#Canon-Typical Behavior

[dior-luxury]

If you dont mind, i will love to request for the first year students (minus Ortho cuz he is the baby™ and we respect that) with a s/o that tells them that they love them out of nowhere and at random times

Like, both can be just hanging out or even studying together and s/o suddently just look at them with a cute smile and tells them that they love them

Please :3

S/O Tells Them They Love Them Out Of Nowhere

( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . fluff/slight comedy - gn!reader .

- [𝐜𝐡.] first years

- [𝐩:𝐬] Romantic Confessions . Mild Language . Blushing/Flustered Characters . Soft Moments/Slice of Life . Unprompted “I love you” Confessions . Emotional Vulnerability . Minor PDA (Kisses on cheek/forehead/lips mentioned) . Heartwarming Overload/Tooth-Rotting Fluff . Sebek Volume Warning (Sebek yells. A lot.)

Note: This request is so cute!! Thank you so much for requesting this anon—now I'm in love with this prompt 😭Honestly, I loved how this turned out (Sebek made me laugh, Lol), and I 100% am going to be making more parts for this!

Ace Trappola

It had started off as an ordinary afternoon—one of those chill days where the sun peeked lazily through the windows of the Heartslabyul common room, casting a warm glow over the floor. Ace was sprawled out across your bed with his arms tucked behind his head, flipping through a deck of cards he had pulled out for fun, while you sat beside him with a book open on your lap, though your attention had been drifting away from the words for a while now.

He was talking about something silly—probably poking fun at Cater’s latest selfie spree or mocking Riddle’s latest “unbirthday party” decorations. His voice had that playful, teasing lilt that always made your lips curl into a smile. You glanced over at him, watching the way his brows danced with amusement, the corners of his lips twitching as if even he couldn’t fully contain his own jokes.

And it just hit you. Like a wave of warmth crashing into your chest.

“I love you,” you said softly, your voice barely above the gentle rustling of the pages in your lap.

Ace blinked. The cards slipped from his fingers and scattered across the blanket, forgotten. “Huh?” he sat up halfway, caught between surprise and disbelief, eyes narrowing playfully. “Where’d that come from?”

You just smiled, shrugging a little. “I don’t know. I just looked at you and... I felt like saying it.”

His mouth opened, like he wanted to throw out a sarcastic reply, something teasing and cool—but it didn’t come. Instead, he looked at you for a second longer, and his usual smirk melted into something softer, something real. His ears turned the faintest shade of red, and he rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding your eyes like a shy high schooler in a romcom.

“Tch… you can’t just say that outta nowhere, you dork,” he muttered, though there was no bite to his words. “You’re gonna make my heart explode or something.”

You leaned in closer with a grin, resting your head on his shoulder. “Good. Then I’ll say it again. I love you.”

“Ughh, you’re trying to kill me, I swear.” But despite the groan, he slung an arm around you, pulling you in with an exaggerated sigh. “Guess I’ll die happy, though. I love you too, alright? So stop being all cute or I’ll have to kiss you till you forget how to talk.”

And he did, actually—smack dab on your cheek, nose, forehead, lips—everywhere until you were laughing, half-flustered, half-giddy. That night, Ace couldn’t stop randomly blurting out “I love you more” every time you smiled at him, just to fluster you in return.

Deuce Spade

Deuce was always a little tense when he studied—he took his grades seriously, especially after his “delinquent past” days. So when the two of you sat in the library, books and notebooks spread out around you, he was hunched over his notes with his brows scrunched in concentration, muttering formulas under his breath like sacred chants.

You watched him in quiet admiration. The way his lashes lowered as he focused, how his hand moved quickly across the page, how his tongue poked out just a little when he was really trying to work through a problem—it was adorable. You couldn’t help it.

“I love you.”

The words left your lips soft and natural, like a leaf floating on the surface of a still pond.

Deuce blinked once. Then twice.

He slowly looked up from his notebook, pen frozen mid-stroke. “H-Huh? W-What did you say?”

You giggled, resting your chin in your palm as you looked at him with those warm, unfiltered eyes. “I said I love you. Just felt like reminding you.”

His entire face lit up like someone had flipped a switch. A deep crimson blush climbed from his neck to his ears, and he nearly dropped his pen. “W-Wha—you can’t just… drop that on me while I’m doing algebra!”

You laughed again, reaching out to poke his cheek gently. “But your reaction is so cute.”

Deuce groaned into his hands, completely flustered. “Y-You’re really unfair sometimes...”

But he peeked through his fingers at you, and the softest, sweetest smile curved his lips. “I love you too. A lot. I—I mean, like… it just makes me really happy to hear that, even if I get all weird and… yeah.” He was rambling now, but you could feel the sincerity in every word.

A few moments passed. Then, very shyly, he leaned over the table and pressed a featherlight kiss to your forehead.

“I’ll study twice as hard now. I wanna be someone worthy of those words.”

You swore your heart skipped a beat right then.

From that moment on, every time you said “I love you” randomly—during walks, between classes, even when you were both brushing your teeth—Deuce’s whole face would always light up like a firework. And no matter what, no matter how surprised he looked, he always said it back, even if his voice cracked a little from being caught off guard.

Because deep down, it meant the world to him that you loved him, just the way he was.

Jack Howl

It was a quiet afternoon in the Savanaclaw lounge, sunlight streaming in through the windows and casting golden patches across the floor. Jack sat beside you on one of the larger couches, a textbook propped open in his lap while he scribbled notes with furrowed brows. He was always so focused when he studied — sharp eyes scanning the page, tail occasionally twitching in concentration. You’d been flipping through your own notes, not really absorbing the words, more focused on the soft, peaceful aura around him.

You looked up from your notebook and rested your chin on your hand, just watching him. His ears flicked slightly, clearly noticing your gaze, but he didn’t look up right away. He was too used to your presence — comfortable, secure.

You smiled softly, the kind of smile that came from a full heart.

“I love you, Jack,” you said, your voice quiet but warm, like a summer breeze.

His pen stopped mid-word. Slowly, his head turned to look at you, those pale green eyes widening just slightly. “Huh?” he asked, blinking like you’d snapped him out of a trance.

“I said I love you,” you repeated, still smiling. “Just felt like telling you.”

Jack’s ears turned a little pink at the tips, and a faint flush spread across his cheeks. He cleared his throat and looked away for a second, trying to hide the tail wag he couldn’t quite stop. “You can’t just say that out of nowhere like that…” he muttered, ears twitching. “You’ll catch me off guard.”

“But I like saying it when you least expect it,” you said, leaning a little closer to bump your shoulder against his.

He glanced at you again, the corner of his mouth quirking up despite his efforts to stay composed. “Yeah, well… I like hearing it. Even if it throws me off.”

You grinned and leaned your head on his shoulder, and he adjusted his posture so you could rest there more comfortably. After a long pause, you heard him mumble — so quiet it could’ve been mistaken for a breath — “I love you too.”

