#reminder to everyone to take your meds <3< /div>
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maddstermind · 4 months ago
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Hurrah hurrah!!! Hello @akiwitch! I'm your pinch-hitter for the @writeblrgarden Secret Santa event!
I've been wanting to make this since reading part of Summoning Trouble you shared a while back, so I'm glad to have finally gotten the excuse to do it!!
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casart · 2 years ago
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Meds don’t work for everyone. And sometimes it’s trial and error to find the right ones. But for me, mine helped me see colour again after everything had become so grey
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autumnoakes · 4 months ago
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was watching the covid season of grey's anatomy all afternoon today and it was REALLY good with like the emotional and physical toll it took on the workers, how they all seem so tired and defeated, how often they break down in tears out of fear of their loved ones and the pain of being isolated from them, etc.
but then i stopped before they could kill off the character who spent a lot of time in manic depression last season and was actually shown to be in a better mental state right before he was killed in the middle of being a healthcare worker in a global pandemic
#no one judge me for the show that was my special interest when i was like 12#i knew when it was coming because he and his sister when after the person who i know killed him#and i'm so MAD ABOUT IT LIKE#they SHOWED that he had timers reminding him to take his meds and sleep#they SHOWED the people who helped him being proud of where he was literally right beforehand#they SHOWED him having several mental breakdowns AT WORK NO LESS#AND THEN THEY KILLED HIM?????#like okay. i did forgive them when derek died because i'm ngl it was kinda coming#i knew he wasn't going to be around by the end of the season#like. you know those movies where they show the missing/dead spouse in bed with the protag#and there's light all around them and they're talking about the future and how much they love each other#LITERALLY THEY HAD THAT THE EPISODE BEFORE HE DIED LMAO#so i was like 'oh the episode's only half over but the conflict is resolved. what's go- OH.'#but with andrew it's like. he didn't get that kind of a sendoff#there was no warning other than 'oh hey he's going after that woman he stopped last season while mid-manic episode'#this is the second chance i gave this series though ajdhskfjsj i stopped watching it after some honestly pretty decent nb rep#but it was poorly handled#also i hate teddy now akdjskdj girly's making up excuses for herself#throwing pity parties every episode because everyone knows she cheated on her husband and they're distancing from her#like. okay. you brought that on yourself though.#maybe? don't? cheat on your husband????#(i hate owen too btw <3 he literally said he cheated on cristina because he hated her)#(and he hated her because she got an abortion)#GRRRRRR#btw andrew did have bipolar canonically like they made that explicitly clear
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tbaluver · 25 days ago
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S/O With Depression- The Love And DeepSpace Men
parings in order: Xavier x Reader, Zayne x Reader, Rafayel x Reader, Sylus x Reader, Caleb x Reader requested by: anonnie ⋆˚꩜。 genre: comfort a/n: hihi lovelies! ⸜(。˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ i would like to mention that everyone has different types of depression and goes through different things! i wrote the ones i’m familar with and what the anonnie requested! what might be common for me or from the anonnie that requested can be completely different to someone else! if you want to see more then i’ll write a part 2! hopefully this brings some comfort to those that need it enjoy reading! <3 any likes and reblogs are always appreciated! enjoy!
⋆。‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧。⋆
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Xavier:
Will do his best to be a light and source of comfort for you
Xavier would stay close when getting out of bed feels impossible. But if you needed space, he’d respect that, keeping you company from a small distance in bed to remind you that you’re not completely alone. He wouldn’t let you stay curled up in bed for too long. He’d gently carry you to the kitchen to make sure you’re fed.
On days when your words don’t come easily and your thoughts feel jumbled, he never interrupts or rushes you. He stays quiet, a hand on top of yours, nodding along while letting you speak at your own pace even if your sentences come out jumbled. Occasionally, he might ask a question to understand the context. When you do finish what you’ve needed to say, he’ll work through it together with you
If you were taking any medications, he’ll go through the entire packet and read through any information about it online. He’ll remember all the side effects that come with it and checks up on you whenever you take them
When every little sound starts to feel like it was too much, he draws the curtains and does everything he can to make it more peaceful. He moves carefully, no sudden sounds will be made in this household. Even the way he eats or shifts in his seat would become more gentler. If you were comfortable with it, Xavier would gather you into his arms, holding you close against his chest. His hand rest gently over your ear, blocking out whatever noise is left.
Xavier would offer to listen and be the place where you can let it out. But if it’s an unexplainable feeling that you just can’t put into words then he’ll find a different way to cheer you up. He’ll settle beside you, pulling up your favorite comfort shows and have your snacks ready
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Zayne:
Whenever getting out of bed feels like too much, he’ll leave a warm cup of tea and a few slices of fruit or your favorite snacks by the bedside table. He never rushes you so he waits. Sometimes he’ll sit nearby so you don’t feel alone. Other times, he gives you the space you want, trusting that you’ll reach out when you’re ready. But when it starts to feel like too much and the silence grows too heavy, he will step in. Never forcefully. He’ll encourage you to start off slow, a hand on yours. Maybe something as simple as sitting up or maybe just brushing your teeth.
Anytime you went through a depressive episode, Zayne has no problem doing the extra housework or helping you with your physical health. He’ll help you shower, brush through your hair gently, and help brush your teeth. He’ll praise you for each small step you take
The type to send you reminders to take your meds at the right time and that you should eat something before you take them so you don’t get nauseous.
Zayne would understand and has never taken it personally when you don’t want to be touched. He doesn’t try to hug or reach for your hand. Instead, he makes space for you until you you’re comfortable once again
He can tell when you get sad randomly. Zayne would never force you to explain but he will always remind you if you want to talk, he’s there. Sometimes when it’s just a quiet ache sitting in you for no reason, he’ll also understand that. He’ll suggest a walk out for fresh air or just for a different scenery if you’ve been inside for too long.
When the smallest sounds can feel too much, he’ll make sure to move extra quietly. He’ll offer noise cancelling headphones to drown out any sounds. Any open windows will be closed and he’ll draw the curtains to keep the noise out. He’ll make sure to close any of the doors inside softly, silence his phone and pager and he’ll make sure to give you the space you need.
Sometimes the words just don’t come out right but Zayne would never rush you. He would always be patient, even when your voice shakes or when you pause for too long. And when you do finally get them out, no matter how jumbled or messy it sounds, he listens. Every single word and every detail. Once you said all you needed to say, that’s when he speaks and helps
Reminds you that he is always there for you. Even if he was busy at work and you know he can’t reach you right now, you can still message him. He reminds you to never hesitate to reach out, spam him, leave him voice messages. He’ll read through every word and detail and he’ll find time to immediately reach out to you
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Rafayel:
You would never feel alone if Rafayel was by your side. Even if he was away from an art exhibition, he would text you throughout the day. If you need him by your side, then he’s finding an excuse to get out of work and find his way to you.
When you’re having a hard time getting out of bed, Rafayel would be by your side under the covers so you don’t feel alone. However if you continue to have a hard time, he doesn’t hesitate to step in. He’ll scoop you up in his arms, carrying you to the bathroom. He’ll start with something simple, like a warm bath since it can maybe cheer you up.
When every noise seems to bother you, he’ll make sure to move around quietly in the studio. He’ll close up the windows and doors so his seagull friends won’t bother you. He’ll even breathe more quietly so he doesn’t bother you. Rafayel would still stay nearby but gives you your space to make sure you’re not alone. He’ll wait until you’re ready to talk with him
Rafayel would never take it personally when you did not want to be touched but he definitely does get a little pouty about it behind your back. He just misses holding onto you but he understands and gives you the space you need.
Feeling sad randomly? Rafayel would never push you to explain what’s wrong but he encourages you that it’s good to let it out and that he’s always there for you. However, if it was unexplainable, he doesn’t make you feel weird about it. He’ll find ways to cheer you up as best as he can. He’ll pull up videos on his phone and you silly videos he found that might make you smile. He’ll even suggest a quiet walk by the beach just for a change of scenery and for some fresh air
Sometimes the right words just won’t come. They get lost somewhere between your thoughts but Rafayel has never once looked at you confused or has never been impatient. He watches you carefully, trying to understand your expression. Sometimes he finishes the sentences for you, not to interrupt but because he’s piecing it together with you. And if you grow frustrated, he offers to sketch it out with you.
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Sylus:
On days when getting out of bed feels impossible, he stays beside you but he doesn’t let you stay there for too long. He understands the weight of it all but he will step in. First he’ll start with encouragement, asking you to sit up just for a bit. But if your limbs feel too heavy and your body refuses to move, he never gets frustrated. He’ll carry you in his arms. He’ll run you a warm bath and help bathe you. Later he’ll encourage you to do some small activities with him to get you a little motivated
He would never take it personally if you were not in the mood to be touched. There’s no wounded ego or disappointment. He gives you the space that you need until you are ready to curl up next to him again. He’ll make sure you were absolutely comfortable with it before he reaches back
Sylus would always give you the choice to talk or cry or let it out to him in whatever way you need. But if it’s those days where it’s just unexplainable, he doesn’t press on. Instead, he’ll offer distractions. He’ll pull out a new vinyl that he’s been saving for or maybe stepping out to a new scenery to get rid of whatever ache you have in your chest
When the world feels too loud and your thoughts won’t slow down, no matter how hard you try to explain to Sylus through hiccupped sobs, he doesn’t ask you to make sense of it. Instead, he pulls you into his arms. He doesn’t say much at first, his hand moves slowly up and down your back. He doesn’t need you to have the right words. He’ll listen, hiccupped sobs or not, to every detail you have to say. When your sobs begin to slow, when you start to breathe a little easier, he’s still there, helping you sort through the weight you've been carrying. It doesn’t matter if the problem is big or small. He’ll work them out with you together.
Luckily your shared bedroom is at the top floor to avoid any noises from the city. However if any noise continues to bother you, Sylus wouldn’t ask what’s wrong, he’ll just move around quietly as best as he can. He’ll stop playing any music on his record player unless you don’t want him too. He’ll make sure Luke and Kieran are not in the same building and he’ll make sure to mute Mephisto
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Caleb:
Having a hard time getting out of bed? Caleb would give you the space you need, leaving you your favorite snacks and water by the bedside table with a cute little note and a doodle for you. He’ll check in on you often to see if you’ve eaten or just by ‘passing’ by the room. However if it does stretch on, he’ll kneel beside the bed and offer his hand, suggesting a few easy stretches. He’ll encourage just a small stretch for your arms and then legs next and then a small little walk to the kitchen where he has a little meal waiting in the kitchen just for you
As much as Caleb loves to hold you and have you in his arms, he would never be offended if you did not want to be touched. He would never hover and never pressure you. He gives you all the space and time you need when you’re comfortable again
Feeling sad out of nowhere? He would be SO worried, it would be written all over his face. His first instinct is to check in, offering to let you vent out if you need to. He’s always been a good listener. If it just feels unexplainable and you can’t quite name the reason, then he’ll find ways to cheer you up. Caleb would curl up with you and pull up your favorite comfort shows or movies. Or he’ll bring you your favorite snack or make your favorite dish that you love. And of course, he offers his signature big bear hug.
If any sounds were bothering you, he’d make sure to not make a single sound in the house. No loud footsteps in the halls, no clinking dishes, you name it. He’d even go as far as making sure no plane flies in the direction over your home to make sure you get the peace you need.
Sometimes you can’t get the right words to come out and Caleb would be patient with you the entire time. He lets you speak and lets you take all the time you need to get it out. His hand rests on yours, his thumb traces slow, soothing circles over your knuckles as he reads your expressions carefully. If any tears come out from frustration, he cups your face with so much care and wipes away any stray tears.
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ʚɞ cr. for the divider @/ cafekitsune
ʚɞ 𝘕𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘨𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯:
ʚɞ my other works if you want to check it out! The Love And DeepSpace Masterlist, Pg. 2
ʚɞ Others:
Wattpad ( still updating it rn )
twitter @/ tbaluverr but idk how to use twitter </3
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nanamiskentos · 4 months ago
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WHAT? LIKE IT'S HARD? ✶ choso kamo
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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
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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.”
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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“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.”
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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.
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“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.
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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.
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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.”
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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’!”
966 notes · View notes
unripe-lemon · 1 year ago
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Since i know no one will see this:
1 note and i will email my therapist
ok so for this one,, like since then i have emailed my therapist?? that counts right????? tbh i dont even know what to talk abt anymore, but i do have a session with her so dw
2 notes and ill put my laundry away
ugh….. stupid. internet.. making me do things that will make my life easier…. gugh yeah i put my laundry away!!!!! everyone clap now
5 notes and ill try to brush my teeth more often
ok so like for this one i found this video https://youtu.be/pvutTiPY7q8?si=PASnBmUXZ0xiHzWM imma sing this song to myself every tike i dont feel like brushing my teeth
youtube
6 notes and ill try to put on cream for my dermatitis (anxiety hives!!! yayyy!!!!) more often
just did it hehe :) tho it is getting a little worse and my kitten scratched me on top of it 😭
10 notes and ill attempt to learn my timestables
11 notes and ill study for my exams
my exams are over!!!! so idk what to do for this one? maybe ill go do my homework instead
20 notes and ill try to go one day without using my pc/phone
30 notes and ill vaccum (more bc we just adopted kittens) my room entirely
40 notes and ill try to explain my depression to my mom again
50 notes and ill clean my locker out at school
imma do this tmr!!!
i forgot 😭 someone remind me
80 notes and ill fix the posters that are falling off of my wall and are probably going to rip soon
doing this rn! taking dinner break
100 notes and ill REALLY unpack everything with my therapist
maybe tmr?
we talked about medication and kittens, also exams so like success??
200 notes and ill ask my mom if we can go to my go and get! me! medicated!
ill discuss w therapist tmr
discussed with therapist, we are now getting the conversation started with my mom and are going to see what my gp says after that!! :) ty to everyone in the notes rooting for meds
300 notes and ill re organise my bookshelf
400 notes and ill clean all of the mold off of my wall
damn 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 ion wannaaaaaaaa
this is a weekend activity tbh, and idk if its even going to BE this weekend :P
500 notes and ill clean the mold off of my roof
600 notes and ill try sewing some new clothes
i crocheted a scarf!!! does that count?
700 notes and ill buy some new shoes
800 notes and ill check out dnd club at school (im scared)
900 notes and ill come up with more goals
edit: bro……. 😭
so im gonna take my time w these bc there is a lot to go thru!! i will try my best to remember to update!!! ty for notes :)
- random internet stranger
edit 2: WTF 1000 NOTES GUYS CHILL
ok so like i have to come up with more goals now???
1500 and ill start taking study notes with a study method (rb with study method that is your fav eg cornell method)
1700 and ill attempt to hype myself up enough to eat at school (long story, germs)
2000 notes and ill start whatever book wins this poll:
2K notes · View notes
admiringlove · 27 days ago
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part one || part two || part three tw: mentions of death, suicide ideation, severe injury, slightly suggestive towards the end, etc. post shibuya arc au. a/n. here is the last part (can be read as a standalone). i'm so grateful to everyone who's read this <3
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[10:46] . . .
malaysia is so much hotter than you thought it would be.
the heat clings to your skin like a second layer, oppressively wet, never letting up—not even at night, when the ceiling fan whirs uselessly above the bed. in the beginning, it made you irritable. the air felt heavy in your lungs, the water from the tap never cold, and everything—every corner of your new home—smelled like salt and heat and city dust. the first few months were awful.
you had to run the air-conditioning almost constantly, kept the curtains drawn just to keep the light from boiling the room alive. you’d panicked the first time kento had started sweating in his sleep, terrified it would irritate his skin, that the damp cotton would rub too hard against healing burns. you spent those nights wide awake, turning the air-conditioning on, carefully peeling the sheets away from his body, dabbing at the worst of the sweat with cool cloths, whispering apologies he never asked for.
and kento, sweet, maddening nanami kento, never once complained. not when the electricity bills climbed sky-high because you insisted on climate control, not when you micromanaged every step he took out of the house—checking three times for his meds, his sunscreen, his hat, the stupid scarf he never wanted to wear but let you wind around his neck anyway.
he endured it.
he endured everything with the kind of quiet patience that used to feel like strength to you. but lately—lately, it feels like something else. like self-punishment. like he’s trying to make up for something that isn’t his fault.
he nods whenever you say, “ken, did you take the skin cream?” even if you’ve asked him twice already, even if you’re halfway through preparing his pills. he lets your fingers skim over his jaw, checking for signs of sunburn or irritation. he lets you mother him.
and sometimes—sometimes, it makes you so angry you could cry. because he shouldn't have to put up with you.
it’s ten-something in the morning now. the sunlight outside is already too much, and you’re at the small kitchen table, legs curled under you, a mug of hot tea pressed to your lips even though it makes no sense to drink something hot in weather like this. the tiles are slightly chilled beneath your feet. your shirt sticks to the small of your back.
six months.
it’s been six months since you arrived here. six months since you left behind the cold, grey halls of jujutsu tech. six months since you said goodbye to the only life you’d ever known. six months since you packed up every shard of your broken world and carried it with you across oceans, just to follow him.
you sip your tea. you stare at the slow whir of the ceiling fan. outside, somewhere, kento is probably checking the mailbox or watering the balcony plants, moving slow in the heat, bones still aching from old injuries. you wonder if he took the skin cream. you wonder if he’s still pretending not to hurt. you wonder how long he’ll keep letting you love him like this—like he’s something fragile.
like he might disappear if you stop.
you sigh, your fingers brushing against the edge of the countertop, lingering for a moment before you push yourself upright. the december air is bearable today—softer, quieter, tinged with salt and the kind of stillness that only arrives in the morning. the breeze carries in the breath of the sea, faint but unmistakable, and you can hear the low rush of the waves from the end of your street. from your house—this house that you bought with the very last of your savings, a house with too many windows and not enough insulation, perched just shy of the shore where the sand begins to give way to tide—you can hear everything.
it’s a sound that reminds you why you did it. why you left. why you dragged your tired body and your broken heart across countries just to come here.
to the place kento had once called peaceful. to the place he'd only ever mentioned once, in a passing conversation years ago. something about how mundane life could be beautiful. about how he didn’t want to die in the middle of a fight.
and you—fool that you are—you remembered.
so here you are. in this sun-warmed house with its peeling paint and its thankfully fast ceiling fans and its cracked tile on the upstairs bathroom floor. here, where you cook your own food and sweep your own porch and hang your laundry on a line strung across the kitchen window. here, where kento waters the plants and you learn the quiet names of herbs.
you rinse your teacup slowly, watching the water run from warm to cool to finally cold. it surprises you every time—when the cold sets in. this is the first winter you've had here, and it isn't like home. it isn’t biting or sharp. it doesn’t come with snow or breath that clouds in the air. but it’s cool enough for your hands to ache a little under the tap. cool enough to make you think maybe, just maybe, this season will be kinder to you than the last.
you turn off the tap, letting the silence settle again. and then you turn toward the staircase—and there he is.
kento.
he’s just reached the top of the stairs, the watering can hanging loosely from one bandaged hand. his shirt clings slightly to his back, damp from the exertion, and his shoulders are tired in a way that makes something twist behind your ribs. you watch him place the watering can on the shelf, slowly, deliberately, as if he's afraid he might drop it.
and something in you softens. something in you cracks.
