#memeing instead of dealing with my bad feelings

[dakusan]

I T ’ S 3 A M A N D T H E Y ’ R E T H I N K I N G O F Y O U

stray kids ot8 x reader | 3am chaos, lowercase love, snacks, stars & soft breakdowns

🌙 synopsis: It’s 3AM. You’re not the only one still awake. This is what they text you when they miss you most but don’t know how to say it. This is what 3AM feels like—when love is quiet, messy, and way too honest to sleep through.

💌 a/n: this post was written entirely on the floor. i became the 3AM i was trying to write about. i just think there’s something painfully romantic about someone texting you at the exact hour they should be asleep. like… you were the thought that kept them up. and they couldn't hold it in anymore. and now they’re sending you cat pictures and half-confessions and pretending it’s no big deal. please enjoy this emotional sandwich of memes, voice notes, and love disguised as “haha i’m fine” p.s. reblogs = psychic cuddles at 3:17AM p.p.s. if your bias ever actually sent you one of these, pls text me from the ER. i’ll meet you there. p.p.p.s. click n listen to the song if u wanna feel like the main character walking home alone at 3:17AM in slow motion… or don’t. whatever. love is fake anyway (jk it’s real and it’s this post)

📍credits: @cafekitsune for the dividers

🎧 » Solitude — VX « 0:58 ─〇��──── 3:16 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Bang Chan // 방찬

☁️ 3AM version of him:

Hoodie on. Brain off.

Rerendering the same demo 5x while thinking about your last hug.

Says “you don’t have to reply” but desperately hopes you do.

Wants to call but stares at the screen instead. Imagines your voice like it’s a song he can’t write down.

💬 What he texts you:

[3:04 AM] “you up?” “i mean. obviously. you’re probably not. it’s 3” “but on the off chance ur awake and also not mad at me for being annoying at dinner” “i just wanna say” “i was editing that thing and ur voice popped into my head again” “not like, your real voice. more like the voice that lives in my memory of you.” “that sounded creepy. i’m tired. ignore me.” “unless you’re awake. then pls don’t ignore me.” “come over if u want. i’ll microwave something warm.” (1 audio note, 0:14) “this is the demo. it’s bad. but it has a little bit of you in it so. idk. maybe it’s good.”

🖋️ Mini fic:

The file keeps exporting wrong. That’s how he knows he’s tired — and thinking about you too much. He replays the chorus. Again. Hears your voice in the harmony he didn't layer. Hears your laugh in the quiet reverb at the end of the bridge. It makes his chest hurt in that annoying kind of way where he wants to hold you and apologize for nothing at the same time.

He types three messages. Deletes two. He shouldn’t bother you. But it’s late, and you’re the only thing keeping him company in his mind.

So he sends the demo. Then the texts. Then sits back in his chair, hoodie sleeves over his fists, hoping your “seen” turns into typing bubbles.

Just for a second. Just so he knows he’s not the only one lying awake with the memory of your voice playing on loop.

Lee Know // 리노

☁️ 3AM version of him:

Blanket burrito on the couch. TV is on but muted.

Has already gotten up twice to check that the door is locked.

His cats are all asleep and now he’s staring at the ceiling like it owes him something.

Misses you. Won’t admit it. Will passive-aggressively hint about it until you crack first.

💬 What he texts you:

[3:00 AM] “this cat’s expression reminded me of you” (photo attachment: Soonie looking Judgy™ in a blanket) “interpret that however u want” “also i’m not saying i miss you but i just looked at the empty side of my bed and got annoyed” “if ur awake say something” “if u’re not i’m going to call you rude in my head for the next 6 hours” “nvm. you’re probably sleeping. sleep well. i didn’t say anything. forget i texted.” (follows with a blurry mirror selfie in your hoodie captioned: “this doesn’t smell like you anymore. fix that.”)

🖋️ Mini fic:

He tells himself he’s not going to text you. He tells himself you’re probably asleep. That he’s fine. That the silence is nice.

So why is he still holding his phone?

He scrolls. Opens your chat. Stares. Then closes it. Then opens it again. He snaps a photo of Soonie curled up next to him, half-asleep with his face smushed into a blanket. Then he types: “this is you.” Deletes it. Types again: “he’s judging me for missing you.” Deletes that too.

Eventually, he just sends the picture. And a few sarcastic follow-ups that come out more honest than he meant. He doesn’t want to sound soft. He doesn’t want to sound clingy. But the bed feels cold. And you’re not there. And that hoodie you left isn’t cutting it anymore.

He stares at the read receipt when it pops up. Heart beating faster than it should. If you reply? He’ll pretend he’s annoyed. But he’ll smile. Real big. And probably get up to make sure the door’s unlocked — just in case. Just for you.

Changbin // 창빈

☁️ 3AM version of him:

Wearing a hoodie 3 sizes too big, hood up, socks mismatched.

Sitting on the kitchen floor with a snack he doesn’t want.

Tried journaling but ended up writing your name 6 times.

Missing you so hard it’s starting to piss him off.

💬 What he texts you:

[3:06 AM] “do u ever get hit with missing someone so fast u forget how to breathe” “bc i was literally just making toast and now i wanna hold ur hand like it’s the last one on earth” “ok that sounded intense. ignore that” “actually don’t ignore that. i mean it” “you make my brain stupid and my chest tight” “i should’ve kissed you one more time before u left” “if i send u a pic of my dumb face will u come back and kiss it??”

(photo attachment: selfie. hood up. pouty. eyes soft. captioned “emotional gym rat. missing u.”) (followed by a voice memo where he starts saying “i love—” and immediately cuts it off with a groan and a “NOPE okay goodnight”)

🖋️ Mini fic:

He’s not sure why it hits him when it does. He was fine all night. Played games. Did a workout. Ate something decent. Even cleaned. And then he passed by the sweater you wore last weekend — still folded, still smelling a little like your shampoo — and suddenly it’s like something cracked open inside him.

So now he’s on the kitchen floor. Sending texts at this god forsaken hour. Because everything feels too quiet and too full at once, and the only thing that would make sense is your head on his shoulder and your voice in his ear.

He types, deletes, types again. Sends a selfie before he chickens out. Then sits there for a while, just looking at the time tick by and wondering if you’re awake too. If you’re thinking of him.

Because he sure as hell is thinking of you. Constantly. All the time. And when he sees those three dots? He is absolutely giddy.

Hyunjin // 현진

☁️ 3AM version of him:

Sitting on his bedroom floor in a linen shirt with paint on his fingers.

Candles burning. Music playing. Heart? Open.

Has already drafted a poem and deleted it.

Feels everything. Cries a little. Posts nothing.

💬 What he texts you:

[3:11 AM] “the sky looks like you tonight” “soft. hard to describe. kinda breathtaking.” “i was sketching and my hand kept drawing the shape of your smile” “do you ever think someone could be your muse in every lifetime?” “i think you’ve always been mine” “sorry. it’s late. i miss you.” “...are you dreaming of me too?” (photo attachment: a blurry sketchbook page — your silhouette next to a moon, captioned: “unfinished. like us rn.”) (voice note, 0:22 — whispered: “if you were here, i’d draw your hands until the sun came up.”)

🖋️ Mini fic:

He’s not trying to be dramatic. It’s just how his heart works.

The candles help. So does the music. But nothing really fills the silence when he looks over at the empty space where you’d usually sit — cross-legged, teasing him, fingers tracing his sketchbook.

So he draws you. Again. Doesn’t mean to. You just... show up in the lines. In the curve of a shoulder, the tilt of a smile. You’re in everything lately.

He snaps a photo before he chickens out. Types a message. Sends it. Then another. Then lies back on the floor with his heart in his throat, hoping you feel him thinking of you — hoping you dream about him too.

Han // 한

☁️ 3AM version of him:

Lying sideways on his bed with one sock on and an empty bag of chips on his chest.

Watching otter videos. Overthinking. Humming your favorite song by accident.

Wants to FaceTime you but might combust if you answer.

Misses you so much it short-circuits his cool.

💬 What he texts you:

[3:14 AM] “do u ever miss someone so bad u start watching animal videos to cope??” “i just watched an otter hold another otter’s hand and now i’m emotional” “ur the otter btw. i’m the other otter. this metaphor is falling apart but i mean it.” “also ur laugh lives rent-free in my brain and it’s getting out of hand” “anyway ignore me i’m normal” “unless u miss me too. then i’m not normal i’m FREE TONIGHT” “ok bye or hi or call me pls i’m fine” (photo attachment: a cursed otter meme that says “this is me when you’re not here 😔”) (voice note, 0:19 — “hi. um. i miss you. but in a chill way. like... a healthy, definitely-not-panicking way. ok. love you. i mean. bye.”)

🖋️ Mini fic:

He doesn’t mean to text you. He just meant to think about you dramatically in the dark while eating sad snacks like a rom-com gremlin.

But then the otter video hit too hard. And he’s too warm. And the bed feels too big and too cold and too lonely. And that hoodie you wore once? Now it is sitting on his chair looking at him like it knows something or probably judging him silently.

But he breaks nonetheless.

Sends the otter. Sends 7 chaotic texts. Then immediately buries his face in a pillow because what was that?? But when he hears your reply chime a second later, his whole face lights up. And just like that, the spiral? Worth it.

Felix // 필릭스

☁️ 3AM version of him:

Lying on his side, fairy lights on, scrolling your old messages.

Hoodie sleeves covering his hands. Blanket pulled up to his nose.

Thought he’d fall asleep early but then remembered the way you smiled at him today and now he’s wide awake with a full chest.

Misses you so much it turns into little voice memos he has to re-record three times.

💬 What he texts you:

[3:16 AM] “are u sleeping? i hope u are. but also… i miss u and ur dumb adorable face” “if u were here i’d be hugging u so tight ur back would crack like bubblewrap 🥺” “stars are out tonight and they’re all looking at me like ‘damn u soft’” “they’re right” “do u feel it when i think abt u? like... do my cuddles reach ur soul telepathically” “u better be drinking water btw. i will check.” (photo: his ceiling fairy lights and a sleepy smile, captioned “thinking of u looks like this”) (voice note, 0:11 — “just wanted to say i love ur voice. and ur laugh. and ur everything. goodnight, angel.”)

🖋️ Mini fic:

He turns onto his side for the fourth time. The blanket’s warm but not warm enough. The lights are dim, soft music playing, but it’s still too quiet without you. His phone is cold in his hand and your last message is already 6 hours old — still sweet, still short.

He whispers your name once, like a test. Then again, into the mic this time. Saves it. Re-records it. Still too much. Still too soft. Still you.

He texts instead — messy, affectionate, sleepy as hell. Then stares at the screen, smiling like a boy who’s hopelessly in love and just a little shy about it.

Seungmin // 승민

☁️ 3AM version of him:

Lying stiffly in bed like he’s mad at the ceiling.

Headphones in. Lo-fi playing. You on his mind for 3 straight loops of the playlist.

Absolutely not checking your socials for the third time.

Misses you so bad he might actually admit it. Almost.

💬 What he texts you:

[3:19 AM] “why are you awake” “go to sleep loser” “unless u can’t sleep bc ur thinking about me in which case. understandable” “i’m not saying i miss you but this pillow is bad and cold and not you so.” “whatever.” “hope ur dreaming about me bc i deserve that at least” (photo: his hand holding your side of the blanket, captioned: “not warm. return immediately.”) (voice note, 0:09 — whispered like a confession: “ok. maybe i miss you. but if u tell anyone i’ll deny it forever.”)

🖋️ Mini fic:

He’s been lying still for over an hour. Blanket tucked tight, eyes on the ceiling like it’s done him wrong. Your hoodie’s still draped over his chair. Your toothbrush still in the bathroom, next to his.

Everything looks normal. Except it’s not. You’re not there. And the quiet’s too big. It feels wrong.

He doesn’t want to text first. He never wants to text first. But your name is already glowing on his screen. So he types something sarcastic. Something low-effort. And then stares at the send button for too long.

When he hits it, his chest softens. Because truly, with you, he always softens. And always will soften. You just bring it out of him.

I.n // 아이엔

☁️ 3AM version of him:

Hoodie hood up. Lights off.

Spotify playing something suspiciously soft.

Just scrolled through your texts from two weeks ago like a fool.

Absolutely wants to see you. Absolutely pretending he doesn’t.

💬 What he texts you:

[3:23 AM] “not drunk just dumb and thinking abt you lol” “if u were here rn i’d pretend not to care but also pull you into my lap in 0.5 seconds” “do u know how annoying u are for making me feel this much??” “anyway. miss ur stupid face. come ruin my sleep schedule or whatever.” “u looked good in that hoodie last week btw. real good. unfair.” “now i’m stuck being in love and it’s all ur fault. congrats.” (photo: his lap, blanket, a corner of your hoodie sleeve he’s wearing. caption: “guess who this belongs to. be here before i steal it forever.”) (voice note, 0:17 — “if u knock on my door rn i won’t even pretend to be cool about it. i’ll just hug u and pretend i wasn’t waiting all night.”)

🖋️ Mini fic:

He doesn’t mean to open your chat. He just meant to scroll for a second. Just meant to check if you posted. But now he’s lying there, hoodie sleeves over his hands, phone on his chest, screen lighting up his soft grin like a secret he’s not ready to share.

He thinks about texting “sup.” Thinks about just sending a meme. Ends up sending 6 messages and a photo of your hoodie instead.

He doesn't overthink it—just hits send. Because it’s 3:23AM and you’re in his head again. Just how you were earlier. Just how you are every time during his normal day-to-day routine when you're not there. Just you and his thoughts.

[veliseraptor]

Fic Writer Interview

I was tagged by @anghraine - thank you!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

under my main pseudonym that I actually use these days, 610. total, across pseuds, we're looking at 1,013.

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

4,930,564, which is so close to 5 million!!! we'll see if I hit that threshold this year, I might if all goes well with big bang fic

3. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

I thought I could do this from memory and I was so close, only missed two.

Life in Reverse (13,990)

With Absolute Splendor (10,436)

some good mistakes (6,551)

The Villain Wrangler (4,445)

half a league onward (4,437)

4. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I do not, because I don't know what to say, get overwhelmed, fall behind, get more overwhelmed, and ultimately end up with a backlog I don't feel capable of dealing with so I just don't. I feel bad about this periodically (often) but I don't do anything with that feeling. Just kinda feel bad.

5. What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

I've written a lot of fics with angsty endings but I might have to give this one to Mercy, because that was a very mean fic on the whole. arguably even meaner than my other murder/suicide fic.

6. What's the fic you've written with the happiest ending?

I have a hard time with this question because I feel like most times my happy endings are at least touched with some kind of bitterness or loss or at least underlying open door that could be a problem down the line, or, like, lingering trauma.

but on the other hand I'm sure I have written generally happy endings in my backlog of fics, there's just a lot of fic in there so it's hard for me to pull them out, because they're probably also the ones that I find less memorable.

in some ways I think With Absolute Splendor might get this one, because it feels like it has ones of the strongest sense of earned catharsis, even if everything isn't all the way fixed. there's probably happier endings in terms of world state, but that's one where the ending feels happier because it doesn't start that way. but how this grace thing works is also one of the fics where I feel like it's on the whole softer/tenderer than my usual work.

7. Do you write crossovers?

not really! I wrote a few once upon a time, and a couple pastiches (one fandom in the style of another fandom), but those are years behind me and I'm not generally a crossover person as a rule.

8. Have you ever received hate on a fic?

oh yes. most of it more entertaining than truly upsetting, but there are a few exceptions. my favorite remains the person who was really bothered by the fact that my Black Jewels Trilogy fic wasn't High School Musical fic. still no idea what was going on there.

9. Do you write smut?

sure do. I haven't been writing as much these days (but then, I haven't been writing as much these days, full stop) and I've never been all that much of a pwp writer but it's still very much a part of my writing.

10. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

once, some time ago - I think it was Life in Reverse got posted on Wattpad. oh, though there was also another MCU fic that got reposted on AO3, but the person deleted it pretty quickly when I commented to inform them I didn't appreciate their doing so.

11. Have you ever had a fic translated?

I have! into a few languages and it's always super cool and flattering to me.

12. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I have the one in progress but never anything I've finished/posted. I've done a lot of RP over the years but I always kept it pretty squarely separate from my fic writing.

13. What's your all-time favorite ship?

I've had a lot of all-time favorite ships, and there are plenty for fandoms I'm no longer really in that stick around in my head for longer than I'm really participating in the fandom (Celegorm/Aredhel is notable for this), but I think I will say that Xue Yang/Xiao Xingchen occupies a very particular kind of sort of insane place in my brain that feels relatively unique. so I'll give this one to them.

14. What's a WIP that you want to finish but don't think you ever will?

oh lord, so many of them. mostly various MCU wips I'll probably never finish but where I'm like "this was a good idea and I like what I have of it so far, too bad the MCU killed my caring about the MCU." outside of those...I'm so loathe to accept that things will or might remain unfinished, so I'll go with one of those and say the "Hela is around when Thor and Loki are growing up" one, which would've been so good and I still sometimes toy with the idea of returning to, only, you know. aforementioned "caring about the original canon" issue making it hard to actually do the writing thing.

15. What are your writing strengths?

I've been slowly filling out this meme for a while and I left this question conspicuously blank almost to the last. I think my strongest area is probably dialogue, though I worry that I'm giving myself too much credit there. I think I'm pretty good at writing it, though. it certainly is one of the pieces of writing that comes most easily to me.

16. What are your writing weaknesses?

description and action, for sure. I tend to skimp on description in a way that probably weakens much of my writing (I have so much respect for writers with good descriptive language), and I loathe writing action scenes the way that I loathe writing few things - it always feels like wrestling a bear. I usually know what I want to have happen as a result but getting there is just. very hard.

17. What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

something you gotta be very careful with. I was going to say I almost never do it, but the one exception to that is Lymond Chronicles where I do it a lot, but that's because it's a fairly important part of the style of canon and I'm just. following that lead. otherwise, I tend to shy away from it personally, partly because I write from pretty deep in a character's head and if they don't understand what's being said in another language then that's what I want to convey in the story, rather than giving the reader privileged access to what's being said that the character doesn't have.

does that sound really pretentious? probably.

18. What was the first fandom you wrote for?

technically I wrote a cracky Harry Potter fic first, but I consider my first actual fandom to be Wheel of Time.

19. What's a fandom/ship you haven't written for yet but want to?

either bingjiu or beefleaf are two pairings that I love and have a lot of strong feelings about but haven't actually managed to write anything for, and both are on my list as like...just #waiting for the right idea.

also hua cheng/mu qing, which is a tiny pairing of my heart that Needs Me (or whatever) and I know the kind of fic I want to write for it but actually executing it is, as usual, proving harder.

20. What's your favorite fic you've written?

it fluctuates wildly depending on mood, but I'll give this one for now to the backyard is full of bones - it was the first project I bound into a book, which I feel like says something for it.

tagging @gloriousmonsters, @curiosity-killed, @mikkeneko, @brawlite, and @feralkwe; not actually sure how many people I'm "supposed" to tag on this one so if you want to do it consider yourself tagged as well.

[secretsofthewilde]

Today's attempt at studying really got me thinking being sent to Sinclair wouldn't be the worst rn:

[coollyinterferes]

"Back by unpopular demand:"

"Us!"

[kroosluvr]

royal trio

hey guys its me.celeste kroosluvr frm tumblr dot com

the GENERAL concept is like a NG+ type situation? im thinking for the shsm, akira went ahead with maruki's deal for... idk. several years. but miraculously he wakes up in NG+ and he's trying to remember what sumire was even like. after knowing "kasumi" for so long, now ........ it's even less than a forgotten memory. he's looking for someone who he doesn't know anymore.

goro went through p5vanilla story (i.e. he died in the boiler room, pthieves beat yaldabaoth, yippe!!!) but then he wakes up in NG+ in p5royal verse. this one's a little vague but i think he has knowledge on kasumi-sumire weird cognition (idk. igor told him when granting him back to NG+ idk. to like Save her or something) so he's distressed that she ended up taking maruki's deal and falling into that trap and therefore also forcing HIM into it.... doomed to be pleasant boy forever. idk there's something about him knowing vaguely who "sumire" is and trying to find her but he finds "kasumi" instead and knows in the pit of his stomach that. oh. she picked wrong. and now the ideal reality is inevitable. (<- this makes no sense sorry im just spitballing) ALSO SUMIRE ISNT WEARING HER EARRINGS! that's my telltale sign for "yea she discarded herself entirely and she's kasumi now"

shuake.............. yep bad end as we know it................... perhaps a NG+ akira who, after going thru multiple loops of the same old story, feels jaded and decides to take the deal, if not to just. spruce things up. its not entirely obvious but hes holding goro's glove and a chess set here. like, ok, i went thru seeing you die so many times so i Deserve just. One Ending where you survive. right? and goro telling him it wont ever be the same as it was before, things will be completely different, you won't even KNOW me anymore.......... this isn't what you want, right? right? ............ something like that

ok anyway this was all kinda half-baked but i just wanted to make the cute meme angsty. SIGNING OFF (I spent too long on this i think

[starberry-cupcake]

GUESS WHO'S BACK??? Happy new year you bone-loving weirdos (affectionately)!!! Let's start 2025 with Nona!!!

previously, in this react series:

we (I mean me, but also you, alongside me) finished harrowcita del 9

we read some short stories

I made a gideon craft as a gift and the person I made it for told me that the recap I wrote in the back made it to some discord server somewhere

my legacy is being unfunny

NOW LET'S START WITH NONA:

(that's how I called 2 of my great-grandmothers)

I decided to skip all the praise for the book because some of them were getting a little too involved with the story and I don't want to know anything, thank you very much

I did however read the blurb in the inside cover that I missed the last time

I wonder if at some point I could make like an audio version of a recap as I read, because my reaction when I read the following was Something, but then again you'd have to deal with my pronunciation of the names and idk if I want that

anyway, blurb says "with Pyrrha, Camilla and Palamedes"

???????????????????????????????????????????

I thought it was judith and coronabeer twin??????

I'm gonna change her name from regina george twin to coronabeer twin now because she outlived her other nickname

she's the only nickname graduate so far

who took palmolive out of the tamagotchi river loft???????

who set him loose????

how is phyrrha there, she was with gideon/harrow/gideonharrow fusion??????

"each night, Nona dreams of a woman with a skull painted face"

don't we all

the list of books says "Nona the Ninth" and so does the title in the paratext

instead of dramatis personae we have a guest list for a party

there are a lot of dogs invited to the party, which is nice

one of them has six legs

there's also people with BOE names

and one kevin, love to see it, I'll remember him

lots of meme potential there

there are some camilla annotations beside all the people from BOE allegedly nona wants to invite

still not seeing coronabeer and/or judith

gonna imagine that, wherever they are, they're making out

good for them

we got two poems after, the latter of which is a bit heart wrenching, I don't wanna ask about it

then we got a title that looks like a bible verse

had to google it and it is a verse about peter and a disciple finding jesus's tomb empty

ice cube barbie is locked tomb jesus confirmed

I've never mentioned this before but this has happened to me ever since book 1, and since it's here again I'm gonna say it

I have noticed I have a bad knee jerk reaction to the adjective 'fat' being used so often for so many things, but I'm trying to work thought it

don't wanna project my trauma onto unintended narrators

we got a summarized recount of events of what might be how emperor asshat and some of his lyctors got where they got from maybe present times???

there's talk about cryogenics for a lot of people and an evacuation plan from earth

and names are erased but we have some initials that could be augustine, mercygirl, cassiopeia and gideon

I don't think c is not!dulcinea because she was meant to be a newer model lyctor

during this recount he's in the beach alongside harrow, who he says he's gonna hurt

harrow apparently says she still loves him

gideon would be kicking him in the nuts

also, I thought the emperor was with yandere twin

what the hell happened between the two books???? where's everyone????

DAY ONE (hot sauce and 5 days until the tomb opens) CH 1

we've got a recorded statement of what feels to me like the Pool Situation Wink Wonk You Know The One

is she harrow??? or is harrow in the river with the emperor and this is a new person???? who is this????? is harrow's soul in the river???? where is gideon's perfectly preserved body that we knew camilla was carrying around with coronabeer and judith???

