#and to think they were close to lose that without even realizing it..

[satoruslovey]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑ clan head g.satoru x f.reader ―୨୧⋆ ˚

pt 1. , pt 2.

It's been a few weeks since your last real encounter with satoru,

Few weeks since the day you tucked that pink flower into your hair while he watched from a distance,frozen behind you, the last time you had let him see a piece of you.

Since then everything has just been quiet, not cold, but just --careful.

He's still there,

Every morning your tea is ready before you awaken,the garden is swept of wet leaves before you and your son step out, your child giggles more all of a sudden, now that his father is around more than he used to be, to your surprise must you say? You see genuine care and love in Satoru's eyes for your baby, he's clumsy with affection, learning how to be gentle in a place where he was once absent.

And as for you? You feel the weight of his presence in every room,like something unfinished, like something is left unspoken, something which is daunting upon you.

The kitchen smells of steam and ginger, your son is napping,

You're chopping up vegetables, sleeves rolled up, your hair in a loose bun, there's sunlight pouring in from the shoji screen behind you. It halos your shoulders, makes your profile glow. There's a faint sheen of sweat near your collarbone from the steam.

You hear footsteps walking into the kitchen ,he walks in quietly as if he's scared to break the peace you've built for yourself, without him.

He sees you, he really does, with something twisting and aching in his gut he thinks, you look beautiful, even when you're angry, so strong, still radiant.

He watches the line of your neck, the slope of your back, the way your fingers move with precision, like they remember everything even when your heart tries not to.

He wonders though, if he was ever worthy of being loved by someone like you.

He moves closer with a bowl of rice, a quiet offering ,

"you didn't eat lunch" he murmurs.

"don't do this" you reply softly , "you don't have to act like you care",you put down the knife.

He watches you as his heart drops.

"You weren’t there,” you say, voice low but steady. “I cooked alone. Slept alone. Gave birth alone. And now you want to feed me and pretend it’s always been this way?”

He opens his mouth to say something but , then he closes it.

You finally turn, your eyes dark and unwavering.

“Tell me something, Satoru,” you say. “If she hadn’t left… would you have come back?”

He’s staring at you ,at your face flushed from the stove, the tendrils of hair clinging to your cheek. You’ve never looked more divine, and it breaks him, because he realizes this is the woman he should have chosen , the one he ignored while chasing something shallow.

“Say it,” you whisper.

“No,” he breathes. “I wouldn’t have.”

You nod.

Not because you accept it. But because you already knew.

“I was wrong.”

His voice is low. Unsteady.

“Not just about her. About everything.

About what mattered. About who was always there.”You gave me a home. A family. And I treated you like a placeholder.

Like something I didn’t have to choose, because you were already there.

"you didn't deserve it"

“I thought love was supposed to feel easy. Loud. Exciting.

But it was always you, quietly showing up. Quietly loving me and I was too blind, too proud to see it.”

“I was wrong in every way that counted.

And if I were you, I wouldn’t forgive me either.”

“But that version of me,who chose wrong,he died the day you looked at me and didn’t smile.”

"he died the day you looked at me and didn’t even flinch"-

just… stopped looking at all.”

And then,slower, lower, like it costs him something,

“I didn’t just lose your smile that day.

I lost the only future that ever would’ve made sense.”

He steps closer ,

Closer than you expected, just a few inches between you.

His hand lifts slightly ,almost as if to tuck your hair behind your ear again. Almost.

Your breath catches, you can smell his scent ,one you have ingrained in your senses,

something in you wants his warmth,wants to let him close, something maybe you haven't let yourself fully feel, because it scares you.

But your skin still remembers his.

And your chest aches with the memory of nights when this closeness was all you ever wanted. You want to close the space between, almost.

But you don’t move.Neither does he.

“I miss you,” he says softly. “Not the idea of you. Not the guilt. You. The way you laugh when no one’s looking. The way you hum when you're pouring tea. The way you used to… look at me like I was your world.”

“You weren’t,” you whisper. “But you could’ve been.”

“You were never really mine,” you add, each word a blade, “So don’t look at me like I’m your world now, Satoru. You were never mine even if I thought you were,And I was never yours.”

He’s silent for a moment, and you almost hope that’s it. That he’ll shut up and go.

But instead, you're met with a look in his eyes,not guilt, not arrogance,but yearning.

It's in the tilt of his head ,The slight part in his lips like he wants to say something but is afraid to ruin it. The way his fingers twitch at his sides like he’s holding back from reaching for you.

He looks at you like a kicked dog.

No,like a man who just realized he had sunlight in his hands and let it slip through because he was too arrogant to believe he needed warmth in the first place.

His voice breaks the silence again,now quieter and heavy.

“I know I wasn’t yours. Not the way I should’ve been.”

“But I don’t want to be your world.”

That makes you blink, startled.

“I want to be a part of it,” he says, “Even if it’s just a corner you let me earn back. Even if it takes my whole life.”

Unbeknownst to him, something more fragile slips in under his words,

“Because you’re my world. And I think… you always were. I just didn’t see it until I was blind without you.”

You freeze.

There’s a beat of silence.

And in that space ,something breaks.

No… something bends.

Just slightly.

It would be easier if he were still cruel, easier if he begged ,or cried, or shouted,but this ..is worse , because this is him being honest, because the Gojo Satoru now standing in front of you is not the same person who had hurt you.

He’s someone who’s trying. And you hate that it makes your heart squeeze.

You don’t speak.

You don't walk away either,

Your breath catches.

It would be easier if he were still cruel. Easier if he begged, or cried, or shouted , but this… this is worse. Because it’s quiet. Because it’s honest. Because the Satoru Gojo standing in front of you now isn’t the one who hurt you.

He’s someone who’s trying. And you hate that it makes your heart squeeze.

You don’t speak.

But you don’t walk away either.

The silence lingers , heavy, intimate.

His shoulders are tense like he's bracing for rejection, but there's something in his eyes , open, pleading, a quiet ache like he's never been more afraid of being unloved.

You hate it.

You hate how honest he looks now.

You hate how your chest tightens at the sight.

And still, your voice comes out soft,barely more than a whisper.

“You look tired, Satoru.”

He blinks. For a second, he doesn’t know if you’re addressing him or just thinking out loud.

You glance at him. Finally. It’s fleeting, but your gaze holds a kind of softness that wasn’t there before ,a flicker of the girl who once picked a flower from the mud and gave it to him just because he looked sad.

“You haven’t been eating properly, have you?”

Satoru swallows thickly. “Not really,” he says, truthfully.

You nod slowly, fingers brushing the edge of the counter, as if debating with yourself. You’re not ready to forgive. Not ready to fall back. But-

“There’s food , We should eat.”

His heart stumbles in his chest,

We.

he's not sure if he's hearing things or you really said it,

He doesn’t say anything ,doesn’t dare break the spell. But he walks to the table like a man who's just been handed a second heartbeat.

You don't wait for him to respond,you grab two bowls.laddle food.

You set one bowl across the table,

And when he takes the seat opposite you , not beside you, not too close ,you let him.

You don’t look up.

You don’t smile.

But you let him eat beside you.

And that… that is enough for tonight, enough to make him believe that there's still a road back to you.

A/N : took me a while ! and I didn't expect it to become this long, I'd love to know you guys' thoughts on this 🏃🏻‍♀️

Tags: @straows

@voidfulcrumdilemma

@ppejmurde

@twinkling-moonlillie

[buckybarneslittledoll]

Old Love

Pairing: 40s!Bucky x Reader (Reader is Steve Rogers' sister) Tags: friends to lovers, blow jobs, smut, loss of virginity, penis in vagina sex, oral sex, vaginal fingering, cunnilingus

Summary: 1941, Brooklyn, New York The war is still far away in the minds of the Americans, everyone quietly lives their lives before the rationing period. Bucky knows that he will be forced to embark shortly, he knows that sooner or later America will enter the conflict and when he'll depart he'll do it with a light heart.

"Am I interrupting something?" asked a voice outside the front door. Recognizing it, I smiled and with a click I went to open it, not before having adjusted the blue skirt I was wearing. "Come in, Bucky." I said, always smiling at the boy. "Is your brother there?" he asked tapping his foot on the floor, he seemed agitated. "No" I replied closing the front door "Steve had a meeting with that scientist today. You'll find him home tonight."

