#I’m deleting this later…so it doesn’t make your days worse.

[kraang5]

tw: vent,swearing,mentions of child abuse

So, wanted to draw today, ya know? All fun sketches and actually finishing the art I promised to do!

BUT NOOOOOOOOOOOO. WE HAD TO GO TO MY PARENT’s FRIENDS. FUCKING GREAT. JUST TO GO HOME LIKE WE HAD A FEILTRIP TO CANDYLAND, AND FOR MOM TO BUY ME A PLUSHIE,ONLY TO SAY ‘sorry about last week’ LIKE YOU ARE SOME SORRY FUCKING VICTIM. IM NOT GOING TO FORGIVE YOU. YOU REALLY THINK I WOULD SAY ‘oh it’s fine mom’ AND GO ON WITH LIVE, AND FORGET ABOUT HOW YOU BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF ME LAST WEEK!?

WELL I WONT FORGIVE YOU. IVE ACTUALLY REALISED WHAT YOU HAVE BEEN FUCKING DOING. I ONLY NOTICED AFTER SOME NICE TUMBLR PEOPLE POINTED OUT IT WAS CHILD ABUSE. I NEVER NOTICED BECAUSE IM STUPID AND I CANT DO SHIT RIGHT. IM TIRED OF WHAT YOU HAVE DONE. IM..

im tired..im too tired for this..im overreacting..overreacting again. Just like the other times. Just like each.single.fucking.time.

[norikuna]

WHAT? LIKE IT'S HARD? ✶ choso kamo

abstract ✶ there are six physiological stages of having a crush. you just wish that you didn't have to learn this through first-hand experience. everyone said that choso kamo was a loser in high school, a quiet kid who haunted the campus with no friends. sure, he was brilliantly smart, but he dropped out in senior year. he even managed to break your heart, the glittering prom queen, with the world at your fingertips. imagine your surprise three years later, when you find yourself stuck with him in med school. what's worse? he's actually super hot now!

PART II. of the new years letters, a series of fics dedicated to some of my lovely mutuals! 🎁

pairing. choso kamo x afab!reader genre tags and warnings reader is practically a blair waldorf prototype (filthy rich, a bit bratty, spoiled), bestfriend!gojo, background gojo x geto, mentions of blood and injuries, med school, MISCOMMUNICATION, angst and hurt, fluff, kissing and making out. sukuna and yuuji cameos.

word count. 17.5k! song inspiration. crush culture — conan gray

a/n. shameless med student insert i rlly projected my full heart and soul into the anatomy lab ick. art belongs to all respective artists [will add credit!] crossposted on ao3 💖

dedication. for my dear kashika, first of all happy (belated) birthday @kasukuna 💗 wanted this to coincide with ur day but i'm late, i fear!!! you hype me up so much, send the sweetest asks and you're so damn talented that i'm left begging for an ounce of your creativity and amazing mind! your fics are so witty and well thought out and i like to think that you've spawned an incredible dumbass!bf sukuna renaissance on jjk tumblr 😭 idk if you remember but i sent you an ask on creamflix so long ago like the start of december asking you to choose between characters and au's so i tried lifting this as verbatim as i could from ur answer <3 hope you had the most amazing day ever!!

mp3. ✶ crush culture makes me wanna spill my gut out, i know what you're doing! tryna get me to pursue ya <3

You refuse to speak to Gojo Satoru ever again. Not today, not tomorrow, not in this lifetime nor the next. He’s officially dead to you, figuratively, of course. Unfortunately.

The moment he stops cackling like a deranged hyena in the middle of your bedroom, you’re going to shove him out the door so hard that he’s going to see stars. You’ll block his number, you’ll delete every photo of his smug grin, and you’re going to hire an exorcist to cleanse his essence from your life.

Except right now, your best friend is sprawled across your bed, practically writhing as he gasps for air in between bouts of ridiculous, chipmunk-like squeals. He’s still in his uniform, having crashed at your place after school, with his white shirt untucked, sleeves pushed to his elbows and his tie dangling uselessly around his neck.

“You are such a child,” you grumble, shoving your sticker-laden journal off your lap with a huff, just so you can aim a precise kick at his ribs. Satoru wheezes dramatically, clutching his stomach like he’s just been mortally wounded in battle.

“It’s -” he’s snickering, slapping the fine-thread sheets with the fervour of one trying to summon a higher power, “It’s just too good. I – oh my god, I really can’t breathe! I think I’m going to pass out.”

Satoru’s rolling over dramatically, dark-tinted sunglasses slipping down the bridge of his hawkish nose, leaving him to look like a cherubic bird with a bad attitude.

“If only,” you mutter darkly, arms crossed over your own blazer as you glare daggers at the white-haired boy, “It’s not that funny.”

But Satoru just doesn’t listen, of course. His grin is wide enough to split his face in half, and every breath that he takes is another affront to your polished dignity, and every stupid wheeze is a reminder that you made the colossal mistake of trusting this man with classified information.

“Keep laughing,” you say, your tone low and menacing as you snatch your phone off your nightstand, “And see what happens when I play offence.”

That gets Satoru’s attention, as he freezes mid-snort. Grin faltering just enough to make you feel a small and petty thrill of satisfaction, “You wouldn’t.”

“I would,” you say, already tapping away on your phone, scrolling past the ninety-nine notifications clogging Instagram. A certain raven-haired boy’s name hovers in your mind, one who shares the same initials as Gojo Satoru.

You’re not above sending a risky message.

Hey! Gojo’s been totally obsessed with you, ever since you bashed his head in with a spiral notebook back in seventh grade, and called him a spoilt, rich kid. He draws love hearts around your name every night. Just thought you should know, XOXO.

“Wait!” Satoru bolts upright so fast that his sunglasses fall into his lap, his grin morphing into a scowl as panic flashes in his too-blue eyes, “That’s playing dirty. Totally unfair.”

“You’re the one who laughed like a lunatic,” you say sweetly, tilting the phone towards him as if you’re about to hit send.

“You can’t be serious!” Satoru points a long, accusatory finger at you, his dramatic outrage undercut by the way his lips keep twitching, “I mean -” Another snicker escapes him as he buries his face in his hands, shoulders shaking again, “Like how? Of all people, you really have a crush on that guy.”

For a fleeting moment, you wonder if it’s too late to enrol in witness protection. It was clearly your mistake, deciding to tell Satoru critically sensitive information. Revealing the name of the boy that you were crushing on.

And yes, your type has turned out to be greasy Tim Burton reject loners who wander around school in faded Lord of the Rings hoodies.

You’re just totally head-over-heels for Choso Kamo.

“Whatever,” you snap, shoving your phone into the pocket of your school blazer with as much dignity as you can muster under the barrage of Satoru’s relentless cackles, “You wouldn’t understand?”

“Understand?” Satoru shifts himself with all the casual arrogance of someone who, unfortunately, has never been truly humbled in his life, propping himself against one of your enormous plush pillows.

The velvet squishes beneath his weight, gold embroidery bunching, but he’s utterly unbothered. “Enlighten me, we’re talking about the same Kamo right? The guy who sits behind you in class, and doesn’t so much blink in your direction? The one who looks like he’d rather gargle glass than talk to you?”

Another pillow sails across the bed before you even realise that you’ve hurled it. It strikes him square in the face, with a satisfying thwump! Muffling his laugh as he flails, tangled in thick, down stuffing.

“He’s just shy!” You insist, your voice rising as you get up to pace. Your Prada loafers click against the polished floor, before you kick them off. “And he only acts like that when others are around, by the way. He talks to me when it’s just us.”

“Oh, sure,” Satoru sits up, wrestling the pillow aside with a theatrical groan. His snowy hair sticks up at angles, like he’s been electrocuted, “That’s probably because he’s plotting his escape route while you corner him, like a lion closing in on its prey. Poor Kamo’s the gazelle.”

“Just know that I’m blowing you up in my mind.”

Satoru huffs, “So, what is your plan now? Are you going to ask him to prom? Are we going to see a proposal for the ages?”

You pause mid-pace, fighting the hot flush that creeps up your neck. It burns brighter as you glance towards the gilded vanity mirror, for that is exactly what you had wanted. You just needed to hear someone’s validation, “Should I?”

Satoru’s grin falters for a second, replaced with a look of sheer disbelief, “You’re kidding, right? That kid hates social events. You think he’s going to go with you?”

“Why not?” You’re fiddling with the crystal perfume decanters, the bottles of skincare on your vanity, “I’ve been dropping hints, okay? Subtle ones, all that manifesting shit.”

“Subtle?” Satoru snorts, “You mean letting half the football team pile bouquets into your locker? The locker that’s right next to his? Oh, yeah. Super low-key. Very humble.”

“At least I have options,” you snap back, flicking on the lights as the sun begins to sharpen its afternoon glare. Warm golden light spills across the room, catching on the ceiling-length silk drapes, “Meanwhile, I hope you end up alone at prom. Making ugly, kissy faces at Geto Suguru, while he’s with someone else.”

Satoru groans, like you’ve truly pierced his heart, “Cruel. So cruel when provoked,” but he’s propping himself back up on one elbow, “But hey, if you really do like Kamo, you know that makes him my future brother-in-law or something. That’s cool.”

Your gasp is sharp, scandalised, “Excuse me?”

“But think about it,” Satoru continues, ignoring your sputters, “You’re practically confirmed to be Prom Queen. Do you really want to drag that guy up on stage with you?”

“I think you’re being judgemental,” you mutter, tugging the drapes close and blocking out the faint twinkle of the city skyline, “He’d have to be insane not to say yes to me.”

“Someone is going to deflate that big head of yours one day,” Satoru says, and his voice has softened just enough to make you glance back at him, “You do know he cuts class a lot, right?”

“What’s your point?”

“I’m not being a bitch, I swear,” Satoru holds up his palms defensively, “He shows up for only half the month, you might want to check on your boy.”

You flop onto the chaise lounge, throwing an arm over your face tragically, “This isn’t the inspiring pep talk that I need right now.”

Satoru leans lazily against the gilded frame of your canopy bed, “Hey, it’s not my place to tell you what to do. But if you are that into him, then fine! Just ask him to prom and see what happens. And tell you what? If you ask Kamo, I’ll ask Suguru.”

You narrow your eyes, “Wow, this must be serious if you’re out here wheeling and dealing like this. Are you feeling okay?”

Satoru presses a dramatic hand to his chest, his grin morphing into something faux-solemn, “Cross my heart. I’m making a binding vow, like, it’s unbreakable. Life or death.”

“Deal,” you quickly say, ignoring the sudden leap of your pulse, because there’s no way that you’re letting him see how the sudden time-pressure is making your stomach twist into ugly knots. You point towards the door with a flourish, “And as much as I love our time together, I need to get ready. So…out! Chop-chop.”

Satoru groans like you’ve just asked him to drag a boulder uphill with his teeth, slumping off your bed in exaggerated defeat. He sluggishly reaches for his discarded backpack from the floor, slinging it over his shoulder, “I still don’t get why you bother with working. You and I both know that we don’t need it,” he mutters, as if the concept of responsibility personally offends him.

“It’s just babysitting,” you gently correct, shrugging on a cashmere cardigan from the back of your chair, “And anyway, you know I need a well-rounded list of extracurriculars for Pre-Med.”

“I’d rather eat my sunglasses, one lens at a time,” Satoru shoots back, adjusting said sunglasses squarely over his face, “Instead of being stuck babysitting brats all evening. We’re not meant to be saints.”

“It’s just one kid tonight. New family, new house,” you reply, grabbing your bag where it rests by the vanity, “Anyway, I expect a full report on your prom date by tomorrow, Satoru. I’m not forgetting that vow.”

Satoru pauses in the doorway, with the edges of his grin sharpened into something that makes you pity Geto Suguru in advance, “I never disappoint.”

You had finally managed to shove Satoru out of the doorway, his obnoxious laughter echoing faintly down the hall. The quiet that follows is a relief, albeit short-lived. You’re left standing in the stillness of your room, phone in hand, thumb hovering over the text with the address of tonight’s gig.

Honestly, Satoru might have a point. You, the only child of one of the country’s most obscenely wealthy families, babysitting? It’s not like you’re chasing pocket money or trying to build character. But medical school applications don’t only care about your bank account, there’s so many extra boxes to tick. Factors like being selfless or dedicated to the community.

The request had been odd from the start. Some child had called you himself, and normally, it’s the frazzled parents who handle that kind of task. His voice had been small, but determined, saying that his brother was out, and he needed a sitter for the evening. Something about the earnestness of it had softened you, though, now you were starting to regret the whole thing — seeing how far out this house was from your own penthouse.

Showing up in the Bentley with tinted windows and your chauffeur had felt a little off brand for this role. So, in the name of relatability, you had popped a piece of cherry gum and a book, taking on the bus. The sticky seats and questionable patrons had almost been enough to make you reconsider, but the suburb itself offered a strange charm.

It was quiet here, too quiet, the kind of place that might have once been picturesque, but it had gone soft around the edges. The homes were older, cozy but tired, with paint peeling in places and lawns that were overrun with weeds. You wrinkle your nose as you step off the bus, weaving through tufts of stubborn greenery and abandoned toys in the yard.

The house that you’re looking for stands a little crooked, but sturdy. It’s faded shutters are barely hanging on, and a basketball hoop leans precariously over the driveway. There’s a small, red toy car that’s entirely faded and scratched, sitting forgotten near the porch steps.

Just as your knuckles hover over the worn wood of the front door, it swings open with such force that you nearly stumble backwards. A blur of motion catches you off guard, and you’re suddenly face-to-face with a tiny, pink-haired whirlwind.

The boy’s grinning up at you, wide and gap-toothed, with big golden eyes. His hair is wild, a fluffy crown of rosy strands over a dark undercut, and his scraped knees are haphazardly patched up with dinosaur bandages.

“Wait here! I’m going to get my brother!” He chirps, his voice bright and slightly whistly, thanks to the missing tooth. Before you can get a word in, he’s gone, sprinting back inside with the energy of an overeager puppy, leaving you stranded on the porch.

You shuffle awkwardly, glancing down at the scratched paint on the doorframe. There was something endearing about the child, and you’re starting to feel less apprehensive. That is, until the door opens again, and time slows.

Your heart stutters, skips, and then plummets. As if someone’s dropped you into an industrial freezer. Standing there, with one hand resting lightly on the kid’s shoulder, and an expression that’s one part confusion and one part disbelief, is Choso Kamo.

It’s as if the universe has conspired against you, playing its most cruel and ridiculous joke yet. Tall and broad, with tired eyes that sweep over you in slow recognition. Dark mark twitching across his face, like a deliberate smudge of ink.

Choso’s blinking, startled to see you here, though his usual stoic expression has yet to crack. Meanwhile, your inner monologue is screaming a symphony of pure panic. You can already heal Satoru’s stupid squeals in your head.

The pink-haired boy tugs on Choso’s arm, “See, I got a babysitter! Isn’t that cool?”

Choso glances down at the kid, then back at you, his lips parting as if to speak.

“Uh, hey,” you manage. The picture of eloquence, the master of the verbose elite.

It strikes you, with almost absurd clarity, that you’ve never seen Choso outside the campus bubble. No dim library corners, no lab tables cluttered with textbooks, or heavy beat-up laptops parked in front of him. Gone are the oversized hoodies thrown over his school uniform, or the baggy jeans he dons when he forgoes the dress code entirely. Instead, he’s here, standing in the soft glow of the broken porch light, wearing a loose black tee and dark track pants.

His chestnut hair is free from the two greasy, spiky knots that he favours on his head, falling softer around his face. Your traitorous heart lurches, feeling a sharp pang of betrayal.

“You’re the babysitter?” Choso’s voice cuts through your spiral. Raspy as always, roughened like rock salt, but there’s something else threaded into the question. A flicker of irritation, and confusion. As if he’s struggling to reconcile you, with the person standing on his doorstep.

“You didn’t know when you booked?” You shoot back, aiming for casual indifference, but landing somewhere closer to petulant. Your eyes flick to the box he’s holding, with contents that glint faintly in the light. Suspiciously metallic, as if he’s cradling surgical tools.

Choso follows your curious gaze, exhaling sharply, and shifting the box to a nearby table, just out of your line of sight.

“I didn’t book,” he grunts, “Told Yuuji to check the ads, and pick one.”

“And I picked the best one!” The delighted chirp comes from behind Choso, as Yuuji reappears, practically bouncing with a sunny grin. His golden eyes are locked on the ribbon-wrapped box in your hands, and his expression is lit up with unabashed glee.

You glance down at the box, containing an array of decadent artisan doughnuts. Saffron glaze, coconut cream, pistachio and chocolate. All from that impossibly chic Swiss patisserie downtown. You ignore the dull ache building between your eyes, smiling as you hand the box over, “These are for you, little man.”

Yuuji’s already snapping his hands for the box, as though you had just delivered a treasure chest of gold doubloons, “Can I have one? Please? Pretty-please?”

Choso glances down at him with a long-suffering look that somehow manages to carry an undertone of fondness, “Just one,” he warns, his voice dry but warm, “For now.”

Yuuji doesn’t need to be told twice, bolting towards the kitchen and clutching the box to his chest like a sacred relic. The faint sound of icing being smacked off fingers echoes from somewhere around the corner.

Choso watches him go, before turning back to you, his posture easing slightly. “That was nice of you,” he says, his voice softer now, almost tentative, “But he’s going to crash hard after that sugar high. Good luck.”

You wave off his scepticism with a breezy smile, “I’m good with kids. I’ll manage.”

For a moment, the boy’s expression shifts. Something fleeting and unreadable flickers across his face, a hint of thoughtfulness or something heavier.

Another thought gnaws at the edges of your mind, a tiny spectre of dread wrapped in Gojo Satoru’s smug grin. Two hours ago, though it feels like a lifetime now, you made a pact.

You ask Kamo, I’ll ask Suguru.

At the time, it had seemed like an impossible bluff. But the thing about Satoru is that he’s infuriatingly reliable when he sets his mind to something. No matter the cost.

Which is why you’re here now, sweating under your cashmere sweater. The fabric is suddenly too soft, too warm, clinging to the nape of your neck. You, with half the school population ready to pen sonnets just for a chance to take you to prom. Jocks, debate captains, the crème de la crème of eligible dates. All overlooked in favour of the quiet boy that no-one seems to notice.

The boy whose locker was assigned right next to yours, empty and cold steel. While yours was glittered with Polaroids, and pastel sticky notes, and the occasional folded love letter. The boy that everyone said had no friends, but he was easily the uncontested valedictorian. The boy that you desperately wanted to ask to prom.

Choso is shuffling papers on the table, avoiding your gaze like it’s a laser beam. His movements are slow, and deliberate, but there’s an edge of tension in the way his fingers linger on a set of silver keys, before he slips them into his pocket.

“What?” His voice breaks the quiet, low and rough like gravel underfoot. It startles you out of your spiralling thoughts.

“Nothing,” you blurt out, far too quickly. You’re grasping at straws to keep the conversation going, “Where are you headed?”

Choso hesitates, a slight hitch in his movements, picking that cardboard box again. For a moment, you think he’s going to ignore your question, but then he mutters, “Work.”

You tilt your head, your curiosity outweighing your better judgement to never press Choso Kamo for more than two sentences in a conversation.

He shifts uncomfortable, and you catch a glimpse of latex gloves tucked neatly inside before he angles it out of view, “I…clean up things,” he says finally, his tone clipped as though every word is a concession, “Errands. I’m a cleaner.”

The kind of response that’s designed to kill conversation in its track. It’s vague, annoyingly so, but you let it slide, “Oh.”

You’re this close to spontaneously combusting. The pact, the reason that your hands shake when you catch yourself staring at Choso Kamo for just a second too long. It’s either now or never. Rip the band-aid before your central nervous system completely betrays you and implodes.

Objectively speaking, you’re a real catch. Second-best grades in the cohort, from an old business dynasty that rivalled the Youngs from Crazy Rich Asians, two-time prom queen with med-school practically knocking on the door. Yeah, a dream. College applications adored you. Surely, Choso would have had to be running on a clone’s brain stitched into his head to say no.

Yet, somehow, it doesn’t make your heart beat any less erratically. It doesn’t erase the hollow pit that’s clawing at your insides. And now, you’re wishing that you had asked for advice from someone with an ounce of finesse. Like Shoko, or Utahime. Not your best friend who called himself The Honoured One.

You clear your throat, the taste of artificial cherry gum still lingering, “So, are you going to prom?”

Choso snorts, the sound entirely dismissive. But he seems to realise that you’re not joking, flicking you a glance, like he’s deciding to humour you, “What’s it to you? Need me to vote for you to be prom queen?”

You roll your eyes, fighting the flush creeping up your Burberry sweater, “Didn’t I already ask you to do that, like, two months ago?”

His lips twitch, barely, like he’s holding a smile back under layers of indifference, “Yeah. You pestered me three times. And I actually did it.”

You latch onto the softer tone in his voice, “So, are you going to go, then?” You’re watching him, almost desperate for a sign, for anything other than no.

Choso’s shoulders tense, “Can’t.”

“Can’t?” The word slips out of your mouth before you can stop it, incredulous, “What do you mean can’t? Why? You need to study or something?” You’re trying so hard to sound indifferent, like you’ve got a roster of dates lined up. And well, you do. But this is the only one that you want. The panic creeping into your voice betrays you before you even realise it.

“No,” Choso replies, his tone quieter, “I really just can’t go.”

A weight drops in your stomach, heavy and cold. Is this what rejection feels like? The thought hits like a wave, leaving you breathless. Your heart’s flipping in your chest like it’s teetering on the edge of cliff, seconds away from freefalling into nothing.

