#thank you to anyone who actually read it all | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gifsbysimplysonia · 3 days ago

Text

Authors who apologize for a high word count make me want to hug them so hard. THANK YOU for high word counts cuz to me, that means that your muse was on absolute fire and the fact that you did the work to follow that muse every step of the way AND share it with us? What a gift and an honor so again...thank you.

For anyone looking for a "quick summary" of my feedback?

Never has a GIF been more accurate cuz this story is DEFINITELY A PEARL CLUTCHER!

Ahead there be

THE SHEETS are chilled, crisp to the touch, cold enough that shivers tickle their way across exposed skin. A sigh is heard, loud enough for wandering ears as a figure moves about in the unmade, blanket muddled bed. The window had been left open, and as a result, cold air had poured into the room.

I live on a 2nd floor in a little hot box of a room, so this description is so detailed that I could feel it all and I'm jealous :)

Logan was not your boyfriend; he wasn’t even a friend. While he was cordial with the others in the mansion, he remained cold and indifferent toward you.

Ohhhh, one of these, eh? When the MMC acts like this, more often than not, it's cuz he thinks it's better to act this way then pursue OTHER feelings so I wonder if that's what we have here....

Though, you were only human and Logan fucking Howlett was a man worth embarrassing yourself over, especially when he looked like he did. He wasn’t, your mind huffed. He was, your heart retorted.

OMG I so relate to what she's going through and it's so precious to see her head and heart at war, over a dude who "doesn't like her."

Scarlett hues dust your cheekbones, lips bitten until they’re swollen and shiny with spit. Your breasts ache from inside the confines of the pink, lacy shirt, made worse with each labored breath you inhale as perky nipples brush the material. Your hole feels incredibly empty, the need to be filled overpowering. Your clit, puffy and neglected, throbs with pure, searing need. Another wave of aching pleasure from your wetness breaks your resolve— a shaky hand slipping from its place on your stomach down, down, down until cold fingers meet the mess between your thighs.

Again, the description is so meticulous that I can feel every bit of what's being described and WHAT TORTURE!

You were split between wanting to sink down onto his cock and rut your swollen nub against the curls that nestled the base of him and stuffing his dick down your throat, gagging around him until he came and coated your throat with his spend.

Cuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuz, me too??? LORDT.

The 8.5 K words is - NO JOKE - quite smut centric. I'm not sure I've read that many words that were actually smut centric? But there are involved and erotic descriptions of her masturbating to thoughts of Logan and they are DELICIOUS and I won't quote anymore cuz YOU NEED TO GO READ FOR YOURSELF! But imagine the horror when someone comes KNOCKING AT HER DOOR right when she finishes?! I think we know where this is going, don't we?

Logan could fucking smell you. It’s a heady aroma thats so completely you, that his body feels deranged, just about ready to march up those steps and break down your door. He shakes himself loose from the metaphorical shackles of you and begins the journey to his room, trying to block out how delicious and syrupy you smell.

You know what's funny? Having read my fair share of super soldier smut as well, the MMC being able to smell the woman's arousal comes up A LOT. And it's such a weird mixture of feeling absolutely mortified but also really turned on (because the MMC is always aroused by the smell, fantasy come true).

From here on out, the storytelling focuses completely on the carnal which is ABSOLUTELY WIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIILD. I'm not sure I've ever read smut this long in my entire life.

AND? It's good quality smut allllllllllllllll the way through. You gotta like it filthy, dirty talk (speaking of what they want to do to each other in explicity terms), and extremely detailed. I felt hypnotized all the way through it.

Logan is an excellent mix of gruff, rough, dominant and completely enamored of his partner. And his partner is a good foil for him because she wants him JUST AS MUCH, is vocal about it, and is as eager to please. These 2 have strong feelings for each other that are outlined in the story preceding the smut, and then reinforced once they are together. Logan in particular is in what I refer to as "worship" mode. He can't stop declaring "mine" and even in his own thoughts, thinking about the way she looks and how he wants to keep her to himself. When the emotions / connection between 2 characters is so well laid out for me as a reader, it intensifies ALL the physical stuff going on, and since this story is MAJORITY SEX? You can imagine how intense of a read it is!

It's an excellent pairing, and again, I've not read this much smut that is both out of this world with how detailed and involved it is, but also grounded in really good characterizations that kept me absolutely hypnotized to the end of this story. PLEASE GO READ IT, GUYS, BECAUSE WOW DOESN'T EVEN BEGIN TO COVER IT!!!

I legit am sweating lol

@logansbaby thank you so much for creating and sharing. What an absolute masterpiece!

GUILTY AS SIN - Logan Howlett

❥ summary: the entire time you’ve known logan howlett, you’ve tried to keep your longings locked. then, one night, all that effort goes to waste when you’re confronted about your feelings.

word count: 8.5k (IM SORRY!!!!)

pairings: logan howlett x fem! mutant reader

content warnings: 18+ CONTENT MDNI, masturbation, dirty thoughts, light choking, multiple orgasms, oral (reader and logan receiving), spitting, sixty-nining, scent kink, like one spank, underwear stays ON, slight hint of arousal from crying?, creampie, p in v (practice safe sex ty!)

❥ a/n: guys…… am i…. a whore? (yes) do i need to be locked up? (also yes). i started this when i was on my period so maybe that’s the reason this is so filthy? anyway i don’t know how it got to 8k of smut but it DID and i have nothing to say about that… also reader has a mutation it’s not super in depth but her hair changes to red in certain situations and she has red light/energy she manifest in her hands, kind of confusing but it’s okay. anyway please please enjoy and let me know your thoughts <3

— ˚｡⋆⟡♡⟡⋆｡˚

‘I keep recalling things we never did

Messy top lip kiss

How I long for our trysts

Without ever touching his skin

How can I be guilty as sin?’

Guilty as Sin? - Taylor Swift

— ˚｡⋆⟡♡⟡⋆｡˚

Despite the fact that goosebumps adorn your body, it felt as though you were on fire. Huffs escaped parted lips, a charged hum zipping through your veins that only intensified each time you moved. You’d been trying to sleep for the past couple hours, trying to ignore the need thrumming through you, but had only managed to fail.

You turn on your side for possibly the twentieth time, but the position only worsens your state as the flesh of your thighs squeeze unintentionally, a wave of brief relief sent to your throbbing core. Tears brim your lashes, damp with frustration because fuck, your body was humming with lust and everything was so, so sensitive.

This was all Logan’s fault.

The man has been gone less than a week and yet, your body was practically vibrating with need, trembling with desire.

The feelings you harbor make you feel shameful and guilty for a handful of reasons.

Logan was not your boyfriend; he wasn’t even a friend. While he was cordial with the others in the mansion, he remained cold and indifferent toward you.

You pretended it never bothered you when he pointedly ignored your greetings in passing or refused to partner up with you. You didn’t understand what you’d done to upset him, to warrant his treatment of you as if you were the most annoying person on the planet. More often than not, you are the subject of the man’s pointed glare.

So, logically, your heart shouldn’t race at the mere thought of him. Nor should desire pool between your thighs whenever images of his sweaty form cloud your mind.

By definition, you were immensely smart; a genius with how you could understand what others could not.

Though, you were only human and Logan fucking Howlett was a man worth embarrassing yourself over, especially when he looked like he did.

He wasn’t, your mind huffed.

He was, your heart retorted.

A memory comes forward, one that has your cheeks blushing, your chest rising a little faster than before.

A couple weeks ago, you’d been up late, struggling to sleep and with the way it evaded you, wandering the halls had been your solution, in hopes of tiring yourself out.

But when you had walked down your hallway, you froze at the sight of a shirtless Logan in his room, the door left ajar.

A towel covered his head as he scrubbed away the wetness in his hair, and you desperately hoped he hadn’t noticed your presence. Water dribbled down his muscular body, and your eyes greedily watched each droplet descend down, glistening against the tan stomach you wanted to bite. What really had you drooling, however, was the thick, prominent vein that crept down into the waistband of his gray sweatpants. Said pants had your eyes wide with the prominent bulge tented in the material.

When you just barely caught yourself from moaning, you had dashed back to your room right away. You were wide awake still, but for a completely different reason. All you could think about was tracing your tongue along that vein.

If you’d fucked yourself that night to the thought of him and his glistening torso, no one had to know.

So theoretically, if you gave in to your cravings, it wouldn’t be the first time, but it certainly wouldn’t make you feel any less guilty.

Another wave of aching pleasure from your wetness breaks your resolve— a shaky hand slipping from its place on your stomach down, down, down until cold fingers meet the mess between your thighs.

A gasp sounds, melodic as it swirls with heavy breathes, fluttering around the room as you brush over your clit. Even through the material of your underwear, the slight pressure of your fingers made you mewl.

Flashes of Logan dance behind closed lids, your imagination running wild while you messily swirl over your bundle of nerves.

You wanted him so, so bad, in every way possible, it actually hurt, both your heart and core.

Your mind submerges your consciousness with thoughts of him; his pretty hazel eyes, the slope of his nose, the tufts of his brown hair. The muscles that were constantly on display, his thick thighs that you wanted to ride until you came all over him, and the huge bulge that was ever present in those flattering jeans of his (and if it was a reoccurring fantasy of yours to ride that delicious bulge over his jeans until you both came from just dry humping, again— no one had to know).

Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t stop thinking about Logan.

Him hovering over you, dog tags swinging in your face as he fucked you hard. Him picking you up and taking you against the nearest surface, lips trapped in an erotic kiss. Him prying your thighs open as he licked up your pussy, tongue dipping into your hole to lap up all the desire pooling, his lips wrapping around the swollen bud and sucking violently. Him holding your face lovingly as his hips thrusted his cock deeper into your throat, groans spilling at the gag you’d let out.

You didn’t even bother to remove the damp underwear, instead circling the engorged bud over the material— and oh, fuck. The roughness of the lace mixed with the delicious rubbing of your fingers send little moans tumbling from parted lips.

Your unoccupied hand slips under the shirt covering your chest and only settle once your nipple is pinched between determined fingers, rolling the pert bud in tandem with the amorous touch of your hand on your sex.

Pleasure nips at your pelvis, and if you were a little more aware, you’d be embarrassed at how fast you to reaching your peak. But, as it is, your brain is completely hazy with wanton thinking and the only thing on your mind was lessening the ache that pulsates deep within you.

And fuck, you’re so fucking needy for logan that you try to pretend it’s his fingers abusing your clit, his fingers tugging at the sensitive buds of your chest. You want his tongue between your thighs, licking up your desire and sucking your puffy bud into his pretty mouth.

Chest rising rapidly, you feel overwhelmed at the fantasies swirling before your eyes. Its far too much— the mix of your filthy desires and your fingers rubbing your nub have your legs quivering as wetness coats your hand.

“Logan, Logan, Logan—“ The chant of his name mindlessly falls from you, the feeling of your orgasm washing over you, threatening to pull you under those soaring, unforgiving waves of pleasure.

Eyes snap shut, ears ring with white noise, and your hips hump your hand pitifully— you were an absolute, writhing mess against the sheets.

The hair messily strewn around your pillow shifts then from its natural state to a dark red. Even with your eyes shut, you could feel the vermillion light whirling at your fingertips, begging to be released.

Your mutation was not one of subtlety.

Searing bliss coils in your lower tummy, your button tingling with the after effects of the orgasm that crashed into you. You sigh, because even though you just came, you felt far from satisfied. Your body buzzes with sweltering hunger, all the way from the top of your head down to the tips of your toes. Even if you fuck yourself dizzy with another orgasm, you knew it won’t satiate your body. Not completely, anyway.

Before you could slip your fingers inside your weeping hole, a loud knock echos through your room.

You still; desperate and hoping that if you ignored the noise, whoever was knocking would simply go away. But when another rhythmic thump comes a few seconds later, you huff.

It’s well past midnight at this point, so who in their right mind would be going about and slamming their fists on your door?

Apparently, you arent moving fast enough when the person has the nerve to knock for a third time, hand a little heavier than before. A growl, tinged with annoyance, slips out as you fling yourself up and off the bed.

You stomp to the door, ready to tell the person on the other side to fuck off.

But when you actually swing open the mahogany door, all the anger simmering beneath your heated skin disappears, along with your breath, as your eyes take in the sight before you.

Logan Howlett stands before you, seemingly angry as a frown etches deep on his face. He glares at you, hazel eyes swarming with exasperation and something unknown.

And little did you know, all of your craziest, fatal fantasies were about to come true.

❥

The moment Logan steps into the mansion, finally back from the complete shit show of a mission Charles had sent him on, he tenses instantly.

His fingers clench into fists, tight enough that the skin turns white. The adamantium claws threaten to poke through his knuckles as he inhales deeply.

Big mistake.

That sweet, sweet scent swarms his heightened senses, the intoxicating smell nearly making him dizzy. His heart speeds up, his stomach flutters, and his cock twitches in the confines of his jeans.

Logan could fucking smell you.

It’s a heady aroma thats so completely you, that his body feels deranged, just about ready to march up those steps and break down your door.

He shakes himself loose from the metaphorical shackles of you and begins the journey to his room, trying to block out how delicious and syrupy you smell.

He decides then, as his body finally moves up the steps, that ignoring you is the best option.

But as he gets closer to the hallway he shares with you (just his luck, by the way!), he realizes that plan is a joke.

He feels his control slipping, especially as the heady scent grows stronger, tinged with something else— something erotic and salacious.

Logan curses, his entire being rigid.

You’re aroused, the smell seeping under the crack of the door giving you away instantly.

The idea of you whining as your pussy drips slick between your thighs has him grinding his teeth, fingers flexing and unflexing in an attempt to harness the control back to his body.

Though, it goes out the window entirely as his body is apruptly outside your door, unconsciously drawn to the very essence of you.

There’s a reason Logan has kept carefully crafted distance between the two of you.

The minute he was introduced to you, a new member of the x-men and teacher for the school, he knew he was fucked.

From the first look shared between you, he knew.

A pretty smile had graced your lips, eyes filled with joy as you greeted him, a hand outstretched in his direction as your hair swayed with your movements. In your cute, little outfit (a pretty, white lace dress that kissed the tops of your thighs, matched with baby pink pumps that accentuated your legs), he thought you looked like a princess.

He had stayed frozen, however, because he was assaulted with the fucking smell of you. It was nothing like he’d encountered before, and he’d been around for over a century.

Your scent was so fucking sweet, vanilla and honey permeated his nostrils and right in that moment, he wondered if you tasted as sweet as you smelt.

He knew that he had to keep his distance, otherwise he’d become addicted to you in every sense. If he let himself, he’d worship the very ground you walked on. He couldn’t risk having the walls he’d spent so long building to crumble.

And in an instant, he was angry that his body had reacted this way to someone he’d never even met. He was angry he wanted to press sweet kisses on your face while simultaneously wanting to fuck you on his cock until you screamed his name.

So, with that, he’d made up his mind.

He had simply glared at you, refused to acknowledge your existence and stormed out of Charles’ office. And since that day, he’s tried his hardest to pretend you didn’t exist— if only to ease the way you constantly haunted his every thought.

He pretended it didn’t kill him to see how your face would crumble at his rude behavior, at how he avoided you at all costs. He couldn’t help it, though, because if he treated you how he wanted, like the princess you were, he’d never let you go.

A sudden noise shakes him from the depths of his mind, that carnal, sensual essence growing stronger by the second.

“Logan, Logan, Logan,” your honeyed voice whines, all airy and light.

And it’s almost comical how the telltale snikt! sounds immediately after because what?

What the fuck? He thinks, mind utterly destroyed at the revelation that not only were you seemingly fucking yourself, but you were moaning his name.

