#i wonder if i would be who i am now if i didn't go through the struggles

[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’!”

[scentednuttragedy]

Aphrodisiacs

Ghost Aka Simon Riley X Reader (Smut)

MDNI.

NSFW, mentions of drugs and human trafficking.

There you were, sitting in an unknown place, with unknown people, hands tied behind the chair and a bag over your head. This situation got you thinking that maybe if you had known your boyfriend was this high level of military personnel, you wouldn't even have dated him in the first place, but you just had to fall in love with him. 

The room's lights suddenly blind you as the bag is taken from your head; squinting your eyes, you try to see who the people are, but all of them have masks on their faces; smart move, you think. If it were someone else in your place, they would have panicked, but it was you, Simon's, AKA Ghost's girlfriend; he had prepared you for all sorts of things, but experiencing it in real was a little more daunting; you wondered if they knew that before kidnapping you from the streets. One of the guys standing beside you nodded his head to another guy, both of them in mutual agreement. 

"Drug her," The masked man said, you're not sure which one. The masked man holding a syringe came over and grabbed your hair as he forced your head to the side at an uncomfortable angle. If you weren't panicking before, now you are; you were scared of what kind of drug they were injecting in you; looking around the place, you were sure they were trafficking women, and you were going to be next if they drug you. 

The stinge you felt at the side of your neck made it clear you were drugged now; you knew it was pointless trying to get out of here; you were tied, and several men were standing with guns in their hands. Maybe you were imagining it, but you felt the liquid rush through your veins, and it was making you feel hot, way too hot and uncomfortable. 

"The aphrodisiacs-" The door burst open, revealing none other than your boyfriend, but you wouldn't admit that in front of these people. You watched him and his team take down the gang members, but it was getting difficult for you to keep your eyes open. You wanted to call out to him, but your body gave up and fell unconscious. 

Groaning, you moved around, embracing the soft feeling of the mattress and seeking more. Your body still felt hot, and you'd be lying if you weren't bothered; you thought for a second that bad dream ... you jolt your eyes open; it wasn't a dream, it was reality. Scanning around your living room, you spot Simon talking to a nurse at the doorway. He gave you a look before the nurse left; he eventually sighed and walked inside the bedroom. 

"Doc said yer are fine for now. If there's anything unusual, we should report it." He slips his hand into yours and rubs circles into your hands. It sends electricity flying through your body; you didn't think the drug was this strong. God, you wanted more of his touch. 

"I'm sorry, Lov-" 

"It's not your fault." You cut him off; it was the truth that it wasn't his fault, but rather your fault for going to a shady area at such a late hour. Simon nods at that, not wanting to go against your word. You sit up and cup his cheeks as you scan his face, his eyes, his nose, and soon your eyes land on his lips; you want to kiss them so badly. Oh, all the nights you spent with him...

"They drugged me with aphrodisiacs", you blurt out, wanting your boyfriend to know what they did to you. You hug him, snuggling your head into his neck as you breathe in his scent. Less to say, it didn't help how you were feeling; if anything, it only made you more feral. He hugged you back, his hands around your waist to balance your body as you positioned yourself onto his lap. He pushes your t-shirt a little up as his hands lie on the bare skin of your waist; you wonder if he's doing this on purpose. His touch feels so good against your hot skin as he rubs soothing circles into your waist; you were so sure you caught him smirking there.

"Doctor told me. I am so sorry, love, I didn't arrive earlier." He sighs as he looks into your eyes directly... is he giving you that look? You were too gone to question anything.

"How are you feeling now?" He asked you, his voice laced with genuine concern.

"I am fine... but..." Your breath starts getting heavy; staring at his lips, you bite your own. He smirks as his hands lower to your hips. Now you knew he was teasing you, which only frustrated you; you wanted more. You wanted him inside you. 

"Hm, but?" He teases you. Oh, fuck him; you don't waste another second as you grab his face and kiss him. He was a bit taken aback by your boldness but soon gave in to your kiss. Your kiss is full of hunger, and yet you crave more. Simon returns the favour by kissing just as hungrily, craving you just as much. After all, he thought he had lost his love there. His hands, which were on your hips, pushed you forward and backward against him, moving your body, and you could feel his hardness underneath you. You moan softly, feeling his hardened, clothed dick beneath you. He smirked in the kiss; you badly want to wipe that smirk off his face. You knew he wanted you just as badly; he could never resist you. 

"You still haven't answered me, love" He pulled back, but he was still grinding your body onto his, riling you up. Typical Simon, you thought. You gripped his T-shirt tightly, annoyed at the loss of his touch. Your eyes teared up; you were frustrated; your reaction made him smirk. He was going to make you beg for it, wasn't he?

"Si... please" He stops and continues smirking, and you whine at that. Your hands slid downwards, landing on his muscled arm. Whatever shame or dignity you had left you cause right now, the only thing you wanted was your boyfriend.

"Want yer dick inside me... please." You furrow your eyebrows and look at him, your eyes begging him to touch you, to feel him on you. Feeling too much, you try to grind your hips on him to try and get some release. He sees your tries and chuckles to himself. He watches your desperate act, his vision clouding with lust and hunger. Oh, he just wanted to fuck you right here and now. 

"Wasn't that hard now, was it?" Simon grinned as he picked you up with one arm and carried you towards your shared bedroom. Your boyfriend's strength never failed to turn you on; his arm muscles and those tattoos only made you want to jump him more. 

After entering the bedroom, he throws you onto the bed and crawls onto your body. Without wasting another second, you pull him in, kissing him impatiently. He kissed you back, his tongue parting your lips as he pushed it inside your mouth. The kiss was messy, sloppy, wet, and, most of all, it was hot, very hot. His hands trail down towards your knees as he parts them and takes his place in between them. He pulls back as he runs his hands over your thighs to your inner thighs, eventually landing on your lace. 

"Is this where you need me the most?" He pressed his thumb on your clothed clit, making you jerk; it felt so good, and you wanted more. The cloth between your cunt and his finger was the only thing stopping you from experiencing the pleasure, and it made you frustrated. You guide his hands towards your lace, feeling impatient. He was surprised at how bold you were tonight and liked this side of you. He noticed your frustration, pulled your pants down, and threw them away once they were off you. He groans once he sees your wetness; he wants nothing but to help his baby feel better. 

"Such a beautiful sight" He kisses your inner thigh as he works his way down towards your wet aching cunt; your breath grows heavy along with his movement. He licks a long stripe, making you moan loudly and grabbing onto his hair. He groans and continues lapping at your juices and stimulating your clit, one of his hands slipping under your t-shirt and grabbing your tits, the other hand rubbing circles in your inner thigh. 

"Say my name, love." He says, his voice vibrating against your clit, sending pleasure against your whole body. Your mind was clouded with nothing but lust and him; you didn't care what he thought; you just wanted to cum. 

"Fuck- Simon, please... I want to cum for bad." You moan out, and once he hears that he starts going faster; he was an impatient man when it came to you; he could never make his baby wait and suffer. Your breathing gets heavy, indicating that you're close; he continues to flick at your clit as he groans. 

"Si... S'close, I want to cum" You whine and moan.

"Cum for me, princess" Soon after, you are reaching your high, moaning loudly, pulling onto his hair and cumming into his mouth. God, he loved every second of it, tasting every bit of your juices and cleaning you up. Never in your wildest dream, you thought that aphrodisiacs would make you cum this hard. You breathe heavily as you prop yourself onto your elbow and look at him. His breath matched yours; he wiped his mouth with the back of his palm and studied you, his gaze filled with lust. 

"Looking so cute, princess" He grabs your waist and pulls you down as he takes hold of your wrists and pins them above your head. Even if you wanted to break free, you couldn't cause your boyfriend was way more muscular than you, not that you wanted to. His other hand raised your chin, forcing you to look at him. His lips once again found yours in a heated, wet kiss. He grabbed your waist tightly as he broke the kiss and turned you around, making your back face him as he smacked your ass loudly. You hiss in pain, but it only turns him on more. He rubs the reddened area as his other hand wraps around your throat and pulls you back against his chest; you could feel his hard dick pressing against your back. 

"Tis gonna be a long night, princess", He whispered in your ear. 

Divider from Clipart Library.

First time writing smut, and also writing after so long oml. Happy new year everyone<3 last year was a massive mess for me. I hope this year goes well for everyone<3.

[sanjisleggy]

let your husband help you (shanks x reader)

eq: HELLO HELLO, GOD I DIDN'T KNOW YOU HAD YOUR REQUESTS OPEN, I LOVE YOUR WRITING OF SHANKS, I LOVE WHEN THEY PUT READER AS SHANKS' WIFE AHHH‼️‼️‼️‼️ something about shanks, with a fem!reader (if possible) that has wings and sometimes the wings with feathers require molting and there are areas that cannot be reached closer to the back and requires help to remove the loose feathers

a/n: (i am playing valorant as i write this help) ty for the request anon! :D the enthusiasm is very endearing ;;0;; hope you enjoy reading! also man i love writing for Shanks :3c

contents: a bit of angst (fem!reader is having a hard time), descriptions of itchiness and pain, comfort, fluff :D, a tad bit suggestive bc it’s Shanks

wc. 1.2k

wanna be on my taglist?

i.

these past few weeks have been torture. today especially so.

alone in your bedroom aboard the Red Force you writhe in itchiness and pain as your back aches in a way it hasn’t in a long time. lying face-down on your bed, you feel your wings twitch and tremble as you contort your arms to reach behind you as far as humanly possible; only to groan in defeat when the most you can do is brush the offending feathers with your fingertips.

for days now a small part of your brain has been nagging at you to go get Shanks for the sake of your poor back and wings but you’ve heard from your crewmates how busy he’s been so you’ve pushed the urge aside. now, though, the idea has forced its way to the forefront of your mind out of desperation, no doubt.

holding back a sob of frustration that threatens to make its way out of your throat, you nuzzle your face into your husband’s pillow, hoping that his scent can serve as a distraction of some kind. more than anything though, it simply acts as a poor placeholder for the real thing and only makes your aching heart (and wings) yearn for him even more.

“c’mon, (Y/N), don’t be shy,” his gentle voice called from outside the utility closet in which you’d chosen to hide–away from him. you felt your face heat up at Shanks’ persistence to help with something he wasn’t even totally aware of; he just knew you were in pain so he had to help.

“it’s okay, i can deal with it myself,” you lied, wincing when one of your wings brushed against a shelf behind you. most of the molting feathers had already been dealt with but your wings had grown a lot since the last time you molted and now they were far too big for your hands to reach. “just leave me alone.”

“if you don’t tell me what’s up, i’ll tell Rayleigh.”

“no!” you protested instantly. as much as you trusted the first mate of your crew with your life, this was far too embarrassing to get him involved. “if you tell anyone i’ll leave the crew, you asshole.”

you had meant it only as a false threat but the sudden silence told you Shanks took it a bit more seriously than you thought he would.

“okay, fine,” he replied and you could hear the pout on his face. “i just wanna help. there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. you know you can trust me to take care of you.”

a particularly sharp pain shoots through your spine from your right wing and the whine of discomfort slips past your lips before you can help yourself. too far gone to care about anyone hearing from outside your quarters, you let yourself sob aloud, the relief from crying doing little to ease your discomfort. 

the immense helplessness of your situation makes you realise how pampered you’ve been all these years. how lucky you are to have had such a loving friend-turned-lover who always took it upon himself to care for you. now here you are: alone in your bedroom, struggling with a task that you long should’ve learned how to deal with yourself.

you nearly give in to the urge to seek out the one person you trust to alleviate your pain but at this point, you’re too tired to even get off the bed. maybe it’s for the best, you wonder to yourself. your eyes flutter closed as you pull Shanks’ pillow a bit closer and bury your face deeper into it as you allow yourself to be lulled to sleep by your exhaustion, hoping that at least you can sleep away the next few hours of aches and itching.

ii.

letting out a sigh of relief, the one-armed Emperor takes his time returning to his ship after a grueling few weeks of settling disputes between several smaller pirate crews. normally such tasks would never take this long–hell, most of the time he didn’t even have to step in–but civilians’ lives were at stake so he had no choice.

now, as Shanks nears the dock and sees the Red Force coming into view, all he can think about is taking a nap with you. not only have his duties kept him away from you all day every day, he’d also been going to bed at ungodly hours, crawling under the sheets beside you long after you’ve fallen asleep. though he can’t wait to spend some quality time with you, he wants nothing more than to rest by your side with the knowledge that he’ll finally be able to wake up after you for once.