And even though he returned to his textbook soon after, the way his tail curled around your ankle said it all.

Epel Felmier

The two of you were sitting under a big apple tree just outside the school gates. Epel had insisted you come with him to his favorite quiet spot — away from the noise of the dorms, where the air smelled fresh and the breeze danced through the leaves like a soft melody. He had a knife in hand, carefully peeling one of the apples he’d picked just for you, brows furrowed in concentration.

You watched him, utterly charmed by how focused he looked, how gentle his hands were despite the sharp blade. You reached out and touched his knee lightly to get his attention.

He blinked and looked up. “Somethin’ wrong?”

You shook your head, smiling up at him with that bright, sincere expression he could never quite prepare himself for. “I love you, Epel.”

He nearly dropped the apple.

His eyes went wide and a sharp flush bloomed across his cheeks and ears. “Wha—?! W-Where’d that come from?!”

You just shrugged, grinning. “I wanted to say it. I love you.”

Epel opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t find the words fast enough. He stared at you like you’d knocked the wind out of him — as if those simple words meant more than a thousand grand gestures. He turned his head quickly, ears burning. “You can’t just go around sayin’ stuff like that outta nowhere! You’re gonna give me a heart attack!”

“But it’s true,” you said, giggling as you leaned into his side. “I love you. Even when you’re blushing like a tomato.”

“I ain’t blushin’!” he huffed, but his hand twitched before he awkwardly reached over and grabbed yours. His fingers were a little shaky, but he held on tight.

“…I love you too,” he mumbled, voice low and soft, like it was meant only for you. “Even if you say it when I least expect it… I ain’t ever gonna get tired of hearin’ it.”

He finished peeling the apple and offered it to you, trying to act cool despite his still-burning ears. You took it happily, giving him a kiss on the cheek that made his blush flare right back up again.

And he knew in that moment — with the apple trees swaying and your laughter beside him — that he’d never want anything else but this.

Sebek Zigvolt

The library was unusually quiet that day — well, even more so than usual. You and Sebek were tucked away in one of the far corners of the library, seated at a heavy wooden table stacked with textbooks, scrolls, and your combined notes from Professor Trein’s most recent lecture. Sebek sat rigidly across from you, pen moving with exact precision as he muttered formulas under his breath, brows furrowed in focus.

“It is vital that I maintain my grades for the sake of Lord Malleus’ honor!” he’d proclaimed earlier, thumping his chest with such intensity that half the dorm had turned to look. You were just happy to study with him — even if his dedication bordered on theatrical.

You were supposed to be reviewing your charms notes, but instead… you found yourself watching him. His hair glinted under the soft lantern light, and his eyes, fierce and serious, flickered across the page like a soldier reading a battlefield map. He looked so intense, so Sebek — and for a moment, your heart swelled so full of affection, it felt like it might burst.

So you leaned your elbow on the table, tilted your head slightly, and let the softest smile curve your lips.

“I love you, Sebek.”

His pen snapped in half.

He jolted back in his chair with such dramatic force that the back legs almost lifted off the ground, green eyes wide as dinner plates. “WH-WHAT?! You—YOU—!!” he sputtered, one hand clapped over his chest like he’d just taken a blow to the heart.

You blinked innocently. “I said I love you.”

“OUT OF NOWHERE?!” he barked, flushing so deeply that the tips of his ears glowed red. “I—W-WHAT COULD POSSIBLY COMPEL YOU TO UTTER SUCH WORDS WHEN WE’RE IN THE MIDST OF STUDYING?!”

You just giggled, leaning forward. “Because I was looking at you… and I realized I really love you. So I said it. That’s all.”

Sebek’s jaw worked for a moment, like his mind was trying to buffer. He looked down at the ruined remains of his pen and then back at you, flustered beyond belief. “Y-You cannot… you mustn’t say such things so suddenly! I-I am a knight! A guardian of the great Lord Malleus! I must remain vigilant, composed, and… and—!!”

His voice softened at the end, the panic in his expression melting into something far more tender. He looked away, shoulders stiff but trembling slightly as he gripped the edge of the table.

“…But…” he muttered, voice almost too low to hear, “…I suppose… there is no harm… in expressing your affections. Especially when they are… directed at me…”

You smiled again, resting your chin in your hand as you watched him squirm.

“Say it again,” he blurted suddenly, eyes still averted.

You blinked. “Huh?”

“I said…!” His voice cracked slightly. “…Say it again. Just one more time.”

You leaned closer, soft and slow like a breeze brushing through the trees. “I love you, Sebek.”

This time, he didn’t shout. He didn’t flail. He simply stared at the table, his face glowing red as he gripped the edge like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality. And then, after a few seconds, he nodded—almost imperceptibly—but with the seriousness of a knight taking a vow.

“I… I love you as well,” he said, firm and proud. “More than any mere declaration can express.”

You could tell it took everything in him to say that aloud, but the sincerity in his voice made your heart melt.

Later that day, as you were leaving the library together, he awkwardly offered his hand to you — and though he tried to act composed, his fingers trembled ever so slightly when yours slipped into his. He didn’t say another word about your random confession… but he walked beside you all the way back to Ramshackle in complete silence, lips pressed into the smallest, most bashful smile you’d ever seen.

[damianbugs]

magically!deaged batfam trope and duke is a baby but now im thinking about deaged duke still having his powers... so on the happy side of things everytime someone makes him laugh they need to duck for cover as light shoots out of this giggling baby. but then on the horrible side of things duke is inconsolable because the darkness around him keep subconsciously taking the shape of nightmares he doesn't understand but knows to be afraid of. cassandra watches him stare off into space, the baby uncharacteristically quiet and pensive, and wonders what duke sees there that they can't as his eyes flash gold. jason turns his back for one damn second and suddenly baby duke is INVISIBLE and now everyone is scrambling to try and find him (he was asleep in the same spot the entire time). "he can't teleport... right?" damian asks for the fourth time as duke definitely appears on the complete opposite side of the room. bruce never should've held duke when he was still dressed as batman because now there's a life-size shadow construct of batman guarding the temporary nursery.

[rebloggerandy]

this is how the meme goes, right?

[nanamineedstherapy]

Hollow Worship: It was never about him

Summary: Gojo Satoru was used to being admired. Worshipped, even. That was the natural order of things. But worship isn’t always devotion. Sometimes, it’s possession. Sometimes, it’s something far worse. Trigger Warnings(Contains Spoilers): MDNI, Non-Con. A/N: The people who feel close to someone call them by their first name. Those who don’t—or don’t see themselves as a living being or a human—use surnames. This is my dark little gift to my muses @mullermilkshake & @TheVillagerandtheSea—hope you both enjoy your dose of brain rot. Hehe.

Your POV

Gojo Satoru was used to being admired. Worshipped, even. It came with the territory—being him.

His power? Unmatched.

His looks? Otherworldly.

His charm? Debatable. But that was your problem, not his.