“when’d you come downstairs?” you ask, quiet, the words almost carried away by the sea breeze curling in through the open windows.
“just now,” he murmurs, not turning around. “i watered the plants. the lemongrass was getting too big, so i cut some. basil’s looking good.”
you nod. even though he can’t see you, you nod, because you don’t know what else to do.
there’s a pit in your stomach now. familiar. ugly.
you don’t know why it’s growing. you don’t know why, even here—even in this house with all its salt-soaked peace and sleepy afternoons—there’s still a voice in your head whispering that you’re not doing enough.
that you're too much. that you fuss too much. that your love is heavy in ways it was never meant to be.
you’re here. beside him. you’ve given up everything. you’ve done everything. so why does it still feel like you’re failing?
"do you wanna go into town for dinner today?" kento asks, voice light and gentle, like he's been rehearsing the question all morning in his head. he's fluffing the collar of his old cotton button-up—the off-white one you’d once jokingly called a dad shirt, the one that has a faint yellow stain near the hem because neither of you ever figured out what it was. his fingers move slow and measured, smoothing it down before he reaches up and switches on the ceiling fan in the living room. the blades creak softly as they begin to turn, stirring the warm, salty air.
you nod, absentmindedly. your hand finds the glass and pours the water out of muscle memory. it’s not until he’s settling on the couch, shoulders sinking into the cushions, that you realize you’ve been holding your breath. you exhale as you hand him the glass, your fingers brushing against his for a fleeting second.
"we can do that," you say, and your voice comes out too flat. too practiced.
he doesn’t say anything. of course he doesn’t.
you know he knows. knows that your mind is fighting itself again. that there's something lodged in your chest like a stone, too stubborn to cough up, too painful to swallow down. kento always knows. he doesn’t pry. he never has. he watches you the way someone watches the sea during a storm—knowing that there’s no use in stopping the waves, but hoping anyway that they don’t crash too hard.
he tilts his head toward you.
that same tilt. the one he’s always done. the one he did the night you first kissed him, when he looked at you like you were a puzzle that he didn’t want to solve—just admire. his slightly overgrown hair falls into his eyes, soft and mussed. his lips are pursed, not in disapproval, but in something closer to concern disguised as patience.
and you—you look down.
because if you keep looking at him, you're going to break.
because you want nothing more than to climb into his lap and bury yourself in him. to press kisses along his jaw and into the crook of his neck, to feel his arms around you again like they used to be. to cry a little, maybe, and tell him that you’re scared. that every time you wake up and see the bands still wrapped around his arms, the scarred skin, your heart twists with something too sharp to name.
but would that be too much? would you be too much?
you’ve asked yourself this every day since he came home to you. since you washed his wounds for the first time, hands trembling as he winced through the pain but never pulled away.
is your love too loud? too heavy? too wrapped in routine and fuss and rules about when to apply which cream, which hat he should wear if the sun is too high, how long to stay out before the heat irritates the grafted skin?
you don't know. you only know this: you would do it all again. a thousand times. a thousand more. because he's here. because he came back.
and you love him. you love him so much it terrifies you. but you wonder—do you overlove him? is that a thing? is there such a thing as being too tender with the person who saved you just by staying alive?
and finally, finally, kento says, so softly it’s like the sea breeze carries it over to you: "you know. i think i'm going to change myself a little."
the words don’t register at first. they settle like dust in the air, floating around you until your mind finally catches up. you blink, snap out of your spiralling thoughts, all the self-deprecating noise quieting for just a second as you turn to him.
"what do you mean?" you ask, brows drawn together.
and kento, with those weathered, gentle hands that still tremble when he holds a fork for too long, reaches for you. he tugs at your wrist first, feather-light, and when you don’t resist—because when have you ever resisted him?—he pulls you closer. so close his breath kisses your stomach, so close your knees bump the sides of his thighs. and then, with that same infinite patience he’s always shown you, he pulls you onto his lap.
you're straddling him now, breath caught in your throat, and the panic kicks in like clockwork.
"wait—" you start, heart thudding hard against your ribs, "ken, your skin—your legs—what if—"
your voice fizzles out. you were going to say something about his scars. about his healing. about the pressure on his wounds. about hurting him.
but none of it matters, really. because you worry too much. you always have. and he’s always let you.
but right now, kento is looking at you like he wants to memorize every inch of your face. the light cuts through the curtains and lands across his cheekbones, outlining the tired lines of his face in soft gold. he cups your face, and his thumbs graze your cheek like you’re something delicate. like you’ve given too much of yourself and he’s only just realizing how much.
"i mean," he continues, voice low, slow, careful, "that i should stop staying quiet when i can clearly see that something is bothering you."
you feel your throat tighten again.
"i should ask," he says. "the way you always do."
his eyes soften. they always soften when he looks at you. even now, even when the scars have made him feel like less of a man, even when the mirror still makes him flinch on some mornings, he looks at you like you are the one who saved him.
"so," he says, and he tilts his head just slightly, the way he always does when he’s being serious, "tell me."
and just like that—just like always—he gives you a place to land. a soft, sturdy place to fall.
you stay quiet.
his hands are still on your face—steady, grounding, reverent, sacred—and his hazel eyes are still searching yours like he’s afraid to miss a single flicker of emotion. like this moment, this breath between you two, is something sacred. something he doesn’t want to rush. something he would wait lifetimes for.
he looks at you like that. like your silence is a gift, not a burden. like your stillness is something holy.
and then, finally, your voice emerges, small and cracked and unsure: “am i too much?”
it’s so soft it barely makes it across the short space between your mouths, but it does. and you see it—feel it—the way his expression shifts in real time. the slow inhale. the almost imperceptible widening of his eyes. and then, he smiles.
he smiles.
and you frown instantly. your heart twists. your voice sharpens. “why are you smiling?”
and then, kento laughs. soft at first. small and breathy. like something long-lost and unfamiliar breaking its way out of him.
you stare. you can’t breathe. because it’s that laugh—the one you used to hear before the war. the one he’d let out when you burnt dinner by accident or when gojo said something dumb, or when you tripped in the hallway and tried to style it out.
it’s that laugh. the one you would’ve given anything to hear again. and here it is—after months of ointments and bloodstains, of careful bandaging and sleepless nights, of biting down on your own sobs and holding him while he couldn’t move. here it is.
a return. a sound that feels like the sun rising inside your chest. he chuckles again, thumb tracing the edge of your cheekbone like he’s trying to memorize you all over again.
"it's just..." he begins, voice full of something like wonder, "you can never be too much."
your brow furrows deeper. “huh? what do you mean?”
and now he’s tugging you in—arm curling around your back, palm pressing to the base of your neck—and your foreheads are touching. your noses brush. you can feel the warmth of his breath against your lips.
"everything you do," he murmurs, as if the truth should be said slowly, carefully, the way you would unwrap something fragile, "is for me. every morning, every night. you check my meds. you chase the sun out of the bedroom when i’m hurting. you fuss. and you fuss so much."
his voice drops, tender and low. “but it's never too much.”
you open your mouth, ready to argue. to insist, “but that’s literally my job,” because it is. you signed up for this. if it had been you in that hospital bed, you know he would’ve burned the whole world down just to ease your pain. you mumble it anyway, soft as a sigh, “we’re married. this is how it works. you would've done the same.”
and kento—sweet, careful, ruined kento—shakes his head. his thumb brushes under your eye, as if you’d cried even though you haven’t. not yet.
"you didn’t have to stay,” he says. “you could’ve left, and i would’ve understood. it’s been hell, i know. watching me like this. taking care of me like i’m made of glass.”
you shake your head. you want to tell him he’s wrong. that he’s not fragile. not to you.
but he keeps going. his voice is thick now, but steady. “you put your life on hold for me. you left the country for me. you gave everything up, just to live in this stupid humid town by the sea because—because i said once, once, that i wanted to retire here. you remembered. you remembered that.”
you’re crying now. you don’t even notice when the tears start. but his fingers are already catching them.
“you’re practically the dream,” he says, and it sounds like a vow. you swallow. your voice is a broken hush. “i’m just me.”
“exactly,” he says, smiling. “and that’s all i’ve ever needed.”
and god—god—you kiss him.
you kiss him because there’s nothing else left to say. you kiss him because his hands are warm on your waist and his scars are healing and his love is infinite and patient and here. you kiss him like you mean it, because you do.
because kento is yours. and you are his. too much and just enough. forever.
his grip tightens just a little around your waist—stronger than you remember, steadier than it's been in months. his hands are big and warm and trembling slightly, but they're there, and they’re holding you. one anchors itself at the small of your back, the other pressing gently to your hip as if to make sure you don’t float away.
“stay like this,” he says again, voice low, hoarse with something aching and holy. “stay on top of me. until i can lift you like i used to. until i can carry you to the bed just to hear you squeal. until i’m strong enough to have you pinned beneath me without worrying about the pressure. until i’m me again.”
he pauses, breathing heavily. “just… stay.”
and you do. you do. you’re already melting into him before he finishes speaking. you lean down, your hands on his chest, fingers curled into the soft cotton of his button-up. you press your lips to his again—slowly, deeply, almost desperately—and it’s like inhaling sunlight.
his mouth parts beneath yours, and his breath hitches when you deepen the kiss, arms tightening around your waist. it’s messy and aching and utterly, utterly tender. you can feel the way his body responds to you, how he sighs softly into your mouth, how his thumbs stroke your waist like he’s trying to memorize every curve again.
and when you pull back for just a second to look at him, he’s watching you with a softness that threatens to undo you entirely.
“i could never leave,” you whisper, breathless and trembling and everything in between, your forehead pressed against his. “i would never go anywhere where you aren’t there.”
his eyes flutter shut for a moment. you feel his breath catch in his throat, and then he’s whispering back, “then you’re everything.”
the words are a confession. a promise. a vow.
“i hope that answers your question,” he murmurs, brushing your hair behind your ear with a touch so careful it makes your heart squeeze.
you blink, still breathless, and your smile is shaky and aching and filled with something that could only be love. “it does,” you say.
but you don’t stop.
you lean down again, lips brushing his cheek first, then his jaw, then the spot just under his ear that always made him shiver. he lets out a soft noise—almost a groan, almost a sigh—and tilts his head to give you more access.
“i missed this,” you murmur, lips ghosting over his pulse. “i missed you.”
“i’ve always been here,” he says, and the way he says it makes you want to cry again, “even when i wasn’t all the way… me. even when you weren't you.”
you hum against his throat, then kiss him again, firmer this time. your hands slide up his chest, feeling the way his muscles shift beneath your palms, the faint hitch in his breath as you grind down just slightly on his lap. not enough to hurt him—never that—but enough to remind you both that he’s alive. that he’s here. that he’s yours.
he groans, hands sliding up your sides, slipping under the hem of your shirt just to feel your skin. his fingers are warm and rough and reverent, tracing the familiar dips and curves of your body like he’s rediscovering home. like you are the one piece of earth he can still stand on without falling apart.
your lips part again, and his tongue meets yours with slow, languid purpose. it’s not hurried. it’s not frantic. it’s deep. intimate. kento's kiss says things neither of you have dared to put into words. his kiss says thank you, and don’t go, and i love you so much i don’t know where to put it all.
your hips roll again, involuntarily this time, and he groans into your mouth, the sound low and helpless. you smile, breaking the kiss just long enough to breathe against his lips.
“you okay?” you murmur.
he nods, chest rising and falling quickly. “never better,” he whispers, eyes glazed, smile lazy. “god, i missed kissing you like this.”
you press your forehead to his again, cheeks flushed, lips swollen. “well, i’m not going anywhere.”
“good,” he breathes. “because i think i’m gonna need you to stay right here. at least until i figure out how to stand up with you in my arms again.”
you grin, letting your fingers thread through his hair, tugging gently until he groans again.
“i’m not heavy, nanami.”
“you’re everything,” he repeats, voice rough with emotion. “and i’m never letting you go.”
and then he’s kissing you again, and again, and again—like he’s relearning how to live. and you kiss him back like it’s the easiest thing you’ve ever done.
because it is.
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simpee9000 · 8 months ago
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Not Just Friends - 11 -
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M.List : Previous Part : 6.7k words
Childhood best friends turned into something more, at least with the label. Katsuki Bakugo, a fast-rising hero and fast-learning guy who is ever so slow in getting attached to and loving someone. Even three long years into a relationship, and your friends even forget you're even dating. Nothing happening, spare a few kisses.. like 3 kisses, during high school. Graduated and living together, and you guys have done absolutely nothing to further the relationship. Are you sure you're not just friends? Also not edited!! CW: Smut, brief domestic violence discussion, virginity loss, aggressive flirting from creeps, gore with pro hero stuff (lmk if i missed any) Applies to all chapters regardless of it is in said chapter.
---
Small beeping machines filled the silence between you and Katsuki as you waited for the doctor to walk in. Your condition wasn't bad so you only had a small room that was used for typical check-ups. The only reason you got the room was to avoid the public due to the status you and Katsuki shared.
The only reason you were in the ER was because even over the course of two months and a handful of weeks, your injury from the break-in was still thin. All healed but the skin was still pink and raised. A wound that goes straight through never fully heals. Katsuki still had issues with his from first year.
You often woke up to him grasping his chest and reaching for pain meds in the middle of the night. Mumbling that he was fine and that you could go back to sleep.
With how closed off he was about his pain, it reminded you of high school, how he avoided any conversation that dared to mention his pain. If you even suggested a support item that put less strain on his arm, he would snap and tell you to do what he says.
Always claiming he didn't need your help.
In the second year, he broke his leg. More so, it shattered it. It was a stupid mistake on his part during a practical exam. He was helping a 'citizen' escape a collapsing building and tripped on the way out. Everything was fine before he tripped but his foot was caught under cement when a support beam fell on his leg.
He pushed the citizen out of the way before they got hurt, everyone saw him get crushed by the building instead. You were watching his class do the practice so you could get a closer look at what might help them.
The practical didn't stop for anyone else, his classmates helped him from the ruble, mainly Kirishima and Uraraka. Lifting the support beam off him and analyzing his condition before taking him out of the exam.
You met them in the hallway, seeing the way Katsuki bit his lip in pain, face entirely scrunched.
He passed out from pain when he was set down in Recovery Girl's room. She rushed you out after that, telling you that he'd be fine when he woke up.
When he did wake up, you were by his side to help him out of the bed. His entire leg was in a cast, that he'd luckily only have to wear a week. At first, he pushed you away and refused any help. But after he got settled in his dorm room, he gave in the slightest bit.
"This is fucking stupid."
"I know," you sighed, sitting next to him on his bed.
"I hate this."
"I know," you adjusted the pillow that was placed under his injured foot. Him lifting it to make it easy.
He sighed heavily, letting his head fall into his pillow.
"Are you in pain right now?" you asked softly, his face was scrunched as if he was in pain.
"No."
You placed your hand on his gently. He had his hands folded together on his stomach. "Do you wanna talk about it?"
"Not really."
You hummed, not knowing what path to take. He was always strange after he was in pain, always running from how he actually felt.