Logan growls, low and dangerous as his claws reveal themselves, cutting through the skin of his knuckles. His body feels unnaturally hot, practically set on fire. His cock now uncomfortably hard in his jeans, lustful essence bubbling at his tip and no doubt staining his boxers.

With the wafts of your pretty aroma and sounds of your lewd whimpers, he knows he can’t resist you any longer.

His hand lifts, claws retracting as his heavy fist slams on your door.

And the sight of you, face shiny with a sheen of sweat has him choking on his own saliva.

Tonight was the night his control finally snaps, despite months of work put into avoiding you.

Logan knows his animalistic side is about to be released; he’s going to fucking ruin you.

❥

You gulp, a hand resting on the door frame as you stand frozen because honestly, what the fuck?

You deduce that the universe hates you because why? Why would the man you’d been thinking of while masturbating be right in front of you?

It only dawns on you when Logan’s gaze swipes over your figure that you’re basically naked. Clad only in your blushed, frilly top and the matching underwear, the latter soaked with both your arousal and release.

You shrink beneath his eyes, warmth simmering hot on the apples of your cheeks, and your mouth opens and closes, yet no words follow.

“Uh— Logan, hey!” Your voice is shaky, and whether it’s from the power of your release or the nerves that bumble beneath your skin at the man before you, you couldn’t tell. All you know is that you want the ground to swallow you up whole.

Logan doesn’t respond, just continues to stare at you in a way that you don’t understand. You assume he’s just gotten home from the very long mission, and confusion settles over you as to why he was at your door, especially considering how he badly despises you.

You’re about to voice that exact thought when Logan beats you to speaking.

“I heard you.” His gruff tone is coated in something darker than you’d ever heard before.

For a moment, you’re perplexed, brows furrowing and raising before your eyes go comically wide.

And— oh, oh.

“Can smell you, too.”

Heat licks at your whole body, embarrassment threatening to envelope you entirely. Tears of horror tickle your lash line, because this was probably the most painful moment of your life. Not only does the man hate you, but now he’s heard you moan his name as you came all over your fingers? How pathetic are you?

You open your mouth, an apology heavy on your tongue. You need to say something to quell the panic flooding your body— you’re never going to get over this

Though, before you can even speak, Logan slams his mouth onto yours.

He holds your head softly, a deep contrast to the way his lips melt over yours. A moan slips from your open mouth, the feel of his lips sucking at your bottom lip feels immensely intense and so, so good.

Your arms wrap around his neck, fingertips tangling themselves in the hair at his nape like you’ve wanted to do since the very day you met him.

“Logan—“ you whimper against his mouth, trying and failing to understand what the fuck was happening as he slips his tongue inside your wet, warm mouth. “Logan.”

He ignores you, grunting against your spit, slick lips as his hands travel down your curves, until they find purchase on your ass, gripping hard. A choked gasp spills from you as he suddenly paws at you, picking you up effortlessly in his strong arms.

The idea of him holding you up with no hesitation has your hips shuddering forward without your permission. Vaguely, you feel him move past the threshold of your door, slamming it shut before pressing your body up against the wood.

Logan switches between licking your tongue and sucking meanly at your lips, until they feel full and swollen with his attention. You’re pliant— almost willing to let him do anything he’d like to you.

Almost.

As good as his tongue feels dancing with yours, confusion still settles over your mind. Perhaps this was a dream and if that’s the case, you never want to wake up.

“Wait—wait.” You pull back, the questions swirling inside probing you until it’s impossible to ignore.

“Huh, baby?” Logan groans, teeth pulling at your bottom lip before sucking at the swollen skin.

Babybabybabybabybaby— the pet name clouds your senses for a second, a rush of arousal pooling at your hole. You want to cry at how that simple, simple word makes you feel.

“Stop that.” You mumble, pulling your head back and lips out of his reach.

Logan stares at you, silent but waiting as he waits for you say whatever is on your mind. Frankly, he wants his tongue to be buried deep in your cunt right about now, but, details.

“What is going on?” Breathless, the question settles between you, causing Logan’s brow to raise.

“Well, my tongue was just in your mouth—“ you slap his chest, face turning warm at his bluntness.

“Not that. I’m— why are you here? Why are you kissing me when you can’t stand me?” Your voice is quiet, insecurity present in your tone. Nimble fingers grasp the dog tags that rest on his chest, and you’ve never been grateful for it.

At that, Logan’s face scrunches up, confusion floating around his irises, lips curving downward.

“What are you talking about?” If it wasn’t for the genuineness in his voice, you would’ve smacked his chest again at how clueless he was.

“What do you mean? You’ve made it very clear how you feel about me; you’ve despised my entire existence the moment we met— wait, I can’t even say that because you didn’t even have the decency to greet me!”

Frustration hovers over you heavily, enough to snap you out of the lustful spell Logan often inflicts upon you. You slide down his body, ignoring the quiver of your cunt when you make contact with his jean clad bulge. You push at his chest, needing distance to ensure you actually get your words out and don’t end up back with his tongue down your throat.

“I don’t hate you.” Logan grunts out, staring at you as you pace the wooden floors of the room. Vaguely, he’s paying attention, but he can’t be blamed for the way his eyes focus on the way your ass shifts with each step, the plush skin so inviting as the lace cup each cheek. “What’re you on about?”

Frankly, Logan’s pissing you off. The vague answers are getting on your nerves, enough that you feel yourself snap.

Your hair swiftly turns bright red, a scarlet blossoming over the strands until they coat them completely. Your emotions could never quite be concealed, not with the way your hair would turn different variations of red when you were angry, furious, sad, happy, aroused.

“You’ve been a dick to me, treating me like shit for no reason and now you think you can just waltz in here and kiss me like that? You think you can pretend to want me when we both know that’s not true?”

Balls of fiery, red energy bloom at your fingertips, and though you stand in your pretty pink assortment, you look the part of threatening.

It’s too bad the abrupt display of your mutation, mixed with fiery words, has Logan’s cock jerking with want.

“Sometimes, I question whether or not you’re actually a genius.”

And just like that, you feel the words like a punch to the gut. You’re so mad, so blind by the intense emotions you feel for Logan, that you feel those pesky flames of energy moving up your wrist and forearm, a telltale sign of your anger.

“Fuck you, Logan.” You hiss, your fingers hot with the heat coursing through them.

What pisses you off more, to which your hair and eyes darken to a dangerous maroon, is the fact that Logan wears a faint smirk, watching you with humor as if you aren’t showcasing how pissed you are.

“Are you done yet?” Logan takes a step closer, uncaring of the way your mutation flares furiously at his presence.

“Logan, leave me alone. I don’t need you to sit here and pretend to want me. I don’t need you to make fun of me, either.” Huffing, you glare up at the man before you, who stares back just as pointedly.

You turn around, back facing him as you go to enter the attached bathroom when all at once, you’re spun back around by a hand on your nape, your neck in a delicious tight grip as Logan pulls you into his body, smashing his mouth on yours for the second time tonight.

Your body betrays you, a desperate whimper ebbs out at how fucking good Logan’s lips feel on yours.

His teeth bite down on your top lip, before suckling sweetly to combat the pain flourishing there. You moan, mouth falling open as he messily kisses you. The intoxicating taste of him swarms your tastebuds, his tongue swirling with yours in a way that leaves you dizzy with need.

A string of spit connects between your mouths as Logan pulls away, chuckling meanly when you promptly follow the warm wetness of his lips. A rough hand grips your throat again, tight enough to leave you feeling breathless but delicious enough to make your cunt squeeze around nothing.

“So that’s what you think, princess? That I don’t want you?” Logan’s fingers flex around your throat, gripping at your jaw to capture all of your attention. As if you were anything but than enamored with him. “You think that’s what I’ve been doing, huh?”

You can only stare up at him as your heartbeat rings loudly through your eardrums. A hand goes to tug at his shirt, an attempt to steady yourself, but Logan’s faster as he grabs your wrist.

“Answer me.” He whispers hotly as the hand holding yours captive moves to intertwine your fingers.

The touch of him, the hold on your throat and roughness of his fingers in yours, renders you speechless. You’re so overcome with your emotions that you can only manage to nod. The weight of you goes limp in his hold, silently begging him to do something to satiate the hunger burning every inch of you.

“Words, baby. Got nothing to say now, huh?” He taunts, his grip leaving your neck in favor of thumbing at your lips.

“Yes— I, it’s what it’s seemed like, what you’ve made me feel. Thought you hated me.”

Logan’s nose twitches, no doubt smelling your arousal as it leaks into the material covering you, ruining the lace.

“Couldn’t be more wrong,” He groans, pushing his thumb past the soft of your lips. His knees nearly buckle at the feel of your mouth closing and sucking his thumb, tongue rolling up against the skin as though it was his cock instead. “Shit, baby.”

You whine around his finger, eyes fluttering up at him in a way that has his dick aching for you.

“Fuck, been dreaming about you since the day we met. Been dreaming of you in every way possible.” He admits, a smile tugging at his lips at the way you freeze, lips leaving his thumb with a ‘pop’.

“What?” It’s a whisper, barely audible but he heard it all the same. The butterflies in your stomach are now having a complete rager, bolts of anxiousness kissing your skin.

“Of course.” Logan leanes down, pressing a kiss to your wet lips. “Knew the second I saw you you’d ruin me, so I just… stayed away. I never meant to make you think the worst. M’sorry, honey.”

This was not the way you’d expected tonight to go.

It’s as though all the confusion, anger, and sadness drain from you and, in its place,its full of the tremulous feeling of the admission.

And despite the fact that you’d fucked yourself thinking about him, and he’d heard, you feel incredibly shy. You drop your head to his hard chest, your hands squeezing his own where he holds them.

“I don’t know what to say.” You utter, brain all muddled and no other thoughts come forth as Logan haunts every inch of your mind. You feel like an idiot, even though Logan had acted like a dick for the better part you’d known him.

Logan simply lifts your head, invading your senses as his nose bumps yours.

“You were a dick.” It’s spoken factually, making him huff against your face.

“I know.”

“You could’ve kissed me months ago.”

“Can I kiss you now?”

His quick reply leaves you flushing, but when you nod, his lips are back on yours instantly, in their rightful place.

The kiss is messy; hot, wet, and dirty. Logan groans when you jump up, strong arms catching your thighs in a tight grip. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you lose yourself in the thrilling taste of his mouth. You unconsciously start humping him, dragging your drenched panties across his hard dick.

You suck on his tongue before capturing his lip between your teeth, nails dragging down his shoulder blades. A loud, feral growl escapes Logan, and without another thought, he throws your pliant body on the bed.

And at the sight of you, Logan feels like he’s about to come right then and there. In your skimpy outfit, so much plush, soft skin is on display. The hair tumbling from your shoulders has turned a dark cherry color during your kiss, and your hands are tickled with red energy that’s twirling up your arms, not unlike the way vines thread onto an old home.

This time, though, he knows you’re not upset, but instead, aroused.

He can smell the way your slick seeps from your fluttering hole, how it sticks to the skin of your thighs.

And fuck, he wants to sink his face right in front of your pussy and inhale until he’s woozy with the complete perfume of you.

So, that’s exactly what he does.

Your eyes widen as Logan drops onto the floor in front of the bed, yanking your body to the edge. Your lower half is completely in his grip, and he stares at you for a moment, eyes hazy with lust. Then, he’s pulling your pussy all the way up to his nose. The feel of him so close to your puffy lips has you clenching, even more so when he lowers his head and fucking sniffs you.

“Fuck, baby. Been dreaming of this since the minute I saw you. Smells so fuckin’ sweet.” Logan inhales deeply again, smattering messy, open mouthed kisses to the skin of your upper thigh. “You don’t know how many times I’ve wanted to throw you over my shoulder, get you alone and eat this pussy.”

“Logan!” You whimper out. The sound is completely feeble but you couldn’t care less, not with the way he’s sucking bruises into your skin. “Please, please.”

Spurred on by your whines, he sinks his canines into the skin, where your thigh meets the lips of your core.

Pain simmers into pleasure as the sting is followed by his tongue. Rosy splotches decorate your upper thighs, a preview of the bruises that will glaze the skin tomorrow. Logan does this until he’s satisfied with how his teeth imprint the skin. It’s as if it’s his way of solidifying that you’re his, like he’s staking his claim with his bruises smattering your thighs.

At some point your hand finds purchase in his hair, pawing at the tufts and tugging his face closer to where you need him most. He groans, the pain at his scalp sending jolts of desire throughout his body.

He sneaks a look up at you, and shit, you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. Your head is thrown back, sending those rebellious, red strands fluttering around you. Your hips are canting up to his mouth, and the smell of you, mixed with the previous orgasm you’d worked out before he interrupted, sends his senses in overdrive.

He knows he’d tortured you both enough when you can’t stop shivering with need, when his own hips brush against the edge of the bed. Without hesitation, Logan licks a long, wet stripe up your clothed pussy, suctioning around your enlarged clit.

The taste of you, heady, sweet, and so distinctly you, floods his tongue. He knew you’d taste good, but this? Oh, he wanted to drink you up all hours of the day.

With a growl, Logan tuggs the lace aside and loses it. He sucks, licks, and mouthed at your cunt like a man starved. His tongue dips into your hole before licking up and down your slit.

Moans of his name sound around the walls of your room, along with the filthy noise of his lips sucking your swollen button.

You’ve never felt like this before; the way he’s eating you out has your entire body on fire, and if you could see yourself, you’d see how ruby colored lines swirl all around your hands, how your hair practically glows with the intensity of your feelings.

He’d been attracted to you the minute he saw you— but the way you look when your mutation is at work? The way your hair grows shades of intoxicating reds and the way the fiery energy glows from the tips of your fingers to your elbows? Oh, how it fucking wrecks him. He just wants to keep you captive in this bedroom for all of eternity, if only to see you like this all the time.

“Feels so fucking good, fuck.” You’re a blubbering mess, hands tugging Logan’s hair hard, resulting in a moan that vibrates your pussy.

“Mine.” He grunts, and you gasp at the sensation of saliva as he spits directly onto your clit. “My fuckin’ pussy.”

Then, he latches his soft lips around your puffy bud and sucks hard. His dirty words and lucious mouth have your thighs shivering, hips bucking with insatiable need.

Like you’d done when you were alone and thinking about him, whimpers of ‘Logan’ slip past bitten lips as you rut against his face.

“That’s it, baby, say my name. Taste so fuckin’ good.” He humms against the slick, swell of your pussy.

A stream of ‘fuckfuckfuck’ is audible from open lips, forming an ‘o’ as the rush of delicious, hot pleasure pours over you completely.

As you come down, the pleasure fizzles out and overwhelming bursts of overstimulation bubble over you. Logan continues to lap at your wetness, groaning at your taste.

“S’too much, Logan.” Shaky hands grip his brown locks and you try and fail to bring the man away from your throbbing hole. His tongue laps at the taste of you, dipping in as deep as he could to savor every last drop. “Oh, fuck.”

“Taste too fuckin’ sweet, baby. Can’t help it.”

Logan grips tightly at your thighs, cruelly pinching at the flesh as he devours your pretty clit.

He can’t get enough, and seemingly, neither can you, with the way you buck into his warm, slick mouth despite the crushing pleasure. The material of your underwear snaps against you as Logan’s grip loosens, but he still eats you out as though there was no barrier.

His soft lips and dangerous tongue make it difficult to do anything but take the mind-numbing pleasure.

He’s content to stay here; between your gorgeous thighs and ravage your cunt all night, pull orgasms from you until you forget everything except the syllables that make up his name.

Except, the words that come from you have him still against you, his cock jerking and responding immediately to the addictive tilt of your voice.

