#it's low on his face but not super low nor super high

[storytellering]

screenshot redraw except i got a bit carried away

[norikuna]

WHAT? LIKE IT'S HARD? ✶ choso kamo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re not above sending a risky message.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s your point?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You ask Kamo, I’ll ask Suguru.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Choso’s shoulders tense, “Can’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You first.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I help you?”

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

Choso Kamo.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THREE YEARS LATER.

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

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

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

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

Your mother.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get out,” you blurt.

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

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

“Partner?” Choso finishes for you, deadpan.

“Of all the people in this entire school —”

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

“What are you doing here?”

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

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

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

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

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

“What? Like it’s hard?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Choso just rolls his eyes.

“They…modify bacterial ribosomes.”

“Wrong.”

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

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

“Nope.”

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

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

“Just tell me the answer.”

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

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

“I was close.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing next weekend?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you want to study at my place?”

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

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

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

“Hmm. Sure, I’ll think about it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s not a date. We’re studying.”

“Don’t care. Didn’t really ask.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did I leave the door unlocked?”

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

“Get out.”

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

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

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

Weird. And impossible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Leave Yuuji out of this!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mhm.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right.

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

“So, what?”

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

“Are you angry?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not happy, Satoru?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s he look like again?”

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

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

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

“Hold up! I got visual aid.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now who’s the liar,” Suguru murmurs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You good?”

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

You’re having none of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There you are.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Without warning, his phone buzzes.

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

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

“What?”

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

“I’m not dating Tsukumo Yuki.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If it’s a proper date, it’s a yes.”

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

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

ONE WEEK LATER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[cressidagrey]

Lightning in a Bottle - Prologue

Summary: 

Eira Archeron was neither a Valkyrie, nor a Seer, nor the High Lady of the Night Court. She was actually pretty much useless. The only thing she wanted was to be somebody's first choice for once in her life.

Also known as: Azriel's shadows decide that if he doesn't treat his mate right... they'll just do it for him.

Warnings: 

Kinda Elain Bashing?, Low Self Esteem, Mention of Cauldron induced torture...

(super pretty dividers by @tsunami-of-tears)

As far as cauldron-made went…Eira Archeron was pretty much useless. 

She had neither the power of Death nor of Divinity. 

She was neither the prettiest one, that title belonged to Elain…nor the smartest one, which was undoubtedly Nesta. Or the strongest one like Feyre…And if she had tried to hunt like Feyre, it would have been more likely that she would have accidentally killed herself instead of bringing home any meat. 

As a human, she had been limited to cooking and cleaning and laundry, all of it with limited supplies and even more limited experience. She had tried. It had never been enough. 

So maybe it shouldn’t have surprised her that her uselessness continued on even when she was no longer human.

So if she wasn’t beautiful or strong or smart…what was she then? 

The dumb one? 

When the cauldron had burned every bit of humanity out of her…when it had ripped away all her hopes and dreams…when it had been so angry with Nesta after whatever she had done to it that Eira was just…Eira was just an afterthought, something it could hurt in response to her sisters and then leave gasping on that stone floor feeling like she was dying…

She had done her best to accept her lack of humanity afterwards. Nesta had raged…Elain had said nothing, suffering silently in the bed…and Eira…Eira had tried. 

Tried to make it better…tried to make it easier for everybody around her. She had tried. 

She hadn’t wanted to put even more on Feyre’s shoulders, not with the threat of impending war…and so she had done her best to be supportive and make no trouble…be agreeable and quiet and be helpful…

But she couldn’t be helpful. 

She was nothing but a useless appendage. With no powers, no great destiny stretched in front of her…

Not even a limb. Not even a fucking pinky finger. 

More like a skin tag. 

Completely useless. If cut off, it wouldn’t even bother anybody. 

They had made that clear to her over time. 

They had made clear what they thought about her, again and again, and now…now she finally realised it. She was a slow learner…but by the gods, she did learn. 

It started…slow in a sense. Comments, made offhandedly, that probably weren’t meant that way anyway…sometimes said to her face…sometimes overheard. 

“Stop your screeching, girl, I am getting a headache.” Amren. After she had finally…after months felt like singing again as she fixed the hem on one of her sister’s dresses. She had stopped singing then.

Amren had never brought it up again. But then Amren had never been particularly nice to any of them.      

“Don’t come crying to me if she bites off your head. I warned you.” Rhysand had told her drily when she insisted on visiting Nesta at the House of Wind every week after all of that had gone down… 

“Don’t you have anything better to do? Like make another ugly dress?” Seethingly said by Nesta…pitted against the one thing she liked to pretend she was good at…the one thing she could do and make money with…

It cut. Of course, it did. But it wasn’t even the worst thing thrown at her head by Nesta…so why was it the one thing that stayed in her mind? 

“We don’t need Eira. Quite frankly, it’s better if she doesn’t go. Elain is the prettier one, anyway.” Cassian…overheard by Eira before the rest of them had gone off to Hewn City. Eira left behind because…well the contrast of Elain badly dressed was enough, no need for Eira to…be what? A distraction?  

And it was true too. Elain was the prettier twin sister. 

Eira was just…common as muck as her mother had liked to remind her…Nesta was the smart one, the one who would marry a prince…Elain would marry for love and beauty…and Eira…well, she would make a good farmer’s wife as far as her mother was concerned.

Not pretty enough to garner a richer man’s attention…not smart enough to drag herself up the echelons of society on her own…To easily content as far as her mother was concerned. 

“As far as cauldron-made goes, she is pretty much useless.” Morrigan. Said in jest. Eira was quite sure of that…still, it had hurt. Because it was true. She was useless. 

No magic sparking at her fingertips…Using her magic was like pulling teeth…painful and a long process…And it never did what she wanted anyway. 

“Eira, find somewhere else to be. I really have more important things to do,” Feyre had said with a sigh…after she had brought her sister cookies and tea…after she had only tried to get Feyre to take a break from her work. 

Eira hadn’t tried that again either. 

And then the one that clinched it: 

“At least I found two males in my life willing to marry me. The one you have your ridiculous puppy crush on is never even going to look at you!”

Said by Elain…by her twin sister. She was frozen in place, staring at Elain wide-eyed as her sister sneered at her. 

 That was the last drop into an already overflowing bucket. 

Stress. Right? Just stress from wedding planning. Elain would have never said that usually. 

She wouldn’t have…

It was just…it was just stress…Just stress. 

Elain didn’t mean it like that. 

Right?

Elain flounced off…her wedding binder in tow…leaving Eira alone, sitting there, in the dining room, her chest aching. 

Eira was in a trance as she carefully put all the plates into one tidy stack…as she was thankful that it had just been her and Elain, every other person in their family busy with their mates or something else…Feyre and Rhysand gone with Baby Nyx for the evening…Nesta and Cassian off at the House of Wind…who knew what Mor and Amren were up to…

Or even Azriel. 

A sob threatened to take over, as she thought that name. 

She walked up the stairs…to her room…Her room. She locked the door with shaky hands. 

“At least I found two males in my life willing to marry me. The one you have your ridiculous puppy crush on is never even going to look at you!”

She collapsed on her bed, burying her face into her pillow and let the tears stream. 

Ridiculous puppy crush. 

All of that said because she had tried to talk to Elain about her choice of flowers for her wedding. Because lilies wouldn’t be in season when she married Lucien in Day Court in less than 2 months. 

And then Elain responded with that, because Eira clearly wanted to ruin her wedding with that factoid. 

“At least I found two males in my life willing to marry me. The one you have your ridiculous puppy crush on is never even going to look at you!”

The worst part of it was that it was the simple truth. 

Azriel was never going to pay her a second glance. 

He had always been more interested in Elain than Eira…he had on more than one occasion asked Eira questions about her twin sister…had made sure that Elain was comfortable and cared for…and Eira had sufficed as a source of information and nothing else. 

And after Elain and Lucien had become serious…well, Eira ceased to be interesting too. He hadn’t sought her out again. 

If she sat next to him at dinner, he was polite and quiet, bordering on silent. And then she tried to fill the silence and probably only annoyed him in the process. 

He didn’t want her. He never would. 

She starved down the sobs that wracked her body. 

It was probably high time that she accepted that, right?

High time to get over herself. 

High time that she reminded herself that…that she was never going to have him and that staring at him in ill-hidden affection only made everybody else make fun of her and probably made him deeply uncomfortable. 

So maybe it was better that she just…

At least he had never called her useless, she supposed. It could be worse…even when he never would want her. 

She felt the touch on her hand first…soft like velvet…like kitten fur…never warm, never cold. massive and somehow not… definitely not human. 

The shadows. His shadows. 

Sometimes they came to keep her company. At the start, she had thought that maybe he had sent them but nowadays she was quite sure that they had just liked her quiet singing while embroidery one afternoon. So quiet that nobody would hear.  It had taken her months to coax them out of their corners after that. They probably had just taken pity on her. 

Just like they did now. 

“Please don’t,” she choked out. She never wanted him to find out how she was feeling about him…never wanted to feel the pain of him outright turning her down. 

 And if his shadows came to check on her, they would report back in what they saw…and they didn’t need…didn’t need to worry about it. 

They never talked to her. Just sometimes they came and listened to her softly talk to them while she was sewing in the evening, about this and that...

It wasn’t right how she talked to you, the shadows whispered. 

They didn’t talk to her. Never. 

And now they did. 

Hell, even his shadows were feeling sorry for her, weren’t they? 

“Please don’t tell him,” she begged. 

He should know, they disagreed softly. Everybody should know. She should apologise to you. 

And what would that give her? Nothing. More embarrassment because everybody else got to hear all about her fledgling little feelings? Feelings she should bury deep and never examine again? 

“Please,” she begged again and the shadows seemingly surrendered, curling themselves up against her hands so that she could touch them. 

Don’t cry, they soothed her softly. Don’t give her that. 

Elain hadn’t said anything that was untrue. That was the worst part. It was true. And that hurt. 

Is there anything we could do? the shadows asked Eira softly. Anything at all to make this better? 

“No,” she whispered, choking out the words, another sob. Not anymore. There was nothing anybody could do. 

It hurt. It hurt so badly.  Just like the cauldron had.  Then she had wished she would die. 

Now…now she wondered the same once again. Maybe then it would stop feeling like this. 

She cried her eyes out, as the tears kept pouring over her cheeks…as she sobbed until her throat was raw and everything hurt. And finally, she just laid there…the shadows still swirling worriedly around her prone form. 

“Don’t you need to work?” she asked the shadows listlessly, tears tracking over her cheeks. “Don’t you have something more important to do than to try and comfort me?” 

Maybe take care of him?

You are important, the shadows snapped. 

Eira could argue that point. She was useless. So what did it matter? It didn’t. 

She wiped away the tears, but new ones just came pouring over her face and she stopped trying, let them run down her face and wondered how long she could stay in her room and never come out again. 

Would you like something to eat? the shadows tried again. So sweet. Trying to give her something, anything to comfort her. 

“No, thank you,” she whispered. Alone the thought made her want to throw up. 

She didn’t want to eat. 

She didn’t want to get up and talk to anybody. She didn’t want to even look at another person anymore. 

She didn’t…

What would you like then? The shadows tried softly. Would you like to plot revenge? they suggested. 

It was so stupid that she choked out a laugh. 

“For what? Elain saying what everybody else is thinking?” Eira asked, her heart painfully restricting. 

Nobody here actually wanted her around. If she disappeared forever she would do them a favour. Him especially. 

Elain had only said what everybody else was thinking. 

All three of her sisters had found their mates, just not Eira. All three of her sisters had some kind of power…just not her. All three of them had found some kind of place for themselves…and then there was her, living with her youngest sister, half seamstress, half nanny for her child, an unwanted appendage that was taken care of out of some feeling of duty and no other reason.

Elain had just voiced what she was thinking. The truth. 

It had been the truth. Plain and simple. And Eira maybe didn’t like to hear it but it didn’t…it didn’t matter. 

It was the truth. 

Elain had two men willing to marry her and spend the rest of their lives with her…and nobody wanted to spend any time with Eira. A husband wasn’t even something that had ever seemed to be a possibility. 

Even if everybody else is thinking, that doesn’t make it right. The shadows disagreed quietly. Your sister said that to hurt you and not for any other reason. 

“She’s stressed out with wedding planning,” Eira whispered. 

It had just been that. Probably. Maybe. 

That doesn’t make it right, the shadows disagreed again, twirling tighter around her wrist. We could ruin her wedding. Lilies and all, they suggested brightly. 

She shook her head. No. Elain should have the wedding she dreamed of. Eira wasn’t going to ruin it for her. 

“Don’t do that,” she said weakly.

We could at least steal her wedding binder, they told her mulishly, and Eira wondered if they disagreed like that with Azriel too.

Azriel…

What did it say about her that she fell head over heels in love with the first man who treated her with polite indifference? That she was so desperate to be loved that that was all it took? 

Did it matter? 

No. 

Elaine was right. He would never spare her a second glance. He was just as unreachable as any other male.

Nothing was enticing about Eira.  Neither her body, nor her mind, nor her magical power. What could she possibly offerany male? 

All the nightmares she had on a near-daily basis? All the fear and anxiety that swirling around her gut every day? 

She could sew on any buttons he lost along the way, she supposed. That was something.

The knife that plunged into her womb and twisted, took her by surprise. 

It shouldn’t have.  

Of course. 6 months had passed once again. 

“Don’t tell him this either,” she begged in a whimper. This was too embarrassing. He didn’t need to know about her cycle. 

Nobody did. She was the most modest out of all her sisters. The one with the most human ideas of what was considered to be decent, left…the only one who…

The only one left with her maidenhead intact, because everybody else was mated or married or very much in love and it had never mattered in Prythian anyway. 

Just Eira was left. 

Without a mate. Without a husband. 

Without ever having even been kissed. Nearly 26 and that…hadn’t happened for her. 

It probably would never happen anyway. 

Why today of all days? 

Why did her cycle need to torture her today?  How did she deserve this? Why not in a week…Though at least now she had a reason not to leave her bed for a few days.  

She could just stay here. 

Mope in her own Misery and self-pity…wallow in the pain that she knew would come…

Of course, it would. She had always had a horrible time during her cycle even as a human…as a Fae, it had become her very own personal torture. 

Maybe a bath would make you feel better, the shadows suggested softly as she already curled herself together in pain. 

She needed to get up and sort herself out before it got even worse…made sure that she wouldn’t get blood all over the sheets, but she couldn’t…She didn’t want to. 

And a bath…A stab of pure fear.  

“It’s like the cauldron,” Eira whimpered. Just like the cauldron. 

She didn’t bathe…she used buckets of water…even years later…still standing water was not something she could stand. Not without being reminded of her humanity being ripped away and traded for whatever this existence was. 

What if we make sure that it isn’t? the shadows asked her softly. It will be nothing like the cauldron, we promise. 

A bath…a hot bath that would help against the soreness of her muscles…that would maybe ease the cramps…

It did sound nice. So nice. 

So Eira just weakly nodded. 

That seemed to be all the agreement the shadows needed as they whisked her to the bathing chamber, in the blink of an eye.

She watched as they flitted about the room, turning on the water, dotting candles around the room, making it brightly lit with faelight and candlelight both. 

Lots of foam and bubbles appeared in the bathtub as well as numerous concoctions being poured into the water. 

She slowly toed off her shoes and opened the laces of her dress. Eira hesitated and the shadows disappeared, letting her undress in privacy…letting her walk to the bathtub and test the temperature…stare at it for a moment. 

It couldn’t look less like the cauldron if it tried. 

She waited for a stab of fear but nothing came. 

So she slid into it, let the warm water envelope her, the perfect temperature… A few tendrils of shadows came to keep her company, touching her chin so that she tipped her head back and they started to wash her hair for her. 

Eira couldn’t even remember the last time anybody had done that for her. 

And they did that…without even asking…just…just for her. 

“Thank you,” Eira whispered, not daring to close her eyes, but staring at the ceiling. “Are you sure you don’t have anything more important to do?” she asked weakly. “Isn’t your master going to be angry at you?” She didn’t want them to get into any trouble, just because they…they were taking care of her. 

You don’t want Master to find out, so he won’t, they said easily. Would you like some pain potions? 