The first time you met him, you were busy existing like a normal, competent jujutsu sorcerer with a stellar track record.

That lasted exactly five seconds.

Because then he walked in, all six-foot-whatever, grinning like an idiot, and your brain just—

Flatlined.

Your eyes dropped.

Not to his ridiculous sunglasses.

Not to his stupid smirk.

Lower.

His chest.

His stupidly big, indecently sculpted, menacingly perky chest.

The fabric of his uniform stretched obscenely across his pecs, and you were stuck staring at them like a sleep paralysis demon locked in combat with intrusive thoughts.

“Uh,” you said, completely forgetting every word you’d ever learned.

Gojo wasn’t surprised when you immediately froze upon meeting him. Awestruck, clearly. Like a rookie catching their first glimpse of true greatness.

His smirk widened. “Oh? Speechless? Must be my overwhelming presence—”

You didn’t respond, still frozen.

Satoru knew what people usually looked at. His blindfold. His jawline. Sometimes his hands (for some weird reason).

But you? You looked like you’d seen God’s greatest creation.

Right there.

On his torso.

It was bizarre.

Your love for Satoru (or Toru, as you lovingly called him in your dreams) didn’t start that day. It had been brewing for years—long before you ever laid eyes on him in real life.

Back when he was just an unattainable god-tier existence on your timeline, you already knew he’d be yours.

Because there was one thing that separated others from you, your special grade technique was a bad match for his.

When someone dared to call him overrated? You were there, bombs locked and loaded.

When a hater tried to say he wasn’t that strong? You had an entire thesis, six sources cited, and a clip of him soloing special grades in 4K.

And when anyone tried to downplay his assets—the sheer, disrespectfully sculpted divinity of his existence—?

Oh, you were feral.

“I wonder if sex eyes replineshes his cum output too and efficiently releases cum to the point where he releases massive cum while releasing almost close to 0 cum. Also, would it look blue? Would it be stronger than normal cum? Lot of questions.”

“How much do you love Gojo?”

“How much water have you drank all your life?”

"Honestly, at this point, if he fucked my Grandma, I’d lick her asshole just to taste his cum.”

The Gojo fandom was a lawless wasteland, and you thrived in it.

You had favorites, of course.

The thirst edits that sent you into a spiral.

The fanart that made you question if you needed to start paying tithes.

The slow-mo clips of him laughing, walking, existing—each one a religious experience in its own right.

And then there was The Video. The one where he cracked his neck before a fight, his uniform stretching just right across his chest.

That was the day you learned true spiritual enlightenment.

“Daddy Gojo needs to be locked in a mating press IMMEDIATELY. I’m tired of this.”

“I will open my mouth and take big bites of your huge breasts. Then I will open my anus behind me and let you impale me with that huge dragon-slaying eagle. Until the flowers fade, until my room becomes sticky, until your semen rushes from behind me toward my esophagus and out of my throat. Until the blood flowing in my veins becomes your semen. Until I howled loudly, which made me very happy.”

It was true love.

Except now you were here.

You had spent years preparing for this moment. Practiced your greeting. Rehearsed a perfectly normal, non-feral introduction. Told yourself you were above the insanity.

Then he walked in.

And your brain just left the building.

It wasn’t just the face. Or the voice. Or the aura that made everyone else in the room seem insignificant by comparison.

No, it was worse.

Because Gojo Satoru in real life?

Was so much more.

---

A few days later, you were on your first mission under Tokyo Jujutsu Tech.

Supposed to be dealing with a curse. A minor one, at that. Easy work for someone of your caliber.

Barely a threat.

But then it happened.

Satoru’s chest bounced when he dodged an attack.

The moment he’d moved, his uniform shifted—just slightly, just enough for the fabric to pull taut, for muscle to flex, for the weight of him to move in a way that was, apparently, devastating to you.

Your brain short-circuited like a Windows XP error.

You stopped mid-step, completely entranced, like a deer staring down an 18-wheeler made of raw pectoral muscle.

You almost died.

Over boobies.

Gojo had saved you, obviously. He yanked you back, put down the curse like it was nothing.

Then he turned to you, expecting at least a little bit of shame.

Instead, you were still looking.

Not at the curse.

Not at the aftermath.

At him.

At something beyond, something in, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

His fingers twitched at his sides.

“…Newbie nerves?” he said, tilting his head. “You know, I could give you some pointers—”

Nothing.

No reaction.

Just that same, unblinking, fascinated look.

“Huh,” he frowned.

And, like a curse magnetized to a ten-pack, you kept staring.

---

Gojo’s POV

The first time he met you, he thought you were a normal, competent jujutsu sorcerer. Maybe even impressive.

Then he noticed the staring.

It wasn’t the usual kind—no awe, no fear, no giddy admiration at his reputation.

It was fixed. Heavy.

It took him longer than it should have to realize what you were staring at.

Not his uniform.

His chest.

At first, it was easy to ignore. Gojo was used to people looking at him, analyzing him, wanting something from him.

But this was different.

Your gaze didn’t waver, didn’t break away when caught—it just locked on, paralyzing, suffocating, an unspoken weight pressing against his ribs.

Gojo wasn’t used to feeling watched.

Not like this.

Sure, people stared at him all the time—students, sorcerers, civilians, enemies. Everyone wanted a piece of him, whether it was his power, his reputation, or just the sheer spectacle of his existence.

But your gaze?

Your gaze felt different.

He laughed it off.

Because what else was he supposed to do?

He’d gone to Nanami first.

“She stares at my chest. Constantly,” Gojo said, sitting backward on a chair like the human embodiment of a red flag.

Nanami didn’t look up from his paperwork. “And? I have important matters to handle, Gojo-san.”

“No, but seriously. She stares like—like she’s buffering. It’s like she’s studying them. That’s weird, right?”

Nanami’s pen stilled. He glanced up. “You mean the sorcerer with a higher kill count than you?”

Gojo blinked. “...What?”

“She’s a special grade.”

“Huh—”

“She’s more competent than you.”

Gojo frowned. “Okay, rude, but—”

“You should be grateful she even looks at you.”

“How can you—”

“She has more important things to do than entertain your delusions.”

He tried Ijichi next.

“Ijichi, listen, she stares. A lot. You believe me, right?”

Ijichi sighed, exhausted. “I believe you’re tired and hallucinating, Gojo-san.”

Surely Shoko would believe him, right?

Shoko took a drag of her cigarette and, without looking at him, said, “Sounds like a skill issue.”

No one believed him. No one.

And that’s when Gojo knew: he was alone in this.

That should have been the end of it. But it kept happening.

You were competent, respected, powerful—and yet, Gojo would catch you frozen, staring at him.

Not at his face.

At his chest.

It happened during missions.

It happened in meetings.

It happened when he was simply breathing in the same space as you.

And then, the first incident happened.

It had been a nasty mission.

Multiple special grade curses.

Gojo handled it like always, but the last one caught him off-guard.

Just for a second.

Then the mission went wrong.

