#I'm respectful not tagging every character I mentioned

[blubunz]

YAP SESSION 3

— RE chars in general x gn! reader

《MINORS DNI!》

Tags: Sex. Just casual stuff nothing crazy. RE characters includes: Leon , Carlos, Ashley, Jill, Chris, Ada, Luis. Claire is mentioned but I don't write anything horny abt her.

A/N: I have a hunch I'm actually gonna be sick un,, not feeling so great. This is just what j think if it's based on normal stuff like no fucked up messed up situations whatever, just casual lovers making love and what they like.

Consensual.

Ok now that's out of the way, I have some preference in minds, obvi they're purely just my opinions.

Leon is like, the guy who swings with whatever you want. Rough? Yeah. He'll go feral. Gentle? Ok. He'll be so sweet, even moan for you I'd you want to hear them, in which most of the readers in my fic would love. Most of the time it's just you, you, you. Him asking you what you want. Princess treatment or absolutely feral, he doesn't have one in mind, he's just on board with whatever you want and if you don't say anything, he'll ask you what you want anyway while kissing your cheeks so sweetly.

Carlos,, grhfrgrhgrh, he's so bite-able. I think he's the soft type. Like, he can be rough, but most times, he chooses not to if you don't specify anything. He absolutely loves seeing you just getting satisfied and happy, so yes, he'd go rough if that's what you want, just not without you saying. Even when you did something bad, or if you hit him when youre on top, he'd just melt and cradle you in his arms, kissing you, and you two would have some cuddle-fuck session. In my mind, Carlos is very emotional and sentimental in his love life. I can ramble on about the same thing over and over, how he's an absolute king in showering you with too much affection.

Slapping? You're into that, but Carlos is scared of hurting you. Bondage? He doesn't want to see ropes burn into your skin, the only thing should be on your body are his marks and hickies.

So anyways, his biggest turn-on is seeing you getting so, so satisfied. This might make him indulge in overstimulation however, he keeps making you cum and seeing your brain melting after each orgasm. That's right, you don't have to think, just be happy of what Carlos is giving you — pure love and affection.

I don't get much thoughts fron other characters in a sexual way, but I'll think about it like rn. Both Leon and Carlos are hot to me so obvi they're like,, um, long, and,, the first ones I write about.

I think Ashley would be some vanilla stuff, and if you two both try to go into some kinky stuff, things just gets awkward because both of you never really know how to do it professionally, and then you two would just laugh and watch a movie.

Jill is like,, ohmygod,, she's so ourhrorhrirug. The Jill in my mind is like, into the casual stuff, but she prefers handling you as well. She mainly wants to see every once of your reaction so mind you usually sex with Jill will never be a quickie, she doesn't do it slow, but rather she just does a lot of things to finally let you go.

For Claire. No, idk, I never think of her in that way and when i think about it now,nothing comes to mind. I love her character! I just don't associate her with these horny stuff so no.

Chris, big beef guy, I like him too! I think he'd enjoy handling you like Jill. Ok, so he's be like, usually, dominant and rough, hed praise you though, but hes very rough, and he enjoys using his strength to let you know who's in charge. but like, you can put him down no matter how strong you are. One word, one pleading look and you got him all soften up and asking you if you needed anything. Usually, he's never the one to initiate too, he respects you and only fucks you when you want to. If he's horny and you're not then he's holding it in, not even letting you know. If he's not and you are, then, obviously he has the need to satisfy you in every way he could.

Ada is like, I think with how she is in the games, she'd know what you're into by now. You're an open book to her and she can read you. You didn't even have to ask, it's like she knows. It creeps you out honestly, sometimes, at how every time she knows what you need. Maybe she keeps track every month? She knows your kinks too, and when you talk to her, she's like,, "I know,," sometimes she surprises you during sex, turning the usual sex into one imof your kinks. She enjoys seeing you surprised following with the high amount of pleasure that follows suit.

Luis. A bottom.

[neotriobrainrot-reborn]

Pspsps lwa x EE pspsps

Had some random thoughts about a Little Witch Academia x Epithet Erased au (with the Lwa characters in the EE world). I don't have anything concrete at the moment, so I'll just post stuff I brainstormed. I'll post more about the au in future posts. I'm considering naming the au “Dumb Little Spark”, which I like, but I don't just wanna go with the first thing I thought of. Let me know what y'all think the au name should be!

Lwa x EE Braindump!

Ursula had a large reputation in the public with the persona of “Shiny Chariot” for being the most wanted Vigilante in Sweet Jazz City. Despite this, people weren't afraid of her. If anything, most people looked up to her as someone of hope for helping more than the entire Sweet Jazz Police force. For a while, things look great. But as expectations and pressure grow, it becomes too much for her. One day, Shiny Chariot dissappeared without a trace, like a star in the sky that burnt out. No one knows what happened, but regardless of her disappearance, her impact on the city was insurmountable, bringing inspiration of hope and change to many adults and adolescents alike.

During the night, Akko takes on the role of a vigilante with the job of keeping Sweet Jazz City safe. She was inspired by her idol, “Shiny Chariot”, and when Shiny Chariot had disappeared, Akko had taken the initiative to spread the same kind of hope as her idol. Most underestimate her because she's a mundie, but those who do won't get the chance to make that mistake twice

Akko and Lorelai know each other. Despite them being complete opposites, they're actually friends with each other, though it's somewhat strained.

Sucy and Mushroom Girl are siblings, with the former being adopted into the family

Sucy became one of the chaperones of the field trip because the teacher of the class wasn't assured, with Martin being the only person to sign up as a chaperone. The teacher begged their dad, and the two managed to reach a compromise where the teacher would pay the family if Sucy signed up.

Lotte had the chance to go to college like Sylvie and get a degree before becoming an adult, but she declined as she said that it would be too much for her to handle. They told her that she could be a big-name famous person, but didn't realize that Lotte would rather dig her hand in a vase of poisonous snakes.

Giovanni gace Sucy a handmade invitation to try and get Sucy to join his boys. Everyone but Crusher didn't believe that it would work, but was surprised when Sucy actually accepted Giovanni's invitation. Till this day, nobody knows how Gio managed to convince her.

Lotte's epithet allows her to interact with the souls of others and herself. Because of that, she did gain a decent reputation for helping people with physical and mental health complications with their epithets for free. This had put her on Phoenica’s radar, and she's dead-set on meeting Lotte and convincing her to join her group of magical girls

Ben found Sucy creepy and objected to her becoming a minion, but Giovanni was having none of it and shut him down. Ben thinks she's going to poison them in their sleep

Constanze signed up for an internship with Howie, who found her inventions helpful for helping with construction

Whenever Constanze goes to the Blyndeff emporium, she just glances at Molly, and she immediately knows what Constanze specifically wants without a single word being exchanged (Constanze is her favorite customer because of this, and because she pays extra)

The Cavendish family is known as well and widely as the Fleecity family, becoming famous from a Cavendish and Fleecity working together when the Songstress first arrived. Since then, both families have had a rival relationship. They'd compete with each other but won't hesitate to team up when the arrival of the Songstress is near.

Trixie and Sucy know each other, and Sucy will sometimes help them with their potions

[necrotic-nephilim]

back on my bullshit. jaycasstalia (all combinations), cassrose × cheshire, deaddove jaydonna, jaytemis × rose, cass × artemis (that one wfa panel), koricass, jaykori dead dove, jay × jessica cruz

hello welcome back i adore the bullshit. i have to admit that i dislike JayKori and tbh i don't like or know Kori well enough to enjoy any ship with her she just. exists outside of my periphery and isn't the sort of character i'd enjoy. so those i fear i am unable to give thoughts there BUT THE OTHERS-

JayCassTalia is !!! so good? i really like Talia and i've been getting more and more into the al Ghuls so i find that fascinating. i think the respect Talia would have for Cass could almost border on a motherly jealousy, wishing *she* had honed her child into such a perfect weapon. i think CassTalia could be such a fun sort of mother/daughter incest ship of Talia promising to take better care of Cass. and then Jason in the mix is so fun bc Talia rlly shaped Jason for who he is today and i do think she loved him. maybe she loved what she saw of Bruce in him or maybe she loved how he existed outside of Bruce. both work so well. Talia being into both of them and them both falling for the attention of an older woman? yes i love it (also i will one up you with this- JayCassTaliaNyssa. fuck with Talia and Nyssa's complex over each other)

CassRoseChesire is so good from the thought of traumatized daddy issues and all of them being raised to be weapons, not ppl. the solidarity in that combined with feeling like being the only ppl who understand what that's like? it's so good. and it also has such fun conflicts in where they all fall on moral issues. very much a "you don't have to be human around me so stop pretending" sort of throuple and man, the potential in that complex in general. i feel like they'd get cannibalism as a metaphor for love shit.

dead dove JayDonna is VERY interesting, oh my god i never would've considered dead doving Donna. i haven't read a *ton* of comics with Donna but something about Jason expecting her to be a safe person on the Titans he can go to during his very brief period on the Titans and it turns out she's not and she takes complete advantage of him is *so* fun. i like if she's maybe projecting a want for Dick onto Jason too, but she sees Jason as a Robin that she can mold into a better partner than Dick is so this is the even better choice. she gets a blank slate she can make whatever she wants and it's so easy to make him obsessed with her if you lean into the "Jason is a Wonder Woman fan" sort of thing, with her telling all sorts of stories about Diana and promising she'll introduce them someday just to keep Jason coming back around to her.

Jaytemis and Rose truly is a ship that is just "Jason Todd deserves to be torn to shreds by strong woman" and ykw, i support that agenda. i do not think he'd be able to walk half the time but i think he'd enjoy it. i personally enjoy 90s Artemis the most and i think that version of Artemis before DC softened her for Jason could be SO fun oh my god. she would not put up with his shit and would drag him around like a leashed dog. and Rose is a great third for them bc she's also absolutely unhinged and fucked up enough to want Jason on a leash. tbh i see this almost very dark in a controlling with, but that's the fun of it for me. <3

i've not read enough of WFA to know what you're referencing BUT i think CassArtemis could be fun. (tho i hate that one Outlaws comic where Artemis oneshots Cass and calls her a child bc wdym Artemis can oneshot Cass but anyway-) typically i like Artemis and Helena as far as shipping her with a Batfam woman, but there's fun in letting a strong woman look down at Cass and just decide to chuck Cass over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes. i think she'd enjoy just how strong of a fighter Cass is. freak4freak but it's sapphic and they're arguing most of the time.

Jason/Jessica is SUPER interesting. i don't know if Jason and Jessica have a ton of interactions in canon? i've not read much of Rebirth BUT i will always love sticking Jason with a Lantern. JayKyle is my personal fave but i'd love to see Jason helping Jessica out of her shell and getting her to be more confident after her trauma. they cope with trauma in very different ways so i find the idea of putting them together sort of fun to see where they'd clash and align. would he scare her? yes but that's the fun of it. fear kink core.

also, i offer you some of my Jason and Cass rarepairs bc i think you would Get It anon:

JasonOnyx (i just wish we got more out of their interaction in UTRH and Onyx should hunt Jason down for revenge and they fuck nasty about it idk)

JasonBette (Bette's whole obsession over Dick when he was Robin, but she's obsessed with Jaybin instead and it carries over when he becomes Red Hood and Jason cannot get rid of her)

CassBarda (all i got out of the current BoP run is "mmm. sapphic size kink.")

[seventh-district]

not even gonna tag this properly bc i don't wanna get Involved but i do have some Thoughts i need to get out into the void so here we go

(aaa quick edit: CW for mention/discussion of Boothill leaks)

[rareomens]

Oh hey, no. Don't do that. Please.

This is a bit of a read but I've spent a long time thinking and editing, and I'm saying this all gently but seriously.

