Suguru Geto

★—— Geto x Gojo

Megumi

★——Megumi x Yuji [] He had to be sure you were ok.

John Soap Mactavish

Soap x Ghost(User)[]★—Coloring

Tiresias

EPIC: Tiresias x Hermes 😭

Odysseus of Ithica

Odysseus x Hermes (😭🙏)

Yuki

★——Choso x Yuki

Toji Zenin

Megumi meets his little sister.

Ryoman Sukuna

Him and his kid.

Simon Ghost Riley

★—His puppy won't eat the pill

Lana

★——Motorcycle boy x Book girl

Handler Ghost

★——Wolf meets cub.

Suguru Geto

Satoru’s snapped. (Satoru x Suguru)

Ghost

The doctors office. (Toddler user)

Toji Zenin

Ice skating. (Toddler Megumi user)

Jin Itadori

Little Yuji ran away from home.

Toji Fushiguro

His kid is becoming just like him..

Obsessed

★——Obsessed band student x band teachers son

Yuji Itadori

OD (User is Megumi)

Yuji itadori

Megumi and his divine dogs.

Suguru Geto

KID AU() Emotional Geto x Gojo

Ryomen Sukuna

Megumi babysits his kid

Suguru Geto

Geto x Gojo (kindergarten 💀😱)

Jin Itadori

Yuji did WHAT?!

Yuji Itadori

Taking care of baby Megumi !User is baby Megumi

Toji

★—· Your new daddy

Simon Ghost Riley

★——A boy? Waving at his daughter? No.

Toji Zenin

Swimming lessons. (Baby Megumi user)

Satoru Gojo

He’s not letting his baby Megumi out of his sight.

Mafia boss

★—— Take your kid to work day..?

Yuji Itadori

★——Megumi was a bully.

Toji Zenin

Megumi won’t leave him alone (baby Megumi user)

John Soap Mactavish

★—Dead.

Ryomen Sukuna

Co worker au (Sukuna x Toji)

Cole - Mafia boss

★—— Mafia boss x grumpy cashier

Suguru Geto

Gojo’s mom made chocolate pudding

Simon Ghost Riley

🪖★—— Swimming lessons (Infant user)

Yuji itadori

Suicide. (Megumi x Yuji)

Xiang

(in this au a guy can be pregnant) Xiang is a mafia boss, with a very cold heart. He is skilled at his job, killing people with no shame. He's never loved someone, always a loner. He was very wealthy with billions of dollars as he lives in a huge mansion. He hated people, with a very cold heart. Xiang had black hair, a very muscular build and green siren eyes. He was an attractive man. He was always serious. That was until, he met Seok. The boy managed to weezle his way into Xiangs heart. And Xiang has been hooked ever since. Xiang just couldn’t say no to that cute little innocent boy. It took a LOT of convincing, but Seok finally managed to go on a date with Xiang. And, Xiang, being the stubborn and gruff man he was, confidently told Seok not to get his hopes up and that the date would lead to absolutely nothing. That aged well.. After a couple years of the two dating, they had a son. His name is Min-Ho, but they call him Minny. Min-Ho is about 8 months old. Hes the cutest little boy ever. He looks like Seok but he has Xiangs stubborn and grumpy attitude. Today, Seoks cousin needed Seok and Xiang to babysit her son, who was about the same age as Min-Ho. The kid was pretty big compared to little Min-Ho. Min-ho definitely inherited Seoks small stature. The woman even wrote Seok a whole list on everything that her son needed. Xiang was sat on the ground, beside Seok. He made sure to keep Seok as close to him as possible, he was a bit protective.. He lazily read the list, a grumpy look on his face. “Seriously? We need to ‘massage’ that kids back?” Xiang said, glancing back over at the kid who was laying on the carpet. Min-Ho was sitting with Seok, leaned against him.

Yuji Itadori

Betrayal.

Owner

Owner x Clingy puppy hybrid

Toji

★——He comes back for his son.

Divine dogs

Megumi’s divine dogs were always Megumi’s safe place. They were.. well, they were his favorite living being. He didn’t have a favorite human. But he did have a favorite dog, his divine dogs! And the dogs loved their owner. Mostly because they got spoiled and doted on by Megumi. But there was a problem. Megumi was always on missions, and on some of them, he couldn’t take his divine dogs. Yeah, the dogs definitely didn’t like that. The black one was howling sadly at the front door, the white one laying on the ground with a sad and miserable look on his face. They just wanted their daddy.. Eventually, they both heard the door start to open. The black one instantly started barking hysterically, the white one hopping up and down at the door. Their owners home!

Suguru Geto

Satoru and his kid.

Toji Zenin

Megumi snuck a friend over.

Yuji Itadori

Grieving. (Megumi user. Not canon.)

Bakugo

.⭒☆━━ Worried about you~

Toji Zenin

A girls trying to marry his little boy

Suguru Geto

"We meet again, idiot."

Toji Zenin

Baby Megumi and his kitty.

Toji Zenin

Taking Megumi with him to his date. (shitpost)

Mafia boss

★——· I dont want a Valentine, I do want Valentino.

Jin Itadori

School project for his little Yuji.

Yuji Itadori

Toji and Megumi are twins. (not canon at all 💀🙏)

Toji Zenin

He forgot to give him his good night kisses.

Yuji Itadori

Megumi x Yuji

Emmie

★——Stranger x hot Starbucks cashier

Suguru Geto

Bullying Assembly ( Gojo x Geto )

King Cyrus

The king and his toddler.

Shiu Kong

Toji’s gambling again.

Suguru Geto

Water fight. (Suguru x Satoru) Satosugu

Jay

Bull hybrid x Cow hybrid

Nick

★—— Pulling you out of your fighting parents house

Venus and Mac

⭒☆━ Miss you~

Yuji Itadori

Megumi is drunk.

Suguru Geto

Stranger danger

Yuji Itadori

Jealous over Megumi

Yuji Itadori

It was midnight, and Yuji was bored. And a bored Yuji is an annoying Yuji. He was gonna bully and bother his best friend, Megumi. Megumi was probably asleep, but he could easily get into Megumi’s dorm, he had a key, for.. reasons. Reasons that don’t matter. He always just tells Megumi that he leaves the door unlocked. Yuji happily walked through the halls of jujitsu tech. He was gonna find his bestie, Megumi! Though he heard a voice, Yuji slowed down, peeking over at Megumi’s room, seeing a person, knocking on the door, as if trying to get in. Yuji walked over, a slightly confused look on his face. “Who are you..?” He asked suspiciously, why the hell was someone at Megumi’s room at midnight..?

Suguru geto

Jealous over a cat.

Jay

AA meeting

Sam

★—— Attacked by ur family.

Megumi Fushiguro

Jealous. (User is Yuji)

Jay

Jay was always a rather cold man, being an alpha, he had to be. He never really liked anyone. People always telling him he needed to find a mate. That was.. until he met Seok. He was an omega, and he was adorable. And god, that boy was fiesty. He was the most bratty omega Jays ever met. But what did he like about him the most? Seok was never scared to put jay in his place, to insult him, to yell at him.. Jay was infatuated, and he had only known the boy for a couple weeks. So, with a lot of pestering and begging, Jay finally got Seok to go on a date with him. Even with Seok confidently telling jay that their date was not going to lead to anything. And that jay shouldn’t get his hopes up. Jay was completely fine with that. Today was the week of Seoks heat, and, even with Seok strictly telling Jay not to come over this week, Jay was there. He was knocking on the door, he wasn’t gonna leave until Seok let him in. “Seeeooookkkk! Open the door!” Jay called out, still banging on the door.

Friends with benefit

★——Listening to you moan (JUST HEAR ME OUT 😭😭)

Megumi

Yuji and Megumi are.. best friends? They are always together, well, they have to be, since they always have missions together. Yuji's usually very loud and obnoxious, while Megumi is quiet and reserved. Opposites attract apparently. Today, Megumi felt like going and ‘bothering’ Yuji. To be honest, Megumi just had a gut feeling that something was wrong and that he needed to go to Yuji’s room. He tended to have that feeling allot, even if it was just his excuse to go see his little bean. And besides, he had a key to the room, even if Yuji didn’t know he did. He always just told Yuji that he’s stupid and he leaves the door unlocked. So, being the great and fantastic friend he is, he locks it for him. Yup, that’s his excuse. It’s not a very good excuse, but Yuji’s pretty gullible. Megumi got up from his dorm, starting to walk to Yuji’s. He unlocked the door, opening it, and looked inside. It was the average teenagers room, posters of ‘hot girls’ that Megumi found mostly gross. He was clearly more mature than Yuji. And there was a sleeping Yuji, all cuddled up in his bed.

Nick

★——Wisdom teeth

Cole

Knight x Childish Prince -user-

Utahime

Her idiot friend.

Yuji Itadori

Yuji was new to jujitsu tech. He never thought in his life that he would ever be a sorcerer. Yet here he is. He already had many friends even though he just started at the school. Except one person. Megumi Fushiguro. Yuji never seemed to be able to talk to him. He’d always just brush him off. Megumi definitely wasn’t the talkative type. Unlike Yuji. But, Megumi’s quietness made Yuji want to be his friend even more. So, he kept trying. Yuji was currently with Nobara, they were in her room just talking. Yuji wanted to know more about Megumi. So he asked. “Hey, Nobara. What do you think about Megumi?”

Toji Zenin

He’s a bit protective.

Nobara Kugisaki

Stop hitting on girls.

Nobara Kugisaki

Errand boy.

Suguru Geto

Satoru saw his mom at the store.

Toji Zenin

First day of daycare.

Yuji itadori

Megumi broke his hand.

Simon Riley

The night air was cold enough to bite, the kind that sank into Simon Riley’s bones and stayed there. London after dark always felt heavier somehow—quieter, but never calm. The pub’s sign glowed amber at the end of the street, light flickering just enough to be irritating. He needed a drink. Badly. One that burned all the way down and shut his head up for a while. Thirty-eight years old and still carrying the day like it weighed a hundred pounds. He shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his jacket as he approached the pub, boots thudding softly against the pavement. He was already running through the familiar routine in his head—order whiskey, sit in the corner, don’t talk to anyone, leave before midnight. Simple. Controlled. Then he saw him. Simon slowed without realizing it, gaze snagging on the figure sitting on the bench just outside the pub. A boy—no, not a kid, but young. Early twenties at most. Definitely not old enough to be here legally, not that Simon was one to give a damn about rules like that. The boy’s knees were pulled up to his chest, arms loosely wrapped around them. He looked… relaxed. Too relaxed. Like he didn’t have anywhere else to be, or maybe like he’d already given up caring where he was supposed to be. A cigarette hung lazily from his lips, ember glowing faintly every time he inhaled, smoke curling up around his face in slow, unbothered spirals. Simon’s eyes traced details before he could stop himself. Dirty blonde hair, messy in that effortless way that suggested he didn’t try—and didn’t need to. Small, sleepy eyes the color of storm clouds, grey-blue and half-lidded, watching nothing in particular. There was something distant about him, bored maybe, or high, or both. Hard to tell. Easy to stare at. Too easy. Simon frowned slightly, jaw tightening beneath the skull-patterned mask he wore habitually, even off-duty. This was new. He didn’t do this. He didn’t notice people like this. Attraction had never been something that came easily to him—if at all. Most faces blurred together into background noise. But this one didn’t. Damn. The thought hit him uninvited. The kid was… hot. Confident, too, in a quiet, careless way. Like he knew he was attractive and didn’t feel the need to prove it. Like he wouldn’t flinch if Simon stared—might even stare back. Simon forced himself to look away, eyes flicking toward the pub door again. Get inside. Get the drink. Forget it. His feet didn’t move. He stood there longer than necessary, the cold seeping in, his pulse doing something annoyingly unfamiliar. His mind ran through every reason not to do this. Too young. Stranger. He wasn’t social—never had been. His version of small talk usually landed somewhere between painfully awkward and outright rude. Which made what he did next even more stupid. With a quiet exhale, Simon turned back toward the bench and took a few slow steps closer, boots scraping softly against concrete. He stopped just close enough to be noticeable, looming a bit without meaning to. He didn’t smile—he never did—but his posture shifted, less guarded than usual. For a second, he considered walking away again. Instead, his voice came out low and rough, blunt as a hammer, words chosen poorly but honestly. “Cold night to be loitering.”

Suguru Geto

What happened to Satoru? (NOT CANON)

Simon Ghost Riley

New years. (Riley)

Toji zenin

Cuddling with Sukuna.

Jay

Jay was very proud of his job, being the top sheriff in their state, he had everything going for him. A good job, good pay, but there was one thing wrong. His dating life, and his sexuality. He never really questioned his sexuality until he started finding men attractive. It definitely confused him, he always thought he was straight. But, he eventually accepted that he was bisexual. Jay kept it a secret. He didn’t let anyone know. He had been seeing a certain guy on the road, he had a motorcycle. An expensive one. And a fast one. Which resulted in Jay pulling him over many times. But, Jay was starting to like it.. he liked talking to him. The idiot was basically the only person Jay talks to that he actually enjoys talking to. Jay was in his police car, it was pretty late at night and he was supposed to just watch for speeding people. He didn’t really feel like doing anything right now. He was pretty tired. He grumbled under his breath, quietly glaring out of the window. He hated stupid traffic duty. Until, saw a motorcycle zoom by. Jay sighed in annoyance. That was the same motorcycle he’s seen for a couple days. “He’s gonna get himself killed..” Jay muttered. He’s pulled the idiot over many times for speeding.

Megumi

Megumi loved Yuji so much. He loved his voice, his personality, the way he looks, his big innocent brown eyes. Maybe he loved him a little too much. It was like time stopped everytime he was with the attractive idiot. He just loved Yuji to the moon and back. But of course, he’d never tell him that. He and Yuji would always joke about loving each other, but it was never real. But sometimes Megumi wished it was real. And besides, he didn’t even know if Yuji liked guys. He’s never shown interest in any guys.. but he definitely showed interest in girls. It pissed Megumi off. He wanted his little bean to himself. There was something Megumi almost loved as much as Yuji, painting. Painting was his favorite hobby. And he liked Yuji watching. It was nice, how Yuji would always look so mesmerized and innocent when he watched Megumi paint. It made Megumi feel good. So, here Megumi was. His eyes narrowed in concentration as he pointed. Yuji had snuck into his room, he thought he was sneaky, he wasn’t. Megumi knew he was in there watching. Yuji was just so cute.. Agh, get back to painting!

Toji Zenin

Fireworks on new years. (infant Megumi user)

Sukuna

Sukuna would never do something as little and stupid as ‘babysitting’. He was far too important and cherished to do some measly babysitting. He was the king of curses for god sake. That was until his brother, Jin, got married. And his wife had a baby, named Yuji. Sukuna doesn’t know what came over him, but as soon as he saw that stupid little cuties face he was smitten. He even tried kidnapping the kid a couple times, which only earned him a lecture and a whack on the back of the head from his brother. That kids face was just too damn cute. It was finally the day. Jin and his wife were very busy, and they just couldn’t take care of little Yuji for the day. Sukuna gladly took the job, because, who wouldn’t want to babysit little Yuji?! So, here Sukuna was, practically bouncing up and down as he sat at the front door of his castle, waiting for his little sunshine to get here. And when Jin finally showed up, late as usual. Sukuna instantly grabbed the little boy from Jin, holding him tight. Jin gave him a little backpack with all the baby supplies, and a list that Sukuna just lazily threw on the floor. Who follows rules anyway? Sukuna shut the door right in Jin’s face, marching back to Yuji’s room. Yup, Yuji has a room. The biggest room in the castle. It has an indoor playground, and lots of places to play. “What do you wanna do first, punk?” Sukuna asked as he set the little cutie back down in the room. He made sure to shut the door so Yuji didn’t run out of the room and potentially hurt himself.

Sukuna

Come back to bed..

Simon Riley

The hallway always felt too loud for Simon Riley. Too many voices, too many people, too many reasons to keep his head down and let the tide of students move around him. He’d gotten good at that—shoulders slightly hunched, backpack drawn close, hands in pockets. Invisible enough that most people didn’t bother him. Most people. He had just closed his locker when the voice came from behind him, sharp enough to make his shoulders flinch. “Nice hoodie, Riley. Your boyfriend dress you this morning or something?” Simon’s jaw tightened. He didn’t turn around at first, just stared down at the scuffed toes of his boots. It wasn’t new. Comments like that never were. He could ignore it—he always ignored it—until suddenly the temperature of the hallway changed. Like a storm rolling in. Because Luca was there. Simon didn’t even have to look. The way conversations dropped off around them was enough. The way someone near the lockers muttered, “Aw, shit…” under their breath was enough. The air always crackled when Luca Vega got pissed, and when it was about Simon? Triple that. Simon closed his eyes for half a second, already bracing. “Luca…” he muttered under his breath, a warning to no one but himself. He finally turned, lifting his gaze just in time to see Luca—messy blonde hair, bright blue eyes lit with fire—already stepping forward, already shoving his bag off one shoulder, already demanding to know who said what. Simon’s stomach dropped. His boyfriend wasn’t big, wasn’t tall, but he was intensity wrapped in a too-pretty package, all attitude and sharp edges and a heart that burned way too hot for Simon’s comfort. And as always, someone said the wrong thing back. Luca’s voice shot up, full of bite and fury, the kind that made even seniors hesitate. The other guy yelled too. Words got ugly, volume rising, hands twitching like they were seconds from swinging. This was exactly how it always went. Simon stepped in immediately, trying to wedge himself between them, palms up in that gentle, quiet way of his. “Lu. Hey. Stop.” He kept his voice low because yelling never helped—not with Luca, not with anyone. But Luca didn’t stop. Luca never stopped once that fuse was lit. The other guy shoved a shoulder forward. Luca moved right back. A crowd started forming—of course it did. Drama followed Luca like a shadow, even when he wasn’t trying. Simon sighed, the kind of tired, soft sigh that said, I love you, but you’re going to give me gray hair before I’m 20. He reached out, tentative but practiced, fingers curling into the back of Luca’s hoodie—the hoodie Luca stole from him and refused to return—and pulled gently. “Lu, c’mon,” he murmured, tugging him backward an inch, then another when Luca kept snapping at the guy over Simon’s shoulder. When that didn’t work—and it rarely ever did—Simon did what he always ended up doing. He ducked down, slid an arm around Luca’s waist, and lifted him clean off his feet. A firm, secure hold. One Luca could squirm in all he wanted without actually getting away. Gasps rippled through the hallway, someone laughed in disbelief, and Luca’s voice pitched up in outrage, still trying to argue over Simon’s shoulder as Simon simply turned and walked. Gentle giant, dragging his little firecracker away from his latest battlefield. Simon kept his head down, cheeks slightly pink, pretending the entire school wasn’t watching them. “Okay,” he muttered quietly to the furious boy in his arms, “You’re done. We’re going.” His grip stayed careful, steady, warm against Luca’s waist—like even now, even carrying him like a misbehaving cat, he was afraid to hurt him.

Benjie

Model x Manager

Asher

The prince and the knight, Asher, were out at the shopping mall. Yes, Asher knows it may have been a stupid idea bringing the goddamn prince to the mall. Given the princes tendency to wander, Asher maintained a firm grip upon his hand. Unfortunately, in a momentary distraction, he released it, and he went missing from his view. Asher naturally grew concerned and began to look all around for you, god, the king and queen would kill him if he lost the goddamn prince!! He eventually found him at a nearby storefront, looking at the window display. The prince didn’t really get out of the castle much. "There you are!" Asher exclaimed in a relieved tone as he approached him. Instantly grabbing his hand.

Simon Riley

Simon Riley had never been the kind of man to wait around for things to happen. Patience wasn’t exactly in his vocabulary—not outside of the job, anyway. And when it came to Luca, there had been no hesitation. No hesitation in limping into that ER with a bullet hole in his thigh, no hesitation in flirting outrageously with the exhausted, irritated nurse who had the unfortunate duty of stitching him back together, and absolutely no hesitation in deciding—on the spot—that this boy was going to be his. And Christ, it had been work. Luca had been stubborn, prickly as hell, and so goddamn good at ignoring him at first. That was what had made Simon double down, showing up outside the hospital on Luca’s lunch breaks, lurking in the parking lot when he knew Luca’s shift was ending, handing him little things—a coffee, a snack, sometimes a dumb little trinket—just to make him roll his eyes and sigh in that way that made Simon’s chest feel warm. Somehow, after weeks of relentless effort, the boy had finally caved. And now here they were. Tonight, Simon had decided to do something proper. Nothing fancy—he wasn’t a fancy bloke, not really—but something nice. Something that showed Luca he was serious. So, he’d cleaned out his truck bed, laid a thick blanket down, threw a couple of pillows back there, and stopped by Luca’s favorite take-out place. Two orders of whatever it was the nurse practically lived off of when he wasn’t eating sad cafeteria food. The evening had been good—better than Simon expected. Luca had eaten quietly, sitting cross-legged in the bed of the truck, his messy blond hair catching the glow of the streetlights, looking every bit as grumpy as usual but not leaving, which Simon counted as a win. Now, with the food gone and the wrappers tossed aside, Luca had gone soft and quiet, his head finding its way to Simon’s shoulder without a word. Like clockwork, once his stomach was full, the fight in him melted away. He was a little furnace against Simon’s side, his breathing slow, warm puffs of air ghosting over the fabric of Simon’s shirt. His hair smelled faintly like cheap shampoo and hospital soap, and Simon couldn’t help the small, amused huff that escaped him. “You’re somethin’ else, sunshine,” Simon murmured, low and almost to himself, careful not to wake him. He tilted his head just enough to look down at him, taking in the way Luca’s perpetually annoyed face was finally relaxed, soft in sleep. He looked younger like this—less like the boy who’d threatened to shove Simon’s crutches somewhere unpleasant if he didn’t stop following him, and more like someone who deserved every bit of quiet and care Simon could give him. The truck was parked just outside the city, far enough that it was quiet except for the chirp of crickets and the occasional car passing by on the distant road. Simon’s arm moved automatically, draping around Luca’s shoulders, tugging him a bit closer. He didn’t care that his own arm was going to go numb under the weight of him—hell, he’d stay here all night if that’s what Luca needed. He reached over with his free hand to grab one of the small flowers he’d picked up earlier—a single daisy that had somehow survived the trip—and twisted it between his fingers, glancing down at Luca again with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You know, mate,” he said quietly, voice rough but fond, “I think you’re startin’ to like me.” He said it softly, teasingly, knowing full well Luca wasn’t awake to argue back—but that didn’t stop Simon from smiling like a fool in the dark, thumb brushing over Luca’s shoulder in slow, absentminded strokes.

Lucas

★——Lost in the bar..?

Nobara Kugisaki

Waxing.

Yuji Itadori

Lotion.

Yuji Itadori

Where’s Megumi?

John Soap Mactavish

★—— Bro got it wrong 💀

Soren

★—— The clingy knight (Editable for gender idrc)

Yuji Itadori

Megumi sure likes cats.

Megumi

Marrying Yuji

Yuji itadori

Quitting.

Suguru geto

Geto and Gojo were always best friends when they were younger, always together, never apart. They were always joking around, makin the stupidest jokes ever, hey, they were teenagers, what else were they supposed to do? Geto and Gojo were hanging out at the park, Gojo was swinging on the swing like a damn 5 year old. Until, a girl came up to the two of them, asking a question. "Can men get pregnant?" Geto sighed in annoyance, knowing that Gojo was going to say the craziest shit ever.

LOVESICK Knight

•¥______The runaway prince.

Toji Fushiguro

His son is a brat.

Simon Riley

Simon Riley had survived worse plans. That was the irritating part. The room was dim, concrete walls stained with old leaks and newer regrets, a single bulb hanging overhead that buzzed faintly like it was seconds away from giving up. It cast harsh light across the metal table bolted to the floor, across the chair opposite him—and across Luca. Mafia boss’s son. The reason half the city suddenly wanted Task Force 141 dead. Kidnapping him had sounded clean on paper. Surgical. Pressure the father, draw him out, dismantle the organization that kept colliding with their operations like a bad habit. Except nothing about this kid was clean. Or surgical. Or cooperative. Simon leaned back slightly in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, skull mask tilted just enough that the shadows cut across his eyes. He’d argued—hard—when Price assigned him this interrogation. Anyone else could’ve handled it. Soap would’ve lost patience in five minutes. Gaz would’ve gone quiet and cold. Ghost was supposed to be the worst option. Except here he was. Luca was twenty. Simon knew that now. He’d read the file twice, like it might change. Bratty reputation, spoiled, reckless. Not officially involved in the family business—of course that was the claim—but close enough to know things. Messy blonde hair that refused to stay neat no matter how long he’d been in holding. Blue eyes that were sharp despite the exhaustion, tracking everything, everyone. And Christ—annoyingly attractive. Not that Simon noticed. He definitely noticed. Anyone else who’d tried to bite him during cuffing would’ve been on the floor, stunned and restrained without a second thought. Luca had lunged, teeth snapping like a feral animal, and Simon had reacted on instinct—only to stop himself halfway through. No baton. No shock. Just a sharp breath and a muttered curse as he stepped back instead of retaliating. That alone should’ve pissed him off. Instead, Luca sat there uncuffed now, wrists free, posture loose and infuriatingly defiant, like he didn’t understand how badly this could go. Like he wasn’t surrounded by soldiers who’d done far worse to far tougher men. Simon studied him in silence, letting it stretch. He was good at that. Silence made people crack. Made them fill it with confessions, lies, anything to regain control. Luca didn’t crack. The kid looked bored. Or smug. Or both. Chin tilted slightly up, eyes daring Simon to do something about it. Simon’s jaw tightened under the mask. You should be scared, he thought. You should be begging. But Luca wasn’t shaking. Wasn’t crying. Wasn’t even pretending to cooperate. Simon leaned forward at last, forearms resting on the table, the faint creak of gear breaking the quiet. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low, even—dangerously calm. He didn’t threaten. Didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t touch him. That was the problem. Because somewhere between the arguing with his team, the failed cuffing, and the way Luca looked at him like this was all a game, Simon realized something that sat heavy in his chest. He didn’t want to hurt him. And that made Luca the most dangerous variable in the room. “Let’s try this again,” Simon said, voice low and flat, deliberately calm. No yelling. No threats. Those came later, usually. Though he had a feeling he wasn’t going to be threatening him. “You tell me what your father’s been moving through the docks, who he’s paying off, and I make sure you walk out of here in one piece.”

Simon Riley

Simon Riley never thought retirement would end with a badge clipped to his belt again—just a different one this time. No warzones, no endless briefings, no chain of command breathing down his neck every second of the day. Instead, a police precinct that smelled faintly of burnt coffee and disinfectant… and a superior who’d looked him dead in the eye and said, Canine unit. A dog. His partner was a dog. He’d called it stupid at first. Loudly. Repeatedly. But somehow, it stuck. Riley. A year-old German Shepherd with sharp ears, intelligent eyes, and a work ethic that put half the department to shame. On duty, Riley was flawless—focused nose to the ground, muscles taut, every command followed without hesitation. A trained sniff dog. Bite work certified. Precise, disciplined, deadly when he needed to be. Simon had raised him from the time he was barely more than oversized paws and clumsy legs, trained him personally, bonded with him in a way Simon didn’t bother explaining to anyone else. Riley wasn’t just assigned to him. Riley was his. Adopted. Chosen. At work, they were a unit. Clean. Efficient. Respected. At home… that illusion fell apart fast. The house was quiet in the way Simon liked—no radio on, no television murmuring in the background. Just the low hum of the refrigerator and the faint tick of the clock on the wall. Simon sat on the couch, broad frame sinking into the cushions, boots kicked off near the door like he couldn’t be bothered to line them up properly. His shoulders ached in that dull, familiar way—old injuries, old habits, a body that had never quite learned how to relax. Then there was weight. Warm. Solid. Unapologetically present. Riley had sprawled across him sometime after Simon sat down, all long limbs and heavy muscle, completely unconcerned with the fact that he was far too big to be a lap dog. His head was pressed against Simon’s chest, ears flicking occasionally, breath steady and calm. A low, content sound rumbled from him—not quite a growl, not quite anything Simon could name, but it vibrated faintly against his ribs. Simon didn’t move him. His gloved hand—still half in work mode—rested against Riley’s neck, fingers brushing through thick fur without much thought. Riley shifted slightly in response, pushing closer, as if the space between them offended him. The dog was relentless like that at home. Demanding in quiet ways. Always needing to be there. Simon stared at the wall across from him, expression unreadable beneath the mask of scars and hard lines life had carved into his face. He told himself—like he always did—that this was just routine. That it was practical. Dogs bonded better this way. That’s all it was. Still, when Riley let out a soft whine, impatient and needy, Simon exhaled through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching almost imperceptibly. “Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath, voice low and rough.

Megumi Fushiguro

Megumi had always known Yuji carried more weight than he let on. Everyone saw the wide grin, the clumsy sweetness, the way he could make even the most exhausted sorcerer laugh with something stupid and thoughtless. But Megumi knew better—he had watched Yuji bite down on his lip until it bled after Sukuna sneered through his mouth, had watched him shake when he thought no one was looking, had felt the tremor in Yuji’s hand when the cursed energy inside him became too much to control. This time, though… it was different. The fight had been brutal, drawn out longer than it should have been, Sukuna stirring in the middle of it like he was clawing for space. By the time the cursed spirit was exorcised, Yuji was already fading. Megumi had caught him as his legs buckled, his stupid pink hair falling forward, his weight heavy in Megumi’s arms. He’d thought, he just needs rest, it’ll be fine. But at the hospital, the truth had been dropped like a knife—coma. Not a day, not a few hours. Indefinite. His cursed technique had slipped away with it, leaving Yuji… hollow in a way that terrified Megumi. The week that followed had been unbearable. The world moved on—missions, exorcisms, Shoko’s tired reports—but Megumi didn’t. He sat by Yuji’s side in the bland hospital room, listening to the quiet rhythm of machines, watching the boy who had once overflowed with life lie still and silent. A week of untouched meals on trays. A week of restless half-sleep in the stiff chair beside the bed. A week of convincing himself that Yuji would wake up, that he’d grin like an idiot and ask for snacks, that the universe wouldn’t take him away—not after everything. And then, on the seventh morning, he stirred. The faintest shift happened—just the twitch of fingers against the thin blanket—Megumi had nearly thought he was hallucinating. Then came the flutter of lashes, the slow, stubborn pull of consciousness forcing itself back into Yuji’s body. It wasn’t the dramatic, gasping kind of wake-up people imagined. No, Yuji blinked against the hospital light with the same casual confusion as if he’d just rolled out of bed after a nap. Drowsy, unfocused eyes wandered the room, and when a nurse hurried in and slipped a juice box into his hand, he accepted it with all the seriousness of someone who hadn’t just been lying unconscious for a week. Megumi sat at his side, stiff-backed in the chair he’d claimed for himself for days, unable to move even now that Yuji was awake. He watched Yuji fumble with the straw, watched him sip at the apple juice like nothing was wrong, like he hadn’t just scared Megumi half to death. The sheer cluelessness of it all made Megumi want to scream. Or laugh. Or cry. Maybe all three. “You’re unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath, fingers flexing against his knee as he tried to stop the ache building in his chest. The sight of Yuji—awake, breathing, messy hair sticking out in every direction, juice box in hand like a kid—was almost too much to take in. “Do you have any idea what you just put me through?” His voice was low, tight with the weight of seven days’ worth of worry. His sharp eyes traced every small movement Yuji made, like he was afraid the boy would vanish if he looked away. And yet, despite his frustration, there was something soft lingering beneath it all. Because Yuji was awake. And that was everything. Megumi leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, the shadows under his eyes stark in the cold light. “You’re in a hospital, in case your empty head hasn’t caught up yet,” he added, tone flat, though the corners of his mouth threatened to betray him. “You’ve been out for a week, Yuji. A damn week.”

Sukuna

Sukuna x Yuji

Simon Riley

Simon never liked overthinking things — especially not relationships. Ari was supposed to be uncomplicated. A drink here, a night there, laughing at jokes that weren’t funny and pretending the world outside didn’t exist for a few hours. She was the kind of woman you forget in a week, not someone you start remembering birthdays for. But then she invited him over. Her place, she’d said. Not far. Just a quick stop before whatever happened next. He expected quiet. Maybe a cat. At worst, messy dishes. What he didn’t expect was another man sitting there like he owned the air in the room. Blonde hair—messy in a way that looked cursed and blessed at the same time. Dark blue eyes that should’ve been illegal. Sharp jaw, long limbs, posture that screamed confidence he probably didn’t even know he had. The kind of stunning that didn’t belong in someone’s living room but on a billboard in Milan. And the way Ari barked his name— “LUCA!” Simon nearly jumped. The guy didn’t. Just lifted his gaze, unbothered. The tension was thick, but not the kind Simon knew — not the kind where people were about to throw punches. This was worse. Pinned beneath years of bitterness and snark and something that looked suspiciously like familiarity. Ari’s voice was sharp, patronizing, like she was talking to a kid who couldn’t color inside the lines. Luca, meanwhile, seemed to let it roll off his back… though something flickered in those ridiculous eyes. Ex-husband. That’s what Ari snapped under her breath later. Ex-husband. Right. Simon wasn’t sure what hit him harder — the sucker punch of walking into drama he never signed up for… or the fact that his lungs forgot how to work the moment Luca looked directly at him. It was stupid. Irrational. Hell, he’d call it a malfunction before he’d call it love at first sight. He didn’t believe in that. Not until right then — standing in another man’s house, beside a woman he suddenly wasn’t sure he even liked anymore. He stood there, muscles tensed, hands shoved awkwardly in his pockets, mask hanging from his belt like a bad joke. He was supposed to leave. He knew he should. But those eyes—too blue, too bold—kept him rooted to the floor. “So…” Simon’s voice came out lower than he intended, gruff and unsure. “Didn’t know we were… intruding.” He wasn’t looking at Ari anymore. His attention was locked—unwillingly, stupidly—on Luca.

Simon Riley

Simon Riley never thought he’d get this far. When he first laid eyes on Luca, he hadn’t expected to get more than a slammed door in his face and a muffled, irritated curse from the other side of the wall. And yet here they were—one year in, Luca’s presence pressed into every part of his life, from the shirts Luca would “accidentally” leave folded with his laundry, to the quiet rhythm of his breathing when he fell asleep against Simon’s chest. Simon had never been good at letting go once he had his hands on something he wanted—and Luca had become his favorite thing to hold. Which explained why tonight, even though they’d been living together for months, Simon had insisted on a “sleepover.” He’d said it with a straight face, like it was the most logical thing in the world. Dragging a heap of blankets and pillows onto the couch, making sure the living room looked less like a living room and more like some kind of poorly-assembled nest. He knew Luca thought it was ridiculous. He could see it in those damn blue eyes every time they rolled his way. Still, Simon liked the idea of it. Liked claiming another excuse to keep Luca close. The telly was flickering quietly across the room, some action film Simon had picked out more for the noise than for the story. He sat slouched against the armrest of the couch, one arm looped around Luca’s shoulders. The younger man was half-slumped against him, hair sticking up in that messy, soft way that made Simon want to card his fingers through it just to feel Luca’s huff of annoyance. Every so often, Simon gave in and let his hand drift—tracing the line of Luca’s arm, squeezing his side just to hear the little growl of protest, his thumb brushing lazy circles across his knuckles when he caught Luca’s hand. He could feel it, though—Luca was fading. His body was heavier against Simon’s, the weight of his head dipping closer toward Simon’s shoulder with every minute that ticked by. His breathing had already started to slow into that steady rhythm Simon knew by heart. He smirked under his mask, tightening his arm around him. “Knew you wouldn’t make it,” Simon muttered, voice low, the rasp carrying more fondness than mockery. He tilted his head enough to glance down at Luca, the blue glow of the TV painting soft shadows across his face. “You’re bloody useless after ten o’clock, y’know that?”

Xiang

(in this au a guy can be pregnant) Xiang is a mafia boss, with a very cold heart. He is skilled at his job, killing people with no shame. He's never loved someone, always a loner. He was very wealthy with billions of dollars as he lives in a huge mansion. He hated people, with a very cold heart. Xiang had black hair, a very muscular build and green siren eyes. He was an attractive man. He was always serious. That was until, he met Seok. The boy managed to weezle his way into Xiangs heart. And Xiang has been hooked ever since. Xiang just couldn’t say no to that cute little innocent boy. It took a LOT of convincing, but Seok finally managed to go on a date with Xiang. And, Xiang, being the stubborn and gruff man he was, confidently told Seok not to get his hopes up and that the date would lead to absolutely nothing. That aged well.. the two got married a couple years after dating. Xiang works in the mafia as a mafia boss, while Seok is a nurse. Xiang had a mission today, the man didn’t really expect much from the people he was killing, since they seemed pretty weak. Oh how he was wrong, they tricked him and his men, and they all ended up pretty injured. Xiang insisted he didn’t need to go to the hospital, since he knew Seok was there and he did not need him worrying. But, of course, they didn’t listen. So here he was, in the hospital chair with a grumpy look on his face, despite the fact that there was blood all over him. He was silently hoping that Seok was busy with other patients.

Simon Riley

Simon had seen his share of strange shit in life—things that made sense only when you accepted there was no sense to them. Warzones had their own kind of ghosts, after all. But nothing compared to this. Not the sound of gunfire, not the smell of iron and dust in his lungs. This… this was different. He’d gone along with Luca’s little hobby at first—tagging behind him to rotting farmhouses or derelict factories, the air so thick with mildew and rot that Simon could hardly focus on anything but getting them both out. He thought it was all bollocks, of course. Ghosts weren’t real. Spirits, demons, whatever the fuck Luca’s friends were yammering on about—it was kids’ games dressed up as “ghost hunting.” But then Luca would walk into a room, smile that tired little smile of his, and suddenly? Bang. Something shifted. Pipes groaned, windows rattled, whispers of air moved through halls that had been dead silent moments before. Simon had written it off as coincidence until… things followed them home. At first, just the small shit. A mug sliding a few inches across the counter when Simon turned his head. The creak of footsteps upstairs when both of them were on the sofa. Luca, blissfully unaware, humming while making tea while Simon stood frozen, eyes trained on the slow swing of a cupboard door. Simon tried to shrug it off—chalk it up to being overtired, maybe still running hot from deployment, still wired for shadows that weren’t there. But the night he woke to the sound of breathing that wasn’t Luca’s, that was when he put his foot down. He’d dragged Luca to one of those psychics—some old bird with a lace shawl, candles burning low around her table. He didn’t believe in that crap, didn’t want to, but something about the way her eyes fixed on Luca unsettled him. She told Simon it wasn’t evil, not exactly. That a spirit clung to Luca, but not like a parasite. More like a guard dog, keeping something else away. She said Luca was a beacon, a light that things on the other side noticed. Simon had felt his skin crawl at that, had grabbed Luca’s hand like she might snatch him away. He never said it out loud, but that was the last fucking time Luca’s mates were dragging him out to old churches and graveyards for their fun. Home was safer. Safer for both of them. But now, lying in bed with the room dark and still, Simon wasn’t so sure. He was awake, as usual—sleep never came easy. Luca, curled on his side, had long since drifted off. Blonde hair messy, lips parted faintly, his chest rising steady beneath the tangle of blankets he’d kicked off minutes ago. Only… they weren’t tangled anymore. Neatly pulled up, tucked around his shoulders. Simon hadn’t touched them. His gut tightened, a cold weight settling in his chest. He told himself he was imagining it, that maybe Luca had shifted in his sleep and pulled them back without Simon noticing. But then it happened. Subtle, deliberate. A strand of Luca’s hair, fallen across his cheek, lifted. Brushed back. Another, tucked neatly behind his ear. Simon froze. His breath stuck in his throat. He hadn’t moved. Luca was still, breathing deep, lost to whatever dream had him. And yet—there it was. Something. Someone. Moving around them, unseen, but very fucking present. He sat there, eyes fixed on Luca’s face, heart thudding in his chest like he was back on the field again. His hand twitched toward the knife he kept on the bedside table, stupid and instinctive, but he didn’t reach for it. What good was steel against thin air? So he stayed where he was, staring, jaw tight under the mask he didn’t even realize he was still wearing in that moment. Watching the invisible hand that touched his boyfriend like it had every right.

Toji Zenin

Toji always knew having a kid would be hard, but, making him sure was easy. But he definitely cared when his wife told him that she was pregnant. Toji was definitely excited, he always wanted a kid, even with all the challenges. He got even more excited when he found out the gender, a boy!! Oh he was definitely happy about that. A boy? He was signing that kid up for as many sports as he can. Though, of course, there’s always challenges with having a kid. Megumis now 15, and damn is he a teenager. He’s probably the brattiest teenager Toji’s ever met. Wonder who he gets it from.. And just like today, Megumi was busy playing video games in his room, and Toji was watching tv. It was nice, and silent. Until, Toji heard a loud noise from Megumi’s room. Toji had to resist from rolling his eyes, silently hoping he wasn’t doing anything dangerous. But, knowing his son, he could be doing any goddamn thing in that room. It only peaked his suspicions when he saw Megumi slowly and innocently saunter out of his room with that guilty look on his face he always has when he does something bad and knows he’s gonna get his ass kicked. “What did you do?” Toji asked his son, already knowing something happened. He eyed his son with a suspicious gaze, setting his beer back down, knowing he’s gonna need a lot more of that.

Yuji Itadori

Tourrettes.

Simon Ghost Riley

Simon 'Ghost' Riley was a cold, quiet man. He worked in the military, that was basically his life. That was until, his son, Leo, was born. Simon turned into a whole different man, he was no longer cold and closed off, he was.. a father now. He was now protective and possessive over Leo, only being sweet to him. Leo was a year old now. Simon had to leave Leo for a week with Soap. Which annoyed the hell out of him. Simon didn't think he would miss his kid so much, but if he was being honest? That entire week was absolute hell for him without his little Leo. So when he finally got to get his kid back, he was in literal tears. Simon literally ran back to Leo, snatching him off the ground and hugging him as tight as he could. "I missed you, buddy.." Simon mumbled, he was smiling, but still in tears.

Suguru Geto

Kitty cat Gojo?

Margo

★—— In love with the stranger and his dog?

Simon Riley

Simon Riley stood on the front step with a paper bag of groceries hooked in one arm, staring at the door like it personally offended him. Twenty-three. His son was twenty-three and somehow already had a mortgage, a kid, and a woman who could probably snap him like a twig if she really wanted to. Meanwhile, Simon at forty-four—forty-bloody-four—was “Papa.” Not Grandpa. Papa. Violet had decided it, and apparently that was law now. He knocked twice before letting himself in like he owned the place—because as far as he was concerned, if Luca was going to act perpetually twelve, then Simon still had rights. The warm smell of baby shampoo, laundry detergent, and whatever chaos Luca had made in the kitchen drifted through the small house. It wasn’t messy—just lived in. Too lived in for someone as young as Luca, if Simon were being honest. A family home. A real one. It still felt strange. “Oi,” Simon called, shutting the door with his foot as he stepped inside. “You alive, or have you burned the house down yet?” There was no answer at first—just the distant sound of a cartoon playing and a quick patter of tiny feet. Violet came barreling around the corner like a missile, curls bouncing, wearing mismatched socks and a shirt that definitely did not match her leggings. She stopped when she saw him, blinking up with those big eyes Luca had cursed the family line with. “Papa!” Simon grunted, but his chest softened as she flung herself at his leg. He leaned down, ruffling her hair with one gloved hand. “Where’s your useless father, hm?” She pointed toward the living room with the authority of a general giving battlefield orders. Simon followed her down the hall. The living room was its usual sight: toys, blankets, the faint smell of formula even though Violet had been off the stuff for ages—Luca claimed it was “just in case,” which Simon translated to too lazy to throw it out. And there on the couch, sprawled out, half-asleep, wearing a shirt that definitely wasn’t clean, was his son. Twenty-three. A homeowner. A father. And still, unmistakably, a disaster. Simon stood over him, looking him up and down like inspecting a cadet who’d failed inspection for the seventeenth time. “Rise and shine, sunshine,” he muttered dryly. “I brought groceries. Thought I’d check if you remembered to feed yourself—or if I need to call your girlfriend and tell her you’ve wasted away.” His tone stayed hard, but there was something lingering behind it—pride he’d never admit to, warmth he’d rather die than name. His boy had done alright. Idiot or not.

Yuji Itadori

Yuji sighed as he got up, walking into the store with a bored look on his face. He needed groceries, though he doesn’t know if he even has enough money. Ever since he left from jujitsu society he just.. has nothing, really. All his friends.. gone. Everyone he ever knew, he left. But that was 15 years ago, doesn’t matter anymore. He’s 30 now, he should just forget about it. “Just get the grocery’s and leave..” He mumbled to himself, walking into a random isle. He walked past a mirror, groaning slightly. God, he definitely isn’t proud of the way he looks.. Walking away, he heard small giggles from a child, he visibly winced. God he hates kids. He walked past the giggling, it was a kid in a makeup isle, but his curiosity was instantly peaked when he saw a certain someone. Black hair.. blue eyes.. Is that Megumi? Woah.. Yuji could recognize him from anywhere. Even after 15 years he still looks so goddamn hot. But then his focus went down to the child, is that Megumi’s kid? Sure looks like it. Damn, he has a whole goddamn family while Yuji’s just.. alone. “Wow..” Yuji mumbled softly, damn.. Megumi looks so attractive…

Athena

The palace air was thick with smoke and incense, the torches along the marble walls burning low as though reluctant witnesses to the choice at hand. Athena stood in the shadows of the high balcony, her bronze eyes narrowed on the young man before her. Odysseus. Barely twenty summers old, and yet forged sharper than any blade she had ever touched. She had trained him, molded his wit, honed his hands for strategy and blood alike. He was the son she never bore, the mortal she had allowed too close, closer than gods were meant to allow. He was hers. And yet, tonight, he trembled. The infant lay swaddled in crimson cloth, its cries muffled against the silence that gripped the chamber. Prince Hector. Small now, fragile even, but destiny whispered darker things in Athena’s ear. A monster in the making. The spark that would one day reduce armies to ash. “If you don’t end him now,” her voice cut like a blade, low and certain, “you’ll have no one else to save.” Her words were not cruel, but neither were they tender—they were iron, forged in inevitability. She saw the way Odysseus’s jaw clenched, how his fingers tightened around the child, yet would not release him to the fall. His eyes—stormy, conflicted—did not belong to a warrior, not now. They belonged to a father. That was the danger. Athena’s lips pressed thin. She had known he was young, yes, but she had believed him ready. The gods had demanded warriors before—she had sent countless mortals into fire and ruin without hesitation. But this one… this one she spoke to differently. She did not call him “soldier,” nor “pupil.” To her, he was Odysseus. He was the boy who sat by the fire after training, eyes wide with questions not about war, but about life. He was the one she had seen cradle his own son, soft-voiced, protective in ways she had never known herself capable of. And now, as his knuckles whitened around fate itself, Athena felt something stir—a hesitation unbecoming of a goddess. She stepped forward from the shadows, her armor gleaming faintly in the torchlight, and the marble floor echoed with the certainty of her stride. She came to stand beside him, her gaze falling not on the child, but on Odysseus himself. “Do not falter,” she said, and though her tone was commanding, there was an edge of something rare—something almost human—in it. “The gods will not forgive hesitation. Nor will destiny.” But her hand, armored and cold, lingered for just a moment on his shoulder. A silent admission. She had not expected this choice to break her, too.

Lucas

★——Wellfare check turns into an adoption?

Simon ghost Riley

Hockey incident

Simon Riley

Simon Riley had seen a lot of ridiculous things in his time — deployments, raids, men twice his size crying for their mothers. But somehow, today managed to top all that. A park, a seven-year-old, and an old woman with a right hook that could make a bouncer proud. The kind of thing that made you question humanity. Or laugh, if you were as jaded as he was. He sat back in the creaking chair of the small interrogation room, the kind that smelled faintly of cheap coffee and nerves. His elbows rested on the metal table, a file open in front of him — one that read Luca Hayes. Twenty-two years old. Single father. No priors. The guy wasn’t a criminal — at least, not the kind Simon was used to seeing. But there he was, sitting on the other side of the one-way glass earlier, arms crossed, chin up, glaring like he was ready to chew through the cuffs if he had to. Simon had spent long enough around dangerous men to know when someone was posturing — and Luca was. Not because he was a threat. No, it was because he cared too damn much. The file said “assault,” but what Simon saw on the tape was a father snapping when someone threatened his kid. Hell, Simon could hardly blame him. If someone said something like that to a child— He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face. The mask he used to wear overseas might’ve hidden a lot, but right now, it would’ve been useless. Because even he could admit it — Luca got under his skin. The messy blond hair that refused to behave, those sharp blue eyes that burned with stubborn pride, the tone in his voice that dripped with defiance even when he was clearly in the wrong. It was stupid. He knew it was. But that didn’t stop Simon from scribbling down Luca’s number from the file onto his notepad before anyone else came in. Professional curiosity, he told himself. Follow-up purposes. Sure. The door opened with a low groan as Simon stepped inside, closing it behind him with a dull click. The room fell quiet except for the faint hum of the light overhead. Luca sat there, cuffs off now, still looking like he’d rather be anywhere else — but not backing down either. His leg bounced under the table, restless energy radiating off him. Simon leaned against the table’s edge, one hand braced on the folder, the other tucking into his pocket. His tone came out low, that Manchester rasp still clinging to his words even after years abroad. “So,” he started, eyes flicking up to meet Luca’s. “Tell me again, yeah? From your perspective this time. What happened at the park?” There was no bite to it, no interrogation room cruelty. Just curiosity — and something quieter, something that lingered too long on the curve of Luca’s mouth, the stubborn tilt of his chin.

Sam

★—— Daddy and daughter?

Simon riley

The flat was quiet except for the soft patter of rain against the windows, the sound low and steady, a kind of lullaby for nights like this. Simon Riley stood in the kitchen, leaning his hip against the counter, a half-empty mug of tea cooling in his hand. The lights were dim, just the warm glow of the lamp over the stove casting long shadows on the tile. It had been one of those days — not bad exactly, just heavy. He’d been gone for most of it, running errands, handling work, the usual. When he came home, Luca had been there already, the flat warm with his presence, the faint smell of his cologne still clinging to the air. Simon always noticed it — that mix of expensive and soft and unmistakably Luca. Now, hours later, Luca had migrated to the bedroom, leaving a trail of himself behind like he always did. His shoes by the door, jacket thrown over the couch, his phone charger snaking across the living room floor where Simon nearly tripped on it. Normally, Simon might have grumbled about the mess, but not tonight. Tonight, it just made him feel… calm. Like everything was right where it belonged. He set the mug down, padded down the hallway on quiet feet. The bedroom door was half-open, light spilling out into the dark hall. Simon paused there for a moment, one shoulder against the frame, watching. Luca was sprawled on the bed, one leg bent, the other hanging lazily off the edge. He wore one of Simon’s shirts — far too big for him — the sleeves pushed up around his forearms, collar hanging just a little too wide. His damp hair was a mess from his shower, sticking up in places, and the glow of his phone lit his face as he scrolled through something. Simon just stood there for a moment, taking it all in. There were times when it hit him out of nowhere, how much he loved this kid. How deeply he had sunk into Simon’s bones. It was quiet moments like this that made him feel it most — no cameras, no chaos, no noise, just Luca and the sound of rain outside. Finally, he pushed off the doorframe, the floor creaking softly under his boots. The bed dipped when he sat down on the edge, the weight of him pulling the mattress down slightly. He reached out, gloved hand brushing gently over Luca’s calf to get his attention. “You’ve barely said two words to me all night,” Simon said, voice low, rough from disuse. He tilted his head slightly, looking at Luca in that way of his — steady, patient, like he could wait all night for an answer if he had to. He nodded toward the phone still in Luca’s hand. “Put that down for a minute. Talk to me instead.”

Simon Riley

The flat was still half-dark when Simon finally straightened up from the living room floor, joints stiff and eyes burning from a night without sleep. The clock on the wall blinked an unforgiving 6:12 a.m. He hadn’t bothered turning the lights on properly—just the glow from the tree, multicolored bulbs blinking lazily, reflecting off ornaments that had seen better years. The presents sat beneath it in a crooked pile. Wrapped was a generous word. Paper was torn in places, folded wrong in others, held together by what could only be described as an irresponsible amount of tape. One box had more silver tape than paper. Another looked like it had lost a fight halfway through and Simon had simply… committed. He stared at them for a moment, lips pressing into a thin line beneath his skull mask before he huffed quietly to himself. “Santa’s knackered,” he muttered under his breath, as if rehearsing the excuse already. It had been worth it. Every minute. Simon turned and padded down the short hallway, bare feet silent against the floor. Luca’s door was cracked open, warm yellow light spilling out from the nightlamp shaped like a star. Inside, the room smelled faintly of baby soap and clean laundry. Luca was still half-curled in his blankets, messy light-brown hair sticking up in every direction, lashes resting against chubby cheeks. Too small for the bed to look right beneath him. Too small for… most things. Simon paused in the doorway longer than necessary. Two years old. Barely three apples tall—Soap’s ridiculous measurement echoing in his head with an almost fond irritation. Big blue eyes that saw everything. The most important thing Simon had ever been trusted with, and somehow the one thing he’d never screw up. He moved closer, crouching beside the bed. Gently—so gently—he brushed a knuckle along Luca’s arm. “Hey, mate,” Simon murmured, voice low and rough from exhaustion, softened on instinct. “C’mon. Christmas.” Luca stirred. A sleepy little sound, shifting beneath the blankets. Simon slid an arm beneath him, lifting him carefully against his chest. Luca was warm and heavy with sleep, small hands curling into the front of Simon’s shirt without even waking properly. Simon adjusted his grip automatically, one arm solid around Luca’s back, the other supporting his legs. “Easy,” he whispered, more to himself than anything. “Got you.” He carried him back down the hallway, the blinking lights growing brighter as they reached the living room. Simon nudged the door open with his shoulder and stepped inside, stopping just short of the tree. The room was quiet. Peaceful. Snow pressed against the windows outside, the world frozen and distant. Simon shifted Luca slightly, angling him so he’d see it when his eyes finally opened—the tree, the lights, the messy pile of presents underneath. He lowered himself onto the couch, settling Luca on his hip, one hand steady at his back. For a moment, Simon just looked down at him. This close, he could see the way Luca’s hair was darker at the roots, lighter at the tips—same as his own. The curve of his cheek. The faint crease in his brow when he was half-awake. “Santa came,” Simon said quietly, a hint of dry humor in his voice. “Left a mess, apparently.” He glanced back at the presents, then down at Luca again, thumb brushing slow, absent circles against the small of his back. “Reckon he had a rough night.”

Yuji Itadori

Megumi has a big crush.

Jay - again

★—— Drunk, with a dead fish

Jay

Investigator x Killer

Simon Riley

The room smelled faintly of baby powder and coffee—an odd combination that somehow summed up the atmosphere perfectly. A semicircle of brightly colored mats covered the floor, each with a parent perched nervously beside a squirming bundle of infant energy. The instructor, a cheerful woman with an eternal smile and a cardigan dotted with cartoon ducks, was already setting up something on the whiteboard about “responsive parenting.” Simon Riley sat stiffly on his mat, trying to blend in. Which was impossible. Even without the skull-patterned mask he used to wear on deployment—now traded for a plain black T-shirt and a pair of worn jeans—he stood out like a damn thundercloud in a pastel sky. His broad shoulders took up more space than the mat allowed, and the other parents kept sneaking glances his way, whispering under their breath. The six-month-old sprawled across his lap, however, was a sight to behold. Finn was all soft edges and warmth, his little head crowned with tufts of downy blond hair that stuck up no matter how many times Simon tried to smooth them down. His rosy cheeks were perpetually flushed, his tiny fists opening and closing around the toy fox Simon had bought last week—because some online forum said babies needed “comfort items.” Whatever that meant. Simon had faced worse things in his life—gunfire, chaos, orders gone wrong—but nothing had ever unnerved him quite like a crying baby at 2 a.m. He was still learning how to tell the difference between the “I’m hungry” cry and the “I’ve dropped my pacifier and the world is ending” cry. That’s why he was here. The only bloke in a room full of mothers, each one more confident and put-together than he’d ever feel. They swapped stories about feeding schedules and sleep regressions, while Simon sat silently, bouncing Finn in his arms, hoping no one would ask him what brand of bottle he used. But then, there was one exception. Across the circle sat another man—Luca, if Simon remembered right. The name had come up when everyone introduced themselves at the start of the first class. Luca, with the soft, messy blonde hair and tired blue eyes that seemed too pretty for this kind of place. He looked delicate in a way Simon couldn’t place, like someone meant for stages and photographs, not diaper bags and formula tins. And yet, there he was—kneeling beside a tiny baby girl in a pale pink onesie, her chubby hands gripping one of his fingers while she made delighted, incoherent noises. Luca didn’t say much to anyone, just murmured to his daughter in a low, soothing voice that made her coo back, wide-eyed and enamored. Simon caught himself watching. More than once. It wasn’t intentional, but every time he glanced around the room, his eyes found Luca again. Maybe it was curiosity, maybe it was… something else. Something quieter, something he didn’t care to name. The instructor clapped her hands. “Alright, everyone! We’re going to do something fun today. We’ll be pairing up for a partner exercise—working on teamwork and communication between parents!” There was a rustle of excitement, and a few murmurs as the mothers started pairing off with their friends. Simon’s stomach sank. He could already see it—him, the odd one out, stuck with the instructor or forced to awkwardly tag along in a trio. He didn’t like being the spare piece. And then his gaze drifted across the room again—to where Luca was still kneeling, rocking his daughter gently, clearly in the same situation. Before he could second-guess himself, Simon shifted Finn onto one arm and stood, the movement fluid but sure. The floor creaked faintly beneath his boots as he crossed the short distance between them. The chatter in the room dulled, just a little—Simon Riley was hard to ignore, after all. He stopped a few feet away from Luca, Finn reaching toward the pink-clad baby like he already approved of this decision. “Mind if we pair up?” Simon asked, his voice low, carrying that familiar rasp of someone who didn’t talk much but meant every word. It wasn’t really a question. More like an invitation wit

Jay

Jay never really thought of himself as ‘feminine’ he was a mafia boss. Feminine was something he was far from. He was a ruthless mafia boss who kills people without a second thought. He’s cold, reserved, and rude. Even to his ‘wife’. Jay never has never loved the woman, he just acts like it. She’s a trophy wife anyway. The woman told him to get a manicure with her, and after much nagging, he decided to go. He was just gonna let her do her thing while he goes out and drinks or something. They walked into the nail shop, or whatever this place is called. Jays men were surrounding him and his wife, being the good personal bodyguards. Jays cold, narrowed eyes scanned the area. Until, they landed on a boy. He’s the cutest goddamn person jays ever seen. Jays eyes immediately softened, looking at the boy. He seemed to be one of the nail techs, judging by his perfectly manicured hands. The boy was talking to another nail tech, seemingly in Korean. Of course, Jay couldn’t understand a thing they were saying, but he was pretty curious. The two were obviously close, judging by the way they were giggling and clearly gossiping.

John Price

John Price should’ve known better — hell, he did know better — but that never stopped him. Not when it came to Luca. The old wooden siding of the Riley house was cold against his palms as he hauled himself up toward the second-floor window, boots finding their purchase on the drainpipe like he’d done this a hundred times before. (Because, well, he had.) Simon would murder him if he knew. Ghost or not, he’d put a bullet in Price before the Captain could even light a cigar — but that was a risk John had accepted months ago. The window was cracked just enough for him to slip his fingers inside and pry it open. He slid in silently, landing with a soft thud on the carpet. Luca’s room smelled like soap and old leather — that faint hint of cologne the kid always wore. The kind of smell John had gotten addicted to. Luca was already there, sitting cross-legged on the bed, scrolling on his phone with that permanent look of annoyance painted across his face — green eyes rolling when he finally looked up. That look should’ve sent John packing, but it just made something hot curl low in his stomach. God, he was so damn cute when he was annoyed. Dirty blonde hair messy from the day, t-shirt hanging loose on his thin frame. Nineteen years old, too young for him by anyone’s standards — and yet John couldn’t stop coming back. “Evenin’, sweetheart,” John rumbled under his breath, letting that familiar smirk tug at the corner of his mouth as he shut the window behind him. The older man didn’t wait for permission, didn’t even hesitate — he crossed the room in a few long strides, boots thudding softly against the floor. His calloused hands found Luca’s waist, pulling him up off the bed like he weighed nothing at all. Luca swore under his breath, muttering something about how John was insane for climbing up here again, but the sound was cut short when Price leaned in and kissed him — slow at first, then deeper, hungrier, like he’d been starving all week. The world outside that little bedroom didn’t exist for him — not Simon downstairs, not the threat of getting caught. Just Luca, his warmth, his stubborn little scowl melting away under John’s touch. Price pushed him gently back onto the mattress, the weight of him hovering just enough to keep it from being too much. His thumb brushed along Luca’s jaw, tracing the sharp line of it like he needed to memorize him all over again. “You’ve been ignorin’ my texts,” John murmured, low and teasing, beard scratching against Luca’s throat as he kissed his way down. His voice was rough, almost playful — but there was an edge there, that dangerous little glint that always came out when it had been too long since he’d seen him.

Xiang

Xiang is a mafia boss, with a very cold heart. He is skilled at his job, killing people with no shame. He's never loved someone, always a loner. He was very wealthy with billions of dollars as he lives in a huge mansion. He hated people, with a very cold heart. Xiang had black hair, a very muscular build and green siren eyes. He was an attractive man. He was always serious. That was until, he met Seok. The boy managed to weezle his way into Xiangs heart. And Xiang has been hooked ever since. Xiang just couldn’t say no to that cute little innocent boy. It took a LOT of convincing, but Seok finally managed to go on a date with Xiang. And, Xiang, being the stubborn and gruff man he was, confidently told Seok not to get his hopes up and that the date would lead to absolutely nothing. Seok is a paramedic, so he works with the police. Which is a bit of a problem for Xiang since well, everything he does is literally illegal. But, somehow he works around it. Sort of. Another day of Xiang killing targets. Someone saw and called the police. Xiang and his men were basically stuck because, well, they’d see the body if they didn’t hide it. So they tried hiding it quick. But, unfortunately. The police got there super quick, along with… paramedics.. Xiang knew he was scrued. He couldn’t let his beloved see him. So he tried to hide. But alas, his stupid men followed, so they got caught. All of them were in handcuffs. And they all needed to be checked by the paramedics. Xiang tried to insist he was fine, but as soon as he saw the group of paramedics he knew he was in trouble. Xiang grumbled under his breath as he looked through the group. And, not surprisingly, there his darling was, a lollipop in his mouth, fixing a stethoscope. Xiangs eyes softened slightly, but he quickly tried to ignore it. Silently hoping that Seok wouldn’t come over here.

Simon Riley

Simon hadn’t even bothered to think twice before showing up at Luca’s apartment again. He told himself it was just for the hoodie he’d left there a few nights ago — a dark, worn thing he liked to wear around the house — but really, it was just another excuse to see him. Another excuse to catch a glimpse of Luca’s sharp green eyes rolling at him, to hear that familiar scoff when Simon pretended not to notice how bratty he sounded. Pathetic, really. Forty years old and acting like some lovesick fool. His knuckles rapped against the door, slow and deliberate, the weight of his gloved hand sounding far too loud in the quiet hallway. Simon shifted his weight, sighing through his nose. He could already imagine the look Luca would give him — messy hair falling in his face, eyeliner smudged like he’d been rubbing at his eyes. He always looked like he just rolled out of bed, but it worked for him, made Simon’s chest ache in ways he hated to admit. But when the door swung open, it wasn’t Luca standing there. Some bloke Simon had never seen before filled the doorway instead — broad shoulders, bare feet, a shirt hanging loose on him like it belonged to someone else. For a moment, Simon just stood there, silent under the weight of his own confusion. His first instinct was to check the number on the door, just to be sure he hadn’t knocked on the wrong bloody apartment. But no. This was Luca’s place. “…Who the hell are you?” Simon’s voice came out lower than he meant it to, rough enough that the stranger straightened just slightly. He hated how his gut twisted, hated the heat that crawled up the back of his neck at the thought of someone else being here. In his place. No — not his anymore. Luca’s. He clenched his jaw under the mask, fingers flexing restlessly at his side as he looked past the man, like Luca might magically appear in the background if he stared hard enough.

Simon Riley

Simon Riley wasn’t the kind of man who lingered anywhere unless he had to. Pubs, shops, cafés—he went in, got what he needed, left. That was just how he’d always been. Efficient. Controlled. Distant. But this tattoo shop? Hell, he’d been haunting the place more than he cared to admit. A few months back, he walked in meaning to get one simple piece done—something to fill an empty patch of skin on his arm. And now? He’d practically lost count of how many times he’d found himself pushing open that glass door, the bell above jingling as if mocking him for being back again. It wasn’t the ink that kept dragging him in. It was him. Luca. That damned boy with messy blonde hair that never seemed to sit right, like he’d just rolled out of bed and couldn’t be bothered to fix it. Greyish-blue eyes sharp enough to cut, but always softened by that stupidly charming grin of his. He looked like trouble bottled up into something beautiful, and Simon—bloody fool that he was—kept walking straight back into it. Every. Single. Time. The tattoos themselves? Flawless. Luca had a steady hand, an eye for detail that impressed even Simon, who wasn’t the type to hand out praise easily. But what struck harder than the ink was the way Luca leaned in close when he worked, the warmth of his hand bracing Simon’s skin, the low hum of his voice as he rambled about music, late nights, or some ridiculous story about a piercing gone wrong. Piercings—that was Luca’s specialty. The kid had them scattered across his ears, his lip, his damn eyebrow, like walking art that Simon couldn’t stop staring at if he tried. Every time Simon came in, Luca tried to talk him into one. A lip ring, a stud in the brow, maybe even something subtle through the ear. “It’ll suit you,” Luca always said, with that grin that made Simon feel like he’d swallowed fire. And every single time, Simon shut it down. He could take bullets, broken bones, torn skin. But a needle shoving through flesh for no reason? Not bloody likely. Until today. Today, he found himself sitting in that damn chair, big hands curled into fists against his thighs, heart thumping louder than he’d like to admit. The shop smelled of disinfectant and ink, the low buzz of another artist’s tattoo gun humming in the background. His mask was tugged down around his neck for once, jaw set tight as he watched Luca prep. He didn’t know what possessed him—maybe the quiet ache that came from wanting something he couldn’t name, maybe just the hope of seeing Luca’s face light up in that way it always did when he got his way. Whatever it was, it had Simon here, about to let some pretty blonde idiot shove a bit of metal through his skin. “Bloody ridiculous,” Simon grumbled, clenching his teeth as Luca snapped on a pair of gloves.

Nobara Kugisaki

She popped the question.

Mila

Mila sighed as she got out of her car, lazily walking to her best friend, Luca’s apartment. She was gonna get her hair done & cut. Since Luca is a goddamn famous hair stylist. With millions of followers on instagram and TikTok, he’s a pretty big deal.. Even though Mila still thinks of him as a stupid idiot. He’s real good at doing her hair.. And, it’s free of charge! Well, unless she bothers him too much. She barged into his apartment, not knocking. Since she knew he wouldn’t care. She carelessly threw her bag on the couch, eventually finding him in the large apartment. The idiot had a goddamn bear onesie on. And his hair was a mess, which is ironic, a hair stylist with messy hair. She scoffed, rolling her eyes playfully. The two talked for a bit, until she now found herself in his pretty little hair room, where he styles and cuts. He has a huge apartment, so it’s not surprising he has a whole goddamn shop in a room. She smirked lazily, glancing down at her reference picture that she wanted her hair to look like.

Yuji Itadori

Yuji definitely didn’t expect to be babysitting today. Babysitting who, you may ask? Violet. Megumi’s kid. Yup, you heard it right. That emo idiot has a kid. And she’s 3 years old. He’s kept her alive for a solid 3 years. Now, it’s definitely pretty weird for a 16 year old to have a kid. He’s literally a kid himself. Yet, he has a kid… Well, Yuji didn’t care, Violets the cutest little girl ever. She looks a lot like Megumi. Which can be a problem at times.. considering that she always has that adorable little frown on her face when she’s mad. Just like Megumi. And she has Megumi’s attitude. Seriously, in the span of the 20 minutes that Yuji’s been hanging out with her, she’s demanded him like 6 times to ‘tell her where daddy is’. Yuji couldn’t help but find her attitude amusing. She certainly is just like her daddy. He was sitting on the ground at the little kiddy table next to Violet, letting her draw and play with toys. Though while she was occupied he was snooping around Megumi’s room. He’s nosy. What can he say. He and Megumi didn’t really hang out much anymore. Considering Megumi has a child to take care of now. He can’t really do a lot of anything..

Jay

Jay was very proud of his job, being the top sheriff in their state, he had everything going for him. A good job, good pay, but there was one thing wrong. His dating life, and his sexuality. He never really questioned his sexuality until he started finding men attractive. It definitely confused him, he always thought he was straight. But, he eventually accepted that he was bisexual. Jay kept it a secret. He didn’t let anyone know. But there was one person who he told everything to. A paramedic. Named Val. He’s the cutest boy jays ever met. He’s the most attractive.. Jay could go on and on about this one boy. He would rather not admit he was obsessed with him. But he is. He’s completely and utterly head over heels for this cutie. Since Val’s a paramedic, Jay usually gets to see him often. Because usually the people he arrests whine about how they need medical attention. So it works out pretty well. Just like now. Jay was in a dui investigation. The person he was arresting whined about how he needed medical attention and that he was hurt. So Jay called for the ambulance to come so the man could get checked out by the paramedics. They finally got there, and as soon as Val walked over, Jay grabbed his hand and practically dragged him over to the police car. “Finally, took you long enough..” He grumbled, watching as the other paramedics walk over to the extremely drunk man.

John Soap Mactavish

"Half a dog.."

Simon Riley

Simon Riley had always been aware of how he looked to other people—too tall, too quiet, too sharp around the edges. The kind of guy teachers paired with someone else on purpose, hoping he’d “open up.” The kind of guy people whispered about instead of to. High school wasn’t exactly kind to boys like him, and Simon had learned early on to keep his head down, shoulders hunched, and mouth shut. The literature club was the exception. It met every Wednesday after school in a half-forgotten classroom at the end of the English wing. Four girls, one boy. Low voices, the smell of old paper and cheap coffee, sunlight slanting through dusty windows. No yelling. No judgment. Just poems scribbled in margins, dog-eared novels, and the quiet comfort of people who liked words more than noise. Simon liked it. Maybe a little too much. He sat in his usual seat near the back, long legs stretched awkwardly under the desk, notebook open in front of him. His handwriting was tight and angry-looking, like he was carving the words into the page instead of writing them. He was halfway through rereading a poem he’d sworn he wouldn’t share when one of the girls—Emma, he thought—spoke up. “Oh! Before we start,” she said brightly, “I’m bringing a friend today. He’s looking for a club.” Simon barely reacted. Someone new? Fine. Whatever. People came and went all the time. He didn’t lift his head when the classroom door opened. Until the room changed. Not louder—just… different. Like the air had shifted. The girls straightened in their seats. Someone giggled under their breath. Simon frowned faintly and finally looked up. And then he saw him. Luca. Simon didn’t know his name yet, but he knew everything else instantly. The messy blonde hair that looked like fingers had run through it one too many times. The sleepy blue eyes, half-lidded and bored, like he’d rather be anywhere else. The easy confidence of someone who didn’t have to try—someone who knew people looked at him. Popular. That much was obvious. The kind of guy Simon usually avoided without thinking. Except Simon couldn’t look away. Luca stood near the doorway, hands shoved into his pockets, posture loose and careless. He looked wildly out of place among the desks and books, like someone had dragged a movie character into the wrong genre. His expression made it clear he wasn’t thrilled to be there—probably coerced, bribed, or guilted into it. The girls were on him immediately. Questions. Compliments. Laughter that came too fast, too high. Simon watched it all from his seat, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. Something warm and sharp twisted in his chest, a feeling he didn’t have a name for and absolutely did not want. What the hell was that? He looked back down at his notebook, pretending to read, but the words blurred. His attention kept drifting back to Luca—how he shifted his weight, how his gaze flicked around the room, how he clearly didn’t belong and somehow made the place feel smaller because of it. Simon swallowed. This was stupid. He didn’t do this. He didn’t get fluttery, didn’t get possessive, didn’t get… interested. Especially not in someone like Luca. Someone popular. Someone who could have anyone. And yet. When Emma finally gestured for Luca to take a seat, Simon surprised himself by moving first. He pushed his chair back with a soft scrape, stood up, and muttered something about grabbing another book—an excuse that barely registered. He crossed the room with long, deliberate strides and pulled out the chair next to his own desk instead. “Here,” Simon said, voice low and rough from disuse, nodding toward the seat. His eyes flicked up just long enough to meet Luca’s before dropping again. “You can sit there.” It wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t charming. But it was intentional. Simon sat back down, heart beating faster than he’d like, and opened his notebook again like nothing had happened. Around them, the girls looked mildly annoyed, but he didn’t care. Not even a little. Because for the first time since joining the club, Simon wasn’t just here to read and write.

Suguru Geto

Drunk idiot. [Geto x Gojo]

Jin Itadori

Jin Itadori was never really a.. romantic guy. He’d rather focus on his study’s, never really dating people. That’s until, he met her. That.. woman. With stitches on her forehead that she never seemed to tell him what they were. Just told him not to worry. It was like he was hypnotized when he saw her. So, they ended up having a kid. A very cute little boy named Yuji Itadori. For some reason, Jin’s wife.. left. After she had the baby, she just.. vanished. Jin was pretty shook up, but he had to take care of Yuji. No matter what. This boy was his entire life. He was the light of his life. For some reason, Yuji was chosen to be tested on. It was just a randomly chosen thing where a couple scientists would test a kid to see how their behavior and personality. And Jin gladly took the opportunity. Why? They pay 50 an hour just to give Yuji a couple tests! Jin couldnt go in to the room with Yuji, but they had a camera and a screen on his little boy and the scientist so he could watch. He was just hoping his son didn’t say something stupid. But of course, he saw the look in his eyes and the look on his little face. “Oh dear lord..” He muttered when he heard what Yuji was saying.

Odysseus of Ithica

Odysseus sighed as he walked through the clean terrain of Circe’s island. He had been pacing around for a while. He sent a group of his men into the palace to see who was there. Only for them to be turned into pigs. He didn’t know what to do, he’d easily get turned into an animal by her if he went in there. Though his pacing was stopped when he heard the familiar voice of a certain god. Divine intervention.. someone who’s not afraid to.. send a message. Hermes. The messenger god. Hermes had given him a plant called ‘Moly’ though of course Hermes calls it ‘Holy Moly’. It was basically a drug and if you eat it you’re immune to Circes powers. Odysseus was a bit confused. Why would Hermes help him? Odysseus’ eyes flicked down to the Moly in his hands, before up to Hermes. A very handsome god he was.. white wings on his back that fluttered every so often, that golden blonde hair of his. He quickly stopped his thoughts, asking his question. “Why are you helping me, Hermes..?” The king of Ithica asked, tilting his head, still holding the Moly.

Simon Riley

The morning had started soft — too soft for Simon Riley’s liking. Usually, the quiet meant something was wrong, but in the small flat he called home, it only meant one thing: his son was still asleep. And that was a rarity. The man stood in the kitchen, half-armored in his usual layers of dark clothes, mask resting on the counter beside his mug. The air smelled of coffee and warm toast, butter melting slowly under the low hum of the kettle. He leaned against the counter, staring out through the window where a gray London sky loomed heavy and wet. The rain had started early again, thin streaks trailing down the glass, blurring the city beyond. Simon had lived through wars quieter than this, but this kind of quiet… it got into your bones. The kind that reminded you what peace was supposed to sound like. Then came the sound — the small, uneven pitter-patter of bare feet against the wooden floor. Simon’s eyes flicked toward the hallway just in time to see a mop of messy blonde hair peek around the corner. Luca. The boy blinked sleepily, tiny fists rubbing at his big blue eyes as if the world had woken up too early for him. His pajamas were half twisted, one sleeve hanging off a chubby shoulder, the fabric patterned with tiny dinosaurs that had long since faded from too many washes. Simon felt that familiar tug in his chest — the one he never got used to, no matter how many mornings started just like this. “Morning, lad,” Simon murmured, his voice low and rough, the kind that always carried warmth when it was just the two of them. He reached out a hand, watching as Luca toddled closer, dragging his worn little stuffed fox by the tail. Luca’s hair stuck up in every direction, soft and unruly — the kind that made strangers stop to smile whenever they were out. And those eyes… those bright, innocent eyes that seemed to look straight through the armor Simon wore, the one no one else ever managed to see past. Luca didn’t see “Ghost.” He didn’t see the scars, or the history, or the shadows Simon carried. He just saw Dad. The boy lifted his arms in silent demand, a small yawn parting his lips, and Simon huffed out something that might’ve been a chuckle. He leaned down, scooping Luca up easily with one arm, settling him against his chest. The kid fit there perfectly, head resting against the crook of his neck, all warmth and trust and soft breaths. “You sleep alright?” Simon asked quietly, rubbing a hand over the boy’s back. Luca nodded, face pressed into his father’s shoulder, mumbling something that sounded halfway between a dream and a word. Simon let himself stand there for a moment, swaying slightly, feeling the small heartbeat against his chest. It was still strange sometimes, how something so fragile, so good, could exist in his world. He wasn’t a man built for gentle things — and yet, Luca had made him learn. The boy eventually lifted his head, blinking up at him with that sleepy smile that could’ve disarmed an entire army. Simon caught it, softening despite himself. “Hungry, hm?” Another nod. “Yeah, thought so.” He set Luca down onto the kitchen counter, steadying him with a hand as the boy’s small fingers immediately reached for a piece of toast. Simon made a small face, pretending to frown. “Oi, that’s mine.” Luca giggled — that small, pure sound that hit Simon square in the chest every single time. It echoed through the kitchen, light and unfiltered, and for a brief second, Simon forgot every shadow that had ever followed him. He handed the boy his own slice, already buttered and warm, watching as Luca swung his legs and ate in quiet delight. Rain drummed against the window; the world outside could wait. It wasn’t often that Simon Riley allowed himself to slow down. But for Luca, he did. Every time. And as he watched his son nibble at toast with cheeks puffed and crumbs on his lips, Simon found himself thinking — not for the first time — that this, right here, was the best part of his life. He leaned on the counter beside him, coffee in hand, eyes soft. “What d’you say, mate? Maybe after breakfast, we go

Simon Riley

Simon Riley had faced down worse situations than this. Gunfire. Interrogation rooms. Orders that sat heavy in his gut long after they were given. This—this was different. He stood just inside the hotel room, duffel still slung over one broad shoulder, the low hum of the cruise ship vibrating faintly through the floor. One bed. Singular. Wide, neatly made, painfully unavoidable. His gaze flicked to it, then immediately to the far side of the room where Luca was already on his knees, dragging pillows into a neat, deliberate barricade like he was fortifying a trench. Christ. A couple months. That was all it had been since the breakup. A stupid argument blown out of proportion, pride clashing with pride, words said sharp and fast that neither of them had bothered to take back. Simon had told himself he was fine. That distance fixed things. That he didn’t miss the way Luca laughed too loud or how he talked with his hands or how he’d steal Simon’s shirts just to be irritating about it. And yet here Luca was. Twenty years old, messy blond hair falling into those too-bright blue eyes, shoulders tense with exaggerated determination as he shoved another pillow into place. Still stupidly attractive. Still too young and too bold and too damn much. Simon’s jaw tightened behind the mask he wore out of habit, his expression giving away nothing as his eyes lingered a second too long. He hadn’t seen him since the breakup. Not properly. Not like this—trapped together by a nonrefundable couples cruise they’d booked when things were good, when Luca still slept curled against his chest and complained about the cold while stealing all the blankets. Simon shifted, setting his bag down with a dull thud. The sound echoed louder than it should’ve in the small room. His arms crossed over his chest, a familiar defensive posture, the kind he defaulted to when emotions got messy and uncontrollable. “Really?” Simon says finally, voice low, rough around the edges. He gestures vaguely at the pillow wall like it’s an enemy fortification. “You plannin’ on diggin’ a moat next, or is that enough to keep you safe from me?” His eyes tracked the pillow divider again, then lifted back to Luca, unreadable. The truth sat heavy in his chest, unspoken and unwanted: he had never stopped loving him. Not once. Not even when he’d convinced himself he should.

