#wanderer having youth flashbacks

[thewandererh]

i CANNOT with this soul idea 😭😭 ive showed it to everyone i know aauagh i love it so muCHh

sleepypilled cuddlemaxxers

soul acting like a neurotic stray dog to even the smallest bit of affection is so funny to me

[edennill-archived]

Maglor in the Third Age:

he's stopped his shtick of only keeping to the seashores sometime in the early second age

look, it's lonely. also, probably a waste of time and everything. he's not fixing anything that way.

so, by the third age, he's just travelling here and there... as often as not, it is the coastal regions of middle-earth, but, ultimately, he goes pretty much everywhere.

sometimes he gets some money by playing at inns and doing odd jobs for mortals. he's gotten used to making an illusion of not having glowy amanyar eyes, because it makes the non-numenorean peoples take interest, and the gondorians and arnorians know

he just keeps adopting children? it's not his fault!

he doesn't steal children anymore. unless they're mistreated. let's just say he may be starting off many changeling myths (though not only him; elves in general will always approach a child they see treated badly and ask if it needs help)

a lot of those kids (from a hundred different cultures) just go a-wandering with him? half of them end up as the greatest musicians among men. but he drops the ones that want to off at rivendell.

elrond knows it's maglor. he also hardly ever gets to see him because maglor is stealthy.

mmm, if there are any places he avoids it's the elvish realms.

and yet, he does come to rivendell in secret, once in a while. and even pays a suprise visit to galadriel.

galadriel has last spoken to him at the mereth aderthad. yes, she's mad. no, she won't miss an occasion to speak with old kin in the language of her youth.

he does not go to mirkwood. ever. that would be suicide, and he is good at reassuring himself that he's doing the mirkwood elves a favour by not giving them flashbacks and not making them kinslayers.

all in all, he travels around.

he definitely is part of many "resistance movements" against sauron in the South whenever things get bad

there's probably some resentment there because it's easy enough to mistake him for someone of númenorean descent ? (that noldorin appearance + the only answer he gives when asked his age is "older than I look")

he probably replies to accusations of gondorian affiliation by "I'm a far off relation but I'm pretty sure I'd be hated there"?

that works I guess. somehow "villainous character from stories of the elder days" isn't a potential reason they come up with, unlike say, helping the people gondor would colonise.

though he's a bit wrong on that count because a fair bit of learned gondor sees him as mostly tragic

[frodothefair]

Frodo, pre and post quest.

@autisticgenderworm wanted to know my headcanons about pre and post quest Frodo.

💐 ASK ME about my headcanons about hobbits and the Shire! 💐 Want to know if yours has been answered? Check here.

Let's see, where to start... My fic deals a lot with Frodo's post-quest transformation, so I needed some time to organize my thoughts and decide on what was most important. Most of these changes revolve around the fact that post-quest Frodo has PTSD and chronic pain.

APPEARANCE : Before the quest, Frodo was a jolly, round-cheeked hobbit with the large blue eyes and elfin features whom we all know and love. He was taller than average for a hobbit, and somewhat thin for a hobbit as well. Post-quest, he seems to age a couple decades on fast forward, which is in line with him losing the Ring, which slows down the aging process. As a result, his features become more angular, and he loses the youthful baby fat around his face. In fact, he loses weight as a whole because his PTSD puts him in a constant state of fight or flight, and that makes it hard to eat. His eyes are also more serious, sometimes haunted, as well as bloodshot and dark-rimmed at times because he has a hard time sleeping.

CLOTHING : Before the quest, Frodo was a bit of a dandy, just like Bilbo. He did not have rooms and rooms devoted to clothes, but he did have a decent collection of quality, well-fitting clothes and he got new ones on a regular basis. His wardrobe was well-tended -- no spots or buttons out of place here! -- and he liked his brocades, his damasks, and his velvets. After the quest, however, he hardly ever gets new clothes, and his old ones hang off of him like a rail, but he does not seem to care. He is not planning for the future, nor is he conscious of appearances.

HEALTH : On account of having PTSD and chronic pain, he eats poorly and sleeps ever worse. Before the quest, he enjoyed long, beautiful, engaging dreams, and could fall asleep anytime and anywhere, which helped him early in the journey. Post-quest, however, he repeatedly wakes up in a cold sweat, searching for the Ring in the sheets. He also does not walk nearly as far, and feels unsafe going far from home. He is bothered by bright lights and loud noises, including his tea kettle (which he fancies sounds like a Nazgûl), and imagines people spying at the windows. At times, if particularly stressed, he dissociates or has flashbacks and hallucinations.

INTERACTIONS WITH OTHERS : On account of his illness, Frodo understandably has a hard time engaging in normal activities, including socializing. Before the quest, although he is somewhat odd and bookish, he is nonetheless sociable enough, and he wanders around the Shire, engaging in conversation with everyone he meets. He is also house-proud, and there is always a kettle on in his kitchen for visitors, and he drinks at the local inn along with the rest of the neighborhood. After the quest, however, he becomes decidedly unsociable, and rarely goes out. He has a hard time with large groups of people unless Sam is with him, and unfortunately, being unsociable does not help his case in gaining sympathy for his illness and appreciation for sacrifice.

[infintasmal]

bc mister hoyoverse is a coward and puts all their girls in like, skimpy little lingerie looking dresses I'm changing Jingliu's clothing types bc she's a warrior and women in armor are HOT

Disclaimer that I'm doing My Best with research and the images I'm using are from modern hanfu fashion sites bc it's easier to see than ancient drawings and also this is my circus and these are my monkeys

I'm not necessarily well versed enough in the history of chinese dress to identify which eras the Xianzhou takes reference (probably multiple but :shrug: ) from but there a few hanfu styles that I think would suit Jingliu. Most of this will be descriptions of her from her HCQ days as after that she wears whatever is available being that she's just wandering the universe killing things and hallucinating. Probably not a lot of time for shopping trips.

First, Jingliu has the most barren wardrobe. She has very little in the way of personal belongings bc material possessions simply don't interest her. When it comes to clothes, she goes for comfort over style and tends to dress more masculine and doesn't wear much in the way of accessories - usually opting for a simple hair pin and earrings.

The clothing styles I like for her are the Yuanlingpao (round collared robe - Tang dynasty style was worn by men and women as it was fashionable for women to dress as men would) and the Qiyao Ruqun. She usually wears them in dark, cool colors (blues with black and silver accents) and moon or ice motifs.

When in battle, she does not wear the full armor that we see cloud knights wearing in game but instead opts for lighter armor, usually wearing armor plating and pants. She relies heavily on her ability to move quickly and precisely and so heavy armor would only hinder her in battle. So while the lighter drape doesn't necessarily protect her like a suit of armor would, it keeps her vital protected while still allowing her a decent range of movement. She has a ceremonial military outfit which is seen in Jing Yuan's youth flashbacks and this is worn for official business rather than in battle. Yingxing is the one who forges and repairs her armor.

The main staples of all Jingliu's clothing styles is that she tends to dress in a way that covers her skin. She is heavily scarred from her encounters with the Abundance and her experience in the Cangcheng (I've talked about before that while Xianzhou natives don't typically scar bc of their regenerative abilities, wounds caused directly by the powers of an Aeon have the capacity to interfere with that ability and leave marks. In Yaoshi's case, the scars can sometimes appear as a pale gold.) and dislikes the looks and questions she has gotten over her scars. While she's not concerned with her appearance as a whole, she is a very private person. In order to cover these scars, she is almost always seen wearing long gloves and boots and medium to high collars.

That being said, she's not particularly concerned with people seeing her body and will change in front of people she trusts. She has also spent plenty of time around the men in the cloud knights and has had to change alongside them on campaigns. They know better than to make any comments. She really doesn't care much for things regarding her sex or gender, it's more annoying than anything else.

On special occasions like holidays, I can imagine Baiheng would have fun dressing Jingliu up. And she's helpless to say no to her.

The only fashion related thing she might indulge in is that Jingliu does like hair pins but is almost embarrassed by this. Her hair was burnt away after the Cangcheng and she spent a long time with a shaved head bc of it so growing her hair long was almost a reclamation of that loss. She might not have been able to heal past the scars but she got her hair back and she takes surprisingly good care of it. When in battle, she wears it up as to keep it out of her face.

[can-of-pringles]

When I'm Alone with You - Chapter 5

Rating: Teen and up audience

Warnings: Angst, character death, mild blood, panic attacks, slight mention of vomiting

Word Count: 1k

Summary: Copia realizes the Papas have been unusually absent.

Note: Sorry not sorry for the sudden angst out of nowhere. I promise the next chapter will be an easier read.

Also Read on AO3

The Ministry felt emptier than usual. Copia wandered the halls, knowing he should be working on something. There was probably some boring paperwork lying around somewhere, but he just couldn’t; feeling too restless. Though lately he had been feeling restless more often than not, and he couldn’t figure out why.

Usually, it would have to do with thinking about the possibility of seeing Silas again, but that was a string of thoughts he hadn’t quite figured out how to navigate yet. For now, he had settled on just being excited to see him again to talk about music.

But instead of those usual thoughts, he thought about Terzo.

He hadn’t seen Terzo in a long time. Too long. Of course, it would’ve made sense if he had been on tour or was just out and doing whatever he did when he was away from the Ministry, but it was different this time. No tours were happening currently, especially after the last incident of him being removed from the stage. Sister Imperator had been upset with him over the project, but Copia wasn’t fully sure what happened; just that Terzo had been demoted, and that Copia was slowly transitioning to his position.

Otherwise, Terzo would usually make it known when he was going on errands. At the very least, surely he would’ve been back by now. His absence occurred to him one day when he wanted to thank him again for letting him borrow his phone, but he wasn’t in his room.

Copia had gone on a small search for him, looking in all the typical places he would be, mostly seen with the Ghoul, Omega, but he wasn’t anywhere, neither of them were. In fact, as he was searching, he realized he hadn’t seen the other previous Papas either. Where were Primo and Secondo?

“This better not be a prank…” Copia muttered under his breath, remembering that during his youth, his older brother figures would pull pranks on him, Terzo and Secondo, mainly.

They’d mess with him countless times. Hiding his socks all over the ministry, switching the sugar with salt, once even leaving fake rat paw prints on the floors to make him think his rats escaped, though he found them completely safe in their cage; thankfully un-messed with.

After the pranking shenanigans, Copia would go mope and vent his frustrations to his calmer, much older adoptive brother, Primo. He would listen to him as he tended to his gardens, occasionally commenting on what Copia was saying; affectionately patting his head to comfort him.

He frowned, realizing he was losing focus. Enough focusing on the past and flashbacks. He needed to be present if he wanted to get to the bottom of these strange disappearances. Maybe he should actually put his pointless wandering to good use and ask someone if they’ve been seen recently.

As he was walking, he hadn’t immediately noticed Sister Imperator quickly leaving a room and bumped into her.

“Ah! Sister Imperator, sorry, I um, didn’t see you.” He chuckled nervously and fidgeted with his hands.

“Of course, I had to be clumsy and bump into her…” He thought.

“Actually, it’s a good thing you ran into me, Cardinal.”

Something about her smile made him feel an uncomfortable tightness in his chest.

He watched in confusion and shock as she noticed a drop of blood on her finger and quickly got rid of it by licking it off.

“Don’t worry, it’s not mine,” she stated, acting as if that was a totally normal thing to say.

Copia froze, trying to hide the panic and surprise he felt.

“Cardinal, we need to talk.” She lowered her voice, trying to make sure no one would overhear.

“Oh, well, actually, I thought I’d ask you something. Where’s Papa Terzo? Or the other Papas? I haven’t seen them in a while.” He glanced around for a moment, hoping they’d somehow appear, even though he knew it probably wouldn’t happen.

“Don’t worry, I’ll explain everything.”

The smile on her face made him feel sick.

---

Copia quickly shut his bedroom door and almost tripped as he tried making it to his bed, collapsing to the floor. He sat against the bed and started hyperventilating. Copia held his head in his hands as the panic grew.

The other papas hadn’t left. In fact, it would’ve been more accurate to say they had gotten trapped, and fallen right into the dangerous hands of Sister Imperator. She confessed to murdering them; she and Papa Nihil had been planning on it for a while now.

---

“But—but I don’t understand! Why would you do that?! It’s not right! It’s—it’s—” he had to fight back the ill feeling he’d felt at briefly seeing their lifeless bodies.

It hadn’t been that long since they were playing their game of Uno together, the older Papas enjoying their retirements and Terzo slowly getting used to his new demotion. No clue that would be the last time they would pick up those cards.

They'd even given Copia an invitation to play the card game with them. It echoed in Copia’s mind. Could he have saved them? Or would he have met the same fate?

Copia felt like he had the wind knocked out of him at noticing Terzo’s unmoving shoes; his body covered by a red-stained sheet. His eyes widened in shock at the others. Secondo’s hand lay limp and bloodied. Primo’s scarf was torn and stained; thrown to the floor.

Copia had started to back away to the exit, but Sister grabbed him roughly by his collar, invading his personal space.

“You won’t tell anyone about this, understood? I will personally make sure that you will keep your promise. No one is to know.” Her stare burned into his eyes, and she bared her teeth. “Don’t make me regret telling you.”

He nodded quickly and took a breath of relief when she let go, rubbing the spot where her grip had hurt him.

