smellysluna

[smellysluna]

Capture Target: You!

Jinah's getting suspicious! She asks why he's suddenly bothering to dress up, Jinwoo argues it's not unusual.

Link to the Masterlist

I'm so sorry for the long drought folks I was suffering from writer's block💔💔

Jinwoo stares at his reflection, scrutinizing every single mishap he notices. Fixing his hair for the umpteenth time, he clicks his tongue in annoyance.

He didn't peg himself to be the type to worry about appearance too much, but the system. As always, the system, had caused him to overthink this matter too much.

[Tip: make sure to dress accordingly! Lack of care will cause a loss of points. Dun dun dun dun]

Was this enough? Did he look decent? Certainly this won't warrant a loss of points. Hopefully.

This would only be a casual meet up at the park, a moment of respite for you two who've been swaddled with work these past few days. You'd finally be able to pet the bears and he'd finally be able to see you—and by that he means to see how this new dynamic would affect your conversations with him.

Meeting you meant more AP—more AP meant he could clear the quest faster and get the rewards faster(said rewards were skills and a weapon with cringe-worthy names that didn't quite match his aesthetics. But it's fine, Jinwoo's not picky. If what he gets are functional then he doesn't care about the name.)

It's only that. Really. Only that.

He stares. Really stares.

Jinah walks in at just the right time. And she—gasp—sees her brother looking at himself in the mirror. Checking himself out and get this—he actually made an effort to look presentable.

He's fixing his hair and collar and everything—picking apart everything wrong that the mirror reflected back to him.

Jinah thinks it's the end of the world. But does she show it? Of course. Of course she does.

"What are you doing?"

Jinwoo hums, not at all bothered by her presence. "Do you think I look good?"

Jinah recoils—physically, spiritually, and emotionally recoils—like her brother had just bit her and admitted to being a zombie in disguise. She lets out a loud gasp, tumbles backwards five steps, and puts a hand to her chest in a dramatic fashion.

"You... I can't believe it—you actually looked at yourself in the mirror! You're actually trying to look good!" She narrows her eyes, clutching the doorknob to balance herself after the damage the sight had just given her.

"Mom! Jinwoo's being possessed! I can't believe this!" She cries, half teasing half serious.

Jinwoo deadpans. Really now? He's asking very seriously here—he does not want to be met with Jinah acting like it's something that only happens once in a blue moon. He does take care to look decent—just not with this much effort.

The effort he put wasn't even that much—atleast he thinks so. Did he overdo it? He looks at the

"Stop being dramatic and just answer me."

"I can't—" she grits her teeth. "Is the world ending? You've been acting weird lately!"

Jinwoo takes a deep breath, and exhales through his nose. Dealing with Jinah's antics was always a new experience.

He doesn't answer, only stare at her and wait for her to finish her theatrics and give him actually decent advice.

When she finally slows her breathing into a calm rhythm and stands upright once more(it took a lot of time. Now he's worried about keeping you waiting despite it being 30 minutes before the agreed meeting time.) she dons a serious expression—lips curled into a thin line as she furrows her brows.

"You're serious?"

He nods. Straightens his back, and begins to expect her judgement—trusting her to be the more fashion conscious of them two.

Jinah hums, hand on her chin as she scrutinizes him, grading his outfit like a master designer.

"You look..." She pauses, waiting for dramatic tension.

"Decent." She beams. "You look like a normal human being for once. That's the best you can do and that's fine!"

Jinah grins, patting him on the shoulder with a reassuring slap. "You'll be fine. You have your personality. You're a good man—you'll woo whoever you're gonna go on a date with."

Jinwoo stiffens, not visibly, just slightly noticeable. "It's not a date." He narrows his eyes, leaning down as Jinah musses up his hair wait purposeful strokes to allow her easier reach.

"Mhm of course it's not." She did not sound convinced. "You wouldn't be looking like you were trying to impress someone if it was."

"You don't sound convinced."

"That's because I'm not."

Well, that was fast. An exasperated sigh leaves him in the midst of a defeated smile.

"Tell me honestly: who are you going out with?"

And there came the million dollar question.

Whilst on the outside he remained cool and relaxed—every bit the description of level headed. But Jinah knew her brother—and she would not be fooled by any attempts at hiding something from her.

Especially a romantic partner.

"Just someone." Jinwoo says. It's safe. Easy. Normal. At least he thinks it is—he wouldn't know, he's not one to indulge in romance.

Jinah narrows her eyes. He can already feel the clock chiming to his death. "Someone? Just someone?"

He holds his breath. "Yeah."

"And that someone made you actually look at yourself in the mirror and bother looking presentable—which you only do during parent conference meetings by the way—and even bother to ask me 'how do I look?'"

Well, technically it was the system pushing him to look decent—not him. It's not entirely done out of his own volition. "That's not relevant."

"Not relevant? Really?" She crosses her arms, leaning against the doorframe with a smug grin. "Really now? Really? Seriously?"

Jinwoo sighed, already regretting asking her. He glances at the time—worrying that he might be late to the agreed time—fortunately, he still had at least half an hour before the agreed meeting. And though this meant he was already preparing an hour before the agreed time—we don't dwell on that. Just don't.

"It's just a meet up with a long time friend, that's all."

"Oh really?"

Jinwoo glances at his watch once more—playing the role of someone rushing and nearing the late status in hopes of getting his sister of his tracks.

Fortunately for him, it worked. Unfortunately for him—it only delayed his suffering until much later. Something Jinwoo would come to regret after returning from the da—hang out.

It's a hang out.

"Alright, I'll let you go for now." She emphasizes the last word—making sure he understood that this was not done out of willful ignorance. "But when you get back..."

Jinwoo's already out and about and ready to leave, refusing to dwell where his sister stood out of fear that she might start dissecting everything, he's done that's remotely suspicious in her view.

Jinwoo walks away from his room and bids a short goodbye to his mother—quick to get away as far as he could without appearing too desperate.

Sung Jinwoo arrives just ten minutes before the agreed meeting time.

Perhaps a bit too early, but his mother would approve—it's rude to make people wait after all.

In the meantime, he looks around the park. Open and windy, not overcrowded with people—but it wasn't entirely deserted either.

Letting out his ice bears in an open place is bound to spell trouble. Though they're harmless, the civillians might think otherwise and cause unnecessary trouble by stirring up unease.

Realizing this, Jinwoo summons Beru, tasking him with searching for a less open place that's not too far from the park. Whilst Beru busied himself with searching, Jinwoo occasionally backreads through your messages.

[Note: You haven't finished skimming through old history!]

A window pops out randomly, showcasing a picture of his old phone below.

He quirks a brow, confusion first, then cones recognition.

Ah—the phone he got a few weeks back.

Looking back now, his whole endeavor of bothering to take his old phone to learn what would be the perfect first message to send seems ridiculous. Why did he do that again?

He stares at it thoughtfully. He never did get to finish backreading—too busy talking with you through texts instead. Not reminiscing about history, but creating another memory.

The old phone was left to rot in his inventory once more, forgotten once he had the present you to talk with.

However, clearly that was the wrong move when the system themselves told him to continue reading through it.

Was the content written and kept inside truly that important? A question for the ages—waiting to be answered.

"Ah, Jinwoo!"

Jinwoo looks up, already putting a face to the voice calling. His assumptions are not proven wrong as your figure graces his peripheral, rushing to him with an easy smile.

"You're here early."

He returns your smile, his posture fixing itself when the person he has to impress—for the sake of the quest of course—arrives at last.

You take a glance at your time, then place your attention back on him. "Did I make you wait long? There's still five minutes left so I thought I still had time. Did I get it wrong?"

"No," he answers. "I just got here myself. I didn't want to keep you waiting."

A blink, and you don't deny the little butterfly creeping inside you.

"Ah, is that so?" Offering him a closed eye smile, you ease into the scenario at hand.

[Achievement unlocked!]

[Gentleman series: Don't keep them waiting!

      Arrive earlier at a date before the agreed time.]

Fortunately for the dark haired man, he's gotten used to sudden pop ups induced by the system—enough to not let his eyes drift over it and possibly risk being seen as schizophrenic by you.

Jinwoo feels your gaze sweep over him—and that alone was enough for him to fix his posture and more subconsciously. How silly, it's not as though he'd take your evaluation to heart.

"You look like you're dressed to impress." You comment, tone cheery.

Your words—something he hadn't expected—made him pause. Was that negative..?

He looks at the window showcasing your affinity rate.

[28 ( + 0.5 )]

It doesn't look negative—and he hopes it isn't negative. However, the comment does make him ponder.

He reflects on himself. Hair slicked up, a button down shirt that matched his slacks, and clean leather shoes instead of the usual sneakers he wore to dungeon raiding.

All this dressing up for just half a point?

Ah.

Jinwoo tugged at his collar, heat crawling up his neck as he realized he looked like someone who was about to deliver a TED talk. In a public park. Worse: with bears that weren't quite bears. Even worse: with you as the sole audience.

Closing his eyes, Jinwoo comes to realize that his greatest wish might be to wring the neck of whoever made this wretched system and demand payment for humiliation instead of something grand like saving the world.

"Too much?"

Your brows lift. "Hm? No, no! It's fine—it looks good!" You quickly reply, waving your hands in defense. "It's just—you look like someone trying very hard to impress at a blind date. Or maybe attend a press conference."

Blinking, he brushes off the creeping shame upon noticing the difference in outfit. "That's specific."

Whilst yours remained comfortable and easy to move in, his clothes—in your words—seemed more like him preparing for a formal meeting. Dreadfully enough—even looked like he was preparing for a blind date. He regrets letting the system get into his head—how foolish.

He should've just worn the damn sneakers.

Jinwoo makes a mental note to never listen to the system from this point on.

"So," you bounce on the balls of your feet, hands clasped together in barely contained excitement. "The bears. Where are the bears? Let me see the bears."

"You sure are excited." He quirks a brow, amused by your enthusiasm. "Calm down they won't run away."

"They won't." You nod. "But every minute spent not burying my hands in their fur is a minute wasted!"

You beam. Then promptly pause. Stiffly—robotically—you tilt your head.

"Wait. Do they have fur?"

Jinwoo stills and ponders your words. Did they have fur?

He thinks back to his previous encounters with the ice bears. Their initial form had one—but did their shadow forms have them? He hadn't really called upon them since he had kaisel—but did they?

"They do." I think. He hoped they had one—they better have one.

"Great! More immersion! I was worried they'd just be whispy shadows I can't touch."

"You don't have to worry about that—you can hold them just fine." I think.

My king—I have arrived, bearing forth great news! I’ve located a sufficiently isolated clearing fit for noble beasts such as our ice bears to frolic and for milady to pet their great heads without inciting civilian panic!

Beru's voice rings inside his head like a medieval notification. Without ceremony, he nods discreetly and shifts his attention towards you.

Jinwoo clears his throat. "I found a private spot not far from here—if it's alright with you let's go there."

"Private? Why?" You perk up, tilting your head. "You're not planning on murdering me in broad daylight in the guise of privacy, are you?"

"That's dramatic even for you." He deadpans, flicking you in the forehead—careful with the force.

Yelping, you bite your tongue as he chides you for your overactive imagination. "That was uncalled for!"

He looks at his shadow for a split second, and then back to you, then towards the people lounging and exercising in the park. "This place is too open. Letting my shadows out here would likely cause public disturbance."

You hum, rubbing the spot he flicked with aggression. "That makes sense. If everyone saw just how cute they are it would certainly crowd he park."

"No, I think it would be chaotic for other reason." He deadpans, watching you nod along as if he said something deeply profound.

"Well? Lead the way!"

Jinwoo's gaze lingers on you for a moment made too long. Then, smoothly, he takes his stand beside you.

"Hold still for a sec."

Before you can ask why, an arm already wraps itself around your waist, loose but firm, and effectively bringing you closer to him.

You gasp, reeling from the sudden closure. Heat rose up your cheeks, eyes wide when he wordlessly wrapped an arm.

"Huh?!"

It all happened in a flash. One moment, you were being pulled closer by Sung Jinwoo, and the next, you suddenly felt like you were sinking down the ocean as gravity brought you down the ground. You instinctively squeezed your eyes shut, feeling yourself submerge in a sea of darkness before abruptly rising up on the shore once more.

"You can open your eyes."

A beat—or two—passes before you reluctantly peel one eye open, heart thrumming both from the proximity and the sudden usage of magic.

He pulls himself away, taking a step back further from where you stood(shame). Your legs felt wobbly at first, a sense of vertigo washing over you as you regained your balance.

"What was that?" Came your question after a few rounds of checking if you were alright and not dead. "I feel like a cat who just got thrown in a cold bucket."

Jinwoo—traitorous Jinwoo—tilts his head as if you were the odd one for not adjusting faster.

"A shortcut. The way from here to there was quite lengthy—I assumed you'd appreciate arriving here faster." He pauses, acting like he just realized that ah, maybe he should've asked beforehand. Right—there's such a thing called consent. Truly horrible of him to forget. "Was I wrong?"

"A warning would've been good! And you still haven't answered the question by the way."

"What question?"

You cross your arms, trying to hide the way your knees are still trembling under you. "What was that? I thought you were just going to walk me over. Not whatever just happened!"

He blinks, and then does the equivalent reaction of eureka hitting a genius from the olden times. "Ah—that was shadow exchange. Just a transportation spell, it's nothing important."

Your mouth gapes open. Now in normal circumstances—that would indeed be normal. He's an S rank hunter so of course it's expected for him to have some tricks up his sleeve. However, you weren't a hunter; you were just a regular person who didn't have a lick of mana inside you to use magic. So of course, it surprised you. Immensely.

"Normal? Nothing important? I felt like I was being kidnapped into some sort of dimensional rift!"

A shadow twitches near his foot—Beru, no doubt deeply insulted by your phrasing. How dare you crudely describe something so...marvelous? So skillfull? So majestic?

Though you might own the favor(you don't. Jinwoo tells him it's not like that but who cares. The heart wants what it wants and Beru presumes to know his king a lot. Enough to recognize his yearning at least.) of his king—that doesn't mean you can just crudely word the fantastical prowess of his own master!

Jinwoo ignores Beru's tantrum entirely. In spite of Beru's immature raging, Jinwoo appeared sheepish in front of you.

With a hand rubbing the back of his neck, he gives an awkward grin. "Sorry—I'll make sure to warm you next time."

Next time?

That's implying there'd be a next time, and you don't quite like the way he phrases it so easily. You don't quite like the way your pulse quickens at such simple words either. Traitorous heart.

How dare they feel something? Hope for something?

"Just give me the bears." You huff out, feigning ignorance to your very own feelings.

[31 ( + 2.5 )]

Yet little did you know that all your attempts at keeping things secret actually did little in hiding your bubbling affection.

"Stop talking as if they're illegal goods—that sounds shady."

Jinwoo feigns ignorance at the popping windows. He feigns ignorance to the small skip to his heartbeat that suddenly erupted—chalking it up to simple surprise.

He's anything but straightforward when it comes to his feelings.

Because you were a friend. A dear friend from his past. A dear friend he's pined for in the past—a dear friend who didn't reciprocate his feelings, nothing more, nothing less.

So even when he summons the bears with a sigh when you ask nicely, so even when you quickly swoon and go heart eyed for the roguish looking bears, he only takes a deep breath and sinks everything he feels down the drain.

"Aww cute little bears!" He watches you coo over a bear of your height as it crouches, and twice the more taller when they stand with a deadpan. "Are you hug friendly?"

A nuzzle of their nose on your hand makes you giggle. "Of course you are!"

[34 ( + 3 )]

No, he wasn't smiling. Damn it.

He just found an aspect to exploit to hopefully grind affection.

Taglist: @blackcat-star @daiyanomochi @soft-dots @snowy-violet @kokominari @ssolarsystm @2dmenfr @baby-bread-in @awwwia @coffeeisbehindyou @rai-xxx @sanchann @ilovestarwholock218 @simpingpandas @smellysluna @tanspostsblog @sauerhundz @justanotherweeb666 @stormnightingale @tomiokx @mentaltrouble2201

[smellysluna]

cloud 9.

chapter one: wipeout

m.list | next

synopsis: you had it all, until one mistake landed you at a rundown kennel, working for the boy who thinks you’re all shine, no substance.

pairing: megumi fushiguro x reader

you were always the girl with the perfect landing.

hair curled under your helmet. lip gloss tinted just barely enough to catch the light. a signature move—not that it was hard, it was actually pretty basic, but it was sharp, and it looked good, especially when you slowed the footage.

you knew your angles.

you grew up snowboarding instead of skiing—even though your parents begged otherwise, just so you could hang around your older brother and his idiot friends, all of them shirtless in the snow and shouting over each other in the half-pipe like it was their birthright. you were twelve, maybe thirteen, teeth chattering under a pink helmet, and already moving like you belonged.

while some snowboarders dreamed of redbull caps and burton gear, you wished for sponsorship deals with cerave and posted unboxings in your dior snow boots. you learned how to tail press before you could even hold a proper carve. you did what looked cool. you did what was cool. and in iron mountain’s skating circuit, that was enough.

until it wasn’t.

they never told you directly.

tsukada just started pulling you off rotation. at first it was just practices. then it was the small showcase downtown. then it was qualifiers.

you knew what it was before he ever said anything, and he never really did. he just looked at you the way people do when they’ve already decided something. when they don’t want to feel bad about it. when they’re hoping you’ll make it easy and step away first.

and sukuna? oh, sukuna.

he thought it was hilarious.

called you princess, but said it like it was a slur. told anyone who would listen that you only made the team because of how your ass looked in leggings and because coach “definitely wanted to fuck you.” said it right in front of the assistant coach once, too. didn’t even flinch.

“maybe if she trained as much as she posted,” he said one afternoon, voice raised just enough to slice across the ice like a blade. it echoed through the rink, caught the tail-end of your landing. you pretended not to hear. everyone else didn’t.

you hated him. thought he was a prick. an arrogant, red-eyed bastard who coasted on raw talent and treated everyone like they were background noise.

and then you dated him anyway.

there was something gratifying about being chosen by someone like him. someone so good it was cruel. someone who didn’t just win, but dominated.

he was the kind of skater who never practiced full out until the day of a comp and still scored higher than everyone. every. single. time.

he had status. medals. fame. followers. rumors that he once landed a cab 1260 during warmups just to prove a point. the team called him a prodigy. outsiders called him an asshole. you called him yours.

three months of high-altitude highs.

of smugly holding his hand in public like it was a trophy. of bragging that you were the one who tamed him, of being the girl he let close, the one he let in.

he’d lean against the boards during your drills, smirking behind his hood, arms folded, red eyes trailing every twist of your body. after practice, he’d crowd into your locker room with that half-lidded look, eyes dragging over you like flame on tissue. on your hips and his mouth at your throat, breath hot, voice low and mean.

“you looked so fuckin’ good in that bodysuit at practice,” he’d murmur, lips brushing your jaw. “i know you saw everybody staring.”

his grip would tighten when you didn’t answer. like he needed to remind you who you belonged to. who chose you.

and sometimes in the quiet that came after, you wondered if the two of you were just reflections of the same shallow thing.

if he only wanted you because of the way the other snowboarders looked at you. the name your family carried. the resort your father owned. the fact that everyone in the circuit whispered about you, watched you, envied the way you landed even your weakest tricks like you’d rehearsed them in a mirror.

and maybe you only wanted him because he was untouchable. because he didn’t need anyone and still picked you. because when you walked into a room with him on your arm, people looked. people stared.

maybe you were both chasing something. attention. status. power.

but you let him kiss you anyway.

and you called it love.

but love with sukuna was like skating blindfolded on thin ice: thrilling, doomed, and just one crack away from collapse.

you caught him texting other girls. not just one, but three. maybe four.

he laughed. actually laughed. like it was a game, like you were being dramatic.

