#but I’m not sad about never having a baby again

[cuntyji]

hello my name is kashika aka cuntyji and here is my official review on user norikuna's choso fic. i have two tabs of the same fic open as i simultaneously write down my thoughts which is why it probably will be all over the place. thank you for reading. 

can i first start off by saying i was genuinely so surprised when i got this notif !! i remember being asked about what tropes & fics i'd like with certain characters and i just brain dumped it all....i didn't expect pookie to turn it into a whole fic (she is so real....that's my wife right there. we are actually married and i swim everyday across the ocean/s to meet her in australia)

He’s (gojo) officially dead to you, figuratively, of course. Unfortunately. ➜ DAPH YOU’RE SO MEAN WHY WOULD YOU SAY IT LIKE THAT !! my husband……even if he is dead we fanfic writers have developed twenty other plot lines where you are happy. i would quote a lot more but im loving gojo and reader’s friendship so far. AND THE IMPLIED STSG I LITERALLY SHOT UP FROM MY SEAT AND SALUTED MY SCREEN  

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. ➜ no one laugh but my current sort of crush is kind of like that minus the loner but he looks like a tim burton character and he is such a big band nerd and UGH OKAY ANYWAYS BACK TO THE FIC 

Your Prada loafers click against the polished floor, before you kick them off. ➜ i’m sorry but the minute i read prada i shot up straight because for a hot minute i forgot we’re the rich baddie archetype….reading this fic locked in now

“Uh, hey,” you manage. The picture of eloquence, the master of the verbose elite. ➜ i don’t blame her if i opened the door to choso kamo himself i’d piss my pants i mean kiss him i mean UHHH/??

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. ➜ sat here holding my head in my hands because this sentence HURTTTSSSS. HURTED. HURT MY SOUL. this whole scene from reader asking him to him saying the truth oh god my face has morphed into a perpetual sad face

choso leaving the house is making me make a face….i’m staring at the screen gaping. i’m not used to reading him like this OOOWEIIIEEE

GOJO CALLING HIM JUGHEAD JONES LMFAOOO DAPH I LOVE UR MIND they are literally the same person and i had the BIGGEST crush on him….no wonder i love choso too.

But to borrow a line from Bangtan Sonyeondan, life goes on. ➜ daph you’re making me get war flashbacks. literally got up and saluted my screen. im so sick right now. heaving and throwing up

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.    ///   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. ➜ I AM SICK. SICK YOU HEAR. IM GOING THROUGH EVERY SINGLE EMOTION RIGHT NOW BECAUSE I HATE HOW THIS IS MY LIFE RIGHT— *GUNSHOTS* the below meme is me right now

Satoru grins, all teeth and lazy confidence, “Yeah, what? You’re going to start running a pyramid scheme cult?” ➜ the canon references….i am so sat right now. daph this is why you’re leader of geto-ville.

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. ➜ why am i paying internet bills…..yea……..to cry……..that’s whats up 

CHOSO QUOTING LEGALLY BLOND AND WE CHEERED !!!! THAT IS MY BABY OH MY GOD DAPH IM SMILING SO HAR =D ROGHT O WU HAVE NO DEA IM ACTUALLY CRYING ON MY BAYBY

sukuna mentioned and i shot up staight and clutched my chest and took in deep breathes i am feral for this man i genuinely think i have tunnel vision when it comes to him.

nevermind i read ahead and want to beat him up. when i read a fic and am forced to choose between canon inspired sukuna versus my baby choso (i jump out of the window)

Half a grape travels down Satoru’s windpipe, “The villain!” ➜ MY SAME REACTION BECAUSE WHAT THE FUCK YA ALLAH I SWEAR IF ITS YUKI IM GOING TO

THE KISS WAS SOSCUTE IM CHEESING OH TO BE LOED LIKE HOW CHOSO LOVES HER OH MY GOD IM BANGING MY HEAD AGAINST THE WALL

WHAT A FIC !!! WHAT A DAY !!! i need to write more for choso bcs the last time i did it was a psychological horror one that #FLOPPED (fragmented you will be missed....) THIS WAS SO STINKING CUTE DAPH I LOVE YOU !! THANK U FOR WRITING THIS THIS WAS SO SWEET I WENT THROUGH EVERY HUMAN EMOTION ON THE AUTISM SPECTRUM EVER !!! YOU'RE LITERALLY ONE OF THE BEST WRITERS I KNOW HOW U BALANCE TRUE HEART WARMING WRITING AND CONSTRUCTIVE WRITING UGH I LOVE U !!!

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’!”

[sleep-0-deprived]

I just had a thought when I caught a short glimpse of bunny ready but like..what if? Hear me out brother. But what if..why if bunny m!reader is a student with like the teacher’s pet lyrics as a guide? Like some specific lyrics could be incorporated into the plot. It that weird???

My brother you may be onto somethin— it’s a fucked up idea but that’s what this blog is for—

Like jus imagine- bein the bunny boy that the wolf teacher is havin an affair with! Oh it’s so unexpected- he’s married to such a pretty fox but her pussy doesn’t feel the same as you, his orgasms aren’t as strong as with you- but you’re jus some bunny boy with melancholy cravin all the love he can give you but Y’know it won’t ever be E’nough for you. You feel like shit on the daily being his side boy but you can’t stop— your bunny tail in the air getting your guts squished around over his desk all teary eyed poutin “if I’m so special why am I secret”

──── ❤︎ ──────── ❤︎ ──────── ❤︎ ──────❤︎

All the older male can do is croon you on and on bout how you’re only secret cause he keeps his prizes to himself— he doesn’t think of you like a lover just a dumb boy to play predator on- but you aren’t a full blown bunny? You don’t hop and he doesn’t own you. But he’d make you feel so worthless he’d manipulate you into being his- he’d break you down into a quick blowjob under the desk at lunch and kiss stains on his thighs while you sniffle— god you’d think his favorite hobby is pulling those bunny ears.

Just imagin all the guilt eatin up your poor bunny thoughts! Bunnies weren’t meant to have such problems but all he did was fill you up with em’ you’d feel guilty every time he ate your ass N’ fucked you- you felt so terrible all those times he’d say how better you were than his wife, gosh your ears would just lay all flat N’ sad I mean don’t know why you even need me. All that guilt slowly pushing its way in his head maybe for some sick reason he feels that guilt- his skin crawls when you moan- he’d shove his fingers in your mouth to feel less “do you regret the things we shared I’ll never forget”

You’d get so twisted you’d start to enjoy how he broke you and glued you together again, you already felt angry with yourself but something about how you’d bite your pencils and flick your bunny ears in class giving him a knowing look staying behind all the other students even going far enough to ask “if I pass this quiz will you give me your babies?” You wanted all guys wide had, you wanted to have him and give him pups- you could do just as good as she could?

Taglist @yyuinaa @kimisbunny @unstab1eperson2 @asher-is-hotxp @silvern1006

[sitepathos]

Imagine the angst if Bruce does end up finding a cure for the Megamycete, but when he injects reader, he starts to calcify immediately bc the megamycete replaced most of his cells already. Reader laughing maniacally as he crumbles bc he won

First of all, I hope everyone had a great holiday season, whether you celebrate Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, etc. Also, Happy New Year to those already in 2025 and to the rest of us still in 2024, hope you’ve found a fun way to ring in the upcoming year!

Second, I’ve had A LOT of people asking me this question (for real, most of my asks are about the Reader dying after the Megamycete is removed) and I just want to say… sips sweet tea.

Sorry, everyone, that is MAJOR spoiler territory and I’m not ready to reveal that information. You’ll just have to wait until climax of the series to find out whether you lose the Megamycete and what happens if you do, or if you prevail over the Bats.

But, for this individual’s ask, let’s just say the Bats do manage to kill the Megamycete, resulting in your death due to it making up much of your body at this point. You slowly but surely turn an alarming shade of white before crumbing into dust, choosing to spend your last few moments of life to mock them, laugh at them, and that “you’ll see them in hell.”

Bruce would be totally destroyed that he’s the reason for his son’s death. Once again, a member of his family is dead, but unlike Joe Chill and Joker, he was the killer, the smoking gun/detonator in his hand. He completely withdraws into his work, both as Bruce Wayne and Batman; doing anything he can think of to keep from being reminded that the last words his son said to him was that he’d see him in hell (he’ll gladly spend the rest of eternity being tortured if it means being near you). He had your calcified remains gathered into a capsule and buried in the Wayne Family Cemetery (despite Alfred’s best efforts to convince him to bury you next to your mother).

Dick is heartbroken, both at his baby brother being dead and that death was preferable over you being with them, your family. While Bruce withdraws, Dick becomes more present, dropping in on his siblings practically every day, asking how their day was, what they’re currently doing, do they want to hang out, etc. He also visits your grave everyday, telling you about his day, what’s going on with the family, and how he regrets not being a better big brother to you and he wishes he could change the past.

Jason separates himself from the family (except Alfred, of course), pissed at them for mistreating you for years, but mostly pissed at himself for doing the same thing. Looking back, he can see that he was so engulfed in his anger, pain, hatred, and sadness and so convinced that he’s the only one in the family that’s suffering that he couldn’t see that you were just like him; if he had gotten his shit together, he would’ve seen that you clearly didn’t belong in this family of batshit crazy vigilantes and you weren’t getting the proper support you needed. If he had, he would’ve snatched you and raised you himself. But he didn’t do that, and he’ll never get the chance to spend anytime with you.