“Logan— Logan, wanna suck your cock. Please.”

It was as though you were made for him— every inch of you riles him up like no one else has before and he has to take a deep, deep breath to refrain from coming in his jeans like a damn virgin.

With one last lick up your lace covered cunt, his face is suddenly above yours, the sight is lethal. The entirety of his lower face wears your wetness with pride, glistening and gleaming in the lowlight of the room. His eyes look animalistic, the hazel taken over by the black of dilated pupils.

Logan looks at you like he wants to fucking destroy you. You know without a doubt you’d let him.

A sweet kiss is pressed against your lips, a warm caress of his tongue on yours, the musky taste of your pussy causing you to part your thighs further. You whine once more, because you crave the heady taste of his cock; your mouth salivates at the thought of his tip heavy on your tongue.

“Easy, honey. Can smell how bad you want it.”

If you were less intoxicated by lust, you’d be mortified at the knowledge Logan can smell your arousal right now.

“Logan.” Pathetic whimpers and moans against his mouth have him pulling back, gritting his teeth to force himself to get a grip. It doesn’t work, not with the way you’re spread out below him, face pretty with a tiny that vaguely mimics the hue of your top and panties.”Please.”

How is he meant to last when you sound like that? All fucked out from just his tongue alone?

“C’mere’.” Logan mutters, tugging your body all the way up his chest, maneuvering you until your pussy is hovering above his mouth, facing his cock.

Completely fucked out, saliva pools in your mouth at the sight of his bulge, massive even in the confines of jeans.

You’re confused as to why Logan has put you on his chest, but it makes sense when he pulls your thighs down, mouth finding your wet, sopping sex once more.

You cry out, hips jolting at the way his tongue push the fabric away from your puffiness, immediately wrapping around your clit. At the way you were shaking on his face, unmoving besides the subtle thrusts of hips, he stops.

“Lo—“

“Go on then, baby. Suck my cock, just like you wanted.”

And oh, you both feel the slick that follows after those rasped words fill the air.

Only once you undo that damn belt buckle and pull both his jeans and boxers down, just enough to see the way his cock bounced out, wet at the red, swollen tip, does Logan resume licking up your pussy.

Fueled by the return of those talented lips, you lean forward without another thought.

Licking from base to tip, a moan vibrates against his cock as you hum, a taste so distinctly Logan making you feel light and warm. You lick up and down him sloppy, spitting on the tip of him as you slick his dick up, before finally wrapping your lips around him.

“Fuck.” His growl is borderning on feral; his teeth finding purchase on your asscheek and biting, an attempt to ground himself. It only serves to have his hips jump at the feel of you whining on him, sucking him down so fucking good. “Fuck, knew you’d be good with that pretty fuckin’ mouth.”

He’s so focused on the way you’ve started bobbing up and down the length of him, overcome with euphoria at the warmth and wetness as you suck and swirl your tongue, that he’s stopped his attention to your pussy, something he’s only reminded of as you wiggle impatiently over him.

“Sorry, princess, you’re driving me fuckin’ crazy.” He grits out, fingers gripping the flesh of your thighs at the little ‘hmph!’ you let out, pulling off his cock.

Though he can’t see you, he knows there’s a string of spit that spans from your swollen lips to his pulsating cock. He shutters, overwhelmed by you entirely, before burying his face into your weepy cunt.

”Oh! Logan, feels so good!” With a pathetic little whimper, his cock fills your mouth again as you sink down, satisfied with the way his tongue is licking at you.

A blend of moans sound as he wraps his lips around your puffed clit, as you ease his cock into your throat.

Logan’s eating you out in a frenzy, crazed by the tang of you soaking his mouth, chin, and nose. Despite the warmth bubbling in his stomach, he’s determined to make you come on his tongue again.

When thick fingers nudge into your hole unexpectedly, you mewl at the blissful feeling.

Logan’s fingers work steadily inside you in tandem with the way his mouth suckles divinely at your button. You’re an absolute mess— grinding down on his face, riding his digits, gagging as Logan’s hips match the pace of his fingers, grunts vibrating against you as he fucks your throat.

Logan curls his fingers in a way that has you seeing every fucking color of the rainbow. You come, moaning around the base of his cock and rocking back and forth on his fingers and mouth, muffled sobs spilling from your stuffed mouth.

When he feels you shivering on his tongue, overstimulated and sensitive, he pulls away from your center, the soaked fabric of your panties falling back into place once more.

Your mouth is still full of him, lips lazily sucking him down as your body tries to get ahold of the white hot pleasure still coursing through you.

“C’mere, baby.”

It’s a soft whisper against your thigh, but it settles over you, his soothing voice swirling around your shaky body like a warm blanket. Letting his cock fall from your lips, you scramble as fast as your body allows before you find yourself straddling Logan, staring down at the man with cloudy, wet eyes.

And maybe Logan is sick— because the sight of tears spilling over your cheeks has his cock unbelievably hard, a growl threatening to tumble out at the way your pretty, crimson hair spills over your shoulders.

Still, he wants to make sure you’re okay.

“What’s wrong, honey?” Logan watches at the way a small smile graces your features, even as tears continue to glisten your lash line. “You okay?”

“Nothing's wrong, just feel so good.” Your voice is a little hoarse, no doubt from the way his dick was fucking your whiny mouth. Your voice is still the sweetest thing he’s ever heard, those few words going straight to his dick.

Logan feels his own lips tug upwards as you speak. Even though he’s fucked you silly and stolen two orgasms, he tenses with desire as he notes the want dancing in your irises.

“Good.”

“Mhmm.”

There’s a beat of silence, a moment where hungry eyes lock in on one another, sensual energy threatening to burst.

Then, in a flash, lips are locked and tongues whirl together familiarly. It’s a hot, lewd kiss filled to the brim with desire— the passion almost too much with how it lights up every inch of your bodies, a fire threatening to spread.

Neither of you are sure who moved first— but it doesn’t matter because the way Logan’s hand wraps around your hair, creating a makeshift ponytail in a tight grip, steals your attention.

If someone were to see the two of you, they would see how desperate and needy you both were.

You’re kissing Logan’s top lip, biting before soothing the sting with a sweet, soft suck. Your thighs are spread over his own entirely and your position has your cunt settling over his cock nicely. Logan’s free hand grips the skin of your ass tight, guiding as you grind against him, the soaked panties catching on the tip of him with each thrust. The fingers tangled in your hair are unforgiving, tugging harshly as Logan grunts into your open mouth.

You’re both a mess of passion and lust— and your body thrums with the idea of his cock inside you.

“Such a good girl, that’s it. Fuck—“ Logan nearly whines, the feel of your wetness on his bulge has him trapping your lips in another all consuming kiss.

Your hands, lit up with energy, find purchase in his pretty hair, yanking as he kisses you vulgar, because everything is somehow too much and not enough.

“Logan— need you. Need you so bad, baby.”

Logan wants to eat you up entirely— somehow you’re still not satiated, rubbing your slick all over his lap and begging him for more. If he was a better man, he would’ve fucked you already. As it is, he likes it a little too much hearing you beg for him.

“Shhh, you got me, honey. I’m right here.”

“Fuck me, please. Need you inside, Logan.”

There’s tears in your eyes again, ready to spill over if the ache between your thighs isn’t soothed in the next five minutes. You’re clinging to him, hips stuttering because it’s just not enough and you both know it.

“My poor baby.” He sighs, the words somehow a mix of condescending and genuine and it makes you cry out. “So needy, huh?”

“Just for you.” The way you say it, it’s a message you both understand— you need him in every way possible, not just sexually.

He wonders if you know just how badly he needs you, especially now that he’s got a taste of you.

“I’m yours—“ you start, but it’s cut off by the squeak you emit when you’re suddenly flipped over, Logan’s muscular form hovering over you, his dog tags swinging between you.

“You’re mine.” It’s not a question, but a statement and it sends a thrill over you.

“Yours.” You’re nodding, eyes wide and so fucking pretty that it makes Logan squeeze his hands, the metal of his claws threatening to break through the skin.

He pulls his shirt off then, pride filling his chest at the way your eyes glaze over, a lip taken between your teeth as you stare at the vein that leads to his cock, which is pulsing with the promise of release.

He doesn’t comment on your lustful eyes, instead tracing his fingers down your body, until he reaches the hem of your baby pink lace. It doesn’t leave much to the imagination but Logan might break something if he doesn’t see your tits in all their glory.

You get the message, leaning up and slowly pulling the fabric from your chest, your breasts and midsection on full display. If he hadn’t already eaten you out twice, you would’ve moved to cover your taut nipples. Instead, you grip the chain of his necklace and pull him back down with you, sighing when you’re chest to chest.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted this?” He says, pecking your lips once, licking a stripe down your throat. Wetness coats both nipples as his tongue swirls over them. “Do you know how badly I’ve wanted to have you under me?”

You moan, nails digging into his shoulder blades at the fluttery feeling his lips bring, deep enough to elicit blood from his skin. Logan groans, head tipping back as his hips thrust down suddenly, the tip of his cock ramming into your clit.

“Fuck, Logan.” Your hands span the expanse of his back, scratching each time he bumps your button just right. His jeans are still on, resting just below his thighs and something about the way he couldn’t even get up to properly take them off makes you shudder.

He’s rutting against you now, dick rubbing filthy over your panties and it dawns on you then that he hasn’t come yet, too preoccupied with taking care of you.

Determined, you slide one hand onto his asscheek, pushing him further into you, while your other grips his chin, pulling his mouth to yours in a slick, open-mouth kiss.

“C’mon Logan, fuck me, please.”

Logan turns into something animalistic then— flipping you over without warning, caging you between his arms. Your gasp is audible as he yanks your wet lace to the side, before thrusting forward, and fucks his cock into you with one thrust.

“Oh my god, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me—“ the feel of Logan finally inside you had you absolutely fucking drunk on the feel of him.

“Tryin’ to, baby.” He grits, arms flexing beside your head, fingers intertwining with yours as he sinks into you, inch by inch, until you were filled to the brim.

Logan’s body covers yours, lips pressing all over your shoulder blades to soothe the little whines you let out at how fucking full you felt. It’s everything you want and more— you want to memorize the feel of him, every ridge and vein as he bottoms out.

“Baby,” he grunts, fingers flexing with yours as he stays still, for your sake. “So fuckin’ tight, so fuckin’ wet.”

And it was true— despite the fact that he’s huge, he slipped in easily because of the mess you created, a slick mix of your come and desire that seeps from you.

“Logan, fuck me, please.” You ask so sweetly, as if you weren’t impaled by his cock right now.

With that, he slips out of you slowly, before fucking into you hard, deep. Then, he fucking ravishes you— creating a steady, fast paced rhythm and fucking you dumb with his cock.

You’re a whiny mess. Your hair grows darker, hands glittering between his grip each time he slams into you, each time your cunt squeezes around him.

Completely cock drunk, your back arches, ass up and hips slamming back against his with your cheek pressing into the mattress as you sob.

You’re so fucking needy that his own thighs are wet with your desire— he growls at the sight, fucking you even faster.

“You’re mine. Have been since you came here.” Logan growled, releasing your fingers in favor of gripping your hair and pulling you up until you were pressed into his chest. “My fuckin’ girl.”

“Yours!” You cry, tears rolling down your face. Your entire body jolts with pleasure, and you feel like you couldn’t breathe, not with how euphoria threatens to smother you. “M’so close!”

“I know, honey, I know. Can feel you fuckin’ squeezin’ around me.“ Logan moans out, pushing you back down into the mattress and finding purchase on your hips, pulling you back hard. “Gonna come all over me?”

You don’t answer, instead crying out as you feel a sharp flash of pain on your asscheek, Logan’s hand swift and quick. The pain mixes into pleasure when he rubs at the red skin, pressing sweet kisses on your back.

He wishes you could see yourself right now; maybe then you would understand why he was so intoxicated by you.

Your pretty body is bent over, ass up and face in the sheets as whimpers seep out. The lace that drove him crazy is yanked to the side, grazing his cock each time he drove deeper inside you. You’re so beautiful like this, he wants to keep you forever.

Sweet, little ‘uh,uh’s’ fill Logan’s ears as he speeds up, pulling you back up once more against his chest. He wants to be as close as fucking possible, the feel of your skin on his almost searing.

You turn your head back, lips seeking out his own. He kisses you, sucking at your lips as he continues to fuck you vigorously.

The fluttery feeling of your cunt squeezing around him suddenly sends him over the edge— low groans falling in your open mouth as hot, searing spurts of come coat your walls.

Knowing that Logan had lost it, finally giving into the temptation like you’d been doing all night, has you whining as your own orgasm surrounds your entire being.

“Baby—“ Logan thrusts shallowly, riding your orgasms out as long as he could; if he could, he’d never leave this feeling behind. Seemingly, you agreed as your nails dig into his forearms that hold you up, eyes squeezing shut at the overpowering bliss tingling everywhere. “I got you, it’s okay.”

“Logan, fuck!” It comes out as a huff, head against his sweaty neck, body completely limp in his hold.

You’d never been so incredibly sex-dazed in your life. From this moment onward, Logan has ruined you for anyone else.

Though, you hope there isn’t anyone else.

Logan kisses your head before untangling from you; a smirk dancing across his usually gruff features at the little whine let out as he pulls out. He gently rolls you onto your back, laying your head tenderly on the pillows. It was such a stark difference to the rough way he’d fucked you minutes prior, but butterflies flutter around your stomach all the same.

You watch his eyes trail lower, landing on the mess between your thighs.

Logan is mesmerized by the sight; your pussy is destroyed , so wet with his come seeping out of your hole. Mindlessly, he lowers himself until heieye level with your sex. Sans any warning, his fingers are thrusted back inside.

He ignores your hiss in favor of trying to push his come back inside, to keep you full of him. His eyes meet yours, watching as your chest rises as you observe him. There’s a glint in your eye that has his heart stuttering.

“I want to kiss you.” You whisper, soft and a little bashful, as if he didn’t have his fingers inside you. You look too fucking perfect, hair returning to its original color, eyes cloudy with unspoken words, a smile gracing your face.

How could he deny you when you looked like that?

Logan kisses your clit once, enjoying the way you jump before removing his fingers.

With those same digits, he sticks them in his mouth, sucking the flavor of you both and humming. He could hear the way your heart picked up at his actions. He releases them with a loud ‘pop’, before finally coming back to you.

He hovers over you, and like you’d done earlier, soft hands pull at the chain until his lips melt with yours in a soft kiss. Logan pulls back, resting his head on yours, eyes connecting with yours.

“Hi.” You giggle then, nose bumping his in the proximity.

“Hi, baby.” Logan kisses your lips once more, before rolling beside you. You would’ve whined at him if it weren’t for the way he immediately pulls you onto his chest.

With your limbs tangled, a kiss pressed to your forehead, you think this could be heaven and if so, you never wanted to leave.

It was quiet for a moment— the two of you content to listen to one another’s heartbeat, the breaths that fall from lips. Then, you break the silence, because of course you do.

“Logan?”

“Hmm?”

“Just so you know, I’m expecting you to take me out before you get me like this again.” You mutter against his slick chest, where your head rests as you wrap yourself around the man like a koala.

A deep laugh fills the room, chest rumbling because what the fuck?

He’s fucked you, with his mouth and cock, and now you’re laying on him as his come seeps out of you and you’re demanding him to take you out?

He was going to in the first place, but he thinks it’s cute you decided for him.

Logan may be a man that’s been alive for almost two centuries, practically immortal, but it’s completely possible you’ll be the death of him.

