#DONT ASK FOR MORE (THEN WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?)

[astros-turf]

Listen, y'all are laughing (cuz it's hilarious his pure desperation in trying to understand lmao) but I LOVE these kinda questions. Like in general yes ask me all the things but also like, this is how you KNOW someone actually cares! Like he is trying so damn hard to make sure he is saying the right thing and is asking his trusted "in" to the situation (the sibling recording) all his questions now so he can be more confident in his next meeting with the they/she in question!! I also LOVE that he noticed "wait hold on, you corrected the order of the pronouns so the order is important, but I don't know why. Because using he/him... The difference in what pronoun you use is the sentence structure. So what matters here?? How does that equate to she/they versus they/she??" And I ADORE it.

When people make no efforts to learn, to change their language, or whatever... I always squint at them a bit and I'm gonna need more modifiers to know if my loved ones and I are actually safe around that kinda person. Whereas this guy?? If this guy misgendered my spouse or I it would break his damn heart! He might play it cool at the time because he's learned to not make a big deal about it... But i just feel like he'd be like NO D: internally lol. And anyone that acts like that I just wanna give them all a cookie lol thank you so so much for being cool and wanting to learn. I may not always know the answer but let's find out together ya know? Top tier allies, absolutely my faves and we could all learn from people like that

this man is the one true ally

[eelliotss]

— Borrowed time, part 5

‼️Caleb x reader x Sylus. Reader not MC. University AU. Modern AU. Angst angst angst!

Everyone knows Caleb is in love with MC. Everyone. Including you. But that does not stop him from flirting with you, teasing you, keeping you close. And it definitely does not stop you from falling for him—even when you know you’re just a stand-in, a place holder.

“I bet you still thought of me.”

song: party 4 u by charlie xcx [this song has been the main inspiration for this series, so whatever you feel listening go this song, i hope you’ll feel that while reading this series as well]

word count = 9.6k

i appreciate all likes, comments, reblogs, and asks. i may not reply to all of them, but i want you to know that i reread them over and over <3

i cant say im proud of this chapter, and tbh theres so much i hate about this part, but if i dont post this right now, i dont think i ever will, so please be kind, but i appreciate constructive criticisms! if this part felt unsatisfactory, just pretend this update didnt happen lol

ps. thank you so much for over 1k followers??? heres a thousand roses for all of you 😭🌹

part 1 | masterlist

The door creaks open.

The closet’s darkness slips away, replaced by blinding light and loud cheers.

But everything feels distant.

Your breaths are shallow. The warmth of his breath still clings to your skin, the ghost of his lips a lingering echo. His touch—still branded into your waist, your jaw, the hollow between your ribs. Your pulse hasn’t settled.

The air outside is cool, but your skin burns.

You stumble slightly as you step out, Sylus behind you—his shirt rumpled, one button undone. His silver hair is tousled, a little too messy. Your lips sting. You know you look wrecked.

And the crowd eats it up. Whoops and whistles explode around you.

You try to smile. You try to breathe.

But then your eyes land on him.

Caleb.

He’s across the room, half-lit by the cheap string lights, drink forgotten in his hand. His jaw is tight, his expression unreadable—except for his eyes.

They are cold.

Piercing.

It’s not anger. It’s like he’s looking right through you—like you’ve somehow ruined something sacred. Like you’re the disappointment.

Your chest tightens.

And then, just behind him, you catch a flash of movement.

MC.

Her head is down, hair shielding her face, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as she brushes past him, shouldering her way through the crowd.

Caleb snaps out of his trance in a heartbeat. His face shifts—concern overtaking scorn—as he calls after her and follows without hesitation.

And just like every time before, he doesn’t even spare you a second glance.

The cheers fade into static. Laughter turns tinny and distant, swallowed by the ringing in your ears.

It hits you all at once.

The heat. The mess. The press of Sylus’s body against yours. The way you leaned into it. The way you wanted to. The way you let yourself.

And then—MC’s face. Her voice. Her smile when she told you he’s kinda cute, isn’t he?

Guilt slams into you like a car.

It punches the breath from your lungs.

You feel it in your throat, acidic and raw, threatening to spill. A sickening twist coils in your stomach, bile licking at the edges of your tongue.

What have you done?

What did you just let happen?

Your skin crawls. The warmth you felt seconds ago now feels wrong—disgusting. It clings to you like smoke. Like shame.

You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to hold in the nausea curling up your chest.

Sylus says something beside you, low and teasing, but you don’t catch the words.

All you can hear is your own blood rushing in your ears.

And all you can feel is the weight of what you’ve just done. The taste of it. Bitter. Burning.

And the worst part?

You don’t even know who you’re more disgusted with—Caleb…

Or yourself.

You don’t wait for the whispers.

You don’t wait to see if MC turns back or if Caleb says anything at all.

You push through the crowd, pulse hammering in your throat, lungs clawing for air like there’s not enough oxygen in the room, not enough space in your ribs for this many feelings, this much shame.

The door slams shut behind you but it’s not enough.

Not enough to drown out the ghost of Sylus’s hands still on your waist. Not enough to erase the memory of his mouth against yours, hot and unbothered and too real.

Not enough to wipe away the scowl in Caleb’s eyes or the way MC couldn’t even look at you.

The night is too loud. The world is too close. Everything—everything—is pressing in on you.

So you push everything out of your way, scouring to find air.

You don’t think, don’t breathe, just bolt down the steps of the villa, sandals slapping against stone, the wind catching in your hair, stinging your eyes, stealing your balance. You don’t care.

The beach calls to you like a goddamn siren.

You trip onto the sand, knees buckling, breath shaking, heart feral in your chest like it’s trying to break out and leave you behind. You tear your heels off, toss them somewhere you’ll never find again, and march straight toward the water like it might wash you clean.

The ocean crashes louder than your thoughts.

Salt fills your nose. Wind tangles in your hair. The stars above are too bright, mocking. Too calm for the storm splitting your insides apart.

You drop to your knees at the shoreline, water licking at your calves, seeping into your clothes, and you let it. You need it. You need the cold. You need the sting. You need to feel something real.

Because everything in your chest is twisted. Twisted and wrong and out of place.

You lean forward, pressing your forehead against your knees, breathing like each inhale might keep you from unraveling completely. You wish it were just the alcohol. Just a mistake. Just a hazy memory you could laugh off tomorrow.

But you remember it too clearly.

His mouth. The weight of his gaze in the dark. The way his hand didn’t hesitate when it slid against your jaw, when he leaned in like he’d been waiting to taste you all night.

And you let him.

Worse—you wanted it.

The thought turns your stomach. You dig your fingers deeper into the wet sand, nails scraping at the earth, like maybe you can bury the part of you that’s smiling.

Because she’s there.

Somewhere inside you—beneath the nausea, beneath the shame—there’s a version of you curled up, smug and satisfied. A version who watched MC’s face twist, who watched Caleb’s scowl turn cold, and felt nothing but satisfaction.

That part of you is smiling.

You hate her.

Because that part of you—the one that enjoyed it—she’s been quiet for a long time. Always biting her tongue, always watching from the corners while MC took the spotlight, while Caleb gave his warmth to someone else. You taught her to wait. To be kind. To be better.

But god, you’re tired.

Tired of twinkling for people who never look up long enough to see you. Tired of being loved only in parts—when you’re easy, when you’re quiet, when you’re beautiful and harmless.

You’ve always been the supporting character in everyone else’s story. The best friend. The comic relief. The tragic footnote.

So tonight, you wanted to be the villain.

So tonight, she let herself out.

You let her kiss him.

You let her drag Sylus into that closet and tilt your chin up with a smile that begged “ruin me if you want to.”

And she did.

Now here you are, buried in the sand and sea, trying to figure out if the guilt eating at you is heavier than the satisfaction still curling at the edge of your lips.

You’re not supposed to feel this way.

You’re not supposed to want to be seen like that. Wanted like that.

Not at the cost of MC. Not at the cost of Caleb’s crumbling expression.

But you do.

You wanted them to see. You wanted to be wanted. And for a second—you finally were.

And for that, you are repenting your sins, kneeling by the shore and letting the cold eat you whole.

The tide rushes in again, crashing against your skin.

You raise your head, throat raw, eyes burning.

You sit there, watching the waves hit and retreat, over and over, counting the sparkling stars reflected on the ocean surface, until you could not feel your feet.

This is your way of atoning—because you fear the girl curled up inside you, biting on her nails every time a tear threatens to fall. Because the damage she has done once you let her out for a fraction of a moment is irreversible. Collateral.

And because you can’t promise this will be the last time you let her out.

You finally return to your room, dread curling tight in your chest like a vice. Each step down the hallway feels heavier than the last, your body moving on autopilot, mind spiraling with possibilities.

You hesitate at the door. Fingers resting on the knob. You aren’t sure what you’re bracing for.

An angry Michaela?

A tear-streaked Michaela?

A cold, distant Michaela who won’t even look you in the eye?

You don’t know which would be worse.

The knob turns with a quiet click, the door creaking open. You take a breath—slow, bracing—and step inside.

Empty.

The room is quiet. Still.

Her suitcase remains tucked in the corner. A half-drunk bottle of water sits on the bedside table. The lights are off, the curtains drawn. Not a trace of her. Not even the ghost of footsteps.

Somehow, it’s worse than yelling.

You stand there for a moment, motionless, caught in the heavy weight of nothingness.

Then your phone buzzes.

MC [02:46 AM]: Had to clear my head. Be back later.

Short. Punctuated. Not cold, but definitely not warm either.

And with that, you’re left alone.

Surrounded by silence.

Sinking into it.

You sit on the edge of the bed, heart thrumming against your ribs.

You should feel relieved.

You grip the edge of the mattress tighter.

You should be thankful the confrontation didn’t happen yet.

But all you feel is this crawling unease.

Like the silence is just the eye of the storm.

And when she comes back—

You’re not sure which version of Michaela you’ll meet.

And worse—you’re not sure which version of you she’ll find.

You get changed and crawl under the covers, body heavy, soul heavier. The silence is your only companion—thick, choking, unforgiving. You bury yourself into the blankets like they could shield you from the weight of what you’ve done.

Eventually, exhaustion drags you under.

•

Rustling wakes you.

Sharp. Precise. Intentional.

You blink your eyes open, and there she is.

Michaela.

Her back turned to you.

Her suitcase is open on the floor, half-filled. Clothes folded with a neatness that feels hostile.

You sit up slowly, throat dry.

She doesn’t look at you, nor say a word.

You rise. Move toward your side of the room. Get ready in silence. The kind of silence that screams.

Every breath feels wrong. Every second, guilt crawls further up your throat, pressing, choking, aching.

You swallow hard, then try to break the weight as you part your mouth to speak.

Your voice is quiet. Fragile.

“Michaela… last night, I—”

Michaela freezes for only a second before she turns around, face already wearing a smile that feels too sharp, too bright.

“Was such a blast! You gotta tell me all about what happened in that closet!” She winks.

“No—I—”

“Don’t think too deeply into it!” She waves her hand casually, like you’d just brought up a funny memory from a party instead of the reason her bag is half-packed. She lets out a breathy laugh, brushing her hair behind her ear. “It’s college, Yn. People kiss like, all the time. It’s nothing.” Her face drops slightly, but returns back to its beaming state. She reaches for your hands, and her voice lowers down. “It’s just a kiss, isn't it?”

A pause.

“Y-yeah,” you utter.

Her face beams once more as she squeezes your hands. “Besides, he is a pretty good kisser, isn’t he?”

You stare at her. The smile she’s wearing is dazzling—carefully crafted, practiced.

But it doesn’t reach her eyes.

And that hurts more than if she’d screamed at you.

The silence that follows is unbearable.

Eventually, the two of you gather the last of your things and leave the room. You walk side by side, the air between you tight with everything unsaid.

Outside, everyone is saying their goodbyes. Laughter, hugs, last-minute selfies. But none of it touches you. Not really.

You spot Caleb near the car, arms crossed, jaw tight.

He shifts his weight, arms crossed, leaning against the car with that infuriatingly calm expression—like he’s been waiting to deliver a blow.

“Well, well,” he drawls, eyes dragging over your form. “Eventful night, huh?”

You freeze mid-step.

His tone is light, teasing, even laced with that familiar cocky lilt—but it cuts deeper than any insult. Because you know Caleb. You know exactly when he means it. When the smile on his face is just another weapon.

“Hope he was worth the show,” he adds with a smirk. You can’t quite get a read on his face, can’t really understand whether the smirk is teasing, jabbing, or insulting.

You don’t answer. You can’t. So you walk past him without a word.

But he’s not done.

He leans in just slightly, voice dropping low enough for only you to hear:

“I bet you still thought of me.”

It hits you like a slap. You don’t flinch. You don’t give him that satisfaction. But it scorches down your spine, curling into something heavy and sour in your stomach.

All words run dry in your throat.

Because you know you did, and he knows you did.

So, swallowing down the lump in your throat, you quietly climb into the car.

The ride back is a void—quiet and cold despite the sun that floods through the windows.

Michaela sits in the front, headphones in, eyes fixed outside. Her expression is unreadable, a delicate mask of serenity.

Caleb drives in silence, but the tension in his body betrays him.

His knuckles tighten around the steering wheel. The muscle in his jaw ticks every time the car slows.

And yet—despite everything—you still see the way his hand occasionally reaches over to Michaela’s thigh. Subtle. Familiar. He squeezes gently, reassuringly, every time the silence grows too loud.

You sit in the backseat, hands clenched in your lap, stomach churning, heart clawing at your ribcage.

Because somehow, in this cramped little car filled with silence and ghosts, you still feel like the one who doesn’t belong.

•

You finally find yourself back in your familiar space.

The door clicks shut behind you.

Shoes off. Bag down. Keys tossed on the counter.

The silence wraps around you, soft and undemanding.

For the first time in days, you breathe without pretending.

You shower, letting the water scald the memory of Michaela’s laugh off your skin.

You eat something. Actual food. Not alcohol. Not regret.

And for a brief, flickering moment, you start to feel okay again.

Until your phone pings.

A message.

Unknown [6:43 PM]: So?

You freeze.

Every part of you stills—except for your heart, which begins to pound like it remembers the thing you’ve tried so hard to forget since last night.

Something forbidden.

Something thrilling.

Something wrong.

The memory comes back in flashes as guilt claws its way up your throat, hot and unrelenting. It tastes like shame.

You stare at the screen until the words blur.

And then, with trembling hands, you type.

You [6:50 PM]: It was a mistake.

You [6:50 PM]: Don’t text me again.

You hit send before you can think twice.

Your phone slips from your grip, landing face-down on the bed as you bury your face in your hands.

“It was a mistake,” you mumbled.

•

The following days were the most peaceful ones you’ve had in what felt like forever—quiet, slow, and mercifully uneventful. No parties. No whispered gossip. No sharp glances from Caleb or strained smiles from Michaela. Just the soft hum of routine and the space to finally breathe.

You sleep more. Eat better. Enjoying the lasts of your break. You’re rebuilding yourself piece by piece—one uneventful morning at a time.

But the moment you start feeling a little more like yourself, Monday catches up.

The quiet comfort of the break ends the second your feet hit campus tiles. The world spins forward like nothing ever happened.

Michaela acts like nothing ever happened.

She greets you with the same bright smile, the same light giggle, the same affectionate bump of the shoulder. As if that night was just another one of many forgettable college party blurs. As if your lips had never touched Sylus’s. As if her eyes hadn’t dulled the second they landed on you.

And you pretend too.

Because it’s easier that way. Safer.

Later that day, she loops her arm through yours as you walk out of class, swinging your hands between you. “Let’s go shopping after lectures? I need a new outfit or something for the first viewing next week,” she beams.

You nod before you can think too hard about it.

“Oh—” she adds, with that little flicker in her voice that always precedes something calculated, “I invited Caleb too.”

Your smile doesn’t falter, but your stomach twists.

The shopping trip is tolerable at best. Michaela slips into her spotlight with ease—twirling in front of mirrors, holding up dresses with playful pouts, laughing just a bit too loud at jokes that don’t quite land. Caleb sticks close, fingers brushing her waist, whisper her ear when she grins too hard.

But his eyes wander.

You catch him sometimes, gaze flicking to you when Michaela isn’t looking. Just for a second. Just enough to leave that same sour taste in your throat.

You don’t acknowledge it.

You can’t.

Instead, you smile when Michaela pulls you into the dressing room with her. You nod when Caleb asks if you’re tired. You pretend not to notice how her laugh dims a little when he lingers by your side for too long. You go through the motions—lift the hangers, compliment the colors, offer the safe, neutral opinions you’ve mastered so well.

It’s like muscle memory now. Playing your role.

Because if you don’t look too hard, you can almost believe this is normal. That nothing’s changed. That your mouth hadn’t betrayed you. That your silence wasn’t stitched from guilt.

By the time the sun dips below the skyline and the three of you step out of the store, bags in hand and feigned joy in your lungs, you feel wrung out—drained from smiling too much and meaning none of it.

Caleb says something—something teasing, probably—and Michaela laughs like a girl in love.

You stay a step behind them, clutching your bag a little too tightly.

You tell yourself it’s fine.

You tell yourself you deserve this.

Because in this triangle of careful lies and quiet betrayals—

You’re the one who kissed the wrong boy.

And you were the one who almost said yes again.

“Oh! I almost forgot,” Michaela says, as if it just came to her. “You have to come to the premiere next month.”

You blink. “The… premiere?”

She grins. “The film. The one we shot over break? We’re doing a small screening—kind of like a soft launch—for friends and crew.” She swings her shopping bags absentmindedly. “It’s just this tiny old theatre on 12th. Indie vibes, red velvet seats, ancient projector that might burst into flames halfway through—super charming.”

You force a smile. “Sounds cute.”

“You’ll come, right?” she says, looking at you over the rim of her cup. “I already told them to save you a seat.”

You hesitate—but not long enough for her to notice. “Sure.”

She beams. “Perfect.” Then, casually: “Sylus will be there too. I made sure he’d come.”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the straps of your bag.

“Made sure?” you echo, trying to keep your tone even.

Michaela shrugs, but there’s a sparkle in her eyes—the kind that always means she’s saying more than she lets on. “Yeah! I’ve been seeing him pretty frequently these days. Bumped into him a few times after the shoot… had coffee once or twice. He’s actually really funny when he’s not being all mysterious and broody.”

“Oh,” Caleb joins, light and amused. “Him. Great. Can’t wait to hear him brood about cinematography or whatever the hell it is he does.”

Michaela laughs, linking her arm with yours again. “Be nice. He’s actually been really helpful lately.”

“Helpful,” Caleb echoes, quirking a brow as he pops the lollipop from his mouth. “Didn’t realize mysterious bad boys were part of the crew now.”