His hands opened for yours, grasping your fingers in his as he stared down at them. "Did you get that new book you were talking about?"
"Hm?" you shuffled to face your body towards him, careful of his legs as you sat on your own.
"The shitty romance one."
"Everything I read is shitty romance to you," you teased, "But yes, I grabbed it before school today."
"What is it now? The fifth fucking book?"
A gentle laugh left you, "Almost, it's the fourth one."
"God damn, you've been reading it since we were 10."
"You've been reading your comics since you could read and I don't tease you for it," you squeezed his hand playfully.
"Mines about blowing shit up, yours are about blowing people."
"Bakugo!" you flushed.
"What? M'Not wrong," he snickered.
"The third book is the only one that went there," you defend, "I only read that one last year. Shouldn't have told you about it."
"Didn't need to, literally caught you red-faced as you read it," he teased.
"Shut up!" you slapped at his shoulder with your free hand.
"It's not like that's the only book like that you read," he laughed, "You have thousands of that filth."
"Do not!"
"Do too!"
"Shut up!"
Katsuki settled his laughter. Thankfully letting the topic go.
He let go of your hands for a moment to wipe them on the bed next to him. He's always been paranoid of his sweat, you assumed a girl in middle school teased him for it and he's been embarrassed since. But you knew he'd never admit it, so you didn't bother to comfort him about it.
"Why do you read that stuff anyway?"
"What? Porn?" you flushed, not really wanting to talk to him about this. You've been dating for a month at this point. Your nerves were on edge at the thought of that territory. No amount of books could prepare you for taking that step with him. You weren't oblivious to how other relationships progressed, you knew how guys thought.
"No," he blushed, "Like the romance shit."
"Oh," you sighed, either in relief or disappointment that the untouched territory remained untouched. "I guess because it's thrilling?"
"How is that thrilling?"
"Like-" you fumbled your words for an example, "Our first kiss."
"What about it?"
"It was thrilling," you paused, embarrassed, "At least for me."
He hummed in agreement, letting you continue.
"Books do the same, in a way. It brings all the excitement and thrill you feel in real life if it's good enough. I get really immersed in it though, I read as if I'm actually there," you rambled.
"You crave that shit or something?"
"Romance?"
"Yeah."
"Of course I do, don't you?"
He changed the topic with a flush of red on his face, too proud to admit his emotions to anyone as he let his hands drop from yours.
The doctor entering your room now, in the present, ripped your thoughts off the past.
She greeted herself gently, talking to both you and Katsuki about your condition, "Thankfully it's only a surface burn, just needs a week or so to heal. Change the gauze after a shower and avoid getting water directly on it for the first couple of days."
Katsuki's shoulders sagged in relief as he ran his hands over his face.
You knew it wasn't bad, but he was worried. It obviously hurt like a bitch, but you weren't too concerned about it. He had it worse currently. You knew just from the face he was making now. He rushed you to the hospital after he realized what he did. Seeing you collapse onto the coffee table, gasping as you held your side in pain.
"If you could step out for a moment, I can finish checking her over and get you guys out of here," the doctor spoke calmly towards Katsuki, "Sir?"
He snapped his attention towards her, clearly having zoned out after she said you were okay, "What?"
"Would you mind waiting outside? We'll meet you on her way out after I ensure everything is set in place."
"The hell?" he pushed himself off the wall.
"I don't mind him being in here," you informed the doctor.
"It'd be best if he stepped out," she gave you a concerned look.
You sighed, she was kind and you didn't want Katsuki to get riled up, "Kats?"
He glared at you for a moment before giving in, "Fine." He walked out of the room with no extra fuss, grabbing your jacket for you on the way out. Making sure to stand so you could see him through the small window provided.
The doctor cleared her throat, "I have some protocol questions for you." You nodded your head for her to continue. She flipped a page on her clipboard, "Do you feel safe at home?"
"Yes," you took a breath in, prepared for the rush of questions.
She looked up from her clipboard, you already answered these questions with Katsuki near you. "This is a safe place, I understand his status might be frightening but I assure you-"
"Stop, he doesn't abuse me."
"Ma'am-"
"I'm safe at home, I promise. I know hero abuse cases are commonly untold but this isn't one," you knew that it was unfortunately common for heroes to get away with abuse. Abusing people who were scared of their status and denying any claims of it. They got away with it almost every time too.
"I apologize," she eyed you, still unsure of if you were telling the truth or not, "I'm just going on what's provided, the wound is shaped as a hand, on both sides."
You winced at the realization, hoping it wouldn't scar. Katsuki saw it already and you knew it didn't help his guilt. "Am I good to leave?" you huffed, annoyed that the healthcare thought your boyfriend abused you, and that your boyfriend thought he did too.
"Yes, but just know," she frowned, "Regardless if you need it or not, there are many resources available for help if needed."
While you were happy she cared and protected her clients, you felt horrible about leaving Katsuki alone to his thoughts. He likely knew the questions the doctor was asking, so you wanted to be by his side to assure him that wasn't what you thought of him in the slightest.
You followed all her steps to leave, having Katsuki tag along behind you until you got to the car. He opened the door for you, hesitating to help you sit down. Rather than offer a hand, he offered his forearm.
When he shut your door, going around to the driver's side, you let yourself relax. You hated hospitals with a passion. They always put you in the worst mood. The air was always stale, and tragedies were always happening in it. It reminded you that any day now, it'd be you facing those tragedies. Katsuki often made you sit in waiting rooms as he got healed from a nasty injury, and you hated it more each time.
But he was here now, that's all that matters. So you scolded your face as you smiled at him. Happy to have him sitting in the driver's seat next to you.
"I'm so glad to be out of there," you hummed. They gave you some pain meds to get through today, so you weren't in any pain. The situation didn't even bug you, though you knew others would disagree.
Katsuki shared no words as he started the car. He's hardly spoken since the two of you left the apartment. Only frantic questions to determine if you were okay or not.
"You okay?" you asked softly.
"Hm?" he hummed, entirely unfocused as he pulled the car out of the parking garage.
"Are you okay?"
"Mhm."
"Katsuki."
"What?"
"It's obvious you're not."
"M'tired," he shrugged.
You huffed in reply. Sure it was late, especially for him, but you knew that wasn't it. You knew somewhat what he was thinking already. You also knew how he would process it. He'd hold this guilt to himself until It was too much to carry himself, and he'd still carry it. His process was predictable but also unpredictable in the same ways. Sometimes he'd want you near, just your presence. Other times he wouldn't want you anywhere near him.
All you could do was show him he had someone if he wanted it. You'd avoid pushing him until you knew he needed it.
So in an attempt to do just that, you let the hand closest to his fall to reach his forearm and squeeze, a small squeeze that was just meant to show love.
He jolted away, moving away as if your hand was the touch of death.
"Sorry," you mumbled in shock, your hand reeled back and held to your chest in surprise. He's reacted negatively to your touch before, but nothing near this. It scared you about how he'd process this.
"Just-" he took a breath, flickering his eyes onto you for a moment before looking back at the road, "Don't."
"Okay."
---
Changing the gauze that night was awkward.
You called him into the bathroom once you were done with your shower and dressed. He padded into the room slowly, his head down as he got the gauze ready.
"You didn't take the wrapping off in the shower?" he asked once you lifted your shirt for him to see your sides.
"Um, no?" you looked down, "Just rip it off for me."
"I don't wanna hurt you," he shook his head.
With a huff, you carefully took your bandage off yourself. Peeling it off your skin before throwing it away. You hopped to sit on the counter, letting him get a clear view of your side.
The wince at your bare skin was obvious. His face furrowed, "You can't change it yourself?"
"Just change it, please? I can't get a good look at it."
"You can just use the mirror-"
"Bakugo," you scolded, "Just bandage it please?"
He huffed, looking from your side to the bandage, then to his hands. "Can I call Mei to do it?"
"You can't avoid touching me forever," you pointed out. 
"I'm not avoiding shit," he glared at you.
"Then change it yourself," you challenged.
He bit his tongue, obviously looking for another excuse to use, "Isn't this too personal?"
"Huh? Literally how?" you asked confused. Out of all the excuses he uses that one?
"I mean, I'm under your shirt-"
"These are your handprints-" you spoke without thinking, stopping when you saw his face drop further, "You've seen me get off, I don't think bandaging a burn on my side is too personal."
His face flushed, "Don't."
You took his warning and didn't bring up anything more 'scandalous' for his sake, "Can you just patch me up so we can go to sleep?"
He nodded before washing his hands off quickly, it reminded you of how he reacted to you. It was reassuring in its own way. It felt nice to know that you gave him butterflies even though he'd never admit it. He was so soft for you, it was sweet.
The wound didn't hurt too much as he put the gauze over both sides, bandaging it after. The drugs were doing their job, tomorrow you'd have to remember to take Advil or something to help.
Katsuki stared while he bandaged your side, traumatizing himself from how he hurt you.
Not wanting him to be in his head, you spoke, "Not too bad."
He offered his arm to help you off the counter, supporting your weight as you hopped down.
Even though you didn't need it, you let him help in the ways he wanted. Letting him pull back the sheets for you, and letting him tuck you in before going to his side. 
If you mentioned how much he was babying you, you knew he'd stop. You also knew that he would pout and fully push himself away from you. So you'd take what you would get.
He was being sweet after all, no harm in letting him continue like this.
"Thank you," you mumbled after he placed his phone down, alarm set for the next day. 
He grumbled out a noise of confusion before he shuffled to face you better. Wanting eye contact despite the dark room. 
"For fixing me up," you spoke softly.
Katsuki just kind of looked at you for a moment. Expressionless before a frown slowly turned his lips, "I'm the one that did it."
"It was a joint effort," you smiled, trying to lighten the moment.
"It's my handprints."
"That may be true but-"
"No buts."
"I was the only one pushing you to get so worked up," you defended him.
He rolled his eyes, moving to lay back down, "Doesn't matter, I know better."
Not wanting him to hold this to himself you tried to argue, "Kats-"
"Go to sleep," his voice was shot dry, only an inch of his actual emotion showing.
"Okay," you whispered. You lightly placed your hand on his back, trying to comfort him. His body trembled lightly.
He often shook when upset.
So you ran your hand soothingly up and down his back.
Despite his claims of wanting to be left alone, to not have any help, he fell asleep quickly with your hand rubbing his back. You followed suit. Letting your thoughts run wild.
You didn't get a single negative from the interaction, you were more so wrapped in the before. Before he burned your sides, which you knew he didn't mean to.
But before, he was kissing you with fever. Like a man starved. One simple challenge had him riled up. Grabbing onto you roughly to pull you closer to him. Letting you lick into his mouth before taking over the kiss more roughly. Moving his hands down so he could guide your hips.
If the moment didn't end so roughly, you liked to imagine the route it would take. The way he would groan into your lips. His arms flexed as you ran your hands over them, trying to grasp how real it could have been.
You'd let him have anything he was willing to take. You wanted him to want you, and in those small fleeting moments, he showed it. He showed just how much he wanted to ruin the both of you.
Sleep came easy, but with the arousal of your dream, you woke up at the small movement of him next to you.
It's only been an hour or two since you've fallen asleep, but you made yourself cozy. Ignoring the pain in your side to lay half on top of him. The movement you woke up to was him hugging you closer, his arms wrapped around you with the comfort of sleep on his mind.
You squeezed him tighter in response, selfishly soaking up the closeness while you could get it. Nudging your head into his neck to get closer to him.
"What are y'doing?" he mumbled, groggy with sleep.
With him awake you regretted your actions, he was a light sleeper when he was stressed. "Nothin," you murmured into his neck, leaving a light kiss.
"Doesn't feel like nothing," he hit his chin to your head, making you rise up, his hands falling off your body.
"I love you," you whispered, looking down at him slightly with how you hovered over his side.
He scrunched his nose, "What are y'doin?" he asked again.
You pecked at his face, leaving a light kiss on his nose before peppering kisses on his cheeks. The dream had you more loving than you'd like to admit. He was moving through the steps slowly but surely.
"Knock it," he grumbled. His hands stretched away from you in precaution. 
"You love it," you backed away for a moment to say, when you returned his face was warm, clearly flustered.
You moved your kiss closer to his lips until you hit them, kissing him softly for a moment before he gave in more. Letting you kiss him a couple of times before he locked your lips with his, biting your lip gently to keep you close. Your lips slowly moved together when you moved to get a better position. Your hips straddled his, just like it was in your dream, and just how you were before. Hands lightly cupping his cheeks as you kissed with loving intentions.
When you let your hands drift down to his chest, holding yourself up, you felt his heartbeat. It was racing against your touch, it ran a thrill through you, a smile gracing your lips as you kissed him a little harder.
His hands sparked up, grabbing your attention for a moment before you went to return to kissing. He has his hands placed far enough away that it couldn't hurt both of you. But his face was still scared. His lips kiss-swollen but his eyes were terrified.
"It's okay," you murmured, kissing him lightly, "I'm okay."
"My quirk-" he spoke between your lips.
"Can't hurt me," you stopped for a moment, "Just keep them over there, it's fine.
"The bed," he tried to find a way out.
With worry that he wasn't enjoying anything, you sat back, "We can buy new stuff," you tried to soothe, your hands running up and down his chest. He was breathing heavily. "If this is more worrying than anything, we can stop, Kats."
"Not scared?"
"Not in the slightest."
"Promise not to touch my hands?"
"I'd say pinky but that'd break it," you joked lightly.
He rolled his eyes, "Fine."
"Fine?"
"We can kiss, or whatever," his hands sparked, his eyes averted towards the ceiling.
"I know what you meant, but fine? Sounds like you're not into it, Kats-"
His hips rutted into you harshly, his feet bracing the movement, you lost your balance and were back to hovering over him. "Shuddup," he grumbled before lifting his head slightly, meeting you halfway. 
The thrill that you read for, lit up all your nerves. 
He was fully kissing you despite his quirk. He was fully kissing you. You think if he was more awake, and sat on the thought of hurting you again for longer, then he'd refuse. But he wasn't.
His movement early proved how into this he was. The length of him hard against his boxers. You were thankful that he was a hot sleeper, the thin clothing letting you feel all of him. You've seen him before, felt him underneath you before, but this felt better somehow. It was probably the reassurance that his quirk was fully there. Going off every couple of moments or after a particularly rough kiss. 
Each spark heightened the thrill of it all. 
His lips were pressed against yours, his tongue slipping between to catch you by surprise.
Your hands traced over his chest but settled on his biceps, feeling them twitch roughly before each bout of his quirk.
"I fuckin' love you," he muttered against you. Voice rough with the kiss.
You couldn't help the smile that crossed over your features as you moved your hips over his. Starting the cherished moment that you lost hours ago.
"I love you too, Kats," you whispered into his mouth. 
He groaned at the action, "Wanna touch you."
A spark shot up your spine when you heard his quirk go off again. You needed a breath and with the way his chest was heaving, you could tell he needed one as well. So you took greedy breaths in as you trailed kisses down his jaw and to his neck. Leaving pink marks behind that you knew would bruise. 
The state he was in right now was disorienting, but encouraging. He looked wrecked. His head tilted back so you could kiss more of his throat. His arms strained and fist clenched as he refused to risk touching you. It made you want more. So as selfishly as this started, you continued down that path the same way you continued down his chest. Leaving marks on his pecs before you shifted your body to kiss further down.
"What are y'doing?" he mumbled, tilting his head down to look at you, wanting you closer.
Talking about what you were planning was more embarrassing than doing it. "Can I suck you off?" you asked quickly.
He rolled his head back, "Jesus Christ."
You swallowed nervously, "Can I?" if he rejected you now, it'd be humiliating, but you'd listen.
He tilted his head back down again, looking into your eyes. "Skipping a couple bases, aren't you?"
You sat up straight again, getting more composed than before as you sat on his thighs. "Well yeah- but if you want me to jack you off first-"
A loud spark of his quirk shut you up. "Can't just say that," he hissed.
"Well, what do you want me to do?"
"You don't have to do anything."
"But what do you want?" you pushed.
You watched as his atom's apple bobbed as he swallowed, "Anything you're willing."
"But you commented on me skipping bases-"
"We can do those later," he cut you off, flustered.
You hummed, leaning back into his space and kissing his lips. Steadily going back into making out with him again. Moving your hands off his arms, squeezing at his muscles as you made your way down. Still working your lips against him as you slipped your hand underneath his boxers.
His entire body was tense as you moved down, but he jolted lightly when you wrapped your hand around him. The touch was probably still foreign to him. Knowing that he's only gotten off once with his own hand. You knew what he looked like from head to toe, but now you knew what he felt like. A steady vein on the underside, connecting to his tip. Veins lightly graced the rest of him. Not only did his dick surprisingly look good, but it made you want more.
When he bit your lip, you remember to focus on the kiss again. Your tongue tangled with his as you moved your hand over him before you moved it away, taking him out of his boxers for more movement.
Returning with less nerves than before. Grasping him lightly before you ran your hand fully over his dick.
After a few motions of your hand, it was clear he was losing it. The motion became familiar quickly so you were able to focus on his reactions. His hips were gently rocking into your hand. Letting you pump his length as he kissed you messily.