If they gave them to her, she wouldn’t need to walk downstairs and maybe face her sister or gods forbid, Rhysand…and ask them for Madja. 

Nobody would need to know. She could have her privacy and her dignity left intact. 

“Yes, please,“ she breathed in relief as the shadows poured something or other over her head. One shadow brought her a vial, wrapping around her wrist as she uncorked and downed it. 

A bitter taste but it left her blissedly numb and tired nearly immediately.

“What’s that?” She mumbled as they hushed her, massaging her head.

It tasted differently than whatever Madja usually gave her…telling her that pain and discomfort were normal and that her potions would ease it…It was like pouring a bucket of water over an inferno. 

While this…this was quenching everything. Leaving her numb. 

Just a rather strong pain potion, the shadows promised her. You’ll sleep for a bit…We’ll talk more then.

Sleep… Sleep sounded nice…

She didn’t even think about feeling self-conscious when they pulled her from the water, rinsed her off and wrapped her in warm, fluffy towels. 

They laid out her favourite nightgown so she only needed to pull it on and pull back the sheets of her bed so she could slide beneath it. 

Even a hot water bottle was waiting for her…

Everything so that she would be as comfortable as possible… everything for her.

“Thank you,” she whispered, tears pricking in her eyes as she climbed between her blankets, the shadows fluffing her pillow and pulling the blankets as high as they went. 

It was weird…to have the shadows doting on her, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care. Eira was too selfish to protest this bit of attention…the only positive attention she had in years. 

They promised not to tell, so she wouldn’t either. Not when this was the sweetest thing anybody had ever done for her. 

She fell asleep between one breath and the next, safely and warmly ensconced in her bed. Deep dreamless sleep…When she woke, it must have been the middle of the night…and still, the shadows were there immediately. 

She whimpered at the cramps that were ransacking her body…and the growling of her stomach in hunger. 

She hated these cycles. Hated how weak they left her and how she wanted nothing more than to cease to exist. 

Are you hungry? You’ll need to eat before you can take another pain potion, the shadows told her worriedly. Not a lot, just a little bit, they promised. 

“I don’t want to go down into the kitchen,” she answered weakly, biting her lip. Not that she thought that she could safely traverse the staircase anyway. 

Eira just wanted to stay here…alone. Maybe with the shadows for company, as long as they wanted her…

We’ll get you something. What would you like? They assured her immediately. 

Everything in her body ached for something human, even when she knew that their food would taste like ash for her. She always wanted human things. The things she would never have again.  

“Maybe some soup?” Eira asked finally. “If that’s not too much trouble?” 

Of course not. 

They fluffed her pillows and helped her sit up…and then soup appeared…a bowl filled with clear broth with bits of vegetables and chunks of chicken and noodles…cooked to perfection…better than anything she could have ever produced and by the gods, she had tried…All of it, arranged on a tray, with two slices of perfect crusty bread and another pain potion. 

She took that first, and it made her pleasantly numb and tired…and so she weakly spooned as much soup as she could in her mouth afterwards… mopping up the last of her soup with the bread. 

She finished as much as she could before she was too tired and the shadows tucked her back into bed, curled up on her side…so they could fuss with her hair which was a mess as always. 

She felt like a child being fawned over and she couldn’t help but relax into it…let them do with her whatever they wished if they just kept being so…nice to her. 

Feeling better? they asked softly and she hummed. 

If you could be anything…do anything... what would it be? The shadows wondered quietly. The movements of them were lulling her to some space of safety and warmth and Eira considered the question. 

If she could have anything in the world…what would she want?

A heady question. 

“When I was…young,” she said softly… “I wanted a dashing knight to come rescue me, and whisk me away from that horrible cottage,” she said weakly. “That’s what I wanted since I was old enough to want anything.”

A stupid children’s dream. 

But sadly there were no knights in Prythian and even if there were any, they wouldn’t pick Eira. 

And now? The shadows pushed. 

“Somebody that loves me,”  she admitted quietly. “A husband…children.”

All of that…she wanted all of that. 

And she was never going to have it. 

We could find you a husband, the shadows finally said quietly. If that makes you happy…we could help you.

“Who could possibly want me?” Eira asked, her voice breaking. Who would want her? The answer was easy: Nobody. 

Only because Master is an idiot, doesn’t mean every male is, they told her tartly. 

She wanted to laugh but it ended in a sob. 

“He isn’t an idiot,” Eira disagreed. “He just knows that…I am not good enough for him.”

Not pretty enough, not smart enough…not enough period.

That’s ridiculous, the shadows hissed. 

It wasn’t. 

“He’s in love with my prettier twin sister,” Eira snapped. “I shouldn’t want him anyway. Why should I want to be his second or even third choice?  Maybe for once, I want to be somebody’s first choice! Maybe for once, I want to be treated like I matter! That my feelings matter…that I matter!” It burst out of her. The tears burned in her eyes at that admission. At…how unfair it was. 

What had she done to deserve this? What had she done? 

Eira immediately regretted that outburst though. “I am so sorry,” she blurted out.

They didn’t deserve to be pulled into her feeling unfairly treated. She should stop complaining. It wasn’t going to…

For what? the shadows snorted. You are absolutely right. You deserve to be somebody’s first choice. You deserve to be treated like you matter. 

She didn’t. 

Maybe you should go shopping, the shadows suggested with a sigh. The suggestion was so sudden that she stared at the tendril of shadow still wrapped around her wrist. 

“Why?” she asked with a sigh. 

The Morrigan does that if she feels bad. The shadows told her earnestly. Then she buys shoes and feels better. 

Ah. 

She highly doubted that shoes were going to solve any of her problems. A pretty pair of shoes wasn’t going to make anybody fall in love with her. Or want her. 

“What am I supposed to buy?” She asked quietly. “Just shoes?”

Stuff. The shadows answered easily. Whatever you want. Whatever makes you happy, they assured her. All your sisters have more stuff than you. You make them dresses and other things. But you never make yourself anything, the shadows said quietly. Nobody would say anything if you wanted things that are yours. 

Right. She had never bothered with that. Not after she had lost all her things together with her humanity…there had been some piles of necessities sent to them by Rhysand…and that had been that. 

She had never bothered to get more than that. She still wore those dresses of the very first weeks… and while she had made dresses for all three of her sisters…as human out of necessity, as Fae out of habit…she hadn’t made herself any in years.

Not since becoming Fae. Her new body felt…she hadn’t wanted to look at her new body for long enough to figure out how something should fit onto it. How it had changed….

These godforsaken ears were enough. 

Buy things for yourself. Like a new dress! Or earrings! Diamonds! The shadows suggested. Whatever you find pretty. 

“My ears aren’t pierced,” she said quietly, a yawn taking over her face. 

That brought them up short.

Master bought you pearl earrings, the shadows said suddenly, sounding perplexed. 

He had. Beautiful. Impersonal. Unwearable for her…a far cry from all the little trinkets he had given to Elain…

Still, for months she had stared at them and found them oh so beautiful…safely kept in their box in her drawer at her vanity table. 

Maybe that alone should have told her everything she needed to know about the state of Azriel’s affection for her. 

Namely it was non-existent when the spymaster of the night court didn’t even bother to check if she even wore earrings. 

And the earrings…well…they were only…one thing. Her room at the River Estate that she had been supposed to furnish to her liking…that was another. 

In the end, it had consisted out of her getting a set of the same bedroom furniture as every other guest room and her walls were painted cream like in every other room Feyre hadn’t gotten to yet. It was still as impersonal as it had been when she had moved in. 

She knew that Elain had stuff to litter her bookcases with…gifts from Azriel or Feyre or Lucien, her mate…even Eira had gifted her sister things. 

But all Eira had…were the dresses she had on commission laid out on her desk. Which she would need to return to the shop where she worked as a seamstress at soon enough once she was finished with her alteration on them…and well, that was it. 

No books, because her reading was absolutely atrocious…no little trinkets from any of her sisters…no paintings or art or anything really. 

Just…her sewing and embroidery supplies and that was that…and even these weren’t…held in one of these pretty little wooden sewing boxes on legs that would keep them tidily kept away…

Do you need money? The shadows asked her seriously. 

“What?” Eira asked weakly.

She made some money with her job. Not a lot…but some. All of it carefully stashed away to buy birthday or solstice gifts from…or little trinkets she saw in a shop and thought one of her sisters would like…that Nyx would like. 

Do you need money? They repeated patiently. To buy stuff? For yourself? 

“No, I have money. And I don’t want to owe anybody anything,” she answered quietly, her eyes slowly closing.

 She didn’t want to end like Nesta… were in the end, her habits were used to bludgeon her with…she didn’t…

You wouldn’t. The shadows assured her. We have our own line of credit. 

What? 

“How does that work? Do you have your own bank account?” she asked curiously, and she could nearly feel their amusement. 

We like playing the lottery. Everything we win, we put into Master’s Bank Account, they explained to her earnestly. He never uses it anyway. We could just put our winnings in yours instead. Master wouldn’t care.

It was so ridiculous that she couldn’t help but giggle. 

“Really?” she still asked weakly. 

Really! they assured her seriously. Enough for you to have a shopping spree! We like shiny things, they told her, making her laugh. Master never buys any. We’ll pick up some mail-order catalogues for you and then you can spend tomorrow ordering some things. Maybe some curtains to spruce things up a little. It’s awfully empty in here. 

Still, she couldn’t help but ask. 

“Why are you doing this?” 

Nobody should be treated like you are, they told her fiercely. Nobody should feel like they have no place anywhere.

[sh1-n0bu]

can i request something?? can you do modern relationship with scara??

✿ 𝒊𝒕’𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝑰 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖! ✿

characters: modern!scaramouche x nb!reader

warnings: modern au!!!, fluff, crack, my poor attempt at humor, scara has a bad relationship with his moms, written with high school au in mind, scara being bad at feelings, headcannon format, raiden shogun goes as raiden shino since shogun is a title rather than a name and all…

notes: when that one song u used to religiously listen to when u were younger and cringier suddenly comes rushing back in for a fic idea

oh dear gods, where do we even begin with this one?

tsundere to the max and we all know, his moms knows it, you know it, the entire school knows it, even the online friends he plays games with knows it

which explains on how you knew that scaramouche had a crush on you the moment he started showing small signs of it. waaaaayyyy before he even understood his own emotions and feelings and came to terms with it

safe to say, he is super easy to read. like, a motherfuckin open book that’s full of illustrations made for kids. at least, that’s how it feels to you anyways

has a bad relationship with both of his mothers and his older sister but at least he tolerates his older sister better than his mothers, which is a good thing. at least he has someone to turn to when something goes wrong

him, his mom ei and his older sister are carbon copies of each other alongside his aunt. the first time you went over to scara’s place to prepare for an upcoming exam, you almost got whiplash from just how many similar purple people were there

like… low-key concerning with how you easily mistook his mom ei with his aunt or his older sister with his mom ei

safe to say you made a fool out of yourself for the first few meetings with his family

his other mom, miko, is very… eccentric to say the least. teasing, sly, quick-witted, charming and charismatic. you and scara joke around that miko was a fox or a demon in her former life

his older sister, shino, is quite the sweetheart one the other hand. quiet, reserved, socially awkward and friendly if you go over how her normal face looks so emotionless and dead. reminds you of a soldier or a puppet with how shino is so willing to fulfill ei’s wishes or words to the T

his aunt, baal, is an absolute sweetheart. the ultimate sweetheart actually. such a sweet woman she is with her soft words, warm smiles and motherly affections. she offered you a hand-made cookie when you were about to leave simply because you were scara’s friend!

yes, you cried to the amount of kindness and scara made fun of you for it

you would never peg someone as mean, introverted and arrogant as scaramouche to be friends with the popular, soccer kid from school did ya’? well you are wrong because scara and childe are best friends!!! as childe claims

the ginger-head made a bet with scaramouche saying that you two’s friendship won’t last. cue scaramouche and his over competitive ass coming over and latching himself to you to make sure that your friendship would last

AKA childe’s plan to make scaramouche realize his feelings and come to terms with it has officially started!

likes to occasionally play video games such as wuthering waves, minecraft, resident evil, silent hill etc etc. hates first person shooter games cuz it’s so not his style and he hates the annoying boys that he comes across during the game

will never say it nor mention it but sometimes he plays those ‘using not a single part of your brain’ type of games like playing as dentists or doctors. hell, he even likes to play dress up games from time to time. he just loves the aesthetics and the different designs of the clothes, itches that inner aesthetic lover part of him. but he will NEVER mention it or be caught playing it. scaramouche would rather die

something tells me that his music taste would be more leaning into electronic or scene music. odetari, 6arelyhuman, kets4eki — you name it. sometimes, enjoys those gentle and soothing sounding anime openings too

he has sanrio plushies. more specifically, hello kitty ones

had an obsession with the cute white cat growing up and he never grew out of it

the moment he first found out that you like plushies or pink things or sanrio related things, he knew he gotta gift you anonymous sanrio gifts on your birthday or on special occasions. it was his early stages of courting you

was absolutely appalled when he was found out because whaddaYA MEAN HE LIKES SOFT AND THOSE STUPID PLUSHIES AND SANRIO RELATED THINGS?! NUH-UH, YOU MUST’VE SAW A DIFFERENT PURPLE HAIRED, BOWL HAIRCUT HAVING GUY CUZ SCARAMOUCHE WOULD NEVER LIKE THOSE STUPID THINGS!!!

he aint fooling anyone

takes his relationship slow since he has some big trust issues yet also attachment issues. pick a struggle tbh

had a panic attack after he officially, finally, after years of crushing on you, like literally acting like your boyfriend years later when he asked you out on a date because woohoo!! he asked you for a date \(^ヮ^)/\(^ヮ^)/ but also shit, what type of a first date would you like ლಠ益ಠ)ლლಠ益ಠ)ლ

yeah, he had to do something he hated the most. ask his moms and sister for advice

after a lot of talk, discussions, secretly stalking your social profiles or you in general to see what you would like, scaramouche decided to take you out for an arcade date

you two had fun, he was glad you had fun, played bunch of different games together and even managed to win a cute matching plushies and keychains!! kuromi for him and melody for you. he was so glad that you liked it but he won’t say it out loud

walked you home after your first date, to your front door and bid you good night and “hope you had fun tonight, idiot” chu!! on your cheek before making a mad dash back home

the type of boyfriend who would lovingly bully you

“why the fuck are you wearing that? it’s making your stupid face look cuter than normal”

“who in their right mind would choose the green one? yellow looks better on you. no, the soft pastel one, not the bright one you idiot”

“you wanna die? who said i was ever gonna stop loving you after you turn into a roach? i’m gonna keep you in a special glass case until you change back dumbass”

yeah… just say you love them already, scara

your contact name on his phone is literally my idiot٩(╬ʘ益ʘ╬)۶

would lovingly call you names as he leaves soft kisses on your face

“you’re a fucking idiot but it’s fine, you’re my idiot”

[tinytennisskirt]

i need more vampire art

more vampire boyfriend! art headcanons with a plot, super simple tied together 💋🍒🥤🧛🏻

warnings: mentions of biting, some slight smut, kissing, mentions of alcohol and marijuana, more plot less headcanon

pt 1 here

- vampire art biting your hand, specifically when you go to cup his face, his teeth against your skin, never piercing, but biting. or when you use a hand, thumb on one side and fingers on the other side of his mouth just to squish his face endearingly and he bites that little place between your thumb and fingers. sharp teeth. cute sharp teeth. like this:

- vampire boyfriend, so of course he remembers a lot more than he should. simple things, but before he turned you, he was remembering things you did that even you didn’t remember- with ease, too.

- vampire boyfriend who is still gentle when he touches you just because he’s used to thinking he can hurt you. he can’t anymore, or he can try, but it’s hard to. but it doesn’t stop him from being gentle when he kisses you, when his hands slide over your skin. he feels less cold than he used to, but that’s because you’re as cold as him now. you remember the ice of his hands over you and now he feels warm, almost. and you never knew him to be warm, so it’s different but it feels good. and safe.

- you don’t sleep anymore, so losing the comfort of sleeping next to him is tough, but it’s still just as lovely to lay in silence with him because boredom is hard to come by when you’re a vampire. especially a vampire in love.