“He’s not a ‘bad boy’,” she says, rolling her eyes.

She says it lightly, but there’s a deliberate lilt in her voice—a softness, almost flirtatious.

Your grip on your bag tightens, the fabric biting into your fingers.

You nod once, slow. “Didn’t know you two were close.”

She hums. “We’re getting there.”

Then, with a coy smile: “He asked a lot about you, though. Thought that was cute.”

Your chest constricts. The air feels thinner somehow.

“Anyway,” she says, skipping in front and spinning to fully face you, “it’s going to be such a fun night. You should wear that black slip dress—the one you wore to Jenna’s party? You looked so good in that.”

And all you could mutter in response was a short hum along with a smile.

•

The following days were as normal as they could’ve been. Well, aside from the fact that he has suddenly been everywhere.

At first, it was subtle.

A glimpse of him through the glass-paneled door of the editing lab, leaning over a student’s shoulder.

The sound of his voice drifting down the hallway—low, smooth, impossible to mistake.

Then you saw him again, this time in the courtyard. Talking to a group from the business department, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a coffee he barely drank from.

Word spread quickly.

“I thought he took most of his classes online?” someone whispered nearby.

“He does. No one ever sees him around.”

“Then why’s he here now?”

“Who knows? Maybe to complete his last courses before graduation?”

“He’s a business major, right?”

“Yeah, but like… old money business. Scary smart. The kind that makes you nervous to breathe too loud.”

You kept your head down, but your pulse never quite stayed still.

Because every time you caught sight of him, he never once looked your way—

And yet, you felt his presence like it was stitched into the fabric of your day.

He was too composed. Too polished. Too calculated.

And somehow, his silence was louder than if he’d cornered you outright.

“Just a mistake,” you mumble to yourself each time you see his figure waltz by.

But your quiet whispers to calm your nerves didn’t prove to be a very sustainable method.

Not when the universe seems hellbent on rubbing it in.

You see them together.

Once in the corridor outside the media building—her laugh echoing off the walls, his hand casually in his pocket, head tilted down to hear her better. They walk side by side, their pace easy, unhurried.

Michaela looks effortless next to him—bright-eyed, golden, her hand brushing his arm as she says something that makes him smile.

Not his usual smirk. Not the quiet, condescending curve of his mouth he wore like armor.

You stop in your tracks.

Just for a second.

Long enough for Michaela to spot you.

She waves. Cheerful. Unbothered. “Hey babe!”

He followed her gaze and landed on you. The smile on his lips curls up a little higher as you meet his eyes.

“Hello,” amusement coats his voice.

“Hi—”

“I’m probably not going to be free today for our usual hangouts,” Michaela cuts in, turning to you with an apologetic pout. “I asked Sylus to help with some of my work… You can hang out with Caleb by yourself, right?”

Before you can answer, she adds with a dramatic sigh, “Please tell him to chill and that I’m fine—just really busy. He’s been blowing up my phone non-stop these days.”

You force a smile, nodding once. “Yeah. Of course.”

She beams, already tugging Sylus further down the hall.

He casts one last glance your way.

A flicker of something in his eyes—teasing, sharp, unreadable.

As soon as you’re left standing there, caught in the space between their footsteps and your silence, your phone buzzes.

You glance down,

Caleb [4:28 PM]: where are you

Caleb [4:28 PM]: arent we having dinner today

Caleb [4:28 PM]: are you with her? she’s not answering my texts

Your stomach tightens.

You can still hear Michaela’s laughter fading around the corner, Sylus’s low voice murmuring something back.

Caleb [4:29 PM]: nvm

Caleb [4:29 PM]: i’ll find you myself

You don’t even remember agreeing to it.

One minute you’re reading Caleb’s texts with a pit in your stomach, the next he’s striding up to you outside the lecture hall—jaw tense, eyes scanning over your shoulder like he’s half-expecting Michaela to appear.

“She’s with him, isn’t she?” he asks, no greeting, voice clipped.

You blink. “Caleb—”

His expression shifts. He exhales, scrubs a hand through his hair, and forces a smile.

“Whatever,” he says, eyes softening as they settle on you. “Doesn’t matter. You’re here.”

And just like that, the edge in his voice fades.

“Come on,” he says, nudging your shoulder. “I’m starving. Let’s go grab something before I start chewing my own arm off.”

You hesitate for half a second, but he’s already walking ahead, glancing back to make sure you follow.

•

Dinner ends up being at this tiny place tucked behind the arts building—warm lighting, mismatched chairs, the kind of quiet hum that makes everything feel a little softer.

You sit across from him, arms tucked against your chest, still a little shell-shocked from everything.

He notices.

“You’ve been doing that thing again,” he says between bites. “Where your brain goes somewhere else and forgets to take your body with it.”

You snort. “And what thing are you doing right now?”

He leans back, exaggeratedly smug. “Being charming and irresistible, obviously.”

You roll your eyes, but the corner of your mouth lifts. Just a little.

When your food arrives, he pushes his plate toward you with a quiet, “Try this. It’s better than yours.”

You glance at him, suspicious. “You haven’t even tasted mine.”

He grins. “Exactly. That’s how confident I am.”

It’s silly. Stupid, even. But it helps. The knot in your chest loosens just enough to let a small laugh slip out.

And then—just as you’re mid-bite—his voice softens.

“Hey.”

You look up.

His eyes are steady now. No teasing. No act.

“I never really got the chance to say it properly,” he murmurs. “About what happened at the filming set. That night. Everything.”

The clinking of cutlery fades around you.

“I was inconsiderate,” he says. “I thought too little. Acted too harsh. ”

He looks down at his hands for a moment. “I overlooked your feelings. And I hurt you more than I meant to.”

You don’t know what to say.

So you just watch him as he finally lifts his gaze again, softer now. Warmer.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is… I’m sorry.”

The air between you stills.

“Can’t say I really enjoyed the stunt you pulled though,” he jokes.

The dinner continues quietly—less heavy now, more like the old rhythm you used to share with him. Caleb cracks a few jokes, pokes fun at your serious face, and makes exaggerated guesses about the lives of people at nearby tables. You end up laughing more than you expected to.

Then, as you gather your things to leave, he tilts his head toward you with a mischievous glint.

“One drink?” he asks. “There’s this quiet place nearby. They make the worst cocktails I’ve ever had in my life. Thought you’d like it.”

You roll your eyes. “Sounds irresistible.”

He grins. “Exactly.”

The bar turns out to be this cozy hole-in-the-wall tucked behind a bookstore, dimly lit with string lights that look like they’ve been up since 2003. There’s an old piano in the corner no one plays, and the bartender greets Caleb like he’s a regular—which is both comforting and mildly concerning.

The music’s soft. The booths are deep and worn-in. And somehow, the world feels smaller here.

Caleb orders for both of you, raising a brow at you across the table. “Just trust me.”

You don’t. But you drink it anyway.

“You’re smiling,” he points out, pleased with himself.

You arch a brow. “Must be the worst cocktail I’ve ever had in my life.”

He lifts his glass. “To consistent branding.”

You clink glasses, laughter warm between you.

The kind of warmth that sneaks up on you—gentle, nostalgic, easy.

And then, somewhere between the second and third drink, he leans back, eyes softer now, his playful edge melting at the corners.

“You know,” he starts, swirling what’s left of his drink. “I don’t really remember what my parents look like anymore.”

You glance over at him.

“You don’t talk about your family much,” you say gently.

He lets out a breath. It could’ve been a laugh.

“Don’t really have one,” he says. “Not really.”

He lifts the glass to his lips, but doesn’t drink. Just rests it there, like he needs something to hold on to.

“Thankfully, Michaela’s took me in,” he continues. “Thankfully…” he repeats, quieter this time.

Your mood sours from the mention of her name. Of course she would be mentioned.

“She has always been sick since she was a kid. ‘Cause of her bad heart.”

You stay quiet. Let him keep going.

Something in his voice says he needs to.

“It’s always been my responsibility to keep her safe,” he says, almost like he’s reminding himself. “Since we were kids.”

His fingers drum against the glass, slow and steady, like a heartbeat.

“And whenever I failed to do so… well…” he trails off, then smiles, a crooked, breathy thing that doesn’t touch his eyes. “It never really ended very well.”

You feel the weight of those words, the way he tries to tuck pain into them like they’re just another part of the joke.

“He used to remind me constantly… of my purpose…” Caleb mumbles, his voice slowing, slurring slightly. His words are slipping like his grip on the glass—loose, tired, too worn down to hold on.

You watch his eyes begin to dim, heavy with drink and something much older.

“You’re too drunk, Caleb,” you say softly, reaching out to steady the glass before it tips.

He blinks at you. Slow. Dazed. And then his lips part, just barely.

“That I’m just a stray…” he whispers, almost to himself. “If no one needs me…”

His gaze unfocuses for a moment. You don’t think he even realizes he’s still speaking.

Your breath catches.

He’s still smiling, faintly, lazily. But it’s the kind of smile that scourches your chest.

You slide your hand across the table, fingers brushing his. He doesn’t move.

“You should go home,” you murmur.

He doesn’t answer. Just leans further into his folded arms, the tension in his shoulders finally giving out.

You sigh, quietly.

The bar is warm, the night colder. And somehow, without much thought, you find yourself wrapping his arm around your shoulder, whispering half-hearted complaints as you half-drag, half-guide him out the door.

•

The days fly by like leaves lifted off the branches.

Nothing of the past has ever been mentioned ever again—the few days at the film set, the tense atmosphere between you and Michaela, nor the night Caleb slumped into your shoulder, murmuring half-truths through the haze of cheap liquor and old pain.

Classes resume. Group chats return to life. The cafeteria starts serving that awful tomato soup again. You slip back into the rhythm like nothing happened.

But the cracks are still there—just beneath the surface, waiting.

You’re sitting under the shade of a banyan tree behind the humanities building. It’s quiet, peaceful, a little breezy. Your lunch is balanced on your lap, half-eaten. Michaela plops down beside you with a soft “ugh” and a dramatic stretch.

“God,” Michaela says brightly, appearing at your side like she always does—seamlessly, like a breath of perfume. “He’s actually so funny once you get him to talk.”

You glance at her. “Who?”

She tilts her head, playful. “Sylus,” she says, drawing the name out. “He’s been helping me prep for the Q&A tomorrow. Said I needed to sound less ‘pageant’ and more ‘visionary.’ Whatever that means.”

Her laugh is breezy. Too light.

“Oh?” you respond, forcing a smile. “Sounds like you’re getting close.”

“Oh, it’s nothing serious,” she says quickly, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Coffee here, late-night notes there. He’s just so…” She trails off, eyes sparkling. “Interesting, don’t you think?”

You hum. Noncommital.

Michaela doesn’t seem to notice—or pretends not to.

She takes a sip of her drink, then suddenly perks up. “Oh! The premiere’s this Saturday. Are you ready?”

You blink. “Ready for…?”

“The spotlight, duh,” she grins, nudging your arm. “To see yourself on screen, see the scenes you played in come together with the background music. And to see your name in the closing credit!”

You roll your eyes, but it makes you smile. “It’s not that serious.”

“It is,” she insists. “You looked amazing, even in the trailer. You carried that café scene.”

You snort. “I said four words.”

“Yeah, but you felt those four words. I almost cried.”

You laugh together, and for a second—it feels real. Familiar. Like the last few weeks never happened.

“Have you picked an outfit yet?” she asks between bites of salad.

You shake your head. “Was just gonna wear something simple.”

Michaela gasps. “No. You’re not walking into an indie theater full of film nerds in ‘something simple.’ You have to look effortless. Like you’re not trying, but also like… if you were trying, you’d end worlds.”

You glance at her, raising a brow. “That specific, huh?”

“Always,” she says, eyes sparkling.

And for a moment, it’s just the two of you.

Two girls beneath a tree, laughing about dresses and dumb film boys and the weight of appearances.

It feels soft. Safe. Like how things used to be.

And it hits you with a quiet ache.

Because even now, part of you still wants to believe this friendship can survive what’s been done.

That maybe you haven’t already burned the bridge.

That maybe—just maybe—she hasn’t noticed the match in your hand.

The rest of the week passes in quiet, deliberate steps.

Classes blur. The campus grows louder, buzzing with exams and end-of-semester deadlines. Your name gets tagged once or twice in the group chat—reminders about call times, wardrobe, a blurry meme of someone joking about crying during the Q&A.

You try on outfits with Michaela after class, like you promised.

It’s surprisingly normal—her room filled with scattered hangers, half-empty iced coffees, the faint sound of a playlist humming from her speaker.

You laugh. You bicker. You twirl.

And then—Saturday arrives.

The day of the premiere.

It’s just past golden hour when you step out of your building, the sky painted in soft streaks of lavender and orange. The air is crisp. The kind that wakes you up and reminds you something’s about to happen.

The old theatre on 12th is just as Michaela described it—small, a little run-down, with velvet seats that creak and a marquee that flickers every other letter.

There’s already a crowd forming outside. Film kids in too-large blazers and thrifted dresses, professors dressed semi-formal but too cool to act like it, and the crew—all wide-eyed and excited, passing around programs and laughter.

The theater glows in the soft spill of marquee lights, buzzing faintly overhead as you approach, clutching your clutch tighter than necessary.

The car pulls up just as you step onto the red-carpeted pavement.

And then you see her.

Michaela steps out first, the silk of her silver dress catching the light like water. It slips over her frame effortlessly—cool-toned and reflective, like moonlight turned human. Her lips are painted a soft coral, her eyes dusted with shimmer, and her smile—bright, unbothered, breathtaking—lands like a punch to the chest.

Then comes Caleb.

He unfolds from the car in slow, unhurried movements, sleeves of his black dress shirt rolled neatly to his elbows beneath a tailored blazer, the collar unbuttoned just enough to suggest trouble. His hair is slicked back, not too perfect, and a hint of cologne catches the air as he leans slightly toward Michaela, saying something close to her ear.

You feel it instantly—the pull. The heat.

They look like they stepped off a magazine spread. Like they’re here to be looked at. Owned it. Earned it.

Your stomach twists.

But then her eyes find yours.

“Yn!” Michaela beams the second she sees you, waving you over like the oldest friend in the world. Her voice cuts through the crowd with effortless warmth. “You look stunning! Oh my God!”

You force a smile, walking toward her as she reaches out and takes your hand for a brief spin. “See? I told you that dress was the one. Absolutely gorgeous.”

“Thanks,” you murmur.

Caleb’s gaze drifts lazily toward you. His eyes widen slightly, just for a second—subtle, but there. And then that crooked, lazy smile of his crawls up his face like he’s trying not to let it show too much.

“Damn,” he mutters under his breath, voice low, just loud enough for you to hear over the soft chatter of the crowd. “You do look good today, shortcake.”

You don’t turn to look at him. You don’t smile. But your pulse stutters anyway.

Inside, the lights are low and flickering, casting everyone in gold.

You find your seats near the front.

You sit first.

Then Michaela slips in beside you, smoothing the back of her dress.

Then Caleb—his thigh brushing against hers, jacket folding as he slouches back with that usual too-cool ease.

And then—

An empty seat. Reserved with a single placard.

SYLUS QIN

You stare at it for a second too long.

The serif font. The clean white card. The space he hasn’t filled.

People slowly fill the theatre, and the chatter dies down as soon as the introducing speech starts. Cheers and laughter are exchanged as the producer welcomes everyone, and soon, lights begin to dim, the hush rippling through the room like a spell settling.

The first flicker of light sears across your vision—too bright, too sudden. You blink, disoriented.

The grainy opening shot bleeds onto the walls, painting everyone in uneven strobes of white and shadow. Your hands curl into the fabric of your dress.

Then you hear your voice.

Just a small line, off-screen. But it makes your throat tighten.

And then you’re there. You.

A glimpse of your face on camera—too quick, too exposed.

Your stomach flips. A cold rush spreads down your back. You shrink into your seat without meaning to.

The flickering continues—scenes switching with sharp cuts, too fast, too loud. Your eyes strain to follow. The glow of the screen presses against your skin like heat.

You feel it in your temples. In the base of your skull.

A thrum. A pressure.

You try to breathe slower.

But there you are again.

In the corner of the frame. Behind Michaela’s shoulder. Walking across the background, smiling as she delivers a perfect monologue.

You’re always there—but never really there.

Never centered. Never seen.

Just enough to anchor the shot.

Never enough to be remembered.

Your heart races faster.

You glance sideways—Michaela is watching intently, chin tilted just so, the soft rise and fall of her breathing unbothered. Her hand rests lightly on Caleb’s arm.

You try to focus on the screen, but the lights are too much now. The images change too quickly. Your skin feels hot. The sound dips and rises, warping in your ears. Laughter in the film echoes strangely, like it’s bouncing around inside your chest instead of the room.

You swallow down the tightness clawing its way up your throat.

Breathe.

You stare at your knees. At your folded hands.

The screen flashes white again—another cut. Another shot of Michaela framed in golden light, eyes brimming with perfectly timed tears.

And just behind her, out of focus—your figure. Barely lit. Barely there.

You curl your fingers into your dress and force yourself to stay still.

Because if you move—if you flinch, if you breathe too loud—it’ll feel too real.

Like this isn’t just a movie. Like your position in the film is just as it is in real life.

Your breath hitches.

Get through this. Just get through this.

But the room feels too full. Your lungs too tight. Your face too visible under the flickering screenlight.

So, with quivering hands, you quickly excuse yourself out quietly, muttering a soft “I need to use the toilet,” to Michaela.

Your fingers brush her arm as you squeeze past, knees knocking against the velvet seat in front of you.

You don’t look at Caleb.

You don’t dare.

The moment you reach the aisle, you bolt.

The darkness of the theater presses in from all sides, but the exit sign glows red—blessedly real, blessedly distant from the version of you being projected for everyone else to see.

You push through the heavy doors.

Out into the hallway.

Into the quiet.

It’s cooler out here. Dimmer. The hum of the projector muffled by layers of walls.

And still, your hands shake.

Your chest heaves.

You press your back against the corridor and squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself to breathe again.

To stop hearing the lines you spoke, the laugh that wasn’t yours, the way you stood just out of frame.

You weren’t supposed to matter.

You weren’t supposed to be seen.

But seeing yourself just that—seeing yourself as nothing more than a narrative device—knocks all air out of your lungs.

And so you do what you do best in situations like these.

You walk.

Down the corridor. Past posters for old plays and peeling signs pointing to locked rehearsal rooms. The soft clink of your heels echoes against the concrete, sharp and rhythmic, the only sound in the hush that follows you.

Left. Then right.

You take the stairwell without thinking—something about the way the door hangs open, waiting.