Tim does the same thing as Bruce, drowning himself in his work, both as Tim Drake and Red Robin, but he goes a step further in his spiral into madness that even Bruce couldn’t bring himself to do: obsess over your remains. After your funeral, he dug up the capsule containing the calcified dust that was once you (he has a very concerning obsession with your remains) and brought it to a safe house he had prepared just for this purpose, using all the scientific equipment within it to analyze your remains down to the atomic level, confident that even in this form, you’re still alive (after all, this is a sentient pile of mold we’re taking about, so logic and reason have long since been thrown out the window). When he’s not obsessing over your remains, he’s obsessing over your game studio, having used Drake Industries to acquire it and personally oversees everything it does, telling everyone that he’s doing it to honor you.

Stephanie tries to cheer everyone up, but if even Dick is depressed, there’s nothing she can do. She feels extremely guilty about how she basically threw you away like a child does an old toy after her first week in Wayne Manor. Since Bruce has basically taken over your old room, like he’ll find you there if he goes there enough times, she takes up the burden of taking care of your house (a task she was able to take right from under the noses of Bruce, Tim, and Damian), going through all your possessions every time she’s over there, reading your books, playing the games on your computer, and even sitting in your bed. As she does, she learns a little more about you, making her grief for you even stronger and wishes she could’ve hung out with you.

Cassandra has only known true regret and grief a few times in her life, but her treatment of you and your death are definitely the worse instances of regret and grief she’s ever experience (and probably ever will experience). She accompanies Steph every time she goes to your house, helping clean it, keep your knick-knacks organized, and pointing out anything you may have hidden. As she gazes upon your various collectibles and posters in your game room, she wishes she could’ve gotten to know you more; when she first met you, she deemed you insignificant due to your lack of combat training and low threat level, but she now knows that you were not only a person, but her brother. She only wishes she would’ve learned that lesson before you were taken from them.

Damian is like his father, withdrawing into himself, but he also comes out every now and then to lash out at anyone unfortunate enough to be near him when his anger reaches its boiling point (Jason gives as good as he gets while Dick takes it all in stride). You were his brother and you were suppose to be by his side! When he realized his error, he had made plans for you to be by his side for all the important moments of his life, like when he inevitably inherited the Cowl of Batman, or when he took over Wayne Enterprises, or when he finally triumphed over Drake! But, not only are you dead, but you used your last few moments of death to curse and taunt him. He becomes a time bomb that goes off unexpectedly on a nearly daily basis.

Alfred is absolutely heartbroken over the end of your feud with the family. He knew that you wouldn’t go back willingly after helping the others relate the error of their ways, and when he learned of you being the host of the Megamycete, he already foresaw the fight you’d put up (so much like your father, he thought), but he never thought that you’d take it so far as to result in your death; had he known that you’d die he would’ve found another way of making you return to the manor. But now, you’re gone reduced to a pile of dust. He tried to convince Bruce that you should be buried in your hometown next to your mother (he’d want that more than anything, Master Bruce, he pleaded), but you ended up being buried in the place you hated more than anywhere else close to the people you hated more than anyone else; as much as he hated to admit it, he liked that you were buried in the Wayne Family Cemetery since he can visit your grave everyday, keep it clean from leaves, dirt, and dust and beg for your forgiveness for not doing more while you were alive.

[kirammanswifey]

《A Love Written in Pain(t)》

Ekko

writer's note: i'm sorry for making my boy suffer again, ekko deserves better but i'm a sucker for drama. anyways, this little (pretty long) scenarios comes from my arcane imagines, i'll let the link down there for anyone is interested, also i'll be posting a story for each one of those scenarios for this week, tomorrow it's mel's turn ;)

link:

warnings: fluff, angst, terminal illness, death of oc, ekko is a romantic sweet talented baby, reader can be a jerk sometimes but she kinda cool sometimes.

The music vibrated in the air, blending with the scent of fresh paint and street food. You had come to the urban festival on a friend's recommendation, but you never imagined it would be an afternoon that would change your life. Artists were filling the city's gray walls with bright colors and messages of hope, and among them, one boy stood out.

His white hair contrasted with his skin, and the agile movement of his hand as he slid paint onto the wall was almost hypnotic. The mural he was creating seemed to come alive with every stroke: a girl holding a broken clock, surrounded by gears that spun toward nowhere. The image had something deeply melancholic about it, as if telling a story only a few could understand.

You watched him from afar, too shy to approach, until he noticed your presence. He turned his head and smiled at you, his eyes shining with a mixture of curiosity and kindness.

"Do you like it?" he asked, coming down from the scaffolding with the same ease he seemed to do everything.

"It’s... impressive. But it also feels sad, like it’s about a loss or something that can't be recovered."

His eyebrows raised slightly, surprised. "That's exactly what I wanted to convey. It’s about time. How we always think we have more of it than we really do, but we never know when it runs out."

His explanation fit perfectly with what you had felt while observing it. "I saw it more like a fight... like she doesn't want to give up, even if the clock is already broken."

For a moment, Ekko seemed to look at you differently, as if measuring something invisible. "I’ve never thought of it that way. I like that perspective. I guess that’s what’s great about art, right? It’s a conversation."

You smiled, feeling for the first time like someone understood how you saw things. "I guess so."

"Do you always analyze strangers' murals?" he joked, a playful smile on his lips.

"Only when they make me feel something," you replied with a hint of shyness, but without looking away.

"Well, then that’s a compliment."

Hours passed, but you didn’t even notice as the sun began to set. Talking with Ekko felt like discovering a song you didn’t know you needed in your life. He told you about his workshop, his passion for helping the community, and his dreams of changing the world, one gadget at a time.

At some point, he asked about your story, and although you weren’t the type to open up easily, you felt like you could be honest with him.

"I work with kids," you began, searching for the right words. "At an orphanage near my university. I like to think I can do something for them, even if it’s small. I’m studying psychology, and I want to help people like them... people who feel alone."

Ekko nodded, as if understanding every word. "That’s amazing. It’s like... you take care of people, and I try to make sure they take care of the world around them. Maybe you should stop by my workshop sometime. I work with kids from the neighborhood, teaching them how to fix things, build gadgets. We could join forces."

The enthusiasm in his voice was contagious, but you couldn’t help feeling a pang of doubt. It had been a long time since you let yourself connect with someone new, for reasons he didn’t need to know.

"Really? You take anyone?" you joked, trying to lighten the mood.

"Only if they have a good eye for art and a heart for kids. You seem to qualify."

When you got up to say goodbye, he pulled out his phone and offered you his contact. "In case you decide to visit the workshop."

You took the phone, feeling a mix of excitement and fear. You didn’t know what you were getting into, but something told you that Ekko wasn’t someone you’d easily forget.

By the end of the day, as you walked back home, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. His paint-stained hands, his sincere laugh, and that strange connection you felt from the moment he looked at you.

You didn’t know it yet, but you had just met the love of your life.

A few days after the festival, you still couldn’t get Ekko out of your head. There was something about him that fascinated you: the spark in his eyes when he talked about his dreams, the passion behind every word, his way of seeing the world with optimism despite the struggles. You found yourself re-reading the festival brochure and checking his social media profile, where he shared glimpses of his life: videos of his skate tricks, photos of murals filled with messages of resistance, and small clips explaining how to build gadgets. And pictures of him too and... he was kinda cute.

Finally, you decided to message him.

"Hey, I’m the girl from the mural. You said I could come by your workshop... Is the invitation still open?"

The reply came faster than you expected: "Of course. Come by anytime. The kids will be happy to meet you. Does 4 PM today work?"

The workshop was located in an old brick building in a lively neighborhood. The exterior walls were covered in vibrant graffiti that seemed to tell stories. The main entrance had a huge phrase in bold letters: "We build the future together." When you walked through the door, you found yourself in a space that radiated creativity and chaos in perfect harmony. There were tables filled with tools, parts of half-built gadgets, unfinished murals covering the walls, and a group of kids focused while Ekko enthusiastically explained something to them.

When he saw you, his face lit up, he said with sarcasm: "Hey, the mural girl is here!

You blushed.

"I hope I’m not interrupting," you said, feeling a little shy as all eyes turned toward you.

"Not at all. Actually, come here. I want you to see this."

He led you to a table full of small artifacts and technological pieces. "This is my experiment corner," he said, pointing proudly at the mess. "This is where the magic happens, although sometimes the magic is more frustrating than anything else."

The kids started to gather around, curious, and Ekko introduced you with a warmth that made you feel at home. "She works with kids too. She helps them find their way."

One of the younger ones looked at you with bright eyes. "Really? Do you do cool things like Ekko?"

You bent down to their level, smiling. "I don’t build things like he does, but I try to help people find their strength. Sometimes, the most important thing isn’t what we do with our hands, but with our hearts."

Ekko, who had been listening, looked at you with a mix of admiration and tenderness. "That was deep. I’ll have to write that down for my next mural."

Hours passed in the workshop. You helped the kids with their projects, painted a couple of things with Ekko, and learned more about his life. In a moment of calm, while the kids were absorbed in their creations, Ekko sat next to you, a screwdriver in hand and a thoughtful expression on his face.

"You know? This place means a lot to me," he started, his tone more serious than before. "When I was a kid, there was nothing like this in my neighborhood. Growing up here was... complicated. There wasn’t always someone to turn to when things got tough."