"Actually I wasn't looking for your brother, I was looking for you." he murmured, still avoiding my gaze. "Do I need to worry?" I asked in my typical joking tone.

"Yesterday evening I was talking to your brother, he had one too many drinks and let something interesting slip..." the boy hesitated, but never losing his usual grin on his face "He said that you have a crush on me. "

At least twenty ways to kill Steve flashed through my mind.

My cheeks had probably flushed red, because Bucky's grin had grown. "When he told me I admit I was surprised. I mean, I've always seen you as a little sister and I thought you saw me as another big brother." "In fact it is so." I managed to whispered.

"To tell you the truth, the more I think about it, the more maybe what I feel for you isn't simple brotherly love. Maybe I scare the boys who court you not because I don't want you to go out with them but because I wish I was in their place." he confessed, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

I was speechless, my breath seemed to have stopped in my throat and if possible my cheeks were tinged with an even more intense red. "I like the effect I have on you." he whispered hoarsely. "Bucky, please" I begged him "It's embarrassing enough for me that you know about my feelings, don't tease me any more." "I'm not mocking you!" He left defensively "It's just that maybe you're not the only one who has a crush here."

"Since when?" I simply asked. "Do you remember when a few years ago I entered your room without knocking and found you in your underwear?" at the memory of that day I blushed further "Yes, I would say that you remember. Well, since that day the image of your body shielded only by that little fabric and by your hands has never left my mind. There I understood that I didn't see you only like a little sister, but like something more. Every time I saw you smile, I smiled accordingly." His hand was still in contact with my face, which luckily had lost its red color.

"I don't want to force you or what, but if you don't walk away in a few seconds the decisions I might take won't be so brotherly." he said grinning.

A small part of me was screaming at me to get away and leave, making everything go back to the way it was, but the bigger part of me didn't want to. When he realized I wasn't going to move, his other hand brought our bodies together and he placed his lips on mine.

It was only when we both ran out of breath that we parted, with swollen lips and eyes full of desire. "Why didn't you tell me before?" Bucky looked at me for a long time, he seemed almost undecided about what to do "I was scared." he finally admitted, "I was afraid of being rejected. And I suppose you were afraid too."

I nodded slowly, embarrassed, lowering my head, but with two fingers he raised it again, making our eyes connect and after a few seconds our lips too. When his hands reached the buttons of my blouse I suddenly stiffened: no boy had ever dared so much, not even the most insistent.

"Sorry." Bucky said immediately "It's that having you here, at my mercy made me lose control." "Do not apologize, you can lose it." I murmured, shocking myself at the words that came out of my mouth. "Then how about we go upstairs, in your room, you know, the curtains in the living room are way too sheer."

Charmed by the young man's voice, I followed him without thinking of anything. As if he were the master of the house, he walked briskly up to my room, the last one in the corridor. I had just closed the door behind me when I felt Bucky's body pressing against mine and his hands quickly unbuttoning her blue blouse, which soon found itself on the floor. "Better than I remembered." he mumbled to himself.

With -I don't know what courage I started to unbutton his shirt, but my hands were shaking and he noticed it. "Nervous?" He grinned, while he unbuttoned his shirt with trembling legs. I nodded, while with a quick movement I dropped his shirt not far from mine. I shifted my gaze,addressing it on his abs to the floor.

"What's wrong with you, is this the first time you've seen a man like that?" "Actually, yes." "Is-is this your first time?" He asked, not so surprised. I nodded again, this time covering my face in embarrassment. I was inexperienced and half naked in front of a half naked man with experience to spare. But it could be worse.

"Don't be ashamed, not with me, I won't judge you. And I will try to make your first time unique." He reassured me before kissing me more passionately than before, making my back coincide with the wooden door of my room. Without the slightest effort he also unbuttoned my bra, an infernal contraption that not even I was able to unbutton in the first go. I wrapped my legs around his pelvis and he slowly walked up to the bed and then leaned on it gently above and remained stunned for a few moments.

"Better than imagination." he murmured. "Did you imagine me naked?" I asked, trying to cover the embarrassment in my nonchalant words. "Trust me baby, you don't want to get inside a guy's mind." He admonished me in a tone I couldn't take seriously given the smile on his lips. I could feel the bulge in his pants growing every second.

With a courage I didn't know I had, I switched roles, making Bucky lay on the blue bedspread. "What are you-" He tried to speak but I silenced him with a kiss,starting then to go down with a trail of kisses more and more downwards. "At rest Sergeant Barnes." I smirked, fumbling with the belt that held his pants closed.

Soon both the pants and the boxers ended up on the floor. "Are you sure?" Bucky asked again. In response, I caressed the tip of his length with my tongue while with my right hand, slightly moistened with saliva, I began to massage his entire erection. I could feel my hand shaking slightly, I'd never done anything like this in my life, but judging by the boy's moans of pleasure, I was probably managing quite well.

When I suddenly felt him stiffen I increased the speed of my hand, then tried to wrap it with my mouth.

As he began to fill my mouth, Bucky's hand landed on my head, pushing me down and nearly choking me. I concentrated on sucking as much as possible and licking him clean. "You'll be good and swallow it all, okay doll?" Bucky asked in a voice broken by moans of pleasure.

Now, I couldn't speak because of something in my mouth, but when I felt the boy's body stiffen again and his seed filling my mouth, I did as I was asked.

When Bucky's grip on my head eased I pulled myself up,finding myself kneeling on the bed, still wearing my skirt and covering my breasts as best I could with her arms.

"I would like to stop time." I heard him murmur before approaching me, moving my arms effortlessly despite my opposition and capturing my lips in another kiss, even more passionate than before "To have this memory fixed in mind for the rest of my life." He finished short of breath. 

"Now" he started breaking the kiss "You will be obedient and you will let me enjoy myself too." I bowed my head, watching him bend down and pick up the belt that I had earlier thrown on the ground.

"What do you want to do?" I asked with a note of concern in my voice. "Don't worry, I could never hurt you." He reassured me, pushing me gently against the bed and bringing my wrists above my head. I decided to let it go. I trusted him.

After a short time I felt something stiff around my wrists and pulling my head back I noticed that his belt was tied to the bed and held my wrists enclosed. "Bucky, what-" I was interrupted by a kiss from him on my navel, which made me shiver. "I like to have full control over my dolls." He explained laying down on me, but still holding on to his arms so as not to hurt me "And then you won't cover yourself anymore, I want to see you all this evening, doll."

I tried to relax, telling myself over and over that it was Bucky, the same guy who had my back on several occasions and could never do something to me I didn't want to.

He began to leave wet kisses along my neck and neckline, until he began to focus on my breasts, which moved slightly given my quickened breathing. He began to kiss and suck my nipples, already turgid given the contact with the fresh air of the room. My breath became, if possible, even shorter.

Soon Bucky was starting back down with kisses, until he got to where the skirt started. His gaze sought mine, still with a hint of hesitation, which dissolved when I nodded confidently.

He confidently pulled off both her skirt and panties in one fell swoop, dropping everything to the floor at the end of the bed.

Shyness was stronger than me and I crossed my legs from modesty. "Doll," Bucky admonished me "You don't want me to go all the way to your brother's room to get one of his belts to tie up your legs too, do you?" "No." I murmured. "Well, then..." He whispered, sensing my slight fear and placing the palms of his hands on my knees, stroking them a few times and then gently separating them.

I gasped as I felt his tongue moving expertly inside me. He continued that slow but pleasant torture for a few minutes, until I felt two of his fingers brushing the contours of my intimacy and then, first one and then the other, gently enter me.

I moved my pelvis, trying to get used to a sensation I'd never experienced before. "If I hurt you tell me." blew Bucky. "I am fine." I murmured.

And it was true. Feeling him so close to me made me feel protected in some way.

I grunted in disappointment as Bucky pulled his two fingers away from me and received laughter in response. He untied the knot that held my wrists in place and kissed them both. I saw him position himself on top of me, holding himself up with his arms, and starting to kiss me again while I felt his intimacy press against mine.

Bucky tried to hold back, I could feel it and I was extremely grateful. He entered and exited slowly, each time going a little deeper and almost never ceasing to kiss me, almost as if he believed that that was enough to ease the pain I felt in my lower abdomen.