I imagine the above was NOT intentionally said to prick anyone's emotions, but this kind of comment on Rare Omens prompts is like saying it about any of them. It reminds me that so many of these pairs are only tolerated at best by the majority of folks in the fandom. (Every one of these prompts has people who don't like or even actively hate them. Take a look at the prompt list in our pinned post, and marvel at that statement but know it to be true.)

This prompt month event has a "don't like? ignore it and move on" policy. Trust me from experience with my own rare ships: we hear the disgust or hate enough, we know others aren't into it.

If you don't like something, that's okay! If you want to talk about not liking it, that's also okay. BUT PLEASE don't reply to people who are clearly having their fun in a post. It's not necessary and it only makes people feel badly to see it directly in the notifs. It only digs away at feeling welcome to whatever we get from enjoying a pair (or OT3, or polycule, etc). And that can lead to feeling unwelcome in the wider fandom the rest of the time... which is absolutely devastating to feel.

You can post separately and start a conversation to find people who feel similarly if you feel strongly and want to have those conversations—though hating on rare pairs/characters is common and such posts are probably not necessary. Anyone doing so: please DO NOT TAG a ship in your tags when hating on it. Bc the people most likely searching that tag? They DO like it, and don't need to wade through a bunch of negative comments to find fellow fans.

I started Rare Omens bc it was hard to find transformative works for ships I liked (be it as a couple or ANY OTHER way you can pair characters up—as a reminder: it doesn't have to be NSFW; it doesn't have to be SFW either of course). I wanted to find other people who enjoyed what I enjoyed. And to help people experiment with making stories and art they otherwise might never have thought about. And it has gone really well! I've seen NSFW ships, and friend ships, and respected enemies, hated enemies, and AUs of all shapes. Participants over the years have mentioned that they never would've thought to try writing certain characters in stories or draw them off on adventures. THAT, I love. We know there's ever anyone out there excited for their faves and waiting for it.

I also want to say...

I saw this reply earlier today but I was out at a showing of Macbeth where I made the acquaintance of a bunch of Good Omens fans (ranging in age from 20s to 60s at a guess). One of them even cosplays Metatron, and their Crowley and Aziraphale showed pics. It was real fun to see them include a rarer character in their cosplay group. I didn't have a chance to reply to this until now, and I'm glad I waited. I'm thinking about that cosplayer too: it can be disheartening to see "your" rare character excluded from the fun of transformative works.

Right. All this to say:

Please be kind to your fellow fans, even when they're playing with the dolls in ways you would never.

We don't have to force ourselves to like anything or interact with it (in fact: don't interact, talk privately to your friends who understand), but we gotta let people have their sandbox too. Because if we're excluding our weirdest and wildest takes, the most gloriously crackfic pairings possible, then we're not safe for anyone. We're not transforming anything.

Ship and let ship.

Thank you.

It’s Rare Omens 2025 Day 4

Aziraphale and Metatron!

Are the Guardian and the Voice lovers, enemies, siblings, friends, work colleagues? Share your prompt fills of the Guardian and the Voice and tag us.

You can also post to the **AO3 collection** Rare_Omens, which we'll check regularly throughout the prompt month.

[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’!”

[kwanisms]

Kinktober 「10:29」 — c.san

» ateez menu | san menu | kinktober masterlist «

➮ werecoyote!San × fem chipmunk hybrid!Reader wc: 2.9k summary: San’s favorite thing about his roommate is that as a hybrid, she triggers his prey drive which makes him want to chase her around their apartment, and even if it’s not her favorite thing ever, she doesn’t mind indulging him. It usually ends with her pinned on the couch or wall before San will playfully nip at her and let her go but this time, it ends with her pinned against his bed, triggering more than just his predator drive. genres/themes/au: fluff, smut; supernatural, horror, thriller; non idol au, monster idol au warnings: adult dialogue, female hybrid reader, supernatural and horror themes, MC is scared of San for like a brief moment, mentions of: fear, hiding + seek; sexual content (18+ mdni), see smut warnings under the cut! taglist has been moved to reblogs join my taglists! kinktober taglist is CLOSED! Strikethrough means I cannot tag you.  MINORS WILL BE BLACKLISTED & BLOCKED. AGELESS BLOGS WILL ALSO BE BLOCKED.

a/n: this San was an absolute joy to write and I absolutely adore this couple. I may or may not come back to them in the future but only time will tell! Only two more parts in the original line up after this and they're both Seventeen! This has been a wild ride from start to finish and I'm sad to see this come to a close but excited to move onto new things! The days that have been skipped will be added on at the very end (Mingyu, Woosung, Hongjoong, Wooyoung, Jisung, & Christian) so please stick around for those! If you'd like to see what I've got planned for the holidays and rest of the year, please stay tuned for the final parts of Kinktober! Thank you so much for reading and as always, this is a work of fiction and all characters are not reflective of their respective irl counterparts. for entertainment purposes only.

smut warnings: teratophilia (aka monsterfucking), predator/prey dynamics, hybrid!Reader, oral (f receiving), biting (f receiving), unprotected sex (don’t do this pls), use of pet names (hers: little squirrel, baby; his: Sannie), and that's all of them! If I missed any, please let me know and I'll fix it! kinks: predator/prey + hybrids dialogue prompt: ❛❛ Why are you shaking? You’re not scared of me are you? ❜❜

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“Come out, Y/N,” San called, his voice low and full of excitement as he stalked through the house, keeping his eyes open and listening for even the slightest movement. He stopped, turning slowly on the spot as his eyes swept the hall. He raised his head, taking a few sniffs, the smell of your sweet scent mixed with the stench of fear permeating the air.

He followed the smell, moving slowly and cautiously while listening for any movement or any sound.

This had become the new norm, coming home from a stressful day at work to the house you shared together and spending the weekend playing this little game of hide and seek. It helped him with his insane predator drive.

Most of his friends had said it was a bad idea, moving into a house with a chipmunk hybrid but you and San had been best friends since you were kids despite your differences. San would never hurt you. You were far too precious to him. He just liked to chase you around and hunt you down to let the predator drive out of his system so he could enjoy the rest of the weekend and spend the week not worrying about it. As he moved, keeping his steps as light as possible, he passed the door to the laundry room where he was hit with a sudden blast of your scent. San hesitated, turning towards the open door. He cautiously leaned in, peering into the room. He stepped in, checking every hiding place he could think of.

As he was searching under the counter in the hamper, a creak overhead caught his attention. A grin spread over his face as he exited the laundry room, darting down the hall and climbing the steps as quietly as possible. Your scent was even stronger up here and he was certain you were hiding somewhere on the second floor.

It was only a matter of time before he found you.

Your tail twitched nervously as you hid in the darkness of your closet, hiding deep in the corner behind clothes hanging and your hamper. You’d taken a few blankets and pillows off the top shelf and stacked them in front of the hamper and sat down in the small area between the wall and the hamper.

It was a good hiding spot, one you’d never used before so you hoped San would have a harder time finding you, especially after purposely leaving your scent all over the house.

Initially, you had taken cover under your bed when you had gotten his text that he was on his way home from work. You worked from home so it wasn’t an issue. You quickly went around the house, peeling off your clothes and leaving them in random places like the laundry room, the garage, the pantry, his room, the office, and even the closet downstairs by the front door.

You’d raced upstairs, pulled on clean clothes and scurried under the bed, leaving your phone on silent, turning off the vibration and turning down the brightness. Your bed had one of those frilly bed skirts that hid the underside of your bed and you from view.

You stayed there for at least an hour before you heard the front door open and San’s voice calling out, announcing his arrival. Not that he expected you to answer. He knew you were already hiding and ready to run at any given moment. He had a method to his search with this game you played. He always started in the garage. Not that there were many places to hide but he still took his time searching thoroughly before moving onto the basement which was only accessible from the garage.

If you had wanted to change hiding spaces. This is where you would have done it. But as you contemplated, you ran out of time and heard him exit the garage entirely, shutting the door behind him. You could hear him move through the house, no doubt following the scent of your expertly placed bait in the form of flinging your clothes into random rooms.

You heard him call out again, telling you to come out but you knew that he knew you weren’t going to do anything of the sort. No, he needed to find you. That was the point of this game. You decided the bed was no longer a good hiding spot and considered leaving your room entirely but as you made your way to the door, the floorboard creaked and you cursed mentally.

You knew San would have heard it and immediately made for your closet which was where you were currently sitting as he climbed the stairs. Despite being as quiet as possible, you could still hear the wood give under his weight. After hearing his steps carry him past the office and his room, you heard the door to your room creak open and San slowly entered the room.

“You’re in here, aren’t you little squirrel?” he whispered, a tone of excitement in his voice. You stayed quiet as he neared the closet, sniffing before he threw the doors open. “Are you in here?” he whispered, starting to move your clothes aside but somehow he missed you cowering behind the hamper as he pulled back and shut the doors.

“Or are you under the bed?”

As he made his way to the bed, you quietly and carefully moved from behind the hamper, making sure not to make a sound as he neared your bed. You watched through the slats of the closet doors as he slowly knelt down beside your bed. “The scent is strong here,” he murmured as he reached a hand down to grab the edge of the ruffled bed skirt.

You quietly turned the knob of the closet door, making sure to keep quiet as he leaned down to peer under the bed. Once he was part of the way under your bed, you threw open the closet door and bolted for the door with a squeak. San let out a whoop and gave chase but you were took quick, darting into his room and sliding under the bed.

San followed you into the room and as he dove for the bed, you scrambled out from under it as he tumbled over the opposite side of the bed as you made a break for the door. San was hot on your tail as you tried to take the turn to head down the hall for the stairs. He tried to catch you but you ducked, slipping from his grip as you doubled back for your room as he tried to scramble to his feet.

You made it to your room but before you could find a hiding place, San tackled you onto your bed, laughing as you tried to wriggle free. “Not this time, little squirrel,” he said as he wrestled with you. Your ears flattened back against your head as you tried to free yourself from his iron grip.

“I’ll bite you!” you threatened, your voice coming out as a squeak. San laughed as he overpowered you easily, pinning you down against your mattress as he held your wrists on either side of your head. “So feisty today,” San said as he stared down at you, that familiar excitement in his eyes as you tried to squirm out from under him.

The two of you stared at one another, your ears flattened against your hair. San tilted his head, a wolfish grin appearing on his face in place of the smile that had been there before. “You’re shaking,” he noted, moving his hands up to yours, lacing his fingers with yours but keeping them pinned against the bed. “Why are you shaking?” he whispered as he leaned closer. “You’re not scared of me, are you?”

You said nothing but he chuckled, knowing he was right. On a normal day, San was anything but scary but during these moments, when he had you pinned with that excited look in his eye, your subconscious couldn’t tell what was real and what was pretend. For a brief moment, you truly were scared. San leaned down, using his weight to hold you down.

“San,” you whined as he pressed his nose against the skin under the shell of your ear, inhaling deeply. You felt him nip at your neck, his teeth grazing over your pulse point. The feeling of his lips against your skin and his weight on top of you had an unintended side effect and as he moved, his groin brushed against your cloth covered sex and you let out a moan.

The atmosphere changed in an instant, almost like with the snap of your fingers. San lifted his head, eyes meeting yours. In addition to the excitement, there was curiosity, confusion, and what you could only assume arousal. “Y/N,” he started, his voice soft as you stared up at him, cheeks burning in embarrassment, heat pooling in the pit of your stomach as your shorts started to grow damp.

“Are you… turned on right now?” he asked. Before you could answer him and try to deny it, his pupils widened as he sniffed the air. “Oh,” he finally said, chuckling darkly. “You are,” he confirmed as the scent of sexual arousal started to fill the room. “Sweet little squirrel,” he murmured as he moved your hands above your head, holding your wrists with one hand as the other moved to cup your cheek.

“Likes it when I hunt her down? When I chase her? When I overpower and pin her down?” he asked, his thumb moving to brush over your bottom lip. “Why did you tell me sooner?” he asked as his eyes dipped down to look at your lips. “We could have implemented a new part to this game.”

