#on the base of chaos and madness

[fernflowerss]

finished ena a couple of hours ago and I'm perusing theories and whatnot and while I keep seeing the word "symbolism" everywhere I simply choose to believe that no, the world simply operates like that in game

[cangrellesteponme]

every option sucks but i am trying to figure out who would be dr bumby in that au

[fightinggamegirlfriend]

had the dumbest thought. my self ship with JC Denton…

but it’s just the guilty gear plot.

no I wont elaborate.

[mirersc]

WARNING: SONIC IDW COMICS ISSUE 63 → MINOR SPOILERS!

ARE THOSE WHO I THINK THEY ARE???? 👀👀👀

[darknessillumina]

I would be chilling if they didn't decided to take down the classic site.

Blame on them.

Blame society.

[chuluoyi]

࿐ ࿔ 🕰️ 「 05:56 P.M 」

this has been rotting in my drafts for like months :'D based on a suggestion idea a while back—how gojo will definitely land himself in a police station, and since i have no better fic to share yet, i'll just post this :')

a part of gojo's love entries

everyone—or particularly, nanami—has warned you that marrying gojo satoru is going to be far from easy.

and true, less than a month since the two of you were married, he had landed himself in a police station. police station! of all places!

still, you were worried when you got the call, but when you rushed inside the place, all your worries—

“i’m telling you! i’m innocent!”

“sir, please don’t raise your voice here!”

“YOU are raising your voice against me!”

—evaporated. because… what the hell?

satoru, looking cross as if he owned the whole precinct, sat with his legs crossed high. he wore all black and his eyes was covered by that stupid blindfold. and with that haughty attitude, if someone accused him of being a suspicious person, now you would totally understand.

you were fuming as you stomped to where he was. “satoru!”

“oh?!” he turned to you with a wide grin, then to the officer in front of him, pointing at you. “look! i’ve been telling you. i have a wife— and there she is!”

the officer eyed you suspiciously as if he wanted to confirm your identity, and you huffed. “it pains me to admit that i’m his wife—”

“wha?! it ‘pains’ you?! i’m hurt!”

“—but yes, i am. officer, what do i have to do to get him out here?”

you could’ve sworn the officer gave you a look of pity. “ma’am, so we received a report that your… err, husband, was publicly harassing two students—”

you widened your eyes, turning to him accusingly. “you—!”

“i was not!” satoru fiercely interrupted, eyeing the police with clear disdain. “if i want to harass girls, shouldn’t i harass my wife first?!”

you were speechless as you shot him a look of disbelief.

“but sir, the girls said that you have been ‘leering’ at them—”

“i was just passing by! i didn’t even look at them! and when i have a wife this hot—” satoru wildly gestured at you with both hands. “what use is anything else?!”

dear lord. please give me strength. you felt like losing your head over this as you clutched your temple.

“sir, you’re being too loud!”

“i’m telling you, you’re slandering me! that’s crime too!”

this was utter chaos and you finally had enough. “both of you, just...” you breathed out— “shut up!”

both the police and your husband looked at you in surprise as you glared at them with so much ire they would have never expected out of you.

in the end, to settle this fiasco, you ended up paying the fine.

“wifey... forgive me, please?”

satoru dejectedly followed you from behind like a sad puppy as you entered your home. “please? don’t be mad at me...”

you suddenly stopped in your tracks, before whirling to face him, squinting one eye. “you got arrested, made a fool out of yourself, and i bailed you out. so, give me three good reasons why i shouldn’t be mad at you.”

“uh, w-wait...”

“three, two—”

“i-i’m a good kisser! i let you have my body!” he blurted in panic. “and oh—while at it, i also satisfy you sooo well in bed!”

how did you end up with a clown for a husband? despite yourself, you almost laughed at his response, and satoru obviously saw it as a sign of him succeeding. and before you knew it, he leaned and pecked you in the lips.

“look at you, you just smiled!” he giddily grinned as he pulled away. “i’m right, aren’t i!?”

“ha ha...” you let out an exasperated sigh, suppressing your laugh and faint heat in your face at the same time. “satoru...”

his eyes were practically shining. “yes?!”

“you and couch. tonight.”

[sixxels]

you, always. ~ choso.k

summary!! in the chaos of frat parties, firelight, and fucked-up choices, you and choso keep dancing around what you really are. everyone sees it except you two. when one mistake shatters the illusion, you’re forced to face the truth: he was never yours. and that’s what made it hurt the most. a messy, slow-burn situationship full of angst, heartbreak, and the kind of love that doesn’t go away, no matter how hard you try to let it.

wc: 12.8k

!!disclaimer!! based on this ask! heavy themes of situationships, emotional angst, betrayal, and heartbreak, choso is a stoner, alcohol and drug use, slow-burn with a payoff, eventual resolution.

"gojo! go long!" 

the air smells like salt and smoke. waves crash in the distance, a steady rhythm under the thump of bass from a speaker half-buried in the sand. the fire crackles, casting flickering shadows on faces you know too well. 

you kick off your sandals, the sand cool beneath your feet. the party is in full swing, bodies swaying, drinks sloshing, joints passing from hand to hand. alpha phi knows how to throw a party, especially when finals are over and the only thing left to do is forget.

your eyes drift to the open sand, watching as sukuna, goji, and toji pass around a football with ease. shirtless, of course. they yell and laugh and tackle eachother without a care in the world as nanami and geto sit on a towel supervising their tipsy friends. 

their eyes snap towards you, and gojo flashed a big toothy grin.

"y/n!! you're here!" you smile back at him but before you could walk up to greet him with a hug, two arms snake around your waist, and the scent of weed, smoke, and aragon oil invades your senses.

"hey, baby."

"hey cho." 

you don’t turn around. don’t need to. his voice is low and lazy against your neck, warm breath brushing your skin like it’s second nature. he pulls you in a little tighter, his hands settling on your hips like he owns them. like he always does when he’s high and feeling a little territorial.

“jesus christ,” gojo hollers, already laughing, “you guys are so gross. it’s a beach party not a porno.” you roll your eyes, but choso doesn’t even flinch. doesn’t say a word. just rests his chin on your shoulder like he plans on staying there all night.

“don’t be mad no one wants to cuddle you,” you shoot back, and gojo gasps, clutching his chest like you physically stabbed him.

“wow. okay. betrayal. and after i saved you that jello shot earlier.”

“you drank it in front of me.”

“for you. spiritually.”

choso huffs a quiet laugh against your skin. not loud enough for anyone else to hear, but you feel it. the way his mouth brushes the curve of your jaw when he does it, the way his arms tighten for half a second like he’s anchoring you to him.

“you wanna smoke?” he murmurs, voice quiet under the music, just for you. you tilt your head back slightly, eyes meeting his. his lashes are heavy, lids low, and he looks so fucking relaxed it makes your chest ache. that easy, sleepy stoner look. always so chill, even when you know he’s not.

“yeah,” you say, just as soft, “but only if you roll it.”

he smirks, barely. “you just like watching me do it.”

“you roll like it’s a love language.”

“maybe it is.”

you feel it in your stomach then. that familiar pull. the ache of something you’re both pretending isn’t real. you lean into him anyway. because you’re a little buzzed and the night smells like ocean and smoke and the fire makes everyone look golden.

“c’mon,” he says, and tugs your hand gently, guiding you away from the fire, away from the noise, to somewhere a little quieter. as you walk, you hear gojo yell behind you, “don’t fuck on the dunes!”

you flip him off over your shoulder.

you don’t hear choso laugh, but you feel his smile in the way he squeezes your hand.

~

after you and choso disappear, gojo's football arcs through the night sky, spinning like a slow comet before landing in sukuna’s outstretched hands with a soft whump. he catches it effortlessly, turns, and hurls it back to toji without looking.

“well choso's all over y/n again.” sukuna says, not even trying to sound casual. toji catches the ball against his chest, grunts, then shrugs. “he’s always all over her.”

“yeah, but like,” sukuna kicks at the sand, eyes following where choso and y/n disappeared into the shadows past the firelight. “they’re not together, right? still?”

“they’ve never been together,” gojo calls out as he jogs up to them, sweat sticking to his neck, eyes glassy from whatever edible he snuck earlier. he throws himself into the circle, catches the football when toji tosses it back. “they just… do whatever the fuck it is they do. the ‘situationship’ special.”

“he fucks her. sleeps next to her every night. calls her baby,” sukuna ticks it off like a grocery list. “but they’re not dating. okay.”

“you know choso,” gojo says, spinning the ball in his hands. “he’s too high to define anything.” toji lets out a quiet scoff. “too lazy, more like.”

“same thing,” gojo shrugs. the fire crackles behind them, muffled bass bumping from the speaker half-buried in the sand. people laugh, yell, somewhere a girl shrieks in mock horror. the air is warm with weed and ocean breeze, the kind of night that makes everything feel heavier than it is.

“i don’t get it,” sukuna mutters, squinting in the direction they disappeared. “she’s bad. like, bad bad. and she’s just letting him walk around like he’s not barely trying.”

“she’s not letting him,” gojo says. “she’s just not saying anything.”

“yeah, well,” toji grunts, reaching to scratch at the back of his neck, “what’s she gonna say? ‘hey, could you stop being a pussy and ask me out’? it’s not her job to spell it out.”

sukuna snorts. “you’ve seen the way he just lets girls flirt with him, right? he doesn’t even do anything. just lets it happen. that’d drive me fucking nuts.”