˚｡⋆⟡♡⟡⋆｡˚ fin

tags: @strangererotica @cevansbaby-dove @morganyourone @asiancupid

#feedback #fan fiction #marvel #wolverine #logan howlett

4K notes · View notes

choccy-milky · 2 days ago

Note

I dont know why I had this vision of clora riding a scooter, like a cute light blue one with italy vibes, like a vespa, and sebastian panicking behind her LMAO

I SEE THE VISION AS WELL...idk how shes on a vespa tho since they werent invented yet so lets just assume theres time-turner shenanigans going on LMAO

but also anon this request was so funny to me because the SAME day you sent me it, i also got this one on twitter:

TRULY THE DUALITY OF MAN IS AT PLAY HERE!!! LMAOO debauchery vs wholesomeness...and it made me laugh so much

(and for anyone curious yes i WILL also be honouring the other request......eventually👀)

@jstfndmthngs splitting your ask into 2 again bc its a CHONKER but I LOVED READING IT🥹🥹 "how much they love each other to the abnormal level that i envy" LMAOO THATS FANFICTION FOR YOU, BABY!!😍 also YESS interacting with my readers in the comments was my fav parts of writing a lot of the time, and im SOOO grateful to the ppl who commented bc without them the story would have turned out DRASTICALLY DIFFERENT. like, i know there are some people who write the entirety of their fanfic and then upload it in chunks, but if i had done that/written my story in a vacuum and hadnt incorporated any of my readers ideas/suggestions it would have been SOOOO much worse honestly LMAO. like, not even necessarily putting their requests or ideas in my fic, but even sometimes just reading a comment that would say something like "i cant wait to see how clora/seb reacts to..." would make me think...oh. i was never planning on even showing their reaction to that. but now that they say that, good point, i definitely need to include that LOL. so yeah even just little stuff like that was SUPER important to my writing process and my story and helped me keep in mind what people wanted to see/things i may have missed or glossed over if i'd been writing by myself, but i also just loved getting comments in general bc i loved reading them and they were so motivating🥹 BUT THANK U SO MUCH IM GLAD U LIKED MY STORY/SEB & CLORA SO MUCH, AND TY FOR SHARING ALL YOUR THOUGHTS WITH ME!!🥹💖💖 im lowkey the same way... i cant read any other fics rn bc im still too attached to seb/clora BAHAHA so i still need to give it some time before i delve into other HL fics (i even downloaded a program that will let me replace names so that i can replace the mc's name with clora's LMFAOOOO THATS HOW MENTALLY ILL I AM ABOUT THEM!!😭😭DONT COME FOR ME🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️🚓)

omg...i already love unlocking kinks in people but for it to be specifically seb x clora is even more of an honour BAHAHA omg i love that....but i get it too. clora is submissive and breedable af😍LMAOO (im sorry💀that wasnt me just now that was seb blame him)

@acrenna MERRY LATE CHRISTMAS AND ALSO LATE HAPPY NEW YEAR!!! this is so sweet THANK YOU SO MUCH😭😭im happy my story was able to get you out of your reading slump!! (and hopefully will continue to, with my oneshot im slowly but surely working on😩) BUT THANK YOU AGAIN I APPRECIATE YOU SM🥹🥹💖

@misskkfritz you actually arent the first to say this and i also saw a pinterest comment on my art say this........FELLAS DO I NEED TO WATCH GILMORE GIRLS NOW🤔🤔🤔

#ask #i always wanted a vespa because of zoey 101 DOES ANYONE REMEMBER THOSE THINGS THEY RODE i was so jealous LMFAO #also i think all fanfic writers should be able to give themselves amnesia at least once so we can read our fics and enjoy them as a reader #bc they are literally MADE for us and have all the stuff we like in them #EVERYBODY GETS ONE(1)#vote me in as president. as your first canadian president this will be my first decree. we'll figure it out

229 notes · View notes

tra-archive · 16 hours ago

Text

Please read this whole post and reblog it, radblr. I don’t want anyone to forget this happened to me and I also don’t want anyone to forget how disgusting the TRA community is.

Next month, it’ll be one year since I was harassed, doxxed, and targeted by a disgusting person and their sick followers. I won’t say their name because they still have a cult following, but if you need a hint, look up the drama with photomatt in February 2024.

On my old account, an anon told me about an account getting banned from tumblr and the ensuing chaos from TRAs. I answered the ask and posted a picture of the person’s new account so radblr could block if they needed to. I had no idea who this person was until I got that anon ask, just to be clear.

The person found the post and reblogged it, accusing me of being the one who led a “targeted harassment campaign” against them and got their account banned, and told their followers “you know what to do” or something like that. Keep in mind, I didn’t know who this person was at all so I obviously wasn’t the one who got them banned. I also *gasp* didn’t use their preferred pronouns, so that was a huge scandal as well.

After that, their followers began to harass me and send violent threats to my inbox. (Edit: oh and this evil person accused me of sending them to myself for attention, which is so fucked up and misogynistic I don’t even have words for it.) Here’s the worst one that I still have trauma from to this day:

My account was then termed by tumblr. I made a new account and called for radblr to report the account for sending their followers to harass me. Well, this made everything worse because the hate I got on this new account was a thousand times worse. This person’s minions created multiple posts about me (look up m3nrbad for proof, that was the account name). There were hundreds of comments calling me misogynistic slurs and calling for me to be doxxed and even lynched. They also found my Reddit account and harassed me there too. I even got a few text messages to my PHONE NUMBER. I have no idea how this evil person’s followers got ahold of it, but I changed my number and my mother took me to buy a new phone just to be safe. Here’s what one of them said about me, encouraging their followers to false report me:

A short while after this, the evil person’s blog was termed again and they were (I think) IP banned from all of tumblr. The CEO photomatt threatened to take legal action against them. It had nothing to do with me, but I can’t lie, it felt so good seeing that happen to them after the hell they put me through. Here’s me reacting to the news:

TRAs on tumblr of course threw a hissy fit and attacked Matt for months because their leader was banned. They also acted like this person was being systemically oppressed by tumblr of all fucking places. Keep in mind this person is white and born male, acting as if they were so oppressed by a website.

I eventually deleted that other blog and made this one. I spent hours and hours blocking every single person who reblogged, liked, and commented on posts about me, as well as blocking almost every one of a big tra’s followers. I was determined to stop being harassed.

Anyway, I know I shouldn’t be dwelling on this because it’s just internet drama, but people still worship this person and act like they’re such a poor victim, and in reality that’s not true. That month was hell for me and my actual safety was threatened. If it wasn’t for some of you gyns being so amazing and funny on here, I would’ve never come back to radblr.

Thanks for reading all the way through.

-Sirona

#radblr #radical feminism #terfs #gender critical #radfems #terfblr #radfem #radical feminists do touch #radical feminists do interact #radical feminists please interact #terfsafe #trans receipts #TRA receipts

173 notes · View notes

brairslair · 2 days ago

Note

Hii! I hope you've had a great day so far, could i request a trafalger law × fem!reader who's like super horny all the time and just begs for law's attention and his cock all the time? Do what you want with the request, I just want this to be the basic premise, also i would like a friends with benenfits relationship kinda thing, but they do like eachother but just arent together yet!

Thank you, and have a great day! Please remember to take breaks, don't rush yourself and to take care of yourself!

@kyokikia thank you so much for this request ml! so sorry for the actual insane wait 🙏🏻

EVERYONE IS 18+ (minors gtfo)

a/n: idk why i struggled so much with this prompt, but i think i got something kind of coherent? definitely not my best work and a lil short, but hopefully you enjoy reading what i came up with!

don’t forget to like, reblog, comment, and follow to support my work! it always makes my day mwah

“made me wait enough”

Your mouth waters as you watch Law lean back in his seat, legs spread, head thrown back in a frustrated groan. His hands drag down his face and a sliver of skin peaks out from where his shirt rides up, and you almost moan. Your fingers buzz with the desire to touch him.

It’s been torture all week. Law’s been absolutely drowning in work, to the point where he’s been sleeping through the nights in his office chair instead of his bed.

Usually, you were admittedly pretty needy; something Law liked to tease you for. Constantly running your mouth, begging for him to give you a drop of his attention, to take care of you and ease the ache that seems to always be present when he’s around. It’s absolutely agonizing to give him space, but you’ve always respected his work ethic and ambition, and would never want to get in his way.

However, he’s been making it inexplicably difficult for you to keep to yourself. He’s barely said a word to you or the rest of the crew that wasn’t a captain’s order. You’re starting to feel actual physical pain from the distance.

You’re used to spending much more time with him, having been best friends for the better part of the last four years. If anyone has the right to be frustrated with his absence, it’s you.

You miss talking to him.

You miss his company.

You miss the way he looks at you when you cling to him.

You miss the way his hands feel when he touches you.

Your legs discreetly press together where you stand, hovering at the entrance to his office, mug of hot coffee in hand.

Coffee usually helps stoke the flames when his energy starts to dwindle, so you figured you would bring him the much needed pick-me-up before you make your way to bed. Alone.

You didn’t factor in how difficult it would be to keep yourself from jumping his bones.

Seemingly unaware of your ogling, you clear your throat to make yourself known before stepping in, setting the steaming mug on his desk.

“Thought you could use it.” You smile awkwardly, trying to conceal the filthy thoughts swirling in your head while he looks up at you through half lidded eyes. You could strangle him for making this so difficult.

He glances at the mug, then back at you, muttering a soft “Thank you.”

He looks mesmerizing when he’s tired. Hazy, far off, and soft around the edges. Your chest is aching and your throat burns with hidden desires clawing their way up your throat.

“Is there anything else you need, Captain? I’m heading to bed.” You mutter softly, praying he’ll take the hint and decide to join you.

His eyebrows twitch but he simply shakes his head, “This should do.”

His eyes burn through to your soul.

Usually you would have caved long ago, whining and begging for him to let you touch him, to take care of you the way he knew you needed it, but you wouldn't cave this time. You needed to remind yourself that he's an important man with important duties to attend to, and you would rather suffer than hold him back.

Instead, you force out a curt “Goodnight”, turning on your heels before the dam breaks and you start babbling nonsense.

Before you can take a step towards the door, you’re halted by a gentle hand around your wrist. The touch makes you shudder, biting back a whine. You missed his hands.

“You’ve been different.” Law states quietly, though you know it’s meant to be a question.

You can’t allow yourself to look at him yet. You know you’ll cave.

“You’ve been busy.”

Law hums in understanding and disappointment, gently tugging your arm to face him. Your legs feel like jelly under his gaze.

The longer he looks at you, the more aware you are of how dry your mouth is suddenly, how your stomach feels tight with restraint, and how he’s looking at you like he can read your every thought.

Law soothes his thumb along your pulse, stopping to feel your heart race beneath his fingertip. His sharp smile twists into your gut.

It fascinates you, the patience and temperment Law expresses so easily, things you’ve never been able to harness.

With a shaky sigh, you finally let go of your tongue, unable to hold back any longer.

“Please, Law? I need you.”

His hands are on you in an instant, smoothing over your curves like butter as he pulls you to straddle his hips. The second his lips touch yours, you can’t stop yourself from pulling and twisting at his shirt, seconds away from ripping it to shreds. Needy whines flow freely as you desperately rock your hips.

Law rubs a calming hand against your back, and you can feel the corners of his lips twitch with a smile against yours.

He teasingly nips at your bottom lip, and is pleased at the lewd noise it draws from your throat.

“There she is.” He grins, and you groan when he pulls away to trail down your neck. His fingers dance under your shirt, leaving goosebumps up your back as he makes work to unclasp your bra.

Your skin feels like it’s on fire, melting into him like molten lava. Every touch sends your brain into overdrive, and you need to feel more.

“Please, Law, don’t tease me.” You whine, hips stuttering, struggling to keep up with your head, “I’ve been so patient. I didn’t wanna disturb your work, but I can’t help it.”

You ramble into his ear, already barely coherent and digging your nails into his shoulders to steel yourself.

You press yourself against his chest, kissing and licking at his jaw, “I’ve missed you.”

Law cradles your cheek to sweetly kiss the corner of your mouth, dotting a feather light trail across your cheek. It’s his way of saying “I missed you too. I’m sorry.”

Your hand trails down to the zipper of his pants, but he stops you, pulling your wrist to his lips before placing it back on his shoulder. You protest as tears start to dot at your lash line.

“Let me feel you. I need to feel you.” You’re begging now, trembling against him as your patience dwindles. “I need you so bad it hurts.”

Law kisses you softly, like an anchor pulling you back down to him, grounding you. He tugs at your shirt in a silent order, and you pull away only to throw it carelessly on the floor beside you, along with your bra.

His cold hands immediately trail your exposed skin, not leaving an inch untouched. You’re practically limp against him at this point, overwhelmed and sobbing into his chest.

“Just fuck me already, made me wait enough.” You plead, tugging at his hair as you whisper filth in his ear, “Need your cock, Law, so bad. Please.”

A groan rumbles in his chest at your words, twitching in his pants. His fingers press into the fat of your hips, slowing your rocking motion to a slow rumble, rolling your clothed core against the tent in his jeans at an agonizingly perfect pace. His eyes darken when you gasp and whimper, already crumbling in his hands.

“Cum for me like this and I’ll give you anything you want.”

asks are open!

141 notes · View notes

scho17 · 9 hours ago

Text

Oh that's lovely. The dichotomy of 'my son is dead' and also 'he's right here, he's in my hands and he weighs nothing, he’s cold.' AGHHH Jason who's still in his Robin suit. Throwing up everywhere God I'm so not good.

JLA, at some point probably: Where’s the other Robin (Jason)?

Robin (Tim): With Uncle Danny.

JLA: Batman has a brother???

Maybe they think its like the bat equivalent of saying that the dog went to the farm the more time goes on. (Read: Where’s Robin (Steph)? Oh, she’s with Uncle Danny!)(granted shes not actually dead but ykwim)

Give me Jason who’s having the time of his unlife in the Ghost Zone. Danny who is very much the cool uncle because he lets Jason do just about anything A, because Jason can’t exactly get hurt anymore, and B, “I thought you’d be taller” fuck you very much Bruce, Danny did get taller. Thank you, Fenton genetics.

Anyways, I’m all about Jason becoming a prince in the Infinite Realms. OHHH Jason doing Knight training with Fright Knight! Jason has as much fun as a murdered fifteen year old can have post-death with his much more emotionally competent side of the family as his support system (everyone say thank you Jazz).

I imagine Dick after his bad spats with Bruce summons Danny (casually because yeah, go on and mundanely call up the king of the infinite realms - somewhere else in the world John Constantine 100% feels stressed out for no particular reason) and is like “how did you put up with him? He must have been such a shitty little brother.” (They haven’t told the kids that, no, they are not in fact blood related. The black hair, blue eyes, built like a brick shit house look post-untransformation really sells it.)

Giggling cause after Danny and Bruce sort out the whole ‘this one just showed up on my door step I swear I didn’t just go and get a new kid on purpose’ thing Danny is one hundred and ten percent seeing Wes in Tim. Like oh yes there’s the conspiracy board mhm mhm.

And then Jason just up and disappears from the Ghost Zone and Danny is stressing the fuck out. How do you tell someone you lost their son? And that, yes, you did lose him for a second time I’m sorry, I’m sorry, he was right there in front of me and then he wasn’t, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

Bruce having a whole break down x2 because Jason is gone again. Not even the king of the infinite realms could do anything so really what chance did anyone else ever have? Did he pass on? Did he fade out?

And then in comes Red Hood.

An eight year old Bruce Wayne summons Danny (who is 14 at the time, mind you) in the Wayne family manors attic.

Danny: please don't be a cultist please don't be a cultist please don't be a-

Danny:

Danny: That's a child. Why is there a child?

