#Infinity Display Edge

[clockwayswrites]

5 Times the JL Learned Batman was Married and the 1 Time They Met the Spouse.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. + 1

“What is going on?” Batman asked the group as he swept into the room.

John stayed focused on the circle, not wanting to mess up now. It would be a lot of faff for nothing if he did.

“Constantine believes he has a contact to help us with our current issue,” Superman explained. “He is working on the summoning circle now.”

“Is that safe to do on the Watchtower?” Batman asked, as cautious as ever.

“Yeah, mate,” John answered for himself. “This one is a good one. Haven’t met them myself, but real helpful sort of fellow from everything I’ve heard. Or at least real helpful for the things that they can help with.”

Careful not to smudge any lines, John moved backwards out of the circle and gave it a good look over. The rest of the lot were talking about something, but if Batman hadn’t stopped him yet, John figured he was good and intended to keep working. A little slice to his finger, a few drops of blood, the right words, and it was done.

The white markings of the circle seemed to shudder and warp, like the lines on a desert street. Then they snapped a bright green and the inner lines seemed to fall away into an endless void. The void rippled and suddenly a hand reached out of it. The claws made the worst sound as they gripped into the metal floor.

Another hand joined it.

And then the being pulled themselves out of the summoning circle.

John knew better than to try and comprehend what he was seeing. It was all shadow and green flames and fear anyways.

“Who dares to call upon the Ghost King?” the being asked. The voice echoed through the room, through John’s head, through his soul. It sounded like a thousand screaming voices of the dead speaking all at once.

Toxic green eyes in the black mass swept over the group. It was like they were being seen; their souls, their very beings, every aspect of them flayed open and on display for this other worldly entity. John swallowed reflexively when the eyes paused on him for a moment. He wasn’t scared, but there was still a primal part of his brain that said he should run.

Then the gaze landed on Batman and stayed there. Superman stepped forward, slightly, as if to shield Batman from the being’s view.

The being didn’t seem to care and leaned forward up to the edge of the circle. “B?”

Batman inclined his head slightly, “Phantom.”

“Shit. This Justice League approved, huh? Sorry about the dramatics. Usually I only get summoned by cultists who want Pariah Dark, the old king, to give them power or cleanse the world of life or blah blah blah. Best to show up and put the fear of me into them,” the being said, motioning to themselves and all their horror. The reverb of their voice had settled some, now only like a few voices overlapping.

“Understandable,” Batman agreed, seemingly unaffected by it all.

John could only shrug incredulously at Superman’s questioning gaze. Fuck if he knew. Sure, Bats was unflappable, but everyone knew he avoided the supernatural stuff if he could.

The being pulled the last of itself out of the portal which sealed with a sickening squelch. “You could have just called though. Like, I get summoning is a quick way to travel, but it's a little painful."

“Painful?” Batman asked, turning to stare at John, who swallowed nervously at the cold tone.

“Yeah. This was a pretty clean circle though, props to the maker—”

“Thanks, I think?” John mumbled at he watched the being start to shift. It was like watching a black hole collapse in on itself.

“—so it's not that bad, but still it feels like ripping some duct tape off my skin or something,” the being continued. They were much more human shaped now, though they still smiled with an alarming number of very white teeth.

“We'll keep that in mind in the future. I was unaware of who, exactly, they were summoning.”

The rest of the roiling darkness settled on their shoulders like a half cape— one that seemed to hold the infinity of the night sky inside it. The vortex of flames settled into a crown of fire that floated above a head of stark white hair. They flexed their claws and the limbs settled into normal hands that they tucked into pockets of their three piece black suit with its sharp white accents. Then they stepped over the live of what was supposed to be an unbreakable summoning circle.

Like it was just waking through a door.

Like it was nothing.

John took a reflexive step back. This kind of rule breaking shit was exactly why he liked to avoid the Infinite Realms when he could; they were too chaotic to easily manage.

“All good,” they said with a shrug and a fanged smile. “So, what did you need the Ghost King for?”

-

Bruce watched Phantom scan the meeting room as they entered. Their eyes caught, just for a moment, and a million thoughts ran through Bruce’s head. Did he want to do this? Was it time? He trusted the Justice League. They had issues and conflicts, like any group, but they were heroes through and through.

Revealing this also did not mean revealing either of their civilian identities.

The nod was barely any movement at all, but Bruce knew that Phantom had caught it and understood. After so many years together, they hardly needed words, which Bruce often appreciated. Words had never been easy for Bruce. He worked on it for his family. He had to after…

Bruce forced himself not to think about that. Danny had saved Jason, even if the resulting years without Danny there were some of the hardest for the family. They were together again and better for it. Bruce let out a careful breath and took his normal seat.

“Thank you for your assistance, King Phantom,” Wonder Woman started. Phantom held up a hand.

“I didn’t say I could assist. I’ll listen and help if I can and see fit, but there are a great many things that are not mine to aid in,” Phantom said sternly, though his voice was carefully kind. “My influence is only over those closely tied to death and of the Infinite Realms. The living are outside of my jurisdiction.”

“Of course,” Superman said quickly as he could without rushing the words. “Listening is a great start. If you’ll take a seat.”

Phantom nodded and strode right past the indicated seat. With a casual ease that Bruce had always envied, Phantom sat on the arm of Bruce’s chair.

“Um, King Phantom, your majesty?” Flash started nervously. “Batman doesn’t really like to be touched?”

“Really?” Phantom asked innocently. Bruce couldn’t see it, but knew exactly the smirk Phantom had as he leaned back to lounge against Bruce’s shoulder. (Bruce loved that smile.)

Bruce schooled his expression as he watched Flash and Hal exchange looks and frantic hand signs to each other.

J’onn tilted his head curiously as he took his own seat. Bruce could see J’onn come to an understanding as his eyes flickered down the the black metal brand around Phantom’s ring finger in the shape of a flying bat.

“Ah,” J’onn said softly.

“Ah? Ah what?” Flash asked, his words almost a whine. “What do you know?”

Bruce rested his hand lightly on Phantom’s hip, well aware that the motion was in sight of both Superman and Wonder Woman.

“Ah,” Wonder Woman said with a little smile. “J’onn knows something we all know, though not in this context. It is good to meet you, Phantom.”

“Good to meet you also, Wonder Woman. I’ve heard a lot about you,” Phantom said as she sat down next to them.

“I wish I could say the same,” she said with a teasing smile directed Bruce’s way.

“Hn.”

Phantom just laughed, the sound echoing like a ringing bell. “It’s okay, I know what B is like. Trust me, that you know anything at all is a big deal. He’s just bad at doing things the normal way.”

Bruce held back a sigh and just pinched Phantom’s side again, making the other squeak and backhand Bruce in the chest.

“Holy shit!” Hal jutted a finger at Phantom. “You’re Batman’s husband!”

“Guilty as charged,” Phantom said.

“Wait, no, you’re what?” Flash asked and zipped closer to the table. “Huh. You are so not what I expected. I mean, I guess ghost plus Spooky works but you’re so… lively! Wait— is that like, offensive to call the dead lively?”

Phantom laughed again and shook his head. “No, but not everyone in the realms will take it as a compliment. I don’t mind and besides, I’m only half-dead.”

“Half-dead?” Superman asked with his brow furrowed worriedly.

Phantom just waved the concern away. “It’s complicated. Mostly it just means that I still get to live out my human life as simply a human. Ghosts move slower, having eternity and all, so there’s not too much for me to do as the king other than attend to summons and make slow changes.”

“So,” Hal started, ignoring Bruce’s glare and sliding into a seat finally. “You’re married to Batman in your civilian form as well?”

“Of course, it would be silly otherwise,” Phantom said and then added, “and no, I won’t tell you who B is. That’s for him to choose.”

“Okay, but like, we can talk to you, right?” Flash asked, eager as ever.

“Well, I’m here, aren’t I? But work first. What do you think I can help you all with?”

Bruce moved his hand to rest on the small of Phantom’s back and watched his husband command the room like the king he was.

--- AN: and here's the last part! The JL finally meet Batman's husband, or at least once side of him!

[zoro-sremedy]

THAT'S WHAT I WANT!

Look, you know it's harder to find in these times But I got nothing but love on my mind (my mind) I need a baby with love in my prime

Synopsis. You tell them they're the prettiest, bestest boys.

Including. Gojo, Geto, Nanami, Toji, Sukuna, Megumi, Yuji, Shiu, Nobara and Shoko as special guests.

WARNING? fluff, maybe something suggestive, you guys only like smut like c'mon this is cute, some swearing? I don't remember. Sukuna's may or may not be weird, enjoy it anyways lmao

A/N: y'all know the drill, the text thread:

COME SAY IT TO MY FACE, PRETTY

GOJO SATORU—"YOU CAME TO SEE ME?"

You knock once before letting yourself in, and predictably, he's already halfway out of his chair like he's been pacing in anticipation. Gojo Satoru—stronger sorcerer alive, Six Eyes activated, infinity flexed like it's a second skin—looks like he's about to faint from excitement.

"You actually came," he breathes dramatically, hands on his hips like he's witnessing a miracle. "To tell me I'm pretty. In person. I'm honored."

You close the door behind you, lips twitching. "Don't make it weird."

"Oh no," he says, stepping closer, "I'm making it so weird." He's already leaning in, all six feet and whatever of pure cocky chaos towering over you with a twinkle in his eye.

"So? Let me hear it again."

You roll your eyes, stepping into his space anyway, palms flat against his chest. "You're really, really pretty," you murmur. "Like… ruin-me-for-anyone-else level pretty."

Gojo goes stock still for a moment. Then:

"Marry me."

You snort. "You'd propose over a compliment."

"Baby, I'd propose over less. I almost proposed when you brought me coffee that one time."

Before you can respond, he dips down and kisses you—eager, grinning against your lips, like he's been waiting all day for an excuse. His hands frame your face with surprising gentleness, even as he walks you back until your hips hit the desk.

The kiss is slow, deepens, his forehead resting against yours. "You really mean it?" he asks softly, brushing your hair back. "That I'm… y'know. Pretty?"

Your fingers curl in his collar. "You're beautiful, Satoru."

He melts—literally melts—into a puddle of pleased energy, groaning like he's physically pained by the sweetness. Then he's kissing you again, open-mouthed and greedy, mumbling something like, "you have no ides what that does to me," between kisses.

And just like that, the office is full of soft sighs, rustling papers, and Gojo whispering praise right back into your mouth like he's trying to one-up you.

Spoiler: he can't. But he sure as hell tries.

GETO SUGURU—"DISRESPECTFULLY PRETTY"

You don't knock. You never knock anymore.

The door swings open like it's been waiting, warmth spilling out of Geto's apartment along with the earthy, calming scent of tea and whatever incense he lit just to show off. Probably sandalwood. Definitely smug.

And there he is.

Geto Suguru, all soft shadows and dangerous calm, draped in a loose robe and nothing underneath, collarbone on sinful display, hair still damp from a shower. It cascades down one shoulder in thick, dark waves, a few strands clinging to his neck like they missed the towel.

You freeze in the doorway, not even trying to hide your stare.

"See," you murmur under your breath, loud enough for him to hear, "disrespectfully pretty."

His gaze lifts slowly from the book in his lap, mouth quirking up like he knew exactly what effect he'd have on you. Smirk. Smirk.

"I thought you were kidding about coming over just to insult me," he says, voice soft and warm with amusement.

"I said bite," you correct, already shedding your jacket. "Not insult."

"Mmm." He sets his book aside as you close the distance. "Then I suppose I should apologize—"

"You're not sorry."

"No," he admits smoothly. "Not even a little."

Your knees hit the edge of the couch, and he opens his arms in quiet invitation. You don't hesitate. You slide right into his lap, your knees bracketing his thighs, hands sliding into that perfect, soft hair like you've done a hundred times in your head and only a few in real life.

"So what's the verdict?" he hums. "Prettier in person?"

You lean in, close enough your breath touches his lips. "Absolutely disgusting how pretty you are."

And before he can make another smart remark, you bite his bottom lip. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make him feel it—just a nip, a warning, something to make him still beneath you.

"Ah," he exhales, the smile never leaving. "Dangerous girl."

"You smirked."

"And you liked it."

He surges forward, mouth claiming yours with slow-burning heat, one hand cupping the back of  your head while the other slips under your shirt at the small of your back. You melt into it, fingers twisting in his hair, legs pulling him closer like instinct. His lips are soft but deep, greedy—but never rough. Just enough pressure to make your pulse stutter.

“I like when you say pretty things,” he murmurs against your temple. “But I like them better in person.”

You turn your head to face him, your knees bracketing his hips, and whisper, “You gonna let me braid your hair later?”

His smile softens. “Only if you stay the night.”

And you kiss him—right then and there, in the quiet, candle-glow room with the softest, most dangerous man you know—because how could you not?

NANAMI KENTO— "SOMETHING SWEET"

Nanami always knocks. Three solid, polite raps before he lets himself in, every time. He does it now, even though you said the door would be open. Even though he's here at your request. Even though you texted "come say thank you in person" like it was nothing, like it didn't send a rare flick of anticipation through his otherwise steady routine.

You meet him at the door, beaming, hoodie-swallowed and barefoot.

"You brought pastries," you note with a grin, pointing at the box.

"You said you liked the ones from the café near the office."

You had said that once. A passing comment, weeks ago.

He set the box down on the kitchen counter while you bounce behind him, peeking over his shoulder.

"You remembered," you murmur, face pressed against his back, smelling the comfort of his smell.

"I remember what's important," he says quiet and honest.

You nuzzle into him from behind, arms slipping around his waist. "That's hot."

He huffs, lips twitching. "You're incorrigible."

"Am I wrong?"

He turns, slowly, placing his hands lightly on your waist. You're still grinning up at him, unashamed.

"No," he admits after a beat, brushing a hand down your back, gentle and firm. "But you do fluster me more than I care to admit."

You press a kiss to his cheek—just shy of the corner of his mouth.

"Good."

And then his hand slides to your jaw. Not rushed. Not forceful. Just decisive. His thumb strokes the skin just beneath your ear as he leans in. His mouth meets yours like he's tasting something rare—like you're another thing he intends to memorize. It's tender, but deeper than the first kiss should be, and your knees almost give at how good it feels to be handled with that kind of control.

When he pulls back, you’re both a little breathless.

“You brought sweets,” you whisper.

“Yes.”

“But you’re the one who tastes good.”

He sighs. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Maybe,” you grin, tugging him by the tie. “But I’ll make it sweet.”

FUSHIGURO TOJI— "THE HAND THAT HOLDS YOU"

You're curled on the couch when Toji arrives, hoodie sleeves tugged over your hands, a half-finished mug of the tea on the table. The front door shuts with a soft thunk, and heavy footstep draw closer—but he doesn't say anything when he sees you.

Just stands there. Looking at you.

"You okay?" you ask softly.

He shrugs out of his jacket and steps into your space like he can't help it, like he's being pulled. "You don't text me like that often."

You smile. "It wasn't meant to be dramatic."

"It wasn't. Just…" he trails off, rubbing the back of his neck. "Caught me off guard."

You reach for his hand without asking. It's warm, scarred, large—so big your fingers can't even wrap around his palm completely. You lift it to your lips and kiss his knuckles.

"I meant it," you say, eyes soft. "I love these hands. Not just what they do to me—but what they mean. You always show up for me with them. You always hold me."

Toji looks down at you like he's not sure what to do with that. His usual smirk flickers but doesn't land. Instead, his fingers flex around yours, gripping just a little tighter.

"You're really trying to make me soft tonight, huh," he murmurs.

"You already are," you whisper, tugging him down to sit beside you.

He does. His arm snakes around your shoulders, your legs end up draped across his lap, and he sinks into the couch like it's the first time he's able to breathe all day. For a moment, neither of you speak. You just rest your head against him, and he runs his hand up and down your back—slow, steady, reassuring.

"You make it easy," he finally says.

"What?"

"Being good. Trying to be… I don't know. A better version of me. You make it feel like maybe I deserve that."

You smile against his chest. "You do."

He leans down and kisses your temple.

And then, after a beat, he mutters, "Still wouldn't mind using these hands for other things, though."

You burst out laughing, smacking his chest. "There's the Toji I know."

"Hey," he says, shrugging with a half-smile, "you started it."

SHIU KONG—"SAY IT AGAIN"

Shiu's always been a complicated  man. Cynical. Cold on the outside. Hot as hell in a fight. Impossible to read unless you knew him like you did—like someone who peeled back the armor over time and kissed the bruises underneath.

Which is why when you told him, in the softest voice, "I think you're a good man, Shiu," he blinked like you'd slapped him with a flower.

"You tryna make me throw up?" he muttered. But his hand didn't move from where it curled around yours.

"No," you said, smiling up at him, "I'm trying to say thank you. I see you. You pretend you're not soft but… you kinda are. For the people you care about. For me.

He scoffed, not meeting your eyes. "Soft? Sweetheart, I once broke a man's wrist for using my favorite ashtray."

"And you tucked me in when I was sick last month."

"…That never happened."

"You made me tea."

"That was for me. You just happened to be sick."

You leaned into him, pressing your face to his shoulder. "You keep pretending you don't care. But you do. You care so much."

His breath caught.

You felt it—for just a second—his entire body going still. Like your words landed too deep, in a part of him he'd forgotten how to guard. His hand tightened on your thigh. Then, a muttered, gruff: "You're lucking you're cute."

"I know."

A beat . Then quieter: "You really think that? That I'm good?"

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't."

He looked at you finally, something vulnerable flickering under the sarcasm. "Say it again."

You cupped his cheek, smiled, and whispered, "you're a good man, Shiu."

He kissed you before you even finish that sentence—slow, heated, grateful, like he didn't know what to do with all that affection except press it into your lips, your skin, the places you always let him in.

And if he ended up pulling you into his lap and refusing to let you go for the rest of the night?

Well. Feelings were a crime, and Shiu Kong was officially guilty as hell.