Up.

One flight. Two.

You’re not counting. You’re not really anywhere.

Just moving.

The final door gives with a groan.

And then—open air.

The rooftop is quiet. Dimly lit by a few tired bulbs and the soft haze of city lights glowing from below. The wind brushes past your cheeks, tugging at the hem of your dress, the strands of your hair.

You inhale slowly—deeply.

The air fills your lungs and doesn’t choke. For the first time tonight, your chest doesn’t feel so tight.

You hug your arms around yourself, rubbing warmth into your skin as you move toward the edge of the rooftop. The wind tangles softly in your hair. The quiet is heavier than silence—it’s soothing. Honest.

The sounds of the premiere, the echoes of your lines, the weight of Michaela’s smile, Caleb’s lingering glances—all of it stays behind those concrete walls.

But the moment your shoulders finally drop—the tension unwinding from your spine like thread pulled too tight—

a voice slices through the quiet.

“The movie boring?”

You jolt.

And there he is.

Leaning lazily against the railing at the far edge of the rooftop, one hand resting in the pocket of his black slacks, the other loosely curled around a cigarette he hasn’t lit. The wind toys with the edges of his shirt, untucked and open at the collar, the soft fabric fluttering just enough to hint at the warmth beneath.

His silver hair—bright even under the dull rooftop lights—shifts with the breeze, strands falling across his forehead in that effortless way that should be illegal. The city glows behind him, casting shadows across the hard angles of his jaw, the sharp lines of his cheekbones. His eyes catch yours beneath long lashes, amused, unreadable.

He doesn’t move.

He doesn’t need to.

Just the sight of him—calm, crooked smile in place, posture loose like he’s got nowhere to be and nothing to prove—pulls something taut inside you all over again.

Sylus Qin.

Looking like trouble sculpted in moonlight.

And you walked straight into it.

Your voice stumbles out, more breath than word.

“What are you doing here?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just tips his head slightly, eyes trailing over you in that infuriatingly slow, unreadable way of his.

“Didn’t realize rooftops were exclusively yours now.”

His voice is quiet but laced with amusement, like he’s already enjoying how thrown off you are. The wind picks up, tousling the silver strands of his hair. He doesn’t fix them. Just leans back against the railing again like this is his space now. Like you’ve wandered into his scene.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he adds, gaze settling on you. “Didn’t strike me as the type to abandon your own premiere.”

Your jaw tightens. “It’s not my premiere.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he murmurs, eyes glinting. “You were in almost every shot. That little background smile of yours really carried the emotional arc.”

You shoot him a glare. He shrugs.

“Relax,” he says, voice dipping just enough to make your skin prickle. “I’m just making conversation.”

And then, without breaking eye contact, he pulls the cigarette back out from his pocket—like he knew exactly when to use it for effect.

You watch as he rolls it between his fingers, slow and practiced, before slipping it between his lips. His eyes flick downward, shadowed beneath dark lashes, as he flicks the lighter.

A soft click.

A brief spark.

Then flame.

He cups the light with one hand, shielding it from the wind, the gesture intimate in its precision. The flame catches the edge of the cigarette, a quick sizzle, and then a curl of smoke unfurls between his lips as he leans back—head tilted, silver hair brushing the collar of his jacket.

He exhales through parted lips.

Smoke spills from his mouth in a lazy stream, rising into the night air.

And for a moment, the whole rooftop smells like sin.

You swallow. Hard.

Because it shouldn’t look that good.

No one should look that good doing something so simple.

But he makes it look like poetry wrapped in gasoline.

Dangerous. Beautiful. Impossible to look away from.

He glances sideways, catching your gaze—then smirks around the cigarette.

“What?” he says, smoke curling past his teeth. “You want one?”

You ignore his question as you cross the distance between you with quiet steps, heels clicking softly against the rooftop floor, until you’re beside him.

Close, but not touching.

You lean forward onto the railing, elbows braced, eyes fixed on the world below. The city stretches beneath you—cars like fireflies, neon signs blinking against concrete, life spilling in all directions.

“Heard you’re pretty close to Michaela these days.”

Words slip out of your mouth before you could stop them—carried off too quickly by the breeze.

Sylus doesn’t respond right away. Just takes another drag, eyes still on the skyline, unreadable behind the soft glow of the city lights and the rising smoke.

“Is that what people are saying?” he asks, voice low, like he’s half-amused, half-bored.

You glance sideways at him, but his expression doesn’t shift.

“She’s been… talking,” you murmur.

He exhales slowly, smoke curling from the corner of his lips. “Yeah. She does that.”

There’s a beat of silence. The kind that leaves your thoughts too loud.

“She seems to like you,” you add, keeping your voice light. “Says you’re funny. Helpful.”

His gaze finally cuts to you, slow and sharp. An eyebrow arches. A slow, knowing smirk tugs at his lips.

“You sound jealous,” he says, voice dipped in something darker. Teasing. Dangerous.

Your breath falters.

“I’m not.”

He hums, low in his throat, clearly unconvinced. Then, he turns—just slightly—enough to face you, enough to make you feel it.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he murmurs, voice barely above the wind.

He leans in, just a bit. Not close enough to touch. Just close enough that the air between you shifts.

“I mean… if you wanted my attention,” his eyes drag slowly down your face, “you didn’t have to bring her up to get it.”

You blink. Hard.

The smirk deepens. He takes one last drag from the cigarette, flicks it to the side, and exhales—

Right past your shoulder, warm and slow, like it was deliberate.

Then he turns back toward the railing, arms resting casually as if he didn’t just turn your pulse inside out.

“Relax,” he says again, voice smooth and cruelly amused. “I’m just making conversation.”

“Fuck you and your conversations.”

“Language, princess.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, slow and smug, like he enjoys your bite more than he should.

He doesn’t look at you when he speaks next—just watches the lights below with that lazy, unreadable calm.

“The deal’s still on, by the way,” he says, almost offhand. “I don’t usually hold my deals this long.”

Your breath catches—but you don’t answer. Not immediately.

Instead, eyes still fixed on the city, you ask quietly,

“What’s it like?”

He glances sideways.

“To smoke,” you murmur, voice soft against the wind. “What does it feel like?”

That catches him off guard.

His smirk fades into something quieter—still sharp, but thoughtful.

He straightens a little, resting his elbows on the railing, eyes narrowed at the skyline like he’s remembering something he can’t touch anymore.

“It’s… warm,” he says eventually. “First few seconds burn. Then it’s just heat in your chest. Makes everything a little slower. A little duller.”

He glances at you again, eyes shadowed beneath silver strands.

“You’d hate it.”

And then, softer—

“You’d get addicted.”

You glance at him, the corner of your mouth twitching. “That confident, huh?”

His smile returns, crooked and slow.

“Always.”

Then—without looking away—he reaches into his pocket, pulls out the pack again, taps it once against his palm.

“Wanna try?”

You hesitate.

Just for a second.

The rooftop wind brushes your skin. The lights below blur like you’re not quite grounded anymore.

“…Okay,” you say finally, barely above a whisper. “Sure.”

His gaze lingers on you for a breath longer than it should—sharp, slow, searching.

Then, with practiced ease, he slips the cigarette between his lips, flicks the lighter, and inhales. The tip glows ember-red. Smoke curls around his face like it belongs there.

He steps closer.

Not fast. Not aggressive. Just… inevitable.

Until your backs are no longer parallel, but aligned.

Until his body is angled toward yours, his hand brushing the railing beside your arm.

Then he exhales—slow, steady—up into the air first, just to show you how.

And before your thoughts can catch up, before your pulse even finds a rhythm, his hand slides around your jaw. Gentle, but certain. Fingers curling under your chin, tipping your face up to his.

“Open,” he murmurs.

And you do.

He leans in—closer, closer still.

Not to kiss. Not yet.

His mouth hovers just a hair’s breadth from yours, and then—

He exhales.

Smoke floods from his lungs into yours, warm and heady and tasting like fire and him.

It hits you all at once—your lips parted against his, the heat of his breath rolling into your mouth, your chest, your nerves. Your hands grip the railing behind you, fingers curling tight.

And just as your knees begin to weaken, just as the smoke begins to burn—

His lips press to yours.

Not soft.

Not tentative.

It’s full, hungry contact—heat and pressure and something sharp beneath the surface. He kisses you like you’re something he earned. Like he knew this was coming the moment you stepped onto that rooftop.

And god, you let him.

His hand slips from your jaw to your throat, thumb resting lightly just beneath your pulse. You feel it hammering there, wild and fast. He deepens the kiss, mouth coaxing yours open further, tongue tracing the edge of your bottom lip like a tease, like a challenge.

You kiss him back.

Harder. Needier. Like you’ve been holding it in.

Like you’re finally letting go.

The smoke lingers between you. In your mouth. Your chest. The heat of it coils through your veins, makes the moment feel reckless, dangerous, electric.

When he finally pulls away, just barely, your lips are still parted—still chasing after him.

And Sylus—

He’s already smirking.

“Told you,” he breathes, thumb brushing your bottom lip.

“You’d get addicted.”

Your breath comes shallow. Foggy. Like you’re drunk—from the smoke. From him.

From the way his voice sits too low in your stomach, too warm in your throat.

You blink, dazed. “What the fuck was that?”

He laughs—low, rich, and dizzying.

“Still want to call it a mistake?”

You don’t answer. Can’t.

Not with the nicotine still curling in your lungs. Not with his breath still ghosting yours.

Maybe it’s the way the air thins between you again.

Maybe it’s the flush that rises to your cheeks when you look up at him and realize he hasn’t stepped back this time.

Or maybe it’s just that dangerous cocktail of heat and haze and the taste of sin still lingering on your tongue.

“I think,” you whisper, eyes flicking to his mouth, “you didn’t teach it properly.”

His gaze sharpens. That smirk falters, just for a second—enough to show the hunger underneath.

“Oh?” he breathes.

You nod. Barely.

He leans in. Slowly. Purposefully.

His hand grazes your waist, his breath brushing your lips—and just when you think he’s going to kiss you again—

He pulls back.

Barely an inch. Just enough to keep you chasing.

His smirk returns, lazier this time. Meaner.

“Didn’t think you’d beg so soon,” he murmurs.

You glare. “I didn’t beg.”

“Mm,” he hums, dragging a finger along your jaw, “Not yet.”

Then—finally—he kisses you.

But it’s slower now. Crueler.

His mouth moves with calculated ease, like he’s studying you. Like he wants to see how long you can last with the tension stretched this thin.

He barely gives you what you want—just enough heat to make your knees unsteady, just enough pressure to make you lean in.

When your hand fists in his shirt, tugging him closer, he lets out a quiet laugh against your lips.

“Impatient,” he mutters, and you feel it—low and hot—right in your throat.

And then he deepens the kiss.

Because he knows you’re done pretending you don’t want it.

And he’s done pretending he doesn’t love watching you unravel.

But in the middle of it all—his fingers sliding under your shirt, your hands fisted in the back of his hair, breaths shared like secrets—

It hits you.

A crack of clarity.

Sharp and sudden, cutting through the haze.

You pull back.

Not far, but enough. Enough to breathe. Enough to speak.

“Why are you doing this?”

His brows knit, just slightly. You feel the shift in him, the quiet tension settling beneath the heat.

You keep going. You have to.

“What will you get out of the deal?”

Your voice is low, but steady. The question tastes bitter in your mouth—maybe because you’ve been trying to pretend it didn’t matter.

But it does. It always did.

He watches you, smoke still clinging to his breath, his thumb pausing on your skin.

And for a moment, he doesn’t answer.

Like he’s deciding what version of the truth to give you.

Like he’s debating if you’ve earned it.

He fully pulls away, the warmth of his body gone in an instant.

You watch as he straightens his spine, smooths down his collar with one hand, runs the other through his wind-tousled silver hair—like he’s putting his armor back on. Like he needs the distance again.

“I’m not playing games,” he says.

His voice is low. Still sharp, but there’s something underneath now. Not heat. Not flirtation.

Something older. Quieter. Worn.

You cross your arms, still catching your breath. “Then what is this?”

He pauses.

You see the flicker in his eyes—a calculation, a hesitation. The part of him that always weighs what to say and what to bury.

Then his lips tug into that same maddening smirk.

“You’re just really pitiful,” he says, voice lazy with mock sympathy.

Your brows shoot up. “Excuse me?”

“Kind of like someone I knew,” he continues, like he didn’t just insult you to your face. His tone is still light, but something about the way he says it—too casual, too precise—makes you freeze.

He doesn’t elaborate right away. Just glances down at the city lights below, cigarette smoldering between his fingers again.

He takes one last drag from the cigarette before flicking it over the edge, watching the ember fall like a dying star.

Then he turns back to you—smirk faded now, voice lower, rougher. Real.

“Let’s just say—” he begins, eyes locking with yours,

“you get to use me to get whatever you want…”

A pause. A slow step closer.

“And I’ll use you to get whatever I want.”

He lets the silence stretch between you, lets the weight of the words hang there like smoke.

“Sounds fair?”

You don’t answer right away.

You just stand there—wind tousling your hair, the taste of smoke still clinging faintly to your lips—watching him.

Watching the way he doesn’t push.

Doesn’t ask again.

Just lets the offer hang in the air like a match waiting to be struck.

Your thoughts spiral—through the flickers of the film, the ache in your chest as you watched yourself play the shadow, Michaela’s bright voice, Caleb’s wandering gaze, Sylus’s mouth on yours, the weight of his hands, the things he said.

And the worst part?

The way all of it made you feel alive again.

Like something inside you had finally stirred.

Like you were tired of being careful. Tired of being quiet. Tired of waiting for someone else to hand you the pen to your own story.

You draw in a breath, meet his eyes.

“Fine,” you say, soft but steady.

“I’m in.”

His smile is slow. Pleased. Like he already knew.

But he says nothing. Just nods once and turns to leave, hands in his pockets, silver hair catching the rooftop light.

You don’t stop him.

You stay there for a moment longer, listening to the echo of your own heartbeat.

And when the rooftop door clicks shut behind him—

You’re still tasting sin.

Still thinking about the deal you just made.

And wondering who, in the end, will really get what they want.

[drdemonprince]

sorry for the longpost.

i only just now read your essay "be jealous. make demands. want more." and greatly enjoyed it and related to a lot of the things you described as far as your feelings about mainstream polyamory. to me it often feels very manicured and not honest or natural, which has been a turn off in seeking connections with other poly or ENM people. i'm pretty slow at processing, and dont have a lot of dating experience anyway, so just the prospect of being asked upfront what i want and desire and prefer just doesnt mesh with me. that's not how i get to know myself and not how other people get to know me. i like to do things first, then survey myself and circle back on what can be done better.

even before i read the essay i saw you posting about it, saying things like "be jealous, be audacious" etc. and i really took that to heart. over the past few months i've been working on communicating my feelings and needs to people rather than bottling them up and just adapting to the environment until i cant adapt anymore and i snap. i still find that, sometimes, an emotional outburst is rhetorically advantageous for me because it communicates the degree to which i've been neglected, i guess, and also it feels good to be needy when i'm used to taking care of everything and everyone else.

i sent very emotional emails to my managers at work, i've cursed a few coworkers out here and there, and i straight up walked out during a conflict. i still have my reputation as hardworking and nice and easygoing, but now it's known that i won't tolerate certain mistreatment against me. people are being kinder and friendlier to me. i'm not embarrassed about being emotional in front of other people. it had the intended impact. now i can survey how i feel each day and be more mindful of when something bothers me without giving into my reflex of compartmentalizing until i "forget" (but secretly keeping tally until i have no more space for tallies).

i wrote a super heart-on-my-sleeve love letter to a man who we took turns ghosting each other due to our mutual shit communication and avoidant behaviors, and before i had the chance to send it he told me he met someone. i still told him how i felt. i got this far in practicing speaking the fuck up, by god i'm not letting anything steal this opportunity from me lol. it took me a few days to figure out how to do it, and now i'm waiting for a response (or waiting until i figure it's been long enough that, this time, he probably is ghosting me lol). but i feel the most relief from the fact that i did it. i hate the feeling of regretting not saying anything. been there, done that, time for something new, see if that yields any results i like.

every time i've been needy and audacious, i haven't always gotten exactly what i wanted, but at least i no longer resented myself for being complicit in my own hurt. all along i secretly knew that being quiet and polite was only adding to how much other people could push me into boxes they liked but it was so hard to stop that habit.

anyway "be needy and have the audacity" is probably the best advice i've ever followed. tbh i first learned this from the perks of being a wallflower, but it has taken years to really practice it and reap the benefits. glad i am here and thank you for being part of that

wow. i find this so inspiring. thank you for sharing this.

[kleinv01]

Yknow what i noticed?

(QUICK THEORY WHILE IM WAITING FOR MY SHEETMASK DO TO ITS THING. SPOILERS AHEAD)

In this blog, only Al's info is hidden (with error mesaages or straight up blurred/pixelated text).

Who made Klein? SentientTechLabs.

What's this ask box's name THAT IS HIDING AL'S INFO? SentientTechLabs.

So. If the company is hiding his info specifically, wouldnt that mean he has some sort of control over it? Idk, maybe hacking through it OR working for it?

We know Al is a very tired, hardworking and busy boy (and we love him for it <3). But sometimes it makes me think: we work in the same company, and so are our friends. So far, they all seem kinda... chill? While Al is over there sleeping on his desk (probably from exhaustion?).

Dolores gives Al extra tasks. Sure. But he did NOT say "How ARE the TASKS going?". So it's a singular task at a time. Which should be nothing if we think about how intelligent Al is.

What im trying to imply here is; i feel like he has a 2nd job!

Remember the poll where the question was about how Al gets the money to treat us the snacks (of which the most popular answer was "totally not sus activities" :))

Could these sussy wussy activities be about his relation to Klein's company, which probably lets him do some extra stuff to our Klein?

------

The shadow behind our curtains. I %100 believe that, they are all Klein.

Why? Well... :3

When Yael comes in our house to make us eat the cupcakes he made, there is the shadow waiting behind the curtains. Yael eventually leaves AND THE MINUTE HE DOES, the shadow leaves too. Then, Klein gets mad at us and tells us that we should have just choked on "those" cupcakes. He also talks about Yael himself, as if he was able to see Yael in person in that moment. I feel like that's just one of the clues though.

Klein shouldnt be able to walk around in our world unless he has a physical model, according to the info given. But even if the player never reaches the "100% affinity" with him, Sera still gets killed by him. He cant smash someone's head to a glass cabinet (?) if he's stuck in our phone though. So maybe, he either escaped the factory, or... Al helped him get out?

Hear me out on this.