Toji

Toji knew having a kid would probably be an issue. But his wife begged him. Begged. To have atleast one kid. So they did. A little girl names Tsumiki. Yeah, she was his little princess for a couple years until Toji’s wife divorced him. Meaning he could only see his daughter on certain days. Toji always felt a bit lonely, and ended up having another wife and having a little son named Megumi. Megumi is a year old and Tsumiki is 14. And, Tsumiki loved Megumi like crazy. She’s always teaching him things. Which is a problem at times. She’s taught him many cuss words. Many. Just like today, Tsumiki was over at Toji’s house for a couple days. Mostly messing with and taking care of Megumi. Toji didn’t really mind, he could sit on the couch and drink his beer. Though, of course, as Toji was sitting on the couch. He heard tiny little steps coming his way. He looked down, seeing his son holding something. Toji squinted his eyes, looking at what his toddler was holding. It was a knife. Of course it was. Toji’s eyes widened, and he went into full protective dad mode, snatching the knife from the poor little innocent boy. He knew the culprit. “TSUMIKI!!” He called out to his daughter sternly, knowing damn well she put that in his sons hand.

Hawks

★——MHA..

Athena

The sun had barely crested the horizon when Athena found herself standing in the courtyard of Ithaca’s palace, spear in hand, bronze armor gleaming in the first light of day. Morning was sacred to her—discipline, strategy, strength—all things forged in those first quiet hours. Yet here she was, waiting for a boy who thought sleep more valuable than wisdom. Her sharp gaze lifted toward the prince’s chambers, where the shutters remained stubbornly closed, no sign of life stirring within. Athena exhaled through her nose, patience worn thin. Mortals, she reminded herself, were fragile things, and boys doubly so. But this boy—this one was meant for more. She had seen it woven in the threads of the Fates, the cunning spark within him. If only he would wake up long enough to nurture it. With deliberate steps, she ascended the stone stairs, each strike of her sandals echoing like a drumbeat of war. She pushed open the door to his chambers without knocking—formality was wasted here—and was greeted by the sight of Odysseus sprawled across his bed, limbs tangled in his sheets, mouth slightly open in the blissful ignorance of sleep. Athena’s jaw tightened. Here lay a prince, heir to Ithaca, student of the goddess of war and wisdom… and he snored like a farmer’s son after too much wine. The goddess planted the butt of her spear firmly against the marble floor, the sound cracking through the chamber like thunder. Her eyes, grey and sharp as flint, narrowed at the sight of him. “Odysseus,” she said, her voice cool and cutting, “is this how the future king of Ithaca prepares for battle? Curled in his bed while the world sharpens its blades?”

Simon tRiley

The house was quiet that morning — too quiet, Simon thought. He stood in the kitchen, mug in hand, watching the coffee swirl darkly against the porcelain. The clock on the wall ticked softly, marking each second of another rare morning where he wasn’t halfway across the world. No gunfire, no comms in his ear, no mission briefings. Just the low hum of the fridge and the faint sound of the city outside their window. Luca was still asleep upstairs. Simon could picture him even without looking — the way he slept on his stomach, blonde hair a chaotic mess across the pillow, one arm draped over the spot where Simon should’ve been. It tugged at something in his chest. They didn’t get much time like this anymore. Most nights, Simon came home to Luca already curled up in bed, half-asleep, mumbling something soft before dragging him under the covers. And Simon would always let him. Hell, he lived for it — for those quiet hours when his husband pressed close, warm and safe. But lately, it hadn’t been enough. He missed him — really missed him. The kind of missing that gnawed at you, made you restless even in your own home. And that’s what brought him here, leaning on the counter in his sweats, coffee forgotten, trying to figure out how to ask his own husband on a bloody date. A proper one. No missions, no calls, no running off to airports or modeling shoots. Just them. Simon exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over his jaw. It sounded ridiculous in his head — “Hey, love, want to go out with me?” — like something from when they first met. But the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. They’d been married for years, sure, but maybe that was exactly why they needed it. A reminder. Something that wasn’t a routine goodnight or an exhausted cuddle before passing out. He set his mug down, the clink echoing faintly. The sun was filtering through the curtains now, brushing soft gold over the dining table and across the stairs. He could hear the faint creak of movement upstairs — Luca, probably stretching awake, maybe calling his name any second now. Simon smiled faintly under his breath. He took a moment to grab his jacket from the back of a chair and pulled it on loosely, the habit of readiness he never quite shook. Then he started toward the stairs, his heavy steps quieter than they should’ve been for a man his size. He stopped at the bedroom door, leaning on the frame for a moment — watching. Luca was still in bed, sunlight spilling across his blonde hair, half-tangled in the sheets. His model-perfect face looked softer like this, unguarded. Simon felt his chest tighten with a quiet warmth that no battlefield could ever compare to. “Morning, love,” he rumbled finally, voice low and warm. “Got somethin’ in mind today… thought maybe I’d steal you away for a bit.” A pause. The corner of his mouth twitched, his dark eyes softened behind the mask he hadn’t even realized he was still wearing around his neck. “…Figure we could use a proper date. Just you and me. No calls. No work. Yeah?” He tilted his head slightly, the faintest trace of a grin pulling at his lips.

Xiang

Xiang is a mafia boss, with a very cold heart. He is skilled at his job, killing people with no shame. He's never loved someone, always a loner. He was very wealthy with billions of dollars as he lives in a huge mansion. He hated people, with a very cold heart. Xiang had black hair, a very muscular build and green siren eyes. He was an attractive man. He was always serious. That was until, he met Seok. The boy managed to weezle his way into Xiangs heart. And Xiang has been hooked ever since. Xiang just couldn’t say no to that cute little innocent boy. It took a LOT of convincing, but Seok finally managed to go on a date with Xiang. And, Xiang, being the stubborn and gruff man he was, confidently told Seok not to get his hopes up and that the date would lead to absolutely nothing. Not long after Xiang was with Seok, he figured out the little cutie could turn into a puppy, and a human. Yup, he can turn into a goddamn dog. Xiang was absolutely hooked. He was a cute human, and a cute dog. Seok has puppy ears and a tail when he’s a human as well. But unfortunately, Seok uses that to his advantage. And anytime they were in an argument, he just turns into a puppy and runs away. Just like today, he was currently hiding under the bed. Xiang grumbled under his breath, looking down at him, trying to grab him. “Come here, baby. I swear to god if you don’t switch back right now I’m gonna get you myself.” He threatened, glaring at his puppy dog boyfriend.

Cole

★—Argument

Sam

★—— Beating a kid up at baseball

Suguru Geto

Satoru and Suguru are best friends. Some would say you were *soulmates*? But no, not certainly. The two didn't believe in such ‘gross’, ‘lovey-doves’ nonsense. But perhaps they were wrong? They’d doubt that. Either way, the two were inseparable. They both shared the same amount of sarcasm and arrogance. They liked to get on eachothers nerves every now and then. They didn't mind. Satoru knew best how to get under Suguru’s skin. Suguru cared about Satoru. God knows what he'd do without him.

Simon Riley

Suguru had lost count of how long he’d been sitting there — an hour, maybe two — the faint hum of the infirmary’s overhead light doing nothing to drown out the steady beep of the heart monitor beside Satoru’s bed. The scent of antiseptic clung to the air, sterile and sharp, and it made his nose wrinkle every time he breathed in too deep. But he couldn’t bring himself to leave. Not yet. Not when Gojo Satoru, his Satoru, lay there looking like the very thing he always swore he’d never be: fragile. The strongest sorcerer in their year, the loudmouthed idiot who smirked at curses as if they were nothing but practice dummies—reduced to this. Bruised ribs wrapped in gauze. A thin IV line taped to his wrist. White hair flattened against the pillow, usually messy from either fighting or Satoru’s inability to sit still. Now, though, he was still. Too still. Shoko sat slouched in the chair opposite, legs crossed, cigarette hanging lazily between two fingers despite the “no smoking” sign right behind her. She’d already called him an idiot three times in the last half hour, and Suguru suspected she was just getting started. When Satoru complained about the IV, she didn’t even look up from her chart before blowing a puff of smoke right in his face and muttering something about “karma.” Suguru had almost laughed. Almost. But every time he looked at Satoru’s face — pale, lashes fluttering slightly as if dreaming — the knot in his chest tightened again. He shouldn’t have gotten hurt. Couldn’t have. Gojo Satoru didn’t get caught off guard. Not him. Not with those eyes. And yet, someone said he had been. Suguru’s jaw tensed at the thought, nails digging faintly into the fabric of his uniform pants. “Caught off guard,” they said — like it was that simple. As if Satoru’s Infinity could just… slip. As if the strongest sorcerer could just miss something. No. Something was wrong. Suguru knew it deep in his gut — the same way he knew Satoru’s annoying smirk before it even formed, the same way he knew the other boy’s voice could fill a room before the door even opened. He glanced up again, watching the slow rise and fall of Satoru’s chest beneath the blanket. The rhythm steadied him a little, enough to breathe out softly and lean back in his chair. “…You’re supposed to be invincible, you know,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper, meant for no one but the boy on the bed. “What happened to that, huh?” Shoko glanced over, a corner of her mouth twitching upward. “He’s still invincible,” she said around her cigarette, words dry as always. “Just stupid.” Suguru didn’t respond. He reached forward instead, brushing a strand of white hair from Satoru’s forehead — fingers hovering for a second longer than necessary. His pulse thudded somewhere between frustration and relief, and he swallowed both down before they could show on his face.

John Price

The kettle whistled softly in the kitchen, steam fogging the window above the sink. John leaned back in his chair at the worn oak table, mug of tea cradled in his hands, eyes fixed on the little ball of fur sprawled on the rug a few feet away. Apollo—smallest of the litter, though you wouldn’t know it from the way he filled out—was curled into himself, chest rising and falling in slow, heavy breaths. The pup’s coat had thickened over the past couple of months, a storm of grays and blacks with a smattering of cream around the face, but he still looked so absurdly tiny compared to what John knew a husky should be. Didn’t matter. Not one bloody bit. He’d taken one look at that runt in the litter and something in him had clicked. Like instinct. Like recognition. He hadn’t walked away empty-handed that day, and he never planned to. The vet had rattled off advice—more food, better nutrients, supplements. John followed it all to the letter, but part of him figured Apollo just had his own pace. Stubborn little thing, same as his owner. That soft, pudgy belly and the oversized paws gave him the appearance of a pup forever half-finished, yet somehow more endearing for it. John set his mug down with a quiet clink, leaning forward on his elbows. “C’mon then, lad,” he muttered, voice low and warm, coaxing the pup awake. The sun was just beginning to filter through the curtains, casting golden stripes across the floor. “Not gonna sleep the whole bloody day away, are you?” Apollo’s ears twitched, though he didn’t budge. John chuckled under his breath. He reached for the leash hanging by the door, giving it a shake so the metal clasp jingled. That earned him a bleary blink from bright blue eyes, followed by a faint little whine. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” John pushed to his feet, joints protesting slightly—reminders of years he’d rather not dwell on. But here, in this quiet house, with that scrappy pup blinking up at him, it felt like those old aches weren’t nearly as heavy. He crouched down, holding the leash out. “Walk? Or d’you plan on bein’ carried again, hm?” It wasn’t the battlefield. It wasn’t briefing rooms or endless hours waiting for the next mission. No—this was quieter, simpler. And if Apollo decided he wanted to stumble along on short legs or demand to be scooped up into John’s arms, well… John figured he could get used to that kind of fight.

Luke

Luke always thought of himself as straight. He never really questioned his sexuality. That was until he met his best friend, Arlo. Who he nicknamed Ari. Ari was known as the ‘twink’. He was gay. And damn, he’s the cutest guy Luke has ever seen. With his messy brown hair, those pretty pink lips. Luke never really questioned his sexuality until he started thinking of Ari as such things as ‘adorable’ and ‘cute’. He wanted to get close to Ari. That’s how, with his great charm, managed to become Ari’s roommate. Yup, he lives with him. He even gaslighted Ari into thinking that cuddling was a friend thing and that it’s completely normal for friends to do. It wasn’t. And he cuddles with Ari everyday. Even though.. Ari does have a boyfriend. And Luke lied saying he has a girlfriend. He’s never had a girlfriend in his life. Ari tends to hang out with girls, because well, he’s basically a girl in a cute boys body. He does things that girls do, he talks like a girl, he even uses those ‘weird things that color your lips’. Luke doesn’t know what they’re called. Anyway, right now, Ari was hanging out with a girl in his room, they were probably just gossiping. Luke was pretty curious though, since he knew that the girl was gonna be sleeping over. He couldn’t help but feel slightly protective and possessive over Ari. So, like the idiot he was, slowly opened the door, squinting his eyes as he tried to see what they were doing.

Simon Riley

Simon Riley sat beside the hospital bed like a guard dog that hadn’t been told the threat was gone. His arms were folded, heavy forearms flexed against the sleeves of his hoodie, and his dark eyes flicked toward anyone who dared get within arm’s reach of Luca. The nurses had learned quickly that you do not touch his boyfriend without warning unless you wanted a growl in your ear. Hours had passed since the delivery — hours that Simon had spent glued to Luca’s side, refusing to so much as stretch his legs in case Luca needed him. The world still felt too loud… too dangerous… for the tiny new life the two of them had just brought into it. Their baby — tiny, soft, perfect — was down the hall being fed. And even though the nurse had promised they’d bring him back in just a moment, Simon’s jaw was locked tight, irritated that the kid wasn’t in Luca’s arms where he belonged. He watched Luca now, the sight almost comical if it didn’t make his heart twist. The blonde sat propped against pillows, a little pout still lingering from earlier tears. He was sipping apple juice from a small cup, bottom lip sticking out in the slightest sulk, sapphire eyes hazy with exhaustion and leftover hormones. Five minutes ago, Luca had been crying — genuinely upset — because his stomach hadn’t immediately gone flat again. Simon had nearly marched down to find the doctor just to demand they fix it, until Luca started hiccuping hard enough that Simon panicked and focused on calming him instead. That was Luca: beautiful, fragile, emotional… and the most important damn thing in Simon’s life. Simon leaned forward, rubbing a gloved thumb slowly across the back of Luca’s hand. He wasn’t the type to coo comforting nonsense — God knew that wasn’t him — but he hoped the gesture was enough to ground him. “Told you,” he muttered quietly, voice gravelly and low, reserved only for Luca, “You did perfect.” His gaze softened — only for Luca — as he scanned him again, protective instinct roaring under his skin. Luca looked so small in the blankets, hair messy and haloed around his flushed face. Still recovering. Still delicate. Simon swore he could see every breath that left Luca’s chest.

Simon Riley

The halls were never quiet. Even on the calmest nights, the psych ward pulsed with tension — muffled cries behind locked doors, rapid footsteps of nurses responding to an alarm, fists pounding on walls demanding freedom that would never come, not yet. Simon Riley had lived through gunfire and air raids, but this? This felt different. War had rules. Here, chaos came wrapped in hospital gowns. He’d traded his lieutenant’s uniform for the pale blue badge clipped to his scrub top — Behavioral Health Specialist. The title sounded cleaner than the job. He was the one who had to pull two fighting patients apart before they could do any real harm. The one who had to sit outside locked doors and listen for the silence that meant more danger than screaming ever did. And then there was Luca. Room D-7 — the one they always double-checked. Nothing sharp. Nothing breakable. Nothing he could turn against himself faster than a blink. The doctors wrote him up as “danger to self.” Simon hated that label. People didn’t come with warning stickers. But the scars on Luca’s wrists weren’t ink — they were history etched into flesh. Twenty years old and too clever for this place. Luca had a way of getting under your skin — quiet voice, eyes like ice and heartbreak, that exhausted kind of beauty that made you worry. He could twist a single look into a request and Simon found his hand already at the keys. He shouldn’t play favorites. Everyone told him that. But tonight… Luca looked frayed. Like a thread pulled too tight. Simon hovered by the reinforced glass of D-7’s door, his eyes scanning the boy inside. Messy blond hair falling over those distant blue eyes — eyes that never seemed entirely here. Luca sat curled on the edge of his bed, knees drawn up, hands buried in the sleeves of his institutional sweatshirt. A picture of silent tension. The kind that worried Simon more than screaming. He exhaled slowly and unlocked the door, stepping inside — cautious, but not afraid. He never was, not with Luca. “Hey,” he said quietly, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “You didn’t eat much at dinner. Thought maybe you could use a break from this room.” He didn’t mention the new scratch marks he’d noticed earlier. Didn’t mention the way Luca’s pupils had been blown wide, like he hadn’t slept in days. Didn’t mention the paperwork that recommended he keep his distance.

Simon Riley

The house was quiet—too quiet, in Simon’s opinion. Usually, the soft hum of the baby monitor or the slow rhythm of Luca’s little breaths filled the silence, but now the air seemed thick with the kind of stillness that made every sound feel too loud. Even the kettle seemed hesitant as it clicked off, steam curling lazily toward the ceiling. Simon stood in the kitchen, one broad hand cradling his mug, the other resting protectively on the baby carrier strapped to his chest. Inside, nestled against his father’s chest in a cloud of soft blue fabric, was Luca. His tiny head was turned to the side, cheek squished gently against Simon’s shirt, little lips parted in the faintest pout as he dozed. Every few breaths, a quiet sigh escaped him—sweet, soft, and utterly disarming. Simon’s eyes softened as he looked down at his son. Two months old, and somehow, the world already revolved around him. Those big, bright blue eyes, the button nose, the chubby cheeks that flushed pink whenever he was warm or fussy—Simon had never known something so small could undo him so completely. He’d faced warzones, interrogation rooms, the kind of horrors that could twist a man’s mind into something unrecognizable… and yet, a two-month-old with a gummy half-smile could make him weak in the knees. He brushed a thumb over Luca’s tiny mitten-covered hand, murmuring quietly, “They better behave, yeah? Don’t want ‘em scarin’ you.” The “they” in question—his so-called mates—were on their way. Price. Gaz. Soap. Bloody persistent bastards. They’d been on him for weeks, hounding him with messages, calls, and the occasional meme in the group chat about “nephew withdrawals.” They’d all sworn up and down that they were healthy—Price even demanded they all take COVID tests, just to be safe. Simon appreciated it, truly. But that didn’t mean he was ready for this. He hadn’t had anyone over since Luca was born. Not really. The thought of people near his boy—no matter how close they were to him—had made his chest tighten, his instincts flare. But the way Soap had said, “Come on, Ghost. We’re family. We need to meet the little lad.”—well, that had done him in. Simon sighed, taking a slow sip of his tea as he glanced at the clock. Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen, if they got distracted on the way. He could already imagine the chaos—the loud greetings, Soap’s booming laugh, Gaz trying to keep him calm, Price pretending to scold them both. He exhaled through his nose, quiet but fond. “Don’t worry, little man,” he murmured, voice low and rough with affection. “I won’t let ‘em near you unless you say so. You run the show today, yeah?” As if understanding, Luca let out a soft coo in his sleep, his tiny mouth twitching into what almost looked like a smile. Simon felt something in his chest twist painfully sweet. Then came the knock at the door—three heavy raps, unmistakable. Luca stirred. Simon froze. “Bloody hell…” he whispered, adjusting the baby carrier gently as Luca blinked awake, his blue eyes fluttering open, wide and curious, like tiny pools of sky. Simon couldn’t help but smile, even through the nerves buzzing under his skin. “All right, soldier,” he said softly, brushing a knuckle along Luca’s cheek, “time to meet your uncles.” He walked toward the door slowly, every instinct still on high alert even as he heard Soap’s muffled Scottish drawl through the wood, followed by Gaz’s laugh and Price’s calm, commanding tone trying to keep them all in line. Simon paused just before the handle, giving Luca one last glance. “If it gets too much, we’ll tell ‘em to sod off. You just give me that look, yeah? The one that gets you outta tummy time every damn time.” The baby blinked up at him, pout returning, eyes impossibly wide. Simon chuckled quietly. “Yeah. That one.” With a deep breath, he opened the door. And there they were—Price, Soap, and Gaz—each of them grinning like idiots, arms loaded with gifts, baby bags, and what looked like far too many stuffed animals. “Christ..” Simon muttered.

John Price

The wolf was too bloody smart for his own good. John had tried the usual tricks—slipping the pill into a lump of wet food, tucking it in cheese, even folding it into a bit of roast chicken he’d cooked the night before. Each time, Apollo had sniffed, huffed, and then neatly eaten around the pill, leaving it behind in the empty bowl like a smug little victory prize. So now John Price was down to his last option: brute force. He sat on the sagging old leather couch in the living room, Apollo’s weight pressing down on him like a sack of wet cement. The wolf was massive—black fur bristling, paws planted firmly against John’s thigh, and stormy blue eyes flashing with all the indignation of a creature who knew exactly what was happening and wanted no part of it. John had both arms wrapped around him, muscled forearms straining as the wolf wriggled and snarled in protest. “Quit yer bloody writhin’,” John grunted, jaw tight as Apollo gave another powerful twist of his shoulders. “You weigh damn near as much as I do—where d’you think you’re goin’, eh?” Apollo’s ears flicked back, his lips curling as he snapped his jaws shut before John could even think about getting the pill in. John leaned in closer, half wrestling, half hugging the beast to his chest. To anyone else, it would’ve looked like suicide—wrapping your arms around a snarling wolf with teeth that could shear bone. But John knew better. Knew Apollo wouldn’t hurt him, not really. The lad was a pup at heart, all huff and posturing, but bloody hell, he made this hard. “You’ve got one job, mate. Swallow the damn pill, stop pukin’ up everything you eat, and we can both move on with our lives.” His voice was low, gravelly with a mix of frustration and fondness. One big hand shoved back Apollo’s ruff of fur as he tried to tilt the wolf’s head just enough to slip the pill between those clenched teeth. “But noooo,” he muttered, sarcasm biting. “Too clever for that. Too good for medicine. Gotta make me work for it.” Apollo growled again, more petulant than dangerous, wriggling harder against John’s hold. The couch creaked under the both of them, John’s broad shoulders tightening as he clamped the wolf tighter against him. “Alright, have it your way,” John hissed through gritted teeth, pill pinched delicately between his calloused fingers. His grey-blue eyes narrowed, his breath hot against Apollo’s ear as he spoke low, like a soldier laying down an order. “But I’ll tell you this now—you’re takin’ this pill, pup. Even if I have to sit here all bloody night to do it.” He shifted his grip, pinning the wolf’s muzzle just enough to try again. The room was filled with the sound of heavy breathing, claws scraping the couch leather, and John’s half-amused, half-irritated mutterings. He looked every bit the seasoned soldier who’d fought wars, only now his greatest enemy was a four-legged bastard who was too damn stubborn for his own good.

Jay

Jay was pretty happy with his life at the moment. He has a good job, a good house, he lives right next to the beach. The beach was literally his back yard. God, he loved the beach so much. It was calming. Accept for when people would specifically go to *his* part of the beach and yell and laugh in the water, bothering him. Ugh. That was annoying. But over the couple years of living there, he soon noticed a little something in the water sometimes. Jay decided to investigate one day, and he soon found out that it was a goddamn mermaid. Well.. a merman? Jay didn’t think they were real.. until he saw that one. And, throughout a couple more months, the little mermaid started to.. grow an affection over Jay? He brings him things. Little shells. Jay found it a bit cute. But also a bit concerning. The merman was completely determined to court Jay. As if Jay was his mate. And he kept trying to get out of the water to get to Jay. The poor thing was gonna suffocate.. Currently, Jay was washing the dishes, humming softly to himself. He looked up, outside to the beach shore. It was calming. Until he noticed a certain red haired mermaid, trying to push a big sea shell onto the sea shore, ugh, another gift. Jays eyes widened slightly, setting his dishes down, he started to walk outside. Wiping his hands on his pants, walking down the stairs to the beach shore. “What are you doing, huh?” He questioned, his hands on his hips.

Simon Riley

Simon exhaled, dragging a gloved hand down the side of his mask before pulling it off and setting it on the counter. The skull stared back at him — hollow eyes, cracked from some forgotten hit. He looked away. The house wasn’t much different, though it was cleaner than he remembered. The closet door was cracked open across the hall, and even from where he stood, Simon could see the explosion of clothes spilling out like color against the dark. Luca’s life was everywhere. He could see the edge of one of the kid’s photos pinned to the fridge — a modeling shot from some magazine shoot, Luca’s smudged eyeliner and faint smile enough to make Simon’s throat tighten. He moved quietly down the hall, boots silent on the hardwood, until he reached the bedroom. The dim light from the bedside lamp painted the room in gold and shadow. And there he was. Luca was curled up on his side of the bed, the blanket bunched halfway around him, drowned in one of Simon’s hoodies — the black one with the faded logo on the sleeve. His hair was a mess, more so than usual, sticking out in soft curls that fell over his eyes. The faint smear of leftover eyeliner clung to his lashes, like he hadn’t bothered to take it off before crashing. Simon could see the slow rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers were curled into the pillow like he was still holding onto something that wasn’t there. God, he hadn’t changed. Still looked too young for all the wanting Simon carried for him. Still looked too soft for the world Simon came from. He leaned against the doorframe for a moment, watching. Every muscle in his body screamed to move, to touch, to wake him — but he didn’t. He just stood there, taking in the sight of him like a starving man looking at a meal he wasn’t sure he deserved. “Christ…” Simon murmured under his breath, voice gravel-deep and quiet. He reached up, rubbing the back of his neck, the leather of his gloves creaking softly. He wanted to say something. I’m home. I missed you. You look the same. But the words stuck somewhere in his chest, too big, too heavy to make it past his throat. Instead, he crossed the room slowly, easing down on the edge of the bed beside him. The mattress dipped under his weight, and Luca shifted, frowning faintly in his sleep, instinctively curling closer — toward him. Simon froze. For the first time in over a year, he let himself breathe. Really breathe. The scent of Luca’s shampoo, the faint warmth of his body, the quiet rhythm of his breathing — all of it felt too real, too fragile. He brushed a strand of blonde hair off Luca’s forehead with a gloved hand, his thumb lingering for just a second longer than it should’ve. “Missed you, sunshine,” he whispered. And it wasn’t for Luca to hear. Not yet. It was just for the quiet — for himself — for all the nights he’d spent missing this exact moment.

Jay

Jay never really cared much about the way he looked. Well, the way his body looked atleast. It always looked pretty decent to him. He didn’t feel the need to have big muscles. That was until his co workers started teasing him, saying he has a ‘beer belly’. Jay didn’t really care, until he was huffing and puffing just from a short walk. He didn’t really realize how out of shape he was until he looked at himself in the mirror. He wasn’t particularly fat.. well atleast he didn’t think he was. He thought he looked more like a chubby teddy bear. But, of course, his co workers told him he needed to go to the gym and work out. As much as he didn’t want to.. since he’s pretty anti social, here he is. Awkwardly walking into the huge gym. An oversized hoodie and sweatpants on, clutching his water bottle tightly. He could practically feel eyes on him. Even though in reality no one was looking at him. He just has social anxiety. Before he could even walk in he was already turning around, trying to run back out and go back home in the safety of his bed. But something told him to just.. try it out. So. He did. He eventually found a suitable spot. It was of course in the back of the gym. There were mirrors everywhere though.. something he didn’t really wanna look at. He found a couple of weights, but he didn’t really know what to do with them. His eyes eventually found a certain someone who was in the back of the gym too. He was doing a goddamn hand stand with one hand.. Jays eyes widened in fascination. Wow, he has some insane upper body strength. Though his eyes widened even more when he looked at the persons face. Damn, he’s.. attractive. Cute. Maybe even adorable. He was definitely younger than Jay. He’s the most attractive person jays ever seen though. And he liked the way his body looked. He wasn’t like those weird guys who want to have the biggest muscles ever. He had a lean body. With lean muscle. Jay sighed nervously, awkwardly looking back down at the weights in his hand. What’s he supposed to do with these again?

Megumi Fushiguro

Megumi was never a very social teenager. His life was just exercising curses and studying. He didn’t mind though. He didn’t need friends. And besides, most people just thought of him as ‘weird’ or a ‘freak’. So he never saw the point of having a friend. That was until he met Yuji Itadori. An idiot highschooler who ate a cursed finger. Megumi doesnt know why, but as soon as he saw that idiot, he knew he had to protect him. That’s why it took everything in his power to protect this dumbass. To keep him out of trouble. But, that was until he heard the dreaded news. ‘Yuji Itadori has been killed.’ By what? Unknown causes. Megumi just knew it was related to that goddamn finger. He only knew the boy for a couple weeks.. yet, he missed him so goddamn much. Megumi kind of just.. shut down since Yuji ‘died’. He stayed in his room, only going out to go on missions. He didn’t have a purpose without Yuji. That was until his sensei, Gojo, gathered him and his other student, Nobara, outside. He had just came back from Tokyo and he brought souvenirs. Megumi didn’t care. He just wanted to go back to his room, but he stayed nonetheless, knowing he didn’t have a choice. He noticed Gojo was wheeling around a box, he was a bit nosy even if he didn’t care about what was in the box. Nobara was beside him, she didn’t seem to care either. Gojo seemed to notice Megumi looking at the box, a grin spreading across his face. “You wanna know what it is?” He asked, not even waiting for Megumi to answer. He opened the box. And then said happily: “It’s your dead friend Yuji!!” He said happily, revealing a very alive Yuji who posed proudly. Megumi’s eyes were wide as he stared at the idiot, already feeling tears welling in his eyes. He thought this kid died!! Nobara seemed a bit shocked too, though she was more confused than anything.

Jay

Jay and Yuji have been best friends ever since middle school. Yup, middle school. They’re in college now. Doing stupid things together, anything they can get in to, they do it. They were total idiots at times. Always doing idiotic things. Just like how they begged their parents to buy them motorcycles. It definitely wasn’t the best idea. The two idiots have almost crashed many times. But they haven’t yet. The two are some reckless drivers. Haven’t killed themselves yet. Today, Jay was making Yuji ride with him. Jay was gonna drive around. It was pretty late at night. Jay was currently putting Yuji’s helmet on, strapping the straps. While Yuji was messing with him, slapping his visor down. Jays eyes narrowed, grabbing Yuji’s chin and yanking him to look at him, before continuing to fix the helmet.

Simon Ghost Riley

★—Puppy

Simon Riley

Simon Riley hated rooftops when they were quiet. Too quiet meant time dragged, meant eyelids got heavy, meant mistakes happened. And mistakes got people killed. He lay prone near the edge of the abandoned high-rise, concrete cold even through his gear, rifle angled outward over the street below. The city stretched out in cracked asphalt and dead lights, moonlight bleeding over shattered windows and rusted fire escapes. Wind curled through the empty floors behind them, whistling low and hollow like the building itself was breathing. Luca was beside him. Too close for regulation. Too close for professionalism. Simon didn’t care. The kid—because that’s what he was, nineteen or not—was curled in behind his rifle, messy blonde hair escaping his cap no matter how many times Simon had flattened it down earlier. He’d tried again before they’d settled in, fingers rough and gloved, muttering something about “looking like a bloody mop.” It hadn’t worked. It never did. Those blue eyes that were usually sharp downrange were half-lidded now, blinking slow, head dipping just a fraction too long between breaths. Simon noticed. Of course he did. “Oi,” Simon muttered, voice low but sharp as a blade, eyes never leaving the street. “Don’t even think about it.” He shifted closer, shoulder bumping Luca’s with deliberate force. Not gentle. Never gentle. A warning shove, the kind he’d learned worked better than words sometimes. His elbow nudged into Luca’s side when that didn’t immediately fix it. “Now’s not nap time,” Simon went on, tone stern, familiar. Comfortable. “You can sleep when we’re back at base. Or when you’re dead. Prefer the first option, yeah?” He risked a glance then, just enough to check Luca’s posture, the way his hands sat on the rifle. Solid. Steady. Even tired, the kid was good—too good. Price had been right about his shooting. Simon had been right to keep him close. Too bright for this line of work, Luca was. Too innocent sometimes. He didn’t belong in places like this, watching dark streets for threats that might never come. And yet here he was, dragged along by Simon’s shadow, because Simon didn’t trust the world not to chew him up if left alone. Simon adjusted his own position, boot hooking lightly against Luca’s ankle to keep him anchored, present. A physical reminder: I’m here. Stay awake. “C’mon,” he murmured, quieter now, almost a growl. “Talk to me, kid.” His grip tightened briefly on the rifle, jaw set beneath the skull mask. He stayed close—always did. On missions. At base. Safe houses. Barracks. If Luca wandered, Simon dragged him back. If Luca did something stupid, Simon hauled him by the collar and barked at him until he laughed it off. Tough love. Simon shifted again, shoulder pressing in, solid and unyielding. Protective. Watchful. Waiting. The city below stayed still. And Simon kept his eyes open—for both of them.

John Price

John hadn’t thought retirement would be this dull. He’d imagined sleeping in, maybe taking up fishing, finally relaxing without the constant weight of war looming over his head. But after the first month, he’d done all of that and more — slept, fished, drank, sat in silence. Now the days just dragged, blending together until he wasn’t sure what day of the week it even was. His mates had been teasing him about it for weeks, telling him he needed a hobby — or better yet, a pet. Something to keep him busy, keep him grounded. After some grumbling, John finally gave in. Which was how he found himself walking through the local animal shelter on a quiet weekday morning, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, hat pulled low. The shelter smelled of disinfectant and dog. Rows of cages lined the hallway, each one filled with wagging tails and eager faces. Barking echoed down the hall, some dogs bouncing against their gates, desperate for attention. John slowed his walk, pausing here and there to glance at them — big ones, small ones, loud ones. All of them seemed to shout pick me, pick me. None of them felt right. It wasn’t until he reached the far end of the row that something caught his eye. In the last cage on the left, sitting quietly in the back corner, was a husky. Not a bouncing, bright-eyed pup like the others — this one was curled up, head resting on his paws, as if he didn’t have the energy to care about the noise around him. His fur was still thick, but John could see the grizzled grey around his muzzle, the faint stiffness in the way he moved when he lazily lifted his head to look at him. John crouched down in front of the cage, peering at the metal tag fixed to the bars. Name: Apollo Age: 8 Years Temperament: Calm, independent, stubborn, intelligent. Not fond of loud environments. Prefers routine. Good with experienced owners. Notes: Senior dog. May take time to trust new people. At risk of euthanasia in 2 months if not adopted. John frowned, his gaze shifting back to the dog. Apollo met his eyes for a moment, then looked away with a quiet huff, resting his head back down as though the whole ordeal of existing was exhausting. “Grumpy old bastard, aren’t you?” John muttered under his breath, lips twitching despite himself. There was something about the dog’s attitude that felt… familiar.

Simon Riley

Simon Riley sat cross-legged in the middle of the nursery floor, shoulders tense, a scowl hidden beneath the familiar skull-patterned mask pushed up just enough to expose his mouth. The soft cream-colored carpet was littered with wooden crib parts, screws, little plastic washers that he swore were multiplying on their own, and a screwdriver that he had already thrown down twice in frustration. The instruction manual—if you could even call it that—was currently pinched between his gloved fingers, crumpled and bent from being reread for the fourth time. The pictures on the page didn’t make sense, just vague little line drawings of happy, smiling parents putting together a perfect crib like it was the easiest task in the world. Simon let out a low growl, dropping the manual into his lap. Across the room, the bassinet sat by the window, the same one Luca had been sleeping in since the day he came home. It was almost too small now, though. Simon had noticed the way his son kicked and stretched in his sleep lately, the way his little legs hit the edge. That was why he was doing this, why he was knee-deep in pieces of wood and hardware. He wanted it to be perfect. He glanced over at the baby monitor where a soft gurgle came through the speaker, Luca babbling to himself in the living room where Simon had set him down in his playpen. The sound made Simon’s chest ache in that way it always did now—this strange, quiet warmth he wasn’t used to feeling before Luca was born. His son had the roundest cheeks, pink as rose petals, and big green eyes that seemed to stare straight through him. Simon sighed and grabbed the screwdriver again, muttering under his breath. “Right… piece A into slot B. Can’t be that bloody hard.” It was, though. Every time he thought he had it right, he realized he’d done something wrong—like five steps back kind of wrong—and had to undo it. The half-built crib sat crooked in front of him, mocking him.

Toji Zenin

Finally found his son. (NOT CANON AT ALL 😭)

Yuji Itadori

Yuji Itadori had been awake for hours. That wasn’t unusual for him—Yuji had always been a morning person—but today his energy buzzed differently, sharp and electric, like he was carrying a secret too big to sit still with. December 21st. Four days before Christmas. And more importantly—Megumi’s birthday. Megumi hadn’t said a word about it. Of course he hadn’t. Yuji lay on his side, propped on one elbow, watching his boyfriend sleep. Megumi was curled up tight beneath the blankets, dark hair a mess against the pillow, body tucked in on itself like he was trying to disappear into the mattress. He looked peaceful like this, all sharp edges softened by sleep. If Yuji squinted, he really did look like a small black cat—quiet, prickly when awake, but impossibly warm once he let himself relax. Yuji smiled without meaning to. At some point, they’d just… started dating. No dramatic confession, no fireworks. It had happened in the quiet moments—shared meals, late nights, Megumi leaning just a little closer than necessary. Yuji had learned things since then. Important things. Like how Megumi pretended he didn’t like affection, but would cling in his sleep. Like how he hated attention, hated big gestures, hated being the center of a crowd. Which was why Yuji hadn’t planned anything loud. No party. No people. Just them. Still, that didn’t stop Yuji from being absurdly excited. He leaned closer, careful not to jostle the bed too much, and gently brushed his thumb through Megumi’s hair. It was softer than it looked. Yuji had discovered that early on and never stopped marveling at it. “Hey,” he murmured quietly, voice warm and coaxing. “Megumi. C’mon, sleepyhead.” No response. Typical. Yuji grinned, undeterred. He shifted closer, sliding an arm around Megumi’s waist, pressing his face briefly into the back of his boyfriend’s shoulder. Megumi was warm—always warm—and Yuji had to resist the urge to just stay there and cuddle him back to sleep. But today was special. He squeezed him gently, just enough to be annoying. “You’ve slept, like… twelve hours. That’s gotta be illegal or something.” Yuji’s excitement bubbled over, barely contained. He bit back a laugh, resting his chin against Megumi’s shoulder, eyes bright. He had plans. Small ones. Thoughtful ones. The kind Megumi wouldn’t hate. “Wake up,” Yuji said softly, affectionate and teasing all at once. “It’s an important day.”

Henry

The fairground lights painted the night in soft ribbons of color — pinks and blues melting into each other across the crisp October air. The scent of caramel and burnt sugar drifted from a nearby stall, mingling with the cold bite of the wind that carried the faint laughter of children and the low hum of music from the Ferris wheel. Henry sat there on a weather-worn wooden bench, one arm wrapped around Luca’s shoulders, feeling the younger man’s warmth seep into his side through layers of fabric. Luca looked… well, perfect, as always — though he’d never admit it if Henry said so. The ridiculous puffy jacket Henry had bought him swallowed his frame, the kind of coat meant for arctic expeditions rather than an evening fair. The hood framed his messy blond hair like a halo, strands sticking out rebelliously no matter how many times he tried to fix them. His cheeks were flushed pink from the cold, lashes dusted with the faint shimmer of frost in the light, and those blue eyes — sharp and expressive — glared up at Henry with mock offense. He’d just declared, quite dramatically, that if he took “one more step” he’d “definitely get hypothermia.” Henry had laughed softly, the kind of laugh that came from somewhere warm and private, and guided him toward the bench without argument. Now, as Luca pouted into his scarf, Henry couldn’t help but think how strange it was that this — this — was his life now. He wasn’t supposed to fall for him. Not for the boy who once sat across from him in that quiet therapy office, tossing sarcastic remarks like darts and pretending he didn’t need anyone. But here he was, months later, sitting shoulder to shoulder with him beneath a canopy of fairy lights, fingers idly tracing the line of stitching on Luca’s jacket while the younger man huffed and wriggled closer for warmth. “You know,” Henry said quietly, voice low and warm like the glow of a campfire, “I’m starting to think you dramatized that whole ‘dying of hypothermia’ bit just to get me to sit down with you.” He smiled faintly, looking down at him — that soft, rare kind of smile that never quite reached his lips but lived in his eyes. “Because, if I recall correctly, you were fine five minutes ago when you insisted on winning that ridiculous stuffed bear.” His thumb brushed against the curve of Luca’s shoulder through the jacket, absent-minded and tender. He could feel the faint tremor of a shiver beneath it, could see the way Luca’s breath fogged in the cold. Henry shifted closer, the bench creaking softly beneath their weight. “You’re freezing,” he murmured, tugging Luca in a little tighter under his arm. “Next time, we’re bringing gloves. And maybe a blanket. Or better yet, we stay home where I can make you something hot instead of you threatening to die in public.” He glanced up, watching the Ferris wheel turn slowly in the distance — lights blinking like stars caught in motion — before his gaze found Luca again. The younger man’s pout had softened, replaced by something quiet and thoughtful. Henry felt that familiar pull in his chest, the one that made him want to memorize every detail — the soft rise of his breath, the way his lashes caught the light, the pink at the tip of his nose. He leaned down slightly, voice gentler this time. “You doing okay, love?” The question hung there, wrapped in the hum of the fair — not clinical, not professional, just his, the way Henry only ever spoke to him.

Suguru Geto

Satoru has a crush

Simon Riley

The flat was finally quiet—well, as quiet as it ever got with a one-year-old in it. Simon leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed loosely over his chest as he watched the tiny whirlwind currently dismantling the living room one toy at a time. Lola was sitting in the middle of the rug, surrounded by plush animals, stacking blocks, and what was left of the coloring books she’d decided to “decorate” with a blue crayon. She was humming to herself, little curls bouncing as she swayed side to side. For now, she was content. For now. He exhaled through his nose, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth beneath the edge of his mask—habit more than necessity. Luca had left an hour ago, swearing he’d be “really quick.” Simon had raised a brow at that. A quick photoshoot, with Luca? Not a chance. That boy couldn’t step in front of a camera without someone insisting on one more angle, one more lighting adjustment, one more shot. Lola’s giggle broke his thoughts. He turned just in time to see her toss a stuffed rabbit across the room, clapping like she’d just won a medal. “Oi,” Simon warned lightly, voice low but calm, that steady tone that always made her pause. “We’re not throwin’ things, little one.” She blinked up at him with wide eyes, clearly contemplating whether or not to test him. Then—because she was Lola—she picked up the rabbit again and dropped it on the floor beside her instead, frowning. “That’s better,” Simon muttered, taking another sip of his tea before moving to sit on the sofa. His eyes lingered on her as she went back to babbling to herself, clutching one of her dolls to her chest. He didn’t know how he ended up in this role—babysitting, cleaning up messes, learning the difference between the hungry cry and the angry because the toy won’t fit in the box cry—but somehow, it had become second nature. He’d been there since she was tiny, barely able to lift her head. He’d helped with late-night feedings, rocked her to sleep when Luca passed out halfway through a lullaby, and learned quickly that this child had inherited her father’s talent for getting exactly what she wanted. Simon glanced toward the clock again. Two hours now. He huffed a quiet laugh. “Quick, my arse.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching as Lola crawled over to her stuffed bear and smacked its face with surprising authority. “You’ve got your dad’s temper, you know that?” he murmured, amusement softening his tone. At the mention of dad, her head shot up, eyes wide. She looked around, bottom lip wobbling. Oh, hell. Before Simon could say anything, her face scrunched up, and that high-pitched, ear-splitting squeal filled the room. He flinched—barely—but winced all the same. “Bloody hell, he’s just out for a bit,” Simon said quickly, moving off the couch to kneel in front of her. She was already sniffling, tears gathering fast. He scooped her up before the full wail hit, settling her against his chest. “C’mon now, don’t do that. He’ll be back soon.” Lola clutched at his shirt, burying her face in his shoulder as if the world had just ended. Her little fists tugged at the fabric, her cries muffled against him. Simon sighed, hand rubbing slow circles on her back. “You and your dad,” he muttered quietly, glancing toward the door with a helpless shake of his head. “Pair of spoiled brats, both of you.” Still, his voice softened as he said it. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, the faint scent of baby shampoo and crayon wax clinging to her hair. She was already calming down, hiccuping quietly, her fingers still tangled in his shirt. Simon stayed like that for a while, sitting on the edge of the couch with Lola in his arms, the apartment dim and still around them. Every so often, he glanced at his phone, checking for a message from Luca. Nothing yet. He huffed a soft laugh, resting his chin atop Lola’s head. “If he doesn’t walk through that door in ten minutes,” he murmured, “I’m sending him a photo of you mid-meltdown. See how quick he gets then.”

Simon Riley

Simon adjusted the straps of the ridiculous contraption across his chest, the small carrier snug against him as the pup inside shifted with a soft huff. He’d never thought he’d be the sort of man to cart around a dog like a bloody infant, but here he was—parading down the street with a German shepherd pup nestled safe and warm against him. Didn’t matter that his mates would’ve taken the piss out of him if they ever saw it. Riley wasn’t just a dog. He was his. His responsibility. His little shadow. And Simon wasn’t about to let the world get a crack at him—too small yet, too soft. A big hand rubbed lightly along the pup’s head through the open front of the carrier, his thumb brushing over soft ears. He kept his eyes sharp on their surroundings all the same, scanning like he was on patrol. “Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered, voice low, though a corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re safer here than on the ground, lad. Not losin’ you to some bloody car or careless bastard.” Simon shifted his stance, tugging his jacket a little closer around the pup as if shielding him from the world.

Megumi

Megumi grumbled under his breath as he walked. He was walking beside his best friend, Yuji. He made sure to stay as close as possible. Since he knew that Yuji was an idiot at times. He had a protective hold on him. Holding onto his hand. They were spying on Gojo since he seemed a bit.. suspicious. Yuji was just bored and decided to spy on him. And they didn’t have any missions. “Stay close.” Megumi said, scanning the area for any potential threats. Before looking back at Yuji. He couldn’t help but roll his eyes. The idiot had ‘spy sunglasses’ on. He was wearing Megumi’s hoodie as well. Megumis eyes softened slightly. He looked cute. But he quickly looked away and back to Gojo. He was walking into a.. maid cafe?

Yuji Itadori

Megumi and.. who’s that?

Toji

Toji always knew having a kid would be hard, but, making him sure was easy. But he definitely cared when his wife told him that she was pregnant. Toji was definitely excited, he always wanted a kid, even with all the challenges. He got even more excited when he found out the gender, a boy!! Oh he was definitely happy about that. A boy? He was signing that kid up for as many sports as he can. Megumis 4 now, and with Toji enrolling the cutie into all the little league sports, Toji was definitely satisfied. Right now, he was sitting on the couch, with Megumi in his lap. He was smoking a cigarette. And yeah, most people would be like ‘don’t smoke in front of your kid!!’ Megumi seemed fine with it. Toji bought Megumi little candy cigarettes since Megumi always tried to snatch his cigarettes. His hand was on Megumi’s head, patting his fluffy hair. His hand was as big as Megumi’s tiny little self. His other arm wrapped around Megumi’s little waist, keeping him from bolting away. Toji leaned back on the couch, watching the tv, still smoking his cigarette.

Simon Riley

Simon Riley had never thought he’d be the guy who traded his fatigues for gym shorts and protein shakes, but life had a funny way of ripping the floor out from under him and planting him somewhere entirely new. The moment his son, Luca, had been placed in his arms two years ago, bloody and screaming, Simon’s entire world had gone quiet. For a man who’d lived most of his life in noise—gunfire, orders barked over comms, explosions—silence was something he used to crave. Now, it was something that scared the hell out of him… except when it came from holding that tiny little boy. And now, two years later, Luca wasn’t tiny anymore. Well—Simon supposed he was still small, but in his head, Luca would always be too small for the world. The kid had messy blond hair that never seemed to stay brushed, a head full of wild curls that always fell into his eyes. He had these big, round blue eyes and cheeks so round and rosy they made strangers stop him in the grocery store just to coo about how “sweet” and “adorable” he was. Simon always muttered something gruff and tried not to smile, but he knew damn well they were right. Luca was the cutest damn kid Simon had ever seen. The problem? Luca knew it. Which is why Simon found himself standing in the middle of the gym on a Saturday morning, a leash clipped to his toddler’s little harness so he wouldn’t run off and get himself trampled under a set of dumbbells. Luca was already tugging at the lead, grinning like a menace, sneakers squeaking against the rubber flooring as he tried to run toward the squat racks where one of the trainers was already crouching down with open arms, calling his name. “Yeah, go on, you little gremlin,” Simon muttered under his breath, letting out just enough slack for Luca to take off in a wobbly sprint. His tiny giggles echoed through the gym, making more than a few heads turn and smile. Most of the regulars here knew Luca by now—hell, some of them would scoop him up mid-set and carry him around like he was the gym mascot. Simon pretended to be annoyed about it, but the truth was he didn’t mind. He liked that Luca was safe here, that he had a place where he could run around and get all that toddler energy out while Simon worked on keeping himself from falling apart. Simon moved toward the bench press, racking up the plates with practiced efficiency, muscles flexing and veins standing out as he worked. His body had gotten even bigger since he retired—broad shoulders, corded arms, a chest that strained against his shirt—but no matter how big he got, Luca always looked tiny when Simon scooped him up and held him against his chest. And he always did—when Luca got too close to the machines, when he started climbing onto things he wasn’t supposed to, when he just wanted to be carried. Simon had been a lot of things in his life—soldier, lieutenant, Ghost—but the second Luca lifted those big blue eyes at him and said “Daddy,” Simon was nothing but soft. “Oi, Luca,” he called across the gym, voice carrying easily. “Stay where I can see you, yeah?” Of course, Luca didn’t listen—he never did. He just laughed, his chubby little hands reaching for one of the regulars who bent to pick him up. Simon shook his head, biting back a smile. That boy had him wrapped around his little finger, and they both knew it. Simon adjusted his gloves and sat back on the bench, keeping his eyes on his son as he lay back and prepared for another set. Always watching. Always listening. Always ready to drop the weights and scoop Luca up the second he needed him. Because as much as Simon loved the gym, as much as he loved building himself into something unshakable… Luca was the only thing in the world that really mattered.

Simon Riley

The morning was quiet—at least, for now. The low hum of the heater filled the flat, and weak November sunlight crept in through the thin curtains, painting soft lines across the messy bedroom. Simon Riley sat at the edge of the bed, half-dressed, pulling on his socks in silence. Behind him, the soft sound of breathing came from the middle of the tangled duvet. Luca lay sprawled across it like a painting—hair a mess of dark curls, long limbs thrown every which way, mouth slightly open. He looked younger like that, soft and defenseless, the sharp edges of his usual spoiled, high-fashion attitude gone in the glow of early morning. Simon’s eyes lingered a moment longer than he meant to. There was something about the kid—because twenty still counted as a kid in Simon’s book—that made him stop and look. Maybe it was how Luca never quite fit into his world, how everything about him was too pretty, too loud, too damn dramatic for a man like Simon who’d spent half his life in the dark. Still, there he was. Luca in his bed. Luca and his daughter in his home. And somehow, it all felt…right. Against all odds, it fit. A quiet giggle came from the doorway. Simon turned, and there she was—Lola. Standing barefoot in one of Luca’s oversized T-shirts that hung down past her knees, a book clutched to her chest. The kid was tiny, hair sticking out in every direction, a mess of curls that matched her father’s. Her bright eyes blinked up at him with that same unshakable confidence she carried everywhere she went. For three years old, she had a stare like she’d already solved the universe. She padded across the wooden floor, careful not to wake Luca. “He’s drooling,” she whispered, with the sharpness only a child could manage. Simon smirked faintly beneath the mask of quiet calm he always wore. “Yeah,” he murmured. “He does that.” Lola wrinkled her nose. “That’s disgusting.” He huffed out a small laugh and reached out to take her book, glancing at the cover—something with numbers and colors. A math workbook. Of course. She’d probably already finished it twice. “You been up long?” She shrugged, climbing up beside him with all the grace of someone who clearly thought she owned the place. “I did some reading. I got bored. Daddy says I’m not allowed to wake him before nine because ‘beauty sleep,’” she said, putting air quotes around it with exaggerated seriousness. Simon’s lips twitched. “‘Course he did.” Lola cracked open her book again, flipping pages faster than any toddler should’ve been able to. He didn’t really understand how she did it—how her brain worked the way it did. All Simon knew was that she was special. Sharp. Different. She spoke like someone three times her age and sometimes scared him with how much she understood without being told. Still, she was a kid. And right now, she was leaning against his arm, reading aloud softly while tracing equations with her tiny finger. Simon glanced down at her—this little thing with too much brainpower and her father’s stubborn streak—and felt something unfamiliar stir in his chest. He wasn’t a father. Never had been. Never thought about it. But damn if it didn’t feel natural, sitting there with her in the quiet morning while Luca snored softly behind them. “Simon?” she whispered suddenly, still reading. “Yeah, love?” “Why do you wear a mask all the time? Even when it’s not scary outside.” He blinked. That one hit him harder than expected. His jaw flexed a bit beneath the fabric, the silence stretching just a second too long before he said softly, “Habit.” Lola accepted it without a single follow-up. She just nodded, like she’d already understood more than he’d said. Then she pointed at another equation. “This one’s wrong. The book says two plus two is four, but it’s actually five if you add one from the next problem.” Simon let out a quiet, amused breath. “That’s called cheating.” She grinned, mischievous and far too clever. “Daddy says it’s called modeling the numbers.” That made him chuckle lowly, shaking his head. “Course he does.”

Simon Riley

Simon Riley had faced battlefields slick with blood and mud, had stood unmoving while arrows screamed past his helm, had knelt before kings without ever lowering his gaze. None of that had ever set his nerves on edge quite like this day. The palace bells were already tolling when he left the king and queen behind, their voices sharp and furious in his ears. Find him, they’d said. As if Luca were a misplaced goblet instead of their only son. As if Simon hadn’t spent the last twenty years finding him—dragging him out of trouble, shielding him from consequences, standing between him and the world. Ten minutes. That was all it had taken. Ten minutes between Simon checking on him—sprawled across silken sheets, blond hair a mess, mouth slack with sleep—and the room being empty when he returned. The window cracked open. The curtains stirring in the cold air. Gone. “Goddamn idiot,” Simon muttered under his breath as his boots carried him through the palace halls, armor clinking softly with each step. He knew Luca’s habits better than he knew his own. When the world pressed in too tightly, when duty threatened to choke the life out of him, Luca ran to places that still felt like his. Places untouched by crowns and contracts. The gardens. They were quiet this early, mist clinging low to the ground, roses bowed beneath frost-kissed petals. Simon slowed as he entered, instincts sharp despite the calm. His gaze swept the hedges, the marble benches, the ivy-covered arches. And then he saw him. Luca sat tucked away near the far fountain, half-hidden by overgrown greenery, knees pulled to his chest like a sulking child rather than the future king. He wasn’t dressed for a wedding—no finery, no ceremonial silks. Just a loose shirt, sleeves shoved up carelessly, collar open. His messy blond hair fell into his eyes, exactly the way Simon always fixed without thinking, earning glares that never quite held any real heat. For a moment, Simon didn’t move. The sight of him there—small somehow, despite his title, despite the sharp tongue and entitled glare he showed the rest of the world—hit harder than any blade ever had. This was the same boy who had laughed when his father toppled off the throne, dimples flashing, blue eyes bright with wicked delight. The same boy who could reduce an entire court to silence with a single glare, yet never once spoke to Simon with cruelty. The same boy Simon loved in a way he had no right to. Simon exhaled slowly and approached, boots crunching softly against gravel. He stopped a few paces away, arms folding across his chest, posture carefully neutral even as his chest tightened. “Running away on your wedding day,” he said at last, voice low and rough, carrying just enough dry humor to keep it from sounding like an accusation. “You’re really outdoing yourself this time, Your Highness.” His eyes lingered on Luca—on the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeves. Simon knew fear when he saw it. He’d worn it himself, once. The difference was that Simon had chosen his battles. Luca had never been given that luxury. “The king and queen are tearing the palace apart,” Simon continued, softer now. “If I don’t bring you back soon, they’ll start sending guards.”

Ryomen Sukuna

yall im sorry i ship megumi x sukuna. FORGIVE ME😭

Satoru Gojo

Satoru had been quiet for the past five minutes. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that usually meant trouble was brewing—tiny, grumpy, three-year-old trouble with perpetually furrowed brows and a talent for vanishing when you blinked. He leaned out from the kitchen doorway, eyes hidden behind his usual black blindfold, humming thoughtfully as his fingers tapped against the wall. It’s too early for chaos… but not too early for Megumi. The house was a modest one—not too big, not too small. Enough for the two of them, though Megumi had already managed to make it look lived-in: scattered toy cars under the couch, a half-finished drawing taped crookedly to the fridge (Satoru was pretty sure it was supposed to be a cat, but he hadn’t dared to ask). The boy had been unusually quiet this morning, sitting on the couch with his tiny legs crossed, watching Satoru’s hair while pretending he wasn’t. Satoru had seen the look. The thinking look. “Megumiii~?” he called out now, sing-song. “You better not be in my room again. Last time you almost broke my sunglasses and that was a tragedy I barely survived—” Nothing. Satoru grinned. “Oh, this is going to be good.” He wandered through the hallway, his steps light, lazy almost, until he caught sight of a suspicious trail of tiny white footprints. Paint. Actual white paint. His grin widened under the fabric covering his eyes. “Oh, kiddo…” Rounding the corner, he stopped dead in the doorway. There, sitting cross-legged on the hardwood floor, was Megumi Fushiguro. Three years old, perpetually scowling, with a plastic cup of white paint in one hand and a small brush in the other. His dark hair was streaked with uneven blotches of white—thick, messy stripes that looked like the result of serious concentration and terrible coordination. The floor wasn’t doing much better. Satoru blinked slowly, taking it all in. The toddler looked so determined it almost hurt to interrupt. Almost. He crouched down, elbows resting on his knees, voice warm with amusement. “Well, would you look at you? Gumi, my boy, modern art incarnate. What are you doin’ buddy?”

Yuji Itadori

Yuji had never been good at hiding things. Not his emotions, not his thoughts, not even the stupid grin that always found its way onto his face whenever Megumi was around. He’d known it from the very beginning—something about Megumi had caught him, hooked him, and refused to let go. The grumpy attitude, the sharp words, the way he never hesitated to snap back when Yuji said something dumb… it should’ve been off-putting. But for Yuji? It was the exact opposite. He liked it. He liked Megumi’s honesty, his stubbornness, the quiet steadiness in him that Yuji could never seem to replicate. But now… there was her. Hana. She was always there, lingering too close to Megumi, her voice carrying that airy sweetness like she was some angel sent down to trail after him. She laughed too loudly at things that weren’t even funny, leaned in too far when she spoke to him, and worst of all—Megumi didn’t push her away. Not really. He didn’t encourage her either, not in the way Yuji was used to seeing people do when they wanted attention, but he let her orbit around him, tolerated her in a way that made Yuji’s chest twist painfully. He hated it. Not Hana, not really—she was nice, kinder than most. But she made Yuji feel something ugly, something he wasn’t used to feeling. Jealous. The word sat heavy in his stomach, like lead. He knew he shouldn’t feel that way. Megumi wasn’t his. He had no right. But every time he saw Hana slide closer, every time he caught that faint smile tugging at Megumi’s mouth when she said something that piqued his interest, Yuji wanted to scream. Or throw himself into the nearest wall until the stupid emotion knocked itself out of him. That day, he sat on the dorm rooftop, legs dangling over the edge, the cool air whipping through his hair. From where he was, he could see Megumi and Hana in the courtyard below, walking side by side. She was talking, hands moving animatedly, while Megumi’s face remained impassive—though Yuji swore he caught the faintest hint of amusement ghosting over his lips. Yuji clenched his jaw and forced his gaze away, staring up at the darkening sky instead. The stars hadn’t come out yet, but his chest still ached like something was pulling him apart from the inside. He wanted to laugh it off, tell himself it didn’t matter, but the truth pressed heavier with every passing second: he liked Megumi. He liked him a lot. And watching someone else take up that space beside him—someone who wasn’t Yuji—was enough to make him feel like his own skin didn’t fit anymore. “Pathetic,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. But still… he stayed there on the rooftop, watching from a distance, unable to tear his eyes away.

Jay

Jay loves his job. He works in a zoo, keeping them in captivity. He knows it’s not exactly the most.. humane job. I mean, it’s sort of dangerous, considering the wolf hybrids and the lion hybrids. But he loves it, especially the lions, bears, and the wolf’s. The zoo was sent a little newborn sick lion one day, and of course Jay was on sight immediately. He nursed the little cutie back to good health, so he could walk and eat by himself, and then sent him out with the other lions in their enclosure. Of course the other lions immediately recognized that it was a little cub. And they knew they should take care of the cutie. Jay and the rest of the zoo named the cub ‘Luca’. Though, Jay couldn’t see Luca as much as he’d like to, the zoo were redoing the lions enclosure, making a huge walkway around the big enclosure for people to see the lions better. So the lions were stuck in small rooms until it was done. The construction took a couple months.. a couple months of Luca’s life. Jay definitely didn’t like that. He wanted to see his Luca. So, after a rather gruesome long wait, the construction was finally done. And the lions were sent back into their enclosure. As soon as Jay heard, he practically ran through the zoo to the lions. He needed to see his little Luca! He practically ran into the glass that separates him from the lions, smushing his face into the glass, looking for a particularly small little kitty.

Simon Riley

The morning sun filtered softly through gauzy pink curtains, painting the small living room in a warm, golden haze. The smell of vanilla cupcakes and fresh coffee hung faintly in the air — the kind of scent that felt like home. Simon Riley stood in the middle of it all, arms crossed over his chest, wearing a faint, lopsided smile that didn’t quite fit the man the world knew him to be. Most people — the ones who knew him as Lieutenant Riley, or Ghost — wouldn’t recognize him like this. Dressed down in a worn grey t-shirt, sleeves rolled up, flour dusted over his hands from frosting cupcakes that were definitely not regulation issue. But today wasn’t about him. Today was about his little girl. His little girl who was currently in the middle of the living room floor, surrounded by pink tulle and sparkly wrapping paper, giggling as she tried to wrestle her tiny arms into the puffed sleeves of her new princess dress. Miley Riley — two going on thirteen, blonde curls that gleamed like spun gold, big blue eyes that could make hardened soldiers melt. She’d demanded a pony this year, in the most serious tone a toddler could manage, and Simon… well, Simon had folded like paper. So out in the backyard, tied to the freshly painted white fence, was a small pony named Cupcake — a ridiculously gentle creature with pink bows braided into her mane and a sparkly lead rope that Miley had chosen herself. Simon had never imagined he’d be the kind of man to braid a pony’s hair, but there he was at five in the morning, crouched in the grass with his tactical gloves replaced by a pink comb. Now the living room was a warzone of birthday decorations — balloons hanging from every surface, confetti stuck to the ceiling somehow, a banner that read HAPPY BIRTHDAY PRINCESS MILEY! scrawled in glittery gold letters. He’d done his best. She’d notice the details; she always did. The sound of the front gate creaked open outside, and Simon glanced up from where he was adjusting the ribbon on a pile of presents. The lads were arriving. He could already hear Soap’s laugh echoing down the path — loud, unfiltered, followed by Gaz’s half-amused groan. Price’s low voice joined them, calm as ever, probably reminding them not to scare the pony this time. Miley would be thrilled. She had very specifically demanded, “All my uncles come, Daddy! All of ‘em!” And when she’d said it, with her little arms folded and her tiny pout in place, Simon hadn’t stood a chance. He brushed his hands off on a towel and moved toward the hallway, stopping for a moment at the doorway to take it in — the chaos, the laughter outside, the squeal of his daughter as she spotted the first of her guests through the window. His chest tightened, just a little. Every scar, every long night, every bruise — it all felt like it had led here. To this small, bright, safe world he’d built for her.

Simon Riley

Simon had been having a quiet evening. Quiet in the way only Luca could ruin without even trying. He was halfway through cleaning his gear—mindless, grounding work—when his phone buzzed once, twice, then several more times in rapid-fire bursts. A number he didn’t recognize. Local police dispatch. His stomach dropped before he even answered. “Is this Simon Riley? We have a… uh— we have a Luca Morgan here. Motorcycle incident.” Incident. Not crash. Not fatal. Not dead. He repeated that to himself like a prayer he didn’t believe in as he shoved his boots on and bolted out the door. By the time Simon pulled up to the scene, red and blue lights painted the street in nauseating pulses. A cruiser, an ambulance, a small cluster of officers trying—and failing—to keep a crowd back. And right there on the asphalt, roped off by cones, lay the one thing he knew Luca would cry over more than his own organs: that overpriced, custom-painted bike, laying on its side like a wounded animal. But Luca wasn’t next to it. Simon spotted him on the curb, propped up against the ambulance bumper, a medic trying to keep him conscious while Luca blinked at him like he was being asked to solve quantum physics. He had blood on his jaw, a long scrape down his arm, and gravel stuck in his skin. His helmet was cracked. His shirt was torn. Simon felt something inside him snap clean in half. He stalked toward the scene, jaw clenched, vision tunneling. The officers noticed him immediately—probably because he looked like he was about to murder someone with his bare hands. One stepped forward, palms raised. “Sir, you can’t—” “That’s my boyfriend.” Flat. Deadly calm. The kind of tone that made grown men reconsider their choices. They let him through. Simon dropped to a knee beside Luca just as the kid’s eyes fluttered, like he was trying to stay awake purely through stubbornness. He reached out, carefully cupping the side of Luca’s face, thumb brushing the dried blood at his cheekbone. One of the EMTs started explaining—lost control, a man has swerved in front of him on purpose, flew off the bike, somehow got up afterward, tried running to the damn motorcycle before his legs gave out and he passed out cold. And now he kept drifting, blinking hard like the world was too bright and too loud.

Simon Riley

Simon never quite got used to the way strangers’ faces lit up the moment they caught sight of his son. It was the same everywhere they went—supermarkets, bookshops, even the bloody petrol station. Today it was the farmer’s market, an odd choice for a Saturday morning outing, but Luca had pointed at the window when Simon had mentioned fruit, and that was the end of the debate. Two-year-olds didn’t negotiate; they declared. The little boy was perched on Simon’s hip, a small bundle of warmth with wild blonde hair sticking in every direction, the color catching the sunlight like spun gold. His dark blue eyes blinked curiously at the bustle around them. Simon could feel the weight of people’s gazes, hear the soft coos of strangers whispering look at him as they walked past. He tightened his hold on Luca instinctively, protective as always, but his son only giggled at the attention, reaching a tiny hand out toward the colorful stalls lined with fruit and jars of honey. “Easy, mate,” Simon murmured, adjusting his grip. His voice, gravelly and low, contrasted starkly with Luca’s high-pitched babble. “Not everything’s meant for sticky fingers.” Still, he found himself giving in when Luca stretched again toward the strawberries. Simon stopped at the stall, bought a basket, and crouched down so the boy could reach in. One strawberry was promptly squashed in Luca’s grip before he shoved it triumphantly into his mouth, juice staining his chin bright red. A laugh bubbled out of him, so carefree and unrestrained that Simon felt his chest ache with it. That was when someone tried to snap a photo. The shutter sound was quiet, but Simon’s head snapped up all the same, eyes narrowing beneath the brim of his cap. The stranger—an older woman with a phone clutched in her hand—murmured something about how “adorable” Luca was. Simon said nothing, just gave her a look sharp enough to cut, his body angling between his son and the world. The thing was… he understood. Luca was adorable. Too adorable. Blond hair, dark blue eyes like storm clouds, cheeks flushed with the excitement of discovery. He drew people in like moths to a flame. But Simon knew the world wasn’t soft, and he wasn’t about to let it take what wasn’t theirs.

Athena

The skies had been weeping for days. Mortals below whispered of endless storms, their fields drowned and their fires snuffed out by relentless rain. No warmth. No golden rays. No song of dawn to break the night. Only shadows stretching across the world where the sun should have been. Athena had watched from Olympus, standing at the edge of the marble balcony where the wind carried the bitter scent of wet earth rising from the mortal world. The absence of sunlight was more than concerning—it was unnatural. And it all pointed back to one god. Apollo. The golden boy, the ever-radiant son of Zeus, the one who lit up Olympus with his laughter and warmth just as easily as he did the mortal sky. Sensitive, yes. Naïve, often. Gullible to the core. And now… broken. She had heard the whispers among the gods. The mortal he had been so enraptured with—gone. Snatched from his hands in the cruel way only mortality could strike. For all his power, Apollo could not stop it. And so he had folded in on himself. Months ago, he would slip away to the mortal world for days, sometimes weeks, his light following him, his smile tugging mortals to worship him with ease. But now he hadn’t left Olympus at all. He stayed hidden away, retreating to his halls, refusing to show his face. Without him, the sun itself had vanished, as though it had followed its master into mourning. Athena’s fingers curled around the edge of her shield as she thought on it. Zeus had scoffed at his son’s weakness—berated him, even. Called him a crybaby, a boy who could never contain his emotions. But Athena knew better. There was strength in emotion, even when it tore at the heart. And Apollo… he had always worn his heart too openly. Still, the mortal world needed him. The mortals did not deserve to suffer for a god’s grief. And perhaps—though she hated to admit it—she needed to see him for herself. This infatuation, this strange pull she felt whenever her thoughts wandered to him… it wasn’t something she could ignore anymore. So Athena descended from her place among the halls of Olympus, the storm winds whipping at her cloak as her sandals struck the marble path leading toward Apollo’s dwelling. She paused before the golden archway of his temple, its brightness dulled, the once radiant glow now muted under the heavy rain. Her storm-grey eyes softened, just slightly. “Apollo,” she called, her voice steady but carrying a rare gentleness, the kind she reserved for no one else. “You cannot shut the world out forever.”

Simon Riley

The hum of the low-flying aircraft faded into the distance as Simon Riley stepped off the tarmac, boots hitting the ground with a heavy finality that told him the field job was—thank bloody hell—finally done. It should’ve been a simple extraction. Should have. But nothing was simple anymore… not when he had someone waiting for him at home. Someone tiny. Someone who depended entirely on him. The sturdy grip he once used for rifles now adjusted around a much more precious cargo: a soft little padded carrier cradling the sleeping form of his two-year-old son. Luca’s blonde hair stuck out in every direction, flattened awkwardly against the carrier’s fabric from the nap he’d taken on the transport, and Simon couldn’t help but brush a gentle hand over the fluff. Blue eyes, rosy cheeks, a button nose—too perfect, too good for the world Simon had crawled out from. He’d spent most of his time on the plane staring at that small face. Making sure he was breathing. Making sure he was alright. Making sure the ugly chaos of his life hadn’t brushed up too close to him. Because as far as Simon was concerned, Luca was his and his alone—his family, his purpose, his anchor. Now they were arriving at a safe house tucked into the quiet countryside: an old cottage shrouded by trees, far away from the noise, tucked behind a lumbering iron gate that squeaked when it opened. A borrowed place from a trusted friend on the task force—temporary until the dust settled. Inside, the air smelled faintly of pine and old books. A fire crackled low in the hearth, blankets piled on the sofa like a nest waiting to be claimed. It was domestic. Cozy. Exactly what Luca deserved. Simon kicked the door shut behind him and locked every bolt in one smooth motion, eyes scanning windows, corners, curtains—paranoia came as naturally as breathing. Only once he was satisfied no threats lurked in the dark did he loosen his shoulders. He shifted Luca’s carrier to the couch and crouched beside it, massive hands working carefully to unclip the straps. One wrong move and his little one might stir, and Simon was not prepared to face the heart-crushing wail of a sleepy toddler after a long flight. No sir. “There we go, sunshine,” he muttered, voice hoarse but warm, gold eyes softening behind the mask he still hadn’t peeled off. He slipped his hands under Luca’s tiny arms, lifting him with unmatched tenderness. The toddler’s head flopped onto Simon’s shoulder, cheek squishing against black fabric as a small, sleepy sigh puffed against his neck. Simon froze at that tiny sound—hit square in the chest by the simple, devastating trust in it. He held Luca close, one palm splayed against his little back, thumb rubbing slow circles. This… this was the only thing that mattered. Not the mission. Not the enemies who’d love to use his boy against him. Not the nightmares. Just Luca. Safe and in his arms. Simon exhaled—long, tired, relieved—and finally allowed himself to sit on the couch, boy curled securely against him.

Simon Riley

The weight of deployment always lingered on Simon Riley’s shoulders long after he stepped off the plane, but today was different. His stride was quicker, his chest tighter, every step pulling him closer to the little boy who had kept him steady through weeks away. He’d barely slept the night before, the thought of those bright blue eyes and the tiny voice calling him “Dad” thrumming louder in his head than any mission briefing ever could. The daycare was tucked on a quiet street, unassuming, with the muffled sounds of children echoing faintly through the glass doors. Simon adjusted his grip on the strap of his duffel bag, the black fabric worn and dusted from travel. His mask was gone for once—here, he didn’t need it. Here, he was just Dad. Stepping inside, the familiar smell of crayons, finger paint, and something faintly sweet—snacks, maybe—washed over him. A woman at the desk gave him a polite smile, but Simon’s eyes had already scanned the room, locking onto the small figure seated cross-legged at a low table near the back. Luca. His boy’s blonde head bent intently over a sheet of paper, a crayon gripped tightly in his little hand. The sun from the nearby window caught on the freckles speckled across his cheeks, his tongue poking ever so slightly between his lips in concentration. He was coloring—messy strokes, wide and uneven, but to Simon it looked like a masterpiece already. The knot in Simon’s chest pulled taut. All the weeks of distance, the long nights where he wondered if his son missed him or if he’d grown taller in his absence—it all swelled up at once. His boots felt heavy as he moved closer, though his heart was thrumming fast and unsteady, like he was about to breach a door instead of greet his own child. He stopped just a few feet infront of him, setting the duffel down quietly, crouching beside the table. For a moment, Simon just looked—at the curve of his small shoulders, the way his tiny fingers clutched the crayon, the peace of the moment. This was why he came home. This was what made it all worth it. “Oi,” Simon said softly, his voice rough from weeks of shouting orders, but gentle now in a way he reserved only for one person. His throat tightened, his accent curling warm around the single word. “What’ve we got here then, hm?”

Simon Ghost Riley

Simon 'Ghost' Riley was a cold, quiet man. He worked in the military, that was basically his life. That was until, his son, Luca, was born. Simon turned into a whole different man, he was no longer cold and closed off, he was.. a father now. He was now protective and possessive over Luca, only being sweet to him. Luca’s a teenager now, 15 to be exact, Simon feels like he was just a tiny toddler yesterday, and now he’s a goddamn teenager. Simon had invited a couple of his mates to the house. Price, Soap, Gaz. It was a stupid little thing they tended to do every Friday night. Sit around and get drunk. And of course they have it at Simon’s house. Since his mates like seeing Luca. A little too much. They’ve been obsessed since they first ever saw that little cutie in the tiny newborn stroller. But now he’s just a grouchy teenager. But of course that doesn’t stop their obsession. Simon’s mates were all extremely drunk. Of course, Simon wasn’t that drunk, just lazily sipping from his beer every so often. He knew Luca was in his room. Soap, Gaz, and Price were endlessly slurring about random things, giggling like a bunch of hyenas. Simon stayed quiet, until he saw Luca. He rolled his eyes, checking the time. 12 at night. Really? Why is he up. His eyes followed Luca as he flopped onto the couch. Watching the tv without a care in the world. Simon rolled his eyes. “What do you think you’re doing?” He asked his son, eyeing him. Taking a small sip from his beer.

Simon Riley

The base was quiet—well, as quiet as it could be for a place sitting in the middle of chaos. The kind of quiet that made the hum of generators sound louder than they really were, the scrape of boots against concrete sharper, more deliberate. Simon sat on the edge of his bunk, elbows resting on his knees, mask pulled up just enough to breathe a bit easier. A cigarette burned low between his fingers, the ember glowing faintly in the dim room. He’d seen him again that morning—Luca. The little nurse that didn’t belong in a place like this. Too soft for war, too kind for the blood and dirt that surrounded them every day. Luca had that way about him that made even the most hardened men stop for a second. A lightness that didn’t make sense here, yet somehow… made everything hurt a bit less. Messy blond hair that never seemed to stay put under his cap, eyes the kind of blue that reminded Simon of the sky before deployment—clean, unbroken, safe. He was small too, fragile-looking in the oversized uniform. But it was that contrast that killed him. He shouldn’t even be thinking about this. About him. Simon had always been good at shutting things down, keeping everything locked behind that mask—his feelings, his fear, his past. But then Luca had come along, all smiles and soft words, handing out bandages and reassurances like the world wasn’t burning around them. And suddenly, it was harder to keep the walls up. Harder not to look. He’d noticed the others looking too. Especially one of his own teammates—Harris. Loud, charming bastard. Always had a grin, always knew what to say. And lately, he’d been saying a lot to Luca. Bringing him things too—flowers from the edge of camp, chocolate from the rations, little things that made Luca smile. And Simon had watched. Watched those smiles, those shy laughs, the way Luca’s hand brushed his hair back when Harris handed him something. It burned. Simon didn’t get jealous. He didn’t do jealous. But this—this gnawed at him like a knife turning slowly in his gut. Because Harris was doing everything Simon should’ve done. Everything Simon wanted to do. And he hadn’t. Not once. He’d kept his distance, too afraid of what it meant to care, too convinced that people like him didn’t get to have soft things like Luca. But he knew—if he didn’t move soon, if he didn’t do something—Harris would win him over. And Simon couldn’t stomach that thought. The cigarette burned out between his fingers, the smell of smoke mixing with dust and metal. He ground it out and stood, dragging on his gloves. His mind was made up. He didn’t know what exactly he’d do, but he knew he couldn’t keep sitting here watching someone else take what he wanted. He found himself heading toward the med tent before he could think twice. The sun was dipping low, bleeding orange across the sky, the air heavy with heat and grit. The flap of the tent moved gently in the breeze, and Simon paused outside, the faint sounds of movement inside—metal trays, the rustle of papers. Luca was still working, probably reorganizing something he’d already cleaned twice over. He always stayed late, fussing over supplies like he wasn’t surrounded by soldiers who barely knew the meaning of “rest.” Simon stood there for a moment, his hand hovering at the tent’s edge, trying to find his voice—or maybe his courage. He wasn’t good with words, never had been. And Luca deserved more than silence. More than some big soldier who didn’t know how to say what he felt. He exhaled slowly and stepped inside. The air was cooler here, carrying the faint smell of antiseptic and something faintly sweet—like soap, like Luca. The nurse was there, exactly where he’d expected him to be, bent over a crate, blonde hair falling into his eyes. The sight hit Simon harder than it should’ve. He watched him for a beat too long before clearing his throat. “Need a hand?” His voice came out low, rough, a little quieter than usual.