“you know it’s not serious,” he said, eyes barely lifting from the screen. “they’re just bored. i’m bored. who cares?”

you felt the sting hit your throat before it reached your eyes. blinked hard. clenched your jaw. your lip started to tremble and you bit down on it before it could. you didn’t want to give him that.

you just stared at him, chest hollow, fingers shaking as you handed him his phone. your hand brushed his. it made your stomach turn.

“first of all,” you said, voice raw, cracking, “the girl you were just texting isn’t even as pretty as me.”

you waited for him to cut in. he didn’t.

“and you’re a dick.” softer this time. final.

he scoffed, turned his back. “good,” he said. “your prissy ass was starting to get clingy anyway.”

he didn’t mean it. not really. but you left anyway.

you cried the whole ride home, windows up, and music off. just the sound of your own breath catching and the windshield wipers dragging across glass like they were tired too.

your makeup was ruined, mascara clumped, glitter pooling at the corners of your eyes. your phone wouldn’t stop buzzing, lit up with texts from the girls on your team.

wtf was sukuna on today?

why was he flirting w that junior girl??

are u guys still together or?

you didn’t answer. you couldn’t. your hands were clenched so hard around the steering wheel, one of the swarovski rhinestones on your acrylics popped clean off and skittered somewhere under the seat.

you stared straight ahead and thought, briefly, about how every rapper and singer lied. they made it sound glamorous: crying in a mercedes. like the leather seats were supposed to cushion the heartbreak. like tinted windows made it softer.

but the sting in your chest still hurt like shit.

but the worst part?

it didn’t even feel like heartbreak. it felt like embarrassment. it felt like being the punchline to a joke he was already telling to someone else.

you ignored his story likes. his half-baked apologies. the screenshots he sent of those girls blocked with captions like see? they didn’t mean anything. you ignored him when he tried to talk to you after practice, when he lingered at your locker, when he grabbed your board without asking like things hadn’t changed.

and then he showed up to your door.

roses in one hand. venti iced matcha in the other. the most apologetic he’d ever looked, eyes soft, hoodie half-zipped, voice low.

you didn’t even like roses. lilies were your favorite.

but you took him back anyway.

you went to a party with him that weekend. let him drive your car because he said “the benz drives better than my corolla.”

you’d laughed. let him flex the keys. let him promise to be DD so you could drink with your friends, just for once, just to breathe.

at some point, you stumbled over to him, cheeks flushed and warm from wine coolers, and blinked at the bottle in his hand.

“wait… babe,” you frowned, voice slurred just a little. “weren’t you supposed to drive?”

he looked at you like you were being cute. smirked. shrugged. “you can drive, babe.”

“i’ve never driven drunk in my life,” you snapped, a little clearer now. “and if i fuck up my car, my dad’s gonna kill me. he just got it for me—”

“i’ve driven drunk so many times,” he said, voice lazy, one hand grabbing your waist and pulling you closer, breath hot in your ear. . “trust me. you’re gonna be fine.”

you flushed, but still pushed away. crossed your arms tight against your chest.

“sukuna, why can’t you drive?” you muttered, voice quieter. “i don’t want to.”

he stepped back just enough to look at you, eyes half-lidded. “because if you get pulled over, your dad pays off the judge, boom—end of story. but me?” he tapped his chest. “i get a DUI, and that’s it. say goodbye to every deal i’ve got lined up. every brand, every team. they’ll drop me the second my name’s in that report.”

you frowned. not just because he made it make sense, but because of how he said it. like your future didn’t matter. like you didn’t have contracts coming. tryouts next month. a whole season you were fighting for.

like it would only be his loss.

but he just smiled. dangled the keys in front of your face, silver glinting under the floodlights of the backyard. pressed a kiss to your forehead, sticky-sweet and coaxing. “baby, you’ll be fine.”

you weren’t fine.

you were swerving five minutes out, in fact.

you kept crossing the double yellow line, blinking too hard, everything feeling half-second delayed. the street felt too dark. too narrow. the sky too big. your knuckles were white from how hard you were gripping the steering wheel, palms sweating through your leather gloves. sukuna’s playlist—some mix of rap and r&b, blasted too loud over the speakers, bass rattling the rearview mirror.

“babe, i think that’s a state trooper behind me,” you said, voice pitched tight, eyes wide, heart thudding like a fucking rabbit.

he glanced up lazily from where he was slouched in the passenger seat, sipping a sprite he definitely poured vodka into. his smirk barely moved. “nah, you’re good,” he said, dismissive. “it’s like 2 a.m. the pigs clock out at ten.”

you didn’t believe him. not really. but you didn’t argue either.

you just breathed in through your nose, kept your eyes glued to the road, fingers locked so tight around the wheel your rings were digging into your skin.

and then the mailbox came.

you didn’t even see it, not until it was too close. your vision tunneled, headlights bouncing weird off a patch of snow, and then crunch.

the sound was loud enough to make your stomach drop. you screamed. jerked the wheel. slammed the brakes too late. the car skidded sideways in the slush.

sukuna? he thought it was hilarious.

“fuck that mailbox,” he cackled, doubled over in the seat, slapping the dashboard like it was the funniest shit he’d ever seen. “babe, you smoked that shit—”

and then the blue and red lights lit up behind you, and you froze. blinked at the mirror. no music now. just your breath and the click of your turning signal, still going.

the cop didn’t laugh. the breathalyzer didn’t laugh. the judge didn’t laugh.

and your parents? they were furious.

your dad paced the kitchen in his suit jacket and socks, tie already loose from work. “a DUI,” he snapped, not even looking at you. “are you out of your mind? do you have any idea what that could’ve meant for your record? for your future?”

your mom didn’t yell at first. she sat at the table, quiet, hand clenched around her coffee mug like she was imagining smashing it. but when she did speak?

“do you think your name is a shield?” she asked, voice sharp and calm in that terrifying way. “you think because your father pays for half of the county and your brother’s a national finalist, that you can go around crashing into people’s property and embarrassing us?”

“it was a mailbox,” you said, small. wrong.

the look she gave you could’ve turned your skin inside out.

“and next time?” she hissed. “what if it was a person? what if it was someone’s child?”

you didn’t answer. didn’t even cry. you just stood there, arms crossed, eyes burning, chewing on your lip so hard you could taste the blood.

your older brother called the next day. but not to comfort you.

“tsk, tsk,” he said, drawling like he was reading headlines. “a dui? crazy. even i wouldn’t do dumb shit like that.”

you hung up halfway through his lecture about how expensive benz bumpers are.

but big money helps.

your dad’s lawyer was a shark. the expungement was fast-tracked, sealed. the fine paid the same afternoon.

but snowboarding? that didn’t survive.

there wasn’t an official announcement. just whispers. your name dropped off flyers. your invite to regionals “postponed indefinitely.”

you knew how these things worked. they had a board meeting—not on paper, but in a room you’d never be invited into again. tsukada. your parents. someone from the athletic committee. a PR rep who kept repeating the word liability.

you were benched. “temporarily,” they said. “a pause.”

but what they meant was: you’re done.

your parents didn’t argue. they didn’t even flinch. they just nodded, and offered a solution. a way to make amends.

“we spoke to the owners,” your mom said over breakfast like she was talking about a donation. “you’re going to apologize. face to face.”

you groaned. “you already took the money out of my account to pay for a new mailbox. what else do they want?”

the look she gave you was terrifying. one brow raised. mouth pinched. a look that said say one more thing and see what happens.

you shut right the fuck up.

she folded the paper, looked you dead in the eye. “some people have less than, y/n. and this?” she tapped her nails against the counter. “this is the least you could do. if your father wasn’t still babying you, i’d take every device in this house, but since we’re being gracious, you’re going to take yourself down to that address and offer to help them however they see fit. no complaints. no eye rolls. you understand me?”

you nodded once. tight. small. bitter.

because the mailbox you hit?

was attached to the fence of a run-down kennel on the edge of town. another thing broken on the property including the fencing and the heating and the warped little sign that read:

ten shadows rehabilitation & rescue

your mother pressed the address into your palm like a punishment. “you’re going,” she said.

so you did.

your mom dropped you off, obviously—no license, no car, no trust left.

she barely said anything the whole ride. just listened to a podcast while you stared out the window, trying not to feel like a prisoner on the way to sentencing. when the GPS announced the address, she didn’t even slow. just pulled into the gravel shoulder, leaned over, and popped the door open like it was an errand drop-off.

“be nice,” she said flatly. “and don’t embarrass me again.”

you stepped out into snow that came up to your ankles, icy mud seeping into the suede of your uggs.

the place was almost hidden from the road. half-swallowed by frost and forest, tucked behind a crooked fence with slats falling out like loose teeth. snow piled high on either side of the gravel path, crunched underfoot with every hesitant step.

the air smelled like cedar and wet fur, and something sharper underneath. bleach, maybe. or ammonia. something sterile trying to mask something wild.

the building looked like it had been built a hundred years ago and never renovated. wood slats bowed from rot. paint peeling. shingles missing like someone had picked them off by hand. the porch light flickered like it was scared to stay on.

you adjusted your jacket, a brown northface from the skims collection, cropped and cute but absolutely not meant for this kind of wind, and knocked.

no answer.

you were just about to turn back and call your mom when a voice drifted around from the side of the building, low and flat, like it came from the trees.

“you here to see the dogs or just breaking more of our shit?”

you froze. turned.

he stepped into view a second later.

tall. sharp. beautiful in a way that didn’t feel soft, like he was carved instead of born. black hair pulled half-up, loose strands falling over a pale, unsmiling face. his eyes were cold, but not mean, just unreadable. like he didn’t care enough to react. like whatever you were about to say, he’d already heard it.

he wore a heavy black hoodie under a gray utility coat. pants scuffed at the knees. boots caked in snow. he looked at you like you were a problem he’d already solved. not a threat. not a guest. just… annoying.

“hi,” you said, nerves catching in your throat. “i’m y/n. i was looking for the owners?”

“i am one of them,” he said, voice like a dull knife. he didn’t move. didn’t even cross his arms. just stood there, letting you squirm.

“oh—uh, hi,” you stammered. “i’m… i was the girl who hit your mailbox last week. i wanted to come here and, um, formally apologize. and also ask if there was any help you guys needed or anything i can do. i’m really sorry.”

his gaze dropped, assessing. you could feel him scanning everything: the leggings tucked into your uggs, the northface, your necklace stack, your ears weighed down in gold hoops and crawlers, your acrylics with little star charms that clinked every time you moved.

he sighed, then called behind him, voice low but clear: “tsumiki.”

more snow crunched. footsteps light and fast. and then another figure appeared, a girl about your age, maybe a little older, with warm brown eyes and a long, dark braid tucked into a faded windbreaker. cheeks flushed from the cold, but her smile was soft.

“this her?” she asked.

megumi muttered, “girl who hit the mailbox,” like it was your new legal name.

tsumiki grinned and stepped forward.

“hi, y/n,” she said kindly. “i’m tsumiki, and this is my brother megumi. thank you so much for your apology, as well as the very large check your family wrote for the damages.”

you gave a little tight laugh. “yeah, uh… of course.”

“we would actually love some help here.”

megumi’s head whipped to her. “wait, huh—”

tsumiki ignored him. “do you have any allergies to dogs?”

“um… no?” you blinked.

“great! come inside. let’s talk about the help we need.“ she turned without waiting, waving you along like this was a spa appointment.

you followed, kind of stunned. in your head, this was supposed to be a smile, a wave, a thanks-but-we’re-good.

not this. not real work.

inside, the place was warmer than it looked, but barely. the smell hit you first. gross. raw. dog shampoo and wet paws and something faintly like rawhide and rubbing alcohol.

before you could even take a full step in, a blur of white barreled out of the hallway, fast, heavy, low growl in its chest. a white akita with mismatched eyes skidded to a stop right in front of you, tail wagging once.

you flinched.

megumi let out a sharp whistle, two fingers in his mouth. “kiba. down.”

the dog obeyed immediately. sat, alert. staring.

tsumiki laughed. “don’t worry. all the dogs here are up to date on their shots.”

you blinked.

shots? what the fuck? there’s a possibility you could get bit?

you forced a smile, nodding along, your grin getting tighter with every word she said.

she wrote you a little makeshift schedule, notes about your shifts, their feeding times. all printed on a half-ripped piece of letterhead.

“thank you again for coming. we really appreciate it,” she said brightly. “mondays through fridays—you don’t have to worry about weekends, we’ve got it covered.”

you nodded, tucked the paper into your sleeve. “of course. um. i’ll see you soon.”

you stepped outside, face burning, and fished out your phone. dialed your mom.

“i’m ready to be picked up,” you muttered. she said on my way and hung up.

you scrolled through your contacts. clicked nobara. she answered on the second ring.

“hey—”

“can i cry?” you sniffled. “like actually cry.”

“oh god. you already went?” she said, voice pitching up. you nodded, even though she couldn’t see. “they want me to take care of dogs, nobara. every day. five days a week.”

“oh i’m so sorry baby,” she said quickly. “you definitely don’t want to know what happened at practice today then.”

your stomach dropped.

“what?” you asked, already feeling the tear welling.

she sighed. “sukuna was definitely kissing that junior in the locker room.”

you broke.

a sob ripped out of you like something physical. you crumpled down onto the curb, hand pressed to your mouth.

“oh my god,” you cried. “oh my fucking god.”

you heard tires crunching behind you. turned.

your mom’s car rolled up slow. she looked at you, hunched on the sidewalk, eyes puffy, phone still pressed to your cheek, and raised one perfectly sculpted brow.

“i’ll call you later,” you hiccuped into the phone, still sobbing. hung up.

you slid into the passenger seat and slammed the door.

“they want me to take care of their dogs every day of the week besides weekends,” you sniffled, wiping at your face with your sleeve.

your mom pulled away from the curb with a sigh. “at least they gave you weekends off,” she said dryly. “you should be more grateful.”

you sniffled again. hard. she glanced at you and softened. just barely.

“…did something else happen?”

you didn’t answer for a second. then: “sukuna was kissing a junior at practice.”

her face went cold.

“i never liked him,” she muttered. “i always said he was going to be trouble.”

you curled deeper into your seat, biting the inside of your cheek to stop another cry.

“y/n, this is a terrible situation,” she said gently. “but sometimes terrible things are just… doors. ugly ones. but they open to the right place.”

you didn’t say anything.

“and whatever you do,” she added, voice steel now, “do not give him the chance to show you who he really is a third time.”

[smellysluna]

Jksjdjs I'm guessing Osamu said smth like that he still has feelings for YN sOB

・┆✦ʚ ​ꜱʜᴇ ɢᴏᴛ ᴀ(-)ᴡᴀʏ​ ɞ✦ ┆・

𖹭.ᐟ Chapter 05 ── just in cace

𓍼cw: soft themes, mutual pining, bokuaka implication, yearning, sex jokes, cursing, suggestive implications (no smut) 𓍼wc: 3k

masterlist || prev chapter || next chapter (coming soon!!)

The car rolls to a quiet stop in front of the shop, and you let the engine idle for a moment longer than necessary.

“You good?” Akaashi asks from the passenger seat, glancing at you through his glasses. He's been calm the whole ride, scrolling aimlessly on his phone, only occasionally chiming in with reminders to breathe.

“Yeah,” you say, then after a pause, “No.”

He huffs a laugh. “Figured.”

The shop sits between a shuttered dry cleaner and a 24-hour ramen bar, wooden sign still glossy with fresh paint. Condensation fogs the windows—so Osamu, it hurts.

“It's so stupid,” you mutter, “It's just a shop. I’ve known he wanted to do this since high school.”

“You didn't know he actually did it until last night,” Akaashi reminds gently. “That changes things.”

You nod slowly, trying to swallow the nerves as you finally turn off the engine. It’s been four years. You’d think it would feel like less. Or more.

“How come...” Akaashi pauses, debating whether or not it's worth asking, worth risking his friend spiraling again just a breath away from the source of her stress.

He turns to you, and you tilt your head in question, encouraging him to continue. Akaashi sighs softly, “How come you didn't ask Suna about the girlfriend thing? He'd know about his best friend's relationship status, no?”

“Oh...” Your eyes widen slightly, caught off guard by his — no-brainer — suggestion, “I didn't tell him about it... Didn't feel right. Especially since we...” You trail off with your gaze, slowly turning away from his eyes.

“Okay, that's valid,” he says gently as he unbuckles his seatbelt.

“Okay,” you exhale, moving to catch up with him. “I'm ready; let's head inside.”

You step out, tugging your jacket closed. This place used to live in Osamu's daydreams. Now it's real.

You reach for the door, but Akaashi opens it first. You chuckle, shooting him a glance before stepping in.

The shop smells like grilled rice and the warmth of a memory.

It's indeed cozy, warmer than you expected, with the late afternoon sun filtering through the front windows. Osamu had pulled a few tables together near the back for everyone, a spot away from the customers still trickling in, but close enough to the kitchen that he could pop in and out.

Laughter ripples from that corner. Bokuto is halfway through a retelling of something dramatic, hands moving wildly in the air, his grin wide enough to take up the whole table. Next to him, Atsumu sighs and drags a hand down his face in exasperation, though he's clearly trying not to smile.

Suna is quietly seated at the end of the table, nursing a drink, scrolling through his phone like he doesn't want anyone to know he's paying attention.

But none of them catches your gaze first.

Your eyes find him.

Behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, apron dusted in rice flour. He's already looking at you, like he knew it was you the second the bell rang.

A faint smile curls on Osamu's lips, like he's trying to hold it back, but you catch it. And for a second, the clatter of chopsticks dies; nothing exists but his half-hidden smile.

Your lips part, but you don't speak.

You don't need to.

Then—

“Yn! Akaashi!” Bokuto's voice booms across the room like a cymbal crash, shattering whatever quiet current was building between you and Osamu. He waves an arm so enthusiastically that his chopsticks nearly fly out of his hand. “You guys made it!”

You blink, startled back into the moment.

The tension breaks. Osamu clears his throat, returning to his task like the glance hadn't meant anything at all.

You feel the loss of it more than you mean to.

You weave through the narrow aisle between tables, your steps slow and measured, like you're trying not to disturb something fragile. Akaashi walks beside you, his presence calm as always, a quiet anchor in the noisy room.

The sounds of the shop swell back into your ears. Soft conversations, the crackle of the grill, the low, almost imperceptible hum of something unfinished.

Atsumu looks up towards you with a grin. “The boss-lady herself's gracin' us with her presence! Miracles do happen, huh?”

You huff with a roll of your eyes as you take the seat across from him. “Is it really that surprising?”

"It sure is, seein' how hard we had ta twist yer arm just ta drag ya out last night."

“Yn!” Bokuto beams a smile at you as he moves over to the seat at the bottom of the table, obviously to sit closer to Akaashi. “Long time no see!”

You exchange greetings with everyone, easy and warm, trying not to fumble when your eyes land on Suna sitting by the head of the table to your left.