“hey Captain,” Benn calls out from aboard the deck once Shanks reaches speaking-distance. “i think (Y/N) needs your help.”

“see, what’d i say?” you could practically hear him smiling as he sat behind you, tenderly plucking out the final few loose feathers. “there’s no need to be shy around me.” Shanks tugged at a particularly stubborn feather and when it finally came loose, you couldn’t help the moan of relief that came out of your mouth.

you felt your cheeks rapidly heat up in shame as you buried your face in your hands, fully prepared for the boy to make fun of you. but it never came. instead, Shanks stayed quiet as he soothed the particular spot of skin with his fingers in a manner so tender you couldn’t believe it was him.

“there, all done,” he said. you were grateful but you couldn’t bring yourself to turn around and face him even though you knew you had to in order to thank him properly. 

as though sensing your dilemma, Shanks leaned forward to press his lips against your shoulder blade, right above where your wings sprouted from your back. it sent shivers down your spine and goosebumps appeared all over but you didn’t tell him to stop, if anything, you wanted him to continue.

you’re ripped out abruptly from your dream when the door of your quarters slams shut. from your face-down position in bed, you’re unable to see who it is but only one person in this world would be brave enough to make such an entrance.

“welcome back,” you groan, using your arms to push the upper half of your body off the mattress as you turn your head to glance over your shoulder.

“why didn’t you call for me?” your husband responds, tossing his cape onto the floor before rushing over to guide you back down into a resting position. Shanks pulls over two other more pillows and places them in a way he knows, from years of experience, makes you the most comfortable. “how long have your wings been molting?” 

there’s a slight hint of frustration in his voice but you know it’s not directed at you. it doesn’t make you feel any less guilty, though.

“it started… two weeks ago…” you mumble into Shanks’ pillow.

“you–” he cuts himself off with a deep sigh before he says anything impulsive. the Emperor understands you just didn’t want to disrupt his work and he appreciates the sentiment greatly, he’d just hoped that after all these years of marriage, you’d know how he’d do quite literally anything for you. this, he decides as his eyes scan your twitching wings and tangled feathers, is a conversation for another day though.

“poor thing,” Shanks coos instead, leaning down to press kisses all over the back of your neck and around your shoulder blades as he runs his hand down your side. you can feel his lips smile against your skin when your body shivers in response. “you must’ve been in so much pain, hmm? let your husband help you out.” 

—

taglist: @irethepotato @i-reblog-fics-i-like @grierpilots @appalost @hyper-fic-ation @dressycobra7 @38lyra38 @chaseyui

[courtneedsleep]

Lovesick Puppy | FirstKiss!Satoru x Reader

Summary: Satoru never thought about kissing before, but now he can't stop thinking about how your lips would feel against his. Word count: ~2.1k

Art credit: @courtneedsleep [ me ;) ]

“Have you ever kissed a girl before?” Suguru asks his best friend expectantly.

“Even if I haven’t yet, I’d still be the greatest—“

“So you haven’t,” Suguru cuts him off and waves his hand dismissively. “Well that’s good. Shoko said she hasn’t either. Yet. Aren't you curious about what it's like?"

Well, Satoru had assumed he could just "take" you whenever he wanted, for lack of better words or timing. Technically he could get away with kissing whoever he wanted (Geto included) with the privilege of those blessed genetics. Satoru had not conscientiously thought about kissing you, already acting like you were his and he was yours.

Until now.

Satoru's fingers presses against his lips wondering if yours were softer than his. What if when he kissed you, his lips were chapped which you thought were repulsive? Pshh, no, that's ridiculous- his perfect lips were never chapped? His leg bounces up and down nervously. For the first time, Satoru was floundering.

. . .

Suguru had ingrained the idea of kissing you into Satoru's brain. Something inside him was rewired, and he could not seem to control it. Perhaps he didn't want to control it. Satoru sure didn't mind the way you had permeated all of his senses when he was daydreaming about you.

The sunlight kissed his skin, but it wasn’t the type of kiss that Satoru was craving for. He blinks the drowsiness out of his eyes. In his peripheral field, he freezes at the sight of your resting form slumped over the school desk. He should check what time it is, not run his fingers through the mess of your hair spilled across the surface.

Wait. What was he doing? Why did his hands move automatically to brush irresistible, silky locks of yours?

After all, weren’t you just his classmate? His pretty and smart classmate. His classmate who’s the only one who plays along with his teasing and returns those big goofy smiles back.

Yeah, just a classmate that he wanted to kiss senseless.

Satoru couldn’t help himself. Not when you looked so ethereal, so perfect like this. Not when your oh-so-kissable lips were just slightly parted just for him. Not when he was leaning closer and closer, just for one sample of a taste, his lips hovering right over yours and-

T H W A C K

“Had a nice nap, huh? You fool, you think you’re allowed to sleep in my class?”

Fingers drumming the weapon of choice (a textbook), Yaga throws Satoru a sharp glare that breached past both of their shades. Next to him, Suguru has a coy, not-so-innocent smile on his face.

“What were you dreaming about that made you drop your infinity, Satoru?”

Even without being present, you somehow managed to break through his defenses. Satoru’s barrier was no longer effective when you unknowingly decided to invade his mind and soul. If you were going to be a problem, Satoru is going to have to fix it.

. . .

“You should’ve seen me! I hollow purpled the shit out of that curse! It kinda looked like Suguru but more hair and wrinkly, even though they’re not that much different.”

Satoru follows you around on your campus stroll like a golden retriever with a helicopter of a tail that just won’t calm down.

“Of course, you always win,” you reply with a sweet smile that he could just drink up for days.

“That’s it??” A big pout creases his mouth. “Nothing about how strong or cool I am? Or handsome?”

Your sweet smile is immediately wiped off and replaced with a deadpan expression. “You don’t need my approval, Satoru. You already know that you’re strong.”

“Yeah, but what about cool and handsome? I know it, you know it, why can’t you just say it out loud?”

“No.”

“Please.”

“No.”

“My bestest friend?”

“That’s Geto.”

“Just once.”

“That’s enough.”

Satoru wanted to whine and pout, but that would be terribly uncool of him in front of you. At this point, he was almost ready to beg but he had an even better idea.

“That’s fine if you don’t want to show me your affection with words. There are other ways too, you know.” His hand grasps your wrist so you can finally turn around and look at him to give him the attention he deserves. Satoru raises your hand up and ducks his head just underneath. He hums and relishes the weight of your hand against his face. “You should be more nice. You’re the only who’s actually gentle and kind with me.”

Oh. Did he just…

…

“You’re… impossible… and cute, I guess,” you concede not as begrudgingly as you intended to be.

“Cool, not cute,” he corrects. Satoru takes initiative, moving your hand back and forth so he can feel the friction against his scalp until you finally get the hint and pat his head for him.

He’s. Too. Cute.

“This is so uncool, Satoru,” you chide.

“I told you to praise me instead.”

“No.”

“I wanted a reward.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Do you want edamame-flavored mochi?”

“No.”

“???”

“I want a kiss.”

Shit, he didn’t mean that- the words just flew out his mouth without much thought. Your hand stops moving against his fluffy hair. Satoru’s heart bashes against his rib cage. Shit, shit, shit-

You suck in a sharp breath. “Satoru, don’t be a greedy shit. Let’s go get mochi.”

. . .

Satoru is a greedy shit.

He sits on your kitchen barstool watching you microwave popcorn, elbows propped up on the counter. The pout on his face was a thousand times more pronounced with the way his cheeks were smushed together against each palm of his hands.

"Jesus, I didn't know you wanted popcorn that badly." You shake your head oblivious of Satoru's heart yearning for something more than just playful elbowing and banter. No, he didn't want popcorn; he wanted you. The only acceptable way he wants that buttery treat is if you were the one feeding it to him with your lips, mouth to mouth-

Salty and sweet explodes on his tongue as a handful of popcorn is shoved into his mouth.

"Happy now? That should get you all fixed up. You're so out of it lately."

Body moving without thinking, his mouth latches onto your fingers before you get the chance to pull them away. He laps at them like a starved dog. His mouth is so wet and warm… and wet… the hot slick coating his tongue is all you could think about. Goodness, how much was he salivating earlier, and was this all really just from popcorn?

He cleans the butter off your fingers watching the entire time the way your pupils dilated.

“Mm, tastes so good…” His tongue swirls around your index finger for one last good measure. Even after pulling back, a string of saliva connects your fingertip with his tongue. “Even better like this. Can I have another one?”

“I… need to wash my hands.”

You hurry off to the bathroom gripping the edge of the sink until your knuckles were turning white.

Breathe, you try talking yourself out of this haze of lust. But as soon as you close your eyes, Satoru’s lips puckering around your fingers immediately runs its course back into your mind. The temperatures, the textures, the need are vividly hardwired into your brain. Fuck, what if it was your own tongue instead of just your fingers? Your mouth waters at the thought.

Freezing cold snaps you out of your thoughts. The icy water runs for a while until you’re sure enough you can face Satoru again without crumbling in front of him.

Knock knock knock.

Or not.

“What are you doing? I know you’re not shitting.”

“How do you know that?”

“The faucet is running, and you said you’d be right back, not back in forever.”

You open the door and are met with an impatient Satoru. Not him having separation anxiety, whining and chasing his little tail around waiting for you. How the hell is this the same man who acts so independently and wildly and so sure of himself? He could do whatever he wanted, but everytime, he chooses to put himself in a frenzy all over you.

The two of you walk back to the couch for a movie night. But when you check the bowl of popcorn, it’s already empty? What the fuck?

“Satoru?” you ask already knowing what he’s gonna say.

“Yes, princess?”

“I want popcorn.”

“Mm, is that so?”

Someone wipe that smug-ass grin off his face. “There’s no more popcorn. I wanted popcorn.”

“You have popcorn right here, baby. Tastes exactly the same.” Satoru winks and taps his bottom lip. What a tease.

“I meant actual popcorn. Something I can actually chew on.” You walk up to Satoru, plopping the bowl of popcorn crumbs onto his lap. “Go refill it.”

“Who says you can’t chew on this? I don’t mind you being rough.”

Your nails dig into your palms, anything to distract the tumbleweeds in your stomach.

“Don’t go shy on me now, sweetheart. You haven’t kissed anyone before?” Oh, of course, he already knows the answer. He just can’t help but tease you even more.

“Yes, actually,” you retort snidely. Satoru’s jaw drops prepared to accuse you for being a bit fat liar.

“Li- mmph…” But before he gets the chance to reply, you shut him up for good.

‘Rough around the edges’ was an understatement. It wasn’t smooth at all, your lips smashing against his, the inner part of your upper lip folding upwards and the bottom gnashing against his teeth. But neither of you couldn’t care less, whether it was an attempt to get a taste of that popcorn, silence that spewing mouth of his, or perhaps a mix of both. No, you shouldn’t lie to yourself. You’ve been aching to feel those plush lips of his against yours from the start.

Satoru groans. Fuck, right now he didn’t want your teeth, he wanted your lips. He pulls back just a centimeter away before realigning the two of yous’ lips properly and diving in for a proper taste. One he could savor and relish. The way you mold perfectly against him so deliciously shoots Satoru straight to heaven and back.

Your hunched form hovering over his wavered. Hands flying up to stabilize yourself, you grip his shoulders so tightly that your nails were sure to leave red marks on them. Satoru knocks the bowl off his lap, and the crumbs spill everywhere onto the floor and in between the crevices of the couch. How annoying it would be to clean up later. But it was completely worth it to pull you down and have you tucked into his lap, your thighs clenching each side of his own. He’s completely and utterly enveloped by your presence, something which he could bask forever in.

