#i'd run off to war if my wife was looking at me like that as well Corlys

[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’!”

[backjustforberena]

RHAENYS & CORLYS + leaving one another, in "Driftmark" for @youleavethetardisbrakeson

[deliciousangelfestival]

The Imperfect Couple - 15

Character: politician!Bucky x ex-wife!reader

Summary: A separated couple must pretend to be happily married while the husband runs for Vice President, dealing with old issues and political pressures during his election campaign.

Warning: The couple's arguments could be triggering.

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi 🙏🏻

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

“Seems like you're declaring war on me,” Bucky said, his voice steady but his eyes narrowing slightly.

“Does it sound like that? Forgive me.” Steve set the golf club down, a smirk playing on his lips. “What I meant is, we have to be aware of everything. We're this close to winning.”

“I agree.” Bucky replied, his expression calm, though his mind churned with unspoken thoughts.

“This is why I trust you.” Steve clapped him on the shoulder. “Remember, we're playing in the highest league now.”

Steve paused before adding casually, “By the way, my son wants to visit Nate. Is that okay with you?”

“I'll let my wife and Nate know,” Bucky responded, his voice neutral, though he felt a flicker of unease.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

When Bucky got home, he saw you sitting cross-legged on the floor with Nate, working on a puzzle together. You both seemed relaxed, unaware of the weight he carried from the conversation with Steve. He walked over, his movements deliberate, and knelt beside Nate.

“Nate, buddy, can you go to your room for a bit? I need to talk to your aunt,” Bucky said gently, placing a hand on Nate’s shoulder.

Nate, always obedient, nodded. “Okay, Uncle Bucky,” he said before scooping up a few puzzle pieces and heading inside.

Once it was just the two of you, you glanced at Bucky and noticed his exhausted expression. He looked like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“What? Did something worse just hit you?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

Bucky took a breath, his jaw tightening. “Did you just involve Ian?” His tone was calm, but his eyes betrayed his frustration.

You widened your eyes, momentarily caught off guard by the question. That single look was enough for him to sigh deeply, running a hand through his hair. “I…” His hands clenched into fists momentarily. He wanted to be angry, knowing full well this would put you on Steve’s radar.

“Just… tell Ian to slow down,” Bucky muttered, clearly uneasy.

“I can’t,” you said softly but firmly. “The way Ian works is far more efficient than anything I could do.”

Bucky rubbed his temples, his frustration mounting. “Then I hope God protects him.”

“Bucky…” you stepped closer, your voice serious. “Be honest with me. Is he in danger?”

Bucky looked down, his hands braced on the counter, his shoulders tense. “Steve just gave me a warning. It won’t matter to him if there’s blood on his hands.”

Your heart dropped. ‘Fuck,’ you thought as panic began to bubble inside. You immediately grabbed your phone and dialed Ian, but there was no answer. Frustration and fear mingled in your chest as you quickly texted him instead: Be careful. Eyes and ears everywhere.

You glanced at Bucky, your stomach twisting. “By the way, the Rogers twins want to come here to play with Nate,” Bucky added as if it were a casual comment, though his voice carried an edge.

“You allowed that?” you asked, the disbelief evident in your tone.

The mention of the twins unsettled you. Your mind flashed back to watching The Shining in secret with Tim, and how the twins in that movie had always given you the creeps. That eerie feeling wasn’t just from the film anymore—it was rooted in real life. You had learned the truth: William and Charles, Steve's sons, had a reputation for bullying other students. The thought of them around Nate made your skin crawl.

Would they be a good influence on Nate? You highly doubted it.

Bucky gave a tired shrug. “I can’t say no to the future president, right?”

You pressed your lips into a thin line, knowing there was little you could do to stop it. But one thing was clear—you would be keeping a very close eye on them when they came to visit.

🌸🌸🌸🌸

The twins arrived at the house, their faces lit up with matching grins, excitement practically radiating off them. Nate, catching sight of them, bolted to the door, his small body bouncing with joy.

"William! Charles!" Nate called out, bouncing on his toes as he welcomed them in. His innocent joy was palpable—he was simply happy to have people he knew coming to play with him.

"Hey, buddy," William said, ruffling Nate’s hair as they walked inside.

After a brief exchange, they settled in front of the game console, and soon, the twins had chosen a violent shooter game. The screen flickered with gunfire and explosions, the sound effects jarring in the otherwise quiet room. Nate, seated between them, initially watched in awe but quickly became uncomfortable.

His tiny hands shot up to cover his eyes, and he flinched with every loud noise, his body tense as he pressed himself into the couch. He covered his ears, trying to block out the unsettling sounds, but he didn’t say a word, not wanting to ruin the moment.

You watched from a distance, trying not to be the nosy adult. You wanted to give them space, but seeing Nate’s frightened reaction twisted something in your gut. Likewise, you couldn’t stand by anymore. Walking over to the boys, you kept your tone polite, but firm.

“Guys,” you said, your voice cutting through the sounds of the game, “is there another game that’s not as scary? Look, Nate’s getting scared.”

William glanced down at Nate, who was huddled close to him. “Oh, why didn’t you say something, buddy?” he said, patting Nate’s shoulder as if that would fix everything.

Charles sighed and turned off the violent game, switching to something more child-friendly. "Here, we’ve got a game for you, Nate." He scrolled through the options and selected a bright, colorful one with cartoon rabbits running a restaurant.

The second the screen changed, Nate’s face lit up. “Wow!” he exclaimed, his fear dissolving as he leaned forward, eager to play. The teenage boys, now seemingly patient, guided him through the simple controls, explaining how to serve food to the cartoon animals. You felt a wave of relief. Maybe—just maybe—the twins weren’t as bad as you had feared.

Later, the boys decided to go swimming. You sat on a poolside chair, keeping a close eye on Nate. He was wearing a floatie around his small frame, happily splashing in the shallow end while William and Charles horsed around further away.

Suddenly, your phone buzzed. It was Ian. "H...ell...o"

You stood up, checking the signal, which was terrible. Frowning, you moved toward the balcony. The pool was indoors, so you stepped outside, hoping for better reception.

“I just got your text,” Ian said when the call finally connected. His voice was rough, but you could hear his smirk through the line. “You know this isn’t going to stop me.”

“I’m serious, Ian,” you replied, leaning against the balcony rail. “Bucky told me directly. You’re in danger.”

A pause, and then Ian’s voice, low and almost teasing, came through. “Hmm… Guess where I am right now?”

You sighed, trying to play along. “London? Since you went home, right?”

“Nope. Paris. And I’ve found something—something lethal enough to kill Steve,” Ian said, his tone dark with implication.

Paris? You froze. Was this related to Hazel? Your heart pounded with a new surge of anxiety. “Ian, don’t—”

But before you could finish, you heard it. A splash—loud, frantic. You turned around, the blood draining from your face. In the water, you saw a small hand desperately reaching out, the floatie floating uselessly nearby. It was Nate.

Panic gripped you like a vice. “Nate!” you screamed, dropping your phone as you sprinted back inside.

Without hesitation, you dove into the pool, your body hitting the cold water like a shock to your system. Your hands reached for him, pulling Nate’s tiny, trembling body to the surface. His arms latched around your neck in a vice grip, coughing and sputtering as you lifted him from the water.

He gasped, burying his face against your shoulder, his small body shaking as he clung to you. “He…he can’t swim!” you snapped at the twins, your voice filled with raw anger.

William and Charles stood there on the edge of the pool, unfazed. “That’s why we were teaching him,” they answered in unison, their tone almost dismissive.

Nate let out a pained cough, his voice weak. “My nose hurts…” he whimpered, rubbing his face against your neck.

Your heart ached at the sight of him, vulnerable and hurt. Anger surged through you like a tidal wave, and you glared at the twins. You remembered that they both just watched while Nate was drowning. Without raising your voice, you pointed to the door, your finger shaking with fury. “Get out. Now.”

The command echoed in the room, sharp and unforgiving. William and Charles flinched, startled by the intensity in your voice. Without a word, they quickly grabbed their things, shooting one last glance at each other before rushing out the door.

You stayed in the pool, holding Nate close, your teeth gritted in anger and your heart still pounding. You knew then—those boys were never going to be allowed near Nate again. Not after this.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

The twins walked into the Roger household, their shoulders slumped, clearly sensing the storm waiting for them. Behind them, Peggy followed with a stern but composed expression. As they stepped further into the room, the tension was palpable—Steve stood there, arms crossed, his face hard as stone. He had heard everything from you, and his sons could feel his fury even before he said a word.

William and Charles instinctively moved closer to Peggy, seeking the safety of her presence as if she could shield them from the inevitable.

Peggy, sensing the mounting tension, stepped forward slightly, her voice calm but firm. “Steve, calm down. I will talk to them.”

Steve let out a frustrated sigh, his clenched jaw releasing only slightly. “I’m not going to yell,” he said through gritted teeth. “But I need to say something.”

He fixed his cold gaze on his sons. “Both of you will be homeschooled from now on.”

The twins’ faces fell in disbelief. “Dad, no!” William blurted, and Charles’ mouth hung open, too stunned to speak.

“I know,” Steve said, his voice quieter now, but there was no softness in it. “I know the main reason for your behavior is because your mother and I have been too busy for you. We never spent time together as a family.” His arms unfolded, and to their surprise, he pulled them into a hug. “So, homeschooling is the best option, isn’t it?” His tone sounded almost tender, but underneath it lay a cold warning.

William and Charles glanced at each other, then back at Peggy, silently pleading for her to intervene. But she didn’t. She stood still, her lips pressed tightly together, offering no rescue.

“Good children don’t question their parents,” Steve said, his voice dropping low. “You just say, ‘Yes, father.’”

The twins swallowed hard, a sinking feeling settling in their chests. “Yes, father,” they muttered in unison, their voices barely above a whisper. It felt as though their every move would now be monitored.

Steve’s lips curled into a smile, but it wasn’t warm—it was the smile of a man in control. “Good. Now, go back to your rooms.”

The boys moved quietly, retreating upstairs, the weight of Steve’s words heavy on their shoulders.

Once they were out of sight, Steve’s smile faded. He turned toward Peggy, his tone biting. “This is why I never wanted to send them to boarding school in the first place. They needed parental guidance, not strict school rules.”

Peggy’s eyes narrowed, a tired look crossing her face. “Don’t start again, Steve. That decision was made by my father.”

Steve’s expression darkened at the mention of her father. His voice dripped with bitterness. “Oh yeah, him. I almost forgot. I’m glad he’s dead.”

Peggy’s face tensed, a flare of anger sparking in her eyes. “When will you stop badmouthing my father?”

Steve’s cold stare met hers. “Never.”

Steve had lived a life bound by duty, his role in the military shaping every part of him. He was a good soldier—respected, disciplined, and obedient. But despite his loyalty, promotions came slowly. His lack of a powerful family background meant he was always overlooked by those with better connections. Essentially, Steve was an orphan—without anyone to vouch for him, he was left behind.

He knew how the system worked. If you didn’t have the right name, the right family, there was always a price to pay. And Steve had paid it, doing the dirty work of his superiors without question, sacrificing his principles just to keep his place. The worst part of it all was that his commanding officer, General Carter, was his father-in-law.

Every step of his career, Steve had been a puppet for the man who held both his professional and personal life in his hands. The weight of it bore down on him every day.

“Good soldiers don’t ask why,” General Carter always said this to him. “They just say, ‘Yes, sir.’”

"Yes, sir." Steve answer it like he's a robot.

At some point, Steve had everything he’d ever thought he wanted—marriage, a steady career, money, and status. On paper, he should have been happy. But he wasn’t. His life felt dull, empty, like the spark had been drained from it.