I don't know anything

but my wife is here, so it's all good

also, she's apparently sharing a body with palmolive now

so now the wife ideal turned into a polycule situation, I guess

didn't have that in my 2025 cards

I have two hands, apparently, idk

turns out, palmolive was somehow freed from his tamagotchi loft in the river and placed in camilla's body so they share it

how? by who? when?

glad you asked, I don't know

they're sharing space now, that's all I know

it's kind of like the lyctors should have been if the emperor wasn't an asshole, I guess

because it seems they can also switch easily and like coexist without totally cutting the other one out

it feels a lot healthier and organic in their relationship, even though palmolive is a soul guest

palmolive says camilla's body is a temple, so I'm glad we agree

pyrrha is also there, I assume taking over og!gideon's body fully, since he died, afaik

they're taking care of nona, who doesn't know who she is and they don't seem to know either, but if she has harrow's memories, I don't know what to tell you

they're living in a complicated militarized situation with few resources and little light use

palmolive thinks he could write explicit materials for a living but camilla doesn't want them to be remembered for that

palmolive wrote a lot of Things to his bae in correspondence, so maybe that's already part of his legacy

nona is sent to her room while palmolive and pyrrha argue about BOE acting weird

camolive want to rescue people, pyrrha thinks it's a bad idea and wants to get nona away from the planet

pyrrha also mentions a "she" that's crazier than camilla and makes references to commander wake me up when september ends but that one died???? twice????? so idk who this new "she" is

let's remember, for the record, that both og!gideon and pyrrha were Intimate with commander wake me up before we go go

apparently there are more people who are planet refugees in this one planet than two houses combined

which doesn't surprise me in the least, because that's how oppression often works, but is good to have it confirmed

heralds are also still a problem and camilla wants to fight them

pyrrha thinks that's a bad idea, because there's data of that not being possible

but she doesn't know that camilla hect is perfect and can do everything right always

it is important for me to clarify that, more than anyone ever in this book series, nona is the true definition of what in my land we refer to as: "está en un cumple"

the literal definition of the phrase means "she's in a birthday party"

the idiom definition is that someone is totally unaware of what is going on, without understanding what's around them, often used for people in a content state while unaware of a problem everyone else is worrying about

I truly think it's a very good way to describe her and I can't translate it in a way that feels the exact way, especially due to the party context

I headcanon her wearing this shirt

she also wants to save the animals, while camolive want to save the people

pyrrha is just tired and wants to retire to a farming planet to live in peace

I get it, though, imagine having to serve emperor asshat for so long

poor cavalier deserves some rest, og!gideon had the right idea when he exited the entire situation

saw an out with that fight in the river and left the chat

pyrrha is also worried about BOE capturing and torturing camolive for interrogation

and there seems to be an underlying plan between camolive and pyrrha that I'm not entirely sure of yet

nona, apparently, goes to school, because she's in a cumple, as previously established

going to school on top of the eye in the sky and the military issues and the social strife and the potential torturing doesn't sound ideal but very glad there's still an education system in place among all that

AND THAT'S IT FOR NOW!!! It's proving a bit complicated to do recaps with a paperback but I'm gonna try to find my footing!! See you on the next one!!

[icanseethefuture333]

PAC: What your pretty self needs to hear for Valentine's Day ♡

Your heart's message to you + a message from your secret admirer 💌

They say the truth ain't pretty, but coming from that pretty mouth

The truth is fitting, cause you ain't ever talkin' loud

And you know plenty

Yeah, you know what I'm talkin' about

Cause you just get me

Yeah, you so pretty... ♡

Pile 1:

Your heart's message to you:

Shufflemancy -

Girl by Destiny's Child

Far by SZA

I MISS YOU SO BAD by iKON

The Lovers, Seven of Cups, & Three of Cups

So what your heart wishes to tell to you is that there is still love out there. You may have previously gotten over an ex, a past crush, or you are in the process of recovering from a break up. In the song "Far" SZA asks Sadhguru how to deal with rejection, in which he responds, "That's great! If nobody wants you then you're free." You have to look on the bright side of things. You also have to know what your worth is. No one else can define your worth but you. You have to be secure with who you are as a person. No one can love the parts you need to heal from. Once you feel fulfilled with who you are as a person. That is when you can form healthy connection with others. I believe you still are hoping for you and this person to get back together but you are hurting yourself even more by obsessing over this person (was going to say focus but instead I heard obsess). Reflect on your current situation and ask yourself, "What wound is this person triggering in me?". What do you need to move on from? To take care of your heart you should do some self reflection. Journaling and shadow work would help provide some clarity. Your heart asks you to not fall back into old habits. Self love is important for your growth, pile 1!

Your secret admirer's message to you:

Shufflemancy -

Time To Love by Red Velvet

Changes by Jeff Bernat

I Think I'm Falling by KOHH

Wallflower, New Love, & Union

There is a new love coming in for you! This person could be shy and likes to admire you from afar. They could be self conscious about some things about themselves as well. The feelings seem to be mutual here. There could be a new crush that you like and wish to speak to, but are to nervous to ask them out of fear of rejection. Don't fret! Confessing your feelings helps build courage. If the person rejects you, then that just means there isnsomeone else better out there for you. It is not the end of the world just because you got rejected. Have a little more confidence in yourself, you are great, pile 1! Regardless, I see you and this secret admirer actually being intimate. Things could develop into something more serious with this union card. So make sure to be open to this energy and give them a chance at love ♡

Pile 2:

Your heart's message to you:

Shufflemancy -

Mine by Slayyyter

ANTIFRAGILE by LE SSERAFIM

Post To Be by Omarion ft. Chris Brown & Jhené Aiko

Four of Cups, Eight of Wands, & The Fool

Your heart does not want to be tied down at the moment! I believe it has plenty of love to give lol. You also have no problem with turning people down or vice versa. You are looking for a fling and just wish to have a casual relationship! You could have a lot of options in love and would like to explore things romantically, maybe even sexually. Your heart suggests that you focus on your happiness and learn what pleases you. Love does not always have to be serious. Sometimes short lived romances have the best stories to tell! You will be feeling very confident and sexy in your romantic endeavors.

Your secret admirer's message to you:

Shufflemancy -

Boys Wanna Be Her by Peaches

No Flex Zone by Rae Sremmurd

STUCK IN MY HEAD by Twice

Open Relationship, Mature Woman, & Fun Times

This secret admirer of yours is honestly hilarious 😭. I kept getting meme songs and I hs to shuffle again to get a proper message. This could be my queer pile as well 🏳️‍🌈. I'm getting Renee Rapp vibes from your secret admirer, Pile 2 😋. They could suit the 'girl crush' aesthetic or if it is someone who identifies as masculine, they have a very pretty face. They are open minded, flirtatious, and exciting to be around. This person wishes to tell you that you are stuck in their head! They find you to be "so fine" 😜! They would like take you out soon. I'm getting it will be a bar date or they will take you dancing at a night club.

Pile 3:

Your heart's message to you:

Shufflemancy -

More Than Enough by Alina Baraz

Bluffin by Brent Faiyaz

Mona Lisa by Naji ft. Monter Booker

Death, Six of Swords, & Six of Pentacles

Oh, pile 3, bless your heart 🥹. You are someone who has such a kind, gentle heart. You have the purest intentions and for that people can tell how geniune you are as a person. You could be selfless and caring towards others. You have so much love to give that it is obvious to others. I don't see any bitterness in your heart and I feel like your heart wishes to tell you how proud it is of you for being able to find forgiveness. You are leaning to let go of the people who have hurt you in the past. The essence of your spirit is so soft and it's very beautiful to witness. Your heart's message to you is that anyone would be lucky to have you in their life. So don't ever feel like you are not enough because you're more than that. You are this cup that is overflowing with love and sincerity.

Your secret admirer's message to you:

Shufflemancy -

At Your Best (You Are Loved) by Aaliyah

Freaky Deaky by Tyga ft. Doja Cat

LOVE by Kendrick Lamar ft. Zacari

Dating, True Love, & True Gem

Your secret admirer absolutely adores you, pile 3. They see your value as a person and they know that there is no one else like you in this world. You have so much love to give and they do as well. I am getting that they want to literally treat you like a princess/princess - just overall royalty. Their have geniune intentions as well and they would like to spoil you this Valentine's day ❤. (Channeled song: Kiss It Better by Rihanna 💋) for a few of you, you and your specific person could be separated. I see that things will turn out for the better soon. So have faith in yourself and in this person for things to work out. They could offer you some sort of proposal, love offer, or a token of their gratitude to show how much they love you. I see things would be passionate, flirty, and romantic for you and your secret admirer 🎆.

Pile 4:

Your heart's message to you:

Shufflemancy -

Green Light by Beyoncé

Standing Next To You by Jungkook

God of Music by SEVENTEEN

Two of Pentacles, Page of Wands, & The Magician

You are such an optimistic person, pile 4! You could be someone who often gives advice to others and help others look on the bright side of things. You radiate such positive energy and it makes you a joy to be around. You could be someone who knows what they want and goes after it. You know how to balance your heart with your brain. Intuitive but also logical. People wonder how you are able to turn your ideas into reality. Your heart's message to you is to keep going after your goals and not let anyone distract you from your dreams. As long as you are happy that is all that matters. Your heart also wishes to tell you that whatever makes you light up inside is meant for you. Whatever your heart is set on whether that's a new job, house, etc. You have the ability to manifest whatever you desire.

Your secret admirer's message to you:

Shufflemancy -

Phone Me by Che Ecru

Novacane by Frank Ocean

Own It by Drake

Passion, Friendship, & Communication

For some of you, you could be currently in a "situationship" or have a FWB with someone. While for others, your secret admirer is possibly a friend of yours. This person is conflicted on how to approach you. You may receive a text or phone call from them soon where they ask you about your relationship with another. They could ask you how you feel about them or drop hints that they are attracted to you. The ball is in your park, pile 4, if you decide to be more than just friends with this person.

Pile 5:

Your heart's message to you:

Shufflemancy -

Girl Like Me by Alexa Demie

Fulfillment? By Kilo Kish

Baddie by IVE

Eight of Cups, Two of Cups, & Seven of Swords

I am getting like "manic pixie dream girl" vibes from you, Pile 5. Something about you is hard to pin point to others. Mysterious but also so enchanting. You know you are someone who is complex but also so beautiful. You have these interesting quirks that makes you stand out and memorable to others. You are comfortable with who you are as a person and it could have took you a long time to get to a place of being this self assured. You could have a child like wonder as well and it is admirable to others. You could be questioning what direction to take in life and could find "adulting" very hard but don't give up, pile 5! Everything will be okay in the end. Your heart's message to you is to learn what gives you emotional fulfillment in life. Also to not take shit from no one. What's interesting is your face could look quite sweet but you are actually feisty and have a firey spirit. There is a duality to your personality and its attractive. I am getting like Song Jia, Alexa Demie, Wonyoung, & Taylor Russell vibes from you, pile 5. Your heart wants you to embrace your confidence and focus on the abundance in your future. Do not let people drag you down and dim your light. Your heart believes it is time for some self pampering. Set your standards high in love and know that you are deserving of everything you desire. I also believe it is time to burn bridges with people who no longer serve you. How can you live the life of your dreams if other people only acknowledge the version of yourself that no longer resonates with you? If you wish to be the girl of your dreams, you have to learn to put yourself first.

Your secret admirer's message to you:

Shufflemancy -

Lilith by Halsey

Ditto by NewJeans

High Fashion by Roddy Rich ft. Mustard

Triangle, Travel, & Spiritual Growth

What is this Single's Inferno?! You have options, pile 5. You could have more than one secret admirer. You could be observing your current options in love and feeling "Well! Let the best person win☺️!" I see people wanting to fly you out and pay for your trips, oh my🫠. One of the people you will date could be popular or have a well known social status. You give people butterflies and some of you may know what affect you have on people, while some of you are innocent to the fact. You could receive love confessions or you may even already have. I feel like you are the type of person who receives love letters, jewelry, candies, and box of chocolates, if not you are going to be spoiled for this Valentine's day! You could meet your secret admirer(s) while traveling or when going on vacation. Your secret admirer's message to you is that they "like you" and hoping you feel the same 💕. They want to understand your love language and words of affirmations / gift giving could be one of their love languages in particular.

Pile 6:

Your heart's message to you:

Shufflemancy -

Rose by Miyeon

Honey Dew by Lion Babe

Chanel by TiaCorine

King of Pentacles, Five of Wands, & Queen of Cups

I feel like you are at odds with your heart and brain right now, pile 6. You seem to feel confused about a decision you have to make. I believe you could think things are "sweeter" in other people's lives but that is not necessarily true. I know sometimes we can want what other people have but if it gets to the point of comparing yourselves to others then its not healthy. You have to remember to be grateful for what you have in life. It's okay to want the finer things, but what are you overlooking when you are doing that? Your heart's message to you is to not worry about what other people are doing in life and instead focus on what makes you great of a person. You are just as lovable, sweet, and beautiful.

Your secret admirer's message to you:

Shufflemancy -

Congratulations by Mac Miller ft. Bilal

Little Things by Sunni Colón

Aura by Mariah The Scientist

Work, Money, & Long Distance

I believe you and this person are already in a relationship. If not, your secret admirer will be the next person you end up in a romantic relationship with. This person could live further away from you and has a high paying job. They prefer to take on a traditional role of a provider. This person could have a hard time discussing their feelings though and shows their love through acts of services. While you, I feel you are more of an emotional person. You both could have a hard time expressing your feelings and thoughts properly to each other, which would cause conflict. Things might be tense for Valentine's Day. You and your secret admirer could have strong feelings for each other, but there needs to be an important conversation had in order for this relationship to progress. Both of you could be disheartened by this but there's hope! Try to appreciate the little things in your relationship and not focus on being the "perfect couple", for that does not exist. Every relationship has its flaws and all that matters is that you and you partner love each other very much. If it's meant to be, it will be, it won't be something you have to force, it'll come naturally.

[gospelofme]

That’s how I remembered it

this is what happened right?

[factual-fantasy]

29 Asks! Thank you! :)) ✏️

My dearest compadre I am left handed

@ardent-38

WOAH hold your horses there friend! Octo and Seafoam aren't a couple- they're more akin to brothers than anything. So there will be no kissing in any scenario I conjure up for them <XDD

But other than that-- WAHGGGG THANK YOU SO MUCH!!! 😭😭😭🥰🥰 YOUR MESSAGE MEANT SO MUCH TO MEEEE!!! 😭😭🥰💞💞 --and honestly have encouraged me to reconsider drawing that idea!! :00 So thank you for that too! :DDDD

A force shutdown isn't the word I'd use to describe cybertronian fainting.. "force" sounds more like someone on the outside doing something to Ratchet to make him shut down when he is otherwise healthy/ok. Rather than something going wrong internally.

Like if he was going under for surgery, maybe when he goes under it could be called "force shutdown" as well as "inducing stasis".

Now a "system failure" or "system crash" might be more appropriate for fainting or suddenly collapsing. When Ratchet injected the Synth-en maybe his systems were overwhelmed by the foreign substance and he suffered a complete system crash and collapsed.💔

Something tells me that wouldn't work somehow, but I don't have all the technical knowhow to really explain why that would be a bad idea <XD I'm sure Ratchet could explain why that would be bad.

Hmmm, good question...

The only thing that comes to mind is for Raf I headcanon that he is fluent in sign language and that's how he communicates with/understands Bee. (My version of Bee communicates with sign language, not random beeps and boops that Raf somehow magically understands)

@rainbowwatermelon7

A drawing of mine doesn't feel complete or "safe to post" unless its been watermarked. But it could be different for you and that's ok :0

I mostly draw the scribbly head when I'm feeling well, and the drippy head when I am unwell in someway. I have been dealing with some health problems for well over a year now so drawing myself drippy became my new norm. <XD But its starting to get old so I might return to the scribble head just for the fun of it tbh-

I just like to draw it a bright and fun red instead of a dull and realistic dark red :00

Probably mentally break down and die somehow. 🫠 I couldn't handle living in a world where our planet and everyone on it could be destroyed by Megatron at any moment. Let alone being on the front lines along side the Autobots.

I do have other social medias, but they are all private/just for viewing other peoples art. This is the only one I post artwork to :00

Bibi you mean? I guess I was inspired by cats <XD But I cant remember anything specific that inspired me other than that.

@zecromgen5

Nothing specific I can share online, 😅 but yeah things have been alright!

I only know of YouTube <:( That's where I watched it back then.

@candyglumboy

Aww! The boys!! :DD

(Referencing this post)

Same ✋😔

@milk-powrit

My favorite of the beasts is Mystic Flour, for personality, powers and design. The others are alright I suppose <XD

I would probably be poisoned and die within the day 💀

If you mean if I was a transformer tho, I'd probably become really emotionally unstable like Ratchet was and just sob uncontrollably until I burned through it all 😅

I've seen it floating around Tumblr, but I never really looked into it <:0

He's recruiting more Autobots it seems XDDD

They might not want to fish, but they'd like to watch the koi swim around! :)

AAAA Thank you so much!!! :DDD

@florafandoms

Ough... so old.. 💔💔

Also thank you so much!! :DD

@misscherrypie (Pics from this post)

XDD I was hoping people would notice that. I think a hug from Bibi would fix me 🥺🥺

Pick up a pencil and my friend you have the power to bring a flood 🌊

@briandraws

My spirit animal ngl

@wolfie-777

Hey that cat is pretty cute! We should make a beloved internet meme about it! :D

@kaiserdarken

I have no idea <:0 Since MatPat took a step back from his channels I haven't been keeping up with any new FNAF lore 😔

@beryl-shade

I would obliterate the fleas with my Mary sue mind powers. No fleas shall cause my babies discomfort ☝️☝️

I have now. <XD How bizarre-

[nanamineedstherapy]

Third Wheeling Your Own Marriage

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

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

A/N: 🚨🚨 Lobotomy Kaisen: Bootleg K-Drama Edition 🚨🚨 At this point, I am single-handedly running a low-budget, emotionally devastating K-drama, funded by ₩5 & the spare serotonin I found when my cat smacked me. This chapter? Peak “second lead deserved better” energy. If you squint (or are sadistic), our Nanago girlies are feasting tonight. To my loyal readers who send comments/messages—y’all are the reason this fic is still breathing. I had fully lost hope in this series bcs I thought no one wanted to read it anymore, & I had the worst writers block ever, but here we are, back from the grave. Small confession: I proofread this while high on my sleep meds (calm down, it’s all prescribed—ya girl’s got Olympic-level insomnia). So, if some bits feel like I hijacked my own fic mid-scene or if a random paragraph hits like Whiplash—congrats, you’ve found one of my self-inflicted plot derailments. Think of it as an Easter egg hunt: Find the bits that are just me roasting my own writing and/or hating on the men shamelessly. Bonus points if you guess which parts were written before vs. after I started hallucinating colors with smells. Don’t worry, next updates will be soon—turns out being delirious is my peak creative state because now I have too many ideas for my hands to be able to write before detaching themselves from me & asking for labor law rights. Now, let’s dive into this delicious dumpster fire. 🔥

Previous Chapter 15 (alt ending 2.6) - Ibiza (Tumblr/Ao3)

Chapter 16 (alt ending 2.7) - Placeholder: This Should Have Been Love

Few Years Ago: Before Realizing

The Golden Era of Group Chats (Before You Ruined Everything)

Group Chat: Gohoe & his pimps 🏴‍☠️📜🍷

(Created by Hentai Kakashi. The name changed hourly. Nanami kept changing it back to ‘No.’)

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: Did you eat?

You: Yes.

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: PROVE IT.

You: ??

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: SEND A PIC or it didn’t happs.

His English was still bad.

You: This is weird.

Daddy Blade🗼⛓️: Stop entertaining him.

After a while of staging an “accidental” run-in with you that day, the men had to return home—not because they wanted to, but because Yaga was dangerously close to storming in and dragging them back to Japan by their ears. Nanami reluctantly dragged Gojo away, though the latter’s protests were loud enough to echo through the entire airport. You promised to stay in touch, waving them off with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

At first, you didn’t think much of it. Surely, they’d have someone back home—someone more suited to their chaotic, high-stakes lives. And after all the harmless flirting, they’d forget about you once they got back to fighting curses and dealing with the endless drama of the Jujutsu world.

But they didn’t.

Instead, they texted. Whenever they had time. And you replied whenever you had time. It started out fine. Normal, even.

The time zones made it tricky, but you’d figured out a system. Calls were rare—Nanami refused to let you stay up past midnight, and Gojo somehow always picked the worst possible times—but texting was manageable.

The group chat, though, was a disaster.

It existed mostly as a place to roast Gojo. He’d been banned from sending voice notes after holding down the button and belting out an entire off-key rendition of Smooth Operator with his cute English. Nanami only typed in full sentences, like an exasperated father monitoring his delinquent child. And you? You contributed memes, the occasional insult, and once a video of Megumi’s dogs destroying your latest gaming console prototype, which made Nanami send a single, ominous, "That was preventable."

Sometimes, Gojo’s texts were absolute nonsense:

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: If I die, tell everyone I was hot and mysterious.

You: No one thought you were mysterious.

Daddy Blade🗼⛓️: No one thought you were hot either.

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: YOU KNOW WHAT. BOTH OF YOU ARE BLOCKED.

Or completely deranged:

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: What if we kissed but also you let me name your next game protagonist?

You: Oh no.

Daddy Blade🗼⛓️: Don’t engage.

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: Come onnnn 😚 I already have names picked out:

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: 1. DomainDripLord

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: 2. SixEyesSnipes

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: 3. xX_LimitlessCarryGod_Xx

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: 4. InfinityFlexxer

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: 5. HollowPurplePapi

You: No one is calling you Papi, freak. Kento, please install parental control in his phone; he’s spending too much time with 14-year-olds.

Nanami’s texts were, as expected, normal and adult-like in comparison:

Daddy Blade🗼⛓️: I read an article about the burnout in the gaming industry today. Are you facing similar challenges?

You: Yeah. Work’s been exhausting.

Daddy Blade🗼⛓️: Take a break.

You: Wow. I didn’t think of that. Thanks, genius.

Daddy Blade🗼⛓️: …

And yet, sometimes, he too could be unhinged:

Daddy Blade🗼⛓️: Gojo is currently attempting to cook.

You: Oh god.

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: WHO SAID I COULDN’T??

Daddy Blade🗼⛓️: The smoke alarm.

You: I just saw a guy at the store that looked exactly like a younger version of Kento.

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: OH MY GOD BABY NANAMIN?? WAS HE WEARING A SUIT???

Daddy Blade🗼⛓️: I am blocking both of you.

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: [Image Attached: a blurry zoom-in of some random salaryman in a tan suit.]

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: NANAMI IS THIS YOUR SECRET SON???

You: DNA TEST WHEN?

Daddy Blade🗼⛓️: You are both insufferable.

Daddy Blade🗼⛓️: THAT'S NOT A NO.

Daddy Blade🗼⛓️: [Nanami has left the chat.]

You: LMFAOOOO HE LEFT.

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: He’ll come back. He always does.

Daddy Blade🗼⛓️: [Nanami has rejoined the chat.]

Daddy Blade🗼⛓️: If either of you texts before 6 AM again, I will make sure you regret it.

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: SEE?? HE CAN’T STAY AWAY.

You: Stockholm syndrome, honestly.

Daddy Blade🗼⛓️: It is not Stockholm syndrome. It is suffering.

But beyond the chaos of the group chat, real conversations happened in private messages.

Gojo was an unpredictable texter. Sometimes he’d disappear for days, only to spam you with a series of completely unrelated messages at three in the morning.

03:03 AM

Hentai Kakashi: Hey. R u up?

03:07 AM

Hentai Kakashi: No wait. Sleep. Nanamin will kill me if he finds out I woke u up. Again.

03:09 AM

Hentai Kakashi: But like. If u are awake. I had a nightmare. It was about… ducks. A whole army of them. Staring. Judging. I think I have enemies in the bird community.

03:15 AM

Hentai Kakashi: …Ok I’ll stop now. Goodnight.

03:16 AM

Hentai Kakashi: But if u wake up and see this, pls validate me. Ducks are scary.

Nanami, on the other hand, texted with the precision of a man writing formal emails even when sleep-deprived.

07:30 AM

Tax Evasion Daddy: Good morning.

07:32 AM

Tax Evasion Daddy: I assume you are still asleep. That is good. Sleep is important.

07:45 AM

Tax Evasion Daddy: When you wake up, let me know if you need anything.

09:14 AM

Tax Evasion Daddy: I received an alert about a financial transaction on your account. Did you just spend an unreasonable amount of money on coffee and, if so, was it necessary?

09:16 AM

Tax Evasion Daddy: Never mind. That was a redundant question. Of course it was not necessary.

09:17 AM

Tax Evasion Daddy: I am not controlling your finances, but I am concerned about your caffeine intake.

09:45 AM

Tax Evasion Daddy: I hope you had breakfast.

10:00 AM

You: How'd you get my spending details??? 💀 

But beyond the chaos, beneath all the sarcasm and petty fights, something real lingered in their messages.

Even in the absurdity of Gojo’s 3 AM texts, even in Nanami’s overly formal check-ins.

They weren’t just texting because they were bored.

And neither were you.

It should have been frustrating, but it wasn’t.

You started checking your phone between meetings, expecting their names to pop up. You caught yourself laughing at one of Gojo’s ridiculous voice messages. You reread Nanami’s texts at night, the weight of his words lingering long after you put your phone down.

You weren’t stupid. You knew what this meant.

And that was the problem.

