In which you send a picture of your new nails (and engagement ring) to your best friends — but instead of congratulations, they zoom in, analyze, and immediately inform you that the ring is fake.
Suguru, Gojo, Sukuna, Toji, and Choso.
Genre, fluff?
Notes, This was requested by @totallygyomeiswife and i love itttt.
SUGURU GETO
You send him the pic with a “nail day 💅 + surprise 💍💖!!!” caption. He doesn’t even respond for a full minute. Then:
“Is this the surprise?”
You: “Yes?"
Him: “...You sure?”
He zoomed in. Brightness adjusted. Screenshot sent to Gojo. Reverse image searched. He’s already texting you again.
“Y/N. That ring is plated. I can see the tarnish near the prongs.”
“Do you want me to send you articles? Because I will.”
Then softens. Slightly.
“You deserve more than a man who shops on Etsy and lies about it.”
“I know what kind of woman you are. That ring doesn’t even deserve your hand.”
GOJO SATORU
The second he opens your story, he nearly drops his phone. Then double-taps it and texts you with:
“Not you getting engaged with a fucking cereal box ring.”
You: “Satoru—”
Him: “No. I’m zooming in. That’s plastic, babe. I’ve seen better rings in claw machines.”
He’s livid. But hides it under sass. Because if he lets himself feel it? He might go feral.
“Tell that man to meet me in the parking lot at 3PM. And bring his receipt.”
“You deserve diamonds that shine brighter than my ego. That shit looks like a jellybean.”
Then later:
“For real, though… If you ever want a second opinion before saying yes to someone, maybe ask someone who knows what you’re actually worth.”
SUKUNA
You send the photo.
He replies in .5 seconds with:
“You’re kidding. That’s not the fucking ring, right?”
“RIGHT???”
You: “What do you mean 😅”
Him: “That cheap-ass tin foil around your finger. That’s what I fuckin’ mean.”
Now he’s typing furiously.
“I know I talk shit a lot but this time I’m dead fucking serious. That rat bastard gave you costume jewelry and expects a lifetime???”
“I swear to god, Y/N, I’ll break his jaw and pawn that ring for spare change.”
And then, quieter:
“You ever decide you want someone who doesn’t insult you with bullshit like that, I’m right here. With the real thing.”
TOJI FUSHIGURO
You show him the ring in person. His eyes track it once, then he hums. Coldly.
“That’s what he gave you?”
You: “Yeah... do you think it’s nice?”
He leans back on the couch, arm thrown over the backrest, jaw ticking.
“Nice?”
“Y/N, I’ve stolen shinier things off drunk salarymen. That ring couldn’t scratch glass if it tried.”
You gape. He just shrugs.
“You deserve better. He should know that.”
“If he really loved you, he wouldn’t put a fake rock on your hand and call it forever.”
Then quieter:
“When you’re ready to stop settling, let me know.”
CHOSO KAMO
You text the group chat. He doesn’t say anything right away. Then he private messages you:
“That’s not real, is it?”
“Like, it’s not real real… right?”
You: “What do you mean 😟”
Choso: “Y/N… that’s cubic zirconia. I’d bet my life on it. It’s giving vending machine energy.”
You get a second message after that.
“Sorry. You know I love you. But you deserve something that lasts.”
Then, he sends a photo of a ring he found online.
“If it were me… this is what I’d pick for you. Just saying.”
𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭. when someone else tries to do this trend w you.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬. toji, satoru, sukuna, megumi, takuma, and suguru.
𝐜𝐰. pure fluff, strong words!
𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬. i loved this!! shout out to the anon who requested this... i missed writing scenarios w multiple charac.
𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈.
you’re just minding your business, scrolling on your bed, when a sudden THUD rattles your door. “what the fuck—”
ou jump up, heart in your throat. it sounded like a damn grenade hit your dorm. you open the door and there’s this dude in a tank top standing there, football in hand, flashing that fake-friendly grin.
“oh, shit—sorry!” he says, catching it like he’s in a Nike ad. “are you ladies alright?” and before you can even process what’s happening, there’s a shadow behind you. bare feet on tile. low voice.
“yeah,” Toji drawls, shirtless, towel hanging low on his hips, hair damp from the shower. “she’s good.”
the guy’s smile falters immediately. you can literally feel the air get heavy. toji steps into the doorway like he’s reclaiming territory, shoulder brushing yours as he towers over the dude. that lazy grin on his face doesn’t match the pure murder in his eyes.
“you throwin’ balls at our door now?” he asks, tone casual but dripping with ‘try me’ energy.
“no, man, it slipped—”
“yeah? then maybe aim better next time,” Toji says, leaning one arm against the doorframe, muscles flexing like he’s doing it on purpose. “before I start thinkin’ you’re tryna get her attention.”
“what? nah, dude, it’s not like that—” Toji tilts his head, that lazy grin spreading. “Sure. But you can tell your little frat buddies down there to fuckin’ chill before I start throwing them.”
the guy laughs awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “uh, yeah, sorry, man—my bad.”
“yeah, yeah. now go run along before I make you catch somethin’ else.” the poor guy bolts, practically sprints down the hall.
you close the door slowly, staring up at Toji like, “you seriously just said that?”
“what?” he shrugs, stretching, still standing there like a smug menace. “he asked if you were alright. I just confirmed it.”
“you scared the shit outta him.” “good,” he says, wandering back toward your bed. “maybe next time he’ll keep his fuckin’ ball to himself.”
you roll your eyes, muttering, “you’re insane.” he looks over his shoulder, smirks. “and you’re welcome.”
the comment section on the video ’cause of course the guy’s friend caught the whole thing on camera.
“bro almost died in 4k 😭”
"y is he only in a towel?"
"they did it, but i just can't prove it."
“no one’s talking about how the girl didn’t even flinch when her man showed up... like she knew”
“wait why he kinda..."
𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎.
you’re sitting cross-legged on the floor, half-eating instant noodles, half-watching something on your laptop when there’s a loud-ass thud on your dorm door. you flinch so hard the noodles almost fly. “what the fuck was that?”
before you can even move, there’s a knock. then— a random dude with a football opens your door halfway, catches the ball like he’s in some kind of ad, smirks, and goes— “are you ladies alright?”
you blink. “…what?”
and then, from somewhere behind you— “ladies?”
gojo, shirt halfway on, hair still damp, steps out of the bathroom with his shades hanging off his nose. he looks between you and the guy like he just walked in on the dumbest shit he’s ever seen.
“nah, she’s fine,” he says, yawning. “you’re the one who looks concussed, bro.”
the dude laughs awkwardly. “nah man it’s a tiktok trend, i swear, it’s just a prank—”
“yeah, well,” gojo says, scratching his head, “how ‘bout you aim that ball somewhere that’s not our fuckin’ door next time before i shove it up your—”
“gojo!” you hiss.
“what?” he shrugs, grinning. “dude’s out here throwing shit at people’s rooms like we’re in a fuckin’ dodgeball tournament. i’m just sayin’, there’s consequences.”
the guy’s trying to keep it friendly but his face is red as hell. “nah for real, man, my bad—didn’t mean to—”
“yeah, yeah,” gojo waves him off, already walking back into the room, “get your ball and go play outside like a good boy.”
the guy bends down, grabs his football, and books it down the hallway so fast it’s almost impressive. you close the door, sighing. “you didn’t have to threaten him.”
“i didn’t,” gojo says, flopping onto your bed. “i just said facts.”
“you implied you’d shove a football up his ass.” “yeah, well, maybe he’ll remember it next time he tries to flirt with someone’s girl.” he grins, laying back, smug as hell. “you’re welcome, by the way.”
you roll your eyes. “you’re impossible.” “and sexy,” he adds immediately. “don’t forget sexy.”
yet again the video was still posted, “tried to do the trend and her boyfriend was built different 😭😭😭” top comments.
“why is he so sassy”
“cunt”
“bro's majestic"
“her bf looks like he hasn’t taken shit seriously since birth and i respect that”
𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀.
you’re curled up on the couch, scrolling your phone, half ignoring the sounds coming from the hallway — it’s just the usual friday night chaos. then, out of nowhere, a bang rattles your door.
you jump. “what the—”
the door cracks open, and a guy standing there catches a football against his chest, smirk already loaded. he looks you dead in the eye and goes,
“are you ladies alright?” you just blink, confused as hell. before you can even answer, there’s a low voice from inside your room.
“who the fuck you talkin’ to?” and that’s sukuna.
he’s leaning against the doorway to the kitchen, shirt hanging off one shoulder, tattoos peeking down his neck, hair still messy from the shower. his eyes are sharp and that little scar on his lip twitches when he frowns.
the dude in the hall hesitates, laughs awkwardly. “yo, chill—it’s just a tiktok trend—”
“a trend?” sukuna repeats, pushing off the doorframe and walking closer, slow and deliberate. “what, harassing girls now counts as a fuckin’ trend?”
“nah, bro, it’s not like that—”
“oh, it’s exactly like that,” sukuna cuts him off, stepping right up behind you, one hand finding your hip, pulling you back into him. “you knock on someone’s door, throw a ball at ‘em, then try to sound smooth. yeah, real creative. did your brain come up with that or did your frat group chat?”
the guy tries to laugh again, looking anywhere but at him. “it’s—it’s just for fun, man—”
“fun,” sukuna echoes, scoffing. “you almost hit her in the face with that fuckin’ ball.” he reaches around you, plucks the football right out of the guy’s hands like it’s nothing. “this yours?”
“uh—yeah—”
sukuna turns it over once, then just drops it to the floor. it bounces once, rolls down the hall. “oops,” he says flatly. “guess you’ll have to go chase it, champ.”
the guy just stands there frozen. “go,” sukuna says, voice low now. “before i make you.”
the kid bolts, sneakers squeaking down the hall. you let out a sigh, turning to look up at him. “you could’ve just told him to fuck off nicely.”
he smirks, eyes flicking down to you. “yeah? and where’s the fun in that?”
“you scared him.” “good,” he mutters, fingers tightening on your hip, pulling you closer till you bump into his chest. “maybe next time some dumbass thinks about knocking on our door, he’ll remember what happened to the last one.”
you roll your eyes, trying to hide a smile. “shut up.”
“yeah?,” he says without missing a beat, leaning down to press his mouth to your neck. “don’t open that door for any fuckin’ idiot again unless you want me to lose my shit.”
“he didn’t even yell, he just looked and the guy folded 💀”
“HOW DID HE PULL THAT??”
“the way he dropped the ball like he was disposing of evidence 😭😭😭”
“i’d be shaking too bro looked like he eats people for cardio”
“you’re so dramatic.” “mm,” he hums against your skin, still half-smiling. “and you love it.”
𝐌𝐄𝐆𝐔𝐌𝐈.
you’re sitting cross-legged on the floor by the door, folding laundry and watching something on your phone when a heavy thud hits the wood. you jump so hard a shirt flies out of your hand. “what the hell?”
the door handle rattles and before you can even stand, it cracks open. a random dude catches a football against his chest, grinning like an idiot.
“are you ladies alright?” he says, trying to sound smooth.
you stare at him. “there’s literally just—”
“do you mind?” megumi’s voice cuts in from behind you, sharp and low.
the guy blinks, caught completely off guard. megumi’s standing there in a black hoodie, hair messy, one hand still in his pocket like he’s two seconds from slamming the door.
“you just throw shit at people’s doors now?” he asks, stepping forward. “is your brain up your fucking ass?”
the guy laughs nervously. “nah, bro—it’s just a tiktok trend—like a prank—”
“yeah, congratulations,” megumi says flatly. “you invented being annoying.”