You inhale sharply, steeling yourself for the words that are about to spill out.

“I want you to be my date for prom.” “I can’t go because I dropped out.”

The words slam into each other, and for a moment, everything freezes. Choso’s mouth has fallen open, the curve of his lips slack with shock. As though as someone’s hit the pause button on him, mid-thought. You blink at him, your brain becoming a skipping CD. Round and round, never quite catching the beat.

“What did you just say?” Your brows knit together in a sharp pinch, like your face can’t decide whether to wince or frown. But Choso just grimace, lips curling into a tight line as his shoulders stiffen.

“You first.”

Your fingers fidget around the cream Van Cleef that rests on your throat, tracing the cool edge of the pendant. It’s one of your mother’s newer gifts, the kind that comes with all the frills and none of the warmth. Her true transactional brand of maternal affection.

“I wanted to ask if you’d go to prom with me, as my date,” It spills out of you in a jumbling mess, like you’re tripping vowels and consonants over each other. Choso’s eyes widen, but you barrel on before he can interrupt, “I mean, I get it if you think it’s lame or boring, or you just don’t want to go. But I promise my friends are actually really nice, and you can sit with us.” The rest of your monologue trails off, crumbling to dust, “I just really wanted to ask you.”

You wish to sink into the floor, like the soft earth will swallow you whole. You can almost picture Satoru’s ridiculous proposal to Geto Suguru, no doubt involving fireworks or an airplane trailing a banner.

The air is so still, you can hear the faint crackling of Yuuji’s incessant doughnut quest from across the small house, his movements clumsy and unintentionally loud as he rips open cellophane for more than one sweet treat.

Choso’s shifting slightly, and there’s a faint blush creeping onto his cheeks. The pink hue is a stark contrast to his usual sickly pallor. Even his ears are a shade darker, and his jaw tightens like he’s chewing on something bitter and struggling to swallow it down. It’s hard to tell if he’s upset or just lost. Or somewhere in-between.

“You wanted to go with me?” His voice is low, hoarse, like the idea is too outlandish for him to even process. You don’t know whether to laugh or apologise.

“Mhm.” It’s all you can manage, your throat suddenly dry and tight.

“I dropped out of school two days ago,” Choso mutters, as he runs a hand through his dark hair. He’s glancing at you, with the ghost of an apology flickering across his expression, but the shock that you can’t seem to mask makes him wince, “Look, it’s not a big deal. And it’s nice that you asked, but…”

“Dropped out? Like, entirely out of school?” Your voice cracks, each word climbing higher like you’re stepping on a broken escalator, “Why? What happened?”

Never let anyone tell you that teenage love is simple, or wholesome. Full of first crushes, and sweet moments. Because this? It feels like someone ripped the floor out from under you, the air yanked from your lungs, leaving you stranded. And it’s not a pleasant feeling, being denied something that you want, for the first time in your life.

Choso shrugs, like he’s been answering this question a thousand times already. Though, you’re sure that this is the first time he’s said it to out loud to anyone, “Family stuff. Just had to.”

You try to piece this together, for this house does smell faintly of stale coffee, and the worn leather of the couch has clearly seen better days. You can tell, on some level, that something is off. That there’s no parental figure in sight for little Yuuji, just the harsh edges of whatever it is that Choso seems to carry on his own.

You can feel the words bubbling up again, stupid and reckless, “But you know you just can’t leave. You’ve got the top marks in the class, Choso. And you know that you were on a scholarship, right? For one of the most elite schools in the country? How are you ever going to get that again?”

The second they leave your mouth; you hear how self-righteous and insensitive you sound. You already regret it, almost reaching up to slap your hands over your face.

Choso’s expression darkens, his face tightens. Like a storm cloud rolling in, as his lips pull into a tight and angry line, “Back off,” he snaps, voice suddenly sharp enough to cut, “You don’t know a damn thing about my life.”

His sneer twists, not with malice, but something deeper. Harder, like he’s being chewed up by all the things he never got to say before, “Don’t worry, though. I’m sure they’ll make a big, shiny tiara for when they name you valedictorian. Maybe, it’ll match your prom dress.”

“Hey!” Your eyes well up, stupid heat of tears prickling behind your eyes, and swelling a thick lump in your throat, “That’s not what I meant.” You cannot believe that you’re tearing up, over this. Over wanting something that you can’t have, and someone who seems to have more to lose than you ever thought possible.

Choso’s lip curls into a half-sneer, but there’s a flicker of something else there. His posture shifts, as if he’s trying to fold in on himself. He lowers his voice, still low and uncomfortable, but careful. Careful, because his little brother is just down the hall.

“I don’t need your pity, okay? Or your help.” His fingers grip the metal of the net door, “I have to go now. Just look after Yuuji.”

The heavy clang of steel on mesh echoes in your ears, sharp and final. The sound lingers like a ringing in your skull as you stand there, utterly paralysed as your mind scrambles to catch up with the wreckage of what just happened. Your five-year crush crashing down in five minutes.

Your feet move, and you find yourself in the bare dining room. Yuuji’s perched at the table, with a doughnut half-eaten in his hand, a mess of pistachio cream smeared across his chin like a brave trooper. There’s an iPad, an old, scratched model, with a silicone tiger case, propped up in front of him. The screen is flashing with something, like blueberries. Bouncing in time with some peppy tune.

“Did Choso leave for work?” Yuuji asks, utterly oblivious to the emotional landmine that his brother left in your hands. His eyes are wide, curious, the innocence of a kid who still thinks the world works in neat, little boxes.

“Yeah,” you say, forcing a smile, “He works a lot, huh?”

“Oh, yeah,” Yuuji mumbles through a mouthful of pastry, sugar clinging to his lips, “He always gets upset when Uncle Kuna’ calls him in. Even after school.”

Choso has never mentioned an uncle. Or a brother, for that matter. But then again, why would he? You had never even asked for his number, never bothered to learn anything beyond what was right in front of you. You realise, with a strange pang of guilt, that you’ve built your entire image of infatuation with Choso, from incomplete sketches. Filling in the blanks with whatever fits into the tiny box you’ve kept him in.

“Hey, do you have Netflix?” Yuuji’s voice cuts through your thoughts, bright and eager. “I want to watch How to Train Your Dragon. It’s Fushiguro and Kugisaki’s favourite movie!”

The names are unfamiliar, but Yuuji’s excitement is infectious. You cannot help but smile at the boy, his messy hair and too-big shirt. It’s hard not to be fond of such a kid. You take the iPad from his sticky hands, logging into the app. All the while, chasing yourself around mentally with a baseball bat for the biggest fumble of the century.

If last night felt like a disaster, this morning was just the encore performance. And you were the unwilling star. Just the effort of peeling yourself out of bed felt like an Olympic event. And facing your reflection of swollen eyes and blotchy skin felt like punishment for sins that were way out of your paygrade.

Reluctantly, you’re tugging on your blazer, and clipping a barrette into your hair. There’s a sparkling, diamond tennis bracelet fastened around your wrist. All little things that you need to don like armour, to face your senior year, the student population and the empty locker that would remain untouched next to yours.

Satoru and Shoko are the first faces that you spot in the crowd, and Satoru’s practically bouncing down the hall, “Oh, yeah, I got it locked in,” he announces, cheeks flushed with an absurdly boyish grin, “I got it in the bag.”

He’s sliding his sunglasses down just enough to peer at you, wordlessly handing you his coffee cup, as is your morning ritual. The overly sweet, creamy warmth does nothing to ease the ache in your chest, and your lip-gloss stains the edge of the paper.

“What about you, eh?” Satoru chirps, but you must look blatantly devasted. Because your best friend’s grin falters, the corners of his mouth pulling down.

“Wait, you’re joking right?” His voice is marred with disbelief, and his eyes scan the hall like he’s trying to spot someone’s dark head of hair, “Where is he? Jughead Jones lookin’ ass? Shoko, do you know where Choso Kamo sits? Because I’m going to give him a real piece of my mind and —”

You cut him off, abruptly shoving the coffee back into his warm hands, “It’s fine. He dropped out school, anyway.”

Shoko hums beside you, her fingers absentmindedly twirling a strand of cinnamon-brown hair. The chipped polish on her nails catches the fluorescent light, “Prom queen and valedictorian in one year? Not a bad run for you.”

You glare at her, and Shoko’s doe-eyed expression softens. The breeze from the open window catches her sleek hair, making it sway gently, and she shifts. Voice dropping to something quieter, more thoughtful, “That really does suck, though. Sorry.” She sounds like she means it now, her usual flippancy up in smoke, “I didn’t even know you liked him like that. Not until Gojo told me, like, two hours ago.”

Your eyes snap to Satoru who, for once, has the good sense to shut his mouth.

Shoko’s voice is subdued, “I wonder if it had anything to do with him being called into admin.”

“Wait, when?” Satoru interrupts. He’s taking another long slurp of his sweet mocha, the froth giving him whiskers.

“Three days ago,” Shoko shrugs, “Some big guy rolled up to the office. Demanded to see the principal. No idea who he was, but he was important. And rich. Like you need to be super wealthy to call the shots in a school for the children of the top one percent.”

You must look tragic, because even Shoko pauses mid-chew. Her lollipop moving from one side of her mouth to the other. She looks at you, really looks at you. You can see the careful shift in her demeanour, as though she’s considering the most diplomatic answer that she can offer you to avoid making things worse.

“Well, you don’t have to go to prom with anyone, right?” Satoru says, the words hanging awkwardly in the air like a balloon that’s just lost its helium. His consolation is well-meaning, but a bit clueless. But now, his sunglasses are perched atop his head now, leaving his eyes exposed. Icy blue, framed by lashes so long that they practically flirt with his eyebrows. For once, there’s a flicker of real concern in them, clouds passing over clear skies.

“I know,” you gripe, your voice flat as you find yourself glaring at a group of juniors who are skipping by, with their phones out in unison, clicking away like it’s a competition. Fantastic. You can already see the gossip Instagram stories by lunch, wondering what happened to you. Rumours milling about the reason for your glum expression.

Shoko shifts her heavy bag onto her shoulder, patting your arm. “I’ll see you at lunch. My treat,” she says, turning her heel for the Chemistry building. Leaving you alone with Satoru, as Shoko quickly picks her pace up to catch her Honours class.

“So,” you start, keeping your eyes on him out of the corner of your vision, watching how his fingers twitch around the coffee cup, “How did it go with Geto Suguru?”

Satoru’s shifting, as though he’s trying not gloat, but clearly bursting to tell you, “It was nice,” which is an unusually subdued, sensitive explanation from Satoru. The one who can take five hours to tell a story that you could wrap up in ten minutes. “He was really friendly. More than I thought he would be.”

“That is nice.” You’re forcing some perk back into your voice, but it comes out rather weak, “Like, genuinely.”

Satoru crumples the empty cup in his hand, tossing it into a nearby trashcan. Then, he shoots you a sharper look, “Did you actually talk to Choso, like, in-person? How did that go?”

You exhale, “Turns out I was babysitting his little brother,” and Satoru’s eyes widen slightly, “He was fine. And then he wasn’t. I asked him to be my date, and told me he dropped out. I said something…stupid. And now he’s going to hate me forever.”

Satoru stares at you, his gaze sharp, as though he’s dissecting you. And you swear that he can see right through your skin, right into your bones. It’s moments like this that make you feel like maybe your best friend has a sixth sense, some secret radar for picking up on these things.

“Wow,” he murmurs, a touch of something in his voice, “It really got you bad, huh?”

You bristle, a mix of annoyance and embarrassment flooding your chest. You’re straightening your shoulders, but it’s all too obvious and so fucking frustrating, “Yeah, well, I don’t even know why it matters so much.” The bite in your voice is more directed at yourself, than him.

Satoru doesn’t flinch, just tilts his head, and he’s quiet. It’s a weird look on him, soft concern, “You genuinely really liked him that much?”

The truth sticks to your throat as your chest tightens, and your eyes blur. It would be nice to tell Satoru that you didn’t really care that much. That it was never fully that serious, but the lie won’t leave your lips. The lump in your throat is palpable, and all you can do is sniffle, “Yeah. I did.”

“Do you want to cry?” Satoru’s voice is gentle enough to catch you off guard.

You open your mouth to retort, something sharp and defensive. But before you know it, tears spill as your chest constricts. It’s sudden, like a storm that breaks on the horizon.

And just like that, your best friend pulls you into him. For once, the wild energy that crackles off him is gone, replaced by something quieter and more unwavering. You can feel his shoulder under your cheek, soft and warm, salt staining the expensive fabric. And if anyone does see you sob into Gojo Satoru’s arms, while the white-haired boy pats your back, no one says a word.

But to borrow a line from Bangtan Sonyeondan, life goes on. The next few months slip by like the kind of indie film that you’d see at film festival. It’s bittersweet, and there’s a melancholy that everyone can taste in the air, especially as you all realise that this last blue spring of youth is slipping through fingers like sand.

In this haze of time, you discover a few things that you didn’t expect. For instance, Geto Suguru is, in fact, far more than the tall and brooding figure that you once shrugged off. He’s the stillness to Satoru’s sharper teeth, the quiet that counters the blue eye of the storm. He’s soft-spoken, with an easy patience that tempers Satoru’s edges. He’s become a bit of a constant presence, as they always bicker and makeup in a sort of perpetual cycle.

Spring arrives like a first kiss. It’s hesitant, not rushing in. Just tiptoes around you, tentative enough as it coaxes you out of winter’s gloom. Before the flurry of sparkly gowns and speeches, there’s Utahime’s birthday to celebrate. It’s supposed to be a relaxed affair, she insists that she has no desire for fuss. But you all show up anyway, surprising her with a giant, pastel cake that takes up nearly half the table.

Her laugh is loud, and carefree, mixing with the salt of the ocean breeze on this beach trip. Her black hair whips around her face, even as she blushes at the attention. She’s protesting, but it’s swallowed by laugher, by the sound of waves breaking against the shores.

The awards and titles are all well and good, prom queen and valedictorian. A shiny, little stamp on your high school resume, a golden ticket to the next chapter of your life. But when anyone brings it up, or someone presses too hard on the subject, you shift uncomfortably, your fingers toying with the edge of your pre-med acceptance letter like it just might tear under the pressure of your grip. No-one talks about how you’ve been visiting your locker less and less.

Satoru, of course, loudly denies crying at graduation, even as salty, shiny tears tack to his cheeks. They’re practically immortalised in every digital snapshot that you take. But for now, he’s too busy wrapping everyone in a bear hug, clutching the group that it’s the last time he’ll ever see them. Nanami’s already peeling him off, shaking his head with a worn sigh.

It's late in the morning after the graduation ceremony, as you all pile into cars, driving to a riverside café. It’s one of those places where people with money go to prove that they have money, to prove that even their breakfasts are above the meals of the common folk. But you all sit there, with the graduation ribbons still pinned to your lapels. There’s the debate over who cried the most during the ceremony (Gojo, easily, though Haibara is a close second) and who’s the one who peaked in high school. Everyone unanimously votes for Geto, who sulks as he tosses his hair out of his face, ever the drama queen.

“Bullshit,” he’s grumbling, “Just you wait. You’ll see what I accomplish in ten years.”

Satoru grins, all teeth and lazy confidence, “Yeah, what? You’re going to start running a pyramid scheme cult?”

Utahime’s voice cuts through the chatter, her white ribbon flouncing as she leans towards you, blinking at the empty space in front of you, “Where’s your food?”

You wave her off with a smile, “It’s fine. You guys can go ahead and start, I’ll just go and check.”

You hear Satoru choke around a mouthful of food, already bulldozing half his way through his plate like a bottomless pit.

There’s a pretty glass display at the front, filled with delicate chiffon cakes that glisten in the soft light. You wonder if you should have just ordered one, perhaps to share with Nanami. You know he likes desserts like this.

“Can I help you?”

Your pulse stutters as you bite your tongue, heart crashing against the rocks. You soothe your tongue over the tang of iron that blooms in your mouth from the stupidly familiar voice.

Choso Kamo.

You’d like to say that he looks good, but the truth is, he doesn’t. The hollows beneath his eyes are far more accentuated than you remember, and his hair is pulled back into a messy knot at the back of his head. Even his pale skin has taken on a sicklier pallor than usual.

“Hello?” His voice cuts through the silence, sharper this time, carrying an edge that takes you by surprise.

“Oh, uh, hey. Choso. Just wanted to check on my order,” you say, like it’s a poor prelude to small talk. It sounds far too chipper, almost artificial.

Choso’s expression tightens immediately, in an ill-omen. It’s as if he’s irritated that you even have the nerve to recognise him, to stand there in his space. He doesn’t meet your gaze, his attention flicking back to the screen in front of him with a quickness that almost feels deliberate.

“Hello.” He’s muttering back, more out of obligation than any real interest. Like it’s a formality.

The sharp, hollow feeling in your chest expands, deeper than you’re willing to admit. The last time you saw him, you had been standing at his door, and he had slammed it in your face.

“What are you doing here?” Your question is clumsy, hanging in the air, and far too intrusive for a stranger.

“What?” Choso doesn’t even look up. But then he does, just briefly, his gaze flicking to yours with the same disinterest. He shrugs, as though the query is too trivial for any answer.

“It’s just…it’s been a while, yeah?” You’re not quite sure how to word and I want to know how you’ve been.

“I’m fine,” Choso replies quickly, dismissing your question with a wave of his pale hand, “Just working around here and there.”

It’s offbeat, landing wrong. You don’t think it’s unfair to think that everyone expected more of him. One of the smartest, most brilliant minds in your cohort, who had been a shoo-in for medicine, alongside you.

The bustle of patrons behind you intensifies, but you stubbornly dig your heels into the polished tile, “How’s Yuuji?”

The mention of his younger brother softens him, just a little. A small, bashful smile tugs at the corner of Choso’s pink lips, hesitant, like he doesn’t quite know how to let it show, “He’s good. Says you were the ‘bestest’ babysitter that he ever had. Even asks about you sometimes.”

You fight the urge to smile too openly, not wanting to seem too affected by the gentleness that suddenly lingers in the space between you two, “I’m glad. And…are you still working for your uncle?”

It’s as if you’ve thrown a switch, causing all the warmth to evaporate from his features. His jaw tightens, as his brow furrows. Settling a coldness over his expression, “Who the fuck told you that?”

You blink, surprised at the sudden harshness of his words. “Yuuji mentioned it,” you murmur, quieter now, careful. The hesitation in your voice isn’t feigned, and you realise you’ve broken the golden rule of ‘never push Choso Kamo about his personal life.’

Choso doesn’t seem keen on letting you explain, as his glare cuts through you, “If you wanted to snoop into my life, just ask me your stupid questions, okay? Don’t drag my little brother into it.”

The accusation lands like a slap, stinging you more than you expected, “What? I wasn’t snooping,” you insist, defences flaring open, “He told me that himself. I didn’t even ask him anything, and I didn’t ask anything else!”

He just stares at you, eyes burnished and unreadable, but he seems mollified by your answer. Like he knows that your explanation is sincere, but the chasm is nigh impossible to bridge, “Sure. Okay.”

You don’t know how to respond, opening your mouth to ask what on earth has made him so unreasonable. To dig the tips of your almond nails into his long sleeves, and demand that he treats you as adoringly as everyone else in your life does. But he interrupts you first, “Your order’s coming.”

Choso’s tone is clipped, colder. As though he’s already moved on, “And I’ve got a lot of other customers to serve. Nice seeing you again, or whatever.”

A dismissal, if there ever was one. The embarrassment rushes up your neck, hot and insistent, but you bite your tongue. You let your heels clack a little more loud than necessary, as you stomp away. You’re swivelling your head to deliver a final, withering stare but his gaze is no longer on you.

Choso’s looking at the table where everyone is sitting. Where your friends are laughing, leaning into one another as they snap their final graduation photos. Where Geto has his lips pressed to Satoru’s cheek in a rare display of affection, arms linked with Shoko and Utahime. Where even Nanami’s smiling, the sunlight leafing through his golden waves of thick hair.

There’s no anger in Choso’s eyes, or even that solitary, brooding stare. He looks almost…sad. Profoundly sorrowful, in a deep and aching way that makes your anger dissipate.

He’s looking at your friends, at their graduation certificates stacked in sleeves on the table, as though he’s lost something that he never had. It aches your chest tightly, a knot pulling at your heart.

Once, he was Choso Kamo — the quiet boy you liked in school. Then, he became Choso from the café. Soon, he'll be someone whose name you won't even remember in a few years, someone who's path you'll probably never cross again.

You find yourself blinking furiously, feeling as though you've just lost something yourself, but you fight back the salt that threatens to blur your vision before your friends see.

THREE YEARS LATER.

Your day had started off deceptively well, like a glass of water poured perfectly. Clear, refreshing, with no chance of spilling. The sun was shining, your skin looked like it was having its best day, and there wasn’t a cloud in sight. But of course, it didn’t take long for things to spiral, as they tend to do.

It was like playing a real-life Sisyphus game, except instead of a boulder, it was a series of small, dumb annoyances that you couldn’t dodge fast enough.

First, Satoru had texted to cancel lunch. And to be fair, you weren’t that bothered. He had been talking all week about a world-renowned professor dropping in on his fourth-years Honours class, something about nuclear engineering. And you knew that Satoru lived for anything involving theoretical mass and explosions.

Then, your favourite tote bag had decided it was done with you. The strap had snapped off with a surprising, sudden violence. Your beautiful new water bottle had hit the floor with a sickening, metallic thud. Pens rolled across the tiles like little soldiers. You had been kneeling, already late for class, muttering curses under your breath when your phone had rung.