Al is insecure as hell. He doesn't see himself as "worthy" or "good enough" for us. There were multiple asks AND a few messages we received in the game about how hateful he is toward himself.

Klein is the pure opposite of what he is though. Strong, tall body, programmed to be the perfect partner, adaptable, uncapable of getting tired and many more positive qualities. Things that Al could see as something "good enough" to be with us, at least to protect us.

So, my theory is that; Al somehow modified Klein for our safety. He somehow reflected (coded?) his obsessive feelings to Klein, which made him the way he is right now.

This would also allow him to have access to whatever Klein has access to, which was our passwords and address at some point. (Not that i dont think al didnt already have that info but :3)

Again, this is just a theory (and a ramble session :p) so idk if anything is precise or even close to the truth. I guess we will see in the future.

(my mask feels like a desert now ;-;)

://SYSTEM_MESSAGE_ANSWERED !

Sharing this so everybody can read it and share their own thoughts in reblogs or comments. Thank you for dropping in such a lengthy discussion! I always enjoyed reading through theories and asks.

Just so people know, things like these are probably one of the most popular theories out there, relating to both Al and Klein

You're right that Al is insecure as heck. He can't even bring himself to look at you in the eyes, not without his bangs covering his eyes

As well as, very, extremely low self-esteem

[nana-mizu-shiki]

Um, so this was in my drafts... idk, have it xP

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Confusion and anger crossed Tim's face as he turned to face Bruce. "You didn't tell them...? After how angry Dick was after you didn't tell him about Jason's death or his funeral, you didn't tell him??? B- I-" Betrayl flicked, and he glanced at his older brothers. Jason was shaking, his fingers gripping Tim's shoulders almost to pain. His stare was burning yet foggy.

"B... I was gone for three weeks... what did you tell him? Why didn't Babs tell him? Anyone? Did you tell her not to say anything? What... i dont understand, why didn't they know, B?"

He was desperate now, panic building in Tim as rage built in his eldest brother.

Tim almost flinched as Dick stood up, head down and as quiet as the tension that was in the cave. Dick turned, so Tim couldn't see his face, but Bruce could, and he hadn't moved a muscle since Tim began begging him for answers until he saw his son. Bruce tensed and untensed and tensed again, focus now solely on his oldest.

Tim startled as Jason cupped his face and turned him away from the pair, staring into his soul once more.

"I wan..." He started, but cut himself off as he stood. "Let's go."

"Wha...?" Tim couldn't say much as he was dragged along, pulled towards the stairs by his brother. "Bu- Jason i have work- I have to-" Tim looked back to the computer, but just saw Dick- Nightwing- Robin- someone angry looming over Bruce. Tim hasn't seen Dick that angry before. He let's himself be pulled.

ﮩ٨ﮩﮩ٨ـ🦇ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩﮩ٨ـ🐦‍⬛ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩﮩ٨ـ🐦‍⬛ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩﮩ٨ـ🦇ﮩ٨ـﮩ

Tim.... remembers the arguing.

He remembers, he does, a lot of it. His parent, teachers, B and Dick, his 'friends', his Friends, Jason and B... Tim knows arguing, he does, he's heard it so much, the yelling, throwing, crying, red and hot, cold and distant, angry.... it's just.... it's been a while....

His parents... they used to fight a lot. About a lot of things. From digs to money to employees to nannies to drama to him to each other... there's a lot of things to disagree on.

He hated when he was the most common subject of the screaming matches.

His teachers... he's heard a few fight with his parents and nannies, but he never heard of them after the second complaint. They never really yelled, but they... gossiped. Asked around, got others to notice what they did.

They never got far, and never lasted long.

His 'friends' would fight all the time. All. The. Time. Never about important things, no, those fights were quantity over quality of importance.

Those fights... were the most enjoyable. Too bad they never lasted.

Tim's Friends only used to yell and such back when they first met, and Tim hated it, especially because he was the one yelling. Once you've raised your voice, you've lost. No more calm is no more control is no more support. He got over it, they got closer and now they rarely ever fight, but those first few months always felt like torture when he got home and remembered how he reacted to every little thing.

He hated how much of his parents (Father, Jack) he saw in himself when he yelled.

Jason and B... well, it's mostly Jason, but they're loud. Always arguing about loyalty and 'love' and morals and death and.....

Mama and Papa never fought.

No. Shut up.

B and Dick fought too. Tim tried to avoid them as much as possible when they were together when he was first starting out as Robin. They would fight about nothing, everything, anything.

Sometimes Tim would just leave to go back to the Drake manor, sometimes down to the cave to wait it out or up with Alfred to have tea.

Most times though... Tim stayed. Not to eavesdrop on or guilt them, but... to pick up the pieces. Of B, specifically. Sometimes he'd just stay in a corner nearby, or a wall of shadows, just waiting for Dick to storm out. Huffing and red faced with a cracky throat from yelling. (Tim repressed the few times he came away from the yelling matches with a new bruise.)

B would usually end up collapsing somewhere, on the floor or a bench or sometimes he'd even make it back to his bed. But whenever Tim stayed, he always made sure to deal with making the (suicidal, grieving into his grave, grown ass-) crying man back into Bruce. Or led him to his bed, or just to sleep if he was already there, so Alfred could do so more easily the next morning.

It was better than dealing with the drunken puddle of depression Bruce would reduce himself into if Tim left him alone for too long.

And didn't take long at all to notice the difference between Bruce and Batman.

Mama and Papa only fought once, and that was because Mama was being bad.

Shut up. Go away.

Hmph, but that's no fun! That's why Mama was punished, y'know, she was trying to take away Playtime! Fun!

Shut up. She was helping. It wasn't her fault. It wasn't m- it wasn't anybody but his fault.

Liar.... Papa wouldn't do things without any reason. She was being Bad. She even let Lu and Bud run away after they nibbed me after the fight. That's not nice!

Shut up. Shut up-shutup shutupshutupshudupshudupshudup-

ﮩ٨ﮩﮩ٨ـ🦇ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩﮩ٨ـ🐦‍⬛ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩﮩ٨ـ🐦‍⬛ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩﮩ٨ـ🦇ﮩ٨ـﮩ

Tim felt something slightly warm in his hands.

It took a while to look down at it, even longer to notice what it was.

Hot Chocolate. Alfreds.

Tim just blinked and stared for a while before he raised the cup to his lips. The cup was warmer than the liquid. It was almost luke warm. Whatever.

Tim blinked again, and tried to process what was around him.

He was in one of the manor's living rooms, the walls a nice dark green. The green he'd imagine in old libraries that goes nicely with the dark wood that held the books.

There was a nature documentary playing lowly, low in the way that it's clearly meant to be white noise. There was a bright orange and green frog sitting on a leaf, some red flower being stared down by it due to the fly a top of it.

The forg pounced onto the flower, crushing it as it ate the fly, before the camera shifted and the frog moved on to catch another.

Tim could see a snake in the bushes that the narrator hadn't noticed. Or maybe they did, but elected to ignore for suspense.

Tim sipped his room temperature hot chocolate.

To his.... somewhere, Jason was reading a book aloud. Tim tilted his head slowly as Jason came into his peripheral on his left, sitting relaxed and slouched in a red-brown loveseat.

Tim himself realized that he was sitting on the matching couch, a purple blanket along his lap, and he was sitting on the edge, within Jason's reach with only a step.

Jason's voice was steady, but Tim remained silent until Alfred had entered whatever room they were in with a full tray.

"Young sir, would you like to exchange beverages for something a bit fresher and warmer?" The butler offered, lowering his tray so Tim could switch his drink. He did, but after nodding, instead of going back he set his tray on the side table on the opposite side of the couch Tim was on and sat down. He was still elegant as ever, with his own warm cup of tea, but Tim found him sitting on a couch like they were unexplainably strange.

Tim didn't want to talk yet, he liked the quiet, (It was safe- it was lonely- it was familiar-) but as Jason's voice faded from his story into tense silence, he knew he would have to.

Still doesn't mean he wants to though.

Tim sighed, resigned to having to talk about his feeling and "trauma" or whatever. Might as well get it over with.

At least they were in the Manor, far above the cave that the screams were echoing in.

Part 2 Jason is numb shallow uneaten breaths before he even realizes it he is in front of Tim with a death grip on his arm “please tell me it wasn’t him”

“Tim… please” Jason looked down at Tim with a trembling hand as if he realized how strong he had been holding him

Bruce had a far off look on his face as if he was remembering something horrible. Tim recognized it from his early robin days, it’s the same face he gets when talking about Jason’s death.

Dick at some point had walked over as well kneeling by Tim’s chair “Tim” he said quietly like he was hesitating to ask.

“I thought you knew”

Part 1 Part 3

[soubeomies]

꒰୨୧◞ ₊˚  𝓢𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂 𝖼𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾

⤷ 𝓟𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 ﹕ leehan x fem!reader

⤷ 𝓦𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 ﹕none :)

⤷ 𝓖𝖾𝗇𝗋𝖾 ﹕fluff w/ very slight angst if u squint

⤷ 𝓦𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝓒𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍 ﹕618

⤷ 𝓐𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗋’𝗌 𝓝𝗈𝗍𝖾 ﹕omg wait this ones actually kinda fire guys what do we think. divider credits to @uzmacchiato !! so pretty

⤷ 𝓢𝗒𝗇𝗈𝗉𝗌𝗂𝗌 ﹕coming home after a frustrating day, you can't help but find solace in his arms :)

now playing ୨ৎ soren – beabadoobee 

♬⋆.˚

where do you even start? everything about him just felt like home. the way his eyes turn into crescents at the mere sight of your excitement, the way he scrunches his nose at you when you call him cute, even the way he crosses his arms and laughs as he looks at you in awe. you're so in love with him, and it feels almost otherworldly that he loved you just as much.. if not, more.

he effortlessly sweeps you off your feet with the way he just acts. he doesn't even need to try, and you're basically looking at him with heart eyes.

₊˚⊹ᰔ

beep beep, the automatic door lock of the apartment echoes as you let out a heavy sigh. you were frustrated, but too tired to be frustrated at the same time. you struggle to take your coat off, resulting in a frustrated groan. being tangled in your very own coat like an idiot happened to be your last straw. you fall to a crouching position, your coat evident with the attempt to peel it off. you just tremble in your own presence, your hands tangled in your hair.

you were blocking the entrance, sure. but, “leehan wasn’t coming home any time soon, right?” you thought to yourself. beep, beep, beep.. click! 

the sounds of the automatic door lock echoes again, this time it was a person on the other end. entering the correct numbers, unlocking it with a single click. the figure stands behind your crouching position, its almost like you can feel his fond smile radiating from behind you.

“y/n?” he says softly, his voice sounding like a light at the end of a tunnel you thought you’d never escape. your eyes were filled with your tears, you quickly wiped your tears as you stood up. “you’re home–” you say, turning around, only to be met with a warm embrace. no questions asked, he didnt ask you to tell him what happened, he just knew that all you needed was a hug.

you melt into his arms, your own finding its way around him with an exasperated sigh. “.. leehan.” you murmur into the fabric of his jacket. “i know, i know.” he hums rather calmly, in hopes that it’d calm you down too. 

₊˚⊹ᰔ

running his hand through the strands of your hair, humming a melody as your head rested on his lap on the couch. it was just a peaceful moment of silence, the feeling of his fingers in your hair equivalent to the feeling of blocking out the rest of the world. you melt into his touch, as you usually do.

not long after, the silence was broken by the melodic sound of his affectionate voice. “are you okay?” he asks tenderly. his voice filled with nothing but sincerity and love. you nodded, the silence giving him everything he needed to know. you weren't going to talk about it, and that was okay. it was always okay.

he hums knowingly, acknowledging your want to cast aside those thoughts. you don't really know how long you've been in this position for, but you wished it could last forever. the way he touched you so tenderly, it felt like a curse that couldn't be broken.

“if there was a place that i had to choose,” you murmur, trailing off whilst you hesitate to say what's on your mind. his lips curve into a smile, “mhm?” he hums, indicating that he was not only listening.. but he was listening. 

“or a memory i dont want to lose..” you say with a slight pause before piecing all the words together like it was a puzzle, waiting to be solved. “it’d probably be in your arms tonight.”

 ⊹ ࣪ ˖ networks : @kstrucknet @k-nets

© soubeomies 2025 all rights reserved ♡ do not copy/repost my works.

[batship-summer]

banner art by @/monnashi !!

The sun is blazing, the bats are brooding, and we're all just a little too feral for our own good, so what's a better way to beat the heat than diving headfirst into a delicious mess of batboys, bad decisions, and family bonding of the Highly Illegal variety?

It's hot outside, and even hotter in Gotham...

So welcome everyone, to BATSHIP SUMMER 2025!!

That's right, it's batcest summer, baby!

Whether you're a fic fiend, an art machine, or just here to swim in sin–theres something for you in this 7 week celebration of all things batcest!

Below the line is prompts, details, and rules!

First things first, our basic info:

These are the basics!

why should you care? because the winners get a fic 2k+ words long, with specifics decided on by the winner! i write almost anything, and if its a kink thats really out there, i might ask for details, but I won't refuse anything! this can be 2k of anything, ANYTHING, ok? PLEASE let this be enough incentive for you to care!

The deadline for submissions is August 20th, and I'll pick and announce winners shortly after. Now, i don't expect this to get a lot of attention, but if it does, i will only be picking 10 winners maximum, with tie breakers going to people with extra points. For example, if there are 10 people with 105 points, and you only have 100, you wont get a fic. so sorry, but 20k words takes me better part of a month when im grinding, so also, not sorry!

now, what everyone's been waiting for, the prompts!

Each week has a ship, and recommended tropes, quotes, kinks, and more to spark your inspiration ✨

You only need to do one prompt per week, but if you add multiple together (eg. for week one writing rough sex AND a nightclub setting) you can get extra points, with +5 for every extra prompt integrated into your piece, on top of your reward for the length/quality of it :)

so, for example, if i wanted to get the 100 points as soon as possible, i could use all the prompts for jaytim and write a 2k fic for 40 points, and not need to worry about being squicked writing something i dont want to write!

Please dont hesitate to ask about anything(related to batship summer), i promise i dont bite!

[apricustar]

do you think buck knows about his feelings for eddie?

hey nonnie! i love this question, thank you for sending it<3

honestly, on a conscious level, no i don't think he does. buck feels everything with his entire being, but he's never been great at naming the things that matter most—especially when they threaten to upend the shape of his life. he just kind of moves through the world with an unflinching loyalty he doesn't interrogate too closely. his bond with eddie is so foundational, so ever-present, that i don't think he's ever seen it as something to question. it's not a feeling he arrived at—it's a place he's lived in.

to buck, everything that defines his relationship with eddie—being partners, trusting each other without hesitation, stepping into christopher’s life like it was always meant to be—is just natural. it’s never felt like a choice, so he doesn’t think of it as remarkable. and that’s part of why he doesn’t recognize it for what it is. the love is there—deep and steady and sure—but it’s so tightly woven into his day-to-day that it doesn’t strike him as something to name. it’s not a revelation he’s had; it’s a truth he and eddie have been living nearly since day 1.

i don’t think it really becomes something he thinks about until the morning after with tommy this season. this is the first time anyone in his orbit has made a passing comment about him and eddie’s relationship that doesn’t sound like a joke. and it lands—not because he agrees, but because, for the first time, he has to ask himself what it is everyone else seems to be seeing. that what he’s always known as natural, instinctive, constant… might look different from the outside. might look like something more. it knocks the wind out of him a little. like a door’s opened, and he’s not sure what’s waiting on the other side.

it's one thing to feel something and not name it, not look at it too closely. it's another thing to have someone else recognize it first—to hear it reflected back to you like it's obvious. and that’s where buck starts to spiral—because if that’s how it looks to tommy, who else might be seeing it too?

so he goes to maddie. and when she gently suggests it wouldn’t be so crazy—being in love with eddie—he shuts it down. hard. says it would be. says it’s not like that. says everyone seems to want me to be hopelessly pining for my straight best friend—which, let’s be honest, is a much more specific kind of panic than anyone had actually accused him of…

and we also have to remember who we're talking about... buck sure i’ll check out a hot guy's ass but that’s normal buckley... buck i’m an ally buckley....

and! for him, eddie isn't just his best friend—he's eddie!!!! his most special and favorite guy who can do no wrong! the most gorgeous, most impressive, most infuriatingly good person buck knows. of course eddie is breathtaking. of course he's everything! that's just a fact of the universe—as undeniable as gravity or sunrise. and buck assumes everyone else must see that too, because how could they not?

it's not something he confronts on his own, because it doesn't occur to him to. eddie is woven into his days, his choices, into every version of the future he pictures; he just hasn't fully let himself look close enough to realize what that means. until (gag i know) tommy brings it up.

so, no, i dont think he knows, not fully at least. but the love is there, though—in the rhythm of their lives, the spaces between what's said, in the future he hasn't quite dared to name. BUT big questions have been asked now, and i don't think he's going to be able to un-hear them.

it's waiting for him to catch up. and when he does, it won't feel like something new. it's going to feel like something that's been true for a long, long time.

[laureng262]

My first and last post for all of the Byler shippers especially the ones with doubt

I first picked up the show when season 2 came out and I LOVEDDDD mileven (let a sixth-grade girl have herself insert finn wolfhard moment.) However, in eigth grade I realized I myself was not straight and the summer after, season 3 came out. I was APPALED to see that not everyone agreed that "its not my fault you dont like girls" was an OBVIOUS nod to wills character being gay. I could not believe anyone was trying to explain that scene in any other meaning/context and I still shipped mileven. When season 4 came out I realized INSTANTLY that will had feelings for mike. Then throughout the season I wanted nothing more than for it to happen, especially after realizing it was such a huge thing online! I remember waiting for volume two to come out and being thoroughly disappointed that the couple was not confirmed, AND when we got the mileven love confession in the last two episodes. So, what keeps me believing so strongly in the ship? The fact that becoming a byler shipper and indulging in all the online media has changed the way I look at EVERYTHING. Every movie I watch, every tv show I binge, every book I read, all seen in a different perspective. The evidence that people call you guys "crazy" and "delusional" for, is EVERYWHERE. From parallels, to blocking, to dialogue, to costuming, to lighting, to undertones, etc.. Its in every good piece of media you will EVER see. Becoming a byler shipper gave me a level of media literacy I would have never known otherwise. This stuff is NOT crazy or delusional. This is an extremely well written show, things have been so obviously though out and planned out since the beginning. It has some of the best writing I have ever seen and people that say otherwise are simply trying to be different, or just dont get it. This show takes so long because there was SO SO SO much effort being put into every single aspect of the show. The duffers had no one pick up their show and still said no to netflix when they asked for involvement. That is how important the show was to them, that they risked their only chance to get big. Remember, this show was NEVER for them. It is for YOU. The people that face the same struggles as the main characters, especially will, AND mike. They have portrayed complications with sexuality in two very different but VERY accurate ways, and they did for the people who are just like them. This will pay off and I have 0 doubt that it wont. I want to add though that when it happens, I think it would be best to not boast to milevens. The people that hate this ship, hate it because of homophobia. They might say that's not it now, or hide it, but when they are so angry when it happens, they will not hold back. I expect some of the worst things you could possibly think of to be said to the actors, writers, fans, and everyone involved. Do not ruin the heartwarming emotional moment for yourselves, by indulging in the hate the show is trying to change and ward off. Love you all <3

[ablobwhowrites]

very stupid idea for yandere tf2

I imagine just one Halloween with merasmus practicing spell or reading some spell book until soldier bursts into merasmus's place causing some life potion on a shelf to fall off and land on some kind of helmet of armor turn some Knight armor laying around into a fully conscious person now but they are just alive armor but slowly over time is just becoming more and more alive yet need to keep on their helmet as the helmet is kinda the thing keeping their 'body' alive. And just imagining merasmus treating y/n like his child.