Fast.

Gojo got clocked.

Hard enough to black out.

It wasn’t often that he felt truly helpless.

It would be fine; you were there; you’d take care of it.

But when he woke up, there was cold floor pressing against his back.

Did he tear off his clothes in the fight?

But there was warmth too.

Something was off.

Pressure. Softness.

Something was… moving?

His brain caught up at the same time his eyes adjusted.

He tried to sit up, but—oh.

Oh, no.

He looked down.

It was you.

Your face was buried in his bare chest.

Fully.

And—oh God, were you moterboating his chest?

Gojo was a man of many words.

Right now? He had none.

Your hands clutched his uniform pant’s waistband, face buried between his pecs like you were trying to merge with them.

“...The hell?” Gojo rasped.

You froze.

Stared at him, unblinking.

You had been waiting for this.

Didn’t look embarrassed but... devastated?

A long, long pause.

Then:

“...Can I—”

“No.”

“Just one more—”

“Absolutely not.”

You sat back with the heaviest sigh known to man.

Because you were disappointed.

Gojo scrambled away from you, grabbing his uniform coat, almost tripping on his own feet and putting it on hurriedly before teleporting away.

---

Your POV

You loved his chest.

And Gojo Satoru, for all his confidence, was confused by the sheer devastation on your face as he pulled away, as if he’d just denied you your one purpose in life.

Meanwhile, you?

You had been thriving.

You had touched him.

Felt him.

Got a taste—no, an experience—of the divine creation that was his body, and it had been just as glorious as you always imagined.

Better, even.

Your fingers still tingled.

Your face still burned.

Your soul? Ascended.

And he had moaned.

Not a little gasp, not a sharp inhale—he had moaned.

The moment his consciousness had flickered back into reality, before his brain even had the decency to register what was happening, a soft, breathy, utterly wrecked sound had left his lips.

For you.

He could deny it all he wanted. Could try to act like he wasn’t completely gone for you, but you knew the truth.

It was only a matter of time.

And time was something you were ready to bend.

You’d always admired him—Satoru, the strongest sorcerer, the most beautiful man alive, the reason why your entire search history was a carefully curated shrine of edits, thirst posts, and questionable thoughts.

You were the one who lived and breathed Satoru. The one who had a folder on your phone labeled “Toru’s Temple” filled with pictures and clips (taken of him when he wasn’t looking) of him doing the most mundane things—like adjusting his blindfold or his fingers intertwined when he sat waiting for his hot coffee to cool—because even the smallest movement felt religious.

But admiration had limits.

Love didn’t.

And what you felt for him?

It was love.

Because if Satoru told you to jump off a cliff, you’d ask how high?

Because if he ruined your life, you’d apologize for wasting his time.

That’s why, as you watched him stumble out of the infirmary, still slightly dazed, still rattled from your little touch, you knew exactly what you had to do.

Toru baby needed guidance.

Someone to make him understand.

And that someone was you.

You smoothed out your uniform, lips curving into a soft, sweet smile as you watched him head toward the training grounds. The first-years were waiting for him, clueless to the fact that their beloved teacher had just moaned like a two-bit whore under you.

Adorable.

But you weren’t worried.

You had a plan.

All you had to do was wait, when he was just tired enough, just distracted enough—

And then?

You were going to corner him.

And you were going to make him see.

Make him understand that what happened between you wasn’t just a coincidence.

That his body knew what his stubborn little brain was taking time to accept.

That he belonged to you.

And if you had to break him in to make him realize it?

Well.

That was just love, wasn’t it?

---

A few days later - Gojo’s POV

Gojo had always assumed there were limits.

There were things he could stop, things he could overpower, things that no one—no one—could ever do to him.

Because he was the strongest.

Because he had Infinity.

Because he was untouchable.

Because—

Because—

Because he was wrong.

It happened fast.

Too fast.

He saw the shift in your eyes before he even registered that his body was already reacting.

Already activating Infinity.

The barrier was up.

Infinity was absolute.

That’s what Gojo had always known.

A law of physics as natural as breathing. No one—not even a special-grade—should have been able to touch him without permission.

But your fingers wrapped around his wrist anyway.

Like Infinity wasn’t there.

Like he wasn’t there.

He had never seen you use this technique before.

Something that bypassed Infinity like it was nothing.

Not time manipulation, not a Domain Expansion—just something else.

Something made for this.

He had seen cursed techniques used in ways that violated human limits, but never like this.

Never against him.

Never against his body.

Gojo didn’t understand.

Didn’t want to understand.

His breath stuck in his throat. His body locked.

His vision tunneled, and it wasn’t because of a fight, wasn’t because of an opponent stronger than him, wasn’t because he had made a mistake in battle—

No.

This was something worse.

His body wasn’t reacting the way it should have.

His instinct screamed at him—pull away, push back, destroy—

But he couldn’t.

Because his body wasn’t obeying instincts of war anymore.

It was responding to something else. Something he had never prepared for.

Fear.

Not of death.

Not of losing.

But of you.

Your hands touched his chest first, like before.

Then lower.

Lower.

The horror didn’t hit all at once.

It came in waves, in wrongness, in realization.

He had never been touched like this.

Never been unable to stop it.

His body was screaming at him to move, but he couldn’t.

He wasn’t fighting a curse.

He wasn’t facing death.

He was frozen.

He wasn’t the strongest.

Not in this.

Not when it was your weight against him, your voice—his own name slipping out of your mouth in a way that made his stomach churn—

Not when he realized his body was obeying instincts that had nothing to do with power.

He wanted to disappear.

His body was betraying him.

Why?

Why?

His arms twitched—move, move, fucking move—

The world tilted when you shoved him back onto the floor. It wasn’t forceful enough to hurt, but it was enough to make one thing painfully clear—

He wasn’t in control.

You straddled him, your weight pressing down on him like a cage. Your fingers tangled in his hair, yanking his head back, forcing him to look at you.

Your hands slid over his body, exploring, claiming, violating.

Everywhere you touched felt like fire, but not the kind that burned away impurities. This fire was corrosive, eating away at him, leaving behind nothing but ash and shame.

Gojo wanted to die.

His body—his own body—betrayed him.

Heat pooled under his skin, a sick, involuntary reaction that made his stomach churn.

It meant nothing.

It meant nothing.

It meant nothing.

He wanted to laugh.

He wanted to vomit.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

Not to him.

The strongest. The untouchable. The undefeated.

That’s what everyone thought.

That’s what he had always thought.

Until now.

Your voice cut through the haze, cooing words that sounded sweet but felt like poison.

Like nothing was wrong.

Like he was a willing participant.

Like he wasn’t lying there, wishing he could sink into the floor, wishing he could dissolve into nothingness, wishing he could sit under water and watch as his skin shredded away layer by layer until there was no trace of you left on him.

Until your touch became a bad dream, a distant memory, and not his reality.

He closed his eyes, desperate to escape, but his Six Eyes betrayed him.