Your mother.

And you already knew that tone well enough, that voice that could cut through steel.

“You missed the charity dinner? You know how embarrassing it is for your father and I to come up with excuses, just to explain your absence —”

Yeah, like you had personally insulted her by choosing to study for your exams, instead of milling around an event hall. You tried to explain, but it was like trying to explain Satoru’s quantum physics to the wall. Totally pointless, and not worth your time and energy. And naturally, her tone escalated, because that’s what she just tended to do. Nevermind that she was calling from some ritzy hotel in Europe, crackling over the phone.

And then, just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse, the course coordinator paged you in for a meeting. You were still in your first few weeks of medicine, so you had been scratching your brain for what he could have possibly wanted, snapping gum as you rushed and clacked up stone steps, breezing through campus.

Now, here you were. Standing in front of his desk with your arms crossed, almost petulantly. The room smelled like old coffee, and expired textbooks as the man coughed, leaning back against his desk, littered with academic transcripts and stacked envelopes.

“Look, there’s no denying that you’re one of our most brilliant students. All the tutors and lecturers admire your work ethic,” and the professor stopped, and you grimaced. Ah, here it comes.

“But, you’ve chosen Ieiri Shoko as your partner for the past three years, am I correct in saying this?” His dark eyes are narrowed behind wiry glasses, as you frowned.

“Yes.”

Shoko had practically excelled in Pre-Med alongside you, surviving late night study rants, extreme caffeine dependency, and textbook-induced breakdowns.

“You work together well,” the coordinator adds, looking like he was trying to make this sound like a compliment, “But you need to branch out. Develop your versatility. In a noble field, such as medicine, it’s important to be able to work with others. Not rule and conquer.”

You blink at him, “Branch out? I don’t know how else to say this, but I don’t like anyone else in my class. And Shoko and I are easily the best.”

He ignores your comments, “So, I’ve thought it better to move you to a new stream. Instead of Tuesday’s clinical practice, I’ll have you attend the Thursday session, starting today. There’s a new partner for you, and I assure you, he is just as competent as Ieiri Shoko,”

You doubt it. No-one can handle the sight of infected perineum stitches like Shoko can.

It seems there’s only one card left for you to pull, “My grandfather paid for this entire wing of the building. His name is on the plaque outside.”

The coordinator doesn’t even budge, “That may be true. But you still need to grow. You will never learn if you just continue to stick with what is familiar.”

You leave the office with a sour taste in your mouth, clutching the crisp sheet of paper that’s already being emailed to your student account, no doubt.

“Collaboration,” you’re muttering under your breath, “Building character, my ass.” You’re squinting at the page, trying to decipher the name of your new stream partner, but it’s obscured by a hastily scribbled note with your classroom change.

The faint ache in your neck refuses to budge, and you roll your shoulders with a sigh. Pushing through the double doors to the anatomy facility. Immediately, the frigid air bites at your cheeks, sharp and unwelcome. These buildings always feel like high-tech mausoleums, with tables lined up like gleaming altars. Surfaces cold enough to numb your fingertips if you’re careless.

The faint, cloying scent of formaldehyde hangs in the air, sharp and chemical. It’s supposed to preserve the cadavers, but it has the unfortunate side effect of making your stomach growl at the worst times. Hunger, and embalming fluid. A combination so disgusting that you try not to dwell on it for too long.

Your lab coat is rubbing uncomfortably against your arms, and your Loewe sweater is bunched awkwardly around your elbows. It’s a long-suffering sigh that echoes the hall as you shove the heavy barred doors to the classroom.

The tutor is a stalk-like man, with perpetually knitted brows, glancing up at you as you enter, “Ah, yes. The transfer,” he’s brisk with it, “Got the note about you moving to my Thursday stream. Just sit over there, for now. Yeah, there. Your partner should be along soon. If he’s a no-show, I’ll reassign you to a different table.”

You nod wordlessly, scanning the room as you head to your non-descript, assigned corner. The faces at the other tables blur together, some curious and others indifferent. Most focused on pushing worksheets under steel clipboards.

Great. A room full of strangers with all the warmth of wet cardboard.

Sliding into your plastic seat, you pull your notebook out and flip it open, the pages crinkling and echoing in the too-quiet room. It’s a minute, maybe two of shifting uncomfortably in your chair, feeling the awkward hollowness of sitting alone at a two-person station. But the door swings open with a groaning creak.

“Perfect! Full class today, that’s what I like to see. Just head to your usual spot, and I’ll start passing the models around.”

You glance up, squinting at the figure who’s broad enough to cause a solar eclipse of the fluorescent light.

“Get out,” you blurt.

“This is my class,” Choso Kamo stares at you, equally bewildered. His bronze eyes widen briefly, flickering from your face to the lab tables, to the unaware tutor.

“Don’t care. Get out,” you scowl, speechless for a moment, “No. Don’t sit. This is my assigned stream. Don’t tell me that you’re my —”

“Partner?” Choso finishes for you, deadpan.

“Of all the people in this entire school —”

“I’m starting to feel offended,” Choso cuts in, already pulling out the chair beside you, and slinging his bag down with an air of resignation.

“What are you doing here?”

Choso’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t quite smile, “I’m getting an education. Obviously.”

Your gaze flickers away from his unfairly handsome face, following the motion of his hand as he shifts. There’s a single black hair tie, looped around his wrist.

But something just does not add up for you. This isn’t just any medical program. It’s the kind of rigorous, cutthroat, soul-consuming degree that requires three years of a top GPA from Pre-Med. It’s designed to weed out the faint hearted before the first semester is even over. Graduates here don’t just get jobs. They get titles, and invitations to Westminster where the British monarch probably bestows them with Dame, or Sir, or some other archaic title.

And Choso Kamo is a high school dropout, with nary a certificate to his name.

“You got into medicine?” It’s as blunt as you can get.

“What? Like it’s hard?”

“Don’t quote Legally Blonde at me,” You snarl, wordlessly taking the tray of silicone gashes from the tutor.

Choso blinks, as though he’s truly stumped by your hostile reaction, “Then don’t ask stupid questions.” He seems…different now. Sharper, and less apologetic. There’s a streak of confidence that’s as unnerving as it is infuriating. Is he taller? He seems taller.

You exhale sharply, a sound between frustration and resignation. It’s not like you can go up to the course coordinator now and say, ‘Oh, sorry! I can’t be in this stream because my new partner is the boy who broke my heart in high school. I cried and threw up on my best friend’s blazer for three days.’

But you’ve definitely given the group chat enough material to fuel their devious amusement for days, even weeks. You’re practically writing the jokes for them.

With a defiant swing of your arm, you hoist your bag onto the desk. The soft leather tanking against the sterile surface, like a gauntlet being thrown. You slide it firmly into position, the strap dangling just enough to make a point. That this is your line in the sand.

“Don’t move one centimetre over your side of the desk.”

Choso just rolls his eyes.

“They…modify bacterial ribosomes.”

“Wrong.”

You sigh and tap the edge of your notebook with the tip of your mechanical pencil. The rhythm is irregular, your thoughts too scrambled to produce anything like a steady beat.

“They inactive carbapenems,” you try again, your tone pitched with the kind of hope that knows it’s already on life support.

“Nope.”

Choso’s shaking his head, the movement loose and lazy, and it sends strands of his chestnut hair tumbling into his face. The harsh fluorescent lights above make his hair shine with an almost metallic lustre, and as he tugs a thick sweater over his broad frame, your gaze drifts.

The fabric of his white top is riding up, revealing a pale stretch of skin. There’s the faintest dusting of dark hair trailing downwards, and your eyes snap back to the textbook. Your cheeks flushed, for the briefest second as your resolve breaks.

“Just tell me the answer.”

Choso exhales, in a soft and patient sound, sliding the textbook your way. He’s tapping the page with his finger, his blunt nail landing on the highlighted sentence.

“Extended-Spectrum Beta-Lactamases hydrolyse a wide range of beta-lactam antibiotics, including third-generation cephalosporins. This contributes to antibiotic resistance.” His voice is smooth, but it carries that faint rasp that always makes it sound like he’s just woken up.

“I was close.”

“Close doesn’t get you any marks,” Choso replies, deadpan.

Your retort dies on your glossy lips, when a sharp shhh cuts through the air. You glance up, spotting a student two tables away, glaring at you over the rim of her stylish tortoiseshell glasses.

Your next sip of coffee is deliberate, making an obnoxious gurgle as you drain the bottom of your cup. Choso’s eyes flick to the order scribbled on the side, Caramel Crunch Latte, Extra Whip. His lips twitch, but what can you say? Satoru’s dropped a habit or two on you over the years.

This has become the routine over the past few weeks. The outright disdain you had initially felt had eroded, once you had realised that you were truly stuck with the man. It had become something closer to a begrudging truce, but ‘truce’ may be too generous a word.

The two of you found yourselves studying together. Regularly. Choso needed to interact more with people, and less with his old, dusty laptop. And you needed a study partner that could match your wits. Unfortunately, Choso seemed entirely oblivious to the reason you nursed an ancient grudge against him, choosing to accept your bad attitude in stride.

It doesn’t help that Choso is, well, hot now.

In high school, he had always been cute in that underdog way. Endearing, if not exactly the type to inspire confidence. He had been the subject of your sweet trope-like fantasy that you would nurture during long, dull classes.

You, the radiant prom queen, standing under a canopy of glittering lights, extending a perfectly manicured hand to him. The shy, awkward loser who’d clearly underestimated how gorgeous his messy hair and tendency to trip over his own words were. Ugh, now you’re not sure who had been the bigger loser.

But three years had passed, and the Choso that sat across from you now bore only a passing resemblance to that daydream. Time, it seemed had been suspiciously kind to him. Unfairly, even. His frame was lean but undeniably defined. His shyness remained, because you knew that he refused to correct the woman at the food trucks whenever she got his name wrong, but it had softened into something less clumsy, and more self-contained. Far less teenage angst.

The dark violet smudges beneath his eyes were still there, giving him that haunted and sleep—deprived look. And his hair was still the same stringy, chestnut mop that you remembered. But it was more of a deliberate statement now, instead of an oversight. It hung just over his shoulders, and you had heard many a passerby giggle and whisper about hot emos on campus. Like, get in line.

“What are you doing next weekend?”

The question comes so abruptly that your head snaps up like a spring-loaded trap.

“Huh?” You blink, the tip of your pencil teetering dangerously close to snapping against the page.

Choso stares back at you, his expression maddeningly neutral, “Like, are you busy?”

“It’s my friend’s birthday on Saturday, we’re going out at night,” you’re narrowing your eyes at him, already feeling your composure fray.

It’s Suguru’s birthday, and Gojo’s gone full-out with a surprise planned at some five-star restaurant. You managed to get your hands on a vintage vinyl turntable for him, courtesy of a Sotheby’s auction.

Choso nods, like he’s filing that away somewhere, “What about Sunday?”

“Sunday?” You repeat, dragging it out, “I’m free, I guess.” Against all reason, you find yourself answering honestly, even as some internal voice is screaming at you to lie and make up an excuse.

“Do you want to study at my place?”

There’s a pause, long enough for the air to grow heavy between you two. You wonder if he remembers the last time that you asked him to go out with you. Your eyebrows shoot up, and your mouth must be twitching in something close to incredulity.

Choso notices, for his ears go pink first. Then his cheeks, like someone’s spattered him with a splotchy watercolour paint. The flush sits pretty, just under the dark mark that crosses the bridge of his nose, “No, I mean, like really study. Just studying. It’s easier than being here…” He twitches, looking anywhere but you, “Yuuji would be happy to see you again, and stuff.”

And stuff. How ridiculous that two words make your heart trip over itself. Your three-year resolve to keep him firmly in the do not touch zone has basically cracked wide open. There’s a traitorous smile tugging at the corner of your lips, but you manage to suppress it. Barely. Playing it off with a nonchalant hum.

“Hmm. Sure, I’ll think about it.”

Choso lives in an apartment now. Not a polished high-rise with sleek fixtures and panoramic views, but a tired and unremarkable building with flickering yellow lights that cast long and ominous shadows along the stairwell. You clutch the slip of paper that he scribbled his address on, squinting at the nearly illegible scrawl. It’s barely decipherable, a penmanship perfect for prescriptions and indecipherable notes.

In your other hand, you balance a box of cream rolls from the bakery that Nanami swears by, their golden horns stuffed with airy dairy and dusted with cinnamon sugar. The smell is warm and sweet, a sharp contrast to the questionable stairwell.

The ascent feels longer than it should, each step accompanied by the faint swing of those tired lights overhead. But you bite back any judgement, you’ve made that mistake before.

Someone else is already there, a tall figure that knocks on Choso’s door with wide, lazy knuckles. Once. Twice. The man huffs, pocketing his phone and pulling out a key. There’s a practiced ease to the way he clicks the lock open, and for a moment, you hesitate, wondering if you’re witnessing a breaking-and-entering type of situation.

But there’s something familiar about the muted shock of rosy, pink hair that spikes over his head.

“What are you doing?” His voice is rough, deep, with an edge of irritation that makes you stand a little straighter. He looks over you once, and his eyes fall on the box of pastries in your hands. Disinterest giving way to a little bit of curiosity. It reminds you of Itadori Yuuji.

“Uh,” you clear your throat, “Choso invited me.”

The man’s eyebrows lift in surprise, and you’re fascinated by the tattoos that curl around his face. Even running along his jawline, and down his neck. There are silver studs littering his ear, and if you didn’t know better, you would say that there are real precious stones scattered among them.

“Didn’t know he had a date.” The man seems gruffly amused, and you stomp your heels, the sound snapping off worn walls.

“It’s not a date. We’re studying.”

“Don’t care. Didn’t really ask.”

With that, he swings the door open, stepping inside before you can. You linger in the doorway, before hesitantly following him, watching as he kicks the door shut with his heel. He seems to be making himself at home like he owns the place, peering through an empty fridge and rifling through cabinets. All before collapsing on the sagging couch like it’s his throne, sprawled out as he starts scrolling through his phone again.

You just perch awkwardly on the edge of a cold chair, as the space suddenly feels oddly claustrophobic. Your fingers toy with the edge of your notebook, as you wonder whether you need to call Choso, to see if this was all a mistake. Instead, your gaze flickers over to the man sitting opposite you.

You’re sure that he comes from money. You’ve spent enough summer holidays backstage at Milan and Paris shows to recognise the season’s latest pieces. And the crimson racing jacket on his shoulders is definitely a Dior piece that costs more than what you assume is the rent of this entire apartment complex. Plus, you had spent enough time flicking through Van Cleef’s catalogue to recognise the whirring, high-jewellery piece that sat on his wrist. A watch with an eye-like mechanism, studded with Burmese rubies. Easily the price of your penthouse.

“So, you friends with Choso?” He asks suddenly, lowering his phone. His eyes are sharp russet, locking with yours.

“We know each other from high school,” you say, trying to keep your tone neutral. It’s best to leave it at that, it’s safer that way. You’re playing Choso’s game, the one where you don’t share a thing about your personal life.

“Hmph,” The sound is more of a grunt than a response, and it makes you bristle. Why bother asking a question if you’re not interested in the answer?

“Did I leave the door unlocked?”

You hear Choso’s faintly bewildered murmur, almost to himself, before he catches sight of you. It’s cute, how a bashful smile creeps over his face again, almost embarrassed at the sight of you. But it darkens instantly, sharply. His bronze eyes are fixed on the man that loiters on his couch.

“Get out.”

The man is unfazed, “Why? Am I interrupting your date?”

“It’s not a date. We’re studying.” Choso’s mirroring your exact, previous words. His tone is stiff, like you’ve never heard it before. A snarl, with irritation bubbling underneath the surface.

“I don’t know how else I can stress this enough, brat. But I really do not care what you do to get off.” The man drawls, pushing himself off the couch. He’s absurdly tall, easily the height of the ceiling. You catch a glimpse of the tattoos trailing up his forearm, dark ink that winds around his wrist. A startling splash of red staining the sleeve of the pristine jacket. It’s dried up now, crusting the edges of the fabric. Sort of like…

Weird. And impossible.

Choso grunts, “Fine. Get up. Go,” and he’s gesturing towards a door leading into another room, his jaw clenched tight. The muscles in his neck are taut, the apology in his expression at you somehow mixed with a faint flicker of regret, like he wishes you weren’t here to see this.

What happens next is an absolute masterclass on being nosy. You’ve edged closer to the door, shifting on the couch so you’re practically perched on the armrest. You can hear the muffled thrum of Choso and the stranger’s voice through the door, but it’s not enough. Curiosity is clawing her sharp nails at you, and you wonder if you should text Satoru. Or maybe drop a quick message in the group chat.

You end up leaning in closer, ignoring the way that you’re teetering on the very edge.

The conversation is low, like the rumble of thunder in the distance, but the voices are gradually building until —

“What? You did not just fuckin’ throw something at me!” The man’s voice booms so loud that you almost jump out of your skin, “What is wrong with you? Can’t even have an honest conversation these days?”

Choso’s response is tight, simmering with frustration that you don’t understand, “Nothing you do is honest. And don’t break into my place then!”

“Your place?” The man’s scoff is almost a sneer, like he’s amused at the mere thought, “Brat, let’s not forget all the favours I’ve done you.” There’s a crash, something hitting the floor with a thud, and the man’s voice bellows again, “Oi! Put that down right now. Don’t you dare throw something else at me. Fuck, you’ve got good aim, I’ll give ya’ that.”

You can hear Choso shuffle, spit something sharp in response.

“You’ve done all these things for me before, eh? Why the hesitation now? Got tired of cleaning it all up?”

Choso’s response is firm through the thin walls, “I’m done with doing your dirty work all the time.”

The silence that follows is thick, suffocating, punctuated with a low and disbelieving laugh.

“You said that last time. But you came crawling back when you couldn’t handle looking after the kid all on your lonesome.”

“Leave Yuuji out of this!”

There’s another muffled scuffle, a loud thud that makes your heart race as the stranger growls, “Can’t believe you bit me.”

The door swings open with a suddenness that almost knocks you off your seat. Choso’s practically putting his entire back into shoving the man out with a sharp grunt, like he’s had enough.

The stranger turns, giving you a lazy, bored wave. Like he knows that it will simply irk Choso off even more. And he’s right. Choso, not having it for a second, snaps at him, “Get out. And don’t come back.”

The man rolls his eyes, but not before pulling out a pricey Italian wallet, slapping a wad of thick bills down on the kitchen counter, “That’s for this month. I’ll send a cheque next month for the little brat’s birthday.”

Then he’s gone, muttering something about bitchy, little bastard children, born on the wrong side of the sheets, with sharp teeth.

Choso’s whirling around to you, his expression unreadable and blank. Like the surface of still water that refuses to betray even a ripple of emotion. You school your features, meeting his gaze with a look of equal, quiet disinterest.

“Friend of yours?” You ask, your voice cool. But there’s questions dancing on the tip of your tongue, and you can taste them in the air.

He doesn’t answer right away. He’s flicking through the thick stack of bills that the stranger left on the counter. The sound of cash shifting in his hands is oddly loud, and you whistle low, almost involuntarily. It makes Choso look up, catching your appreciative gaze. His fingers tighten around the stack, his jaw clenching, as if to keep in whatever thoughts or words are threatening to spill out.

“Don’t say anything.” His voice is a low mutter, hard.

“I didn’t.”

Choso looks at you again, his hazel eyes softening just enough that you catch the flicker of something unsure. He lets out a low sigh, “But you want to ask.”

“Will you let me ask?” You’re pushing, your voice a little softer and coaxing than you intended. You can already see the signs, the slight stiffening of his shoulders, the way his gaze flickers to the door as if he’s considering an exit. Choso’s like a clam, snapping shut, as if there is a pearl that he’s not ready to share.

“What do you want to know?” He’s saying this like it’s a chore, as if it is the last thing he wants to do.

You make your way to the kitchen counter, “What will you tell me?”

If Choso is irritated by the vague, passive nature of your questions, he doesn’t show it. He simply tugs his purple sweater down, sharply. “Yuuji will be sad if his uncle didn’t send him money for his birthday. He turns ten next month.”

“So that was…Uncle Kuna,” you ask, murmuring more to yourself than to him. But Choso’s sharp gaze flicks to you, a faint confirmation in the nod that follows.

“Mhm.”

And just like that, something clicks in your brain. A conversation that you had overheard once, perhaps a year or two ago. A rare moment that both your parents had been home, still too distracted to realise that you were listening. The realisation hits you hard, like a small shot of adrenaline, “That’s not Sukuna, is it? Ryomen Sukuna?”

Choso’s amber look is like fragile glass now, “Yeah. How’d you figure?”

In a world such as yours and Satoru’s, it’s quite hard to avoid gossip, and whispers that float around in the backrooms of business meetings, or in the too-quiet halls of private clubs. For all the older business-clans, Sukuna is quite the upstart. A man who clawed his way to the top, not just content with money, but power and influence as well. Apparently, he made quite the name for himself, building an empire with wealth beyond measure.

And all at the low price of being wanted in more than thirty-five countries and territories. A businessman, a crook and a criminal. Your father said that Ryomen Sukuna’s ledgers were written in red ink, fresh blood for both personal and financial debts that were owed to him.

“Why did he say that you came crawling back to him?”

Choso’s eyes flutter shut, and you can see that he’s calculating whether it’s worth the effort to respond.

“He’s the reason I dropped out of school,” Choso mutters, the words low enough that almost don’t catch them. They land with a soft thud, the kind that makes your pulse stutter. You stare at him, with the kind of look that people give when a ticking time bomb has just been dropped in their lab.