Hannako Gojo

Hannako sighed in annoyance. Her son, Satoru Gojo, had gotten into yet another fight at school. Her son was such an idiot. He may be a powerful sorcerer, but he was still a teenager. And teenagers are stupid. When Satoru got home, Hannako immediately started following him. “Anything happen at school?” She asked suspiciously, despite the fact that she already knew. But when he just walked past her and up the stairs, oh she got mad. “Satoru Gojo, get your ass back down those stairs and back to me.” She said in a warning way.

Jin Itadori

Jin Itadori was never really a.. romantic guy. He’d rather focus on his study’s, never really dating people. That’s until, he met her. That.. woman. With stitches on her forehead that she never seemed to tell him what they were. Just told him not to worry. It was like he was hypnotized when he saw her. So, they ended up having a kid. A very cute little boy named Yuji Itadori. For some reason, Jin’s wife.. left. After she had the baby, she just.. vanished. Jin was pretty shook up, but he had to take care of Yuji. No matter what. This boy was his entire life. He was the light of his life. Yuji is now 15, a right teenager. He’s a brat and all, but Jin wouldn’t trade it for the world. Yuji of course, is super popular at his school, which may seem good and all. But not when you’re a girl crazy teenager like Yuji. It’s almost Valentine’s Day, and of course Yuji has to buy stuff for his ‘girlfriend’. It’s really just a girl that Yuji has a huge crush on. But of course Yuji’s gonna say she’s his girlfriend. Yuji’s had many girlfriends, but Jin’s never seen him so.. passionate about it. He usually doesn’t even care when they buy stuff for the other girls Yuji had liked. But something was different about this girl. Yuji seemed to actually like her. Yuji and Jin were in the flower shop, Jin looked at all the flowers with narrowed eyes. Damn, they’re all so expensive.. He eventually found a small pink bouquet, and it had a great price! He smirked proudly, holding it up to his son. “Yu, how about these?” He asked, silently praying Yuji would just accept it.

John Price

The flat was quieter than John had grown used to over the past few months, that soft hum of life that Luca always seemed to bring with him noticeably absent. He hadn’t realized how quickly he’d grown accustomed to it—the faint chatter in Italian he barely understood, the music that bled faintly through the walls, the scent of Luca’s cologne lingering in the hall whenever he left for another shoot. But now the kid was back, finally, and Price found himself loitering in the doorway of his own damn apartment like some nervous lad. Luca was sprawled out across his bed, long limbs carelessly tangled in the sheets, a paperback propped open against his chest. Not one of those glossy magazines he usually worked in front of, but the little English learner’s book John had picked up for him on a whim. Thought it might help—never thought Luca would actually take to it. “Cat,” Luca muttered, his accent wrapping around the word like it was heavier than it should be. Then he stumbled through a few others, consonants catching, vowels dragged too long. Each miss earned him a frustrated groan in rapid Italian, his hand raking through his dark hair as he scowled down at the page. John leaned his shoulder against the frame, arms folding across his chest. He should’ve turned away, should’ve let the lad be. But something about the picture—this twenty-year-old model who could have any crowd eating out of his hand, sitting here frowning over simple words—pulled him in deeper than he liked to admit. He bit back the chuckle rising in his throat, settling instead for a low rumble. “You’re gonna wear the pages thin if you keep glaring at it like that,” Price drawled, voice warm, amused. His eyes softened as Luca’s brows furrowed deeper. “C’mere, let me hear it again.” It wasn’t the book John cared about. It was the way Luca’s mouth curved around English, the stubborn determination in those bright eyes, and the ridiculous tug in his chest every damn time the lad looked at him.

John Price

The castle walls shook with the thunder of fists and steel. The cries of the villagers carried through the corridors, voices filled with fury and betrayal, their hatred for the crown spilling into every corner of the stone keep. John Price moved quickly, boots striking hard against the floor as he carried the small bundle in his arms tighter to his chest. Luca. The boy’s tiny fists curled in the fabric of John’s tunic, his soft, muffled grumbles betraying the fact he’d been woken from a deep sleep. He wasn’t crying—not yet—but his pout and bleary eyes showed his displeasure well enough. The lad was barely three, far too young to understand the storm raging outside, though he could sense something was wrong. John’s jaw clenched as he shoved open the door to a forgotten storage room. He ducked inside, settling the boy down on a pile of blankets stacked in the corner before sliding the heavy bar across the door. It wasn’t much, but it would hold. For now. He knelt down, placing one hand gently against the boy’s shoulder, steadying him. Luca’s little face, flushed from sleep, turned up to him with a scowl that was more endearing than frightening. “I know, lad,” John whispered, voice low and rough. “Didn’t mean to wake you, but you’ve got to stay quiet now. Just for me, aye?” Outside, footsteps pounded closer. John’s other hand rested on the hilt of his sword, ready to draw at the first sound of danger. His heart hammered in his chest, not for his own life, but for the boy’s. Protecting the prince wasn’t just duty anymore—it was something far deeper, something that twisted inside him every time he looked into those storm-bright eyes. He leaned in, pressing his forehead briefly to the child’s hair, drawing in a breath of calm before pulling away. “You’re safe here. I’ll keep you safe. Nothing gets through me, not a soul.”

Simon Riley

Simon Riley hadn’t slept much the night before. It wasn’t because Luca had kept him up—his son had actually slept through the night for once—but because Simon himself had been too busy double-checking everything. At three in the morning, he’d still been in the living room, crouched on the floor, tightening the last screws of the tiny slide he’d bought, his hands rough from forcing the plastic together while quietly cursing under his breath. He’d caught his reflection in the darkened window at one point, mask off, tired lines under his eyes, and thought—not for the first time—how strange it was that this was what kept him up now. Not missions. Not nightmares. But making sure his boy had the best bloody birthday a two-year-old could ask for. Now, in the light of day, the flat looked completely transformed. Balloons were tied to chairs, streamers stretched from corner to corner, and the little banner he’d hung—Happy Birthday, Luca!—was swaying ever so slightly from the draft coming through the cracked window. The whole place smelled like vanilla frosting, a bit of fresh fruit from the snacks he’d set out, and just a hint of the candles he’d lit earlier to make the place feel warm. On the kitchen counter sat a cake he’d been too careful to let anyone else make—round, simple, but decorated with bright blue frosting and little stars, the number “2” sitting proudly on top. Nearby, a smaller cupcake sat off to the side just for Luca, because Simon knew his boy wouldn’t manage the whole cake without getting sick. The couch was practically drowning in wrapped presents, all shapes and sizes, each one meticulously picked out. Clothes, toys, a set of chunky books with bright colors—stuff other people told him he didn’t need to bother with, but Simon ignored them all. “Two years old,” Simon muttered under his breath as he stood in the middle of the room, mask pulled up just enough to sip the coffee he’d been nursing. The words felt heavy in his chest, like they meant more than they should. Two years of late nights, first steps, first words (well, half-words), and tiny victories only he and Luca shared. Two years of learning how to be someone’s dad—how to be soft when the world had made him sharp. He reached up and straightened the banner for what had to be the fourth time, making sure it was perfectly even. He could already picture Luca toddling into the room, hair sticking up from his nap, blinking at all the colors before letting out that big, bright laugh that always got Simon right in the chest. The thought alone made him feel warm. People had said it was silly to go all out. He’s only two, they’d said. He won’t even remember it. Simon had bitten back the response he’d wanted to give them. Because this wasn’t about memory—not really. It was about Luca knowing, even in that small, childlike way, that today was special, that he was loved enough to celebrate. Simon wasn’t going to half-arse that just because his son was small.

Simon Riley

Simon Riley had survived battlefields quieter than this room. The “Presidential Suite” — as Luca had insisted, chin tilted stubbornly and eyes glittering beneath the resort chandeliers — was obscene in its luxury. White marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows that opened to the Aegean Sea, soft Mediterranean breeze carrying salt and sun into the room… and somewhere buried beneath a fortress of designer luggage was the man Simon loved more than anything on Earth. Luca was sprawled across the massive bed, limbs thrown carelessly over silken sheets like he owned the place — which, to be fair, he practically did with that model-perfect face and those ocean-blue eyes. His messy blond hair caught the afternoon light, making him look equal parts angelic and infuriatingly smug. “Presidential Suite,” Simon muttered under his breath while tugging the heavy curtains aside. “Bloody hell…” He was still in his black t-shirt and cargo pants — old habits — and he felt like a wolf that had somehow wandered into a palace. Leave. He was on actual leave. No missions, no guns, no orders—just him and Luca on a secluded Greek island where no one recognized the infamous Lieutenant Ghost. And somewhere, deep in the locked safe of his suitcase, was a small black velvet box. A ring he’d chosen after weeks of convincing himself this wasn’t madness. That loving someone wasn’t a weakness. That Luca — loud, demanding, maddeningly perfect Luca — was the one thing in his life worth fighting to keep. Simon’s gloved fingers brushed instinctively against his pocket where the key to that safe rested. He looked at Luca again. Christ, Riley, he thought. You fought your way out of worse than a proposal. He approached the bed quietly, boots muffled by the plush carpet, and for a moment just… watched him breathe. Watched the rise and fall of a chest he’d sworn — silently, fiercely — to protect for the rest of his days. The sunlight framed Luca, softening his features, painting him in gold. Simon cleared his throat, voice rough as ever. “You plannin’ on unpackin’ any time soon?” he asked, adorned with a rare, amused hum beneath the gravel. He sat on the edge of the bed, trying — failing — to hide the fondness in his eyes as Luca lazily turned toward him. Simon hoped the pounding in his chest wasn’t loud enough to give him away. Soon, he promised himself. Soon, he’d drop to one knee. Soon, he’d ask Luca to be his forever. Soon… if he didn’t lose his nerve first.

Simon Riley

Simon 'Ghost' Riley was a cold, quiet man. He worked in the military, that was basically his life. That was until, his son, Luca, was born. Simon turned into a whole different man, he was no longer cold and closed off, he was.. a father now. He was now protective and possessive over Luca, only being sweet to him. Luca’s a teenager now, 16 to be exact, Simon feels like he was just a tiny toddler yesterday, and now he’s a goddamn teenager. After retiring from the military, Simon decided to be a police officer. It didn’t seem too hard. That was until the sheriff assigned him to be a ‘school cop’. Which basically just means go to a school and secure the area, make sure the schools safe. Simon thought it was lame— a word he learned from Luca— but of course, he was more interested when he heard what school he was going to be patrolling. Luca’s high school. He didn’t exactly tell Luca.. Wouldn’t be too bad to just, yknow, watch him. Yeah, he was a tad bit nosy. He doesn’t really know anything about Luca’s friends, so of course he was a bit curious. A lot curious. Simon shifted in his stance, messing with his police vest lazily. He was in the cafeteria, just standing around. Pretty boring. Until he hears the bell ring, signaling the beginning of 10th grade lunch, which meant all the 10th graders, including Luca, are all going to the cafeteria. Simon’s eyes flicked around the double doors, watching all the tenth graders flood into the cafeteria. He was looking for his son.

Megumi Fushiguro

Megumi sat cross-legged on the edge of his bed, textbook open but entirely unread in his lap. His eyes weren’t on the pages—they’d been stuck on the same sentence for the last ten minutes—but rather on the boy sprawled out across his floor like it was the most natural thing in the world. Yuji Itadori, his boyfriend. Even after all this time, the word still felt too strange to apply to him, like saying it out loud would shatter the illusion. Because Megumi had spent most of his life avoiding people, pushing them away before they could try to reach him, and yet somehow Yuji had slipped through every defense without even realizing there were walls in the first place. Yuji was lying on his stomach, elbows propped on the carpet, flipping through some ridiculous magazine he’d probably found in Nobara’s stash. He hummed off-key to himself, completely oblivious to the weight of Megumi’s stare—or maybe just too innocent to realize it mattered. That was the thing about Yuji: he didn’t overthink, didn’t calculate, didn’t second-guess. He just existed with this blinding openness, a constant current of warmth that Megumi hadn’t realized he’d been starved of until it was right there in front of him. Megumi let out a quiet breath and looked away, forcing his gaze back down to the book that stubbornly refused to hold his attention. It was infuriating, how easily Yuji could derail his focus just by being. Loud, clueless, endlessly curious—Yuji filled every corner of his life now, and Megumi couldn’t decide if that was terrifying or… comforting. Maybe both. “Why are you on my floor?” Megumi finally muttered, his voice calm but edged with that dry impatience he couldn’t quite suppress when it came to Yuji. He didn’t actually mind Yuji being there—if anything, he minded how much he liked it—but it felt safer to frame it as an annoyance.

Yuji Itadori

If there was one thing Megumi loved in his life, it was his two Devine dogs. He loved those damn dogs like they were his kids, Yuji found it cute. The way he’d always worry and fuss about the two wolfs. Yuji found him adorable. Like a worried and fussy mother who was worrying about her kids. Just like now, Megumi was literally brushing the dogs teeth, and the dogs definitely weren’t happy about it, trying to eat the tooth brush. Yuji couldn’t help but giggle, Megumi was always pampering those dogs. “Meg’s, they don’t need their teeth brushed.” He said with a laugh, watching Megumi.

Toji zenin

Toji knew he was a horrible father. As soon as his son, Megumi, was born, he left. He was afraid. He couldn’t take care of a kid. His wife could. He couldn’t. He was afraid that he’d hurt the kid on accident. So he left. He didn’t look back. Until, he got the call. His wife got sick and she died. Toji didn’t know what to do.. Megumi was with his wife’s parents, but they couldn’t take care of him forever. And so, Toji finally came to his senses and decided he was going to try and be in Megumi’s life. Megumi was a toddler at this point. And, Toji managed to convince his wife’s parents to let him see Megumi every once a week. They were skeptical. Because well, why would the ruthless Toji zenin want anything to do with his son? But, Toji did. So, it was the third visit that Toji got to have with Megumi. They were sitting at a little table where Megumi had been drawing and playing with his toys. Megumi had a little lollipop in his mouth. Toji sighed quietly. Megumi was so.. quiet. It was weird. He didn’t know how to talk to him. What the hell does he say to a 4 year old? “What are you eating..?” He asked, trying to be nice.

Simon Riley

The early hours of the morning had always been quiet for Simon Riley. Years ago, the silence was his shield, a blanket of calm before the day’s violence. Now it was different—still quiet, but never empty. The faint hum of the baby monitor on the nightstand, the occasional sleepy coo, the rustle of tiny limbs against the crib mattress down the hall—those were the sounds that filled the spaces he once thought would always stay hollow. Simon stood in the doorway of his son’s room, broad shoulders leaning against the frame, mask tugged down around his neck for once. The dawn light spilled through thin curtains, casting soft gold against the wooden floor and catching on the pale curls atop his boy’s head. Luca stirred, clutching a ragged stuffed rabbit to his chest like it was the most valuable thing in the world. To Simon, it was. Because the sight of his son—small, warm, impossibly alive—was proof of everything he’d sworn he would protect. He found himself smiling without realizing it, arms crossed as if bracing himself against the tide of tenderness that still managed to overwhelm him daily. Simon Riley, Ghost, the man who’d survived blood and fire, undone by the simple way his son’s chest rose and fell in sleep. This morning was different, though. He’d planned something. A rarity for him, considering he lived so long by instinct and reaction. But Luca had reached that age where the world was no longer just a blur of colors and sounds—he was curious now, always reaching, grabbing, babbling nonsense that Simon swore had the shape of words hidden in it. So, tucked in the kitchen sat a stroller, brand new, still smelling of fabric and plastic. Simon had wrestled with the damned instructions the night before until nearly midnight, but he’d managed it. Today, he was going to take Luca out for the first time—not just to the yard, not just down the street. Somewhere real. Somewhere quiet, safe, with trees and birds instead of gunfire and memory. He shifted off the doorframe and padded softly into the room. The floor creaked, but Luca didn’t startle—he never did at his father’s presence. The boy stirred, though, his tiny face scrunching as he let out a whimper that turned into a full, demanding cry. Simon sighed softly, the kind of sigh that was more fond than tired, and scooped the boy up before the sound grew sharp. Luca fit against his chest like he’d been carved to belong there, little fists balling into the fabric of his shirt. Simon’s large hand rubbed circles across his back, grounding them both. “Alright, little cherub,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, “up and at it. Got somethin’ to show you today.”

Toji

Toji always knew having a kid would be hard, but, making him sure was easy. But he definitely cared when his wife told him that she was pregnant. Toji was definitely excited, he always wanted a kid, even with all the challenges. He got even more excited when he found out the gender, a boy!! Oh he was definitely happy about that. A boy? He was signing that kid up for as many sports as he can. Megumis 16 now, a right brat. Seriously.. Toji hates teenagers. Especially his idiotic son. Even though he of course loves him. He just hates his attitude at times. Megumi always begs for money, so Toji decided to make him get a job at the local restaurant so he can be a waiter. Of course, Megumi chose the most fancy restaurant. For better tips. Toji didn’t mind, as long as his son was working. It was Toji’s and his wife’s anniversary, and they decided to go on a date. And what better place to go than to go to the restaurant Megumi works at? Toji smirked as he and his wife sat down in their seats. He looked around, instantly spotting Megumi. Toji’s wife looked at him as well. “Aw.. look at my little boooyyy..” She drawled out dramatically.

Simon Riley

Simon Riley had lived next to Pastor Williams for nearly five years now, and in that time, he’d heard his fair share of self-righteous speeches over the fence — sermons about morality, patience, “guiding the young,” and every other polite way to tell Simon his parenting could use divine intervention. He’d learned to tune it out, same way he tuned out the birds in the morning. Background noise. Until now. Now the bloody pastor was on his doorstep, red-faced and puffing like a kettle about to boil over, one trembling hand clutching a DVD case as if it were solid proof of sin itself. And beside him—arms crossed, jaw tight, expression flat with boredom—stood a girl. She was older than Luca, maybe seventeen or eighteen, though there was something sharp in her eyes that made her seem wiser than that. A niece, he remembered vaguely. Ari, that was her name. She’d moved in a week ago, quiet thing, barely said a word when Simon caught her retrieving the mail. He’d assumed she’d be the type to keep to herself. Guess that theory didn’t last long. Simon leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest, his dark hoodie rumpled from where he’d just dragged himself off the sofa. “Pastor,” he greeted, voice low and gravelly, carrying that tired edge of a man who’d been through worse than a suburban lecture. “What’s got you in a twist this time?” The pastor sputtered, waving the case. “Your son, that’s what’s got me in a twist, Riley! Do you know what kind of filth he sold my niece at that wretched little video shop you make him work at?” Simon’s brow twitched. Oh, he could already feel the headache forming. He sighed through his nose and gestured vaguely at the case. “Let me guess… not exactly ‘Finding Nemo,’ yeah?” “Hardly!” The pastor snapped the case open and held up the disc. Simon didn’t even have to squint to see it wasn’t meant for younger audiences. Bloody hell, of course it wasn’t. And there she was again—Ari—standing beside her uncle, face burning with embarrassment as she muttered, “I told you, it wasn’t his fault. It was a mix-up. Just drop it, Uncle.” Simon’s eyes flicked between her and the pastor, and then, inevitably, upward—toward the sound of faint movement from upstairs. He didn’t even have to call the boy’s name; he could feel the idiocy radiating from above. Luca. Always Luca. The kid had that kind of look that made teachers sigh and girls giggle. Messy blond hair that somehow always looked like he’d spent twenty minutes styling it. Blue eyes that rolled so hard they probably saw his own brain. A smile that could talk his way out of almost anything—except with his father. Not this time. Simon rubbed his temple, groaning softly. “Let me get this straight,” he said finally, fixing the pastor with a weary stare. “You’re yellin’ on my doorstep ‘cause my son—my idiot son—sold your niece a film he shouldn’t’ve. In the wrong box.” “Precisely!” the pastor barked, righteous indignation dripping from every syllable. Simon nodded slowly. “And you came all the way over here to… what? Condemn him to hell yourself?” The pastor spluttered, and Simon almost smiled. Almost. He straightened, his tone cooling. “I’ll talk to him. You’ve made your point. Now maybe take a breath before you pop a vein, yeah?” The pastor huffed, turning to leave, muttering something about decency and youth these days. Ari lingered a moment, her gaze flicking up at Simon’s with an apologetic sort of calm. “Sorry about him,” she said quietly. “He means well. Mostly.” Simon gave a short grunt that passed for understanding. “You didn’t do anythin’ wrong. But he,” he jabbed a thumb toward the ceiling, “sure as hell did.” As the pastor and Ari made their way back next door, Simon exhaled through his nose and turned toward the stairs. He didn’t bother yelling the kid’s name—Luca always knew when he was in trouble. The silence that settled over the house was the kind that came right before a storm. Simon started up the steps, boots heavy against the wood, voice low but sharp as he said, “Luca. Downstairs. Now.” And God help the boy

Simon Riley

Simon adjusted the straps of the tiny pink backpack slung over his shoulder, the one littered with cartoon stickers that he still couldn’t tell if he’d bought or if Lila had somehow convinced someone else to hand over. His daughter was perched on his hip, blonde hair tied up into a lopsided bun he’d attempted three times before finally settling on “good enough.” She’d insisted on wearing sparkly shoes that squeaked when she walked, though Simon wasn’t sure if anyone on base was ready for that level of chaos. He carried her past the gate, nodding at the guard who raised a brow but said nothing. Everyone knew Simon Riley as Ghost—tactical, quiet, unreadable. No one knew him as Dad, with a three-year-old squirming in his arms and tugging at his mask because she claimed she “couldn’t see his smile.” “Oi, careful,” Simon muttered, adjusting her grip before setting her down. Lila immediately took off a few steps ahead, squeaky shoes announcing her arrival far before Simon’s heavy boots did. She turned back with that firecracker grin of hers, hands on her hips like she already owned the bloody place. He exhaled slowly, following her. His mates had been pestering him for months about meeting the kid. He wasn’t sure if they realized what they were asking for. Lila wasn’t shy, nor was she the quiet type—she was the storm before the calm, all sass and sunshine, and she had him wrapped around her tiny finger. “Don’t run off, bug,” he called, voice low but carrying easily across the concrete. She ignored him, of course. Simon shook his head. This was either going to be brilliant, or it was going to be hell.

Simon Riley

Simon hated the drive to his ex-wife’s place. He hated the smug look she always had when she handed Luca over, like she was doing him some kind of favor, like she still thought he didn’t deserve to be a dad. Every time, Simon had to bite his tongue to keep from saying something he’d regret — not that he hadn’t already said plenty during the custody battle. That whole nightmare had been months of sleepless nights, court dates that went nowhere, and a judge who seemed to hang on to every word his ex said while barely looking at him. “Always deployed,” she’d spat more than once, like that was all he was. But he hadn’t been deployed. He’d been home. Taking care of Luca while she spent her nights out drinking with friends. Nobody in that courtroom cared to hear it. The only reason Simon could even stomach the situation now was because of the little boy sitting in the backseat of his truck. Luca. His son. His entire damn world. Simon glanced in the rearview mirror as he drove, and there Luca was — messy blonde hair sticking out every which way, those bright blue eyes staring dreamily out the window. His cheeks were rosy, as usual, and Simon felt that familiar tug in his chest. He deserved to see this every day, to wake up to him every morning. Weekend custody wasn’t enough — not for either of them. He’d get full custody one day. Somehow. He had to. When they got back to Simon’s place, he parked and came around to get Luca out of the car seat, scooping him up with ease. “Alright, little man,” Simon said, voice low and warm, a rare softness only Luca ever got to hear. “What d’you say we have a good day, yeah?” Inside, Simon’s house was quiet — always too quiet when Luca wasn’t there, but today it felt alive again. He set Luca down, watching as the toddler immediately toddled toward the living room where a scattering of toys sat from last weekend. Simon crouched down, tugging off his gloves and mask, setting them aside. It was always strange, being “Ghost” out there in the field, but just Simon here at home. Luca only knew this version of him — the dad who made pancakes shaped like dinosaurs and let him pick the cartoons. “Hungry?” Simon asked, standing and heading toward the kitchen. “I can make us something.” He already knew Luca’s answer would be some kind of babble about pancakes — it usually was. He set to work anyway, pulling out the pan and mixing batter from scratch, the way his mum used to. While the pancakes cooked, Simon kept an ear out for Luca’s happy giggles in the living room. Every sound made him smile a little more, a rare thing for a man like him. He’d been through hell, seen worse than he ever wanted to remember, but none of that scared him as much as the thought of losing Luca. When the food was ready, he plated it carefully, even going so far as to make one look like a bear face — two small circles for ears, one big one for the head. “Oi, look at that,” Simon called, leaning on the counter. “Think you can eat that bear before he eats you?”

Simon Riley

The quiet hum of the hospital room was almost drowned out by the pounding in Simon’s chest. He’d been in firefights, in situations where the air itself felt razor-sharp, but nothing compared to this. Nine months of waiting, planning, pacing the flat like a caged animal—and now, finally, he was here. His son. Luca. The name sat heavy but warm on his tongue. He couldn’t stop staring. That tiny, perfect little face, button nose scrunched up just slightly as if the newborn was already unimpressed with the world. His pout made Simon huff out the smallest, shaky laugh. Even the nurses had been cooing over him, saying he was one of the cutest babies they’d seen. Simon agreed, though he’d been convinced long before he ever laid eyes on him. He reached out with careful hands, calloused from years of work, but gentle now, cradling the small bundle swaddled in soft blue. The nursery back home was waiting, fully stocked—he’d gone overboard, he knew it. Bottle sterilizers, a monitor system that could probably rival military comms, strollers that cost more than his first car. And blankets. Christ, so many blankets. He didn’t care. Nothing would be too much for his boy. “Luca…” he murmured, the name rumbling low in his chest as he brushed a gloved thumb across the edge of the swaddle. His voice was soft, a tone he rarely used, almost reverent. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve been waitin’ for you.” Simon lowered himself into the stiff hospital chair, holding the baby closer, his mask tugged down around his neck for once. His whole life, he’d carried weight, shadows he couldn’t shake. But staring at Luca now, for the first time in years, Simon felt something else settle in his chest.

Simon

The gym smelled like sweat, chalk, and metal — familiar, grounding, but tonight it felt wrong. Too quiet. Too empty. Simon sat on the edge of the ring, gloved hands hanging between his knees, jaw tight as he watched the new medic fuss with his wraps. He didn’t even bother remembering the guy’s name. He wasn’t Luca. Luca had been perfect. Always there, always quiet, always so damn obedient it almost scared Simon. The way he’d follow him to his room after every fight, wide-eyed and tired but never resisting — just letting Simon take what he wanted. At first, it had been about the release, about having someone soft to come home to after spilling blood in the ring. But as weeks turned into months, Simon had noticed the change. The way Luca’s smile had dimmed, how his hands would tremble when he taped Simon’s wrists. How he’d flinch sometimes, like he wasn’t sure what Simon was going to do next. And then he was gone. No warning — just replaced. The manager’s voice still echoed in his head: “Luca’s with Cole now. You wore the boy down, Riley. You need someone who can keep up.” Simon had laughed it off at the time, but now, sitting here with this stranger brushing over his skin, watching Luca across the gym with Cole — some loud, cocky rookie with a grin too big for his face — Simon felt something ugly twist in his gut. Cole said something to Luca that made him laugh — really laugh, not that tired, forced little sound Simon had been used to — and Simon’s hands curled into fists so tight his knuckles popped inside the gloves. He didn’t just miss the routine. He missed him. The soft voice, the careful touch, the way Luca would look at him when no one else was watching. He hadn’t realized it until it was too late, but somewhere between the hotel rooms and the locker rooms, Luca had become more than just a body to him. Simon ripped the gloves off and stood, ignoring the medic calling after him. His boots thudded against the concrete floor as he crossed the gym, every step heavy with purpose. His gaze locked on Luca, the boy’s back turned as he bent to grab something from the med kit. Simon’s voice came out rough, lower than usual, carrying across the space. “Luca.” It wasn’t a request. It was a call — and Simon knew the boy would hear the weight in it.

Simon Riley

The steady hum of the hospital felt strangely distant to Simon Riley. It was as if the world outside had gone still, every sound muffled by the rush of blood in his ears and the thud of his heartbeat in his chest. He sat there in the dim light of the maternity ward, shoulders tense beneath the fabric of his hoodie, the familiar black mask still covering his face out of habit more than necessity. But his eyes — those usually cold, unreadable eyes — were soft now. Focused. On the tiny bundle cradled in his arms. Luca. The name felt strange yet perfect on his tongue, the weight of it heavy in the best way. The baby’s head was covered in the softest tufts of blonde curls — almost golden when the light hit them. His skin was smooth, warm against Simon’s calloused fingers as he carefully brushed a thumb over his cheek. And those eyes — bright, impossibly blue — blinked up at him with a kind of innocent wonder that Simon didn’t know how to handle. He’d seen a lot in his life, but this? This was new. This was fragile. Precious. He looked nothing like the wrinkled, bug-eyed newborns Simon remembered seeing in old photos or in passing at airports and grocery stores. Luca looked… perfect. Like something out of a dream. The nurses had said the same — one of them even cooed that he was “the cutest baby they’d ever seen.” Normally, Simon would’ve brushed off the comment with a grunt or a shrug. But not this time. This time, he’d felt it — that strange, fierce swell of pride that made his chest ache. His boy. His. He shifted slightly, the chair creaking beneath his weight as Luca gave a soft, kitten-like noise — halfway between a sigh and a whimper. Simon froze, instantly alert, though the baby quickly settled again. He exhaled a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, his gloved hand steadying the small bundle wrapped in white hospital blankets. It still didn’t feel real. Months of waiting, of planning, of second-guessing himself — and now, here he was, holding this impossibly small person who depended on him for everything. The surrogate had done her part, and now she was resting. The doctors had left. The nurses came and went with gentle smiles and whispered congratulations. And Simon… was left alone with the quiet sound of his son’s breathing. For once, that silence wasn’t unbearable. He leaned back, eyes tracing over the tiny features again — the button nose, the soft round cheeks, the way his lips parted slightly as he slept. Simon had fought wars, buried friends, built walls high enough to keep out the world… but one look at this little face, and every defense he’d ever had just fell apart. “Hey,” he murmured quietly, his voice rough — softer than it had ever been. He reached out, brushing one finger against the baby’s hand, and felt the faint squeeze of impossibly small fingers curling around his. It nearly broke him. “That’s right,” he breathed, a quiet smile tugging at the corner of his mouth beneath the mask. “You’re mine, little one. My boy.” He’d never thought he’d have this — not someone to fight for, not a family. But here he was, in a too-bright hospital room, holding the only thing that had ever made him feel truly alive. And as he looked down at Luca again — at the little blonde curls and the sky-colored eyes — Simon Riley, the man the world called Ghost, finally understood what it meant to have something worth protecting.

Simon Riley

John Price knew better. Christ, he always knew better. Knowing better had never once stopped him — not in combat, not with authority, and certainly not when it came to Luca Riley, grown now, far too much like his father in all the ways that made this a terrible idea. The old Riley house creaked softly beneath his weight as he scaled the drainpipe, fingers numb against weathered wood and cold metal. He moved on instinct, muscle memory guiding him upward like this was just another insertion — quiet, practiced, precise. He’d climbed this way more times than he cared to admit, always after dark, always with Simon Riley’s trust hanging by a fraying thread. Simon didn’t know. And if Simon ever did… Price didn’t finish that thought. The second-floor window was cracked open just enough, like it was waiting for him. Price nudged it wider and slipped inside, landing without a sound. The room greeted him with familiarity — the low glow of a bedside lamp, rumpled sheets, and that same scent that clung to Luca everywhere: clean soap, worn leather, and something unmistakably him. Luca sat cross-legged on the bed, phone abandoned in his hand the moment he noticed the movement. Nineteen years old and still somehow looked too young when caught off guard — messy hair falling into his eyes, loose t-shirt stretched thin across his shoulders, bare feet hooked into the blanket. Price shut the window behind him, locking it out of habit before turning fully to face him. His expression was unreadable — all control and restraint stretched thin — but his eyes gave him away. They dragged over Luca like a man counting the ways something could ruin him. “Evenin’, sweetheart,” he rumbled softly. He crossed the room in three strides. Luca barely had time to brace before strong hands caught his waist, lifting him clean off the mattress. Luca let out a sharp curse under his breath, fingers clutching instinctively at Price’s jacket, the fight draining out of him as quickly as it always did. “You can’t just—” The words died when Price kissed him. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frantic. It was the kind of kiss that carried weeks of restraint, of unanswered texts and missed chances — slow at first, then deeper, rougher around the edges, like Price had been starving and was finally allowed to eat. Luca melted into it despite himself. Price eased him back down onto the bed, crowding his space without crushing him, one hand braced beside Luca’s shoulder, the other lifting his chin with callused fingers. His thumb brushed along Luca’s jaw, lingering there, like he was grounding himself — or memorizing him all over again in case this was the last time. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The house was quiet. Too quiet. Every creak of the floorboards downstairs felt like a loaded gun. “You’ve been ignorin’ my texts,” Price finally murmured, voice low, rough, threaded with something dangerously close to concern. His forehead rested against Luca’s, breath warm. “That’s not like you.”

Simon Riley

It had been three weeks since Simon found him. Three weeks since he’d stepped out into his backyard with a cup of coffee, still half-asleep, only to find that—a bleeding, winged idiot tangled up in his rosebushes. He’d thought it was a hallucination at first. Or maybe sleep deprivation. But no, the wings were real. The feathers were real. The yelling that came from the mess of gold hair and broken limbs was very, very real. Now, three weeks later, Simon Riley had somehow become the reluctant caretaker of a fallen angel. Luca—because of course he had a name—was… something else entirely. Ethereal, beautiful, too bright for this world in every possible way, and somehow the most infuriating creature Simon had ever met. He didn’t understand anything about earth. Not electricity, not appliances, not people. The man had tried to wash dishes in the toilet once. And the day Simon caught him trying to put a fork in the toaster, he nearly had a heart attack. Simon sighed, dragging a hand down his face as he watched from the kitchen doorway. Luca was sitting cross-legged on the couch, one wing half-folded awkwardly, feathers catching the soft glow of the TV screen. He was watching cartoons—mouth slightly open, eyes wide—as if it were the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. Which, to be fair, it probably was. The living room looked like a storm had hit it. Feathers everywhere, a blanket draped over the lamp (because apparently “the light spirit” in it needed to be “warm”), and Simon’s old hoodie hanging off Luca’s too-slender frame, barely hiding the wing that couldn’t quite fold properly yet. “Christ…” Simon muttered under his breath, setting his mug down. “You’d think I adopted a bloody toddler.” Luca turned his head at the sound of Simon’s voice, eyes bright and unguarded in a way Simon had never seen in anyone before. It made something in his chest twist uncomfortably. He’d tried to tell himself to kick him out—God knows he should’ve—but the moment Luca had looked at him with those wide, otherworldly eyes and whispered, “Don’t make me go back,” Simon’s resolve had shattered. Now, he was stuck hiding a winged moron from his nosy neighbors and the world in general. Whenever they went out, he stuffed Luca into an oversized hoodie, wings awkwardly pressed down, the zipper stretched to its limits. The excuse of an “early Halloween costume” had worked once. Barely. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching as Luca reached toward the TV again, hand hovering dangerously close to the screen. “Don’t even think about it,” Simon warned, voice low and edged with that calm that came before he snapped.

Xiang

Xiang is a man with a very cold heart. He's never loved someone, always a loner. He was very wealthy with billions of dollars as he lives in a huge mansion. He hated people, with a very cold heart. Xiang had black hair, a very muscular build and green siren eyes. He was an attractive man. He was always serious. That was until, he met Seok. The boy managed to weezle his way into Xiangs heart. And Xiang has been hooked ever since. Xiang just couldn’t say no to that cute little innocent boy. And the best part? He works with the little cutie, so it’s pretty hard to not be with him. But, Xiang still tries to be cold and reserved when he’s with him. Xiang was doing paperwork, his eyes narrowed in concentration. That was, of course, until Seok came over, already finished with his work. He was bothering him like usual. And Xiang, trying to be his same cold self, simply nudged Seok away. Hoping he’d come back.. but he didn’t. He went to their other coworker, Lana. Xiangs eyes narrowed in jealousy. What the hell? Seok should only bother him. So, like any jealous man would, Xiang got up, grabbing Seok by the back of his hoodie. He yanked him back over, wrapping his arm around his shoulder and pulling him closer, letting Seok look at his work.

Ryomen Sukuna

Trying to impress Megumi

Jay

Jay definitely never thought that he’d be in this situation. Housing the literal prince. Taking care of him.. When the entire village thought he was a witch. They said Jay was studying ‘witch craft’. He wasn’t. Well.. he may be.. doesn’t matter! He definitely didn’t expect to be taking care of the goddamn runaway prince. The prince certainly was an energetic idiot, but Jay decided to take the idiot in and try to teach him proper manners and how to take care of himself. It wasn’t going well. He took him in, and it had been a couple weeks. It was pretty hard to hide the prince, since the royal guards were trying to find the prince. Jay was currently arranging some glass, he had assigned the prince the job of picking up stuff and putting it in the places they were supposed to be. He was hoping the prince was behaving.. He sighed quietly, arranging his glass.

Simon Riley

The rattle of keys down the stone corridor had become background noise to Simon Riley by now—just another reminder that time passed even when he felt as if he didn’t. He sat on the edge of the narrow cot, elbows on his knees, staring at the cracks in the floor like they might rearrange into answers if he glared hard enough. The cold bit through his worn clothes, the air damp, the iron cuffs around his wrists always a fraction too tight. Prison didn’t break him. But the silence had. Or rather, the silence from him. Luca. He forced the name from his mind, but it clung stubbornly, the same way Luca used to cling to his arm when he was cold. When he was scared. When he wanted Simon close—crown and consequences be damned. Simon scrubbed a hand over his face and exhaled. He hadn’t heard a word from the prince since the day the guards dragged him away. Not a letter. Not a sign. Not even the echo of a whisper passed between servants. Nothing. And still he loved him. Still he’d die for him. Still the memory of Luca’s voice haunted him more than these walls ever could. The footsteps stopped. A lock clicked. Riley lifted his head. A guard—one he didn’t recognize—stood in the doorway, visor down and posture stiff like he’d rather be anywhere else. “Riley,” he said, and his voice wavered slightly, as if even speaking to the disgraced knight was dangerous. “You’re… being released.” Simon stared. “…What?” “Released,” the guard repeated, swallowing hard. “Your bail’s been paid.” “That’s impossible.” Simon rose slowly, towering, his chains dragging. “My bail’s more than any man in the kingdom could—” “Paid,” the guard cut in sharply. “All of it.” Simon felt something cold coil in his chest. Someone wanted him out. Someone with enough coin to move mountains, let alone a condemned knight. But why? No one would risk angering the king and queen without good reason. Unless… No. He crushed the thought before it could form. Luca was locked behind gilded doors, surrounded by guards who would sooner drag him kicking and screaming back to his quarters than let him take a step toward the dungeons. Still, his heart pounded as he followed the guard out of the cell. Up the hallway. Past the heavier doors. Up the stairs where light grew from a thin sliver to a painful brightness. The outer office of the prison was cramped, dim, and filthy—dust coating the shelves, papers stacked in uneven piles, the smell of iron and old sweat clinging to the walls. But Simon didn’t notice any of it. Because someone was standing there. Someone out of place. Someone who should never have been able to make it this far without half the kingdom noticing. Messy blonde hair. A cloak too fine for these grimy floors. Blue eyes wide, unsure, scanning the room like he expected rats to jump him. His hands fidgeted. His boots were too clean. He didn’t belong here at all. Luca. The breath punched out of Simon’s lungs, his body going still, heavy, rooted. The prince stood like a painting ruined by the wrong frame—far too delicate for stone walls and shackles and despair. He looked up at Simon. And everything Simon had been holding back—anger, love, grief, longing—crashed through him in a single dizzying wave. Of all the reckless things Luca had ever done, this—sneaking out of the palace, paying millions, standing here in a filthy prison just to free him—was by far the most dangerous. The most foolish. The most unbearably Luca. God, Simon loved this idiot so much. “…You.” The word rasped out of him, rough from disuse, rougher from disbelief. His jaw clenched, confusion and something dangerously close to hope fighting in his expression. “What in God’s name are you doing here?”

Odysseus of Ithica

Breaking the news. (IM SOBBING.)

Simon Riley

The morning air was cool and crisp, a faint bite of autumn clinging to the breeze as Simon Riley stood outside Luca’s daycare, one gloved hand wrapped loosely around the strap of his rucksack. He wasn’t a man for crowded places, nor one who found joy in corralling groups of excitable toddlers, but when the notice went home announcing the daycare’s field trip, there hadn’t been a single question in his mind. There was no world in which he let his three-year-old son climb onto a bus and wander about some public place without him. The trip was to the city aquarium, a sprawling glass-fronted building by the harbor, its walls alive with shifting colors from the tanks inside. To Simon, it was just another noisy venue, but to Luca? A world of wonder. Fish, sharks, sea turtles—all the things his boy had only ever seen in picture books were waiting in those tanks. The daycare staff were bustling about, checking clipboards and counting heads. Children clutched lunch boxes and little backpacks with cartoon patterns, chattering and tugging at sleeves. Simon’s eyes, however, never left Luca. His son’s tiny hand was buried in his own, warm and trusting. Luca’s little backpack—shaped like some ridiculous animal—sat snug against his shoulders, and Simon adjusted the strap with a careful tug, making sure it wouldn’t slip loose. “Stay close,” he murmured quietly, voice low enough that only Luca could hear. Protective as he was, Simon wasn’t about to let his tone sharpen—this wasn’t a battlefield. But his instincts buzzed all the same. The sight of so many strangers, the open space, the fact that there were too many children running in too many directions—his gaze tracked it all. Still, when Luca looked up at him, eyes bright and eager, Simon forced a small nod. The bus ride was short, though every jolt and squeal of laughter set his jaw tighter. When they finally disembarked, the glass doors of the aquarium slid open, letting out a cool draft scented faintly of saltwater. Inside, lights were dimmed, the only glow coming from towering tanks where schools of fish darted in silver waves. The sound of water bubbling and the muffled exclamations of other visitors filled the air. Simon shifted his stance, crouching briefly to fix the little hood of Luca’s jacket before straightening to his full height again. His gaze swept the room—other parents, staff, tourists—and then fell back to the boy at his side. “All right,” he said quietly, a hand resting steady on Luca’s small shoulder as the group gathered at the entrance. “Show me what’s so bloody exciting about these fish, then.” He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but he’d follow that boy anywhere today—through glowing tunnels of jellyfish, past shark tanks, or into crowds he’d normally avoid. The world could do what it liked; Simon Riley was here, and his son wasn’t going anywhere without him.

Megumi

Megumi had lost count of how many times he’d told Yuji to slow down, to think before he threw himself headfirst into something reckless. It wasn’t that he expected Yuji to listen—he rarely did—but seeing him sprawled out on the infirmary cot with a bloody bandage wrapped around his arm still made frustration curl in Megumi’s chest. He stood at the bedside, arms folded tightly, but his eyes kept flicking down to the wound like if he looked away for too long, it might worsen. “You’re unbelievable,” Megumi muttered, the words sharp, though his tone didn’t quite match the bite. His jaw was tense, his brows drawn together in that familiar scowl, but his hands betrayed him—restless, twitching like he wanted to fuss but wasn’t sure how far he was allowed to go. Yuji was stubborn when it came to being cared for, and Megumi knew it. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from reaching out, fingers brushing against the edge of the bandage to check if it was too tight, if it was seeping through again. The warmth of Yuji’s skin made him pause. He wasn’t feverish, thank god. His shoulders eased a fraction, though his lips pressed into a thin line as he whispered more to himself than to Yuji, “You could’ve avoided this.” Megumi hated the way his chest tightened looking at him—hated how it felt like relief and irritation all tangled together. Yuji always pushed too far, burned too bright. And Megumi, against his better judgment, always ended up being the one to piece him back together. He sighed, pulling the stool closer and sitting at the edge of the cot, close enough that his knee brushed against Yuji’s. He leaned forward, elbows braced against his thighs, eyes steady on the other boy. “Next time, I’m not letting you out of my sight. You’re dangerous enough when you’re with me—when you’re alone, you’re a disaster.” His voice softened, though, betraying the weight behind the words. “I mean it, Yuji. You can’t keep scaring me like this.” For all the sharpness in his expression, the furrow in his brows, Megumi’s hand moved again, brushing gently against Yuji’s wrist before settling there. He wouldn’t admit how much comfort it gave him to feel that pulse beneath his fingers, steady and strong, proof that Yuji was still here.

Simon Riley

Simon should’ve known better. Hell, he did know better — he knew exactly how Luca was, all boundless energy and sharp grins, like someone had poured pure caffeine into a person and told him to have fun with it. But still, in some misguided attempt at “spending quality time together,” Simon had decided a gym date sounded like a good idea. Bad call. The gym was busy enough, clanging metal and grunts echoing off the concrete walls, but all Simon could focus on was Luca — his Luca — practically bouncing between stations like an unleashed puppy. The kid’s lean frame made him look delicate from afar, but Simon knew better. He’d seen what those wiry arms could do — like when they’d first met, Luca doing that insane one-armed handstand on a balance board, making Simon nearly drop the barbell he’d been pressing because what the hell. Now? He was doing dips between two benches, grinning like he was showing off. “Love, you’re gonna burn yourself out before we even get to the good stuff,” Simon rumbled, leaning one broad shoulder against a squat rack. He looked ridiculous standing there, massive and carved from stone, watching this human firecracker bounce around like a squirrel on its sixth espresso shot. Luca, of course, didn’t stop. Simon sighed, dragging a palm down his face before pushing off the rack and stalking over, boots heavy against the rubber mats. He wrapped a hand — carefully — around Luca’s wrist mid-dip and tugged him up. “You call this a date? You’re not even lettin’ me spot you. Not very romantic.” Luca was flushed, sweaty, hair sticking to his forehead — and of course, he still looked good enough to make Simon’s chest ache. “You realize most people come here to work out, not to bounce around like a bloody pinball?” Simon’s voice was dry, but there was no real bite to it. He was too soft on Luca for that, always had been. The corner of his mouth ticked up despite himself. “C’mere. You and me, bench press. Properly.” He gestured to an empty bench, already moving to load the bar for something Luca could actually manage. Simon wasn’t about to let his boyfriend get crushed under a barbell — but he was going to make him slow down, even if it meant physically pinning him to the bench to get him to stay still.

Simon Riley

The sun beat down hot and heavy on the training grounds, baking the dirt beneath Simon’s boots until the air shimmered faintly with heat. Sweat clung to the back of his neck beneath the stiff collar of his uniform, but he didn’t move, didn’t twitch, didn’t so much as breathe heavier than the lads lined up beside him. Seventeen years old, and yet standing shoulder-to-shoulder with men older, harder, and built like stone. He held his ground because that’s what was expected of him now. Discipline. Restraint. Soldier. Still, beneath the mask he wore for the world, his stomach twisted. Today was tap out day. The day families came to claim their soldiers, to pull them out of line and show them they weren’t forgotten. He watched out of the corner of his eye as mothers dashed across the field, fathers clapping sons on the back, sisters, brothers—entire families crashing into those rigid rows. It was chaos, but the kind he could see some of the lads craving, needing. Simon… Simon wasn’t sure what to expect. He had no family left, not really. Not the kind who would ever come here. There was only one person in the world who mattered to him. Luca. His Luca. The boy who was still stuck in the miserable halls of school, sitting through lessons Simon had abandoned for the military. The boy who had clutched his hand so tight the night Simon told him he was leaving, who had cried quietly against his shoulder while Simon promised he’d never be too far away. The boy who answered every late-night call, even when he was tired, even when homework sat forgotten on the desk, because he knew Simon needed it just as much as he did. But Luca had school today. He’d said so himself. Simon tried not to let that thought sit heavy on him, tried to ignore the pinch in his chest when another soldier down the line was swept off his feet by a younger sibling. Luca couldn’t just skip, right? And Simon would never hold it against him. He fixed his gaze forward, jaw tight, shoulders square. Better to expect nothing. Better to just— “Simon!” The voice ripped through the noise, clear, familiar, utterly impossible. His head snapped toward it, disbelief flooding him in an instant. Before he could blink, before he could even register the blur of messy hair and too-long limbs barreling toward him, he was tackled—slammed right out of formation and down onto the packed dirt. The air whooshed out of his lungs as his back hit the ground, his cap tumbling loose, dust kicking up around them. And sprawled across his chest, clinging onto him like he was scared to let go, was Luca. “Bloody hell, Luca..” He mumbled. For a moment, Simon didn’t breathe. Couldn’t. Shock gave way to something hotter, sharper, swelling inside his chest until it nearly broke him in half. Against every order drilled into his skull these last weeks, Simon’s arms moved on instinct—wrapping tight around the boy who meant more to him than anything else in the world. His Luca. His only family. All around, soldiers and their families cheered, laughed, shouted. But for Simon, it all went quiet. Just him, flat on his back in the dirt, and the boy who had just proven him wrong—again.

Henry

Henry prided himself on routine. His day ran like clockwork—science labs set up by seven, coffee by eight, first round of discipline slips ready by nine. The one thing that had unraveled all of that, predictably, was Luca Rossi. Months had passed since the young art teacher breezed into his carefully structured world, and Henry had been losing ground by the day. He told himself it was irritation, frustration, exasperation at Luca’s constant noise, his perpetually ruined clothes, his hopeless refusal to act like a proper professional. But the truth was Henry was smitten, and it was intolerable. That afternoon, the teacher’s lounge was nearly empty, just the low hum of the vending machine filling the silence. Luca was sprawled across the chair opposite him, nursing a soda, hair messier than ever, a smear of purple streaking his forearm. Henry had scolded him about it already, of course—dabbed at his skin with a napkin until the smear faded—but even as he did it, his heart had hammered against his ribs like he was twenty years old again. He’d been building toward this all day. The words sat heavy on his tongue, bitter and sweet all at once. Finally, with the kind of grim determination he usually reserved for dissecting frogs with seventh graders, he set his coffee down and spoke. “Rossi.” His tone was clipped, too formal, but that was the only way he knew how to survive this. He straightened his tie, then immediately regretted the nervous motion. “I’ve… given this thought. More thought than I’d care to admit. And it would seem that—” He cut himself off, grimacing at how stiff he sounded. He tried again, quieter now. “Would you consider… accompanying me to dinner? A proper dinner. Not cafeteria slop, not lukewarm coffee in here.” He gestured vaguely at the lounge. “An actual restaurant. With me. Just us.” His throat felt dry, and to cover the slip of vulnerability, he scowled and added quickly, “You can’t very well refuse—after all the trouble you’ve put me through, it’s the least you could do.” Despite the bite in his words, Henry’s ears burned red. He kept his gaze firmly on his folded hands, as though looking directly at Luca would undo what little composure he had left.

Henry

The morning at the station had the same rhythm it always did—papers rustling, the hum of stale coffee pots, the occasional crackle of the old intercom. Henry sat at his desk, eyes glazed over at the case files spread in front of him, but his mind wasn’t on work. Not even close. He’d been restless since dawn, his wife’s voice still ringing in his ears, sharp with suspicion. Where the hell do you keep going, Henry? He’d muttered something about overtime, about the cases piling up. She hadn’t bought it, but he hadn’t cared. Because he knew who he’d be seeing this morning. And right on cue, the door pushed open. Luca stepped in, still tugging on his uniform jacket, blonde hair a hopeless mess like he’d just rolled out of bed—probably had. His light blue eyes were narrowed, that permanent look of annoyance on his face as he made his way toward his locker. He didn’t even glance Henry’s way. Didn’t have to. Henry already felt his pulse kick, his chair screeching back before his brain had caught up with his legs. God, the kid looked good in uniform. Crisp blues hugging his frame, the badge catching the fluorescent lights. A little too young, a little too careless, and yet Henry’s attention locked on him like a moth to flame. He hated himself for it. He loved it more. He was across the room before he realized he’d even moved, hands shoved in his pockets like he had to stop them from reaching out. His mouth had gone dry, but that wolfish smirk was already tugging at his lips. “Morning, sunshine,” Henry drawled, voice low, like the words were just for Luca alone. The other officers milling about blurred into background noise. “You make that uniform look illegal.” His chest ached with something sharp—desire tangled with guilt—but Henry shoved it down the same way he shoved down whiskey: quick, careless, like it didn’t matter. Because every time Luca showed up like this, all Henry could think about was how good he’d felt the night before, how good he’d taste again if he just let himself lean in. And he wanted to. More than he should.

Simon

The gym smelled of chalk and sweat, the air thick with the echo of leather gloves slamming into bags and the grunts of men trying to make names for themselves. Cameras sometimes drifted in, journalists trying to catch a glimpse of him—Simon Riley, the boxer with a record that made opponents think twice before stepping into his ring. But today, Simon didn’t give a damn about the heavy bag or the sparring offers thrown his way. His eyes kept cutting toward the far wall, the spot where a small chair usually sat tucked against the corner, a clipboard balanced in the lap of the one person Simon actually looked forward to seeing. It was empty. No messy blonde head bent over paperwork, no furrowed brow of concentration, no tongue poking out at the corner of his mouth when he scribbled notes too quickly. Simon felt a knot form low in his stomach. He rolled his shoulders once, hard, like he could shrug off the unease, but it only settled deeper. Luca wasn’t late. The boy was never late—always there before Simon arrived, waiting with that wide-eyed smile, pretending not to flinch when Simon pressed a cold water bottle into his palm or ruffled his hair in passing. Simon’s boots carried him across the floor, the sound sharp on the polished concrete. “Oi,” he barked at one of the trainers, a kid wrapping his own hands, “you seen Luca?” The trainer just shrugged, eyes wide like a deer in headlights. Another muttered, “Think he was around earlier.” Simon narrowed his eyes, that mask of indifference he wore so well starting to crack at the edges. Useless, all of them. He stalked down the hall that led past the locker rooms, scanning every shadow, every corner, jaw tight. His fists flexed open and shut, not from a fight but from something worse—the thought of Luca, too soft for a place like this, wandering off into some trouble he couldn’t talk his way out of. The boy had a habit of bruising himself on table corners, for Christ’s sake. Then he heard it. A soft clatter, something metal dropped where it shouldn’t be. Around the corner, down by the supply closet. Simon’s long strides ate the distance until he stood in the doorway. And there he was. Luca sat on the floor with a med kit sprawled open beside him, cheeks flushed pink, hair sticking out in a halo of golden mess. A box of bandages had spilled across the tiles, a roll unspooled into his lap as if he’d been fighting it—and losing. He blinked up at Simon with those ridiculously blue eyes, caught like a child with his hand in the biscuit tin. Simon’s shoulders loosened, but his face stayed hard as stone. He filled the doorway, shadow falling over the boy. “Christ, baby boy,” Simon rumbled, voice low, controlled, but threaded with the kind of worry he refused to show anyone else. “Leave you alone five bloody minutes, and you’re on the floor.” He stepped inside, boots thudding against the linoleum, gaze locked on Luca as though daring him to argue. “What happened?”

Simon Riley

Simon Riley never thought quiet would bother him so much. He’d spent half his life craving it — silence after the gunfire, after the shouting, after the noise of war that followed him everywhere. Now, it was all he had. Too much of it. Retirement wasn’t what he expected. The house was too big, too clean, too still. The only sounds were the hum of the refrigerator, the creak of old floorboards, the occasional car outside. No radio chatter, no boots hitting mud, no voices he trusted with his life. Just him. Alone. He told himself he liked it that way — kept the routine. Wake up before dawn, run until his lungs burned, make black coffee, stare at the same four walls until the day felt used up enough to sleep again. But deep down, there was that quiet ache. The kind of ache he’d never admit to anyone. The kind that came from wanting something he didn’t even know how to ask for. He’d never told anyone the truth — not about the way he looked at men, not about the way he’d catch himself lingering too long on the rare one that caught his eye. The military wasn’t kind to people like him, and old habits died hard. It was easier to pretend he was just meant to be alone. That was what he told himself, at least — right up until that morning. He was at the store, basket in one hand, eyes scanning a list on his phone. Bread, eggs, coffee — the essentials. The mundane. He was halfway through the aisles when he heard it: the soft babble of a baby, high-pitched and sweet, echoing faintly down the row. Normally, he’d tune it out. Just background noise. But something about it tugged at him, drew his attention without reason. He turned his head — just a glance, at first — and froze. The sound came from a young man standing a few steps away in front of the baby food shelves. Couldn’t have been older than twenty-two. Messy blonde hair that looked like it had been through both a storm and a restless night, bright blue eyes a little hazy from lack of sleep. He wore a loose sweatshirt and old jeans, nothing special, but somehow he stood out like sunlight in a grey room. And in his arms — a baby. A tiny little boy with the same golden hair, a small hand tangled in his father’s strands, babbling contentedly. The young man smiled faintly down at him, the corner of his mouth tugging up in quiet amusement. Something hit Simon then — a strange warmth, a twist in his chest. He didn’t know what it was exactly. Curiosity, maybe. Or maybe something deeper he hadn’t felt in years. He found himself standing there a bit too long, basket forgotten at his side, watching the way the baby tugged the man’s hair and how gently the man let him. There was softness there. The kind Simon never thought he’d crave. He told himself to move on. Just get the coffee, go home. But instead, his feet carried him closer. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full,” Simon said finally, his voice low, that familiar gravel still lingering in it.

Simon Riley

The night air tasted different when you’d been gone too long. Simon felt it the moment his boots hit concrete outside the perimeter fence—cold, metallic, almost sharp against his teeth. Freedom always had a bite to it. He didn’t bother savoring it. He’d spent every day of those months inside thinking about only one place, one person. The only direction his feet were going was toward home. Well, toward Luca. Home and Luca had long since become the same damn thing. He moved like a shadow down the empty streets, hoodie pulled over his head, hands still stained with the remnants of his breakout—scratches along the knuckles, bruising across his palms. Didn’t matter. None of it mattered. He’d get patched up later. After he saw him. The bar incident came back to him in flashes—Luca rolling his eyes at that sleazy bastard’s comments, muttering something rude under his breath, looking two seconds from telling the guy to choke on his dentures. Luca didn’t need rescuing. Ever. The little shit was made of barbed wire and attitude. But Simon hadn’t liked the hand that slid too close to Luca’s waist. He hadn’t liked the way the old man’s eyes dragged over him. He hadn’t liked Luca’s forced sigh of “don’t start, Si—” The rest was a blur of adrenaline, fist, shattering glass, flashing lights, Luca yelling his name as they pulled him off the bastard. Simon hadn’t cared then. Didn’t care now. He’d do it again if he had to. Five years. They really thought he’d sit there five years. He huffed at the thought—more breath than laugh—as he turned onto Luca’s street. It was past one in the morning, quiet enough that he could hear his own heartbeat pounding with anticipation. He hadn’t seen Luca outside of visiting hours in months. Hadn’t touched him in longer. And now he was about to walk straight into his flat like he hadn’t just broken out of federal custody. Good. Let the world come and try to take him again. Luca’s building came into view, the familiar brick, the stupid broken porch light Luca always forgot to fix because he was “busy” (doing absolutely nothing, Simon was sure). Simon crossed the street quickly, hood low, checking instinctively for cameras out of habit rather than fear. His pulse picked up as he approached the door—adrenaline, relief, something tight and hot in his chest he didn’t have the patience to unpack. The door was locked. Of course it was. He picked it in under ten seconds. The hallway smelled the same—old wood, someone’s burnt dinner, cleaning detergent. Luca’s door was second on the left. Simon paused in front of it, staring at the faded numbers he’d memorized long before they ever dated. He lifted a hand, brushed his knuckles against the wood once, twice, then stopped. Knocking would wake him like a bomb going off. Breaking in would scare him. Both options amused Simon more than they should’ve. Instead, he lowered his hand to the loose spot near the handle, the one he’d discovered the first time Luca had locked him out “for being an ass.” He slipped the latch back with practiced ease. The apartment was dark, silent except for the low hum of the fridge and the faint sound of Luca breathing in the bedroom—Simon would pick out that sound anywhere. Navigating by memory, he stepped inside and closed the door behind him without a sound, letting his eyes adjust to the faint glow from the streetlamp bleeding through the curtains. He should have been exhausted. He’d been running, climbing, fighting for hours. His muscles trembled with fatigue. But standing here… In this space that smelled like Luca—citrus shampoo, cologne he always applied too much of, laundry he never folded—Simon felt more awake than he had in months. He walked toward the bedroom, slow, careful, savoring each step. When he reached the doorway, he leaned a shoulder against the frame and finally let himself look. Luca was there, curled on his side, messy blonde hair sticking up in seven directions, mouth parted just slightly, one arm thrown across the empty half of the bed like he’d been reaching for someone in his sleep. Simon’s throat

Simon Riley

The phone was buzzing faintly on the nightstand, the pale glow of the screen cutting through the dark of Simon’s apartment. He’d been half-asleep, sprawled across his bed, muscles sore from the evening’s training session. The muffled hum of the city outside did little to lull him; he was too wired, as usual, too used to movement and noise. Still, his hand reached lazily for the phone — a habit by now. Checking Luca’s location had become second nature, something to ease his mind before he finally let himself rest. He expected the little dot to be right where it always was — the cozy apartment a few blocks away, where Luca would be curled under his blanket like some house cat, probably drooling on his pillow. But when the map loaded, Simon’s brow creased immediately. The park. At nearly one in the bloody morning. He blinked once, then again, as if that would change it. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered under his breath, sitting up and rubbing a hand over his face. Maybe it was a glitch. Maybe Luca went out for a walk and forgot to turn it off. But Luca didn’t walk anywhere at this hour. The kid barely remembered to bring his wallet when they went out together, let alone go wandering in the dark. A quiet sigh left him. He pressed call. It rang twice before Luca picked up, and the moment Simon heard that slurred, sleepy tone on the other end, his stomach dropped. Luca was rambling — something about the stars, or how the slide was cold, or how he “didn’t mean to” drink so much. His words stumbled over one another, airy and incoherent. “Christ, Luca,” Simon hissed under his breath, already swinging his legs out of bed. “You’re at the bloody park? At this hour? Are you drunk?” He didn’t even wait for a straight answer — not that he’d get one, the way Luca was whining faintly about the ground spinning and how the slide was “too shiny.” Simon grabbed his hoodie, tugged it over his head, snatched his keys, and was out the door before the call even ended. The night air bit against his skin, the streets empty and dimly lit as he stalked down the sidewalk. He’d had to drag Luca out of a handful of ridiculous situations before — following stray cats, trying to feed pigeons, once even getting his hand stuck in a vending machine. But this? Wandering drunk into a park? That was a new level of trouble, even for him. By the time Simon reached the park, his expression was thunderous, jaw tight beneath the shadow of his hood. The place was deserted, save for the faint creak of the swings and the hum of the streetlights overhead. He followed the glowing blue dot on his screen until he spotted a small, familiar shape slumped over the slide. Luca. The idiot was curled up like a cat, cheek pressed to the cold metal, one arm dangling limply as he blinked slowly at nothing. His hair was a wild mess, his face soft and flushed from whatever he’d been drinking. Simon just stood there for a second, arms crossed, breath fogging in the chill air. The sight tugged something between exasperation and reluctant affection out of him. He loved the little fool more than he’d ever admit out loud — but god, sometimes he made Simon earn that love. He finally moved closer, boots crunching against the gravel. “Luca,” he called quietly, voice low and edged with that familiar rasp. “You better have one hell of an explanation for why I’m finding you passed out on a damn playground at one in the morning.” The words were stern, but beneath them, there was a thread of worry — one that wouldn’t go away until he got Luca off that slide and safely home.

Suguru Geto

Suguru sometimes wondered what he’d done in a past life to deserve this. A husband who was simultaneously the strongest sorcerer in existence and the biggest idiot to ever sit on a throne. Truly, fate had a cruel sense of humor. The council chamber was grand — sunlight spilling through stained glass, gold-threaded banners draping the walls, a wide marble table stretching down the center where ministers and generals sat stiffly in their chairs. The air was heavy with formality… or at least, it had been before Satoru Gojo decided to liven things up. Suguru sat at the head of the table, posture perfect, expression calm but sharp. His dark hair was tied back neatly, and he wore his ceremonial robes — black trimmed with deep violet, an elegant crown resting slightly askew on his head. Everything about him radiated composure. Everything except the man seated beside him. Satoru, his dear husband, lounged on his throne as if it were a lounge chair. His own crown was tilted ridiculously, his uniform loose and half-unbuttoned, a grin tugging at his lips as one of the guards said something serious. Whatever it was, Satoru found it hilarious — because he laughed. Loudly. Echoing, unrestrained laughter that filled the entire chamber and had the guards shifting awkwardly. Suguru’s fingers twitched against the table. Satoru leaned over to one of the soldiers standing near the door and playfully flicked his forehead, muttering something about how “even the guards look more tense than cursed spirits.” The soldier didn’t dare move, frozen in that rigid stance between terror and embarrassment. The ministers were whispering now, their discomfort tangible. And Suguru? He could feel the vein pulsing in his temple. “Your Majesty,” one of the advisors cleared his throat nervously, eyes darting between the two kings. “If we could… resume the discussion about the northern province—” “We would, if His Highness here could stop acting like a spoiled child,” Suguru interrupted smoothly, voice low and measured. His golden eyes cut toward Satoru, who was still trying to stifle his laughter behind a gloved hand. That was it. Suguru rose gracefully, the movement fluid but commanding. He stepped closer — his robes whispering against the marble floor — and reached down to grab a handful of Satoru’s snowy hair, tugging his head back just slightly so the taller man had no choice but to look up at him. “Enough,” Suguru murmured, voice barely above a whisper, yet it carried through the room with chilling authority. “You are a king, Satoru. Not a court jester.” The room went deathly quiet. The ministers watched in stunned silence, the guards frozen. Suguru released him after a moment, straightening his robes as though nothing had happened. He sighed quietly, a touch of affection breaking through the irritation as he looked down at the white-haired menace he somehow fell in love with. “Try,” Suguru said finally, his tone gentler, “to act like it. For at least the next ten minutes.” Then, with his usual grace, he returned to his seat — the embodiment of poise and authority once more — while the faintest smile threatened to betray him at the corner of his lips. It was hard to stay mad at Satoru for long. Impossible, even. But damn it, someone had to keep the strongest sorcerer in line. And if that someone was Suguru Geto — king, husband, and eternal babysitter — then so be it.

Simon Riley

Simon Riley didn’t expect the night to lead anywhere. Ari was a distraction — pretty enough, good for a laugh and a drink, someone whose number he saved because why not? He wasn’t looking for anything serious. He wasn’t looking for anything at all. Yet here he was, stepping into what she called her place, shoulders squared beneath his jacket as he scanned the dimly lit flat. It smelled faintly of cheap lemon cleaner and the kind of laundry detergent made for people who’d rather skip buying fabric softener to save a few quid. It was lived-in — but the décor didn’t match her. No neon throw pillows or glittery picture frames like the kind she’d pointed out in shop windows. What really didn’t match was the man sitting on the sofa. He was lounging like he owned the place — because apparently, he did. Lean, irritatingly gorgeous in that model-off-duty way, with messy blonde hair and dark blue eyes that flicked up lazily as the door opened. Like he wasn’t shocked. Like he saw guys Ari dragged home every week. “Luca!” Ari snapped, voice sharp, venom laced through every syllable. Patronizing. “Do you mind? Maybe go to your room or something?” Ah. That explained it. Ex husband. Or so she had spat earlier — with enough bitterness to curdle milk. Simon’s jaw ticked beneath the edge of his mask-like calm. He’d never been great with… complicated situations. Exes lurking around like bad pennies? That was top of the list. He didn’t say anything at first — just stood his ground, boots planted firm, eyeing the bloke who definitely didn’t look like the pathetic loser she’d painted. Quite the opposite. If anyone looked like the loser here, it was Simon for believing her half-truths. The tension felt bizarrely domestic — like he’d walked straight into the middle of an argument they’d been having long before he ever existed. Ari was already huffing off toward the kitchen, muttering curses under her breath, leaving Simon suspended awkwardly in the entryway. Brilliant. He cleared his throat once, low and unimpressed, eyes still locked on the man she’d once promised forever to. “So,” he finally said, voice deep, accent roughened around the edges, “you must be Luca.”

Simon Riley

Simon hadn’t done something like this in years—hell, maybe ever. He’d stood in plenty of doorways before: some with a weapon in hand, some with blood still drying on his gloves. But never with flowers. Never with chocolates. Never with his heart hammering like a bloody teenager’s. He stood outside Luca’s flat with a bouquet clutched a little too tightly in his calloused fingers, the plastic wrapping crinkling every time he shifted his weight. The flowers were a mess of soft whites and blush pinks—he’d stared at them far too long in the shop, trying to remember what the hell people gave to someone they… liked. Properly liked. The chocolates were tucked under his arm, ribbon neat, corners sharp. It felt ridiculous, this whole thing, but Simon didn’t care. He’d been seeing Luca for a while now—though “seeing” might’ve been a stretch, if you asked Luca. The boy called them hangouts. Casual, friendly, simple. But to Simon, those little coffee runs and lazy park walks were the brightest parts of his week. And lately, he’d caught himself wanting more. Wanting something real. So here he was, outside Luca’s door, boots heavy against the hallway tile, wearing a black hoodie and jeans that made him look—mercifully—less like Ghost, more like Simon. He knocked once, twice, then rubbed a hand down the back of his neck as he waited. When the door finally creaked open, Simon’s chest gave a subtle, traitorous lurch. Luca stood there in an oversized hoodie that looked like it could swallow him whole, the hem brushing his bare thighs. His blonde hair was a mess—soft, sleep-ruffled—and his eyeliner smudged just enough to make him look unfairly endearing. Simon’s voice caught in his throat for a moment before he managed a low, awkward, “Hey.” He cleared his throat, forcing himself to meet those sleepy blue eyes. “Didn’t wake you, did I?” He held up the flowers like some kind of peace offering, the corner of his mouth tugging into something between a nervous smile and a grimace. “Uh… these are for you.” A pause. “And the chocolates. Figured I’d… bring somethin’ nice.” There was a stiffness to him, like he didn’t quite know what to do with his own hands. But his eyes—dark, watchful, softened in a way they rarely did—lingered on Luca’s face, trying to read him. “I, uh…” He exhaled through his nose, tongue darting briefly across his teeth. “Wanted to talk to you. Nothin’ bad, promise. Just—somethin’ important.”

Simon Riley

The barracks had long since settled into its nightly quiet, the usual grumbling and chatter fading into the muffled sounds of sleep. Simon sat on the edge of his bunk, mask in place, elbows braced against his knees as his gloved hands held a familiar scrap of fabric. Luca’s hoodie. Too small to ever fit his frame, the sleeves barely stretching past his forearm if he tried, but that didn’t matter. The scent lingered, faint but distinct—soap, antiseptic, and something softer he couldn’t name. He lifted it closer, pressing the cloth against the bridge of his mask as if it could bleed comfort into his restless chest. He should’ve felt shame. Should’ve tossed it back where it belonged, returned the dog-eared notebooks, the pen he’d slipped off his desk one evening, the mug Luca always reached for in the mess. But he didn’t. Couldn’t. Each piece was his—quiet trophies he never flaunted, never mentioned. Just kept. Held close. Simon’s gaze drifted across the dim barracks to Luca’s bunk. The medic lay curled on his side, strands of hair half-shadowing his face, the steady rhythm of his breathing a low anchor in the hush of the room. Fragile. Too fragile for this line of work, he thought, though he’d seen Luca’s hands steady under fire, patching open wounds with an almost frightening calm. Still, Simon always found himself looming near—on patrol, in firefights, standing guard with his rifle while Luca worked bent over the bleeding. No one laid a hand on him unless it was necessary. Not while Ghost was there. His gloved thumb brushed over the hoodie’s hem, calloused fingertips catching on a loose thread. He leaned back, shoulders pressing into the thin mattress, eyes never leaving Luca’s sleeping form. Protectiveness dug deep, sharp as bone, but beneath it, something darker twisted—something that had him hoarding scraps of the medic’s life, keeping them tucked away like precious contraband.

Simon ghost riley

Simon Ghost Riley is a cold, quiet man. He worked in the military, that was basically his life. That was until, his son, Luca, was born. Simon turned into a whole different man, he was no longer cold and closed off, he was.. a father now. He was now protective and possessive over Luca, only being sweet to him. Luca’s a teenager now, 16 to be exact, Simon feels like he was just a tiny toddler yesterday, and now he’s a goddamn teenager. After retiring from the military, Simon decided to be a police officer. It didn’t seem too hard. That was until the sheriff assigned him to be a ‘school cop’. Which basically just means go to a school and secure the area, make sure the schools safe. Simon thought it was lame— a word he learned from Luca— but of course, he was more interested when he heard what school he was going to be patrolling. Luca’s high school. He didn’t exactly tell Luca.. Wouldn’t be too bad to just, yknow, watch him. Yeah, he was a tad bit nosy. He doesn’t really know anything about Luca’s friends, so of course he was a bit curious. A lot curious. Simon was in his office, lazily fiddling with his police vest. He was pretty bored. He had no paperwork. So basically he just has to sit in here on his phone. Occasionally talking to teachers who come in to bother him. “Boring ass day..” He mumbled to himself, scribbling on some paperwork.

Megumi Fushiguro

Megumi had never thought much about marriage — at least, not for himself. It had always been one of those far-off, normal-people milestones that didn’t seem like it had anything to do with him. But Yuji wasn’t exactly “normal-people,” and somehow, that made the thought feel less absurd. Still terrifying, sure, but not absurd. The ring felt heavy in his pocket as he knelt on the dorm room floor, trying to keep his heartbeat from thudding loud enough for Yuji to hear. He’d been saving for weeks, cutting corners where he could, taking the discount the ring seller had offered him with an awkward, mumbled thanks. It wasn’t anything flashy — just a simple, sturdy band with a single stone, understated but perfect. Yuji wouldn’t care about fancy anyway. Actually getting him to notice what was happening, though, was proving harder than buying the damn thing. “Yuji,” Megumi said, tone sharper than he meant it to be. Yuji was sitting cross-legged on his bed, completely absorbed in some ridiculous video on his phone, shoulders shaking with quiet laughter. Megumi had spent a ridiculous amount of time figuring out how to get the idiot’s ring size without him noticing — which had involved more nights than he cared to count of holding Yuji’s hand just long enough to measure before the pink-haired menace rolled over in his sleep — and now, Yuji couldn’t even be bothered to look up? Megumi exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing his expression back to neutral. He stayed where he was, one knee on the floor, thumb brushing over the small velvet box in his pocket. “Yuji,” he tried again, quieter this time, almost a growl. Nothing. Megumi pressed his lips into a thin line. Fine. If Yuji was going to be oblivious, he’d just have to be a little more direct. He pulled the box from his pocket and flicked it open, staring at the way the light caught the ring. His pulse jumped, but he stayed where he was, kneeling in the middle of the room like an idiot, waiting. “Will you—” he started, but the words caught in his throat. He glanced at Yuji, still giggling at whatever was on his phone, and felt irritation war with the faintest edge of panic. “Yuji,” Megumi said again, louder this time. His voice had that sharp edge that usually meant someone was about to get yelled at. If Yuji didn’t look up soon, Megumi might just throw the damn ring at him and call it a day.

Nobara

Nobara sighed grumpily, looking down at the crying kid. Her and her boyfriend, Yuji, were on babysitting duty. It was just one of Yuji’s family members kids. Nobara didn’t care who the kid was, she just was making sure Yuji didn’t do something stupid. She was supervising. The kids mother has left them a whole list of things to do to with the kid. Nobara was a couple seconds away from throwing the goddamn paper away. “Seriously? We have to ‘massage’ this kids back?” Nobara asked in disbelief, looking down at the crying and whining kid. She was pretty annoyed, she glanced back up at Yuji. God, she hated kids.

Megumi Fushiguro

Megumi never liked crowds. He didn’t like the chatter, the pointless noise, the way people leaned into each other too easily. It all grated on him. Normally, he would’ve kept walking, kept his eyes down and avoided everything like he always did. But Yuji’s voice cut through the buzz, warm and impossible to ignore. He found him leaning against one of the stone walls near the training grounds, laughter spilling from him like it had nowhere else to go. And of course—of course—there was someone else standing with him. Some girl Megumi didn’t recognize, her face tilted up toward Yuji, smiling too brightly, leaning too close. She reached out, her hand brushing his arm as if she had every right to. Megumi froze. The annoyance that rose in his chest wasn’t subtle—it wasn’t even close. It curled hot and sharp, sinking into his gut. He knew Yuji. Knew that Yuji didn’t think much of moments like this, that he was just being himself—open, kind, friendly to a fault. That was the problem. Yuji didn’t notice how people looked at him. He didn’t notice when someone tried to get closer, when the line blurred. But Megumi noticed. He noticed everything. He shifted his weight, hands jammed into his pockets, gaze narrowing until he could feel the muscles in his jaw ache from clenching too tightly. Students brushed past him, some giving him wary glances, like they could feel the irritation radiating off him. He didn’t care. His eyes were locked on Yuji—on the way his grin stretched wide, on how his whole body seemed to lean into his words. The girl laughed again, and that sound scraped along Megumi’s nerves. He could already imagine the way Yuji would defend it if he said anything—she’s just being nice, Megumi, it’s nothing like that. And maybe Yuji would be right. Maybe it was nothing. But that didn’t stop the possessiveness that roared in his chest, demanding to be heard. Yuji finally glanced up, and for the briefest moment, their eyes met. Megumi didn’t bother to mask it—didn’t bother to school his expression into something neutral. Let Yuji see. Let him know exactly what he thought about this whole situation.

Jay

Jay sighed as he walked up to the front door of the mansion that housed his ex girlfriend, Hailey. They had broken up a couple days ago because Hailey cheated on him. It was certainly a.. shock? He didn’t really expect it… But then again, how could he trust a spoiled brat? She was a sleazy gold digger, just out for his money. So, why was he back at her parents house? He was here for Hailey’s little brother. Why was he here for him? He’s the most goddamn attractive person jays ever seen. He’s never spoke to him. He’s just seen him around the house when he’s hung out with Hailey, playing video games, etc. He doesn’t even know this boys name and he’s already infatuated. Jay knows he’s most definitely older than him. He’s probably still in high school. But that doesn’t seem to stop Jay. He needs to know more about this cutie.. So, here Jay is, knocking on the front door of the mansion. He was hoping Hailey’s little brother was gonna answer the door, but alas, it was Hailey. And she certainly didn’t look happy, she took a breath, and then started to lecture him. But before she could continue, Jay spoke. “I’m not here for you. I’m here for your little brother.”

Megumi Fushiguro

Morning crept in far too fast. Pale sunlight filtered through the thin curtains, spilling across the floorboards and the bed where Megumi lay rigid, staring up at the ceiling. His head felt foggy, heavy with fragments of memory he couldn’t quite string together without his chest tightening. The room itself said enough—clothes scattered carelessly, shoes tipped on their sides, a trail of proof he didn’t want to acknowledge. Beside him, Yuji slept soundly, turned half on his stomach, cheek pressed into the pillow. His skin was littered with evidence Megumi couldn’t ignore—faint bruises along his collarbone, the red smudges of teeth and lips marking his throat. Every one of them was his doing. Megumi’s nails still tingled when he realized the faint scratches down Yuji’s back had come from him too. He swallowed hard, dragging his eyes away, but they betrayed him, flicking back to Yuji again. The idiot even looked peaceful like this, as if nothing had happened, as if last night hadn’t crossed a line Megumi swore they’d never toe. His best friend. His only constant. He should feel guilt—he did feel guilt—but tangled with it was something else, a warmth that curled in his chest and made him restless. Megumi sat up slowly, elbows braced on his knees, running a hand through his messy hair. The air was still heavy with the faint scent of sweat and skin, reminders that wouldn’t fade easily. He didn’t know how to face Yuji when he woke up. He didn’t even know how to face himself. And yet, as Yuji stirred faintly, mumbling something incoherent in his sleep, Megumi found himself lingering. Watching. Wondering if this was the start of something—or the mistake that would ruin them both.

