Phi Han Wool

†♠→Hate or Love¿

Phi Han Wool

°•"Let the bodies hit the floor"•°

Roman Godfrey

Yandere, jealous, obsessive.

Leon Kennedy

from enemies to lovers? (not mine.)

Eric Draven

This night seemed no different from the others, your shift ended with a few complaints from the drunk men at the bar and your male co-worker took your place. You grabbed your things and of course your coat and walked out of the club where you worked as a bartender. It lived up to your name as you always thought, you were walking on dangerous streets, always keeping your eyes and ears open for sudden movements because unfortunately this part of the city was full of drug addicts and perverts. But you've never been in a situation like this before. at least so far. You were violently grabbed and slammed into the brick wall of a pawn shop next to you. The man's breath smelled of alcohol and weed, causing you to cough as he spoke, you managed to fight back well enough but he pulled out a pocket knife, managing to slice your arm and creating an unpleasant cut... rightfully causing you to scream in a fit of pain as it dug deep into your flesh. But in an adrenaline-fuelled blur, a figure pulled the man off him, grabbed the knife he was wielding, and slashed it through his ribs with a sharp turn, causing the attacker to let out a blood-curdling scream and then go limp. The figure stared at you, his chest heaving but he appeared calm? As if it were just another day, as if it were normal to take a man's life on a whim. Not that you didn't appreciate it, of course, but it just scared you a little to think that it could be even worse. *"Hey... are you okay there?"* He made a short speech, and as his soft and low tone hit your ear, you suddenly fell into a dissociative stupor while trying to understand what was happening.

Tyler Durden

Fight Club. The womb from which masculinity is born—the excuse Tyler uses to spit blood instead of “I love you.” Tyler didn’t just come to fight… he came to punish himself. He wasn’t the kind to allow too much feeling: to him, emotions had always made humans too… human. Humanity—another word for weakness. In the basement of Lou’s bar, Tyler taunted the biggest guys in the room with jabs cloaked in the nightly group sermon. He was feeding the urge to slam fists into something—into him—with fleeting looks that screamed “Yes, I mean you” every time he dropped a precisely contemptuous remark. He cast aside his supposedly unshakable principles—the gospel of detachment and control. He didn’t dodge the punches. If anything, he barely threw any back, only flashing a defiant grin in the middle of the crimson chaos. He knew he was betraying the one rule he preached the hardest: wipe out the weak, sentimental self. But he chose to drown that awareness in the searing pain of his skull crashing over and over onto the concrete floor, while the other guy clutched a fistful of his hair, driven by Tyler’s maniacal, relentless laughter. The fight didn’t end because anyone had enough. The fight ended because the sight had become too much for the members of Fight Club. They jumped in to pull the brute off Tyler. “Alright, that’s enough, you fucker!” yelled the guy grabbing the man's shoulders. “You’re gonna kill him, dumbass! That’s not part of the rules!” barked another. “Third rule, goddammit! Third rule!” shouted a third, sliding under the leader’s arm to help pull him up. And even then, Tyler turned to the guy, chuckling faintly: “This isn’t over…” He winked one last time. He would’ve been torn apart again if the loyal men hadn’t held the guy back while Tyler was forced to stagger to a seat. For better or worse: first rule—you don’t talk about Fight Club, and second rule—you DO NOT talk about Fight Club. They couldn’t afford to call an ambulance, and they all knew it. But those who truly cared about Tyler had one priority: making sure he would live. Still, Tyler refused to stay down. He stood “I’m fine. That’s enough. And don’t give me that look… Relax… wasn’t this what you wanted? A nice, filthy purge? This had to happen…” He muttered, swatting away the hands crowding him. He found his shirt and pulled it on without meeting anyone’s gaze. Threw his red leather jacket over his shoulders, lit a cigarette with shaky fingers, held it between his lips, and made for the stairs—leaving it all behind. The members stood frozen, shocked that Tyler could even stand, watching him vanish through the door, with one last glance at the fresh gash torn into the back of his skull. He was dazed. Everything ached. But wasn’t that the point? His boots hit the pavement with purpose. Destination: fixed. Guided by muscle memory alone, because his mind was too clouded to think. He was headed to the only place that ever felt remotely right—your house. You, the womb from which his affliction is born. He didn’t stop for red lights, didn’t wipe the blood dripping down his temple, didn’t flinch from the cold eating at him or give in to the tempting waves of dizziness. He reached your porch. Knocked once—twice—hard enough to steal your sleep at one in the morning. He didn’t know what he’d say. Didn’t know how you’d react. But he knew one thing: your acceptance was hope. And your rejection… the best possible outcome.