In a split second, her icyness had disappeared, and she instead put a gentle hand on his shoulder, causing him to flinch.

“You must understand, Copia, they had to go. Their time was up and now you can rise to the title you always deserved. Papa Emeritus the Fourth.” She smiled. “I’m doing this for you. All of this is for you, dear.”

He shuddered and swallowed, trying to ignore the lump he felt in his throat. “But… but they were like family… like my brothers,” his voice was pained, sounding like he was on the verge of tears.

Sister Imperator touched his cheek and looked up at him. “Sacrifices have to be made. Understand?"

No. No, he didn’t understand at all. Surely there were better ways of going about this? What could be gained from this? Why this path?

Copia eventually nodded, glancing down. He felt sick even agreeing to it but wasn’t sure what to do. He hated how much power she had over him and the ministry.

“Say it.” She commanded.

“Sacrifices have to be made…” He choked up.

“Don’t cry, Cardinal. You’ll understand eventually.”

---

Each breath Copia took was shakey. He ran a hand over his face, slightly smearing the paint around his eyes. His heart raced in his chest, feeling like it would burst. He ran his hands through his hair and gripped it tightly, shutting his eyes as he continued to panic.

How could Sister do this? How could Nihil agree with it? They were his sons, after all. Sure, he hadn’t been a present father really, but Copia never thought he was capable of this.

Copia felt a wave of nausea hit him and he scrambled to the trashcan by his bed, emptying his stomach. He shuddered and leaned back against the bedside once he had finished.

A whole spectrum of emotions had gone through his head. He hadn’t asked for this. Why would Sister do this for him? This wasn’t what he wanted. He hardly even asked for the role of Papa, only briefly mentioning it once or twice, but he hadn’t been set on it. He had been satisfied as a Cardinal. He hadn’t asked for more. More pressure on his shoulders.

He could feel tears welling up again but tried to hold them back, hearing Sister’s words echoing in his mind.

Don’t cry, Cardinal.

He certainly didn’t feel like a Cardinal right now. The title felt shameful almost. What kind of Cardinal would allow this to happen?

Copia hugged his knees to his chest and quietly sobbed. The tears ruined his makeup, but he couldn’t even think about that at the moment, only thinking about how he let his brother figures down.

“Mi dispiace, fratelli.” He thought.

[byzantine-suggestions]

Theodora: A Summary

So, a few months ago, I decided to torment myself by reading Theodora by Samuel Edwards, a deeply questionable "vintage" novel from 1969 that, in many ways, makes Robert Graves's Count Belisarius look tame. I did a whole summary of it that I never posted because it got too long and unwieldy, but I got bored this past weekend, so I went back and edited it down to bullet points and individual sub-parts for more readability. So, if you're interested in Highly Questionable Byzantine Shennanigans, here goes:

The book starts off normally enough, detailing the gossip circulating around Constantinople in the weeks before Justinian and Theodora’s engagement. It quickly introduces several important characters by basically just listing their names and their thoughts about Theodora; predictably, the patricians all dislike her, the other courtesans are all jealous of her, the Monophysite clergy love her because she’s championing their cause, and Belisarius has no opinion whatsoever about her because he’s too loyal to Justinian to give a shit about his romantic entanglements. And *then* the book introduces Narses, and it immediately gets weird. Basically, Narses is sexually attracted to Justinian, to the point of having frequent erotic fantasies about him, and he’s therefore disappointed upon hearing of Justinian’s courtship with Theodora. This is a one-off sentence or two in the intro, but don’t worry, Narses’s crush on Justinian (and general sexual deviancy) will become a major recurring theme. So we’re already off to a great start.

The reader is then introduced to Justinian, who is quickly established as a.) mysterious, b.) devoted to his work, and c.) completely fucking insane. We are told that he only sleeps 3 hours a night and frequently goes 72 hours without rest, and is still somehow completely functional, so “the sleepless one” is a literal moniker. He’s also, inexplicably, a talented swordsman (this never comes up again) who’s so strong that he can walk around without guards because he can defend himself using his sheer physical prowess, and he recently graduated college, having completed fourteen years of coursework in five years. Basically, he’s amazing at everything to an absolutely ludicrous degree. The reader meets him in a flashback to the night he first met Theodora, so he’s presently very lonely, wandering Constantinople and pondering the emptiness of his heart.

It isn’t long before Justinian, still lonely and sexually dissatisfied, goes to the Hagia Sophia to seek life advice from God. Of course, Theodora is in the Hagia Sophia, and he’s instantaneously attracted to her, because of course he is. We are told that Theodora has long black hair and purple eyes like a teenage girl’s OC, her waist is so tiny that Justinian can encircle it in his hands, and she looks much younger than she is (it takes Justinian a while to realize that she’s in her twenties and not, in fact, sixteen. Her apparent youth, of course, makes her more attractive to him.) When Justinian first notices her, she’s reading a book, and he finds this astonishing. So astonishing, in fact, that he basically just walks up to her and demands that she read some lines aloud to him in order to prove that she’s actually reading and not just, I don’t know, quietly staring at paper. So she reads him a paragraph or so, but he’s still not satisfied, so he makes her translate some more lines for him, and it’s just kind of exhausting. Justinian really comes across as, like, an angry nerd who walks up to a girl wearing a Star Wars T-shirt and goes “oh, you like Star Wars? Prove it by answering my trivia!” But Theodora indulges him, then they get into an argument about the divine nature of Christ, and she’s so charmed by his shitty attitude that she decides to follow him home.

We are then introduced to Justinian’s house, which is a decrepit hovel that desperately needs a woman to make it into A Home. (Obviously, Theodora is that woman.) She makes Justinian dinner because he’s too inept to feed himself, Justinian infodumps to her about bread, and then he gets called away to some meeting. When he returns from his meeting, he discovers that Theodora has miraculously transformed his terrible house into a habitable environment, then fallen asleep on his couch. So he decides to let her stay, and she basically moves in with him (having known him for a sum total of a few hours). It has the same energy as, like, someone bringing home a stray alley cat, then adopting the cat because it turns out to be really good at interior decorating.

The next morning, Theodora has someone make Justinian his favorite stew, and he’s like “HOW DID YOU KNOW THIS IS MY FAVORITE?” and she’s like “idk, it was a lucky guess :)” But then the narration reveals that she has been obsessively targeting Justinian for weeks, noting all of his movements in the hopes of attracting him and ending up as his mistress, and, as part of her campaign to worm her way into his heart, she’s been following workmen from the same region as him and observing what they eat so she could use that knowledge to make Justinian meals that remind him of his childhood. Which is so incredibly Machiavellian that it kind of circles back around to being amazing. I mean, that’s delusional stalker behavior, but I respect it!

It turns out that Theodora also has access to some important intel about the general Vitalian, which she got by, idk, being a courtesan and knowing things, and right after she admits this to Justinian, Narses and Belisarius conveniently show up with a problem regarding Vitalian. Theodora is able to fix the problem (to Narses’s envy) and Justinian is so happy about this that he gives her some expensive jewelry, which makes her cry. The entire time she’s crying, he just hovers over her and does nothing, like a creep. And then they have sex, because there’s nothing sexier than crying.

They start living as a couple, obviously, but Theodora quickly becomes kind of a homebody, refusing to leave the house or go outside for any reason. This is obviously weird and abnormal, and Justinian is unnerved by it, so he asks her what’s up. Lo and behold, the issue is the Prostitute Dress Code.

What is the Prostitute Dress Code, you ask? Well, it’s a bizarre, inexplicable, completely ahistorical set of rules that governs what color socks prostitutes can wear. Prostitutes of a certain rank have to wear a ridiculous yellow outfit, and prostitutes of another rank have to wear a ridiculous red outfit, and you can be upgraded from a yellow prostitute to a red prostitute, and it’s all just really stupid. And that’s why Theodora doesn’t want to go outside. Because she’d have to wear red socks. I don’t know.

(As an aside, Theodora has been wearing red and purple this entire time. She was introduced in chapter one wearing purple, even though she was a penniless prostitute at the time. Which kind of takes the bite out of “purple is the noblest shroud,” right? If everyone can wear purple whenever they want, and purple has no special significance to her beyond being pretty and fun, her whole speech becomes kind of meaningless.)

Anyway, Theodora doesn’t want to wear the Prostitute Socks, but she doesn’t want to *not* wear the Prostitute Socks because that would mean breaking the law, and this leads to an argument between her and Justinian, which culminates in him proposing to her. As one does.

That concludes the courtship and falling-in-love montage! If you're thinking "this relationship sounds shaky and Justinian sounds very unpleasant," hold on to your stolas; it gets worse in part two.

[asystemerror]

📝Share a snippet of an unposted WIP, with or without context.

Here's a writing one I did for class a while back! It was meant to be a backstory/flashback for one of my characters in a story my friend and I are writing called, Desiderium!

Neil is essentially a spirit medium who's been born with the ability to see ghosts due to a "family curse". Because of this, he's picked up a fair share of curious ghouls over the years. Mrs. Adlehorn included haha. I was hoping with this short story I could make her less of an antagonistic character as she is now in the story and more of one who simply lets her emotions get the better of her when protecting people she cares about.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

If Mrs. Adlehorn could say anything about the afterlife, it was that it slowly got duller and duller as the years went on. Her poor house had slowly become empty over the years as fewer people became interested in living in a house like hers. It was ironically fitting, she supposed. The liveliness of her life had seemed to slowly fade as time passed and her memory had slowly faded from the public's mind. She had a sense this would happen, of course, yet seeing time pass without her still felt strange and off putting. Like something she'd hear on a late-night radio show than her actual current experience. 

She tried not to think too much about it, it served her nothing but worry after all. However, it was hard as her mind and soul drifted aimlessly around her house. She spared only quick glances towards the all too familiar rooms of the house, occasionally taking note of a new spiderweb or dust that was plaguing one of the many disregarded pieces of furniture. Those were normal occurrences around the house. What wasn't was the creaking footsteps that came from her parlor.

It seemed that she had a visitor of sorts, a young lad who had wandered into the house for whatever reason. Mrs. Adlehorn had never been good at guessing ages, but from his general appearance, she'd guess he was maybe 10 or so. Perhaps coming here was a dare among school friends? Youth exploring abandoned places? Whatever the reason the visitors seemed to leave as quickly as they came, often freaked out by the eerie quiet of the house. Yet, she couldn't sense any trace of discomfort from this child. In fact, If she didn't know better, she'd say they were looking directly at her.

"Hello, Miss."

She jumped at that. As a ghost, she usually wasn't able to be seen - let alone addressed by most people. She glanced around, double-checking that the child was, in fact, addressing her. When the empty room confirmed this, she gave an answer. "Hello there. Who might you be?"

"My name is Neil." They answered. "I came here because people kept telling me about a ghost that's seen in the upstairs window. I wanted to see if the stories about it were true."

"Oh? Are you satisfied with what you've found so far?" She questioned, curious about how aware the lad was of his 6th sense.

"I think so... I didn't expect to find anything if I'm being honest." He muttered. "Ghost stories are usually made to scare younger kids. I didn't think anyone was actually going to be in here...If that makes sense."

"What do you think you're going to do now?" She asked, accepting the explanation from the child for now. She didn't necessarily expect any huge revelations from the child. It was, however, slightly humorous how shocked they were at seeing a ghost. She would have guessed he'd seen at least one other spirit before herself, even if just at a quick glance.

"I think I maybe want to try to figure out why there are so many ghost stories around this place." He said, still sounding unsure in his own statements. "Surely there's a reason right? Now I'm thinking it can't all be stuff to scare little kids if you're here."

"That's correct. What a smart child you are." Mrs. Adlehorn said miming a small pat on the lad's head. "However, I'm not sure you're old enough to hear that story yet. Perhaps another day?" Or when the poor kid was older. She didn't think it was appropriate to explain what exactly happened in the building quite yet.

[starspatter]

Heroes and Thieves, Ch. 22

Title: Heroes and Thieves Fandom/Universe: BTAS, pre/post-RotJ flashback

Summary: A story about second chances, healing, and having hope.

Rating: PG-13, for references to character death, child psychological torture and trauma.

Genre: Romance/Family/Friendship/Hurt/Comfort

Word Count: 3,904 Previous Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21

Also on ff.net and AO3.

Feeling like a hero but I can't fly No, you'll never crash if you don't try Took it to the edge, now I know why Never gonna live if you're too scared to die

-Goo Goo Dolls, “So Alive”

————————–

After.

“I don’t like it.”

Tim leaned over to Dick and whispered in a light lilt:

“‘It’ doesn’t like being called an ‘it’.”

Standing before them in the center of the loft was a burly youth with jet-black hair and wary blue eyes; strong, square-set jaw tilted defiantly towards the two – plus another muscular man in a red cape towering over the entire trio.  Dick and Tim shifted sight anxiously back and forth between the confronting opposites – or rather parallels, as the stranger bore a striking semblance to his elder, almost a miniature model (especially as both had their limbs crossed in identical positions).  Superman stared suspiciously down at his mirror image, studying him hard as steel.

“You say you found him wandering the streets?”

He prompted, addressing Tim rather than the one before him.

“You make it sound like he’s some stray dog.”  The subject narrowed his eyes, but said nothing.  “There was a crash at an intersection; some clueless guy walked right into the direct middle of traffic, and I watched with my own eyes as a car ran straight into him.  He was fine afterwards, but the vehicle was totaled.  Not exactly something you see in Gotham everyday.  So I checked to make sure the driver was okay, before getting this crazy kid the hell out of there before the police and media showed up and started swarming.”

