#didn't wanna spoil it with words

[snuffysbox]

more chapter 14 WIP 😗

[lookineedsleep]

Made really good sushi today but gave the lion's share to my mom. i would give my left kidney for another one of those maki like i would commit a crime

[soppingwetrat]

just got spoiled for ep 8 I WANNA FUCKING DIE

[a-pastel-edgelord]

Rintaro Suna believes there are absolutes in life. For example, he'll never score higher than a 75 in social studies, or that chuupets taste best on a hot day... Oh, or that you are totally and completely unavailable.

You call Kita, Shin. You always have ever since he met you. He calls you by your first name as well. He always has ever since Suna knew of your existence.

It's impossible to miss—Kita lives in such a methodical way. Like clockwork you show up in the gym just as practice ends. You help clean up. You make small talk with the team. You wait until Kita is done. Then you walk home together.

Suna didn't think much of you at first, just another person in his orbit. But then, during practice on a particularly hot day you showed up with popsicles and watermelon for the team. Kita scolded you for it, talking about how you spoil them. You shrugged it off, saying you have the right. The rest of the guys rushed to get their treats, Suna gave it a second, too sluggish in the heat. Something cold pressed against his temple. It was you, poking him with a pack of chuupets. You'd gone out of your way to refrigerate them. "You like these right? I saw them on sale so I got you some."

That day, something in his brain stuttered. But not that it mattered because you were taken by the captain of the volleyball team. Even if Kita is a bit of a weird hardass robot kind of guy, Suna likes him. Respects him too much to even entertain the notion of flirting with you.

"Maaaan!" Atsumu whines in the locker room. "I wanna show off my service ace." He's been complaining about you not coming to watch a practice.

Akagi rolls him eyes. "Some people actually study, y'know. Apparently Kita-san is eyein' some fancy university in Tokyo."

"Yeah, Tsumu." Osamu drawls. "Kita-senpai doesn't have volleyball brain like you. So studyin' ain't a lost cause."

Suna pauses halfway through putting on his jacket. "Kita-senpai?" The words are foreign in his tongue.

"Huh?" Gin looks at him. "Yeah. You know. Kita-senpai. They're cousins. We call 'em Kita-senpai so we don't get confused with the captain."

Suna appreciates another absolute as he throws on his shoes and sprints down the stairs to where he knows you're waiting for your cousin. The fact that he is an absolute idiot.

[suiana]

twitch streamer reader x yandere! lawyer who watches you in his free time. he didn't expect to get this attached to some streamer who basically plays games for a living but here we are.

"chat you can't call me a loser, i bet you guys don't even touch grass."

oh?

he decides to take this as a chance to finally interact with you outside of his online stalking and numerous donations. perhaps you'll even find him interesting, ask more, your chat ships you both then you and him get married-

okay he's daydreaming again.

"im not a loser."

misosoup has donated $25!

"lies! everyone who watches me is a loser rotting at home!"

misosoup has donated $50!

"yo misosoup guy! thanks so much for the donations dude what the heck?!"

he snickers, shifting on the leather chair of his office. the chair creaks under his weight, his hands flying across his keyboard as he focuses on your response to his words. so cute.

he really hadn't expected to get this attached. not when he had watched numerous other streamers and not feel a single thing for them. in fact, he'd get bored easily within the first... few seconds. he thought his dopamine receptors were fried 💀

nope, it just turns out he hadn't met you.

"actually im a lawyer :)"

..

...

silence washes over you and you immediately tweak out. the lawyer could only watch in amusement as he pulls out his credit card to donate yet another absurd amount of money to someone he hasn't even met in real life. soon though. soon.

"what the balls i have a lawyer in my stream?!"

yes, and this lawyer especially loves you. have fun being spoiled by him! and make sure not to sign any weird contracts without reading everything first too! wouldn't wanna... accidentally sign your life away! haha!

[swytdoll]

౨ৎ [nsfw, armin’s mean]

armin hated—no despised women like you. women that never had to lift a finger, never had to do any real work in their entire lives, who had people wait on them hand and foot. women who didn't know a mop from a duster. it wasn’t fair.

the more he thought about it, the more his rage started to turn into something else. his eyes followed the lines of your figure, the curve of your neck, the slight jiggle of your breasts, and your ass... oh your ass was perfect. you could probably fit into any dress you owned, and your tits would spill out. you looked soft and supple, like the most expensive silks, and your scent was a mix of lavender and roses. he hated it. he hated you, but... maybe there was one thing you could do for him.

“fuck—shut up,” armin hissed, cockhead nudging against your squishy cervix. you were too tight, and it was hurting his head. he pulled back, letting his cock fall from your gushing cunt with a wet pop. it bounced up and slapped his stomach, leaving a trail of your slick behind. he stared at it for a few seconds, and you turned your head just enough to look at it.

it was huge, almost monstrously big. the length was thicker than your arm, and the head was bulbous and bright red. the foreskin was retracted, revealing the glans which was leaking a clear liquid. he wasn’t circumcised, but his penis was so large and thick that the skin wasn't visible. a vein snaked its way up the underside, and you felt your cunt clench in response.

“armin—please, wanna cum s’bad.” you whined, bucking your hips as much as possible in his tight grasp. you were so desperate, you wanted nothing more than to cum. you needed to feel him, to have him mark you.

your words seemed to spark something in him, and he moved back so that his dick was lined up with your puffy lips. you watched him, eyes wide and mouth open in a silent moan as he slid inside of you. the tip disappeared, and he continued to push forward, forcing his fat cock deeper and deeper.

his breath hitched when he finally bottomed out, feeling your warm walls fluttering around his shaft. his hands slid to your sides, grasping at your plush stomach and pulling you down his length. he bit his lip, holding back a groan.

it was heaven, pure heaven, and he was sure that no other man had ever experienced something like this before. no man had ever felt a woman as tight and as hot and as wet and as willing. this was your destiny, you were made for him, and only him.

you were perfect, so perfect, and he didn't want to share. “how would mommy and daddy feel about you fucking the lawn boy in their cramped shed, hm?” he said, a wicked grin forming on his face. your eyes widened, and he could see your body stiffen. he pulled back, then thrusted forward roughly, pushing a squeak out of you.

his fingers dug into your hips, holding you still. he set a brutal pace, fucking you so hard and fast that your whole body shook against the tool desk. you could feel him everywhere, all over you, filling you up, consuming you. “does mommy even know where you are, hm? do they know that you're getting your cunt stretched by a poor, uneducated man like me?”

armin couldn't help it. he leaned forward, resting his forehead on your shoulder as his cock pumped into you. your breasts were pressed against his chest, and he could feel your breath on his cheek. he hated how much he was enjoying this, the way you squeezed around him, the way your skin was soft and warm, the way your hair smelled like lavender. he hated how he could feel himself slipping, his self-control faltering.

you were a spoiled, stuck-up brat, and he had no time for people like that. yet here he was, balls deep in you. fucking you like a madman.

his thrusts became more frantic, and he could feel the pressure building. he was close, so close. just a few more pumps, and he would cum. you felt so good, too good. his cock twitched, and he was coming. hot jets of semen shot from the tip, painting your walls white.

he was panting, and his grip loosened. you wiggled, trying to get away. but he had other ideas. his hand shot out, gripping the front of your shirt and yanking you back down his length. you yelped, feeling him sink deeper inside.

“you—“

“what? my cum not wealthy enough to breed you?” he spat, a dark smirk forming on his lips. you felt sick. your pussy clenched around him, milking him for all he was worth.

he pulled out of you, leaving your hole gaping and dripping with his seed. his hand shot up, wrapping around your neck. his grip was tight, and you choked. he lifted you up, and threw you on the floor. your legs were spread, and his eyes were focused on the mess he'd left between your thighs. the sight of his semen oozing from your abused hole made his cock twitch. he licked his lips, his gaze never wavering. his tongue flicked out, running over his teeth as he stared hungrily.

“you’ll be a beautiful mom.”

[tamayakii]

a girls first love and heartbreak.

just some headcanons of Grayson daughter!reader life that i've had stashed in my brain for a little bit. This was heavily indulgent i am so sorry. Warnings: angst, depictions of a child being injured (the child is reader aka you), surgery, hematoma draining, broken fingers. Reader has powers but is way weaker than mark and nolan, think Oliver levels. mark and reader get beat senseless together <3 use of yn: once ((i use interactivefics to change this)) notes: written all in one go, forgive any errors

You know the line "Every girls first love is her father"? Well that describes you and Nolan to a T. You admired him deeply, always crying whenever he had to go away or staying up super late just to get a kiss goodnight.

Of course.. the counterpart to that phrase is "every girls first heartbreak is her father" but I don't wanna get TOO ahead of myself here!

For the first years of your life, you were treated fairly- hell even spoiled. Until bullies had made you their target in grade school when you were seven, they were older kids, and you desperately wanted their approval as they were the cool kids group ((in your eyes))

They never hit you, but they might as well had anyways. Their words were the first peak that the world wasn't as nice as your parents had made it out to be. Debbie was the first to catch onto this issue, and asking Mark gave her no answers, but she had noticed all too late, and by the time other people noticed your change, you had been worn down.

Debbie told Nolan one night after dinner, at first Nolan didn't believe it. Surely there was no way you were being bullied, you would've said something. He's your protector. ((he's still learning the ways of earth and humans,, sigh))

When he went to go tuck you into bed, he found that you had done it yourself. Even turning off the lamp which you had always left on, it was a silent communication that you were waiting for a good-night kiss.

Debbie has only ever seen Nolan cry two times. Both were at the birth of his children but that night, she could've sworn that he was just about to let the tears fall. They talk more extensively that night, making a plan. Nolan would take you out on a father-daughter date at the zoo, and Debbie would talk to the school about the bullying after dropping Mark off for the day.

You were so happy that day, squealing as you feed a giraffe some leaves, Nolan hanging onto you so you don't get lifted by the animal. Spending extra time looking at the zebras, cringing at the monkies as you quickly walk by.

When you made it to the reptile section, you marveled the creatures, pointing through the bars at a large and odd crocodile.

"look daddy- look!! It's a croc-ah-dile!" You hold his large hand, looking back at him to make sure he's looking but he's focused on something else, eyebrows furrowed.

"daddy!!" You whine, grabbing onto his wrist now, suddenly feeling neglected but just as fast as that feeling came, dread took over. The hairs rise on the back of your neck, a zip of eletricity runs up your spine as your eyes widen.

Screams begin to erupt, and an explosions burns your skin, blowing your tiny body into the crocodile exhibit. Nolan was shocked by the explosion, more than anything, if anything a bit peeved.

He heard the classic cackle of the Queen Lizard, his eyes widening as his nostrils flared. He looked back towards the source of the sound, dust and debris still flying in the air, making a thick fog across the zoo, he flexed his fists, a horrid realizition hits him.

you're not beside him.

He looks around, stepping over bodies as he yells your name, his toes meet an edge, where the bars of the exhibit once stood, now bent out of shape. He squints through the fog,

You were struggling under someone- pawing at their large arms, wind pipe being crushed under their hands. Everytime you tried to squirm, he pushed you down deeper into the ground, creating a hole under the both of you- the pressure builds behind your eyes, broken fingers trying to claw at the thick skin,

"da-da-" the words die in your throat as blood bubbles out of your mouth in a pathetic attempt of a cough.

Warmth paints your face and the hands choking you weaken, behind the monster ((the large and odd crocodile who was actually just a large and reptile-skinned man)) stood your father, there were no emotions on his face,

your eyes trail down and widen at the sight of your own fathers hand pierced through the monster, looking back up at the face of the attacker, he spits blood up on you before finallly going limp, hanging on the first of your father.

Nolan quickly throws the body aside, kneeling down by your side, fear gripping his heart. You were hurt, and bad.

He took you to a place where he knew you would be taken care of, no questions asked.

The GDA medical ward.

All i'm thinking of he doesn't have the decency to use doors, crashing down through the roof, holding your frail body as you cough blood up, screaming- NO, bellowing- for help.

Cecil's quickly informed of the newly developing situation just across the building. He had no idea omni-man was at the same zoo that the Lizard League just attacked. ((thank you prince lizard, it was one of ideas.))

You were hanging on deaths door, emerengcy surgery was performed to remove a piece of rebar from your torso, set your fingers back, and drained the hematomas forming in your brain.

It's easy to say that you weren't the same for a long long time after that.

You went through intense therapy, provided by the GDA, and hell- even met Cecil whilst in the hospital bed, you didn't really understand what he did or who he was, but you trusted him because he reassured your parents that you had the best doctors avaliable.

Mark doesn't really understand what happened, only a year or two older than you. He just knows you got hurt and that made him sad, and angry.

Your grades dropped drastically after coming home from the hospital, still attending therapy every week, they eventually switched you to online schooling which helped and also didn't.

Nolan started to baby you even more, treating you like glass. If you were clingy before, you were even worse now. You'd wake up with night terrors, screaming in pure horror, unable to communicate that you saw your dads fist driven through the mosnter every time you closed your eyes.

After a couple years, you became aware of how much of a burden you felt you were becoming, you felt.. broken. Debbie finally pulled the plug on online schooling, putting you back in public school.

You still were recluse but you finally befriended some people who also related to your reclusivity.

Also, you were still clingy. You would cuddle into Nolans side during movie night, and if he wasn't there, then it was Debbie or Mark. Your poor brother, he was often embarrassed when he had to hold your hand in public, enforced by your father of course.

You actually got your powers the summer before Mark got his powers, dad started to pay attention to you heavily but you didn't mind, you bloomed under his care. Though he discovered one thing, you were evidiently.. weaker.

He could barely push you to work harder on your powers without you crumbling under his gaze, running to your mother with tears running down your cheeks.

Despite that, you did start to come out of your shell, Debbie was so happy to see that after almost a decade, you were finally coming back to her as her the sunny child she knew a long time ago.

Then Mark got his powers and he began heroing, and that made you want to be one too but despite the training and the suit that was made for you, you couldn't keep up with your father and mark, so you happily became your mommys girl again. Letting her shower you even more with affection, making up for all the years that you had ducked away from it.

The events of season 1 happen of course, so lets time skip to the angstier parts.

When you woke up that day, you didn't expect to wake up to your mother kicking your father out of the house, and him actually listening- only to go through the roof instead. Almost tripping down the stairs with how fast you are as you rush to your moms side, following her as she grabs her phone- desperately trying to call Mark.

"Mom what's going on?" You followed after her pacing, gasping with her as men in dark suits just appeared out of thin air, guns pointing up at the hole your father created. You hide behind your mom as another Donald comes into view, he calls out for the both of you, insisting that you go with him.

Within the hour you find yourself at the GDA, the place that had been starting to become increasing familiar. You followed your mother closely, grasping at the back of her shirt.

Donald gestures, letting your mother towards the doors first- they slide open, revealing a cacophony of scrambling agents, all furiously typing and running across the room.

Your head starts to feel fuzzy as you step in, a lump forms in your throat. Looking at the big screen, you realize that theyre trakcing your father, a bit of hope flickers, maybe he's okay? maybe-

"Nolan killed the guardians of the globe."

Those words stop any sounds from reaching you, chest getting tight as you turn towards your mother. Watching her slap Cecil, angry at him as she speaks more but it was like there was a stone wall blocking any noise.

The next minutes are a blur as you look back at the screen, not registering your mother grabbing hold of your hand, you watch as he goes back to the house, only to realize that it was swarming with GDA agents. The scenes bring bile up to your throat, slapping a hand across your mouth to keep you from blowing chow on the back of some poor persons head.

You can only watch in horror as the same man that would toss you into the air like you were three at thirteen desecrate your childhood home with blood and guts, the same home where you fell asleep in his arms, the same room that you would learn to walk in.. the same house you grew up in.

Debbie quickly draws you into her arms, shielding your from the screen but it was too late. The noise of an explosion coming from the speakers of the room is your welcoming back into the world of hearing. Hugging yourself as you cry in your moms arms, you didn't know who your father was anymore.

You think that was bad? Now imagine watching your father slice through Immortal, you thought was dead, with a swipe of his hand. your throat goes dry as the image of him doing the same thing to that lizard league villian, the warm blood that splatter across your face. "What about mom? what about y/n?!" Mark cries out,

"Mark.. your sister.. she may need some time but she will join us, and your mother? she's more like a.. pet to me"

For a few helpless minutes, you watch as your father throws Mark around like a ragdoll. You've stepped away from Debbie, heart pounding, watching as your brothers tracker flies farther and farther, with your father not far behind.

Seeing your brother crash through multiple buildings in Chicago, creating a path of destruction is what made you desperate to stop this, to save your brother.

The chaos of the room covers your escape, and your absence is only noticed when it's too late.

"Sir? Where's.." Donald's words trail off and finally, Debbie notices that you're gone.. and she doesn't know for how long, the horror and dread that grasps at her body makes her freeze, unable to cry or make a sound. Her daughter was gone.

By the time you make it to Chicago, you just barely make the sight of Mark being thrown high up in the air, your dad flying after him. You fly after them, body straining to keep up and eventually you do, tackling your fathers side and throwing him off balance.

"dad! Please, stop this!" You plead with him as you spin around in the orange sky, looking up at him as your tears frame your cheeks, "please you can still stop!"

His eyes are bloodshot as he stares down at you, for a moment with no emotions before a sliver of remorse flickers in his eyes. "oh my sweet girl-"

in the distance Mark scream, speeding at Nolans back with his fist out right.

your father grabs the back of your neck, turning you both around towards mark- All in one fluid motion. Effectively using you as a shield,

Marks fist stops mere inches from your face, the silence makes your ears ring.

"Let her go." Mark growls but it's miserable, the blood making his voice gurgle.

"Mark.. mark.." All you can do is whimper as you struggle in your dads hold, hands reaching back and sinking your nails into his wrist. A sigh comes from Nolan, a truly annoyed sigh.

"You made me do this."

Neither you or Mark have the time to react as your father uses you as a weapon, reeling back and throwing you against Mark, punching your back and sending you both flying.

Now he treated you both as punching bags, flying back n forth, easily being able to hit you both back n forth- as if driving in the point that he's stronger and faster.

"I was wrong to raise you both as humans, i should've prepared you better, taught you more. Your lives have been soft and painless, your both viltrumites in blood only." He holds you both up by your collars, Mark pants heavily and you can barely do so with your multiple broken ribs. "well, your true educations start, now."

At some point as he flies you both to the surface, sonic booms thundering behind him, you black out.