Because you’d never let yourself want something like this.

So you did what you always did when something felt too big, too complicated. You ran.

Not literally. Not yet.

But you started responding less. You claimed you were busy—which wasn’t even a lie, just a convenient excuse. You let calls go to voicemail. The group chat became an unread notification you swiped away without a second thought.

It didn’t take them long to notice.

Gojo was the first to call you out.

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: You hate us now??? damn. Guess I'll go die in a ditch.

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: Or maybe you just love Nanamin more than me. Understandable. Tragic. But understandable.

Nanami’s response was quieter. Less obvious.

Sassy Daddy🗼⛓️: You’ve been distant. Is something wrong?

You stared at both messages for a long time, your thumb hovering over the screen. Then, because you were a coward, you pretended you never saw them.

Then the first time you ignored Gojo’s call, it was easy. A swipe of your finger, a breath held just long enough to pretend you didn’t see his name flash across your screen. The second time, Nanami called, and you let it ring until the silence settled into something heavier than guilt. By the fifth time, you started putting your phone on Do Not Disturb, convincing yourself it was because of work—because you were a trillionaire CEO with a company to run, not because your heart clenched every time you saw their names. Not because you felt like an idiot for wanting two men when you swore you’d never be the kind of person who couldn’t make a decision.

So you disappeared—not physically, not yet, but in the ways that mattered. Texts went unanswered, YouTube videos met with professional coldness. When Gojo sent a selfie of himself eating cake, whining about missing you, you left him on read. When Nanami sent a curt message asking if you were alright, you typed out a response—I’m fine, just busy—and stared at it for a full minute before deleting it.

You didn’t expect them to let it slide forever. But you didn’t expect them to show up, either.

It didn’t work.

Because two special-grade sorcerers were not the kind of men who let things go.

And the next time you walked into your office, sleep-deprived and convinced you’d successfully avoided your feelings, you found them both waiting for you.

Gojo was stretched out in your chair, his long legs propped up on your desk, sunglasses perched precariously on the bridge of his nose. Nanami stood beside him, arms crossed, his sharp gaze cutting through you like he’d already run out of patience.

You stopped in your tracks, your heart pounding in your chest.

“Surprise Sweetheart” Gojo drawled, a smirk tugging at his lips as he tilted his head to look at you.

Nanami didn’t smile. His voice was low, steady, and impossibly soft. “We need to talk.”

The jet lands before dawn. You didn’t know that, of course, not yet. You didn’t know that Gojo and Nanami spent the entire flight arguing about whether to ambush you at work or at home. (Nanami, of course, thought home was the better choice—less spectacle, less drama. Gojo, being Gojo, argued that spectacle and drama were necessary.)

You stopped dead.

Gojo grinned. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t our favorite CEO. What’s the matter, sweetheart? Forgot how to text?”

Nanami’s voice cut through, calm but firm. “We’re not here to play games. You’ve been avoiding us.”

Your throat went dry. “I’ve been busy.”

Your fingers twitched against your phone, a fight-or-flight response that neither of them would let you act on. “What are you doing here?” you asked, your voice sharper than you intended.

Nanami exhaled, slow and measured, like he was holding back a lecture. “We should be asking you that.”

You rolled your eyes, keeping your face carefully neutral. “I don’t have time for this. I have a meeting—”

“Canceled,” Gojo interrupted, leaning back in your chair with a grin that was far too smug for your liking. “Something about an emergency security issue? Wow, wonder who could’ve arranged that.”

You stared at him, your mouth parting in disbelief. “You—”

Nanami stepped in before you could finish. “You’ve been ignoring us,” he said, his voice steady, but there was an edge to it now, something dangerously close to frustration. “Avoiding us.”

You scoffed, looking anywhere but at them. “I’ve been busy.”

Gojo hummed, the sound low and teasing. “Busy running away?”

“Busy working,” you snapped, though the words felt hollow even as they left your mouth.

“Right,” Gojo drawled, his tone dripping with skepticism. “And we’re supposed to believe that?”

“I don’t really care what you believe,” you shot back, crossing your arms over your chest in a feeble attempt to shield yourself.

Nanami’s gaze sharpened, his eyes narrowing just enough to make your stomach twist. “Then say it.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Say what?”

Gojo leaned forward, resting his chin in his palm, amusement flickering across his face like he already knew the answer. “Say that you don’t have feelings for us. That’s why you’re avoiding us, right? Because you don’t care?”

Your stomach dropped. You hated how easy it was for them to see through you. Hated that your usual defenses crumbled the moment they stepped into the same room. Hated that they could strip you bare with nothing but a look and a few well-placed words.

Maybe it wasn’t too late to join Kurt Cobain if you jumped from this height.

You forced a too loud laugh, the sound brittle and unconvincing. “That’s ridiculous.”

Nanami’s jaw tightened, his patience clearly wearing thin. Gojo just tilted his head, watching you too closely, his piercing blue eyes cutting through every lie you tried to tell yourself.

“Then look me in the eyes and say it,” Gojo murmured, his voice soft but commanding.

You didn’t.

You couldn’t.

Silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating, until Nanami finally broke it. “That’s what I thought,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with something that sounded almost like relief, but he was smirking too smugly for your liking.

Your throat tightened, your chest aching with the weight of everything you’d been trying to avoid. You wanted to argue, to deny it, to slip out of this conversation like you’d slipped out of their reach for weeks. But you couldn’t. Not when they were standing in front of you, not when the weight of your own feelings had finally caught up.

Gojo sighed, but for once, there was no teasing in his voice. Just something softer, something real. “You don’t have to pick, you know.”

That finally did it. Eighty-four floors were more than enough. “Kurt, please wait for me,” you thought.

Your breath was caught, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure they could hear it.

Nanami nodded, his expression softening just enough to make your chest ache. “We already decided. It’s the three of us. Not one or the other.”

The words hit harder than they should have. You’d spent weeks convincing yourself that loving them both was impossible, selfish, an equation that couldn’t be solved. But here they were, standing in front of you, telling you that the answer had always been simple.

You swallowed hard, gripping the edge of your desk like it was the only thing keeping you upright. “You’re both so dorky,” you muttered, your voice hoarse.

Gojo laughed, the sound bright and triumphant. “Yeah, but we’re your dorks.”

Nanami sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was already regretting this entire conversation. “Don’t encourage him.”

But there was relief in his voice. A quiet kind of victory.

And for the first time in weeks, you let yourself breathe.

---

Present Day

But that was before you fully let yourself fall for them, before you started having fleeting thoughts of a life with them—of lazy mornings tangled in sheets, of quiet evenings where their laughter filled the spaces between your heartbeats. Before you let yourself imagine what it would be like to belong to them, completely and irrevocably.

But now,

There was a line—an invisible, aching thing stretching between you and them. You weren’t sure when it had started forming, but you knew where it ended.

Right here.

Right now.

At the mall, with Gojo Satoru and Nanami Kento trailing behind you, whispering like you couldn’t hear them.

Something something mania.

You didn’t care to listen. You had other priorities—like replacing your third shattered phone this month and reclaiming some semblance of independence. For how long were you supposed to keep hijacking Nanami’s phone like a child? How long were you supposed to pretend that this was normal? That you were normal?

You reached the phone store, found the model you liked, and walked straight up to the support counter, waving a salesperson over.

“I like this one,” you said, your voice even, though your chest felt like it was cracking open. “Can you get me a higher storage version?”

The salesman smiled, nodding. “Great choice. Very privacy-forward. I’m sure we have what you need.”

He stepped away to grab the phone, and you exhaled slowly, rubbing your palm against the swell of your stomach. Six months. Six months of waiting, of watching them orbit each other like you were an afterthought.

A prisoner, not a partner.

The salesman returned, holding up the upgraded model. “This should work. Anything else?”

“Yes.” You reached for the box, your fingers brushing against the cool surface. “I’ll take two. And two SIM cards. One of them will pay.” You gestured vaguely toward Gojo and Nanami, who were still lost in their private discussion, their voices hushed but not enough.

“She’s spiraling, Kento.”

“She’s grieving, Satoru.”

“She’s—”

They stopped when they noticed the way the salesman was staring at them, waiting.

For a second, they looked like deer in headlights.

Then, resigned, Gojo fumbled for his card, barely looking at the total. Nanami sighed, shoulders tense, running a hand down his face. They weren’t paying attention. They never paid attention.

You took the chance to test the new phone’s camera, snapping a few selfies to see if the quality was worth the price. Another salesperson handed you an unopened box of the same variant, and you thanked them quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

At the counter, Gojo fumbled with his card, absentmindedly agreeing to every add-on the salesperson suggested. He was too busy arguing with Nanami—about you, about how you were “going insane,” about how they needed to “handle this.”

Behind you, a girl—one of the employees—perked up, her eyes widening as she stared at Gojo.

“Wait… are you Gojo?”

Gojo turned, slow as death, his sunglasses sliding down his nose just enough to reveal the sharp glint of his eyes. Nanami stiffened beside him, his hand twitching like he was ready to grab you and bolt.

You didn’t even blink, already typing out a message to Haibara. The girl’s voice was background noise, an annoyance you didn’t have the energy to acknowledge.

But she wasn’t deterred. “I saw you guys on TV. You’re, like… so strong.”

You felt Gojo gesturing—probably for her to shut the fuck up—but it was too late. The damage was done.

You turned slowly, your expression blank, your voice flat. “Yes,” you said, cutting through the awkward tension like a knife. “They are them. You can have them if you like.”

The girl’s blush deepened, her hands fluttering nervously. “Oh, no, I—”

“But don’t get too attached.” You tilted your head, smiling too sharp, too cold. “They’re only out until their surrogate wife’s babies are born. Then they’re going back to jail.”

Behind you, Gojo exhaled sharply. Nanami tensed, his jaw tightening as he stared at the floor like it might swallow him whole. The male salesman—who had been ringing up your order—looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole and die.

“…I just wanted to know how they’re so strong,” the girl mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper.

You smiled again. Fake. Strained. Hollow.

“Sure you did.”

A long silence stretched out, thick with something unnamed. The air in the store felt heavier, the fluorescent lights too bright, the hum of the AC too loud.

By the time the transaction was complete, the energy in the store had shifted. The male salesman was glaring at his co-worker like she’d nearly cost him his commission.

You didn’t care. You took the bag and walked out, your steps quick and deliberate, straight toward the next store.

You picked up some photography accessories, shooting a death glare at any male salesman who dared approach you, ready to mansplain his way into a commission. You didn’t need to listen to some mediocre Instagram photographer explain something you’d been doing nearly all your life. (Okay, fine, maybe you were projecting your anger onto innocent retail workers instead of your husbands, but in your defense, this wasn’t about them.)

A light, a few backdrops, a tripod—whatever you needed, you already knew which ones you wanted. The motions were mechanical, your mind elsewhere, your body moving on autopilot like a sleep-deprived robot with a shopping list.

The salesman handed you the receipt, and you took it without a word, your hands trembling slightly as you shoved it into your bag. You didn’t look at Gojo or Nanami as you turned and walked away, your steps quick and deliberate.

Then, before you knew it, you were being dragged toward the Mommy & Me stores.

And the walls started closing in again.

Gojo and Nanami flanked you, their voices low but insistent, cutting through the haze of your thoughts like knives.

“You need to rest,” Nanami said, his tone firm but distant, like he was speaking to a stranger—like he hadn’t spent the last six months auctioning off your bed, your life, your body.

“You’re overdoing it,” Gojo added, his usual teasing replaced by something sharper, something that felt too much like concern. It was the kind of concern that made your skin crawl, the kind that felt less like care and more like control.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Not when your chest felt like it was cracking open, not when every step felt like a battle you were losing.

The store was a blur of pastel colors and soft fabrics, a world that felt so far removed from the chaos in your mind. You stared at the tiny clothes, the cribs, the stuffed animals, and felt nothing.

Nothing but the weight of the twins growing inside you.

Nothing but the ache in your chest, the hollow emptiness that no amount of baby clothes or nursery decor could fill.

Nothing but the crushing realization that the men beside you—the fathers of your children—saw you as a problem to be managed, not a person.

You were drowning, and they were too busy arguing about the water to notice.

The baby store smelled of lavender and plastic, a cloying mix of nostalgia and artificial newness. You stood between Gojo and Nanami, one hand pressed absently to your belly, the other gripping the handle of the shopping cart as they debated the necessity of a wipe warmer.

“I’m just saying, if we’re going all out, we might as well,” Gojo mused, flipping the box over to read the specs like it was a tactical decision. “Imagine tiny little butts being caressed by warmth.”

Nanami barely glanced at him. “It’s a scam. Babies don’t care about temperature consistency.”

“They don’t care about their own temperature consistency. We, however, should care. What if cold wipes wake them up at night?”

“They’ll be awake anyway.”

You stood between them, a silent observer in your own story. Once, their bickering had been the background noise of your happiest moments. Now, it felt like white noise, like the hum of an appliance left running in a room you were never in.

“Like you both will be there when they need diaper changes,” you snorted, walking ahead, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

They didn’t hear you. Or they did but acted like you were some teenager, best left ignored.

You stared at the row of cribs. White. Mahogany. Scandinavian minimalism. They all blurred together. It wasn’t like they needed your opinion.

“The grey one matches the nursery theme,” Nanami said, nodding toward a sleek, modern crib.

Gojo hummed in agreement. “Yeah. And it’ll look good next to the changing table.”

You hadn’t even talked about it, let alone agreed to a theme. You opened your mouth. Closed it. They had already moved on.

The raccoon’s wardrobe was next—because, of course, they had to take that away from you too.

Gojo held up a tiny hoodie, designed for some bougie suburban dog. “You think the little guy would like this?”

Nanami gave him a long, exhausted stare. “It’s a raccoon.”

Gojo grinned. “Don’t talk about feral rizz like that.”

They shared one of those looks. The kind that made your chest tighten like a wound being pulled shut with the wrong stitches.

You exhaled. Slowly.

Gojo turned to you suddenly, almost like he had just now remembered you were here. “You okay, sweetheart?”

Your hand moved to your belly, a habit, a tether.

“I’m fine,” you said, which was mostly true.

They nodded and went back to discussing the best baby monitor on the market, and you wondered, idly, if they would even notice if you walked out.

You were the one carrying the twins. The reason they were here, picking out soft blankets and pacifiers. But standing there, watching them plan a future with such efficiency, such ease, you couldn’t help but feel like the unnecessary part of a perfectly functional equation.

Like a placeholder.

The baby store faded behind you, swallowed by the artificial glow of the mall’s overhead lights. You walked, your pace measured but unhurried, one hand resting absently on your belly like you were carrying the weight of the world and not just two tiny humans.

They wouldn’t notice you were gone. Not immediately. Maybe not at all.

The food court smelled like salt, grease, and something sweet frying in oil—like nostalgia and poor life choices. It was loud—families arguing over pizza, teenagers screeching over TikTok trends, and the occasional lost businessman tapping furiously on his phone like he was single-handedly saving the economy.

You ordered a burger. No truffle aioli, no organic bullshit, no “let’s elevate this dining experience," no "Darling, you can’t eat Nutella straight from the jar then horde the jar because you are too swollen to move,” no "Pookie, you fart stinky now pregnant,” nonsense—just a plain, greasy burger wrapped in crinkled paper. The cashier looked at your stomach, then at you, and asked if you wanted a second one.

You did.

You sat alone at a table, the kind that wobbled slightly if you leaned the wrong way. The first bite was perfect—warm, messy, real. The kind of real that wasn’t curated, wasn’t planned or debated over like a fucking nursery theme.

You chewed slowly, scrolling through your phone and watching a video of a raccoon stealing a hot dog from a toddler (it may or may not have featured Haibara and your feral son). It was the kind of content that made you feel seen.

Back in the store, Gojo was probably making some ridiculous argument about baby socks needing to be designer. “They’re not just socks, Nanami, they’re a statement,” he’d say, holding up a pair with little Gucci logos on them. Nanami would be exhaling through his nose, just patient enough to entertain it, but you could practically hear the “I’m too old for this” in his silence. Let them argue over wipe warmers and crib aesthetics.

Maybe, at some point, they’d realize you were gone.

Maybe.

But right now, you were just a woman eating a burger. Not a CEO. Not a wife. Not the mother of their children.

Just you.

---

Their POV

Inside the store, Nanami’s phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

He shouldn’t have answered. He knew better. But his instincts told him otherwise, whispered that it could be Ino, that it could be someone from the higher-ups.

So he pressed accept.

A low chuckle slithered through the receiver, slow, deliberate. Unfamiliar. Familiar.

"Wow. You’re dumber than I thought."

His spine went rigid. “Who is this?”

"Aww, you forgot about me so easily after our wild night together, handsome?" The voice was all honeyed amusement, saccharine and sharp, like the taste of something spoiled.

“I'm loyal and I don't have time for your pranks. Good day.”

"You sound tense. Something wrong? Lose something?"

Nanami turned sharply. Gojo was still there. He was eyeing some godforsaken breastfeeding couch, muttering about comfort and lumbar support like the idiot he was.

But you—

His breath stalled.

"Where is she?" Nanami’s voice tore through the store, rough, unhinged, barely human.

Heads turned. Parents stared. A mother clutched her toddler closer.

Gojo twisted, the lazy slouch of his shoulders snapping into attention. His head swiveled. His Six Eyes darting around instantly.

But you weren’t there.

You weren’t in the aisle.

You weren’t anywhere.

He couldn’t feel you.

Not the cursed energy from your womb. Not the subtle pulse of your presence that had been second nature now.

Gone.

Nanami was still yelling, his grip on the phone so tight his knuckles blanched. “Who are you? If you think you can take her without consequences, I will personally cut your body into so many pieces your people won’t even recognize you.”

"Aww, so romantic." The voice practically purred. "Finally, you’re respecting your one true archnemesis."

The air thinned.

His stomach dropped.

"What do you want, Haibara?" His voice was deathly quiet.

"Me? Nothing." A pause, languid, mocking. Then, smooth as silk, Haibara added, "but the rest of the world wants your wife."

Nanami’s breath left him. Gojo came over, his face pale, his Six Eyes scanning the store like he could will you back into existence. Nanami turned to him, his fingers going numb around the phone as he lowered the volume and fumbled to put it on speaker.

"She’s got a bounty, Kento-dono." Haibara’s voice was light, almost lazy, but the weight of his words suffocated. "Crisp five hundred billion dollars. Do you know how many zeros are in that?" A chuckle. "Last I checked, quite a few. If you don’t know why, then ask your other idiot; he’ll know what bounty means on babies' heads."

Cursed twins.

A rare commodity.

Of course, it made sense.

Nanami’s grip on his phone shook. His vision blurred.

Gojo’s panic flickered white-hot, burning through the confusion, through the nausea curling in his stomach. His hand clenched at his side, his jaw tight enough to shatter teeth.

He knew what was happening. He'd had the same bounty on his head when he was born too.

"I called to let you know about the bounty on her head, and because I know you lost her again," Haibara continued, voice amused. "Thought maybe you two morons should keep a better eye on her. She keeps running off, and two Special Grades can’t even keep a regular non-sorcerer pregnant woman in check?"

Nanami couldn’t breathe.

“She was—she was just here.” Gojo’s voice was thin, like he was trying to convince himself, like if he just said it enough, reality would bend and you would be back, glaring at them, rolling your eyes, safe.

But you weren’t here.

You weren’t anywhere.

"How do you know we lost her?" Nanami’s voice was barely controlled. Feral. "Do you have her with you?"

"Nope." Haibara popped the ‘p’ like this was a joke. "I’m just better at keeping an eye on her. Even when I’m away. Maybe I should’ve had the Six Eyes." He laughed.

Gojo twitched.

"Just tell us where she is," Nanami ground out, the blood roaring in his ears. "I don’t have time for your buffoonery."

"Oh? Do you need me to throw out the trash too? Wipe your bum while I’m at it?"

Gojo’s fists trembled. The tips of his fingers burned.

He needed to find you. Now.

"How long has the bounty been up?" His voice was eerily calm. The storm before the end.

"Dunno," Haibara hummed. "Fifteen minutes, maybe? But assassins are already bidding. Thought you would’ve figured it out by now."

Fifteen minutes.

That was eternities in their world.

Gojo felt sick.

Haibara sighed, almost disappointed. "Guess you two have been distracted. By diapers. By a future you both don’t even get to have with her."

Nanami felt something in his chest crack.

Gojo didn’t blink. His head pounded. His throat closed up.

A beat. "Don’t worry. I’ll wipe her tears when you both are sent to jail. Never even having held your kids."

The call ended.

The silence that followed was suffocating, thick like tar, pressing down on them until it felt like they couldn’t breathe.

Nanami’s pulse thundered, but his body felt numb, like the blood in his veins had turned to ice.

Gojo exhaled slowly. Too controlled. Too blank. Not real.

“We don’t tell her.”

Nanami swallowed, but the bile clung to his tongue.

“No.”

Gojo turned in a full circle, his Six Eyes scanning the store with a desperation that made his chest ache.

“She was right here,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

He looked at the empty space where you should have been, where you had been just moments ago. His hands clenched at his sides, fingernails cutting into his palms. She was right here.

He took another step, eyes darting across the store. His breath was sharp, shallow, desperate.

Nanami was already scanning the store, his fingers flexing at his side. Too rigid. Too restrained. His heartbeat drummed against his ribs. Fitting rooms. Entrances. Exits. Every possibility turned over in his mind, methodical even as panic curled around the edges of his thoughts.

"Check the fitting rooms. I’ll check outside."

“No.”

Gojo’s voice was a blade, cutting through the air. His fingers flicked up, Six Eyes burning. His sunglasses were already gone, abandoned, shoved into his pocket like an afterthought.

A pause. A breath.

Nothing.

“I don’t see her.”

Nanami froze.

If Gojo couldn’t see you, it meant you weren’t just a few aisles away, not lingering by the checkout line, not waiting by the bathroom. It meant you were gone.

Mall security was useless. The intercom announcements, the slow, confused clerks asking what you were wearing, asking if they had a recent photo. As if they needed to describe you.

You wouldn’t just leave.

Nanami’s jaw locked. “She wouldn’t just leave.” His voice was tight, forced through clenched teeth. “Would she?”

Gojo’s hands curled into fists. His breath stuttered.

“She’s six months pregnant, Kento.” His voice was hoarse, like the words scraped against his throat. “She wouldn’t just—” His breath hitched. “Unless we made her feel like she had to.”

The thought hit them both at the same time.

The way you had been quiet lately. Not in your usual, calculating way. Not the way you went silent before striking a deal or winning an argument. But distant.

The way you let them pay for everything, when you were the kind of woman who once bought entire companies just to prove a point.

The way you had stood there, hands on your belly, as they planned a life around you, but never with you.

Gojo was pacing, running a hand through his hair like he wanted to tear it out. The sight did nothing to calm the sick feeling creeping up Nanami’s throat.

Nanami swore under his breath. “We’re fucking idiots.”

Gojo was already moving.

Three minutes.

Two of them wasted on panic.

On scanning every store, every floor.

On his mind spinning through the worst possibilities.

What if someone had found you first?

What if they never—

Then—

On the corner of the tenth floor, in a wheelchair, there you were.

Eyes closed.

They were near you in an instant, but Gojo ran faster than Nanami, something frantic in his movements, like he was reliving a childhood memory he’d buried deep. He appeared next to you, his hands trembling as he pulled you close, his voice breaking as he spoke.

“Hey, why—hey, wake up!” he said frantically, his hands cupping your face, slapping your cheeks lightly as if trying to rouse you from a nightmare.

But before Nanami could check your pulse or shush Gojo, you blinked blearily, your voice soft and groggy. “Ahh. I just fell asleep. Let me go.” You tried to shove Gojo away, but your voice came out pleading, more vulnerable than you wanted it to be. You got up, only to realize he wasn’t letting go, his arms tightening around you like he was afraid you’d vanish again.

---

Your POV

And he did. He held you close, the way he used to before he’d taken everything into his hands and ruined it. His grip was desperate, his breath uneven against your hair, and for a moment, you let yourself sink into it. Not because you wanted to, but because you could feel the fear radiating off him, the way his hands shook as they pressed into your back.

You didn’t know what was going on, but you were going to enjoy their suffering.

“Why’d you run off?” Nanami asked, his voice low but strained, like he was holding back a storm. “If you were tired, you could’ve said so.”

When you didn’t respond, Nanami assumed the worst, his jaw tightening as he glanced at Gojo. Gojo, ever the one to voice the unspoken, broke the hug to look at you, his hands still gripping your shoulders like he thought you might bolt.

“You were trying to run away and got tired, so you fell asleep?” he asked, his voice cracking at the edges.

Nanami’s eyes looked pained, his usual composure slipping as he stared at you, waiting for an answer you weren’t ready to give.

"Are you insane?" Gojo’s voice was sharp, almost shaking.