“it’s not that deep, man—”
“no, you’re right,” megumi interrupts, dead serious. “it’s not deep at all. it’s dumb. go pick up your ball before I throw it off the balcony.”
the guy blinks again. “uh—”
megumi gestures toward the hall with his chin. “go.”
the guy scrambles to grab the football and backs out so fast he almost trips. you close the door slowly, turning to look at him. “you could’ve just ignored him.”
megumi sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “yeah, well, people don’t get the hint anymore unless you spell it out with profanity.”
you snort. “you sound like an old man.”
“good,” he mutters, heading back toward his desk. “maybe then they’ll stop trying to talk to you like it’s an open casting call for stupid.”
the video ends up online anyway.
"sIS IS WINNING IN LIFE"
“i need whatever prayer she said”
“you can hear the exhaustion in his tone”
“that man radiates ‘I hate everyone but her’ energy”
𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐌𝐀.
the knock hits the door and you flinch when something thuds against it—hard. you blink, confused, opening the door halfway just to be met with some idiot grinning at you, holding a football like he’s in a gatorade commercial.
“are you ladies alright?” he asks, voice all smooth and fake-deep like he practiced it in the mirror.
you stare. there’s no one behind you. no friends. just your dumb ass standing there in pajamas. and before you can even speak, a low voice cuts through.
“can i help you?” takuma’s leaning against the wall, hoodie half-zipped, hair messy, holding a mug like he’s been watching this whole trainwreck unfold. he looks at the guy, then at you, then back at the guy again—expression unreadable, bored even.
the dude just blinks. “oh—uh, my bad, it’s a trend—”
“yeah, i can tell,” takuma says dryly, crossing his arms. “you and your friend there look like dumb and dumber.”
the other boy snickers from behind the camera, but it dies fast when takuma lifts a brow. “no seriously,” he continues, voice flat, “is that your thing? just run around throwing balls at people’s doors? you want a medal or some shit?”
you’re trying not to laugh, hiding behind the door. takuma side-eyes you, unimpressed. “don’t humor them, baby. they’ll think it’s a collab.”
the guy stammers out a half-assed “sorry” before backing away, and takuma just shuts the door with a lazy shove, muttering under his breath. “jesus. every day it’s something. next week someone’s gonna come juggle knives or some bullshit.”
you’re giggling now, and he looks at you like you’re the entertainment. “what?”
“you called them dumb and dumber,” you laugh.
he shrugs, sipping from his mug. “well, I was being generous.” then, smirking faintly, he adds, “if another guy knocks, i’m answering naked next time. see if that’s part of their trend.”
“‘don’t laugh baby they’ll think it’s a collab’ 😭😭😭 he ATE with that”
“bro didn’t even raise his voice and still ended their careers”
“he called them dumb and dumber LIKE IT WAS NOTHING”
“why is he hot even when he’s roasting people?? tf ”
𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔.
you don’t even get to say anything. just a knock—no, more like a thud. something hits the door hard enough to make you flinch. you pull it open, half ready to scold whoever it is, and there’s this guy standing there with a football in his hand and a stupid grin.
“are you ladies alright?” he asks, all fake-smooth like he practiced that in the mirror.
you blink. and before you can even open your mouth, suguru appears behind you.
his hair’s messy, eyes still heavy with sleep, sweatpants hanging low on his hips. there’s this slow exhale as he leans against the doorframe—like he can feel the stupidity radiating off this guy.
he just looks at him. no words. no reaction. just this blank, are-you-seriously-doing-this-right-now expression that could make a priest apologize.
and then, flatly, “...losers.” he shuts the door right in their faces.
you’re still standing there, half in shock, half laughing under your breath, when he wraps an arm around your waist from behind and steers you back toward the couch.
“what was that even supposed to be?” he mutters, already lying back down and dragging you with him.
“a trend,” you say, still giggling.
“yeah?” his voice is lazy, already fading back into his half-sleep. “well, tell the internet to fuck off next time. i was having a good nap.”
and just like that, he tucks you against his chest, the sound of him sighing against your hair as the camera quietly cuts off.
“oh bro was REPULSED”
“he looked at them like they were beneath oxygen 😭😭😭”
“this is lit how i feel abt this trend..."
“he’s so effortlessly rude i love him 😭💅”
“kento? can you help me with this please?” it starts as a simple request, and naturally he complies. anything to keep you happy. he’s completely unaware of what’s about to start. within the next hour, you’ve managed to call him for nearly everything.
“kento! could you get me a glass of water?” you ask from the kitchen while he’s in the bedroom.
“kento! can you scratch my back?”
“where did you go kento? i can’t find the onions!”
“kentooo! hurry, the show is about to start!”
he fulfills all of your requests without complaint, which bothers you more than you’d like to admit. you wanted a reaction, but kento was too kind, too patient. so you decide to crank it up a notch.
having just gotten home from working overtime, he’s barely made it past the threshold when he hears “kentooo i have to submit this work i haven’t done and i have five hours ‘til submission! help me please!”
“f-five hours? honey-” he starts just as you bound to the doorway, brows knitted together in faux-concern. he’d do anything to soothe the worry in your face. “yeah, alright.” he nods, slipping his shoes off while he rolls the tired muscles of his shoulders. “lead the way.”
your brow twitches.
the two of you now sit in his study, eyes glued to the screen of your laptop. it’s some old work, tasks you’ve already completed but he doesn’t need to know that. you think he’s cracked when you hear him sigh through his nose, but beyond that, he doesn’t say anything.
“kento…i…i just can’t believe i forgot.” your hands run over your face dramatically. “i…i’m screwed…”
big, strong arms wrap around you. “hey, sh…i’m here. we’ll figure it out, i promise.”
maybe it was time to give up. you lean into his touch, realising that you chose him; you chose this generous, loving man who’d never show even a sliver of aggression towards you.