You wake up at the bottom of the ocean, the air leaving your lungs as he slams you both into the ocean floor- you grab at your throat, water sucking into your lungs as your father floated there as if it didn't affect him one bit.

Just as quickly you and your brother met the surface of the sea, you were grabbed and flown out. Coughing up water as you grip onto your fathers shoulder, fingers bunching up the fabric of his suit.

"dad- dad stop!!" You plead but its interrupted as another scream rips through your throat as the sight of your dad throwing Mark into a mountain, you plead and beg with him as he floats down to your brother.

"dad, dad! Daddy-" His grip on you tightens, his head snapping to you. You're only allowed a second of regret before he, too, throws you.

barely holding onto the light, you watch as Nolan punches Marks limp body, triggering a land slide and as you expect to be buried under the snow too- your dad picks you up mere seconsd before it blankets you.

He handles you like a disgruntled mother cat, holding you by the back of your shirt, as he searches for your brother in the snow. You did as well, heart squeezing with fear as each limb that pokes out isnt your brothers.

Eventually, Mark is found, and still he found the power to resist your father.

"I'm ready when you are."

He uses your body once again as a weapon, seing you and Mark flying into another mountain range. You hear how marks ribs crack under your weight,

You roll off of your brother, grasping onto the earth, murmuring gentle cries for your mother. You yelp as your dad lands at the feet of you two, shaking the mountain with his power. You throw your hands up in surrendur, or.. at least the non-broken one. you give. You wave your metaphorical white flag.

His sights set on Mark, and all you can do is helplessly watch as your father beats your brother into a pulp as he screams at him. The crater deepening with each punch, soon Mark becomes unrecognizable- your sobs turn animalistic, your unable to move your broken legs, the words your father uses breaks your heart more- as if it could be. You were nothing to him. just a pawn in his long drawn out game,

After awhile, Nolan stops before dropping to Marks side, laying inbetween you and Mark, breathing deeply as he composes himself. As he stands back up, you prepare for more, you realize that your brother will die before your eyes.

"Why did you make me do this?!" Nolan screams, "You are fighting so you can watch everyone around you die! Think mark," his words make you flinch, his voice ragged- "you will outlast every fragile insignicant being on this planet, you'll live to see this planet crumble to dust and blow away!"

You start to quietly sob again, watching as Mark doesn't stand back up this time,

"Everything and everyone you know will be gone! What will you have after 500 years?!"

"you, dad." Mark manages to murmur, "i'd still have you." Mark gurgles in pain, eyes swollen shut- "Dad?"

You watch as your father winces in pain, fighting with himself as he looks at the blood on his hands.. the blood of his children.

Then he's gone.

Silence is all that surronds you and for awhile, you wait for your dad to return, thinking he was climbing in altitude solely to finsih you both off with one spectacular punch.

Execpt he doesn't.

With pain sobs and whimpers, you manage to shuffle closer to mark, reaching out with your good hand to wipe his tears away. He lets out a wet cough,

"Marky.." You whisper, teeth gritting as you try to fight the next sob, " it's okay.. i'm right here.." your voice is raw from the screams, you lay your head on his chest tenderly, arm draping across his waist, as him trying to be his shield.

Eventually you both lose conciousness but as your eyes flutter shut for what you believe is the last time, you swear you feel a hand grasp your shoulder.

You wake up again in the hospital, body aching as the bright lights sting your eyes. As you try to look away, you catch glimpse of Mark who was also in a bed besides you, but the stinging pain in your neck makes you cry out.

"Shh, shh!" Your mother reaches out for you, "don't talk.. You're safe." She watches as you reach out for Mark, arm shaking as tears fill your eyes.

"It's okay, sweetie, he's okay." She presses her lips to your forehead as you start to cry, she gathers your outreached hand in hers, interlocking your fingers as she comforts you.

You look at your mom, through bruised eyesockets, your lips wobble as the tears sting your cheek.

It's like a decade had never passed, and you were still seven, stuck in the GDA hospital.

holy fuck i dont know where this came from. I might write some fluffier headcanons, but i had to to get the angst out of my system.

Let me know if you want more, like my idea on readers relationship with Cecil since she met him when she was seven and she go ther powers first. ehe lol maybe some tabbo old man stuff I DUNNO THO let me know

[harryspet]

bambi eyes (7) r.cameron

[Warnings] soft!dark!rafe cameron x reader, daddy!rafe x little!reader older!rafe, crimeboss!rafe, dd/lg, sugar daddy rafe, spoiling kink, little space, reader is feeling extra small, little editing, barry doing barry things 18+ READ AT YOUR OWN RISK

A/N: Finally!!

word count: 4.2k

In which your Daddy wants to take you on a business trip but you're feeling way too little to want to tag along.

masterlist

Rafe pressed his phone between his shoulder and ear, needing to free both his hands to attend to you. Tears streamed down your face as you squirmed around on the sunroom couch. Two small swollen spots were on your arm, bee stings, but you were flailing so much that Rafe could barely get a good look. Unfortunately, Rafe was on the phone when the incident happened, and he and Barry were discussing today’s important plans. 

“It hurts!” you cried out, and Rafe could only assume that you’d never been stung by anything before. You woke up pouty, with Rafe sensing that you were on edge, maybe disappointed that Lana had been gone for so long, but this seemed to be the final straw for you: “It hurts!”

“What’s all the drama, Country Club?”

“Got stung by some bees,” Rafe spoke tersely, trying to pin your arm down, “I know, baby, I know. Gotta get the stingers out.”

He pressed his body weight against your hip, gaining better leverage to keep you still. Holding your arm tightly, he used a card from his wallet to scrape the area side to side. This only seemed to distress you more, but this was the best way he knew how to get rid of them. 

“Please, please, please,” You begged over and over, “It hurts, Daddy.”

“She gonna be okay for the trip?” Rafe heard Barry ask. 

“Yeah, don’t worry. She’s gonna love it,” Rafe grunted, keeping you pinned underneath him. 

Maybe this was a sign, Rafe thought. The morning so far had been terrible and no good for you, he didn't want to add further to your discomfort. With relative ease, Rafe got both stingers out, but you were still in pain, that was clear, “Stay right there, don’t move,” Rafe spoke sternly before he moved from on top of you, “Gonna get you some ice.”

“Don’t wanna go–please don’t leave me,” Rafe huffed at your immediate refusal of his command. He had no idea why you’d gotten so riled up. For time and argument’s sake, Rafe lifted you into his arms. He carried you back into the house and towards the kitchen. 

“Sterling was pretty willing to stop stealing your workers and spreading rumors about the company, yet he wants to meet again. You don’t think it’s shady he wants to meet outside of Kildare?”

“He wants more,” Rafe said as he sat you down on the kitchen island. He grabbed his phone again with his hand as he started to rummage through the freezer, “That’s the only possible reason.”

“And you want to hear him out? What else do we need from him?”

“What, you don’t think we need him?” Rafe countered, “You’re the one who gave me the idea in the first place.”

“I just …” Barry started, “I didn’t think you would want to go further.” 

“I’m not–It’s not a big deal,” Rafe shook his head as he finally picked out an icepack. Rafe’s mind was split between the urgent need to soothe your pain and the looming business discussions with Barry. A huge real estate investment convention was being held at some fancy hotel in Charleston and Sterling had chosen it as the setting of their next meeting. 

With the ice pack in hand, he returned swiftly to where you sat on the kitchen island, visibly distressed and still sniffling from the bee stings. “Here, baby. Hold that against your arm for me. It’ll make it feel better.”

Reluctantly, you held the icepack against your injury. The tears had stopped falling, but Rafe could sense that you were starting to grow upset with him rather than the bee sting. 

Rafe leaned against the counter, trying to ignore your glare and focus back on the conversation. "It’ll be a good chance to see who he’s connected with, maybe find some new business partners. I wanna see what else he’s after,” Rafe explained. “You didn’t see how desperate he acted at the club … I know we can get much more out of him. Like you said, everyone has a weakness.”

“We could use his connections,” Barry conceded, “But you don’t think he’s gonna maybe want an actual chance with Bambi?”

“I know how to handle this. I won’t let him get close enough to think he actually has a chance.”

“Huh,” Rafe could practically feel Barry’s uncertainty through the phone.

“Barry,” Rafe continued, his tone sharp and commanding, “I want everything ready. We’re taking three cars—two SUVs and the truck. You’ll drive the SUV with two guards, and me and Bambi will ride in the truck, and we’ll need another two men riding behind us. You’ll lead the way to Charleston. We won’t need it, but I want backup, extra firepower, the works.” 

Without another word, Rafe hung up the phone call, throwing his cell phone onto the counter. 

Next, Rafe searched for the first aid kit underneath the sink, “Are you angry, Daddy?”

“No,” Rafe said, looking into your eyes. “You know how Barry and I talk to each other. Daddy’s not mad.”

“Who were you talking about?” You brought your uninjured arm up to wipe your wet face. 

“We’re going on a trip,” As you stared at him, Rafe pulled out a red first aid kit. He set it on the counter before he rummaged through it, pulling out the tools he needed. “Remember Mr. Sterling? Daddy’s got some business to handle with him.”

You flinched when Rafe dragged an alcohol wipe across your skin, but he placed a hand on your waist, steadying you. You were much more compliant, much calmer when Rafe’s skin was against yours. 

“Oh,” You spoke simply and Rafe searched your eyes for the thoughts swirling behind them, “My arm hurts.” 

Rafe sighed, finding the pack of bandaids, “I know, Bambi. You want a pink or green bandaid?” 

“Where’s the Cinderella ones?” Your lips pouted as you looked down at the options Rafe presented you. 

“I don’t know. We must be out. You can have pink or green.” As your frowned deepened, Rafe took a deep breath, trying to hold his tongue, “Pick. Or Daddy’s gonna pick for you.” 

Reluctantly you reached out a finger and pointed to the pink bandaid. Rafe carefully placed it over the sting. 

Rafe leaned back, studying your face for lingering distress. “After this morning, I think a little vacation would make you feel better,” he said softly, brushing a stray tear from your cheek. “I’m taking care of everything. I just need you to be good.” 

“I want Lana to come with us.”

“She has the week off, remember?”

“What am I supposed to do while you’re working? You can call her, maybe? Maybe she’ll want to come.” 

“She’s with her family, Bambi. All week. I’m not gonna bother her,” Rafe spoke, finality in his tone. 

He closed the first aid kit and pushed it aside. “You’ll be fine without Lana. You’ve got me. I’ll keep you busy.” He tilted his head, trying to meet your gaze, but you were still pouting, your fingers fiddling with the edge of the pink bandaid he’d applied moments earlier.

“You’re always working,” you muttered, looking down at your arm. “You won’t have time.”

Rafe’s jaw tightened, but his tone remained measured. “When I’m not working, I’m with you. Today’s no different. You’re gonna love it. We’ll stay in a big room and you can order whatever food you want and they’ll bring it to you.”

Your lips twitched as if considering a smile, but the pout remained. “But Lana always packs good snacks.”

“Bambi,” Rafe chuckled, stepping closer to wrap an arm around your waist. “I can pack snacks. I know what you like, don’t I? 

“Okay,” you mumbled reluctantly. 

Rafe smirked, satisfied with your compliance, before he lifted you off the counter and onto your feet, “No more tears, yeah? I don’t like seeing you upset.”

You nodded, watching as Rafe returned to his phone and began typing furiously. Your face fell again, and you realized that you craved Rafe’s undivided attention. Rafe’s “work” was beginning to bother you. When you stood in place, he looked up at you once more, “Why don’t you go upstairs and start packing baby? Put on something comfortable for the drive.”

You parted your lips but closed them quickly. You considered just being grateful that Rafe was taking you along on his business trip. After all, you hadn’t left the island the entire time you’d been with Rafe. Wasn’t there part of you that wanted to see more of the world? You ignored that voice in your head. Today, all you felt was that you wanted to be in bed, cuddled up to Rafe. You moped all the way up the stairs, and once you got to your room, you plopped sadly down onto your plush carpet. 

Rafe tried to organize his thoughts and keep everything he needed to do in line. He’d surprised himself with how much responsibility he’d been able to handle after caring for you for so long. He certainly wasn’t the man he used to be. Every step he made now was for you. 

Still, he was beginning to realize just how much he relied on Lana, how much she had helped both of you. Now, it was all on him. Between packing business attire, sorting through important documents, confirming meetings, and delegating tasks to his employees, he also had to make sure his truck was ready for the road. And then there was you, your lunch had to be packed, along with plenty of snacks, your favorite water bottle adorned with pink bows, and a tablet with headphones to keep you entertained. More importantly, to keep you from overhearing the kinds of conversations he didn’t want you listening to.

He finally felt on top of things, Barry and his men had arrived, and the cars were readied in driveway. But the moment he climbed the stairs and stepped into your room, that sense of control vanished. His jaw tightened at the sight before him. You were sitting on the carpet in the poofiest pink dress you owned, tears streaking your cheeks as you fumbled with a ribbon, your small hands trembling in frustration as you struggled to tie a bow in your hair.

“Bambi, baby. We’re gonna be in the car for hours. It’s not dress up time,” Rafe chided. 

“Don’ wanna’ go,” You hiccuped. Looking around the room, Rafe saw no sign that you’d actually begun gathering anything for the trip, “Please.”

Rafe consciously took a deep breath to steady his heart rate. The last thing he wanted to do was take out his frustration on you when you were in this state. He walked over to your armoire and picked out an appropriate outfit for you. 

Sitting down on the carpet with you, Rafe easily grabbed you by your hips and pulled you into his lap, “What’s going on with you, huh?” Rafe asked, tilting your chin to look him in the eyes. He brushed a finger across your cheek, wiping away tears. 

You pouted in response and Rafe’s lips pressed into a thin line. He grabbed the thick tulle of your dress at your waist and started to pull it up your torso. You started to wiggle a but Rafe only pulled you closer, “Arms up, c’mon,” Rafe encouraged. He pressed down the urge to discipline, to become impatient at the fact that you were delaying their departure.  

Instead, he stripped the dress off in one swift motion, letting the poofy fabric pool beside you before reaching for the soft, light green Tinker Bell baby tee he’d picked out.

Sliding each of your arms through the sleeves, he tilted his head, studying you as he pulled the fabric down over your torso. "Are you too little to dress yourself today, Bambi?" he asked, his tone laced with curiosity. A theory was already forming in his mind, a quiet suspicion about what was really behind your unusual behavior.

You nodded shyly before laying forward, resting your head on his shoulder. “I see, hmm. You’ll need Daddy’s help then,” Rafe sighed, now fully understanding you were slipping into a younger head space. Instinctively, his hands smoothed over your back. For so long, you’d been determined to be independent, eager to explore the world, to make friends at ballet, to learn and grow on your own terms. He had been so focused on giving you freedom within the boundaries he set. He hadn’t considered how much comfort you might find in letting go completely. In regressing.

And now, here you were, seeking the security of his presence, of his care. Holding you tight in one hand, he reached into the pocket of his jeans. He texted Barry to give him twenty more minutes. He held you there for a few minutes longer and debated how he would coerce you into the car. 

“You want some bows in your hair, baby?” He asked after a moment and you nodded against his shoulder. He reached for the one you were fumbling with earlier, “Daddy’s gonna bring you to the bathroom, okay?”

He carried you to the bathroom, placing you on the cool counter as he tended to your hair. It wasn’t his best work but he managed to tie some ribbons around the two curly buns on top of your head, “Look, there’s my beautiful, baby,” Rafe kissed you on your forehead, then nose, then both of your cheeks, until you couldn’t help the small smile that formed on your lips, “Let’s get you ready. Don’t worry, Daddy will do everything.” 

He dressed you in a light, yellow tennis skirt with comfortable built-in shorts, the soft fabric swishing as he adjusted it on your hip. Packing a pair of converse in your bag, he let you remain in your flower-printed socks. He doubted you would get to the car in any other way than in his arms. 

Making sure you had things to do in the car and a few stuffed animals, he packed the rest of the things you needed, mostly outfits for the rest of weekend, into your suitcase. Satisfied that everything was in order, he zipped up your bright pink suitcase and set it aside. Now, all that was left was getting you to the car which, as he expected, would likely mean carrying you there himself.

When the two of you finally made it out of the front door, Rafe found Barry leaning against the hood of his SUV, “What’s the hold up?” Barry asked immediately, his sharp gaze flicking between Rafe and the way you clung to him.

Rafe was too focused, though. Without so much as a glance, he handed off your bright pink suitcase, dropping it into Barry’s hands with an unspoken expectation.

Rafe opened the passenger door, settling you into your seat and buckling you in. He placed a stuffed giraffe in your arms, making sure your water was in the cupholder, and you could reach your backpack. You looked up at him with sad eyes, your lips starting to tremble, “What is it?” Rafe asked, eyes full of concern. 

“Need Bunny,” you murmured, your voice small.

Of course, Rafe had forgotten the most important thing, your American Girl doll, “Where’d you leave her, baby?” 

When you only shrugged, Rafe sighed, raking a hand through his hair. “Okay, stay here. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

Closing the door securely, he rounded the truck, his stride purposeful as he shot Barry a glance. “We’re leaving in two minutes.”

Barry scoffed but didn’t argue, watching as Rafe disappeared back inside the house.

You awoke to Rafe opening the passenger door. Carefully, he slipped off your headphones before pausing the Disney movie that you were watching on your tablet. You started to stir as Rafe undid your seatbelt. You whined, “Let’s stretch those little legs, Bambi,” Rafe spoke softly in response, “We’re halfway there.” 

You yawned, reaching out to him, even half asleep. Rafe tried to explain gently that he wouldn’t be able to carry you in public. To keep you from having a full meltdown, he promised he wouldn’t let go of your hand. 

You swung your legs over the side of the seat and Rafe was able to help you slip on your shoes, tying your laces quickly. When you finally got to your feet, you were wobbly. Rafe smoothed out your skirt for you, ensuring it wasn’t riding up in the back, before he grabbed your hand. 

“Where..” You started, pausing as you rubbed your eyes with your free hand. 

“Gas station. Let’s go pick some snacks, yeah?” 

“Candy?” You perked up. 

“One candy,” Rafe agreed. 

You spotted Barry, filling up at the gas pump directly behind the one Rafe had parked at. You liked Barry, he was nice to you, even if he usually had harsh words with your Daddy. He flashed his gold tooth at you, offering a small wave, but you tucked your face into Rafe’s arm, hiding yourself. You felt overwhelmingly shy, still, despite know him well. 