Y/n: "okay merasmus, I'm going out."

Merasmus: "okay be back before te- wait at minute. Is that the mercenaries van! You are not going with the mercenaries! Go back to your room!"

Y/n: "you never let me go out with my friends for anything!"

Also just imagining y/n has a cape or colored feather depending on the type of armor they have and can change it. But they can only come onto base on Halloween cause merasmus made a deal that y/n gets to go out one some holidays but not all of them. I do imagine pyro and y/n are besties because well y/n isn't afraid of being in fire and they basically have to heat their armor sometimes to get dents out and all plus love to imagine just pyro doodling on y/n's armor and merasmus being just pissed off because of how long it takes to get what ever liquid chalk or paint pyro used on them.

*scout outside on a motorcycle at merasmus's place*

Merasmus: "what the-? Who is that?"

Knight y/n: "oh it's scout. He can to pick me up."

*merasmus blocking door* "you will not be going out with that mercenary!"

Knight y/n: "But merasmus, Im going to miss Halloween night!"

Merasmus: "Go back to your room!"

Knight y/n: "I DONT EVEN HAVE A ROOM!"

Merasmus: "oh...I was meaning to clear out my study to make you one but-..THEN GO BACK YOUR ARMOR GLASS CASING!" *Y/n cries and runs away*

Scout: "I'll be back for you, y/n!" *Merasmus throws a shoe at scout*

(I just thought of that cause it was dumb)

Also medic is weird and wants to see what inside of y/n. There's nothing but no matter how many times y/n tell medic this, medic thinks y/n is lying. But then y/n then agreed to have medic stop asking and medic was surprised that there was nothing but every time he put his hand into y/n's hollow body of armor it feels like a body in there as well as skin are in there and even y/n feels it but medic is more intrigued but y/n regrets it cause now medic wonders if he could possibly replace y/n's heart like he did heavy.

Also I love to imagine if y/n ever stays over at the red base, heavy let's y/n have one of his spare pajamas and it's oversized of course but y/n if trying to place their armor nicely somewhere to keep it from being damaged but going back to the helmet letting them have a body. I imagine just with some magic is that any clothes they have on is just their body and can be easily swapped into different clothes or something.

(anyways that's it for my yapping session. But if you guys like this please don't be shy and request any ideas for stories or y/n's. But for now please stay safe and drink water!)

[coffinofsweetdeath]

Hiii! If you’re ok with it, may I request some Boombox x reader nsfw? The prompt I was thinking was maybe he invites reader to one of his parties (he has a crush on them, but reader is unaware). He gets a little tipsy and accidentally confesses to reader, reader reciprocates, one thing leads to another and things happen 💙

Idk if this is too specific or not, feel free to add or take away things to your liking! I just thought the idea was neat :>

night changes

— in which boombox spills his guts to you after having a bit too much to drink.

cw: drunk character, tiny bit suggestive, amab boombox, possibly ooc, not straight up nsfw because i do not feel entirely comfortable writing intoxicated sex!! hope u dont mind !!

“heey! you made it!”

as soon as the door in front of you swings open, you’re immediately greeted by the overwhelming smell of sweat and alcohol. the scent is strong absurdly strong and it makes your nose involuntarily scrunch as you decide not to mention it, opting to breathe through your mouth instead. bright flashing lights flicker and loud music blare from behind the man standing in front of you, though he doesn’t seem too affected by it.

your eyes move past him for a moment, watching the activity of all the people inside boombox’s house. everyone’s laughing and smiling with a drink in hand. once your eyes move back to boombox however, you finally notice the state he’s truly in.

his eyes are lidded, face painted with blotches of red and pink with a lopsided grin on his lips. he isn’t even standing up straight, his entire body weight leaned against the doorframe beside him. you sputter at his state. “were you drinking already? didn’t you text me just like, an hour ago?”

despite your reprimand, theres a tinge of concern hidden within. boombox only giggles at you, much to your annoyance.

“psh, nah! i only had like, what, two drinks? i think?” he laughs, body leaning further onto the doorframe. “whatever, but i’m fiiine! come on in! i was waiting for you!” he grabs your arm rather tightly and pulls you inside a bit too giddily. you raise your eyebrows in concern, before quietly following boombox into the lively party.

its loud and bright, you instinctively squint your eyes in an attempt to adjust to the sudden change of environment. you already feel your head thumping painfully as you huff. boombox is either too drunk to pay your displeasure any mind or simply does not notice. he brings the two of you to a couch in a slightly more secluded area of the party and he dramatically plops himself down, dragging you with him.

you adjust your position on the couch, dusting off your pants before you glance at boombox. his eyes are unfocused, staring forward at whatever he found interesting on the wall in front of him. you sigh, resting your head back on the cushiony fabric of the sofa. you close your eyes, momentarily listening to all the sounds of the party in the next rooms. the music, laughing, movement, horny couples, one thing on top of another.

your eyes shoot open when you feel boombox’s head against your arm. you look down to see him leaning against you with an unreadable expression on his face. his face is still flushed, and you assume its from the drinks he had prior.

“boombox?” you ask, concerned. “you alright? you’re not feeling sick, are you?”

he only hums in response, closing his eyes. you don’t let up. “hey, boombox?” you shake him lightly.

“mmfgghh… i’m fineee…” he grumbles, pushing your hand away and not budging from where his head is resting on your arm. “just… let me sit here for a second.”

silence overtakes the both of you for a moment.

“you’re warm…” he mutters quietly, breaking the silence. you almost miss it. you decide not to acknowledge it, opting to sitting quietly and allowing boombox to rest on your arm. you figured he was feeling sick and was just too stubborn to admit it. as long as he doesn’t puke all over you then you don’t mind.

“thank you… for coming, by the way…” he whispers, his entire body weight leaning onto you. “i didn’t think you’d actually come… so thanks.”

you raise your eyebrow, watching as he nearly makes himself comfortable in your lap. though you make no effort to move or push him away.

“i’m really happy you’re here. i was getting bored without you here…”

“were you now?” you hum, half amused and half confused. you allow him to continue.

“mhm… i like being around you. i really like you… you’re so soft and warm, and you really care a lot about me… i like it a lot.”

your eyes widen at his declaration, face tinged a bit red and heart thumping wildly. no, this is wrong. he’s drunk. yeah, you’ve been crushing on him for a bit, but you feel shame for feeling giddy about his confession. you try to convince yourself that it’s just the alcohol in him doing the talking, but your train of thought is brought to a halt when you feel a firm pressure against your thigh. you wince, hoping its not what you think it is. but it is. you’re unsure if you should mention it at all or hope he didn’t notice your observation.

before you can say anything else, you feel him lean upwards. his lips brush against your collarbone and you instinctively jump. “you’re so pretty… i like you a lot.” he plants his lips on your exposed neck, placing tiny and drunk kisses along your skin. he hums in satisfaction against your soft skin, chapped lips curling into a smile. your face is flushed a deep red as he nuzzles into your neck, his hands trailing a bit too low for your liking. your brain and heart are having a conflict right now.

ultimately, you clear your throat a bit loudly. “right. boombox, you’re drunk. i don’t think this is something that should be happening when you’re not all here with me right now.” you utter, catching his wandering hands and lightly pushing his head away from yourself. he whines, latching onto you even tighter.

“nooo… but you’re so comfyy…” you can feel the hardness between his legs press against you further and you sigh.

“boombox, come on. you’re drunk. we can talk about this when you sober up, yeah? how does that sound?” you stand up much to his dismay, pulling him up to his feet by his hand. he frowns, though he ultimately nods in defeat as you lead him out of the party and to your car. its peacefully quiet, much better than the sounds of the party. you open the passenger door for him and beckon him inside. he only stands there and stares at you for a moment.

“…you coming?”

he stares at you blankly for a moment before snapping out of it. “…yeah, yeah. yeah. just… you’re really hot… like a model.”

you’re unable to fight the growing blush on your cheeks. you huff a sigh, eyebrows furrowing. “lets get you home.”

his eyebrows furrow in return. “…can we fuck tonight?”

“just get in the car.”

didnt really turn out as good as i hoped it would, i really hope this is still okay!! the ending is more of a joke than suggestive but :,)

[sturniolo04]

can you do one where reader pranks her friends that she’s pregnant and she doesn’t know the dad ( she’s dating either Matt or Chris) and get their reactions, she also pranks his brothers,

btw I love your imagines and wished you would post more often

A/n:  ofc! I absolutely love these requests I have coming in, you guys are amazing!! its very short! I hope you love it! And remember to leave requests in my inbox! If you don’t like the pre added name in my works you can simply put in your own or don’t read it, it up to you :)-Charli

dividers: @issysh3ll

You were never a prankster in the slightest if anything you always took everything seriously so youre not so sure what came over you when you ultimately decided to prank not only your bestfriends you were pregnant and didnt know who the father was but also prank your boyfriend matt and his brothers with the very same prank.

"girl what is going on why did you call us over here"

Your best friend Sophia exclaims kind of concerned as she and your other best friend Savannah sit down on your couch as you being pacing in front of the pair.

"girl whats going on your freaking me out"

savannah breathes out. You immediately exhale quickly and set the test on the coffee table in front of them watching both of their reaction morph into pure excitement.

"no way are you joking chlo"

Sophia screams out as you shake your head 'no'

"oh my god this is a amazing why arent you excited"

savannah squeals out jumping up and down out of happiness.

"because i dont know the dad"

you mumble out underneath your breath catching both of them off guard because well you are dating matt.

"its matt's isnt"

sophia asks raising an eyebrow up at you.

"chlo what are you trying to say that it isnt his"

savannah asks.

"i dont know guys i went to a party and matt wasnt there and i got really drunk and-"

you begin to ramble out.

"wait wait wait wait wait so you cheated on matt then"

sophia ask.

"yes i mean i just dont know if its his because i dont remember anything from that night"

you reason with them.

"chloe this isnt good what are you going to tell him you have to tell him something he is going to find out eventually"

savannah presses.

"i guess i will tell him it is just a prank guys this isnt real"

you burst out giggling.

"wait so which part is the prank like you being pregnant or it not being matt's kid"

sophia asks.

"both is the prank "

you shrug out giggling.

"oh my god chloe"

savannah groans out feeling dejected at the thought she wasnt going to become an aunt yet.

"hey chloe whats going on"

chris greets you as you walk into the triplets house. You were about to prank Chris and nick You knew Matt wasnt home just yet because he had a few errands to run and a meeting to go to before you could prank. Plus you knew it would be better to prank him by himself with this prank. Just in case

"um wheres nick i need to tell you guys something because i dont know what to do im freaking out"

you state getting into character as nick enters the front room with a worried look on his face.

"im right here whats going one chlo what happened"

nick asks slowly looking over at chris to see if you had said anything yet.

"i-im pregnant but-"

you trail off as nick and chris' eyes widen at the confession.

"i went to a party and go really drunk and i-i dont-"

you trail off as chris cuts you off.

"you dont know if it is his is that what you are saying"

chris states and you slowly nod your head 'yes'

"chloeee"

nick groans out because he know exactly what that means.

"i dont remember anything from that night guys i swear and thats why i dont know"

you rush out.

"okay well if you dont remember anything he could have raped you is that what you are saying"

chris exclaims.

"i- i dont think so i"

you mumble fidgeting with the hem of the hoodie you were wearing.

"so you gave him consent"

nick states as you shrug.

"chloe there is no way why are you telling us you should be having that conversation with matt"

chris states

"i know i know i just-"

you trail off.

"just what"

nick states.

"i had to prank you guys with this first"

you giggle out.

"jesus chloe"

chris breathes out putting his head in his hands.

"hey babygirl"

matt greets as you pull him into his room upstairs.

"hi um i need to tell you something can you sit down please"

you ask him, gesturing to his bed which he willing does per your request.

"whats up"

matt asks growing kind of concerned.

"matt im pregnant"

you mumble out.

"baby what thats amazing"

matt exclaims hugging you as you remain silent.

"yeah i guess but i just- i dont think its yours matt"

you mumble out.

"wait the only way it wouldnt be mine is if you cheated on me did you"

matt asks standing up from the bed folding his arms.

"i went to a party and i dont remeber anything matt"

you states as you allow tears to well up in your waterline.

"so you did cheat on me"

matt exclaims.

"no i just i dont think i agreed to anything matt so i cant be so sure its yours because of that because it happened"

you states letting the tears fall down your cheeks Matts face softens realizing what you must be getting at.

"chloe"

matt coos out kneeling in front of you taking your hands in his.

"i cant remember and anything from that night i was drunk and out of it matt"

you sob out.

"hey we can figure this out okay it will be fine okay"

matt comforts you as you quickly birst into a fit of giggles.

"why are you laughing chlo this isnt funny"

matt states confused

"matt it was a prank"

you giggle out

"what are you serious chloee"

matt exclaims dropping your hands and standing up

"dont play like that"

matt groans out.

"im sorry if it means anything i prank my friends and chris and nick so"

you giggle out hugging him.

Taglist🗂️

@mintsturniolo @spicymuffins03 @dirtylittleheart333

@stayingstromboli @wh0resstuff @ksturnz @chaoswithus @emely9274 @ivysturnss @sturniolo-szn2 @lezleeferguson-120 @courta13 @chrepsi @lyingonchris

@tezzzzzzzz @babytomatoes21 @sturniolosymphony @zenithsturniolo @bernardsbendystraws @sturnioloslut101

[inkedtension]

Something like a pulse

Note:

went with a different approach than usual

probably more into plot but please get it

new writing style?? [Implied: gojo x reader]

errors [if found] with the main plot is intentional [they're none, but just in case]

constructive critisism is welcome

please dont be rude

long? very long, but i didnt count the words

enjoy!!

dividers by: @sisterlucifergraphics

for: @ghostykitty00, @scarsandmoons, @minminminswreckingmalife, @krispyloverlady

I'm bad at connecting two scenes so there are cuts often, and my network suggests I write small fics but this one's long, also there will absolutely be a part 2, I already wrote it too, but it will be posted later on, dont judge, and enjoy!

Got carried away. Sorry. these might seem more like snippets of a story written separately, i just got out of writers block

The city is a different beast at night.

It doesn’t breathe, not really. It holds its breath, like something is waiting. Watching.

By 11:03 PM, you’re past the school gates with your coat collar up, your cursed pen tucked into your inner lining, and your phone flipped to silent. Again.

You sneak in through the south wing to avoid Gojo.

Except he’s waiting.

“Can I ask you something?” he says, voice not bright, not smug—just awake.

You stop.

He’s leaning against the hallway wall, still wearing his uniform from the day before. No blindfold tonight—just dark glasses pushed up in his hair. Pale eyes sharp in the low light.

You exhale. “Go ask Nanami.”

“I’m asking you.”

You say nothing.

He pushes off the wall slowly, hands in pockets, posture too casual to be unintentional. He stops a few feet in front of you, eyes searching your face.

“You didn’t sleep.”

You shrug.

“You come back with blood on your cuffs and bite marks on your wrist. You haven’t filed a patrol report in three days.”

“It’s handled.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s okay.”

You snort. “Since when do you care if something’s okay?”

There’s a flicker in his face—just the slightest crack. You’ve learned how to read them.

“Since always,” he says, too quiet.

You move to brush past him.

He snatches your cigarette pack from your pocket as you pass.

You freeze.

“Hey.”

He tosses it in the trash. “Go chew gum.”

“You are insufferable.”

He grins now—real grin, lopsided and shitty and boyish. “That’s what you like about me.”

You shove his shoulder. Not hard. He lets it move him.

“Go to bed, Satoru,” you mutter.

He blinks.

You don’t say his name often.

You both notice it at once.

Something in him goes quiet. That grin slips off like a mask dropped in a hurry. You don’t look at him as you keep walking. But he watches you go.

The streets are cold. Not in temperature—but in feeling. You step past sleeping convenience stores, under flickering signs, by alleys that hiss and whisper with low-grade curses.

You clean up. Quietly.

You don’t come back until 6:27 AM. Your fingers are numb, and your coat smells like the city.

The sky is orange by the time you step off the train.

You don’t remember boarding it. You barely recall climbing onto the platform, coated in the stink of hollow, half-cleansed air. The city glows dim, just past sunrise, all orange and dying pinks like an old bruise stretching over high-rise buildings.

Another night gone. Another set of curses erased. Three low-grade, one semi-grade two, and something in the shadows you didn't bother engaging. You made a report about that one. Let the higher-ups deal with it. You aren't paid enough to lose a limb over curiosity.

Your coat’s collar is flipped up, not from style but habit. You roll your neck until it cracks.

By the time you pass the school gates, your hands are shoved in your pockets. A glint of silver reflects against the faint morning light—your cursed pen, swings from a chain inside your jacket.

You’re two steps from the main building when a blur of movement rushes your left side.

“Morning, sensei!” comes the too-bright voice.

You instinctively move aside.

Yuji’s fist punches through empty air and he nearly eats pavement.

"HEY!" he yells, skidding across the courtyard. 

You reappear behind him with the flick of your cursed technique—soft distortion, shimmer, and then solid.

"Try harder," you mutter, your voice gravel from sleeplessness and street smoke.

Yuji beams at you, the way only a kid high on sunshine and sugar could.

"You saw that, right? That spin—I just learned that move!" He throws a quick, animated reenactment of the motion, eyes wide with excitement.

"It’s supposed to be this clean, but you—you actually blocked it!" He laughs, half in awe, jogging a few steps to catch up beside you.

"Okay, now I have to figure out how to break through that. Maybe— ooh, what if I go low next time?"

You grunt.