RYOMEN SUKUNA— "ON HIS THRONE"

The throne room is empty save for him, draped in night and firelight. Ryomen Sukuna sits on his obsidian throne like he was carved into it—legs spread wide, arms resting on the jagged ends like a deity expecting tribute. His crown of marks glows faintly, like embers not yet cooled.

You step in with bare feet and a pounding heart, your breath caught somewhere between fear and awe.

He doesn't move. He waits.

You drop to your knees before him.

"Say it," Sukuna commands. His voice rumble through the walls, low and hungry. "Tell me what I am."

You meet his gaze, eyes soft but unflinching. "You're power. Destruction. Fire. But when you touch me, you're home."

He inhales sharply through his nose—just once—and then leans forward like the beast is barely caged.

"Again."

"You're my king," you whisper. "My ruin, my temple. I worship you with everything I am."

He growls low in his chest, and in one swift motion, grabs your chin—not roughly, but firmly enough that your breath stutter—and guides you to your feet only to pull you onto his lap, sideways across his thighs. The throne creaks beneath the movement, but neither of you care.

Your hands rest against his chest, heartbeat staccato. His hand stays on your chin as his eyes roam your face like he's trying to etch every soft part of you into the stone of his memory.

"I don't understand you," Sukuna murmurs, voice rough, forehead pressing to yours. "You kneel like a devotee and sit on my throne like a queen. You bow to me, but it's you who ruins me."

You smile softly. "Good."

He chuckles darkly, then grabs your waist with one hand, the other cradling the back of your head as he kisses you—open mouthed, almost desperate. There's bloodlust in it, yes, but also devotion. A barbaric kind of worship.

When he pulls away, his thumb brushes your lower lip. "You don't bow to me because you fear me. You bow because you choose to. And that…" His voice drops, teeth grazing your throat, "is the only thing more addictive than power."

You settle against him as he leans back, content—for now—to keep you right there on his throne, wrapped in him, like you were made for no other purpose.

ITADORI YUJI— "HUG TAX"

You find him in the common room, hunched over a takeout container and still visibly pink in the cheeks. His hair's a mess, and he's wearing that oversized hoodie you definitely stope from him once but somehow he stole back.

The moment he sees you, Yuji lights up—then instantly hides his face behind his hands.

"Nope. Nuh-uh. Too cute. I'm not ready."

You laugh, walking over and kneeling next to the couch. "You've had like twenty minutes to process one compliment."

"That's not enough time!" he protest, voice muffled by his palms. "You called me the most huggable person in the universe. That's heavy. There are like… aliens out there, probably."

"You're cuter than aliens," you shrug casually, settling in beside him. "Also, I'm here to collect my hug tax."

He peeks at you through his fingers. "There's a hug tax?"

"There is now."

Yuji drops his hands with a resigned little groan—but it turns into a goofy smile as you climb onto the couch beside him and wrap your arms around his waist, nuzzling into his chest. His arms come around you like instinct, big and warm and just the tiniest bit shaky.

"You're seriously gonna kill me one day with all this affection," he mumbles into your hair.

"Happy to be the cause of death."

He laughs—really laughs—and pulls you closer, squeezing tight.

"God, I love you."

You grin into his hoodie. "You'd better."

He huffs a bashful little chuckle and rests his chin on top your head. "Still can't believe I'm the most huggable in the universe though. That's like…. A lot of responsibility."

"You're doing a perfect job."

And he holds you a little tighter, glowing so hard you're surprised the room doesn't burst into light.

FUSHIGURO MEGUMI — "DISASTER BOYFRIEND, SOFT HEART"

You do not listen to him and absolutely show up at his door.

He opens it, hoodie half-zipped, hair pushed back messily like he's run a hand through it a dozen times since your text—and his eyes immediately narrow.

"You're seriously here?"

You just beam. "Told you I wanted to say it to your face."

"I told you to stay put."

He doesn't move, blocking the doorway like the world's least intimidating bouncer—but his ears undeniably pink.

You take a step closer, grin stretching. "What, scared I'll call you beautiful again?"

"You're lucky I like you," he mutters, but he doesn't stop you when you cup his jaw with both hands and gently pull him in for a kiss. It's soft at first, warm and steady.

And then he sighs—like he's finally letting his guard down.

"You're impossible," he mumbles against your lips.

"You like it."

"I tolerate it."

But when you pull back, he's the only one chasing another kiss, one hand sliding around your waist. His voice a low grumble in your ear: "Say that poetic crap again and I swear I'll ruin your night."

"Oh no," you deadpan, eyes twinkling. "Heaven forbid the beautiful man kisses me senseless."

His mouth twitches. "You asked for it."

KUGISAKI NOBARA— "CAN'T TAKE A COMPLIMENT"

You find her on the couch in sweats and a clay mask drying on her face, legs up and an open bottle of nail polish dangerously balanced on a throw pillow.

She doesn't even glance up when you walk in. "Can't moisturize away your charm, babe."

"Gross," she mutters—but she's already trying no to smile.

You lean in and press a kiss to her cheek, ignoring the mask. "Still stunning."

She rolls her eyes so hard you're surprised they don't fall out. "You're such a simp."

"You like it."

"Shut up and kiss me before I throw this nail polish at your forehead."

So you do—long, slow, and with your hand slipping under her hoodie to hold her waist. When you pull back, she's glaring at you like you're the problem, but her cheeks are a telltale shade of pink.

"I hate how good that was," she mutters.

You grin. "Told you. Devastating."

She clicks her tongue. "You really are the worst. But… you're my worst."

SHOKO IEIRI— "CALL IT A HOUSE CALL"

You let yourself into Shoko’s place using the key she insists she only gave you “for emergencies,” and immediately smell cheap incense, red wine, and that citrusy shampoo she never admits to using.

She’s curled up sideways on the couch, long legs tangled in a blanket, wine glass balancing dangerously on her knee. “Took you long enough,” she murmurs without looking up.

“I brought snacks.” You hold up a bag of chips and some chocolate bars like a peace offering.

“Saint.” She finally turns her head and gives you a lazy smile that melts your spine. “Come here and let me kiss the brain damage out of you.”

You toss the snacks on the table, climb onto the couch, and let her pull you in like gravity. Her fingers slip under your shirt just to warm her hands on your skin, and the kiss she gives you is slow, a little tipsy, and entirely intoxicating.

When you pull back, she smirks. “Still hopelessly in love?”

You nod, grinning. “Maybe even worse now.”

She hums, sips her wine, and gestures at your pants. “Good. Prove it.”

[moechies]

jujutsu kaisen masterlist [nsfw] 𓈒ㅤׂ⋆.˚ .𖥔˚

# notice ; i have chosen to display only my better/longer works here, view my tags for more of my works !!

₊⊹ ; fanfiction ⋆｡ ; drabble/thirst red ; dark content

toji fushiguro . .

₊⊹ cherry popper

tamer ⋆｡ kitty ⋆｡ bunnie ⋆｡ hop, bunny ⋆｡ cockwarm ⋆｡ blowie ⋆｡ perv ⋆｡ puppy

⋆｡ so tight ⋆｡ give me your cum! ⋆｡ cum addict ⋆｡ give me that ass ⋆｡happy father's day ⋆｡cowgirl ⋆｡ warm me ⋆｡ edge ⋆｡ somno ⋆｡ gross! ⋆｡ vanilla-flaved ⋆｡ tits ⋆｡ dumb girl ⋆｡ oralfix ⋆｡ +shiu ⋆｡ ⋆｡ fill your tank ⋆｡ 3:28 ⋆｡ crybaby ⋆｡ crybaby pt.2 ⋆｡ crybaby pt.3 ⋆｡ forced intox ⋆｡ mean! ⋆｡ all bark ⋆｡ brat tamer ⋆｡ talk you through it ⋆｡ oral fixation ⋆｡ chokehold

sukuna ryomen . .

⋆｡ soft bf suku ⋆｡ pt. 2 ⋆｡ pt. 3

⋆｡ pussy eater ⋆｡ suku nii ⋆｡ praise me! ⋆｡ mean n greedy! ⋆｡ college bully ⋆｡college bully pt.2 ⋆｡ crybaby ⋆｡

itadori yuuji . .

⋆｡teach me! ⋆｡

gojo satoru . .

⋆｡ sensitive girl ⋆｡ infinity ⋆｡ on film ⋆｡ all you got? ⋆｡ inside, outside ⋆｡inside, outside pt.2 ⋆｡ cuddlefuck⋆｡⋆｡⋆｡ bullies! ⋆｡ 'stepdaddy' ⋆｡ forced ⋆｡ cuddle fuck ⋆｡ share! ⋆｡ okay.. ⋆｡ carnival

getou suguru . .

⋆｡ sensitive girl ⋆｡ tight ⋆｡ crybaby ⋆｡ thigh highs ⋆｡ pervert! ⋆｡ bullies! ⋆｡ fingering ⋆｡ forced ⋆｡ tired yet? ⋆｡ share! ⋆｡ finger to sleep ⋆｡

nanamin kento . .

⋆｡ plushie ⋆｡ spank! ⋆｡ businessman ⋆｡ sensitive ⋆｡ ⋆｡⋆｡ too big ⋆｡ cnc ⋆｡ cnc pt.2 ⋆｡ stepdaddy ⋆｡ sensitive!

higuruma hiromi . .

⋆｡ just for you ⋆｡ good puppy

hakari kinji . .

⋆｡ 3 w kirara ⋆｡ cute ass

multi . .

⋆｡ hold my hand! ⋆｡ softlove

[xoxochb]

౨ৎ 𓂃 this might suck majorly cuz I’m on a time crunch studying for my last finals tomorrow so I apologize 😞

“let’s play sharks.”

you furrow your brows, looking down at a soaking wet percy who looks up at you from your thighs. his forearms rest against them as he grins.

you run a hand through his dark locks while your other holds you steady on the edge of the pool. “and what does playing sharks consist of?”

percy shrugs, melting into your hand as it cups his cheek. “sharks. what if I’m a shark and then I try to eat toy because you’re a smaller fish? maybe… a mackerel!”

“what is that?”

“a fish.”

“are they ugly?”

“I’d never make you play an ugly fish.”

you match his wide smile and peck his mouth. a year’s worth of marriage had kept you used to his silly pool games.

“or why don’t you take a break from swimming. you’re shriveling.”

you take one of his hands, displaying them over your legs to show him how his hands are transforming.

percy frowns. “I’m the son of poseidon, I’ll be fine.”

you give him a look of no arguments. and like his loyal self, percy lifts himself out of the pool to sit beside you on the ledge. you indiscreetly stare at his flexing biceps during the process.

with a gentle sigh, you climb into percy’s lap, slipping your arms around his shoulders to rest your head on one tiredly. the shining sun and ninety degrees fahrenheit weather will do that to a person.

percy snakes his arms similarly around your waist, keeping you sitting close. his head, however, rests on top of yours.

“sweet girl?”

“hmm?”

“how much do you love me? on a scale of one to ten?”

he’s up to something.

“why?” you lift your head up to stare questioningly into his pretty sea-green eyes.

percy pinches your waist. “just answer it.”

“infinity.”

“I’m glad.”

though before the word ‘why?’ can even exit your mouth, you’re being thrown in the water just before percy jumps in right on top of you.

totally called it though.

[youryurigoddess]

Teal We Meet Again

Teal seems to follow Aziraphale through the ages. Ever since the Arrangement, it’s always lurking on the edges of his embroidery, his cravat, his tartan, finally taking the full form of a magician’s cape. A promise woven into the fabric of his heart, displayed openly only once in 1941.

There’s something extremely endearing and so unapologetically Aziraphalean in the way he doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, but rather drapes it over his shoulders like people do with their flags during Pride.

The love that he had to hide from the world, Heaven and Hell combined, magically transforms into a shield after it finally gets itself known. A sparkly, glittery shield of the true hero, embellished with stars like the ones his beloved hung in the sky on the day they met.

If only that night had ended differently, with no demonic interventions apart from the book-saving miracle in the church, this combination of teal and stars could have stayed with him to the present day…

Good Omens 2 soundtrack by David Arnold, double LP on ��Divine & Demonic’ coloured vinyl designed by Silva Screen Records, 2023.

Interestingly, greens and teals appear to be a part Crowley’s visual identity just like shades of white and the infamous combination of Cosmic Latte and Songbird symbolise Aziraphale, both in the show itself and in its promotional materials.

The colour itself gets its name from the Eurasian teal (Anas crecca), a migratory water bird and a type of duck with a teal stripe on its head and wings that apparently has crows listed among its hereditary enemies. Teal represents the infinity of the sea and sky and commonly symbolises loyalty (as well as rejuvenation and rebirth).

But where did this behaviour come from? The Garden of Eden? The Flood? Sometime afterwards? A teal snake pattern slithers on Bildad’s embroidered belt as the first speck of color in Crawley’s usual palette of blacks, greys, and reds… never to appear again until 1941, when the tiniest suggestion of something blue-green appears instead of a regular black on his tie. And who knows, maybe it will reappear sooner than later.

[ichorai]

particles ; peter parker.

track eight of BROKEN MACHINE.

prequel to spiderling!

pairing ; peter parker x stark!reader (gender neutral), dad!tony x reader

synopsis ; tony gives peter the dreaded 'dad' talk.

words ; 2.8k

themes ; fluff, mild comedy

warnings / includes ; set right at the end of homecoming era & onwards, mild cursing, peter is so endearingly awkward, tony being a good dad :(

a/n ; another part is in the works to be set during the events of infinity war/endgame!

main masterlist.

The Avengers compound was all sleek edges, clean cool-tones, and large floor-to-ceiling windows with not a speck of dust to be seen. It was an intimidating environment, to say the least. What made things worse was Mr. Stark’s hand on his shoulder and the hopeful gleam to his eyes.

The team, he had said. Tony wanted him to join the Avengers.

And with the brand new suit displayed in front of him, too… it was nearly impossible to say no.

Nearly.

When Peter stammered out a polite decline, Tony had looked at him above his lowered sunglasses, incredulous.

“You’re turning me down?” he said, heavy with disbelief. “You better think about this, kid.”

There was a long pause.

“Last chance, yes or no?”

Of course he wanted to say yes—to be in the Avengers, work with Iron Man himself… that was his dream. But he couldn’t. Someone had to look out for the little guy, right? And who better than the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man?

“No,” Peter replied. 

Not at all used to being rejected, Tony struggled for words for a moment, before reluctantly accepting Peter’s decision, masking his disappointment fairly well. He liked the kid, and it wasn’t exactly fun to have him slip through his fingers like this. With a wave of his hand at Happy, he told him that he’d be driven home.

“Thank you, Mr. Stark. Truly,” Peter hastily said, certain that he’d made the right decision.

Preoccupied thinking about what he was going to tell the fifty reporters waiting behind the doors, Tony absentmindedly quipped, “Yes, uh, very well, Mr. Parker.”

Peter left with a proud grin and a skip to his step, nodding when Happy asked him to wait in the car. 

Before he could make his way out, however, a voice stopped him in his tracks.

“That was really ballsy, what you did back there,” you said, observing him with an amused expression, eyes narrowed with curiosity. Peter blinked, recognizing you almost immediately. “Not a lot of people would leave my dad hanging like that.”

With a widened stare, Peter found all the words stuck in his throat. You were much more breathtaking in person, with an intrigued air about you. Though your features took more after your mother, who’d passed away many years ago, Peter noticed that you shared Tony’s smile.

“Uh… yeah,” was all Peter could lamely say.

The subtle beam curving your lips seemed to grow wider. You hummed, soft and lilting, languidly stepping forward with a nod. “Hope to see you around then, Peter.” You took his hand, sliding a folded piece of paper into his palm. “Give me a call if you ever need anything. Or if you just need a friend to talk to, I’m all ears. It’s a private phone—my dad doesn’t know about it. He gets really uptight about me talking to strangers but… you’re not really a stranger, are you? At least, not for long.”

Shocked, Peter could only open and shut his mouth, as if he were a fish out of water. 

“I, uhm… thank you. I’ll definitely, uh, definitely take you up on that offer,” he choked out, nodding emphatically. 

You gave him a warm smile, accompanied by a two-fingered salute, and in turn, he waved goodbye, palms drenched with sweat as he hurriedly backed away to the car before Happy could yell at him. 

Cute, you thought with an amused shake of your head, before making your way back to your dad, who was still muttering under his breath about how he couldn’t believe a fifteen year old had just turned him down.

Your phone number stared at him every day for the next week. The numbers were hastily scribbled down in blue ink, smudged ever so slightly by the crease of the fold during your rush, but you’d taken the time to draw a smiley face right beneath the last digit. It never failed to make Peter smile every time he gave it a glance. 

It took him three days to psyche himself up to even considering calling you, and another three to actually add you to your contacts, his thumb hovering over the call button far too often than he’d like to admit. On the seventh day, Peter pressed with a sharp inhale.

Three rings trilled by.

Peter wondered if you were going to pick up. He wouldn’t really be surprised if you didn’t—you were a busy person, probably, and didn’t have the time to take calls from people like him. 

Another ring. And suddenly, your voice reverberated through. Peter sat up on his bed, spine straightening as if it were an iron rod.

“Hello?”

“Y/N! Hi!” he said, voice abnormally high-pitched. He cleared his throat and nervously added, “It’s Peter. Peter Parker?”

A laugh echoed in his ear. He could picture your humored smile. “Yeah, I remember. It’s nice to hear from you—thought you’d never call.”

“You were waiting?”

“Of course, I was. I wouldn’t have given you my number if I didn’t want you to call.”

Warm relief surged through his veins, accompanied by a flustered coil winding within his abdomen. “Cool, cool… so, uh, I don’t want to be too forward or anything but I think you’re… so cool and uhm—” A pause. Was Peter really asking you out on an impulsive date? “Would you wanna hang out?”

On the other end of the line, you blinked in surprise, not expecting his sudden forwardness. You shifted the phone in your palm. “Right now?” It was a good thing you weren’t busy, having caught up on all your assignments and projects. Besides—you couldn’t remember the last time you properly went out into the city with someone other than Happy, Pepper, or your dad. 