“yeah, but he never does anything,” gojo cuts in, voice a little more serious now. “like, he never kisses them. never leaves with anyone. he just—sits there. lets it happen ‘til they get bored.”

“still feels like a betrayal,” sukuna mutters, kicking at the sand.

“not cheating, but not loyal either.”

toji hums low. “he’s not a cheater. he’s just… lazy. too lazy to say no, too quiet to set boundaries. but he doesn’t cross lines. not really.”

“no,” gojo agrees, tossing the football in the air and catching it. “he just hovers near the edge and hopes no one calls him on it.”

“gojo, didn’t you say that girl from theta chi was hanging off him at that house crawl last week?”

“yep.” gojo grins, wide and toothy. “kept playing with his hair, calling him cho-bear. it was nasty. and he didn’t even move. just let it happen like a couch with a pulse.”

“fucking couch with a pulse,” sukuna howls.

“no, but for real,” gojo says, tossing the ball back to sukuna, who catches it one-handed. “she saw it. y/n. just stood there, stone-faced. didn’t say a word. you could tell it was eating her alive.” toji watches the ball get passed back again. “she’s not gonna call him out unless he gives her a reason to. and he’s smart enough to never quite cross the line. just hovers near it, like a dickhead.”

“i think he genuinely doesn’t even notice when girls flirt with him,” gojo says, lounging back into the sand now, hands behind his head. “like, i think he thinks they’re just being friendly.”

“that’s even worse,” sukuna scoffs. “ignorant motherfucker.”

“nah, he notices,” toji says after a beat. “he just doesn’t care enough to stop it.” they all go quiet for a second. the ball sits forgotten in the sand between them, the firelight throwing weird shadows across their faces. “so what’s she supposed to do?” sukuna finally asks.

“go crazy,” gojo says, laughing. “spiral. drink too much. flirt with someone worse.”

“someone like you, you mean?”

gojo raises a hand. “i would be the villain in her story, yeah.”

“you’d do it just to get a rise out of choso.”

“you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“i mean, it’d be fun to watch.” sukuna smirks, then sighs, kicking back a little in the sand. “she deserves someone who actually tries, man.”

“she deserves someone who isn’t high 24/7 and doesn’t look like he crawled out of a grave,” toji adds. gojo grins. “she likes the grave thing, though.”

“unfortunately,” sukuna says. they all look back toward the shadows past the firelight where choso and y/n disappeared, now just vague outlines under the moonlight. they’re sitting on a blanket, her legs stretched across his lap, a slow curl of smoke rising between them. her head tilts back in laughter at something he says, and even from this far, you can see the way he watches her. eyes soft. half-lidded. stoned and glowing and absolutely hers, even if he’ll never say it out loud.

“fuck,” gojo mutters. “he likes her. you can see it all over him.”

“then why doesn’t he just say it?” sukuna asks, and for once there’s no edge to it. just confusion. “because if he says it out loud,” toji says, picking up the football and tossing it lightly between his hands, “then it’s real. and if it’s real, he could lose it.” gojo whistles low. “damn, dr. phil in the house.” toji throws the ball at him. hard. “shut the fuck up.”

gojo laughs as he catches it, wincing a little. “i’m just saying. he’s not dumb. he knows the second they talk about it, shit might change. and right now? they’re in that sweet spot. not official, not broken. no labels. just… vibes.”

“vibes,” sukuna echoes, rolling his eyes.

“vibes don’t keep people around forever,” toji mutters. and they all go quiet again. the kind of silence that doesn’t ask to be filled. the kind that feels a little too honest, even for them. eventually, gojo sighs. “should we go tackle him? drag him back here and bully him into having one single adult conversation in his life?”

“nah,” sukuna smirks. “let him fuck it up on his own. it’s more entertaining.”

“you’re such a good friend,” gojo deadpans. sukuna shrugs. “i never said i wasn’t an asshole.” they go back to throwing the football. the fire pops and spits. and in the distance, choso passes the joint to you like he’s handing you a piece of himself. not a word spoken. just that same lazy, deliberate affection that drives you insane.

not quite enough, but still just enough to keep you here.

for now.

~

you slip away from the firelight without saying a word, your drink forgotten in the sand, music fading behind you as you wander toward the dunes.

he follows like he always does. doesn’t ask where you’re going. doesn’t need to.

the world feels softer out here, where the party is a dull hum and the moon hangs low over the ocean like it’s watching. your skin is warm from the fire and the drinks and his eyes, heavy on your back as you settle on the slope of a dune, dry grass brushing your bare legs.

choso sits behind you. doesn’t touch you at first. just passes you the joint, his fingers brushing yours like he doesn’t mean to. like it’s accidental. it never is. you take a slow drag, eyes on the black water in the distance. the kind of quiet settles over you that only ever exists with him. easy, full of things unsaid. always full of things unsaid.

he shifts closer. knees bumping. breath grazing your neck.

“cold?” he murmurs.

you shake your head, even though you kind of are. but he wraps an arm around your waist anyway, pulling you back against him. warm hoodie. bare legs across his. his chin finds your shoulder like muscle memory. you can feel his heartbeat against your spine. slow. steady. so fucking calm it drives you insane.

“you’re quiet tonight,” you say softly, voice barely louder than the wind. “so are you,” he says, and it’s not a deflection. it’s an observation. his fingers slip beneath the hem of your hoodie, warm against your skin. not in a sexual way. not yet. just grounding. just his hand resting there like it belongs.

you tilt your head and he takes the cue. kisses the side of your neck. slow, unhurried. his lips trail over your jaw like he’s done it a thousand times. because he has. but this time, he lingers. this time, he doesn’t stop. your fingers find the edge of his shirt, tug lightly. he shifts so he’s above you now, braced on his forearms in the sand, his hair falling forward to tickle your face. he looks at you like he’s stoned and dreaming.

maybe he is. you cup his jaw, thumb brushing that soft patch of skin beneath his lip. he kisses you like he’s never been in a rush in his life. slow. deep. lazy, but not careless. like he wants to make sure you feel every part of it. like this is the only thing tonight that he means.

your back arches under him. his hand slips beneath your thigh, fingers pressing into skin that’s still warm from the firelight, from his touch. the kiss deepens, turns a little messier, a little hungrier, but still never rushed. he tastes like weed and salt and something sweeter that’s just him.

he pulls back, barely, breath ragged. “you okay?” he asks, voice low and rough. you nod, lips parted, eyes on his. “want me to stop?” you shake your head.

his mouth curves into something almost like a smile. not all the way. just enough. he kisses you again, slower this time. less urgency, more meaning. like he’s trying to say everything he never does with his mouth instead. your fingers tangle in his hoodie. his hand spreads across your lower back, pulling you impossibly closer, like he wants to climb inside you just to be near your heartbeat. like closeness is the only language he’s fluent in.

and it’s not just sex. it never has been. not with him. this is what it always is—soft mouths, quiet hands, closeness that never gets named. something just shy of love. you don’t talk about it. you just kiss like maybe it’s enough. and maybe, tonight, it is.

he kisses you one last time, softer than the others, like he’s tucking something away. then he shifts, rolls off to lie beside you in the sand, hoodie bunched at his ribs, arm behind his head like nothing happened.

you stare at the stars. try to even your breathing. try not to think too hard about the way your lips still feel swollen, the way his hand had fit so perfectly behind your knee. “that was…” you start, then stop. instantly regret saying anything.

he hums, low in his throat. noncommittal. like he’s agreeing but not really engaging. like he knows what you meant but isn’t going to make it easy. silence stretches between you. not quite comfortable this time. not like before.

“your hoodie smells like weed and bonfire,” you say eventually, just to fill the air. “so do you,” he says, lazy. not even looking at you. you swallow. blink up at the sky.

“are we gonna talk about it?” the words slip out before you can stop them. his jaw tightens, just for a second. you catch it in the side of your vision. “talk about what?”

you shrug, try to make it light, like it doesn’t matter. like you didn’t just let him kiss you like he meant it. “this. whatever this is.” he takes a slow breath. the kind people take when they don’t want to lie but don’t want to tell the truth either.

“it’s whatever you want it to be,” he says finally, so quiet you almost miss it. your throat tightens. that’s the problem. it’s always been whatever you want. and you never say what you want. and he never asks again. “right,” you say, a little too fast. “cool.” you sit up, brush sand off your legs, avoid looking at him.

“we should go back,” you say. “people are probably wondering where we went.” he doesn’t move right away. just watches you, eyes unreadable in the dark. then he sits up too, pulls his hoodie straight, stands. you walk back together but not touching. not speaking.

his hand hovers near yours the whole time but never quite reaches. and you don’t ask why. you just let the pain in your chest eat you up from the inside out as you make your way back to the bonfire, greeted by gojo and yuki.

the fire’s burning hotter than before when you make it back. someone’s thrown more logs on it, and the flames lick high into the night, casting everyone in gold and shadow. gojo spots you first, sitting crisscross in the sand with a red solo cup balanced on his knee and a bottle of tequila in his lap.

“look who finally decided to rejoin society,” he grins. “get over here, slut, we’re playing truth or dare.” you laugh despite yourself, letting the rest of the group pull you in. yuki scoots to make space, draping an arm around your shoulders, already three drinks in and glowing like mischief incarnate. “you missed nanami getting dared to do a shot off haibara’s stomach. tragic.”