They showed him everything—the way you looked at him, not as a person, but as meat.

As something to be devoured.

His arms refused to move, heavy and useless at his sides.

Was this the freeze response people talked about?

The body’s way of protecting itself when fight or flight wasn’t an option?

He shut his eyelids tighter, as if he could block out the world, block out you, block out the unbearable reality of what was happening.

But he couldn’t.

He could still feel your hands, your weight, your breath.

He could still hear your voice, soft and sickeningly sweet.

He could still see, even with his eyes closed, the way you looked at him—like he was nothing more than an object for your pleasure.

He waited.

Waited for it to end.

But it didn’t.

And all he could do was lie there, trapped in his own body, wishing for it all to be over.

Wishing for the nightmare to end.

Wishing for the strength to fight back.

But it never came.

And so, he waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And then—

A crack!!

The weight was gone.

Gojo barely felt himself collapse back on the floor, his body folding in on itself like a marionette with its strings cut.

His body still wasn’t listening.

Then he heard the sounds.

The sickening crunch of bone against bone.

The sharp, wet slap of flesh meeting flesh.

The guttural cries of a fight that wasn’t his to finish.

His body did not move.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t help.

Even as the fight broke out around him, even as voices—familiar, urgent, furious—got lost through the fog in his mind, even as he felt the warm splatter of blood against his skin, he remained still.

Paralyzed.

Helpless.

When the silence finally fell, heavy and suffocating, he felt something solid.

Warm. Safe.

A hand.

“Satoru.”

His whole body shuddered at the sound of his name, at the weight of it, at the way it anchored him back to reality.

Nanami was there.

Gojo’s hands, trembling and weak, gripped Nanami’s coat like it was the only thing keeping him from being swept away.

Nanami was real.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

The world had tilted off its axis, and he knew, deep in his bones, that he would never be able to straighten it again.

So he asked, because he had to.

“You believe me now, right?”

The words clawed their way out of his throat, raw and broken, the weight of them thick enough to drown him.

He was drowning.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, after everything, Kento finally spoke.

“I believed you then, too.”

Soft. Solid. Unshakable.

“She had ears on us. I couldn’t risk tipping her off.”

Gojo’s stomach dropped.

Because that meant—

That meant he had never been alone.

That meant Kento had known.

That meant someone had taken it seriously.

Gojo’s chest collapsed inward, the weight of it crushing him.

Like he had been bracing for something that never came.

Like he had been drowning alone this whole time when, in reality—

Kento had been there.

Had always been there.

His breath broke, a ragged, shuddering thing that tore through him like a storm.

He broke.

The strongest man in the world.

He didn’t let go of Kento.

He couldn’t.

His body still wasn’t listening, still frozen, still trapped in the aftermath of what had happened.

Because it knew.

It finally, finally knew.

And the knowledge was worse than the violation.

The realization that he had never been alone, that someone had seen, that someone had cared enough to take it seriously—it was too much.

Too much to bear.

And so, he clung to Kento, to the solid, unyielding presence of the one person who had believed him, who had been there all along.

Because if he let go, he wasn’t sure he’d survive the fall.

---

She was dead, but Gojo Satoru was afraid.

Of women.

Of touch.

Of himself.

Of what had already been taken from him.

And of what would never come back.

Gojo didn’t talk much anymore.

He laughed when he needed to, the sound hollow and rehearsed, a performance for the sake of those around him.

He joked when expected, the words slipping out like a reflex, but the humor never reached his eyes.

The mask fit perfectly, molded to his face over years of practice, but it was heavier now.

Heavier than Infinity.

Heavier than the weight of the world.

Because beneath it, he was breaking.

He didn’t touch anyone.

Not casually. Not intentionally. Not unless it was absolutely necessary.

And he didn’t let anyone close.

Not physically. Not emotionally.

The space around him became a fortress, walls built from the rubble of what had been done to him.

But the fortress wasn’t impenetrable.

It couldn’t keep out the memories.

The phantom sensations.

The way his body betrayed him, flinching at the slightest brush of a hand, freezing at the sound of footsteps behind him.

He felt it every time someone’s eyes lingered a little too long.

Every time he caught a glimpse of a smile that felt too familiar.

The weight of hands on his chest.

The warmth of breath against his skin.

The disgusting truth of it all.

And no one noticed.

Except for Kento.

The disgusting truth of it all.

And no one noticed.

Except for Kento.

Kento, who didn’t comment when Gojo’s hands shook as he reached for a cup of coffee.

Kento, who didn’t force a conversation when Gojo’s responses dwindled to single syllables or silence.

Kento, who—one day, in an empty hallway, when a female walked a little too close—stepped between them without a word.

It wasn’t just the hallway.

It was the little things.

The way Kento would subtly position himself between Gojo and anyone who got too close during meetings.

The way he would linger in the room after everyone else had left, fiddling with his phone, giving Gojo the space to breathe without the pressure of being watched.

The way he would hand Gojo a file or a pen without letting their fingers brush, a small but deliberate act of consideration.

And then there were the things Gojo didn’t even realize he needed until Kento provided them.

Like the time Gojo froze in the middle of a mission, his body locking up at the sight of a curse that bore an unsettling resemblance to her.

Kento didn’t ask questions.

He didn’t demand an explanation.

He simply stepped in, taking over the fight without a word, giving Gojo the space to retreat without shaming him for something that wasn’t his fault.

Or the time Gojo found himself unable to enter a room—that room, his feet rooted to the ground at the sound of laughter—her laughter, or at least something close enough to make his stomach churn.

Kento didn’t push him.

He didn’t tell him to get over it.

He just stood there, a silent presence at Gojo’s side, until the laughter faded and Gojo could breathe again.

Gojo didn’t thank him.

He couldn’t.

The words stuck in his throat, tangled up with everything else he couldn’t say.

But Kento didn’t seem to expect gratitude or even think of it.

He didn’t seem to expect anything at all.

He was just there.

Steady. Reliable. Unshakable.

Reminding him, even in the darkest corners of his mind, where the memories lingered like shadows, there was a light.

Faint, but there.

Kento didn’t touch Gojo. Didn’t even look at him.

But he was there.

A barrier.

A shield.

Gojo had never needed a shield before.

Now, he couldn’t survive without one.

A/N: The comments in this fic are real comments people have actually made about Gojo on Twitter & Reddit. "How would this actually play out in a realistic setting?" I’ve always had this thought lurking in the back of my mind whenever I read some of the feral, lawless thirst comments people make about Gojo. So I did what any sane person would: I turned it into a horror fic. Also, if you thought Gojo was too OP to be a victim… yeah, so did he. Now, tell me—be honest—what’s the worst Gojo thirst comment you’ve ever seen? 👀 Drop it in the comments. (Or, if this broke you emotionally, just leave a 🍞 emoji so I know you’re still breathing.)