He nods in acknowledgment, eyes unreadable as always, and you feel it again, that offbeat rhythm in your chest that you've been trying to suppress all day.

“I see we're all here now.”

Your head snaps to the side; a not-so-unfamiliar figure emerges from the bathroom. Dark curls frame his face, his posture straighter than the rest, composed but not stiff. His eyes, sharp, dark, and far too perceptive, meet yours. There's a cool assessment in them that doesn't feel unkind, just observant.

Sakusa Kiyoomi. You've never met him in person, but you know of him. His reputation precedes him, even without Bokuto's endless commentary.

You note the look he gave Bokuto for a split second, visibly unpleased by the small change of their seats, yet he takes the one by Atsumu's side anyway.

“This is Sakusa,” Akaashi murmurs next to you, as if reading your mind. “Guess he decided to come after all.”

Sakusa gives you a small nod with his head, which you return. “Yn,” he says, his voice low and crisp. “Heard a lot about you.”

“Likewise,” you reply with a faint smile, surprised by how easily it comes out.

Atsumu grins, nudging Sakusa with his elbow. “Don't worry, he ain't gonna bite. Just judges quietly.”

Sakusa hums. “I wouldn't say quietly.” That earns a snort from Suna, who still hasn't looked up from his phone.

Osamu appears at the edge of the table, towel slung over one shoulder. A small piece of his hair escaping his cap is slightly damp, stuck to his forehead like he’d been sweating over the grill. There's a flush high on his cheekbones that might be from the heat. Probably.

He places a tray down; two onigiri plates, hot and steaming. One slides in front of Akaashi and the other in front of you without a word, but the look he gives you says more than anything could.

“You good?” Osamu asks, quiet enough that only you hear.

You nod, plate warming your palms, “Thanks. This looks amazing.”

He gives you a half-smile. “Don't be a stranger.”

And then he disappears again, back to the rhythm of the kitchen.

God, he always knew how to say too much with too little.

Conversation swells around you. Atsumu teases Bokuto about his latest gym obsession, something involving weighted vests and an ill-advised trend on tiktok. Bokuto denies nothing. Sakusa quietly sips his tea, offering dry one-liners that somehow land harder than Atsumu's dramatic punchlines.

Every now and then, you catch Suna watching you. Just brief glances, casual, like he's checking the air. Your foot brushes his under the table once, but he doesn't move it away.

Halfway through your onigiri, Atsumu leans in. “So, yn...”

You pause mid-chew. “Yes?”

He wiggles his eyebrows. “How's the food?”

“…Great?”

“I mean, you've tasted Samu's cookin' before, right? Like, real up close n' personal?”

There's a beat of silence. Bokuto nearly chokes on his food. Akaashi coughs behind his fist. Suna's eyes widen, a smirk threatening to rise on his lips. Sakusa just stares into the void with a look of disappointment.

You glare at Atsumu, deadpan. “Are you asking if I've made out with rice?”

Atsumu bursts out laughing, pointing at you as he turns to Sakusa. “See? That's why I like her.”

“Oi! Stop messin' with the guests already,” Osamu calls over from the grill.

“She ain't a guest,” Atsumu fires back, “she's family.” You can't decide if that warms you or makes your stomach twist.

“She's also right,” Sakusa says quietly, flicking an invisible crumb off his sleeve. “That was a terrible question.”

Bokuto leans closer, whispering loudly, “Don't worry; we don't let him out in public much.”

Akaashi sighs, but the corners of his mouth twitch.

Eventually, conversation drifts to lighter topics: Komori's messages from Shizuoka, a personal trainer Sakusa dealt with at the gym who tried to flirt with him mid-workout, Atsumu's apparent feud with a convenience store worker who won’t stock his favorite energy drink.

Meanwhile, Suna silently listens most of the time, only adding a few sarcastic comments here and there, earning at least two laughs from the table.

“You should go now.”

Akaashi's whisper forces your attention back to him, “It's pretty slow now. If you want to get a word from him, that's your chance,” he says lowly once more as he subtly points his eyes towards the kitchen.

You instinctively bite down on your lip, and your gaze flicks towards the man in question. Slightly tilting your head, you observe him carefully, his back to you as he methodically wipes down the glasses. Even though his focus is on the task, you notice the faint tension in his shoulders, and your eyes linger on the way his hands move with practiced ease.

Your heart flutters. Silly, but not untrue.

You slip away from the table without announcing it, walking back toward the counter like your feet are moving before your mind decides. You take a seat on the stool right across Osamu.

The surface of the counter is smooth beneath your fingertips, and the air here smells like toasted soy sauce and the crisp char from a pan still warm. You fold your hands in front of you and wait until he turns around.

A moment later, Osamu emerges, wiping his hands on a rug. He doesn't look surprised to see you sitting there.

“Y'alright?” he asks, tone even, but his eyes are careful when they meet yours, like he's checking for signs of a storm.

You nod. “Yeah, just… needed a second.”

He leans on the counter, towel in hand. But his shoulders are tense, fingers fidgeting with the cloth.

“Food was good,” you say, quieter now. “Like really good. You weren't lying all those years ago.”

He snorts, a low sound, and shakes his head. “Told ya I'd make somethin' of it.”

“You did,” you murmur, smiling faintly. “This place is beautiful, Osamu.”

His name slips out before you can think twice. He doesn't flinch, but you see the way his gaze sharpens just slightly. He leans closer, elbows on the counter now, eyes on yours.

“Always wondered if ya'd come see it,” he says, voice low. “Someday, maybe.”

You blink. “Really?”

He nods. “Told myself I'd save ya a seat, just in case ya ever walked in.”

You look at your hands before your heart can give you away.

Down the counter, Atsumu appears with two empty bottles of soda and a mischievous gleam in his eye. He slides them onto the surface with a loud clink and props his chin on his hand, looking between you and his twin like he's watching a scene unfold on a stage.

“Well, don't stop talkin' on my account,” he teases. “Didn't mean ta interrupt this very serious moment.”

Osamu rolls his eyes. “Yer always interruptin'.”

“Only when things're lookin' juicy,” Atsumu grins, eyes cutting to you. “So… are they?”

You raise a brow, not taking the bait. “What are you, twelve?”

Atsumu gasps, hand to his chest. “Wounded.”

“You'll live,” Osamu mutters.

Atsumu leans a little closer to you. “Y'know, if yer feelin' shy, I could always pass messages between you two, like ol' school notes in class. Circle yes or no.”

You sigh, but it’s amused, and Osamu tosses a dish towel at him. “Go bother someone else.”

“I am!” he protests, catching the towel with a grin and tossing it over his shoulder. “I'm botherin' everyone equally.”

He turns and wanders back toward the table, where Bokuto is now dramatically reenacting his greatest spike, arms flailing, chair dangerously tilted. Akaashi grabs the edge of his hoodie to pull him down before he knocks something over.

You glance back at Osamu. “He hasn't changed.”

“Don't think he ever will,” Osamu says, but there's fondness in it.

You study him in the soft overhead light. His face is more defined now. Jaw sharper, lines a little deeper from years of work and sun. But his eyes are the same. That quiet steadiness. That pull.

There's a silence. A soft one.

“So…” you start, voice quieter than you meant. “Last night, when we talked. You mentioned—”

He tilts his head. “Yeah?”

You pause, chewing on the inside of your cheek. He looks genuinely curious. Not guarded. Not worried. Just… blank, in that effortless Osamu way that used to frustrate you, because it always made it harder to guess what was really going on behind those steady eyes.

Your words die on your throat.

You shake your head, barely. “Never mind.”

He doesn't press. Just watches you for a beat longer. His expression flickers like he's about to say something, but thinks better of it.

The silence that follows isn't awkward, not exactly. It’s careful, like both of you are too aware of the thin line between old comfort and new distance.

Chairs scrape softly against the wooden floor as everyone begins to move, the hum of conversation thinning into stretches of quiet. Plates are empty. Drinks long gone. The air inside Onigiri Miya is thick with the kind of warmth that lingers after a good evening — full bellies, tired laughs, and the slow crawl toward goodbye.

“I'll close up,” Osamu says, already moving behind the counter. “Don't worry 'bout cleanin'.”

“You sure?” Bokuto asks, stretching his arms over his head with a groan. “I can stay.”

“Yeah, yeah, ya say that now,” Osamu says, deadpan, “but last time ya 'accidentally' turned off the damn freezer.”

Bokuto gasps. “That was an honest mistake!”

“Ya unplugged it ta charge your damn phone.”

“Still counts,” Bokuto mumbles with a pout.

Sakusa is already at the door, arms crossed, pointedly ignoring them. Atsumu's mid-rant about how Google Maps lies. They both bid you farewell as you gather your things.

You pause at the doorway, glancing back. Osamu's stacking bowls that don't need stacking. He looks up when he senses you watching.

“I'm heading out,” you say quietly.

He gives a small nod. “Alright, thanks for comin'.”

You hesitate. “You take care, okay?”

His mouth twitches like he might smile, but doesn't. “You too.”

For a second, neither of you moves. The air between you feels thick with everything unspoken.

Then you nod, just once, and turn toward the door.

“Night, Osamu.”

His voice follows you out. “Night, yn.”

You step outside the shop, the door shutting behind you with a soft click. You watch Akaashi tugging Bokuto toward the street, giving you only the brief explanation of “We're walking home together, don't ask.”

You stand there for a moment. Atsumu has already driven off with Sakusa while Akaashi and Bokuto are now barely within your field of vision as they keep walking.

Yet someone is missing.

You glance back over your shoulder and pause. Suna is still inside.

He's standing by the counter, one hand lazily tucked into his pocket. He's saying something low, casual, his tone unreadable through the glass. Osamu listens, towel in hand, eyes on Suna. Then, just before he responds, he hesitates.

Whatever he says next isn't much. It's short, probably just a few words.

Yet it makes Suna's posture shift slightly, barely noticeable. His mouth presses into a thin line, and his eyes drop. Then he nods once, almost imperceptibly, before turning away.

You step back, suddenly aware you've seen something you shouldn't.

A second later, the door swings open, and Suna steps out. The light from the shop spills briefly across the sidewalk behind him before the door closes with a soft click.

He notices you almost immediately, sliding his phone into his pocket. “You ghosting me out here?”

“I prefer the term 'patiently waiting.'” You straighten, offering a small smile.

He huffs a quiet laugh and falls in step beside you as you walk towards your car. “Need a ride?” you offer, already unlocking the doors.

“If you’re offering.”

You both climb in. The car smells faintly of jasmine from the air freshener you'd forgotten about. Seat belts click, the engine purrs to life, and the car hums down half-lit streets.

Silence sits easy until Suna deadpans, “Atsumu called Bokuto a 'protein hound.'”

You laugh. “Yeah, and then Bokuto flexed like it was a compliment.”

Suna shakes his head. “I thought Sakusa was gonna walk out.”

“He was probably texting Komori an SOS.”

Suna smirks. “And Akaashi? That man’s got the patience of a saint.”

You glance sideways at him. “He did leave with Bokuto though.”

“Did he now?”

“Mmhmm.” He gives you a look that's equal parts unimpressed and amused, but says nothing.

The hotel’s neon hum rises sooner than expected.

Suna unbuckles but doesn't open the door. “You wanna come up?” His voice is low, not flirty — just simple — open. Like he's asking you to step into a moment you're both already on the edge of.

You look over, fingers still curled around the keys. “Is that a serious invite?”

He looks at you like he's weighing something behind those half-lidded eyes. “Yeah, it is.”

There's a second, one clean, simple second, where you could say no.

“We're still within the 24-hour range.”

A soft laugh escapes your lips. It comes naturally, always does with him. “We are indeed.”

“So?”

And you feel it again. That easy calm that surrounds you when you're close to him. No second thoughts, no spirals. A soft peace Suna grants you with ease with a few words. Sometimes with just a gaze.

Has it always been like this with Rin?

You don't give yourself the time to think about it more.

You pull the keys free from the ignition. “Lead the way.”

likes & (<) reblogs are very much appreciated ♡

TAGLIST!! @itz-phantomz @sorrynotsorrh @reidsworld @nishinoyaismycutie @princessbrittnicole @softtashoney (send ask to be added ♡)

[smellysluna]

synopsis: dom fike-coded suna, soft indie rock grunge, crowd crush, sweaty kisses.

pairing: rintarou suna x f!reader

you’ve never loved anything like you love suna rintarou with a mic in his hand.

his voice is a little too lazy to be sharp, a little too rough to be sweet, but it climbs inside you anyway. something in the way he spits lyrics like secrets, how the guitar swings low against his hip, how his baggy t-shirt droops off his collarbone just enough to flash the edge of that chest tattoo you traced last night.

he’s got a silver chain that glints under the lights. brown curls damp from sweat. and those eyes—god, those fucking eyes, drag slow over the crowd like he’s memorizing every face, but you know they only stop when they find you.

you’re in the middle of the pit, shoulders bumping strangers, heart thumping so loud you almost miss the transition to the bridge.

he leans into the mic. breathes.

then sings your name.

not the full name, just that soft, sweet syllable he only uses when he’s feeling brave. the one tattooed behind his ear, tucked in the curls, hidden under sweat and reverb and devotion.

your knees nearly give out.

you don’t scream. not like the rest of the crowd. you just press a hand to your chest, trying to hold it all in, like maybe if you clutch hard enough, you can keep this version of him forever. the barefoot, sleeveless-tee, denim-hanging-loose, heart-on-display version. the boy who writes songs in hotel rooms and sings them like confessions. the boy who looks at you like you’re the chorus he’s been chasing for years.

by the time the set ends, he’s glowing.

sweat-streaked. tatted hands waving as the band winds down. he throws his pick into the crowd, says something low into the mic, thanks the venue. his shirt sticks to his back when he turns.

you’re already pushing backstage.

and when he sees you—when those sleepy eyes catch yours over the shoulder of some stagehand, he grins. crooked. soft.

“there she is,” he murmurs, pulling you into him.

his hands are still warm from the strings. his lips taste like gatorade and adrenaline.

“you were watching me like you were in love or something,” he teases, resting his forehead against yours.

“i am in love or something,” you whisper, tracing the sweat-slick ink on his chest. the curve of the sun. the scar under his collarbone.

he kisses you again, harder.

“good,” he says, low. “’cause i only sung the last song for you.”

your pulse flares. you smile into his mouth “figured,” you breathe.

his hands wander, loose and thoughtless, the way musicians do when the music’s still in their bones. fingertips brushing down your spine like frets, resting on the curve of your waist, gentle even as the room spins with leftover noise. he smells like sweat and old spice, like the crushed clove of a cigarette someone lit backstage and the cheap beer he took one sip of before stepping out under the lights. he smells like summer. like home.

his shirt’s soaked through, armpits and collar dark with effort, the kind of cotton that clings to him in patches, peeling loose at the chest, stuck along the ribs. his pants hang low on his hips, belt half-undone, zipper tooth chipped like always. you don’t think he knows. or maybe he does. maybe that’s the point.

he sits on the ratty couch they’ve shoved into the corner of the green room, legs spread, one arm thrown across the back, the other tugging you down with him. you fit into him easy. like muscle memory. like you were always meant to be on his lap, mouth at his jaw, hand creeping under the hem of that ruined tee.

you trace the edge of the tattoo on his hand. the faded snake that curls around his wrist, the bloom near his knuckle that looks more like a bruise than a flower. “didn’t fuck it up this time,” you murmur, brushing your thumb over it. “this one’s healing nice.”

“’cause you did the aftercare,” he mumbles, nose brushing your cheek. “i’m shit at that.”

“you’re shit at everything that isn’t music.”

he hums. low. lazy. it rumbles in his chest, and you feel it where your palm rests flat against his sternum, over the thick black ink etched right between his pecs: a crown of thorns, slightly warped from the way he breathes. you kissed it once during soundcheck. he was shirtless. barefoot. scowling about the lighting rig, but grinning by the time you pulled away.

his curls are messier now, sticky at the edges, haloed with stage light even in the dim of this basement greenroom. and he looks so fucking beautiful it hurts. like a dream. like a boy who only ever belonged to melody and calluses and the echo of his own voice.

“you really love me, huh?” he says again, soft this time. the joke’s gone. it’s just the truth now.

you nod.

his hand finds your neck. gentle pressure, not to hold you still, just to feel your pulse.

“good,” he breathes. “’cause i got a new song in the works. something slow. something i think you’ll like.”

you tilt your head, teasing. “about heartbreak?”

his smile is crooked, eyes low-lidded, thumb brushing your throat. “nah,” he says. “about how stupid in love i am. thought i’d write one before you leave me.”

you hit him on the chest. he laughs.

“don’t joke,” you whisper. “i’m not ever leaving you.”

and you mean it. because he’s not just your boyfriend—he’s your religion in ripped denim, your altar in busted sneakers, your soft place to land when the world’s too loud. because you’ve seen him with nothing but a notepad and a six-string and watched him create entire universes. because you’d sit in the crowd a thousand more times just to feel the way you do when he sings your name like it’s holy.

he tugs your hand to his lips and kisses each finger. “i love you,” he murmurs.

you press your forehead to his.

“i love you more rin,” you whisper, rubbing circles into the callouses on his palms. rough. ruined. real.

like him.

[smellysluna]

You know what would be hot?

Enemies-to-Lovers, Teacher-Student AU, based on Top Gun Maverick.

Commander Sung Jinwoo is the brooding, always silent always composed, terribly strict Top Gun instructor. Call Sign: Reaper. He's a legend, the deadliest pilot the Navy had ever trained. Earned his call sign because every time he showed up in a dogfight, someone was bound to die by his hands.

Reader is the fierce, utterly talented yet very cocky pilot, and the only who's not intimidated by him. Call Sign: Siren. The best flyer in the new batch. Always has something to prove and zero interest in authority. Gives Jinwoo a terrible fucking headache (and then just gives him head later on 😌 ASDFSJJ)

[smellysluna]

・┆✦ʚ ​ꜱʜᴇ ɢᴏᴛ ᴀ(-)ᴡᴀʏ​ ɞ✦ ┆・

𖹭.ᐟ Chapter 04 ── not a rebound

𓍼cw: suggestive themes (no smut), sex jokes, cursing

masterlist || prev chapter || next chapter (coming soon!!)

You whine as you let your phone slide on the kitchen island. You collapse onto the stool with a sigh, planting your elbows on the counter and dragging your hands down your face.

Akaashi looks up from his notes, his eyes following your phone sliding his way before looking back at you. “Can I ask?”

You nod towards your phone as you talk. “Osamu texted. Invited us to hang out at his shop later.”

Akaashi raises an eyebrow as he reaches for the phone and unlocks it. He doesn't ask permission. You don't need to give it.

There's silence while he scrolls, the only sound in the kitchen the low hum of the refrigerator. After a few seconds, he hums. Noncommittal, borderline amused. “He's hungover, mildly charming, invites you to his shop, and has no idea you left Suna's hotel room just a few hours ago?”

You groan, dropping your forehead to the cool countertop. “That's the summary, yeah.”

“Do you want to go?” he asks as he lets the phone back down before he takes a sip of his coffee.

“I want to...”

“But?”

“It's just...” You sigh heavily, letting your body lie back as you face the ceiling. “Everything feels messy; I don't wanna make it worse.”

“I'll be there this time,” he mimics you as he too lies back on his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “And if at any point you want to leave, we can go.”