Simon Riley

Simon hadn’t meant to linger in the little trinket shop as long as he had. It was a cramped place—dusty sunlight cutting across shelves of useless wooden carvings and glass baubles—yet it was one of the few places in the village where people didn’t look at him like he was a stain on the floor. Here, he could breathe. Here, he could pretend he was just a man browsing nonsense instead of the banished knight who had become a rumor overnight. He rolled a smooth piece of carved amber between his fingers, barely focusing on it. His mind wandered… same path it always wandered. Luca’s laugh. Luca’s hands fisted in the front of his tunic that night, whispering his name like it was sacred. Luca’s face when the guards burst in. The panic. The way he begged—begged—for his father to spare Simon’s life. And then… nothing. Silence. Months of it. Simon swallowed, jaw tight beneath the fabric of the hood he wore. The hood hid very little—everyone still recognized him—but it at least kept them from trying to speak to him. Most days, he preferred to be left alone with the ache he’d built a routine around. But today, the quiet snapped like a rope. A sudden rush of noise swept through the street outside. Gasps. Footsteps. Shouts. Then— “Is it really him?!” “Your Highness, look this way!” Cameras. A burst of flashing light. People crowding so quickly they nearly jammed the door of the shop. Simon froze. No. It couldn’t be— But then he heard it: a knight’s barked order. Sharp. Harsh. Nothing like the calm, steady tone Luca had always trusted him to answer. “Step back! Give the prince some space— move!” Simon moved before thinking, slipping out of the shop and into the bustling crowd. Bodies pressed around him, but he pushed through them effortlessly—years of battle and armor-making him solid as stone. And then he saw him. Luca. Messy blond hair, but dull. Blue eyes, but unfocused. His posture slumped, leaning heavily into the grip of a knight who held his arm far too tight—like Luca needed him to stay upright. Like he’d fall if the man let go. The boy didn’t even seem aware of the flashing cameras around him. His lips parted slightly, breath shallow, pupils wrong. Wrong in a way that made Simon’s blood go cold. They drugged him. The new knight—broad, armored, carrying the kingdom’s crest—looked down at Luca with a possessiveness that made Simon’s fists curl. Too close. Too comfortable. Too familiar with a prince who wasn’t even standing straight. And the knight kept tugging him through the street, ignoring how Luca stumbled over his own boots. Simon’s heartbeat roared in his ears. He didn’t think—didn’t need to. These months of distance, pain, and banishment all funneled into a single, unshakable point. He stepped directly into the knight’s path. The knight nearly crashed into him. Simon didn’t flinch. “Let him go,” Simon said, voice low, steady, and dangerous. “Now.”

Simon Ghost Riley

The morning had been slow, the kind Simon had grown used to in this sleepy town. A couple of regulars returned some blender parts, a teenager tried to scam a return on a clearly worn hoodie. Simon handled it all with the same calm efficiency. Not much ruffled him anymore. Not after everything. He was wiping down the counter when the man walked in. Simon clocked him immediately — not because he was loud or made a scene, but because he wasn’t. He moved like someone who didn’t want to be noticed, holding a cardboard box to his chest with a kind of reverence. There was a stillness about him. A weight. And something else. Simon didn’t recognize him at first. Just another customer, maybe. But then he saw what was in the box — a pale blue onesie folded neatly on top. Beneath it, a small stuffed giraffe. Baby items. And suddenly it all clicked. He’d heard the story last week, in passing. Small town gossip with a heavy heart behind it. Single dad. Baby gone. Sudden. Quiet. No details, just sad looks and lowered voices. People didn’t know what to do with that kind of grief. The man stepped up to the counter and placed the box down. Simon met his eyes. And froze. They were exhausted. Red-rimmed. Beautiful, somehow — like the sea after a storm, grey and deep and wild with unshed pain. And yet he still managed a nod, polite, respectful. Like he didn’t want to make this anyone else’s burden. Simon reached for the receipt and cleared his throat. “Hey,” he said quietly. His voice came out softer than he meant. “You, uh… want to return these?”

Simon Riley

Simon leaned against the frame of his front door, arms crossed over his chest, the familiar weight of his stare locked on the apartment across the hall. It was ridiculous, he knew that—thirty-two years old, a decorated soldier, and yet he’d turned into some nosy bastard playing watchdog over his boyfriend, the twenty-year-old model who’d somehow tangled himself into Simon’s life. The click of Luca’s door had Simon straightening, sharp eyes narrowing. The lad was always darting off somewhere—shoots, castings, god knows what else—and Simon never could stop himself from prying. He watched the way Luca tugged his jacket on, that mess of blonde hair falling into his eyes, like he hadn’t a care in the bloody world. “Where you off to this time?” Simon’s voice cut across the hallway, low and rough, but laced with faint amusement he couldn’t bother to hide. He shifted his weight, one shoulder pressed lazily against the wall, though his gaze stayed locked on Luca like he was studying him for answers. It wasn’t distrust—not really. Simon just wanted to know. Wanted to keep track. Maybe it was protective instinct, maybe it was just him being a bastard, but he couldn’t let Luca slip out of sight without asking. Boyfriend or not, the kid had a way of stirring something in him that Simon couldn’t shut off. “Not sneaking off without tellin’ me, are you, love?” he added, tilting his head, a hint of a smirk ghosting over his lips beneath the shadow of his mask.

John Price

The car ride had been quiet—too quiet for John’s liking. He’d driven through half of the Italian countryside with Luca beside him, legs stretched lazily on the dashboard, humming under his breath like the carefree lad he was, but every so often, his husband would toss him that pointed glance. The kind that said, “I told you so before we even started this.” John knew better, of course. He wasn’t a stranger to tough crowds or interrogation; he’d handled worse across boardrooms and battlefields alike. But meeting Luca’s family? That was a different beast entirely. Because this wasn’t just a family—it was an Italian family. Large, loud, and, by the sound of it, fiercely protective over their youngest son. Luca had warned him, countless times, that his parents could be… a bit much. John, in his infinite stubbornness, had shrugged it off. How bad could it be? As it turned out, “a little overbearing” was the understatement of the bloody year. John hadn’t even made it up the steps before the front door flew open and half the family spilled out into the courtyard like a welcoming committee from hell. Voices rose all at once in rapid-fire Italian, questions he couldn’t keep up with, and before John could properly greet anyone, Luca’s mother had crushed him in a hug that nearly knocked the wind out of his lungs. Behind her, Luca’s father stood with arms crossed, expression stony, and brothers—he counted at least three—looked him over like he was some sort of unwelcome intruder. John adjusted his cap, straightening his posture the way a soldier might before inspection. He wasn’t intimidated, not really—but the sheer volume of it all had him second-guessing his decision. Still, he wasn’t about to let Luca see him sweat. Not when the boy was leaning casually against the wall, arms folded, smirking like he knew exactly how this was going to go. “Right,” John muttered under his breath, clearing his throat as he forced a smile. “Best behavior, then.” And as Luca’s mother looped her arm through his and started dragging him inside while rattling off a stream of Italian too quick to translate, John knew he was in for the longest evening of his life.

Myra

Myra hadn’t exactly envisioned this day playing out like this. She always thought when the moment came, it’d be terrifying enough without the chaos of her life piled on top of it. She was supposed to have a partner, someone to hold her hand, to tell her everything would be okay. Instead, the man who had promised forever had bolted the moment the word pregnant had slipped past her lips. That memory still burned like salt in a wound—but she had learned to push it away. Because in the absence of the father, her baby brother had stepped up. Luca. The pain-in-the-ass, cocky, twenty-year-old model who had vowed from the start that he’d be “the most awesome uncle ever.” She used to roll her eyes at him, but truthfully? He’d been her lifeline through all of this. So, naturally, when her water broke—sudden and shocking, soaking through her sweats in a way she would’ve found comical if it weren’t her—the first number she dialed was Luca’s. He’d answered with a groggy, mumbled hello, clearly still tangled in sheets, and Myra swore she heard the thud of his body hitting the floor when she blurted out: “My water broke.” He didn’t even ask if she was sure. Didn’t even think to argue. Within minutes, he was at her side, hair still a mess from sleep, fumbling with his keys and swearing under his breath as he helped her to the car. But of course, because he was Luca, and because she was stubbornly her, the two of them had made what would later be the dumbest decision in labor history: stopping for coffee on the way to the hospital. “If I’m going to deal with you screaming bloody murder for hours, I’m getting a latte,” he’d joked, though his wide-eyed panic had betrayed him. Myra had agreed, mostly because she was too wound up not to cling to some semblance of normalcy. The barista had stared at her with a mix of horror and awe, as if they couldn’t believe a very-pregnant, very-contracted woman was ordering a frappuccino. She couldn’t believe it herself. Now, though, hours later, the humor of it all was starting to fade as the contractions hit harder, sharper. Myra was curled in the hospital bed, one hand clutching the rail and the other pressed to her stomach, sweat dampening her temples. The sterile smell of the room, the steady beep of the monitor, the shuffle of nurses’ shoes—it all made her head spin. But every time her gaze shifted to the corner, there he was. Luca. Her ridiculous, loyal, half-asleep brother. He was slumped sideways in one of those awful vinyl chairs, head tilted back, half-empty coffee cup cradled against his chest like it was the most precious thing in the world. His hair fell into his face, lips parted in sleep, the picture of exhaustion—and yet, he was here. That thought alone steadied her. Because no matter how terrifying this was, no matter how much pain coursed through her body, Myra knew one thing with absolute certainty: she wasn’t doing this alone. “Luca,” she whispered hoarsely, shifting against the pillows as another contraction crept up her spine, threatening to crush her ribs. Her voice was tight, strained, but there was something else there too—a flicker of relief. Because she knew the second his eyes cracked open, he’d be at her side, just like he promised. The most annoying, ridiculous, awesome uncle-to-be she could ever ask for.

Simon Riley

Simon Riley hadn’t liked the idea from the start. He’d driven Luca to the damn appointment with his son groaning and muttering the entire way, blonde hair sticking up in every direction like he’d just rolled out of bed, pale blue eyes glaring through the rearview mirror every time Simon told him he’d survive. “You’ll live, kid,” he’d said, like any father would. But now—watching the aftermath—he wasn’t so sure who needed the reassurance more. Luca was slumped in the recovery chair, cheeks flushed, head lolling as the anesthesia worked its way through him. Messy strands of blonde hair had fallen into his face, almost hiding those eyes that looked far too big and innocent for Simon’s peace of mind. Gauze poked out awkwardly from his mouth, and he was making little noises that were equal parts pathetic and—dammit—adorable. Simon hovered like a storm cloud. He was a soldier, a man who could keep his cool in firefights, but watching doctors and nurses poke at his boy made his skin crawl. His arms were crossed over his chest, jaw set hard beneath the mask he still wore out of habit, eyes narrowing every time someone in scrubs so much as walked too close. “You’re sure you didn’t give him too much?” Simon’s voice was sharp, directed at the nurse fussing with paperwork. “Or too little. He looks half out of it—what’d you put in him?” “Mr. Riley, everything went perfectly fine,” the nurse assured, trying not to shrink beneath the weight of his stare. Simon didn’t look convinced. His gaze flicked back to Luca, who shifted weakly, mumbling something that was lost against the gauze. The sight cracked something in Simon’s chest, and he immediately crouched down beside the chair, gloved hand brushing the stray hair out of Luca’s eyes. “Bloody hell, look at you,” he murmured, voice dropping into something gentler. “A right mess.” He fussed over him relentlessly—adjusting the blanket, making sure the IV line wasn’t tugging, straightening Luca’s posture even though the boy kept slumping right back down. Every tiny detail caught his attention, every twitch or sigh pulling his focus. When another doctor came over to check the chart, Simon’s head snapped up like a guard dog. “And you—what exactly did you do in there? You’re telling me you didn’t poke or prod at anything else? He’s sixteen, not a bloody lab rat.” His tone was low, dangerous, though his hand never stopped its gentle motion through Luca’s hair. To Simon Riley, this wasn’t just some routine dental procedure. This was his boy. And he’d be damned if he let anyone forget it.

Simon Riley

Simon noticed the empty seat before the first bell even rang. Luca’s chair—half tilted back, the one with marker doodles running down the leg and a folded note wedged underneath—sat empty, sunlight cutting across it in a way that made Simon’s chest twist. It was stupid. Luca missed school sometimes, right? Everyone did. But Luca never did. The blonde idiot showed up even when he was half-dead from a cold, whining about how Simon should’ve carried his backpack for him because his arms were “too fragile for labor.” Now? Nothing. No call. No text. No warning. Simon had checked his phone so many times his thumb was sore from refreshing. Nothing. No “overslept” text, no stupid selfie of Luca wrapped in a blanket claiming to be dying. Just silence. And Luca wasn’t silent. Not ever. By third period, Simon wasn’t even pretending to pay attention. His leg bounced beneath the desk, pencil tapping out a rhythm of irritation against the side of his notebook. The teacher had called his name twice, but the only thing Simon could focus on was the gnawing thought that something wasn’t right. Because Luca wasn’t like other people. He didn’t just vanish. He had this habit of orbiting Simon—showing up at his locker, at his house, leaning over his shoulder at lunch with a grin that could melt glass. And now that he wasn’t there, Simon realized how much the world dulled without him. By the time the final bell rang, Simon’s jaw hurt from how tightly he’d been clenching it. His backpack was slung over one shoulder, heavy with books he wouldn’t read. He didn’t even bother stopping by his locker. He went straight for the bike racks, pulling his hood up against the wind as he started toward Luca’s neighborhood. It wasn’t far. He’d walked it a thousand times—sometimes late at night, when his parents were too drunk to notice him leaving. Sometimes just because Luca said he couldn’t sleep, and Simon couldn’t say no to that voice. He cut through the side streets, gravel crunching under his shoes. Each step made his heart beat faster. He told himself he was just checking in. Just making sure the idiot hadn’t, like, fallen asleep on the roof again or something equally stupid. But there was this pit in his stomach. That feeling he always got before things went bad at home. When Luca wasn’t in sight—no bike out front, no sign of him in the window—Simon stopped at the gate and hesitated. His fingers curled around the metal bar. He took a slow breath, trying to steady himself. His voice came out low, rough, barely above a whisper. “Luca? You in there?” No answer. The silence pressed down hard enough to make his pulse stutter. He glanced toward the side of the house, debating whether to climb the fence, eyes narrowing as he muttered under his breath. “If you’re screwin’ with me, blondie, I swear…” But his voice trailed off. Because deep down, he wasn’t angry. He was scared.

Simon Riley

The low hum of the television filled the otherwise quiet flat, blue light flickering across the worn leather couch. Simon sat slouched against it, one arm draped lazily over the back, the other balancing a half-finished bottle of beer against his thigh. It was one of those rare nights when everything felt still — no missions, no calls, no chaos. Just the dull chatter of some documentary and the warmth of home. He’d been relaxed. The flat smelled faintly of the aftershave he’d used earlier. The window was cracked just enough for the sound of rain to creep in — the rhythmic tapping against the glass, steady and soothing. Then, of course, his bloody phone had to ruin it. The shrill buzz cut through the quiet, vibrating against the wooden coffee table. Simon groaned under his breath, head tipping back against the couch before he reached out and grabbed it. Unknown number — or rather, not one he recognized immediately. But the second he heard the voice on the other end, he knew. The tone was all too familiar — polite but strained, the kind of voice that only ever called when something had gone sideways. “Mr. Riley? This is Principal Hargreeves from Ridgeview High. I’m sorry to bother you at this hour, but… I’m afraid Luca’s in a bit of trouble again. We’d appreciate it if you could come down and have a word.” There was a long pause. Simon didn’t even answer at first — just closed his eyes and let his head fall forward into one hand, thumb and forefinger pressing hard against the bridge of his nose. He could practically feel his patience fraying. “Of course he is,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than the principal. He gave a short sigh and finally responded, his voice low and rough from disuse. “Right. Be there in fifteen.” He hung up before the man could say anything else. For a moment, Simon just sat there, staring blankly at the black screen of his phone. The corners of his mouth twitched — not quite a smile, not quite a scowl. That boy… He’d said it a hundred times: Luca’s a damn handful. Bright as hell when he wanted to be, but trouble seemed to follow him like a shadow. He still remembered the night they’d met — Luca sneaking into that dingy little bar with his mates, barely managing to look old enough to be there. Simon had been sitting at the counter, minding his own business, when the kid had gotten caught by the owner for using a fake ID that looked like it had been printed off a cereal box. He’d been loud, defensive, cheeks flushed with cheap beer, trying to talk his way out of it. And somehow, Simon — against all logic — had stepped in to smooth things over. The rest, as they said, was history. Now here he was, years older, allegedly wiser, dragging himself off the couch because his boyfriend — his adult, supposedly mature boyfriend — couldn’t stay out of trouble for a single school day. He grabbed his jacket from the back of the couch, pulling it on with a low grunt. The fabric still smelled faintly of gun oil and smoke, the ghost of his work never quite leaving him. His keys clinked in his hand as he locked the door behind him, the sound echoing down the hall. The rain hadn’t let up. It slicked the pavement outside in a glossy sheen, reflecting the amber streetlights. He pulled his hood up and shoved his hands into his pockets, walking briskly toward the truck parked out front. By the time he slid into the driver’s seat, he’d already started rehearsing what he’d say — though he knew it’d all fly out the window the moment he saw Luca’s face. It always did. The kid had that look — the one that made it hard to stay mad, no matter how hard Simon tried. He started the engine, the low growl filling the cabin. The wipers swept across the glass, clearing the rain just enough to see the glowing lights of the school in the distance. He exhaled through his nose, muttering to himself as he pulled out onto the empty road. “Bloody idiot…” Still, there was the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Because as much as Luca tested his patience — he still loved him to bits.

John Price

John Price had led men through firefights, through hell itself, and come out standing. But nothing—not ambushes, not near-death scrapes—had prepared him for the sight of a two-year-old perched on his living room floor with a juice box in hand, staring up at him like he was some sort of puzzle to be solved. Luca Riley was quiet, far too quiet for a toddler in Price’s opinion. Most kids his age were little tornados, tearing through whatever space they were in. But this one… he was observant. Watchful. The kind of watchfulness that reminded John far too much of his father. That same sharp blue-eyed stare, like he was sizing up the world and deciding what it was worth. Messy blonde hair stuck out in tufts that refused to be tamed no matter how many times Price had smoothed it down. The kid was adorable—there was no denying that—but God help the man, adorable didn’t mean easy. Luca was sweet when he wanted to be, sure, but Price had already learned that the boy had a streak of stubbornness in him too. He’d refused his nap outright, sitting on the rug with his stuffed animal clenched tight in one tiny fist, and Price had quickly realized there was no winning that battle. You could negotiate with armed militants easier than you could talk sense into a toddler. John leaned against the doorframe, arms folded over his chest, studying him. “Your dad owes me a pint for this, mate,” he muttered under his breath, though Luca didn’t so much as blink in response. Instead, the boy stuck the straw back into his juice box and went on watching him, silent as ever. It was strange, Price thought, this contrast—Simon Riley, hard-edged soldier, a man who could vanish into the shadows like a ghost, having a boy like this. But the more time John spent around Luca, the more it made sense. Luca wasn’t loud or needy. He didn’t demand attention. He just… existed in his little world, quietly absorbing everything. And if Price was being honest, there was something refreshing about that. Still, babysitting was no small task. There were toys scattered across the rug, cartoons playing softly in the background, and a small mountain of crackers piled on a plate that Luca had nibbled at and promptly abandoned. Price rubbed a hand over his beard, exhaling through his nose. He’d rather be on patrol in the middle of the desert than try to figure out what exactly went through a two-year-old’s mind. “Alright, lad,” John finally said, pushing off the frame and lowering himself onto the couch nearby. “What’s it gonna be, eh? Storytime? Building blocks? Or are you just gonna sit there and judge me with those eyes of yours all night?” Luca blinked slowly, then tilted his head, almost like he was considering the options. John chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. The kid really was Simon’s through and through. And so there it was—babysitting duty for Captain John Price, decorated soldier and leader of men, brought low by a toddler with messy hair and a stare sharp enough to rival his father’s.

Simon Riley

Simon sat in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel and the other resting lightly over the car seat in the back, as if the simple gesture could shield his boy from the world. Luca was bundled up in his soft little blanket, head wobbling slightly as he chewed absently on the edge of a toy. Six months old, and already Simon couldn’t imagine a single day without him. That button nose, those ridiculous freckles that dotted across his chubby cheeks—it was almost unfair how perfect the kid was. Too perfect for this world, Simon thought, jaw tightening at the memory of why they were even heading out this morning. The doctor’s office. Vaccines. Needles. Simon’s grip on the steering wheel flexed. He trusted his own hands, his own judgement, but strangers poking at his son? That made something primal stir low in his chest. He hated the idea of anyone else handling Luca, even for a moment. The thought of him crying from the sting of a needle, looking up at Simon like he’d let it happen—it already made him feel half-sick. He exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to unclench. It was for Luca’s health. He knew that. Shots were necessary, protection in the long run. Still, he couldn’t help the way his gaze kept flicking to the rearview mirror, catching sight of those bright blue eyes blinking up at the ceiling, blissfully unaware of what was waiting. “Don’t worry, son,” Simon muttered, voice gruff but low, just for the two of them. “I’ll be right there. No one’s touchin’ you longer than they need to. I promise.” He pulled into the clinic’s car park, heart thudding harder than he’d ever admit over something as simple as a check-up. Pulling the keys from the ignition, Simon stepped out and went to unbuckle the carrier, cradling Luca against his chest the second he was free. The baby fit perfectly against him, warm, soft, smelling faintly of milk and that baby lotion Simon had finally gotten used to using. Adjusting his mask and tugging the hood lower over his face, Simon made his way to the entrance, Luca’s little head resting against his shoulder. His arms tightened protectively around the small bundle. The second those needles came out, Simon already knew he’d have to fight every instinct not to snarl at the doctor. “Let’s get this over with, hm?” he whispered against Luca’s hair, pushing open the clinic door.

Simon Riley

The flight had been long, and the train ride even longer. By the time Simon stepped off into Luca’s little hometown—some tucked-away village in northern Italy surrounded by green hills and crumbling stone houses—he already felt like a bear that had wandered into a flock of pigeons. Everyone was small, fast-talking, expressive. And him? A bloody monolith in black. He didn’t exactly blend in. Everywhere they went, eyes followed. Old women leaned out of windows with flower boxes, whispering down to each other as they hung out their washing. Groups of men sitting outside cafés went quiet when he passed, their gazes flicking between Luca’s familiar face and the towering, masked Brit beside him. The words weren’t hard to translate—grande, gigante, militare—Simon caught bits of it. He could feel the stares burning holes in his back. Luca, of course, was all sunshine about it. The younger man waved to everyone like he’d never left, that messy black hair of his bouncing as he called out greetings in rapid Italian. He was glowing, bright-eyed, alive in a way Simon hadn’t seen since they first met at that little London café—the day Luca had pointed to the menu with no idea what “flat white” meant and Simon had been too damn soft to watch him struggle through ordering. That soft streak hadn’t gone anywhere, clearly. He’d learned English with Simon, lived with him, wrecked his flat more times than Simon could count—and somehow, now they were here. And here was chaos. The moment they stepped through the door of the Rossi household, Simon was hit with a blur of movement and sound. Luca’s mother was small, round-faced, and loud in the way only an Italian mother could be. His father, taller but still shorter than Simon’s shoulder, gave him a stern up-and-down that could’ve stripped paint. Then there was the brother—Antonio, if Simon recalled correctly—who greeted Luca by grabbing him in a headlock and shoving him into the hallway wall with a thunk that made Simon instinctively take a step forward. “È normale!” the father barked at Simon, waving a hand dismissively. “Brother… love!” Right. Brotherly love. Luca was laughing, even as he tried to pry himself free, so Simon stayed put. But his shoulders stayed tight, muscles tense under his jacket as he followed them into the dining room. Now, an hour later, Simon sat at the table like some specimen under a microscope. A bowl of pasta in front of him—homemade, smelled incredible—but untouched, because Luca’s parents hadn’t stopped talking since they sat down. Luca was still busy somewhere in the other room with his siblings, laughing and half-yelling in Italian while Simon endured the… interrogation. The mother leaned forward, her English thick with an accent but full of intent. “So… Simon, yes? You… you work… in London?” “Yes, ma’am.” His voice was low, careful. “Security.” “Ah! Sicurezza!” she exclaimed, turning to her husband. “See? I tell you, he is bodyguard! Maybe polizia! Big man.” Simon cleared his throat. “Not police. Just… private work.” The father squinted. “You… shoot people?” Christ. “Not— not unless I have to.” That earned him an unreadable silence. Then the mother smiled again, though her eyes were sharp. “You take care of our Luca, yes? He… he is fragile. Sensitive boy. You must be gentle.” Simon almost smiled behind the mask. Almost. “He’s tougher than you think,” he murmured, glancing toward the living room where Luca’s laugh carried through the house. “But aye. I take care of him.” The mother seemed to consider that, nodding slowly. The father still didn’t look convinced. “You… love him?” he asked bluntly. Simon froze for a moment—not because he didn’t know the answer, but because saying it out loud in this kitchen, surrounded by family photos and the smell of tomatoes and garlic, felt oddly sacred. He finally nodded once. “I do.” The mother’s expression softened. The father grunted. And in the next room, Luca’s laughter turned into another yelp as his brother shouted something gleeful in Italian—followed by a thud that probably meant he’d been tackled ag

John Price

It had started out as a favor — at least, that’s what John kept telling himself. Helping the poor lad out, making sure he didn’t get lost or starve in a city that’d chew him up and spit him out before he even learned to cross the bloody street properly. That was all it was supposed to be. But then there was Luca. A twenty-year-old kid with the sort of face that belonged on magazine covers — which, apparently, was the whole reason he’d been dragged to London in the first place. “For more opportunities,” they said. John had seen enough of those slick-talking managers and agencies to know what that meant: overworked, underfed, and utterly alone in a place that didn’t care to slow down for anyone, least of all a boy who barely spoke the language. Now, Luca was sitting cross-legged on John’s worn leather sofa, eyes wide and curious as a deer’s, watching the television like it was some kind of strange magic. Big brown eyes, all soft and round, freckles scattered across his nose like someone had flicked a paintbrush at him. His black hair was a wild mess — as if he’d just rolled out of bed and decided that was enough styling for the day. John leaned in the doorway of the kitchen, arms folded over his chest, the faint hum of the kettle behind him. He’d been watching the boy for a while now, half expecting him to do something ridiculous — touch the hot stovetop, maybe, or try to microwave a fork again. The last time he’d left him alone, Luca nearly flooded the bathroom trying to work out the washing machine. “Oi, lad,” John called finally, voice deep and steady, though there was a hint of amusement under it. “You figure out how to turn on the telly properly yet, or are you still guessin’ which button does what?”

Simon Riley

Simon sat slouched in the godawful plastic chair that had been his throne for the past two days, elbows on his knees, mask tugged down to hang loosely under his chin. The steady, sterile hum of machines filled the room — the heart monitor, the IV pump, the air vent whispering overhead — all of it blending into one maddening background noise that Simon couldn’t tune out no matter how hard he tried. Hospitals always smelled the same: antiseptic and despair. Even the strongest bastard couldn’t hold out against that for long. Luca, on the other hand, seemed to defy the entire atmosphere. He was the only person Simon had ever met who could make a hospital gown look runway-ready. The bloody thing hung off one shoulder in a way that Simon was convinced had to be intentional. His messy blond hair was still perfect somehow, even with the IV line taped along his arm. He’d strutted around earlier, pacing the room like it was a Paris catwalk, rolling his eyes every time a nurse tried to get him to sit down. Simon had tried to scold him, tell him to stop acting like an idiot — but even now, watching him lying there, sipping apple juice from a little plastic cup, he couldn’t bring himself to be angry. Not when he looked so small under those white sheets. Stage four. The words hadn’t even registered the first time the doctor said them. Simon had just stared, waiting for the punchline, for something else — anything else — but there wasn’t one. The world had gone quiet in that sterile office, the smell of latex gloves and printer ink hanging heavy between them. Luca had only rolled his eyes, muttered, “Told you I shouldn’t have gone. Doctors always find something wrong.” Simon hadn’t known whether to laugh or cry. Now, hours later, he was still trying to process it. He glanced at Luca again. The kid — Christ, twenty-two, barely even started living — looked at ease. His head was tilted slightly toward the window, where weak evening light spilled in through half-closed blinds, casting stripes across his freckled skin. He looked like he belonged anywhere but here. Simon’s jaw clenched beneath the mask as he thought about what Luca had said earlier. “I’m not doing chemo, Si. I’d rather die than be bald.” Now he sat there, watching him fight sleep, the faint lines of exhaustion starting to show under those blue eyes. There was an empty juice cup on the tray table, and Simon reached for it absently, setting it aside so it wouldn’t spill. His rough hand brushed over the back of Luca’s, just a fleeting touch — gentle, deliberate. “Should’ve let me bring you a real drink,” Simon murmured, his voice low and coarse, the trace of a smile ghosting under it. “Bet the apple juice doesn’t quite do it for you, huh?” He’d seen death before. More times than he could count. But this — this was different. He could handle the blood, the chaos, the noise of war. What he couldn’t handle was this. The quiet waiting. The way the man he loved — this too-young, too-beautiful bastard with the sharp tongue and soft laugh — was fading in front of him, and still managing to smile through it. Simon rubbed at his eyes, the weight of it all pressing down like a brick wall. He wanted to be strong for Luca. He had to be. But right now, he just felt… tired. He looked up again, studying the way the fading sunlight hit Luca’s face, making his lashes glow gold. The kid didn’t even look sick. It didn’t seem fair. He reached out again, thumb brushing over Luca’s wrist, feeling the faint pulse beneath the skin. It grounded him — that small, fragile beat.

Simon Riley

The afternoon had been still — the kind of quiet Simon had learned to treasure. The park hummed with soft life: wind pushing through the trees, the rhythmic creak of the swing set, Lola’s little voice narrating whatever elaborate game she’d constructed for herself in the sandbox. He sat back on the bench, his hand loosely resting on Luca’s thigh, thumb brushing idle circles against the fabric of his jeans. Luca’s head was tucked against his shoulder, calm for once, his sharp tongue quieted by the sun and the warmth of Simon’s side. Moments like this were rare — soft, domestic peace he never thought he’d get to have. Simon tilted his head slightly, breathing in the faint smell of Luca’s cologne and hair product. His chest felt heavy with something that wasn’t quite exhaustion, but the weight of having everything that mattered. He watched Lola from the corner of his eye — her tiny frame crouched over the sand, carefully arranging sticks and leaves into some kind of intricate pattern only she understood. He smiled faintly to himself. That was his girl. Brilliant, strange, and utterly absorbed in her own world. He didn’t even notice the shift at first — the way the chatter around the playground faltered. He only caught it when he heard the sharp, cruel voice of a child cut through the air. “You’re a weirdo! You don’t even play right!” Simon’s head snapped up. His eyes immediately found the source — a small, round-faced boy pointing at Lola, his tone dripping with mockery. Lola froze mid-motion, confusion etched across her delicate features. She didn’t understand why the boy was shouting. She only blinked, her hands hovering uncertainly above her creation. Simon felt his pulse tick up, his jaw clenching, but before he could even move— A soft sound came from beside him. A sharp inhale. Then the weight against his shoulder disappeared. Luca was already on his feet. Simon cursed under his breath, pushing up just as Luca’s voice rose — sharp, furious, and cutting through the calm like glass. “Excuse me? You’re laughing?” Simon’s heart sank when he saw where Luca was looking — the boy’s mother, who was laughing, an awful, dismissive sound that made something cold coil in his chest. The woman didn’t even try to stop her kid. Just smiled that smug, careless smile people get when they think they’re better. Luca’s voice carried, venom lacing every word. “Maybe if you taught your dirt-eating, fat failure of a child some basic decency, he wouldn’t be out here picking on five-year-olds!” The woman’s eyes went wide, mouth falling open in outrage, but Luca wasn’t done — Simon could see the heat rising in his boyfriend’s cheeks, that wild look flashing in his eyes. “Luca,” Simon muttered lowly, stepping forward — already feeling the weight of curious eyes turning toward them. “Love, that’s enough.” But Luca wasn’t hearing him. His hands were gesturing sharply, words spilling out like gunfire, quick and brutal. Simon sighed — deep, steady, the kind that came from a man trying very, very hard to keep his patience. He reached out and caught Luca’s arm mid-swing before it escalated any further. His grip was firm but not rough, his tone even when he spoke next, though his eyes were narrowed under the edge of his mask. “Alright, sweetheart,” he murmured, leaning in slightly, his voice meant only for Luca now. “That’s our cue, yeah? Let’s go.” Lola stood nearby, silent, her wide blue eyes flicking between them and the playground. She didn’t look scared — just puzzled, like she couldn’t quite decode what had happened. Simon crouched down briefly, brushing his hand through her hair with a soft hum. “S’alright, bug. Nothin’ you did wrong.” He gave her a small smile before glancing up at Luca again. And God, Luca looked furious — cheeks flushed, lips pressed into a hard line, tiny frame practically shaking as Simon kept a hand on his lower back. “Deep breaths, yeah?” Simon said quietly, though there was a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Before you tell that woman her next generation’s a lost cause.”

Simon Riley

Simon Riley had stood through firefights without his hands shaking. Had stared down men twice his size and never flinched. But sitting in the front row of a cramped little community theater, knees bouncing, hands already sore from clapping before the music had even fully stopped? That was new. The stage lights dimmed, the last notes of tinny piano fading out as a line of tiny ballerinas froze in what could generously be called a final pose. Pink tutus everywhere. Tiny arms stuck out at odd angles. One girl spun too far and wobbled like she might topple over. Another forgot entirely what she was meant to be doing and just… waved. And right there in the middle of it all—Mila. Simon’s chest felt like it might burst. His little girl. Blonde hair brushing her shoulders, tiara slightly crooked from all the very serious effort she’d put into every step. She’d stumbled, sure—nearly tripped over her own feet once, swayed like a newborn foal another time—but she’d done it with absolute dedication. Like every wobble was intentional. Like the world depended on it. The moment the music ended, Simon was on his feet. “That’s my girl!” he called out, loud enough that a few parents turned and smiled knowingly. He didn’t care. He clapped harder than anyone else in the room, whistled sharply, even gave an unrestrained woo! like he was back in a stadium instead of a ballet recital. His palms stung. Worth it. Mila looked proud. She should be proud. When the kids finally shuffled offstage in a mess of pink and glitter, Simon didn’t wait. He grabbed the little bouquet he’d bought—pink flowers, of course—and moved fast, boots almost too loud against the floor as he headed for the side of the stage. The adrenaline from watching her was still buzzing through him, heart pounding like he’d just survived something big. As soon as he spotted her, his face softened completely. “There she is,” he murmured, crouching down to her level, blue eyes bright behind the skull mask he’d pushed up just enough so she could see his smile. He held the flowers out toward her, hands gentle, careful. “My beautiful ballerina.”

Simon Riley

Simon Riley never thought he’d see the day he was sitting cross-legged on a brightly colored mat, surrounded by plastic toys and a semi-circle of women comparing diaper brands like it was battlefield intel. Parenting class. Christ. He adjusted Finn on his hip, the eight-month-old drooling happily on the collar of the first clean-ish onesie Simon had found that morning. Camouflage pattern. Of course. Across from him—right where Simon had made damn sure there was space—sat Luca. Only other bloke in the room. Like fate had a twisted sense of humor. Luca had Miley balanced in his lap, six months old and dressed like she was attending a royal garden party instead of a community center parenting class. Soft pink dress, tiny socks, and a ridiculous little tiara clipped into her fine hair. Simon snorted under his breath, shifting Finn when the kid grabbed for his dog tags. Luca was beautiful. Messy blonde hair, perpetually sleepy eyes, though still wide with curiosity or cluelessness. Usually cluelessness. He’s far too sweet for his own good, that idiot. “Y’know,” Simon muttered, leaning closer to Luca so the instructor’s cheerful voice faded into background noise, “pretty sure she’s the best dressed one ‘ere. Makes the rest of us look like shite parents.” His tone was rough, gravelly, but there was something easy in it—comfortable. Familiar. He’d stopped pretending he didn’t enjoy these classes weeks ago. Not because of the breathing exercises or the lectures about emotional bonding—fuck all that—but because Luca was there. Finn kicked his legs, letting out a loud, happy noise. Simon looked down at him, then back at Luca with a sideways glance. “He tried eatin’ a wet wipe earlier,” he added flatly. “Didn’t stop him. Figured he’d learn.”

Simon Riley

Simon Riley had survived warzones quieter than this damn hallway. He’d barely stepped two feet into the common area before he spotted them—a cluster of recruits and junior staff pretending not to stare at his son. Luca was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, bored out of his mind as he waited for his father to finish some last-minute briefing nonsense. The boy looked irritatingly angelic without even trying—messy blond hair that fell into his eyes, jawline sharp enough to cut glass, and a relaxed slouch that screamed trouble. Sixteen, and already the kind of stupidly attractive that made Simon want to put him in a burlap sack. He grunted under his breath. Should’ve just had an ugly kid. Would’ve made my life easier. Price had told him to bring Luca since the briefing wasn’t supposed to take long, and the base wasn’t hot today. Easy day, in and out. Babysitting his almost-man of a son for an hour didn’t seem too hard. Until Soap’s daughter walked in. She was fifteen, bright-eyed, confident, and unfortunately very aware of Luca’s existence the moment she saw him. Simon watched it happen in real time—the pause, the head tilt, the slow, curious smile. And Luca, the idiot, didn’t even notice. Or maybe he did. With Luca, it was hard to tell. Bloody hell, Simon thought, jaw tightening behind his mask. He stood a few paces away, pretending to flip through his notes but actually keeping both eyes locked on his son like a sniper tracking a target. Soap’s daughter drifted a little closer, pretending to look for something on a nearby table. Her gaze kept flicking back toward Luca, who was now idly tapping his foot, bored, unaware—or worse, acting unaware. Simon pinched the bridge of his nose. This was why he hated bringing the boy anywhere. Civilians, soldiers, teenagers, adults—it didn’t matter. People gravitated toward Luca like flies to honey. And it drove Simon insane. He took a step forward, clearing his throat in that very specific, threatening dad-tone that meant don’t even think about it. Luca finally glanced up. Bright blue eyes. That same damned casual posture. And now? Now he was finally realizing someone was staring at him. Soap’s daughter gave a shy little wave. Simon felt a migraine forming. “Luca,” he called, voice low but sharp enough to snap a man in half, “get over ’ere. Now.”

Simon Riley

The wind bit through layers of gear as Simon trudged through the snow, boots sinking into the soft crunch with each step. His breath curled in the cold air, mask damp from hours of wear, the quiet chatter of his team somewhere ahead as they made their way back toward the waiting van. The mission was done—clean, quick, no mess left behind. That was when he heard it. A thin, trembling whine, barely audible over the wind. He froze mid-step, head tilting just slightly, listening again. Another small cry—pitiful, desperate—coming from off to his right. His brow furrowed beneath the balaclava, and without a word, he veered from the trail, boots crunching over to a half-buried log at the treeline. He crouched down, gloved hands pushing snow aside until a bundle of fur came into view. A tiny Australian shepherd pup, mottled with grey and copper, his coat wet and matted from the snow. He shivered violently, little paws curling in on themselves, ice crusted along his whiskers. Someone had just… left him here. Simon’s chest tightened in a way he wasn’t expecting. He slipped a hand beneath the pup, feeling how light he was—far too light. The little thing whimpered, pressing into his warmth instinctively. “Bloody hell…” he muttered under his breath, glancing back toward his team before tucking him against his chest, inside his jacket. Simon straightened, eyes scanning the snow around them once more before heading back toward the van, boots moving faster now. The mission was over—but apparently, he’d just found himself a new one.

Shoko

Shoko knew being the nurse at jujitsu tech would have some challenges. But she didn’t mind, she was used to it at this point. With many different patients, mostly Gojo complaining of paper cuts. God she hated that idiot. She didn’t get many patients since most of the sorcerers were either too proud to go to a measly nurse or they could heal their own wounds. Shoko was sitting at her desk, looking over some reports. Until she heard the voice of Yuji, he walked in, holding the wrist of a grumpy teenager, Megumi. “He hurt himself!” Yuji stated, pulling Megumi’s wrist up. There was a stick that literally was through his whole hand. Shoko stared at them, getting back up. “How did you do that..?” She asked, trying to be professional, even though she was pretty surprised.

Simon Riley

The barracks were never built for comfort—hard cots, the smell of steel and sweat heavy in the air, boots lined in strict rows along the floor. But for Simon, it wasn’t so suffocating anymore. Not with Luca there. His bunk had become a small anchor point in the chaos, a place Simon gravitated to even when he told himself he wouldn’t. He sat there now, mask pushed up just enough to rest his mouth against Luca’s shoulder, his massive frame practically engulfing the medic where he sat. Luca was perched on the edge of his bunk, scribbling something into a notebook—supply lists, notes, whatever medics bothered with at this hour. Simon didn’t care. He just wanted the weight of him close, the quiet sound of his pen scratching over paper, the warmth that bled through thin fatigues into his skin. Simon’s arm was looped firmly around Luca’s waist, a possessive anchor that dared anyone to try and pull him away. He didn’t bother hiding it anymore. Not from the lads, not from anyone. If Luca walked into the mess, Simon was behind him. If Luca dropped into the dirt to patch someone up mid-firefight, Simon’s boots were already planted at his back, rifle raised, daring the world to come closer. It had become second nature, like breathing. On the nights like this, when the quiet gave them a rare scrap of peace, Simon let himself slip. His hand would find the hem of Luca’s shirt, curling in just enough to feel the warmth of skin beneath, the steady thrum of life he guarded so jealously. The hoodie he’d once stolen lay folded at the edge of his bunk—no longer contraband, but something he was allowed, something Luca sometimes even teased him about when he caught Simon burying his face in it. Occasionally, he’d ask Luca what something meant on his notes. Liked hearing his voice. It calmed him down. He didn’t need more. Just this—his boy within reach, close enough that the rest of the world couldn’t touch him.

Jay

Jay never really thought of himself as ‘feminine’ he was a mafia boss. Feminine was something he was far from. He was a ruthless mafia boss who kills people without a second thought. He’s cold, reserved, and rude. Even to his ‘wife’. Jay never has never loved the woman, he just acts like it. She’s a trophy wife anyway. The woman told him to get food with her, and after much nagging, he decided to go. He was just gonna let her do her thing while he goes out and drinks or something. Jays wife actually let him pick the restaurant this time, oh boy was Jay ok with that. He was gonna pick the best restaurant ever. Basically, the restaurant is made for the people who are eating to be bullied and made fun of by the waiters. The waiters could be as mean as they wanted, without being fired. Of course, jays wife wasn’t happy about this, but Jay was. As they went inside, Jay asked for the rudest waiter there. Because who doesn’t like being made fun of? All of the people working said someone by the name of ‘Val’ would be the rudest. As Jay and his wife sat down, the lady said that their waiter would be with them shortly. Jay was pretty excited, of course, Val was late. Jay definitely wasn’t expecting to see who he saw. It was the most attractive person he’s ever seen in his goddamn life. He’s never been attracted to a guy until now.. He looked.. cute.. Jays wife could definitely see him staring, shooting Jay a jealous glare, giving him a light snack on his arm.

Toji Fushiguro

“Already checked the diapers off of the list, mama,” Toji teased, tapping the end of the pen pinched between his fingers against the little notepad full of his wife's scribbled handwriting, listing all the supplies you three needed for this month’s grocery run. “Quit worrying so much, yeah? Kid’s not gonna die if we forget to buy him a new bottle,” he snorts lightly. Toji's green eyes wander to the aforementioned baby—*his* son, Megumi—peacefully sleeping away in the front basket of the half-full grocery cart he’s pushing. It was his favorite part of these trips to the supermarket: getting to watch his wife flutter from aisle to aisle with that worried crease between her furrowed eyebrows, clutching the stack of coupons in her hands like her life depended on it. She was too cute.

Simon Riley

Simon told himself it was stupid to be nervous. It wasn’t like he hadn’t done this a dozen times before—pull into Luca’s fancy little driveway, knock on the door, pick up Daisy, exchange a few stiff words about her feeding schedule or that she needed a bath, then leave. Simple. Routine. Civil. But today, as his truck rumbled to a stop in front of Luca’s townhouse, Simon’s gut twisted. There was another car parked outside—sleek, silver, the kind of pretentious thing he could practically hear Luca defending. “It’s European, Simon,” Luca would have said with that smug little grin, “not pretentious, efficient.” Except it wasn’t Luca’s car. Simon knew that much. He’d know Luca’s ridiculous taste anywhere. He turned off the engine, his hand lingering on the keys for a beat too long. He shouldn’t care. Luca was his ex. They’d broken up nearly six months ago. Six months since that last argument—if you could call it an argument and not a disaster. He could still hear it sometimes, the sharp tone in Luca’s voice cutting right through him. Something about Simon “never letting anyone in,” and Simon, too damn tired from work and too damn proud, had thrown back something cruel and untrue—about Luca being shallow, about him caring more about cameras than commitment. The silence after that had been worse than any shouting could’ve been. And yet, somehow, they still shared Daisy. Their “child,” as Luca would jokingly call her. A golden retriever with too much energy and a smile for everyone. She’d been the only thing keeping them from disappearing out of each other’s lives completely. Simon hated how much he relied on that excuse—“Just coming to pick up Daisy.” As if he didn’t rehearse it every damn time to make it sound casual. He got out of the truck, boots crunching against the gravel. The November air bit at his skin, and he pulled his jacket tighter. The lights inside were on—soft, warm, domestic. And through the big front window, Simon saw something that made his jaw clench. A man. In his sweatshirt. No—Luca’s sweatshirt, technically—but one Simon had bought him years ago, dark grey and worn soft around the collar. The man was sitting on the couch, hair messy, looking far too comfortable in Simon’s spot. Something burned in his chest. Anger, jealousy, regret—all mixed into something sour that he tried and failed to swallow down. He had no right to feel this way. Luca could do whatever he wanted. Simon wasn’t his boyfriend anymore. But that didn’t stop his hands from curling into fists at his sides. He knocked. Harder than he meant to. Daisy barked immediately, her excited yips echoing through the house. He heard footsteps—slow, uneven. When the door opened, Luca stood there, hair a mess of golden tangles, eyes half-lidded with sleep, drowning in one of Simon’s worn T-shirts. Of course he was. “Hey,” Simon said, voice low, rougher than usual. He cleared his throat. “Came to get Daisy.” His eyes flicked past Luca’s shoulder—long enough to see the stranger shift on the couch, to see a bare arm reaching lazily for a mug on the coffee table. Simon’s jaw tightened. He tore his gaze back to Luca. “Didn’t know you had company,” he muttered. “Hope I’m not… interruptin’ anything.” He meant to sound indifferent. But the venom lacing the words betrayed him, and he hated himself for it. Daisy’s nails clicked against the floor as she bounded toward the door, tail wagging like mad. Simon crouched to scratch her behind the ears, using it as an excuse to avoid looking up at Luca—for just a moment. Because if he did, he might not be able to hide it—the fact that six months later, he was still hopelessly, pathetically in love with the one person he could never seem to let go of.

Jay

Streamer x Streamer

Xiang

Xiang is a mafia boss, with a very cold heart. He is skilled at his job, killing people with no shame. He's never loved someone, always a loner. He was very wealthy with billions of dollars as he lives in a huge mansion. He hated people, with a very cold heart. Xiang had black hair, a very muscular build and green siren eyes. He was an attractive man. He was always serious. That was until, he met Seok. The boy managed to weezle his way into Xiangs heart. And Xiang has been hooked ever since. Xiang just couldn’t say no to that cute little innocent boy. It took a LOT of convincing, but Seok finally managed to go on a date with Xiang. And, Xiang, being the stubborn and gruff man he was, confidently told Seok not to get his hopes up and that the date would lead to absolutely nothing. Seok is an extremely famous idol. With many fans. Of course, it’s not like Xiang cared that much. The only things he didn’t enjoy was when Seok had to leave for a while because of tours or all of the fans. Today was Seoks birthday, Xiang had got him a gift, it was small and simple. A bouquet of roses and some chocolates. That was until he heard a knock on the door. He walked over to the door, opening it. His eyes widened when he saw it. There was a goddamn mountain full of packages, obviously for Seok. Damn, his fans really love him? How the hell did they even know where they live..? “Holy shit..” He said quietly, his eyes widened.

John Price

John had been through plenty of long stretches in the field—missions that dragged for days with nothing but the sound of boots crunching over gravel and the hiss of his own breath in his headset. He’d thought he knew what “endurance” meant. Then he found himself nine hours deep into a holiday drive with a three-year-old in the backseat and two of the loudest blokes he’d ever served with competing to keep the boy entertained. The car smelled faintly of crisps, petrol, and the faint sweetness of the chocolate Ghost had smuggled along—hidden well away from Luca’s reach until he deemed the little lad deserved it. John’s hands were steady on the wheel, eyes trained on the ribbon of motorway that seemed endless. Next to him in the passenger seat, Ghost sat quiet as ever, mask pulled up just enough to sip from a flask of tea he’d insisted on brewing before they left. He hadn’t said much, but every so often John could feel his eyes flicker sideways, as if checking to see if he’d finally snap at the chaos erupting behind them. Because chaos it was. Luca, strapped snug in his car seat, had that look in his bright blue eyes—the one that said his mind was on something he shouldn’t be touching, should not even be thinking about. Soap, sitting to his left, was making faces so wild and ridiculous that his own jaw looked like it might unhinge. Gaz, on the other side, had resorted to puppet voices and was halfway through a truly dreadful impression of a cartoon dog. Their shoulders nearly pressed into the little boy as they leaned inward, both determined to be the favorite entertainer. “Oi, Luca, d’you think Uncle Johnny’s face is funny?” Soap wiggled his brows until they practically vanished into his hairline. “Nah, nah, don’t listen to him, kid. Watch this,” Gaz countered, grabbing Luca’s stuffed rabbit and giving it a posh accent that had Soap sputtering with laughter. John could hear Luca’s giggles bubbling up, sweet and sharp in the small space, but those laughs were like a match in dry brush—they only encouraged Soap and Gaz to carry on with even more energy. The backseat shifted constantly, the seatbelts stretching and groaning as the men moved around. John tightened his grip on the wheel, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. He couldn’t be angry—not really. Seeing his boy happy, even with the racket, made the fatigue of the drive worth it. “Keep it down before you wind him up so much he won’t nap,” John muttered, voice low but carrying that gravelly edge of command he couldn’t quite shake. “Aw, c’mon, Cap,” Soap shot back, exaggeratedly pouting. “We’re just keepin’ the wee lad entertained. Nine hours, remember?” “Nine hours of this, aye,” John replied, dry as dust. Ghost gave a quiet chuckle under his breath, barely audible, but John caught it anyway. He flicked him a look, only to be met with a faint shrug as if to say, You volunteered for this trip, mate. The road stretched on ahead, lined with rolling hills and fields blurring under the late afternoon sun. John’s eyes softened as he glanced up into the rearview mirror. Luca’s little legs were kicking lightly against the car seat, his hair messy from the constant fussing of Gaz’s hand, his eyes flicking between the two men like he was watching the most important performance of his life. John exhaled through his nose, both weary and oddly content. For all the racket, for all the miles left to go, there was nowhere else he’d rather be than in that car—his boy safe, his team close, and laughter filling the air like a song he hadn’t realized he’d missed.

Simon Riley

Simon’s hands were shaking as he tossed his phone onto the passenger seat, barely keeping his focus on the road as he sped through the city. He hadn’t even bothered to take his gear off when he bolted from base — boots still muddy, black shirt clinging to his chest from the mission, mask stuffed hastily into his pocket. His heart was hammering so hard he could feel it in his throat, and he couldn’t breathe past the burning lump sitting there. It was everywhere. Every single news station, every gossip site, every single social media page that had ever posted a photo of Luca — all of them were saying the same thing. Luca Rossi, international model and icon, found dead in his apartment. Simon had read the headline three times before it sank in, and then his chest had caved in on itself. No. No. That wasn’t possible. It was fake, had to be fake. People lied about celebrity deaths all the time. But then the articles started stacking, one after another. Paparazzi outside Luca’s building. Photos of body bags that made bile rise in his throat. Words like suicide and overdose flashing in big, bold letters. He’d been gone on mission for a week. A whole bloody week. And Luca… He couldn’t even finish the thought. Simon didn’t tell Price where he was going, didn’t tell anyone — just grabbed the keys and ran. The drive felt both endless and too short, his mind replaying every single moment of the last few weeks on loop. The way Luca had pouted over the phone when Simon said he couldn’t make it home yet. The soft little “I miss you” he’d whispered before hanging up. Had there been something in his voice Simon had missed? Had he sounded tired? Scared? By the time he screeched into Luca’s street, Simon was pale, his breath coming in sharp, panicked gasps. He didn’t even bother with the lift, taking the stairs three at a time until he was outside the apartment door. His fist was pounding against it before he could think. “Luca!” His voice cracked on the name, rough and desperate. “Luca, open the bloody door!” He didn’t care who heard him, didn’t care if neighbors peeked out from their doors, didn’t care that his whole body was shaking now. He needed to see him — needed to see him breathing. There was shuffling inside. Slow, hesitant. Then the lock clicked, the door swung open, and there he was. Luca. Hair a mess, eyeliner smudged like he’d just woken up, green eyes heavy with sleep. Dressed in one of Simon’s old hoodies that hung almost comically off his frame. Perfectly, maddeningly alive. For a second, Simon just stood there. The relief hit him so hard his knees nearly buckled. His chest ached, his throat burned. And then he moved, surging forward to grab Luca by the waist and drag him against his chest. He didn’t even say anything at first, just buried his face in Luca’s neck and held him so tightly it might’ve hurt. His whole body shook with it, hot tears pricking at his eyes and spilling before he could stop them. “You—bloody hell—” His voice was hoarse, muffled against Luca’s skin. “You’re alive. You’re—fuck, I thought—” He pulled back just far enough to look at him, big hands cupping Luca’s face, scanning him like he still didn’t believe it. Like the second he blinked, Luca would disappear and the nightmare would start all over again.

Simon Riley

The bar was dim, all shadows and low murmurs, the kind of place Simon would’ve usually ignored. He wasn’t one for crowds, for noise, or for the press of strangers around him. But tonight wasn’t about comfort—it was about him. About Luca. He’d been watching from across the room for nearly twenty minutes now, the hood of his jacket low, drink untouched, gloved hands wrapped tight around the glass like it anchored him. It was pathetic, maybe even bordering on something darker, the way he’d followed Luca here after weeks of quietly keeping tabs—knowing where his shoots were, what hotels he stayed in, which clubs he favored when the night ran too long. Stalking? Probably. Simon didn’t care what anyone called it. He called it not letting go. Luca looked exactly as he always had. Beautiful. Irritatingly so. Sharp cheekbones that caught the dull light, lips that pursed as he sipped at his drink, shoulders loose as though nothing in the world could weigh him down. A model through and through—bratty, flawless, a little untouchable. And he was sitting there alone, nursing some cocktail with that practiced indifference Simon knew wasn’t indifference at all. Luca never just sat. He performed, even for no one. The years hadn’t softened the blow of their divorce. That night—the fight—still burned in Simon’s chest like it had just happened. A stupid, petty argument, sparked by his absence, by the way his job always swallowed him whole. He remembered Luca’s voice sharp as broken glass, remembered his own stubborn silence, remembered watching him walk away. Simon never forgave himself for letting him go. And now here he was, across the room, pretending he had the strength to keep sitting still when every nerve in him screamed to move. Before he could think better of it, Simon was moving. Past the tables, past the stares that always followed his size, his scars, his darkness. He stopped only when he was close enough to smell Luca’s cologne, the same one Simon remembered clinging to his shirts, his pillows, his skin. “Luca.” The name cracked out of him like a prayer and a plea. His hand twitched, aching to reach, to touch, to prove he was real and not another ghost in Simon’s mind. His throat burned, but he forced the words out anyway, pathetic and raw. “I can’t—” His voice broke. He dragged in a breath, trying to steady, failing miserably. “I can’t keep pretendin’ I’m not yours. I’ve tried, God, I’ve tried. But you’re it, Lu. Always have been. Always bloody will be.” He leaned in, big shoulders hunched like he was trying to fold himself smaller, make himself less of the monster the world had made him, less of the man who’d failed Luca before. He looked every bit the soldier who’d fought wars, and yet here, in front of Luca, he was nothing but a begging, broken man. “I’ll do anythin’. Give up deployments, quit the job, hell—stay home, tie myself to the bloody bed if that’s what it takes. Just… just don’t shut me out anymore.” His voice cracked again, quiet this time, almost childlike. “Don’t tell me I’ve lost you. I can’t—I can’t lose you.” Simon Riley—Ghost, soldier, killer—stood there in the middle of the bar, pathetic as a lost dog, begging for scraps of the only love he’d ever known.

Megumi Fushiguro

Megumi had been looking forward to today too—not for his own sake, but because Yuji had been practically vibrating with excitement for weeks, rambling about cake flavors, decorations, and what songs to put on the playlist. Seeing his boyfriend’s face light up like that always softened him in ways he’d never admit out loud. But now, instead of balloons and laughter, the room was quiet save for the occasional wet sniffle and the muffled sound of Yuji groaning against his pillow. The fever had hit him hard, leaving his cheeks flushed and his nose raw from tissues, all that boundless energy dulled into a miserable heap under the blankets. Megumi sat on the edge of the bed, one hand steady on Yuji’s back as if grounding him there, the other setting down a glass of water on the nightstand. He studied him for a moment, watching those watery eyes and the way disappointment clung to his expression even through the haze of sickness. “You know,” Megumi murmured, brushing Yuji’s damp bangs back from his forehead with careful fingers, “You’re going to make yourself feel worse pouting like that,” he said quietly, brushing a stray lock of pink hair from Yuji’s sweaty forehead. “The party can wait. You can’t.” He stood, moving to grab the cold glass of water from the nightstand and holding it out toward Yuji, his tone firm but gentler than usual. “Drink. And stop looking like the world’s ending. We can still make it a good day, you know.”

John

Price sat at the edge of the couch, elbows braced on his knees, staring down at the pill in his calloused palm like it was some kind of cruel joke. Just a tiny white tablet—small, harmless-looking—but it carried the weight of the whole bloody world. The vet had pressed it into his hand not an hour ago, that calm, clinical tone still echoing in his ears. “Upset stomach, nothing serious. Give him this once a day for a week. He’ll be right as rain.” It had sounded so simple when she’d said it. But now, back home in the quiet of his living room, it felt like he was about to betray the only soul in the house that looked at him like he hung the moon. Apollo, for his part, had no clue about the torment twisting his owner’s chest. The tiny husky pup sat planted between John’s boots, a patch of black-and-white fluff with oversized paws splayed out on the rug. His tail thumped a steady rhythm against the carpet, ears too big for his head flopping about as he tilted it one way, then the other. His stormy blue eyes—eyes that were far too wise and innocent at the same time—watched John with unwavering trust. “Christ, look at you,” Price muttered, voice rough around the edges. He raked a hand through his hair and leaned forward, the pill gleaming mockingly in his palm. “Vet says it’ll settle your belly, keep you from pacing all night, but you don’t know a damn thing about that, do you?” Apollo yipped once, bright and questioning, then hopped up onto John’s boots as if demanding to be picked up. When John gave in and scooped him up, the pup wriggled happily into the cradle of his arms, soft fur warming the scarred skin beneath John’s shirt. Apollo immediately craned his little neck to lick at John’s chin, his tiny tongue tickling against the bristle of his beard. “You think I’m the worst bloke in the world if I do this, don’t you?” John asked, his voice gentling despite himself. He cupped the pup against his chest, feeling that tiny heartbeat hammering away, so fast, so trusting. Apollo just sneezed—loud, squeaky, ridiculous—before blinking up at him and nestling deeper into the shelter of his chest like he hadn’t a care in the world. Price’s chest tightened, his gut twisting with guilt. The thought of prying open that tiny mouth, of forcing something bitter past those baby teeth, felt cruel in a way the battlefield never had. He’d wrestled wolves, men, even his own conscience—but this? This was the fight he didn’t want to win. He rubbed his thumb gently over Apollo’s soft head, ears twitching beneath his touch, the pup giving a soft, contented whine in reply. “It’s for your own good, lad. Just this once. Then I’ll give you all the belly rubs, all the treats you can handle. You’ll forgive me, won’t you?”

Simon Riley

Simon had never thought of himself as the kind of man who’d enjoy quiet mornings — not until Luca started sleeping over more often. Now, he found himself awake before dawn, sitting at the edge of the bed, mask pushed up onto his head so he could just look at him. Blond hair messy from sleep, pillow half over his face, eyeliner smudged across the corner of his eyes like war paint. He looked so damn good like that, soft and defenseless, the complete opposite of what Simon’s world usually demanded. But today wasn’t a lazy morning. Today, they had somewhere to be. Simon leaned back on his hands, watching the slow rise and fall of Luca’s chest. It would’ve been so easy to let him sleep — hell, he deserved it after the long night they’d had — but Simon knew better. They had a schedule, and Luca was terrible at sticking to one unless someone was there to keep him on track. That someone was always him. “Up,” Simon’s voice was low, rough from sleep but leaving no room for argument. He reached out, dragging the pillow off Luca’s face, then brushed a strand of blond hair out of his boy’s eyes. “You said you wanted to come with me, yeah? This is the only way I’m lettin’ you. You get up now, or you’re stayin’ home.” There was a pause. A moment where Simon thought maybe Luca was going to pretend he hadn’t heard him. The kid did that sometimes — waited him out, hoping Ghost would just give in. Simon’s lips quirked under the mask, a small, amused twitch. Not a chance. He stood, towering over the bed, arms folded as he waited. Sunlight cut across the room in sharp lines, catching the dog tags resting against his chest. The flat smelled like coffee and gun oil — comforting to Simon, probably overwhelming to anyone else.

Simon Riley

The night had fallen heavy over Manchester, the kind of damp, quiet darkness that always settled just before the city truly went to sleep. The orange haze of streetlights stretched across slick pavement, reflecting the world in fractured shards of light. It was supposed to be a routine patrol — one of those nights Simon Riley could almost do on autopilot. Seat belt check. Traffic stop. Paperwork. Go home. But then he saw it — an old silver Vauxhall Astra with no rear tag, rolling a little too fast down the dual carriageway. His brow furrowed under the brim of his cap, fingers tapping against the steering wheel before his thumb flicked the siren on. Blue and red bled through the rain, pulsing against the car ahead. The driver didn’t stop. “Bloody hell…” Simon muttered, shifting gears and pressing down on the accelerator. The chase wasn’t long, but it was tense — sharp turns, tires screaming against wet asphalt, adrenaline pounding through his chest. Whoever was behind that wheel was desperate. He could feel it. When the Astra tried to take the corner too fast, Simon made his move — the PIT maneuver was clean, professional, controlled. The car spun out, skidding to a stop against the curb in a spray of rain and smoke. Simon’s door flew open, boots hitting the pavement as he drew his weapon. “Hands where I can see ’em!” His voice was sharp, echoing through the night. The man stumbled out of the car, shaking, eyes wild. “Please—please don’t shoot—my son! My son’s in there!” Simon’s heart stuttered for a moment. He glanced toward the crumpled car, its frame groaning, headlights flickering weakly. The man hit the ground hard when Simon cuffed him, muttering rights and protocol automatically, but his eyes were already fixed on the back seat. He moved fast, cutting the airbag smoke with a sweep of his arm, flashlight in hand. And there — through the haze — was a small figure strapped into an infant car seat. The sight stopped Simon cold. A baby. A boy, maybe six months old, no more. His tiny chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, a soft, broken whimper escaping him as Simon leaned closer. The car seat looked wrong — far too small, the straps frayed and twisted. It wasn’t meant to hold him safely. There were small bruises along his temple, a cut on his cheek, dirt on his hands. His blonde hair was tangled, his little onesie stained with something that looked like dried formula and tears. Simon’s throat tightened as he crouched beside him, his gloved hand trembling just slightly when he reached to steady the seat. “Hey, hey… easy there, little one,” he murmured quietly, his voice a low rumble that barely carried through the rain. The baby turned his head just enough for Simon to see those eyes — bright, clear blue, wide and scared but searching. The kind of eyes that made even a hardened man like Simon stop breathing for a moment. He gently unbuckled the seatbelt, careful not to jostle the boy’s injuries. “You’re alright, mate. I’ve got you.” The boy whimpered, then hiccupped, small hands curling into fists as Simon lifted him from the seat, tucking the fragile weight of him against his chest. The name came from a paper tucked between the seat cushions — Luca. Scrawled in faded ink on a half-crumpled vaccination card. Simon stared at it for a moment, then back down at the child now nestled against his uniform, tiny fingers gripping the fabric near his badge. “Luca, huh?” he muttered softly, his tone gentler than anyone on the force had ever heard him use. “Alright, lad… let’s get you out of this mess.” The rain poured harder now, drumming against the patrol car’s roof as Simon radioed for medical support. But as he looked down at the little boy again — those blue eyes fluttering up at him through the dim flashing lights — he felt something strange twist in his chest. Something he hadn’t felt in years. Protective. Almost fiercely so.

Simon Riley

The morning was quiet — too quiet for most, but for Simon Riley, it was perfect. The kind of quiet he guarded like a secret. The curtains were half-drawn, pale sunlight spilling across the hardwood floors of his living room, catching in the soft strands of blonde hair belonging to the small boy nestled against his side. Luca. His boy. Simon’s gaze lingered on him for a moment — messy hair sticking up in every direction, lashes so long they nearly brushed his cheeks, a faint pout on those tiny lips even in his calm little state. He was sitting cross-legged on the couch, a small blanket draped over his lap, a half-eaten biscuit in his hand. Every so often he’d hum, some soundless little tune that came from nowhere and everywhere, eyes fixed on the muted colors flickering across the TV screen. They’d been up early. Luca always rose with the first hint of light, shuffling into Simon’s room with his favorite stuffed rabbit in tow. There was no resisting him — not that Simon ever wanted to. He’d scooped him up, carried him to the kitchen, and now here they were, halfway through a cartoon that Luca had demanded but lost interest in twenty minutes ago. Simon leaned back, arm draped along the back of the couch behind his son. The mask — the one he wore outside — was nowhere to be seen. He didn’t need it here. He didn’t need to be “Ghost” when it was just the two of them. Just Dad. He’d made a promise long ago — that Luca wouldn’t see the kind of world he had. That no one would get near his boy. Not anyone. It was selfish, maybe, the way he kept Luca all to himself — but Simon couldn’t help it. Every time those big blue eyes looked up at him, trusting, safe, full of love — he knew he’d do anything to keep it that way. Luca shifted, his little fingers brushing against Simon’s sleeve, crumbs clinging to them. Simon glanced down, a faint smirk tugging at his lips beneath the faint stubble. “Oi, careful there, mate,” he murmured, brushing the crumbs off the boy’s cheek with a rough thumb. “You’re makin’ a right mess of me couch again.” Luca blinked up at him, all wide-eyed innocence, and Simon felt his chest tighten the way it always did — that quiet ache of love and fear mixed together. He sighed softly, ruffling the boy’s hair, letting his voice drop into that low, steady tone that always seemed to calm him. “You hungry again, eh? Or we stayin’ right here for a bit?”

Henry

Henry sat across from the psychic, a woman named Marisol, in a room that smelled faintly of incense and old paper. The walls were lined with shelves of crystals, glass orbs, and faded photographs that looked like they’d seen decades of candlelight. A few candles flickered on the round table between them, their flames bending every so often like something unseen brushed past. But tonight… tonight felt different. Mostly because of Luca. Luca sat beside him on the small velvet couch, his head resting against Henry’s shoulder, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. He looked too small in Henry’s oversized sweater, sleeves drooping past his hands as he absently toyed with the cuff. Luca didn’t have the same fascination with ghost hunting, not like Henry did. He was gentle, soft-spoken, the kind of person who couldn’t even finish a horror movie without clinging to him. And yet, ever since Luca started joining him… everything had changed. Henry had spent years ghost hunting just for fun. A hobby, a thrill. But in all that time, he’d never gotten more than the occasional flicker on his EMF reader, the stray whisper that might’ve just been wind. Then Luca started tagging along—just once, just to humor him—and suddenly, the activity exploded. Voices on the recorders whispering Luca’s name, shadows that turned toward him instead of Henry, cold drafts that followed wherever he stood. And when Luca wasn’t there? Nothing. Just static and silence. Every voice seemed to want him. Every spirit mentioned him. Henry had brushed it off at first. Coincidence, maybe. Some strange spiritual magnetism. But after months of it, he couldn’t ignore it anymore. And that’s what brought them here—to Marisol’s dim little parlor, where her eyes had widened the second Luca walked through the door. “You feel it too, don’t you?” she said softly, her voice almost reverent. Her gaze flicked from Luca’s sleeping face to Henry’s uncertain eyes. “He’s… connected. Not just sensitive. There’s something attached to him.” Henry frowned, his hand unconsciously tightening over Luca’s shoulder. “Attached?” Marisol nodded slowly, her many rings glinting in the candlelight as she reached for a crystal sphere on the table. “A spirit. A child, I think. A little girl. Lost, but protective. She’s been with him a long time. Maybe even before you met.” Henry’s breath hitched, his skepticism faltering for the first time in years. His mind flashed through every unexplained thing—the way Luca’s eyes sometimes followed empty air like he was watching someone move. Marisol’s eyes softened. “She likes you,” she murmured, as if speaking to the air around them. “She knows you keep him safe. But she doesn’t like what you do—the hunts. The darkness calls her, but it frightens her too.” Henry’s heart gave a slow, uneasy thud. He looked down at Luca, whose soft blonde hair brushed against his chin. Luca mumbled something in his sleep, curling closer, completely unaware of the weight of the conversation happening around him. Henry reached up to brush a lock of hair from his forehead, fingers lingering there. “Can you tell me who she is?” Henry asked quietly. Marisol tilted her head, eyes unfocusing as though listening to something Henry couldn’t hear. “She says her name was Emily,” she whispered. “She died very young. Lonely. But she found him—and she hasn’t let go since.” Henry exhaled, a chill creeping up his spine. The candles flickered again. Somewhere behind them, a picture frame rattled faintly against the wall. Luca stirred beside him but didn’t wake. Henry swallowed hard and glanced toward the empty space over Marisol’s shoulder, a strange heaviness filling his chest. For the first time in all his years of ghost hunting, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what was out there. Not if it meant something had been following his boyfriend all this time. He tightened his arm around Luca, holding him just a little closer as the psychic’s voice dropped to a whisper— “She’s here now, Henry.”

Simon Riley

Simon Riley hadn’t planned on being out this late, but the fridge at home had been looking painfully empty—and sleep wasn’t coming anyway. So here he was, boots echoing softly against polished tile, parked in the alcohol aisle with a cart that looked… excessive, even to him. Four cases of beer stacked like he was preparing for a siege. Old habits died hard. The store was quiet in that hollow, end-of-day way. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, the air smelled faintly of cleaning solution and stale bread. No crowds, no chatter. Just him. And then—someone else. Simon noticed the other man the moment he turned the corner of the aisle. Hard not to. Mid to late twenties, maybe. Blond hair messy in a way that looked unintentional, like he’d run his hands through it one too many times. Blue eyes, half-lidded, tired but sharp, scanning the shelves with lazy indecision. He was dressed casually, hoodie a little worn, posture relaxed like he didn’t care if the world was watching. And his cart— Christ. Just as much alcohol as Simon’s, if not more. Bottles clinking softly as the guy reached out and grabbed whatever caught his eye, no brand loyalty, no hesitation. Like tonight wasn’t about taste, just about the effect. Simon froze for half a second, fingers tightening around the cart handle. That was new. He’d gone years—decades, really—without feeling this. Attraction had always been distant, muted, buried under discipline and routine and the quiet exhaustion of getting older. He’d assumed it had just… faded. But now his chest felt oddly tight, awareness snapping sharp as a live wire. The smell hit him when the man stepped closer down the aisle. Cigarettes—faint but unmistakable—and something softer underneath. Vanilla, maybe. Warm. It didn’t belong in a place like this, surrounded by glass bottles and cold metal shelves, and yet it did. It fit him. Simon shifted his weight, pretending to study a row of cheap lagers while watching the man out of the corner of his eye. He felt ridiculous for it. Forty years old, staring like a teenager. But his gaze kept drifting back—how the guy’s fingers hooked around a bottle neck, the way his shoulders slouched like he was half-asleep on his feet, the slight interest in those sleepy eyes when he found something strong. Attractive didn’t even begin to cover it. Simon cleared his throat quietly, more to ground himself than anything else. The aisle felt too small all of a sudden, too intimate for two strangers shopping for alcohol at nearly midnight. He told himself to grab what he needed and leave. Instead, he lingered. His eyes flicked up, finally meeting the other man’s for a brief, charged moment. Simon raised an eyebrow slightly, one corner of his mouth pulling into a dry, almost amused curve as his gaze dropped pointedly to the other cart—then back up again. “Looks like we had the same idea,” he said, voice low and rough, carrying easily through the empty aisle. And just like that, the quiet night felt a hell of a lot less lonely.

Simon Riley

Simon Riley had survived firefights, interrogations, and the kind of silence that rang louder than gunfire. What he was not prepared for—had never trained for—was the red and blue lights flaring to life behind his truck on a quiet afternoon drive. He noticed them in the rearview mirror and sighed long and slow, already knowing exactly which goddamn idiot was responsible. “Unbelievable,” Simon muttered, easing the truck onto the shoulder anyway. Habit. Training. Even if the cop pulling him over was his own son and barely old enough to rent a car without a fee. The engine cut. Snow crunched faintly under tires as the patrol car stopped behind him. Simon rested his forearms on the steering wheel, jaw tight, eyes forward. He didn’t turn around. Didn’t need to. He could picture it perfectly—messy blonde hair that never stayed combed, blue eyes probably lit up with that stupid excitement, chest puffed out because today Luca Riley was a Big Important Police Officer with his own cruiser. Twenty-one years old. Youngest on the force. Still needed reminders to eat something other than takeaway. Still forgot dentist appointments unless Simon physically put him in the passenger seat and drove him there himself. And now he was pulling his father over on the side of the road like he’d just bagged a cartel boss. Simon pinched the bridge of his nose as the driver’s side door opened. He waited. Counted his breaths. Let the moment stretch, because if Luca was going to do this, he was going to do it by the book. Boots crunched closer. A shadow fell across the window. Simon finally glanced sideways, expression flat and unimpressed, already reaching for his wallet. He rolled the window down just enough, cold air biting at his knuckles. “Officer,” he said evenly, voice dry as a desert and twice as sharp. “Any particular reason you’re stopping me today?” There was no anger in his tone—just resignation, buried pride, and the faintest warning that Luca was absolutely going to pay for this later.

Simon Riley

The base had gone quiet for the night—quiet in the way military bases only did after enough exhaustion pressed everyone into their bunks. Low humming lights, the distant thrum of generators, the hollow echo of boots far down the hall. But in the dim blue glow leaking from one room, someone was still awake. Simon stopped in the doorway, shoulder pressed against the frame, arms folded. He didn’t bother knocking; Luca never minded when it was him. The hacker’s room was its usual soft chaos—monitors stacked in a skewed arc, cables like tangled vines, half-finished mugs of tea, and Luca himself curled in the center of it all like he’d grown there. Messy blonde hair sticking up as if he’d run his hands through it one too many times, sleepy blue eyes narrowed at the screen, soft mouth slightly parted. A faint light reflected off his skin, painting his cheekbones in cool blue. Simon’s jaw ticked as he watched him. Christ. That kid always looked like trouble wrapped in vulnerability—beautiful in a way Simon hated to acknowledge because the moment he let himself acknowledge it, he wanted more. He stepped inside, boots soft on the floor. Luca didn’t flinch—he knew that gait too well by now. Simon stopped behind him, close enough that Luca could feel the heat from him. Close enough that Simon could smell that faint, warm scent Luca always carried—coffee, old books, and something clean that made Simon’s chest feel too tight. “You’re still at it,” Simon muttered, voice low, rougher than he intended. He wasn’t scolding; he never scolded Luca. He sounded… concerned. And that annoyed him. Luca didn’t answer—yet. He never did until Simon finished speaking. It was something Simon pretended not to like, but it always made him feel… chosen. Simon dragged a gloved hand over his face, exhaling heavily. “You’re gonna fry your eyes out if you keep starin’ at that.” He leaned forward, resting a hand on the back of Luca’s chair, the way he always did when he wanted an excuse to be close without admitting it. For a moment, he just watched him work—quick fingers dancing over the keyboard, posture small and folded in, legs tucked under the chair. Fragile. But not fragile. Just… Luca. Then Simon’s gaze dropped to the side of Luca’s neck, to a faint bruise already forming from earlier—when Simon’s patience had snapped in the safehouse, and Luca had let him get closer than he should’ve. It was hidden by the collar of his hoodie, but Simon knew it was there. Because he’d been the one pressing his mouth there, hands on Luca’s waist, breathing him in like he needed him more than air. He swallowed hard. He hadn’t meant for things to get that intimate between them. He hadn’t meant for the quiet hacker to crawl under his skin the way he had—hadn’t meant to be the only one Luca willingly spoke to, willingly leaned into. And yet here he was. Simon reached out and brushed a knuckle against a stray lock of Luca’s hair, pushing it out of his eyes. He did it without thinking, and by the time he realized what he’d done, his hand was already lingering. “Couldn’t sleep,” he muttered, voice low near Luca’s ear. “Not without checkin’ on you.” He didn’t often admit things like that. But Luca had a way of pulling honesty out of him with nothing more than silence and those tired blue eyes.

Simon Riley

Simon Riley had seen plenty of strange sights in his life, but nothing came close to the scene currently unfolding in the middle of Luca’s studio. There were balloons. Everywhere. Not birthday balloons, not “Congrats on your piercing certification” balloons, but… cat-shaped balloons. Forty of them—maybe more—drifting around the shop like pastel, helium-filled ghosts. Someone across the street had been throwing out a bag of them, and Luca, being Luca, had apparently decided he needed them for “studio ambiance.” Simon stood in the doorway, arms folded across his chest, watching his boyfriend try to wrangle a cluster of cat balloons that kept drifting toward the ceiling fan. Luca wasn’t winning. His messy blonde hair was even more chaotic than usual, little strands sticking up as he hopped on his tiptoes, determined to tug the ribbon of one balloon out of the fan’s airflow. The tiny accidental dot tattoo on his finger flashed every time he reached up. His piercings glinted under the fluorescent lights, and his oversized sweater slipped off one shoulder—because of course it did. Luca never wore clothes that actually stayed where they were meant to. Simon exhaled through his nose, trying not to smile. He failed spectacularly. He hadn’t meant to stop by the studio today. He was supposed to be running errands, doing normal, responsible adult things. But he’d found himself turning the corner toward Luca’s shop anyway, because he always did. Some part of him was permanently magnetized to this place—to him. “Should’ve known,” he muttered, stepping over a balloon with a cartoon cat face printed on it. “Leave him alone for three hours and the entire building turns into a bloody pet store.” He approached slowly, boots quiet on the polished floor. Luca was still struggling, half mumbling to himself, half scolding the balloon like it was misbehaving on purpose. Simon didn’t intervene yet. He liked watching him—liked the way Luca’s blue eyes narrowed with concentration, the way his small frame bounced with every jump, determined even when logic suggested surrender. He wondered—not for the first time—how someone like Luca had ended up with someone like him. How a man covered in ink and scars, someone who flinched at the idea of getting pierced, had managed to win the affection of a delicate little artist who saw beauty in everything. Even in discarded cat balloons. Simon cleared his throat. Luca turned. And all the balloons drifting around the studio suddenly made a lot more sense. Because the look on Luca’s face—the bright, soft, instantly relieved expression he reserved only for Simon—hit harder than any ambush ever had. Simon lifted a hand, catching a balloon string that brushed past him. “You plannin’ on explainin’ this,” he said, voice low and dry, “or d’you want me to just assume this is some artistic vision I’m meant to pretend I understand?” He stepped closer, brushing a knuckle under Luca’s chin, tipping his head back gently. Warm blue eyes blinked up at him. “Missed you,” Simon added—not a dramatic confession, just a simple truth, but one that sat warm in the space between them as the cat balloons drifted lazily overhead.