He was entirely unfocused, groaning into the kiss in a desperate attempt to keep you close. To give you anything he would.
"Wanna touch you," he whined into the kiss, hips rutting into your hand quicker.
"I know," you mumbled back.
His abs were tensing and untensing constantly, his hands doing the same.
You were surprised he was lasting this long. Probably more stuck in his head rather than the moment. Hardly even noticing when you stopped kissing him, he started breathing heavier.
Steadying your nerves was difficult as you moved further down his body, placing a kiss on each of his abs gently.
He was out of it, his hips rutting desperately to reach the high he craved.
Throwing yourself into your actions was commonly something you did, so it was only fair you did it now. Hesitantly placing a kiss on his tip when you were able, continuing to pump your hand along his length. It was just the extra push he needed, a broken moan left his lips and his hips slowed as he came in your hand. Quirk going off loudly.
"Fuckin' hell," his voice was shot.
It was unintentional, but he came over your lips, covering parts of your face in his cum. You couldn't blame him, it was as unannounced as you kissing his dick. So you continued to slowly pump your hand. 
"Enough," he basically whined.
Seeing him this wrecked was horrible, it made you want him more. But with a look at the alarm clock on his side, you knew he needed sleep. So you pulled away, moving to sit up straight. Wiping his cum off your lips with the back of your hand.
"Where y'going?" he grumbled, voice rough and eyes half-lidded when he managed to open them.
"Bathroom," you mumbled, you would kiss him, but you didn't want to disgust him.
When the small amount of light from the windows hit your face, his eyes widened, quirk popping off again.
"What?"
"Your face," he choked out, "Sorry."
You laughed lightly, "It's fine."
"Did it get in your mouth-"
"No."
"So you didn't taste-"
"No," you laughed at his questions, leaning down to whisper in his ear, "didn't want spoilers."
His quirk popped off as he moved his head to connect your lips. Wincing away after a moment.
"What?" you asked concerned.
"Don't fucking taste that," his face was sour.
You laughed at his face, moving off him to grab a towel from the bathroom. Cleaning your face before tossing him a wet rag. Him catching it easily from where he was sitting on the bed. "Sorry," he mumbled out.
"Hm?" you hummed, not entirely hearing him.
"Can't get you off and shit," he grumbled.
You laughed lightly, "We'll work around to it eventually I hope, if not, I'm happy just like this with you."
His frown deepened, quickly putting himself back in his boxers before you sat by his side again.
But you paused at the side of the bed. Where his hands were lying was burnt to pieces, a hole being singed into the mattress.
---
Unfortunately, you had work the next day. Though you could use the day off, you didn't want to get behind on work. Or spend another day alone in the apartment. Katsuki left without a goodbye. Only a short text saying he was at work. That was sent two full hours before he normally went in.
You shuffled into your office as usual, looking over the text again. Trying to wrap your head around his behavior since the hospital. It made complete sense for him to be wavery of his quirk, but you've never seen his quirk go off for small touches and he was avoiding those after you returned to bed. Having romance off the table for a while was fine, but everything else? That would be harder to live with. You shared small touches ever since you can remember, so going without that would be beyond weird.
The last two months were like that, and you didn't want to go back to that in the slightest. Sure your career progressed a lot, but you liked having Katsuki around. Even though he hardly gave them, his hugs were the highlight of your week. He flushed anytime you said that, and you didn't want him to take that away.
"What the fuck?"
Mei's pissed-off tone dragged your attention off your phone.
"Huh?"
"You fucking broke up with Bakugo?" she glared at you.
"What are you talking about?" you continued to your desk, throwing your stuff on it without a care.
"Why are you limping?" she did a quick scan over you.
"Sprained ankle," you shrugged off, she already seemed pissed enough, telling her Katsuki blew a hole in your side wouldn't help.
"Deserved, probably broke his heart."
"Since when did you care about his heart?" you glared at her, annoyed at the way she was taking your 'break up.' She was supposed to be your best friend, not his.
"Since you wrongfully broke it."
"He's fine-"
"Deku said he has been moping around all day."
You stopped for a moment, "He has?" you'd need to call him during your lunch break if so.
Mei threw her hands up, "Yes! Obviously! His girlfriend of three years dumped him because she can't get off!"
"Mei, you were telling me just a couple of days ago that I should dump him for that."
"I didn't mean it! There's plenty of other ways to get your rocks off."
"I don't want to hear about it," you cringed.
"You could probably make one-"
"Mei!"
The rest of the day followed on a similar footing. Not so much as ways to get off, but questions on why you and Katsuki broke up. People stopped by constantly asking about it, trying to get their taste of the office gossip.
They took your winces of pain as sadness, somehow, saying apologies and asking their questions after.
You couldn't catch a break, when you called Katsuki he let the call go straight to voicemail. Taking away your small bit of peace.
It made you leave work early, tired of the questions and wanting to meet Katsuki sooner rather than later. You also forgot to take pain meds to deal with your side, so you felt horrible. Regretting slightly how late you stayed up.
In a similar manner of how you entered work, you threw your keys on the table and stepped into the living room. Seeing Katsuki's stalk blonde hair.
"Kats," you placed your hands on his shoulders in greeting. Surprising him from behind the couch.
He jumped out of his skin at the feeling, "When'd you get home?" he turned to you frantically.
"Just a second ago? Did you not hear me?" he could normally sense someone's presence a mile away.
"No," he frowned, turning back away from you, shrugging your hands off his shoulders.
You frowned, moving around the couch to sit next to him, "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," he dismissed, looking down at his phone. Headlines with his name filled his screen, all negative.
"Z' said you've been moping."
"Nerd doesn't know shit."
"Katsuki, it's obvious."
"No, it ain't."
"Really?"
"I'm fine, knock it."
---
Though you hoped that he was just grouchy and sleep-deprived that day, he continued to be off. Obviously not fine, even a week after everything.
He was constantly avoiding your touches, no matter how small he jumped away from them. The light touches you used to place on his arms, even before the watch, were no longer okay.
Fully distant and he made no move to talk about it no matter what.
You tried to make small nudges towards him but he wasn't having it.
It was like you truly were just friends at this point. Even with you stood behind him as he cooked for the two of you, in your home together.
"Are you not going to talk to me?" you asked after the silence got too heavy for you to bear.
"What is there to talk about?"
You rolled your eyes, "You act like I shocked you when I was just grabbing the plate next to you."
"What about it?"
"Bakugo."
He turned to face you, abandoning the vegetables he was chopping. With the opening you stepped closer to him, cornering him into the counter.
"What are you doing?"
Slowly, you reached for his hands that were clenched at his sides.
"Stop," he moved his hands further behind him.
"Kats," you spoke softly, voice broken. Seeing the one you loved since elementary school back away from you hurt. For them to act like your touch was poison? It was a different type of pain that was heart-wrenching.
He was taking every step backward. Even in high school, he let you hug him, but now it was nothing. You didn't want that. Not in the slightest.
"Can you back up?"
You shook your head, looking down to gather yourself a touch more.
"You can't do this Kats."
"Do what?"
Tears brimmed your eyes when you looked up, "You said you were going to try."
"Yeah? Then I fuckin' burned you," his voice was rough, eyes were just as watery as your own.
"I'm fine-"
"You weren't."
"What about after that? You let me touch you then."
"It was a mistake."
You stepped back, thrown for a loop at what he said. "A mistake?
He swallowed nervously, "No- I meant me risking it. That was the mistake. Nothin' else."
"But you didn't even hurt me?"
"You saw the hole I left in the mattress. If I moved my hand for even a second, that would have been you."
You huffed, "Running away from it won't help."
"Don't care, not risking hurting you."
"I care Katsuki," you reached for him again, grabbing his hands even with his reluctance, "You never hurt me before with simple touches."
"I don-"
"Even in middle school, you let me hug you. Before all the training," you tried, "You know your limits."
"I thought I did," he spoke as if he was a failure.
"Because you do, I just pushed them. Look, no watch and no flirty touching?" you asked, begging internally.
He furrowed his brows, looking down at your hands, debating. He was giving in and it lightened the weight you felt on your shoulders, "Are you okay with that?"
"Yes, I just can't deal with none of you. I need your hugs," you laughed lightly, trying to brighten the mood with a tease at him.
"Fine," he sighed.
You hugged him tightly at the opening, thrilled that he agreed. Even if you were pushed off him moments after, his hands being held away from you to keep you safe.
---
Being back at square one was strange. The two of you figuratively danced around each other. Fleeting touches as if you were just friends. The romance was ripped from the relationship regardless of the agreement. You said no flirty touching, but every touch felt flirty.
It had you staring at him in longing.
"What?" he snapped after you stared at him for a solid minute. He was just trying to wash the dishes.
"Can we kiss?" you asked without a thought.
The plate he delicately held blew up into pieces.
"Fuck," he glared at you as he threw away the pieces of glass, "No."
"Come on," you pushed lightly, "You only sparked up when we kissed last because things went further."
He rolled his eyes, "Ain't risking it."
"We don't have to risk anything, you can hold your hands behind your back or something," you suggest, "Can't hurt the air."
"No."
"Can we try once?" you pleaded.
"You agreed no flirty touching."
"It's less flirty and more loving," you tried.
"Bullshit."
"Please, Kats?"
He glared at you for a moment, biting his lip in thought, "Will it make you shut up?"
"Yes."
"C'mere."
You pushed yourself closer to him, lifting yourself off your chair so you could lean far enough across the counter to meet him. You felt stupid when he only gave you a peck.
"Really?" you huffed.
"You said a kiss," he shrugged, washing the dishes with a smirk. Obviously happy that he annoyed you.
Even though he was happy he annoyed you, he seemed more happy about the kiss than you. Any interaction after that ended with a kiss.
Adding it onto his morning goodbyes, even with you sleepily accepting his small touch of love. Leaving a small kiss on your cheek was also another go-to of his.
He merged it into his daily routine and you couldn't be happier that you pushed him to do it. You often felt like you were pushing him too far, breaking through his consent. It made you feel horrible. The only thing that kept you from caving in on yourself was that he voiced many times that he loved touching you in any way possible, his only fear was his quirk.
That was the only reason you kept pushing, he'd tell you to fuck off if he wanted you to.
So you kissed him for longer each time.
When you got too into it, he'd gently pull away, "Can't."
"I know," you replied softly, your pain must have been obvious.
"I would trust me-"
"I know," you smiled at him. You didn't want him to feel bad about something he couldn't control.
He huffed, clicking his tongue in annoyance at himself, "Wish I could use this fuckin' watch. Then I could fuckin' do something."
You eyed his watch, "What exactly did the doctor say?"
"Hah?"
"About your watch?"
"Said I shouldn't have my quirk fully off."
"So you can have your quirk partially off safely?"
"Fuck do I know, why does it matter?"
"Well if your quirk is mainly off, you couldn't hurt me."
He eyed you for a moment, "So I can use it again?"
You looked at his watch-clad wrist in debate, "Once the doctor clears it, yes."
"Fuckin' finally," he smiled, kissing you roughly in excitement, "You have no idea the things Imma do to you," he whispered into your lips.
---
-Next Part-
In them m.list of this fic (I won't add you otherwise, sorry) comment if you want to be added into a tag list <3
@supersecretsamm @maeveorsomethinggg @zoast32 @54fangirl @ellielover69 @aomi04 @mithicakurogo @ez4raa @suki0 @wildernessflora @dumbbitchenergy17 @schniti-is-in-the-house @xbieditz @poemzcheng @jaxyy219 @truwaifu @111june111 @eyesforbkg @mushroomsneedystuff @kazuumii @keiva1000 @atashiboba @ofcqdesi @americasass1942 @kaboomkayla @ilovedenk-i @iamyoursonly @albakugo @fairiesgloss @limitedstar @i-bitch-you-bitch @drageonix24 @sinyaaa @oddball08 @imsuperawkward @lomlchi @anime-manga-fanatic @irlpadfoot @chocoyanchan @gollumsmygel @yuptha-tsme @icedemon1314 @alstrums @andysdrafts @your-mum3000
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kidicaruslover911 · 19 days ago
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random wife!sevika headcanons
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tw: slightly suggestive, may be ooc, brief mention of murder!, kids!!, mention of scissoring
a/n: bro i needed to write something to get out of my writers block so yeah here I am. also these are a random mix of before and after the marriage and also more random things so yeah enjoy!
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wife!sevika who’s favorite moments are pretty much any that include you but who really loves the ones are where she gets to oil your scalp and scrape her fingers through your hair to work her magic and who ABSOLUTELY would and goes out of her way to find different and/or new ways to style it.
wife!sevika whos big on your hair, body and skin care in general
wife!sevika who’s always the one reminding you to eat, to drink (borderline has to jokingly threaten you about it), take your meds etc even though she’s also the one who tends to forget to do so herself- more than you
wife!sevika who tries really hard to regulate her bad drinking for you but who you also try to convince to try and do it for herself as well; it’s not something that’s going to change in a day but she is making progress, and so baby steps it is.
wife!sevika who you sometimes share cigarillo/cigarette with. she still smokes a little something from time to time but compared to before she met you she’s practically clean
wife!sevika who is obviously touch starved yet still remembers how much she avoided your hugs when you first started dating and who now can’t go a day without feeling your entirety press against her- you guys really have come a long way
wife!sevika who snores-
wife!sevika who…of course shed a little tear when you said yes at the altar and who may or may not have been trembling a little when it was time to put the ring on the finger
wife!sevika who’s voice cracked and hiccuped because of the salty tears that danced on her waterline when it was her turn to say her vows
wife!sevika who thinks that anything suits you and who you would trust with your life to style you- (even if the woman somehow were to develop alzheimer she’d still be able to remember what aesthetic/vibe you bring to the function) and who happens to thrift things that she believes would go with your fashion- and they usually do!
wife!sevika who usually has something to tie your hair with
wife!sevika who naturally smells addictively warm and spicy, like ginger, combined with fresh and fruity notes like mandarins or apples…very specific yes, but I wouldn’t know how else to describe it
wife!sevika who knows you better than yourself; “you shouldn’t be eating these, they upset your stomach last time, remember?”, “i warned you that you’d be forgetting that- honey you know me, of course I still brought it with me”, “you really just forgot your social security number? really? *sighs* well it’s-“😭
wife!sevika who somehow (wants to believe) believes that pretty much anything suits but if you were to actually ask her what dress specifically she likes to see you in, it would be open back dresses, especially if you have a back tattoo (has her drooling and she WILL be checking you out) she thinks that it simply looks elegant and commands attention, and not always necessarily in a sexual way
wife!sevika who loves to see you in her blouses. they’re oversized on you of course, but that’s what adds onto the look AND it only makes you look cuter in her eyes
wife!sevika who is STRESSED whenever your marriage anniversary comes around bc the chances for things to fuck up are always very low but never 0
wife!sevika who’s not the best with texting (she takes 2-3 business days to respond to everyone except for you- she takes a day) and prefers to call you directly
wife!sevika who is victim of using the dad emoji “👍🏽” she means well and you know she does
wife!sevika who you facetime religiously and who you screenshot whenever she does something you find cute or silly
wife!sevika who had many engagement gifts for you; one of them being a collection of physical copies and albums of your favs and who feared that maybe you’d be disappointed in her choice to do so- a bit old school yes but you absolutely loved it
wife!sevika who doesn’t or rarely ever wears the glasses that were prescribed for her even though she probably should…
wife!sevika who you do ghibli movie marathons with and who absolutely despises horror movies
wife!sevika who always immediately fixes things for you, doesn’t matter where you are or what it is, she notices directly; got lipstick on your teeth? she tells you right away before you can leave the house- your necklace isn’t sitting right? she’d explode in an instant if she doesn’t fix it right away… you just bled through your pants- she gotchu
wife!sevika who simply can’t help but kiss you when you least expect it, totally on random places and who sometimes even bites down just enough to have you make some sort of noise; you reciprocate
wife!sevika who when asked how she pulled you says that she honestly has no idea tbh 😭
wife!sevika who loves your repeated chaste kisses on her cheek when she’s occupied with work or doing something she needs to seriously focus on
wife!sevika who freaks out a little (more in a *😕* way) when you’re outside and not wearing your wedding band, hers is practically burnt into her skin; people NEED to know that you’re taken, ok?
wife!sevika who if asked what her favorite body part about you is, would probably respond your back and your neck
wife!sevika who despite wanting for you to simply stay home and be her (extremely spoiled and pampered) housewife, respects and even admires your choice to work and bring money home as well, if that is what you want
wife!sevika who’s a fan of licorice and who you always give yours to when eating those candy mixes
wife!sevika who likes to keep her hands on your belly because it's always warm- well, apparently you're always warm when she's around
wife!sevika who…unfortunately (or fortunately) would back the worst of your wrongs even if it meant that you need to get rid of a body; as long as the blood on you isn’t your own, she’s ready to take care of the mess
wife!sevika who wouldn’t tell you about the police asking about the disappearance about of someone- can’t have you stressing out over things she’s already handled
wife!sevika who feels like she should be publicly executed whenever she makes you seriously mad and receives the silent treatment but who always gives you the space you need
wife!sevika who’s a very knowledgeable tea enjoyer and who always carries some with her
now this is really subjective but…wife!sevika who likes erykah badu??? also wife!sevika who claims not to care about celebrity drama yet still stands in the doorway whenever you watch wendy wiliam’s show (my dad was like this with my mom goodbye), huffing and clicking her tongue at the gossip
wife!sevika who doesn’t really hate cleaning after you, lowkey enjoys it but would never straight up admit it
wife!sevika who will NOT have you clowning her for still keeping her Snoopy plushy in bed, matter fact, where is yours??