Bruce who honestly didn't expect his great great great great nth grandparents weird ass spellbook bullshit to work: [squinting at Danny in scrutiny] I thought the King of the Dead would be…taller.

Danny: Oh great and now I'm being insulted by a six year old. It's like Young Blood all over again, just more posh. And alive.

#dc x dp #jason todd #danny phantom #danny fenton #dc x dp crossover #jaybin #red hood #tim drake #dick grayson #nightwing #red robin #stephanie brown #dc robin

3K notes · View notes

babychosen · 3 days ago

Text

save a horse (ride a cowboy)

8pm, Friday. Red dress. Booth near the end of the bar, by the dart board.

She forgot how demanding the text felt, but it had only encouraged her to want to show up even more.

#owo? what's this? baby cho back with a fic?#I'VE BEEN HERE THE WHOLE TIME #just... hidden #yeah the image is just that photo okay f u guys (affectionate)#my fanfic masterlist has been updated with this fic plus one other that i previously did not claim.. should you be interested in That #wow okay so this one is a doozy. lots of tags below so fair warning #it took me quite a while from just having the idea for this to actually putting pen to paper (finger to keyboard?)#thank you poppyfamily for seeing my original vision for this fic #biggest shoutout goes to wrench (two-wrenches). who will also be getting the most real estate in these tags #i started this fic with no intention of a) writing it to completion or b) letting anyone edit it if i did finish it #but wrench. wrench!!! loml wrench #if you peep the end note on the fic you'll see my praise but like. she was there when i sent her my embarrassing first draft which was shit #and then she whipped my ass into shape and fixed my terrible syntax and flow issues #all i'm really saying here is that sometimes it just takes the right editor to make you comfortable with your work #AND give you the confidence to continue writing. and i just think that's beautiful #thanks for reading lol #amangela #smosh rpf #my fics #amanda lehan canto #angela giarratana #smosh

41 notes · View notes

f1ora1f1owerswrites · 3 days ago

Text

then and now

Summary: Jake Seresin and Bradley Bradshaw’s rivalry turned into a friendship over the years. You, Jake’s high school sweetheart, watched their bond grow from complaints about Bradley’s mustache to mutual respect, showing you how much Jake had changed.

warnings: established relationship, she/her used, no use of y/n, character growth (???), FLUFF!

a/n: happy new year!! my first fic of 2025...wow! i have had so much fun with this blog and thank you for all the love!! :) i hope you enjoy this cute little read!! <3

w/c: 960.

***

Jake Seresin’s career had taken him to some amazing places, but coming home to you was still his favorite.

He stood in the doorway of your shared home, his bag dropped on the floor with a thud, his khaki uniform slightly wrinkled from the long trip. The moment he saw you coming down the hall with that familiar smile, everything else faded.

“Missed me, sweetheart?” he drawled, the corners of his mouth lifting into a grin.

“Always,” you said, throwing your arms around his neck and pulling him into a tight hug. Jake chuckled, gently rubbing the small of your back.

As you stepped back, brushing his hair out of his face, you caught the tired look in his eyes. “Rough trip?”

Jake groaned, tossing his keys onto the entryway table. “Rough doesn’t even begin to cover it. Do you know who I got stuck with the entire time? Bradley 'stupid mustache' Bradshaw.”

Your brow furrowed and a grin lifted onto your lips at the newfound nickname. “Bradley? Goose’s son?”

“The very same,” Jake replied, running a hand through his hair. “He’s so smug. He acts like he’s God’s gift to naval aviation. Walks around with that stupid mustache like he’s in an ‘80s movie.”

You laughed, patting his chest. “You mean like you walk around acting like God’s gift to, well, everything?”

Jake’s jaw dropped in mock offense. “Hey, that’s different. I actually am God’s gift to everything.”

Rolling your eyes, you shook your head, but your smile gave you away. “What’s he done that’s got you so worked up?”

“Besides thinking he’s better than me at literally everything?” Jake started pacing, his hands gesturing wildly as he ranted. “He called me Hangman like it’s a bad thing, said I don’t have anyone’s back. Can you believe that? I’m a team player!”

You stifled another laugh, biting your lip. You’d known Jake since high school, long enough to know that his bravado was often just a cover for how much he really cared—about his work, his teammates, and, even when he wouldn’t admit it, his newfound rivalry with Bradley Bradshaw.

“You’re a lot of things, Jake,” you teased, “but maybe it wouldn’t hurt to actually try getting along with him?”

Jake scoffed, waving you off. “Not gonna happen.”

***

But over time, you watched that stance soften.

Years passed, and Jake’s stories about Bradley became less irritated and more… amused. By the time they were assigned to the same mission (and not just the occasional practice) in San Diego, the exasperation in his voice had been replaced with something suspiciously close to respect.

You caught on early, especially when Jake started calling Bradley by his callsign, Rooster. The first time he casually mentioned, “Rooster actually had my back in the air today,” you nearly dropped your mug.

“Wait, wait,” you interrupted, setting your coffee down. “You’re telling me Bradley ‘stupid mustache’ Bradshaw had your back? And you’re not complaining?”

Jake shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was trying to suppress a smile. “I’m just saying, the guy’s not entirely useless.”

“Wow,” you teased, leaning against the counter. “High praise coming from you.”

Jake rolled his eyes, but you could see the shift. By the time he was recounting the mission where he and Bradley worked seamlessly together to save their team, you knew something had changed.

“You know,” you said one evening, as Jake lay on the couch with his head in your lap, “I think you like him now.”

Jake groaned, covering his face with a pillow. “Don’t start, sweetheart.”

“I’m serious!” you insisted, laughing as you tugged the pillow away. “You two are practically inseparable now. Admit it—you’re friends.”

Jake peeked up at you, his green eyes soft. “I didn’t say we’re not friends. But don’t go telling him that, alright? I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

You laughed, brushing your fingers through his hair. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

***

The first time you saw Jake and Bradley joking together in person, you almost didn’t recognize them. It was during a barbeque on the beach in San Diego, the whole squad and their partners gathered around the fire pit.

Jake was standing beside Bradley, both of them laughing as they recounted some ridiculous story about their mission. The easy camaraderie between them was a far cry from the complaints you used to hear.

“Unreal, isn’t it?” Phoenix said, nudging you with her shoulder as she handed you a drink.

“What is?” you asked, though you already knew.

“Those two. They were at each other’s throats when this started. Now? Thick as thieves.”

You smiled, watching Jake throw his arm around Bradley’s shoulders, tugging him closer in a playful headlock. “It’s definitely been a journey.”

When Jake caught you watching, he grinned and motioned for you to join them. “C’mere, honey. Rooster’s trying to convince me he’s the reason we’re still alive.”

“Because I am!” Bradley called, holding up his beer.

You walked over, shaking your head fondly. “I can’t believe this. Jake Seresin, willingly standing this close to Bradley Bradshaw? I think I need to sit down,” you say, dramatically feeling your forehead with the back of your hand.

Jake rolled his eyes, pulling you into his side. “Don’t let it go to your head, darlin’. I’m just humoring him.”

Bradley smirked. “Yeah, okay, Hangman. Whatever you need to tell yourself.”

As they launched into another round of playful banter, you leaned into Jake’s side, your heart full. Watching their friendship grow had been funny, sure, but it also reminded you of just how much Jake had grown over the years. From the cocky high school boy you fell in love with to the man standing beside you now, he’d built something meaningful—not just with you, but with the people who mattered most.

And if he occasionally complained about Bradley just to keep up appearances, well, that was fine by you.

#jake seresin #jake seresin x reader #hangman x reader #top gun maverick #waaagh #happy new year #i love him #florawrites #jake hangman seresin #jake hangman seresin x reader #jake hangman x reader #f1ora1f1owers

78 notes · View notes

cuntyji · 2 days ago

Text

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

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

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

And yes, your type has turned out to be greasy Tim Burton reject loners who wander around school in faded Lord of the Rings hoodies. ➜ no one laugh but my current sort of crush is kind of like that minus the loner but he looks like a tim burton character and he is such a big band nerd and UGH OKAY ANYWAYS BACK TO THE FIC

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

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

Never let anyone tell you that teenage love is simple, or wholesome. Full of first crushes, and sweet moments. Because this? It feels like someone ripped the floor out from under you, the air yanked from your lungs, leaving you stranded. ➜ sat here holding my head in my hands because this sentence HURTTTSSSS. HURTED. HURT MY SOUL. this whole scene from reader asking him to him saying the truth oh god my face has morphed into a perpetual sad face

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

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

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

The next few months slip by like the kind of indie film that you’d see at film festival. It’s bittersweet, and there’s a melancholy that everyone can taste in the air, especially as you all realise that this last blue spring of youth is slipping through fingers like sand. /// Spring arrives like a first kiss. It’s hesitant, not rushing in. Just tiptoes around you, tentative enough as it coaxes you out of winter’s gloom. ➜ I AM SICK. SICK YOU HEAR. IM GOING THROUGH EVERY SINGLE EMOTION RIGHT NOW BECAUSE I HATE HOW THIS IS MY LIFE RIGHT— *GUNSHOTS* the below meme is me right now

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

Once, he was Choso Kamo — the quiet boy you liked in school. Then, he became Choso from the café. Soon, he'll be someone whose name you won't even remember in a few years, someone who's path you'll probably never cross again. ➜ why am i paying internet bills…..yea……..to cry……..that’s whats up

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

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

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

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

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

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

WHAT? LIKE IT'S HARD? ✶ choso kamo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re not above sending a risky message.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s your point?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You ask Kamo, I’ll ask Suguru.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Choso’s shoulders tense, “Can’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You first.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I help you?”

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

Choso Kamo.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THREE YEARS LATER.

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

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

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

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

Your mother.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get out,” you blurt.

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

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

“Partner?” Choso finishes for you, deadpan.

“Of all the people in this entire school —”

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

“What are you doing here?”

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

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

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

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

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

“What? Like it’s hard?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Choso just rolls his eyes.

“They…modify bacterial ribosomes.”

“Wrong.”

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

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

“Nope.”

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

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

“Just tell me the answer.”

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

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

“I was close.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing next weekend?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you want to study at my place?”

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

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

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

“Hmm. Sure, I’ll think about it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s not a date. We’re studying.”

“Don’t care. Didn’t really ask.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did I leave the door unlocked?”

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

“Get out.”

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

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

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

Weird. And impossible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Leave Yuuji out of this!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mhm.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right.

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

“So, what?”

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

“Are you angry?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not happy, Satoru?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s he look like again?”

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

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

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

“Hold up! I got visual aid.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now who’s the liar,” Suguru murmurs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You good?”

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

You’re having none of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There you are.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Without warning, his phone buzzes.

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

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

“What?”

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

“I’m not dating Tsukumo Yuki.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If it’s a proper date, it’s a yes.”

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

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

ONE WEEK LATER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#recs ★

555 notes · View notes

rottenherbs · 17 hours ago

Text

Something Batty // F.W x hufflepuff! Reader

Summary: You had gotten to your wits end over the winter break. No more homework to get ahead on, no more hobbies that filled your satisfaction. It was you and the empty castle. Could you attempt to write down and locate all the hidden passageways and paintings on the walls? The castle was big, but your desire for an adventure was bigger.

Word Count: 3.4k

Authors note: reader is Hufflepuff! Honestly you could 1000% fake any of the other houses but since they are a quidditch player it wouldn’t make much sense for them not to be familiar with Fred if they were gryffindor. ((Love u)) thank you for reading.

[masterlist]

Much Love, Saige

—————

It was hard to describe the beauty of Hogwarts to those who hadn't seen it before. A castle, right. Large and ornate, right. Dark accademia, of course. People talk about how large Hogwarts in a way that they talk about the weather. Just boring conversation to fill the air. We all know how large it is, but you can't really fathom the amount of moving paintings on the wall, the amount of locked doors, the amount of hidden passageways, until you count them.

You honestly couldn’t think of a better way to spend your time. It was winter break, the new year had come and gone and you had still a few weeks until classes would start once more. You missed your friends, most of them off with their families or on trips to places much warmer than the Scottish Highlands. The mountains had a distinct way of making you feel even more trapped in by snow than during the summer months.

You were absolutely, ultimately, and utterly bored.

Laying face up on your bed, you spread your legs starfish style, looking up at the four poster in dread. Another day - nothing to do.

“Get out of bed for dear god.” You moaned to yourself. Your dormitory was empty, all of your roommates off with their families and friends. You had actually begged to stay at Hogwarts over the winter break, wanting to do it at least once over your term here, but it was more dreadful than you imagined.

“Maybe if I stare at the ceiling for long enough I could catch the atoms moving.” You mumbled, your inner thoughts falling out of your lips. It’s not like anyone was around, you might as well talk to yourself.

Taking a few more minutes to lay in silence, you flopped your head to the side trying to read the clock on the wall.

7:45am

Flopping your head back, you bit your lip in frustration.

”Come on.’ You encouraged yourself, slouching yourself up and over the edge of the bed. Taking your first few steps, you looked around trying to find the comfy sweat set you had gotten for quidditch practice. Tucked neatly in your dresser, you pulled out the matching set, relieved that at least over the break you were not expected in your uniforms.

Feeling accomplished purely by changing your clothing, you grabbed your field guide notebook and shoved it in your pant pocket, making your way through the common room.

A few students had made their way out of the bedrooms, mostly the academic students with their nose in their books. Most of the students who had stayed over the break would be asleep past lunch time, catching up on as much rest as they could before the school year starts again.

Like most days, you didn’t recognize most of the students, giving small smiles to those who met your eyes as you kept on towards the entrance.

The sun had just created the mountains, cascading a warm glow across the wooden pillars wrapped thoroughly with vines and plants. Part of you was grateful that you got so much vitamin d and oxygen from purely the hufflepuff common room.

Exiting into the hallway, your senses were overtaken by the kitchens just around the corner. The smell of bacon and warm maple syrup made your stomach rumble immediately. You fought yourself to just enter the kitchens now, knowing the house elf’s would feed you in a heartbeat, but you turned and made your way up the stairs to eat in the great hall as they intended.

Climbing the stairs, you passed a few paintings, still fast asleep in their little worlds, the sounds of their snores only faintly audible to your ears. Stopping in your tracks you decided here was as good a place as any to begin counting.

Pulling out your notebook, you flipped to the newest page making columns for the paintings, where they were, and if they were nice or not. You thought it might be valuable to you to know who would be willing to talk to you later in case you begin to lose your marbles over the next few weeks.

To your right was a smaller wooden frame image of a young woman, her clothes slightly tattered but still full of color. Her head rested on her hands held up by a beautiful throne that she sat on. Her crown tipped slightly with her head but not enough to warrant it to fall. Writing on your notepad; Queen (?), Hufflepuff hallway, n/a

You made a mental note to see if she was awake later to find out if she was nice or not, but knew if you woke her up now your findings may be skewed. Walking to the next panting you did the same.

Lord Barquete, Hufflepuff hallway, n/a

Making your way down the hallway, your notebook filled up nicely, the information slowly growing in your head more and more now that you had given the paintings more than a glance. You were amazed at the many different painting styles and the way they revealed more about the people and characters inside. Magic was interesting, but art was fascinating.

After a half hour of writing, you made your way to the great hall, now thoroughly starving. Slapping the notebook closed, you shoved it back in your pants pocket ready to devour whatever was made for breakfast.

��Quite the notes you were taking back there.” A voice loomed behind you. Jumping out of your skin, you turned around quickly, now face to face — well not exactly face to face — with one of the gryffindor beaters, you honestly had no clue which one.

“Sorry didn’t mean to give you that much of a fright.” He laughed, his hands up near his chest in defense. His smile was infectious, relieving your nerves immediately. You smiled and regained your balance.