- when twilight comes out it’s so funny to watch and know. honestly not far off from your reality and you are confident you’re the only people in theatre who are able to relate remotely. you spend the whole time after talking about it and laughing over things.

- when you kiss, you like to bite his lip. he loves!!! it when you do. more than most things. he loves how your teeth feel against the plush of his lips and it’s a weakness, if you weren’t already his weakness as a whole.

- it’s only you, he knows that- it can’t be anyone else, nor would he want it to be. you both can’t die a normal death but it’s good to know he’s all in for until whenever that abnormal ending comes. just how it is. how could you both be almost immortal and waste that on anything else?

- when the sex is good, it’s good. he’s gentle, you’re not, he loves it. mess of teeth and bodies and god- the speeds at which you’d never be able to handle if you were still a regular person. stamina like nothing you’ve ever felt and are the orgasms,.., better? all you know is that it takes a few hours to come down from that sort of high.

- art will continue to buy you flowers, even though they seem to die all the time, but it’s just the way you perceive time that makes it that way. he replaced them the second they start to go so you don’t have dead flowers in your presence ever. he’s always speedy and replaces them for you. it’s a new bouquet every few days.

- vampire art who does the killing for you when desperate and in need of something. animals only. you’re SO twilight for this. ‘vegetarian’ vampires, but he takes care of everything. you miss regular food a lot and sometimes it’s a little upsetting, the way you eat, what you eat- and art is always there to comfort you through any of those periods. he’s sweet, running a hand up and down your back, telling you that you need to do it to keep going and that eventually, you’ll get used to it.

- and he’s like that every time you miss what used to be. he’s there, always, on his knees sometimes just to comfort you, running hands up and down the sides of your legs to comfort you, wide-eyed, crooked grin with those sweet little sharp teeth. he’s there every time you feel low about vampirism. you miss your life, he knows that, he won’t ever dismiss it. he misses it too. more than anything. but you’re in it together and he makes sure you know that. and that he’s sorry. it’s his fault. but you never let him take blame because you wanted this. it was your choice and you’re happy with it, just not all the time. and that’s okay.

- the entry thing is so real. obviously, you’re young forever but at least you’re old enough to go to bars. however, it’s tricky when you have to get in. funny, like a sitcom, asking to go into the bars and clubs when you’ve already been pat down and asked for ID. you and art can’t stop laughing the first time it happens, leaning against each other- the bodyguard guy thinks you’re already drunk. you’re asking to talk to the owner, laughing. only the owner can let you in since the guy lives in the place above the fucking bar.

- or worse, when patrick starts living out of his car early twenties and swears it’s a temporary situation and you both can’t get into his car without asking first. a drive with music turns into a whole ordeal when patrick refuses to give permission saying to just get in. but he lives there, you can’t!

- patrick learns a few months later why. and it’s a shocker but he’s been cracking jokes about it since art turned, so it’s not really that big of a thing. just takes him some time. he wants in on it too.

- you sit in a circle talking and patrick is the only one who can get drunk off of alcohol but you and art found some creative way to feel something, i don’t know what but imagination might work. so you’re tipsy in your own way and you’re talking to him about it and he really wants in. it’s a thought…

- being drunk is fun when you’re a vampire but with patrick around it’s a little dangerous. number one, he’s still human duh! and two, your alternative to alcohol acts the same way wine does… red, dark, lustful. so when you kiss art, the kissing doesn’t stop because you’re into it. so into it. and patrick who was originally minding his business rolling a joint, looks over at you and art kissing on the bed and he can’t take his eyes off of you both. you kiss him with so much force, it’s more than he knows he could take.

- when you take a break from kissing and the conversation starts up, the vibe slowly begins to change. you wipe your lip and grin, sitting a little dazed against the wall. patrick comes and sits on the bed, lights the joint. he asks if sex is better as a vampire, to add to his list of pros in the persuasion list. he thinks it’s going to be fun to be a vampire. and you answer honestly, with a few more details than needed and it gets things rolling and establishes the fact there’s an ask coming from patrick without him saying the words. asking questions, getting closer to actually asking.

- art is yours. he will always be yours. vampire boyfriend! but it doesn’t always need to be just the two of you. and soon, with everything in the room seeming to get hotter and hotter, patrick asks them if they’d still ever fuck a human- given an alternate reality where they aren’t together and art has his answer, technically he had you while you were still human and yeah, in an AU, you’d do it. so he proposes it then. there. and in a few minutes, patrick has art pinned to the bed and they’re kissing.

- you intently watch their mouthes as they kiss. watching. noticing. seeing. and it’s not long before their mouthes get traded out for yours and you and art, vampire boyfriend and girlfriend are sharing patrick tonight. it’s easy, you’re all friends. it’s a good thing patrick likes it rough- with your guards down, it’s easy to get carried away.

- you don’t really talk about it later, but it’s not a taboo topic. it’s been referenced a few times since in good context. patrick, however, can’t get rid of the idea that he wants to be a vampire. you tell him as a friend that he doesn’t want it and it’s not as great as it seems. but he still wants, which is fine. just… not a great idea.

- vampire art has taken up journaling because it might be fun to document the years and you do stumble across his notebook. he took up journaling one month into being with you and it documents everything you’ve been through, his inner thoughts, and it’s filled with words of love and thoughts about you that could come off as poetry. he’s really well-spoken, you knew that, but he was good with written words too.

- he has all these ideas for your future together. saving for a house, getting jobs round the clock for a year and saving for a place of your own out of stanford. talking about the fence- he loves to daydream about it. it’s you and he knows it. he wants everything that he can have with you. kids are now out of the question, but there’s ways. and you’re so young too… with so so so very many years ahead.

- he’s learning to rougher with you, taking what you have to give and adding onto it. his walls are falling down around him and god, he’s good when he’s not obsessively gentle. not to say that isn’t amazing, but change is always fun.

- you get into a fight one night. you’re on the couch and you don’t think art should turn patrick. art wants him to, patrick is his best friend and he knows what he’s getting into. but you tell him that you know patrick thinks it’s all fun and strength, speed, and sex- not considering the fact his future is screwed up. that eventually people would wonder why you aren’t ageing. saying patrick only sees the pros and never the cons. and that turning him might be a mistake. art is opposed, but he hates to offend, so he’s trying his best not to. and you’re distraught. the way you are when you miss being human. and he wants to comfort you, but his position needs to stand. though when you look at him like that he can’t do it. he’s sorry.

- his apologies do mean something. when he says sorry he does what he can to make sure it’s a permanent change. he wants to keep you happy, he never wants you to hate him. he looks at you with his eyes soft and he means what he says when he says things. he’s sorry. you’re sorry too. and you talk about it calmly.

- it’s decided that you talk to patrick again before deciding. so you do. you tell patrick all the negative things and he still wants it, so art makes the plan. and it’s okay. it’s what he wants. it just takes a while to get used to.

- it’s good that the three of you are the same now. the diet he regrets. you told him he would. but the three of you hang out a lot more. tennis is a lot more fun with those accelerated features and it’s fun to watch the boys go. it’s dangerous and exciting.

- art makes almost too much time for you. he worries that you might think he wants more time with patrick, the now-vampire- you didn’t think so. but he’s curled in your lap and he just wants to ‘make up for his time with patrick’ pretty much tenfold. cancelling on patrick, even. just to sit and watch something with you for hours. just to kiss you. he will cancel on everyone for you. shamelessly to them- he tries to keep it from you.

- in those hours that a person would usually sleep, it’s usually spent awake, eyes closed, non-talking. it’s a good time to think and destress and unload all the experiences that no sleep comes with. constantly up, constantly doing something. art respects it, always. if he has something urgent to tell you obviously you wouldnt be ‘asleep’, but it’s never so important. quiet downtime is important and he’s gentle, he would never ruin that.

- he brags about you to anyone who will listen. he’s got a lot of time to brag and he’s going to take every chance possible.

- the plan to work your asses off with multiple jobs a day for a year goes by in no time, and soon enough you have enough for your house. patrick pitches in and takes the basement apartment of the house. and it feels normal. three vampires living life. it’s going to be a long one but you’re in the right place.

[provecfy]

On Cass scaring the shit out of Kryptonians

(Because it's mad funny)

After careful observation of her family's relationships (Friendships? Romance? She wasn't sure, Steph told her to call it 'situationships'), she has noticed something:

The Kryptonians, with their super hearing, always get scared upon first meeting a bat because they aren't used to non-meta humans moving without a sound. This, however, is only temporary, as their superselves soon learn to keep track of the batfam's movements by listening to their heartbeats instead of their steps, and they consecuently become confident on their ability to notice any member of the wayne household even within crowds.

And then Cass remembers she can stop her own heartbeat on command (Batgirl v1 #59). Should she use this power for evil? What would Bruce say? She remembers the words of her father during a family meeting: "Never, and I mean NEVER, pass on the chance to keep a kryptonian on their toes. They become complacent otherwise."

So, she waits until Connor visits the mannor with Tim, walking around all sure and confident on his ability to hear even a bat coming, and she silently drops from the ceiling behind him and approaches his ear as much as she can before whispering "boo".

Connor startles and jumps so high he accidentally hits a lamp on the ceiling before falling again.

"Shit, I thought I was getting better, but you guys keep finding ways to catch me off guard." He huffs, slightly more calm, and offers his hand to Cass in greeting.

Cass instead remains still, staring at Superboy unblinkingly, holding her own heart and lungs in place for as long as she can, and watches with an increasingly maniacal smile the face of Connor transition into pure horror as he slowly realizes Cass doesn't have neither a heartbeat nor breath.

"Are you stopping your own heart on command again?" Tim interrupts, and Cass erupts into giggles as she drops her hold on her organs and finally returns Connor's handshake.

Connor sighs in relief before Cass utilizes his lowered guard to his advantage and drops her voice low while performing a perfect cowl-less batglare. "Don't tell anyone what you saw."

She then backs away slowly into a dim-lit corner of the room, and stops her pulse again in order to disappear despite Connor never ceasing to look directly at her.

Connor stays still and questions his choices in partner for a few seconds and continues following Tim around the mannor, all while Cass watches from the ceiling and reads in the Kryptonian's body language the fear that will prevent him from speaking of today to any member of his family, ensuring she will be able to scare the next Kent that comes to the mannor in much the same way.

[pastelpaperplanes]

Has KnockOut ever been insecure of stretch marks given how he prides on his appearance? I’m sure Breakdown doesn’t mind them, though. Also, can Megatron feel anything with that tremendous scar on his back and how does Optimus react once he first saw it?

Knockout is definitely vain to a fault, always he was all the way back when he was still a nobel, this extends to not just his appearance but also his need to keep his snazzy clothes and armor in perfect condition, as well his bow pristine!

However, what he loves most in the world is the life he shares with Breakdown. The highs and lows they faced in life beyond the Autobot Kingdom, scars and scratches they earned along the way–all are memories of how hard they fought for their life together and how much they loved the fact that they got to fight and WIN for that love.

The marks he received in life since bonding Breakdown are met with pride! (Breakdown lets little get past him to hurt KO, that and Knockout is a mean shot with his bow, both are the other’s protectors! lol, scars received are few and far in between)

Knockout’s stretch marks from Wildbreak– his greatest gift from Breakdown, his greatest gift to the love of his life, are by far his proudest yet. They made that baby!!! And that is the greatest joy and challenge Knockout has ever faced, but the best part was that he got to face it with Breakdown.

Yes, and ofc Breakdown loves the marks. Obsessed w them even–they belong to his super strong, soft, and hot hubby

As for Megatron’s burn marks, nope he does not feel them much at all, the burns were very deep and fried a lot of his nerves. It wasn’t always that way of course, healing took. years.

Optimus has seen every single one of his scars. When asked, Megs would talk his audial off telling Op the stories of each proud mark. Some range from petty fights with his brother long ago, some from his time in the gladiator pits, others from dumb youthful decisions, he's a story book ready for Optimus to dive into, he only needs to ask.

His first reaction to seeing them was of course shock, but secondly he felt truly sick. Of course at Megs, nor the melted, glassy flash, but the fact that someone could do something like that to another person. Megatron has long since been used to that look of shock, those who have seen it rarely can school their features–he eased the situation with yet another story.

The largest scar, his burns, now that is the one that everytime he talks about it, Megs cooks up a whole new story to pair it with. Megatron’s favorites are “I feel asleep in a hot spring” or “Fireworks and High Grade don’t mix” and “You see my dear Sir Orion, there is a reason why I am not allowed in any kitchen ever again so long as I live”. Optimus doesn’t really wonder anymore. He knows all too well that some well placed humor is just a mask for the too painful of stories. He does know that he has never seen a ‘burn’ scar quite like Megatronus’

“In a great flash of light, the Allspark disappeared and Left King Ultra and Megatron gravely wounded…” so the stories go. Those in the battle rumor that Megatron made a scramble for the Allspark and the artifact lashed at the unworthy King of daring to filthy it with his hands, King Ultra being too close, sadly being burned as well in It’s rage.

Megatron has his own side of the story. Not that many beyond the few trusted of his People he’s shared it with know the truth, perhaps one day the little Knight may be ready.

[humanradiojmp]

My blind reaction to TADC Episode 4

Spoilers ahead, so precede with caution

It’s nice to see the characters outside Pomni interacting with each other. Shows more for the other characters And shows Pomni is starting to become more adjusted to the place.

I actually believe Jax in that he didn’t intentionally break her mask, but he would have eventually

Zooble’s room. That’s it

So does that mean Gangle can wear any mask? Like, if there was an adventure where there were different masks available, could she wear them? And how much would it affect her? I kind of want to see her wear an Oni mask or something similar and see what happens

Caine, are you trying to traumatize your guests?

Honestly, who would want that to happen to them?

Maybe if you looked at it at least once, the common complaint of you being bad at your job wouldn’t be an issue, Caine

Expected of Jax

Also weirdly expected of Jax for that response

Who suggested that? I’m half wondering if it’s someone that’s been there a while and wanted something “normal”, and possibly one of the now abstracted circus members

Gangle actually smiling and more than for a few seconds is so different yet so nice

Jax’s face at the day’s adventure is hilarious

Did Kinger suggest that to be nice to Caine or to get out of the minimum wage-based labor? Who knows for certain?

Your opinion and objections are invalid; you’re going on the adventure

“Can we go to McDonald’s?” “We have McDonald’s at home.” The McDonald’s at home:

Oh yeah she was definitely a shift manager before

Ragatha, No!

giving Caine the idea of extra motivation after an adventure definitely isn’t going to backfire in a future episode; I’m sure of that

Jax is getting his just deserts while manning the only deserts in the store

Please get Ragatha out of the deep fryer, that can’t be good for her cloth body

Honestly, what else did you expect; that’s your hand

From a previous adventure, eh? [I think we all know where this is going]

Basically what it’s like when you can barely understand a customer despite asking for clarification Three times and you go with the closest thing on the menu

Makes me think of those places where they have excessively complicated names for their dishes, but in this case, it’s real

Having an employee that’s (borderline) high is completely accurate for food service businesses

Yep, called it

I honestly was not expecting GummiGoo to come back, nor was I expecting him to come back this soon if he was

Was that joke necessary?

Don’t, don’t, don’t be suspicious

The shippers are going to go crazy with that comment

Ngl, I kind of like the Gloink Queen

That’s oddly specific

Since we’re airing our grievances that may or may not be related to our job, let me take a minute to convince you to put up giant glow-in-the-dark house numbers, because I’m super frustrated when I can’t read the tiny non-reflective house numbers and have no idea if I’m at the actual place for the delivery; especially when the numbers are in a really inconvenient location so I definitely can’t see them

That’s low-key horrifying

Again, borderline high is acceptable so long as it’s away from the food and out of the customer’s sight

I get that reference!

I have a feeling every time there’s a crack, the tragedy mask is cracking. So when she takes off the painted one?

Gangle having an existential crisis is not what I was expecting

One of the shift leaders at my job used to say that all the time

Oh nevermind, it’s still there

At least Pomni tried

I like how the cars are labeled

Zooble having to do everything while Ragatha is just zonked out is… interesting

I kind of wish I actually went through with saying this prior, but I really hope Gangle doesn’t abstract. I think it would be unfair for the character and a little too soon narratively speaking for it to be effective. But it seems we might be getting that…

Pomni to the rescue, thank you, girl!