wife!sevika who makes her Snoopy plushie face the wall whenever y’all get hot and busy-
wife!sevika who never throws any of Jinx’s, Isha’s or your gifts away; especially when it’s something silly or useless
also if you guys have kids I feel like she’d be more of a “they didn’t teach us this way at school” parent and you’d be a “they didn’t teach us this at all” parent :’))
this is probably for people with a multitude of piercings but wife!sevika who you had thinking about getting more piercings herself…maybe even a little tattoo…? and let’s assume you’re a piercer/tattoo artist and you get to choose whatever for her *cough cough* tongue piercing *cough cough*
wife!sevika who legit wanted to die when she realized having a tongue piercing would mean no eating you out and kissing you for the first 6 weeks😭😭
wife!sevika who thinks that stretch marks look like the reflection of mild waves on the sands deep end when the sun shines through...you've never felt insecure about your own ever since she shared that with you
wife!sevika who still can’t believe that she’s actually married to you and reminds you every even how grateful she is for you even when you’re not in the best of moods
wife!sevika who instinctively wears that smug grin of hers whenever you guys get a little flirty and your kids go “ewwwwwwww🫣” and pulls you in by the waist to rest her chin on top of your head after sharing a short lived yet passionate kiss, her loud and raspy laugh resonating throughout the space.
wife!sevika who turns to kiss your ankle when you guys scissor
wife!sevika with whom you’ve developed this habit of sneaking your hand around her forderarm and wife!sevika spoils your children a lot, like A LOT since she didn’t have that privilege when she was younger
wife!sevika who instead of using the "you got mcdonald's money?" method to discourage your kids from being such huge fans of fastfood, has them cooking with her, explaining what food/spice is responsible for what and soon enough, they don't want to eat junk anymore, they prefer the food that they make as a team with their mom. she teaches them to be happy and satisfied with their cooking: the kids do want burgers and fries? no worries, mama sevika will find the time to make some with your babies.
wife!sevika who kisses and sometimes even licks the palm of your hand for no specific reason
wife!sevika who your parents had a hard time finding valid reasons to dislike and who may or may not have been overwhelmed with her blatant display of being unapologetically butch
wife!sevika who has to make sure all her tasks are done for the day and the ones to come or else she won’t be able to sleep in peace, you had to drag her back to bed on multiple occasions already
wife!sevika who picks up on your own habits as well; cleaning your shared home isn’t done until you have incense burning and its scent flowing throughout your house/apartment
wife!sevika who occasionally buys herself a happy meal because I said so-
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stardust-and-snickerdoodles · 10 months ago
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tired and i'm awake
fandom: Chicago Med
pairing: Connor Rhodes x Reader
summary: You've kept your chronic pain a secret from Connor since you started dating. But fate has other plans for you, and an untimely accident leads to him finding out about your condition.
tags/warnings: angst, injury, burns, hurt/comfort, chronic pain/illness
word count: 3024
a/n: this one's for all my EDS/POTS combo girlies
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When you were young, the doctors said it was “growing pains.” That eventually it would go away, that it was only temporary, take an Advil.
Then you got older, and it was your period. Even though the pain was constant and all over, somehow every doctor put it down to your cycle. Sure, it was worse when you were menstruating, but it didn’t disappear when you weren’t.
Sometimes, you were “making it up” or “drug seeking.” ER visits, annual physicals, all proved fruitless. Eventually, it was all just too much to handle. The constant doctors’ visits, the unending questions with no answers. You’re tired.
Even when you lay on the bathroom floor, curled around yourself and sobbing, you refuse to go to the doctor. You know it won’t amount to anything, just another bill and insurance paperwork. You manage on your own with 3 extra strength Tylenol or a heating pad or just laying in bed until it mostly subsides. Then you can get up and pretend to be okay again.
So, it was a bit of a surprise to everyone who knows of your issues when you started dating a surgeon. Hell, you even surprised yourself. But Connor is… different. He’s kind and understanding and patient. Still, your previous negative experiences prevent you from telling him about the chronic pain you experience, or any of the other problems that come along with it.
You’ve been dating now for about six months and you couldn’t be happier. Connor’s hours are busy and long, but you look forward to the end of every day when you can see him. Even if it means putting on a brave face when your joints ache. You moved in together about a month ago, and it’s a little harder to hide the pain now, but you manage. You don’t want to be just another patient for him to deal with.
Today, you have a feeling it’s going to be a little more difficult to put on your façade. Your knees and hips have been acting up lately. Everything feels… a bit looser than usual, like the tissues between your joints are made of thin string, ready to break at any movement. Each movement feels as though you’re going to rip yourself apart, limb from limb. It’s all you can do not to cry out when you finally pry yourself out of bed in the morning. Connor is already gone, having left sometime in the middle of the night, off to work his shift at the ED. You hope beyond hope that the pain will have subsided by the time he gets home tonight.
You hope that maybe a warm bath with some Epsom salts will help, and take short, shuffling steps to the bathroom, walking near the wall just in case. Each footfall sends shooting pain up your legs. You grit your teeth and manage to make it to the toilet, sitting down and reaching to turn the tap on the bath. Breathing in and out slowly, you remind yourself that you have this under control. You will survive this, it’s just pain. It’s just pain.
You stare as the tub fills with water, trying your best to compartmentalize and clear the pain away. Mind over matter, that’s what your mother always says. Easy for her, when she’s not the one in pain.
Feeling as though you might break with any sudden moves, you lower yourself into the warm bath, closing your eyes as the water surrounds you. It’s calming and smells like eucalyptus.
You linger until the water is cooled and your joints begin to protest from staying in one position too long. You wrap a fluffy robe around yourself, a gift from Connor after he saw the old ratty one you’d been using for years. It’s luxurious and soft, and probably cost him the equivalent of an entire week’s salary for you. Perks of dating a surgeon, you suppose.
Just standing has you feeling lightheaded, and you can feel your heart beating in your ears. For a moment the room darkens as spots fill your vision, but you just breathe in deeply until it subsides. Then you continue to take small steps back out to the bedroom, before placing yourself gingerly on the comforter.
Once you’re still and laying down, the pain begins to creep back in with force. It just reminds you that as much as you want to, you can’t ignore it. You can compartmentalize and convince yourself all you want, but you’re stuck with this.
Now, along with your hips and knees, your back and neck have begun to ache from sitting upright in the tub. You sigh and curl onto your side, your wet hair clinging to your neck. Five minutes, you tell yourself. Then I’ll get up and get dressed and dry my hair and… God, it’s all so much. How are you ever supposed to get all of that done when you feel like this? Still, you reprimand yourself and promise only five minutes of rest. Just until the aching diminishes somewhat.
You wake to the sound of the door unlocking. Night has fallen outside the window, leaving the apartment bathed in darkness.
So much for five minutes.
Connor walks in, looking tired and worn out, but still wearing a smile when he spots you curled up on the bed. You smile back, still groggy from your extended nap.
“Hey sweetheart,” he murmurs, setting his bag down before taking a seat next to you. “How was your day?”
“Good,” you lie easily. “How was work?”
Connor smooths some errant hairs away from your forehead before placing a soft kiss there. “Busy. But good. Did you shower? Your hair’s still wet.”
A fierce blush makes its way up your cheeks as you avoid his eyes. “Took a bath. I guess I just passed out after. Baths always take it out of me,” you half-joke.
Connor’s brow furrows and you can immediately sense the switch into “doctor mode.” He places the back of his hand on your forehead again. “Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m fine,” you reassure, pulling his hand down to your lips to plant a gentle kiss on his knuckles. “Do you want dinner? I can make something.” The ache in your joints begins to make itself known again, but you want to do something nice for Connor. You know how tired he is after his shifts.
“Sure,” Connor replies, but he’s still looking at you with concern.
You slowly sit up, trying to school your expression as something pinches in your hip. “Spaghetti? I think we have some noodles leftover from the other night; I can just make a quick sauce.”
Connor nods and stands with you. “I’m gonna go shower,” he states while pulling you into a loose hug. “Do you need anything before I go?”
You shake your head and breathe him in. He smells like the hospital, but underneath that is the gentle scent of his cologne that always relaxes you. “No, you go. I can handle it.”
Connor releases you and makes his way to the bathroom while you head to the kitchen. You feel incrementally better than this morning, the pain in your back and neck thankfully lessened. Your hips are the worst now, and the right one especially feels tenuous. Each step is shaky, but you push through it.
You’re grateful for the distraction of cooking as you work on dinner, but it’s not enough to totally take away the pain. As you stand over the stove you can still feel the pulsing in your knees, the unsteadiness in your hips, and the ache in your back is returning. You barely suppress a groan as your right hip nearly gives out.
Seconds later, the door to the bathroom opens, and Connor exits with just a pair of jeans slung low on his hips. For a moment you’re tempted to stop cooking altogether and take him right back to bed. But then your right hip protests yet again, and the thought quickly flees. You shoot Connor a smile as he comes up behind you to wrap his arms around your waist. His chin rests on your shoulder and you tense imperceptibly. Illogical as it may seem, you’re worried maybe he’ll… feel your pain or something, if he gets too close.
“Smells good,” Connor murmurs, kissing the side of your neck.
“Grab some plates,” you reply, stirring the spaghetti sauce one more time before turning off the heat.
Connor’s arms leave you and you let out a breath. You grab some potholders from a nearby cabinet and pull the sauce off the stove.
As you make your way over to the table, your hip begins to feel even more unsteady than before. Each step is agony as you grip the saucepot, praying that your leg doesn’t give out now. Connor’s back is to you when suddenly you step wrong. Instantly, you feel a popping sensation in your hip and you stumble.
The pot goes flying, splattering sauce all over you and the kitchen. You crumble to the floor, a short cry leaving your lips. The sauce burns your thighs, uncovered thanks to the robe you still wear, but all you can feel is the burning pain in your hip. It feels… wrong.
It’s not exactly a new experience. A few years ago – with no help from your doctors – you finally realized that this type of pain means something is dislocated. In this case, your hip. It’s one of the worst to dislocate, since you have trouble getting it back in place on your own.
Connor immediately rushes toward you, calling your name in panic. “Are you okay? Oh god, what happened?”
You grit your teeth to stop from crying out again as you right yourself with your leg out in front of you. Your hand grips your right thigh, the pain from your dislocated hip shooting down your leg and making your toes numb.
Connor’s already pulling out his phone to call 911, obviously only seeing the burns on your legs from the hot sauce.
You reach out to grab his wrist to stop him from dialing. “I’m fine,” you insist, tears brimming in your eyes.
Connor levels you with a glare that would make anyone give in. “You just spilled scalding sauce all over yourself. You’re at least getting checked out at the ED.”
“Okay, okay, but… Can’t you just drive me?”
He must hear the pleading tone in your voice because he sets his phone down with a sigh. “Fine,” he surrenders. “Let’s get you cleaned up first so I can take a look.”
You nod as he stands to retrieve towels. Once his back is turned, you take mental stock of your hip. It doesn’t feel too badly dislocated, but it certainly needs to be put back sooner rather than later. Before you get a chance to do it yourself, Connor returns with wet towels. He immediately gets to work gingerly cleaning your skin. You can tell that you’ve at least got first-degree burns, maybe even second in some places. But you can’t get past the pain in your hip. If you could just get a moment alone so you could reset it…
You notice that Connor’s movements have stopped and you look to see what he’s doing. His brows are furrowed as he looks at your right leg, now clean of the sauce. “Doesn’t look too bad, but I still want to go to Med just to be sure. And…” Suddenly his eyes widen and his hands rest delicately on either side of your leg. You can’t help but flinch at the touch. “It looks like your hip is dislocated… God, that must hurt. Did you hit it on the ground when you fell?”
You bite your lip and shake your head. “It’s nothing,” you insist.
“Y/N,” Connor’s voice is firm. “We need to get this reduced. I’m calling an ambulance,” he says, pulling out his phone once more.
“No!” you cry. “I can take care of it!” Before he can stop you, you bend your knee outward, making a half-butterfly shape with your legs, then push down on it with your hands. Your hip pops back into place with an audible click and the relief is instant.
Connor is silent for a long moment as he stares at you, mouth agape.
You speak before he can, blabbering without much sense. “It’s fine, it happens a lot. I’m okay, I promise.”
Your boyfriend’s eyes are wide with concern and empathy. “What do you mean?” he whispers.
You shrug and take the wet towel from his hand, continuing to wipe off the sauce from your other thigh. This one’s not as bad as your right, but it’s still painful. “Nothing, Connor. I just… It happens sometimes, okay? Dislocating things, it’s not new to me.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Connor’s voice is so full of hurt that you immediately regret keeping this from him.
“I don’t know,” you murmur, meeting his eyes. The tears in your own begin to fall down your cheeks. “I just… I’ve always dealt with it on my own. I didn’t want you to have to deal with it too. And I didn’t know if you’d believe me, no one ever believes me, and I didn’t want to lose you because of my broken body…” You’re rambling now, the adrenaline and pain making your words come out jumbled.
Connor scoots over to sit next to you, uncaring of the sauce that’s getting on his jeans. His arm wraps around you gently, and already you can feel that he’s treating you differently. Touching you like you’re… fragile. “Y/N… I would never not believe you about something like this. Have you gone to the doctor about it?”
A sob leaves your lips and you smile sarcastically. “Of course, I have, Connor. I’ve been to so many doctors and none of them have any answers. It’s always growing pains, or my period, or I’m faking it. Eventually I just gave up because, like I said, I can deal with it on my own.”
Connor is silent for a long while. Finally, he lifts your chin with his finger so you’re forced to meet his eyes. “You don’t have to deal with it on your own now. We’re together, and that means we tell each other these things. I won’t leave you because of something you can’t control, sweetheart. And I want you to find answers. We can find them together. Okay?”
You nod and Connor goes to dial 911 again. As he’s on the phone with the operator, you let the tears fall. The pain of the burns is finally hitting you, only adding to the existing pain you already feel. Connor’s words mean everything to you, but right now that’s all they are – words. How can you know he’ll stay with you after he finds out what this really is like? The constant pain, the days spent in bed, the agony of it all? How could anyone – how could Connor – ever want someone like you?
You don’t realize that Connor is done on the phone until his hand lands on your shoulder. “Babe?” his voice is a little louder than necessary, which tells you that he’s been trying to get your attention for a while.
“Sorry,” you mutter, using the back of your hand to wipe away errant tears.
Connor takes a deep breath, and you worry about what he’s going to say. “You can talk to me, you know?”
You nod, avoiding his eyes. “I know. But this… I don’t want to be just another person you have to take care of.” The sound of sirens grows loud outside the apartment building.
“Honey. Look at me,” Connor urges, lifting your chin again. “You are not just another patient to me. You never will be. Okay?”
“You don’t know,” you whisper, your voice suddenly hoarse. “Once you know what it’s like, how much help I’ll need… I don’t know what my life will be like in 10 years, hell, even in a year. I’m in pain all the time, and I don’t know if it will get worse, and I don’t want you to be burdened with that.”
Before Connor can answer, the intercom buzzes as the paramedics request entrance. Connor stands to let them in, and you bring your sore legs up so you can bury your head in your knees. The embarrassment of it all is starting to hit you as you realize that soon you’ll be at Med, surrounded by Connor’s colleagues. No doubt he’ll want to run a myriad of tests to figure out your underlying condition, and you’re not sure you have the energy for that right now.
You hear the door opening, followed by a couple pairs of footsteps and Connor’s voice getting closer. “Female, 27, post-fall and contact with hot liquid. Superficial partial thickness burns on the thighs. Right hip dislocated but already reduced.” You hold in a snort at his medical jargon describing your silly accident.
The paramedics aren’t anyone you know, but they’re nice enough as they examine the burns and apply saline-soaked gauze. You’re embarrassed by your lack of proper clothing, but they don’t seem to mind. You’re sure they’ve seen worse than a nearly-naked woman anyway.
They ask various questions while Connor watches nearby, eyes slightly narrowed as if to make sure they don’t hurt you further. Once you’re finally loaded up onto a stretcher, he returns to your side and holds your hand in a crushing grip.
“This is really unnecessary,” you mutter at him, squeezing his hand.
Connor looks down at you with a soft smile. “Doctor knows best, sweetheart.” He plants a gentle kiss on your forehead. “Don’t worry, we won’t stay if you don’t want. As long as you get that hip x-rayed and those burns checked, I’ll be satisfied. We can figure out the rest later.”
You smile back, tears pricking your eyes again. “Thank you, Connor. For being here.”
He snorts out a laugh. “You really have to raise your standards, baby.”