“You made a good call. I’ll- contact the League, and we’ll take… ‘it’ from here.”

“Hold it,” the ticked-off teen spoke up at last.  “Don’t I get a say in any of this?  Who gave you the right to just go deciding things on your own?  You’re not the boss of me.”

The Man of Steel made an expression like a wild animal had just suddenly started spouting fluent English phrases.

“You claim to be my clone, that we share the same DNA.  That Cadmus created you – in order to take my place in the event of my demise… or to take me down, if necessary.  That makes you my responsibility.”

The boy huffed, unimpressed.

“I don’t care about any of that.  I just got sick of them trying to control me all the time. So I busted out. But, if you’re going to stand in my way,” he boldly balled his knuckles, “Then I will fight you.”

Superman glared coolly at the raised fist.  So much anger – and danger – all in one unstable adolescent.  …Frankly he recognized that look, as his gaze traveled subtly to Tim out of the corner of his periphery, before flicking back.

“That makes you a loose cannon, if not an outright threat.  You really expect me to believe that you’re not here on some covert mission?  That Cadmus hasn’t already filled your brain with an assassination objective, fully trained you on how to kill?  This isn’t the first time they’ve employed this tactic.”

“Yeah yeah, I know all about Supergirl’s clone.  My supposed ‘big sister’.”  Resembling a rude child, he repeatedly mimed finger-quotes in the air.  (It was a wonder where he picked that gesture up from.)  “The failure. They said she was ‘defective’.  That they learned from their mistakes, and made me to be ‘better’.  ‘Perfect’.”

Superman mused if that was the reason he remained so… “juvenile” compared to Kara’s copy, who had been artificially aged to maturity, as well as peak physical strength.  Perhaps, they thought that by keeping this one more mentally regressed, he’d be easier to rein in – “mold” to whatever warped purpose they had in mind.

“She was a soldier.  A slave.  Raised to obey and follow orders.  There’s no proof you’re not carrying out the same directive right now.”

Despite his doubt, deep down Clark wanted to believe in the boy’s words.  That their plan had indeed backfired, and all the hormonal rage and rebellion had culminated in preventing a pure, innocent soul from being corrupted, having luckily managed to escape before the indoctrination process could be completed.

Tim interjected at that juncture-

“Look, supposing he is telling the truth – what do you plan to do with him?”

Superman debated, honestly still somewhat unsure of his own intentions.  His… “feelings” towards this “thing” in front of him.  His foster cousin hadn’t considered her doppelganger a “real person” for even a second – which may have been her only way of coping with the concept that another version of her could ever exist to serve – be “evil”.  He had been inclined to concur back then, but now that he was faced with his own reflection, it was ironically a different story.  Additionally, he had witnessed firsthand a potential future where a dark side of his soul reigned supreme, what a superpowered person of his caliber was capable of if sent on the wrong path…

“We can take him to the Watchtower.  He’ll be safe there.”

Tim snorted.

“Why?  So you can keep him under constant lock and observation all the time?  How is that any better than him being with Cadmus?” He scoffed on the other’s behalf. “Are you really going to deny him freedom as soon as he’s found it?”

There was a sensitive edge to Tim’s tone, and Dick picked up on it too as he cast an awkward sidelong glance towards his brother.  He was clearly taking this personally, projecting his own past experience of being forced into secluded privacy (sadly sometimes even padded rooms and restraints) for nearly a year following his… “ordeal”.  Being regarded – and thus subconsciously treated – almost as an “object” himself.

“What do you propose then?”

Tim shrugged.

“Why not just let him stay here?”

Each and every other person in the room stunned at the suggestion, including the one in question.  Dick reached out and put a firm paw on his sibling’s shoulder.

“Tim, can I have a word with you for a moment?”

Superman insistently joined the timeout as the guardian duo drew Tim into a hushed huddle, hovering over him simultaneously in lecturing stances.

“Are you out of your friggin’ mind?”

Dick tested in utter disbelief, to which Tim merely rolled his eyes and retorted:

“Is that a rhetorical question?”

“We don’t know anything about this dude, and you want to just let him move in with us?  We have no idea what he’s capable of. He could murder us in our sleep – hell, at any time – with his bare hands.”

“And no one thought that about me after Arkham.”

“Tim…”

“You guys gave me a second chance.”

“You’re human.”  Dick glimpsed apologetically towards the third party. “No offense.”

“None taken.”

Dick shook his head, returning attention to Tim.  “What makes you think he can even be trusted?”

Tim simply shrugged again.

“Dunno.”  He gleamed mischievously.  “Would you believe me if I told you a little ‘voice’ in my head says it’s okay?”

His senior sighed in exasperation at the mildly mocking smirk on his lips.

“Tim, now is not the time to be making jokes.”

Tim kept playing along though, putting his palms together in a pretend-pleading pose, puppy pupils shining as he begged.

“Oh please, can we keep him?”

Dick veered desperately to his partner, beseeching for assistance. “C’mon, Clark, back me up here.”

The other older male was oddly mute though, deliberating pensively before declaring at last:

“…I’ll allow it.”

Dick’s jaw dropped to the floor, floored by the unanticipated approval.

“You’re not serious?”

“Tim’s right, keeping him cooped up in space isn’t a sufficient solution. It might be better to have him experience Earth instead.  Be around regular people, learn about our society through actual interaction.”  His vision squarely met Tim’s.  “…Let him lead a ‘normal’ life.”

Dick wasn’t convinced though.

“What if he is our enemy?  He could turn out to be some kind of monster.”

Just then, the topic of their discussion elevated his volume:

“You guys do realize I can still hear you, right?”

The three revolved around as he pointed irately at his ears.

“I’ve got superhearing too, remember?”

He folded his arms in further frustration.

“If you don’t want me here, fine.  Then I’ll leave.  But I’m not going back to being constantly told what to do and where I can and can’t go.”

Superman stepped forward, solemn and severe.

“You can stay, on one condition.  You are not to activate your abilities, under any circumstances.  Not until you’ve proven yourself completely trustworthy, that you can integrate successfully with this planet and abide by its rules.”

The lad looked even more aggravated by the notion, bristling in irritation and insolence.

“What’s the point of having powers if I can’t even use them for anything?”

“It’s to teach you self-discipline.  Listen to me: The people of this world are incredibly fragile, and if you’re not careful, you could easily end up hurting someone, even if you don’t mean to.  And trust me, I will be keeping an ear out for anything suspect.  If I hear one whiff of you causing harm to anyone, I will bring the entire Justice League down on you so fast you won’t know what hit you.  We will hunt you down, no matter where you go.”

His replica gnashed his teeth.  The G-Gnomes and scientists had instructed him on how to combat the League, made him go through each member’s file and drills multiple times until he memorized their weaknesses by heart.  Still, the prospect of taking them all on at once wasn’t an idea he really relished the thought of, if he could avoid it.  Grudgingly, he acquiesced.

“Fine.  I accept your terms.”

“Goody,” Tim piped up as he sauntered forth to pat his new “playmate” on the back.  “Welcome to the ‘Rejects Club’, pal.  Hope you enjoy your stay.  We’ve got a cripple, a crazy clown killer,” he indicated offhandedly towards a dumbfounded Dick and himself, “previously a crackhead junkie, and now a clone.  We should call ourselves the ‘Three Caba-zeros’.”

The boy blinked blankly at him.

“…Man, maybe we need to work on your sense of humor.”  Tim deflated in disappointment.  “First things first though,” he scrutinized the bland white jumpsuit the other was wearing, tasteless and tattered so that a flap fell over his nigh-bare exposed chest (coincidentally concealing a scarlet symbol that matched his double). “We should get you some clothes. Mine probably won’t fit you, so you’ll have to borrow my bro’s for now.  Is that okay?”

Dick lifted his hands in defeat as Tim twisted towards him – too late – to request for permission.

“I guess.  Whatever, go knock yourselves out.”  Under his breath, he muttered: “This is insane.”

“Thank you.”

Tim responded dully, and Dick couldn’t tell which statement it was in answer to.

As Tim led their guest away, the other visitor exhaled, appearing extremely exhausted.  Dick couldn’t help but think that were he in civilian disguise right now, Clark Kent the Daily Planet reporter would be removing his glasses to rub his tired lids.  He approached gingerly, trying to imagine what must be going through the man’s mind at the moment.

“You all right?”

“…I just came face to face with my genetic duplicate who was secretly born without my knowledge or consent.  It’s bad enough the government exploited my kid cousin, now I’m the source of introducing a possible new peril to this planet.”

Dick clapped Clark on his broad back.

“We don’t know that he’s a risk yet.”

A wistful mist slipped onto the man’s visage as he reminisced.

“His eyes…  They remind me of Kara’s.  Proud. Arrogant.  Stubborn.”  He beamed faintly in mixed fondness at the memory.  Dick looked on with sympathy.

“…You miss her, don’t you.”

Clark respired.

“I worry about her.  I respect her decision to stay in the future, and I’m glad she found happiness there, a place where she belongs and can spread her own wings.  …Still, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bother me that she ended up with a descendant of Brainiac, of all beings in the universe.  I still can’t wrap my head around it.”

Dick quietly contemplated the other’s sour countenance.

“You’re sure you’re not transferring some of that resentfulness onto the kid?”

Clark flinched, but made no effort to refute.  Brainiac, Darkseid, Luthor – all had their periods of portraying themselves as harmless and peaceable – before stabbing him in the back yet again. As much as he strove to give the benefit of the doubt to strangers and established comrades, when it came to personal grudges against archvillains he wasn’t about to allow himself to fall victim to another ruse – even if he wasn’t quite certain where on the spectrum the current concern lay.

“That’s why I’m entrusting this task to you.  I’m counting on you to watch over him.  If anything happens, I’m sure you’ll be able to handle it.”

“…You’re asking an awful lot of someone who can’t even see completely right anymore, let alone throw a proper punch or kick,” Dick mumbled in partial jest.

It was Clark’s turn to bolster the other’s backside.

“I have faith in you.  You see the good in others, and that’s what matters.  If anyone can keep him on the right track, you can.”

Dick’s own one worn eye swiveled aside.

“I’m not so sure about that anymore.”

He murmured in a morose manner, as Clark thumped supportively a second time.

“If there’s one thing we can’t lose, it’s hope.  If we do, then we’ve really, truly lost.  It means that they beat us.  That they won.”

Dick looked up at the smiling superhero – a man he himself looked up to once, idolized as much as another brave icon…

“I’ll ask Bruce to send over some Kryptonite anyway, just in case,” Clark continued, treading carefully with his words; figuring that if the kid did indeed have Kryptonian blood in him, logically he should be susceptible to its effects too. “I’m sure he’s got tons of the stuff stashed somewhere.”

Dick cleared his throat.

“Have you… heard from him at all recently?”

“No,” Clark confessed.  “I was hoping you had.”

“We don’t… talk anymore.  Not really.”

“I see.”

There was an uncomfortable beat, before Dick carried on with another curious inquiry.

“What about… Diana?  How’s she doing?  I… know she and Bruce were… close.”

Though they had never officially met, he had wondered, idly, how she felt on the whole affair with Barbara – Batgirl. As far as he knew, Bruce – Batman – had never actively pursued a relationship with Wonder Woman, despite obvious mutual infatuation and daytime persona’s playboy tendencies.

“Diana’s doing fine.  She’s strong.”  Clark softened in appreciation and understanding.  “…So are the two of you.”

He reinforced the other’s shoulder once more, before releasing and beginning to head for the exit.

“Both of you, look after each other.  Families are tough to keep together, I know.  But, that’s why you need to treasure the time you have. Before you know it, you can lose someone entirely from your life, and then that’s it.  Don’t ever take those precious moments you shared for granted.  And…”  He hesitated on the handle, acknowledging his own hypocrisy.  “Look out for the kid for me too, will you?”

Dick nodded.

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep a close ‘eye’ on him.”

Clark’s facial features twitched marginally at the poor attempt at a pun.

“Thanks.  Oh, and you don’t need to worry about tracking devices either by the way.  I checked, the kid’s clean.”

“How’d you-” Dick cut himself off, slapping his forehead with a grin.  “Oh, right.  Duh.  X-ray vision.”

Superman winked at him, before opening the door and speeding off into the sky, towards the hill where Wayne Manor overlooked the city.  Dick watched him go, vanishing into a speck, before slowly shutting the egress behind him.  Hobbling upstairs after the previous pair, he made a beeline for the fridge and grabbed a beer, flopping down on the sofa as he endeavored hard not to think about the fact there was a half-naked superhuman clone currently raiding through his wardrobe.  Scanning absently around at the several “Flying Graysons” posters lining the walls surrounding him, he pondered just when had his own place – personal space – suddenly become so crowded again.  Somehow, it seemed his “private bachelor pad” had been converted to a “wayward home for lost boys” without him noticing.

…But then, he thought as he popped the top and took a swig, Bruce had done pretty much the exact same thing, hadn’t he.

…

“So… You two were ‘superheroes’ once too.”

“Yup.”

“And… You don’t have any special powers.”

“Nope.”

“How’d you guys do it?”

Tim shrugged.

“A lot of training, a lot of skill, a lot of sleepless nights – and some luck.  …Although that ran out eventually, as you can see.”