He fully entered me when I was playing with his hair, trying to ignore the tingling I felt. Result: I ended up pulling his hair a little. "Sorry." I murmured. With two fingers he lifted my face and made our lips collide. "If I hurt you I want you to tell me." he muttered the same phrase as before, but with more softness in his voice, starting to move a little faster and slowly picking up the pace. I found myself squinting, but the pain quickly turned into pleasure, thanks to the scattered kisses that Bucky left on my breasts and neck.

Shortly after I climaxed Bucky stormed out of me, sitting on the edge of the bed and placing a hand on his erection. "What are you doing?" I asked, ignoring the burning in my lower abdomen and sitting down beside him. "I don't want to get you pregnant, but I can't stay like this either." He explained pointing to his erection that with strong and decisive movements he was determined to fix.

Gently I placed my hand on his and moved it,kneeling in front of him. A grin had made its way across his face, while with a more confident hand than before I began to stroke his length. When I sensed that he was about to cum I placed his erection in my mouth and started playing with my tongue until the liquid I already knew filled my cheeks again.

"You're amazing." he admitted as he lifted me off the ground and placing me on the bed. "You're not bad either." I chuckled, lifting the covers and inviting the boy to lie down. Bucky nimbly sat down with his back against the headboard and, wrapping his arms around my waist, he held me against his chest.

"Is everything fine?" he asked, placing delicate kisses on my shoulder. I snuggled closer against him, closing my eyes and basking in his warmth. "Nothing could be better."

Masterlist

[queerextremity]

growing up to realize Twilight is actually deeply tragic because, in all the subtle and not-so-subtle ways, it reinforces the idea that Bella ultimately had no choice whether she should become a vampire or not. these books and movies know it’s too big of a choice for a teenager to make. Edward considers their existence to be shameful and himself to be a monster, Rosalie wishes nothing more than to be human again, and there’s all this talk about how the transformation is their most painful memory and a whole plot about an army of newborns to show Bella how uncontrollable and cruel this new life can make her. it’s not coincidental that Jessica gives her graduation speech on how the biggest joy of their age is that they’re allowed to not know what they want to be yet. they can try things out and fail, so that they learn their true destiny. and the camera focuses on Bella, who realizes her big choice is already made. everybody around her knows she’s too young to make it, but it’s not like she can truly back out.

when I was younger, I thought her behavior in New Moon was not normal and stupid, but I understand her more and more. she didn’t just lose Edward and her teenage love. she lost a whole new world she had. being close to vampires probably meant something new and exciting happened to her every day. something she could never share with her human friends. her and Edward were bound by this big secret, and everything she experienced, all this big love she felt for the first time, all this excitement and danger that came with it, she couldn’t tell anyone about. she only had Cullens to understand her experience completely. when they left, she didn’t truly have anybody to tell why it impacted her so deeply and what she lost exactly. and, apart from everything good, she also lost that daily danger staying near vampires brought. any wrong move in their presence could be fatal, and that adrenaline rush she could now only find in risking her life and doing everything reckless she could think of.

If Bella never became a vampire, she knew she could never truly be a part of this world. and to her, that meant being even more isolated from other people than she already felt. imagine her living a normal human life, never being able to share what she knows without sounding crazy. everybody knew she was too young to choose that, but did she really have a different choice? in a way, Twilight is all about how every extraordinary experience you have brings people further from ever truly knowing you. and what if it’s so extraordinary that it gives you no way back? especially when you’re so young and impressionable and everything is new and big. it’s a tragedy

[gingerteafairy]

Heyyyyy! Is it possible for you to write where reader is pregnant, just found out and stuff like that? I’d love to see any character but I love Luke, Todd, Colin, Peter❤️❤️

oh, geez. baby fever is gonna kill me someday...

luke cooper x reader

tags n warnings: fluff, language. word count: +700

Things had been off lately — and it hadn’t escaped your boyfriend’s notice for a second. People liked to say Luke Cooper was laid-back to a fault, but they’d be shocked at how closely he watched over you — his uncle, especially, never stopped teasing him about it. One of the first odd things he picked up on was how often you’d excuse yourself to the bathroom several times during movies, locking the door so he wouldn’t hear a thing. That alone was strange; normally, no matter how bad the movie was, you’d cuddle with him till the credits rolled.

But one evening, you’d been gone so long he felt a knot of worry in his chest. Against his better judgment, he padded over and knocked gently on the bathroom door.

“Babe?” His voice was soft at first, but his hand hovered nervously over the handle when he heard a muffled sob from inside.

He tried again, more urgent now. “Hey… open up. Please?”

When there was still no answer, he twisted the knob — surprised to find it unlocked — and pushed the door open. His heart dropped at the sight of you curled up on the bathroom floor, your shoulders shaking as you cried.

“Hey, hey, sweetheart, what’s wrong?” He dropped to his knees beside you without a second thought, wrapping his arms around you protectively. You couldn’t even speak — the fear of his reaction lodged in your throat like a stone. Hands trembling, you just pointed at the small plastic stick on the floor.

Luke followed your gesture, and when his eyes landed on the positive pregnancy test, his mind scrambled for every movie scene he’d ever seen like this. But this was real. You were pregnant.

“Oh my God…” he breathed out, reaching for the test with shaky fingers. Your stomach twisted, terrified he might freak out or worse — leave.

“It’s… is it mine?” he blurted, eyes flicking to yours, wide and terrified.

“What?!” you squeaked, letting out a startled laugh despite yourself. “Who else would it be, Luke?”

“I dunno!” He laughed too, but it was high-pitched and strained, as if he’d short-circuited. “You’re gorgeous, okay? What if there’s some — I don’t know — Arnold Schwarzenegger dude in the picture or something and I’m just… me?”

You blinked at him, half amused, half exasperated. “Seriously? You think I’d cheat on you?”

“No! No, no, no — shit, I’m sorry — I didn’t mean—” He ran a hand through his hair, guilt flashing in his eyes. “It’s just — you’ve been so distant and weird lately and you wouldn’t tell me why. I thought maybe you realized I’m… well, a pain in the ass, and found someone better.”

“Oh, Luke…” You sniffled, pushing yourself up so you were kneeling too, cupping his face in your hands. His skin was warm and he was trembling just as much as you. “If I’d known you were this scared of losing me, I’d never have kept this from you.”

“Of course I’m scared,” he whispered, his eyes softening as he brought a hand up to cradle your cheek. He pressed a tender kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there. “But why didn’t you tell me, baby? I was worried sick.”

“Because… you always say you don’t want kids.” You murmured, your voice barely above a whisper as your eyes dropped to the floor. “I thought you’d leave.”

“Ah, fuck. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he mumbled, pulling you into a tight hug again, burying his face in your neck. He pulled back just enough to meet your teary eyes. “I didn’t plan for this, but that doesn’t mean I’m not gonna love what’s ours, sweetheart. I love you. And I’m gonna love this baby too. So much.”

“Really?” Your eyes brimmed with fresh tears, a shaky smile spreading across your face when he nodded, his forehead resting against yours.

“Really. No more secrets, okay?” He smiled through his own watery eyes and kissed you deeply, his thumb brushing away your tears. “Thank you. Really. Because now I get to be Don Vito Corleone.”

“Oh God, Luke…” you groaned with a laugh, hiding your face in your hands.

“What?!” he chuckled, his voice bright with relief and warmth. “The Corleones are one of the most iconic families in cinema history. I take my references seriously, babe.”

You could only shake your head, laughing breathlessly as he helped you up from the floor. True to his style, he made sure to show his gratitude the only way he knew how: cuddling you on the couch under a blanket, The Godfather playing in the background, and his arms wrapped tight around you — exactly where you belonged.

[letsnowtalk]

No One Rides for You Like I Do

Flau’jae johnson x Reader

Warnings : Angst to fluff

Outline: in which Flau realizes how much she needs her ride or die

You and Flau’jae have talked in three days.

Not since the fight in her dorm—when words were sharp and neither of you flinched. She accused you of not understanding how much pressure she was under, and you had said, with too much heat, “I’m not trying to compete with your career, Flau’. I just wanna feel like I matter.”

That line sat heavy. Still did.

You’d walked out before she could say anything else, tears threatening to fall. She hadn’t called. You hadn’t texted. And now, you were sitting in the PMAC stands with your arms folded, surrounded by roaring fans and regret.

LSU vs South Carolina. One of the biggest games of the season.