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httpdwaekki · 9 months ago
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airport | s.c.
summary: the airport could be overstimulating, but binnie (and chan's headphones) are there to help you through it.
wc: 937
a/n: last n final week of binnie month w/ @straykeedz :/ as sad as i am that it's over, thank u for doin this w me <3 based of this video of binnie n seung i saw :3 very special thank u to my bubba @giddyfatherchris for helping my write this, ily<3. anyway, i hope you enjoy! remember to eat, drink water and take your meds, ily <3
my library | bee's vers. | bee | binnie month | fundraiser
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(pictures not mine! credit to owners!)
you weren’t a fan of public places, especially the airport.
too many people, too much noise, and everyone in a rush with no care for personal space. now on top of that you have to deal with the floods of cameras and crazed fans yelling for your boyfriend.
you’ve been together for a few now so you’ve learned things to help you throughout the years. however they don’t help as much when you forget your headphones and everything else that could go wrong does.
you felt like you were suffocating in your clothes, heat gripping every inch of your skin as people push and crowd you. you could feel the lump in the back of your throat as you clench your fist as you finally make it into the building.
changbin was holding your other hand, rubbing soothing circles on the back of it, reminding you he was there. you felt slightly better being in the air conditioned building but that didn’t help the sound, in fact in only felt amplified.
as you approach the security checkpoint he takes notice of the distress in your body language. it was at this point he also notices the lack of headphones over your ears. once you reach the line he leans over to you.
“where’s your headphones baby?” changbin whispers in your ear. “i forgot them.” you respond, keeping your tears at bay. “i have mine in my bag, do you think you can wait until we get inside for me to get them for you?” you nod, focusing on your entwined hands.
he squeezes your hand before letting go, he gently wraps his hands around your neck, pulling you into him. you lay your head on his shoulder, letting out a sigh of relief as he placing a kiss to your hair.
“we’re almost there bunny, just a little while longer, okay?” you nod, taking a deep breath before pulling away, moving up in the line. you place your head back on his shoulder, focusing on your breathing.
while distracted, chan makes eye contact w bin, silently asking what’s wrong? he points to your head, and chan understands immediately. he quickly and carefully takes the headphones around his neck off handing them to bin.
he smiles before taking them. he squeezes your hand, trying to get your attention. you pull back, quickly wiping your eyes as a few tears slipped out.
“channie hyung gave me his headphones for you, i’m gonna put them on, okay?” you quickly look at the object in his hand before turning around to look at the older man but to find him moving up with the rest of the boys.
you nod before he slips them on your head, instantly filled with relief as the environment around you becomes muffled. “good?” you read his lips, giving him a small smile and nodding. he grabs your hand once more, moving you up in the line to catch up with the rest of the boys.
once you make it through security, everyone makes their way to one of the restaurants except you and changbin. changbin gives them your orders, before you head to your gate. you were thankful as you walked up to the gate that it’s in an isolated and quiet part of the airport.
you set your bags down, taking a seat before taking chan’s headphones off, setting them carefully on your lap. “how are you feeling?” he asks, carefully taking stuff out of his bag. “better now, thanks to you and chan.” you smile, watching as he pulls out a handheld fan and his headphones.
“ here you go baby.” your eyes well up once again as you grab the objects. feeling overwhelmed at just how sweet your boyfriend was. “i’m sorry i didn’t realize you did have your headphones earlier, i would’ve gotten them out in the car.” he smiles sadly.
you shake your head, “no, it was my fault for forgetting mine but thank you for taking care of me,” you place the objects in your lap as well, grabbing his hand, placing a kiss to the back of it, “ you calmed me down before channie gave me his headphones, so thank you baby.” he smiles, squeezes your hand.
“you never have to thank me for that, it’s my job as your partner.” it was his turn to kiss your hand before placing everything back in his bag. you place his headphones around your neck before turning on the fan, relaxing back into the seat.
bin leans over to you, pulling out his phone and giving it to you to pick out a movie. as your scrolling through your choices the boys walk over carrying 9 bags of food. chan walks over handing changbin 2 bags before setting his bags across from the both of you.
“how are you feeling?” chan asks before sitting down.” better.” you smile before grabbing his headphones, handing them back to him. “and thank you for these, i really appreciate it, they really helped.” he grabs the item, placing them on his backpack.
“it’s no problem, glad i could help.” he smiles before opening his bag of food. bin hands your bag of food, “i had them get your favorite and there’s a water in there too.” you smile at him once again, your heart swelling at the love you have for the man next to you.
“ thank you binnie,” you place a kiss to his cheek as he gives you a cute smile. luckily the rest of the day went smoothly, but even if it didn’t you had binnie to help you through it out.
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daycourtofficial · 1 year ago
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Falling in Love on the Fourth Floor - Part 4
Summary: Out of an act of desperation, you move in with a guy you kind of know who happens to have a really hot brother who lives next door.
(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Masterlist)
Author’s note: I love this series and I want to thank everyone who comments/reblogs/likes. I love you all and it gives me so much motivation to keep working on this series 💕
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Cassian limped out of his room, using the wall for support as he walked into the living room.
“Sweetheart, can you grab me the ice pack from the freezer?”
You and Feyre had been in the kitchen making waffles, but the two of you make your way over to Cassian to help him, abandoning the batter you were making. You grab the ice pack from the freezer and a hand towel to wrap around it, while Feyre walks over to help ease Cassian onto the couch, helping him prop his leg up on the coffee table.
You place the ice pack on his knee, grabbing a throw pillow and placing it under his leg.
“Are you okay? What happened?” You ask, concern etched onto your brows.
He sighs, “just my knee flares up if I do too much, and I got a little ambitious with the girl I hooked up with last night.”
Feyre snorts as he waggles his eyebrows. You sit on the arm of the couch facing him, “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Cassian leans his head back on the couch, “yeah can you grab my pain meds? They’re probably in my bathroom.”
You scuttle off after he tells you what the bottle looks like, walking through his room into his bathroom. You’re not surprised at how messy it is, clothes litter the floor and papers are strewn across his desk.
You can hear Feyre and Cassian talking but can’t make out what they’re saying as you begin your search. You search through his drawers and medicine cabinet, finding various medicines, condoms, and even pads, but not the bottle he described. The sight of the pads reminds you of a story Mor told where she had told Cassian she was on her period and his response was, “let’s get messy, baby.” You shake the memory away, heading back to tell him the bad news.
“Bad news bud - no medicine.”
He groans, “where the hell did I have it last?” He starts muttering to himself, hoping he didn’t leave it at the gym, when he points to you.
“It’s next door - Az has it. I stuffed it in his gym bag. Could you go check for me?”
Last time you saw Azriel, you had fallen asleep on his thighs, most likely drooling over them in your slumber.
You woke up to a dark room, the tv screen black with disuse. You lift your head, your hand using the pillow to push yourself up. You move your head to find hazel eyes looking into your own.
Your head is a few inches off his thigh, your hand wrapped around it for support.
“Um, hi,” you say, a moment later realizing your hand was on his thigh, quickly pulling it away. You take a quick moment to check the side of your mouth with your hand, praying to any god that will listen that you weren’t drooling on him.
“Hi,” he tells you, “you missed a good movie.”
“Rain check?” You ask, and he chuckles.
“Are you going to fall asleep again?”
“If you ask me, no, but if you ask my friend Feyre, the answer is likely yes.”
He laughs, and you realize his hand is in your hair, as he untangles your hair from his fingers.
“That’s okay. We’ll just have to keep watching it until eventually you make it to the end.”
“Uh, yeah, sure Cass.”
You start to leave, but Feyre grabs your arm. “I just told Cassian about how we’re going axe throwing. I invited him and his brothers.”
Feyre winks at you as she’s turned away from Cassian, and you give her a look.
Nosey busybody. All because you had told her you fell asleep on Azriel last night. And how he was so kind to help you drop the truck off. And how damningly beautiful he was.
Curse your big mouth.
“You should ask them if they want to come while you’re over there. Cassian’s coming, if they’ll find that enticing.”
Her words mean one thing, but her eyebrow waggling screams, I don’t think Cassian will be the reason one of them comes.
You wander over next door, knocking as you approach their door. Your mind starts wandering while you wait for a response, and you wonder if they used to always meet in Rhys and Az’s apartment.
Your thoughts still when Azriel opens the door, surprise on his face as he looks at you. He’s shirtless, his tan chest on full display, some black shadow-esque tattoos adorning his shoulders. Your eyes trace the design, roving over his muscular chest.
You want to lick them.
You shake the intrusive thought away, and Azriel grins ever so slightly at your blatant ogling of him. You tell him, “Uh Cassian’s knee is acting up and he said he thinks his meds are in your gym bag?”
He opens the door wider, letting you in. “What’d he do to mess up his knee this time?”
You follow him as he leads you into the apartment, your words dying on your tongue, “something about getting too ambitious with a girl - what the fuck?”
Azriel stops to find you staring at their tv, an absolutely massive screen mounted to their wall. It practically takes up most of the wall, and you imagine watching a movie on it would feel life-sized. “And I thought Cassian had the biggest tv I’d ever seen.”
Azriel chuckles, “they got drunk one night and started having a pissing contest over who was bigger, and it escalated to them both buying absurdly large televisions.”
He rolls his eyes at the memory of them drunkenly purchasing tvs online, forgetting about the ordeal until they appeared a few days later, Cassian refusing to use Rhys’s tv for a week in solidarity of his manhood.
You two start moving towards Azriel’s room, worry brewing in your mind over what to do. To follow could be overstepping, to linger could be weird. He leaves his door wide open, looking back to see if you’re following, so you decide to be brave and step through his door.
His room is dark, black out curtains with tiny moons sewn into them adorning his windows. His bed is neatly made, a deep blue comforter laying on top. Your eyes are drawn to the little bat stuffed animal that sits on his pillows.
His room is neat - dirty clothes kept in a hamper in the corner, books neatly stacked on his nightstand and on a bookshelf. He even has paper tray organizers on his desk.
His laptop is open at his desk, the screen still lit with whatever he was doing before you knocked. You see a familiar photo of you and Mor on the screen before it cuts to black, leaving you confused.
You shake the thoughts away, telling him “I like the little bat.”
He stills, looking over at the thing. His face falls a bit, but he quickly corrects it, going back to his search for the bag.
“Thanks, Cass got it for me.”
“That’s sweet,” you tell him.
You breathe deeply, the air in the room shifting, but you’re not really sure why. You don’t want this to be the end of your interaction with him, so you ask, “so Cassian told me you’re a personal trainer?”
He bends over to pick up his gym bag from the floor, your eyes roving down his toned back to the shorts that generously show off his thighs. Maybe you could join their gym if you got to see him like this, tanned thighs and chest on full display.
“Yeah, he helped me get the job, actually. I’ve been working a lot more over the summer, trying to save money for when classes are in session.”
You nod, as he finds the bottle in his bag. “Do you like it?”
He walks back over to you, escorting you out of his room. “S’okay. Cassian’s much better at it than I am, but it’s not hard.”
You nod, wondering how both of them are at their jobs. You can imagine Cassian being loud and rambuctious, a personality trait you can’t see him without. Shouting motivational words as you squat. On the other hand you can see Azriel being calm, quiet, his presence hardly noticeable as you train, offering occasional motivation but knowing what his clients actually need is just someone there.
He reaches his hand out to give you the bottle, and you break your eye contact with him to grab it. His fingers brush over your hand, electricity crackling on your skin from his touch.
You look at his hands, noticing them for the first time. Covered in scars, the skin is scarred over, the texture rough and uneven. His touch is soft and warm, a contrast to the harshness of his hands. You don’t let your eyes linger on his hand for too long, worrying you’re invading his privacy.
You duck your head down, fighting the heat on your cheeks from his touch. If he notices, he doesn’t let on as you pull your hand back with the bottle, uncertain how long your hands had been in contact.
“Thanks I um, Cassian will appreciate this.” You give him a toothless smile, one that he matches. His eyes have a look about them, but you can’t spend too long thinking about it, especially considering Feyre was likely conspiring with Cassian as you two spoke.
“I’ll let you get back to whatever you were doing before,” you say, reaching for the doorknob.
“I’ll see you later,” he tells you.
Your hand stills on the knob and you turn to look back at him. “Are you doing anything today? Around 3?”
He shakes his head no, “not really - why?”
“My friend Feyre and I are going to go to this place to try out axe throwing and I was wondering if you wanted to come with?”
His eyes widen in surprise, but you continue before he can reject you.
“Um Cassian’s coming, and Rhys is invited too if he wanted to come. It’s no big deal if you guys don’t want to - Feyre and I probably won’t be any good.”
He watches you tuck your hair behind your ear and he realizes you’re rambling. Despite how cute he finds it, how cute he finds you, he cuts you off. “I’ll come - I’ll text Rhys too.”
You smile broadly at him, a sight he’ll definitely be thinking about until he sees you again, “okay, um yeah I’ll uh see you then? You can come over to our place and we can all leave together.”
You’re about to leave again when you backtrack, “uh, come over at 2:30 so we can leave together. See you then!”
After you’ve left, he listens to your feet pad down the hall, and the door to the apartment next door opening and closing. He looks to the wall that separates your apartments, as if he can see you giving Cassian the medicine.
He trudges back to his room, furling and unfurling his fist, his skin hot from your touch. The image of you looking at his hands printed in his brain. You didn’t look at him in pity, perhaps the first person to do so. You looked at him like he was resilient, like he was more than what happened to him, like he was more than the scars littering his hands.
He lets the thoughts whirl in his brain as he logs back into his laptop, the screen lighting up with your social media pages he had been scrolling through. He tells himself it’s just to see who Cassian is living with and if she can be trusted, if she seems okay. He also decides if she happens to be seeing anyone is also pertinent information.
For Cassian’s safety, of course.
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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 year ago
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The Quiet Ones 5
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No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.
Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: You live a quiet life, but your peace is fractured by a chaotic man.
Characters: Lloyd Hansen, short!shy!reader
Note: I slept for like ten hours and it was fucking wild.
As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3
Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.
Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖
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You watch the long needle slide out from under your skin. You don’t feel it much. That man, Lloyd, loops the tube around the IV bag stand. You sit in the bed still, disoriented and dull. You can feel the tension buzzing off of him, as if he’s holding himself back. That scares you more than anything he’s done. 
Before you can say or do anything, your stomach growls. The tumble is painful as your insides squeeze violently. He looks at you and takes your hand, tugging you towards the edge as he snickers. 
“Hungry, jellybean?” He teases, “come on. I’ll make you a nice omelet.” He pulls until you shimmy across the bed. You turn your legs out and can’t help but use his strength to stand. He’s patient as he easily hauls you up. “You okay, babykins? I could carry you. Like before.” 
“N-no,” you try to wiggle your hand free but his grip is unbreakable. He squeezes and you quit your resistance. 
“You might be a bit groggy, that’s normal. The smoke, the meds--” 
“Meds?” 
“Well, I slipped a bit extra in the bag,” he shrugs as he glances over at the IV, “just so you could sleep.” 
You look at him, your horror burning from your eyes. He grins proudly and swings your arm, turning to lead you to the door. You take short steps, muscles stiff and achy, shoulders wracked from sleeping on your back. You look down at yourself and shudder; at least you’re still wearing your own clothes. 
“I’ve been doing cooking classes. I can do a florentine that will blow your tits off,” he boasts as he angles you through the door. 
The hall is airy and echoey. The house must be huge. You get that sense easily. You don’t need to go around and count the rooms. He takes you down the long hallway and you stop at the top of a set of stairs. They bend in the middle but more corning, there’s a large space between each. They’re polished to a shine and look slippery as the morning reflects off of them. 
“Just a step at a time,” he goads as you latch onto the railing.  
You put a foot down and grip both him and the railing. Another tide of wooziness comes over you. It could be what he gave you or your days of restriction, but it’s too much. The world is too much. 
“That’s it, baby,” he coos as you take a second step down.  
This is strange. It reminds you of a movie you watched as a kid with a maze and twisting and turning walkways and a taunting villain. You’ve awoken in his trap and you see no escape in sight. 
You slip on the third and let out a squeak as you feel yourself falling. He’s quick to catch you, scooping you up easily even in the narrow space. He lifts you and continues down swiftly, bringing you onto flat ground. You murmur and rub your head as you feel his heartbeat against your arm. 
You feel a tickle in your hair and hear him take a deep breath. Is he smelling you? You repress a shiver at the thought as your eyes struggle to focus on the shapes all around you.  
He carries you into another room, a kitchen, as spacious and sleek as any other part of the strange house. A white marble counter lines two walls and wraps around into full C, marking off the cooking space. On the other side, there’s glass table in an abstract, asymmetric shape with metal frame chairs around it. The whole place is out of one of those design magazines. All impractical at the expense of aesthetic. 
He sits you in one of the chairs, it’s just a rigid as you expect. He stays bent, holding you by the shoulders until your hold yourself up. He drags his hands down your arms as he reluctantly pulls away. You flutter your lashes and rub your eye sockets, trying to block out your reality. 
“My sleepy bean,” he beams and plants a kiss on the top of your head. “So how about it? Eggs florentine? Or are you in the mood for something a bit sweeter? I’ve perfected my crepes.” 