Shankshaw Redemption staring Gangle

And we’re back to our cruel reality

I know a lot of people ship abstragedy, but I more platonically pair them up. I see them as the best of friends who unintentionally mess crap up and have each other’s back. Seems like that’s at least partially true

Is it just me or was this episode kind of depressing

Watching this whole I work at my minimum wage food service job probably wasn’t the best idea….

And that’s episode 4

[kkl1nch0r]

title: chase of lies PART 2 (blade x FBI gn!reader)

notes: ermmm i had trouble writing this because I'm not an FBI agent nor a super intelligent detective/investigor 😍😍 anyways I tried my best lol!!!!!!!!! this part is more shorter because.... I'm working on two fics on the same time (this fic was the most impulsive shit I've written LMFAOOO)

this is where it gets freaky. OBSESSED BLADE LOVERS WHERE YALL ATTTTTTTTUUHHH

2 months.

The undercover mission is pure madness— you’ve found traces of the Stellaron Hunters around the area, breaking every law you had devoted your life to enforce.

Hard as it was, you found yourself walking around the streets with a bounce in your step. The chase had led you out into the outskirts of a city upstate. The Xianzhou seemed so far away, but being approved on File X was like a high.

“It’s going to be a solo mission, I’m afraid,” Jing Yuan had said before your depart. “We’re low on staff. If you need a search or some pointers, you can always give us a call.”

The director had paused, his expression that of concern. “And… be careful. I know it's like listening to a broken record player, but there’s no predicting what any of the Stellaron Hunters could do.”

Well, that was unsettling.

“Especially Blade,” Jing Yuan had mentioned. “You’ve dedicated most of your life to chasing that man down, but please… don’t let him take your life completely. Make sure you come back to us. Got it?”

A solo mission wasn’t anything you couldn’t handle. Just a piece of cake!

That was okay… fine, it got a little lonely sometimes, sitting in hotels, sipping bitter coffee, furiously typing at your laptop, scouring the last crumbs of evidence from news articles and research papers, but this was File X. The file you had fought for to go through with.

You couldn’t afford to back down now. Besides, your laptop had brought up another news article about the Stellaron Hunters, and seeing the publishing date it had been pretty decent.

It’s late, but you’re still awake, looking at the files the investigation unit had sent you.

A blurry picture popped up on the page, and you zoomed in, eyes narrowing. Hmm… this was the wrong article, surely. This man didn’t look like Blade at all.

Your phone buzzed. Somebody was calling.

Reaching over, you received the call, holding it up to your ear as you scrolled, finding another thread of posts. Fu Xuan sent you another file as the notification pops up on your screen. Sighing into the phone, you click on it.

Dan Heng’s voice crackles over the phone. You wince. “Hey, everything alright over there?”

“ —N! Y/n!” Dan Heng calls over the line. You frown. Something’s wrong.

“What’s the matter, Dan Heng? Talk to me.”

“You— have to stop— File X!” Dan Heng’s voice crackles again as you scroll over your laptop, a line of unsettling pictures flashing over the screen. The location of these pictures was somewhere close to this area. Your eyes glaze over the address, eyes narrowing.

Dan Heng’s line silences for a second before cracking up again. “Y/n, be careful. There’s—” his voice cuts off again.

“Who’s fighting over the line here?” you ask, looking at images of dismembered corpses that appear on the screen. Then you pause. “Dan Heng? Are you there?”

Dan Heng yells in frustration over the line. “Just— careful!”

“Okay, will do,” you reply. “Why?”

“It’s because… the Stellaron Hunters…” Dan Heng’s line cuts off into incoherent gibberish. After a moment he gains control over the call. “Right next to— have to— change your identity! That’s all Jing Yuan said to do.”

“Send me the details, Dan Heng. Call you later.”

“Be careful,” is his last word over the call and it ends. You toss your phone back on the bed, groaning as you run a hand over your face. It hasn’t been the first time the Investigation unit called, but something was amiss. Dan Heng had never sounded that desperate before.

You straighten, mind flashing the pictures into your head. “Wait a minute…”

The image you had stopped scrolling on… you’d seen it somewhere. A red flower.

Wait, no. The red flower.

The Spider Lily. You had practically ingrained that flower into your head since your early investigation days. The trace of the Stellaron Hunters.

Blade.

Something else is eating at you, though. Like an obsessed madman, you scroll back up to the details Fu Xuan had sent.

The location. The address.

Silence hangs in the air. The address where these pictures were taken… was right below the hotel you were staying at.

You slap a palm over your head. “You’re joking.”

Did you blow your cover yet? You didn’t know. Did they find you? You didn’t know. Was it a coincidence?

The lack of certainty in this situation was making you anxious. Dan Heng’s frustration over the phone about being more careful was growing eerie.

The spider lily—

“Okay, calm down,” you tell yourself. “Think things through.”

You begin to stand, pacing around the hotel room, the floorboards creaking below you. “The murder case— okay, honestly, this is definitely the Stellaron Hunters at work— is just right below the hotel I was staying at. When was this investigated, anyway?” you ask yourself.

Walking back to the laptop, you read the details. “The pictures were taken hours after the crime… and happened about a week ago. Six days ago, it seems.”

You worked it out in your head, pacing again, feeling like a rookie investigator years ago. “About a week ago, I was approaching the outskirts of this city then. I needed a place to stay, and the hotel was the only one in sight. I ended up booking it early… hold on.”

The only hotel in the area meant there was a lot of work to get a room, of course. The thing was…

You froze in your tracks. “I had booked a room here… seven days before I came.”

Pacing again, you think harder. “That means… the Stellaron Hunters murdered someone the day after I booked this damn hotel?”

Were you perhaps… being tracked down?

By the Stellaron Hunters, no less?

There was no way a crime would happen right in your area a day after you had booked the hotel unless somebody had tipped your whereabouts off. It was as if you had given your position away to the Stellaron Hunters. But how?

“This can’t be possible.”

Movement catches your eye out the window, and your attention diverts outside— it’s too dark to see anything, but there’s something outside.

No. Someone outside. Watching.

—

Y/n is here.

Y/n.

Y/n.

The man lets his face twist into a cruel smile, tracing a rough finger over a photo of a deserted hotel. Out of all the hotels that could have been chosen from, they chose this?

Whatever. Blade’s eyes narrow. That’s not any of his business. Kafka was right— the Xianzhou Investigation unit was becoming more of a nuisance than a source of information— although when did the investigation unit have information, anyway?

Blade treads purposefully down the streets, his gaze directed towards the hotel. One light’s on, and no doubt it’s Y/n.

Twisted excitement and anxiety churn in his stomach as he watches your silhouette walk through the room, pacing and talking. How cute. Still trying to figure things out, weren’t they?

The crime was done. Blade had zero doubt Y/n would connect the dots in a second. This was light work for the agent. Even the idea of being caught, and being interrogated by the agent sent a nervous streak through his spine.

But he was excited.

Being chased thrilled the criminal. He wanted his every face to be plastered on every wanted poster and every news article. Y/n would be forced to ingrain his face into their head. They’d have no choice.

As if Blade ever gave them a choice.

“Quit moping and move,” Silver Wolf’s voice rings in his earbud. Blade scowls, tapping on the device before spending another moment looking up at the window.

Y/n pauses, catching Blade’s movement out the window, and Blade’s eyes widen, a wicked smile curling his lips. Finally.

The agent presses their body against the window, but Blade is gone by then. It’s no use trying to find somebody at this time of day.

Y/n wanted to hunt him down? So be it.

There's nothing like a good chase, anyway.

[saccharinedisaster]

Chapter One

The moment she walked into the shop, Kyoutani was on high alert. She wasn't the typical clientele Amaranthine got, she looked like her coffee orders were complicated to fill and ate nothing but pure sugar. She looked like she'd crumble if he even breathed her way. She looked like a tiny bubblegum princess and it didn't make any sense as to why she would be in a place like this.

Amaranthine was the tattoo shop downtown, the atmosphere was dark and the clientele and employees alike were on the alternative spectrum. It wasn't anything like the manic pixie dream girl bullshit she looked like she walked out of. The employees and clientele alike survived off of caffeine and pure spite. Shit, Kyoutani's positive he's seen Suna crack open his third Red Bull of the day and the work day had hardly begun.

He rolled his eyes and focused back on his current task, prepping his work station for his next appointment. He sanitized the chair and wrapped the armrest in plastic wrap, his eyes occasionally flicking back up to the front desk.

He didn't understand--well, he assumed she was there for a piercing, but there were more friendlier shops uptown. Why did this girl, who, again, looked like she'd crumble if you looked at her the wrong way, choose this shop out of all shops? It bugged him, it bugged him more than he'd like to admit.

Mistake number one was Kiyoko leaving the front desk to grab the "new customer" paperwork from the printer in the back, because now Suna was at her desk. He was banned from interacting with new guests, unless they were booking a piercing with him, as he's the biggest flirt known to mankind. Despite being the best piercer in the shop, he was an idiot and couldn't read a room.

Kyoutani huffed and pushed himself off his stool, stalking over to the front desk in silence. He narrowed his eyes as he watched Suna lean forward, his tattooed arms taking purchase of the majority of the counter top. The smirk on Suna's face faded quickly when the tiny girl shut him down in record timing.

"No, thank you."

"What about a septum, bet you'd look super cute with a s--"

"I said, no," she shook her head with a soft sigh. Soft faded bubblegum hair fell out of her claw clip and Kyoutani noted the slight irritation in her eyes with each comment Suna kept trying to make. "I'm not here for a piercing, thank you."

Kyoutani was leaning against the wall behind the desk, arms folded over his chest as he supervised. Suna still hadn't taken notice of his presence and continued. More of the faded pink hair falls out of the claw clip and the girl lets out a frustrated sigh, before ripping the forsaken contraption out of her hair.

Oh, she was feisty. Not just a pretty cream puff. Interesting.

"Listen," she tells Suna, her voice firm and steady. "I don't want a piercing, nor will I want one from you. Please drop it and grab Kiyoko for me."

Kyoutani smirked as Suna stalked off, dejected. He's never seen anyone shut Suna down like that and so fast, too. Most girls who came into the shop fell for his boyish whimsy and let him manipulate them into getting piercings and spending money on him. This girl was different, she rejected him and his services but she was still here.

Did she want a tattoo?

"I'm sorry about the wait, YN," Kiyoko's heels clicked on the tiled floors as she returned. "I had to fight the printer." Then she looks over at Kyoutani. "Did you need anything, Kyou?"

Kyoutani grunts in response, shaking his head. His eyes stay on YN, taking in more of her features and smaller habits. "Suna was harassing her," his voice is low and deep, cutting through the air. Kiyoko rolls her eyes at the comment, muttering a soft 'of course' before handing the small stack of papers over to YN.

"He's a menace," Kiyoko tells her, handing over an ink pen. "I hope he didn't bother you too much."

"No need to apologize," YN waved her off. "I'm sorry for his now bruised ego."

"Don't be," Kyoutani shakes his head, pushing off the wall. "It's about time someone put him in his place."

"I take it he always bothers the ladies," she snorts as she begins to fill out her paperwork. "Had a feeling."

Kiyoko gave him a look, but took a seat behind her desk silently. She was one of the only ones in the shop that didn't piss him off, other than the shop owner himself--Akaashi. She kept to herself and told off Suna more times than he could count on a given day. She always had a spare lighter and a stash of migraine medication for when Suna blasted his music a bit too loud.

"What kind of tattoo were you looking to get?" Kiyoko asked when YN finally finished filling out the paperwork, handing the clipboard back over. "I wanna get you in the books before we get slammed with those flash sales next week."

God, Kyoutani hated tattooing flash sales.

"A dragon," YN answers, pulling a thick sketchbook out of her bag. The heavy book makes an audible 'clunk' on the counter and delicate manicured hands open and flip through pages.

Pages and pages of detailed drawings, intricate illustrations, fill the sketchbook as YN flips through it. It's not until page twenty-nine when the movement stops and Kyoutani's eyes focus in on the page.

It's the most detailed dragon he's ever seen.

"Damn," he murmurs, captivated by the intricacies of the drawing. "This is sick."

“I have others too,” she flips to another page and Kyoutani’s eyebrow raised slightly. It’s another two dragons, the next more intricate and indulgent than the other.

God damn, she was talented.

“Mine,” the tough claim slips out faster than he intended and he clears his throat loudly. He shakes his head. “Put her on my books, this tattoo is mine.”

“Possessive,” YN smirks.

He glares over at her before the bell above the door chimes, his 3:30 appointment walking into the shop. He huffs, more to himself, and nods at the man who had just walked into, tilting his head to point at the back room.

“See you soon,” YN says in a soft and sweet tone before she ends up leaving, her appointment scheduled. Kyoutani nods and disappears into the back, a hidden smile on his face as he hears the jingle of the bell.

Yeah, see you soon.

A/N: I finally got this off my chest 😭 Also Suna isn’t a bad person in this, he’s just headstrong and flirtatious af, he can’t stop

[wolfawaycamp]

Rylan: Dylan has been super frustrated and depressed about the loss of his hand and the fact he isn’t able bodied anymore, he’s upset that Ryan has to do most things for him, even simple mundane things. So Ryan takes Dylan to look at trained service dogs in hopes to adopt one that knows tasks that fit Dylan’s emotional and physical needs :)

🐼 I really wanted to explore this more from the angle of Dylan being the stubborn guy he is + trying to navigate the wolf-related trauma he probably has from Hackett’s Quarry, so it may not exactly be what you expected, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless! Thanks as always for the ask :)

Dylan would swear to anyone who asked that he was a lover of all animals. Like, the kind of kid who would see a scruffy looking stray on the sidewalk and beg his mother to rescue it from the horrid reality of street life. It had worked once; that was how he’d been introduced to his beloved Schrödinger. It had been raining and she’d sat outside their door mewling pitifully until he’d scooped her up (she was surprisingly docile) and shoved the poor, wet thing in his mom’s face. “Look at her! How can you say no to those eyes?!” he’d begged. One thing had led to another, and now, six years later, Schrodie was living her best pampered life at the Lenivy household.

Dylan would have taken her when he and Ryan had moved in together, but Ryan’s allergies were so bad they’d made the excruciating decision to leave her in his mother’s capable hands — which led them to discussing the prospect of obtaining another furry friend.

The topic first came up when Dylan was having a particularly difficult time untwisting a jar of preserves for his sandwich; the hot water method wasn’t working, nor was the little knife-tap trick he’d learned when was having difficulties with two hands. Ryan walked in on him holding the jar in his hand like Hamlet, attempting to coax it into submission. “Look. I need you to give me what’s inside you so I can consume enough food to have the energy to get you open next time. You like being used, don’t you? So give me what I want and I’ll—” He paused when he noticed his boyfriend’s amused face popping into view.

“This hostage situation seems kind of intense. Should I leave you two alone, or…?” Ryan eyed the helpless jar trapped in Dylan’s palm. 

Dylan placed the jar on the counter. “No, uh, it just needed some…encouragement? Can you…?” He hated asking Ryan to rescue him from the final boss of the kitchen, but someone had to do it.

Ryan gripped the lid with both hands and twisted it with ease. “You know, I’ve heard you can train some service dogs to do this kind of stuff.”

“You want us to get a dog to help me make PB&Js?” Dylan snarked. “That seems like a pretty dumb reason to me.”

“People have gotten them for equally mundane reasons,” Ryan countered.

“Like what?” Dylan gestured vaguely in Ryan’s direction, briefly unconcerned with the fact that he was now brandishing a butter knife.

“I-I don’t know them off the top of my head, man. If you’re really that against it, it’s not a problem.” Shit. Ryan was getting anxious. Knife down, idiot.

Dylan softened his furrowed brow. “I’m not totally against it; I just think, y’know, there are only so many canines in the world and my…needs aren’t that high on the priority list.” Ryan’s face was still slightly dejected. “I appreciate the thought, though. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to make art.” He turned back to his half-formed sandwich.