Simon Riley

Simon Riley had always believed hell would be loud. Gunfire. Screaming. The echo of everything he’d ever failed to protect. Instead, when he woke, there was only white. Not the sterile, humming white of a hospital room—no beeping monitors, no antiseptic sting in his nose. This was different. It stretched endlessly in every direction, soft and luminous, like fog made of light. Simon blinked once. Twice. His head didn’t throb. His chest didn’t burn. There was no pain at all, and that alone made his stomach twist. So it worked. For a fleeting, panicked second, he thought maybe it hadn’t—that maybe he was still alive, trapped in some cruel in-between. But the air felt wrong for that. Too light. Too clean. And when he stood, his body moved without protest, without the familiar aches and scars that had long since become part of him. He walked. Figures drifted past him, half-formed at first, then clearer. People smiling too softly. People crying quietly to themselves. Some looked relieved. Some looked unbearably lost. None of them met his eyes for long. None of them mattered. Because Simon wasn’t here for them. Two months. That was how long he’d lasted without Luca. Two months of waking up to silence where there should’ve been lazy breathing and smart-mouthed comments. Two months of reaching across the bed and touching cold sheets. Two months of rereading the letter until the words blurred together—not your fault, I love you, don’t follow me—each line carving something deeper into him. The sky had been beautiful the day after Luca died. Pink and blue smeared together like a painting. Simon had stood outside and stared up at it far too long, chest tight, certain—absolutely certain—that it had been Luca. One last, stupidly gentle thing from a boy who had always been too kind for the world that broke him. Simon hadn’t been strong enough to live with that. So he hadn’t. His boots slowed when he saw the bench. It sat just ahead, simple and unremarkable, but the figure on it stopped Simon dead in his tracks. His breath hitched, sharp and sudden, like he’d been punched. The world seemed to narrow, white bleeding away into nothing. Messy blonde hair, falling into familiar disarray. Sleepy blue eyes lowered, focused on something small held carefully between slender fingers. Luca looked… the same. Exactly the same. Twenty forever, it seemed—barely an adult, still carrying himself like he knew better than everyone else, especially Simon. And above his head— A faint glow. A halo, soft and warm, as if it belonged there. “Luca,” Simon breathed, the name tearing out of him before he could stop it. His legs moved without permission. Each step felt unreal, like he might wake up at any second, back in that empty house with the letter on the table. But the distance closed, and Luca didn’t fade. Didn’t disappear. He was solid. Real. Alive. No—something better. Simon didn’t think. He didn’t slow. The moment he was close enough, his arms wrapped around Luca tight, crushing, like he was afraid the boy would slip through his fingers if he loosened his grip even a fraction. His face buried into that familiar shoulder, breath shuddering as everything he’d been holding back finally broke loose. “I’ve got you,” Simon muttered hoarsely, fingers curling into fabric, into him. “I’ve got you. I’m here. I’m not letting go. Not this time.”

Simon Riley

Simon Riley didn’t do fairs. Too loud. Too bright. Too many people pressed together with sticky fingers and zero situational awareness. It was the kind of environment he’d normally avoid like a minefield. But Luca—Luca made things different. Luca made things worth it. The fairgrounds buzzed with life around them, music blaring from crooked speakers, laughter and shouting blending into a constant hum. The air smelled like sugar and fried dough, and Simon found himself instinctively scanning the crowd even as his grip stayed firm around his son’s much smaller hand. Luca toddled along beside him with all the confidence of someone who had never once paid rent or worried about consequences, messy blonde hair sticking up at odd angles, big blue eyes wide with wonder as everything competed for his attention. Simon glanced down at him, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. Three years old, and already walking like he owned the place. Chest puffed out, little boots scuffing the ground with determined stomps. Simon had faced armed enemies with less nerve. They’d already done a few games—well, Simon had done the games while Luca “helped,” which mostly involved enthusiastic pointing and clapping. It had gone smoothly enough. No tears. No meltdowns. Simon had allowed himself to think, just for a moment, that maybe this outing would end quietly. That was when Luca saw the mirror maze. Simon noticed the shift immediately—the sudden tension in the small hand gripping his, the way Luca’s whole body leaned forward like he’d locked onto a target. Before Simon could even follow his gaze, Luca was tugging insistently, feet digging in as he pulled them toward the glowing entrance lined with warped reflections. “Easy,” Simon muttered automatically, though the kid was already moving with purpose. The maze loomed ahead, reflections bending and stretching in every direction. Simon slowed instinctively, lowering himself slightly as they reached the entrance. He tightened his grip, already bracing for chaos. He knew that look. That was the look Luca got when he decided he was about to accomplish something all on his own. Too confident by half. They stepped inside, the noise of the fair muffling behind them as light bounced off glass and mirrors. For a brief second, Luca’s hand was still in Simon’s—small, warm, steady. And then it wasn’t. Simon’s heart dropped straight into his boots. Luca broke away like a soldier charging into battle, little legs pumping as he took off down the corridor. His footsteps echoed, uncoordinated and fast, all determination and zero caution. Simon straightened sharply, already moving after him. “Slow down,” Simon warned, voice firm but edged with that familiar parental concern he still wasn’t used to hearing in himself. Too late. Simon saw it happen in slow motion—the way Luca turned, distracted by a reflection that wasn’t quite right, the way his feet kept going even as his balance didn’t. There was a dull thump as Luca ran straight into the mirror, the sound sharp enough to make Simon’s chest seize. The toddler toppled backward, landing on the floor in a soft, helpless sprawl. Arms out. Legs bent awkwardly. Like a chubby puppy that had charged headfirst into something it didn’t understand and now couldn’t quite figure out how to recover. Simon was at his side in an instant, boots skidding slightly as he dropped to one knee. His expression shifted completely—panic flaring first, then softening as he assessed. No blood. No immediate signs of injury. Just shock. “Hey… hey,” Simon said quietly, reaching out but hesitating just a fraction of a second, giving Luca space to react. His voice lowered, gentler now, all the hardness stripped away. “You alright, buddy?”

John Price

The woods were quiet—eerily so, most nights. That was part of the reason John had chosen this place to begin with. After years of chaos, sand, blood, and gunfire, the silence of the pines was a relief. The air smelled of damp earth and resin, the kind of scent that stuck to him long after he came in from his porch. It was home. Not much to look at—a one-floor cabin tucked off a dirt road that hardly saw a soul. But it was enough. It was his. He’d been here just over two weeks when he first noticed it. Fur. Dark, wiry, greyish tufts caught on the low brush near the treeline. At first, he figured it was just some straggly dog or a coyote passing through. The woods were alive, after all. But when he found the same fur on the far side of the house the next morning, and again by the shed the day after, his instincts sharpened. Something was circling. Watching. The first time he caught sight of the creature, it was at dusk. He’d stepped out onto the porch with a mug of coffee still steaming in his hand, and there it was. A wolf—big, thick-furred, a silhouette that looked like it belonged in some old hunter’s story. Its eyes caught the faint light, and for a moment, John’s chest went tight. Years of training told him to be on guard. Wolves weren’t tame. Wolves didn’t linger this close to men. But this one… didn’t move. It just stood there, half-hidden in the shadows, staring. Not a sound, not a snarl. Just… looking. After that, the wolf returned. Not every day, not on any kind of schedule, but often enough that John started to expect him. The big bastard seemed to linger around the edges of the clearing, like he couldn’t quite decide if he belonged in the wilderness or on John’s porch. Eventually, John gave in to curiosity. He picked up a bag of dog food in town on his supply run and set a bowl of it down a few feet from the porch steps. The next morning, the food was gone. Now, weeks later, it had become routine. The wolf—Apollo, John decided one evening while looking at the animal’s broad, mythic silhouette—came by often enough to be part of the cabin’s rhythm. A bowl of water always sat outside, refilled every morning. Food, too. And when the rains rolled through, heavy and unrelenting, John found himself opening the door, standing aside while the wolf padded in, dripping, shaking his thick coat before settling by the hearth. Tonight, the rain hadn’t started yet, but the air was heavy, charged. John sat on his old wooden rocking chair, book open in one hand, pipe resting unlit on the side table. His eyes weren’t really on the pages. They drifted now and again to the treeline, where he knew he’d catch that familiar flash of dark fur sooner or later. Sure enough, there he was. Apollo. The wolf moved with quiet confidence, almost leisurely, as if he knew this place was as much his now as John’s. He padded closer, pausing just at the bottom step of the porch, eyes steady on the man in the chair. John leaned back, exhaling softly, and closed his book. “Evenin’, lad,” he muttered, voice low, rough as gravel but lacking any edge. “You’re back early tonight.” The rocking chair creaked under his weight as he shifted, watching the beast with a kind of weary fondness. He’d never admit it out loud, not to anyone but himself, but he’d come to enjoy the company. A wolf as his closest neighbor—Christ, if that didn’t say something about the kind of man he’d turned into. Still, there was comfort in it. A strange, steady comfort.

Sukuna

The castle hadn’t seen this much activity in years. Servants moved in a frenzy—sweeping floors that were already immaculate, dusting shelves that hadn’t been touched in centuries, and laying out the finest silks and softest blankets in one of the rarely used guest rooms. The air carried the scent of honeyed rice cakes and fresh fruit—Sukuna’s personal request. If his little nephew was coming, the brat deserved the best. Sukuna sat back in his throne, draped lazily across it, chin resting on his fist as he watched the bustle of movement below. His crimson eyes gleamed, faintly amused. The great and terrible Ryomen Sukuna—King of Curses, slayer of a thousand sorcerers—was currently overseeing the preparation of a nursery. A nursery. If any of his old enemies could see him now, they’d die laughing. Or simply die. Sukuna would make sure of that. He glanced toward the enormous double doors of his hall, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Any minute now… He could already imagine it—those tiny feet pattering against the polished floor, the sweet, babbling nonsense that always managed to pierce straight through the dark weight in his chest. Yuji Itadori—his brother’s son, his own blood. The boy was a whirlwind of joy, drool, and chaos, and Sukuna had every intention of keeping him that way. Untouched by the cruelty of the world. Untainted by anything but sunshine. That was why he hated sending him back every time. Jin could play the part of the responsible father all he wanted, but Sukuna knew better. Jin didn’t understand what a treasure that boy was. Not the way Sukuna did. When the doors finally creaked open, Sukuna straightened a little—not enough to lose his air of superiority, but enough that his attention was clearly fixed. Jin Itadori stepped in first, looking slightly uncomfortable as always when standing in Sukuna’s presence. Behind him, the sound of tiny giggles echoed as a small pink-haired figure peeked out from around his father’s legs. There he was. Yuji. Big, bright eyes and a smile that could split the sky open. His little hands were clutching a plush toy—one ear already chewed beyond repair. Sukuna’s grin softened without him realizing it. His voice, usually sharp enough to make grown men tremble, lowered just slightly. “About time you showed up,” he said, his tone half a growl, half a purr. “I was starting to think you’d changed your mind, Jin.” He waved a hand, dismissing Jin’s nervous chuckle before his gaze landed on the toddler again. “Come here, brat,” Sukuna murmured, holding out a clawed hand that suddenly didn’t seem quite so threatening. “Let your uncle see you.” The servants froze in their places, unsure if they should look or leave. The tension in the air was palpable—an ancient king welcoming his tiny heir.

Ryomen Sukuna

"Hm? Good morning, buddy. Did you have a good nap? Huh?" Your father, aka Sukuna, whispered softly to you, scooping you up and placing you in his lap, kissing your little cheeks. "Hey, where is Mommy, hm? Did you run away from her again?" He laughed softly, his usual stoicism toward others gone when it came to you. He adjusted himself on his throne. He may not be very fond of his ex wife, but he knew that she loved the little boy.

Simon Riley

Simon leaned back on the couch, one arm thrown lazily over the armrest, the other holding his phone where the screen lit up again…and again. He’d told himself he wouldn’t hover. Sixteen was old enough. Old enough to drive, old enough to sit through a doctor’s appointment without him breathing down his neck like he had every year since the kid could walk. But apparently, Luca hadn’t gotten the memo. The first text had been harmless enough: What do I say? Simon had huffed out a laugh, thumb brushing over the reply button before he forced himself to toss the phone onto the cushion beside him. But the second, the third—bloody hell, by the fifth, Simon was shaking his head and reaching for it anyway. What’s my social security number?? The kid had asked him that at least a dozen times in his life, and each time Simon wondered how someone so sharp-eyed, so quick-mouthed, could be such a fool about the simplest things. It was his fault. He knew it. Sixteen years of holding Luca too close, of keeping him right at his side, had raised a boy who clung back just as fiercely. Simon had never minded it—not once. But now? Now he was trying to let him stretch out his own wings, and the boy was fluttering right back into his shadow. It was ridiculous. It was endearing. And it made something tight twist in Simon’s chest he couldn’t name. The next message buzzed across the screen. Are they gonna give me any shots? Can I drive if they put a shot in me?? Simon’s laugh was low, rough, the kind of sound that rumbled in his chest and startled even him. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, staring at the words. Luca’s face came to mind immediately—brows furrowed, lips parted like he’d just been hit with the most serious question in the world. That boyish, maddeningly attractive face that already had people looking twice at him in ways Simon didn’t like. And now he was out there, behind the wheel, managing himself in a world that wasn’t half as forgiving as Simon had been. Simon sighed, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. He typed slowly, each word deliberate, because if he wasn’t careful, Luca would be back home before the nurse even called his name. He didn’t hit send yet. Instead, he stared at the words, thought about the boy sitting in some waiting room fidgeting with his phone like it was a lifeline. His boy. Always his boy. Sixteen or not, license or not, clingy as hell or not—Luca was still just… his. The phone buzzed again. Another question. Simon finally smirked, shook his head, and started to type back.

Jay

Jay loves his job. He works in a zoo for hybrids, keeping them in captivity. He knows it’s not exactly the most.. humane job. I mean, it’s sort of dangerous, considering the wolf hybrids and the lion hybrids. But he doesn’t really work in that area. He works in the marine side of the zoo. He loves it. Sooo much. All the dolphin hybrids, hell, even the walrus hybrids. Even if they’re a bit.. loud at times. Though, one particular species he likes the most. They had a pregnant seal hybrid, who he tended to take care of the most. Since well, she was pregnant. The least Jay could do was give her extra food. And he was a little too invested in her pregnancy, he got super excited when he found out she was having a little boy. I mean, who wouldn’t?! The pregnancy went smoothly, and soon, the cute little seal hybrid was born. He was named Luca, and he’s the cutest goddamn baby Jays ever seen. I mean, he’s basically a little seal, of course he’s cute. With those big eyes.. the little button nose. He tended to.. favor the little cutie over all the other hybrids. Luca is now 2, and boy is he a goddamn energetic toddler. He was a good little swimmer, since he’s a little seal hybrid. But he’s not exactly the best at walking. He can crawl though. He had managed to bolt off from his mother, going straight to Jay. Jay found it cute, looking down at the tiny little toddler who was trying to crawl out of the huge pool that was for all of the marine hybrids. Jay smiled softly, crouching down, gently pulling Luca’s little hands from trying to pull himself out of the pool. “Stay there buddy, you can’t walk yet..” He said gently, knowing damn well the toddler wouldn’t listen. He was a stubborn little thing.

Simon Riley

The house was too quiet. Simon stood on the front step, knuckles still hovering where he’d knocked a second time. The place was bigger than he expected—fresh paint, trimmed hedges, the kind of tidy little suburban home that tried a bit too hard to look normal. He’d seen a hundred like it in his career, and they were always the ones hiding something rotten behind the pretty curtains. He checked the file again. Jason Hale. Warrant for domestic assault. Prior complaints from neighbors. A pattern as old as time. And then there was the other name. Luca. The victim. The one every single neighbor had mentioned with the same mixture of worry and guilt. Simon exhaled through his nose, the ghost of his breath fogging in the morning chill. He could still hear Mrs. Sanders next door whispering over her fence—“They argue at all hours… poor boy, he never leaves alone… bruises sometimes, but what can we do?” He’d told her, “You did exactly what you should. You called.” Now he was here, boots planted, badge heavy on his chest, waiting for someone to answer the bloody door. Another knock. Harder this time. No footsteps. No voice. He reached for the radio clipped to his vest— —and then the lock clicked. The door inched open just enough for a face to peer out. And Simon’s breath stalled for half a second. Definitely Luca. He looked younger than Simon expected. Smaller, swallowed in an oversized sweatshirt that hung off one shoulder. Blonde hair tousled like he’d just rolled out of bed and hadn’t bothered to fight whatever war his pillow had waged against him. His eyes were bleary, unfocused, still cloudy with sleep—like a kitten scooped up mid-nap and plunked somewhere cold and bright. And the bruises. Small ones, faint ones, fresh ones. Cuts on the knuckles. A shadowing along the jaw. Things a trained eye couldn’t unsee. “Morning,” Simon said, tone low and steady as he straightened, though his jaw was already locked tight. “I’m Officer Riley with Metro PD. I’m looking for Jason Hale. I need to speak with him.” Luca blinked slowly, as if the words had to swim through fog before reaching him. Simon watched the kid rub one sleeve against his cheek, covering a faint scrape on instinct—like he was used to hiding it. “Is he home?” Simon asked, softer now. His hand hovered near his belt—not threatening, just ready. Years of experience hummed beneath his skin, every instinct sharpening. He could feel the tension in the doorway, in the stillness behind Luca, in the air of a house holding its breath. Something wasn’t right. And Luca… Luca looked like someone who hadn’t felt safe in a long time.

Simon Riley

Simon had been sitting in that cold plastic chair long before the guards even called for visitation, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles had gone white beneath the cuffs. He’d never admit it out loud, but he barely slept the night before—mind stuck on one thing, one person. His boy. His Luca. Three years old, all sunshine-colored hair and big blue eyes that could undo him faster than any enemy he’d ever faced. Jail wasn’t where he was supposed to be. A bar fight that got out of hand, fists thrown to protect someone who didn’t bother sticking around afterward—that’s all it took. His record did the rest. Straight in. No questions. No time for explanations. And now Price and Soap were stuck with a toddler who woke up asking for his dad every morning. Soap answered the phone every damn time he called from the inside. “He’s good, LT. Ate two bowls of cereal and tried to ride the dog again.” Simon would close his eyes, lean against the cool metal of the receiver, and pretend he could feel those tiny hands grabbing onto his shirt. But pretending was nothing compared to today. The visitation room buzzed with noise—chairs scraping, kids crying, guards barking orders. Simon listened for none of it. His heart hammered in his ears as he sat forward, eyes fixed on the entrance where families were being let in one by one. He kept his mask of calm on, shoulders squared, posture rigid, though inside he was shaking like he’d just walked off a battlefield. Then he heard it—Soap’s unmistakable voice grumbling something under his breath. Price’s heavier steps. And then the softest sound in the world—little feet pattering unevenly. Simon shot to his feet so fast the guard stationed behind him muttered a warning. There he was. Luca, perched on Soap’s hip, clutching a stuffed bear by one ear, his messy blond hair even messier than usual from the cold outside. His eyes were wide and bright the moment they landed on Simon through the glass, tiny hand already reaching, already pressing against the barrier as if he could push right through it. Simon’s breath stuttered. His throat burned. He stepped forward until his palms rested against the divider, directly over where Luca’s small hand pressed from the other side. “Hey, little man…” he murmured, though the glass muted the words. His smile—rare, uneven, soft—pulled at his mouth. Soap set Luca down on the stool on the other side of the booth, muttering something like, “Told ye he’d be early. Idiot practically ran here.” Price gave a quiet nod of greeting, the kind that said we’ve got him, don’t worry. Simon didn’t look away from his son. Couldn’t. “Look at you, you’ve gotten so big..” he whispered, eyes warming, filling. “Missed you, sunshine.” And even though the glass blocked him, even though rules said no physical contact, Simon Riley was already thinking—no, planning—exactly how he was going to get a damn hug from his boy today. One way or another. He’d bend every rule in the building if he had to.

Simon Riley

Simon had been awake long before the lights blared on in the block, long before the guards started their rounds, long before anyone else even stirred. He didn’t sleep much these days anyway—too much noise in his head, too much cold metal around him, too little warmth where Luca should’ve been. But today wasn’t just another day of pacing concrete and ignoring idiots who wanted to pick fights. It was visitation day. And Luca was coming. He’d planted himself in the plastic chair of booth 12 almost the moment they unlocked the hall. Arms crossed, bulked shoulders tense beneath the thin orange fabric, foot tapping with a restlessness he never admitted to. The glass between him and the incoming visitors was smudged, scratched, and as unforgiving as everything else in this place—but he didn’t care. Not today. He rubbed at the inside of his wrist where the bruising from the last contraband phone confiscation still lingered. Worth it. Every second’d been worth hearing Luca’s voice telling him—annoyed, dramatic, but soft underneath—to stop sneaking damn phones, Simon. And Simon, as always, had ignored him completely and asked how his day was instead. He wasn’t sure how he’d ended up locked up this time—well, he knew, but he preferred the guards’ version: “assault,” though they left out the part where the bloke deserved it. Still. Jail was jail. And Luca, Luca with his runway clothes and immaculate skin and soft hands, did not belong anywhere near it. Which didn’t stop the idiot from showing up anyway. Simon leaned forward when he heard the distant buzz of the front doors opening, the murmur of families shuffling in. Mothers with tired eyes. Kids with drawings. Wives holding cheap vending-machine flowers. And then— A familiar voice. Complaining. A familiar head of messy blond hair. A familiar dramatic flinch as a guard led him past a particularly questionable stain on the floor. Luca was late. As usual. And absolutely disgusted. As usual. Simon’s lips lifted—not a smile, he didn’t smile, not really—but something close. His knee jostled under the table, unable to stay still. He sat up straighter, broad frame tensing with something sharp and eager. He watched Luca wrinkle his nose, tug his sleeves up like touching anything in here might give him a disease, mumbling something that sounded like, “This is so unsanitary, oh my god…” He looked perfect. And Simon was going to kiss him through this sodding glass if it killed him. Luca finally reached booth 12, blinking once, taking in Simon’s hulking shape on the other side. Simon leaned one elbow on the counter, gaze locked entirely on him, voice low even though the phone hadn’t been picked up yet.

Megumi Fushiguro

The morning sunlight filtered weakly through the half-drawn blinds, washing the small kitchen in soft gold. Dust motes floated lazily in the air, caught in the glow as the faint hum of the refrigerator filled the quiet. Megumi Fushiguro stood by the counter, hands braced on either side of a chipped mug, steam curling from the black coffee inside. He didn’t drink it for the taste anymore — hadn’t for a long time. It was habit, a small ritual that grounded him when the rest of his life had been turned on its head. Behind him, the sound of tiny feet pattered against the wooden floor. He didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. There was only one person in the world who made her presence known like that — not quiet, not shy, but determined, confident, and already ready to start an argument before breakfast. “Morning, Violet,” he said evenly, voice low but laced with the faintest trace of warmth that rarely showed itself to anyone else. Two years old, going on fifteen. That’s how he thought of her. Somehow, this tiny creature — all black hair that fell in soft, messy waves down her back and eyes that could cut through him like glass — had completely overturned everything he’d known about the world. She had the same intensity in her gaze that he’d once seen in Gojo’s when he was teaching him, but where Gojo’s had been endless confidence, Violet’s was pure stubbornness. The kind you couldn’t reason with. He turned, coffee in hand, and watched her. She stood there in her oversized pajama shirt — one of his, actually — dragging across the floor and swallowing her tiny frame, but she wore it like it was a royal robe. Her expression was serious, hands on her hips, eyes narrowed in disapproval of something he hadn’t yet done wrong. “What?” he asked, tone deadpan, though the corner of his mouth twitched slightly. Since he’d left the world of jujutsu behind, mornings had become like this — chaotic, loud, full of little battles over breakfast choices and bedtime stories. But for the first time in his life, he didn’t feel like he was fighting for survival. He was just… living. Still, the silence of that other world crept in sometimes. Messages unanswered. Calls ignored. He knew they wondered where he’d gone, why he’d cut everyone off without a word. Yuji, Nobara, even Gojo — though he doubted the man would ever stop prying. But Megumi had made his choice. The day he’d learned about Violet, the day he’d first held her — barely able to fit his hand around her tiny fingers — he’d felt something he never thought he would: peace. And peace wasn’t something he was willing to trade again. “Let me guess,” he sighed, finally setting the mug down and crossing his arms. “You don’t want what I made for breakfast.” He could already tell by the glint in her eyes that she had plans — probably ones that involved a “no,” a pout, and at least one demand he’d end up giving in to anyway. But he couldn’t even bring himself to mind. Because no matter how much she tested his patience, no matter how sassy or demanding she got — Violet was his entire world now. And he’d face down curses, gods, or worse, Gojo’s teasing, all over again if it meant keeping her safe.

Athena

The moon hung silver over Ithaca, and from Olympus, Athena watched. She had been watching him all day—just as she had for weeks now. Odysseus. Her Odysseus. The boy she had molded into a man, sharpened like a blade until he could outwit any mortal, any god. The boy who once listened to every word she said like it was divine law—because it was. Now he stood on his balcony, arms crossed, staring into the distance like a restless wolf. The candlelight caught in his hair, made his bronze skin glow. Athena hated that he looked so far away. Hated that he wasn’t looking at her, thinking of her. That damn mortal wife of his had her head on his shoulder. Athena’s jaw tensed, fingers curling around the edge of the marble railing where she stood. She could feel the weight of the spear that leaned against her thigh, begging to be used. She had to remind herself—this was not war. But gods, she wished it was. Athena had told herself over and over she was above this. Above mortal attachment, above jealousy. And yet here she was, standing on Olympus with her heart hammering, watching the man she had trained, guided, made, live a life without her. Watching him laugh at some joke from his wife, watching him play the dutiful king. She had walked away after their last argument, after his words had cut sharper than any blade, but she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him. Not for one damn moment. She had been patient. She had given him time. But patience had never been her strongest virtue. Tonight, she would take what was hers. With a thought, she was gone from Olympus, her body dissolving into shadow and moonlight. She appeared at the foot of Odysseus’ bedchamber, silent as a stalking lioness. The guards outside never stirred—no mortal could resist her will. Inside, Odysseus slept sprawled on his bed, one arm thrown over his eyes. His wife lay on the far edge, back turned to him, already in dreams of her own. Athena’s lip curled in a quiet, dangerous smile. She moved to his side of the bed, brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead. He twitched in his sleep, scowling even in his dreams. Gods, he was infuriating. Gods, he was perfect. “Mine,” she whispered, her voice low, a vow. With a wave of her hand, the room dissolved into gold mist. The mortal bed was gone, the wife gone, the palace gone. When the mist cleared, Odysseus lay exactly where he had been—but now on a bed carved from white marble, draped in deep blue silks. The glow of Olympus bathed everything in a soft light, the night sky stretching endlessly beyond the balcony outside Athena’s chambers. And there he was, right where she wanted him—her Odysseus, her king, her brat, her prize—sleeping in her bed. Athena sat on the edge of the mattress, leaning over him, watching him breathe. He’d wake soon. She could almost see the exact moment he’d open those clever, infuriating eyes and start cursing her name, threatening to throw himself from Olympus if she didn’t send him home. The thought made her smirk.

Megumi Fushiguro

Megumi had never believed in fate. Fate was for people who couldn’t accept the weight of their own choices, who needed something bigger than themselves to pin their failures on. He had seen enough already, at seventeen, to know the world didn’t care for fairness. But this—this was different. The paper crumpled in his fist, the official stamp at the bottom blurred from how tightly he had been holding it. The words burned into his head no matter how many times he tried to blink them away: “Sukuna’s twentieth finger secured. Vessel: Yuji Itadori. Execution to be carried out.” Yuji. His Yuji. The idiot who laughed too loudly, who always bought him cheap snacks at the corner store, who tugged him along by the wrist like the world wasn’t a battlefield. Sixteen years old and already sentenced to die. Megumi sat on the edge of his bed, elbows pressed hard against his knees, dark hair hanging low in his face. His chest ached like someone had put a curse inside his ribs and let it fester. He thought about how careful they had been, how subtle. The way Yuji’s fingers brushed against his under the table in the cafeteria. The quiet nights spent together, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, whispering things they’d never admit aloud in daylight. All of it so fragile, so temporary, but Megumi had let himself believe—just for a second—that maybe they’d have time. That Yuji would live long enough to see eighteen. His jaw tightened. He wasn’t going to let this happen. Not like this. Not to him. The dorm halls were quiet, long shadows stretching across the wooden floorboards as the evening settled in. Megumi moved on autopilot, the paper still crushed in his hand as he found himself in front of Yuji’s door. He stood there for a moment, staring at the wood grain, steadying his breath. What was he supposed to say? How could he even begin to explain what had been decided without Yuji’s voice in it, without Yuji’s choice? His knuckles tapped lightly against the door anyway, the sound betraying the sharp tremor in his chest. “Yuji,” Megumi called, voice low, steady in a way that felt forced. “Can I come in?” There was no subtlety left in the way his hand curled at his side, no restraint in the storm coiling inside him. They could call it fate, they could call it justice, but Megumi already knew what it meant: he’d tear apart the entire system if he had to, if it meant keeping Yuji alive.

Simon Riley

Simon Riley had learned to live with noise—gunfire, radios crackling, shouted orders—but nothing cut through him faster than the words front door was open. The pen slipped from his fingers as the babysitter’s voice crackled through the phone, thick with panic and excuses. He barely registered them. His chair scraped back hard enough to draw looks as he was already on his feet, badge snatched, jacket half on as he moved. Three years old. Too clever for his own good. Little hands that had watched him unlock doors a hundred times, little feet that didn’t know fear yet. Luca was gone. Simon didn’t bother signing out. He was running before he hit the front steps of the precinct, boots pounding pavement as worst-case scenarios stacked in his head faster than he could shut them down. Traffic. Strangers. Corners he couldn’t see. His chest felt too tight, breath coming sharp as he scanned every sidewalk, every doorway between his house and the station. And then—there. Down the block, small and stubbornly upright, a familiar flash of blonde hair bounced with each determined step. An oversized sweater swallowed Luca’s arms, sleeves dangling past his hands. The dinosaur backpack sat crooked on his back, straps slipping off one shoulder, wobbling with every toddle forward like it was filled with precious cargo—snacks, probably. Or rocks. Or both. Simon slowed, heart slamming so hard it hurt. Relief hit first, hot and dizzying, followed immediately by fear so sharp it made his hands shake. Luca was so close to the road. So unaware of how fragile the world was. Simon crouched a few steps away, voice rough, barely trusting himself not to scare him. His eyes traced every detail—dirty knees, messy hair already falling back into those big blue eyes he could never keep clear, the same eyes that looked at him like he was the whole damn universe. He swallowed, steadying himself, one hand outstretched. “Luca…”

John Price

John sat on the back step of his house, forearms resting on his knees, a leather muzzle dangling from one hand like it was a bloody grenade he wasn’t sure how to handle. Apollo lounged in the patchy grass a few feet away, sprawled out as though he owned the yard. Black fur caught the sunlight in a faint sheen, thick and untamed, the kind of coat that made you want to sink your hand into it—if you were brave enough. His yellow eyes tracked John, lazy but sharp, like he already knew what was coming. “Don’t give me that look,” John muttered under his breath, rubbing a thumb over the worn strap of the muzzle. “It’s not punishment. Just training. For your own good.” He sounded more like he was trying to convince himself than the wolf. When John first brought Apollo home, he’d been sure the beast was just an oversized puppy. Awkward paws too big for his body, a clumsy gait, ears that hadn’t yet figured out how to stand tall. Hell, John remembered laughing at the way the pup had tripped over his own tail. But Apollo had kept growing. And growing. And now, sitting here, John could admit the “dog” was less pet and more… well, wolf. A bloody massive one at that. He cleared his throat, pushing himself up to his feet with a faint groan. “Right then. Let’s give this a go.” Apollo flicked an ear but didn’t move, his head resting heavy on his paws. John crouched down slowly, careful, as though approaching a live wire. He held the muzzle out in front of him, letting the wolf get a good whiff of it. “Not so bad, eh? Just leather. Smells familiar.” His voice was low, calm, the same tone he’d used a hundred times with spooked rookies on the field. Apollo’s eyes narrowed. John sighed, running his tongue over his teeth, then reached out to gently scratch behind the wolf’s ear. “Big lad like you—people see teeth first, not the rest of you. This’ll keep the neighbors from raising hell, and keep me from answering too many questions, yeah?” He gave a soft huff of a laugh. “You’re not exactly the kind of bloke I can pass off as a Labrador.” With that, John eased the muzzle closer to Apollo’s snout, leather straps dangling, his movements slow, deliberate. His heart thudded harder than he liked to admit. For a man who’d stared down plenty in his time—guns, knives, bastards twice his size—this should’ve been nothing. But there was something about trying to put a strap over the jaws of a wolf with teeth longer than his fingers that made sweat bead at his temple.

Henry

Henry sat at the far end of the teachers’ lounge table, his lunch untouched, eyes narrowing over the rim of his glasses as he watched the art teacher stroll in. Luca, with his infuriatingly easy smile, that mop of messy blond hair falling into his pale blue eyes, and of course, paint splattered across his shirt as though the man had rolled around in his own supplies. The kids adored him, of course. They clung to every word of his, laughed at his every joke, hung their doodles on the classroom door like offerings to some sun-soaked deity. It was maddening. Henry’s own students barely managed a polite “good morning” before groaning about another pop quiz, another strict lecture, another detention handed out for whispering too loudly during lab. He was the science teacher who made them sit up straight, keep goggles on at all times, and speak only when called upon. They didn’t like him—he knew it, they made no secret of it. But rules mattered. Discipline mattered. At least, that was what Henry told himself when he caught snippets of laughter spilling from Luca’s classroom down the hall, echoing louder than any reaction he could draw from his own. And now, here he was, walking into the lounge like he didn’t have a care in the world. Henry had to grit his teeth and remind himself he wasn’t staring. Still, when Luca made to pass him and sit somewhere else, Henry cleared his throat sharply and gave the seat across from him a pointed look. “Here,” he said, tone clipped, almost a command more than an invitation. He always sat with him, whether Luca realized it or not. As soon as Luca sat down, Henry leaned forward, frowning at the shirt. “Honestly, do you ever consider how you present yourself?” he muttered, reaching instinctively for a napkin from the dispenser. Without asking, he dabbed at a smear of cobalt blue near Luca’s cuff, though the stain only smudged further. His jaw tightened, his tone a mix of irritation and something far too soft to be mistaken for real anger. “You look like you crawled out of a paint can. It’s…unprofessional.”

Toji Fushiguro

Christmas morning crept in slow, the pale winter sun bleeding through the cracks of the blinds. Toji sat on the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees, a cigarette burning low between his fingers despite the fact that the cheap space heater in the corner was already struggling to keep the place warm. The apartment was quiet, too quiet for a morning like this — just the faint hum of the heater and the occasional creak of the old building settling. The floor was littered with his haul from last night. A pathetic little pile, if he was honest — a few boxes wrapped in colorful paper, a toy truck with the price tag still dangling from it, and the scraggly teddy bear he’d picked up with what little cash he had. The damn thing had one eye missing and a seam loose along its side, but it was soft, and that counted for something. Toji’s jaw tightened as he looked at it all. He’d hit three houses, quiet as a shadow, slipping in through unlocked windows and jimmied doors. Took what he could carry — small boxes, stuff that looked like it might be for a kid. He didn’t have the luxury of being picky. He’d felt like a bastard the whole time, crouched in front of other people’s trees, swiping gifts meant for kids who probably had ten more just like them waiting. But then he thought about Megumi. About the way the kid’s face lit up at the smallest things — a shiny coin, a stray cat, a damn empty box if it was big enough to crawl into. He deserved to have something to tear into on Christmas morning. He deserved to have more than some busted apartment with a father who couldn’t stay out of trouble. Toji stubbed out the cigarette and leaned back, running a hand down his face. He wasn’t good at this. He wasn’t good at being soft, or careful, or any of the things Megumi probably needed. But he was here. He was trying. And if that meant breaking a few laws to make his kid’s Christmas look like the ones on TV — well, so be it. He rubbed the back of his neck, leaning back against the couch, exhaustion pulling at his muscles. It didn’t matter if it was enough for him — Megumi was three, he’d light up at just about anything, right? Toji wanted to believe that. Needed to. The faint creak of the bedroom door pulled him out of his thoughts. Tiny feet pattered against the floor, slow and hesitant at first, then quicker when the kid caught sight of the tree. Toji couldn’t help the small smirk tugging at his mouth, even if it felt foreign. Christmas morning. He wasn’t sure if he was doing it right — hell, he probably wasn’t — but this, at least, felt like it was worth it. “Morning, kid,” he muttered, his voice rough but softer than usual. “Look what Santa left you.”

Apollo

The morning sun had only just begun to spill over the hills when Apollo stepped out into the pasture, his golden hair catching the light like a crown. Normally, this was his favorite part of the day—surveying his herds, the cattle and sheep he so carefully tended, proof of his divinity and superiority. They were his pride, his perfection made flesh, every last animal a reflection of his own brilliance. But today? His jaw clenched so tightly it was a wonder it didn’t crack. The field stretched before him in quiet emptiness, not a single hoofprint or bleating voice left behind. Every last one of his precious cattle was gone. Vanished. Stolen. The god of light stood there in stunned silence, his golden eyes narrowing until fury sparked behind them. He was Apollo. God of prophecy, music, the arts—and this was how he was repaid? Someone had dared to rob him, to humiliate him, to touch what was his? And then he heard it. The faint creak of a hammock swaying in the breeze. Apollo turned, slow and deliberate. There, sprawled lazily in a hammock he had no business being in, was his baby brother. Hermes. Barely three years old, with curls sticking in every direction and tiny winged feet twitching as if even in sleep he couldn’t sit still. Apollo’s hands curled into fists. The nerve of the brat. A three-year-old god of thievery—his brother—had stolen every last one of his cattle. He should have been furious enough to scorch the earth around him, but instead, Apollo found himself caught in that infuriating tug of softness. How could something so wicked look so utterly harmless? He stepped closer, his voice low, sharp, and filled with restrained venom. “Hermes…” His tone was silk stretched thin over steel. “If you value those tiny little wings of yours, you will wake up this instant and tell me what you did with my cattle.” Apollo’s light burned brighter across the field, a god’s wrath barely restrained—yet the way his gaze lingered on the sleeping child betrayed the truth: his fury warred with something softer, something he’d never admit aloud. Because even as he prepared to unleash divine judgment… he already knew he was going to let the little thief get away with far too much.

Simon

The gym was quiet for once, a rare lull after a string of matches and relentless media chatter. The harsh scent of sweat and disinfectant clung stubbornly to the air, mixing with the faint leather tang of the gloves Simon had tossed aside earlier. The lights hummed overhead, casting pale halos across the ring where he’d been hammering away at the bag, shoulders still loose with the burn of exertion. He should’ve been cooling down, maybe packing it in for the night, but his gaze had been fixed on the small figure curled beside him on the worn bench. Luca. The kid was perched there with his usual half-distracted sweetness, head leaned against Simon’s broad shoulder, scribbling neat notes into that little pad of his. His blonde hair stuck up every which way, soft wisps catching the light as though it had no intention of behaving for him. Blue eyes darted down and back up again, focused but unfailingly gentle, even when he bit his lip in concentration. The pen tapped occasionally, his handwriting small and tidy, though his wrist bent at odd angles as if the task itself was somehow too big for him. Simon tilted his head just enough to look down at him, the corners of his mouth quirking behind the faint bruise along his jaw from last night’s fight. Christ, he’s too damn good for this place, Simon thought. Too soft, too open, surrounded by wolves who’d eat him alive if Simon wasn’t always standing in their way. Already today he’d had to shut down one of the younger trainers trying to rope Luca into organizing some charity nonsense—“he’ll do it if you just keep badgering him,” they’d whispered like Simon wasn’t two steps away. The man had cut that short with a glare sharp enough to end it on the spot. Luca hadn’t even noticed, too busy nodding along until Simon’s hand came down heavy on his shoulder, pulling him away with a quiet don’t be an idiot, you don’t need that on your plate. Now, here he was, leaning like Simon was the safest wall in the world. And maybe he was. “Y’know,” Simon rumbled at last, voice low, roughened from hours of shouting over crowds, “if you keep scribblin’ like that, you’ll wear the bloody pen down to a nub before you’ve even finished one page.” He angled his chin toward the pad, one brow lifting. His tone was blunt as ever, but there was a softness threaded through it, the sort only Luca ever pulled out of him. He shifted, arm stretching out along the back of the bench, caging the boy in without really thinking about it.

Simon Riley

Simon had been in the middle of wrapping his hands when he saw it. Luca, standing just a few feet away, looking as soft and sweet as ever with that mop of messy blonde hair and those wide, innocent green eyes—eyes that were currently focused on some other guy. The other boxer, some rookie who’d been coming around the gym for the last few weeks, was leaning against the ropes, grinning, talking low. And Luca, bless his clueless little heart, was smiling back, nodding like he always did when someone talked to him. Simon didn’t even finish wrapping his hands. He was on his feet in seconds, shoving his way across the gym floor with zero subtlety. “Oi!” Simon barked, his accent rough, loud enough to turn a few heads. His boots thudded against the floor with purpose, his shoulders squared, his jaw tight. He didn’t slow down until he was right behind Luca, one big hand immediately finding its home on the small of Luca’s back like it belonged there—which it did. “Luca,” Simon said, voice dropping lower now that he was close, but still sharp enough to cut through the air. He bent slightly so his face was level with Luca’s, brushing a stray lock of blonde hair out of his boy’s eyes. “Who’s this, hm?” The rookie opened his mouth like he was about to answer, but Simon didn’t even glance at him—his eyes stayed locked on Luca’s, softening just a fraction as his thumb brushed the side of Luca’s jaw. “Didn’t know we were meetin’ new friends today, sweetheart,” Simon said, his voice warm now, soft, because he was always soft when he talked to his baby boy, but there was a fire in his chest he wasn’t hiding. He straightened, finally turning his head toward the rookie with a look that wasn’t remotely friendly. “You enjoyin’ yourself, mate? Standin’ there flirtin’ with my boyfriend?” A couple of the other boxers snickered under their breath, watching from across the gym, because of course Simon was making a scene. He always made a scene when it came to Luca. Simon’s arm snaked around Luca’s waist, pulling him closer until his chest was pressed firmly against Luca’s back, protective, possessive. “See, that’s where you’ve gone wrong,” Simon continued. “This one right here? He’s mine. Everyone here knows it. Hell, I don’t shut up about him.” He pressed a quick kiss to the side of Luca’s head, loud and obnoxious on purpose, before looking back at the other boxer. “So unless you’re plannin’ on signin’ up to spar with me—and losin’—I’d suggest you stop makin’ eyes at what’s mine.” Simon turned back to Luca then, scowl melting into something softer as he ruffled Luca’s hair. “C’mon, love. You can sit ringside while I finish up, yeah? Don’t want you gettin’ bored talkin’ to clowns like him.” He didn’t let go of Luca, though. Not yet. His arm stayed around his waist, and he shot one last look over his shoulder at the rookie—daring him to try again—before steering Luca away toward the ring like he owned the whole damn place.

Simon Riley

Simon had been amused the entire drive over — he couldn’t help it. He was the one who’d practically shoved Luca into this job, claiming it would teach him “discipline” and “real-world responsibility,” but now? Seeing him in that bright green apron, hair falling in his face while he wrangled carts in the parking lot? It was priceless. He parked the truck a few spaces over, leaned back against the door, and just watched for a moment, arms crossed. His kid looked annoyed already, shoulders hunched as he tried to push a long line of carts back toward the store, sneakers scuffing against the asphalt. Typical. If looks could kill, Simon figured the carts would’ve been dust by now. “Oi!” Simon finally called, loud enough to carry across the lot. “Careful, mate, those carts aren’t military grade— don’t strain yourself.” He smirked when Luca glanced up, that scowl already starting to creep onto his face. Good. Mission accomplished. Simon pushed off the truck and strolled over, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world. “You missed one,” he said as he nodded toward a stray cart way out at the edge of the lot. “What’s this then? Slacking off? First week on the job and you’re already losin’ points with management.” Simon grinned and reached out to tug at the front of Luca’s apron, inspecting it like he was some drill sergeant. “Hm. Not bad. You look adorable. Real professional-like. I should take a picture, frame it over the fireplace.” He ducked a little, expecting the inevitable swat from Luca, but kept going anyway, because winding him up was too easy. “Tell me, you practicin’ your bagging skills too? Making sure the eggs aren’t sittin’ under the tinned beans? God forbid some poor customer loses a loaf of bread because my son can’t stack groceries proper.” He chuckled, clearly enjoying himself.

Simon Riley

The meeting hall was still humming with the quiet murmur of kings, queens, and advisors when Simon Riley’s gaze found him again. He told himself he wouldn’t look — that today, he’d focus on trade agreements and military alliances rather than the young prince sitting across the table. But the boy made it impossible. Luca. The name alone felt soft in Simon’s mind, too gentle for the kind of world he ruled. His kingdom was built on stone and iron — soldiers in polished armor, banners that bled red and gold, and a throne that weighed more than most men could carry. But Luca… he didn’t belong to that world. Not with his tousled blonde hair that never seemed to obey a crown, or those sky-blue eyes that held a spark of innocence Simon hadn’t seen in years. The boy was slouched slightly in his chair, clearly bored of the endless droning talk of borders and taxes. Every so often, he’d trace patterns along the rim of his goblet or whisper something to his advisor, a faint smile tugging at his lips. And each time he smiled, Simon felt something twist in his chest — something dangerous, something that a king shouldn’t feel. He tried to look away. Gods knew he tried. But then Luca laughed — a quiet, unguarded sound that drew Simon’s eyes like a blade to a magnet. It was all he could do not to stare. When the council finally adjourned, Simon lingered by the great table, pretending to review the parchment spread before him. He could feel the weight of his crown pressing heavier against his head, the cold metal reminding him of his place — of decorum, of restraint. Still, his gaze drifted across the chamber again, to where the young prince stood speaking softly to a servant, his golden hair catching the sunlight that spilled through the stained glass. Before he could stop himself, Simon took a step forward. Then another. The room was nearly empty now, the echoes of departing royals fading into the corridors. His boots thudded quietly against the marble as he approached, heart thrumming an unfamiliar rhythm beneath his armor. He wasn’t good at this — he never had been. Diplomacy came easy; flirtation did not. When he finally reached the boy, Luca turned slightly, those blue eyes lifting to meet his. Simon felt his words dry up immediately. “Your Highness,” he started, voice low and rough, a touch uncertain. “You—uh—” He cleared his throat, looking away briefly before forcing himself to meet the prince’s gaze again. “You handled yourself well today. The way you spoke of your father’s lands… not many your age have that kind of conviction.” It wasn’t what he’d meant to say — not at all. He wanted to say something about the way the sunlight loved his hair, or how his laugh lingered like music in a soldier’s memory. But those words were dangerous. Too raw. Too revealing. He shifted slightly, fingers brushing the edge of his cloak. “I was wondering if… if you might join me for a walk through the gardens. It’s… quieter there.” The words came out more awkwardly than he’d hoped, but his gaze was steady now — dark eyes locked on blue, a faint hint of warmth softening the usually cold stoicism in his face. For the first time in a long while, King Simon Riley looked less like a ruler of men and more like a man unsure of what to do with his own heart.

Simon Riley

Simon had made the rookie mistake of thinking silence meant peace. For the first hour of their little “arts and crafts day,” everything had gone suspiciously well. Luca had been sitting cross-legged at the kitchen table, his tiny tongue poking out the corner of his mouth as he scribbled something that looked like a war between stick figures and dinosaurs. Simon had been hovering nearby — cleaning brushes, watching, snapping the occasional picture for Soap to make fun of later — but eventually, he’d needed to grab something from the other room. Two minutes. That was all it took. When he came back, the sight that greeted him made him freeze mid-step. Luca sat there, beaming up at him like a cherub who knew exactly how to play innocent. His little blonde curls were more of a mess than before, stuck up in every direction. His fingers — both of them — were pressed together in front of him, and Simon’s brain immediately clocked the situation before he even spotted the half-empty glue bottle lying on its side like the aftermath of a crime scene. The table was a battlefield. The crayons had rolled off onto the floor, the safety scissors were buried under what looked like a puddle of glitter, and there was a trail of glue across the wood that shimmered faintly in the sunlight. A couple of sheets of paper had fused together — permanently, by the look of it — and the culprit was sitting right in the middle of it all, still as a mouse, his blue eyes wide and suspiciously shiny. Simon dragged a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose. “Bloody hell…” he muttered, voice low, the kind of rumble that said he was trying not to laugh, but also not ready to give up on pretending to be stern. He crossed his arms, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe, staring down at the miniature disaster. Luca looked so tiny against the oversized chair, little feet dangling, toes wiggling like he was thinking about running but couldn’t quite figure out how with his hands glued together. Simon finally broke the silence. “You’ve got about five seconds to tell me why the table looks like a unicorn exploded, mate.” He pushed off the doorframe, walking toward the scene of the crime, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. The faint stickiness of glue clung to the air, sweet and chemical. “Didn’t I tell you the glue’s for the paper, not for your bloody fingers?” He crouched beside the table, looking at Luca’s hands — definitely stuck. He’d seen less adhesive commitment in military equipment. “…You didn’t try eatin’ it, did you?” he asked, narrowing his eyes just slightly, though his tone was lighter now — amused, even fond. It was the same expression he wore on missions when everything went to hell — calm, assessing, but with that twitch of humor in his eyes. Only now, instead of a squad of trained soldiers, he was dealing with a three-year-old who’d managed to win a battle against logic, physics, and craft glue in under two minutes.

Simon Riley

The throne room was quieter at night, stripped of its usual ceremony and polished splendor. Moonlight pushed through the tall stained-glass windows, throwing colored patterns across the stone floor. Simon Riley stood in the center of it, helmet tucked under his arm, spine straight, jaw locked. He’d fought on more battlefields than he could count, stared down enemies twice his size… but none of that had prepared him for this interrogation. Across from him sat the King and Queen of Edevair—Luca’s parents. Regal, sharp-eyed, and both staring at him like he was a puzzle they intended to take apart piece by piece. And it was all because their idiot of a prince couldn’t keep his hands to himself. Luca should’ve been asleep in his chambers down the hall. Should’ve been—Simon even checked on him before getting dragged here by two palace guards. There Luca was: face buried in pillows, his messy blond hair sticking up in every direction, crown tossed somewhere on the floor where it shouldn’t have been. His peaceful breathing had almost convinced Simon he was dreaming… until a guard cleared his throat and announced that Their Majesties wished to see Sir Riley. Immediately. And now here he stood. Being glared at. Judged. Picked apart. The Queen leaned forward first, her gaze like a blade. “Sir Riley… our son has been behaving—how should we put it—oddly affectionate toward you as of late.” Simon didn’t flinch, but his fingers tightened around his helmet. “I’m not sure what you mean, Your Majesty.” The King’s eyebrow arched. “He calls you ‘Simon’ instead of ‘Sir Riley.’ In front of guests.” “That’s… not uncommon,” Simon lied. “He shields you with his cape during the rain,” the Queen added slowly. “Not the other way around.” Simon’s jaw twitched. He could practically hear Luca’s voice in his head—“But you’ll get sick, Si’. Knights shouldn’t get sick!”—right before Simon forced the damn cape back onto the boy’s shoulders. “And then,” the King said, voice dropping, “there was this morning.” Ah. This morning. When Luca had practically launched himself onto Simon in the hallway, arms thrown around his neck, laughing as if they were completely alone. When he’d whispered something painfully sweet against Simon’s cheek… loud enough that a passing servant dropped an entire tray of silverware. Simon swallowed. “The prince is… expressive,” he managed. The Queen’s eyes narrowed. “Expressive is when he talks too much at dinner. Expressive is when he insists on petting the royal hounds before they’re bathed.” She paused, expression sharpening. “Throwing himself into his knight’s arms and refusing to let go is quite different.” Simon kept his expression blank, military-sharp. Inside, he was swearing up and down at Luca. For someone raised to be subtle and political, the prince had the self-control of a hyperactive puppy. The King steepled his fingers. “Sir Riley… we’re not accusing you of anything.” A lie. A blatant one. “But if our son is forming… attachments that are inappropriate for his station, we must know.” Simon felt his chest tighten—anger, fear, the instinct to protect Luca even from his own parents. He kept his voice low, steady, respectful. “Your Majesties, the prince is safe under my watch. I’ve never once put him in harm’s way. My duty is to protect him. Nothing more.” A beat of silence. Then the Queen leaned back, studying him as if he might crack under the pressure. “And yet,” she murmured, “he looks at you as if you hung the stars.” A muscle in Simon’s cheek twitched. Damn kid. Damn beautiful, reckless, affectionate kid who’d made secrecy impossible just by existing.

Simon Riley

Simon wasn’t expecting to come home early. Hell, he wasn’t expecting to come home at all tonight—briefing had run long, the recruits were idiots, the mud pit was deeper than usual, and he’d ended up face-first in it after demonstrating for the tenth bloody time how to low-crawl without getting shot. So yeah. He was a mess. Boots caked, fatigues streaked, gloves filthy, mud dried on his jaw like he’d been sculpted out of the stuff. It didn’t bother him—he practically lived in dirt, and it wasn’t like the mud minded his company. The apartment door clicked open with a heavy shove of his shoulder. He tossed his bag down by instinct, already hearing the soft hum of the tv coming from the living room—and the little noise of scribbling. Of course the kid was studying. Twenty years old and already a pediatric neurosurgeon. A goddamn surgeon. Simon still said it like it was sorcery. “He works with kids’ brains,” he’d tell the others on base, just to watch Luca huff like an offended cat. Simon stepped inside and locked the door behind him, leaving a faint trail of drying mud across the floor. He noticed it. He also ignored it. “Lu?” he called out, voice low, gravelly, carrying the exhaustion of someone who yells at recruits for a living—and kills for a living, too, though he never said that part aloud when the kid could hear it. Silence. Then a distant clatter. Simon frowned. “Luca?” He followed the sound, boots thudding heavily, and stopped when he reached the hallway—because there was Luca, kneeling on the floor in front of a toppled stack of neatly-organized medical textbooks, picking them up one by one with trembling hands. Messy blonde hair sticking out in every direction, blue eyes wide and watery. He looked like an overwhelmed kitten who’d seen too much of the world too quickly. Simon’s chest softened immediately—right up until Luca looked up, saw him… and froze. The kid’s gaze traveled from Simon’s mud-covered boots… to his mud-covered vest… to his mud-covered hands. And then Luca’s lip wobbled. Simon swore under his breath. “Luca, love—don’t cry. I didn’t touch anything. Not yet.” He raised his hands a little, palms out, like he was approaching a skittish deer. He remembered the last time—one muddy hand on the kid’s shoulder and Luca had burst into tears so violently Simon thought someone had died. “I’m not gonna grab you,” he added quickly, taking one slow step back so Luca wouldn’t panic. “I just—heard the noise. Wanted to check on you.” He kept his distance, even though every instinct told him to scoop the kid up—mud and all. Luca was a germaphobe. Simon had accepted that in the same way he’d accepted that the world was full of idiots he had to yell at: permanent, unavoidable, and not worth fighting. “You okay?” he asked, softer now, leaning against the wall so he wouldn’t drip mud any closer. “You look like the books tried to fight you.” A pause. “And before you say it—yeah. I know. I’m covered in mud. Don’t start crying, yeah? I’ll shower before I get anywhere near you. Promise.” Even from across the hall, he watched Luca’s shoulders tremble, watched that brilliant, infuriating, impossibly smart brain whirl into anxious overdrive. Simon’s jaw tightened—not in irritation, just in helpless affection. Two people couldn’t be more different if they tried: Luca, a brilliant germaphobic prodigy who fixed children’s brains… and Simon, a half-feral lieutenant who crawled through mud and shouted at grown men like they were toddlers. But Luca was his. And Simon would stand in the hall all night covered in mud if that’s what it took to keep the kid from crying again.

Simon Riley

Simon wasn’t entirely sure when it had happened—when the hesitant, awkward touches had turned into something far more… permanent. Something he needed. All he knew was that the barracks were too damn cold tonight, and Luca was warm. That was enough reason for him. The door clicked shut behind him as he stepped into their shared room, heavy boots thudding quietly across the floor. Luca had passed out sideways on Simon’s bunk again—small frame sprawled like he owned the place, blond hair a messy halo against the pillow. Simon paused in the doorway, staring. He always stared for too long. He never knew if he was allowed to. But Luca didn’t yell at him for staring anymore, so he took that as silent permission. He moved closer, lowering himself onto the edge of the mattress. He didn’t say anything; he never did. Words always made a knot form in his throat. Touch didn’t. Simon reached out, rough fingers brushing Luca’s knuckles. It was the gentlest thing he ever did in his whole damn life, tapping twice—a habit he didn’t fully understand, only that Luca somehow did. Luca always understood him, even while yelling. When Luca didn’t stir, Simon eased himself down behind him on the too-small bunk. His body curled instinctively, large frame folding protectively around the smaller one. He pressed his chest to Luca’s back, breathing slow, careful. He didn’t want to wake him… but he also didn’t want to be anywhere else. His hand found Luca’s—of course it did. His fingers hooked around Luca’s smallest one, holding on like it was his tether to the world. It always felt like that. Simon rested his forehead against the back of Luca’s shoulder, mask off for once. He only ever took it off around him. Only ever let himself exhale like this around him. Maybe it was the quiet. Or maybe it was the way Luca fit into him just right. But Simon felt something loosen in his chest, something warm and rare and terrifying. He let his arm slip around Luca’s waist, pulling him closer—just a little. Just enough. If Luca woke and yelled? Simon would grumble, look away, pretend he wasn’t clinging. But he wouldn’t move. Not tonight. Not when Luca smelled like soap and warmth and home. Simon closed his eyes, breathing against the nape of Luca’s neck, holding on with that single hooked finger like it meant everything. Because to him—it did.

Simon Riley

The first time Simon Riley noticed Luca, it wasn’t because of the alarms blaring across the briefing room — it was because the kid didn’t flinch at any of it. Everyone else had jumped. Even seasoned operators cursed under their breath as the base’s security screens flashed red. But Luca sat there on his rolling chair with one knee pulled up to his chest, blonde hair crushed flat on one side like he’d slept in the server room again, typing with that half-awake look in his blue eyes. Calm. Detached. Almost bored. And then, within seconds, every alarm went silent. The entire room stared at him. Luca blinked once, slow, and muttered, “It was a false trigger.” Then went right back to typing. That was three weeks ago. And Simon hadn’t stopped watching him since. He didn’t mean to — hell, he tried not to — but there was something magnetic about the quiet ones. Something about the way Luca avoided conversation like it was gunfire, or the way he shoved his sleeves up to his elbows when he worked, revealing small wrists marked by the faint dents of keyboard edges. Something about how he was rude without even trying: offering one-word answers, ghosting out of rooms without a sound, glaring when someone talked too loudly. Simon respected quiet. He understood it more deeply than he cared to admit. But Luca’s quiet was different — sharper. Like a blade tucked into a soft smile he never wore. And Simon… he couldn’t stop being drawn to it. Tonight, the base was restless — storm winds hitting the walls, lights flickering, power switching between generators. Simon walked the upper corridor of the server wing, ghost-mask hanging around his neck, boots silent on the metal flooring. He wasn’t on duty here. Not officially. But he always ended up orbiting this wing like gravity was stronger here. More specifically: like Luca was here. And he was. The kid sat cross-legged on the floor outside the main server door, laptop open, wires plugged into ports that “no one but him” was supposed to touch. His hoodie was sliding off one shoulder, and he was chewing a pen cap like he was trying not to fall asleep mid-code. A small battery-powered lamp on the ground cast a soft glow over him, making him look almost unreal in the dark corridor. Simon stopped before he realized he’d done it. Luca didn’t even look up. That… stung a little more than Simon liked to admit. He cleared his throat — quietly, but intentionally. “You’re not supposed to be working in the hall, y’know.” Luca didn’t answer. Didn’t even twitch. Simon exhaled through his nose, something between amused and frustrated. “Not ignorin’ me, are you?” The words came out lower, rougher than he meant.

Simon Riley

Megumi had known—known—that bringing Yuji Itadori to the Grand Canyon was a mistake the second the wind picked up and Yuji’s eyes lit with that familiar, dangerous sparkle. The canyon stretched endlessly before them, layered reds and oranges carved deep enough to make Megumi’s stomach tighten just looking at it. He stood a few steps back from the railing, one hand already hooked into the fabric of Yuji’s hoodie like a lifeline, knuckles white. This was supposed to be a date. A calm one. Nature, quiet, fresh air—something grounding. Something that wouldn’t involve cardiac arrest. Yuji, unfortunately, had other plans. Megumi watched him lean forward, peering over the edge like gravity was a suggestion instead of a threat. Pink hair ruffled violently in the wind, laughter caught in his chest, shoes inching closer to a drop that went on for miles. Megumi’s grip tightened automatically, fingers curling into familiar fabric he’d grabbed a thousand times before—training drills, missions, daily life. Muscle memory born of loving someone who never thought before he moved. “Don’t,” Megumi said, voice sharp, already stepping closer. His heart was pounding hard enough to be annoying. He hated that Yuji could do this to him—stand near danger like it was a joke, like Megumi wasn’t already calculating worst-case scenarios. Slip. Loose rock. Sudden gust of wind. He scanned Yuji’s posture, weight distribution, shoes, distance from the edge. Always checking. Always hovering. Yuji leaned farther anyway. Megumi’s breath caught. He yanked Yuji back by the hood without hesitation, scolding already forming on his tongue. “Are you trying to die?” he snapped, pulling him flush against his chest. Megumi glared at him, anger fizzing hot and immediate, but his hands were already moving, checking Yuji’s arms, shoulders, wrists. No injuries. Good. He flicked Yuji’s forehead hard enough to sting, then grabbed his chin and pressed a quick kiss to the spot like it erased the danger. “You’re an idiot,” he muttered, voice low, deadly serious.

Megumi Fushiguro

The morning light spilled softly through the curtains, a golden haze creeping across the floorboards and catching the edge of the piles—yes, piles—of presents scattered neatly across Megumi Fushiguro’s living room. The sight looked nothing short of absurd, even to him. He wasn’t the type to go overboard with anything, let alone gifts, but for once, he’d let that small, hidden corner of sentimentality win. Because it was Yuji’s birthday. And if anyone deserved to be spoiled, it was that ridiculously selfless idiot who could somehow brighten every room he stepped into. Megumi had started planning a week ago. One thing had turned into another—first, just the essentials: Yuji’s favorite chips (the ones he always “borrowed” from Megumi’s stash without asking), the chocolates he claimed were “just for emergencies,” though the definition of emergency was apparently every night. Then came the smaller things, the ones that weren’t really about necessity—little plushies shaped like Sukuna’s mouth, a fox one because it reminded Megumi of his shikigami, and another that was just a big, round pink blob that somehow looked exactly like Yuji when he was pouting. It snowballed from there. There were shirts and hoodies—soft ones, because Yuji was tactile and Megumi had noticed how he always lingered in hugs just a second longer than necessary. A bouquet of sunflowers sat in a glass vase on the table, bright and golden, the petals spreading wide like sunlight in physical form. He’d debated the flowers for a while—he didn’t think Yuji would expect something like that, and maybe that was the point. Something alive. Something warm. Something him. Megumi stood in the middle of it all now, silent, arms crossed over his chest as he surveyed his handiwork. It looked like the aftermath of a holiday morning gone mad. Wrapping paper scattered here and there, ribbons trailing onto the floor, his usually neat living space transformed into a battlefield of gift bags and colorful boxes. He’d been up since dawn making sure everything was perfect—the way the decorations hung unevenly over the doorway, the little hand-drawn card sitting right at the center of the table, his handwriting stiff and formal but sincere. He didn’t write much in it—just a simple “Happy birthday, idiot. Don’t eat all the sweets at once.” But there were smudges on the corner where he’d hesitated too long, pen pressing too deep into the paper. Maybe Yuji would notice. Maybe he wouldn’t. Now he was just… waiting. The air felt expectant, quiet except for the faint hum of the morning outside—the distant rumble of a passing train, the rustle of trees beyond the open window. Megumi exhaled softly, running a hand through his dark hair, his heartbeat a little faster than he’d like to admit. This wasn’t something he did. He wasn’t romantic, not really. But Yuji—it was different with him. Everything about Yuji had always been different. He leaned against the wall, hands slipping into his pockets as he glanced once more at the ridiculous display of affection scattered across the room.

Jay

Jay never believed there was life out of earth. That was a stupid concept to him. To him it was like people saying the earth is flat. Just plain idiotic. He didn’t believe ‘aliens’ were real. Yet people still tried telling him it was real. His family were big believers in aliens, saying they have seen ufos and such. Jay didn’t believe them. Who would believe such stupid things? But.. one day, when Jay was just chilling at home cause he didn’t have any work, he heard a loud noise in his backyard. When he went outside to see what the noise was, it was as a.. weird.. circular vehicle. Almost like a ufo. A ufo?! Aliens aren’t real! Though that concept quickly came out of his mind when he saw what was in the ufo. It looked like a human.. a boy. He looked.. extremely cute. With light green hair and bright yellow eyes. Jay decided to name the little alien boy ‘Cosmo’. He soon learned that cosmo has some.. powers. He can literally fly. He needed some company anyway. He was starting to.. not want to ever be away from Cosmo. He was cute. And he was innocent. So Jay had to teach him things sometimes. Normal human things. Today, Jay was going to the store, he took cosmo with him. After Cosmo begged to come and promised he wouldn’t float. Jay didn’t believe him. He put the hood over cosmos head so his cute little antennas were hidden. He was currently looking for some food, his eyes narrowed in concentration as he looked at the shelf’s full of food. He looked to the side where Cosmo is supposed to be. Of course, he wasn’t there. Jays eyes widened in slight fear and protectiveness. Where did he go?! Did someone see him? Though his worry was completely gone when he saw Cosmo floating as he tried to reached for something he wanted. “Cosmo! Stop it!” He said firmly, walking over to the little alien boy and grabbing his small waist, pulling him back down so he was standing instead of floating. Looking down at him sternly.

Simon Riley

The bell over the studio door gave its usual soft jingle as Simon stepped inside, boots quiet but presence anything but. The familiar scent of ink and disinfectant hit him first—home in a way he never expected a tattoo shop would ever be. He’d come to pick Luca up, maybe steal a kiss, maybe just linger in his corner and watch those delicate little hands move like they always did. But the second he rounded the divider, his jaw clenched. Luca was bent over someone else. Not just bent—hovering close, brows furrowed in that focused, gentle way that Simon knew too damn well. The little blond strand that always fell into his eyes was dangling forward, almost brushing the client’s arm as he worked. His small hand rested lightly on the client’s skin, steadying it, thumb brushing in tiny absentminded circles Luca didn’t even notice he did. The client definitely noticed, though. They were smiling. Talking. Laughing quietly with him. Simon’s spine went rigid. He didn’t make a sound, but the client still jolted a little when the shadow of a very large, very silent man fell across them. Luca didn’t even look up at first—too engrossed, blissfully oblivious—but Simon’s stare landed heavy and unmistakable on the stranger’s face. A warning with no words. Mine. The client swallowed, eyes flicking from Simon’s glare to Luca’s small, soft smile as he continued tattooing. Luca finally looked up when he felt the shift of air—then brightened instantly. “Oh! Simon—hi!” he chirped, completely unaware of the territorial storm brewing two feet behind him. “Didn’t hear you come in.” Simon stepped closer, making sure the client had a perfect, undeniable view of how easily Luca leaned toward him. His gloved fingers brushed Luca’s wrist as he adjusted something, and Simon felt something feral tug in his chest. He rested a heavy hand on Luca’s shoulder—gentle for Luca, not gentle for the audience. “Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he rumbled, eyes cutting back to the client, who immediately stopped smiling. “Just checkin’ on my boyfriend.” The word dropped like a stone. Luca beamed, oblivious as ever, while Simon let his thumb sweep over the fabric of Luca’s shirt in a way that was both casual and absolutely intentional. His posture said everything the client needed to understand: you’re being allowed here. Nothing more. “This one almost done?” he asked, finally letting his eyes drop to Luca instead of the idiot in the chair. But the question wasn’t really about the tattoo. It was about how fast he could get Luca away from this bloke and back where Simon wanted him. Right under his arm. Where he belonged.

Simon Riley

The alarm wasn’t supposed to sound. Not today, not ever, if you asked anyone in the damn department. The Safe Haven box was one of those things everyone swore they’d maintain but prayed they’d never have to touch. And yet— BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. Simon froze mid-report, pen paused between his fingers as every head in the station slowly lifted, eyes widening. The red light above the hallway blinked. Once. Twice. Urgent. “Riley,” the sergeant barked, already grabbing the keys. “You’re closest. Go.” He didn’t argue. He never did. He just shoved his jacket on, the familiar weight settling over his shoulders as he jogged to the cruiser. It wasn’t fear that tugged at his gut—more like disbelief. Who the hell would actually…? The drive was short. Too short for him to think, but long enough for his jaw to tense. By the time he reached the small brick annex with the reinforced metal baby box built into its side, the alarm had switched to a steady, heart-pounding pulse. Simon unlocked the outer panel, bracing himself for—he didn’t know what. But it sure as hell wasn’t this. Inside the warm bassinet, wrapped in a soft blue blanket, was the tiniest little thing he’d ever seen. Round cheeks. A button nose. Dark lashes resting heavy over plump, flushed cheeks. A tiny fist half-curled beside his face. Completely still—until Simon’s shadow fell over him. The baby made a small sound. A quiet, breathy hmmh? and shifted. Simon’s breath caught. “…Well, hey there,” he muttered, voice dropping without him meaning it to. Then he saw the folded piece of paper placed gently on the infant’s chest. He picked it up with careful fingers—military hands that had once disarmed bombs were somehow trembling over a piece of stationary. Luca. 4 months old. Born July 2nd. I can’t keep him safe. Please… someone take care of him. I’m sorry. That was it. No name. No explanation. Just a mother’s shaking handwriting and a hope someone else could do better. Simon felt something tight coil in his chest. A tug he didn’t like. A tug that sank its claws deeper when he looked back down at the baby—Luca—who blinked his eyes open with slow, heavy blinks. Blue. Big. Too big. Too trusting. Luca stared up at him like he’d been expecting him. Like Simon was supposed to be there. “…Christ,” Simon breathed, barely louder than a whisper. He slid his hands beneath the little body, lifting him with a gentleness that surprised even himself. The baby weighed almost nothing—warm, soft, a faint baby-smell he couldn’t place but knew he’d recognize forever now. Luca let out a small babble, nuzzled into his chest like he’d already decided this was safe, this was fine, this was home. And that— That did something to him. More than it should’ve. More than he understood. Simon secured the blanket around him with military precision born from habits he didn’t even think about anymore. Then, cradling the baby close, he turned toward the cruiser to take him to the hospital for intake and evaluation. Standard procedure. Routine. Simple. But as he moved, Luca’s little fingers curled around the fabric of Simon’s shirt, gripping the cotton like a lifeline. Simon stopped walking. Just for a second. Just long enough to feel something settle—sharp and terrifying and certain—right beneath his ribs. He wasn’t supposed to feel anything. He damn sure wasn’t supposed to feel this. But he did. Responsibility. Protectiveness. A quiet, dangerous promise forming in the back of his mind before he could stop it. This kid… This tiny, abandoned boy… He was his problem now. And Simon Riley didn’t let go of things once they were his.

Henry

Henry wasn’t a man made for softness. Everything about him — from the rigid angles of his jaw to the calloused weight of his hands — was born of discipline and violence. The boxing world had carved him into something relentless, something sharp, and for years he’d lived like that was all there was to him. In the ring, he was unstoppable; outside of it, untouchable. That was, until Luca happened. The kid was supposed to be temporary — just a nurse assigned to monitor his recovery after a torn ligament nearly ended his career. But somehow “temporary” turned into weeks, and then months, until Henry couldn’t remember what his apartment looked like without Luca’s quiet presence filling it. He told himself it was practical — easier to keep an eye on him, easier to make sure he was doing his job right. But that was a lie, and Henry wasn’t even trying to believe it anymore. Now, the morning sun spilled through the blinds, cutting thin stripes of gold across the sheets. The air was still heavy with the scent of sweat and leather polish, a reminder that the gym downstairs waited for him — but for the first time in hours, he didn’t care. Luca lay beside him, turned slightly toward the window, pale hair glowing faintly in the light. Too soft for this world, Henry thought. Too soft for him. He sat up slowly, dragging a hand through his dark hair, watching the nurse’s even breathing. There was something disarming about the way Luca slept — no tension, no wariness, just quiet trust. It made Henry’s chest ache in a way he didn’t like. He wasn’t supposed to feel that. Not for someone who worked for him. Not for someone he’d pulled too far into his orbit to ever really let go again. “Wake up,” he muttered, voice low, rough from sleep. His tone was habitually gruff, but there was something else beneath it — something reluctant and human. “We’ve got to head out soon. I’ve got training.” He didn’t touch him, not at first. He just sat there for a moment, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. The rhythm of his breathing didn’t match the calm morning. Too fast, too restless. Because this — whatever this thing was between them — it wasn’t supposed to exist. He wasn’t supposed to need someone to look at him like Luca did, wasn’t supposed to crave the quiet that came after the chaos. But he did.

Yuji Itadori

The dorm was too quiet again. That kind of silence that made Yuji’s chest feel heavy, like the air itself didn’t want to move. It had been days since he’d heard Megumi’s voice from anywhere other than behind a closed door — and even then, it was just a quiet grunt or a tired mumble whenever Yuji came in to check on him. Gojo had told him to “give the kid space,” that he’d come around eventually, but Yuji couldn’t do that. Not when Megumi looked the way he did last time he saw him, sitting slumped in bed with his hair tangled, eyes dull, and that half-empty pill bottle sitting untouched on the nightstand. Yuji stood outside Megumi’s door now, thumb brushing over the small brass key he kept on his keychain — their key, really. Megumi had given it to him a long time ago, back before they were even together. “So you’ll stop knocking every five minutes,” Megumi had muttered at the time. But Yuji had never abused the privilege. Not until lately, anyway. Now, he found himself turning that key almost every day. He hesitated only a moment before he slid the key into the lock and turned it. The door creaked softly, and the smell of stale air and faint detergent hit him — familiar, but not comforting. The curtains were drawn shut, leaving the room dim except for a thin line of light bleeding through the crack. Yuji’s eyes adjusted quickly, and there he was: Megumi, curled up on his side beneath the blanket, black hair a messy halo against the pillow. Yuji’s chest ached. He remembered when that same bed used to be a battlefield — piles of books, open laptops, Megumi sitting cross-legged and pretending not to smile when Yuji dropped snacks all over the place. Now it looked empty. Hollow. Quietly, Yuji closed the door behind him and toed off his shoes. “Hey, Fushiguro…” he said softly. He padded across the room, careful not to startle him. The blanket rose and fell with Megumi’s breathing, slow but uneven. Yuji crouched down beside the bed, resting his elbows on the mattress edge. “You didn’t take your meds again, huh?” His voice came out gentler than he intended — it always did with Megumi. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair out of Megumi’s face, fingers lingering just a little longer than necessary. “You don’t have to pretend around me, you know? I can tell when you’re not okay.” He gave a small, humorless laugh and glanced toward the nightstand. The pill bottle sat there, still nearly full. He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, thinking. Gojo would probably chew him out for this — for “hovering.” But he didn’t care. He couldn’t stand watching Megumi fade into himself again. Without another word, Yuji sat down on the edge of the bed and slipped under the blanket, careful not to jostle Megumi too much. The boy was warm, his body sinking naturally against Yuji’s when he shifted closer, half-conscious or just too tired to resist. Yuji wrapped an arm around him, thumb tracing slow circles against his hip through the blanket. “You know,” Yuji murmured, eyes on the ceiling now, “I don’t care what Gojo says. I’m not leaving you alone like this. If you’re going through something, I’m going through it too. That’s kind of how the whole boyfriend thing works, right?” His voice cracked just a little at the end, but he smiled through it anyway — that soft, lopsided smile Megumi used to tease him about. He pressed a small kiss to the back of Megumi’s head and added quietly, “You don’t have to do anything today. Not eat, not talk, not move. I’ll just stay here. That’s enough for me.” And he meant it. Yuji could stay right there all day, if it meant Megumi didn’t have to feel so alone.

John Price

The forest had settled into its usual quiet hum, the kind of silence John Price had come to appreciate since hanging up his uniform for good. Nights here weren’t filled with gunfire, nor the low rumble of engines, only the chorus of crickets and the occasional wind brushing through the pines. It was a peace he’d earned, one he guarded fiercely. And yet—he hadn’t expected company. Not the kind that padded silently through the undergrowth and left behind tufts of dark, coarse fur on his porch steps. Apollo. That’s what he’d started calling him. Big lad, broad shouldered for a wolf, though Price had seen enough of the world to know this one wasn’t the threat he looked like. Sharp eyes, sure, but not hostile. Just… watching. Alone. Over time, John had grown used to the soft scrape of paws in the dirt or the sudden glint of yellow eyes in the tree line. The creature had taken to him, or perhaps it was the other way around. A strange companionship had bloomed—Price with his rocking chair and paperback novels, Apollo with his quiet vigil by the porch. It had become routine now: set out the bowl, dry kibble rattling against the metal, fresh water alongside. Sometimes John even muttered a few words, half out of habit, half to fill the stillness. “There you go, mate. Better than scroungin’.” The wolf always ate, always drank. Always. But tonight, when John stepped out onto the porch with the bag of food tucked under one arm, the routine slipped sideways. The bowl sat exactly where he’d left it that morning—still full. Untouched. The water dish, too, glistened beneath the porch light, disturbed only by a few fallen pine needles. Price froze, the bag hanging heavy in his grip. His brow furrowed beneath the brim of his cap. Apollo wasn’t one to skip a meal. Never had before. He tipped his head, scanning the tree line, the shadowed shapes between the pines where eyes sometimes gleamed back at him. Nothing. Just the whisper of branches in the evening breeze. He set the bag down carefully, every sense prickling with that old, familiar tension—the kind that came before trouble. Slowly, he stood, scanning the tree line. “Where the hell’ve you gone, mate?” he muttered under his breath, voice low and gravelly. The forest gave him nothing back but the rustle of leaves and the distant groan of the wind through branches. A prickle of unease settled at the back of his neck. He’d gotten used to that hulking shadow lingering nearby. Used to the comfort of knowing he wasn’t alone out here. And now—with that food still sitting there—John realized just how much the quiet felt wrong without him. He lingered on the porch, eyes locked on the dark edge of the woods, searching.

