#whispers from the void | anonymous

[universal-legacy]

Michael gets BONK-

"What in the world was that for?! I didn't do anything!!" Says the man that was twirling syringes around, whistling as he eyed a random passerby to throw it. Might it be added that these were impact syringes too?

[woantohae]

Only you || The Void x reader x Bob Reynolds

Summary: Bob's dark, evil entity, The Void, appears when you least expect it. The rest of the team must be prepared to confront him and his prevailing malice. However, there is only one person on the team with whom he has a soft spot. And it's her.

Author's note: this is an anonymous request that i needed to write inmediately. So, here you go. Enjoy it!

《tags: fluff, curse words, the void having a soft spot for the reader, thunderbolts being kinda like a 'found family' trope》

Bob watched the girl from a distance while she prepared dinner.

It wasn't a secret to anyone that Bob was attracted to Y/N. The whole team used to tease him about it, until his ears turned red. John was more insistent on it along with Alexei, who motivated him to ask her out. After meeting them and fighting the group, they decided to put their differences aside and help the man who only wanted to control his powers. Or rather, control him. The Void.

The entity that used to control man when he least expected it or felt like it. He had dark desires and every time he appeared, the rest of the group had to confront him and try to bring him back. However, it was in vain. His powerful entity wouldn't allow a group of powerless people to lock him up like that. When he appeared, he stalked them through the corridors of the compound and often mock them.

Before it was much more chaotic. The first few days Bob tried to prevent the entity from invading him from the inside, but it was impossible. When he came back to himself, he was greeted by Y/N who tried to hold him by the shoulders to stabilize him, while she watched behind the girl's back how the compound was in a mess and, sometimes, on fire.

He didn't remember much of what happened when The Void consumed him. But it always happened that John showed up with a bleeding nose and Bucky adjusting his metal arm.

Somehow, they got used to it and prepared for the worst.

Alexei walks up to the brunette and pats his shoulder gently, scaring him away in the process.

"Shit," Bob says, turning to look at the bearded man, who laughs.

"Seriously, you should try to approach her," he says with an accent. "It seems like it's something mutual."

"Who? Bob and Y/N?" John joins the conversation.

Alexei nods "Oh, yeah. You should try it," John advises with amusement and mischief in his tone.

Bob takes one more look at the girl, who is chatting with Bucky and Yelena, animatedly. Although Y/N ​​had always shown him to trust him, Bob couldn't give himself the pleasure of approaching her so soon and in that way. He wasn't sure, and he didn't want to hurt her, especially if he decided to have The Void appear at any moment.

"You should do it before a certain soldier tries something with her," John scoffs, seeing if he gets a reaction from him.

An annoying feeling arises in his chest and he swallows as if this act will make it better.

"I've seen a lot of closeness between Bucky and Y/N." Bob frowns as he watches Bucky gently place his hand on the girl's arm.

"You should actually worry about your other... ugh!" Alexei receives a punch to the back of the head from John "Why did you do that?"

John rolls his eyes in annoyance and curses under his breath. Then, he looks at the brunette and sighs. "You should go for it"

He feels an evil sensation slowly invade his body, and he is aware of what is about to happen. He continues to look at the scene in front of his eyes and clenches his fists tightly. John watches the scene with amusement as he feels Ava position herself next to him and whisper to her, without her reaching Bob's hearing.

"Are we still with the bet?" Ava smiles with amusement and shows him a 20 dollar bill. "Only if it turns out that the other one always shows up when he sees that Y/N is close to Bucky. And of course, if he treats us like shit at the table while being soft for her"

"You bet," John says confidently.

Alexei frowns and crosses his arms.

"What did you bet?"

"20 bucks that Void treats us like shit while he treats Y/N so softly" Alexei laughs unamusedly and shakes his head.

He watches as Bob gets up from the couch to slowly but surely approach the rest in the kitchen.

"That's impossible. That thing is crazy, I don't think it's like that"

Ava raises an eyebrow. "Do you want to bet?"

Alexei just smiles.

Void was at the table with them.

It was no longer Bob who was in the room. The man's evil personality looked closely at each of them, who sensed a change in the environment. Void looked at Alexei who was happily eating his plate, and then turned his gaze to Y/N.

John cleared his throat and turned to look at Bob.

"Bob, aren't you going to eat?" He asks, raising an eyebrow. Void looks at him with seriousness on his face.

Suddenly he makes a grimace of disgust on his face that does not go unnoticed by the others.

"I don't feel like eating anything you guys have made," he spits firmly. He pushes the plate away and crosses his arms.

"Oh, what a shame," Ava intervenes. "Y/N spent a lot of time preparing this dish. It's one of her special recipes."

The named woman opens her eyes in surprise and looks at Bob. Y/N is looking at the man carefully, and realizes that it is not Bob's bright eyes that are watching her, but the other him.

"Shit" Yelena curses.

"We've got Void here, guys," Alexei announces, munching on his food.

Void narrows his eyes and looks at Y/N, asking:

"Did you prepare dinner?" Y/N nods her head.

"If you want I can prepare something else" she says. Yelena snorts and looks amused at the scene in front of her eyes.

"You better behave, Void," the blonde warns.

"This could get messy" Bucky gulps his drink.

Void with an automatic movement, brings the plate closer and takes the fork to bring the food to his mouth. Savoring the dish prepared by Y/N. He couldn't let them see him enjoy the dish, he wouldn't allow it. But seeing how Y/N's eyes looked at him expectantly, he allowed himself to nod his head.

"It's good," he says coldly. Y/N smiles and continues eating.

“Wow, who knew the monster himself could enjoy a meal prepared by Y/N,” John scoffs.

Void raises his hand and throws him away from the table, making him crash against the wall. Void continues eating, under the watchful eyes of the rest.

"If someone doesn't want to end up like the soldier, I would suggest you to keep eating," he warns.

"Whatever you say, pal" Yelena says, sipping her drink.

Alexei grimaces as he sees Ava's triumphant face.

Something tells him, he's gonna lose that bet.

Yelena and Bucky had joined the bet, while Taskmaster decided to stay out of the whole thing. As always.

The next thing the group saw was when they were fighting some smugglers of the Super Soldier serum.

Bucky was trying to fight against the leader of the gang, while Ava hit some men with precise and agile movements. Alexei was punching, enjoying the moment, while John and Taskmaster were in charge of knocking down everyone who crossed them. Yelena, Y/N and Bob were trying to take the serum samples that were hidden, but eight armed men entered the room.

"Take care of the serum, we'll keep them busy" Y/N says, occupying her powers.

Bob started fighting alongside her, trying to take them down and make sure she was okay. The duo was winning the fight, but without noticing the bullet that one of the bad guys had fired, it had grazed Y/N's arm, causing her to curse and stop using her powers, while receiving a punch from a man. The girl falls unconscious to the ground, while Bob grunts and feels Void's presence take control of his person.

He screams and feels it take over him, losing control. Void glares at the one who hit the girl, while with a wave of his hand, he sends the guy he was fighting with into complete darkness.

"You...." points to the man, who swallows nervously about what will happen next. "You shouldn't have done that." And he destroys him with his hand.

Yelena observes the scene as she returns with the serum case in her hand. Void doesn't look at her, his attention is focused on taking Y/N into his arms. When he takes her against his body bridal style, he raises his dark, dominant gaze to the blonde.

"Is she okay?" Yelena asks referring to the unconscious girl. Void clenches his jaw and walks past her while replying that the girl is fine now.

Now that he has her safe.

The rest of the group arrives agitated and they can see how Void doesn't even spare them a glance, he is worried about holding the girl tightly in his arms and then leaving through the balcony of the building and flying away.

John narrows his eyes and watches with an amused grimace as Alexei curses.

"It would be 40 bucks, Alexei," he pats his back, "I suggest you break your piggy bank."

When Void arrives with Y/N ​​at the compound, he immediately heads to "Bob's" room to leave her lying on the mattress. He watches as her chest rises and falls calmly, while he clenches his jaw and sees the cut on her temple.

He could have unleashed all his power to destroy the bastards who caused that, but he knew—as crazy as it may seem to him and he is against the idea of ​​controlling himself—that he could have killed the group, even Y/N. And he didn't want that to happen. Unlike Sentry, his dark side couldn't hold back and always got out of control, but when he met Y/N everything seemed to calm down a little for him. No matter how crazy it seemed.

Void observes Y/N's sleepy figure and crouches down to her level to bring his face closer to her hair, sniffing the scent of her shampoo. Vainilla with coconut. That seemed to calm him down.

A few hours pass and Void takes it upon himself to still maintain control of Bob's body to keep an eye on the girl. The rest arrived at the premises with injuries and barely walking, they stopped as soon as they saw the man's dark suit.

"How is she?" Bucky asks. Void crosses his arms and looks at him with his usual coldness.

"She's sleeping," he answers bluntly.

Yelena points her head to the door of the room. "Is she in Bob's room?" He nods his head.

Bucky sighs and takes a few steps until he walks into the room. "I should go check on her."

However, he is stopped by the other's hand, earning a confused and disapproving look. "

What's wrong with you? I want to go check on her" Void smiles coldly.

"It won't be necessary. She's with me." Bucky snorts and looks at him defiantly.

"She's my friend. I should check on her."

"Guys...." Ava warns.

Void laughs with amusement.

"Don't make it any harder, Barnes," he points out. "You know how this will end if you confront me."

Bucky sets his jaw and clenches his metal fist.

"Guys" a female voice is heard. Void turns around instantly and sees Y/N touching her head.

"Shit, this hurt" she complains.

Bucky looks at her and goes to her, while Void follows him without taking his eyes off the girl.

"Do you need me to bring you ice?" Yelena asks going to the refrigerator.

"Please," she asks.

"I'll do it," Void orders firmly. Y/N looks at the man and is surprised to see Void. Lately she has been seeing him more than Bob himself.

Alexei curses and goes to the room, thinking that he will have to pay more money to the rest.

"Shit"

Void takes the ice pack from the blonde's hands and Y/N walks over to gently hold it out to her. Ava watches the scene carefully as she sees how he acts with the other girl on the team. Yelena stands next to Ghost and arches an eyebrow as she holds the side of her rib.

"Who knew Void could have a heart after all" she says mockingly.

It was a rainy night and everyone in the compound was sleeping peacefully. Everyone except Bob, who wandered through the hallways without being able to fall asleep.

He didn't remember much from the previous days, only that he had worried that Y/N had a small cut on her temple. He sat on the couch and listened to the rain fall, while behind him Y/N approached with a smile on her face.

"There you are" Bob jumps and turns to see Y/N sitting next to him, a blanket surrounding her body "I was starting to wonder when would you come back"

Bob smiles nervously.

"It wasn't me. It was..."

"Void," she finishes, with a slight smile. Bob tenses.

"I hope he hasn't caused too much trouble," he murmurs.

Y/N shakes her head. "You'd be surprised, actually."

He frowns.

"Why?"

"He helped me when I got knocked out the time we went on that mission," she reminds him. Bob begins to remember and remembers that the last thing he saw that day was Y/N falling unconscious to the ground.

He looks at the girl's already healed cut.

"Are you better now? Do you need anything?" Y/N smiles and plays with her fingers under the blanket.

She moves closer to him and hears him swallow.

"Actually, i do. I needed you to tell me if..." she lowers her voice "you feel the same way"

Bob widens his eyes.

"What? I...."

"I know you have feelings for me, Bob" she confesses.

"Shit. I-I can explain it" he says hurriedly "I didn't want you to know, but the boys knew and...."

She interrupts him with a kiss on the lips.

Bob freezes for a few moments and then gently reciprocates. He raises his hands to the girl's red cheeks and lets himself be carried away by the kiss. He adores the feeling, and he doesn't want to stop.

They both separate and a shy smile appears on Y/N's face.

"Is it clear to you now that this is something mutual?" she asks him.

Bob nods his head eagerly, and dares to ask: "Could you make it clearer to me?"

She smiles and kisses him again. He gladly reciprocates, but within seconds he feels how the other takes control of him. Void is in charge of lowering his hands from the girl's cheeks until he slides them around her waist and sits her on his lap, an action that surprises the girl. Especially when "Bob" decides to bite her lips gently, making the girl moan. She separates instantly and notices how Bob's nervous face becomes confident and mischievous.

"What? I couldn't let him enjoy you all to himself" he says grimly.

“God,” Y/N murmurs, letting out a sigh.

"No, I'm just Void. But thank you" he pulls her close to his body and looks into her eyes "I must say that you captivated me to have me under your control, sweetheart"

She swallows and licks her lips. Void can't help but look at her.

"I'll have to get used to this, right?" she asks, leaning on the shoulders of the entity taking over the boy's body. He nods smiling.

"Promise me something"

"Anything, dear," he says against his lips.

"You're going to calm down with the others" Void rolls his eyes and doesn't like the plan, but seeing the pleading gleam in the girl's eyes, he curses and responds in disgust.

"Okay," he says, "Only because you asked me to. Now could we get back to kissing?"

She shakes her head in amusement and captures his lips in another kiss. Hoping that Bob will also enjoy this when he takes control again.

"Oh, c'mon!" Alexei exclaims.

[sixeyesonathiel]

no one else needed to notice

pairing — g. satoru x gn reader

synopsis : you weren’t looking for connection when you replied to a quiet post on a jujutsu forum. but what starts as late-night messages with a stranger turns into something warmer, steadier, and unexpectedly real.

sometimes, the person who sees you best is the one you’ve never even seen. until now.

tags –> one shot, 6.4k wc, non-canon compliant au, internet strangers to lovers, emotional intimacy, mutual comfort, secret voice calls, found each other online, reader is from kyoto, soft gojo satoru, extremely mild angst with a happy ending, first kisses, lighthearted moments, a little rain, stupid jokes and late-night feelings, love is about compromise, rip to gakuganji’s office chair. inspired by the song ‘no one noticed’ by the marias.

a/n : writing this made me bawl, to be loved is to be known. there’s just something about being understood by a stranger and finding solace in each other that gets to me. being known & being loved without being seen in a literal sense? sign me up :P i wanna sob because my pookie bear deserved better aaaaa

red string of fate collection m.list

you didn’t mean to answer the thread.

you never do, usually. the forum’s a chaotic sprawl, a digital graveyard of encrypted usernames—like “void_eater69” or “cursed_snacc”—and timestamps mangled by timezones no one bothers to sync. posts pile up like offerings to some forgotten curse: cryptic rants about residual energy, half-baked spell theories, or someone whining about a shikigami that won’t behave. it’s not a place for real talk. more like a dive bar at the edge of a cursed womb, where everyone’s nursing their own ghosts and shouting into the void.

but that night, your room was too quiet. the kind of quiet that creeps under your skin, heavy as a grade-two’s miasma. kyoto’s winter had settled in, and your tiny apartment felt like a box of stale air, the radiator hissing like it was mocking you. your phone glowed on the tatami, a stubborn rectangle of light that wouldn’t let you sleep. your brain was a traitor, replaying the day’s monotony: a sparring session where you’d nearly twisted your ankle, a debrief that dragged until your eyes glazed, the faint smear of cursed blood you’d scrubbed from your sleeve hours ago.

you scrolled the forum to shut it up. past a thread arguing if reversed cursed technique could fix a hangover. past some guy asking if spirits could get drunk—seriously, dude?—and then you saw it. buried under the noise, posted hours ago, short and raw, no punctuation, no pretense:

“does it ever get easier”

you stared at it, your thumb hovering over the screen. the words sat there, small and unadorned, like a stone someone had left on a path. most posts like that were traps—bait for trolls or vents that fizzled into nothing. but this one felt… different. quiet, like a whisper you weren’t meant to hear. genuine, like it had slipped out before the poster could rethink it.

you broke your own rule. typed back without letting yourself second-guess: “define easier. like, emotionally? logistically? existentially?”

he replied in under a minute.

“yes”

and just like that, you were in it.

at first, it was anonymous, the way the forum always is. two sorcerers dodging missions and boredom, tossing words into the dark like talismans. you didn’t know his name, and he didn’t ask yours. just screen names—yours a string of numbers and a bad pun, his something absurd involving mochi and a curse word. you talked about things you’d never say out loud, not to the kyoto higher-ups or the first-years who looked at you like you had all the answers. like how a room full of people could still make you feel like a ghost, drifting just outside their orbit. or how debriefs left a sour taste in your mouth, like you’d bitten into something rotten—guilt, maybe, or just the weight of it all.

he was… unexpected. not funny in a cheap, knock-knock way, but ridiculous, like he’d turned life into a stage and forgotten the script. his jokes were elaborate, stupid, sprawling things, like he was performing for a crowd that didn’t exist. one night, he typed: “i think the veil’s thinning. saw a tanuki trying to do taxes with a stolen abacus.”

you snorted into your pillow, the sound loud in your empty room. “should’ve let it,” you wrote back, fingers flying across the screen. “might’ve gotten a better refund than me. my last one barely covered a coffee.”

he sent a laughing emoji—unironically, the dork—and you could almost hear him cackling somewhere far away. it made you grin, your face half-buried in a blanket that smelled faintly of incense and yesterday’s takeout.

the chats kept going, stretching across weeks. you’d be slumped on your couch, boots still muddy from a mission, when your phone buzzed with his latest nonsense. “ever wonder if curses dream?” he’d ask, and you’d fire back, “only if they’re dreaming of paperwork. that’s the real nightmare.” he’d reply with a string of sobbing emojis, and you’d roll your eyes, but you’d keep typing, because somehow, it felt like he got it.

then came the voice calls.

always at night, when kyoto’s streets went still and the stars pressed against your window like they had something to prove. he’d call from somewhere else—somewhere alive with sound. sometimes it was traffic, a distant honk cutting through his laugh. sometimes it was the ocean, waves hissing like they were gossiping with him. once, a vending machine jingled, coins clinking as he muttered, “what do you want? melon soda? or that sweet corn one that tastes like regret?”

you laughed, your voice muffled by the scarf you hadn’t bothered to unwind from your neck. “melon,” you said, curling your knees to your chest on the couch. “corn’s for masochists.”

“noted,” he said, and you heard the machine whir, then a can crack open. “one melon soda for the meanest sorcerer i know.”

“flatterer,” you deadpanned, but your lips twitched, and you tucked the phone closer to your ear, like his voice could fill the cold corners of your apartment.

you never asked where he was. he never asked your name. it was a rule you didn’t need to speak—just a line neither of you crossed, because crossing it might break whatever this was. but he was your favorite stranger, the one who made the nights less heavy, the one whose voice felt like a tether when everything else was slipping.

the thing was, you weren’t miserable.

not exactly.

just tired, the kind of tired that sleep doesn’t touch, like a curse that’s sunk its claws too deep. your life at the kyoto branch was a loop: wake to the chime of your battered alarm clock, spar until your muscles burned, assist on missions that left your hands smelling of ash and ozone, report to gakuganji in a room that always felt too small. sometimes you mopped blood from training mats, the sponge heavy in your grip. sometimes you taught theory to first-years, their eyes glazed as you droned about residuals, your voice echoing off chalk-dusted walls.

sometimes you lay on your futon, staring at the ceiling’s chipped paint, wondering if you used to feel bigger than this—brighter, like the sky before a storm.

he changed that.

not in a loud way, not at first. it was softer, quieter, like the sound of his breath hitching when you said something sharp. like finding a rhythm with someone, even if your steps didn’t quite match. he’d ask you things no one else did, questions that felt like they were peeling back your edges.

“what color’s the sky in kyoto tonight?” he’d say, and you’d lean against your window, phone cradled against your shoulder, and answer, “pink, like someone spilled their drink on it.” he’d laugh, and you’d feel it in your ribs, a small, stubborn warmth.

“do curses feel pain?” he asked once, his voice muffled, like he was chewing something—probably mochi, knowing him.

you hummed, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. “maybe. depends if they’re sentient enough to know they’re hurting. what do you think?”

“dunno,” he said, and you heard a rustle, like he was flopping onto a bed somewhere. “but i hope they don’t. makes it easier to sleep after.”

you didn’t reply right away, just listened to him breathe, steady and slow. “you’re softer than you act,” you said finally, and he made a noise—half scoff, half laugh—that made you smile into the dark.

he loved dumb questions, too. “is it immoral to laugh when a cursed spirit looks like a balloon animal?” he asked one night, and you could hear the grin in his voice, like he was picturing it.

you were sprawled on your floor, a half-eaten onigiri beside you, and you snorted so hard you nearly choked. “only if it’s a good balloon animal,” you said. “like, if it’s trying to be a dog, you gotta respect the effort.”