“Wh-what part?” you asked, stuttering over your words as his hand slid down the side of your neck. “Had I known, I could have spent more time teasing you after catching you instead of immediately letting you go,” he continued, his eyes widening suddenly as he came to a realization you were about to hear.

“Is that why you always insisted on taking a shower afterwards?” he asked, chuckling as he leaned closer, his lips mere inches from yours. “Needed time to rub one out before you could face me again? Wash yourself off so I wouldn’t smell how much I affected you? And all this time, I thought it was just the smell of fear coming off you. Never would have expected it to be the scent of lust, too.”

You let out a whine, staring up at him and trying to free your hands. His grip tightened. San’s lips ghosted over yours. “I just need you to answer one thing,” he whispered, his breath hot against your face. “Do you want me to stop?”

You stared up at him, your heart beating against your chest. That was a good question. Did you want him to stop? After all, San was your housemate and your oldest friend, not your boyfriend. You lived together. If you said yes, you didn’t know how to come back from this. You weren’t sure if you could ever partake in this game of his ever again but If you said no, then everything would change between you. So you asked yourself again; did you want him to stop?

You shook your head. “Absolutely not,” you whispered, eyes flickering between his. “Don’t you dare stop Choi San.” With your permission to continue, San let out a relieved groan, capturing your lips in a surprisingly gentle kiss as he released your wrists, moving his hands to the sides of your neck as he parted your lips, allowing his tongue to slip into your mouth, groaning at the taste.

You let out a whimper as you felt him rut against you, grinding against your cloth covered core. “Mmmfmmh,” San mumbled against your lips and you moved your hand to his chest. “What?” you asked incredulously. “I said do that again,” he whispered as his hands moved down to your hips, pulling you against him as he grinded against you again.

You let out a moan, head falling back against the mattress. San leaned over, pressing kisses down the side of your neck to your exposed collar. “Can I take this off?” he asked, fingers skimming the lacy hem of your tank top. You nodded, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth as he sat back, hands sliding up your sides. He pushed the fabric up until he could tug it off, tossing it aside and leaving you half naked under him. 

You hadn’t had time to put on a bra or bralette when you dressed in haste earlier and now you felt extremely exposed under his heated gaze, moving your hands to cover yourself out of instinct but San grabbed your wrists and pulled them away. “Don’t,” he said simply, giving you a pointed look.

“Don’t you dare hide yourself from me,” he added as he leaned over pressing a kiss to your collar, leaving a trail of scorched skin as he kissed his way down your chest, stopping to take one of your pet nipples in his mouth, the tip of his tongue swirling around the nub before he sucked lightly.

You let out a gasp as you felt his teeth lightly graze the sensitive flesh, your fingers tangling in his hair as you guided one of his hands up to your neglected breast. He cupped the mound, kneading gently as he teased your nipple, drawing soft moans and whimpers from you.

He pulled back, dragging his tongue over your skin before he glanced up at you, giving you a grin and a wink before he continued kissing down your stomach until he settled between your thighs. He met your gaze, kissing over your thin shorts. “No panties?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t have time to put them on,” you whined, cheeks burning in embarrassment once more.

You heard San chuckle before you felt his tongue press against you over the fabric. “I’m just teasing you, baby,” he murmured as his hands moved to your hips, fingers curling under the elastic of your shorts and starting to pull them down. You lifted your hips as he slid them off, leaving you truly bare and exposed to him, the cool air of your room hitting your throbbing heat.

San licked his lips as he settled back down, eyeing your glistening cunt as he spread your folds. “You have no idea how many times I’ve fantasized about this,” he said in a low voice as his tongue slipped out, licking a wide strip up your sex before he licked his lips once more. “Tastes better than you smell. Almost sweet,” he added.

You tried to respond but your words died in your throat, replaced with a moan as you felt his lips wrap around your clit, the tip of his tongue teasing it as he threw himself into it. Your cheeks and neck were burning from embarrassment from the sounds he was making. Groans and grunts as well as lewd slurping sounds came from him as he ate you out like he was starving.

Your thighs tried to close around his head as he drove you closer and closer to orgasm but he held them open, giving your clit a few more slow licks as he looked up to meet your gaze through heavy lidded eyes. “Saaaaan,” you whine, head falling back. He chuckled, his breath hot against your sex. “You’re so cute when you whine,” he said as he pulled away, kissing up your stomach and between your breasts before taking you in a searing kiss. 

You tasted yourself on his tongue as his hands moved to your hips. “Roll over for me.” he whispered against your lips. You did as he asked as he pulled back, peeling his own clothes off until he was just as naked. He reached over you, grabbing one of your pillows and folding it in half. “Lift your hips for me, little squirrel,” he said. You did as he said, lifting your hips so he could slip the pillow under your stomach.

You rested against it, your ass propped up as he moved behind you, spreading your legs with his knees. “You sure about this?” he asked as he took his cock in his hand, giving it a few strokes and spreading the precum that gathered at the tip as you nodded. “Yes,” you breathed. “Please Sannie,” you added, wiggling your hips, your tail swishing out of the way.

San guided the head of his cock to your slit, brushing the tip against your sex, gathering the wetness that was basically dripping out of you before pushing into you. “Oh fuck,” he hissed as your walls sucked him in, guiding him deeper until he bottomed out. “S-Sannie,” you whimpered into the sheets, fingers curling into the material as your cunt stretched around his cock.

“You okay, baby?” San asked, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into your skin. You nodded silently, licking your dry lips. “I need to hear you say it, little squirrel,” San said, squeezing your hips. “Yes,” you answered immediately. “I’m okay. F-feels so good,” you gasped as you felt him start to pull out. He gave you a hard thrust, hips snapping forward and his skin hitting yours, making you cry out.

“That hurt?” he asked, stroking your skin gently. You shook your head. “N-no,” you replied. “Feel good, Sannie. Just surprised me, that’s all.” San leaned over, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Good,” he murmured, giving you another harsh thrust and quickly setting a rough and relentless pace as he rocked into you, his cock repeatedly hitting your sweet spot over and over.

“Cause we have a long night ahead of us, little squirrel.”

©️ kwanisms 2024 | all works on this blog are protected under copyright. Do not repost, continue, or translate my works. All graphics made by me.

[shepscapades]

DBHC [Detroit Become Hermitcraft] AU MASTERPOST

This is a compiled list of links to every major dbhc post, including links to art, a list of tags that I use to organize everything for this au on my blog, character tags, and any other content for the au that you may want to specifically look for! I will do my best to update this Masterpost with every new major post I publish, so feel free to keep checking the original post (not reblogs, which will not retain edits) for new content! (Likewise, if you stumble upon a link that doesn't seem right, please feel free to let me know!)

Everything is organized below the read more by an Overview of information about the au and content organized by character. Within each character's section, posts are organized in a narrative chronological order-- NOT the order in which the posts were published. Most characters are organized in groups so links do not appear more than once.

Thank you for reading and enjoying my silly au! It's baffling to me how many people have found an interest in or love for this project, and everyone's support, encouragement, and general insanity means the world to me! <3

OVERVIEW

Dbhc, or the Detroit Become Hermitcraft AU, is an au that started as a joke and very quickly stopped being a joke LKFJGDG It’s called Detroit Become Hermitcraft, but not really because it has anything to do with the base game DBH– really, I only yoinked the android mechanics and inserted them into the minecraft-based world of hermitcraft. It’s an au that starts in Hermitcraft Season 8 (aka, many of the first androids were built for the beginning of s8 in this au), meaning that the seasons prior in this au do not technically have those hermits as part of their history. The Life Series are canon to this au, but like earlier hermitcraft seasons, 3rd Life is missing all of the android hermits due to it having taken place prior to HC Season 8.

GUIDE TO ANDROIDS - An official guide to how androids function, for those unfamiliar with dbh androids!

TAG LIST

#dbhc – any and everything dbhc! #dbhc art – any art, comics, or silly doodles that feature the dbhc characters #dbhc writing – works of writing that either I’ve done or works that I consider canon to the au! (see below for links to each of these works) #dbhc ask – any response to an ask or submission that I answer related to dbhc– could be silly asks or asks related to lore! #dbhc music – any art or asks in which I speak about the music on the dbhc playlists or use the songs as inspiration for art of the narrative #dbhc fanart – any dbhc art not made by me! #dbhc fanfic – any dbhc writing not written by me! #dbhc sillies – these are usually asks I’ve answered that include ridiculous doodles or humorous references to more serious or angsty lore posts #dbhc theories – not a consistent tag, but something I decided to start using for asks that have interesting theories that I don't want to confirm or deny. Also used in general for large theory-based asks/my reactions to them #dbhc mechanics – any explanations related to the way the androids function [i'm still currently in the process of going back through everything and working this tag in!] #dbhc ref – official reference sheets for the characters #dbhc explained – Any major comic that I've broken down into explained details and ramblings!

CHARACTER TAG LIST:

Character tags will be listed as #dbhc [name]. They contain both art of those characters and any mentions/discussions of them from asks. If a character is discussed or shown in any capacity, those posts should have the respective character tags! I believe these are all of the characters discussed/referenced so far:

#dbhc android 24 || #dbhc beef || #dbhc bdubs || #dbhc cleo || #dbhc cub || #dbhc doc || #dbhc etho || #dbhc false || #dbhc gem || #dbhc grian || #dbhc hypno || #dbhc impulse || #dbhc jevin || #dbhc joe || #dbhc joel || #dbhc jimmy || #dbhc keralis ||#dbhc mumbo || #dbhc pearl || #dbhc ren || #dbhc scar || #dbhc skizz || #dbhc tango || #dbhc wels || #dbhc xb || #dbhc xisuma || #dbhc zed

CHARACTER POST LIST

Since Tumblr has a link embed limit of 100, I had to move every character section to it's own post :[ Which is a little annoying, but giving each character group their own post will hopefully prevent any issues going forward as I continue to add to the au without fear of hitting a link limit.

As mentioned above, the below individual posts are organized by Characters or Groups of Characters. Within each section, drawings are organized by NARRATIVE CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER (Not the order in which they were posted/published).  These links contain links to posts/art specifically centered around the characters they're listed under. All posts that have a collection of characters, moments, or drawings not centered around any one specific character/characters will be found under "Other Drawings!" Stuff from Secret Life, Decked out, and other silly drawings can be found there. Character's are often cameo'd all over the place, so if you're looking for all of the content of a specific character, your best bet is perusing their respective character tag (listed above)! The posts below are to present a better/more cohesive idea of the ordered narrative of each character.

ETHO + BDUBS

CUB + CO.

DOC + CO.

IMPULSE + CO.

JOE + CO.

MUMBO + CO.

SKIZZ + CO.

TANGO + CO.

WELS + CO.

XB + CO.

XISUMA + 24 + CO.

OTHER DRAWINGS [GROUPS/COLLECTIONS]

WRITING WORKS

[x] Don't Let it Reach the Heart [Doc & Xisuma Post-Destruction]

Canon Events. To Me (by other authors!) <3

[x] @tunastime Gear of the Heart, Turning [ethubs] [x] @tunastime Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? [docsuma] [x] @hitheeprithee Like a Bolt from the Blue [ranchers]

Fanfic Works I consider closely adjacent to canon:

[x] @set-in-stardust [ethubs first kiss!] [x] @set-in-stardust [s9 reset etho re-deviates] [x] @drachis917 [Impulse meets Gem!] [x] @listentothelittlebird [A Visit To Doc's Skyblock Jail]

[logansgaar]

"Bucky Barnes isn't gay, he's bisexual/straight" okay, you're welcome to your headcanons, but coming from a bisexual here, he's based heavily on Arnie Roth like it's uncanny, their backstories are identical. For whatever reason Marvel fused three characters into one (equal parts comic Bucky and Arnie, with a tiny slither of Hunter aka White Wolf), and literally every argument about Bucky Barnes being interested in women so he can't possibly be gay can relate right back to both movie canon and the comics his backstory is based on.