You look at him, a faint smile curling on your lips, “Thanks, 'kashi.”

Kuroo walks in at that moment, squinting at you both. “Are we still in post-reunion drama fallout mode, or are we pretending to be normal today?”

You and Akaashi both answer at the same time:

“Pretending.”

“Definitely pretending.”

a/n: added a small writing part cause it'd be too little for a chapter, but I ended up making this one too big:") Oh well, enjoy!!

likes & (<) reblogs are very much appreciated ♡

TAGLIST!! @itz-phantomz @sorrynotsorrh @reidsworld @nishinoyaismycutie @princessbrittnicole @softtashoney (send ask to be added ♡)

[smellysluna]

・┆✦ʚ ꜱʜᴇ ɢᴏᴛ ᴀ(-)ᴡᴀʏ ɞ✦ ┆・

𖹭.ᐟ Chapter 03 ── reunion

𓍼 cw: mentions of alcohol, smoker!suna, suggestive themes (no smut), implication of vomit 𓍼 wc: 1.7k

masterlist || prev chapter || next chapter (coming soon!!)

To say you missed the chaos that always seemed to surround you all those years ago during their practices would be an understatement.

The twins are already arguing like clockwork every ten minutes, Suna’s recording the whole thing with a smirk (promising to send you the footage later), and Gin’s making you laugh like always. You catch up with Aran and Kita, whom you haven’t seen since graduation, and for a moment, everything feels like it used to.

You almost want this night to never be over.

“Soooo...” Gin slides next to you with a brow raised. “Ya've barely talked to Osamu all night. Ya avoidin' him or somethin'?”

Fuck, is it really that obvious?

“Nah, no way,” you lie through your teeth, knowing you've actively avoided Osamu every time you were about to be left alone with him throughout the night. “Why would I do that?”

“You tell me,” Gin chuckles. You remain silent, taking another sip of your drink instead of answering. “He seemed kinda restless waitin' on ya, y'know?.”

Your eyes widen momentarily before you laugh awkwardly at his words. “I'm sure it's not like that... We just... haven't seen each other in so long; I was very excited to see all of you too.”

“Ehh, didn't really look like that t'me” Gin gives you a knowing smirk before walking to the bar to ask for another drink.

Your eyes remain locked to your glass, biting your lip nervously as you process what Gin just threw your way. This has to be a good sign, right?

“Fuck it...” You curse under your breath before downing the rest of your drink in one go. You're not drunk, just tipsy enough to get the courage to finally have a conversation with your ex.

“Having a good time?”

Just in time.

You turn to the side, only to see Osamu himself taking the empty seat beside you. “Didn't get a word from ya all night.”

And he smiles. God, you missed his smile. The way his eyes soften when he looks at you, the way his cheek squeezes itself in his palm with his elbow propped on the table.

“How ya been doin'?”

You almost get too lost in thought, absorbing his face in memory all over again. “Good, I've been... good,” you smile back. “College is hard, but I get to do what I like, so that's something.” Your hands fidget around your empty glass as you talk, “What about you?”

“Same here...” He brings his own glass closer to his lips, his eyes never leaving you as he takes a sip of his drink. “Finished culinary school, then opened up my own place.” He places his glass back on the table, much closer to yours than before. “Ain't easy… but I'm doin' what I love… what I always dreamed of…”

“That's... great!” You smile brightly at him. You always believed in Osamu and supported his dreams, but to think he'd achieve something this big since the last time you saw him? “I'm happy for you, Osamu”

His gaze softens at your words, and you don't miss the light blush that spreads on his face. “Thanks...” He averts his gaze from you, and this time he's the one fidgeting with his empty glass.

Osamu parts his lips to say something, but he's cut off by his twin’s sudden arrival. “Got us more shots!” Atsumu announces brightly, setting down two glasses in front of you both. “My treat! Appreciate ya showin' up, boss lady,” he adds with a playful wink.

You snort a laugh at the sound of that old nickname—he never let it go back in high school. Shaking your head, you grin, totally entertained. “Wow, boss lady again? Original as ever, Atsumu.” You pick up the shot with a smirk. “Guess I'll let it slide this time,” you say as you wiggle your shot before downing it in one go.

“Now ya talkin'!” And before nodding to Osamu to join him, the twins follow your lead and lift their glasses, downing the booze like water.

A few shots and lame jokes later, you already start feeling lightheaded. In your defense, half of your drinks were brought to you by your old classmates. If you didn't know them better, you'd start thinking they purposely try to get you drunk. Not that they are doing any better than you.

“So what else is new?” You glance back at Osamu, hoping to pick up where the conversation left off before the interruption. “Not about work; give me the fun stuff!”

The fun stuff? Did I really just say fun stuff?

Osamu's eyes widen at your question before he chuckles, “Fun stuff, huh?” He repeats, amused, with a smirk curling on his lips, “Whatcha tryna find out, then?”

“Nothing specific... Just asking,” you shrug your shoulders, mentally praying your unfiltered mouth won't betray you.

Osamu huffs as he leans back into his chair, his hands crossing over his chest, “Well... if ya must know....” And oh my, does this shirt do wonders in showing off his biceps like that... The way the fabric clings onto his arm, begging to be set free... You bet he's been hitting the gym after high school was over.

Your glassy eyes drift up to Osamu's lips. Fuck, his lips were always so kissable, and it makes you giggle noticing how nothing changed throughout the years. Especially when he talks, the way they move, or when his tongue slips out to wet his lips...

Oh God. You literally asked how he was doing and then just... stopped listening. Because, of course, your brain decided now was the perfect time to check him out like some fool barely holding it together under the heat of it all.

Smooth. Real smooth.

You shift in your seat, blinking a few times to force your intoxicated brain to actually listen to Osamu this time, praying to any and every god out there he's just as drunk to not notice you've been practically drooling over him this whole time.

“...and so my girlfriend and I decided...”

And silence.

Your hands instinctively clench around your empty glass, and while you keep looking and occasionally nodding at whatever Osamu may be saying now, your brain keeps repeating the one phrase you actually caught from his monologue.

Girlfriend.

You were that stupid and let yourself get that worked up, drunk and bold enough to make a move, without even stopping to think that Osamu might not even be single

“Ya zonin' out on me? Don't tell me I'm that borin'.”

You blink, forcing a small laugh as you shake your head like you’re trying to clear the fog inside it. “Sorry, I think the drinks are catching up with me,” you admit, which is not a lie, but not the entire truth. “I'm gonna step outside for a bit, get some fresh air and all that...”

Osamu watches as you stand up, puzzled by the sudden shift in mood. “Want me to come with ya?”

“No no, I'll be back in a sec”

You slowly make your way outside, fighting every step to keep from tripping on your own two feet. Once outside, you lean back against the wall, sighing heavily with your eyes closed. “What the fuck am I doing...” you mutter under your breath.

A familiar voice cuts through the quiet. “Rough night?” You crack one eye open. Suna’s a few feet away, cigarette in hand, watching you like he’s been there the whole time.

You giggle, but it comes out more like a hiccup than a laugh. “Did it show?”

He smirks. “Only to people watching closely.” He takes a step closer to you, leaning against the wall while his body faces you. “What's up?”

You laugh again, this time not because you're a little more than drunk, but also out of self-deprecation. “Nothing. Just...” You exhale through your nose as your eyes fall to the ground, “Felt brave for a moment. Now I just feel stupid.”

Suna huffs a chuckle, “Hoping to rekindle an old flame?”

“Something like that, I guess...” you admit, no point in hiding it now. “How did it go?” he asks while putting out his cigarette under his shoe. “I got ashes.”

“Damn.” Suna crosses his arms while raising a brow at you, “When did you become a poet?”

“Shut up,” you chuckle, genuinely this time.

“You good?”

“Yeah, it's not like I was hoping for something big, just...” And before you get to register your own words before spilling, your unhinged mouth continues, “I got all hot and bothered, only to run straight into a wall.”

Before you get to take it back, it seems like you are not the only one letting your drunk thoughts out in the open tonight. “Maybe you were knocking on the wrong door.”

You turn to the side to face him, and for a moment, you sit there staring into each other silently, letting your bold words settle in your mushy brains. You didn't even realize when your body moved—better yet, whose body moved first—before your lips met in a messy kiss.

Suna cages you against the wall, one hand anchoring you by the waist, the other brushing along your cheek as his lips move against yours—slow, deep, dizzying. Your arms tighten around his neck, pulling him in like the kiss alone might undo you both.

Then, somewhere in the blur of everything, a flicker of clarity slips in, uninvited. “W–wait.” You pull back slightly, your breath catching as you meet his eyes. “Are we really doing this?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just tilts his head, studying you with that familiar unreadable look, like he’s already seen how this ends and is just waiting for you to catch up. “Do you want to stop?”

Your heart stumbles over the pause between you. You don’t say anything. Just a half-shrug, a lopsided smirk, and a look you know he understands. His lips twitch. “Didn’t think so.”

And before you can second-guess it, you’re kissing again—deeper, messier, a little reckless.

Whatever this is… neither of you plans to stop it now.

likes & (<) reblogs are very much appreciated ♡

TAGLIST!! @itz-phantomz @sorrynotsorrh @reidsworld @levisgoonerr (send ask to be added ♡)

[smellysluna]

Not Supposed Too

Things You Shouldn't Feel

Summary :: On the way to summer training camp, Tooru Oikawa finds himself seated next to his longtime rival—you. When you fall asleep on his shoulder, he’s forced to confront the feelings he’s been trying to ignore. Loving you is wrong… but in that quiet moment, it feels far too right.

Tooru Oikawa knew it was wrong.

Loving you? You—of all people. The very girl who had made a sport of hating his guts since childhood. The girl who called him out on every little mistake, who rolled her eyes when he smirked, who matched his sarcasm blow for blow like it was a match she was determined to win. You’d been his rival for as long as he could remember—before either of you could spike a volleyball or spell “competition.”

Your families weren’t exactly the friendliest either. There was a long, messy history there—petty drama, old grudges, whispered stories exchanged across dinner tables when they thought the kids weren’t listening. But you and Tooru had been listening. And you’d inherited that rivalry like it was part of your DNA.

So yeah, he knew it was wrong.

But knowing didn’t stop the way his chest tightened every time you walked into a room. It didn’t stop the way his eyes were drawn to you in every match, every hallway, every damn group photo. You were everything he pretended not to be impressed by—smart, sharp-tongued, infuriatingly talented, and beautiful in a way that made his brain short-circuit if he thought about it too long. You challenged him, pushed him, made him want to be better just to prove you wrong. And he loved that about you.

He just… wasn’t supposed to love you.

Especially not now. Not like this.

The bus rumbled under him as it climbed the narrow road leading up to the summer training camp. He was stuck in a window seat, sandwiched between the bus wall and you. Assigned seats. Coaches’ orders. Some cruel joke played by the gods of fate, apparently.

The ride was long, hot, and noisy—first-years chattering excitedly, second-years playing cards on tray tables, the occasional shout of laughter from the back. But all Tooru could focus on was how close you were. And how, somewhere around the third turn, you’d fallen asleep.

On him.

Your head rested against his shoulder now, your arm brushing his every time the bus swayed. You were completely out. Breathing softly. Warm. Real. And very much unaware of the fact that your mortal enemy was actively losing his mind beside you.

Tooru didn’t dare move.

He sat as still as possible, his hands clenched in his lap, every nerve ending on fire. Was it weird that he liked this? That he wanted to lean his head on yours? That he wondered if you’d flinch or sigh if he slipped his hand into yours?

Yeah. It was bad.

He swallowed hard, staring at the seat in front of him like it held the secrets to the universe. He should’ve been focused on training camp, on drills and practice matches and strategy. Instead, all he could think about was how peaceful you looked right now. How soft your features were when you weren’t arguing with him. How much he wanted to see more of this version of you—the one that wasn’t fighting him tooth and nail, the one that trusted him enough to fall asleep beside him.

A quiet bump in the road jostled the bus, and your fingers brushed lightly against his seat. The contact was barely anything, but it lit him up like a firework show.

This is dangerous, he thought. This is stupid. This is the kind of thing you don’t come back from.

And yet… he didn’t pull away.

He couldn’t.

Because even if everything about this was wrong—rivalries, family drama, everything he was supposed to believe—this felt more right than anything else had in a long time.

Tooru Oikawa was in love with the one girl he was never supposed to fall for.

And this was only the beginning.

[smellysluna]

2.2 | The Scientific Method (Is Flirting)

Chapter 2.2 | The Expo Part 2

Pairing: Fushiguro Megumi x Reader | SMAU | strangers to lovers

Summary:

you slip up in public about the cute guy from the expo

Notes: you should read the timeline from bottom to top

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Taglist: #OPEN

@bubblegumcat229 @1l-ynn @bluemailhiot @noisydelusionlove @mr-crawlings-wife @zxx180 @vintag3u @hawkwithsocks @oreofluffyy @iamnotsakusakiyoomi @sparqvls

[smellysluna]

god this illustration is amazing it makes me feel things i wish life was like this all the time

your design of me

[smellysluna]

sex with a stoner

fratboy!choso x bestfriend!reader

wc: 16k

smut with so, so much plot.

choso kamo is the kind of boy people notice without realizing they’re staring. he’s not loud, never one to demand a room’s attention, but something about him pulls you in, the lazy grace of someone who’s always just a little bit stoned and completely at peace with himself.

he throws the best parties on campus, the kind that aren’t just about getting drunk or high, but about the vibe. incense burning in the corner, led lights set to red or purple, trap playing softly over speakers. and yet, you’re the only one who really knows him.

you, the sweet girl who never misses a single one of his parties. the one always curled up next to him on the couch with a red solo cup of something you can barely taste, your legs draped over his lap, your cheek pressed to his shoulder. it’s always been like this. ever since freshman year, when you met him during that stupid icebreaker event on campus that neither of you wanted to go to.

somehow, you’d ended up next to him. not even talking at first. just being. and then he’d pulled one earbud out and offered it to you without saying anything, and you’d heard frank ocean’s “ivy” playing soft and crackly from his phone. you’d smiled at him, and he’d smiled back. just a little.

after that, it was like something clicked. you didn’t have to try with choso. you just existed in each other’s space like you were meant to.

you’re sweet, outgoing, a little flirty, always the first one to compliment someone’s outfit or remember their birthday. people love you for your light, your laughter, the way you make everyone feel seen.

but when it comes to closeness, to real comfort? that’s reserved for choso.

it’s a mystery to most people. you, the glittering, glowing party girl, and choso, the stoner boy who doesn’t even have social media. but it makes perfect sense to anyone who’s seen the two of you together.

you show up to his parties before anyone else does. you help him string the lights, pick the playlist, bring snacks no one asked for but everyone eats. you’re the one sitting on the counter while he rolls, sipping from a straw and babbling about your week while he nods, smiling faintly, muttering things like “that’s wild, ma,” or “yo, you’re too nice for them.”

and during the parties, you’re never far. you gravitate toward each other like magnets, slipping into place the way you always do. choso’s usually on the couch, arms stretched over the backrest, and you’re tucked under his arm without even thinking. you lean into him when you laugh. he rests his chin on your shoulder. he passes you drinks and you take tiny sips before handing them back to him with a wrinkle of your nose.

and it’s so easy. dangerously easy.

choso’s never been one to push. he’s got feelings, real ones, deeper than he’ll ever admit out loud, but he keeps them buried. not because he doesn’t want you. he wants you in a way that scares him sometimes. in quiet moments, when he’s too high and you’re asleep on his chest, he thinks about what it would feel like to kiss you. to be yours for real. but he’s content, at least for now. content to have you like this.

you give choso a kind of peace he didn’t know he was missing. before you, things were kind of blurry. background noise. but with you, it’s all color. you laugh and the whole room tilts toward you. you touch his hand and it’s like static electricity under his skin. he pretends he doesn’t notice. he jokes, he teases, he lets it pass.

because he thinks he’d rather have you like this, close and real and warm, than risk losing you completely.

and you? you love him. maybe too much.

you’ve never said it out loud, not even to maki or shoko, but you know it. you feel it every time you see him laugh at something you said, every time he lifts your chin to tuck your hair behind your ear, every time he waits for you outside class just because he felt like it. choso is yours, in a way no one else is. and you don’t know what to do with that.

maybe you’re scared to ruin it too.

it’s not just the friendship, it’s the rhythm. the quiet glances, the shared playlists, the way you always, always end up in his bed after parties, clothes still on, hearts too full.

you’ll lay there in the dark, both of you wide awake, and you’ll wonder if he feels it too. if he notices the way your breath hitches when his fingers brush your waist. if he hears the way your voice gets softer when you say his name.

but neither of you ever says anything. not really. not yet.

there’s something unsaid between you, always has been, something glowing and soft and maybe a little fragile. like the chords of “ivy” hanging in the air, too tender to touch. it’s in the way he looks at you when you’re not watching. in the way you linger at his door after a party, lip gloss smudged and heart aching. in the way he lets his hand rest on the small of your back just a little too long.

it’s a love that’s still blooming. hesitant. deep-rooted. and for now, maybe that’s enough.

maybe not forever.

~

the party’s already full by the time you get there, but you know exactly where to find him.

bass thumps through the floor like a second pulse, red lights spilling down the hallway, laughter echoing from the kitchen where someone’s poured jungle juice into a mixing bowl. bodies press close in the living room, the air thick with smoke, perfume, sweat, but none of it touches you. not really. not when you know where you’re going.

you slip past people who call your name, who compliment your outfit, who try to keep you still, but you’re already moving, already smiling like you’ve got a secret. because you do.

he’s on the couch. he always is.

slouched like he was poured there, long legs spread, a blunt pinched between his fingers. there’s a few people around him, suguru’s sitting on the floor, half-asleep against his knee, gojo’s perched on the armrest talking to some girl, but he doesn’t really look at anyone. just stares at the smoke curling above him, the red light making shadows under his eyes.

until he sees you.

choso’s head tilts slightly. his gaze sharpens, just barely. his mouth softens, corners curling up into something small, lazy, private.

“yo,” he says, voice low and smooth like honeyed smoke. “there you are.”

and just like that, you’re home.

you drop down next to him without a word, tucking your legs up on the couch, leaning into his side like you were made to fit there. his arm lifts automatically to rest behind you, and your bare shoulder brushes against his chest, skin to skin. he smells like weed and citrus and something warm, like sunbaked cotton. familiar. dangerous.

“i brought you chips,” you say, holding up a bag. “because you never remember to feed people when you throw these things.”

he laughs, soft and breathy, and takes the bag, tossing it onto the table without looking.

“you’re the only one who eats at my parties,” he murmurs, dragging the blunt to his lips. “they’re lucky you show up.”

he inhales, slow and deep. lets it sit in his chest for a moment. then he turns his head toward you and exhales, deliberately, slow, a trail of smoke that ghosts over your collarbone. it’s not on purpose, but it is. everything choso does is like that. unbothered. intimate. effortless.

your heart stutters.

“you look good,” he adds, like it just occurred to him. his eyes dip, trace your legs, the cut of your dress, the gloss on your lips. “real good.”

you smile, sweet and slow, like you’re soaking it in.