“and he actually did it,” shoko adds dryly from across the circle, holding a cigarette like a wine glass. “he’s so real for that.” you let yourself settle in, take the cup someone hands you, ignore how your heart still beats unevenly in your chest. choso’s a few feet away, sitting on a driftwood log, blunt in one hand and a half-empty bottle of something dark in the other. he’s slouched low, legs spread, hoodie falling off one shoulder. eyes half-lidded, mouth slack.

you glance at him. he doesn’t look back. you look away. “okay,” gojo claps once, way too loud. “truth or dare, y/n.” you raise a brow. “we’re just starting with me?”

“you disappeared for like thirty minutes,” he says, waggling his brows. “gotta make up for lost time.” you sigh dramatically. “fine. truth.”

“ooooh,” yuki coos. “boring.”

“shut up,” you mutter, but you’re laughing. gojo leans forward, blue eyes gleaming. “if you had to kiss someone in this circle right now, who would it be?”

groans echo around the fire. you make a show of looking around, tapping your finger to your chin. “hmmm… probably yuki.”

“coward!” gojo shouts. “hot,” shoko says at the same time. “kiss her then,” sukuna smirks from across the flames. you raise your cup in mock salute.

“haibara,” yuki says, pointing at him with a wicked grin. “truth or dare?”

“truth,” he says too fast, already blushing “what’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever said during sex?” the group erupts, groaning, laughing, shoko immediately choking on her drink.

“you’re evil,” haibara says, clutching his chest. while he fumbles through a mortifying story about calling someone “milady” mid-hookup, your gaze drifts—just for a second—across the fire.

choso’s leaning back against the log now, body heavy, hoodie pushed halfway off one shoulder. his cup is empty. the blunt that had been passed around earlier is down to the filter in his fingers. he’s not saying anything, just watching the flames, face slack and unreadable.

he’s wasted.

not just high, not just tipsy—gone in that quiet, slippery way he gets when he doesn’t want to talk. eyes half-shut. jaw loose. totally somewhere else. you don’t clock it fully, not yet. not with yuki howling beside you and gojo still hanging off your back like an overgrown child.

“milady??” gojo cries, throwing his head back. “nah, jail. straight to jail.” the circle bursts into laughter again. you smile, distracted. choso doesn’t. he's way too off his face to even think properly, and when he was like this, he was very impressionable.

 “next round.”

the game rolls on. someone dares toji to shotgun a beer with no hands (he does it without blinking). haibara is dared to say the filthiest thing he’s ever googled (he refuses, gets booed). yuki chooses dare, ends up giving shoko a lap dance that has geto raising his eyebrows and muttering something about needing a cigarette.

then gojo turns to you again, eyes sharp. “truth or dare, y/n.” you smirk. “dare.”

“yes,” he hisses. “okay. i dare you to sit on someone’s lap for the next two rounds.”

“jesus christ,” you mutter. “don’t act shy now,” yuki laughs. “just pick your victim.”

your eyes skim the circle. your gaze flicks to choso’s spot.

it’s... empty?

the log is bare. the bottle’s gone. the blunt’s out. no sign of him.

you blink.

when did he leave?

you hesitate too long and gojo grins wider. “need help choosing?” you huff and drop yourself in his lap, just to shut him up. he yells, triumphant, wrapping his arms around your waist like a wrestling belt. “ladies and gentlemen, i am blessed.”

“you’re a menace,” you say, trying not to laugh as he leans into it, chin on your shoulder, theatrically sighing. you stay there for two rounds, as ordered. it’s stupid and warm and kind of perfect. yuki flicks bottle caps at you, toji starts telling a story no one believes, and the fire cracks and spits into the night like it’s trying to keep up with everyone’s energy.

but underneath all of it, a small thought needles at you.

'where the hell did choso go?'

you don’t say it out loud. you just smile and laugh and sip your drink. pretend not to feel the hole that opened beside you when he left.

~

the firelight dances over everyone’s faces, laughter and music mingling with the smell of salt and smoke. you can still taste tequila on your lips, hear gojo’s ridiculous jokes echoing over the waves. everyone’s caught up in the moment, gojos still relishing in the fact you're in his lap, nanamis still scowling at yuki for being so loud, but your mind drifts back to choso.

you last saw him sitting with you guys around the fire. something aches in your chest at the memory—like you should have stayed closer, made sure he was okay. instead you laughed with yuki, played along with gojo’s dumb dares, tried to forget. forget the akward moment the two of you shared before all of this. 

visibly, you were upset. anyone could see you were looking for choso, it was just what you did.

but then you catch sukuna’s eye from across the circle. he’s staring where you are, face unreadable under the flicker of flame. with a stern look in his eyes that almost screams 'i'm sorry' he points his chin toward the bar with a slow nod. you frown—why is sukuna looking at you like that? it’s a silent invitation to look back. you shift uncomfortably in gojo’s lap. he snickers, but you barely hear him.

“you good?” he asks, eyebrows raised. you force a smile, head shaking. “yeah. just… saw something.” you shrug it off and stand unsteadily—two drinks plus who knows how many hits of blunt doesn’t mix well with sand.

you push through the circle of friends, “i’m just gonna grab another drink,” you tell gojo, but you don’t reach for the cooler. instead you make your way toward where sukuna pointed. the makeshift bar is a low wooden plank on cinder blocks, empty bottles strewn at its feet. choso is there, only he’s not alone.

you catch the last line of a slurred sentence—“what, i can't even see your face right now i'm so fucked up—” and see him pressing his mouth against a girl’s in a sloppy, desperate kiss. her arms are around his neck, and she’s pulling him closer. she’s pretty in that sorority way, wavy hair and cheap sundress, someone you barely know. neither of them notices you. his hoodie is off, draped on the back of the barstool. he’s shirtless except for a half-unbuttoned flannel, and you can see the way his chest rises and falls, uneven. he smells of weed and booze and regret you haven’t even registered yet.

your heart collapses before you even process what’s happening. he’s never done this. he’s never gone past a little throat-clearing and some conversation when other girls flirted. he never let things escalate. but here he is, his lips smashed against another girl’s, fingers tangled in her hair. he’s too drunk to pull away. it’s not just a flirt or a laugh-by; it’s something messy.

you step closer, frozen. your mouth goes dry. you hear someone call your name from the fire circle, yuki’s voice, but you can’t answer. your breath catches when choso’s gaze flickers away from the girl’s mouth. his eyes widen for half a second when he sees you, and then he panics.

he pushes the girl off him. she stumbles back, startled, and you feel a sharp pang for her, too, she was probably just playing the game like everyone else. his hands tremble as he reaches for her, swaying on his feet. the girl backs away, wiping lipstick off her mouth, then walks off into the dark, leaving choso standing there alone with his shirt hanging open.

he turns to you, lashes drooping. his voice slurs: “y/n, shit, i—”

you can’t hear the rest. you can’t even breathe. everything goes quiet except for the pounding in your ears. tears burn behind your eyes. you feel goosebumps prick your skin even though it’s warm. your legs quake. how could he do this to you? he’s never done this to you. he’s never shown any sign of wanting someone else like this. he’s always been so… lazy, but at least he never burned you like this.

you open your mouth, wanting to scream something, but the only sound that comes out is a ragged whisper: “cho…” the name catches in your throat like a curse. he steps forward, but you step back.

“i didn’t—i didn’t mean it—” he stammers, palms raised, his voice thick. “she just—was right there, and i—”

his words make no sense. they never do when he’s this fucked up. you’ve seen him high and you’ve seen him drunk, but never this wasted. his eyes are unfocused, his cheeks flushed. he’s tripping over himself, trying to explain. trying to fix something you don’t know can be fixed.

“are you for real right now?” you finally rasp, voice cracking. “are you fucking kidding me?”

he blinks, as if he’s seeing you for the first time. his hands drop to his sides. he sways a little, like his body is untethered from his mind. “y/n, ma, i’m sorry. i’m—shit.”

you step back even further, your hands coming up to cover your face. you don’t want him to see you cry, but you can’t stop the tears. they fall hot down your cheeks. your whole chest aches. the world tilts sideways. you feel like you’re drowning under the weight of it.

he reaches out, hesitates, then drops his arm. “i’m—I was just—”

you slash a hand through your hair. “just, just what? just what, choso? you’re never ‘just’ anything with me. you know that.”

he swallows hard. his throat moves, and you can see his Adam’s apple bobbing. fuck, you always notice. fuck, you hate how much you notice. “i was—i got too high. too drunk. i wasn’t thinking.”

you laugh—bitter, broken. “thinking? you weren’t thinking before either. you never think. but at least before, you didn’t do this.”

he recoils as if your words burn him. his shoulders slump. “you—i’m an asshole, i know.”

“you’re more than an asshole.” the words are sharp, pulsing. “you’re a fucking cunt. you don’t even know what you want.”

he flinches, but push comes from his chest. “that’s not true—”

“no?” you whisper, voice trembling. “so you do want her? is that it? maybe you want a real girlfriend? this is what you want?”

he looks away. his jaw tightens. he runs a hand through his hair, tangling his fingers. he closes his eyes. “i don’t know what i want.”

you feel a fresh wave of hurt, like acid in your bones. “exactly. you don’t know. but you sure know how to use me until you’re bored.”

his head shoots up like he’s been stabbed. his eyes slide to yours, glossy. “i—”

“stop,” you choke out. “just stop.”

he blinks again, tears forming too. you can see how much he’s struggling to keep it together. he opens his mouth to say something, but instead he coughs, draws in a shaking breath, lets it out. his voice is quiet and ragged and real: “i’m so sorry.”

it’s the rawest thing you’ve ever heard from him. but you don’t let yourself believe it. not yet. you can tell by the way he’s stumbling, slurring around his words, he means it in the moment—because he’s too high to lie. but as soon as tomorrow comes, will he remember? will he care?