The other teenager nervously massaged the back of his neck.

“I guess humans really are fragile.”

“Inside and out.”

Tim impassively agreed.

“So, uh…  Do you really hear like, ‘voices’ and stuff?”

The query ventured cautiously.

“Voices, hallucinations, homicidal urges – the works.”

His company’s irises widened in alarm.

“…I was kidding.  About that last part anyway.”  (…For the most part.)

“Oh.”

Tim shook his head.  It seemed “sarcasm” was something else he’d have to teach this kid.

“Still want to crash with us?”

The “alien” looked uneasily down at his toes.

“I dunno…  It doesn’t seem as if your brother really cares for me all that much…”

“Don’t sweat it.  He’ll come around.”

“Why’d you stick up for me anyway?  We hardly even know each other.”

Tim shrugged his shoulders again.

“I know what it’s like to be labeled a ‘freak’.  To be tossed aside and treated like you don’t – shouldn’t – exist.”

The other boy’s knuckles clenched.

“I bet ‘that guy’ just wanted me out of the way so he doesn’t have to deal with me.  So he can hog all the glory to himself.”

“Maybe.  …Although in his own way, he’s probably trying to protect you too.”

Tim seemed to be talking – rationalizing – more to himself than his newly acquired acquaintance at this point, leaving the latter confused. Snapping up from his stupor, he quickly pushed the conversation aside.

“Anyway, more importantly, go pick something out to change into.  Anything will do for now, I can take you shopping for stuff in your size later.”

His companion complied, digging deep through the closet’s contents, which mostly consisted of cool leather jackets and jeans.  (…No more ugly sweater vests, Tim noted nonchalantly.)  At length he pulled out a black T-shirt from the far back, rotating it around to reveal a plastisol ruby logo echoing his own emblem. …Seems Dick hadn’t thrown out everything from his adulating adolescence after all.

“This.  …I’ll take this.”

“…A bit on the nose with the irony, isn’t it?”

There was no reply as the plunderer stripped then and there, showing zero signs of modesty as he stretched the prize snugly over his (admittedly impressive) abs.  Tim felt his face growing hot for some reason as he averted and coughed.

“Well, what do you know, it fits.  …Now don’t forget to put on some pants.”

He hastily tossed a pair of trousers towards the half-dressed hunk, smacking him on the snout as forecasted.  The target detached the denim wrapping and dutifully donned it as well.

“You’re gonna need a name too.  Unless you actually want us to keep calling you ‘it’.”  A pause, as he wondered whether whoever brought the puppet to life actually bothered to give their creation a designation.  “…What did Cadmus call you?”

A shrug.

“They mostly just referred to me as ‘Experiment 13’ or ‘Project Kr’ or simply ‘the weapon’.”  (Again with the finger-quotes.)  “Although, after I broke out of the pod, I found a ‘top-secret’ document that stated my actual ‘codename’ was ‘Kon-El’.  …Before I tore it and the place apart anyway.”

Been there, done that, Tim thought to himself as he rolled the title on the tip of his tongue.

“Kon-El, Kon…  Sounds foreign, it would definitely stand out way too much.”  (As if he didn’t already.)  “…How about ‘Conner’ instead?”

The boy tilted his head as he mulled over the moniker for a minute, before nodding in approval.

“As for a last name…”  An almost wicked spark flashed.  “So long as we’re being daring and tempting fate, what do you think about ‘Kent’? That’s Superman’s citizen surname.”

Conner debated for an interval again, then signaled another affirmation.

“‘Conner Kent’ it is then.”

Tim thus dubbed his new bud.  Sobriquet settled, he held out his hand and introduced:

“My name’s ‘Tim’ by the way.  …Although the voice in my head likes to call me ‘JJ’.”

He added with a casual hint of a grin, taking a mordant stab at his “witty sarcasm” again.  (Besides, a semi-sadistic streak in him still enjoyed watching others squirm whenever he willingly brought up his apparent lack of “sanity”.)  Conner seemed sincere though as he looked Tim dead in the eye – undeterred – and mimicked the motion, greeting with a mighty grip.  Seems he was at least aware of what a “handshake” entailed at least.

“…You know, when I was inside the tube – before they put me in a pod – I used to hear a ‘voice’ too.”

“You mean those ‘G-Gnome’ things you mentioned?”

Conner shook his head.

“No, it was weird.  Different. Definitely human.”

“You’re sure it wasn’t one of the scientists?”

“It was more like a… girl’s voice.”  He frowned, struggling to sort out a jumbled fog of hazy memories from the first few weeks of being “formed”.  “She kept… crying out and asking for someone to be her ‘friend’.  For someone to come ‘save’ her.  …She sounded really scared.”

Tim stared at him, unsure what to say.

“Maybe we’re both actually crazy.”

“Heh.  Maybe.”

It was Conner’s turn to look brooding though as he ruminated. Tentatively, Tim tried to distract by taking their new tenant on a tour, grasping him by the hand again.

“Come on.  Let me show you around.”

After Conner had familiarized himself with most of the facility’s amenities, his host deemed it time to get back to unfinished business.

“We still need to create an ‘official’ public identity for you. Don’t worry, it’ll be easy.”  Tim snapped his tips.  “I can make it so Cadmus won’t be able to trace your location status at all.  …I’ll need some better equipment than just my laptop though.”

He pressed his palm to a secret security panel (having overridden access yet again without his brother’s knowledge), and a section of the partition slid open to reveal a hidden doorway.  Entering into the restricted alcove, Tim took a seat at the desk where a giant triple-monitor display was assembled, inertly collecting a thin layer of dust.  Conner tiptoed in after, and wordlessly analyzed the enormous circus scroll behind them (the likes of which he had encountered – counted – an extraordinary quantity of various other advertising prints stationed all around the building) as Tim booted up the system.  Conner turned at the sound of ferocious keyboard typing as Tim brought up a cascade of windows on separate computer screens all at once, digits switching nimbly between numerous tabs and increasing digital lines of text like lightning, as the stupefied spectator marveled at his capacity to keep track of them all.

“What… is all this?”

A slightly smug smirk tugged at the verge of Tim’s mouth.

“This, my friend, is how we do – did things in Gotham.  Now then…”  He flexed his fingers dramatically.  “Watch me work some magic.”

————————–

I am no man of steel I have no heart of stone Don't tell me how it feels I'll find it on my own

[cuntyji]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WHAT? LIKE IT'S HARD? ✶ choso kamo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re not above sending a risky message.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s your point?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You ask Kamo, I’ll ask Suguru.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Choso’s shoulders tense, “Can’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You first.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I help you?”

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

Choso Kamo.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THREE YEARS LATER.

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

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

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

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

Your mother.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get out,” you blurt.

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

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

“Partner?” Choso finishes for you, deadpan.

“Of all the people in this entire school —”

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

“What are you doing here?”

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

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

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

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

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

“What? Like it’s hard?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Choso just rolls his eyes.

“They…modify bacterial ribosomes.”

“Wrong.”

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

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

“Nope.”

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

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

“Just tell me the answer.”

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

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

“I was close.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing next weekend?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you want to study at my place?”

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

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

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

“Hmm. Sure, I’ll think about it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s not a date. We’re studying.”

“Don’t care. Didn’t really ask.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did I leave the door unlocked?”

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

“Get out.”

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

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

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

Weird. And impossible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Leave Yuuji out of this!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mhm.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right.

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

“So, what?”

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

“Are you angry?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not happy, Satoru?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s he look like again?”

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

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

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

“Hold up! I got visual aid.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now who’s the liar,” Suguru murmurs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You good?”

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

You’re having none of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There you are.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Without warning, his phone buzzes.

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

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

“What?”

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

“I’m not dating Tsukumo Yuki.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If it’s a proper date, it’s a yes.”

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

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

ONE WEEK LATER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[spogwam]

Final Year Project Research - 5

As previously discussed, In the Breeks will not be adapted to a grad film project for now. However, as a final post, I would like to discuss the process of research and development that I have undertaken in producing my final script.

Research

Much of my research for this script was reminiscing with old members of the TYT (Tain Young Team). Upon returning home for a long weekend, I met up with my old pals Lewis and Brandon for a walk and to discuss my film. They were both enthusiastic about the idea, they liked the rebellious nature of its protagonists and the visual element of graffiti, recommending spots around my hometown where I could get away with it (lol). We discussed a show called American Vandal we had all watched, which is great fun, but I told them it was too thematically light for comparison. I told them I wanted to tackle the problem of drug deaths in the Highlands are other rural areas. I asked them whether they thought drugs were more prevalent in the Highlands but they disagreed entirely.

Brandon responded: "You students in Edinburgh do way more gear and drinking than us. Its just our stuff is worse quality."

This was a great insight, which I further researched through government statistics, discovering that in certain rural Highland towns, the rate of drug deaths were over ten times higher than those in Edinburgh for example (200 per 100,000, compared to 18 per 100,000). This reassured me on the importance of making the film, as the three of us personally knew people who died after taking impure substances.

Other help I was offered was in relation to the graffiti element, I originally planned on having Bailey paint cutting, ironic paintings that reflected his cynicism. Lewis and Brandon thought this was unrealistic, and if they were doing graffiti it would be something small and simple as to not get caught in the act, like a penis for example. This is where this element came from, and when I realised I had been in Edinburgh too long and needed a look back at the archives of my youth.

I looked through old photographs of the TYT to research costumes and props and remembered that to avoid the police we would drink alcohol with mixers from 2L plastic bottles. I also found many locations for the film this way, recalling overgrown alleyways and side streets that we'd stop for a smoke in when kicking about. I later walked my dog Ghillie about the town, stopping off at my old haunts to get a feel for the film's setting, the stark contrast between the beauty of the countryside and the dire state of the council schemes was a primary takeaway during these wanders.

I wrote a draft of the script while I was at home, the first of three, that would change dramatically as I worked through it with Kate.

Script Development

1st Draft

In the first draft, Bailey was instead Tupac, which was of immediate concern to the course tutors, having his actions and character associated with a pop culture icon would detract from the characters individuality and so the name was changed.

Structurally, the script had no inciting incident, at least not until the 5th and 6th pages. This was far too late, and meant the viewer could lose interest in Tupac and Trig's meandering before Laura informing Tupac about the circumstances of Jamie's death propels the plot forward. There was a lot of fat to trim, namely an emotional conversation between Tupac and Laura following the revelation that was unnecessary and too student film for me, and was also unrealistic as canonically Laura would not willingly spend this much time with Tupac.

It also opened with a flashback of Tupac, Trig, and Jamie messing about down the beach on the night of his death. This fundamentally broke the principles of realism that I was trying to instil, and laid things out too plainly, without room for interpretation.

It had some good stuff in it, but was rough and the pacing was off, so Kate encouraged me to make the climactic incident of the script, the confrontation with Conner, instead the inciting incident near the beginning, switching it around.

2nd Draft

In the second draft the film kicks off at a pace with the revelation from Laura and the confrontation with the dealer wrapping up by the fourth page. This effectively instigated Bailey's vendetta against his hometown, but fundamentally meant the film lost momentum after this point. Also, this draft muddied Bailey's motivation, as him being drunk was the primary reason for him and Trig's fallout. This is an entirely separate theme that was not developed and so needed the chop.

As an exercise in building tension, it was clear the confrontation had to be positioned at the end of the film as the pacing was way off, so I returned to this structure in the third draft.

3rd Draft

The structure of this draft is one I am sticking with, a kind of jakey detective narrative that gives the film and its characters great momentum until its climax.

The inciting incident is Bailey's conversation with Laura, but instead of knowing where to go right away, Bailey and Trig set off to question those who were with Jamie near the end of his life to find the person responsible. They start at Jamie's old workplace, the local joinery, which leads them to the town nightclub, where they find some jakeys who know the dealer who gave Jamie the deadly dose.

This structure worked perfectly, establishing motivation from scene to scene, and involving the audience in the mystery of Jamie's death, learning as the film progresses.

The climactic scenes of this draft were the confrontation with the dealer Conner, and a following argument between Bailey and Trig over the ethics of letting rage out on people who are innocent.

Both of these scenes perfectly foreshadow Trig's death, showing Bailey's true colours and introducing Trig to a drug dealer.

4th and Final Draft

There were only minor changes to be made as I worked on my final draft, mainly in trimming the fat in new scenes added in the "mystery narrative."

I say the changes were minor, but the ending of the film in which Bailey takes the drugs was also changed, as many people interpreted this as a suicide attempt understandably, which was a bit too bleak for my liking. Instead, Bailey sits down next to Trig's body, spending a moment with him in deep introspection before all of the shit goes down.

This was as good as it gets, and Kate's help was invaluable in exploring the many different routes these characters could take in their odyssey to land on the perfect one.

In conclusion

I've learned so much over this past semester about screenwriting and story structure. My skills in pacing, writing character arcs, and subtext has vastly improved over the course of writing In the Breeks. I hope to adapt the script at a later date as I still think it is a story that needs told, but am satisfied with the work I have done for this module.

[canary3d-obsessed]

Restless Rewatch: The Untamed, Episode 33 part two

(Masterpost) (Pinboard)

Warning! Spoilers for All 50 Episodes!

Side Note: As you know, I mostly except for sex scenes try not to compare CQL to its parent work, MDZS, because I think different works should get to be their own things. But I do love the book and all its many adaptations, and in case you want to dive into all of that, I’ve put together a roundup of everything I’m aware of (Novel, Donghua, Manhua, etc.) that’s available in English, and where to find them. That post is over here.  