Rafe held your hand as you stepped inside, your eyes taking in everything around you with wide, sleepy curiosity. The air inside the station was cool and the fluorescent lights flickered softly above.

The gas station was quiet, typical for this time of day, with just a few locals milling around, most of them grabbing their own snacks or paying for their gas.

You clung to Rafe’s hand, your fingers curled tight around his, your sleepy eyes still darting around the store. You weren’t quite sure where to look first. The shelves lined with brightly colored candy wrappers drew your attention, but so did the rows of chips and juice boxes.

He walked with you toward the candy aisle. You let go of Rafe’s hand for just a second, standing on your tiptoes to try and see the top shelf. There were so many choices but your eyes always came back to a package of gummy worms. Rafe stood behind you, his arms crossed, watching as you took your time. 

You finally picked up the bag and held it up to him, the smile on your face shy. You glanced back at the candy before you asked with a small, barely audible voice, “One for Barry?”

Rafe looked over at Barry through the glass windows, still pumping gas outside, “You want to get something for Barry?”

You nodded and something flickered in Rafe’s eyes, something dark, maybe anger or possessiveness, “Fine, you can pick one thing.” 

When you’d picked out another bag of gummy wors for Barry, you followed Rafe as he grabbed a large bottle of water and a bag of chips. After Rafe paid for everything with his black card, you followed him back through the parking lot. You looked up at Rafe expectantly as you approached the three vehicles all of you were traveling in. 

“It’s your gift, you give it to him,” Rafe said. His look of encouragement was slightly forced but he placed a small hand on your back, urging you forward, “Go, little girl. I’m right here.”

“Here,” you said quietly, when your hesitant steps finally brought you over to the Barry’s car. In the passenger seat, you saw a tall and muscular man that you didn’t recognize. You looked away from him quickly, focusing on Barry. You placed the bag in his hand.“Candy… for you.”

Barry looked down, clearly surprised, but his lips curled into a grin. “Well, look at that,” he drawled, “That’s mighty sweet of you. Thank you, Bambi.”

Rafe, standing off to the side, shot Barry a sharp look, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. 

You nodded, fingers curling around the edge of your skirt before you turned and walked back towards Rafe. With one last glance toward Barry, who was still standing by the SUV, Rafe slid his hand to the small of your back, guiding you back to the truck.

The Uptown Grand sits in the heart of Charleston’s historic district, a five-star hotel that exudes old-world Southern charm. The bustling energy of the high-end real estate development convention provided the perfect backdrop for your Daddy's plans. He didn’t seem to flinch at the curious glances from the occasional attendee who dared to acknowledge his entourage. To most, he was a shadow moving through the crowd, and to those few who did give him a second glance, his quiet authority was all too clear.

Rafe sat you on top of a stack of suitcases that sat on the luggage cart, keeping you out of the way, as he handled checking in to the opulent hotel. A song from the Little Mermaid played in your headphones as your eyes wandered everywhere, to the soft velvet curtains, polished marble floors, and all of the antique, gold chandeliers. In the center of the lobby was a large fountain that added an unexpected calm to the environment. You watched as men and women in impeccable business attire navigated the space, their footsteps purposeful, conversations hushed but intense.

You shifted slightly, taking it all in, feeling like a quiet observer in a world that wasn’t quite yours. Bringing you back down to earth, Barry offered you a gummy worm and you happily accepted, having ate all of yours hours ago. 

You tuned out as Rafe began to push the cart towards the elevator, walking along with Barry, they talked about business things that you didnt understand. You adjusted your headphones, looking down at the sorting game you’d been playing on your tablet. 

You rode on the cart all the way from the elevator to the hotel suite. Your room had double doors and sat at the end of the hallway. Barry was in the room right next door and you watched as Rafe spoke some parting words before you both entered your room. The door shut and Rafe swiftly helped you down from the spot where you were perched. Still enjoying your calming music, you walked around the room, setting your tablet down on the coffee table in the seating area. 

The furniture and decor was extravagant, even more so than at Tannyhill. High ceilings stretched above you and warm light casted golden hues on the room. You wandered further, into the bedroom, finding a king-sized bed dressed in soft looking sheets and a tufted headboard that stretched nearly to the ceiling. The en-suite, visible from the bedroom, featured those same marble floors from the lobby and gold fixtures. 

You were still taking it all in when you felt strong arms wrap around you, Rafe pulling your body into his. He tucked his head into your neck, placing kisses there, until you were giggling. When he loosened his grip, you turned to face him. He slowly lifted your headphones, grinning tiredly down at you, “It’s been a long day,” He said, “A bath and then it’s bedtime, okay?”

You didn’t argue, just melted against him. 

He lifted you, carrying you into the bathroom. You sat on the counter, swinging your legs idly, watching him with tired eyes as he ran the bath, testing the temperature with his hand. You watched him undress, your cheeks heating up at the sight of his sculpted figure. After he undressed you, the two of you slipped into the water. You settled between his knees, laying back against his chest. He arms curled around your middle and for awhile there was only silence. Just the rhythmic sound of water against porcelain, the steady rise and fall of his breath against your shoulder. 

When you were close to falling asleep, Rafe guided a soapy cloth over your skin, getting you clean. 

“Bambi,” Rafe spoke softly, “I have to tell you something.”

You hummed in response, loving the feeling of his gentle hands, “This weekend is very important to Daddy. You’ve already been a good girl but I need you to be Daddy’s perfect angel. Everything I say, or Barry says, you do. Do you understand?” 

“Mhm, Daddy,” You murmured, feeling his arms tighten around you in approval, “Can I ask somethin’?”

“Course, baby.”

“Wha…”  You tried to put your words together, choosing each one carefully, “Wha do you want from Mr. Sterling?”

Rafe went quiet for a moment. You turned your head to peak at him, “Everything, I think.”

“Everything,” You repeated, blinking up at him. 

“Mhm,” He presses a kiss to your temple, “Everything pretty and shiny. All the toy’s he doesn’t play with correctly. He’s sitting on a whole kingdom, doens’t even know how to run it. Doesn’t know how to take care of it.”

You scrunched your nose, thinking, “You’ll ask him for it?” 

“Something like that, baby,” Rafe’s lips twitched as if he was holding back a smirk, “Just gonna help him understand. Help him see things my way.”

“Daddy’s so smart,” You sighed, snuggling against him. 

Rafe hummed, pleased. “That’s right, angel,” he whispered against your hair. “And my baby’s gonna be extra good for me, huh?”

“Uh-huh,” you mumbled sleepily. “I’ll be so, so good…”

hope you enjoyed!! a reblog w/ your thoughts would be much appreciated :)

[sugurusladyknightt]

➺ suguru x reader

"you up?"

"don't do that."

"..don't do what."

"that. 'you up', doesn't suit you"

that makes him laugh, light and airy. laughing in a way that's so pleasant to you, heart squeezing with fondness at the sound. you hate having to hear it though the phone. it never sounds the same.

"oh yea? what would suit me better then?" speaking through it, the breathiness still dances in his tone.

each voice note only a half second long, barely. it was late then, you can hear the sleep in his voice through his old phone's shitty mic. still suguru manages to sound coy. low silken voice oozing smugness through the yawns.

"hmmmn..."

"hmmmn. doing lots of thinking are we?"

"i think, being tied up in pretty ribbons would suit you better suguru."

"you think so?" you hear the way his fingers drum against his chest, "what color?"

"yea. any would be fine, maybe purple? to match your eyes"

"romantic. with a rose in my teeth?"

"with a rose in your teeth. and the robes stay on."

"so many demands." he hums in thought, and after a moment continues, "but it's alright, i like you enough to comply."

you're in bed, your old phone placed near your ear where your head rests against the cool sheets. pressing play on each the little snippets of his voice that you have left, remembering how it felt then.

you keep the volume low — as if he's whispering the words to you once again.

"i'll be spoiled rotten."

thinking back, you aren't sure why you didn't just call him. why he didn't just call you.

"then i'll have done a good job"

you didn't respond after that. the rest of your conversations were a series curt quipped texts, drying out slowly. teetering off into nothingness.

the old battery drains fast; fried from age and excessive use. half way through listening to the voice notes, again, you shut it off.

you don't have the charger anymore, they're getting harder to find too, and you don't wanna leave the battery to drain completely; unsure if it'll work the same, if at all, when you do find one.

silence envelopes you, your cool sheets suddenly feeling cold and biting. the folded phone by your side, without a doubt your most prized possession.

the difference is so odd. you remember being able to sit in silence for hours, basking in it. it's unbearable now. like a bad itch you can't scratch.

irritating and uncomfortable and yet there's no alternative.

ankles crossed in bed as your fingers pull at the fraying wires of a charger that no longer works well. the white of it tainted yellow though still you plug the brick into the wall, connecting it to your phone, wiggling around to find a good angle. one that works.

you'll hold it there 'til your hand cramps and then some. tapping your fingers against the bed, waiting so patiently for the old device to charge before playing back those endlessly precious few short seconds again.

[heartsiebyul]

Helloo!! I didn't see anything about requests being opened or not, so I hope this is alright if not, then that's fine too. Could you do the housewardens with a reader that likes to be carried? Like just likes to be carried around places!

╰─▸ ❝ Twisted Wonderland x reader!

Carry me?

୨୧・・・・୨୧・・・・୨୧・・・・・୨୧

featuring — Riddle : Leona : Azul : Kalim : Vil : Idia : Malleus.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

᭡ Riddle Rosehearts

At first, Riddle didn’t quite understand why you wanted to be carried. “You have legs, why must I do this?” he would grumble, face red, though he always complied.

One day, you tugged on his sleeve and looked up with a pout. “Carry me?” you asked sweetly. He stiffened, eyes darting around before huffing and gathering you in his arms. Whether it was a bridal carry after a long walk through the rose garden or scooping you up because you refused to move from your seat, he always did it, with a huff and a smile.

Now, it’s become a habit. If you so much as raise your arms slightly and whisper, “Carry me?” Riddle gives a quiet sigh before gently lifting you with surprising strength for his size. “Only for a little while” he says with pursed lips. Yet, he always takes the long way to class or the dorm, carrying you just a bit longer than necessary.

᭡ Leona Kingscholar

Leona raised his eyebrow the first time you looked at him, arms raised, and lazily said, “Carry me?”

“Tch, lazy” he chuckled but he didn’t hesitate. It didn’t take long for it to become routine, him picking you up and slinging you over his shoulder or letting you curl into his arms. Leona like having you close, especially when he could bury his nose in your hair and pretend he wasn’t soft for you.

Now, whenever you sleepily murmur, “Carry me?” he rolls his eyes but lifts you with ease, holding you against his chest or letting you rest in his back.

“If you wanna be spoiled, just say so” he grumbles as he lounges under the sun. The truth is, carrying you gives him the perfect excuse to nap somewhere comfortable, with you acting as his personal blanket.

᭡ Azul Ashengrotto

Azul was completely flustered the first time you latched onto him like an octopus and whispered, “Carry me?”

“W-Why would you request something so intimate in public?!” he squeaked. But he was weak to your pout and reluctantly complied, nearly dropping you the first time. Over time, he grew used to the weight of you in his arms and the way you would hum contentedly, as if his arms was the safest place in the world.

Now, whenever you peek at him from behind and ask, “Carry me?” with that hopeful smile, he adjusts his tie and gives a flustered but fond, “If I must…” He’ll act dramatic about it, sighing, muttering about posture and image, but there’s always a soft smile tugging at his lips. He’ll carry you through the Lounge, across campus, anywhere really, especially if he’s trying to impress you.

᭡ Kalim Al-Asim

Kalim absolutely loves that you enjoy being carried. One day, you reached out with a smile and said, “Carry me?” and his eyes lit up. “Of course!!” he cheered, already sweeping you into his arms. He does it all the time now, whether you're tired or not. He will carry you on his back, in his arms, or even balance you on one shoulder if he’s feeling playful.

Sometimes, you don’t even have to say a word, he’s already scooping you up. “You looked like you needed a ride!” he’ll laugh. Kalim doesn’t care who sees or what people think. If carrying you around makes you happy, then expect to spend half the day wrapped up in his arms.

᭡ Vil Schoenheit

Vil took one long look at you the first time you clung to him and softly asked, “Carry me?” He sighed. “Honestly…” But he did it anyway, with elegance and strength you hadn’t expected. “If you insist on being carried, at least allow me to do it gracefully.” And he does, always picture-perfect.

Now, when you blink up at him with that slightly mischievous smile and say, “Carry me?” Vil simply raises a brow and holds out his arms. “Come, darling.” He lifts you with poise, walking through NRC with the confidence of a man carrying the most precious gem. And when you’re alone, his touch lingers just a bit longer, pressing a kiss to your forehead as he whispers, “Anything for you.”

᭡ Idia Shroud

“Y-You want me to carry you?!” Idia short circuited the first time you quietly mumbled, “Carry me?” while curling against his side. His face turned the color of his flaming hair, and he almost tripped trying to lift you. But with time, and lots of private practice when no one was looking, he got more confident. He still prefers carrying you in private, where he can mumble, “This is like, top-tier romance stuff…” while holding you like a rare game item.

These days, if you poke his arm and shyly whisper, “Carry me?” he stammers a bit but lifts you into his arms with care. He carries you to his room, settles you in his lap while gaming, and sometimes even lets you fall asleep there. “cute” he mutters, totally defeated by your charm.

᭡ Malleus Draconia

Malleus is delighted by your liking for being carried. The first time you looked up at him and softly asked, “Carry me?” his eyes sparkled. “Ah… so you enjoy the feeling of safety in another’s arms? Then allow me.” From the very start, he treated your wish like a royal decree. He picked you up effortlessly, as if you weighed nothing, cradling you with the utmost care.

Now, all it takes is a glance and a gentle, “Carry me?” and he’s already holding out his arms. “Always, my dear.” He often strolls through the halls of Diasomnia at night with you in his arms, murmuring stories or soft lullabies. And sometimes, he even takes to the skies, flying gently while holding you close, as if you were his most sacred treasure.

୨୧・・・・୨୧・・・・୨୧・・・・・୨୧

[asiatic-apple]

this isn't a request btw I've read about your caleb crying and sex & i wanna add: you know that tweet that goes "my bf fucks me until I get shy around him again morning after" bc, , the way he spoiled you with pleasure 🤤🤤🤤... is it intentional? unintentional? Doesn't matter. You def see him in a new NEW light (this turned out so much filthier i am so sorry😔 it sounded more intimate inside my head)

Anon first of all, thank you for christening my blog with the first ask 🤲🏽❤️ and it is such a good one too!! Second of all, don't apologize for being filthy bc I am a freak just like caleb and this is a safe space for filthy thoughts about our favorite pixelated man 😌

Idk what drugs you put in this ask, anon, but you caused a sudden burst of inspo and what started out as a few sentences of a reply quickly turned into +1k words…oopsies. I know you didn’t ask for this, but I hope you enjoy this random drabble :)

Caleb x female reader

content: nsfw-ish (no actual depiction of smut but it is heavily referenced), first time with caleb, implied multiple orgasms, overstim mentioned, caleb likes to tease you but lovingly, you both jokingly mimic the sounds each of you made last night

You wake to the smell of eggs and bacon, and it takes you a few minutes to remember where you are and what exactly happened last night. The answer is Skyhaven, in Caleb's bed—and after months of tension between the two of you, you finally wound up fucking each other.

No, that word doesn't accurately sum up everything you experienced last night. It was intimate, intense, and emotional for both of you. It even had its moments of clumsiness and soft laughter as you both navigated this new aspect of your relationship and took turns learning each other’s bodies. But on top of all that, you experienced pleasure like you've never felt before.

You quickly get out of Caleb's warm bed to start your morning routine, wanting to freshen up a bit before meeting him in the kitchen. And for some reason, you start to feel a bit timid as you look at your reflection in the bathroom mirror. You think about last night, how wantonly you moaned as he pulled out all the stops to make you feel good. Your cheeks burn as you remember just how many times you came on his tongue and fingers before he finally gave you his cock—and made you come around it several more times.

Thinking back to it, you can't remember exactly how many times you reached your peak, but Caleb didn't stop until you nearly passed out from exhaustion. And even then, you didn't really want him to stop. In the span of one night, you became addicted to the feeling of him inside you.

So after being faced with the filthy memories of everything you did and said last night—and all the filthy things Caleb groaned in your ear with each deep thrust inside you—it's no surprise you're feeling a little sheepish as you exit the bedroom. The worst part is that you’re sure Caleb immediately notices your shyness as he pulls you into a tight embrace. It’s just like him to give you no escape from his piercing gaze.

“Hey there, sleepyhead,” he whispers, running his hands up and down your back.

You know it's meant to be an innocent gesture, but your memories of last night only grow stronger as you're reminded of how he couldn't keep his hands off you. And how tightly he held you in place while you wriggled beneath him from overstimulation.

“I made us breakfast. Figured you'd be especially hungry after last night.” You're convinced he's saying that on purpose, lowering his voice in that infuriatingly sexy way of his before he chuckles a bit too smugly.

You smack his shoulder lightly, trying to hide the fact that your face is getting even hotter from his teasing. “Shut up,” you whine in mortification.

But Caleb seems intent on making you squirm. “Oh, c'mon,” he says in a playful drawl before pulling you tighter against his chest. “Are you really that embarrassed by what we did last night?”

His fingers trail feather-light touches up your back and along your neck, purposeful in finding your ticklish spots so he can turn your bashfulness into fits of carefree laughter. Once he's satisfied with you loosening up a bit, he looks down at you seriously.

“You don't regret anything, do you?” You can tell he's trying to keep his tone lighthearted, but there's a glint of fear in those wide eyes of his.

“No, god no,” you say without hesitation. “I don't regret anything.”

You swallow that nervous lump in your throat, still feeling the remnants of embarrassment as you meet his gaze to show him you're serious too. And Caleb’s smile only grows bigger. It’s like you've given him the greatest gift with such a simple answer. He gives you a chaste peck on the lips before pulling back with a different kind of grin—one that says he's back to teasing you now that you've both cleared the air a bit.

“Good,” Caleb replies. “Because I definitely want to hear those cute sounds of yours again.”

Another kiss lands on your warm cheeks, and your brain short-circuits from that suggestive look in his eyes. Still, you manage a scoff at his smug tone. He's already so cocky about his ability to rile you up, and a petty part of you wants to remind him how you weren't the only one being enthusiastically loud last night.