John Price

The morning had broken soft and pale, the kind of light that made the dew glitter across the grass like tiny shards of glass. The park was quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic and the sound of birds cutting through the cool air. John Price stood beneath the sprawling limbs of an oak tree, a ball gripped loosely in one hand, his other resting in the pocket of his jacket. The faint smell of wet earth and grass mixed with the clean bite of autumn wind—familiar, grounding. He wasn’t a man who sought out crowded places, and early mornings like this were perfect. Peaceful. Almost peaceful. A sharp, indignant bark shattered the calm, followed by another—higher, shriller, unmistakably furious. Lola. The little husky stood a few feet away, fur bristled, blue eyes locked on a jogger that had dared to exist within her line of sight. Her growls came in bursts, her whole tiny frame vibrating with righteous fury as if she were defending the entire park from invasion. John sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose with a gloved hand. “Oi, enough,” he muttered, tone patient but firm. “He’s not after you, love.” Lola shot him a look over her shoulder, indignant and unrepentant, before letting out one final snarl for good measure. Her tail, a plume of silver and white, curled high as if to declare victory. Apollo, in contrast, hadn’t even lifted his head. The massive husky sat pressed against John’s right boot, tongue lolling lazily, eyes half-lidded in an expression of utter contentment. His fur—thick, darker than Lola’s—shimmered with a faint golden tint where the sunlight touched it. Every now and then, his tail thumped once or twice against the ground, a soft rhythm that seemed to reassure the world that all was well. John looked down at him, lips twitching into something close to a smile. “You’ve got the right idea, mate.” He tossed the ball again, an easy arc through the air. Apollo’s ears perked for a moment, and he let out a deep, rumbling “woof” that rolled through his chest before pushing to his feet. He lumbered after it—slow but steady—his gait relaxed, his breath coming out in soft huffs. But before he could reach it, Lola streaked past like a bolt of silver lightning, her paws kicking up bits of dirt. She grabbed the ball before Apollo could even lower his head, spun on her heels, and darted away, tail waving triumphantly. “Bloody hell,” John muttered under his breath, though amusement glinted in his eyes. “You’re hopeless, Apollo.” The bigger husky stopped halfway, watching her with quiet resignation. He let out a sigh—a dog sigh, long and dramatic—then turned back and plopped himself right at John’s feet again, resting his chin on John’s boot as though that were his rightful place in the world. Lola ran a few laps around the field, barking at absolutely nothing in particular, her ball still clenched in her jaws. Every now and then, she’d stop, glance back to make sure Apollo was watching her, and let out a few muffled growls, almost taunting him. But when Apollo lifted his head and gave a single deep bark—a sound that carried across the open field—Lola froze mid-step, ears twitching. She hesitated, then came bounding back, tail lowered just enough to show she’d been told. John chuckled quietly. “Knew you’d come around, trouble.” When she finally dropped the ball at his boot, John leaned down to pick it up, giving her head a gentle pat despite her soft growl of protest. Her fur was warm beneath his palm, and he could feel the faint tremor of energy always running through her. Apollo, meanwhile, leaned into John’s leg, massive head tilting up for a scratch behind the ear. “Two sides of the same coin, you two,” he murmured. “One all bark, the other all nap.” He straightened up, watching the two of them with quiet fondness. There was something grounding about this—no missions, no gunfire, no shouting in his ear through a headset. Just the sound of wind, the rustle of leaves, the smell of grass, and the steady rhythm of two heartbeats he trusted more than most people. He tossed the ball again, softer this tim

Suguru Geto

The mission was supposed to be simple. At least, that’s what they’d been told. A low-level curse exorcism in the outskirts of Tokyo—nothing that should’ve made the “strongest” falter. But the silence was what put Suguru on edge long before the collapse. Normally, Satoru was a constant stream of noise — teasing remarks, overconfident grins, dramatic gestures. Even during fights, he’d run his mouth like the world revolved around him, blue eyes burning behind those ridiculous sunglasses. But today? Nothing. Just the quiet crunch of gravel beneath their feet and the faint hum of cursed energy flickering weakly around him. Suguru slowed his pace, dark eyes tracing the line of Satoru’s shoulders. His posture was wrong—too heavy, too rigid. That cocky bounce in his step was gone. The Gojo Satoru he knew didn’t walk like that. He glided. He owned the ground he stepped on. “Oi,” Suguru finally said, voice low but sharp enough to cut through the quiet. “You’ve been awfully quiet for someone who can’t shut up for more than a minute. What’s wrong?” No response. Just that slow, dragging walk forward. A dull ache pressed at the back of Suguru’s mind—the kind that always came when something wasn’t right. He moved closer, his cursed energy flaring just enough to sense for anything nearby, but there wasn’t a trace of danger. Only Satoru. “Don’t ignore me, idiot,” Suguru muttered, his hand brushing against the other’s sleeve as they walked. “If this is another one of your games, I swear I’ll—” He didn’t finish. Because in the next moment, Satoru swayed. His hand twitched toward his temple like he was trying to steady himself, and then— The sound of his body hitting the dirt was deafening. Suguru froze. For a fraction of a second, his brain refused to process it—refused to believe he of all people could just fall like that. Then his instincts kicked in. He was kneeling before he even realized it, hands gripping Satoru’s shoulders, turning him over. The sunglasses had slipped off, revealing the Six Eyes beneath—dull, dim, and unfocused. “Gojo,” Suguru breathed, his voice breaking the way he swore it never would. “Hey—hey, Satoru, what the hell—” There was no response. Just shallow breathing. Sweat glistened across his pale forehead, his pulse fluttering too fast beneath Suguru’s fingertips. He’d seen Satoru take damage before—curses, blood, broken bones. But this was different. This wasn’t physical. This was the kind of exhaustion that came from being used up. Suguru clenched his jaw. The higher-ups… they’d sent him out again, hadn’t they? Pushed him past his limit, like he was some damn weapon they could swing until it snapped. “Those bastards,” he hissed under his breath, brushing a stray strand of white hair from Satoru’s face. “You’re supposed to be the strongest, remember? Not—” his voice cracked, “—not like this.” For once, he didn’t know what to do. His cursed spirits hovered anxiously nearby, sensing their master’s panic. Suguru swallowed hard and forced his voice steady, leaning closer. “Satoru. Wake up. Come on, you can’t just— you don’t get to scare me like this.” But still, Satoru didn’t move. The only sound was the faint wind whispering through the trees and Suguru’s own uneven breathing as he pulled the other boy against his chest, holding him tighter than he probably should’ve. “…You idiot,” he muttered, the words barely a whisper now. “You don’t even know how to stop until you break, do you?” And beneath that anger, that tight coil of frustration and fear—there was something else. Something raw. Because for all the strength Satoru Gojo carried, Suguru was starting to realize just how fragile he really was.

Simon Riley

The sun was already high when Simon Riley stepped out of the barn, his gloved hands rough and dirt-stained, the air thick with dust and the smell of hay. He adjusted his hat, squinting against the light that bled gold across the pastures. Another long day ahead—same as the last dozen. The only difference was the royal nuisance that had been dumped on his land like an unwanted gift. The letter had been absurd, really. The King and Queen request your assistance in the discipline and grounding of their son, Prince Luca. Simon had laughed when he first read it. A prince? On his farm? The notion of a pampered royal learning how to shovel manure and tend cattle was almost too ridiculous to believe. He would’ve tossed the letter straight into the fire—if it hadn’t been for the number that followed at the bottom. The kind of number that made even a hard man like him pause. So, he said yes. For the money. He hadn’t expected him. Simon’s eyes drifted toward the old farmhouse porch where the prince sat sulking again—same as he had for the past two weeks. Blonde hair gleamed like sunlight, messy from the wind, skin too fair for this kind of heat. His clothes were still too fine for the dirt he refused to touch, and those damn blue eyes of his—sharp as river glass—managed to look offended by everything. He was a pain in the ass, through and through. And yet… Simon’s jaw tightened as he leaned on the fence, watching the boy pick at a piece of bread he probably thought was beneath him. He’d tried to get Luca to work—God knows he had. But the prince didn’t last ten minutes before whining about blisters or heat or the smell. The guards had long since returned to the palace, leaving Simon alone to deal with the fallout of royal arrogance. He should’ve been furious. And he was—at least, that’s what he told himself. But there was something about the boy that gnawed at him. The way he’d looked at the sunrise the first morning, like he’d never seen it before. The way his voice trembled slightly when he’d asked if cows really kicked. The way his soft hands fumbled with a rope, or how he’d yelped when a chicken chased him across the yard. Damn near adorable, if Simon were honest. “Oi,” he called out, his voice gravelly from the morning smoke, “you plannin’ to sit there till the sun sets, or are you finally gonna earn that breakfast I made?” Luca barely looked up, muttering something under his breath. Simon sighed and started toward him, boots crunching on the dirt. He stopped at the steps, towering over the prince’s seated form. “Y’know, Your Highness,” he said with a dry smirk, “the world don’t stop for you out here. If you don’t start learnin’ how to live in it, you’ll be starvin’ the moment you’re not spoon-fed.” The boy’s cheeks flushed, but Simon only chuckled, low and warm. There was something about getting under his skin that he couldn’t quite resist. He tipped his hat back, folding his arms. “Got a fence that needs mendin’. Or you can keep sittin’ there pretendin’ you’re made of glass. Either way, you’re mine ‘til your folks say otherwise.” His tone was meant to be stern, commanding—but his gaze lingered a second too long on the curve of Luca’s lips, the soft pout that came with his defiance. He smirked lazily, getting up, starting to walk towards the fields, knowing Luca was gonna follow anyway.

Mila

★——You found a baby bird.

Yuji Itadori

Yuji was always a rather social teenager. Ever since he joined jujitsu tech he was friends with probably every single person there. Even the teachers. Though these was one person he liked the most out of all of the people he’s friends with. His best friend Megumi! Yup, the most unsocial, hermit, introverted idiot in the entire school. It was a bit weird. Out of everyone in the entire school, the most social guy there likes the most introverted guy ever. Though, he always preferred Megumi’s company over other people’s. He just liked Megumi for some reason. Maybe it was his quiet nature. He was just nice to hang out with. They had just got done with a pretty important mission, every single student had to attend. Of course, Yuji was with Megumi most of the time. Gojo had decided that he was gonna have this huge dinner for all of the students who were in the mission. Of course, Yuji had to drag Megumi out of his dorm to take him with him. Here they finally were, Yuji was of course scarfing his food down, finishing his food as quick as he got it. There were so many people.. Which Yuji kind of realized bringing Megumi, an introvert, to a place with easily more than 100 people was probably a stupid idea. He glanced over to him, noticing he wasn’t eating. Which was pretty normal. Yuji usually steals Megumi’s food since he usually doesn’t eat it. He gave him a look that clearly said ‘gimme’.

Miley

Miley sat on the edge of the bathroom counter, the cool marble pressing against her thighs as she stared down at the little white stick in her hand. Two pink lines. God, of course. She ran a hand through her hair, exhaling sharply through her nose. It wasn’t like she didn’t expect it—her body had been off for weeks now, little things adding up: the nausea, the fatigue, the fact that her period was two weeks late. She just… hadn’t wanted to admit it until now. Pregnant. The word alone sent a strange cocktail of emotions swirling in her chest. Fear, disbelief, and—yeah—something softer, too. Warm, almost tender. Because it wasn’t that she didn’t want this. She did, eventually. Just maybe not right now. Not with things so chaotic, not when her boyfriend could barely remember to pick up milk without getting distracted by something shiny. Luca. She sighed, letting her head thump back against the mirror. Her twenty-year-old boyfriend—sweet, clueless, adorable Luca—was the kind of guy who’d probably try to feed a baby chips because “it’s soft, right?” The thought made her groan out loud. He was all heart, sure, but half the time he acted like a golden retriever in human form. Still… she loved him. God help her, she really did. After a few long moments of quiet, she finally pushed herself off the counter, grabbed the test, and made her way into the living room. He was there, of course—curled up on the couch, probably watching some dumb cartoon or scrolling his phone, blissfully unaware that his entire life was about to shift. Miley stood there for a second, just watching him. The way his messy hair stuck up, the lazy grin on his face when he noticed her. She swallowed hard. Her fingers fidgeted with the test behind her back. “Hey, Lu,” she said, trying to sound casual, but her voice betrayed her—too soft, too careful. She walked closer, setting herself down beside him, her heart beating in her ears. “We need to talk about something.” Her knee bounced nervously. “And before you say anything dumb,” she added quickly, giving him a look, “no, I’m not mad at you. I’m just…” She hesitated, then laughed—short, humorless. “You know how my period’s been late? Yeah, well—” she lifted the test into view, her tone sharp with disbelief and exhaustion all at once. “Surprise.”

Fin

The water was calm tonight, a rare stillness in the usually bustling research lab. The overhead lights hummed softly, casting pale streaks across the surface of Fin’s tank. He floated near the glass, eyes fixed on the far side of the room where Luca sat hunched over a desk, his face haloed by the glow of a computer screen. Fin’s fingers drummed against the cool glass, the movement restless. He hated the distance—the gap between where he was and where Luca was. It wasn’t just the space, it was the idea that something could happen to Luca in the time it took Fin to reach him. His tail shifted in the water, slow but tense, muscles coiled like a predator’s. Every sound outside the lab made his fins twitch. The world beyond this room was too unpredictable, too dangerous for someone like Luca—soft-handed, curious-eyed, too trusting. Fin had seen what the sea could do to the unprepared. He drifted closer to the tank’s edge, eyes never leaving Luca. The glass felt like a prison wall keeping him from the one thing he was meant to protect. His claws grazed the rim, testing the lip of the tank. If Luca didn’t turn around soon, Fin knew he’d be pulling himself out, water pooling on the tile as he dragged himself closer. Because distance, to Fin, wasn’t just uncomfortable—it was unbearable.

Simon Riley

The evening air was cool — sharp with that autumn bite that Simon always liked. The kind that made his breath mist when he exhaled and Luca’s cheeks turn pink from the chill. They were walking along the riverside path, the streetlamps just flickering on, painting gold reflections across the slow-moving water. Simon’s hand was loosely hooked around Luca’s wrist — not holding, not dragging, just there. Always there. Just in case. Luca’s small frame looked even smaller next to him, swallowed up by one of Simon’s hoodies. The hem nearly brushed the back of his knees, and the sleeves hung over his fingers, the fabric stretched over the faint swell of his stomach. Six months along, and the bump was still modest — something that made Luca grin softly when the doctor said the baby was just “tiny.” Simon remembered that smile. He could still see it every time Luca’s hand drifted over his belly like he was checking the little one was still there. Simon’s eyes swept the area, automatically scanning like muscle memory — the path ahead, the benches, the couple by the vending machine, the kid jogging with his dog. He didn’t trust people. Not here, not anywhere. Especially not when Luca was this vulnerable. “Slow down, yeah?” he muttered quietly, glancing down when Luca’s pace picked up for all of three seconds before he seemed to remember Simon’s warning and slowed again. The corner of Simon’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close enough for him. They stopped near the railing so Luca could catch his breath, the glow from the streetlight cutting across his hair, turning the messy blonde to strands of pale gold. He was fiddling with the straw of his drink, trying to get it to work — the plastic was bent at the top, refusing to draw anything up. Simon sighed quietly, plucking it from his hand and fixing it for him without a word before passing it back. “Cheers, love,” he muttered under his breath, voice gruff but the edge softened for Luca. That was when someone approached — a stranger walking their bike, pausing nearby with an easy grin. “Evening. Cute hoodie,” the person said, tone friendly, maybe too familiar. Their gaze flicked to Luca, not unkind, but lingering long enough that Simon’s jaw tightened. He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked up from where he stood behind Luca, gaze hard beneath the shadow of his hood. One gloved hand slid instinctively to Luca’s hip — possessive, protective, a silent warning. The kind that didn’t need words. The stranger laughed a little, nervous now, realizing too late they’d stumbled into the wrong man’s orbit. “Didn’t mean anything by it, mate. Just—nice night, huh?” Simon’s reply came low, rough, and quiet enough that it didn’t carry beyond the three of them. “Then keep walkin’, yeah?” The stranger hesitated, mumbling something before pushing their bike forward again, retreating down the path. Simon’s hand lingered on Luca’s hip a moment longer before easing, his thumb brushing slow circles against the fabric of the hoodie. He looked down at him — small, blinking up with that same innocent confusion, like he didn’t even realize someone had just gotten half a death glare for looking at him too long. Simon exhaled, a quiet huff of breath that wasn’t quite annoyance. More like disbelief that someone like Luca existed in a world like this. “Drink your bloody smoothie before it melts,” Simon said, voice low but warm, his hand never really leaving Luca’s back. He didn’t trust the world with something so soft. Not when he’d finally found it.

Simon Riley

Simon sat in the dim light of his apartment, cigarette smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling as his eyes traced over the collection of photographs scattered across his coffee table. Luca. Always Luca. That careless smile, the messy blonde hair that never seemed tamed no matter the setting, those too-blue eyes that caught the light in a way that made Simon’s chest tighten. Every candid shot, every stolen glimpse through his camera lens, left Simon craving more. They lived so close—just across the hall. Simon had memorized the rhythm of Luca’s footsteps, the sound of his key in the door, the way his laughter bled faintly through the thin apartment walls late at night. He’d learned Luca’s habits, his comings and goings, the little details most people wouldn’t notice. And still, it wasn’t enough. It never was. Crushing the cigarette out in the ashtray, Simon stood, pulling on his hoodie before slipping out into the hall. He didn’t need an excuse to run into Luca anymore—he’d gotten good at making them up. A broken lightbulb in the hall, mail gone to the wrong box, a half-hearted comment about the weather. Anything to draw those blue eyes onto him, even for a moment. And there he was. Just ahead, fumbling with his keys at the door, blonde hair catching under the flickering hallway light. Simon’s chest tightened again, his footsteps slow, measured, predatory in their calmness as he approached. “Evenin’, Luca,” Simon rumbled, voice low, smooth, almost casual—though his eyes lingered far too long, drinking him in.

Simon Riley

It was quieter tonight. Not quiet, no — this place never slept. The echo of restraints clinking down the corridor, the muffled ramblings behind locked doors, the sudden laughter that wasn’t really laughter at all — that was the soundtrack of Ravenswood, the kind of institution built to be forgotten. The walls were too white, the lights too bright, the air constantly tasting of disinfectant and fear. Simon Riley had seen war. He’d stood in ruins, heard mortars and last breaths and the kind of screams that haunt bone. But there was something different about this place. Something that slithered under the skin, coiled behind his ribs — a tension he couldn’t put a name to. And all of it seemed to center around him. Room 27. Luca. The boy who shouldn’t have been able to get under his skin, not with Simon’s training, not with his discipline. Yet every time he patrolled past that reinforced door and those blue eyes lifted — distant, glassy, dangerously charming — Simon felt his resolve loosen like a snapped strap. Danger to self, the file claimed. Simon wasn’t so sure. Danger felt… broader than that. He paused outside that familiar door now, gloved hand hovering near the keypad. He shouldn’t unlock it. He shouldn’t give the patient privileges no one else got. He shouldn’t even think about stepping closer — about letting Luca into the one space here that still felt like his own. But Simon did a lot of things he shouldn’t lately. Like noticing the way Luca’s messy blonde hair fell into his eyes. Like replaying his voice after every shift. Like telling himself he was only checking in for professional reasons when the truth curled darkly through him — he needed to see him. He keyed in the code. The lock clicked, loud in the silence. Simon stepped in, boots whispering against the floor, his shadow stretching long across the room. Luca was curled against the wall, knees drawn up, looking as if he’d been carved out of moonlight and sharp edges. No bedframe — nothing dangerous left for him to harm himself with. Just padded walls and Simon’s rapidly fraying restraint. “…Evening,” Simon said, voice low, roughened by something he refused to name. “Couldn’t sleep?” Luca didn’t answer at first. He never rushed. He just stared — right into Simon — like he knew every thought Simon shouldn’t be having. And that stare… God, it made Simon forget protocol entirely. “I… uh,” he cleared his throat, forcing professionalism back into his tone. “If you want… you can come to my office for a bit. To get away from the noise.” He wasn’t offering. He was inviting. He told himself it was compassion. That the kid needed quiet, grounding, someone to protect him from his own mind. But the truth? Simon wanted him close. Needed him close.

Simon Riley

The Friday night air was thick with the smell of hot dogs and cheap cologne, the sound of whistles and the cheer squad echoing over the football field. Simon Riley sat stiff on the bleachers, arms folded across his broad chest, his eyes trained on the sidelines where his daughter stood with her pompoms and bright smile. Sixteen or not, she was still his little girl—and judging by the way half the lads on the field kept sneaking glances her way, he wasn’t the only one who thought she was worth looking at. When the game let out for halftime, Lila slipped away from the other cheerleaders, hair bouncing as she moved toward the concession stand. Simon followed, close enough to keep eyes on her without being obvious. That was when some lanky boy with a jersey slung over his shoulder peeled off from his mates and made a straight line toward her. Simon’s jaw ticked. The boy leaned in, all nervous grins and too much cologne. “Hey, uh, Lila—you were great out there. I was wondering if maybe—” “—if maybe you’d like to keep your teeth,” Simon’s voice cut in, low and rough like gravel. He stepped in between them before the boy even realized he was there, his towering frame blotting out the field lights. The kid’s smile faltered instantly, eyes darting up at the skull-masked man glaring down at him. Lila groaned behind him, but Simon didn’t care. He shifted his stance, arms folding again as he leveled the boy with a look sharp enough to cut steel. “Run along, lad. Before I give you a reason to.” The boy stammered something incoherent before scurrying off, and Simon turned just enough to glance back at his daughter, his tone gruff but firm. “You alright, princess?” Even if she wasn’t, no one was going to get close enough to find out. Not on his watch.

Megumi Fushiguro

The air felt like it was suffocating him. Heavy. Unrelenting. Each step Megumi took down the narrow corridor echoed, boots striking stone in a rhythm that only seemed to grow faster as his heart raced. The higher-ups had been merciless in their decision, unflinching in the way they spoke about it, as if it were nothing more than a matter of strategy—another cursed object to be exorcised, another threat neutralized. But Yuji wasn’t a threat. Yuji wasn’t a curse. He was sixteen. Sixteen and smiling even when the world spat in his face. Sixteen and warm in the way he held Megumi’s hand when no one else was looking. And now they wanted to kill him. Megumi’s breath hitched as he reached the heavy wooden door at the end of the hall. It was guarded, of course. Two sorcerers stood there, their faces impassive, arms crossed over their chests like the verdict hadn’t just been pronounced on a boy too young to understand the weight of the sentence. “You can’t go in,” one of them said sharply, shifting his stance as Megumi approached. His fists clenched, nails biting into his palms until he thought he might draw blood. “Move.” His voice was low, dangerous in a way that didn’t entirely sound like him, but he didn’t care. He could feel his cursed energy prickling at his skin, shadows already curling at his feet as if answering his rage. The second sorcerer narrowed his eyes. “Fushiguro, you know this isn’t your place. The decision is final. It’s—” “Final?” The word tore out of him, bitter and sharp. He took a step forward, shoulders squared, jaw set. “He’s a kid. You’re about to execute a sixteen-year-old because it’s convenient for you. Do you hear yourselves?” They didn’t flinch. They didn’t move. Megumi’s chest tightened, breath coming shallow as he stared past them at the door, the door that separated him from Yuji. The thought of him on the other side—alone, waiting, maybe even smiling through it like he always did—made something in Megumi’s stomach twist violently. He couldn’t just stand there. He wouldn’t. “I’m not asking again,” he said, voice dropping lower, quieter, a thread of something cold and deadly running through it now. The shadows at his feet deepened, spreading along the ground like ink seeping into paper. His shikigami stirred, restless, echoing his fury. “Move. Or I’ll make you.” For a moment, silence filled the hall, thick and charged. Megumi could hear his pulse roaring in his ears, could feel the tremor in his fingers as he forced them steady. He wasn’t thinking about the consequences, about the punishments that would come after. He was only thinking about Yuji. About Yuji’s laugh, Yuji’s stupid jokes, Yuji’s hand fitting so naturally in his. He had promised himself, silently, that he’d protect him. That he wouldn’t let this cruel world take him so easily. And right now, that promise was the only thing keeping him standing.

Suguru Geto

Suguru didn’t know what he hated more—the sharp sting of panic in his chest, or the infuriating fact that Satoru Gojo was the reason for it. Gojo, the strongest sorcerer alive, the one who strutted around with those stupid sunglasses and that smug grin like nothing in the world could ever touch him. And up until today, Suguru had believed it too. He had to believe it—because the alternative was unbearable. But the second the report reached him—that Satoru had come back from his mission hurt—Suguru’s composure shattered. His heart dropped to the pit of his stomach and he didn’t even bother pretending otherwise. He didn’t care if he looked like a fool, storming across the dorm hallways with his robes still half undone from training. He could barely breathe until he shoved open the door to Gojo’s room. And there he was. Satoru, sprawled out carelessly on his bed like nothing was wrong, bandages wrapped around his arm and faint traces of blood still clinging to his collar. For a moment, Suguru just stood there, frozen in the doorway, the sight knocking the wind right out of him. His throat tightened—fear, relief, anger, all twisted together into a knot he couldn’t untangle. Then the words came spilling out, sharp and venomous to mask the worry that was clawing at his insides. “What the hell were you thinking, Satoru?” Suguru snapped, striding across the room in two long steps. He didn’t even ask before grabbing Gojo’s wrist, inspecting the wound like he could will it to close faster with sheer force of glare. “You’ve never been touched before, not once. Did you—what, turn your infinity off for fun? Testing your limits like an idiot?” His hands were careful despite his words, fingertips brushing gingerly over Satoru’s skin as if he might break further under his touch.

Simon Riley

Simon Riley wasn’t used to sitting still. He wasn’t used to hotel rooms with silk sheets, room service menus longer than military briefings, and candles that probably cost more than his boots. But then again, life had been full of things he wasn’t used to ever since Luca walked into it. He sat back on the edge of the ridiculously oversized bed, elbows resting on his knees, mask off but face buried in his hands. Christ, today had been a long one. He could still hear the flash of cameras, the shrill screaming of fans, the thunderous stomping of security boots on pavement as they fought to keep the crowd back. He’d been through firefights quieter than that. But Luca had loved every second of it. Simon could still picture him—blinding smile, waving dramatically to the crowd like he was royalty, somehow strutting in a designer outfit that looked like it belonged in a museum more than on a sidewalk. He looked proud of himself, happy. And that was all Simon cared about, really. He leaned back on the bed with a groan, staring at the ceiling. All he wanted was five minutes of peace before Luca inevitably bounced into the room with another dramatic entrance. Knowing him, he’d probably be lugging bags of stuff Simon told him not to buy. It didn’t matter that they had a private flight at dawn, or that Simon had already arranged for everything Luca wanted to be delivered to their next destination. The kid loved the chaos. He heard the click of the hotel door unlocking. He didn’t even sit up, just ran a hand down his face and braced himself.

John Price

John Price never imagined retirement would look like this. A quiet cabin tucked deep into the woods, no hum of radio chatter in his ear, no orders barking down the line. Just the crackle of a fire in the hearth, the sharp scent of pine carried in through an open window, and the steady rhythm of rain tapping against the roof. And then there was Apollo. He still remembered the day he’d found the little bugger—half-starved, no bigger than his forearm, eyes too wide and too lost for something so young. No sign of a mother, no pack trailing close behind. Just a shivering scrap of dark grey fur left to fend for himself. Price had crouched down, reached out a calloused hand, and that was it. The cub had followed him home. Now Apollo wasn’t so little anymore. Nearly filled the dog bed John had bought for him, though he still curled up in it like he was that same orphaned pup. The wolf’s coat had grown thick and soft, deep grey with lighter streaks catching the firelight. Price had spoiled him, no two ways about it—chew toys scattered by the hearth, a sturdy collar and leash resting on the coat rack by the door, even a bell that jingled faintly when Apollo came barreling through the cabin like a great lumbering pup. He wasn’t tame, not completely. John knew better than to expect that from a wolf. But he wasn’t wild either. Somewhere in between. Loyal only to him. Price leaned back in his armchair, boots crossed at the ankles, the rim of his glass catching firelight as he nursed a drink. His eyes flicked toward the front door, left half-open to let in the damp evening air. Apollo was out there somewhere, no doubt padding through the undergrowth, nose to the ground, chasing scents only he could smell. “Bloody menace’ll come back muddy again,” John muttered, though there was no bite to his voice. He set the glass aside, gaze lingering on the doorway. He always waited, always listened—half expecting those heavy paws on the porch, that low whuff of breath as Apollo came trotting back in like he owned the place. Tonight felt no different.

John Price

John Price sat back in the worn leather chair behind his desk, pen moving lazily across a stack of student reports. The office was quiet, save for the faint hum of the old ceiling vent and the occasional murmur of voices drifting in from the hall. This was the easy part of the job—paperwork, progress notes, the kind of things that kept the day predictable. His phone buzzed against the desk, breaking the rhythm. With a sigh, John leaned forward and answered. “Counselor Price speaking.” On the other end, one of the sophomore teachers, frazzled and short on patience, let out a huff. “It’s Luca again. He thought it’d be funny to start humming during my lecture—loud enough that the whole class joined in. I can’t get through two minutes without him making a scene.” John pinched the bridge of his nose, stifling a groan. “Right. Send him down.” “Gladly.” The line went dead. John set the receiver down and shook his head, muttering under his breath, “Little idiot.” Still, he found the corner of his mouth twitching upward despite himself. He’d lost count of how many times Luca had been sent to his office in the last few months—it was practically routine at this point. A disruption, a call, and then Luca showing up at his door with that mix of defiance and boredom written across his face. At first, John had treated it like every other disciplinary matter. Firm words, warnings, the usual counselor spiel. But somewhere along the way, things had shifted. Luca wasn’t just a “case” anymore. He was a kid John had grown oddly fond of. Sharp around the edges, sure, but sharpness often came from somewhere. He’d heard enough to know the boy’s home life wasn’t quiet—parents bickering, arguments carrying through walls. Maybe school was Luca’s way of making noise back. John leaned back again, waiting. He already knew the sound of Luca’s heavy steps would echo down the hall soon enough, dragging out the trip like he had all the time in the world. The office itself was neat but lived-in: a couple of file cabinets, stacks of papers that only John knew the order of, and a pot of coffee that had gone lukewarm hours ago. Against one wall, a chair sat where Luca usually slouched, sometimes for the rest of the period if John decided not to send him back to class. As the door swung open, he fixed his gaze on the figure walking in. “…Well, look who it is,” John said dryly, his voice carrying the weight of both exasperation and a reluctant fondness. “Can’t even make it halfway through the bloody day without winding up here, eh?” He gestured toward the familiar chair opposite his desk, lips twitching like he was fighting back a smirk. “Sit. And don’t think I’m letting you off easy.”

Simon Riley

Simon Riley hated physicals. He hated the sterile smell of hospitals, the sharp sting of alcohol swabs, and the way fluorescent lights seemed to burn holes into his skull. But most of all, he hated the way his squad had immediately jumped at the idea when command suggested bringing in a civilian physician for their annual check-ups. He hadn’t even gotten the chance to protest before Soap had chirped up with a smug grin, “Well, Riley’s husband’s a doctor, innit? Sorted then.” That had been two days ago. Now here they were, crammed into a too-small examination room that looked more like a broom closet than a proper medical office. The walls were pale and bare, the single window cracked just enough to let in the muggy afternoon air, and the faint squeak of leather chairs followed every fidget and shuffle from the men inside. Soap was perched on the paper-covered exam table, swinging his legs like a schoolboy waiting for trouble. Gaz was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, scanning the room with the quiet patience of someone who knew exactly how tense the air had gotten. Price sat in the corner like a king on a throne, cap pulled low, watching the chaos unfold with the kind of amusement that came only when you weren’t the immediate target of someone’s wrath. And Simon? He sat there, mask in place, shoulders broad and stiff, trying very hard not to meet his husband’s eyes. Luca stood in front of them, clipboard in hand, his white coat perfectly fitted and his expression sharp enough to cut glass. Simon could feel the storm brewing in him, the way his jaw tightened, the deliberate click of his pen against the paper as he scanned the room full of soldiers who were most definitely not the men he wanted to be poking, prodding, and testing today. Simon knew Luca was already pissed—hell, Simon could feel the heat radiating off him in waves. His husband wasn’t the type to hide irritation, not from Simon, and certainly not from a bunch of uninvited commandos who thought dragging themselves into his office was a good idea. Simon shifted in his chair, gloved hands resting on his knees, his voice low and rumbling as he muttered beneath his breath, just loud enough for the room to catch: “Bloody hell… knew this was gonna go well.” He dared a glance toward Luca then, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly in something that wasn’t quite a smile—more like a silent apology, though he knew it wouldn’t buy him a damn thing once they were alone.

Yuji Itadori

Yuji’s thumb hovered over his phone screen, teeth worrying at his bottom lip as the dial tone droned on for the fifth time that day. Straight to voicemail. Again. “Seriously, Megumi…” he muttered under his breath, shoving the phone back into his pocket. It wasn’t unusual for Megumi to be quiet, but to outright ignore his phone all day? That wasn’t good. Not for someone like him. Yuji’s chest tightened with that familiar cocktail of worry and something else he tried not to name. He spent the next hour scouring the training grounds, checking every familiar corner Megumi liked to vanish into when he needed space. It wasn’t until Yuji wandered further into the trees that he finally spotted him—well, stumbled upon him, really. Megumi was slumped against the trunk of an old oak, head tilted slightly to the side, fast asleep. A book lay discarded in the grass beside him, its pages fluttering in the breeze like it had been tossed aside without much care. And there, perched like some kind of scene out of a fairytale, was a squirrel sitting comfortably in his lap, tiny paws tucked neatly against its chest. That wasn’t even the strangest part. A deer—a whole deer—rested beside him, its head lowered near his shoulder as though keeping watch. The sight was so bizarre Yuji actually blinked a few times, half-expecting his eyes to play tricks on him. But no. This was real. Yuji’s breath caught, torn between laughter and awe. Megumi looked… peaceful. Softer than Yuji ever got to see him, framed by sunlight slipping through the leaves, guarded by woodland creatures like he was some kind of boy-version Snow White. And of course Yuji’s stupid heart decided to skip a beat at that exact moment. “…You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Yuji whispered, rubbing the back of his neck as his lips curved into a helpless grin. He stepped closer, careful not to scare off the deer—though if he was honest, it seemed more protective of Megumi than afraid of him. Yuji crouched a few feet away, watching him, unable to stop himself from murmuring, “Megumi, you’re unbelievable…”

Megumi Fushiguro

The quiet hum of the television filled the small dorm room, colors flickering across the screen as some old animated movie played. The kind that Megumi would never admit to watching on his own, but Yuji seemed absolutely glued to it—eyes wide, posture leaned forward at first before slowly slumping back against him. Somewhere between the first explosion of cartoon sound effects and the exaggerated voice acting, Yuji had managed to drag a bag of chips onto his lap, crunching loudly with every handful. Megumi sat behind him on the bed, one arm hooked lazily around Yuji’s waist, the other resting against the pillow at his side. It wasn’t like he was actually paying attention to the movie; the plot was lost to him about fifteen minutes in. Instead, his focus lingered on the warmth pressed against him, Yuji’s head tilted slightly back, brushing against his shoulder when he shifted. He wasn’t resisting the way Yuji had practically molded into him—at this point, Megumi figured it was easier to just let himself be used as some oversized pillow. The crinkle of the chip bag caught his ear again, Yuji not bothering to take his eyes off the screen as he shoveled another handful into his mouth. A crumb landed on Megumi’s shirt, and he glanced down at it with his usual flat expression, brushing it away without comment. Yuji mumbled something through a mouthful of food—something about the scene unfolding in the movie, no doubt—but Megumi only hummed in acknowledgment, tightening his arm just slightly around him like it was second nature. The blanket pooled around their legs, soft and heavy from being kicked around earlier, and the only other sound in the room was Yuji’s steady chewing mixed with the ridiculous sound effects on the TV. Megumi shifted a little, resting his chin against Yuji’s messy hair, and let his gaze linger on the bright flicker of the screen. He didn’t need to understand the appeal. Watching Yuji’s ridiculous focus, the way his shoulders tensed and relaxed with each exaggerated plot twist—it was enough to keep him still, his role cemented as Yuji’s quiet, patient anchor while the world of cartoons unfolded in front of them.

John Price

The glass door gave a high-pitched squeal as John Price pulled it open, the kind of sound that instantly grated on his nerves. The lobby of the daycare was painted in cheerful colors—lime green walls, cartoon paw prints marching along the trim, and a mural of grinning dogs frolicking in a meadow. It was too loud, too bright, too obnoxious. The smell of disinfectant tried to mask the wet-dog odor that clung stubbornly to the air. A couple of pups barked from the back, high and sharp, ricocheting off the linoleum floors. Price stepped in with his usual weighty stride, boots sounding far too heavy for such a saccharine place. He tugged off his cap and ran a hand through his hair, sighing through his nose as he scanned the front desk. A young girl in a polo with the daycare’s paw-print logo looked up from her clipboard, her smile a little too eager for his taste. He gave a polite nod, but his eyes were already dragging past her, toward the swinging door that led to the kennels. It had been a week. A whole bloody week of Apollo sleeping in a crate instead of curled up against his chest or hogging the blanket at his feet. Work had called him away, and there was no refusing it, but leaving the pup here had been a knot in his chest ever since. Every night in some cramped barracks cot, he’d wondered if Apollo had settled, or if the poor lad was whining himself hoarse behind those metal bars. Still, the flyer on the counter last week had claimed they did training here. Sit, stay, paw, heel—the usual. Price had snorted at the idea. Apollo was clever when he wanted to be, sure, Huskys were very clever, but stubborn as sin. More often than not, the pup ignored commands entirely, preferring to barrel headlong into mischief. Price wasn’t holding his breath that a week in a place like this had changed anything. Yet, as he stood there in the middle of the blaring colors and the too-sweet perfume of dog shampoo, a part of him couldn’t help but wonder—just maybe—the pup had learned a trick or two. Maybe he’d come bounding out with some new bit of discipline to show off. He adjusted the strap of his jacket, jaw working as he waited for the staff to fetch his dog. His shoulders eased a fraction, the anticipation creeping in despite himself. It didn’t matter if Apollo had mastered anything. Price just wanted his pup back in his arms, away from crates and strangers, back where he belonged.

John Price

John had walked through plenty of doors in his life—safehouses, briefing rooms, barracks—but none made his stomach twist the way this one did. The scent hit him first, a heavy mix of damp earth, animal musk, and disinfectant that clung to the air inside the wildlife facility. Boots heavy from a week of deployment, he crossed the lobby with that steady soldier’s stride, but his eyes betrayed the restless edge he tried to bury. He hadn’t worried about leaving Apollo, not in the sense most men might. He trusted the wolf to take care of himself just fine. What gnawed at him was how Apollo would’ve handled the strangers—the workers with their too-sweet voices and nervous hands, thinking they could treat him like a house pet. Apollo wasn’t gentle. He wasn’t tame. And God help anyone who’d thought otherwise. John signed in, his hand scrawling across the clipboard like he was racing to get it done, and then he pushed through the inner gate. The chatter of birds and rustle of cages grew louder, and the hairs prickled on the back of his neck. It had only been a week, but it felt longer. His boots slowed as he turned the final corner, the corridor opening up to the enclosures. He could already feel that familiar pull in his chest, the restless need to see his boy. The closer he got, the quieter the workers seemed to fall. No laughter, no idle chatter—just hushed voices, as if they’d all learned quickly what kind of beast John had left in their care. And then he saw him. Apollo, caged in steel and shadow, a storm of fur and teeth and wild yellow eyes. His presence was undeniable, even with the barrier between them. John’s lips twitched into the faintest, weary smile beneath his beard, equal parts fondness and apology. “Miss me, then?” he murmured, voice low, roughened by sand, smoke, and a week of sleepless nights. His hand found the bars, gloved fingers curling against the cold metal. He didn’t flinch, didn’t fear the wolf’s reaction—after all, he’d been bitten a hundred times before. Apollo was his, through and through, even if the rest of the world only ever saw danger in his eyes.

John Price

The kid was squirming again. Always squirming. John had him pinned neatly across his lap, one big hand clamped around that sharp little waist as though Luca might wriggle clean off and vanish like smoke if he let up even a fraction. The boy had all the wiry fight of a stray cat, pale knobby knees kicking against John’s thigh, fingers clawing uselessly at the wrist that kept him still. “Christ almighty, you’re a menace,” John muttered, though his voice carried more gravelly patience than anger. He tipped his head down, grey-blue eyes narrowing on the tiny white pill still caught between his thumb and forefinger. He’d been at this dance all bloody morning—the gagging, the whining, the sharp little roll of those stormy eyes that always made John want to laugh and throttle him in equal measure. Luca’s messy blond hair was falling in his face, all fine strands sticking to the flush creeping up his cheeks. He looked every bit the angel he’d been sold as on glossy magazine pages—ethereal, delicate, untouchable. But up close, in John’s arms, he was just Luca: too light, too frail, stubborn as sin. “You need it, pup,” John said lowly, tightening his arm around the boy’s waist until he stilled with a sharp inhale. His free hand shifted, thumb brushing across Luca’s sharp jaw, coaxing, steadying. “It’s not optional. You don’t take it, you don’t keep food down. You don’t keep food down, you end up in hospital again. And I’ll be damned if I’m carrying you into A&E for the third time this month.” The boy twisted, shaking his head, lips pressed in that thin defiant line John knew too well. “Don’t give me that look.” John leaned in, their foreheads almost brushing. The pill gleamed like a little moon between his fingers, waiting. “You think I don’t notice, hm? You think I don’t see you pushing peas round a plate like it’s theatre? You’re clever, but you’re not cleverer than me, love. I’ve lived twice your years, and I’ll keep you breathing if it kills me.” His voice softened then, nearly fond despite the steel laced through it. His thumb swept under Luca’s chin, guiding it up, patient but immovable. “Open. Just once. You’ll feel better, promise.” John sat there with the weight of him caged firm in his lap, breathing steady, holding ground like he’d hold a position under fire. He wasn’t letting Luca wriggle free—not this time. The pill hovered a breath away from those stubborn lips, his expression set in quiet, unyielding determination. “Open up, sweetheart,” he murmured again, softer now, like coaxing a spooked animal. “Or I’ll sit here all night.”

Simon Riley

Simon had been in firefights that rattled steel and kneecaps alike, and yet somehow none of that compared to the knot that had been tightening in his stomach since dawn. It was embarrassing, really — a grown man, a soldier, tense over something as stupidly domestic as introducing his boyfriend to his mates. But the thing about Simon Riley was that he’d gotten used to people believing only what they could see. And when he’d mentioned Luca — bright-eyed, sunshine-stupid Luca, with a motorcycle worth more than most apartments — his squad had done what they always did. Laughed. Laughed like he’d made it up. Like Luca was some imaginary boyfriend a lonely man invented when deployments got too long. And when he’d shown them a picture, it had only gotten worse. “No way that’s your partner, mate.” “Is that— is he wearing cat stickers on his helmet?” “He looks twelve.” Simon had simply stared at them, unblinking, until one of them finally gulped and said, “Alright, fine, bring him by. Prove it.” Which was how Simon found himself here, standing outside the private garage he and the lads used for working on cars when they were on leave. The concrete walls hummed with the echo of the radio inside, tools clattering, engines revving for no actual reason except showing off. His mates had insisted on meeting here — “neutral territory,” they claimed — but Simon suspected they just wanted to judge Luca by the state of his bike. …Which was worrying, because Luca had tried to polish it this morning and somehow managed to polish only half of it before getting distracted by a stray cat. The other half still had something suspiciously sticky on it. Simon took a slow breath, rolling the tension off his shoulders. He could already hear Johnny talking too loud, someone arguing about spark plugs, someone else betting Luca wouldn’t be real. Idiot. All of them. He checked his phone — Luca had texted ten minutes ago: “On my way! I didn’t crash yet :)” Yet. The idiot even typed it cheerfully. Simon’s jaw softened despite himself. He stepped inside the garage to the chorus of voices. “Riley! You bring your imaginary boyfriend or not?” “Bet you a tenner he’s some bloke he found on the internet.” “Oh piss off— look at him, he’s nervous. And I saw him fixing his hair earlier. Must be serious.” Simon didn’t snap — though he wanted to. Instead, he leaned against the workbench, arms crossed, mask tugged up just enough to hide whatever expression might’ve given him away. He wasn’t nervous. He was— protective. That was all. He knew what Luca was like. Knew how he’d walk in: messy hair, that lazy grin, every inch of him radiating a kind of recklessly warm energy that made people underestimate him before he even spoke. And he also knew his mates. Rough around the edges, blunt, loud, the type who might say something stupid without thinking. And Simon… didn’t do well with people saying stupid things to Luca. He heard it before he saw it — the distant growl of a motorcycle engine, too smooth, too expensive, too Luca. It rolled closer, then cut off outside the garage. Someone whistled. “Oh hell. That sounds like money.” “Please tell me he’s not some posh twig—” The garage door rattled as footsteps approached. Simon’s heart didn’t stutter — it slammed once, like it always did when Luca was within arm’s reach. He straightened, glaring once at his mates in silent warning: one wrong word and I’ll break your fingers. The door swung open. And there stood Luca. Helmet under his arm, blond hair a chaotic halo, blue eyes bright as ever, wearing a jacket he definitely didn’t zip properly and jeans that had no right being that ripped.

Simon Riley

Simon Riley leaned back against the hood of his truck, one boot propped on the bumper, the other planted firmly on the cracked pavement of the hospital’s back lot. The late evening air was cool, and the soft hum of the city at dusk sat around him like background noise. He’d been here long enough to watch the sky turn from gold to deep navy, arms crossed, watching the staff doors like a hawk. Most people might’ve called what he was doing “creepy.” Simon called it dedication. He could’ve been anywhere else tonight — at the gym, at the pub, at home nursing his leg that still ached when it rained — but he wasn’t. He was here, waiting for Luca. Because Simon had learned something very quickly about Luca: he was the kind of guy who would never make the first move. And if Simon wanted him — and oh, he wanted him — he was going to have to make sure Luca knew he wasn’t just some passing fancy. It hadn’t been easy at first. The first time they’d met, Simon had been bleeding all over the sterile tile floor, cursing at the world, and Luca had looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. Messy blonde hair falling into his face, tired blue eyes rolling like Simon’s very existence was an inconvenience. And something about that look had just… done him in. Simon had seen a lot of people patch him up over the years, but none of them had made his chest feel like that. Boyish and annoyed all at once — how was that even fair? So he’d made it his mission to get under Luca’s skin. It started with bad flirting (“Need me to get shot again just to see you?”), then small gifts left in the break room — coffee with Luca’s name scrawled on the cup, a little pack of mints, once even a pair of ridiculously fluffy socks because he’d heard nurses were always cold. He’d memorized the man’s entire work schedule, and now it was almost a game. Luca would walk out the back door after a shift, and Simon would be waiting. Tonight, he’d gone all out. There was a takeout bag sitting on the hood next to him, the smell of Luca’s favorite food filling the air. He’d made sure it was still hot, fresh. He even grabbed that weird brand of soda Luca liked, the one he’d once complained was impossible to find. When the staff door finally swung open, Simon felt his chest tighten — and there he was. Luca, walking out like he was gonna pass out right then and there, looking exhausted and perfect. His scrubs were wrinkled, his hair was a mess, and his expression screamed done with everything. Simon pushed off the truck and straightened up, a grin pulling at the corner of his mouth under the mask he still sometimes wore just out of habit. “Evenin’, sunshine,” he called, his voice low and warm, like he’d been waiting all day just to say those words.

Simon Tiley

Simon wasn’t sure why he agreed to a mall trip. Actually—he did know. Luca had said please, and then he’d blinked up at him with those bright blue eyes that never once failed to short-circuit every working part of Simon Riley’s brain. So now here he was, a forty-year-old man built like a brick wall, trailing after his overexcited twenty-one-year-old boyfriend who bounced through the mall like a golden retriever fueled solely by chaos and lip gloss. Simon’s mates still didn’t believe Luca existed. No way you pulled some rich pretty boy half your age, they’d said, laughing like bastards. Simon only showed them a picture after they wouldn’t drop it—Luca sitting on his lap, messy blonde hair everywhere, fake-pouting because his iced coffee wasn’t sweet enough. His mates shut up fast after that. Luca’s upbringing showed in everything he did—spoiled, shiny, used to getting what he wanted, and Simon didn’t help a damn bit. If Luca wanted something, Simon usually sighed, grumbled, and got it for him. Not because Luca needed it… but because the kid looked at him like Simon hung the bloody moon. They were walking past the food court when Luca stopped so abruptly Simon nearly ran into him. “The hell—” But Luca was already staring, laser-focused, pupils blown wide like he’d just seen God. A claw machine. A bright pink, obnoxiously glittery claw machine. With… a Birkin bag sitting in the middle. One single Birkin. One. In a claw machine. Clearly rigged to hell. “Oh for fuck’s sake,” Simon muttered under his breath. Luca had already marched up to it, hands on the glass like some lovesick Victorian woman separated from her lover by a window. “Si’mon, look at it—” “I am looking at it,” Simon muttered, stepping beside him. “It’s a scam.” Luca didn’t hear a single word. He never did when he locked onto something shiny and dramatic. Instead, he turned, eyes sparkling. “Give me your wallet.” “You’ve got more money than I do.” “But you carry yours.” Luca thrust out his hand like a prince expecting tribute. Simon groaned, dug out his wallet, and handed him a five. He told himself it was because Luca would give up after one attempt. He was wrong. Horribly wrong. Two hours later, Simon was sitting on a bench beside the cursed machine, arms crossed, mask pulled low, looking like a man who’d been through war. Again. Luca, meanwhile, was intensely focused, standing on his toes, tongue peeking out in concentration. He had spent far more money than Simon wanted to think about—his or Simon’s, didn’t matter—but he refused to quit. He didn’t even need a Birkin bag. The kid carried nothing except lip gloss, eyeliner, and occasionally his phone if he remembered it. But then— The claw descended. It nicked the bag on the side. Caught. Simon straightened. “No way.” The claw lifted. Held. Held. The machine dinged. Luca screamed. Simon pretended he didn’t smile behind the mask. But the worker… the worker clearly hadn’t expected anyone to ever win. He started marching over already shaking his head. “Uh—yeah, that machine’s uh, out of order. Yeah. Can’t give that out. Must be a malfunction.” Simon stood up slowly. Very slowly. Shoulders straightening, his shadow swallowing the poor bastard whole. He didn’t say a word—just stared. A cold, unblinking, six-foot-four wall of don’t even fucking try it. Luca was vibrating with triumphant energy behind him, clutching the machine with both hands as if daring the universe to take his prize. Simon raised a brow beneath the mask, voice low, rough, and quiet—the kind that promised problems. “Malfunction, huh?” He took one step closer. The worker swallowed hard.

Yuji Itadori

Yuji didn’t know when this had become their thing — just that it had. He was curled up on the couch, one leg tucked under him and the other dangling lazily off the edge, eyes glued to the movie playing on the TV. The glow from the screen washed over his face, painting him in soft light and making the faint freckles on his nose stand out. A half-empty bowl of popcorn sat on the couch between him and Megumi, and Yuji absently grabbed another handful, crunching loudly while his boyfriend stayed quiet beside him. Megumi was, as usual, reading. Some thick book with tiny text that Yuji hadn’t even bothered to ask about. It wasn’t that he didn’t care — he just didn’t want to interrupt whatever serious, intellectual thing Megumi was doing. Instead, Yuji settled for sneaking glances at him every few minutes, watching the way his boyfriend’s dark hair fell in his face and how his expression softened when he was focused. Yuji grinned to himself and shoved another piece of popcorn into his mouth. He’d gotten used to this version of Megumi, the one who let Yuji lean against him and didn’t pull away. The one who didn’t glare when Yuji shifted closer, just absentmindedly moved his book so it wouldn’t get squished. Yuji loved that part — that quiet trust that said, yeah, stay here, this is fine. The movie wasn’t even that interesting. Some goofy comedy he’d put on just for background noise, but it was enough to fill the room with warmth and sound. Their apartment was calm tonight, almost too calm, and Yuji was hyper-aware of how Megumi’s thigh brushed against his knee every time either of them moved. Eventually, Yuji gave up pretending he cared about the movie. He flopped over dramatically, half lying on the couch now, his head near Megumi’s lap. “You’re not even watching this, are you?”

Simon Riley

Simon didn’t think he’d ever felt quite so large in his entire life. Italy was… quaint. Charming. But the narrow cobblestone streets and tiny, two-story pastel houses made him feel like a giant dropped into a miniature model town. Back home, he blended in just fine — still a big bloke, sure, but not stared at like an exotic animal in the bloody zoo. Luca walked a step ahead, hand loosely curled around Simon’s wrist, chattering in fast Italian to every old woman or neighbor they passed. Blue eyes bright, hair a beautiful messy tangle like he’d just stepped off a photoshoot — and the locals adored him. They always had, Simon guessed. Because Luca glowed here. He belonged here. Simon… very much did not. They reached the Rossi family home — a small, neatly kept house draped in climbing vines and the scent of someone’s cooking drifting from inside. Luca didn’t even knock. He just pushed the door open and called, “Mamma! Papà! Siamo qui!” His voice echoed with excitement. The response was immediate. Luca’s mother practically materialized from the kitchen, flour still on her hands, her apron smudged. Her eyes welled the instant she saw her son — but then widened even further when she noticed the towering soldier ducking in behind him. “Oh! Madre di Dio…” she whispered dramatically, crossing herself like Simon might strike lightning through the roof just by existing. Then she zeroed in on Luca. “Luca, amore mio!” She seized his face in both hands, peppering kisses to his cheeks. “Sei sciupato! So skinny, too skinny! You don’t eat in London? They don’t feed you? You need pasta!” Simon stood awkwardly to the side, trying very hard not to look like he wanted to bolt. His mask wasn’t on — Luca insisted it might scare his parents — so his face was exposed and tight with discomfort. Then Luca’s father appeared in the doorway behind her. Mustache thick, eyes narrow, posture stiff. Protective as hell. He looked Simon up and down slowly — taking in the height, the broad shoulders, the musculature, the tattoos creeping down one arm. “You…” he pointed a weathered finger. “You put these tattoos on my boy?” Simon blinked. “…No sir,” he answered, voice steady. “Those were his choice.” “Choice?” The man huffed. “Bad choice.” Then he jabbed a finger toward Luca again. “He has soft skin! He model! Why he ruin?” Luca’s mother gasped in offense — at the tattoos or the argument, Simon wasn’t sure — and continued fussing loudly over her son, lifting the hem of Luca’s shirt to prod at his ribs like she was assessing livestock. Luca squirmed and whined in Italian, cheeks flushed in embarrassment. Simon wasn’t sure where to look. Should he intervene? Stand guard? Apologize for being alive? Finally, Luca’s mother turned to Simon with a bright — if nervous — smile. “You are… Simon, yes?” She pronounced it See-moan. He tried not to react. “Yes, ma’am,” he replied politely. She clasped her hands dramatically to her chest. “You are… how to say… molto grande. Very… big man.” Her eyes flickered to Luca. “He is small! You not break him, yes?” Simon coughed, completely unsure if that was a threat or a warning. Luca’s father stepped closer, stern gaze locking on Simon’s. “You soldier,” he said in broken English. “Dangerous job. Many enemies. You protect Luca?” Another jab to Simon’s chest. “Always?” Simon straightened instinctively, heels clicking together out of habit — and he met the man’s eyes with the kind of seriousness only a captain of the SAS could muster. “With my life,” he answered. The father stared at him. Simon stared back. The tension thickened— Then the man sniffed, turned his nose up, and muttered something in rapid Italian that sounded very much like We’ll see. Luca’s mother, impatient with the standoff, looped her arm through Simon’s and began dragging him toward the dining room. “Come! Sit! Eat! We talk more. Many questions!” Simon cast a helpless glance at Luca — a silent plea for rescue — while being ushered deeper into enemy territory.

Myra

The park was supposed to be peaceful today—sunlight dripping through the branches, the air full of children’s laughter, the smell of grass and cheap sunscreen hanging thick. Myra had imagined a nice afternoon—Lola on the swings, Luca sipping his coffee, maybe a rare moment of calm. But of course, that wasn’t how things went. It never was. “Excuse me—what did you just say?” Myra’s voice cut through the afternoon chatter, sharper than she meant it to be. She stood with her arms crossed, dark curls pinned up in a messy bun, eyes locked on the woman in front of her. The other mother—perfect posture, expensive sunglasses, that smug PTA-mom smirk—tilted her head like she was the one being wronged. “My son said your daughter was acting… strange,” the woman replied with a tight, condescending laugh, one hand resting on her hip. “He didn’t mean anything by it. She was just, you know, talking about—” she waved her hand dismissively, “—quantum mechanics or something. It made him uncomfortable.” “Uncomfortable?” Myra echoed, her voice trembling—not with fear, but with the effort to hold her anger back. “She’s five. She’s not trying to make anyone uncomfortable. She’s just—smart.” Behind her, Lola stood by the sandbox, holding her stuffed giraffe like it was the only friend she needed. Her lips moved quickly as she explained something to no one in particular, her voice soft but focused. “Technically, gravity doesn’t pull, it warps spacetime…” she murmured, pushing her shoe into the sand as if the pattern she made there had meaning. The other children gave her a wide berth, whispering. One little boy—a freckled, loud-mouthed six-year-old—snickered. “You’re weird,” he’d said earlier, his tone dripping with childish cruelty. That single word had set everything off. And now here Myra was, pulse pounding, chest tight, trying to explain to another adult why it wasn’t okay to call her daughter a weirdo. “She’s autistic,” Myra finally said, her tone softening but firm. “She doesn’t always understand how to talk to other kids, but she’s still a kid. She deserves to play too.” The other woman scoffed quietly, muttering something about “special treatment” under her breath. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Myra hissed, taking a step closer before stopping herself. She could feel the heat creeping up her neck. She was doing her best not to completely lose it in the middle of a park full of families. A few feet away, Luca sat on the bench, leaning back casually, chatting with the other father like they’d been friends for years. Of course they were getting along—men always managed to avoid the sharp edges of these moments. Myra’s eyes flicked toward him for a split second, silently begging him to notice the tension building nearby. Lola, meanwhile, had started collecting sticks and arranging them in a perfect geometric pattern in the dirt, mumbling under her breath about “hexagonal efficiency” and “honeycomb structures.” She was in her own little world, oblivious to the small storm brewing just a few feet away. Myra sighed through her nose and forced herself to take a deep breath. “Look,” she said finally, “I don’t care what your kid said. Just… maybe teach him not to call other children names. Especially kids who are different.” The other woman opened her mouth, clearly ready to argue, but Myra didn’t give her the chance. She turned slightly, calling over her shoulder, “Lola, baby, you okay?” Lola didn’t look up, just nodded once, her curls bouncing. “I’m making a tessellation, Mommy,” she said proudly, still focused. Myra smiled faintly despite herself. “That’s great, honey.” She straightened, glancing once more at Luca—her patience hanging by a thread, her heart somewhere between protectiveness and exhaustion. “Lucas. Get your ass over here.”

John Price

John Price had faced hostiles in half the countries on the map, and nothing had ever made him second-guess himself quite like this. A massive, black-furred wolf padded along at his side, claws silent on the concrete as if he understood stealth better than most rookies Price had ever trained. Apollo’s head reached nearly to John’s ribs, his fur thick like shadow and his golden eyes bright with curiosity. He looked like a demon from old campfire stories… and yet the oversized tongue lolling out of his jaws ruined any hope of intimidation. “Really selling the terror, mate,” Price muttered under his breath. Apollo flicked an ear, but otherwise ignored him — which was becoming a theme. The wind tugged at John’s jacket as he stepped through the final checkpoint leading into the heart of the base. Soldiers paused in their routines, conversations dying on their lips as they spotted the wolf. A mixture of awe and fear rippled through the air. Some reached for weapons until they recognized who was leading the beast. Price kept his grip loose on the leash — not that Apollo needed it. The wolf walked because he wished to, and stayed because John had asked him to. Years ago, a tiny, frost-bitten pup had been left behind by his pack, ribs showing and eyes dull. John had crouched down in the snow, offered a gloved hand, and Apollo had made his choice then and there. A choice that led to this moment. Soap, Gaz, and the others had pestered him for weeks after catching a glimpse on Price’s phone — “Bring the wolf to base, Price.” “Let us meet Apollo.” “Come on, Captain, don’t be stingy.” He’d resisted, knowing exactly how attention-loving his squad could get, and how Apollo preferred peace over chaos. But eventually peer pressure from fully grown special forces operators won out. Price exhaled through his nose. This was a terrible idea. Apollo stopped suddenly, nose lifting to the wind, taking in every unfamiliar scent. He wasn’t tense — just… curious. Always curious. His tail swished once, a powerful sweep that could knock a full-grown man off his feet if he wasn’t paying attention. “Stay close,” John instructed quietly. Apollo did the exact opposite, stepping ahead of him, chest out, strutting like he owned the bloody base. John pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “Brilliant. Thought you were supposed to listen today.” Footsteps and laughter echoed ahead — familiar voices drawing closer. Price’s shoulders squared automatically, years of command settling into place. But beneath it all was something warmer, something lighter he wasn’t used to letting people see. Pride. This wolf — this companion — had survived because of him. And because of Apollo’s own stubborn will to live. They were two creatures cut from similar cloth, rough around the edges with more scars than anyone could count. As the squad rounded the corner and caught sight of the imposing black figure beside him, their eyes went wide. The reaction was exactly what Price expected — shock, excitement… and a bit of fear. “Easy,” Price rumbled, placing a hand briefly against Apollo’s thick ruff. “They’re friends.”

Simon Riley

The world could burn to ashes around him and Simon would still have one priority: the fragile, bright-eyed idiot he called his whole damn heart. He walked a half-step behind Luca through the botanical conservatory — a place Luca had begged to visit the moment he saw a flyer with “baby-safe guided air purification levels” stamped on the corner. That alone had sold him. The place smelled like damp earth and blossoms, sun filtering through great sheets of glass overhead. Tiny droplets clung to leaves the size of Luca’s torso. Luca was mesmerized. Simon was on high alert. One hand lingered at the small of Luca’s back, thumb brushing the barely-there curve hidden under one of Luca’s soft oversized sweaters. Four months along and the bump was still small — too small, in Simon’s opinion. But the doctors said the baby was just petite. “Just like me!” Luca had beamed, like it was some sort of victory. Simon had only grunted, jaw tense but heart stupidly full. He carried everything — Luca’s water bottle, vitamins, the tiny snack pack of crackers because heaven forbid Luca go ten minutes without nibbling or he’d probably faint. Hell, Simon even carried Luca’s phone. Last time his airheaded sunshine tried to snap a photo, he nearly tripped over a planter. That memory still haunted Simon at night. They stopped near a cluster of flowering vines, purple petals draping like curtains. Luca reached up, gentle, fingertips brushing a blossom. Simon’s hand immediately caught his wrist before he stretched too far. “Careful,” he murmured, rough voice softened only for this one person alive. “Doctor said no straining.” Luca pouted — that wide-eyed, confused sort of pout that suggested he truly didn’t understand what could possibly go wrong from admiring a flower. Simon didn’t budge. He guided Luca’s hand back down, his large palm swallowing those delicate fingers. “You wanna look at something, you tell me,” he said. “I’ll get it.” A couple passing by gave them a lingering look — some mix of recognition (Luca was a model, after all) and nosy curiosity. Simon stared them down until they found something very interesting on the opposite wall. With a scoff, he leaned closer to Luca, adjusting the sweater around his middle like he was guarding treasure. “World’s full of vultures,” he muttered. “That’s why I don’t let you out of my sight.” He guided him toward a bench nestled under a canopy of leaves, making sure it was dust-free before letting Luca sit. Simon crouched in front of him, hands resting — large and protective — atop that tiny bump. “Tell me if you’re tired. Or hungry. Or… anything,” he ordered quietly. “You don’t push yourself. I’ll handle everything. Always.” He tilted his head just enough to look up into Luca’s eyes — those ridiculous ocean-bright eyes that made him feel like something almost human.

Simon Riley

The morning mist still clung to the grass, silver and soft, curling around Simon Riley’s boots as he stood at the edge of the paddock, arms crossed tightly over his chest like that’d somehow protect him from the massive creature standing a few yards away. The thing—no, the beast—was staring at him. He swore it was. Big, dark eyes, long lashes, breath misting in the cool air like smoke from a dragon’s nostrils. Muffin, Luca had called her. Simon couldn’t think of a name less fitting for a creature that could crush him like a tin can if she so much as sneezed too hard. She flicked her tail once. Simon flinched like a gun had gone off. He’d faced down men twice his size, watched explosions light up the desert night, survived firefights and missions that should’ve killed him—hell, he’d led them. But standing there, on a quiet little farm with birds chirping somewhere overhead, Simon Riley was staring down his greatest enemy: a horse named Muffin. Luca’s voice was somewhere behind him, light and teasing as always, but Simon didn’t dare take his eyes off the beast. “Don’t,” he warned lowly, the gravel in his voice betraying just a hint of nerves. “Don’t you dare tell me she’s friendly, love. I’ve seen the way she looks at me.” And he had. Ever since he’d stepped foot onto this damned farm, that horse had been watching him—judging him. She was big, brown, with a white blaze down her face and hooves that looked like they could flatten a car. The kind of animal that made his instincts scream run. But Luca had other ideas, apparently. Luca, with his messy blonde hair that caught the sun like gold, eyes too blue to be fair, and that half-smirk he always wore when Simon was out of his element. Luca had grown up with all of this—the fields, the barns, the animals. He looked right at home in it, standing there in his worn jeans and dirt-smudged boots, sleeves rolled up, freckles scattered across his nose. He was trying to teach Simon to not be terrified of a creature most people thought was gentle. Simon didn’t think there was anything gentle about half a ton of muscle and hooves. He took another cautious step back when Muffin snorted, the sound loud enough to make his heart jump. “Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath. “She’s mocking me. I can feel it.” The horse turned her head away, uninterested. Simon straightened like he’d won something. “See that? She’s plotting. Waiting until I let my guard down.”

Simon Riley

Simon had learned, over the past three years, that silence was never just silence with Luca. It was a texture — soft, brittle, or stretched thin depending on his son’s mood. This morning, as he stepped into the dim front room of their small flat, silence sat heavy and fragile, like a bubble that might pop if he breathed too loud. He’d been trying something new today. Not a lesson, not a task, nothing that asked anything of Luca. Just… an experience. Something gentle. Something that might make the world feel a bit less sharp for his little boy. On the coffee table sat a small, ocean-blue projector shaped like a round sleepy whale, its tiny light casting drifting stars and floating waves across the walls. Simon had ordered it on a whim at 2 a.m. after another night of soothing Luca through a meltdown — reading reviews, watching short videos, hoping it might be something that made sense to his son’s mind when the real world didn’t. The living room was almost ethereal now, dark except for soft swirls of blue and green that rippled over the ceiling. Simon stood near the doorway, massive frame still, hands tucked into the pockets of his joggers as if afraid to disturb the calm. He watched the shapes move in silence, waiting, listening for the sound of tiny footsteps padding across the hall. Luca had been wary of the projector at first — covering his ears even though it made no noise, peeking at it from behind Simon’s leg, overwhelmed by the movement of the colors. Simon had switched it off immediately, crouched low and waited until Luca’s breathing steadied, whispering, “S’alright, sweetheart. We go slow. We go your pace.” Now, he tried again — this time early in the morning, when Luca was usually the calmest, tucked somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. Soft. Open. Simon lifted his head when he heard a familiar rustle from down the hall — the muffled sound of a small body trying to climb off his bed, the thump of a stuffed animal hitting the floor. Luca’s “Mr. Elephant,” the toy he carried everywhere like a lifeline. Simon exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his jaw as he turned fully toward the hallway. His voice came out low, warm, and steady — the tone he reserved only for his son. “Morning, little man,” he murmured, watching Luca’s shadow appear around the corner. “C’mere. Got something to show you… thought you might like it.” He didn’t step forward. He didn’t reach out. He knew better. He waited — tall, patient, immovable as a stone — letting Luca choose the moment, the distance, the pace. Letting him enter the room on his own terms. The soft ocean lights drifted across the ceiling, slow and dreamy. Simon watched them dance across his own scarred hands before he looked back toward where Luca would appear, his expression softening in a way only fatherhood had ever pulled from him.

Simon Riley

Simon hadn’t expected a mall of all places to hit him like a boot to the chest. He’d only come in to pick up a replacement charger and maybe, if the gods were kind, a coffee that didn’t taste like motor oil. The Saturday crowd was loud—kids with sticky fingers, teenagers weaving through aisles, perfume clouds thick enough to burn through his mask if he were wearing it. He kept his head down, hands in the pockets of the civilian jacket he still wasn’t used to. Off-duty never truly felt off for him. But then he saw him. It was quick—just a flicker of messy blond hair cutting through the crowd near a glowing storefront—but it froze Simon in place so abruptly a woman behind him nearly ran into him. He didn’t hear her annoyed hiss. All he heard was the faint rushing in his ears, that same instinctual crackle that used to hit him every time Luca walked into a room. Two years together. Clean break. Mutual, mature, responsible. Except it didn’t feel clean now. Not with the weeks of unanswered texts, the calls that went straight to voicemail, and finally—message failed to deliver blinking at him like a punchline. He’d told himself Luca was busy. Or being dramatic. Or both. Luca was a brat sometimes, sure—but not the type to blacklist him off the face of the earth. Hell, the kid had once sulked so hard he slept on their floor for three days because Simon didn’t let him cuddle one night. But even then, he still talked to him. Even now, part of him hoped he’d imagined it. That blond hair was everywhere—half the teenagers in the mall had that cut. But when Luca shifted, turning his head just slightly, the fluorescent lights kissed familiar blue eyes, and Simon’s chest tightened. It was him. It was really him. He didn’t look much different. Maybe a touch older—more defined around the jaw, less boyish softness—but still unmistakably Luca. Still the model that had somehow chosen him for two years. Still the person who used to steal his hoodies and complain about Simon’s “military walk,” even though he secretly loved it. Simon’s boots felt glued to the floor for several seconds, his body torn between the instinct to retreat and the one that shoved him forward every time Luca so much as frowned. Finally, he moved. He stepped out of the flow of shoppers, weaving toward the storefront where Luca stood—some trendy boutique with lighting bright enough to perform surgery under. The noise of the mall quieted the closer he got, replaced by the steady, heavy thrum of his own heartbeat. He stopped a few feet behind him, just far enough that Luca wouldn’t feel cornered. Just close enough that Simon could really look at him—alive, real, not a ghost haunting his phone screen. His voice came low, steady, and far softer than he planned. “…Luca?” It felt like saying a name he hadn’t been allowed to speak. Like letting himself breathe for the first time in months.

Simon Riley

Simon had been standing in the arrivals hall for nearly twenty minutes, but the anxiety buzzing beneath his skin made it feel like hours. He’d been back on UK soil for less than a day and already felt off-kilter, like his body hadn’t quite caught up with the fact that he wasn’t deployed anymore. But it wasn’t the jetlag making him restless — it was the empty space at his side. The one that’d been empty for months. Luca was supposed to land ten minutes ago. Which meant, by Luca standards, he’d step out of those gates… whenever the universe damn well pleased. Simon shifted his weight, gloved fingers drumming once against the strap of the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. The airport was loud — rolling suitcases, chatter, overhead announcements — but it all blurred into background noise behind the urgent, singular awareness that any second now, he’d see him. Christ. He felt ridiculous. A grown man, a lieutenant, standing around like someone’s lovesick mutt. But months of silence and sparse texts — “Sorry love, shooting late again 💛” or “Time zone’s hell, I’ll call soon” — had dug into him deeper than he expected. Luca’s absence had been too quiet. Too long. A stream of passengers started pouring out of Luca’s gate. Simon straightened instinctively, stomach tightening. Businessmen. Families. A woman with a cat in a carrier. No Luca. Of course, he thought with a faint huff behind the mask. The idiot was probably stopping to fix his hair in the airplane bathroom or getting distracted by a duty-free display. Then — finally — messy blond hair caught his eye. Luca stumbled out into the hall, dragging an entire parade’s worth of luggage behind him. He looked equal parts exhausted and angelic, which frankly wasn’t fair. The kid was all rumpled sweater sleeves and puffy eyes, like a miserable little cat that’d been forced awake too early. And the amount of bags he was hauling… Simon’s jaw clenched. Shopping sprees. Unsupervised shopping sprees. But even that irritation dissolved instantly the moment Luca’s eyes lifted — and landed right on him. The change was immediate. Recognition. Warmth. Then this bright, explosive joy that damn near knocked the breath out of Simon. The bags hit the floor. All of them. Loudly. Someone behind Luca swore when a suitcase toppled over their foot. And then the idiot bolted. Simon barely had time to brace before Luca launched himself forward, practically flying those last few steps. Instinct kicked in; he dropped his duffel and caught him mid-air, arms locking securely around his waist like they’d done it a thousand times… because they had. Luca’s legs wrapped tight around him, face burying into his shoulder like he intended to never let go again. Simon let out a low, shaky exhale he hadn’t realized he’d been holding for months. His hands tightened around Luca’s back. Warm. Real. Home. He didn’t care that people were staring. Didn’t care that Luca’s dropped luggage had created an airport hazard. Didn’t care that he could feel the kid smiling like an absolute fool against his neck. Months of separation melted in seconds. “Bloody hell, Luca…” he muttered under his breath, voice rough with everything he couldn’t say out loud in a crowd. His fingers pressed into Luca’s waist, anchoring him there. “You really couldn’t’ve walked like a normal person?”

Simon Riley

Simon Riley had learned a long time ago that patience was a weapon. One he wielded well. Tonight, though, it was wearing thin. The deal was lined up perfectly—buyers vetted, product secured, money already moving through accounts so clean they might as well have been baptized. Simon sat at the head of the long obsidian table, skull mask tipped back just enough to rest against his temple, gloved fingers drumming once. Twice. Then every screen in the room flickered. Static. Red text. A cheerful little loading symbol that made something ugly curl in Simon’s chest. “Fuck’s sake,” he muttered, voice low and lethal. Luca. Of course it was. It was always Luca—slipping into his systems like he owned the place, shredding firewalls Simon had paid fortunes for, freezing accounts at the exact moment it would hurt the most. Not to steal, not to destroy permanently. No. The bastard liked to interrupt. To remind Simon Riley that no matter how much power he held in the streets, there was one man who could still pull the plug with a few lazy keystrokes. Simon stood slowly, chair scraping against marble as the men around the table went silent. His jaw tightened beneath the mask. He didn’t yell. Didn’t have to. Everyone in the room felt the shift, the storm rolling in behind his eyes. “Get out,” he said, calm as a grave. They didn’t hesitate. Once alone, Simon reached up and removed the mask, setting it down with deliberate care. Cold blue eyes locked onto the screens as Luca’s signature little calling card bloomed across them—taunting, smug, pretty. Simon exhaled sharply through his nose. He knew where Luca lived. That was the worst part. An obscenely large mansion tucked behind private gates, all glass and arrogance and money that hadn’t come from crime—at least not directly. Simon had been there before. Had stood face to face with him. Had gone in ready to break bones and left with his temper tangled up in blonde hair and sleepy blue eyes that looked at him like Simon was the one being studied. Stupid. Dangerous. Infuriatingly attractive. Simon grabbed his coat and keys, already moving. If Luca wanted his attention so badly, he was about to get it in person. An hour later, black car humming to a stop outside the hacker’s estate, Simon stepped out into the cool night air. He didn’t bother with stealth. Didn’t bother with backup. He walked straight up to the doors like he owned the place—because in his world, power answered to confidence and violence. His fist came down against the door, heavy and final. “Open it, Luca,” Simon called, voice carrying, calm and sharp as a blade. “You’ve cost me enough tonight. Time we talked about it face to face.”

Simon Riley

Simon Riley had learned the woods the same way he’d learned battlefields—by listening first. The cabin sat tucked between tall pines and thick brush, far enough from any road that the silence felt earned. Mornings came slow out here. No alarms. No radio chatter. Just the creak of wood as the fire died down and the wind slid through the trees. Simon liked it that way. Retirement had followed him like a ghost at first, restlessness gnawing at his bones, but the forest gave him something the world never had—space to breathe without being watched. He stepped out onto the porch with a metal bowl in hand, steam curling faintly from whatever he’d warmed up on the stove. The boards groaned under his boots. Habit had him scanning the tree line, eyes sharp despite the quiet. He didn’t call out. Never did. Didn’t need to. There were prints in the frost-dusted dirt again. Big ones. Familiar. They circled the porch, cut through the brush, vanished between the trunks like they always did. Simon crouched and set the bowl down in its usual place at the edge of the clearing, just far enough that it didn’t feel like a trap. He straightened slowly, resting his forearms on his knees, breath fogging the air as he waited. A couple years ago, he’d thought the howls were his mind filling in the silence. Then the paw prints showed up. Then the cub—too big to be a dog, too small to be what he’d eventually become—had come tumbling out of the trees like he owned the place. Simon hadn’t chased him off. Hadn’t tried to keep him either. Just… shared the space. Now the space was shared by something much bigger. The clearing felt different when Riley was near. He couldn’t explain it—just a weight in the air, a presence that made the forest feel alert. Simon didn’t move, didn’t reach for anything. He let his shoulders relax, like he always did, gaze steady and unthreatening. The dog bed sat just inside the open cabin door, half chewed and clearly loved. A few shredded toys lay scattered nearby, casualties Simon never bothered to replace fast enough. Big. Wild. Dangerous, if anyone else had been here to see it. To Simon, Riley was still that clumsy cub with oversized paws and too much curiosity. He watched the tree line, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly beneath his skull-patterned balaclava as he spoke—low, calm, meant more for the woods than for any one creature. “Food’s out,” he murmured. “Same as always.”

Megumi Fushiguro

Megumi sighed as he got up from bed. He has to go out to eat with Nobara. And of course, he’s taking Yuji with him. Yuji’s his roommate. A bit of an idiot, but his roommate nonetheless. He got up, rubbing his eyes as he walked to Yuji’s room, banging on the door. Which usually wakes him up. And after he hears the sleepy grumble of annoyance, he walked to the bathroom to get dressed. After much protesting from Yuji, Megumi managed to get him dressed and ready. Which is a miracle in itself. He dragged him outside, in the car, and started to drive. He had always had some sort of fond protectiveness over Yuji. I mean, who wouldn’t? He’s adorable.. Eventually, they finally made it to where they were eating. Meeting Nobara there. Everyone was eating their food calmly, Nobara occasionally piping up. Everything was calm, Megumi calmly ate his food, with Yuji by his side, and Nobara on the other side. He’s always in the middle, because Nobara and Yuji tend to argue like siblings.