"How did you manage to get through it?" you asked, genuinely interested.

Ekko smiled sadly. "It was thanks to my mom. She always told me that, even though we couldn’t change where we were born, we could change what we did with it. She taught me not to give up, to find ways to transform things, even if they were small. When she died... well, I promised myself I’d do something so other kids wouldn’t have to feel as alone as I did."

He paused, fiddling with the screwdriver in his hands. "At first, I didn’t know how. I just knew I wanted to make a difference. That’s when I discovered skateboarding, art, and technology. They were my escapes. And over time, they became my way of communicating, of creating something that mattered."

You felt a lump in your throat listening to his story. There was something about the way he spoke, the vulnerability behind his words, that made every detail come alive. "You’ve done something incredible here, Ekko. This place... it’s not just a workshop. It’s a home."

He looked at you, surprised by your words, then smiled, although his eyes glowed with contained emotion. "Thanks. Sometimes I wonder if I’m doing enough. But hearing that... it makes me think maybe I am."

"You’re amazing." You squeezed his hand as a gesture of affection and respect, which made him smile shyly.

When the day ended, Ekko walked you to the door of the workshop. "So, what do you think?"

"I loved it! It’s like a refuge from the world."

He smiled, scratching the back of his neck with some shyness. "I try to make it that way. And I’m glad you came. The kids got along really well with you. They liked you."

"And you?" you asked, before you could stop yourself.

"Me?"

"Do you like me?"

For a moment, he seemed surprised by your question, but then he smiled with that spark in his eyes that you were starting to recognize. "I think so."

You said goodbye with a smile that didn’t leave your face the entire way home, carrying the feeling that, in some way, you had found a place where you belonged.

The afternoon sun bathed the streets in a golden light as you walked toward the park where Ekko had arranged to meet you. You weren’t sure what to expect; when he had suggested it, you thought it would be a simple, casual activity. But when you arrived and saw him carrying two skateboards, a mischievous smile on his face, you realized this wasn’t going to be any ordinary day.

“Are you ready to become a professional skater in just one afternoon?” Ekko asked, raising an eyebrow as he held a helmet in one hand and a board in the other.

“Professional? I can barely stay on my feet without falling,” you replied, laughing nervously.

“That’s what makes it fun,” he said, walking up to you to adjust your helmet. His fingers brushed your skin as he fastened it, and you noticed his movements were unnecessarily slow, as if he were looking for an excuse to be closer to you.

“And you? Are you going to wear a helmet or trust your legendary skill?”

Ekko shrugged, smiling to the side. “Nah, I was born for this.”

“Sure, sure,” you replied, nudging him with your shoulder.

The park had a wide track with ramps and flatter areas where beginners could practice. Ekko led you to one of these areas and began with a quick lesson.

“First, keep your feet steady. Don’t look down, look where you want to go. The board will follow your intentions.”

“My intentions? What am I, a witch controlling the skateboard with my mind?”

Ekko laughed. “Something like that. Though, if you were a witch, you’d probably have learned how to fly on this thing by now.”

You tried to follow his instructions, but on your first attempt, the board shot out from under you, and you ended up on the ground.

“Hey, hey! Are you okay?” Ekko was by your side in a second, kneeling next to you as he tried to hold back his laughter.

“I’m fine,” you said, though you could barely stop laughing. “I think the board hates me.”

“No, you just have to conquer it. Look.” He jumped onto his skateboard with a fluidity that seemed to defy gravity. He glided smoothly along the track, doing small tricks to impress you. “See? You just need confidence.”

“Of course, confidence is the only thing I’m lacking,” you joked.

After several attempts, you started to improve. You managed to stay on the board for more than a few seconds, though falls were still frequent. Every time you fell, Ekko was there, offering a hand to help you up, his face a mixture of concern and amusement.

After a while, both of you sat on a nearby bench to rest. Ekko took out his phone and began searching for something in his playlist.

“I’ve got the perfect song for this moment,” he said, setting it to play on the speaker.

Tyler, the Creator’s melodic voice filled the air with the song "See You Again." Ekko looked at you with a smile that seemed to hold something more than just fun.

“Why this song?” you asked, trying to interpret the meaning behind his choice.

“It reminds me of you,” he replied, his tone more serious than you expected.

You paused for a moment, allowing the music to fill the space between you. You knew there was something in his words, something he was trying to say without saying it. But instead of confronting it, you chose to laugh, avoiding the weight of the moment.

“Wow, Ekko, if you wanted to dedicate me a song, you could’ve chosen something less obvious,” you joked, pretending not to notice the gleam in his eyes.

He smiled, but there was something in his expression that made you feel a slight pang of guilt. You knew he was trying to open up to you, and you had deflected it.

As the afternoon went on, the topic faded, but a subtle tension lingered in the air. It wasn’t just about him; it was also about you. There was something you couldn’t share with Ekko, something that weighed on you more with each passing day. Your illness wasn’t an easy topic, especially now when you were just starting to get to know each other.

“Why are you so quiet?” he asked, glancing at you from the corner of his eye as you both walked toward the graffiti area of the park.

“I’m not quiet. I’m… thinking.”

“About what?”

“How easy it is to be with you,” you said without thinking. The sincerity in your words took him by surprise, and you could see his expression soften.

“Well, I’m glad it’s easy. But if you ever need to talk about something hard, I’m here too,” he said, his voice filled with warmth that made you feel guilty.

“Thanks,” was all you managed to respond.

Days later, Ekko took you to the graffiti area. He had been working on something in secret and didn’t want to tell you what it was until he finished.

“Ready to see how I see you?”

When you turned the corner and saw the mural, you were left speechless. It was your face, captured with an astonishing level of detail. Your hair seemed to move with the breeze, and your eyes were filled with a light you didn’t recognize at first. Around your face, Ekko had painted details that only the two of you would understand: small rays of light that seemed to represent hope, and a golden phrase that read:

“Life is short, but art is eternal.”

“Ekko…” you murmured, unable to find words to describe how you felt.

“This is what I see when I look at you. You're art,” he said, shrugging as if it were no big deal.

The mural was more than just an image. It was a reflection of how he saw you: as someone bright, unique, and irreplaceable. As you looked at it, you promised yourself that one day you would tell him the truth, even though you feared losing what you had.

The morning began with Ekko knocking on your door, carrying a huge box that almost covered his face.

"Are you going to let me in, or am I staying here decorating the hallway?" he said, balancing the box.

You laughed, opening the door wide. "What do you have there? A corpse?"

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you, baby" he joked, walking in and setting the box on the table.

Baby, that's how he was used to call you now. It didn't felt wrong, in fact, you liked it. It felt so good when he said it to you. It made you feel special. It made you feel loved. It made you feel his.

"It's for tomorrow's event. We're going to need a lot of help to make sure everything goes smoothly."

"An event? What are you talking about?"

Ekko leaned forward, resting on the table with a smile that combined enthusiasm and a bit of nervousness. "It's for the kids in the neighborhood. I'm organizing a sort of fair. Games, music, food... you know, something to help them forget for a while everything that's going on down here."

The morning passed organizing ideas. Ekko had an almost contagious energy, moving around your apartment like a whirlwind while making lists, dividing tasks, and talking about his plans.

"So, what do you think of a painting workshop? We could get some cheap canvases and brushes. I'm sure the kids would love to express themselves that way."

"I love it," you replied, watching his face light up. "How do you have so much energy for this?"

"It's important," he said, his tone turning more serious. "These kids... a lot of them don't have anyone who really shows them that they matter. If I can do something to change that, even for just one day, I will."

Your heart tightened as you listened to his words. There was something deeply inspiring about his dedication, how he used his own pain as fuel to improve the lives of others.

"So, where do I fit into all of this?" you asked, crossing your arms with a smile.

"Simple. You're my right hand. Plus, no one can resist your brilliant ideas and that smile of yours," he said, winking before turning back to focus on his plans.

In the afternoon, Ekko took you to his loft to check out some materials he had gathered for the event. His home was filled with curious objects: disassembled tech pieces, unfinished paintings, and notebooks full of sketches and notes.

"This place is like your brain made into physical space," you commented, looking around with a mix of awe and amusement.

"Is that a compliment?"

"Definitely."

You went up to the roof, where there was a small area Ekko had transformed into a personal retreat. There, he showed you his next project: a portable device designed to help people with motor disabilities perform everyday tasks with greater ease.

"How does it work?" you asked, taking the gadget in your hands.

"It's a prototype," he explained, sitting next to you. "The idea is for it to adapt to different needs. For example, someone with trouble holding objects could use it for a firmer grip. It's simple, but it could make a difference."

You looked at him, impressed. "Ekko, this is amazing. How did you come up with it?"

"I guess... I've always wanted to fix things. People, places, systems... whatever." He paused, looking at the horizon. "I don't know, I feel like it's the only thing I really know how to do."

The sincerity in his voice moved you. "You're not fixing things, Ekko. You're improving them. That's something very different."

Later, as you both worked on the final details for the event, Ekko looked at you with an intensity that made you feel uneasy.

"Can I ask you something?" he finally said, breaking the silence.

"Sure, go ahead."

"Why do you always keep your distance? Sometimes I feel like you're here, but at the same time, you're not. Like there's something you don't want me to see."

Your heart skipped a beat. You didn't expect Ekko to be so direct.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you said, trying to keep your tone casual.