“i’m fucked up,” he confesses, voice breaking. “i know—i know i fucked up. i—i hate myself so much right now.”

you see it in his eyes: he’s so deep down, he can’t fix this. he knows he’s fucked, but that doesn’t help you. it’s just another confession that puts your heart on a slanted knife. you’re trembling—anger and heartbreak twisting in your gut.

“you hate yourself?” you repeat, voice hollow. “you should.”

he flinches again, then steps toward you slowly, as if wading through quicksand. “look. i'm sorry, i am. i... fuck me bro i don't know how to talk about this right now give me a break.”

“too late,” you spit, stepping around him as if he’s diseased.

he reaches out, then drops his arm again, like he can’t even touch you. “y/n—please.”

you can’t look at him anymore. you feel something hard and cold snap inside you. “i want you to leave,” you say, voice low and controlled. “leave me alone.”

for a moment he just stands there, looking at you like he’s seeing the end of something he didn’t realize was real. then he turns away, unsteady. you watch his shoulders shake. you can’t tell if he’s about to cry or puke.

he staggers toward the dunes, disappearing into the dark. you don’t follow. you don’t want to watch. you sink to the ground in front of the bar, knees up to your chest, arms wrapped around them. the firelight feels harsh, like it’s burning you. you press your face into your knees, let the tears fall freely. you feel everything—anger, sadness, shame, confusion—raw and jagged.

you don’t know how long you sit there before someone touches your shoulder. you look up to see yuki crouched beside you, eyes wide with concern.

“y/n?” she whispers. “are you okay?”

you shake your head, voice lost somewhere in your chest. “i can’t,” you choke out. “i can’t.”

she wraps her arms around you. you let her hold you, even though it feels like admitting defeat. the party rages on behind you, music thumping, friends oblivious or perhaps just giving you space. the waves crash somewhere beyond the fire, steady and indifferent.

you think of choso out there, stumbling over sand, alone. you think of the regret in his eyes, how you saw it plain as day. you think of how you loved him in silence for so long, and now his mistake has ripped that away.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper into yuks’s shoulder, though you don’t know if you’re apologizing to her, to yourself, or to him. the tears won’t stop. your heart feels hollow, like the tide has taken a piece of you out to sea.

and somewhere in the dark, choso probably crumbles, realizing he’s lost you. you want to hate him for that, but you can’t. you just want to bury yourself until this night never happened.

~~

choso’s head felt like a fucking drumline was marching through it, each beat sharper and heavier than the last. the sun stabbed through the blinds in long, cruel fingers and the stale smell of smoke clung to the air like a bad hangover perfume. he blinked, slow, trying to remember where the hell he was. the frat house. alpha phi. his bed. but how the fuck did he get there?

his mouth was dry and tasted like burnt rubber, throat raw and sore. he propped himself up on one elbow, the room spinning slightly. he groaned low, the motion making his head pound harder. last night was a blur—faint memories flickered like a broken film reel. laughter, firelight, the crash of waves, the weight of someone in his arms, then flashes of something else, something he didn’t want to remember.

the door creaked open. sukuna stepped in, calm and precise as always, but the usual mischief in his eyes was replaced by something colder, sharper.

“you’re up,” sukuna said, voice low and steady. he didn’t smile. that was the first warning.

choso rubbed his face with both hands, trying to piece it together. “sukuna. how the fuck did i get home?”

“i carried you,” sukuna said flatly. “passed out face-first in the sand behind the bar. someone had to get you the hell out of there before you died or embarrassed yourself worse.”

choso groaned again, sinking back onto the mattress. “shit…”

“yeah, shit,” sukuna muttered, pacing the room with slow, deliberate steps. he sat on the edge of choso’s bed, leaning forward. “you fucked up, man.”

choso’s eyes narrowed. “i know.”

“you don’t,” sukuna said sharply, almost like he was frustrated by his own words. “you really fucked up. and you’re about to find out how bad it is." sukuna says, leaning back and letting out a breath. “you fucked up so bad, choso. you—” he leans forward again, voice low and dangerous, “—you really fucked up.”

“god...” choso muttered, feeling the weight crash down on him like a tidal wave. guilt spread through his chest, thick and heavy. he felt sick, the kind of sick that wasn’t just from booze or weed.

sukuna’s voice cut through the fog. “you’re a goddamn idiot for letting it happen. you’re not the type, not really. you’ve always had some stupid line you wouldn’t cross, but last night you trampled all over it like it didn’t matter.”

choso looked up, voice raw. “i didn’t mean to.”

“no shit,” sukuna said, but his tone wasn’t mocking. it was serious, almost like a warning from a friend who gives no fucks about sugarcoating.

choso swallowed hard. the knot in his stomach tightened. “fuck. i didn’t want this.”

“doesn’t matter what you want.” sukuna’s eyes bore into him. “you had her, you had this whole fucking thing that was more than a hookup but less than a relationship, and you threw it away.”

choso’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “i’m so fucked.”

“yeah. you are. you wanna know why?” sukuna leaned back, shaking his head. “because she didn’t deserve it. she’s been holding her shit together around you while you got high and drunk and let some other girl get what she’s been waiting for. and now she’s gonna hurt. and you’re gonna have to watch.”

chosо runs a shaky hand through his undone hair. the memory clicks into place like a hammer to his skull: the girl’s lips on his, the way he’d lost himself in a haze of substance and needed something familiar, something warm, so he’d found the first person who was breathing close. he feels bile rise in his throat. “i didn’t mean to,” he whispers. “i wasn’t thinking.”

“bullshit,” sukuna snaps, voice surprisingly loud in the small room. “you were drunk, yeah. you were high, yeah. but you were coherent enough to know that wasn't y/n.”

chosо flinches. the memory of slurred words pours into his mind—words he wishes he could swallow back into oblivion. he touches his lips, damp with saliva now. “fuck, y/n,” he breathes, and his chest caves in.

“you do realize what you did?” sukuna demands. he stands, pacing the length of the room, hands curled into fists. “you humiliated her. you broke her heart. and y/n… y/n’s been your ride-or-die since freshman year. hell, she’s been in love with you since day one.” chosо winces. he closes his eyes, vision blurring. “i know.”

“no, you don’t know.” sukuna’s tone shifts, angrier now. “you have no fucking idea. you let her believe your fucked-up silence was affection. you let her walk around telling everyone you were hers and she was yours. you let her think you cared about her. now you’ve gone and spat on that trust.”

choso’s eyes flutter open. he’s sweating, although the room is cool. “i—i know i’m an asshole.” his voice cracks. “i’m sorry. i’m so sorry.”

sukuna stops pacing and squares his shoulders. he stares at choso like he’s looking through him, like he can see every flawed cell. “i’m not here to hear you say sorry. do you know why?”

chosо shakes his head, staring down at his hands. “because it doesn’t fix anything?”

“exactly.” sukuna folds his arms, voice shaking with a quiet intensity. “saying sorry doesn’t undo the damage. saying sorry doesn’t un-break her heart. saying sorry doesn’t make her forget watching you with someone else. saying sorry doesn’t bring her back to you.”

choso feels his chest tighten until he can hardly breathe. “i know.”

“do you know what she’ll do now?” sukuna asks, stepping closer, gaze piercing. “do you know she’ll pretend she’s okay? do you know she’ll crash and burn from the inside out because she can’t handle facing you?”

chosо just looks at the floor. tears burn back behind his eyes. he feels like he’s been punched too many times to count. “i don’t deserve her.”

“no shit,” sukuna says softly, then shakes his head. “and that’s the problem. you think you don’t. so you never mess up your lazy routine of smoking and half-assing everything. but this isn’t just half-assing. this is destroying someone you used to claim you cared about.”

his voice cracks. for a moment, choso thinks sukuna might cry. instead, he turns away and stalks toward the door. “i’m done here. get your shit together, cho. learn how to be a man. learn how to say no. learn how to keep your mouth shut when you know saying something will ruin everything. and for god’s sake, figure out what you want before you ruin the next person who loves you.”

he swings the door open and pauses. “and if you ever look at her again like nothing happened, i will personally drag you out of this room and force you to tell her everything you feel. got it?”

chosо nods slowly, unable to trust his voice. sukuna leaves without another word, closing the door with a final click.

he sinks back onto the mattress, head spinning. he slides down until his back presses against the cool wall. tears finally slip free and track down his cheeks. he presses his face into his knees, breathing hard. guilt slams into him like a freight train—so overwhelming he can’t think how to make it stop. he hates himself for hurting y/n. hates himself for being too lazy to say no earlier, for being too cowardly to have the difficult conversation before he got wasted. hated himself for believing he could keep using her heart like it was just another spare, something he could pick up and toss aside.

~

“so then i said, ‘professor, with all due respect, you can’t assign a 3k essay during finals week and also expect me to be sober.’”

you snort, biting back a grin as gojo throws his arm dramatically over his chest like he’s just taken a bullet. the two of you are walking past the library, sunlight flickering through the trees, heat radiating off the pavement in lazy waves. it should feel like freedom—finals are done, summer’s coming, everyone else is already half-drunk on the taste of no responsibilities.

but your chest is heavy.

you don’t say anything. you just keep walking, nodding along to gojo’s ridiculous story about submitting a paper with a meme in the bibliography.

he’s doing a good job of keeping it light, you’ll give him that. he always does. it’s like he knew you didn’t want to talk about last night—knew you needed distraction, not comfort. jokes, not pity.