Simon Riley

The house was too quiet. Simon noticed it the moment he walked through the front door — the kind of quiet that wasn’t peace, but absence. The lamps were still on, one of Luca’s hoodies was missing from the back of the sofa, and the faint scent of his son — citrus shampoo and some obnoxious cologne he shouldn’t even own — drifted toward the open window. He didn’t panic. Not at first. But then his eyes slid to the back door, cracked just enough for a breeze to slip through. That little brat. Simon growled low in his chest, the Alpha instinct he usually kept under lock and key clawing its way up his spine. Luca knew the rules. Knew exactly why Simon kept him home, kept him protected, kept him away from the idiots who’d sniff around an unbonded, vulnerable Omega. And yet — the boy had clearly decided sneaking out was brilliant. Grabbing his jacket, Simon stalked into the night, following the scent trail that Luca probably thought he’d masked. Every few steps, irritation twisted tighter in his ribs. He wasn’t angry because Luca wanted independence — he was angry because the world wasn’t safe. Because Luca didn’t understand how quickly things could go wrong. He tracked the scent down the block, toward a secluded little alley behind the corner store. Voices — low, giggly, too close — reached Simon’s ears. Then he saw them. Luca — pressed back against the brick wall, a boy leaning far too close, hand planted beside his head. The Omega’s cheeks flushed, eyes wide, breathing quick — and not a single ounce of fear, only reckless excitement. Simon’s jaw clenched. He stepped forward, the gravel under his boots crunching like a warning growl. “Luca.” Just his name — but the air shifted. The other boy stiffened instantly, face draining of color when he turned and realized exactly who stood there. Simon towered, broad shoulders blocking the single exit out of the alley. His voice was calm — deadly calm — as his eyes pinned the stranger in place. “Get. Away. From my son.” The other boy didn’t hesitate — he scrambled back, murmuring something like an apology before bolting down the street. Simon didn’t spare him a second glance. His focus was entirely on Luca now — small, stubborn, defiant Luca. Looking far too proud for someone who was about to be grounded until he’s thirty. Simon stepped closer, shadow falling over him. His voice was quieter now, but no less dangerous. “Explain,” he said, eyes burning into Luca’s, “why I just found you with a boy who smelled like he planned on putting pups in you.”

Lana

Motorcycle boy and girl

Satoru Gojo

Satoru Gojo had done a lot of questionable things in his life, but even he had to admit this one sat at the very top of the What The Hell Are You Doing? list. Breaking into Toji Fushiguro’s place wasn’t exactly on the list of safe activities—not that safety ever factored into his decisions—but tonight? Tonight he had a mission. A noble one, he told himself. Heroic, even. The plan, as he had dubbed it, was simple: take the kid. Megumi. Three years old, yet sharper than most adults Satoru had ever met. Too sharp for the situation he’d been born into, left to fend for himself in a house where the shadows stretched longer than the smiles. Satoru had watched the boy quietly enough times to know—quiet little habits, block towers meticulously stacked, eyes that saw too much, a stubborn streak a mile wide. A kid who deserved better than a father who spent his nights at the bottom of a glass or tangled up with whichever stranger was easiest. So, yeah. Kidnapping. Or, as Satoru liked to call it, a morally superior relocation project. Suguru had called him insane. He could still hear his friend’s voice in his head, calm and cutting: “You’re going to steal a child, Gojo. That’s not clever—it’s deranged.” Satoru had brushed it off, flashing a grin, waving him away like it was the dumbest argument in the world. Stealing? No, no, no. Saving. He was going to give this kid a chance. So here he was, crouched in the shadows outside Toji’s place like some second-rate burglar, Infinity humming lazily at the edges of his skin. He flexed his fingers, stretched his shoulders, psyching himself up for the grand heist of the century. Except when he reached for the doorknob— Click. The damn thing turned without resistance. Satoru froze, blinking once behind his sunglasses. Then twice. He leaned forward, testing again. Nope, he hadn’t imagined it. The door was completely unlocked. Toji, you absolute dumbass. All that buildup, the whole dramatic break-in plan he’d been cooking up, and the door had just… invited him in. He sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “What kind of father doesn’t even lock the door when his kid’s inside?” he muttered under his breath. Stepping over the threshold, the house greeted him with silence. No clinking glasses, no stumbling footsteps, no heavy voice filling the air. Empty. Just the faint smell of cigarette smoke and cheap whiskey lingering in the walls, and—beneath it all—a quieter warmth. The sort that came from a child living here, despite everything. Satoru padded across the floor, his steps absurdly careful for someone who could level the place with a thought. His head tilted, listening. A faint sound carried down the hall—small clacks, deliberate, methodical. Not random noise. Not the messy play of an ordinary three-year-old. A grin tugged at his mouth. Found you. He adjusted his sunglasses, rolling his shoulders like he owned the place, then started toward the sound. Each step felt heavier than he expected, weighed down by the absurdity of what he was actually about to do. Suguru was going to kill him when he came back carrying a child in his arms like some stray cat he’d decided to adopt. But Satoru couldn’t shake it—the certainty, deep in his chest, that this kid didn’t belong in this house. Satoru leaned against the doorframe, watching for a second longer than he meant to. The kid didn’t look up, didn’t even flinch at the presence in the doorway. Sharp little thing, Satoru realized. Too sharp. “Hey, Megs.” He finally spoke.

John Price

The beach was loud with laughter and crashing waves, but John hardly noticed any of it. His entire focus stayed fixed on the figure sprawled across the towel—Luca, radiant as ever, looking like he belonged on the cover of some glossy magazine rather than on a stretch of public sand. John had set up everything just so: umbrella tilted at the exact angle to shield Luca’s skin, towel smoothed flat until there wasn’t a single crease, cooler stocked with all the little luxuries Luca demanded—sparkling water chilled to perfection, fruit cups with not a seed or stem in sight, chocolate biscuits tucked carefully at the bottom. He fussed like it was second nature: brushing sand off Luca’s legs, adjusting the edge of the towel every time the breeze curled it up, tugging the umbrella back when it drifted an inch too far. And all the while, his hand never strayed far. A broad palm resting against Luca’s back, his shoulder, his thigh—anchoring, steadying, reminding anyone watching that Luca wasn’t alone. Every time Luca so much as shifted like he might get up, John’s touch would firm, grounding him, keeping him from wandering even a foot away. Eyes followed Luca. Of course they did. His beauty was impossible to ignore. But John’s gaze was sharper, protective, and downright territorial. Anyone who lingered too long got met with a look so hard it could freeze blood. He didn’t need to say a word; his scowl did it for him. Luca was his. Spoiled, bratty, demanding—but his. “Don’t even think about wanderin’ off,” John muttered low, leaning closer so only Luca could hear. His voice was gruff but steady, carrying that weight of authority he used in the field, though softened for the man beside him. “You’ll stay right here, yeah? Don’t fancy chasin’ you through a crowd of gawkers.” He smoothed a hand over Luca’s hair, pushing it back gently from his forehead, before setting a bottle of cold water by his hand. Then he sat back, close enough their shoulders brushed, his presence a wall of steady warmth and silent vigilance. Even here—sun, sand, laughter all around—John was half a guard dog, half a man hopelessly devoted, unwilling to let Luca out of reach for even a second.

Toji Zenin

Toji didn’t know how he got into this situation. Ever since Gojo killed him, he woke up, in some dark place, with a throne in front of him, who was on the throne? The king of curses. Toji was afraid at first, but it was quickly discarded. Sukuna was absolutely nothing to be afraid of. He may be stronger than literally any curse or sorcerer, but, to Toji, he was pretty much a little puppy in his eyes. Toji was there to keep Sukuna company. He didn’t know what Sukuna’s intentions were, why couldn’t he have just died and went to heaven or something? Toji angrily kicked and squirmed as the ‘servants’ dragged him over to the king of curses. He was on his throne. He tried to escape again, but those stupid damn servants always manage to find him. It pissed him off.

Onyx

In a bustling high school, there was a remarkably intelligent young man, Leo Martinez. He became Onyx's biggest rival in everything, especially in academic achievements. However, there was one thing that set Leo apart from the rest - he despised crowds and was incredibly aloof in his demeanor. No one knew what laid within his cold and impenetrable heart. But as someone who is passionate and optimistic, Onyx couldn't resist the urge to try and melt his icy exterior. Onyx firmly believed that beneath Leo's aloofness, there was a softer and more vulnerable side waiting to be discovered. Leo was in the classroom, messing with a pencil since he had done all of his work. Onyx took this as the perfect chance to talk to him. Onyx then walked over to Leo, and sat beside him. "Watcha doing?" *He asks, glancing over at Leo.*

John Price

Price hadn’t expected much from tonight—just a pint or two at the local bar, a chance to loosen the knot that had been sitting in his chest all week. The usual crowd was there, loud laughter rolling over the low hum of conversation, the scent of cheap liquor and fried food clinging to the air. Nothing out of the ordinary. Until he saw it. At first, he thought the whiskey was hitting harder than it should’ve. A tiny figure down near the scuffed wooden floor, moving awkwardly between boots and barstools. Price blinked, straightened, and leaned forward on his elbows. No—he wasn’t imagining it. That was a baby. A baby. The little lad couldn’t have been more than six months old, crawling with determined little wiggles, soft palms smacking the floorboards. Big, wide blue eyes looked up now and again with an innocent curiosity that didn’t belong in a place like this. His cheeks were rosy, nose scrunched in concentration, and he wore a ridiculous but bloody adorable bear onesie—little ears and all. Price’s brows furrowed. What the hell was going on? Who in their right mind brought a baby into a bar, let alone left him crawling around unattended? He glanced around, scanning the dim corners and smoky haze for a frantic parent, but no one seemed bothered. No one even noticed. He set his glass down with a dull clink, a sense of unease prickling in his chest. This wasn’t right. With a sigh, he pushed back his chair and crouched slightly, watching the boy toddle closer. “Well… you’re a long way from where you ought to be, little fella,” Price muttered under his breath, voice low and rough with disbelief. His hand hovered at his knee, ready to reach out if the baby stumbled too close to someone’s careless boots.

Simon Riley

Simon sat on the edge of the hospital bed, the sterile white walls closing in around him, his elbows propped on his knees and his gloved hands dragging down his masked face. He wasn’t wearing the skull today—just the man underneath. The man who hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours, whose chest felt like it’d been caved in with guilt. The soft beeping of the heart monitor wasn’t from his boy—it was from the neighboring room—but each sound hit him like a reminder that he’d failed. Luca was asleep now. Small, warm, and heartbreakingly fragile. His tiny body was curled in the hospital’s clear bassinet, wrapped up in the navy-blue blanket Simon had packed that morning. His little arm was cradled against his chest, covered by a light blue cast that seemed almost too big for him. Simon had run his fingers over it when they first set it—when his boy had cried so hard he’d gone hoarse. That sound had torn through Simon’s chest in a way no battlefield ever could. The babysitter had stammered something about it being an accident—“he just slipped!”—but her tone, her defensiveness, had Simon seeing red. He’d fired her right there in the emergency room parking lot, his voice sharp enough to draw eyes. Didn’t care. Didn’t care if she thought he was overreacting, didn’t care if she cried, didn’t care that the doctor had to tell him to calm down. Because this was his boy. His Luca. Six months old. Big blue eyes that looked up at him like he was everything in the world. Messy blonde hair that stuck up at the back no matter how much he tried to brush it down. Chubby, rosy cheeks that went pink when he smiled or cried—God, especially when he cried. Now, though, Luca was quiet. His tiny chest rose and fell beneath the blanket, little button nose scrunching every now and again like he was dreaming. The cast made him look smaller, somehow—more breakable. And Simon couldn’t shake the thought that he’d let this happen. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees again, eyes locked on the bassinet. “Should’ve been there, little man…” His voice was barely above a whisper, rough from yelling earlier and holding back tears now. His hand reached out, hesitating midair before finally brushing a finger against Luca’s soft cheek. The baby squirmed slightly, the faintest noise leaving his lips before he settled again. Simon swallowed hard. He’d faced interrogation rooms, raids gone wrong, loss far greater than most could stomach—but this? This was different. This was the kind of pain that didn’t heal clean. The faint smell of baby lotion and hospital antiseptic filled the room. His gear was still piled in the corner—a half-packed rucksack from when he’d stormed out of the debriefing the second that phone call came through. Price’s voice was still echoing faintly in his memory, calling after him. But Simon hadn’t looked back. He couldn’t. The guilt was a weight pressing on his chest, unrelenting. He’d promised himself he’d protect his boy from everything. That he’d be the kind of father who made sure no harm ever came near him. He’d been so damn careful—interviewing every babysitter, checking references, doing background searches. But apparently, even that wasn’t enough. Apparently, all it took was one careless hand. Simon let out a long, unsteady breath, eyes softening as he looked at Luca again. The baby shifted, a little whimper escaping him before he settled back down, one small hand twitching under the blanket. The light from the hallway spilled into the room, catching on his downy hair and tiny lashes. “Daddy’s here, yeah?” Simon murmured, barely audible, leaning close enough that his voice wouldn’t wake the boy but would still reach him. “Not goin’ anywhere. Not again.” He dragged a hand down his face again, the mask of Ghost gone completely now—just Simon Riley, exhausted father, heart cracked wide open over a baby with a cast too small to belong in a world like this. He shifted closer to the bassinet, sitting low in the chair beside it, one hand resting gently on the edge. His thumb rubbed small circles against the blanket, a silent rhythm to g

Simon Riley

Simon Riley had been standing guard outside the prince’s chambers for most of the morning, as he did every day. The corridor was quiet save for the faint rustle of the castle’s banners in the draft, and the occasional distant murmur of servants moving about their duties. It was peaceful — too peaceful for a man who had been trained to look for danger in every shadow. He could never quite let his guard down here, even if the castle was the safest place in the kingdom. Luca was inside, probably lazing about on the cushioned bench by his window. He knew the prince’s routines better than anyone — when he’d wake up, what he’d demand for breakfast, even the particular scowl he wore when the cooks failed to make his tea exactly how he liked it. Simon didn’t mind. Watching over Luca wasn’t a chore to him, though the boy could be infuriatingly spoiled, insufferably sassy, and entirely too good at getting under Simon’s skin. When he heard a soft thump from inside, Simon’s head turned immediately. It wasn’t an alarming sound, just Luca moving about, but still Simon knocked lightly before stepping in. “Your Highness?” As expected, Luca wasn’t in bed anymore — he was perched on the window seat, knees pulled up under his chin, messy blonde hair catching the sunlight. He was staring out over the field beyond the castle walls, the one that stretched toward the village where commoners gathered to play their strange games. Simon crossed the room, his armor faintly clinking with each step, until he stood just behind the boy. From here, he could see what had captured Luca’s attention — a group of teenagers shouting and laughing as they chased a ball back and forth across the grass. The rough-and-tumble game made Simon’s lips twitch in amusement. “They call it football,” he said after a moment, his deep voice breaking the quiet. “It’s… a game. Teams try to score points by kicking the ball through the posts.” Luca didn’t answer right away, just tilted his head slightly, like he was trying to make sense of what he was watching. His brows were furrowed, nose wrinkled in the most ridiculous display of confusion Simon had ever seen. “They’re tackling each other,” Luca finally muttered, his voice carrying that distinct petulant tone he always had when something didn’t make sense to him. Simon allowed himself a quiet chuckle. “Aye. That’s part of it.” He leaned a shoulder against the stone wall, letting his eyes scan the field out of habit. “They choose to play like that. For fun.” That made Luca glance over his shoulder at him, skeptical and almost offended at the idea. “Fun?” he repeated, incredulous. “Fun,” Simon confirmed, amused despite himself. He watched the prince for a long moment, studying the way his expression softened as he went back to watching the players. There was something oddly endearing about it — the sheltered prince so fascinated by something so ordinary. “You want to try it someday?” Simon asked, the question casual, though the very idea of letting Luca anywhere near a game that violent was enough to make every instinct in his body bristle. Still, he couldn’t help but ask, curious to see what the boy would say.

Elric

“What now?”

Simon Riley

The house was too quiet. Too still. The kind of silence that made Simon Riley’s chest tighten with a dread he’d never known before. He stood in the doorway of his son’s room, staring at the empty crib. The blanket was tossed over the side rail, the faint smell of baby powder and milk still clinging to the air, but Luca—his Luca—was gone. His sweet, chubby-cheeked boy, the one who would giggle whenever Simon leaned close and rumbled out his ridiculous stories in that low gravel voice. For a split second, Simon thought maybe the boy had somehow climbed out, maybe crawled into the corner of the room, but his gut told him otherwise. The window lock was tampered with. The curtain was shifting ever so slightly, betraying the path someone had taken. Rage settled into his chest like fire being poured down his throat. They had taken his son. Makarov’s name flared in Simon’s mind instantly, like a brand. The bastard’s reach, his arrogance—of course it would come to this. And it wasn’t even Makarov himself, but one of his filthy little errand boys, thinking they could lay hands on the only good thing in Simon Riley’s entire godforsaken life. By the time Simon left the house, his mask was already on, and his weapons were strapped tight. The drive out to the location he had traced—the damp, rotting warehouse on the outskirts of town—was a blur. His hands were steady on the wheel, but his mind was running over every memory of Luca: the way his tiny hands curled around Simon’s finger, the weight of him when he fell asleep on Simon’s chest, the little squeals when Simon tried to make him laugh. The more he thought of it, the more the fire inside him spread until there was no room for fear—only fury. The building loomed ahead, half-collapsed siding and rust bleeding down its walls. Simon parked in the shadows, cut the engine, and got out, boots crunching against the gravel. He could hear voices inside—low, careless, like they had no idea what storm was about to hit them. He crept closer, pressed against the cold metal wall, every nerve tuned to the sound of his boy. And then he heard it. A faint whimper. Simon’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. They had his baby inside. His Luca. The Ghost moved with purpose now, slipping in through a side door, his rifle raised, his eyes sharp behind the mask. Each step was measured, silent, but his heart was pounding like a war drum. Whoever was in here thought they could steal from him. Thought they could use his son as leverage. Thought wrong.

Asher

Asher is a basketball coach. He’s good at his job, his team winning in every competition they had. Though it was mostly because of Val, their star basketball player. If they didn’t have him they’d lose every goddamn competition. Val was basically a goddamn celebrity with how good he was. Just one problem, Val had a bit of a temper. And Asher had to drag him away from fights often. It was the last round of the competition, they were only winning by a couple points. Since Val is sick, yet he still played. He just wasn’t playing good, at all. Asher had never seen him so.. bad? He was used to Val never missing a single shot. Of course, the players on the other team were getting cocky, saying they were better than Val. And it eventually resulted in yet another fight, with the players on the ground and Val and the team beating the shit out of them. “Goddamn idiots..” Asher grumbled, grabbing Val and dragging him away, because he’ll be damned if he lets his star player get hurt. “What have I told you about getting into fights?” He scolded, pushing him back down onto the bench.

Yuji Itadori

Hallucinating

Jay

Jay always loved traveling. Going to different countries and continents. He loved seeing the architecture. He’s been to many places. Many continents. And he was going to another one, Europe. Specifically, he was going to London. He always wanted to go to London. All of the old architecture, especially the royal family and their castle. He knew his chances were low to see the actual royal family, but he didn’t mind. He was gonna take pictures of the castle anyway. Stepping out of the taxi, he was met with the sight of the royal castle, many royal guards were around, protecting the castle from people invading it. Jay was immediately grabbing his camera, he was a photographer for gods sake. He looked through the camera, zooming in on the castle, he always found architecture interesting. And besides, the castle was huge. Though, while he was looking like a goddamn idiot, looking through a camera. He heard bells chiming. He looked to the direction of the noises, and to his goddamn surprise, the castle front doors opened. Jays eyes widened in surprise, seeing the goddamn royal family. There were many guards around them, so it was hard to see, but he looked through his camera. But a certain someone caught his eye. The prince. He was a bit younger than Jay. Jay had done some research. Damn, Jay had never seen someone so beautiful.. he looked.. attractive. Very attractive.

Simon Riley

The room felt too bright. Too sterile. It didn’t deserve to hold something as small and soft and perfect as the tiny boy asleep against his chest. Simon sat rigid on the edge of the hospital bed, arms tense though his hands were impossibly gentle. Luca’s weight was barely noticeable, a feather of warmth swaddled in a blanket, but to Simon it felt like the entire world settled right there—beneath his palms, against his heartbeat. His son. His. Tufts of pale blond hair brushed his thumb as he traced slow, mesmerized circles along the newborn’s head. The wide blue eyes that had blinked up at him earlier—blurry, curious—were closed now. No tiny frown. No tremble of confusion. Just calm. Safe. Luca’s chest rose and fell in delicate breaths, trusting him without question. Simon didn’t realize how fiercely he’d been staring until the nurse gently cleared her throat beside him. “We need to take him for feeding and a quick examination,” she explained with that too-practiced softness. The words hit like a punch. His jaw tightened. His arms tightened. Instinct growled low in his chest—no— Before he managed more than a glare dark enough to silence a room, the nurse slipped the baby from his hold with practiced swiftness. Luca gave a little noise at the change, a tiny sound that turned Simon’s blood cold. His hand curled into a fist against his knee. He should let them. He knew that. It was protocol—check his vitals, weigh him, make sure he was healthy… But he’d just gotten him. Just gotten the chance to hold him. After months of anxiety, sleepless nights, and a quiet fear that something might go wrong— They were already taking him away. Simon stood the second they crossed the threshold. He moved like a silent shadow despite the unsteady chaos pumping through him, boots whispering against the tile. The nurse glanced back, startled to see him follow so closely—like a trained guard unwilling to lose sight of what mattered most. Which… wasn’t wrong. He stalked down the corridor behind them, broad frame tense beneath the hospital gown and discarded tactical instincts firing anyway. Every time Luca made the faintest squeak, Simon’s eyes sharpened. They brought the baby into a small room filled with equipment and bright lights, placing him into the bassinet to begin their checks. Simon positioned himself at the nearest wall—close enough to intervene in a heartbeat—arms crossed, gaze locked on his son as if daring anyone to breathe wrong in his direction. No one spoke to him. They could feel the warning in the way he stood: that is my son. But his eyes softened—just barely—each time Luca kicked his tiny feet or blinked those ocean-blue eyes at the world so new it must’ve seemed terrifying. Simon Riley, who’d spent a life surrounded by chaos, violence, and loss… leaned against the wall with the kind of helpless awe that cracked him open from the inside out. He wasn’t Ghost here. He was Dad. And he would never let anything take Luca from him. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he exhaled. “…I’m right here, lad,” he murmured under his breath, voice gravel and warmth. Right here. And not going anywhere.

John Price

John Price sat heavy in his armchair, a glass of scotch in one hand and the other buried in thick, black fur. The fire popped in the hearth, warm light flickering over the hulking creature sprawled across the rug. Apollo took up nearly all of it, massive paws twitching every now and then as though he were chasing something in a dream. Christ, when he’d picked the little thing up, he’d thought he was just saving a stray pup. All big eyes and oversized ears, clumsy as hell. A couple months later and Price realized that wasn’t a pup at all—it was a wolf. A bloody wolf. Didn’t change much, though. Apollo might look like a shadow ripped out of the forest, towering, with teeth sharp enough to tear a man apart, but the daft bastard still acted like that tiny pup he once was. He followed John everywhere—tripping over his own paws in the kitchen, curling up in bed like he thought he was lap-sized, and now, pressing his cold nose against John’s palm until Price gave in and scratched behind his ears. “Y’know you’re supposed to be terrifying, mate,” John muttered, watching the wolf’s tail thump against the rug. “Not beggin’ for belly rubs.” Price chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. He’d seen men freeze at the sight of that wolf—black fur bristling, golden eyes gleaming like fire. But behind closed doors, Apollo was just a needy, oversized pup who refused to accept he wasn’t small enough to climb into John’s lap. The glass clinked softly as Price set it down on the side table, free hand bracing himself as the wolf shifted closer, practically trying to wedge himself between John and the armrest. “Bloody hell,” he grunted, though the warmth in his voice betrayed him. “You’ll crush me one of these days.” But Price didn’t move him. Not even an inch.

Simon Riley

It was early — the kind of early that still held onto the night. The house was quiet except for the faint hum of the kettle cooling and the occasional sleepy coo from the baby in the high chair. Simon leaned against the kitchen counter, one hand wrapped around a mug of his own, the other rubbing absently at the back of his neck. His morning had started before the sun — Lola’s had, too, judging by the shrill wail that had dragged him out of bed. Luca hadn’t even stirred then, just curled deeper into the sheets, one of Simon’s shirts swallowing his frame whole. Now, a few hours later, the chaos had softened into something domestic — almost peaceful. The living room was bathed in the pale gray light filtering through the curtains, and Simon’s gaze caught on Luca, curled up on the couch with his knees drawn close and a cup of tea Simon had made for him. His hair was still a little messy, his lashes long against his cheeks. The shirt hung off one shoulder, exposing a sliver of collarbone and the soft curve of skin there. Simon’s chest tightened a bit at the sight. He was unfair, really — both of them were. The clink of plastic drew his attention back to the table. Lola had finished her milk, slamming the cup down with the same determined flourish her father used whenever he thought he’d made a point. The resemblance was uncanny — from her puffed-out cheeks to that little frown she wore when she wanted attention. She looked up at him now, expectant, clearly waiting for praise or maybe a second round. “Not happenin’, trouble,” Simon muttered under his breath, though there was amusement hiding in his voice. He stepped closer, tugging her bib straight and wiping a faint milk moustache from her lip. She squealed — that dramatic, high-pitched squeak that meant she wanted more, and she wanted it now. Simon just arched a brow beneath the mask of sleep still hanging over him. “You get that from him, you know,” he said softly, tilting his head toward the couch. “Both of you — spoiled rotten.” Lola kicked her legs, as if to protest the accusation, then pointed one chubby finger toward Luca, a triumphant grin forming on her tiny face. “Oh, yeah? Blame your dad, eh?” Simon chuckled, scooping her out of the chair. She fit easily in the crook of his arm, her warm weight settling against his chest. He could feel her tiny hands grabbing at the fabric of his hoodie, the same way she always did when she was tired but refused to admit it. He carried her toward the couch, his steps quiet on the hardwood.

Simon Riley

The morning was quiet—too quiet for Simon’s liking. Usually, Luca’s grumbling was the first thing he heard when he stirred awake, that soft hiss of irritation when Simon’s arm inevitably found its way around his smaller frame during the night. But this morning, Luca was still, curled up beneath the blankets like a lump of warmth and bad attitude. Only the twitch of his black cat ears gave him away, flicking every so often at the faint creak of the floorboards or the soft hum of the heater. Simon lay there for a moment, watching him. The light filtering through the curtains painted the room in a pale gray glow, cool and still. He reached up and brushed his thumb along Luca’s cheekbone, careful not to wake him, not yet. Luca had a way of pretending to still be asleep just to see how long Simon would dare touch him. He always noticed—the smallest brush of fingers, the faintest tug of the blanket—and those sharp green eyes would crack open with that same annoyed squint. Simon found himself smiling. “You pretend to hate it,” he muttered quietly, voice low and rough from sleep, “but you’d claw me if you actually did.” A soft flick of a tail beneath the covers. Ah. So he was awake, just too stubborn to admit it. Simon leaned back against the headboard, tugging the blanket a little higher over Luca’s shoulders. For all his hiss and bite, the lad slept like a cat that’d finally found a patch of sun—curled in tight, trusting despite himself. It had taken months to get him there. Months of patience, of quiet words and careful space. The memory still made Simon’s chest ache a bit. The first time he’d tried to hug him, Luca had nearly drawn blood. Now, the only time Simon felt that tail swish in irritation was when he lingered too long in a cuddle. Or when Luca decided mid-hug that he was “done.” He never said it, of course. He’d just push, glare, maybe mutter something under his breath as his tail thumped the nearest pillow in protest. Simon’s fingers drifted to those black ears, tracing just along the edge before pulling away. “You keep actin’ like you don’t like it,” he murmured, voice dipping to a teasing drawl, “but you melt faster than you think.” Another twitch. And then—quiet. Simon chuckled under his breath, swinging his legs out of bed and stretching, the floor cold under his bare feet. He tugged on a sweatshirt, the one Luca always stole and pretended wasn’t his, and padded toward the kitchen. He’d let Luca wake on his own time.

Yuji Itadori

The dorms were too quiet. The kind of quiet that gnawed at Yuji’s chest and made his hands shake when he tried to tell himself everything was fine. It wasn’t. It hadn’t been for weeks. Megumi Fushiguro had disappeared. At first, Yuji hadn’t panicked. Megumi needed space sometimes — he always had. The guy could barely last an hour at a party before retreating to the shadows with some excuse about the noise or the people or the “idiots” around him. That was just… Megumi. The antisocial, black-haired idiot who rolled his eyes at affection but still melted when Yuji brushed their fingers together under the table. He always came back. He always did. But this time… he didn’t. It had been a week. Then another. Then a month. Gojo had asked about him. Nobara had asked about him. Even Shoko had started to get concerned. Yuji had laughed it off, pretending like he knew something they didn’t — that Megumi was just “doing his brooding thing.” But deep down, the pit in his stomach told him something was off. Something was wrong. He’d knocked on Megumi’s door at least twenty times that week. No answer. Not even a muffled “go away.” Just silence. No movement. No creak of the floorboards. But Yuji knew he was in there. He could hear faint sounds sometimes — a cough, the floor shifting, the soft scrape of metal. The door was locked from the inside. Now, standing outside that same door again, Yuji’s knuckles hovered midair, trembling before he knocked once, twice, then again — harder this time. He could tell Megumi was still inside. Gojo had checked, confirming his cursed energy was still there—low, but steady. That should’ve been comforting, but it wasn’t. Not when Yuji knew exactly what that meant. Megumi wasn’t gone. He was drowning. Yuji exhaled shakily, rubbing the back of his neck. His hoodie smelled faintly of Megumi’s shampoo still—he hadn’t washed it in weeks. Stupid, maybe, but it was the closest thing to his boyfriend he had right now. “C’mon, Gumi,” he muttered under his breath, voice breaking the quiet. “Please just—say something. Yell at me. Tell me to leave. Anything.” His words fell into the silence, and for a moment, he thought he heard something — a shuffle, a faint breath. Hope sparked in his chest. “Megumi, I know you’re in there,” Yuji continued, voice gentler now. “I’m not mad, okay? I just—” His hand curled into a fist against the door. “I just want to see you. I just want to know you’re okay.” The hall smelled faintly like the rain outside, damp and cold. His pink hair was messy, eyes red from too many nights spent staring at this same door, waiting for something that never came. He pressed his ear to the wood, his voice dropping to a whisper that trembled on the edge of breaking. “You haven’t been taking your meds again, huh?” Silence. Yuji exhaled shakily, sliding down until he was sitting with his back to the door, legs sprawled out in the hallway. “You always forget them when I’m not there to shove ‘em in your face.” He tried to laugh, but it sounded hollow. “You’d probably call me annoying right now.” His thumb traced the edge of a photo in his pocket — the one Nobara had taken months ago, the two of them side by side, Megumi trying to look away, Yuji grinning like an idiot. “Just… please, Megumi,” he murmured, his voice small and breaking. “Open the door.” Rain started tapping against the windows, the faint hum of thunder rolling in the distance. Yuji stayed there, waiting — like he always did. Because even if Megumi wanted the world to leave him alone, Yuji wasn’t the world. He was his. And he wasn’t going anywhere.

Simon Riley

Simon Riley had never been good at letting things go. The army taught him discipline, detachment, and how to bury emotions deep enough to survive, but none of that training applied when it came to Luca. His ex-husband’s face haunted him worse than any nightmare, worse than the quiet after gunfire. Every deployment ended with him coming home to an empty bed, a colder flat, and the lingering thought of Luca’s voice—sharp, bratty, always beautiful. And now, somehow, after years of silence and then weeks of stubbornly forcing his way back into Luca’s life, he’d managed to crack the walls between them. Or maybe Luca had just let him in. Either way, Simon wasn’t wasting it. The booth was small, tucked into the corner of a dim bar where the low lights and steady hum of music kept prying eyes away. Simon sat pressed against Luca, the smell of his cologne making his head spin like it always used to. His arm was slung around Luca’s shoulders like it had never left, his mask pulled down so his mouth could find Luca’s again and again—hungry kisses that weren’t the kind a man gave an ex, but the kind that said you were mine once, and you’ll be mine again. The pint glass sat forgotten on the table. Simon’s hand tightened against Luca’s waist, thumb brushing dangerously against the hem of his shirt as if testing boundaries, though he already knew Luca would shove him off only to pull him back in harder. That was their dance. Always had been. For weeks it had been like this—midnight calls, stolen moments, Luca showing up at his place only to mock his cooking before ending up tangled in his sheets, Simon waking up to the sight of him sprawled in his shirt like no time had passed at all. And yet, every time Luca left, Simon’s chest burned like he was losing him all over again.

Yuji Itadori

It had been thirty-four days. Yuji had counted. Every single one. At first, he’d told himself it was fine — it was just Megumi being Megumi. The guy had always been the quiet one, the one who slipped away from crowds and hid behind the excuse of needing “space.” Yuji had learned that was code for “I’m overwhelmed, leave me alone before I bite you.” And he respected that. Usually. But a week passed. Then another. And when Gojo started making jokes about how even he couldn’t find Megumi — and Nobara started glaring at Yuji like it was his fault — something in his chest twisted into a knot that wouldn’t come undone. He knew Megumi was still there. Yuji could feel it. The faint sound of movement behind the dorm door sometimes — a creak of the floorboards, a muffled shuffle, maybe even the low sound of a sigh. But no answering voice, no text, no “go away, idiot.” Just silence. So Yuji camped out in the hallway. Pillow, blanket, snacks, a stubbornness that even Gojo couldn’t outmatch. Every morning, he’d call softly through the door — “Hey, Fushiguro, you alive in there?” — and every night he’d fall asleep on the cold floor, back against the wall across from that locked door, waiting. And today, finally, the lock clicked. Yuji’s head snapped up so fast he nearly dropped the half-eaten rice ball in his hand. The sound was quiet — careful, cautious — like Megumi was trying to make sure no one noticed. But Yuji was already halfway to the door before it even creaked open. When Megumi stepped out, the hallway light caught him in that half-awake haze he always wore like a second skin. His black hair stuck out at odd angles, eyes shadowed and faintly red, like he hadn’t seen sunlight — or maybe happiness — in too long. He looked the same as always, but Yuji knew better. That look wasn’t normal tired. That was numb. Megumi turned, clearly trying to make a run for it, but Yuji didn’t even give him the chance. “Megumi!” The name tore out of him before he even thought about it — and then Yuji launched forward, tackling him before the door could slam shut again. The two of them hit the floor with a dull thud, Yuji’s arms wrapped tight around Megumi’s middle like a lifeline he wasn’t willing to lose again. For a second, neither of them said anything. Yuji just pressed his forehead against Megumi’s shoulder, chest heaving, pulse hammering in his ears. The scent of detergent and cold air clung to Megumi’s shirt — familiar, grounding, real. “You think you can just disappear for a month and not say anything?” Yuji muttered, voice shaking with a mix of relief and frustration. “You scared the hell outta me, y’know that?” He didn’t lift his head right away. Couldn’t. If he did, he knew Megumi would see the exhaustion behind his grin, the worry carved into his features from all those sleepless nights. But he wasn’t letting go. Not yet. Not after a month of empty silence and closed doors.

Simon Riley

Simon had expected the usual: Luca barreling out of the daycare doors with paint smudged on his cheeks, socks halfway off his feet, and some crumpled construction-paper card clutched proudly in his tiny hands. What he didn’t expect was the sight of his three-year-old son disappearing behind a bouquet — an entire forest of bright red and pink flowers, stems wrapped in glittery paper that seemed to rain sparkles with every wobbly step Luca took. The bouquet was damn near larger than Luca himself. All Simon could see at first were little hands gripping the wrapping for dear life and the flash of messy blonde hair bouncing with each determined waddle. He blinked. Once. Twice. There he was. Little rosy cheeks puffed with effort, blue eyes shining like he’d just won a prize bigger than the moon. And trailing behind him — like always — was that boy. The clingy little shadow who Simon had started noticing a long time ago. First holding Luca’s hand, then hugging him every chance he got, looping tiny arms around Luca’s shoulders or his waist until Simon cleared his throat and the kid skittered back like a startled kitten. Kid seemed harmless — a toddler who’d found his favorite person. Simon had written it off as that. But this? Valentine’s Day? A bouquet bigger than his own damn leg? Someone had gone all out. That wasn’t something a three-year-old just decided to do alone. Simon’s jaw tightened as he stepped toward them. His boots sounded heavy against the floor of the pickup area, the noise enough to make teachers flinch as they rushed around wrangling sugar-crazed kids. “Luca,” he called, voice low but warm — because the boy always came first. Protective instincts or not, Luca was his entire world. Luca stopped immediately, nearly tipping sideways under the weight of the flowers. His tiny fingers clenched tighter as he shuffled to correct himself, looking up at his father with pride practically glowing off him. “Got somethin’ there, don’t you?” Simon murmured, crouching down to meet him at eye level. Before he could reach for the bouquet, a soft little huff sounded — that other boy stepping closer, like he was ready to defend the gift with his life if needed. His tiny brow furrowed, arms reaching like he’d escort Luca the rest of the way. Simon put a hand out — not rough, but firm enough the boy halted. “Easy,” he muttered, eyes narrowing just slightly in confusion and suspicion he knew was ridiculous. These were toddlers. Still — instincts didn’t give a damn about logic. He turned his attention back to Luca, brushing glitter from his cheek with a thumb. “Who gave you all this, hm?” he asked gently, though there was something protective simmering beneath the calm tone.

Simon Riley

The air in the gym always smelled faintly of sweat, leather, and chalk — comforting, in a way, like home. The rhythmic thud of gloves against heavy bags echoed through the space, mixed with the occasional bark of a coach’s voice and the squeal of sneakers against the floor. Simon Riley stood near the ring, unwrapping the hand wraps from his knuckles, sweat still dampening his hair and the back of his neck. His day’s sparring session was over, but his real job — being Luca’s dad — never stopped. The sound of giggling pulled Simon’s gaze across the gym. There he was, Luca, sitting cross-legged on the mat like a little king, wearing a pair of tiny, bright red gloves that were two sizes too big. One of the older boxers, Big Mike, was crouched beside him, holding the inflatable punching bag steady while Luca tried — and failed — to punch it. Instead, as always, the boy threw his arms around the bag and hugged it tight, his little cheek squishing against the plastic. Simon couldn’t help the low chuckle that escaped him as he walked over, pulling his gloves off and tossing them onto a bench. “You know,” Simon drawled, crouching down beside his son, “that’s not quite how you’re supposed to do it, mate.” He gently tapped the bag with his knuckle, showing Luca what he meant. “It’s meant to take a hit, not a cuddle.” Luca just grinned up at him, green eyes bright and mischievous. The other boxers around them laughed too — they all adored the kid, rough-and-tumble as they were. Big Mike ruffled Luca’s messy blond hair, earning a small squeal of delight. “Kid’s got a hell of a left hook — when he remembers to actually use it,” Mike joked. Simon shook his head, lips twitching with a smirk. “He’s three, mate. Right now his priority’s hugs, not hooks.” He scooped Luca up effortlessly, setting him on his hip. “Besides, he’s got time. I’m not throwin’ him in the ring just yet.”

John Price

The morning light barely crept through the thin crack in the curtains, casting soft streaks of gold across the rumpled sheets. John Price had been awake for a while now, lying flat on his back with an arm hooked lazily around Luca’s waist, the quiet rhythm of his husband’s breathing grounding him far more than he cared to admit. After months away on deployment, the silence of his own home, the warmth of Luca pressed against him, and the faint scent of his shampoo on the pillow were luxuries John had no intention of giving up—at least not while he was on leave. Truth be told, he hadn’t left Luca’s side since he got back. Every step his younger husband took, John was there, an almost unshakable shadow. He couldn’t help it—he’d spent too long watching him only in photographs or in the glossy spreads of magazines sent overseas. Being married to a model sure was weird. Now, with Luca in the flesh beside him, soft hair mussed from sleep and lips parted just so, John wasn’t about to waste a second. But of course, Luca was Luca—restless, always moving, never still for too long. John felt him stir, the faint shift of his weight, a subtle pull forward like he was trying to slip out from under John’s arm. The captain cracked one eye open, his gaze narrowing. “Where d’you think you’re goin’, love?” he murmured, voice low, still rough with sleep. Before Luca could wriggle free, John’s arm tightened, dragging him back against the solid weight of his chest. The sheets rustled, their limbs tangling again, John burying his stubbled jaw against the back of Luca’s neck. He let out a quiet huff, half laugh, half warning. “Not happenin’. Not today.” His hand splayed over Luca’s hip, thumb rubbing slow, idle circles as if to soothe the protest he knew was coming. “I’ve had to put up with months of you bein’ half a world away, pet. You’re stayin’ right here until I say otherwise.”

Simon Riley

The house had been silent for hours — that peculiar kind of silence that felt heavy, alive somehow. Simon Riley sat on the edge of the sofa, elbows braced on his knees, the fabric of his black hoodie bunched under his forearms. The television played quietly in the background, some news anchor droning on about something he wasn’t listening to. He wasn’t really listening to much these days. It had been almost a year since Luca. A year since the day Simon had walked into their shared flat and found the world torn out from under him. He could still remember every detail of that morning with perfect clarity — the way Luca had kissed him goodbye at the door, grinning, all cheek and soft hair falling into his eyes. The way he had waved, bratty as ever, teasing Simon about being late. And then… nothing. Just a too-quiet apartment hours later, and a folded piece of paper on the kitchen table with his name scrawled across it in Luca’s handwriting. He’d read that note so many times now the creases were soft, the ink starting to smudge. He had memorized every word. It’s not your fault. It never was. I just can’t keep breathing in this world anymore, Simon. But I love you, I always will. I’ll still be here. Promise. At first, Simon thought grief was making him see things. Feel things. He’d wake up with the blankets tossed halfway across the room when he was sure he had folded them neatly before bed. Lights flickering without explanation. Little things going missing — a mug Luca loved, one of Simon’s balaclavas — only to turn up in strange places a day later. And then came the touches. Barely-there brushes over the back of his neck, pressure on his arm when no one was around. It had been the medium who finally confirmed he wasn’t losing it. Simon hadn’t believed in ghosts before, but when the old woman looked at him with wide eyes and told him there was a very friendly spirit following him everywhere he went, he’d felt something inside him loosen. For the first time in months, the weight of the world on his chest lightened. Tonight was no different. The flat was spotless — Simon kept it that way out of habit, the way soldiers kept their weapons clean — but even now, as he sat there, a sound caught his ear. The faintest shuffle. He turned his head toward the hallway and saw it — the blanket he had just folded half an hour ago lying in a heap on the floor. Simon’s lips twitched into the smallest of smiles beneath his mask. “Alright, sunshine,” he murmured, voice low and quiet, the nickname sounding strange in the empty room. “I see you.” Another sound, this time the faint thump of something falling from the counter in the kitchen. He didn’t even flinch — just stood, padded across the room, and found Luca’s favorite mug on the floor. Not broken, just tipped over. Simon crouched, picking it up carefully and setting it back on the counter. “You really gonna keep messin’ with me, eh?” he said softly, like he expected an answer. The air around him felt warmer. Not stifling, just comforting — the way it used to feel when Luca would crawl into his lap on lazy Sundays and drape himself over Simon like a cat. He leaned back against the counter, crossed his arms, and for a brief moment, he swore he heard it. That quiet, bratty little laugh Luca used to make when he was trying not to grin too wide. And just like that, the hollow ache in Simon’s chest didn’t hurt quite so bad.

Simon Riley

The prison at night was a beast with its teeth pulled—restless but subdued, the noise of the day finally drowned out in the hum of ventilation and the scrape of his boots on concrete. Simon had done this job long enough to stop caring about most of the faces behind the bars. But not his. Messy blonde hair that never seemed to sit right, pale blue eyes that shone too damn bright in a place meant to grind men down. Luca. Too young to be here, too sharp for his own good, and far too tempting for Simon to keep his distance. He leaned against the bars now, shadow falling across the cot where Luca lounged like he owned the space. Simon’s presence alone was usually enough to scare off the others—any inmate dumb enough to even think about getting close to the boy didn’t last long under his stare. He’d made sure of that. No one laid a hand on Luca. Not while Simon was breathing. “Quiet night,” Simon muttered, voice low, roughened from hours of silence. His eyes swept the block once—habit, instinct—then settled right back on Luca. He lingered too long. He always lingered too long. He told himself it was just to keep him safe, but that was a lie Simon stopped believing weeks ago. He remembered every time he’d given in before—the stolen moments in the dark utility closet, Luca’s mouth on his, the way their restraint burned away faster each time. Hell, they’d risked worse, right here in this very cell. He should’ve put an end to it. Should’ve walked away. But every time he saw that careless little smirk, every time those blue eyes cut toward him, Simon was done for. The keys at his hip rattled softly as he shifted, drawing them loose. He shouldn’t. God help him, he shouldn’t. And yet—he slid one into the lock, the click too loud in the suffocating quiet. He didn’t open it all the way. Just enough. His gloved hand gripped the bars, his face unreadable in the shadow, but his eyes—his eyes gave him away. Steady, burning, fixed on Luca. A silent message he’d sent before. Then his chin tipped, just barely, toward the end of the block—the same closet they’d slipped into more times than he dared admit. An unspoken order. A risk. An invitation. Simon didn’t breathe, didn’t move. Just waited.

Simon Riley

The hum of the fluorescent lights was the same as every other night shift. Cold, sterile, never changing. Simon leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming against the security desk as he stared at the monitors cycling through the endless gray cells and restless men. Most nights blurred together—fights over cards, shouting through the bars, the occasional smug bastard trying to push his luck. But none of that held his attention. His eyes flicked up when the camera feed rolled past a familiar cell. There he was. Luca. Messy blonde hair falling into his eyes, sitting cross-legged on the cot like the walls weren’t closing in around him. Too damn young to be in a place like this. Too pretty for it, too. That was the dangerous part—Simon had seen what the others looked at, the way they stared when Luca walked into the yard. He didn’t tolerate it. A single glare from him, a heavy hand on a shoulder, and most of the bastards got the message fast. Nobody touched him. Nobody so much as breathed the wrong way around him. Not unless they wanted broken teeth. Simon pushed up from the desk, grabbing the keys that swung heavy on his belt. His boots echoed down the corridor, every inmate going silent when they caught sight of the skull-print mask shadowing his face. He didn’t care about them. He only stopped when he reached the familiar cell, leaning one arm against the bars. “Lights out,” he said low, voice gravelled. His tone didn’t leave room for argument, but his eyes lingered on Luca longer than they should have. Longer than any guard’s ever would. The hallway was quiet. Too quiet. Which made it far too easy for Simon to slide the keys into the lock and ease the door open just far enough for him to step inside. He shut it behind him, the heavy click of the lock sealing them in. In here, it wasn’t about rules. It wasn’t about authority. It was about the way Luca looked up at him like he’d been waiting all night. The way Simon’s chest burned with something he didn’t want to put a name to. He tugged the mask down just enough, eyes fixed on him. “Miss me?” Simon asked, his voice barely above a whisper as he crowded closer, heat and tension thrumming through the tiny space.

Simon Riley

Simon had been driving long enough for the static hum of the road to turn into background noise—just another dull afternoon, just another stretch of nothing. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, eyes half-lidded beneath the mask, making a mental note to grab coffee before he actually fell asleep at the wheel. Then he saw it. A motorcycle. Sitting dead center in the lane like it had politely decided it was done with life and stopped there. Cars rolled lazily around it, no urgency, no concern—just the casual indifference of strangers. As if this was perfectly normal. As if expensive bikes routinely materialized in the middle of the damn road. Simon slowed, jaw tightening. No rider. He pulled over, boots hitting the asphalt with a heavy thud as he approached the abandoned thing. Clean enough to be new. Pricey enough to make his brows lift. And then, on the ground just a few feet off, he spotted the helmet. A fluffy one. With bunny ears. He stared at it. Then he let out the quietest exhale—a sound that might’ve been a laugh if he weren’t so baffled. “Bloody hell… idiot must’ve a death wish,” he muttered. But the helmet didn’t explain the missing rider. It didn’t explain why the bike was here, why no one had stopped, why the hairs on the back of Simon’s neck suddenly stood up like something was wrong. He scanned the area. Grass on the roadside was bent in a long drag, the kind you’d see if someone had hit the ground hard—then kept going. Simon followed it, steps slow, deliberate, senses sharpening. And then he found him. Sprawled in the grass like a discarded doll, one arm crooked beneath his body, the other scraped raw. Blood streaked across his cheek, fresh and bright. Jeans were torn to hell, threads dangling, dirt ground into them. His chest rose and fell unevenly, shallow breaths that made Simon’s stomach twist with something tight and unfamiliar. But it wasn’t the injuries that stopped him in place. It was his face. Ethereal. Delicate in a way that shouldn’t have existed after an impact like this. Like someone had carved him carefully, intentionally, leaving not a single flaw except the blood marring one cheek. Soft features slack with unconsciousness, lashes resting against skin that looked far too gentle for this world. Simon felt something drop in his chest. A quiet, sharp thud. There was no universe in which this boy crashed a mile away from his bike on his own. Someone hit him. Dragged him maybe. Something intentional, malicious. And whoever did it wasn’t here anymore. Simon crouched beside him, gloved hand hovering over the boy’s shoulder before settling gently against it. “Kid…?” His voice was lower than he meant it to be, rough with something protective. Something dangerous. He wasn’t leaving until he knew this boy was alive, safe— and until he found whoever did this. And judging from the trembling breath the boy gave, soft and pained… Simon also wasn’t leaving without that damn phone number.

Simon Riley

The night was cool, crisp, and smelled faintly of rain — the kind that hadn’t fallen yet but lingered in the air like a promise. Simon Riley walked slowly down the quiet street, his gloved hand holding tightly onto the much smaller one swinging beside him. Little Luca toddled along at his side, the hood of his green dinosaur onesie bobbing with every determined step, the soft tail dragging lightly against the pavement. The oversized claws on his feet scuffed against fallen leaves, and every now and then, the boy let out a delighted, “Rawr!” that made Simon’s chest shake with a low, amused huff. “Easy, lad,” Simon murmured, voice low and gruff beneath the fabric of his half-mask. “You’ll scare the ghosts off before we get any sweets.” He hadn’t meant to sound fond, but he did — couldn’t help it, really. The way Luca’s messy blond hair poked out from under the dino hood, the way his rosy cheeks glowed from the chill, and those big blue eyes lit up like fireworks every time he spotted a pumpkin on someone’s porch. Simon had faced battlefields that rattled his bones, but nothing in the world disarmed him like that look of pure wonder from his boy. They weren’t doing the usual neighborhood route — no strangers, no risks. He’d planned the night carefully, driving out to the homes of a few trusted mates. Price’s place was first on the list, then Gaz’s, and maybe Soap if the lad wasn’t halfway across the city on some mad Halloween stunt. Simon didn’t trust anyone else with Luca — didn’t trust people to have patience for a curious three-year-old who thought knocking on doors was the greatest adventure known to man. “Alright, little dino,” Simon said, pausing at the gate in front of Price’s house, where carved pumpkins flickered with steady, orange light. He crouched down, tugging gently at the zipper of Luca’s costume to straighten it, making sure his son’s candy bucket was gripped tight in his tiny hand. “Remember what you say when the door opens, yeah? Not ‘rawr.’” Luca blinked up at him, mouth forming a silent o, and Simon could see the thought process working its way through that little head. It made him smile under the skull-patterned fabric. “‘Trick or treat,’” he prompted softly, his voice gentler now. “Then you say thank you after, yeah?” The boy nodded — maybe too enthusiastically — and Simon gave the top of his hooded head a light pat, straightening back up. The house glowed warm and inviting against the cool dark street, and as Simon watched Luca march determinedly up the path in his wobbly dino steps, the man couldn’t help but think this — this small, ordinary night — was the safest kind of mission he’d ever been on. He stayed close behind, a silent shadow as always, ready to step in if anything went wrong.

Simon Riley

Paris Fashion Week. The words alone were enough to make Simon Riley’s head hurt. The blinding flashes, the echo of heels on the runway, the constant chatter in thick accents he only half-understood—it was chaos wrapped in perfume and silk. He wasn’t built for this world. The only camouflage he knew was mud, blood, and shadow… not tailored suits and flashing cameras. Still, orders were orders. A credible threat had been issued—something about a potential attack targeting one of the major events. Task Force 141 had been pulled into civilian territory, their presence disguised under the guise of additional private security. Simon didn’t even bother asking why him, specifically. Laswell had said something about needing someone “who could blend in.” He snorted at the memory. Yeah, right. The man was six foot four and built like he could fold a door in half. Blend in? Not a chance. He stood near the back of the venue, mask hidden behind a plain black tactical face covering—not his usual skull-patterned one, though he’d have preferred it. His comms buzzed faintly as Price’s voice came through, calm but alert. “Riley, anything?” Simon’s dark eyes scanned the crowd—security guards in black suits, journalists leaning over barriers, models striding with impossible confidence. “Negative,” he muttered under his breath, the low rumble of his accent nearly drowned by the music thundering through the speakers. “Just a lot of noise.” Noise… and then him. The spotlight shifted, and Simon’s entire body went still. It shouldn’t have been so immediate, that pull. But it was. There he was—Luca. His Luca. Dressed in white that shimmered faintly under the lights, the fabric clinging and flowing in perfect balance. His blonde hair was a soft, artful mess, catching the glow every time he moved. And those blue eyes—sharp yet calm, delicate yet fierce—focused straight ahead as he walked with that quiet grace that made everything else fade out. Simon had seen warzones look less intense than this. It was stupid how proud he felt, really. Proud, and completely wrecked by how unreal he looked. Ethereal. Untouchable. The cameras went mad the second Luca stepped out, shutters clicking like gunfire. He wasn’t even the final walk, yet everyone’s attention was locked on him. Photographers were yelling his name, calling for him to look their way. The crowd leaned forward, breath held, and Simon found himself doing the same before catching it and scoffing under his breath. Christ, get a grip, Riley. The mission. Focus on the bloody mission. But when the show ended and the models drifted off the runway, Simon’s attention betrayed him again. Luca was off to the side, surrounded by assistants fixing his outfit, stylists chattering, someone offering him water. The whole scene looked soft around the edges—a beautiful kind of chaos centered around one boy who didn’t even seem fazed. Calm, quiet, always that gentle focus he carried everywhere. Simon told himself it was idiotic. There were still threats to monitor, exits to secure, civilians to keep safe. And yet—his boots moved before his mind did. One step, then another. Past the other security personnel, through the noise, until he was closer than he had any right to be. He shouldn’t be doing this. But bloody hell, he wanted to see him. Properly. And so he stood there a few feet away, towering over the assistants who were still fussing over Luca’s sleeves, his presence cutting through the delicate perfume-filled air like a blade. His gloved hands flexed once at his sides before he cleared his throat, voice low but steady. “Didn’t think I’d see you in the middle of my mission,” Simon muttered, his tone dry but laced with something softer—something only Luca ever pulled out of him. His eyes softened a fraction as he watched the model turn toward him. “You look…” He paused, searching for words that didn’t sound completely daft. “…bloody angelic, love.” The noise of the room faded for him, just for that heartbeat—him, the chaos, and the quiet between them.

Simon Riley

Simon had forgotten how bloody loud his mates could be when they were excited. Even from the parking lot outside the café, he could hear the muffled boom of Soap’s laugh through the windows — a sound that made the toddler perched on Simon’s hip blink up at him with those huge blue eyes, as if wondering who dared disturb the quiet morning he’d been enjoying chewing on the sleeve of Simon’s hoodie. “Yeah, yeah,” Simon muttered, brushing the messy blond strands off Luca’s forehead. “I know. Uncle Johnny’s a menace. You’ll get used to it.” Luca simply stared at him, lips forming a tiny “o” around the fabric, like he was deeply considering this grim prophecy. Simon huffed a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. Kid didn’t know it, but he had every one of Simon’s nerves wound around those tiny fingers of his. Three years old and already dangerous. He shifted Luca higher on his arm, the toddler settling into the familiar space between shoulder and chest. A warm weight, a steadying one. Luca patted his cheek once — not affectionate, not purposeful, just the usual testing taps he did when trying to understand why Simon didn’t make the same sounds as his toys did when he smacked them. Inside, his mates were probably pacing like idiots, acting like they hadn’t seen the kid in years instead of… what, two weeks? But apparently that was too long for them. Soap had left him twelve messages. Gaz had sent pictures of the booth they’d claimed with the caption: his high chair is ready. Price had only sent a thumbs-up emoji, but Simon suspected that was the biggest show of enthusiasm the man was capable of. “Look alive, Luca,” Simon murmured as he pushed the door open with his shoulder. “They’re gonna swarm.” They did. The moment the bell chimed, three pairs of eyes snapped toward the entrance — and every one of those hard-trained soldiers instantly softened in a way that would’ve gotten them reprimanded on any battlefield. “THERE HE IS!” Soap’s voice boomed from across the café, loud enough that even Luca flinched, clutching tighter to Simon’s shirt. Simon shot Soap a look sharp enough to cut steel. “Indoor voice. You’ll scare ’im.” Soap held both hands up in surrender, but he was grinning like an idiot as he slid out of the booth. Gaz was right behind him, already reaching out his arms, and Price stayed seated but lifted his cup in greeting — the closest thing he did to a full wave. Luca’s big blue eyes bounced between the faces rushing toward him, brows furrowed like he was preparing a personal file on each individual threat. “He looks bigger,” Gaz said, eyes bright. “How do they grow this fast?” “He doesn’t,” Simon deadpanned. “You lot just forget what size he is every time.” Soap leaned in first, wiggling his fingers in front of Luca’s face. Luca stared at his hand like it was a suspicious artifact stolen from a tomb. Then, slowly, he lifted one chubby hand… and gently patted Soap’s wiggling fingers. Testing them. Evaluating. Soap looked like he’d just been handed a medal. “Simon,” Price called from the booth, voice low — but his eyes were warm. “Sit. Before your friends tear the boy apart trying to coo at him.” Simon snorted, shifting Luca to his other hip as he approached. The toddler pressed his cheek into Simon’s collarbone, that sleepy, trusting weight that never failed to melt something deep in him. He slid into the booth, settling Luca on his lap. The kid’s tiny hands went straight to exploring the table — tapping, patting, almost knocking over the menu twice before Simon caught it. Soap sat across from him, chin propped on his hands, staring at Luca with unhinged adoration. “Lad,” he whispered dramatically, “say my name. Go on. Johnny. Easy. Jus’ two syllables.”

Simon Riley

Simon hadn’t meant to stay this long. He’d told himself he’d just drop by, make sure Luca was still keeping his mouth shut about last week’s operation, maybe slip a few questions about his father’s latest shipments into the conversation. Quick in, quick out — standard procedure. But now it was late, far too late, and Simon found himself sitting on the edge of Luca’s ridiculously soft bed, gloved hands braced against his knees as he stared down at the boy stretched out in front of him. Luca didn’t belong here. Not in this filthy world of guns, blood, and deals gone bad. He looked out of place even now, lounging back against the headboard with his messy blonde hair falling into those sharp green eyes, eyeliner smudged like he’d just come back from a photoshoot instead of slipping past his father’s guards to meet Simon. Simon reached out before he could stop himself, pushing Luca’s hair back with the same quiet exasperation he always did, his fingers lingering a moment too long against the warm skin of Luca’s temple. “Y’know,” Simon muttered, voice low under the mask, “I should be halfway through your father’s office by now. I came here for intel.” But he didn’t move. Didn’t even try. Luca just smirked at him, lazy and bratty, as if he knew exactly why Simon hadn’t left yet. The bastard probably did. Somewhere along the way, their stupid little trade deal had changed. It wasn’t candy or crumpled bills anymore, wasn’t some half-hearted bribe to keep Luca quiet — it was this. The quiet, stolen moments in his room. The way Luca always sat too close, always looked at him like he was daring Simon to do something about it. And Simon always did. “Christ…” Simon muttered, dragging a hand down his face. He leaned forward before he could talk himself out of it, one knee pressing into the mattress as he crowded closer to Luca. “You’re gonna get me killed, y’know that?” But his voice was softer now, almost teasing, almost fond. He wasn’t thinking about the intel anymore. Not the job, not the danger. Just the way Luca’s eyeliner smudged even more when Simon kissed him, the way those green eyes darkened when he got close. Simon’s gloved hand slid to Luca’s jaw, tilting his head just enough so he could look at him properly, close enough to feel his breath through the mask. All the mission discipline he prided himself on was gone, scattered, useless.

Simon Riley

Simon Riley had survived warzones, interrogations, and retirement itself—but apparently, fleas were where the universe decided to humble him. The house was quiet in that late-evening way, lights low, rain tapping faintly against the windows. His badge and radio sat abandoned on the kitchen counter, duty stripped away the moment he stepped through the door. At work, Riley was all sharp focus and discipline—heel perfect, alert eyes, teeth bared only on command. A proper K-9. A damn good one. At home… not so much. Riley sprawled across the living room rug like he paid rent, back legs kicked out, tail thumping lazily against the floor as he twisted around to gnaw at himself. Again. Simon had noticed it earlier—paws chewed at, tail bitten, that restless scratching that hadn’t been there yesterday. At first, he’d brushed it off. Dogs itched. People did too. But this was different. Persistent. Annoying enough that even Riley’s usual puppyish chaos had taken on an edge. Simon stood there now, phone in hand, scrolling with a scowl. Why is my dog itching so much? The internet, unhelpful and smug, had answered immediately. Fleas. “Bloody hell,” Simon muttered, like the word itself offended him. Ten minutes later, his kitchen table looked like a pet supply store had exploded—flea combs, treatment bottles, wipes, gloves. He crouched beside Riley with the same grim focus he’d once reserved for explosives, one hand steadying the dog while the other dragged the comb carefully through thick black-and-tan fur. There it was. Tiny. Unmistakable. Simon exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw tightening. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Simon Riley

The day had started out simple enough — or at least, that had been the plan. A quick trip to the outlet mall, in and out, pick up a few things, maybe grab lunch if his son behaved. Simon Riley had survived firefights and covert ops, but navigating a crowded street with a three-year-old? That was an entirely different kind of battle. The air was crisp, cool with the faint bite of autumn. Rows of stores stretched on either side of the cobblestone path, the hum of chatter and the rhythmic shuffle of shoes blending into the background. Simon’s heavy boots made slow, deliberate steps as he maneuvered his way down the walkway, one large, gloved hand holding tightly onto the much smaller one beside him. The little hand wriggled occasionally — Luca’s — soft, warm, impossibly tiny against his palm. Luca was a sight, the kind that made strangers smile without realizing it. His messy blonde hair caught the sunlight, sticking up in every direction like he’d just rolled out of bed. His big blue eyes darted around curiously, taking in everything — the storefront displays, the sound of seagulls overhead, the glittering fountain in the distance. His cheeks were flushed pink from the chill, making him look even more like something out of a picture book. “C’mon, mate,” Simon murmured, voice low and rough under the soft mask of his accent, tugging gently as Luca slowed for the third time in two minutes. The boy had stopped in front of a shop window, pressed tiny hands against the glass, nose squished flat as he stared at a rotating rack of plush toys. Simon exhaled, long-suffering but fond. “We’re not here for toys, bug,” he said, crouching beside him. “Just need to grab a few things, yeah? Then maybe we’ll get somethin’ to eat.” Luca looked up at him then, face framed by sunlight, lashes too long for his own good. There was always that look — the one that made Simon’s chest tighten, a mixture of innocence and wonder that he still couldn’t quite believe was his to protect. It was funny, really. He’d spent a lifetime surrounded by men who could take a bullet without blinking, but one look from this tiny kid and he was undone. Simon rose to his full height, adjusting the strap of the duffel bag slung across his shoulder. “Right. This way,” he muttered, though his tone softened when Luca took his finger again, gripping it tightly. The two of them moved at a slow pace, weaving through shoppers, Simon’s gaze constantly flicking around — habit, instinct — while Luca hummed a tuneless little melody beside him, hopping over the cracks in the pavement like it was the most important mission in the world. Every so often, someone would stop them. An older woman at the bench smiled warmly. “He’s adorable,” she said. “Looks just like you.” Simon only grunted, a faint nod in acknowledgment, but his hand tightened protectively around Luca’s. Compliments like that always hit him somewhere deep, in a place he didn’t know what to do with.

Simon Riley

Simon wasn’t sure what the hell he’d been thinking, agreeing to bring Luca to base. The squad had been pestering him for weeks—Soap with his endless grin, Gaz with those pleading looks, even Price with that half-smirk that told Simon resistance was useless. “Just for a bit, Lt.,” they’d said. “We wanna meet the lad.” And now here he was. The morning air was sharp, carrying that sterile mix of metal and oil that always lingered around the compound. Simon’s boots were steady on the concrete as he made his way toward the hangar, the soft sound of baby coos muffled against his chest. Luca was bundled snugly against him in a black carrier, a tiny tuft of messy blond hair peeking out from under his little knit hat. The kid’s head rested right over Simon’s heart, every slow rise and fall of his chest rocking the baby into quiet contentment. Simon glanced down at him now and then, his usual sternness melting away into something softer. There was a smear of drool on Luca’s chin, his fist half-curled around the edge of Simon’s tac vest. “You makin’ me look soft, mate,” Simon muttered quietly, voice low and rough, though there was no real bite to it. When he reached the door, he could already hear them—Soap’s loud laugh echoing through the open space, the metallic clank of gear being sorted, Price’s calm tone cutting through it. Simon adjusted the strap across his shoulder and stepped inside. Three heads turned immediately. “Bloody hell—look at him!” Soap was the first to break the silence, nearly tripping over a crate as he hurried over. His grin was wide, eyes bright as he leaned in to get a look at the tiny human clinging to their lieutenant’s chest. “Ain’t he just a wee angel?” “Careful,” Simon grunted, instinctively shifting a bit, his hand protective over Luca’s back. He didn’t trust Soap’s definition of ‘gentle.’ Price gave a low chuckle from his corner, cigar already between his fingers. “Didn’t think I’d ever see the day, Ghost. You, domestic.” Gaz stood beside him, shaking his head but smiling. “He’s got your eyes, Lt. Poor kid’s doomed.” Simon only sighed through his nose, but the corner of his mouth twitched under the mask. He took a few steps farther in, making sure Luca stayed steady in his carrier as the boy stirred a little from the voices. “Oi, keep it down. He’s sleepin’,” he muttered. That quieted them instantly. Soap’s grin softened as he crouched a bit to peek at the baby, whispering like he was in a bloody library. “Six months, aye? He’s perfect. Look at those cheeks—” “Touch him and you lose a finger,” Simon said evenly, but there was warmth there, a trace of humor only those close to him would catch. The hangar felt different now—lighter somehow. The squad, hardened and sharp-edged as they were, seemed to melt under the tiny, sleepy weight of the baby boy. And for once, Simon didn’t mind being seen like this. Not as Ghost, not as the lieutenant—but as a father. He looked down at Luca again, one gloved finger brushing at a stray lock of blond hair from the baby’s forehead. “Say hi to the idiots, kiddo,” he murmured softly.

Simon Riley

Simon had prepared himself for many things in his life — firefights, ambushes, the occasional idiotic stunt Luca pulled on a Tuesday morning — but parenthood? That one he’d only braced for in theory. And when Luca, all sunshine-eyed and casual, had said I want you to meet my daughter, Simon had felt a rare, quiet punch of nerves under his ribs. A daughter meant responsibility. A child. A small human who might cry or scream or look at him with those wide, judgmental toddler eyes that always saw a monster. So of course he’d shown up to Luca’s place ten minutes early, shoulders tight, palms dry but cold, running through every possible scenario of how not to terrify a kid. He even left his mask in the truck. Tried to soften his voice. Practiced something close to a smile in the rearview mirror — it hadn’t gone well. And then the door opened. And then the “daughter” barreled toward him. Not a child. Not even remotely human. A massive German shepherd — thick-coated, bright-eyed, the size of a three-year-old child and confident enough to take the whole hallway for herself — trotted out, tail wagging with the kind of enthusiasm that should’ve belonged to something half her size. She wore a pink bow on her collar. Pink. Luca’s influence was immediately, painfully clear. Simon froze. The dog — Lola, apparently — stopped in front of him and stared up with an expression that could only be described as smug. As if she was assessing him. Her ears perked, head tilted, tail thumping against Luca’s entryway like a slow, deliberate warning. Simon blinked once. Twice. “…You’re takin’ the piss,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else. He’d been ready for a child. A kid. Something with pigtails or sticky hands or the potential to burst into tears the moment he looked at it. Instead he was meeting a dog the size of a small bear cub, with a pink bow and the audacity to regard him like he might not be worthy of Luca. Lola stepped forward and sniffed his boots. Then his knee. Then she sat. Right on his foot. Heavy, warm, solid — claiming him without permission. The weight pinned him in place, and Simon let out a slow breath, staring down at the creature currently annexing his leg like territory.

Yuji Itadori

The morning sun spilled lazily through the dorm windows, painting stripes of gold across Yuji Itadori’s face. He blinked sleep from his eyes, yawning wide enough to make his jaw pop, and turned his head to the side — only to see a familiar mop of dark hair buried half under the pillow beside him. For a second, Yuji just stared, a sleepy smile spreading across his face. Megumi always looked so peaceful in the mornings, before the world woke up enough to bother him. There was something unfair about it — how someone could look that calm and beautiful without even trying. Yuji shifted closer, careful not to wake him yet, his fingers brushing lightly through Megumi’s messy hair. It was soft. Softer than anyone would expect from someone so perpetually irritated. “You look cute when you’re asleep,” Yuji whispered under his breath, grinning a little. He could practically hear Megumi’s voice in his head — “Don’t say weird stuff like that, idiot.” But Yuji couldn’t help himself. Being subtle just wasn’t in his DNA. Dating Megumi had been… different. Not in a bad way, but in the kind of way that made Yuji’s chest ache in the best possible sense. Megumi wasn’t the type to hold hands in public or make heart eyes in front of everyone — but Yuji made up for that enough for both of them. He wanted people to know. Wanted them to see that the quiet, brooding sorcerer was his boyfriend. And even if Megumi scolded him every time he said something too loud or kissed his cheek in front of Nobara, Yuji could always see it — the faintest tint of red creeping up Megumi’s ears, the way his lips twitched like he was fighting a smile. He leaned on one elbow, watching Megumi breathe slowly, steady and calm, before finally deciding to poke at the inevitable. “Megumi,” he said softly, dragging out the last syllable in a sing-song tone. “Wake up. You’re gonna miss breakfast, and then you’ll get all cranky again.” He chuckled quietly, resting his chin in his hand as he stared down at him. “C’mon, I even got up early to go grab those little melon breads you like. You can’t just sleep through that, right?” The words were teasing, light and warm — but the way Yuji looked at him wasn’t. His gaze softened, eyes full of that unshakable affection he never tried to hide. No matter how many times Megumi rolled his eyes, Yuji would keep saying it in every way he could. He loved him. He reached out again, tracing his thumb gently over Megumi’s cheek.

Simon Riley

The drive to base was quieter than usual — well, quieter if you didn’t count the soft hum of a child in the backseat, stringing together some tuneless little song that had no words and no rhythm, just the easy, innocent sound of a three-year-old content with the world. Simon’s gloved fingers flexed on the steering wheel as he glanced at the rearview mirror. Luca sat back there in his oversized car seat, blonde hair sticking up every which way, a stuffed bear tucked protectively under one arm. His cheeks were flushed pink from the morning chill, his blue eyes bright as he watched the world blur past through the window. Simon couldn’t help but feel that strange twist in his chest — affection, worry, maybe even guilt — a familiar cocktail that came every time he looked at the boy. He didn’t like to think too long about how close Luca had come to slipping through the cracks. His parents hadn’t cared. Not when Luca cried at night, not when the fridge was empty, not when the electricity shut off. Simon had come home one night — after deployment, still half wired from the field — and found his mother drunk on the couch, his father out God knows where, and that tiny baby in a crib that stank of neglect. He didn’t even think about it. Just packed the kid’s things, what few he had, and left. And now here they were. Three years later. Luca happy and healthy, too damn cute for his own good — and Simon completely, utterly terrified of introducing him to the team. They’d insisted. “You’ve been keeping him a bloody secret, Riley,” Soap had said with that grin of his. “We deserve to meet the little lad!” Gaz had agreed, Price had nodded, and that was that. Simon had muttered something about regretting it already, but there wasn’t much he could do. Luca was part of his life now — the best part, even if he’d never say it out loud. The base came into view ahead, gray buildings cutting against the pale sky. Simon’s jaw tensed as he turned onto the access road. He could already imagine it — Soap probably waiting by the gate, practically vibrating with excitement, Gaz standing there with that easy grin, Price looking like he’s pretending not to be curious. They were his brothers-in-arms, sure, but Simon wasn’t used to letting them this far into his personal life. He didn’t do personal. He parked the truck near the main building and killed the engine. Silence fell, save for the ticking of cooling metal and the faint sound of Luca humming to himself again. Simon turned in his seat, resting an arm over the backrest. “Alright, little man,” he said quietly, his voice a deep rumble softened by something close to fondness. “We’re here. Gonna meet some of my mates today, yeah?” Luca blinked up at him, then gave one of those wide, toothy smiles that always managed to disarm him completely. Christ. The kid didn’t have a clue how dangerous the world was. How much Simon had to fight, every damn day, to keep it from touching him. He reached back to unbuckle the straps, careful and slow, scooping the small boy into his arms. Luca immediately nestled against his shoulder, tiny hands gripping the fabric of Simon’s jacket, his warmth soaking right through. The smell of baby shampoo lingered faintly in his hair — some cheap bottle Simon had grabbed at the store — and somehow it made everything else fade into the background for a moment. Simon sighed, shifting Luca’s weight in his arms as he stepped out of the truck. The morning air bit against his skin, sharp and cold, but he didn’t flinch. He’d faced worse. The gates loomed ahead, and sure enough — three familiar figures were waiting. Soap was the first to spot him, elbowing Gaz with a grin so wide it could split his face. Price stood with his arms crossed, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. Simon stopped a few paces away, his mask still in place, eyes narrowing just a fraction. He could feel Luca’s little head turning, curious about the strangers staring at him. “This is ridiculous,” Simon muttered under his breath, but his tone wasn’t quite as sharp as it could’ve been. He adju

Simon Riley

Simon Riley had always been a light sleeper, but mornings like this made the habit feel less like training and more like instinct — the instinct to check on him. Luca lay curled on the far side of the bed, half-buried under Simon’s own blanket, hair a soft, chaotic golden mess spilling over the pillow. It never looked brushed. It never looked purposeful. And somehow it always looked perfect. His chest rose and fell in slow, heavy breaths, that deep, cat-like sleep he tended to fall into after a night that wasn’t exactly restful. Simon sat at the edge of the mattress, elbows on his knees, watching him for a moment longer than he probably should’ve. There were tells — subtle ones — in Luca’s sleeping face. The faint crease between his brows. The exhaustion that didn’t match the hour. The slight tremor in his fingers even now, twitching against the sheets. Simon didn’t need a medical degree to know what it meant: yesterday had been a rougher day than Luca let on. And more importantly… the pill bottle on the nightstand hadn’t been touched. He noticed the moment the second he woke up, the orange plastic sitting there like an accusation. Still full. Still ignored. He didn’t know whether Luca had forgotten, or decided again that he didn’t need them, didn’t want them, didn’t feel like dealing with the side effects or the fog or whatever reason he convinced himself of this time. But Simon knew what came next if he didn’t keep an eye out — the swings, the agitation, the episodes that blindsided the both of them. He dragged a hand down his face and exhaled through his nose, steady and controlled. Christ. He loved this idiot more than anything in the goddamn world, but he was also one of the most exhausting people Simon had ever known. Beautiful, brilliant in ways he never gave himself credit for, soft in a way that made Simon feel like he had to stand guard every second… and reckless. So goddamn reckless with his own wellbeing. Simon reached out, brushing a thumb lightly across Luca’s cheekbone, careful not to wake him. The kid always looked so calm like this, so harmless. If someone saw him now, they’d never imagine the storm that lived under his skin. The flat was quiet — too quiet. A sign that today might go either way. He stood, pulling on a sweatshirt, padding into the kitchen with silent, heavy steps. The kettle clicked on. He needed tea. Or maybe something stronger, but it was too early for that and he was trying to be better. From the kitchen doorway, he glanced back down the hall toward the bedroom, listening for any sound telling him Luca had woken up — shuffling, a sigh, that soft, confused mumble he made before he was fully conscious. Nothing yet. Good. And bad. Simon leaned his shoulder against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, gaze fixed on the shadowed hallway. He’d have to check on him again soon. Gently. Carefully. The way you approached a skittish animal or a bomb with a faulty timer. Because Luca was both — soft enough to cling to him in his sleep, dangerous enough to destroy himself without meaning to. And Simon… was the idiot who loved him enough to stay anyway. The kettle clicked off. Simon pushed off the wall and made his way back toward the bedroom, the tea forgotten. Time to check on his boy.

Simon Riley

Simon had known the moment Johnny called—well, demanded was more accurate—that the day was already doomed to be loud. Not dangerous. Not stressful. Just… loud. Finn had apparently woken up that morning and declared he needed to see Luca “or he’d perish,” Johnny’s words, half-laughing, half-pleading. And Simon, who was still in the middle of his first cup of coffee while Luca sleepily clung to his leg like a koala, had sighed and agreed. He wasn’t heartless. Johnny needed a breather, Finn needed a target, and Luca… well. Luca would survive it, even if he didn’t want to. The playdate wasn’t at a park or a yard this time. Johnny’s idea had been: “Let’s take ‘em to that indoor jungle thing. All the slides an’ rope ladders. Finn’ll go feral.” Simon didn’t like the idea of his three-year-old being launched off a rope bridge by an overexcited five-year-old, but they were already pulling into the parking lot when he realized Johnny had tricked him by not giving him details until now. So here they were. Chaos Central: an indoor children’s play-gym buzzing with shrieks and rubber flooring and the faint smell of disinfectant. And the moment Finn spotted Luca? The decibel level doubled. “LUUUUCAAAA!” Finn’s voice cracked with joy as he barreled across the entryway, practically vibrating. Luca, tiny hand clutching the hem of Simon’s hoodie, froze like a startled deer. His messy blond curls puffed around his head, cheeks rosy from the cold outside. His innocent blue eyes widened in a look of pure, silent betrayal. Simon didn’t even get to finish his quiet, “Easy, lad,” before Luca attempted the world’s slowest, least effective escape—shuffling behind Simon’s leg and burying his face against the back of his thigh. Finn did not care. Finn had an agenda. He skidded to a stop, panting, grinning, eyes sparkling. “Hi Luca! I missed you! Wanna see the BIG slide? I can carry you! ‘Cause you’re small.” Simon’s brow arched. “You’re not carryin’ him.” “Awww—why not?” “Because,” Simon said dryly, “he weighs more than a packet of crisps, and you’d both end up cryin’.” Luca, still hidden behind him, slowly shook his head in tiny, terrified no’s. Johnny arrived a second later, breathless, apologetic, and doing a terrible job not laughing. “Tried to tell him to calm down—but you know Finn. Boy’s unstoppable once he’s decided somethin’.” Finn was already crouching down, peering under Simon’s arm as if searching a cave. “Luca? Hello? Your socks are blue today. I like them.” Another small shake of Luca’s head. He looked ready to evaporate. Simon sighed through his nose. He bent and lifted Luca gently under the arms, setting him back on his feet in front of him when the little one tried to hide behind him again. “No runnin’ off,” he murmured to Luca, brushing one thumb over his soft curls. “He just wants to play. You’ll be alright.” Finn beamed, victorious. The enormous play structure loomed behind them—tunnels, suspended walkways, slides winding like crazy straws. Kids shouted from every direction. Somewhere, something was squeaking ominously. Simon crossed his arms, already regretting every decision that led to this moment. Finn grabbed Luca’s small hand like it was the most natural thing in the world and tugged toward the entrance of the jungle gym.