"Yes, you do," he insisted, his voice firmer. "I've noticed how you avoid certain topics, how you change the conversation when something gets too personal. Is it that you don't trust me?"

"It's not that," you replied, feeling the frustration building inside you. "There are just things I don't need to share. Not everything has to be so... open."

"Not with me?"

His question hit you like a punch to the stomach. You stood up from the chair, unable to stay seated under his probing gaze. "Ekko, it's not as simple as you think."

"Then explain it," he said, standing up as well. "Because from here, it seems like you're more concerned with what you're hiding than with what we have."

What you two had was complicated. You weren't friends, you were more than that, but you weren't a couple either. It was complicated. And you didn't like to think about complicated things.

"You have no idea what you're saying!"

The raised tone of your voice surprised both of you. You felt the stress and physical exhaustion begin to take their toll. Your vision blurred, and the world seemed to tilt beneath your feet.

"Baby, are you okay?" Ekko stepped toward you, but before he could reach you, your legs gave out.

The last thing you heard before losing consciousness was the sound of his voice, filled with panic.

You opened your eyes under a cold, white light. The smell of disinfectant confirmed what you feared: you were in a hospital. You turned your head and saw Ekko sitting next to your bed, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands intertwined.

The room was silent, only broken by the soft sound of the monitor marking the rhythm of your breathing. The sunlight filtered through the hospital window, creating patterns on the floor, but the calm was deceiving. You knew Ekko was worried, hurt, but what worried you the most was what Ekko had started to suspect. You couldn’t keep hiding it, and you knew the time to talk had come.

Ekko had probably been sitting in the chair next to your bed for hours, staring at the wall, lost in thoughts that seemed to consume him. You didn’t know if he hated you or if he was just trying to process what had just happened. After all, you had fallen unconscious in his arms, leaving him with a heavier emotional burden than any gadget prototype or community event. Now, he was paying the price for your secret.

“Ekko?”

He quickly lifted his head, and the mix of relief and worry on his face broke your heart.

When he finally spoke, his voice wasn’t the same as usual. There was something broken in it.

“Baby, what’s going on? What haven’t you told me? The doctor... the doctor told me that...”

It was obvious that the doctor had given him more details than you had wanted to share. You hadn’t planned on opening up to him like this. But something in his gaze, the clear worry, and the deep sadness, made you say what you had kept hidden for so long.

“I know. I’m sorry,” you said, taking a deep breath. “The illness I have has no cure.”

After a long silence, and before everything could completely fall apart, you decided to explain more deeply about the illness that was consuming you because you knew Ekko needed to understand it fully, even though you weren’t sure you could save what was left between you both.

“Ekko… what I have is a rare, autoimmune disease. My immune system is attacking my own organs. It’s called Systemic Lupus Erythematosus, and there’s no cure. It’s like my body is fighting against me all the time, little by little.”

Ekko stared at you in silence, as if he couldn’t process every word. He knew that everything you had said before, although important, wasn’t enough to understand what was really happening.

“When?” he asked, his voice tense, almost inaudible. “Since when?”

“I started feeling bad when I was 23,” you continued, your voice trembling. “It hurt all the time, and the fever wouldn’t go away. At first, I thought it was something temporary. But then I fainted once, and that’s when they admitted me to the hospital. That’s when they told me that what was happening in my body was much worse than I imagined. From there, my life completely changed. My body wasn’t mine anymore. I lost energy, I lost weight, and the flare-ups became more frequent. It’s like my body is in a constant war, and there’s no way to win it.”

The feeling of vulnerability overwhelmed you as Ekko, standing at the door, continued to look at you with a mix of disbelief and pain.

But before he could say anything, you threw out one last statement that seemed to come from the deepest part of your soul:

“And I don’t know how much time I have left, Ekko. I just know that I can’t live knowing I’m dragging you with me.”

Ekko stood still for a moment, processing your words. His breathing became heavier, as if an invisible weight had fallen on him. Finally, his eyes sought yours, and what he saw in them wasn’t surprise. It was like, somehow, he already knew, as if he had sensed it all this time.

“Your parents?” Ekko asked again, his eyes fixed on you, searching for answers that you couldn’t hide anymore.

“My parents don’t know,” you said, letting out a sigh that seemed to come from deep within. “They have no idea. How am I going to tell them that? How am I going to tell them? No… I don’t want them to see me as a project they need to save. I want them to see me for who I am, to see me as their daughter, not as a broken thing they need to take care of. I don’t want to be a burden. I’m not going to be a burden.”

Ekko looked at you, his eyes filled with frustration, but also with a sadness so deep that it made you question whether he really knew you as well as you thought.

“Baby, why didn’t you tell me? Why did you hide all of this from me? Did you think you could protect me from the truth? What were you really protecting—me or yourself?”

The punch of his words was like a gut punch. The wound you had tried to seal with lies and evasions started to bleed, and the emotion overflowed in you like a river that couldn’t be stopped.

“I don’t know…” you stammered, tears threatening to fall. “I don’t know, Ekko. I wanted… I wanted all of this to keep being normal. For it not to be so… so heavy. I wanted to do everything I’ve always wanted to do before… before it ended. I wanted to leave my mark on the world before I’m gone, to leave something that was worth it.”

Ekko began to pace back and forth. His frustration became more palpable, but there was something else in his attitude, something you hadn’t recognized at first.

“That’s not what I’m saying!” he yelled, and the vehemence in his words made everything in the room feel even denser. “I don’t understand why you had to carry all of this alone. Why did you shut me out, baby? Why did you make me believe that everything was okay?”

“Because it was easier that way,” you said, the words tumbling out. “Because what’s happening inside me… how do you explain that to someone who doesn’t understand? How do I explain that my body is already losing the battle, that I won’t be here much longer, that everything I touch will fade?”

The anger in Ekko’s eyes faded for a second, and what remained was a sadness so deep it seemed to swallow the light in the room.

“And what about me, baby?” he said, his voice softer, more broken. “What about us? Did you really think I didn’t care? Did you really think I could go on without knowing what’s happening to you? That I could keep smiling and helping you as if nothing was going to change?”

At that moment, something inside you broke. Without thinking, the words left your mouth, sharp and like a dagger:

“Stop looking for it in me, Ekko. I’m not your mother. I’m not her. Don’t project that onto me! I don’t want to be the memory of what you lost. I don’t want to carry that responsibility, or the guilt of not being what you expected.”

The words hung in the air, and the silence that followed was unbearable. Ekko took a step back, his face contorting with a mix of pain and confusion. His eyes glistened with unshed tears.

“How could you say that?” he whispered, his voice broken, as if every word he spoke cost him more than the last. “I never ‘projected’ her onto you. It’s just… I don’t want you to keep pushing me away. I don’t want you to keep hiding your fears from me.”

And then, both of you stood there, in that emotional abyss that neither of you knew how to cross. Frustration, fear, love, and sadness intertwined in the room, as if time had stopped completely.

Finally, the silence became unbearable. You sat up in bed, defeated, while Ekko turned and walked toward the door. His body tense, his breathing ragged, and the pain in his face made him feel more real than ever.

Before leaving, he stopped and looked at you one last time. “If you had used your psychology for yourself instead of for everyone else, maybe you could’ve avoided this.”

The door slammed behind him with a dull thud, and you were left there, alone, with the echo of his words ringing in your ears.

Time had passed. The days and nights blurred into a mixture of conflicting feelings, unfinished memories, and a void that both of them tried to fill without success. The argument between Ekko and you had left deep scars, although both of you knew it couldn't be the end. Not for you. However, there was something neither of you had been able to face: fear. Fear of love, fear of tragedy, and fear of losing each other before either of you expected it.

You had distanced yourself for a week. A week that had been heavier than you ever imagined. In every corner, in every solitary moment, in every thought, Ekko was there, like a persistent shadow. No matter what you did, how you tried to ignore him, the emptiness left by his departure enveloped you more and more. You tried to convince yourself it was for the best, that moving on without him was the right thing to do. But you were lying to yourself, you knew you couldn't continue without him. Not that way.

Finally, after days of deliberation, finding the strength to face your own fear, you decided to go find him. You had to talk to him, make amends, and make a decision. If you were going to die, you would do it without regrets, without leaving words unsaid, or missed opportunities. You wouldn’t care about the shadows of the future, but you couldn’t keep living with the weight of silence between you two.

You found yourself standing in front of his door, hands trembling and heart pounding in your chest. You knew what you had to say, what you wanted to say, but the words seemed stuck in your throat.

The door slowly opened, and there he was, Ekko, with that gaze that, though intense, still carried a hint of sadness. There was something in his face that told you he had been searching for you in his mind as well, though his eyes didn't yet recognize it.

"Ekko…" you finally said, your voice trembling, "I need to talk to you. Can I come in?"

Without saying a word, Ekko took a step back and opened the door, inviting you inside. The atmosphere in the room was heavier than you remembered, as if everything unsaid still lingered in the air.

You stood in front of him, your eyes fixed on his, while the words that needed to come out didn't come immediately. But in the end, you decided.

"Ekko, I know I failed you. I know, and I’m deeply sorry. It was never my intention, it never was." You took a deep breath, struggling to control the emotions threatening to overwhelm you. "But I'm here because… because I need to know if you're still willing to fight with me. If you're willing to continue this battle, to stay by my side for as long as I can."