Choso scoffs, eyes darting away, “Yeah. He’s always been sending money for Yuuji. And I was stuck doing his…favours.”

Suddenly, you’re back in high school. On Choso’s doorstep, watching him try to hide a cardboard box of surgical tools. There’s a little corkboard map in your head connected with red strings, as you pin other things on there. The latex gloves in the box, Choso’s general lack of squeamish misery when it comes to the stickier parts of medicine, and the bloodstain on Ryomen Sukuna’s Dior jacket.

It’s almost odd, in a morbid way, that a crime boss chooses the latest Vogue streetwear, instead of a dark Godfather suit and a cigar.

Your expression must betray the pieces that you’ve put together, because Choso’s eyes widen, like he can see the cogs turning in your brain. “Look,” he stammers, voice rougher now, with a nervous edge, “I didn’t do anything wrong. Never saw what he did. Not really. Just —”

You shush him gently, a hand reaching out to land on his, a little too quickly and a little too hot. The instant your skin brushes against his, there’s a sharp feeling. Like you’ve touched something that burns beneath the surface. His face flashes a faint pink, muscles stiffening as though your touch seared him in a way he wasn’t prepared for.

“Go on,” you hope that your tone is reassuring.

Choso swallows, his throat bobbing as his fingers suddenly curl around yours, “Anyway, I got tired of doing his dirty work, you know? Thought that if I dropped out, I could get a job. Work enough to support myself and Yuuji, without taking a single dollar from him.”

“But he’s your uncle?” Your question is tentative, like you’re testing the waters of a deeper pool, “Wouldn’t he support you, too?”

Choso’s sigh is deep and weary as he gently corrects you, “He’s Yuuji’s uncle. Yuuji’s my half-brother.”

Suddenly, Sukuna’s comment about ‘biting bastard children’ snaps into place with clarity. Oh.

You’re not sure what to say now, what words could possibly fill the emptiness that lingers between the two of you. What a misery it would have been. Being a teenager with such potential, forced to close off your own future for the sake of family, and those that you love.

You remember Choso’s face that day, after graduation, with his hollow expression as he watched your friends celebrate their youth. There’s a bitter lump in your throat, but for once, you keep it down. This really isn’t about you.

You frown, the thought sneaking up on you and settling in your chest like a splinter you can’t ignore. “He said you owed him favours.”

Choso exhales sharply, his shoulders stiffening as if bracing for something unpleasant. His voice is low, bitter. “You think high school dropouts pay their own way into med school without a benefactor?”

Right.

“So?” Choso’s voice cuts through the fog of your thoughts, and you blink at him, startled.

“So, what?”

Choso shifts, unease seeping into his posture. His calloused fingers are still curled tightly around yours, like he’s afraid that you’ll pull away and slip past him.

“Are you angry?”

You’re not sure whether to laugh, or sigh, “Why would I be angry?”

He’s hesitating, dark hair falling loose around his face, “I was a jerk to you.” The words come quietly, like they’ve been gnawing at him, biting at the edges of his thoughts, “At the time, I don’t know, I guess I was just angry. Everything felt unfair, and I didn’t want anyone else to be involved.”

You frown, not fully understanding what to say, “You were still a teenager,” you say slowly, like you’re trying to convince both him and you. You hesitate, unsure whether you’re underplaying things, so the worlds come out a little jagged, not quite as comforting as you wished. “I guess…” It feels weak as your words suddenly stagger off.

Choso’s eyes flicker to yours, searching, like he’s trying to figure if there’s something else, you’re not saying, “What?”

You can practically hear Satoru’s voice in your heard, groaning and whining about screwing the long game. But you puff a breath through your cheeks, worried you’ll lose the nerve, “You know, I really liked you, right, Choso?”

Choso’s mouth drops open, as his face flickers with disbelief. The same way it had three years ago, “Like, really?”

You nod, a smile tugging at your lips without even thinking, “Yeah. And you know, everyone else thought I was being, like, silly. But I really liked you. I just never knew what to say to you.” It feels so stupid, and obvious now. But back then, it had been a great chunk of your world. You force yourself to hold his bashful gaze.

Choso’s quiet for a moment, before he admits, “I couldn’t believe it when you asked me to be your date. I thought it was just a game you were playing, or there was no-one left to ask.”

And then, after a beat, “Who did you go with?”

You snicker, a little too bitter and honest, “No-one.”

Choso’s quiet, relieved ‘damn’ makes you laugh even more, threading your fingers with his.

“I just can’t believe he’s in your classes. What are the odds?” Satoru mutters, abandoning his sunglasses for the evening, his bright eyes flashing like sunlight refracted on water. He claims that his eyes are less sensitive today, but you’re certain it’s an excuse for him to freely rifle through your kitchen without obstruction. In the living room, the rest of your friends hover like a pack of starved hyenas, waiting for the snacks that Satoru is currently monopolising.

“I’m telling you, when I first saw him, my heart dropped straight to my ass,” you say, tearing open a bag of sour cream crisps with more force than necessary. The chips tumble into the earthenware bowl in a noisy cascade.

Satoru snickers, expertly arranging small platters on a big, oaken serving board, “I pity the lack of cushioning it got.”

You flick a stray crisp at him, the chip bouncing off his shoulder with a gratifying crunch. For a moment, his grin is steady, but it quickly turns rueful. That slight furrow in his brows, the way the corner of his mouth twitches downwards. There’s something else simmering under that veneer of carelessness.

“You’re not happy, Satoru?”

His expression hardens slightly, plucking a cluster of wine-red grapes, twisting them off their stems with methodical precision.

“Well, yeah,” Satoru admits after a beat, his tone uncharacteristically sober, “I’m glad that he’s, like, nice now or whatever. But he basically broke your heart, didn’t he?”

You glance away, your fingers tighten on the corner of another snack bag, “He had his reasons.” Your flat reply avoids his curious gaze, perceptive and knowing. You hadn’t filled him on the Sukuna-lore. You’re not sure what it is, but there’s bad blood between the Gojos and Sukuna, and you’re not keen to exacerbate it.

Oh, hey, Satoru! So, Choso is like Sukuna’s adopted nephew. And I think Sukuna forced him to like clean up people’s chopped fingers and arms, or whatever. But I have a big crush on him, yep. Right after I said that I wouldn’t catch feelings again.

Satoru scoffs, wagging a long finger at you. A glistening droplet of grape juice clings to his thumb like a ruby bead, “Don’t make excuses for someone hurting your feelings. You know better than that.” His tone carries the same theatrical lilt as always, but it’s underpinned with something firmer, genuine.

Before you can fire back, a new voice meanders into the kitchen, soft and unhurried, “Who hurt your feelings?”

It’s Suguru, propped lazily against the doorway, choppy layers freshly framing his sharp features. The dim kitchen light catches on the faint sheen of his silver rings as he crosses his arms.

Satoru grabs a bag of pretzels, lobbing it towards him, “Choso Kamo. Remember that emo guy I told you about?”

Suguru catches the bag with practised ease, without looking, his mauve gaze flicking to you. You silently curse Gojo Satoru for broadcasting your love life, or lack thereof, to what feels like half the city.

“What’s he look like again?”

You narrow your eyes at the tall man, “He was literally in our grade.”

Suguru shrugs, his palms raised in mock innocence, “I never saw him, okay? He was quiet as hell, never had classes with him.”

“He wasn’t that quiet,” you protest, but your words are drowned out by Satoru’s triumphant declaration.

“Hold up! I got visual aid.”

He’s whipped out his phone, unlocking it with a brief glance of his face, before shoving the dimmed screen inches from Suguru’s puzzled face. The photo, a grainy yearbook photo of Choso in junior year, gleams under the kitchen lights. You wonder if you’re going to need to fight for your life on the frontlines again.

For a moment, Suguru’s expression remains neutral. Unimpressed even. Then, as if someone’s flipped a switch, his eyes widen with dawning recognition, “This is Kamo? His girlfriend’s my neighbour.”

Half a grape travels down Satoru’s windpipe, “The villain!”

Your best friend’s exclamation ricochets off the kitchen walls, loud enough to silence whatever protest was forming on your lips. Not that you had much ground to stand on. How would you even know? Choso had talked to you about his family, not his love life. You saw him a few times a week, and then the two of you would drift away, back to your own orbits. And he was a grown man with a life that had surely moved past you.

You had told him that you had liked him, and he hadn’t said a word back that hinted at any mutual connection. How had you missed that?”

Satoru is still recovering from his near demise at the hands of fruit, “What girlfriend? You’re sure, Suguru?”

Suguru raises an eyebrow, looking like he regrets ever opening his mouth, “Hey. Don’t pin this on me. But he comes by, with a little pink-haired kid. His brother? And she’s like talkative,” and he gestures vaguely above his head, “Like, really tall. Blonde.”

Your eyes had drifted to the unopened case of vodka sitting on the counter.

Satoru clocks you immediately, “Don’t even think about it. We’re going to handle this like mature adults.”

“We?”

Satoru nods solemnly, looping his arm through Suguru’s leather jacket, “Yes. Your Choso loss is my Choso loss,” and he pulls Suguru closer, “Our Choso loss.”

Suguru sighs, not shaking him off as he looks at you sympathetically, “Why am I a part of this? No offense. You could skip all this misery, and I don’t know because I’m just spit balling here, ask him?”

The dark-haired man continues, “Or, and I know this is radical for two divas like you, you could just let it go and spare yourself the drama. If you’re going to be working in the same field, wouldn’t professionalism be better?”

Satoru scoffs, “Or! We do some reconnaissance. I mean, you’re the girlfriend’s neighbour, Suguru. Go snoop around.”

“Why is it always me?” Suguru’s pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Because it is always you. You’ve got the best sneaky liar face I know,” Satoru replies breezily, ignoring how Suguru mutters about the love he feels in this kitchen, “And you need to do this for the greater good. All that noble shit.”

Suguru shoots you a half-hearted glare, as if this is somehow your fault, and not Satoru pulling every string. You’re one more inconvenience away from slumping onto the counter, head in hands, a shot glass by your side.

Your mind flickers to the hair tie that Choso always wears on his wrist. It could be innocuous, sure, but the green-eyed monster claws itself up in your chest. You imagine this faceless girlfriend passing it to him, like an intimate, inside joke.

“What am I supposed to do? Corner him in the break room on placements, and interrogate him? Should I pull out the clan funds, and pay him to date me?”

“It’s what I did with Suguru,” Satoru quips, not missing a beat.

“Now who’s the liar,” Suguru murmurs.

The hospital’s looming ahead. A hulking mass of glass and steel that outline the bleak sky. It’s a bitter Monday morning, the kind that bites at your cheeks and sinks into your bones, no matter how tightly you bundle up. The drive has been long and so utterly tedious, the pale sunlight doing little to brighten the cityscape as you crawl along congested streets.

Now, on the far edge of the suburbs, you’re left squinting and fuming as you circle the parking lot for the third time. The situation is grim, spots are scarce, and every turn feels like an ill-fated gamble that only ends in someone else’s bumper.

You mutter curses under your breath, the heater in your car doing little to thaw your mood.

Choso’s already there, not a massive surprise, for his apartment is far closer than your waterfront residence, smack-bang in the city’s central district. His dark hair is loosely tied back, and he’s thrown an old hoodie over his scrubs. There’s a clipboard tucked under his arm, and a coffee cup in the other.

He extends the cup towards you without preamble, “Want it?”

You blink, catching on the incongruity of the gesture. But Suguru’s intel still echoes in your mind, he has a girlfriend.

You furrow your brow, the cup hovering between you, “Where’s yours?”

Choso shrugs, “I don’t drink coffee. Makes me jittery.”

This answer irritates you for no logical reason. Who doesn’t drink coffee? It feels like some fundamental character flaw, and you snatch the cup from his hand. Doing your very best not to unfairly glare at him, for the sole crime of having a life outside of you.

It’s hard to focus when he’s nailed your exact order. You lower the cup, the warmth seeping through the cardboard sleeve and into your fingers, doing little to melt the icy knot that sits in your chest.

Choso seems almost unnervingly chipper this morning, a far cry from his usual brooding demeanour. There’s no scowl etched on his handsome face, no trace of his typical stoicism. Instead, he wears the faintest trace of a smile, a subtle and almost tentative thing that pulls at the corners of his mouth as he glances over a nearly printed itinerary.

The sight throws you further off-kilter. It’s rare to see him like this, easy and unguarded, and you can’t help the way your lips twitch, the barest hint of a smile threatening to escape before you smother it.

“We’re starting in the ER for two hours,” he reads aloud, voice steady, “then, the paediatric unit.” He pauses to flip the page, his expression shifting to mild exasperation, “And then, paperwork in the break room.”

“Figures,” you grumble, tucking your hands into your coat pockets, “Free labour from the students, yeah?”

Choso glances at you, from the corner of his eye, an unimpressed but faintly amused look on his face, “Thought that you would start the day with a more upbeat attitude.”

You grunt in response, which only earns a shake of his head as he folds the itinerary back into his clipboard.

A beat of silence stretches between you, only punctured by the sound of light metal snapping as you clip a badge to your pocket, but he’s speaking again.

“You good?”

His bronze eyes flick to yours, clearly searching, and your pulse stutters, “Yeah. Obviously.”

Choso takes a deep breath, his chest rising and gearing up for something monumental. The way his fingers fidget against the clipboard betrays him, they tap out a staccato rhythm. There’s a flush creeping on the back of his neck, subtle but unmistakeable.

“Want to get dinner tonight?” He blurts, the words tumbling out so fast that they barely sound like a sentence.

You blink at him, confused, “Bless you.” Your automatic response, because he spoke so quickly that it sounded as though he had sneezed.

Choso’s scowl is immediate, “No.” He says it firmly, drawing out each word in exasperation, “I asked if you wanted to get dinner tonight. After this.”

Oh. Oh.

The realisation hits you like a jolt, and for a second, all you can do is gape at him. He’s looking at you now, an almost defiant sort of expectation in his gaze, as though he’s worried that you’re going to laugh at him. But before you piece together a coherent response, there’s a sharp rap-rap-rap of knuckles on the doorframe.

The ward manager is here, her expression brisk and no-nonsense, gesturing for the two of you to begin your shift placement.

Your head snaps back at him, mouth moving before your brain diplomatically catches up, “I don’t think that’s fair to your girlfriend, do you?”

Choso’s brows knit together, his expression shifting to something startled and indignant. Irritated, even, as you push past him.

He’s trying to speak to you. It’s painfully obvious, as he’s got that mildly dazed look. All that awkward, earnest attention is squarely focused on you.

You’re having none of it.

He steps to your side as you shuffle through patient charts, his broad frame taking up more than his fair share of narrow space, shadowing your elbow as you scribble furious notes. His mouth opens, probably to say something that you don’t want to hear, but you’re faster.

“Hey, Choso, what’s her blood pressure?” You interrupt, not bothering to look up from the faintly lined paper.

There’s a second of hesitation before he answers, “120 over 50. Just write that down. Got it? Okay, yeah, can you stop moving for a second and —”

You squint at the chart, cutting him off again, “Hmm, don’t you think that the diastolic is a little low?”

His shoulders slump, “Yes, but the doctors already know that. She has hypothyroidism, you told me that when you interrupted me like half an hour ago. Can’t you just —” Choso stops mid-sentence again, muttering a resigned oh my god, when you pivot away and head to the next room without so much a glance back.

It sets the tone for the rest of the shift. You make a sport of avoiding him, weaving through the emergency department like a fish slipping upstream, leaving Choso stranded in your wake. He follows, persistent in his mild-mannered way, but you’re relentless.

“Can you hand me that chart?” He’s trying again, as you’re elbow deep in filing.

“Oh, this one?” You sweetly ask, holding it just out of his reach, before conveniently remembering that you need to double-check something on it. He just huffs at you.

By hour three, it’s clear that Choso’s patience is wearing thin, and fighting a war against his professionalism. He corners you near the supply cart while you rummage for gloves.

“There you are.”

“Oh, are we low on size medium?” You cut in, loud enough to catch the attention of a passing manager, “Should we restock?”

Choso inhales through his nose, “We’re not low on gloves. We’re fine on gloves. Can you stop talking about gloves for one second?”

You flash him a smile that’s all teeth, “Gloves are important, Choso. Hygiene is crucial.”

This time, you see him run an exasperated hand over his face, before realising that now he’s just contaminated his own pair of gloves. Snarling at you as he rips the blue latex off and reaching for the size large box.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, once and then twice. Then thrice, as if whoever’s contacting you as something urgent to say. You ignore it, you’ll check it after placements.

The hours tick by, and your strategy remains the same. Stay busy, stay distant, and stay unreachable. Don’t make it seem like you’re irrationally bothered by Choso having a life of his own and having a girlfriend. Or that you actually had hope that this time round, his feelings for you were requited.

By the time you both stumble into the break room, Choso looks as if he’s experienced the full emotional spectrum, like he’s been knocked through the five stages of grief and landed somewhere in the resigned space of acceptance. He looks as if he’s clearly preparing to lecture you, to tirade you on professional conduct and —

Without warning, his phone buzzes.

You don’t even look up from cracking open your water bottle, the sound of plastic barely crinkles louder than the dull thud of your own heartbeat. Choso glances at you out of the corner of his eyes, a flash of alarm crossing his face, before he draws his attention back to the screen of his phone.

You hear the faintest scoff from his direction, and he’s shaking his head as you watch in mild interest.

“What?”

Choso doesn’t answer immediately, still scrolling through his phone.

“I’m not dating Tsukumo Yuki.”

Your mouth goes dry. You blink rapidly, wide-eyed as if he’s just spoken in an ancient, dead language.

“What?” You manage weakly, “Who? What? —”

There’s a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach, and you fear the cause of this slow and curling chest is a meddling duo of two men, one with dark hair and the other with snowy-white.

Choso doesn’t even glance up at you, his voice tinged with something incredulous now, “Why is Gojo Satoru texting me? He says that you’re not replying to his or Geto Suguru’s messages. And apparently, this is super urgent, and he feels like he must do his divine duty by interfering before you do something stupid.

Choso pauses, finally looking at you as if he’s truly baffled, “And you all thought that I was dating Tsukumo.”

You’re crafting a list in your head. Twenty creative ways to kill Gojo Satoru and not land in prison afterwards.

Maybe you should ask Choso for Ryomen Sukuna’s contact.

“That’s crazy,” you say, the words tasting thin and hollow in a bitter, embarrassed lie.

Choso shakes his head at you, some dark strands of hair falling across his eyes, “She looks after Yuuji sometimes. I take him over to her place because Yuki’s adopted a kid, Todo. The two of them are friends.”

“Uh.”

Choso turns back to his phone screen, scrolling through whatever nonsense Satoru is feeding him, “Have you being icing me out all day, because you thought I had a girlfriend?”

“Will you hate me if I say yes?” You’re looking anywhere but him, focusing on the chipped, lilac paint on the break-room door. Or the slightly off-centre light bulb flickering above. Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you’re adding Geto Suguru to your kill list.

Choso’s voice is softer when he answers, almost too quiet, “Hey. You know I couldn’t hate you if I tried.” But there’s a strange mixture of amusement and disbelief in his voice, a bemused chuckle that lingers in the air, “Wow. Just wow.”

You grimace, fingers toying with the edge of the water bottle as you wrangle your thoughts into words, “Are you mad? I mean, look. I told you I liked you. And then you held my hands, so I thought you liked me back. And you got me coffee. But Suguru said you had a girlfriend, and you can’t blame me for being — Oh my god, I’m going to stop talking, you’re looking at me like I’ve gone crazy.”

Choso’s expression shifts, just staring at you. You don’t more than a split-second to process his strangely intense look. There’s no time to recover before he leans down, his hands surprisingly warm and gentle as they cradle the side of your face.

Your breath hitches, but before you can form another thought, his lips are on yours. They’re warm, deliberate and surprisingly firm. The scent of crisp green apples falls over you, as his hair envelops your face.

He pulls back just enough to study you, “Was that okay?” he asks, his fingers still lingering at the curve of your jaw, like he can’t believe he just kissed you. You can feel the sharp blush sting your face, as your heart practically goes into cardiac arrest, nodding quickly.

“Uh, I’m not really an expert in this field,” Choso murmurs, “But I can’t believe that I waited this long to do that.”

“You can do that again,” you say. Wondering if you should buy Satoru and Suguru a bouquet of flowers instead.

Choso, predictably, blushes deep enough that it nearly looks like he might combust. His eyes flicker away, avoiding your gaze in that way he does when he’s trying to sort through his emotions. But it’s hard to miss the warm flush that’s firmly planted on his neck.

“Can I do it over that dinner?” Choso murmurs, his voice dipping lower, before he quickly rephrases, “I obviously do want to kiss you now, again, that is, but if they catch us in the break room —”

You suddenly beam up at him, patting him on the cheek, “You can kiss me as much as you like over dinner.”

Choso looks as though he’s been struck with a metaphorical thunderbolt, as if he didn’t expect you to agree so straightforwardly. And then, as if he can’t help himself, he presses a quick and soft kiss to your forehead. For the briefest second, it feels as if you’re a teenager again, caught in the whirlwind of something simple and so sweet.

“Okay. So, is that a yes?” He asks, a little breathless, as if he’s not sure what kind of confirmation he’s just gotten but needing it to hear it anyway.

“If it’s a proper date, it’s a yes.”

Choso mutters under his breath, “You know Geto Suguru texted me with a five-paragraph apology, something about sneaking around my apartment. Stalking me this morning,” and here, he looks at you, utterly exasperated but fond, “Something about checking to see if I had a girlfriend. I mean, I don’t even know the guy. We never talked in school.”