Wooziness begins to cloud your mind. A reminder that you need oxygen because you’re human. But Satoru clearly isn’t. The moment you try to pull back for a breath of air, he’s immediately chasing after you for more, more, more. His hands fly up to the back of your head and neck, lips clinging onto yours in heated desperation.

You can’t help but give in to this lovesick puppy. He’s licking, sucking, and nipping feverishly like a dog scarfing down his dinner and licking the bowl clean.

“More,” he whines and tries to kiss you again when you detach your lips with a loud pop. You turn your head away and block his lips with your hands before he devours you again. When he pries your hand off his needy mouth, you stand up and scurry away from him because you know he’ll never stop.

Satoru pouts at the loss of contact. “You didn’t like it?”

You shake your head. “No, it’s not that.” An evil grin takes place of that bratty pout. “…I j-just need a break. Please.”

Satoru eyes you up and down carefully. The sight of your disheveled hair and the flush that spread from your cheeks down towards what’s visible of your chest did unspeakable things to him.

“Oh, that’s good to hear. Your break’s over, princess.”

“What? Wait, hold on, just a minute-“

You backpedal a few steps back thinking Satoru would follow after you. But he doesn’t, just sitting there with his legs all manspread out waiting for you to take your rightful place on his lap.

“Cursed technique lapse: Blue.”

And in a blink of an eye, you crash face-first onto his lips for round two.

[soft-beams]

Hellooooooooo

Ok first off I LOVE YOUR WORK THERE SO GOOD AND SO WELL WRITTEN THAT I WANNA EAT THEM TO GAIN POWER

Second I wanna submit a request if that’s ok

An x reader with Vi where the reader is touch repulsed but at the same time touch staved?? How would Vi react to that and how would they as a couple get through it and make reader comfortable with being touched in an affectionate way ?

I have no clue if this makes sense

This is me self reflecting and it shows I’m sorry

If you don’t want to write it I completely get it you don’t have to if you don’t want too.

Thank you

aah thank you so much, lovely!! YOU'RE TOO KIND!!! and this was such an interesting prompt to get, thank you for sending it!! hope you enjoy!

vi notices that you don't like being touched.

she sees how you shy away from her hands, how you can only last in a hug for a second before you need to escape.

it confuses vi in the beginning, makes her wonder if it's her fault somehow. maybe she's too rough, too heavy-handed. maybe you can only tolerate her from a distance; only allowing her to get close for a moment before it's too much.

it hurts; it fucking does.

and it leads to an argument that has both of you screaming at the top of your lungs. she's furious and confused, and you're furious and crying. it doesn’t end until you're storming out of your shared home, disappearing for hours.

you don't come home until it's midnight, and by that point, vi's called everyone that she knows if they've seen you. she's about to go out herself when the front door suddenly opens, revealing a puffy-eyed and sniffling you. you stare at each other for a moment before vi's reaching for you, her own expression crumpling with the weight of her tears.

you allow her to draw you in, only this time you don't pull away. this time, you withstand it until vi's had her fill. until vi's sure that you're alright and safe and home.

one am finds you both on the couch, facing each other as you fidget with your hands. vi watches you carefully, sees how you struggle to form words before you sigh.

"it isn't you," you begin. "it's never been you. it's just something i've struggled with since i was young." you stay quiet for a second. "being touched freaks me out. i don't like being held for too long because it feels like i can't escape. makes me feel vulnerable..." you close your eyes. "that happened once and i just don't want it to happen again."

vi's heart shatters in her chest, millions of pieces raining down on the pit of her stomach. she feels sick; she feels like she wants to throw up. she wants to punch something, scream, hunt down the very bastard who dared laid their hands on you in such a way.

you who is the sweetest, kindest person she's ever known. subjected to be trapped against your will.

vi swallows, feeling tears well up behind her eyes.

"i'm so sorry," she murmurs softly, and you aim a weak smile her way. "i didn't think that—"

you shake your head. "you couldn't have known," you say. "the sad thing is that i love it when you touch me. when you hold my hand or curl your arm around my waist. when you pull me in for a hug...i love all of it." you then pull in a shaky breath. "but my body can't seem to recognise your touch as safe, and it hurt so much because i want to—" your voice chokes up around a sob and vi's flying across the couch, sitting close to comfort but not close enough to startle.

"hey," she soothes. "i love you so much, y'know that? and love goes beyond touching. it's about how we feel towards each other, and that goes above anything else." she takes a gentle hold of your finger, ensuring you can let go if you wish to. "do i love touching you? yes. but do i love you? more than fucking anything. so don't worry about this, okay? whatever you want to do, we'll do it and go at your pace."

at this point, you're freely sobbing now, tears rolling down your cheeks as you take in shuddering breaths. you use your free hand to wipe at your tears, giving a wobbly smile as you say, "how did i get so lucky with you?"

vi huffs a laugh, eyes soft as she squeezes your finger.

"i ask myself that question about you every single day."

[beef-brisket]

Lilith smirked: I see. You must be mourning the fool! Oh yes, I heard about his death. It sounds fitting, doesn't it. He always was a coward-.

Lucifer: Shut. Up. You don't get to speak of him.

Lilith: Let me guess. You didn't want him to die~. You're as much of a fool as him! It was only a few hundred years ago that you wanted to end him yourself!

Lucifer: I never meant it-!

Lilith: Sure you didn't, love~. Everything I did to that bastard was for you. For us! Why do you care if he got hurt? You're the one who always said he deserved it!

Lucifer: ENOUGH!

Lilith jumped back. She's never heard Lucifer yell before, especially to her.

Lilith: I-I don't understand! You hated him! He attacked Charlie! Killed our people! Why now are you defending a dead man?!

Lucifer: Because he's not dead! And he means something to me!

Lilith: He's... what? Adam's alive...? Oh, my god- and you're having a relationship with an ANGEL of all things?! Ha! Well, you're welcome to my beach home~. Oh wait, you're banished from Heaven, aren't you darling?

Lucifer smiled: He's not in Heaven. In fact, I believe he's upstairs right now. Looking at paint swatches. I've given him your end of the house to do what he pleases with~.

Lilith: You... he's... how DARE you! I am Hells queen! You dare move that PIG into my house?!

Lucifer: This hasn't been your house in seven years- you have no claim to it! And your title is officially forfeit! Hell only has its king. Its old queen was off playing house in Heaven of all places.

Lilith: You won't get away with this Lucifer. You're too weak, you're heart always gets in the way-! You can punish me all you want- but you'll come crawling back! My daughter will find out- and you'll be begging ME for mercy!

Lucifer glares: Not this time.

-

Adam has no idea how long he's been wondering the green house. Everywhere he looked, there was another pathway.

He was sketching some plants into a little notebook he found lying around. It's been a long time since he felt safe somewhere. He wasn't worried about an angel cornering him or someone demanding his presence.

Adam followed a path that was completely shaded by large trees and thick flower bushed. The silence was getting to him, his mind playing tricks of hearing the flapping of angelic wings. But he focused on his drawing, which calmed him quickly enough.

Lucifer pushed open the doors to the greenhouse. He was feeling emotionally exhausted from dealing with Lilith that he craved Adam. Which is something he never thought would happen.

Lucifer: Addie?

He couldn't see Adam anywhere, but he could sense him.

Lucifer walked off through the winding pathways. He doesn't know why he made the layout so confusing, maybe he wanted to get lost?

He was near the tulips and lily's when he heard the softest singing.

Lucifer smiled, knowing who it was.

Rounding a corner, Lucifer spotted Adam sitting on the outside of one of the small ponds Lucifer had made.

Lucifer: ...Adam...~.

Adam jumped and looked over to Lucifer, a wide smile on his face when he saw it was actually him, and not his mind playing tricks.

Adam: Hey! All finished with your work?

Lucifer shrugged before walking over and sitting next to him.

Lucifer: For today, I am. Wow, did you draw that?

Lucifer leaned over and smiled at Adam's notebook.

Adam: Fuck- yeah... their lame- it's been a while.

Lucifer: It's not lame. I think it's beautiful.

Adam blushed: Yeah? Well... thanks.

Lucifer: Anytime~.

Adam: This place is amazing. It's like an escape, I actually forgot... I was in Hell... for a second anyway.

Lucifer: That's why I made it. An escape. And a reminder.

Adam nodded: I had a garden too. It wasn't anything like this, but it was mine. I uh... stopped going to it.

Lucifer looked up at him: Why?

Adam: ...A few angels came to see me, and when I didn't answer the door, they came in. Saw it through the kitchen window, and went to look for me... they tainted the only place I had left. It sucked too much to go back there, so I just put some curtains up and locked the door outside... fuck, that sounds depressing. Just uh... a bird shat on me while I was out there, too.

Lucifer gave Adam a soft smile and rubbed his leg, doing his best to be comforting.

Lucifer: I'm sorry both of those things happened, Adam. If you'd like, we could put in your own greenhouse.

Adam perked up: Really?! Fuck yeah!

The Sin of Adam!au.

One more quick au before I fall asleep.

Adam falls to Hell after his death. But he doesn't wake up in Pride. He wakes up in Wrath. Adam is completely pissed off and just itching for revenge.

In this, Adam conquers each ring of Hell, growling stronger until he's on the same wavelength as Lucifer, power wise.

Lucifer has no idea what's going on. He's slowly losing contact with the Sins, and everyone is in a state of panic. That's until he returns home from a few days away, trying to find the Sins, that he sees his daughters hotel, and Pentagram city destroyed.

Thankfully, Charlie and her friends are fine. But what she explains is unbelievable.

Charlie: It was Adam, dad!

Lucifer: Adam? He's dead Charlie- I buried him myself.

Charlie: I thought so, too! He was looking for you! He's alive!

Lucifer gets his daughter to hide. Everything is in a state of chaos. He can't find Adam anywhere.

Until he returns home and sees someone sitting on his throne.

After a long, destructive fight, Lucifer realizes that Adam only absorbed the Sins. Their not dead

Adam has literally been taken over by the powers of Hell.

Can Lucifer contain and find a way to get Adam and the Sins back before he destroys Hell and everything undead thing in it??

How will Lucifer get Adam back??

Who knows 🤷

Adam: You can't defeat me now Lucifer!

Lucifer: Oh yes I can! I'm going to fuck the sins out of you!!

Adam: Wait what?

Ozzie inside: YEAH BABY!!

Sorry I'm feeling a little silly lmao 😂

[ssentimentals]

Hi! That’s okay! Can I please request hurt prompt 18 - “You used me, just like everyone else” with either Vernon

hello! let's go with vernon! thank you for requesting! 💜 hopefully you will like it!

hurt prompt: 'you used me, just like everyone else.'

sometimes it really sucks to be right. sometimes you really wish you had people coming up to you with annoying 'i told you so!' because that would've meant that you were blind, but no. you saw it coming, that's the thing. you saw it coming from miles away, felt in your bones, heard sirens going off as loud as they can only get and yet.

'will you..say something?' vernon asks quietly, unsure.

he looks like he's scared and it makes you want to scoff - he's scared of what? of you? or is he afraid of what you might do, of your reaction? the pain you feel turned you a little numb. isn't it surprising how heart can break when it knew that this would happen? isn't it shocking how stupid it is, letting you stay, letting you turn a blind eye against any logic? silly, silly heart. 'what is there to say?' you ask and you don't recognize your voice; it's completely void of any emotion. 'you used me, just like everyone else.'

vernon winces. you wonder if he's feeling the same pain as you do. is he also remembering all his promises? all the sweet talk of 'i am not like them' and 'i will never hurt you'. is it even right to blame vernon right now, when you are the one who filled your heart with unreasonable hope and stayed, when all signs pointed towards the exit? vernon shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair. they are silky, your fingers never got tangled in them. he likes when you tug a little at the roots, likes when your nails scratch his scalp, likes when you pet his head till he falls asleep. you blink and will your mind to forget about it, this knowledge is not needed anymore.