All Works Masterlist

[crustyfloor]

Till and Luka are so difficult they are the reason Ivti and Hyuluka are slowburners of the 14k word fic type (and hyuna and ivan are the reason why it amounts to 2 chapters to make 19k words)

so many possibilities for the eye thing I'll implode (the likeliness that it's an art style choice, and I'll implode again)

if the hearts are symbolic of attraction Hyuna and Ivan fell first

Luka and Till don't know what to make of their feelings initially, so they can't express themselves outwardly without understanding, no heart eyes, but their hearts are pierced.. even though Luka sees the situation, for what it is and seemingly moves to avoid it he still lets his feelings control his heart, and Till can't help it once he's come to realize there is something there, for Ivan, maybe. the heart eyes will soon follow once they accept it

[pinkopalina]

no one:

batman: WHAT IS THE JOKER PLANNING? I KNOW HE'S OUT THERE, WAITING FOR ME! I HAVE TO FIGURE OUT WHAT HE'S UP TO, GET INSIDE HIS BRAIN, BECOME ONE WITH HIM! HE HAS ABSOLUTELY NO HOLD ON ME WHATSOEVER AND YET... SOMEHOW... I AM drawn to him... almost as if...

[charlioak]

don't cry darlin

[hanakihan]

i absolutely beg that if one day Tchaikovsky will end up as a servant in FGO he’ll be an archer class purely because of his 1812 overture

‘Sir you can’t use canons in music’

‘Watch me’

[alohaasaloevera]

I MAKE THE RULES NOW. LANCE IS OVERLY AFFECTIONATE AND WILL OFTEN ACCIDENTLY CROSS THE LINE WHEN HE IS IN A FWB-TYPE-OF-RELATIONSHIP WITH KEITH?!!!?1

Lance softly peppering kisses all over Keith while Keith is literally paralyzed because he’s so flustered??

Keith literally shutting down when Lance wraps an arm around his waist???

Lance putting Keith in his lap while they watch a movie????

Making ten-times as much innuendos when sparring together?????

Lance brushing and braiding Keith’s hair??????

THAT’S CANON-TYPICAL BEHAVIOR TO ME!!!

[rubbership]

i am definitely an undeniable example of a mage 100% thpugh i dont think thatll ever be questioned again. i thought i was a bard growing up mostly because i thought all my behaviors would flip and change the moment i got out of my dads house but alas. i am the same as ever. in a good way.

[rcreveal]

Once upon a sandstorm- Dare I Close My Eyes to Slumber

Very fluffy, rather cuddly, with some banter, and plenty of "awwww."

Aziraphale finally gets around to asking Crowley about sleep. Since Crowley is the only ethereal creature, excuse me, occult creature Aziraphale knows who does sleep. This is a sweet little Through-the-Ages piece that has a bit of gentle, canon relationship building, as well. It takes place after Job but before the Roman Empire.

Thank you to my lovely beta-readers at the Whickber St Writer's Association: @sakascal, @bohoteacher, @sixshotsinatumbllr, @playdohangel

Chapter 4: Many years later, Aziraphale asked Crowley about sleep.

One moment, Aziraphale had been walking alongside some camels in the caravan where he had been working, the next a sudden blinding sandstorm had swept upon them making it impossible to see not only the landmarks they had been navigating by, but even the camels and people all round. The daylight was suddenly blotted out and people and beasts got scattered by the tempest. Even his ethereal senses were utterly blocked, so he’d found himself alone and disoriented.

Staggering against the painful blasts of wind-whipped sand, eyes streaming, covering his face with as much of his headdress as he could, he had fetched up against another person in the murk. Stumbling before the other fellow clutched him for mutual support, he yelled at the cloth wrapped face. “I say! We’ve got to find shelter! Did you see where the rest of the caravan went?”

“Angel? Is that you?” came a familiar voice.

“Crowley? What are you doing out here?”

“Rrrgh! Same bloody assignment! Again!” Crowley shouted across the storm. “Stupid waste of effort, if you ask me.” 

Expecting the demon to make the usual comment about how they’d better split up again, he was rather surprised when Crowley didn’t say anything of the sort, nor let go of him to make off alone in the punishing storm, but instead groused, “I hate getting buried in sand in these things! We passed some rocks around here a little while back. That’s what I’m making for.”

Oh. Oh! Was Crowley inviting him along? “Yes! I remember those!” Aziraphale hollered back, and quickly offered, “We could probably find it easier together?” 

“Really?” Crowley said incredulously, still holding on tightly as the wind buffeted them. Aziraphale appreciated the cordial word he and Crowley shared from time to time, but they hadn’t done anything together, not since Job, it just seemed too dangerous. But so was this storm.

Hurriedly coming up with an excuse that might keep Crowley from heading off and leaving him by himself again, he said, “The paperwork involved with discorporation doesn’t bear thinking about! You?” stuffing down the hope that he’d not have to wade through this storm alone.

Crowley replied, “Nnggh, ‘s torture!” but some tension in the demon’s lean arm eased under his grip, “Yeah,” Crowley said like he was making up his mind, “Yeah! Anything to avoid the paperwork!” Facing them back the way he’d been going when they collided, Crowley yelled, “Come on! It’s this way!” and tugged them toward some landmark only he seemed to sense.

The gusts buffeted them about, making them stagger through the sand, blinded and deafened by the storm, holding onto each other to keep from getting blown over or separated. They stretched their free arms out into the maelstrom, straining to find by sight or touch or sound or sense the rocky outcrop they’d passed this morning.  The whole landscape was gone in the swirling tempest that drowned and buried them in air turned harsh past enduring.

“Crowley! How much farther? We can’t stay out in this storm much longer!” Aziraphale yelled after what felt like ages stumbling about with no clear idea if they were making any progress or just turning in circles.

“Trust me, Aziraphale, I wanna get out of this as much as you do! We're nearly there!” Crowley continued trudging ahead, pulling him along.

“Yes, but if we aren't nearly there, we should think about alternatives!” shouted Aziraphale.

“What alternatives?!” Crowley sounded exasperated.

“We could hunker down, let ourselves be buried!” at least if he was buried he wouldn't feel like he was being sandblasted to death.

“Don't be an idiot! Do you have any idea how heavy sand is! We'd be stuck under a bloody huge sand dune! For decades!”

“Well, yes, it would be a bother but, at least…” their argument was suddenly cut short as Aziraphale’s foot landed not on the heavy shifting sands but into open space and he fell, still clutching Crowley’s arm.

As they fell together out of scouring chaos, they grasped each other desperately, robes wrapping around them like tattered wings and Aziraphale wondered briefly if he was falling down to Hell for collaborating with the demon whom he’d accidentally pulled down with him. His musings were over in an instant, for instead of the unpleasantness of Hell, they landed jarringly on sand in utter darkness, tangled together in a pocket of blessed stillness.  

Aziraphale lay, shocked and panting, unmoving while he mentally checked himself for damage. Crowley had hold of his shoulder while he’d landed still grasping Crowley’s upper arm. Aziraphale’s head lay against the demon’s bony chest. A heart beat furiously in there, almost as quickly as his own heart was pounding under the demon’s palm.