“Uh… if you’re not busy, that is.”

“You know what—sure. Why the hell not?” you replied, grinning.

Peter did a double-take. “Wait—really?”

“Yes, really. I’d love to spend some time with you, Peter.”

Now it was his turn to smile, pink dusting across his cheekbones. “Great. I’ll text you where to meet, then?”

“Sure, Peter.”

After the call ended, you were quick to change into appropriate attire, not wanting to draw too much attention to yourself. You donned a soft grey hoodie and baggy black jeans, slipping out of your room a few minutes later. The location Peter had sent you was a quaint little library not too far from where you lived, within a manageable walking distance. You were glad that you wouldn’t have to ask Happy to drive you, because knowing your godfather, he’d be hovering over Peter like a vulture.

Just as you were about to slip out, your tote bag slung over your shoulder, Tony popped his head out of the living room, quirking a brow.

“Hey, kid,” he cautiously greeted. “Where you goin’?”

You froze with one foot out of the door. “Library,” you answered, trying you best to appear nonchalant.

“Hm. Which library?”

With a frown marring your lips, you crossed your arms. “Jeez, dad, whichever library! I’m sure there’s, like, a dozen in a five-mile radius.”

Mirroring your attitude, Tony mimicked your squared jaw and rolled his eyes. “You know, if you wanted to hang out with that kid Peter, you could’ve just asked.”

A beat of silence. You narrowed your eyes at your dad. “How do you know about that?”

Tony let out a loud guffaw. “What? You don’t think I didn’t know you bought yourself your own phone? Are you forgetting that your pops is Tony Stark himself? God, kid, you were just like me when I was your age.” He paused at that, rethinking what he just said. “Well, actually, I was way worse.”

He strode forward, smoothing his hands down the sleeves of your hoodie and patting your shoulders. It wasn’t often that Tony was overly affectionate with you, but whenever he was, you always appreciated how genuine he would be.

After pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead, he gently nudged you out the door. “Go on. Get! Scat!” He made shooing motions with his hands. “If you don’t get back by sundown, I’ll have Happy hunt you down and kill the kid town executioner style.” At your scowl, Tony was quick to tack on, “Joking! I’m joking.”

“Bye, dad,” you said huffily, though the affection in your tone was unmistakable. With that, you turned to leave, fishing out your phone to text Peter that you were on your way.

“They grow up so fast,” a voice mused from over Tony’s shoulder, welling with emotion. 

He flinched at his friend’s sudden presence, slamming the door shut. “Jesus Christ, Happy, don’t scare me like that!”

The months flew by in a breeze. You and Peter were now exclusively dating—something that he had asked about early on in your relationship, worriedly gnawing at his bottom lip with the harrowing idea of you turning him down. But you’d been nothing but sweet with him, affectionately pressing your nose into his cheek and telling him that you’d love to be official.

You were lounging on his bed, sprawled over his dark blue comforter, which smelled of fresh laundry detergent and something else entirely Peter that you couldn’t get enough off. He was across the narrow room, hunched over his desk as he hurriedly did his physics homework due the very next day. Idly, you fiddled with the web shooters you had swiped from his bedside table, narrowing your eyes at the wrist fixings and the capsules that held his web fluid.

Only a genius could build something like this on his own, you thought fondly. I’m dating a genius.

It seemed that you had said the last bit out loud, because Peter snorted in amusement.

“Yeah, says you,” he scoffed. “You skipped, like, a dozen grades.”

“Half that, actually. Six grades.”

Peter turned to look at you over his shoulder, arching his brows. “Not to mention your dad is literally the Tony Stark.”

With a hum, you slunk off his bed and languidly draped your arms over his shoulder. “Just take the compliment, Peter,” you said as you pressed a fond kiss to a faint freckle on his cheek. Then, you glanced down at the problem he was solving. “Mmh, don’t forget the negative sign. It’s moving against gravity, no?”

“Right.” He hastily corrected the formula, glancing at you appreciatively. “Thanks.”

“No prob, I make the same mistake all the time,” you quipped. “I’ve been making my own suit with the help of my dad—had to study up a lot on rotational mechanics and material physics. It’s been a pain in the ass.”

Brows raising, Peter dropped his pencil and rotated his chair so he was facing you fully, his knees grazing yours. “What? You’re making your own suit?”

“Yeah,” you said with the beginnings of an excited smile tracing your lips. “I mean, I don’t know if I’ll ever become an Avenger like my dad is but… I don’t know. It’s certainly an option.”

A low groan fell from Peter’s throat, and he buried his face in his palms. “You’re telling me we could’ve been in the same team together? Ugh, stop, stop, don’t make me regret turning your dad down.” 

“Oh, no, Pete, I think you made the right choice,” you quickly reassured him, tugging his wrists away from his flushed features. “We’re still young. It’s not fair to put that responsibility on our shoulders as of now.”

The brown of his irises softened. “Yeah. We’re still young,” he echoed, ducking his head to kiss your hand clutching his. “You gotta show me that suit of yours one day, though.”

Both you and Peter were strolling around an art museum, arms linked and permanent smiles plastered over your expressions as you pointed at various paintings and sculptures. It was nearly an hour into the date when your phone began buzzing in your pocket, and you hastily let go of Peter’s arm to fish it out.

“Hello?”

“Hey, bugaroo,” Tony’s drawl came through your phone. “Where are you? I’m bored.”

A lopsided grin hung onto the corner of your lips at his words. “I’m with Peter right now.”

“Hm. You guys are behaving yourselves, I hope. You using protection?”

The grin melted off your face and you scowled. “Dad, what the fuck?”

“Hey, language!” he scolded, before chuckling dryly. “God, I’m turning into Cap. Anyways—what’re you thinking for dinner tonight? Does Chinese sound good? You wanna invite the Spider over, too?”

You glanced at Peter, who was ogling an abstract painting with a tilted head and a puzzled expression. He’d never really understood the point of this art style, but when you’d explained to him that art didn’t need to be understood to be considered art, he had grown much more lenient with his views of the chaotic splotches of paint. A small smile traced the corner of your lips as you watched his features contort with every one of his thoughts. Peter truly wore his heart on a sleeve, for everyone to see.

“Yeah, sounds great,” you said into the phone. “We’ll be home in an hour.”

Dinner consisted of warm soup dumplings and stir-fried noodles in flimsy paper boxes.

“Mm, Mr. Stark, these are delicious. I mean, I know you didn’t cook this or anything but it’s still really good,” Peter said around a mouthful of noodles. “Thanks for, uh, inviting me over. It’s an honor, really.”

“Stop sucking up to my dad, Peter,” you snorted, sipping on some iced tea. “He already likes you.”

One of Tony’s brows raised. “When did I ever say that?” At Peter’s slightly mortified expression, Tony rolled his eyes. “I’m kidding. Jokes, kiddo. Don’t piss yourself.”

“Speaking of piss—I’m goin’ to the powder room. Don’t fight while I’m gone,” you unabashedly said, pushing yourself away from the table. You really were your father’s child, Peter thought, mildly amused.

Tony watched you disappear behind a hallway, before fixing his gaze on Peter. The older man drummed his chopsticks by the edge of the table. 

“Listen, kid, I know we’re already way past the point of this but as a father—you gotta understand that I have to give you the talk.” It was jarring to see Tony genuinely serious for once. Peter straightened himself subconsciously. “If you ever, ever hurt Y/N, I will stick a rocket up your ass and launch you straight to the moon. Do you understand?”

Peter gulped. “Yes, sir. I got it. You can trust me. I, uh, I really do like Y/N.”

“Oh, you do, do you?”

“...Yes? I’m sorry, I’m confused, do you not want me to like them?”

An unsatisfied noise fell from Tony’s lips. “Eh. I mean, would I prefer Y/N never ever date anybody and stay locked in their room forever, wasting away in front of a screen? Absolutely. But if it just had to be someone… I’m glad it’s you.”

Peter blinked in surprise. “Wow, Mr. Stark. That’s… thank you. It’s a huge honor. I promise I’ll take good care of them.”

“Yeah, don’t push it, Pete. You guys are barely a decade old.”

“Am I coming off too strong?” he winced, recoiling into his chair slightly. 

The man across from him gestured to the small space between his pinched fingers. “Just a bit.”

“I’m actually fif—”

“Fifteen. I know. Y/N, too.”

There was another tense moment of silence as Tony scrutinized the young man. 

Finally satisfied, he leaned back in his chair and smiled roguishly. “Phew! Glad that’s over with. In all honesty, if one of you were to hurt the other, it probably wouldn’t be you. I mean, let’s face it, you’re dating my kid, kid.”

Before Peter could respond, you slipped back into the room, your hands propped up on your hips. “Really, dad? Are you trying to scare Peter off?”

Your father gave you a sheepish shrug. “It was worth a shot.”

“I can make my own decisions,” you sternly replied. “You don’t need to hover.”

As you sat back down into the chair beside Tony, he wound an arm over your shoulders. “You know, my dad did the exact opposite of hovering when I was your age. He was always too caught up with work and stuff—barely ever saw the guy. Most birthdays n’ holidays and whatnot, he was never around. I don’t know, I just… I don’t want to be like my dad.”

Your features softened with his admission, and you turned to rope him into a proper hug. 

When you pulled away, Peter nervously cleared his throat. “I, uh, for the record—I don’t think you can ever scare me off. Not even after going to the moon with a rocket up my ass.”

Tony glared at him, though there was a slight smile twitching at the corner of his lips. “Watch it, kid.”

“Sorry.”

[demonslayerunhinged]

Unhinged theory:

Sanemi has some form of anxiety

Let me explain:

We all know Sanemi is depressed but I think he has some kind of anxiety disorder too. The evidence is based on two categories:

Sleep Deprivation

Anxiety & Stress

Sleep Deprivation

For this point, I made the diagram below(yes, I have no personal life 😔).

The main symptom that supports the sleep deprivation theory is his bloodshot eyes. Sanemi's eyes are always bloodshot and he always has eyebags, even when he's in a relaxed state (you can tell because his 'eye dots' are larger) which could be an indication of lack of sleep.

His scraggly hair could also be a symptom because aside from Giyuu (who has depression) he's the only Hashira that doesn't seem to take care of his hair.

Another observation I made is that Sanemi is always leaning on something or hanging on something. He also puts his chin on his hand/palm, I do that when I'm tired too.

Or sometimes, he hangs on to his belt.

It seems like a stretch but he does these things often and he's the only character -that I know of- that does this. It could just be a character quirk though, due to his ghetto upbringing.

He's also the only one visibly tired after the training session between him, Obanai, and Muichiro.

I noticed in the first episode of the Hashira Training Arc right after the Infinity Fortress trial period expired and he ended up stabbing the floor, he immediately sat down. Why? Seems like a weird thing to do .

Then there's all the wobbling he does in the mansion while fighting the demons.

Anxiety & Stress

The evidence for this has to do more with his behavior and actions, especially his anger and impulsive decisions. Most people associate anxiety with fear which makes sense but anxiety can also manifest as anger too.

From the article linked below,

Anxiety causes anger for several reasons. At its peak, anxiety can cause overwhelming emotions and thoughts that make you lash out in an attempt to regain your sense of power in a stressful situation.

Anxiety as anger can be triggered by:

Flight-or-fight response - when he feels threatened

Emotional exhaustion - from his past trauma and loss

Perceived loss of control - encounters with Tanjiro(bestest boy ❤)

Cognitive distortions - his belief that he's a monster, that he has to shoulder things by himself etc.

The perceived loss of control I feel is a defining factor for the two drastic decisions he's known for:

Stabbing Nezuko – A Corps member has been harboring a demon. In his mind, the Corps has been infiltrated, and Tanjiro’s probably been feeding Nezuko people.

Trying to poke Genya’s eyes out – His brother has been eating demons. He probably fears that Genya will turn into a demon and then he will have to kill his only surviving family member. Or that Genya will die early if he continues eating demons and fighting.

When it comes to stress, he displays the following symptoms:

Irritability

Anger

Grumpiness

Always on edge

Restlessness

Impatience

His impatience with others and with himself, with him trying to get the mark as fast as possible also points to anxiousness. His white hair too! He hair probably turned prematurely grey due to environmental stress, taking care of his family, worrying about keeping them safe, his violent upbringing and probably lack of nutrients from food because he would most likely have his younger siblings eat all the food instead of him.

So everything is all tied together. His anxiety from past trauma contributes to his present anxiety which prevents him from getting proper sleep and increases his stress levels which leads to even more anxiety.

But how does he fight and stay so alert then?

I think his anxiety disorder is high functioning plus he takes a lot of matcha tea which has caffeine. His constant eating of ohagi probably also keeps him hyper too.

Another piece of evidence that solidifies my theory is the appearance of his eyes in the last chapters.

Probably had that sleep he hadn't gotten in years.

In Conclusion, our boy Sanemi has some form of Generalized Anxiety Disorder and is highly stressed due to lack of sleep which is why he acts and looks like a crackhead. He needs some sleep and possibly to get laid.

[moon1833]

“Ask me Tomorrow” Part 2!

“Everyone keeps saying I gave you that hickey, so I might as well, right?”

Contains: Female reader, 18+ characters, mentions of alcohol, mentions of weed, light dubious consent (reader and Megumi are high), high sex, can you tell I was high when I wrote this, possessive Megumi, kinda subby Megumi not really, switch reader

Part 1

Megumi did not ask to kiss you the next day. Or the day after. Instead, he had treated you exactly the same. A little aloof, a bit warmer than most of his friends, but friendly all the same.

You had fully accepted that he had only been drunk, trying to erase how intense his eyes had been, how desperate he had seemed just to lay his lips on yours, how fucking soft they felt, how his tongue poked at your bottom lip- okay maybe you hadn’t fully accepted shit.

You couldn’t look at him without flushing, panic creeping up your chest and embarrassment flooding your brain as you recalled how close you’d been to making a serious mistake. You weren’t sure how far you’d let Megumi go, as selfish as it was.

Training was becoming even more difficult, since the moment he made contact with your body you froze completely, creating too many openings for him to knock you down.

You were a strong fighter, especially with hand to hand combat. Usually, you were the one kicking Megumi around, but for the past four days you could count your victories on one hand.

You tried not to think about it as you eyed the bruises littering your body as you stepped out of the shower. The most recent was one on your neck from the blunt end of his sword, since today was “Weapon Wednesday” as Gojo named it.

Oddly, the mark looked strangely suggestive instead of painful, and revived many questions from your peers. Of course, Megumi did not make it better for himself when instead of letting you explain, he muttered an apology.

Nobara could not be convinced that he hadn’t given you a hickey. By default, Gojo had been up your ass the entire day, and you were one more comment away from breaking past his infinity and strangling him.

Stepping out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around you, you made your way to your dresser to pull out your pajamas before pulling them over yourself and texting Megumi that he was free to come over.

As you read his immediate "omw", you leaned under your bed to pull the lunchbox out. You took out the grinder and sighed at the empty baggy next to it.

Without stepping off the bed, you launch yourself across it, your stomach against the blankets as you reach for your bedside table. You’re too focused on stretching your fingers to reach it that you don’t hear your door open, grabbing the zip lock bag and not bothering to shut the drawer.

You sit up, turning around to grab the rolling papers when you see Megumi standing in your doorframe.

He’s red faced, and looking anywhere but at you. His expression confuses you, until you remember the position you had been in a moment ago, your ass on perfect display from where he was standing. You just hoped he hadn’t seen your panties from the edge of your shorts.

Or maybe you did, who knows.

“Are you just going to stand there?” You try to swallow the flush crawling up your neck.

He just sighs, locking the door behind him as he joins you. The sight of him on your bed brings you back to how his tongue tasted, and you begin to roll the joint a little faster.

Occupying yourself with the paper in between your fingertips, you miss Megumi’s eyes. They linger on your skilled hands, and he swallows thickly as his mind begins to drift.

“Light me?” You ask, mostly out of habit. You hold the joint between your thumb and pointer, your other hand cupping around the end to block out the wind from your opened window.

Megumi moves closer to you, and you find yourself unable to look anywhere but his face as he flicks the lighter on, even when you begin to inhale.

Finally, you break away when you pull the joint from your lips, letting the smoke flow down your lungs while you move to the window. You let the smoke roll out as you prop your elbows onto the sill.

You take another hit before turning your head back to Megumi, who hadn’t taken his eyes off your mouth since you placed the joint in between your lips.

He joins you by the window, eyeing how you shiver against the cool air in your thin t-shirt, that had spilled over your shoulder. As you pass the joint back and forth, his eyes stay longer and longer on your slightly exposed collarbone before flickering back up to your face.

By the time Megumi finishes off the roach, his eyes are half lidded and reddish, and you’re sure you look the same. The room feels fuzzier, and your bare legs feel soft against the blankets on your bed.

Suddenly, Megumi looks so warm, and you’ve been so cold. Somehow finding the willpower to not pounce on him, you take the joint back, which was now just a bit of burnt rolling paper, flicking it out the window before shutting it.

When you turn back to him, Megumi’s lying down on your bed, his gaze still attached to you as he shifts to his side. There’s a small grin on his lips, one that looks almost misplaced by the look in his eyes.

Against all better judgement, you lay down next to him, a little closer than you meant to. Almost immediately, he pushes a stray hair off of your face, and you can feel the warmth of his hands grazing your skin.

His thumb drops, stroking your cheek affectionately. You lean into him subconsciously, your eyes fluttering shut.

Megumi takes the opportunity to move closer to you, breaking the distance completely with a tentative kiss to your lips.

You were high, you knew the feeling well, but this was different. You felt your stomach drop to your core, a gasp escaping you. You pressed yourself closer to him as his tongue licked at your own, barely registering your hands running through his hair.

You weren’t sure if you had pushed yourself on top of him or if he had moved you there, but you had somehow gotten on top of his lap, your legs crossed behind him as you tried to get impossibly closer, the kiss growing sloppier.