'i didn't- not intentionally.' vernon says, voice cracking at the end. 'i don't think i even knew what i was doing. everything just- it all happened so fast. i didn't-'

'two hours will be enough?' you ask, interrupting him. 'to pack up your stuff and leave, i mean. you don't have many clothes here, anyways.' because you never planned to stay.

if vernon looks shocked, he doesn't show it. lately he stopped showing his emotions to you, so you're not surprised but it still sends a pang through your heart. he stares at you with blank expression and then silently stands up. 'is that what you want?' he asks and you want to laugh at this stupid show of empathy.

'that's what you want.' you say and he doesn't even try to argue with this, simply turns around and leaves to pack his stuff. 'knew it.'

you knew it all. knew from the start that this is how it's going to end. you swallow, wrapping your arms around your shoulders, sighing. god. sometimes it really sucks to be right.

a/n: request your own here! <3 - nini

[youcancallmeemma]

Ya'll... I just watched the new Sonic movie (Sonic 3) and I have to say... I thoroughly enjoyed it.

Me ranting about it after the cut!!

SONIC 3 SPOILERS!!

1) Okay, so, first of all. The movie was amazing. I felt so giddy and excited when I was sitting in the movie theate, just waiting for the next thing to happen.

2) I had to hold back my tears when Tom got brutally punched by Shadow, mainly at hoe Sonic reacted at that... poor boy thought he lost another parent:( I didn't want to cry in front of of my brothers. (They would've bullied me bc they always do)

2) Maria was sososososo pretty!!! I really wished that we could've seen more of the sibling dynamic between her and Shadow, but I honestly loved the relationship they had.

4) My boy Tails should've had more screen time though...💔 Along with knuckles...💔 (I understand they already had enough going on in the movie, and I think if they did what I wanted, it probably would've made the movie uncomfortably cramped)

5) TAILS LOOKED SO CUTE WITH THE HELMET ON IN THE HELECOPTER ATVTHE BEGINNING OMG⁉️⁉️⁉️⁉️ I mentally agreed with Agent Stone when he said Tails was adorable, because he is.

6) Honestly, kinda wished Stone and Tails built up a friendship between them. Would've been fun to see them interact more! (Again, same thing I said earlier in nr.4)

7) I actually thought about this before seeing the movie. If I remembered correctly, the movie is based of Sonic adventure 2 (I believe) And Amy Rose was the one who comforted Shadow and got him to turn from evil to good? (I THINK. I SAW A PLAY THROUGH LIKE 10 YEARS AGO, DON'T YELL AT ME😭) So, I wondered how the would go about this. Honestly, the fact that Sonic comforted Shadow was a little odd to me, but what Sonic said was sweet. Since this is the movies we're talking about, it's on brand that Sonic was comforting him, since basically every single live action Sonic movie has him comforting SOMEBODY. Honestly, I liked it.

8) And... THE WAY MR. OLD REBOTNIC (can't remember name💔) GOT KILLED!?!?!? WHAT!?!? YOU'RE TELLING ME HE FOT STABBED IN THE BUTT BY A SUPER POWERED ALIEN HEDGEHOG QUIL, GOT LUNCHED UP, AND GOT INCINERATED BY A DAMN SHEILD!?!? Woah. Imagine telling other people how you died and someone says THIS to you??? My one brother quite literally looked at me like this when that happened: "😧" (my other brother laughed his arse off)

9) And the final message Robotnic gave Stone?? Omg, you can NOT tell me they didn't have SOMETHING going on over there....

10) Finally, the end credit scene... METAL SONIC AND AMY???? ARAGARAGATSGA!!!! Sigh, Why must I wait for the 4th movie to come out... 😔 (PLEASE GIVE REVERSE SONAMY IN THE NEW MOVJE OLEASE PLEASE PLEAS PLEASE PLEA) Also, when Amy revealed herself a little boy (who had a Sonic CAPE mind you) yelled out "IT'S AMY!!!" He might be a bigger fan then me chat... (I forgot my Tails plush 😔)

11) Fun mini fact about me, I'm not much of a Shadow fan (Don't come at me) so I've never been too interested in him. However, the movie got me much more interested in him, and Shadow is now up there with the others. (Also made me feel much more for the poor boy :<)

12) Overall, the movie was literally the best one I have seen in a WHILE. Even though the movie had a lot going on, I still felt immersed in the story the whole way through. Character development was was amazing, Sonic crashing out was SO COOL??? Tails and Knuckles trying to stop him was just as amazing. Tails looking like a scared kid while Sonic and Knuckles were disagreeing tugged SO HARD onto my heart strings💔 I really recommend the movie, it was a great watch. I do however recommend watching the first two movies before watching the third one.

PLEASE DONT COME AT ME!!!

I am simply a teenage girl who's a little obsessed with the STH franchise and movies.

Also, I am not a proper movie critic. Please don't take this stuff too seriously 🙏🙏 Like I said, I'm simply a teenage girl who likes Sonic.

[echo-riot]

Wired for you chapters 11- 14

Sevika had always kept people at arm's length. She built her life around survival, walls so high and thick that no one dared to climb them. But somewhere along the way, you had scaled those walls without her even realizing it. The shift between the two of you had been gradual, subtle, and yet here you were—sitting in her dimly lit quarters, the air between you heavy with unspoken words.

The bandages on her torso had held well, and while her injuries were healing, she wasn't ready to go back to the field just yet. Not that she would admit it. Tonight, though, she wasn't trying to push you away. If anything, she seemed almost comfortable with your presence, as if she'd grown used to having you there.

"You never told me why you came to Zaun," Sevika said suddenly, her voice breaking the quiet.

You glanced up from your seat near the edge of her bed, momentarily surprised by her question. Sevika wasn't one to pry into people's pasts, and she rarely shared her own. The fact that she was asking now felt... significant.

"It's not exactly a happy story," you said with a faint smile, leaning back in your chair.

Sevika raised an eyebrow, a silent nudge to continue.

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. "I needed to get away from Piltover. Too many rules, too many expectations. I didn't fit in there."

Her dark eyes studied you intently, as though she were peeling back layers to see what was underneath. "And you think you fit in here?"

You huffed a laugh. "Not really. But at least here, people don't pretend to be something they're not. There's a kind of honesty to Zaun, even in all its chaos."

Sevika nodded, her gaze dropping to the whiskey bottle on the table. "Yeah, honesty's not always pretty."

The room fell into a comfortable silence after that, the kind that felt less like an absence of words and more like a shared understanding. Sevika's quarters were small, and the warm, flickering light from the lone lantern cast long shadows on the walls. It felt intimate, though neither of you acknowledged it aloud.

As the hours ticked by, the conversation drifted from one topic to another. She told you bits and pieces about her childhood in Zaun, about how she learned to fight and fend for herself. It wasn't easy to get her to open up, but you didn't push. You simply listened, letting her share at her own pace.

"And then there was Silco," she said, her tone dipping into something softer, more reflective. "He gave me purpose when I didn't have one. A place in this mess of a city."

You nodded, recognizing the loyalty in her voice. "He saw what you were capable of."

"Yeah," she said quietly. "But sometimes I wonder if that's all anyone sees."

The vulnerability in her words caught you off guard. Sevika was strong, commanding, always in control. Seeing her like this—unsure, questioning—made your chest ache in a way you didn't fully understand.

"They'd be idiots if that's all they saw," you said, your voice firm.

Her eyes flicked up to meet yours, a flicker of surprise in her expression. "And what do you see?"

The question hung in the air between you, charged with something you couldn't quite name. For a moment, you were at a loss for words, your heart thudding painfully in your chest.

"I see someone who's loyal, fierce, and... more human than they let on," you said finally, your voice softer.

Sevika's gaze lingered on you, unreadable. You could feel the weight of her scrutiny, as though she were trying to decide if she could trust what you'd just said.

"You talk too much," she muttered, but there was no bite to her words. If anything, they felt almost affectionate.

"And you don't talk enough," you shot back, a small smile tugging at your lips.

She smirked, shaking her head. "You're impossible."

"And yet, here I am," you said, leaning forward slightly.

The space between you felt smaller now, the air charged with something electric. It wasn't the first time you'd felt this tension, but tonight it seemed almost impossible to ignore.

As the night stretched on, the conversation began to shift into more personal territory. Sevika asked about your family, your life before Zaun, and in turn, you asked about hers. She didn't give much away—small fragments here and there—but it was more than she'd ever shared before.

When you spoke about your past, your voice grew quieter. You told her about the pressures you'd faced in Piltover, the expectations you could never seem to meet. You told her about the loneliness that had driven you to Zaun, searching for something you couldn't quite name.

"I don't know what I was hoping to find here," you admitted, staring at the floor. "Maybe I just wanted a fresh start. Somewhere I could be myself without feeling like I had to apologize for it."

Sevika watched you closely, her expression unreadable. "Did you find it?"

You looked up at her, meeting her gaze. "I don't know. But I think I'm closer than I was before."

Her lips twitched into something that wasn't quite a smile but wasn't far from it. "Zaun's not exactly the land of second chances."

"Maybe not," you said. "But it's the land of survivors. And I think that counts for something."

She didn't reply, but the look in her eyes told you she understood.

At some point, the conversation lulled, leaving the two of you sitting in companionable silence. Sevika had leaned back against the pillows, her injured arm resting in her lap, while you remained seated in the chair beside her bed.

The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside, and you found yourself studying her profile—the strong line of her jaw, the way her silver-gray hair caught the dim light. She was beautiful in a way that was almost startling, though you doubted she saw herself that way.

"Why are you still here?" Sevika asked suddenly, her voice breaking the quiet.

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. "What do you mean?"

"You've patched me up, kept me from doing anything stupid," she said, her tone almost casual. "You don't have to stick around."

You hesitated, unsure how to answer. The truth felt too raw, too vulnerable to say out loud.

"Maybe I don't want to leave," you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

Sevika's gaze snapped to yours, her dark eyes narrowing slightly. "Careful," she said, her tone low and warning.

"Of what?" you asked, your heart pounding in your chest.

"Of getting too close," she said, her voice dropping even lower.

The words hung heavy between you, but you didn't back down. "Maybe I'm not afraid of that."

Her jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought she might push you away again. But then her expression softened, and she let out a slow, measured breath.

"You should be," she said quietly, almost to herself.

But she didn't tell you to leave.

The rest of the night passed in a strange, tense quiet. Neither of you spoke much after that, but the unspoken words lingered in the air, heavy and undeniable.

When it was finally time to leave, you hesitated at the door, glancing back at her. Sevika was still sitting on the bed, her gaze fixed on the floor as though she were lost in thought.

"Goodnight, Sevika," you said softly.

She looked up at you, her dark eyes meeting yours. For a moment, she didn't say anything, and you wondered if you'd overstepped.

But then she nodded, her voice quiet. "Goodnight."

You left her quarters feeling more confused than ever, the line between friend and more blurring further with every passing moment. Whatever was building between you, it was fragile, unspoken, and terrifyingly real.

——

The morning light filtered through the smog of Zaun, casting the city in shades of gray and green. It wasn't beautiful, but it was alive. The same could be said for Sevika, who sat on the edge of her cot, lacing her boots with a grimace. Her wounds weren't fully healed, but she was stubborn, and nothing—not even your stern instructions—could keep her idle for long.

"You're pushing it," you said, leaning against the doorframe of her quarters.

She didn't look up, but her smirk was audible in her reply. "You sound like a broken record."

"I sound like someone who doesn't want to see your stitches pop," you countered, crossing your arms.

Sevika finished tying her boots and stood, testing her weight with a slight wince. "Relax. I'm not throwing myself into a fight. Just... stretching my legs."

You sighed, knowing there was no point in arguing. Sevika didn't do well with orders, especially not from someone she saw as a "caretaker," no matter how much she appreciated you. Still, you weren't about to let her walk out of there without backup—or at least some leverage.

"Well, if you're going to push your limits, you might as well test this out," you said, holding up a sleek, metallic device.