Ekko stared at you for a moment, his face impassive, but his gaze was full of something you couldn’t decipher. There was a long pause, and then, with a sincerity that made you shiver, he responded:

"I’ve always been willing, baby. From the moment I met you, I’ve been willing to fight for you, for what we have. I don’t care what comes, I don’t care how long it is. What matters to me is that you don’t leave, that you don’t leave me behind."

Those words were everything you needed. No more doubts, no more fears. You embraced his answer with your soul, with the certainty that, finally, both of you were ready to accept the truth. The truth of who you were, what you felt, and what the future held for you.

From that day on, things changed. Although you knew each moment was a fleeting gift, you decided to make the most of it. Ekko never stopped being by your side, and you did the same for him. You were determined to live intensely, no matter how short the life you had left. And he, he was willing to love you until the end.

He accompanied you to every medical appointment, always with a smile, always willing to do anything to lighten the pain caused by the treatment. The hospital visits weren’t easy, but his presence made everything more bearable. He held your hand before entering the consultations, hugged you after every diagnosis, and never let the moments of uncertainty crush you.

"I don’t want you to be afraid," you said one day, after one of your doctor visits, while walking together through the streets, taking a break at a small café. "But I know you feel it. I know every time we go in there, it kills you a little inside."

Ekko looked at you, his gaze full of both pain and tenderness. "It’s not fear," he replied, his voice soft. "It’s not knowing how to save you. I don’t know what to do when I see you so fragile. All I can do is be here, by your side."

And that was enough. Even though both of you knew you couldn’t stop time, nor the illness, what you could do was share every second, every laugh, every small victory, and every defeat.

But it wasn’t only moments of pain and fear. There were also moments of joy, of beauty, and of creation.

Together, you started working on the project you both dreamed of—the gadget you had envisioned, which could change the way the world saw technology. Even though your health was becoming more fragile, Ekko made sure you didn’t stop. You worked side by side, sharing ideas, making decisions, and facing obstacles, but always together. It was your way of fighting, of resisting, of holding on to life amidst the chaos.

One day, while working on the final design, Ekko surprised you with an idea. "How about, in addition to all this, we paint something? Something that’s ours, something that represents what we’re doing together."

At first, you didn’t completely understand what he meant, but soon you did. Together, you would create something more than just a gadget. You would paint a mural, one that symbolized not only your dreams and love, but also the struggle you shared. The mural would represent life, love, and hope, even though you knew time was limited.

In your mind, that mural became the testament of your story, a reminder of what you had built together. The colors shone on the wall, the shapes wild and beautiful, just like your love. The mural wasn’t just a work of art, but also a promise. The promise that, no matter what else might crumble, your love would never fade. No matter how much time you had left.

The last strokes were made one sunny afternoon, in a deep, shared silence. The piece was finished, and as you stepped back to admire it in its entirety, both of you knew you didn’t need words to understand what it meant.

The mural was more than a reminder of your love; it was a testament to what you had built together, of how, even in the darkness, you had found light. Though the future remained uncertain, the mural would stay there, eternal, as a trace of what once was and would always be.

As the days passed, time seemed to grow more valuable, more scarce. You knew that every minute spent with Ekko was a gift. And although illness had taken much from you, it had given you something you never imagined: a deep, real love that feared no tragedy.

One afternoon, while resting together in his loft, Ekko looked at you seriously, more serious than you’d seen him in a long time. In a soft voice, almost as if afraid of the answer, he asked:

"Would you like to be my girlfriend?"

You paused for a few seconds, feeling the weight of the question. But in that moment, something inside you broke. You smiled tenderly, a smile full of love and resignation.

"Ekko," you said softly, moving closer to him, "we’re so much more than that."

The smile he gave you was the answer both of you needed. You didn’t need labels, you didn’t need promises of an uncertain future. The only thing that mattered was that, in that instant, you shared something so deep and real that it didn’t need to be defined by words.

And, without another word, your lips met in a first kiss, a kiss full of love, despair, and hope. A kiss that marked the beginning of what both of you knew would be a short story, but one that would last a lifetime in your hearts.

The weeks following the reconciliation were a whirlwind of emotions. Even though you knew time was running out, you decided to live each moment with Ekko as if it were the last, because in reality, it was. Sometimes, the smiles were forced, but in the most sincere moments, you could see in his eyes the reflection of a love so strong it took your breath away. Every time he looked at you, every time he held your hand, there was a mix of hope and pain, but neither of you wanted to face the inevitable.

The illness progressed rapidly. Every day, your body seemed to fall apart a little more. The doctors had told you, warned you, but you never imagined how quickly the end would come. You had learned to live with the pain, the fatigue, the moments of weakness, but nothing had prepared you to see Ekko closely watching the changes happening inside you.

You had already told your parents about it, and when you did it he was there with you, by your side, ride or die. And of course they didn't take it well, but there was nothing they could do. They just let you be happy with Ekko.

Sometimes, when you woke up in the morning, you’d see him sitting beside you, his gaze lost in some undefined point, as if he were waiting for you to wake up from the shared dream. He’d ask you how you were feeling, and you’d always say you were fine, even though the truth was you could barely bear the weight of your own body.

You saw him trying to distract you, taking you to places that made you happy, but you knew nothing could escape that reality. He didn’t want to accept what was happening, and neither did you, but neither of you wanted to say it out loud. No one wanted to mention what was already so obvious.

That night, after another doctor’s appointment that you could barely endure, you lay down hoping to rest, even though it was becoming harder and harder to find deep sleep. Your body no longer responded the way it used to, and the symptoms had started affecting you more brutally. You could barely move your hands without feeling pain, your breathing grew more labored with every effort, but you kept smiling. You had to, not only for Ekko, but for yourself.

Ekko was sitting beside you in the chair he always occupied when taking care of you. His presence was as comforting as it was painful. You knew he was holding onto every fragment of his strength to not show you how devastated he was, but you could feel it in his eyes. He gently stroked your hair and whispered, as though afraid that if he spoke any louder, everything would collapse.

“I promise we’ll get through this. Together, we’ll make it. I won’t let you leave me, not without a fight.”

You looked at him, knowing he was struggling not to cry. But his words, although full of love, only reminded you of the harsh reality. There was no more time for promises, no more room for fighting. The end was near, and you knew it.

“Ekko…” you said, your voice weak. “You don’t have to fight anymore. I’ve loved you so much, you know that, right?”

His eyes filled with tears, but he made an effort to smile. “I know. I know, baby. And I love you more than words can say.”

But what you didn’t know was that, at that very moment, Ekko was also fighting his own pain. While you rested, trying to gather some strength, he was in the workshop, working frantically on the gadget, the project you both had shared. The same gadget that, in his mind, represented everything you had built together. The gadget wasn’t just an object. It was the manifestation of what you two could accomplish when united, when you fought as a team.

Ekko knew the gadget couldn’t save you. He knew nothing could save you. But still, he felt that if he finished that project, a piece of you would remain. A trace of the hope you had brought into his life.

Hours passed, and the night stretched on in heavy silence. Ekko was so focused on his work that he didn’t realize time was slipping away. The light in the workshop flickered as he soldered pieces, making adjustments, checking everything over and over, as if somehow he could turn back time, change the course of history. But he knew he couldn’t.

When he finally gave up on the gadget, exhausted from the intensity of the night and the weight of worry, he went up to the bedroom. He wanted to see you, wanted to make sure you were still breathing, even though he already feared what he might find. He entered the room with the hope that, by some miracle, everything had changed. But what he found was the silhouette of your body lying still. In the absolute silence of the room, Ekko slowly approached, his heart pounding, and when he reached your side, he touched your hand gently. It was cold. Too cold.

The shock paralyzed him for a second. He couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t accept that you were no longer there, by his side, where you had always been. He looked at you, observing your pale face, your peaceful expression, as if you were simply sleeping, but deep down, he knew there was no turning back.

Desperation washed over him. The pain hit him so hard it felt as though his chest would explode. How was it possible? How could something so beautiful, so real, vanish in the blink of an eye?

He knelt by the bed, gripping your hand tightly, as if by doing so, he could bring you back to life. “You can’t go,” he whispered, his voice breaking with the tears he could no longer hold back. “Not now. Not like this.”

But deep in his heart, he knew it was the end. He knew he couldn’t bring back what was already gone. He couldn’t revive the irreparable. And for the first time in his life, Ekko didn’t have a solution, he didn’t have a plan. All that was left was the pain, and that painful acceptance that it was all over.

In the following week, Ekko lived in a limbo. No one saw him, no one knew how to face his pain. Memories of you were everywhere. In the bed where you slept, in the gadget he completed, in the mural you painted together, in the streets where you both walked, always hand in hand. Everything that had once been a dream was now just an echo, a shadow.

Sometimes he’d find himself in front of your photo, the smile you shared on a random afternoon, one that he could no longer remember without the lump in his throat becoming unbearable. The reality hit him harder each time: you were no longer there.

Ekko became a shadow of himself. His mind still searched for you, as though somehow you might return, as though he could find a way to save you. But nothing could change what had happened.

In his darkest moments, Ekko would remember the last words you had said: “I’ve loved you so much.” Those words gave him strength to keep going, to not give up completely. Though the pain was unbearable, he had loved you, and that was something he would never forget.

And with the gadget in his hand, looking at the mural you both painted, Ekko made a promise, a silent promise: he would live to honor what you shared. He wouldn’t let your death be in vain. Your love, your fight, your story would live on in his heart, forever.