The day he realized the truth hit him like a punch in the gut. He wasn’t his own man—he was nothing more than a tool for his father-in-law, a puppet dancing to someone else’s tune.

That was the moment he had enough. The frustration, the years of silently obeying, simmered into anger. He wanted to be the one in control. He was tired of taking orders—he wanted to be the one giving them.

Steve’s life had been dull for years, a constant routine of military duties, politics, and the weight of expectations. Until the day he met Hazel. She was much younger than him—vibrant, full of life—and he was supposed to give her advice, to help steer her back home. Julius and Caroline had asked him to help their daughter stop running away. But when Steve sat with Hazel and listened to her story, something shifted. Her reasons for running, the pressures she felt—her life mirrored his own struggles. For the first time in years, he felt empathy.

He told her, quietly, “If you ever need someone to talk to, you can find me.”

And from there, things changed. They grew closer, and eventually, more intimate. He knew it was wrong—cheating on his family, betraying his friends—but for the first time, Steve felt alive again. The numbness of his life vanished in her presence, replaced by something that burned, something real. And then came Nate, the baby born out of that connection, out of a love he hadn’t felt in years.

Steve’s thoughts snapped back to the present. His jaw clenched tightly as he faced Peggy. “Did you tell them to hurt Nate?”

Peggy stood her ground, her face a mix of frustration and cold calculation. “No,” she said flatly. “But they’re smart enough to figure out why their father cares so much about that kid, and why he’s always…” She hesitated, her lips curling into a thin smile. “Spending time with his little girlfriend. Maybe they’re just releasing their anger.”

Steve’s fists tightened until his knuckles turned white. “When I get into the White House, you won’t be coming with me.”

Peggy’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t flinch. “And what then?” she said with a mocking tilt to her voice. “You think you’re going to put that girl in my place? Have you forgotten who you are? You were a beggar, crawling to my father for help.”

Steve’s eyes darkened, a dangerous calm settling over him. “And this beggar has crawled his way to victory,” he said slowly, his voice low but filled with menace. “You can act high and mighty because of me. Don’t forget that I can take it all away from you.” He stepped closer, his words laced with venom. “Remember how your family got their business permits? How they were saved from corruption charges and tax evasion? That was because of me.”

Peggy let out a scoff, her eyes filled with disdain. “You think you’re a king now?” She crossed her arms, shaking her head. “I actually pity her, you know. Because one day, she’ll feel exactly what I felt. You’ll never be satisfied, Steve. You’ll never have enough.”

She turned to leave, her hand on the door. Before stepping out, Peggy glanced back at him, her eyes filled with cold certainty. “Never.”

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

You sat beside Nate, your heart heavy as you watched his small chest rise and fall, his face flushed with fever. The doctor had just left, handing you a bottle of medicine. "Make sure he drinks this, and let him rest completely," he’d said before exchanging a few quiet words with Bucky and leaving the apartment.

Nate’s red, feverish face made your heart ache. He had been through so much in just a few hours. You gently wiped a damp cloth over his forehead as Bucky sat beside you, silent and tense.

"Never, ever let Nate be alone with them again," you said, your voice firm.

Bucky nodded, his expression serious. "I agree. And I’m sorry. I never thought they’d pull something like that."

“Don’t underestimate underage kids,” you warned, your voice sharp. “There are so many cases where perpetrators can’t be jailed because they’re underage.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. "Noted. I won’t forget that."

A brief silence passed, then you asked, “Have you called Hazel?”

“I tried, but I couldn’t reach her. I called her assistant, though.”

You nodded, your mind still spinning. The memory of Nate sinking beneath the water haunted you, but there was something else gnawing at you—you hadn’t finished your conversation with Ian.

Excusing yourself, you left the room and grabbed your phone, your stomach dropping when you noticed the cracked screen from when you’d dropped it before diving into the pool.

You dialed Ian’s number, your fingers trembling as you pressed it to your ear. The first ring echoed, unanswered. Your heart pounded faster. The second ring—nothing. A cold sense of unease crept into your chest. Why wasn’t he answering?

On the third try, the ringing stopped abruptly, and you exhaled in relief. “Hello? Ian?” you asked quickly, your voice tight with worry.

There was a pause on the other end, then a voice you didn’t expect—familiar, but not Ian’s.

“Y/N?”

You froze, confusion flooding your mind. “Hazel? Why are you answering Ian’s phone?” Panic started to rise inside you, the pieces beginning to fall into place. Ian had gone to Paris. He had found something—something connected to Hazel and Steve.

“He… he can’t answer it,” Hazel whispered, her voice breaking.

Your breath caught in your throat, a chill racing down your spine. “Why?” The word came out in a shaky breath.

There was a long silence before Hazel finally spoke, her words hitting you like a sledgehammer.

“Because he’s dead.”

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[just-some-random-blogger]

hello!! i loved your cregan x martell!reader work sm 😭😭 could you plz bless us with another one? i'm so curious about this pairing, was their marriage arranged or a love match? does little rickon exist in this au? what abt the war?

i'd be delighted to read more about them, if you're willing to write, of course :) thank you in advance!! i adore your writing <3

Heat

You take your husband to Dorne for your sister's wedding. He fairs horribly in the heat.

Cregan Stark x Martell!Reader | 600< | cw: fem!reader, wife!reader, dramatic!cregan, fluff, typos, etc.

A/N: HI NONNIE! this was my firs req since i closed em so YAY US (and it took me so long to write it lmao). it's just a lil blurb but i hope you like it! also this is the fic in question.

Tagging: @sloanexx

The Lord of Winterfell was leading the travelling party. We were deep in Dorne; Sunspear was already within view. And although the fearsome wolf of the North was not one you could easily defeat, he was steadily losing to the dessert sun.

"Cregan," I call out from my horse beside him, "you will get sun burnt if you keep your back bare."

The Warden of the North had one by one removed the clothes off his back. His face, chest, and back was flush and irritated in more ways than one as he looked at me, "and if I put a shirt on," his brows furrow, "I will faint because of the heat."

With a groan, I remove the silk shawl off my shoulders and I steer my horse closer to his. I place the the fabric on his burning flesh, immediately making him whimper. He shrug it off, "I'm sweaty."

"Cregan," I glare and grab my shawl before it drops, "you're overheating."

He rides faster.

"Cregan," I follow, "come here."

He gallops off as quickly as possible, running straight towards the gates of Sunspear. I am taken aback by his sudden fleeing. I look over to the rest of the party, all of which were Northerners equally melting in the heat, and decide to gallop into Sunspear as well for their sake.

Upon my arrival, I was greeted by many people, all of which expressed their delight to see me again. I greet them with glee as I dismount. I instruct the servants to attend to the men and give them something to cool off with.

"Sister!"

"Sister," I call back with a smile.

My younger sister, Calliope, embraces me and kisses my cheeks. I return her affection and brush her hair behind her ear, "you have grown more radiant since last I saw you, my love. Your groom is blessed to have you."

She giggles, "as is yours" she looks me up and down, "is this a glow of an expecting mother?"

"If it be the will of the gods," I smile and link arms with her, "Lord Stark has been most ardent in his duties."

We share a laugh.

Calliope leans in and raises a brow, "you should have brought a bit of snow with you, sister. I think your wolf has jumped into garden fountain."

"He what?"

My sister and I run off to the gardens, and sure enough, there laid the hulking man, body barely even submerged into the water.

"Cregan!" I snap, releasing my sister to fish out my husband, "you giant oaf!"

The man slowly sits up. He wipes water away from his face and smiles, "hello, beautiful wife."

"Get out of the fountain."

He spits out water.

"There are many pools in Sunspear where you actually fit," I reach a hand out.

He crawls over and takes my hand, only to pull me closer and kiss me. His dripping hand comes to my cheek. I whimper. He pulls away and smiles, "will you be joining me?"

I press my lips into a line, "get out of the pool, Stark."

The water sloshes as he gets on his knees and climbs out, "yes, Stark."

Water spills and drips onto the floor as Cregan stands next to me. My sister, Calliope, giggles from behind me. The man looks at her as she speaks, "it might do you well to know the nights at Dorne are cooler, my lord."

I make a face and pull my skirt away when it begins to absorb the pooling fountain water. Cregan notices this and grabs me by the waist, pulling me tightly against him.

"Cregan!"

He smirks and kisses my neck. I glare at him and he smirks at my sister, "I should hope so. My lady keeps me warm at night."

[enigmatist17]

So I had a bit of a different plan for this, but the ending of Earthspark S3 really got me upset, so I've altered it a little bit :')

---

The ferry that went to Griffin Rock rarely did private ventures, but today was a different story. Chief Burns had set out early in the morning after loading a massive trailer, the ferry captain and his crew that definitely included those who were supposed to be off excited at the thought of who they were going to pick up. A family of four were waiting at a dock that was mostly out of sight of the rest of the port, two kids running around chasing what looked like a drone while their parents looked on in amusement.

"Wait, is that the Lieutenant Malto?" One of the older ferry hands gasped, and the Chief looked up from his book with a smile.

"It is, and I'd appreciate it if you fellas kept your questions for a later date."

"Of course Chief, no worries." A younger woman piped up, whispering with her coworkers as they docked and the Chief headed down the ramp. The semi-truck silenced whatever conversation was going on when it transformed into a massive bot, one far bigger than the bots back on the island, kneeling down to shake Chief Burns' hand. The drone the children had been chasing around transformed to land beside the older man, making him jump as the small transformer grinned up at him. They couldn't hear the conversation the bot was having with the Griffon Rock police chief, but soon, the massive bot walked over to the trailer that had been attached to them to open the doors, revealing even more bots that were unfamiliar.

A lot of them were tiny.

The sound of approaching fighter jets startled the relaxed air a few minutes later, and the crew on the ferry flinched when three seekers adorned with a faded Decepticon logo transformed and landed a few feet away from the group. One of the female seekers had landed closer to the family, smiling when some of the smaller mechs came over to greet her, wings hiking up in concern at the sight of the chief hovering a hand over his taser. She kept the two other seekers behind her as she began to speak with Charlie, the other female seeker staring at the unfamiliar human while her male companion just stared at the ferry with an unfocused gaze. The small purple mech had tried to approach him with a friendly smile, the gesture faltering when he flinched, hiding behind his companion with a slightly distressed ring of chirps and clicks no one understood. The chief seemed to relax a little after his chat, still not entirely pleased by the new arrivals, but clearly making plans for them to join the family if the massive bots placating gestures with his hands were any indication. While they spoke, the family of four had decided to approach the ferry, the two kids running ahead with the flying drone and a bot that turned into a motorcycle with a sidecar, laughing and talking with each other until they caught sight of the various ferry hands watching them in amusement.

"Kids, don't run ahead like that!" The husband of the family chided, waving with a smile. "Sorry about them, they're just so excited for this trip."

"It's all good, we've got some time before we head back out, so the little 'uns are welcome ta run about." Captain Shaw chuckled as he headed toward them. "Captain Shaw, at yer service."

"Alex Malto, this is my lovely wife Dottie, and our children Robby, Mo, Twitch, and Thrash. My other kids should be joining soon, they're waiting on Bumblebee and Wheeljack." Arthur shook both of their hands before tipping his hat to Dorothy in mutual respect.

"You did a lot durin' the War, you've my respect."

"Likewise, Chief Burns told me you did a lot of search and rescue out at sea." The former soldier nodded, whistling when Thrash was too close to the edge. "Thrash Malto, what did I say about being that close?"

"Sorry mom! Mo and I thought we saw a dolphin." The small mech pouted as he stepped back, much to the amusement of those around them. "Will we have to travel to the island in the trailer the whole time?"