You loop your arm with his, pulling him in slightly, “See, I always did say my friends were super nice. They’re going to be super nice, and normal. Trust me.”

ONE WEEK LATER.

“And to my brother-in-law, my brother-in-arms, my brother in the Constantinople Crusades of 1204,” Satoru hiccups, his words slurring together in a rambled mess, as he sways over the edge of Suguru’s arms, and for a split second, you’re worried the white-haired man is going to tip over entirely, “My new brother, Choso. We always knew it was going to happen, eh?”

Choso’s cheeks turn a faint shade of crimson in the sudden spotlight as everyone cheers, and he shifts awkwardly. Suguru’s shooting him an apologetic look, the corners of his mouth twitching as he props Satoru up, “He’s a lightweight. And we watched a historical movie last night.”

“I can tell,” Choso grumbles, his face flushed now as Satoru’s monologue drifts like an aimless plastic bag in the wind, his words growing nonsensical as you reach over to pinch at his cheeks. He yelps but continues to babble on about how he and Choso are going to be best friends now, and they’re going to go shopping together, and ice-skating, and fruit-picking. All nonsense burbles being strung together by the tequila shots that Satoru swore he could handle an hour ago.

You glance over at Choso, faintly embarrassed, but he just laughs, a sound that’s unexpectedly light and unguarded. His fingers slide into yours once more, and the motion is gentle and natural, as though this, you, are exactly where he’s meant to be. And he drapes the wide expanse of his aviator jacket over your shoulders.

Meanwhile, Suguru is wrestling with Satoru, pushing him back down from his impromptu toast to your boyfriend, before the bartender can usher you all towards the exit. The burly man is already giving Satoru’s drunken proclamations a nasty look.

Shoko, of course, is grinning at you, a tankard of beer glimmering in front of her. Her eyes gleam with the sharpness of someone who’s won a decent amount of money in a bet. And Utahime is standing back with a faintly judgemental expression that only veils her gossipy curiosity, and a glum look as she passes wads of cash into Shoko’s waiting hands.

“They really do like me,” Choso murmurs, his voice low and almost carrying the undertone of vulnerability, alongside some quiet self-awareness.

You laugh, brushing your thumb over the back of his hand, leaning in to press a quick peck to the dark mark that streaks over his face, “They all have no choice. You’re my boyfriend now.”

The words slip out effortlessly, and for a moment, they hang between you like something solid and unspoken, as though saying it aloud has made it feel real in a way it never quite did before. Choso’s eyes flick to yours, and something shifts in his expression — just a slight softening around the edges.

Then, without warning, you lean in, closing the distance between you, and kiss him. It’s slow, deliberate, with none of the frantic energy of your first kiss but instead the quiet certainty of something just beginning to bloom. You feel the faintest sigh from Nanami in the background, the sound of Geto groaning as Gojo whoops with drunken delight.

The noise from the bar fades into nothing as you focus entirely on the warmth of Choso’s shy lips against yours, the gentle pressure as he presses more into you, the soft thud of his heartbeat where your hand rests over his chest. For that moment, it’s just you and him, and everything else is an afterthought.

“Okay! I’ve had enough of the lot of you snogging and yelling in my bar! And take stupid Jack Frost out with ya’!”

[maxinemaxmayfield]

For the STWG daily drabble prompt: modern au

“Steve… he wrote his number on the cup. Your cup. Of course it was meant for you,” Robin sighs, pointing this out for the third time in as many minutes. 

Steve glances back to the barista behind the counter. Their eyes meet and he whips his head back around so quickly she can hear his neck crack. Steve doesn’t see the toothy grin that spreads across the guy’s face after he looks away, or the way he tugs a dark curl across his face. 

“See? He’s looking over here. Just text him!”

“Shut up!” Steve hisses, leaning forward. “What would I even say?”

“Uh, ‘hey, it’s Steve, from the coffee shop’? Or, ‘you look sexy behind that espresso machine’? Or, ‘I want to cover you in chocolate-covered coffee beans and whipped cream and eat my way through to your di–’”

“Robin!” Steve yelps, sloshing some coffee onto the table between them, the edges of the puddle dripping off the edge and into his lap. She jumps up to get napkins, and luckily, that’s the end of that.

Steve doesn’t pull out his phone until later that evening, lounging in bed and staring at the ceiling, agonizing over which regret would be worse – doing it and getting rejected, or not doing it and never knowing. 

He takes a deep breath and taps in the number still burned into his mind, searching his brain for something to send.

That latte was hot, but not as hot as you…

DELETE.

Felt like there was something brewing between us earlier…

DELETE.  

I like my men how I like my coffee… keeping me up all night.

DELETE. 

“Oh my god,” Steve says out loud, groaning and rolling over to bury his face into the pillow. “I’m pathetic.”

“Is that so?” a familiar voice asks, crackly and quiet. The same voice who had called out, ‘latte for Steve’ earlier that very day.

He pushes himself upright, nearly drops his phone before he manages to flip it over and look at the screen. 

OUTGOING CALL - 00:42

He flinches, cursing every piece of technology ever invented as he brings the phone up to his ear. “Uh. Hi.”

“Hi.”

“I didn’t mean to call you, sorry. Meant to send a text, but…” Steve trails off, not even sure how to explain it. 

The barista huffs out a laugh. “And what did the text say?”

“Not important,” Steve says hurriedly. “Just saying hi.”

“Well then, hello to you, too. I’m Eddie, by the way.” 

“Steve.”

“I know – it was on your cup,” Eddie says, the hint of a grin in his voice. “So, Steve… next time you come down, I’d be happy to make you a drink on the house.”

And this, the back-and-forth, the flirty banter… this, Steve can do. “I’d rather come by when your shift is over… maybe go grab something a bit stronger than coffee?”

“Yeah? I’d like that.”

[eomayas]

his friends and his dad hate me • chs

pairing: non-idol!vernon x fuckgirl!reader, fwb

genre: smut 18+ MINORS DNI!!! angst

synopsis: you broke his little heart, he’s a cry baby. OR, reader excels in the male dominated field of being a female fuckboy! (based off ‘crybaby’ by megan thee stallion)

warnings: p in v, oral (m receiving), fingering, riding, vernon gets his heart broke, reader is not a good person

a/n: i’ve had this in my drafts for awhile and needed to finish it 😭 i love when readers are morally gray or just wrong & bad! pls remember this is just fiction ok thx!

despite the protests from his friends and the little (though extremely loud) voice in the back of his head telling him this is a horrible idea, vernon grabs his car keys and tries to slip out of his apartment. “dude, we didn’t even get to finish the game! get back here!” wonwoo shouts, frustration clear in his voice. it’s bible in their friend group to finish any smash tournament that’s started, and he’s breaking the one and only most important rule.

“later!” vernon says, hand on the door knob. he’s sort of stalling, sort of wants to be told that he has to stay behind. the thing is, he’s pathetic, especially when it comes to you. he’d cross all seven seas to get to you, if you asked.

“she doesn’t even like you!” soonyoung shouts. vernon sighs and rolls his eyes, walking down to the hallway and stopping at the entrance of the living room. five of his friends look at him with mild disappointment and he puts his hands up in surrender.

“first of all, she invited me over so you’re wrong—and secondly, you’d all do the same if you had prospects but you don’t,” vernon says, letting out a breath. it felt good for him to fight back like that, though soonyoungs comment does leave him feeling sort of doubtful. very doubtful, actually, because he knows there’s some truth in his statement whether he wants to acknowledge it or not.

minghao and joshua share a look and vernon sighs. “fuck you guys,” he says.

“yeah, whatever. but don’t come back here crying,” soonyoung says, a shit eating grin on his face. vernon flips him off, face flushing in embarrassment at the memory of him getting so drunk that he cried in mingyus arms at the club over you. they’ve never been able to let it go, bringing it up every time your name is mentioned. it’s mortifying, but a slight wake up call. except he’s not thinking with his head right now.

they all snicker, but minghao manages to give him a sympathetic shrug. it doesn’t do much to alleviate the doubt in his head, but the support is nice. simply put, his friends are not fans of you, and he doesn’t necessarily blame them. your relationship started out rocky and unserious—he was a late night booty call for you and a fill-in boyfriend without the title. he did boyfriend things with you—for you, thought you two were together until you dropped the bomb that you didn’t like him or want him like that. he was crushed, but he played it cool and told you that he wasn’t looking for a relationship anyway. that only made things worse, seeing that you only called him when you wanted some attention, and constantly made him feel like you wanted him.

the crying in the club bit was the straw that broke the camels back for his friends. they had a mock-intervention for him, urging him to delete your number and to find somebody else, but as if you were summoned at the mention of vernon moving on, you’d called him a few days later and got him back where you wanted him. he hasn’t been able to escape you since, caught in some spell or trap you put him under.

“whatever,” vernon mutters, pulling off his cap to run his fingers through his hair. “i’m leaving now.” he declares, urging himself to actually make the move to leave.

he’s halfway to the door when minghao calls out to him by saying, “my therapist would call this self-destructive behavior!”

vernon doesn’t have time to deeply evaluate his behavior as ‘self-destructive’, because he spends the twenty minute drive to your place psyching himself up. that alone should be indicative of the issue with seeing you, but he doesn’t pay it any mind. instead, he bumps his music and drums his fingers against the steering wheel.

it’s not lost on him that he was able to make it to your place without directions, though he forgot how complicated the apartment parking lot was. by the time he finds a spot that he won’t get towed and/or fined in, he’s much later than when he said he’d be at your place.

vernon sends you a quick ‘here’ text before making his way towards the door to your apartment building. he presses the buzzer for your unit, and his pulse skyrockets. in the few seconds that it takes for you to answer, he spirals thinking of every negative possibility of your encounter. what if you really do hate him, like soonyoung said? and, if not, what if he sucks in bed? what if he says something stupid? what if you find out he’s a complete and utter loser?

“vernon?” your voice crackles through the intercom and shoots straight to fast beating heart, halting his mental spiral of doom, and putting him back in the moment. he’s nervous in a different way now. he’s so unsure of himself around you sometimes—which is definitely a sign that he should cut ties with you.

“y-yeah,” he clears his throat quickly, trying to cover up his shaky voice. “it’s me.” his finger nearly throbs in pain from how much pressure he’s putting on the buzzer.

with a loud pop, the door unlocks and vernon enters. he hikes the two stories to your apartment, and by the time he’s at your door he’s mildly winded from how fast he got up there. vernon stalls a few feet from your door to regain his breath (and confidence). he chews on his bottom lip for a second and glances down the hallway and considers making a run for it.

there isn’t much thought put into that, though, because his feet take him in the other direction towards your front door, and he’s raising his fist to send three soft knocks your way. vernon shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and sighs, dropping his shoulders and rolling them back.

you pull the door open and his eyes snap down to you, and he swears his hearing goes out for a split second, because his face feels like it’s on fire and his muscles feel heavy. and then you smile at him, and he thinks he may melt into a puddle in front of your door. “vernon!” you squeal, laughing yourself onto him, legs wrapping around his waist and arms encircling around his neck. “you took forever.” you mumble, capturing his lips in a kiss that he’s been dreaming of for weeks.

vernon silently thanks the universe that he didn’t collapse when you attached yourself to him, and that he had enough sense to hold onto the bottoms of your thighs for support. “traffic,” he lies, walking the two of you into your apartment and kicking the door closed behind him.

he stops walking and the two of you make out for a few minutes. his nerves disappeared the moment you latched onto him. granted, hes a bit nervous, but he doesn’t feel like he’s going to pass out, or like he wants to make a run for it. “you look good, baby,” you purr once you pull back from his lips to really look at him. you run your hands through his short, brown hair and smile at him, and he decides right then and there that all of the pain and suffering you’ve put him through might be worth it, if you keep smiling at him like that.

untangling you legs from his waist, vernon helps set you down and lets his hands drag up your bare legs. your skin is soft like he remembers, and he wants nothing more than to spend the rest of his life rubbing and touching it. but your hands make use of pulling down his jacket zipper and subsequently helping him out of his coat, so he unfortunately has to pull his hands away from your thighs.

“have you been working out?” you question, setting his jacket on the back of one of your bar stools. vernon looks down at his own biceps and shrugs. “i lift sometimes, yeah,” he says. you walk back over to him and shamelessly feel him up. he’s still skinny, but there’s muscle in places you don’t necessarily remember him having.

“hmm,” is all you reply—it does a lot to cover up how badly you want to tear him out of his clothes. you grab his hand and lead him down the hallway to your bedroom.

“how’ve you been?” vernon asks. you giggle at his awkwardness and give him a look over you shoulder as you pull him into your bedroom.

“really great,” you push him lightly towards your bed, and crawl onto his lap, lips finding purchase on his neck. you grind down onto him as you suck a purple mark onto his neck. “what about you?” you ask in between kisses, voice slightly breathless.

“uh, fine,” vernon spits out, mind a bit hazy when you slip off of his lap and onto your knees between his legs. “better.” you smile at him sweetly, but your hands make quick work of unbuttoning his jeans. he helps you pull them down to his ankles, along with his underwear.

a soft whimper leaves you mouth at the sight of his semi-hard dick. you press your thighs together and reach forward to grab ahold of his member and start stroking his shaft. vernon looks down at you with parted lips; he feels like he’s in a dream, watching you on your knees below him. you’ve given him head before, but it was conditional. usually, when you felt guilty for something, or knew you made him upset you would suck him off. he tries to push the thoughts away, and succeeds when you wrap you lips around the tip and attempt to take all of him. “fuuuck,” he groans, gripping onto the edge of the bed.

vernon is embarrassed at how quickly you draw out loud moans from him just by massaging his balls as you work your mouth on him. he hasn’t been with anybody else in awhile—and he’s too embarrassed to ever admit that he’s good with just having you, even if he has to wait for you to call him.

“oh, fuck, y/n,” he whines, thighs tensing. he lets go of the mattress to gather your hair and wraps it around one of his hands. you moan against his crotch when he pulls, watery eyes flicking up to meet his own. spit gathers at the corners of your mouth and vernon knows this is an image he’ll never, ever forget. “shitshitshit!” his hips buck upwards and he expects you to pull your mouth off of him to use your hands to get him to his release, but you stay put.

it drives vernon crazy. he comes fast, and he doesn’t have time to be embarrassed because you swallow, and then keep sucking after the fact. he’s never seen you act like this, and you’re a bit shocked at your own behavior—you hadn’t realized you missed him that much.

“y/n,” he whimpers, chin falling against his chest. you take that as a sign that he’s about to pass out, and reluctantly pull your mouth off of him with a pop. a trail of spit mixed with cum follows his cock to your mouth, and it makes you want to give him another blow job, but he looks too spent.

“vernon,” you start, getting off of your knees. he manages to sit upright before falling backwards onto your bed.

“give me a minute,” he croaks. you smile and take a few seconds of your own to catch your breath before you undress completely and crawl onto the bed next to him. vernon opens his eyes and looks over at you. “i wanted to do that.” he whines, referring to getting you naked, and reaches out for you.

you crawl on top of him and settle on his abdomen. his hands moves to your waist and his eyes stray trained on your breasts. you lean down a bit, practically putting your boobs in his face. vernon leans forward and wraps his lips around one of your nipples. he shifts the two of you so he’s sitting up straight, thus shifting you down onto his crotch.

you can’t help but grind yourself against him as he plays with your breasts. he fondles the own that’s not in his mouth, and keeps his eyes on you. you moan softly above him, light little pants leaving your mouth that only encourage him. “nonie,” you whine, running your hands through his hair and gently tugging on the strands. “touch me. i want you to touch me.”

vernon pulls his mouth off of your breast and slides his hand that was on your waist up your spine. he grabs the back of your neck and pulls your mouth down to his own in a messy, heated kiss. he manages to flip the two of you over, propping himself up on an elbow and slipping his other hand between your legs.

“all for you,” you purr when he drags his fingers up your slit, a look of disbelief on his face at how wet you are. “need you, nonie. your fingers, mouth, all of it.” you whine, spreading your legs open for him. vernon liked how vocal you were about what you wanted from him. he wished you were as vocal about other aspects of your guys’ relationship, but he’ll take what he can get.

vernon dips two fingers inside of you, your arousal acting as a perfect lubricant. vernon kisses your neck and chest as he fucks his fingers in and out of you. his thumb presses on your clit and you moan out his name. “more, vernon,” you breathe, gripping onto his hair tightly. “fuck, i want you to fuck me vernon. can you fuck me?” you ask, clenching around his fingers.

his cock jumps at your tone of voice and request. “i can fuck you,” he rasps. he’d rather make you cum on his fingers first, but you wish is his command. he lifts up from you and pulls his shirt off. you rake your nails along his exposed abdomen, applying light pressure. you smirk up at him and he grabs your hand and kisses your palm. it’s much too intimate, but you can’t deny the butterflies it gives you.

“grab a condom,” you remind him, pointing to your nightstand when he grabs onto the base of his dick. he quickly moves to open the drawer, and he tries to ignore the photobooth strip of photos of you and some guy he’s never met is the first thing he sees. he pushes it out of the way and grabs a stray condom, and slams the drawer shut.

he rips open the package and rolls the condom on before grabbing your leg and throwing it over his shoulder and lining himself up. vernon pushes his hips forward and sinks the tip in. “ah!” you gasp at the delicious stretch. quiet as it’s kept, vernon has a big dick and he knows how to use it. it’s unfortunate that he’s hung and is so shy about it—sometimes you wish he’d call you to fuck, rather than you doing it all the time. “fuck, vernon, you’re so big.” his body flushes with heat and he keeps pushing forward.

you suck him in welcomingly. he fits inside of you like you were made to be stuffed by him. he fucks into with a steady rhythm, and each time he pushes inside a moan is pushed form your lungs. vernon can’t keep his own moans contained, moaning our curses with each thrust. it’s dizzying, how turned on he is by you. he feels like he can’t think about anything other than fucking you and staying like this until eternity. he gets the morbid thought that he’d be okay if he died like this, buried inside of you.

“fuck, right there baby! you’re so good to me, fuck!” you shriek, mouth falling open as you look at there the two of you connect. you get lost in watching him disappear inside of you, by the white ring that’s formed at the base of his dick. the sounds vibrate off of the walls; squelching and skin on skin nearly deafening. “fuck me, vernon!” you cry, hips raising to meet his own.

tears brim in your eyes when he pulls your leg from his shoulder and shoves it up to your chest, spreading you open wider and fucking into you at a different angle. “i m-missed you,” he chokes out, shifting his weight to a single arm so he can grope your chest.

“me too,” you pant, chest arching up into his. you chase his lips with your own, wanting to feel as close to him as possible. your mouths press together, but not in a kiss. you pant and moan harshly against each other, his hips rutting into you at a faster, less rhythmic pace.

“i-im close,” he whimpers, placing an open mouthed kiss on the corner of your lips. you whine out his name as he speeds up his pace, your arms sliding up his back. you dig your nails into his skin, definitely leaving scratches. “fuck, you’re perfect.” he whispers, eyes looking into yours.

you whimper and squeeze around him before your release comes crashing over you. “nonie!” you cry, clutching onto him like a life raft as he fucks you through your orgasm. his strokes lose rhythm completely and moments later he’s coming into the condom, stilling inside of you as he does. you almost wish he wasn’t wearing a condom, so you could feel him.

vernon drops on top of you, his arms too weak to hold himself up. you cling to him, hands running through his hair absentmindedly. you don’t mind the weight of him on you, and you especially don’t mind the fact that he’s still inside of you. you have a soft spot for vernon, even though it may not seem like it. he’s the nicest guy you’ve ever been with—much nicer than the guys you’re typically acquainted with—and he’s sweet to you, even when you don’t deserve it. you know you should probably let him go, free him of your games, but something in you won’t let you. and that same something won’t let you like him—love him—how he deserves.

“vernon,” you murmur, rubbing his back.

“hmm.”

“im hot, and you’re heavy,” you say with a soft giggle. he smiles into the sheets and lifts himself up and pulls himself out of you. both of you whimper pathetically at the loss of contact, and laugh at each other seconds later. he drops down beside you on the bed, rolling onto his back. you roll onto your stomach and rest your chin on his chest before resting on your cheek, and he wraps an arm around your waist.

vernon strokes your hair and keeps his eyes on you. if he was a cartoon, his heart would be beating out of his chest and hearts would be shooting out of his eyes.

“you’re staring,” you mutter, rubbing his side.

“because you’re pretty,” he says, hand sliding from your waist to your ass. you roll your eyes and sit up onto your knees and look down at him. you can’t contain the urge to smile or kiss him, so you do both. “you should go pee.” he mumbles, breaking the kiss.

“right,” you say, quickly getting off the bed. no other guy would remind you to pee after sex, but of course vernon does. every single time, too. you wish you could leave him alone.

vernon sits up and grabs his boxers. he pulls them on and stretches his arms above his head, sighing when he feels a pop in his shoulders. somewhere behind him, a phone buzzes once, then twice, then incessantly. he doesn’t know where his phone is, so he digs around in the bed until he finds the source, pulling out the phone from under a pillow. it’s definitely not his, so he feels sort of strange holding it as the name ‘seungcheol’ flashes across the screen.

“what are you doing with my phone?” you ask with an accusatory tone, eyebrows furrowed as you tie your robe.

“i couldn’t find mine, and it was ringing,” vernon says, holding it out to you. you snatch it out of his hand unnecessarily, ready to tell him to mind his business until you look down at the screen and see three texts and a missed call from a guy you’re seeing. it’s not super serious, but you feel bad for vernon having to see it.