You head inside without another word, past students who are just arriving, past the smell of breakfast rice from the cafeteria. It’s early, but not for you. Never for you.

Nanami's already in the staff room, sleeves rolled, mug steaming, eyes quiet.

You drop into the seat next to him without removing your coat. You don’t need to speak. He glances at you once, notes the dried blood on your cuff, then slides a thermos your way.

Chamomile tea.

You murmur a thanks.

“Long night?” he asks, without looking.

You nod. “Shinjuku again. Something’s nesting under the rail yard.”

He exhales. “You sent the report?”

“Tagged the coordinates. Left a marker.” You lean back in your chair. “Didn’t engage.”

“Smart.”

You stare at the steam curling up from the thermos. “Didn’t feel smart. Felt like running.”

Nanami tilts his head, just slightly. “Running is only cowardice when it costs lives. It’s called strategy when you come back breathing.”

You don’t respond. Just sip the tea.

It burns, but you welcome the pain. It’s sharp. Real.

You don’t notice Gojo until his shadow falls across your table.

He’s always sudden. Even when he’s not trying.

“Look who made it back in one piece,” he says, grinning like he didn’t just appear out of thin air. “And in the same wrinkled suit. Impressive.”

You don’t lift your head. “I have three.”

“Oh, I know. I just think it’s cute that you rotate them like a cartoon character.”

“Bite me.”

“Tempting.”

You finally look up. He’s still grinning. Always grinning. That smug, radiant thing that shouldn’t feel as safe as it does.

“Tell me,” Gojo says, crouching down beside your chair, voice lowering. “You didn’t check that curse near the railyard, did you?”

Your jaw twitches, Nanami sighs.

Gojo hums. “You’re supposed to call us if it smells like a Special Grade.”

“It didn’t feel like a Special Grade,” you snap.

“But it made you walk away. What if it followed you?” His voice is soft now.

You hate when he’s like this. Kind through a knife's edge. 

You turn away. “I left a marker. Do what you want.”

“Already dispatched a team,” he says. “But next time, you wait. You call. Or I’m stapling a tracker to your back.”

Gojo stands, ruffling your hair—your carefully flattened, barely combed hair. Then goes to ruffle Nanami’s too, he ducks.

Later, after Nanami leaves for a mission and Yuji is dragged off by Nobara for training, you find yourself alone in the shade behind the school. The city stretches beyond the fence. 

Endless. Pulsing. You crouch there, smoke in your hand.

You don’t sleep because when you do, the dark things follow. But out here, in the sun, maybe you can rest your eyes. Just for a second.

You feel the presence before you see him. A subtle shift in the air. A footstep with too much weight behind it to be ignored.

snatch.

Your cigarette is plucked clean from your fingers.

You sit up fast. “What the—”

Gojo flicks the smoke to the dirt and crushes it under his heel. “Wow. So this is what thirty hours of no sleep and government-issue self-loathing looks like.”

You glare. “I was using that.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” He wrinkles his nose exaggeratedly, waving his hand through the faint curl of leftover smoke. “Smells like old men. Very sexy.”

“I will break your nose.”

He grins. “Kinky.”

You lunge for him, but he’s already dancing backwards, long limbs loose, laughing like this is his favorite game. Which it is. You know it is.

“You’re unbelievable,” you snap, standing now, brushing your hands off like you didn’t just fall asleep in the dirt.

“And you’re adorable when you’re homicidal.”

“Go away.”

“Make me.”

You step forward, ready to try, but he just keeps walking in a slow circle around you, hands behind his head like he’s on vacation.

“You know, most people smoke after something good happens. Not before they collapse like a cursed ragdoll under a sakura tree.”

“Maybe I like doing things backwards.”

“Maybe you like attention.”

Your stare is sharp. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

Gojo spins, walking backwards now, his sunglasses glinting. “I’m not the one brooding dramatically behind the school like a tragic anti-hero. What’s next? Monologues about the weight of power?”

“Go choke on your own ego.”

He gasps, mock-wounded. “You wound me, senpai. And after I graciously saved your lungs.”

You march past him, done with the scene, done with the sun, done with him—but his voice follows.

“You owe me one,” he calls.

“For what?” you snap over your shoulder.

“For the cig! I saved your life! That’s worth, like—coffee. Or dinner. Or naming your firstborn after me!”

You don’t answer.

You just raise your middle finger without looking back.

He’s still laughing when you vanish into the building.

You make it exactly fifteen minutes into breakfast before Yuji starts poking you with chopsticks.

“Are you gonna eat?” he asks, voice too loud, energy too raw for six-something in the morning.

“No,” you deadpan.

“You should! Rice is life!”

“I hope you choke on it.”

“Wow,” he says, chewing anyway. “So mean before 7 a.m.”

Across the table, Megumi watches you like a suspicious housecat. Arms crossed, head tilted, judging in silence. Nobara is eating, avoiding your eyes. You ignore them.

Your tray is untouched. You’re not sure why you got one. Habit, probably. Something about pretending you’re normal.

Yuji goes to poke you again—and then Gojo drops into the seat beside you like he’s been summoned by chaos itself.

He props his chin in his hand and smiles.

“Morning, sunshine.”

You sigh without looking at him. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Be delighted to see you alive?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Aw, c’mon. Would you prefer... sweet cheeks? My little gremlin? killer cutie?”

“I will put a pen through your eye socket.”

He grins. “Still not a no.”

Nanami sits down across from you, sipping from a thermos, and you actually relax a little.

He doesn’t comment. Just murmurs, “You’re late,” to Gojo.

Gojo shrugs. “Had to stop someone from setting themselves on fire behind the school.”

“I was fine,” you mutter.

“Oh, you were smoldering, alright,” he grins, elbow nudging yours. “In a hot mess kind of way.”

You finally turn to him, fully, and say—quietly, evenly

“Satoru.”

His smile flickers.

Just for a second. Like something short-circuits behind his blindfold.

Like you just dropped a match into his mouth and told him not to flinch.

“Die.”

He smirks.

You shove your tray toward Yuji without a word. He blinks at it.

“Wait, really?”

“Eat it before I change my mind.”

Yuji fist-pumps. “BEST SENSEI EVER! I’LL MAKE A SHRINE FOR YOU.”

Megumi suddenly looked horrified, you think you saw Nobara choke. 

Gojo, beside you, clasps a hand to his chest in betrayal. “You fed the child and not me?”

“You’ll survive.”

“But will I, emotionally?”

You stand, grabbing your coat from the back of the chair. Nanami looks up at you.

“You leaving?”

“Bathroom,” you say.

He nods. Doesn’t press.

You leave the cafeteria. Step into a quiet hallway. No footsteps behind you—until there are.

You don’t turn. “You’re following.”

“Obviously,” Satoru says, less smug now. “Didn’t even try to lose me. You’re slipping.”

You pause by the window at the end of the hall, sunlight slicing through glass and dust. Below, the courtyard shimmers with the morning heat.

He leans against the wall beside you, sunglasses pushed up onto his head now, hair sticking up like it always does.

You don’t say anything. Just turn and start walking to the shower rooms.

The water takes too long to get warm.

You stand under it anyway.

Let it hit cold, like punishment. Like proof. The tiles are cracked at your feet, and the soap smells too clean, like a hospital pretending to be a spa. 

You don’t wash your hair. You don’t even undress all the way—just peel the top half of your clothes off, let it slump down over your hips, the soaked sleeves dragging along your elbows like dead weight.

Steam rises eventually. Not enough.

You lean a hand against the wall, breathing like it’s a task. You hear a sound.

A click. A familiar one. Lighter flint.

“You smell like blood,” Shoko says through the thin stall divider.

You grunt. “Takes one to know one.”

A drag. A pause. 

You stare at the chipped tile. 

“I wasn’t going to light up in here.” she says.

You inhale. You hear the scratch of her back against the tile.

There’s something comforting about the quiet that follows. Not peaceful but familiar. Like the moment before a fuse burns out.

You shut the water off and let it drip from your eyelashes.

“Gojo’s looking for you,” Shoko says after a moment.

“He found me already.”

“Did he annoy you to death?”

“Almost.”

“Rookie numbers. You look half-dead anyway.”

You wring the water from your sleeves. “Don’t care.”

“Clearly.”

You wrap a towel over your shoulders and slump against the stall wall, mirroring her position—two backs to the same half-inch divider. You both stand there, for a while.

There’s a beat. You can hear the cigarette sizzle faintly in her hand. She knocks ash into the drain.

“You’re not sleeping again.”

You don’t answer.

She doesn’t push. “Nanami’s worried.”

You close your eyes. “He doesn’t say anything.”

“He doesn’t have to.”

You breathe. Let the silence sit. Water dripping down your back. Steam clinging to your skin.

“He said I should’ve called,” you mumble.

Shoko hums. “Satoru?”

You nod, even though she can’t see it.

“He’s not wrong.”

You turn your head. “Would you have called?”

She flicks ash again. “Nope.”

“Thought so.”

“But” she adds, “I also wouldn’t have walked into a rail yard alone with a bleeding suit and a hunger-activated cursed pen in my jacket. So.”

You sigh. “Touche.”

“Next time,” she says, tapping the wall once between you, “maybe don’t wait until you want to disappear.”

You stare at the grout line.

Then whisper, so faint she might not hear it:

I already do. You thought.

No answer. Just a flick of the lighter again. Flame, smoke, breath.

You walk out still damp.

Didn’t bother with a hairdryer. Didn’t pack spare clothes. The sleeves of your shirt cling to your arms, the collar wet and dark where it hugs your throat. Your jacket hangs off one shoulder. Steam is still caught in your skin. You look like something dragged from the ocean and left out to dry.

Gojo is exactly where you expect him not to be—leaning against the wall just beyond the turn, pretending to scroll through his phone.

His head lifts, very casually, half a beat too late. “Oh,” he says, like he just noticed you. “Fancy seeing you here.”

You don’t break stride. “Stalker.”

“Rude,” he hums, falling into step beside you. “I happen to haunt this hallway daily. This is my corner.”

You adjust the towel at your shoulders and keep walking. “Like mold.”

“I’m versatile,” he says. “You’re wet.”

You throw him a glare.

He shrugs. “Statement of fact. Didn’t think you owned a drowned rat aesthetic, but—”

“Bite me.”

“You keep offering. One day I’ll say yes.”

You pause. You do pause. Just long enough to make him stop walking, too.

“Satoru,” you say.

His mouth opens. But you’re already walking again.

He stares after you for a moment. Then jogs to catch up.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, quieter now.

“No.”

That shuts him up.

For two whole seconds.

Then, softer, trying too hard to sound casual, “Did you dream?”

You look at him.

Not like you hate him. Not like you want to kiss him. Just—like he asked a question that split you open.

And still you answer.

“Yeah.”

You’re already rounding the next corner when you say it, but he hears.

“Was it Haibara again?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

Because he was there. He knows.

He remembers the three of you—back then. When Nanami still smiled sometimes, when Haibara lit up every room with something bright and stupid. You were younger. Meaner. Alive in a different way. Haibara used to call you by a nickname no one else was allowed to use. He was annoying and gentle and so, so good.

Too much like Yuji.

Too open. Too earnest. Always asking if you were okay, like he didn’t know you were capable of lying.

You breathe.

Gojo’s voice breaks the silence. “Yuji’s not him.”

“Yuji?”

He nods. “You know that, right?”

“Don’t say it like that,” you snap. “Like I hate him. I don’t.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

“I don’t.”

“I know, I know.”

You stop again.

This time, Gojo doesn’t pretend to be doing anything else. He’s just there.

Waiting.

You speak into the quiet.

“I dreamt about the last time we had lunch. Haibara and I. He brought that stupid plastic bento box. The one with the broken latch and the cartoon rabbit on it.”

Gojo’s mouth twitches. “You threw it at Nanami once.”

“He called it lucky.”

he tilts his head. “It wasn’t.”

“No” you say. “It really wasn’t.”

The air hangs heavy between you, grief caught in the walls, in your soaked collar, in the creases under your eyes that never really go away.

“I miss him,” you say. “And every time Yuji smiles like that, I think—what’s the fucking point? What’s the point of training these kids if all they do is die with their eyes still open?”

“I don’t know the answer,” he says.

You blink at him.

“You’re not supposed to,” you say.

His hand drops. He smiles again. Weaker. Realer.

Nanami rounds the corner just then, eyebrows lifting at the two of you. “You’ve been gone for thirty minutes.”

You blink. “I showered.”

“You’re still wet.”

“She’s going for a drenched aesthetic” Gojo chirps.

Nanami eyes your soaked collar, your towel-draped shoulders. “Very convincing.”

You roll your eyes and push past both of them.

“Breakfast is cold,” Nanami says mildly, falling in beside you.

“So is the grave,” you mutter.

Gojo snorts behind you. “Wow. Inspiring.”

The gravel crunches under your soles as you sit on the low ledge behind the training yard. It’s always quiet back here—except today, when Megumi shows up and ruins the silence without even speaking.

He just sits. Maybe two feet away.

You don't tell him to leave. He wouldn’t.

Instead, you stare ahead, both of you looking at nothing, like the ghosts hanging off your shoulders have names you’re too tired to whisper.

Yuji’s laughter echoes in the distance, high and bright—fighting with Nobara again, probably. He sounds so alive.

You don’t move.

“He’s loud” Megumi mutters after a while.

Your lips twitch. “He is.”

Silence again.

But it’s thick now. Not awkward—just too familiar. Heaviness is a language, and you both speak it.

The wind shifts. Megumi’s hair stirs across his forehead. For a second, you look at him—not for who he is, but who he reminds you of.

That brooding quiet. That reluctant kindness.

Suguru.

Then Yuji again, loud and laughing in the sun, and it’s like time folds in on itself. You see Satoru, years ago, with his unbearable smile, chasing after Suguru down the hall after stealing his drink.

You look away before your throat tightens.

One of them will die, or both.

You don’t know when. You don’t know how. But you’ve felt it since the first day Satoru dragged these kids into your world with too much faith and not enough fear.

you ask softly, “You sleeping okay?”

He shrugs. “Enough.”

You nod once and let the silence bloom again.

The sun filters through the clouds, weak and pale. There’s warmth in it, but not enough.

And for a moment, in the stillness, you remember the tile walls of the old dormitory showers. The steam. The quiet. Suguru. The beach.

You didn’t talk about it with anyone, honestly.

But it counted.

Back then, everything counted. Because it was before.

Before the split. Before the blood. Before Nanami found you in a stairwell with a bottle in your hand and told you “Don’t you dare.”

He’d meant it.

So you’d stayed.

Even when you didn’t want to.

Even now. You stand.

Megumi glances up but doesn’t follow.

“You should head in” you say.

He doesn’t argue.

Yuji barrels around the corner a few minutes later, cheeks red from running, hair damp with sweat. He’s too breathless to speak, too alive to hold.

You hesitate.

Then, without thinking, you lift your hand and pat his head once, gently. It’s not playful. It’s not sisterly.

It’s mourning.

Yuji stills under your hand.

Then smiles, eyes wide and simple and open.

You pull away and walk off before your hands can shake.

Nanami finds you in the corridor between classrooms later, where the light through the glass is watery and cruel. He doesn’t speak at first—just stands next to you.

“You were somewhere else today.”

You shrug.

He’s quiet a beat too long.

“Do I need to worry?” he asks. It’s not casual. Not rhetorical.

You look at him. Nanami, with his rolled sleeves and calm voice and the scar down his back you stitched up once in a storage closet with trembling hands. Nanami, who dragged you out of a freezing river two winters ago when you were sure you’d done enough living. 

You say, “No.”

And it’s mostly true.

He eyes your posture. The way your hands are stuffed deep into your coat pockets. The way you’ve started wearing your collar higher again, like back then.

“You saw something” he says.

You nod.

“About the boys?”

You close your eyes and dont answer. Because he knows.

Because he saw what losing one did to Satoru.

And what nearly losing you did to him.

He doesn’t reach for you. He never has. But his presence leans warm against yours, the way walls don’t move when you collapse against them.

Somewhere down the hall, Yuji shouts something about donuts. A desk crashes. Nobara yells.

It’s so alive.

You want it to last.

Even though you know it won’t.

You’ve been avoiding this conversation since last week. Maybe longer.

The knock is half-hearted.

Yaga grunts from inside. “Come in.”

You step in, still wearing the suit from last night’s patrol. It’s stained—not from blood, but from the sweat and dust of another mission run solo. Your hands are in your pockets. Your face is unreadable.

Yaga doesn't look up at first. He’s hunched over a rectangular planter on his desk, two vine-like plants growing in a tight, impossible twist. He adjusts the soil, prunes a stem with careful fingers.

“I heard you didn’t return till after 7.”

You shift your weight. “Time slipped.”

He grunts again. That non-committal sound he makes when he knows you’re lying but doesn’t care enough to press. “You were supposed to check in. Gojo was pacing the hall like a cat in a thunderstorm.”

“He does that anyway.”

A faint smirk flickers over Yaga’s face, quickly gone. “He wanted to go looking. I told him you’d show up. You always do.”

You glance at the plants. “Barely.”

He looks at you this time. “Are you eating?”

You don’t answer.

Yaga sighs. It’s that deep, weary exhale only a man who's raised too many broken kids can make. “You keep doing this. Working yourself into the ground. One of these days, even Gojo won’t be fast enough to drag you out of it.”

You look away. His words cut in the way soft things do—quiet and clean, but deep.

Then he switches gears.

“Yuji came by earlier.”

Your eyes narrow.

“He asked—no, requested—on being assigned to train with you. Said your cursed technique was ‘cool as hell’ and he wanted to learn stealth and ‘mysterious girl fighting.’”

You blink slowly. “I’m not fine with it.”

“He seemed fine with that.” Yaga’s smile returns, subtle and fond. “Said he’d die ‘invisibly’ and it would be poetic.”

You roll your eyes. “Tell him to stick with Kento.”

“I tried. He called Nanami ‘too structured’ and said ‘you’d understand his artistic chaos.’”

You stare at Yaga, deadpan. “…He doesn’t know me.”

“No,” Yaga says, leaning back in his chair, “but he’s trying to.”

There’s a beat of silence. You want to dissolve, go back to patrol, disappear into the hollow between buildings where thoughts don’t follow. But you stay.

Yaga reaches out, fingers brushing the twisted vines in the planter. You watch them curl slightly in reaction—alive, maybe too alive.

“I’ve had these since before you joined. Same seeds. Planted in the same soil. Look at them now.”

You do. The vines are impossibly entwined, their stems so knotted they almost look like one plant.

“Tried moving one,” Yaga continues. “Thought they’d do better on their own. Thought the roots were fighting each other. But once I split them, they stopped growing. Like they didn’t know how to live without the other.”