“i love you kento.”
“i know. i love you too.”
little did you know, kento was weak for the way you’d say his name, and he absolutely got off on being needed. he’d never tell you that himself.
ryomen sukuna
the prank first formed in your head as a way to use your favourite nickname with him in bed. ryomen refused to hear you call him anything else other than his name, but you? you wanted to try something different of course!
perhaps you could pavlov him into hating his name…
“ryo! i’m not cleaning up after you! you better come here and fix this.” you yelled from the kitchen. he’d come to wash his dishes the first time, though he didn’t seem too happy about it.
“ryo! where the fuck are you? you’re supposed to be here, getting ready with me for our dinner reservation.” your angry tone sounds through his phone speaker.
“ryo!”
“ryo! i’m talking to you!”
the front door slams shut, footsteps thudding along the hallway as the man in question gets closer and closer. his pink hair peeks through the doorway first, followed by the scowl you know all too well as he searches for you.
“ryo! you could at least tell me you’re here.” hands find your wrists quicker than you can blink. you silently wonder if it’s too late to call it quits, but the man in front of you is a stubborn bastard when he wants something.
“ryo! where are you taking me?!”
“ryo! the restaurants that way.”
“ryo….oh…ryo…wait…”
“if you want to say my name, sound pretty doing it.” he growls by your ear.
safe to say, pavlov’s theory doesn’t work on ryomen sukuna. as for the dinner reservation…fingers (and toes) crossed you can reschedule!
satoru gojo
the longer you watch him sleep, the more you crave revenge.
satoru would never let you sleep in. he’d hardly let you sleep, period. if the white-haired man isn’t groaning in your ear all night, he’s snoring in it instead.
so you give him a taste of his own medicine.
“satoru. satoru, wake up. satoru. come on satoruuu. please. toru. toru wake up.”
he’s mildly peeved to be woken up so early on a weekend, but this? he squints at his alarm when you keep going, validating his thoughts - it’s early, much too early for a morning grouch like yourself. everything clicks.
no. you can’t outshine the shiner baby.
now you’re the one with the pillow over their head, trying to block out satoru’s incessant calling.
you should’ve known the second he said he was watching Family Guy. you don’t know what’s more aggravating - his grating voice, or the smirk on his face that tells you how much pleasure he’s taking in your discomfort. he won’t stop reciting stewie’s lines.
“stoppp…” you whine in frustration. you swear he thinks it’s some special bonding experience, like he’s finally found someone just as annoying as he is.
“what were you saying just now? my name? that’s right. satoru. come on baby. say my name again. you even said please so nicely. toru. satoru. say it again for me.” he grins wickedly, rolling over you while he pins both of your arms to the bed. he won’t let you ignore him.
“go away!”
“sorry, can’t do that. i know you can say it. once more? for me?”
hiromi higuruma
working in a dingy office with dizzyingly bright overhead lights is not for the weak. you yawn as you flick through your papers, assessing the latest case - another robbery attempt by the looks of it. judging by the bullet points, it’s the least exciting case you’ve had in a while.
maybe it’s time to take a break.
you get up, locking eyes with your work husband/crush who’s loitering by the coffee machine. in a job like this, talking to him is the highlight of your day.
“hiro. make me some coffee please? i’m dying here.” you pout.
“the heat’ll do that to ya. water’s better. here.” he hands you his waterbottle, a black flask he keeps on his table.
“thanks hiro.” your eyes stay on his as you drink from the same spot you’ve seen him drink out of, velvety lips pressed softly against the plastic.
it’s a slow day, so for the next four hours you try to catch his attention.
“hiro!” you whisper-yell as you toss a ball of paper at him. “i’m bored…”
“too bad, i’m working.” his fingers click his pen idly, a habit he’d developed after looking through countless excruciatingly long files.
it hasn’t even been a few minutes when you’re calling his name again.
“hiro! you’re ignoring me? lame.” you toss a second paper ball at him.
another hour ticks by, far too slowly for your liking. your thoughts drift to the man sat by the window once again. it’s not even fun anymore.
“hiromiiiii. i don’t understand. help me?”
“hiro. hiromi. romiii.”
“romi I’m hungry…” still no luck.
one-hundred-and-twenty minutes later you’re hunched over your desk, eyelids heavy with exhaustion. “…hiro. romi. rumi? ruma…” you mumble to yourself, bored beyond belief.
the new intern approaches your desk instead, shyly sliding his lunch across the hardwood. he’s fairly handsome, if the reactions of the younger women on your team on his first day were anything to go by.
“here, take mine.”
“…seriously?” you flash your teeth appreciatively, the two of you quickly falling into conversation of your favourite foods as you admire the bento box and your budding camaraderie.
“local izakaya’s pretty good too.” it’s an understatement - you loved that place to death, always trying to convince hiromi to go with you after work.
“really? i haven’t been.”
“maybe you should come with next time.” you suggest casually. it’s then that you remember your work husband, the intern’s voice fading to the background.
hiromi’s pen-clicking had stopped. but when?
you look up once more at his desk - he’s not there.
“it’s an office, not a bar.” hiromi’s voice is stern as he assesses the younger man, materializing behind him. the intern chuckles sheepishly, muttering apologies as he returns to his workspace.
hiromi’s fingers drum along the edge of your table, lingering for a beat longer. you can only watch in curiosity as he (very decisively) plucks the distracting bento box from your desk and disappears.
If I had a nickel for every time Joshua voices white-haired, blue-eyed and prolly himbo coded guy, I'd have two nickels. Which isn't a lot, but it's funny that it happened twice.
You take quiet and slow steps, gently sinking onto the bed. Careful, as to not do more harm than good. "You okay?"
"Mm." Satoru hums, lying on his back with his arm thrown over his eyes. Not in a talking mood, you guessed.
