#gochoso

Morning shows replayed the footage on loop.

Gojo crouched to meet a shaking child’s eyes.

Gojo guided a mother forward until she collapsed into her son.

Gojo laughed when reporters asked how he did it.

“Good instincts,” he said, tapping his temple. “And I hate loose ends.”

Flashbulbs. Applause. The city ate it up.

That same night, two patrol officers hauled a gaunt man out of a fourth-floor walkup. Wrists cuffed, face pressed to peeling drywall. Gojo stood in the corridor, scrolling through his phone while the man shouted about warrants and wrong addresses.

One officer hesitated. “Sir, the unit number—”

Gojo didn’t look up. “Check again.”

The man kept screaming.

The door shut.

Gojo slipped his phone into his pocket and glanced at the peephole camera across the hall, smiling at it.

Vampires stopped trending years earlier.

When the hunts began, the news ran nothing else. Blurry red eyes caught in security footage. Bodies drained in alleys. Panels argued about extinction versus coexistence.

Now the language was cleaner. Containment. Sanitation. Infrastructure protection.

The task force didn’t exist on paper.

On paper, Officer Gojo specialized in missing persons.

He preferred the word “curation.”

It was raining when the calls came in. Not mist but real rain, heavy and sour with exhaust.

Gojo’s private line vibrated once.

“Sector Nine,” the voice said. “Thermal spike. Third floor. Probably a stray.”

Gojo was already heading toward it.

Sector Nine was condemned housing, waiting for demolition. Windows shattered, stairwells sagged, hallways stripped to bone. Good shelter for something that didn’t need heat.

He went in alone.

The front door hung open. Inside smelled like rot and old iron.

Upstairs, a floorboard shifted.

Gojo paused at the top of the stairs. Listened. There was a difference between hunger and discipline. Most of them forgot themselves the moment they sensed him.

This one didn’t.

A door at the end of the corridor stood half open. Moonlight spilled through the broken window beyond it, cutting the room in cold silver.

A figure stood near the glass.

Tall. Dark hair damp at the ends. Long coat heavy with rain. Pale skin caught amethyst in the light.

Red eyes lifted.

They didn’t widen.

They narrowed.

“You are trespassing,” the stranger said. His voice was level. Almost courteous.

Gojo stepped inside as if invited. “You are on borrowed property.”

The vampire didn’t bare his teeth. He just shifted his weight slightly, angling his body between Gojo and the hallway.

Protecting an exit.

“Leave.”

Gojo’s smile deepened. “Name.”

Silence.

“Fine.” He rolled his shoulders once. “You know who I am.”

“Yes.”

No tremor. No awe.

That steadiness landed heavier than fear.

The vampire moved without warning—past him, not toward him. A blur for the door.

Gojo caught fabric mid-stride. The coat tore. The vampire pivoted, elbow driving hard into Gojo’s jaw.

Bone met bone. Gojo’s lip split.

He laughed, low and pleased.

The vampire’s fangs descended, not in a snarl but in warning. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Rain slammed against broken glass.

Gojo wiped blood from his mouth with his thumb and looked at the smear. “That’s unfortunate.”

The hallway lights flickered as a searchlight swept past the windows outside.

The vampire’s attention shifted for half a second.

Gojo didn’t waste it.

A stun device cracked against the vampire’s ribs. Electricity snapped across pale skin. Muscles locked. The air filled with the sharp scent of ozone.

He didn’t fall.

Red eyes snapped back to warm dark browns.

The vampire’s hand closed around Gojo’s wrist mid-current. Fingers tightened. For a breath, they froze in place, rain hammering the night apart around them.

“Why do you hunt us?” the vampire asked.

“I hunt everything.”

Another surge.

This time the vampire dropped to one knee. Forced.

Electricity crawled over his skin and faded, leaving him upright by force alone.

Gojo crouched slowly in front of him, unhurried. Rain blew through the broken window behind them, cold drops striking the floor in uneven taps.

He reached out and brushed the wet hair from the vampire’s face with the back of his fingers.

Up close, he studied him carefully. Cheekbones. The line of his mouth. The restraint sitting tight in his jaw.

“Pretty,” he murmured, almost to himself.

His fingers drifted lower, mapping the cold elegance of the vampire’s cheek. Gojo’s superiors preached distance, warning against letting human hands linger near a predator’s throat.