You don’t speak.

He plucks a single dead leaf. Drops it in the trash. “So I put them back together. And they started again. Twisting, adapting. Never separate. No matter what pot I place them in.”

You shift—barely—but something flickers in your expression. Your eyes remain on the vines.

“Do you think they like each other? the answer is no. they' are each other, they just dont know it yet” he asks softly.

You say nothing.

Yaga doesn’t expect you to. he says after a moment. “Maybe it’s obsession. Maybe it’s survival. Maybe it’s just something they were born with—coded into their roots. But it’s... something.”

Silence again. Then, your voice, so faint it barely stirs the air.

“Is that a curse?”

Yaga looks at you. Really looks.

“If it is” he says gently, “it’s an old one.”

You nod once, more to yourself than him. The words crawl under your skin.

The vines are still twisting.

And Gojo’s face flashes uninvited in your mind—laughing, bleeding, tired-eyed, soft-voiced when he thought you weren’t listening. His words echo again.

You think I don’t know?

A thought suddenly flashes through your mind.

You don’t like that thought. But you don’t pull away from it either.

Yaga returns to his task, brushing soil over the roots, like covering something sacred.

You turn to leave.

“Don’t kill Yuji” he calls after you. “He’s just curious.”

You pause in the doorway.

And you’re gone.

But that question lingers in your head long after:

“Do you think they like each other? the answer is no. they' are each other, they just dont know it yet”

You never said it out loud.

But something in your chest curled in recognition.

Two winters ago.

You walked into the river like it wasn’t a decision.

No thought. No panic. Just one foot after another.

Boots left behind in the snow, socks soaked through. The water welcomed you without question—silent, freezing, black under the skin of ice. 

The cold was crushing. It clung to your skin like teeth. And still, you didn’t stop.

You stared ahead—eyes dry, breath slowing—until the world narrowed to numbness.

You felt the coldness seep into your clothes, hair, ears and when you opened your mouth due to lack of breath, your lungs.

Then again, you felt nothing.

Not the wet fabric pulling at your shoulders. Not the bite of the wind cutting through your soaked clothes. Not even the trembling that began to climb your spine.

It was peace.

And then—it wasn’t.

Hands under your arms.

A jerk backward. Ice cracking beneath shifting weight.

“No—” you started, weak and hoarse, but the river swallowed the word.

“Get the fuck out,” a voice growled behind you—familiar and furious.

You thrashed, limp at first, then full-body jerks, kicking at the snow and ice, coughing out water as Nanami’s arms locked beneath your shoulders, dragging you up the bank like a corpse. You tried to twist free, elbow him, spit, scream. It didn’t matter. He was stronger. He was relentless.

“Let me go—Kento, let me go!”

“Shut up,” he snapped.

You clawed at his wrists, shoved at his chest, but he moved without hesitation—grabbed you fully, hoisted your soaked body up and threw you over his shoulder like dead weight.

You screamed. Hit at his back, fists weak. Legs kicking. Your nose started bleeding.

“PUT ME DOWN!”

He didn’t.

He didn’t speak.

He just walked—steady, powerful strides through the snow-covered path, through wind and silence and nothing but your fists pounding at his spine.

And then—gravel underfoot. The road. Streetlights in the distance. Some old van parked crooked in the snow. He dropped to one knee, and set you down on the roadside, your body folding in on itself.

You pushed yourself up to swing again—and he slapped you.

Just once. Sharp. A clean sting across your cheek. Not hard enough to bruise. But it landed.

You froze.

Eyes wide.

Mouth open—but no sound came out.

His face was twisted—jaw tight, red eyes wild with grief and panic and something unspoken. His breath steamed in the air between you.

“You don’t get to do that,” he said. Not shouted. Said.

You stared. And then you broke.

You collapsed forward, arms wrapping around him so fast it was clumsy, trembling fingers clawing at the fabric of his soaked shirt, blood seeping into his shirt from your nose.

“Don’t,” you sobbed. “Don’t yell at me—don’t leave me—don’t—”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, hands wrapping around you, voice low. “You hear me?”

You were shaking, your chest heaving with a sob that wouldn’t stop.

“Everyone keeps leaving,” you cried, nose pressed to his collarbone, teeth chattering. 

“Kento—everyone keeps leaving!—”

“I know,” he whispered, folding his arms around your back.

“everyone’s fucking gone!”

He held you tighter.

You clawed at his shirt, screamed into his chest until your voice cracked.

He said nothing for a while.

Just wrapped his coat over your shoulders, rubbing warmth into your frozen arms, kneeling in the snow with you.

“I’m here,” he finally said. Quiet. So quiet it barely registered through your sobs. “You’re not alone.”

“I can’t—I can’t—”

“You can.” His hand slid to your face, fingers brushing the hair from your cheek. “You already did.”

You looked up at him through tears, lips trembling, face blotched red from cold and crying and blood. His expression was exhausted. His own eyes were red, rimmed with disbelief and grief, jaw working to hold in his own pain.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he whispered. His thumb brushed just beneath your eye. “You should’ve called me.”

You leaned into his touch like a dying thing starved of light.

“Don’t leave me,” you said again, barely audible.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. Not this time.

You stayed there for what felt like hours—kneeling in the slush, in the quiet aftermath of almost dying, clinging to the only person still standing in the crater your life had become.

And he also ate ice cream with you as he walked you home the same night, blue lips and numb legs.

For the first time in a long time you felt warm.

That was before he left,

You just added his name to the growing list of people who’d left.

Suguru. Nanami. The Class of 2007.

And eventually—you stopped reaching for anyone at all.

The villiage massacre.

You were used to the aftermath of curses. Used to blood. Screams. Silence.

But nothing prepared you for what you saw that night.

The village was hollow. Burnt out. The kind where people don't even realize they’re dying until they're dust. Suguru’s work.

You and Ichiji had arrived shortly after the incident was reported — a routine check. You expected another Level 2, maybe a rogue curse.

"I'll report it" Ichiji had said, his voice barely above a whisper. “This isn’t just a cleanup job.”

You nodded. "Tell them everything."

But you didn’t go back.

Instead, you turned toward the one place that hadn't yet been mentioned in the reports.

Suguru's family home.

You'd never met them before. His parents. You barely knew what they looked like. But you'd heard him mention them in passing — his mother cooked seaweed soup in winter, his father worked too much. Casual remarks. Nothing special.

And now they were dead.

Bodies limp. There were no signs of forced entry. Nothing stolen. Just tea cooling in ceramic cups, and two lives cut quietly at the root.

You knew right away that he’d done it.

Your knees gave out first. Then the sob caught in your throat, and you didn’t stop it. Not this time. You didn’t know these people. You had no memories to cry over, and yet you cried anyway. For whatever piece of his soul had died before he made the choice to do this.

You cremated the bodies, standing in silence. You watched the smoke carry their lives away.

You held a small funeral. you lit the incense with your lighter. You knelt before their ashes. Your hands trembled as you bowed, tears streaking down your cheeks.

"May you find peace" you whispered. "Even if your son couldn’t."

Telling the elders was worse.

Worse than the fire, the ashes, the way your voice gave out every time you tried to explain what had happened.

You became that person. The one who brought bad news. Who always returned alone, with blood or silence on her tongue. Some said you had bad luck. Some said you were cursed.

You believed it.

After that, you stopped going on joint missions. You stopped reporting directly to anyone. You took over the patrolling job.

You never quite came back from that house.

Eighteen and two months, the party.

The dress code was strange. White shirt, black pants. A marker in your pocket.

You hadn't questioned it — not out loud. Yaga had said it with a straight face, and no one dared poke the bear when he was in one of his "building camaraderie" moods.

But this was different. This wasn’t a mission or a funeral or blood-soaked silence. This was a… party?

If you squinted.

Suguru was the first to greet you, hair in his usual half-up style, a ridiculous party hat already askew on his head. “Hey, you made it,” he said, genuine and easy. “I had five bucks that you’d ghost this.”

You only blinked at him.

Behind him, Nanami nodded toward you, then shifted to open a pack of those tiny plastic forks with the concentration of a man defusing a bomb. Haibara was bouncing, literal sparkle in his eyes, waving you toward the table like you’d won some prize. “You came! Ah, Kento, she actually came!”

“I’m not blind,” Nanami muttered.

You sat without a word.

Gojo took the seat beside you before anyone else could. His hair was tied up loosely, his shirt already creased and messy, like he’d put it on last minute, possibly while wrestling a raccoon. He smelled like sugar. Why did he smell like sugar?

“You brought your marker?” he asked, mouth too close to your ear.

You gave a small nod.

He grinned wide and leaned back dramatically. “She speaks!”

“I didn’t speak.”

“She denies!” He clutched his chest. “God, I’m so into you.”

You turned your head, slowly, to stare at him.

He winked.

You ignored it.

Yaga gave a speech that lasted exactly three minutes too long and then mysteriously disappeared. The moment the door shut behind him, Geto clapped his hands. 

“Alright! You heard the man. Mark each other up. Memories, insults, love letters. Whatever.”

You watched silently as chaos bloomed around the table. Suguru wrote something very questionable on Shoko’s shirt, laughing when she threw a grape at him. Haibara’s shirt was already covered in stars, hearts, and the phrase “I’m a sunshine disaster” in at least three different handwritings.

Nanami's said “Sleep is for the weak.”

Yours remained untouched.

Gojo watched it all.

Sprawled sideways, legs long and unruly under the table. Shirt already covered in chaos. Someone had written “dumbest genius in the room” across his ribs, and he wore it like a badge. He kept laughing, loud and easy, but his eyes never left you for long.

“s’my turn” Gojo announced, somehow behind you now.

You should’ve noticed. You usually did. Your brain, your… unwelcome noise, usually warned you when he was too close. But this time, there was nothing — just the heat of his presence and the pressure of the marker as it pressed against your back.

“Don’t move” he whispered.

Suguru watched him with tired eyes.

“What are you writing?” Suguru asked.

“Compliments. Vulnerable truths. My social security number.”

You didn’t move. You didn’t even flinch. You let him write whatever he wanted.

He placed a hand flat against your spine to keep you steady. His palm was warm. Fingers a little too long.

He dragged it out. Literally.

Big loops. Careful slants. Words that didn’t need to take up half your back but did, just so his hand could trail after each one. You didn’t flinch. It was strangely comforting.

He paused once.

Then kept writing.

It ended just above your lower back.

The others kept talking. Laughing. You focused on the hum, on Haibara’s dumb giggle, on Nanami trying to slap Geto’s hand away when he drew a cat on his neck.

When he finished, he didn’t say anything.

He just passed you the marker.

You turned.

“Satoru” you said.

He blinked, suddenly serious. “Yeah?”

You handed him the marker. “Your turn.”

His grin returned, lazy and lopsided. “You’re gonna write something sweet?”

You shrugged. Then uncapped the marker.

And across his back, in clean, blocky letters, you wrote:

“You’re exhausting. And maybe I’d miss it if you stopped.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he tilted his head at you and whispered, “That’s basically a confession.”

“Keep dreaming.”

“Oh, I am. Every night. Want details?”

You leaned slightly closer, voice low. “huh? no”

“…whatever you want, pwincess”

Later, when the food was just crumbs and soda cans, and Haibara was passed out on Shoko’s lap, you felt a tug on your sleeve.

Nanami leaned in and said, “Do you want to know what he wrote?”

You frowned.

He nodded toward Gojo, who was now drawing stick figures on Geto’s pants while humming.

You shook your head. “No.”

“You should.”

You didn’t see what anyone wrote. You just know those who read out aloud as they wrote. Like Haibara, Suguru, Shoko.

There were flashes of the real.

Like Haibara, crawling across the bench to get to you, nearly knocking over the soda can you hadn’t touched. He scribbled “Eat more fooooood” on your shoulder blade in giant bubble letters, rambling on about how he wants to write more, then added a small smiley with fangs.

He leaned close after and whispered, “If anyone bullies you, I’ll beat them up. Even if it’s Kento.”

Nanami sighed, long-suffering. “You are the one who keeps jumping out from behind doors to scare her.”

“That’s bonding!”

You let Haibara hug your arm and left it at that.

Utahime was already yelling, “Group photo! Everyone, let’s go, before someone falls asleep or explodes.”

Shoko had set up a disposable camera on timer, already blinking red.

You all crowded together in front of the old mission board. Half the room still wore party hats. Nanami looked faintly betrayed. Haibara squeezed between you and Geto, dragging your arm up for a crooked peace sign.

Satoru’s hand settled heavy on your shoulder. His thumb tapped once against your collarbone. Light. Unnoticed.

Click.

The camera flashed.

And for a second, there were no voices. Just a silence that felt like belonging.

You didn’t see the photo until weeks later.

After a shared mission with Nanami, your house.

The key creaks in the lock.

You hate that sound.

It meant you were here. Home. Back in this... place. A place that, even by accident, refused to feel like anything but a dark hollow shell. A mattress on the floor. No fridge. No electricity. No trace of softness. You didn’t need it. You were never here long enough to justify having anything. Nights were for patrols. Mornings were for school. Evenings? Brief flashes of a quiet bed and clean suit before heading out again.

And you liked it that way.

You and Nanami step into the darkness, the door groaning as it opens. Your eyes adjust automatically, though Nanami, who’s already sighing, flicks on the lights—

Click.

Wait.

Light?

Your eyes narrow, trained on the glow bathing the hallway in soft yellow. You take another step in, the soles of your boots no longer touching dusty floorboards but… clean laminate?

Nanami halts beside you. “...You have curtains.”

You don’t respond, just phase forward—silent, a flicker of motion.

The living room is...

Furnished.

There’s a couch. A coffee table. The floor is swept. Clean throw pillows like little marshmallow lies sit primly on the corners of the couch. There’s a TV mounted on the wall. The windows are dressed in blackout curtains, elegant and thick.

You phase again, into the kitchen.

The fridge hums—alive. The door opens and reveals fresh vegetables, cuts of meat, bottled water, beer—your favorite brand.

You slam it shut.

Nanami enters behind you, just as you teleport to the bedroom—your sanctuary of nothingness—and find—

Drawers. A wardrobe.

other clothes. Not just suits.

Just… soft things. Cotton. Sweaters. Even fucking pajamas. With clouds on them.

“Who broke into my house” you say flatly, appearing back in the kitchen with a thud of boots.

Nanami raises a brow. “I don’t think this qualifies as a break-in, exactly.”

You stare at him.

“Kento,” you say, voice low.

“Yes?”

“Tell me this wasn’t you.”

“You know I wouldn’t dare.”

You close your eyes and let out a sharp breath through your nose. “Then who—”

“I’ll make tea,” he interrupts, placing his coat over a new kitchen chair. A new chair. There was a stove. A dish set. “While you process the fact that your home no longer resembles a condemned shrine.”

You grunt but don’t stop him.

He moves with familiar ease, finding utensils like it’s instinct. You lean back against the counter, arms crossed, eyes flicking to him. His presence is steadying. Like always.

He opens a cabinet, finds mugs. “You remember the first place we rented in Sapporo?”

“Collapsed roof. No heat.”

“You dissolved the floor into a sinkhole because it was rotting.”

“...I warned the landlord,” you mutter.

Nanami huffs a quiet laugh.

You let him cook. Tea turns to dinner. You don’t even ask where he found rice, eggs. It just appears. And for a second, you forget to be mad.

You sit, both of you with plates, sipping, chewing, saying little—until the heat of old times loosens your tongue.

“You were always the one with taste,” you say, glancing at the apartment. “Guess I infected you.”

“You did,” he says, and his lips twitch. “You and your tragic sense of denial.”

You click your tongue.

The kitchen light buzzes softly above. Still too bright for your liking.

You stand near the counter, arms crossed, eyes cold as they scan your too-new kitchen like it’s a crime scene. Nanami’s beside you, calm as ever, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, wristwatch removed and placed neatly on the windowsill like he always did before cooking.

He’s already got water boiling. Something aromatic simmers in a pan—probably pork belly. Of course he remembered your favorites.

You lean against the fridge, silent. The hum of it is still unnatural.

Nanami turns slightly, glancing over his shoulder at you. “You’re quiet.”

You scoff. “Processing.”

He smirks faintly. “Processing that you now own a functioning stove?”

You roll your eyes. “And curtains. Don’t forget those.”

Nanami shakes his head. “They match the walls. You should be grateful.”

“I don’t want to be grateful. I want my pit back.”

Nanami doesn’t bother replying. He just stirs the pot gently. The aroma deepens.

A beat passes. You shift.

“...Need help?”

His brows lift—mildly surprised. “Since when do you offer?”

“I didn’t offer,” you say flatly, moving toward the counter. “I just asked if you needed it.”

He pauses, then steps aside slightly. “Prove you still remember how.”

You snort and pull the cot aside with your foot, dropping it against the wall. The coat comes off next, heavy and long, tossed unceremoniously over a chair. Beneath it, a black turtleneck hugs your form—simple, worn. You roll your sleeves up, the movement fluid, practiced.

“Please,” you mutter, cracking your knuckles. “My skills haven’t lagged.”

Nanami hands you a cutting board and knife with a quiet look. “I’ll believe that when I survive your seasoning again.”

“Oh, fuck off,” you mutter, already slicing green onions with neat, aggressive speed.

“You almost poisoned Ino once.”

“He’s dramatic.”

“You mistook salt for sugar.”

“That was one time.”

“And you didn’t taste the difference?”

“I don’t taste while cooking,” you say, straightening. “I just know.”

He sighs deeply, as though the weight of knowing you has aged him ten years.

You begin working in sync. The oil sizzles, the kitchen fills with scent and steam. There’s a strange comfort to it—a rhythm older than either of you want to admit.

You flick oil from your knuckle. “This reminds you of something.”

Nanami glances at you sideways. “The apartment in Kyoto.”

You nod. “With the cracked ceiling.”

“And a mouse infestation.”

“You cooked every night.”

“You refused to shop for vegetables.”

“You refused to eat instant ramen.”

He shrugs. “I have standards.”

You smirk, just slightly. “You liked my miso soup.”

“...It was edible.”

“Bullshit.”

Nanami finally exhales a laugh, soft and deep. The smell of the past lingers between you—soy, broth, burnt onions, and time.

“You know,” he says slowly, as you wipe your hands, “you were reckless back then.”

Your brow twitches. “Don’t start.”

“You teleport mid-fight too often. You never rest. You haven’t reported half your injuries this month. If I have to remind you again—”

You slam the knife down gently.

“I survived, didn’t I?”

“That’s not enough,” he says, tone sharp now. His gaze pins you in place, no longer soft with nostalgia. “You’re not a student anymore. You’re not alone anymore. There are people who—���

“I know,” you cut in, flat.

