I need help finding this phenomenal fic where the reader is chilling at a bar after she broke up with some random ex or smth, and she meets Gojo there but doesn't know he's a jujutsu sorcerer.
They decide to go back to his place, and in the morning, Gojo gets a voicemail from Yuji talking about curses. So the fic ends with him coming clean.
It's one of my favorite fics of all time, and I would love to reread it and maybe see if the author made a sequel to it? Thank you for your time and take care <3
Warnings: an argument occurs between two characters; character death; character experiences a mental breakdown; gambling; implied strangulation; resurrection; violence
This is a writing commission I did for my friend, @leiheng! All characters present or mentioned in this scene belong to him—they're his LCB OCs, and thus references are made to Project Moon's work, as well.
It was an absolute pleasure to work on this, and thank you again for commissioning me, Laertes! It was an honor to work with you.
The floorboards creaked beneath Aramis’s feet as he hurried down the dimly lit corridor, struggling to keep up with the figure ahead of him. It moved swiftly, guiding him further and further from his colleagues, but Aramis didn’t care—he was the guilty one, after all, and so he alone should be punished.
But is that true? Am I truly responsible for the events of that day?
Feeble as it was, the thought made Aramis pause, his brow furrowing for a moment before he shook himself, brushing the question from his mind.
Ahead of him, the figure had come to a halt, and, after glancing back at Aramis, darted through an open door, leaving him alone in the hallway.
For a moment, Aramis stared at the door as it slowly swung shut, squealing on its hinges. Then, taking a deep breath, he stepped forward, pushing it open and peering inside.
The curtains were drawn, and the only light came from a single lantern resting upon a table in the center of the room, the warm flame bathing everything in an amber glow. A large fireplace was set into the wall, and Aramis’s gaze lingered on the broken stovepipe above it before he turned his attention to the man seated at the table, his golden eyes gleaming softly as he turned a die over in his fingers.
“Porthos.”
Though the name was familiar, it felt strange in Aramis’s mouth, and he shuddered as his old friend looked up, locking eyes with him—he’d straightened at the sound of Aramis’s voice, but, despite the dazzling smile brightening his features, his usual gaiety was absent.
“Aramis.” Porthos gestured at the chair across from him, then reached into his pocket, producing two more dice as Aramis sat down. “Care for a game?”
A smile tugged at Aramis’s lips. “And what, pray tell, would we be playing for?”
“Must there always be something at stake?” Porthos scoffed, tossing all three dice onto the table. “Can’t a man just play dice with an old friend?”
“If it were anyone else, perhaps, but you?” Aramis chuckled, shaking his head. “No. There must be something you wish to earn from this. Now, what is it you want? I’m happy to play your game, provided the stakes are reasonable.”
“What I want, eh?” Porthos leaned back, folding his arms as he studied Aramis. After a moment, he pointed directly at the Sinner. “How about we start with the truth?”
Aramis blinked, his smile faltering. “The truth?”
“The truth.” Porthos repeated, eyes flashing as he leaned forward, scooping the dice into his hand. “If I win, you’re going to tell me exactly what happened, that day—every damn detail. I want to know what happened to Athos. I want to know where the hell you’ve been. And I want to know why you … why you left us. Does that sound ‘reasonable’ to you?”
A shiver raced down Aramis’s spine as he stared at Porthos—it’d risen from its chair, its smile vanishing as its fingers closed around the dice—but he held the soldato’s gaze.
“Very well, Porthos … if you win, I’ll tell you the truth about what transpired that day. But” —Aramis held up a finger— “if I win, you must promise to tell me all you know about the Golden Bough.”
Porthos raised an eyebrow, then shrugged, lowering himself back into his chair. “Fine with me—you remember the rules?”
“How could I forget them?” Aramis leaned forward, resting his chin atop his interlaced fingers. “To win, one must roll three of a kind, a sum of six or less, or a sum of fifteen or higher—really, now, Porthos … don’t tell me you’d forgotten that?”