Bucky circulated through a lot of dates and girls, but never has any significant relationships or deeper feelings for them depicted, unlike pretty much every single other man in Marvel. They also completely glazed over comic book Bucky Barnes' most notable relationship with Natasha (I know there's talk of it being with Yelena instead, which is even worse if they do because she's aroace, there's so little representation for aroace people) which is very interesting to me. Bucky's relationship with women mirrors Arnie Roth's exactly. Not to mention how lack lustre Bucky acts with the old playboy act now, as if he's stepped back into that role because he doesn't know how else to behave so falls back on what he knew from before but really isn't feeling it.

I'm not stupid, I know Marvel is never going to go there because of politics with less LGBT+ friendly areas of the world, but I do hope they at least keep Bucky single and ambiguous. It would also be incredible if Bucky were to at some point use the name Arnie Roth as an alias and nod to the character who combined with Bucky and Hunter. Or even Bucky meeting a teacher called Michael, even if it's left open ended.

Arnie Roth was the first ever openly gay character in any mainstream superhero comic, that's not nothing. That's so tremendously significant, along with the fact he was Jewish too (which fits with the movies too, since Jewish soldiers were eventually given the option to have P for Protestant stamped on their dog tags instead of H for Hebrew/Jewish for their own protection) and I respect people's headcanons but there's something so important about Arnie Roth being respected... Even though I'm bisexual myself, to ME Bucky Barnes is gay.

(also Sebastian Stan has gone on record to say that he's chill with any interpretation and likes that Bucky's dynamics with other men are appreciated. He's also played gay and bisexual men in the past, so he's very comfortable with the idea himself even if Marvel would never go there and would probably snipe him if he pulled an Andrew Garfield.)

[freakcliff]

x men tumblr dashboard simulator

bluebabadee

THIS BLOG IS A SAFE SPACE FOR NON-HUMAN PASSING MUTANTS. HUMAN PASSING MUTANTS DNI

10 notes 📌Pinned Post

sparklejays Follow

based on your likes!

every time I see a human talking about "how cool it would be to have superpowers" or some shit like that I loose it a little bit more. do these people realize that being a mutant isn't just fun powers. like even beyond the shit I deal with trying to get jobs or all the relationships that have been ruined once people realized I'm a mutant. abilities aren't just fun and games, I have a friend who can't touch people without nearly killing them, I burned down three buildings before someone finally taught me to control my abilities, and these people are all like "wouldn't it be great to fly to work every day??" just admit that you see us as comic book characters and not real people with real struggles

#actually mutant #jay .txt

276 notes

scamperpamperblog reblogged spocktism

🏙️tilleys-brain Follow

self diagnosing is great and all but most of you people aren't telepaths, you're just hyperempathic

#actually mutant #actually telepathic #hyperempathy #crosstagging i know but some of yall need to see this #tilley speaks #it can be dangerous to go around acting like you know peopels actual thoughts when its just your brain

1,657 notes

oh-you-pretty-things

.

#vent post #sometimes I get really mad at magneto #like I think he's done a lot for mutant rights and stuff #but I'm so fucking tired of everyone assuming that I'm evil just because of my powers #like jesus not all of us are trying to start atomic wars #some metallokinetics just use their abilities to make cool sculptures #but I can't get a spoon from across the room in front of strangers without someone mentioning jfk

3 notes

mutantbuffy reblogged muntantpollscentral

🩻mutantpollscentral

*physical mutation meaning something that is ALWAYS physical, not just something you can turn off and on whenever

#ig my mutation IS technically physical its just not visible to people most of the time so i feel weird claiming that #but like i was born with the tattoo marks #the powers didnt come till later tho #so idk which to pick

668 notes

sploimsh reblogged jesterjuleses

🎹pussy-truck-faggot

HEY! shout-out to people with *weird* mutations. Mutations that don't look cool, mutations that are gross, mutations that are dirty, mutations that you can't tell people about because they always cringe. You're just as valid as every other mutant out there. Your powers don't need to be palettable to humans for you to be treated with respect.

#THIS!!! #rb

5,678 notes

rosetvler

god i am so tired of the hypocrisy in this community. the double standards are insane. its okay to have 'scary' powers but the moment someone's abilities are scarier than like, pyrokinesis you're evil and dangerous to be around. 'acceptance' for you people only means nice mutants who've never hurt or scared anyone ever.

rosetvler reblogged rosetvler

non-mutants can reblog this btw

#srb #actually mutant #getting real tired of this

18 notes

katiedidnt reblogged morelikesexmen

🩻magicsteele27 Follow

okay like. i get that were all about acceptance and pride or w/e but no one in this tag has ever had friends irl i swear. if someone asks you not to read their mind you shouldnt. honestly you shouldnt be using telepathy on people at all without their permission. mutant abilities dont disclude you from respecting peoples boundaries

🌌rosetvler Mutuals

i swear to god you people are such hypocrites. its all 'mutant and proud' until someone has a power you dont like. its always about keeping the humans feeling comfortable instead of thinking about how it feels to never use your powers because theyre breaking 'boundaries' that were made up by humans in the first place

🩻magicsteele27 Follow

dude do you hear yourself right now

🎆jade-the-pyromancer Follow

Hey, I like your point op, but maybe you should stop trying to speak over actual telepaths and let them decide how to use their powers themselves???

🩻magicsteele27 Follow

i. i am a telepath.

#duddeeee telepaths are insane #used to be friends with one SO glad i broke that off before it went too bad

15,678 notes

[sideprince]

YOU GET IT. This book is really about Harry's relationship to Snape and foreshadowing that Snape's betrayal isn't all it seems to be. The Slughorn party scene makes me angry actually because Snape’s only purpose in it is to be the straight man in a comedy bit. He serves no narrative purpose (even the message he conveys has no purpose - it’s not like Dumbledore was cancelling an appointment, he’s just saying “we had no plans to meet and continue to not have any. k bye” but doing it through Snape for... some fucking reason ¯\_(ツ)_/¯). In the film ABOUT HIM where he’s only in four scenes one of them renders Snape’s presence narratively functionless. He's in that scene so the audience can get a laugh when McClaggen pukes on his shoes (and the timing of that whole bit is painfully clumsy and slow, because the films don't respect the audience's intelligence and assume them to be clumsy and slow too).

And you know what, I know I didn’t include the Sectumsempra scene and I’ll tell you why: because what’s the point? Snape shows up and says nothing. He heals Draco. He doesn’t hold Harry accountable???????? He doesn’t guess how Harry knew this uncharacteristically dark spell that isn't taught in class or punish Harry or even ask him “hey so about this student who’s bleeding to death in this bathroom where the only other person was you?” Snape's purpose in that scene is to fix Harry's mistake. Which is the complete antithesis of how he relates to Harry.

I’m frothing at the mouth at how Steve Kloves went out of his way to strip this scene of any substance for no discernible reason other than to handicap his own plot and character development??? Severus FUCKING Snape, who spends every book antagonizing and punishing Harry, just lets him go and fixes his near-fatal fuck-up without a word????? And Harry “slashed up a fellow student” Potter just walks away and is like, “that was messier than the time I fully murdered a teacher in my first year but anyway, guess I better do as Ginny says and go with her to hide this book, maybe we can hook up after,” and that’s just… fine. Which tracks with the rest of Kloves' sloppy writing, since he doesn't show Harry getting attached to the book, let alone the Prince, he just carries it around and reads it sometimes. And even when he does that we don't see him get immersed in it, he's still fully aware of what's going on around him and actively participating in conversations while perusing it. If you watch this film (or any of them) and think about every scene in the context of "what if I hadn't read the book and didn't have the understanding it gave me for what's happening or the emotional attachment to the characters" then you'll see how Kloves took a vibrant, colorful landscape and turned it into a hand-drawn cardboard cutout.

The purpose the Sectumsempra scene serves in the book is manifold and complex:

Harry's trust in the Prince is shaken and he sees an ugly side to this unknown person he's anthropomorphized into a kind of friend.

This is paralleled with Snape appearing at that exact moment, because foreshadowing.

Harry, who at the end of the previous book wanted and failed to use an Unforgiveable on Bellatrix Lestrange, experiences what it is to enact violence on someone for the first time and is deeply shaken by it.

Snape DISCOVERS THAT HARRY HAS HIS OLD POTIONS BOOK.

Snape, who suggested expulsion in Harry's second year for being seen flying a car across the country and into the Whomping Willow, punishes him for attempted manslaughter with nightly detentions. I need a whole other post to unpack this one (and while this may not work for the film, the solution isn't to scrap Harry being punished altogether - that goes against Snape's character and eliminates possibilities for tension, exposition, and plot development, not to mention character development).

Harry chooses to hide the book in the Room of Requirement and hand Snape Ron's book instead. This is a crucial moment for Harry's character development: he hides the book with the goal of retrieving it later, because despite the Prince's violent betrayal, he doesn't reject him and is still attached to him [insert meta about the potential parallels to Lily's friendship with Snape, what she saw in him, and why they remained friends for some time even when Snape became more immersed in the Dark Arts]. In fact, Harry wants to go back and get it, and his main reason for not doing so is fear of discovery by Snape, not a rejection of the Prince. This is a hugely important moment once you realize that Snape is the Prince, because it makes Harry's relationship to him - and his view of Snape's betrayal when he kills Dumbledore - much more complex and interesting and cathartic. It also shows that Snape has redeemable qualities, if Harry was able to become so attached to his younger self (the one who was an aspiring DE, before he defected and risked his life to save a friend, at that).

Snape's realization that Harry has his old Potions book is what leads to the moment after Dumbledore's death where Snape reveals his identity as the Prince. If he didn't know Harry had his old book and had learnt from it, why would he do this?

The purpose of the Sectumsempra scene in the film, though? Imprisonable offence after imprisonable offence. Writer's jail for Kloves:

Harry and Malfoy have it out, even though that tension hasn't really been built up (there was the Hogwarts Express scene and then not much after. Fun fact: when Draco gets caught gatecrashing Slughorn's party, it's done without having set up in any way that he's overlooked by Slughorn and insecure about losing his social standing due to his dad's imprisonment. There's zero attention given to his lack of inclusion in the Slug Club, so the fact he's using gatecrashing as an excuse to cover for sneaking off to the RoR is impossible for the viewer to understand, because the fact that he'd need to gatecrash at all is also unexplained, unless they had context from the books).

Snape saves Malfoy, but since neither character has had much screen time or relevance to the plot, it's just a striking visual to see Malfoy splayed on the water logged floor with Snape's robes swirling around them but not much more. Again, without the context from the books, this moment lacks substance.

There are no repercussions for Harry. He and his friends acknowledge that the book is dangerous, but Harry isn't punished, doesn't try to make amends, and basically acts like the self-involved special little boy Snape makes him out to be and who the books show him to be the opposite of. He doesn't seem all that conflicted or horrified and doesn't even hide the book on his own, his friends push him to get rid of it, and he goes to do it because it's a way to hang out with Ginny - who hides it on his behalf, which signals very different things about Harry's character than Book!Harry's choices do. The purpose of hiding the book in the film isn't so Harry can try and get it back later because he's still attached to the Prince, it's so he can be alone with Ginny and they can kiss, which Ginny instigates because Steve Kloves does nothing better than write passive protagonists who don't have to lift an emotional finger (see: Harry going along with being told to hide book instead of choosing to do so himself), and female characters who do all the heavy (and weirdly subservient? I'm looking at you Ginny feeding Harry and tying his shoes at the Burrow) lifting.

Nothing about this scene gives us even a remote hint that Snape is the Prince. When, at the end of the film, Snape reveals that he's the Half-Blood Prince, there is no context for it in the film or reasonable cause for him to know that Harry knows who the Half-Blood Prince even is. It's like if Ron walked up to someone on the street when he was 40 and said "yes, I am Roonil Wazlib." This revelation hasn't been set up, all its foreshadowing has been deliberately avoided, so it doesn't land with the impact it has in the books and definitely doesn't have the same effect if you haven't read the book first.