“Careful how you wield that paintbrush. Don’t want you losing the other one,” Ryan commented, leaving the kitchen.

“How would that even work?!” Dylan shouted after Ryan, but he was long gone.

-

The second discussion happened when Dylan was playing on his gaming console; it was a low-intensity adventure game with decent accessibility controls, but one part still required a level of dexterity he couldn’t quite master with just one hand. Ryan was sitting next to him on the couch, quietly watching him play while also scribbling in his sketchbook.

“Fuck! How are you even supposed to get the thingy in the hole with the normal amount of fingers?” Dylan grumbled in frustration.

He realized his terrible choice of words too late; he glanced at Ryan, who looked up from his work-in-progress and decided to speak up. “Whoa, what kind of game is this again?”

“Very funny.” Dylan dropped the controller beside him and rubbed his temple. “I think I’m done for tonight.”

“You sure you don’t want me to—” Ryan started.

“No! I don’t need y—sorry.” Dylan sighed and tried to rein it in. “It’s fucking pathetic to always have you pick up the slack because of this stupid thing.” He held up his left arm. “Like, I know I’m not a helpless idiot but sometimes I sure as hell feel like it.”

Ryan stared at him for a moment, contemplating his response. “Dylan, needing help with certain things isn’t an inconvenience. Not to me, at least.”

“I appreciate the thought, but…I don’t know. It feels different when it’s for shit like this.” He tilted his head toward the TV screen, which was currently displaying the game's pause menu. “I don’t like being reminded of my most brilliant fuck-up to date every time I want to partake in gamer hours.”

“I get it,” Ryan said quietly. Dylan studied his face. It was Ryan’s ‘I want to say something but I’m not going to’ face.

“What?” Dylan pressed.

Ryan held his gaze for a second. “I just…worry.” His eyes darted away, back down to his sketchbook.

Dylan fought the urge to roll his eyes and snap at Ryan. Normally he wasn’t so easily bothered by his boyfriend’s beat-around-the-bush tactics, but he despised people feeling the need to show him pity, or whatever the fuck this was. “If you’re going to bring up getting a service animal again—”

“No—well, not like that. I was thinking more for emotional support.”

“Ryan—” He paused, not quite knowing how to articulate his thoughts. It wasn’t that he didn’t want something to help him cope with the frustration of permanently having 80% of his original function, but the idea of being near anything dog-like was…terrifying. “Fuck. This is going to sound ridiculous, but…I can’t be around a dog! Or like, even one of those miniature ponies. Did you know those were a thing? Therapy horses? Way too fucking big and scary.”

“Maybe we could get a hamster or something,” Ryan offered.

“You mean the animal that infamously will find the most fucked up way to get itself killed and only lives about three years anyway? I’m better off trying to get another plushie from the arcade. I think I’m incapable of being satisfied by anything other than my child.” The image of Schrödinger’s sweet face in Dylan’s mind could’ve brought a tear to his eye. “Fuck your allergies, man.”

Ryan nodded solemnly. “Fuck them, indeed.”

-

He didn’t know why he did it. He’d set himself a boundary, and then two days later he’d crossed it by dragging Ryan to the pet store when he knew they were doing adoptions and he knew they’d have plenty of dogs right in front of the door where he couldn’t avoid them.

They hadn’t even made it within 6 feet of the small dog enclosure before Dylan started feeling…not trapped, given he was outside, but rather confined. The barking, the mannerisms, the smell…

“Yep, this isn’t going to happen,” Dylan said decisively, turning on his heels and booking it to the car. Ryan followed close behind, making no protest.

Once in the car, they sat in silence for a few seconds. Ryan spoke in a calm yet concerned tone, “You gonna be okay?”

“What? You think a little old Pomeranian is gonna scare me?” Dylan was trying so very hard — and failing — to hide the fading panic in his voice.

“I mean, that is kind of what happened,” Ryan pointed out.

“Nothing gets past you, huh?”

Ryan shook his head. “Nope.”

“Look, I just wanted to make sure we exhausted every option before committing to something. Dogs are cute, and fluffy, and sweet, and,” he looked sheepishly at Ryan, “now I can’t fucking stand being around them anymore.”

“I shouldn’t have let you convince me to come here,” Ryan lamented.

“No—don’t do that whole ‘I have to take responsibility’ thing. It’s just a pet shop. We can, I don’t know, go get fro-yo or something to make the trip worthwhile.” Dylan knew he had to pull out the puppy-dog eyes — Hmm, not the best choice of words — for this one.

Ryan didn’t hesitate to take Dylan up on his offer. “Deal.”

-

That night, Dylan had stayed up far later than normal, coming to bed hours after Ryan.

He quietly entered the room, keeping the lights off as he fumbled his way to the bed. Once he was comfortable, he wrapped his arm around a sleeping Ryan’s shoulder.

“Mm?”

“I have a surprise for you.” Dylan whispered.

“Is it a boyfriend who doesn’t wake me up at 2 a.m.?” Ryan mumbled into his pillow.

“Close. How do you feel about needles?”

Ryan turned to face him. “They’re…not that bad? What are you planning on injecting me with?”

Dylan knew Ryan couldn’t really see his face in the dark, but he grinned regardless. “I talked to my mom. She told me about these allergy shots — they’re like, kind of expensive but they work super well — and she said she’d be willing to pay for your doctor’s visits.”

“Why would I need allergy shots…?” Oops. He forgot to give Ryan context.

“For the cat, of course. She and I both agreed that Schrodie living with us would probably help the morale around here,” he rubbed his hand up and down Ryan’s arm, “I mean, if it’s okay with you. I can always keep looking. Snakes are pretty rad—”

“I think your mom’s got the right idea,” Ryan interrupted. “Tell her I said thanks.”

Dylan snuggled closer, positioning his face inches from Ryan’s. “I will. And also, thank you for caring so much.” He gave him a quick kiss, pulling away sooner than Ryan seemed to anticipate. “I can’t believe I’m gonna finally have my baby back. It’s a Christmas miracle.”

Ryan snorted. “So miraculous it’s happening in February?”

“Okay, a Valentine’s miracle? That’s kind of romantic.” Dylan leaned back in.

Ryan took the bait, kissing him again, albeit more lazily this time. “Go to sleep.”

“Can’t. Too excited.”

“The earlier you wake up, the earlier we can start getting this place ready for Schrodie.” Ryan turned back around, clearly trying to manipulate Dylan into making good choices.

It almost worked. “What if she doesn’t like me anymore?” Dylan mused.

“Not possible,” he heard Ryan mutter softly.

[abbysbasement]

i want to run my pussy on abby's hammer like a cat in heat i need her to make fun of me i want to suck on her tongue spit everywhere i do not care amen

AN; this is that shit that makes you embarrassed to look at mirrors after you write it. I gotta go... repently shamefully for this... if you know what I mean.

content tags: MEAN dom!Abby, assplay, object insertion (r!receiving, anal, yeah...) spanking (r!receiving), degradation (abs calls the reader whore, slut, bitch, etc.) , humiliation, name calling, affectionate pet name used in mean ways, mindbreak if u squint and tilt your head, strap on penetration (r!receiving), messy/dirty sex? public sex, nobody walks in but reader has thoughts about if someone did. spit kink but not in the mouth. abby and the reader and kinda nasty dirty and unhinged but are deeply in love and there IS aftercare!! started as an informal headcannon, somehow we got to paragraphs and thousand-word counds

WC: 3.1k

proofread?: yes \ no \ barely

tl;dr: abby sluts you out for being bad, you become very well-acquainted with a hammer.

just want u to know that you’re sick (lovingly) and I had to get in peak porn writing position to pump out this reply… no pun intended.

first of all we would have to fight over the hammer but that’s neither here nor there let’s unpack mean, condescending dom abby who loves to tease and make u cry.

I know I said Abby wouldn’t like fucking in public but I also love going back on my word and maybe this is one of those times where she gets super frustrated with you and decides to take u down a peg. she’s forever the doting, loving girlfriend but she knows she’s created a spoiled brat, nd sometimes u just push her too far; running your mouth too fucking much, using your body to rile her up right before her next assignment, and leaving her high and dry, the way you flaunt everything around the stadium, traipsing around in short little skirts, or a paper-thin button up, the hard baby buds of your nipples greeting everyone you talked to. hell, even the one time she caught you going commando at your job, flashing her little slips of your wet pussy as you passed her items over the consignment desk.

if you wanted to be a loose, disrespectful whore, she could play that game too. if she had to punish you into being good for her again, it was a low price to pay.

she’d tell you she had something to show you in the woods outside the stadium, ‘just something for you and me, mouse.’ of course, she’d give you one last chance to make it up to her, to prove that you’re good. but you’re too cocky, wandering hands trailing over her skin, down her chest, cupping that space between her thighs to feel the fat strap she was packing, just for you. Feigning dropping something on the ground to grind your hips against that hard, imposing bulge. She’d play nice, just for a second, looking down at you from your place on your knees. You had that innocent face plastered on, the slightest pull of a smirk playing at the corner of your mouth.

“hi, mam-“ you started, but she shushed you, instead using her palm to push up your head gently, the telltale sign of your favourite ritual. you opened your mouth hungrily, fanning out your tongue in that pliant, pretty way that she loved, letting her know you were all hers. For a second, it softened her; you, happily on your knees, that look of sheer devotion painting your face, waiting to be molded, created in her image. but it was never that easy, and you recoiled as a heavy spray of saliva drenched your face, sticking to your skin and dribbling from your stuck-together lashes. You blinked it back, vision obscured, hands moving away to wipe it causing a filthy smear on your visage.

Your play at aloofness was the last straw, and you found hard fingers tangling their way into your hair and forcing you down in a different position, the pit of her lips and her hot breath beating the side of your face.

“you take me for a fucking joke, cunt?”

“No mama, never— jus’ playin’ a little bit—“

you’d pout, craning your neck to look at her through fluttered lashes and teary eyes. Her jaw was clenched tight, forcing her words through gritted teeth. Eyes dark and predatory, looking over you like a piece of meat. A trail of fear cobbled down your spine and Abby walked it, shoving your mid back down to get you exactly how she wanted you. You were arched up with your tummy and breasts pressed down into the grass, the soft globes of your soft, plentiful ass poking from your flipped-over skirt, knees scuffed by the soil. you were sure that your face was caked with mud or would be. Your cunny wet your panties easily from the excitement of it all, dripping from that pit of terror and sheer animalistic arousal that only Abby, your one true owner could unlock. The slick ran down your thighs, filthy little drips painting your skin that made her own cunt boil internally. From below, you could see the woman who towered over you crack a crooked smile.

There she was.

“Didn’t I say that if you make it hard for me, I’ll make it hard for you?”

You nodded, silently, shamefully. Abby was cruel, palming your ass violently, kneading it, a rage that had been simmering for weeks boiling over in one moment, and you were the frog who didn’t notice the temperature rising until it was too late. “Better brace yourself, dumb fuckin’ whore.”

You wanted to press your luck. to tease just a bit harder, to say ‘for what?’ with the hopes she’d squirm, get out of her body a bit, see if you could brat your way into getting just a little bit more. But before you could open your mouth to let out a cheeky quip, a sound something like the swing of a knife in the wind cut through the silence, and a forgiveless, merciless blow dented your little ass. Your body shot forward against your will, every muscle in those damned delicious arms working overtime to knock you off balance. You knew you were severely fucked, that Abs would have you walking funny for days after how you behaved, that she had no plans of going easy on you.

“Mam- mommy, mommy,” you started, babbling like a fool, nose running and mouth awash with drool as you took your punishment, warm flesh being peppered with harsh smacks that reddened your beloved dom’s palm and indented your skin with hot spiderwebs. She didn’t respond, but you could hear heavy breaths and grunts of exertion pushing out of her nostrils. Your pussy was still leaking, panties nearly translucent from how ruined the fabric was. she was sure to leave a couple of blows there, too, your bitty clitty fighting its way out of its cloak of protection, unwittingly making it a prime target for the abuse your ass was under.

The cloth was removed from you, and abby silently marveled at your redness, the juiciness of your drooling snatch, and how your nub pulsated like it had its own mini heartbeat. she gripped it best she could, wetness making her fingers slip before she could catch good traction, and pulling the bundle of nerves towards her slightly. You were squeaking, moaning, guttural, and animalistic as you fucked your hips in her direction, the pinned hands still captured in her large fist slapping and clawing at any flesh it could find, even the still sensitive globes of your asscheeks. “Ple— fuck, please mama, be niceeee.”

“Fuck are you crying for? You’re a fucking faucet down here, we both know you need this.” water from your eyes dripped down, inky black marks rolling over your nose and into the dirt beneath you, marring your pretty face. your pussy was drooling though, and the rough treatment was exactly what you had been needing. she was always too busy with patrols, or supply runs, or any of the stupid vanity projects Isaac would spring on her at the drop of a hat. she’d feel remorseful about it, trying to placate you at night with lazy rubs to your clit or skating her tongue through your slit, but it wasn’t enough, and all you needed was to get taken down the way you deserved.

like this.

“open up those legs.” she said it like you had a choice, ha. “needa get you ready to take my cock. I mean, that is what you came out here for, right?” you wanted to say a lot, yes mommy, I’m a whore, yes mommy, I’m addicted to your dick, yes mommy, I’m a needy cockslut who has to have it every night lest I lose my fucking mind. but you were already gone; already in that soft, stupid, braindead space where you happily existed as her favourite hole and nothing more, so all you could do was force a weak nod.

but that wasn’t enough for mommy, never enough for mommy. her disapproval came down in the form of her hard, dirty boot on your ass, jostling you, enough to shock you back to life and give you a little scare, but enough to not hurt her baby too bad, because that was unforgivable. she angled her knee over, the tread gripping your ass and splitting your lips apart to reveal the ruby red of your hidden jewel. you could hear the telltale flick and jingle of her utility belt flipping open. there was only a second to exist in confusion before you hissed, keening unintentionally at the feeling of cold metal persisting against those red-hot folds between your thighs.

It was… whatever it was, but it drove you insane; slight bumps, divots, irregularities working every moan and scream out of you, tapping you like a leaky faucet as Abby tormented your hole. That damned work boot kept you open as she took her time, sometimes dipping the unknown attacker into your hole only to let it pop out as she fucked her arm back and forth, up and down, veins pulsing from the exertion. You were insane, fully broken without even feeling her cock in you, being painfully teased, barely fucked with the cold steel she had summoned.

She had fucked you with a lot; grinding on her pistol while she raked the clip through your hole, some shitty keepsake Issac had gotten her to celebrate her first 100 confirmed kills that was just the right size and girth for an anal dildo. fuck, even detached the quiver of her crossbow so that you could grind and get off like a good little girl in the front of the Jeep while she filled up the boot after a supply run.

But you couldn’t pick this one.

Abs was always good to you, a little mean sometimes, but this was just another way she was good to you, devoted to making your slut pussy feel the way it needed to. She was mean, however, when she left you empty and whimpering at the lack of stimulation as she pulled her arm away, dropping her foot and leaning over you as she brought the weapon of m(ass) destruction to your face. “you run that fuckin’ mouth enough, can use it for useful shit too, right?” She started, rough and imposing. “Get your new friend nice and clean for mommy.”

it was… a ball-peen hammer, flat on one side, rounded and fat on the other, and dripping with your nectar from end to end. You shuddered with excitement. She was so fucking dirty, so fucking sick for this, and you were impossibly turned on by it. you needed more. Your lips formed an O instantly, taking the less girthy head into your mouth, moaning at the taste of your own sinful juices coating your tongue. if anyone came upon this sight, if a passing group of scars came by and blew your head off, It didn’t matter, nothing mattered right now, the two of you could get ambushed at that very moment, and you would die happily as mommy’s perfectly debased whore.

she released the grip on your arms, pulling your head up by your hair to fit more of the tool in your waiting, happy mouth. you lapped it all, wetness leaking down your neck and between your pert breasts. Your saliva ran lengthwise down the handle, Abby’s palms being coated in the slick, drippy and sticky. You whined as she took it back, pouting immediately with disappointment. you could hear something muttered, a nonchalant ‘calm the fuck down’ and then the telltale drag of zipper teeth as Abby forced her cock free, dragging the fat head through your folds.