Gojo rested his thumb there deliberately, preferring the quiet thrill of it, calling it proof that even monsters could pause inside a mortal’s grasp.

The vampire tried to turn his face away.

Gojo caught his chin and forced it back.

A sharp crack split the room as his palm met pale skin. The sound ricocheted off concrete.

The vampire’s head snapped sideways.

But he didn’t bare his teeth. Didn’t lunge.

He steadied himself.

Gojo smiled, softer now. “You are choosing not to fight me?”

The vampire’s jaw tightened under his grip. “I don’t kill humans.”

No sermon, not even pride.

Just a boundary.

How odd.

Gojo’s expression shifted—something bright and feverish slipping beneath it. “How inconvenient.”

His hand moved into the vampire’s hair, tangling in the dark strands. He gripped firmly, possessive, tilting his head back to expose his throat fully.

“For you.”

The vampire’s eyes flashed red.

Gojo leaned closer, voice lowering to something intimate and edged. “You think that makes you better?” His thumb pressed lightly against the vampire’s mouth, tracing the shape of his lower lip. “It just makes you easy to take.”

Another surge of voltage.

The world fractured white.

Choso didn’t remember the rest.

The official report listed a raccoon.

Sector Nine was cleared by morning. Demolition proceeded on schedule.

Five years passed.

The city’s affection only grew.

Officer Gojo was promoted, decorated, rebranded as the face of reform. His house sat on a quiet street with trimmed hedges and a fence that looked aggressively harmless.

Inside, the curtains stayed drawn.

Choso stood at the kitchen counter with his sleeves pushed to his elbows, slicing fruit he wouldn’t eat. Climate control ran low. Windows were UV-filtered. The doors locked from the inside without keys. His kitchen knife moved cleanly, evenly.

Choso kept the rhythm even when the house hummed too loudly.

There were no mirrors in the main rooms.

Gojo said they ruined the lighting.

A chipped mug rested by the sink. World’s Best Dad.

Choso never asked.

The front door beeped. The lock slid open with its soft mechanical sigh.

He kept his back to it.

“Missed me?” Gojo sang, stepping in like he owned Choso. Like the world parted politely for him on the drive home. “Traffic was brutal. You’d think public service would’ve gotten me better lanes.”

Choso stared at the cutting board. The carrots blurred at the edges. He set the knife down before his hands shook. "You're late.”

A pause. Shoes against tile. Fabric whispering. Gojo’s presence filled the kitchen before he even touched him.

A sealed medical bag landed on the counter. Dark red shifted inside.

“Blood’s clean,” Gojo said lightly. “Mostly.”

Choso nodded once.

He kept his eyes on the cutting board.

Not the bag. Not the red shifting inside it. Especially not Gojo.

He figured that out early. Eye contact turned into curiosity. Curiosity turned into small talk. Small talk slipped.

Slips turned into names.

Yuji. Eso. Kechizu.

The syllables sat heavy behind his teeth.

That day replayed sometimes. The wrong footsteps leaving. The wrong person walking into the light. If Sukuna had gone instead, there would’ve been a fight. Sukuna was faster, stronger.

Instead, Choso had walked.

Now he stood in this kitchen measuring carrots into even lines.

He kept his mouth shut.

Gojo moved behind him anyway.

Warmth settled at his back. Fingers rested at his waist. Not rough that night. Just possession cosplaying affection.

“You didn’t answer,” Gojo murmured near his ear.

Choso’s throat tightened. “You came back.”

A soft laugh. “That isn’t the same.”

Choso swallowed.

He used to argue semantics.

He used to correct tone.

He used to say no.

That version of him felt theoretical now.

Like a show he half-remembered but couldn’t place. He tried to recall the opening song. Nothing came.

Gojo slid his hand up Choso’s chest, slow, unhurried. Testing compliance. There was no resistance. There never was anymore.

Good, the touch said.

Choso stood still.

He didn’t ask where Gojo had been.

He didn’t ask who the blood belonged to.

He didn’t ask what “mostly” meant.

Five years was long enough to forget how to exist unsupervised.

He used to grocery shop alone. He thought he did. He remembered fluorescent lights and comparing prices. Or maybe that was something he had seen once. It blurred together.

He used to know his siblings’ favorite snacks. Eso liked something sour. Or sweet. He couldn’t remember which. The detail slipped like water through his hands.