In short, in the film about Snape, and Harry's unwitting relationship with him, the scene where the biggest clue is given about the Prince's identity and one of the most crucial interactions between Harry and Snape happens, Snape is a sidebar, not a feature. So I don't count it as a Snape scene. He doesn't even have any dialogue aside from vulnera sanentur. Poor Alan Rickman was doing his best to do right by Snape's character with his acting even though the script gave him literally nothing. I hope every bowl of soup Steve Kloves eats for the rest of his life is cold and unsalted. Unless it's gazpacho. Then I hope it's scalding hot and burns his tongue.

Canon: Harry overhears Malfoy intimidating Borgin and figures out that he's been branded with the Dark Mark

Steve Kloves: Harry sees Malfoy meet a bunch of Death Eaters in Borgin and Burkes and figures out it was a ceremony to give Malfoy a Dark Mark

No but what I love about the movie version of events is that it implies that any Death Eater can brand anyone with the Dark Mark or, even better, that Voldemort was there in Borgin and Burkes and no one saw or heard him and he just popped into a shop in Knockturn Alley, tatooted a kid, and peaced out. I know I talk a lot about how Rowling (boo, hiss) was thoughtless with her world building, but she has nothing on Steve Kloves. I'm pretty sure he wrote those scripts with a crayon stuck between his toes.

[lilbardrhi]

CoD RPer/Creator PSAs/Reminders (EDITED)

Roleplayers/Roleplay Blogs

It has been brought to my attention by a friend that some RP blogs (that I don't recognize the handles for, so I'm asuming they're fresh to the community) have been interacting with other fandom members posts, but not specifying if it's out of character or not.

As a roleplay blog, it is your responsibility to make sure creators are ok with you interacting, in-character, with their content. A lot of content creators have such posted somewhere on their blog whether or not they are ok with in-character interactions. It is your responsibility, as the interactor, to make sure you are specifying if you are interacting in-character or out based on the creator's contnent of which you are attempting to interact with.

Not everyone is ok with our (roleplayers') interactions in-character on their content. That is reansonable and should be respected. PLEASE check a creator's blog for their boundaries PRIOR to interacting with a roleplay blog handle. If you see no mention of rp blog in-character interaction (permission OR denial), please assume that is a NO/Do Not Interact.

I would like to note that no one is "in trouble", we just need to be aware - as a community - that some people in fandoms (not just CoD) don't even want the fan-made content, others just want art or fic, some want to roleplay or interact with the roleplay blogs, etc, but not all fandom members want every side of the fandom.

Creators/Creator Blogs

It is your responsibility to have your boundaries for interacting with your blog posted somewhere that is easily found on your blog. Yes, some would assume "no mention of consent to 'x' interaction listed" would mean "do not interact", but other people do not read a lack of boundary as such, unfortunately. I am hoping that this post, as the rp side of CoD Tumblr is still small, will reach as many roleplay blogs as possible.

I hope everyone is having a beautiful time zone! I will have my own boundaries/blog interactions up soon, but will say here that I am just fine with the roleplay blogs interacting with this blog ( @lilbardrhi ) in character. This statement will be included in my pinned post once I finish it and get it posted/pinned.

Roleplay blogs I have interacted with (in and out of character) or am following (not that y'all are doing this, I just want to make sure this is seen) tags to spread awareness: @ghost-askblog @askthemactav @shadow-5-05 @shadow-2-08 @shadowcompanys-medic-beaks @itsvargen @krueger-acc @brav0six @ask-private-141 @call-sign-songbird @konigisking @justradiospirit @ask-corporaltwins-141 @verytiredmedic @ask-theplaguedahlia @callsign-king @shadow5-7 @captain-after-dark @lieutenant-banks @lusttoke @callsign-trebletrouble @alejandro-ask @el-perro-rabiosa @callsign-kits @price-askblog @b1gm0n3yb1gg3rc4n3 @callsign-cups @ask-alejandro @keegan-askblog @generalshepherd-askblog @gaz-askblog @ask-alex-keller @valera-askblog @ask-roachsanderson @jeanzoriley-cod @ask-gaz @ask-soapmactavish @ask-phillip-graves @johnprice-asks @ask-philgraves @soap-askblog @konig-askbox <- Literally everyone I'm following. If I know you have different blogs for different characters, I only tagged one blog. If I don't know such information, I apologize for the multi-tag. Just trying to keep everyone on the same page. Notice that my tags for this post are not just "cod rp", but also "cod fanfic" and "cod fanart".

We need to work together to make sure boundaries are respected.

Adore you all! The Lil Bard, Rhi (previously backseatsoldier)

P.S. - If you are a minor running a roleplay blog, you have my express permission to reblog this post!!!

[sherewrytes]

𝔹𝕣𝕠𝕜𝕖𝕟 ℙ𝕚𝕖𝕔𝕖𝕤, ℝ𝕪𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕟 𝕊𝕦𝕜𝕦𝕟𝕒 7

↳ Sukuna x f! black reader

Summary: After the death of his grandfather, Sukuna Ryomen is left to shoulder the weight of his family, caring for his younger brothers, Yuuji and Choso. As he withdraws into grief, his relationship with Y/N, his girlfriend of a year, begins to crumble. When Y/N discovers the truth about his grandfather’s passing during a heated argument, it leads to a painful breakup. Now, both are navigating life apart, but Sukuna’s heart aches for Y/N. Determined to win her back, he must confront his pain and find a way to break through the walls he’s built. Can he rekindle their love, or is it too late?

contents: heavy angst, modern au, 18+, smut, dark romance, drug use, talks of depression and similar topics. (a lil )

fic warnings. ooc, profanity, mental health issues, toxic relationships, cheating, explicit smut, serious drug use, mentions of depression + more to be updated as story progresses.

Please read with proper discretion. this is a work of fiction. all characters are written to portray roles that are necessary to the plot and are in no way a reflection of their canon counterparts.

Taglist: @for-hearthand-home@clp-84@thelightknight21@favvkiki  @helightknight21 @dylsw @ria-s-writes @sleepymothafterhours 

if you wanna be added to the tag list comment

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Masterlist

Here is another chapter cause I'm still writing out the other fics right now :)

Previous

Chapter 7: Breaking Point

Y/N’s POV

It’s been, what, two weeks since I last saw Sukuna? Since he left my apartment I finally put my foot down. It feels surreal. Like he was here one moment, his presence filling every part of my life, and then, just like that, he’s gone. I can actually focus in class again, and my thoughts are less cluttered without his constant ups and downs. For the first time in a long time, I’m getting assignments done on time, and keeping up with my workload. But underneath it all, there’s this ache, a hollow space where he used to be.

I try to ignore it, but it’s always there, tugging at me, making it hard to concentrate completely. It’s the little things—his laugh echoing in my mind, the feel of his arms around me, his stupid smirk whenever he got under my skin. I find myself wondering if he’s okay. Did he come out of the hospital yet? Did he manage to finally piece himself together?

A part of me wants to reach out, just to check in. Maybe see if he’s doing better, if he’s still leaning on his friends, getting through each day somehow. But that’s not my place anymore, is it? I gave him so many chances to let me in, to let me help, and every single time, he shut me out. He made it clear he wanted to handle things his way. And I… I need to start respecting that boundary, as much as it hurts.

I take a deep breath, glancing out the window of the studio. The city is buzzing outside, people going on with their lives, completely unaware of the turmoil inside me. I sip my coffee, watching the people walk by, their laughter faintly audible through the glass.

Suddenly, my phone buzzes, pulling me from my thoughts. It’s a message from Utahime.

Utahime: You doing okay? Need anything?

I smile, appreciating her concern. She’s been there since everything happened, her presence a constant comfort, even when I didn’t realize I needed it.

Me: Yeah, I’m fine. Just… thinking too much, as usual.

Utahime: Well, stop that! We’re going out tonight. A distraction is exactly what you need.

I hesitate, looking down at my phone, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. I know she’s right. A distraction might help me let go of these lingering thoughts, these small pieces of Sukuna that I can’t seem to shake.

Me: Fine. Where and when?

Utahime: I’ll pick you up at 8. Be ready!

A part of me feels relieved at the thought of getting out, of being around people who remind me of who I am outside of Sukuna, outside of this relationship that became such a heavy part of my life.

as the car moves through the city streets, I press my head against the cool window, letting the world blur past me. The bass-heavy beat of W.D.Y.W.F.M. pulses through my headphones, each lyric tugging at parts of me I’ve been trying to bury.

Maybe you’re right, maybe this is all that I can be, the words echo, hitting a little too close to home. I close my eyes, feeling the weight of those lyrics settle in my chest. The memories start seeping in—the countless times I let myself believe that if I loved Sukuna enough, if I was patient enough, he’d eventually find it within himself to let me in. That if I just waited, things would finally feel right. But now I wonder… maybe it wasn’t just him. Maybe I should have known better than to believe that love could fix someone so broken.

But what if it’s you, and it wasn’t me?

The question pierces through my thoughts, stirring a bitterness I didn’t know I still had. He wanted to drown in his own pain, to shut me out every time I tried to pull him up for air. I couldn’t have been the answer, and yet here I am, with pieces of him still lingering, haunting me at every turn.

The Uber driver takes a corner, the familiar streets near my apartment coming into view. I force my gaze away from the window, back to my phone screen, trying to focus on anything but him. It shouldn’t hurt this much, but it does—knowing that for all the love I poured into him, it wasn’t enough to keep him from self-destructing.

The song fades as I arrive at my building. I thank the driver, taking a deep breath as I step out, feeling the city air wrap around me. The streetlights cast a dim glow on the sidewalk, and I let myself pause for a moment before going inside. I need to let him go, I tell myself firmly, as I push open the door and head up the stairs to my apartment. I have to learn to let go of the weight of him, of the what ifs and the could’ve been that keep me tangled in his memory.

I climb the stairs, my heart pounding faster with each step as I spot the car parked out front. The familiar shape, that old, dark-colored sedan that Sukuna drove everywhere... no, no, no, I think, my pulse racing. I’m not ready to see him. My body tenses with dread, the past few weeks crashing down on me in waves.

But as I get closer, I realize it isn’t him. The figure slouched in the driver's seat isn’t Sukuna—it’s Yuuji, his face drawn and pale under the streetlight glow. Relief floods me, only to be replaced by confusion and worry. I stride up to him, feeling the weight of all the things I know about Sukuna’s recent spiral pressing on me, unsettling and heavy.

"Yuuji," I say, my voice sharp, "why are you here?"

He startles, looking up at me with bloodshot eyes. I catch the shadow of sleepless nights, maybe even nights spent worrying about Sukuna. He tries to brush off the tension, but I can see right through him. He's younger, not yet old enough to be driving around on his own at this hour. That alone makes my stomach twist.

"I just… I didn’t know who else to talk to," he mutters, glancing away. The hurt and worry in his voice rip into me.

My gut clenches as I realize just how much of Sukuna’s pain has been spilling onto his family. The weight he’s putting on Yuuji, on Choso… it’s more than I ever understood. The anger, frustration, and heartbreak I felt these past weeks—they’re nothing compared to what Yuuji was going through. He’s barely an adult, forced to watch his older brother destroy himself.

“Yuuji,” I say softly, keeping my tone steady, “what’s going on? Why didn’t you call me?”

Yuuji looks up, and in that one look, I see just how much he’s been holding in. “I thought… I thought I could handle it, but… he’s just getting worse. I can’t even talk to him without him blowing up at me. He left some days ago, maybe more, and just stormed out. No one knows where he is. Toji, Choso, and even Geto…they all tried reaching him, but he wouldn’t answer. And then I remembered… you always knew how to reach him when he was like this.”

