensed how close you were to unraveling.

You were exhausted. The therapy session had stripped you raw, leaving every nerve exposed. The idea of splitting your life between them—reduced to a schedule, a custody agreement for your own body and emotions—still burned like a fresh wound.

Your feet were swollen, your back ached, and the weight of the pregnancy pressed heavily on your hips. The twins were restless inside you, their cursed energy pulsing against your skin like a storm waiting to break.

All you wanted was to sleep.

Instead, you walked straight into chaos.

“Ah, Satoru.”

You froze.

The living room was filled with people. A man and a woman stood near the couch—tall, elegant, and radiating authority. Behind them stood an older woman with iron-gray hair tied into a severe knot, her military-cut jacket and steely gaze making her presence feel like a threat. And beside her—your mother.

This reunion was something all three of you hoped would never happen.

Your chest tightened painfully, and you instinctively stepped closer to Gojo, seeking shelter behind his broad frame. His hand moved protectively to your waist, pulling you closer, while Nanami’s grip on your arm tightened, his body shifting subtly to shield you.

The man stepped forward first, his hands tucked casually into his kimono. “Satoru,” he said smoothly, his voice dripping with false warmth. “It’s been a long time.”

“Father,” Gojo acknowledged, his tone guarded.

His mother tilted her head, her lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line. “We heard you got married.”

“You could have called,” Gojo replied dryly, his voice edged with bitterness.

His father’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t tell us.”

“Maybe because I didn’t think you’d care,” Gojo said with feigned nonchalance, shrugging. “You left me with the family retainers the moment I was born. Why start pretending now?”

His mother sighed, as if the conversation were beneath her. “And now we hear you're... sharing.” Her gaze flicked toward Nanami, her distaste palpable.

Nanami’s jaw tightened, his hand sliding protectively to your shoulder.

“You’ll have to forgive us for not understanding the arrangement,” Gojo’s father said, his tone icy. “It seems... improper.”

Your mother snorted from across the room. “It’s humiliating.”

Your stomach churned, and you pressed a hand instinctively to your belly, as if shielding the twins from her venom. “Mom,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “What are you doing here?”

She didn’t answer immediately, her eyes sweeping over the penthouse with disdain. Her designer sunglasses perched atop her head, and her manicured nails tapped impatiently against her arm.

“Well,” she said, her gaze raking over you from head to toe. “I see you’ve… expanded.”

You flinched, your heart hammering in your chest.

She stepped closer, her heels clicking sharply against the polished floor. “You ran away years ago,” she said, her voice dripping with contempt. “I suppose you’ve been… busy.”

“I didn’t know you were coming,” you said, your voice thin and fragile.

“You didn’t need to know,” she replied, her tone dismissive. Her eyes landed on the table, where unopened baby catalogs and receipts were scattered. “Twins? How ambitious. Yet you still parade your stomach around town.”

You pressed your hand harder against your stomach. “Why are you here?”

She hummed, circling you like a predator. Her eyes took in every detail—the dark circles beneath your eyes, the slight swell of your skin, the way you shifted your weight to ease the ache in your back.

“This is what you’ve been up to,” she said, her voice low and cutting. “Running away, getting knocked up, and playing house with two men...”

You didn’t answer; your throat too tight to speak.

Her gaze darkened. “Do you know how humiliating that was for me?”

Your heart lurched. “I—”

“Oh, don’t bother,” she snapped, cutting you off. “You’ve always been selfish. Always dragging this family’s name through the dirt.”

You felt the blood drain from your face, her words slicing through the fragile calm you had managed to hold onto.

She stepped closer, her fingers curling under your chin, forcing you to meet her eyes. “And now you’ve let yourself get pregnant?” Her lips curled into a sneer. “By both of them?”

You pulled away, her hand falling from your face. “They love me.”

Her laugh was sharp enough to draw blood. “Love you?” She tilted her head, her smile cutting. “You’ve always been so naïve. They love the idea of you. Of ownership. Of the money you bring in. Don’t mistake that for love.”

You bit down hard on the inside of your cheek, your hands trembling at your sides.

Her voice dripped with venom. “I thought I raised you better than that.”

“You didn’t raise me at all,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Gojo’s mother stepped forward, her mouth curling in disdain. “And now you expect me to believe these... things inside you are even his?” Her eyes cut toward Gojo. “Are you even sure they’re yours?”

Your mother’s lips twisted into a smirk. “That’s a valid question.”

Gojo’s face went blank, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

“Their cursed energy,” Gojo’s father said, stepping closer, “if they’re really yours—”

“Stop,” Gojo said, his voice low and dangerous.

“—then it would only be responsible for the clan to take them in,” his mother continued, her tone icy. “If they’ve inherited your technique, they belong with us.”

Your skin crawled.

“You want my children?” Gojo’s smile was razor-edged, his voice deceptively calm.

“They have potential,” his father said coolly.

“Potential,” Gojo repeated hollowly, his heart pounding thickly in his throat. “You’re talking about them like they're... a product. An asset.”

“They are a legacy,” Gojo’s mother said, her voice cold and final.

“And if they don’t meet expectations?” Nanami’s voice cut, low and edged.

Gojo’s father’s mouth thinned. “They won’t fail.”

Nanami’s great-aunt stepped forward, her presence a wall of restrained fury. “You are all insane.” Her voice cracked like a whip. “This is why I told you,” she said, turning to Nanami, “to stay away from this family.”

Nanami’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond.

“And now,” she continued, her glare sweeping over the room, “you’re tied to this mess, and you’ve allowed my grandson to lower himself into this... arrangement?”

“She’s my wife,” Gojo said coldly.

“And Kento’s,” Nanami's great-aunt snapped, then turned to Nanami. “Kento, you still have time; divorce him and save your relationship with her and the babies. The fact that he’s comfortable reducing her to some kind of political experiment—”

“I’m not reducing her to anything!” Gojo’s voice sharpened, his cursed energy buzzing dangerously beneath his skin.

“Enough.”

Nanami half-yelled, his presence silencing the room. “You’re embarrassing yourselves.” 

But your mother was undeterred.

She glared. “You always let men do the hard work for you, don’t you?”

“You need to leave,” you said, your voice breaking.

She raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“I’m tired,” you said, your voice unsteady. “I don’t have the energy for this.”

Her mouth tightened. “Then I suppose you don’t have the energy to be a good wife either?”

You froze.

“Poor Kento,” she mused. “He’s such a good man. Patient. Responsible. Do you know how lucky you are to have landed someone like him?”

You swallowed thickly. Nanami’s grandmother’s sister immediately zeroed in on Gojo, again. “You,” she said, pointing a finger at him. “You’re the reason my grandson is tied up in this mess. Careless, reckless, and—”

Nanami interrupted, his voice calm but firm. “Stop talking.”

“And you. Divorce him, Kento. You deserve better than this circus.” She snapped.

“And Satoru—” Your mother’s smile sharpened. “Handsome. Powerful. He could have anyone.” Her gaze flicked toward your belly. “Strange, isn’t it? That he’d settle for you.”

You felt your throat close. You pressed a hand over your head.

“And yet,” she continued, “you are here, looking miserable and pathetic. Can’t even bring yourself to take care of them, can you?”

“I’m pregnant,” you choked out.

“And?” Her mouth twisted. “Women have been pregnant before. How do you think I gave birth? No epidural because we worked.”

You flinched. “I do work around the house.” You didn’t know why you were justifying yourself to her; she always thought keeping more housekeeping staff was better than having to save any money for her only kid’s future, because at least she wouldn’t have to carry her bags.

“You should be grateful,” she said, brushing imaginary lint from her sleeve. “You’ve been handed two of the most powerful men in the world, and you can’t even manage to cook them a meal?”

“Mom—”

“You don’t deserve them.”

Your vision blurred.

She stepped closer, her voice lowering to a cutting whisper. “You’ve always been a disappointment.”

Your chest constricted, the world spinning around you.

She smiled like a shark. “Not only that, you’ve gotten fat too.”

Gojo’s eyes sharpened dangerously, his cursed energy flickering faintly beneath his skin. His hands twitched at his sides, as if he were restraining himself from stepping in. Nanami’s jaw twitched, his golden eyes narrowing, but he remained still, his fists clenched tightly. Your hand instinctively pressed to the swell of your stomach.

“I’m six months pregnant,” your voice was sharp. Flat.

Her smile widened. “That’s no excuse for looking cheap.”

Gojo’s hands curled into fists, his knuckles white. Nanami’s gaze flicked toward you, his expression unreadable but his body tense. Their cursed energy stirred beneath the surface, a silent storm waiting to break.

Your mother’s eyes glinted as she surveyed the room. “So this is what you’ve been doing?” A slow, mocking glance toward Gojo and Nanami. “Sleeping your way to the top?”

Your throat tightened.

“You think they’ll stick around when they realize what you are?” Her smile was thin. “Should’ve gotten you taken care of. Well, it’s not too late.”

You knew this moment would come eventually.

But not like this. Not in front of them.

You didn't want the humiliation.

Your mother stood in the middle of your living room, a familiar silhouette of disappointment.

You hadn’t seen her in years, but the sight of her still made your chest cave in.

The babies kicked violently inside you, as if they too could feel the tension twisting through the air.

“How long are you going to threaten to get me raped, Mom?”

The words hung in the air like a gunshot.

Shattering.

Violent.

Both of your husbands gazes snapped towards you.

Gojo’s breath sharpened audibly, his cursed energy flaring for a split second before he reined it in. His jaw clenched, a cold, dangerous stillness. Nanami’s shoulders coiled, his hands flexing at his sides as if he were fighting the urge to step between you and her.

“You can’t stand me,” you said, voice cracking beneath the weight of it. “But you still won’t leave me the fuck alone.”

Your mother’s smile was brittle at the edges. Her hands were clasped neatly, unmoving, as if she’d practiced this posture a hundred times in the mirror.

“Why?” you whispered, the tremor in your throat rising like bile. “Why did you have me if you were only going to hate me? Why did you keep me alive just to sharpen your claws on me?”

Her mouth opened, but you cut her off.

“No, really. Why?” Your breath hitched painfully. “Your marriage not working out wasn’t my fault. I didn’t ask to be born just because you needed a fucking punching bag.”

Gojo’s head lowered, his hands trembling slightly at his sides. Nanami’s fists tightened, his knuckles white, but he remained rooted in place, his jaw working as if he were biting back words.

“You ask me for money,” you went on, breathless and shaking, “but still treat me like I’m nothing. If money’s all you fucking want, I’ll send a check. I can afford that. I can’t afford this. Just—let me go. Pretend I’m dead. A lot of people already do.”

You could feel Gojo and Nanami’s eyes burning into you, but you couldn’t stop. The words were clawing their way out of you, jagged and bloodstained.

“I have given you everything,” you hissed, the rage climbing your throat. “And you give me nothing back but grief and humiliation. I made a career out of nothing, and you still walk around telling your friends how I’m a bum. Because you just want people who don’t give a single fuck about you to give you sympathy because, ‘Oh my god, my daughter is a piece of shit’ is the only line you can use to make friends in your pathetic existence.”

Her smile didn’t slip.

“You want me to read your mind, to bend myself into whatever fucked-up shape you want, and when I fail, you call me a failure. When I succeed, you resent me for doing better than you expected. I WILL NEVER FUCKING GET A SINGLE PIECE OF RECOGNITION FROM YOU, WILL I?”

Your breath caught painfully.

Her mouth parted, but you cut her off before she could speak.

“Mom,” you spat. “You filed a police complaint against me when I was eleven because I yelled at you after you called me a whore—something you’ve been doing since I was four—because I finally had enough. Who the hell was I whoring myself out to at four years old, Mom?”

Gojo’s entire body went taut. His Six Eyes glowed faintly, the air around him crackling with restrained energy. His hands twitched at his sides, as if he were holding himself back from stepping in.

“If Mr. Fushiguro hadn’t saved me that day,” you whispered, “I’d have been in prison. Do you understand how fucked up it is that none of the cops took your side—even when I had no money, no influence? Do you get how messed up that is toward your only child? Does that get into your fucking head, Mom?”

Her smile froze at the edges, a spiderweb of tension cracking through her expression.

Nanami’s jaw flexed, his golden eyes narrowing. His hands were clenched into fists, his cursed energy simmering beneath the surface like a controlled storm.

“And you still keep doing it,” you went on, your voice thin and brittle. “Every time I see a cop, I wonder what lie you’ve told them now. I remember you saying I carried a knife. Then you added pepper spray because you ‘didn’t know why I’d need it.’ ”

Her smile sharpened. “I was trying to protect myself because this is exactly how you react, and I worry you’d wake up and kill me one day.”

You laughed, a hollow sound that scraped at your throat.

“You’re shameless,” your voice hardened. “When I told you everything, Mom, you just laughed. Then you told my ex to beat me because ‘I needed to be kept in check.’ Didn’t Dad used to beat you?”

Mention of your father finally got a reaction out of her.

Her eyes glinted with something cruel.

Gojo inhaled sharply, his cursed energy flaring for a moment before he reined it in. Nanami’s gaze flicked toward you, his expression unreadable but his body tense, ready to intervene if needed.

Her hand raised.

Gojo saw red.

You flinched as Gojo moved faster than Nanami could react.

His hand shot out, catching her wrist mid-air.

Crack!

Her bones didn’t break—but the pressure was enough to make her knees buckle. His Six Eyes burned ice-blue, cursed energy vibrating through the air like a live wire.

“Don’t,” Gojo said, his voice low, frigid, and dangerous. “Touch. Her.”

Your mother’s smile twitched. “You dare—”

“Satoru,” you said, your voice loud and commanding.

Gojo’s gaze whipped toward you, his pupils blown wide.

“Let go,” you said quietly.

Gojo’s grip loosened—but his hand hovered over her wrist like he didn’t trust himself to let go completely.

“She was going to hit you,” he said, his eyes darting across your face, searching for something.

“You will not hit my mother,” you said, your voice steady despite the tears threatening to spill out.

His mouth parted, his breath hitching.

His hand fell to his side, but his cursed energy still crackled around him, a silent warning.

Your mother, meanwhile, had done what she always did.

Started crying like Gojo actually hurt her, gaining sympathy from the other guardians.

Nanami’s golden eyes locked onto them, his voice steady and implacable. “Leave,” he said. “Now.”

Your mother’s eyes flicked toward Nanami. She smiled thinly. “Or what?”

“I don’t need to explain,” Nanami replied, his tone cool and final.

“I raised her,” your mother said, standing straighter.

“Providing basic needs like food, roof and education is not raising a child,” Nanami said flatly, his gaze unwavering.

Your mother’s eyes narrowed. “You think you can do better?”

“I am doing better,” he replied, his voice calm.

“This is what you have married, Satoru?” Gojo’s mother yelled. “She’s making you violent.”

Gojo’s laugh was humorless. “You made me violent ever since you handed me over to the clan to become the next clan head. The last line of defense.  A fucking nuclear weapon.”