You grumble and drop your hands slowly, crossing your arms as a chill rolls through you. You feel it pricking in your chest and across your skin. You’re not wearing a bra and your tee shirt is thin. You keep your arms locked. 
You listen to him moving around. You don’t know what to do. You’re too weak to do anything. Even if you could get on the other side of the walls, you have no idea where you are. Where help could be. 
You rock as your fear bubbles up. Why is he doing this? Why does he think you want him? Why you? Of all people. You mind your business, you keep your head down, eyes to yourself... you don’t deserve this. 
You glance over at him as he starts to hum. Your lip quivers as you watch his shoulders blades stretch the fabric of his shirt. He’s a bit ridiculous in a full set of satin pajamas, the dark black speckled with a subtle grey leopard print. He’s too much. 
You turn your head straight and let it hang. You resign yourself to helplessness. You have to be logical about this. You can’t spark his suspicion to soon. You have to wait for a window and then... figure that out, you guess. You don’t like uncertainty. You have a routine and you keep to it. That’s what keeps you safe. Or so you thought. 
“...wise men say, only fools rush in...” he sings softly and you wince. The lyrics of the Elvis ballad make your skin crawl. He’s actually deranged. You don’t know him, you're strangers. 
“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I know tree nuts are a no go,” he chimes as he whisks, turning to you with a broad smile.  
You blink at him. How does he know that? 
“Don’t think you’ll be needing any but I also got penicillin on the no go list and the latex thing... there’s alternatives,” he chuckles and you furrow your brow. “How’s that ticker doing? You been taking lots of iron?” 
Your body hollows out. How much does he know about you? How? You can guess he’s snooped around your medical records. Obviously, he’s a man with criminalistic leanings. Is this even his house? Has he taken you to a fortress he commandeered by force? Is there some terrified family bound in the basement? Is there a basement? 
He continues to futz around the kitchen as you curl your shoulders down and chew on your lips. Speaking of your heart, it’s beating again, racing, almost painfully. You’re a mouse trapped in the corner by the feline with his bristly whiskers. 
Your eyes wander over to the large windows and you stare out at the curated landscape. The property is beautiful and lush. You imagine a whole team maintains the perfectly trimmed hedges and colourful blooms. The stone mosaic pathway and the leafy archway over a bench. It’s like a dream, more so, a twisted nightmare painted in hues of fantasy. 
A plate clinks down before you and a sweet aroma brings you back inside. You face forward as Lloyd steps back on his heel, watching you with anticipation. You look at him then the plate. He pulls out a chair and plops himself down, planting his elbow as he cups his chin and watches. 
“Let me know what you think,” he insists. 
You take a breath and unlock your arms. Slowly, you drag them apart and take the thick butter knife and long fork. The cutlery feels too big for your small hands. You lean forward as the drizzle of dark syrup across the rolled crepe lures you in. Your stomach roars noisily and he giggles. 
“Aw, you must be starving,” he muses, “please eat, baby, I don’t want you to ever go hungry again.” 
You exhale through a ripple of disgust. You cut into the thin crepe and into the filling. Slice off the end of the roll and scoop it up with the filling. You carefully open your mouth around the fork and take a bite. Your eyes flit up to meet Lloyd’s as his gaze sticks on you. There are flames in his blue irises. 
You pull your mouth off the fork in embarrassment as he hums. He’s a weird, weird man. All of this is weird. Surreal. 
You look down at the butter knife and contemplate the gold cutlery. It’s heavy, it would hurt if you used the handle to give him a conk, but the blade is too dull to do much. It can slice through a crepe but wouldn’t do much on meat and bone. You don’t think you could do it, either. The thought of hurting others is just unnatural. 
“Is it good? Tried my own combination,” he explains happily, “dark chocolate syrup, not too much sugar, some softened cream cheese in the middle with black cherry jam.” 
You swallow and look around for something to wipe your lips. Short of a napkin, you lick your lip and clamp them together. He shifts in his chair, an act that makes you feel uncomfortable. 
“Good,” you croak. 
“Oh, wait,” he stands suddenly, “your coffee. Oopsie.” 
He struts away and your stomach mulches the single bite greedily. As much as you want to be stubborn, you’re so hungry. And it’s delicious. It’s better than your usual flavourless fare. You could gobble it all down in a second but you won’t. You carefully cut out another bite as he returns with a tall mug.  
He puts the cup down by your plate. You gulp down a forkful and set down the cutlery. You consider the mug before you take it, the white porcelain marked with the golden outline of a rose above the letter ‘Mrs.’. He has another in his hands, black but with a bowtie above ‘Mr.’. What the hell? 
“Colombian dark roast. A little less caffeine so your heart won’t mind so much,” he says. 
You nod and take the cup. The thought of coffee is enough to override your agitation. You take a sip and hold back a sigh. It’s good. You hate all of this but it’s all so good. You put the cup back and return your attention to the crepes. You pause and glance up at him. He doesn’t have a plate, just his cup. 
“Oh, jellybean, you’re so sweet,” he smirks, “I gotta keep my protein up. I’ll have some eggs and a shake soon. Right now, you just worry about you.” 
You dip your chin down and focus on eating. Small bites. You don’t want to seem too greedy. You don’t want him to see how much you need this. Does he know everything? Of course, he was watching but did he know the days you spent feeling as if your stomach was eating itself? 
He pushes his hair back, trying to tidy the long strands as he watches you, “we’ll get washed up after breakfast. Then you can get settled in and relax. I’ll take care of everything else, alright? You just need to get all dolled up when the time comes,” he explains as he drags his fingertip around the tabletop, “not that you need to do very much.” 
You just chew. What can you say or do? This man is straight up crazy. Not only are you his prisoner, he’s been stalking you. It doesn’t matter when it started, look where it’s ended. No, this can’t be the end. 
“What’s...” you speak before you can think. You shake your head and smother your question with another bite. 
“What? Go on, sugar lips, ask me anything? You wanna know my favourite colour? My favourite song?” His cheeks tint pink as he plays with a button on his pajamas. 
You clear your throat and put down the fork and knife, “what’s going on... later?” 
He tilts his head curiously. 
“The... dress and... doll up?” You repeat his words flatly. 
“That’s a surprise,” he trills as if it should be obvious. “Don’t wanna spoil it, do we?” 
“I guess,” you sit back and fold your hands in your lap. 
“You don’t gotta think about anything, sweet cheeks. You leave the thinking to me. I’m gonna take care of you,” he avows as his hand stretches across the front of his satin shirt. “You just gotta be you.” 
You feel his gaze bearing down on you. You peek up to find his eyes slipping down and you feel them centre on your tee shirt, your nipples poking against the cotton. You hunch your shoulders and cross your arms again. 
“How’s the coffee, jelly bean? You like it?” He tears his attention from your chest. 
“Good, thank you,” you murmur. 
“Ugh, I love hearing your voice,” he puts his coffee down and reaches between his legs. You blanch as he drags his chair closer as he lifts himself. He puts his hand on your knee, stroking with his thumb, “will you call me ‘honey’?” 
You stare at him. Your cheek draw tight and your lips flatten. You want to shake off his touch and scream but that foggy glaze in his eyes deters you. This man is wild. 
“Okay, er,” you gulp tightly and cough, “honey.” 
He hums into a sigh and his hand slips higher on your leg before trail back down, “oh,” he shakes his shoulders, “that tingles. Do it again.” 
You fight not to let your true emotion blaze through. You hug yourself tighter and bite down before you can muster the word, “honey.” 
“Oh, baby, that’s nice,” he winks and sits back, eyes grazing up and down your body, “you cold? You’re all twisted up like a pretzel.” 
You nod. It's an excuse you’ll gladly take. 
“Why didn’t you say something sooner, jellybean?” He stands suddenly and you notice the way he tugs on the waistband of his pants. You turn your head, blurring your vision so everything around you is vague. 
He rushes off and you wait. You don’t know what else to do. You’re still too weak to make a move. Whatever he gave you is potent. Or maybe, you’re just too scared to do more than shrink and surrender. 
He returns with a fluffy purple robe in his hands. He comes around the back of your chair and you lean forward to let him drape it around you. He curls his hands over your shoulders and bends over you. He presses a kiss to the top of your head. 
“You need more coffee, baby cakes?” He asks as he kneads your shoulders. 
“Still working on it,” you pull away from him and grab the cup, “thank you...” you let the words dangle in the silence, tension piquing, “honey.” 
He sighs and draws away with a tickle up your neck, “mmm, isn’t this wonderful?” 
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hexb0nes · 3 months ago
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Flesh & Blood / Metal & Machine
word count: 3.2k
pairing: zaun doctor!viktor x pit fighter!reader
contains: explicit content relating to violence and injury, death of multiple children, mentions of mass death, mentions of police (enforcer) brutality, reader has PTSD (PTSD flashbacks), medical trauma, childhood friends to strangers to lovers, drugs, illusion to drug abuse, HELLA angst, there's a somewhat fluff ending?, there's a scene that somewhat parallels the jinx shimmer operation scene so heads up to that
summary: you have a history with dr. viktor reveck, one that spans at least a decade. as a pit fighter, you frequent his small clinic for treatment, but after a particularly brutal fight, viktor's suggestion of you retiring and making a better life for yourself triggers heavy memories of your life before, your prosthetics a painful reminder of how you ended up in the pits
a/n: wooo this is a heavy one, but i'm very proud of it. remember to like, comment, and reblog! love you lots <3
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Blood drips from your nose like a leaky faucet, your lip split in half. Your left eye is black and blue beyond recognition, barely able to see the man donned in white before you. Dr. Viktor Reveck’s gloved hands nimbly sew the last of the stitches on your scalp, looping the surgical thread and tightening it in place.
“Have you ever considered retiring?” his accent punctures through his words, as he passes you an ice pack. You hold it against your swollen eye and state to the doctor, “I got bills to pay, Doc. Besides,” you flash a grin, one of your fangs cracked from a previous fight, “Everyone loves me in the pit!”
“I’m well aware,” answers Viktor. He wraps up some gauze and shoves it up your bleeding nose, “You’re a top contender in the Pits, given how many of your blooded and bruised opponents I’ve seen over the years,” he removes his glasses, honey amber irises glistening under the fluorescent examination lamp, and pinches the bridge of his hooked nose, “However, you must admit that you’re…” he trails off.
“That I’m getting slow?” you hum, nonchalant. Viktor nods, “Yes, slow. Your words, not mine.”
“I know that’s what you’re thinking,” you huff, hopping off the rickety examination table, the crude metal joints in your prosthetic leg clicking with each step, “I could’ve dodged that hook, I could’ve blocked that kick, I could’ve gotten up sooner,” you tie any loose hairs back from your face, “Got any pain meds for me to take the meantime?”
“Unfortunately, my supply has been low,” the doctor remarks. He approaches his small desk and opens up the bottom drawer, “Other than Shimmer, I have a day’s worth of Oxy. Will that satisfy you?”
“I’ll take the Shimmer,” you jest. Viktor’s expression darkens at your ill-timed joke, “You know what you promised me,” he grabs a small pill bottle and slams the drawer close, locking it up with a rusty key. Viktor tosses the bottle of Oxy to you, “No Shimmer. You’re better than that.”
“Am I?” you question, pocketing the bottle in your boxing shorts, “What defines ‘better’ in this hellhole?” a bitter laugh escapes your sore vocal chords, too many hours spent screaming for the delight of the crowd.
Viktor sighs and puts his glasses back on, the lenses clouded from the occasional blood splatter. He walks over to you, the soft tapping of his cane accompanying his footsteps, and places a hand against your unharmed cheek, “Someone like you,” his voice is strangely soft, almost tender, “Someone who can get out of here.”
“Me? Getting out of here?” you scoff at the idea of vacating Zaun, “I don’t think any Pilties are interested in a beast like me,” your canines shine under the exam room lights, sharp and wolf-like, “There ain’t a place for me in Topside, Vik. If anything, you’re the one who can make it out of here.”
“My priorities lie with Zaun,” he retorts, “There’s enough doctors in Piltover.”
“But they get paid better,” you fire back, removing the used up gauze from your nose and discarding it in the trash can, “They have nice houses and fancy clothes and- Stop,” the doctor cuts you off, “My priorities like with Zaun.”
You size Viktor up, tilting your head with innate curiosity, “What’s with you?”
“What’s with me?” he repeats.
“You had every chance to leave,” your voice drops to a whisper. You take a few steps towards Viktor until you are eye to eye with one another. Viktor stares at you, eyes slightly wide and pupils enlarged, and you slam your hand against the wall, the strength of the prosthetic nearly putting a hole through the shoddy wall, “What keeps you here?”
“You know what does.”
・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・
Over the years, you and Dr. Viktor Reveck had developed an odd relationship. Viktor was always a strange fellow; yet, as estranged childhood friends, you once held a small crush on the brillant boy who frequented the sludgy waters closest to the looming walls of Piltover. You admired his intelligence and his creativity, not to mention his cute face. Yet, you two would drift away, as Viktor left to study under the tutelage of a Dr. Corin Reveck and you enlisted into the mining corps to make a honest living.
Mining was hard labor, but it offered you security and a means of living. It even offered you a chance for love with a fellow miner named Erik, who you wed only a year after you met. The two of you, like many Zaunite miners, dreamt of a better world, a free Zaun, that you and the generations after could partake in. 
You were barely in your twenties when the Revolution failed, many of your own friends were killed by Enforcers for the crime of fighting for freedom. Erik shielded you from an Enforcer bullet, using his last words to tell you to run. The revolutionaries collapsed under the weight of their own guilt, children had been orphaned, and a mining accident left your left hand paralyzed. Any hope for a free Zaun died on that bridge.
It was only a few months after the attempted revolution that you received the worst news: you were pregnant. Regardless if your hand was paralyzed or not, you couldn’t rejoin the mining corps while pregnant–the fumes and coal dust were too dangerous for a fetus–so you resorted to finding your old co-worker and former revolution leader, Vander. He offered you a job as a barkeep at his bar The Last Drop and housing in exchange to help him raise four children orphaned by the Enforcers’ hand during the Revolution.
Little Vi, Powder, Claggor, and Mylo became your kids and with Vander, the six of you enjoyed nights of joy, rage, quiet, and so on. Those kids were your pride and joy, a core element to your soul. Yet, it wasn’t long before your makeshift family of six turned into one of seven, as you delivered your baby girl Sophia with the help of the brothel manager Babette and Vander. 
With the kids entering their teens, you were able to get the assistance you needed to raise Sophia properly. By the time she could walk and talk, Sophia knew the basics of fighting from Claggor and Vi, how to scavenge from Mylo, and ways to invent by Powder. A sad smile would always grace your lips whenever you saw the two of them tinkering together, it reminded you of your long absent friend Viktor. 
However, things quickly unraveled on the night Vi attempted to turn herself in for the explosion at one of the Academy District’s apartments in Piltover. You were left to tend to the children when Vander left to rescue Vi, you prayed to the Gods for their safe return. Hours went by before someone returned, Vi. She explained that Silco and something monstrous kidnapped Vander and took him to the abandoned cannery. Vi, Claggor, and Mylo assembled them to save Vander, but you told them that they couldn’t go alone. 
“I can fight!” eleven year old Powder exclaimed to you, as you set four year old Sophia next to her. You offered a restricted frown and informed her, “I know you can, Powder. You’re tough and strong, but I need you to watch Sophia,” you pressed your forehead against Powder’s, “Protect your baby sister. That’s your job, okay?”
“Okay…” she grumbled, pouting and crossing her arms. You ruffled Powder's hair and blew her a kiss, squatting down to see your daughter, “Hi, Soph,” you greeted with such a special kindness and love in your voice. 
“Mama!” she exclaimed in retort, holding out her hands to you, “Where are you gonna?” 
You sit down and pull Sophia onto your lap, tickling her stomach. She lets out squeals and laughs, as you tickle her to your heart’s content. You finished the tickling with a kiss to Sophia’s temple, “I have to go help your Pa, he’s in trouble,” you held her tight in your arms, “You and Powder are too young to come with, but I promise that we will be back as soon as we can!”
“Okay!” answered Sophia, resting her head against your chest, “Bye-bye, Mama.”
“Bye-bye, Sophia,” you murmured and touched your forehead to hers, “I love you.”
“I love you!” she flashed you her gummy baby-toothed smile. With one last hug, you tucked both Powder and Sophia in bed and bid them farewell for the night, exiting the basement with Vi and your boys in tow. 
Everything afterwards came to you in flashes. You remembered arriving at the abandoned cannery, finding Vander tied up; you remember Mylo’s lockpicking and Claggor working his way through the wall to make an escape. The four of you encountered the monster Vi spoke of; a mutated being glowing with purple veins, barely resembling a human. You watched Vi go toe to toe with Silco’s goons like a true warrior, only to get body-slammed by the monster. 
Then the explosion happened.
A catalyst of bright blue puffs vibrated throughout the factory, shaking the foundation. You barely had time to react, opting to shield the nearest person to you, Vi. Chunks of the wall fell off and crushed Claggor, his goggles flying off and splattered with blood. Debris and broken machine exploded towards Mylo, as a pole impaled him and more broken wall fell to crush him. You couldn’t shield all of Vi, as her lower half got trapped under rubble; with all the strength you had, you attempted to lift the rubble off her, only for a large piece to pulverize your hand. 