“Fred.” He outstretched his hand, taking yours mid air. “I wasn't like.. stalking you i just saw you on the way here. I don't think anyone’s given the paintings that much attention, unwilling filch cleans them.” He smiled, his hand still shaking yours. You chuckled at his continuous action, the feeling now warm and slightly foolish.

“Y/n — Yeah, uh I decided to write down and attempt to count all of the patinings.” You shrugged your shoulders, your hand slipping from his fingertips back to your sides. Your eyes glance quickly from his eyes to his hands, hoping he didn’t notice.

”All of them?” He scoffed.”You might be seriously batty.”

“All of them.” You repeated, nodding your head. “I don't think I could conceptualize how absolutely bored I am.” You chuckle, turning slightly to walk towards an empty seat at a table. Fred followed, his interest in your little adventure growing further.

“What, you don't have quidditch practice every day?” He motions towards your outfit, his eyebrow raised.

“Do you have quidditch practice everyday?” You ask, your eyes widening at his question. Sitting down at the wooden table, two plates appeared in front of both of you.

“Uh yeah unfortunately. They asked if we could stay back this break. Especially since my brother had just started this year he really could use the help.” He chuffed, his hands working in tandem with his words, grabbing several sausages and links to pile onto his plate.

“Ah, it seems like fun though. Got the whole family on the team now eh?” You tipped, your eyes looking at the banquet in front of you, not knowing where to start. You grabbed the pitcher of orange juice and began to pour.

“I’m not sure, it can sorta feel like i can't escape my family.” He mumbled, his voice slightly lower as he spoke. The words hit you like bullets, relating deeply to his sentiment.

“I know how you feel. I wanted to stay over break to kinda — escape from it all.” You said, settling the juice down and rethinking what you said. “That sounds dramatic. I’m just burnt out, I suppose , from my family.” You shrugged, the words only touching the surface of your home challenges.

Fred nodded his head, his fork now poking at the food on his plate.

”I get it. It’s not bad to want to get away sometimes.” He shrugged, wanting to know more but not wanting to pry too early. He was at least happy to have breakfast with someone not in his bloodline.

Both of you ate in silence for a minute, enjoying the food and morning light through the great hall. After Fred finished half of his plate, he cleared his throat.

“So.” He smiled, his attention fixated on his plate. His fork twitched slightly in his hand.

“So.” You repeated, a smile growing on your face. You weren't sure what he was about, but something in you was festering about his every move.

“Do you think i could tag along today?” He turned, his eyebrows furrowed as if to intimate you.

”Not ten minutes ago you called me batty!” You quipped, dropping your fork on top of your plate.

“Oh right. Well okay.” He laughed, his finger now taping his chin in thought. “I’d be alright being a little batty today.” He looked into the distance, pondering the notion. You lightly hit his shoulder, his face breaking out into a large smile.

“Okay seriously. Ill respect your craft.” He laughed, flinching away from your hands. “Or whatever you call this little thing” his hands waved around you, the action making your hands raise again in defense, his laughter louder as you pretend to hit him once more.

You both laughed, turning back to your meals, attempting to catch your breath.

“Yes you may join me.” You mumbled, taking a large bite of bacon. “But!” You pointed the strip of bacon at him, mock threateningly. “We have got to finish the list eh? No funny business.”

“Oh please. Funny business is my middle name.” He poshed, his hand resting softly against his chest. You rolled your eyes, finishing the last of the bacon before clearing your plate.

“I suppose anything is better than being alone.” You added, watching him finish off his breakfast. He held up his napkin, flicking it out from its folden position on the table, sloppily wiping his face. You shook your head in disbelief, turning and standing up. Fred followed, his hands dusting off the crumbs from his jumper, his eyes excited as he waited for you to make the first move.

“Where first.” He asked plainly, his hands now tucked neatly into his jean pockets. His stature was much taller than you, his height accentuated by his long legs, mostly hidden beneath school robes.

Clearing your throat, you realized how long you had been standing in silence, looking over his frame. You turned towards the entrance, hoping to hide your red cheeks.

“Uh, this way - “ you began walking ahead, your face scrunched slightly from embarrassment, trying your best to regain composure once you both exited the great hall. Fred followed behind silently, only the sounds of his sneakers hitting the floor in tandem with you alerting you that he was still there.

Once you walked out of the open doors, Fred met your side, his eyes up and around the hall at the many paintings. Turning down at you, he motioned towards the small notebook in your hands.

“So what is it that you're writing?” He asked politely, his jaunting banter from before now neutralized as he leaned in to listen.

“Oh! Uh so, Here ill write who’s in the painting, then where they are located, and if they are nice or not.” You pointed at each section, flipping through the pages that you had written this morning.

“Nice or not is a good touch. It’s foul to talk to a painting that just insults you for saying good morning.” He scoffs, a tinge of truth coming from his concern.

“Tell me about it. I passed Gifford Abbot once and he asked if I had any food, I told him now, and he then proceeded to tell the portrait next to him how much of a waste the new Hufflepuff students were.” You laughed, both of you approaching a new painting.

“That’s insane.” Fred stifled. “I love going to the kitchens. Surprised you haven't caught me sneaking in over near your common room before.” He nudged, your eyes bouncing between his face and the painting in front of you. You couldn't help but feel distracted by his personality, the thought of catching him at night making your stomach churn, or was it butterflies…..

“You seem like the type to get into trouble.” You stated, your pencil working on the notebook in your hands, trying to not take the chance and look at the boy. You couldn't tell if he was teasing, just being playful, or something else.

“Yeah that's an accurate statement.” He leaned over, looking at what you were writing. ”Time to find out if they're nice or not — HELLO Sir….” He moved over, attempting to read the placard by the painting's frame, the sound of his voice boomed the painting awake. “Sir Goerge Von Rheticus.” His voice faltered off as he read, the painting sitting himself up in his chair, his eyes staring daggers into Fred's head.

“What is it that you need, boy.” Sir Rheticus spat, his eyes visibly sleepy, blinking slowly.

“Well. Me and my partner here were just doing a study on the paintings you see.” He nudged you, urging you to finish off where he started.

“Yes um… Me and my partner —“ you coughed, flipping though your notebook anxiously, feeling quite put on the spot - “Were wondering about the paintings in the castle. Could you tell us a little about yourself?” You asked, your fingers holding the pencil tightly above the page, waiting for his response.

“Hmmm.” He sat back, his body a little more relaxed as you spoke. You could feel a change in demeanor when he addressed you, feeling a sense of appreciation for who he was, rather than being awoken so rudely.

“Well.. My name is George, but do call me Sir Rheticus, I am a mathematician and astronomer. My true surname was Von Lauchen, but my father was brutally executed and my remaining family was exiled. I had chosen Rheticus from the Roman province of Rhaetia.” Rheticus spoke, his words flowing out as if scripted to recite if someone asked who he was.

Your pencil scribbled viciously at his answer, hoping to catch what you could as he spoke. Fred's body standing still next to yours, looking between your notebook and the painting occasionally, fighting off a fit of laughter as you wrote.

After Rheticus finished, he sat with his hands folded in his lap, waiting patiently for you to cease writing. You looked up after a minute, visibly satisfied with his answer.

”Thank you. Ahem Sir Rheticus. We shall see you around.” You flipped the notebook closed, bowing slighlty at the painting awkwardly and tugging Fred along the hallway, the whole interaction very strange.

“Are we doing that every time or - “ he asked, your hand still around his wrist as you pulled him further away from the painting. You waited till you felt comfortable that you weren’t in earshot anymore.

“Dear god, no.” You sighed, opening your book again. “Okay… Nice?” You asked, raising your eyebrows. Fred nodded, watching you write in the notebook. He found your actions cute. This whole idea of writing down the paintings was silly but he had to admit that he has never seen anyone do it before, and you seemed like an original character yourself.

Turning down to the right you looked around, many paintings at your disposal.

“Okay you pick the next one.” You gestured vaguely, the numerous paintings surrounding you both. He gestured his head towards a woman down on the right near the end of the hallway. Luckily for you both, she was already away, her hands twiddling with some yarn in front of her. Fred grabbed your wrist, pulling you quickly towards the painting, his fingertips holding your skin sending hot fire through your body.

Arriving at the portrait, Freds fingers lingered on your skin, his body noticeably closer to yours as you stood. You pulled your notebook out, moving your hands from your sides, grazing his body as you moved.

“Ahem excuse me.” You spoke quietly, the woman’s hair cascading in front of her face. IT was red and curly, it falling past her elbows and moving as she worked. She looked up from her hands, her pale skin much more noticeable now next to her warm hair.

“Mmm?” She hummed, her attention only on you, not looking at Fred. She didn’t seem bothered by your interruption, but her gaze felt to push you to your point of distracting her.

“I was just doing a study on the paintings and wanted to know a little about yourself.” You motioned towards your notebook — “if you had the time i mean,” You added, your voice faltering the more you spoke.

“Well darling, I'm the Goddess of Fertility.” She spoke plainly, her head tilting lightly. “But i can see you two are doing just fine. I can tell.” She smiled, her eyes now bouncing between you and Fred. Both of your cheeks flamed red

“oh no i-“

”We aren’t”

“I mean we have not-”

”Not that I wouldn’t-

“But we wouldn't-“

Both of you stumbling over your words, the thought of the painting hinting at your fertility was one thing, but together was another. You both fought over your words, looking at each other every once in a while but feeling immense amounts of embarrassment when your eyes met.

“I can see things the mortal eye cannot! Do you take me as a liar?” She boasted, your calamity to her prophecy seemed to have stuck a nerve, her hands now ceasing to move in her lap, her body forthright at ridged.

“No ma’am, we just-“ You started.

”We're not together-“ Fred finished.

”Perhaps not at this moment.” She spoke matter of factly, her hair shaking with her head as she looked at you both. The silence that filled the hallway after that sent chills down your spine.

“Thank you for your time.” Fred said abruptly, grabbing your hand and pulling you towards the doors and walking through them quickly. Your face was red as beets from the conversation, too preoccupied at the interaction to feel the sensation of his hand enveloping yours.

You both were hit with a freezing cold breeze as you walked outside, the feeling immediately alleviating the warmth on your skin. You took one look at Fred, both bursting out in laughter.

“That was mad!” He chuffed, his hands on his knees, heaving in the air.

”Fertility?” You shouted, “I’m practically still a child!”

“These paintings.” He shook his head, his body now upright, his shoulders relaxed. He laughed still lightly at you, not able to beat the thought of her implications. Was she out of her mind? Was there really something here to be built? His mind wracked as he watched you overcome your laughter, standing back up. The wind pushed your hair back, your ears and nose now visibly red from the cold breeze.

“Alright lets go back in, you're shivering.” He motioned towards the door, his hand on the small of your back urging you forward. You nodded and sniffled as you got inside, the snow following you both as the door shut.

“So.” He cleared his throat.

”So.” You smiled, looking up at him again.

“Do we dare try another portrait?” He asked, his eyebrows raised, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Only if you're feeling batty .”

88 notes · View notes

twopoppies · 20 hours ago

Note

Gina, I want to tell you I have been reading your blog for a couple years now. I’ve never sent an ask to anyone. I first came into the fandom when I watched Harrychella and I thought hmm this man isn’t just flagging he is screaming at the top of his lungs. Then I watched the Cosmic Leeds videos and I fell down a rabbit hole. I am not someone who believes “conspiracy theories”. I am however old enough to know closeting has been proven to exist in the entertainment industry. I’m also from a rural area of the U.S. where homophobia is the norm, so unfortunately I had no trouble believing closeting still exists. I went into full information gathering mode about Larry Stylinson, but it was more than that too. I fell in love with 1D and all the boys’ solo work, especially Louis. I loved his voice, his songwriting, and his ‘real’ personality (when he allowed it to shine through all the media training). I read through every tumblr I could, you and Daisie provided a wealth of information that can not be ignored. I feel certain that Larry was real and I hope they are still together. I’m not one of those people who never doubted. It would be hard not to second guess things in this fandom with all the gaslighting that goes on. I write all of this to say that I’ve never felt so sad and like there is no hope for change as I do right now. It feels like Louis’ fandom is falling apart. There is so much division, hate, and intolerance of any idea that doesn’t conform to someone’s own. Louis pr strategy honestly baffles me. A divided fandom is so tiring. It seems less like pr and more like intentional sabatoge, which I guess it could be. I just don’t see any way out for him or Harry. I think Harry’s extended break is partly because of this too. I think he was overworked and emotionally drained for many reasons, but closeting most of all is exhausting. If I’m feeling this way as a fan I can’t imagine how they must be feeling. It breaks my heart. Sometimes I hope I am crazy and Larry was never real because the story is just too sad. Don’t even get me started on bbg because it is the shittiest situation ever. I think I need to take a step back from the fandom for a bit. But this brings me to my point. I’m pretty resilient, I can not be the only person feeling this way. It makes me so worried for Louis’ career and for both Louis and Harry’s mental health. I guess I don’t really have an ask. I just wanted to say thank you for all the information you have provided over the years. And, I needed to get this off my chest. If I posted this on twitter I would be roasted and I’m not strong enough for that right now. I meant it when I said I fell in love with their music, so I will continue to support all the boys. I’m hoping there is a master plan that will eventually set them free. But, I just keep coming back to the line

‘Said I had a plan for us Time had came and changed it all We had to disappear 'Cause nothing gets through here’

I will add one more thing. I believe there are more Larries than people think, but we are tired of the gaslighting and the hate, so many of us step back or hide. This is why the industry wins most of the time. 😥

Hi, sweetheart. Thank you for sharing your thoughts. I'm sorry it feels so overwhelming right now. I do think taking a step back is probably really healthy for most of us. I've actually never seen the fandom in such shambles.

I don't know what Louis' plan is in terms of his fandom or his future plans. But I have dozens and dozens of sad, confused, and angry messages in my inbox, and that fucking sucks. I really don't see a way forward at the moment. I will say, though, that some of the upset stems from some people's tendency to lean into worst-case scenarios and amplify their own worries by jumping to conclusions. Then there are the shit-stirrers who try to make things worse by sending in fake receipts or theories. It's hard to stay grounded when there's insanity whirling around you.

As for Harry and Louis, I do tend to believe they're still together. I don't think their relationship has been as easy as many of us would like to believe – I don't think it could be, given their ages when they met and the conditions they've had to live with. I do think they're soulmates... soulmates don't always end up together, but I tend to think these two will make it. I certainly hope they do.

Our fandom never does well when the boys aren't active. I think if you want to get your sanity back, now is as good a time as any.

#current thoughts on larry #fandom dynamics #twitter blocks #louis' career

52 notes · View notes

lovemybluebully · 1 day ago

Text

Was That A Snort?

Written specially for @whiskeyandcigarsmoke Thank you for supporting my writing! 😭 I always feel slightly awkward when anyone who is not in the t-community reads my stuff because most probably think I'm a fucking weirdo for centering all my fics around tickling, but I appreciate your open-mindedness and ability to see the cute aspect of it all. 🥰

Some snorty, ticklish Logan for your viewing pleasure!

"Deadpool and Wolverine"-verse

Word Count: 6,504 (Sorry it came out kinda long. 😬)

Wade yawned as he wandered into the kitchen one morning in his bathrobe to put on a pot of coffee, cursing as he remembered on his way in that they had run out the day before. Much to his surprise the smell of fresh coffee hit his nostrils as he found that there was a pot already freshly brewed on the countertop.

An explanation of how that came to be was revealed when a rustle of paper to the side drew his attention as he turned to find Logan sitting at the small kitchen table and quietly reading the newspaper. He was already fully dressed and looked like he had been up for a while.