The city, as always, continued its course, indifferent to everything Ekko had lost, to everything that had changed in his world. But for him, the day was no longer just a succession of hours; every second was a struggle to find something that gave his pain and love meaning.

Months had passed since you left, but it felt like your absence was so recent, so sharp, that Ekko couldn't stop feeling that his entire being was stuck between life and death. No matter how much time had passed, your image was engraved in his mind, not as a memory, but as a constant presence, a voice whispering in his ear, as if you had never left.

Today, in particular, everything seemed to pull him back to the pieces of his pain. The project you had worked on together, the gadget, was finally ready. After so many sleepless nights, so much effort and sacrifice, the moment to present it had arrived. It had been a creation of love, passion, and farewell. A tribute to you, to what you shared, to what still remained of you in his heart.

Ekko walked with firm steps toward the community event where he would present the gadget. Around him, the people, some curious, others hopeful to see the result of years of teamwork. But he couldn't see them. He couldn't see beyond his own thoughts, the image of you floating in his mind. Sometimes, he thought that everything he had done in the past few months was just a way to avoid facing the truth: that you were gone and that, despite everything, life had to go on.

He entered the venue, a large hall filled with tables covered in technology, art, and brilliant inventions. The gadget was there, on a pedestal, waiting to be presented. Ekko stared at it in silence for a moment, recalling every afternoon spent working on it together. The design was sleek, full of details that reflected his intelligence and your ability to come up with unimaginable solutions. It was more than just a gadget; it was a piece of you, a piece of what they had been together.

The event began, and Ekko, with a calm that only he could have, presented his creation. He explained, with soft but firm words, how the idea had been born, how you had been the spark of inspiration for something that transcended technology and reached the heart. As he spoke, the words intertwined with memories, with your laughter, your jokes, the long nights spent debating the design, the future, and what they wanted to do. Every word felt like a sigh from the past, a sigh that tried to make the present make sense.

But inside him, Ekko knew that everything he was doing was just an echo of what had been. What remained was the emptiness, the absence you had left in his life.

When he finished, he stepped away from the stage, letting the gadget speak for itself. No one in the room understood what that creation really meant. No one knew how much it had cost, not in terms of hours of work, but in terms of love, sacrifice, and farewell. They didn’t understand that every screw, every adjustment, had been made with the hope that, in some way, it would bring you back, even if only for a second.

After the presentation, Ekko moved away from the bustle, walking slowly toward a secluded corner of the city. There, on the wall, was the first mural that he painted of you. The mural was a mural of love, hope, and pain. A mural that reflected every laugh they shared, every glance, every moment they had lived together. In the mural, you were more than just a figure; you were a story told in colors and shapes, in every stroke Ekko had made, in every brushstroke you had guided. The mural wasn’t just art; it was a piece of his soul, his heart, of you.

When Ekko stopped in front of the mural, the wind gently blew, moving some fallen leaves on the ground. His eyes, moist, traced every part of the painting, as if he were searching for something he would never find. He remembered how you had smiled while he was painting you, how you had loved it so much when he showed it to you.

The mural showed a version of you that was etched in his memory. He saw you, with your serene smile and your eyes full of dreams and desires. But what really stood out in the mural was your figure, as if everything else was just a stage for you, for what you meant in his life.

"We did it, baby," Ekko whispered, as if he could hear your voice responding, as if you were still there. "We did it together. Everything we dreamed, everything we wanted... we did it."

His tears began to fall, one by one, flowing like a torrent he could no longer hold back. His heart broke once more, but there was something in the sadness of that moment that gave him a strange sense of peace. Maybe it was because he finally understood that, even though you had gone, the love you shared could not disappear. Love doesn’t vanish with death; it stays, like a shadow that always follows the light. In the mural, in the gadget, in his memories, you would always be a part of him, forever.

Ekko stepped away from the mural, glancing one last time at the figure that now represented everything he had lost. He looked toward the future, toward the horizon, where the lights were beginning to flicker on, and the streets once again filled with people who knew nothing of what he had been through. An uncertain future, but a future he would have to face, because at the end of the day, what really mattered was how he would live after the loss.

With the image of the mural etched in his mind, Ekko moved forward. And in his heart, a promise: he would never forget what you both shared, he would never forget the legacy you left, and he would move forward with the strength of your love, because now he understood that love didn’t die, it transformed, just like art does. Like you did.

[hmhas-00]

Ch. 9

Hit Me Hard & Soft

A/N- Hi lovelies! I know it’s Wednesday, but yesterday was New Year’s Eve and I was busy throwing ass so I didn’t post. LMAO I will still be posting another chapter tomorrow (Thursday) as regularly scheduled though! 🤍

BPOV

“Billie, you wanna stop anywhere for food? It’s getting late and you barely ate lunch.” My mom walked over to my bunk, where I had been laying for the past 10 hours. I felt like shit all day. Mostly from the hangover of a lifetime that I was experiencing, but also from the things I said last night.

I shook my head, removing one of my AirPods. “Kinda nauseous.” I mumbled as she climbed in with me. I nuzzled my head into her arms.

“Have you heard back from Remy yet?” She asked, looking at my phone with me as I scrolled through tik tok.

“She called back but I didn’t answer.”

“Why not, honey?”

“Because…” I trailed off, not knowing exactly why. “She didn’t say goodbye.”

“Billie… Finneas told me about your fight last night. Don’t you think you were a little hard on her?” She said softly.

“I’m always putting her first, mom.” I locked my phone, setting it to the side. “She’s so unhappy there and she’s prioritizing it as if it were her dream job. I don’t get why she never listens to me.”

“I know that she’d never ask you to set your job aside… and she’d never ask you to leave what you love for her.” She looked at me with those wise eyes. The type that had seen all of the seasons of life, including mine.

“I know. But she’s not doing what she loves. I want her to do what she loves, here, with me.” I sighed.

“What do you think she loves?” She grabbed one of my cold hands and warmed it up in hers.

“I know she loves… film… directing… she loves to write scripts… and journaling.” I began to smile subconsciously. “She’s so creative, it’s like you opened Pandora’s box when she gets her crazy ideas.”

My mom nodded, letting me finish before commenting. “I think you love her so much, that you want her to achieve all of her dreams, just like you did. But do you remember when you danced? And you wanted to be a dancer?”

I nodded.

“And then you broke your growth plate, and you never danced again?”

“Yeah.”

“Look at you now. You’re a singer, songwriter, and you’ve been all over the world with Finneas… and everyone knows who you are. And everyone loves you. And have so many awards, you can’t even process it.”

“I know, but mom-“

“Honey, you love what you do. And you love that you make such a difference in all your fan’s lives. But you had no idea it would be this different back when you were dancing in that little studio.”

I shrugged.

“You didn’t. You couldn’t have imagined. It’s a whole different reality that you’re living, sweetheart. Sometimes you can’t see different perspectives when you’re in your own point of view. It’s so difficult to see beyond your own horizon… But you know what you did know?”

“What.”

“That Remy would be your biggest supporter no matter what. She cheered you on when you danced and she cheers you on to this day.”

“I know.”

“Honey, you gotta talk to her. She probably feels just as bad as you do. You both said things you didn’t mean.” She kissed my forehead.

“I’m mad at her, mom.” I stood my ground.

“Have you thought about the fact that you might just want to stay mad at her so you don’t have to miss her?”

It made sense when she said it out loud. What didn’t make sense is that I did miss her. I’m angry at her and want her here with me all at the same time. No closure, no hug goodbye, no apologies… the way I left was so unsatisfying. I wanted to hold her and tell her I’m sorry, while she probably apologizes even though she didn’t do anything wrong. It was mostly me. But I was mad at her, regardless. Because she wasn’t here, and it was easier to be angry, than be sad.

“I’m gonna get some sleep.” I put my one AirPod back in, grabbing my phone again. She kissed my forehead again and climbed out of my bunk.

“Let me know if you need anything, baby.”

I nodded, turning to face the wall. I drafted up texts to Remy, hovering over the send button, but deleted each one. As much as it hurt to think, I figured she didn’t want to hear from me.

This morning, I woke up at Finneas’ house, where he and Claudia repeated what I said to Remy.

I’m not going to lie, I cried for about an hour before getting on this tour bus when I realized Remy wasn’t coming to see me. I didn’t blame her, but at the same time, I would’ve gone to hug her goodbye no matter what she said to me.

I mean, I only want what’s best for her. All I ever do is look out for her. If she would only listen to me, she’d be so much happier. It’s soul crushing, every time she rejects my advice, my help… It feels like she’s rejecting me. And oh my, how it crushes my soul when she rejects me.

The truth is I’d do anything for her. I’d buy her a house, pay her parents enough each month for them to stop asking her for money, and bring her with me everywhere I go. I’ve asked her a million times to be my videographer, photographer, or anything at all she wants to be on tour. She refuses to accept money from me. She gets mad at me when I buy her expensive gifts, even on Christmas or her birthday. In a way, I loved that about her. I loved that she didn’t take advantage of me, or anyone else. I loved that she was a giver, but I wanted to give her more than she could ever imagine. The fact that she never lets me, hurts, even though it makes me respect her more.

God, I want to call her, tell her I’m sorry, and fly her out to Quebec so I can meet her there. But, I won’t. Because, she clearly doesn’t need my help, or my advice, or…. me. She said it herself, I’m a shitty friend. If I’m such a shitty friend, why am I the only one with her best interest in mind? I wasn’t trying to control her, or tell her what to do with her life. I was trying to help her reach her goals.