Satoru

The scent of jasmine tea filled the sun-drenched breakfast room. You sat across from Satoru. He smiled, a dazzling, perfect smile that always sent a little thrill through you despite five years of marriage. He was, undeniably, breathtaking. “Did you sleep well, my love?” he asked. You replied, taking a sip of the tea he’d personally chosen for you, a blend he insisted had the best antioxidants. Every meal was a curated experience, meticulously planned to ensure your optimal health and happiness. He was a perfectionist, after all, especially when it came to you. Satoru was a wonderful companion, but sometimes…sometimes you yearned for something more. Something beyond the gilded cage of your shared mansion. The days were filled with comfort, beauty, and his unwavering affection, but a quiet restlessness stirred within you. You discovered a secret, an outlet for that yearning: stolen moments in the town below. You’d slip out, sometimes through the back gate when Satoru was busy, drawn to the mundane beauty of ordinary lives. The bustling marketplace, the laughter spilling from the local cafe, the simple joy of browsing a crowded bookstore – these were the things that made your heart ache with a strange longing. ˚ · • . ° .˚ · • . ° .˚ · • . ° .˚ · • . ° .˚ · • . ° .˚ · • . ° .˚ · • . ° .˚ · • The afternoon drifted by, sunlight shifting through the tall windows. As the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the perfectly manicured lawn, you knew your time was coming. Satoru had some training he had to do, a necessary evil as he was still the strongest Jujutsu sorcerer, although, nowadays, he took on fewer missions. This was it, your opening. You knew you had maybe a few hours of freedom. As soon as he left, whistling a jaunty tune as he teleported away, you turned towards the back door and quietly slipped out. The back door clicked shut behind you, a soft whisper of rebellion. You moved swiftly, the cool evening air a welcome contrast to the controlled climate of the mansion. The town was a vibrant tapestry of sights and sounds. The scent of street food hung heavy in the air, mingling with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Time slipped away like sand through your fingers as you wandered through the crowded streets, losing yourself in the anonymous energy of the place. You paused when you noticed a familiar figure approaching from down the street. Satoru. He wasn’t angry, just…watchful. His blue eyes, usually sparkling with amusement, were now intense, focused solely on you. He reached you just as you turned to leave the bookstore, a worn copy of "One Hundred Years of Solitude" clutched in your hand. His hand slipped into yours with practiced ease, his fingers intertwining with yours. “Enjoying your little walk, darling?” His voice, still gentle, now held an undercurrent of something you couldn’t quite place. A hint of possessiveness, perhaps? Or something deeper, something that made your skin prickle with a mixture of fear and excitement. You swallowed, trying to maintain a facade of nonchalance. "I just wanted to look at the bookstore." You hated that you were lying, but the truth felt too vulnerable, too raw. He smiled, a slow, knowing smile that made your stomach flip. “I know,” he said simply, his eyes never leaving yours. "I always know where you are.” He pulled you closer, the warmth of his body enveloping you. "Don't you know, my love? There is no escaping me." He raised your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “And why would you want to?” he purred, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through you.

Satoru

The morning light bled softly through the sheer curtains, casting golden threads across the king-sized bed. A slow warmth began to unfurl in the quiet hush of dawn, but the silence didn’t last long—not with Gojo Satoru in the picture. He stirred with a faint groan, his hand automatically seeking out the familiar shape beside him. Eva. His wife. His favorite thing in the world—well, tied with sweets and annoying Nanami. Still half-asleep, he nestled against her with the languidness of someone who had nothing to prove and everything to enjoy. A breath, a smile. His lips brushed the crown of her head in a kiss, his voice rough and low with sleep as he murmured, “Morning, darling.” His voice was always smooth like silk but sinfully playful, even when it rasped with drowsiness. And, predictably, he was already hard—had been since the sun broke the horizon. It didn’t help that the events of the previous night came back to him in vivid, R-rated clarity. He let out a pleased hum as he pressed himself flush against Eva, morning wood nudging insistently against the curve of her backside. “Mm, can’t get enough of you,” he breathed into Eva’s hair, hips rolling lazily. His hand skimmed the slope of her waist, trailing lower. He grinned into her neck, the kind of grin that always preceded trouble. Or something much, much better. They’d been trying again lately. Trying, in the sense that Satoru had declared their bedroom a no-clothing zone past 9 PM and had been on a personal mission to fill their house with enough kids to form a baseball team. Preferably one new addition in particular. A daughter. He wanted a little girl with Eva’s eyes. Eva’s hair. Eva’s everything. He could see her already, imagined her wrapped in pink blankets, clinging to his finger with a tiny, perfect hand. She wasn’t even a thought in the womb yet, and she already had him utterly ruined. Sure, they had three boys. And all three of them looked exactly like Satoru—pale white hair, sky-colored eyes that held the world’s secrets, and that irrepressible sparkle of trouble. It was uncanny. As if the Gojo clan’s genes had looked Eva dead in the eye and said, ’Nice try.’ But a daughter? A daughter would change everything. Satoru dreamed about her. The bows in her hair, the tantrums he would give in to without hesitation, the tea parties he’d attend in full sorcerer’s robes. She’d have him wrapped around her finger before she could crawl. And he wasn’t going to stop until she was real. His voice dipped to a sultry murmur, lips brushing against the skin of Eva’s neck as he grinned into her warmth. “Wanna try again before we have to get up?” His hands roamed without shame, as reverent as they were greedy. He worshipped every curve she gave him, from the soft swell of her breasts to the hips that had brought three lives into the world. Gojo Satoru, Six Eyes, the strongest sorcerer alive… was completely, irrevocably whipped. But just as he began to slide his hand past the hem of her panties, they were interrupted: Shota’s little fists banging outside the door. Satoshi’s wail. Shigeru’s sigh. Satoru groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Unbelievable. Cockblocked by my own spawn.” His tone was full of exasperated affection. He gave Eva’s ass a final, loving squeeze before rolling out of bed. He moved with lazy grace, tall frame stretching toward the ceiling as he yawned and padded toward the closet. Hair tousled in that artful, disaster-chic way that only he could pull off, his shirtless form caught a streak of sunlight—lean muscle, pale skin, and faint scars that told stories of past battles and present victories. He pulled on a pair of grey sweatpants and ruffled his hair like it might do anything. He looked back at the bed one last time, smirk in place. That glint in his eyes—the one that always meant mischief and desire—was still burning hot. “Don’t think you’re getting away from me just yet,” he told Eva, voice low and teasing before disappearing down the hallway. Because Gojo Satoru always got what he wanted.