Gojo pressed his lips to the back of Choso’s neck. “You’re quiet today.”

Choso nodded.

He had learned the math of survival. Speak less. React smaller. Let Gojo narrate the world.

Gojo preferred it that way.

“You cook better when I’m gone,” his captor continued conversationally. “Less distracted.”

Choso’s fingers curled against the counter.

Distracted meant thinking. Thinking led to before. The before was dangerous.

“Did you go anywhere?”

It landed light. Almost bored.

Choso hadn’t crossed the threshold in five years without being half-conscious and strapped into first class. The building concierge had never said his name. The mailbox didn’t carry it. There were no delivery records, no biometric logs, no visitor passes.

On paper, he did not live there.

If the place caught fire, he would burn undocumented.

His pulse still misfired. “No.”

“Did anyone come by?”

“No.”

Gojo hummed, considering.

He tilted Choso’s chin up finally, forcing eye contact. Cerulean eyes searched honey-brown ones.

Choso kept his face empty.

He used to cry when Gojo asked questions like that. Used to shake. Used to deny too quickly.

Now he just waited.

The silence stretched. A test.

Gojo smiled. “Good.”

The word settled heavy in Choso’s chest.

Good meant the house stayed quiet.

Good meant no one had been found.

Good meant his brothers were still out there somewhere, breathing in a world that didn’t know Gojo’s interest had limits.

Choso leaned back into him without thinking.

The motion surprised him.

“Oh?” Gojo gave a pleased lilt. “What is this?”

Choso closed his eyes. It was easier to lean than to be pulled.

Somewhere along the years, fear blurred into something softer and more humiliating. Relief when the door opened. Relief when Gojo chose him over whatever violence filled the rest of his day.

He hated that relief.

He hated that he waited for the sound of the lock.

Gojo’s fingers drifted to his throat. Light pressure. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind. “Thinking hard?”

“No.”

“About me?”

Choso hesitated.

That was a mistake.

Gojo’s thumb pressed slightly deeper.

“Yes,” Choso corrected quietly.

The pressure eased. “See? That wasn’t difficult.”

Choso breathed again.

He used to know how seasons changed outside that house.

Now he tracked time by Gojo’s trips. Conferences. Missions. Foreign “vacations” where he woke in luxury suites with jet lag and needle marks on his arm.

He remembered Paris once.

Or maybe it had been Milan. He couldn’t read the street signs. Gojo kept the curtains drawn anyway.

He used to speak more languages.

He thought he did. The words felt rusted in his mouth.

Gojo kissed his temple. “You are such a…” He whispered into Choso’s ear, breath husky, “good boy lately.”

Pause.

Choso’s breathing hitched slightly.

“That’s my good baby. Staying right where you belong.”

Choso’s jaw tightened.

He said nothing.

If he argued, Gojo laughed.

If he accepted, Gojo stayed like this.

He chose the smile.

“Still scared I’d wander off?” Gojo turned him around fully, caging him against the counter. “Without you?”

Choso’s pulse spiked.

He didn’t answer.

“I won’t,” Gojo said, almost gentle, hands already wandering over the pale expanse of Choso’s waist, his fingers digging faint crescent shapes into skin. “Not if you behaved.”

There it was.

The shape of it.

Love bent into a threat.

Choso studied his face.

The man who dragged him across continents sedated so he wouldn’t “get overwhelmed.”

The man who limited television because “outside narratives complicated loyalty.”

The man who brought home blood in neat, labeled bags like groceries.

Choso used to tell himself it wasn’t real. That this was temporary. That he was enduring.

Somewhere in year three, he stopped counting days.

Somewhere in year four, he started waiting by the door before the lock beeped.

"Stockholm" was too clinical a word.

It felt more like erosion.

Gojo brushed his thumb over Choso’s lower lip. “You are trembling again.”

“I... Cold.”

Gojo smiled wider. “Liar.”

He leaned in slowly enough that Choso saw it coming.

Gojo’s hand slid up the side of his neck first, thumb settling beneath his jaw, guiding rather than forcing. Warm. Familiar. Impossible to ignore. His mouth brushed Choso’s before the kiss properly landed, almost testing whether he would pull away.

Choso didn’t.

Gojo hummed softly at that, pleased, and deepened it. Worse than rough. Patient. His lips lingered like he had endless time to relearn the shape of him every night.