“sorry,” you mutter, quickly typing out a response to seungcheol. you try to shove the guilt down as you set your phone down on your dresser. it’s awkward and tense, and you can feel him watching you as you mess around with things on your dresser.

glancing up, you catch his eyes in the mirror and sigh before turning around to face him. you crawl onto the bed next to him and sit on your knees. he won’t meet your eyes, so you try the only thing to bring him back to you.

you kiss his neck and run your hands across his chest. he doesn’t react so you pull your robe open and grab his hand, placing it on your chest and squeezing. “vernon,” you murmur, crawling into his lap. you kiss up his neck, to his jaw, and when you get to his mouth he pulls back.

it’s not his business at all, but he can’t hold back when he asks, “who was that?”

you bite your bottom lip and encircle your arms around your neck. you press your weight into his crotch and bite back a smile when he covers a groan with a throat clear. “he’s just a friend, nonie,” you lie, kissing his cheek. “you have me. all of me.”

he looks up at you with wide eyes, and you feel his cock twitch under your ass. he’s pathetic, and it’s never been more clear to him because he kisses you and palms your breast, pinching your nipple lightly and shoving off your robe. he knows he’s reaches new lows because he lets you push him flat onto the bed and pull his underwear down. when you sink down onto him—with no condom this time—he knows he’s fucked.

you ride him like your life depends on it, like him forgetting that seungcheol ever called is imperative to keeping this thing going between the two of you, because it is. you bring out all the stops, riding him on your toes and telling him things he definitely wants to hear, like how nobody feels better than him, and he’s the best you’ve ever had.

vernon leaves your apartment with clarity on one thing: he understands why his friends can’t stand you.

[foreheadkiss3s]

tate langdon x gn! reader.

trigger warnings : really sad thoughts going through the readers mind. i let my drama queen take over and everything came out too dramatic.

angst/ fluff at the end if you squint your eyes really hard.

this is so messy, really, it’s just a drabble i wanted to put out but i think i’ll probs end up deleting it since i feel like it’s cringey. also, english is not my first language so whatever (and wherever) mistake you might find, please bear with me.

I know it might be confusing, or even worse, not make sense at all. but i just let my messy thoughts flow and that’s the result.

just to get things a bit more clear, tate is still alive and dealing with his situation back home while reader is the only friend he managed to make in high school. the reader was at the house, not the murder house ( let’s just assume the reader’s house it’s near that ) and tate just presented himself there after the reader became distant with him.

« I’m sorry. »

You know about those days, when you wake up and your eyes reflexively land on the window? And then they wander up, and get to notice the soft hue of the blue sky, lightened up by the sun? And it’s almost as if you could feel the warmth of the sun rays seeping through your window?

Perhaps it’s the warmth of the covers, the cozy feeling that you get every time when you just wake up and that later on makes you whine because you know you’ll have to leave that warm place soon to get up and get ready for school. But it’s almost as if you had a restart.

For five minutes— sometimes even less, it depends on how much it takes your brain to process the world outside of your mind again— you get to feel like you’ve just been reborn, and that everything would be alright.

But then it all comes crumbling down.

Your brain registers where you are, the reality you live, and the obnoxious routine you have to do everyday. Get up. Brush your teeth and hair. Skip breakfast because you’re always late. Get dressed. Go to school. Wish to get home during and in between classes. Get finally home, but then you get frustrated because it’s always the same damn thing.

You don’t know what it is that frustrates you, that angers you so much and sometimes even makes you cry. That drains you, leaving you so exhausted that you end up falling asleep only to wake up the next morning and experience the same thing again.

Perhaps, you think, that you’re crazy. Maybe you’re spiralling out of reality. Maybe you’re just being an ungrateful teenager. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Maybe you just want to sleep forever.

But, when you think you can’t take it no more, here comes Tate.

Sometimes you think he’s weird. Not in a bad way, you think he’s just.. weird. He’s one of the most pessimistic people you know, always looking down on the human specie and labelling it as some sort of stupid being. Yet, when it comes to the state you’re slowly falling in, he seems to suck it out of you.

You don’t know how to explain it properly— you don’t even understand it yourself, but it’s almost as if he is a sponge. Just by staying near you, he sucks all the darkness away. He’s like a black hole, but instead of absorbing everything he just absorbs your darkness. Or perhaps he’s just a little hypocrite that doesn’t allow you to be pessimistic just like he is.

Even though you know.. you know that referring to Tate as pessimistic is the least you could call him.

You hate it when he gets clingy, and that happens very often. Who are you kidding? it always happens, hence why you always resort to unkind ways to get him to leave you. You just want to be alone sometimes.

Tate might argue with you and say that it’s more than sometimes, it’s always.

You’re not a good person, you know that. You’re selfish and you don’t care who you’re hurting when it comes to you and the decisions you make.

You didn’t care when you started hanging out with a boy and spent less and less time with Tate. Why did you do it though? You still question yourself.

Yeah, he might be clingy, attached to your hip, dependant on you and the list could go on just like that. But he was the only one that showed you how much you mean, or perhaps, how much you could mean to somebody.

You never thought it possible that a being could be so much for another being.

Tate is your only friend. Even though you’re not sure of that anymore since all you did for the past few weeks—maybe month, was avoiding and ignoring him.

At the beginning it was just to get a little time alone. But then it started becoming more of an avoidance, and now? You thought you were avoiding him out of shame.

But he was your only friend, and you pushed him away for what? To test if you could feel something different than the void you were currently drowning in? How could you have been that selfish?

His eyes seem to be asking you the same questions as he stares deep down inside your soul. His kaleidoscope honeyed eyes.

« I’ll.. » a sob breaks his voice, and his attempt to hold back his tears fails, making the tears break through and fall down his cheeks like diamonds, «.. I’ll leave never bother you again if that’s what you want »

For the first time in weeks you feel something so authentically powerful that it almost knocks the breath out of your lungs.

You’re sat there, on your messy, still unmade, bed as you’re looking into his eyes. And he stares back at you almost as if he has already been there, in that position— unwanted and thrown to the side, times and times before. But still it causes him pain.

It’s a subtle but yet stinging feeling. Like a cut being slit open again by a sharp dagger with its blade covered in salt. It’s a swift movement, a methodical cut, because it always seems to be hurting in the same spot.

You don’t say anything.

« You’re just like her. » Constance. Tears stream down his face like pouring rain. His voice taking the resemblance of a wave as sometimes it gets higher and other times it comes crashing down, stopping abruptly to let his tears fall down silently.

Just like rain in the ocean.

Silence fills the room yet again.

« Please.. p-please.. » How come that he’s the one begging you and not the other way around? What is he pleading for?

You frown looking at him, still staring into his eyes like a stone cold bitch. And you might’ve even been one to someone else’s eyes. But not to his.

You were just as hurt and lost as he was.

He got down on his knees, sliding on them on the carpeted floor until he was by your legs, as you were still sitting down on your bed. He sobbed and sniffled as he got in between your legs and let his head slowly come down to rest on your lap. «..d-don’t leave me.

you’re the only thing I have left.. y-you don’t have to do anything just.. p-please.. please I need you. You’re everything to me.. I-I’m.. I.. »

How could you have let everything spin out of control?

You were sorry.

You were so sorry.

Your vision became so blurry, almost as if a plastic wall was swiftly building itself up on your eyes, until it broke down and you felt warm droplets of water strike your cheeks. You were sorry as you could see the hurting boy sobbing on your lap because of your selfish behaviour.

You didn’t know what had happened to you to get you to this point, to hurt mindlessly like that the only person that cared about you. But you knew you were sorry and you wanted to wipe everything you did away.

Your hand, slowly, made its way on his head covered by the soft honeyed hair. You let your fingers slip and comb through the strands of his hair while you finally felt something.

« I’m sorry. » a broken whisper left your mouth.

just wanted to apologize again as i’m sure it came out more cringy than anything, but if you have some advice to give me please feel free to leave a comment ( or just straight up tell me to stop writing and never do it again 🤪 ).

[tiredemzz]

S4! FIONA C. AT SOME CHILDRENS BDAY BE LIKE <3

a/n: so how’s yall doing?.. I’m tired af cus I’m not a morning person lmao.

disclaimer: this is basically a rewrite of that tua s4 episode with the children birthday party with lila and diego but my oc is in this season! there will be oc x cannon involved since im shipping five x flame- not five x lila b/c it doesn’t exist on my acc. if you don’t like oc x cannon, then this acc isn’t for you sadly. also i will be adding the deleted scene with five and klaus b/c idk why they didn’t add that scene.. like why? also five & fiora r in there 20s cus its s4 & five isn’t apart of the cia b/c my boi needs a break. also dave is alive b/c klaus needs his bf <3

warnings: fiora breaking the 4th wall, gets a little spicy between five & fiora but they get c0ckblocked by klaus & dave lmao, fluff (ofc), fiora hanging with kids (she can’t stand them sadly but doesn’t mind them.), cussing (ofc), mentioning of fish head (aj aka her adopted father)

a/n: this is my first time writing for these characters, so my bad if they seem ooc. Especially five lmao. (my boy was written worse- fuck you steve.)

We see Fiona herself, smoking a cigarette outside of the birthday party place. She sighed softly in relief, taking a few puffs after a long day of singing in clubs, bars for men/women alike because the girl herself thinks that everybody deserves love in there time.

Except bad people, she really hated bad people and her adopted father, who basically forced her to do evil things and run errands for him but since he’s dead.. Fiona felt relieved and a bit of guilt flowing in her body due to her and adopted father’s relationship with each other but she chose to ignore it, putting out her cigarette and heading back inside to see Grace running towards her with her arms out, hugging Fiona’s waist, making her a bit shook but she looks down at Grace and saids “hey sweetheart, how is my favorite niece doing?” Grace looks up at Fiona and saids “I’m good Auntie Flame! Have you talked with Uncle Five yet?” Grace asks while Fiona blushed a bit by Grace mentioning Five towards her, it’s been a while since those two have talked really- Fiona heard that Five is taking a break to himself but she shrugged and said “I have not sadly. Been busy with my singing and doing alot of painting- so I haven’t really talked with anyone in a while.” Grace pouted a bit and asked “why Auntie?” Fiona sighed softly and said “ever since everything has gone back for normal, I been going to therapy to talk about the past and who I really am inside. Except I still have my powers because I want to have them forever, I don’t want them to go away. I enjoy having them. Been taking time for myself to focus on my mental health and yeah.” Fiona smiled softly at Grace while Grace understood Fiona and smiled back at her.

“Now your Auntie Flame is gonna have fun, okay?” Fiona said, going down on one knee and kissed Grace on the forehead, making Grace giggle and said “ok but make sure you join me in the ball pit later, ok?” Grace asks her while Fiona laughed a bit and saids “alright alright, I promise I will but right now.. let me go have fun. Bye bubbles.” Grace giggles, waving at Fiona and going to have fun. Leaving a smiling Fiona on one knee and slowly getting up, standing on her feet.

Fiona began to walk around the place, seeing parents having fun with there children and slowly not smiling anymore since she never found her real parents but she decided not to give two fucks about it.

She noticed the bubbles, making her smile and popping one. While she popped one bubble, she felt someone watching her from afar and she noticed that a smiling Five was watching her while holding beer in his hand, making Fiona walk slowly towards him while smiling a bit and said “Five Hargreeves, my long time frenemy and the man who killed the fish head aka my adopted father. How are you old man?” Five deep chuckled a bit and said “Fiona aka the demon gal who hated me cus I killed her horrible adopted father and had to do it for my family. I’m doing well Flame, how about you?” Five said with a bit of a sarcastic tone in his voice and taking a few sips of his beer.

“Well, I been doing great. You mind giving me beer?” Fiona said with a bit of a soft tone in her voice, Five hummed a bit, giving her a beer bottle as well.

“Thanks Romeo, appreciate it.” Fiona said while smiling softly, opening the beer bottle, taking a few sips of it and just smiling softly at the children running around the place while Five smiled softly, just staring at her and asked “you thinking about something?” Fiona sighed a bit, looking at Five and answered this “yeah, just watching the children run around the place like they own it- reminds me of myself as a child. Good times good times really.” Five hummed softly at her answer and decided to hold out his hand, he asked “you uh wanna hold my hand love?” Fiona nodded yes and began to hold his hand while taking that hand back and deciding to grab on his tie with a bit of a smirk and asked “so you uh got any plans pretty boy? I’m loving the new look of the new you. Suits your pretty self.” Five smiled a bit, looking down at Flame and said “no, I don’t have any plans really.. didn’t expect you to be confident. Why’s that?” Fiona let go of his tie, answered with “I been using my charm- I call it the demon flirt charm. It’s uh something but eh. I don’t really like to be confident in myself.”

Five sighed softly, wrapping an arm around Flame’s shoulders and said “Listen to me sweetheart, you always feel confident in yourself. Be proud of that, be proud in your heart that you can still do the things that you love. You still kick ass Flame, still do and you can’t forgot that on how many times you managed to beat me at arm wrestling.. and sometimes Smash Bros when we were back in season two.” Flame started to laugh softly, feeling happy and said “yeah, those were good times- I mostly blame my author sometimes for stupid shit.” Five chuckled a bit at the last part on what Flame said. Suddenly Klaus, alongside his boyfriend Dave started to walk towards Five and Fiona.. Klaus said “Fiona! Five!” Fiona started to run towards Klaus, giving him a hug while smiling softly, still holding her beer while looking up at him and said “Klaus! I missed you buddy. How are ya? Also who’s the boy next to you?” Klaus chuckled softly, messing with Fiona’s hair a little bit and said “Fiona, homie- this is my boyfriend Dave. Dave, this is my homie Fiona.” Fiona waved softly at Dave while Dave waved back at her and said “It’s nice to meet you Fiona, heard so much stuff about you. Coming from Klaus ofc.” Fiona laughed a bit and started to stand next to Five while smiling softly.

Five started to ask “So, how long have you been sober Klaus?” Klaus responded with “Oh, uh, coming up on three years on January 15th, but who’s counting right?” Five said “that’s amazing” while Fiona gave Klaus a thumbs up, she was proud of her bestie becoming sober for three years and Fiona said “Really, good for you buddy. Proud of ya.” Klaus smiled softly at the two and said “thanks guys, really appreciate it.” Dave started to have an arm around Klaus while feeling proud of his boyfriend while Klaus, Five and Fiona did a toast with there beer bottles.

Feeling proud of themselfs for surviving.

Flame started to check her watch, sighing softly and said “I was supposed to join Grace at the ball pit- fuck. Gonna need somebody to go with me.” Five decided to go with her while the two waved goodbye at Klaus and Dave.

While the two were walking, Five said “I don’t really have a choice on joining, do I?” Flame said “nope, you don’t. You’re her uncle ofc.” As soon as they got to the ball pit, Five pushed Flame into it, laughing a bit at Flame while Flame got a little annoyed at him but soon she saw Grace, Grace was giggling and laughing at the duo while Flame rolled her eyes playfully. Soon enough, Five got in as well- he didn’t like it but eh. You win some, you lose some.

•

•

•

a/n: well- how’s that yall? good? good. hope yall enjoyed this little oneshot/drabble of s4 flame and everybody else. Yes- I added Dave b/c he and Klaus were fucking cute! Anyway, hope I wrote Five better then *cough* Steve *cough* did. I do appreciate freedback- so if you got any freedback on this.. let me know!

anyway, have a great rest of your weekend, day, night or wherever you live. Stay safe and take care of yourself ^v^

-author anon !

disclaimer, you are not allowed to copy and paste my work on to wattpad, a03 or deviantart or tumblr. that’s stealing and plagiarizing. And I will not allow that. >:(

[heartnanase]

it’s a privilege to be ignorant

Angst cuz i’m silly like that sorry guys basically xinyan threatens to tell childe you like him and you were like no hahah stop then backflip

they/them pronouns used once

“childe asks why you unfollowed him on instagram..” xinyan catches up to you, couldn’t she take the hint? you were walking as fast as you could.. kinda….. you had a feeling she would ask. her and childe are bestfriends, they tell eachother everything. you chuckle to yourself as she glares at you in disgust. what? did his ego get wounded? “cause he sucks.” you mumble. really you only unfollowed him because, you were upset by his teasing when he said he was going to delete the photos of you and him for storage on his phone. lame isn’t.. it… you actually… liked him.

never. in. a. million. years. would you imagine liking childe. it’s pretty simple how you fell for him, when he first gave you advice seriously. it was like seeing a side of him that you never did before. when you went home that night you were circling your room figuring out ways to not fall for someone the thing is, before you fell for childe you already knew he liked someone else. actually you already knew who it was. that’s why you SWORE to yourself you wouldn’t let him find out. xinyan grabbed your phone, “hey stop day dreaming, why do you keep shutting childe out!” you look at her.

“listen xinyan..” you grabbed back your phone as she stops trying to fight for it back after hearing you speak. “everything’s fine i’m fine me and childe are fine.” she didn’t look very convinced, you hated people like this. ones who act like they can see right through you, because xinyan will never understand how you feel. “i won’t leave you alone til you tell me what’s-“ you groan to shut her up. “i like him. i like him okay now can you leave me alone!” she smiles in excitement jumping up and down planning how you should tell him and that she could set you up with him. this was exactly how you thought she’d act. “this is so cute how are you going to confess!” you raised your eye brows as she clings onto you yapping and blabbing oh my goodness “no this was a bad idea let’s just forget about this”

“fine if you won’t tell him i will.” she was about to walk away and you grab her wrists as you stumble on your words. you sigh, “wait! i will! but only because i will never let my feelings be said from someone other than me.” you walked away from her as you tried to find childe, and when you did you gulped. you guys were already on awkward terms and now it’s going to be even worse. you tapped on his shoulder “i like you” he pretended not to hear you and turned around and offered you a dumpling, it broke your heart. “are you seriously going to ignore what i said you did everything to not tear up. “i-i just don’t know what to say look i’m sorry i’m not ready for a relationship.. maybe in the future?” bullshit bullshit bullshit. you already knew he wouldn’t like you in the future he’s just being nice. you already knew what he was going to say, you already knew he was going to reject you. but it still hurts.

for months your bestfriend has been telling you to get revenge on xinyan for driving you confess, but if you did get revenge. you would’ve been the reason he doesn’t have a bestfriend anymore. so you never told childe about it, how you never actually wanted to confess. well you and childe haven’t spoken since. usually you just send him glares and insult him when he tries to make conversation. you were only doing this so he’d think you hate him and so that maybe he can hate you too, it’s beneficial to him. the more you pretend to hate him, the faster he hates you then forgets about you.

a year later and you can’t forget about how you ended. it wasn’t easy for you, it was eating you alive when you saw childe. you turned your back to a wall and listened on him, you overheard him saying “i just don’t get how you could let go of someone close to you so easily? it took me 3 months to get over it and it took them a day.” you smile as you look down because you were still deep into it a year later, and the thing is you cant even blame him for being angry about it because he doesn’t know that you risked your reputation all so he doesn’t think you care. does he know people have been staring at you like a heartless creature?

at the same time you’re happy because, at least he got over it. there was nothing in this world that you wanted more was to be selfish, to tell him everything you’ve been dying to admit. but if he found out the truth he’d feel guilty. so you stayed silent. it’s better this way anyways, he’s happy.. he’s moved on. and you’re…. yk. you.

i love xinyan

[dracocheesecake]

Can I share here my Kai’s rambling but there’s mentions of death so if you’re uncomfortable with that pls just ignore or delete it below I may refer to reader as they

Platonic/father figure Kai and reader who died of injuries or of illness.. He didn’t expect things to go that way, or maybe he didn’t really want to think of it. You are mortal, such an outcome is anticipated sooner or later but why Kai feels so devastated? He didn’t think he’d become attached to anyone ever again, willing to care of someone. Yes he called you annoying often or was giving you ridiculous nicknames to piss you off but Kai’s other actions showed that he actually cared about you. Even though he never voiced that. He regrets it now.

He even thought of checking if you’re in the spirit relam now despite the fact that his escape from there costed him taking chi of ALL kung fu masters there. Oh wait, yes, there’s no guarantee that you’re there. Where are non masters go after death or how to get there? Kai doesn’t know. In the moment he just holds your still warm body close in his embrace, carefully, just like when you were alive. As you both spirits now Kai is struggling to find you and go on living like that or let you go.. Who knows, if he waits you will return one day

If they died of illness Kai’d be broken long before that moment. He even tried to give you chi but it didn’t work. He can only take it. All Kai can do now is taking care and treat you. He’s not that mean anymore, not when you have no time, you deserve peaceful ending after all

I’m hurting myself with my own writings why I am in such an angst mood😭😭😭

Oh no feel free to keep it coming! I love talking about Kai!

Alrighty let's see here...

...Why would you do this to me?! 😭😭😭😭💔💔💔💔 My heart! You owe me a new heart this one is broken!

Ahhhh I'm just imagining Kai trying to find a way to figure out where Y/N's soul went, and how he can get there, while knowing he probably can't, being immortal, but he's willing to try and bring them back, no matter how long it takes...but even worse is him watching them die, knowing that he can't prevent it.

When he realizes they're about to pass, he's suddenly so much kinder and softer towards them than he's ever been. He no longer raises his voice, or even tries to make them angry anymore- not even to tease them to amuse himself. He tends to them as best as he can, getting them water, wrapping them up if they're cold, changing bandages if they've been injured - overall treating them like a small child, showing them the care he's had for them deep down but never shown.

Then he's holding them close in their last moments, watching their chi fade away, but just desperately trying to heal them, to make them well, and finally breaking down in the end, begging them not to go, not to leave him...and after that horrible, final moment, still cradling them in his arms as he never did when they were alive.