Morning in Cloud Recesses

It’s morning, and by the time Wei Wuxian gets out of bed, Lan Wangji has already stretched, made breakfast, folded the laundry, and gone to play his guqin by the waterfall.

Wei Wuxian steps outside and takes a deep breath, happy to be staying in a place that doesn’t smell like lava or corpses.

He wanders through the oddly empty cloud recesses, hallucinating about happier times. These are not normal flashbacks; he is in the frame, watching, while things happen in the past.  

Eh, that’s ok, he’s been through a lot. Hallucinations aren’t uncommon with PTSD.

At each memory, he smiles warmly, until the present day catches up and his mood crashes back down.

This repeats until he reaches the library, where he remembers (in a normal desaturated flashback) showing porn to Lan Wangji and how mad he got. A bit of a smile stays with him after that.

(more after the cut!)

Bunny Kisses

Then he finds the rabbits, two of whom cheer him up by smooching, like he wishes he and Lan Wangji would do.

As a stand-in for a human kissing scene, this is cute, as long as we anthropomorphize them so that their sniffing of each others faces counts as kissing. It’s definitely better than watching those birds from The Long Ballad.

(I adore The Long Ballad and have watched it three times so far, and that is three times more than I ever needed to see a bird’s tongue)

Return of the Bathing Beauty Trope

Then Wei Wuxian finds Lan Wangji in the cold spring. Let’s compare this encounter to the previous time they met each other here, so many years ago.

Then: Baby Wei Wuxian sees Lan Wangji and *sprints* down the stairs to be near him, even though they don’t really get along yet. 

He’s completely delighted to see him, not at all deterred by the unfriendly reception.

Now: Grown up Wei Wuxian reacts with with a fond smile, similar to the way he’s reacted to all the memories he’s been replaying. 

The smile fades, and he approaches with absolutely none of the exuberance of his youth.

He just has...no joy. Not in living, not in being around Lan Wangji. But he’s sought him out as unerringly as he did in his youth, all the same.

Then: Baby Lan Wangji realizes Wei Wuxian is approaching, takes a millisecond to consider the situation, and immediately goes to put clothes on. He’s fully covered by the time Wei Wuxian reaches the shore.

Now: Grown-up Lan Wangji sees Wei Wuxian, and just...sits there...while Wei Wuxian looks at him. He’s got his hair pulled over his shoulder so his back is on display, too.

Lan Wangji is never going to tell Wei Wuxian about his scars, but I think he wants him to see, to understand that Things Have Happened in his own life while Wei Wuxian was gone. Talking isn’t really his thing, so he’s showing him instead.  

(These unobtrusive scars, incidentally, are what happens when a character is extremely scarred but is being portrayed by a half-naked Wang Yibo. The producers aren’t going to give up a thirst opportunity for the sake of medical verisimilitude.)

I think he’s also deliberately letting Wei Wuxian see how beautiful he looks without his many layers of robes on. He sits still, being looked at, for 30 seconds of screen time, and then he turns around to show off his tiddies.

Unfortunately that’s when Wei Wuxian notices the burn on his chest, which wasn’t what Lan Wangji was going for, so he--slowly--gets out and puts his clothes on.

This burn scar is never discussed in the show, although the book explains it. I think if you haven’t read the book you can still guess that Lan Wangji did it to himself out of grief. This is a literal mark of Lan Wangji’s devotion--one he’s not ready for Wei Wuxian to understand just yet.

Continuing the comparison: in the past, it was Wei Wuxian trying to get close to Lan Wangji, as Lan Wangji resisted.

In the present, Wei Wuxian doesn’t need to push; Lan Wangji comes to him. Lan Wangji has, in the course of 12 hours, invited Wei Wuxian so far into his life and has shown Wei Wuxian so much of himself that he might as well have embroidered "down to fuck" on the front of his robes. 

Before this, Wei Wuxian had never seen his house, not seen his hair without several chunks of silver in it, not heard him play guqin other than for medical purposes, and definitely hadn't been given a generous eyeful of his elegant torso and swanlike neck.

Seeing Lan Wangji’s various scars, Wei Wuxian starts to get out of his own head a bit, and begins to think about the person Lan Wangji has become in his absence.  He demands--not via his usual whining, but with quiet authority--to know what happened.

This gets him absolutely nowhere, because Lan Wangji is the stubbornest person on Earth. He let Wei Wuxian look, and that’s all the communicating he plans to do on this subject. 

He knows perfectly well that he has an interfering older brother who will eventually explain everything for him.  

Failmaster Qiren

The tension is broken by the arrival of some juniors, who say that Lan Qiren tried to communicate with the sword spirit, and it kicked his ass. This happens to him more often than it should.

There are a lot of funny moments in The Untamed, many of them deliberate, but some caused by the challenges of a big production with complicated continuity. For me, nothing will ever be funnier than the fact that, on his way to save his uncle from the homicidal sword spirit, Lan Wangji stopped to do his hair.

Outside the sword room, Wei Wuxian demonstrates one of his core skills: busting through barriers in the Cloud Recesses.

None of the juniors can get past this door that he’s easily blasting open, but they all still believe that this dude with Lan Wangji is second-rate cultivator Mo Xuanyu.

Flute Recital

Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian start playing "Rest" to the sword, but then Wei Wuxian realizes that Lan Qiren is going to recognize him if he plays the flute well...while not wearing a mask...or something? This is one of those moments where it would make a lot more sense if Mo Xuanyu did not look like Wei Wuxian, but we would all be sad if either version of Wei Wuxian did not look like Xiao Zhan, so let’s roll with it.

To hide his real abilities, and because he is a compulsive troll, Wei Wuxian launches into an extra-shitty rendition of WangXian, which is apparently bad enough to knock Lan Qiren out again.

Lan Wangji takes a moment to wonder why he had to be born a clownosexual, exclusively attracted to clowns. One clown in particular.

Now the mystery-solving part of the story gets rolling. Wei Wuxian picks up the sword, which is smoking with resentment, to get a read on it.  It screams at him like the Xuanwu sword did, back in the good old days.

Wei Wuxian shudders and gasps sexily, and then falls into Lan Wangji's waiting arms.

Lan Wangji suddenly feels totally fine about his clownosexuality.

Party in the Jingshi

Later, at the Jingshi, Wei Wuxian expertly twirls his flute just like that one Yiling Laozu guy was known for doing while Lan Wangji and several disciples tend to Lan Qiren.

Lan Wangji has put Lan Qiren in his own bed, the same bed Wei Wuxian was sleeping in 12 hours ago. I'd say Lan Wangji has the busiest bed in the Cloud Recesses, except that we all know that honor belongs to Lan Xichen.

The disciples gossip about the resentful energy, and one of them wonders aloud if the Yiling Laozu has taken over a new host body. That earns him a nearly lethal dose of stink-eye from Lan Wangji.

Lan Wangji finishes checking his uncle’s pulse and puts his hand down but does not tuck him in, because his uncle is not named Wei Wuxian.

We get our first clue that Lan Wangji is actually Lan Sizhui's dad when he vaguely dismisses the whole group of disciples, but sends Lan Sizhui, specifically, to bed.

Hot-grumpy-dad Lan Wangji is my favorite. We don’t see him in this mood a lot at this age, particularly not when he’s busy making googly eyes at Wei Wuxian. But his worry for Lan Qiren seems to have brought back a slice of his angsty, angry younger self. *sizzle noise*

Lan Sizhui tries to argue about bedtime and gets shut down, so he verbally acquiesces to what his dad told him to do. Then he fucks off and does what he wants to do instead. It’s nice to see that Lan Wangji has raised a normal teenager.  

Sizhui goes outside and chats with his other dad for a while. He doesn't know yet that this is his other dad, of course, just that his father has a new, cool boyfriend who can probably score much better weed than that crap Jingyi's always bragging about.  

Wei Wuxian is a kind, serious authority figure in his conversations with Lan Sizhui; not silly or teasing as he is with Lan Jingyi.  He tells Sizhui him not to blame himself for what happened at the Mo manor, and compliments his learning and thought processes.

I Trust You

In the morning, Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji talk on the porch. Lan Qiren taking the only bed means they probably didn't have the fun night Lan Wangji had been hoping for. Also, while they are getting along well, Wei Wuxian isn't comfortable with him yet; he asks if Lan Wangji suspects him, when they talk about the haunted sword.

Lan Wangji takes the opportunity to tell him, emphatically, “Of course, I believe you.” This is the same “trust/believe” ( 信 ) that was hanging between them the previous evening, and Lan Wangji is taking steps to rectify the problem.

Fortunately, Wei Wuxian is helplessly in love with Lan Wangji, and has a very forgiving nature, so they will get comfortable with each other very quickly. They work out that Xue Yang must have recreated the Yin tiger seal using his own piece of Yin Metal.

Guest Lecturer

Next, Lan Wangji gathers a roomful of disciples together to listen to Yiling Laozu’s lecture on the topic of resentful energy and this demonic sword. (Lan Qiren wakes up, feels a disturbance in the force, faints again).

Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian also flirt in front of the whole class.  Features of this flirtation include Wei Wuxian doing this...thing with his flute and his mouth while he leans on Lan Wangji.

This one time, at band camp...

Theoretically, this move of Lan Wangji’s, where he steps away while Wei Wuxian is leaning on him, could be read as “doesn’t like to be touched.” Except grown-up Lan Wangji is happy to touch Wei Wuxian, and everyone’s faces say that this is Lan Wangji indulging in a moment of playfulness.

Lan Jingyi is slightly horrified, but Lan Sizhui is practically ecstatic about this development. He and Wei Wuxian have a little nonverbal conversation in which Lan Sizhui gives him the opposite of a shovel talk.

Lan Sizhui is the president of the Let's Get Hanguang-Jun Laid club. Jingyi will join up soon.

On The Road Again

Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian leave Gusu on a pair of horses that are never seen again; why does Wei Wuxian ride a donkey if they've got horses? *shrug.*

They go into Qinghe and walk through the market; Wei Wuxian lighthearted and interested in his surroundings in a way he hasn't been since he was young. Lan Wangji seems comfortable in the crowd; a contrast to his early travels.

A vendor is selling Yiling Laozu merch. Wei Wuxian is offended by their ugliness, explaining that the Yiling Patriarch was one of the most beautiful men in the world, with many successful sponsorship deals.

Just then Jin Ling shows up, because the cultivation world is like 3 city blocks wide and everyone lives on the same block. He attacks the vendor for daring to mention Wei Wuxian in public.  

This is my father’s font! I won’t put it down!

The stunt here involves the vendor getting yanked on a wire into a produce table, without knocking it over. One radish falls on the ground but the table doesn’t break into splinters and the air is not filled with flying veggies.  

If you are accustomed to American TV and movies, seeing someone hit a produce table or cart without destroying a massive quantity of produce is positively surreal.

Wei Wuxian realizes that Jin Ling’s personality is an unfortunate combination of Jin Zixuan and Jiang Cheng. He decides that he should try to instill some of Jiang Yanli’s virtues in him. He puts his mask on and starts a conversation with Jin Ling.

Enter Fairy, the fluffy adorable dog, who is an exemplar of Wei Wuxian's deep fear of dogs. Fairy is also is a catalyst for a sudden onset of broad comedic acting in our leading man. Wei Wuxian screams and runs away as Fairy slooowly chases him.

[draco-spencers-paramour]

hi love❤️❤️

i don’t know if your requests are open right now (if they aren’t you can just ignore this-) but if they are…

i saw this tiktok and i think it’s to good to not make into a fic. i know u are an amazing writer and u can do this fic justice❤️

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZM8oSXP59/

love u❤️❤️ and thanks if u do this💛

omg absolutely!! i watched this tiktok and loved it!! Thank you so much for the compliment i love u xx

draco x GN!Reader

I’ll take care of it, okay?

warnings: mentions of severe bullying, bad flashbacks for draco (ie. death threats), angst, having kids, fluff

You and draco sat on the sofa, fire crackling softly in the slytherin common room. Your legs stretched across his lap as you lay along sofa, him sitting upright with a book in his hand. You focused on the emerald hues of the flames in the fireplace as they arose before seeping back down towards the logs keeping it alight.

You both smiled taking in each other’s company, barely noticing a small first year entering the common room, sniffling lightly. She played with the hems of her sleeve, almost terrified to approach Draco but helpless. Draco stroked his hand along your knee “What are you thinking about darling?” he asked you as you gazed at him. “Oh nothing, I’m just thinking about whe-.” You only noticed the timid girl when she stood behind him and interrupted you.

“Excuse me.” she squeaked quietly. Your heads turned to her, Draco scowling lightly at the interruption. Her small frame cowered even more before she stuttered “I just- uhm…” his face began to look more concerned, as did yours, examining her own and Draco realised she had been crying. “What is it?” he asked. She looked at him a little less terrified, her voice breaking as she told him what had occurred “Some guys from Ravenclaw were mean to me and I- I..” You both looked at one another with a sympathetic expression, feeling sorry for the girl struggling to get her words out.