“fair,” he said, and you heard a clink—probably another soda can. “you’re funnier than you think, y’know.”

“and you’re weirder than you sound,” you shot back, but your cheeks were warm, and you pulled your knees up, hugging them like you could trap the feeling.

the best moments, though, were when he dropped the act. when the theatrics fell away, and his voice went low, soft, like he was afraid the words might break if he pushed too hard. one night, after a call that had stretched past midnight, he said, “sometimes… i think i only exist when i’m useful to someone. is that stupid?”

you were half-asleep, your phone slipping against your cheek, but his voice pulled you back. you blinked at the ceiling, the shadows pooling like spilled ink. “no,” you said, quiet but firm. “it’s just sad.”

he laughed—not the emoji kind, not the loud kind, but something small, like he was letting out a breath he’d been holding. “you don’t pull punches, huh?”

“you’d hate it if i did,” you said, and you heard him shift, like he was nodding to himself.

“yeah,” he murmured. “i would.”

it went on like that for months, long enough that you started noticing things. the way he yawned before he said goodnight, a sleepy hum that made your chest ache. the pauses in his sentences when he was choosing his words, like he wanted to get it right for you. the way his voice warmed when you rambled about something small—like the stray cat outside your building that kept stealing your bento scraps, or the time you’d botched a talisman and spent an hour scrubbing ink from your hands.

he’d listen, really listen, he always does and then say something like, “bet that cat’s got better taste than gakuganji,” and you’d laugh until your sides hurt.

you didn’t ask who he was. he didn’t push for your name. it was perfect, fragile, like a bubble you were both afraid to pop.

until one night, your phone buzzed, and it wasn’t the usual late-hour joke or random question. it was a call, his name—or rather, the string of nonsense characters he used—lighting up your screen. you hesitated, thumb grazing the accept button, then pressed it, curling into your futon as the kyoto cold gnawed at the window.

“hey,” he said, his voice softer than usual, like he was speaking through a held breath. there was no hum of traffic tonight, no vending machine jingle—just a faint rustle, maybe his sleeve brushing the phone, and a stillness that made your pulse loud in your ears.

you didn’t answer right away, just listened to him breathe, steady but careful, like he was standing on the edge of something. your apartment felt smaller, the night pressing against the glass, cold and heavy, like it was waiting for you to move first.

“can I…” he started, then paused, a hitch in his voice you hadn’t heard before. “can I visit you?”

you froze, fingers tightening around the phone until it dug into your palm. the words landed like a stone dropped into still water, rippling through the quiet. your eyes flicked to the window, where the dark seemed to lean closer, listening. your heart did something stupid, tripping over itself, and you bit your lip, hard enough to sting.

“like… here?” you said finally, voice low, almost lost in the radiator’s hiss. “in kyoto?”

“yeah,” he said, and it was quiet but firm, like he’d been turning the idea over for hours before daring to say it. “i’m nearby. for a mission. thought… maybe. if it’s okay with you.”

you swallowed, your free hand fidgeting with the blanket’s edge, twisting it until the fabric bunched. you didn’t know what he looked like. he didn’t know your face. but the thought of him—your stranger, your tether—standing in your city, his voice no longer trapped in static… it made your chest ache, like a curse unraveling too fast to catch.

“we don’t even know what we look like,” you said, softer now, half a shield, half a truth, your breath catching as you spoke.

he was quiet for a moment, and you heard a faint shift, like he was leaning closer to the phone, shutting out the world. “i know,” he said, voice low, steady, like a vow he hadn’t meant to make. “but I think I’d recognize you anyway.”

your lips parted, but no sound came out. your heart stumbled again, and you pressed your knees to your chest, the blanket slipping to the floor. you wanted to deflect, to toss back something sharp, but his words sat there, heavy and warm, like they’d carved out a space you didn’t know you’d left empty.

“you’re weird,” you managed, but it came out too soft, too honest, and you winced, tucking your chin to hide the smile you couldn’t stop.

he exhaled, a sound that was half-laugh, half-relief, like he’d been holding it in all night. “you’re mean,” he said, and you could hear the curve of his mouth, faint but real, unguarded in a way that made your ribs tighten.

“you like it,” you said, voice barely above a whisper, and your fingers hovered over the phone’s edge, like you could reach through it if you tried.

he didn’t answer right away. just breathed, slow and close, and when he spoke, it was so quiet it felt like a secret. “yeah,” he said. “i do.”

the call didn’t end, not yet. you stayed there, listening to the silence stretch, his breath a steady rhythm against the night’s weight. and that ache in your chest grew, sharp and warm, like it was making room for something you weren’t ready to name.

that morning, when he texted for the address, you gave him the name of a small café tucked just off the main street near kyoto campus—nothing fancy, barely even marked, just a warm pocket of space where time slowed down and no one asked too many questions. not because you were scared. not exactly. but the idea of him—this faceless voice, this stranger you somehow knew better than people you’d seen every day—being in your space, standing in your doorway, seeing your real life... it made something flutter behind your ribs. something you couldn’t name without sounding stupid.

it rained that day. not hard. just the kind of persistent drizzle that painted everything in shades of grey, slicked the pavement until it gleamed like wet ink, and made your sleeves cling to your wrists. your shoes scuffed softly against the tile as you pushed open the café door. inside, the air was warm, thick with the smell of coffee beans and something sweet rising from the back oven.

a couple of students in uniforms sat by the counter, arguing in low tones about spell theory. the barista barely looked up as you ordered your usual, fingers drumming a quiet rhythm against the side of your phone. you picked the window seat. always the window seat. you liked watching people go by, liked the illusion of being somewhere else.

time passed.

you checked your phone once. then again. your fingers curled around your cup, heat seeping into your palms. condensation fogged the glass. you were early. or maybe he was late. or maybe the whole thing was a joke you’d fallen for, like a damn idiot. your heart did this stupid stuttering thing every time the bell over the door moved.

then it rang.

and he walked in.

white hair, slightly mussed from the rain. the tiniest drop caught in his bangs, trailing down toward the curve of his cheek. his sunglasses sat low on the bridge of his nose, and he was tall—taller than you'd expected, even though you should’ve known—and dressed like he didn’t care how loud he looked. hands in his pockets. shoulders loose. like he’d just wandered in off some catwalk that ended in your direction.

he scanned the room once, those ridiculous glasses perched low on his nose, catching the café’s dim light like twin moons. his eyes—sharp, too sharp for any one place to hold—skipped over the students bickering about cursed residuals, the barista wiping down a steaming espresso machine, and landed square on you.

his smile cracked open, instant, effortless, like the sun spilling through a storm cloud.

“hey.”

you froze mid-sip, your mug hovering an inch from your lips. your eyes locked on his, and the world did that thing where it shrinks to a pinprick, all cinnamon air and rain-slicked windows fading out. the ridiculous truth hit you like a badly timed talisman:

holy shit. that’s gojo satoru.

your mouth opened. closed with a soft click. opened again, because apparently your brain decided to blue-screen.

“you’re fucking kidding me.”

his grin stretched wider, all teeth and mischief, as he sauntered across the floor toward you. long limbs moved like they were choreographed, raindrops clinging to his white hair like tiny glass beads, scattering light. he shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets, shoulders hiked just enough to betray how stupidly pleased he was with himself.

“surprise?” he said, voice lilting like he’d just pulled off the world’s dumbest magic trick.

you blinked, unblinking, your fingers tightening around the mug until the heat stung. your face was doing something—probably a mix of shock and are you serious right now—because his laugh bubbled up, low and warm, like he’d caught you red-handed.

“you—i—you’re you,” you stammered, eloquent as a first-year tripping over their own incantation.

“i am,” he said, tilting his head. a single droplet slid from his bangs, tracing the sharp line of his jaw before dripping onto the floor. “last i checked, anyway. unless you’ve got a better theory.”

“why didn’t you tell me?”

he paused a step from the table, one hand escaping his pocket to scratch at the back of his neck. his glasses slipped lower, and you caught a flash of those eyes—crystal blue, too bright, like staring into a clear sky after a curse’s miasma. he nudged the frames up with a knuckle, but then, in a move that made your breath hitch, he tugged them off completely. folded them with a click. set them on the table like a dare.

“didn’t wanna scare you off,” he said, quieter now, his gaze unguarded and pinning you in place.

yo squinted, lips pressing into a thin line to choke back a snort. your eyebrow arched, sharp as a well-placed shikigami. “you thought being yourself would scare me off?”

he shrugged, weight shifting from one foot to the other, his coat swaying like it was in on the joke. “it usually does.”

you blinked again, slower, and something in your chest unknotted. for a split second, he looked… smaller. not the gojo satoru who could level a city block with a wink, but a guy who wasn’t sure if he was too much or not enough. his hair was a mess, sticking up where he’d ruffled it outside, and his eyelashes were wet, catching the light like they were trying to apologize.

you set your mug down with a soft clink, the ceramic warm against your palm, and gestured to the chair across from you. “sit down, satoru.”

his grin snapped back, bright as a spark talisman igniting. “yes, ma’am.”

he dropped into the chair with all the grace of a cat knocking over a vase—legs sprawling, then tucking back, elbows hitting the table before he leaned forward like he was about to spill a secret. his coat bunched at his shoulders, and he smelled faintly of rain and something sweeter, like the mochi he’d probably swiped from a vendor on the way here.

“this place smells like cinnamon and potential,” he said, voice dipping low, conspiratorial. he waggled his brows, and you swore his eyes flickered with a tease no technique could replicate. “you sure you don’t wanna marry me right now? i’d get you a ring pop. blue raspberry, your favorite.”

you snorted, the sound punching out before you could stop it. your hand flew to your mouth, but it was too late—he’d heard it, and his whole face lit up like he’d won a bet with the universe.

“you remembered that?” you said, leaning back in your chair, arms crossing like you could shield yourself from his smugness. your lips twitched, betraying you.

“‘course i did,” he said, tapping his temple with a long finger. “you said it during that 2 a.m. ramble about cursed vending machines. blue raspberry ring pop, ‘cause it stains your tongue and freaks out the first-years.” he leaned closer, voice dropping to a mock-whisper. “i pay attention, y’know.”

your cheeks warmed, and you hated how your mouth kept trying to smile. you kicked his shin lightly under the table, just enough to make him yelp—a dramatic ow that had the students at the counter glancing over. “you’re impossible,” you muttered, but your eyes flicked to his glasses, still folded neatly beside his elbow. “and put those back on, idiot. you’re gonna give yourself a migraine squinting like that.”

he blinked, then laughed—a real one, not the showy kind he threw at missions or bad jokes. “what, you worried about my eyes now?” he said, but he didn’t reach for the glasses. instead, he propped his chin on one hand, staring at you like you were the only thing worth seeing. “i took ‘em off for you, y’know. six eyes makes everything loud—too many colors, too many things. but you…” he trailed off, and his voice softened, like he was peeling back a layer he usually kept buried. “you’re clearer without ‘em.”

your breath caught, and for a second, you forgot how to be a smart-ass. your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your sleeve, and you ducked your head, letting your hair fall forward to hide the heat creeping up your neck. “that’s sweet,” you said, voice dry but wobbling just a fraction. “also stupid. you’ll strain yourself, and i’m not dragging your whining ass to a healer when you’re seeing double.”

he grinned, undeterred, and flicked a sugar packet across the table at you. it bounced off your knuckles, and you swatted it back without thinking, starting a lazy game of tabletop tag. “would you rather i didn’t see you?” he asked, catching the packet mid-air with infuriating ease. his fingers were quick, precise, like he could’ve dismantled a curse in the same motion. “c’mon, admit it. you like being seen.”

you rolled your eyes, but your lips curved, and you couldn’t quite stop it. “i like when you’re not a headache,” you shot back, snatching the sugar packet from his hand. you tore it open, dumping half into your coffee just to mess with him—he’d gagged once during a call when you’d done it, claiming it was “coffee abuse.” now, he just watched you with a smirk, like he was cataloging every move you made.

“liar,” he said, stretching his arms above his head until his shirt rode up, flashing a sliver of pale skin above his waistband. you looked away, quick, and he noticed—his smirk grew positively diabolical. “you told me last week you like my voice best at midnight. all raspy and annoying, you said. direct quote.”

you groaned, sinking lower in your chair, but your foot nudged his ankle under the table, a traitor to your own defenses. “i was delirious from a mission,” you said, pointing a stirrer at him like a tiny sword. your brows furrowed, but your eyes were bright, dancing with the kind of energy you hadn’t felt in weeks. “and you were the one who kept talking about cursed tanukis stealing your socks, so who’s the real mess here?”

he laughed again, loud enough to make the barista glance over with a raised brow. his hand dropped to the table, fingers drumming a restless rhythm, and you noticed how his pinky brushed the edge of your mug—like he was testing how close he could get without you pulling away. “guilty,” he said, tilting his head until his bangs fell into his eyes. he shook them away, and the motion was so boyish, so normal, it made your heart do a stupid little flip. “but you laughed. i heard it. best sound in the world, by the way.”

you froze, stirrer halfway to your mouth, and your eyes flicked up to meet his. he wasn’t grinning now—just watching you, steady and soft, like the rain outside had melted all his edges. your lips parted, but no snark came out. instead, you reached across the table, picked up his glasses, and slid them toward him with a pointed look. “put these on before you ruin yourself,” you said, but your voice was quieter, like you were afraid of breaking whatever this was. “i’m not worth a headache, satoru.”

he didn’t touch the glasses. instead, he caught your hand before you could pull it back, his fingers warm and a little calloused, curling around yours like they’d been waiting to. “disagree,” he said, simple as that, and his thumb brushed your knuckle, light as a feather. “you’re worth a lot of things.”

you swallowed, and the café seemed to hum quieter—the clink of cups, the murmur of students, all fading into a soft blur. your pulse was loud, though, thudding in your ears as you looked at him. his hair was drying now, curling at the ends, and his eyes were still bare, unguarded, like he’d stripped away every barrier just to sit here with you. your lips twitched into a smile, small but real, and you squeezed his hand once before letting go.

“you’re gonna regret saying that when i steal your last mochi later,” you said, leaning back to break the spell, but your foot stayed pressed against his under the table, warm and steady.

he gasped, clutching his chest like you’d cursed him. “not the mochi,” he wailed, but his eyes crinkled, and he leaned forward, stealing your stirrer to twirl it between his fingers like a baton. “fine, but only if you say ‘satoru, you’re my hero’ first. gotta earn it.”

“in your dreams, pretty boy,” you shot back, but you were laughing now, soft and easy, and the sound made his whole face soften, like he’d been chasing it all along.

you stayed in that café for hours, trading sugar packets and stupid stories, your shoes bumping under the table, his glasses still untouched. the rain slowed to a drizzle, painting the windows in lazy streaks, but neither of you noticed. the world was just this—cinnamon air, warm mugs, and the way he looked at you like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted to see clearly.

and somewhere in between the rain tapering off and your drinks going lukewarm, something shifted. not abruptly. not dramatically. but gently, like gravity starting to lean in a different direction. he was exactly the same—annoying, charming, impossible—but there was a quiet steadiness beneath it all. like he looked at you and saw not just a person, but a place. somewhere he could stay.

all while you were still trying to wrap your head around the fact that gojo satoru had been the idiot on the forum sending you tanuki memes at 3am.

he called you a cryptid. you called him emotionally constipated. he told you your voice was the only one he actually waited to hear. you told him he needed better taste. he laughed so hard he knocked his knee on the underside of the table.

when the café finally closed, the barista shooing you out with a tired smile, satoru held the door open, his clear umbrella already unfurled against the drizzle. it was comically small for his ridiculous height, barely shielding his broad shoulders, but he angled it carefully, keeping the rain from kissing your hair. his sleeve darkened, soaked through where the mist clung, but he didn’t seem to care. the night was quiet, steeped in that velvet hush that trails a long rain, streetlights casting blurry halos through the mist, like half-forgotten curses glowing in the dark.

his footsteps matched yours, slow and deliberate, scuffing softly against the wet pavement. he didn’t need to adjust his stride—you noticed how he shortened it, just enough, like he was savoring every second of this walk. his fingers brushed yours once, a fleeting warmth against your knuckles. he didn’t grab your hand. brushed again, lingering, like a question he wasn’t sure he could ask. you didn’t pull away, your pinky curling slightly, grazing his, and the corner of his mouth twitched upward, like he’d caught a secret.

“can I see you again?” he asked, glancing down at you, his voice stripped of its usual swagger. it was quiet, raw, like a wish he’d whispered to the night before daring to say it aloud. his glasses slipped low, catching the streetlight’s gleam, and his eyes—too blue, too open—held yours like you were the only thing tethering him to the ground.

you tilted your head, pretending to mull it over, your lips pursing to hide the smile tugging at them. your scarf fluttered in the breeze, and you tugged it tighter, catching the way his gaze flicked to the motion, like he was memorizing it. “I’d kinda like it if you called me first,” you said, voice dry but warm, your eyes darting to his before skittering away.

his smile softened, reverent, like you’d handed him a talisman he hadn’t earned. he ducked his head, damp hair falling into his eyes, and pushed it back with a quick flick, scattering droplets. “yeah?” he said, and it was so soft, so hopeful, it made your chest ache like a bruise you didn’t mind.

“yeah,” you said, and your fingers brushed his again, deliberate this time, a spark in the quiet.

he didn’t kiss you. not yet. but the way he looked at you—head tilted, eyes tracing your face like he was mapping a new constellation—felt louder than any words. like maybe, finally, he’d found the place he was meant to land, and you were standing right there beside him.

you kept walking, the umbrella tilting as he leaned closer, his shoulder brushing yours. the mist curled around you like a veil, and he started humming—some off-key pop song he’d probably heard on a mission, the kind you’d mocked him for liking during one of your calls. you shot him a look, eyebrow arched, and he only grinned, utterly unrepentant.

“you’re gonna ruin my reputation,” you muttered, but your lips twitched, and you nudged his arm with your elbow, just enough to make him sway.

“too late,” he said, voice lilting like he was sharing a conspiracy. “you laughed at my tanuki tax joke. you’re already doomed.”

you snorted, the sound sharp in the quiet, and he laughed—low, warm, like it was his favorite sound in the world. “you remember that?” you asked, glancing up at him, your scarf slipping to reveal the curve of your neck. his eyes followed it, then snapped back to your face, like he’d been caught.

“‘course I do,” he said, tapping his temple with a long finger. “filed it under ‘proof you’re secretly fun.’ right next to you admitting you like my midnight voice.”

your cheeks warmed, and you shoved your hands into your pockets, muttering, “delirious ramblings don’t count.” but you didn’t step away, and he didn’t either, the umbrella wobbling as he tilted it to keep you dry.

then he stopped walking, abrupt enough that you turned to face him, a brow raised. “what?”

his expression was unreadable, caught somewhere between mischief and something heavier, like he was about to say something that could tilt the world off its axis. his hair was wet now, silver strands curling at the ends, clinging to his forehead, and his glasses fogged slightly at the edges, making his eyes look softer, closer.

“come work in tokyo,” he said, the words spilling out like they’d been waiting all night.

you blinked, your breath catching. “satoru.”

“no, I’m serious,” he said, stepping closer, the umbrella dipping until a stray droplet grazed his cheek. he didn’t wipe it away, just kept looking at you, earnest in a way that made your throat tight. “same uniform, better pay, vending machines that don’t eat your coins. plus—” he leaned in, voice dropping to a mock-whisper—“you get me. scientifically proven to make life less boring.”

you laughed, sharp and startled, and it broke the tension like a snapped thread. “you’re the cause of my stress,” you said, poking his chest with a finger, your nail catching on his damp coat.

“and I’ll keep causing it,” he said, catching your hand before you could pull back. his fingers were warm, curling around yours, and he tilted his head, grin softening. “but I’ll be closer. way better than those kyoto stiffs who don’t know how you take your coffee.”

you froze, lips parting, because he did know—black, no sugar, the way you’d grumbled about during a 3 a.m. call when a mission had you wired. “you’re ridiculous,” you muttered, but your voice wobbled, and you didn’t yank your hand away.