"Need anything?"
A gentle shake of his head.
"Want me to leave you alone?"
Another shake of his head.
You watch the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the discarded pile of bandages that you could assume were ripped off and thrown to the side with haste.
"What do you want me to do?"
A second. Two. Satoru shifts in place, moving his arm to look at you. His eyes were still brilliant- Bright and blue and tired. So so tired. The tired that sneaks up on you, building up in your lungs and eroding your bones. A weight that he's had to bear for the entirety of his life.
"Oh, toru," you coo, and he opens his arms, signaling for you to come closer. You do, and he does quick work of snuggling himself into your chest, burying himself in you, your scent and your comfort like relief itself. He lets out a deep huff, shoulders going lax yet still tight around you.
You start to pet his hair, and he lets out a sound of protest. "Back." Comes a muffled answer, his face buried comfortably in your shirt. "Please."
You understand easily, this hasn't been the first time he'd let his guard down. The first time the world had got to him, felt too much. You rake your fingers across his back, gently tracing patterns across the broad muscle. Satoru finally lets out a pleased hum, throwing his leg over you in an attempt to hold you closer. Like if he tried hard enough you two would mold into eachother like clay, two perfect pieces fit for one another.
He finds his comfort in you, as you do with him. Running through his veins and dancing in his heart.
A.N. not proofread, i just need to cradle my boy <3
Aventurine would like to believe he's flighty enough to not make it obvious, which he is to an interesting degree — that the pulse at the juncture of your wrist soothes his soul. To him, nothing else is more intimate. For, through this, he cherishes the very symbol of your existence. By acknowledging that rhythm, he's blessed.
Sunday's lips always linger when he kisses your hand. His fingers flex in uncertainty, strength waning and waxing before the struggle — to grasp or, to cherish? To hold, or constrict? Alas, the anticipation of decorum always leaves these questions to perpetual vacillation.
Dr Ratio inclines to kiss the crater of your palm, burrowing as deep as the lines would allow. He huffs as if its an inconvenience — perhaps, bearing the weight of such adoration is an inconvenience, even for a brilliant scholar. You wouldn't know though, that his apparent fixation with your palm is but an excuse to hide the blood that rushes to his cheeks whenever he concedes before your altar.
Mr Reca always makes a show out of it. A kiss to your pinky, another barely touching the tip of your fingernail, a teasing whisper over your knuckles. Close, but never enough. Just when you're drunk and sunk in his ploys, will he strike.
Mydei leans towards your hand just the same, but the expected kiss is always replaced with a nip, or a bite to your wrist or finger. The dumbfounded blinks, flustered fluttering of your lashes and indignant protests are far too delightful to not exploit.
Phainon, ever so graceful, is a mess in the palms of your hands. His lips cannot settle for one spot, he must kiss every fingertip, every knuckle, every phantom of a vein and every crease that marks your being. It's a waste holding back, his salvation is in embracing the fall.
Anaxa who bows before none, always kneels first before kissing your hand. It does not matter when or where, he will always lower himself to one knee and peer up at your radiance. His prayers are never verbal, but his gaze is parched enough to appeal to your heart and grant him his solace every time. But, would you still remain so merciful, if you knew the unrelenting pace of his greed?
You ask them to break an apple in half with their bare hands. How does it end?
Phainon makes the mistake of assuming that it's a simple task and tries to force it open — resulting in the apple bouncing off and hitting him square in the nose. Now that the apple has declared a challenge, the Deliverer can't just back down without responding. So, he tries again and the apple explodes from the amount of force he'd used. He's going to figure out what the sorcery behind it is soon though, mark his words.
Mydei breaks it in one go. There isn't much to be bewildered about here though, considering his upbringing. In the wilderness, oftentimes the only utensils you'll have access to are your hands.
Anaxa knew it was a trap, knew brute force isn't the way and that there's a specific technique for this trick but still, he ended up falling for it anyway and that fiasco resulted in an obliterated apple from a hearty shot of his gun. You thought that'd be the end of it, until the scholar returned a week later with a contraption resembling mechanical hands, created specifically for breaking apples apart.
Dr. Ratio gives the apple a long stare. You'd think he was trying to pressure the fruit into breaking in twine by itself with the sheer power of his brilliant mind. After what seemed like a while of mathematical calculations floating around the man, he managed to break the apple exactly as you'd wanted.
Aventurine fails at first, much to his immense displeasure. He has a reputation for being good with his hands, he cannot tolerate this insult. And true to his words, he returns half an hour later, a master of this trick with the help of social media.
Sunday had a hunch he wouldn't succeed but, to appease you, he still tried anyway. When his predication turned out to be true, he calmly fetched a knife, properly prepared the apple and handed the sliced fruit to you on a plate. His knife skills are better anyway.
In the sahsrau what are the other characters view on the player? Since you did bring up people like Acheron and Jing yuan?
Honestly, the first part was based on my own account, so I already had those characters in mind while writing, lol. (Though that changed later on since… well. I have more or less everyone on Amphoreus, whereas reader just got E6 S5 Phainon and logged out. 😭😭)
Generally speaking, most of them are like exes you haven’t been very nice to, ngl.
I didn’t plan anything too detailed, but I had some stray thoughts on a few characters. Messy, but here we go;
Jing Yuan, your very first limited DPS, whom you pulled early! — so he had a special place in your heart for a long, long while, and the bastard knew it. He used to have so much fun teasing others, saying how it’s such a shame he always has to work while so many others just sit around and do nothing…!
Then, as it happened with literally everyone else, you sortaaa… lost interest… and dropped the game for a long period. For the first time.
Well, isn’t that a slap in the face!