Every movement felt as fluid as water, every touch reciprocated tenfold. You pulled Megumi down by his hair, dragging his lips to a spot on your neck. He whimpers against your ear, the sound so small you were sure you wouldn’t have heard it unless he was that close to you. He licks and sucks at your throat, his eager hands trailing up your back and pushing your hips into him.

A guttural moan escapes you when his hits a sensitive spot on your collar bone, and he thrusts upwards at the feeling. Your grip on his scalp increases, grounding yourself down onto him as his teeth graze your shoulder.

It occurs to you that he’s this worked up over marking you, and he’s mumbling against your skin. It’s quiet, and you almost don’t register what he’s saying.

“Everyone keeps saying I gave you that hickey, so I might as well, right?” His words are hot against your neck. “No one’s gonna question it now.”

Megumi has always been possessive over you, even when he was eleven years old and met you for the first time. He was possessive over you when you both entered your first year in Jujitsu High, and he continues to be possessive over you as adults.

But, this was different. His hands didn’t have an ounce of hesitation as they crept up your shirt, fingers tracing the material of your bra. His lips are bruised, but he cannot stop kissing your skin.

You pull your shirt off, your hair falling across your chest in one smooth motion. His eyes skip to your breasts, and his hands follow.

“Can’t wait anymore.” He mutters, his hold gentle on your waist as he lays you down. Your legs cross behind his back, and he groans at the friction.

You pull his own top over his head before reattaching your lips to his as his hands travel down your sides. You barely notice when he begins to tug your shorts off your legs, too preoccupied with how firm his chest feels.

It’s only when his finger tips graze the slick that’s gathered between your lips that you register the cold air now hitting your skin. His touches are gentle, exploring an area he had only dreamed of feeling before.

You buck your hips, trying to fuck yourself against his hand in desperation. Megumi watches your body move in mesmerization, rolling his fingertips around your clit.

The pleasure is instantaneous, and it’s powerful, a moan sounding all too similar to his name ripping through your throat.

Your eyes are squeezed shut, so you don’t see exactly how much your noises affect him. His dick twitches in his pants, and they’ve been much too tight for him for too long.

His fingers don’t stop circling your clit, but he traces your entrance with his other hand, watching how they glisten with your wetness.

You kiss him again as he drags his ring finger in and out of you, and your orgasm builds quickly. Every stroke of pleasure feels more intense than anything you’ve felt before, and it was too much as you came around Megumi’s fingers.

Subconsciously, your nails dug into his shoulders as you bit into his bicep to keep your moans as quiet as possible. He watched your reactions closely, nearly cumming in his pants at the feeling of your teeth grazing his skin.

Megumi was ripping his pants off before he even realized, ignoring the sound of his boxers tearing slightly as he desperately tried to rid them from his thighs.

You turn him over before he can climb over you again, placing yourself just above his painfully hard looking dick before kissing his forehead rather tenderly.

In false confidence, you tried to sink down on him immediately, but you hardly got halfway before shuddering out a whimper. You expected a cocky expression on Megumi’s face, but when you looked down at him, his eye were squeezed shut in pleasure, and his bottom lip was between his teeth.

Motivated to sink further onto his cock, you didn’t stop until you could feel his thighs under yours, lavishing in his slightly pathetic attempts to keep quiet.

His hands are gripping your waist, using a little more force than he’s shown before. You wiggle your hips, squirming impatiently. His fingers curl around you even tighter, and you realized he’s keeping you in place so you can’t move.

“Aw ‘Gumi, what is it?” You tilt your head to the side. “Afraid you might cum too quick?”

“Yes.” He practically squeaks, and you can feel him twitch inside of you.

You giggle in response, throwing your head back and resting your hands on his bare shoulders. There’s a teasing smile on your face, as if you aren’t stuffed all the way into your stomach with his dick, and when he finally opens his eyes he takes notice of it.

In your position, he can see your perfect breasts practically glowing in the soft lighting of your bedroom, dark hickies littering up the valley of skin between them, trailing around your collarbone and around your neck. Something settles deep in his chest and he’s thrusting up into you before he can think.

Your body jiggles, and your mouth twitches open in shock. Your fingernails dig into his skin as he repeatedly rolls his hips into you, each stroke harsher than the last.

You hide your face in the crook of his neck, the sound of skin slapping almost as loud as the sounds escaping you.

Attempting to regain some type of control, you tug at his hair as you force your upper body upwards, meeting his thrust halfway. Megumi chokes, hips stuttering as his eyes widen.

You push his chest down, bouncing yourself on his dick. It doesn’t take much longer until he’s gasping for air, his own orgasm stumbling towards him it without much warning.

“Fuck, I’m gonna-” You clamp down impossibly harder on him.

“Cum inside.” You borderline command, dragging his head to your level to kiss him as he does. He moans loud into your mouth, his hair sticking to your forehead as he comes down from his high.

Your arms are wrapped around his neck, and your noses are touching. His rubs small circles into your back as you both attempt to catch your breath, clinging on to each other tightly.

His head dips down to your shoulder, planting small kisses there and sucking on the skin one last time for good measure.

You almost laugh at his antics, but exhaustion creeps up to you too quickly. Megumi lifts you off of him, eyes lingering on how his cum spills out of you before laying you down on your bed.

He was going to prepare a shower for you, but when he came back with a towel, you were fast asleep, cuddled under your favorite blanket. He chuckles, doing his best to clean you off before sliding into bed with you, drifting off with an arm around your waist.

[cloudss-space]

Emo boy

( killer chat ) emo boy ronin x hot topic worker reader ... fluff ...

author note: personally, not my fav, but i did want to write something involving "emo boy ronin" so, this is my attempt on that. i hope that you all enjoy !! trigger warning: - slight none

You step into the bright fluorescent light of Hot Topic, the air thick with the scent of synthetic leather, stale incense, and overpriced vanilla-scented candles. The walls are covered in band posters, slashed denim jackets, and the eerie glow of neon skulls. The clock in the corner ticks, its hands crawling, reluctant to even whisper the passage of time.

The outside world seems to bleed into the space. You can hear the hum of the pavement through the glass door and feel the restless heat pressing against the window. But inside, there is nothing but this cocoon of plastic and metal. Customers come in droves, their faces as pale as ghosts. Each one is a shadow passing through, drawn by the allure of rebellion. They skim the shelves, their fingers brushing across black fabric and metal, never pausing long enough to care. No one stays long enough to see the rot beneath the surface, the decay festering in the corners.

You lean against the counter, staring intently at the skull rings and spiked chokers. There's a dread in the air, a silence that is too loud. The people pass by you like ghosts, nothing more than moving shapes that dissolve into the dark corners of this purgatory. You catch glimpses of their empty, hollow eyes, filled with the deadness that matches your own. They flicker and die as quickly as they ignite.

A shrill sound slices through the air. The register dings as yet another transaction is made, yet another meaningless purchase. You feel the weight of time wasted as you hold the small sliver of paper in your hand. Another moment lost. You shove it into the drawer, the metal clattering like a corpse hitting the floor.

A couple approaches the counter. The girl is wearing a tight T-shirt that shows off her arms, which hang limp by her sides. Her eyes are shadowed, her makeup smeared like ash from a dying fire. The boy beside her wears chains so heavy they could drag him into the underworld. They argue about which pair of boots would fit better, but you don't care. You want to scream at them, tell them how insignificant their choices are in the grand scheme of nothingness. But you don't. You watch them. Their breaths rise and fall like the dull thud of a drumbeat.

As they leave, you look at the clock. It hasn't moved. The seconds are frozen in place, refusing to shift. You are stuck in this place, trapped in a loop of tedious moments that stretch and stretch into infinity. The light flickers overhead, casting jagged shadows across the room like a sickening pulse. It makes you shiver. You want to scream. But you won't.

A shriek of feedback tears through the speakers. You flinch at the noise scraping against your mind, gnawing at the edges of your sanity. Another band. Another song. The lyrics are blood-soaked, dripping from the speakers like a warning you can't decipher. It's all noise, all hollow sound with no meaning. It fills the void, but only makes it worse.

Then, a pair of black boots clunk against the floor and your attention is drawn to them. Another customer. Another shadow. She picks at her fingernails, as if trying to find the truth in the cracks of her skin. She doesn't look at you, but you see her out of the corner of your eye. The drag of her steps, the subtle sway of her body, as though she's been hollowed out from the inside, searching for something she'll never find. You watch her. She disappears into the dark, leaving nothing behind but a whiff of her perfume—a cloying scent of decay.

The silence returns. It's a suffocating kind of quiet, the kind that's too thick to breathe in. You don't know how long it's been since anyone spoke. The store is empty, just one person in the corner, hunched over a display of wristbands. They move slowly, like a ghost in a dream, hands trailing over the leather, never touching anything. They're waiting for something to happen, something to break the silence. But nothing happens. Seconds tick by.

The overhead lights buzz again, like flies caught in a spider's web. You can hear your own breath in the hollow space, your pulse thrumming in your veins like a drum that refuses to slow down. You glance at the clock. There is no movement. The minutes are frozen in time, caught in the jaws of some endless, agonising moment. You wonder if the world outside still exists, or if it has crumbled to dust.

Your fingers curl into fists, but they shake. Your chest constricts as if the air itself is thickening, making it hard to breathe. You feel the weight of your own existence pressing down on you. This place, this job, is a prison, a cage built from nothing but endless hours of waiting for something that never comes. You could scream, you could tear at your skin, but it wouldn't matter. The walls will not move. The clock doesn't tick any faster.

The next customer enters, a young man with a lip piercing and a look of quiet despair. His eyes are dark, filled with something you can't name, and for a moment, you wonder if he sees it too. You carry the same emptiness, the same weight of something unspoken. But he moves on, picks up a t-shirt and shuffles to the counter, and you are certain he can feel the same hollow echo you do. If he knows this place is just a veil, a mask over the abyss.

He hands you the shirt, and you take it, instantly recognising the fabric as ash. It's black, as expected. It's always black. You ring it up, the register making its empty noise. The drawer opens with a squeal, and you think about how long it's been since you've felt anything other than numb.

When he leaves, the door chimes as he departs, and you watch the last of the light fade. The shadows grow, stretching across the room and swallowing the colour whole. The walls close in on you, but you stay still, frozen in place, as the silence grows louder and louder until it engulfs you.

The clock ticks once more. Another second gone. Another moment slipping through your fingers. You are waiting for something to change, or you have forgotten what it feels like to move. The day stretches on. The world beyond the glass remains a distant memory.

Time. It is a slow, dripping wound that won't heal.

The door chimes again, a soft clang, barely a whisper in the dense air. A boy steps in. He's the kind of boy who doesn't walk, he drifts—like a shadow made flesh, fading in and out of existence with each step he takes. His skinny jeans hug his legs so tightly they almost appear to be painted on, dark denim faded by too many hours spent in the same empty room. His boots click with a muted tap against the floor, the only sound in the suffocating stillness.

His hair falls over his face like a dark curtain, long and tangled, reaching down to his shoulders. It's the kind of hair that's perpetually windblown, yet static, as though he's caught in some endless storm of his own making. The bangs fall in uneven lines, framing his face in a way that looks deliberate, as though he's hiding from the world—or maybe just hiding from himself.

The shirt he wears is an MCR tee. The black fabric bears the logo like a badge of honour, like a secret carved into his skin. You've seen that shirt a thousand times, but it looks different on him. He wears it like a shroud, like it shields him from the world that doesn't care. The world has already eaten him alive and left nothing but the remnants of someone who used to be. His eyes are sunken, deep shadows under them, like he hasn't slept in weeks, hasn't bothered to wipe away the tracks of whatever sadness or rage he carries.

The dark streaks of make-up on his face blend into his pale skin. The way it clings to him is almost ritualistic, as though he's painted the darkness on, drawn it across his features to summon something, to become something else—something dead. It's wrong, but it's perfect. You feel an inexplicable pull toward him, an attraction you can't quite place. It's not the makeup, the dark circles or the clothes. It's the way he moves—or doesn't move. He's there, but not there. His existence seems to fade from the edges of reality.

He stares at the shelves. His gaze is unfocused. He sees something beyond the merchandise. His hands twitch at his sides, fingers brushing the air as though reaching for something just out of reach. You are certain that he is not aware of you watching him, nor does he notice the world around him. He is living in his own private hell, removed from everything, just like you.

Your pulse accelerates, a strange heat spreading through your body. You can't stop looking at him. His stillness, the haunted way he walks, the dark aura that seems to swirl around him like a storm cloud, draws you in. It's a magnetic pull. It's not just about his looks. It's darker, it's dangerous, like the gravity of a black hole. You can feel it in the air, suffocating, drawing everything toward him, sucking you in.

He picks up a chain from a nearby rack, turning it in his fingers. The links of the chain glint in the light, but he is not at all delicate. The way he handles it, casually, as if it's an afterthought, only makes him more intriguing. His lips are set in a thin, tired line, not quite a frown, not quite a smirk, but both, and it's clear he's seen too many broken things, too many things left unsaid.

The air thickens around him. You could almost reach out and touch the space where he stands, where everything about him feels alive, but it doesn't feel like he's alive—not really. His pulse is distant, like it's coming from far away, a heartbeat that's too slow, too deep, too alien to be real. You think you see him shiver, but it's gone before you can confirm it. He doesn't shiver. He doesn't feel.

But he's beautiful. There's a tragedy in him, an ache in your chest you didn't feel before he walked in. He's broken in a way that draws you in, a puzzle that you don't want to solve but can't look away from. You recognise his pain, even without the details. The emptiness in him mirrors the emptiness in you, a dark reflection of the same hollow space that never quite fills.

He turns toward the counter and sees you. His eyes meet yours—sunken and dark, like the bruises of a life lived too close to the edge. There's a fleeting glimpse of recognition in his eyes, but it's fleeting and he quickly looks away. His lips part slightly, and for a heartbeat, you're sure he's going to say something.

But he doesn't say anything. He just looks at you, his gaze heavy, weighing you down like a thousand unspoken thoughts pressing against your chest. His eyes are deep pools of sorrow, but they still find a way to pierce you, to draw you closer. When he doesn't speak, you feel a pang of disappointment. But then, you realise, maybe it's better this way. The silence between you is not just a lack of words, but a shared understanding, a communication without words.

He walks up to the counter, slowly, like he's been frozen in time and is only just starting to thaw. You remain still. You are trapped in the moment, caught in the way the air seems to bend around him. His hand reaches for his wallet, pulling it out with a fluid motion, the dark leather slipping through his fingers like the night itself. You feel his presence all around you, suffocating and intoxicating, like a perfume you can't quite name.

The register dings again, but this time the noise barely cuts through the fog between you. You ring up his purchase mechanically, your hands moving on their own, but your mind is elsewhere—lost in the depth of his eyes, in the hollow of his expression, in the way he stands there, silent, waiting for something that doesn't come.

When he finally leaves, the air itself seems to shift, the space around you hollowed out in his absence. The door chimes again as he vanishes into the world, slipping away like a ghost that was never really there. You're left standing at the counter, your heart thudding in your chest, and you wonder if you'll ever see him again, or if he was just a figment of your own aching mind.

The clock ticks on, ignoring him. But you're not the same. Something inside you has shifted. The air feels heavier, charged with something you can't name. And for the first time today, you realise you've been holding your breath.

The next day is a long, dark road. The store feels the same: suffocating in its fluorescent glow, the walls closing in on you. The silence settles like dust in the corners, the shelves full of meaningless trinkets that mock your restless mind. But even in this heavy, stagnant air, there's something different.

You feel a pull, a hum in the air that you can't quite name. Your thoughts drift back to him, that boy with the long hair and the hollow stare, his presence like a spectre that lingers in the edges of your mind. You are certain that he will return today, that that strange pull will bring him back through the door, or that he was just a dream—one you couldn't wake from.

And then, the door chimes again.

It's soft at first, like a whisper in the stillness, but it's unmistakable. You turn your head, your breath catching in your chest. There he is. He's the same boy, stepping into the store like he belongs there, like he's made of the same air and shadows. His long black hair hangs over his face, but today, there's a subtle difference. His eyes aren't hidden behind his bangs. His eyes are dark and sunken, but there's something else in them now. A flicker. A spark. It's as if you can see recognition in them.

He doesn't look around like last time. He's more focused now, his gaze sweeping over the shelves with a slow intensity, as though he's searching for something only he understands. His steps are quiet, deliberate, as if he's trying to blend into the shadows, yet you can't help but notice him. He stands out in this sea of monotony, in this place full of faces that barely register.

His eyes meet yours, and the world stops for a moment. Your breath catches in your throat, the air thickening between you. His gaze is no longer hollow or distant, but searching. It's as if he's found what he was looking for.

He strides purposefully towards the counter, his steps confident and determined. He's different today. More alive. But still carrying that same weight of something unsaid. His face is pale and his dark circles under his eyes are still there, but today he has more to him. It's as if a slow-burning ember lies behind the darkness, its soft glow almost visible on closer inspection. He doesn't speak immediately, but you can feel the words hanging in the air between you.

You find yourself waiting, your heart pounding a little harder than it should. There's no reason for it. Nothing has changed, except the way your pulse quickens at the sight of him. You tell yourself to breathe, to stay focused, but your mind won't stop racing.

And then, he speaks.

It's just one word, but it cuts through the air, slicing through the tension that has built between you. "Hey," he says, his voice low and almost drowned out by the silence of the store. But his voice is there. It's real. When he says it, you can feel the weight of his gaze shift, settling on you like a weight on your chest.

"Hey," you say, your voice barely louder than his. There's a pause, and then you wait, ready for him to say something more—to ask you something, or maybe even speak the words that have been hanging between you since yesterday. But he just stands there. His hands are still at his sides, fingers curling slightly as if fighting the urge to reach out, to touch something, to feel something.