“you’re stoned.”

he shrugs. “yeah. still true, though.”

you nudge his thigh with your knee, and he smirks that lazy, barely-there grin that never quite reaches his eyes unless it’s you.

the party swells around you. bodies dance in the center of the room, the music gets louder, someone’s yelling in the kitchen about the beer pong table. but in your little corner of the couch, everything is slowed down. hazy. sacred.

he keeps passing the blunt, and you keep refusing with that little scrunch of your nose he always teases you about.

“don’t know how you come to my house every week and still don’t smoke,” he says, flicking ash into a red solo cup.

“don’t know how you survive without eating dinner like an adult,” you shoot back.

he chuckles, tipping his head back. his throat stretches long, his hoodie slipping off one shoulder to reveal the black ink of a tattoo just under his collarbone. you don’t even pretend not to look. choso doesn’t pretend not to notice.

“you missed me?” he asks after a beat, quieter now. the smoke’s made him slow, softer around the edges. more honest.

you glance up at him, lips parted. “i was here last weekend.”

“yeah, and then the whole week happened.” he shrugs, lazily. “i got bored.”

you nudge your way closer. your knee slides between his. “you say that like you don’t have other friends.”

he hums. “don’t hit the same.”

you’re both quiet for a second. it’s a thick, heady silence, not awkward, not tense. just full. full of everything that’s been building since freshman year. everything you don’t say. everything you both feel in moments like this, when you’re a little too close and he’s looking at your mouth and his hand is resting just a little too low on your waist.

you want to kiss him. god, you do. but not yet. not here.

so instead you lean forward, just enough to rest your head on his shoulder. you feel him go still for a second, then relax, melting back into you.

you stay like that. for a long time

later, when the house gets louder and hotter and someone pulls you up to dance, you feel his eyes on you.

you’re not a wild dancer, you move like you’re in your own little world, fluid and soft and smiling. some guy tries to grind up behind you and you immediately peel away, laughing as you shake your head. but when you look over, just once, you see choso watching from the couch.

his eyes are darker now. still lazy, still half-lidded, but focused. pinned on you like he’s memorizing the way your dress moves, the way your hair sticks to the sweat on your collarbone. one hand resting on his knee. the blunt long gone.

you move back to him eventually, of course you do, and he opens the space beside him again like he knew you would.

“have fun out there, superstar?” he asks, gaze flicking over you.

you shrug, settling back into him. “missed my favorite dance partner.”

he raises a brow. “you don’t dance with me.”

you grin. “exactly.”

he snorts, shaking his head. you rest your hand on his thigh, fingers splayed over ripped denim, and he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t move. just lets you stay there. touching him. like you always do.

like you always will.

when the party starts dying down and the lights dim even lower, when suguru’s asleep and gojo’s disappeared and the couch is just the two of you again, you curl into him like you belong there.

he yawns, one arm around your shoulders, hand playing lazily with the strap of your dress.

“you crashing here?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

you nod, cheek pressed to his chest. “if that’s cool.”

he makes a soft sound, something between a hum and a laugh, and dips his chin to brush his mouth against your temple. not a kiss, exactly. just a press. warm, soft. barely there.

“always.”

you smile, closing your eyes for a second. his hand is still resting on your waist, fingers tracing absent little shapes into your skin like he’s not even thinking about it.

you could fall asleep like this. you’ve done it before.

but he shifts a little, murmurs, “come on, ma. let’s get off this fuckin’ couch. my back’s killin’ me.”

you whine quietly as he moves, and he laughs again, a lazy rumble in his chest and slides an arm around your waist to help you up.

“drama queen,” he says, tugging you to your feet with effortless strength.

he doesn’t let go.

you move through the sea of red cups and leftover smoke, past the people half-passed out in the hallway, with his hand still slung around your waist. like it’s normal. like it’s instinct. your arm hooks around his middle, and you lean into his side as you walk, slow and steady, like you’ve done this a hundred times. because you have.

choso’s room is down the hall. it’s the only one with a broken doorknob and a blacklight taped above the bed, buzzing faintly. it smells like weed and clean laundry and him.

you kick off your shoes the second you walk in and collapse face-first into the unmade bed, limbs spread.

he laughs, low and indulgent, then flops down beside you.

“yo, scoot over,” he mumbles, nudgin your hip with his.

“you scoot,” you shoot back, voice muffled by the blanket.

he doesn’t argue. just lets his body melt sideways until your shoulders touch again. you shift your head onto his chest without thinking, cheek to the soft fabric of his hoodie.

and there it is again. home.

“this party was kinda ass,” you say.

“nah,” he says softly. “you were here.”

your stomach flips.

but you don’t say anything. don’t need to. you just lie there, breathing in sync, your hands curled in the hem of his hoodie while his fingers play with your hair, slow, lazy twirls that make your eyelids flutter.

“remember the first one?” you ask, voice hushed now. “the freshman-year party where we met?”

choso smiles at the ceiling. “fuck yeah. you were wearing that little white dress and yellin’ at some guy who spilled beer on your shoes.”

“he ruined them,” you murmur indignantly.

“and i was just sittin’ on the porch, watchin’ the whole thing,” he grins. “high as shit. thought you were hot as hell.”

you lift your head to look at him, one brow raised. “you still say you don’t remember how we ended up talking.”

“i don’t. swear to god.” he shrugs. “one second i’m finishing a blunt, next thing i know you’re sitting next to me like you’d been there forever.”

“i probably just decided you looked safe,” you say, settling back down. “and hot. but, like, quiet hot.”

he chuckles, slow and low. “quiet hot?”

you nod. “like… hot in a way that doesn’t try. like you didn’t even know it.”

“damn,” he mutters. “flirting with me now?”

“always.”

his hand slides down from your hair to your shoulder, warm and broad and steady.

“that’s why i fuck with you,” he says after a moment. “you’re real.”

you blink.

“like, people show up to my parties for the vibes or whatever. you show up to make sure i eat dinner.”

you laugh. “well someone has to.”

“nah, but for real,” he says. “you’ve been showin’ up since day one. always got my back. always know what i need before i even do. shit’s crazy.”

your throat goes tight. but he doesn’t sound emotional. he sounds calm. sure. like it’s just a fact of life, gravity, weed, you.

he doesn’t say it like it’s a confession.

he says it like it’s just the truth.

“you do the same for me,” you murmur, voice small.

his thumb strokes your arm, slow.

“yeah,” he says. “i know.”

the room hums with silence after that. not heavy. not awkward. just real.

he lets you lie there on his chest, the beat of his heart under your ear, the rise and fall of his breathing making you feel safe in a way nothing else does.

you shift after a few minutes, and his hand moves automatically , tugs the blanket up over you both, settles you closer, fingers smoothing over your arm like it’s second nature.

he doesn’t flirt with anyone the way he does with you. doesn’t touch anyone like this. people know you’re close, but they don’t get it.

they don’t know how choso listens to you rant for hours about your classes even when he’s half-asleep. how he always keeps snacks in his room he doesn’t like, just because you do. how he’s seen you cry at 3am and didn’t say a word, just pulled you onto his chest and played with your hair until you calmed down.

how you’ve cleaned up after every party. how you always know when he needs water. how you never smoke but you always light his blunts for him.

they don’t know that you’ve been doing this, just like this, since freshman year.

you’re not together.

but this? this is something else.

“you good?” he mumbles, his voice starting to get gravelly with sleep.

you nod, curled into his side.

“you?”

“mhmm.” he exhales through his nose, deep and slow. “don’t leave before i wake up.”

“i never do.”

he hums, already drifting.

you close your eyes.

"night, cho."

"night, babe."

and in the dark, in his bed, wrapped in the quiet warmth of choso’s heartbeat and the hush of something unspoken between you, you fall asleep.

right where you’re supposed to be.

~

the sun’s too fucking bright.

choso’s got his hood pulled low, hands stuffed in the front pocket of his faded sweatshirt, hoodie sleeves bunched at his wrists like armor against the cold. his airpods are in, but he’s not playing anything. just using them to avoid eye contact. to avoid people.

his chem lecture starts in twelve minutes. he’s not rushing.

he’s never rushing.

the quad’s half-full with undergrads moving in packs, laughing too loud for this hour. he weaves through them like a shadow, dark-eyed and slow-moving, sleep still clinging to his bones.

he hasn’t showered. hasn’t brushed his hair. smells faintly like weed and sleep and your lotion, the floral kind you always keep in your bag.

he’s halfway across the quad when he hears it.

“yo.”

he looks up.

toji.

posted up on a low wall near the main staircase, nursing a large iced coffee and wearing the same zip-up he’s worn every morning since choso met him. he looks good, like he always does, jaw sharp, eyes tired, posture loose in that older-guy way that makes people think twice about messing with him.

choso pulls out one airpod. “yo.”

“you look like shit,” toji says, amused.

choso shrugs. “feel fine.”

“late night?”

“always.”

toji grins. “bet.”

choso wanders over, boots crunching gravel, and leans against the wall next to him. toji’s got that lazy menace vibe, like he could break someone’s nose or fall asleep in the sun, it could go either way. choso respects it.

they’re not close, but they’re good.

“you throw last night?” toji asks.

“yeah. packed out.”

“heard. saw some dude getting dragged out by the neck around one.”

choso huffs a little. “sukuna. again.”

“no shit?” toji laughs. “that guy’s a walking lawsuit.”

“got blood on my stairs,” choso mutters. “ruined the rug.”

“tragic.”

they’re quiet for a second. choso watches a squirrel dart across the walkway. toji sips his coffee.

“how much you make off the door?”

“couple hundred. enough for groceries. gas. weed.”

toji nods like that’s the natural order of things. “you ever think about pledging?”

choso snorts. “nah.”

“you’d run that shit,” toji says. “turn those little rich boys inside out.”

“i’m not good with rules.”

“fuck rules.”

choso grins a little. “you sound like yuki.”

“i taught yuki,” toji says, deadpan.

that gets a real laugh out of choso, low and amused, breath curling in the cold air.

“you got chem?” toji asks after a moment.

“yeah. lab.”

“tough.”

“i'm so fucking hungover.”

toji smirks. “so. last night. you go home alone?”

choso shrugs. “nah. crashed with her.”

toji looks at him. not surprised. not shocked. just curious.

“y/n?”

“yeah.”

a beat.

“you guys together now or what?”

choso looks up, brows drawn. “nah.”

toji raises an eyebrow. “huh. figured that would’ve happened by now.”

“why?”

“you’re always with her.”

“yeah.”

“you sleep in the same bed?”

choso shrugs again, easy and lowkey like it doesn’t mean anything. like it’s normal. “all the time.”

toji whistles under his breath, grinning. “you’re a better man than me.”

“not like that,” choso mutters, looking away.

“right,” toji says, smirking. “not like that.”

choso stays quiet. doesn’t explain. doesn’t elaborate. he just lets it sit in the air between them like secondhand smoke, warm, familiar, a little dangerous.

because it isn’t like that.

not yet.

but toji doesn’t push. just nods, takes another slow sip of his coffee, and claps choso on the shoulder with a rough hand.

“you’re cool,” he says. “but if you ever fuck that up, someone else won’t be.”

choso just exhales through his nose. shrugs.

he knows.

he knows.

~

choso slouches in his stool at station 4B, safety goggles pushed up into his messy hair, long fingers lazily rotating a test tube over the bunsen flame. he’s supposed to be running a titration, but he’s running on three hours of sleep and an edible that hasn’t stopped hitting since breakfast.

there’s a small chemical fire happening at the next table over. he doesn’t care.

his partner, some girl from his gen chem section who only speaks in whispers and perfume, scribbles answers onto their worksheet like her life depends on it. she’s never once asked him to help. choso’s fine with that.

his phone buzzes in his hoodie pocket. he pulls it out without looking, thumb unlocking the screen by feel. it’s instinct. the way he always knows when it’s you.

[10:37am] you: what class r u in rn

[10:38am] choso: chem

[10:38am] you: ew

[10:38am] choso: yea

[10:39am] you: wanna meet up after?? i’m bored

[10:39am] choso: wya

the response comes fast.

[10:40am] you: bleachers behind the field. bring snacks or i’ll cry.

choso smiles.

it’s the kind of smile he never shows anyone but you. lazy. lowkey. like a secret he doesn’t need to say out loud.

he texts back a thumbs up emoji. tucks his phone away. watches the blue flame flicker under the test tube like it’s trying to tell him something.

~

the bleachers behind the athletic field are barely standing. rusted metal, cracked paint, half the steps warped from years of cleat-stomped abuse. it’s one of the only spots on campus that still feels untouched, still feels yours. people don’t hang out here. it’s too open, too weird, too quiet.

perfect.

you’re already there when he shows up, sprawled across the middle row like it’s a chaise lounge, sunglasses perched low on your nose and a bag of kettle chips open in your lap.

you perk up when you see him. smile wide and lazy. “you brought me snacks?”

he lifts a 7/11 bag in greeting.

“you’re an angel,” you say, and you sound like you mean it. choso climbs up beside you, drops the bag between you, and sits with a long sigh like the weight of the whole morning finally got the memo that it can fuck off.

he lets himself lean back on his elbows, head tipped toward the sky. hoodie sleeves pushed up to the elbow. hands ringed in silver, knuckles faintly bruised from last night. jaw sharp, neck tattoo peeking just above his collar.

you glance over at him, bottom lip tucked between your teeth for a second too long.

he doesn’t notice.

or maybe he does.

but he doesn’t say anything.

“what happened in chem?” you ask, voice slow with sunlight.

“almost set the bench on fire,” he says. “again."

you laugh, and it’s the good kind, low and warm and familiar, like something soft you wrap yourself in. “you’re gonna fail.”

“nah,” he murmurs. “i got you. you’ll cry to shoko for me.”

you shrug. “probably.”

he grins.

you eat chips together for a while in comfortable silence. people jog past on the track below, but it’s like the two of you exist in another timeline, quieter, slower, deeper. every time your shoulders bump, he doesn’t move away. every time your fingers brush in the snack bag, he lets it linger.

you pull out a cherry lollipop from your tote. unwrap it with delicate, distracted fingers. stick it between your lips and suck thoughtfully.

choso looks over. blinks once.

his throat bobs. “you eat candy like you’re in a music video.”

“duh,” you say. “gotta stay on brand.”

“your brand is slutty candy princess?”

you flash him a wink. “you know it.”

he groans into his hands. “you’re gonna kill me.”

“you’d like it.”

“maybe.”

you both laugh.

but underneath it, there’s a tension you don’t touch. not yet. not today. not when the sun is this warm and the wind is this soft and the space between you feels like a bubble no one else can pop.

“so what’d you tell toji?” you ask suddenly, pulling your legs up under you. “he asked about us, right?”

choso blinks. shifts.

“how’d you know that?”

“i just saw him talking to you this morning and you rushed of before i could catch up.”

he sighs. rubs a hand over his face. “just asked about some dumb shit, was surprised we aren't fucking.”

“oh yeah?”

“yeah.”

you hum. “what’d you say?”

he shrugs. “told him we’re just friends.”

you nod.

but your fingers are tight around your lollipop stick. “did he buy it?”

choso looks over at you. eyes half-lidded, lazy. “dunno. didn’t really care.”

you don’t speak for a second.

then—

“you know,” you say lightly, “if we were dating, people wouldn’t question it.”

he raises a brow. “you wanna date me?”

you laugh like it’s a joke. like the idea’s crazy. “obviously not. i’d ruin your whole vibe.”

“nah,” he says, quiet and cool. “you are my vibe.”

it knocks the air out of you a little.

you don’t reply.

he doesn’t push.

instead, he pulls a lighter from his pocket. a faded red bic with a sticker of a cartoon frog on the side.

“you mind?” he asks.

you shake your head. “go for it.”

he lights the joint behind the bleachers, careful to block the wind, and takes a slow hit like he’s been doing it his whole life. like breathing.

you watch the way his lips part. the way the smoke curls from his mouth. the way he blinks up at the sky, exhaling slow, like there’s nothing in the world that could ruin this moment.

he passes it to you.

you hold it between two fingers. bring it to your lips, but don’t inhale. you just like the closeness. the ritual. the rhythm of it.

“you always smell like weed and coconuts,” you say absently.

“you always smell like sleep and candy.”

“that a compliment?”

“you know it is.”

you smile.

and then, like always, you shift until your head is in his lap, knees bent, lollipop back between your lips.

he threads his fingers into your hair like it’s automatic. like muscle memory.

you don’t say anything.

you don’t have to.

“there’s a party saturday,” choso says, like it’s just a passing thought. his voice is mellow, dragged slow with smoke and sun.

you squint up at him from his lap, one leg kicking idly off the edge of the bleachers. “yours?”

he shakes his head, dragging another pull from the joint before it sizzles low. “nah. kappa’s.”

“toji’s place?”

“mhm. sukuna’s throwin’ it.”

you make a face. “ew.”

he laughs, lazy and low. “yeah, i know.”

“what kinda party is it?”

he shrugs, flicking ash off to the side. “dunno. probly loud. messy. overrun with freshmen.”

“my favorite,” you say sarcastically.

“come anyway.”

you raise a brow. “you want me to go?”

he nods, eyes still soft from the joint. “yeah. all our people are gonna be there. gojo’s bringing that speaker he stole from the rec center. suguru’s bringing weed from the plug that scares everyone but him. shoko said she’s pre-gaming at yours.”

“she didn’t tell me that,” you mutter, amused.

“she said quote, ‘i’m getting blackout on your floor so you better have mixers.’”

“classic.”

“maki’s going too,” he adds. “and yuuji. megumi. nobara. y’all can take over the kitchen or whatever.”

you snort. “we always end up doing that. turning some random frat kitchen into our private lounge.”

“better lighting.”

“less vomit.”

he taps his knuckle to your forehead. “so?”

you blink at him. “so what?”

“you comin’?”

you stretch your arms over your head, lollipop tucked in your cheek like a secret. “mmm, depends. who’s walking me home if i black out?”

he gives you a look. “me."

“who’s holding my hair if i puke?”

“me.”

“who’s dancing with me when they put on early 2000s throwbacks?”

he smirks. “you already know.”

you grin and nuzzle into his thigh dramatically. “ugh, fine. i guess i’ll go.”

“what an honor.”

“you’re welcome.”

he flicks the roach away and leans back again, hood falling down to rest at the nape of his neck. you stare up at him for a second, at the sharp angle of his jaw, the lashes curled against his cheeks, the faint bruises of exhaustion under his eyes.

there’s something warm in your chest.

like always.

“what time’s it at?” you ask.

“late.”

“when are we getting there?”

“later.”

you smile. “as always.”

“as always,” he echoes.

you reach over, fingers brushing the side of his hoodie pocket where his lighter peeks out, red and fading, sticker peeling at the edges.

he doesn’t notice.

but you do.

you always do.