“Oh, yeah? And what about you?” You try to keep your voice steady, even as Caleb continues peppering lazy kisses along your cheeks and down your neck. “I'm pretty sure you were louder than I was.” You lower your voice a register, trying to imitate those broken groans he made when he was close to his climax. “Hm, pip-squeak, you feel so good!”

You barely get through your poor impression before breaking character with a snort. But at least Caleb’s onslaught of wet kisses halts for a moment as he also fails at stifling his laughter.

“Right, right,” he says between a few chuckles. Even though you might be exaggerating a bit with your impression, Caleb’s cheeks and ears still tinge pink with a blush. “Was that before or after you kept beggin’ me”—his voice pitches higher—“oh, Caleb, please please don’t stop.”

You gasp dramatically. “I do not sound like that.”

“You’re right. It’s better when you do it.”

You roll your eyes, only half-annoyed by Caleb mentioning how unabashed you were in voicing your pleasure last night. The other half of you is turned on by his teasing. But that’s only for you to know…for now.

But as always, it’s like he can read your mind right at that moment. Caleb leans closer, taking advantage of your flustered state so he can whisper in your ear. “Maybe you need a reminder of how needy you were for me last night. I don't mind joggin’ your memory, honey.”

Before you can even try to come up with a witty remark, he's pulling away and dragging you to the dining table as if he didn’t just threaten you with a good time.

“Come on,” he says with a knowing grin. “Eat your breakfast before it gets cold. And after you're done digesting, maybe I can teach you not to get so antsy every time I touch you.”

You huff as you sit at the table. It’s not fair how easily he gets under your skin with his words and sweet promises. And his promises definitely sound too good to be true. You can’t help but wonder if you’ll ever stop feeling shy after getting fucked so thoroughly by Caleb. Will there ever be a day when he doesn’t make your skin burn with so much pent-up desire?

Caleb interrupts your spiraling thoughts, nudging the plate of food toward you. “I can still see those gears turning in your head, makin’ you wonder if there’s still a reason to be shy. Stop worrying so much, pip-squeak,” he scolds you gently. “Or else next time, I'll have to make sure you feel so good that your pretty head can’t think anymore.”

dni banner by @/cafekitsune

[archangeldyke-all]

okay okay hear me out queen 😭

i feel like sevika would absolutely adore her little menacing diva!reader as her wife because reader is js such a big fireball and so sharp to catch onto stuff. sevika could have drunk js a little bit of alcohol and reader will be onto her so hard and js telling her “you drank [specified alcohol], didn't you?” and reader also gets super dramatic sometimes (well most of the times) and sevika loves her little tantrums and shit. like yessss, talk sevikas ear off with how badly you want those heels even if they don't go with any of the dresses you own. n suddenly sevikas at your doorstep with the heels and a dress to match— “thought you'd like a little surprise...” she grumbles.

p.s: i never send in stuff like this for mooties n stuff but i wanna for you idk why

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEKKK mootie this is SO GOOD i love spoiled princess diva reader hehehe

men and minors dni

"sevikaaaa." you whine.

she's ten feet ahead of you, hoofing it to the car before the rain comes back. "c'mon baby, 's gonna start raining again any minute." sevika calls as she leaps over a few puddles.

you huff and stomp your foot. "sevika!" you call. finally, your wife turns around to look at you.

"what?" she asks, clueless. you glare.

"there's too many puddles! i'm going to ruin my new shoes!"

the shoes were a gift, given to you twenty minutes before your date began tonight. you'd been eyeing them online for months, talking yourself out of the purchase by convincing yourself you couldn't pull them off.

but, sevika spoils you, and in her eyes you can do anything.

she was right, too. you look hot as hell in these shoes. they complete your date night outfit and make you feel like sex on heels.

and if you ruin them on your first night of having them, you might just die.

"just hop over the big ones." sevika says. the sky begins to drizzle again. you frown.

"i can't! come carry me." you demand.

sevika rolls her eyes, then cringes when a raindrop falls in her eyeball. you giggle. "you're so demanding."

"you're the one who got me these shoes." you giggle as your wife comes trailing back across the parking lot. "besides. what do you spend all that time at the gym for if not this?" you ask with a happy little squeak as sevika bends down and picks you up into a bridal carry.

you giggle and kiss the corner of her frowning mouth. she finally relents, letting a small smile take over her features. "you're a diva." she grunts as she starts jogging the pair of you toward the car. you laugh.

"you're a show-off." you say. sevika grins.

when you get to the car, sevika sets you on your feet, opens the pasenger's door for you, then lends you a hand as you step into her car. she lets you buckle yourself, giving you a quick kiss on the head before slamming your door shut and running around to the driver's side.

when she slides in her seat and closes her door, you reach out to grab her hand.

"you're so strong." you sigh happily. sevika's smile turns dopey.

"and you look beautiful in those shoes." she replies. you giggle. "y'know someday i'm gonna be too old to carry you over the puddles." sevika says, pulling your knuckles to her lips. you laugh.

"if you're too old to carry me, i'm gonna be too old to be wearing heels, baby." you say. sevika chuckles.

"you won't be disappointed when i can't spoil you anymore?"

"nah. you'll still be spoiling me. fetching me my hearing aids and rubbing my bunions."

sevika laughs. "gross!"

"what?! it's where we're headed, baby."

"i don't care how much you beg, i'm not rubbing your old lady bunions." sevika says as she starts the car. you take in her words and frown, crossing your arms over your chest and angling your body away from sevika. sevika cackles from her seat. "you can't seriously be pouting about this!"

"sevika! who else is gonna rub 'em?" you whine. she snorts.

"i dunno, babe, you'll have to rub 'em yourself."

"maybe i'll just go out in my nice moo-moo and find another nice old lady to rub my bunions. maybe i'll even find myself a young lady who's still strong enough to carry me--"

"alright! enough! fine! i'll rub your gross feet when we're old!" sevika cries.

you smile and uncross your arms, turning back in your chair to face your wife. "okay." you say happily. sevika snorts.

"fuckin' princess." she mutters under her breath. you grin.

"well, you married me, so you're a princess now too." you tease. sevika snorts.

"can i at least be a warrior princess? like mulan or merida?"

you laugh. "sure, baby."

taglist!

@fyeahnix @lavendersgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner

@kissyslut @chuucanchuucan @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther

@lavenderbabu @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai @my-taintedheart

@glass-apothecary @macaroni676 @k3n-dyll @sevsdollette @ellieslob

@xayn-xd @keikuahh @maneskinwh0re @raphaellearp @iamastar

@sevikitty @butchchase @nhaaauyen @notlores @mirconreadzztuff22

@veoomvroom @lushh-s3vik4s @katyawooga @strawberrykidneystone @vkumi

@fict1onallyobsessed @dvrkhcld @sweetybuzz25 @sluttysierraaa @snake-in-a-flower-crown

@ruiwonderz @flowersandsuch111 @raspberry-lava @blackgaladriel @nightlyconfusion

@dancingqu33n17 @losernb @p1nkearth @leeidk87 @cinnamowor1d

taglist!!

@sevikas-baby @ghostscandys @runawaybaby3 @vikasfemme @lesbones

@chezze-its @lez-zuha @vikashoneybee @shanesevikasfuckdoll @imheadintothemountains

@ferxanda @helaenabugmom @spookymomfriendtm @mzkaylalol @fruitsnpebbless

[saetiate]

bunny iglesias x f!reader (x itoshi sae) smut. this is a dark content fic, please read with caution. - cw: blackmail, dubcon/noncon (to be safe), orgasm delay/edging, cucking, angst & hurt/comfort. bunny blackmails sae and reader into letting him have reader for a night. sae in the cuck chair basically. bunny uses condescending (but not degrading) language towards you. sae and reader are married. soft sae (to you) which i have effectively acquired through the plot. extended premise here - word count: 2k - author's note: no dark unlisted warnings, promise. what's said up there is what's in the fic and that's it. feel free to send me an ask if i missed smth. THIS FIC MAY HURT pls be warned

Sae taps the video open.

If it had mostly just been him — his body protecting yours, even his own cock out, he would've let it go. It would've been the better alternative. It would've been better than this.

The front of your skirt is bunched up around your waist, revealing the expanse of your thighs, how he moves your panties over to expose your cunt. Your breasts are falling out of your top and you're both so far out from the event that he didn't bother to ask you to keep your voice down. Your moans are pretty even through the phone's speakers.

"So," Bunny playfully smiles, acts like this was some kind of movie they watched together, some kind of camaraderie. "What do you think?"

"What do you want."

"Oh, you know what I want." Bunny cuts close, smirking with sweet victory. "I want your wife."

~

"Fuck, she feels good."

Bunny lets out a low chuckle as he bottoms out inside of you. It’s wretched and wicked and it’s made him all the more harder, watching your slick coat his cock despite the circumstances.

"Ah, you come easily, do you?" He presses a kiss to your cheek, some chaste and sweet thing that could never convince you. "Can feel you squeezing around me."

You want to tell him you don’t. That Sae spoils you, that he’s the only one who’s ever been able to give you that sort of pleasure. But you’re so fucked out against the sheets that all that comes out of your mouth is a whine.

"Awh, do you wanna ask your pretty little husband if he can let you come?" He lifts you up by the chin, forces you to stare right where Sae is sitting.

Sae only narrows his eyes at him.

"Oh, I see how it is. Only he gets to see it? But I've already seen it in the video. She looks so pretty when she cums. Won't you let her show me?" His thrusts are heavy, pressing you down into the bed, leaving you no room for anything but the way his cock slams into you over and over.

"Or is it more like —"

His cock presses deeper into you this time, until the head hits your cervix, hard enough to make you choke.

"Is it more like his cock is the only one you've ever cummed around?"

Sae is careful not to react. Careful to keep his posture relaxed, his fingers barely tapping against the arm rest. But something must give, because Bunny grows a cheshire grin.

"Oh, I hit it right on the money, didn't I?"

The way his voice is almost unaffected by how tightly you're squeezing around him is almost irritating, but the friction of his cock against the inside of your cunt makes every thought dissipate, leaving just the heat and warmth of his body and the dread in your gut.

"Awh, poor baby. I’m getting closer, don’t you worry. Just hold on for a bit, okay?"

He pinches your clit for good measure and you jolt under his touch, his boisterous laugh filling the air like a war-soaked prophecy.

"Ah, are you close already? Tsk, we both know how Sae feels about you cumming around me."

"N-no," you sputter out, even with how your toes curl with the incoming orgasm you force your body to relax and stave off. "No, I can take it."

"You sure? Let me slow down a bit for you, yeah? That’s better, isn’t it?"

And you don’t want to say it but it is. It’s a relief to not have to hold your orgasm back so tightly, to not have to distract yourself and force your body to relax when all you want is to give in to the pleasure.

"But if I go slow, this’ll take longer, hm?"

You think of Sae's stamina, his ironclad control, his ability to make you feel

"Maybe she’s just not tight enough."

The look Sae gives him is lethal. You feel stuffed so full even squeezing down feels like a feat, an uncontrollable thing that almost has his cock slipping out.

"She gets tighter the closer she gets, doesn’t she? Maybe you should just let her come."

~

You've been edged over and over again so much so that time has slipped from your mind completely. You wonder if it's been hours. You wonder if it only feels that way because you can feel your control slip that much further with each edge, how your orgasm always feels so close, like it's right between your teeth.

"Awh, baby." It's sickening, the way he coos at you even after the hours of onslaught "Look at her, Sae. Look what you've done."

You don't realize it until he points it out but you’re crying. You’re crying into the bed, sobbing into the sheets. You know Sae better than most. His eyes only widen, but the alarm feels potent, how just your tears eclipses even a situation like this.

"I- I can take it," you reassure, but the hiccup in your voice betrays you.

"Awh," Bunny's voice is laced with faux pity, "Your girl is so strong. Look how strong she’s being." Bunny pulls your teary face up for Sae to look at up close,

"You know, Sae." And Sae already knows what Bunny's about to say, but he lets the words fall from Bunny's mouth anyways in a desperate hope that it'll be anything else. "I bet if I feel her come around me, I'll come too."

Bunny presses another tight circle around your clit, making you cry out with a smirk. "You want this to be over, don’t you?"

There’s so much slick between your thighs that it drips down your asscrack, splayed all over bunny’s own thighs.

"What will it be, hm? It’s cruel to let her suffer like this, no?" Bunny's mouth ticks up into a cocksure grin, with the knowing that he's pressed the buttons just right.

For the first time in the ordeal, Sae stands.

"Baby."

Sae's voice is a soft, sure thing. Vulnerability is etched into the syllables, the careful crackle of a flame just before it eats at the firewood, something Bunny's never heard from him.

"No. No, Sae," Your arms reach out for him immediately, your pillar, your safety net. He has stabilized you at every turn. This moment is no different.

"You’ve been so good for me." He presses a kiss to your forehead, another to your cheek. "So good. it’s okay."

"Sae, please."

"I know. I know." His thumbs trace over your cheeks, wiping your tears, love for you in every molecule, every movement he makes. Bunny might only see Sae's neutrality but you know him best, feel his pain like his soul links with yours, something more than a wedding ring could ever show.

"I’m sorry." Your vision goes blurry but Sae's eyes meet yours with so much hearr regardless, the seaglass color that you would know with your eyes closed, you could pick it out from memory alone.

He musters as much conviction as he could have, the love that that is the least you deserve. "You did nothing wrong."

"I’m-" You try to say, but then Bunny's fingers circle around your clit again, so precise in the way they build up your impending orgasm, how quickly you start to squeeze around his heavy cock.

"No, no no please don’t- please don’t do this."

"He’s letting you," Bunny eggs patronizingly, "It’s okay."

"Sae. Sae Sae Sae —"

Your mouth is muffled almost immediately by Bunny's hand, a clear order, that this orgasm doesn't involve him at all. Bunny chases his own pleasure, his thick cock plummeting into you so much harder than before, until it kisses your cervix and empties your mind.

And even through it, Sae smiles softly at you. Runs his hands through your hair. he crouches down, leans his forehead against yours.

"It’s okay. baby, it’s okay." It’s a whisper. a soft, gentle thing. You think of your wedding night, the gentle cradle of his hold, the tenderness of his gaze. How he looked at you like you held the world in your palm.

"I love you." He utters, just for you.

It's said with reverence, like a prayer in a hospital room: something you utter when you wish so badly things were different, when you have to come to terms with the fated cards you were dealt.

Sae has come to terms with losing the things he loves to Bunny a long time ago.

"Come for me."

Your body responds in an instant, and it’s only as your back is arched in a silent scream that bunny releases his hand from your mouth. You sob into another apology, through your orgasm. After so much teasing and edging, the release feels so much sweeter, even as your stomach feels filled with the heavy stone of dread, even as it wrecks through you, finally able to relax. Bunny, true to his word, comes with you, a swear on his lips and a sick, satisfied grin.

And what does it say about Sae that he can practically feel the way your pussy squeezes around Bunny's cock himself, the phantom feeling he knows so intimately. He peppers kisses over your face as you come down, as cries from your orgasm turn into crystalline pain, into whimpers of a thing cracked open and broken.

Sae is so, so gentle as he carries you off Bunny's now-limp cock, your body curling into itself, into him and his familiar scent and the warmth you have slept next to for so many years. He cradles you in his arms, squeezing you tighter with each step he takes to the bathroom. You barely register the cold of the tub, the perfect temperature of the water as Sae starts to fill the hole in your heart back up.

"I'm sorry," it's a hushed sound that you make, an attempt to put the stained glass pieces back together. "I didn't want to. I tried-"

"You did your best." Something about the way he says it makes you think of the clattering of a plate as it falls to the ground, an echo as soap drips from the bottle and into your bath.

You can't help but feel that's not good enough.

"Sae- "

"I have to see him out." His thumb runs over your hairline, still sticky with sweat, the devotion in his touch soothing your fraying nerves that comes with the thought of not having him even for a moment. "But I will come back."

He takes your soapy hand out of the bath, kisses the knuckles of your fingers. "I will come back. I just have to make sure he leaves. Okay?"

"Okay."

~

"Get out." The bathroom door is not slammed, barely makes a noise as it closes, but Bunny swears he sees the doorframe shake.

"Geez, Sae. Give a man a minute." The clink of his belt almost sounds like a lock, a saftening of a fate changed. The thumbdrive he pulls out of his pocket clatters haphazardly onto the beside table.

"The only copy," he confirms, "as per our signed contract." Fully dressed, he searches through the duvet, throwing the blanket up until he finds your panties, stark and spoiled with your slick against the white sheets.

"I'll take these, though." A trophy, salt in the wound, grating Sae's agitation.

But he can't stand the idea of you wearing something you wore to fuck someone else. So he says, "Do what you want."

it's kind of hard to get sae in a truly very soft vulnerable state, but where reader essentially kind of gets assaulted and pays the price for a mutual decision you both made will do that to him. this took all the light out of me lmfao i cried writing this ahaha emptied me of all the hope and love in my heart. anyways that's on writing dark content babey. if you need a palate cleanser i have this loving sae fic and this funny fic of you and sae w a teenage daughter

sae and reader are fine after this btw!! bunny ends up just being a Thing that happened and sae is the best husband ever and they live happily ever after

[yuujispinkhair]

I WANNA BE YOUR ENDGAME – Chapter 14

🏒❤️ A Hockey Romance feat. modern!Sukuna

Pairing: HockeyPlayer!Sukuna x Reader (female) Genre: College AU, Hockey AU, fluff + smut Playlist: I wanna be your Endgame Word Count: 4.5k Warnings: 18+, smut, cigarettes, alcohol, some rough locker room sex in this chapter ;), Kuna makes Reader squirt. Fuckbuddies to lovers. Reader is a creative writing student. Sukuna is an ice hockey player + history student. This story will have approximately 16 chapters. Minors don't interact. Header by me. Divider @/benkeibear

MASTERLIST

You have been dating Sukuna for two months, and it shows in the clothes you have bought lately. Warm sweaters and thermo leggings, anything to keep you warm in the chilly hockey arena, where you seem to spend more and more time.

You're not just here for Sukuna's games. More often than not, you are also sitting in the stands after your classes, reading the books your literature professor assigned while stealing far too many glances at your man, who is practicing with his teammates, looking too sexy to keep your eyes off him for more than a few minutes at a time.

It was Sukuna who asked you to come to his hockey training more often. Or he didn't outright ask, but told you how much he likes it when you watch him during practice. He whispered it in your ear when he was on top of you in all his naked tattooed glory, pressing you down with his heavy body, spoiling you with strokes so deep and good that you thought you would lose your mind, and of course, it lead to you promising him that you would drop by more often to keep him company during hockey practice.