[workingforitallthetime]

drawn arrows unseen

part 15 / previous installments/tags

Mason plays nine games, and at morning skate before the tenth game, they make him lead the stretches. The clatter of his teammates’ tapping sticks fills the circle. He’s staying in Anaheim.

It’s harder to follow the Pats in his new time zone, but Mason manages it. He watches the fuzzy WHL stream when he can, and he sees his share of media coverage about next year’s presumed 1OA draft pick and his incredible shot and his dedication to hockey and how he’s only 5’9 but he’s sturdy with those thick hockey thighs, and that’s when Mason usually makes himself close the tab.

He keeps texting Connor just the same as ever. Hockey stuff. Draft stuff. Being Connor’s friend from the safe remove of his phone feels allowable. It also feels a little fraudulent, but it’s not like Mason’s going to stop talking to him. Maybe their texts are less frequent this season, but Connor’s got a lot going on. Anyone who follows hockey can tell that.

One afternoon a text from Connor catches Mason at home, on an off day in the middle of a homestand. He wonders later if Connor planned it that way.

hey this is going to come out soon so turns out I’m an omega

Mason’s hands go numb around his phone. It’s really happening. Kent was right. Mason was right, or his nose was. He can’t tell himself any more that maybe this is all some fucked-up mistake. He can’t think of what to say back, or make his thumbs work to say it. Another text from Connor appears before Mason can unfreeze, and he immediately feels guilty.

R u surprised? 

Sweat pricks at the edge of Mason’s forehead. How the fuck is he supposed to answer that? Yeah no your scent’s been driving me crazy all year, bet you didn’t think this could get any more fucked up huh! No way. Connor’s got enough to deal with already. He makes himself type kinda, and hits send. Thanks for telling me, he adds.

He stares at his phone. ok, Connor says. And then

Have you

A fragment, like Connor meant to rewrite or delete it instead of hit send. But it’s an opening Mason has to take. Connor’s going to find out sometime. If Mason doesn’t say it now it’ll only be worse later. His hand shakes as he thumbs Y and sends it. Another fragment. He should keep typing. He can’t make himself.

Instead, a reply from Connor pops up. 🅰️?

Heat roars through Mason’s belly at Connor calling him alpha, even in emoji form. Suddenly he feels more confident, ready to take charge of the conversation. Did the beard give it away?

Connor’s typing bubble appears. Then it goes away. It comes back, for a long time. But after another pause, all that appears is ya😂.

Idk why it’s not out yet, Mason says. Guess nobody cares about anaheim. He’s been bracing himself, knowing it wouldn’t take long once they reopened locker rooms to the media. But all of their very few beat reporters are betas. Trevor’s buzz hasn’t been enough to bring the national broadcast through town yet this season.

But this conversation should be about Connor, not him. r u ok? Mason asks.

just getting used to it

you could talk to owen, Mason suggests.

haha that’s what kent said

Heart pounding, Mason immediately swipes over to his text thread with Kent. Did u say anything to connor? 

No but u should. 

Mason can practically see Kent rolling his eyes as he types it. He’s halfway through a response when the texts on his screen are replaced by an incoming FaceTime.

Connor.

The same photo of Connor that’s always been in Mason’s phone, the two of them at U18 worlds, medals around their necks and trophy held between them. Mason opens the call and the photo is replaced with Connor’s face, a little narrower and sharper than it was a year and a half ago. The panic Mason felt at the FaceTime alert is washed away by the relief of seeing Connor, the anticipation of hearing his dry voice. 

“Hi,” Mason says, embarrassed at the fondness that manages to pack itself into that one single syllable. 

“Hey.” Connor’s wearing an old white t-shirt with a collar that’s stretched crookedly. The tips of his collarbones show underneath its edge. “Just thought I’d call. Probably should have in the first place, but.”

“Yeah, I get it.” Mason’s body autopilots him through his apartment while his eyes are glued to Connor. He closes his bedroom door behind him even though there’s no one else at home.

Connor sighs, frustrated. “I don’t know.” He looks so young.

The room behind Connor is nondescript. Mason can see the edge of the doorframe, the anonymous seam where the wall meets the ceiling. Probably their apartment in Regina.

Mason scoots back on his bed to sit up against the wall. The last time he saw Connor looking anything other than perfectly self-possessed was that first practice in Texas, holding his stick too tight. Mason knew what to do then. He doesn’t now.

“How’d you find out?” Mason regrets the question as soon as it’s out of his mouth. It’s not like Connor’s going to say I scented you and it was game over.

Connor’s eyes shift to the side, evasive. “It was pretty obvious.”

Mason wonders if there’s an omega equivalent of his own experience. For a split second he pictures Connor waking from a dream, slick pooling between his legs, and then he makes himself stop thinking.

“How about you?”

Mason scrubs a hand over his face. “Yeah, also obvious.” What would it be like if he could just say it? Most insane wet dream of my life, popped a knot. Would Connor ask him more? Would he stay on the line as Mason told him about the dizzying sensitivity of his knot swelling in his hand and what it might feel like swelling inside Connor, would he murmur geography questions to Mason while he…

He's seventeen. Mason wrenches his thoughts away and changes the subject. “Has anybody given you a hard time?”

“Nah.” Connor’s voice is wry. “I mean, I’m getting chirped, obviously. Like, Val…” Connor rolls his eyes like never mind, and Mason makes a mental note to check the Pats roster for who the fuck Val is.

“Are you worried about the draft?”

Connor shrugs. “Not much I can do.” The indifference seems more practiced than genuine. “Maybe Fantilli beats me out after all.”

“Fuck that,” Mason spits. “You’re better than he is.”

“He’s not an omega.”

“That we know of,” Mason counters.

Connor laughs. “I’ll keep you updated if I find out anything next month. Breaking news.”

World juniors. Mason’s been trying not to think about it. “You guys should have a good team.”

“You’re definitely out?” Connor’s blue eyes bore through the screen at him.

“Yeah, not an option.” It’s the right thing. But that doesn’t stop Mason from wanting to abandon his NHL contract and run straight to Connor.

Connor has a funny look on his face. “They probably wouldn’t let us room together anyway, eh.”

“Yeah.” It hurts to say it. “Guess those days are over.”

(next)

[darby-derby]

Sorry not sorry but kids on TikTok are being so dramatic about the JJK fandom right now. “The new MHA” “the figurine incidents” are you new to the internet??? Have you EVER been in a fandom before? If not, you’re not old enough to be watching JJK or interacting with its fandom anyways. And for the record, JJK is nowhere near MHA in terms of fandom horrificness. I’ve never been in either, but I can easily name like five different things about the MHA fandom that make it so much worse than JJK. (Grown women simping over and making their whole personalities wanting to marry and prey on 15 year old boys, nsfw audios and other sexual content of 15 year olds everywhere, people actually getting into physical altercations and doxxing eachother over ships, actual 15 year olds thinking it’s fine to be with adults because of the aforementioned shit, the destruction of hotel and convention property, etc). The JJK fandom makes horny jokes about fictional characters and themselves. That’s it. That’s the “horrible” fandom these people are whining about. That shit is hilarious, and if you don’t want to see it, you can block tags on TikTok effortlessly to avoid it. No seriously, just click “not interested” and opt to add more detail, then block the tags on the specific post that you don’t want to see more of. If you’ve been on the internet for more than ten years you’ll be fully aware of the fact that someone squeezing period blood from a tampon on their figurines is harmless and doesn’t affect you in any way. There’s an entire subreddit for people cumming on their figurines, this is nowhere close to the worst thing fandoms have done to their figures. Have we already forgotten the rainbow dash jar?

Just to be clear so people don’t start trying to twist this around, I’m not saying they don’t have a right to be grossed out by it or something. I’m saying that making several posts about how horrible that person is for doing shit to their own figures, and blowing it out of proportion by implying it’s even remotely as bad as a fandom full of 30+ year olds simping for teenagers is stupid. It’s dramatic and it’s annoying as hell to be scrolling my normal fyp and suddenly see several vocaloid background slideshows about how “problematic” the JJK fandom is. It’s not even like I can block that shit because they use main tags like “anime” to tag it. If I block that my fyp will be in shambles and I’ll be thrown to the depths of footballtok or something.

“It’s against TikTok TOS” and they got banned. They’ve been banned already. For a while now. Also people literally just straight up post cropped porn on TikTok all the time, this isn’t news either. Just block the tags and move on if you think the fandom is that gross. Better yet: block the tag of the CHARACTER that gets all of the sexual attention. It irritates me to no end how people will just complain about shit then refuse to fix the problem and continue to complain. It’s not the responsibility or fault of other people to bend to your preferences. “Don’t like don’t read”, block and move on. And I can assure you, not seeing harmlessly weird fandom shit isn’t a need. It is VERY much a preference.

Little edit/side note: the vast majority of people complaining directly state in their slideshows and videos that they didn’t get the video on their fyp. They were told about or linked to it and made the conscious decision to view it. We REALLY need to teach people Dead Dove: Do Not Eat outside of ao3.

Anyways I hope my mutuals have a wonderful day, just ignore this lol I had a moment and will likely delete this later.

[moonzyshoes]

Cute things for you and your friends to do! Prt 2.

4. Make a YT channel 2gether! 📺

Making a YT channel together is a fun and easy way to capture your day to day lives together or fun occasions and activities you guys do together.

You don’t have to try to make it big, although I won’t tell you what you can or can’t do, just making videos for fun is enough to make some memories that you and your friends can look back on in the future.

Record you guys going to school, or work. Record your sleepovers and just have fun with it.

!!NOTE!!- If it was me, I’d make a google email with your friends so you aren’t using one of your personal emails, so if someone was to be rude/mean and try to access your personal info or delete the channel as revenge or something else equally childish… They wouldn’t do AS MUCH damage. Now if you all make a new one and you ALL have access to it, then one of the people who knows the passwords could still use it and do something similar or worse with the email. Another thing I would suggest is vote for someone in your friend group that everyone trusts to run the account and email. Please don’t try to use this email/channel against anyone. I warned you.

5. Pics or it didn’t happen booklet 📸

The pics or it didn’t happen game is a fun way to make goals for yourself to do the things you’ve always wanted to do and a great way to have fun with buddies or by yourself! And this activity isn’t as, ‘girly’ as the others… Might be…?

This game includes you and your other participants making a list of items to achieve/accomplish before a specific time.

A lot of people do this activity during summer break, so for this explanatory example let’s say we’re going for the end of summer as our goal. Your goal is to earn a certain amount of points. The activities include silly things like prank calls, picnics, dying your hair, making a pizza, etc. Small little fun activities. The ‘smaller’ the activity, the less amount of points you get. The ‘bigger’ an activity is you get more points. You and your friends may decide what activities dictate how many points the activities are worth.

As the name of the game implies, you must have pics of you doing said activity/pic of activity as proof, or it didn’t happen/doesn’t count.

This I think would be a great way to have fun with close distance friends and long distance friends as you can do the checklist by yourself and then show and compare results later.

Making/agreeing upon the activities and the books could also be a separate activity in itself, and a fun DIY, which doesn’t take much money. You could just go to your local dollar tree and get booklets/binders and make these books’ covers to match or be unique to yourself.

6. Book Clubs 📖

Book clubs can be an amazing way to boost the amount of books you and your friends read and it can go beyond your school’s allowed books if your school has book restrictions.

It doesn’t have to be some, ‘boring,’ book that doesn’t capture your attention. You and your club can pick out books that ya’ll actually like or sound cool to you guys.

Reading is great on its own but for some people, like people who have difficulty sticking with one thing at a time, it can be hard to read alone. Getting together and reading a few chapters of a good book with friends is a nice way to keep yourself reading and you’re accompanied by some of your favorite people while doing it.

Getting some tea and coffee, meeting up at someone’s house or the park, and talking about what you’re reading about could be good for you too. Practicing reading will help you with anything you may have difficulties with when reading alone. Like if you loose focus, have problems with coherent sentences while reading aloud, and just lack of interest.

Doing this may also make book essays a hell of a lot easier now that you’re reading on your own time with friends.

I’m out of ideas for now, but I’ll be looking for more online to add to this series and ask my friends! I had some but… I forgot them ( • ̀ω•́ )✧

Thanks 4 reading :>

[nova-dracomon]

The Darkest Times Ain't Always at Night

Originally posted on the Fictionkind Dreamwidth on April 8, 2024

Some of the prompts on this DW I feel like I could answer with a single word. “Does your fictomere have hair?” Nope! But then, other prompts basically make me tell my entire life story.

Has your fictomere ever gotten seriously ill? What happened? - Prompt #97 [Sickness]

Absolutely, and it changed literally everything.

In my earliest memories I lived alone on a mountain range. Dracomon can’t really fly per-say, but we can glide well enough. So I’d spend my days dozing and digging around for gems and metals to eat. The best ones were kept up at high altitudes too, so my expeditions could take a while. If I were to eat enough, I knew I would be able to digivolve and that’s what I was really after – becoming a coredramon and gaining actual flight.

In a valley at the base of the mountain there was also a small village of digimon. Between trips, or when I needed supplies, I’d stop by. Overtime, I got to know the villagers and we became friends. Though, they couldn’t understand why I chose to live alone. “I like my privacy” or “I value my independence.” I’d say, but they did have a point that living in a community would be easier. If I got attacked or fell ill I’d be alone so far from help. I could be in real danger and more than once I was tempted to move.

None of us could have known what would happen next.

The digiworld is ruled by a supercomputer called King Drasil. As the digiworld got more and more populated, it was putting more and more strain on them. Till finally they decided to purge all but 1% of the world’s population and move their chosen few to a new server (before deleting the current one). To this end, they created the x-program. A high-infectious, fatal virus with no cure.

Most of the time.

As they and I would come to discover, sometimes death doesn’t stick. In a few rare cases, a digimon with a strong enough will to survive could overcome the virus by mutating their digicores-essentially their souls. This process would also bring out any latent data being stored in there, altering their appearance and increasing their strength.

Can you see the unfolding disaster brewing? But, hold on, it gets worse.

There’s another way to get x-antibodies for yourself besides hoping you can change the coding on your soul. You can steal them. By integrating another digimon’s core with your own, you can temporarily stave off the effects of the virus. There is no possible way to do this without killing the other digimon. On top of all this, King Drasil ordered his royal knights to hunt down any x-digimon - glitches in the system of their master plan. Royal knights are mega-level digimon of unimaginable power – too strong for any normal digimon to tackle one-on-one, nevermind the whole crew!

Even alone in the mountains I had caught the virus and alone I overcame the infection. My noema of this time is blurry, but I remember writhing in pain in some desolate cave as my pixels were devoured one-by-one. And then, at what felt like the last moment, it stopped. I held onto my last pixel, REFUSED to give it up and the impossible happened. I changed fate.

But there wasn’t much joy in surviving. Between the x-program, the royal knights and digimon slaughtering each other for x-antibodies, my world was in ruins. I’m convinced I only survived at all because I was alone in the mountains, otherwise I would have been easy prey.

Somehow, I was able to find a small, almost in-perceivable tear in our world that led to the human world and so I fled and left everything behind.

I’d come to find later things you thought you left behind have a way of creeping back into your life.

- Hortense

[multiplicity-positivity]

Hey. So, definitely a Cw for topics of dormancy.

I’m going to keep it short. Our host/core went dormant. And that’s something that’s really sitting with not only other people innerworld , but us people in front as well. It’s … distressing , really, and we don’t know what to do. We’ve been talking to the body’s mother in general today, and each time any of us say something to her, we can’t help but feel guilty. Her kid’s well, dormant — not that we could do anything about it, but still. We’re here, they’re not. It makes a lot of sense that we’ve been rapidly splitting though. We do that a lot with stress.

My question is; is there anything we can do to ease these feelings or distress or guilt? Is there anything to do to like - cope? Or deal with these feelings? Or how to make them feel welcome if/when they do come out of dormancy? Feel free to delete this if you are uncomfortable/can’t answer. Thank you.

- Eth.

Hi, Eth! We’re so sorry your system is going through something difficult like this. It can be challenging “losing” any system member to dormancy, let alone the host! But we do have some words of encouragement for y’all.

First, we’d like to make it clear that if you have a CDD, your body’s mother’s kid isn’t gone. In dissociative disorders, there is no “original,” “core,” or “main” alter, and each member is vital and important to the system as a whole! If your system is endogenic, however, this may not apply to you.

Second, we’d like to say that there is absolutely no reason for any member of your system to feel guilty due to another member going dormant. Quite often in systems, this is something that’s outside anyone’s control. Sometimes the brain just decides that a particular part or headmate isn’t needed anymore, and everyone else is left to deal with the aftermath. Adding shame or guilt onto the distress of losing a headmate to dormancy will only make matters worse for you and your system!

It’s important to remember that just because your host is dormant now, doesn’t mean you’ll never see them again! They may be dormant for a few days, weeks, months, or years, but there’s always a chance that they’ll return one day. Still, it’s okay to miss them, and it’s good and healthy to allow yourself and each of your headmates to grieve in your own ways.

The first couple weeks without your host may be particularly hard. Y’all may need to figure out who will maintain relationships, who will go to work or school, and who will take on the other duties your host used to do. Having an inside meeting with as many members as you can may allow y’all to divide tasks between the system. And here’s a few things to consider:

- Don’t try to compare how well your system is functioning to how well it functioned before the dormancy. It may be rough for y’all for a while, and that’s okay. Take things slowly and go one step at a time if you need to.

- Show extra patience to yourself and others inside. Different members may struggle with losing the host in different ways. Remember to listen to everyone and take everyone’s thoughts into account when making big decisions.

- Allow your system to mourn. Your host may not be dead, but we absolutely know it may feel like they are. Your headmates’ feelings have value and deserve to be felt, even if to others it seems silly or strange.

Finally, we’ll say we wish your whole system peace, rest, and comfort in this difficult time. Perhaps some resources for hospice patients, or those who are dealing with the loss of a loved one, may be beneficial to your system as a whole.

We hope something here will be beneficial for you. We’ll make a separate post which will be up later on how to help headmates post-dormancy. Good luck with everything, and please let us know if there’s anything we can do to help!

🌸 Margo and 🖋 Cecil

[totallyexhausted]

Random Sick Hirano (with his parents) Notes for my FF for Back-up

Just small notes on one of the ff’s in case my computer deletes the files again (so I have like a triple backup)...

(Just random-ass notes for right now to have a back-up back-up for myself) - feel free to comment or motivate me lol jk brb crying.... 

Title: 

Sick/ dinner, bath, arguing, AE, mom, dad/ eating, sick, day off, calls Kagi… Dad EMT, mother stay at home.

 Flashback, fight, feelings

Everything alright here, Kagiura?

Pft. This your boyfriend?

What? No, he’s-

It doesn’t matter who I am. Kagi? You good?

Y-yes. It’s fine, right, Tashaki?

He punches Kagi, Hirano tackles him.

 FH:

Sore muscles?

 Shit, how was he supposed to go back to normal after that?

 6a.m.

The phone rang several times before the younger boy picked up, and Hirano smiled as his voice filled his ear, thick from sleep, still fighting to stay awake.

“I’m not sure if you remember but its Saturday, and we’re on break, which means I don’t have practice…”

“Well, I want to make sure you aren’t forgetting the routine. Have to keep you on your toes, after all.”

The lines quiet for a few minutes, and Hirano wonders if Kagiura fell back asleep. He’s about to say something when rustling fills the other end of the line, and the younger boy whispers, “Hirano… what’s wrong? Your voice… are you not feeling well?”

He sounds more awake now.

Hirano winces as Kagiura’s words meet his ears. Of course the younger boy knew him well enough to know when something was off. He hadn’t known there was something wrong with his voice but given he hadn’t talked much over the past few days, he’d imagined it sounded rough, hoarse, weak.

“No, I’m fine,” Hirano says, “Sorry, I was sick, but I’m better.”

There’s a quiet pause again.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I mean, I’ve been sick since… Wednesday? My parents took me to A&E the other night. But I’m better now. I feel better now. I promise.”

Hirano isn’t exactly sure why he promised… it just felt right. Kaguira sighs, “You were at A&E? Why didn’t you tell me you were sick? You should have- I would’ve- well, I don’t know what I would have done, but it would have been something! You’re supposed to tell me when you’re sick, Hirano!”

“You’re really dense sometimes.”

“Well, you’re an idiot sometimes, so…”

“Great. The blockhead and the idiot.”

Hirano laughed, “Yeah, has a nice ring to it.”

 Part of him feels guilty. He’d be giving the younger the same lecture if it was the other way around.

 “I’ll probably fall asleep.”

“That’s okay. Could we… just talk until then?”

“Yeah, I’d like that.” Hirano can hear the smile in Kagiura’s voice.

  Blunt.

 “Is that why you didn’t tell us you didn’t feel well, son?”

“We spend so little time together now…”

“We’d rather know you’re okay and healthy than fret over some cancelled plans… idiot.”

Hirano glances up, a small smirk crossing his face as his father’s eyes meet his, the playful smirk setting on old features.

“I’ve been told I’m dense sometimes.”

“Well, that’s an understatement. Whoever said that must know you pretty well, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess… he does.”

His father’s quiet for a few minutes, “You’re lucky to have him, then… so don’t mess it up, Taiga.”