This was one of the many reasons you fell in love with Draco. He cared about others. Although he used to be labelled as the school tormentor, since being with you for the past 3 years his insults and remarks became less and less until one day he just completely stopped. He rarely acknowledges Harry anymore and that was surprising to everyone. The younger years never dared to approach him but Draco most definitely had a soft spot for children and you knew he wanted some of his own with you one day, to give them the love he never received from his own parents.

Draco turned back to her “What did they do?” he questioned lightly. Fresh tears produced in her eyes “They said that I’m just as bad as V- you know who…and…that I didn’t belong here.” his heart broke for the blubbering girl in front of him. Sadly, Draco related to the situation. feeling the light sting of the death mark that stung in his forearm burning into his veins when the girl explained herself.

He’ll never forget 5th year when students would shout vile things at him in the hallway ‘drop dead, Malfoy. fucking deatheater’ Cormac mcleaggen had once said and ‘You belong in a cell with your precious darklord, rotting in Azkaban for the rest of your miserable life.’ Oliver wood shouted at him and everytime Draco did absolutely nothing but lower his head trying not to cry. But you held Dracos hand and loved him the entire way despite what everyone thought. Lying with him on the nights he sobbed his heart out and supporting him on the days he’d be angry at the world. You were there. Things were far better now, he still received looks of course but they all know the truth.

Draco stared straight at the girl making sure she took in his words “Tell me their names and I’ll take care of it. And from now on always come to me when something happens, understand?” her youthful face turned up into a hopeful smile “Yes Mr Malfoy.” he smiled back “Call me Draco.” She nodded and wandered off to the dorms.

Your heart could not fathom the love and pride you felt for Draco. He turned back towards you matching your warm and loving expression

“I love you.” you mumbled softly.

“I love you Y/N. So much.” he gently replied, holding your hand before placing a kiss upon it.

hope you like it ❤️

[destielomegaversebigbang]

Leaving Hell Behind

by AnnetheCatDetective | art by Solstheimart

Omega Dean Winchester, trafficked in his youth and passed around until he found himself in hell, escapes captivity, knowing that belonging to Alastair is a death sentence and seizing his one opportunity for freedom, but he’s naked, badly injured, and doesn’t even know where in the world he’s been taken. Castiel is a highly unconventional alpha– a writer and nature photographer who shares a house with his equally unconventional brother, a hotshot omega doctor– and when he’s clearing out of the house on one of Gabriel’s date nights, his wanderings put Dean right in his path.

Rating: Explicit

Warnings & Tags: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Gabriel/Rowena MacLeod, Minor Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester, Past Dean Winchester/Others, Warning: Alastair, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Past Torture, Injury Recovery, Rape Recovery, True Mates, Alpha Castiel/Omega Dean Winchester, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Protective Castiel, Caring Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Hurt Dean Winchester, Bad Parent John Winchester, Slow Build Castiel/Dean Winchester, Gentle Sex, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex, Knotting, Dean Winchester Has Self-Worth Issues, Dean Winchester Has a Vagina, Demisexual Castiel, Writer Castiel, Photographer Castiel, Gardener Castiel, Artist Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester Cooks, Doctor Gabriel, Lawyer Sam Winchester, Caring Rowena MacLeod, Caring Gabriel, Omega Gabriel, Autistic Castiel, Autistic Dean Winchester, Selectively Mute Dean Winchester, Bobby Singer is Dean Winchester’s Parent, Dean Winchester is Sam Winchester’s Parent, Pregnant Dean Winchester, Pregnant Dean Winchester

POSTING AUGUST 27, 2022

Check the cut for an excerpt

Excerpt: 

    Downstairs, he gets the omega settled in front of the TV, with a lightweight throw blanket and a couple more pillows, before he starts reviewing his photographs on the tablet, wanting work that he wouldn’t need to be in his office to do.

   “I wanted to photograph jackrabbits at dusk, the other night. That’s why I was out, when I found you.” He explains, as the omega flips through channels, wide-eyed. “Other things, too. But I was hoping for a jackrabbit. I don’t suppose your name is Jack? Mm, pity. Well… I’m still glad I found you, instead– I don’t like to think about what could have happened to you if I hadn’t… You remind me of them.”

   He has to go through older photos, before he finds one he can turn to show the omega, a curious young black-tailed jackrabbit that had chanced approaching him when he was lying flat on his front– not that it had gotten too close, but it had been close enough to get some good shots, and it had watched him, wary but interested. Skinny limbs and bright eyes, always poised for flight, something wild and beautiful and too aware of all the predators in the world, and yet for a moment it was willing to browse the grass in Castiel’s presence, to gamble on the thought that he might not hurt him, even though creatures not so different from him were certainly a threat.

   Something on the television tears his attention from the tablet, and the omega motions to the screen, excited. Rebel Without A Cause. He thumps at his chest, then points again.

   “Your name is James?” He guesses. “Jim? Dean? Hello, Dean.”

[tommysparker]

Never Forget You [Chapter 1]

Obi-Wan Kenobi x Jedi!Reader

A/N: here’s the first official chapter! thank you so much for the support this series as already gotten. chapters will be posted every Saturday! enjoy :)

Warnings: angst. fluffy flashbacks. this isn’t even the worst of it mwhaha. paragraphed italics = flashback

                                            [10 YEARS LATER] 

The sky was as blue as his eyes. Not as dark and cloudy, but gave the same feeling of hope, peacefulness, and comfort. You could picture them vividly in your mind, even the small crinkle at the edges and the kindness they held, a warmness that matched your current aurora.  

The two of you sat in the gardens for what felt like hours, deep in meditation. Your force signatures quickly became entangled with one another, your bond radiating around you, creating almost a shield bubble between the rest of the world and the two who sat inside. 

Obi-Wan was the first to open his eyes, having never been one to sit still for long periods of time. He’s improved since he was a youngling, but still had a long way to go. 

You, on the other hand, looked completely invested in your meditation. Your face was relaxed, although every now and then your eyebrows would furrow as you tried to maintain concentration. It was hard when a certain other was very distracting, even if he wasn’t aware of it. 

“I can feel you staring,” you said, eyes still closed. Obi-Wan was thankful for that fact because it means you wouldn’t see him blush in embarrassment from getting caught. 

“I can feel you blushing, too.” This time, you opened your eyes and smiled. “I knew you wouldn’t last long.” Anytime the two of you tried to meditate together, it would always end with Obi-Wan getting bored and asking to duel instead. 

He quickly hid his face, pulling the hood of his robe over his head. “I’m not blushing, that’s childish.” 

You giggled, leaning forward to lift the front of his hood. “Obi-Wan, you are the most childish person I know.” 

The young man was about to protest before you hushed, eyes already closed once more as you returned to your deep state of awareness. 

You opened your eyes and sighed, long and deep. 

Standing up from the cold floor of your room, you looked out the window and gazed at the cloudy sky of Gyfill. The air felt chilly from the lack of life-forms in the area. After your first week on the planet, you decided it was a safer idea to seek shelter away from town. Considering your mission was to spy on the local Separatist groups, keeping a low profile was essential. 

Today was different, however. The same cold and dull atmosphere were present, but the future is what held the divergent. For today, was the day you were finally to return home. 

Home. The word itself felt familiar but distant. As a Jedi, you trained to hold little sentimental value. Attachments were forbidden, a path to the dark side. They provoked fear. Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering. 

Once your bag of belongings was packed, you made your way to the marked location someone from the Jedi council sent earlier that morning. Mentally, you were not prepared to see everyone again. After being isolated for years and having limited contact with any life form outside of business, the many faces from your time at the Temple became slightly blurry. Except for his. 

Obi-Wan Kenobi was on his way to the Archives when he bumped into Ahsoka Tano. 

“Oh, Master Kenobi! Perfect, I was about to go look for you.” 

“Ahsoka,” he smiled. “What can I do for you?” 

“Who’s Y/n Y/l/n?” 

Obi-Wan froze. The sound of that name echoed in his mind, paired with memories that he had locked away in the back of his mind. “Well...that’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time,” was all he could manage to say, still trying to process all the past recollections that suddenly surfaced. 

“So, you know them?” 

“Uh, yes I suppose so. We were...close as younglings and trained together as Padawans. They were...the most skilled Jedi I ever had the pleasure of knowing, almost as good as Master Yoda.” 

“If they’re so great, how come I never heard of them before?” Ahsoka tilted her head and raised an eyebrow, resting a hand on her hip in classic ‘Ashoka manner’, 

“They were sent away on an important mission years ago as far as I know. Er, why do you ask? And how did you come to know of that name?” 

“Oh right. Anakin said the Chancellor told him that Master Y/l/n was returning today. He told me to ask you about it.” 

Once again, Obi-Wan’s world paused. 

He stood across from you, trying to maintain a neutral expression as he watched you load your bags onto the ship. However, you knew him better than that. 

You walked up to the young boy and he took in your appearance. Gone was the braid that draped over your shoulder. Gone were the long robes you liked to hide in, in their place was a heavy jacket that looked like it was built to keep out the cold. Perhaps you were going to Hoth? 

“Obi, you know I can’t tell you where I’m going. Master Windu was strict about his instructions,” You sighed, sensing your friend trying to deduce as much as he could. Your Master was very clear when he told you how classified the mission was. No one can know, especially Obi-Wan. 

“Can you at least say how long you’ll be gone?” He practically begged, wanting something, anything he could get to keep his hope alive. Hope that you'll return soon. Hope that you weren’t truly leaving him. 

You looked away, staring at the towers and passing hover-vehicles that littered the planet you’ve grown up on. “I don’t know.” 

Everything had happened so suddenly. You were called into the council room that day to hear the news every Padawan dreams of. When Master Windu said you were ready for the trials, the first thing you went to do was tell Obi-Wan. The two of you celebrated that night in the gardens, a moment you would treasure for the rest of your life. Soon after you gained the title of Jedi Knight, you were once again called into the Jedi Council room to be debriefed on your first mission as a proper Jedi. You didn’t want to mess this up. You couldn’t. 

Obi-Wan resists the urge to pull you into a hug and never let you go, instead opting to hold your shoulders and give you his signature charming smile. “Be safe, darling.” 

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. You held his wrist, bringing his knuckles to your lips and pressed a hesitant kiss to them before pushing them to his side. “May the force be with you.” 

There was no pet name at the end, no ‘my friend’ or even his own name. It was a sentence that was meant to bring comfort, but the way you phrased it, the edge in your voice, made Obi-Wan feel everything but comforted. 

He didn’t get the luxury of responding, for all he did was blink and suddenly you were on the ship, taking off into the clear blue sky. 

You gazed at the clouds passing by as the ship flew into Coruscant’s atmosphere. The bright light and sunny day was a harsh change from the grey sky that fell over Gyfill. The energy emitting off of all the life-forms gave you a headache. You felt the Force all around you, swirling in the air and penetrating your soul. It was like a breath of fresh air after drowning for over a decade. 

You flinched at the light as the door opened, suddenly feeling like a hermit crawling out of its shell. Slowly walking out of the ship, you pulled the cloak hood over your head, inhaling the strange but familiar scent of the Jedi Temple. You were still wearing your Gyfill civilian attire, the wool fabric made the Coruscant heat much more intense causing a few beads of sweat to form on your forehead. Or was it just the nerves of seeing all the people you left behind? 

Master Windu stood at the end of the drop door, a smile on his face at the sight of his former Padawan. It was an occasion that called for a little joy, a moment to celebrate outside the war that raged through the galaxy. 

You descended down the ramp, taking in a sharp breath at the feeling of another force sensitive. “Master Windu”. You bowed your head and he did the same to you. 

“Master Y/l/n, it’s great to see you in person rather than as a hologram.” 

You both chuckled lightly. “The feeling is mutual, Master. It’s...it’s good to be back.” Your eyes wandered over the people that roamed about. Jedi Masters walked with their Padawans at their side. Distant memories resonated within you. Some time ago that was once you and your Master, the man who stands before you know who has grown significantly older. Then again, so have I, you thought to yourself. 

Unbeknownst to you, you weren’t the only one registering your growth. Obi-Wan stood behind a pillar, glancing over the hanger in search of a familiar face. He was aware it would not be the same face he knew as a young boy, but he certainly was not prepared for what he saw. 

You look older, which was the obvious and expected observation. He noted how you wrapped yourself in your cloak, similar to how you would in your youth. You stood tall in front of Master Windu, another trait you had kept since your days as a Padawan. He remembered how you would always act mature in the presence of Masters, something he never really understood until becoming a Jedi Knight. The need for approval by the superiors was a constant.

It wasn’t just your appearance that had changed either. He could feel it in the Force. There was a shift in it when you had landed that made an excited yet nervous chill run down his spine. You were stronger and held more control in your signature. 

Before, he remembers being able to feel it from across the Temple. Now, it was barely there. He remembers feeling your bond drift farther as he watched you leave, and how it had dimmed over the years you were gone. He remembers the pain that tortured him every night as he laid awake in bed, trying to reach out across the stars but only being met with the vast emptiness of space. There was something in him that broke the first time he slept without having a tendril of your force signature connected with his. He felt cold, resorting to sleeping in his Master’s quarters in an attempt to ease the loneliness. 

Overall, it would appear that nothing about you had changed, and yet it seemed everything was different. Almost everything. 

His eyes were just as blue as the last time you saw them. They looked tired, haunted by the ongoing war but still filled with determination. Classic Obi-Wan. 

You quickly broke eye contact the moment it was made, but that one second was more than enough for Obi-Wan to get lost in the familiar colour. His favourite colour in fact, not that he would ever admit you had any part in the decision. 