“you don’t belong there,” he said, quieter now, his thumb brushing your knuckle, light as a wish. “they don’t see you. not like I do.”

you opened your mouth to deflect, to toss back something sharp, but nothing came. because he was right, and the way he looked at you—steady, unguarded, like you were more than a shadow in a debrief room—made it impossible to argue. you closed your mouth, exhaling through your nose, and he smiled, small and real, like he’d won something bigger than he’d planned.

two weeks later, after one strongly worded proposal, two forged signatures, and a very public argument with gakuganji that ended with a chair launched across a meeting room, satoru showed up at your apartment, leaning against the doorframe with a grin that screamed trouble. his coat was slung over one shoulder, and he held a crumpled paper bag that smelled suspiciously like mochi.

“congrats,” he said, voice bright as a spark. “you’re moving to tokyo. pack a toothbrush.”

you stared, one socked foot still on the tatami, a half-packed box of books at your side. “what the hell did you do?”

“justice,” he said, tossing the bag onto your counter, where it landed with a soft thud. he stepped inside, kicking the door shut with his heel, and winked like he’d just saved the world. “also, maybe a little bribery. you’re welcome.”

and just like that, you were tokyo’s problem now.

on your first day, he was waiting at the jujutsu tech gates, a paper flower crown perched crookedly on his head, petals fluttering in the breeze. he held a sign—scrawled in marker, “WELCOME HOME, CRYPTID”—and two matcha lattes, one wobbling dangerously in his hand as he waved like a kid spotting their best friend. the other sorcerers passing by shot him looks, but he didn’t care, his grin wide enough to rival the sun spilling over the campus.

you tried to scowl, to keep your cool, but your lips betrayed you, curling into a smile that felt like surrender. “you’re ridiculous,” you muttered, stepping into his orbit, close enough to smell the sugar on his breath and the faint cedar of his cologne.

he looped an arm around your shoulder, easy as breathing, like the space beside him had been yours all along. his lips brushed your temple, a fleeting warmth, then lingered, soft and deliberate, like he was testing if you’d pull away. you didn’t.

“and yet,” he said, voice low, teasing, “you never left.”

you rolled your eyes, but your head tilted into his touch, just a fraction, and you felt him exhale, like he’d been holding it in. “I’m not wearing the flower crown,” you said, flicking the sign with a finger, making it wobble in his grip.

“not yet,” he said, adjusting the crown on his head, petals catching the sunlight like tiny flames. he handed you a latte, the cup warm against your palm, and you noticed he’d drawn a tiny cat face on the lid—lopsided, with one ear missing, like your stray back in kyoto.

“not ever,” you shot back, but you took a sip, and the matcha was perfect—sweet, not too bitter, exactly how you’d mentioned liking it months ago during a call about bad coffee stands.

he laughed, a sound like summer breaking through clouds, and you looked up, catching the way his eyes crinkled, the way his hair glowed gold in the morning light. his thumb brushed your cheek, featherlight, like he was confirming you were real.

and then he kissed you—no fanfare, no dramatic build, just the quiet press of his mouth against yours, soft and certain. it was the kind of kiss that didn’t ask for permission because it already belonged. like the final word in a sentence you’d both been writing in secret.

his lips were warm, moving against yours with a reverence that made your breath catch. his hand cupped the side of your face, fingers splayed gently against your jaw as though afraid to press too hard, like you were something delicate, worth holding and not breaking.

your eyes fluttered closed. the air between you and the world seemed to hush, like even the breeze knew not to interrupt. your fingers curled into the fabric of his coat—soft, heavy, smelling faintly of rain and something that had to be him.

your knees went a little soft. your heart, stupid and loud, climbed up into your throat.

he pulled back just barely, but didn’t let go. his forehead rested against yours, breath fanning across your lips, sweet with matcha and something sweeter beneath it—something like hope.

his grin was criminal. boyish. blinding. like he’d stolen something precious and gotten away clean.

“told you you’d like tokyo,” he said, voice low, still laced with laughter.

and before you could even think of dodging, he plucked the flower crown from his head—now slightly lopsided from the kiss—and dropped it gently onto yours.

you blinked. scowled. felt your cheeks catch fire.

you shoved it back onto him, petals scattering onto his nose, and he sneezed, dramatic and loud, making a passing student jump. “shut up,” you said, but you were laughing now, full and bright, and his fingers laced with yours, warm and steady, like they’d never let go.

and in that moment—the sun dusting your cheeks, his hand anchoring you, you knew one thing for sure:

no one else needed to notice.

because he did.

and that was enough.

(and yeah, he’d submitted three fake transfer forms in your name, because apparently love means committing light fraud. you’d yell at him later. probably.)

tag list : @akeisryna @esotericsorrow @prettilyrisse @cherrymoon55 @linaaeatsfamilies @k0z3me

[woniwontons]

dead end - CHAPTER TWO

bob reynolds x therapist!reader

summary: after being assigned to monitor bob reynolds’ recovery inside the new avengers tower, you try to keep your fears hidden. but between quiet training sessions and unsettling therapy logs, you start to realize he’s watching you more than he should—and that something inside him never stops whispering.

w.c: 2.1k

warnings: abuse by parent, psychological thriller, inaccurately depicted mental illness, emotional manipulation (by void), nightmares, slow burn, possessive themes, combat violence, unreliable realities, hallucinations, left some yearning crumbs for y'all in here since its shorter...

chapter nav: one | two | three | four | five | six

⋆｡°✩⋆｡°｡⋆

ANONYMOUS POV

Transcript Log | INTERNAL FILE [REDACTED] Access Level: TOP SECRET Date: [REDACTED] Location: Off-site - Audio Transcript Only

Scientist 1: “Vitals?”

Scientist 2: “Stable. No unexpected rejection so far. Slight fluctuations during REM, but within limits.”

Scientist 1: “Neurological?”

Scientist 2: “That’s where it gets interesting. Her activity spikes in proximity to ▇▇▇▇▇.”

Scientist 1: “And the Void?”

Scientist 2: “We can’t detect it directly. But ▇▇▇▇'s energy readings dropped 17% during yesterday’s session. That’s the first time we’ve seen a suppression event without sedation or one of the New Avengers present.”

Scientist 1: “▇▇▇▇ doesn’t know?”

Scientist 2: “No. She thinks she’s been ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇. She was flagged in her old unit. High trauma index, low emotional volatility, adaptable but guarded.”

Scientist 1: “Are you saying ▇▇ ▇▇▇▇▇ is working?"

Scientist 2: “There's too many variables here to know for sure, but I would say we're working towards a successful run.”

Scientist 1: “Continue observation. Let's try to introduce physical contact. If ▇▇▇▇▇ starts to escalate, we’ll pull her.”

Scientist 2: “And if he doesn’t?”

Scientist 1: “Then we’ve found the answer to our biggest problem.”

End of File

READER POV

You were barefoot.

The floor beneath your feet was sticky with something—beer, grease, maybe both—and the carpeted hallway stunk of cigarette smoke that had long since stained the drywall yellow. You knew, instantly, this wasn’t your memory, or at least nowhere you had ever been before.

You turned your head slowly.

A battered recliner sat in the living room, worn through at the armrests, facing a television that loudly blasted a wrestling match. The broken blinds cast sunlight across the floor. Outside, you could just barely make out a patch of dying grass.

"Where am I?" you asked yourself, feeling so lucid in this dream.

Down the hall, a door slammed.

"Useless piece of shit!" a man's voice roared from the other side of the house. You froze.

A crash. Glass shattering against the floor.

"You thought I wouldn't find out what you said to your uncle about me? Fucking liar, can't even man up and say it to my face."

Heavy footsteps approached the room you were in. Fear shot up your chest as you held your breath, slowly backing away from the hall before running to the nearest door. A set of steps appeared before you as you yanked the door open, and you ran upstairs to escape whatever was coming in your direction.

An attic.

You creeped quietly inside, looking for somewhere to hide if the footsteps continued to follow. It was a mess up there, filled with boxes and old furniture.

A broken patch in the floorboards appeared itself to you, drawing you to it. You crouched onto the floor and took in the scene underneath.

It was a small bedroom. On the floor, hunched near the edge of a mattress stripped bare, sat a boy. Knees to chest. Head down. Breathing shallow.

You recognized him.

Even this young, even under a mop of sweat-drenched brunette hair, you knew it was Bob. Thin. Shoulders curled inward, ready to disappear.

And across from him, towering in the doorframe, was his father.

Drunk. Flushed red. Breathing hard as he held a folded belt in his grasp.

His hand balled into a fist and slammed the doorframe hard enough to splinter it.

"Look at me, boy! Have you got something wrong with you in the head now?"

Bob didn't move. He didn't even cry, and you felt your heart throbbing in pain at the sight.

You leaned back from the floor as you felt a change in the energy of the attic, your senses screaming in paranoia.

A presence.

Your body swung around and your eyes met with your reflection in a mirror propped up in the corner of the attic. The air around you dropped in temperature, and behind you, stood a proper reason to shudder.

The Void.

He didn’t speak immediately, only stood at your back—close enough that you could feel the shape of him. His voice came low and deep, curling beneath your skin.

"No one came for me then."

You made in a sharp intake breath, unsure of what to do about such a powerful being standing right behind you. The crack of a whipped belt stung your ear from the room below you, causing you to wince at the following sound of younger Bob's cries.

"Why... why am I here?" you whispered, your voice cracking.

"I remember every time I wished I could simply burn this house down to get the peace I wanted. Every moment in this house turned me further into this."

You watch him reach toward you in the mirror, and you shut your eyes in horror, squeezing them in a grimace. But the touch that came was not in aggression, but a gentle grace of your forearm that made the hair stand up in goosebumps. You felt the tingle of his exhale meeting the back of your ear as he bent down to whisper.

"Is it wrong to want you to see it all?"

Your voice trembled. “This isn’t my memory to have, I shouldn't be here.”

"Well you've already seen it now, haven't you?"

You opened your eyes again to watch him. He tilted his head further forward, his gaze sweeping over the outline of your side profile. Refusing to look over, you held your gaze to the mirror, ignoring the sight of his blurred face in your peripheral. Examining you.

"You make it so quiet, I ought to consider you a threat." His hand on your forearm creeped downwards, his finger tips sliding down to the back of your palm. "But I can't help but to feel so intrigued."

You couldn’t breathe now. Your heart beat so loudly, you swore he could hear it hitting the inside of your chest.

"Let me keep you, y/n."

The training room on Sublevel 3 was colder than you remembered.

Bright, clinical lights shone down from above, reflecting off the polished floors. In the center of the mat, Bucky stood with his fists raised, sweat darkening the fabric of his T-shirt. Across from him, chest heaving but posture composed, was Bob.

He hadn’t seen you enter.

Neither had Bucky. But Yelena had.

She sat on the edge of a supply crate, legs crossed, examining the scene in front of her with careful precision. Her eyes flicked to you the moment you stepped inside and she swung her legs over the wooden crate to talk.

"You weren't on the schedule for today," she said, voice low.

“I’m not here officially,” you replied, watching as Bob ducked a punch and countered with a clean elbow to Bucky’s side. “Harding asked me to monitor some responses.”

That was a lie, but you needed to see Bob again. Or rather, you felt a strong, impulsive urge to do so. Especially after the dream.

“Again,” Bucky barked.

Bob nodded once. Then lunged.

The fight seemed brutal to you, all just weight and momentum. Bucky dodged the first blow and swept Bob’s leg, but Bob twisted midair, landing hard and kicking upward in the same motion.

You stepped closer to Yelena, clipboard clutched to your chest more out of reflex than necessity.

"Always with the clipboard, do you carry that around with you 24/7?" Yelena asked sarcastically. You scoffed back a laugh, realizing how nerdy you likely looked at all times. She eased your nerves a bit and you relaxed, letting your shoulders down as you watched the show.

Except, you couldn't help but notice that Bob was holding back. You could feel it.

Each punch he threw stopped just short of full force, like he was afraid of what would happen if he let go. But every time Bucky hit him, especially when it was hard, sharp, or unexpected, you saw it.

His eyes.

Brown. Then gold. Then back again.

A flash. So quick, you might’ve thought you imagined it. But the next time it happened, his hands changed too.

From flesh to something blacker than shadows, a smoke crawled up his wrists. Then, flickering back to normal as if nothing had happened.

Bucky didn’t flinch. He just kept pushing him.

"Does that always happen? It's in the notes, but I've never seen it with my eyes before," you question Yelena.

She shrugs, looking at you curiously. "Usually it's a little crazier than this. I'm getting a bit bored if I'm being honest."

Your reply is interrupted by Bucky's shout, “Focus, Bob. Control it.”

Bob gritted his teeth, catching Bucky’s next blow with a forearm. “I am.”

The room felt like it was vibrating slightly. Just under the surface.

You took another step forward.

"Let m̷̻̑e̸͔̍ ̵̙͋o̸͖̕u̵̡̓t̸̫͛."

The hairs on your arm sparked up again in shock. It wasn’t spoken aloud, but you felt it. Like pressure against your ribs. A whisper from inside someone else’s lungs. Something that had never occurred to you before. You looked to your side, but Yelena didn't seem to have heard the demonic voice that you had.

Bob swung wide and missed.

Bucky came in low and landed a blow to his ribs.

Bob staggered—and his eyes flared gold for just a second too long.

CRACK.

The floor beneath his foot cracked outward like broken glass.

Bucky immediately backed off, hands raised. “Bob—”

Bob doubled over, clutching his head.

“I’m fine,” he growled through his teeth, though his fingers had turned black again, wrists trembling. And simultaneously, a pressure grew in your own chest as he slowly lost control.

Bucky didn’t move.

Yelena stood, walking closer to the center of the room where the boys stood still. You followed closely behind her, ready to assist in any way you could.

"Bob?" Yelena spoke as she stopped in front of his crouched form.

And that was when Bob’s head snapped up, golden eyes searching the room like an animal sensing something off.

Then he saw you.

His posture stilled. His chest heaved once.

All of the blackness in his hands retreated at once.

“Did I lose control again?” he said softly, voice raw. It seemed like a question for the room, but he was staring directly at you. "Why do you make it so... quiet?"

You felt pathetic as your heart dropped as the memory of what the void said to you in the dream. "What?"

Bob straightened up quickly, smoothing the bottom of his shirt.

"Nothing," he exclaimed quickly, walking off to retrieve his water bottle at the corner of their training room.

Yelena looked between the two of you, confusion knitting her brows together. "What the hell was that?"

"Also nothing," you say curtly before spinning on your heel and walking away, noting the event on your clipboard.

The walls of Dr. Harding’s office were too white. The kind of professional warmth that pretended it wasn’t designed to contain people.

The artificial daylight panels made you squint as you sat in the stiff-backed chair across from her desk, hands folded politely in your lap. Your ridiculous clipboard rested beside you, useless for once.

Harding looked up from her tablet, glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. “Thank you for coming by on short notice.”

You gave a small nod. “Of course. Is this about yesterday’s training observation?”

“Partly.” She adjusted something on her screen. “I just wanted to check in personally. After all, this assignment came with… heightened expectations.”

That was her way of saying: You aren't meeting them.

“I’ve been logging everything daily,” you said quickly. “Vitals. Verbal behavior. Motor regulation. There’s nothing I haven’t reported.”

Harding smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I know. Your notes have been thorough.” She paused, then added, “Surprisingly intuitive, actually.”

You sat up a little straighter.

She tapped her stylus once, then looked at you again. “How have you been sleeping?”

You blinked. “I’m fine.”

“Okay,” she repeated. “Any dreams? Emotional disturbances?”

You hesitated, just a second too long.

Harding noticed.

You cleared your throat. “I really don’t remember most of them.”

She smiled again. “That’s normal, especially under cognitive strain. The stress of being near dangerous people can elevate cortisol, even unconsciously.”

You gave a tight nod. “I’ve managed worse.”

“I’m sure you have.” She leaned forward slightly. “Still, Reynolds is… uniquely sensitive with his emotions. His feelings vary amongst the different staff members. But with you,” She gestured idly. “he seems to have a preference for.”

You looked at her. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Harding hummed. “Mm. That’s what makes it so effective.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. Your hands folded tighter in confusion.

“Have you noticed any… changes in your own behavior since starting the assignment?”

The question was clinical. Neutral. Like she was measuring you against a standard you weren’t aware of.

“No,” you said, but your voice came out flatter than intended.

Dr. Harding didn’t argue though. Just tapped her stylus again.

The silence dragged.

You stood a little too quickly. “If that’s all, I have reports to finish.”

She nodded, but you could feel her eyes following you even as you turned.

“Thank you,” she said politely. “And y/n? Please let me know if your dreams become more memorable to you.”

You sincerely hoped they did not become more memorable than they already were.

link to chapter three

hi everyone! a bit of a shorter update that i think is a good segue into the events of chapter three. i wanted to get this one out quickly since i know we're all starving for more bob content... or at least i am.

if you have any requests for bob one-shots, please feel free to let me know! link to my requests is in my pinned post <3

ALSO: if you are not currently on the taglist, please comment down below if you want to be! if you already commented on chapter one, don't worry because i've already added you :)

[bettelaboure]

⊹ A Sin in Red and Black ⊹ | Kwon Ji-yong

⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹

⊹ Pairing: Kwon Ji-yong x Reader

⊹ Warnings: After months of separation due to his world tour, Kwon Ji-yong returns home to find you waiting with a new tattoo—his words inked into your skin as a permanent mark of your devotion. What begins as a slow-burning reunion quickly ignites into a night of dominance, passion, and the reclaiming of every touch, every whisper, and every moment lost to distance.

⊹ Summary: explicit language, dominance/submission dynamics, suggestive content, possessive themes, intense emotional and physical intimacy

⊹ requested by anonymous

⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹

The night outside stretched endlessly, city lights flickering like distant stars, casting shadows against the walls of your shared bedroom. It had been months—months of longing, of whispered phone calls at ungodly hours, of pixelated video chats that never felt like enough.

And now, finally, Ji-yong was here. Flesh and blood. Heat and presence.

The weight of him filled the room before he even spoke. The front door had barely clicked shut behind him when he spotted you perched on the edge of the bed, wearing nothing but his oversized shirt, the fabric slipping off your shoulder to reveal just a tease of what lay beneath. You saw it then—the flicker in his dark eyes, the way his lips parted slightly as if he were catching his breath.

But it was when his gaze landed on the faint glimpse of red peeking from under your shirt that something in him changed.

He took slow, measured steps toward you, his presence suffocating in the best way. You could feel the weight of his exhaustion from the tour clinging to him, but layered beneath it was something sharper, something possessive.

“Stand up,” he said, his voice low, commanding.

A shiver ran down your spine at the dominance in his tone, but you obeyed. The second you were on your feet, he reached for the hem of your shirt, fingers grazing your skin as he pushed it up, exposing the fresh ink stretching along your spine.

The air in the room thickened.

Ji-yong stilled, his breathing slow but deep as he took in the sight of your tattoo. The red serpent coiled along your back, its scales dancing with the movement of your body, and beneath it, the delicate black script in his handwriting:

"Loving you in silence, my sweetest sin."

His words.

His mark.

His jaw clenched, and then—so softly it was almost a whisper—he exhaled, "You got this for me."

Not a question. A realization.

His fingers skimmed the ink, tracing the lines as if he needed to commit them to memory. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty—it was heavy, filled with unspoken thoughts, filled with everything he hadn’t been able to say in those long months apart.

“You wanted to be marked,” he murmured, his voice rough, his lips hovering just over the inked skin. “Even when I wasn’t here, you wanted something to remind you that you’re mine.”

You swallowed hard, breath catching at the way he said it. Not with doubt. Not with hesitation. But with complete and utter certainty.

“Yes,” you whispered, barely able to get the word out before his lips pressed against your back, kissing along the delicate script.

Ji-yong made a sound—something between a hum and a growl, something deep and approving—and the next moment, his hands were on you, gripping your hips, pulling you back against him. The warmth of his body pressed into you, solid, real.

"You don't know what it did to me," he murmured, voice thick with something raw, "being away from you for that long."

You did. You felt it too. The distance, the ache, the way no amount of phone calls or late-night whispers could ever truly fill the void of not having him.

"Show me," you whispered, barely more than a breath.

Ji-yong didn’t need to be told twice.

He turned you in his arms, his hands moving to cup your jaw, tilting your face up toward him. His eyes—dark, unreadable—searched yours, and whatever he found there had him pulling you into a kiss that was nothing like the soft, hesitant ones you had shared over video calls.

This was desperate.