"No, only until we pass the major shippin' lanes youngin." The captain shook his head, turning to eye the seekers. "Not sure about them, though; my ferry is only so big..."

"They'll be flying Cap, no worries." Chief hummed as he trailed up the ferry, flanked by the three other smaller bots, two others the size of the rescue bots bringing up the rear while holding the Malto family's luggage. While he still wasn't overly excited about the extra newcomers, Charlie made a few calls as the extensive Malto family got situated for the journey to Griffin Rock, the younger bots clearly annoyed with needing to be in the trailer the chief had loaded up, even if it was only going to be for a short time. Bumblebee cut down the chaos with a simple raise of his optic ridge and a firm point at the trailer, the kids grumbling but hurrying inside when the ferry sounded its horn.

"Have a great time, Malto's! Make sure to take plenty of pictures." Optimus waved before the doors closed, the prime reading over to hand Dot a small box he'd pulled from his subspace. "From Megatron, he wanted it to be a surprise."

"Tell him thanks, and we'll check in later." Dot shook her head with amusement as Optimus stepped back to transform, honking before heading back to the work that awaited him in Witwicky. It wasn't long before the ferry had pushed off and headed for its home of Griffin Rock, Mo and Robby chatting away with a transformed Bumblebee as Alex and Dot stood at the ship's bow, taking some time to themselves. Once the captain decided they had moved far enough from prying eyes, he leaned out of his cabin and whistled to Charlie, Bumblebee and Wheeljack transforming as the Chief let the smaller bots out and onto the deck.

"Now kids, I know you're all excited for the journey to Griffin Rock, but I don't want to see any running or transforming until we're docked, is that clear?"

"Yes Chief Burns!" The five coursed before spreading out to bask in the sun, Charlie grinning to himself as Thrash and Jawbreaker argued over the best spot to watch for dolphins. Nightshade had perched themself on the top of the pilothouse to scan the horizon, seeming quite content to spend most of the journey alone while their siblings ran around or pestered each other. Bumblebee was herding the kids with looks or the occasional point, Wheeljack just sitting to the side amused as he tinkered with something, Dot giving him an intense look when he mumbled something about explosives.

The chaos reminded Charlie of his own kids, and he wondered how hectic the next few weeks would be.

"Mom, Dad! I see the island!" Hashtag was the first to squeal in excitement, the speck growing ever closer, drawing the other kids' attention.

"We should be there in no time, speaking of which..." Charlie pulled up his phone and dialed someone, rolling his eyes at whoever was on the other end before hanging up. "Hashtag, sweetie, Nova Storm says to time how long it takes her to arrive."

"Already waiting!" The purple bot grinned, bouncing excitedly as she waited for an honest to god Decepticon to show up.

What a world.

It barely took five minutes before there was the shrill sound of jets heading their way, Skywarp transforming and zapping to end up on the back end of the ferry with a grin. Starscream seemed content with slowing to match the speed of the ferry, Nova Storm doing barrel rolls and small maneuvers to the cheers of the kids.

"What do you think, kid? Who won?" Skywarp grinned as Hashtag hurried over with a grin, a small screen appearing over her palm.

"Nova Storm won by milliseconds, you were close." The terran snickered, Skywarp leaning closer to look at the times with a soft laugh, though they went quiet when Charlie approached the duo with a small wave. "Hi Mr. Burns!"

"Chief works just fine, sweetheart," The older man chuckled, eyeing Skywarp with a slight frown. "Skywarp, right?"

"Yep tin- Chief." The seeker's face scrunched up momentarily before she shrugged, eyeing him with a trill. "You don't like us being here."

"I can't say I do, but I'm a big fan of giving people a chance to prove themselves...Decepticons included. Make no mistake, however, I will be watching, and as long as we all play nice, then I have no issue with you all taking your own break." The massive jet stared at him before grinning, reaching out to gently poke his chest.

"Between you and me? Screamer needs this bad, Storm and I have done a lot, but with Megatron always showing up, we lose whatever ground with him we make. Fragging irritating." Her playful tone had turned serious as Charlie crossed his arms. "As long as we don't end up trapped in a cage, you'll have no problem."

"I think the most you'll have to worry about is Doc Green talking your ears off." The police chief shook his head good-naturedly, glancing over when Nova Storm partially transformed to scoop Jawbreaker up and onto her cockpit, the bot cheering as he was taken close to the water to examine something. "Huh..."

"Looks like fun." Skywarp hummed, vanishing with a buzzing noise to scoop a surprised Thrash into her arms, transporting them a few feet as she transformed to let the young bot balance on top of one of her wings with a whoop.

"They're really nice when you get to know them, I promise," Hashtag whispered with a strained smile. "I wish Starscream was a bit more...aware, but we're working on it."

"What happened to him? I've heard tale of Starscream, but not since the War ended." The older man frowned, Hashtag shaking her helm with a sigh. Said seeker had not made a peep since her initial greeting back on the mainland, and the lack of whistling from his jet engines was almost unnerving if the older man was honest.

"He was possessed by the Quintessons to try and turn their biggest enemy into a weapon, but it all went wrong." Hashtag sighed, hugging her legs to her chest. "The power and the mind control broke his mind, and he got stuck when we put Terratronus in stasis for...a while. I didn't want to leave him there, but it all happened so fast it just, we didn't have the time."

"How long was he stuck?" Charlie gently pat her leg plating, eyeing Starscream as he started to veer off course, only to move back into position when Nova Storm whistled to him in a soft tone.

"Um, about a year. I tried to visit, but it wasn't until Prowl crash-landed that we could get into the zone, and even then, he was still stuck until we were able to wake Terratronus to defeat the Quintessons. It's...the solitary after everything that happened, I think, made things worse, b-but I'm hoping some fresh air with no Megatron around might help!" Hashtag brightened, clearly hoping for the best.

"That was a great idea, sweetie, Griffin Rock has done a lot to help people." Charlie eyed the former second-in-command with a sympathetic expression, making a mental note to get more of the story from the older bots and adults once they were all settled, pausing after a moment to text an old friend.

"Land ho!" Nightshade pointed to the rapidly approaching landmass with a smile, their siblings letting out an excited cheer as Jawbreaker and Thrash were returned to the ferry. Dot and Alex wrangled the kids to settle down while the ferry captain guided his ship toward the docking area. It looked like nearly half the town had shown up in anticipation, the Terrans nearly vibrating with excitement as they waited for the ferry to fully dock and tie up. Dot and Alex get off first with Charlie, the crowd quieting when he holds up his hands.

"Everyone, I know you're excited to meet our newcomers, but I don't want to see any crowding! Dorothy and Alex Malto are our guests, as are their kids and the other bots who have joined them, so I expect that everyone will give them space to enjoy their vacation. Before anyone asks yes, there are a few extra bots I hadn't planned for, but the message also applies to them. Now, why don't we all take a step back while the kids come on down, I'm sure they're done being cooped up. Dorothy, Alex, kids, I'd like to introduce you to the citizens of Griffin Rock, as well as our resident rescue bots Blades, Heatwave, Chase, and Boulder." Charlie motioned to the bots who stood to the side of the large crowd as he introduced them,

"Yay!" Thrash and Hashtag were the first ones off the ship, Nightshade jumping off their perch to land not far from them as Jawbreaker and Twitch brought up the rear. The next half hour consisted of the younger bots either greeting townsfolk or getting cooed over by Blades, until Chase and Charlie eventually dispersed the group to allow the family to gather their things from the ferry and set out for the cabins Charlie had arranged for them. Heatwave had gone off with Boulder to check on the seekers, who had landed further down the beach to avoid too many eyes on them as Nova Storm and Skywarp spoke about where they would stay while on the island. Starscream had wandered away from the two to study some crabs along the beach, the former air commander apparently too invested to notice the two bots several feet away.

"They're fascinating creatures, aren't they?" Boulder decided on a friendly approach, servos up as he approached the seeker. The former Decepticon glanced over at the voice, narrowing his optics for a moment before shrugging, disregarding the first responder as he looked back at the small crustaceans.

"What are you doing?" Boulder and Heatwave looked over at Skywarp's hiss, a look of surprise crossing her face plate at the logo she hadn't seen in a long time. "Whoa, I didn't think rescue bots were still around."

"We are," Heatwave growled, crossing his arms. "What's his deal anyway? I've read about Starscream, but I was expecting someone a bit more..."

"Put together?" Boulder supplemented with an awkward smile.

"Be very careful what you say next." The second seeker stepped forward with a glare, not intimidated by Heatwave in the least. "You have no idea what we've gone through on this Pit forsaken planet."

"We have no intention of upsetting any of you, just getting a lay of the land." Boulder smiled, putting a servo on Heatwave's shoulder. "It won't help if we start arguing."

"Why do we need to care about the land?" Nova Storm asked in confusion, wings slowly lowering at the lack of deception she could feel when Boulder extended his EMF field.

"It's a human expression." Heatwave shook his helm, his own field extending just enough to prove he was willing to play nice. "I'm going to be honest, I don't like the fact you're here, but if the Chief is alright with it, then so am I. Test my patience, however, and I don't care what promises were made; I will make sure you will have regretted stepping foot on Griffin Rock."

"...fair enough, rescue bot, I can respect that." Skywarp nodded, her own wings relaxing from their defensive posture.

"Um, I hate to butt in, but where did Starscream go?" Four sets of optics darted over to look where the last seeker had been, only to find the beach completely empty.

Scrap!

[sineala]

I subscribe to the newsletter of an author I like who wrote a book about 9/11 and the War on Terror and the security state in the US and how it led to the election of Trump, and it's all very serious but apparently the author is writing an Iron Man comics series. I don't read the comics, and a lot of what I know about them comes from your fic, so I'm honestly not sure how much fanon vs canon knowledge I have. 😂 But the series sounds like it might be interesting I think? The author talked about it in his newsletter today. (This link should work. Probably.)

https://www.forever-wars.com/iron-man-how-to-blow-up-a-pipeline-succession/

I am actually really excited about this run! I try not to get excited about new Iron Man runs because chances are high that my hopes and dreams will be crushed, and I know that just because someone writes, say, stunningly excellent non-fiction, it is not a guarantee that they will be great at writing fiction at all or superhero comics specifically (cf. Ta-Nehisi Coates on Cap), but judging by everything Spencer Ackerman's been saying in interviews, his run sounds like it's going to explore a lot of interesting themes.

The post you linked links to an AIPT podcast that he was on a few days ago to talk about his new Iron Man run. For those of you who don't listen to podcasts (this is also me), the Iron Man subreddit has what seems like a fairly comprehensive summary of the interview, and I am really looking forward to the run. Issue #1 apparently hits stores on October 23.

But I will tell you why I am actually now really excited about this run. It's not relevant to anything about the comic itself. I am nonetheless very excited.

Last month, after he was announced as the new Iron Man writer, in order to hype up his run, he posted an offer on his blog: if you add the run to your pull list, and you email him proof that you're pulling his run and include a snail-mail address, he will mail you some cool Iron Man stickers.

I eventually got around to doing this last week. I was assuming he didn't actually pay attention to any of these emails so I dashed off a couple sentences about how I was looking forward to his take on Tony because he'd posted a photo of the Iron Man comics he was reading for research and several of them were among my favorites. And then I went off to get bagels.

By the time I had come back with bagels, twenty minutes later, he'd written me a very nice reply substantively engaging with the content of my extremely off-the-cuff message -- geez, if I'd known he was going to be actually reading them I would have put a lot more thought into it, you know? It was very kind and I was not expecting it.

He spelled my first name wrong in the reply, despite it being in the email header and also the name I had signed the email with.