Your chest burned, the weight of years of, your and his, pain and anger pressing down on you.

“You don’t get to come into my home,” you said, your voice steady despite the storm thrumming beneath your ribs, “and disrespect me. Or them.”

Her gaze sharpened. “Your home?”

“I own the building,” you said, your tone leaving no room for argument.

“You’ll ruin your children,” your mother said, her voice dripping with venom.

“I’d rather ruin them myself,” you replied, your voice cold and final, “I’d rather take that risk than let you anywhere near them—someone who thinks it’s okay to laugh at a child sharing something so traumatic that they’ll never be the same.”

Her mouth pressed into a thin line.

“You’re going to regret this,” she said, her voice low and threatening.

“Or you will, because you can’t get them to hate me too." You said, voice steady.

Gojo’s father cleared his throat from behind her, his voice dripping with disdain. “Are they even yours, Satoru?” he asked, his tone cold and calculating. “Or are you just playing house with someone else’s children?”

The air shifted. Gojo’s gaze sharpened dangerously, his cursed energy flickering at the edges of perception—a storm about to break. His head lifted slightly, white lashes lowering over those sharp, crystalline eyes.

“Careful, father.”

His voice was low, almost soft. It made the hairs on the back of their neck rise.

Nanami’s hand brushed Gojo’s arm—steady, grounding—a subtle press of fingers against tense muscle. His cursed energy pulsed faintly beneath his skin, a controlled but unmistakable threat. A warning.

Even if the twins weren't of Gojo and were of Nanami, he'd still protect them without a word and so would Nanami. That was always the unspoken rule. Because that's what they did. Protect everyone and be so honest to god they'd die protecting you and this family.

Gojo’s father’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. "You can’t protect them alone. They’ll need to be trained for the inevitable. Besides…" His gaze darkened. "Don’t you have to go back to work once your suspension is lifted? I’m trying to help you, Satoru. It should be soon."

Gojo’s mouth curled into a smile—cold, hollow—the kind that stripped the warmth from the room. The kind of smile you see right before something terrible happens.

"I killed them all, Father."

Gojo’s father’s smile faltered. His face paled. "Who?"

"All the higher-ups." Gojo’s voice was eerily calm, almost conversational. His head tilted slightly, eyes gleaming beneath the stark white of his lashes. "Me and Nanami tag-teamed it. Two days ago. They haven’t been returning your calls, have they?"

His smile widened.

Lower-grades, unlike those of special or first-grade status, couldn’t determine the lineage of the children you carried based solely on cursed energy signatures. This is why Gojo’s parents were unaware of who's kids his wife carried—they were ordinary members of the Gojo clan, with no notable standing, until Satoru was born. His extraordinary birth elevated their status, transforming them into respected figures within the clan. Their sudden obsession with taking his children might have been a calculated move to further ingratiate themselves with the clan’s hierarchy, using his offsprings as a means to secure their newfound position. And Gojo was painfully aware of it but he knew confrontation would not work on them.

"Sadly," Gojo continued, "they can’t even trace it back to us to put us up for execution. Nanami cleaned up everything, and you know his technique — he’s meticulous enough to get away with any murder."

Nanami barely suppressed a smirk. His cursed energy buzzed faintly beneath the surface like a low hum of electricity.

"Let the remaining ones manage it," Gojo said lightly. "And as soon as they get tired, they’ll come crawling back and let me take over. I’ll generously sit at the top." His eyes sharpened into narrow slits of ice. "You wanted me to be successful, Father, and I will be. I’ll be the head of the Jujutsu society—not just the clan."

Gojo’s mother’s face twisted. Her hand clenched into a delicate fist at her side. "Are you insane?" Her voice pitched higher, nearly frantic. "This is no way to talk to your father. Over… this—"

She gestured toward you with a flick of her hand, her lip curling in disgust.

"This… thing."

Your stomach curled.

Nanami’s hand tightened on Gojo’s arm. You didn’t know if it was to steady Gojo or himself.

"It’s fine if you want to… indulge yourself," Gojo’s mother continued, her voice trembling with barely concealed rage. "But you will not speak to your father this way. And you will give us the children once they’re born. They’ll be raised properly. Not by some—"

"You disgust me, Mother."

Gojo’s words were soft, almost weightless—but they fell like a blade.

His mother’s nostrils flared. Her eyes narrowed into thin, gleaming slits. "You think you can just dismiss us? We’re your parents. Those children are our legacy—"

"Your legacy?" Gojo’s head tilted, eyes gleaming like a polished edge. His voice dropped. "You don’t get to claim them. You don’t get to claim me. I’m not your weapon. And neither are they."

His father’s face darkened. "You ungrateful brat." His voice sharpened, brittle with rage. "We gave you everything—power, status, the Gojo name—"

"You gave me nothing." Gojo’s voice cracked like ice underfoot. His smile faded. "You turned me into a tool the moment I was born. You don’t care about me. You don’t care about them. All you care about is what they can do for you."

Gojo’s mother took a step forward, chin lifting in a last grasp at authority. "You owe us, Satoru! You owe this clan!"

Gojo’s jaw flexed. His breath sharpened. His eyes darkened beneath the pale white fringe of his lashes.

"I owe you nothing." His voice trembled with rage. "And if you ever come near my children, I’ll make sure you regret it."

His mother’s face twisted into something dark. Ugly. "You wouldn’t dare—"

Nanami stepped forward.

Gojo’s mother’s mouth snapped shut.

Nanami’s presence swelled—calm, unyielding. His cursed energy rose in a slow, chilling wave. The pressure in the room sharpened—heavier, colder. His eyes gleamed beneath his glasses.

"This is your last warning. Leave," Nanami said quietly.

Gojo’s mother’s eye’s twitched.

Gojo’s father hesitated. His eyes narrowed, mouth parting slightly as if to protest—

Nanami’s cursed energy snapped.

Your mother blinked, her composure faltering for the first time.

Gojo’s mother took a step back, her expression unreadable. His father hesitated, his eyes narrowing, but he said nothing.

Nanami stepped forward, his presence towering and unyielding. “Do not make me repeat myself.”

Your mother scoffed, but the tremor in her jaw gave her away. “You wouldn’t—”

Nanami’s cursed energy flared, the air around him growing heavy.

Gojo’s mother straightened, her chin lifted in a last attempt at dignity. “You’ll regret this,” she hissed, her voice trembling with venom.

“I already do,” Gojo said, his voice cold. “I regret ever thinking you could change.”

She stepped back, her chin lifted in a last attempt at defiance, but the fear in her eyes was unmistakable. Gojo’s parents followed without a word, their earlier arrogance replaced by silence. Nanami’s great-aunt hesitated, her gaze lingering on Nanami for a moment, before she turned and left.

The door closed with a quiet click.

The silence pressed into your lungs, heavy and suffocating.

Gojo’s head was lowered, his broad shoulders hunched as if the weight of the world had finally crushed him. His hands trembled at his sides, his cursed energy flickering faintly, unstable and raw. He looked... broken.

Nanami’s hand hovered near his arm, unsure if he was allowed to touch him, unsure if his touch would be welcomed or rejected. His golden eyes were dark with concern, his usual calm demeanor fraying at the edges.

Your chest tightened painfully, a sharp ache spreading through your ribs. Shame crawled beneath your skin, hot and suffocating.

You shouldn’t have stopped him.

You shouldn’t have humiliated him like that.

You hated it.

You hated yourself for it.

You hated the way Gojo had looked at you—like you were something fragile. Like you were something breakable. Like he had failed you, even though it was you who had failed him.

You walked past them, the crushing weight of shame settling into your chest like a stone. Your footsteps were soft, barely audible against the polished floor, but each step felt like a betrayal.

“Where are you going?” Nanami asked, his voice low and steady, though there was an edge of worry beneath it.

“Don’t worry,” you replied hollowly, not meeting his gaze. “I’ll be around the building.”

These days, you didn’t tell them where you were going, but right now it felt like looking for you might hurt Gojo more. You couldn’t bear the thought of him chasing after you, not after what had just happened.

His gaze followed you as you walked away, his eyes burning into your back. His mouth parted, like he wanted to speak—like he wanted to call you back, to fix this, to make it right—but the words didn’t come. They never did.

Your arms shook as you stepped outside, the cold biting into your skin. The ache behind your ribs tightened painfully, a dull throb that refused to fade. You hugged Nanami’s overcoat around your stomach, the fabric still carrying the faint scent of his cologne. It should have been comforting, but it only made the guilt worse.

You weren’t trying to run.

You just needed air.

The walls of the corridor had been closing in for hours—days, maybe—and you’d spent the last fifteen minutes staring at the massive glass windows, counting the lights flickering in the distance, feeling the restless energy under your skin.

So you walked away.

The building was quiet this late, the freshly polished marble floors reflecting the dim, low lighting. You padded barefoot through the hall, one hand resting on the swell of your stomach as you drifted past the concierge desk.

“Madam,” the receptionist murmured, nodding respectfully as you passed. His gaze flicked toward the gentle curve of your belly, then back to his computer.

You nodded and smiled politely at him, the gesture automatic and hollow. Your reflection followed you along the mirrored walls—barefoot, messy hair falling over your shoulders, dark circles etched beneath your eyes. You looked—

Haunted.

Your hand slid down over your stomach, a reflex. Protective. Instinctual. The twins curled beneath your touch, their cursed energy pulsing in sync with your heartbeat, low and heavy, like distant thunder.

You drifted past the spa, past the rooftop garden, and down the wide corridor that led to the gym. The glass doors slid open soundlessly as you approached.

That’s when you saw him.

“Yo.”

Haibara was walking out of the gym, a towel slung over his shoulder, his hair damp from a post-workout shower. He spotted you immediately, his eyes brightening with recognition—then narrowing when he saw the state of you.

“You look like shit,” he said, not unkindly.

“Thanks,” you muttered, your voice hollow.

He stepped toward you, his expression shifting from amusement to concern. His eyes swept over your face, lingering on the dark circles beneath your eyes, then down toward your chest.

“You’re leaking.”

You froze.

“What?”

“Your—” He gestured vaguely toward your chest. “—boobs. Leaking.”

Your face burned.

You looked down.

He wasn’t wrong—two faint, wet stains had bloomed across the fabric of your shirt.

“Oh my god.”

“Wait—” Haibara was already reaching for his towel.

“I got it,” you said, stepping back quickly. “It’s fine—”

“Haibara?”

You stiffened.

Megumi’s head appeared around the corner, his dark hair slightly disheveled. He walked toward you, his brow furrowing when he saw Haibara standing so close.

“What’s going on?”

“Her boobs are leaking,” Haibara informed helpfully.

“Shut the fuck up,” you hissed, swatting at him.

Megumi’s mouth twitched—then his gaze sharpened. He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as his hand caught your chin while the other pulled down the hood of Gojo’s sweatshirt you were wearing, tilting your face toward the light.

“Your cheek,” he said quietly.

“What?”

His thumb brushed over your skin. A flinch.

You went still.

“That’s a handprint,” he said. His voice was low, dangerous. “Who touched you?”

Haibara’s gaze darkened, his usual cheerfulness replaced by something colder, sharper.

“I’m going to kill her,” Megumi said simply, his tone calm but laced with venom.

“You don’t know that it was her,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“Who the fuck else would it be?” Haibara said coldly. His jaw flexed. “How the hell did she get in? Where is she?”

Your mouth opened, but the words stuck. Your chest tightened painfully. You could still feel the heat of her palm against your skin and the sharp sting of her nails.

“You should be grateful,” her voice echoed distantly. “You don’t deserve them.”

Megumi’s hand curled beneath your chin. His touch was gentle, but his expression was razor-sharp.

“You should’ve called,” he said softly, his voice tinged with frustration and something deeper—something you couldn’t quite place.

You pulled away, your heart hammering painfully beneath your ribs.

“I’m fine,” you said, your voice thin and unconvincing.

“You’re not,” Haibara said bluntly. His eyes were dark, his jaw clenched as he stared at you. “You’re not fine. And you shouldn’t be walking around alone like this.”

You forced yourself to turn toward the door. “I need to go.”

They didn’t stop you. 

As you moved through the dimly lit space, you could feel their eyes on you, a mix of concern and something darker simmering just beneath the surface.

You didn’t look back, but you could almost hear the unspoken words hanging in the air, the mingling frustration and helplessness.

You walked back through the building in a daze, the hallways stretching unnaturally long in front of you. Your chest ached. Your skin burned where her hand had been.

The penthouse was dark when you returned. The only light came from the city sprawling below through the floor-to-ceiling windows, a glittering reminder of the world that didn’t care about your broken edges. The silence was heavy—oppressive—pressing into your lungs until it hurt to breathe.

Gojo was standing by the glass wall, his hands buried deep in his pockets. His white hair was slightly rumpled, his broad shoulders tense beneath the loose fabric of his shirt. His back was to you, but you knew he’d sensed you the moment you entered. He always did.

"You left."

His voice was quiet, almost fragile.

You swallowed hard, throat tightening painfully. "I just needed air."

He turned.

His eyes were bright, but there was something frayed beneath them—something raw and brittle, barely holding together. His gaze slid over you, taking in the dark circles beneath your eyes, the fading mark on your cheek, the tension in your shoulders.

"You should’ve told me," he said, voice low.

"I can handle it," you replied, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Can you?"

Your chest tightened painfully, the words cutting deeper than you expected. You looked away, unable to meet his gaze.

"I’m tired," you said quietly, your voice trembling.

Gojo’s hands stayed in his pockets, but his cursed energy flickered beneath the surface—sharp, restless. His shoulders stiffened. "You can’t keep doing this," he said, voice breaking slightly. "Shutting us out. Shutting me out."

"I know." Your throat burned. "I know."

Gojo’s gaze softened, his lips parting slightly as if he were about to speak—but no words came out. Instead, he stepped closer, his hand brushing your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his. His thumb smoothed over the red mark on your cheek, his touch so tender it made your chest ache.

"I hate seeing you like this," he whispered, his voice breaking. “I hate that I couldn’t protect you. That I couldn’t fix this for you."

Your breath hitched. His hand on your face was warm—steady—and you leaned into it without meaning to. His thumb brushed over your cheekbone, his touch lingering. You could see the guilt in his eyes, the way it pooled behind the brightness, the way it stuck to his skin like tar.

"I know." Your voice cracked. A tear slipped down your cheek, and his thumb caught it, brushing it away with a tenderness that made your heart clench.

For six months, you had kept him at arm’s length. Six months of stolen glances, of aching silences, of longing that neither of you dared to voice.

But now, standing there with his hand on your face and his breath mingling with yours, you finally felt the walls you’d built begin to crumble.

"I didn’t know about your mother."

Your breath stalled.

Gojo’s voice was quiet, strained. His thumb lingered beneath your jaw. His mouth twisted, something dark and sharp flickering behind his eyes.

Your chest burned. Your mouth opened—closed.