The silence that follows is strangely comforting. It's not awkward, not in the usual sense of silence. It's as if you and he are both suspended in the same moment, trapped in a world that doesn't make sense, where time moves like molasses, yet here, with him, it seems to have stopped altogether.

He picks something off the rack – a black hoodie this time – and runs his fingers over the soft fabric. His eyes never leave the clothing, but you can see the faintest trace of something darker behind them. It's as if he's trying to bury himself in the fabric, to lose himself in the soft, dark embrace of it, like it'll shield him from the world outside.

You want to ask him what brought him back, but you don't. The question feels too heavy, too intrusive. Instead, you watch him, watching the way he moves with such quiet precision, his body almost too still, like he's afraid of being seen. There's a sadness in him, one you know you could get lost in if you're not careful. You want to fall into that darkness with him, to reach out and pull him closer to you, but you stay silent.

He places the hoodie on the counter and you ring it up without a word, the soft hum of the register filling the silence. Your fingers briefly brush against his as you hand him the receipt, and for a second, it's like the world shifts just slightly, just enough for you to feel something electric pass between you. You don't know if he felt it, but you did. The tension in the air grows thicker, heavier, but you don't mind it. It feels right.

He doesn't say goodbye. He doesn't need to. He just turns, his movements slow and deliberate, and walks out the door, leaving behind that same stillness, that same lingering feeling that refuses to leave. The door chime echoes in your mind long after he's gone, and you find yourself standing there, staring at the spot where he was.

He will return. When he returns, it will be different. Something is changing, something you can't control.

The days blend into each other, indistinguishable from one another, yet every time the door chimes and he steps in, everything sharpens, everything changes. He's back again, and again, and again—like a restless ghost that can't quite leave, like he's tethered to this place, or maybe to you. The days blur together in this suffocating haze, but his presence makes every second stretch out, bending the hours into something that only exists in the quiet space between you.

Each time he walks through the door, it's like a spark igniting in the air. His eyes meet yours with that same haunting stare, but this time, it's less distant, less lost. There's more now, something unspoken but understood, like an unbroken thread weaving between the two of you. The pull grows stronger with each visit, a gravitational force you can't resist.

He starts off barely saying a word, just the softest "hey" that floats through the air like a secret. But with each encounter, the silence stretches just a little less. He starts to linger, standing by the shelves for a bit longer, as if giving you time to take him in, to get used to the way he moves, the way he seems to blur the line between presence and absence.

Then, one day, it happens. He's standing near the band tees again, running his fingers over the fabric as if trying to decide which piece of darkness he'll drape over himself today. You watch him, your breath catching as you notice the subtle shifts in his demeanour—the way his shoulders relax just a fraction when he notices you looking, how his gaze lingers for a fraction longer than usual.

"Do you think… they'll ever come back?" His voice breaks through the silence, low and almost tentative, as if he's unsure whether you'll answer or not. It's a simple question, but the weight behind it makes your chest tighten. They — the bands, the ones whose shirts are hanging on the racks, their names etched in faded ink on fabric that's been worn down by years of rebellion.

You blink, not quite prepared for this small talk, but your mouth opens on its own. "Maybe," you reply. "But I think it's the kind of thing that doesn't really come back, you know? They're part of a time, and that time's already passed." You're amazed to be talking to this boy who's always seemed like a phantom, and yet, here you are, standing in the middle of this empty store, speaking about something as mundane as old band shirts.

He nods slowly, his lips curving into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. It's so subtle that for a moment, you wonder if you imagined it, but it's there. It's just the slightest hint of something softer, something human. And then you realise: You're falling for him.

It's strange, this attraction. It's an odd sensation, this yearning you feel for him, this hunger that defies logic. It's not just about his looks, though he's undeniably attractive in that brooding, raw way that makes you want to reach out and heal him, to uncover the secrets behind those dark eyes. It's not just about the way he wears his pain, though that's part of it, too. It's the way he exists, simultaneously here and not here, an enigma you can't unravel and a mystery you don't want to solve.

He returns time and time again, and the attraction grows. It's like a fire growing inside you, stoked by each new conversation, each new visit. His eyes linger on you, his posture shifts when he speaks to you, as though you're the only one in the room that matters to him. Look at him when he thinks you're not looking. See the brief flicker of desire beneath the exhaustion, the darkness, the weariness in his expression.

The small talk continues, each encounter slightly different from the last. He talks about the weather, his favourite bands, how tired he is, how the world outside feels heavier with each passing day. In return, you offer him pieces of yourself: small, fragile fragments of who you are. You tell him about your favourite songs, the books you're reading, the slow, dull ache of working here day after day. The conversations feel effortless, as though they're not just casual exchanges, but something more – something intimate, something shared in the quiet spaces where neither of you says what you truly mean.

Sometimes, he'll come in and barely speak. He'll stand there, leaning against the counter, staring into the distance, waiting for something he can't even define. In those moments, you will find yourself standing beside him, offering him a quiet kind of company, the kind that is needed but never asked for. You don't talk; you exist next to him, and somehow, that's enough.

His presence is now an integral part of your routine, something you actively look forward to. You wait for the moment when he'll walk through the door, when the store will go still and the world will narrow to just the two of you in this small, dimly lit space. With every visit and every word exchanged, your connection deepens, pulling you both closer together like two pieces of a puzzle that don't quite fit but always belong together.

You know that you're not just waiting for him anymore—you're craving him. The pull is undeniable; your heart skips when he enters the room and your breath catches when his eyes meet yours. There's no denying it now.

He's more than just a boy who comes into the store. He's become a part of your days and your thoughts. You feel like he belongs here just as much as you do. With each visit, with every word, that strange, intoxicating attraction grows deeper, more uncontainable, until you realise it will always be enough.

It's late afternoon. The dimming light outside casts long shadows into the store. The usual hum of fluorescent lights overhead is punctuated by the soft tapping of a keyboard in the back, but the store feels emptier today. It feels suspended, as though time has slowed just for you, just for him. It's one of those quiet days where you almost forget how long you've been here, how many hours have passed since you first arrived this morning. But then the door chimes, and everything shifts.

He strides in, as if the air itself revolves around him, and the room instantly takes on a weighty sense of his presence. Ronin. You don't know why that name feels like it belongs to him, but it does. His long hair falls in its usual curtain, but today, there's a hint of something new in his demeanour—a slight looseness to his posture, like he's letting go of whatever invisible weight he's been carrying around for so long.

He glances around, his eyes flicking over the racks, but always find their way back to you. For a moment, neither of you says anything. The silence is familiar, but different today. There's something more to it, as if it's begging to be said. His gaze is a little softer than usual, like he's waiting for something.

You smile at him, your smile small and uncertain, and your pulse starts to race. He notices. His lips quirk slightly, not quite a smile, but enough to show that he sees you, sees the way your body tenses just slightly when his eyes meet yours. Then, finally, he speaks, his voice solid and real.

"Ronin," he says, and the name is like a breath, sharp and heavy, almost foreign on his lips but somehow fitting, like he's just stepped out of the shadows and into the light for the first time. He says it quietly, but there's something almost final about it, like he's been carrying that name around for longer than you can imagine, like it's been locked away inside of him, and now, he's giving it to you. Ronin. The name hangs between you like a promise, like a key to something deeper.

You blink, and the weight of it hits you. Ronin. You repeat the name in your head, letting it settle there, trying to hold onto it, trying to make sense of why it feels so important. You open your mouth to speak, but the words get caught in your throat for a moment, and the air seems to thicken around you, thick with everything unsaid, everything that's building between you.

"Ronin," you repeat, testing it out, and as you say it, you watch his face carefully. His eyes flicker, a brief, imperceptible softening, a pulling back just a little. It's a subtle change, but it's undeniable. You are compelled to explore the nature of this phenomenon.

"That's... that's your name?" You don't know why you feel the need to ask, but the question slips out before you can stop it. You feel like you're stepping into unknown territory, like you're treading carefully on the edge of something that could break open if you push too hard.

He nods, his expression unreadable, but there's a clear sense of melancholy in his demeanour. His name and identity have clearly been a burden for him to bear, something he hasn't figured out how to untangle. "Yeah," he says, his voice quieter this time, more drawn out. "I guess I never really got to tell you, did I?"

There's a flicker in his eyes—regret, maybe, or exhaustion, or both. You want to ask him more about the name, about him, but you don't. Instead, you simply nod, acknowledging the trust he's given you, this small piece of him he's just handed over.

"Nice to finally know," you say, and there's a strange feeling behind those words—like you're stepping into something much deeper than a simple conversation, like this moment is the start of something neither of you quite understands yet.

Ronin doesn't say anything, but the way he looks at you changes slightly. The air between you is no longer just heavy with silence, but with something else — something unspoken. His gaze is deeper now, revealing something personal and raw. By telling you his name, he's invited you into a part of him he's kept hidden for so long.

He stands a little taller, but his gaze never leaves yours. "I didn't think you'd even care," he says, his voice low and almost a murmur, as if the confession itself is more vulnerable than anything else he could say. "But I guess... I don't know. I guess I wanted you to know." The words hang in the air between you, fragile, as if they're teetering on the edge of something bigger, something more.

Your heart beats faster now, not just from the tension in the room, but from the way the world seems to have narrowed down to just him and you, standing here, in this moment. The store feels farther away, as though the walls have blurred into the background, leaving only his name, his presence, his eyes locked with yours.

"I care," you say firmly, not giving it much thought, the truth just flowing out of you, quiet but certain. You don't know why those words come so easily, why it feels right to say them. But it does. When you say them, you can see him relax just a little bit; the tension in his shoulders eases for the first time since he walked in.

For a long moment, there's only the quiet between you, but it's no longer uncomfortable. It's not empty. It's full of possibilities, full of questions and answers waiting to be uncovered. You both stand there, the silence not oppressive but expectant, and you realise, with a sinking certainty, that this moment, this exchange, is just the beginning of something neither of you can run from.

The door chimes and you snap back to reality. He leaves, the soft click of his boots against the floor marking the end of another visit. But before he leaves, he nods slightly, and for the first time, you see the faintest, most genuine smile curl at the corners of his lips.

"See you," he says, his voice low and unambiguous. It is an invitation, a promise that you will meet again.

And with that, he's gone, leaving only the lingering echo of his name hanging in the air, a name you now own, a name that feels like it belongs to you as much as it belongs to him.

The days stretch and unfold, as if the store itself has become part of some slow-moving dream. Ronin keeps coming back, and with every visit, something shifts. At first, it was just the smallest exchanges – barely more than a nod or a quick word about a band, or a flicker of something darker, something deeper in his gaze that made your heart flutter. Now, as the days blur into one another, the distance between you both seems to shrink. Every time he steps into the store, the walls close in, making it just the two of you, standing in this strange, suspended space.

His visits have a rhythm of their own. He doesn't come in every day, but when he does, it's as if the world slows down for a few moments, the time around you bending to accommodate his presence. He lingers longer now, his eyes scanning the shelves but always coming back to you. The silence between you has softened; it is no longer filled with tension, but with a quiet kind of understanding.

It starts with small talk—casual, throwaway comments that don't mean much. But the way he says them, the way he lets his guard down just a little more each time, makes you feel like you're inching closer to something important. One day, he comes in and starts talking about a new album he's been listening to. The conversation is simple at first, just the usual banter—"Have you heard it? It's pretty good. You'd probably like it." But then, his voice drops just a little, like he's letting you in on a secret, and you find yourself leaning in to listen more closely.

"Yeah, I get that it's not everyone's thing," he says, his voice almost a whisper, "but there's something about it... It makes me feel less alone, you know?"

You nod, the words resonating with you. You don't need to explain it—he already understands, like he knows exactly what you mean. It's strange, this quiet bond growing between you, something unsaid but so obvious that it almost feels like an echo of your own thoughts.

The next time he comes in, it's the same—more small talk, more shared silence between the lines of conversation. But there's something different this time. There's a charge in the way he looks at you and the way his words hover between you. It's as if there's more he's not saying.

"Do you get off soon?" he asks one afternoon, his voice soft but laced with curiosity. It's the first time he's ever asked anything like that—something personal, something that makes you feel like maybe he's starting to see you as more than just a face behind the counter.

"Yeah, in about an hour," you answer, the words almost sounding foreign on your tongue. You hadn't realised how much you were looking forward to answering that question until the words left your lips. His question carries weight, his manner inviting you to share more.

He looks at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable, then tilts his head slightly, as if weighing something. There's a pause, a quiet heartbeat of time, before he speaks again. "Let's grab coffee," he says, his voice tentative. He's unsure how you'll react, afraid of pushing too far.

Your heart stutters in your chest, your mind racing. You want to say yes, you want to reach out and accept his offer, but the words get stuck somewhere between your throat and your lips. You feel a strange pull between you, a growing desire to get closer to him, and yet the fear of what that might mean keeps you frozen in place.

Ronin doesn't wait. Instead, he reaches into his pocket, his fingers brushing against something hidden there. His movements are slow and deliberate, as if he's giving you time to catch up, to process. He pulls out his phone and for a moment, the world narrows to this one simple action. He unlocks it, then turns it toward you, the screen glowing with his number ready and waiting.

"I don't know," he says confidently, a hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "I'll give you my number. That way you don't have to think about it." His voice is quiet, but steady, offering you the chance to decide without pressure or expectation.

You stare at the screen, unsure, your heart pounding, and then you look up at him and see it—the faintest glimmer of something in his eyes, something vulnerable but also confident. He's waiting.

Everything else fades away for just a second. The racks of clothing, the constant hum of the store, the people who pass by without ever noticing you—it all disappears. At this moment, he is the only thing that matters. He is standing in front of you, offering you a piece of himself. You can feel your breath catch in your throat. Everything feels like it's hanging by a thread.

Without hesitation, you seize his phone, your fingers barely grazing his. The moment is suspended in the quiet space between you. You type your number in quickly, almost clumsily, and when you hand the phone back to him, you both know it's more than just numbers being exchanged. It's a door opening just a crack, but enough to let something new, something unspoken, begin to grow.

"I'll text you," you say, and the words feel strange, almost too forward, but they're real. You both know they are.

Ronin looks at you, his eyes softening just a little. There's a flicker of hope, or maybe just curiosity, in the way he gazes at you. "Good," he replies, voice steady, but there's something unspoken in the way he says it, something that feels like the beginning of something neither of you can control.

He slips his phone back into his pocket and nods slowly, almost imperceptibly. "See you later," he says, and this time, it doesn't feel like goodbye. It feels like the start of something new.

As he walks out, you can feel it – the shift, the undeniable change in the air. You're not sure where this is going, but you know, deep down, that this is just the beginning.

The coffee date is unforgettable; its warmth lingers long after it's over, and the cold night air is no match for its radiant warmth. The café was small and intimate, making the world outside feel distant and irrelevant. The conversations flowed easily, as if you had always known each other, as though the silences between words didn't matter, because the space between you was filled with something unspoken, something electric. You talked about music, life, those spaces that neither of you could quite fill, and in those exchanges, you felt more connected than you ever thought possible.

As the evening wound to a close and the last sip of coffee warmed you from the inside out, you both knew it wasn't really the end. Not yet. The night was still young, and Ronin wasn't in a hurry to go anywhere.

"I'll walk you home," he says, his voice low and casual, but there's something underneath it—an invitation that carries more weight than the words themselves.

You don't hesitate, nodding immediately. The air between you electric with anticipation. You are acutely aware of him, his presence filling the space around you, drawing you in without a word or touch. It's just him – Ronin, with his worn MCR shirt, his long, unruly hair, his steady gaze – and you, both moving through the darkening streets like two souls tethered together by something neither of you can fully explain.

The walk is quiet at first. The world seems to be holding its breath, watching the two of you, waiting for something to happen. The only sounds are the crunch of your footsteps on the pavement, the distant hum of cars, and the occasional rustle of the wind. Ronin glances at you, his eyes meeting yours, and there's a quiet understanding between you—a recognition that tonight is different, that something is shifting, something that neither of you can stop.

You walk in step with each other, neither of you rushing or eager to break the silence, because in this quiet, something feels more real than anything else. His presence is close, his hand just a hair's breadth away from yours, and every movement feels amplified, as if the world has shrunk down to this moment.

As you approach your building, the streets become darker, the lights of the city receding into the distance, yet the warmth of his proximity propels you forward. When you finally reach the corner by your building, you stop, and so does he. The air between you both is charged, the tension that's been building between you since the moment you met is palpable. It's as if everything has led up to this precise moment. His eyes search yours, his breath catches, his lips part as if he's about to say something, but he doesn't.

Instead, he steps closer, closing the distance until he's standing just a breath away. His gaze flickers down to your lips, and you feel the pull of it, the magnetic force drawing you in closer. It's as if the rest of the world disappears, leaving just him and this moment.

"Can I kiss you?" he asks, his voice soft and almost a whisper, as if he's afraid of pushing too far, afraid of scaring you off. The way he asks the question is strange. There's no force in it, no urgency. It's just a gentle curiosity, as if he's asking for permission to cross an invisible line between you.

You hesitate, your heart beating faster. You could say no, you could pull away, but you don't. Something in you, the part of you that's been quietly aching for him, wants to feel the weight of his lips against yours, wants to know what that spark between you feels like when it ignites. You feel a tension in your chest, almost unbearable, and when you look up at him again, his eyes are full of raw, open emotion that you can't refuse.

Instead, you answer him with the smallest, most uncertain nod.

And that's all he needs.

He moves in slowly, his hand reaching up to gently cup your cheek, his touch warm against your skin. His breath brushes over your lips, and for a moment, the entire world seems to still. You can feel his pulse, feel his heart racing in sync with your own, and then, without another word, his lips finally meet yours.

It's soft at first, tentative, as if he's waiting for you to pull back, to change your mind, but when you don't, when you lean into him just a little, the kiss deepens. It's slow and deliberate, as if he's savoring every moment and your connection. His lips are warm, his breath mingling with yours, and you can taste the remnants of coffee on his mouth, the bitterness now mixed with something sweeter.