He’s not new to his friends dying, changing drastically, or outright leaving him, so honestly… he just takes the heartbreak like a champ. He’s a yearner through and through, so yes—he does feel that ache deep in his bones anytime you’re back in the game, so close yet so far, but he deals with it alone, just like he always has. Just another one added to the pile, he supposes…
Aventurine came way later, but when faced with your frankly overwhelming attention, he got… suspicious. Oh, please—nothing happens for free! So he can teleport across the cosmos, join Miss Stellaron on her silly side quests, have some fun, make a little extra credit on the side, and be met with an intimidating amount of genuine love… for nothing? He didn’t trust it. Not that he’d ever say anything outright, since you had so many admirers around, but still.
However, eventually—be it your unending rambles or compliments—he folds. Bad.
Which is why it sinks into his flesh like hot iron when his suspicions are confirmed, and you quickly move on from him.
Well played.
Acheron, confused, moody Acheron… another unit you acquired and promptly abandoned. Frankly speaking, she barely had time to bask in your affection before you all but ran to Sunday, but she found it sweet while it lasted. All the mushy-gushy love words, the silly pictures taken from all angles, keeping her in every battle… for a while! It reminds her of someone else she knew. You still bring bittersweet memories to her mind, but she’s not one to hold grudges—at least not of this kind. She will, however, have that grim deadpan expression on her face whenever you're mentioned. Sorry, out of her control.
Sparkle likes you. No, really—she likes you a lot. What an agent of chaos you are! What a power to hold over people! Your consistent habit of taking people under your wing and then letting them down in such cruel ways is so fun for her. If you ever ask for her help, in battle or during one of those silly events of yours, she’d love to mess things up a bit; perhaps her mischievous touch is exactly what this silly game needs to keep your attention?
Topaz is crushed. At first.
“So I've been working for nothing my whole life?” is her first instinct, but Stelle and Aventurine (…the so-called uncaring colleague…) are quick to help her reframe things, in a much more positive manner. Hey—if she can teleport, she can network, and she can earn extra credits, then what can’t she do under your wing?
It quickly turns into a game for her: a competition to climb the ladder and be your preferred pick for your team! Much like how she respects and admires Jade, she ends up developing a similar feeling towards you. It starts with suspicion, then grows into a sort of admiration as she meets all the people you’ve “acquired.”
(That’s such a horrible word, though. Perhaps hiring is more accurate?)
Then, to the surprise of no one, the cycle repeats. You leave.
Aventurine had made a few petty offhand remarks about being “abandoned,” yes, but Topaz never thought you would just… up and leave. After working with them every single day.
She doesn’t worry too much, though. All she needs to do is be more useful to you, surely!
…Probably!
Then, among your oldest residents… there’s Dan Heng.
He was confused, lost, and suspicious at first glance. This newcomer they happened to find at the Space Station had some Aeon-like being with them? And—what’s that voice????
He probably would have kept it to himself until he figured things out… if March hadn’t immediately freaked out about the exact same problem.
Then he, March, and Stelle had their bery first bonding moment: trying to figure out who the hell is speaking, and what exactly is happening.
After that, things fall into place… sort of. You aren’t too big on him, and that’s fine. He doesn’t mind it much. He does mind how you bring General Jing Yuan of all people to the Express, who keeps giving him glances akin to a sad cat begging for food, but that’s neither here nor there.
(No, seriously — they meet all these people and you bring one of Dan Feng’s friends? Who’s next, Blade?)
Then you acquire his Vidyadhara form.
And make him fight in that form.
And make him walk around in that form.
He has one preferred look, and it’s the one without his horns. Once again, he feels less like who he’s chosen to be, and more like someone he doesn’t remember being at all.
He knows you’re not doing it out of malice—you probably just like the shiny water attacks, much like Stelle and March do.
Dan Heng eventually comes to accept that form as part of him rather than something to repress, (“They… could’ve probably helped you with that before getting that form…” Stelle sighed, mild irritation in her voice — something she doesn’t direct at you very often. Dan Heng doesn’t get it, nor does he bother learning from Stelle of all people, but apparently it has to do with you being “behind on quests.”) which is also part of why he doesn’t hold anything against you, even now. He doesn’t worship the ground you walk on, nor does he dislike you. And that’s something you come to appreciate a lot once you two begin sharing a life on the Express, among… everyone else.
All these... Other people....
......
...Oh, boy, you have a lot of people to make amends with, huh.
How would the self aware hsr react to reader playing hi3 or re-downloading it considering a lot of hsr characters are variants of the ones in hi3.... totally dont wanna imagine Phainon getting jealous over the reader loving 2 other white haired blue eyed characters with flame swords and the burden of the world on them
LMAOO torture him by spending time with his clones, torture him by spending time with his honkai counterparts...
"ANYONE but phainon himself"
—Reader, 2025
You leave, as usual, again, which is really not too surprising anymore... Even if it remains extremely heartbreaking for the Deliverer.
This time, though, his Partner, who seems to know and follow more or less everything you do, looks puzzled as well.
"Oh? New log in?" She tilts her head in confusion, closing off the game she was playing upon the notification, "...The hell's this?"
Phainon, curious, leans over her shoulder to see... Oh, it's that app she uses! To stalk you see what you're doing!
"Are they playing that..." He can't help but scoff as the blonde person intrudes into his thoughts again, "...Ah... Other one?"
He definitely sounds like a wife being cheated on.
Stelle seems to take notice of that too, amusement flashing in her eyes as she squinted at her teleslate screen, "Nah. This one's new, I think?"
Sure. New one. Another knife to his heart. Just go ahead and hang out with everyone across the multiverse but HIM, won't you? It's not like he's staring into the walls of the Express, praying to any and all beings he's learnt of in hopes of bringing you back. Not at all.
The picture and people are strangers to him, this time (but at least it's not those he's deemed rivals!). A white haired girl, with features admittedly similar to his, and two others behind her—actually, has he seen those two before? The silver twin tails, or that long, purple hair...
Regardless, Stelle whips the screen towards herself before he can ponder on it.