“You’re pregnant. You don’t just—” He exhaled sharply, pressing a hand to his forehead like it physically hurt to process what was happening.

You pointed at the food court like a scolded child, your expression blank.

Gojo’s laugh was choked. A breathy, broken sound.

"A fucking burger, sweetheart? You ditched us for a burger?"

You didn’t look at them.

Now, they were the ones feeling invisible.

“Why were you sitting on a wheelchair? It’s not our fault to be worried,” Nanami said, his voice rising slightly, the frustration bleeding through.

You shrugged, your tone dripping with sarcasm. “I don’t know, Kento. You didn’t put enough chairs in the mall anticipating my arrival. How callous of you.”

The insult sounded weak even to your own ears, but you still turned and walked away like it made perfect sense.

---

You had fought.

You had screamed yourself hoarse in a parking lot, your voice cracking on every expletive, every demand.

You had taken a step back, your pulse pounding. “I’m driving.”

Nanami’s voice was low, firm.

“No, you’re not.”

Something inside you snapped.

“You’re not my fucking babysitters.”

Gojo didn’t flinch, didn’t meet your eyes. “We know.”

Your nails dug into your palms. “Then why the hell are you treating me like a goddamn child?”

Nanami’s head tilted, his gaze sharp. “Do you know how fast you were driving earlier?”

You set your jaw. “I didn’t crash.”

“Yet.”

The word cut deeper than you expected.

"You’re not fucking serious."

"You’re not actually banning me from driving—"

"Like I’m some delicate little—!"

But they wouldn’t budge.

Nanami’s jaw was set, unmovable, his hands clenched at his sides. Gojo wouldn’t even engage, wouldn’t throw the usual “aww, sweetheart, don’t be mad at us” line your way.

They had already decided.

You hadn’t mattered in that decision.

Gojo had tried to coax at first. Soft words, gentle hands reaching for yours. You had slapped them away.

Then, Nanami snapped.

"You almost killed them."

The weight of it hit your chest, something hot and tight and suffocating.

You wanted to argue, to scream, to rip the keys out of Gojo’s hand and prove them wrong.

But Nanami’s eyes pinned you in place.

Gojo, usually so quick to defuse things, said nothing.

Neither of them would budge.

The world felt smaller.

Like a trap had been laid around you before you even realized it.

And when Nanami exhaled, his eyes flickering over your face, his voice softened.

“Get in the car.”

The parking lot was suddenly too quiet.

Nanami was breathing hard, like he had forced the words out against his will. His fingers flexed, curled, dug into his palms like he was holding something back.

Gojo wasn’t looking at either of you. His lips parted, then shut. Like there was nothing to say that could fix this.

And maybe there wasn’t.

Because the worst part?

They were right.

You had driven too fast. Too reckless. Like you had something to outrun.

And now?

They were overcorrecting.

The leash tightening.

And you could do nothing but choke on it.

They didn’t let you drive.

That was the first sign something was wrong.

You reached for the passenger’s side door, but Nanami was already there, his hand closing over your wrist with careful, deliberate restraint. No force, no brute strength—just quiet, unshakable control.

"The back seat," he said.

Not the passenger seat.

The backseat.

Not a request. Not a suggestion.

A verdict.

Nanami opened the back door for you, his face impassive, too neutral. That dangerous stillness he fell into when he was hiding something, when he was choosing his words carefully, when he thought you were too fragile or volatile.

Gojo didn’t crack a joke. Didn’t tease you for looking pissed. Didn’t even flash that usual “baby, trust me” grin.

They didn’t comment on the way your shoulders shook.

Didn’t say a word about the way you turned your face to the window.

Didn’t acknowledge the way you looked, for just a second—

Like you might cry.

Gojo just shut the door after you, slid into the driver’s seat, and started the car like this was normal.

Like you hadn’t spent your entire life steering yourself, controlling the wheel, deciding the speed.

Like you hadn’t spent the last six months fighting to not become a passenger in your own life.

Like you hadn’t been the one navigating the world before they even knew your name.

The car pulled out of the lot in silence.

You stared at the back of Gojo’s head, at the tense line of his shoulders. He wouldn’t even meet your reflection in the rearview mirror.

That sick, crawling feeling in your gut didn’t fade.

You stared out the window, arms crossed over your belly, jaw tight enough to hurt. Your babies shifted inside you. You didn’t know if it was from your tension or theirs.

---

Soon, Jujutsu Tech. loomed ahead, dark and empty, carrying the kind of stillness that only places drenched in death could hold.

"I want to go home," you said, your voice flat, distant, barely concealing the anger burning underneath.

Gojo turned, smiling, but it was wrong. Too thin. It barely touched his eyes.

“We won’t be long, sweetheart.”

A lie.

Nanami’s fingers brushed your wrist. A grounding touch. A silent plea. Maybe an apology.

You stared at his hand like he was touching someone else.

Then they were gone, swallowed by the heavy wooden doors.

You sat there in the locked car, tapping your nails against your phone case, opening and closing an app without reading a single word.

The minutes dragged.

You leaned back against the seat, staring up at the sky.

Inside, something was happening. Something big.

You could tell by the way the air shifted.

By the way the crows in the trees scattered.

---

Their POV

Inside, the air was thick with something rotting.

Not literally—though the higher-ups always carried the stench of old paper and slow decay—but something worse. Something insidious.

Gojo stood loose-limbed, hands in his pockets, head tilted just so. A predator’s angle. Nanami had that look—the one that meant he was already seeing blood.

Across from them, the elders sat in their sunken chairs, bodies swallowed by the deep shadows of the paper screens. Silent spectators to their own machinations.

Nanami spoke first. “How long?”

The head elder blinked, slow and disinterested. “Excuse me?”

“How long,” Nanami repeated, voice even, “have you known about the bounty?”

The elder gave a thin smile. “Since the moment it was placed, of course.”

Gojo laughed, sharp and ugly. “Of course.” He turned to Nanami. “They knew. They sat on it. Probably made bets on how long it would take for us to notice.”

Nanami inhaled slowly. Exhaled. “Why weren’t we told?”

The elder’s sigh was almost theatrical. “Because it was irrelevant.” He tilted his head, birdlike. “If you had been competent enough, you would have realized much sooner.”

Something in Gojo’s expression went blank. Empty in a way that was dangerous. “Right. Because why warn the people actually protecting her, right?”

A second elder, thinner and somehow more cruel, tapped his fingers against the table. “You misunderstand, Satoru.” His voice was soft. “We wanted you to notice.”

The temperature in the room dropped.

Nanami’s fists clenched. “Explain.”

The elder’s smile widened, and when he spoke again, it was with the confidence of a man who had never once feared consequence.

“You should get rid of her.”

Silence.

Then, smooth as poison—

“Your very existence has already increased the world’s cursed energy tenfold. You want us to believe this pregnancy was an accident? That you, the strongest, somehow failed to control your own body?” He clicked his tongue. “How sloppy, Satoru.”

Gojo’s jaw ticked.

The elder leaned forward. “Tell me—what do you think those things will become? Ordinary sorcerers?” A chuckle, dry as old paper. “They’ll be anomalies. Unstable. Stronger than you, in ways even you cannot predict. If they survive.” A pause. “And that is an uncertainty.”

Nanami didn’t move, but something coiled behind his ribs.

“They could die in the womb, you know.” The elder’s voice was almost gentle. “Too much power, too small a vessel. You should be grateful. It would be kinder than what awaits them.”

Gojo’s fingers twitched.

The elder continued, undeterred. “But let’s say they do survive. That you don’t watch them wither from the inside out.” His smile thinned. “What then? You think the world will let them live?”

A long pause.

“We don’t need them.” The elder’s voice turned flat. “We need control.” A tilt of his head. “They would be better off as cursed objects. A weapon to be wielded, rather than something that could one day turn against us.”

He folded his hands.

“You already make things difficult. Why multiply the problem?”

Silence.

Gojo blinked once. Then again, like he hadn’t quite heard.

Nanami—who had spent his entire life perfecting the art of restraint—moved first.

His ratio blade cut through the air, through bone, through everything the elder had been. His head hit the floor with a wet thud.

Gojo followed. No Limitless, no Infinity—just force. His hands closing around the second elder’s throat, his smile sharp, shining.

“Wrong answer.”

It was over in seconds.

No grand battle. No drawn-out screams.

Just work.

The kind of work that left blood in the cracks of your hands and the scent of death in your hair.

Nanami exhaled. Gojo wiped his hands on his dark pants like he had touched something dirty.

“They were never gonna let her live,” Gojo murmured.

“They were never going to warn us.”

A long pause.

Then Gojo grinned, all teeth, all vicious relief. “Well. Problem solved.”

Nanami sighed. “Let’s go before she gets impatient.”

Outside, you were still sitting in the car.

Unaware of how close you had come to not existing at all.

---

Your POV

You were starving. Again.

Pregnancy did that—one second, you were fine, the next, your body was demanding something salty and fried like it was a life-or-death situation.

The car was too quiet. The night was too still. You drummed your fingers against the door, the rhythm sharp and impatient. Your entire existence had been reduced to craving fulfillment, and right now, that fulfillment needed to be deep-fried and covered in salt.

Then—movement.

A teenager, white-haired, passing by with his hands stuffed in his pockets, face partially obscured.

Target acquired.

You rolled down the window. “Hey, kid.”

He stopped, turned, and blinked at you.

“Do me a favor,” you said, pulling out a crisp bill and holding it out. “Run into the store and grab me a soda. And—” you paused, adjusting your outfit because you didn’t want to be bullied for a mid-fit (he seemed like the type who would)—“some samosas or chips. Just get whatever looks good.”

The teenager tilted his head. “Shake.”

You frowned. “No. Soda.”

“Bonito flakes.”

“…What?”

He nodded, very serious. “Salmon.”

You inhaled deeply through your nose. “No. Soda. Chips. Something salty. Preferably fried.”

“Bonito flakes.”

Your eye twitched. “Are you messing with me?”

“Shake.”

A pause. A long, painful pause.

You stared at him. He stared back.

The tension thickened.

A single leaf drifted by, carried on the wind.

Finally, you pinched the bridge of your nose. “You know what? Never mind. Just get me Shoko.”

“Salmon.”

You shot him a look.

And then—

“Uh, hey.”

A new voice. A new presence.

You turned to see a dark-haired young man walking toward you, his expression a mix of mild concern and secondhand embarrassment.

The teenager—Menace Flakes—perked up. “Shake.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” The newcomer sighed, rubbing his temple before looking at you. “Sorry, he’s not trying to mess with you. That’s just... how he talks.”

The dark-haired guy scratched the other’s cheek. “Sort of. It’s his cursed technique.”

Well, that was oddly homoerotic for some reason, but it wasn’t your problem.

Then his words caught you off guard. You glanced back at Menace Flakes, who blinked at you expectantly, as if he hadn’t just given you a goddamn aneurysm.

“Cursed technique?”

“Yeah,” the new guy replied. “His words make things happen. If he said something normal like ‘give me a Lambo,’ it could go south real fast.”

Huh. Weird.

You exhaled. “Fine. Whatever.” You waved a hand. “Could you buy me something to eat? You know how pregnancy is.”

The new guy nodded, but didn’t move.

Instead, his expression shifted—subtle, but sharp.

His eyes drifted downward.

Not at you.

At your stomach.

You tensed.

The air around you shifted, and for the first time, you saw his shoulders square, his stance change—like he had just registered something wrong.

“You’re—” He hesitated. “What are you?”

Your jaw locked.

Not who.

What.

Your stomach. The part of you that was currently housing two tiny freaks of nature.

He was looking at it like it was a nuclear warhead.

You exhaled slowly. “You cannot be serious.”

But he was. His fingers twitched at his side, cursed energy humming just beneath the surface.

“I can feel it,” he muttered, eyes locked on your stomach like it was about to lunge at him. “The cursed energy—it's massive. It’s—unnatural.”

You stared at him. “Yeah, no shit. I’m six months pregnant with Gojo Satoru’s kids.”

He did not look reassured.

“You are lying,” he said flatly. “No women want him.”

Menace Flakes, meanwhile, nodded sagely. “Salmon.”

“Stop helping,” you snapped.

---

The dark-haired one exhaled sharply, clearly debating whether to exorcise you, arrest you, or just straight-up pass out.

And then—

The air split open with a crack.

A presence—massive, overwhelming, and unmistakably obnoxious.

And then—

“SWEETHEART! BABY! LOVE OF MY LIFE!”

Gojo Satoru exploded onto the scene, arms spread wide, sunglasses slightly crooked, radiating pure, undiluted drama like he had just crash-landed in a soap opera.

The dark-haired one froze.

Menace Flakes blinked.

The pregnant woman in question exhaled. “Oh, great.”

Gojo landed beside you in a flourish of long limbs and expensive fabric, dramatically pressing a hand over his heart like he was personally enduring your suffering. “I felt your distress from inside the building and thought—oh no! My delicate, vulnerable wife must be suffering!”

You stared at him, unimpressed. “I was just trying to get them to buy me a soda.”

Gojo gasped, looking scandalized. “WITHOUT ME?”

The dark-haired one, still standing there, fists clenched, visibly struggling to process any of this, finally managed, “Wait—what?”

Gojo turned to him with the kind of slow, patronizing patience that made you want to file for divorce on the spot. “Yuta-kun.” He gestured toward you with a flourish, his tone unbearably smug. “Meet my wife.”

Yuta’s soul momentarily left his body.

He turned to you.

Turned back to Gojo.

Then back to you.

“She’s married to you?”

Gojo grinned. “Yes.”

“…Willingly?”

Gojo staggered back like he’d just been mortally wounded. “Excuse me, Yuta, I’ll have you know my wife adores me.” He turned to you, batting his lashes and pouting his lips in a way that made your insides almost immediately forgive him—like he could do no wrong. “Right, sweetheart?”

Familiar heat dropped in your stomach; he hadn’t looked at you like this in months.

But the way he was acting made you wonder if he was bipolar, like the unlicensed part-time mental health diagnostician you were.

A few months ago, you’d turned to psychology and philosophy to try to justify his antics or at least understand the reasoning behind them, but then you’d given up—mostly because you realized that even Aristotle and Carl Jung would be confused.

You stared at him. Then, without breaking eye contact—

“I was literally about to walk into traffic.”

Gojo cackled, delighted. “Classic my wife!”

Yuta, meanwhile, was still trying to reboot his brain. “And the cursed energy—?”

Gojo clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Ah, yes, my future children. Purse friendly—Gojo's, if you will.”

Yuta made a noise that could only be described as an existential wheeze. “Sensei, you’re telling me she’s pregnant with your kids, and that’s why she’s emitting that much cursed energy?”

And then—

A new voice.

Calm. Measured. Deeply exhausted.

Nanami, walking up like he had just spent the last ten minutes cleaning up Gojo’s mess, casually fixing his cuffs as he passed a hand over Menace Flakes’s head.

“Our kids.”

Yuta’s soul made a desperate attempt to leave his mortal shell.

Gojo beamed, clapping his hands together. “Yep! Kento’s involved too!”

Yuta let out a strangled sound, while Menace Flakes—completely unfazed—nodded. “Okka.”

“Thank you, Toge-kun.” Nanami said.

Gojo finally turned back to you, all smiles. “Now, my love, my moon, my gorgeous trillionaire—what’s this I hear about you running off?”

You exhaled sharply. “I was hungry, and you idiots locked me in my own car.”

Gojo gasped, reeling. “A travesty!” He turned to Nanami. “Ken Ken, we’ve wronged her.”

Nanami sighed. “You wronged her.”

“I wronged her,” Gojo conceded solemnly. Then, bright again—“So! Riceballs? Soda? My life’s mission is now to make sure my pregnant goddess is fed.”

And with that, Gojo climbed through the window of the car like an overgrown raccoon, all his limbs too much like giant spiders in a miniature toy car, while you stared at him in abject seen-it-all.

Nanami, a functional adult, got inside like a normal person. “See you around, Yuta. Inumaki-kun.”

Meanwhile, Yuta just stood there, staring into the void, rethinking every single life choice that had led him to this moment.

Inumaki patted his arm.

“Bonito flakes.”

---

Their POV

It had started to rain when Yuta and Toge walked off.

It came down in sheets, soaking through your clothes, clinging to your skin like a second betrayal. The city blurred around you—distant headlights, muted neon signs bleeding into puddles on the pavement. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn blared, muffled by the downpour.

But you didn’t run.

You walked away.

You didn’t run.

And that was worse.

Gojo’s heart stuttered in his chest, his mind racing to string together words fast enough to stop you, to slow you down, to do something before you slipped too far from reach. The cold wrapped around your frame, tightening like an omen, and he hated it—hated the way it took the space he was supposed to fill.

"Hey, wait up!" His voice cut through the storm, sharp with frustration. But beneath it—something raw. Something he didn’t have the luxury of hiding anymore.

You didn’t stop.

Nanami exhaled sharply beside him, his eyes locked on the way your shoulders curled inward, how the rain clung to your skin like a second betrayal. Your steps were slow, measured, as if you were daring them to catch up. Daring them to prove you wrong.

You wouldn’t have left if you thought they’d follow.

That truth lodged itself deep, ugly and undeniable, and it made Nanami’s jaw go tight, made Gojo’s hands clench at his sides.

Then—

"Darling."

Nanami’s voice, low and steady, cut through the storm. No hesitation. No desperation. Just certainty, like he was willing you to turn back.

And you froze.

Gojo felt it before he saw it—that moment of impact, the unspoken recoil of a wounded animal caught in headlights. Not fear. No. Worse.

A kind of hurt so deep it turned to silence.

When you turned, your eyes burned—lit with something Gojo had never seen before. Something that made his breath catch in his throat. He had seen you angry before, seen you upset, seen you hurt. But this—this was different.

"I’m not a project," you said, your voice cracked open at the edges. "I’m not something you can fix."

Gojo flinched.

Actually, physically flinched.

The smirk that usually softened his presence was gone, stripped away by the weight of what you had become under their hands. And in its place—something uncomfortably human. Something like guilt.

"We’re not trying to fix you," he murmured, softer than he ever spoke.

You laughed. Short. Sharp. Bitter.

Nanami felt it like a shard of glass pressed into his ribs.

"Then what the hell are you trying to do?" you demanded, your voice full of something neither of them had ever been able to name. "Because it sure as hell doesn’t feel like you’re trying to be with me."

Nanami stepped forward. Not out of anger—out of control. His hands curled into fists at his sides, fighting the instinct to reach for you. To pull you back in. To erase whatever distance you had put between them.

"We’re trying to help," he said, slow, careful, but even he could feel the crack forming.

"Help?" You spat the word like poison. "Is that what you call it? Whispering behind my back? Making decisions for me? Acting like I’m some delicate fucking thing you have to handle?"

Gojo moved before he could stop himself, before he could think. His hand hovered in the air, fingertips twitching, unsure.

Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you.

Like he already knew he had lost that right.

"We’re just worried about you," he whispered.

You stepped back.

And that—more than the words, more than the rain, more than anything else—was what made the air between you go thin.

Gojo and Nanami exchanged a look.

You hated them for it.

Hated the way they always seemed to understand each other when you couldn’t even get them to look at you like you mattered.

Finally, Nanami broke the silence. "We see you," he said. "We’ve always seen you."

Your breath hitched. Your hands curled into fists.

Gojo knew what came next before it happened.

He saw it in the set of your shoulders, in the way the weight of everything—the waiting, the watching, the giving, the sacrificing—broke you down all at once.

And then you snapped.

“What exactly have you two done in all of this time?” Your voice was low, dangerous. “I’ve been here—sitting, waiting, watching you both… loving you, supporting you, making sacrifices…”

You were shaking now, the weight of it all crashing down on you.

Gojo wanted to say something.

Nanami wanted to fix it.

But they both knew—

---

Nanami’s POV

She wasn’t something they could fix.

He knew that now.

It was in the way she stood, shoulders squared despite the weight pressing down on her. The rain clung to her skin, darkened her hair, but she didn’t shiver. She didn’t fold in on herself like before.

She just looked at them, and for the first time, Nanami realized she wasn’t waiting for an answer.

Because she already knew what she wanted to say.

"What have you done?"

Her voice cut through the rain, sharp and jagged as glass.

"Have you done anything but murder people for me? Huh? Have you done anything but that, because I’m still here. I’m still left behind! I’m six months pregnant, carrying twins, and all you’ve given me is your guilt and your selfishness!"

Nanami felt Gojo tense beside him, felt his breath hitch—but neither of them said anything.

Because what was there to say?

Her words were truths, ugly and cold, carved from the wreckage of everything they had left behind.

"Did you even bother to fix anything?"

She took a step forward, eyes burning, her voice raw from all the things she had swallowed down until now.

"Did you go to therapy? Did you even think for a second about how this actually affected me, or were you too busy fucking each other in every corner of the universe while I—I—was treated like a ghost?"

Gojo let out a shaky breath.

"Okay… Okay, that’s… that’s actually a good idea."

Nanami turned his head sharply, but Gojo was already looking at her, rain dripping from his lashes, his expression unreadable.

She blinked. "What is?"

This time, it was Nanami who answered. His voice was quiet, but no less firm.

"Therapy. We should… We should go to therapy."

He expected her anger. Expected the fire, the bitterness that followed.

"You think therapy will fix this?"

She laughed, but it was a hollow thing.

"No amount of talking will fix the fact that you two have torn this apart, one betrayal at a time, one “Don’t let her find out Satoru,” at a time, huh Nanami. Look at me. Therapy won’t bring me back from the way you made me feel like I don’t matter."

Nanami swallowed.

Because she wasn’t wrong.

"We didn’t mean to—" Gojo started.

"You didn’t mean to?!"

Nanami winced as her voice cracked.

"You think that’s enough? To not mean to?"

She dragged a hand over her face, and Nanami felt a strange heat build in his chest. Shame.

She was right.

She had always been right.

"Maybe I don’t want your guilt. Maybe I want you to actually show me that you care, without treating me like some side project when it’s convenient for you!"

He took a step forward. A mistake.

She stepped back, shaking her head, her walls rising between them like steel gates slamming shut.

"I’ve had enough."

There was no finality in her voice. There was no anger. Just exhaustion.

She had given them everything.

And they had taken all of it without once asking what she needed in return.

"And no amount of affection will erase the fact that you both ignored me. That you let me feel invisible—that you didn’t think about how lonely this entire situation would make me feel. You wanted me to just... accept it."

Her voice cracked on the last word, and Gojo looked like he wanted to say something, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

But he didn’t.

Because she wasn’t done.

"Yeah, therapy sounds like a good idea."

Nanami felt the weight of her words before she even finished.

"Maybe it’ll help you two figure out how to actually be. Because right now? You’re just two men who can’t even figure out how to take care of their own wife and call “smothering and ignoring” love."

The words weren’t meant to hurt.

But they did.

They stood there, soaked to the bone, and neither of them knew what to say.

Because there was nothing they could say.

And then—

She stepped forward.

Not toward him.

Toward Gojo.

And Nanami stood there, watching, as she pressed herself against him, her fingers gripping at his jacket like he was the only thing keeping her from breaking apart.

Gojo didn’t move at first.

Then his arms wrapped around her, slow, hesitant, like he was afraid.

Not of her.

Not of the storm raging inside her.

Afraid of what she had just said.

Afraid of what it meant.

"I’m scared, Satoru."

Nanami heard the words, but they weren’t meant for him.

"I never wanted to be a mother."

Her voice cracked.

"I never thought I’d be one. And now I feel like I’d die if something happened to them. I never even got to process it; I have been on flight, flight or freeze constantly. I need to breathe; my body hurts. I’m tired..."

Nanami exhaled, something twisting sharp and deep in his chest.

"And I don’t have you both."

Her fingers dug into Gojo’s jacket.

"I should have been the most supported woman in the world, but I’m not. No matter how rich or successful I am, it doesn’t matter. I wanted my husbands to know first, to care, to fix your discresions before they got worse. But instead, I feel like a fucking surrogate. Like I’m just—"

Her voice broke, the words crumbling under the weight of everything she’d been holding back. The tears came then, hot and relentless, spilling down her cheeks, getting swallowed in Gojo’s shirt, as she choked on the truth they’d been too afraid to say out loud.

She choked on the words, and Nanami thought he might break apart with her.

"Like I don’t matter to you."

Gojo’s arms tightened around her.

He froze.

Nanami did too.

Because it was true.

It had always been true.

"I don’t need your worry. I don’t need your regret."

Her voice was breaking apart, unraveling in the space between them.

"I just—"

Nanami closed his eyes.

"I just need you to see me. Not whatever version of me you think exists. Not whatever you think I should be. Me."

The rain was falling harder now.

Neither of them moved.

Nanami wanted to reach for her.

But she hadn’t come to him.

She hadn’t let herself fall apart in his arms.

Maybe she was still afraid of him. Of the way he had dragged her out of that closet. Of the way he had taken her away from Norway, against her will.