You didn’t plan on coming. But something pulled you here—maybe instinct, maybe loyalty. Maybe the tiny, worn Polaroid of you and Flau’jae she had taped to the inside of her locker. The one she never let anyone touch.

Second quarter. LSU down by six. Flau’jae was playing with grit—aggressive, explosive—but you knew her. You could see it in the way her jaw clenched, the way she kept looking to the sideline. She was off.

And then, it happened.

A hard foul. Mid-drive to the rim. She hit the court hard, her head bouncing once before she grabbed her leg and curled into herself.

You didn’t even think. You pushed past people. Ignored the staff. Didn’t stop until you were down near the tunnel, screaming, “I’m with her! Let me through!”

She was being helped off the court when your eyes met hers.

Pain. Panic. But when she saw you?

Relief.

You were by her side in seconds, your hand wrapping around hers. She squeezed so tight it hurt. “You came,” she whispered, voice cracking.

“Of course I came,” you said, blinking fast. “You could be mad at me forever and I’d still show up if you needed me.”

She looked at you like the game, the world, didn’t exist anymore. “I’m sorry,” she breathed. “I ain’t mean none of that shit. I was scared. Of losing, of failing—of you leaving.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said. “I just need to know I’m not alone in this.”

“You’re not.” She brought your knuckles to her lips. “No one rides for me like you do. I see that now.”

Later that night, after LSU pulled off the win without her, you sat by Flau’jae’s side in the training room. Her knee was bruised, not torn. She was resting with her head in your lap, eyes closed, mumbling lyrics she didn’t want to forget.

That’s when Coach Mulkey walked in.

You straightened up, heart skipping, unsure if she was going to kick you out. She looked down at Flau’jae, then at you. Her hands on her hips, her signature fierce expression softening into something rare.

“I see the way she looks at you,” Coach Mulkey said, voice warm. “Like you’re her safe place.”

You blinked. “Yes, ma’am. I try to be.”

“Well, keep trying. She needs that. Lord knows this world doesn’t always give girls like y’all the space to love loud—but I see it. And I’m proud of her. Proud of both of you.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, nodding.

As Coach turned to leave, she added with a smirk, “Just don’t let her start writing sad songs about you. They’ll be stuck in my head all season.”

Flau’jae, still half-asleep, chuckled against your thigh. “Too late.”

You laughed, brushing her curls back from her forehead.

“You’re my ride or die,” she whispered, eyes barely open. “Don’t let me forget that again.”

You leaned down and kissed her temple. “you wont.”

[bluewlnteroses]

i just keep thinking about harley getting to know the truth about why peter is alone and finding out why people don't remember him and for a moment thinking he's glad he got to meet him after everything went down and immediately feel guilt and shame because its not fair peter went through so much pain and had to leave everyone he knew behind but,,,, just thinking about meeting each other before and getting to know peter and then completely forget him makes his feel sick

[eggtqrt]

the thing about the charming siblings is i want to make them tragic. you're perfect, I wish I was perfect. you're allowed to not be perfect. I resent you for being perfect. I hate you for being imperfect. I want to be a boy. I want to be a knight. I want to be you. I could be better than you. I wish your destiny was mine. I wish people loved me the way they love you. I wish she loved me the way she loves you. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. I love you. I miss when we were friends. we never talk anymore. do you even care? you know nothing about me. you took my destiny. who am I? I'm supposed to be the responsible one. don't leave me. get away from me. when did you grow out of being a little kid? i miss home. the only place that feels like home is you. do you love her? do you love me? brother. sister. i was supposed to protect you. I'm sorry. I forgive you. nothing will ever be the same again.

it's about perfection and performance. it's about playing roles. everyone has their role to play. what if i want to be something else, something more. it's about femininity and masculinity. it's about not fitting in to either. is it about who you're supposed to be or who you want to be? I did it for you. I didn't ask for that. I'd burn the world for you. you never cared about me. I think of you always. there isn't room enough for all of us. i wish you'd never been born at all. I couldn't live without you.

[sixxels]

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.

more choso for you >~< 'sticky situation' 'you,always.'

awe wasn't that sweet 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨 masterlist !!

guys look at this beautiful art @ryololart did inspired by this fic i love her go like it rn omg this is the perfect visual.

[mollyjames]

Even in food service, there is the demand for exponential growth. Each store has a profit target you're expected to hit every quarter. Each quarter the target gets bigger and bigger. The only way to make sure you hit or exceed that target is to increase sales or cut costs. Sales can only go so far though, so at a certain point there is the understandable temptation (not justifiable, but understandable) for your manager to start cutting hours. Once they do, your location has entered a Death Spiral.

The thing about the Death Spiral is it is nearly impossible to escape. It starts innocuous enough, with a few hours getting shaved off every week. And true enough at first you probably didn't need those hours. They were the slack, the extra hands that helped distribute the work and made it easier on everyone. You might not even notice they're gone. Maybe the morning rush is a little harder to handle, maybe there isn't as much time to chat as there used to be. But on the whole nothing has changed. You're still hitting your sales quota and, hey, everyone seems to be working a little harder. That's good, right?

Then the next quarter rolls around. You exceeded your quota. Upper management is very excited. But now your new quota is even higher than it would have been if you had simply performed to expectations. You raise prices a bit, push more expensive drinks, and sure, cut a few more hours. Bit by bit the slack gets tighter. The fat gets trimmed. All because continual growth, continual improvement, is not just demanded, but expected.

The endgame of the Death Spiral is the expectation that every worker will operate at 100% efficacy 100% of of the time, and that nothing will go wrong ever. It never reaches this point, as any food service worker will tell you, shit goes wrong. Service gets worse, you lose a few customers, and you miss your quota. This is the point of no return, because the only way to solve the problem is to add more hours. But there's no way upper management will approve spending more money. On a failing store? Don't be ridiculous. Maybe get those numbers up and we'll consider adding hours back. But the only way to get those numbers up is with no hours. It's a Catch-22. You're trapped. Slowly, inevitably, the store fails, and then closes.

The Death Spiral is a doomed strategy, but it is the one corporations push in response to investor pressure. It tricks workers into more work for the promise of relief later, if they do well and succeed, not realizing they'll only be asked to do even more next time. So how do you fight it? Know your worth. Don't let anyone give you more work without some kind of kickback. Don't fool yourself into thinking that being indispensable will lead to a reward later.

But the best defense? Join a union.

[humanjarvis]

the world when you're with me

synopsis: you seek out sylus for comfort after realizing you were wrong about him.

tags: comfort, fluff, implied avoidant!reader learns to trust sylus, implied avoidant!reader clings to sylus, sylus takes care of reader from afar, sylus has mephisto and the twins follow reader but wbk pairing: sylus x reader, reader is mostly mc word count: 802

a/n: is this the peak of literature? no. did i need to write it after the day i had? yes. did i need to post it today? no, because i’m trying to stagger my posts more, but here we are. anyway 4k caleb pwp coming tomorrow 

For the first few weeks after you’d infiltrated the N109 Zone, you’d avoided Sylus Qin like the plague. 

After being scared out of your wits by the first version of him you'd met—the cold, unavailable criminal mastermind who’d forced you to shoot him within 5 minutes of knowing one other—you were unashamedly wary of working with him again. 

But Sylus’s intel was unrivaled. More and more often, you found yourself visiting the N109 Zone to meet with him, eventually not even bothering to book a place to stay. There was always a guest room at the Onychinus base prepped for your arrival.

As you spent more time with Sylus, he’d noticeably changed his approach to interacting with you. Rather than forcing you to resonate with him, he’d explained to you how his Evol worked, letting you aim his hands at some training dummies to test it out yourself. Instead of unceremoniously shutting you out when he was tired, he’d drag his robe-and-slippers-clad self to sit beside you on the sofa, answering your cautious questions by practically giving away all his secrets. 

His shift in attitude hadn't stopped there. Sylus had clearly been using that endearingly incorrigible crow to keep tabs on you, but for the strangest reasons. 

Whenever you had a bad day at work, some building-wide maintenance emergency would magically appear, forcing your team to cease operations for the rest of the day. He’d text you a couple hours after your early dismissal, saying he was in the city and inviting you on an evening joyride to clear your head.  

The day after you’d lugged a case of water up the stairs to your apartment, having to pause a couple times to catch your breath, you came home to see your fridge mysteriously stocked with groceries. The only traces left behind were the masked twin figures you spotted scurrying away from your window. 