“anyway, the TA gave me a seventy-two, which is basically a love letter. should i text her or is that inappropriate?”

“definitely text her,” you say, trying to sound amused. “start with ‘hey, baby. your academic standards are low, and so are mine.’”

gojo clutches his chest again. “y/n, you complete me.”

you smile. or at least you try to.

and then you feel it. not the sun. not the warmth of gojo’s voice. something colder. sharper.

you look up—and there he is.

choso.

he’s across the quad, walking toward the science building with his hoodie pulled up even though it’s too warm for it, and a plastic cup of coffee clenched in his hand. you don’t think he’s seen you at first—he’s walking slow, like his body hasn’t caught up with his brain, like he’s still in last night. his eyes are sunken, skin pale, mouth downturned. he looks like hell. like regret.

and then his gaze lifts. and meets yours. everything halts.

his steps slow. his grip on the cup tightens just slightly, enough to make the lid shift. his whole face stills, mouth parting a little like he might say something, even from this distance.

you stop too. mid-stride. your stomach clenches.

it lasts only a second. maybe two. but it stretches, long and loud and tense. like the entire campus is holding its breath.

you can’t look away from him.

and then he blinks. looks down. keeps walking.

you let out the breath you didn’t realize you were holding. force your legs to move again.

gojo doesn’t say anything for a moment. doesn’t joke. doesn’t tease. just lets you walk beside him in silence until your fingers curl at your sides, and you have to ask.

“did he look at me?”

gojo sighs, tilting his head back to look at the sky. “like you hung the fucking moon.”

you swallow hard.

“he looks like shit,” you mumble.

“yeah. guilt’s not a great moisturizer.”

you let out a small, bitter laugh. “fuck. this is so embarrassing.”

“it’s not embarrassing, y/n. he’s the one who kissed someone else.”

you blink back the sting at the edges of your eyes and shake your head. “we weren’t even… anything.”

gojo stops walking. turns to face you, squinting against the sunlight. “don’t do that.”

you furrow your brows. “do what?”

“pretend it didn’t mean something. like it wasn’t real just because no one put a label on it. i know it’s easier that way, but it’s not the truth.”

you hate how gentle his voice is. how nonchalant he normally is, and how careful he’s being now. it makes it worse. it makes it real.

“i just…” you start, but the words die on your tongue. “i don’t know what to do.”

gojo shrugs, soft. “you don’t have to do anything.”

you blink.

“seriously,” he says. “you don’t owe him your forgiveness. or your rage. you don’t have to figure it out today. you can just be pissed. or sad. or numb. it’s allowed.”

you look down at your shoes. at the way the sunlight splashes across the concrete in broken gold.

you think about last night. about the way choso looked at you before he stumbled off behind the makeshift bar. about how you didn’t notice he was gone. about sukuna’s warning glance. about the girl’s hands in choso’s hair. about the way he couldn’t even string a sentence together. about the way your heart cracked in real time, like glass under pressure. quiet, and then all at once.

you wonder if he remembers it. if it keeps replaying in his head the way it’s stuck in yours.

you wonder if he’s sorry. not just in his body language. not just in the way he looked at you like he was drowning. but really sorry. the kind you say out loud.

gojo nudges your shoulder. “come on. let’s go get lunch before i start crying in public.”

you nod, wordless, and let him steer you toward the student union building. but as you walk, you can still feel it—that moment of eye contact, lodged somewhere between your ribs.

it hurts in ways you didn’t know silence could.

you sighed as gojo pulled you along beside him out of your thoughts. you’re now sitting on the edge of a bench outside the arts building, chin in your hand, barely paying attention to the slow trickle of students passing by. it’s too nice of a day to be sulking, but that hasn’t stopped you before.

gojo plops down beside you like he’s got springs in his joints, letting out an exaggerated sigh as if he’sthe one emotionally hungover from your situationship unraveling in public.

“you know what your problem is?” he says, already grinning.

you glance sideways at him, unimpressed. “no, but i’m sure you’re about to tell me.”

“you need to get drunk and reckless and do something stupid. preferably at my place, tomorrow night, very exclusive. i’m inviting you, which means you’re special.”

you raise a brow. “is it really exclusive if you’re inviting the whole campus?”

“shhh,” he hushes, waving a hand. “don’t ruin the illusion. i’m curating vibes, not sending out mass texts.”

you pause, fingers picking at the frayed seam of your sleeve. “i don’t know, satoru…”

“oh, come on.” he leans in closer, drops his voice just enough to make it conspiratorial. “you show up lookin’ hot, drink my alcohol, dance a little, maybe flirt with someone who doesn’t make out with random sorority girls while cross-faded. total healing.”

you snort, despite yourself. “that’s your solution to heartbreak? tequila and objectification?”

“babe, i’ve seen worse coping mechanisms. plus,” he adds, nudging you with his shoulder, “it’s me. you know it’ll be fun.”

you let the silence stretch for a beat, eyes flicking out toward the courtyard. the weight in your chest hasn’t lifted—not really—but it feels a little less suffocating around gojo. he’s good at that. distracting you without making you talk about it.

finally, you shrug. “fine. i’ll come.”

“yes!” he pumps his fist dramatically. “dress code is ‘make your ex cry,’ by the way.”

you roll your eyes, but a real smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. “you’re the worst.”

“and yet, somehow, still your favorite.”

you don’t argue. maybe he’s right. maybe a party is exactly what you need. or maybe it’s just easier to dance through the ache than sit in it.

either way—you’re going.

"alright."

~

the bass is already rattling the windows when you step up to gojo’s front porch. the door’s wide open, light and heat spilling out into the night like the house itself is breathing. you can hear laughter, the clink of bottles, someone yelling about beer pong in the backyard.

you take a breath, adjust the strap of your top, and step inside.

the place is packed. bodies everywhere, music thumping through the floorboards, the air thick with sweat and smoke and something sweetly chemical. you’re barely two steps in before someone presses a red cup into your hand.

“look who finally showed up,” yuki grins, appearing at your side like she’s been waiting for you. she’s in a black crop top and ripped jeans, glitter dusted across her collarbones. “damn, you look hot.”

you laugh, a little breathless. “thanks. you too.”

“obviously,” she smirks. “come on, let’s find sukuna before he starts a fight.”

you follow her through the crowd, weaving between clusters of people, dodging elbows and spilled drinks. the living room’s a mess—couch cushions on the floor, someone dancing on the coffee table, a couple making out against the wall like they’re the only two people in the world.

and then you see him.

choso.

he’s slouched on the couch in the corner, hood up, eyes half-lidded. there’s a joint between his fingers, a bottle of something dark on the floor by his feet. he looks like he hasn’t slept in days. his gaze flicks up, meets yours for a split second, and then drops back to the joint.

your stomach twists.

“don’t,” yuki says, catching your arm. “he’s not your problem tonight.”

you nod, swallowing hard, and let her pull you away.

in the kitchen, sukuna’s leaning against the counter, shirt unbuttoned, tattoos peeking out from beneath the fabric. he raises an eyebrow when he sees you, a slow smile spreading across his face.

“well, well,” he drawls. “look who decided to grace us with her presence.”

“don’t start,” you warn, but there’s no heat in your voice.

“start what?” he feigns innocence, pushing off the counter to stand in front of you. “i’m just appreciating the view.”

yuki rolls her eyes. “you’re such a slut.”

“takes one to know one,” he shoots back, winking at her.

you laugh, the tension in your chest easing just a little.

“come on,” sukuna says, grabbing a bottle from the counter. “let’s get you a real drink.”

he pours you something strong and sweet, the alcohol burning a trail down your throat. you take another sip, letting the warmth settle in your belly.

“so,” sukuna says, leaning in close. “how’ve you been?”

you shrug. “surviving.”

“that’s all anyone can ask for,” he nods. 

“listen,” sukuna says, voice a little lower, a little more serious, “i talked to choso.”

your hand pauses halfway to your mouth, red cup hovering in the air. you don’t look at him, not yet.

you just go, “yeah?”

he nods once, slow. then, after a beat: “the night of the beach party. i drove him home.”

you finally glance up.

he’s not wearing the usual smirk. no teasing, no smugness—just sukuna with his jaw clenched a little too tight and his eyes sharp with something you don’t usually see on his face. concern, maybe. or regret, even though this isn’t his thing to regret.

“he was out of it,” sukuna says. “like, properly fucked up. couldn’t walk straight. slurring all over the place. when i found him behind the bar, i thought he was gonna hurl on that girl’s face.”

your stomach flips.

“he kept saying your name,” sukuna goes on. “like, in between trying to light a joint with the wrong end of a lighter. just kept saying it. over and over. sometimes like he was pissed at himself. sometimes like he was scared you’d left already.”

you don’t say anything.

you just keep staring at the edge of the countertop like if you look hard enough, it’ll swallow you whole.

“i sat him in the car,” sukuna says, softer now. “he couldn’t even get the fucking door open. just slumped in the seat and stared out the window the whole drive. i don’t think he even knew i was there. and then he said—”

he cuts himself off, tongue poking at the inside of his cheek.

you glance at him. “he said what?”

sukuna’s eyes flick to yours. something unreadable flickers there.