Her attention snapped to the object in your hands, her dark eyes narrowing. "What is that?"

You stepped forward, holding the device out to her. It was a small, palm-sized weapon made of polished steel and black plating, its design compact and sharp. "It's a new weapon I've been working on. Thought you might want to take it for a spin."

Sevika took the device from your hands, turning it over with practiced ease. Her fingers traced the edges, testing its weight and balance. "What does it do?"

You grinned, unable to hide your excitement. "It's a hybrid energy blade. Compact enough to carry as a backup, but when activated, it generates an electrified edge that can cut through most metals. Thought it might be useful if your arm gets damaged or you lose your main weapon."

Sevika arched an eyebrow, impressed despite herself. "You've been busy."

"I figured you could use an upgrade," you said, crossing your arms. "Your arm's great for brute force, but sometimes you need finesse."

Her lips twitched into a smirk. "And you think this little thing will make the difference?"

"Why don't you try it and see?" you challenged.

Later that day, you found yourself at an old, abandoned factory on the outskirts of Zaun. The building was a maze of rusted machinery and crumbling walls, perfect for testing weapons without attracting too much attention.

Sevika stood in the center of the open space, rolling her shoulders and flexing her robotic arm. She looked more at ease here than she had in weeks, the tension in her body easing as she prepared for the test.

"Alright," you said, standing a safe distance away with a small control panel in your hands. "The blade's charge should last about five minutes per activation. Try not to break it."

"No promises," she said with a smirk, pressing the activation button on the device.

The weapon hummed to life, a thin, crackling edge of blue energy extending from its frame. The light cast sharp shadows across Sevika's face, highlighting the glint of excitement in her eyes.

"Damn," she muttered, swinging the blade experimentally. The hum grew louder as it cut through the air, the energy leaving faint trails of light in its wake.

You couldn't help but smile at her reaction. "Like it?"

"It's... not bad," she said, but the grin on her face betrayed her.

The testing began in earnest. Sevika moved through the factory with a predator's grace, her every step deliberate and precise. She struck at metal targets you'd set up, the blade cutting through steel beams like they were paper. Sparks flew with every hit, the crackling energy lighting up the dim space.

You watched from a safe distance, taking notes on the blade's performance. But it wasn't just the weapon you were focused on—it was Sevika herself. She moved with such raw power and precision that it was hard to look away.

"Try it on the reinforced panel," you called out, pointing to a thick slab of metal propped against the far wall.

Sevika nodded, her smirk growing as she approached the target. She gripped the weapon tightly and swung with all her strength, the blade slicing clean through the panel in a single strike.

"Damn," you muttered, impressed.

Sevika turned to you, holding up the blade with a triumphant grin. "Told you I wouldn't break it."

"Don't get cocky," you shot back, though you couldn't hide your smile.

The adrenaline rush from the testing was palpable, filling the space between you like a live wire. Sevika was in her element, her confidence and power on full display. And yet, there was something more beneath the surface—something unspoken but impossible to ignore.

As the sun dipped lower, casting the factory in shadows, Sevika deactivated the blade and returned to where you stood. She was breathing hard, her chest rising and falling as sweat glistened on her skin.

"Not bad," she said, handing the weapon back to you.

"Not bad?" you echoed, raising an eyebrow. "You just sliced through reinforced steel like it was nothing."

She shrugged, but there was a glint of pride in her eyes. "It's a good weapon. You did well."

The praise caught you off guard. Sevika wasn't one for compliments, and hearing it from her felt... significant.

"Thanks," you said, your voice quieter than before.

She nodded, her gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary. The silence stretched between you, heavy with something you couldn't quite name.

"Let's get out of here," she said finally, her voice rough but not unkind.

The walk back to the heart of Zaun was quieter than usual, the adrenaline from the test fading into a comfortable calm. You stayed close to Sevika, your shoulders brushing occasionally as you navigated the crowded streets.

"You didn't have to do all this, you know," she said suddenly, breaking the silence.

You glanced at her, surprised. "Do what?"

"Build the weapon. Drag me out here. Look after me," she said, her tone unusually soft. "You don't owe me anything."

You stopped walking, forcing her to pause and turn to face you. "Sevika, I didn't do any of this because I had to. I did it because I wanted to."

Her expression flickered, something vulnerable and uncertain passing through her eyes. "Why?"

You hesitated, your heart pounding in your chest. The truth felt too raw, too exposed, but you couldn't bring yourself to lie.

"Because I care about you," you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

The words hung between you, heavy and charged. For a moment, Sevika didn't say anything, her gaze locked on yours.

"You're an idiot," she said, but her voice was soft, almost affectionate.

"Maybe," you replied, smiling faintly. "But you're stuck with me."

Sevika shook her head, a low chuckle rumbling in her chest. "Guess I am."

———-

The night air in Zaun was heavy, the streets humming with the usual sounds of late-night chaos—laughter, shouts, the distant clatter of machinery. But you and Sevika found refuge in a quiet, tucked-away bar she frequented, one where the owner didn't ask questions and the drinks were strong enough to make you forget whatever troubles haunted you.

You sat across from each other at a small, scuffed table, a half-empty bottle of whiskey between you and two mismatched glasses. Sevika poured another round, her metal arm steady as she tipped the bottle, the amber liquid glinting in the dim light.

"To your fancy new weapon," she said, raising her glass with a smirk.

"And to your flawless execution," you replied, clinking your glass against hers.

She chuckled, the sound low and warm, before downing her drink in one go. You followed suit, the whiskey burning its way down your throat.

"Not bad," Sevika said, leaning back in her chair. "I was half-expecting it to short-circuit on me."

"Please, I'm insulted," you teased, pouring yourself another shot. "You think I'd give you something unreliable?"

Her smirk softened into something closer to a genuine smile. "No. You wouldn't."

The weight of her words hung in the air, an unspoken acknowledgment of the trust that had grown between you.

As the night wore on, the whiskey flowed freely, loosening tongues and lowering walls. Sevika's usual sharp edges softened, her laugh coming easier and her gaze lingering on you just a little longer than usual.

"You're a strange one," she said suddenly, her voice thick with alcohol.

"Oh, am I?" you replied, leaning forward on the table. "How so?"

"You're... persistent," she said, searching for the right word. "Most people don't bother sticking around once they get a good look at this."

She gestured vaguely to her robotic arm, the metal gleaming in the dim light.

You frowned, leaning closer. "If anyone's too shallow to see past that, they don't deserve to be around you."

Sevika snorted, but there was no real humor in it. "You're too nice for this place, you know that?"

"Or maybe you're just not used to people being decent," you shot back.

Her eyes flicked up to meet yours, something raw and vulnerable flickering in her gaze. The silence stretched, heavy and charged, until she reached for the bottle and refilled your glass.

"Drink up, hero," she said, her smirk returning. "You're going to need it if you're sticking around here."

Hours later, the two of you were slouched against the back of the bar, side by side on a worn leather couch. The whiskey bottle sat empty on the table in front of you, and the room spun slightly if you moved your head too fast.

"You're surprisingly fun when you're drunk," you said, nudging Sevika with your shoulder.

She chuckled, her head lolling to the side to look at you. "Don't get used to it."

You grinned, the alcohol dulling your inhibitions. "Too late."

Her laugh rumbled low in her chest, and you couldn't help but notice how the sound seemed to vibrate through you.

"You know," she said after a moment, her voice quieter, "you're not like anyone I've met before."

"Good different or bad different?" you asked, tilting your head to look at her.

"Good," she said, her gaze meeting yours. "Too good for this place, maybe. But good."

Your heart skipped a beat at the softness in her tone, the way her usual defenses seemed to crumble in the haze of alcohol and quiet.

"And you're not as scary as you like people to think," you said, your voice just as soft.

Her lips quirked into a faint smirk. "Don't let that get around. I've got a reputation to maintain."

You laughed, the sound light and unguarded, and Sevika's smirk widened. But then the laughter faded, leaving behind a tension that was impossible to ignore.

The space between you seemed to shrink, the air thick with something unsaid. Sevika's gaze dropped to your lips for the briefest of moments before flicking back to your eyes.

"You're staring," you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Maybe I am," she replied, her voice low and gravelly.

Your breath hitched, your pulse pounding in your ears as the tension reached a boiling point. Slowly, almost hesitantly, you leaned in, your gaze locked on hers.

For a moment, Sevika didn't move, her eyes searching yours as if trying to decide whether to close the gap or pull away. Her breath brushed against your lips, warm and laced with whiskey, and you felt your heart stutter in your chest.

But then, at the last second, she pulled back, her expression guarded once more.

"This... probably isn't a good idea," she muttered, her voice rough.

You blinked, the spell broken, and nodded quickly. "Right. Yeah. Of course."

The awkward silence that followed was deafening, but Sevika's hand brushed against yours, a small, grounding gesture that seemed to say more than words ever could.

"Let's call it a night," she said, her tone softer now.

You nodded, pushing yourself to your feet with a wobbly smile. "Good idea."

As you left the bar together, the line between friend and more seemed blurrier than ever, but neither of you dared to cross it. Not yet.

—-

The sunlight streaming through the curtains was unforgiving, piercing through your skull like needles. You groaned, burying your face into the pillow, but the dull throb of a hangover refused to let you sleep it off. With a low curse, you swung your legs over the edge of the bed and shuffled to your feet. You needed water. And Tylenol. Lots of both.

The kitchen was quiet when you padded downstairs, the muffled noise of Zaun's streets humming faintly through the walls. The bar Silco owned had its quieter moments in the morning, the chaos and patrons from the previous night replaced by silence and the clinking of glasses being cleaned in the distance.

You pulled open a cabinet, retrieving a glass before filling it at the sink. The cold water was a relief, though it did little to dull the pounding in your head. You were rummaging for Tylenol when a low voice startled you.

"Fuck's sake, you're loud."

You turned sharply, finding Sevika leaning in the doorway, her broad frame blocking out the faint light coming from the hall. She looked just as hungover as you felt, her usual sharp gaze dulled by exhaustion. Her silver-gray hair was messy, a few stray strands falling across her face, and she still wore the same clothes from the night before, crumpled and reeking faintly of whiskey.

"Jesus, Sevika, give me a heart attack why don't you?" you grumbled, clutching the Tylenol bottle to your chest like it might shield you from her sudden appearance.

She huffed out a short, humorless laugh, stepping into the kitchen. "You're the one clanging around like a goddamn blacksmith. Thought I was gonna wake up to you breaking the damn sink."

You rolled your eyes, popping two Tylenol into your mouth and washing them down with water. "Good morning to you, too."

She didn't respond right away. Instead, she moved to the sink, splashing cold water onto her face. Her robotic arm whirred softly as she leaned heavily against the counter, droplets dripping from her chin. For a moment, she seemed lost in thought, her expression faraway.

"You look like shit," you said, breaking the silence.

She shot you a withering glare over her shoulder. "Thanks for the observation, Captain Obvious. Don't see you looking much better."

"Touché." You leaned against the counter, watching her carefully. Despite her usual tough exterior, there was something off about her this morning. Her movements were slower, less precise, and her jaw was set tight like she was holding something back.

"You alright?" you asked, keeping your tone neutral.

"I'm fine," she snapped, grabbing a towel to dry her face.

You raised an eyebrow. "Doesn't sound like it."

She froze for half a second, her hand stilling against her face, before resuming her task with forced nonchalance. "I said I'm fine," she repeated, her voice sharper now.

"Yeah, and I don't believe you," you countered, crossing your arms. "What's going on?"

Sevika turned to face you fully, her dark eyes narrowing. "Why the fuck do you care? You're not my shrink."

"Because you're clearly not okay," you shot back, refusing to back down. "And for some reason, you're too damn stubborn to admit it."

Her lips pressed into a thin line, her gaze hard and unyielding. "Maybe I just don't feel like unloading all my shit on someone who doesn't need to hear it."

"Sevika," you said firmly, stepping closer. "If it's bothering you this much, then maybe you do need to talk about it. You don't have to keep everything bottled up, you know."