If he was being honest, he felt okay on the train; but the day progressed he just started feeling worse… He blamed Kagiura. He’d taken a stupid sip from his water bottle when the younger had offered. A day later, the stupid kid had gotten the stomach flu and basically spent the day in the bathroom trying to isolate himself from Hirano until the older dragged him out, demanding he sleep on a bed versus the floor… they’d gotten into an argument which ended with Hirano getting puked on and Kagi breaking down. But Kagi was always getting sick, so Hirano hadn’t really thought too much about it. Besides he always felt like shit after exams or was getting sick after them, too much stress and pressure, eating away at an exhausted mind…

 Her fingers running through Hirano’s blonde locks, brushing his bangs away from his blue eyes before tucking a few strands behind his ear. Truthfully, she hated the blonde hair and the earrings, but neither her nor her husband were going to stand in the way of Hirano expressing himself. Especially since he’d had such a hard time fitting in in middle school. It was heartbreaking to know he wasn’t the same kid they’d raised. He wasn’t open with others the way he used to be. Middle school hadn’t been kind to him… hadn’t been kind to a sweet boy. Because of that, Hirano learned to lock himself away, learned to keep his feelings inside, his thoughts, himself… until he broke, until he yelled or screamed or cried or fought… until he couldn’t hold it in any longer.

 “These are new,” his mother said gently, ghosting her finger over the blue earrings. A gift from Kagi.

“He sounds sweet.”

 “He’s getting too old for you to carry.” His father just grunted in response.

 “Are you sure you feel okay, sweetheart?”

“Hm. Yeah, sorry… just tired,”

“Taiga.”

There’s firm hand pressed against his forehead, and Hirano feels the chopsticks fall from his fingers as his hand slips…

 Whatever happened next was a giant blur. Nauseating and hot..

“You need to take the meds, son.” It’s not a suggestion. It’s an order. A command.

“Sorry, sweetheart, I’ll give you more water in a few minutes. We just really need you to keep this down.” There’s a tone of desperation in her voice that Hirano doesn’t like…

 Bits of conversation flying around him that meant nothing to him.

“If his temperature doesn’t start to drop in an hour, we’ll need to take him to the hospital.”

“I know… hopefully he can keep these meds down. I mean, it’s been over 12 hours, what else could his stomach have left to purge?”

“You should get some rest. I’ll take his temperature in 30 minutes and let you know if it’s moved. Besides if he gets sick again or if we need to take him to the hospital, I can carry his weight. Kid’s not as tall as me yet.”

 Fevered delirium he thinks of Kagiura.

 “Where did you go?”

“Go? I haven’t gone anywhere, sweetheart, I’m right here,”

“No. I mean, you said, since we’ve been back.”

“Oh,” his mother laughed softly, and Hirano closed his eyes briefly. He’d forgotten how much he’d missed her laugh…

“You don’t remember?”

 Cool fingers run through his hair, pushing blonde bangs away from his face before caressing his cheek, a thumb running along his cheekbone gently, and Hirano groans softly before opening his eyes.

“Sorry, honey, I needed to wake you so you could take some more meds,”

 Door creaks open, a hand pressed against the side of his neck, then his cheek--- Hirano instinctively reaches his hand out, grasping a wrist before opening his eyes. Kagi?

“Sorry, son. I didn’t mean to wake you. I just came to check on you- you’ve been asleep for over 10 hours now.”

 “How about we get some food in you? Then maybe a nice shower so you can wash everything away? You can finish off the remaining meds, then go back to sleep. Sound okay?”

Hirano knew it wasn’t a command. He could refuse if he wanted, and his father wouldn’t argue with him, he wouldn’t chastise him, he wouldn’t push him… but walking, stretching his legs after laying around for so long sounded nice…  

 Hirano felt his face blush. His parents were always like this. They weren’t overbearing or suffocating… just kind and gentle and nice. They were always open with him, trusting him, not afraid to show their emotions or wear their heart on their sleeve… but they were a little older than most parents, and more passionate. They weren’t afraid to express themselves, express their emotions, something Hirano had tried and got bullied for in middle school.

He hadn’t found a balance and because of it was the constant target of fights and taunts in grade school. He remembers crying, yelling, screaming at his parents while they just sat there, letting him lash out, letting him take his anger out on them because it was their fault he was a pushover… at least that’s what he thought. What he told them. It was their fault he was getting bullied… they weren’t mad. Not then.

Eventually, Hirano learned to hide himself through a tough exterior. People tended to stay away from you if you looked like trouble… and the fact that he’d been in more fights than anyone in his class helped. He didn’t like fighting, and he’d tried to avoid it, but he learned to stand his ground, he learned how to take a punch… and how to give one.

By the time he reached high school, everything became easier. He’d dyed his hair, got piercings, managed to perfect a cold-hearted stare, and deflect a conversation, or at the very least, shut down a conversation he didn’t want to have. Middle school had taken him, a sweet boy who wore his heart on his sleeve and tormented him until he crafted a suit of armor others refused to mess with. He learned to close himself off; opening up to only those he trusted… but that circle was small. Really damn small.

 It wasn’t like Hirano could do no wrong in their eyes because God knows he’d fucked up more than he could count. Most of the time he was lectured; they talked about his actions, what he could have done differently, what he did and why he did it, and why he was being punished, then he’d accept his fate. But despite all the times he’d been grounded, or the time last year when he’d been brought home by the police for doing something stupid with Sasaki, Hirano had only been yelled at twice in his short existence. Once by his mother, the other, his father… both for fighting.

 Even when his father went through a depressive episode, Hirano tried returning the favor. He’d sit with him, sometimes talking, sometimes in quiet, his legs sprawled out in front of him as he leaned his back against the wooden headboard or sitting on the floor next to the couch, listening to the sound of his father breathing. He knew there wasn’t much he could do; that he could fix… when his father was having a low period… but he wanted him to know that if he needed Hirano, he was there. That although he might have felt alone, he wasn’t… or at the very least, he didn’t have to go through this alone.

           He’d become aware at a young age that his father dealt with depression. He was quieter sometimes, reserved, distant; his mother wasn’t. She was loud and brash, and she loved hugs… She’d explained to Hirano when he was 6 that sometimes, “Papa was just sad and there wasn’t much they could do to cheer him up.”

           It wasn’t until he reached middle school that Hirano understood what that sadness was. How it affected you. How it hurt you. He’d started sitting with his father just so he wasn’t alone. Most of the time, Hirano felt completely useless, and he fucking hated that. He hated feeling useless. Watching someone he cared about sick or hurt, and not being able to help…

 “You’re alright, son. It’s okay. Just get it up… your mother and I- we’ll clean you up. Don’t worry. You’re alright, son.”

 “I felt better.”

“You might have felt better,” his father chuckles softly, his grip still firm against Hirano’s shoulder, “Hell, you might feel better… but you’re still sick, son. Your body is still recovering. You haven’t eaten in a while, so your stomach isn’t used to the food…”

“I don’t want to,” Hirano shudders, swallowing again as he lurches, “I- I can keep- it down.”

 Hand on stomach.

 “Next time, we’ll try something different than rice porridge, okay?”

“Here, sweetheart, I made ginger tea. It’ll help settle your stomach.”

Hirano was mad at him and that was okay...

[openingpandorasbox1]

Part 2 - Abusive friends

One night we were at the club and at the end of the night I caught up with Sharon and she told us that Craig got thrown out of the club by security and that security told her that the reason why they kicked Craig out was because he had hit his girlfriend. Sharon was upset about Craig hitting Deborah, but Sharon’s behaviour towards these abusers can be contradictive at times.

Sharon wants people to like her and cares little about standing up for victims. Sharon yearns to be liked so she tends to turn a blind eye to a lot of shit or she would gaslight a situation. This is what happened this time.

                Sharon at first was saying that Craig had hit Deborah and he was thrown out by a security guard. I said to Sharon, ‘There’s no reason a security guard would make that up’ and we both knew Craig was emotionally and verbally abusive towards Deborah. I lost count of all the times I saw Deborah in tears at the end of the night because Craig had abused her. Sharon had witnessed this more than I have; she certainly wasn’t ignorant of what is taking place. We all saw Deborah in tears and we were all knew why Deborah was in tears, so why gaslight that? Gaslighting the situation isn’t going to help Deborah and it isn’t going to help anybody else. The only person that is advantaged by gaslighting is the perpetrator. Deborah remained with Craig for years as she was completely in love with him but one day she had enough of all his bullshit and dumped him and I thought good for her! She deserved so much more than that little douche bag.

                Sharon remained friends with Craig and because I was friends with Sharon and Keith (who was close to Craig), Deborah deleted both of us off Facebook after she had broken up with Craig. I understood why she did this and didn’t take it personally. The only person Deborah kept as a friend on Facebook was Autumn and that’s because Autumn has little to no association with Craig and if she did it was only through myself. I’m not close to Craig, so Autumn certainly wouldn’t be close to him. Autumn hated Keith and the group he associated with. Sharon was upset and angry with Deborah and I tried to explain to Sharon that Deborah wants nothing to do with Craig and she wants a better life for herself. Sharon knew Deborah had broken up with Craig and Sharon knows that Deborah had been abused by Craig for years; yet Sharon chose to keep Craig as a friend on Facebook as well as in real life. Sharon continued to support and be friendly to Craig, even though he abused her friend. Deborah may have felt resentful as a result. Why would you want to be associated with someone who sides with your abuser? Even though Sharon and Deborah weren’t associated with each other for some time after this, years later Deborah continued to have a casual friendship with Sharon. They rarely see each other or communicate though.

                Craig and Keith hate fat women. They don’t want to have an overweight girlfriend but for some unknown reason that I can’t comprehend, they have only been in relationships with overweight women. They have never dated anybody skinny or who has had a medium sized build. They are always in a relationship with larger-sized women and then spend their entire relationship bitching about their partner’s weight. Craig is well known for this behavior (Craig is worse for this than Keith is). Craig not only has bitched about his girlfriend’s weight but he also bitches about other women’s weight. I was skinny when I associated with this group of people, so they haven’t put me down for being fat (that I know of); however, chances are, they could have without me knowing about it. When I was associating with these people I was roughly around 40 to 45kg. I’m a confident person so people putting me down for being fat or ugly doesn’t particularly worry me too much; I’m more upset by their intentions of the bullying than what they have to say.

[kbtbb-soryu]

Queen of Ice [Ryota x OC] Chapter 10

The next morning I strolled into class to find everyone abuzz. 

“Haruka! Did you check the class’s chat group yet?” Yuka asked. 

Our class had a chatroom? Wait, I think I remember something about that. I think I deleted it five minutes after I was added. It was bad enough spending half a day around these people. Now I was expected to deal with them online, too? No thanks.

“No,” I said coldly and took my seat.  

“Haruka. You need to see this.” Eito passed me his phone, which was open on the class’s group chat with a photo of me and Mr Mochizuki. It was taken last night. It was dark and the picture was taken from behind, but it was clearly Mr Mochizuki walking next to a girl in our school uniform.  

“Someone sent it to Reina, apparently. She doesn’t know who, though. That’s why everyone’s freaking out,” Yuka said.  

“Like I care.” I pushed the phone away.  

“Haruka…”  

Eito leaned over. “Don’t you think you should?” he hissed in my ear. 

“If I look too invested, it’ll look suspicious,” I hissed back.

"Being out this late with a student is pretty problematic.” Yuka said as she took a closer look at the photo, seemingly unaware of our whispered conversation. I handed the phone back to Eito and he started typing something. A second later my pocket vibrated. 

You need to fix this.

I shot Eito an annoyed look, then texted him back. What do you suggest I do? 

You never should have let him get involved. 

You think I don’t know that? It’s too late to tell me that now. 

Sorry… Another message. But you need to think of something. FAST. 

The door slid open and we slipped our phones away, but it wasn’t Mr Mochizuki who stepped into the room. It was Mr Furuya.  

“Alright, take your seats,” he said. 

“Where’s Mr Mochizuki?” Reina asked. 

“He’s busy with something else, so I’ll be with you for homeroom today. This is a special occasion, be happy! Homeroom with me is pretty rare, after all.” He grinned. 

“Is Mr Mochizuki not here because of that photo?” Reina asked. 

“Hm? And what photo would that be? Just take your seats already. Be good boys and girls for me, please?” 

“Don’t bother pestering Mr Furuya; guy’s Fort Knox,” Tsukishiro said. 

“I’m not going to drop this! I’ll get to the bottom of this!!” Reina practically shouted.  

“Reina’s right. I want to hear Mochi explain himself. We’re owed that!” one of her friends added.  

“You’re annoying. Shut the hell up.” I sneered.  

Reina’s head snapped to me but Mr Furuya silenced her before she could say anything.  

After first period, I scoured the campus in search of Mr Mochizuki. I finally spotted him walking down the hall, near the staff room. When he stepped into an area rarely frequented by students, I shuffled up to him.  

“I’m sorry, Mr Mochizuki…” I pulled out a page of math problems, pointing to it as I spoke, giving us a valid excuse. 

“You look downright miserable,” he said. 

“What do you expect?” When I looked up, I saw that confident smile of his.  

“Listen, I’m the teacher here. You sit back, and let me deal with this, okay?” I knitted my eyebrows together. “Come see me at the guidance counselling room during lunch.” 

“Alright.” 

“Kay, see you there.” He waved goodbye to me and then trotted off.  

“And?” Eito came up behind me.  

“He told me to let him deal with it.” 

“Makes sense, I guess.”  

“Are you going to let him?”  

I sighed and leaned against the wall. “I’ll step in if I see things are going south.”  

“You might make it worse, though.” 

I smirked at him. “Who do you think I am?”  

During lunch, I stepped into the counselling room, but Mr Mochizuki wasn’t the only one waiting for me; Sato was too.  

I crossed my arms. “What’s going on?”  

“There you are,” Mr Mochizuki said when he saw me. 

“What’s this about?” I asked again, not budging from my spot next to the door.  

“I want you to stay calm, and just hear him out. I’ll be here the whole time,” Mr Mochizuki said. 

I sneered down at Sato. “Make it quick. I don’t have all day.”  

“Sato. You going to say it, or am I going to have to?” Mr Mochizuki asked. I raised an eyebrow. Sato, eyes glued to the floor, refused to make eye contact with me. “Fine, I’ll say it, then.” 

“No! No… I’ll do it…” Sato swallowed thickly, and then with palpable regret, opened his mouth. “I was the one who put that photo in your mailbox, Haruka."

"Photos," I corrected.

"Um, right. And I was the one who took that photo of you two and sent it to Reina… It was all me.” 

I gnashed my teeth hard enough to break them. “Why?” 

“Because I like you, Haruka! I was upset that you rejected me.” 

“I’m a teacher, so I accept my blame in all of this – fine. But Haruka? What’s she done? It’s inexcusable, hurting her the way you did,” Mr Mochizuki said. I tapped a finger against my arm as I watched them. 

“What was I supposed to do? You don’t get what it’s like, to be ignored by girls… You’re Mr Perfect!” 

“So you enjoy seeing Haruka suffer? Is that it?” Mr Mochizuki cut the boy off in a quiet voice as he continued to play the victim. His eyes bore into Sato. “We don’t hurt the people we love; we protect them. You’re a smart kid, Sato. And I don’t just mean your grades. All the teachers here are impressed with you.” 

“Mr Mochizuki…” Sato trailed off. 

“Is this really how you want to use your brain? Tormenting people? Don’t use your smarts for hateful purposes. Use it to take care of those you love.” 

“It’s not about being smart, Mr Mochizuki… I’m just an awful person…”

I’ll say. 

“If you really were awful, you wouldn’t have come here with me today, to apologise. It takes a great deal of courage to say you’re sorry to those you’ve hurt. It’s not something just anyone can do, especially face-to-face. You can start over, hit the reset button. You’ve got the strength to do that.”  

“I’ve heard enough,” I snapped.  

“Haruka…” Sato said. I walked over to them and, placing my palms flat on the table, and leaned forward.  

“I want the others.” 

“Others?” Sato asked. 

“The other photos you took. I refuse to believe it was only those one. Give me your phone.” Sato gasped.  

“I-I’ll delete them!” he said. 

“Your phone. Now.” My voice had dropped several octaves lower as I snarled at him. He hesitantly handed me his phone. I went straight to his gallery and scrolled through the photos. There were dozens of me. “Not only did you take photos of me, but you took photos of Mr Mochizuki too.” I didn’t look at him, but I knew he was awkwardly shuffling from foot to foot. My thumb abruptly stopped scrolling when I came upon a photo of someone else. My head shot up, my face red and my eyes sharp. “Is there an actual reason you took photos of my cousin?”

“I’m so sorry!” Sato bowed low. I clicked my tongue, wiping his gallery clean of any photos he had of me, Mr Mochizuki and Eito. I tossed the phone back to him and he fumbled to catch it. “I’ll never do this again. I swear!”  

I clicked my tongue as Sato ran towards the door. He didn’t say anything more before running out.

I scoffed. “Unbelievable.” 

“Sorry to spring that on you like this,” Mr Mochizuki said. 

“I don’t even know what to say at this point.” I turned to look at my teacher, my face relaxing. 

“I had a hunch he was behind all this, to be honest. I think rejecting him in your stead pushed him over the edge.” 

I arched an eyebrow. “Are you saying this is my fault?” 

“No, that’s not what I’m saying. You did nothing wrong; in fact, you did everything right. He’ll be properly reprimanded for what he did… Sato just let his heart take a little too much control. There was nothing you could’ve done here. Know that you’re blameless in all of this.” There was a gentleness in the gaze that settled on me. “I know you’ve been through a lot, but I knew that meeting and hearing each other out, would put an end to all this. Thanks for talking with him… instead of punching him in the mouth.” 

“The only reason I did that was because you were here.” I gave him a small smile. “Thanks for looking out for me.” 

“No need to thank me. You’re important to me.” There was a subtle difference between how he said it this time and the time he told me I was an important student. One that I immediately picked up on. I was happy about it, but I didn’t want to acknowledge that feeling.

  

Mr Mochizuki made an appearance at homeroom in the afternoon. 

“Mr Mochizuki! You owe us an explanation!” Reina was the first to speak up. 

“Yeah! What is this?!” 

“Settle down, I’ll explain everything.” I sat with my chin in my hand and stared out the window as he spoke.  

“You’re dating one of the girls in our school, aren’t you?!” I heard Reina shout.  

“No, I’m not. The teacher in that picture is me, and I was with a student, yes. But that student, who will go unnamed, has had a stalker following her. I ran into her on the way home, and saw her back, to make sure she was safe,” Mr Mochizuki explained.  

“Who’s the student? We deserve to know that! You owe us!!” 

My head snapped to her. “You’re not owed a damn thing.” Reina abruptly turned to me. 

“Haruka, settle down,” Mr Mochizuki said. I ignored him.  

Throwing my hand in his direction, I snapped, “He explained the situation, what more do you want? Why do you want to know who it is? So you can bully her?” 

“You… You’re the girl in the photo, aren’t you?!” She cast an accusatory glare my way. Her friends gasped. 

“If it were, it’d be my bodyguard walking me home, not a teacher.” The rest of the class seemed to accept my answer. “I don’t know who that student is, and I don’t care either. I’m just sick and tired of listening to you griping about a bunch of bullshit day after day like you’re some brat in middle school!” Reina’s face was red with anger. “Let me ask you something, Reina. If you had a stalker, would you want the whole school knowing about it? Or how about if it was a female teacher or a male student in that picture? But it wasn’t so that doesn’t matter to you, does it?”

“Alright, that’s enough!” Mr Mochizuki raised his voice at me. I sat back against my the back of my chair and crossed my arms. “Telling you who it is would be a violation of that student’s privacy. I’m sorry that this has caused so many of you such distress. I never thought it would.” He bowed low before everyone, truly apologetic. The girls who were frothing at the mouth in rage mere moments ago were quieted by the humble apology. It hurt me to see him apologise to these people. People who don’t even care. I sighed. “Unlike the rumour going around, that student is in no way special to me. Each and every one of you is important to me.” His eyes met mine for a split second, but they were off me in a flash. The rest of the class relaxed, sated by his words.  

“Fine, yeah… I guess Mochi’d never do that to another student,” Reina said. 

“Yeah, he seems like the type to be interested in older women, anyway,” Tsukishiro added. 

“I’m not saying a word more,” Mr Mochizuki said with a confident smile. The kernel of happiness that had seeped through my darkness was long gone.  

Mr Mochizuki didn’t say anything about my outburst that night, but the tension was palpable.  

“Mr Mochizuki?” I asked.  

“Yeah?” he replied. 

“Here’s your key back.” I set my key on the table with a delicate clink and Mr Mochizuki stared at me, wide-eyed.  

“Haruka…” 

“We know who’s been stalking me now, and Sato won’t be a problem anymore. I’ll move out tomorrow.”

“Right.” 

“Thank you for everything, really. You’ll never understand how much it all meant to me.”  

“Not long now till that math test. Don’t start slacking now, okay?” he said with a smile, but it wasn’t reaching his eyes. 

“I won’t.” I was thankful that he didn’t reprimand me for what happened today. Or was I? If he’d been mad at me, would it have hurt this much to leave? The next time we saw each other, it’d be at school. We wouldn’t be able to hang out anymore. “I’m… going to miss this.” I looked around the room.  

Mr Mochizuki rested a comforting hand on top of my head. “Yeah, me too.”  

I startled, not looking directly at him. I couldn’t look at him. I knew what look he was giving me; If I saw it, it’d fill me with false hope. I’d had enough pain.  

I wanted to say it… I want to be special to you. I want to be more. How can I? 

“I’m sorry.” 

I gasped and looked at him. Did I… say that out loud? He closed his eyes, unsure how to answer. I’d had enough pain? What a laugh. If that were true, why did I open up? Why did I let him in? Why did he let me in? Just… why? This was never meant to be. It was a pointless love.  

“I… didn’t mean to say that out loud.” I pushed his hand off my head and retreated into my room.  

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