So he didn’t step forward.

He just stood there.

Watching.

And Gojo—Gojo finally moved.

He was crying, but the rain stole the proof before it could exist.

"Let’s go to couples therapy," Gojo whispered.

---

A/N: 🔥 COUPLES THERAPY ARC UNLOCKED 🔥 This fic has now reached its Enemies to Therapy to Lovers phase. 🧐 I’ll wait in the comments. 👀

Next chapter 17 (alt ending 2.8) - Invisible (Tumblr/Ao3)

All Works Masterlist

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

[evanchantingpeters]

How I met Evan Peters (Fanfic - Part 7 - Final)

Pairings ─ Evan Peters x Y/N (fem reader)

Summary ─ A couple of months after Jake’s (Evan’s friend) tragic accident left him fighting for his life in intensive care, Evan is spiralling, lost in despair, a shadow of his former self. Just as a sliver of good news about his condition offers a ray of hope, Y/N steps in, determined to bring some light into Evan’s shattered world. She starts with a seductive dance and builds to a night of passion. But Evan has a surprise—one that will change everything in a way Y/N never saw coming.

Warnings ─ Obscene language, lap dance, oral (both receiving), overstimulation, mild daddy kink, nipple teasing, spanking, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, cowgirl, missionary, extra smutty—like you like it.

Read Part 1 | Read Part 2 | Read Part 3 | Read Part 4 | Read Part 5 | Read Part 6

Word count ─ 5.1K (I had a lot to say 🤫)

18+ This is ADULT content. I’m not your mummy to supervise your net access. If you’re a minor, do NOT read!

@evanchantingpeters — All rights reserved. Please do not modify, translate, or plagiarise my content.

Previously on: How I met Evan Peters (Part 6)

“W-what’s up, Jeremy?” he stutters, his voice barely a whisper. “It’s Jake,” Jeremy blurts out, his expression twisting into one of anguish. “He’s fallen off the roof.” Jeremy’s words hit like a punch to the gut, the colour draining from Evan’s face. The room goes deathly quiet, the weight of his words sinking in. The room spins as everything comes to a screeching halt.

Two months after Jake’s accident 

Thursday, 16:42 pm 

You settle into the cosy corner of his New York apartment, the city’s hustle muffled by the soft hum of the radiator. A rustic wooden desk hosting your work setup and a quirky lamp, which has seen better days but adds to the character, stands against the wall. A plush bean bag chair invites you to sink in while a baroque rug sprawls beneath your feet, and a bookshelf stuffed with books and random knick-knacks lurks by your side. Sunlight streams through light, breezy curtains, making it a perfect workspace for your remote routine. With Evan busy with press and meetings for the next few weeks, this place feels almost like a retreat—if only you could shake off the looming frustration of the Excel table before you.

You’d think by now you’d have mastered the art of not losing your shit at work, being the corporate girlie you are, while dealing with this stupid spreadsheet, but nope. Here you are, puffing like the Big Bad Wolf trying to blow down formulas that refuse to behave.

As you’re fighting and suffering through, your hand drifts toward your phone. You know how it goes. Brain’s fried, and next thing you know, you’re aimlessly scrolling through the endless pit of Instagram reels without even realising it. Well, this time it’s Evan’s name glowing like a beacon of your favourite “distraction,” and your stomach flutters, your heart racing.

Oh, hello, messages!

You open the chat, expecting a quick “I’ll be back in 10’, baby. Can’t wait to kiss you” text or maybe a meme about cats judging people (you know, standard fare). Instead, what do you find? A picture. But not just any picture. Oh no, this man, YOUR man, is standing there in a white tee, his pose giving swagger “yo” next to Todd McFarlane, a comic book legend. The whole shebang.

And here comes the string of messages:

“Babyyyy, look - Todd McFarlane in da house for the press conference!!” 

“he’s signed the Amazing Spider-Man hardcopy!!” 

“ill bring it home and we frame it ;)” 

“we’re going live.. tune in xx” 

“changed into the blazer and stripy tee you picked for me. Love you so ♥️”

Let’s pause here. Not at Todd McFarlane – who, mind you, is hands-down a god in his domain, but no. Your eyes, traitors that they are, keep sliding back to that picture of Evan.

Because damn.

Todd’s cool and all, but Evan in that white tee and messy curls? Where do you even begin? The man looks like he rolled out of bed straight into a photoshoot and decided to smoulder for no apparent reason. You know the one—that half-cocked sly smile that screams, “Yeah, I know what I’m doing to do, and you’re welcome.”

You catch yourself zooming in and drooling over him like a total goofball. The scrunched-up grimace. The luscious Tarzan hair. The way his eyes carry a hint of sadness and fatigue but with residues of that familiar spark he always has. It’s weird how something as simple as a picture can make your heart do that silly backflip thing over and over again after more than a year with him. 

Snap out of it, girl. Spreadsheet’s waiting. But no, instead of getting back to formulas, your brain takes a little detour down Memory Lane. Suddenly, you’re remembering the last time Evan was kneeling in front of you. Not in some adorable, “let me tie your shoes, princess” way, but more of an arousing “let me worship you, queen,” Roman Empire situation.

Oh, yeah. That night. 

You’d seized your throne aka that big armchair in the middle of the dimly-lit living room. And there he was, on his knees, completely surrendered to you. His tongue was lapping on your wet folds like you were the sweetest cake frosting he’d ever tasted. His slender fingers were plumping in and out of you in all the right spots as he slurped up your syrups and juices, sucking on your clit like it’s cherry on dessert.

His tongue would thrash and french kiss your puffy sobbing walls up near the throbbing bulb of your sensitive clit. You tugged on his hair, his brown curls wrapped around your fingers like reins as he pulled you apart, inch by inch. Your jaw tightened as his tongue and fingers mercilessly rutted into you, giving you crazed whiplash as you squirt, all while licking you clean with eager choked moans. 

Your body tremors and orgasmic vibrations were seismic… just like they are now as your cunt pulsates and aches for him, even though you’re sitting at the dining table, fully clothed and miles away from him. 

Funny how memories can sneak up on you like that, isn’t it?

But here’s the kicker. As much as you’d love for a repeat performance, that’s not where you guys are at these days. Not since Jake fell off the roof at the party he hosted at his place. You get it–one of Evan’s best friends is in a hospital bed, clinging to life while in a coma, and Evan’s drowning in his own sea of emotions and sorrow. The man is dragging so much weight on his shoulders right now. 

And you respect that. You really do. Your sex life has justifiably taken a backseat, but you’re not here to push or force him. What you have and share with him isn’t mere lust; you love him, and you acknowledge that he’s having it rough at the moment. You’ve been trying to be his rock, the one who keeps him grounded while he navigates the heavy blizzard of the tragedy. 

But you can’t help it. 

Sometimes, your mind slips back to those sizzling moments where your bodies speak in a language only you two comprehend. Because, let’s be real—he might be wearing the blazer you chose for him in the morning, but under all that fabric, you’re the one who gets to undress the real Evan. And if that’s not worth waiting for, you don’t know what is.

You sigh, your fingers hovering over the keyboard, but you’ve left the spreadsheets and work far behind with all those cheeky little fantasies that gnaw on your brain. Still knee-deep in wet daydreams of Evan and his—well, *coughing* talents, when the universe decides to slap you in the face with reality. 

That “we’re going live, tune in xx” text blinks back at you from the chat, practically yelling to stop fantasising and actually be the supportive girlfriend you claim to be. 

Gasp.

Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap. Gasp again.

The press conference! You need to watch it. Like, now. 

You scramble up from the table so fast, you’d think the chair is lava, and launch into a desperate hunt for the TV remote. The remote is like a cryptid—always hiding in the most inconvenient places at the worst times. Last week? In the fridge. Don’t ask. Today? Who knows. You’re flipping couch cushions like you’re on an archaeological dig.

“WHERE IS IT?!” you yelp, your high-pitched voice bouncing off the walls like you’re a banshee in panic mode. Female rage core.

Nowhere. Absolutely nowhere. It’s like the remote’s decided to pack its bags and set off to Narnia with no return ticket.

Curse you, technology masterminds.

Plan B. 

You rush back to your laptop, slide your fingers along the trackpad to wake it up, and—oh no, what’s this? Your whole screen’s been hijacked by the most evil of phrases:

Software Update: 30% Complete.

Are. You. For. Real. 

You stare at the loading bar like you can will it to go faster. Or pretend you’re not watching, so it speeds up. Smart but nah, that’s placebo—no such luck. This thing is moving slower than a Monday morning during rush hours, and if you wait for it, you’ll be watching Evan’s interview in the past tense or through his narration once he’s back home. 

You let out a huff that could probably power a small wind turbine and whip out your phone, praying to every deity that your Wi-Fi doesn’t fail you amidst crisis. 

“Come on, come on,” you mutter through gritted teeth, frantically tapping apps like your fingers are on caffeine overload. And just when you think someone is playing another cruel trick on you—boom, there it is. The live stream. 

The screen lights up, and there comes baby Evan on stage, looking all sleek and profesh in his blazer (you knew the combo with the stripes underneath would work wonders *proud stylist smiling*). He’s sitting on a stool along with his co-stars, all of them gathered in this massive amphitheatre for their upcoming movie press tour. 

He’s got the mic in his hand, finishing up a sentence with that smooth, husky tone. You know, that voice that sounds like a lullaby wrapped in velvet. But there’s also the twist of dorky humour and the cute brow furrows he taps into when he’s either totally in his element or way too awkward. 

The interviewer gives him a nod, then sighs. Your stomach drops.

The next question is about Jake, as he’s guy well known for scripting some of the most beloved TV shows. If there were a Hall of Fame for TV writers, his star would be as big as a small planet. He’s adored by fandoms for his wit and creativity, and now you’re all grappling with the fallout from his misfortune.

You can see the shift in Evan’s face from media charm to something… darker, melancholic. He’s trying so hard to stay composed, but you know him. That tiny flicker of anguish behind his eyes filters through the cracks.

Evan takes a sharp breath and clears his throat. “Yeah, Jake was moved from LA and remains in ICU here in New York,” he admits, voice steady but edged with quiet vulnerability. “But there’s… a... there’s a glimmer of hope. He moved his hand today.”

For a second, the world stops spinning. Did he just say—? He moved?!

Your heart does a somersault, and you can’t help it—you cheer and clap right along with the audience, even though you’re alone in the living room in your mismatched socks, overstretched yoga shorts, and messy bun. Who cares, honestly? Jake moved his hand. 

Evan lets the crowd’s enthusiasm bubble up for a second before he delicately taming it. “It’s good news,” he continues, his voice like a fuzzy blanket, soothing yet cautious. “But let’s not start planning the parade just yet—there’s a long road ahead for him. We’ll have to see how his health evolves from here. I just wanted to share this little nugget of hope. His family’s already spreading the word, and they gave me the green light to pass it on to all of you.”

There’s a tightness in his voice, and you can tell he’s got a fortress built around his emotions, probably fighting not to let it crumble in front of all those people and cameras. Your baby’s always been strong like steel this way, the type who carries everyone’s baggage on his shoulders without ever letting on how heavy it is. 

You sit there, phone in hand, staring at his face on the screen. There’s so much going on behind those eyes, and you know he probably feels like crap underneath that calm exterior. 

You wish you could reach through the screen and just be there with him in a “I’ve got you, you’re not alone” kind of way. You’ve been weathering this storm together, and it’s been tough as hell. It’s taken everything in him just to stay afloat, but he’s doing it. He’s really doing it...

There’s something about post-work Thursdays that sends you into this frantic, impulsive must-clean-everything-in-sight mode. Not that Evan cares if there’s a pile of laundry in the corner or if the dishes are threatening to stage a rebellion in the sink, but still. He doesn’t expect you to tackle it all just because you’re working fully from home; he can do it himself, but you want the place to look neat and tidy. You know, like “I have my life together and didn’t just spend the last two hours binge-watching cooking videos on YouTube” level of very demure, very mindful adulthood.

So here you are, in full-on cleaning tornado mode—scrubbing the counter with the kind of intensity that could probably burn calories—when your ears perk at the rustling sound. 

That magical jingle of keys. The ignition. The click of the door unlocking.

Baby Evan’s home.

You drop the sponge like it’s on fire and just bolt. You don’t even think. It’s pure instinct, like you’re a puppy who heard the treat jar open. Your pulse leaps, your feet fly, and before you know it, you’re flinging the front door open just as he steps in. And there he is.

Your man. Your whole heart.

He’s got his arms full—takeout bags in one hand, his backpack slung over his shoulder, looking more mouth-watering than anything that could possibly be in those containers. His hair’s a little ruffled, his shirt rumpled from the day, but to you, he might as well be walking straight out of a rom-com.

“EVIEEEE!” you squeal, pouncing at him with the enthusiasm of a kid on a sugar high.

“Whoa!” he chuckles heartily, catching you mid-air. He spins you around even though you can sense the stiffness in his body as he battles not to drop the dinner. He’s out of breath, but he holds you tight, like he’s afraid to let go. His backpack slides down his arm, and for a second, you’re just tangled together—glued around him, his hands grasping on you firmly.

“Couldn’t wait to see me, huh?” he teases, his voice hoarse from the long day. But you can see it in his eyes—he’s just as hyped to be back in your little cocoon as you are. 

“You have no idea,” you breathe, and before you can utter anything else, his lips are on yours, kissing you like he’s been starved for weeks. You’re pretty sure you hear the bags crinkle between you two, but whatever… they can wait.

It’s not just a kiss. Oh no, this is the you-just-got-kissed-senseless kind that says, “I’m never letting you out of my reach again.” It’s deep and sloppy, and you feel it all the way down your toes. Little lewd moans escape your bodies as your tongues greet each other, swirling around in a lustful dance. He tastes like toffee, baby powder, warmth, comfort, and home.

You melt into each other, completely forgetting about the bags or the fact that you’ve still got soap on your hands. You twirl faster together as his hands mischievously squeeze your ass, making you giggle into his mouth.

“I was counting the hours to get to you, Y/N, and time was a total bitch today,” he grumbles, and it’s a husky purr near the nape of your neck. Your plump lips curl into an “awh, my poor baby” pout, cupping his cheeks in your palms as you swarm his face with little pecks. 

When he finally sets you down, you’re both grinning like idiots. Your heart’s doing cartwheels, and your stomach feels like you’ve swallowed a whole bunch of butterflies. You missed him. Not just having him around, but all the little things tied in—his laugh, his hands on you, the way he stares at you like you’re a precious gem.

Closing the door behind you, you pace together towards the kitchen, and get the itch to drop the question, “Did Jake really move?” Your voice is hopeful, but there’s a little tinge of fear there too. You know how much this means to Evan, so you need to tread about cautiously.

He pauses, chucking his backpack aside before turning to you. His eyes soften, and he nods, stepping closer. His hands find your waist again, his face buried in the crook of your neck. “Yeah. He really did.”

Before you can even process the relief, Evan’s lips are on yours again, soft whimpers rolling off him. This time, the kiss is slower, more tender like silky ribbons on your mouth. His lips trail from your mouth down to your neck, his breath tingly against your heated skin. “Gosh, how much I needed you today,” he whispers between kisses, his voice dense with emotion as he presses his mouth lower, toward the neckline of your sports bra. His fingers gently graze your sides and rest on your hip bones before massaging your ass, and your breath hitches.

You thread your fingers through his hair, feeling the tension melt out of him as his body leans into yours. “Me too,” you huff out, because honestly, you feel like you’ve been holding your breath all day, just waiting for him to come home.

But then you pull away slightly, the thought of Jake scratching the back of your mind. “Can we go see him now?”

Evan sighs, resting his forehead against yours for a moment, his breath warm and steady. “Not tonight,” he exhales, taking a couple of steps back. “It’s just family. They wanna keep it low with the visits.”

You shake your head in acknowledgment, nervously biting your fingernail. You get it—you really do—but there’s still that little sting of disappointment tugging at your chest. “How ‘bout tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, glancing over at you again as he tears the bags apart and unpacks the food. “We’ll try tomorrow afternoon. His family’s still adjusting, but I’ll talk to them.”

The relief that washes over you is like a pleasant, summer breeze, calming your frayed nerves. Tomorrow. You let out a breathy, “Okay, great,” your shoulders finally loosening. As you approach him to help dispose of the bags, Evan’s hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist in one quick, playful motion, pulling you flush against him. 

You barely have time to gasp before his lips crash against yours, his tongue barging in your mouth without warning, assaulting yours in tantalising ways that are better left unsaid. You loop your arms around the back of his head and drag him closer, your tits cushioning his shredded chest.

“Don’t leave, please,” he hushes, his lips caressing yours. His voice is huskier now, a bit rougher around the edges, and you can feel the warmth from his body merging with yours. His free hand slips down to the supple flesh of your waist again, fingers curling just under the hem of your top to tuck underneath.

You smirk against his mouth, tilting your head slightly. “You know, we do live together, sir” you tease, playfully pinching the tip of his nose.

“That’s a reminder in case you forgot,” he quips, nuzzling into the slope of your neck. His broad shoulders are curved over you from behind like a shield, throwing every organ in your body on high alert, your heart drumming violently.

He pulls back, and before you can react, he gives your ass a quick, cheeky smack that makes you jump. Your mouth drops open in surprise, but he just grins smugly, like he’s fully aware of what he’s done, and he’s proud of it.

“Hey!” you whimper, swatting at him, but there’s no denying your pulse thumps fiercely.

“What?” he squeaks sheepishly, throwing his hands up in exasperation, but the glint in his eye gives him away. “You look too good to keep my hands off. Plus, guess who was stuck in my head the whole day. Hint—it’s not the burgers,” he fires back, waggling his eyebrows at you. 

You roll your eyes comically, but your heartbeat is up now. There’s something about the way he’s staring down at you—like he’s hungry, and it’s not just for the takeout. You notice it when he leans in again, this time with a heat that wasn’t there a moment ago. His lips trace a line of open mouthed kisses from your jaw to your collarbone. Your fingers twist around his shirt, gripping it, as his hands roam a little lower, tugging you closer until you can feel every ounce of him pressed against you.

“Speaking of burgers, if food’s your love language, then you’re speaking mine fluently,” you chuckle, but the second you catch the look Evan gives you—whoa, buddy. Food’s officially second on his menu. His eyes are a pair of flamed balls, fixed onto you like you’re the main course, dessert, and everything in between—like you’re the most appetising thing in the room.

And, let’s just say, he’s a lot more “warmed up” than usual. His kisses grow deeper, rougher, and the way he’s touching you are the real giveaway… The man’s practically simmering.

And oh, honey, you’re more than pleased to help him get away tonight. So, in your most casual, not-at-all-planned-in-your-head-already way, you decide tonight’s the night to put up a show… Literally. 

You let your hands glide down his chest, feeling every erratic beat of his heart beneath his shirt. “You’ve been through a lot lately,” you murmur softly, your fingers dipping lower until you’re just hovering over his belt buckle, toying with the metal. “How about I pamper you tonight?”

You let your tongue slide over his upper lip, and damn if he doesn’t shudder. His eyes flash with thrill and curiosity—mixed with something darker, more primal. “Oh?” His voice comes out in this sexy rasp like he’s intrigued but still playing along, letting you lead for now.

You bite back a smug grin. Oh, you have no idea what you’re in for.

With a playful wink, you step back, making sure to drag your hand across his chest one last time. “Sit tight, big boy,” you purr, backing away with just the right amount of sway in your hips. “This show’s just getting started.”

You saunter down the hallway, feeling his gaze burning a path down your back. You can feel your heart pounding as you head into the bedroom, closing the door behind you. The second it clicks shut, you lean against it for a second to catch your breath. The adrenaline makes your hands quiver a little as you rummage through the drawer.

There it is: that little black number you’ve been saving for a night just like this. 

A lacy, black lingerie piece, sheer in all the right places, hugging curves like it was made for you. You shimmy it on, adjusting the straps, making sure everything’s sitting just so. 

A quick glance in the mirror as you set your hair free from the bun—tousled, sexy-but-effortless vibe, check. The lace hints at more than it conceals, and your lips curl into a slow smile. Oh, yeah, he’s done for. You toss on a silky robe, leaving it untied, the lace peeking through just enough to give him a preview. A little fragrance spritz and a light touch of your lipstick, and you’re sorted.

When you open the door and walk back into the living room, you find him perched on the couch, his eyes snapping to you like magnets, intense and feral, as you come into view. His posture is stiff, knuckles blanched as they grip the cushions like he’s holding on for dear life. His pupils, wide and black with want, devouring the sight of you as if you are something forbidden, yet irresistible.

His gaze lingers, darkening when it catches on the soft peek of skin where your robe parts. He swallows hard, audibly, and when you let the silky fabric slip from your shoulders and pool at your feet, his jaw clenches—hard (hint: and not just his jaw).

The low light of the room encases you as it casts a sensual glow over the room, deepening the shadows and sharpening the tension between you two like a blade.

“F-fuck,” he wheezes, like the breath’s been knocked clean and shallow out of him. He tries to maintain some semblance of self-control, but the sharp despair in his voice betrays him. He sinks deeper into the couch, spreading his legs slightly, shooting you this look that’s pure, unfiltered desire as he drinks you in. 

You want to torture him, enjoying how his gaze rakes over every inch of you, so you slowly strut over to him. Each step is deliberate, your hips swinging in a slow, intoxicating rhythm that’s nothing short of tempting. His composure slips just a little more—a twitch in his jaw, a harsh swallow, the way his chest rises and falls, faster with every second. His eyes flick down to the curves, then back up to your scandalous tits before snapping back to your face.

The heat from his body radiates into yours as you come to a stop, your thighs rubbing against his knees, and his hands instinctively move to grab your waist. But you’re not giving in that easily. “Uh-uh,” you purr, wagging a teasing finger at him, your lips forming a sly smile. 

His fingers freeze, but his eyes burn with frustration as you stretch, purposely slow, letting your ass hover just above his lap. The unmistakable press of his hardness through his jeans sends a jolt of arousal through you, and you can’t help but smirk. “I’m in charge tonight, remember?” 

Evan lets out a furious groan, his head falling back defeated against the cushions, hands flexing in silent restraint. The power you hold over him tonight? Oh, it’s delicious, addictive. You throw him one last, seductive glance before turning around, giving him the full view of your barely-there lingerie—delicate straps criss-crossing down your back and framing your ass like a gift he’s dying to unwrap.

You hear as a muttered curse slips past his lips, low and guttural. He’s so close to breaking, and you haven’t even actually started yet. You scroll through your phone’s playlist, cueing up the perfect song for the occasion. The room is soon filled with the slow, sultry beats of Beyoncé’s ‘Dance For You,’ wrapping around both of you like a spell. You start slow, letting the music guide your hips, rolling in hypnotic circles. 

You saunter towards a nearby chair, aka your prop, bending over it as your body flows like liquid heat to the beat. His eyes religiously follow every motion, waiting, his breathing growing heavier like he’s holding on a thread with every flick of your hips, every arch of your spine.

You roam your fingers up my body, teasingly stopping at your hips before dragging them higher, skimming over your breasts. With agonising slowness, you untie your bra, holding his attention and eye contact hostage. The second the lace slips off your body, you toss it in his direction with a devilish grin. He catches it with a hungry grunt, burying his face in the fabric like a man possessed, his smirk turning malicious as he inhales deeply.

“God, you’re killing me,” he groans, eyes exploding with thirst for you. The sight of him, chest heaving, lips slightly parted—oh, it’s so sadistically satisfying. 

You’re gonna make him beg for it. 

Leaning forward, just enough for your bare breasts to graze his chest, you bring your lips up to his ear, hot breath fanning the side of his face, “Good,” voice dripping with a promise for more. You pull back just a fraction, your lips curving into a wicked smile. “I’m just getting started.” 

You circle behind him, and he twists his head, tracking your every move, but you’re not finished (no pun intended).

“Please, Y/N. Come sit on my lap, or my face…just—” His voice breaks, raw and pleading, his body squirming as he shifts, desperate for release. The power thrumming through your veins is out of this world, and you bite your bottom lip knowing you’ve got him right on the edge. 

You start with the lightest touch, dragging your fingers over the hard lines of his shoulders, tracing down the sculpted muscles of his chest, feeling the shudder that runs through him as you slide lower. Your fingers brush over the taut muscles of his thighs.

His stiff length twitches beneath your touch, his growl of desire low and animalistic. His hands stretch again, desperate to reach for you, but you chuckle softly, knowing he’s at your mercy tonight. His usual command is gone, flipped on its head, and that hunger in his eyes tells you he’s loving every second of it.

The music pulses through the room as you circle back around to him. You bend low, your curves on full display, just close enough for him to grab a handful of your ass with an eager groan that rumbles through his chest. He finally pulls you into him, lips attacking your skin, trailing down your spine with feverish kisses as he peels your thong off. His breath brushes against your slit and clit as he descends, his lips so dangerously close it sends your body humming with desire. 