This was months of longing, of nights spent touching yourself to the sound of his voice, of him waking up in foreign hotel rooms wishing he could bury himself in you instead of cold sheets.

His hands roamed, sliding down the curve of your waist, gripping your hips, pressing you closer, as if he needed to feel you, to make sure you were real.

“Do you have any idea how much I’ve thought about this?” he murmured between kisses, his breath hot against your lips. “How many times I’ve imagined having you under me again?”

Your breath hitched as his lips moved down your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin just below your ear.

"You wanted me to take my time with you, didn’t you?" he mused, voice dripping with dark amusement. "You wanted me to ruin you, slowly."

A soft whimper left your lips as his hands slid lower, gripping your thighs, parting them just slightly. He chuckled, the sound deep and knowing. "That’s right, baby. And I’m not going to stop until you beg for it."

And then, the slow burn turned to fire.

Ji-yong took his time, unraveling you inch by inch, whispering sinful confessions into your skin as he relearned every part of you. His touch was both rough and reverent, like he was worshiping and claiming you all at once. His lips followed the path of the tattoo again and again, pressing soft kisses before dragging his teeth over the ink, watching the way you shivered at the sensation.

"You feel that?" he murmured, his fingers teasing, torturing, as he kept you on the edge of madness. "This is what you did to me for months."

You moaned his name, breathless, pleading, but he wasn’t satisfied yet. He wanted to hear it—the desperation, the need.

"Say it," he commanded, his voice dark, dominant. "Tell me how much you missed me."

"I—I missed you," you gasped, back arching under his touch. "So much."

"How much?" He bit down on your shoulder, soothing it immediately with his tongue. "Enough to let me take my time? To let me hear every sound you make?"

"Yes," you breathed, voice trembling. "I want all of it. I want you."

"Good girl."

And then, the tension snapped, and the fire consumed you both.

The room filled with the sound of whispered confessions and ragged breaths, of sheets twisting under the weight of bodies finally reunited. He never stopped speaking, never stopped reminding you with every touch, every kiss, that this was what you had both craved for so long.

"You’re mine," he murmured against your skin, his voice raw, possessive. "This body, this skin, this sin—all mine."

And you let him take you, let him erase the months of loneliness, let him rewrite the silence with every slow, deliberate movement.

By the time the first light of dawn crept through the curtains, your bodies were tangled, skin damp, the faint scent of sandalwood and sweat lingering in the air. Ji-yong’s fingers traced over the tattoo once more, slower this time, his touch softer.

"You don’t ever have to be silent about loving me," he murmured, voice laced with something dangerously tender. "Because I’ll always be here to remind you."

And as he pulled you closer, his lips pressing one last kiss to your shoulder, you knew—without a doubt—that neither time nor distance could ever take this from you.

This love.

This passion.

This sin in red and black.

⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹

Taglist: @janie-osuih @szonyix6277 @chrypir @redhoodedtoad @sherrayyyyy @mirahyun @sherxoo @dilfismz @forevervibezzzz1

[insidekatmind]

Possession and curiosity~Hwang In-ho

Wearning: +18,smut, age-gap

Request: yes!

Neon lights flicker in the void of the night. The air is thick, soaked with sweat, fear and desperation. You are there, slumped against the cold metal of a wall, your heart beating furiously in your chest.

After yet another fight with your brother Gi-hun, you left, tired of his empty promises and his failures. But you too have never been an example of success. Debts devour you, hunger corrodes you and life seems like a race without a destination. When you received that mysterious ticket, you told yourself that you had nothing left to lose.

There you are, among people who share your same misery, forced to compete in childish games with deadly consequences. Only when you saw Gi-hun among the participants, you understood how foolish it had been to think of making it alone. For days you avoided his gaze, hidden in the crowd. But in the end, inevitably, he found you.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice cracking between anger and fear. It had been a fierce argument. You yelled at him, reminding him that he had no right to judge you, not after all the broken promises. In the end, with no alternatives, he accepted you into his group, with the air of someone who would rather do anything else than see you there.

But what you didn't know was that someone was watching you from afar, every step you took, every breath you took. Hwang In-ho, the Frontman, hidden behind the silver mask and the altered voice, had noticed your determination, your courage in wanting to survive at all costs. And that dedication had struck him. The obsession had started as a simple interest but, with each challenge overcome, that desire to see you triumph had become a woodworm that devoured him from the inside.

Unbeknownst to you, In-ho had shown up undercover as Yong-il, another seemingly anonymous competitor. His voice was softer, gentler, and his gaze was veiled in a look of false weariness. Whenever you found yourself in trouble, he was there, offering subtle advice or a temporary alliance.

You didn’t suspect him. No one did. How could you imagine that a man with so much power would stoop to your level, just to ensure your survival? But In-ho had made up his mind. He would do anything to protect you, even if it meant diverting his attention from your brother’s sabotage plans.

Every day was a battle. Every game a new chance to die. And yet, with Yong-il by your side, you survived. There was something disturbingly comforting about his presence, something that made you feel safe even in the midst of hell.

You didn’t yet know that his kindness hid a dangerous obsession, a shadow that stretched over you. And while you fought for your life, he fought for a very different prize: you.

In the dim light of the room, you feel YoungIl's heartbeat against your back, steady and reassuring. His arms wrap around you like a protective shield, keeping the nightmares at bay. You've grown accustomed to his presence, to the way he seems to anticipate your needs before you even express them.

As you lie there, your thoughts drift to the day's events. The challenges are getting harder, the stakes higher. You've seen players fall, their lives snuffed out like candles in the wind. It's a grim reminder of the precariousness of your own existence.

Suddenly, you feel YoungIl stir behind you. His breath tickles your ear as he whispers, "You're safe with me. I won't let anything happen to you."

His words send a shiver down your spine, but it's not entirely from fear. There's something else in his tone, a possessiveness that both comforts and unsettles you. You turn to face him, your eyes meeting his in the darkness.

"What makes you so sure?"

His gaze intensifies, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes. "Because I know what's at stake. I've seen the way the others look at you, like a prize to be won or a threat to be eliminated." His voice drops to a low, dangerous growl. "But you're mine. I won't let anyone else lay a finger on you."

The possessiveness in his words sends a thrill of fear and excitement through you. You've never had someone claim you so fiercely, so completely. Part of you wants to pull away, to assert your independence. But another part, the part that's tired of being alone and scared, wants to surrender to his protection.

You lean into him more and relax. Feeling your surrender, YoungIl's grip tightens possessively around you. His breath grows heavier, the rise and fall of his chest pressing against your back. A low, satisfied growl rumbles in his throat.

"You trust me, then," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear. "Good. You should. I've protected you this far, haven't I?"

His hand slides up your arm, a featherlight touch that sends goosebumps racing across your skin. You nod silently, unable to find words. The air between you crackles with tension, heavy with unspoken desires and dangerous promises.

“I never thanked you for this,” you whispered softly, turning to look at him.

His eyes lock onto yours, intense and unblinking. "You don't need to thank me," he says, his voice low and husky. "Not with words, anyway."

His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing gently over your lips. The gesture is tender, but there's an underlying hunger in his gaze that makes your heart race.

"I want more than just gratitude from you," he continues, leaning in closer. His breath is warm against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. "I want... everything."

The possessiveness in his tone is palpable, a dark promise that both thrills and terrifies you. You're acutely aware of the power dynamics at play, of the precariousness of your situation. But in this moment, wrapped in his arms, you feel safe. Protected. Desired.

You nodded and kissed him. His lips meet yours in a searing kiss, hungry and demanding. His hand tangles in your hair, pulling you closer as he deepens the kiss. You can taste the desperation on his tongue, the pentup longing that's been building between you.

He breaks away, breathing heavily. "You're mine now," he growls, his eyes blazing with possessiveness. "Mine to protect, mine to cherish... mine to claim."

His hands roam your body, touching and claiming every inch of you. You gasp as he finds sensitive spots, your own desire rising to match his. In this moment, there's no game, no death, no fear. There's only the two of you, lost in a haze of passion and need.

His lips trail down your neck, leaving a path of fire in their wake. "Say it," he demands, his voice rough with desire. "Say you're mine."

You arch into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips. "I'm yours," you whisper,words the falling from your mouth like a confession. "Only yours."

A primal growl rumbles in his chest at your submission. His hands make quick work of your clothes, tossing them aside carelessly. You shiver under his heated gaze, feeling exposed and vulnerable. But there's no room for shame in his eyes, only a fierce, protective love.

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs, his fingers tracing the curves of your body. "So perfect. I'll never let anyone hurt you again."

He settles between your legs, his hardness pressing against your core.

He enters you slowly, filling you completely. A gasp escapes your lips at the sudden fullness, your body stretching to accommodate him. He pauses, allowing you to adjust, his forehead resting against yours.

"You're so tight," he groans, his voice strained with pleasure. "So good."

He begins to move, his thrusts deep and deliberate. Each one sends shockwaves of pleasure through your body, building a fire in your core. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, needing more.

"Yes," you moan, your nails digging into his back. "More."

He obliges, his pace quickening. The room fills with the sound of your labored breaths and the slap of skin against skin. You're lost in the sensation, in the feeling of being completely consumed by him.

His hand slides between your bodies, finding your most sensitive spot. He rubs in circles, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. The dual stimulation is overwhelming, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

"So good, so big" you whisper.

His thrusts grow more urgent, more desperate. "You like that, don't you?" he pants, his voice thick with desire. "You like feeling me inside you, filling you up?"

He leans down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. His tongue plunders your mouth, mimicking the motion of his hips. You can feel him swelling inside you, growing harder and thicker with each thrust.

"Yes," you moan into his mouth, your body tensing as your orgasm approaches. "Don't stop."

He doesn't. If anything, his movements become more frenzied, more possessive. He's claiming you, marking you as his in the most primal way possible. You can feel the heat building in your core, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter.

"Come for me," he growls, his fingers pressing harder against your clit. "Come on my cock."

His words push you over the edge. Your body convulses, your inner walls clamping down around him as you cry out in ecstasy. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you, leaving you breathless and shaking.

He follows soon after, his hips stuttering as he spills himself inside you.

He flips you over roughly, pressing your face into the mattress. "I'm not done with you yet," he growls, his voice dripping with possessiveness.

You feel his hands gripping your hips, pulling them up to present yourself to him. There's a moment of hesitation, a flicker of uncertainty, but it's quickly swallowed by the overwhelming desire to please him, to be claimed by him completely.

He spits into his hand, using it to lubricate his already slick cock. Then, without warning, he pushes into your tight hole. You gasp at the sudden intrusion, your body instinctively tensing against the foreign sensation.

"Relax," he commands, his voice strained with effort. "Let me in."

Slowly, you force your body to comply, feeling him slide deeper with each shallow breath. The pain is intense, but so is the pleasure, a twisted combination that leaves you dizzy and overwhelmed.

He begins to move, his thrusts slow and deliberate. Each one stretches you, fills you in a way you've never been filled before. You can feel every ridge, every vein of his cock as it slides in and out of your ass.

"Fuck, you're so tight," he pants, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. "So perfect. I knew you'd feel amazing."

His thrusts grow faster, more urgent. The sound of his hips slapping against your ass fills the room, mingling with your muffled moans. You can feel his cock throbbing inside you, growing harder with each passing second.

"Who do you belong to?" he demands, his voice harsh and commanding. "Say it."

"You," you gasp, your face buried in the mattress. "I belong to you."

"Damn right you do," he snarls, his pace becoming almost brutal. "This ass, this body, it's all mine. I'll fuck you whenever I want, wherever I want. You're my little toy to use however I please."

His words send a shiver of humiliation and arousal through you. You're completely at his mercy, utterly owned. And yet, a part of you revels in it, craves it.

He leans over you, his chest pressing against your back. His hand snakes around to your front, finding your clit and rubbing it in rough circles.

You moaned loudly and arched to take more. Your eager response spurs him on, his thrusts becoming more forceful, more demanding. He's claiming you, marking you, making you his in the most primal way possible. Your moans fill the air, a symphony of pleasure and submission.

"That's it, take it," he growls, his fingers moving faster on your clit. "Take my cock like the good little slut you are."

His words should humiliate you, but instead, they only fuel your arousal. You're lost in a haze of sensation, your body responding instinctively to his touch, his commands.

He shifts his angle slightly, and suddenly, he's hitting a spot inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyes. You scream, your back arching off the bed as a devastating orgasm rips through you.

"That's right, come for me," he snarls, his thrusts becoming erratic. "Milk my cock with your tight little ass."

His words, combined with the overwhelming pleasure, push him over the edge.

He buries himself deep inside you, his cock pulsing as he spills his hot seed into your ass. You can feel it filling you, marking you from the inside out. He stays there, panting heavily, his body pressed against yours.

"Mine," he whispers, his voice hoarse with satisfaction. "All mine."

Slowly, he pulls out, his cum dripping from your wellused hole. He watches it with a possessive gleam in his eye, as if admiring his handiwork.

[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.

Trigger Warnings: Verbal abuse, grief, and loss, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Redemption Arc, Mild Violence, Emotional Hurt, Disassociation, Suicidal Ideation, Depression.

A/N: Welcome back to this emotional rollercoaster, besties. We’ve got everything: cursed pregnancies, emotionally constipated men, and Sukuna trying to out-sass Megumi (spoiler: he succeeds), slow-burn tension finally snapping, emotionally broken men flirting with self-destruction, and a moment that might make you scream into your pillow (I’m not responsible for broken furniture). Warnings for angst, trauma, and me absolutely wrecking your heart while you laugh. If you’re here for a lobotomy, grab your scalpels—it’s about to get messy. Proceed with caution, tissues, and maybe a therapist on speed dial. Also, Megumi in this fic is maybe around mid-20s, and the reader is a few years older than him. He has mastered all his Shikigami's (yes, the 'with this treasure' one too) & is physically a Toji Hybrid. I have added links to show what he looks like. You are welcome. One Reader - Do you accept Cunt-structive Criticism? Me - No, I only accept Cash.

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

Chapter 8 (alt ending 1.4) - Fractured Tides

Japan

The news reached Gojo and Nanami through an anonymous tip—a voice crackling over the phone, sterile and detached.

“The fetuses didn’t survive,” the doctor confirmed. “The pregnancy... it was unlike anything ever thought possible. The details are in the report.”

Gojo’s hand trembled as he gripped the receiver, his knuckles blanching as the plastic creaked under the pressure. When the receiver finally snapped, shards scattering across the floor, he didn’t flinch. His vibrant arrogance—the trait that had once made him invincible—was gone, stripped away in an instant. His eyes, previously so full of light and mischief, stared blankly, reflecting nothing but the hollow void inside him.

Nanami stood nearby, his posture rigid, his knuckles white as he clenched the report. The paper crinkled audibly, but his grip didn’t loosen. His jaw was so tightly locked it seemed his teeth might shatter.

“How’s this possible?” He rasped, finally putting it down, his voice horse under the weight of his self-loathing.

Gojo didn’t respond. His silver tongue, always ready with a quip or a plan, was silent. The crushing tide of guilt drowned every thought before it could form.

The hospital report was worse than they could have imagined. The chimeric fetuses were described in clinical detail, every word a knife to the chest.

“Genetic abnormalities beyond comprehension,” it read. “The combination of heteropaternal superfecundation and double fertilization created anomalies incompatible with life.”

The accompanying images were worse than they had imagined.

The boy’s elongated limbs twisted unnaturally, his spine arching grotesquely, like a question mark formed from pain. The girl’s fused fingers curled inward, her malformed face locked in an expression that seemed almost accusing.

Their shared split-colored hair was a mockery—a cruel reminder of the selfish desires that had created them.

Nanami turned away, bile rising in his throat. “They never had a chance,” he whispered, his voice hollow and brittle.

Gojo slammed the folder shut, his chest heaving as if the act of breathing had become insurmountable. For the first time in his life, he couldn’t find a way to fix things.

They tried to reach you. Desperation bled into every call, every text, and every voicemail. Every call went unanswered. Every message was read and ignored.

“Please,” Gojo had whispered into the receiver one night, his voice breaking. “Just... just let us explain.”

Nanami heard him through the door but didn’t offer comfort. The weight of his guilt pressing him further into despair. His gaze was fixed on the amber liquid in his glass, as if it held the answers he sought.

The quiet became their enemy. In the stillness, the thoughts crept in, unbidden and relentless.

Nanami found himself walking along the Rainbow Bridge , which connected to Odaiba, late one night. The icy wind bit at his skin as he gazed out at the dark waters of Tokyo Bay. It was calm, inviting, a stark contrast to the chaos in his mind.

He imagined what it would feel like to let go—to sink into the cold embrace of the water. The thought brought a fleeting sense of relief.

Gojo had begun lingering at the Shinjuku-gyoemmae station, his sunglasses hiding the exhaustion etched into his face. He stood near the edge of the platform, the sound of approaching trains vibrating through his bones.

It would be quick, he thought. Easy.

At home, the pills in Nanami’s medicine cabinet whispered promises of peace. One bottle, one night, and it could all be over.

But neither of them acted.

Every time they came close, the thought of you stopped them. They couldn’t leave without seeing you again, without explaining, apologizing, begging for forgiveness.

But the shame at what they’d done to you, to the babies, kept them from coming to you in person. So they stuck to calling and texting, each unanswered attempt another nail in the coffin of their hope.

They lived in limbo, caught between the unbearable weight of their guilt and the faint, flickering hope that one day you might pick up the phone.

---

The moon cast a faint silver glow over the balcony, its edges softened by a thin mist that clung to the chilled air. You sat on the couch inside, barely illuminated by the warm, dim light of the apartment. A blanket draped over your shoulders, shielding you from the cold but not from the hollow ache in your chest.

Your eyes were glassy, unfocused, fixed on nothing as your fingers absently traced the edge of the blanket. The faint hum of the city below was a distant whisper, meaningless and detached from the void swallowing you whole.

The faint scuff of shoes against stone pulled at the edges of your awareness. A shadow moved across the street in front of your house. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t blink. Your mind was elsewhere in a memory.

His hair was jet black and damp, clinging to his forehead in unruly spikes, his jawline streaked with dirt and exhaustion. He wore a plain black shirt, torn and damp in places, and dark jeans that looked as though they’d seen weeks of wear. His piercing blue eyes were scanning the building before they landed on you.

He didn’t hesitate.

In one smooth motion, he climbed the window ledges on the floor below, then stepped up to the balcony railing and swung himself up, his movements eerily reminiscent of someone—fluid, predatory. He landed soundlessly on the edge, stepping inside with a casualness that belied the weight of his presence.

But this wasn’t the boy you’d known. This was a man carved from desperation and resolve, his presence filling the room with an intensity that felt both familiar and foreign. He looked older than you remembered—taller, broader. His hair was wild, falling in dark, uneven spikes over eyes that glinted like steel. He was dressed in plain clothes.

He frowned, stepping closer, his shadow falling over you. When you still didn’t react, he crossed the room in two strides, crouching down in front of you, his features softening with something close to pain. His hands hovered over your shoulder before finally nudging it.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said, his voice low and rough, carrying the weight of months spent in pursuit.

You didn’t respond.

His brows furrowed as he stepped closer. “Hey,” he tried again, softer this time.

Still, you didn’t move.

His roughened fingers reached for your cheeks, his touch hesitant, a mere brush against the skin. “It’s me.”

Nothing.

His throat tightened, frustration flickering across his face He tilted his head to catch your gaze. “I’m not going anywhere until you say something,” he muttered, his voice edged with exasperation.

When you still didn’t react, he reached out again, this time giving your shoulder a firmer nudge.

Your eyes flicked to him at last, but they didn’t really see him. You stared through him, your expression glassy, as if replaying a memory too distant to touch.

The silence stretched taut and heavy.

His hands curled into fists as he rose to his full height, frustration and worry flickering across his face. He glanced toward the balcony, then back at you. The thought of leaving you like this wasn’t an option.

Then, from behind you, a presence surged forward—dark, commanding, and lethal.

Sukuna.

He appeared as though conjured from the shadows themselves, his crimson eyes burning with a dangerous gleam. His shirt hung open at the collar, his tattoos stark against his pale skin, and his lips curled into a predatory smirk. His crimson eyes burned like embers, and his lips curled in a snarl as his gaze stayed locked onto the man, narrowing with instant suspicion.

“Who the hell are you?” Sukuna’s voice was low, his tone dripping with menace as he stepped forward, placing himself between you and the intruder.