When a new phone showed up at your doorstep one day—you never even told him you’d shattered your screen, you thought—you’d decided that Sylus wasn’t as bad as you’d once assumed. Not anywhere near as bad, in fact. He was thoughtful, generous, and helped you without taking credit or forcing you to ask for it. You’d never had that before.

Which is why, somehow, you find yourself standing in the doorway of his armory, studying him silently as he polishes an antique-looking gun.

When he notices you, Sylus looks up, raising a delicately arched eyebrow. “Something wrong, kitten?” he drawls, subtly checking your body for injuries. 

Mind numb from your absolutely dreadful day, you stay silent while Sylus looks at you expectantly, his hands forgetting their earlier task. 

But for the next minute, you remain hovering in the doorway. You expect him to get annoyed—you almost want him to, so you have an excuse to go back to relying only on yourself—but all you see on Sylus’s face is patience.

When you start shuffling toward him, that patience mixes with a glimmer of anticipation that he visibly tries to suppress. You need him to be calm right now—an anchor, he thinks. If he loses his composure, if he startles you with his excitement at your approach, you might bolt at any moment. 

Sometime during his inner struggle, you reach him. Meekly, you stand before his chair, briefly opening your mouth before closing it. 

“What is it, sweetie?” he asks softly. “Tell me, and we can figure it out together. I’ll personally track down whoever seems to have stolen your words from you.”

At his offer, you break, collapsing into his lap. His large, warm hands immediately encircle your waist, and you bury your face into his neck, inhaling his leather and spice cologne. 

“Aw,” he coos in his baritone voice, rocking you slowly in his embrace. When he lifts your head an inch, you resist, letting out a soft whine. Gently, he guides your head back to his chest, his quickening heartbeat thumping in your ears and grounding you in the the moment. 

After several moments of silence, your deep, shuddering breaths the only interruptions, Sylus murmurs into your ear. “When I noticed you never ask for help, I was worried the world may not be treating as well as it should. You must be very tired, hmm?” he asks, rubbing his chin against your hair. 

Tightening your arms around him, you sit there for a while, his steady breaths seeming to mend a decades-long rift in your heart.

The next time Sylus tries to lift your head, you let him. He pulls your face from his neck so he can look into your eyes, hoping his gaze conveys his sincerity, before pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. 

“You don’t need the world when you’re with me,” he promises. “I’ll treat you better than it ever could.”

[dark-night-hero]

Imagine being Sylus' non-mc significant other. part 2

Imagine Sylus had always been good at slipping into roles. A lover, a liar, a partner, a predator. Not because it was his nature but because that is how he survived. How he navigated a world full of ghosts and guns where names changed with the wind and loyalties died in the dark.

so Imagine when the mission called for him to play the doting boyfriend to MC, he did it without hesitation. Business was business. And nothing more. But you, you were never part of the plan.

Imagine you were something he never expected to find in the wreckage of his life. The softness he did not think he deserved. The quiet safety in a world too loud. With you, he wasn't a weapon, he wasn't a monster. He was just Sylus. Your Sylus. And that terrified him.

Imagine the way he knew what it looked like. The missed calls, the half truths, the bruises he wore like secrets. He watched you swallow your suspicion with grace, letting trust carry the weight of all the things he could not say. And you, you never asked too much. You never demanded more than what he could give and that made him want to give you everything. But then the mission came.

Imagine, the fake relationship with MC was meant to be a temporary cover. A strategic alliance masked in flirtation and staged intimacy. And he hated every second of it. He hated how close he had to stand. He hated the way MC would linger when the cameras weren't rolling. And what he hated most is the way he saw your silence begin to turn into sorrow.

Imagine he noticed everything. The way you started to flinch at the word "work." The way your smile faltered when he came home smelling like someone else's perfume. He noticed and it broke him because he couldn't tell you. Not yet. Not when the stakes were this high.

Imagine he never touched her like he touched you. He never whispered her name like a prayer. Never let her see the parts of him that he bled out in your hands. The vulnerable pieces you pieced back together night after night. MC was the mission. You were the reason he came back.

Imagine the night you asked about her and the way your voice cracked. That sound, that single, fractured breath did more damage than any bullet ever had. He looked at you and saw everything he stood to lose. Not because you doubted him but because he knew you had every right to.

Imagine he let it happen. He let it happen because he thought he was protecting you by keeping the truth buried beneath duty. But secrets rot. Even the ones told with good intentions. And you were starting to wither away from him.

"It's not what you think." He said but you already heard the guilt even before he felt it. Not guilt for what he did. But the guilt for the pain his silence caused you.

Imagine the way your silence answered. You did not scream. You didn't even cry. You just looked at him. You looked at him like you'd been bracing for this all along. And that killed something inside him.

Imagine in that moment, he realized something that made him feel like a sword pierced through his chest. You thought he loved her. You thought you were being replaced. You thought you were disposable. He made you feel that way.

Imagine that night, He stayed the night because he couldn't stand the idea of you being alone with that lie. Yet you did not touch him. You didn’t speak. You just curled into yourself like a wound trying to heal without being treated. And he lay down beside you. Not as a lover, not as a man but as the ghost of everything he ruined. Listening to the way your heartbeat refused to sync with his.

Imagine as dawn bleed into the room like a slow confession. He when and left with your back was still to him.You were quiet. The kind of quiet that used to mean peace, now it meant distance. The kind of quiet that he already knew he had lost you and you were just too kind to say it.

Imagine you were the kind of wound that he wanted to keep. The one that proved him that he could still feel something. And he would give anything to unlearn how it felt to wake up beside you knowing he didn’t deserve it.

Imagine he would give everything to go back to the moment you said his name like it was still a prayer and not a question. Because Sylus never loved her. He only loves you. And now he destroyed the only truth he ever had.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

[wonfie]

# . BUT DADDY…⠀⠀✧

‎ ‎ ❤︎ ‎ 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇ʼ𝗍 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽

𝑓─── olderboyf!jay ㅈ f!rea ✶ smut ⏜ daddy kink finger fucking pussy slapping petnames jay’s a tiinnyy bit mean ✿ 𝐜𝓲𝐞𝓁 ｡ ⠀

REBLOG4 𝗞𝗜𝗦𝗦 𓏼 ◜ ᴗ ◝ 𓏼

YOU NEVER meant to say it.

really, you didn’t.

but jay’s hand was on your thigh, warm and heavy, his voice was low in your ear, and he looked too good in that black button-down with the sleeves rolled up. two drinks in, and you were already so gone for him. tipsy and light, fingers fidgeting with the silver chain around his neck while you sat sideways across his lap at some rooftop party you barely remembered getting invited to.

he hadn’t even kissed you yet. not tonight. not since he said “be good while i talk to heeseung” and you waited like you were told. didn’t interrupt, didn’t whine, didn’t tug at his shirt or lean into him too much even though every part of you ached to.

so when he finally pulled you back into his lap, one big hand curving around your waist and the other resting over your bare thigh like he owned it—you melted.

and that’s when it slipped out.

“you’re so pretty, daddy,” you whispered, barely realizing it left your mouth.

everything stopped.

his thumb twitched against your leg. his head tilted slightly, the chain you’d been toying with catching the light.

“say that again,” he said, softly. calmly.

your heart skipped. “say what?”

he didn’t smile. didn’t blink. just leaned in close enough that you could feel his breath when he murmured, “that word you just used. say it again.”

you swallowed. your fingers curled tighter around his chain.

“…daddy.”

the effect was immediate. his grip tightened. his eyes dropped to your mouth, then lower—trailing down your body like he was counting every curve, every inch that belonged to him.

his next words were growled.

“fuck. you really don’t know what you’re doing to me, do you?”

now, you’re on your back.

legs spread wide, panties shoved aside, dress bunched around your waist—and jay’s fingers buried deep inside you. his knee presses to the couch cushion beside your hip, keeping him steady as he works you open, slow and deep, like he’s making a point.

“you say something like that in public,” he says, voice low, “and you expect me not to lose my mind?”

your fingers curl into the cushion. your body jerks with every press of his fingers—two of them, thick and wet and curling up into that spot that makes you tremble.

“i didn’t mean to—i swear—”

“but you did.” he leans in closer, free hand gripping your jaw, tilting your head back until you have no choice but to look at him. “you said it so pretty. like you wanted me to hear it.”

you whimper. his thumb brushes your clit once—barely there—and your hips jolt.