The ache in his voice cuts through me, and a fierce protectiveness rises up. I left Sukuna to deal with his pain, but it’s clear that his absence has left more than just a hole in my life—it’s tearing his family apart too.

“Yuuji,” I start, forcing calm into my voice. “I know things are tough, and Sukuna… he’s dealing with a lot. But you don’t have to do this alone. Have you told anyone else? Choso? Gojo?”

He shakes his head, looking at the ground. “No. Choso is dealing with enough as it is… and I don’t want them to worry more.”

He’s trying to be strong, trying to hold everyone else together when he’s the one falling apart. I know that feeling all too well. Sukuna and I broke things off because I couldn’t keep sacrificing my sanity for someone unreachable. But I never thought about how much worse it would get for those who couldn’t walk away, like Yuuji and Choso.

I reach out, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Yuuji, you don’t have to do this alone. You shouldn’t be doing this alone. Sukuna needs someone to get through to him, and it might not be me anymore—but we can try together.”

He stares at me for a moment, eyes wide and vulnerable. “Do you think… Do you think he’ll ever listen? Or is he too far gone?”

My heart aches at his words. “I don’t know. But we have to try.”

He nods, the glimmer of hope in his expression heartbreaking and determined.

I closed my eyes, gripping the phone tight. I knew Kenjaku could be difficult, even evasive when he wanted to be. Sukuna had a talent for finding people who were just as stubborn and reckless as he was. But I couldn’t back down, not now, not with Yuuji looking at me like he was counting on me.

“Kenjaku, I need to know. Yuuji’s here with me. He and Choso haven’t heard from Sukuna in days. They’re worried sick, and he’s…he’s not okay. I think you know that.”

There was a pause on the other end, the silence stretching uncomfortably long. I could almost picture Kenjaku’s calculating look, weighing his options. Finally, he sighed. “He showed up here a few nights back. I didn’t ask questions. He’s been sleeping it off on my couch, but I’ll be honest—he looks like hell, Y/N.”

The anger that had been simmering inside me now sparked, but it wasn’t toward Kenjaku. It was all for Sukuna—his self-destructive spiral, the pain he was dragging everyone into, and the part of him that still didn’t realize how much he meant to those around him.

“I’ll be over soon,” I said, voice steady despite the turmoil within me. “But please, don’t tell him I’m coming. I don’t want him bolting before I get there.”

Kenjaku’s chuckle was dry, but he agreed. “Sure thing. I’ll keep him occupied, though good luck getting through to him. He's really badly…. He’s fucked up, Y/N.”

I hung up, feeling a mix of relief and dread. When I looked at Yuuji, his eyes were wide, filled with a flicker of hope. He didn’t need to ask what I’d found out; the look on my face told him everything.

“I’m going to see him,” I said softly, reaching for my bag. “I’ll try to talk to him, to get through to him, somehow.”

Yuuji looked at me with a mixture of gratitude and worry. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

With a final squeeze of his shoulder, I turned and headed out the door, my heart pounding as I braced myself for the conversation I wasn’t sure I was ready to have.

Yuuji nodded, taking the key from my hand with a somber expression. "I will. Be careful, okay?" he said, his voice thick with unspoken worry.

I offered him a brief smile, though I could feel the weight of everything pressing down on me. "I will. Just... keep an eye on things here, yeah? If anything happens, call Toji."

Yuuji gave me a small, reassuring nod before he turned to head toward the stairs, his footsteps echoing in the hall as he climbed.

I stood there for a moment longer, staring at the door. The tension was building inside me—this wasn't going to be easy. I had no idea what I was walking into, but I knew I had to face it. For Yuuji. For Choso. And for myself.

With a deep breath, I pulled my jacket tighter around me and left the apartment, locking the door behind me. The walk to Kenjaku's place felt longer than usual, each step heavy with uncertainty. The city seemed quieter tonight, the streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement as I made my way toward the familiar building.

When I finally arrived, I didn't bother knocking. Kenjaku had given me the code to the door ages ago. I typed it in quickly, the door clicking open with an almost too-loud sound. The hallway was dimly lit, and I could hear the faint murmur of voices from behind one of the doors.

I hesitated for a moment, my hand on the doorframe. This was it. I didn’t know what I was about to walk into, but there was no turning back now.

Taking a deep breath, I pushed the door open.

I stood there, taking in the scene before me—Sukuna, looking completely worn down, his eyes barely open, his hair disheveled and his face a mess of exhaustion and defeat. The cigarette hung loosely from his hand, the smoke curling up into the air as Uraume stood nearby, her posture stiff, frustration radiating off of her.

"Uraume, calm down," I said, my voice steady but firm as I crossed the room, stepping closer to the couch where Sukuna was sprawled out.

He groaned in response, his hand sliding off his face just enough for his eyes to meet mine, dull and clouded. He didn’t look surprised to see me, but his expression was unreadable.

"Great, now I'm fucking seeing and hearing shit," he muttered again, his voice thick with fatigue and annoyance.

I didn’t react to his comment, not letting it phase me. Instead, I walked over and sat on the edge of the couch, just enough to be close but not invading his space. I glanced over at Uraume, who seemed to be holding her ground, but she took a step back, recognizing that I was the one who needed to handle this.

"Sukuna, stop hiding," I said, my tone softer now, almost pleading. "What the hell are you doing?"

He didn’t answer immediately, instead, taking another drag from the cigarette, his eyes drifting away from mine, focused on the wall as though he didn’t want to face me, or anyone.

"You think running away is gonna fix anything?" I continued, my voice low but insistent. "You think wallowing in this is gonna bring Jin back? Or fix what’s broken?"

His jaw clenched, and for a moment, I thought he was going to snap at me again, but instead, he just let out a deep sigh, and the silence in the room hung thick.

"I’m not hiding," he muttered, barely above a whisper. "I’m just... tired."

"Then let us help you," I replied, my heart aching for him, but frustration mixing with it. "You don’t have to carry all this alone."

Sukuna shifted on the couch, his hand coming up to cover his eyes again, but this time, there was something in the way he did it—a sort of resignation, like he knew I was right, but couldn't bring himself to admit it. Uraume stood there, arms crossed, clearly waiting for him to make a move, but it was clear he wasn’t ready.

I stayed quiet for a moment, allowing him his space, but I couldn’t just leave it at that. He needed to hear it, and I needed him to understand.

"You're not alone in this, Sukuna," I said quietly, my voice breaking through the tension. "You’ve got people who care about you. People who are worried. And you don’t get to shut them out."

He didn’t respond immediately, but I could see his body language soften just a little. I wasn’t sure if he was hearing me, or if he was just too far gone to care, but I couldn’t give up on him—not when he was this close to losing everything, including himself.

"Sukuna..." I started again, but Uraume cut me off.

"You can only do so much, Y/N," she said, her tone serious, but a little softer now. "He’s gotta want it. He’s gotta find it in himself to get back up. And we can’t make that choice for him."

I nodded, swallowing back the knot in my throat. I knew she was right. But it didn’t make it any easier.

"You think he’ll listen?" I asked, barely above a whisper, not expecting a clear answer.

Uraume gave a small shrug. "Maybe. But only if he realizes he’s not beyond saving. But that’s up to him."

I glanced at Sukuna once more, feeling the weight of everything press down on me. His eyes were still closed, and he looked so damn defeated. Part of me wanted to scream, to shake him out of his spiral. But I knew that wasn’t what he needed.

What he needed was time and a reminder that he wasn’t the only one who had lost something.

Sukuna's smirk was laced with bitterness, and it was as if the weight of his guilt and self-loathing had manifested in those cruel words. His eyes never left me as he took another drag of his cigarette, the smoke swirling around us like a barrier, creating distance between us that I could almost feel.

I didn't flinch. I refused to let him see the impact his words had, but inside, I was crumbling.

His voice was sharp, cutting through the air, his pain seeping out in every syllable. "You think you can save me, Y/N? Don’t fool yourself. You know I’m worthless."

I wanted to shout at him, tell him he was wrong, but instead, my voice came out softer than I expected. "Sukuna, you're not worthless."

He let out a dry laugh, one that held no humor. "Yeah? Then why the hell did you leave? After we fucked, you tossed me out like I was nothing. Isn’t that what you think of me too?"

Each word felt like a blade to my chest. The anger, the resentment in his voice—it was suffocating. I could see the way his eyes flickered with something raw, something vulnerable that he kept buried under layers of pride and self-doubt. But he was pushing it all on me now.

I took a shaky breath, trying to keep my composure, but the truth was, hearing him say those things cut deeper than I ever anticipated.

I stepped closer to him, ignoring the thick cloud of smoke that hung in the air. "I didn’t leave because I thought you were worthless," I said, my voice trembling but determined. "I left because you pushed me away. You closed yourself off, pushed me out of your life like I was nothing. And I couldn’t keep pretending I didn’t see it."

His expression hardened at that, the smirk fading away as he leaned back on the couch, his eyes narrowing at me. "You think I wanted to push you away?" His voice was quieter now, but there was still that edge of anger behind it. "You think I wanted to feel this empty... this fucking broken?"

I shook my head, my heart aching for him even as I held my ground. "No, I don't think that. But that’s what you did. You kept pushing everyone away, even when they were just trying to help. I couldn’t be the one to fix you, Sukuna. I’m not your savior."

He looked away then, the cigarette trembling slightly in his hand. "Then what the hell am I supposed to do, Y/N?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper now, the anger gone, replaced by quiet desperation. "How do I fix this? How do I fix myself?"

I didn’t have an answer. How could I? He had to want it, had to find the strength to fight through his demons on his own. But that didn’t mean I was ready to give up on him.

"You can start by not pushing everyone away," I said, my voice softer now, almost pleading. "You’re not alone, Sukuna. Not yet."

For a long moment, there was silence between us. The tension hung in the air, thick and heavy, as I waited for him to respond. But instead, he just took another drag of his cigarette, looking lost in his thoughts.

"I never asked for any of this," he muttered finally, his words barely audible. "I never asked to be the one holding everything together. I never asked for... this pain."

I didn’t know what to say to that. I didn’t have an answer for him. All I could do was watch him, hoping, wishing he would find the strength to face what he had been running from.

But deep down, I knew it wasn’t up to me. It never was.

His words hit like a punch to the gut. The rawness in his voice, the way he almost choked on the words—it was as if he was tearing himself apart right in front of me. I watched him, frozen, my heart pounding as he looked away, refusing to meet my eyes.

"Just go, Y/N. Please," he said, his voice rough, barely holding it together. "You made the right choice. Don’t let guilt eat at you. Your love... it wasn’t enough."

I felt the sting of tears welling up, but I forced myself to hold them back. This wasn’t the time to break down. He was pulling up walls as quickly as I tried to break them down, and part of me wondered if he would ever let anyone truly see the pieces of himself he kept hidden. I wanted to tell him he was wrong, that it wasn’t about my love being "enough"—that he was worthy of love even in his darkest moments. But I knew, standing there, that he wouldn’t hear it. Not now.

"Sukuna," I began, my voice catching despite my best efforts to stay steady. "It's not about being enough or not enough. You’re worth more than this... more than what you think of yourself right now."

He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "Don’t... don’t do that. Don’t pretend I’m some lost soul you can save. You’ve done enough. It’s... it’s better this way."

"Better this way?" I asked, my voice sharper than I intended, feeling the frustration bubbling up. "Better for who? Because I don't think it's better for you. Look at yourself, Sukuna. You’re drowning, and you’re just... letting it happen."

He clenched his jaw, his hand shaking slightly as he flicked the cigarette into an ashtray. "Maybe that’s what I deserve," he said quietly, almost to himself.

The silence between us felt thick, suffocating. I took a step closer, reaching out, but he backed away, pressing himself further into the couch as if my touch would somehow make things worse.