"Why didn’t you tell me?" Gojo’s eyes softened, his brows drawing together.

"I don’t know."

His eyes were so painfully blue in the dark. His breath hitched. His hand curled against your jaw. "I would’ve killed her."

Your breath wavered. "Satoru—"

"No." His voice sharpened. His eyes darkened beneath the soft light of the city skyline. "I mean it." His hand slid from your jaw to your throat—not to squeeze, not to hurt—just to feel the rapid beat of your pulse beneath his fingertips. "You think I don’t understand? You think I don’t know what it’s like to be used—to be simply never thought of?" His breath hitched, his eyes widening slightly, pupils trembling. "You think I don’t know how it feels to love someone who only loves what you can do for them?"

Your heart stilled.

"You think I don’t know how it feels to hate them for it?" His eyes glistened. His thumb brushed against the hollow of your throat. "I grew up in a house full of ghosts." His mouth twisted. "I learned how to haunt people before I learned how to live."

Your breath trembled.

"I didn’t know it was that bad," he said softly. His hand slid up the back of your neck, curling into your hair. "I should’ve known. I should’ve asked."

"You were busy," you whispered. "With Nanami."

Gojo’s breath stalled. His mouth parted. His hand tightened in your hair.

"I never meant—"

"I know. I'm married to him. Trust me I know."

“Deflecting through humor is my thing baby,” Gojo’s eyes burned. His mouth lowered to yours, his breath trembling against your lips. His hand on your jaw was careful, hesitant—like he was scared you’d pull away.

You didn’t.

He kissed you slowly, trembling and hesitant, his lips pressing softly against yours. It was a question, a plea, a promise all at once.

His lips brushed yours softly—barely there, a ghost of a kiss, as if he were afraid you’d shatter under the weight of it. Your breath hitched, your hands curling into the fabric of his shirt, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded.

He kissed you again, slow and hesitant, his lips trembling against yours. Your eyes stung, tears spilling over as your fingers tightened in his shirt, pulling him closer.

You didn’t push him away.

You couldn’t. Not anymore.

His hand slid to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he deepened the kiss. It was desperate and tender, a collision of six months of longing and heartache. His breath hitched against your lips, a quiet sob escaping him as he held you like you were the most fragile thing in the world.

And then, just as quickly as it had begun, it was over.

“Enough.”

Nanami’s voice cut through like a blade, cold and sharp.

His hand was fisted in the back of Gojo’s collar, yanking him away from you with a force that left no room for argument. His face was set in stone, but his eyes—his eyes burned with something raw and unspoken.

Gojo stumbled back, his chest heaving, his lips still parted as if he were trying to hold onto the taste of you. He turned to Nanami, his expression a mix of anger and guilt.

Nanami’s gaze flicked to you, his eyes softening for just a moment before hardening again. “This isn’t the time,” he said, his voice low and firm. “Not like this.”

You swallowed hard, your hands trembling at your sides. Gojo looked at you, his eyes pleading, but you couldn’t find the words to respond. The moment was gone, shattered by the reality of the world around you.

"She’s exhausted," Nanami said, his voice low and even. "She doesn’t need this."

Gojo’s gaze darted toward you, his chest heaving, his lips still parted as if trying to hold onto the taste of you.

"She’s my wife too," Gojo said, his voice low.

"And you’ve done enough damage for one night." Nanami’s tone was razor-sharp. His gaze flicked toward you, softening briefly. "Go to bed. Both of you."

Gojo’s jaw flexed. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. His gaze lingered on you, his eyes filled with a mix of longing and regret.

"Fine," Gojo said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Nanami’s hand slid down Gojo’s back, guiding him toward the hallway. Gojo’s head lowered slightly beneath the weight of Nanami’s touch. He didn’t resist.

You stood there, shaking, your hands pressed to your chest. Your heart was still racing, the weight of everything crashing down on you all at once.

Gojo glanced back as Nanami pulled him away—his gaze hollow and tired. But beneath it, beneath the fear and guilt and longing—there was something else.

Understanding.

You stood there, shaking, your hands pressed against your chest. Your heart was still racing, the weight of everything crashing down on you all at once.

---

Sometime later after you fell asleep.

Group Chat: Dad Crimes 💀

Father Time: Did you know that oxytocin, the bonding hormone, spikes in fathers when they spend time around pregnant partners? 

Daddy: Uh-huh. 😏 

Father Time: Which means you’re probably more emotionally attached to her right now than you’ve ever been in your life. 

Daddy: So what? 🥰 

Father Time: Which also means if you lose her, your brain will likely enter a state of prolonged emotional withdrawal, comparable to drug addiction withdrawal. 

Daddy: 🧍🏻‍♂️ 

Father Time: In other words, you’ll be biologically incapable of functioning. 

Daddy: …I don’t like where this is going. 

Father Time: Better pray nothing happens to her then. 

Daddy: KENTO. I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE KENTO. 

---

You don’t say anything at first. Just stand there, watching them like they’ve grown extra limbs. There’s blood pooling under Nanami’s shoes, soaking into the fine lines of the marble.

Gojo notices you first. His head tilts, the thin line of red trailing down his jaw catching the faint glow of the overhead lights.

“Oh,” he breathes. A weak, barely-there smile. “We handled it.”

Nanami’s eyes flick toward you next, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. He’s got that resigned expression—the one that says he knew this was going to happen eventually, even if he hates himself for it.

Your heart is hammering. It's hard to breathe.

“What the fuck,” you whisper.

Nanami steps toward you, careful, like you’re the one who might break. His hand starts to rise—to touch you, maybe—but you step back so sharply your heel smacks into the wall. His hand falls to his side.

“You killed them.” Your voice cracks. “You—”

Gojo takes a step closer. The faint sheen of sweat on his forehead glistens under the lights. His grin is gone now. Just blankness.

“They were going to kill you,” Gojo says softly.

“No,” you snap. “No, you don’t get to make that decision—”

“We do,” Nanami says, his voice low and firm. His gaze pins you in place. “We have to.”

Your jaw tightens. Your hands are shaking. “You think you’re protecting me?” you hiss. “By slaughtering people?”

“Yes,” Gojo says, simple and certain.

Your breath stutters.

There’s this horrible rush of heat under your skin, this crawling sense of inevitability.

You’re surrounded. Caged.

Nanami’s hand finally touches your wrist. Warm. Steady. And you hate how your pulse jumps at the contact.

“I’m not asking you to understand,” he says. “But I need you to trust us.”

“Trust you?” You laugh bitterly. “You think trust is built on blood?”

Gojo’s eyes sharpen. His smile returns, slow and dangerous. “You think it isn’t?”

Suddenly, you were running.

With blood on your hands.

Their hands.

The bodies were still warm beneath your feet. The marble glistened darkly under the glow of the overhead lights. It seeped into the cracks.

You wanted to scream.

Your mouth opened—

Hands. Cold around your throat. Familiar hands.

Gojo’s grin flashed too wide, his pupils blown out. Nanami’s hand lingered on his shoulder. His mouth parted.

“You think trust isn’t built on blood?”

Their voices echoed and split — harsh, distorted—

Then—

Sharp pain. Crawling heat beneath your skin. The pressure mounting—

They weren’t touching you.

But it felt like they were.

The blood started to rise. Over your ankles. Up your legs.

It was warm. It smelled—

Your chest felt tight. It was hard to breathe—

And then—

Hands.

Pulling you up. Holding you down.

“Wake up.”

The nightmare cracked apart.

Your eyes flew open.

Nanami’s hand was on your cheek, steady and firm. His brow furrowed, his mouth tightening as he registered your rapid breathing.

“Shhh,” he murmured. His thumb stroked the side of your jaw. “You’re safe.”

You were shaking. Your whole body was soaked in sweat, and you couldn’t stop the trembling.

Gojo’s hand pressed lightly to your wrist. “You’re okay,” he said softly. No teasing in his voice. Just quiet reassurance.

Your breath stuttered painfully. You pushed yourself upright—or tried to—but Nanami’s hand slipped to your shoulder, gently guiding you back down.

“You were having a nightmare,” Nanami said.

“No shit,” you whispered. Your throat was raw.

Gojo’s gaze sharpened. “What was it about?”

You hesitated.

Nanami’s brow ticked up slightly. “You can tell us.”

“You,” you said hoarsely. “Both of you.”

Gojo’s mouth pressed into a thin line. Nanami’s hand tightened slightly on your shoulder.

There was a beat of silence. Then Gojo spoke, low and even.

“Well, it’s not our fault you dream about us.”

You opened your mouth—but then—

A strange warmth spread across your chest.

It took a moment to register.

Gojo’s head tilted. His gaze dropped—

“Oh.”

Nanami’s gaze followed. His lips parted slightly.

You looked down.

Wet spots. Two of them. Spreading darkly through the thin fabric of your nightshirt.

“No,” you whispered. Your cheeks burned as you covered yourself more. “No, no, no—”

Gojo’s mouth split into a grin. “Oh?”

“Oh my god,” you hissed.

Nanami’s eyes darkened. His mouth twitched. “Well.”

“You’re leaking,” Gojo said cheerfully.

“Shut up.”

Gojo ignored you completely. His grin stretched wider. “I think it’s a sign.”

Nanami exhaled slowly. “A sign of what?”

Gojo’s gaze flicked toward you, his eyes sparkling with unholy amusement.

“Milk,” he said.

You groaned, dropping your face into your hands. “Please kill me.”

“Oh no,” Gojo said smoothly, shifting closer. His hand pressed lightly against your stomach. “I think this is a bonding opportunity.”

“Leave me alone,” you groned.

“Technically,” Gojo mused, “I could help.”

Nanami’s expression sharpened. “We are not discussing this.”

“Why not?” Gojo’s grin widened. “It’s a biological function. We’re your husbands. Isn’t it our duty to—”

Nanami caught Gojo in a headlock. “Enough.”

You groaned louder. Your cheeks burned. “Please tell me this isn’t happening.”

Nanami’s gaze softened as his other hand brushed down the side of your face. His mouth curved faintly.

“You’re fine,” he said. His voice was warm and even. “It’s normal.”

“It’s humiliating.”

Gojo finally pried Nanami’s arm away from his mouth. “It’s hot,” he said.

Nanami shot him a sharp look.

Gojo raised his hands innocently. “What? I’m just appreciating my wife’s biological complexity.”

“I’m going to kill you,” you muttered.

Gojo’s grin sharpened. “You can try.”

Nanami’s hand slid down to your shoulder, grounding you. His expression softened. “You’re not alone,” he said quietly. “Even when you dream about us.”

Your breath caught. You hated how much that steadied you.

Nanami’s thumb stroked the inside of your shoulder. “You’re safe,” he said.

"Oh, you are totally safe,” Gojo agreed, grinning. “Except from us.”

Your eyes snapped open.

“Go to hell.”

Gojo beamed. “Only if you come with me.”

Nanami exhaled sharply. His hand lifted to rub at his temple.

You groaned and rolled onto your side.

“I hate both of you.”

“Sure you do,” Gojo said sweetly, leaning over you. His hand slipped beneath the blankets, warm against your thigh.

“I’m leaving,” you warned.

Nanami’s hand tightened slightly on your wrist. “No, you’re not.”

Gojo’s grin softened slightly. “Stay,” he murmured.

Your chest tightened painfully.

“You’re such assholes,” you whispered.

But you didn’t move when Gojo’s arm slid around your ribs. You didn’t pull away when Nanami’s teeth nipped lightly on your shoulder.

You closed your eyes again.

“Fine,” you muttered.

Nanami’s hand stroked down your spine.

Gojo hummed softly.

You hated how much you believed them.

Your eyes snapped open, heart pounding. 

It was dark—maybe midnight, maybe later—and you realized your nightmares had finally crossed over to wet dreams territory.

The penthouse was quiet, the city lights flickering weakly through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The room was warm, but your body was overheating—which made sense, considering you were currently being smothered to death.

Your head throbbed. Your ribs ached. Something heavy—suffocating—was wrapped tightly around your throat.

You turned your head slightly.

And there they were.

Your husbands.

Gojo was sprawled across the bed like he owned it—limbs akimbo, mouth slightly parted, one absurdly toned bicep resting directly on your throat like he was trying to kill you in his sleep. His bicep was cutting off your airway, and his long legs were tangled with your blanket. His white hair was sticking up at odd angles, messy from sleep, and his breath was coming out in soft, even exhales that would’ve been cute if you weren’t two seconds from suffocating.

You elbowed him. Hard.

No reaction.

You kicked him.

Still nothing.

You turned to your right.

Nanami.

The man was sleeping like he was dead, except his arm was locked steel-tight around your waist. His cheek was resting against the curve of your shoulder, and his breath warmed the side of your neck with each slow inhale. You could feel the weight of his chest pressing into your side—solid muscle and heat—and his grip was practically cutting off circulation to your hip.

Two of the hottest menalive, according to social media—kind that made fangirls lose their minds and cause “incidents”—sprawled out like oversized dogs on your bed, limbs everywhere.

You sighed. You were stuck.

This was not how you imagined pregnancy.

Being married to two hot people sounded great in theory.

In theory.

But in reality?

They were giants. Absolute skyscrapers of men. Gojo stood at 6'3" like he had been custom-built to make ceilings nervous—all casual swagger, lean muscle, and long limbs that never seemed to stay in one place. Meanwhile, Nanami—somehow quieter yet equally imposing—clocked in only a couple inches shorter at 6 feet something, built like a damn Norse god sculpted out of marble and stress.

And now, thanks to fatherhood paranoia, they were bigger than ever.

Nanami had always been sturdy—broad chest, biceps carved like stone—but now? He’d somehow gotten denser. Like someone had stuck him in a forge and hammered him into something stronger.

Meanwhile, Gojo—lean and cut like a swimmer—had finally started bulking up. You didn’t know if it was from stress or hormones, but the man now filled out his compression shirts more than enough to make his fangirls faint at the gym.

Nanami was built like he fought wars for a living—because he did. His forearms alone could make a nun rethink her vows. And Gojo’s thighs—

Nope. You were not going there.

But the problem wasn’t the hotness.

The problem was the sheer size of them.

Because Gojo wasn’t just tall—he was casually tall, like he didn’t even notice the way his head scraped against doorframes. Nanami was the same, except he was somehow even heavier in his sleep. It was like being pinned beneath a statue. A hot statue—but still.

And here they were—two enormous walls of muscle—trapping you like a 6-months-pregnant, exhausted damsel in distress.

You shoved Gojo’s arm off your throat. He made a low noise in his sleep and immediately curled it back around you.

"Oh, for fuck’s sake."

You shoved him again. Harder. His arm slid off you for about five seconds before it drifted back like he was magnetized to your body.

"You’re trying to kill me, Satoru," you hissed.

No response.

You shifted again, and Gojo’s arm—that massive slab of bicep—squeezed around your throat like he was determined to make you a ghost.

"This man," you thought bitterly, "wants me dead."

You’d tried to move him five times already. Five minutes later, his arm would be back—heavy, solid, like he was determined to smother you in your sleep.