“Want me, mouse?” she said, tone almost sweet again as she fucked slightly into your waiting pussy, just the tip and nothing more. It was almost enough to make the waterworks start again, what felt like hours of evil teasing, toying around with your body like it was a game. She slipped in deeper, then pulled the sheathed inches completely out, biting the fat of her bottom lip as the diamond lines of your wetness stayed connected in thin air. you were fucking gorgeous, and she could take you right here and now, give you all the dick you needed, and melt your brain until you needed to be carried home.

But she wanted to drag it all out, wanted this to be the punishment. You could take all of the receiving, even if the cruel and unusual, but the anticipation, the not having is what killed you; and she knew which ticks would force you to lose it.

you were stumbling, babbling, everything swimming through your head too fast. Your exploited cunny was pulsating, the air blowing between your netherlips making everything so much more sensitive, making your brain even foggier. A thick, adept thumb flattened against your folds, dipping in to collect some of the sacred liquid and smearing it against your inner thigh. Her fingers drummed the fat of your butt impatiently. “So you’re gonna make me take you home? That what you want?”

“No!” You shrieked, on the verge of tantruming. It was too much, enough to wake you up, at attention and ready to take what she was willing to give. “No, no, I mean— want you! need you mama. So bad.” You swirled your hips around for emphasis, grinding against nothing, searching for anything to put out the fire she set inside of you. “On your elbows for me, then.” She said, waiting for you to comply in order to drop your head back down. She hummed in appreciation at your unwavering obedience, enjoying how much you were willing to degrade yourself for this, before she spread open your pussy lips and bottomed out all at once. “Goood fuckin girl, Mouse.”

The fire never got put out, it was quite the opposite, as though your whole body was alight from each nerve ending as she pounded into you with that body made of sheer muscle. She pressed forward, repositioning you with no hands and deepening your arch until she had the proper leverage to hit that fucking spot. She grabbed your hand from behind, guiding you to split your own pussy apart for better access.

Abby loved you for shit like this, how you clenched as you approached a peak, how that sloppy white ring would collect on the blue of her dick. You needed to be fucked like this, to be reminded what happens when toys step out of line and give their owners problems, and she had no qualms with destroying your brain and rebuilding it piece by piece. She could die in this pussy.

Another bead of spit rained against you, a large gob deep in your asshole. She worked you, effortlessly, snapping her hips to batter your cunt every time, using you completely for her twisted desires, moving to slip her thumb into the taut ring for a better grip. You were on cloud nine, barely forming words, sounding like you were speaking in code. Just loud, loose moans ringing from your throat. Yeah, you were sure you’d have to get put on recess for a couple of days to survive the mental effects of this cock.

“Relax for me, babe.” she whispered, softly and sweetly removing her thumb from your tightest hole before the sensation was replaced with something larger, more foreign, cold and hard, and —shiiittt

Abigail Anderson was a fucking crazy person, pushing the ball tip of the hammer into your quivered hole, letting the handle rest on your back as she continued destroying you with no mercy. “Aww, my lil’ Mousey got her very own tail.” She teased, jiggling your ass with her free hand as she watched the brown handle tap against your back in time with her thrusts. You whimpered, and she wrenched your head back up with a firm palm on your neck to meet your eyes. “When Mommy tells a joke, Mousey fuckin’ laughs, right?” She growled into your ear, punctuating her anger with a harsh slap to your already bruised ass and a rough thrust, pounding your secret spot and sending you closer and closer to your orgasm.

You tried to force a giggle, but the sensations from your battered pussy warped the sound into a ragged moan, and you tried to whine, beg, sputter your way into her favour. All you could manage was the stupid repetition of ‘Mousey has a tail, Mousey has a tail!’ until it broke down into just ‘tailtailtailtailfuckkinnnntail’ and until that melted into nothing, just a cheap sob and a scream running through the forest as your orgasm ran through you in the form of floor-sprinkling rivulets and a clench around mommy’s cock.

You wanted to fall but she wouldn’t let you, wanted to cry but she didn’t let you, and then, everything was gone and she was around you, strong arms holding you up, steady hands wiping the dirt from your face, soft lips kissing you everywhere in spite of the dirt on your face. “Got you, Mouse. You’re okay, you’re with me.” She whispered, running a reassuring palm through your hand, moving down to massage the back of your neck.

“Wanna lay down?” She said, motioning to her pack. She always brought a blanket, clean clothes for you, water, snacks, her gun, so that you would never have to hold one with her around. She tried her best to unfurl the fabric with one hand, laying you down and wiping through your poor, swollen kitten with a cloth damp from her canteen. She redressed you, fresh panties, one of her tee-shirts, tented by the hard pebbles of your nipples sticking out. She spread out next to you, letting you find your way to the crook of her neck, to that chest-to-chest position you loved because you could feel her heartbeat like it was yours. she still loved you, of course, would kiss your cheeks and soothe the bruises she left behind and remind you what you have is a forever thing, but that sometimes you need the bad with the good. You were such a bad girl, too whiny and needy for your own good, a spoiled little monster *she* created, but she loved you because of it.

Yeah, she fucking loved you.

[cressidagrey]

Looked to the Sky - Chapter 1

Summary: 

Eira Archeron was neither a Valkyrie, nor a Seer, nor the High Lady of the Night Court. She was, however, Azriel‘s mate with her own mysterious, untrained powers.

Also known as: Azriel tries to court his mate the human way.

Warnings: 

THIS IS THE LIGHTNING IN A BOTTLE SEQUEL! SO READ THAT FIRST IF YOU WANNA READ THIS ONE OTHERWISE THIS MAKES NO SENSE!

Elain Bashing, Low Self Esteem, Azriel is kind an idiot, Rhys is for once a good older brother, and without @k-godling this would have never happened.

(super pretty dividers by @tsunami-of-tears)

Azriel was currently regretting his life choices that had brought him to this moment. 

“Wow,” Cassian drawled as he stared at the wall in Azriel‘s room in the House of Wind that was covered in…research. 

Intelligence. Information. Whatever one wanted to call it. 

And Azriel was ready to rip his hair out. 

“I did it all wrong,” he growled, slamming the dusty old tome the shadows had procured for him closed…only for them to take it out of his hands and open it up to check for themselves. 

“What did you do wrong?” Cassian asked as he stepped nearer to the wall, staring at all the things Azriel had pinned up there. 

It was a complete and utter mess

“This said that I should have given Eira a gift when I made my first courting overture.“

What kind of mate was he, when he couldn’t even follow the bloody rules of human men for her? 

He had been supposed to procure a gift before even asking her to let him court her. He should have started with that gift. Actually no, they would have been supposed to dance together at a ball, then he should have made that decision to court her, then he should have gotten the first gift and then…

“Well, you could argue that since your shadows bought her things, you did it?“ Cassian suggested and Azriel growled.

“That’s not the same,“ he snapped. “I am supposed to give her a gift that shows my deep affection and appreciation of who she is as a person…What in the world am I supposed to give her?“

Cassian chuckled at Azriel’s frustration, stepping closer to the wall and peering at the various items pinned up.

“You’re overthinking this, you know?“ he said, a smirk on his face. “Just give her something that’s meaningful to you and her, something that shows her how important she is to you.“

Azriel growled. This was not helpful. "Also how is a pearl necklace a show of deep affection and appreciation?" he asked Cassian. Cassian just stared at him. "That was one of the first suggestions the book had," he said with a sigh. The book about human courtship rituals. Well, one of them at least. It was better to get his information from more than one source after all.

Cassian crossed his arms over his chest, his smirk only widening. "Well, apparently humans think that something shiny and expensive is the way to go," he teased. "You’re not exactly giving her a ring yet, so you could consider it a placeholder."

Azriel's eyes darkened. "I don’t want a placeholder," he growled. "I want something real. Something that shows her how much she means to me, not just how much I can spend on her."

"Could it be that you are taking this a little bit too seriously?" Cassian said carefully.

Azriel bristled at Cassian’s comment. “Of course not,” he said sharply. “This is Eira. My mate. This isn’t like some casual fling I’ve had for a little fun. This is different, and I won't just let it go without putting the effort in that she deserves.”

Cassian held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I know, I know,” he said, a slight hint of amusement in his voice. “Believe me, I’ve never seen you so worked up over a female before. It’s just…you’re acting as if the fate of the entire world rests on this courtship gift.”

Well, it did. The fate of his entire world. The fate of his children. He needed to get this right.

“You’re being dramatic,” Cassian said, shaking his head. “It’s not like the gift is going to ruin everything. You’re acting like if you don’t get this right, the whole idea of you and Eira being mates will just poof into thin air.”

He growled in annoyance. 

“Are you trying to court my sister or kill her?” Nesta's voice came from the doorway, her arms crossed as she stared at his wall.

Azriel whipped around to see Nesta standing in the doorway. His irritation deepened at her unexpected intrusion.

"Court her, obviously," he grumbled.

Nesta sighed. "“This is obsessive, Az. Also creepy," she told him drily. "You are approaching this like Eira is the King of Hybern and not your mate."

Azriel let out an exasperated growl. He wasn't obsessed; he was just being thorough. He had never cared about anyone as much as he did Eira, and he didn't want to mess this up.

"I’m simply doing my due diligence," he replied, trying to sound as firm and confident as possible. "I won’t fail her. I won't.”

Nesta rolled her eyes at Azriel’s comment. “Then stop acting like she’s some adversary to be conquered and start treating her like your mate already,” she said. “This is about your love for her, not your obsession to control every little detail.”

Cassian snorted, chuckling. “Only you, Az,” he chortled. 

Azriel shot Cassian a dark look, clearly not amused by the comment. “This is not a laughing matter, Cassian,” he said through clenched teeth. “This is serious. I need to get this right, and I can’t afford to mess it up.”

"How about you start with what you know about her? What are her hobbies?" Nesta suggested.

"I am not buying her needles or a shovel or a rolling pin. Or a toy for Nyx," AAzriel responded immediately. He had already gone through all her hobbies: Sewing, gardening for fruits and vegetables and cooking and baking.

Cassian let out a snort, clearly amused by Azriel’s response. “Why not? Those could all be very useful gifts,” he teased. “Especially the rolling pin, I bet she could beat someone over the head with it. You know, for that assassin instinct of hers.”

"Or I could borrow it and hit you with it," Nesta muttered under her breath.

Cassian chuckled at Nesta’s comment. “I’d like to see you try, Nes-“ he began to reply, but was cut off as Azriel growled at them both.

“Enough. I don’t need you two bickering.” He massaged his temples, trying to hold back the headache that was starting to form

"Well, doesn't Eira sing?" Cassian suggested.

Azriel paused slightly and he thought for a moment, recalling a memory of hearing Eira singing softly to herself.

"Yes," he said quietly. "She does. But that doesn't help me at all unless you have an idea in that thick skull of yours."

"She used to play the harp," Nesta said quietly. “Well, not the dead trove harp. A real, human harp,” she clarified.  

Azriel's interest was piqued. "She plays harp?" he asked, turning his attention to Nesta. "In all the time we’ve been together, I’ve never heard her mention that."

"We all learned some kind of instruments. It was vital for a well-rounded education. She was the only one who enjoyed it," Nesta explained.

Azriel thought for a moment. That actually sounded ideal. His shadows immediately perked up at the idea, starting to whisper amongst themselves.

"A harp…" he mused. "A harp could be perfect. If I can manage to find one that's good enough."

Cassian chuckled. "You'll probably spend the next year researching harps, won’t you?" he teased.

"I don't have time for that," Azriel responded.

Cassian rolled his eyes. "Sure, you don’t," he said dryly. "That’s why you’ve been holed up in this room for the past three days researching things humans consider romantic. I bet your research for this is more extensive than your missions."

“She's more important than a mission," Azriel said evenly. "Also, Hybern was less terrifying."

"Go buy her a harp, Az. Alternatively, if you want her to start crying, buy her a kitten," Nesta said with a shrug. "Though maybe not...Though that will only live a decade and then she’ll be heartbroken."

"Why should it die that quickly?" he asked Nesta, furrowing his brows.

Nesta gave him a deadpan look. "Have you never met a cat before, Azriel?" she said. "That’s how long kittens live. A decade, at most. And that's not even considering the time it takes a cat to grow from a kitten to an adult. You’ll be lucky if Eira gets fifteen years."

"Magical cats live...a very long time," Cassian disagreed.

Nesta stared at Cassian. “How long do magical cats live?” she demanded. 

"Well, theoretically forever," Cassian said with a shrug. “Unless they are killed by a predator of course.”

Azriel sighed. He could see where this was going. This was one of those decisions where there was no clear-cut right path.

Cassian, sensing his hesitation, chuckled. “Come on, Az. Where’s that ‘mysterious broody spy’ everyone loves?”

"Kitten or Harp?" he muttered.

"Just buy her one and keep the other for her birthday," Nesta suggested.

Azriel shot Nesta a glare. “Stop thinking so far ahead when I can barely decide on the first one,” he muttered, making her laugh. 

Cassian just smirked. “That’s rich, considering how much work you’ve put into this entire thing.”

*******

Eira had always liked being outside. 

When they had still been in that godforsaken cottage, Eira had taken her mending outside...had doted on that little patch of horrible earth that had only ever managed to grow a couple of potatoes, carrots, radishes and green beans...so many green beans...

But she had loved it. Even the small, withered things she had been able to grow there, it had been her tiny corner outside. She had prised her hands with dirt, tended to those potatoes and carrots, and had felt alive. Now she was terrified to even look outside the window.

Now, Eira would have loved to simply lock herself in her closet, because there was no window there...to go hide there, because maybe there she would be safe…

It was irrational, she knew that. She couldn’t help it. Every time she looked out of a window, she saw them again. Saw these horrible dark uniforms…saw the faces of the men she had killed. She saw them again and her chest burned in response, her stomach turning, bile rising in her throat.

She couldn’t help it. 

"It's healing very well," Madja told her, weathered fingertips trailing over the closed gash just underneath her breast. Eira stared at the ceiling, wishing herself far, far away. It had healed well. In just a few days, it had closed, just a thin red line reminding her of what had happened.

A thin red line and the feeling of lightning crackling underneath her skin. 

Eira winced as Madja touched her tender skin, the scar still sore to the touch. Even with her accelerated healing, it would take some time before she would fully recover.

"Are you still experiencing any pain?" the elderly healer asked kindly, her eyes studying Eira closely. Eira took a deep breath, trying to find her voice. The pain was the least of her worries. She had felt worse. So much worse.

"No, not much," she replied quietly, her eyes fluttering shut. "Just a little...some twinges, here and there."

Madja nodded, her expression a bit sceptical. She had probably seen hundreds, maybe thousands of patients in her life, and she could likely tell when they weren't being entirely truthful. "Are you sure?" she pressed gently.

Eira’s face twisted into a grimace. She didn't want to be....she didn't want to be weak. She didn't want to...She had seen how Cassian's wings had been shredded, how Azriel had an ash bolt shot in his chest...and neither of them had complained. And she...she had a single knife stuck inside her and it felt like…

“Eira,” Feyre said, her voice taking on an edge.

She knew that Feyre was right, she knew that she should be honest with the healer. But saying it out loud, voicing her fears and anxieties, would just make her...so pathetic.

Still, she took a deep breath and looked at Madja, meeting her gaze. "It...It hurts," she admitted quietly. "More than just...it hurts, whenever I move."

Feyre squeezed Eira's hand tightly. Madja nodded, her eyes studying Eira with a careful, almost calculating gaze, before it softened, a flicker of sympathy passing over her features.

"I suspected as much," the healer said bluntly. "A wound like that can heal on the surface, but sometimes the internal damage is more severe than it appears." Eira‘s breath hitched. The internal damage. The internal damage she had done to herself when she had killed these males…when she had…burned them alive. 

"You should rest," Madja said quietly. "You need to give your body time to heal completely, or you'll risk making the damage worse...you can leave the room and sit outside...but you should not do anything strenuous like gardening or training or whatever else you normally get up to. Though the sunshine outside would do you well," Madja pointed out.

Sunshine...outside. Outside. Alone the thought made Eira break out in cold sweat.