So basically, you are here because Sukuna and you are equally obsessed with each other. And that thought alone is enough to make you grin from ear to ear.

You are currently sitting on the stands on a Tuesday afternoon, huddled in Sukuna's warm Tigers hoodie and your new fleece leggings, telling yourself you are working on your assignment, but truth be told, you are too busy watching your boyfriend skate across the ice, looking like a full course meal in his black compression shirt.

And Sukuna keeps looking at you, too, grinning that boyish grin and winking at you, not giving a fuck about who can see him flirting with his girl.

He even skates over to you occasionally, putting his gloved hand against the plexiglass and banging on it to capture your attention (as if he didn't already have it),

"Hey, princess! Come here for a sec! I need my lucky charm real quick!"

He smirks at you and jerks his tattooed chin towards a gate a few meters away. You roll your eyes playfully but get up and walk toward Sukuna while teasing him,

"Aww, does the big bad guy have withdrawal symptoms?"

And Sukuna just grins even broader at you, raising an eyebrow,

"Maybe I need a kiss or two. Isn't that part of your job description as my personal lucky charm? I am adding it to the rules right now if it isn't included already."

He looks so charming standing there with that playful grin and the twinkle in his maroon eyes, and you laugh delightedly, opening the gate so you can deliver the motivational kisses Sukuna asked for.

Sukuna leans down to capture your lips with his, giving you a playful, slow kiss. The sexy combination of his cold lips and warm tongue makes your head spin, and you eagerly lick into his mouth before he pulls away again a few seconds later and winks at you.

"Yeah, I am already feeling more energetic. Thank you, princess."

He ruffles your hair, waiting for your squeal of complaint before he laughs and turns around, skating back to his teammates to continue his training while you smooth down your hair and lick your lips, still tasting Sukuna on your tongue.

But even though his girl is here and Sukuna steals all those little moments with you, his coach never complains too much. Because he knows what you know, too: Sukuna isn't slacking. He takes his training seriously.

It's one of the things you love about him. His dedication, his ambition. Sukuna always gives his all. He always wants to be the best. And yet, as important as hockey is to him, he made room for you in his life. He wants you here, wants you in the stands when he has practice, wants you close to him, even if it just means some shared grins across the rink or some stolen kisses in between training sessions.

It's just as Sukuna said to you the night he confessed his feelings to you. He loves to combine his two favorite things in the world: You and hockey.

"Ew, get your dirty sports things off my pretty couch!"

Nobara stands in your shared living area, arms crossed in front of her chest, glaring indignantly at Sukuna, who just dropped by after hockey training and put his sports bag on the couch.

You snicker softly, about to make a joking reply, but your boyfriend is faster. Sukuna laughs and flashes Nobara a big rude grin, almost as if he is enjoying this. Which he probably really is, when you think about it. His eyes glitter with dark enjoyment.

"Chill, Ginger. Your couch should be honored that it gets to touch my bag. Also, you can go through my stuff, you won't find anything dirty. I take very good care of what is mine."

Sukuna's gaze strays to you at those last few words, and he winks at you, making you chuckle. You hold Sukuna's gaze, smiling broadly at him, watching his rude grin soften to a smile. Nobara sighs dramatically, marches over to the couch, and lifts Sukuna's bag with an exaggeratedly disgusted expression on her face before she dumps it on the floor in front of Sukuna's feet,

"Take that thing away! And, God, would the two of you stop it with the eye-fucking!? It's disgusting!"

Which only makes Sukuna's lips lift in a devilish, lopsided grin as he keeps looking at you,

"You heard her, princess. She doesn't like us eye-fucking. Let's go into your room and fuck for real."

Both you and Nobara squeal loudly at his words. Nobara makes a gagging noise, hurrying to the door,

"I am leaving! And if I find your filthy used condom in the bathroom again, I will burn down the hockey arena!"

"Okay, if you don't want it in the bathroom, I'll make sure to put it in the trash can in your room then. Didn't know you are such a fangirl, geez!"

You smack Sukuna's shoulder playfully, and Nobara screams as she bangs the door shut behind her. You laugh, rolling your eyes at Sukuna,

"Maybe you should be a bit nicer to her, Kuna."

"Oh, I fear I can't do that. It's part of my charm. And you're the only one who gets to see my nice side anyway."

And then his lips silence any further complaints, kissing you deep and with all those sexy tongue flicks that make you melt against his tall body, and a few minutes later, you sigh contently as Sukuna's weight settles on top of you on your bed, your hands automatically slipping under his hoodie, caressing his buff muscles, your head tilting back to let Sukuna trail kisses over your neck.

The little dispute with Nobara is forgotten for the next two hours that you spend with Sukuna in your room, making out and fucking, and cuddling afterward. But then he grumbles something about being hungry, and you smile and press a kiss to his neck, murmuring,

"Then go look what we have in the fridge."

Sukuna turns his head to cup your cheek with his hand, pulling you into a sloppy kiss before he gets up from your bed, only putting on his boxer briefs before he goes to the kitchen to raid your and Nobara's fridge.

You smile to yourself, sitting up on the bed as you put on some clothes, too. You are just in the middle of putting on your t-shirt when you hear Sukuna's loud laugh, and he calls out to you,

"Princess! Come here, quick! You won't believe this!"

You raise an eyebrow curiously, hurrying to the kitchen and asking what happened. Then, stop in your tracks when you see Sukuna standing in front of the open fridge, holding up two milk cartons. One of them has a pink sticky note taped to it that says in Nobara's handwriting: For ugly hockey players. Enjoy your milk, Kirby.

For a moment, you blink at the milk carton, and then you burst out laughing while your boyfriend opens it to take a big gulp straight out of the carton.

Nobara returns home a few hours later when Sukuna has already left. You are in the kitchen doing the dishes, and before Nobara can disappear to her room, you quickly call out,

"Hey, why did you put milk for Sukuna in the fridge?"

Nobara makes a huffing sound and turns around to look at you, but one corner of her glossy lips lifts in a half-grin,

"Ah, so he found it."

"Of course, he found it. You know he always takes something from our fridge. But I thought you can't stand him?"

Nobara shrugs, averting her gaze to inspect her long nails,

"He's annoying as fuck. But you like him. So I thought I'd get some milk for your boy."

"Oh... that's really nice, actually. Thank you."

Nobara shrugs again, but you can see the proud glint in her eyes as she flips her hair back.

"Yeah, I am the nicest person ever, of course."

Acting all tough and unimpressed, but after a moment, she sighs and walks over to you and puts an arm around your shoulder, holding you loosely while she adds,

"You're my friend. And you have always been supportive of Maki and me. Now, I am supportive of you and your curse boy, no matter how annoying he is. And at least, when he has his own milk carton now, I can rest assured that his slimy lips don't touch my precious milk!"

Another Saturday, another afternoon in the hockey arena.

The thing about being Sukuna's girlfriend is that you get quite used to seeing your boyfriend winning. Most of the Tigers' games end in a victory, with the whole arena cheering for their star player and Sukuna grinning that big, proud grin.

But tonight is not one of those nights. It doesn't look good for the Tigers.

You can see the fury in Sukuna's eyes with each minute that passes. He gives his all, throws himself brutally into his opponents, fights his ass off to get the puck, doesn't even let himself get stopped by getting slammed into the boards countless times. But still, it's not enough.

The Tigers lose.

You can see the anger sizzling through Sukuna's veins when he leaves the ice. His tattooed jaw is clenched, his posture tense, and the fiery glint in his eyes is downright dangerous. You hope he won't run into any rival player and get provoked because you know it will get him into all kinds of trouble.

Your steps are faster than usual as you make your way toward the locker room, trying to be there for Sukuna before he gets himself into a fistfight, which he will surely regret tomorrow because it will get him suspended from the next game.

When you reach the door of the locker room, the majority of the players already march out. They all look clearly upset, with slumped shoulders and sour expressions on their faces, and you have a feeling they all got changed as fast as possible to get away from a very pissed-off Sukuna.

You catch the door before it can fall shut and tentatively look inside. Yuuji is the first one you see, and he nods at you in greeting, but his face lacks the usual enthusiasm. Even the sunshine boy isn't able to muster up a smile today. You nod back at him, a question in your eyes, and Yuuji jerks his chin toward the other Tigers still in the room,

"Yo, hurry up, guys! Let's grab some drinks to forget about this shitshow!"

Yuuji pulls his hoodie over his head and then ushers his teammates out of the locker room, making sure his brother can have his alone time with you.

You step to the side and wait until the rest of the players have left and then bite your lip, step into the changing room, and let the heavy door fall shut behind you. The typical post-hockey game smell fills your nostrils, a mix of sweat, shower gel, and lingering adrenaline.

Your gaze finds Sukuna. He is still sitting on the bench, his armor off, shirtless, only in his boxer briefs, his abs and chest firm and dripping with sweat. His large hands grip the bench tightly, a furious glint in his eyes as his gaze catches you in the doorway.

It's clear to see that the King is pissed off.

Every fiber of his body screams anger at you, and it makes your breath catch in your throat, and something deep inside you throb excitedly. Because you know what a loss leads to. You know that Sukuna needs you extra badly tonight. You know that he will fuck you hard today, take you mercilessly, fuck all his frustration into you.

And it's exactly what you are here for. To offer your comfort in every way your man needs. And the thing is, you will enjoy every second of it.

"Baby, are you okay?"

You say it in a husky tone, eyes meeting Sukuna's burning-hot gaze across the locker room. Sukuna sends you a sneer, brushing his sweaty pink hair out of his eyes as he looks at you with an intensity that makes you wet instantly.

"I fucking hate this game."

You chuckle softly,

"You played so well. It's not your fault at all."

Sukuna huffs, laughing an unhumorous laugh.

"The whole team fucked up, including me."

You shake your head as you make your way over to your boyfriend. Sukuna never takes his eyes off as you walk towards him while already taking off your sweater and letting it drop carelessly to the floor of the changing room, followed by your leggings, only leaving you in the red lacey bra and panties set you wore specifically for this game.

You thought you would wear it for a victory fuck, but it's also going to serve its purpose for a make-things-okay-again-after-a-loss-fuck.

You can see the rage in Sukuna's tense posture. His broad, naked chest is sweaty, heaving heavily. The veins on his buff, tattooed arms stand out. All his muscles are taut, his jaw clenched. But at the same time, there's a feral hunger in his eyes as he lets his gaze travel slowly over your figure.

The moment you stop in front of him, Sukuna grabs you immediately and pulls you onto his lap. You straddle his thick, tattooed thighs and press yourself against Sukuna's strong, sweaty body, humping against the huge, hot bulge in his boxer briefs.

You know exactly what Sukuna needs tonight.

You lean forward, pressing your tits against Sukuna's chest as you capture his lips in a sweet kiss, even more tender than usual, more loving, despite how pissed off your boyfriend looks right now. It means you only will treat him even more lovingly. Be his sweet girl who comforts him and who he can fuck his angry cock deep into and find sweet relief by taking it all out on your tight wet pussy.

Sukuna rewards you instantly with a low, needy growl, and his large hands tighten roughly around your waist as he pushes his tongue between your lips. There is nothing gentle about the way he kisses you. It's rough and savage, almost brutal. He's fucking your mouth with his tongue, deep and savagely, making a needy mewl fall from your lips as you wrap your arms around Sukuna's thick neck.

You kiss him back eagerly, with tender licks and soft moans, keeping it sweet despite his rough attitude. Your lips trail from Sukuna's lips over his angular jaw to his neck. Kissing and licking before you gently nibble his earlobe and whisper in his ear,

"I'm here for you, baby. Do whatever you want with me. Take it all out on me. Fuck it all into me, Kuna."

Sukuna answers you with a low growl, and his large calloused hands grab your ass and squeeze it hard as he pushes you down on his lap, grinding his hard bulge against you, hot and heavy rubbing against your swollen wet clit, making you soak your panties and his boxers with your sweet arousal.

You moan softly, letting yourself sink heavily onto Sukuna's lap, meeting his movements. Grinding against his hard cock, massaging it with your clothed pussy, feeling him growing even harder against you. You watch Sukuna closely, basking in the way he lets his head fall back against the locker and moan loudly.

His gaze meets yours, and it makes a needy moan fall from your lips, too. Both of you wear the same horny and passionate expression, both knowing exactly what will happen.

You rub yourself slowly against Sukuna, spoiling his cock some more, watching as Sukuna lets you see all the passion on his tattooed face, mouth hanging open, low moans and harsh breaths falling from his lips as he watches you with that feral glint in his maroon eyes.

Sukuna's gaze never leaves yours as he slips the straps of your bra down and then yanks the whole thing down, making your tits spill out of the lacey red cups. The next second, his lips close around one nipple, sucking roughly on it, tongue lapping hungrily at it, making you twitch in his lap and letting out a shaky moan. Sukuna's teeth close around your tit, biting gently, leaving his teeth marks on you, making you gasp his name and tug on his pink hair even as you arch your back against him.

A low growl falls from Sukuna's lips. His tongue is still lapping teasingly at your erect nipple as his fiery gaze burns into yours. His voice is a low, velvety drawl,

"I'm gonna fuck you so hard. Gonna wreck you, princess."

Sukuna's maroon eyes look almost black from how dilated his pupils are, and you bite your lip before caressing his hair and whispering to him,

"Do it, baby. Fuck me as hard as you need. I can take it."

Sukuna lets out a breathless low groan which makes your pussy clench around nothing. One of his hands leaves your ass to grab your chin and caress your jaw firmly, his eyes dark and full of a mix of love and rage and so much passion and need, a lopsided smirk lifting one corner of his lips,

"Be careful what you wish for, sweetheart."

But you just let his thumb slip between your lips and suck it into your warm, wet mouth, looking deeply into Sukuna's eyes as you suckle devotedly on his finger showing him how serious you are about this. How much you are willing to give yourself fully to him and let him do anything he wants with you. Anything he needs tonight.

And Sukuna wouldn't be Sukuna if he didn't take you up on that offer. He smirks at you with a devilish glint in his eyes, and then Sukuna grabs you tightly and gets up with you in his arms, lifting you up as if you weigh nothing, holding you securely in his strong arms.

He slams you against his locker, making you gasp breathlessly as your back hits the cold surface while the rest of your body is covered with Sukuna's buff and overly hot body.

Sukuna's lips claim yours in a hot kiss, tongue so deep in your throat that it sends the craziest butterflies flying in your stomach.

He pushes down his boxer briefs impatiently, freeing his hard cock. It's pulsing with need, the tip swollen with an angry dark pink color, drooling pre-cum all over himself.

He doesn't bother taking off your panties but just yanks them to the side, letting his hot cockhead caress your throbbing clit sending shivers down your spine for a few seconds before Sukuna pulls back.

And then he claims you fully without any prior warning.

You gasp loudly, digging your nails into Sukuna's muscular back, feeling so full when Sukuna's hard cock rams into you deeply, claiming his girl with a hard brutal thrust.

Pleasure explodes behind your closed eyelids, making you feel dizzy from the assault of hard, unrelenting pleasure. You instantly wrap your legs tightly around Sukuna's hips, stuttering his name breathlessly as he fucks you hard and rough against his locker.

Sukuna's skin is hot and sweaty against you, his muscles taut, his low groans in your ear so fucking sexy and feral. He is so loud tonight. Growling and moaning loudly in your ear. Unrestrained, sexy noises full of lust and need and anger while Sukuna snaps his hips furiously against you.

It's a hard fuck. Primal. Like a big predator driven out of his mind by the need to mount his mate. Hard, angry thrusts. So deep and rough that you know you will feel him for days.

But you would lie if you said this isn't exactly what you want. You love to feel Sukuna like this. Love to let him use you like this. Love to feel his fat angry cock push into you and hear Sukuna's desperate, feral grunts. You love knowing that you are the only one who can comfort Sukuna after a loss. By letting him fuck you like this, rough and needy, against his locker, finding relief in your tight wet cunt.

You urge him on with breathless moans whispered in his ear and your legs wrapping tightly around his taut ass and fingernails digging into his buff muscles, needy just like him, clinging to him, your wet pussy clenching around him greedily.

Sukuna's mouth captures yours in another savage kiss, and you moan into it, licking against his tongue tenderly, eyes closed while you cling to him and take his thick angry cock all too happily.

The two of you are in a frenzy. Nothing but the two of you exists. Only Sukuna and you. Only his lips on yours and his cock deep inside you. You doubt the two of you would be able to stop even if someone walked in on you right now.

Sukuna's lips wander to your neck, kissing, sucking, his teeth grazing over your sensitive skin before he bites you lightly. His low voice is husky, filled with a sexy mix of arousal and anger when he grounds out,

"I. Fucking. Hate. Losing."

Every word gets accentuated by a rough thrust directly onto your sweet spot.

You mewl loudly, legs shaking as you feel tears stream down your cheeks from how good it feels to get fucked like this, Sukuna's name falling from your lips like a prayer.

Your fingers dig into Sukuna's broad back, your voice hoarse when you moan in his ear, urging him on,

"Yes! Fuck me, baby! Fuck it all into me. Take it all out on me, Kuna!"

He fucks the first orgasm out of you right then and there. It crashes over you unexpectedly, hot and wild, making you squeal his name as your pussy clenches wildly around Sukuna's cock, your legs shaking as you cum hard on his fat cock.

Sukuna groans, but he isn't finished with you. He slams you even harder against the locker with deep, brutal thrusts that make you squeal and sob, already feeling another orgasm building deep inside you.

It feels like it's too much. Like you will melt away if Sukuna keeps going and makes you cum one more time like this. But it feels so damn good, and you sob loudly, clinging desperately to Sukuna, your legs wrapped tightly around his muscular ass, your nails leaving scratches on his back.

Sukuna's voice is so sexy, low, husky, and laced with those feral grunts and deep moans, giving in to his most primal urges as he ruts into you,

"Don't hold back! Give me another! Fucking squirt on my cock!"

His hand forces itself between your bodies, thick calloused thumb rubbing furiously at your stiff clit, so fast and intense that you cry out, feeling your body lose control, panicking for a second, but Sukuna groans in your ear,

"Yeah, just like that, make a big fucking mess all over me!"

It's not a suggestion but a command, and it drives you insane, that natural dominance, that sexy control Sukuna emits. You clench around Sukuna's cock again, eyes closed, mouth opening in a wild cry as you feel yourself tumble over the edge again, his nasty words making you lose all control.