“god, you’re soaked,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “fuckin’ knew it. my good girl’s been thinking about it. calling me daddy. getting ruined for it.”

“i have,” you breathe, desperate. “i have—”

“yeah?” his voice dips even lower. “what else do you think about, huh? me talking to someone else while you sit there lookin’ all innocent on my lap? wondering when i’m finally gonna take you home and fuck the brat out of you?”

you moan, back arching. his fingers pick up pace, wet and messy now, the sound of it obscene.

“you like when i call you that?” he asks, cocky now. “my little brat. my needy baby. my filthy girl who can’t even sit still on my fingers without grinding down.”

you can’t even form a word. it’s just gasps, whimpers, every muscle in your body coiled and tight.

he laughs—dark and dangerous. “say it again.”

you’re not sure what he means, but then his fingers go even deeper, and your head falls back, voice breaking—

“daddy—!”

and just like that, he groans.

“there she is.”

he pulls his fingers out just to slap your pussy once—light, but enough to make you cry out.

“don’t stop. say it again.”

“daddy—daddy, please—”

“mmh.” he kisses the side of your face. “such a perfect little mess for me.”

you sob when he shoves his fingers back in, harder this time. the rhythm is relentless, perfect. your thighs start to shake, and jay watches with fire in his eyes as you fall apart, clenching around his fingers and chanting that one word like it’s the only thing you know.

and even when it’s over—when you’re a trembling mess, face buried in his shoulder, body twitching from the aftershocks—he doesn’t stop.

he cups your jaw again, tilting your face toward his.

“that wasn’t even close to what you’re getting tonight,” he says, voice rough. “you call me daddy, you better be ready to handle all of me.”

and the way you whimper? wrecked and eager and soaked again already?

he knows you are.

[mrsbarnesblog]

˖˚⊹ i've got you

part 2

➤ summary: after getting a terrifying message from you manipulative ex, you lock yourself in the Camerons’ guest bathroom, spiraling into panic as everything starts to fall apart. what you don't expect is Rafe walking in and completely losing it when he realizes what’s going on.

➤ w/c: 2k

➤ warnings: SA (non-consensual recording and sex while being drunk), blackmailing, panic attack, protective Rafe

masterlist

The guest bathroom in the Cameron’s house felt like the safest place at the moment, and the second you closed the door, you collapsed on the floor, constantly buzzing with your phone still in your hand. 

It’s been like that for the last hour—endless messages from your ex, Ethan, who hasn’t wanted to leave you alone since you two broke up a few weeks ago. But when you were sitting with Sarah in the kitchen while she was cooking something on the stove and your phone lit up with a message, a video of you from him, your heart dropped to your stomach. 

Your hands started shaking violently, tears blurred your vision, as you couldn’t believe what you saw. It was just a preview, just a few seconds, but it was enough to understand. It was you on the bed, the dress from a few months ago when you went out with Ethan and some friends was gathered around your waist. You remember being drunk, barely conscious when he took you home, and then the next morning with pain all over your body. 

You didn’t remember having sex.

Sarah was oblivious to your breakdown, and you quickly managed to slip away from the kitchen, mumbling to her that you needed to use the restroom. 

You sat on the floor, back against the wall, staring at your phone screen with your heart thudding so hard it echoed in your ears. A consuming panic washed over you when messages kept coming from him.

Ethan (1:08 PM):

You really think I won’t do it? You think I won’t show them what you let me record? And i have more

Ethan (1:09 PM):

You looked so sweet in that video. Moaning for me like a slut. I bet Sarah’s brother would LOVE to see it.

Your blood turned to ice.

You don’t remember agreeing to anything. You would never have let that happen. He must’ve taken the pictures and videos without you knowing. You’d trusted him, loved him, been so fucking stupid—

It must be a nightmare. It should be, right? Ethan was bothering you, trying to convince you to go back to him, but straight up blackmailing you? You curled into yourself tighter, digging your nails into your thighs, as hiccups and cries shook your whole body. You couldn’t catch your breath, couldn’t stop your mind from racing because there was nothing you could do. No one who could help. And if those images were released? If they were sent to Rafe? You would be done for. 

The door cracked open before you could even register it, and the person whom you wanted to see the least in that state stood in the doorway. 

“Yo,” Rafe said casually. “Sarah said you were—“ Your head whipped up in panic at his voice, eyes growing wide, before you started desperately wiping at your face to hide the flow of your tears. But he froze when he saw you on the floor, looking so small and helpless. 

“The fuck—“ He muttered, stepping inside slowly, cautiously. “Hey, what the fuck’s goin’ on?” 

“Nothing.” You croak, voice raspy. “I’m fine. Just— just leave, Rafe.” 

“You’re crying. You don’t look fine.” 

“I said I’m—” You started to snap, but your voice cracked halfway through, and then you choked back a sob, curling in again.

“Fuck.” He muttered again under his breath, kneeling in front of you. “What happened?”

You shook your head, squeezing your eyes shut, as if it would make the situation not real. But you couldn’t hide the way your face scrunched as if you were in pain or hide the bubbling feeling of pure panic, and Rafe saw that. “It’s nothing. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Who hurt you, hm? You can talk to me, I promise.” His voice was smooth and soft as never before. When he raised his hand to softly brush the side of your face, it was slow and cautious to not scare you even more. You open your mouth to lie, to say that it was just stress, or your parents, or your period, but your phone, lying face up on the tiles, lit up with another message, and your whole body went rigid.

Rafe’s eyes flicked down, instantly seeing the name, then looked back at you with curiosity and a hint of defensiveness. He knew the story between you and your ex. He saw how he treated you, saw you struggling to keep it all together, and he was the first one to congratulate you when you finally announced your breakup. 

So seeing you react like that told him everything he needed to know. 

“Let me see.” It was not an order, but his words were firm as he took hold of your wrist. You shook your head violently, wanting to hide your phone and downplay everything. 

“No— Rafe, don’t look!” 

He snatched your phone away before you could even process it, fingers moving quickly to unlock it. 

The heavy silence filled the room when his eyes scanned your screen, seeing the message you didn’t even read yourself. “What. The. Fuck.” He looked up at you, jaw clenched, eyes wide with barely contained rage. “Is this real?”

He suddenly stood up, his actions almost frantic and panicked, and you jump up from the floor right after him as if automatically. You wanted to rip your phone away, but there was no point anymore—he saw everything, and you were way too tired and exhausted to fight anyway. 

The silence that hung in the bathroom was suffocating, crushing, pulsing with the weight of everything that had just been revealed. Rafe stood there like a statue, gripping your phone so tightly his knuckles turned bone white, and his chest rose and fell with each sharp, shaky inhale, like he was barely containing an explosion. His jaw was clenched so hard you thought he might grind his teeth to dust. You could see the way his whole body was vibrating with fury, and when his eyes lifted from the phone to meet yours, they weren’t just angry. They were wild. Dark. Protective in a way that made your throat close up.

“What the fuck is this?” He spat, low and dangerous, his voice barely more than a growl. “What the actual fuck am I looking at right now?”

You couldn’t answer. Your lips parted, but nothing came out. You weren’t even crying anymore, you were just frozen. Humiliated. All you could do was curl your arms around your body tighter as the shame flooded you, soaked into your skin, and made you want to disappear. Rafe’s eyes dropped back to the screen, and you followed his gaze as he was staring at the first image. It was you, lying on Ethan’s bed. Your head turned to the side, half-lidded eyes, a soft expression that you now recognized as tipsy, barely coherent. The straps of your tank top were pushed down around your upper arms. No bra. The thin sheet pulled across your body did nothing to hide your exposed chest. One of the other photos was taken from behind with you on your stomach, bare, the lower half of your body completely visible, the shape of your thighs and your ass captured without any shame.

“I didn’t know.” You whispered, your voice cracking and dry, and it felt like you couldn’t even breathe properly. “I swear to God, Rafe… I didn’t know he took them.” You didn’t look up, feeling shame and embarrassment washing over you. “H-he sent me a video.” You whispered so quietly you weren’t even sure if you said it aloud at first, your eyes zeroing on the floor as your whole doby went numb. But Rafe heard you. He tensed instantly, hands stiffening around your phone still in his hand.

“A video?” He repeated, slowly. Carefully. His voice was like the calm before a hurricane. “What video?”