She laughed bitterly, the sound harsh and humorless. "Yeah? And what the hell am I supposed to say? That I'm tired of this fucking place? Tired of running around like some loyal dog for a man who'd toss me aside the second I wasn't useful anymore?"

Her words hung in the air, raw and venomous. You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden burst of emotion.

"Silco wouldn't—" you began, but she cut you off with a sharp wave of her hand.

"Don't give me that shit," she snapped, her voice rising. "You think I don't know how this game works? Silco doesn't give a damn about me—about anyone. As long as I get the job done, I'm fine. The second I fuck up? I'm done. That's the deal. Always has been."

Her words hit like a punch to the gut, not because they were untrue, but because of the resignation behind them. She wasn't angry at Silco—not entirely. She was angry at the world, at the way it had shaped her life into something she could barely stand.

"It's not just him," she continued, her voice quieter now, though no less bitter. "It's everything. Zaun. This fucking life. I've been fighting my whole damn life, and for what? To end up in this hole, pretending like it's all worth it?"

Her shoulders sagged as the fight seemed to drain out of her. She turned away, leaning heavily against the counter. For a long moment, the only sound was the faint hum of the city outside.

"Sevika..." you said softly, stepping closer. "You don't have to do this alone."

She scoffed, shaking her head. "Alone's all I've ever fucking known."

"Doesn't mean it has to stay that way," you countered, your voice firm but gentle.

She turned to face you again, her expression a mixture of anger and exhaustion. "Why the hell do you care, huh? What's it to you if I'm drowning? You're not some goddamn savior."

"I never said I was," you replied, meeting her glare head-on. "But I care because I see you. I see how hard you fight, how much you sacrifice, even when no one gives a damn. And maybe I'm tired of watching you carry all this shit on your own."

Her jaw tightened, her fists clenching at her sides. For a moment, you thought she might lash out again, but instead, she let out a shaky breath, her shoulders slumping.

"Fuck," she muttered, running a hand through her hair. "I don't even know what I'm saying anymore."

"You're saying what you need to," you said gently, stepping closer.

She glanced at you, her dark eyes flicking over your face as if searching for something. "You're a real pain in the ass, you know that?"

You smiled faintly. "Yeah, I've been told."

She shook her head, a reluctant smirk tugging at her lips. "Thanks," she said after a moment, her voice barely above a whisper.

"For what?" you asked, tilting your head.

"For not walking away," she said, her gaze softening. "Even when I'm a fucking mess."

You reached out, resting a hand on her shoulder. "Anytime, Sevika. And for the record? You're not a mess. You're human."

She huffed a quiet laugh, her smirk widening slightly. "Could've fooled me."

Sevika leaned back against the counter, rubbing her temples as though she could massage the frustration out of her skull. Her smirk had faded, replaced by a grimace that felt more like her usual self. The vulnerability she'd shown just moments before was quickly being buried under layers of sarcasm and irritation.

"Don't get used to this," she muttered, waving her hand vaguely between you two. "I'm not the heart-to-heart type."

You snorted, grabbing another glass and filling it with water. "Yeah, no shit. I figured that out the first time you growled at me for asking how your day was."

She rolled her eyes, but you caught the faintest twitch of a smile at the corner of her lips. "I don't 'growl.'"

"Right, and I didn't just hear you threaten to throw me out a window for cleaning up your workstation last week," you shot back, handing her the water.

She took it begrudgingly, muttering under her breath, "You shouldn't have touched my shit."

"It was covered in oil and ashes, Sevika. I thought someone had set it on fire."

"That's called organized chaos," she said with mock seriousness before downing the water in a few gulps. "And don't act all high and mighty. I saw the state of your desk last week. Looked like a feral animal went through it."

You laughed, shaking your head. "Touché. But at least I don't leave half-empty whiskey bottles lying around like some old, grumpy drunk."

Sevika narrowed her eyes at you, the corners of her mouth twitching in an almost-smile. "You're walking a real fine line this morning."

"Wouldn't be the first time," you quipped, leaning against the counter beside her.

She sighed heavily, running a hand through her messy hair. "You're lucky I'm too hungover to care."

The words were sharp, but her tone lacked its usual bite. Instead, it felt almost... playful. Or maybe that was just the hangover making her softer than usual. Either way, you decided to press your luck.

"So, is this bitchiness a hangover thing, or just a Sevika thing?" you asked, grinning.

She shot you a glare that could've curdled milk. "Oh, fuck off."

"Answer the question," you teased.

She groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. "It's a hangover thing. Mostly."

"Mostly?" you echoed, raising an eyebrow.

"Don't push it," she warned, though the edge in her voice was duller than usual.

You chuckled, taking another sip of your water. "Fair enough. But for what it's worth, I think I prefer this version of you. You're almost tolerable when you're too tired to argue."

Sevika let out a low, gravelly laugh, shaking her head. "Careful, or I might start thinking you like me."

"Oh, please," you shot back. "If I didn't like you, I wouldn't be here cleaning up your emotional mess and dodging your bullshit."

That earned you a genuine laugh—deep and rough, but real. It was rare to hear her laugh like that, and it made you smile despite the pounding in your head.

"Alright, you've made your point," she said, setting her empty glass on the counter. "I'm a pain in the ass. Happy now?"

"Ecstatic," you replied with mock enthusiasm.

She shook her head, her smirk lingering. "You're a real piece of work, you know that?"

"Takes one to know one," you retorted, grinning.

The two of you fell into a companionable silence, the tension from earlier fading into something lighter, easier. Sevika still looked rough—her hair was a mess, her clothes wrinkled, and the faint bags under her eyes betrayed her exhaustion. But she also seemed more at ease than she had in a long time.

"Thanks for not pushing," she said quietly after a moment, her gaze fixed on the counter.

You tilted your head, surprised by the sudden sincerity in her voice. "Pushing what?"

"For, y'know, earlier," she said, gesturing vaguely. "I don't do... this."

"This?" you echoed, feigning innocence.

"Talking. Feelings. All that shit," she clarified, giving you a pointed look.

You smiled softly. "I know. But you don't have to do it alone, Sevika. Not with me."

Her expression softened, the vulnerability from earlier flickering back into her gaze for just a moment before she shoved it back down. "Don't go getting all mushy on me," she said, her tone teasing but not unkind.

"Never," you said with a grin, raising your hands in mock surrender.

She smirked, shaking her head again before pushing off the counter. "Alright, enough of this shit. I'm gonna go clean up before I start feeling like even more of a goddamn mess."

"Good idea," you said, watching as she started toward the door. "But Sevika?"

She paused, glancing back at you.

"You're not as much of a mess as you think," you said softly, your gaze steady.

She stared at you for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Finally, she huffed out a breath and shook her head. "Whatever you say."

With that, she disappeared down the hall, leaving you alone in the kitchen with a faint smile tugging at your lips. Sevika might not have been ready to admit it, but in that moment, you knew you'd gotten through to her. And for now, that was enough.

—The headache still lingered, despite the Tylenol and liters of water you'd consumed. Sevika didn't look much better—her hair was still unkempt, and she'd swapped out her wrinkled shirt for another equally worn one.

"Drinking to cure a hangover," you said, pulling your jacket tighter as the two of you walked through the dim streets of Zaun. "Brilliant idea, Sevika."

"Don't act like you weren't on board," she shot back, lighting a cigarette and taking a long drag. "Besides, it's the weekend. Got a better way to spend it?"

You didn't. The thought of being cooped up at home nursing your headache sounded unbearable. Still, you rolled your eyes. "Fine. But if I pass out, you're carrying me home."

Sevika let out a bark of laughter. "You're on your own, kid."

The Leaky Drop was quieter than it had been last night, but not by much. The usual crowd of rowdy regulars filled the place, though the overall volume was muted compared to the chaos of a Friday night. You and Sevika grabbed a booth near the back, ordering two glasses of whiskey without a second thought.

The first round went down easy—too easy. The burn of the alcohol was a strange comfort, loosening the tension in your shoulders and pulling you further into the haze of indulgence. Sevika, for her part, was already on her second cigarette, the smoke curling lazily in the dim light.

"Feeling better yet?" she asked, smirking at you over the rim of her glass.

"Ask me after the third round," you replied, raising your drink in a mock toast.

The drinks kept coming, and with them, the conversation flowed freely—at first. But the alcohol had a way of dredging up things better left buried, and soon enough, the teasing and banter gave way to something sharper.

"You think you're so clever, don't you?" Sevika said, her tone somewhere between amused and annoyed.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" you shot back, frowning.

"You've got this way of talking," she said, gesturing vaguely with her drink. "Like you think you've got me all figured out. Like you're the only one who knows what's best for me."

Your eyebrows shot up, heat rising to your face. "Oh, don't even start. If anyone acts like they know everything, it's you, Sevika."

"Maybe because I actually do," she said, leaning back in her seat with that infuriating smirk of hers.

You scoffed, crossing your arms. "You're unbelievable."

"And you're predictable," she fired back, her eyes narrowing. "Always trying to fix things that don't need fixing."

"I'm not trying to fix you," you snapped, the words coming out louder than you intended. "I'm just trying to help!"

"I didn't fucking ask for your help," she growled, leaning forward, her voice low and dangerous. "You don't know what I've been through. You don't know shit."

The words hit harder than they should've, striking a nerve you hadn't realized was exposed. Your fists clenched at your sides, and before you knew what you were doing, you stood up abruptly.

"God, you're such an asshole!" you hissed, your voice trembling with anger. "You push everyone away because you're too scared to admit you might actually need someone!"

Her eyes widened in shock, just for a moment, before narrowing into a glare that could've cut steel. "Watch your mouth," she warned, her voice a low growl.

"Or what?" you challenged, leaning over the table, your pulse pounding in your ears.

Sevika didn't answer. Instead, she stood abruptly, her towering frame looming over you. Her jaw was clenched, her fists tight at her sides. The tension crackled between you like a live wire, drawing the attention of a few nearby patrons.

"You wanna take this outside?" she said through gritted teeth.

You didn't think. You didn't plan. You acted on pure, drunken impulse.

Your hand shot out before you could stop yourself, and the sound of your palm connecting with her cheek rang out like a gunshot.

The bar went silent.

You stood there, frozen, your hand still hovering in the air. The shock of what you'd done hit you all at once, sobering you just enough to realize how monumentally you'd fucked up.

Sevika's head turned slowly back to you, her cheek red and her expression a mix of anger and something else—something raw and electric.

"Shit," you whispered, taking a step back. "Sevika, I—"

Before you could finish, she grabbed your wrist, her grip firm but not painful. Her dark eyes burned into yours, and for a moment, you thought she was going to hit you back.

Instead, she dragged you toward the bathroom.

"Sevika—what the hell are you doing?" you protested, stumbling after her as she pushed through the door to the women's bathroom.

The door slammed shut behind you, and suddenly, you were alone with her in the cramped, dimly lit space.

"You've got a lot of nerve," she growled, backing you against the wall.

Your heart was racing, your mind scrambling for something—anything—to say. "I didn't mean—"

"Shut up," she interrupted, her voice low and dangerous.

You did.

For a moment, you just stared at each other, the tension between you thick enough to choke on. Her gaze flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes, and you swore you saw something shift in her expression.

And then she kissed you.

It wasn't soft or gentle. It was rough, desperate, and hungry, her lips crashing against yours like a storm breaking against the shore. You gasped against her mouth, your hands instinctively reaching up to grip her shoulders for balance.

Her metal arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against her as she deepened the kiss. The cold press of the metal against your skin sent a shiver down your spine, but you didn't care.

You kissed her back with just as much intensity, your fingers tangling in her hair as you poured all your frustration and anger and want into the moment.

The world outside the bathroom faded away, leaving just the two of you and the sound of your ragged breaths echoing off the tiled walls.

It wasn't until you both broke apart, gasping for air, that reality came crashing back down.

"Fuck," Sevika muttered, running a hand through her hair as she took a step back.

"Yeah," you said breathlessly, your back still pressed against the wall. "Fuck."

For a moment, neither of you said anything, the silence between you heavy and loaded.