Her breathing turned shallow at the thought of being outside. She knew she couldn't stay in this room forever, but...the thought of being outside...Alone...In the open air, with no protective walls around her...It made her heart race. She could feel Feyre's worried gaze on her.

Madja also studied Eira carefully. "No training," she said pointedly, "but you should try to go outside for a little...Sunshine and fresh air will do you good. It's good for healing."

"I...I’ll try," she managed to choke out, her voice barely more than a whisper.

She didn’t want to go outside. She didn’t want to leave her room.

Madja finished, and Feyre went to bring her to the door…leaving Eira alone. She forced herself to sit up, to pull her nightgown back together…and then escaped into the bathing chamber. No windows. No windows meant she was safe. Once the door to the bathing chamber closed firmly behind her, Eira allowed herself to finally break. She sagged against the door, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. Alone. No windows. Safe.

She was vaguely aware of tears falling down her face. It seemed like that was all she ever did these days, cry herself into exhaustion. She didn’t even know how often she had woken up that particular night…how often the shadows had come to soothe her back to sleep. The shadows came every time Eira awoke with a start, her heart pounding or tears streaming down her face. They were always there. 

They would whisper to her, wrapping around her like a comforting blanket, soothing her back to sleep.

You are alright, they whispered now too. You are safe.  She wondered if they didn’t have anything better to do. No more important people to spy on. Why don’t you wash your face? the suggested gently. Water. Face.

Wash her face, repeated Eira mentally, slowly gathering her thoughts.

The shadows were right, of course. She should wash her face. Her eyes looked as tired and red-rimmed as she felt. Perhaps washing her face would...would help her feel somewhat better, even if only a little.

She took a deep breath, as she dried her face on the towel the shadows found for her…and then they fluttered around her like a swarm of excited butterflies, bringing her a new nightgown and dressing gown. She took a moment to examine them.  

The nightgown was a much darker colour than her usual ones, a deep, rich blue instead of the usual whites and creams. She looked at the dressing gown, taking note of its heavier fabric. The shadows were right to have chosen it - the nights were getting chilly, after all.

But still… “Did you steal it from Feyre?” She asked weakly, even as they helped her shrug out of the old dressing gown. They let her deal with her nightgown, never touching her naked skin anywhere but her hands and face if they could help it, as they drew the new one over her body…and then stuck silky soft slippers on her feet.

The shadows didn't respond to her question, and for a moment Eira wondered if they even heard her. But she had no time to dwell on it further: they were already working on her hair, untangling her braid with deft, careful movements and brushing it out. They started to braid it again, a new, different braid than the usual ones she wore, pulling it back from her face. The braiding was precise and quick as if they had done this many times before.

“How did you learn that?“ she wondered quietly.

The shadows paused for a moment, almost as if they were contemplating her question. They continued braiding her hair though, a little faster than before.

Practice, they whispered, their voices low and quiet, barely above a whisper.

Eira let out a small huff. Sometimes, she had the distinct impression that the shadows were purposefully not answering her questions, or giving her a non-answer, as they had just done. But she didn’t have the energy to press them for an answer, no matter how much she wanted to hear one.

So instead, she just leaned against the sink quietly, letting the shadows tend to her hair.

You should go outside. The sun is shining. The healer said it would be good for you.

No. She didn’t want to go outside. She didn’t want to…She wanted to stay in this room, in this safe, dark and windowless room…

She didn’t want sunshine. Didn’t want fresh air. 

It would do you good, the shadows continued, their voices low and soothing. Go outside. Sit in the sun.

“I can’t.“ she forced out.

The shadows paused in their work, just for a moment.

You can, they insisted firmly, their voices growing almost persuasive. It’s good for you. You will feel better once you go.

She highly doubted that. Her hands turned clammy at only the thought.  As soon as the shadows finished braiding her hair, they flitted away, making a beeline for the door. Eira tried to call out, to stop them, to tell them that no, she couldn’t go, but the words died in her throat, the door opening before she could even try.

Rhys was there, standing in the middle of her room.

She had no clue what he even wanted from her. She had spent the last couple of days…resting. Sleeping half the day away, which wasn’t helped by her nightmares at seemingly every damn moment…Nesta and Feyre had kept her company when they had. She hadn’t so much as sneak a peek at Azriel since their…talk two days ago. Though his shadows were a constant companion of hers, doting on her like a cat would do to a sole kitten. 

Now…Eira’s heart thudded in her chest at the sight of him. He didn’t look angry, but he didn’t look...friendly either. He just looked at her with watchful, careful eyes as she stared back at him, frozen like a deer before a hunter.

The silence was thick, stretched thin like a rope that was about to snap. Eira bit her lip, unable to tear her gaze away from Rhys’ searching stare. She could feel a sheen of sweat on her skin, her heart thudding so hard she was surprised it hadn’t burst out of her chest yet.

Her knees trembled, and she nearly pitched forward, if the shadows hadn’t caught her. The shadows appeared out of thin air, wrapping themselves around her like a silky, dark blanket as she swayed on her feet. They held her up, stopping her from falling to the ground.

Rhys was suddenly at her side, wrapping his arms around her as well, his hands warm and firm against her cold, clammy skin.

“Shhh, I got you, little one,” he shushed her. Rhys’ voice was soft, gentle, and soothing, his hands firm around her. Eira sagged against him gratefully, her body trembling and her breath coming in short gasps.

“It’s alright. I won’t let you fall,” he murmured, as he scooped her up, easily carrying her like she weighed nothing.

She thought she probably didn’t. Just because he didn’t have arms the size of tree trunks like Cassian did, didn’t mean that Rhys wasn’t an Illyrian warrior trained in his own right. 

He had absolutely no problem with just swinging her up like she did to Nyx. 

“Bed or do you want to brave the garden?” he asked her carefully. “Madja said some fresh air would be good for you.”

Of course, he already knew. 

She swallowed, her heart racing.

Bed was safe, comfortable, and familiar. She wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of the day there, under the covers and away from the world. To go outside...to face the wide-open sky...that was a terrifying prospect.

“Bed,” she whispered.

Rhys nodded, carrying her over to the bed and gently placing her on it. The shadows fluffed the pillows behind her, letting her lean against them in a comfortable position.

She expected her brother-in-law to disappear again, though she had no clue why he had even come to see her in the first place. Didn’t he have something more important to do? Like, run this court maybe? 

But he didn’t disappear again. Instead, he sat down next to her, not touching her, just staying close enough that she could feel his presence. “Madja said the garden would be good for you,” Rhys insisted quietly. He wasn’t looking at her as he spoke, his gaze fixed on the wall across the room. “Fresh air, sunshine...she said it would help you recover faster,” he continued, his voice neutral.

Recover. Recover what? Recover that bit of her that had died on that playground when she had killed these men without even thinking about it? She had taken multiple lives. And she was just supposed to be fine with it?!

Eira chewed on her lower lip. She knew what the healer had said, but...the thought of going outside, of being away from the safety of these four walls, was enough to send her heart racing in her chest.

“I...” she started, her voice trembling. “I can’t.”

Rhys turned to look at her then, his expression carefully neutral. “Why not?” he asked, his voice quiet but firm. ”It’s just the garden,” he said evenly.

Eira felt a flicker of irritation rise in her chest at his words.

”it was just the playground,” she shot back shakily. Rhys visibly froze, his eyes widening as he flinched visibly. She could see the pain in his eyes, the hurt and the guilt...but she didn’t care. She couldn’t care.

“Eira...” he started, his voice suddenly hoarse.

“I can’t,” she whispered. She knew it was stupid. She knew. But she couldn’t help it. It must be ridiculous to him, to a 500-year-old warrior that she was afraid of facing the outside but she couldn’t help it. She was utterly terrified. 

“You need to heal,” he said quietly, his voice gentle but firm. “You need the sunshine, the fresh air. You can’t just stay locked up in here forever...” She could. 

She really could. 

If it stopped her from feeling like dying, she would stay right here for the rest of her life. 

“What…What is it that scares you?” Rhys asked her gently.  Her breath hitched in her throat at his question.

She opened her mouth, trying to find the words to explain how terrified she was, how the very thought of leaving this room filled her with a sense of dread that was nearly paralysing… “I don’t want it to happen again,” she choked out.

Rhys’ face darkened at her words, his eyes filling with anger and pain.

“It won’t,” he said, his voice tight. “I won’t let it. You’re safe, Eira. No one will hurt you in that garden. I swear.”

Eira wanted to believe him, wanted desperately to cling to his words like a lifeline...but she couldn’t. The fear lodged in her chest like a rock, refusing to be dislodged.

“You can’t promise that,” she whispered, her voice small and shaky.

“Yes, I can,” Rhys cut her off. “You’ll go outside and I’ll be right there. And if any rogue darkbringers suddenly show up, I’ll mist them with a single thought,” he promised her fiercely. “It won’t happen again.”

Her breath caught in her throat, her heart beating furiously in her chest. It sounded so easy when he said it like that, so simple. He would keep her safe, keep her protected...

“Let’s just try it,“ Rhys said softly. “We can go back inside if you can’t stand it, little one.”

Eira chewed on her lower lip, her fingers trembling in her lap.

Just try it. We can go back inside if you can’t stand it. 

Those words gave her a small flicker of hope, a lifeline to cling to. Eira took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to steady her nerves. “Alright,” she agreed weakly.

Rhys smiled at her words, the expression strained but genuine. He stood up from the bed, holding out his hand to her.

“Come on then,” he said gently. “Let’s go sit in the garden.”

Eira swallowed, her entire body tense with anxiety. She looked at his outstretched hand, feeling her heart race at the thought of taking it.

For a moment, she couldn’t move, her entire body frozen and immobile. But then, with trembling fingers, she reached out and slowly took his hand.

Rhys’ hand was warm, strong and firm around hers. He held her hand gently, as if he were afraid she might break, and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

“That’s it,” he murmured gently. “We can go as slowly as you need.”

She nodded weakly, her knuckles turning white as she gripped his hand tightly. Slowly, hesitantly, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Her body trembled as she stood up, her feet feeling unsteady on the floor.

Rhys was there, hovering close to her side, supporting her gently as she took her first shaky steps away from the bed. The shadows flitted around her like dark, flickering butterflies, whispering reassuring words that she could barely hear over the pounding of her heart.

“Eira…how about you let me carry you?”

Her breath hitched at the suggestion, her heart skipping a beat.

Her first instinct was to refuse, to shake her head and insist on walking on her own. But her legs felt like jelly, her steps unsteady and shaky...and she hated the thought of looking weak, of being lifted like some helpless child.

But as much as she hated it, she knew she would crumble if she walked on her own, her legs giving out like a newborn fawn.

So, with a small, defeated nod, she agreed.

“I…alright,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

Rhys wasted no time in scooping her up in his arms, lifting her with ease. She tried not to let it bother her, not to think about how pathetic she must look, being cradled like a child.

The shadows fluttered closer, their dark forms brushing against her skin as they whispered gentle words of reassurance.

You’re doing well. one of them whispered in her ear, its voice low and soothing. The High Lord is right here. You’re safe.

"It will be fine," Rhys promised her as he carried her down the stairs, making no appearance that the extra weight of her in his arms bothered him in any way. "Just outside. We'll sit on the terrace, and nothing bad will happen."

Eira clung to his words like a lifeline, her hands trembling as they clutched at his shoulder.

She tried to ignore the way her heart raced, the way her blood thundered in her ears...she tried to focus on Rhys’ voice, on his words assuring her that it would be fine.

The terrace wasn’t far, it seemed. Soon enough, they were there, the doors swinging open silently as they approached.

Outside. Out of the relative safety of the house. Outside.

Eira clenched her teeth, the panic rising in her chest.

The air around them was fresh and crisp, the faint scent of grass and trees filling her nostrils. The sun streamed down, its warmth caressing her skin...and yet, Eira felt cold, her breath coming in small, shallow gasps as her heart thumped against her chest.

The wide-open space, the vastness of the sky, was suddenly so much more overwhelming. It felt like it was pressing down on her like it was closing in...

She heard a deep rumble of thunder, could feel something static-y in the air...felt the taste of metal in her mouth...

"Take a deep breath, Little One," Rhys soothed her. "It's alright. We are there already..." Just a moment later, he put her down onto the soft cushion that covered the lounge area on one side of the terrace...a place where she had often laid down Nyx for his afternoon nap this summer...

The plush cushions were a familiar comfort, their softness reminding her of the times she had spent with her nephew…

She tried to focus on that, on the memories of those times instead of the overwhelming feeling of being outside...but as she looked around, as she took in the sheer vastness of the sky stretching out in every direction, it was almost too much.

Her breath came in short, sharp gasps, and she found herself clinging to Rhys’ arm, her fingers digging into his skin.

"You are alright," he promised her again. She knew it was ridiculous. He must think she was utterly mental that being outside scared her, overwhelmed her into silent fear.

Eira was sure he must think her completely insane: Scared of being outside, of being in the open...it was ridiculous. It was pathetic.

But she couldn’t help it, no matter how much she tried to calm herself down, to shove her fear back down. It had a hold on her, a tight grip that she couldn’t shake no matter how hard she tried.

"It's alright to be afraid," Rhys said quietly. "It's nothing to be embarrassed about."

Eira tried to believe his words, tried to take comfort in them. But it was hard, so hard. Her fear felt so stupid, so silly, so pointless.

She should be able to handle being outside, shouldn’t be so terrified of it…and yet here she was, clinging to Rhys like a frightened child, her heart thundering in her chest. The High Lord of the Night Court had volunteered to be her protector and she was still utterly and completely...terrified.

The shadows fluttered around her, sensing her fear, her terror...whispering softly in her ear, trying to calm her, to soothe her. But even their attempts couldn’t stop the way her body trembled, the way her heart raced.

Rhys wrapped an arm around her, pulling her closer to his side. His touch was gentle but firm, a silent reassurance that he was there, that she wasn’t alone.

"You have every right to be afraid, Eira. That doesn't make you weak, little sister. It only means that you went through something traumatic and you haven't fully dealt with that yet," Rhys said softly. "I still wake up from nightmares. So does your sister. Cassian, Azriel...all of us deal with that as well."

"I am pathetic, " she whimpered.

Rhys’ expression darkened at her words, his jaw clenching.

“No, you’re not,” he said, his voice firm. “You’re the farthest thing from pathetic, Eira. Some fully fledged warriors would have taken one look at these Darkbringers and ran. They wouldn’t have stood their ground.” He huffed, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t you ever call yourself that again? Do you understand me?”

"In what world am I brave?" Eira asked weakly, her hands still trembling, fear settled in some kind of panic in the back of her brain, leaving her utterly spent and exhausted.

"You threw yourself between my son and a knife, Eira," Rhys told her drily. "In what world isn't that brave?"

Eira’s breath hitched in her throat as he spoke, and her mind suddenly filled with the memory of that day.

She had done that, hadn’t she? She had thrown herself in front of a knife for Nyx, not caring what happened to herself as long as the baby was safe… For Nyx, she had done that. She hadn't thought twice about it either.

But it had been for a good cause, in a moment of crisis. This…this was just her being weak. This was her reduced to a trembling, blubbering mess, too scared to do anything but cling to Rhys like a child for comfort. How did that make her brave?

"I know it doesn't feel that way right now, but it does get easier," Rhys promised her softly.

She wanted to believe him, she really did. But right now, it was hard. The fear felt so overwhelming, so all-consuming, that it was hard to imagine ever feeling anything else.

Eira took a deep, shaky breath, her body trembling as she tried to control her emotions. But despite her attempts to steady herself, she couldn’t seem to calm down. Her heart raced, her hands clammy, her breath coming in short, anxious gasps.

“It’s alright,” Rhys said softly, his voice reassuring. “I’m right here. You’re safe.”

The shadows fluttered around them,  brushing against her hands in a soothing caress.

Slowly, slowly, the fear that had consumed her began to ease, the frantic thumping of her heart returning to a more normal rhythm. She took a deep, shaky breath, feeling her body relax slightly in Rhys’ embrace.

"I am scared all the time," he continued softly.

Eira felt a flicker of surprise at his admission, her eyes widening slightly. She had never, ever considered that Rhys might be afraid. He was so powerful, so confident and in control...it almost seemed impossible to believe.