This happens to me a lot. I have a first name that is very common in a lot of languages, but none of those languages are English. I'd say there's a 50-50 chance that a native English speaker will spell or pronounce my name wrong. This is unfortunate, because I live in the US and mostly interact with native English speakers. (My wife @lysimache immediately knew how to pronounce my name. I mean, it wasn't why I married her or anything, but I feel like it was a big plus on a personal level.)

If I have to give my name for something, I will reflexively spell it. The second-to-last time I voted, they'd switched voter lookup to you giving them your name rather than you giving your street address, which was a surprise that filled me with dread. My wife was in line ahead of me and she was completely finished voting by the time the poll workers had finished correctly spelling my name. (The last time I voted, I just handed them my ID, which is not required in my state, but I really wanted this to go faster.) I went to the doctor last week, and when they called my name in the waiting room, they said it wrong. I corrected them. They said it differently wrong a couple minutes later. I corrected them again. They said it wrong again. At that point I gave up.

(If I could think of a name I liked better that I was absolutely sure that most people could spell and pronounce, I would change my name. I still have not found one.)

So, you know, I'm used to it. It happens. Frequently. I was not at all surprised that he spelled it wrong.

He then emailed me again to apologize for spelling my name wrong. Like, immediately. One minute later. He said he was sorry and he knew a lot of people with a similar name.

Dude. Nobody does that. Nobody actually apologizes. Especially not in an email to a rando like me. He did not need to do that. At all. I was not expecting him to do that. He did that. I was honestly touched. No one bothers to do that. But he did.

I got my stickers in the mail yesterday.

I have redacted the portion of the note that has my name in it, but he absolutely spelled my name correctly.

Mr. Ackerman, sir, I hope your comic sells a million copies.

[fandomnerd9602]

Arranged

Princess!Wanda Maximoff x Male Reader

Thanks to @aloneodi for the prompt!

Wanda hated this arrangement. Marriage between her family, House Maximoff and it's closest neighbor House (L/N). It was a disaster in her mind.

Not only would she have to marry a man she just met but what she had heard about the crown prince of the house was even worse. Rumors had circulated that the crown prince was a womanizer, a prince who would chase all the maids and young women of the land.

"I refuse!" she stated before her father King Erik.

"I beg your pardon?" the monarch asked in response.

"I refuse to be married to some man who will not respect me. A man who would only see me as another notch in his bedpost." Wanda stated defiantly. "Mother raised me to be better than that! I refuse to be the prince's wife!"

"Our nation is on the brink of war with House Stark" the king argued, "in case of attack, we need allies and House (L/N) is our only option."

"What about Pietro?"

"He's pledged to take the throne, along with his betrothed Lady Crystal. Will you at least meet your betrothed?"

Wanda huffed, there wasn't much a choice. She simply nodded. Quickly, she went to her room and changed into some civilian attire.

"Please tell me you're not planning on running away" Natasha, her protector, waltzes in.

"I need some fresh air and some new paints. will my guard care to join me?" Wanda asks her oldest friend.

"I'd be beheaded if I said no" Natasha smirks as she quickly takes off her armor and slips on a cloak.

Wanda loved to see her kingdom, but the only way to remain safe was to go in disguise. Her favorite stop was the painter's shop. New colors and variations for her artwork, it was like being able to create new worlds with the stroke of a paintbrush.

She and Natasha stepped into the shop to find a new customer talking with the owner, purchasing a vial of scarlet red paint. Wanda ran to the back of the store to find the same color. But lo and behold, it was gone.

"Thank you so much" the new customer called out.

"Wait!" Wanda called out as she ran back to the front, "I need that color!"

"Scarlet?" the customer looked at her curiously. "you paint?"

"Yes. What is it unusual for a woman to love to paint?"

"Not in my mind." he smiles before handing it to her, "I was going to paint some roses but I think violets are better in bloom this season"

"Thank you" Wanda fishes for some coins, "allow me to pay you what-"

"Think nothing of it" the customer smiles, "I have all I could need. Pleasure meeting you miss-"

"Wanda" she found herself blushing. Natasha raised an eyebrow, finally someone to get straight to her heart.

"I'm Y/N" the customer smiles, "or at least that's what father calls me when he's not angry"

"And what do you do?"

"A-Apprentice mostly" Y/N shyly replied. "Still learning. But I play the lute and write poetry"

"I love to paint and writing song lyrics" Wanda lets out a chuckle. "I hope to see you again, Y/N"

"As I hope to see you as well, miss Wanda" Y/N replies before offering a bow and heading out.

Natasha lets out a little laugh, "you should've seen your face, Wanda. Your corset looked ready to drop"

"Shut your mouth" Wanda blushed as she walked back to the castle.

She walked into the throne room to see her father talking with a cloaked figure. The two were sharing a little laugh.

"I must've misunderstood the letter" King Erik laughs, "so no marriage required"

"Your majesty" a similar voice answers back, "my family is built on the Knight's Code. Despite what my brother's womanizing actions may say. I would rather have friends than a forced marriage"

Wanda approached the two, trying to be as quiet as a mouse. The king turned to her, "darling you must meet Prince Y/N"

"Y/N?" Wanda looked to the hooded figure who pulled down his hood revealing the friendly customer from before. The two young royals found themselves gasping.

Y/N couldn't wipe off the smile forming on his face.

"But-! How?"

"Your majesty" Y/N bows before her, "It appears our next meeting was sooner than we would think."

"Were you tricking me?" Wanda eyed the prince.

"Never ma'am." Y/N explained, 'I like to visit potential allies as a servant, i can get more places as such."

"So you're the one I am to marry?"

"I-If that is your wish" Y/N blushes

"You're not a womanizer"

"That's my older brother" Y/N huffs, "My mom raised me better than that."

"You're not an apprentice" Wanda giggled.

"I am actually. An apprentice monarch" Y/N laughs, "and I am still learning."

"Perhaps you could show me some of your poems," Wanda offered the young prince.

Y/N holds out his elbow to her, "only if you'll show me your paintings."

Wanda found herself blushing again. She looked to her guard who gave her the thumbs up.

The two young royals walked off arm in arm. Maybe there would be a marriage some day, for Wanda and Y/N. But for now, their kingdoms were safe and a blossoming love could take the time to fully bloom.

THE END.

[accidental-king]

BURYING THE NOT QUITE DEAD: A DISCO ELYSIUM FANFIC

My take on the events after the game featuring a multi-fic HarryKim slowburn. I'm also just a sucker for case fics. This is just a snippet from Chapter 1 but I actually have several chapters written. I'll be posting them on AO3 eventually but I'd like to run it by some beta readers first. Feel free to DM me if you're interested!

SHIVERS - As the sun begins to lower over Jamrock, the dome of an old silk mill shines like brass in the golden light. It's not difficult to see a time in which masses of workers filed in and out of its entrances, and the motor lorries lined up along its western wing to collect their wares. Miles upon miles of lustrous textiles to be shipped across oceans and isolas to glide across the skin and furnishings of those few who can afford it. The Revacholiere will never be one of those people. 

The long and blocky building projects off of either side of the dome like a russet brick ladybird, splitting its chitinous hide and stretching its wings between half-demolished tenements and modern high rises alike. Its masonry tells tales of a time before the deathblow. A time when even the utilitarian still showed a thread of residual vanity in the form of granite steps, sharp stone arches, and molded concrete cornerstones. Original varve clay brick, brown like dried autumn leaves, sit in contrast to newer, coppery replacements, highlighting the scars of war and neglect in cracks, blotches and even an entire end of one wing. Always visible like a reality you can't unsee. 

ESPRIT DE CORPS - It has been a Police Precinct longer now than it was ever a Silk Mill but its old purpose still lingers in the bones of its columns, trusses, and long abandoned smoke stacks.

INLAND EMPIRE - It’s all that you have left.

What’s to the North?

What’s to the South?

What’s to the East?

What’s to the West?

What’s inside this building?

Shudder and blink

YOU - What’s to the North?

SHIVERS - A peninsula. A district left abandoned by its surrounding infrastructure. Bombed out ruins and mountains of shipping crates slowly turning red. The harbor has been locked up tight since shots rang out in the square. Blood and heavy fuel oil paint an old mosaic red and hang in the air like a fog that dares to challenge the sunlight. Motor lorries still sit abandoned in the circle, where you left them. A bookstore is no better now than your last visit, and a hostel is now empty of guests minus a few lucky souls who now grieve their lost brothers in the Union booth.

INLAND EMPIRE - It was your home for the past week.

CONCEPTUALIZATION - It is your birthplace. Born of a drug and drink deluge, on a floor covered in a lifetime of mistakes. 

YOU - And beyond that?

SHIVERS - An islet of crumbling concrete and steel. The wind whistles through water reeds and swathes of tiny white petals that push through the last spring snow. Ashes of a fire long gone out blow out into the sea to be swallowed like the memories of the cause that built it. Its only resident is gone now, taken away for medical treatment and for a prison sentence that will see him to his final days.

What’s to the North?

What’s to the South?

What’s to the East?

What’s to the West?

What’s inside this building?

Shudder and blink

YOU - What’s to the south?

SHIVERS - An apartment building. Mostly stone, though partially the ivy and wisteria that have done their part to claim it in an attempt to reach the heavens. They are a part of one another now; inseparable without either coming to ruin. Inside, a marriage has been strengthened thanks to an unusual discovery made by an unusual officer of the RCM. Husband and wife embrace as they look over the colorful image between them.

YOU - And beyond that?

SHIVERS - A wind whips down the long stretch of Boogie Street that barely contains the buildings and crowds on either side. Neon signs illuminate dark windows that are rattled by the music within. Lively chatter fills the air both inside and out. A young woman walks out with her lover in hand. She presses close to his side to fight against the chill of the spring air as her dark brunette curls whip about her face. The man flashes a charismatic smile and he pulls her in closer to lead her away to a shiny white lacquer motor carriage parked just off the main street. They each know something the other does not.

What’s to the North?

What’s to the south?

What’s to the East?

What’s to the West?

What’s inside this building?

Shudder and blink

YOU - What’s to the east?

SHIVERS - Seemingly endless blocks of brutalist apartment buildings that tower over the residences that survived the revolution 43 years ago. The whole district lies in a millennium old riverbed, leaving it forever in shadow of Jamrock to its west, the GRIH to its north, Grand Couron to its east. Grand Couron and the Old South district maintain their borders with two of La Delta’s canals. 

INLAND EMPIRE - A mark of constant probability. Everyone of Revachol West is just one bad couple of weeks away from moving to the Eminent Domain or the Burnt Out Quarter.

SHIVERS - Across the water, a woman in a satin robe sits with her elderly dog, surrounded by shining white marble as she peers out her 11th story window. The glass leaves the evening in an emerald tint. She would have the Eminent Domain wiped from the face of the Earth if it meant sparing her view. The canal and a financial cushion are all that separates her from the proles.

And beyond that?

SHIVERS - La rivière Espérance and Revachol East

What’s to the North?

What’s to the South?

What’s to the East?

What’s to the West?

What’s inside this building?

Shudder and blink

YOU - What’s to the West?

SHIVERS - A home you will never see again. Trees and underbrush devoured the old hospital and surrounding buildings of the Pox long before you even had a chance to remember it. Stray vagrants find their way through the bombed out ruins, shuffling past abandoned wire bed frames and rusted carts of broken tare. There is nothing left to be found here but a little bit of shelter from the wind. But the Valley of Dogs lurks nearby and most know never to stay unless they’re entirely out of options. This place will likely never be safe again.

What’s to the North?

What’s to the South?

What’s to the East?

What’s to the West?