"Well someone's an early riser today. Thanks for handling the coffee situation," Wade toasted him with a mug he had grabbed from the shelf in one of the cupboards before filling it from the bubbling hot pot.

"Couldn't find any here this morning so I went to the store and picked some up. Grabbed some donuts while I was out too. Help yourself," Logan nodded to the pink carboard box on the table without even looking up from his paper.

"Yess! Did you happen to get any of the cream-filled ones?" Wade asked hopefully, sitting at the table next to him as Logan reached over and flipped the box open for him.

"Yeah, there should be a couple in there somewhere. Also got some of those ones with the kiddie cereal on top that I know ya like."

Wade squealed in excitement as he plucked a donut covered in Lucky Charms from the box, moaning over-excessively as he took a large bite.

"Mmmm! Oh God, mmm MM! That's a literal flavor-filled orgasm in my mouth. You're an absolute angel," Wade carried on as Logan huffed through his nose with a small smile.

"I don't appreciate the slander, Wilson. And I was kinda enjoying the peace and quiet so would ya mind keepin' it down a little?"

Wade nodded and replied between chews.

"Yup. I can do that. Mmm hmm. Not a peep from me. Won't even know I'm here," he then began loudly sucking the melted icing off of his fingers before looking up to find Logan giving him a hard stare, "I'm sorry, would you like some?"

Wade offered him his hand as Logan grimaced in disgust and leaned away from him, trying to get back to reading.

"All yours, bub. Couldn't pay me to suck on those fingers."

"Are you implying that I could pay you to suck on something else? Because if that's true then have I got the proposition for you," Wade suggestively spoke in a lower tone, pleased to see he'd managed to get under Logan's skin as he promptly threw down his newspaper with a groan

"Can't you ever just be fucking normal for one day?"

"Let me see.....uhhh nope. I'm afraid there's no changing me. And you, my friend, are lucky to have a front row seat to the amazing world of Wade," he placed a hand on Logan's knee and teasingly danced his fingers up his inner thigh before being slapped away.

"My eternal punishment you mean. If God himself were to take pity on me and strike me down today it still wouldn't have been soon enough," Logan shook his head as he folded up the newspaper to put aside while Wade narrowed his eyes in response to his last comment.

"Say sike right now," he pointed a demanding finger at the other man who only tilted his head in slight confusion.

"What's that mean?"

"It means take it back, you insolent pig!"

"What? Did I actually hit a nerve?" Logan smirked, taking a bite of the old-fashioned donut he'd just selected from the box.

"I'm gonna have to plead the fifth. That's gross by the way," Wade cringed a little at how Logan dunked his donut into his coffee before biting into it, "But in theory if I were to say that you did, would you apologize?"

"Not even on my theoretical death bed, dipshit," Logan flipped Wade his middle finger as he ate the last bite of his donut.

Wade knew he was just playing his game with him, but that didn't mean he couldn't consider options for reprisal.

"Always such a charmer. Well in that case how about if I make you take it back, stud?"

Logan scoffed and rolled his eyes.

"Pffft, good one. How the fuck do ya think you're gonna do that?"

"I have my ways. I'm a highly trained mercenary you know and believe it or not I have a plethora of all kinds of torture methods stored inside my pea-sized brain," Wade smiled innocently as Logan just nodded, never one to take anything the man said completely serious.

"Sure, bub. I'm warning ya though, you give me another wet willy and I'm throwing your ass out that window over there," he gestured over his shoulder to the window on the far wall where a three-story drop would await the prankster.

"Dually noted. Do not worry your Canadian cojones about it though, I have no doubt the inspiration will come to me," Wade tapped the side of his head.

"Well don't exhaust your last brain cell tryin' to figure it out," Logan slapped him on the back as he got up from his chair and walked to the counter to refill his coffee, "I've got over 200 years of experience under my belt, and I've been conditioned to resist any kinda torture you can possibly think of."

"Anything, huh?" Wade pondered aloud, observing the man who had his back to him as he filled up his mug and fiddled with the sugar packets at the counter.

He knew Logan spoke with truth as the X-man became a storyteller when drunk and described many instances where he'd been made to suffer by enemies. Everything from as minor as being burnt with lit cigarettes all the way up to more grotesque things like being vivisected while fully conscious. Not to mention the excruciating adamantium process that he had barely survived.

Like Wade, Logan's pain threshold was off the charts and the man really could take a lot of physical abuse. Of course, Wade wasn't compelled to hurt him that badly, or even at all. He really only wanted to get a good response from him that would serve as lighthearted payback.

He just had the urge to put hands on him, though Logan had already warned him against the wet willies, and messing with his hair was also a call for trouble. He'd risk his prestigious reputation for being eccentric if he didn't think of something quick.

"Awful quiet back there, Wade. Shit, must be too late. Not one intelligible thought left in that head of yours, huh? Halle-fuckin'-lujah, I thought this day would never come."

He could practically hear the arrogant smirk on Logan's face and before Wade knew it, he was instinctively out of his seat and silently approaching behind Logan who was preoccupied with trying to clean up the sugar he'd spilled onto the counter space.

"Such a damn shame. Guess we won't be calling you 'The Merc With the Mouth' anymore. You can be the 'The Merc Who Finally Shut His Annoying Fucking-'.....!!!" His words were cut off by a gasp when he felt fingers digging into his ribcage from behind as his legs nearly buckled from the sensations.

His arms snapped down against his sides while he writhed for a few seconds against the counter before an unfortunate laugh made it out from his lips. He immediately bit it back as he finally managed to turn around and shove the attacking merc several feet away.

Logan's brows drew together as he just gaped incredulously at his daring roommate.

"The fuck are you doing?!"

Wade was grinning like a predator that had just cornered its prey; his mind racing in overdrive at having detected an actual weakness of the gruff Wolverine, who now had complete alarm plastered all over his face.

"Hmm, looks like I'm the one now who has struck a nerve. A ticklish nerve by the looks of it," Wade rubbed his hands together menacingly, growing more excited by the moment as Logan's eyes widened in unmitigated panic.

"What?! Tickling?! That's ridiculous! You just....surprised me is all!" He stammered out very unconvincingly while Wade delighted in watching him figuratively squirm.

"Funny, I've never seen literally anyone have that reaction to being surprised. But okay, let me try what I just did one more time except now you won't be surprised by it, right? Coming in hot...," Wade had his hands raised into clawed form with fingers wiggling as he started to lunge for the other man, but Logan instantly put his own hands up in defense to halt him.

"Alright Wade, alright. Fuck. You win. I'm a little ticklish. But Wade c'mon, this is asinine. I'm a grown man. You can't just fucking tickle me," Logan tried to reason with him even though he knew it was all for nothing, receiving that confirmation by the way that Wade laughed at him.

"Oh yes I fucking can. There's no age limit for tickling, even for a geezer like you. Besides if there was then people would grow out of it and stop being ticklish, but guess what? Most don't. Which means anyone who hasn't is still fair game, and that includes you, sugar tits. I'll leave it up to you though. We can do this the easy way, or the hard way," Wade began cracking his knuckles for effect as Logan desperately tried to figure a way out of this.

"I swear if you even lay a finger on me.....," Logan cautioned with a deep growl as he swelled up his oversized muscles, this attempt at intimidation normally succeeding in making any sane man back down. But unfortunately for him, Wade wasn't a sane man, along with the fact that Logan hadn't released his claws which Wade had learned to perceive as a full-on green light.

"Is that your way of saying you're picking the hard way? Because you know I'm quite partial to things being hard myse-AAaggh! You dirty skank!!" Wade yelped as Logan had thrown the hot coffee he'd been holding into the merc's face and roughly shoved past him.

Naturally Wade recovered quickly as he tore after his roommate, even more amped than before to make him pay.

"Awww come back Wolviiiiie! I just want to talk!"

"Just fuck off! If you even try, I'll cut your damn head off" Logan shouted in trepidation, picking up a crudely put together Ikea end table and launching it at Wade with the merc easily dodging it as it smashed against the wall.

"It will be all worth it, babygirl. I couldn't think of a more desirable death if I tried," Wade grinned and in his pursuit his robe had come undone, revealing that he was wearing nothing but his My Little Pony boxers underneath as Logan grimaced once he noticed.

"Are you kidding me?! Gross! Do not fuckin' come near me dressed like that! You hear me?!" Logan warned him, jumping over the couch to escape with Wade hot on his tail.

"What in the shit is going on out here?!" Althea yelled as she opened the bedroom door to walk out into the living room where the chaos was ongoing, "Stupid sons of bitches can't even let an old woman sleep-in just one motherfucking day?"

As they ran past her, Wade tripped and fell to the floor before scrambling back to his feet to continue the chase.

"Sorry Al! But I've got me a Wolverine to tickle the crap out of!"

"I should've never given you caffeine and sugar this early in the morning!" Logan cursed as he circled back around, looking for cover and running to stand behind the smaller, elderly woman.

"Althea! Call him off!" He pleaded while he used her temporarily as a shield between him and Wade for a few short-lived moments before he had to abandon her and make another break for it.

"Wade Wilson you stop picking on that poor boy!" She yelled after them as Wade only scoffed in amusement.

"Ha! Boy?! He's more ancient than your old ass!"

Althea just sighed loudly with a shake of her head as she turned to start shuffling back into her room.

"Well....time to turn down the old hearing aids," she muttered as she fiddled with the devices in her ears, "You two assholes break anything else in this apartment and you're going to have to deal with me!"

Logan paused as he saw she was abandoning him to his fate with the ADHD-riddled man and called after her.

"AL WAIT!! Let me come with you!" But the door slammed shut behind her without another word.

Unfortunately, his lack of attention to his would-be assailant proved costly as Wade was now able to make his move and easily tackled Logan to the floor. He quickly mounted him to sit on his legs in order to keep them out of the way.

"For the record, you can cum with me anytime you want. But let's save the fantasies for later, you naughty boy. Now time to get to the point of why these readers are all here," Wade teased as Logan fought and pushed against him, trying to hold him back.

"Wade get the fuck off me! You're practically naked for fucks sake!" He grimaced when he felt something hard press against his leg, "GOD that had better be a gun in your underwear!"

Wade glanced down at his lack of attire, reaching casually inside his boxer shorts and pulling out one of his golden Desert Eagles.

"Of course it is, silly! Always gotta be prepared for anything, you know. Not particularly needed in this situation though," he tossed it over his shoulder as he continued to struggle with his friend, who grabbed a hold of his arms to keep him at bay.

"Dammit, Wade! This is-Grrrrr! Get your hands offa me!"

"But I haven't touched you yet. You're the one putting your hands on me. So if you insist on being accurate...," Wade slipped an arm free as his hand dove straight for Logan's side to begin viciously squeezing his lower ribs, making the man jerk under him as he ground his teeth together.

"Don't! Rrrrrrgh-Stop!"

"Don't stop, you say? I hadn't planned too, but glad we're on the same page here!"

Logan's grip started to weaken its hold on Wade's other arm with him now being able to easily pull free as his fingers buried themselves into the opposite side. Logan grunted and attempted to hold in all the sounds threatening to come out as he writhed and tried to push Wade off of him.

"I didn't mean thahat! Ahaha! Waitwait! D-Don't do this to mehehehee!"

He was quickly starting to lose the battle as the giggles began to overwhelm him and a wide smile stretched itself across his face. Wade could smell the blood in the water at this point and wasn't letting up for nothing, dying to see exactly how far he'd be able to run with this.

"How come? I'm gonna need a pretty good fucking reason. Is it because you're actually a lot more ticklish than you claimed? And if that's true then that means...," Wade gasped dramatically, "....you LIED to me?!"

He roughly massaged his thumbs on the sensitive sides of his waist as Logan broke into convulsions and finally bellowed out in thunderous laughter.

"Hahahaha! No!! No no stahahahahaap! Thahahaat tickles!" His head thrashed around as he laughed and bucked in response to the merciless tickles vibrating into his sides. He futilely tried to curl up with his arms, but with Wade sitting on his legs it still left him plenty exposed.

"Duh! It's supposed to, genius! Besides you asked for this Mr. 'I-can-resist-any-torture-you-can-think-of'. Not so confident about that now, are you?" Wade grinned big time as his fingers worked their way back up his victim's ribs, making Logan's arms clamp down uselessly while his body jerked from side to side.

"It's cheheeheeheeatin'! Hehehehehaahaa! T-Ticklin' ain't fahahahaair, you ahahahasshole!"

He was slowly coming around since moving into the apartment, so it was still pretty rare to see Logan laugh this much, but Wade absolutely loved when he did. His whole reserved appearance, including his posture, completely transformed, and it was his entire face that lit up and displayed his smile.

Wade wasn't too keen to let that slip through his fingers any time soon.

"Meh, fair is subjective. Besides I was only like 33.726894% sure that this would even work on you. I've never been a gambling man, but I'm sure glad I took a chance on this because good Lord, you literally have the cutest laugh! Now perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me, where's your most ticklish spot?!"

Logan had not been tickled in a very, very long time and had completely forgotten what it had felt like. Actually, he had forgotten what a lot of non-violent physical contact felt like until he had met Wade Wilson, who was way more affectionate towards him than what he'd been used to over the past several years.

That uncertainty about what it felt like to be tickled initially had him concerned about Wade's prospective threat to do so, but at the present time he now realized that it wasn't as bad as he had thought it would be.

The heightened senses derived from his mutation had resulted in him being incredibly ticklish, and while he had thought it to be a nuisance in his earlier days, he was able to see the benefit of it helping to bond with those he had found himself close to. The other X-men in particular were big time offenders once they found out.

He was never one to laugh freely or even smile all that much, so his teammates were happy to find such a simple way to get that all out of him. And it always felt nice for the laughter to release some of the tension he carried around with him no matter how much he might resist it at first.

It had mainly been his sardonic attitude or defiance that would land him in trouble with the other X-men, and he remembered how he used to egg on and taunt whoever on his team got up the nerve to really tickle him like this.

Only after they were gone had he finally accepted the fact that the X-men were his family and the feelings from those happier times all started to come back to him now. Along with the guilt of having taken all of that for granted.

With Wade currently tickling him he found it was actually a comforting feeling to relive those fleeting moments that he'd had with his old team. And even though it was such a torturous assault on his hyper nerves it didn't really bother him as much as he might have tried to make it seem.

And he wasn't going to let Wade totally dominate the situation as he didn't hesitate to play the tenacious victim.

"Fuhuhuhuck yoooou! Gaahahahahaa! I-heeheehee-wohohon't talk!" Logan spewed out between cackles as a particularly sensitive spot was being probed on his upper ribs just below his armpits.

Wade reeled back a little, feeling more than surprised by his response. He'd thought by this point that Logan would be saying anything to get himself out of this, but it filled him with unrivaled glee to see that he was going to make this a lot more fun than he had originally thought.

"Woah, what the shit is this?! So the Wolverine isn't just going to roll over and take it? Whoooeee! I love it! So not gonna talk, are you? You know I was considering mercy a moment ago, but I don't think you really deserve it. Not to mention you said mean things to me and burnt my beautiful face with that coffee! My modeling career is over before it even started!"

"And-Ahahahand I'd doohooo it agahahahain, fuhuhucker!"

"Holy shit, you cocky little bitch. I guess you really don't want me to stop, huh?"

"I-I do! Hahaahaahaahah! Juhuhust fuhuhuhuck you is ahahahahall! Now gehehet offa meheheheeh!" He kicked his legs about restlessly underneath Wade as he tried to wriggle free.