You nodded, trembling. “Of us. Of me, mostly. I—I was drunk, and he filmed everything. I don’t even remember it, but h-he sent it to me today.” 

You broke again then, sliding down on the floor, helpless, sobbing so hard your body curled in on itself, your hands covering your face, unable to bear the thought of Rafe picturing you like that—not just naked, but used. Taken advantage of. 

For a long moment, Rafe didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He just stood there, chest rising and falling with rapid, shallow breaths, phone still gripped in his hand like he was about to smash it against the wall. Then, slowly, he lowered it on the countertop, and something in him cracked. Your cries, how desperate and sad they sounded, made him lose his mind, made him want to destroy everything and everyone who hurt you. 

His hands ran through his hair roughly as he looked away, trying to keep it together, despite fuming from the inside. But it wasn’t working. His entire body was tense, like a live wire ready to snap. He pounded his fist into the bathroom wall so hard that you heard a crack, and you jumped from the loud sound. The last thing you wanted was for him to hate you or to see you in a different light after those pictures.  

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” He said immediately, his voice breaking. He dropped to his knees in front of you, fingers twitching like he didn’t know how to touch you to not scare you even more. “I’m not mad at you. I swear I’m not. I’m just—I’m losing my fucking mind here, baby.” That word slipped out like it was natural for him, and your breath hitched. Rafe’s hands cupped your cheeks, his blue, wild eyes looking for yours, while he tried to wipe your tears.

“That motherfucker is dead.” He hissed, voice rough with emotion. “I’m not even fucking joking. I will kill him. He touched you when you were barely conscious? He fucking recorded you? Sent that shit to you as a threat? Threatened to show me?”

“He knows what you mean to me. He wants you to see me that way so I wouldn’t have any choice but to go back to him.” You whisper. “I didn’t want you to see me like that. I just—fuck, Rafe, I feel so ashamed. I feel disgusting. I didn’t want you to see this version of me, not through his eyes.”

“You think I give a single fuck about how you look in those videos or photos? About what you did with him?”

You looked down again, shaking, unable to meet his eyes.

“I do care.” He said, softer, lifting your face up again. “But not because you were naked. I care because it wasn’t your choice. That wasn’t you, baby. That was him taking advantage of you. And that makes me want to destroy every bone in his fucking body.”

You finally met his gaze again. His jaw was clenched so tight you could hear it grind, and his eyes were glistening with the kind of rage that came from caring too much.

Rafe leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours. His hands were on your thighs now, still shaking slightly. “You’re mine. Even if we’re not together yet. ” He said, barely above a whisper, like it was a truth he hadn’t even realized until that moment. “I wanted you for too long, let that scumbag treat you the way you didn’t deserve. But you’re fucking mine, and I swear to God, I’m not letting anyone hurt you like that again.” You closed your eyes, a tear slipping down your cheek.

“I’m gonna take care of this.” He muttered, so close you could feel his breath. “You don’t have to do a thing. You don’t even have to see that piece of shit again. I’m gonna make sure he never gets near you, never gets the chance to make you feel this way. Nobody will ever see that stuff, you hear me?”

“Rafe…” Your voice cracked again, barely holding together, tugging him closer by the shirt, seeking more comfort.

“Shh.” He whispered, brushing your tear-streaked cheek with his thumb. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you. I’ve fucking got you.”

part 2

[petalbcrnes]

LITTLE RED ╱ with JASON TODD ꩜ .ᐟ ⠀⠀ ────⠀⠀⠀ when jason comes home late at night from patrol he find you cuddling a red hood plush.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　

It was late into the night when Jason finally finished patrol. He moved from building to building, impatiently trying to get back home to you as fast as he could.

You’d probably be asleep by now, maybe passed out on the couch after trying to wait up for him. Jason always found your attempts endearing, but a little guilt gnawed at his heart, knowing you stayed up so late for him.

He entered the apartment quietly, making sure not to wake you if you were asleep. The lights were off, with only the dim glow from the bedroom lamp peeking through the hallway and lighting up the space. Jason shuffled out of his clothing, feeling a sense of freedom after taking off his jacket. He was too tired for anything else, so he headed for your shared bed where you were peacefully dozing off.

Jason thought you looked adorable with your messy bed hair, pieces of it covering your face, and your mouth slightly open.

Then he noticed it. A small red plush in your hands, hugged close to your chest. Jason took a closer look and realized it was a Red Hood plush, complete with the jacket, the red helmet, and all. It even had angry little down turned white eyes shaped like triangles.

Jason stared at the plush. No—he glared at it. The plush seemed to return the glare, almost mocking him. I’m where you want to be.

He wondered where you found it in the first place. Who makes plushes of the Red Hood? He’s not the most—... marketable vigilante. Maybe it was a kid he saved who had enough time to take in the details of his attire, because the plush was strangely accurate. How much did it even cost? Was it worth it? It seemed so, from the way you were gripping it for dear life.

Did you miss him? Is that why you bought it? The thought warmed Jason’s heart, but the realization that a plush was currently hoarding his well-deserved cuddles after a long day didn’t sit right with him.

Jason tried to move the plush away from your hands, but you whined in your sleep and pulled it back. He grumbled. He wanted to sleep in your arms, and he wasn’t losing to a goddamn plush.

He tried again, this time quickly shoving his arm where the plush was so you wouldn’t even notice it was gone. Good. Jason gave the plush a smug grin before flinging it to the other side of the bed. He snuggled up to you, and finally, he could feel sleep catching up to him.

Morning arrived, and you blearily opened your eyes.

“Jay?”

You could feel an arm over your waist and found the very real Jason Todd in your arms, sleeping peacefully. His chest rose with every quiet breath.

You admired him for a while before a certain plush caught your attention. It seemed to be on the other side of the bed, facing up.

He got jealous of it, didn’t he?

You couldn’t help but find all of this endearing. You turned your attention back to the sleeping form of the very real Jason Todd in your arms. You moved his messy hair away from his forehead, a few strands flying loose. You gave his forehead a small peck before settling back and wrapping your arms around him.

The real deal was definitely better.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　

directory ⋆˚꩜ rules !

⊹ 💬 · this is a very old work i scrounged up from the depths of my docs. i do know i got inspired by someone on ao3 to write this,,, i think instead of a red hood plush it was nightwing. i would really appreciate if you guys would let me know who it was! edit 23.05 — i was told there is a red hood plush fic and i want to credit the writer: mamgoess on ao3. if our works are too similar and the author is uncomfy i will take it down.

INBOX OPEN.⠀⠀feel free to send me asks and suggestions in my inbox. ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

✶⋆.© 𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐁𝐂𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐒 don’t use my work without my consent.

[fanficgirl429]

Jealous Bucky

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Prompt: Bucky gets jealous when Torres flirts with Y/N

--

The hum of fluorescent lights cast a pale glow over the East Side briefing room of the Helicarrier hangar. Equipment cases lined the walls, gear sorted and labeled with precision, and the scent of metal, oil, and sterilized fabric filled the air. Sam stood at the table in the center, hands braced on either side of a glowing tactical map.

Y/N leaned against the edge, tying her hair back into a messy braid, a black combat vest snug over her base layer. Her movements were quick but unhurried—second nature. Bucky watched her from across the room as he adjusted the shoulder harness of his stealth suit. His fingers moved slowly, distracted. He'd already checked his gear twice.

She caught him looking and gave him a soft, secret smile. The kind of smile that said I'm okay.  The corner of his mouth lifted in return, subtle but real.

“You two gonna kiss or kill something?” Sam asked, not even looking up from the map.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “You know which one I’d prefer.”

Y/N rolled her eyes with a half-laugh, walking over to Sam’s side as Joaquín Torres pulled up a holographic overlay from the nearby terminal.

“Guard rotations are clockwork,” Torres said, pointing. “Three-man teams sweep the corridors every twenty minutes. Entry point’s here, west stairwell. You’ll have a five-minute window to get past the security grid.”

“And once we’re inside?” Y/N asked, leaning in, her fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the table. Bucky’s gaze followed the motion.

“Split and sweep,” Sam said, already sliding into briefing mode. “Y/N and I take the server room. Bucky clears the vault corridor. We regroup at extraction in twenty.”

“Sounds clean,” Torres said. Then his eyes flicked to Y/N. “Wish I was going with you guys. Could use someone with your instincts on my team.”