What’s in this building?

Shudder and blink

YOU - What’s in this building?

SHIVERS - As day begins to fade and the lights begin to slowly begin to blink on across the city, multi-story factory windows will slowly transition from the concealing darkness to exposing illumination of what is no longer the East Insulindic Textiles Company. The loading docs have now become the motor pool for the 41st Precinct of the Revachol Citizens Militia. An old Coupris 40 whirs past a vehicle of a similar model and one of a decidedly newer model as it turns into the garage for the evening. Both MCs it passed do not belong to the 41st.

Inside the building proper, a stern looking man in a well tailored uniform walks toward the elevator at a brisk pace. His left breast is heavily decorated in medals and ribbons. One from the Suzerain, three from the Commune, most from the Moralist International. He bears the weight of the whole city on his shoulders but he carries it with an air of pride and authority. He’s heard tell of some strange happenings and without seeing it for himself, he’s not sure he believes it. 

Across the precinct, in the East wing, tucked into the far end of the first floor an eclectic group of men sit inside a dimly lit Lazareth. Three surround one in a way not too dissimilar from how the interviewee had been earlier in the day.

What’s to the North?

What’s to the South?

What’s to the East?

What’s to the West?

What’s in this building?

Shudder and blink

YOU - A violent shudder passes down your spine and you find yourself suddenly aware that you have been staring off into the ether for about 3 minutes. You are one with your body once more.

PRECINCT 41 - The Lazareth Office of Dr. Nix Gottlieb is small despite the size of the precinct that it maintains. Cabinets and shelves line just about every surface in some manner or capacity. And each and every surface was crammed packed with medical supplies, specimens, and piles upon piles of folders and textbooks. There isn’t much space to move, let alone work. The center of the room is dominated by a surgical table that is currently sporting a flimsy pad that serves as a cushion for your injured ass.

INLAND EMPIRE - This is the closest thing to private healthcare you’ve seen in years.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - Your bullet riddled leg has already been looked over. You’d managed to pull your stitches and partially reopen the injury during your little jaunt about Martinaise and the islet.

PAIN THRESHOLD - You wish you’d been unconscious like the first time you got sewn up. Gottlieb is quick and efficient but he’s merciless in the empathy department. In other words, you cried. And your leg still hurts like a bitch.

EMPATHY - Kim radiated pride and relief behind his subdued expression when the doctor had complimented his work.

ESPRIT DE CORPS - [legendary: failure] He’s just glad it wasn’t worse.

NIX GOTTLIEB - The doctor is a bespeckled elderly man, dressed in civilian clothes, a dark, woven turtle neck covered by a brown blazer that stopped fitting him in the shoulders about 10 years ago. His forehead and brow are permanently creased by stress and a deep look of concentration. His brow deepens when you shake yourself out of the thought. “Welcome back, Detective.”

RHETORIC - That was sarcasm. He doesn’t care.

PERCEPTION [smell] - On his breath, mingled with the scent of Tioumoutiri cigarettes, you catch a whiff of peppermint schnapps.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY - If we play our cards right, maybe he’ll share a belt.

VOLITION - We’ve been clean this week. Don’t fuck this up now.

NIX GOTTLIEB - He scratches at his wispy white hair and beard as he speaks over his shoulder at two other men. “And how long would you say these episodes tend to last?”

KIM KITSURAGI - Your partner of the last seven days looks between you and the blue notebook in his hands, occasionally flipping through its pages. He still stands in his field attire; Orange nylon bomber jacket zipped up to his collar, white crew shirt hidden beneath it, brown aviation mechanic pants tucked neatly into his black boots, and his brown leather driving gloves. 

KIM KITSURAGI - He thumbs over a couple of pages before answering, “Anywhere between a few seconds to several minutes. This… is one of his longer episodes.”

CONCEPTUALIZATION - Wait! Has he been taking notes on you?

LOGIC - [medium: Failure] Of course not. We’ve already established that this is his method of working through his thoughts. This is likely a method of recall for him.

TRANT HEIDELSTAM - A lean blonde man in a tailored suit looks over you from where he stands, with fascination glittering in his hazel eyes. You saw a similar light when you spoke with him in front of the defunct Feld R&D when he spoke of their pre-revolution efforts. He was also one of the only ones in the fishing village who stood up for you against your partners onslaught of insults.

ESPRIT DE CORPS - This man is a special consultant taken onto the Major Crimes Unit in C-Wing. His well-traveled knowledge and personable demeanor has lent itself invaluably to the task force.

AUTHORITY - /Your/ task force.

INLAND EMPIRE - Not anymore. You’ll be lucky if they’ll even let you back into the field as a patrol officer, given the circumstances.

TRANT HEIDELSTAM - “And what do you experience during these… lapses, Harry?”

HALF LIGHT - Don’t. This is a trap.

[RHETORIC - challenging] Explain the skill set

+1 Kim is here -1 Butcher doctor -1 This sounds insane

[VOLITION: legendary] “The city speaks to me sometimes.”

+1 Revelation in the church +1 She loves you -1 This sounds insane

[DRAMA - godly] Convince them your thoughts are normal (lie)

-1 Kim is here -1 Butcher doctor -1 You’re already insane

“A real shit show of internal monologue that drowns out the world around me.” [continue]

Really? Anything else?

YOU - Really? Anything else?

CONCEPTUALIZATION - Nope.

[RHETORIC - challenging] Explain the skill set

RHETORIC [challenging - Failure] What spills forth is a vomited spew of half finished sentences, aborted gestures, and some words you’re pretty sure you’re misusing. You throw in some apologies and self-depreciation for good measure like a dog half-heartedly trying to bury its own shit.

NIX GOTTLIEB - “Try again. But in Vacholian this time.” His arms cross and his fingers drum impatiently on his bicep.

[RHETORIC - challenging] Explain the skill set

[VOLITION - legendary] “The city speaks to me sometimes.”

+1 Revelation in the church +1 She loves you -3 This sounds insane

[DRAMA - godly] Convince them your thoughts are normal (lie)

-1 Kim is here -1 Butcher doctor -3 You’re already insane

“A real shit show of internal monologue that drowns out the world around me.” [continue]

Really? Anything else?

YOU - “Just a real shit show of an internal monologue that drowns out the world around me.”

KIM KITSURAGI - “It’s inconvenient at times, but he often comes through with concepts and ideas I never would have considered. Unorthodox as it may be, it was invaluable to the investigation.”

DRAMA - [Medium: Success] He means it, sire.

EMPATHY - He’s concerned about your well being, but he also doesn’t want to see you misrepresented in the eyes of these men.

+1 Morale

[chenswire]

overdue Episode 11 post

basically the chenswire part of my stupidly long twitter thread covering ep 11 with more delusional thoughts and I ended up TLing their last scene in CN I guess (scroll to bottom) i wish i had the energy to make 1morbillion gifs but i do not so.. Excerpts from my 200 image screenshot folder it is

So the ep starts off with a super pensive Swire which was very cute when will my wife return from the war energy

And then she breaks out into a super un-ladylike run whaddahell!!!! this sequence was sooo well drawn wtf. handsome

(Something here about how people were joking this part is summer chen because they call chummer 水陈 'water chen')

I like how relaxed the atmosphere was like this definitely isn't the first time something like this has happened, well I mean after all they are Professional Co-workers who do not fight 24/7 (they get into an argument immediately after)

When they break eye contact to turn towards Hoshiguma they basically don't meet each other's gazes again as they take turns to glare at each other its insane... Also Swire saying she should take over and Chen needs treatment... Chen you understand what that means right...

Another detail I love is how at the start they already show her battered jacket/clothes for us gamers to point at the screen and then later who those who don't know/didn't notice we have a whole close up of chen reacting to it...man.jpg And swire leaving right away once she knows chen is fine (and one of her good points. lol. lmao) you guys are sure so quick

Link to CN version of the PUUK GAI LUNG in Paci Plaza I love how she's like 'Chen you stay right there' at the end like she's going to idk fly over ASAP to whack her (as opposed to just 'hey, chen!')

Here's a clip of the last scene with CN dub because not only do we get 'ah chen' it just hits so different...

Hi~ Still there, Miss Ah Chen? Ah? What d'you mean by ah, huh? Aren't you a Dai Siu Ze too? Enough of that, don't you have something to tell me? What happened at Paci Plaza… I'll make sure to sort it all out and file for damages later.

Had a feeling they would go with the JP loc's 'aren't you an ojou too' since you know, anime, but keeping the 'ah chen' and that 阿什么阿 response the unparalleled casualness

You… Remember the Cha Chaan Teng at Sheung Wan? Trying to change the subject? The one near the LGD HQ, right? I used to stop by there on my patrols sometimes. Let me treat you to something there next time. Hmm~ If we go there… I want a steak tomato and egg burger! Wait, no! Like hell I'd want you to treat me to a meal!

the longer pause after 'you...' like she was considering something else before she decided to go with her 茶餐厅 MENTION!!!!! gives this a whole different flavour... chen outright offering the meal instead of swire guessing??? THE WARM SMILE CLOSE UP i feel like im intruding on something

Then send your bill to Chief Wei. I'm hanging up. Wait, don't hang up just yet! I heard you ran straight out of Rhodes Island in the end. What are you planning? Weren't you looking for their help? Ugh, stay down! Take a nap over there! You sure sound busy. Guess I should hang up. Tch… I'm not done speaking with you yet. Was leaving the little bunny (and the others) over there weighing on your mind? Well, whatever. (We'll just do this) Just let me help you clean up the mess over here.

It just sounds so much more casual in CN than the JP dub (which is excellent ofc) >let me do it for you instead of 'ill do it' (head in hands)

the opposite lighting and angle and chen looking away vs swire looking straight #KINO

Don't talk like you understand me very well, Miss S. Enough!!! How many times have I told you not to call me that!! Got it, got it.

You don't seem to get it, so I'll be nice today and explain it to you. Life is extremely precious. You're always risking your life chasing what's right in front of you. Stop doing that. Got that? Your advice… I'll take it.

That exasperated 'Enough!!!' i (turns into a plane and flies away) and the last line... it as 'thanks for the advice' which technically isn't wrong but you know the nuance of uh. kind of, almost, somewhat, accepting a... confession... (of her concern ofc) also CN chen lets swire finish speaking instead of interrupting which hehe... like i said..the flavour hits different. also that subtle movement as chen like eases in more and more between those lines aaaghhhhhhhhhh

their earlier argument was so explosive and quick, but now their banter is so tender and slow like bruh. what. even the act of chen putting down her sword to sit down in a comfortable position (loved that she sat like that One leg sitters rise up!!!) was so ??? the normally yolo speedrunner chen being so leisurely like damn. ok. ok. From 'you think you can order me around' to basically agreeing to an order (Londinium cannon vine boom) I thought Chen being this warm was more or less a delusion that I inferred through in game as subtext (since in game her expression then is usually like her default rbf face...) and seeing it here as 'text' in the show is like 🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯 holy shit can't believe i got FED after four years incidentally i've been obsessed with a certain CN writer's fics lately because the way they write chen like a sad wet dog while showing warmth is crazyyy maybe i will blog about it next time because i was legit taking notes lmao

[kharmii]

Some More (Bad) AWESOME MLA Takes

This will be R-18, so if you are a minor, don't hit that cut link.

First off, someone did a post about Fascism in My Hero Academia based on some bad MLA takes they saw here and on Twitter. I'm not sure if my takes are part of that, but basically when I throw out the 'fascist leaning NAZI anarchist cult' accusations, I don't mean them any deeper than saying, "The MLA are very bad people. After all, Curious tried to murder a child because it would make a good martyr story to boost their favorability ratings in public opinion (x many other MLA atrocities)."