After a busy moment of self-reflection, it flashed across his mind, All present and accounted for! This cavern is stable... We’re safe!

Collapsing in relief, he rested his head against Crowley’s reassuring heartbeat, heedless of the gritty, sand-crusted robe against his cheek and the musty smell of snake and sandalwood. Crowley, too, had sagged back onto the sand, letting out a long slow breath before he started breathing again, while Crowley’s grip loosened from desperate to companionable. 

But Crowley did not, in point of fact, let him go. 

Which was nice…

Just as he’d tensed again at finding himself so comfortable resting on a demon, Crowley moved first, eeling out from under him so quickly that Aziraphale settled onto the sand with a bump.  

“A little warning next time, Angel?” Crowley had grumbled… from several feet away.

Aziraphale’s relief at being out of the storm evaporated all in a moment. He hadn’t gone to Hell but what would anyone think if they were found? Tetchily, he retorted, “You can hardly blame me for falling down in that murk! I didn’t see the opening to this cave! Did you?!” He scooted away and hurriedly stood up in the pitch dark. “At least we’re not getting sand-blasted any longer! I couldn’t sense anything out there!”

Crowley snapped, “Of course you couldn't sense anything! We’re in some blessed Great Plan storm, angel! Poor sods must've done something worthy of getting scattered to die in the desert! Why do you think I got lost and ran into you!” Crowley snarled, but, except for some guttural noises of frustration in his throat, managed to suppress any further acerbic comments.

The air fizzed with their irritation, but even over that Aziraphale could probe the awful sandstorm. Realizing Crowley was right, no one could know they were here, at least not together here, he calmed down, “Oh. Yes. I suppose you’re right,” he said, contritely. He stopped wringing his hands in the dark.

“Nyeah, well,” Crowley offered, “Nobody’s going to check in on me in one of these storms.” 

After letting that settle in, Aziraphale replied, “Oh, me neither. I might get a memo. After it’s all over.” Crowley snorted but otherwise restrained himself.

The atmosphere in the darkness thawed considerably. Some sort of truce had been made.

Crowley finally broke the relative quiet, the storm still howled across the hole they'd fallen through, “Well, Angel, since we’re gonna be here awhile we might as well see where we ended up. Let there be light!” A cheery, radiant globe appeared over Crowley’s shoulder.

“Oh my!” Aziraphale said in wonder, raising his face to the light, a little smile coming unbidden to his lips.  It felt like basking in a balmy spring day. Neither like Gabriel’s blinding brilliance nor the lurid glower of the Hosts of Hell. Crowley’s light was…cozy. Aziraphale looked down at where the demon still sat on the ground of the cave.

Crowley was looking at him with a pleased grin when their eyes met, blue to amber. Crowley coughed and glanced away, “It’s just some light, angel,” he said gruffly, as he picked himself off the ground and turned his back to look out at the unexpected shelter.

Looking up at the light and then over at the demon shaking out his robes and stomping over to the far end of the cavern, Aziraphale decided it was better not to say anything about the friendly little light. Shaking sand out of his own robes, he made a closer inspection of the ‘cavern’,

 “Crowley, these don’t look quite like caves to me. The walls are so…regular.”

Crowley stopped hitting the side of his head to get sand out of his ear and touched the walls before he exclaimed, “Brick! These are bricks!” He looked back at Aziraphale with a gleeful smile from where he was running his hands across the worn walls, “Angel! We must've fallen into an old building! Ya know! One of those villages swallowed up by the desert! And if this was a village…” Crowley had grinned hugely before he started eagerly digging in the drifts of sand on the floor.

Aziraphale had looked around with more interest himself; the worn and partially tumbled walls were much taller than the average dwelling, but there were no traces of decoration on the brickwork. Not a temple, so maybe a storehouse?

“Oh!” He suddenly understood Crowley’s industrious searching and joined him in sifting through the sand, fingers feeling for anything that might be useful or better yet…

“Ah-ha!” His hand closed on a smooth handle and he eagerly pulled a sealed amphora out from the shifting sands. Hefting the pottery he was delighted to feel a slosh of liquid inside. He clasped the amphora to his chest and popped the lid off to smell the rich aroma of wine.

Crowley had stopped digging as the smell of alcohol permeated the space, and looked at him with surprise.

“Wot! I thought you didn’t drink wine!” accused Crowley, shaking a finger at him.

Actually, alcohol had grown on Aziraphale considerably since first tasting it under Job’s home.

Hugging the wine to himself with a little joyful twirl, he’d said innocently, “Well, my hosts would be offended if I didn’t accept the hospitality they offered,” smelling the excellent vintage with appreciation. He added, mock seriously, “And I always do my best to be courteous.” 

Crowley had let out a bark of laughter at that before pulling up a matching amphora, “Let’s drink to our ‘hosts’!”

They hadn’t started boozing immediately, beyond the initial taste. First they’d searched until they’d found all the amphorae of wine and collected them together. Some of it was spoiled, but miracles improving or creating wine were standard issue at the time and weren’t going to raise any eyebrows for either Home Office. Not like keeping Crowley’s little miraculous light on. That Crowley had put out as soon as they’d gotten a fire going. 

The abandoned storehouse became quite snug, protected as it was from the blinding blasts outside. When they had started sampling the various amphorae it had gotten almost convivial. Aziraphale shared an amusing anecdote. Crowley laughed! Crowley told a joke and he laughed. It was like a game! They were sharing their opinions of these wines and reminiscing about the best places they'd been drinking across the region. Even their rather different opinions about what made a good tavern, and which were the best stories they'd heard was…pleasant. A lull in the conversation had left him awkwardly wondering what to say next.

Instead of launching into another story - Crowley seemed bent on sharing ones to make him blush - Crowley yawned hugely, “This stormsss, gonna keep on goin, angel’. Ssso I’m jus’ gonna sleep here by the fire,” he patted the space between the fire and the pile of rubbish he’d found to lean against. Shaking a finger at the angel, Crowley had added,  “An’ no smitin’ while I sleep!” 

“What? I wouldn’t dream of it. Wouldn’t be…sporting!” he’d replied, affronted, only to see Crowley’s grin, he’d been baiting him, apparently.

“Anyway, I don’t sleep,” he’d said.

“Wha? Not at all?” Crowley had stopped clearing rubble from the sand to stare at him.

Aziraphale pulled himself up haughtily, telling Crowley, “It’s part of my job to watch over sleepers, can’t properly do that if I’m napping!” 

Eyebrows raised, Crowley shrugged, “Suit yerself, angel,” and settled into the warm sand by the fire with a  sigh. “Wake me up when the storm’s over.”

Suddenly, Aziraphale heard himself asking, “What do you see in this sleep business?” The question just rolled off his lips, without his conscious thought.