The world narrows to just the two of you, standing on the edge of your building, lost in this kiss. You feel your heart race, feel the heat spreading through your chest, down to your fingertips, as if the entire universe has condensed into this one, perfect moment. His hand slides around to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss, and you let yourself fall into it, into him.

When he pulls away, it's slow, his forehead against yours, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. You remain silent, standing close together, as if you don't know how to move or break the spell.

"That was...," you begin, but the words trail off. You are unsure of what to say, unsure of what any of it means.

"Yeah," Ronin says confidently, his voice low and rough, "It was." He doesn't say more, the unspoken understanding between you two clear in the air. He doesn't pull away immediately, and neither do you. You stay there, like time has stopped, holding onto this fragile, beautiful moment.

Then, he leans back, his fingers brushing your hand one last time, his eyes lingering on yours with something unreadable, something soft. "Goodnight, [Your Name]," he says, his voice quieter now, tinged with sincerity that sends a shiver down your spine.

"Goodnight," you reply, though you're not sure how you're still standing, how you haven't melted into him completely. You do, your feet feeling almost unsteady as he steps back, slowly disappearing into the night, leaving you standing there, heart pounding, lips tingling with the taste of him.

The door to your building looms ahead, but you don't move. You stand, the echo of his kiss still humming through you, knowing that everything has changed. This wasn't just a kiss. It was a promise. A beginning.

[marvelskies1969]

Infinity

Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader / Loki x Fem!Reader

Premise: Y/N Rogers was sent away as a child, her powers deemed dangerous. After years of brief summers with Steve and Bucky, she returns for good when their mother dies—just as war begins.

Warnings/content: slight angst, brief mention of death/dying, jealousy, fluff, swearing, unstable parental relationships, follows the plot of the MCU timeline, with small changes.

As her abilities awaken, she draws the attention of Loki, the trickster god, and faces growing fear from those around her. Caught between destiny, war, and forbidden ties, Y/N must decide who she truly is—and who she’s willing to fight for.

[Masterlist]

[Part 4]

Chapter 108

Fractured Bonds

The air was heavy as they approached the base in Siberia, the tension between them momentarily put aside in favor of the greater mission. The abandoned facility loomed ahead, shadows stretching across the snow-dusted ground as Steve, Y/N, and Bucky led the way.

Tony arrived moments later, the heavy double doors slamming open and making them all flinch.

"At ease, soldiers. I'm not here for you—yet," he said dryly, gesturing casually toward Bucky’s raised gun, Steve’s shield at the ready, and the crackling swirl of green and red energy dancing around Y/N’s fingers. His gaze landed on her last, softening the tension in his face just enough for her to lower Bucky’s weapon with a gentle nudge.

Tony’s expression shifted, humor flickering across it like a mask barely hiding real concern. “Y/N… why are you here? I told you before—you shouldn't be out in the field.”

“And I told you, I’m protecting my brother,” she replied, her tone calm but firm. Still, her eyes flicked toward Bucky with a quiet unease—an instinct whispering that maybe she was protecting him more than Steve now.

As they moved deeper into the facility, the silence stretched, thick and wary. Tony, ever the deflector, broke it with a forced smirk. “So, are we placing bets on the baby daddy yet? Because right now, my money’s on Robocop over there.”

Anyone else would’ve earned a slap for a comment like that. But it was Tony. And for now, Y/N was just grateful he was here—and on their side. 

Y/N could feel something gnawing at the edges of her mind—something wrong. Her powers, though still inconsistent due to the pregnancy, prickled against her skin, warning her of a disturbance ahead.

The doors creaked open, and the stale air of the base greeted them. The room was dimly lit, the flickering overhead lights casting long, eerie shadows across the walls. In the center of the room stood Zemo, his posture unnervingly relaxed. Behind him, the cryo-chambers holding the other Winter Soldiers stood open—yet lifeless.

Steve’s brow furrowed. “Where are they?”

Zemo tilted his head slightly before stepping aside, revealing the horrific truth—each super soldier lay slumped in their pods, bullet wounds fresh in their foreheads.

Y/N’s stomach churned at the sight.

“They were too powerful,” Zemo said simply. “Too dangerous. And besides, I never needed them.”

Tony stepped forward, fists clenched. “Then what the hell was all of this for?”

Zemo turned to face him fully. “Revenge.”

Y/N felt it before he even said it. The deep, dark grief that radiated from him like an open wound.

“I lost my family in Sokovia,” Zemo continued, voice eerily calm. “A wife. A son. A father.” He turned his gaze toward Y/N, eyes piercing into her. “People like you destroyed my home and walked away unscathed.”

Y/N flinched at the weight of his words, guilt settling in her chest like a stone. She had fought in Sokovia. She had been part of it. Part of the chaos.

“But I knew I could never kill you all,” Zemo continued. “Stronger men than me have tried.” He exhaled, stepping toward a nearby console. “So I found a different way.”

He pressed a button, and a screen flickered to life. Grainy security footage filled the display—black and white, timestamped from December 16, 1991.

Y/N’s stomach dropped.

Bucky stiffened beside her, his breathing growing shallow.

Steve’s hands curled into fists.

Tony’s face was unreadable as he watched the footage unfold. The Winter Soldier—Bucky—lunging at a car on a dark, lonely road. The sickening impact. The crash. And then… the unrelenting, brutal slaughter of Howard and Maria Stark.

Tony’s entire body went rigid.

Steve took a step forward. “Tony—”

Tony’s gaze snapped to Bucky, fury blazing behind his eyes. “Did you know?”

Bucky swallowed hard, silence.

“Did you know?!” Tony roared.

Steve stepped between them. “Tony, don’t do this.”

Y/N reached out, placing a hand on Tony’s arm, trying to ground him. “Please,” she murmured. “This isn’t who you are.”

Tony spared her a quick sympathetic glance, laced with venomous fury in his eyes. But Tony was already moving, repulsors charging. “He killed my mom.”

The fight started like a wildfire—fast, consuming, and unstoppable.

Tony was the first to strike, raw pain driving his every movement. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t hold back. His repulsor beams shot through the dimly lit chamber, forcing Steve and Bucky to scatter.

Y/N stood frozen for a moment, watching the people she loved descend into violence. Her breath hitched as Bucky barely dodged another blast, the heat of it singing the air beside him.

This wasn’t just a fight.

This was vengeance.

"Tony, stop!" she called, but he wasn’t listening.

Steve lunged, shield raised, deflecting Tony’s next attack. The impact sent sparks flying, illuminating the anger on Tony’s face.

“You knew, didn’t you?” Tony spat at Steve, his voice shaking with fury. “All this time, you knew what he did.”

Steve didn’t answer right away. His silence was an answer in itself.

Tony roared, launching forward. Steve blocked the hit but staggered back from the force. Bucky took the chance to strike, landing a punch to Tony’s side that dented the metal of his suit.

Y/N flinched.

She wanted to move, to intervene, but something inside her held her back. Maybe it was the weight of the moment. Maybe it was knowing that no words—no power—could stop what was happening.

Tony turned on Bucky, eyes blazing. "You remember them?!" he shouted. "Do you even remember killing them?"

Bucky panted, shoulders heaving. His voice came out hoarse. “I remember all of them.”

Tony’s face twisted in rage. His repulsor charged again. This time, he aimed for the kill.

"No!"

Y/N moved on instinct, reaching out, sending a wave of energy toward Tony’s arm, just enough to throw off his aim. The blast hit the concrete, exploding dust and debris into the air.

Steve took advantage of the moment, tackling Tony to the ground. They rolled, fists flying, metal scraping against metal.

It was brutal.

Tony’s gauntlet cracked against Steve’s jaw. Steve grunted but didn’t let up, using his shield to slam into Tony’s arc reactor. Tony gasped, the air knocked from his lungs.

Bucky joined in, pinning Tony’s arm to the ground, trying to wrest the gauntlet away from him. Tony gritted his teeth, exoskeleton shifting as he sent an electric surge through the suit, electrocuting Bucky in place.

Y/N screamed as Bucky collapsed, body jerking from the shock.

Steve reacted instantly, slamming his shield into Tony again, forcing him back. But Tony wasn’t done.

The suit scanned Steve’s movements, calculating his patterns, his attacks. The next time Steve swung, Tony dodged and retaliated with precision. His gauntlet locked onto Steve’s shield and ripped it away, tossing it across the room.

Y/N’s heart pounded.

Tony took another shot at Steve, hitting him square in the chest. Steve fell back, groaning, blood dripping from a cut above his brow.

Tony loomed over him, repulsor charging.

This was it.

Y/N’s body tensed, her fingers tingling with power, ready to intervene—

But Steve wasn’t finished.

He surged up, dodging at the last second, grabbing Tony by the arm and twisting him onto the ground. He rained down blows—relentless, unforgiving.

Tony tried to defend himself, but Steve was stronger.

Then, the final hit.

Steve raised the shield high, bringing it down—

Y/N gasped.

At the last second, Steve shifted, slamming the shield not into Tony’s head but into the arc reactor in his chest.

The light flickered violently before going dark.

The room fell silent.

Tony gasped for air, chest heaving, his body sagging against the cold floor.

Steve stood over him, shoulders rising and falling. He let the shield drop with a heavy clang.

Y/N closed her eyes for a brief moment, exhaling shakily. It was over.

They turned to leave, Bucky already limping toward the exit.

But Tony’s voice rang out, raw and broken.

“You don’t deserve it…”

Steve stopped.

Tony pushed himself up on his elbows, eyes burning with betrayal.

“My father made that shield.”

Steve didn’t say a word. He only looked down at the shield one last time before walking away, leaving it behind.

Y/N lingered for just a second longer, turning back to meet Tony’s eyes.

There was nothing left of Iron Man’s bravado—only a wounded man, grieving what he had lost.

Her chest tightened, her guilt settling in like a storm. She gave him a sorrowful look before following the others.

She had something else to take care of.

---

Outside, near the cliff’s edge, Zemo stood in the cold, gun in hand, staring into the abyss below.

Y/N approached cautiously, her boots crunching against the gravel.

“I know why you did it,” she said softly.

Zemo didn’t turn. “And yet, you stopped me.”

She moved closer, stepping just within arm’s reach. “Because I know what it feels like to lose everything.”

He finally glanced at her, and for the first time, his expression wasn’t one of malice. It was exhaustion.

Y/N reached out, gently placing her fingers against his temple.

And then she let him feel.

The guilt. The grief. The weight of every battle she had fought, every innocent life lost in the crossfire. Sokovia. Washington. Lagos.

His breath hitched.

For a fleeting moment, he trusted her.

Then her voice turned colder.

“But now you’re just as bad as us.”

Zemo blinked. His hands clenched.

Before she could react, he raised the gun to his own head.

Y/N’s power surged.

The gun flew from his grasp, skidding across the ground.

She stared at him, eyes burning. “No more death.”

A new voice entered the moment.

“The living are not done with you yet.”

T’Challa stepped forward, regal and unwavering, she had sensed he had been here the whole time. His gaze met Y/N’s in mutual understanding before settling on Zemo.

The defeated man exhaled, closing his eyes.

His fight was over.

And as Y/N stood there, breathing heavily, she realized something.

So was hers.

[ravensuperr]

Gotham baby mystery part 8

The Council Room stood as a marvel beyond mortal comprehension, a grand architectural masterpiece that made even the Palace of Versailles seem like a quaint relic by comparison. Its sheer scale was overwhelming, stretching endlessly in all directions, held together by celestial forces beyond time and space. The very walls appeared woven from the fabric of the cosmos, shifting subtly with the endless dance of stars and nebulae, their light casting an ethereal glow that pulsed with the heartbeat of the multiverse itself.

Towering columns of pure, shimmering crystal supported the vast, vaulted ceiling, adorned with constellations that shifted and reconfigured according to the will of the Council. The ceiling was no mere structure but a living tapestry of time—a constantly evolving mural capturing the past, present, and glimpses of possible futures. Gold and silver filigree traced intricate patterns along the room’s edges, forming forgotten runes and divine symbols that hummed with power, shifting as discussions unfolded.

The floor was a seamless expanse of obsidian, polished to such perfection that it reflected everything above like a divine mirror. Each step taken echoed softly, reverberating with the weight of destiny pressing upon all who walked its sacred surface. At the chamber’s center stood a colossal round table of iridescent stone, its colors shifting as if imbued with the essence of countless realms. Around it sat thrones of varied designs, each representing the might and majesty of those who occupied them—some sculpted from celestial fire, others woven from the golden threads of fate, and some carved from the bones of ancient deities long passed.

At the head of the room loomed the grand podium, an intricate construct of timeworn brass and enchanted marble, from which Clockwork presided over the meetings. Behind him, a towering stained-glass window depicted the endless cycle of creation and destruction, shifting subtly with the rise and fall of civilizations. When the light struck it just right, it cast ever-changing murals upon the chamber walls, displaying visions of events that shaped existence itself.

This was the sanctum where gods, demons, ancient ghosts, and cosmic entities convened—a place where fate itself was debated and rewritten. Only when the fabric of reality stood on the brink of collapse did they gather, their voices echoing through eternity as they sought to steer the course of the multiverse, lest all fall into oblivion.

The Box Ghost had never seen anything so breathtaking in his entire afterlife.

He was so overwhelmed by the sheer grandeur that he barely noticed the presence beside him—until a voice, clear and tinged with amusement, snapped him out of his daze.

“Hey, Boxy. You’re drooling.”

He jolted, blinking rapidly as he turned toward the speaker.

Serenity floated beside him, arms crossed, her magenta eyes shimmering with quiet amusement. In her ghost form, she was the very embodiment of hope—a celestial presence flickering between realms like the first rays of dawn piercing an eternal night.

Her knee-length, inky-black hair, styled into two high, elegant pigtails, cascaded in waves that shimmered with faint, iridescent highlights as she moved. Strands of energy curled at the ends, subtly shifting like mist caught in the wind, infused with an otherworldly cyan glow as though woven from the very essence of the Ghost Zone itself. A faint, luminescent aura surrounded her, causing her silhouette to flicker slightly, as though she existed between existence and infinity.

Her attire balanced celestial grace with battle-ready resilience.

The Box Ghost hastily straightened, flailing slightly in his attempt to appear composed. “I-I was just… uh… admiring the architecture!” he declared, puffing up his chest as if that would salvage his dignity.

Serenity smirked. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

He huffed, crossing his arms. “This is a very important meeting! I have to be focused!”

Serenity gave him a playful nudge. “Then maybe stop gawking like a tourist. The Council’s about to start.”

The Box Ghost swallowed hard—again, purely for effect. Right. The Council. The most powerful beings in existence were about to decide the fate of the multiverse, and somehow, he was a part of it.

No pressure.

The Great Council Convenes: A Threat Unveiled

The air inside the Infinite Council Chamber was thick with power. The very fabric of reality seemed to hum as divine beings, demons, city spirits, eldritch entities, and never-born ghosts gathered under one roof—something that had not happened in centuries.

They filled the vast chamber, seated in rings of floating platforms that hovered in concentric circles above the center stage, where Clockwork, the Master of Time, stood as the meeting’s overseer.

The gathering was monumental. Lucifer himself was present, seated beside the spectral rulers of forgotten cities. Heavenly beings clad in radiant armor stood near shadowy figures whose forms defied mortal understanding. Gods and goddesses of multiple pantheons—some rarely seen outside their own domains—had heeded the call.

This wasn’t just a meeting.

This was something far greater.

One seat remained empty—the throne of the Infinite Realms' ruler, left vacant for centuries. And for good reason.

Pariah Dark, the Tyrant King, once ruled the Infinite Realms with an iron fist, his influence stretching across multiple realms. His reign left scars that never fully faded, and even now, the aftermath of the battle that sealed him away lingers like a wound refusing to heal.

And that was why they were all here.

Clockwork’s voice rang through the chamber, his expression unreadable. “Vortex, your report.”

The Security Threat: Vortex’s Report

A deep rumble echoed as Vortex, stepped forward. His presence alone sent winds howling through the chamber, though they never reached past his immediate space. The flickering torches dimmed slightly as his glowing eyes surveyed the gathered council.

“The Sarcophagus remains sealed,” he began. “However, the castle and its defenses have not been updated in centuries. What once deterred intruders during Pariah Dark’s reign is now… laughably outdated.”

A murmur ran through the assembly.

“The detection systems are primitive. The barriers have eroded in some places. We must reinforce them before someone with enough power or knowledge exploits these weaknesses.”

Fright Knight’s name was mentioned, but before concerns could be raised, Eris, the goddess of discord, cut in with a lazy smirk.

“The Fright Knight?” she repeated, twirling a lock of hair. “Still stuck in that ridiculous pumpkin. And his sword? Still sealed. No danger from him.”

A few present exhaled in relief, but the tension remained. If security around the sarcophagus and the Infinite Palace was this weak, what other dangers could be lurking?

Vortex’s tone darkened. “We need immediate reinforcement of every level of security. If something were to go wrong…” He let the implication hang.

The Eyewitness: Box Ghost Speaks

Clockwork shifted his gaze to another figure—one not normally given much regard.

The Box Ghost.

Many present barely concealed their skepticism. Yet, the usually bumbling specter did not appear his normal, ridiculous self. His glow was dim, his hands uncharacteristically still.

When he spoke, his voice lacked its usual comedic bluster. Instead, it was grave.

“I saw it.”

Silence.

“I was there when the disturbance happened. I saw the girl enter the portal. I saw her die.”

More murmurs, but none dismissed his words outright.

“She should have crossed over,” he continued, glancing uneasily toward Clockwork. “But something forced her back. Something held onto her. I saw her body flicker between life and death.”

The celestial beings exchanged glances. A hybrid…?

The Box Ghost clenched his fists. “And the location of this? It is just a normal human city.” The room stirred with unrest. A few figures whispered among themselves, alarmed that it wasn’t the government or any cult that caused the rift—it was just a "normal" family.