~

the sun has long since set when you’re back in your dorm.

shoko’s stuff is already half-scattered across your bed, a tote bag overflowing with lip gloss and tequila, her ripped denim skirt folded beside your pillow like it lives here. your bluetooth speaker is charging in the corner. your fairy lights are glowing dim, and the whole room smells like something between vanilla lotion and sharpie markers.

because you’re painting.

your desk is a mess of scattered brushes, scratched acrylics, and an empty matcha can you’ve been using as a water cup. right in the center sits the new bic lighter you picked up after social, jet black, perfectly smooth, untouched.

you’re painting red spider lilies across the front, his favourite.

the petals curl across the plastic like veins, wet with gloss and attention. you’re careful with the details. you’ve looked up references. you’ve done this before.

but this time’s different.

this one’s for him.

you don’t know why, exactly. maybe it’s because his old one’s going dead.

maybe it’s because you love him.

not like that.

not yet.

but in the way you know exactly how he likes his ramen. in the way he texts you “home?” when it’s late and doesn’t sleep until you answer. in the way he rolls his blunts left-handed and always lights yours first. in the way he remembers your mom’s birthday even though he’s never met her.

in the way he makes you feel safe in a room full of noise.

in the way he never tries to make you anything other than yourself.

you lean over the lighter, the brush held steady between your fingers, and add the final line of gold detailing around the petals. your breath fogs the surface. you wait for it to dry.

outside, someone blasts a bad edm remix. the party’s already pulsing down the block.

you aren’t ready yet.

but you will be.

because he asked.

because you always go when he asks.

by the time you and shoko step into the kappa house, it’s already hell in there.

there’s music vibrating the walls, some mashup of jersey club and distorted britney spears, smoke curling from doorways, the reek of beer and weed and something you hope is a vape cloud drifting from the stairs. someone’s already swinging a half-finished bottle of patrón in the foyer, and a guy in a spiked collar is passed out half-naked on the pool table. red LEDs paint the room like a warning.

“jesus,” shoko mutters, pushing through a knot of people. “it’s worse than last time.”

“that’s saying a lot,” you reply, laughing.

you pass a makeshift tattoo station set up in the kitchen, a foldable table, three guys with gloves and prison-grade guns, girls taking shots with their shirts off, someone yelling about cross-contamination. someone else is already screaming into a paper towel, gripping their friend’s thigh as ink bleeds into skin.

“how much you wanna bet that guy’s not even licensed?” shoko asks, pointing with her cup.

a few feet away, a couple is practically devouring each other on the couch, hands in places that definitely shouldn’t be public, their moans barely muffled over the bassline. you and shoko share a glance.

“ten bucks says they’ll be upstairs in five,” she says.

“two,” you shoot back.

you find the rest of your girls near the island, maki’s drinking straight from a bottle of dark rum, nobara’s yelling at some guy for calling her “sweetheart,” and miwa looks like she’s trying to spiritually leave her body.

“there you bitches are,” nobara says, throwing an arm over your shoulders. “i was gonna beat some freshman’s ass for trying to say you weren’t on the guest list.”

“please tell me you’re drinking tonight,” maki says, eyes already glossy.

“i just got here!” you laugh, letting shoko pull you in tighter. “i haven’t even taken my jacket off!"

“well hurry up,” nobara insists, pouring something violently pink into a solo cup and handing it to you. “this night’s cursed already.”

you take a cautious sip, bubblegum and battery acid. “what the hell is this?”

“it’s called the thong dropper,” shoko says helpfully.

“girl.”

you let the chaos swirl around you for a bit, settling into the rhythm of things, catching up on nonsense, swapping wild stories, dodging spilled drinks and clumsy hands. nobara starts talking about some guy she hooked up with last week, rolling her eyes and groaning dramatically.

“his stroke game was so weak,” she says, slamming her cup down. “he kept asking me ‘is that good?’ like—cmon. do you not hear me faking it?”

maki snorts. “you faked it?”

“of course i did. i had to get it over with.”

shoko leans in. “rookie mistake. just tell ‘em straight up.”

“i can’t crush a man’s ego like that,” nobara defends.

“they’ll live,” maki says.

you giggle into your drink, letting the warmth buzz up your spine.

“what about you?” shoko nudges. “you getting any lately?”

you shrug, trying to hide your smirk. “define ‘getting.’”

they all ooh at that, but you wave them off.

“nah,” you add quickly. “just been… chillin’.”

nobara raises a brow. “chillin’ with who?”

you don’t answer.

you don’t have to.

because you just spotted him.

across the room, slouched low on the ratty couch like a king on a broken throne, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, blunt glowing between his fingers, is choso.

he’s got his head tipped back, laughing at something gojo just said, eyes heavy-lidded and hazy, lips pink and glossy from smoke. his legs are spread wide, rings catching the LED lights, and there’s a plastic crown crooked on his head like someone dared him to wear it and he just went along with it.

you hand your cup to shoko. “back in a sec.”

you beeline straight to him.

he sees you coming, of course. always does.

“yo,” he says, voice syrup-thick, laced in that lazy drawl you know too well. “there she is.”

you plop onto the couch next to him, thigh pressed to his instantly, as natural as breathing.

“hey, babe.”

he pulls the blunt from his lips and passes it to gojo. “you look hot,” he murmurs, eyes scanning over you. “like… stupid hot.”

you grin. “you’re high.”

“and you’re hot.”

“so high.”

gojo chuckles. “he’s been saying that about everyone for the last twenty minutes. told sukuna his chains looked ‘shiny as fuck’ and that he was proud of him.”

“and i meant it,” choso says, nodding solemnly.

“sukunas a menace,” you laugh.

“a sweet menace,” choso adds.

gojo tosses the blunt into an ashtray and stretches. “aight. i’m gonna go find the aux before someone puts on country again.”

“godspeed,” you tell him.

choso watches him disappear into the crowd before turning back to you. “you good?”

you nod. “girls are wild tonight.”

“when aren’t they?”

you smile. “party’s kinda gross, though.”

he grins. “yeah. it’s ass.”

“i missed your parties.”

he hums, dragging a slow breath through his nose. “next week. tuesday.”

“a tuesday party?”

“hell yeah.”

you laugh softly, eyes dropping to the front pocket of his hoodie. his lighter’s there again, the red one. the same one from earlier, edges worn down like it’s been used a thousand times.

without saying anything, you reach into your jacket pocket.

he watches you curiously as you pull out the lighter you painted, black and glossy, the spider lilies blooming across the surface in blood-red ink and gold veins.

you hand it to him wordlessly.

his fingers brush yours as he takes it, and something in his face shifts, softens, quiets.

he turns it over slowly in his palm, eyes scanning every detail like he’s memorizing it.

“you painted this?”

you nod.

“ma…” he says under his breath, almost like it’s too much. “yo. this is… this is fucking beautiful.”

“your other one’s dying,” you say, a little shy now. “figured you needed a new one.”

he’s quiet for a second, blinking slowly.

then—

“you’re such a fuckin’ angel.”

you laugh. “it’s literally just a lighter.”

he doesn’t let his gaze leave it. “nah. it’s you.”

you blink.

he says it so casually. so high. so him.

like it’s just a fact.

you don’t say anything, and neither does he. the music swells. the lights flicker. people scream and laugh and break things somewhere in the background.

but right now, it’s just the two of you, and a lighter between your palms.

“you’re gonna make me cry,” you joke, even though the way he keeps looking at the lighter makes your chest feel a little too full.

choso doesn’t answer, just keeps running his thumb over the curves of it like it’s some delicate artifact, black with the glossy gleam of fresh paint, those red lilies blooming across the surface like blood in water.

he flicks it once. flame bursts up.

“perfect,” he mumbles.

“it works?”

“better than my soul, babe.”

you laugh, leaning your head against his shoulder, and for a few seconds everything around you falls away, just the throb of the music, the warm press of him, and the soft flicker of that tiny orange flame between his fingers.

you sit like that for a little while, talking about nothing. him complaining about a group project he hasn’t started. you teasing him for skipping chem lab again. him promising you some “next-level weed” for tuesday’s party that “tastes like peaches and existential dread.”

his voice is slow, syrup-thick, a little slurred at the ends. he’s stoned, clearly, but you’re used to this. used to the way he leans into you when he’s like this, heavy and unguarded, every thought coming out a little slower and more unfiltered. it’s a version of him that doesn’t get tired of looking at you.

he tugs at the hem of your jacket playfully. “you gonna stay with me tonight?”

you raise a brow. “didn’t plan on going anywhere else.”

he grins, that sleepy smile that makes your heart tick funny.

then your name cuts through the room, pitched over the music.

“oh shit,” you say, glancing over your shoulder. “they’re calling me.”

choso hums, not looking away. “tell ‘em i said hi.”

you hesitate for a second, not wanting to leave the warm bubble you’ve curled into. but shoko’s waving you over, and maki’s already halfway across the room with a bottle in her hand and trouble in her eyes.

“i’ll be back,” you say, giving his knee a squeeze as you get up.

he watches you go, eyes dragging over your silhouette, that sway in your hips, the flash of your smile as nobara yells something at you that makes you laugh and flip her off in the same breath.

then he’s alone.

not really, the house is packed, pulsing with bodies and music and smoke, but alone in the way that matters.

the lighter’s still in his hand.

and it won’t stop looking like you.

'she fuckin’ made this.'

that thought loops through his head in lazy spirals. he stares down at it like he’s still not fully processing that it’s his now, the way it fits so perfect in his palm, like you painted it with him in mind, like you know his hands that well.

(which you do.)

'what an angel', he thinks again, your face still ghosted in his mind.

he’s high. so high. his body feels like a heartbeat, slow and deep and pulsing warm. and the lighter, it keeps dragging him back to that moment on the couch, your thigh against his, your fingers brushing his, your quiet little smile when he lit it up for the first time.

'she always does shit like this. just makes stuff better. without even tryin’.'

it hits him all at once, sudden and full-body.

he needs to mark this. this moment. this feeling.

he’s already pulling out his phone before the thought’s even fully formed, scrolling through the camera roll he swore he didn’t care about but secretly checks too often. blurry candids, selfies with you curled against his chest, that pic from two weeks ago when you were looking up at him from the floor of his room with a red gummy in your mouth and sleep in your eyes.

he pauses there.

your eyes in that picture. big, soft, glassy, sexy.

his thumb hovers over the screen.

“yo,” a familiar voice calls, sauntering through the haze. “you look fried.”

sukuna.

choso glances up. “am fried.”

sukuna grins. “figured. that couch is cursed, by the way. guy got a blowie on it last week during pong night.”

choso shrugs. “adds flavor.”

they lean on the wall together, easy silence for a second.

“you see the tat guys?” sukuna asks, chin-jerking toward the kitchen. “someone just got a fucking worm on their calf. like a literal earthworm. said it was ‘symbolic.’”

choso laughs, low and thick. “symbolic of what?”

“dunno. being dirt, i guess.”

he doesn’t respond. just looks back at his phone.

sukuna raises a brow. “you good, dude?”

“yeah.”

“you look like you just had a vision.”

choso finally meets his eye.

“yo,” he says slowly. “you ever just feel something and know you gotta do somethin’ about it right now or you’ll bitch out?”

sukuna squints. “uh. like what?”

choso doesn’t answer.

instead, he pushes off the wall, hoodie slipping off one shoulder again, lighter still clutched in one hand, phone in the other, and starts walking.

sukuna watches him go, a little amused. “damn. alright.”

the air is thick with smoke and bass as he weaves through the crowd, bumping shoulders, dodging a girl dancing with her heels off and her hair in her face.

he reaches the makeshift tattoo stand.

it smells like rubbing alcohol and regret.

���yo,” he says, voice smooth as silk and twice as slow.

the guy behind the table, ink sleeves up to the neck, black gloves, sunglasses indoors, glances up.

“what’s up, man?”

choso leans down slightly, eyes low-lidded and unreadable, body loose and stoned and sexy in that careless way he always carries.

he holds out his phone.

“can you do this,” he asks, “on my arm?”

the artist blinks, then looks at the screen.

it’s a close-up of a girl’s eyes, wide, seductive, yet still glowing with laughter. looking up at the camera like whoever took the photo was the only thing in the world.

looking up at him.

choso taps the screen once. “those are hers.”

the guy raises a brow. “like… your girl?”

choso shrugs one shoulder. his eyes never leave the photo.

the buzz of the needle starts soft, a low, persistent hum, and choso doesn’t even flinch. he just leans back, one arm draped lazily across the armrest, hoodie shoved halfway up his bicep where the artist wiped him down with alcohol. his eyes are half-lidded, bloodshot from whatever gojo rolled earlier, but locked on the phone he’s holding out in his opposite hand.

the picture’s still up. her eyes, warm and wide, lashes curled, looking up at him like she trusts him with her whole heart.

“pretty,” the tattoo guy mutters, angling a small light to get a better look as he sketches the stencil. “yours?”

choso’s mouth curves slow. doesn’t answer right away. just flicks his lighter open and closed, click, click, click, the red spider lilies catching the light each time.

then finally:

“nah.”

the guy hums. “girlfriend?”

he huffs a little, amused. “not that either.”

he sets the lighter down on the table beside him, keeps his eyes on the screen.

“she’s just,” he pauses, then shrugs, soft and slow, “her. y’know?”

the artist side-eyes him. “deep.”

choso smiles again, eyes unfocused. “nah, i’m just fuckin’ high.” the guy presses the warm stencil into choso’s arm, smooths it into place.

“you sure you wanna do this while you’re, uh,” he glances at choso’s glassy expression, the faint grin still tugging at his mouth, “clearly not sober?”

“i’m not wasted,” choso says lazily. “and i’m not dumb. it’s not a mistake.” the artist nods once, respects it. “alright, man.” he flips on the machine again, lines it up.

“you done this before?” choso grunts a laugh. “y’think i got these in my sleep?” he gestures vaguely at the black ink already crawling across both arms, jagged, abstract lines, constellations and waves, some faded with age. some done in basements like this one. “first time sober was the weirdest one.”

the guy snorts. “fair.”

the needle hits skin.

choso exhales slow. doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift, doesn’t even blink hard. just stares at the wall across the room, jaw slack, hoodie sliding off his shoulder, the buzz settling into the meat of his arm like a low hum of intention. “you ever tattoo someone like this before?” he murmurs after a beat.

“like what?”

he shrugs again. “someone who’s… y’know.” the guy doesn’t answer right away.

choso elaborates, voice softer this time. “she’s not mine. i don’t want her to be. not right now. it’s not like that. it’s just…” he trails off, brows furrowing a little, tongue tucked against the inside of his cheek.

“she just means somethin’. don’t got a word for it.”

the artist doesn’t look up from his work, but his tone’s gentler when he speaks again. “yeah. i’ve seen that before.” choso sinks deeper into the chair, breathing even. the pain’s dull and constant, but it grounds him. keeps his thoughts from spiraling too far out, keeps his high in this exact moment.

“you think she’d be mad?” he asks, voice airy. “if she saw it?”

“dunno,” the guy says. “you gonna tell her?” he blinks slow, head rolling back against the headrest.

“nah.”

another pause.

“not now. it’s just for me.” the tattooer gives a small nod. “that’s real.”

a silence settles between them, the steady hum of the needle, the sound of someone vomiting into a bush outside the window, a muffled scream from the beer pong table two rooms over.

“looks good,” the artist murmurs, wiping excess ink from the forming lines of the eyes. “she’s got crazy lashes.”

choso huffs out a small laugh. “she’d fuckin’ love that you noticed that.”

“yeah?”

he smiles again, softer now. “talked about lash serum for like a week. gave me a whole presentation.”

the guy chuckles under his breath. “sounds like she talks a lot.”

choso closes his eyes.

“she talks just enough.” the buzz continues. the lines take shape. her eyes, right there, etched into his skin. not to claim. not to confess. just to remember.

just for him.

~

the buzz dies down gradually, tapering into a low hum before the artist finally flicks the switch and pulls back. the sudden quiet settles like a heavy blanket over the both of them, just the soft thud of bass from the next room and the subtle scrape of latex gloves against skin.

“alright, man,” the artist says, leaning back with a stretch. “done.”

choso blinks slow, still slouched deep in the chair like he’s been there for hours, like the cushion molded around his bones. he lifts his head, eyes hazy but laser-locked on the strip of bandage being pressed to his upper arm.

“yo, hold up, lemme see it before you cover it,” he says, voice low and hoarse from either weed or reverence, maybe both.

the guy lifts a brow, but obliges. carefully wipes the skin one last time, blood and excess ink coming away in soft red-black smears. the room’s fluorescent lights hit the raw lines at an angle, shining off the freshly tattooed skin like it’s something holy.

and fuck.

there it is.

your eyes.

wide and soft and open, curved lashes sweeping upward in a way no stencil should’ve captured but somehow did. that quiet way you look at him, like he hung the stars, like he’s yours even if the two of you never say it out loud. inked permanent on the soft part of his bicep, nestled between a set of waves and the jagged edge of a half-finished constellation.

for a second, he doesn’t speak. doesn’t move.

he just stares.

it hits him slow, like a good edible, starts behind his eyes, low and warm in his chest, then spreads.

yo.

he’s obsessed.

like fully, all the way, brain-meltingly obsessed.

he turns his arm slightly under the light, eyes tracing the lines, the slight curve of your upper lid, the detail around the corners like you're mid-laugh or mid-thought or both. it looks exactly like you, his favorite version of you. the version that looks up at him like nothing else exists in the room.

god.

you look good on him. not in the possessive way. not even close. it’s not that.

it’s something else. something way quieter. something he can’t even name when he’s sober, and definitely not now, baked out of his skull with his arm still tingling and his hoodie falling half off.

but still, he’s wearing you now. and it feels like something that’s always been true, just waiting for the ink to make it real.

“you good?” the artist asks, half amused, already reaching for the plastic wrap again. “yeah,” choso says, slow, mouth crooked into a lazy grin. “looks fuckin’ sick, dude.” the guy chuckles under his breath. “kinda figured you’d say that.”

“you killed it,” choso adds, finally dragging his eyes off the tattoo. “like, actually.”

the artist nods, pleased. “appreciate it. was fun as hell to do, honestly. you sure you don’t want her name or somethin’? under it?” choso snorts. “nah. that’d make it weird.”

“fair.”

he watches the guy gently press a clean dressing over the fresh ink, tape it up. the sensation’s a dull sting under his skin, not quite pain, just awareness. a reminder that it’s real now. that it’s his, for good.

she doesn’t know. you might never know. and that’s kinda the whole point. he’s not gonna flash it at you mid-party or say anything slick when you sit beside him later like you always do, throwing your legs over his lap and stealing his drink.

nah.

this one’s just for him. a secret under his sleeve, tucked into the curve of his body like a memory.

“you gonna keep it under wraps?” the guy asks, like he can read choso’s whole plan off his face.

“yeah,” choso mutters, grabbing his hoodie and tugging the sleeve back down with a practiced flick. “at least for now. don’t need her freakin’ out or nothing.”

“bet,” the guy says with a short laugh. “i get it.”

choso stands slow, body still heavy from sitting too long and smoking too much. he sways a bit but rights himself, shaking out his arms like he’s just come up from underwater. the whole basement smells like blood and rubbing alcohol and resin, but it’s warm, and the energy buzzes low and steady around him.

he digs in his pocket for a few bills, slaps them into the artist’s open palm.

“appreciate you, man.”

“anytime, bro. take care of that, don’t go dunkin’ it in a keg or anything.” choso grins. “no promises.”

he walks out with his hoodie draped low, sleeve tugged all the way to his wrist despite the heat and the crowd and the chaotic press of bodies funneling in from the hallway. music floods back in slow, a pulse of bass syncing up with his own heartbeat.

but he can’t stop thinking about it. every step he takes, every time the sleeve brushes against the fresh ink, it reminds him.

not of what they are.

but of what you mean.

upu didn’t need to give him that lighter. you didn’t have to think about him in that little quiet way you always did, like he’s more than just a weed plug or the guy you party with every weekend. that little moment, just you in your dorm, painting red spider lilies on a bic you knew he’d never throw away? that shit went straight to his chest. and now you're on his skin. maybe you'd freak out if you saw it. maybe you'd cry. maybe you'd laugh.

maybe you'd get real quiet and never say anything again. or maybe you'd look at him the way you did in that photo. maybe you'd look at him like you knew.

but all that’s for later. for now, he’s just stoned as hell, arm warm and throbbing, and so unbelievably content that it’s almost embarrassing.

he spots gojo again across the room, already perched on the arm of someone else’s couch with a red solo cup and a grin like he owns the house. choso veers toward him, slips back into the noise like he never left.

sleeve tugged down.

lighter in his pocket.

eyes on his arm, just for him.