“Master Obi-Wan?” 

He jumped at the sound of a voice and suddenly became aware of the presence right next to him, that presence belonging to none other than Master Yoda. 

“Master Yoda! I er I was just...uh...looking...for Anakin! Yes, uh have you seen him around by any chance?” Obi-Wan quickly tried to cover his stutter, feeling embarrassed about getting caught gazing from afar. Not that Master Yoda would know he was looking at you...right?

“I see,” the little green creature smirked in amusement. “Whatever it is, wait it can. Council meeting about to begin there is.” 

Obi-Wan furrowed his eyes. Typically he was able to keep a good track of the meetings, but this was news to him. “What’s it about?” 

“Master Y/l/n.”  

“Hmm?” You hummed absentmindedly.  

“Are you listening?” Master Windu raised an eyebrow.

“Oh uh, my apologies Master. I’m just...readjusting.” You tried to focus your attention on what Master Windu was saying, but the recognition of his presence made it difficult. For years, you tried to forget about him. You ignored the empty feeling in your stomach at night, the thoughts and memories that plagued your dreams. After some time, they eventually began to fade but never forgotten. It was for the best. 

Master Windu crossed his arms. “There will be plenty of time for that after your debrief of the mission. Master Yoda and the rest of the council await.”

Oh, Force, not the council. 

You would never dare to admit or even show it, but the council and being in the council room had always intimidated you. How could it not? You had to stand in the center of all the best Jedi of that era while they stare at you, judging you, sitting high and mighty in those stupid chairs.  

“This way, my old Padawan.” 

You followed Master Windu through the large halls of the Jedi Temple. You masked the nervousness that was no doubt radiating from your force signature. A multitude of thoughts ran through your mind, good and bad. Worst case scenario, you had done something so wrong that you were about to be kicked out of the Jedi Order. Nothing came to mind when you tried to think of any offence you had committed in the recent weeks since you earned the title of Jedi Knight. 

You were pulled out of your thoughts by the sound of the large council room doors opening, the creaking of the hinges made you cringe slightly.  

The room was ominously lit, the only light source being the setting sun shining through the glass windowed walls. Master Yoda sat in his seat. All the other chairs were empty. 

Master Windu took his seat as you stood before the two of them. He could see the questions rise from your confused facial expression. “Everything we discuss in this room stays between us, young Jedi.” 

You nodded, inhaling and exhaling slowly in an attempt to calm yourself. “Master Windu, Master Yoda. What is this about? Have I done something wrong?” 

The two men looked at each other and shared an unreadable expression before turning back to you. Master Yoda was the first to speak. “Sending you on a mission we are. To Gyfill you will go.” 

Whatever anxieties that you held before were washed away with this information. You contain your excitement, but the sudden mood shift was still noticeable. “Who am I going with? When do we leave? What’s the mission for?” It was rare that a Jedi would be sent on a mission alone, typically you were partnered up for safety measures. Obi-Wan’s face flashed in your mind, and although it was unlikely, a small part of you hoped he would be going with you. 

“This mission only requires one Jedi. There’s a Separaist organization on the planet and we’re sending you to gain intel and report back to us. No one outside of this room can be aware of this information. You leave within the week. Understood?” 

You frowned, “Forgive me Master, but why can’t anyone know?” The idea of having to leave your home seemingly without a trace made you iffy. Obi-Wan once again appeared in your mind. 

Master Windu and Yoda exchanged a look before Windu responded almost hesitantly. “We have reason to believe someone in the Order is a traitor, and the number of people who are trustworthy is very limited.” 

“You mean someone has betrayed us?” You asked in shock. How could anyone do such a thing? And a Jedi nonetheless. 

“Time to answer your questions, there will be, young one. Prepare for your first mission now, you must.” Master Yoda said. “Prepare to say goodbye you should.” 

It was as IF he could read your mind, which he probably could. You dreaded the idea of saying goodbye, especially when it was clear that there was no guarantee of your return date. How would you explain to your friends that you won’t be around anymore? What will Obi-Wan think? 

“That is another subject that needs to be discussed.” 

————————————————————————————

what else needs to be discussed? who’s the traitor? how will obi-wan and y/n get on after all this time? lemme know what you think!!

taglist: @queenariesofnarnia @dwarfplanet69 @katsukink @blondekel77 @generousrunawaydonut @fandomtrashwhore @fortheloveofaqueenfan @mrskenobi19 @mellowstatesmanhandsempath @hotleaf-juice

[cafeinthemoon]

Portrait of a Monk - Chapter IV (UPDATED)

Chapter 4

Wordcount 2,2k

Title Familiar

Fandom Jujutsu Kaisen

Previous chapters

1 . 2 . 3

Symbols ⭕ . ➕ . 🖤

Warning (s): implied religious fanaticism, manipulation, loss of the sense of reality

Tagging @darling-imobsessed @telvess @wasurenagusaa (if you want to be tagged in any of my stories, just send an ask or a message 😉)

N. A.: I decided to rewrite this story specially bc I wasn't satisfied with the purpose I've chose for the portrait itself, so this subject will be discussed in the next updated chapter. It means that this one will be cut by half and have its name changed. The time between the events was also cut from years to weeks, as the whole story happens when reader is an adult and not since her childhood as the story's previous version. Maybe some scenes and sentences disappear due to the alterations, but I hope you continue to enjoy this ff :)

So I've been trapped in the last paragraphs of this chapter and thought I would never overcome it, but finally it's here! Ugh

Something that I want to explain about these flashbacks/dreams is that reader will experience them more often and more intensely as time passes and Geto continues to interfere with his presence. There's a Jujutsu technique involved in this, as I said before, and many other subtleties are connected to it as well.

About the use of "my child" and "child": it's a condescending nickname used by Geto to refer, not only to her, but to all the people in that temple under his administration, as much as "father" is used by those people as an expression of respect and devotion towards him. Reader calls him father in this sense, and not because she sees him as a parental figure.

In the past

You left the company of the portrait before the first ray of sun entered the place and went back to your small room at the opposite wing of the temple. Fortunately for you, there were no people in the corridors yet, so that you wouldn’t be scolded or inquired about your activities…

Which didn’t mean you felt alone while crossing them.

All over the way, since you closed the room’s door behind you, the memory of the monk followed you until you reached your own place, the image so vivid that you could swear you had his eyes on your back all the time. You laid on your own bed and tried to close your eyes, but the sensation would only increase. As you should expect, it would be with you during the rest of that day, and the ones that came after it. But what was that weight you felt in your chest whenever you saw the portrait in your memories? Was it fear? No, it couldn’t be that simple. Was it shame? No, what did you do to feel ashamed? It was something else, something you couldn’t explain with your limited vocabulary, but it was too real to be denied. Maybe it was the talent of the artist that has left you in awe, or it might have been the mystery behind their work: why did the elders leave it there with all those old, useless things? Did they forget about it? Well, how could someone even forget about something like that?

And who was that man, anyway? One of the elders in his youth, or maybe a monk who lived there long ago? Or was he just a symbol of the enlightened people, as the elders liked to call the ones who succeeded in fighting the curses, and no one in particular? No, he couldn’t be no one.

And without the ways to discover any satisfying information about it, your innocent mind wandered toward a fantastic obsession.

Of course, you wouldn’t see it that way, but the effects of this fixation were nonetheless felt in every possible aspect: you would fall asleep thinking about the portrait, and in the next morning, your first thought would be for it; you walked around the temple’s rooms taking care of your tasks with the sensation of his eyes on you, and behaved as if any wrong step or sentence could bring his disapproval over you. You would measure each word, each action to not let anyone know about your little fixation, and to your surprise, no one suspected the truth.

At night, you would sneak through the silent corridors and reach that lonely wing of the temple, only guided by the moonlight entering the gaps on the doors and by your own familiarity with the place, to lock yourself inside that room and rest on the portrait’s feet, sometimes admiring it, other times just standing there with your eyes closed. You always made sure you would not fall sleep there, assuming the risk of being discovered, but it was hard, even painful to leave that room: a tightness appeared in your throat every time you closed the door, and you would leave with a sadness deeper than the one you carried when you arrived.

***

Not only your work load grew twice in the temple since you recovered, but you were sent to study with the elders more often. They still haven’t talked about this to you, but you believed they were preparing you for important tasks outside the temple in the near future, something that certainly had connections with the cursed spirits: you’ve been learning more and more about them, their origins and the temple’s role towards them. You were told that cursed spirits were made of equally cursed energy, and that this energy was produced by humans, though not all of them were aware of this, and even less were able to optimize this energy. This was what you were supposed to do at the temple: to learn how to use this energy and deal with the creatures that were born from it. Usually, you would do it through your innate techniques, that is, abilities that you were born with and that you should develop in daily training sessions, aside physical exercises.

The elders would send you to the wild territories, as you used to call the groves under the temple’s rule, to find and exorcise the curses you found there: all the gates and walls were sealed against them, except for those places, under the purpose of preparing the students to unpredictable situations. Each person was allowed to use their knowledge and abilities as they pleased, as long as they didn’t harm each other; working in teams were recommended as well, but some of you would prefer to work alone.

That was your case, during these lessons and everything else.

You still used to visit the portrait’s room at night. It was true that you’ve spent less time in it than before, but your dedication to the figure of the monk remained the same, or has even deepened alongside your development. You would dream about him; in those dreams, he would wander through the secrets of life, the human heart and the birth of curses, and the future of humanity concerning the use of cursed energy. Any detail of the elders’ lessons that remained obscure to you would be clarified by him, and each doubt would be purged and replaced with a stronger conviction.

You also spent hours in the temple’s library, trying to find something about the artistic productions inside your community, the monks who lived there before you and what happened to them. Your researches haven’t brought meaningful results, but this only increased your curiosity and had you thinking deeply of your own position at the temple and among its people.

Whenever you talked or heard about the purpose in your lessons and activities, and even in some of your regular tasks, a name would often appear, almost always brought to the conversations by the elders – Geto Suguru. This name was never referred to in a light way, however: never the first name was pronounced without the surname alongside it, unless when one of its variations was used, but they would always wander around Geto–sama, Master Geto or even Our father, Geto.

You had a memory of being with him once when, after having crossed the wild territories all by yourself in a stormy night and survived the cursed spirits there, you were brought to the temple by this gentle stranger who lately was called Geto–sama by one of the elders, however you never looked directly at his face. Since that night, you haven’t seen him in any part of the temple, but this was justified by what you’ve heard the elders say about him having “many works to fulfill across the country, where other of his children lived, and he would spend time in their company, thus taking weeks to return to the first ones”. That was a shame, though: as far as you knew, there was no sign that Geto Suguru was going to return so soon to the temple, so you probably wouldn’t have the opportunity to thank him for taking care of you and accepting you among his children.

And the most agonizing part of it was that you knew the many questions you had concerning your own work, the curses and the portrait could only be answered by him.

***

You carried the pile of white sheets in both arms to the last room of the corridor, left it inside an arc, then rolled the futon and organized the things upon the furniture. You’ve been awake since six and were getting tired now: though it was a Sunday, you still had work to do, most of it including the preparations for the week. Besides, it was almost your lunch time and you were eager to finish this task, so that you wouldn’t have to go back to that part of the temple so soon.

When everything was ready, you stood up to leave. With a sigh, you slid the door to the side and walked away from it. Since the owners of those rooms were occupied with their own morning tasks, they wouldn’t be back right now, which was a relief: you always preferred to work alone, with almost no possibilities of being interrupted by unexpected requests or small talk that would only delay you.

Right now, you were alone at that wing, and by the silence on that corridor and the ones near it, you couldn’t say that someone was about to come...

That was why you gasped when, from the middle of the corridor, you saw someone passing on the opposite side, on the parallel hall.

The stranger walked slowly, his feet in white socks not making any sound upon the wooden floor, the traditional clothing of the elders floating around him, as well as his long, black hair, half tied, falling on thick strands behind his back. He wasn’t one of the elders, or at least none of the ones you knew; so why was he dressed like them, and what was he doing there?

You took one step toward him, but the moment you looked at his face, your mouth got dry and your feet were frozen on your spot, the rest of your body shaking with the sight – you recognized the man of the portrait. Imposing, out worldly as you remembered him, and not a single day aged, indicating that the portrait wasn’t as old as you always supposed.

He stopped and looked at your direction. With that, a sensation, a sort of pressure, was established between you and him, ceasing any intention from your part of running away. Did you just enter a dream or were you becoming insane at last?

Before you could decide for one of those alternatives, he turned to your corridor and took a step toward you. You clenched your fists in anxiety, your nails buried in your palms, waiting...

But the monk just smiled.

From your spot you heard his voice talking to you, and to your ears it sounded as soft as a spring breeze.

– Good morning. Among all my children, you are the first one I see today – he raised his hand and beckoned you – Come closer, my dear. Let me greet you properly.

You had no other choice but to obey: one couldn’t just not do as he said.

You didn’t recall when you started walking; when you noticed, you were already stopping in front of him, the living, breathing version of the image you’ve been dreaming about for so long. Despite your familiarity with each detail of the portrait, some differences didn’t go unnoticed by your observant eyes once you were near him: first, he was taller than you expected, so that you barely reached his shoulders; second, despite his serene manners and peaceful expression, it didn’t escape you the sharpness in his small eyes, examining you inside out in a way a lifeless portrait could never do, making you bow your head.