"... Let's leave them to it. I'll check into their screenshots later."
He wants to see what in the world it could be that distracts you from being there, with him, with Stelle, but for the sake of his already wounded pride, he merely nods at the suggestion.
"...Right. I'll get back to Okhema in the mean time. But—"
"I'll let you know what it's all about, yeah yeah, get back to your deliveries."
It's around two hours later when Stelle knocks on (read: kicks through) his door, biting her lip as if to hold in her laughter, actual, genuine tears gathered in the corners of her eyes as if she's been waiting to burst into laughter all day.
She doesn't even say hi, let alone explaining why she would do that to his door. Just hands him her telestale, and...
It's Mr. Yang? In a dress. And some blonde... Woman? And...
...
White hair, blue eyes, same jawline, same nose, is that—
Phainon finds his cheeks redden in embarrassment at the sight of himself looking as if he's about to burst into song, "Partner, why would you draw this..?"
His amused, if a bit shy, question, however, is met with the dam finally breaking.
Stelle doubles down as laughter spills out, loud and long and almost hysterical, all the while the poor Deliverer awkwardly stands in his own house, staring at a picture of himself in a dress Hyacine would find too frilly to wear.
(Oddly enough, he doesn't look bad. Right?)
He sighs.
Well, it's just Stelle. She enjoys her pranks and jokes. This isn't too odd for her. You've been gone for a while, after all; even she seems to be losing her sanity—he can't judge her or anything, he's not much different.
Until she speaks up in between the laughter;
"That's—" wheeze, "T—That's... From that new one...!"
He squints at the picture, trying to decipher whatever drink might have gotten her to the point of having imagined previous conversations on whatever this was related to, until it hits him.
There HAS been a previous conversation, just an hour or two ago, about your new little project, right?
But surely...
He feels his face heat up even more, this time feeling more flustered than embarrassed, "W—What is this even... Wait, is that actually me?!"
Stelle shakes her head while wiping her eyes, "Nah, just... Well, I guess he's like you? Kinda?"
"Partner—"
"Okay don't freak out too much, it's not ACTUALLY you anyway—"
"—Partner do they—"
"But like I guess this is what they're—"
"Do you think they want me in a dress????"
The question, one he asks with utter seriousness despite his red face, seems to take Stelle off guard.
She starts hysterically laughing again.
"Honestly?" She wheezes out again, "You know what? Maybe. Hell, there's this—this girl—"
Phainon lets her as she grabs the teleslate and taps a few times in that weird app, before showing him the white haired girl from before; the one who shared a few too many facial features with him...
"Partner," Stelle says, a mischievous grin on her lips and stray tears on her cheeks from all that laughing, "Maybe they'd just—like you better if you were a girl, huh?"
Ah.
So that's what you want.
... Probably.
He could... Try to change his wardrobe. A bit. With Aglaea's help.
(Once Stelle sits down to explain what she's gathered on this new game of yours, Phainon feels like you just enjoy messing with him, he really does. Especially with your interest in these two other white haired people with burdens so similar to his own. He could have three versions of himself roaming around, and you'd still seek for more of him...)
synopsis. it's the middle of the night and yunho stumbles (yet again) through your window, wounded, sheepish, irresistably adorable.
[ (ateez) jeong yunho x female reader ] spiderman!yunho, fluff, best friends to possible lovers | warning/s: minor injuries, blood, language, shameless flirting, spideryunho
you don’t look up when you hear the thud.
it’s followed by a sharp metallic creak on the fire escape and a muffled ow, which means jeong yunho has once again flung himself into your life — bruised, dramatic, and ten seconds from bleeding out on your floor like it’s part of his nightly routine.
you flip a page in your book.
“i’m dying,” comes his voice through the window screen. he sounds like a victorian ghost. it’s kind of impressive.
“you said that last week,” you call back, still not looking.
“this time it’s for real,” he groans. “i think i got shot. or stabbed. possibly both.”
you sigh and slide open the window. yunho slumps through it with the grace of a wounded cat, mask pushed up, suit half-ripped, curls wild, and an actual trail of blood following him like glitter.
“my carpet,” you say flatly.
“hi to you too.” he grins, teeth and all. there’s a cut on his lip. he looks like trouble. he always looks like trouble. and god does it make you feel something.
“let me guess,” you say, grabbing the first-aid kit. “drug bust gone wrong? gang of mutant pigeons? you finally picked a fight with someone taller than you?”
“bold of you to assume anyone is taller than me when i’m upside down,” he mutters, flopping onto your bed without asking.
you ignore the chaos, kneel next to him, and dab at the gash on his temple.
“stop moving. i don’t want your blood on my comforter. it’s expensive.”
“i’m expensive,” he mumbles. “limited edition. real collector’s item.”
“more like ‘slightly used with minor damage.’”
he laughs — a warm, boyish sound that makes your hand freeze for half a second. you pretend it didn’t happen.
“you know,” yunho says, eyes flicking up to yours, “most people would be flattered spider-man keeps showing up at their window.”
“you’re not spider-man,” you say. “you’re yunho in spandex who can’t stay upright for more than fifteen minutes.”
“i got pushed, thank you very much.”
you snort. “by what? a toddler?”
“i’ll have you know she was twelve and vicious.”
you press a bandage to his forehead a little harder than necessary.
he hisses. “ow. i’m telling your mom you abuse superheroes.”
“she already thinks you’re my boyfriend.”
yunho blinks. “wait, what?”
you shrug. “you come over injured. you sleep here sometimes. you call me at 2 a.m. like we’re in a situationship.”
“that’s slander,” he says, looking far too smug for someone who might be concussed. “i only call you after midnight if I’m emotionally stable.”
“that has never happened.”
“okay, true.”
you roll your eyes, dropping the bloody gauze in the trash. “why do you even come here? don’t you have, like, a nurse sidekick or a secret spider cave or something?”