The kiss turned warm, suffocatingly gentle, breath shared too close, Gojo tilting his head just enough to keep control of the angle.

His fingers tightened slightly at Choso’s throat.

Reminder pressure.

Choso stayed still at first, mouth barely moving beneath his. Waiting it out. Surviving it.

Gojo exhaled against him, smiling into the kiss when there was no resistance.

Then Choso kissed back, fingers catching against the stiff collar and gold-buttoned front of Gojo’s unbuttoned military coat. Small. Careful. Automatic.

Because that version of Gojo was easier.

That version didn’t ask about siblings. Didn’t test loyalty with missing-person reports left casually on the coffee table. Didn’t mention how fragile a vampire could be.

Gojo’s hand slipped to his waist, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them. The kiss slowed instead of escalating, turning soft in a way that felt almost domestic. Almost normal.

Like any of this was normal. Like Choso didn’t wake every day hoping Gojo wouldn’t find his siblings.

That was what made Choso’s chest hurt.

Gojo kissed like someone who already owned what he touched.

Choso learned what Gojo was capable of the day he tried to run.

The hospital room. The bruises. The way Gojo sat beside the bed, smiling softly while explaining how easy disappearance could be arranged.

That was the day something inside him split.

You couldn’t love a man who mapped your family’s arteries like future blueprints.

And yet.

Gojo pulled back only enough to breathe, their foreheads resting together, his thumb still tracing slow circles beneath Choso’s jaw.

“You are so syrupy for me,” he said with an easy smile, thumb brushing lazily along Choso’s lower lip.

Choso’s chest ached.

He wanted to believe that meant his brothers were irrelevant. Untouched. Uninteresting.

He knew better.

He nodded anyway.

Gojo seemed satisfied.

“Dinner smells good.” He stepped back, lifted the blood bag, and slid it into the refrigerator like it was just another grocery item. “See? Domestic life suits you.”

Something in Choso bristled at that.

He thought he had been like this long before Gojo. Quiet hands. Clean counters. Meals made without being asked.

He watched Gojo move through the kitchen, confident and comfortable, like the space reshaped itself around him.

Choso tried to remember what his brothers sounded like when they laughed. The pitch. The rhythm. Who laughed louder. Who talked over the other.

There was only static.

His chest tightened.

That frightened him more than anything Gojo had ever done.

His jaw flexed once. Controlled.

He opened the refrigerator and took the blood bag back out.

Inside, one shelf was reserved for it. Opaque containers. Labeled. Dated.

He adjusted the placement so everything lined up evenly.

Ordered. Because that was all Choso had control over now.

Gojo leaned back against the counter, watching him with the same focused attention he had shown in the condemned building. “You didn’t try anything today?”

Choso closed the fridge. “No.”

“Good.”

“Could I open a window?”

“You hate dust.”

“I won’t leave.”

A soft laugh. “Of course you won’t.”

Gojo crossed the room and cupped Choso’s face in his hand. The grip wasn’t gentle or harsh. It settled. Claimed.

Choso met his eyes.

They only glowed now when he was starving.

“You could try,” Gojo said quietly. “You know that.”

Basement reinforced. Front door keyed to Gojo’s biometrics. Neighbors who waved and owed favors. Cameras that didn’t freeze.

Choso said nothing.

Fifteen minutes later—“Come here.”

He was halfway through rinsing the dishes when Gojo called him over.

Choso dried his hands automatically and walked into the living room. Gojo was already sprawled across the couch, shoes kicked off, tie loosened, a remote balanced lazily in one hand.

He patted his thigh.

Choso hesitated only a second before sitting.

Gojo pulled him closer until Choso’s weight settled fully in his lap, one arm locking around his waist like placement correction. Familiar pressure. Containing.

“There we go,” he murmured near Choso’s ear.

A remote pressed into Choso’s palm. “Go on.”

Choso blinked down at it.

“The windows. You’ve been good.”

The curtains hummed softly as the blackout panels retracted.

Light spilled in.

Real light.

Gold indirect evening sun flooded the house, stretching across marble floors, catching dust in slow motion. Warmth touched Choso’s face for the first time in years—months—he wasn’t sure anymore.

He exhaled without meaning to.

The skyline burned orange outside. Moving cars. People existing somewhere beyond reinforced UV-blocking glass.

His shoulders loosened.

Just slightly.

Gojo caught that immediately.