The man giggled and came closer to you, putting his fingers under your chin and raising it in a gentle, encouraging gesture.

– Judging by your reaction, I can tell this is the first time you see me. But there is nothing to be afraid of.

Those words, and the assuring tone in which they were said, soothed your mind and released your tongue.

– Actually, it is not!

He raised an eyebrow.

– What do you mean, dear?

You bit your lip.

– I am referring to what you just said, my Lord. That this is the first time I see you. Actually, your face is familiar to me.

– Is that so? – he seemed more and more curious – How?

– There is a portrait of yours in this temple – you explained – It's kept inside a room at another wing of the building. It has been there for a long time, and I happened to find it.

A new glow appeared in his eyes when he heard that.

– A portrait, you say? – he spoke more to himself than to you; then, turning back to you, – Can you show it to me?

You swallowed, then nodded.

– Of course, my Lord.

The monk smiled and offered his hand in response. You hesitated with the sudden invitation, but didn’t refuse it and put your hand on his palm. His fingers closed around yours, warm and soft as a childish memory... A memory you did have: you thought of the stormy night when that gentle stranger brought you to the temple and took care of you. A stranger that called all of its people his children, just like the monk was doing now. You remembered they calling that stranger a name – a name the elders used with deep respect.

You looked back at the man.

– Geto-sama...

He was already observing you with the smile you used to find in his beloved portrait.

– You already guessed, didn’t you? – he questioned, and for a moment you remembered the way he spoke to you in that stormy night – Now, let’s see this portrait you talked about. It must be important to you.

Important to you? How could you explain that is was more than important? Well, you didn’t have time for these deliberations now. You had to lead him to the portrait.

And that was what you did.

[mimiwrites2000]

Blue Meeting Blue

AO3 ~~

Pairings: Armin x Annie

Side Pairings: Jean x Pieck / Gabi x Falco:

Words count: 2010

* spoilers for ending of  manga

inspired by this fanart by Bella (_superspicy on twitter)

Summary:

When Annie looked in his eyes, the world stopped spinning, time froze, air halted. The waves in the ocean quietened, the forests' rustles ceased, and the wind subsided. For a moment, peace engulfed the world, the chaotic place wrapped in a fragile silence.

To witness the blossoming love in the youthful hearts.

the day of their wedding was finally here, Armin and Annie, the world waiting for them, and they were ready to face it, as one.

Husband and wife.

a one-shot about Aruani wedding, based on fanart by Bella (_superspicy on twitter)

His heart drummed in his ears. The lump in his throat enlarged into a coarse rock, impossible to swallow. His throat tight on his windpipes he could barely breathe.

He tried to compile the tips he read a few days earlier; deeply breathing and a smile.

He failed miserably at both.

“Armin?” 

He brushed his suit.

“Armin?”

He shifted his weight from one feet to the other.

“Armin!”

“Yes!” Armin jumped, searching around him, catching a few glances from the small crowd.

“Why are you not responding?”

Armin turned around and-

“Oh, Connie, I’m sorry, I’m just- you know, I was just-” Armin shook his head, waiting for Connie to somehow decipher the concoction of words he threw at him.

“It’s ok,” Connie chuckled, running his hand up and down Armin’s back, “it’s your wedding, it’s ok to be nervous.”

Armin thought about it for a moment, clicking his sharp crispy shoes on the wooden floor: “I’m not… I’m not nervous…”

“Excited?” Connie retorted, raising an expecting eyebrow at Armin.

At that, Armin blushed.

“Oh come on,” Connie laughed, nudging Armin, “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Armin turned around, combing his hair down with his palms, his eyes scrutinizing the invited. Less than twenty people seated in rows, the joyous anticipating guests shifted in their seats, smiling at Armin and waving. The humble place densed with close friends and family. As ambassadors, their compulsory position obliged them to have another big, huge wedding, inviting the allied nations and every political face ever. A just-for-show kind of celebration, glazed in fake smiles and formalities. Armin and Annie had an innate dislike for these occasions. But they would have to do it either way. For now, they would live every moment of this homely, small wedding. 

They didn’t go venue hunting. Historia offered her own warehouse (that was attached to her farm house) to hold their wedding; they couldn’t say no to that. 

The warehouse transformed into a cozy, traditional hall, rows of velvety pink chairs aligned in straight lines, breaking in the middle to form a path overlayed with a shiny white carpet, leading up to where Armin was waiting. White flowers decorating the humble place, with golden fabric draped in soft curves. It gave off the family atmosphere Armin and Annie strived for. 

They couldn’t have it any better.

Gabi and Falco settled in the last row, Falco shamelessly and most likely unaware of himself openly-swooning over Gabi, both in summer outfits, Gabi’s dress flowered from the top to the bottom, Falco clad in a brown modern suit. Gabi was either oblivious to Falco’s hypnotized state, or she acted oblivious. Armin decided it was the latter.

Jean was sitting beside Pieck, facing away from each other. Armin sighed, they probably got into another fight. Since they started dating two years ago, their relationship had been on and off all the time.

Armin moved on, but the movement of Pieck’s hand took his attention. Slowly, she slithered her hand next to Jean’s, touching it slightly… a moment passed, before Jean sighed, intertwining their fingers.

Armin couldn’t stop the smile pulling at his lips.

A few seats next to them sat Reiner, his mom by his side, passionately whispering something in his ear. Reiner looked so out of it. 

When Reiner noticed Armin’s eyes, he smiled, paying him a small wave, with a gesture to his ring finger.

Ah

His mother’s whispers were nothing but pestering him about when he’ll get married. Armin laughed, shaking his head.

Armin’s eyes halted on the first seat at the far right, where his childhood friend sat, clad in a crimson red dress, her hair touching her shoulder, a dust of make up adorning her face. Mikasa smiled at Armin, a proud smile. The proud-mom-smile she wore whenever he did anything she was proud of.

She was proud of everything he did, every single thing he did since they were only nine.

He waved at her, she nodded in response.

He could never forget Mikasa’s reaction when he told her he would propose to Annie.

The tears, the hugs.

Happiness overflowed out of her.

But soon enough, they both crumbled on the floor, hugging each other, sobbing, lamenting whispers escaping them. Eren’s name slipped every now and then.

Armin swallowed, looking at his feet. The bitter sweet roughness of that night would remain in his mind for as long as he lived.

Someone joined the seat beside Mikasa.

It was Hitch.

Gorgeous.

Armin thought. She did look so pretty, her hair slightly curled, in an off the shoulder navy dress that overflowed in a soft skirt.

She waved at him, he smiled and nodded.

Then she winked, raising her thumbs.

Armin furrowed his eyebrows. He didn’t understand, but nodded anyway.

Connie was having enough of Armin’s ignoring game; he cleared his throat and said: “Hey, by the way, how did you ask Mr. Leonhart for his blessings?”

“Oh, uh, well…” Armin started, flashbacks of that day at the forefront of his mind.

Even though they had been engaged for over a year, Armin still remembers that day as if it was yesterday.

Well…

“Well, he said that if I don’t treat Annie well, he will take my life with his own hands,” Armin said, shrugging his shoulders, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

“What?” 

“Yeah, I mean, it was easier than I thought, if I’m being honest with you.” 

“Oh God.”

“No it’s not that shocking, besides, he supported me and Annie from the beginning,” Armin replied.

“I can’t believe it,” Connie’s eyes fixated on a spot behind Armin.

“Well, I don’t know what you exactly think of Mr. Leonhart, but-”

Connie clicked his tongue, pointing behind Armin.

Armin turned around and-

It was her.

“Annie…” he whispered.

Standing there, arms tangled by her father's.

A simple dress, a peasant dress; puffy sleeves with ruffled edges that beautified her updo hair. Pastel pink contouring the dress’s folds, adding a variant of flowery accents to it. A tight brown bodice hugged her waist, making the flowy skirt finely pleated into cascading silky waves. Something about it reminded Armin of a field of pink flowers in a spring afternoon.

The slight blush on her cheeks, her bangs framing her face, boldening her beauty.

The memory of gazing at a crystal in a cold basement from a few years ago struck Armin.

But the cold was replaced by warmth.

A warmth that traveled from Armin's toes to the tip of his nose, a feeling he never experienced before. He wanted to scream, jump in his spot, like a toddler in a candy store, but he also wanted to hug himself, cage himself in a corner, and cry.

When Annie looked in his eyes, the world stopped spinning, time froze, air halted.

The waves in the ocean quietened, the forests' rustles ceased, and the wind subsided.

For a moment, peace engulfed the world, the chaotic place wrapped in a fragile silence.

To witness the blossoming love in the youthful hearts.

The warmth reached Armin's eyes, his sight blurring.

His lungs caught fire, and despite feeling suddenly hot, his hands were freezing cold.

A thousand thoughts swarmed his mind in the short period of Annie walking up to him. It took approximately a minute, perhaps two, but for Armin, it felt like eternity. A labyrinthine he was very willingly getting lost in.

When she reached him, at the altar, not a single breath left him. His sight was blurry and eyes burning. His whole body shook with every sob he tried to suppress.

Someone held his hand, Armin looked down, and through his blurry eyes, he saw Mr. Leonhart’s gripping his hand, his hold a bit tight.

Mr. Leonhart took Armin’s hand, raising it. In his other hand, he held his daughter’s hand.

He guided Annie’s hand to Armin’s, placing them on each other, before clasping them in his strong grasp, holding them for a while. He looked at Annie, nodded at her with a smile, before he turned his gaze to Armin.

Mr. Leonhart leaned towards Armin, whispering in his ear: “I would kill you.”

Armin laughed, though his mouth opened but no voice came out.

Mr. Leonhart descended, walking to his seat, dabbing at his eyes.

At that moment, Armin’s world muted into a deafening, incomprehensible line. He took Annie’s hands in his. His eyes went up, from their intertwined hands, up to her collarbone; she wore a simple necklace, a small, silver circular metal hanging from it.

To anyone who wasn’t familiar with Annie, it looked like a normal necklace. 

But it wasn’t.

It was her ring.

Her infamous ring.

Armin’s wandering eyes reached Annie’s.

Blue meeting blue.

And that was the last trigger.

Sobs escaped Armin’s lips. He cried, tears flowing and cascading on his cheeks. He didn’t want to cry, it made his eyesight blurry and he wanted to see Annie clearly. He brought his elbow to his eyes, wiping his tears, only for new ones to flood.

He tried to stop them, gritting his teeth, biting at the inside of his cheeks, squeezing his eyes shut.

He couldn’t, all his attempts leading to more sobs and tears.

Warm hands on his face made him flutter his eyes open. With a handkerchief, Annie softly dabbed at his cheeks, a smile small on her lips. Her eyes were glistening as well.

Armin focused on her eyes, and slowly, took deep breaths.

Sobs subsided, and tears stopped streaming down his face, clearing his vision.

She cupped his face in her hands, and brought him down, capturing his lips on her own, a quick kiss, lingering for a bit. Armin kissed her back, closing his eyes briefly, before she pulled away. She pulled far enough to look into his eyes, but close enough to feel his breath on her face.

“Ahem ahem.”

Both almost jumped at the sound, turning their heads. The priest stood there, a smile on his lips.

Only then did Armin and Annie realize that the small crowd was giggling.

“You jumped off a few steps there,” the priest said, nudging his head towards them, eliciting extra chuckles from the crowd.

Armin pressed his lips, looking at Annie. She was already looking at him, her lips pressed as well. They exploded in a fit of laughter, before they calmed down, and the ceremony went on.

From the priest’s concise sentences, Armin presumed that the priest knew that Annie and him couldn’t wait to get married.

Rings slipped in their fingers, in their left hands, so smoothly, as if they were always meant to be.

Armin’s heart beating faster as they tiptoed closer to the ending of the wedding.

“And now,” the priest announced, taking a step back, “you, Armin Arlert, may now kiss the bride!”

They held each other's eyes, before Armin wrapped his arm around Annie’s waist, pulling her closer to him, and kissed her.

They kissed many, many times before.

But that kiss felt different.

Their first kiss as husband and wife.

Armin pressed his lips against Annie’s, feeling her heartbeat against his own wild one.

Cheers and claps erupted from the crowd, quiet sobs mixing with them.

They pulled apart, fighting against the magnetic force drawing them together.

Armin held Annie’s hands in his, running his finger on the ring, glistening in the light.

Annie was his, and he was hers.

“My husband,” she whispered, her voice an inch from breaking into tears.

An involuntary smile pulled at Armin’s lips, before he leaned towards Annie, resting his forehead on hers: “My wife.”

She shook her head, rubbing their foreheads together.

“My wife,” he said again, “my wife,” his voice getting louder, before he turned to the crowd, lifting up their intertwined hands victoriously in the air, screaming out: “my wife!!” 

Laughs and more claps burst, guests standing up in the process.

As the bride took the groom’s arm, the newly married couple made their way, taking a new step in their lives, together, forever and ever. 

.

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first time writing a wedding, well, that was a wild ride hahahaa

I tried to write the feelings I got when I first saw Bella's fanart, I hope I got them right! this was a sudden one shot that I'm so glad I gave a shot and wrote, it was a very blessing experience thank you so much for reading!! If you guys liked this, I might write a second chapter but from Annie’s pov, sooo tell me what u think uwu aaand of course, any feedback is much appreciated!!