But what could you do? The man was out cold.

Gojo had been a light sleeper his whole life—until now.

Since accepting that he was going to be a father—and with his suspension keeping him at home, far from missions or the constant expectation to save the day—Gojo had finally learned to rest.

So now? He slept like the dead.

Meanwhile, Nanami—oh, people thought Gojo was clingy?

They hadn’t met tired Nanami.

The man had you wrapped so tightly against him you were convinced he thought you’d sleepwalk off the balcony. One arm hooked beneath your waist, the other braced across your side like you were a steel beam he had to stabilize.

Your ribs hurt.

Takahashi, your-spoiled-wearing-designer-only-terrorist baby of a raccoon, was crammed into the tiny gap left between Nanami’s arm and your belly, looking personally victimized by your choice in men.

"Alright," you thought, swallowing hard, "time for drastic measures."

Step One: Eliminate Gojo.

You twisted slightly, lifted your foot, and kicked Gojo square in the ribs making him roll off the bed on to-

Nothing.

The man didn’t even twitch. Just hovered in the air, his dumb Infinity instinctively activating in his sleep like a lazy security system.

You stared in disbelief. "Are you kidding me?"

You tried again, aiming this time for his shin.

Your foot sank into nothing—Gojo still unconscious, still floating like some smug god of slumber.

Fine. Whatever.

Step Two: Eliminate the Wall.

You turned toward Nanami, already knowing this was going to be harder.

Kicking him off was pointless—his ratio blades would protect him automatically and might even slice the bed in the process.

But you had something better.

Your secret weapon.

You flexed your hand thoughtfully. Then, carefully, you slid your fingers into his hair and began scratching gently at his scalp.

Nanami’s breath hitched.

You smiled.

It was your favorite unknown fact about him—one you’d never even shared with Gojo.

Nanami Kento, the golden boy of self-control, the no-nonsense sorcerer, the terrifying man who could take down an entire domain with a fucking blunt object—was basically a golden retriever when you scratched his head.

Nanami exhaled deeply, a low, rumbling noise like a dog being scratched in his favorite spot.

Success.

Nanami’s jaw slackened. His head tilted toward your shoulder as a low sound—almost a growl—rumbled in his throat.

You bit back a grin and kept going, scratching lightly in slow, careful motions. His grip loosened. His face, relaxing like he’d just been sedated.

You kept scratching, and his arm went limp, sliding off your waist.

You felt both arms go slack.

Grinning like a lunatic, you took the opportunity and shoved him off the bed.

Nanami hit the floor with a loud, heavy thud.

He groaned, rubbing his face as he sat up. His hair was sticking up in soft blond tufts, and his shirt was rumpled in a way that would’ve made him furious if he’d been awake enough to care. He squinted at you through sleep-heavy eyes.

You snuggled closer to Takahashi, smiling contently under the blanket, pretending to be asleep.

Mission accomplished.

…Or so you thought.

Moments later, you felt movement.

Nanami’s groggy footsteps shuffled toward the other side of the room.

His shadow moved over Gojo’s still-floating form.

Thwack!

Gojo hit the floor like a sack of potatoes.

“What the hell?!” Gojo yelped, thrashing wildly like a startled cat.

He blinked up at Nanami, dazed and wide-eyed. His hair sticking up in every direction.

He looked like he'd been mugged in his sleep.

Nanami just stood over him, face impassive. “You were crowding her.”

“I WASN’T EVEN TOUCHING HER!” Gojo’s voice cracked indignantly. “You almost cut off the blood supply to her uterus. Which, you know, is where the babies are."

"I was holding her," he said, tone flat.

"Yeah." Gojo’s smile sharpened. "Like a python."

Nanami moved, and Gojo instinctively floated toward the ceiling.

"No need for violence, babe." Gojo’s grin was wide and bright, but his Six Eyes were sharp beneath the glow of the city lights.

Nanami cracked his neck. "Get off the ceiling, Satoru."

"Make me."

Nanami grunted. “If you start a fight and wake up Takahashi, I will make your life miserable.”

Gojo and Nanami stared at each other.

Gojo groaned, limbs splaying out across the ceiling like a man facing death. "I hate you."

"Good." Nanami turned back to bed.

You continued to pretend to be asleep, being very, very still.

Nanami crawled back into bed carefully, adjusting the blankets over your bump. His hand slid protectively over your stomach, his fingers warm against your skin.

“I know you’re awake,” he murmured lowly.

You didn’t answer.

Nanami sighed heavily, lips brushing your temple. “I’ll let you get away with it this time.”

Your eyes stayed shut. You couldn’t risk smiling—not when victory tasted so sweet.

Takahashi shifted slightly, curling closer to your side. You heard Gojo grumble from the ceiling, muttering something about how "this family sucks" and "why am I always the victim?"

You were halfway asleep when you heard Nanami’s quiet voice again—so low you barely caught it.

"…I hope they have your smile."

You kept your eyes closed, pressing your palm gently over your own heart.

---

Group Chat: Dad Crimes 💀

Daddy: Kento. Did you know female breasts can SENSE nutritional deficiencies in babies and adjust the milk content accordingly? 😏 

Father Time: …Yes. 

Daddy: 😏😏😏 And did you ALSO know—If someone ELSE latches on, the breast could misread it as a baby and adjust the milk content incorrectly? 😈 

Father Time: Do not finish that sentence. 

Daddy: Sooo theoretically… if someone were to… you know… 

Father Time: Stop typing. 

Daddy: …It wouldn’t be nutritionally balanced anymore 👀 babies would be deficient.

Father Time: Are you suggesting— 

Daddy: I’M JUST SAYING! It’s SCIENCE! 

Father Time: You are a degenerate. 

Daddy: And you’re thinking about it 🥵 

Father Time: [Seen 1:24 AM]

Father Time: Did you know that the male body can sometimes produce prolactin when around pregnant partners?

Daddy: …What. 

Father Time: Prolactin is the hormone responsible for milk production. 

Daddy: WHAT. 

Father Time: Technically, if your body produced enough prolactin, you could theoretically lactate. 

Daddy: WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN, "LACTATE"?????? 

Father Time: You might even start producing it if you’re overstimulated enough. 

Daddy: STOP TYPING. 

Father Time: Wouldn’t it be ironic? After all those breastfeeding jokes— 

Daddy: YOU SHUT YOUR MOUTH RIGHT NOW. 

Father Time: Did you know that during pregnancy, male testosterone levels tend to drop by about 33%? 

Daddy: 🤨 

Father Time: Lower testosterone levels have been linked to reduced aggression and increased emotional sensitivity. 

Daddy: What are you implying, Kento? 

Father Time: That you’re biologically engineered to be more submissive right now. 

Daddy: 🧍🏻‍♂️ 

---

1 - Monday

You had a system. A brilliant system.

Gojo, being Gojo, never bought his own headphones. Why would he, when he could just yoink yours like a gremlin?

But you were smarter than that.

So you gave him your slightly janky pair—the ones that were technically fine but drove you insane because the audio was just off enough to make your inner audiophile sob quietly.

And it worked like a charm. Every time, without fail, before Gojo could break them, lose them, or somehow turn them into a modern art installation, and then—like clockwork—you’d give him your latest, a brand-new, ridiculously expensive pair.

It was a flawless plan. A masterpiece. A legacy.

So why did today have to start like this?

It was the sound of the frying pan that woke you—sharp, rhythmic sizzles cutting through the early morning haze.

Your phone buzzed. Then buzzed again. And then—music.

"It was only you, doin' what you do…"

You blinked, the fog of sleep peeling away as the distinct sound of your headphones playing your playlist filtered in from the kitchen.

The hell?

Dragging yourself out of bed, you shuffled toward the noise. The scent of butter and garlic wrapped around you as you rounded the corner into the kitchen—and froze.

Gojo Satoru was standing at the stove.

Shirtless.

Platinum white hair tousled, half-dried from a recent shower, strands sticking to his forehead. Sweatpants slung low on his hips, the sharp cuts of his v-line disappearing beneath the waistband.

He was holding a spatula in one hand and—Jesus Christ—the raccoon in the other.

The Armani hoodie-clad raccoon’s little paws were stretched out in the air, helplessly dangling while Gojo bobbed him up and down.

"Yeah, we called a truce, then you got me..."

His voice was low, easy, the kind of singing you’d expect from someone who absolutely knew he sounded good.

You wished whichever one was his baby got his voice, and so did Nanami’s.

You leaned against the doorway, half-hidden, crossing your arms over your chest. He hadn’t seen you yet.

Gojo’s hips moved as he twisted toward the stove, lifting the spatula like a microphone.

"Eenie meenie moe, hold me down, I'm losing my cool…"

He rolled his shoulders. Smooth. Unbelievably smooth.

A lazy, liquid kind of movement—the kind that was calculated to look effortless.

And then he winked at the raccoon.

The raccoon made a sound somewhere between a wheeze and a gasp.

Gojo laughed—a low, throaty sound—and spun, arms outstretched.

"Catch a tiger by its toe."

He flicked his hair as he said it.

You bit your lip.

Feral Rizz flailed helplessly in his grip. Gojo didn’t seem to care.

He flipped the spatula in his hand with one hand, the raccoon in the other, and swayed toward the stove.

"Did you steal my headphones?" you asked.

Gojo turned—slow and easy—and smiled.

"Good morning, my beautiful wife."

You raised a brow. "I am your only wife. Now answer the question."

Gojo's grin grew smug. "I might have borrowed them."

Your gaze dragged over him. Slowly. Deliberately.

Bare chest.

Sharp planes of muscle catching the early sunlight.

The sheen of sweat gathering along his collarbone.

The soft ridge of his hip bones peeking above the waistband of his sweatpants.

You inhaled through your nose.

Gojo’s grin widened. He set the raccoon down on the counter, leaning one hip lazily against the edge of the stove. "You checking me out?"

You rolled your eyes. "No."

He laughed. A slow, easy sound. The kind of laugh that made you feel watched.

"Want me to put on a show?"

"Absolutely not."

He leaned toward you. Arms braced behind him, muscles flexing as he tipped his head.

"You sure?"

"Gojo."

"Say it again."

"Gojo."

"God, you sound so cute when you’re angry."

You threw a dish towel at his head. His infinity caught it without him even looking, spinning the spatula in the other.

"Seriously, though," he said, turning back toward the stove. "How do you want your eggs?" Then turned to wink at you, “other than fertilized.”

"Unbothered."

He grinned. "You’re no fun."

"You know what’s really no fun?" you said, stepping toward him. "When my husband steals my headphones."

Gojo’s mouth curled.

"You know what they say," he said, setting the spatula down and turning toward you. "What’s mine is yours."

"And what’s mine?"

"Also mine."

"Asshole."

He stepped toward you. Slow. Measured. Eyes gleaming beneath silver lashes.

"You’re cute when you’re angry."

"You’re annoying when you breathe."

Gojo smiled. "You married me."

"Biggest mistake of my life."

"You wound me," he said, pressing a hand to his bare chest.

"Do you have a heart?"

"Only for you."

"Die."

"You’d miss me."

Gojo smiled. A soft, lazy smile as he staired at your lips.

You hated that it made your heart stutter.

"Sit down," he said, straightening up. "I’m making you breakfast."

"I’m not hungry."

Gojo’s smile sharpened.

"Who said it’s for eating?"

You stared at him.

He stared back.

The raccoon sneezed.

Nanami loudly cleared histhroat like he was trying to dislodge a lung, and you turned towards the bathroom.

---

Sometime before afternoon.

Group Chat: Wife Support Network 💅 Horny, Helpless, & Heavily Pregnant

Shoko: How’s it going?

You: He made me a five-course meal and served it on fucking porcelain dishes. Had non-alcoholic wine pairings. He wore cufflinks.

Shoko: Naturally.

You: When I said I wasn’t that hungry, he nodded and said, “I anticipated that.” Then pulled out a smaller five-course meal. For "LIGHTER DAYS."

Shoko: Nanami’s idea of casual is never casual.

You: Gojo FaceTimed halfway through.

Shoko: What’d he say?

You: “Oh my god, you’re cheating on me with a BETTER man.” Then he cried the entire time—like, full-on snot and tears. But the thing is, he was in the other room.

Shoko: Understandable. What else did Nanami do?

You: He scheduled the day like a business meeting.

Shoko: Did he send an Outlook invite?

You: OMG, YES! Why won’t he switch to Google Calendar like a normal person? I swear to god, he’s the only reason I still have Outlook installed. BRO.

Shoko: Ikr. But get back to the point.

You: Okay, so the agenda had bullet points.

Shoko: For what?

You:

"Discuss relationship health"

"Eat lunch"

"Walk in park"

"Touch base re: emotional connection"

Shoko: I’m sweating.

You: He brought a notebook and took notes. Like, bro, use a tablet like a normal person; why waste paper? I don’t understand what’s with Japanese people being obsessed with paper. No offence—I love stationery just as much, but I like hoarding it, not wasting it. TREES, SHOKO. TREES!

Shoko: I know, right? That’s why I don’t even give prescriptions. BTW, what did he write?

You:

"Subject seemed more relaxed after feeding."

"Subject held my hand for 0.34 miles."

"Subject declined dessert. Potential area of concern."

Shoko: I’m crying.

Maya: Girls, what's this I’m hearing about both still with you?

You: Yes, one of them never left.

Shoko: Maya, don’t interrupt. I need to know more.

You: Gojo sat on the couch with his legs spread. Called me over.

Shoko: And you sat?

You: No. Ofcourse not… But I thought about it.

Shoko: Lust towards a man is the fastest way to hell.

You: You would’ve folded too.

Shoko: …No, I would have broken his jaw. But I get you.

Maya: Why the fuck are they trying to touch you?

You: Shoko! Just now, suddenly, the baby kicked, and Nanami put his hand on my belly. And then he said, "It’s okay. Daddy’s here."

Shoko: ???HELLO????

You: I think I need to go sit in a church.

---

Sometime in the afternoon.

The room was too small. Or maybe it was just Gojo, who had somehow managed to take up the entire couch despite Nanami sitting stiffly at one end, his cuffs perfectly straight and his jaw tighter than a coiled spring. You perched on the armchair, knees drawn up, trying to make yourself as comfortable as possible so your back didn’t hurt as much. The air felt heavy, like it was pressing down on all of you, and the silence was broken only by the faint ticking of the clock on the wall.

Gojo flopped backward, his head hanging off the edge of the couch, his white hair brushing the floor. “I’m not doing it,” he announced to the ceiling, his voice carrying that familiar, petulant edge. “I’d rather die. Literally. Like, right now. Watch me.”

Nanami sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “No one’s going to watch you die.”

“Oh?” Gojo sat up, pointing an accusatory finger at Nanami. “You’re the one who—what was it last night?—blocked me like some kind of territorial guard dog. What even was that?!”

Nanami didn’t flinch. He adjusted his glasses, his expression unreadable. “I was ensuring the rules were followed. Unlike you, who seems to think they’re optional.”