He can smell your fertility; the pheromones emitting from your body intensify his animal instinct to breed. His breathing is erratic now, his body practically vibrating with need to take you, but you still “hold the leash.”

He breaths come out in heavy bursts as he watches you straddle him, knees planted on either side of his hips. You grind down slowly, feeling the friction as you move in slow, sensual circles. His hands latch onto your thighs, his grip harsh and desperate, leaving marks that make your skin tingle. But still, you don’t let him seize control. Not yet.

Leaning in, you pepper steamy kisses along his neck, feeling his rapid pulse beneath your lips, your teeth tracing the sharp edge of his jawline. You tenderly bite at his earlobe, and he growls lowly, his hands spasming with despair to grab you, but even then, you won’t allow him to touch you the way he wants.

“The more you resist, the harder I’ll fuck you,” he warns with a hiss, his voice dark. It’s a threat and a vow all rolled into one that sends a heat pooling between your thighs.

“Perfect,” you retort in a hushed whisper against the shell of his ear, lips barely brushing the corner of his mouth—teasing but not quite giving in. “That’s the idea, baby.” 

You’re serving cunt, and he knows it well.

With a slow, calculated slide, you lower yourself down his body, your hands stripping him of his blazer as you go. You let your hands trace over his thighs and the hardened, erected mound in between. Kneeling between his legs, you lock eyes with him, watching the way his breath stutters, anticipation swirling in the air. Slowly, you unbuckle his belt, your fingers stroking his length just enough to drive him nuts as he lets out a shaky gasp.

You pop the button on his jeans and pull down the zipper with your teeth. The second you free him from the tight confines of denim, his aching cock springs out, pulsing with raw desire for you, the fabric of his boxers barely able to contain him.

You glance up at him again with a smug smile before leaning down, your lips brushing along his head. His hips buck instinctively, a ragged groan tearing from his throat. But you take your time, taunting him with light flicks of your tongue. 

Finally, you wrap your lips around him, licking his sensitive red tip with the end of your tongue. You swirl it around and lap up the shiny little pearls of precum that keep seeping out in his pent-up arousal. “F-fuuuck, Y/N. You’re gonna make me blow in a sec,” he grunts out with a hitched voice as you take his whole size in your mouth. 

Your eyes flash up at him, filled with mischief as you take him deeper, your lips stretching to fit his full size. “Isn’t that the point?” you murmur, your voice on a seductive octave. “I want you to cum hard... fucking hard all over me.”

Your fingers trace the thick vein along the underside of his shaft before squeezing his hardness and pumping with a fast and firm tempo. Your hand works in sync with your mouth as you suck the upper half of his delicious cock, pulling him in and out, each movement making him gasp and buckle uncontrollably.

His head falls back, eyes screwed shut, muscles tensing. Some inaudible drabble slips off him as he thrusts into your mouth. Pools of saliva are pouring out of the edges of your lips, your eyebrows knitted together as you keep gagging at his cock hitting the back of your throat. You push further, your lips tight around him as you meet his gaze once more, your eyes wild with intensity. His fingers weave into your hair, but he doesn’t force you—he doesn’t have to. You’re in the saddle tonight, guiding him closer to his magical release.

Your hand reaches for his, fingers intertwining as your head bobs up and down on him, earning little moans of delight from his chest. He’s a hot mess; trembling under the weight of the pleasure you’re generously giving him as you slide your mouth down his dick, your cheeks hollowed in a blend of sensual sucks and frantic pumps. 

The sound of you gagging, the wet slurp of your lips, and the way you glance up at him so innocently, brow furrowed with effort, has him reeling. “Ahh, yeah, keep going,” he breathes out, biting his bottom lip.

He gets a good yet gentle grasp of your hair, thrusting into your mouth in shallow, desperate strokes, but you maintain control, building him up slowly, methodically. He adores your lips, especially the way they loop around his dick and release these mewling sounds against it.

But now, his whole body is shuddering, his cock jerking inside, and you can feel the tell-tale sign he’s about to bust his load in your mouth. The blood rushes to his dick, draining any sane thought and cell in his brain, leaving him driven only by his primal instinct and craving for climax.

You slide onto his throbbing cock once more, gobbling on it like the insatiable whore you are. He presses your head down and keeps you there for a few seconds. As you detach from his member to draw a breath, his body immediately locks up, his abs contracting, and then—he’s there. 

His head snaps back as he erupts shivering whimpers of your name, painting your face with copious amounts of his thick, white, and deliciously salty cum, his release spilling over your lips. 

You open your mouth, tongue stretched out, catching the last drops as you pump him, milking every ounce of his release. His cum drips down your chin, and you let your fingers swipe off the remnants from your face, licking them off slowly, savouring the taste. Nothing goes to waste as you look up at him, lips wet, cheeks flushed with the aftermath of his orgasm.

“You’re one hungry bitch, aren’t you?” he rasps, his voice strained, still shaky from the intensity of his high. He laughs weakly, dragging his thumb across your cheek with a tender caress, though his hard-on still convulses, not quite ready to soften. He winces as he tries to adjust himself, zipping up his jeans with difficulty, but the look of satisfaction on his face is unmistakable.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, licking your lips as you flash him a sly, knowing smirk. His chest rises and falls heavily, his face reddish, eyes droopy, still lost in the haze of afterglow. 

Without wavering your eyes from him, you crawl up and climb to his lap, feeling your pussy drip with every inch of his skin that presses against you. He ogles your naked torso like a dog drooling over the bone. You position yourself just right, his semi-clothed swollen tip nudging against your slippery entrance.

“I am hungry for you, baby,” you purr with a pout as your fingertips draw lazy circles over the ridges of his abs. His eyes darken, filled with a renewed lust as he watches you, licking his lips like a predator eyeing its prey.

Letting out a dark, throaty chuckle, he wastes no time—he hammers his lips against yours, shoving his tongue deep into your mouth and kissing you with reckless abandon. His hands greedily paw at your tits, rolling your nipples between his fingers, tugging them just hard enough to make you moan against his lips. 

The arousal between you is electric as your body grinds against his, the friction sending sparks flying through you both; it’s like static rubbing off against each other, and you are about to feel yourself short circuit any minute. 

His hands hook around your ass cheeks before delivering a sharp, stinging slap that makes you yelp in pleasure, the sound echoing through the room. You press your lips harder against his with a mewl, tongues tangling.

“Evan,” you hush out between sloppy kisses, barely coherent amidst loud teeth smacking and clashing together. All thanks to his fingers dipping between your legs, teasing your clit with maddening eights as he grins victoriously, knowing he’s got you right where he wants you.

“My slut’s ready for me?” he hums, giving your ass another smack, the sound of flesh against flesh making you quiver with delight. Your hips swerve on his raging boner, the body-against-body friction igniting an ever-powerful spark within you both. To say you’re a ‘mere’ tease for him is an understatement. 

“You’re doing so good, my baby girl,” he gruffs, and his rough, veiny hands glide possessively toward your rocking waist as you begin to rub yourself against his thigh, slowly... teasingly. Every roll of your hips has him biting his lip, his eyes glued to the way your body moves against him.

“You’re in night care, baby boy, remember?” you hush, your voice laced with dominance as you lift your hips, fingers deftly undoing his trousers again. Your hand wraps around his cock, positioning him at your slick slit. Slowly, achingly slow, you sink down onto him, inch by inch. The stretch forces a moaning gasp out of you as your body adjusts to accommodate his size. Fiery electricity surges through you both, and he hisses watching as your pulsating pussy desperately tries to swallow his cock.

His hands tighten on your hips as you take him deeper, your nails digging into his biceps when he bottoms out, filling you completely. The fullness makes you shudder, your breath leaving you in a jagged burst as his tip presses snugly against your cervix. The deep groan that escapes his throat vibrates through your body, making you clench around him involuntarily, his hips stilling cautiously.

You start to move, rolling your hips in slow, languid circles, setting a rhythm that’s equal parts torture and bliss for both. His hands grip you harder, leaving faint red imprints on your flushed flesh, but he doesn’t push or pull—he’s letting you have the upper hand in riding him, his eyes dark and hungry as he admires you, mouth parted. The way he’s looking at you though? Like you’re a goddess descending from the heavens just for him. Oh, that does something to you.

“Look at you, baby. So fucking gorgeous, taking me like that,” he murmurs, pride and desire dripping from every word. A crooked smile is etched on his face hearing the sloshing whines squawk out of your poor needy folds as they cling to his cock. Every thrust, every grind, every little whimper from your lips makes his large member throb inside you, stretching you deliciously as you plop up and down on him.

You lean down, sealing your lips in a hungry, desperate kiss, your tongues twirling in a messy dance. It’s all teeth and moans again as he hits that sweet spot deep inside. It’s the type of kiss that makes time stop, like nothing else exists except for the raw, primitive connection between you two. 

His hands trail up your bare back, fingers tangling in your hair, keeping you close as you grind down harder. Your bodies move in sync, perfectly attuned to each other, and you can feel his cock twitching inside you with every movement. His eyes dart down to your bouncing breasts and toned stomach, but you quickly grab his jaw, tilting his head up to meet your gaze. “Nu-uh,” you whisper against his lips, your voice tinged with authority. “Eyes on mine, boy.”

He lets off a hearty chuckle, even going so far as to wriggle your ass back against him. “You feel so damn amazing, baby,” he huffs, voice rough with desire, talking over your whiny babbles. He cranes his neck to kiss the edge of your jaw before tenderly nipping at the skin.

Panting heavily, you exhale, “I could do this all night.” Your hips move faster, sliding up and down his thick length, the friction sending bolts of euphoria through you. His breathing grows ragged, and you can feel the tension rising, winding tighter and tighter. You’re so soft—sweet gummy flesh compressing around him with such ease, wringing him tight like a vice. He chokes when your pussy flutters—the way you clamp down on his dick makes his body go slack and his eyes roll back.

He lets out a low groan, barely holding himself together as your walls squeeze around him. “Thaaat’s it, hngh. This pussy knows it’s place,” he grouses, and your eyes widen, realising the shift in dynamic—he’s reclaimed control, already winning ground, sis. Before you know it, his plumpish tip drills further between each corner of your dripping cunt. Your small sobs amplify as he starts to move beneath you, his hips thrusting up harder, making your entire body quake with each deep pound.

“I love fucking you so much,” he grunts, nearly whining, his head tilting back as his cock jerks inside you.

Before you can fully catch your breath, Evan’s grip tightens on your hips. With one fluid motion, he lifts you off him, his arms hook beneath your thighs. You gasp, caught off guard, your body hanging in his grasp as he stands up, practically growling with primal need.

“You’re mine now,” he says, his voice low and dangerous, sending a bolt of excitement straight down your spine.

Without hesitation, he spins you around, carrying you across the room, your legs instinctively bundling around his waist. You’re in such a sweet, sexual brain fog that it takes you a second to get what’s going on. With one swift movement, he sweeps his arm across the dining table, sending glasses, cutlery, and whatever else is there crashing to the floor in a chaotic symphony of clatters.

“Evan!” You giggle dazedly, hands clasping on his shoulders as he sets you down on the table, the cold wood against your back making you shiver—but not nearly as much as the fire blazing in his eyes.

He leans over you and shushes you with a kiss, his lips brushing against yours as he pushes your legs apart. “I’m not done with you yet.”

You don’t have time to argue—not that you want to. He grabs your hips, yanking you to the very edge of the table, his body wedged firmly between your legs. There’s no remorse in his eyes—just pure, animalistic desire. One hand snakes under your ass, the other glides down your left thigh, lifting it effortlessly over his broad shoulder. The way he leans down and looks at you now, almost in slow motion... gosh. It’s like you’re the only thing he’s ever needed… like nothing else matters but taking you right here, right now, and it sets your entire body on fire.

He wants to smash, and he’ll get it.

The scent of your cunt is intoxicating, stirring every primal instinct inside Evan that he knows he must keep in check. He draws his hips back slowly, only his tip nestling inside you, then jams just once inside you. Your whole body jumps at the impact, your pleading eyes boring deep into his, a breathy hum punched out of you. He pulls back and slams forward again, growling through his teeth. Your pillowy walls are cuddling him, his heavy balls aching to be drained, eager to breed the fertile womb his tip is wedged against.

His hands roam up your thighs, grasping you like he can’t get enough. With each slow, deliberate stroke, he sinks deeper into you, your body arching off the table in response. The sensation of him rutting in and out of your sobbing sex is overwhelming—every movement has your breath hitching, your fingers clutching the edge of the table, desperate for some kind of anchor.

Your orgasm is building again, fast and intense. As the pressure inside you give way to climax, tears cascade down your burning cheeks, your features contorted in ecstasy. 

“E-Evan, I can’t take it! T-too much!”

He smirks, shaking his head. “Say please, baby,” he grits out, his voice low and commanding. His hips thrust into yours harder, making you lose all sense of logic. Your mind is blank, mouth hanging open, unable to form words as the pleasure consumes you.

“P-please,” a pained mewl tumbles out of you, and that single word tips him off the edge. His hips stutter, and with a series of deep thrusts along with a carnal chant of “ah, ah, ah, ah” pouring from his lips, he gushes inside you—creamy gooey ropes of cum dribble into you, not missing at all.

He’s panting heavily, hips jerking involuntarily as he empties himself, filling you to the brim with thick, sticky cum.

His groans of satisfaction blend with your breathy moans as you cling to him, feeling his weight stick against your skin like it’s adhesive. You bite into the soft skin of his neck, muffling your whimpers as he continues to thrust lazily, drawing out every last bit of his orgasm.

“Come for me,” he demands, his voice low and raspy, each word filled with the same raw desire that’s coursing through your veins. “I wanna feel you.”

That’s it—the words, the intensity, the feeling of him completely owning your body, claiming you in a way that makes your head spin—have you on a chokehold. You suck in lungfuls of air as the incoming pangs of orgasmic waves smash over you with impossible force. You can’t hold back the loud moans spilling from your lips, your body arching up and writhing beneath him as you come hard, your walls spasming around his cock.

He presses his forehead to yours, his hand gently stroking your cheek, his breath hot against your lips. Your body convulses uncontrollably in his arms as he rides out your climax with you, his cock still throbbing inside your over-sensitive core. 

As you come down, your breaths laboured and uneven, he buries his head to your chest, his mouth warm against your skin as his kisses travel down to your boobs, his tongue flicking over your sensitive nipples. Each subtle touch sends aftershocks of pleasure through you, your body still buzzing from the intensity of it all.

You huff, a breathless laugh escaping your lips. “You’re a menace, you know that?” you whisper, still trying to catch your breath. But he’s not done yet. You giggle softly as he moves lower, planting tingly smoochies to your skin, his breath like a warm breeze against your thighs.

“You smell like honey… I wanna taste you,” he murmurs, nuzzling his nose into the soft curve of your inner thigh. His fingers part your sloping folds, spreading you open for him as he watches the glistening cum leak from your swollen pussy. His primitive need to eat you up tests his sense of control. 

His tongue plunges between your labia, stretching them up with a slow and deliberate lick. Your thighs quiver around his head in the aftershocks of your climax, straining moans and semi-shrieks falling from your lips as his tongue dives deeper between your folds. The wet sound of him slurping up the mix of your juices and his cum is obscene, but it only drives you wilder, especially as he mumbles the moto, “Y/N... Thank you, thank you, thank you.” 

Your fingers lace in his drenched thick, curly brown locks, holding him in place. The untamed animal inside him is finally sated, fed well at the meal between your thighs. His teeth sink ever-so-lightly into the plump pout of your lips, and you can’t stop the desperate little wails flipping from your throat. 

Your eager pussy can’t help but drool. Streams of your slick cascade down between the crevices of your thighs and coat the entirety of his fingers. With a rosy flat tongue, he pads and licks you clean, taking every few seconds to pull his fingers in—only to push them right back out. As he re-enters, he pokes against your g-spot again, and again, and again…

That’s all it takes for the sharp twisting coil to snap within you for the second time, and your thighs turbulently shake within his feeble grasp. “Fuck, fuck,” you choke out, your breath coming in hollow bursts as you feel his hushed praises and loving words ghost against your clit. You can’t stay still for the life of you—it’s as if every muscle in your body rips apart once you come into his mouth, your jaw slackened and your eyes widened.

“Ohmygodohmygod,” you ramble, and Evan’s still flicking his tongue against your sobbing slit.

You’re making a mess out of him, and he’s still eating it up—the dedication. His chin got such a pretty glimmer of shine all thanks to your slick running down. With an echoing pop, he slides his fingers off your pussy, stretching his digits further apart just to see how your sap glues against them. The shaking from your multiple orgasmic release keeps on, the ringing in your ears never subsiding. 

“Mmph, Y/N. So beautiful,” he cries out, his voice cracking with emotion as he presses a kiss to your swollen, sensitive lips. Your sweet slickness smears against his stubble even more, but he couldn’t care less. All that matters is you, lying there beneath him, glowing with the outcome of your pleasure. 

Evan’s gaze lingers on you for a long moment, his chest still heaving as he melts in the sight of you—flushed, trembling, thoroughly wrecked from the intensity of what just happened. His hand gently strokes your thigh, trailing up and down in soothing circles as the both of you come down from the high together.

Propping your weight on your elbows, you stare down on him, a lazy grin playing at the corners of your lips. You pull him up for a sloppy, rough kiss. Your fingers pinch on his well-defined jaw as he rests on top of her. You can feel his stiff length press against her stomach, and it feels great. 

You reach up to brush his damp hair from his forehead. “You really know how to leave a girl breathless,” you mumble teasingly, though your voice is barely above a whisper, still catching.

A deep chuckle rumbles through his chest, and he leans into your touch, nuzzling his cheek against your palm. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he whispers, and you giggle softly, the sound light and airy.

You lay there for a while, the after-sex haze still buzzing through your veins. Evan’s sprawled out on the sofa, shirtless. His hair is all tousled, looking like some kind of model from a cologne ad—except sexier, and definitely more accessible. You watch him, feeling a dopey grin spread across your face. This man… God, this man.

You pull yourself up, snuggling into that familiar blue blanket from the edge of the couch—the one you always steal when it’s movie night, or when you’re feeling cosy after a particularly intense workout (aka “fuck time”).

“You look like a smurf burrito,” Evan quips, his hand lazily draped across his abs as he watches you pace around the room.

You snort, cuddling deeper into the blanket. “Better than looking like a sweaty, shirtless disaster.” You throw him a wink and a brow waggle, but honestly, the view is prime real estate right now. That man should charge admission.

He smirks smugly, running a hand through his messy curls. “Sweaty, shirtless disaster, huh? I was under the impression you were enjoying said disaster inside you just a few minutes ago.”

“Touché,” you giggle as you flop down the sofa, letting your head fall back against the armrest. “But the jury’s still out on whether I enjoyed it or tolerated it.”

“Oh, is that so?” His eyebrow quirks, and that playful gleam you love so much flickers back in his eyes. He leans forward, crawling towards you on the sofa with that predator-like grace, his hands landing on either side of your bundled-up self.

“Maybe.” You bite your lip, trying to keep a straight face, but your heart's already doing flips at the way he’s looking at you. Damn, those eyes.

“Hmm. Well, maybe I should just—” Evan dips down, his lips grazing your ribcage, making you gasp. You wriggle away playfully, pulling the blanket up higher as if it’s some kind of armour.

“Okay, okay! I loved it. Five stars on Yelp, glowing review and a side of fries.” You’re laughing now, barely able to keep up the act.

Evan chuckles triumphantly, that warm, rumbling sound that makes your pulse leap in your throat. “Five stars? Well, that must make me the Michelin Man of love.”

“Please,” you laugh, “the only thing you’re qualifying for is most likely to be found with a pizza slice in hand.”

His grin widens, and you can practically see the gears turning in his head. “Well, speaking of pizza, how about we start planning our wedding menu? I’m thinking pepperoni and extra cheese for the wedding cake. You know, something to make the guests feel like they’re in a pizzeria.”

You roll your eyes, giggling at his ridiculousness. “So, pizza-themed wedding, huh? What are we going to serve? Breadsticks as the bouquet?”

“Absolutely! And the best part? I’ll have a pepperoni ring!” He starts mimicking a ring toss, and you can’t help but crack up.

“Oh wow, my future husband is a real romantic,” you say, shaking your head in mock disbelief.

But then Evan leans in closer, his expression turning serious, and you feel the air shift. “But really, I want to make sure I don’t just slice into this whole ‘life together’ thing. I want to do it right. So, how about we order that wedding cake now because…” He reaches into his pocket, and your heart skips a beat as he pulls out a small velvet box.

You narrow your eyes in suspicion as you sit up. “What are you doing? Is this some kind of prank”

“Well, not exactly a prank. Unless you think proposing is some kind of joke.”

Your heart stops.

“What?” The word barely squeaks out, and you’re pretty sure your brain just exploded. Did he—did he just say proposing?

Evan’s mouth pulls into this soft smile, and before you know it, he’s dropping to one knee on the sofa. “I mean, I’ve got the ring and all that the protocol requires,” he mutters and your eyes bulge, mouth agape. “...and I don’t want to waste another minute from making you my wife!”

Your heart stops.

You leap up from the sofa, shaky hands flying to your mouth, shock flooding your system. The blanket almost slips off, eyes wide and heart pounding like you’re on the world’s most chaotic and steepest rollercoaster. Did he—did he also just say wife? “Are you serious?”

“Y/N,” he starts, his voice a little shaky but full of that Evan confidence that always makes you feel like the only person in the room, “I’ve been through a lot lately. We both have. But the one constant through it all—through the tough days and the good ones, the sleepless nights and the mornings I wake up next to you—is that I want every single day to be with you.”

Your eyes are already welling up, and you try to blink back the tears because oh my God, he’s really doing this.

“From the moment I saw you in that club, I never looked away. We started off with a bang, quite literally, but I’ve felt like I’ve known you my whole life and won the love lottery. You’re my jackpot. The reason I smile—even when I feel like I’ve hit every bump on the road. You make even the ordinary feel extraordinary, and I want to make this last forever.”

Your eyes are already welling up, and you try to blink back the tears because oh my God, he’s really doing this. Your pulse hammers so loud you swear he can hear it. And then it hits you. Yes.

“So here I am, making it official, ready to take a gamble on the biggest bet of my life. Will you marry me and make me the luckiest man on the planet?” He opens the little box, revealing the most beautiful ring you’ve ever seen—a subtle and stunning band with a sparkling diamond that seems to catch the soft light of the room just right.

You can’t even form words. Your mouth opens and closes like a fish, and your heart throbs so hard, you’re sure it’ll burst out of your chest.

“You drive me crazy in the best way possible. You’re my best friend, my partner in crime, my favourite person to order burgers with. I want to spend the rest of my life making you laugh, making you mad, and maybe every now and then... sweeping plates off the table to get to you faster.” He smirks, his eyes twinkling.

“Evan!” you gasp, half-laughing through your tears, remembering the chaos from a few minutes ago.

He chuckles heartily, but there’s something so tender in his expression now. “So, will you do me the honour of marrying me?” He opens the little box, revealing the most beautiful ring you’ve ever seen—a simple yet stunning band with a sparkling diamond that seems to catch the soft light of the room just right.

You can’t even form words. Your mouth opens and closes like a fish, and your heart is pounding so hard you’re sure he can hear it. And then it hits you. Yes.

“Yes!” you shout, your voice breaking with joy as you toss the blanket aside and fling yourself into his arms, knocking him backward onto the sofa. He laughs as you straddle his waist, hugging him tight, tears of joy streaming down your face.

“I love you,” you whisper breathlessly, kissing him hard, your heart swelling with so much love it feels like it might burst.

“I love you too,” he murmurs, smiling up at you as you kiss him again, both of you tangled in this beautiful, overwhelming moment.

He slips the ring onto your finger, and you hold your hand up, marvelling at how perfectly it fits—how perfectly it all fits.

And as you both lie there, wrapped up in each other and the ridiculousness of the moment, Evan chuckles. “So, Smurf burrito, looks like you’re stuck with me for life.”

You laugh, smothering his face with smoochies of aggressive cuteness magnitude. “Lucky me. Now... about those burgers? I’m still hungry.”

Evan grins, pulling you closer. “First, how about I show you just how well I can speak your love language?”

“Burgers first, then more disaster sex,” you tease, giggling as he tries to tickle you.

“Deal,” he whispers, stealing another kiss, because honestly, in this moment, you’re the best thing on the menu.

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

Taglist: sillysillygyal, junkie4weezer, frankiesweird, divinerulerz, nickrhodeslittledarling, @babymazz

@evanchantingpeters — All rights reserved. Please do not modify, translate, or plagiarise my content.