“Mama!”
Sophia’s voice rings out to you, “Sophia!” you yelled back. Why is she here?! Why!? With two of your kids dead and another trapped, you didn’t know what to do. You had to do something.
“Vi!” you called out to the redhead, “Hang on!” you tug at your hand, trying to free it from the rubble, but to no avail. Desperate, you reached for your small axe from your side and with a scream, you slammed it down on your wrist, cutting through damaged flesh until you cut off your hand. With a missing hand and heavy bleeding, you left the torture room and onto the catwalk, scanning the fiery remains of the cannery for Sophia. 
“Mama!” there she was, on a ledge by the window. With as much speed as your weak body could muster, you sprinted over to your daughter and caught her in your arms. With Sophia in hand, you ran back towards where Vi was being held, only to see another mutated beast ahead of you. It turned its head to you and you gasped, “Vander.”
A final explosion reverberated through the cannery, the most powerful of them all. Vander slammed through the wall with Vi and you followed, only to trip over some rubble, “NO!” you cried out, as you lost your grasp on Sophia and she spun out of your reach.
“MAMA!” she wailed, crawling back towards you. An eerie clicking of a toy rang through your ears, but you had no time to think about it.
The blue light of the explosion made contact with one of your legs and eradicated every part of it from skin to bone. The world slowed down, as Sophia held her hand out to you, “Mama!” you powered through the pain and grabbed her again, throwing the two of you out the wall. 
You wrapped yourself as tight as you could around Sophia, as you fell from the second story. The corpse of Vander softened the fall and you gasped for air, still clinging on Sophia, “VI! VI, WHERE ARE YOU?!”
“H- Here!” she answered, tears rolling down her cheeks at the sight of Vander’s corpse. You pulled her into an embrace, “Oh, Vi, baby, I’m so so so- Mama…” the weak croak of your daughter interrupted your condolences. 
“What’s wrong?” you asked Sophia. She touches her multi-patterned dress, a large piece of glass protruding from her abdomen, “No…” you collapsed to the ground, “No, no! It’s gonna be okay, baby! Mama’s gonna fix you! Vi- Vi-” you yelled for the redhead, only to see her missing. In the distance, you see Powder with Silco and his crew, her sobs piercing the air, “Powder! Powder-” 
You felt a prick against your neck and exhaustion took over your body, falling prone on the muddy ground. Your eyes flutter with sleepiness, your daughter still in your arms. A figure in black picked her up and you tried to scream, but your vocal chords were inoperable. The figure removed the shard from Sophia’s stomach and handed her back to you, allowing you to properly hug her. Blood stained your clothes, as you embraced your dying daughter.
“Love you… Mama…”
Your daughter’s last words, the final echoes of a life-altering night.
・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・
You heard someone call out your name, accompanied by the whining of equipment. Flashes of a ruffled brunette in a lab coat and goggles crossed your vision. Violent, hot pain suddenly engulfed you, as your screams were drowned out by the equipment. You thrashed against your restraints, tied down to a table. Your bloodshot eyes zoned in on the figure in the lab coat, trying to see who they were or where you were.
“I’m sorry,” the person in the lab coat spoke up, hovering by your left side. Their words were deepened by a strong accent. They placed an oxygen mask over your face and turned on the gas canister, forcing you to inhale an oddly vanilla gas.
“Vik…” you croaked, “Viktor…” you shut your eyes closed, falling unconscious once more.
・・・・☆・・・・☆ ・・・
“Because I’m your favorite creation,” you chuckle, pulling your prosthetic hand back, “You built me anew,” your prosthetic clicks and cracks when you move the joints, chipped titanium stained with various people’s blood from that night’s opponents, “You were even kind enough to equip me with the good stuff,” you spin the prosthetic around and extend the joints, “Titanium. That must’ve cost you a pretty coin.”
“You,” Viktor weaves out of your grasp and sits down at his desk, “You would have died if I had not intervened,” 
His words make your blood boil like bubbling pits of lava; you kick your prosthetic leg upward and smash it against the side of Viktor’s leg, embedding itself into the metal overhead cabinets, “I should have. I should have died with my daughter.”
“She’s-” you cut him off with a grab at his chin, digging your human nails into his skin, “You don’t speak her name, don’t utter a syllable of her name in my presence.”
Your debut into pit-fighting was spurred on by the death of your daughter and other loved ones during the cannery explosion, The Last Drop now under the control of Silco and the Chem-Barons reeking havoc on the streets of Zaun. After the implementation of your prosthetics, you were nursed back to health with Viktor and Dr. Corin Reveck–now a disfigured man, but not lacking in his genius–through rehab and modifications. Yet, you had no prospects, no means of living without your baby girl. It was only when you saw a flyer for new fighters needed in the Pits that you regained somewhat of a spark, albeit a violent one.
“Why didn’t you leave me?” you pull your leg back and plop down on Viktor’s lap, dangerously close to the doctor’s face, his pretty moles on display for you, “Why didn’t you let me die?” you clench your fists, fighting back tears.
To your surprise, Viktor sets his hand against your back and strokes it, bony fingers cold against your hot skin. Tears spill from your one functioning eye, as you collapse into Viktor’s arms, “Why didn’t you let me die!?”
“I-” he inhales, wrapping his arms around your waist. Your head finds its way into the crook of the doctor’s neck, a perfect fit. He exhales, “I love you.”
“Wh- What?” you stammer, the adrenaline from your earlier fight finally wearing off.
“I love you,” he whispers again, “I tried to save both of you.”
“You did?” you ask, tears dropping onto Viktor’s button down.
“S- She didn’t make it to the lab,” he croaks, as he rubs your back, “She lost too much blood that doing a transfusion wouldn’t have saved her,” tears form in Viktor’s eyes, “She looked so much like you when we were kids.”
“She was my baby…” you stifle back a sob, “The last part of my husband’s love. I’m alone.”
“No, you’re not alone,” Viktor tilts your chin up, his honey amber irises gazing into yours, “I can take care of you. It may not be much, but you can have your second chance. That’s why I- I fixed you, so you try again. They’re gone, but you’re still here. You must live on for them.”
You bury your face into Viktor’s chest, “I feel like a beast.”
“Then let’s make a new life,” Viktor hugs you tightly, “You and me. No pit fighting, no more violence, no more pain,” he touches his forehead to yours, “Come with me, we can start fresh, together.”
You pull back for a moment and cup Viktor’s hand with your hands, one human and one machine. Your fingers–flesh and metal–stroke his cheeks and you smile through your tears, “As a kid, I always had a crush on you, Vik,” you laugh softly, “But then you left with Dr. Reveck and I had to move on.”
“I never did,” he confesses, “You were all I thought about when I was under Reveck’s care. After completing my training with him, I tried finding you, but by that time, you were married and I didn’t- I couldn’t interfere with that.”
“Then the Revolution happened,” you add on.
Viktor nods, “Then the Revolution happened. I treated so many wounded and I- I thought you were among the casualties when I saw your husband’s body. I couldn’t find you, so I assumed the worst.”
“Erik saved my life,” you explained, “Then I found out that I was-” your voice shakes, “I couldn’t return to the mines, so my friend Vander took me in. I became a mother, I was a good mother,” you wipe away tears, “I lost all my kids–all my babies–that night.”
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs in your ear, brushing your hair with his pale fingers, “I wish- I wish- I could fix that, but I can’t.” 
You sniffle back some snot and reply, “I know,” you dry your face of any remaining tears, “But we must live on for them, right?”
“Right,” he confirms.
You hop off Viktor’s lap and extend your hands out to him, “Then let’s live on for them.”
Viktor holds back a surprised laugh and looks at your hands. He accepts the one made of flesh and pulls himself up, using the one made of machine to steady his balance.
“Let’s live on for them.”
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midnightcinderella · 1 year ago
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People who would suffer at NRC
Each dorm has at least one of these students and god help them. This is very self-indulgent and each trait applies to me. If you relate, then rip to the both of us.
No proof-reading, we rawdog this shit. Word count: ~1300 Notes: no gendered pronouns for reader. mentions of ADHD, depression, and anxiety. mentions of illness. no romantic relationships
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Heartslabyul
People with ADHD. Rip to us fr.
You'd forget at least a handful of rules a day, but it's really not your fault. Riddle better get off your case istg.
The ones who are more devoted to remaining productive make big colorful signs all over the damn place.
In their own rooms would be stuff like a box that says "keys and wallet go here" or a sign by the door with a checklist of what they need before they go, like homework or textbooks.
There are signs in common areas, too. They'll say stuff like curfew times or reminders of jobs that need to be done around the dorm.
There's always backlash if Riddle tries to take them down for being an eyesore because not only do they help ADHD students remember what needs to be done but students without ADHD, too. No sane person is gonna be thinking about feeding flamingos 24/7.
Savanaclaw
People with asthma. Place is dusty as shit. And hot. And humid at times.
I'm surprised the beastman students haven't taken any measure to seal off the inside of the dorm to prevent and from getting in. Guess everyone doesn't mind inhaling dust straight into their lungs.
Not to mention regular exercise is a dorm-wide tradition. Shoutout to my fellow mile walkers <3
If you have asthma and a dander/dust allergy, I'd just drop out tbh.
People who easily overheat/sweat. Double rip to us.
Get ready to go back and forth with your dormmates about smelling bad after sweating. It's a common occurrence. Someone sasses you, you sass back, and you're friends again 3 minutes later.
Everyone will think you're dying when you're dripping sweat after some stretches outside. No, you're not tired, you're just hot.
Octavinelle
People who are bad at math/bad with money. Listen.
The dorm isn't full of people who are as business minded as Azul, but there are students that offer accounting help for a fee. Negotiate that fee for the love of god.
Thankfully, you won't be scammed out of house and home because:
(1) it's generally frowned upon to scam people within Octavinelle; you don't hurt one of your own. It's about loyalty.
(2) someone is likely to take pity on you and will throw you a bone, telling you about a huge sale or where to find good job opportunities.
People who are gullible. Once again, double rip.
And once again, thank the lucky stars that loyalty is such a big thing here so you might be tricked into doing someone's job for them like mopping the Lounge, but nothing that would hurt you too badly.
If a study partner tries to feed you false information for shiggles, that'll get shut down real quick by another student. If your grades go down, then the whole dorm goes with you.
Good thing that doesn't happen often, and Azul offers his study guides for a highly discounted price to his own.
Scarabia
People who don't do well with sudden changes in temperature. Man, listen.
Hellishly hot during the day and even more hellishly cold at night. Dante would be thrilled.
God forbid you have any athletic activities close to sunset because you'll have to shower off that sweat quick before you freeze to death.
If anyone has a problem with the sound of the hairdryer after sundown, they're just gonna have to deal with it or risk catching your inevitable cold.
Speaking of, if sudden changes in temperature make you sick, double rip. I know your pain.
Kalim may not be able to come see you in person, but if he finds out you're sick, he'll send meds and some warm food. If that food was made by Jamil, then you owe him one.
You don't wanna owe him one.
If you need to leave your room after sundown, you're going to do it wrapped up with a blanket over your head. If someone mistakes you for a ghoul, that's their own problem.
Pomefiore
People with depression. Listen. Someone without depression could find it hard to keep such a strict regimen day in and day out; do not expect too much out of us.
If you think that means you're getting out of it, though, you'd be wrong.
Group accountability is a thing here. If you need help sticking to your routine, you're getting it. You can't refuse.
You're all going to be beautiful together, goddammit.
If that chronic fatigue be hittin ya, you might get a pass for a few steps of your routine. But if a particularly caring dormmate decides you have to do the full routine and straight up does it for you, lol.
Depending on how you view that sort of help, it might be really nice. Or maybe a little humiliating.
The dorm kitchen is only going to have healthy ready-made snacks. So if it's a day where you can't cook or go all the way to the cafeteria, that is what you're working with. Either that or you crawl your way over the the Shop for a candy bar.
Ignihyde
People who struggle with technology. Yes there are young people who aren't great with technology. We exist. Mind your business.
No matter how many classes you take teaching you how to use MagExcel, it never sticks for long. Even if you pass the exams, all your knowledge leaves to go buy milk by the time the week is over.
You're gonna need to interrupt people's gaming sessions to ask for help. It may annoy them, but you're doing it anyway because you refuse the reinvent the wheel 12 times.
People who prefer paper over screens. Call me old fashioned but staring at screens all day Hurts My Eyes.
You'd get physical copies of your textbooks if you could, but those free pdfs your classmates pass around are too tempting to pass up. They're free, for god's sake.
You also might be limited to board games on game nights. They're not bad, but there's not a whole lot you can do with them. You're a wiz at Cards Against Reality tho.
Every so often Ignihyde has a dorm-wide game night where everyone sits around in the common room with their headphones in, playing their own games. Together.
Though the board game players are in the next room. Oddly enough, they're the rowdiest of the bunch, and it sounds like they have the most fun by the way they're yelling and cheering.
You have seen some nerd fights start over a game of Ichi.
Diasomnia
People who have anxiety. One, Lilia is a menace. Two, your housewarden is the Malleus Draconia. Meep.
Whether it's Lilia or Malleus you run into, it feels like your heart will explode at any time.
Not to mention it's so dark in and outside of the building for no good reason. What's a fella gotta do to get some fucking sunlight in here? You're sick of worrying about what could be behind every corner.
You once wondered if Malleus needed a UV/heat lamp, but knew better than to ask. That doesn't mean you're not curious, though.
People who dislike loud sounds. I don't think I have to explain this one.
At first you thought that staying near Silver meant that you'd be staying away from Sebek, but that wasn't the case and you were at a loss as to what to do.
Then you tried going in the other direction whenever you saw Malleus, but all that did was send Sebek after you personally, asking very loudly why you did not want to be around Lord Malleus.
At one point, you got sick of his shit and muzzled him via magic. Then Malleus showed up and you were all oh shit. But then all he did was chuckle about how you were getting along so well. You took that to mean he wouldn't ever stop you from muzzling Sebek.
You were right.
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sillybeee · 10 months ago
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Leon Kennedy Headcanons ♡
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my Leon headcanons because i love him and think about him about him constantly, so enjoy my hcs about this man <3
some are silly and random, some are romantic.
-he's such a SWEETHEART.
-omg. he's a sweetie. i can't with this man. he makes me smile and giggle every time i see him. he's such a himbo you guys.
-he speaks italian, english and spanish. since he is from Italy (or rather, his parents are), he's known the language since birth. then learned english when he got to kindergarten.
-i don't think his english or spanish are the best though since they're not his first. he'll sometimes be forget some english words when talking to somebody, so he replaces them with italian ones and his coworks are just like "what???" 🤨
-has definitely said "wow there partner" or "wow there cowboy" when somebody pisses him off.
-he likes both women and men. he has no preference either. i see him as either bi or pan, probably more pan leaning since that's what i am.
-he's literally such a good boyfriend, i can't. even if you too aren't dating and are just friends, he's so sweet. i would gladly given him a kiss on the cheek if i could.
-if you we're to get your period, he'll buy you pads and tampons. if you get cramps, he'll sit on the ground or lay in bed with you and rub your back. he'll go "i'm so sorry baby." :(
-his favorite colors (and color pallet) are blue and black. the blue is meant to represent stylishness.
-he's so dog coded. like just full on golden retriever energy.
-likes lizards. bc i said so.
-goes to NICU and rocks babies with Rebecca sometimes, it makes his life feel somewhat normal and i love that for him <3 also girl dad leon. "girl dad leon!" we all say in unison.
-his birthday is around july-august, my brain says July 25th for some reason.
-if you're taking to long to get ready, he will threaten to leave you behind but he's not. you know it. he knows it. everyone knows it. "will you hurry up baby? i will leave you." "no you won't." "you're right, i probably won't...just hurry up, please."
-calls you baby, babe, and sweetheart. i just picture him calling you something basic or something.
-goes to a coffee shop every morning and gets the same coffee to start his day off strong. his drink choice is either really plain or stupidly girl 😭😭
-also leon is a fashion icon. especially older leon. you can deny it all you want, but in the end, we know he's cunty. like cunty cunty. like he has his bachelor in cuntology with a major in motherlogical studies at the university of servington.
-motorcycle rides!!!!!!!!!! :3 (re6-)
-as a teenager, he had really bad acne, so during re2 and generation he has a skin care routine but never tells anyone (only Krauser knows. he kinda approves, Krauser is all about taking care of yourselves to improve), so he washes his face before bed, takes meds for his skin, and puts medicine all over his face.
-however as his mental heath declines, he'll stop doing it, and his acne will either stay the same or get as bad as it was in teenager.
-also Krauser is HIGHLY against facial hair and forced Leon to shave it. but after he dies, leon stops giving a shit.
-his favorite my little pony characters are fluttershy and rainbow dash of course.
also i made a playlist for him, so you wanna listen to it, here's the link: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0uLAoUjwZaXzxcH8uCt7yP?si=a3f2e9cf27b54365 also the songs are not what i think he would like, it's just songs that remind of him :D
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