Serenity’s Revelation: The Blueprints of the Rift

The energy shifted as Serenity, the never-born Ghost of Hope, stepped forward.

Her magenta eyes glowed as she lifted her hand. A set of glowing blueprints materialized before her—designs she had recovered from the human realm.

"When the Box Ghost and I crossed over through the portal, we discovered it was located inside a lab—specifically in the basement of a house. That’s when we realized that someone had built this gateway within their own home. As we explored the surrounding area, we found it was just a normal, medium-sized city dealing with significant electrical issues. However, I can’t say with certainty whether those issues were caused by the activation of the portal or if something else was at play."

The portal wasn’t a natural gateway to the Infinite Realms. It was something built.”

The tension doubled.

She pointed at the activation mechanism. "‘The ‘on’ button wasn’t on the outside—it was built inside the machine, inside the man-made portal.”

A few present frowned, confusion and anger flashing across their faces. They knew something was wrong—the natural portals to the Infinite Realms appeared regularly, but they didn’t cause this level of destruction. Ghost portals weren’t meant to function like this, and Serenity’s words only confirmed their worst fears. The Council members braced themselves, none of them eager to hear what she was going to say next.

Serenity continued, her voice sharp with certainty. “The girl—she touched the 'on' button. The moment her hand made contact, the portal activated. But this wasn’t just any portal—it was a man-made gateway to the Infinite Realms. And because it was forcing itself through the dimensional fabric, cutting through the very barriers between realms, it caused a massive disturbance. A disruption that rippled across the Infinite Realms and reached into the homes of those present here in the Council room.”

Nocturne’s eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering in them. “Are you implying what I think you're implying? If so, just say it.”

Serenity met his gaze, her eyes unwavering. “Yes. This wasn’t some random accident. This was deliberate. The portal was designed to be a gateway to the Infinite Realms—crafted to breach the dimensional wall. And right now, I’m not sure if it can ever be closed.”

The atmosphere in the chamber grew thick with tension. It felt as though the very air itself was suffocating, so heavy that it seemed as though a knife could cut through it, yet the weight of the revelation still hung in the air, unresolved.

The Weight of the Revelation

Clockwork was silent for a long moment. He had already known what had occurred—but now, everyone in the chamber knew.

The implications were staggering.

A human-made machine had successfully created an open portal to the Infinite Realms. The event had resulted in creating a Halfa No cults or government involvement.

Before Clockwork could give his verdict and decide the path forward, he paused. His glowing eyes flickered with something unreadable as he turned toward the grand doors of the council chamber.

“It seems there is one more voice to be heard.”

The massive, ornate doors groaned open.

And, just like that, everything shifted as John Constantine walked in.

[angeliqueiguess]

''Focus!'' (Vacation Edition)

(must read after reading the fic)

W. Counter: 1k

Warnings: Alcohol consumption and mention, wedding mention, baby mention.

The morning sun bathed Cancun’s pristine beaches in a soft, golden glow. The soothing rhythm of waves crashing against the shore brought a sense of peace to everyone there. Well, almost everyone. Y/n, despite having dreamed about this getaway with her friends for weeks, was back at it with her camera.

Near the edge of the infinity pool at their rented villa, she focused her lens on Jaehyun, who effortlessly posed against the shimmering water. His slightly tanned skin caught the light perfectly, and his platinum blonde hair looked almost like it was glowing under the morning rays.

“Okay, babe, that’s enough,” Y/n finally said, lowering the camera with a playful shake of her head and a smirk. “You’re supposed to be relaxing, not auditioning for your next campaign.”

Jaehyun grinned, his dimples making an appearance as he ran a hand through his damp hair.

“You’re the one who said the lighting was perfect, baby. I’m just being cooperative.”

With a cheeky glint in his eye, he struck an exaggerated bicep-flexing pose, earning a burst of laughter from Y/n. Before she could respond, a dramatic sigh broke the moment.

“Oh my god, can you two not?”

Both of them turned to see Ten strolling onto the pool deck, wearing a brightly patterned shirt billowing in the breeze. His oversized sunglasses—ones Y/n relentlessly mocked—covered most of his face but couldn’t hide his signature deadpan expression.

“Some of us are single and trying to soak up the vibes. Nobody needs this over-the-top Instagram couple energy right now.”

Y/n laughed, slipping the camera strap off her neck.

“Didn’t you say last night that being single was a personal choice?”

“That was last night,” Ten replied, collapsing onto a lounger like he was auditioning for a soap opera. “This morning, I’ve decided love can find me—ideally while I’m holding a cocktail.”

Jaehyun chuckled as Y/n shook her head, amused.

The villa soon buzzed with energy as the rest of the group emerged one by one. Johnny appeared first, a beach umbrella slung over his shoulder like it was a fashion statement. His unbuttoned linen shirt revealed his already bronzed skin, and with his usual swagger, he slipped on aviators and surveyed the scene.

“Where is everyone? We’re wasting prime beach time.”

“On their way!” Haechan’s voice called out from inside. Moments later, he strutted out, wielding a GoPro on a selfie stick like it was an Olympic torch. “Today’s vlog is gonna be ICONIC.”

Behind him came Mark, juggling a volleyball and a bottle of sunscreen.

“Alright, broskis! Who’s ready to get obliterated by Team Markhyuck?” he shouted, trying to spin the volleyball on one finger. It lasted about two seconds before it hit him square in the face.

“Doesn't even sound like a team name,” Yuta muttered as he walked by, smirking.

Down at the beach, the sun burned hotter, but the volleyball match was even more intense. Johnny and Jaehyun ended up on opposite teams, their competitive streaks in full display.

“That’s your serve?” Johnny called out, shading his eyes dramatically as he tracked the ball.

“I’d call it better than anything you’ve got, grandpa,” Jaehyun shot back, smirking.

“Grandpa? We are slightly the same age” Johnny placed his hands on his hips in mock outrage, earning laughter from everyone else.

Meanwhile, Ten was actively dodging the ball whenever it came his way.

“Why am I even here? I’m a makeup artist, not an athlete!” he cried, just before tripping over his own feet trying to hit a serve, landing face-first in the sand.

“Content! Content!” Haechan yelled, capturing the scene on his GoPro while cackling.

Y/n dodged a stray ball that Ten had missed, laughing so hard she had to lean on her knees for support.

“Ten, you’re supposed to hit the ball, not sacrifice yourself for it!”

“Sorry, not all of us were born athletic,” Ten quipped, brushing sand off his face and shirt. “I bring beauty, not brute force.”

The game ended as chaotically as it had started when Mark accidentally popped the volleyball, eliciting groans from everyone except Ten, who looked relieved.

After the game, the group headed to a beachfront restaurant. The air was filled with the smell of sizzling tacos and grilled meat, and colorful plates and tropical drinks quickly filled the table.

“So,” Johnny started, leaning back in his chair with a tequila glass in hand. “When’s the wedding?”

Silence fell as everyone turned to Y/n and Jaehyun.

“Uh… we’ve been busy?” Jaehyun said casually, shrugging.

“Busy making a baby,” Ten teased, earning a swift kick under the table from Y/n.

“Can you not?!” she squealed, her cheeks turning pink as she buried her face in her hands.

“Wait… are you?” Haechan asked, his eyes wide with curiosity.

“We’re thinking about it,” Jaehyun admitted with a shy smile.

Johnny nearly choked on his drink.

“Thinking? You’re telling me I’m going to be Uncle Johnny soon?”

“Please don’t call yourself that,” Y/n groaned, though she couldn’t help but laugh.

The conversation shifted to lighthearted teasing and shared stories, the table echoing with laughter and clinking glasses.

That night, the group gathered around a firepit back at the villa. Soft music and the sound of waves crashing in the distance set a mellow vibe. Ten, manning an impromptu cocktail bar, handed out drinks while Haechan insisted on playing Never Have I Ever.

“Never have I ever… walked a runway at Paris Fashion Week,” Haechan said, pointing directly at Jaehyun, who rolled his eyes but took a sip.

''Not fair'' said Jaehyun drinking.

The game spiraled into hysterical confessions, snarky comebacks, and fits of laughter as the night deepened. At one point, Y/n looked around at her closest friends, her heart swelling with gratitude.

“Guys,” she began softly, “I know I don’t say this enough, but I’m so glad and happy we’re here together. This... this is what really matters.”

“Awwww, we love you too Y/n!” Mark shouted, wrapping her in an overenthusiastic hug.

“Alright, enough with the Hallmark moment,” Ten said, raising his glass. “Here’s to more vacations, less drama and maybe a baby... or two in the near future”

Laughter and cheers rang out as the group toasted under the stars, their night perfect in its simplicity. For now, the world outside didn’t matter—this was their time.

---

Focus Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Christmas Edition // next

Angie's note: FIRST POST OF THE YEAR! Hope y'all read this! I don't know if this is important but it is to me, this was the first full-fic I've ever written and finished. So this being my first post of the year means a lot to me, thanks for reading this part or reading my work in general. ILY ALL <3 and HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Taglist: @apolloxxivmin @aerivrs @chan-yeoldelling @livingdoll-hara @cryingforjae @heavenjae @milanco @sibwol @neocupidd @minkyuncutie @miniature-tragedy @kukkurookkoo @kodasity @injunnie-lemon @thegracerammy @hahaechans @illitzen @pandagirl753 @flamingi

[daddy-de-la-guerra]

Be Among The First To Hang A Limited Release "Dark Poetry" Piece On Your Wall Before The Collection Is Even Displayed Publicly

darkartprint.com

The Curious One

by Michael de la Guerra

An ambient light’s flicker keeps the soft pulse of darkness beating at night;

It shines from your study, flaring higher as each page turns in your mind;

In pursuit of true wisdom, you torch both wax ends of joy and despair;

Alone in the madness, your morbid longings and dark secrets laid bare.

No one can miss your devilish wish to be enlightened and all-knowing;

But those who truly know knowing know there to be no total knowing;

Knowledge persists as inexhaustible, immortal, unbound, and undying;

You know this, of course, but infinity’s hurdle is one you’ll die climbing.

Under what stars endure, our whole waking world sits alone in the dark;

Natural order’s chaos in symmetry leaves us all with holes in our hearts;

Those blind to the heartache and misery pump blood that’s gone rotten;

To know the divine is to know well the darkness they’ve all but forgotten.

The Acheronian undercurrents surge through the psyche’s river of self;

While the curious one stands at the edges, under wicked twilight itself;

Resilience heals only scars you deem worthy when night turns to day;

To know the thrills of love, don’t let the heart’s scars become chains.

Trust the fine geometric lines of your tastes along every abnormal twist;

Keats speaks to you in autumn notes, rich shades of brown in the mist;

Verdant tints of forest vigor conceal your once bare walls and your doors;

A map of the heavens hangs in constellation with scribblings of Yore;

Books line the ground, line the wall, line the soul of the curiously inclined;

Death’s kiss leaves dried blossoms with a forever stain of beauty in time;

Once we wilt and snap like old stems to live only within frames on a wall;

The curious one sees tragedy not in death, but in never having lived at all.

Never feasting on what philosophy lurks in libraries and flea markets alike;

Never making love while Chopin serenades you under the bare moonlight;

To never have questions of the cosmos answered back to you in a dream;

And to never find God in rolls of film as they project onto a cinema screen.

So, curious one, pack your old soul in a bag before it knows any better;

Turn days into words you’ll write out by hand for loved ones in letters;

To tell the tale of your own secret history will be your greatest endeavor;

Go and be the one to alter existence so furiously that you live on, forever.

[somedayillbepeterpan]

FOR BONUS POLINWEEK

DAY ONE | Favourite Season 3 scene: The Butterfly ball

PART 2: THE COLOURS, THE FEATHERS, AND THE NUMBER 8

The Dankworth-Finch ball has several notable pieces in the venue.

That the ball was centred on the colours ORANGE AND PURPLE

The colour orange conveys feelings of warmth, joy, and confidence. It is also strongly associated with creativity. 

The colour purple symbolises mystery, independence, and royalty. In the old days, only people from royalty can afford purple thread as it was rare and very expensive. The colour then became associated with the display of opulence and the wealth of the family. 

The combination of Orange and Purple is associated with the colour of sunset. 

2. That the venue had 8 COLUMNS and an 8 PIECE ENSEMBLE.

The platform had 8 columns and an 8-piece ensemble. The number 8 aside from symbolising infinity also symbolises stability often associated with financial power, prosperity, and karma.

3. That the centrepiece design is made up of OSTRICH FEATHERS.

The ostrich feathers are known to various tribes in East African cultures as a symbol of wealth and prestige. 

All of the above alludes to wealth, status, and prestige which we all know is NOT the Featheringtons. But the Butterfly ball not only is a triumph for Philippa and Prudence but Pen revealing herself as LW, albeit a double-edged revelation, also adds prestige to this often ridiculed family. I know that Pen touched on how people might not so quickly forget how she as LW has ridiculed the ton but her being an ally (and a recognised) rival to the Queen gives her power that no one in the ton has.

I especially love the symbolism of the colours. Both colours perfectly describes who Pen is as both Penelope and LW. Then there is the fact that the combination of orange and purple is often associated with sunset makes me think that this is Pen closing the chapter of LW as her secret and going into a new dawn as Pen who has accepted herself fully as LW.

Say what you want about the Featheringtons or their redemption arc but I love that this happened because of Pen stepping out of the shadows. I especially love her recognising that she has more in common with Portia that she thinks that LW couldn't have come out of nothing. Portia-- who were both a suspect and a victim of her circumstances was the one who pushed Pen to do better. I want people to remember that the Butterfly ball wouldn't be what it became if not for Pen and Portia's confrontation.

I have no idea if the writers were very intentional with all these details but I just love learning what the meanings are behind them.

PART 3: THE FEATHERINGTON DRESSES

PART 1: THE VENUE AND A FULL CIRCLE MOMENT

[reidsangel]

tainted lotus - spencer reid

wc: 2.6k

warnings: infidelity, mentions of blood, a killing, guns. ( based off of the white lotus, go watch if you haven't ! )

a/n: i hope you guys like this as much as i had fun writing this with that being said don't cheat or k!ll. enjoy!

The sun blazed over the pristine white sand, the kind of heat that made even the blue ocean look exhausted. Spencer stood under the shade of a swaying palm tree, his lanky frame slightly hunched as he observed his family scattered across the private beach of the opulent San Domenico Resort. He adjusted his glasses, squinting at the scene before him like a detective examining a crime scene. He was always in work mode. 

His wife, Margot Lennox; who had refused to change her last name to Reid because she said it was too simple for a woman like her, was perched on a lounge chair, shaded by a wide-brimmed hat, her dress a sleek, knee-length kaftan in deep midnight blue. her eyes flicking between the pages of The Odyssey and the resort staff as if she were evaluating their performances. 

Margot had an air of aristocratic detachment, a woman who had been raised with wealth but wore it like an armor rather than an adornment. She spoke with a crispness that bordered on condescension, her words carefully chosen to remind others of their place in her world. 

Their son, Henry, sixteen and full of rebellion, was scrolling through his phone with an expression that suggested he was looking for an escape route. Their daughter, Violet, fourteen and perpetually unimpressed, floated in the infinity pool, her sunglasses shielding her from both the sun and her family, a silent protest against forced bonding.

The resort itself was suffocating in its perfection, the kind of place where wealth wasn't just displayed but weaponized. Guests lingered at breakfast tables long after their food had gone cold, engaged in hushed, theatrical conversations about art, politics, and philanthropy, their words carefully chosen for the benefit of those eavesdropping.

 The staff moved with an eerie, rehearsed precision, smiling just enough to seem warm but never enough to seem human. 

Everything about San Domenico was designed to remind its visitors that they were special, and yet, Spencer had never felt more like an outsider.

By the third evening, Spencer found himself roped into a dinner on the terrace, the sunset painting the ocean in shades of gold and crimson. The table was too large for comfort, forcing them into an odd mix of forced intimacy and strained distance. The silverware was too heavy, the glasses too delicate, the soft murmur of string instruments from the live band just loud enough to make meaningful conversation feel like a performance.

"So Dad," Henry began, smirking over the rim of his soda glass. "Do you, like, profile us? Your own family?"

Spencer resisted the urge to sigh. "Not intentionally."

Violet stirred her drink with a straw, her tone flat. "That’s not a no."

Margot gave Spencer a knowing look over the rim of her wine glass. "You do analyze people, love. It’s just who you are."

Spencer glanced around the terrace, at the couples sitting in awkward silences, the man at the bar staring too hard at his drink, the waitstaff moving with careful precision. A vacation was supposed to be an escape, but instead, the resort felt like a purgatory filled with people trying to out-relax each other.

 He spotted the cracks beneath the polished surface, the woman at the corner table whose forced laughter didn’t reach her eyes, the man whose rolex was too tight on his wrist, suggesting he wasn’t the one who originally bought it. The place reeked of curated happiness, the kind that frayed at the edges if you looked too closely.

"The thing about places like this," Spencer murmured, "is that they’re designed to make people feel important. But money doesn’t erase loneliness, it just decorates it."

Silence settled over the table, the waves crashing below like punctuation.

Henry studied him with a slow, assessing gaze before leaning back. "That’s kind of depressing."

Spencer offered a small, wry smile. "Reality often is."

Margot drained her wine and motioned for another. Violet muttered something about going back to her room. Henry returned to his phone. And Spencer, for all his brilliance, realized he had nothing left to say that would make any of them stay at the table.

The next morning, he found himself in the hotel’s library once again, running his fingers over the spines of books that had likely never been read. He pulled one at random— The Picture of Dorian Gray and settled into a leather armchair, content in the knowledge that, no matter where he was, no matter the dysfunction surrounding him, there would always be stories better than the people telling them.

That’s when she walked in.

Lucia. A name that should have belonged to a tragic opera character, or perhaps a long-lost Botticelli painting. She was neither. Instead, she was a contradiction, wrapped in silk and sun-kissed skin, moving through the resort with a quiet self-assurance that made it seem as if the walls themselves had been built around her. She worked at San Domenico, or at least, that’s what she let people assume. Some days she was a hostess, others she simply lingered near the bar, sipping wine as though she had nowhere else to be.