“he said, ‘she’s not gonna look at me the same,’” sukuna mutters. “‘i ruined it.’”

your throat closes.

he shrugs, like he’s trying to keep it casual, like he hasn’t just torn a hole in your chest. 

your heart is beating in your ears now, too loud, too fast. the crowd, the music, the whole fucking house feels like it’s underwater. like you’re moving through molasses.

sukuna leans his elbows back on the counter, watching you.

“look,” he says, voice calm but firm, “i’m not saying this to excuse what he did. he fucked up. and not just at the party. i mean all of it. the way he lets girls talk to him like he’s not taken. the way he never says shit when they flirt. the way he lets you hurt in silence because he’s too fucking lazy to figure out what he wants.”

your jaw tightens.

“but i know choso,” sukuna adds. “he doesn’t care about them. any of them. he never even touches them, not really. not until that night, and even then—it was like he didn’t even know what he was doing. like he was trying to prove something. or forget something.”

you whisper, “me.”

sukuna looks at you.

you don’t mean to say it. it just slips out. soft. sad. pathetic, maybe. but it’s true.

“he was trying to forget me.”

sukuna doesn’t argue.

he doesn’t need to.

because you both know it’s true. that when choso’s world got too full of you, too sharp, too terrifying, he tried to blur it out. the way he always does—getting high, getting drunk, fucking off his feelings until he could float above them.

except he couldn’t. not this time.

“he looked wrecked when he woke up,” sukuna says, his voice gentler now. “like he wanted to peel his own skin off. he couldn’t even look at me. just sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands.”

you blink, slow.

“he knows he fucked up, y/n.”

you close your eyes.

it hurts. it still fucking hurts. even knowing all of this. even hearing the guilt in secondhand words. it doesn’t undo the image burned into your brain—choso, kissing someone else. his hands on someone who wasn’t you. his mouth where only yours should’ve been.

and worse, knowing he knew what he was doing. that even if he regretted it, he still let it happen.

because what the fuck did that mean about you?

sukuna watches you a moment longer before nudging your cup with the back of his hand.

“drink,” he says. “you deserve to have a good time.”

you nod. you drink. it burns.

“just—” sukuna pauses. “don’t let him take up your whole head tonight, alright?”

you try to smile. “i’ll try.”

he leans in, his grin returning, just a bit. “i mean, worst case scenario? you can always rebound with me.”

you roll your eyes, snort softly, but the ache in your chest has shifted just a little.

it’s still there, still sharp, but now you know it’s not just you who’s hurting.

and somehow, that makes it worse.

and better.

all at once.

~

the bass hits you in the chest the second you step back into the living room.

you throw your head back, laugh bubbling out, drink still cold in your hand as yuki grabs your wrist and spins you into the circle forming near the coffee table. the lights are low and golden, the air thick with weed and heat and breathless voices. bodies are everywhere—lounging, grinding, tangled limbs on couches and in corners—but all you care about is the way your friends are looking at you like you’re electric.

“you’re a menace tonight,” gojo yells over the music, grinning so wide you can’t help but laugh.

“finally!” yuki shouts, raising her drink. “she’s letting loose. it’s about fucking time.”

toji’s watching you from his place on the arm of the couch, lips curled into the barest smirk. “is this her trying to pretend choso isn't a thing anymore?”

“she’s earned it,” shiu says, eyes glittering as he hands you another drink. “cheers to heartbreak and hedonism.”

you take it. you take all of it. the laughter, the dancing, the teasing. it doesn’t fix anything, but it lets you forget. even if just for a little while.

you let go.

you dance with yuki like no one’s watching, her arms slung over your shoulders as she mouths the lyrics to a song you don’t even know. toji moves with lazy precision beside you both, rolling a joint one-handed. gojo grabs your other hand and spins you, dramatic and ridiculous, until you’re dizzy from more than the alcohol. shiu throws a pillow at him and the whole room erupts into chaotic laughter.

someone pulls out a disposable camera. you pose in yuki’s lap, fingers in a peace sign, tongue out. someone snaps a picture of you and gojo fake-kissing just to piss people off. you feel blurry and beautiful and wanted.

the floor shifts beneath your feet. the lights swirl. everything smells like weed, cologne, sweat, spilt beer.

you’ve never felt more untouchable.

until you realize you really need to pee.

“bathroom,” you shout into yuki’s ear, who nods and swats your ass like she’s sending you off into battle. you weave through the living room, slipping past elbows and shoulders and breathless giggles. the hallway’s darker, quieter, like stepping into a different world.

you turn the corner—

—and there he is.

choso.

leaning against the wall just past the bathroom door. hoodie half-on, hair falling in front of his eyes, red solo cup dangling forgotten from his fingers. solemn. still. like a ghost in the middle of the party.

your breath catches in your throat.

he lifts his head.

his eyes meet yours.

and just like that, the whole party fades away.

no music. no shouting. no laughter or bodies or haze of weed curling in the air. just you and him, standing in the soft hallway light like ghosts who forgot they were alive. frozen. held in place by the weight of something too big to look at directly.

you don’t say anything. neither does he.

it’s all there in the air between you—heavy, aching, unfinished.

choso’s eyes flicker down, like it hurts to hold your gaze for too long. he swallows, thumb nervously rubbing the side of the plastic cup. there’s a tremble to the way he exhales. not drunk, not high—not like before. just scared. tired. stripped of all the usual defenses.

and then, finally, he speaks.

“i’m sorry.”

two words. small. fragile. like he’s been carrying them around too long and now they barely hold their shape.

you blink. your heart stutters in your chest.

he doesn’t wait for you to say anything. he can’t. the words are already spilling.

“i was—i was so fucking out of my head that night,” he says, voice low and wrecked. “i don’t even know how it happened. i didn’t—i didn’t want her. it didn’t mean anything. i wasn’t thinking. i just… i wasn’t here.”

he runs a hand through his hair, dragging it back, breathing like the air hurts to take in.

“and that’s not an excuse. i know that. i know that doesn’t make it okay. but i need you to know—it was never supposed to be anyone else. it’s always been you.”

your chest tightens.

“even if we weren’t, like—together,” he says, softer now. “even if we never called it anything. it’s you. it’s always been you.”

you swallow hard, the ache catching at the back of your throat.

“i didn’t say anything that night because i didn’t know how,” he murmurs. “i thought… i thought i’d ruined it for good. and maybe i did. but i swear to god, i’ve never regretted something more in my entire life.”

he finally meets your eyes again.

“i hurt you. i know that. and if you never want to talk to me again, i get it. but i had to say this. i had to tell you. because pretending like i didn’t care was the worst thing i’ve ever done.”

you don’t even realize you’re crying until the warmth touches your cheek.

“you mean everything to me,” he says, like it’s a confession. “and i’m so fucking sorry.”

and for the first time in weeks, he looks like himself again.

not the broken boy on the couch, not the too-stoned mess at the beach, not the ghost you keep locking eyes with across a room. just choso. your choso. tired, hurting, but finally honest.

you don’t say anything right away.

because what is there to say to something like that?

you just look at him. and he looks at you. and the silence doesn’t feel so heavy this time. it feels… suspended. fragile. like if either of you moves too fast, it might all disappear.

but for the first time in what feels like forever, the space between you feels open again.

like maybe something could grow there. if you let it.

you look at him.

really look.

and you think about all the nights you spent tangled up in him—his skin warm against yours, his mouth pressed to the hollow of your throat, the sound of his voice all low and wrecked when he said your name like it was the only thing he could hold onto.

you think about the way he’d pull you closer after, like he couldn’t stand the distance. the way he’d brush the hair out of your face, whisper dumb shit that made you laugh into his neck.

how even when you weren’t having sex, you were still wrapped around each other—on his bed, on your couch, in the backseat of someone’s car, high out of your minds and half-asleep but still reaching for each other without thinking.

like magnets. like instinct. like he was home and he didn’t even know it.

you remember the way he’d kiss your shoulder in the dark. soft. almost careful. like he didn’t want to wake you, like maybe even then he was scared to admit how badly he needed you.

you remember thinking— 'maybe he’ll say something this time.'

and then he wouldn’t. and you’d just stay there in the silence, curled into him, heart beating way too loud for a girl who wasn’t supposed to feel anything.

but you did. of course you did.

and this—this moment, right now—was the one you’d imagined more times than you’d ever admit. him, finally saying it. the truth. not some half-joke or drunken almost-confession, but real, bare, bleeding honesty.

it’s always been you.

your throat tightens.

you’d hoped for this so many times. but not like this. not with your heart in pieces and mascara clinging to the corner of your lashes, not after all that damage.

not with that girl’s lipgloss still burned somewhere into your memory like a fucking scar.

but he’s here. and he’s saying it. and you can’t pretend it doesn’t matter.

you can’t pretend that those nights weren’t everything. that he wasn’t the only one who ever made you feel this full and this hollow, all at once.

your fingers twitch at your side, aching with the muscle memory of touching him.

but instead of moving, you just stand there. caught in the weight of it.

his apology. your history. everything you never said.

the hallway feels too quiet. your pulse, too loud.

and still, he waits.

like he knows this might be the only time you’ll let him say it. like he’s ready for whatever comes next—even if it’s nothing. even if it’s goodbye.

and maybe that’s what makes it hurt the most.

he’s finally giving you everything you wanted.

but now that it’s here, you don’t know if it’s enough.

he’s still looking at you like that.

like you’re it. like even if you walked away right now, he’d still wait.

and you’re still standing there like an idiot, heart too full, body too frozen, blinking through the blur of too much feeling.

then you move.

just a step. just one.

but it’s enough.

his face breaks when you do. not in a bad way. just—softens. like he can’t believe it. like something in him finally unclenches.

and before either of you can overthink it, you crash into each other.

arms around his shoulders. his around your waist.

no hesitation. no performance. no air between you.

you bury your face in his neck and just breathe.

and he laughs. a little broken, a little teary, like the sound gets caught in his throat halfway out.