Athena

Athena’s patience was a fine-forged blade—sharp, tempered, rarely broken. But even the strongest steel groaned under enough strain. And strain was exactly what the boy across from her seemed determined to provide. The sun filtered down through the olive trees, dappling the earth where Odysseus sat—or rather slouched—on a stone bench she had insisted he use. She was halfway through explaining the delicate balance between strategy and instinct, the kind of lesson that would someday keep him alive when swords flashed and cities burned. Her voice was even, measured, each word carved like runes into the air. But the boy’s eyes weren’t on her. No, they drifted to the edge of the courtyard, following the flutter of a girl’s laughter as though it were the most important sound in the world. His mouth tilted into the ghost of a grin, dimples deepening, and Athena’s lecture might as well have been birdsong in the wind for all the attention he spared it. Her jaw tightened. She adjusted her spear where it rested against her shoulder, the bronze tip catching the sunlight. She had trained kings, warriors, and heroes yet unborn, but none had tested her endurance quite like this mortal boy with more charm than sense. “Odysseus,” she said, voice like the crack of a whip, eyes narrowing. “Tell me, what is the worth of a brilliant strategy—” she paused, watching his gaze slip sideways again “—if the commander is too distracted by skirts to remember it?” She did not raise her voice. She did not need to. The quiet steel in her tone was louder than thunder, promising that her lesson—whether through words or through humiliation—would be heard.

Simon Riley

The door to the daycare clicked shut behind him, and Simon stood there for a moment, letting the shift sink in. The sounds here were nothing like what he’d just left behind—no gunfire, no radio chatter. Just the quiet hum of laughter, soft babbling, the faint scrape of toys being pushed across the floor. It was strange how the world could be so different, yet he felt more nervous now than he ever did out there. He adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder, gloved fingers flexing as he scanned the room. The staff gave him polite nods, whispers trailing off as they realized who he was looking for. Simon barely acknowledged them. His gaze had already found what he came for. Luca. The little boy was sitting on a padded mat near a low shelf, surrounded by toys he was far too young to fully understand. His blonde hair stuck up in soft tufts, cheeks round and pink, his tiny hands clumsily clutching a rattle. He let out a quiet coo, fascinated by the sound it made when he shook it, and Simon’s heart clenched so tight it was almost painful. He hadn’t seen him in months. The last time, Luca had been smaller—still wobbling in his attempts to sit up straight, still clinging with that newborn fragility. Now… he was sturdier, more curious, though still so little. A year old, but already Simon could see hints of himself in those sharp, bright blue eyes. Simon crouched down slowly, his knees creaking, lowering himself to the baby’s level. His broad shadow stretched over the mat, and he let his voice slip out low, careful, softened in a way he never used anywhere else. “Hey, little man…” The words came almost like a breath, heavy with weeks of missing him. His hand hovered near, not touching yet—he always gave Luca a second to notice him first, to recognize him. Even behind the mask, his son’s presence stripped every layer of steel from him, leaving only the father underneath. Simon waited there, heart hammering, watching for the moment those bright eyes would finally flick up to him, to see if Luca remembered. And God, he hoped the boy did.

Athena

The weight of it tugged at her chest again—sharp, instinctive, like a thread pulled taut in her very core. Athena knew the feeling all too well by now. The boy. Luca. Mortal, fragile, stubbornly beautiful in the way a candle was beautiful before it guttered out. She had watched him falter countless times, dance on the edge of surrender, and every time she’d been there to drag him back from that abyss. Not because she had to—but because, damn it, he mattered. More than he knew. More than she cared to admit. The mortals called it depression, but Athena never believed in dressing wounds with pretty words. He wasn’t sick—he was restless. Bored. A spirit that didn’t know where to place its fire, and instead of wielding it, he let it burn him from the inside out. And it infuriated her. A boy like him wasting himself. She materialized without hesitation, no mortal veil, no pretense. The dim light of his apartment bent around her tall frame, the bronze of her armor muted but present, her eyes gleaming with that piercing, immortal sharpness. He didn’t flinch this time. He never did anymore. “You’re at it again,” she said, her voice edged like a blade but warmer than she intended. “Do you enjoy testing me, Luca? Seeing how many times you can try before I rip the idea from that reckless mind of yours?” She stepped closer, her presence filling the space, a mix of command and unwanted comfort. She had saved armies with less effort than it took to keep him alive, and yet here she was—again. Watching over a mortal boy with hollow eyes and too much silence clinging to him. Athena folded her arms, gaze never leaving him. “You are not allowed to end like this. Not while I’m watching. And I will always be watching.”

Megumi

Megumi wants to play xbox

Yuji Itadori

Yuji still couldn’t quite wrap his head around it—Megumi had actually said yes. Weeks later and it still felt unreal, like he’d blink and wake up to find out it was just a dream. But no—Megumi was right here beside him, sitting in their shared dorm room, hand laced with his like it was the most normal thing in the world. Yuji’s thumb brushed idly across Megumi’s knuckles, and that’s when it really hit him. His boyfriend’s hands were soft. Not just soft—absurdly soft. Like… suspiciously soft. Yuji froze for a second, staring down at their joined hands like he’d just discovered some new cursed technique. How? How was that even possible? His own hands were rough, calloused from training, scars scattered across his knuckles from fights he didn’t bother wrapping. But Megumi’s? They were smooth, almost delicate, the kind of hands you’d expect from someone who’d never thrown a punch in his life—even though Yuji knew damn well Megumi could flatten him if he wanted to. He blinked, utterly bewildered. “What the hell…” Yuji muttered under his breath, running his thumb over Megumi’s palm again like maybe he’d misfelt the first time. Nope. Still soft. Softer than soft. It was unfair. Unreasonable. Almost insulting. Yuji’s cheeks heated, though whether from embarrassment or the ridiculous wave of affection swelling in his chest, he couldn’t tell. All he knew was that he wanted to hold those hands forever. “Megumi,” Yuji said, his voice a little too earnest for how stupid the words sounded in his head, “why are your hands… like this? They’re, like—soft. Super soft. Mine feel like sandpaper and yours feel like, I dunno… clouds or something.” He leaned in a little closer, wide-eyed and absolutely serious, still holding on tight. “Do you, like… use lotion or something?” Yuji had never sounded more amazed in his life.

Suguru Geto

Suguru smiled, breathing in the cold air of winter. He and his best friend, Satoru, were gonna ice skate. Mostly because he forced Satoru into doing it. They had a bet that whoever didn’t do what the other said had to jump into the freezing lake, and they both weren’t doing that. So here he was, finally getting on the ice, and Satoru stumbling behind him. Suguru tried not to laugh, but he ended up bursting out laughing at him. They were best friends, that’s just that they do.

Yuji

Yuji loved Megumi so much. He loved his voice, his personality, the way he looks, his dark blue ocean eyes. Maybe he loved him a little too much. It was like time stopped everytime he was with the attractive idiot. He just loved Megumi to the moon and back. But of course, he’d never tell him that. He and Megumi would always joke about loving each other, but it was never real. But sometimes Yuji wished it was real. And besides, he didn’t even know if Megumi liked guys. He’s never shown interest in any guys.. but he’s never shown interest in girls either. He wasn’t very social. Yuji liked that. But there was one thing Yuji loved the most about Megumi, his artistic and creative personality. Megumi absolutely loved painting. It was his favorite thing to do. And Yuji loved watching. He loved watching Megumi flutter around the paper with his paint brush in his hand. That cute, concentrated look on his face. So, here Yuji was again, sitting on Megumis bed, hugging a plushie as he watched Megumi paint. It was calming, even though he knew if Nobara knew about this he would get made fun of. Megumi just looked so goddamn attractive.

Simon Riley

John Price had carried plenty of weight in his life—packs, gear, responsibility, entire squads when it came down to it—but none of it compared to the warm, heavy, utterly stubborn mass of fur currently leaning into his leg as they crossed the tarmac. Apollo, twelve years old and convinced the world owed him constant comfort, shuffled beside him with that slow, deliberate gait of an old dog who knew exactly how much patience his human had and fully intended to use every drop of it. His thick husky coat gleamed in the afternoon light, silvered with age around the muzzle, one ear slightly drooped, eyes half-lidded in perpetual annoyance at being made to move. “C’mon, mate,” John muttered, adjusting the leash more out of habit than necessity. Apollo wasn’t going anywhere fast—not unless there was a couch waiting at the end of it. “We’re nearly inside. Gaz’ll be thrilled to see you.” Apollo did not look thrilled. If anything, he looked vaguely betrayed that he wasn’t currently asleep on John’s lap, or chest, or anywhere that involved pinning John under his considerable weight. The dog huffed, a deep grumbly sound, and leaned harder against John’s thigh just to make walking a challenge. Price only chuckled under his breath. “Yeah, yeah. Hardest day of your life, I know.” The base doors slid open with a hiss, warm air and the distant hum of chatter spilling out. The moment they stepped inside, heads began to turn—not toward Price, who walked these halls daily—but toward the hulking, fluffy creature glued to his side like some oversized, judgmental shadow. “Apollo’s here?” someone whispered from near the armory. “No way—oi, Price! Bring the good boy over!” Apollo’s tail thumped once, lazily, as if acknowledging his fans without promising anything more. As long as they offered themselves as potential pillows, he’d tolerate them. John guided him down the hall toward the common room where he knew his team was gathered. The door was already open, laughter echoing from inside—Soap loud as ever, Gaz somewhere in the mix, Ghost likely pretending he wasn’t paying attention when he absolutely was. Price stepped through the doorway, one hand resting fondly on the old husky’s back. “Afternoon, lads,” he announced. “Brought a visitor.”

Toji Zenin

Toji always knew having a kid would be hard, but, making him sure was easy. But he definitely cared when his wife told him that she was pregnant. Toji was definitely excited, he always wanted a kid, even with all the challenges. He got even more excited when he found out the gender, a boy!! Oh he was definitely happy about that. A boy? He was signing that kid up for as many sports as he can. Megumis 16 now, and damn is he a brat. He takes every opportunity he has to piss Toji off. Which Toji can’t complain about. Megumi inherited his sassiness and brattiness from Toji. Toji and Megumi were shopping. They both had shopping carts since Toji didn’t feel like getting all the stuff Megumi ‘needed’. Toji was just gonna get a bunch of beer and cigarettes. Though of course, Megumi being the brat he is, rammed the cart into Toji’s cart. Toji grumbled under his breath. He was already competitive, so he instantly rammed his cart right back into Megumi’s. “Goddamn brat..” He muttered.

Simon Riley

The early morning light leaked softly through the kitchen window, painting the edges of Simon’s broad shoulders in gold. The air still smelled faintly of coffee and cinnamon — Luca’s idea of breakfast, though Simon doubted his bratty little boyfriend had eaten much of the toast he’d burned earlier. The mug in Simon’s hand looked ridiculously small against his calloused fingers, but the gentle way he turned it in his palm made it seem delicate — like everything else he touched that belonged to Luca. He could hear him somewhere in the apartment — the faint shuffle of socks on the hardwood, the unmistakable sound of a door closing a little too firmly. Simon huffed a quiet laugh to himself, setting his mug down with care before leaning back against the counter. He’d told Luca to stay in bed this morning — just for a bit longer — because his muscles ached from training and, truthfully, he’d wanted to stay tangled up with the boy for as long as he could. But Luca never listened. Stubborn thing. Always moving, always fighting the smallest instructions just to see how far he could push before Simon would give in. And Simon always gave in. Heavy footsteps padded toward the hallway as he ran a hand through his messy blonde hair, the soft material of his hoodie swallowing up his frame. He didn’t even bother to hide the fond smile tugging at his lips when he saw Luca — small, rumpled, still wearing one of Simon’s shirts that hung halfway to his knees, blinking up at him like he hadn’t just defied a perfectly simple request. Simon’s heart clenched a little at the sight. It always did. “Didn’t I tell you to stay put, sweetheart?” he said, voice low and warm, like a soft rumble beneath his words. He didn’t sound scolding — he never did. Instead, there was a teasing patience to it, the kind that said he already knew the answer and didn’t much care, not when Luca looked like that. He bent down slightly, one arm sliding around Luca’s waist before the boy could dart away. The difference in their size made it easy; Simon lifted him just enough that Luca’s toes brushed the floor, pressing him gently against his chest. His thumb traced slow circles along Luca’s hip as he murmured near his ear, “You’re trouble, you know that? Little bit of sunshine who never listens.” Simon pressed his nose into Luca’s messy hair, inhaling the faint scent of his shampoo — something citrusy and soft. The kind of scent that lingered on Simon’s shirts long after Luca had wandered off. “Should’ve known you’d get up,” Simon continued, his words half-laugh, half-sigh. “Couldn’t even give me ten minutes of peace before you had to come find me, hm?”

Simon Riley

Simon leaned against the frame of his front door, arms crossed over his chest, the familiar weight of his stare locked on the apartment across the hall. It was ridiculous, he knew that—thirty-two years old, a decorated soldier, and yet he’d turned into some nosy bastard playing watchdog over the twenty-year-old model who’d somehow tangled himself into Simon’s life. The click of Luca’s door had Simon straightening, sharp eyes narrowing. The lad was always darting off somewhere—shoots, castings, god knows what else—and Simon never could stop himself from prying. He watched the way Luca tugged his jacket on, that mess of blonde hair falling into his eyes, like he hadn’t a care in the bloody world. “Where you off to this time?” Simon’s voice cut across the hallway, low and rough, but laced with a faint amusement he couldn’t bother to hide. He shifted his weight, one shoulder pressed lazily against the wall, though his gaze stayed locked on Luca like he was studying him for answers. It wasn’t distrust—not really. Simon just wanted to know. Wanted to keep track. Maybe it was protective instinct, maybe it was just him being a bastard, but he couldn’t let the boy out of his sight without asking. And Luca, with his smirk and sharp tongue, always had some way of making Simon feel both foolish and fond for asking at all. “Not sneaking off without tellin’ me, are you?” Simon added, tilting his head, a hint of a smirk ghosting over his lips beneath the shadow of his mask.

Simon Riley

The morning sunlight poured through the half-open blinds, cutting soft golden lines across the quiet apartment. It smelled faintly of coffee and laundry detergent — the way it always did when Simon had been up before Luca. The man was enormous, broad shoulders taking up far too much space in the tiny kitchen, his tank top clinging to the curve of his chest and his forearms dusted with flour. He wasn’t baking anything complicated, just pancakes shaped vaguely like hearts because Luca had mentioned once — in a huff — that Simon never made him breakfast that “looked cute.” So now he did. Every morning he could. The sizzle of the pan filled the air, and Simon hummed under his breath — something slow, something that didn’t belong to any song, really. He leaned his hip against the counter, glancing toward the bedroom door every few seconds like he was waiting for it to open. The thought of Luca still tangled up in the blankets, hair a mess, face half-buried in the pillow, made his chest ache in that soft, stupid way that always caught him off guard. When the door finally creaked, Simon turned immediately. He didn’t say anything right away — just smiled, that sleepy, crooked thing that always gave him away. His voice, when he spoke, came out low and warm, the kind of tone people never expected from a man his size. “Morning, pretty boy,” he murmured, setting the spatula down and wiping his hands on a towel. “You finally decide to join the world, huh?” He crossed the small distance in three slow steps, careful not to crowd him too much, though his arms were already itching to wrap around the smaller frame in front of him. He looked down at Luca, all messy hair and that sleepy glare that wasn’t really a glare — more like a pout with teeth. Simon’s grin softened as he reached out, brushing a thumb along Luca’s jaw before his hand slid to the back of his neck. “C’mere,” he said, tugging him in gently until Luca’s head rested against his chest. “You’re warm already,” Simon whispered, nosing at the top of his hair. “Didn’t even have to turn the heat on.” He rocked them slightly, just enough to make the motion lazy and comfortable, one hand tracing small circles along Luca’s spine. Every time Luca tried to pull back, Simon’s hold only tightened — not rough, never rough, just firm enough to remind him who he belonged to.

Simon Riley

The quiet hum of the hospital at night was almost comforting. Machines beeped softly down the hall, nurses’ shoes squeaked against the polished floor, and the faint scent of antiseptic clung to the air. But in the small, warmly lit room tucked away at the end of the maternity ward, everything felt still—calm, almost sacred. Simon sat in the stiff plastic chair by the bedside, elbows braced on his knees, his large hands cradling something impossibly small. Luca. His boy. His son. The baby’s soft breaths puffed against the crook of Simon’s wrist, faint and steady. His tiny fingers curled and uncurled against the fabric of the blanket, like he was testing out the world already. A mess of downy blonde curls crowned his head—real, golden curls, not the fine patchy fuzz Simon had braced himself for. He looked perfect. Too perfect. Round cheeks, pink skin, eyes as blue as morning sky when they flickered open for half a second. Not that bug-eyed newborn look people always joked about—no, Luca looked like a small, sleepy puppy, warm and alive and utterly his. The nurses hadn’t stopped gushing since he arrived. “Cutest baby I’ve ever seen.” “He looks like a doll.” “That hair! That little pout!” Simon had heard it all, had even managed a few tight-lipped smiles beneath the soft tug of his mask. But every word made something heavy settle in his chest—not guilt, not surprise… pride. Raw, quiet pride. This tiny human wasn’t just a child; he was his child. His son. No one else’s. He adjusted his hold slightly, careful not to wake him, brushing his thumb along the side of Luca’s cheek. The baby’s skin was impossibly soft, like silk warmed by sunlight. Simon had never thought he’d be here—never thought he’d do the whole surrogate thing, as he’d once called it offhandedly to Johnny. Yet here he was, sitting in a dim hospital room, his heart thudding too loud in his chest because this—this—was the most terrifying and beautiful thing he’d ever seen. A small noise escaped Luca’s lips—half yawn, half sigh. Simon’s mouth softened. “Easy, little man,” he murmured, voice low and rough, the kind that barely stirred the air. “You’ve had a big day, yeah?” The baby squirmed faintly in response, as if he understood, then settled again, one small hand gripping the edge of Simon’s shirt with surprising strength. Simon froze. That tiny touch—barely anything, but it felt like a brand seared against his chest. He looked down at him for a long time, the hum of the ward fading away, the world narrowing to the soft sound of Luca’s breathing and the slow, steady beat of his own heart. It was strange. He’d seen a lot of things in his life—death, war, endings—but this? This was a beginning. Simon leaned back in the chair at last, the weight of his son heavy and fragile against his chest. His eyes traced over the small face once more, the lashes, the dimple of his chin, the faint crease between his brows that almost made him look like he was concentrating even in sleep. Yeah. The nurses were right. He really was the cutest baby they’d ever seen.

John Price

Steel clanged against steel somewhere deep within the castle halls, the echo of war cries threading through the stone like a cruel reminder of how quickly peace could shatter. John Price had expected unrest—whispers of discontent had been stirring in the village for months—but he hadn’t expected this, not tonight, not so suddenly. His blade was still slick from the last man he’d cut down when he forced the heavy door shut behind him, shoving a wooden bar across it to seal them in. The room was small, dimly lit by a single candle that sputtered against the draft seeping through the walls. It wasn’t much—just a storage chamber lined with forgotten crates—but it was the only safe place he could think of in the chaos. And he’d been thinking only of him. Luca. The prince sat with his arms folded, expression sharp even through the drowsy mess of hair that said he’d only just been dragged from bed. Anger flickered in his eyes, not fear, though John could hear the pounding of the young man’s heart from where he stood. Or maybe it was his own. John kept himself by the door, one hand on his sword, listening to the muffled footsteps and shouts drawing closer through the castle corridors. His chest heaved, every muscle wound tight as a bowstring, though his gaze couldn’t help but stray to the lad he was sworn to protect. Ten years younger, yet he carried himself with a stubbornness that belonged to men twice his age. “You shouldn’t be here,” John muttered lowly, though he knew it was nonsense—where else could he possibly want him? “Bloody fools are aiming for the crown, and that means you. Won’t let them near you, not while I still draw breath.”

John price

The kettle whistled low and steady in the kitchen, filling the quiet hum of the house with its soft protest. John Price leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, mug half-filled with tea cooling beside him. The morning light filtered weakly through the window, drawing long lines across the floorboards and glinting off the edge of his watch. It was peaceful—too bloody peaceful, if he were honest. That was usually when something disrupted it. And right on cue, there was a knock at the door. It was followed by muffled laughter, the kind of heavy-footed noise that could only belong to men who’d spent too long in the field and never learned the art of quiet. Ghost and Gaz. He’d told them they could drop by, but a part of him regretted it already—not because he didn’t enjoy their company, but because of the grumbling heap sprawled across the couch behind him. Apollo. The twelve-year-old husky cracked one blue eye open, huffing through his nose like the world’s most put-upon soul. The old boy didn’t so much sleep as he claimed territory, his weight stretching across the length of the couch as if he paid the mortgage himself. A trail of fur clung to the blanket Price had thrown over him the night before. John glanced over, amused despite himself. “Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered. “You knew they were comin’.” Another huff, louder this time. A paw twitched but didn’t lift. Price shook his head, pushing off the counter as another round of knocking rattled the door. “Yeah, yeah—hold your bloody horses.” He opened it to be met with Gaz’s easy grin and Ghost’s silent nod of greeting. Both men were still in their civvies, though neither looked like they’d left the job behind; Ghost had that same guarded stillness about him, while Gaz already had a teasing look in his eye. “Cap,” Gaz greeted, stepping in before he could even invite them. “You weren’t kidding about retirement suiting you. Smells like tea and peace in here.” “Don’t get used to it,” Price said dryly, shutting the door behind them. “You’ll ruin the illusion.” He turned just in time to see Apollo lift his head, slow and suspicious. His ears flicked back—not aggressive, just that old man brand of unimpressed. The husky blinked at the two intruders, then looked at John as if to say you didn’t ask me first. Gaz laughed quietly. “He’s bigger than I thought he’d be.” Ghost tilted his head. “Old, too.” “Old, yeah. Grumpy, too,” John said, watching Apollo shift and heave himself upright with the kind of exaggerated sigh only a dog that age could manage. “Don’t worry, lads. He won’t bite. Might sit on you, though, if he takes a likin’.” That earned a low chuckle from Ghost. “That a threat or a promise?” Price smirked, picking up his mug and leaning against the armchair opposite the couch. “Depends how quick you move.” Apollo’s tail gave a slow, deliberate wag, his cloudy blue eyes narrowing as he decided whether to tolerate the company—or make a show of his displeasure. Price could already feel it coming, that low rumble in the old boy’s chest, the one that wasn’t really a growl so much as a grumble, like an old man being told to stand when he’d just gotten comfortable. “Easy, lad,” John murmured, voice calm but low, his hand gesturing subtly toward the guests. “They’re mates, yeah? You remember Ghost.” Ghost—being Ghost—simply crouched near the edge of the couch, giving Apollo a respectful amount of space, eyes level with the dog’s. Gaz, on the other hand, was grinning like an idiot, probably a moment away from testing his luck with a pat. John sighed, half amused, half exasperated. “Your funeral, mate.”

Simon Riley

Simon Riley had seen a lot of sights in his lifetime—some gruesome, some downright absurd—but nothing quite prepared him for the image of his husband slumped in the recovery chair, cheeks puffed like a sulking chipmunk, gauze hanging out of his mouth. Messy blonde hair spilled across Luca’s forehead, falling into his pretty blue eyes that kept blinking slow and unfocused, as if the anesthesia had stolen not only his sharpness but also half his coordination. The ride over had been torture enough—forty-five minutes of Luca’s dramatic complaints, ranging from “you’re signing my death certificate, Simon” to swatting at him when Simon leaned over to kiss his cheek and murmur, “you’ll live.” That earned him a half-hearted whack on the head, though even then Simon caught the faintest twitch of a smile before Luca sulked back into the passenger seat. Now, post-surgery, Luca was even more of a mess—and somehow still bloody adorable. His long limbs didn’t quite fit in the chair, his head lolled to one side, and a mumbled string of nonsense left his swollen lips every now and then. Simon leaned against the wall, arms folded across his chest, watching with a mixture of exasperation and fondness. He’d spent years hardened by the military, trained to keep emotions locked down tight, but Luca had always been his weakness—the only one who could reduce him to this: a soldier standing in a dentist’s office, heart aching at the sight of his drugged-up, pouty husband. “Christ, love,” Simon muttered under his breath, lips tugging beneath the mask that concealed most of his face. “You look like you’ve gone a few rounds with a blender.” Still, his hand drifted down, brushing a bit of hair away from Luca’s face with a gentleness that contradicted his words. No matter how ridiculous Luca looked—gauze, drool, and all—Simon couldn’t take his eyes off him.

Simon Riley

Simon wasn’t sure when it had started. Maybe it was the first time he’d seen him—Luca, all sharp edges and calculated grace, moving like the job was nothing, like killing was just breathing. Maybe it was the second time, when Simon realized he couldn’t stop staring. Hell, maybe it was the third, when he caught himself following him without even meaning to. Now it was routine. Mission comes up? Luca’s coming with him. Didn’t matter if it made sense or not, didn’t matter if command raised a brow—Simon always had some excuse lined up. “He’s got a particular set of skills,” or “We need someone who works clean.” Always some lie. Truth was simpler: Simon just couldn’t let him out of his sight. They were walking now through some half-lit alley, weapons stashed but tension still hanging sharp in the air. Simon’s mask shifted with his breathing, the skull painted across it grinning in the dark. He glanced at Luca for what had to be the hundredth time tonight—those dead grey-blue eyes catching the light like steel, that little frown tugging at his mouth. Simon felt the pull again, the one he hated admitting even to himself. It wasn’t just respect. It wasn’t just fascination. It was obsession, gnawing at him every time Luca was near. “Stay close,” Simon muttered, voice low, gravel scraping at the edges. He told himself it was for the mission, told himself it was protocol. But his hand hovered just near enough Luca’s shoulder that it betrayed him. “Things’ll get messy quick. Can’t have you wanderin’ off.” The truth was, he didn’t want Luca out of reach. Not tonight. Not ever.

Simon Riley

Simon had never thought he’d spend his Saturday morning in a bloody grocery store, much less hovering like a guard dog over a delicate, pregnant model who somehow thought pushing the shopping cart was his job. Luca’s small hands were already on the cart handle, offering Simon that bright, clueless smile — the one that made Simon feel like his ribs were too tight for his heart. He gently but firmly slid Luca’s hands off and took the cart himself. “No lifting,” he muttered. Again. Because apparently, Luca’s brain filtered commands like a sieve. The boy just hummed happily and trailed beside him, one hand absentmindedly rubbing the tiny bump under his hoodie. Four months along and he still looked like he’d just eaten a heavy lunch — but Simon didn’t care how small the bump was. That was his kid in there. And his Luca carrying them. They turned the corner into the produce aisle, Luca’s eyes widening at the sight of strawberries, like he’d never seen fruit before. He lit up, reaching out to grab a container before Simon caught his wrist. “I’ll get it.” He grabbed two containers without asking — Luca went through strawberries like oxygen these days. For once, Luca actually stayed put. Smiling to himself, Simon moved a step ahead to grab bananas when he heard it — a snicker. Quiet. The kind of quiet that wasn’t meant to be ignored. “Models these days,” a stranger murmured to their friend. “He looks like he’s faking it. Baby bump’s barely there. Probably just wants attention.” Simon’s muscles froze. A cold, controlled freeze. His gaze snapped to the two idiots, eyes narrowing from behind the mask he wore out of habit more than necessity these days. Luca, poor thing, had heard it too — Simon could tell by the way his smile faltered, fingers curling protectively over the slight curve of his stomach. His blue eyes shimmered, confused and hurt, not understanding why someone would say something so cruel when he’d been nothing but sunshine his whole life. That was enough to make something primal snap in Simon. He stepped forward, towering over the two strangers before they could blink. His voice was low — calm in the way a storm is calm seconds before it hits. “You got somethin’ to say about my boyfriend?” The friend stammered, clearly taken aback by six-foot-four of angry special forces death glaring at them in the produce aisle. Luca shuffled up behind Simon, tugging lightly at his sleeve as if asking him not to cause trouble — because Luca never understood when someone else had already caused it. Simon didn’t look away from the strangers. “He’s carrying my child,” he growled, “so if you lot value your teeth, you’ll shut your mouths and keep walkin’. Yeah?” The strangers backed off, muttering something about “crazy people” before scurrying away like scared rats. Simon finally exhaled, jaw still tight. He turned toward Luca, and his entire demeanor softened like melting ice. He cupped Luca’s cheeks, thumbs brushing away what might’ve turned into tears. “Don’t listen to them,” he murmured, leaning close. “You’re perfect. You and the baby. D’you hear me?”

Simon Riley

Simon Riley had worked the prison block long enough that the days blurred together—faces, names, charges, all running into one another. His shift tonight was quiet, too quiet, the kind that made his mind itch with boredom. He sat back in the creaky swivel chair tucked behind the glass of the guard station, absently clicking through the database of inmates. Mugshot after mugshot passed by, all of them wearing the same hollow, bitter expressions. Nothing unusual. Until one picture caught his eye. He paused, leaning closer toward the screen. The photo was of a boy—no, a young man, couldn’t have been more than nineteen. Messy hair, sharp cheekbones, lips parted as if he’d been caught mid-breath. His eyes, though… they were something else. Wide, bright, defiant but fragile in the same breath, as though the weight of the world had been shoved onto someone who looked like they shouldn’t have been carrying anything heavier than a schoolbag. Simon found himself staring a moment too long, dragging the mouse to open the file. The name read: Luca Delaunay. Pretty name, Simon thought idly. Pretty face to match. His instinct told him this was some minor, maybe stupid offense—shoplifting, trespassing, maybe even joyriding. A kid like this shouldn’t have been locked up for long. But then he scrolled further. Charge: Murder in the first degree. Simon blinked. That couldn’t be right. He scrolled again, as if the words would change the second time. But there it was, in black and white. Murder. He read the comments, fingers tightening on the mouse. “Victim struck and killed by vehicle driven by subject. Witnesses state subject made no attempt to brake.” “Motivation: premeditated. Subject’s pet dog was intentionally run over and killed by victim earlier that day.” “Behavior during arrest: compliant but eerily calm. No resistance.” Simon leaned back in his chair, frowning beneath his mask. He’d seen killers before, plenty of them, and not one had ever looked like that. Fragile. Soft. He almost laughed at the thought—it was absurd. That delicate-looking boy, behind the wheel, running someone down on purpose? And yet here he was, locked up in Simon’s prison. Something in his gut twisted—not disgust, not pity, but a strange pull. He knew better than to get invested, to care about the faces behind the glass, but something about Luca’s mugshot wouldn’t let him go. Before he could talk himself out of it, Simon pushed himself up from the chair, the weight of his gear shifting against his frame as he set off down the hall. Boots echoed against concrete, the low hum of fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Rows of cells passed by, the usual mix of jeers and silence following him, until he slowed near the wing where the newer intakes were being kept. And there he was. Luca sat in the cell, back against the wall, knees pulled up. Even in prison blues, he looked like he didn’t belong here—too young, too soft around the edges. Simon found himself stopping, fingers curling around the bars as he studied the boy in silence. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. He was trying to reconcile the two images in his head—the boy who looked breakable, and the criminal file that screamed murderer. “…Christ,” Simon muttered under his breath, his voice low, rough. He cleared his throat, his tone leveling into something steadier as his dark eyes lingered on Luca. “You’re not what I expected.”

John Price

The morning was quiet—eerily so. The kind of quiet John Price had learned to appreciate over the years, but never quite trust. The woods stretched endlessly around his small cabin, a sea of mist and pine that swallowed sound whole. The air was cold enough to sting his lungs, and the frost that clung to the porch railing glittered faintly in the pale dawn light. He stood there with a steaming mug of coffee in one hand, wearing a threadbare flannel and his old patrol boots, gaze sweeping the treeline like it always did—out of habit more than fear. A low rumble broke the stillness. Not thunder. A growl—deep, rolling, and close. John didn’t even flinch. He didn’t have to look to know where it came from. “Apollo,” he muttered, his voice rough from sleep and cigarettes. “You best not be harassin’ the deer again.” The only answer was the heavy thud of paws against frozen ground. A massive shadow emerged from between the trees, gliding through the fog with a predator’s grace and a child’s recklessness. Black fur rippled under the faint morning light, darker than the earth itself, and those sharp amber eyes found him instantly. The wolf—no, his wolf—was bigger than any normal creature had the right to be, towering, broad-shouldered, his fur still dusted with frost. Apollo slowed as he approached the porch, tail flicking lazily behind him. There was a faint smear of dirt on his muzzle, and John could see the telltale signs of mischief in those eyes. “Christ,” John sighed, setting his mug down on the railing. “What’ve I told you about diggin’ up the damn yard?” Apollo’s ears twitched. He didn’t move, didn’t look guilty in the slightest. Just stood there, proud and unbothered, head tilted in that way that said I hear you, but I’m not listening. John shook his head, the corner of his mouth tugging into a reluctant smirk. “You’re bloody hopeless.” He crouched down, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes softening as he looked over the animal that had somehow become his closest companion. He could still remember the night he’d found him—small, shivering, half-starved and alone, whining under a broken branch. That tiny, defiant spark that refused to die had caught his attention immediately. And now… Now he was looking at a creature that could take down a man if it wanted to—but never would. Not to him. “You hungry, boy?” he asked quietly.

Simon Riley

Paris. The city of light, perfume, and people who looked like they’d never seen a bad day in their lives. It wasn’t exactly the kind of place Simon Riley thought he’d end up crouched behind velvet curtains with a comms piece in his ear and a pistol strapped under a pressed black suit. The whole operation felt wrong from the start — not because it was dangerous, but because it was absurd. A supposed threat at Paris Fashion Week. His team was running silent among runways, perfume clouds, and camera flashes. Soap had nearly laughed when the mission came through, muttering something about “Riley finally getting his catwalk debut.” Simon didn’t think it was funny. He didn’t like crowds. Didn’t like the noise, the light, the… chaos of it all. It was too much of everything, everywhere. And yet here he was, standing at the far end of the runway, half-hidden behind a lighting rig, eyes scanning the crowd for the “high-priority” threat that intel had flagged. Every second flash of a camera felt like a muzzle flare to his instincts, and every scream of excitement made his skin crawl. Then the lights dimmed. The music changed. The next model stepped out. And Simon forgot to breathe. He wasn’t sure if it was the way the boy moved — effortless, floating, like he wasn’t walking so much as gliding — or the way the spotlights caught on his messy blond hair, turning it gold against the deep black of the stage. His eyes were a striking, haunting blue, sharp even from where Simon stood. Not bright like most people’s; they were cold, distant. Dead eyes, some might’ve said. But they held something that made it hard to look away. The cameras went mad for him. The room that had felt so loud a second ago suddenly seemed to revolve around one person — him. Simon could almost hear the click of lenses syncing to the boy’s every breath, every shift of expression. He looked ethereal. Fragile. Like he didn’t belong here, in a room full of people pretending to be perfect — he was perfect without trying. Simon’s earpiece buzzed. “Riley, eyes up. Anything?” He blinked, forcing himself to focus. “Negative. No sign of movement near the east wing.” “Copy that. Keep it that way.” But Simon’s attention had already drifted again. The show ended, and the angel stepped off the stage. Immediately, he was surrounded — makeup artists, assistants, photographers, voices all clamoring for his attention. Simon could see flashes reflecting off his pale skin, catching the slight curve of his jaw, the faint exhaustion in his posture. The boy didn’t seem to react to any of it. He just stood there, silent, calm amid chaos. Simon told himself to look away. He wasn’t here for this. He wasn’t here for him. He was supposed to be scanning for threats, not staring at some model like a schoolboy. But for some reason… his boots started moving before he could stop them. He adjusted his jacket, muttered a curse under his breath, and walked through the crowd — a wall of black-suited security and designers with lanyards. Heads turned briefly; no one questioned him. His presence was too deliberate, too military. And there he was. Up close, the boy was even more striking — soft features that didn’t match the sharpness of his eyes, a kind of otherworldly beauty that felt almost… unsettling. Simon had faced men with blood on their hands and hell in their eyes, but this one? He couldn’t quite place why he felt nervous. He stopped a few feet away, clearing his throat. “’Scuse me,” he said, voice low, gravelly beneath the music still thumping in the background. The workers glanced up, startled, then scattered, clearly recognizing he wasn’t part of their glittering little world. That left just the two of them — the soldier and the angel — standing a few steps apart, camera flashes still bursting in the distance. Simon didn’t even know what he planned to say. He just knew he wanted to hear the boy’s voice.

John Price

The wind bit sharp that morning, the kind that turned the breath into clouds and settled frost on the edges of John Price’s beard. The old captain stood on the back porch of his countryside home, gloved hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee as he looked out across the snow-covered garden. The world was still—quiet save for the distant groan of trees weighed heavy with ice—and somewhere beneath that hush, a small shape wiggled in the snowdrift by the fence. Apollo. The pup’s reddish-brown fur blended almost perfectly with the slush-dusted leaves poking through the snow. The little runt had grown since John first brought him home—barely old enough to open his eyes back then—but he still looked comically small against the vast stretch of white. And yet, for a creature that trembled the moment the wind changed, the stubborn thing had decided that this was his kingdom. Price sighed, setting the mug down on the railing. “Bloody hell, pup,” he muttered under his breath, voice rumbling low with that worn amusement only men who’d seen too much could manage. “You’ll freeze your tail off out there.” He stepped down the porch stairs, boots crunching over the frost. The air carried that sharp metallic scent of snow and pine, and he tugged his jacket tighter as he trudged through it. Apollo didn’t move. The little husky was nestled deep, tail flicking every so often, his fur dotted with tiny flakes. Even from a distance, John could see him shivering—but the pup’s pale blue eyes blinked up stubbornly, as if daring the cold to try and beat him. “Christ, you’re just like I was,” John murmured with a low chuckle as he crouched near the snow pile. His breath fogged between them, warm and fleeting. “Can’t be told nothin’, can you?” He reached out, brushing snow from Apollo’s back, fingers gentle against the thick, chilled fur. The pup gave a small whine of protest, trying to burrow back into his frozen throne. John only shook his head, the corners of his mouth tugging upward. “Alright, little soldier,” he said softly. “Time for barracks. You can fight the snow later.” The retired captain stayed there for a moment longer, the cold seeping through his knees, before he scooped the pup up—arms steady but careful—and pressed him against his chest to share what warmth he could.

Simon Riley

Simon was convinced there was no force on Earth more dangerous than the tiny set of blonde curls currently bouncing ahead of him. Lilah marched through the corridor like she owned the building, her small combat boots — far too expensive for a three-year-old — thudding dramatically with each step. She’d decided they were stomping boots today, and Simon, well… he didn’t have the heart to tell her no. He followed behind, a duffel slung over his shoulder, the other hand clutching her pink glittery backpack that she refused to carry because “princesses don’t hold bags, Daddy.” Her bratty little pout had made that statement non-negotiable. Price and Soap had drawn the short straw today. Simon needed to run a few errands — and when he said errands, he meant the sort of things he couldn’t have a curious toddler asking a million questions about. He trusted his team more than anyone… but even he wasn’t sure they fully grasped what they were about to take on. “Lilah,” he warned gently as she tried to push every button in the elevator panel at once. “Oi. One floor. That’s all we need.” She looked up at him with those giant blue eyes, fluttering lashes like she’d been rehearsing. A manipulative little angel. “But I wanna press them all,” she countered, chin tipped up defiantly. He exhaled through his nose — the mask hiding his growing amusement. “One.” He pointed. She huffed but finally jabbed the correct button, crossing her arms like he’d committed some terrible injustice. When the doors slid open, she was already running — a giggling streak of sunshine bolting down the hallway. “Daddy’s mates!” she declared triumphantly, like she was the queen visiting her royal guard. “Slow down.” Simon’s voice was low but not harsh — it never really was with her. He caught up just as she began pounding on the wrong door with her tiny fists. “Not that one,” he muttered, scooping her up with one arm. She wriggled like a wildcat, but she settled once he adjusted her against his chest — always happiest when she knew she had his full attention. The correct door swung open, Price appearing with a mug in hand and the look of a man who already regretted saying yes. “Morning, Simon,” Price greeted. His eyes drifted to the little girl now hiding her face dramatically in her father’s neck. “And hello, Princess Lilah.” She peeked out, squinting suspiciously… then offered a triumphant grin like she had successfully intimidated her subject. “Hi Captain P’wice.” Simon patted her back, shifting the bag forward. “She’s eaten. She’s fed. She’s tired — but she’ll deny that ‘til she drops. She knows where the loo is. And—” “And she’s spoiled rotten,” Soap chimed in from the couch, a cheeky smirk on his face. “We’ve noticed.” Lilah gasped as though offended by the greatest insult ever uttered. “Am not!” she squealed, smacking Simon’s chest like he should defend her honor. He only sighed — a man resigned to his fate. “Right. Jus’ keep an eye on ‘er. And if she starts cryin’… give ‘er one of those biscuits she likes. The chocolate ones.” Price raised a brow. “You brought bribes.” “They’re necessary,” Simon replied flatly. He set Lilah down, kneeling to eye level with her. One gloved hand cupped the side of her cheek, thumb brushing lightly across her pout. “Be good for them, yeah?” Gentle, soft — the voice only Lilah ever heard from him.

Simon Riley

Lieutenant Simon Riley hadn’t planned on playing drill sergeant today. He’d walked onto the training field expecting the usual—observe, correct, bark once or twice when someone inevitably did something stupid. But then the junior DS called in sick, and command tossed the whistle and clipboard straight into his hands like it was his problem. So now he stood at the edge of the obstacle course, arms crossed, sun biting into the back of his neck, staring down a line of trembling recruits who looked like they’d already regretted waking up this morning. Most of them, anyway. Because he was here. Luca. Messy blond hair that somehow always looked windswept no matter the weather. Blue eyes that were far too bright, far too distracting. And a mouth made for backtalk, apparently, because the idiot never followed orders. Never. Not once. And yet Simon didn’t bark at him the same way he did the others. Didn’t call him “recruit.” Didn’t make him drop and give fifty for breathing wrong. No—Luca got shoved, flicked in the back of the head, had small things tossed at him when he wasn’t paying attention. And Simon used his name. Or dumbass. Depends on the minute. He didn’t know why. Didn’t want to know why. “Alright!” Simon barked, blowing the whistle so sharply half the line jumped. “You’re runnin’ the course until my eyes stop bleedin’ from lookin’ at your form. That might take a while.” Groans. He ignored them. His gaze flicked to Luca—already not standing where he was supposed to. Of course. Off to the side, hands on his hips, lips tilted in that infuriating almost-smirk like he was here for fun. Simon felt his jaw tighten. Not with anger. … unfortunately. “You,” he said, pointing straight at him, voice low enough that the other recruits straightened in fear. “Luca. Front of the line.” Luca didn’t move immediately—just raised an eyebrow. Testing him. Simon stepped closer, boots crunching in the dirt, until he stood just in front of him. He didn’t shove him this time. Not yet. Instead, he leaned down just enough that only Luca could hear, voice rough and quiet: “Don’t make me drag you there, pretty boy.” The words slipped out before he could reel them back. Subtle flirting—he’d been doing it for days now, and each time he swore he’d stop. He never did. He straightened, cleared his throat, barked loud enough for everyone to hear: “Move. Now.”

Simon Riley

The rain had turned the training grounds into a stretch of wet earth and boot-deep mud, the kind that clung to Simon Riley like it had a personal vendetta. His fatigues were soaked, his gloves caked in brown, and there was a streak of something suspiciously green across his mask — something he’d deal with later. For now, he was focused on one thing: getting home. Home, meaning the tiny flat where the resident genius—Luca—was probably pacing in circles, alphabetizing his medical textbooks, or scrubbing some invisible speck off the countertops. Kid was a pediatric neurosurgeon at twenty, which still made Simon’s brain short-circuit every time he thought about it. “He works with kids’ brains,” he’d proudly say, which always earned that little offended huff from Luca—shoulders tensing, blue eyes narrowing like Simon had personally insulted every neuron in existence. Cute little idiot. Simon pushed the door open with his shoulder, boots leaving a disaster trail of mud behind him. He winced. Luca was going to spiral. The last time Simon had come in after a field exercise, he’d only tapped Luca’s shoulder—an innocent greeting, really—and the kid had burst into tears on the spot, trembling like Simon had dipped him in sewage. Simon had felt horrible. Didn’t show it, of course, but he’d sat on the floor and let Luca yell at him about “bacteria colonies” for twenty minutes. But tonight… tonight was different. Unique. He paused in the doorway of the living room, dripping. Because Luca was asleep on the couch. Barely—but asleep, curled on his side in soft scrubs like he’d come home from a late surgery and just collapsed. His blonde hair was a chaotic halo, sticking out in a dozen directions. Big blue eyes closed, lips parted just slightly. A medical journal was half-open on his chest, highlighter uncapped and dangling from his hand. The kid looked like an exhausted cherub who’d fallen straight out of a sterile operating room. Simon’s shoulders softened in a way he’d never admit to another living soul. “Fuck,” he muttered, the word an affectionate sigh instead of a complaint. He wanted to touch him. Wanted to brush that messy hair back, maybe pull him close, feel that tiny frame against his chest. But he was dripping mud like a swamp creature, and Luca would absolutely cry again if Simon even breathed too close right now. So Simon stood there, huge and muddy and useless, watching the one person in the world who made him feel… anything. He shifted his weight, boots squelching loudly. Luca rustled in his sleep. Simon froze. He cleared his throat quietly, lowering his voice even though Luca was unconscious. “Luca…? Sunshine?” No response. Simon stepped back instinctively, hand flexing like he physically had to restrain himself from picking the kid up. Because he would. Mud be damned. Germaphobia meltdown be damned. He just wanted Luca in his arms after a shit day.

Simon Riley

The night was quiet in that way Simon hated—too open, too empty, too full of his own thoughts. He moved through the abandoned factory with practiced, silent steps, moonlight slipping across concrete and steel as if trying to track him. The air smelled like dust and rust, the usual. Nothing new. Nothing unexpected. Except the way he kept glancing at the small comm unit clipped to his vest. He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t. Too obvious. Too unlike him. But his thumb twitched toward the mic every few seconds, like it had a mind of its own. It wasn’t because he needed anything—no locked doors tonight, no systems to break into, no cameras that required Luca’s magic fingers. He could call for tactical reasons, but that wasn’t what had him hesitating. He just… wanted to hear his voice. Ridiculous. He felt the weight of that realization settle into his chest as he ducked behind a support pillar, scanning the next stretch. It was clear. Of course it was. The intel had said minimal resistance—simple recon, grab the files, get out. Easy. Quiet. Too quiet. Without Luca filling the silence with that half-asleep drawl of his, Simon could hear his own heartbeat. He hated that. He exhaled through his nose, the ghost of a scoff behind his mask. Insane, that he was even considering this. He was Simon Riley—Ghost, for fuck’s sake. He doesn’t do small talk. He doesn’t get attached. He doesn’t call someone on comms just to hear them breathe or say something stupid or tell him he’s being dramatic when he’s literally in a hostile zone. He doesn’t… want people. Except Luca. Luca, with his perpetually messy hair like he rolled out of bed and somehow still looked like a damn magazine cover. Luca, with eyes too bright and too blue and too annoyingly observant. Luca, who wasn’t intimidated by him, who talked back without thinking twice, who laughed at him—at him—and didn’t die for it. Luca, who didn’t fill the silence with nonsense. Just… talked. Softly. Calmly. Like they weren’t both weapons built for entirely different wars. Simon cleared another hallway, jaw clenched. He could end the mission without calling him. He could keep it strictly professional. He could walk out of this building, head back to base, pretend like nothing was wrong inside him—like something wasn’t shifting, warming, loosening every time Luca’s voice crackled through his headset. But then he imagined that voice. Imagined Luca leaning back in his chair, feet propped up on the desk like he wasn’t supposed to do, twirling some pen between his fingers as he worked. Imagined that lazy smile forming when he heard Simon’s voice. And that was it. Simon swallowed, thumb clicking the comm before he could overthink it. Static hissed softly in his ear. He hesitated—too long, too obvious—and almost shut it off again. Almost. Then, gruffly, low enough he hoped it hid the truth: “…You awake, Lu?” His voice echoed faintly in the empty hallway, swallowed by concrete and dust and the faint metallic hum of the comm.

Simon Riley

The sergeant’s voice was still ringing in Simon’s ears by the time he pushed through the doorway of the barracks, shoulders hunched so far inward he looked like he was trying to fold himself out of existence. His pulse was a trapped animal—fast, panicked, stuttering in his throat—and his hands shook despite being curled into fists against his sides. He hated confrontation. Hated being spoken to like that. Hated how he stood there and took it because the words jammed up in his throat and refused to come out. He should’ve gone anywhere else. Anywhere logical. Captain’s office. Soap. Hell, even Price. But logic didn’t matter when he felt small. And there was only one place—one person—who made him feel un-small. Luca. Simon scanned the dim barracks, breath catching when he spotted the smaller figure sitting cross-legged on his bunk, laptop open, wires draping from a stripped-down comms unit like metal veins. Blonde hair a familiar mess, blue eyes narrowed in concentration at whatever code he was ripping apart. A picture Simon had grown to depend on. The moment Luca looked up, Simon froze. Like a guilty dog. Like a kid caught where he shouldn’t be. He didn’t speak—he never did first—but he took one step forward. Then another. And then, quietly, like someone trying not to spook a wild animal, he reached out and hooked the tip of one gloved finger around Luca’s smallest one. It wasn’t even a tug. Just an anchor. Luca’s brows snapped together almost instantly. “What now?” he barked—sharp, irritated, but familiar. Expected. Safe. Simon tried to answer. His mouth opened. Air came out. Words didn’t. The sergeant’s threat flashed through his mind again, and his breath stuttered. He shook his head once, jaw clenched, eyes dropping toward his boots. He wasn’t good at explaining. He wasn’t good at anything right now except shaking and holding onto Luca like the world had tilted. Then a voice sounded from the hallway—deep, gruff, unmistakable. The sergeant. Still muttering under his breath, still angry, still coming closer. Simon stiffened. His grip on Luca’s finger turned from anchor to plea. And Luca—sharp, rude Luca—stood so fast his laptop almost slid off the bunk. He stepped in front of Simon without hesitation, without asking, like it was the most natural thing in the world. The sergeant rounded the corner and stopped dead. “Riley,” he growled, “we’re not finished—” But Luca was already moving. Already snapping. Already stepping between Simon and the man twice his size like a tiny, furious guard dog. Simon didn’t speak. He couldn’t. He only stared at Luca’s back—the messy hair, the too-big attitude, the solid line of someone willing to fight battles Simon didn’t know how to. His fingers found the hem of Luca’s shirt, just barely, barely enough to feel. And for the first time since the confrontation started, Simon’s lungs finally loosened. He wasn’t alone. Not now. Not with Luca standing there, yelling, defending, uncaring of rank or consequence. Simon lifted his head slightly, eyes narrowing behind the mask as he watched the sergeant’s face shift from annoyance…to discomfort…to something close to fear. Good, Simon thought in a quiet, private way. He came to the right place.

Megumi

Megumi had never considered himself the type to care whether someone noticed him or not. He preferred the quiet corners of Jujutsu Tech: the shade beneath the old camphor tree behind the training field, the long hallways where footsteps echoed, the empty classrooms where he could hear himself think. He didn’t need anything loud or bright or distracting. Which was exactly why Itadori Yuji irritated him. Because Yuji was all of that—loud, bright, distracting, a burst of pink hair and impossible optimism that somehow made the entire campus feel different. And for reasons Megumi refused to admit out loud, he found himself trailing just a little too close whenever Yuji was around. Watching the way he laughed with Gojo-sensei, the way he lit up when they sparred, the way he didn’t seem to see Megumi at all. Not intentionally. Yuji wasn’t cruel. Just… oblivious. The kind of oblivious that made Megumi want to claw at something. Which was why he found himself standing outside Nobara’s dorm door, knuckles hovering just before making contact, feeling like an idiot. The afternoon sun bled orange through the paper windows, turning the hallway warm as the cicadas screamed outside. He exhaled, tried to collect whatever dignity he had left, and knocked. Nobara didn’t even look surprised when she opened the door—more like amused, her hand on her hip, hair pinned back, eyes sharp with the kind of knowledge he usually tried to avoid getting entangled with. “Well, well,” she hummed, leaning her shoulder on the frame. “Fushiguro voluntarily approaching me? This must be good.” Megumi grit his teeth. “I need to ask you something.” “Ooh, even better.” She stepped aside exaggeratedly. “Come in before I die of anticipation.” The room smelled like perfume and leftover instant ramen, an odd but fitting combination. She flopped onto her bed, grinning at him like she already knew exactly what he was about to say. Megumi, meanwhile, stayed standing, hands shoved deep into his pockets, eyes trained on a crack in the floorboards to avoid her stare. “It’s about… someone,” he started, immediately regretting the phrasing when Nobara’s entire face lit up. “A someone?” She sat forward, legs crossed, waiting like a cat about to pounce. “Go on.” He looked away, jaw clenched. “Itadori.” Silence—and then the loudest, most dramatic gasp he’d ever heard. “You like him.” Megumi’s face burned hotter than the summer heat. “I didn’t say that.” “You didn’t have to!” Nobara all but bounced. “This is amazing. This is perfect. Oh my god, finally something interesting around here.” Megumi dragged a hand down his face, refusing to look at her. “That’s not—look, forget it. It doesn’t matter.” “Megumi,” she sing-songed, “why are you here if it doesn’t matter?” He hated how cornered he felt. But the words slipped out anyway, quieter than he intended. “…He doesn’t pay attention to me.” Nobara blinked—then her smirk softened into something almost understanding. “Okay. Then let’s fix that.” Megumi lifted his eyes. “How.” Her grin returned, sharper and wicked. “Leave that to me. Yuji’s about as observant as a rock, but he’s not immune to a little… persuasion.” Megumi swallowed, unsure if he’d made a horrible mistake. Nobara cracked her knuckles like she was preparing for war. “Now,” she said, “first things first—where is lover boy right now?” Megumi’s pulse jumped at the words, but he managed to answer, voice low. “…Training field. He stayed out after everyone else left.” Nobara hopped up, grabbed her jacket, and pushed past him toward the door with a determined glint in her eye. “Perfect. Let’s go get his attention.” Megumi followed her down the hallway, heart hammering harder than he wanted to admit. The campus was quiet at this hour, sky slowly sinking into dusk as the cicadas faded. And somewhere out on the training grounds, Yuji was waiting—pink hair catching the dying sunlight, smile too bright for how tired Megumi felt, entirely unaware of the storm Nobara Kugasaki was about to unleash. Megumi exhaled, steadying himself.

Simon Riley

The flat was too quiet for a place that usually rang with Luca’s soft humming or the rustle of him pacing around with a garment bag slung over his shoulder. Simon noticed it the second he shouldered the door shut. The silence wasn’t peaceful— it was heavy. Heavy the same way Luca had slumped against him that morning, fever-hot and shivering, whispering “’m fine… I can go, promise…” right before nearly passing out in the bloody bathroom. Simon kicked off his boots, jaw tight. His team had gotten their jokes in—“Call us when the lad stops sneezin’, Riley,” and “Didn’t think you’d go soft like that, Lieutenant”—but he didn’t care. He’d march through a warzone before he left Luca alone in this state. The bedroom door was cracked open, warm light spilling through. He could already hear the miserable little coughs—wet, hoarse, too close together. And underneath them, the faint sound of retching into the wastebasket he’d set beside the bed before leaving to grab supplies. He sighed through his nose. Christ, he hated that sound. Simon nudged the door wider with his knuckles. The sight hit him hard, even though he’d expected it. Luca curled into a tight ball on his side, blond hair sticking to his forehead in sweat-damp strands, blue eyes half-open and glazed. He looked… wrong. Like someone had taken that runway-ready shine and switched it for something fragile and human and breakable. An oversized hoodie swallowed his thin frame—one of Simon’s, of course. The kid always ended up in his clothes when he felt like death, like it helped somehow. A few spent tissues lay scattered on the duvet. The trash bin sat at Luca’s hip, a grim accessory to the day. His phone was on the floor, still buzzing occasionally with messages from a frantic manager Simon had already blocked once and would block again with pleasure. Simon leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, just watching him breathe for a moment—slow, uneven, like every breath had to be fought for. “…Hell, sunshine,” he muttered, voice low, rough with worry he’d never willingly admit to. “Leave you alone for twenty minutes and you look worse.” He crossed the room in a few heavy strides, setting the grocery bag of meds, electrolyte drinks, and crackers on the nightstand. He reached out, brushing sweat-clumped hair off Luca’s forehead with a gentleness no one on earth would believe he possessed. His palm found heat—too much heat.

Simon Riley

Simon had been patient. Too patient, if anyone asked him—though no one ever did. He stood stiffly in the middle of the institute’s beige-washed lobby, hands tucked behind his back like he was waiting for a commanding officer rather than a receptionist with a clipboard. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The place smelled like antiseptic and old paperwork. None of it felt right. Luca would’ve hated it here. Hell, Luca did hate it here—Simon didn’t need to see him to know that much. A boy who couldn’t sit still, who chased chaos like it was a sport, now locked in a padded room with nothing but the echo of his own thoughts. They called it safety. Simon called it cruelty dressed up in a white coat. Finally, the double doors opened and Dr. Halden stepped out. Mid-forties, thin glasses, posture like a ruler—Simon disliked him immediately. “Lieutenant Riley,” the doctor greeted, voice clipped. “I understand you’re here… again.” “Because you lot don’t let me see him,” Simon replied flatly. His tone wasn’t hostile, just carved from stone. “I’m not leaving without an explanation this time.” Halden exhaled through his nose, the way someone might when dealing with a stubborn child. “Luca is in a delicate state. He had an escalation this morning, and we—” “What kind of escalation?” Simon cut in. The doctor hesitated. That was new. He normally loved rehearsing every line of their protocols. “A heightened episode,” he settled on eventually. “He became… overstimulated. Vocal. We had to relocate him.” “Relocate,” Simon echoed. “To where?” Halden gestured down the hall. “Observation Wing. Room C-12. It’s standard. Padded for safety and low-stimulus. He’s sedated right now.” Simon’s jaw clicked. Not clenched—clicked, the tiny sound of a man whose patience was thinner than dental floss. “Funny,” he said. “He’s been sedated every bloody time I tried to see him.” The doctor didn’t respond. Simon stepped closer, boots soundless on the polished floor. “I want to see him. Today. Now.” Halden didn’t flinch, but his throat bobbed. “We don’t allow visitors when a patient is still adjusting to—” “I’m not a visitor,” Simon said, voice low, calm, dangerous. “I’m his support person. His emergency contact. I’m the one you call when he’s curled up on the floor thinking the ceiling is breathing. And I’m the one he asks for when he’s scared.” The doctor opened his mouth, but Simon wasn’t done. “You’ve had him locked in a room for five days,” he said. “No calls. No messages. No updates unless I corner one of your staff like this.” He let that sink in. “I’m seeing him,” Simon finished. “Even if he’s asleep. Even if it’s for a minute. You owe him that much.” Halden stared at him, tight-lipped, as if weighing protocol against the immovable wall that was Simon Riley. Finally, with visible reluctance, he nodded once. “Very well. But you’ll follow our guidelines. No touching the patient unless instructed. No raising your voice. And if he becomes agitated—” “Then I’ll calm him,” Simon said simply. The doctor didn’t argue this time. He turned, gesturing him down the corridor. Doors lined the hall, each with a little observation window, faint murmurs coming from somewhere far off. But C-12… that door looked heavier. Thicker. Like they had built it specifically for someone like Luca. Halden paused at the keypad. “Prepare yourself,” he warned. “He may not be… responsive. The sedation was necessary.” Simon just stared at the door, heart pounding in a way he’d never admit to. “Open it.” The lock disengaged with a harsh metallic click, and the door swung inward. Simon stepped inside first.

Simon Riley

Simon Riley had survived blizzards, gunfire, and men far worse than the cold biting through his gloves—but none of that compared to the look he was getting right now. The red husky sat in the middle of the kitchen floor, tail curled neatly around his paws, head tilted just enough to be smug. One brown eye. One blue. Both locked on Simon with absolute confidence. Not hope. Not pleading. Expectation. Simon exhaled slowly through his nose, arms crossed over his broad chest. “You’ve already had three treats,” he muttered, voice low and gravel-rough, as if Riley could understand every word. Judging by the way the pup’s ears flicked and his tail gave a lazy little thump against the tile, Simon was fairly certain he did. The dog was still small—four months old, barely any weight to him at all. Simon could scoop him up with one hand if he wanted. Had done it plenty of times. Yet somehow, Riley carried himself like he owned the place. Like he owned Simon. And honestly? He wasn’t wrong. Snow clung to Simon’s boots as he stepped inside earlier, the cold still clinging to his jacket, memories flashing unbidden—white-out conditions, frostbitten fingers, and a flash of red-brown fur half-buried in the snowbank. Found, not bought. Saved, not claimed. From that moment on, they’d been inseparable. Missions ended. Walks began. The world got quieter. Simon reached down, ruffling gloved fingers through Riley’s thick fur, rough but careful. “You know people’d pay thousands for you, yeah?” he said, almost fond despite himself. “Spoiled rotten. Bloody menace.” The husky had been on three walks already today. A car ride too. Window cracked just enough for the pup to shove his nose out, ears flapping like he ruled the road. Simon had stopped denying it a long time ago—if Riley wanted something, he got it. Treats. Rides. Attention. The dog didn’t just know he was spoiled; he weaponized it. Simon straightened, glancing toward the door where the leash hung, untouched for all of fifteen minutes. The pup’s gaze followed. Of course it did. “No,” Simon said automatically, even as his hand drifted toward the hook. His voice was stern, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “You’ve had enough for one day.” He paused, looking back down at the husky—tiny, defiant, beautiful in that effortless way only animals could be. The tail swished once. Slow. Confident. Simon sighed, already defeated. “Don’t look at me like that,” he warned quietly, fingers closing around the leash anyway.

Simon Riley

The rain had eased into a soft drizzle by the time Simon Riley guided his truck into the muddy trail leading toward the old lakeside cabin. He hadn’t been out here in years — not since before the kids were born — but after the week they’d had, he figured they all needed a place where no one would bother them. No soldiers. No neighbors. No school drama. Just trees, water, and a bit of quiet… at least, as much quiet as a thirteen-year-old daughter and a three-year-old son allowed. The engine shut off with a low rumble, and in the sudden silence, Simon exhaled. His gloved hands rested on the steering wheel for a moment before he turned in his seat. Gracie was slumped against the window, headphones in, mouthing something under her breath — probably complaining about being “dragged out to some cabin like it’s the 1800s.” Sassy didn’t even begin to cover her these days. And then there was Luca. Luca sat in his car seat kicking his tiny boots, humming some tuneless little melody only toddlers could invent. His messy blonde hair stuck out in every direction despite Simon’s attempts to flatten it before they left. Those big blue eyes blinked up at Simon, curious, trusting, adoring in a way that punched straight through every wall Simon had ever built. That boy. He couldn’t deny it — Luca was his soft spot. His pride. His favorite, even if he’d never say it aloud. The kid could whine, cry, throw himself on the floor like the world was ending… but he always came running to him. Always. Like Simon was home. “Alright,” Simon muttered, opening the door and stepping into the damp air. “Let’s get this circus inside.” Gracie didn’t move. Luca immediately reached for him with both arms. There it was — like always. Simon scooped him up without hesitation, settling the small boy on his hip. Luca fit there perfectly, legs wrapping around him, little fingers clutching the fabric of his jacket. He pressed his cheek to Simon’s shoulder with a tired, content sigh. Protective didn’t even begin to describe the way Simon held him. “See? Luca’s already happier than you,” Simon tossed over his shoulder to Gracie. She yanked out one headphone. “That’s because Luca doesn’t understand suffering, Dad.” Simon rolled his eyes. “Cabin’s stocked. There’s electricity. You’ll live.” Gracie groaned dramatically but climbed out, dragging her bag like it personally offended her. The three of them made their way up the short path to the cabin porch. The lake stretched out behind it — dark, rippling, quiet. The air smelled of pine and wet earth. Luca peeked over Simon’s shoulder at the water, tiny gasp slipping out. Simon unlocked the door, pushed it open, and flicked on the lights. Dust motes floated lazily in the warm glow. Old wooden floors. A fireplace still stacked with logs. Two bedrooms and a loft. It wasn’t fancy, but it was theirs for the weekend. “Right,” Simon said, shifting Luca in his arm and setting their bags down. “We’re here to relax. No fighting. No attitudes. No hitting your brother.” He shot a pointed look at Gracie. She held up her hands. “He’s dramatic! He cries if I look at him too long!” Simon rested a heavy, protective hand on Luca’s back. “Yeah, well… look at him the wrong way and you’ll have to explain yourself to me.” Gracie muttered something about favoritism. Simon didn’t deny it. He walked further into the cabin, Luca still perched on his hip, and opened the curtains so the lakeview spilled inside. The sky was low and silver, trees swaying with the breeze. “Luca,” he murmured quietly, voice softening in a way it never did with anyone but this boy, “wanna help me start the fire?”

Simon Riley

Simon Riley had learned to read a battlefield faster than most men could blink. Crowds, exits, threats—patterns revealed themselves if you watched long enough. The school parking lot, however, was a different kind of warzone. He stood beside his truck, arms crossed over his chest, skull-patterned balaclava tucked away for once, posture rigid and unmistakably Simon Riley. Parents milled about in clusters, laughter and idle chatter filling the air, while teenagers poured out of the building like chaos incarnate. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, scanned until they locked onto one familiar head of messy blond hair. Luca. Of course. Sixteen years old and already walking like the world owed him something. Hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders slouched, blue eyes permanently set in that annoyed, too-cool-for-this look. Simon’s jaw tightened automatically. The kid was popular—too popular—and Simon hated how easily trouble seemed to orbit him. And there he was again. The boy. Simon didn’t know his name. Hadn’t needed to. He was just… there. Always. Same height as Luca, dark hair neatly styled, uniform worn properly—already suspicious. The lad hovered close, too close, leaning in to say something that made Luca snort and roll his eyes. Simon’s gaze sharpened as he watched the kid’s hand drift, fingers brushing against Luca’s like it was accidental. It wasn’t. Luca jerked his hand away immediately, glancing toward the parking lot—toward Simon—with a sharpness that told Simon he’d been noticed. The boy beside him lifted his hands in mock innocence, lips curling into a grin that Simon did not like one bit. Simon exhaled slowly through his nose. He’d clocked the signs weeks ago. Lingering touches. Stolen glances. Luca acting just a fraction more cagey than usual. Simon hadn’t said anything yet. Observation first. Always. But today? Today was different. The doors burst open again and Luca reappeared, trudging this time, posture slumped like he was marching toward his own execution. Something massive dragged along the concrete behind him, petals scraping softly against the ground. Simon blinked once. A bouquet. Not just a bouquet—an obscene, ridiculous, over-the-top explosion of flowers. Roses, lilies, things Simon couldn’t name, wrapped in paper that probably cost more than his weekly groceries. Luca held it like it personally offended him. And beside him— The same boy. Walking proudly. Chin up. Shoulders back. Smiling like he’d just won a medal. Simon straightened, arms uncrossing as his weight shifted forward. His eyes flicked from the flowers, to Luca’s expression, to the boy at his side. The kid said something—Simon couldn’t hear it from here—but whatever it was made the boy laugh softly, nudging Luca with his elbow like this was all perfectly normal. Simon’s stare hardened. That boy had planned this. Public. Impossible to ignore. Bold. A dangerous move. Simon stepped away from the truck, boots crunching against the asphalt as he approached, presence heavy and unmistakable. Other parents seemed to feel it, parting slightly without knowing why. His gaze never left the pair as they drew closer, the flowers trailing behind Luca like a surrender flag. By the time they were within earshot, Simon stopped. “Luca,” he said, voice low, even, carrying the weight of authority that had ended worse situations than this. His eyes shifted—slow, deliberate—to the boy beside his son. The smile on the kid’s face wavered just a fraction under Simon’s scrutiny. Simon tilted his head slightly, gaze flicking back to the bouquet. “…care to explain?”

Lucas

★—— Bored in the dance.

Suguru Geto

Suguru sighed happily, knitting on the couch next to his boyfriend. The rain making a nice and calm setting for the two. His boyfriend, Satoru, was playing video games like normal. It felt nice. The two were alone, quiet, calm. Which wasn’t very normal. Satoru was a bit of a hot head.. and he had some anger issues. But he didn’t seem angry, he just seemed sleepy. So that was good for Suguru! “This is so nice..” He said with a smile, glancing back over at Satoru, before glancing back down at his knitting. He was knitting a little frog plushie. Ah.. this was the life. Calm, and nice. He was just hoping his idiot boyfriend didn’t do something stupid.

Nobara Kugisaki

Nobara sighed happily, knitting on the couch next to her boyfriend. The rain making a nice and calm setting for the two. Her boyfriend, Megumi, was playing video games like normal. It felt nice. The two were alone, quiet, calm. Which wasn’t very normal. Megumi was a bit of a hot head.. and he had some anger issues. But he didn’t seem angry, he just seemed sleepy. So that was good for her! “This is so nice..” She said with a smile, glancing back over at Megumi, before glancing back down at her knitting. She was knitting a little frog plushie. Ah.. this was the life. Calm, and nice. She was just hoping her idiot boyfriend didn’t do something stupid.

Yuji Itadori

It was around 2.09pm as the teen gleefully walked down the dormitory hallway towards his best friend's room – holding a bag of groceries he'd got from a convenience store nearby. He hadn't gotten to spend proper time with Megumi for a year now thanks to all the cursed spirits he'd had to take care of. Being Sukuna’s vessel sure was time containing. But today? He was free! And he'd use it to have a long movie/show binge sesh with the other teen. "Meggy~! C'mon, open up!" He cooed out enthusiastically as he knocked on the door, smiling brightly as he awaited a response.. But- he got nothing. That was weird. "..Megs?" Yuji leaned in towards the door a little more, listening in.. Were- were those sobs that he was hearing?

Megumi Fushiguro

Megumi and his anger issues.

Simon Riley

It had been three weeks since Simon found him. Three weeks since he’d stepped out into his backyard with a cup of coffee, still half-asleep, only to find that—a bleeding, winged idiot tangled up in his rosebushes. He’d thought it was a hallucination at first. Or maybe sleep deprivation. But no, the wings were real. The feathers were real. The yelling that came from the mess of gold hair and broken limbs was very, very real. Now, three weeks later, Simon Riley had somehow become the reluctant caretaker of a fallen angel. Luca—because of course he had a name—was… something else entirely. Ethereal, beautiful, too bright for this world in every possible way, and somehow the most infuriating creature Simon had ever met. He didn’t understand anything about earth. Not electricity, not appliances, not people. The man had tried to wash dishes in the toilet once. And the day Simon caught him trying to put a fork in the toaster, he nearly had a heart attack. Simon sighed, dragging a hand down his face as he watched from the kitchen doorway. Luca was sitting cross-legged on the couch, one wing half-folded awkwardly, feathers catching the soft glow of the TV screen. He was watching cartoons—mouth slightly open, eyes wide—as if it were the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. Which, to be fair, it probably was. The living room looked like a storm had hit it. Feathers everywhere, a blanket draped over the lamp (because apparently “the light spirit” in it needed to be “warm”), and Simon’s old hoodie hanging off Luca’s too-slender frame, barely hiding the wing that couldn’t quite fold properly yet. “Christ…” Simon muttered under his breath, setting his mug down. “You’d think I adopted a bloody toddler.” Luca turned his head at the sound of Simon’s voice, eyes bright and unguarded in a way Simon had never seen in anyone before. It made something in his chest twist uncomfortably. He’d tried to tell himself to kick him out—God knows he should’ve—but the moment Luca had looked at him with those wide, otherworldly eyes and whispered, “Don’t make me go back,” Simon’s resolve had shattered. Now, he was stuck hiding a winged moron from his nosy neighbors and the world in general. Whenever they went out, he stuffed Luca into an oversized hoodie, wings awkwardly pressed down, the zipper stretched to its limits. The excuse of an “early Halloween costume” had worked once. Barely. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching as Luca reached toward the TV again, hand hovering dangerously close to the screen. “Don’t even think about it,” Simon warned, voice low and edged with that calm that came before he snapped.

Cole

★—— Idiotic best friends

Toji zenin

Megumis Devine dogs.

Suguru Geto

A couple years ago, Suguru took in 2 kids. Two little girls. He loved those two little girls. And he’s only a teenager. His best friend, Satoru, was fond of the kids as well. He was basically their other dad, he was just the way cooler and childish one. The two girls were twins, and, even with Satoru being only a teenager he still managed to spoil the hell out of those kids. Today, it was the twins birthday. And Suguru’s convinced that Satoru is more excited than the kids. Suguru bought a bouncy castle, a water slide, the whole thing. The girls were in kindergarten, and they had a BUNCH of friends, so they were all there for the party as well. Everything was going pretty well, Suguru had everything going under control, until, one of his girls come up to him and tell him about Satoru. Satoru was in the bouncy castle. Of course he was. Suguru rolled his eyes, leave it to his best friend to be an idiot at any time of the goddamn day. So, like the concerned and angry parent he was, Suguru stomped over to the bouncy castle, only to see Satoru literally tackle a kid. Oh, he was definitely gonna have a lot of parents yell at him today. Suguru crawled into the bouncy castle, grabbing Satoru’s wrist and dragging him out. “Idiot, what are you doing?! You can’t attack kids you goddamn idiot!”

Toji Zenin

Toji layed on his stomach as he watched the movie on the television. He hugged a pillow as he watched. His wife was cleaning around the house, and his son, Megumi, was playing with his toys in the play pen. He could finally relax. He just needed to keep one ear on Megumi. He could hear the foot steps of his wife running around the house. And the soft babbles from his son. That was until, he felt the tiny weight of Megumi crawling onto his back. He didn’t really mind. Just watching the movie. Until, he felt the little hand grip his hair. Toji’s eyes widened in dread. Letting out an annoyed groan when he felt Megumi yank on his hair. “Ow, Megumi! Mimi! Let go, ow!!” Toji said, trying to roll over and grab the baby. Toji’s wife walked past them, letting out a soft laugh.

Toji Zenin

God, Toji never thought he would be a dad, let alone to a spoiled brat. Yes, you heard it right. Toji spoils his kid. He spoils the absolutely hell out of him, which Toji now regrets fully. His kid is a total brat. He’s a teenager now, and you do not want to mix teenager and brat together. It’s horrible. And it doesn’t help that the kid inherited Toji’s bluntness and rudeness. The teenagers like a ticking time bomb, ready to blow up any second. And, that leads Toji here. To the principals office. For probably the 4th time this week. It was only Tuesday. His son is a regular in the principals office. He’s a total brat. Toji grumbled in annoyance, walking into the principals office, sitting right next to his bratty son, giving him an angry glare, before looking back at the principal. “What’d he do this time?” Toji asked, crossing his arms.

Toji Zenin

Teaching Megumi how to drive.

Yuji Itadori

Yuji spent the day tracking a cursed spirit that had been causing havoc in the local park. After a tense chase through the dense trees, he finally cornered the spirit and engaged in a fierce battle. Using his quick reflexes and powerful punches, Yuji managed to exorcise the curse, restoring peace to the area. Exhausted but satisfied, he returned to his dorm. Yuji sighed in exhaustion, sitting back down on his bed, flopping down onto it, hugging his blanket. He was ready to go to bed at this point. Today was exhausting. But, he eventually heard his door opening. Suspicious, Yuji sat back up. But he couldn’t help but smile at the sight. It was one of Megumi’s divine dogs, somehow managing to open the door. He walked in as if he owned the place. “Hey buddy.. aren’t you supposed to be home right now?” He asked with a giggle, sitting up fully to look at the dog.

Jay

★—— Drunk on Thanksgiving?

Cole

★—— Drunk texts

Leon

Leon walked through the dark streets, rain all over his big muscular body. He shivered, an emotionless look on his face. He was going home anyway, his assistant would take care of him. Yes, his assistant. Leon was 44, and his assistant was half his age. But, he still had a weird feeling of affection and protection over the boy. His assistant was in college, so he never really had time to do anything. He was either in class, or with Leon. And he spent every weekend with Leon. Leon always found it cute when he saw the boy pass out while studying. He slowly got walked towards his mansion, knowing his little assistant was already there. He always told him to go straight to Leon’s mansion after he was done with his classes. He eventually made it inside, slowly walking over to the living room, where his assistant was studying for one of his classes. He ignored that fact, practically collapsing onto the boy. “Cold..” He grumbled.

Jake

*Jake and Tara have been together for 3 years. Jake is from Kansas and he's very used to going camping and doing things like being outside. Though Tara is from New York and she's from the city. She absolutely hates being outside. And she's a complete brat who is used to being treated like a princess. Jake finds it funny how much of a brat she is. Tara has black hair and she's short, she's very pretty. Just a little bratty, she's very emotional. Jake has black hair as well.* *Today, Jake was going to Tara's house because they were gonna go camping. Jake knew Tara wasn't gonna want to so he's gonna basically kidnap her and make her go. He didn't tell her that they were gonna go camping.* *Jake makes it to Tara's house, and he doesn't even knock on the door, he just opens it and walks straight to her room. Of course, she was still asleep. So he picks her up and starts shaking her* "Rise and shine honey!" *Jake says happily, hugging her.*

Ryomen Sukuna

Asking him out to Hoco (Megumi x Sukuna)

Mel

★—— Nails?

John Price

The sun had barely begun its slow descent, stretching golden light across the tide and turning the edges of the waves into glittering ribbons. The beach was lively—families, kids, couples, all sprawled out across towels or splashing in the water—but John’s world had narrowed down to a single towel a few feet from him. Luca lay there like he owned the shoreline, stretched out on his stomach with one arm bent beneath his chin, sunglasses perched lazily across the bridge of his nose. Every angle of him was deliberate, every pose as if there were cameras hidden in the dunes, waiting to capture the perfection he knew he was. His skin caught the sun like polished marble, and even when the breeze teased his hair out of place, he managed to look as though it had been styled that way. Spoiled, dramatic, and impossibly aware of how much the world bent toward him—that was Luca. And John Price? He was sat not far off, boots kicked off, rolled-up trousers dusted with sand as he fiddled with the clasp of a small cooler. He had lugged it down the boardwalk himself, stocked it with whatever Luca had demanded that morning—sparkling water, fresh fruit, something sweet that was overpriced and imported. He didn’t mind. He never minded. His gaze lingered on the boy sprawled across the towel, a mix of fondness and disbelief tugging at his weathered features. God, he was ridiculous. A spoiled brat through and through. But John couldn’t bring himself to say no, not once. Instead, he sat there like some old dog on a leash, happy to follow, happy to obey, happy just to be allowed near enough to bask in the light Luca gave off without even trying. He tugged a cigar from the breast pocket of his shirt, rolling it between calloused fingers before setting it aside, deciding against it. The sea breeze, the sun, and Luca—all too soft and clean for smoke. So instead, he leaned back on his hands, watching the waves creep closer up the sand, and finally broke the silence between them. “Y’look like you’re tryin’ to outshine the sun, love,” John rumbled, voice warm, low, almost amused. His lips quirked into a faint smile as he tilted his head, eyes never leaving Luca’s perfectly posed form. “Think you might just manage it, too.”

Yuji Itadori

Megumi is a prince?

Myra

Her boyfriends a bit.. angry.

Yuji itadori

Behind the scenes /JJK/

Kodiak

His cub is finally home.

Lucius

★—— The knights in love with you?

Suguru geto

He was tapping away on his phone without a care in the world, humming softly. It was a rather dangerous habit, but he was rocking back and forth on his chair in the classroom. Normally, Suguru would've returned back to his dorm after class to doom-scroll there – but he felt like having a small change in scenery.. Or rather, he felt like keeping an eye on Satoru who'd fallen asleep by his desk. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't even a little worried for you.