No, I don't think they are Nazis. No, I don't think they are fascists. Now it could be argued they are anarchists, and my writings lean into the cult head canon heavily, especially in Geten's POV. Mostly I mean it in the same way a leftist will call anybody who disagrees with them a 'Nazi', the difference being that I'm throwing it out facetiously, whereas the leftist who calls me a Nazi would throw a brick at my head and murder me if they could. On that note, I saw this on Twitter today:

Can these gender studies fanatics ever see past themselves? ReD and Trumpet are grown-ass middle aged men who live in a fictional Japanese city, even if they are Caucasian passing. No middle aged, white or Japanese businessman on the entire planet earth would give a greasy goat's balls of God damn about misgendering someone. That is almost exclusively 100% a female thing, especially amongst blue haired dog or cat momma leftists.

Side note: It would be more fun if Trumpet reported to ReD's office saying, "Maid service! Time to run the vacuum under your desk!" *eyebrow wiggle*

I could see a scenario where Geten somehow gets talked into doing the 'they/them' bullshit browsing too much Tumblr. ReD would report himself to Trumpet as a joke. Since Trumpet is sort of like that cool uncle to Geten, he'd have a little talk with him to let him know what's what. He'd explain to Geten that he shouldn't get pulled into the gender bullshit because it has f-all to do with becoming the perfect murder machine. After all, his powerful Ice Ply ability makes him the pinnacle of humanity, whereas the people into the gender bs are generally the most gullible of stupid idiots who will believe any cockamamie bullshit philosophy anybody throws at them, even if there is no scientific evidence to back it up.

"Now if you happen to meet such people," Trumpet would say, "Make sure you give them a copy of Meta Liberation War and have them attend meetings. We're always looking for impressionable suckers to become disposable shock troops for the Liberation Army. After all, to give one's life for the cause of Liberation is most noble."

Geten would reply, "Thanks for imparting all your adult wisdom to me, Uncle Cunty. You have such a way with words!"

Later, Geten would get a second opinion from Skeptic who is and always was a super genius going all the way back to when he was a mensa level child prodigy GATE kid. He'd ask him what he thought of trans people, and Skeptic would show him this meme:

You aren't trans......

That opinion would be based on their healer Recovery Girl who I'd written about in one of my fics. I had written: Once called Recovery Bro, he was a huge hulking 6'6" brute who resembled the most simian of Skeptic's puppets. One day, he had up and left his wife and four kids to transition into a trans female toddler complete with blonde pigtails and teddy bear clutched in his arm. He was the most talented healer Detnerat fortune could acquire, and so they put up with his eccentricities. Skeptic had chalked the lifestyle change up to trans brainwashing via an online porn addiction.

Staying on the topic of Geten, one of the bad takes that really pisses me off is how MLA fans will act like his bigotry toward Dabi made him an outlier, whereas all the others weren't bigoted at all. They say it's because he's the Apocrypha who goes his own way. The others are compassionate tolerant freedom fighters who murder children, amputate fingers and use psychological torture against their enemies. I happen to think Geten is the way he is because all the others had a hand in his raising and taught him everything he knows. It wasn't just ReD who was a surrogate father.

After ReD gave Geten a pep talk before the Dabi battle.......

.......good old Uncle Trumpet also put loving hands on Geten's shoulders and gave him some advice. He told him to make sure he tries to sound nice and doesn't act like too much of a dick about it when he tells Dabi he is a sad pathetic loser with a weak meta ability.

"Make it sound like you are doing him a kindness ending his life," Trumpet would tell him, "After all, he'd probably end up dying alone, like, a week from now as a result of some mishap pertaining to his weed and internet porn addiction."

Geten would give him a hug and tell him he'd be there with him in spirit during the Dabi confrontation.

One more thing, if it's true ReD is enamored with Shigaraki as the new leader of the PLF, it might be because he thinks it's actually stupid. He hopes Shig will completely demolish the organization and allow him to have whatever he has left of his life back.

Maybe when quirks were brand new, and most people were still quirkless, Destro's vision might have made some sense and came across noble. In modern times, it would be a farce. Society would have to regulate meta abilities, and in the same sense, it would be impossible to because there's too much variety and too much of the unknown. There might be a lot of crimes and murders where detectives are shaking their heads not even knowing what they are looking at. Viewers have to give the MHA world a lot of poetic license because looking too deep into it makes it all fall apart.

If ReD wanted to see the MLA taken down, he'd be at a dilemma not knowing how to break it to the three remaining lieutenants who are completely loyal to him, even if their personal motivations are quite different. Only Geten might be deluded to believe in the actual cause, whereas Trumpet would be in it for the status and monetary gain, and Skep is in it for fun and because he has really weird hobbies. :-D

[crownedtargaryen]

Robb x Reader Oneshot

A/N: I will admit this is for my dearest friend @valeskafics but also for me, I gotta indulge in Robb too fr… also I’m listening to Whatta Man - Salt En’ Papa, En Vogue while writing this… also maybe captain save a hoe…

ALL NOTES ARE APPRECIATED (SHARES, LIKES, COMMENTS)

NSFW 18+

CW: possessive Robb WOOF, semi public sex, he literally spits in ur mouth, breeding or something lol tehe 🤭

Pronouns: She/Her

spacer from @firefly-graphics

I never saw Robb Stark, my husband, as the jealous type. He was always focused on his wars and battles, his honor, and such. I found no interest in those desires, all I wished was he found a desire for me. We hadn't made love yet, and he had refused a bedding ceremony in want for it to come naturally. I know he loves me or at least loved me once. I felt alone, he worked hard on everything but when it came to us it felt halfway.

I stare blankly out the window of our carriage, sighing heavily. I feel Robb's eyes on me and I turn, a smile coming to him as he holds eye contact with me.

"Something ailing you, My Love?" He asks sweetly, making me frown slightly. I watch his brows furrow, scooting closer to me. "What's wrong?" I feel his hand stroke over my hair, scanning me for a solution to my problems.

"I feel lonesome," I murmur, feeling his figure stiffen. "I feel you don't love me, Robb." I look at him, my gaze softening with sadness. He's apologetic, I can feel it. He cups my face and sighs softly, admiring my features.

"I wish I'd known sooner," he says, swallowing hard and exhaling heavily. "I love you, more than anything in this world. You're the best gift the gods have given me, and I am forever grateful for it." He places his forehead on mine, leaning in to kiss me but is stopped by the carriage slowing to a still. I grumble in unison with my lover, and we both grin like idiots. Quickly, I shuffle to my feet.

"Race you!" I scramble out as I rush through the door and up the stairs of King's Landing. I hear him swear at me playfully and run after me.

I turn to look at him, not paying attention as I run into someone, stumbling backward, an arm grabbing around my waist. My gaze snaps to a handsome man, with brown scruffy hair and a button nose. His eyes are blown wide with shock, his rough dirtied tan skin absorbing the light around us. I feel my face grow hot as he chuckles.

"Woah there pretty lady, wouldn't want ya' fallin' down these steps," the stranger teases. I push him away and smile gratefully, slightly awkward.

"I appreciate the help, I could've-" I start, being interrupted by a stern hand on my shoulder. Before I can react, I'm tugged back and Robb is in front of me with a blade to the man's throat. They stare at each other, neither afraid of the other.

"Keep your hands off my wife," Robb growls under his breath, almost animalistic. I go to reassure him but he pushes closer to the man. "She's mine, you dare even look at her I'll splatter your blood all over these stairs." I can feel him snapping at him, the action scaring me.

"You've got a pretty thing with ya', but why you throwin' a fit over someone doin' somethin' you shoulda been helping her with," he snaps back my heart racing. I feel Robb's anger grow and flourish into pure rage and jealousy. I grab him as he goes to slit his throat, the blade missing by an inch. Robb turns around and glares at me, but sees my worried face and sighs.

"Let's go. Now." My husband grabs my hand, returns his sword to his holster, and storms up the stairs, glaring at anyone who looks at me.

After being passive-aggressively settled into a room by those in power, Robb grabs me and shoves me onto the bed, walking over and towering over my body.

“You keep your eyes on me,” he demands, glaring down at me. I stare at him, completely wide eye. He seems to start becoming breathless and feverish with a growing blush on his cheeks. "You're mine. All mine. If I have to put a baby in that pretty belly of yours to make sure you remember that, I will." I was shocked, but I loved it. Despite his harsh manner, he still looked to me for consent, and I nodded slowly. He took the gesture quickly, grabbing my dress and tearing it off of me without shame. I hear the fabric rip as my body is aggressively revealed to my husband.

I hear his breath hitch as he stares at my chest, mesmerized. He reaches a semi-shaky hand to my breasts and squeezes one. He stares at me as if I'm his prey, eyes wild with lust. Slowly, he uncovers my lower region and sighs longingly when my cunt is revealed to him. I thought he might just lose himself there, so much love mixed with lust corrupting his gaze. Before I can react, he's on his knees in front of me, mouth on my cunt as he moans against my folds, tongue trailing my clit as if he's done this countless times. I whimper, thighs clenching his face, my hypersensitive body being overwhelmed by the sensation.

I hear his clothing shuffle and then clatter onto the floor, swiftly grabbing at my thighs and groaning in pleasure. He looks up at me, his desiring gaze driving me closer to my edge. With a pop, he moves off my now swollen clit, pushing one finger after the next inside and moving up to my face. I look up at him pitifully, my mouth open and whimpers escaping me as my thighs twitch with needy shuffles.

Robb smiles, grabbing my jaw with his free hand, and spitting in my mouth. "Swallow it," he demands, and I do as he says weakly, trembling beneath him. "Such a good girl for me... You want my cubs inside that body of yours so bad, don't you." His hand moves from my jaw and down to my stomach. I feel his pointer and index trail the middle of my stomach as I squirm under him. "I want to hear you beg for it, (Y/N). Beg."

Part of me feels weirdly humiliated, but I do it nonetheless. I've wanted his cock for ages, I'm not giving this up now. "Please, Please Robb," I start, panting weakly beneath him and he hastens the pace of his fingers, making my back arch. "I need you, fuck me, Robb. Please, I'll do anything." He seems satisfied by my statement, flipping me over onto a doggy-style position.

I expect him to rush to fuck me, but instead, he grabs me with haste and smacks my thigh with a newfound roughness. I quiver, yelping as he lets out a satisfied growl. "Letting all those men look at you. You love the attention, don't you, Princess," he smacks my ass once more, tingling pain in my skin. I grip the sheets, shaking slightly. "I'm going to let the whole kingdom know what's mine." Quickly he grabs me, turning me to face him as he commands me to wrap my legs around him. I do so, watching as he takes me to an open balcony in our bedroom, something he had specifically requested for our chambers. Now I knew why. We looked over the city of people, some spotting us on the balcony in such a ludicrous act, but it'd take a lot of focus to realize what was happening and who it was. He leans me against the railing after ensuring it's sturdy, pushing inside me without warning. He stills, waiting for me to grow comfortable, then pushing in and out of my cunt, slow at first.

Robb buries his head into my shoulder, biting the nape of my neck and growling under his breath, quickening his pace. I moan, shamelessly. Surely the people who saw us knew now, the loud noises that escape me echo through the air as I tug his hair. He loves it. I pull his head to my lips, kissing him passionately as he squeezes my thighs, slipping his hand down and abusing my clit.

"Robb... We might get in trouble," I pant out, moaning pitifully against his lips. I feel him grin like an idiot, replying after a giddy few seconds.