“fuck,” he whispers, holding you tighter. “fuck, i missed you.”

you laugh too, because you don’t know what else to do, because it’s so stupid how long you went pretending this didn’t matter.

you squeeze him like you’ll fall apart if you don’t.

“you’re such an idiot,” you say into his skin. “you’re actually the dumbest person i’ve ever met.”

he laughs again, warm and quiet. you feel it vibrate through his chest.

“i know,” he mumbles. “i know.”

your fingers fist in the back of his shirt. his hand cups the back of your head. you stay there like that for a long time.

not speaking. just holding. just letting the ache bleed out slow.

“i thought i lost you,” he says into your hair, voice thick. “for real this time.”

you pull back just enough to look at him. eyes glossy. nose red. cheeks a little flushed.

you give him the softest smile you’ve ever worn.

“you didn’t,” you say. “not yet.”

and then he hugs you again. even tighter. like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you all over again.

you laugh against his neck, one hand slipping under the hem of his hoodie just to feel his skin, just to make sure he’s real.

“you always smell like weed,” you mumble.

“and you always smell like heaven,” he replies, without missing a beat.

you groan. “jesus christ.”

he grins into your hair. “too much?”

“way too much.”

but you’re smiling. you’re both smiling. and this—this doesn’t feel like a fix, not really.

but it feels like a beginning.

he doesn’t let go of your hand after that.

just keeps it tangled in his, like if he loses contact, the whole moment might vanish.

his thumb brushes over your knuckles as he walks you up the stairs, step by step, quiet except for the sound of music bleeding up from below and the creak of the old floorboards.

you’ve been up here a million times.

you know the way to his room like the back of your hand.

but this time feels different. slower. like neither of you want to break the spell.

he pushes open the door and lets you in first, and it’s the same as always—dim, messy, faint smell of weed and detergent. but something about the air feels heavier now.

like something’s finally about to change.

you stand there for a second. he closes the door behind you.

it clicks shut, and the silence settles around you both like fog.

you half-turn toward him, expecting him to reach for you like he always does. to kiss you, to push you gently back onto the bed, to start peeling off your clothes like second nature.

but he doesn’t.

he just looks at you. like he’s seeing you all over again.

like he’s remembering every late night, every laugh, every time you crawled into his lap just to feel close. every time you left in the morning and he wished you didn’t have to.

“can i—” he starts, then stops.

clears his throat. rubs the back of his neck, suddenly nervous.

“can i say something?”

you nod, heartbeat in your throat.

he steps closer. slow and careful.

not touching. not assuming. just… there.

“i know i don’t deserve anything from you,” he says quietly. “not after how bad i fucked it all up. not after that night.”

your breath catches.

“but i need you to know it’s never been anyone else. not really.”

his voice wavers, just a little. “even before we started… whatever this was. it was always you. it’s still you.”

your chest tightens. you look at him, and he’s so serious. so raw. so real in a way you haven’t seen in so long.

he swallows hard. steps a little closer.

“i don’t wanna keep pretending like we’re just friends who fuck. i don’t wanna keep hurting you just because i’m scared of calling it what it is.”

his voice drops, just a murmur.

“i want to be yours. if you’ll let me. for real this time.”

it hits you like a wave. a real, breath-stealing, chest-caving wave.

because this is what you always wanted.

not just the touching. not just the late nights and the secrets and the tension.

you wanted this. the honesty. the softness. the choice.

you don’t say anything right away. just step forward, slow and sure, until you’re in his space again. until your forehead rests gently against his.

you close your eyes.

“okay,” you whisper.

his breath hitches. “yeah?”

you nod. just once.

his hands come up, hold your waist like you’re fragile. like you’re something he’s afraid to break.

he doesn’t kiss you. not yet.

just pulls you into his chest and holds you.

quiet. steady. like he finally knows what he wants. and it’s this.

just this.

you.

his hands are warm on your waist, steady like they finally know where they belong.

you’re still pressed against his chest, arms wrapped loosely around him, heartbeat slowing to match his. the room’s quiet now, soft and golden in the low lamplight. like it’s holding space for this moment.

he pulls back just enough to see your face.

his eyes flick across it, like he’s memorizing every detail.

and then he says it. quietly. sincerely.

“i’m gonna take care of you.”

your breath stutters, but he keeps going.

“for real this time. not just when it’s convenient or easy. not just in private.”

his voice trembles a little, but he doesn’t stop.

“i’ll be there when you’re tired, when you’re pissed off at the world, when you’re sick, when you’re sad, when you don’t wanna talk and just need someone to sit with you.”

he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, so gently it makes your eyes sting.

“i’ll remember your coffee order. i’ll walk you to class when it rains. i’ll hold your bag while you try on shit at the mall and tell you you look hot in everything, even when you don’t believe me.”

a soft laugh breaks out of your chest—wet and breathless.

he smiles, but it’s soft around the edges, like he’s still afraid to fall apart.

“i know i don’t always say the right thing. or show shit the right way. but i’m gonna try. i’m gonna learnhow to love you the way you deserve. because you deserve everything.”

his thumb brushes your cheek, eyes fixed on yours.

“i love every single part of you. the loud parts. the quiet ones. the way you talk with your hands, and the way you tuck your knees up when you’re on the couch. the way you bite your lip when you’re trying not to cry, and how you laugh when you’re drunk.”

your chest twists, overwhelmed. his voice is low now, almost reverent.

“i love how smart you are. how you always know what people need before they say it. how you care too much, even when it hurts you. how you make everyone feel like they matter.”

you’re crying now, tears slipping silently down your cheeks. he cups your face in both hands.

“but more than anything, i love you. even when i didn’t know how to say it. even when i pretended it was nothing. it’s always been you.”

you blink up at him, breathing hard.

your voice shakes when you whisper, “choso…”

he leans in. kisses your forehead. your cheeks. the corner of your mouth.

“i love you,” he says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

like it’s always been right there on the tip of his tongue.

“and i’m gonna be the best fucking boyfriend you’ve ever had. i promise.”

and somehow, you believe him.

because he means it. every fucking word.

~

the house is quiet now.

party debris litters the living room—empty solo cups, discarded hoodies, a half-eaten pizza box still open on the kitchen bench. someone’s shoe is on the stairs. no one knows whose.

gojo and sukuna are camped out on the back porch, slouched low in mismatched deck chairs, beers in hand. the moon’s high. the air’s still warm from the chaos earlier, thick with leftover smoke and the faint pulse of whatever playlist had been on repeat for six hours.

gojo stretches out his legs with a groan, tipping his head back.

“bro… my back hurts like i gave someone a piggyback through the trenches.”

sukuna doesn’t look up from his beer.

“you did. yuuji tackled you into the kiddie pool.”

“…oh. yeah.” he snorts. “that was kinda funny though.”

they sit in silence for a second, the good kind, broken only by the clink of their bottles when they sip.

then sukuna says it.

“so. you see choso and y/n disappear earlier?”

gojo grins. “upstairs?” he raises his eyebrows meaningfully. “yeah, i saw.”

sukuna huffs a small laugh. “fuckin’ finally, man. those two have been doing mental gymnastics around each other for like, what? a year?”

“a year and five months,” gojo corrects, holding up a finger. “i’ve been counting.”

sukuna gives him a look. “of course you have.”

“you know it’s bad when I noticed the emotional repression,” gojo says, tapping his temple. “like, i’m all for subtle pining, but watching those two was like… watching a slow car crash in a rom-com.”

“a rom-com where everyone’s too stoned to say their feelings.”

“exactly.”

sukuna takes another pull of his drink, then smirks.

“lowkey thought she was gonna kick him in the dick after the beach party though.”

gojo cackles. “she should’ve! man was acting like a dumbass.”

“nah, he is a dumbass,” sukuna says, stretching his arms behind his head. “but he loves her. like, real shit. he looked like a kicked puppy for��weeks.”

“the haunted stare,” gojo nods sagely. “saw him just sitting on the couch one day staring into the void while yuki played meg thee stallion.”

“emo boy in a house full of chaos,” sukuna mutters.

gojo hums, gaze drifting up to the open window above the porch—choso’s room. the light is off now, but he can imagine what’s up there.

soft conversation. laughter. maybe some kissing. maybe a little crying.

a happy kind of mess.

“you think they’ll actually work out?” he asks.

sukuna shrugs. “i think they already were. just didn’t admit it yet.”

gojo smiles, lazy and warm.

“yeah,” he says. “they’re good together. weird, but good.”

another beat passes. the crickets are loud. someone starts snoring from the living room.

“you think we’ll get invited to the wedding?” gojo says eventually.

sukuna scoffs. “only if you don’t ruin the reception.”

gojo lifts his beer with a grin.

“no promises.”

they clink bottles.

and somewhere upstairs, behind the walls of a room where two people finally figured their shit out, the light turns on again.

heck yeah i'm back 👅👅👅 if you liked this let me know 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩

more choso ! sex with a stoner | sticky situation

~ m.list!