It snorted. “You’re as charming as ever.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Aramis replied, winking at the soldato. “Come, now, Porthos—enough dawdling. Throw the dice.”
Porthos relented, and, after shaking his fist a few times, tossed the dice onto the table. They clattered across the surface, and eventually settled in front of Aramis, who glanced at the numbers—a five, a one, and a two—before shaking his head.
“Your turn, then,” Porthos said, grinning.
Aramis gathered the dice into the palm of his hand, then, with a flick of his wrist, threw them back onto the table. This time, Porthos checked the numbers—a pair of threes, followed up with a four.
“It’s a shame d’Artagnan isn’t here,” Porthos muttered, sighing as it prepared to roll again. “That boy’s as lucky as they come.”
“He was always rather fortunate, when it came to gambling … though, I always chalked it up to beginner’s luck.” Aramis checked the dice—a four, a five, and a two—before glancing up at his opponent. “He’s doing alright, then?”
Porthos shrugged. “He’s doing as well as a soldato can.”
“A soldato?” Aramis started, the dice slipping from his fingers and bouncing across the table. “You let him join the Thumb? Porthos, that’s the one thing Athos didn’t—”
“Does that matter, anymore?” Porthos snapped. “Athos isn’t here, Aramis—nobody’s seen him in months … not since you disappeared.”
It leaned forward, glancing at the dice—a four, a one, and a six—before snatching them up. The ivory cubes clicked together as Porthos’s fingers curled around them, and he closed his eyes, taking a deep breath before flinging them onto the table.
Aramis watched the dice tumble towards him, and his eyes widened as they settled in front of him—triple ones.
“Well, Aramis?” Porthos asked, raising an eyebrow.
“It appears the dice have been cast,” he replied, closing his eyes. “You’ve won—and now you may claim your winnings.”
“Let’s hear it, then.” The soldato narrowed his eyes, studying Aramis. “What happened to Athos, that day? Did you really …?”
Porthos trailed off, but his gaze lingered on the musket swung over Aramis’s shoulder, the unspoken question hanging in the air between them.
Finally, the Sinner sighed, lifting his eyes to meet Porthos's gaze. “What do you think happened, Porthos? Do you think I killed Athos?”
“You’re dodging the question. Out with it, Aramis—did you kill them?”
It had raised its voice, its words less of a question and more of an accusation, and Aramis dropped his gaze to the floor. “It sounds like you’ve already decided the answer to that question—you’re simply seeking my confirmation.”
“Then … you’re saying you …?” Porthos’s voice shook, and he rose to his feet. “You … you did kill Athos? The reason he didn’t come back … the reason you ran away … it’s because you … killed him?”
“Does it matter?” Aramis asked, smiling weakly. “Either way, Athos is gone.”
“Does it matter?” Porthos slammed his fist on the table, and Aramis flinched. “Does it matter? Of course it matters—Athos is dead, Aramis! And you … you killed them!”
Did I, though? Aramis’s brow furrowed. I’m not the one who dealt the final blow … but that hardly matters—Athos sacrificed himself for my sake; his death … it was my fault.
“You won’t even try to deny it?” Porthos glared across the table at Aramis. “You have nothing to say in your defense? Nothing, Aramis?”
The Sinner lifted his eyes to meet Porthos’s, but he remained silent.
“So … Richelieu was right. You did betray us.” Porthos looked down at its trembling hands, tears leaking from its eyes. “Not only did you kill Athos, but you also abandoned me and d’Artagnan—I didn’t want to believe it … deep down, I was still clinging to the hope it’d been a misunderstanding, and yet … you really did betray us.”
It glanced up at Aramis, and they held each other’s gaze. Then, Porthos lunged forward, flipping the table on its side as it sprang towards Aramis, eyes blazing with unrestrained fury as its fingers closed around the Sinner’s throat.
Porthos paced back and forth in front of the fireplace—its hands were still shaking, but the rage churning inside it had long since dissipated, replaced with something colder. The icy sensation coiled around its heart as it glanced back at the figure slumped beside the overturned table, and it felt a lump forming in its throat.