The waves of your orgasm crash over you unrelentingly, so hard it makes you see black for a moment as you scream and your pussy spasms around Sukuna's huge cock, milking him wildly as your juices spray out of you uncontrollably, squirting all over his cock and his heavy balls, wet, hot and messy, just like he told you to.

Sukuna growls but doesn't stop drilling his cock into you, fucking you roughly, smacking your pussy with his taut heavy balls anytime he pushes into you. Fucking you through your orgasm, with the nastiest wet sounds, as he fucks your creamy wetness back into you, while grunting loudly in your ear, low sexy noises, harsh breaths, as Sukuna chases his own orgasm now.

Sukuna cums with an unrestrained loud groan. His hips stutter against yours, and he presses you against the locker, ramming his twitching cock impossibly deep into you for his orgasm. His strong body is so close to you, hot and sweaty and brimming with passion.

You mewl his name, not able to stop yourself from clenching around him as he shoots his hot ropes of cum deep into you. Sukuna is so sexy like this when he loses control and lets himself get overtaken by his most primal needs. Loud groans fall from his lips, his whole muscular body is taut, his heart racing wildly against your breasts as he empties his balls and all his anger into you.

Gradually, Sukuna's loud groans turn into low sighs and labored breathing. He pulls away only enough so he can grab your chin with one of his large hands and tilt your head back, making you look up into his maroon eyes, which are heavy-lidded with lust and satisfaction.

The eye contact is so intense, so intimate with the way Sukuna's cock is still buried to the hilt inside you after he came in you, his hot seed deep inside you, your wetness clinging to his cock, your bodies touching everywhere, your breaths mingling, both of you still high from your orgasms.

Sukuna flashes you one of his lazy, sexy smirks,

"You're such a fucking good girl for me."

His lips claim yours in another rough kiss that makes you moan softly.

Sukuna kisses you deep and hard, his cock still buried balls deep in you, while Sukuna is still rocking against you slowly, still fucking you with his spent cock, overstimulating himself because he can't pull out yet, needing you too much. It makes you whine into the kiss and caress the taut muscles on Sukuna's broad back and buck your hips against him getting every last drop of his seed, every last caress his half-hard cock can give you.

The kiss becomes slower, lazier, sloppy, and, oh, so tender. And Sukuna's cock finally slips out of you, half-hard, gradually softening now, resting heavy and hot against your skin, slick from his cum and your juices, pulsing hotly against you, and you moan his name, just when Sukuna murmurs, "I love you." against your kiss-swollen lips.

You smile softly at Sukuna, cupping his tattooed cheek and caressing it gently.

"I love you, too, baby. Are you feeling better now?"

Sukuna laughs softly and carefully lowers you back down until your feet touch the ground. His muscular arms stay wrapped around you, though, not letting you go away just yet. A playful grin lifts his lips.

"Yeah, you always know what I need, princess. Thank you. But I promise that next time, we'll have a victory fuck again. I am not going to fucking lose twice in a row!"

You laugh, patting Sukuna's cheek playfully, and shake your head theatrically,

"Of course you won't, baby."

AAAHHH angry Kuna does something to me 😵😵

I am so glad I finally managed to post this new chapter! I hope that some of you are still interested in this story and that you enjoyed the update! Thank you so much to everyone who left encouraging messages in the last few weeks! I am kissing youuuu 😘💗

Comments and reblogs would be very sweet.

[nanamiskentos]

WHAT? LIKE IT'S HARD? ✶ choso kamo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re not above sending a risky message.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s your point?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You ask Kamo, I’ll ask Suguru.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Choso’s shoulders tense, “Can’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You first.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I help you?”

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

Choso Kamo.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THREE YEARS LATER.

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

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

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

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

Your mother.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get out,” you blurt.

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

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

“Partner?” Choso finishes for you, deadpan.

“Of all the people in this entire school —”

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

“What are you doing here?”

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

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

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

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

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

“What? Like it’s hard?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Choso just rolls his eyes.

“They…modify bacterial ribosomes.”

“Wrong.”

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

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

“Nope.”

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

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

“Just tell me the answer.”

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

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

“I was close.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing next weekend?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you want to study at my place?”

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

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

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

“Hmm. Sure, I’ll think about it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s not a date. We’re studying.”

“Don’t care. Didn’t really ask.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did I leave the door unlocked?”

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

“Get out.”

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

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

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

Weird. And impossible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Leave Yuuji out of this!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mhm.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right.

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

“So, what?”

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

“Are you angry?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not happy, Satoru?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s he look like again?”

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

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

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

“Hold up! I got visual aid.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now who’s the liar,” Suguru murmurs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You good?”

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

You’re having none of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There you are.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Without warning, his phone buzzes.

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

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

“What?”

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

“I’m not dating Tsukumo Yuki.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If it’s a proper date, it’s a yes.”

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

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

ONE WEEK LATER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[salem-s]

me again!! here's what i first thought of for jock!rafe x nerd!reader

so what if reader were to be in a sport herself? volleyball for example (or any other sport youd like) andddd she gets injured :0000 and rafe just happens to be at one of her games 😏😏😏😏

OR it could be vice versa- but instead of rafe getting hurt he'd win his game! or... if you like drama... he gets in a fight with one of the people from the opposite team LMAO

okay that's it 🙂‍↕️

love this prompt so much! and im using both of these.

18+ MDNI.

DON'T WORRY, BABY. I'LL HANDLE HIM ─�� RAFE CAMERON ONE SHOT

SYNOPSIS your ex-boyfriend always chooses the best time to be a prick: right before an important playoff game. revenge is hard to achieve with a broken hand, but conveniently rafe's hockey team is playing your ex's later that weekend, and your best friend's brother is hardly the one to play nice.

WARNINGS language, graphic imagery (broken bones, mentions of blood and bruises), violence, suggestive content. 18+ mdni. lowkey inspired by challengers? jock!rafe x jock!reader has my soul, especially hockey!rafe. also i changed reader's sport from volleyball to basketball bc i dont know anything about volleyball? college au.

WORD COUNT 10.6k... my bad...

SONG OF THE CHAPTER about a girl by nirvana

The morning is sour from the moment you wake up.

Because it isn't from the sunlight, or your phone buzzing, or the simplicity of nature. It's from knocking — barbaric knocking — that jolts you from your sleep, harshly interrupting your peacefulness and broaching the morning with a startle, with your heart racing, with wide eyes and a brewing migraine.

You shouldn't be surprised when it's your ex.

You broke up with Jesse a month ago on matters regarding his overwhelming narcissism and egoist complex that dampened your conscious for months. Frankly, you aren't sure why you put up with him so long — perhaps because he was halfway decent in bed and was silky sweet whenever he wanted to be — but you snapped out of the thick haze of fog after you hit a breaking point. It was your birthday, you asked him for one thing, and he couldn't even show up for something as simple as that, claiming he'd gotten caught up at his friend's NHL watch party of a team he didn't care for.

But clearly you breaking up with him meant nothing, because he's been attempting to crawl back into your life with every chance he gets.

It started the very next day when he cried in front of your apartment door as if he had every right to do so, wailing well into the night that you got a fucking noise complaint from your neighbors. You had to sneak out the side window to make it to practice without crossing paths with him, and it only got worse when he's been tracking you down in between classes, in between practices, at your car before he knew you had to drive to a game. He once showed up at Sarah's apartment, your best friend, where it took her older brother and her boyfriend to successfully de-escalate the situation and throw him out before Jesse could even get near you.

It's been relentless, and Jesse teeters between showing up with flowers and trying to sweet talk you into getting back together with him, or belligerently drunk to where he verbally berates you for being: "A spoiled cunt with so many issues that no other guy would wanna go near."

(His exact words, might you add.)

And now, he's leaning towards the mean side, the side of him that is so fucking brutal that, despite not caring about him anymore, you can't not let the words get to you, especially when your mental headspace is already so fragile with the playoffs going on.

"Are you fucking him?" Is the first thing Jesse says before you can even open the door.

You regret even answering, but know that he literally will sit here all day and knock and scream until you give him the time of day (you learned that the hard way). Though your mind is mumble-jumble, blinking blearily to try and discern if this is actually happening right now, if Jesse is actually here at six in the morning to start his shit up again.

"What?" Your tone is so exasperated, as if you're dealing with a problem child.

But he doesn't flinch. "Cameron. Are you fucking him?"

You want to laugh out of exhaustion, out of ridiculousness, out of anything synonymous to that because the audacity of him to show up here at the break of dawn to interrogate you on your sex life is downright comical, as if he has any right to comment on what you do or don't do. You're not his anymore, and he clearly isn't accepting that, nor accepting the fact that you're (apparently) already moving on.

With Rafe Cameron, nonetheless.

The rumor is not true, you can easily confirm that. But the thought of toying with Jesse, of making him believe that you're seeing not only your best friend's brother, but his arch-rival in hockey, makes your heart flutter with excitement, with the urge to psychologically torment him in a way you know will hit home.

Because Jesse's been second best to Rafe for years, ever since freshman year when the two clubs go up against one another. The rivalry has been adamant every time they're on the ice, because Jesse is so easily rattled and Rafe is a walking epitome of a troll, finding new ways to get under his opponent's skin to shake them off their game, to fluster them to get them to mess up, to get inside their heads in a way that Rafe Cameron only knows how.

So, you figure that if your ex thinks you've moved on, maybe he'll get the hint to stop fucking bothering you.

"Rafe Cameron?" You repeat incredulously, almost inviting the confrontation. "You're here at the ass crack of dawn to ask if I'm fucking Rafe Cameron? Seriously?"

Jesse spats your name. "Is it true or not?"

You cross your arms, leaning on the door frame as if you have all the time in the world to drag out his obvious misery. "And if I am? What're you gonna do?"

"I'm gonna kill him," he seethes, smoke practically blowing from his ears. "Teach him not to touch what's mine."

Yet the tone hardly fazes you.

"I'm not yours anymore, remember? Haven't been for a month. That's thirty two days starting today, or is that too high of a number for you to count to?" You coo mockingly, brows pinched in faux concern as if you're trying to tell a baby why they can't play with the power outlet.

Jesse narrows his eyes, scoffing.

"God, you just can't keep your legs closed, can you?"

The words are ice on his tongue, and even more frozen in your veins. You stiffen impossibly still, trying to keep up your nonchalant facade but slowly slipping as it stings harsher than it should.

And, fuck, he can tell, because he knows how to make you hurt, how to get you spiraling into the deep end of your mind, how to manipulate a situation to make it seem like you're in the wrong all the time. Because he's such an angel, he's so sweet, he's so protective that no one would ever assume that he's the one causing all the issues in the relationship. He's all smiles and faux admiration in front of crowds, yet behind closed doors he's cruel, digging deep into the roots of your insecurities and using them to his advantage, to hold power over you.

"Didn't think Cameron would give you the time of day, of all people," Jesse continues harshly, twisting the knife. "That's low, even for him."

You’re seconds away from breaking.

"Do you need something?" You grit through your teeth, heart racing. "Or are you only here to be a prick?"

The knife twists further when he fucking grins, clearly satisfied that he got under your skin so much that he takes a step back. He admires you for a moment, relishing in your clenched jaw and heaving chest and amused that he finally got to give you a piece of the medicine he's been tasting for a month. It's as if he's accomplished what he came here to do: get inside your head, stay there, and gnaw away at your conscious.

Jesse stares at you for a beat too long, suppressing a shit-eating grin that he tries to make polite as if his whole mission wasn't to upset you.

"Just needed to know, honey. Good luck tonight."

And like that, he's gone, disappearing down the hallway and into the stairwell with such eased nonchalance as if he hasn't just ruined your entire day, thrown you off your mental headspace that you were curating for your important game tonight. You really try to shake it off, to go back to bed to get the rest you need and energize mentally and physically to be in tip-top shape, but the words ring like a gong in your mind.

Can't close your legs, didn't think Cameron would give you the time of day, that's low for him.

Can't close your legs, didn't think Cameron would give you the time of day, that's low even for him.

The words are still echoing through the confinements of your mind, and you're really trying to not let it affect your mood but it's proving astronomically difficult during warm ups, and to make matters that much worse, everyone that you don't want to see is here at the game, watching you miss shots and get all in your head.

Jesse grins in the stands, elbowing his degenerate of a best friend every time you miss a shot.

And Rafe is standing next to Sarah, frowning so deep you'd think the lines would permanently etch on his face.

You try not to glance at either of them, but it's proving difficult when you can feel their eyes, as well as the other hundred people here, boring into you, seeing through you skin and peering right into your soul. It's intrusive and it makes your heart race all the same as a panic attack would induce. The court lights are too bright and the other team is shouting too loud, and your frustration only sky rockets when you miss the tip off to start the game.

After you miss three open threes in a row, you stop shooting.

You solely focus on gathering assists, passing to your teammates who are having a good game, to merely be the vessel between them and the ball making it into the hoop. You manage to score a layup and one out of two free-throws, but it's astronomically lower than your usual point average. The team picks up after your losses, making up for your missed shots and occasional turnovers, and the game is closer than it should be.

It doesn't help that, by the second quarter, you are absolutely done with the girl defending you.

It's as if today is piss-you-off-day, because it seems everyone is out to get you, everyone can tell you're off your game and are laughing at your mere attempt to keep trying. The girl defending you is audaciously handsy, elbowing you out of the ref's sight and stepping on your feet and boxing you out so aggressively that you can't help but throw an elbow back at her. She smack talks in your ear, egging you on, further poking the bear and reaffirming all the things you tell yourself.

"You're overrated," she shit talks when you're bringing the ball up the court. "Your coach is fucking delusional to make you the poster player."

To which you responded: "Who the fuck are you?" And kept playing.

Can't close your legs, didn't think Cameron would give you the time of day, that's low even for him.

You miss another shot, Jesse's words ringing through your head.

Cursing under your breath, you crash the boards to fight for the rebound, watching as the ball bounces harshly off the rim. You feel the girl defending you right on your back, leaving an angry red scratch on your arm as an attempt to grab the basketball from you. Yet you persevere (for once this game), ripping it from her grasp and immediately passing it to a teammate on the three point line. Ten seconds are left on the clock, the game tied, and you hope the shot goes in so you can be up by halftime.

But your teammate misses, and you don't think as you fight tooth and nail to get it, leaping into the air and reaching high in hopes of alley-ooping it back into the net for a quick touch and go.

Three seconds left, and you're mid-air when your defender completely body checks you by the hip, sending your body aggressively jerking in a direction it shouldn't, and your body is twisted in a way that would make it impossible for you to land on your feet. You slam into the ground and you cry out. But it's not from the force of her hip check, or the fact that the air is knocked out of your lungs the second you meet the floor.

No, it's from the sickening crack that comes from your hand.

The buzzer goes off, signaling half-time, but you're curled up on the court floor, cradling your left hand as thousands of pins and needles pin-prick your nerves. A teammate puts a hand on your shoulder, yelling something to the coach who hurriedly runs over. People are talking about you, talking at you, trying to get you to respond.

"Fuck!" You curse under your breath, tears brimming your waterline at the intense pain. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—“

The athletic trainer is pulling you to a sitting position, eyeing the hand that you're cradling and, eventually, getting you to stand on your two feet. She's speaking to you, but frankly you don't hear her, heart beat thrumming loud in your ears and droning everything else out. Your head is underwater, your hand is exploding with a horrific sensation that it's all you can focus on, how your season is indefinitely over, how you still can't get Jesse's words out of your head.

People try and help you up, but you refuse, refuse the fucking stretcher that waits idly in the corner of the gymnasium for instances like this. With the last shroud of dignity you have left, you pick yourself up off the ground, searing red hot with frustration as people have the audacity to clap for you, and find your own footing.

You wish you hadn't, but before you leave the gym, your eyes glance up to the stands one more time, only to meet Jesse's gaze. He's surprised, that's for sure, but a smirk etches his lips with wide eyes, as if in disbelief that he threw you off your game that much, so much that you're done for the season. He's smug, that stupid fucking prick, crossing his arms as if he did something phenomenal, as if you'll come crawling back to him so he can take care of you again.

Fat fucking chance.

With a gentle hand on your back and shoulder, the athletic trainer steers you away from the locker room where all your teammates and coach are headed, but rather towards the training room where all the medical supplies are. She's still speaking to you, but you know what she's saying, you know she's trying to reassure you in medical terms that you couldn't care for. What's the point? Your season is over. Kiss the playoffs goodbye.

You get x-rays immediately, and it comes back with two clean breaks: both in your thumb leading down to your wrist. And it's one of those breaks that doesn't require surgery, just time and patience so the bones can mend on their own. Surgery would be excessive, the on-site doctor tells you, explaining the next steps with a custom-made splint and weeks of physical therapy.

You listen as best as you can, and you're thankful that everything is written down in a post-appointment sheet on all the steps you're supposed to take, because, frankly, you haven't really retained a word. All you can think about is Jesse's stupid fucking face, his words, his ability to crawl under your skin and hatch his verbal bullets there to infest.

Eventually, you're left alone in a makeshift splint, sitting on the padded table with your eyes glued to the wall in front of you.

You're so out of it that you don't register Sarah and Rafe coming in.

It's when she places a gentle hand on your shoulder that you snap out of the daze, blinking your disassociation away to meet her eyes that are furrowed with worry, glossed with a concern you probably don't deserve. Rafe's standing behind her, fingers twitching in your direction as if he wants to touch you, too, but refrains from doing so to not intrude any further.

Your relationship with Rafe is complicated. You're not his biggest fan, and nor are you his.

Sarah is your only common denominator, besides the fact that you're both driven athletes who take a lot of pride in your craft as well as two people who have a no-bullshit attitude when it comes to a lot of things in life. Yet despite how you two constantly bicker and act like you hate one another, you suppose he can highly sympathize with you in this moment knowing that your season is over. You assume that's why he's not poking any fun like he normally likes to do, simply staring at you with cautious blue eyes that are too audaciously pretty.

(Yes, pretty. You’d be stupid not to acknowledge it. Or daydream every now and then about being his. Bleh. You hate how you’ve thought about it before.)

"Are you alright?" Sarah asks worriedly, so sweet and concerned that you can't help but sag your shoulders. "What'd the doctor say?"

Rafe nudges her harshly. "Shut the fuck up, Sare," he hisses.

She slaps him back, turning to face him with, no doubt, a scowl on her face. "She's obviously upset, sue me if I want to know if she's okay."