Their affair was reckless. Spencer knew better. He always knew better. But knowing and resisting were not the same thing.

What Spencer didn’t know; what no one knew was that Lucia was not just a beautiful stranger with an irresistible pull. She was something else entirely, something far more dangerous. She played her part flawlessly, a woman with no past, no tells, no mistakes. But beneath that effortless smile, there were secrets buried deeper than the ocean.

By the end of the week, the tension in the air was palpable, thick like the humidity before a storm. Margot watched Spencer with quiet amusement, as if waiting for the inevitable unraveling. And then it came. Margot always knew her husband better than he ever knew himself, maybe that’s what drew her in, his demons. 

It was supposed to be another secret meeting. A final moment between Spencer and Lucia before they left the resort. But something was wrong. The way she looked at him tonight was different, colder, calculating.

Then, she reached into her bag.

Spencer reacted before he could think, muscle memory kicking in from years of training. The gun in her hand barely had time to glint under the dim light before his own fired first.

Lucia staggered back, eyes wide, blood blooming across her silk dress like a dark, spreading lotus. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out and then, there was the infamous death rattle. The gun slipped from her fingers, clattering onto the marble floor.

The room was silent except for Spencer’s ragged breathing. His hands trembled as he lowered his weapon. The weight of what he had done settled into his bones like lead.

The seconds stretched into what felt like hours. Spencer’s heart raced, his breath shallow as his eyes flickered between the bloodied body of Lucia and the door. He felt a cold sweat bead along his brow, a wave of panic cresting over him. The gun in his hand felt foreign, too heavy, the weight of his actions crashing into him with full force.

Lucia's still form lay sprawled across the floor, the crimson stain growing larger with every second, spreading out across the pristine marble. He had never imagined it would come to this. 

This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to be the one in control, the one who always saw every outcome before it played out. But now, here he was, standing over her lifeless body, his hands trembling.

There was a knock at the door.

Spencer knew it was his wife, only her knock could be so calculated and heartless, must be all that lorazepam she took for her anxiety. 

She was always taking something, always smoothing out the edges of her existence until there was nothing left but a perfectly controlled version of herself. It made her easier to tolerate at long dinner parties, easier to admire in photographs, easier to pretend to love. But beneath the careful doses and measured glances, she was just as hollow as their marriage; smooth on the surface, crumbling underneath.

The pills kept her steady, kept her from feeling too much, which was ironic, considering she had spent years accusing him of being the distant one. He wondered if she even noticed anymore, the way he barely looked at her, the way his silence had stopped being an invitation and turned into a wall. Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t. Either way, she had her medication, and he had his indifference.

Spencer froze, panic locking his limbs in place. It felt like the world was spinning out of his control. His thoughts swirled in a dizzying frenzy, unable to grab onto anything solid. 

What would happen if she walked in? If she saw this?

Spencer’s mind screamed at him to act, to do something, anything. But his body wouldn’t respond. His pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out his thoughts. Lucia’s face was frozen, her eyes were open, like a cruel reminder of everything he’d done. He couldn’t let Margot in here. Not now. Not when everything was falling apart.

"Spencer darling?" she drawled, her voice smooth but utterly no hint of warmth, like an actress reciting lines she’d grown tired of. There was a practiced sweetness to it, as always. 

The door creaked slightly as if Margot was testing it, her voice edging with concern now.

Spencer squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, pulling himself together, fighting the dizzying wave of panic that threatened to consume him. He had to stay calm. He had to think, because if he didn’t, everything would fall apart.

"Margot," he called, forcing his voice to steady. "I—I’ll be right there."

His breath hitched as he stepped away from Lucia’s body, but his eyes were glued to her, to the blood. The blood that would be the thing that ruined everything. The blood that was already tainting every part of this perfect façade they had so carefully built. He needed to think. Fast. His family...the media; his career— if this got out, it would destroy everything.

Another knock at the door, sharper now.

"Spencer, open the door. Now."

Spencer’s mind raced as his pulse quickened, the sound of blood rushing in his ears. He looked around the room, searching for something— anything that could help him fix this. His thoughts were a blur of panic, but there was one thing he knew for sure: if she found out about this, about what he’d done, everything would be over.

He couldn’t let her see. He couldn’t let her find out the truth.

The door handle turned, the sound sending a jolt of terror through his body. Margot would barge in any second, and then it would all come crashing down.

"baby" he called- he never called her that, his voice shaking. "Please, just give me a minute."

Outside the door, he heard her sigh, a soft, knowing sound. Spencer knew she wasn’t convinced. But Margot was nothing if not pragmatic.

"I’m coming in, Spencer. You’re not getting out of this. I don’t care whichever whore you fuck—"

The door opened with a soft click, and there she was.

she stepped inside, her gaze immediately falling on the bloodstained floor, then to the gun still gripped in Spencer’s trembling hand. Her eyes didn’t widen in shock. They didn’t reveal anything but a calm, practiced calculation. 

She was unfazed, almost as if she had expected this moment. She had always known something would break. She’d known Spencer, despite all his brilliance, was capable of losing control.

Spencer opened his mouth, but no words came out. His mind was whirling, spinning out of control, as his wife slowly walked into the room, her gaze not flicking to Lucia’s body, but to Spencer, like she was measuring the weight of the situation.

"I knew," she said softly, her voice cool, not angry, but something else. A quiet resignation. "I knew you were having an affair, Spencer. But this- this is something else entirely."

Spencer’s breath hitched, but he couldn’t afford to get lost in the guilt, in the shame. "Margot, please I didn’t mean for this to happen. I—" His voice cracked as he tried to explain, but the words got stuck in his throat. "I didn’t know. she threatened me. I—"

She held up a hand, cutting him off. "Stop." She shook her head, her expression hardening. "Do you think I care about your affairs, Spencer? Really? Do you think this is about that?"

Spencer’s eyes widened in confusion as his chest tightened. "What do you mean?"

She stepped closer to him, her voice low and controlled. "What matters now is that this—" she gestured to Lucia’s body with a sweeping motion, her gaze cold and distant. "This is going to destroy us. If anyone finds out, it will be everywhere and you will be in prison. The press will have a field day. Your career will be ruined. And I’ll be left to pick up the pieces of a shattered life that I didn’t goddamn sign up for!"

Spencer opened his mouth to protest, but she silenced him with a sharp, cutting look.

"I can help you," she said, her voice now a whisper of cold steel. "But you have to trust me. We clean this up. We make it disappear. No one can know what happened here."

Her words hung in the air, heavy and final.

Spencer’s mind reeled as he tried to wrap his head around what she was offering. "you’re willing to help me?" he asked incredulously.

Margot gave a humorless laugh. "I’m willing to help us. Because no one can know this . If you think for one second the world will let you walk away from this unscathed, you’re delusional. But together, Spencer, we can fix this."

Spencer didn’t know what to say. He stood frozen, staring at her as the reality of her words sunk in. His pulse thundered in his ears, his mind spinning. Could he really do this? Could he erase what had happened, make it all go away?

Margot was already moving, taking charge like she had been in this same exact position many times before. "We’ll get rid of the evidence. We’ll stage it like she came in here, got drunk, and passed out. The gunshot will be explained away as an accident." She looked at him sharply, her gaze hard as stone. 

"I don’t want to hear any more about your fucking guilt or remorse. This isn’t about you. It’s about survival. For both of us and Henry and Violet"

As Spencer nodded mutely, Margot began to work with a precision that could only come from someone who had lived in the world of appearances for far too long. Spencer watched as she moved quickly, silently, her every motion a calculated step in their web of deception.

When she finished, she turned to Spencer, her eyes piercing through him like a needle threading through fabric.

"Now," she said, her voice soft but unyielding, "we make sure no one ever knows what happened here."

Spencer’s chest tightened as he realized just how deep they had sunk. This wasn’t just about saving his career. This was about something much darker.

And together, they were going to cover it up, no matter what.

But as Margot stepped out of the room, leaving Spencer to contemplate the weight of their actions, his eyes darted back to Lucia's body. The question gnawed at him— would they ever really be able to erase what they'd done?

A chill ran down his spine as he wondered just how far his wife would go to protect him. To protect them. 

Would she push him further down a path he could never return from?

And just how far would he be willing to follow her?

[wherethegoldenleavesfall]

Squid Game Liveblog S1E5 "A Fair World"

Back at the cliffhanger ending.

A literal leap of faith with Gihun literally hanging over the edge. How did Gihun not freak out about literally falling into the edge I will never know.

The other team loses their footing, Gihun and his team starts pulling.

And Gihun looks devasted but well his combat pragmatism kicks in.

Gihun falls for the 6 or 7th time. Do we count the edge an almost fall?

Seriously can you imagine winning that game but because of poor safety protocol you and your team also die.

They are literally wiped out. Exhausted, panting from exertion. As Gihun notices his bloody hands.

And if you look at Ilnam he is not padlock to the rope at all.

Inho just watches from his podium as 10 lights flicker off. No words, nothing.

The justifications and rationalizations start. Or in Sangwoo's case, he represses until he gets a master degree in repression.

They did not consent to this at all. The games are designed like that. To bury the players in guilt and horror of having killed ten other players much like them.

Sunk cost fallacy in their minds is now weighed down by blood and the knowledge of ten fellow players bodies impacting on the ground.

Now, Gihun is starting to retreat into himself more. His quieter side will show up, the storm at rest.

Sangwoo is looking at Gihun so concerned and worry. My sangihun heart you all. These bastards break it. 😤

Player 244 is using religion to excuse his role.

Jiyeong beef with the pastor is great. Heartbreaking with her backstory but great.

Gihun hyperventilating. Sangwoo's look of concern.

Jiyeong she accepts. Saebyoek orders quiet.

The elevator ride from hell is over.

Jiyeong wants to know her crush's name. And Saebyoek is like no.

Deoksu being a sore winner. The look of absolute shock on his and his team's is gold.

Minyeo's death glare is on par.

Cleanup and its always disturbing. Especially with the floor vents collecting bloodied water.

That answers that question I had. Of Junho knowing how they dispose of the bodies.

Pretty good teamwork in sick twisted way. The organ harvesting ring.

Minyeo is full of praise for both Sangwoo and Ilnam. I am bitter af still.

Matrix reference for first time.

Ali's impression of Minyeo is comedy gold.

Whose the leader? Points to Sangwoo, nope. 2nd in command.

Gihun had been quiet the entire scene so far.

Gihun calling Minyeo "grandma" lol.

Gihun's side look at Sangwoo. Like about time you figure that out. Gihun @ Sangwoo.

Lights out in 10 minutes again. This schedule makes no sense.

Worried about another night riot for a correct reason.

Priest 244 is so bloodthirsty and Jiyeong is so disgusted with him. Gihun being like no killing the other players at all. As Gihun knows he and them have commonality.

Gihun's backstory providing his idea of cover.

It's time for verbal domination round 1.

Target: Smug, cocky ass Deoksu approaching the leader "the official one"

Gihun using mind games and breaking him by talking by just asking two questions. Gihun's team is built through some trust, while Deoksu's team once he eliminates the other players will turn on each other.

Gihun looks at him first though. Calculating how to approach this threat display.

Conclusion: Deoksu retreats with tail tuck behind his legs. My BAMF baby right here folks, Seong Gihun.

Deoksu looks like he been through shit. As Gihun is terrifying in arguments.

He would argue with any deity if he could. Also, get into a fight with them.

Player 278 is like your backing down is weakness I am going to exploit.

Where is the doctor, Bygeong-gi? The question should be why the doctor?

Sorry a little reference to Infinity War, I threw in there. Cannot help myself.

Much like how they cannot help themselves by making this bizarre music in line with a pantomime.

Once again an exploit is used. I wonder if Fruitloop is aware of it.

Fruitloop is Inho.

Gihun suggesting watch, Sangwoo agrees.

Feck ageism. Sangwoo volunteers first big of him. Ali joins him.

Then Gihun tells Ali sternly to wake him up when he is tired. Dead serious he is.

Ilnam volunteers too.

The fires are hellish still with pink suits too. Bedtime for all.

The gold piggy bank is stupid. As it's an insult to real life pigs.

Ali giving corn cob is a show of altruism that must be celebrated and adored. Which I will.

Sangwoo is like I don't want to die. Sangwoo splits it in half.

33 years old, I thought he was 31. Big doh moment from me.

Sangwoo telling Ali to call him by his name. Aah.

Wife and baby come with him to make money and provide for both families in Pakistan and South Korea.

And Sangwoo answers the same way as Ali to make money. Weird.

28 confronting Junho. Saying I owe you, I save you from being killed we are even.

The sheer odds and how lucky Junho is. He just so happened to kill a worker who is teamed with others in a organ harvesting ring, an illegal one.

The gore in this series is creepy awesome but creepy terrifying too. 😳.

So, Bygeong-gi was a surgeon.

Chips in their masks, even they are branded with a number.

No delivery last night. Okay triangle 🔺️ is so pissed.

Bygeong-gi is like I am sleep deprived, trying to prevent my death every night, shut tired glare.

Extra food and info on games. And triangle 🔺️ behind Bygeong-gi foreshadowing his later attempt to kill him before the big boss catches them red handed.

Gihun is waking up from a very bad nightmare to Sangwoo saying it's his turn.

Sangwoo is so close to Gihun adjacent wise. And his concern is admirable.

Gihun is so quick to deflect.

Deoksu cannot sleep either, as Bygeong-gi has not returned.

And I highly doubt that's true. The nursing staff doing operations part.

Bygeong-gi referring to his fellow dead player as a thing. Ugh it spreads.

Junho is quietly observing them all.

Gihun holding onto that pole for dear life as traumatic flashbacks are playing in his head the entire time here.

Literally watching him being beaten, eek.

Ilnam is concerned, Gihun use as the old days.

Strike, barricade, make car parts which is a type of engineering.

Gihun's backstory is heartwrenching. Ruined the company and held us responsible.

The inspiration for this backstory, that 2009 strike lasted 77 days.

June 8 was end of the strike when police brutally shut it down with tear gas and other methods of control.

The real life strikers and Gihun are/likely still blacklisted from any jobs in engineering.

Back to organ theft plotline. As once again that poor player is referred to as an it.

Good she glared at you with one eye, you deserve that and more. Red Light, Green Light.

Okay, so Bygeong-gi knew beforehand that death equals elimination. Even before the first game.

Junho's attention is caught by "one kidney".

Sign up away their bodies or terminally ill.

Gihun being so concerned and caring for Ilnam, trying to lower his fever. Saebyoek giving Gihun water.

Gihun is relieved. Junho asking questions, bad timing. You beat it to death.

Junho is good at improv. He is preparing to fight his way out. And he is saved by Bygeong-gi snapping.

Can you all please stop using zombie and it to describe the player. I hope you all pay soon.

Ilnam saying thank you friend makes the next episode "Gganbu" and the finale "One Lucky Day" even more heartbreaking, nightmare fuelish and infuriating. On Gihun's side that is.

Gihun saying cannot start the next game without you, my heart.

Saebyoek and Gihun keeping watch. Daughter Mother energy right there.

Water is not for free though. Soon, she will reciprocate though.

Trouble in organ harvesting paradise!

Bygeong-gi holds knife to throat, takes him hostage.

28 and Junho are headed to the boat.

Junho stop standing there. You are arousing suspicion.

On this rocky, risky sideplot B from hell.

Bygeong-gi is so mad. I don’t blame him. They cannot ask the Frontman though as he is intentionally fishing them out.

Now, Bygeong-gi stabs that guard to death.

Bombs are the best Chekov's gun ever. In any series.

I mean the explosives can be used to kill VIPS, just saying.

Fair warning, when we get to episode 7. I will formulate murderous like plans for the VIPS.

Junho like surprised at a knife.

The facility is just as creepy as it is in the dark. How is that possible?

Evil fun house of doom. The doctor is injured and alone. Now, armed with tire iron rod. The player doctor captive has escaped.

Well he blew it. He lasted two to three days. Unmasking death threat.

Now show me yours, do you want to die. Junho is so good at boomeranging phrases back.

Junho is so pissed on the perceived threat to Inho. As that is big of Inho to donate his organ.

Two back to back confrontations both engaging.

See we are all the same here. Same being a multitude of bad and good things.

Guard switchblade, ready to backstab.

Hwang bros shooting targets at nearly the same time with same shooting style.

Junho kill that rapist, kill that rapist now. Junho, I stan you so hard. I am so proud 👏.

Feck you. Men can be raped. Feck you.

Oh Junho gets player archive information now.

Leader oh the one in black, mask not the same.

Junho to team up offer: hell no. Both of them hate teaming up with other people except for a sole exception. Named Gihun.

The Frontman is ascending into a proper fruitloop now as he literally says he does not care what they do with organs sell them or ....eat them. Fruitloop with all due respect, WTF?

And the angles of both brothers in the shadows. Peak camera shots.

Equality and fairness. They suffer from inequality in here too.

You have failed me best silent delivery ever.

The water is so ectoplasmic looking. It's creepy.

Bygeong-gi dies. Now, the Frontman is investigating a crime scene. Interesting did the Frontman hear Junho's shooting of the lock?

Junho under a trapdoor. Looking cute and freaked out. A badass still learning the routes.

Uh oh, Frontman knows a cop is here. Seriously he carves the bullet out.

Sirens 🚨 🚨 again. Everyone is confused. Players are woken up. They can never get any sleep here at all.

Junho's cover is blown. He finds an archive room filled with so much info.

Finding info under intense pressure. Junho being a badass.

Junho has an oral fixation too?

Inho shuts down everything, under lock down.

Ilnam is now being threatened and so is Gihun for being concerned.

Gihun's look of compassion.

Since 1988 the games have been going on.

Gift wrapped box details all the winners and Inho is 2015 player 132.

Junho's determination is so cute and lovely.

It ends.