Announcement

This might not be a forever goodbye, and who knows, a spinoff of this series might pop up someday, but this is going to be the final part, y’all. I’ll admit, I sometimes feel like I’m navigating through a tiny room with towering walls in this digital space; like my creative expression is being restricted and policed, and I cannot fully communicate or channel my “writing persona,” if you will, in here. Still, every bit of your love and support has made it worth it. I’ve poured so much into this world, and Evan, well… he’s been an incredible muse through it all. So, thanks a bunch, truly. xx

[oh-koenig-my-koenig]

(to the tune of Avril Lavigne's sk8terboi)

He was a human battering ram.

She was a recon sniper.

Can I make it any more obvious?

Headcannons - Fit for a King - König x fem!OC fanfic

Instead of making a y/n fic, I decided to create an original female character because I ususally write all of my stuff in POVs. Due to posting the chapters often right after I've written them some of the context and the characterization might not be explicit in every single piece, some of the information is only gonna get revealed down the road.

(TW: alcoholism, death, violence)

Karina Müller is almost 30 years old, she served in the Norwegian military from right after school until the death of her brother who was KIA on a mission together. She fell off the wagon after that, feeling responsible for his death and effectively being shunned by her family after that. Her pick of poison was alcohol and it got so bad that she more than once was drunk on the job which led to her getting kicked out.

The years after that she spent getting help, trying to get clean and going back to a civilian life, but the military was what she knew, so the civilian jobs didn't stick and she started to work as a mercenary, now a dry alcoholic. Which might be an issue for some contractors, but KorTac doesn't really bat an eye.

She's a compassionate person who loves to laugh, she's seen enough shit not to take any from her teammates and can stand her ground when faced with any challenge thrown her way. She's still working through some stuff, coming to terms with her past, but she has an optimistic spirit and a strong will.

Even though the Colonel seems scary at first, she learns pretty quickly that he is to be respected in training and on the battlefield, but on a personal level he's really not that bad. The 6'10'' killing machine, Austrian war criminal (insert "what murdeeer?!"-meme here) is quite an anxious person when it comes to basic human interaction.

Shouting orders at his team, stomping his enemies into the ground is more comfortable to him than just talking about mundane stuff with other people, he mostly keeps to himself (except for Horangi because that little shit would never leave him alone). And for the first time in a long time, Müller makes him wish that he could just go up to people and strike up a normal conversation like a normal person (don't we all).

König is 38 years old (we don't know his full name) and has the biggest metalhead dad vibes without actually having any children himself (his favourite band is Death, although he listens to a bunch of different ones, it's also their merch shirt Müller steals in "Are you wearing my t-shirt?").

When he started out in the military, he shaved his long metalhead hair off because that was the way to go back then, but he let it grow back when he was older and already Colonel. He has gauged ears and a plethora of tattoos all over his body because the soft pain of body modifications and working out until he almost passes out are his ways of dealing with his anxiety and stress. His body is a testament to that.

He has a huge scar on the right side of his face from when he got beaten to a pulp by his bullies at school, something he never let happen again after that (five on one was really unfair). His nose has been broken two times and sometimes his tattoos get destroyed by battle injuries, but he doesn't really care about that - or his looks in general. He's a soldier and not a model.

So the reason why he's always wearing the selfmade hood is not the scar. He prefers not to show his feelings to others, staying hidden underneath the mask for his own comfort, even if it makes him scarier also in situations where he doesn't want to be.

(CW: some nsfw headcannons ahead, talk about not wanting to have children) They're both switches, though König is leaning more on the Dom-side while Müller is a sub who likes to brat a little too much, just to see her man falter (for example when she calls him a good boy in random scene #1).

Müller is bisexual, something she discovered when serving in an all-women-taskforce of the Norwegian military (we don't really know about König's sexuality though). She decided a long time ago that she doesn't want to have children (she doesn't see herself leaving service again anytime soon and given her past, she doesn't see herself fit to become a mother), so she got her tubes tied. Which also comes in handy when a certain Colonel's favourite pasttime (well, actually second favourite) is leaving creampies inside her (no 'unexpected pregnancy' trope in this household).

König definitely eats pussy for his own pleasure, begging Müller to let him eat her out in "Sit" or losing a little friendly competition for a sexual favour in "But no funny business" (oh and he definitely steals her panties at any chance he gets). She's totally not opposed to servicing him as well, but the size of his dick makes this a whole endeavour (like seen in "Open wide, Prinzessin").

They match each other's energy pretty well, just going at it like rabbits at every chance they get, which sometimes proves to be difficult as they're sneaking around in secret.

Their arrangement is kind of a fuckbuddy/fwb-situation, they fuck hard and rough, without ever really kissing (the mask stays on), but after a while feelings start to get in the way... After all they do belong together <3

Read more at the Fit for a King - Masterlist or keep an eye out for the AO3 link - coming soon.

[willowser]

you had only to look at me—

part one.

bakugou x f!reader

wc: 7.4k+

tags: nsfw (18+), childhood best friend bakugou, oral (f!receiving), m!masturbation, lots of "first time" talk, more angst, more virgin bakugou.

even before i was touched, i belonged to you; you had only to look at me. — the burning heart, louise glück.

this is a repost.

you and bakugou avoid each other just like you did in middle school, only it's a little too easy this time around.

he's terrible at texting back in general, and because you're not initiating any conversations on your own — or sending funny memes or bringing up all might in some capacity — the radio silence draws ever on and on.

the closest you come to interacting with him is getting a snapchat from his mom, his figure in the background at their kitchen table. all you can see is the floof of his hair and the outline of his shoulders, but you're so bothered by the fact that he's home and didn't tell you that you don't even respond.

it officiates things in a bad way; he's really, actually not speaking to you.

and it's — fucking annoying.

at least in the past the distance was mutually and wordlessly agreed upon; you didn't talk because you were busy or didn't have time or anything new to say, but whenever he's come home — because he so rarely does — bakugou has always made his usual, god-honest attempt to irritate you.

and he still is, but this time he's doing it all wrong.

you go through the five stages of grief rather quickly, jumping from denial to anger overnight. several times, you type out something to text him, each message different than the last:

i know you were at your mom's jackass ☠️

it's really not a big deal and i think we should just forget about it, if that's what you wanna do ?

if i crossed some kind of boundary with you then i'm sorry and i won't say that again so you better call me before i put your baby pictures on the internet. i'm serious.

you're my best friend and i don't think it's weird that it happened. if you're being dumb because you're embarrassed, then don't be because i thought it was really hot

unsurprisingly, you don't send any of these and instead just stew in your own aggravation. lunch with him after the whole thing had been just as empty and awkward, and you think he chose the place near your apartment just so you could walk home and he didn't have to spend another second with you.

three months go by, which isn't long compared to other stints you've spent not talking to one another, but this one drags. like a lot. the only good that comes from it is that you graduate from anger to acceptance, finalizing a future without him in it.

except for the few times he invades your brain like a little parasite, red-faced and shuddering, gripping you like a lifeline, and then your stomach flips so hard that you feel sick and it takes genuine effort to check out of that daydream and back into a bakugou-less reality.

and then he shows up at your apartment, uninvited.

his mom hosts a sunday dinner that you don't go to, for several potential reasons. one would be that you'll have to see bakugou and pretend like nothing's happened even though you're still a little peeved; two is that you'll both ignore each other, and that'll reverse all your progress because he's been ignoring you already.

three is that he might not show up, and then you'll have to pretend that it doesn't bother you all night long.

none of that sounds better than watching trash television and falling asleep on your couch, so you tell mitsuki that you're very sick and very sorry, and that you'll make it up to her later.

because of this, the first thing bakugou says to you after you swing the front door open is, "you're supposed to be fuckin' dead."

suffice to say, you're surprised to see him; still outfitted in his hero costume, mask shoved up his forehead so that his hair is wilder than usual. there's kohl smudged around his eyes, messy, and they look brighter and harsher because of it.

there's also a family-mart plastic bag in his right hand.

"what?"

he just grunts, eyes snapping over your figure, dressed down in a too-large sweater and athletic shorts meant for running even though you've never done so in them.

in his hands — still gloved — the plastic crinkles obnoxiously as he holds it out. "old hag told me to bring this to you."

a can of low sodium soup, two apples, gatorade, and something over-the-counter for nausea. there's something else at the very bottom that you don't get the chance to inspect before he interrupts with his big, fat mouth.

"y'look fine to me, so why the hell didn't you go?"

you frown at him and — don't know what to say. clearly, it seems he's going the pretend-it-never-happened route, which is infuriating because he could just as well have done that months ago. even still, he won't hardly meet your gaze, staring for only a moment before rolling his eyes and huffing, sticking them anywhere else. if you peek close, real close, you'd say his ears are a little red, but maybe you're just looking for — something.

you shrug. "didn't feel like it."

he shakes his head like that's the stupidest thing he's ever heard, eyebrow arched. "why the hell not?"

"because, bakugou, i just didn't feel like going, i don't know what else to tell you." you huff, shrugging again when he doesn't say anything. "thanks for the stuff. is that it?"

his lips twist as he thinks, giving you another once-over before sighing. under his tank-top, you watch how his chest expands, the grimace that ripples over his face as he reaches a hand to lightly feel at his right side. "need your help with somethin'."

now you're just being petulant; you snort, raising your eyebrows as his eyes narrow at the sound. "me? are you joking? you need my help with—"

he groans loud enough to drown you out. "y'gonna let me in or y'just gonna run your mouth?" and so you step aside to wave him in wordlessly.

the backpack on his shoulder dumps to the ground by the door and he strolls into the kitchen like he owns the place, despite the fact that he's never been here before. you've lived in the unit for a year, but meetups are so infrequent and showing it off to him was never considered — until now; watching him shuffle through the bag on the counter, your nerves spike at the reality check.

alone together, again. in your apartment. well after dark.

that image of him is so — invasive, sweeping in at the worst times: between your legs, face as red as his eyes, the little moan he kept trying to swallow. how embarrassed he seemed when you asked if he felt good, if you felt good, and the fact that he still admitted it despite everything.

your entire body blazes like a flame to gasoline, and you try to focus on what else he's taking out of the bag, oblivious.

does he think about it at all? the way you have? at the root of the situation, that's what has been most bothersome: is he grossed out? simply embarrassed? does he feel taken advantage of? did he enjoy it and just doesn't know how to say it? the not knowing is driving you insane.

"i got—" bakugou awkwardly angles his body, gently touching at his side again. in his hands is a simple pack of first-aid supplies, like a wound wash and bandages and medical tape. "need you to change this shit for me."

"oh?" is all you can manage to say, still distracted, and whatever is obvious in your voice has his eyes snapping to you from across the kitchen, adam's apple bobbing. you clear your throat, struggling for normalcy. "the hell did you do?"

he's — going to take his shirt off. clearly, by the way he stretches out his shoulders and then slowly reaches behind himself to grab the material by the back, carefully pulling it up over his head with a low, stinging hiss.

bakugou's always been a lean kid — guy — but pulled so taut like that, after years of working out muscles you didn't even know he had, he looks — stupidly shredded, and the slow reveal of his tight stomach is not helping you to focus.

you just never realized how hot it was, because you never looked at him like that. until recently.

his mask comes off with his shirt and he tosses both onto the kitchen counter — again, as if he pays the bills here — and his hair is a mess and he usually doesn't care, but he runs a hand through it several times before finally looking back at you, eyes outlined in black.

"y'gonna help me or...?" he shrugs, trying to appear impassive — but it's too obvious; something's shifted, for the both of you.

you don't trust your voice anymore, so you just shuffle over to him, frowning at the dirty, worn bandage that's already unsticking from his skin. with his teeth, he pulls off his gloves and it's a wonder why he even wears them, really, because his hands are filthy underneath, covered in soot and black-stained grease.

standing like he is, arm slightly raised, you can see all his sweat, muscles shifting under his skin as he breathes, and his hairy armpit is staring you in the face and you don't know when he stopped being 12 and started being 20 and when he became such a man. it's not fair, that he should suddenly be so — attractive.

"you're disgusting," you tell him — and mean it — and it's met with such hot and irritated surprise that you have to keep talking before he explodes. "you should probably take a shower before putting on a new bandage."

it's road-rash up his right side, still shiny and wet and blood red. still raw. just looking at it is enough to make you cringe.

bakugou huffs, exasperated. "okay, gimme a towel then."

"i didn't mean take a shower here!" you squawk, taking a step back as if to further yourself from the suggestion.

detonation imminent; bakugou curls his hands into fists and the same muffled warning you've been getting your whole life crackles. "okay," he says, voice thin and razor sharp. "you're coming back to mine then?"

your whole life flashes before your eyes — or at least the few minutes it took for him to lose his shit between your legs. "what? no, why would i?"

"i need your help with this, dip-shit!"

"you're saying there's no one else that can—"

"if you want me to fuck off, just say so!"

things go silent, startlingly so. totally still, except for the rising flush across his face, one that you used to read as annoyance but are now translating into something else you never could have expected from him: embarrassment. it's starting to give you whiplash, how much you're discovering despite knowing him all your life.

"closet is at the end of hall," you say in surrender. "bathroom will be on your left."

bakugou mutters a quiet, angry little "jesus" before stalking back to the front door to get his bag, and then he's disappearing into the dark of your apartment.

you slump down on your couch and — struggle. watching the tv and absorbing nothing; it's a rerun anyway. the sudden, overwhelming urge to cry washes over you as the shower spray sounds in the background, followed by a low-timbered swear and the clatter of several bottles against the tub.

it's easy to butt heads with bakugou. you don't think there is any other way to interact with him, really, because he's so argumentative and that used to be okay, but now things are — off. you don't know what he's doing, what he wants, why he's here and in your shower when he could be at home or getting patched up at his agency. all the conclusions you can come to are frightening, a little, and they're hard to fathom; is he — does he want more?

is this just because he's a guy that got some action and is looking for a second round, or is this because it's you?

this stupid situation has only added an unnecessary amount of drama to your life, and you think maybe the pretend-it-never-happened route is the smartest path, even if you can't stop thinking about him and the strength coiled in his biceps, in his shoulders, and how tall he's become and — when did he lose most of the baby fat in his face, and when did he get such a sharp jawline?

how much is he working out, to get his body like that? he used to be a skinny, scrappy little thing and now — he can probably lift a truck over his head. must run all the time, though he's always been active, and you've never looked before, but you wonder how nice his ass is.

what he looks like under the shower, soapy and wet.

furiously, you blink out of your daydream, feeling like a foreign body in your own skin; if someone would have told you only a handful of months ago that you'd be having weird, sensual thoughts about your best friend, you would have laughed so hard you'd cried. or puked.

but if anyone else stands in that picture with him, your heart squeezes painfully. traitorously. already, you've shared so many memories with him; the start of elementary school, learning how to swim, giving each other equally bruised faces, staying up all night to study for important exams, tackling middle school graduation side-by-side, him making himself at home in your first apartment, just as you had done in his.

the devil on your shoulder asks: what's a few more firsts?

it seems like the shower stops in record time, but when you hone back in on the tv, the episode has changed and new drama is settling in. distantly, the rattle of the doorknob is more aggressive than it needs to be and when the echo of a swung-open door trails down the hallway, your heart suspends in your throat. never have you had to think this much just to be around him, and it's bothersome.

clean and relaxed, he's — softer; you spare a quick glance at him when he comes to stand beside the couch, distracted by the show on screen, and his hair is damp, starting to stick out again the more it dries. his muscles aren't made of marble anymore; still there and rippling, but he breathes calmly and his skin is baby smooth, tender. you eye his tummy and the line of fine hair running down into the waistband of his sweats, and do your best to ignore the sudden desire to kiss right above his belly-button.

"since when are they talking again?"

just as he looks at you, your gaze shoots back to the screen, eyes narrowing as you try to rapidly remember what's happening in the day-to-day for stay-at-home, pro-hero wives.

"uh," you blink, distracted — and he notices, "what do you mean? they've been hanging out, like, all season."

bakugou watches the tv in silence, occasionally glancing down to the bandage in his hands as he carefully spreads it out, as he dampens the towel with the antiseptic and dabs at his wounds. 

"even after she hit on whatshername's husband?"

"yeah, that was a misunderstanding," you frown at him but he doesn't see it. "remember when they went to that dinner party and all hell broke loose because—"

his flat look serves for a rude interruption. "they go to a lot of fuckin' dinner parties."

"i know, but," you scoff, annoyed, "have you even watched this season?"

bakugou scoffs, mocking and over-dramatic, "yeah, as if i've got all day to sit on my ass and watch your stupid girly—"

"you're watching it right now."

"because you've got it on!" he huffs when you sink into the couch, resolutely trying to ignore him. “start it over then, if you’re gonna cry about it.”

you gape up at him, going as far as to pause the show so that maybe he’ll acknowledge you and all your annoyance; he doesn’t. “start it over? this is, like, episode 26!”

“so? got a hot date or what?”

he’s not at all interested in the answer and that’s obvious when he spins around and holds out the bandage expectantly, staring down at the scrape — glowing red and angry, a mirrored wound you can feel scabbing across your own skin; itchy and irritating. 

finally he looks at you properly, frowning softly and — you see him then, can feel the tension lining his body as you carefully tape on his bandage. trying to hide how uncomfortable he is, though you he’s never had to do so with you in all of — forever. it’s nauseating, and again you're struck by the image of him, only now it's of the horror that had been on his face afterwards, at what you’d done.

it pushes everything over the edge; quietly, so that your voice doesn’t expose anything, you say, “you haven’t spoken to me in three months.”

silence weighs in the air immediately, heavy, and you watch him try to appear unbothered, shrugging as he stares back at the unmoving tv, jaw tight. “phone works both ways.”

“yeah, but,” your hands drop as he steps away to pull on a loose shirt, and you curl your fists into your own. just as he has. “i’m always the one having to reach out—”

“so why didn’t you?”

“what?” frustrated, you massage your temples, trying to soothe the nuclear headache threatening to incinerate you. “are you seriously trying to—”

“what’s the big deal?” he huffs, slumping down into the far corner of the couch before cringing, swearing as he gently touches at his bandage. “you’ve gone longer than that without talkin’ to me, so…”

the tone of his voice is infuriating, as if this is somehow all your fault — and maybe it is, because you shouldn’t have crossed such a boundary with him, but — he can be such a dick.

“it’s not just me bakugou, you could have just as easily picked up the phone, too!” your teeth grind when he shrugs again, leaning his head against his fist as he looks anywhere else. it almost looks like guilt that's dragging his expression down, but you know better than to assume he could feel such a thing. “you always—”

“jesus, if i always do this—”

“shut up for a second, damn!” and then because you can’t stand the stupid look on his face, you kick him in the thigh for good measure; it garners a warning glare, his teeth bared.

he easily catches you by the ankle when you try to kick him again. "tell me what the big fuckin' deal is."

"the big deal? oh, you mean besides the fact that you totally came in your pants?"

it stuns him for a second, eyes wide and face pale, before he's yanking you across the couch, narrowly avoiding the knee aimed for his gut. "you—fucking—!" a smack lands across the back of his head when he ducks and he plants a heavy hand over your face, forcing you to close your eyes and turn away.

"you're gonna blow my head off!"

"if i wanted you dead, you—" he intercepts the hand you blindly reach up with, crossing it awkwardly over your chest so that you're pinned down like a wild animal. "you would be!"

"kiss my ass, katsuki." you snark, and it does something to him, your use of his first name, because he's still for a moment before sitting back and collecting your wrists correctly, to hold against the couch arm above your head.

"you're such a fucking—" he swoops in so low that his nose almost brushes yours and he grabs the front of your sweater with his free hand, like he's gonna shake you down for some lunch money. "fuck, i could just—" and then he groans long and loud, so annoyed he can't find the words.

"yeah, well—"

"shut up," he lightly knocks his forehead into your cheekbone with another dissatisfied sound, letting out a heavy sigh as he sinks his face down into your neck.

all your muscles tighten on instinct, waiting for the sharp bite that's due any second — but his fingers only uncurl from the material of your sweater, slowly slipping around to tangle into the hair at the nape of your neck. his pull there is a little tight, enough for you to know he's got you, but not so much that you're head is aching; you can't imagine you have a sensitive scalp, anyway, after growing up around him.

you want to say something — which is an annoying realization because now you feel like too much of a talker — but you just focus on the heave of his chest over yours, the breath that moves through him. the minute jostle of his hips as he settles further into the space between your legs, almost comfortable. the slight swell of something unfamiliar against your inner thigh.

bakugou presses his face a little further into you, warm, and the tip of his nose drags along the column of your throat. successfully sedating you, distracted by the feel of his parted lips against your skin.

your body is hot all over, very suddenly; the sweater now feels like a death trap and hopefully you don't smell weird, though it's never been a worry before, not around him, and your adrenaline is rushing and you're kinda tired of acting like you don't know why that is.

fuck pretend-it-never-happened. it's been a long three months.

he's almost entirely pressed against you, but there is a small gap of space that closes when you open your legs a little wider, hitching them around his waist as his breath stutters against your neck.

it's happened so quick, so effortlessly yet again; you give a purposeful roll of your hips upward and are lost in him all over.

only — it's different than it was before because straddling his lap hadn't done much for you, but now the weighted outline of him is right against your center and the pressure that drags across you sends tingles up your spine and has your toes curling in your socks. when you let out a tiny gasp at the stomach-flipping sensation, tension coils in every curve of his body and the grip around your wrists and in your hair only tightens.

you can't help it; you let out a "katsuki" in the same heady tone as you did in his apartment and it has him falling easily into the slow grind you've been unable to stop thinking about. what shifts across his face is obvious, against your throat, like the scrunch of his brow and the slow drop of his mouth. he tries to muffle his breathy "oh" into your skin, but it echoes throughout your entire body, has an ache beginning between your thighs that he's already soothing.

the nip comes then, teeth sinking gently into your neck as you weakly cry out in surprise, but it's only for a moment before his tongue — wet and heavy and wide — is tasting over your jugular, lips closing around your skin as he sucks experimentally. you let out a proper moan then, squirming against his hands and up into him so that the pressure doubles for the both of you.

katsuki finally relinquishes your wrists, carding his hand down your body before coming to squeeze your hip, your thigh, locking your leg tight around his waist. "yeah," he rasps, voice deeper than you've ever heard it as he presses his forehead into yours. "how do you fuckin' like it?"

being bitten, he means, vengefully, but you're spread open beneath him and he's rutting the hard length of himself against you roughly, eagerly, and panting open-mouthed and you tighten up at the aggression in his tone and in his hands and his very being and —

"fuck," you gasp, loud and wanton, "fuck, katsuki—"

and then you are kissing your best friend.

the boy from down the street that always ruined your hair and taught you where to place your thumb if you were gonna throw a punch. that used his empty pen cartridge to blow spitballs at you and mocked you for losing crane games, even though he ended up giving you the stupid stuffed animal anyway. that had to be king of the castle, with his stick-sword and cardboard shield. that demanded you be his queen, weeds he picked for you woven carefully into your hair by his hands.

katsuki kisses like he's shy — another term you've never thought of in relation to him and all his fire and brimstone; it's slow and a little delayed in comparison to what his hips are doing, as if he's in his head too much and is trying to figure how to move his lips and when. tentative and chaste, until you run your tongue along the seam of his mouth and pry him open a little more.

it's making you hungry; that possessiveness from before is creeping back in, eager to have him in ways nobody else has. you arch into him, biting at his lips and sighing into his mouth as goosebumps break out across his skin.

with a slant of his head, he deepens the kiss and you can feel his nostrils flaring, the fingernails scratching against your scalp, the bruises he's probably leaving on your thigh. he lets up only to breathe, panting into your ear when he begins to bite and suck on your skin again; your earlobe and neck and even the cut of your jaw. like maybe he's hungry, too.

you fist a hand into his shirt just to tug it up his body, feeling the strong contract of his stomach when your fingers ghost against him. katsuki gets the hint quickly, rising up to his knees to tear the material off — much more harshly than he did before, which has you eying his crinkled bandage — and you move fast to take advantage of the new space.

it gives him pause when you yank down your shorts, pulling your legs back to slip them off and fling them somewhere across the room. his face goes red again, and his heaving chest, too, and his eyelids flutter as he takes in the sight of your flimsy, damp cotton underwear. you start to pull the sweater up your stomach, but he's watching so intently — so ravenous — that you get shy, without a bra underneath the too-hot fabric.

in any other situation, katsuki would have grabbed onto this moment, your hesitation, and held it over your head to come back and poke at. cataloged this little weak spot for future arguments, but now —

not once has he ever been gentle with you in anything; it's enough of a surprise that that's even a possibility for him, for the two of you, but he presses his body back into yours and kisses you deep, calloused fingers tracing over the new skin exposed to him. he doesn't try to push the sweater up any further, but one hand slips up your back, to splay between your shoulder-blades like it had before, and he's so close and you've never known him to be this — careful. with anything.

"y'r so—" katsuki rolls his hips again and groans, whispering against your lips. "fuckin' soft."

his sweatpants are still on and you don't know why, but when you reach down to help tug them off, he grabs your wrist before they can go too far.

he presses the heat from his cheeks into your own, like he wants to share it. "you done this before?"