“Rules, schmules,” Gojo muttered, slumping back down. “This whole thing is a waste of time. We don’t need therapy. We need—” He paused, gesturing vaguely in your direction. “I don’t know. A vacation. A drink. A break from this nonsense.”

So yes, you thought bitterly, the one who was supposed to leave today didn’t move out and now thinks therapy is a scam just because he doesn’t want to live with Megumi.

You opened your mouth to respond, but Nanami cut in, his voice low and steady. “What we need,” he said, his gaze flickering to you for a moment before settling back on Gojo, “is to take this seriously. For once.”

Gojo rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful. “Oh, spare me the lecture, Mr. Perfect. You’re not exactly winning any awards here either.”

Before Nanami could retort, the door swung open, and Dr. Maya strode in, her heels clicking against the floor. She didn’t bother with pleasantries, just dropped into her chair and crossed her legs, her notebook balanced precariously on her knee. Her eyes scanned the room, taking in Gojo’s sprawl, Nanami’s rigid posture, and your hunched shoulders.

“Well,” she said, her tone dry, “this is cozy.”

Gojo groaned, throwing an arm over his face. “Kill me now.”

“Tempting,” Maya replied, flipping open her notebook. “But let’s start with the homework instead. Who wants to go first?”

Silence.

Nanami stared straight ahead, his jaw working like he was grinding his teeth.

Gojo had gone suspiciously still, his arm still draped over his eyes.

You sank further into the armchair, wishing you could disappear.

Maya raised an eyebrow. “No one? Alright, then. Gojo, let’s hear your PowerPoint.”

Gojo sat up so fast it was a miracle he didn’t give himself whiplash. “What? No. I didn’t—I mean, I started it, but—”

“But?” Maya prompted, her voice dangerously sweet.

“But it’s not done,” Gojo finished lamely, running a hand through his hair. “I got… distracted.”

“Distracted,” Maya repeated, her tone flat. “By what?”

Gojo’s gaze darted to you for a split second before he looked away. “Stuff.”

Maya didn’t blink. “Stuff.”

“Yeah, stuff,” Gojo snapped, his defensiveness flaring. “You know, life. Hobbies. Existential dread. The usual.”

Nanami let out a quiet scoff, and Gojo rounded on him. “Oh, like you’re any better, Mr. ‘I-Wrote-A-Whole-Essay-But-It’s-Too-Personal-To-Share.’”

Nanami’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a neatly folded piece of paper, which he handed to Maya without a word.

Maya unfolded it, her eyes scanning the contents. After a moment, she looked up, her expression unreadable. “Nanami, this is... a grocery list.”

Nanami froze. “What?”

Maya held up the paper, revealing a meticulously itemized list that included things like:

“whole-grain bread”

“organic almond milk.”

“You handed me a grocery list.”

Gojo burst out laughing, doubling over on the couch. “Oh my god. This is priceless. I take back everything I said—this is the best day of my life.”

Nanami’s ears turned red, but his voice remained steady. “That was a mistake. I must have grabbed the wrong paper.”

Maya leaned back in her chair, her lips twitching in what might have been amusement. “Alright, then. Let’s try this again. Where’s your actual homework?”

Nanami hesitated, then reached into his pocket again. This time, he pulled out a small notebook and handed it over.

Maya flipped through it, her eyebrows rising slightly. “Well,” she said after a moment, “this is... thorough.”

Gojo leaned forward, his curiosity getting the better of him. “What’s it say?”

Maya ignored him, turning to you instead. “And what about you? Did you complete your reflection?”

You nodded, pulling out your phone and mailing her the audio file you’d recorded. Maya glanced at her laptop, her expression softening slightly. “I’ll listen to it and share my findings in the next week's individual session.”

You nodded.

She was going to find out later that you hadn’t recorded shit.

You were going to be difficult this time.

---

"Business as Usual" (Imagine this as Noir.)

On the other side of Tokyo.

The room was freezing. It wasn’t just the temperature—though the AC was definitely on too high—it was the kind of cold that settled into your chest and stayed there, pressing down like something alive.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

The only sound came from the distant hum of the city below, muffled by triple-reinforced glass. From this height, the skyline seemed smaller, less impressive. It was easy to forget that millions of people were down there, living their lives, blissfully unaware of the power concentrated in this single room.

Your mother sat at the far end of the conference table, her hands neatly folded in her lap despite the rope binding her wrists. Her expression was controlled—a mask of brittle calm that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

And on the other side of the table sat Haibara Yu.

He was slouched comfortably in a leather chair, legs crossed, his tie loosened just enough to suggest he'd been working late. His gaze was sharp, his mouth curled into the suggestion of a smile that never quite reached his eyes. His suit was flawless—bespoke, of course—but there was something unsettling about how easily he wore it, like it was a costume he could peel off at any moment.

Across from him, Megumi Fushiguro sat perfectly straight, his hands steepled beneath his chin. His dark hair was slightly tousled, but his crisp black shirt was buttoned up to his throat, and his eyes—those sharp, calculating eyes—were locked on your mother with clinical detachment.

Neither of them had spoken in several minutes.

Your mother’s breath hitched, but she didn’t speak either. She wasn’t stupid. She knew the weight of the silence.

Eventually, Haibara sighed and leaned forward, resting his chin on the back of his hand. "Shall we try this again?" His voice was light, almost bored.

"I told you everything I know," your mother said, her tone even.

Haibara smiled, slow and thin. "No, you didn’t."

Megumi’s gaze sharpened. His eyes tracked the nervous flick of her pulse beneath her jaw.

"You’re wasting your time," your mother said coolly. "If you’re going to kill me, get it over with."

Haibara’s smile widened. "Ah. There it is." He slid his hands down the smooth surface of the table, fingers resting lightly against the polished wood. "That’s the tone I remember. Like you’ve already decided the outcome, and now you’re just waiting to see how it plays out."

Megumi’s gaze didn’t shift. "How did you get into the building?"

Your mother’s lips curled. "Wouldn’t you like to know?"

Haibara’s eyes darkened. He leaned forward slightly, his expression sharpening into something harder. "Yes."

Your mother’s gaze flicked toward the door. Calculating.

"You’re not getting out of this," Megumi said. His tone was steady, his voice almost soft. "We’re not in a hurry."

Your mother’s jaw tightened. "I helped you."

Haibara blinked slowly. "Helped?"

"You were children," she said, her tone flattening. "You don’t remember how much I did for you. How often I put myself out to give you opportunities. And this—" her gaze sharpened, "—this is how you repay me?"

Megumi exhaled through his nose, a sound of quiet amusement.

"Ah," Haibara murmured, sitting back. "She’s playing the martyr card."

"I’m not playing anything," your mother snapped. "I supported you. Both of you. You’d be nothing without me."

Megumi’s eyes narrowed. His head tilted just slightly to the side. "Supported?"

"I encouraged her to befriend you," your mother continued. "I let you stay in our house. I let you follow her around like pathetic little shadows. I—"

"Let."

The word was so quiet it took a moment for her to register it.

Megumi’s gaze was steady, cold. "Let us?"

Haibara’s smile was gone now. "You didn’t ‘let’ us do anything. We tolerated you."

Your mother’s eyes narrowed. "Watch your tone."

Haibara chuckled. "There she is."

"You think I didn’t know?" your mother hissed. "You think I didn’t see the way you both looked at her? The way you followed her around like stray dogs? It was pathetic."

Megumi’s hand shifted. His thumb brushed lightly over the edge of the table.

"Pathetic," he repeated softly.

Haibara hummed. "You know, it’s funny…" He rose to his feet, hands sliding into his pockets. "I think you’ve gotten this backwards. You see, we were never pathetic."

"She protected you," your mother spat.

"And we protect her now," Megumi said. His voice was quiet, but the weight behind it made your mother’s breath hitch.

Your mother’s mouth tightened. "Then why is she still so fragile?"

The room went deadly still.

Haibara’s smile sharpened into something thin and dangerous. "Careful."

"She’s weak." Your mother’s lip curled. "All that power, and she still falls apart so easily. You think you’re protecting her?" She laughed. "You’re just prolonging the inevitable."

Megumi’s hand flexed. His jaw twitched.

Haibara exhaled through his nose. "Alright."

Your mother’s head snapped toward him. "Alright?"

"You had your chance." Haibara rolled his shoulders and loosened his tie. "We tried. I even thought, maybe for a second, we could walk out of this civilized. But you—" His smile was all teeth. "You just couldn’t help yourself, could you?"

Megumi stood. The sound of the chair scraping the floor was deafening in the stillness.

"Tell us who sent you," Megumi said.

Your mother’s jaw tightened. She said nothing.

Haibara’s hand drifted toward the back of her chair. He leaned down, voice low. "Or don’t. I really don’t care."

"Some old man," your mother hissed. "Long hair. He said…" Her gaze darted toward Megumi. "He said she was wasted on you."

Haibara’s smile sharpened. "There it is."

Megumi’s hand settled on the back of her chair. "Any last words?"

Your mother’s breath hitched. "You wouldn’t���"

"You hit her," Megumi said softly. His hand flexed over the wood. "You spent her whole life breaking her down, and now you expect mercy?"

"I raised her," your mother hissed.

"No," Haibara said quietly. "You broke her. And now…"

Megumi’s fingers twitched.

"You don’t get to touch her anymore."

Your mother’s eyes widened. "Wait—"

It was quick. Efficient.

Megumi stepped back, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt as her body sagged lifelessly in the chair.

Haibara straightened his tie. "Shame."

Megumi exhaled. "Clean this up."

Haibara smiled. "Already on it."

As they turned toward the door, Haibara glanced at Megumi out of the corner of his eye. "So, dinner?"

Megumi’s lips curled faintly. "Pick somewhere nice."

And then they walked out, leaving the room—and its mess—behind.

Next chapter 19 - The Anatomical Weight of Neglect in Infinite Drops (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 @xx-tazzdevil-xx @unaaasz @thebumbqueen @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni

[rockingrobin69]

Want

Malfoy did this thing where he only used a finger and a thumb for crisps. He’d wade through mud without a second thought to retrieve Scorp’s ball from the hissing nettles, he put his arm up to the elbow in cold spaghetti sauce on a dare, he rolled down not one but three different hills with Teddy on their hikes, but when it came to crisps, he was his perfect lordly self. A finger and a thumb going in neat motions, barely even crinkling the bag. A dignified amount of crisps pinched tightly, brought slowly into his mouth. So careful and clean and entirely unintentional. He didn’t even know he was doing it.

Harry did.

Harry noticed everything about him. Hard not to when Malfoy was like this, weird and loud and awkward, pathetic and incredible and everywhere. When Teddy adopted him and Scorp (officially, with a letter he’d hand-written, signed with a drawing of, randomly, a horse); when they moved in, and Malfoy’s pyjamas became a recurring vision, llamas and tiny buttons following even in his dreams; when he found the stray cat, named her Nibbles for no earthly reason; when he was a menace, and Harry adored it. Him. Adored—the whole thing, how their lives suddenly became this, tight and uncomfortable and too warm and perfect.

Teddy was no help. He practically had love-hearts for eyes whenever Malfoy walked in the room. All these ‘Draco, look!’ and ‘Draco, can you—’ and ‘Draco, Draco, come sit next to me!’ that drove Harry spare. And Scorp was such a tiny little thing in all his Molly-made-jumpers, babbling with a look of utter importance and following Teddy around, and cackling with joy whenever he was in Malfoy’s arms. And the cat, fucking, cat, always getting kisses and—

No, Harry wasn’t jealous, that wasn’t quite it. He was… overwhelmed with how gentle it all was. Never really imagined life could be like this, didn’t think he’d want it. Discovered he did with such terrifying intensity, that he yearned for something that wasn’t quite nameable, that he somehow almost had. It kept him up at nights and filled his days with this weird, feverish joy. It was soft and itchy and all his. Almost his. So fucking close to being his.

And Malfoy was right there, sitting across from Harry with his ankle on one knee and the bag of fucking crisps and the way he was eating them, almost—decadently, and utterly, helplessly serious. On the rug, Harry realised he probably loved him.

Stretched, leaned slightly to his side until he was touching Malfoy’s knee. “Hey,” he said, swallowed.

“Hi.” Malfoy offered him the bag. “Want some?”

“You eat crisps funny,” Harry said for an answer. “All cleanly and stuff. It’s funny.”

“Oh. Well. Always happy to amuse you.”

He was so ridiculous, with the little stickers he let Ted and Scorp stick on his socks, on the sliver of his leg that was visible. It would hurt like hell to rip these out, all the fine blond hair caught underneath. Harry couldn’t breathe for a moment, it struck him so hard.

It was the middle of August and a really cold day. All the lights in the living room made it look like… something Harry wanted so badly. Instead of trying to make it into words, he leaned his head against Malfoy. Allowed the fingers threading through his hair. The movement so, so gentle.

“I’m picking Ted early from school tomorrow,” Malfoy announced some time later, in this awful voice he used for Scorp, or when Teddy had a nightmare. “He hates the dentist, so I promised to take him on a walk after. Maybe the hill where we went last month, the one with the waterfall.”

Harry hummed something delighted and heartbroken. Buried his face in Malfoy’s thigh, surrendered to the feeling of his hands, of his warmth.

“Harry… I meant, do you want to come with us? Sorry. That’s not—wasn’t quite clear.”

Buried his face tighter.

“Or—maybe we can go another day? Just us. You and me, I mean. There’s this place I think you would like. If you absolutely insisted, we could take Nibbles along on her lead.”

Brought his head up, pouted at Malfoy’s pretty face. “No, that’s…” stopped when he noticed the smile. When he realised that this thing that he wanted was already his. Pressed a tiny kiss to Malfoy’s shin, to a sticker of a star on his hairy leg. “You are,” Harry said, and meant it from the bottom of his heart. Breathed, breathed. Sat there and grinned to himself.

The bag of crisps crinkled. The afternoon went on, lit and weirdly warm. It was the life Harry didn’t know he wanted, that he ached for, that he had.

(If you enjoyed this, I've recently shared the first part of Wonderful on AO3. Consider checking it out for your pining needs).

[short-honey-badger]

Peppermint Tea 27 - Lavender 8

Okay. So I've had this chapter in the back burner for a while. Just fluffing the bare bones of it every now and then. We are introduced to a couple of new characters of my own creation. Forgive my lack of creativity on names and appearances.

Note!! I've posted this part once and then took it down like 10 minutes later when I realized I wasn't happy with it. I apologize to the ones who have already read this part. There have been some changes!

I really hope you enjoy! This plot has definitely thickened, and more drama Llama has come. I'm pulling out all the stops.

Warnings! Drinking and Shanks fucks up big time! A bit of a time skip happens. Also, a SURPRISE!