“What have I done?” it whispered, struggling to hold back its tears. “You didn’t even fight back … you didn’t even try to stop me—you didn’t try to stop anything!”
Porthos's fingers clenched, threatening to curl into fists, but its anger faded as it stared at Aramis’s lifeless body, its eyes widening as realization set in.
“What have I done?” it repeated, its voice breaking as it stumbled forward, kneeling at Aramis’s side. “Oh, Wings … what have I done …?”
“You killed him.” A charming voice tickled its ears. “You killed him with your own two hands—the same way he killed Athos.”
“No … no, I … I didn’t mean to kill him …” Porthos choked back a sob. “Oh, Aramis … I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to …”
“Are you sure you didn’t mean to? You lunged forward with such conviction …”
“Of course I didn’t mean to!” it snapped. “I’d never … but … I did, didn’t I?”
“You did. You killed him.”
Porthos shook its head, eyes still fixed on Aramis’s corpse as it continued to pour out a stream of apologies. It was faintly aware of muffled voices from the hallway, but it paid them no mind, even as the door burst open and strangers crowded into the room.
Whatever happened next didn’t matter—Aramis was dead, and it had killed him.
A clock chimed nearby, and Porthos blinked as Aramis’s eyes fluttered open. The Sinner wheezed softly, then glanced at Porthos, who stared at him, dumbfounded.
“Aramis, you’re … alive?” the soldato scrambled to its feet, staggering backwards as Aramis stood up, brushing the dust from his clothes. “But … how is that possible? I …”
I killed you.
The words caught in its throat, and Aramis shrugged. “You did. Unfortunately for the both of us, it’s hard for me to stay dead, these days.”
Porthos blinked. “So, you’re saying you can just … revive yourself whenever? No matter how many times you die, or who kills you, you’ll just … come back, good as new?”
“That appears to be the gist of it.”
“Then what the fuck was the point of everything I just went through?” Porthos was shaking again, rage surging through its veins. “All that grief … all that guilt … none of that mattered? Does anything matter, anymore?”
“Do you think anything matters, anymore?” the disembodied voice asked, interjecting before Aramis could open his mouth.
“No,” Porthos growled. “No, I don’t think anything does matter, anymore.”
“Porthos …” Aramis took a step forward, reaching out to his old friend, but it smacked his hand aside.
“You said it yourself, Aramis—it doesn’t matter who killed Athos. It doesn’t matter if you die. And it doesn’t matter what happens next. Nothing matters, Aramis. Nothing.”
“That’s right … nothing matters at all.”
“Nothing matters at all,” Porthos repeated, closing its eyes—it felt … lighter, now. Like a large weight had been lifted from its shoulders. And yet, its heart was racing—something wasn’t right, but, at the same time, everything was right.
Yeah, I’m pretty sure both L and Light would peel oranges for each other. Not out of love for each other but I think both freaks are certain they can peel oranges the best out of anyone ever.
Okay, so we all know the Razor & Cyno theory, now I present....
✨️Heizou and Rosaria✨️
my proof under the cut
So to point out the elephant in the room, their hair. Almost identical hair color, both also have streaks in their hair, both wear long gloves and white shirts without sleeves (in the og rosaria outfit), both are redish, Heizou is Anemo and Rosaria works in the church of Barbietoes, Rosaria has a long hair trick and Heizou has a short hair trick, both are emo, both have a bad reputation, AND
I'm pretty sure that's lando, Tom bale is also at the same place, so you can probably bet Maxy and the boys are also there too. Lando and Dan are wearing matching flowers in their hair 🥺
Also, if you look at the insta story the clip was taken from, which is much clearer, you can see it is them.
One thing about me is I'm here to do NEEDLESS INVESTIGATIVE JOURNALISM so if we take T*m B*le's tag at the very same beach club + this other video I found which is definitely one Friend comma Blake talking to Lando
I think we can about like 95% say that this is definitely Daniel and Lando with flowers in their hair and Lando wearing Enchante.......