I wish I hadn’t drank so much yesterday. I wish we could’ve just gone to her apartment, spent our last night together in comfy clothes, eating snacks, and watching our show. I wish she had asked me to sleepover, so she could wake me up once or twice from tossing in her sleep, as she usually did around 2am. So I could cover her back up with the sheets she always kicked off, and feel her throw her leg over me, instead of all her satin-cased pillows.

I wish we hadn’t fought. I wish I would’ve kept it to myself. I wish I hadn’t said most of the things I said, in the way I said them. I felt nauseous thinking about how she might be feeling right now.

My thumbs lead me to her contact, hovering over the call button. But I stopped myself each time, feeling rejection and pain once again. Eventually, my eyes gave up the fight between them and my brain, sending me into a restless sleep.

♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡

About 12 days later, we performed in Newark, New Jersey.

“Dude, you were incredible out there! You don’t even need us!” Finneas hugged me backstage, properly greeting me. He came out to surprise me, and the rest of the audience, for a few songs in the setlist. I was ecstatic.

“I missed you so much, brudder! Thank you for coming.” I squeezed him, swaying side to side. I couldn’t contain my excitement.

“Are you kidding? I had to. I miss touring with you, this sucks.” He laughed. “How’ve you been?”

I let go and took a sip of my water. He sat on one of the seats, giving me his full attention.

“I’ve been okay.” I say, knowing whenever I have any free time at all, I spend it sulking and overthinking about what could’ve been. Touring is my favorite thing in the world, yet when my mind isn’t occupied by planning or rehearsals, it goes back to the same night.

“Let me rephrase. Have you been able to talk to Remy at all?” He shifted in his seat, crossing one leg over the other.

“No. I, uhh… I haven’t.” I shook my head, sitting next to him.

“Billie, it’s been like two weeks…”

“I know, I know. It’s just been so busy, and I’ve been struggling to even find the words- I just don’t have the time. I feel like it’s one thing after the other these days. I’m tired all the time, and when I have a couple days between concerts I just fall into this weird headspace.”

“Are you doing okay?”

“No. I’m not. I’m so happy when I perform. And then when it’s over it’s like I come down from this extreme high and it feels so anticlimactic.”

“That’s because you have no one to share it with.”

“That’s not true! I call you, and mom and dad all the time to-“

“Not the same thing. You know what I mean.” He tilted his head.

“Can we not talk about her please? I missed you I want to hang out.”

He nodded, “Yeah. Let’s go get some food.” He stood up and put an arm around me as we walked out.

At the restaurant, we ate and caught up. He showed me videos from his tour, and I did the same. I miss having him on tour, but no one could be more proud of him than I am.

Inevitably, the topic of Remy came back up, as I slid through my camera roll and came across a picture of us.

“Billie… we gotta talk about this.”

I slumped back into the booth, grabbing a French fry and munching on it.

“I don’t think you remember everything about that night, bro.” He propped his elbows up on the table and rested his chin on his hands.

“I know, I was an asshole, and I need to apologize-“

“Well, no. There’s more to it.” He squinted. I furrowed my brows, listening attentively.”

“I didn’t want you to feel like- I thought you remembered but I’m questioning now if you even do…” he rambled. I didn’t really know what he was talking about. The last part of that night was such a blur. It was my first and only black out I’ll ever have.

“What is it?” I shook my leg impatiently. I wonder if this was the reason she hadn’t texted me at all since I left.

Finneas looked at me like he didn’t know what to say. He struggled to find the words, making me more nervous by the second.

“Finneas… What did I do?” I asked him, my heart beating fast.

[harmonizewithechoes]

.

[forestgreenlesbian]

.

[torawro]

MY EYES BURN BECAUSE I’M CRYING😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 pls leave me be let me sob uncontrollably over giyuu my heart can’t take it

[butteryunlikelylady]

it was never my life to live and he didn’t fall for the real me… he fell for an accessory and thought he could just change the label while things stayed the same

[the-casbah-way]

i feel like everyone is going to eventually get annoyed at me for still being sad about simba or still talking about it but posting abt it is easier than telling someone because i don’t know how to do that and i’d rather be annoying here where people can scroll past and ignore it and not feel obligated to reply

[londonfoginacup]

.

[sensitivegoblin]

Vent

[fan-de-las-tetas]

damm someone got wild w/ the tags, girl put a whole ass fanfic there

just saw a steddie soulmate au that reminded me of an old trope of having every lie your soulmate ever told written somewhere on your body and I can't stop thinking about Eddie with "I'm fine," scrawled all over

[emmyrosee]

“Get ready with me to breakup with my fiancé-“

“BUUUUUULLSHIT YOU ARE!”

Immediately, as soon as your first words are uttered over the recording video, Rintaro’s booms down the hallway. You laugh and smack your hand on the counter, trying to keep it as quiet as you can as you hear him continue to yell.

“THE FUCK YOU THINK THIS IS? WE’RE LOCKED IN, WHAT THE FUCK!” Socked feet barrel down the hall and you’re quick to hide the camera behind a bottle of mouthwash. His body quickly comes into the frame, chest puffed out and hands on his hips. “You got something you want to tell me?”

You pull your lips down in thought before shaking your head, “no. I don’t think so. I didn’t even know you were home.”

“Oh!” He says dramatically, clapping his hands together. “So you’re just always talking about dumping me to your little Internet friends?”

“Only in my fantasies,” you hum, tossing your arms around his neck and pressing a kiss to his cheek. He pouts, and you giggle and kiss him again, “but if I ever do decide to dump you, I promise you’ll be the first to know.”

This, has him blinking unamused at you. Then, his hands leap up to grab your cheeks, and he pulls you in for a loud, wet kiss, his lips pressing kisses over your laughing mouth, teeth, and lips. “Listen to me.”

“Rinnie!”

“No. Shush. Listen to me.” He pulls back and rests his head against yours, hands still squishing your cheeks. “I have shit out an engagement ring for you. I have your name tattooed on me. I got clawed to death by your rat fuck cat, and I have a shirt with your face on it that I wear when I go out. We’ve shared a toothbrush, you pinch my nipple when I’m showering, you text me and ask me if I’ve pooped, and I know damn well you take ugly pictures of me when I’m sleeping.”

“Your point?”

His nostrils flare, “you so much as THINK this relationship is ending, I’m going to tattle on you.”

“Oh, please-“

“To Komori.”

This, has you paling, and you nod softly and gently grab his shoulders, “no, okay, you’re right, you’re right baby, I’m sorry.” He nods as you press a kiss to his lips, “but in all seriousness-“

“Oh, I’m serious, too.”

You snicker, “in my seriousness, I’m never going to leave you.” You flash your engagement ring to the camera and purse your lips out, and he smiles down at you. “who else is going to poop out a ring, then lie to the salesman about why we’re returning it, and get me a new one, hmm?”

“Thankfully, I’m the only one who will.” He kisses your forehead, then looks at you with sad eyes. “We’re locked in?”

“Yeah baby,” you giggle, kissing his nose. “We’re locked in.”

[hyperions-light]

Someone was being a fucking hater on my explicitly positive DATV post AGAIN (u all know I can see your tags right. They get delivered to me express mail style) so here’s an essay about how I thought the Grey Warden plotline was great:

First, it was extremely lore-consistent. I don’t know how to tell people this, but the Grey Wardens simply are sort of shady— it’s part of their charm. In DAO alone we found out they:

- kill anyone who refuses the joining

- are definitely using a blood magic ritual to induct people

- tried to usurp the throne of Fereldan

In DA2 they:

-Forced Malcolm Hawke to perform a blood magic ritual against his will to contain Corypheus, by threatening to kill his family

- Built a giant prison in the mountains they didn’t tell anyone about and that someone could wander into and not be able to escape

- the entire Corypheus thing. They didn’t even tell the other Wardens like what he was or how dangerous he was.

DAI:

- the demon army thing was pretty bad

And that’s not even mentioning any stuff from the books or comics or shows! That’s just stuff in the games!

So they’re shady. It’s okay! They’re my little woobie guys, idc if they’re sort of shady!

But the plot in DATV is about all of those previously established issues coming back to bite them in the fucking ass, as they should! Knock knock, it’s the consequences of your actions, baby! The chickens are home to roost

(Which is just good storytelling. Like if you set up a bunch of issues and then never pay them off or anything that’s bad.)

Destroying Weisshaupt was inspired! Firstly bc Davrin is Weisshaupt, metaphorically (bulwark against the darkness, etc, I already made a post) so it serves his character arc. But also because it strips away the pageantry and the grandeur from them; no more castle for you! No more myth!

Davrin explicitly tells you that the First Warden is a traditionalist; he represents the historical attitudes of the Wardens. They do not accept help, they do not give up their secrets, they are standing alone against the dark. And it doesn’t work! He’s fucking wrong (and very punch-able). Being secretive and isolationist is a mistake that costs them nearly everything.

But also, and I’m not sure how many people experienced this on the first go-around, the game does ultimately come down on the side of the Wardens always trying to do the right thing. You CAN talk the First Warden down, because in the end he’s a Warden, and he might be stubborn and curmudgeonly and miserable but he CARES about the world. He came to do good. He admits he was wrong and he helps you. Because the heart of the Wardens is about selfless service to other people. In Death, Sacrifice.