“But...why?” she asked, her voice small and wavering. “What could possibly scare you?”

Rhys chuckled softly at her question, a humourless sound that seemed almost bitter. “Plenty of things, little one,” he replied, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “More things than you could imagine.”

Eira frowned, her confusion growing. She had always assumed that Rhys was above fear, that he was somehow above the worries and anxieties that plagued the rest of them. To hear him admit otherwise...it was jarring, to say the least.

“What...What are you afraid of?” she asked softly, her voice so quiet she could barely hear it over the sound of her heart beating in her ears.

Rhys was silent for a moment, his expression growing more serious.

“Losing my mate,” he said quietly. “Losing my son. I'm afraid that if I don't keep them safe if I make a single mistake, it could all be taken from me.” He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling as he spoke. "I'm afraid that one day I'll wake up and it will all have been nothing but a dream. That it was never real.”

She had never considered that he might be scared...that he might feel the same way that she did, the same fear and uncertainty that gripped her heart with a vice-like grip.

"It's real," she promised her brother quietly. "It's real, Rhys."

Rhys smiled faintly, his expression softening slightly as he looked down at her.

"I know it is,” he said quietly. “But it doesn’t make the fear go away."

Eira felt a pang of sympathy in her chest at his words.

She knew all too well what it was like to feel the weight of fear, the way it could consume you and control you and leave you feeling helpless. And yet, to hear Rhys, the High Lord of the Night Court, a man so powerful that he could crumble mountains with a snap of his fingers...

It was almost surreal.

“How do you deal with it?” she asked quietly, her voice quivering slightly. “The...the fear. How do you make it go away?”

Rhys was silent for a moment, his expression thoughtful.

"I don’t make it go away,” he said finally. “I don’t think that’s possible. The fear is always there, lurking in the back of my mind, waiting for me to let my guard down." He paused, his gaze fixed on some point over her head. “I just…I try to keep it at bay, remind myself that it’s just a feeling, that it doesn’t have to control me. I focus on the people I love, on the things that matter."

Eira felt her heartache at his words. She knew that feeling, that constant fear that lurked in the back of your mind, waiting for a moment to strike. And yet, to hear Rhys say that he felt the same...it almost made her feel better, to know that she wasn’t alone in her fear.

"Look at the flowers growing...Look at your vegetable patch," Rhys said softly. "Feel the fabric underneath you...Look at Nyx being happy and smiling..." She looked up to see Feyre walk outside, Nyx on her hip who happily squealed as soon as he saw Eira.

Eira's heart lurched at the sight of the baby, her chest constricting with emotion.

Nyx wriggled on Feyre's hip, reaching out his tiny arms towards her, babbling happily as he recognized her. Eira couldn't help but smile, her heart melting at the sight of the baby's little face. Feyre smiled, walking closer to Eira and Rhys, with Nyx bouncing on her hip.

The baby was babbling happily, his eyes fixed on Eira as he reached out for her. "Look how happy he is to see his Aunt Ra Ra" Feyre said gently, a fond smile adorning her lovely face.

"Ra Ra!" Nyx cheered at that moment, and Feyre sat him on Eira's lap, sitting next to her.

Eira felt her heart melt as Nyx settled himself on her lap, his little body bouncing with energy.

The baby looked up at her with wide, innocent eyes, his little fingers reaching out to grab at her hair. He babbled happily, his voice high-pitched and cheerful.

She wrapped her arms around him, holding him close to her chest as he continued to babble and coo.

Safe, untouched. 

She was safe. Maybe one day she would believe that again. 

[hologramcowboy]

At the recent convention Jensen was supposed to sing at the Saturday night concert but unexpectedly didn’t.

People are joking that it’s because people make fun of his ‘pornstash’ and he was annoyed, but I’ve just been listening to the recent Kings of Con podcast called ‘Beef’.

Rob mentions in detail a chat thread where he maybe upset Jensen as he said no to Jensen’s suggestion for a medley, as Rob didn’t want to learn too many new songs, as was already struggling. (I have a friend who also suffered a stroke who finds this kind of thing difficult and so think this could be a real challenge for Rob now).

Rich was joking that he had offended Jensen. And then Jensen didn’t actually sing at the event for some reason. It all sounded kind of petty if that was the case and I’d like to think that wasn’t the reason.

If you have chance to listen to it I’d be interested what you think.

I personally think it’s wise to protect Jensen from singing at the moment as he seems drunk, can’t remember the words, sometimes sings badly when I know he can sing well, and wanders off when he feels like it. I could never ever cast someone like that in a performance after seeing that and worry how it looks to others.

There are also some details about Cliff not letting other cast members into J2’s private green room at times that do make it seem that they were maybe as close to the cast as I thought.

I want to believe the best, but these stories make me wonder.

That stache or whatever he wants to call it just gave him the creepiest vibes. As an actor you need a thick skin. People might not like your outfit, words, make-up, etc etc but that should never affect your professionalism and, if it does, then please find another career. You clearly are not in it for the craft.

I am going to be bluntly honest, I am super happy Jensen did not take the stage because, and I cannot stress thiss enough, unless you are putting high quality performances out there please don't put out any at all or you risk burning your image and career. Jensen has done enough drunken, mindless performances where he sang off key and was clearly in a highly altered state. My guess is his team probably advised him to take it easy. I do think he was probably too wasted to perform, let's face it he's proven time and time again he cannot seem to get through a con without altering his state and that is such a terrible example for his fans. I adore his voice but it's been years now that he's been delivering extremely low quality performances in an altered state and that does not honor his career, fans nor talent.

As for Rob, I can't even remotely imagine why watching out for his health would be offensive to Jensen. So I am going to withhold commenting on that and just say that I hope Rob chooses health over those who gaslight him. Health is everything.

I don't get the fans that feel happy in a room where Jensen is wasted out of his mind and screaming off key instead of singing. It's like going to the zoo and watching your favorite animal walk in circles due to being driven crazy by the small cage they are kept in and being happy about it, not even caring about animal mistreatment. What's worse is that they sexualize those peformances during which he is clearly self destructing.

If any of you are singers or performers on every level please choose to believe in yourself and train rather than using alcohol to numb yourself. Don't kill your talents, nurture them, they are a gift you can share with the world. 🧡

[aikaterini-drag]

Chapter 13 Aching

Summary: Bucky is devastated at the way he treated Grace. While she, deals with his decision to hide his true intentions from her and leave her behind.

Warnings (this chapter): regrets, emotional Bucky, separation feelings, Tony Stark sass is here to make up for the sadness.

Find more chapters of the "Fading Scars" Series here ♡

Three hours had passed. Three excruciating hours since James had deceived and forsaken Grace. Three hours in which he couldn't rest nor free himself of his rueful conscience. Guilt was ripping him apart from the inside out. A boulder thrown at his face would have been better than the mental anguish he was experiencing.

Restless and consumed by anger, he raked his hands across his face in a futile attempt to erase the traces of his torment. He shook his head vigorously as if by sheer force he could expel the haunting memories that clung to him.  Clasping his hands together, he concentrated on the mission ahead of him, the only welcome substitute for his broken reality.

"You shouldn't have left her behind," Steve's voice broke through the silence as he approached. Clad in his signature navy blue suit, shield slung across his back, he settled beside Bucky, his elbows resting on his knees.

"Couldn't agree more. You made her cry," Sam added, joining the conversation.

"I didn't want to hurt her," Bucky said and swallowed heavily.

"Last time I checked, lying to someone is the main cause of pain," Sam said despite Cap's gentle nods to keep it low.

Bucky breathed out and looked at him. "Simply staying quiet would have sufficed, Sam."

"I'm not one to stay silent," Sam quipped, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Remind me, why exactly are you helping me?" Bucky addressed him and set his mouth into a thin line.

"Ask him," Sam said, pointing at the Captain. "He believes in you. And if Steve believes in you, then I support you too."

"Sam..." Steve said, curving his lips in a proud smile. "Now can you two stop bickering?"

Bucky just sighed. "I'll stop. Hydra is my primary concern."

A brief silence hung in the air until Sam spoke up again. "So, how do we track down Silas? We're navigating without a compass, flying blind."

"We can start attacking every Hydra base I know. There are at least six potential facilities," Bucky suggested.

"What makes you think this is worth our efforts?" Sam said with skepticism.

"Silas needs a base suitable for his dirty work," Bucky said. "He needs fortified facilities, medical rooms, torture chambers..."

"Do you think he has injected the serum by himself?" Steve asked, not excited at the idea of fighting against another super soldier.

"No. He won't risk it." Bucky exhaled. "He won't hesitate to use other test subjects, though. That serum is unlike any other serum ever created. It's impossibly strong, wicked even, formulated to poison the human body and mind. There's a high possibility that the person will lose his sanity after taking it. No human is strong enough to bear its power."

Sam's brows knitted. "And where does Grace fit in all this?"

"They're family, hence Silas wants to test it on her and analyze its side effects. That monster wants to sacrifice his daughter for the sake of a stupid experiment!" Bucky said with a sick, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Steve ground his jaw. "We'll get him. Let's start by infiltrating some of the possible Hydra facilities."

"I agree. I'm sure we'll eventually find some clues," Sam said. "What's our first location?"

Bucky cleared his throat before saying, "Hydra's Laboratories in North America.

▪️▪️▪️

Grace gazed outside the airplane window, her thoughts distant, lost in the vast expanse beyond the glass. Sunlight filtered through puffy clouds, casting a warm and inviting glow on the landscape below. Rolling hills and lush valleys passed by, a vibrant tapestry of nature's splendor. But her eyes remained vacant, her mind consumed by a storm of emotions that no view could dispel.

She groaned and shifted on her seat, evading the intruding sunlight that hit her eyes. Tears glistened in the corners of her eyes but she wiped them away and curled up in her seat with a heavy feeling in her chest. She should have known better. James was trained in the art of misleading people. And she was such a fool, melting into his arms, completely disregarding the signs until it was too late.

It irritated her that he had taken a personal risk so he could keep her safe.

Alarms were ringing in her mind because, despite his actions, she was worried about him. What if Hydra recaptured him? What if they tortured him beyond saving? What if she never saw him again? The fear of his absence, of never setting eyes on him again, clutched at her heart, refusing to loosen its grip. She attempted to push these thoughts aside, but they clung to her consciousness relentlessly.

The soft sound of boots clacking against the floor brought her back from her silent thoughts, followed by a soft hand cupping her shoulder. Grace cringed at the sudden touch and readjusted her position at the sudden disturbance. Her gaze met that of a woman draped in a tactical ensemble, vibrant crimson hair framing her face like a fierce halo. The piercing green of her eyes held a hint of mischief, and her lips were painted a deep red.

"Natasha?" Grace uttered, her eyes widened in pleasant surprise.

"Grace Landon, I was hoping our paths would cross again," Natasha replied, her lips curling into a warm smile.

"How long has it been?!"

Grace exclaimed, springing from her seat to embrace her in a swift, heartfelt hug. Natasha had been a constant presence in her life during the time when she was tasked with guarding her and her mother against Silas. They had grown close and turned into good friends.

"Over four years," Natasha answered, her tone carrying a sense of both nostalgia and regret.  "Grace... I'm so sorry about your mother. I—I failed—"

"Natasha, don't blame yourself for my mother. You did everything you could to keep us safe."

"I wish I could have done more." Natasha didn't have the heart to meet her eyes. She felt sorry for not being able to protect Grace's mother and for going on with her life when the poor girl had gone through so much on her own.

"I've never forgotten you all these years," Grace confessed, her voice a brew of gratitude and affection.

Natasha's eyes met hers, her demeanor softening. "Is that why you disappeared without a trace?"

"I'm sorry..."

Natasha sighed. "I thought you were dead ..."

"As you can see I'm still... I'm still out of power. What about you?"

"I've been following orders, going on missions."

Grace smiled. "I'm proud of you. You joined the Avengers. You seem to have found your place. And I'm sorry again. I should have kept contact with you."

"I understand," Natasha said. "It's all in the past now."

"James put you up to this, didn't he?" Grace said, a harsh breath escaping her. "Ah... even saying his name makes me angry."

"Barnes did this to protect you," Natasha said after pondering for a few seconds. "He's a good man."

Grace's frustration resurfaced. "I don't care. He shouldn't have agreed to this plan. Turn this jet around. I want to see him."

Natasha's tone was gentle but firm. "I can't do that."

Grace let out a bitter laugh. "This isn't fair. I'm being dragged along against my will."

"Bear with it for a little while." Natasha peered at the way her face had paled and for a moment there, she was vexed. Damn it, Barnes. The young spy was insecure about all this, but Steve had also agreed, so she had to follow the plan.

Grace rubbed her throbbing temples and asked, "Where are you taking me?"

"I'll let you know soon."

"That's not an answer."

"Grace, please try to be patient."

"I can't be patient. I've been manipulated into something I don't want."

Natasha's resolve wavered. "Alright. We're headed to the Stark Tower. New York."

"The Stark Tower?"

"Yes, you're to stay there until further notice." Natasha hesitated but continued, "I'll be there with you, providing whatever assistance you need."

Grace forced down the sickening feeling in her gut and exhaled. The Stark Tower represented safety and luxury, yet its walls felt like a gilded cage, confining her freedom. And Natasha wasn't staying with her just to make friends. She was there to guard her in case something went wrong.

"Will he ever return?" Grace muttered, her throat tightening.

Natasha didn't reply and that was answer enough.

[kyuponstories]

writeblr/artblr intro.

I commissioned this artwork; the character belongs to me. Please do NOT steal nor use in any way! This piece was created by @/teller-of-tragedies.

Hello all!

My name is Kyu. I am a creative writer and traditional artist. I have the ultimate goal of bringing all of my Black (girl) joy-centered stories to life via comics & animation - mainly through fanime (a small community on YouTube of animators making low budget anime series) and stop-motion with dolls. I made this tumblr hoping to make friends with artists & writers of many genres & formats!

*tries to think of a way to bring up social anxiety & adhd w/o sounding weird & fails* 🤠

Current fanime WIPs (all to be animated & possibly made into comics 1st):

Oh, Coffee Boy! (오, 커피 보이!) - An introverted boy shows up to his first day of work at the right restaurant, but the wrong location! Transferred before he could protest, Akachi must learn how to live life with his goofy, cosplaying co-workers. (SOL/Comedy)

• Because I Like You! (好きだから) - A romcom about a socially anxious senior who unexpectedly becomes close friends to her high school's heartthrob - much to the dislike of her childhood friend.

• Eyes of the Beholder - A royal medieval fantasy & action series full of angst involving a girl who has never dreamed. Super excited about this one but can't spoil anything about it sksksskks

• It's Complicated! - A romcom series about two teens that like each other, but have a complicated relationship. Did I mention that they're childhood friends? Apparently childhood friends 2 lovers is a dynamic of mine now lol.

Current Stop-Motion WIPs (all to be animated w/ dolls):

Bangtan Beach Adventures - One by one, the BTS members find themselves on Lilac Beach. When some get held captive by a fierce mermaid underwater, they must work together to find a way to escape her clutches! (Alternative: A silly stop-motion series w/ ten episodes that I add on to as I collect each BTS doll by Mattel lol).

• Lilac Beach - Iris was born on the beautiful Lilac Beach. She loves the place so much that she walks around in her swimsuit all day. The problem? Iris is afraid of water. But it's her responsibility to take care of the beach as well as those who visit & reside there - on and off land. As new faces arrive, old faces return, and love blossoms, will Iris be able to overcome her past and return to her life beyond the shore?

My Tags (if I even remember them lol)

#am writing ~ for all writing updates

#moot project ~ for writing by my mutuals (aka moots)

#word count

#wip: oh coffee boy! || #oh coffee boy! || #wip: OCB

#wip: because I like you! || #wip: BILY || BILY

#wip: sukidara || #sukidakara

#wip: EOTB || #eyes of the beholder

#wip: IC || #it's complicated

#wip: lilac beach || #Lilac Beach

#wip: bangtan beach adventures || #bangtan beach adventures

Will add more as they come!

IG & Youtube art channel are both @kyuponstories as well (nothing on the latter as of March 29th, 2024)!