~

later that night you navigate yourself back to choso after your banter with the girls.

you spot him sunk deep into the cushions, hood half up, curls falling into his face, a bottle of water in one hand and his eyes half-lidded and sleepy with that lazy high he wears better than anyone. he’s surrounded, gojo splayed on one armrest like he owns the place, sukuna lounged sideways with his feet on the table, and suguru perched on the edge, nursing a half-finished blunt.

“yo, look who it is,” gojo grins as you walk up, already clocking the way you move like you’re headed home, not just to a guy. “princess finally found her prince.”

you don’t say anything, just slide right into the little space at choso’s side like it was made for you. his arm shifts automatically, pulling you in like it’s instinct, and you tuck your face into his shoulder, letting out the softest exhale. you can feel the thrum of his voice in your cheek when he speaks.

“hey, ma.”

his hand’s warm against your hip, steady, grounding. he smells like weed and cedar and the faintest trace of paint from the lighter you gave him. it’s in his pocket now, safe like something sacred.

“so anyway,” suguru picks back up like you didn’t just crash-land in choso’s lap, “i’m telling you, the guy had no idea what he was doing. tried to roll with a swisher, no guts, just dumped the weed in and twisted the end like a fuckin’ lollipop.”

“god, not the lollipop roll,” sukuna groans, dragging a hand over his face. “freshman?”

“of course it was a freshman,” gojo says, grinning. “those little guys think watching one youtube tutorial makes them bob marley.”

“yo, remember that one dude at the delta party?” choso says, head tilting back slightly. “rolled a joint with a bible page.”

“amen,” sukuna snorts.

“nah, for real,” choso laughs, hand tightening just slightly where it rests on your side. “he said it made the high holier.” you huff against his hoodie, and his fingers flex like he felt it, like it was the best sound he’d heard all night.

they keep going, weed stories, party war stories, the dumbest shit they’ve ever seen in a frat house at 3am. it’s relentless, loud, chaotic, but you stay quiet, tucked against choso’s side like he’s the only still thing in the room. his thumb runs in slow circles against your waist through the fabric of your top, and you feel the way he laughs before you hear it.

“yo,” gojo says, leaning across suguru to point at choso. “what’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done at a party?”

“besides adopt a girlfriend he doesn’t kiss?” sukuna adds. choso blinks slow. doesn’t rise to the bait, doesn’t even twitch.

“probably that time at theta when i fell asleep in the bathtub and woke up with a raccoon in my lap.” suguru chokes. “you serious?”

“deadass.”

“was it… alive?”

“bro. it was chillin’. just vibin’ with me.”

“you probably hotboxed the tub,” gojo says, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “raccoon was just tryna get high.”

choso grins, soft and slow, and you nudge your nose into his hoodie like you’re hiding your own smile. “what about women?” sukuna says suddenly, eyes glinting like he’s fishing. “y’all ever hook up at your own party?”

“you’re disgusting, that's against reg” gojo tells him cheerfully.

“don’t lie,” sukuna drawls. “you know you have.”

“alright, once,” gojo admits. “but i kicked her out after because she tried to name my bongs.” “you’re heartless,” suguru says, deadpan.

“you don’t name the bongs,” gojo insists. “they earn names. it’s sacred.”

“what about you, choso?” sukuna’s gaze cuts sideways. “you got bodies stacked in your stoner dungeon?” choso hums, slow and easy. you feel the low sound in his chest, pressed flush to your cheek.

“nah,” he says. “i don’t hook up with girls who don’t know how to roll.” the boys howl, gojo nearly falling off the couch.

“that’s so on brand,” suguru laughs. “you need standards,” choso mumbles, amused, and leans his cheek briefly against the top of your head.

the lighter’s still in his pocket. his arm’s still over your shoulders. and beneath the sleeve of his hoodie, hidden from the world, your eyes are inked into his skin.

you shift a little, just enough to tuck your legs under yourself, settling more fully into him, and he adjusts without thinking — arm around you tighter now, palm spread warm across your ribs, thumb grazing your side through the fabric. he’s careful. doesn’t let the hoodie ride up. doesn’t let anyone see. the tattoo’s still fresh, still tender, and it’s just for him.

“yo, you good?” suguru asks, nodding at him. choso blinks slow. “yeah man’.”

“that weed hit hard,” gojo says. “i feel like i’m seein’ sounds.”

“you ever tried dabs?” sukuna asks. “that’s when shit gets spiritual.”

“you tryna kill someone?” suguru laughs. “every time i hit one, i feel like my soul’s leaving my body.”

“shit’s a rite of passage,” sukuna shrugs.

“nah, a rite of passage is hosting a rager with a cop at your door and acting like you live there,” gojo grins. “have you?” choso asks, amused.

“bro, i’ve answered the door in a bathrobe before,” gojo says proudly. they all crack up again. you don’t say anything, but your smile’s pressed right into choso’s chest, and he dips his head for a second to nuzzle his nose into your hair.

“she’s real quiet tonight,” suguru says, noticing. “nah, she’s just comfy,” choso says easily. “she don’t need to talk when she’s like this.”

you don’t. not when you’ve got his warmth, his arm around you, his voice rumbling low in your ear with every lazy joke. it’s always like this, like no one else in the room really matters, like you could fall asleep right here and he’d keep the world spinning while you did.

“that’s love,” gojo says mock-serious.

“shut up,” choso mutters. but he doesn’t stop smiling. and the lighter’s still warm in his pocket.

and your eyes are still inked into his arm, safe and secret beneath layers of cotton and smoke.

~

the house is still going when you two finally get up. it’s past 2am, maybe closer to 3, but the music hasn’t let up and there’s still people on the floor, drinks in hand, voices loud and slurred over each other. someone’s passed out with a sharpie mustache, another guy’s making out with a pillow. classic kappa chaos.

choso’s the one who moves first. you feel it in the way his arm shifts, in the soft brush of his thumb against your side like a nudge. he leans in close, voice barely above a murmur.

“you good to dip?”

you nod into his hoodie, eyes half-lidded, heart heavy with warmth and weed.

he helps you up slow, palm steady at your back. when you stand, the cold air from the open back door hits your legs and you shiver a little, instinctively leaning back into his side. he shrugs his hoodie higher and throws an arm around your shoulders like he already knew it’d happen.

“yo,” choso calls out over the couch, voice scratchy and low. “we out.”

gojo perks up from where he’s still posted with a half-spilled drink, eyes bright. “tell your girlfriend goodnight for us.”

you don’t say anything, just press your face into choso’s shoulder again, and he laughs under his breath.

“night, man,” suguru says with a nod, already halfway into rolling another blunt.

sukuna lifts a hand lazily. “text if you end up in a ditch.”

“if i do, i’m takin’ you with me,” choso mutters.

they all laugh again, and it follows you both out the front door, the porch light buzzing weak and yellow above you. the night’s cooler now, quiet in a way that makes everything feel soft around the edges. your heels click against the pavement as you walk, but only for a second, choso notices and without a word, crouches down in front of you, glancing back over his shoulder.

“get on.”

you blink, amused. “seriously?”

“c’mon, ma,” he mumbles, tugging at your wrist. “your feet hurt.”

you climb onto his back with a little laugh, arms wrapped loose around his shoulders, and he stands like it’s nothing, steady under your weight. his steps are slow and sure down the sidewalk, the frat house lights shrinking behind you, the sounds of the party fading with every step.

“you always take care of me,” you mumble against his neck.

he hums low. “’course i do. you're my.. best friend.”

you walk like that for a while, his hoodie soft against your cheek, his hair brushing your face every time the wind shifts. he doesn’t say much, just hums sometimes or comments on dumb shit you pass, a traffic cone in a bush, a raccoon on the curb that freezes when it sees you, like it knows choso somehow.

he sets you down once you’re close, only when his own building’s steps are in sight. his hand stays in yours as he leads you inside, up the stairs, past the other bedrooms where people are either passed out or definitely not sleeping. his door clicks shut behind you with a soft thud, and everything goes quiet.

his room’s the same as always, warm, dim, the faint smell of weed and whatever incense he burned earlier in the week still lingering in the corners. one sock on the floor, a hoodie thrown over the back of his chair. you’ve been here a hundred times, maybe more.

but tonight feels different. softer. warmer.

he pulls his hoodie off slow, careful of the sleeve, and tosses it toward the desk chair. the bandage underneath catches the light for a second, but he turns before you see too much.

you toe your shoes off and crawl onto the bed without thinking. he follows, slower, body still heavy with high and heat and something else he can’t name.

you’re both under the blanket when he finally speaks.

“hey.”

you look over, curled on your side facing him.

his eyes are half-lidded, soft. one arm tucked behind his head, the other stretched toward you, palm open on the comforter like he’s offering it.

“i really fuckin’ love that lighter.”

your heart stutters a little. “yeah?”

he nods, slow. “like… a lot. been using it all night. even switched pockets for it, kept checking to make sure it didn’t fall out or get swiped.”

you smile, something small and full blooming in your chest. “good. it’s supposed to be yours.”

“feels like it.”

he looks at you for a long second. the space between you shrinks until his arm slides around your waist and pulls you in close.

you go easy, always do, settling into him like he’s your own bed, your own pillow, the place you always end up no matter how far you drift.

he breathes in slow, his nose brushing your hair.

“the flowers… why’d you paint those?”

you press your face into his chest.

“they reminded me of you,” you say quietly. “red spider lilies. they’re kind of… complicated. people think they’re about death or goodbye, but they also mean memory. rebirth. starting over. they grow in all the places nothing else does.”

choso’s quiet for a second.

then, soft, “you think i’m like that?”

you shrug against him, voice even softer. “i think you’re the kind of person who sticks. who stays even when shit gets hard. and you don’t always say how you feel but… you’re steady. like those flowers. like fire.”

he exhales slow.

“fuck, ma.”

“what?”

“you’re gonna make me cry or some shit.”

you laugh, a quiet huff against his chest. he wraps both arms around you now, tucking you into the space beneath his chin, his hand sliding up into your hair.

his fingers stroke slow, gentle. again and again.

“you can cry,” you mumble. “i won’t tell.”

he chuckles low, the sound vibrating through you.

“nah, i’m good. just… i dunno. not used to someone thinkin’ about me like that.”

you don’t say anything. just curl closer, your fingers fisting lightly in the fabric of his shirt.

the room settles into silence. soft and slow. your breaths even out together.

his hand keeps stroking through your hair, steady and grounding. like he could do it forever. like maybe he will.

his voice comes again, quieter this time.

“gonna keep that lighter forever.”

you smile, eyes fluttering shut. “good.”

“not even gonna let gojo touch it."

“definitely good.”

his lips brush your hair, a ghost of a kiss.

you feel it all, the warmth, the safety, the way his body curls slightly to fit around yours like a shield, like a home.

his heartbeat’s slow against your cheek.

“night, ma,” he whispers, already half-asleep.

you murmur it back, voice slurred with sleep, breath syncing with his.

his fingers keep moving, slow circles through your hair.

and in the soft dark, beneath the blanket, beneath the silence, his arm curls around you just enough to press the fresh ink on his bicep to your side, a quiet secret. a permanent truth.

just for him.

just for tonight.

just for you.

~

~

it’s been a chill afternoon, sun’s out, classes dragging, brain fried. choso’s walking out of the lab building with his earbuds in, hoodie half-zipped, replaying your last message in his head. a pic of your shoes kicked off under a library table, captioned come save me, three broken hearts. made him smile. still does.

he’s almost past the quad when a shadow cuts across the sidewalk.

“yo, choso.”

doesn’t need to look up to know who it is.

that voice, too smooth. familiar in the kind of way that feels like smoke curling up your back.

he pulls one earbud out and slows.

toji’s leaned against the trunk of an oak tree like he’s been waiting. sunglasses on, black tee snug across his chest, arms crossed like he’s got all day. his smirk’s already half-there.

“what’s up?” choso mutters.

“you got a sec?”

choso gives him a long look. he knows toji. knows the kind of calm that means something’s coming.

“…yeah,” he says anyway.

they walk.

they’ve done this before, that time a few weeks ago before his lab, once or twice after parties, when everyone else was loud and drunk and messy. toji’s always been different. sharper. like he watches the room just to see where it bleeds.

“how’s life at delta mu?” toji asks after a few steps. casual. fake.

“same shit.”

“yeah?” he smirks. “you still throwing those weed parties with your little mascot?”

choso’s jaw ticks. “you mean y/n?”

toji chuckles. “yeah. her.”

he tosses a glance sideways. too casual.

“she’s got some energy, huh? always bouncing around, arms all over you. she like that with everybody or just you?”

choso doesn’t answer. toji doesn’t need one.

“nah, i’ve seen it,” he continues. “always tucked up next to you. on your lap. wrapped around your arm. clinging to your hoodie like it’s the last blunt in the world.”

he laughs under his breath. “kinda cute.”

choso’s fists go deep in his pockets.

“she’s just like that,” he says flatly.

toji hums. “you sure?”

choso looks over.

“what’s your point?”

“just wondering,” toji shrugs, still smiling like it’s harmless. “you’ve told me before, you two aren’t dating.”

“we’re not.”

“but you hang out every day.”

“yeah.”

“sleep in the same bed sometimes, right?”

choso’s mouth tightens.

toji grins like he caught something.

“so she’s single?”

choso stares straight ahead.

“…yeah.”

“good to know.”

silence.

the wind brushes through the quad. students chatter behind them. someone’s playing music from a bluetooth speaker in the grass, something smooth, almost romantic. it doesn’t help.

“she’s just real… open, you know?” toji says. “like, warm. sweet as hell. makes you feel like you’ve known her forever.” choso stays quiet.

“i ran into her the other day,” toji adds like it’s nothing. “outside the gym. we talked for a sec.” his tone is lighter now. teasing. like he’s digging.

“she remembered my name. smiled real nice, too. said she was headed to meet you.”

no surprise there. you always say where you're going. always talking about choso like he’s the center of your world. and maybe that’s why this stings. and toji knows it.

“you ever wonder if she does that for you?” he asks. “tells other guys she’s headed to see you. uses your name like a shield.”

he doesn’t wait for a reply.

“or maybe it’s just habit. maybe she’s comfortable. you ever think about that?”

“don’t do this.”

choso’s voice is low now. warning. toji just smirks.

“look, man. i’m not trying to piss you off. just… trying to understand. ‘cause you act like you’re her boyfriend, but then you say you’re not.”

he tilts his head.

“so which is it?”

choso breathes slow through his nose.

“we’re close. we’ve always been close. that’s it.” toji nods. like he buys it.

but he doesn’t.

“damn,” he says. “you got more patience than me.”

“what’s that mean?”

“means if a girl like that was pressed up on me every night, i wouldn’t be wasting time calling her my friend.” he says it with a grin, but there’s something sharp underneath.

“you really never tried?” toji asks. “never kissed her? not once?” choso doesn’t respond. he can’t. he kisses you all the time, on the head, bebe ron the lips.

because the truth’s stuck in his throat, the way you fall asleep in his arms, the way you hold his lighter like it means something, the way you always come back to him like he’s home. and he’s the dumbass who never claimed you.

“so she’s single, then?” toji repeats.

“yeah,” choso says, barely above a whisper.

toji gives him one last nod.

“cool,” he says. “just wanted to be sure.” and then he walks away. choso doesn’t move. not for a long time.

just stands there, fists clenched, teeth gritted, watching toji’s silhouette disappear down the path like it’s a threat, because it is. he knew.

he knew before he asked.

and now he’s coming.

because choso left the door wide open.

and you?

you’re free to walk through it.

~

choso’s room, late afternoon

your legs are curled under you on choso’s bed, hoodie three sizes too big hanging off your shoulder, his, of course. the windows are cracked open, letting in the soft hum of birds and the echo of some guys yelling down at the basketball court. his room smells like incense, sage and something deeper, something him, warm, sleepy. you’ve been here a hundred times like this. maybe more.

his hoodie sleeves keep sliding past your wrists as you text, thumbs quick, quiet smile pulling at your lips. he’s across the room, digging through a drawer for his rolling tray. you can feel his presence without even looking. always do.

“yo, did you move my grinder?” he calls, glancing over his shoulder.

“nope,” you answer, distracted, fingers still flying over your screen. your phone lights again.

toji [3:04pm]: you looked cute at that mixer last night.

you bite your lip. thumbs hover.

then you type:

you [3:07pm]: oh you're stalking me noww?

you don’t see choso pause. you don’t see how long his eyes linger on your phone. you don’t realize he saw the name, until he speaks.

“who you texting?”

you blink up, tone of his voice unfamiliar.

“hm? oh—” you shift your phone in your hand, instinctive. “just… someone.”

he tilts his head.

“someone, huh.”

you laugh a little. “why do you sound like that?”

he doesn’t answer. he crosses the room instead, slow steps. plants himself at the edge of the bed, arms folded. you look up at him and that warm energy’s gone. replaced with something colder. sharp.

“that toji?”

your breath stalls.

“…yeah.”

choso stares at you. unreadable.

“why?”

“what do you mean why?” you ask, eyebrows tugging. “he messaged me. we were just talking.”

he hums. low. not buying it.

“just talking,” he echoes. “what about?” you sit up straighter. “what’s going on?”

“what’d he say?”

“choso—”

“lemme see.”

he gestures at your phone. you clutch it instinctively. like muscle memory. like guilt? “are you serious right now?” he doesn’t answer. jaw’s tight. eyes dark.

“what’d he say?” he asks again. your fingers squeeze your phone. you feel a flush crawl up your neck. not from embarrassment, but shock.

“you’re not serious,” you say again, this time quieter. he just looks at you. so you speak.

“he said i was cute when i was bored. and i said maybe. that’s it.”

his jaw ticks.

“you flirting with him?”

“what?”

“you heard me.”

you scoff. “no. i wasn’t. it wasn’t even- i didn’t mean it like that.” choso steps back, runs a hand through his hair. pacing now.

“you texting him while you’re in my bed?”

“what does that matter?”

“it matters.”

his voice is sharper now. rough around the edges. not loud, but tight, like it’s fighting to stay inside his chest. “you know how i feel about that guy.”

“choso, he’s been nothing but nice lately—”

“he’s not nice. he’s not interested in being friends. he’s waiting. he’s circling. you don’t see it?” you blink.

“so what, you’re mad ‘cause i texted him back?” he looks at you like you just spit on the floor. “i’m mad ‘cause you’re in my fucking hoodie, in my bed, telling some other guy he’s got a shot.”

you freeze.

the silence that falls is loud.

so loud.

your eyes widen. you stare at him, lips parted. unsure if you heard that right. unsure if he meant to say it.

“a shot?” you echo. he looks away. exhales hard.

“never mind.”