The man’s expression hardened as his stance shifted, one foot sliding back as though preparing for an attack, his eyes meeting Sukuna’s with the unyielding force of a man who’d long since stopped flinching at power. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“Careful, brat,” Sukuna growled, his head tilting, his grin widening in warning. “You don’t know who you’re messing with.”

The tension between them snapped taut, like a bowstring pulled to its limit. Sukuna took a step forward, his fingers twitching as though itching for a fight. The room seemed to darken as his cursed energy spiked, the air thick with its oppressive weight. But the man didn’t flinch. His hand flicked upward, and with a snap, shadows began to writhe at his feet.

“Neither do you,” the man said, his voice sharp. His hands twitched, and the faint shimmer of cursed energy began to gather around him.

“Hey…” Your voice was barely above a whisper, cracking under the strain of its first use in days.

Neither man noticed.

Sukuna’s smirk widened as he cracked his knuckles, his cursed energy flaring brighter. “I don’t care who you are, but you’re about to regret—”

The floor beneath you trembled as the man’s hands moved in a familiar pattern, his fingers forming seals too quickly to follow.

The air shifted, a deep, guttural hum vibrating through the room. The shadow behind the man darkened, twisting and expanding.

“No!”

Your voice cut through the tension like a blade, startling after months of silence. Both men froze, their eyes snapping to you.

You stood, the blanket slipping off your shoulders as you moved to place yourself in front of the man, shielding him from Sukuna. “Please don’t. You both are not threats to me,” you spoke, your voice trembling with frustration.

You turned to the man, your voice rising. “I told you to stop doing that!”

“I thought he kidnapped you. I think that justifies it’s use.” The man muttered, pretending to be annoyed, but immediately moved to hold you.

Sukuna barked out a laugh. “Taken her? Kid, I’m the one keeping her safe from idiots like you.”

You awkwardly reciprocated.

Sukuna raised a brow, his gaze darting between you and the man. For a brief moment, his smirk softened, a flicker of something tender crossing his features as he watched you—you, alive and animated for the first time in months. That’s the most you’ve said in months —he thought to himself. He continued eyeing the spiky-haired man, wondering who he was and if he was a threat, but the way you were comfortable around him, Sukuna deduced he wasn’t connected to your idiotic husbands.

The man, however, frowned, his jaw tightening. “He—”

“Not a threat,” you said lowly. “Mahoraga isn’t for solving your problems with people who talk back.”

Sukuna folded his arms, leaning casually against the doorframe but watching Megumi like a hawk. “Kid’s got issues,” he muttered, his voice tinged with amusement.

“You’re one to talk,” you shot back without thinking, letting go of Megumi and turning on Sukuna with a glare.

He blinked, then grinned, a warmth in his crimson eyes that made his smirk almost fond. “Fair point, princess.”

“You don’t look normal.”

“I’m fine,” you and Megumi both ignored Sukuna, though your voice cracked on the lie. But Sukuna didn’t correct you right now.

Megumi’s gaze kept searching your face for something—anything.

“I’m fine,” you repeated, though no one in the room believed it.

"Princess, I need to leave.” Sukuna had said, glaring at his phone. “Will you be okay for a few days? I have arranged for Choso and Yuji to be here within a few hours.”

“I’ll be fine. Megumi is my best friend; he will keep me safe.” You reassured him, while Megumi looked at him smugly with his arms now folded, muscles flexing.

“Call me if you need anything or if there’s an issue.” Sukuna told you, contemplating how mad you would be if he broke Megumi’s jaw.

You nodded as he turned to leave, answering a call. “I’m on my way, woman. Stop irritating me!”

Your heart sank.

He was going to meet a woman?!

Were you in love with him?

But how long would he wait for you?

// Playlist

After telling Megumi everything, the house was quiet now, save for the faint hum of the windchimes. He sat across from you on the couch, his elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly as if they were the only thing grounding him. His features were softened by the dim light, but the weight in his eyes made him look older than his years.

You sat opposite him, knees pulled to your chest, your arms wrapped around them. The blanket draped over your shoulders felt like a shield, though it did little to protect you from the storm inside.

For a long time, neither of you spoke.

“You were right,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

Megumi’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with surprise. “What?”

“I was wrong,” you said, your gaze fixed on a crack in the marble on the floor. “About everything. About them. About leaving you behind.”

His jaw tightened, and he looked away, the guilt in his expression enough to cut. “You don’t have to say that.”

“But it’s true,” you said, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “You warned me. You told me what they were like, what would happen, and I didn’t listen. I was so convinced I could handle it on my own that I pushed you away.”

Megumi let out a shaky breath, his hands flexing as if trying to grasp the weight of his emotions. “And I shouldn’t have said what I did. At the airport, I—” He swallowed hard, his voice breaking under the strain. “I was angry. Hurt. But that doesn’t excuse it. I said awful things to you, and I’ve hated myself for it every single day since. I was a coward, too afraid to reach out to you when you needed me most.”

His eyes glistened with unshed tears as he continued, the pain evident in every word. “Then what happened at your HQ... They were live streaming it on the news, and I was terrified, praying you’d make it out alive. But when they said you weren’t there, my heart dropped. No one knew where you had gone. I felt so helpless, so lost. I’ve been searching for you ever since, haunted by the fear that I might never find you again.”

The words hung between you, raw and heavy.

“I think...” you started, your voice trembling. “I think we both thought we were doing the right thing. You wanted to protect me, and I wanted to prove I didn’t need it, too blinded by what I thought was love.”

Megumi’s lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes glinting. “I should’ve been there. When it all fell apart, when they—” His voice cracked, and he looked away. “I should’ve come sooner.”

“And I should’ve called you,” you said, your chest tightening. “But I was ashamed. I didn’t want you to see how far I’d fallen.”

His gaze snapped back to yours. “You don’t have to hide from me. Ever. You never did. Sure, I’d yell at you or even tell you I was right, but I’d never not help you.”

The words broke something inside you, and for the first time in months, the tears came. They fell silently at first, then harder, your shoulders shaking as the dam burst.

Megumi moved without hesitation, closing the distance between you and pulling you into his arms. His grip was strong, grounding, and you clung to him like a lifeline. “I should have stayed in touch with you even if I didn’t agree with the decision in case you ever needed me.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice rough. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m so sorry, Megumi,” you whispered against his shoulder. “I’m so sorry for not listening, for abandoning you, for never trying again, for not honoring your dad.”

“I’m so sorry for the... the babies.” He spoke low as if he were blaming himself.

You didn’t know how to respond to that, so you cried harder, clutching his shirt.

---

// Playlist

Japan

Gojo sat on the edge of the couch, his white shirt wrinkled and stained, hanging loose on his frame. His eyes rimmed red, their usual brilliance dulled. His hand clutched a half-empty bottle of whiskey, the amber liquid sloshing as he tipped it back.

Across the room, Nanami stood by the kitchen sink, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows. He stared at his hands under the running water, scrubbing them long past clean, as if the act could erase the guilt embedded in his skin.

The silence between them was broken only by Gojo’s muttered curses as he took another swig.

“You should eat,” Nanami said finally, his voice hoarse.

Gojo snorted, the sound bitter. “Coming from the guy who hasn’t touched his plate in days.”

Nanami didn’t respond, his jaw tightening as he shut off the water.

Gojo leaned back, his head resting against the couch, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Do you ever wonder,” he said, his voice slurring slightly, “if it would’ve been better if we’d never...” He trailed off, the words hanging heavy in the air.

Nanami turned slowly, his gaze hard and unyielding. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Gojo shot back, his voice rising. “Say what we’re both thinking? That we—”

“I said don’t,” Nanami snapped. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his knuckles white.

Gojo let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You think not saying it changes anything? They’re gone, Kento. And it’s our fault.”

Nanami flinched, the words hitting him like a blow. He turned away, his shoulders stiff as he gripped the edge of the counter. “I know that,” he said quietly, his voice trembling. “I know that every second of every day.”

The room fell silent again, the weight of their shared guilt pressing down on them.

//

Later that night, Gojo sat alone on the balcony, the cold biting at his skin. He held a cigarette between his fingers, the smoke curling into the air like a ghost. He hadn’t smoked in years, but tonight it felt like the only thing keeping him grounded.

Nanami appeared in the doorway, a glass of scotch in hand. He didn’t say anything as he stepped outside, sitting on the opposite end of the balcony.

They didn’t look at each other, their gazes fixed on the city below.

Gojo’s sudden laugh was hollow, a broken sound that made Nanami’s chest tighten.

“I keep seeing them,” Gojo murmured, his hand tightening around the cigarette. “Every time I close my eyes. I see their faces. Their hair. Their... their little hands.” His voice cracked, and he fell silent, his shoulders trembling.

Nanami’s grip on his glass tightened, the faint clink of ice against glass the only sound he made.

“They didn’t even get a chance,” Gojo continued, his voice thick with emotion. “We robbed them of that.”

Nanami’s expression unreadable. “Every time I close my eyes, they’re there. And her. The way she looked at us... or didn’t. Like we weren’t even worth hating.”

Gojo turned to him, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Then why are we still here, Kento? Why are we still—”

“Because we don’t deserve peace,” Nanami interrupted, his voice harsh. “Not yet. Not until we’ve done everything we can to make it right. Even if she never forgives us.”

Gojo stared at him, his chest heaving as he tried to process the words.

They sat in silence after that, the weight of their guilt hanging heavy between them. The city lights blurred into a haze, and the distant sounds of life carried on, oblivious to the two broken men on the balcony.

Neither of them moved, each lost in their own spiral, but for the first time in weeks, the silence between them felt less like a void and more like a shared burden. A small, flickering reminder that they weren’t entirely alone.

---

// Playlist

The days passed in a haze. Choso and Yuji were sunshines around Megumi’s age, who moved to the lower floor, but you didn’t have much energy to interact with new people. Sukuna called you every few hours.

Megumi stayed with you. He didn’t leave, didn’t push, just existed in your space like a quiet force of nature.

He cooked meals, both your favorites growing up, and sat with you while you ate, even if it was just a few bites. And when the nightmares came, he was there, his hand steady on your shoulder, until the panic subsided.

A few days later, Sukuna returned and obsered it all with narrowed eyes, his irritation barely concealed.

One evening, Megumi was trying to coax you into taking a walk. “Fresh air,” he said, standing by the door with his arms crossed. “It’ll do you good.”

“I’m fine here,” you muttered, sinking deeper into the couch.

“She doesn’t need to go anywhere,” Sukuna cut in from the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a smirk. “She’s safe here.”

Megumi turned, his eyes narrowing. “Safe doesn’t mean healthy. What would you know, old man? You probably can’t walk at your age with your arthritis.”

“I’m not old, brat. I will fight you!” Sukuna shot back, his tone mocking.

“With what? Your walking stick?!,” Megumi snapped, his voice rising.

You couldn’t help it—the sheer absurdity of their bickering—it pulled a laugh from your chest. It was small, tentative, but real.

Both men froze, their eyes snapping to you.

“Did she just—” Sukuna started, his eyes wide.

“She laughed,” Megumi confirmed, his tone somewhere between disbelief and triumph.

You clapped a hand over your mouth, the sound foreign even to you. “I’m sorry,” you said, your voice muffled.

“Don’t be,” Sukuna said, his smirk returning as he leaned against the wall. “If I’d known it was this easy, I would’ve let him insult me sooner.”

“I’d do it for free,” Megumi said, looking at you, fingers twitching to pat himself on the back.

Sukuna’s grin widened. “Of course, it’s not like anyone would pay to watch you.” He fired back at Megumi, still looking at you.

You laughed again, the sound freer this time, and the tension in the room shifted.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the weight on your chest lightened.

After a beat, you calmed down and said, “I’d like to go back to work.”

Both nodded.

//

After that day, it became their unspoken mission to make you laugh as often as possible.

One afternoon, Sukuna conjured a miniature version of himself—barely six inches tall—who stomped across the coffee table, shouting, “Fear me, mortals!” in a voice far too high-pitched to be taken seriously.

Megumi, who was seated at the kitchen island, raised an eyebrow. “That’s the most pathetic thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Oh yeah?” Sukuna shot back, gesturing dramatically toward Mini-Sukuna. “At least I’m creative.”

Without missing a beat, Megumi summoned a tiny shikigami—a shadowy cat with glowing eyes—that pounced on Mini-Sukuna and promptly sat on him.

Meanwhile, you sat at the dining table, trying (and failing) to hide your laughter behind a mug of tea.

//

Another day the apartment was quiet except for the sizzling sound coming from the kitchen. Sukuna stood near the couch, holding a plate of food that looked… edible, but only in the way emergency rations were. His expression screamed confidence, as if he’d just solved world hunger.

In reality he was just jealous that Megumi had overtaken cooking since arriving, and he wasn’t able to feed you.

On the other side of the kitchen island, Megumi was frying something in a pan with the kind of intensity usually reserved for life-or-death surgeries. His sleeves were rolled up.

“You’re going to eat this,” Sukuna declared, stabbing the air with his fork.

“Like hell she is,” Megumi shot back without looking up, flipping whatever he was cooking with the ease of someone who’d spent years perfecting it. “She deserves something decent. Not whatever cursed sludge you’re trying to pass off as food. I’m making her comfort food.”

“She hasn’t touched your so-called food in days. She’s barely eaten anything. Mine’s nutritional,” Sukuna growled, stepping closer to the island.

“It’s an insult to taste buds,” Megumi countered, grabbing a plate and dishing out his creation—a simple, golden-brown omelet.

From your spot on the couch, you sighed, leaning your head against your hand. You weren’t sure what was worse: the fact that they were arguing over who got to feed you or that they seemed genuinely ready to fight about it.

“Hey,” you said, your voice flat, “I’m right here. I can feed myself.”

Both men ignored you.

“She hasn’t eaten properly in days,” Sukuna said, his crimson eyes narrowing. “I’ve been keeping her alive.”

“Barely,” Megumi muttered, sliding the plate across the counter. “She used to like this when we were younger.”

“She’s not a kid anymore, brat,” Sukuna sneered, taking a bite of his own creation as if to prove its worth. “She needs real food.”

“And you think that is real food?” Megumi shot back, nodding toward Sukuna’s plate. “It looks like you scraped it off the floor of an incomplete domain.”

“It’s better than whatever bland crap you’re making,” Sukuna retorted, leaning closer.

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “Seriously, you two—”

“Stay out of this,” they both said in unison, their voices sharp enough to make you blink.

You were trying to hide a chuckle at how serious they both were about their cooking.

Megumi crossed his arms, smirking. “Look, she’s laughing at you.”

“Watch it, brat,” Sukuna growled, his energy crackling faintly.

“Oh, please,” Megumi said, rolling his eyes. “You’re just mad she liked my cooking better.”

“She hasn’t even tried your cooking,” Sukuna snapped, his grip tightening on the fork. “And she won’t, because it looks like a toddler made it.”

“Better than your attempt at weaponized nutrition,” Megumi shot back.

The bickering continued, insults flying back and forth with increasing absurdity. By the time Sukuna accused Megumi of “summoning Mahoraga to chop onions,” you were doubled over, tears streaming down your face as you laughed harder than you had in months.

//

Your employees had welcomed you back with open arms while you still chose to work remotely. But the lack of light in your eyes didn’t go unnoticed.

But instead of bombarding you with questions, they took matters into their own hands.

During a virtual meeting, your CTO appeared on camera dressed as a game character, complete with poorly made props and a monologue.

“Fear not, boss,” he declared, brandishing a foam sword. “I shall vanquish the deadlines!”

The entire team erupted into cheers, clapping as he pretended to fight off invisible enemies.

Another time, your marketing manager created a meme slideshow of your company’s latest release, complete with captions like, “When the servers crash but the players still think it’s part of the game.”

Even Sukuna got in on it, lurking just off-camera during a meeting to mutter sarcastic commentary loud enough for you to hear.

“Do they always sound this unhinged?” he asked during a particularly chaotic brainstorming session.

“Yes,” you replied, your lips twitching into a small smile.

During a virtual meeting, one of your lead designers appeared on camera wearing a cardboard replica of a game console, complete with buttons that actually lit up. “Presenting the latest in gaming technology!” he announced, spinning in his chair.

“Is that a fire hazard?” you asked, unable to stop the corner of your mouth from twitching.

“Probably,” he replied, grinning.

Your PR team wasn’t any better. They sent you a PowerPoint presentation titled, Why Our Boss Deserves to Laugh More , which included memes of your favorite characters, clips of game glitches they’d purposely caused, and an oddly heartfelt slide featuring a stick figure version of you labeled, The Coolest CEO Ever .

---

Megumi stayed for as long as he could and then had to return to take care of his mom and his company once you started to feel better.

The air buzzed with the familiar hum of distant conversations and the faint echo of footsteps on polished floors. Megumi stood by the entrance, his duffel bag at his feet, his shoulders tense despite the calm mask he wore.

“I’ll come back in a few days with Mom, okay?” he said, his voice softer than usual as he pulled you into a hug. His arms were strong, grounding, but there was a hesitance in the way he held you, like he wasn’t ready to let go. “She’s been worried sick since you stopped talking after leaving Japan. She asks about you every day.”

You nodded against his chest, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Tell her to video call me. I miss her.”

“I will,” he murmured, ruffling your hair in that infuriatingly fond way he knew you hated. “The moment I land.”

You stepped back, your eyes darting anywhere but his. “Take care of yourself, Megumi. And her. She doesn’t listen to anyone but you.”

His lips twitched into a faint smirk, his dark eyes flicking over you like he was cataloging every detail. “You should talk, hypocrite.”

Your snort was half-hearted, but it was enough for him.

This goodbye was nothing like the one all those years ago. Back then, his anger had burned through the distance between you, his words cutting deep enough to leave scars you both carried. Now, there was only understanding—an unspoken truce built on shared pain and quiet forgiveness.

Megumi’s gaze shifted to Sukuna, who stood a few feet away, arms crossed and clearly bored. With a tilt of his head, Megumi motioned him over.

Sukuna raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a smirk. “What now, brat?” he muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets as he approached.

You watched them from a distance, your old DSLR— Megumi had brought back with him—in hand. The click of the shutter was oddly comforting, a rhythm that let you focus on something other than the ache in your chest. Yuji and Choso hovered nearby, pestering you with questions about aperture and lighting. You answered absently, your eyes never leaving the two figures standing just out of earshot—the most important men in your life. So important, your very essence was tangled with them, unlike the way it used to be with someone else.

//

“What do you want?” Sukuna muttered, his tone dripping with disinterest.

Megumi’s voice was steady; he was smiling, all friendly and unsuspecting. The way he smiled while threatening people—oddly reminiscent of Toji on an adult Megumi. “Keep her safe. Or I’ll gut you alive.”

Sukuna barked out a laugh, loud and sharp. “Bold, brat. But I’m not an idiot like them.” His grin widened, his crimson eyes gleaming. “I don’t take my eyes away from the destination for snowflakes.”

Megumi’s eyes narrowed, his posture shifting slightly, like he was ready for a fight. “She’s not a prize, Sukuna.”

“No,” Sukuna agreed, crossing his arms. “She’s everything. That’s why I won’t screw it up.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a low rumble. “But don’t tell me you’re in love with her, brat. You’re already pathetic enough.”

Megumi’s jaw tightened, his face a mask of calm, but the faintest flicker flashed in his eyes. Before he could respond, Yuji’s voice rang out from behind you.

“Stay in touch, Megumi!”

Megumi groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose as Sukuna chuckled.

Yuji had stuck to Megumi like pollen ever since they’d met. Whenever he walked out of your floor to get anything, or even went to the balcony for air, Yuji would immediately pounce on him like an overbearing puppy, talking like they had always known each other.

“Your fan club’s waiting,” Sukuna teased, stepping back with a mocking wave.

Megumi shot him a cold look before turning on his heel, his suitcase rolling behind him. He paused just long enough to glance over his shoulder at you, still clicking away with your camera.

“I’m getting late,” he said, his voice louder now, directed at no one in particular. “See you around.”

And just like that, he was gone, his silhouette swallowed by the steady flow of travelers.

You lowered the camera, watching the space he’d left behind. Sukuna sauntered over, his smirk still firmly in place.

“Miss him already?” He drawled.

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitched. “Shut up, Ryo.”

He chuckled, his gaze flicking to the camera in your hands. “Better get my good side next time. Wouldn’t want the brat to outshine me in your collection.”