"have you?"

he frowns at your non-answer. "i asked first."

you have. three times, technically, though a phantom pain echoes in your stomach at the memories, and you feel an odd emptiness in your chest that makes you really glad to have the sweater still on. your answer leaves you a little ashamed, under his gaze, and you purposely turn from it. "would...that bother you?"

before, you wouldn't have cared, didn't care, nor were you even thinking of him when it happened. wherever he must have been; u.a, probably, getting ready to make his lifelong dreams a reality while you trusted a boy that didn't look at you the way katsuki is now. that didn't hold you and touch you and kiss you the way your best friend has.

he scoffs, though it doesn't sound as careless as it usually does and he squeezes his eyes shut so you can't read them. the truth that's hidden there. "no," he lies, "why would—" but he doesn't finish, just sighs.

"it was awful anyway," you tell him, offering a small smile when he peeks down at you. he doesn't say anything, so you kiss him once, twice, until his tension is melting away. "should have been you."

the grip on your thigh turns almost painful and he grinds into you so roughly that you both gasp, loud in the tight, barely-there space between you. "yeah," he rasps, sucking another bruise into the hollow of your throat. "fuckin' should have."

you try to imagine it; eighteen and nervous, naked in front of him for the first time since you were seven and got into paint from his mom's workshop, when she made you both strip down in the same room, furious. how different he might have been with you then, how much more unsure. kinder than your ex, without a doubt, even for katsuki, and he probably wouldn't have even gone through with the whole thing, considering how uncomfortable the first time is.

or maybe it wouldn't have been, with him; maybe he would have looked into it, taken the time to wind you up the same way he is now so that you were eager and wet and ready. looking down at you with his wide, almost-black eyes in the dim light of a table lamp. another first to share.

"if i'd have just," he huffs, allowing his sweats to slip down past his hips. shoulders trembling when he makes you moan out his name again. "fuckin'—grown a pair 'n told you—"

the weight of him becomes more obvious, the straining bulge he's rocking into your core, and seeing it is — really getting to you; wearing such tight boxers, you can tell just how close the pink tip of him is to his waistband, nearly peeking out from just how hard he is.

it takes a shrug to get him out of your shoulder, so you can press your lips back to his. "can still be you, katsuki," you breathe, biting on his bottom lip until his tiny frown is gone. "if you want, it can still be you."

for a minute, he indulges himself in the greedy kiss you're giving him, testing strokes of his tongue against your own as his hips stutter out of rhythm — but it's when your fingers brush through the hair at the base of his stomach, trying to slip a hand into his boxers, that he's gasping into your mouth and pushing his body up and away.

determination settles over his face then — along with his vibrant flush — and he doesn't say anything as he grabs you like it's nothing and scoots you up the couch so that your back is pressed to the arm, propped up. once he settles between your thighs, he just rests his face into the plush of your stomach — which is humiliating and has you squirming, but the firmness returns to his hands; holding your hips so that you'll still, so that he can kiss right above your belly button, just as you wanted to do to him.

heat flares in your own cheeks — and down your chest and in your ears and searing on the back of your neck — when you feel the first puff of his warm breath against your underwear, where you're sensitive and slick and aching.

this is completely new to you; your ex-boyfriend probably never considered tasting you here, certainly not with the same desire that's painted across katsuki's face. you have to slap your hands over your eyes and bite your lip, embarrassed, suddenly, at how desperate the simple press of his mouth to your underwear makes you.

"hey, hey," katsuki grunts, pinching at your hips until you peek at him through your fingers. the highlights of his cheeks are crimson and his eyes are black, glaring with an intensity that makes you shiver. "it's my fuckin' turn."

to make you fall apart, he means, just as he had.

at the first hot drag of his tongue against the material, you squirm, leaning your head back so that your expression is hidden. another grunt comes from him, you think in dissatisfaction, but he continues, laving until your mouth is falling open and the fabric between you is drenched.

he's gone just long enough to be replaced by the ghost of his thumb, touching you much too-gently. hunger has you stealing another look at him, watching behind your hands as he stares, blatantly, at the mess he's already made of you, stroking the pad of his finger against the sodden material in interest.

discovering; a curious swipe over where you're aching has you sighing and trembling and his eyes jump back up to your covered face, open mouth curling into the faintest smirk as he does it again and again and again. it's bullshit — how quickly he's figured you out, almost as if your body was meant to be unraveled by his hands — but then again, it didn't take you long either, did it?

"katsuki," you hiss, digging a hand into the hair at the crown of his head, tugging on it until his smile is dropping and his eyes are lidding. your body is on fire and your legs are trying to close around his head, hips squirming as he toys with you, like the little brat he is.

deadly serious, he grabs your underwear and holds it tightly in his fist so that you can wiggle one leg free, and then he's tugging it out of his way and devouring you whole.

it's sloppy, the mixture of spit and slick as runs his tongue through you, wet and wide, and you're so sensitive that you squeak out in surprise, fingers tightening. a groan punches from deep in his chest and your hips buck at the vibration of it, drawn so tight already.

"oh my—" you gasp, dropping your other hand from your face to grip the couch; eyes closed, you're somewhere else entirely, lost in the clumsy swirl of pleasure between your thighs.

katsuki raises his head to breathe, reaffirming your grip in his hair by wrapping his fingers tight over your own. at the shiny sight of his mouth, you can't help but to whimper with a needy roll of your hips, until he's simply sticking out his tongue and allowing you to ride it, to use it as you need to. it's embarrassing, how desperate you are, but his eyes are knife-sharp and trained on you and you've never experienced anything like this.

he moves then, slipping one hand further up under your sweater, cupping your breast carefully as his lids flutter — and the other is shoved between his hips and where they're pressed into the couch. you tighten up at just the idea of him rutting into his hand while kissing your messy slit, moaning openly, head falling back as your eyes start to roll.

this is — fuck — you've never been so turned on in all your life and it's driving you crazy; at one point in time, the thought of bakugou like this would have grossed you out, but now you think it's only like this because of him. anyone else wasn't right, not the way he is, and he's maybe a little impatient and unwieldy, but it's katsuki. between your legs with his mouth on you — something he wanted — and his fingers are brushing over your nipple and the other is down his pants, wrist flexing and —

"fuck, oh fuck, i—" you try to sit up, chasing blindly after the high, but he forces you back down. a long groan is muffled by your skin and when he lifts his chin just a little, a glob of spit falls off his lips and the sight makes your toes curl before he presses back into you and sucks.

everything goes blank as you free-fall into him and you cum quietly, muscles so taut in your body that your voice can't even squeeze out of your throat. the minute you're able to breathe, he's biting a mark into your thigh and yanking you back down under him, lips slick against yours.

tasting yourself on his tongue has you coming out of the heady haze, ravenous; katsuki helps you to shove his boxers down, though he can only gasp tightly when he grinds against you, coating himself.

"'m not—" his soft hair tickles your face when he shakes his head, arms trembling beside your head. "i won't be able to—"

"keep going," you breathe, smearing your mess over the tip of him and down his length as he groans. "i don't care, keep going."

he smashes his lips to yours, though he's only able to meet the pump of your hand a few times before dropping his forehead to your shoulder, spine curling, fingers digging into your hair. katsuki swears long and low, eventually letting out a soft sound you wouldn't have expected from him as his entire body tenses and he spills onto your stomach.

"goddamn it," he moans into the fabric of your sweater, weary, after a long moment. "now 'm fuckin' tired."

and for some reason that makes you laugh, though the lust is dissipating and your nerves are trembling at the memory of how this ended last time. katsuki pulls away suddenly, making your stomach drop, and he doesn't look at you as he detangles himself, awkwardly shuffling away from the couch and out of sight.

you frown down at the mess on your stomach, the way it's pooling in your belly-button — and you'll be damned to let him leave you like this, but just as you finishing reciting over and over what you want to say, he appears, towel in hand.

it's still damp from his shower and you tense on instinct, waiting for him to start twirling it with that stupid grin on his face, but katsuki only arranges your legs so that he can sit between them, carefully wiping you off as his cheeks burn. and you just watch him, the way he runs a hand over your skin to make sure he got it all before helping to finagle your underwear back on properly.

then he just looks at the tv, unmoving. if he's trying to appear casual at all, it's a piss-poor job — but he's never been able to keep his fat mouth shut for long.

the look he gives you lacks its usual heat, though you can't tell if that's just because he's drained or if he's withdrawn for another reason. "what now? six months, a year before you talk to me again?"

and you're annoyed all over again.

"what?" you return his weak glare, sitting up properly so that you're right in his face. "are you kidding me? you didn't talk to me either."

"the hell did you want me to say?" he scoffs and — you could slap him, for ruining everything so quickly. wipe that stupid look off his face with your fist. "'sorry i busted a nut, you free for dinner?'"

"yeah!" the shrill tone of your voice makes his eyes widen, and you throw your hands up in the air, incensed. "that sounds wonderful in comparison to coming home and avoiding me."

"i didn't avoid you," he mutters, though his eyes drift back to the tv. "just didn't have shit to say."

"bakugou," you slap your hands over your face for the second time, though this one is much worse than the last. "how is that fucking fair? what did you want me to say?"

and now — his eyes are full and furious, mouth curling down into an ugly frown that you've so rarely had the pleasure of seeing on his face; every time his mother made you go home and when you told him you weren't gonna try to test into u.a. when he overheard your girl friends teasing you for liking an older boy in your school.

when he was losing you, you realize.

"'m not doin' this shit with you," he mutters, definitive, before swiping his shirt up off the floor and standing. "not doin' this bakugou shit."

"oh my god," you groan, rising, too, because your stomach is twisting at the thought of him leaving again, no matter how angry he's making you. "what does that even mean?"

you trail him as he stomps into your kitchen to grab his work shirt and mask from the counter, trying to interrupt him at every turn, and the scowl on his face only grows when you shoot to stand in front of the door, just as he reaches for his bag.

"you can't—"

"this," he seethes, gesturing to you and then himself before gritting his teeth so hard that they should shatter. "this is why i didn't wanna fuckin' talk to you."

you knew he didn't. the minute lunch ended and when you made out his shape in mitsuki's snapchat: you knew. but hearing it from his mouth is as much of a confirmation as it is a kick in the gut.

there's more he's struggling to say, mouth shifting as he chews on the words and the skin of his lips. his gaze jumps from you to the door to something on the counter before he's swallowing again, staring down at you with brand new eyes.

the light in the kitchen makes them shine, angry and sad. "i can't—" he sighs, nostrils flaring like he's mad at himself for struggling. "go back to bakugou, not after—" a vague hand waves toward the couch. "maybe this is just, i don't know, whatever to you, but i — fuckin' can't."

tell me what the big fuckin' deal is; earlier, he'd demanded it of you, why the silence mattered so much this time when it didn't seem to matter before. in the midst of your anger, you didn't think twice about his wording but now —

he wanted you to say it. katsuki wanted to hear you say that it hurt to be without him for so long, and he kept his distance because he was afraid that you wouldn't.

"you're so stupid," you mutter it quietly, and his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, enraged, but before he can get another dumb word out, you loop your arms around his neck and just — kiss him.

not crazy or wild or lust-driven, just your lips to his, slowly working him out of the shell he's tried to hide behind.

the bag in his hand hits the ground with a soft thud and then his arm is wrapping around your back, tugging you to him as he finally breathes and opens his mouth — and lets you in.

when you cup the sides of his neck, katsuki inhales sharply through his nose, pulse jumping under your fingers, and his lashes flutter against your cheeks as he opens his eyes. he pulls back enough so that you can stare at each other and you realize that eyeliner is still clinging to his lids, making him seem sharper than usual.

you're a little stunned, then, at how beautiful he is. 

"i can't go back to bakugou either, dumbass." gently, you knock your forehead into his, smiling at the pout on his face. "you've totally screwed that up for me."

"yeah, well," he huffs, "about time. only took you all my goddamn life."

"sorry i'm late."

"what else is new?" he rolls his eyes and you squeak, indignant, before sticking your tongue out at him, patience worn thin already.

you expect a bite or a pinch to the cheek or another rough violence that falls along the lines that have made up your relationship thus far — but instead there is only something soft that reflects in his eyes and the shy kiss he presses to your lips, something that he's kept safe just for you, guarded, with his stick-sword and cardboard shield.

[thetepes]

I'm sick and tired of people being like "Oh well, she's never made a serious video like this before, so of course the tone would be off." First of all, no, she's made content like this before with her Lily Video. I don't remember much of it, but I do remember the tone being very dry and serious. Like, you know, how it's supposed to be when dealing with serious topics.

Secondly, even if she'd never made one before, she's a grown woman. She should know better than to add jokey jokes to a serious video. The "Eggman Piss" bit is especially egregious. In what universe did she think it's ok to make, let alone put into the video??? It's not funny, it's incredibly disrespectful to the victims and is just a tasteless thing to joke around about with an alleged rapist.

"Well, she had good intentions." Did she? Because the tone, the aforementioned Eggman clip, Hyping up and Memeing about the Live Premier on Twitter, and now whining on Twitter about "being the worst person ever" makes this whole situation seem like something she did mainly to get attention. I don't like being uncharitable, but it really feels like the reason the Saberspark stuff was added on was bc she wanted credit for breaking the story.

Like who the fuck is given a survivor's testimony, and instead of helping them access something like RAINN, thinks, "Yeah lemme give this to my random ass YouTuber friend." Fandont trying to weasel out of responsibility bc "I. Did not. Work on that video." Yes, you didn't work on the video, BUT YOU led the victim to KP. The victim who was outed against their will, bc of KP hack editing. The victim who was directed to KP instead of professionals.

There is so much more that is wrong with this Video and how KP and Co. have handled this whole situation, both before and after the video dropped, but I'll stop here. I feel so bad for all of them victims involved. I don't know if she's going to make an apology video or not, but even if she does, it will in no way make up for what KP and Co. have done.

There is nothing more for me to add, you are completely right.

[twst-hottest-takes]

Something that has been annoying me about the fandom as of late? Apologists immediately ravenous defending and coddling Malleus whenever someone says that he should've been held accountable after the events of Book 7, especially since his actions weren't contained, being known to the public, and he is a fucking prince with an image to uphold. (Him getting his horn sliced off doesn't count, because the narrative treats it like a good thing.)

Malleus' treatment by this section of the fandom reminds me of the "Griffith did nothing wrong" meme you see floating around in the anime community. Except it's completely unironic. These people love him so much that they don't want to have the game treat his actions realistically or have any fallout over what he did.

Yes, your fave did something wrong. That's okay. Malleus has flaws just like everything else.

No one is saying that Malleus should've sent to the Shadow Realm for eternity for what he did. Just that having him make actual steps to amend those broken relationships and not hand waving his actions by having everyone unrealistically off the hook would've been nice. Him inviting the people of the town, STYKS and all of the others he hurt to that party at the end instead of a few NRC boys would've been a start.

Hell, ALL of the characters should've gotten this treatment a long time ago. Me and a lot of others aren't saying this just about him. The lack of any meaningful consequences hurts Malleus and everyone else, because it makes it so the characters can't learn from their actions and grow like well written ones should.

I'll reiterate that all of the Overblotters should have gotten more consequences, Malleus just happens to be the one we're dealing with right now.

I had my long screed about this already, but the fact of the matter is that what Malleus got is the bare minimum of what he deserved. Malleus was overblotted for days in game and a year's worth of game updates so I think it's worth mentioning that people would be more upset because of how long it lasted and how many more people got affected, and of course the fact that Crowley couldn't just sweep this one under the rug so the public didn't see.

But do you want my hot take response to this hot take?

. . .

Some of us come across as being harsher on Malleus because we're jealous that he got some half-decent writing and so much potential for character growth. Some people are too caught up in the consequences calling it "dismemberment" and "disability" to realize that he's the first Overblotter to actually have a tangible character change. And as Anon pointed out, it's a net positive, not even treated like a punishment in the story so it becomes a different kind of frustrating.

(Like, Riddle at least has the resolve to become better, but we don't really get to see much on that front. Everyone else is basically given the choice to learn a lesson and change to be better, but since they're villains and the game has a status quo to keep up they just choose to stay terrible people and it sucks. ["Terrible People" being a relative term.] You get what I mean though? Everyone should feel bad or have consequences that affect them moving forward and change the trajectory of their characters because acting like their Overblots had no effect on them is LAAAAAAMMMEE.)

Thank you for your take.

(With some luck this will be the last bit on this topic for a while.)

[catiuskaa]

my knight in comforting armour

bc changbin just changbin changbin and like this was meant to be a small drabble but nothing can be small when changbin is the topic, only binnie. smol binnie. my binnie.

@evermourning hope you like this one, darling!

wc: 1.6k

tw: harassment, swearing

[☆★ ✈️ ★☆]

You let out a soft grunt, eyeing at the black screen of your phone, squinting at the sight of small dents and cracks.

You had been in the plane for what probably was two hours, which made you sigh due to the lack of anything to do for the remaining 6 or 7 hours left. You were sat directly on the side of the corridor, making looking at the window a hard task considering not only the distance but the fact that the woman there had closed the window so she could sleep. If you could, you would’ve whined, but it was your choice to stop using the phone after it reached the 20%, so it was more of a you problem really for keeping your charger out of reach and being overall lazy to just stand up and get it.

You kept staring at the kids in the seats in front of you, listening to how they were decorating their Animal Crossing island, whether they should kick out “that ugly cow” or not when you suddenly felt a shiver ran through your spine, and you had to hold back the urge to look around in an anxious matter, the feeling of being stared at creeping in your body. Instead of acting like a total maniac, you calmly pretended to strech yourself until you spotted the culprit.

There he was, just a few rows behind you, his stare burning into your skin, almost making you flinch. It was a random guy you’d bumped into when trying to put your suitcase into the compartment and failed miserably, and even though he felt a bit too close to you for your liking, he had been nice and helped you with your stuff. Aside that, he was a complete stranger. You couldn’t help but move uncomfortably on your place, his gaze almost lingering on your skin. In a burst of awkwardness, you left your place and zoomed your way to the back of the plane and locked yourself in the bathroom.

What the hell was going on? Was he going to kiddnapp you or something? Getting you into the international drug dealing world? Steal from you? You didn’t know but it was sure fucked up, reason why you jumped when you got out of the bathroom and Creepy Guy was in front of you, his eyes trailing all over you— more like at your body. You shifted you pose and grinned politely, reminding yourself the definition of manners: smiling even though you’d rather punch the bitch in the face and run away.

“Excuse me,” you mentioned, hoping that the clusterfuck that was going on in your mind would just fade away, a scenery sort of like that meme with all the little Sponge Bobs running around in Sponge Bob’s brain as it was burning down.

“No, eh, excuse me. I noticed you earlier in the plane, I was wondering whether I had met you before…”

Oh my god, were you just paranoid all this time? For a second you felt bad, it wasn’t his fault that several men behaved like total shitheads.

“No, sorry, I don’t think so…” You tried going back to your seat, but he grabbed your forearm, his sweaty palms making you shiver in contrast of the AC that had been blasting at you for the past half an hour. Your whole body tensed up as his expression changed into a smile, one different from the sheepish smile from a second ago, this one felt dark and really, really creepy.

Changbin was heading back home with the rest of the members. Due to scheduling problems regarding the time they would spent out of the country, the agency had managed to get them sits for the plane, but separated from each other, unlike the usual three rows close they used to book, the lack of other services or departures that day being a bit at fault, although there was really no one to blame. Arriving was far more important than sitting close to eachother, so they’d decided to take the plane, thinking it wasn’t that big of a deal anyways.

He was sitting on the left side of the corridor, last row, with the only company of a cute old lady that fell asleep almost as soon as the plane took off.

He hadn’t seen you speed your way to the toilets, it had been Jisung who noticed your poor act of running away. He was sitting a few rows ahead, in alley sit, and turned around to look at him, head motion pointing towards your direction. Changbin shrugged, he hadn’t really paid attention to the situation until a man went behind you, in quite a brute way, as if he didn’t remember he was in public.

And that behaviour was… weirdly off putting.

Jisung and him stared at eachother for a second, Han’s eyebrows arched in confusion.

“No, stay here for a second.” The man had said to you in a rough tone.

Seo tensed up, eyes big, and slightly shook his head sideways towards Jisung, who immediatly turned towards the other side of the corridor, looking for a way to call the flight attendants’ attention.

“Let go of me, sir.” You were still scared, yet you hadn’t paid self-defence classes for nothing. “I won’t repeat myself a third time. Let. Go. Of. Me.”

Changbin was frozen in shock. He looked towards Han’s direction, in hopes that his silent cry for help could be noticed by someone on the fucking metal bird they were on, but it wasn’t being really helpful.

“Oh, you’re a strong woman, yeah, that’s why I had to help you with your suitcase.” He had laughed, as if what you had said had been a joke.

“Get over yourself, pretty legs.”

Seo flinched and frowned. He was waiting, waiting for a signal that could tell him if you were actually fine on your own or if he had to launch himself to help.

Because no doubt on it.

He would.

You were surprisingly calm, although your heart was racing due to the adrenaline in your body. You moved your arm away and tried getting into the toilet again, yet barely managed to enter when Creepy Guy pushed you out of the cubicule.

“You’re getting on my nerves, bitch.” He murmured.

“Get off me, you fucking pervert!” You tried to push him, and repeated what you’d learned before. You turned your arm inwards, making his bend in an uncomfortable position and then grabbed his wrist, twisted it again until he was at your mercy, and finished it by stepping on his foot.

Changbin looked at you, mouth partially

opened in surprise, then smiled slightly. He shook his head, ‘sometimes people are their own heroes’ he thought, but just when he was about to sit back, Creepy Guy had tried to elbow you when your attempted escape hadn’t quite worked.

“I am going to beat you up.”

You turned pale. Fuck, fuck, fuck. How to get out of this one? You were running out of patience and ideas.

“Everything alright here?”

You looked at the shredded man in front of you, dressed fully in black, curly hair making him look quite cute, yet his expression would make anyone at least a bit wary of their actions.

A note must be cleared, because on one hand, you could have gotten out of the problem just fine. Most likely. But you on the other hand, did what every sane human being would do in danger, and greeted the helping —and beautiful— man with a warm embrace, literally, because you yeeted yourself to his arms, whispering at least four ‘thank yous’ when he hugged you back slightly.

“Changbin.” He mentioned, what you supposed was his name. “Pretend with me for a second, ok?”

You nodded and turned around, facing the man.

“Any issues with my girl that I would need to know of?”

You held back a shiver that creeped from the deeperst parts of your body, unable to understand exactly why, because it had been just a nickname. Creepy Guy almost groaned, huffing in response as he fixed his shirt.

“Your girl? This bitch was almost on her knees for me not even two hours ago, dude. Teach her some fucking manners then.”

You noticed Changbin’s hand lying on the small of your back, at the exact spot where it could look like he was gropping you, but the skinship just felt quite comfortable, him almost barely touching your lower back.

“Excuse you, you absolute delusional freak. There’s only bitch in this conversation, and its not me.” You fumed, adrenaline still rushing through your body.

“It’s ok, babe.” Seo held you sofly by your waist, and you leaned into the touch, at first purely by instinct, which surprised you.

Creepy Guy tried heading outside, when Changbin grabbed him just like he had grabbed you minutes ago.

“By the way, I’ve got the whole thing on video. Good luck getting out of this one, champ.” He smiled, and your insides twisted.

“You bast-“

“Is everything ok, sir?”

Changbin recognized Jisung waving in his place, sending him thumbs up with a smile, mouthing what he got as “sorry”, as well as Chan, who was directly behind the flight attendant that stood in front of both of you, a woman that looked fierce as hell, and clearly wasn’t having any of this situation, despite the apparent sweetness of her tone.

She called for other flight attendant who guided the man to his seat, then directed herself to you, her whole facade wearing off and looking at you in a mix of proudness and a bit of pity, understanding your awkward position.

“Is your seat close to his?” You nodded.

She pinched her nose, visibly holding herself back from behaving violently. “Are you traveling with these gentlemen? I could try and search for a seat closer to them” She pointed to the other men that looked at you.

You noticed again the somewhat soft palm in the curve of your back, which brought you back to reality.

“No, but I still would want to change. Is that a problem… Changbin?” He smiled, cheeks softly turning pink.

“Oh no, its ok. We’re a group of eight scrambled through the airplane, I don’t think it’ll be an issue to find a spare seat.”

Ten minutes later, you were giggling next to him, using his phone while you charged yours with his cable as you both kept loosing at the same game, failing to find more words for the crossword.

You hoped you could keep the contact with all the group after you met them when the airplane landed. And something made you think you would, noticing a hand drawing soft circles on the palm of your hand as you all tried to get out of the crowds.

~Kats, a fluff Changbin enthusiast who is being deeply affected by cuffing season and binnie in a compression shirt.