But something in your voice slips.

He watches you for a beat longer, then returns to stirring.

You both work in silence after that. The meal finishes. Rice fluffs. The soup simmers low. You set out the bowls, the motion automatic. Almost... normal.

As you serve his plate, you mutter, “I didn’t forget how to cook.”

Nanami takes it with quiet reverence. “No. You didn’t.”

“Shut up and eat.”

He does.

The table is small, plain wood. Still new. Too clean for your liking. The chairs don’t creak like they should.

But the food’s hot. The scent of soy and garlic hangs in the air.

You both eat without speaking for a while. It's quiet—save for the hum of the fridge and the occasional clink of chopsticks against ceramic.

Nanami finishes his rice and sets his bowl down, wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin that absolutely didn’t belong to you before yesterday. “Not bad.”

You raise a brow. “Not bad?”

He exhales slowly. “Fine. It’s better than I expected.”

“Hah.”

You sip from your bowl. Heat settles in your chest—probably the broth. Not the warmth from shared routine. Definitely not that.

Your eyes flick to him, thoughtful.

“…Kento.”

He glances up.

You hesitate. “Did you know?”

He frowns. “Know what?”

“That he… did all this.”

A pause. Then:

“No” he says. “But I suspected it the moment I saw the fridge.”

You sigh, pushing rice around your bowl. “So stupid.”

He leans back slightly, crossing one leg over the other. “You’ll never admit it, but you needed this.”

“I didn’t need anything. Especially not a renovation from a walking god complex.”

A faint smile plays at his lips. “He means well. You know that.”

You grunt. “Satoru’s… relentless.”

Nanami watches you carefully. You don’t meet his gaze.

“He’s been bothering you again?”

You don’t answer immediately. You stir your soup.

“Not bothering,” you mutter. “He just… talks too much. Touches too much. Shows up when he’s not wanted.”

Nanami raises his eyebrows, like he knows you've said something you didn't want to, and that you'd hit anyone else who'd say the same thing. “And yet, you never go away from him.”

Your eyes snap up, sharp. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

He nods. “Of course not.”

You hate that he says it like that. Like he knows.

Your voice drops. “He doesn’t get it.”

“What doesn’t he get?”

“That not everyone wants things. That not everyone needs to be surrounded all the time. That maybe I like being alone.”

Nanami raises a brow. “Do you?”

The question hangs there, heavy and precise like everything he says.

You look away.

“I don’t want to need him.”

Nanami nods slowly. “That’s different.”

You tense.

He sets his cup down gently, folding his hands in his lap. “You’ve never been good at needing anyone. Even back then, you only let people close when they were bleeding out or trying to leave.”

“Don’t psychologize me” you mutter.

“I’m not,” he says simply. “Just stating facts.”

Silence falls again. You chew slowly, jaw tight.

After a long moment, you speak.

“I don’t know what he wants from me.”

Nanami stares down into his tea. “Maybe nothing.”

Your brow furrows.

“Maybe,” he says, voice lower now, gentler, “he just wants to be where you are.”

You go still.

Your fingers tighten around your spoon.

Nanami, sensing the weight of your quiet, doesn’t push. 

Eventually, you rise without a word and collect the plates. He doesn’t stop you.

You don’t speak again until the sink water’s running and your back is to him.

“He makes things messy.”

Nanami exhales a soft breath through his nose. “Yes. But so do you.”

“Shut up.”

His smirk is audible.

“I’m just saying,” he says mildly. “You let him in.”

You glance back at him, eyes half-lidded. “Barely.”

“Still counts.”

You flick a droplet of water in his direction. “Keep talking and you’re sleeping on the couch.”

“He installed the couch,” he reminds.

“I’ll dissolve the couch.”

Nanami chuckles, slow and full in his chest.

You let the moment hang, let it fade into the clatter of dishes and the distant noise of your city—the one you patrol, protect, disappear into.

And even though Gojo isn’t here, it still feels like he’s in the room.

After sleepless nights and overthinking.

You weren’t ever really part of them.

Not in the stories they told around tables with cheap beer and broken bones. You were somewhere else. Always somewhere else. Just randomly close to Nanami and Haibara, until one died and one left, and came back again.

And that was by design.

It’s not like you were invisible—not yet—but you might as well have been. Some people are made to be seen, like Gojo Satoru. Others are made to be followed, like Suguru Geto. You? You were made to disappear. You liked it that way.

Most of the time.

The name they gave your technique is a mouthful— Phase Dissolution. Not very poetic. Not like Limitless. Not like Cursed Spirit Manipulation. Yours just made you unseeable. Forgettable. You learned to twist the technique until you could manipulate your own presence—erase your voice, your scent, your weight in the world. The closer someone got to you emotionally, the harder it was to disappear.

Which meant, mercifully, you were invisible almost always.

You never took normal missions. They stopped trying to assign you any after that third year, when Gojo and Geto started leveling small mountains and you just started wandering. When Haibara died, and Nanami left.

You loved Yu Haibara.

Not in the way girls write in journals about. Not in the way people expect—sweet and soft and glowing with crushes. You loved him like a little brother you didn’t deserve. Like a bright lantern in a dark temple.

He called you senpai, for fun, because you let him.

“Y/N senpai” he’d beam. “Did you eat yet? You look like a withering flower! Rice is life!”

You punched him for that. Lightly.

You remember his laugh. You remember how he glowed with sincerity, how he was one of the only ones who didn’t mind how quiet you were. He told you once, “I think your silence is peaceful, not scary.”

And then he died.

You stopped speaking for three weeks.

Kento Nanami was different. Not warm like Haibara, but dependable. Steady.

He used to train with you after class, not talking much. You both preferred it that way. Grunts. Nods. Sweating in silence.

After Haibara’s death, the school changed for you both.

You remember the day Nanami walked out. He didn’t say goodbye to anyone. Except you.

You’d been leaning against the back steps, pretending not to wait for him. He stood beside you for a few long seconds before muttering, “It’s not worth it anymore.”

You didn’t argue.

You just watched him go, your throat too dry to speak.

And you stayed.

Like a fool.

Years later, when Nanami walks back through the halls of Jujutsu Tech, it feels like seeing a ghost wearing a new suit.

You’re in the training yard when you spot him.

He pauses when he sees you—just a flicker of recognition—and gives you a nod.

It’s not a reunion. You don’t hug. You don’t speak for another week.

But when you sit beside him on a bench during a break in missions, you say, “I was angry at you.”

He doesn’t deny it.

“Still am,” you mutter.

“I know,” he says.

And that was enough.

That was your job: to roam. Tokyo, Osaka, wherever. You found curses before they found others. If they were weak, you killed them. If they were stronger than you, you tagged the location and passed it off to the higher-ups. 

They turned it into a real mission. Your name never ended up on the reports. You were just the invisible smoke before the fire.

You haven’t slept in days. Again.

There’s a burning behind your eyes, the kind that presses behind the sockets and drips down your spine like rot. You’ve forgotten how to taste food. How to feel temperature. You move through the city like something in between — not alive, not dead, just moving.

Your abdomen hurts.

You’re walking home when you hear it.

It’s not the usual cursed energy flicker that makes you pause. It’s a voice. A quiet, ugly grunt. A breath that doesn’t belong on a child’s neck.

You round the alley’s edge and see it. Small body. Pants half-off. A man’s hand on the back of the boy’s neck. His other hand working at his zipper. The kid was crying.

“Please stop, please—please don’t—I didn’t say anything, I—!”

The man towers over him. Smiling.

“It’s not the first time,” he mutters, voice low and casual, like he's talking about the weather. “Stop whining. You know what to do.”

You’re too tired to think.

Too tired to breathe.

Too tired to speak, or scream, or question what’s happening, or why you’re here.

Your fingers are already inside your coat pocket.

A cursed object. A cheap black fountain pen used by a murderer in a high school hostage crisis. It killed six. Now it only kills when you want it to.

You’ve been walking among curses long enough to recognize when the ugliest one is human.

You just take it out the way you’d take out a cigarette or a key, walking over.

Your forearm hits his throat, and he stumbles back, crashing into the opposite wall with a winded grunt. The boy falls to his side with a whimper, scrambling back, and before you know it, you're standing between them.

The man coughs, glares at you, and spits. “What the fuck—?”

The boy looks up at you like you’re some kind of hallucination. That’s fine. You're used to being a waking dream for people like him.

You crouch and touch the top of his head gently. “Close your eyes.”

You the man down to the ground with force.

He crashes to the ground with a grunt, but not before his nails dig deep into your shoulders — dragging, tearing through fabric and skin as he resists, snarling like an animal cornered.

You take out your pen. He sees it too late.

“No—hey, don’t—wait—”

You plunge it into his eye.

Just a sound—a soft, wet crack, like a rotten peach under a boot.

He thrashes, nails tearing into your back again as his body convulses beneath you.

But you don’t stop.

You don’t scream. You don’t shake. You don’t cry.

You stab again. And again. And again.

Until his body stops twitching. Until you can’t hear anything but the sound of your own breath. Until blood coats your hands like gloves and the pen sticks, cracked halfway down the shaft, lodged in bone.

Your arms are heavy.

Your vision pulses dark at the edges.

You barely feel the blood running from your shoulder where his nails tore skin open. It drips down your side and soaks into your pants.

You stay there a second longer, kneeling on a corpse.

Just breathing.

The boy is behind you now.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t cry. He’s shaking — arms wrapped around his knees, head ducked down.

You turn, slowly, and peel your blazer off your shoulders — sticky with sweat, ripped at the seam, spotted with blood.

You crouch low. Hold it out.

He flinches.

But he reaches for it.

You wrap it around him carefully. Gently. A little like you're bandaging a wound.

Your hand finds your phone.

You dial without looking. You don’t trust your voice. You don’t trust your knees, either.

The call picks up fast.

“Hello?”

“...Nanami” you rasp. Your voice sounds like it’s underwater. “Pick up a kid. Alleyway by the old bookstore on 3rd and West. Don’t ask.”

A pause.

Then a simple, steady: “I’m on my way.”

You let the phone fall from your hand.

The boy’s little fingers are still clinging to the back of your shirt.

Your knees give first.

Then your chest.

You feel yourself fold, slowly, to the side. Like paper. Like cloth.

You hit the concrete with a soft thud.

And then everything goes black.

Nanami’s car screeches to a halt.

The alley’s empty.

At least, that’s how it looks.

The kid is there, huddled in your blazer, silent, still half-exposed, shoes soaked from standing in the runoff water. His face is pale and rigid. Frozen like stone.

And you?

You’re nowhere.

Nanami frowns and exhales through his nose. He asks the kid slowly, about a woman and the kid points to nothingness on the wall. 

There.

A disturbance in the current. An outline, faint but real, half-sunken against the wall.

She’s here.

She never turned it off, Nanami thinks grimly.

No wonder the kid’s confused. He’s not a sorcerer. He saw a woman kill a man and vanish into nothing. Even now, his eyes dart toward the dead body — the pen still buried in the man’s eye socket like a signature left behind.

“Don’t be afraid,” Nanami says, slowly.

The kid flinches.

He doesn't move.

Nanami approaches the body first. The man’s eye is split open around the cursed pen like spoiled fruit.

With a steady hand, Nanami wraps his fingers around the blood-slick pen, and with one clean pull, removes it.

Nanami slides it into a cloth-wrap and stows it carefully.

Your technique drops.

Not on purpose.

Your body simply can’t hold it anymore.

You re-materialize like a ghost coming back from fog, limbs limp, blood soaking your side and inner thighs, head tilted to the shoulder like a broken doll.

Nanami’s hands move fast, catching your body before it slumps completely.

She’s burning up, he realizes. Fever. Blood loss. Something else?

He lifts you — slow, careful. You’re light, all things considered. Lean muscle over bone. You’ve always been heavier than you look. 

The boy clings to your side the whole way to the car, refusing to sit anywhere but next to you in the backseat.

Nanami drives one-handed as he calls Shoko.

You’re unconscious when Shoko starts.

“Jesus, she’s bleeding like hell—” she mutters, snapping on gloves. “Shoulder’s ripped open, bruising at the ribs, hand trauma…she’s got injuries and she never got treated, wait—"

She checks again.

“Oh for fuck’s sake.”

She yanks open a drawer and pulls out extra gauze.

You’re menstruating. Heavy. Severe cramps, coupled with blood loss from the fight and god knows how many days without sleep. Your body’s on the edge of total shutdown.

And then—

You sit up.

No drama. No groan. You just lift your upper body like someone getting out of a cheap motel bed.

Shoko’s eyes narrow. “You're joking.”

You blink, sluggish, then look down at the blood on the sheet beneath you.

“…Guess that explains the stomach cramps,” you mutter hoarsely.

“You’re an idiot,” Shoko says flatly.

You don’t argue.

Instead, you glance toward the side and swipe the curtains to the side and your eyes dart to where the boy’s sitting with a juice box. His knees are hugged to his chest. His hair is still damp from sweat.

He sees you.

His face lights up.

And then — he rushes in.

Shoko opens her mouth to stop him, but you raise a hand. Just one.

The boy wraps his arms around you as best he can.

He doesn’t cry.

He just presses his forehead into your side.

“…Thank you” he whispers.

You rest your hand on his hair. You don’t smile. But you don’t pull away either.

Look, Suguru, this boy here is just as innocent as those girls.

Nanami stands in the doorway, arms folded, expression unreadable.

“I’ll take him” he says simply. The kid doesn’t want to leave.

But he glances at you — your torn shirt, the thick bandages around your ribs, the dried blood on your thigh where Shoko couldn’t quite clean everything — and he seems to realize he shouldn’t be here.

He nods.

Nanami lays a steady hand on the boy’s shoulder and guides him down the hall, slow and careful like he’s leading someone blind.

The door shuts softly, Shoko leaves as well, murmuring about how much of a jackass you are (again).

Then you fall asleep again. 

You wake up to the click of a lighter.

Your eyes snap open—only halfway, the kind of wakefulness that comes after too many nights on the edge. But the figure isn’t a threat. He’s too tall, too loud even when silent, sitting on the edge of your bed, with your lighter in hand, playing with it.

“Didn’t expect you to fall asleep,” he says, voice low. 

There’s a rare bite in his voice.

He rarely raises it. He’s always fun and games with you, until it’s about you.

You hadn't spoken to Gojo Satoru properly in your life, at least until eight years ago. He did enough talking for both of you. 

"You’re like a fridge," he told you once, years ago, chewing on a rice cracker. "Big, cold, and probably full of old stuff no one wants to touch."

You had stared at him. He waited. You didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reply.

Later, you’d realize that was the only thing he remembered about you for months.

He used to look through you, not past you — through you, like you were a pane of glass that hadn’t shattered yet.

Until Geto died.

Until his blood painted the pavement like a cracked koi pond, and the air went still for months afterward.

That changed the day he cornered you outside the morgue. The white hallway lights flickered. You'd just signed your name off on mission clearance and were trying to make it to the vending machine before throwing up.

“Did you know?” he asked, voice hoarse and drunk on loss.

You blinked. “Know what?”

“That he was going to do it.”

Your jaw tightened. “Do I look like I mattered enough to be told?”

He looked at you. You realized, maybe grief has its own kind of vision. Maybe it strips you naked.

He didn’t reply. Just stood there. His sunglasses hung low on his nose, and the bags under his eyes had turned him ghost-white. That scared you more than anything.

Now, you’ve all gotten so much closer like plants would get when stuffed into the same space.

You look at him properly now, — and what you see isn’t anger.

“I didn’t sleep,” you murmur.

“Right. Just… rested your eyes. Like an old man on a park bench.”

“Why are you here?”

He shrugs. “Wanted to make sure you weren’t dead.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not. But okay.”

“You’ve been working too much,” he says after a long silence. “Even Nanami’s starting to get worried. That means the world is probably ending.”

“Don’t dramatize.”

“Oh, I live for the drama. But this isn’t that.” He shifts, finally looking at you. His sunglasses slide down his nose just enough to show his eyes. Too blue. Too much. “This is me… asking.”

You blink. “Asking what?”

“If you ever stop running long enough to sleep—do you dream?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

He shifts a bit closer.

Like he’s asking permission without saying it.

The silence between you stretches. You don’t say what you’re thinking. You don’t say that maybe, if he had asked you, you would’ve probably followed him.

Not out of agreement. But out of not knowing where else to go.

Instead, you shift your weight and wince again. Gojo notices, eyes trailing down to the cloth shoko put in between your legs near your knees.

“I talked to the higher-ups,” he says suddenly, like he’s trying to change the subject. “They’re not happy.”

You scoff.

“When are they ever.”

“They want a report. They think your actions were… impulsive. Undignified.”

Your jaw clenches. “He was raping that kid.”

“I know” he says sharply.

You both freeze.

His hand is clenched.

His voice, when he speaks again, is lower.

“I know” he repeats. “But they only see paperwork. Protocol. Headlines.”

You don’t need to ask what happens next. You already know how these things go.

Slaps on the wrist. Private lectures. Eyes that never look at the bloodstains.

“I’ll cover it,” Gojo says.

You blink. “…What?”

“I’ll file it. Under my name.”

You stare at him.

“Just so you know, I wouldn’t do it for anyone else” He says again.

“Why me?” you ask. “Why not someone else?”

“Because you don’t ask me if I’m okay,” he says.

You look at the ceiling. “Are you okay?”

“Bitch” he says, “what did I just say?”

You laugh. He laughs too. It was unexpected, for you too.

You want to live again. Not for long. But long enough to hear him make that sound again.

But his voice is serious.

“Because it’s the first time you’ve done something like this. And I’m sure  it won’t be the last. And if someone’s gonna take the fallout for your so-called recklessness…” he looks at you, dead-on, “…it might as well be me.”

The words land like a drop in water.

You don’t know what to say.

So you don’t.

You look at him, this man you barely spoke to in your school days — this man who was always loud, always shining, always orbiting around someone else.

And now here he is.

“Call me next time,” He says, jaws clenched, and leaves the room. You sigh and try to move, before Shoko bursts in again, making you flinch.

Shoko lets you go back after that evening.

[electoons]

I love the college of winterhold. everyone there is casually deranged and there's like an alarming number of students and staff who threaten you immediately when they meet you. it's always one of the first questlines I do. which makes it even funnier when you get made the arch-mage of the college. I'm level 12 and got through this questline knowing exactly 3 spells. what do you mean you want me to lead the college. this school CANNOT be an accredited institution

[oneroomjestershow]

when you are washing clothes but you put a sock with the wrong batch of colors

doing things to them but like in a scientific way im researching and taking data but also having fun

[fallenclan]

i think that many of you could benefit from reading this tweet and thinking about it. ponder it a little maybe