"She's not," he retorts harshly, almost in a way only an athlete would understand. His eyes dart from his sister to you. "You're not. You've been off all night."

Sarah shoves her brother again, scoffing at the audacity. "What the fuck is wrong with you?! Why are you even in here?"

"What was happening out there?" Rafe asks you incredulously, completely ignoring his sister.

All you can do is stare at him for a moment, understanding that his abrasiveness is not him trying to make fun of you, but that this is his version of genuine concern. He knows it takes a lot to shake you off your game, he knows because he's the same way. It is very difficult to throw athletes such as yourselves in a slump, only having off-games once in a blue moon when something in your personal life gets in the way of your mentality for the sport.

Peering down at the cast on your hand, you let the harsh stinging of the pain be a reminder of the words that have been plaguing you all night. You want to scream and curse Jesse's bloodline, blame all the mistakes you made tonight on him. But frankly, you're the only one to blame because you let him get under your skin, you let him get a reaction out of you, you let him in to infest your mind.

You settle on something safe. "Didn't sleep well."

That's actually partially true, since he woke you up so early this morning and his lingering words didn't let you fall back asleep.

But Rafe (and Sarah) aren't buying that. Not in the slightest.

"Bullshit," he says immediately. "Your best game was after Kie's twenty first when you got two hours of sleep maximum." Then, softer than you've ever heard him before, he asks, "What happened?"

Your heart lurches at his tone, and part of you wants to go on defense and build walls, to berate him on why he cares and gives a shit about you all of a sudden. He's never been the type to coddle you, much less anyone, so the notion that he's lowering his voice, gentle in his tone, treating you with a rare softness only rings alarm bells in your head.

It feels disingenuine, it must be, because why flip the script? Jesse used to do that all the time: be sweet and act like he cares when he wants answers from you, only to flip the light switch when he got what he wanted from you. You can't trust it, you can't trust him, because it's only going to blow up in your face. Being sweet and truthful and vulnerable has only led to your downfall, only led for people to use your insecurities against you when you're at your worst.

"It was Nords, wasn't it?"

Your head snaps up when Rafe says Jesse's last name, the two of them only calling the other by the name on the back of their jerseys.

Of course, your immediate reaction gives the truth away in an instant, and you see Rafe's jaw clench so impossibly tight that you think it's going to snap. Sarah frowns between the two of you, darting her gaze from her brother and then back to you at the sudden revelation of the real reason why you were off all night, your mistakes leading up to a careless injury that might have you never playing the same again. All because of him: not only your ex boyfriend, but the guy that Rafe already hates.

"What?" She breathlessly asks quickly. "He's bothering you still?"

Rafe's voice is ice. "Still? This has been happening?"

You groan and roll your eyes so hard you're sure they can see the whites of them. They're both so goddamned protective for their own good, and while it's normally a great trait to have in a best friend (and her brother?) it's paying detrimental to you right now. The last thing you want to do is talk about your ex, the guy who's currently making your life so fucking miserable that it's bleeding onto the court, bleeding onto your everyday routine so much that it's altering your agenda, especially with the guy who has hated said-ex for as long as you can remember.

Knowing they're not going to let you leave here without an answer, you wave the white flag. "He showed up at my apartment this morning saying shit."

"What did he say?" Rafe asks immediately.

All you do is huff.

Rafe says your name in warning.

Sarah squeezes your shoulder gently in support, almost in solidarity, as she nods quietly to almost urge you to continue despite her brother's straightforwardness. It's a wordless promise that it's okay, you can tell him, you can tell her, they're here for you despite how aggressive they might come off.

You sigh, peering up at Rafe cautiously. "He thought we were sleeping together. He was pissed. That’s all.”

His brows pinch as Sarah snorts in disbelief.

"Why would he care if you were? You’re broken up?” She speaks aloud, pondering the obvious question that you still don't have the answer to.

You study Rafe’s expression — stone cold with a sliver of something foreign behind his eyes — before flicking your gaze back down to your bandaged hand, almost embarrassed that they’re seeing you so flustered by a guy like Jesse. You simply shrug, wanting that to be the end of the conversation because you truthfully don't know why your ex is doing the things he has been doing. It could be for pride. To guilt you. To have an upper hand. Genuinely, you have no idea.

But — of course — Rafe isn’t the one to let something like this slide, especially now that he’s involved.

“What exactly did he say?” He asks low and calculated, as if an ugly storm is brewing in his chest.

Can't close your legs, didn't think Cameron would give you the time of day, that's low even for him.

You almost laugh. Yeeeeeeah, there's no way you're actually telling Rafe that, because if he knew — if he really knew — Jesse wouldn't make it to tomorrow, and you know that for a fact.

So, instead, you shrug again, batting your eyelashes through an excuse. "Only that he thought we were together, asked how I could move on so quick, just that. It startled me, threw me off my game. That's it."

Rafe stares at you for a long moment, eyes narrowed as they search your face for any indications that you may be lying. And you almost cower, almost, yet hold his gaze as willfully as you can while your hand screams in pain, mind clouds with insecurity. But you hold your ground, because the last thing you are ever going to do on this earth is stand down to Rafe Cameron.

However, your breath hitches without meaning to, unaware that you were holding it in until you couldn't anymore.

Something flickers in his expression like he's had an epiphany, eyes widening in the slightest. He might as well scream eureka with a light bulb flashing over his head, might as well point in your face and scream aha! at the gesture. Blue eyes bore into yours, bright and knowing and accusatory that it makes your heart flip uncomfortably, stomach churning at the notion that he's caught you.

But before he can say anything, before he can call you out, Sarah's (who is unknowing to the entire wordless encounter that just went down) phone shrills, snapping you out of your staring contest with her brother as you blink, gaze darting to her.

She curses, fishing for her phone in her purse and grimacing when she looks at the caller ID. "Fuck, it's John B."

"Answer it," Rafe responds immediately, eyes not leaving you. "Go grab her stuff from the locker room and we'll bring her home."

Your eyes widen at his request, and you almost scream no, no, no! at his demand. Because if she goes right now, that leaves you alone with him, and you can only guess what the isolation is going to bring. More pain? More misery? More humiliation? Because you wouldn't put it past Rafe to ask hard hitting questions that you know will give him the truth, whether you choose to answer him or not.

Yet Sarah pays it no mind, nodding as if it's the best idea in the world.

Her bright expression lands on you, placing a gentle hand on your forearm. "I'll get your bag, okay? Be back in a second."

Your heart sinks as words escape you, a plea rising and dying in your throat as you watch your best friend leave the clinic with her phone pressed to her ear, talking frantically into the microphone before disappearing altogether. You hear her voice linger for a little longer, then completely shut out when she's confirmed gone.

Sighing, you know you don't even have to look at him to know he's staring at you.

You can already tell in your peripheral, and when you do find the gall to lull your head to the side to get this interaction over with, your assumptions are correct when you notice his stone-cold expression piercing through your soul, anticipating the truth now that you've lied to him not once, but twice. He doesn't even have to say anything, you can simply tell by the look on his face that it's something deeper than what you revealed.

A flicker of panic rises in your chest and you squirm under his stare.

"Okay," you start without even realizing, scrambling. "In my defense, it's not even your problem, and frankly none of your business. I'm dealing with it."

"It's my problem now," he responds coolly. "I'm not asking again. Tell me."

You blink stupidly at his demand, still attempting to save your dignity. "I already did."

Rafe darts his gaze between your eyes, prolonging the moment longer than it needs to be just to get you fidgeting uncomfortably under his stare.

"You have a tell, you know."

That confuses you, pulling you from the tension filled moment.

"Huh?"

"You hold your breath when you lie," he murmurs, impatient. "You don't even know you do it."

All you do is ogle at him. How would he know that? And — more importantly — why is he paying enough attention to you to know that?

You swallow thickly, stuck between a rock and a hard place as he essentially blocks your only exit, and you know that he's not going to let you out of here unless you tell him the truth especially since he knows for a fact that you're hiding something from him. There's nothing that gets past him, and you curse his ability to know how to real people so well, know how to get gritty and know how to persuade people to give him all the information.

Sucking in another harsh breath, you wince. "It wasn't good."

"I figured," Rafe says immediately, tone softer than before now that you're starting to peel layers away. "Knew it must've been rough to rattle you that much."

You grimace again. "That bad, huh?"

He says your name in warning, a signal to stop stalling.

Putting a hand up in surrender, you secede. "Alright, okay, fine. He... Uh, well it was, like, six in the morning—"

"Get to it."

"Okay! He, well, alright." You're a babbling mess, and his patience is wearing thin. "He asked me if I was sleeping with you, and obviously I wanted him to suffer a bit so I didn't outright say no—"

Rafe's lips twitch.

You ignore the implication. "And he, uh, said I couldn't keep my legs closed." You figure get it all out now, especially when his posture stiffens. "That he didn't think you would ever give me the time of day."

A beat. "He said that?"

You nod gently. "And that it's a new low. Even for you."

Everything is too much: his stare, his soft tone that's borderline wavering, the humiliation pooling in your chest. The silence is too loud in the room, hearing the thrumming of your heartbeat and, practically, his too as his eyes darken, borderline in offense at your ex's words. His fingers twitch in your direction, as if itching to touch you, comfort you in a way he doesn't really know how.

You watch his jaw clench impossibly tight as his chest heaves out and in with the ferocity of such a deep breath. The gears are turning in his head, you can already tell from his angered expression, and the last thing you want is another masculine-induced conversation today, too tired and in too much pain to endure it again.

"It just caught me off guard," you say quietly, voice wavering as you try and de-escalate his brewing emotions. "That's all. It's fine."

His brows twitch to a furrow, offended.

"It's fine?" His tone is tight, almost scolding you. "He said that horrible shit to you, ruined your season, and all you have to say is it's fine?"

You fold under his gaze, frustrated by his anger as if he has any right. But frankly, you have no fight left in you today. Your hand is in indescribable pain and your heart hurts from how much you've been trying to protect it. It all hurts, every part of you physically and mentally. You're exhausted. Exhausted from the pain, from dealing with your ex constantly, from the humiliation you're enduring in this training room right now.

When tears brim your waterline, he falters, something flashing over his features to what looks like concern as you look away, sucking in a deep breath in an attempt to compose yourself in front of him.

Although, it proves difficult when you feel his hand curl gently around your shoulder. Yet you can't look at him. You can't, and instead focus your gaze on the wall in front of you while you feel the warmth of his palm press against your skin, feeling his thumb soothingly skim your bicep in a feeble attempt to comfort you.

"Sorry," he says eventually, softer then you've ever heard him. "That wasn't what you needed to hear."

You frown at his compassion, unaware that Rafe Cameron was capable of showing such emotion.

"We're playing his team tomorrow night," he adds when you're silent, still racking your brain on his hand comforting you. "I'll...play along. Get under his skin. Make him pay for what he did to you."

If you didn't have butterflies before, now you have a whole damn stampede as you peer up at him, teetering between shock and confusion at his determined gaze. You realize this is the closest you've ever been to him, the longest you've ever been touching, the softest yet most serious you've ever seen him. It throws you for a loop, and you blink stupidly for a few moments before really registering his words.

You hold up your bandaged hand. "He didn't do this. I did this. I let him get on my nerves."

"No," Rafe says immediately, so firmly, that you'd think it was law. "He doesn't get to say that shit to you and get away with it."

You furrow your brows slightly, and the notion of this is the longest you've gone without bickering with him comes to mind, yet you push it deep, deep, deep down and lock it in a chest somewhere in your mind.

"What do you mean play along?" You question curiously. You hate how you have the urge to grab his hand, unsure of where this sudden need for his affection is coming from.

He shrugs. "He thinks we're fucking, right?"

You nod slowly.

So he mimics your nod nonchalantly. "Cool."

The sudden ease in his tone throws you off, knowing that particular gleam in his eye means that he's up to nothing good. It's the look you see when he's about to toy with someone's psychological make-up, about to say the most brutal shit to throw someone off their game, to roast generations if it meant getting under someone's skin.

It makes you panic. Only slightly. The other half of you is intrigued, almost excited to see what he's thinking about doing.

"What?" You ask gently, an uncharacteristic sweetness to your tone that has his lips tugging into a lazy grin that makes your heart do a weird flip. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Rafe looks so pretty like this right now, unguarded and relaxed and sure of his next move. You're playing checkers. He's playing chess.

"Apparently, you're mine now. We'll make sure he knows."

The possessiveness makes you stupid, blinking up at him with a stammering heart and slightly widened eyes at his brazenness, especially when his tone is firm and cool and so fucking sure of himself that it makes you wonder what it's like to actually be his, to curl under his arm like you're actually meant to be there and tangle in his sheets as if it's your purpose.

You sound ridiculous, you know. (But you can't deny that you've thought about it at least once or twice. You'd be stupid not to.)

"Rafe," you drawl out, half in warning and half curious. "What are you going to do?"

He doesn't answer right away, taking a few moments to shamefully stare at you, stare at his hand on your shoulder that you haven't shoved off yet, staring at how you're subconsciously leaning slightly — only slightly — closer to him when you realize just how nice it is to be touched by him, to be under his compassion and care even if it is out of pity.

In that moment, Sarah decides to barge back in, hauling your bag over her shoulder and still talking animatedly on the phone with John B as she props the door open, beckoning you both to exit so you can finally go home.

Rafe helps you down from the high table, making sure not to brush your injured hand as his come to splay on your hips, damn near picking you up off the table and settling you onto the ground. You nearly stumble when trying to find your footing, not from the pain or the drowsiness from the drugs you got earlier, but from the feeling of his hands on your hips, digging into your flesh just for that split moment but long enough to crave more.

And then, he audaciously throws a lanky arm around your shoulder, guiding you towards the exit and tucking you into his side (like you've imagined once or twice or try a thousand times). Sarah doesn't bat an eye, especially when you feel his lips press on your hairline with such a feather-light touch that you almost miss it.

"Don't worry, baby," Rafe muses low over the sound of his sister's chattering as he escorts you down the long hallway. His voice ghosts the shell of your ear, goosebumps crawling up your arms at the close proximity and at the fact that you're not pulling away as usual. "I'll handle him."

You didn’t think Rafe was actually serious.

But now as you sit shoulder to shoulder with Sarah, chilly from the ice rink atmosphere and wearing his home jersey with ‘CAMERON’ plastered on the back, you begin to rethink your choices. Especially when you turn more heads than the population of a small country.

Girls whisper behind your back, nudging each other to nod in your direction, ducking their heads close to no doubt curse your bloodline and express their jealousy in the same breath. You even hear a gasp at one point, and roll your eyes at the dramatics of it all, at the drama that comes with a guy like him, who’s all smirks and sweet one liners that make knees weak. You didn’t think it would be that deep, not when he handed you his jersey before he took to the ice as if it was second nature.

Though when he did so, his eyes were brighter than usual, smirk a little deeper, step more peppier. And he didn’t leave until you put it on, watching the way it fell down your hips and displayed his team name, his name, bright and loud across the fabric. Rafe stared at you for too long, almost studying the way the jersey looked on you as if he could get used to the sight, and it wasn’t until a teammate of his had to physically grip his shoulder to drag him onto the ice where his eyes eventually left your body.

You’ve been shuddering at the image ever since.

For a little while, you forgot the reason you are wearing it in the first place, and are shockingly reminded when Jesse’s team takes the ice for warmups.

You see him clear as day, scanning for you in a way that he probably thinks is subtle, but is blatantly obvious and pathetic, probably to get a glimpse at your makeshift cast and his team jersey that you always wore to his games. But when his eyes do find you, the jersey you’re wearing — more importantly the name stitched boldly across your back — his skates come to a screeching halt.

Sarah nudges you eagerly. “It’s working.”

Your eyes aren’t on Jesse, though.

They’re on Rafe, who’s grinning at you from across the rink.

“Good,” is all you hum to her, eyes not leaving her brother.

The game starts, and Jesse’s already off his mojo from the tip off.

And Rafe is capitalizing on his mistakes, sliding in to steal the puck, digging his shoulder down and checking Jesse into the glass without flinching, braking intentionally abrupt to spray ice to make your ex wobble on his skates, blocking his slapshot so he can't score. The entire time Rafe makes his life miserable, you can see his mouth moving whenever they’re skating shoulder to shoulder or fighting for the puck, chewing on his mouthguard so godforsaken arrogant that you can tell he’s enjoying it.

The. Whole. Time.

It isn’t until the first period is nearly over when Rafe and your ex are in a tip off on the defensive side, to where he ducks his head nice and low and says something. From your vantage point, all you can see is Jesse’s jaw suddenly slacken, fuming in a way you’ve never seen from him before, and you can only imagine what Rafe is saying to him right now.

Next thing you know, Jesse is chucking his stick and dropping his gloves, lunging at Rafe mid-play regardless of the consequences for fighting.

And Rafe?

Sure, his gloves and stick are carelessly thrown, too, inviting the confrontation and itching for a reason to finally, finally, get his hands on your ex. But it’s the giant fucking grin on his face that gets you, showing off his pearly whites and taking the utmost pleasure in riling your ex up in a way Rafe Cameron knows how.

Jesse shoves Rafe, the gasps in the crowd mixing with the repeated whistles from the refs as they try (and fail) to separate the two, to stop the fight, to end the humiliation on your ex’s end.

Because — like in the game — Rafe is clearly winning.

The one thing about Rafe is that if he’s gonna get in a fight, he’s going to end one. Regardless if he starts it or not. The amount of concussions he’s given out is too high to count, along with the amount of minutes he’s accrued in the penalty box for roughing a bit too much. Although in all the times you’ve seen him fight, you’ve never seen him look this delighted to be involved.

Helmets are off, and Jesse manages to land a punch to Rafe’s jaw.

Sarah gasps next to you, almost clutching your broken hand out of sheer habit that makes you wince. It’s getting ugly, both guys bleeding (your ex more than your supposed-boyfriend), yet it isn’t until you see Rafe’s lips move, saying something low to your ex with a gaze so dark you swear it’s a different person, almost a possessed version of your best friend’s brother that you’ve never encountered.

Jesse falters at whatever was said, hesitating as if caught off guard.

And when he attempts to lunge again, Rafe’s fist is coming down hard and fast against your ex’s cheekbone.

Gasps echo around you when Jesse hits the ice, moving but barely, clearly tapped out of the fight he started as he spits out blood. The crimson bleeds onto the sheer white ice, staining it with the reminder that he lost, he humiliated himself, he’s not yours, not anymore.