"If that’s really what you believe..." I whispered, my chest tight. "If you really think you deserve this pain... then I can’t force you to change your mind. But I wish you could see yourself the way I see you."

For a moment, something flickered in his eyes, something soft and vulnerable, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. He lowered his gaze, the same smirk that once felt charming was now nothing more than a mask.

"Just... go," he whispered again, his voice so small it was almost lost in the room. "Forget about me. Move on. It’s better that way."

I stared at him, wanting to reach him, to pull him out of this dark place. But maybe he was right. Maybe I couldn’t save him. Taking a shaky breath, I nodded, my heart shattering with each step as I turned toward the door.

Before I left, I looked back one last time. He wouldn’t meet my gaze, his eyes fixed on some distant point on the floor, lost in his own torment.

“Goodbye, Sukuna,” I whispered, the words barely escaping my lips. And with that, I stepped out, leaving behind the man I’d loved—and the pieces of myself that still wanted to believe he could be saved.

Sukuna's pov

I watched the door click shut behind her, the silence settling thick in the room. My chest felt hollow, but the ache gnawed deeper, clawing its way up my throat. I turned to my side, curling up on the couch, pressing my hand over my eyes as if I could shut out everything I’d just done. I’d pushed her away—again—and for what? To prove some sick point that I was beyond saving? That I didn’t deserve her?

I could still smell her faint perfume lingering in the air, feel the warmth she’d brought with her now slipping through my fingers. It wasn’t like I didn’t want her here. God, I wanted her more than anything. But how could I let her stay, knowing what a mess I’d become? How could I put her through the hell I was living every day?

My mind drifted back to Jin and Gramps, memories that never stayed buried long. Jin would’ve slapped me across the head if he saw me like this, wasting away, hurting everyone who tried to care. But I could never forgive myself for that night, for not being there when he needed me. And now, I was dragging Y/N down with me.

The silence felt louder now, each second stretching painfully, mocking me. She’d tried, even after everything I put her through. She tried to reach me, to pull me out of this pit I’d dug for myself. But I’d thrown her love back in her face. Again.

“Fuck,” I muttered under my breath, pressing my fists to my temples. I wanted to cry, to scream, to feel something other than this endless, numbing void. But even that felt like too much. All I could do was lie here, drowning in my own misery, pushing everyone who mattered further and further away

Kenjaku grabbed my wrist, yanking my hands away from my ears. "Look at me, Sukuna," he snapped, his tone harsher than I'd ever heard. "This is your last chance. No one else is going to fight for you if you don’t fight for yourself."

I kept my eyes shut, trying to hold on to the darkness, anything to keep from facing the weight of his words. What good was that going to do? The damage was done, and I’d burned every bridge around me.

I tried pulling my arm free, but his grip tightened. "You think you’re the only one hurting?" Kenjaku’s voice dropped, each word laced with a fury that broke through my wall of apathy. "Your brothers are terrified. Toji, Uraume—they’re all watching you tear yourself apart. And Y/N? She might be gone, but you know damn well it’s killing her too."

My hands trembled as I finally opened my eyes, meeting his stare. I could see the disappointment, the anger. But there was something else, something that looked too much like hope.

"Why does it matter?" I murmured, my voice cracking. "I’ve already lost everything. What’s the point?"

Kenjaku’s expression softened for the briefest moment before he pulled me up to sit. "You haven't lost everything, not yet. But if you keep pushing everyone away, there will be nothing left. Not your friends, not Y/N, not even your own damn self."

The words hit like a punch to the gut, and I felt a flicker of something I hadn't felt in months—fear.

I held his stare, my jaw clenched, trying to keep the defiance in my eyes. But Kenjaku didn’t look away, his grip on my arm tightening. "What did you take?" he asked again, his tone sharper, cutting right through me.

I tried to shrug him off, mumbling, "Just something to take the edge off. Why does it matter?"

"Because," he hissed, shaking me slightly, "you can barely stand right now, Sukuna. You're falling apart, and you keep reaching for whatever dulls the pain instead of facing it. So I'll ask you one last time—what did you take?"

I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his demand. I didn’t want to admit it, didn’t want him to know how far I'd fallen. But the way he was looking at me, with a mixture of anger and something close to pity, broke through the wall I’d put up.

"Xanax... some Oxy," I muttered, barely audible, each word feeling like a confession. "And... a couple drinks." I looked away, shame burning in my chest.

Kenjaku's face twisted with a grimace, and he let go of my arm, taking a step back as if the truth was too heavy for him. "This is what you're doing to yourself?" His voice was low, thick with disappointment. "This isn’t numbing the pain, Sukuna. It's destroying you."

I sank back onto the couch, the weight of his words pressing down like a boulder on my chest. "Maybe that’s the point," I whispered, barely holding back the rawness in my voice. "Maybe that’s all I deserve."

Kenjaku knelt in front of me, looking me dead in the eyes. "Then prove yourself wrong," he said firmly. "If you can’t do it for you, then do it for them—your brothers, your friends, everyone who’s still here trying to reach you. But you have to decide to get up and fight."

My answer was simple, and final. "No."

Kenjaku stared at me, frustration flaring in his eyes. I could tell he was holding back from saying more, like he knew words were useless right now.

“You want to keep drowning?” he asked, his voice sharper, leaning closer as if to pierce right through me. “You think this is easier, huh? Wasting away until there's nothing left?”

“Maybe it is," I said, my voice hollow. "Maybe it’s the only way I can even get through this. The only thing that keeps my mind off... everything.”

“You’re just running,” Kenjaku shot back, anger finally surfacing. "You think the pain will leave you alone? It won’t. It’s gonna keep eating you alive until there’s nothing left, Sukuna. Nothing for you, and nothing for the people who actually give a damn about you."

I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms until the sting cut through the haze clouding my mind. “Then let it. I’m not worth anything to anyone.”

Kenjaku exhaled, the fight leaving his shoulders. He stared at me, his eyes dark and steady. “You keep saying that, but it’s not true. You know it’s not true.”

Silence settled between us, heavy and unbreakable, until he finally straightened, his expression hardening. “Fine. You want to stay here, stay here. But don’t expect any of us to stick around and watch you throw your life away.”

[jenchan-writingmultis]

Twisted Wonderland Boys x Reader in their respective Fairytales (Series)

(Azul's Part one) Previous Part (Leona)

─────❅─────

Content Warning: This Fic will be tagged as 16+ since it is a bit suggestive along with mentions of Gorey themes (Azul), it’s very vague. I haven’t finished Book 6 and Book 7 because I’m stuck in Tartarus, but they’re not done here yet. Riddle (Suggestive Themes), Leona (Cussing, Blood mention), Azul (Obsession, Manipulation, Cussing once, Potential Cannibalism? (He eats merpeople who are turned into Polyps). The reason for potential OOC was cause I mixed both the classic Villains with the personality of our beloved boys

Due to the Tumblr Limit, Each one will be divided unfortunately, hopefully it's an easy navigation for all of you!

─────❅─────

First Batch would be: Riddle, Leona, Azul

Second Batch would be: Kalim, Idia, Malleus

List of Villains interconnecting with each character:

Riddle = Queen of Hearts

Leona = Scar

Azul = Ursula

─────❅───── Azul:

Now Azul’s eyes might be deceiving him, but he noticed a little mermaid struggling to swim, that’s a sight you wouldn’t see every day, it’s like you’re drowning.

With his curiosity piqued, he moved out of his comfort zone, swimming to you.

The moment you laid eyes on him, it felt as though you had known him for an eternity. You hugged him tightly, wrapping your fins around him in fear. He lifted you up by grabbing your underarms, as if you were a kitten. "My, my, I'm not sure why you're struggling to swim around here like a baby fish," he mocked you, however that gave a different affect on your part, it allowed you to calm down. He noticed the remnants of tears on your cheeks.

“I thought I was drowning!” you cried out, calming down since your boyfriend but in his octopus form was here, although it was odd why he looked like his usual except, he seemed to have a darker palette on his body.

“Drowning?” he chuckled, hands letting you go as he sits you down on the coral reef, you were already deep under the sea, have you not noticed? “Why would you drown? You’re a mermaid.”

He felt stupid needing to state the obvious to you, but the way your eyes widened, looking down your fins, it seemed way too genuine to be faked. One can only speculate that you probably were cursed.

“Are you not originally a mermaid?” his octo arms tracing on your fins to examine it, indeed it was mermaid fins, not fake ones.

“I don’t know” you answered, you were terrified, your Azul never talked about his endeavors under the sea, and he never got you to meet his parents yet, he was still trying to teach you how to swim!

“You…” he sighed, his arms pulling away before he walks away, he didn’t even instruct you to follow him yet a deep feeling inside his heart says that you would follow him, which you did.

The way you tried to walk with your fins was funny, that he felt bad, you wanted to follow but not knowing how to utilize your fins were pathetic.

He guessed he can spare some of his benevolence to you.

“Oh, you poor thing” he said, a hint of sarcasm in his voice as he grabbed your waist with his arm, pulling you with him as he walks to his cave. You felt embarrassed having Azul help you walk, or rather swim here. “I ought to teach you how to swim, but that’s not the time right now.” He mused, the moment you went in, your heart drops, seeing polyps, their faces looking at you desperately as if they’re crying for help, yet their mouth was shut.

“Ignore them” Azul said as he walks over them, crushing a few “polyps”

“they’re my food” His arms guiding you tightened, if you didn’t know any better, you would have thought he wanted to eat you.

Shit, this guy is not your Azul, the way he smiles so emotionlessly sends a shiver down your spine, your guts telling you to squirm and run away.

Which if you were smarter enough, you should have not tried to follow him, he could have let you go if you did.

“Now, relax, I won’t turn you into one of them” referencing to the polyps, you still feared him though and for some reason that irritated him, look at him with that cute expression you did earlier, the relief.

“Stop staring at me like that” he said annoyed, pinching the bridge of his nose while putting you on the rock chair.

In front of you sat a cauldron, surrounded by an array of chemicals reminiscent of the potions you used to create together in potionology class. As he moved about, searching for scrolls, he stole short glances in your direction.

After reminiscing about the time he treated you nicely, your gaze falls back to him, who looked satisfied when he found what he wanted.

“You’re not from here, right?” he asked out of nowhere, causing you to stiffen up, well, after a few minutes of being here, you did find out that you were dreaming, you just didn’t know why.

You would be surprised by how fast Azul found out, but knowing your boyfriend, of course he’d know, he’s not slow.

“Yes,” you answered truthfully, your fins flapping a bit, similar to how a human would shake their legs whenever they’re bored or anxious.

“I could send you back to where you’re from”  Giving you the business smile he often uses whenever dealing with contracts was involved. You’d be happy if this was your Azul, but seeing those poor polyps that were once merpeople, you didn’t celebrate too early.

“What’s the catch?” you asked, your knuckles were turning white with how you clenched your hands. Azul laughs, turning around as he throws advanced potions you didn’t know in the cauldron, it changes color as he gets to work. “Oh, I’m not asking much” he purred out. Bullshit.

Azul confirmed two things with the way you talked, first, you knew about him, and second, you were human, I mean It was obvious when you, a grown mermaid, couldn’t swim. More often, merpeople tend to be naïve, accepting help left and right just with a few twists of his words, but you…

You asked what the catch was! How amusing, you were indeed human cause they’re the only type of species that would be wary in dealing with deals and promises that are “too good to be true”

About his first discovery, it was the fact that he wanted to have you take his deal, only for you to fail miserably and belong to him for eternity. He didn’t know why his instincts were enamored by the idea of having you by his side, he already had his hands full with two leeches, and having another one is already way too much, especially when it’s a mermaid who can’t even swim properly, or at all.

Unfortunately, though it seems like he can’t win against his instinct using his logic.