“no,” you say, voice firm now. “say it again.”

he doesn’t. but you both feel the truth echoing off the walls.

you look down. suddenly too warm. like the hoodie’s burning your skin. “…i didn’t know you’d care,” you say, almost to yourself.

choso swallows. “i do.” you glance back up.

“why?”

he doesn’t answer. but you already know. and now the air is thick with it. the unspoken thing. and for the first time, it’s not sweet. not warm. it hurts.

because it means everything he’s never said, everything he’s been, came with conditions you never agreed to. came with borders he never drew, but expected you not to cross.

you breathe slow. he watches you. you speak first.

“if you wanted to be the only one texting me like that, you should’ve said something.” choso’s face shifts. his mouth opens like he’s going to say something, defend himself, maybe, argue the way he always stays quiet because he doesn’t want to lose you,but nothing comes out.

instead, his brows knit together, lips pressed in a tight line. his fingers curl at his sides.

“you really think i don’t wanna be that?” he says, voice rough. “you think this shit’s been casual for me?” you blink at him. your breath catches.

“you’ve never said it was anything else, choso. what was i supposed to think?”

“fuck,” he growls, pacing again. “you were supposed to know. i thought you knew.”

his voice rises, not yelling, but loud with frustration. he’s unraveling in real time, and it’s shaking something loose in you, too. “how was i supposed to know?” you shoot back. “you flirt but you never say anything. you touch me like i’m yours but act like i’m just your best friend—”

“you are mine.” your voice dies in your throat.

he stares at you. and when he speaks again, it’s quieter, but no less intense.

“you’re mine,” he says again, like a confession. like a curse. “always been mine.” your stomach flips.

“then why—” your voice cracks — “why didn’t you ever tell me?”

choso runs a hand through his hair again, like he’s trying to physically hold himself together. like it hurts.

“’cause i was scared,” he snaps. “scared that if i said it out loud, it’d fuck everything up. that you’d look at me different. that you’d leave.” you stare.

“so you’d rather let someone else have me?”

he stiffens. you rise onto your knees on the bed, fire lighting behind your ribs now. “you’d rather let toji of all people try it?”

his jaw clenches. “he’s not gonna have you.” your heartbeat skids.

he moves in fast, faster than he ever has, and grabs your wrist, firm but not rough, like he can’t bear to let the distance exist any longer.

“i’m not letting him have you,” he mutters.

you’re still frozen, looking up at him. something between fear and thrill curling in your gut.

“choso,” you whisper. he doesn’t stop. he pushes you back gently onto the bed, one hand catching your waist, the other bracing against the mattress. he hovers over you, breath heavy, eyes searching your face like he’s begging you to see it, really see it this time.

“i’m fucking in love with you.”

your heart punches into your throat. his forehead dips, pressing against yours, voice hoarse.

“i’ve been in love with you since you showed up to my first party and we listened to that dumb song together.”

you let out a shaky laugh, but your eyes are wet his thumb brushes your cheek.

“i never said it ‘cause i thought this was enough. thought just having you close was better than risking it all. but i can’t—” he pulls in a breath, voice shaking now too — “i can’t sit quiet while other people try to take you from me.”

you’re blinking fast now. breath catching. every inch of your skin feels like it’s on fire beneath his touch.

“you’re my girl,” he says again, softer this time. “you’ve always been mine.”

you don’t answer right away. your chest rises and falls beneath his, shallow and unsteady. your palm is still on his cheek, but your eyes have shifted, staring past him now. unfocused. wet.

“you’re only saying that,” you murmur, “because someone else finally had the balls to go after me.”

his breath catches. your voice is quieter, but sharp now, like you’re trying to convince yourself. like you want to believe it, but the cracks are there, and they’re splitting open.

“you didn’t say anything until he got involved. until he started asking about me. texting me. seeing me.” your hand falls away from his face. “and now suddenly, i’m yours?”

his eyes widen. “no—”

“you had so long to tell me, choso. so many chances.”

“y/n, it’s not like that—”

“then what is it like?” you breathe. “’cause i don’t get to be the girl you only want when someone else does.”

choso stares at you, heart hammering. like you just ripped something raw and bloody straight out of his chest.

he swallows.

and then, slowly, he pushes back, just far enough to sit up on his knees beside you. the mattress dips with the weight shift. his hands fumble for the hem of his hoodie.

he pulls it up and over his head in one quick move. your breath stutters.

there, inked into the inside of his upper arm, where he’d hidden it every time you curled up against him, is a tattoo.

of your eyes.

staring straight back at you.

your real breath, the one stuck in your throat, finally punches out of you.

choso watches your expression shift, eyes flicking from the ink to his face and back. he swallows once, hard, and says:

“got it the night of the party. when you gave me the lighter.” you blink.

“you were curled up on me. whole time i was talking with the boys, i couldn’t stop thinking about you. how close you were. how you looked at me like that was your home.” he swipes a thumb under his nose, like he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands. “so i got up, high as fuck, to the guy tatting people in the corner. told him to ink your eyes on me.”

your lips part, but nothing comes out. his voice softens.

“i didn’t say anything ‘cause i thought it was enough. just having you near. but it’s not. not anymore.”

your heart pounds so hard you feel it in your ears.

he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room. like he needs you to believe it. really believe it.

“this isn’t about toji. it’s never been about him. i wanted you long before he ever said your name.”

you’re still staring at the tattoo.

he moves closer again. his hand brushes your knee, gentle.

“you think i’d get your fucking eyes on me just ‘cause i’m jealous?” you blink fast.

his hand finds your face again. tender. grounding “you’re it for me.”

his voice is low, raspy. not just from the emotion, but from how hard he’s holding it in, like if he lets go, everything he’s ever felt for you will come spilling out and drown him.

but he lets it go anyway.

“you’re all i think about,” choso says, brushing his thumb over your cheek again. “when i’m high, when i’m sober, when you’re across the room and laughing at someone’s stupid joke, when you’re asleep in my bed, wearing my shirt, you’re in my head all the time, ma.”your breath catches.

“every song reminds me of you. every little thing you do drives me crazy. you don’t even know how much of me you’ve got.”

he leans closer, forehead nearly touching yours.

“you gave me that lighter and i wanted to kiss you right there in the middle of the street. when you paint your nails i stare at your hands for hours. when you fall asleep on me at parties, i sit still like a statue so you don’t move. i’m always lookin’ at you like i already lost you. and it kills me.”

his hand finds your jaw, warm and steady, fingers curling behind your ear. your breath hitches, and he’s close enough to feel it.

“you’ve had my heart since freshman year. and i didn’t say anything ‘cause i thought maybe you didn’t want it. or maybe you already had it and didn’t need to hear it out loud.”

you swallow, shaky. lips parted. cheeks flushed.

and choso looks down at them, your lips, like he’s been holding himself back from kissing you for a lifetime.

and then he doesn’t anymore.

he crashes into you like he’s starving.

the kind of kiss that drags a sound out of your throat before you even realize it, all heat and pressure and ache, all the months and years and everything he’s shoved down, poured out into the way his lips mold against yours. he kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll pull away, and like he knows you won’t.

your hands claw at his shoulders, winding into the mess of his hair, tugging him in even closer. and choso groans, deep in his throat, pressing you down into the bed, slotting his hips against yours.

his mouth moves fast, desperate, lips, tongue, teeth, like he can’t get enough. like the taste of you is something he needs in his lungs.

“fuck,” he breathes against your mouth, dragging his lips down your jaw, “you don’t get it, do you?”

your back arches, lips parting when he sucks lightly under your ear.

“how bad i’ve wanted this. you.”

his hands roam, over your waist, under your shirt, up your sides like he’s trying to memorize all of you at once. and every place he touches leaves a trail of fire.

you moan his name, soft and shaky, and he loses it a little more, bites your bottom lip as he grinds his hips down into yours, heavy and hot and so there.

“say it again,” he mutters, eyes half-lidded, forehead pressed to yours. “say my name.”

“choso.”

he shudders.

“again.”

“cho!.”

he kisses you so deep it knocks the breath out of your lungs. kisses you like he owns you, like you’ve always belonged to him, and like he’s finally letting himself claim what’s already his.

and fuck, you let him.

you’ve wanted this just as long. needed him just as bad.

and now, with your limbs tangled, your body burning under his, your heart thudding like a war drum in your chest, there’s no more pretending.

you’re his. he’s yours. and it’s written all over his face.

choso looks at you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted, like he’s starved for you, but still savoring the moment. his eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, but soft. reverent. he cups your cheek with a hand that’s just slightly trembling, brushing his thumb along your skin like he can’t believe you’re real.

he kisses your forehead, slow and grounding, like a promise. then your nose. then your lips, and that one lingers. warm, aching, deep enough that it steals the air from your lungs. it’s not just desire. it’s everything he’s never said until now.

“please let me see you, ma." he whispers, voice hoarse, like he’s been holding back forever.

you nod, lips parted, eyes locked with his. your breath stutters as his fingers ghost over the hem of your shirt, lifting it inch by inch like he’s unwrapping something precious. he tosses it aside, only to pull you in again. his palms spread wide across your ribs, thumbs brushing just beneath your chest.

“fuck,” he breathes, low and to himself. “so fucking beautiful.”

he leans in, mouth dragging hot and open along your neck, kissing and breathing you in, his lips trembling against your pulse like he’s drunk off you. he murmurs something there, a soft, almost desperate, “mine,” before he undoes your bra with one practiced flick.

and when it falls away, he doesn’t touch you right away. he just stares, like the sight of you has knocked the wind out of him.

his hands come up slow, palms warm as they cup you like he’s afraid to break something delicate. “been dreaming about this,” he says. “about you. here. like this. in my bed. lookin’ up at me like you already know i’d give you everything.”

you shiver under the weight of it all, his voice, his gaze, his touch. and then his mouth is on your chest, lips sealing around your nipple, tongue flicking before he sucks — slow, deep, just enough to make you arch into him with a needy whimper.

“choso…”

he groans, hand sliding lower, fingers hooking into the waistband of your shorts. he pulls them down with your panties in one motion, dragging his palms down your thighs on the way. and when he sits back, just to take you in, bare, breathless, flushed, his eyes go wide, like he’s trying to commit you to memory. “look at you,” he murmurs, chest rising with each ragged breath. “you don’t even know what you do to me, do you?”

you reach for him, tugging his shirt up and over his head, palms skating down the strong lines of his chest, stopping only when your fingers find his arm. your breath catches.

your eyes. inked in black and red over his skin, etched like a confession. you won't ever get sick of seeing it.

he watches you take it in, sees the exact moment you understand, and he doesn’t say anything. not at first. he just leans in, takes your hand in his, and presses it over his heart.

“see?” he whispers. “been yours. always.”

your eyes brim, chest tight with something that has no name. and then he kisses you again, slow and deep, tongue stroking yours, hand sliding between your thighs. he groans into your mouth when he feels you, warm, wet, already trembling.

“so wet for me,” he mutters, lips brushing yours. “all this for me, huh?”

his fingers dip into you, one at first, then two, slow and deep, curling just right. your back arches, mouth falling open with a gasp as he starts to move them, watching every twitch and shiver you give him like he’s memorizing the way you come apart. “fuck, baby,” he breathes. “you feel so good, been wantin’ this for so long. just wanted to take care of you. make you feel good.”

his lips trail back down, mouth closing around your nipple again as his fingers keep working you open, the room echoing with your broken gasps and soft moans. he kisses your sternum, your ribs, every inch of you he can reach like he’s trying to make up for every second he didn’t have you.

and when your legs start to tremble, when your thighs squeeze around his hand and you whimper his name into the crook of his neck, he groans, low and sexy, and pulls back just enough to strip the last of his clothes.

his cock is flushed, hard, already leaking, and still, he pauses.

he leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing hard. “you sure you wanna do this hun?”

“i want you,” you whisper, voice cracking. “i want all of you.”

and when he slides in, slow, deliberate, it’s overwhelming. your nails dig into his shoulders, mouth open in a silent gasp, and he just groans, long and low, burying his face in your neck.

“fuck, baby… you feel so fuckin’ good, made for me, huh?”

his hips rock into you, slow and deep, dragging along every sensitive inch inside you until you’re trembling again, mouth parted in helpless moans. he kisses you through it, messy and uncoordinated, full of teeth and tongue and need.

he doesn’t hold back anymore. not his body, not his voice. he’s everywhere, his hands, his mouth, his words, and every thrust is rougher, deeper, hotter than the last.

“been yours since the day i met you,” he breathes against your skin. “you’re mine, baby. mine. no one else gets to have you like this. no one else even fuckin’ compares.”

you believe him. how could you not, when he’s saying it like he’s been waiting years to let it out?

you fall apart first, clenching around him with a strangled moan, whole body trembling as your orgasm crashes through you, and choso follows, grinding into you with a low growl, holding you close as he spills into you.

he doesn’t let go. not even after. he stays buried deep, forehead to yours, one hand cradling your jaw like it’s fragile.

“not lettin’ you go,” he whispers. “not now. not ever.”

~

the party’s already in full swing when you two walk in. the bass thrums under your feet, bodies packed tight in the kappa house. familiar faces flash by in strobes of color and sound, solo cups raised, someone laughing too loud, gojo shouting across the room with a bottle in each hand.

and then you and choso step into the chaos like it’s nothing. except tonight, it’s not nothing. it’s everything. your hand is in his. his thumb strokes over your knuckles like it’s second nature, and you’re tucked into his side like you’ve always belonged there. he’s wearing that hoodie you love, and you’ve got it slung off your shoulder like it’s yours now. he hasn’t let go of you since you walked through the door, and he doesn’t plan to. people notice.

gojo sees first. his mouth falls open around the mouth of a beer can, and he drops it on the counter with a dramatic gasp. “oh my god.” choso raises an eyebrow, smirking. “no fuckin way,” sukuna mutters, eyes narrowing. “this for real?” you don’t say anything. just smile, nuzzling into choso’s chest. and choso, god, he melts. his arm tightens around you like instinct, like he’s not even thinking about it. “you’re kidding,” maki blurts from across the room. she’s half-drunk and squinting, pointing her beer bottle at you two like she’s trying to make sense of a mirage. “you finally fucked?”

“maki,” shoko hisses, slapping her arm, but she’s already grinning. “i knew it. i knew it.” suguru lifts his drink with a slow, knowing smile. “took you long enough.” gojo, meanwhile, is spinning in a circle like he just witnessed a miracle. “wait wait wait,” he says, pointing between the two of you. “you’re telling me this entire time, we’ve been watching you two eye-fuck each other across every frat house on campus, and now you’re just casually showing up like this?”

“what can i say,” choso murmurs, pulling you even closer, “i figured it was time.” “look at his hand placement,” shoko says, leaning into maki. “that’s not friends. that’s boyfriend hand placement.”

“yeah and look at her,” maki laughs. “she looks like she just got dicked down and praised like a goddess.” you duck your head a little, embarrassed, but choso leans in and kisses your cheek, then your temple. it’s so soft, so easy, and when he pulls back, he looks straight at toji who’s staring wide eyed, steady, calm, but with a flicker of challenge in his eyes.

“don’t look at her like that,” he says, voice low. “not tonight. not ever.” toji scoffs, raising his hands in mock surrender, but his grin is sharp. “damn. someone’s possessive now.”

“been possessive,” choso mutters, like it’s not even up for debate. he turns his attention back to you instantly, brushing your hair behind your ear.

“you okay?” you nod. “i’m perfect.” and then he kisses you. not a peck. not for show. it’s slow, unhurried, with his hand cupping your jaw and his lips moving with the kind of tenderness that makes your knees weak. the room could be burning down and he wouldn’t stop. you don’t even hear gojo’s dramatic screech until you break apart.

“yo this is crazy,” he says, spinning around and yelling to no one in particular. “choso is off the market. choso kamo, resident stoner-lover of no one but his weed and his hoodie collection, is now cuffed.”

“what’s it feel like,” suguru asks with a smirk, raising an eyebrow at choso, “to be someone’s boyfriend?”

“feels like i shoulda done it years ago,” choso says. you blink up at him, heart catching in your throat. “yo,” yuuji calls from the other side of the room. “does this mean we’re finally allowed to say you two have been in love since freshman year?” “i always said it,” nobara yells, shoving through the crowd with a drink. “don’t act like y’all didn’t see them cuddled up at every party like an old married couple.”

“wait does this mean she’s moving into his room?” gojo asks, visibly spiraling. “what’s gonna happen to the guest bed? who’s gonna roll for me when choso’s too busy being in love?”

“die mad,” choso says flatly, and everyone laughs. but even through all the noise and teasing and attention, his focus never strays from you. his hand stays on your waist. his eyes keep dropping to your mouth like he’s remembering exactly what it feels like.

“you good?” he murmurs again, like he just wants to hear you say it.

you press your nose to his chest and nod, smiling. “more than good.”

he kisses you again, slower this time, like it’s just for you. like no one else is in the room. like he’s exactly where he’s always wanted to be.

and the thing is — he is.

he’s yours. fully, finally, publicly.

awe wasn't that sweet 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨 masterlist !!

[smellysluna]

2.1 | The Scientific Method (Is Flirting)

Chapter 2 | The Expo Part 1

Pairing: Fushiguro Megumi x Reader | SMAU | strangers to lovers

Summary:

You go to a science expo... turns out Megumi's there's too

Notes: you should read the timeline from bottom to top

Prev | Masterlist | Next

Prev | Masterlist | Next

Taglist: #OPEN

@bubblegumcat229 @1l-ynn @bluemailhiot @noisydelusionlove @mr-crawlings-wife @zxx180 @vintag3u @hawkwithsocks @oreofluffyy @iamnotsakusakiyoomi @sparqvls

[smellysluna]

it's just that I find it so annoying I can't use the same app I use on my phone on my computer like ugh ...

might fuck around and make my own smau app

[smellysluna]

might fuck around and make my own smau app

[smellysluna]

Masterlist | The Scientific Method (Is Flirting)

A Megumi Fushiguro SMAU

Pairing: Fushiguro Megumi x Reader | SMAU | strangers to lovers

Status: Ongoing

Summary:

You started a science side account for fun — just a place to scream into the void about mitochondria, black holes, and whatever weird fact you found at 2 AM. Somehow, people liked it. Somehow, it grew. You kept posting like you always do: unhinged, chaotic, and a little too obsessed with ocean creatures.

Then someone started replying.

Not often. Just enough. Dry replies with perfectly timed facts only a very specific kind of person would drop in your mentions. You don’t follow him. You don’t know his name. But he’s always there.

Table of Contents:

Chapter 0: Meet and Greet

Chapter 1: Some of Many

Chapter 2.1: The Expo Part 1

Chapter 2.2: The Expo Part 2

Chapter 3: Open Thread

[smellysluna]

1 | The Scientific Method (Is Flirting)

Chapter 1 | Some of Many

Pairing: Fushiguro Megumi x Reader | SMAU | strangers to lovers

Summary:

You started a science side account for fun. Somehow, people liked it and it grew. You kept posting like you always do: unhinged, chaotic.

Then someone started replying.

Not often. Just enough. Dry replies with perfectly timed facts. You don’t follow him. You don’t know his name. But he’s always there.

Prev | Masterlist | Next

Prev | Masterlist | Next

Taglist: #OPEN

@bubblegumcat229 @1l-ynn @bluemailhiot

[smellysluna]

help i can't stop thinking about fushiguro megumi