Your ex seems to recognize this, ducking his head low and shameful when he skates off the ice and into the locker room where he’ll — no doubt — get concussion tested and sit out the rest of the game. He doesn’t look up to try and find your knowing gaze, because he already knows what expression you have on your face.

Pure fucking pride and joy.

Rafe, obviously, gets minutes in a penalty box, which is conveniently right next to where you and Sarah are sitting.

You watch him as he sits down, getting a mere clean up after brushing off the medical aide with a nonchalant shake of his head, using a rag given to him to wipe off the blood from the fight, but the splits and cuts on his knuckles are the reminder that he won, he won you. And that prick lost.

The game resumes without each team’s star players, carrying on as if nothing happened.

And Rafe could care less about the game, instead turning his body completely away from the ice to face you.

You wince at the state of his face: a bloodied cut on his lip that puffs out and swells, a bruise already forming on his cheekbone, and his nose just slightly more crooked than before. He looks fucking rough, and you can’t help but feel a twinge of guilt aching in your chest that he’s in pain because of you, he fought and bled for you, he got hurt because of you.

But Rafe hardly looks fazed, sending you a crooked smile and such an eased look that it makes your head spin.

“You know,” he says loudly to you through the glass, “you look pretty hot wearing my name.”

Before you can answer, Sarah groans next to you.

“Can you not do that while I’m right here?” She says, disgusted and barely concerned for her bleeding brother. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

Rafe completely ignores her, eyes not leaving you. “‘M serious. I could get used to it.”

Your lips twitch. “You could get used to fighting off guys for me?”

“Baby, I’ll fight off the whole damn cavalry if I get to call you mine.”

The words are saccharine, said with such ease laced with honey and a nonchalance drawl that it makes your heart lurch to your throat, especially when his pretty blue eyes hold yours as if you’re his lifeline, a small so amused yet genuine that it almost angers you. How could he have such a pretty smile on the back burner?

Although it’s Sarah who has the last word.

“Agh!” She gags animatedly, pounding on the glass as her feeble attempt to hit her brother. “You’re so gross, Rafe. Pay attention to the game.”

He ignores her. Again. Eyes solely on you.

“Find me after,” is all he says, before the ref is beckoning him back onto the ice, his penalty time finally being over.

You’ve never been more antsy in your life.

You attempt to pay attention to the game, to how Rafe’s team absolutely dominates without even trying. He scores twice, looking for you after each one and sending you the most audacious wink he could muster to fluster you even further. Your heart races each time his blue eyes find yours, and you cannot help but indulge your delusions and pretend like you’re his for the night, cheering extra loud for him and tugging on your — his — jersey whenever he takes the advantage. It’s exhilarating, knowing that your time as his is limited yet you can do as you please with everyone around you already assuming you’re with him.

You might as well act the part, that’s all.

And when you do find him after, you’ve never been more on edge.

But it’s exciting. Terrifying. Awesome. Because now you’ve (sorta?) charted into unknown territory with him. Is he simply flirting? Having some fun? There’s no way he’s actually serious about wanting you, right? You wouldn’t mind a bit of fun, anyway, something simple with no strings attached to get your mind off a plethora of things plaguing your day to day life.

You’re leaning casually on the wall outside the locker room, Sarah pacing a few feet away grumbling to John B over the phone about how her brother is an idiot, to check their apartment to see if they have ice packs and bandages and the minuscule medical supplies that could be needed to tend to her brother’s injuries. Though you’re composed, delicately smoothing over the fabric of your wrist splint as a reminder of why the night took its course in the way it did.

There’s a small swell of pride in your chest. He did it for you. Got hurt for you. Put your ex in his deserved place for you. You’ve never had anyone do anything like this for you before. Of course, you don’t want anyone in pain because of you, but the fact that he did it on his own, without your prompting, makes it seem like he knows how to read your mind.

“Hey, pretty.”

You look up, and he’s way closer than you anticipated. So close that you can see the details of his blue eyes, leaning casually on the wall next to you and peering at you as if he has all the time in the world to do so.

Though his face has seen better days. “You look like shit.”

He doesn’t tease or get offended. Just grins lazily. Proudly. As if he’s wearing his wounds like armor.

“That’s hardly a nice way to talk to your boyfriend,” Rafe muses casually, low and baritone that it reverberates through your skin.

Your heart skips. “Temporary boyfriend,” you correct firmly.

Rafe hums, unconvinced. “Doesn’t need to be.”

Your facade cracks slightly — only slightly — but he’s quick to tell, his grin deepening at your flicker of surprise.

But you brush it off, and instead quirk a brow.

“I’ll have you know that—“

“Cameron!”

The shrill of Jesse’s voice stings through the hallway, abruptly interrupting whatever bullshit you were about to muster up. Although you don’t turn to find your ex, don’t leave his gaze to look at something worse, instead keeping your eyes on Rafe, who hasn’t stopped staring at you since the moment he came out of the locker room and saw you waiting idly, perfectly composed and obedient clad in his jersey.

Now, with the little act continuing, you nearly roll your eyes when one of Rafe’s hands, calloused and bruised with split knuckles, slithers under your (his) shirt to rest audaciously on your hip, your bare hip, the skin to skin contact making you stiffen slightly as he only pulls you tighter, almost sensing your need to be at his side.

"Sorry, baby." Rafe says low to you, completely disregarding your ex stomping over. "You were saying?"

Seeing Jesse get closer in your peripheral only makes you eat your words, knowing you won't get far in speech without getting interrupted again (and also considering the fact you're temporarily breathless from how close you are to him, so attempting to speak would probably only humiliate you).

You barely get to open your mouth, barely have the ability to say a word or much less utter a noise before you can sense your ex before you fully see him. Especially since Rafe's smirk only deepens the closer your ex - and the confrontation - approaches, so you know that it's coming, there are no refs to separate them now.

Jesse's suddenly a foot away when he says your name, almost scolding you for your precarious predicament.

Yet you don't cower like you used to when he'd use that tone. You don't feel your bones seize up in terror, in fear of doing something wrong. You don't let your heart drop to your feet with anticipation of a long night of fighting ahead. You don't give in to whatever pity he's going to throw at you this time. You just...don't.

Instead, you simply spare him a glance, unimpressed.

"How's your head, slick?" Rafe instigates cockily, going that much further by letting his hands wander on your hips, under the jersey, in a way that definitely gets your ex to notice.

Not that you really mind, anyway.

Jesse looks worse than Rafe, with tenfold bruises and painful looking blotches coating his cheekbones that swells so much that it's uncomfortable to look at. His right eye is puffy and bloodshot as his bruised fist clenches and unclenches by his sight at the sight of you: the girl he lost indefinitely, cozied up under the arm of the guy he absolutely despises.

He can barely even look at Rafe, and whenever he does he gets visibly angrier. It's obvious, because you can definitely tell, which means that Rafe can tell as well. To be that much more of a prick, you hum when you feel Rafe's lips press against your hairline, another act of defiance that only shoves the fact that your ex lost right in his face. Well deserved, might you add, even though a bit redundant, but you're not necessarily complaining at the feeling of your supposed-boyfriend's lips and his hands wandering regions unknown on your body.

Jesse stares at you, ignoring your other half. "Can we talk?"

Your answer is immediate. "No."

"Please?"

You open your mouth to retort and viscerally berate him into next week, but the calloused fingers on your hips turn to iron grip.

"She said no," Rafe says simply, almost in warning that if your ex even tries it again, he'll only make the pre-existing bruises worse.

Jesse narrows his eyes and scoffs meanly, a sound you've been so used to hearing. "Wasn't talking to you, Cameron-"

You almost laugh. Almost. Especially when Rafe hums as if he's never heard anything more offensive in his life. His lips twitch with a smile, but it's not one of happiness or joy, it's mean and cold as can be, as if he's putting on a polite facade to mask what he really wants to do, and you figure that's making his injuries tenfold.

"You are now," he interrupts low, yet the lack of volume doesn't beat the sharpness of his tone, as if the matter is over. "You're done talking to her."

"But she—"

"No," Rafe warns, almost in finality. "You're done."

Jesse seizes up, because the tone is nothing nice and way out of your ex's pay grade. It's not worth instigating, especially when both guys know what will happen if Jesse chooses to escalate further and keeps trying to talk to you, to plead with you, to practically sweet talk his way back into your life for the upteenth time.

And Rafe? You'd almost say he's enjoying this. Enjoying holding onto you, staking a claim in you solely from the way he's gripping onto your hips as if he has every right to do so, shamelessly letting his hands touch you in places you'd never let someone who you're casual with. You can't say that you're not enjoying this either, completely enamored by his scent, words, touch.

Plus, it's kinda nice to have this make-shift guard dog, to get your ex to back off without you having to lift another finger.

"You don't talk to her," Rafe adds at your ex's stunned silence. "You don't message her. You won't even fucking think about her." His words are ice, and so are his steel blue eyes as they stare at the horrific swelling of Jesse's cheek. "Go ahead and try me."

Clearly, your ex is not trying to fuck around and find out, especially when he's been at the receiving end of Rafe's fist multiple times with the outcome always being the same: bruised and bloodied and so unwell that it hurts to even think about it.

You let out a breath when Jesse finally walks away.

Yet Rafe doesn't pull back or take his hands from your body, instead keeping them there as if to soak in the moment for a little while longer.

"Of course he tucks tail when you say something," you mutter under your breath, too scared to face him right now so you settle on your ex's figure gradually getting further away. "I threatened him once with a knife and he still didn't back down."

You hear Rafe snort.

"A knife?"

"A butter knife. But. Semantics."

It isn't until one of his hands is leaving your hip, and you barely register it until calloused fingers are gently gripping your chin and forcing you to face him, and the first thing you see are his piercing blue eyes boring into yours. They glint with amusement, and it’s no secret that he’s thoroughly enjoying this (the uptick on his lips and his hands still audaciously on you can attest to that) but he’s gazing at you with something other than amusement as well, and you can’t pinpoint the emotion. Endearment? Admiration?

Something synonymous to that, because this is the softest he’s ever looked (as soft as one can look with a busted face).

A look reserved just for you.

“It’s even worse up close,” you manage to jab, but it comes out disgustingly gentle.

What’s even worse is that your non injured hand comes to cradle his jaw, something you didn’t realize you were doing until your fingers skim the bruise on his cheekbone. You don’t notice until Rafe is literally beaming with delight because you’re here, you’re touching him in a way he never thought possible, you’re making his heart pound without even knowing it.

“Maybe,” he says coolly, “but I think you like it.”

You suck in a breath. “That’s a crazy accusation.”

Your facade is falling. You know it. He knows it. It only makes him lean into your touch, wincing just a fraction when your palm gently presses on his jaw. But he doesn’t care, especially when you can practically smell the shampoo he used in the locker room showers because this proximity is (somehow?) getting closer and closer.

Rafe takes the opportunity and runs with it. “Not an accusation. A fact,” he corrects as if it’s law.

Your faces are inches apart. “With what proof?”

His grin is wide, lazy, and irrevocably puffing with pride.

“You’re holding your breath.”

Fuck. You are.

You exhale deeply, and it momentarily makes you lightheaded just how long you were holding it, lying through your teeth in a way you thought was subtle. But no, Rafe’s too cocky for his own good, too observant of people in a way that scares you, because it means he’s paying more attention than you thought.

How does he even know your tells? Why is he able to read you so well? How long has he been paying attention — in all this time that you’ve known him as solely your best friend’s brother — to you?

Your ice cold palm melts under his warm cheek. His calloused fingers splay against your waist as if they’re meant to stay there. The grip on your chin doesn’t loosen so you can’t dart your gaze away or shyly turn your head.

You can only look at him.

“Breathe,” he muses low, tone teetering between mocking and genuine concern.

“I am,” you defend weakly, only coming out as a mere whisper. “Your cologne is suffocating.”

His lips twitch when he says your name. “Why keep pretending?”

If your heart wasn’t racing before, it’s now on a rocket flying into uncharted regions in space. You’re only now hyper aware of his thumb rubbing circles on your waist, and how his other hand has come to rest in the crook of your neck, thumb barely brushing over your bottom lip. Your name on his tongue shamefully sends a shiver down your spine, and you hate how you’re immediately folding to his saccharine tone.

“Pretending?”

Rafe hums low in affirmation. “Pretending you don’t want this. Don’t want me.”

Your mind is mush. “That’s presumptuous.”

You really shouldn’t keep pushing and keep prolonging the truth, because you know how this is going to end up. You know you're eventually going to secede and humiliatingly confess something you're not ready to admit (not outright, anyway). Especially when his head dips down before you can even blink, burying his face in the crook of your neck and inhaling your scent as if it's his favorite candle.

“Presumptuous?” He murmurs against your skin, his tone almost in disbelief that you were able to say such a word given your flustered state.

You’re a bit surprised as well, yet you’re unable to find words as you subconsciously grip onto his shirt almost as a way to ground yourself. But the gesture genuinely proves fruitless as you're still flipping channels in your head as to the overwhelming sensation of Rafe, Rafe, Rafe, stiffening in his embrace yet also leaning into him before your mind can tell your body no.

When he starts pressing deep, chaste kisses on you, your breath catches. “Bold.”

“Mhm.” The hum vibrates against your skin. “Still a fact.”

You say it before you can take it back. “Maybe.”

Rafe pulls back instantly to study your expression. His brows are slightly raised in surprise, maybe not expecting you to give in so quickly, bottom lip a little more swollen from before not only from his cut but from kissing and sucking your skin as if it was his only lifeline left on earth.

“Yeah?” He clarifies breathlessly.

Embarrassingly, you nod. “Potentially.”

His lips twitch in amusement, clearly over the moon that your dignity is dissipating away like dust, that you’ve inadvertently admitted your feelings from him and reciprocated his (feelings you didn’t know he even had).

Cocking his head to the side, he studies you for a moment almost in admiration, as if he could get used to looking at you this shamelessly. Touching you this brazenly. Being yours so achingly boldly. It’s terrifying. Exhilarating. Intoxicating.

Then, he surprises you. “Hungry?”

You frown in a moment of confusion, then shrug when you actually think about it. “Starving.”

His eyes daringly stare at your lips for one, two beats before flicking back to your eyes, grinning with such eased nonchalance as if he didn’t just flip your world upside down with his bold gesture. The hand that’s been pressed to the bare skin of your waist leaves its place, instead slinging over your shoulders to pull you taut to his side (careful of your wrist) and steering you in the direction of the exit.

With the sight of you under his wing, Sarah — who’s been on the phone unknowing of this entire debacle — raises her brows and slowly lowers the phone from her ear to solely focus on you and her brother who are certainly more cozy than normal.

“Finally.” She deadpans to her brother, completely ignoring the person (probably John B) on the other line. “Apparently getting beat up makes you smarter.”

Rafe ignores the jab. “We’re leaving. You comin’ with?”

She makes a sour face as she darts her gaze between you and him. “And third wheel while you fondle her the whole time? Pass.”

You open your mouth to protest (and defend whatever is left of your dignity because it is absolutely dwindling by the very second) but he beats you too it, apparently used to the quick quips that the siblings often have for each other.

"Hoped you'd say that," he responds simply.

He sounds almost relieved that he has you all to himself without his sister to act as the buffer between you. Yet before you can investigate the inner workings of his demeanor, Rafe gently pats your arm once, twice, as if to beckon your attention to him, solely him. You peer at him, blinking stupidly at the entire sibling-exchange so you know you're definitely wearing the same dumbfounded expression, mind still reeling from the fact that you basically just confessed your feelings for him.

But Rafe doesn't jab. Or tease. Or even throw you a signature smirk.

Instead, he leans forward and fucking kisses your hairline.

He pulls back before you can even register the gesture, blue eyes swimming with a softness that makes your knees weak and thumb rubbing absentminded circles on your arm, the arm that's adorned in his jersey, his number, his name. The thought of being completely encapsulated by him regretfully makes your mind mush, and all you can think about is him, him, him. His touch. His eyes. His voice that is so honey that it makes your stomach grumble.

"Ready?" Rafe's tone is saccharine. "I'm drivin'."

The words are spoken as if laced with honey, but you blink once, twice at him before registering what he actually said. You're suddenly jolted out of your little daydream, scoffing in his beautiful face at the offer.

"Absolutely not." You pride yourself on finding your own footing again (barely). "You're the walking definition of CTE, you are not getting behind the wheel anytime soon."

His grin is lazy and lopsided due to his split lip, but it doesn't seem to slow him down in the slightest. "Whatever you say, baby."

Sarah gags.

"Blah!" She throws her hands up in surrender, squeezing her eyes shut. "Ew, ew, ew. I'm leaving. Goodbye."

You watch as she practically spins on her heel, dramatically striding towards the exit and putting the phone back up to her ear. She talks animatedly with the person on the other line, most likely her boyfriend, probably complaining that her brother stole her best friend right in front of her eyes.

Once she's out of sight, Rafe's wasting no time moving his arm that's around your shoulders to, once again, seek refuge on your waist (under his jersey, might you add).

Yet as nice as the feeling is, it makes you frown because you want to feel him, too.

So instead, you paw at his arm with your good hand, ignoring his look of surprise when you trace your hand down the smooth skin of his arm, to the inside of his wrist, and into his palm to gingerly intertwine your fingers, careful to not hurt his already split knuckles as you gently coax him forward to walk with you, hand in hand and side by side.

You can tell in your peripheral that he's fucking beaming.

"So," you quip, ignoring his glee expression. "How about Thai?"

"Anything you want, baby." His tone gives it away that he's grinning as much as his injuries will allow him to. "As long as I'm paying."

You're trying really hard not to overanalyze the fact that you're about to go on a date. With Rafe Cameron. The Prince of all Pricks. Not to mention you're holding hands like middle schoolers, enduring whispers and looks from the people around you.

Although you can't find it in yourself to care. Not when he's this warm. Not when his voice is alluring as a siren. Not when your stomach is pooling with pride that he chose you. He wants you. He needs you.

"Figured you wouldn't let me," you muse. "Besides, I don't even have my wallet. Sarah does."

Despite his bruised knuckles, he manages to give your hand one, two, three gentle squeezes, a wordless promise that he's yours, whether you like it or not. Not that you necessarily mind, because (not that you'll ever admit it to him) but it's really nice to be held by him, even though this is where your dignity dies.

"Good," he says simply. "Pretty girls don't pay."

You figure that's going to be his excuse from now on. (Not that you're complaining.)

© salem-s please do not copy or replicate work unless given permission. mdni.

notes hope you guys enjoyed! lowkey debating on a part 2 for them....anyway