“You just need to answer my questions,” he stated, noticing your distrustful demeanor. Oddly, it pleased him; how interesting you were. “If you answer correctly, then I’ll help you”

Azul Part two

[dearmyloveleys]

;-; i just wanted to say ty for all your posts in the fof tag. now i'm thinking about ying lei and his yeye ying zhao... and now there is no one left to guard the mountain, but ying lei died in the same way as ying zhao, saving people he cares about

Don’t mention it! I blorb too much about things I really like it embarrasses me at times. I’m just glad you like my takes!! Anyway:

😭😭😭😭 this drama exists to hurt us,, I think more than dying for people he cares about (because nearly everyone who died did that), Ying Lei's characterisation and death provides a unique but tragic pov within the main cast

Ying Lei my poor Ying Lei. We don’t really talk too much about him don’t we. So let’s just talk all about him. CHARACTER ANALYSIS TIME YAY

Ying Lei is unadulterated sunshine and has a good heart. Morally, he is on the same page as the rest of the team. Yet, it absolutely breaks my heart that his fate is to be an outsider within the thematic concern of choice in FoF and resultingly, in the narrative.

His place in the overarching thematic concerns of FoF is unclear when we first meet him - he is simply a wandering half mountain god half demon with a bright disposition. But as with many characters in FoF, their appearances aren't just for naught. Ying Lei's representative theme - the freedom of choice and the ability to choose one's identity - finally shows itself in one of the most beautifully written (am biased) episodes of the series, Episode 17, which is all about choice.

In this episode, Ying Lei vents his displeasure of the Wilderness towards grandpa Ying Zhao

"I hate this place. I hate the Wilderness. It's so bleak and desolate. (…) If I have to stay here forever, I'd rather die. (…) I like the mortal world. I like everything that is vibrant and lively."

To which grandpa Ying Zhao gives him his blessing to head to the Mortal Realm,

"…as your grandfather, I respect your decision. You can be a Mountain God or an ordinary person."

His next sentence cements the plight of many demons (and humans) we encounter in the story,

"For many demons in the Wilderness, their lifelong dream is just three simple words… Have a choice."

These three words all the more juxtaposes Ying Lei's freedom to choose his identity, against every other character who faces this fate of not having a choice.

The Lie Demon, unable to say her true feelings until her moment of death, and Fei, who shares similar sentiments as Ying Lei about the mortal world,

"I'm a beast of calamity, I don't deserve to live in the mortal world. But I really like the bright lights, the liveliness and happiness, and the prosperity here." (Ep 13)

And Zhao Yuanzhou, where even in the same Episode 17, echoes Ying Lei's words,

"If this world gave me life to be manipulated by malicious energy, then I'd rather die."

Same words, but a different way out. Or there isn't one at all.

Ying Lei is the only one whose fate hasn't been carved out in stone for him. Even after Ying Zhao's death, he is still able to leave Kunlun Mountain and rejoin the team because he has the support of other Mountain Gods watching over the temple. He is by no means a pampered and spoiled person but he swims in a wealth of freedom. His bubbly, charming and affectionate personality is a physical manifestation of his unburdened self, unbeholden to any ending, except for the one that he wants.

And yet, he chooses a life with the group of people who never have had the option to choose what and who they want to be. Wen Xiao, the Baize Goddess; Zhao Yuanzhao, the vessel of malicious energy; Bai Jiu, determined to bring his mother back; Pei Sijing, the forced breadwinner of her family's martial heritage. To show his determination to be with this group, he never again dons the mature get-up (full sleeved robes and long hair) - his representation of maturing and accepting his responsibility as a Mountain God - after returning back to the Mortal Realm. Rather, he dons the get-up he first roamed the Mortal Realm with (or similar), metaphorically putting aside all that celestial burden in exchange for the friends that he desires. Just who in the group can as easily shed their very roots and history? His precious freedom to choose ironically makes him the outsider in a group whose only wishes are to be able to choose.

He gets along with the team, but no matter how many times he ties the knot of fate around them, these people were never his fate to begin with. Fate found the rest of them and demanded they be bound. Ying Lei wrestles that rope of fate, trying to get in, albeit with rejection. The narrative demonstrates this:

The team was initially formed without him, and he joined later them of his own accord - his own choice - while the others literally were forced to sign a death contract to be together. In the later episodes, his affection for Bai Jiu is often overshadowed by Bai Jiu's respect for Zhuo Yichen. He also continually tries to get both Bai Jiu and Zhuo Yichen's approval - head pats, anyone? Zhao Yuanzhou doesn't trust him to look after the dragon scale. In their conversation with Bing Yi, their team count is five, instead of six. His closest companions within the team are each other's confidants.

Even at his very end, the narrative still denies him a fate with them. He dies for Bai Jiu who is the only person he loves wholly, and fades away before Bai Jiu wakes from his coma. Neither gets to say goodbye. Bai Jiu who genuinely mourns his death, dies for Yichen. In a story where the cyclical nature of fate runs deep, there is no thread of fate that leads back to him. There is no resolution or reciprocation for Ying Lei's soul and sacrifice. Every thread is cut and never retied, no matter how he tries. Siheng has Sijing left to remember him. Yichen keeps Baijiu close to his heart. Wen Xiao and Yichen wait for Zhao Yuanzhou to return. But no one truly reminisces Ying Lei. The only people to do that are dead.

Ying Lei's tragedy lies in his freedom to choose. In a world where most fate is predetermined and choice is a scarcity, his death is all the more painful as every act is a conscious choice toward an unknown end. He carries a burden after all - the burden of writing his own story. And he braved each step with that brilliant smile of his.

我爱这个世界更多 又如何 So what if I love this world even more? 越平凡越长久 The more ordinary it is, the longer it lasts 月亮跟着我点头 The moon nods along with me 简简单单入梦的人最温柔 Those who step into dreams simply are the gentlest 分不清眼泪和酒 真让人挠头 This inability to distinguish between tears and wine, really makes one scratch their head 月亮和小狗默默跟我走 The moon and a puppy walk with me in silence 岁月从不停留 Time never stops once 少年也不回头 This youth also never turns back 他把故乡和爱留在身后 He leaves behind both his hometown and love

- 英雄不磊落 (Heroes Are Not Upright) | Ying Lei's Theme

[lokorum]

what would you say is your favorite jonmichael fic..... im very curious and love to reread anything in that tag

oh but how can i pick only one when they all are so good??? (,,•᷄‎ࡇ•᷅ ,,)?

aaaaaa can i make the several honorable mentions of the fics that made me scream and roll on the floor?????? pretty please???

scheherazade was one of the first jonmichael fics that i found while going through all of the cher's works because, evidently, they have no fics that are not worth reading!! (i'm sorry if and forty feet down only confirming it!!!)

sleep inertia has one of the best dialogues i ever read!!! the way cruelzy writes michael's lines??? aaaaaaaaa its so delicious and believable and never for a second i thought i'm reading something out of canon?? its just that good. 

carousel is the only one fic (from what i found) that i set in the last season and its adds a lot of layers to that big jonmichael onion that torments my eyes for a while now ldkfjgkdfjg also it's messy?? i mean the whole situation in the fic?? its so humanly complicated and it does not gives you the chance to experience any of the feelings clearly and i love it!! screechfox somehow captured all of the complicated stuff in one fic, blendered it together and for the whole time i just couldn't take my eyes away from it. 

five times michael saves jon's life and one time he doesn't have to - is here to sooth our pain and heal our wounds. i reread it so many times!! the dynamic between jon and michael in it is one to live for!!! sometimes you think 5+1 kind of fics can't surprise you anymore and then the coolest author like paisleycowboys enters the room and proves you wrong. 

to be like super honest, the 100 ways to say i love you series, when i first saw it, made me think im not gonna like it? i love my fanfics long and scary and bittersweet and with a bad-very-not-good-endings, so the title of this one made me go "hmmmmm HMMMMM hmmmmm hmmmm?" but ive started to read it anyway, theres not that many fics on the ao3 for jonmichael, we cant afford to be capricious and gosh GOSH i was so fucking wrong!!! its sweet AND sad AND scary AND awkward (in a best way!!!) AND it made me giggle so many times!!! NeedsCaffeineRightNow can make even the edgiest of us enjoy the soft kinds of fics (its not hard when they are written with so much care and love.)

POSSESSIVE!! MICHAEL!! COMBING!!! JON'S!! HAIR!!!!!! what else do we need from life?

transition, every time i reread it or think about it, makes me painfully aware of how many things should coincide for something to work. it's not one of those fics that completely encompass you; nor its the one that leaves you with new headcanons or in a good mood, no, i think it's the one that leaves you in dissoray, making you want to argue with author, to ask them what were they thinking about, pointing on your weak sides like this?, giving you something precious and then stealing it away? pushing your old bruises? that is to say, i have nothing but deep respect for indefensibleselfindulgence. to write fic that makes you want to engage in conversation? thats powerful 

Our 'Angel' of Static and Bone is written so inexplicably good, that more than once i wondered, how NeverwinterThistle was able to do it? and then i realised they are one of my fave bg3 and dishonored authors phpphp but really, the care, the effort that went into this fic? they are literally visible! you can feel the amount of time and brain juice that went into writing it. and the neighbor character? they appeared like two times?? and still their addition left me speechless with how clever it is, how different!! absolutely amazing work.

adjective noun has jonmichael chapter (11) that destroyed me as a person i swear i laughed so hard i dropped my phone and just kept giggling face-into-the-pillow style!!!!!! its rare for the fics to bring you this childish kind of pure joy; the little in-between moment of forgetting about everything, good and bad, and just have a good time. this chapter is definitely one of those rare things and it also made me wish there would be more jonmichael fics from cuttoth. somehow they nailed everything that should be nailed about this ship and did it in a couple of pages, what a magical work!! 

and well, now here's my fave fic, the one that took my head, shaked it like it's a soda can, and then left it open, fountaining at first and then dented and empty. 

I ask for nothing, but maybe I'm lying is the work that made me grateful for the fact that i know how to read in english. its....mmmm, you know that feeling when fic makes you go through literally everything? and then, as a bonus, through all stages of grief as well?

first you get hooked up by the beautiful writing style and so you know the fic is gonna be good and you get comfortable and you turn yourself off from the rest of the world and you read. 

you love pov, you love mood shifts, you love pacing, you love when scenes are short and you pause to think about what happened / you love when scenes are long and you get overloaded with the simple things that make you feel complicated emotions, you love it all. 

then you start to wish it would never finish; you look at the scrolling bar from time to time, a little bit too aware of how much there's left to read, a little bit too anxious about it. and at the same time, the fic starts to make you feel safe, confident, that at least it's gonna be alright, its gonna be that one work that will replace the canon events for you. it was the

“Oh. Oh, Archivist, no. That’s not right at all,” you say to yourself as you watch him march into artefact storage, both hands clamped around an axe. 

On a whim, you decide to save him."

line for me for sure uhhh it still hits as good as the first time too 

and then you get to the ending and you just stare at the screen. that hollowing feeling slowly spreading inside you. *sigh* its the best sort of inspiration im sure, but its the worse one too. i have no idea how possessedradios and authors like them are able to write something that kills you, then reanimates you and then makes you sit in front of the tablet drawing hours non stop. ''I ask for nothing, but maybe I'm lying" is so beautiful its scares and fascinates me, just like the podcast did. hell, better then the podcast did.  i know its silly but i even named my fisrt fanart of michael as the title of the fic 👉👈

ahhhh SO i rumbled again SORRY!!!!!!! every time someone asks something from me its either "i'll reply later" (replies 10 years after) or "tolstoy, hold my fucking beer". but i really hope that fic writers, not only those who are mentioned here but like in general? know how much they affect other people!! how their work creates safe spaces for others!! how they make readers smile or cry, even if those readers (im not pointing finger on myself idk what you talking about pgphpphph) are little gremlins that leaving comments once in a decade....................

have fun time reading!! <3

btw im working on a little fanart rn............. (expressing my deepest grattitude to ao3 johmichael writers 😳🔪)