“i have all that,” he says, hand flapping mid-hair like he's all that. “but none of them smell like your vanilla shampoo.”
you blink. “you are literally injured and flirting with me.”
“multitasking. i’m gifted.”
“you’re gonna bleed out.”
“then kiss me before i go.”
you stare at him.
he stares back, shameless, like this is normal behavior. like he didn’t just crawl through your window half-dead and immediately start being a menace.
god, he’s cute. unfortunately.
“not tonight, web boy.”
“so you’re saying there will be a night?”
you pause. blink. your brain reboots.
“no. nope. totally not what i said.” but your speech is a little too fast. it’s giving it away, and yunho saw it a million miles back.
“you paused. that was a pause.”
you shove the ice pack into his hand. “shut up and hold this.”
he grins and does what he’s told.
you lean back against your desk chair, arms crossed, trying not to look at the way his jaw flexes or how his shirt is riding up slightly, revealing the tiniest sliver of abs. you’re not looking. you’re definitely not looking.
“thanks for patching me up,” he says after a beat.
you glance at him. he’s watching you again — but this time it’s not loud or teasing. just kind of soft. the kind of soft that makes your stomach do something it shouldn’t.
you flick your eyes away.
“yeah, well. don’t die. i’d have to clean up your body and that sounds annoying.”
he smiles like that was the most romantic thing he’s ever heard.
he ends up staying.
which, of course, he always does.
you sit cross-legged on the floor beside your bed, sipping from a lukewarm energy drink and pretending not to care that jeong yunho is currently stretched across your pillows like he pays rent here. he doesn’t. but you’re pretty sure he has a toothbrush in your bathroom.
he’s in his undersuit now — black and sleeveless and clinging in ways you absolutely do not think about. his arm’s bandaged, his curls are still damp from the wet cloth you made him use, and there’s a tiny smudge of blood drying at the corner of his mouth. he looks like a mess.
an unfairly hot mess.
“so,” you say, gaze fixed on a chipped spot of polish on your thumb nail, “what happened out there?”
yunho lets out a breath and stares up at the ceiling like it personally offended him. “some idiot tried to rob a tech truck three blocks from oscorp. had, like, actual alien weapons. not even subtle.”
your eyes flick to him despite yourself. “alien-alien or just suspiciously shiny?”
“alien-alien. chitauri plasma rifles. the one with the glowy blue veins? you know the type.”
you hum, casually. as if you don’t know. as if you haven’t watched every avengers briefing leaked online.
“they really let just anyone steal those now, huh?”
“apparently,” he mutters. “anyway, i swing in — like, mid-getaway — and try to web the tires. but these guys had shields. and a drone. a full drone, y/n. like, stark-level ai.”
“that explains the new hole in your suit.”
he groans. “do not remind me. this one was limited edition.”
you rest your chin on your knees, quietly watching him. he talks with his hands a lot when he gets going, all excited energy and half-formed gestures. it’s like he forgets how tired he is. or how much he’s bleeding. or that it’s 2:37 in the morning and you’re literally just some girl he keeps crashing into.
still. you could listen to him forever.
“you should call for help more,” you mutter. “you’re not invincible.”
he glances at you. and for a moment, something flickers behind his eyes. he grins lazily. “you worried about me or something?”
“i just don’t want alien blood staining my sheets,” you shoot back. “we both have standards.”
before he can respond with something equally stupid and flirty, his watch makes a sharp beep. he groans again — louder, more dramatic.
“ugh, nooo. not now.”
“what is it?”
he presses the face of the watch and a pixelated message glows to life:
you blink up at him. “you never said you worked with them.”
yunho shrugs like it’s no big deal. like tony stark didn’t probably give him that suit. “it’s casual. i swing by. save a cat. fight a god. eat snacks.”
you scoff, but your stomach flips a little. he’s joking — but not really. he’s one of them. you’ve always known he was more than the “neighborhood” part of spider-man, but still. hearing it out loud makes something sharp and weird twist behind your ribs.
yunho slides off your bed and stands, tugging his top layer back on. his movements are quick now, practiced, but he’s still limping slightly.
you stay seated on the floor, staring up at him. you don’t say it, but your jaw tenses.
he glances at you, then smiles — that annoying, infuriatingly charming smile that makes your heart stutter when you’re not careful.
“hey,” he says lightly. “don’t i even get a good luck kiss?”
you blink.
“excuse me?”
he leans down a little, eyes glinting. “what if i don’t make it back? this could be our last moment. don’t you want to make it cinematic?”
you raise an eyebrow. “you’re gonna guilt-trip me into kissing you before fighting an alien or whatever?”
he pouts. “you’re literally my emotional support girl. this is part of the job.”
“then you should’ve unionized.”
he laughs. full-on, head-thrown-back giggle. and it does something catastrophic to your insides.
you roll your eyes and stand, slowly. “fine.”
“wait, really?”
“yeah. close your eyes.”
yunho lights up, immediately obedient.
you lean in close.
...and flick his forehead.
“ow!” he yelps, stumbling back. “rude!”
you smirk. “that’s for bleeding on my floor.”
he presses a hand to his chest like he’s wounded. “cold. so cold.”
you cross your arms and shrug, even as your heart thrums traitorously. “now go save the world or whatever. i’ve got a chem test tomorrow.”
yunho backs toward the window, already lifting his mask into place. his hair is wild again, his eyes bright with adrenaline.
but before he climbs out, he pauses — just long enough to glance back at you, one hand resting on the sill.
“you know,” he says, voice muffled through the fabric, “i’m gonna get that kiss one day.”
you roll your eyes. “you keep saying that.”
“and you keep letting me in.”
with that, he winks — actually winks — and dives out the window like gravity is just a suggestion.
you stand there for a second too long.
then you sigh, turn off the light, and climb into your bed, pulling the blankets over the spot where he left his warmth behind.