"Good," he whispers, pulling my hair back and making me moan toward the gods. May they forgive me for this action, but it feels so good. "Let them know who's my breeding slut, my sweet Princess. No one can touch you, no one can make you feel this good." He moves his kisses and bites down my chest, speaking into my skin with a deepened tone.

His thrusts become sloppy, and his words send me over the edge. I scream his name, definitely catching the eyes of the citizens below as I shake and hold onto his hair. The tug mixed with the noises is enough for him and he groans my name for all the gods to hear, stilling inside of me and making a mess of my cunt.

He holds my head close, stroking my hair with soft groans and pants. He whispers a phrase that makes me melt. "I love you. I love you so much." He kisses the side of my head, pulling out slowly and carrying me to the door where the guards stand, peeking out.

"Fetch a servant to run a bath," He demands, closing the door and dressing me in his tunic, dressing in loose clothes. I look at him lovingly, a glowing grin on his face. He looks at me, his eyes full of love. "I didn't hurt you, did I?" He whispers, kissing my forehead. I shake my head no, his muscles relaxing as he scoops me up and takes me to the bath. "Let's get you cleaned up."

Robb sat comfortably in the warm water as I cuddle up to his chest on his lap, running my fingertips over his muscles gently. He's washing me off, a rag running over my skin with such care.

"Robb?" I whine, looking up at him. He looks at me and wraps his arms around my figure, tilting his head like a curious dog. "Are you sure you love me?" I felt fearful asking, but I knew he'd be honest toward me. He does not hesitate for a moment, immediately answering.

"I love you more than anyone or anything in this life, as I had said before. I'll say it a million times again until you believe me. You're my blessed wife, I will never let any harm come to you or our marriage. I swear it, by the old gods and the new." He looks serious, his expression unwavering. I pause, surprised by his effortless affection, he didn't even have to think about it. I hug him tight, resting my head over his heart. It's a slow and relaxed rhythm, his hand rubbing over my bare back. "I'd lay my body upon my blade before I let you hurt. Do you hear me? No one will dare touch you, not while I'm standing." He lifts my head, staring into my eyes. I stare back, my heart racing with love.

"I hear you. I'll never let anyone hurt you either. I cannot do much, but I wish to try. With everything I have," I move up, kissing him lovingly. He returns with haste, gripping my sides and groaning softly. Slowly, he pulls back, much earlier than I'd like.

"You'd better quit being so perfect or I'll be fucking you again," he teases, making me flush and gently hit him on the side. His laugh warms my soul. "Hey! What happened to wishing me no harm?"

"Think of it as a repayment for my ass," I whisper, Robb grinning ear to ear. "Now let's finish up, I wish to rest."

[terresdebrume]

More fic covers | More fic recs

I mentioned I made fic cover in a recent post and it reminded me that I'd meant to make one for SJTrinity's Band of Brothers fic: Under Thunder and Rain which is THE Webgott fic, as far as I'm concerned. I've reread it something like five time in the past three months, it's ridiculous. You should read it to.

More about my thought process under the cut, with some spoilers.

So, the entire fic is amazing, of course, but the scene that keeps standing up in my mind is the one in chapter 4, where David is about to sail away on the Tusitala and Joe tries to convince him not to. I love this scene, the vulnerability in both of them, the fact that they find each other, the fact that Joe doesn't realize that it's him David was looking for in the sea. (I know David compares himself to the Shark from the Frisco chapter, but to me his fight to catch said shark is also an excellent parallel of the way he constantly has to reel Joe in and then give him some slack before he breaks the line in his struggle.)

All this to say: I had to have the Tusitala on the cover, if only because if this boat could talk it would be able to tell the tale of how Joe and David finally stop struggling and come together for good. The rain, of course, is a reference to the title and the poem David writes Joe in chapter 5, but I still wanted a bright blue sky as the background because I feel like the vivid and peaceful color are a good contrast to the way they struggle to find their way to one another (and also it reminds me of Episode 10 of BOB, where the color is back in the world and it feels like everything should be alright, but Easy is still losing men and none of them is free of the weight of the war.

The title and author name being on pieces of paper is, of course, a nod to Joe's box full of David's letters and notes, which is also featured against the title card. I wanted watercolor of a bag of groceries for the upper left corner, to further reference that first note and the fact that we don't know how significant it is until the end of the story, because Joe keeps all his cards fucking close to the chest, even if he also betrays himself in his struggle.

(Full disclosure, on my latest rereads the bits that caught my brain were

the time David asks Joe if his future wife does have a smile to die for and Joe says "yeah, it's a great smile. Drives me nuts." While running a finger over David's lips

"He wouldn't add or take away a single thing, and the people who read that book would know how fucking lucky he had been, how he had fought against it and gotten it anyways, this symphony of a life.")

Unfortunately, I couldn't find any graphic on Canva that fit the style of the rest of the cover, so I got a pastry instead. I picked the croissant because, while not extremely sweet for a delicatessen, it's very buttery, and, well: "Copious amounts of sugar and butter clearly loosened him in a way even sex couldn't achieve, because when David came and stood beside him by the stove, Joe threw an arm around his shoulder and bumped their heads together, then playfully tried to wrestle him off his feet." which I feel is also a delightfully deep insight into Joe in general.

And last but not least: the transparent text is the last note David writes Joe in the fic, standing in as the last page of Joe's unwritten book of them.

[memekais]

epic the musical sentence starters. the troy saga. feel free to change pronouns as needed!

the horse and the infant

ten years of war they killed us slowly but now we'll be the ones who slay.

your families wonder where you've been.

do what i say and you'll see them again.

find that inner strength now, use that well of pride.

ask yourself inside - what do you live for?

what do you try for? what do you wish for? what do you fight for?

i fight for us, i fight for us...

a vision of what is to come, can not be outrun, can only be dealt with right here and now.

say no more, i know that I'm ready.

what sort of imminent threat does he pose that I can not avoid?

if you don't end him now you'll have no one left to save.

i'd rather bleed for ya, down on my knees for ya - i'm begging, please!

please don't make me do this, don't make me do this!

the blood on your hands is something you won't lose, all you choose is whose.

just a man

i look into your eyes and I think back to the son of mine. you're as old as he was when i left for war.

will these actions haunt my days? is the price i pay endless pain?

close your eyes and spare yourself the view.

how could I hurt you?

i'm just a man who's trying to go home even after all the years away from what i've known.

i'm just a man who's fighting for his life.

deep down i would trade the world to see my son and wife.

but when does a comet become a meteor? when does a candle become a blaze?

when does a man become a monster?

when does a ripple become a tidal wave? when does the reason become the blame?

forgive me... i'm just a man.

full speed ahead

the problem's not the distance, it's what lies in between.

[name]'s waiting for me so full speed ahead!

we've run out of supplies to eat.

curse the war, our food store's depleted.

six hundred men, six hundred reasons to take what we can so captain, what's the plan?

watch where the birds fly, they will lead us to land. there we'll hunt for food, my second in command.

look! there in the distance, i see an island!

i see a light that faintly glows. maybe they're people lighting a fire. maybe they'll share some food, who knows?

something feels off here. i see fire but there's no smoke.

i say we strike first, we don't have time to waste so let's raid the place!

we should try to find a way no one ends up dead!

give me til sunrise, and if we don't return then six hundred men can make this whole place burn!

open arms

i can tell you're getting nervous so do yourself a service and try to relax, my friend.

think of all that we have been through. we'll survive what we get into.

i know that you're tired of the war and bloodshed.

tell me, is this how we're supposed to live?

why should we take when we could give?

you could show a person that you trust them when you stop and lower your guard.

here we have a chance for some adjustment... give it a try, it's not that hard.

this life is amazing when you greet it with open arms.

whatever we face, we'll be fine if we're leading from the heart.

no matter the place, we can light up the world. here's how to start: greet the world with open arms.

stay back, i'm warning you.

if we don't get back safely, my men will turn this place into blazes.

it took me a while to notice what kind of fruit they eat. it's a lotus, it controls your mind and never lets you free. that's what we'd get with open arms.

i'd like to show my friend that kindness is brave.

i see in your face, there is so much guilt inside your heart.

you can relax, my friend.

warrior of the mind

have you forgotten the lessons i taught you?

have you forgotten to turn off your heart? this is not you.

i see you changing from how I've designed you.

have you forgotten your purpose? let me remind you.

my life has one mission, create the greatest warrior.

maybe one day he'll follow me and we'll make a greater tomorrow, then they'll see.

i know he'll change the world 'cause he is a warrior of the mind.

maybe one day i'll reach him and we can build his skills as i teach him.

if there's a problem, he'll have the answer.

show yourself, i know you're watching me. show yourself. i can see you...

haha! i was lying and you fell for my bluff! hahahaha!

well done, enlighten me, what's your name?

nah, don't be modest - i know you're a goddess!

badass in the arena! unmatched, witty and queen of the best strategies we've seen!

if you're looking for a mentor, i'll make sure your time's well spent.

sounds like a plan! goddess and man, bestest of friends!

i know we'll change the world 'cause we are the warriors of the mind!

i still intend to make sure you don't fall behind. don't forget that you're a warrior of a very special kind.

[another-fire-emblem-sideblog]

In case I delete my damn Twitter (I really should), I want to preserve the only tweets I ever made that I liked. Which, unfortunately, was rating every Fire Emblem Final Boss on their fuckability (remixed).

I'm sorry.

(Note: I confess that I am not a monsterfucker, yes yes leave your angry comments below, and I will be ranking every boss on their most anthropomorphized form to even the playing field)

(Edited on 2/17/2024)

MEDEUS (FE1/FE3/FE11/FE12)

Oh boy here comes the most generic villain ready to offer me the most generic sex possible. How could I ever contain my excitement

VERDICT: Look tumblr likes to make evil sex with your evil spouse look de facto exciting but even the spark can go out of villain sex. If he's a boring villain in the streets he'll be a boring villain in the sheets.

DUMA (FE2, FE15)

Man I am so glad that the remake gave Duma a human form and I don't have to be talking about ~~Duma's wiggles~~

VERDICT: I will confess to not being particularly attracted to him, but.... Not to spoil anything but he's going to be one of the better picks on this list.

JULIUS (FE4)

He is a child.

VERDICT: He is a child.

VELD (FE5)

Oh boy, you KNOW he fucks with the same enthusiasm of a disgruntled middle manager fitting in a quickie between reruns of Home Improvement with a wife that he's a decade past loving.

VERDICT: I mean there are worse choices on this list but love yourself.

IDUNN (FE6)

Even putting her somewhat... neotenous features aside, the whole free will removal kinda makes the idea of sex with her pretty unethical at best.

VERDICT: And even if we ignore all that she got one rounded by Roy. Total turn off.

FIRE DRAGON (FE7)

There is no anthropomorphized form. It's just a dragon.

VERDICT: I have concerns about size differentials here.

LYON (as possessed by FORMORTIIS) (FE8)

Ok, ok, I acknowledge this one is kind of a stretch as those two are separate entities and the Formortiis you fight is NOT in the shell of Lyon but like. Give me a break. I know you horny fuckers want Formortiis to become intimate with your intestines. I'm terribly sorry this stupid post isn't for you.

VERDICT: Let's be real. Unless you're Eirika or Ephraim (or willing to put on some cosplay) he won't be bringing his A-game. If you are, though... oooh. Boy. The emotion would run high. There would be crying. I'll leave it up to you as to whether this is a plus or minus.

ASHNARD (FE9)

Unlike some other options on this list, it is at least 100% proven that he has had sex, if only as a means to an end. I honestly doubt whether he would fuck for any other reason to be honest

VERDICT: If, for some reason, being used as a genetic experiment isn't a turn off, he's absolutely going to ask if he can turn a family member of yours into a mindless war beast, probably immediately after the sex. If for some reason this still isn't a turn off, uhhhhh I hope y'all are happy together.