"Hold your perfect titties there, mister. I still want to know where you're the most ticklish, for future reference. So where is it? Is it....HERE?" Wade stuffed his hands up into Logan's armpits where his fingers spidered around like crazy, making Logan throw his head back and let out a high-pitched squeal of a laugh.

"Aaaheeheeheehee! Th-thaahaat ain't ihihihit! Ohohohahahahahahaa! Buhuhut still...," he paused to wheeze for air, laughing in silence for a few moments while knocking his head back against the floor, "Geh-Gehehet the fuhuhuck outta thehehehere!"

Logan thrashed like a beached fish, trying to squeeze the tormenting fingers out from under his arms but Wade only burrowed in deeper to guarantee the torture would not relent.

"No can do, compadre! I'm gonna find your worst spot if I have to tickle you all day! Don't think that I won't!"

Knowing that really Wade could locate the hot spot at any given moment with how accessible it was Logan decided to swallow his pride and tried to bargain with him.

"If I t-tehehell you-aahahhaha wihihill ya stohahahahop?!"

He was optimistic, but Wade shut that shit down immediately.

"Um NO! Actually, FUCK NO! Once you tell me I'm going to tickle the absolute shit out of you there! So I'm letting you know right now that once I figure it out then you are in big trouble!" He emphasized his last word with a firm jab to Logan's stomach, eliciting a startled squeal from the man beneath him.

Wade instantly stopped tickling him as they locked in eye contact, watching as Logan's pupils quickly began to dilate in panic within his hazel eyes.

"You've got to be shitting me.....Is it really that obvious? You're telling me that this exquisite cobblestone pathway carved into your body is not only the sexiest, but it's also the most sensitive of all?" He smiled unnervingly as he very gently trailed his fingers down Logan's belly, making him twitch violently under him from that action alone.

"Eeheehee-Easy Wade.....Lets b-be reasonable here..."

Logan knew he had to act fast to get out of this. He could hold up against being tickled anywhere else, but an attack on his stomach pretty much guaranteed his downfall.

While Wade was momentarily distracted by the marvel of his discovery Logan took the opportunity to buck his hips as hard as he could to throw the mercenary off of him.

"HEY!" Wade hit the floor before immediately looking up to see Logan attempting to make his escape, "Oh no you don't, you sneaky bastard! I'm not through with you yet!"

Logan tried to scramble away on all fours to get some distance between him and Wade, but the other man was quick to grab his ankle as he dragged him back over with Logan shaking his head and pleading for lenience.

"No no no! For fucks sake! Wade please! Dohohon't you dare!" He was giggling already in anticipation as Wade pulled him close and then crawled on top to pin him again, grinning at the subdued state he was in.

Wade thought back to all the times he had fawned over his often-shirtless friend and made countless attempts to feel up his very pronounced abdominal muscles only to receive a harsh punch along with a threat to keep his hands to himself. But he now realized it wasn't because Logan was being stingy and not wanting to be touched in general, it was because he was trying to hide the fact that his stomach was so unbearably ticklish.

"I've never seen you so giggly like this Logan. It's positively adorable. But tell you what, I'll give you a chance to save yourself if you apologize for being such an ass to me this morning. And I want to hear some sincerity in there or else your tummy is going to get it," Wade waved his fingers in Logan's face as the feral nodded without hesitation.

"Okay okay fine, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I referred to you as an eternal punishment. And that I implied you had no rational thought whatsoever in your head."

"And.....?" Wade lightly rested his fingers onto Logan's stomach as a threat, pleased to see how it made him dissolve into giggles again.

"Aahaahaand I'm s-sorry I buhuhurned your face-Aaahee!" he yelped as the fingers dug in ever so slightly.

"My beautiful face!" Wade corrected with a smirk of victory.

"Okaahaay! Your beautiful faahaace with the coffeeheeheehee," Logan sputtered out the best that he could, grateful when Wade lifted his hand away from the hyper ticklish zone.

"Well thanks for that, pal. See? That wasn't so difficult, was it? I knew deep down you had a little humility in there," Wade tweaked his sideburn and tickled down his neck as Logan wiggled his head away from the touch before meeting his gaze with a defiant twinkle in his eyes.

"Oh yeah, one more thing I oughta mention. I'm also sorry that you are without a doubt, one hundred percent the most annoying, blabbering, dimwitted, lousy excuse for a comedian to ever exist. And I'm sorry I lied about being sorry for everything because the truth is I will never, ever be truly sorRYEEHeeHEeehEEhEE!!"

Logan had tried to prep himself but still couldn't stop from breaking into wild, squealing laughter once Wade's hands descended upon his stomach with lightning speed; his fingers scribbling like crazy all over the hidden muscles beneath his thin t-shirt. Wade just beamed down at him, not taking anything that was said to heart and so glad that Logan had given him the excuse to carry on.

"Whelp. I guess this is how it all ends for you. Tickled to death isn't exactly how most people would have expected the legendary Wolverine to go, but I'll make sure to sing the story of your menial demise," he wasn't holding back since Logan had practically asked for this as he mercilessly tickled the helplessly squirming man beneath him.

"Ihihihihit wahahas wo-wohohohorth ihihihit! Aaahahahafuhuhuhuhuck! Nohohot thehehere! Stahahahahahap-Snnnrk!" Logan's face was already bright red from his ears down to his neck as he laughed uncontrollably with that last sound that came out of him immediately catching Wade's attention.

"What in the-? What the fuck was that?" A quirky smile began to spread over Wade's face as he haphazardly dug his fingers into Logan's abs, eager to duplicate what had just occurred., "Was that a snort?"

Wade already had him in tears as Logan adamantly shook his head, instantly being disproven as another snort rang out of his scrunched-up nose.

"Snnrk! N-No! Yohohohou're hehehehehearin' thihihihings!"

Wade had heard Logan snort before. Many times, as a matter of fact, but he always thought it was something that Logan forced to emphasize his aversion to whatever Wade was currently talking about. Wade was positively enamored to know now that it was all just part of his genuine laugh.

"Are you sure about that? Are you sure you're not just a cute little giggly, snorty Wolverine? Because I think that's exactly what you are."

"Shuhuhut uhuhuhup! Ya-Snnnrk-dihihihick!" Logan felt his face flush even more with Wade teasing him in such a childish manner, too weakened by his laughter to be able to push the hyper man's hands away from his body.

As his fingers rippled into the solid tummy Wade grew more and more amused by this whole situation. He would have never been able to picture Logan in this helpless of a state if he hadn't seen it for himself and when you added in his constant snorting between his laughs it just pushed everything straight into a fantasy realm.

But it was all happening for real. And the more Logan snorted, the more Wade himself began to laugh.

"Wh-Whahat's the matter? Hehehe, the all-mighty anchor-being can be destrohohoyed by mere tickles? Oh, this universe is f-fuhuucked now," Wade giggled, trying to keep his focus and observing how Logan's t-shirt had slid up his stomach a bit. He pushed it up even further so now his hands were scratching at hairy, bare skin as Logan screamed and thrashed helplessly underneath him.

"Naaahahahahahaha! I-I nehehehever-Snnnrk-ahahahasked for-Snnrk-the johohohob! Snnnnrk!" Logan was losing control and unable to stop the snorting now as he would desperately try to get a breath in through his chaotic laughter.

"Are-Are yoohoou just gohohoing to keep doing thahaat?! Snorting lihihike a little pihihiggy?!" Wade was starting to lose it himself.

"Snnnrk! Kihihiss my ahaahaahaass-Snnnnrk!!"

"I'd love too-heeheeheh! Ohohor I could dohoo THIS!" Wade's hands slid down as he targeted the ever so tempting V-line muscles on the Wolverine's lower belly and once he dug into the highly ticklish flesh Logan just about lost his mind in hysterics.

"BAAHAHAHAHAHAHANOOONO! SNNNRK! OKAAHAAHAAY! YA WIHIHIHIN! AAAHAHAHAAH-SNNNNRK! MEHEHEHRCY! I'M-SNNRK-I'M SOHOHOHORRY!" Logan squealed and snorted as he regained a burst of energy and jolted around violently like he was being shocked with a cattle prod.

It had proven all too much for Wade to stay composed as he broke into uncontrollable laughter, unable to keep tickling Logan any longer as he sat back and just got lost in his own laughing fit.

Logan lay under him, now motionless and wheezing as he gasped to take in some big breaths to refill his depleted lungs. When he finally came to his senses, he found Wade was still laughing hysterically, prompting Logan to roll his eyes and shove the merc off of him so he could sit up.

Wade hardly seemed to notice as he fell to the floor, holding his sides while tears ran down his cheeks.

"What?" Logan stared over at him with a brow raised in confused annoyance.

"Th-The snohohohorts! Haahahahahah! Oh fuhuhuhuck, the snohohohohohorts!" Wade struggled to spit out as Logan now began to frown once he realized that Wade was laughing at him.

"It's not that funny, asshole," he growled, starting to feel insecure and regretting that he'd let his guard down so much. With no end to Wade's laughter in sight Logan went to stand up but was stopped as Wade leapt forward to grab onto him as he finally got under control to speak again.

"I'm-I'm sorry I'm sorry! I didn't mean to make you embarrassed! Sometimes my brain just processes my emotions in ways I can't control so please don't take it the wrong way. I just got so happy and excited when I saw that snorting is part of your natural laugh. I LOVE it!"

"You're not just saying that shit?" Logan asked, still feeling unsure, though Wade looked absolutely horrified that he had even asked that.

"NO, I'm not just saying that! I'm sorry I'm an idiot and made you self-conscious about it. It's literally the cutest fucking thing I've ever seen! You believe me, right?" He looked hopefully at the other man who simply shrugged his shoulders.

"Sure. Whatever."

Logan did in fact believe him. Wade was usually pretty upfront when talking about things like this so he had no real reason to think that he was simply trying to spare his feelings.

Wade however, took his short, blunt answer as rejection as he wailed and threw his arms around Logan's waist to cling to him tightly.

"Noooo don't shut down on me! Please forgive me, Peanut! Pleeeeeease!"

Logan sighed heavily at how overdramatic Wade could be.

"Calm down, will ya? When I said 'whatever' I meant it's okay. You're fine. Now get off and stop groveling," he pried Wade's arms from around him as the merc then flopped onto his stomach, resting his chin on his hands and kicking his feet in the air.

"I'm not kidding, I could listen to your laughing snorts all day and it would never get old," he stared up at his roommate adoringly, "Sorry if I went a little overboard on you though."

"You call that a little overboard?" Logan's eyebrow crawled up his forehead as Wade's mouth dropped at the implication that he was responsible for everything.

"Hey, wait a fucking minute here, don't put this all on me. You were asking for it with all that shit you were talking, which was....well, surprising. I'd assumed you never got tickled much in your life, but you seemed pretty familiar with it," he sat up and finally retied his robe closed around him.

Logan smiled slightly as he started to wander inside his head.

"It was another lifetime ago, but yeah. My old team used to tickle me sometimes. Been so long that honestly, I was pretty nervous about you trying it."

"Ah shit, I really am an asshole," Wade felt a tang of guilt in his chest, knowing the X-men were still a very sore spot for Logan, "I didn't know. I'm sorry."

Confusion set over Logan's face.

"What for?"

"You know, for bringing up old memories you had with them. Don't worry, I won't do it again. I hope it didn't upset you too much."

Logan's puzzled expression then changed with a soft smile slowly breaking out.

"Wade ya got it all wrong. I'd have literally killed just to share in such mundane moments like that with them again. So once ya started tickling me it just, I don't know....made me think of those good times and...," he stopped as he looked away with a shake of his head, "Ah never mind, it's stupid."

"No no, it's not. Please keep going," Wade encouraged, scooting closer to indicate to Logan that he had his full attention.

"All I'm sayin' is that ya didn't upset me one bit. The opposite, in fact. That whole torture fest that you just put me through made me feel like I was with them again. I haven't felt that close to them ever since they were taken from me. And, well, what I'm trying to say is is that I felt.....happy."

Wade could feel his heart swelling up in his chest as Logan revealed all of this information to him. He instantly felt a lot better knowing that he hadn't caused his friend any mental anguish.

"That's such a big relief. You never seem to want to talk about them much, so I try to avoid making you think about them. The last thing I want to do is make you depressed."

"I know, but I've decided that's not what I should be doing. They don't deserve to not be openly remembered. Hell, I never want to forget anything about 'em."

Wade nodded in quiet understanding before Logan's eyes brightened up, reaching back into his mind.

"Kurt was the worst. He used to always get me bad. Really bad. Teleportation and a prehensile tail? It was always over for me before it even started. Heh, that fucker. Shit, even Jean and Scott would gang up on me once in a while. I tell ya, telekinesis is the ultimate cheat. And Rogue....she loved physical contact so you can guess that tickle fights were one of her favorite things. And I'd let her win once in a while....at least that's what I told myself, hmph."

Wade had never really heard Logan talk about his teammates before. It made him overjoyed to see he was starting to move forward in the right direction towards making peace with himself as Wade listened in silence to everything Logan said before finding his voice again.

"They sound like my kind of people. I think Nightcrawler and I would have made a formidable team-up against you," he playfully nudged Logan's shoulder as the X-man's smile grew from his mind manifesting an image of his old friend.

"Heh, Kurt. Yeah, he was something else. His goal was always trying to get me to snort too. He used to do those.....whaddya call that shit....raspberries. Right on my stomach. Just about damn near killed me," Logan chuckled and shook his head with a faint shiver running up his back; almost able to feel the sensation again as he thought about it.

Wade smirked as he rubbed his chin in thought like a supervillain.

"Ohhh reeeeeally....raspberries, huh? Well that sounds like it could be really fun. Remind me about it the next time I decide to tickle the shit out of you, kay?" Wade reached over and wiggled fingers into Logan's stomach, making him bust out a laugh before shoving the hand away.

"No fucking way. It's pure torture. Ya better not even think about it," he growled, but his words did not sound nearly as serious as he wanted Wade to believe. Of course, the other man picked up on that immediately but continued to play along.

"How can you expect me not to? I've never seen such ticklish abs. But okay. I'll think about not doing it, but no promises. So I suppose that means belly rubs are off the table too?"

Logan laughed again as he looked over at Wade.

"It's funny you say that because Jean and 'Ro used to give me belly rubs, thinking it would relax me, but it always just made me ticklish. I think that's partly why they liked doin' it, but regardless I never tried to stop them. Hell, sometimes I'd even ask for it. As much as it tickled it did feel pretty good."

"Well, I know I'm not nearly as hot as those X-women, but I'll always be here to give you all the belly rubs you could ever want," Wade chuckled, expecting Logan to roll his eyes and vehemently decline his offer, but instead a rare, warm smile broke onto the Wolverine's face.

"Really? You'd do that?"

"Are you kidding? Of course I would! You want one now?"

Logan shook his head as he got to his feet.

"Eh, maybe later. How about ya get your ass dressed first and we'll go out for a beer?"

Wade just stared back at him with both brows raised while he stood up as well.

"......It's 8:30 in the morning, Logan."

"Hey, breakfast beer is a thing, alright? Least it was in my universe. Kurt was always down to go with me so if ya want to.....it would mean a lot," a true, genuine smile was on Logan's face as he looked hopefully to his roommate.

Wade couldn't say no even if he actually wanted to. Logan was finally letting him into that side of his life, and he was not going to deny him. It felt like a new beginning. So he sidled up next to him and grinned broadly, putting an arm around the wide shoulders.

"Alright ya big lug, you talked me into it. Just give me a minute and then we'll go get fucked up."

"Appreciate it."

#ticklish!wolverine #ticklish!logan #ler!deadpool #ler!wade #deadpool tickle #wolverine tickle #tickle fic #fluff

46 notes · View notes