You let yourself mock him. “He’s my best friend; of course he’ll shine.”

“Here I thought we were at least friends by now,” Sukuna shot back, his grin widening as he dragged you back to the car while also wrangling Choso and Yuji.

But nothing could have prepared you for the spectacle unfolding in front of you. Yuji stood precariously on a luggage cart, holding what looked like a security baton he must’ve stolen from somewhere.

“Onward, noble steed!” Yuji bellowed, jabbing the baton forward.

Choso, pushing the cart, sighed heavily. “Yuji, this is dumb. You’re going to fall, and I’m not paying for the damages.”

“You don’t pay for anything anyway!” Yuji shot back, wobbling as the cart veered dangerously close to a potted plant.

“Not my fault you’re the one with no sense of balance,” Choso deadpanned, shoving the cart harder.

“Balance is for losers!” Yuji yelled triumphantly—right before the cart hit a bump and sent him tumbling onto the floor with a loud thud.

You burst out laughing, clutching your camera as you tried to steady yourself. Sukuna groaned.

“Do these idiots have a death wish?” He muttered, glancing at you. “Why do I let them out in public?”

“They’re grown adults,” you replied between fits of laughter, wiping a tear from your eye. “Well... Technically. Have been for a few years.”

Yuji scrambled to his feet, rubbing his ass with an exaggerated pout. “You’re supposed to be on my side, Choso!”

“I was until you called me a steed,” Choso replied, brushing his hands off on his jeans. “You’re lucky I didn’t throw you into that plant.”

“You’re just mad because I’m faster,” Yuji shot back, grabbing the cart again.

“Faster at what? Hitting the ground?” Choso said, raising an eyebrow.

Sukuna snorted, his crimson eyes narrowing as he gestured toward the two. “You know what? Let him break something. Maybe he’ll finally learn.”

“Doubt it,” you said, grinning.

Yuji, undeterred by his earlier failure, climbed back onto the cart. “Round two! Let’s go!”

Choso sighed again, but there was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes as he grabbed the handle. “Fine. But if security catches us, I’m blaming you.”

“You always blame me!” Yuji whined, holding on tighter this time.

“Because it’s always your fault,” Choso replied, shoving the cart with a bit more force than necessary.

As the cart barreled down the terminal, narrowly missing several unsuspecting travelers, you and Sukuna watched in bemused silence.

“You should film this,” Sukuna said, his lips curling into a smirk. “Might go viral. ‘Local lesbian and his Itadorki.’”

You doubled over laughing while Yuji and Choso glared at Sukuna.

//

Later that evening, the chaos of the airport was a distant memory as you and Sukuna sat together on the couch. The quiet was comforting, the kind of stillness that didn’t feel heavy for once.

“Thank you,” you said softly, breaking the silence.

Sukuna turned to you, his expression unreadable. “For what?”

“For… everything,” you said, your cheeks heating under his gaze.

He smirked, leaning back against the cushions. “Took you long enough to admit it.”

You rolled your eyes, but a small smile tugged at your lips. The weight on your chest lifted just a little, replaced by something warm and unfamiliar.

//

But the mornings still clawed at you like ghosts, dragging you into the suffocating reality of what you’d lost. The ache in your chest wasn’t a dull pain but a jagged wound, raw and unrelenting. But Sukuna was there, always.

Without fail, he brought you breakfast in bed, the tray heavy with whatever he decided you needed to eat that day. You’d protest, pushing the plate aside, focusing on pending work, and he’d glare, the kind of glare that made it clear he wouldn’t leave until you took at least a few bites.

When he walked with you in the park, his hand brushed your lower back, a gesture so casual yet grounding it left you disarmed. He didn’t say much, but his presence filled the empty spaces in ways words never could. Slowly, painfully, the walls you’d built began to crack, the light seeping through despite your efforts to hold it all together.

// Playlist

A couple of weeks later, one evening, the two of you sat on the balcony of your new home, the air heavy with the scent of cigarettes and rain-soaked concrete. You rested your chin on your knees, watching the city lights blur into a smear of orange and white.

“You’re not as awful as you pretend to be,” you murmured, breaking the silence.

Sukuna chuckled, the sound deep and rough. He lit a cigarette with practiced ease, the glow illuminating his features. “Don’t ruin my reputation, princess,” he drawled, exhaling smoke like a dragon.

A laugh bubbled up from your chest. It felt foreign, but it didn’t hurt. Not this time.

You reached for the cigarette, plucking it from his fingers. Taking a slow drag, you coughed, the burn familiar but unwelcome after years away. “You know,” you started, voice quieter now, “I never wanted kids. I even got a hysterectomy, but... I think their RCT might’ve worked on me.”

Sukuna leaned back, smirking as if the universe amused him. “Good thing I hate brats too,” he said, his tone laced with mockery but softened by something genuine. “But I’d be fine either way you lean. I care more about you than any kid.”

You tilted your head, a sly smile tugging at your lips. “So confident I’d end up with you, huh?”

He nodded, the movement slow and deliberate.

The words spilled from you before you could stop them. “But I’m sure. I don’t want any more kids. I’m done.”

His grin widened, sharp and wolfish. “Great. Then I’ll have you all to myself,” he said, plucking the cigarette from your hand and taking a drag as if the conversation hadn’t just carved open a vulnerable piece of you.

You watched him for a moment, the question heavy on your tongue before you gave in to it. “Why are you still here? I mean... you’re attractive, Sukuna. You could have anyone. Why’d you help me?”

He exhaled smoke slowly, his gaze cutting to yours. “You really want to know?”

You nodded, feeling the tension coil in the air between you.

“The first time I saw you was at that dingy grocery store near our building in Norway. You were glaring at a Norwegian label like you could burn it into understanding if you stared hard enough.” He smirked, the memory vivid in his mind. “Then some store employee came over, and you covered your belly like you’d fight him if he even looked at you wrong. You were scared—hell, I’ve seen fear before, plenty of it—but yours was different. The kind I’d seen in survivors—the kind that said you’ve been through hell and still haven’t given up. There was this stubbornness in your eyes, like you’d fight to your last breath even knowing you’d lose.”

His voice dipped lower, his eyes locking onto yours. “That’s when I knew I wanted to know you more. Then you walked past me like I didn’t exist. You didn’t even glance my way. I knew right then you weren’t a sorcerer. You were oblivious, but your fear begged me to protect you. Practically dared me.”

A laugh escaped you, soft but real. “Or maybe you just couldn’t handle a woman not noticing you,” you teased, though your gaze lingered on him, soft and awed, like he’d hung the stars just for you.

His grin sharpened, dangerous yet intoxicating. Without warning, he flicked the cigarette over the railing, his hand shooting out to grab your waist. You gasped as he pulled you flush against him, his heat burning through your defenses.

His lips crashed into yours, the kiss anything but gentle. It was raw, demanding, and devastatingly sensual, as if he was trying to claim every fractured piece of you. Your hands instinctively found his chest, but instead of pushing him away, your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer.

The kiss deepened, his tongue brushing against yours, coaxing you into a rhythm that left you breathless. Your head tilted back as his hand tangled in your hair, the other anchoring you to him. The world blurred around you, the city’s hum fading into nothingness.

When you finally broke apart, your chest heaved, your lips tingling from the intensity. His crimson eyes bore into yours, a smirk playing on his lips. “Still think I’m not worth noticing, princess?” he murmured, his voice low and dripping with amusement.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Instead, you smiled, leaning into him, the ache in your chest momentarily quieted by the storm he’d stirred in you.

---

Japan

// Playlist

The apartment was silent, save for the occasional creak of the floorboards and the faint hum of the refrigerator. It had been months since Gojo and Nanami had received the news, but the weight of it hadn’t lifted. If anything, it had grown heavier, pressing them into themselves, into the shadows of their shared space.

Gojo sat in the darkness of their penthouse, the glow of the city outside mocking him with its indifference. The blinds were drawn just enough for the neon lights to cast fractured shadows across the floor. His sunglasses sat abandoned on the table, forgotten. His eyes—once impossibly bright, reflecting the limitless sky—were bloodshot and hollow, the kind of emptiness that no amount of sleep could fix.

His phone buzzed on the table, a cruel reminder of the hundred unanswered messages he’d already sent. He stared at it for a moment, his hand twitching toward it before falling back to his lap.

He chuckled, the sound sharp and bitter. “Why bother?” he muttered to himself, running a hand through his unkempt hair. The white strands fell limply, no longer carrying their usual defiance.

Across the penthouse in your old office, Nanami sat with the glass in his hand, the amber liquid inside untouched. He stared at it, his reflection distorted by the curve of the glass.

He thought of the twins. Their faces haunted him—not as they were in the sterile images of the report, but as they could have been. A boy with Gojo’s wild grin and his own steady gaze. A girl with your sharp wit and quiet strength.

He raised the glass to his lips but hesitated, the smell of alcohol turning his stomach. With a quiet curse, he set it down, the sound of glass on wood too loud in the silence.

//

The train station was cold, the kind of cold that seeped into your bones and stayed there. Gojo stood near the edge of the platform, his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat. The sound of the approaching train grew louder, the vibration humming through his feet.

He stepped closer, the yellow line glaring up at him like a warning.

Just one step.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, the vibration jolting him out of his thoughts. He pulled it out, the screen lighting up with another name that wasn’t yours.

Yuta.

He hesitated before answering, his voice cracking as he said, “What?”

“Sensei?” Yuta’s voice was hesitant, like he was trying to gauge how far Gojo had fallen. “I just... wanted to check on you. You’ve been... quiet. We heard you were suspended.”

Gojo let out a dry laugh, stepping back from the edge. “Quiet’s good, isn’t it?”

There was a long pause on the other end. “You don’t sound like yourself.”

“Maybe I’m not,” Gojo replied, ending the call before Yuta could say anything else.

The Rainbow Bridge stretched out before him, its lights reflected in the dark waters below. Nanami gripped the railing, the cold metal biting into his palms. The wind whipped through his hair, tugging at his jacket like it was trying to pull him over the edge.

He leaned forward, staring down at the waves.

He thought of you. Of your smile before everything went wrong. Of the way you used to laugh at his dry humor, your head tilted just slightly.

The phone in his pocket felt like a lead weight. He pulled it out, his thumb hovering over your name.

What could he even say?

The words felt heavy, impossible. Instead, he stared at the screen until it dimmed, the reflection of his hollow face staring back at him.

//

At home, Gojo stared at the bottle of pills on his nightstand, his hand hovering over the cap. His reflection in the nearby mirror caught his eye—he barely recognized the man staring back.

“You’re pathetic,” he muttered, the words slicing through the silence.

Nanami sat on the floor of his bathroom, his back against the wall. The report sat beside him, its pages wrinkled and stained with spilled whiskey.

“They never had a chance,” he whispered, the words tasting like ash.

Both men lived in the silence, haunted by memories of what could have been. The world moved on around them, but they were stuck, trapped in a purgatory of their own making.

The only thing keeping them tethered to this existence was the faint hope that, one day, you might pick up the phone. One day, you might let them explain. One day, you might forgive them.

But for now, they waited, drowning in the unbearable weight of their own guilt.

A/N: And that’s how we turn pain into comedy and back again. I know you’re emotionally damaged (same). Who do you think was the woman Sukuna went to meet? (Hint: It's not Urame, so use your critical thinking skills). Meanwhile, Gojo and Nanami are one bad day away from booking permanent balcony seats in purgatory. Next chapter, we might actually let Nanami catch a break—or not. What do you think? Should Gojo finally punch Sukuna for calling him a ‘failed Barbie’? But seriously, next chapter—more tension, more heartbreak; maybe someone actually admits how they feel and SUMT (don't expect too much; I'm not very good at it).

Next Chapter 9 (alt ending 1.5 Final Part) - The Shadows We Bury - (Tumblr/Ao3)

Also I have a seprate fluff series going on which can be read as part of this AU - Bubble Butt Problems - Nanami X Reader X Gojo - (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

Taglist Open - If I missed to tag anyone, please remind me.

[whereforarthur]

Am I a Burden to You?

Request: arthur’s been working a lot and y/n misses him, she brings this up and he gets angry and calls her ‘clingy’ before realising he messed up and making it up to her (angst —> soft)

- Anonymous

Pairing: Arthur Hill x Gf!Reader

Word Count: 2.1k

Category: Angst with a happy ending

*****

The room was filled with a heavy silence, only occasionally pierced by the distant hum of a passing car. Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor, her eyes glued to the laptop screen as she replayed Arthur's latest video for the umpteenth time. His laughter, usually a soothing melody that filled her heart, now echoed hollowly around the emptiness of their apartment. She hadn't seen him in days, his work schedule swelling like a tide that had swallowed their plans whole. The aroma of cold coffee lingered in the air, a stark reminder of the mornings they used to share, chatting about their dreams before the day's responsibilities washed over them.

Her phone buzzed, startling her. She glanced at the screen, expecting a message from Arthur, perhaps a simple "Miss you," or "Can't wait to see you tonight." But it was just another notification from his YouTube channel, announcing a new collaboration with a fellow musician. Her heart sank. The screen flashed with images of him smiling with his friends, seemingly unfazed by the void in his personal life. Y/N felt a sting of sadness, realizing she had become an afterthought in his whirlwind of success.

With a sigh, she decided to confront him. It was time to voice her concerns before the distance grew too wide to bridge. She picked up her phone and called Arthur, her heart pounding in her chest. He answered on the third ring, his voice a blend of surprise and fatigue. "Hey, what's up?"

Y/N took a deep breath, trying to keep her tone light. "I just wanted to check in, see how your day's going."

Arthur's sigh was audible over the phone. "Yeah, it's hectic as usual. The music video's almost done, but the director's a bit of a nightmare."

"That sounds…challenging," she offered, trying to keep the conversation afloat.

"More than you know," Arthur replied, his voice tight with frustration. "Look, I'm just really busy right now. Can we talk about this later?"

Y/N felt the rejection like a slap in the face, but she pushed on. "It's just that…I miss you, Arthur. You've been working non-stop, and it feels like we're living separate lives."

There was a pause, and for a moment, she thought he might have hung up. But then he spoke, his voice laced with a hint of annoyance. "I'm sorry, but you know how important this is to me. I can't just drop everything because you're feeling clingy."

The word 'clingy' hit Y/N like a knife. She felt her cheeks flush with a mix of anger and hurt. "I'm not being clingy," she said, her voice strained. "I just miss spending time with you." She looked around the room, her eyes blurring with unshed tears. The apartment, once a sanctuary of their shared memories, now felt like a cold, empty stage where she was just a prop in Arthur's one-man show. The anger grew, a slow burn that began to consume her. She knew she wasn't being clingy, just expressing her love and missing her partner.

"You're always working," she continued, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. "We never do anything together anymore. It's like I'm invisible."

Arthur's tone shifted, now laced with defensiveness. "Invisible? That's not fair. I'm just trying to build a future for us. You know how much this means to me."

"I do," Y/N said, her voice quivering. "But I need you to understand that I need you too. It's not just about your future, it's about ours."

Arthur's silence stretched for a painfully long moment before he finally spoke. "Look, I'm sorry if it feels that way. I didn't mean to hurt you."

Y/N took a deep breath, trying to gather her thoughts. "It's just…it's not nice to be called clingy," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "It makes me feel like I'm not enough, like I'm just holding you back."

Arthur's voice softened. "That's not what I meant. I know you're not holding me back. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me."

Y/N's grip on the phone tightened. "Then why do you keep pushing me away?" she asked, her voice cracking.

"I'm not pushing you away," Arthur said, sounding genuinely surprised. "I just need some space to breathe, to focus on my work. I thought you understood."

"I do understand," Y/N said, her voice thick with unshed tears. "But I miss you. Can we talk about this in person?"

Arthur's sigh was a heavy gust of wind through the phone. "Alright, I'll be home in an hour. We can talk then."

The wait felt like an eternity to Y/N. She paced the apartment, her thoughts racing. The clock ticked away the minutes, each second a pebble thrown into the river of their relationship, creating ripples of doubt and frustration. She busied herself by lighting a few candles, hoping the warm glow might ease the tension that had settled in the room. The faint scent of vanilla filled the air, a stark contrast to the coldness that had seeped into their lives.

Finally, the door swung open, and Arthur stepped inside, his eyes weary, his shoulders slumped. He dropped his bag to the floor, and she rushed over to greet him, wrapping her arms around his neck. For a moment, he stiffened before relaxing into her embrace. His arms circled her waist, and she felt his chest rise and fall in a deep, tired sigh.

They sat down on the couch, the candlelight casting a soft glow across their faces. Arthur looked into her eyes, searching for the words to explain his absence. "I'm sorry, love," he began, his voice thick with regret. "I know I've been distant. The pressure's been getting to me."

Y/N nodded, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. "It's okay," she murmured. "I just miss you."

Arthur's gaze softened, and he gently brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. "I miss you too," he admitted. "But I didn't mean to make you feel like you're not important. You are. You're everything to me."

Y/N leaned into his touch, her heart aching. "It's just hard," she said, her voice trembling. "I want to support you, but it feels like you're pulling away from me."

Arthur took her hand, his thumb tracing comforting circles on her palm. "I know, and I'm sorry," he said, his eyes sincere. "This isn't what I wanted for us. I guess I've been so caught up in my work, I didn't realize how much it was affecting you." Arthur took a deep breath, preparing to dive into the depths of their issues. "I've been thinking," he began, "maybe we should set aside some time, just for us. No work, no phones, just… us."

Y/N nodded, a glimmer of hope sparkling in her eyes. "That sounds perfect," she said. "But you have to actually stick to it. I can't keep being the one to remind you."

Arthur squeezed her hand, his gaze earnest. "I will," he promised. "Because I do miss you. And I don't want to lose you."

The conversation continued, the air in the room slowly shifting from tense to hopeful. They talked about their schedules, making plans for date nights and weekend getaways. Arthur listened intently, nodding and agreeing, his eyes never leaving hers. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Y/N felt seen and heard.

As they sat there, the shadows of the room grew long with the setting sun, painting the walls with a warm, comforting glow. The silence that had once felt oppressive now felt like a blanket, wrapping around them as they leaned into each other. It was a silent promise, a vow to work on their relationship, to find a balance between career and love.

Y/N laid her head on Arthur's shoulder, his heartbeat a steady rhythm beneath her ear. He wrapped his arm around her, holding her close. They sat like that for a while, basking in the quiet understanding that had been so elusive lately. It wasn't a perfect fix, but it was a start. A step towards rebuilding the connection that had been frayed by time and neglect.

"How about we start with tomorrow?" Arthur suggested, his voice a gentle rumble against her cheek. "I'll clear my schedule, and we can do something together. Just you and me."

Y/N lifted her head to look at him, her eyes searching his for any signs of hesitation. Finding none, she smiled, a genuine one that reached her eyes. "I'd like that," she said, her voice a soft whisper.

They spent the rest of the evening planning their day together, the weight of their earlier conversation lifting with every shared laugh and whispered secret. Arthur's fingers danced over the screen of his phone, setting reminders and moving meetings, his determination to make it work palpable in every tap and swipe. They decided on a picnic in the park, followed by a visit to the art gallery, a place they'd talked about going to for months but never found the time.

*****

The next day dawned bright and clear, the kind of London morning that made the city feel alive and full of promise. Arthur woke up early, his heart fluttering with excitement. He had a surprise in store for Y/N, something to make up for the lost moments and the harsh words. He dashed to the kitchen, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee filling the air as he prepared a breakfast tray with her favorite croissants and a bouquet of wildflowers picked from the local market.

When she woke up to the smell of breakfast and the soft knock on the door, Y/N's eyes lit up. She padded out to the living room, her pajamas rumpled and her hair a mess, but she had never looked more beautiful to Arthur. He watched as she took in the sight before her, the surprise and joy washing over her features. "I know I said I'd make it up to you," Arthur said with a hopeful smile, "but I wanted to start today."

They sat together on the couch, the morning light spilling through the windows, casting a warm glow on their faces. They talked and laughed, sharing stories of their days and dreams for their future. Y/N felt a weight lift from her chest, the warmth of Arthur's love surrounding her like a cozy blanket. As they finished their breakfast, Arthur handed her a small, beautifully wrapped box. "This is just a little something to say I'm sorry," he said, his eyes twinkling.

Inside the box was a necklace, a delicate chain holding a single pearl. It was simple, but to Y/N, it was perfect. "It's beautiful," she whispered, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "Thank you."