ASHERA (FE10)

While I could imagine most of the other characters in this list being open to the idea of sex, I really couldn't see Ashera being DTF. But...

VERDICT: She's hot in a scary Drakengard way, so I'd say it's worth at least shooting your shot. She'd probably turn you to stone, but that's the risk you take for love.

ROBIN (As possessed by GRIMA) (FE13)

Fell Robin is a great example of the effects of evil on human attractiveness. On their own, Robin is human tofu. They are a perfect 5/10. Being possessed raises their score to at least 6/10.

VERDICT: 6/10 is better than average. Why not.

TAKUMI (FE14)

As far as I know, he doesn't have an official age, but I see this character and I think "that's baby"

VERDICT: All I want to do is give him butterscotch candies and ask him how he's doing in school.

GARON (FE14)

Like Ashnard, at least you can say he definitely fucked. Quite a bit, considering the excess of children he has (discounting his propensity for picking them up off the streets) So, uh, he's got one thing going for him?

VERDICT: He has this expression the entire time.

The

Entire

Time.

ANANKOS (FE14)

man who fucking cares

NEMESIS (FE16)

He's the only final boss in Three Houses that doesn't turn into a big ol' monster so he's got that going for him (or against him, depending on your point of view.) Unfortunately, he is, however, a zombie, which I would rate as worse.

VERDICT: One certainly can't say he's slacking on the gym routine but... zombie. Does he smell? Ew.

EDELGARD (FE16)

It's everyone favorite problematic waifu! What is there to say about her that hasn't been said before.

VERDICT: No, I mean really. Uh... if you like her I said she was stinky and if you hate her Edelgard come step on me uwu. Everyone can be mad at me. It's fun for the whole family.

RHEA (FE16)

Rhea is a scary, scary woman and fucking her would ruin your life

VERDICT: Rhea can totally get it.

EDIT: As of this writing (2/17/2024) I have beaten Fire Emblem Engage, and have edited this section accordingly.

SOMBRON (FE17)

Like Garon, Sombron canonically fucks. A LOT. This does not mean he's necessarily any good at it, mind, but he's got to at least... know... stuff, right? He was able to turn the yaoification beam on Hyacinth so he's clearly not completely lacking in sexual appeal. He will NOT wear a condom tho, although who on this list would?

VERDICT: I feel like you'd need to have some very specific fetishes for this to be a good idea, but if you do... have fun?

As for Heroes, I will confess that I only played Heroes very briefly; I don't know shit about the story and will have to rely on the wiki. So if I get some stuff wrong, apologies that I didn't play a shitty gacha. I was too busy... uhhhh having sex with your mom (NOTE TO SELF DELETE LATER)

BRUNO (Heroes, Book 1)

This bitch loses shirts like a Yakuza character. His abs have more screentime than his face. He pops on screen and Yusuke Kozaki manifests behind you and whispers in your ear "don't you just HUNGER for his dick????"

VERDICT: Oh come on.

SURTR (Heroes, Book 2)

Uh... he was pretty good on my team for the brief moment that I played. Uh... shit let's consult the wiki

VERDICT: ...oh. He's not very nice at all. Yeah don't fuck him.

HEL (Heroes, Book 3)

Ok. Look. Listen. Ok. Ok. Look. Ok. Ok. Listen. Ok. Listen. Listen. Listen. Ok. Look. Ok. Look. Listen. Listen. Look.

VERDICT: ...

...

...yeah...

FREYJA (Heroes, Book 4)

Ok, she's cute, but... I don't know. I just don't vibe with her design. It screams "designed for lonely dudes" and I'm a lonely GAL thank you.

VERDICT: Bring back the goth milfs.

EITRI (Heroes, Book 5)

NO.

VERDICT: NO.

EMBLA (Heroes Book 6 oh my god how many fucking books are there)

Oooh, she looks deranged! I like that; I'm a big supporter for women's wrongs.

VERDICT: ...Admittedly, she has more "wet drowned rat" appeal than sex appeal.

Book 7 isn't actually done yet (I think) as of time of this writing so I'm DONE. NO MORE.

[miramilocamimira]

Come With Me

Part of the for @z-eusie

Zeus looks around, checking on his family as they argue about what to do. They all were carrying bruises, cuts, and wounds from Typhon. He sees ichor dried onto their skin.

Thunder roars, momentarily stopping his family’s discussion. His body feels like it’s burning, his mind clouded by the feeling. Things were supposed to be better. There wasn't supposed to be more. THEY WERE SUPPOSED TO BE SAFE.

Zeus closes his eyes and breathes. He has to calm himself. It wouldn't do for him to give in to his rage and grow careless. Slowly, the thunder quiets down to dull rumble and he opens his eyes again.

The other gods were talking about fleeing. About leaving Olympus and defending their own domains or hiding from the attack. It's hard to blame them.

The storm giant was far stronger than even he thought.

The council starts screaming at each other, growing louder and louder. It's fairly easy to hear the growing terror and hysteria in their voices. And it’s not fair. It isn’t fair. It’s not.

They don't want to be here. And they shouldn't. He doesn't even- he can't… They should- “Go.”

There’s silence and Zeus realizes this is the first time he's spoken since they'd convened. He feels their stares and the weight behind what he'd said hits him. He told them to run.

But is it not right? Gaia has sent Typhon after him. Not them. They were only caught up in this mess because they had sided with him. He glances around and sees hints of relief. The idea that they would not have to take to the field again…

It has to be the right decision.

“Go,” He speaks again, “I will not stop you.” And he won't. He'll be too busy to even consider finding them soon enough. His family starts speaking again. This time, it's to decide where to go.

Some speak of Egypt. Others wonder if going across the seas would bring them safety. He finds himself memorizing what they look like, the mannerisms, and the like as he waits.

Hera and Poseidon are speaking off to the side and he watches as her body relaxes, a soft smile coming to her face as their brother no doubt agrees to let her come to the sea. Today, her hair is golden and tied back in a simple plait. Her eyes are silver and shiny like the stars at night.

As always, she is the most beautiful and radiant being he’d ever laid eyes upon.

Zeus watches as they all start leaving. And soon enough, it was just Hera, Poseidon, and himself. His brother nods to Hera before disappearing and he hears her come up to him.

“Poseidon has offered me protection. I'd be back with our uncle and aunt.” Oceanus and Tethys lived very, very deep inside the sea. It is a good idea and should provide adequate protection.

“That’s good.”

“I noticed you didn't speak with anyone. Do you have somewhere else in mind?” She asks and he can feel worry coming off her.

“Something like that.” He says. He knows she hates it when he responds like this. Hera’s left eye twitches as it always does when she’s annoyed.

“I see. Are you heading north then?” He shakes his head. “I do not wish to play games with you, Zeus. Just tell me.”

“Love, it isn't that I wish to play games. I just think that it's obvious where I'm going.” Her eyebrows furrow and her lips make a line. It doesn't take long for realization to hit and for her to grow concerned.

“You’re not leaving? But Typhon will- you're going to fight him!” She screams at him and he stands up. “Call the others back if you think we can win than they should-!”

“NO!” He bellows. “It is safer for them and you, if you all are out of my way.” She had stepped back when he yelled and he felt guilty.

“You… you are scared.” His wife states.

“He’ll destroy everything if he is left to his own devices. Someone has to stop him from killing off mankind.”

“It doesn’t have to be you.” The thunder’s howl is deafening.

“And who else can, Hera? They were barely standing. Our family was in pain. Our siblings and children exhausted, reliving the horrors of war. We had just barely settled into peace after the giants!” He turns away and he can hear the bolt crackle as he gets worked up.

“THEN WE’LL FIGURE IT OUT!” She shrieks back. “We can talk with Poseidon, we can do something, anything, that isn't this!” He knows if he turns back to face her, he’ll see her tears and lose his resolve. And he can't.

He stiffens as she leans on him, strands of her hair tickling the back of his neck.

“Come with me. Please. I'm sure Poseidon will let you hide with us.”

“Someone needs to fight Typhon.” Her hands hit his back and he can feel anger rolling off her in waves.

“Fine.” She hisses. “But don't expect us to risk our lives to save you from your own stupidity when you finally realize you're in too deep.” The weight is removed and she takes off. All that's left is him. His cheeks are wet like he's stood out in the rain.

“Gods, love, how could I not know?” Zeus whispers to the empty thrones. He wipes his face and grasps his bolt.

He has no other option. He has to win. Typhon cannot be allowed to harm his loved ones anymore.

[lewinblue]

Sunny my love I was gonna send this in earlier but I didn't want it to be so sudden (lol). I promised I'd send in more Salem's Lot headcannons and here they are.

-Mark Petrie and his gang of neighborhood goonies love to run wild all over the lot. They're literally the goonies and will refer to themselves as such and so won't their teachers. One of their antics that made you especially proud was when they tee-peed Richie Bodden's house after he was picking on a new kid at school. Ben gave Mark $20 for his allowance that week because Richie and his two hoodlum buddies broke the living room window with a rock (Parkins let the stupid bully absolutely HAVE IT when he walked out the door that morning).

-Which then led to the little goonies inciting the great neighborhood rock war two weeks after school started. Mark came home with his glasses broken but the rest of the coven didn't bat an eyelash.

-Mike Ryerson's wife, Lucy, is from Tennessee and oh the duality of this woman. On the one hand she is definitely a well brought up southern girl but she is not afraid to stake a bloodsucker when the need arises. Her grandma was the head of a coven that consisted mainly of Irish, Black, Cherokee and Muskogee-Creek members in its early days and they all passed their knowledge down to Lucy.

-Hank Peters and Royal Snow are the MASTERS at booby traps. These two idjits will hide in the trees while Nolly Gardiner lures whatever creature is bound for it into the trap and it never fails.

-You guys always get the super advanced copies of Ben's books and you and the whole house cannot stop reading them for the life of you. He loves to write about you guys, but especially you and him.

-You and Ben once went to the drive-in on date night to go and see a reshowing of Young Frankenstein and you were both making out so hard that you ended up recreating Madeline Kahn's operatic orgasm not once, but twice (the other was at home on a super chilly night). Mrs. Curless was being extra nosey when everyone was on the porch for breakfast the next day and Randy suddenly blurted out that "Daddy made mommy sing last night!". Father Callahan spit his coffee out right over the porch rail and it went all over Mrs. Curless who immediately turned and walked away.

-You guys have snuck off so many times especially on a hunt and come back covered in hickeys. Ben's always guilty of having hickeys on his chest and when he couldn't button his shirt back up quick enough everybody just rolled their eyes and laughed.

-He especially loves it when he's writing and you come over to kiss his cheek but your hand dips into his button down to play with his tit. He always has to choke back a moan when your fingertips gently brush against his nip because he has no idea who's gonna walk through the door.

-You guys adopted a stray cat that Father Callahan had been feeding for about a week. He was a black cat with a little white mark on the top of his head and Randy named him "Oreo." Turns out Oreo also had a mate and lo and behold, when you guys woke up, there was a litter of kittens in their basket.

-Oreo loves to curl himself in Ben's lap when he writes but Ben gets a little freaked out when Oreo starts making biscuits on his thighs because the cat is super close to his junk. You laughed when you heard him yell "Darlin! The cat's dangerously close to my schwantz again!"

There’s a chill in the air and I’m counting down the days for the movie to be released. It’s like I’m running a marathon and these headcannons are Gatorade to keep me going.

I’m now picturing everyone having a little boo club with ben’s books and he doesn’t know and walking in on it one day. He looks surprised and a little embarrassed but no one has any shame