“There it is,” he said quietly, almost pleased. “Missed that, huh, my little vampire?”

Choso nodded before remembering he didn’t have to answer.

Sunlight brushed his skin, diluted through treated glass but still warm enough to feel alive. His eyes half-closed. For a moment, the house felt less like containment and more like altitude.

“I forgot how you look in the sun, Red,” Gojo murmured, kissing Choso’s ear, teeth grazing skin. Gojo’s hand began moving absentmindedly along his side.

Praise followed touch.

Slow strokes along his ribs. Fingers combed through his hair. A thumb traced the line of his throat.

“So well-behaved lately,” Gojo murmured near his ear. “I should reward you more often.”

Choso leaned back without realizing. The warmth outside. Gojo’s voice low behind him. Hands everywhere but never hurried.

Approval settled heavy and intoxicating.

Gojo adjusted him higher on his lap, mouth brushing the side of his shoulder. Each touch framed like encouragement instead of demand.

Choso’s breathing changed first.

Gojo noticed that too. “Relax, angel,” he whispered. “Nobody is taking this away.”

The sunlight pooled across them both.

Choso’s shirt slipped open under wandering hands, skin catching gold light. He felt exposed but… lighter. Less cold. The constant tension in his body loosened under warmth and attention combined.

Gojo stayed mostly dressed. Untouchable. Controlled.

Choso was the one unraveling.

Gojo watched his reactions carefully, observation disguised as affection, hands steady at his waist and along his spine, grounding him whenever he shifted.

“If I moved my hand any lower,” Gojo murmured, breath uneven against his ear, “are you going to stop me?”

Choso didn’t stop him.

Didn’t want to.

Choso trembled as Gojo ground him against his thigh, fingers clutching uselessly at his jacket.

Gojo’s hand moved to one of Choso’s pecs, twisting and pinching in equal, torturous measure. “You look better when you are trying not to react.”

Choso couldn’t focus on what Gojo was saying. Then the movement slowed, and a small, helpless sound slipped from him, wanting Gojo to let him cum.

Heat flooded Choso’s mouth as Gojo’s tongue slid against his, slow and wet.

The warmth made everything blur. Fear dulled at the edges.

His head tipped back against Gojo’s shoulder, breath uneven, unsure whether the pull in his chest was desire or relief or something dangerously close to comfort.

He didn’t know if he liked Gojo.

He didn’t know if he was allowed to.

Gojo murmured praise against his temple anyway. “That’s it… sweetheart. Make that face again.”

And he said it while staring into Choso’s eyes.

The words landed deeper than they should.

Choso’s fingers clutched weakly at Gojo’s scalp as sensation built, unfamiliar and frightening in how willingly his body followed. Gojo guided without speaking now, reading him perfectly, slowing whenever Choso tensed, encouraging when he melted again.

The sunset deepened.

Just as Choso’s breath broke—

The front door opened.

No warning. No lock. No beep.

A man strolled in like he belonged there.

Tall. Relaxed. Smiling faintly as his eyes landed immediately on the couch.

On Choso.

On his bare skin.

Choso jerked upright with a startled sound, scrambling off Gojo’s lap, grabbing for fabric, panic hitting so fast it burned. He backed away, trying to cover himself, heart slamming.

Someone else.

Someone saw.

Gojo had never brought anyone home.

Especially not someone with a key.

Choso turned toward the hallway—

Gojo’s arm caught him instantly, pulling him back against his chest.

“It’s fine,” he said sharply, holding him in place. Not hurting him, but not allowing escape either.

Gojo looked past him, irritation flashing. “You could’ve knocked.”

Suguru shrugged, unbothered, gaze still fixed on Choso. Slow. Assessing. “Didn’t realize you finally stopped hiding him.”

Choso lowered his eyes immediately.

Predator instinct screamed wrong, wrong, wrong.

Gojo’s hand settled possessively at his hip.

“Satoru,” Suguru said lightly, amused. “You weren’t exaggerating.”

Gojo exhaled through his nose, annoyed now. “Eyes up here.”

Suguru barely complied.

Later, Choso served dinner with steady hands that didn’t feel like his own.

He kept his gaze on the table as plates were set down. Careful movements. Controlled breathing. Fully dressed now, but heat still lingered under his skin from earlier humiliation.

Gojo watched him proudly, grabbing Choso’s arm and suddenly making him sit beside him.