Y/N raised a brow. “You calling me predictable or reckless?”

“Neither,” he replied, a grin tugging at his lips. “Just saying, if I had someone like you watching my six, I might not get shot at so much.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed.

Y/N laughed it off, casually stepping closer to Bucky without seeming to realize she’d done it. But he noticed. He always noticed. The subtle way her body leaned toward him when someone else was around. The way her hand rested on his forearm briefly, grounding both of them.

Torres was still grinning, oblivious. “You ever think about switching teams, Y/N, let me know. I could use a partner who looks that good and knows how to break a guy’s arm in two seconds.”

Bucky’s voice cut through the air. “She’s not switching anything.”

The room stilled for a second too long. Sam looked up, eyebrows raised. Torres blinked and took half a step back, holding his hands up in defense. 

Y/N let out a slow breath and gave Bucky a look—half amused, half warning.

“Just saying, man. No offense,” Torres said. 

Bucky didn’t answer. Instead, he turned and walked toward the lockers, snapping his gloves tighter than necessary.

Y/N followed.

When they were out of earshot, she leaned against the locker beside him, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“You know I’m not going anywhere, right?” she said softly.

Bucky looked down, then back at her. “Yeah. I know. Doesn’t mean it’s easy watching someone else talk to you like that.”

Y/N tilted her head. “You think I care what Torres thinks? I let you zip my vest this morning.”

His eyes flicked to her chest, then to her face, his voice lower now. “Yeah. That was the highlight of my day.”

A smile played on her lips. “I can give you another highlight, but we’ve got a mission in ten.”

“Damn timing,” Bucky murmured.

She stepped closer, hand brushing lightly against his side—right where his arm met flesh. “I’ll be careful.”

“I know.”

“I mean it,” she whispered. “I don’t want you losing your mind if someone so much as looks at me funny again.”

“Too late for that,” he muttered, then softened. “But I’ll keep it together. Just… stay close. And come back to me.”

She pressed a quick kiss to his lips, unseen from the others. “Always.”

Sam called from across the room, “Time to move out, kids. Jet’s hot and ready. Let’s go look cool and kick ass.”

Y/N turned with a wink. “Let’s go make some noise.”

Bucky watched her walk away—confident, calm, dangerous as hell. And his.

He took a breath, squared his shoulders, and followed.

No one would ever get close enough to take her from him.

Not on his watch.

--

The mission had ended hours ago.

Madripoor had been chaotic—twisting alleys, cold steel corridors, fire flashing off concrete and bad choices. But they’d made it out. Banged up, bruised, a little breathless, but alive.

The quinjet hummed softly as it cut through clouds somewhere over the Atlantic. Sam had passed out three seats back, his arm thrown over his face, muttering occasionally in his sleep. Bucky sat near the front, freshly bandaged, bruised, quiet.

Y/N sat curled up across from him wearing one of his hoodies and her tactical pants, legs tucked beneath her. She’d changed out of her suit, hair loose now, damp from a quick shower at the airbase. Her eyes had been on Bucky since takeoff—not in worry, but something else. Something quieter. Deeper.

He looked tired.

Not physically—though the gash on his shoulder was proof enough the mission hadn’t gone easy—but emotionally tired. Like he’d been holding onto something all day that still hadn’t been said.

She crossed the aisle and slid into the seat beside him, saying nothing at first. Just letting the silence speak.

He glanced at her, then looked away. “You should sleep.”

“You should talk to me.”

A beat passed.

He exhaled. “You could’ve been killed today.”

“You say that like it’s not part of the job.”

His voice dropped. “It’s different when it’s you.”

Y/N turned in the seat, facing him fully. Her hand reached over, fingers brushing his knuckles—just barely. But he felt it like a jolt.

“You saved me. Again.”

“I shouldn’t have had to.” His jaw flexed. “I should’ve cleared the corner faster. Should’ve—should’ve gotten between you and that guy.”

“Bucky.”

“I saw the way he raised the gun. He wasn’t aiming at me. He wanted you. And all I could think was—”

He stopped himself. Chest rising, falling. The words stuck somewhere between his lungs and his heart.

“All I could think was, what if this is the last time I see you?” he finished, softer now. “What if I lose you before I ever get to tell you…”

Her hand moved to his jaw, thumb tracing the stubble just below his cheekbone.

“Tell me what?” she asked.

He met her eyes, blue and stormy and full of something that cracked her open inside.

“That I love you,” he said. No hesitation now. No fear. Just the truth. 

Y/N’s breath hitched. She was already smiling, already blinking away tears she hadn’t realized were there. “Took you long enough.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “Guess I’m still learning how to say things before I almost lose them.”

She cupped his face, pulling him in gently, and kissed him—slow and deep. When they parted, her forehead rested against his.

“I love you too,” she whispered. “Even when you’re brooding and jealous and act like you invented angst.”

His lips curved against hers. “I did invent angst, actually. 1943. Patent pending.”

She laughed, and he held her close, letting the sound soak into his skin.

They stayed curled together for the rest of the flight, her head on his shoulder, his fingers tangled in hers. No words needed.

Outside, the storm had passed.

But inside the quinjet, something far more powerful had settled.

Peace. And love.

[thisrots]

vi ‘dicking’ you down <3

𖦹 word count: 635

𖦹 warnings: strap usage, dom!vi, sub!reader, rough(ish) sex, tender vi, praise, size(ish) kink?, that’s ab it. my clit wrote this saur… blurb maybe? hehe

Thinking of Vi strapping you down, but how sweet n tender she’d be with it while she drills into you. You’d start off on the bed, missionary so you could adjust to it (and so she could see your face when she first put it in). She’d slide it in, slow and calculated, hiding the fact that she was trying to get it in so deep inside you that she could see it bulging out of your lower tummy. She stared at your face, twisted up in pain and pleasure, biting your lip while your eyes roll back, making the black strap line in between her thighs dampen.

“That’s it, that’s my girl,” She’d praise in your ear, her hips slapping against your skin as she starts to rock them, making sure to hit nothing but the spot she knew made your thighs quiver. Although she had good intentions, her sweetness would soon turn primal—her pace picking up the second a whiny moan escaped your lips. Her hand would meet your lower tummy, pressing onto it, making your back arch at the intense sensation, losing sight of the toy as all eight inches disappeared deep inside you.

“You’re—You’re filling me the—fuck!—up!” You’d mew out in between her animalistic thrusts, clinging onto her, greedily pulling her in even closer, clawing up her back as your fingers traced her tattoos. Her pants and grunts are all you could hear as she toyed with your ear, licking and biting, whispering sweet nothings to keep you going.

“I know, poor baby, I know,” Vi murmured, her voice husky and low, her words melting in your ears like honey. “But you can take it, can’t you? I believe in you, baby girl.”

She’d eventually lift you up without warning, too lost in the pleasure to even complain or react, only realizing you’re pressed against the wall once you felt the coldness on your skin. Your legs wrapped around her as her thrusts continued, the shlick noises of your wetness on the toy filling the room, your moans turning into mewls as she damn near reached your cervix. A hiccup escaped your lips, tears dribbling down your face, the intense feeling overtaking you. Vi immediately begun to smother you in kisses, every drop that fell from your eyes immediately disappearing into her lips.

“What is it baby, hm? Look at how well you’re taking me. You should be proud, aren’t you proud?” She’d question, forcing you to look down at your hole being stretched by the second. Your legs felt like jelly as they flopped against her sides, causing her to push them against your chest, completely holding your weight as she fucked into you. “I’ve got you. Being such a good girl for me.”

She’d continue until she felt your hole gripping around the toy, knowing you were close, keeping the same rhythm that was getting you there. Your moans were guttural and desperate, voice straining as she slammed herself inside you. She’d force you to look at her as you felt your orgasm creeping up, staring into her puppy blue eyes as she fucked into your g-spot, making it hard to believe such a sweet being could be this rough with you.

Your grip around her neck suddenly tightened, everything blurring out—her voice, her thrusts, the way her breath hit your skin—and then it hit you all at once. The shockwave of your climax washed over you, thighs quivering and toes curled, moaning out nothing but her name as your pussy clamped up around her, damn near drawing blood as your nails sunk into her back.

“There she is,” Vi started, kissing your lips, slowing down her pace, but not pulling out quite yet. She looked down at the cream coated toy, smirking at the sight as her eyes met yours. “Atta girl, baby.”