Masterlist

Shanks is drunk. Far more inebriated than he had planned to be, but the sake and rum were tasty, and he and his crew were celebrating a raid gone perfectly. The hoard that Yasopp had found at the end of the fight, if you could even call it one, had been the cherry on top. The group of organized bandits had been at work for a long time, stealing and taxing the villages of this island until everyone was as poor as dirt.

A child of all people had begged Shanks and his crew to take care of the bandits. The redhead had seen another kid in this one’s place, a big sneaky grin and mischievous eyes, and had easily caved. Lucky Roux had found the trail to the hideout quickly, and it was over after that. The bandits and their leader didn't stand a chance against someone like Shanks.

So now, they sat in the bar that had the most booze, going through the bandit hoard for anything they may want for themselves. The villagers had been adamant that the entire crew took something as payment, and Shanks wasn't about to say no to anything for free. He was a pirate, after all.

The Emperor had caught sight of a beautiful hair clip, one simple but ornate with tiny blue jewels embedded in the silver material. Shanks had thought of his treasure, specifically his Snowflake when he'd seen the hair clip and had swiftly pocketed it before losing himself in the copious amounts of booze that flowed around him.

Now that Shanks was thinking about you, he realized just how much he missed his treasure. It's been just over two weeks since he last saw you and tasted your lips on his. Far too long since he'd been able to bury his head between your legs and bring you to the edge over and over before you were begging him to let you come. Or having you ride his cock until you were nothing but a sobbing mess who couldn't remember anything other than the names of the two men who you belonged to.

It’s been three months since the first time Shanks had gotten the privilege of making love with his little treasure. In his drunken state, these two weeks felt like that long ago, and Shanks sighed dramatically and slumped over the bar, his mug of ale sloshing dangerously over the lip, “Benn when can we go back to _’s island?”

Shanks is far from quiet, and the bar is still filled with other pirates. People are listening in, most uncaring for the drunk pirate lamenting about his want for some woman. But to one, the old man hears your name, and recognition lights his brain.

Benn slaps him on the back of his head, a scowl on his face as he narrows his eyes at his Captain. The idiot was drunk as a skunk, “You need to be more careful, Shanks.”

The redhead pouts at Benn, dark eyes glassy, and then he drunks straight from the bottle of sake he holds. He wipes his mouth, “I know what I'm doing, Benn. No one here could ever beat me in a fight. I can protect _ just fine.”

“That's not the point, Shanks,” Benn hisses at him and tugs his Captain close by his black cloak. He shakes him, trying to knock some sense into the other man. Beckman knows that Shanks could be irresponsible, but this was ridiculous.

“Think for a damn second. If someone overhears and spreads a rumor that an Emperor of the Sea is head over heels with her. It's over. You know her past, you know who would be after her. Not to mention that Mihawk would kill you.”

The redhead sees everything that has gone so well the past six months with you and Mihawk all go up in flames. His treasures would despise him, and he would have no choice but to accept that, because it would be all his fault. Already ruining something good.

He spirals further when he thinks about the news you had shared with him and Mihawk the last time the three of you had been able to get together.

--------

You stand before the two men. Shanks can tell that you are nervous, snow has gathered around your feet, and he fights the urge to pull you close and demand what's wrong. Mihawk sits beside him, concern swimming in his ringed gaze. Hank lays on the floor between the three of you, big dark eyes trained on his human.

You begin to pace, picking up the now massive orange fluff ball and holding him close. You hold Sukuna close to your chest, threading your fingers through his thick fur. They watch you take a deep breath and then turn to them, eyes wide and full of trepidation.

“My period hasn't started yet. I keep careful track of it, and it's been fifty-two days since my last one. I-I’ve been really sick in the morning and feeling weak, and all my books say that I'm probably… pregnant?”

Mihawk nor Shanks like the fear in your voice, but your announcement has both of them star-struck. There was a baby inside of you? Made by one of them? Shanks pictures a little girl with bright red hair and golden eyes, chubby cheeks, and a brilliant smile. It's picturesque and perfect in his mind's eye, a beautiful mix of all three of them.

Hawkeye is the first to stand from the couch and go to your side. He takes your face in hand, calloused fingers holding you so carefully, and then dips down to press his lips to yours. Dracule is a mess of emotions, but elation wins over all of it. Never in his life did he think that he would have this chance, and he vowed that he would not squander it. As he kissed you, Mihawk came to the harsh conclusion that he no longer had a choice in keeping his involvement in her past a secret. The warlord would have to tell you.

Shanks eyes his lovers, a smile playing on his lips as he stands to gather his treasures close. He drops a kiss to the back of your head and sneaks his hand around your stomach, a look of wonder coming over his face as he strokes your belly.

“A kid, huh?” Shanks murmurs, and his haki creeps forth, wrapping around you and Mihawk, “I think we can swing that.”

---------

Shanks seems to sober up a bit at the harsh reminder. He sits straight, frown replacing his easy-going pout. his first mate is right, and his chest feels tight with guilt at his incompetence. Had he really been that loud? Fuck. Shanks doesn't remember. He licks his lips and pushes the bottle of sake to the side, suddenly not in the mood for any more drinking.

How could he be this dumb? Shouting your name to the heavens in a drunken stupor, needing his first mate to come in and literally shake some sense into him.

“Thank you, Benn,” Shanks croaks and runs his hand through his hair, grimacing at the state it was in. Gods, what was wrong with him tonight, “Let's head back to the ship, yeah?”

Benn stands, tossing some berri to the counter, “Best idea you've had tonight, Captain.”

The old man stands to go to the bar and order a drink, watching the two men stumble out of the bar. Though he looks unassuming dressed in regular clothes like a local, it is far from the truth.

Wiseman is an old member of the Big Mom pirates and remembers the destruction of the Nammu Isles and the two members of the royal family who escaped. They knew of the location of one, but to hear the name of the princess who was thought to be dead was interesting news that his Captain would be delighted to hear about.

------------

Thousands of miles away, a man sits at a dingy bar. He wears a navy uniform, and a Vice Admiral coat clings to his shoulders. His white hair is shaggy and unkempt, and a pair of brilliant green eyes stare into the sake he holds in his hand. He is clean-shaven with a sharp jaw, though his face is marred by a single scar that crosses vertically on the right side of his mouth. No one bothers the man, for which he is very grateful.

Today was his baby sister's birthday, and he always made sure to take off from any kind of work to mourn her. She wasn't dead. At least he didn't think so, but it's been twenty-two years since the last time he'd laid eyes on his sister. He couldn't visit her, it was far too dangerous for that, so the best he could do was make this day for her. Just like he used to before their home had been taken.

The officer knows back his sake, and the bartender helpfully refills his cup. He sits there for another hour before his peace is broken by one of his subordinates.

“Vice-Admiral Delemur?”

He sighs heavily, and a scowl crosses his face when he gives the younger man his attention. His crew knew better than to bother him on this date, so this had better have been important, “Yes, Nitchell?”

The young man gulped in the face of his superior, and Delemur cursed whoever had allowed this wet behind-the-wear recruit into his platoon. Wait. Fuck. That had been him. Was he an idiot? He focuses back on the kid when he speaks up.

“Vice-Admiral Smoker is here to see you. Said he would wait for you on the docks, Sir.”

Smokey was here? Well, that changed things now, didn't it? Smoker, and when did he get Vice-Admiral? He'd been a Captain last time they spoke- was one of the two people in the Navy who knew about Delemur's sister. The other was Sengoku, even if the white-haired man wasn't a fan of the Fleet Admiral.

Delemur stands and pushes his cup into the recruit's hands, “Here. Finish that for me. Be a good kid, and pick up my tab, too.”

He leaves the kid blubbering at the bartender and disappears, body dropping to the ground and turning into dust. He flies past citizens and pirates alike until he arrives at the docks. The officer finds Smoker at the end of the docks, and he reforms beside the other man, the scared side of his lips twisting up in a welcoming smirk.

“Hey, Smokey. Long time no see,” He murmurs and the other man gives him a matching smirk, “Nice coat.”

“Tomura, still a smarmy ass, huh?” Smoker drawls, and shifts the two cigars in his mouth to the opposite side. He looks at his old friend up and down, seeing the drunken haze in those green eyes. The Vice-Admiral knows what day it was, it's why he came to seek Tomura out when he found out that the other man was only an island away. Not to mention that he had news that the other man might want.

“You know it,” Tomura quips back dryly. He shifts to look out at the raging ocean, and two pairs of knuckle dusters clink on his belt. He licks his lips and eyes his friend out of the corner of his eyes. While it's good to see Smoker, it's odd that the other man would go out of his way to see him, even on this particular day, “Whatcha doin’ here, Smoker?”

Tomura doesn't know if he is thankful or not that the other man has never beaten around the bush. But he does know that he hates the look of pity that Smoker gives him.

“Someone's been talking about your sister, Tomura. Rumor says that it came from Red Haired Shanks singing her name, which started circulating about a week ago. News travels fast in the Grand Line, but there's not been a peep from him about her since.”

Tomura sober instantly and orders his crew to start packing up the second Smoker finishes telling him about the rumors surrounding his little sister. He can hardly see through the film of red that threatens to block out his senses. His hold on his devil fruit fluctuates, his body a weird mix of dust and flesh.

The G-5 Vice-Admiral wishes his old friend good luck and departs as quickly as he'd shown up. While he'd like to go with Tomura, he unfortunately had orders to return to Impel Down for prisoner transport. Smoker grips his friend by the forearm, hand tight enough to leave fingerprints behind, “You watch out for those damn, pirates. Good luck, Tomura.”

The white haired man books it to his ship, shouting orders to his crew that lingers around the docks. They break into action right away, most of them running to the ship to begin readying it to sail. Tomura goes straight to his cabin, dropping to his knees and pulling out an old trunk that is full of old documents and things from his past. He bypasses everything until he finds the old log pose that would lead him to where he needed to go. Back to the safe house. Back to his sister.

@writingmysanity @djbumblebee @goth-mami-writer @myradiaz @fluffybunnyu @bookandstar @foggyturtleknightangel @browneyedhufflepuff @anastasiyax @jaguarthecat

[cetaceans-pls]

Oh Brother, My Brother

Is there actually any way to be both a Good Brother and a Cool Brother? Dick's trying to find out.

written as part of DC Gotcha for Gaza for em, who requested (annoying (affectionate) dick!

-

"Why," Jason says with a shocking amount of aggression for such a fine fall day, "are you trying to relive childhood memories that we just don't have, you weird ass bastard?"

He deftly ducks under a straw hat aimed at his head.

"Why shouldn't we!" Dick says with manic cheer, grin bright as all hell but still failing to improve the looks of Gotham's only inner-city 'pumpkin patch. Someone dropped a bunch of hay on the asphalt of the parking lot, a couple of people are gamely trying to stop an alpaca from biting a patron, and the hay ride is a man dressed as a scarecrow (classic, not Crane) huffing and puffing as he pulls 2 shopping trolleys tied together around the perimeter.

Despite the lackluster set up, turn out is good. Gothamites love a shit-show, entrance costs 4 bucks and includes unlimited scarecrow-powered rides for those who can stomach abusing the poor guy, and WE sponsored a falafel stand and a funnel cake stand, with proceeds going to CAIR.

Jason's here because Dick had asked for help for a mission; Jason's still here because despite Dick seeing the need to lie about a family bonding activity, he does unfortunately care enough about the shithead to see through his brother's latest crisis of self.

Doesn't mean that he's wearing an itchy straw hat in sight of one and all though. He snatches the damn thing and then frisbees it into the lot next door (Tall John's Low Price High Quality Cars), and Dick makes a mournful sound as it connects with a 2012 Mazda Miata.

"C'mon," Jason says gruffly. "I'll buy you a funnel cake, stop making that face."

Even the promise of a hot greasy treat does little to lift Dick's mood, but Jason still gets them one each, replete with cream and syrup and mashed strawberries. There's no elegant way to eat the damn things, especially not when it's terribly cold and windy, but they tuck up beside a low wall and make an attempt.

Halfway through, face covered in strawberry like he's just devoured a man, Jason nudges Dick. "Go on, then. Why the hell are you acting even more off the rails than usual?"

The look Dick sends him would make a hangdog hang its doggy face awful low. "It's Tim," he says, a sad high whine. "It's, he's.... Oh, God, I just can't-"

Now, if this was a normal sibling relationship, this would be plenty of cause for alarm. But because Dick's the man that he is and their brotherhood is this thing that's all wire in the blood, Jason knows that if it was something serious serious, life or death serious, then they wouldn't be here, talking about this. The fact that they've got powdered sugar on their noses and not 20 feet away a handsy man is being mauled gently by a llama, well.

It's just Dick being Dick, wanting to whine and be a little annoying and unserious in his brothering, and it's nice for all involved to have low-stakes troubles sometimes.

"Uh huh," Jason says indulgently. "What did he do now?"

"He's cancelled lunch on me like three times," Dick says, incensed. "And then said we should meet off-campus, because he didn't want people to see us together. What does that mean? Why wouldn't he want to be seen with me??"

Jason can't stop himself from quickly looking down to Dick's bare-ass legs in his running short-shorts, and feels a distant kinship with Tim (this hardly ever happens). "Don't take this the wrong way," Jason says, fully knowing that Dick will take it the wrong way, "but you're kinda incredibly embarrassing."

"What?!" Dick yells chestily, loud and powerful enough to startle the llama into letting go of the man it was trying to murder. On the other end of the lot, a gaggle of kids on the 'hay''ride' take Dick's hollering as permission to holler themselves, which results in scarecrow looking like he wants to plunge them all into traffic.

Jason has to stifle a laugh. "I said what I said. I bet every time you're on campus you're hitting on anyone legal and upright, and you always dress like you're in a budget porno. Also, I've seen you subbing for B at Damian's PTA meetings, man. You made his English teacher cry because the kid got an A-, which is not the energy I'd want around my professors." Probably. Jason knows that Bruce would move heaven and Earth to let him go to college if he wanted to, but there's a lot to that that needs untangling, so he'll just have to experience Psych 101 while listening to dick for now.

"He cried because he couldn't accept that he was wrong for not accepting that Damian's prose can be non-traditional, on account of English being like his fourth language!" Dick huffs, and takes a massive bite out of his funnel cake in mild irritation. "And I only ever slept with one professor at Gotham U, and that was before Timmy started taking her class, so that doesn't even count! I haven't done anything really weird!" In a calmer, quieter tone, Dick says, "What's wrong about being invested in you guys' lives?"

Jason bumps their shoulders together. "We're a pack of maladjusted kids who are real real used to not being invested in. Compared to all of that, you're, uh, a shock to the system, Dick." He can't help a little laugh, feeling pretty cheerful now that he knows that Dick's minor crisis is even more unworrying than he thought. "You showed up to an Ikea I was going undercover at to buy a mattress you did not need just so's my commission would get high enough to make me Employee of the Month. That's sooooo not regular, do you get that?"

"What's the point of being regular in this family?" Dick points out unhelpfully. "And I really did need a new mattress! I mean, it wasn't a coincidence that I got it from you, but it was a coincidence that I really did need something from Ikea."