"Guess we're even now," she said finally, her lips quirking into a wry smirk.

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound shaky and disbelieving. "Yeah. Even."

The silence between you and Sevika stretched, thick and loaded with unspoken words. Both of you were still catching your breath, the adrenaline from the kiss pulsing through your veins. Sevika's hand rested on the sink, her knuckles white as she steadied herself. Her gaze, dark and intense, flicked up to meet yours, and for a brief moment, she didn't look like the woman who had stormed out of the bar only moments ago. She looked... vulnerable.

But it didn't last.

"Don't look at me like that," Sevika muttered under her breath, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She tried to sound dismissive, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes that she quickly masked.

You opened your mouth to speak, to say something—anything—but the words caught in your throat. Your body was still buzzing from the kiss, your thoughts scattered. Instead, you pushed yourself off the wall, your chest tightening.

Before you could stop yourself, you found yourself taking a step toward her.

"Sevika—"

She cut you off.

Without warning, she grabbed the back of your neck and pulled you back into a searing kiss.

This time, it was different. It was no longer just a heated burst of anger and frustration—it was all-consuming. Sevika's lips were hard against yours, her movements urgent, as though she was trying to make up for all the things left unsaid. The taste of whiskey lingered on both your tongues as you kissed her back with just as much fervor, your hands pulling her closer, desperate for the contact.

Her body pressed against yours, solid and warm, and for the first time in a long while, you didn't feel the tension of her walls. There was no edge, no defensiveness, just raw, unfiltered need.

The metal of her arm, usually so cold and unyielding, sent sparks through you as it slid along your back, drawing you tighter into her embrace. The feeling of her touch was electrifying, making you forget about everything else. The world outside the bathroom seemed miles away, and for that brief moment, it was just the two of you.

Sevika growled into the kiss, her grip tightening on you as if she couldn't get enough. She slid one of her legs between yours, the movement so sudden and bold that it caught you off guard. The feeling of her pressing against you in that way made your breath catch in your throat. You pulled back slightly, your chest heaving as you stared at her.

"Are you—" you started, but she cut you off again, her lips crashing back into yours with a hunger that surprised you.

You stumbled back, your body colliding with the sink as she backed you up. The cool ceramic of the sink pressed against your back, but you didn't care. Her mouth was on yours again, her tongue tasting you, and you couldn't get enough of it. It felt like you were both fighting to stay afloat in a sea of desire, and neither of you was willing to drown alone.

Your hands found their way under her jacket, fingers brushing the warm skin beneath. The rush of it sent a thrill through you—she wasn't just playing around. Sevika was here, now, fully present in this heated moment.

But as much as you wanted to keep going, there was a sudden voice at the back of your mind—the voice that reminded you of who you were both, what you both stood to lose, and how quickly this could spiral out of control.

"Sevika..." you broke the kiss, pulling away slightly, your heart pounding in your chest.

She seemed just as breathless as you, her lips swollen, eyes dark with want. But she didn't move away. Instead, she looked down at you with a conflicted expression, her brow furrowed.

"What?" she asked, her voice rough with desire but tinged with uncertainty.

"I—" You struggled to find the words. "I don't know if this is a good idea."

Sevika snorted, rolling her eyes. "Too late for that, don't you think?"

She leaned in, her forehead resting against yours, her breathing ragged. "The idea's already been done, sweetheart."

You shook your head slightly, forcing yourself to think through the haze. "But this... this isn't just some one-off thing, Sevika. It's more than that."

Her eyes flickered briefly, then her mouth curled into a half-smile. "What do you think it is, then?"

You opened your mouth to answer, but nothing came out. The truth was, you didn't know. But you were afraid of what it could mean. You were afraid of what the hell this was going to turn into.

"You've got a lot of questions," Sevika said, her voice softening just slightly. "Me, too."

She pulled back slightly, eyes searching yours, studying you with an intensity that made your stomach tighten. Her hands were still on your hips, her grip firm and possessive, as if she was claiming you in this moment.

The tension between you both was suffocating now—like a live wire you were both holding onto, afraid to let go. But you were both too far gone to stop. You could feel it in her, and you could feel it in yourself. You wanted more, needed more, and that desire was far beyond the alcohol clouding your mind.

Sevika was the first to break the silence, her voice barely a whisper. "You want to keep going?"

You didn't trust yourself to speak. Instead, you simply nodded.

She smirked, her grip on you tightening, pulling you toward her once more. This time, her kiss was slower, more deliberate—each movement as if she was savoring it, trying to wring every drop of tension out of you. Her hands roamed, brushing against your skin, and you shivered under her touch, the feeling of her hands on you grounding you in a way nothing else could.

The fire between you and Sevika burned hotter with every passing second. Her hands gripped your waist, pulling you closer as her lips devoured yours, slow and rough, like she was trying to memorize the feel of you. The whiskey lingering on both your tongues only added to the intoxicating haze.

The cool sink pressed into your lower back again as Sevika leaned her full weight against you, her body warm and solid. Her mechanical hand gripped the edge of the sink beside you, metal groaning faintly under the pressure. She kissed you with a hunger that was impossible to ignore, her other hand tangling in your hair, tilting your head so she could deepen the kiss.

"Sevika," you gasped against her lips, a desperate edge to your voice.

"What?" she murmured, her mouth moving to your jaw, leaving a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses down to your neck.

Your hands instinctively gripped her jacket, holding onto her like she was the only thing keeping you grounded. "This is insane."

Sevika pulled back just enough to smirk at you, her lips swollen and her breathing uneven. "Yeah? You complaining?"

You couldn't help the breathless laugh that escaped you, even as your cheeks flushed. "No. Just... stating the obvious."

Her smirk widened, and she leaned in again, her voice low and teasing against your ear. "Then shut up and let me enjoy this before you overthink it to death."

Her lips found yours again, and any witty response you might've had was completely forgotten. The kiss was slower this time, more deliberate, but no less intense. It felt like she was savoring you, as if this wasn't something she allowed herself often—if ever.

Your hands slid under her jacket, brushing against the firm muscle of her sides. The warmth of her skin sent a shiver through you, and Sevika chuckled against your mouth, the sound low and rich.

"Cold?" she teased, though the rasp in her voice gave her away.

"Shut up," you muttered, pulling her closer.

She grinned but didn't argue, her hand moving from your waist to cup your face. Her thumb brushed against your cheek, a surprisingly gentle gesture considering the heated tension between you. For a moment, the kiss slowed even further, the fire still there but tempered by something softer.

It wasn't just lust anymore—it was something deeper, something neither of you had words for yet.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, your foreheads resting together as you tried to steady yourselves. Sevika's dark eyes searched yours, her usual guarded expression replaced by something raw and unfiltered.

"You're dangerous," she murmured, her voice rough but laced with something that sounded almost like affection.

You blinked at her, your heart pounding in your chest. "Dangerous? Pretty sure that's your thing."

She smirked, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Yeah, well... you're making me rethink a few things."

Her words sent a jolt through you, and you opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, there was a sharp knock at the bathroom door.

"Occupied!" Sevika barked, her voice immediately snapping back to its usual edge.

The sound of retreating footsteps was followed by silence, and you couldn't help but laugh softly. "Guess we're not the only ones who needed a moment."

Sevika chuckled, the sound low and rumbling. "Yeah, well, they can wait."

She stepped back slightly, giving you some space, but her hand lingered on your waist as if she wasn't quite ready to let you go. Her gaze softened just a fraction, and she tilted her head, studying you.

"You okay?" she asked, her tone unusually gentle.

You nodded, your lips curving into a small smile. "Yeah. You?"

She shrugged, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. "Been worse."

The tension between you had eased, but the connection was still there, humming like a live wire. Neither of you said anything for a moment, just standing there, the reality of what had just happened sinking in.

Finally, Sevika sighed, stepping back completely and running a hand through her hair. "We should probably... get back out there before anyone starts asking questions."

You nodded, though a part of you wanted to stay in this quiet little bubble with her a bit longer. "Yeah. Probably."

But as you both moved toward the door, Sevika paused, glancing back at you. "Hey."

You turned to her, your heart skipping a beat at the way she was looking at you.

"This isn't over," she said, her voice low and certain.

A small smile tugged at your lips, and you nodded. "Good."

With that, she opened the door and stepped out, leaving you alone for a moment to gather your thoughts. Your lips still tingled from her kiss, and your mind raced with everything that had just happened.

Whatever this thing between you and Sevika was, it wasn't going to be simple. But as you stepped out of the bathroom and back into the noisy chaos of the bar, you couldn't help but feel a flicker of excitement.

[talkorsomething]

I have Got to get more transgender

[iceeericeee]

I wonder how many tags i can add on to this

[fragglerockopinions]

:// I don't know how anyone can ship Kaveh and Alhaitham. It doesn't feel like playful "haha I hate you lol" teasing, it feels like two people who desperately need a divorce and not even in a funny way. Alhaitham is genuinely financially and verbally abusive to Kaveh. Am I missing something?

[elegantdemoness]

Watch I Miss The Days on YouTube Music

[thatlesbiancrow]

christmas 2018 i believe? I was obsessed with it since 2016ish? idk when exactly. maybe late 2015. I wasn't able to get it on desktop, so I got it the year it came out on switch! it was crazy to play it for the first time after being so obsessed with it for so long...

Feel free to reblog and talk in the tags about the first time you played!

[suksatoru]

Sukuna is sure there's something wrong with you for loving him.

He's not lovable. He didn't even know how soft love could be until you came around. Sukuna is a brutally honest man, but he can't stop muttering the lie "I don't love you" against your lips even as he kisses you

He lies a lot to you, he realizes. He lies when he tells you that you mean nothing to him, he lies when his fingers dig into your skin as he reminds you you're replaceable. He lies when he says you're stupid—you have a brilliant and creative mind he adores

He thinks you'll slowly fade away like all the things in his life eventually do. He thought his love for you would slowly flitter and diminish with time and he'd stop thinking about you constantly

Unfortunately, Sukuna wasn't familiar with love. He didn't know how unpredictable it could be at times, or how it worked. It brought out parts of him he didn't even know existed.

"I was offered a job in another kingdom."

He looks down at you. You're laying on his chest right now. A single, delicate finger moving across the dark ink swirling on his skin as your face is pressed lovingly against his scarred body.

His large palm drags itself over the nape of your neck and towards the back of your head. He gently fists your hair and tilts your head upwards so you can see his scowl

"You're not going anywhere."

You smile. It makes his chest feel tight and his heart rate pick up as you slowly lift your head off of his chest, criss crossing your legs as you sit up on the bed beside him

"Who are you to tell me what to do?"

If anyone else had even dared to think the words, let alone speak them, Sukuna would've sliced their body into more pieces than they could ever count. But you're a fearless thing. While people tie toe around him, you dance around the King of Curses like you couldn't care less.

He smiles. The gesture feels odd but his lips naturally curl upwards at your remark. One of his hands lazily caress your thigh as he gently nudges the fabric of your night gown out of the way

"Who are you to try and leave? You belong here. With me." Sukuna says lowly, his voice dropping an octave as he looks at you through half lidded eyes. You can see the amusement in his eyes as his fingers wrap around your thigh, giving it a firm squeeze before you sigh

"But what if I wanted to leave? You said it yourself, I am not a priority of yours here." You press, leaning closer with a small pout on your lips as he scoffs

"I don't care." He mutters, not meeting your eyes as he looks up at the domed ceilings above him. Sukuna's room was never a place he used to enjoy being in. To him, the golden furniture and high, carved walls never made him feel anything at all

Now, in the mornings, he'd wake up to you peacefully sleeping beside him. Curled into his side, your presence had become an unshakable thing in his room. Slowly, it became a bundle of passion and love for him to exist freely in.

"Just say you're in love with me." You tease, your soft laughter slowly pulling his gaze away from the ceiling as he watched you crawl back onto his chest, pressing feather soft kisses onto his jaw

He lets out a breath through his nose, mentally preparing himself for the words that were about to leave his mouth as he puts his hands on your waist to steady himself.