They kissed, a gentle brush of lips that held the promise of more to come. The picnic in the park was everything Y/N had hoped for, the air filled with the sweet scent of blooming flowers and the distant sound of children playing. They talked and laughed, their words mingling with the chirp of birds and the rustle of leaves. Arthur had even packed her favorite sandwich, and she watched as he took a bite, his eyes never leaving hers.

As the afternoon sun began to set, they strolled hand in hand towards the art gallery. The promise of a quiet afternoon surrounded by beauty and culture was exactly what their hearts needed. The air between them was light, the tension of the past few days replaced with a gentle excitement for the future.

In the soft light of the gallery, they wandered from painting to sculpture, their conversation a gentle symphony of shared thoughts and feelings. Arthur paused in front of a particularly striking piece, his gaze thoughtful. "This reminds me of you," he murmured, his thumb brushing the back of her hand.

Y/N looked up at him, her heart fluttering. "How so?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

He turned to her, his eyes full of love. "It's full of color, of life, even in the shadows," he said, smiling. "It's complex, beautiful, and makes me feel something deep inside."

Y/N felt her cheeks warm as she leaned into him, her heart swelling with love. "Thank you," she murmured, her eyes shining. "You make me feel seen."

The rest of the day passed in a blur of art, music, and shared moments. As they walked home, the setting sun casting a warm glow over the city, Y/N knew that they had turned a corner. The future was uncertain, but for now, she had Arthur by her side, and that was all she needed.

[nobodywasneverhere]

i hate being disabled and queer at a time like this.

i sit during the day watching my phone, seeing news. i see my every right getting stripped away, i watch through text on my screen as people get dehoused, arrested, forced to starvation by a system i want to go out and fight, but, of course, i can't.

my muscles would give out from the stress, i would endure pain for a week afterward which would bind me to my bed. i am resigned to talking to people who already agree with me and sending out small messages to the void of the internet on platforms which continue to contribute to the destruction of my personhood in the eyes of a fascist government; what good does it do? i'm still stuck in bed, nobody and nothing has changed.

i can't vote, i can't hide myself from it, i'm lucky enough to be in a place with such people that if truly necessary, i could move to another country - but my friends would still be here, most of my family would still be here, here in the place that wants me dead, that wants to force me into the lowest caste of a system meant for extracting capital instead of providing healthcare, protecting rights, making sure i can live.

and what can i do? i can hope that someone else cares enough to do something about it, but the chances that they would? that enough people would? that enough people could even understand what i go through on a daily basis? i truly don't like pessimism but it seems unavoidable with something like this.

i would make art to show people my visceral experience, release it to fly on fragile wings into the world, make sounds and sketch lines, write and dance and be wholly a person but my neck aches even with writing this, my wrists feel that they have been crushed, and my back threatens to give out while laying on a bed.

i am being demoted to something less than human in the eyes of a horrifying amount of people in the country which promised would give me safety. i am a political problem in courtrooms, i am a pity story whispered between my teachers, i am a cautionary tale to nazis online that say i am a conniving predator and a poor confused child that only thinks they want to put their great gendered body through mutilation, i am words from a strict authority about perseverance to kids who they find annoying, i am anything but a person.

i am kid, a fucking angry and scared kid. i am a person and deserve to be treated as one.

i will scream and fight until the memory of being at peace has long since faded and until i find myself living in that memory again. even if it's just online. even if it's just anonymous text on a screen.

but still the question gnaws through the flesh of my thoughts - what good does it do when we can barely do anything?

[emma-frxst]

I Think I’m In Love With You

Pairing: detective David Loki x reader

Warnings: Loki being down bad, like real bad

Summary: anonymous asked “Can I request David loki realizing he is in love with the reader? Maybe she works in the lab at the station or something. Thx!”

A/N- sorry this look so long nonnie! This was cute to write!

Loki only Tags: @sizzlingcloudmentality @sataninsatin @spideyrights (@go-commander-kim @severuined @romancries @eclecticfashionbookszipper @fagen @meijasworldasf @1ivinqdeadqir1main (let me know if you want added or removed)

-

The elevator let out a ding! Letting the occupants know it has reached the desired floor.

Detective Loki stepped off the elevator, with every step he took towards the evidence lab; towards her, the faster his heart beat.

She had her back to him as he entered the room; her white lab coat hung off her frame, hiding the divine curves of her body that David desperately wished to discover.

He had the biggest crush on one of the girls that worked in evidence, and he had been crushing for a long time. He had yet to work up the nerve to ask her on a date. Sure they flirted and exchanged lingering glances, but David was letting fear get the best of him. How would he ever be able to step into the forensic lab again if she rejected him?

She was always nice to him; kind to everyone. And God she was so smart. She had saved his ass on more than a few cases where suspects and evidence were scarce; she somehow made things work.

He got teased for spending so much time in the forensics lab, he brushed it off with the excuse of going over evidence and other official work business.

Her and Loki’s hands touched ever so slightly as she handed him the file with the test results he requested, It was only a moment, but still the sensation made David’s heart flutter.

He wished he could touch her more. He wished she would touch him. Not just touch him, but ruin him; soil him by whispering sweet nothings in his ear while he melted into her soft touch. And when she blessed him with a smile? Oh he was a goner. That smile could get him to do just about anything.

Driving home at the end of each day wasn’t David’s favorite part of his shift. He’d drive home to a cold, empty house. He would eat dinner for one, then to go lay in a bed that was void of a partner’s warmth.

He found himself wishing that she was with him. Wishing that she would take up the empty space in his bed and just maybe cook a meal for two. And perhaps one day, be waiting for him when he got home from work, along with a kid or two.

Ah shit..I’m in love…he thought to himself. But maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing- to be in love.

He rolled over to face the empty side of the bed and let out a sigh.

That’s it, I’m asking her out tomorrow. The thought stuck to the front of his mind, the confidence behind it he hoped to still to be there in the morning.

[phantomwithbreakfast]

~ Phantom with Breakfast ~

The meaning behind my pseudonym. Exposing myself—yet still anonymous.

—

TW: Emotional Distress (Mental health struggles—Don’t read if you’re emotionally sensitive)

—

Morning. Or is it? The light through the curtains is dull, muted, as if the world itself shares your mood. One day. Several lives. That’s what they call mood swings—shifts that come and go like storm clouds on a broken horizon. What’s wrong? Everything. Nothing. Both. Always.

Getting out of bed feels like peeling yourself from a grave. The sheets cling like a second skin, but the voices—they don’t let you rest. They don’t let you be. They scream, they demand, pulling you from the oblivion of sleep. “Wake up.” Why? They never answer that. They just keep calling, louder, sharper, until the silence feels like a wound you can’t stop bleeding.

You listen because there’s nothing else to do. Sometimes they’re funny. Sometimes they argue. Sometimes they tear into you like glass shards in a blender. You laugh with them when they’re kind, but the laughter feels foreign, hollow, like it belongs to someone else.

Your feet hit the floor. Cold. It reminds you you’re alive—if that’s what this is. You shuffle to the kitchen, grabbing your favorite coffee mug, pour liquid that tastes like tar but promises to make you human. You sip, letting the bitterness spread through your mouth, hoping it’ll mask the bitterness inside. You sit. Try to be still. Try to prepare for the day, as if there’s anything that could ready you for this.

But then the unease creeps in, soft and insidious. A sound, a feeling. Just a creak, a whisper, a nothing—but it’s there. Your heart clenches. Your breath quickens. Your hands shake, but you clench them into fists, nails digging into your palms until it hurts, until it anchors you. But it doesn’t. The panic is already here, crawling through your mind like a shadow you can’t outrun. You tell yourself it’s nothing. But your body doesn’t listen.

Then there’s that person. The one who makes you feel like the world isn’t so bad, the one who keeps you afloat. They smile at you, and you try to mirror it. Your lips curve upward, but it’s a lie—one you tell well. The mask fits perfectly, even when it suffocates. Inside, there’s a storm, raging, roaring, screaming to break free, but you hold it back for them. For the illusion.

And then—snap. A trigger. Just one. Small, insignificant to anyone else, but to you, it’s the needle that bursts the dam. The anger floods in, sharp and hot, blinding in its intensity. You split—fractured, raw, and all the worst parts of you take control. You lash out, words or actions you can’t take back. You watch yourself do it, powerless to stop, even as something inside begs you to. But it’s too late. It always is.

When it’s over, all that’s left is the void. Hollow. Empty. You sit in the wreckage of yourself, confusion gnawing at the edges of your mind. You don’t understand—how it began, why it happened, why it always does. You want to scream, to cry, but all that comes is silence.

One day. Several lives. Too many emotions. Too many masks. Too much of everything—and nothing at all.

———————

The only escape, the only fragile thread keeping you tethered to something resembling sanity, is the therapy you’ve made for yourself—drawing lines that bleed onto paper, writing words that scream louder than you ever could. You pour yourself out, ink and graphite carrying pieces of you you’re too scared to hold onto. But even here, even in this, there’s no freedom. Just another cage painted with pictures.

You lose yourself in the fantasy. You get lost because it’s safer than being found. It’s a world you’ve made, a labyrinth of stories and shapes, yet every corner feels familiar, like a path you’ve walked before but don’t remember choosing. Stuck. Yet moving forward. A path you might not know, but somehow, you know.

And yet, the real world seeps in. Overwhelming. Heavy. A storm crashing through your carefully built walls. You stand, trying to stay grounded, trying to feel the floor beneath your feet. But deep inside, there’s nothing. Or maybe too much. A cold stream winds its way through you, freezing your core, numbing everything you might have felt. Everything you should feel. And then there’s the heart. That stupid, stubborn heart. Beating. Keeping time. Letting you know you’re alive. Or are you?

You want to fly, the night sky is calling you, infinite and empty, getting lost in the stars. To be weightless, to forget everything, floating in nothingness. You stretch your arms wide, soaring, even as you know the ground is still far away beneath you.

For a moment, it’s perfect. You hover in the darkness, suspended between nowhere and nothing, and it’s like the world finally lets you go. But then—there it is. The pull. A weight at your back, clawing at your chest, dragging you down when all you want is to stay. A tether you can’t see but always feel, yanking you back to earth. Back to reality. Back to everything you were trying to leave behind.

You fight against it, heart pounding as you push higher, trying to go faster. But the pull is relentless, tightening like chains around your ribs, and suddenly you’re falling. The sky slips away, the stars dimming, the cold air turning into something suffocating.

And then, you’re on the ground again, feet planted, heart racing, chest heaving. The freedom you tasted is gone, leaving nothing but the weight. Always the weight. You stand there, trembling, wondering why you thought you could escape. Wondering why you keep trying.

———————

Life feels like walking on a tightrope in the middle of a storm. The wind never stops, and neither do the voices. Some days, the rope sways so violently you think it’ll snap, and other days, it’s your own hands letting go because holding on feels too exhausting. The world demands balance, but balance feels like a cruel joke—like asking the ocean to stop its waves or the wind to still its breath.

Your mind is a carousel that never stops spinning. Thoughts flash past so fast you can’t grab onto any of them. You start a task, drop it, pick up another, then forget why you started in the first place. Time slips away, hours melting into each other, and you’re left staring at the mess you didn’t clean, the calls you didn’t make, the life you’re failing to keep up with. Everyone else seems to move forward while you’re stuck in quicksand, fighting to breathe.

And then there’s the chaos inside—the storm of emotions that never rests. One minute you’re fine, or at least pretending to be, and the next, anger surges out of nowhere, sharp and uncontrollable, leaving you staring at the wreckage of another bridge burned. Then the guilt follows, creeping in like a shadow, whispering that you’re too much. Too loud. Too broken. And maybe you believe it.

You feel everything too much and yet not enough. Your highs are dizzying, euphoric, like touching the stars, but they never last. The crash always comes, slamming you down into the hollow ache of emptiness. The kind of emptiness that sits in your chest like a stone, heavy and cold, reminding you that no matter how hard you try, you can’t outrun it. It always catches up.

You want to scream, but the words get stuck. You want to cry, but the tears won’t fall. You want to stop feeling, but the numbness terrifies you more than the pain. You try to reach out, but how do you explain the whirlwind inside? How do you make someone else understand when you don’t even understand yourself?

Unstable. That’s the word they’d use. But it’s not just instability—it’s exhaustion. It’s the weight of carrying a brain that never quiets, a heart that feels too much, a soul that’s always searching for a place to rest. You’re tired of the fight, tired of pretending, tired of holding on when you don’t even know what you’re holding onto anymore.

And yet, somewhere deep inside, there’s a tiny spark. Faint, flickering, but there. The part of you that still hopes, still dreams, still believes that maybe one day, the tightrope will steady, and you’ll find your balance. Until then, you keep walking, step by shaky step, because that’s all you can do.

———————

It starts as a flicker—just a small distraction from the chaos of your mind. A character on a screen, a name in a book, a voice that feels like it was made for you. They’re not real, but they might as well be, because they feel more alive than you’ve ever felt. They become a lifeline, a beacon in the overwhelming storm of your thoughts, pulling you in until you can’t let go.

At first, it’s comforting. A safe place to rest your mind, a world where you can lose yourself without judgment. But then it grows, consuming every quiet moment. They slip into your thoughts like a thief in the night, stealing your focus, your time, your energy. You find yourself obsessing over every detail—how they’d sound if they spoke to you, what their touch might feel like, how their presence might fill the hollow ache you can’t escape.

It’s not just admiration. It’s need. It’s longing so intense it feels like your chest might crack under the weight of it. You replay scenes in your head, write stories where they save you, or maybe you save them. Because in those stories, you’re not too much. You’re enough. You’re seen. Loved.

But reality doesn’t bend that way. They don’t exist, and you know it. Geez, you know it. But the knowing doesn’t stop the wanting. It doesn’t stop the way they haunt you, like a shadow that clings to your every step. You try to let go, but the thought of losing them—this one thing that makes the noise bearable—is unbearable.

Your friends don’t get it. “It’s just a character,” they say, as if that makes it easier. As if you can just turn it off. But they don’t see the way you’ve built a connection, a whole life in your head where things make sense, where you’re not broken or empty or drifting. They don’t see how it feels like this person is the only thing keeping you from falling apart, even if they’re not real.

And yet, the obsession comes with its own kind of pain. You hate yourself for needing them this much. For the hours lost scrolling through fan art, watching clips, reading and rereading their stories, like they might change if you just look hard enough. For the nights you lie awake, wishing they could step out of your screen and pull you into a world that feels safer than your own mind.

It’s suffocating. You know it’s unhealthy, but it’s the only thing that feels like it fits. They don’t judge you, don’t get tired of you, don’t leave. They’re perfect in ways no one real could ever be, and maybe that’s why you hold on so tightly. Because the real world is messy and loud, and people always seem to find a way to hurt you. But they? They never do.

And still, it’s lonely. Because no matter how much you adore them, they’ll never doing it back. You scream into the void of your own mind, wishing you could pull them closer, wishing they could save you. But all you have is silence. And it hurts.

It hurts more than anyone could ever understand.

———————

Eventually, I found myself searching for the bright side sometimes, guided by a quote I made my own:

‘Better crazy and a freak, than being normal and boring, right? Right.’

———————

You can find my phan fic stories here.

———————

This drawing of Danny reflect the moods I navigate through on certain days—not every day, but on those days when everything feels heavier. It starts with coffee—a quiet moment to steady myself—but it always ends with a random trigger that flips the day on its head. Whether it spirals into euphoria, anger, or deep depression, the shift is sudden, uncontrollable, and all-consuming.

It’s like a heavy breakfast that lingers through the day, even when you feel like a ghost—like a phantom. A Phantom with Breakfast.

[universal-legacy]

💬 + Oliver enjoyies tormenting Vivian and Winter

"Well, of course I enjoy tormenting them! They're my cousins! I always gotta tease them, make fun of 'em, and above all else? Show them plenty of familial love! What, did you think I do weird things to or around them?? Nope~!" Oliver chuckled a bit by the end of his whole spiel, but honestly, whether or not he was taking this as a sexual rumor or not was sort of hard to tell. He certainly didn't make it easy to be able to tell, that was for certain.

[isaacarellanesismyhusband]

tu sais que je t'aime bien, non? p2

pair: Fred Weasley x reader requested by anonymous

can you do a pt 2 to tu sais que je could you do a pt 2 to t’aime bien, non? where they’re at the order, and she’s still learning English, and Sirius know English so he knows what she’s saying when she makes small comments, whether about someone or about Fred. And they talk a lot in French, and she’s glad she can talk ‘normally’. she grew up without a dad, or a good father figure and that’s what Sirius was to her. And Fred learning bits of French, mainly just flirty stuff 😂

masterlist | navigation | p1

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Y/N had grown used to the bustling activity at the Order of the Phoenix. Grimmauld Place was a stark contrast to the serene halls of Beauxbatons, but it had its own charm. It was chaotic and loud, with people constantly coming and going. But in all the noise, Y/N found comfort in small moments.

One of those moments was her time with Sirius Black.

Sirius had taken an immediate liking to Y/N. He was quick to realize that she wasn’t comfortable speaking English all the time, and when he found out she spoke French, he effortlessly switched languages. It was a relief to Y/N, who felt her shoulders relax every time they chatted in her native tongue.

“Comment tu vas aujourd'hui, Y/N?” Sirius asked one afternoon, as they sat in the kitchen with mugs of tea.

Y/N smiled, feeling at ease. “Je vais bien, merci. C’est agréable de parler en français.”

“Je comprends,” Sirius replied, his voice warm. “C’est bien d’avoir quelqu’un à qui parler aussi. Cette maison peut être un peu trop parfois.”

Y/N nodded, looking around at the dark walls of Grimmauld Place. It wasn’t just the house that could be overwhelming; it was everything—the war, the uncertainty, and the fact that she was so far from home. But Sirius made it feel less lonely. He’d become like a father to her, something she never really had growing up.

“Merci, Sirius. Tu es vraiment comme un père pour moi,” Y/N said softly, her voice full of emotion.

Sirius paused, his expression softening as he looked at her. “Et tu es comme une fille pour moi, Y/N. Je serai toujours là pour toi.”

The sincerity in his voice made her heart swell. It was nice to have someone who cared, who understood her without needing translation. She had Fred, of course, but there was something special about her bond with Sirius. He filled a void in her life she didn’t even know was there.

As the weeks went on, Y/N spent more and more time with Sirius, talking in French about anything and everything. They’d sit together during Order meetings, exchanging comments about the others in the room.

“Regarde Fred, il a l’air tellement concentré,” Y/N whispered one evening, watching Fred from across the room as he listened to Moody talk about the latest mission.

Sirius chuckled, leaning in closer. “Il est toujours concentré quand il s’agit de toi.”

Y/N blushed, trying to hide her smile. “Tu crois?”

“Je le sais,” Sirius replied with a knowing grin. “Il n’arrête pas de te regarder quand tu ne fais pas attention.”

Y/N felt a warm flutter in her chest. Fred had been learning bits of French too, mainly picking up on the flirty things she would say. He was getting better at it, though his accent was still terrible, which she found adorable.

One evening, after everyone else had gone to bed, Y/N and Fred were sitting together in the living room, the fire crackling softly in the fireplace. Y/N was reading, and Fred was leaning against her, pretending to read but mostly just watching her.

“Tu es belle ce soir,” Fred whispered in clumsy French, a proud smile on his face.

Y/N laughed softly, shaking her head. “You’re getting better, Fred.”

“I had a good teacher,” he said, grinning as he laced his fingers with hers.

Y/N leaned in, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Je t'aime, Fred,” she murmured, feeling bold.

Fred’s eyes sparkled, and he responded with a mischievous smile, “Je t'aime aussi, Y/N. Did I say that right?”

She nodded, giggling. “Perfectly.”

Fred puffed up his chest in mock pride. “Maybe I’ll become fluent in French just so I can understand all the lovely things you say about me.”

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Y/N teased, bumping her shoulder against his.

Fred smirked, leaning in closer. “I’d like it even more if you kissed me again.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t resist. She leaned in, capturing his lips in a soft kiss. Fred deepened it, pulling her closer as they both melted into the moment.

When they finally pulled away, Y/N rested her head on Fred’s shoulder, feeling content.

“Fred,” she started, “I’m really glad you’re learning French.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?” Fred asked, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Because it means you understand me better,” Y/N said softly. “And I like that.”

Fred squeezed her hand, his voice full of affection. “I like it too, Y/N. But you know, even if I don’t understand everything you say, I think I get the important stuff.”