Stripping away Weisshaupt and the glory and pageantry leaves the Wardens at their most vulnerable and forces them to return to their fundamental principles: helping people. That’s what Lavendel is about. Helping individual people and preserving every life possible even if it doesn’t feel that glamorous or heroic. Lavendel isn’t a significant place; it doesn’t matter, but it matters so much.

And then, the Cauldron.

First off, do not at me about Last Flight. I don’t think people should have to read external materials to play this game and understand it. If the information is vital it should be presented to the player in the text.

The Cauldron is the repository of the Wardens’ secrets; it’s where the keep the bones of the Archdemons, the secret to the Joining, ancient and dangerous weapons, as well as the bodies of the griffons, which represents their most shameful errors. Isseya is the avatar of the Wardens’ mistakes; she’s been hurt by what they made her do, and her pain was never acknowledged by them. They buried her story and her suffering like they bury everything they don’t want to deal with and are ashamed of. They left the bones of the griffons, whose deaths they directly caused, to rot because they were too sad to acknowledge them.

But it was wrong to walk away, it was wrong to bury it. Isseya makes sure that they can never do that again, that they have to own what they did and take responsibility. By discovering who she is and by restoring her personhood to her, by reminding her of her love which drove her to her anguish in the first place, Davrin saves her and he saves the griffons. He doesn’t do it using violence, because another sin of the Wardens is just assuming that they can kill their way out of their problems, which the game disproves by revealing the origin of the Blight. You can kill as many darkspawn as you want, you will never fix it! The Titans’ dreams do not need to be slain, they need to be healed.

Isseya is in so much pain because of her incredible love for both the griffons and the Wardens, and because of her guilt. Look what she builds! An alternate Weisshaupt, a distorted reflection of her home. She entreats both Davrin and Assan to join her, because she doesn’t think she’s trying to destroy anything. She’s trying to save them! She wants them to come home. “I am their mother,” she says, and she’s right. She saved them, then, and she ends up saving them now! Because she made Davrin and the other Wardens look, unflinchingly, at what they had done, it will never happen again. She was going about it wrong during the game, but she was ALWAYS trying to save them.

Davrin, Antoine and Evka represent the Wardens’ commitment to being different. They let Flynn undergo the Joining without becoming a Warden, they reveal secrets to non-Warden Rook, they offer to help the Viper without asking for anything in return. They ask for help and offer it freely. If the Wardens are going to persist into a world without Archdemons, they HAVE to change. They can’t be what they were anymore. The game is asking what a Warden is when they have to be more than their oath, when they have to live. It’s a great exploration of and expansion on previously established lore.

Anyway, my advice if you hated the plot and the game and the characters is to a) make your own post b) don’t bother me about it, because I have the time and I will be loudly positive in response!

[roturo]

HOW THEY FUCK YOU IN PUBLIC.

HOW JJK MEN FUCK YOU IN PUBLIC. (semi public.)

warnings: semi-public sex, public sex, unprotected sex, p in v, exhibitionism, fingering, blowjob, use of vibrators, jealousy, marking, edging, dacryphilia, degradation kink, praise kink. reblogs are appreciated:)

gojo satoru, geto suguru, nanami kento, toji fushiguro, megumi fushiguro, sukuna & yuuji itadori.

Gojo Satoru:

This man will make it obvious. He’s not embarrassed, in fact, he would be aroused by it. Noticing people giving the both of you stares, them noticing the hickeys on your neck, the messy makeup, it’s too much for him. Makes him hard again.

And it would happen at the most random times.

Mostly because he gets jealous, this man gets jealous because of everything. He doesn’t trust the other men around you. So that’s why he likes to show what’s his.

He’s more of taking the both of you to the restroom and fuck rather than a vibrator. Oh, and he loves teasing your legs with his fingers near your entrance, your trembling voice, hot face, making his pants get tighter and tighter.

“You like that. Don't you? Slut. Keep that pretty mouth of yours shut if you don’t want other to know how good i’m fucking your pussy right now.” You couldn’t contain your moans, not even covering your mouth helps. It was too much, he was too much.

“Don’t tell me you’re into that? Of course you’re into that. You fucking whore. I’ll make sure for everyone to know how good you get fucked. This pussy is mine.”

Geto Suguru:

This man is elegant. Uses vibrators, and fucks you in public as a punishment. He might not seem like it, but I swear this man is a JEALOUS man. Loves hanging out with others, sitting at the table while you’re by his side, hands down the table, control in hand and shakily sound coming out of you.

He would have a box of vibrators with different sizes, colors, and levels, just for this time of occasion or whenever he’s in the mood to just fuck with you.

Because he loves that, not only because he gets yards seeing you angry at him, but because of how turned on he gets while reclaiming what’s his.

He’s discreet about it, but makes it clear for you to never disobey him or look in direction towards another man.

“Am I going to fast baby?” He says in your ear, in a slow seductive low voice. Friends talking in front of the both of you, like nothing is happening down the table. “Aw, we’ll that’s so fucking sad for you, you decided to act like a big girl with other men, then take it like one.” He says while leveling up the vibrator, his hand resting on your thigh, looking happily at his friends and laughing at whatever they were talking about.

This was going to be a long day.

Nanami Kento:

He’s not the kind to fuck in public.

Prefers doing it in private, having his time, and enjoying it.

But when you get a little bit too bratty for his liking, he would snicker his legs(shoes) down the table to your center. Slightly moving it through your panties and clit, touching it with the point part of his shoe.

Edging you for release, he would retreat his shoe just in time for you not to cum. Asking the waitress for some water.

But when you get a little bit TOO bratty for his PATIENCE, he wouldn’t say a word. And that’s how you know you fucked up. Wouldn’t care if someone watched the both of you, he makes the two of you enter the restroom and fuck the soul out of you.

“You fucking slut. Couldn’t wait some hours to get fucked huh?” One of his arms wrapped around your waist, while his free hand rests on your neck. “And you need to have it right now. Like the fucking brat you are.”

Toji Fushiguro:

This man wouldn’t care. Not even like Gojo, he would make it SO obvious it becomes uncomfortable for the people around you watching the both of you having… intimacy.

His fingers would roam around your skirt/dress, making it easier for him to touch you, and shamelessly get under it. Touching the wet patch forming on your center, chuckling to himself. He loves knowing he has this type of power over you.

He would finger you to the max, his arm visibly shaking so you could get some pleasure, all while maintaining a smile like he’s overstimulating your core.

“I want to fuck you so badly.” He says while rubbing your clit with his thumb. “Too bad your fucking my fingers right now. I would love to fuck you infront of all this people. Such a piece of art.” A specific curl of his finger was enough for you to reach your climax. Trying to moan the lowest as possible to not bring any more attention, would be in vain, because he would shamelessly get his fingers out and insert them inside his mouth to lick your liquids off.

Megumi Fushiguro:

He’s not into it. Actually, you initiate it. By teasing him in public, touching him by ‘accident’ near his crotch. Showing a little bit more of your thigh to him, being all touchy.

But he’s a hard man to break, so you would get bored and annoyed easily. So that’s why you try to make him jealous.

And he won’t show it, but inside he’s figuring his own shadows to not fucking take you right there and erase that smirk of yours.

Taking advantage of you being way too busy trying to claim his attention while flirting with Yuuji, he went near the both of you and placed his hand on the back of your waist. Plastering a small smile on his face.

Yuuji noticed in less than a second he was mad. His hand traveled down your figure to your ass, your eyes widening looking back at Yuuji who was as shocked as you.

He gave a small almost visible smack, which caught you by surprise and made you squeak at the surprise. Feeling your face heated up, while Yuuji scratches the back of his neck. “Uhh…” He looks down at his phone, thanking god he has a way of leaving this situation. “Gojo-Sensei is calling me. Talk to you later guys!”

He sprinted as fast as possible towards the door, leaving the both of you alone. Wasting no time he laid you down on a desk and started taking your panties off and unbuckling his pants.

“You fucking whore. Can’t get enough of a cock you want another one huh?” He said while thrusts, a phone on his hand recording your fucked uo faces, tears dried down your cheeks. Messy moans and whines coming out of your mouth while he records the entrance where his cock appears and disappears inside of you.

The next day, he would ask Yuuji to meet him alone and show him the video. Threatening him to never let himself be that touchy with you.

Sukuna & Yuuji:

This would be more of a threesome tbh, this isn’t a lot like “public sex”, but i’ll start with explicit comments coming out of Yuuji thanks to a sukuna mouth appearing on his cheek. Saying how good your ass looked in that dress, saying how he wants to rip it apart and fuck you infront of everyone. Calling Yuuji a virgin and saying he has the same thoughts of you.

Yuuji would be bright red, looking at his classmates who were shocked and laughing at him at the remarks of Sukuna.

So that’s how you ended up in his room. Someway Sukuna and Yuuji being in control at the same time, while you fuck his cock in your mouth and ride his feet which has a mouth on it. Sucking your clit and tongue circling your entrance, until he appears with another arm and fingers you.

“Nn-ngh~ Don’t stop! You’re such a good girl…” Yuuji said while bobbing your head with his hand on top of your head. “She’s more of a brat. She’s teasing a lot, stop with that.” Sukuna said, curling his fingers just right, making you moan with his cock inside of you. Sending vibrations which made Yuuji moan and release inside of you. “Step back kiddo, it’s my turn to fuck with her.”