"I...I do." he mumbles, more to himself as your raise your brows in surprise

"You what?"

He grits his teeth, wondering why you're making this so difficult for him. Sukuna glares at you silently, hoping you'll be able to push past his arrogant words and see the underlying message

"You know what. So shut up and go back to doing that stupid thing you were doing." He concludes, referring to when you were tracing his tattoos. You laugh louder as your eyes crinkle in amusement

"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about. can you try that again, your highness?" You smirk, pressing your palm flat against his pec as he scowls

Don't give in to the brat. Don't give in to the brat. Don't give in to the brat. Don't—

"I love you."

The words come out strained, almost a whisper as he stares up at the ceiling. His grip on you is tight and he absolutely refused to look down into your eyes. He knows your lips are probably parted in shock. Your silence is long as he awaits a response, suddenly questioning if he'd said the right thing—

Both of your hands grab hold of his cheeks, slowly turning his face towards yours as one of his arms instinctively reaches out to pull you closer

Your voice is soft, but the warmth and relief that spreads through his chest is a welcomed sensation

"I love you too."

[auroracalisto]

with all the power in oz

movie!fiyero x gn!reader, 2.2k words summary: the reader, rather anxious and studious, finds their self head-over-heels with none other than fiyero, supposed boyfriend to galinda upland. to placate this, they somewhat agree to meet him at the ozdust ballroom. a/n: YOU pronouns are used to address the reader, but there is no usage of y/n. just watched the movie today. tried to find a fic, couldn't. here I am writing one instead. reader worries a lot. so me. you're welcome. also, I'm going into this blind. I have unfortunately never seen the actual musical (downsides to living in the middle of nowhere) so I'm only going off based on wikis and the movie. it should be gn as I read through it like... five different times, but please let me know if I missed something!

Breathtaking. That's what he was. But could you truly refer to a man like him as breathtaking?

The very features that graced his face were absolutely mesmerizing, and you felt like a fool watching him at times. How could you not? He seemed so full of life, so full of... well, not a care in the world, really. It was as if he brushed everything off of his shoulders without hesitation.

You could only wished you were the same way.

No cares, no worries. How lovely that would have been.

No, you hold onto the things that happen to you as if you have no other way to live. You hold grudges, you think over things that happened years ago that no one could possibly remember.

For someone who wished to be a sorcerer, you had a hard time simply letting things go. Your emotions often got the better of you, even when you knew better. Even when you wished it could be the opposite. But perhaps that was the way of the world.

Not a man in Oz could tell you otherwise.

Books in hands, you crossed the path to your dormitory, brows cinched together in mild concentration.

You had a project in your history class, and an extensive paper to complete on the study of mathematics—of all the things you could have had, a paper in mathematics. You'd rather perform magic in front of the entire student body, but you couldn't.

As you walked, you heard your name come from behind you. Eyes flicker back, a soft frown on your lips. You see him—Fiyero. The one fool you meant to avoid with all the gumption within you.

You'd melt just being near him.

"Fiyero," you softly greet.

He gave you a charming smile, coming up to walk with you. "Heading back already?" he asked.

"I am."

"Working on the project, hm? We could work on it together if you'd like. I'm sure our minds could do wonders," he said, a playful wink coming from him.

"I'm fine," you simply said.

He blinked slowly, but his smile never wavered. "Come now," he said, your name leaving his lips rather sweetly. "Surely you're not going to spend the rest of your evening alone. Why don't you come to Ozdust tonight?"

You looked back at him, frowning. "Ozdust. Me. I don't think so, Fiyero."

"And why not? I'm sure you'd be as dashing as ever."

You stopped in your steps, eyes searching his for but a moment. "Dashing. Are you in earnest, Fiyero?"

"Yes," he said, smiling.

"And what of Galinda? You'll be with her. Why invite me?"

"She doesn't need to know. It's not her business," he said. "Besides, she will be busy with Elphaba. I'd much rather spend time with you."

"And I think you're just pulling my leg," you said defensively. You crossed your arms over your chest, careful to keep your books close.

"Pulling your leg? I haven't even touched you," he said, a cheeky grin on his lips. "Come now, don't play coy. You should come."

"And if I do?"

"Then I'll be quite happy."

You rolled your eyes and went to walk away.

A hand wrapped around your bicep, and you paused, glancing over your shoulder at him.

His eyes widened a bit and he dropped his hand, albeit hesitantly. Perhaps he didn't think he would actually reach out to you. He cleared his throat.

"I really would like you to be there. You'll have the time of your life."

"The time of my life," you repeated. "I don't think you realize how much I dread parties."

"Have you ever been to one?"

"No."

"Then how do you know you dread them?"

"I just know," you said. "I feel it in my bones. I know going will just get on my nerves."

He scoffed, placing his hands on his hips. "I think you're foolish for that," he said. "Come on. What are you losing? A couple hours to work on a project that you know you could finish in a morning session? You'll be fine. Come to the Ozdust tonight. I'll show you a good time."

You clenched your jaw. "I don't want—"

"—I would like you to be there. That is all. I won't ask again." He gave you another small smile before he looked away. "I'll see you around. Perhaps tonight?"

You stared him down. He would like to see you there? Was he being honest? And what of Galinda? Would he be going behind her back? Wasn't he madly in love with her, or something? Or was it the other way around?

He said your name once more, and you looked up at him, letting out a soft sigh.

"Right. Perhaps tonight," you softly said.

The smile on his lips was rather... hopeful than anything else. There wasn't anything smarmy by it. He seemed as genuine as the glint in his eye—the one he used when he spoke with anyone he trusted. At least, you hoped so.

The night came quickly as you finished up your outfit—one you would hope you didn't look completely foolish in. The color you chose seemed to fit well with almost anything, but you still worried. You always worried about something.

Time was of the essence. You weren't even supposed to leave Shiz University's campus, but here you were, sneaking like some scoundrel.

Well, perhaps you were, listening to the requests of a man who already had a girlfriend—a fantastically beautiful one at that.

But you paid no mind. You did what you could, and soon, you found yourself walking down the steps of the Ozdust Ballroom.

Never had you been in a place like this. It was almost... breathtaking, had it not been for the overpowering smells of perfume and some kind of drink wafting from the bar. Your eyes flitted from patron to patron until you finally spotted him—Fiyero.

He looked just as handsome as ever.

Good Oz, what in the world were you doing? This was foolish.

You took a step back, staring at Fiyero for a moment as he spoke with another man, drink in hand. You needed to leave. This was ridiculous. You were ridiculous! Never in a thousand years would you ever imagine yourself to do such a thing—

"You made it!"

Fiyero's voice rang out above the music.

You look to him, eyebrows furrowed in frustration. Because of course he saw you as soon as you had decided to leave.

Fiyero smiled and made his way to you, taking your hands in his, drink left with the confused man behind him. Surely he didn't just up and leave in the middle of his conversation.

You part your lips and go to speak, but to your dismay, Fiyero is instant.

"I was afraid you had changed your mind," he said. "You look ravishing, darling."

Your eyes widened. Ravishing? You'd been called many things in your life, but never ravishing.

"Galinda couldn't make it?" you asked.

"Wha—no, she couldn't. But what of it? I didn't ask her to the Ozdust, I asked you. I'm glad to see your face."

Warmth blossomed in your cheeks as you watched him. "Fiyero, please... I shouldn't be here."

"Oh, nonsense," he said, grinning all the while. "Come. Dance with me."

"But I don't—"

"—do not say you don't dance. I can teach you."

"Teach me?"

"It's as easy as breathing," he said.

"For you, maybe, but not for—"

"—humor me," he said, smiling.

You pursed your lips. Of course he had to give you that charming smile and the sweet bat of his eyelashes.

"I do not dance," you repeated.

"I think I will be the judge of that."

He grabbed your hands once more and pulled you out into the ballroom floor, smiling all the while.

"You'll be a natural. I can just see it."

"I feel like if I were a natural, you wouldn't have to teach me," you said, gasping as he pulled you close to his chest. His face was dangerously close to yours, his eyes flickering from your eyes to your lips.

"You know," he began, eyes flickering back to your eyes. "We all start somewhere, do we not? You should know that better than anyone."

"What? What does that—"

He interrupted you by spinning you by your arm, back into his embrace. The music was rather ambient, not quite one for dancing so enthusiastically, but Fiyero embraced it. Hand to your hand, face close to your face.

"See? A natural."

"You merely spun me around, Fiyero. Do not be foolish."

"You could have fell flat on your face," he said, a boyish grin evident on his lips.

"Stop looking at me like that," you defiantly said. "You are far too close to me for my liking."

"Oh, feisty, are we?" he asked, moving his body along to the music and forcing you to go along, too. You nearly stepped on his toes several times. "I do not think there is anything wrong with the way I'm looking at you. You're rather breathtaking, if I may."

Breathtaking. The same way you had described him only hours before. He wasn't a mind reader, was he?

No.

Of course not. That was foolish. He was merely a man. Nothing of great importance—no power within him other than the power he held in every single eyelash as they batted down at you, making you melt over and over again.

"What of Galinda?" you repeated.

"What of her?"

"You shouldn't be calling someone who isn't yours breathtaking. It's quite..."

"There is nothing wrong with admiring the beauty in front of me," he said, your name playfully leaving his tongue. "Look at me. Galinda and I are only friends."

You rolled your eyes. "Do not lie to me."

His eyes widened a bit. "Lie? I do not lie. We are friends and nothing more. Though I do believe she thinks differently..."

"She must," you said, huffing softly.

"But that does not make it true. I have eyes for someone else."

"Eyes for someone else?"

He tilted his head once more. He was rather endearing when he did that.

"Who did I ask to their very first party?" he asked, smiling. "It's quite a feat, isn't it? Afraid you wouldn't show, and then you do, questioning me and everything I stand for, hm?"

Warmth found its way to your cheeks once more. You looked away from him. With the crescendo of the music, Fiyero pulled you closer, fingers lacing with yours. His lips hover dangerously close to yours.

"You know, if you would just give it a chance, perhaps you and I could make some magic of our own."

You let out a curt laugh. "You—oh, good Oz, I hope you never use that line on anyone! Has that worked for you before?"

He gave a cheeky smile. "It seems like it's working on you."

"Absolutely not!"

"Not even a little!"

"No!"

His smile only seemed to grow. "Truly?"

You looked away, swallowing thickly. "I mean... no. Not even a little. Not at all."

"You're lying," he said.

"I am not."

"I do think I know what I'm talking about," he said, leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss to the soft skin of your cheek. "Come now," he said. "Stop with the lies."

You looked up at him, a soft huff escaping you.

"Fine. I lied. It may or may not be working. But it's not just because of what you said."

"Oh? Are you saying you like me for more than my suave words?"

"Suave words? Who in Oz said they were suave?"

He just smiled, his eyes flickering to your lips once more. "Do you think instead of just a dance, I could try something more?"

"Try what?"

"I think you know."

You blinked slowly at him, your fingers gently gripping onto his tunic. Your lips part in mild surprise, but you realize that you shouldn't have been. He'd been eyeing you the entire evening.

"Very well," you softly said.

"Wonderful," he replied, and in a swift motion, he pressed his lips to yours. It was short as he pulled back almost as soon as he had kissed you, but it was enough to keep you wanting more.

"Fiyero, that wasn't—"

"—come with me," he softly said, lacing his fingers with yours once more. "Somewhere without so many prying eyes, yes?"

Your answer was almost instant: "Yes."

Fiyero led you back up the staircase, and he didn't look back once at the ballroom.

"Where are we going?" you asked.

"Somewhere where I can see you and only you," he said. "If that's alright."

"Oh," you softly said. "Yes. That's alright."

"Then follow me," he said. "Do you trust me?"

You smiled sincerely for one of the first times in the evening. Did you trust him? What kind of foolish question was that? If you had the chance, you'd do whatever he'd ask of you. You found your answer rather quickly, knowing within yourself that it was far truer than any other statement you had ever uttered.

"With all the power in Oz."