Y/N looked up at him, her heart full. “What’s that?”

“How much you care about me,” Fred replied, his voice serious for once. “And how much I care about you.”

Y/N felt tears prick her eyes, but they were happy tears. She knew that even with the language barrier, their feelings were clear. Love didn’t need translation.

“Je t'aime, Fred,” she said again, her voice barely above a whisper.

Fred kissed her forehead, his voice soft as he replied, “Je t'aime, Y/N.”

[castlebyersafterdark]

Well. Well. Well. It's May 3rd.

✨️ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY OF THE CASTLE ✨️

In my wildest fandom dreams, I did not anticipate this blog becoming... what it is. A year ago, I was a random fan who only interacted at that point with my few long time online friends, aimlessly scrolled tumblr, and lurked silently this corner of the fandom with intrigue. The catalyst was seeing all the fun people were having doing what they wanted and I think I'd reread one of my favorite spicy Byler E rated fics and thought - that's it, I want to write seriously again. I want to be brave and reach out to authors here I like and try to workshop ideas and improve writing with a blog, and maybe join this space so a couple more of us can openly hang out.

Well. The Castle is pretty big now and incredibly wild ❤️ Do yall remember when I "didn't want to share too many personal details" 🤣🫣 and how I refused to thirst too openly over Finn and Noah and audacity ⚠️ as we've come to call it was secret, never posted?

I adore our collective hangout spot, our perpetual sleepover, our confessional, our vent sesh, our whispered secrets and screamed excitement, and our analytical debates and discussions. I love this little community and have found it now quite important.

Thank you to all, for making a man like me feel so welcome when I was unsure my perspective and personality would be. Thank you always to for being kind in the not so chill moments, when my human reactions take over, and thank you for being kind as well as I've let myself be vulnerable and open about mental health. Thank you for being creative and adding to the fun of fandom and inspiring me to be creative in turn. Thank you for supporting me over the year here as I've undergone massive life changes, from me waxing poetic about my boyfriend to the excitement of getting engaged and planning a wedding.

Thank you for inspiring me and enjoying my writing. It means the world that any single person would have read any of my fics or drabble posts. Yall make me want to give more and more. It's a slow process sometimes, but I want my stories to be well-crafted, and I want to share some really cool ideas with yall even more. In this next year here, I'm trying to focus more time on writing. I have 17 wips sitting at the moment and plan on finishing them all. So. I'm here for the loooooong haul.

I've always been a big fanboy when it comes to media thats resonated. I have never not been in fandom spaces so long as I've been using the internet. Started really young. And as a young man, hey, I'm still kicking and balancing my reality with escaping online. It's so cool now that there's this little community to share my time and imagination and sometimes rabid excitement with. Thanks for nerding out with this big ol' nerd 🤭😘

Thank you to those who've reached out beyond the cherished secrecy and comfort of the anonymous ask box. I value those connections and friendships. This blog and fandom have led me to some very dear friendships now, that never would have happened if I hadn't gotten brave, made this blog, and hoped someone out there wanted to chat about this crazy television show in the way I really was yearning for. It's so much more than that now.

Please know I'm always here for anyone who needs an open ear, or has an idea to share, or who wants to say something to the void knowing the void is waiting with a kind thought and a hug, or who wants to dive into a topic both fandom or personal, anon or private message. The Castle is vast, there's plenty of room and all friends are always welcome.

Simply... thanks to all for hanging out ❤️❤️❤️

I'll be here for as long as yall will have me 🥰🥰

[yetanothersparrowofthedawn]

Happier than ever

Pairing: Jake x Reader

Genre: Angst, hurt, ex!Jake

Extended Masterpost

Context: Y/N is so so so perfectly happy *practiced smile* yay marital bliss.

Disclaimer: English isn’t my native language, so I apologize in advance for mistakes and awkward wordings to come. Also, I guess this fic could be triggering for some because it’s kind of sad and angsty.

Word Count: 2.5k

Previous Track: Honeymoon (3 months prior)

Chapter soundtrack: Happier than ever – Billie Eilish

When I'm away from you, I'm happier than ever. Wish I could explain it better. I wish it wasn't true.

The London night hung heavy outside the windows of the elegant townhouse YN now called home. She sat at her desk, surrounded by scattered sheets of lyrics and half-empty coffee cups. Despite the late hour, her mind refused to rest.

Ever since returning from her honeymoon, YN had been trying her best to bury herself in work. As she sifted through the papers, her phone buzzed insistently, breaking the silence of the night.

She glanced at the screen, the number displayed unfamiliar once again. Another anonymous call, just like the countless others that had become a regular occurrence since her move to London three months prior.

With a sigh, she hit the decline button and tossed the phone aside, frustration bubbling beneath her calm exterior.

At first, she dismissed it as a nuisance, perhaps a misguided fan or a random prankster. But the calls persisted. She had tried blocking the numbers, changing her settings, everything she could think of to put an end to it, but to no avail. The rare times she’d picked up, silence had greeted her before the caller abruptly disconnected.

That night, though, she noticed something. The International dialing code seemed different from usual. A quick google search informed her it was Brazilian.

Her thoughts drifted back to a short conversation she’d had a few weeks prior. Josh. He’d mentioned the band's upcoming tour in South America.

No, YN thought, there’s just no way. She brushed off the thought.

Still, she found herself lying in bed a couple hours later, checking Greta’s Instagram account. There was just no way. Only, she was met with a photo posted just an hour before. The description read, “Thank you for a remarkable show. See you soon, Sao Paulo.”

Fuck.

--

A week later, the glow of her phone illuminated the dark bedroom. Another call, another unknown number, another international code.

With a quick glance at Harry's sleeping form beside her, YN slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb him. She tiptoed towards their bathroom and quietly locked the door behind her.

The girl leaned against the sink, her fingers trembling as she answered the call. Silence greeted her on the other end, a heavy weight pressing down on her chest.

Enough of this.

"Jake?" she tried, her voice barely a whisper. But there was no response, only the empty void that seemed to stretch on endlessly.

"Is that you?" She tried again, desperation creeping into her voice. But still, there was nothing, only the echo of her own words bouncing back at her.

Frustration bubbled up inside her, mingling with the deep-seated concern that gnawed at her from within.

“Jake, I know it’s-” the call abruptly disconnected. Her heart sank, an uncomfortable feeling settling in the pit of her stomach.

--

For the following three weeks, YN found herself in a semi-constant state of anxiety, her eyes darting nervously to her phone at every passing moment. Nights offered no respite, each small noise in the house sending her heart racing as she scrambled to check her phone.

Finally, on yet another sleepless night, her phone lit up. American dialing code. The boys might have returned to the States before embarking on the European leg of their tour.

Silently slipping out of bed, she made her way to the kitchen and answered the call. Without surprise, she was once again greeted by silence.

After a brief moment, she spoke into the void. "Are you alright?"

There was no immediate response, only the sound of uneven breaths on the other end of the line.

"It's late," she stated firmly. "I'm going to hang up now—"

"I wanted...” the caller suddenly spoke. Her breath was caught in her throat. She’d been right. “I wanted to hear your voice," his voice was rough, his words slurred. YN sighed.

“Are you drunk?” she asked, her tone annoyed. But there was no reply, only the quiet of the night surrounding her.

Suddenly, a noise erupted from the other end of the line, a distant car horn echoing through the darkness.

"What was that?" YN's voice rose with concern. "Was that a car? Have you been driving?"

She knew too well of Jake's reckless habits, the demons that had haunted him like a shadow. The thought of him spiraling out of control in some far-off corner of the world sent a chill down her spine.

"Fucking say something," she snapped, her frustration boiling over. But before she could receive an answer, the call abruptly ended. She winced.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Panic began to gnaw at the edges of her mind as she struggled to make sense of the situation.

“Love,” a voice broke her train of thoughts, “what are you doing up?”

Harry.

“It’s Patty” YN said, turning to face him. “Go back to bed, I’ll be right behind you.”

Harry's brow furrowed with concern. "Is everything alright?" he asked, his eyes searching hers for any sign of distress.

"Yeah," she replied hastily, attempting to brush off his concern with a forced smile. "Just... schedule stuff." She shocked herself with how quickly the lies kept on tumbling out.

“Okay," Harry nodded, turning to head back to bed.

YN couldn't shake the feeling of guilt that ate at her conscience as she watched him leave the room. She hated lying to him, but she couldn't bear to burden him with the truth of her worries, not when she didn't even know how to confront them herself.

When the bedroom door clicked shut behind Harry, YN wasted no time. With trembling fingers, she dialed a number and pressed the phone to her ear.

"Hello?" Josh's voice, groggy with sleep, came through the line.

"Do you know where he is?" YN's hushed words rushed out.

"YN, it's like 1am over here, what—" Josh started to protest, but she cut him off.

"Do you know where he is?" she repeated, her tone insistent.

"Where is wh—"

"Jake," she interjected, her voice trembling. "Do you know where Jake is?"

Josh paused for a moment before responding, his voice serious. "At his place, I assume. Why? Wh-what's going on?"

YN struggled to find the words, her mind racing with a million thoughts at once. She quickly explained the situation, knowing that Josh would understand without needing further explanation.

Josh fell silent for a moment. He, too, knew the root of her concern, and understood what scared her to death.

"I'll take care of it," he assured her, his voice firm with determination. "Don't worry."

Relief flooded through YN as she hung up the phone, though she couldn't bring herself to return to bed. Instead, she sat on the sofa, her nerves on edge as she waited anxiously for an update.

 The minutes stretched into hours, and the first rays of sunlight began to filter through the window when she finally received a text from Josh.

"He's okay," it read.

Exhaustion gave way to mounting frustration and anger. That’s it? She thought. She’d been staying up all night for this shit; lying to her husband for this shit. She sighed heavily; biting the inside of her cheek so hard she could taste blood.

Fuck this.

YN texted back, “Thanks. Tell him to leave me alone.”

__

After a couple of weeks of silence, with no calls disrupting the uneasy calm, YN began to hope for long-lasting peace. She almost felt guilty for her earlier frustrations, often wondering whether Jake was doing better.

However, any hopes of tranquility were shattered when a storm erupted in the Greta Van Fleet online fandom.

A fan's comment on one of Jake's posts caught fire, igniting a frenzy of speculation. The comment read, "Okay, I was at last night's concert and let’s just say, it was not it. I feel like that's been happening a lot recently. So, what is it my man? Trouble with the fam? or did some bitch do you dirty?"

To everyone's shock, Jake had replied to the comment.

 Two words.

 "The latter."

The internet exploded, and although Jake deleted the comment an hour later, the damage was done. The news reached YN like a punch to the gut.

She couldn't believe it. To have Jake talk shit about her on the internet was a new low. Though no one outside of their inner circle knew he was referring to her, the mere implication cut deep. And there was nothing she could even do or say. Especially from halfway across the world.

YN stood on the balcony, gazing out at the sprawling London skyline, but instead of feeling captivated by its beauty, bitterness flooded her senses. Jake had somehow managed to make her hate this city. Worst, he’d made her resent Harry for simply asking her to move there. The constant rain felt like a mockery, and the distance from where she truly belonged only amplified her sense of displacement.

And the most infuriating part? She had let him. Her thoughts were blinded by anger as she put pen to paper. Even after all this time, she had allowed Jake to ruin everything good. Perhaps it was a good thing she found herself far away from him. All he seemed capable of doing was bringing her endless sorrow.

Harry, on the other hand, was the epitome of reliability. He always showed up on time. Got along with her friends, got along with Patty. Did everything right.

So why was Jake the one occupying her thoughts day and night? It was like a poison, slowly corroding the good in her life until all that was left was the bitter taste of regret and anger.

As YN stood on the balcony, her phone suddenly lit up. Jake's name. He finally had the guts to call her with his own phone.

She reached for the device, her fingers curling around it tightly. She stared at it for a moment, considering her options. She could let it ring. Or she could reply. For what, though? She thought. Some half-assed apology? Telling her how it’s all some big misunderstanding?

Without a second thought, she clenched her jaw and, with a determined flick of her wrist, let her phone drop over the railing, watching as it plummeted towards the ground below.

The sound of shattering glass echoed through the night as the device met its demise on the pavement.

It was a stupid but cathartic gesture. With a sense of finality, she turned away from the balcony, leaving behind the remnants of her broken phone and the memories it held.

--

Two weeks later.

Jake stumbled along the hotel hallway. The band had just wrapped up a show in Glasgow, which had gone rather well considering the blinding hangover that had been clinging to their lead guitarist throughout the tour. Jake had therefore rewarded himself with a local treat, that is, the now half-empty bottle of scotch in his hand. When in Rome, right?

Feeling for his keycard in his pockets, Jake cursed softly as he came up empty-handed. He decided to try the room across from his, hoping his baby brother hadn’t gone to bed just yet. He pressed his ear against the door and breathed a sigh of relief at the sound of a TV playing inside. Bingo.

With a drunken knock, Jake announced his presence before the door swung open to reveal Sam. "What's up?" he greeted.

"Lost my key," Jake mumbled, brushing past Sam and collapsing onto the nearest bed. " m’tired," he added, his words slurred from the alcohol.

However, amidst the haze of his drunken stupor, Jake noticed something amiss.

 It was too quiet.

“Why d’you turn it off?” Jake asked, curious.

“Mmh?” The bass-player replied.

“The TV” Jake specified. He had a feeling something was up.

"Oh, uh, nothing good is on right now," Sam replied nervously, his attempt at nonchalance falling flat. "British TV sucks ass," he added hastily. The youngest Kiszka had never been much of a good actor. Jake stared for a moment and Sam knew he could see right through him.

“Jake-” Sam tried protesting, but his brother had already snatched the remote and turned the TV back on. The bright light of the screen suddenly lighting up their features and the sound of laughter filling the hotel room.

There she was. Seated elegantly on the talk show couch. YN exuded confidence as she engaged in conversation with the host.

“So, tell me something,” the host leaned in, a glint of excitement in his eyes, “when are we going to get some new music?” A ripple of anticipation coursed through the audience, and a mischievous smirk danced across YN’s lips.

“Well, I actually just finished recording a bunch of tracks, so—" Before she could finish, the audience erupted into deafening cheers, their excitement palpable. “I know, I know, it’s exciting,” YN continued, her voice barely audible over the enthusiastic applause, “I can’t wait to get back on the road.”

“Back on the road?” the host raised an eyebrow, a playful tone in his voice, “Have you grown tired of Hubby already?”

YN chuckled. "Well, who says I'm not packing him in my suitcase?" she quipped. The audience laughed at her comeback.

"Talking about Mr. Harry Styles,” loud cheers exploded at the host’s mention of YN’s husband, “a little birdie told me you two just purchased a house in our fair capital, is that right?”

“Uh,” YN looked slightly surprised, feeling a pang of discomfort at the invasion of privacy, “yeah, we did get ourselves a little nest-”

“-a 9-million-pound nest” the host joked, eliciting laughter from the audience.

YN let out a polite chuckle. “Yeah, it is ridiculously grand, actually.”

“Is it your first time owning a place?” the interviewer asked.

“It is, yes, see, I’m originally from New York, so renting appartments has always been the way for me.” Jake’s mind drifted to their little apartment back in Nashville.

“Must be quite a change” the host declared.

“Kinda, yes,” she added, “it’s got a bunch of rooms that I haven’t seen in a while, like an actual laundry room, who knew that was even a thing?” the audience laughed, “and a foyer, whatever that is, and a-”

“-Nursery?” the host filled in. The audience leaned forward in anticipation.

“Well, aren’t you curious?” she said, maintaining a playful façade at the interviewer’s lack of tact, “But no, no nursery,” the audience could be heard huffing in disappointment.

“Ah well,” the host remarked, “someday soon.”

“Sure,” she replied with a forced smile, “someday.”

As Jake listened to the conversation, a thought crossed his mind: YN had always been unequivocal about her reluctance to have children. Then again, she had also once been adamant about her aversion to marriage. And yet, here she was with a ring around her finger. The bile rose in his throat.

“Well, we’re running out of time here,” the host abruptly announced, glancing at the monitor. “It’s been a real pleasure, and I think I can speak for everyone here when I say that the world is thrilled to see you embrace this newfound happiness, is that accurate?”

“Oh absolutely,” she replied with a tight smile. “I’m,” she paused, something unseen briefly flickering in her eyes, “happier than ever.”

--

YN never knew why but, after that night, the calls stopped.

--

Next Track: The Bomb

Extended Masterpost

Hope you liked it! Once again, I am begging you all to interact and leave comments it makes me so happy to get feedback and reactions xxx

Also, this is only the beginning lol. I have a billion drafts for other chapters so stay tuned, peaceful army.

Taglist

@aintthatapity

@sinarainbows

@vanfleeter 

@gretavanhockey

[horriblengrossstories]

(I wanna stop asking dumb questions but I can’t… I just feel like I’m bothering you by asking so many things) anyway—what about an MC who overthinks everything and just tenses up with any kind of affection? (like that time a friend told me they liked me and I just froze like a stiff loaf of bread). I’m sorry but MC is 100% becoming a reflection of all the silly stuff I do.Can I keep asking anonymous questions? They actually cheer me up a lot, but I’m scared I’m annoying you with all my self-projection onto MC 😭

-🍰

My Peeps, this is a self ship blog!

You are supposed to project. You're allowed to ask as many questions as you want, especially if they bring you comfort. That’s literally what this space is for :D

Mutt is a mirror. She’s you. She’s me. She’s every little feral, frozen, overwhelmed, traumatized, giggling mess that survived long enough to still love things. Still ask questions. Still be here.

So yes send 100 anonymous asks!!!!

Send self-insert overthinking loaf-of-bread brain headcanons.

Tell me how you freeze up when someone is nice to you. I get it. That’s Mutt Core.

That’s exactly what Derek likes to squish with his scary warm hands.

Fandoms don’t die because people stop liking things they die because people get scared to talk, to be weird, to be wrong, or to just exist loudly. And when it turns into a purity test or a popularity contest instead of a playground? People stop playing.

It’s not a fandom anymore. It’s a museum.

Everything’s behind glass. Don’t touch. Don’t speak. Don’t question. Don't ship that. Don’t write that. Don’t be that.

And suddenly the thing that used to bring joy starts feeling like a trap.

So yeah. Let people be cringe. Let them post 3am thoughts about their blorbo’s skincare routine. Let them write 200k word fanfics about trauma bonding in a dungeon. Let them project, confess, self-insert, cope.

Okay rant over, time for the headcannons.

The first time Mutt freezes when he touches her? Derek’s like a shark smelling blood in the water. Except instead of attacking, he gets playful.

“What, that too much for you?”

“You survive me dragging you by your hair and calling you a mutt , but I touch your face and you go full rigor mortis?”

The New Game: “How Much Can I Make Her Malfunction”

Brushes her hair out of her face while staring dead in her eyes.

“There she goes. That look. Like I’m short-circuiting her little mutt brain.”

Tells her she did good and means it. She physically seizes. He laughs.

“What, you allergic to kindness? Wanna go back in the cage or are you gonna sit still and take a compliment?”

Pulls her into his lap, and she sits like she’s been petrified by a witch curse.So he pets her head. Over and over. Until she starts blinking again.

Whispered praise. Not dirty talk. Just affection. It’s more powerful than anything else.

“Good girl being all mine.”

Sometimes he’s patient. Sometimes he just holds her frozen form and murmurs dumb things like “relax, idiot, I’m not gonna bite… unless you ask real nice.”

[Birdie here again I’m 25 and I’ve seen so many fandoms die not from lack of content, but from people being too afraid to interact.

Like… people wanted to talk, but felt like they couldn’t. Felt like their takes weren’t good enough, or their art wasn’t perfect, or they’d be “problematic” for shipping the wrong thing, or they’d get ignored if they weren’t in some clique.

And so they stopped posting and stopped having fun.

And the fandom didn’t explode or implode. It just… quietly dried up.

I don’t wanna see that happen here, not to this blog.

So like the weird post. Reblog the same art four times! Send unhinged asks. Project onto characters.

To Be cringe Is To Be free.

-Birdie 🐦

Ps.All I ask is that people understand this space takes time. I make things when I can, when I have the energy and I can say no to any request, for any reason. No hard feelings, but no pressure either. Please don’t idolize me. I’m just a little punk bird yelling into the void, same as you.

Love the characters. Love the mess. Love the art.