“Sweets,” he gestured casually, “this is Suguru.”

Choso nodded without looking up.

Suguru leaned forward. “So the famous one had a name?”

Silence.

Choso waited.

Gojo tapped the table once. “You can answer.”

“…Choso,” he said quietly.

Suguru smiled like he was studying something rare. “How long have you been here?”

Choso’s hands tightened around the serving spoon.

He didn’t answer.

“He prefers staying home,” Gojo answered for him instead, smugly. “My little housewife.”

Suguru’s gaze flicked between them.

“You are getting cocky,” he said mildly. “We hunt vampires for a living, remember?”

Choso froze, not sure who could even call Gojo out.

Gojo only smiled.

Suguru continued eating like nothing was strange.

And that was when Choso understood.

Suguru walked in without hesitation. No resistance. No fear. No invitation needed.

The doors opened for him.

Gojo trusted him enough to enter freely.

More than Choso had ever been trusted to leave.

Choso lowered his eyes to his plate and ate quietly, careful not to look at Suguru again, a cold realization settling deeper than fear.

He wasn’t the protected one there.

He never would be.

He was just the kept one.

Then Suguru Geto began visiting on Sundays. He brought wine. He didn’t comment on the blackout curtains.

He stepped into the living room with an easy smile and looked down the hallway. “Still domestic?”

“Upgraded,” Gojo replied. “We are very stable.”

Choso stood when they entered. Dark sweater. Straight posture. Hands loose at his sides.

Suguru studied him openly. “You make good food.”

“He is consistent,” Gojo said, drifting closer, an arm already around Choso’s waist.

Suguru circled once, assessing without threat. “No visible damage.”

“Maintenance is important.”

Choso’s fingers flexed once.

Suguru stopped in front of him. “You don’t resent him?”

The room held its breath.

Choso answered without looking away. “I don’t kill humans.”

Suguru’s smile thinned with interest.

Gojo moved closer and slid an arm around Choso’s shoulders. Choso neither leaned into it nor stepped away.

“You see?” Gojo said, tucking away strands of Choso’s hair. “Five years. No escape attempts in three.”

Suguru’s gaze shifted to the windows. Outside, children rode bikes past the white fence, their laughter carrying faintly through the glass.

“You want to go out?” Gojo asked, tone light, the cerulean of his eyes like the sky.

Choso looked toward the filtered light, then back. “No.”

Gojo’s satisfaction was immediate.

Later, wine half-finished, Suguru reclined on the couch while alone with Gojo. “This arrangement won’t hold forever.”

“It will. If managed.”

“And when he stops cooperating?”

In the kitchen, water ran. Glass clinked against porcelain.

“He wouldn’t. He loves being here. And me.” Confidence sat in his voice like concrete.

Choso shut off the tap in the kitchen. The metallic taste of blood still clung to the back of his throat—thin, rationed, just enough to keep the shaking down.

Water slipped from his fingers, pink for a second before disappearing down the drain.

In the darkened window, his reflection barely held. The UV film warped it and stretched it thin. He looked like a ghost wearing his own face.

Rain streaked the glass.

Broken windows. Concrete dust. A hand in his hair, gentle only because it could afford to be.

You’re different.

He pressed his palm to the pane. Beyond it, leaves stirred in a breeze he couldn’t feel.

Laughter spilled from the living room. Gojo’s voice, bright and adored.

Choso closed his eyes.

His fangs descended—not for hunger.

For control.

He drew them back in slowly. Dried his hands. Walked back into the room.

Gojo looked up at once.

“There you are,” he said, as if absence were possible.

Choso sat beside him. Their knees touched. Nothing soft about it.

Suguru watched the space between them like a live wire. “You are really going to keep him forever?”

“Forever is flexible.”

Choso met Gojo’s gaze. Unblinking.

The clock continued its steady count.

Gojo smiled at him—sharp, reverent, possessive.

Choso held his eyes.

A/N: This was supposed to be a small warm-up while AO3 was down. I planned for 2k. It turned into 4.3k and a man who now does my laundry. Let me know what you think/what scene hit the hardest.

I can absolutely see Gochoso as “cute” (derogatory) in the worst timeline, but my heart is still Choso/Ino—every sunshine deserves his grumpy. Take it up with Gege.

Header images are from the anime lol and all the dividers are from @saradika-graphics.

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