"Uh huh," Jason says, untrusting just to be irritating (a younger brother's prerogative). "That definitely doesn't make it less weird. C'mon, that hot toddy stand is screaming our names. Your treat."

"Maybe I wouldn't have to be this weird if you guys were less weird," Dick says huffily, all tart and annoying (the oldest brother's prerogative). They skid and slide across the damp fall leaves on the ground, and take a moment to admire the little donkey that's just chilling between two trucks parked by the photo area. A man's carving the Gotham skyline into a pumpkin (complete with a tiny tiny Batman!!), and every bit he cuts out he feeds to the sweet braying thing.

Closer to the hot toddy stand, a woman tried to entice them with some home-baked pies she's selling right out the boot of the car. It's not entirely clear if she's here as an official vendor, or an enterprising Gothamite who had seen the pumpkin patch getting set up who just so happened to have 4 whole pecan pies in her car.

The price ($5.50 a slice) is written in lipstick on the plastic casing, so her origin is still unclear. Jason was still a little tempted though, even if they both turn her down on account of having bellies full of cake.

They do, finally, get to the drinks stand. Dick gets carded, to his tremendous delight, and Jason doesn't, which leaves him feeling a little Adult and a little Superior. To keep that particularly ball rolling, Jason even gallantly pays for their drinks (he stops Dick by forcibly taking his credit card from him and snapping it in half), and he leads them to the row of haystacks that demarcate the limited parking.

They're quiet for a while longer, enjoying the honey and the rye and the warmth and the chill. More and more people are showing up, gone 5 and now the little fall-time wonderland is seeing an uptick in people in smart business suits all heading straight to the hot toddy stand. More and more food trucks are showing up now, too, and it must've been a WE-mandate, that everyone's got stickers on their sides advertising the charity that they're championing.

"Thanks for taking me out," Jason says at long, long last. "I've never been to one of these things, but I gotta say, there's something a little special being surrounded by pumpkins and screaming kids and straw."

That makes Dick smile, warm and buttery like the best pie crust a car boot could contain. "'course, Jay. I didn't go to one of these until I was like 25, and I had such a great time that I wanted you guys to experience it too." He breathes in, then sighs out gustily. "You don't think Timmy dislikes me? He's just regular embarrassed? Because I know what it's like to be embarrassed, 'cos Bruce in socialite mode could make a rock bluch, but I'm not great at.... being disliked."

Jason drains his cup, yeets it, and punches the air when it slams into the trash can, nothing but net. "Dick, you asked to speak to my manager so's you could tell her how impressed you were with my mattress knowledge. You're honestly one of the most embarrassing people on this planet." He gets up, dusts himself off, and turns to look at Dick. "You're also one of the most well-liked, well-loved shitheads to walk the Earth. Stop fussing over Timmy and making Wet Sexy Eyes at his friends and professors, and before you know it you'll get cafeteria access again. Okay?"

That's enough, looks like. Dick is grinning so warmly at him it's genuinely embarrassing. "What," Jason says gruffly, looking away and feeling a little grateful that the cold means his face is already too flushed to give away a blush.

"Nothing," Dick says. "Just feeling some kind of way, on account of my little brother loudly proclaiming that I can be annoying but he loooooves me anyway."

"Kill me again," Jason says with feeling.

"Not on pain of death," Dick says with great cheer. "C'mon, we can't call it a good fall day out without a hayride!"

"I'm not sure if Mr. Scarecrow would agree," Jason eyes Dick up and down, and is relieved to see that his mood's a hell of a lot better than when they'd arrived. "There's got to be a way that's less of a labour law violation."

"Oh, ye of little faith," Dick says, dimple digging in more deeply when he smiles. "In your brother you trust!"

-

This is how they end up stuffing straw down their shirts, before going over to the overworked (and probably underpaid!!) scarecrow and offering to take turns hauling people around on this man-powered hayride.

Jason will see, later, in the community newsletter that he fervently keeps abreast of, a picture of him and Dick looking like they'd fought a wheatfield, lost, and then immediately started running away down the streets with kids in tow.

God aloud, nobody is as singularly funny and singularly annoying as Dick is. Even just looking at the picture is making Jason grin, which is SO embarrassing!!

(This man is heavy, but he sure sure is his brother).

=

a/n

thank you to the dc gotcha for gaza gang for organising this, and to em for making this charity commission request (annoying (affectionate) dick)! hope this tickles your fancy, i always enjoy giving dick some type of minor crisis to work through ;)

[cryingpariah]

Dragodile song rec

Yearning. Almost kisses. Heartsickness. Dragon more in love than he’s ever been in his life, but unable to say those three little words.

(Absolutely haunting Taurus thank you.)

It’s the way he runs the scenarios through his head a million times, one convoluted confession scene after the other.

It’s the ease of which nervousness coats his tongue thicker than molasses but everywhere like saliva. He couldn’t match the reptile's snappy rapport anyway.

It's neck aching double takes when he can’t stop noticing lavender hues in things he was certain never held them before.

It’s the spider tingling pain of pins and needles as he does everything humanely possible to wake up his leg because he needs to see him now.

It’s the look Blanca gives him as he slides down his closed office door like some rom com protagonist, his heart racing in his chest after an encounter of the oh so close yet so far variety.

He was like air but sweeter, like sunshine but brighter, a chilled glass of water in an unforgiving atmosphere. Lightning was in Dragon's domain but he was woefully unprepared for the bolt of love…yet he hesitated.

He was terrified and for good reason. The universe had never made it a secret that it enjoyed throwing him around like a floppy llama ragdoll, why would now be different?

Because it felt different, at least that was his answer. Now he just needed to steel his resolve, the lives they live are perilous on good days, there’s absolutely no time to waste! He needed to declare his heart and make his intentions know!

…Tomorrow. He needed to drum up some more scenarios first.

[thefrenchydude]

Three new designs for ML

Three new adopatbles I bought to Lazy llama !

ONE OF THE PICTURE COULD BE CONSIDERED NSFW (we kinda see one of his balls so ;-; yeah watch at your own risk.)

"Recovered and raised by the institute, he learned to code like no one else. In a very short time, he became one of the institute's top hackers. But he doesn't stay in the office. He prefers to fight. Thanks to his robotic legs, he can leap into action and deliver powerful blows. And for the time when he can't fight or hack, then he works on his robotics projects in his workshop."

"No one truly knows much about him. He just helps people cross the water, against some coins. Some people says they have watched him and the way he has calmed the sea itself."

AND MY FAVOURITE !!!!!

" ''Some people say that Sun Wukong is just like the sun itself, well, it's because they haven't met me yet''

This demon takes his powers from the sun, he can use it in many ways, to heal or to destroy. He is the type of demon who likes to show everyone how great and powerful he is. Despite his smugness, he is very friendly."

Extra art for the Elephant :

I HAVE NO NAMES YET SO IF YOU WANT TO PROPOSE SOME FOR SOME OF THE CHARACTERS YOU CAN GO FOR IT :)

[kayawolfhorse]

Day 8 — A Hazy Temptation

—☾—

Someone is attacking the desert.

The foundations of their base shutter between each thunderous boom, and ever-growing cracks clung along the seam of every wall.

There’s shouting, screaming, and Scar’s sword is in his hand and its grip is wrong against his palm and his mind roars but he can’t get his bare feet to unstick from the sandstone beneath him—

Scar wakes in a single heaving gasp.

Sleep’s syrupy pull tugs at his heavy limbs and seeps into every pore, and it’s burning; suffocating. The thunderous rumbling falls heavy against his ears and it won’t stop.

He forces a breath through his smoke-clogged throat, then another. Belatedly, he realizes the sound is his own pounding heart rattling within his own chest.

In, out. The sturdy beams above him support an intact ceiling. In, out. The desert is quiet around him, and the light of the nearly-full moon spills in through the slim window on the opposing wall, a pretty contrast to the faint embers still crackling in the furnaces. In, out. Grian slumbers on by his side, warm, trusting, vulnerable.

The thought nearly chokes Scar as he scrambles against it, desperate to keep his clear lungs. Beneath his gray skin, something red-hot and razor-edged buzzes like a swarm of locusts, eager to consume; eager to destroy. Bloodlust is a stranger beside him no longer, but its lingering presence will never be something Scar regards as a friend.

Checking on Grian is as much of a comfort as it is a distraction. He’s in his sweater and bundled beneath the blanket cast over them both, the desert nights too cold for—if he’s honest with himself—the lack of clothing Scar insists upon. His face is relaxed and his left arm hangs partially off the bed.

He doesn’t want to hurt him. He’s scared that he might.

Scar scooches back until he’s as far away from his partner as he can manage without falling off the narrow bed. He mourns the line of brisk air wedged between them and begs his brain to come up with something, anything else to think about. The thoughts are sluggish to break through the haze that seems to circle his head, and Scar holds each one he can get a grip on tightly. Slowly, in fits and starts, he recounts to himself a familiar tale.

It starts with an ingenious scheme and enough silver-tongued sweet talking to fill a barrel or few. It starts with a prank gone wrong and a promise of devotion laid at his feet. It starts with a sunset over newly claimed land and a partner on the llama at the end of Scar’s lead.

Alliances rise and fall; enemies are made and plotted against. Tensions grow as the number of lives dwindle. Grian, a green life who shouldn’t yet know the taste of blood, kills three and breathlessly declares it in Scar’s name and Scar can’t do this.

With trembling fingers, Scar moves the blanket aside as gingerly as he can and holds his breath as he lifts himself off the mattress. With one leg swung over the side of the bed, he starts to get up—

A hand gently, clumsily wraps around his wrist.

“Scar?” Grian’s voice is sleep-heavy and rough around the edges. Scar freezes. “What are you doing up?”

Scar collapses back into bed at Grian’s light tug, and his heart starts its nervous drum once more. Grian’s facing him now, and he’s hardly awake but his eyes are crinkled with concern.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Scar replies after a beat too long.

Grian hums slightly. “Insomnia loves a friend, doesn’t it? Stay with me; I’ll keep you company.”

Scar could cry. Wordlessly, he nods, and tries his best to get comfortable. Grian’s hand finds his own beneath the blanket and he interlocks their fingers, warmth pulsing softly between their palms. The tightness wound around Scar’s body slowly starts to thaw.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Scar says quietly, after the silence has stretched on long enough that he’s sure Grian has fallen back asleep, and saying it out loud brings a sort of hesitant relief that cuts through his quiet suffering. The bloodlust isn’t him. It can’t be.

“You won’t,” Grian says, and his voice startles Scar. He shapes the words like something absolute, like he’s not in bed with a red life and the world around him isn’t one ruled by death.

Scar believes him.

He believes him even more when Grian unlaces their hands so he can throw his arm over Scar’s hip, pulling them closer together until his head rests lightly against Scar’s collarbone. Scar rests his own arm against Grian’s back and squeezes him lightly; Grian responds by snuggling further into him.

The story that dances behind Scar’s eyes stops and starts spinning again like a disk set upon a jukebox; violent throes melt away into the golden light cast against the kitchen floor the first time he and Grian baked together. Aching pins and needles soften to the sensation of running his hands along Pizza’s shaggy coat, and shared laughter drowns out the calls for blood.

Scar couldn’t hurt him. He wouldn’t.

He won’t.

[pretzel-box]

CHAPTER 1: A STONK COMES RARELY ALONE

Word count: 1,4k

Tags: Mention of Blood and death, sillyness, Thana is too cute beware of nosebleed.

Once upon a time.

There was a brave young lady with scarlet red hair, the kind of red that made you think of burning fire, glorious rebellion, and expired strawberry jam. Her name was Chirians, and she had ascended upon a journey most perilous, most ill-advised, and most definitely under-researched.

She was hunting for something.

Not treasure. Not glory. No, something far more elusive.

The Stonks.

Nobody really knew what the Stonks were. Some said it was a mythical treasure of limitless value. Others claimed it was a scam, a cursed economy trapped inside an enchanted spreadsheet. There were even whispers that the Stonks were sentient and could judge your net worth by the quality of your boots. Chirians didn’t care. Her fingers twitched with anticipation. Her legs jittered like a caffeinated ocelot. Somewhere in the distance, a llama sneezed.

The world had spoken. The winds had shifted. Her time had come.

The Hunt for the Stonks had begun.

There wasn’t a map. Or a guide. Or a mysterious yet friendly old man to offer cryptic advice while stroking a gray beard. No, this was real life, and nothing in this hard world ever made sense. Especially not when you were a ‘self-employed traveling merchant’ with no fixed prices, a very loose definition of ‘consent’ and an inventory full of items suspiciously similar to things other people had recently lost.

If you looked closely, you'd realize Chirians wasn't exactly a merchant.

She was a thief.

A stylish, charismatic, moderately dishonest thief with a knack for relocating goods from one person’s inventory to another’s — for a fee, of course. It was all very professional. Very business casual. And very illegal. Maybe, just maybe, it was one of those many ‘business secrets’ that led her into her current… situation.

The rain poured hard. Angry and cold, it soaked her through to the bone as she stumbled backwards, breath hitching. Scarlet blood spilled into the mud, mixing with her scarlet hair. The colors blurred. Her body trembled.

She gasped, eyes wide, not in surprise, but in that quiet, exhausted realization that she’d finally miscalculated something she couldn’t talk her way out of. She failed.

The mysterious sword that had run her through glowed faintly. It stood proud in the storm, its hilt jutting from her chest like some horrible trophy, a cruel exclamation point at the end of her messy story.

Her vision flickered. Her thoughts slowed. Everything was distant now. And in her final moment, as the wind howled and thunder shattered the sky above, Chirians stared at the blade and thought:

This would have been a chapter in a how to find the stonks guide book. How to not get murdered along the way.

*BEEEEEEEEEP*

A mop of scarlet-red hair slammed straight into the steering wheel, setting off the car horn with the full force of her forehead. The shrill sound echoed through the lot, scaring birds, bugs, and the local passengers that complained loudly.

Chirians blinked. Wide-eyed. Dizzy. Confused. Alive.

"Wait, alive?" she mumbled to herself.

She looked around in a daze, unsure whether she had just dreamt of being dramatically impaled by a glowing sword in the middle of a thunderstorm, or if she had just dozed off on Griefer’s car horn after downing three questionable meat pies and a bag of expired gummy creepers.

But secretly, she knew it felt like a distant memory scratching a the back of her head.

“Cheezus, Lady!” Griefer groaned from the passenger side, clutching his chest like she’d just punched his soul. “I asked if you were awake enough to drive — and here you are smashing your tired head into the car like a maniac!” He leaned lazily into the backseat, one arm stretched behind his head like this was all totally normal. No seatbelt, of course. Just a hand full of Bloxy Cola, half-empty and bubbling with regret. If you looked closely, you'd see a second bottle already waiting — being gently passed over by a tiny hand.

Mneme.