They were both a bit tipsy (honestly, more than a bit) so maybe that’s why he’d asked. It was some time after that jiggery-pokery with Job. (Jiggery-pokery-a word for defying the Great Plan, lying to other angels and not going to Hell while consorting with a demon who was doing the same thing). So, maybe he felt like he could ask a question of a demon ‘only going along with Hell as far as he could’. 

“Whaddaya mean?” Crowley replied as he shimmied the sand into a more comfortable hollow by their fire.

“People talk about dreams,” Aziraphale said darkly, quickly finishing another full cup of wine. “Strange.”

It was strange. After that last cupful, he couldn’t get the words out properly. Never having drunk quite so much wine in the past, he wasn’t used to the feeling that his face was numb, and his tongue was unruly, but it was better than the terror such a question would cause him sober. No wonder humans called the stuff, liquid courage.  

“All chaos in ‘em, in dreams.  Isn’ tha’ unsettlin’?” Aziraphale asked, hardly recognizing his own voice, his words were so slurred.

A look of drunken understanding rose on the demon's face, “Oohhh, no, no, no!  Nothin’ like that. Nah, i’s nice, really.”

“Nice!?” replied Aziraphale.

Crowley turned his back towards the fire, murmuring, “Sure, sure, ‘s pretty even.”

“Pretty!?” Aziraphale imagined the horrifying memories he saw when starting to fall asleep: the falling angels, the victims of the Flood, that burned town, this terrible storm. Events that were apparently part of the Great Plan, but that made him question the Great work with all his heart. Wouldn’t a demon see even more horrible things? Did Crowley like seeing horrible things? Aziraphale pulled back, preparing an angry retort if Crowley liked dreaming of people suffering.

But then he saw Crowley’s face.

Rolling onto his back, Crowley smiled gently with his eyes closed, hands resting on his thin chest, “Yeah. I always dream of stars.” Crowley stretched one hand up and waved it about, “Flyin’ thru the stars.” Crowley dozed off, right in front of him, still smiling, leaving Aziraphale staring open-mouthed at the peacefully snoring demon.

Aziraphale didn’t know what surprised him more, that Crowley could dream of lovely things or that he couldn’t. What sort of Great Plan worked like that?

Oh, bother! That’s the problem with alcohol, he thought darkly, willing himself sober, it was nearly as bad as falling asleep for letting his thoughts get out of line. Of course nowadays, he hardly expected Heaven to send someone to reprimand him just for his thoughts, he told himself sternly, chest and neck tight with suppressed fear. They didn’t care for the austere conditions down here, he reminded himself.

He shook himself and tossed another rotten balk of wood on the fire, the storm whistling across the hole in the ceiling of their retreat.  There was no nightingale to keep vigil with him, just the soft breathing of a demon dreaming of stars. But he was in the habit of guarding sleepers of all sorts. This wasn't really very different, not different at all.

In the long, slow watches as the storm raged for another day, he allowed himself to notice how ironic it was that a demon could sleep soundly and an angel remained sleepless.  But then, he reasoned (without asking any confirmation from the demon at hand, didn't want to wake him) demons didn’t have as much to worry about, surely? The worst had already happened to them, he thought, glimpsing echoes of the Starmaker angel he’d known in Crowley’s sleeping face. He would certainly keep watch if it meant the demon could have that little bit of peace. 

Still, it tore at his heart. He corrected himself immediately, it tore at his heart that the Starmaker Crowley had been was gone.

Aziraphale chose to ignore whatever else might trouble him.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/65306077/chapters/168021886

Thanks for reading! Cross-posted on A03!

[venusiancarbondioxide]

i'm so close to the end of this fic draft, but not quite close enough for me to finish it tonight. it's getting late and i need to get adequate sleep for my dumb job but the draft is ALMOST DONE. AT LEAST 75% DONE. AAAAAAAAAAAA.

[some-anonymity-preferred]

The Love of a Pet Befouls the Ship

How did Ed and Izzy end up with such different memories of why Fang had to get rid of his dog, anyway?

[curlygrant44]

Hey. Felt something weird, wanted to check in. You alright? Spill something?

@mistake-responsibility

The message isn't one he expects to see; it's not typical for him to get any messages so 'late', but dutiful as ever, Curly checks. Because it might matter. It might be someone who's counting on him.

It's Jimmy.

Immediately, his blood runs cold, and he glances down at the doll held in his arms along with two others. Was he squeezing it too tight? Did he hurt him?

The light of the phone illuminates the darkened room just enough for him to see a faint shadow here and there on the fabric, and he worries for a second that he'd drooled on it in his sleep.

But no, with this pattern of splotches , dotted all over...

He knows what he was doing. He knows how he woke up.

I'm fine, thank you. I think I drooled on it in my sleep. I apologize for bothering you.

As easy as breathing, he lies -- he can't burden Jimmy with something stupid like this, can he? That wouldn't be fair, or reasonable. He's always troubling Jimmy, and even if they're friends, it's not right that the help is always going one way...

In the hopes of distracting him, he sends a second message as a follow-up.

Maybe I can make it up to you with something that feels nicer one of these days...

There.

With any luck, Jimmy will latch onto that and not ask him any more questions. He turns his phone off and rolls over to hopefully get more sleep...but he makes sure to set Jimmy's doll to the side, tucked in neatly to keep him warm -- just to make sure he doesn't make a worse mess of him if the grief for a life he's never even had the chance to live, and possibly never will, hits him once more. At least he can't bother Sunshine or Jim if he cries on their dolls.

[confusedfeelsfangirl]

These JonElias fics are ~nasty~ and I’m loving it.

[igniferous]

“ if i sigh loudly enough, will all my problems go away? ” ( from yuuri shibuya )

ㅤ██▐ @lightcreators. | ✖ | prompt. ( accepting ! )

ㅤㅤ〝 WHAT ARE YOU being so dramatic about this early in the day ? Honestly. 〞 Something about the pot and the kettle, high - strung as Lord von Bielefeld himself often could be. No matter, when at present, Wolfram seems really rather relaxed after a relatively leisurely morning, legs in a cross whilst downing the last splash of tea from his cup, where he sits ( half - ) listening to his fiancés grievances.

Yuuri’s schedule no doubt leaving little room for rest or play, today, were the remaining stack of documents left sitting on his desk since the other night any indication. But such were the duties of a ruling monarch, and Wolfram who intends to just as dutifully accompany him all the while, fails to see the big issue. Perhaps if the rookie dunce could stand to remain in this world of demons where he truly belonged for more than however - many - months at a time, his progress as a responsible ruler would be more linear, the learning curve less harsh.

ㅤ( — and he’d have more time for his faithful betrothed, to boot ! )

ㅤㅤ〝 You are the King, Yuuri, so hurry up and grow into yourself already ! 〞 It’s true that Wolfram doesn’t have the gentlest approach, nor the disposition for showering empty encouragements. But TOUGH LOVE too is love, and in return for his magnanimous counsel, he will be claiming the last honey biscuit left on its tray.