Sweet, forgetful Mem. A girl with the memory of a goldfish and the attention span of a chicken. Mem was like popcorn: she needed a bit of time before her thoughts popped. But once they did, it was usually useful, slightly off-topic, and delivered with the energy of a toddler discovering candy for the first time.

That’s how Chirians had met her — just there, like an unexplained quest marker.

One day, Mem was following Griefer around like she spawned from his shadow, and neither of them had any idea why. After a loooong (very looooong) talk full of pauses, miscommunications, and at least one accidental detour through a swamp biome, they pieced it together.

Mem had lost her memories.

Totally wiped. Nothing left but her name, a fondness for Griefer, and an oddly specific knowledge of how to explode enemies in exactly thirteen seconds.

So naturally, the journey to find the Stonks turned into something else entirely:

A two-for-one quest.

Find the Stonks.

Find Mem’s memories.

Try not to get stabbed.

And avoid letting Chirians drive while half-asleep.

Easy. Right?

Chirians groaned, sitting up straight and rubbing her forehead. “Ugh, that sword dream felt too real...”

Griefer snorted. “Yeah? Maybe it’s prophetic. Maybe the Stonks are stabbing you in advance.”

“Maybe you should shut your bloxy mouth,” she muttered, starting the engine with a cough from the tired, pixel-choked machine. “We’ve got a lot of blocks to burn, and no time to lose.”

Mem gently raised a finger. “Um… shouldn’t we also have a map?”

Dead silence.

Griefer and Chirians slowly turned to look at her.

“...You had the map,” Chirians said.

“The map?”

“The map.”

“Map…”

“Map!”

Mem blinked. “Oh! I gave it to a cow. It looked trustworthy.”

Griefer took a slow, painful sip of his soda. “We’re gonna die.”

This is glorious chaos in motion — you've got a beautifully unhinged road trip squad going on here. I kept your energy, jokes, and voices, and gave it a small polish to boost the timing, tone, and flow without losing your flair.

“I actually got a copy!” S1lly yapped, practically vibrating in xeir seat like a raccoon that had just discovered sugar. Xey triumphantly pulled out what could only be described as a fancy oversized piece of bubblegum wrapper, proudly crumpled and slightly sticky. Scrawled on it in what appeared to be crayon and hope was... a map.

The world's worst map.

Before Mem could reach for it with curious hands, a gloved one snatched it away.

Cruel King but forever nicknamed King, studied the wrapper like it was written in ancient glyphs. His brow furrowed as he ran a gloved finger along the questionable doodles. His face shifted as his glove touched a piece of chewed bubblegum remains. “This might give me a stroke,” he muttered darkly, flipping the wrapper upside down, as if that would somehow help. “Try and turn right at the next crossing.”

A hum.

Then the car violently swerved right.

Griefer remained completely unmoved, sipping his Bloxy Cola with the calm of someone who had accepted death five minutes ago, which he had.

Mem, however, glided smoothly to the right like an air hockey puck, softly bonk-ing against the car window before being absolutely flattened by S1lly, who squeaked and followed the same gravitational fate.

King, mercifully strapped in, avoided becoming part of the pile by clutching the seatbelt like it was the last shred of logic in this world.

He and Chirians were, disturbingly, the only ones actually using them.

“Looks like someone found her license in the bin,” User called out dryly from the back. No, not the backseat. The trunk.

Sandwiched somewhere between a heap of old junk, suspiciously empty Bloxy cans, a dented music box that kept playing off-key disc 11 notes, and Thana — who looked like she was trying to astral project out of this situation — User was a flat, mildly disgruntled pancake of a man.

Thana clung to a frayed handle like her fragile soul depended on it. And honestly, it probably did. Chirians had banned her from the front with the very specific, very heated exclamation:

> “She’ll distract me with her cuteness!”

Whether that was a compliment or a war crime, Thana still hadn’t decided. She’d opened her mouth to ask, possibly to flirt back, maybe even to argue.

But she didn’t get the chance.

Because she got shoved in the trunk before she could speak.

Now here she was: crushed between sarcasm, soda cans, and emotional damage. “Hey,” Thana muttered, voice muffled by someone's spare boot, “I could be helping drive.” “You could be setting the car on fire with your smile,” Chirians yelled back, absolutely unapologetic. “Know your powers, love.” S1lly’s voice bubbled up from the front again. “Can I be banned to the trunk too? I wanna be cute!”

“No,” everyone said in perfect unison.

[cameronspecial]

I Will Explode With Joy, Rafe

Pairing: Frat!Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings:  N/A

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 0.6K

Summary: Rafe loves to make the Holiday season the best for his angel.

Masterlist

Rafe loves to go all out with presents during the Christmas season. He has to stop himself from filling the living room with presents from his angel. But this Christmas, he has found the perfect excuse that allows him to buy her a gift that costs at least two thousand dollars. The cost doesn’t phase him; his fiancée deserves the world with how hard she has been working on her Master’s. As soon as he feels her heavy breath meets the skin of his chest, he carefully untangles himself from her hold. He places a pillow with one of his shirts on it underneath her so she has something to cuddle. He heads down to the basement to start bringing up the things he needs for her gift. It takes him about three hours to get everything together, but it’s going to be worth it once he sees how excited she will be when she sees this gift. Because, of course, he will have more than this for her Christmas presents. The minimum he can spend on her is five thousand. He puts the final touches on the gift and makes his way back upstairs to bed with the woman he is going to marry. 

———

Y/N wakes up before Rafe does and she stays in bed until he does too. His eyes flutter open with a massive grin forming on his face at the same time. “Merry Christmas, Angel,” he whispers, kissing her nose. She matches his facial expression, “Merry Christmas to you too, Rafe.” His arms reach out to pull her closer to him. “Are you ready to go open presents?” he asks with excitement laced in his voice. Her lips pucker a little, “I am, but with how you are acting, I’m scared of finding out what you did this year.” Rafe chuckles and kisses her forehead. He gets out of bed, holding out his hand for her to take. He guides her downstairs and her eyes almost bulge out of her head at the sight of the most obvious gift.

It is a five-foot-tall Christmas tree made out of books, like the one she has seen on social media. The books overlap each other like bricks to make rows and rows of circles that meet at a point at the top. Ornaments rest on small book ledges alongside a light garland. At the very top, is a decorative book that has the pages forming a heart. It has to be at the very least one hundred books and she knows they are all new books because she recognizes some of the books from her to be bought list. She doesn’t walk further into the room; instead, she opts to stand in the doorway with her mouth agape. Her silence causes Rafe to panic. Did he get the wrong books? Did he go too far? Should he have made it taller? He knew he should’ve made it six feet. “Angel, do you like it?” he frets, placing a hand on her shoulder. Tears start to form in her eyes, “I don’t like it. I love it. I will explode with joy, Rafe. This is amazing.” She jumps into his arms, bringing warmth to his face by attacking him with her lips. Her legs wrap around him and he lets out a sigh of relief. “Good because I really wanted this to show you how much I love you,” he confesses. She gives him a final kiss on the lips, “You always show me how much I mean to you, but this really does take the cake. I love it and you, Rafe. Thank you.” Satisfied with her reaction, Rafe places her on the couch so that she can open her other presents. He’ll help her move all her new books into her library later today. She’ll probably need a new bookshelf too.

Taglist: @winterrrnight @loves0phelia @thelomlisrafecameron @wickedlovely121 @queen-shadow22 @victory-in-the-llama

[edawgz]

hiding in the supply closet

| satoru gojo x reader. ~1k words. fluff.

masterlist. | oneshot fanfic.

The first mistake was letting Gojo hold the shopping list. The second mistake was trusting him to actually follow it.

You were two hours into what should have been a twenty-minute errand at Jujutsu High’s supply depot. It was meant to gather simple things like first-aid kits, cursed tag paper, and extra chalk for classroom seals.

But instead of supplies, Gojo had managed to acquire:

- 3 party hats

- A six-foot tall inflatable cactus (you don’t know where he found this)

- A cursed plush llama that sings when kicked

- A bag of marshmallows with no explanation whatsoever

“Gojo,” you said, pinching the bridge of your nose, “where is the actual stuff we came for?”

“In the cart,” he said proudly.

You looked down, the only thing remotely useful was a single roll of athletic tape… which he had somehow unspooled and used to tie the cactus to the llama.

You sighed, "You are a menace.”

“A lovable menace,” he corrected. “With style.” he made sure to add.

“You’re literally wearing socks with sandals.” you stared down at his shoe choice with a long sigh.

“Fashion forward.” he claimed with a shrug and a smile he was trying to suppress.

You shoved the list into his chest. “We are not leaving until we get what we actually need. No distractions. No llamas. No inflatable cacti.”

Gojo looked personally offended. “You act like I’m the problem here.”

“You are the problem here!” You retorted with a matter-of-fact face.

“Bold of you to assume I’m not the solution and the problem.”

You dragged a hand down your face.

“I’m going to aisle five. If I come back and find you riding the llama like a horse again, I’m leaving you here.”

Gojo raised both hands in mock surrender. “Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a scout.”

“…It’s the thought that counts.”

You turned and walked away before your eye started twitching.

When you returned ten minutes later with arms full of actual supplies, Gojo was gone. So was the llama.

You stood there in aisle three, surrounded by glitter glue, bamboo seals, and cursed calligraphy brushes, staring into the void.

“Gojo,” you said flatly. “I swear to god, if you—”

“Psssst.”

You turned, a supply closet door creaked open a few inches.

You blinked. “…Seriously?”

His voice came through the crack. “I needed to hide. The llama’s haunting me.”

“The stuffed animal?”

“It bit me.” He hissed with a skeptical look.

You raised a brow. “It sings. That’s all it does.”

“You didn’t see the way it looked at me.”

With a sigh, you opened the door.

Gojo was crouched inside, sunglasses crooked, holding the cactus like a shield. His long legs were folded awkwardly beneath him, like someone trying to fit an adult giraffe into a shoe box.

“You good?” you asked.

“I live here now.”

You crossed your arms. “We’re already late getting back. Get up.”

“I can’t.” He insisted.

“You can.” You mocked his insistence.

“I’m emotionally wounded.”

You stared at him with that response.

Gojo blinked up at you. “I require comfort.”

You stepped into the closet, smacked the top of his head gently, and sat on the floor beside him.

He immediately flopped against you, nearly crushing the first-aid kits in your bag.

“This is not what I meant by cuddling,” you muttered.

“But you’re still doing it.” He spoke in a teasing tone with a small grin.

“Because I love you,” you sighed and he beamed at you.

You could feel him smiling even with your face pressed into his stupid white hair. “See? Love is real. And it lives… in a janitor’s closet.”

“You are the worst romantic partner in the history of time. And I've had my fair share of bad partners." you said with a small laugh.

He kissed your cheek. “And yet. You’re still here.”

You leaned into him a little more. “God help me, I am.”

Gojo chuckled, warm and quiet.

For a moment, there was actual silence. No chaos. No plushies. Just the soft sound of his breathing and the faint scent of mint and whatever expensive shampoo he’d stolen from Utahime.

Then he said, "We could live here, you know.”

“In the supply closet?” You couldn't help the chortle that came from your lips.

“It’s cozy.”

You glanced around at the mop bucket and a suspicious jar of eyeballs. “You have a very low bar for comfort.”

“We’d have our own little corner of the world. Just us. And the cactus.”

“The cactus stays outside.”

“He has a name.” he covered the sides of the cactus to shield it from your insults.

“Oh my god.” you groaned with a laugh

Gojo grinned, nudging his nose against your temple.

“Admit it,” he whispered. “You missed me when I was gone.”

“You were gone for five minutes.” Your eyebrows raised as you looked at the man lying on your lap.

“That’s five minutes too long, sweetheart.” He teased in a bit of sing-song voice.

You rolled your eyes, but your hand slipped into his anyway.

Maybe he was a menace. Maybe he made everything harder than it had to be.

But somehow, even in a cursed closet with a demonic plush llama and zero useful supplies…

You were still kind of glad he came.

[slayandsurvive]

🌈🌀 The Shape-Shifting Shenanigans of Alex Fierro

aka: A brief, non-exhaustive list of the many ways Alex has terrified, delighted, and mildly traumatized her friends using sheer shapeshifting audacity.

1. Turned into a squirrel during a team meeting just to chew on a cursed USB drive.

Magnus: Is this… necessary?

Alex: It's encrypted. I’m decrypting it with my teeth.

2. Became a llama to avoid answering a math question in Valhalla training.

Samirah: This is a serious tactical simulation.

Alex (as a llama):

[chews dramatically]

I’m allergic to algebra.

3. Transformed into a dramatic Victorian ghost to haunt a museum guard who said “no touching.”

Alex (wailing in chiffon):

He touched my soul, Benjamin. And now I shall never know peace.

4. Appeared as a clone of Magnus and confused everyone for two hours.

Magnus: You’re not even trying to talk like me.

Alex: I’m doing you a favor. This version has posture and fashion sense.

5. Became a housecat and slept on Samirah’s Quran notes. Refused to move for three hours.

Alex: Allah made me perfect and therefore above the law.

Samirah: I will summon a real cat to fight you.6. Showed up to a battle as a massive pink alligator wearing a monocle.

Enemy: …what.

Alex: Justice is a fashion-forward reptile and I have no regrets.

7. Took the form of a seagull just to snatch Magnus’s hotdog mid-bite.

Magnus: Why.

Alex (still chewing):

Revenge. For that time you said I “drifted like a traffic cone in water.”

8. Shapeshifted into a clipboard to eavesdrop. Forgot to shift back for two days.

Blitz: Why do we have a clipboard with glitter nail polish on it?

Hearth: [signs] That’s Alex.

Blitz: …Of course it is.

9. Turned into a bat to dodge chores.

Alex: Sorry, can’t clean the kitchen. Tiny wings. No thumbs.

Amir: You had thumbs five minutes ago.

Alex: Well now I have sonar and zero responsibility.

10. Took the form of an extremely buff Viking man just to throw Magnus across a river like a skipping stone.

Magnus (dripping wet): You could’ve asked me to jump.

Alex (smirking): But where’s the drama in that?

11. Turned into a duck mid-conversation. Refused to explain.

Amir: Why is Alex a duck.

Samirah: Emotional expression. Probably.

Magnus: She’s been quacking in Morse code for ten minutes.

12. Transformed into Bibi’s favorite soap opera actor to distract her during an awkward date night convo.

Bibi: You remind me of Yusuf from Season 3.

Alex (perfect accent):

That’s because I am Yusuf. Come closer and I’ll monologue dramatically about betrayal.

13. Became a very smug cat to curl up in Magnus’s hoodie when he was sad.

Magnus: Thanks for this.

Alex (purring loudly):

Don’t mention it. Also, you smell like emotional repression and beef jerky.

14. Randomly changed gender mid-battle just to mess with a very confused enemy general.

Enemy: …Wait, weren’t you just—

Alex: That’s the point.

15. Showed up to training as a centaur with leg warmers.

Samirah: …Why.

Alex: Because horse legs get cold too. Duh.