[pookalicious-hq]

365 party girl ...

library | navi | next

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ : paige ends up having to pull you away because who the fuck did Ashlyn Watkins think she was, talking shit to your freshman? tags: swearing, paige bueckers x baddie!reader, mention osf "wife beating", bballl player reader, not proof read so many typos, established relationship

Anyone could tell when someone was made to perform. There was always a distinct look in their eye, a deep breath released in what should’ve been a career-changing action. It didn’t take an expert to figure out that you were meant to be seen.

It was in the way the cameras always found you—during warm-ups, during time-outs, even in those fleeting moments between plays. Your presence wasn’t just noticed. It was felt.

UConn’s most dominant defensive guard alongside with an offensive playmaking machine. A nightmare for any offense, quick-footed and relentless. You were everywhere—pressuring passes, cutting off lanes, moving in ways that turned good guards into hesitant ones. They knew if they fumbled, if they hesitated even a second, you were already on them.

And still, even in the chaos of the game, you looked perfect.

A flawless base, lashes full and fresh, nails a sleek, polished set—practical enough for the court, but still you. Hair laid to perfection, untouched by sweat despite the intensity of the game and atmosphere. When the camera cut to you, lips slightly parted, eyes burning with intensity, everyone watching across the nation didn’t know if they wanted you or wanted to be you.

The arena was electric. The matchup was personal. Everyone was here to watch UConn, to watch South Carolina.

To watch your girls.

And tonight? Under the blinding lights of March Madness, against South Carolina, with the whole world watching?

This was your stage.

So who the fuck did Ashlyn Watkins think she was, talking shit to your freshman?

The piercing tone of a whistle broke through the crowd’s outraged cries, and the image of Sarah Strong on the ground.

The foul was blatant—a hard block, sending Sarah sprawling onto the hardwood. But it wasn’t just the foul that set you off. It was the way Ashlyn stood over her, staring her down, like she had the right to intimidate her.

Like she had the right to intimidate anyone.

Before the refs could even get between them, you were already there. Your body moved before your mind fully processed it, stepping right into Ashlyn’s space and giving her a solid push—just enough to separate her from Sarah, just enough to send a message.

Ashlyn barely budged. But her expression shifted instantly—no longer that smug, self-assured look. Now, it was something harder, something pissed. She wasn’t used to anyone daring to move her.

Sarah, still wide-eyed and holding her head, reached up for your hand. Without hesitation, you gripped her wrist, pulling her up with authority, keeping your focus locked on Ashlyn. Sarah stumbled slightly, her hand coming up to her head, but Paige was there, steadying her her voice low, checking in on Sarah.

The gym was in full chaos—shouts, gasps, the air so thick you could feel it in your chest. Everyone felt the heat radiating off you. You were like a fuse waiting to explode, and Paige? She’d seen it before. Knew how deep that fire ran. You’d fight through hell for anyone on your team, and right now? Sarah was yours to protect.

Ashlyn’s smirk came back, but it was laced with pure irritation. She tossed her head back, then scoffed. “Make sure you hit the weight room, fucking rookie,” she muttered, her voice a venomous drip of arrogance.

And that was it.

Your jaw clenched. The muscles in your neck tensed. Your nostrils flared. Ashlyn knew better to keep her mouth shut. Before you could even think, the words shot out of your mouth like a bullet.

"Better stop hitting anyone else or we might hafta call the cops again, fuckin’ wife beater."

The gym froze.

For a half-second, just long enough for the weight of your words to crash down. The crowd was silent, processing what you just said, trying to piece it together. 

Then? Chaos.

The crowd exploded. Some in shock, some in laughter—loud, boisterous, the kind of reactions that only March Madness could ignite. On the UConn bench, Geno’s face was already in his hands, an exhale that said he’d seen this trainwreck before. One hand on his hip, the other rubbing down his face, mentally preparing for whatever he’d have to explain later.

In front of you, Ashlyn’s face twisted from irritation into pure rage.

Before you could fully process the chaos around you, Ashlyn was already in your face. Her steps were heavy, chest puffed out, eyes burning into yours.

“The fuck you just say to me?”

You didn’t move a muscle. If anything, you stood taller, chin lifted just enough to show you weren’t scared. The air between you two thickened, crackling with tension. The gym wasn’t silent—far from it. Whispers swirled through the stands, the crowd unsure whether to stay quiet and hear what was going down, or to keep up with the drama. 

“I said,” you drawled, each word slow and sharp, “maybe you should stop hitting people… or should we check the police reports, sweetheart?”

Behind you, Paige muttered low enough for only you to hear, “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Sarah, still holding her head, glanced between you two, unsure whether to step in or just let you handle it. Her hand stayed by her temple, like the hit was still rattling around in her head.

Ashlyn’s nostrils flared, her voice dropping lower, filled with venom. “Watch your mouth.”

You laughed. It wasn’t just a chuckle—it was a mocking, unapologetic laugh, sickingly sweet. “Or what? You gonna hit me next?”

The gym hummed with tension now. People were leaning in, trying to hear every word exchanged, but only a select few could actually catch what was said—UConn's team, some of the players around you, and those courtside. The rest? They could only pick up on the heat radiating off the exchange.

Paige was still close enough to mutter under her breath, “She’s not worth the tech.”

You didn’t care. Not one inch. You stood your ground, your voice low but cutting. “Honey, I’ve got 911 on speed dial and two thousand witnesses who’d love to see you with an ankle monitor.”

Ashlyn’s face twisted in anger, her eyes narrowing, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. But before she could respond—before you could provoke her further—Paige made her move.

With effortless ease, Paige wrapped her arms around you, lifting you off the ground as if you weighed nothing.

“Nope,” Paige’s voice was firm, carrying through the chaos around you.

“Paige, put me down, right now.” You kicked your feet, your anger still boiling just beneath your skin. You could feel the crowd’s eyes on you, the way they were all in suspense, waiting for something to happen. You weren’t about to let them down now.

“Nope.”

“I’m fucking serious—”

“I know, babe.”

Still kicking, still throwing insults over Paige’s shoulder, you shot a look back at Ashlyn. “Yeah, that’s right, keep walking, Ashlyn. You got more fouls than made shots, anyway.”

The gym exploded. The noise went from tense whispers to full-blown shouts and laughter. The stands were electric, people on their feet, some hooting and hollering, others still trying to catch the tail end of what had just gone down. UConn’s bench was fired up, while South Carolina’s players shifted, looking to see who would make the next move.

From the bench, Azzi’s voice cut through the noise like a knife: “Paige, sit her ass down. I’ll grab the duck tape.”The crowd’s laughter reached a fever pitch, some of the students clapping, others just shocked at the boldness of it all. This wasn’t just a game anymore. This was personal. You’d stood up for your team, your freshman, your entire squad. And the gym knew it. Ashlyn? She was in over her head, and everyone watching could see it.

a/n: from a situation that just happened with me and my teammates...

I LOVE MY WIFE

[ghostlyglimmer]

You're Grounded Mister

Summary:

A mission gone wrong leaves the Batkids bickering—until Batman grounds them and Danny Fenton, a confused civilian caught in the chaos. This one-shot is based on this post by Shower-Phantom-Ideas

It had all gone downhill fast.

The plan had been Dick’s idea—though Tim and Jason definitely could have pointed out the glaring holes in it, and Damian hadn’t exactly offered his usual dose of cynicism. It was supposed to be a quick, in-and-out operation. Minimal risk, maximum payoff.

But things got complicated when that guy showed up. Just some kid, and not even a vigilante or a rogue. It was supposed to be a straightforward job in Gotham’s shadier district—stop the exchange of a highly dangerous chemical, break up the bad guys, be home in time for breakfast. But, no, some civilian had gotten in the way and distracted the gangsters long enough to mess with their timing.

As Jason would tell it later, “It was just bad luck.” As Bruce would say, “It was complete negligence.”

And as for Danny? Well, he didn’t have much of a say in it. Not that he was about to back down from a bunch of armed gangsters, especially with the Batkids swooping in around him, leaving chaos and knocked-out criminals in their wake. Danny had handled a few of them before they even showed up, quietly taking out the last of them when Bruce finally stepped in.

And now they were here, a tense, heated argument in a dark Gotham alley.

“You should have waited for backup!” Bruce snapped, his voice slicing through their squabbles. “I told you it was a risk to go in alone—especially when we didn’t have all the intel! This is about safety, and clearly—”

“Right, clearly we were fine until you stepped in,” Jason shot back, scowling.

“It would have gone smoothly if someone didn’t just happen to be there,” Dick muttered, clearly feeling defensive.

“It was your idea, Grayson!” Tim hissed, his voice laden with frustration. “Don’t turn this around.”

“Maybe if you’d listened—”

Damian scoffed. “I could have handled them on my own.”

Bruce’s frown deepened, and he turned to Danny, who was awkwardly inching his way toward the exit.

“And don’t think you’re getting out of this,” Bruce said, turning his Batglare on him. “You’re grounded too.”

Danny froze, one foot halfway lifted in a tippy-toe pose. “I… I’m sorry, what?”

The Batkids stopped mid-argument and looked at Danny, then back at Bruce, then at each other, as if piecing something together. Dick’s face morphed from irritation to confusion; Jason’s went slack.

“Uh… Mr. Batman, sir, with all due respect, I’m just some guy,” Danny said slowly, staring at Bruce. “Can… Can Batman even do that?”

“Everyone in the Batmobile,” Bruce said firmly, ignoring Danny’s question. “We’ll discuss this further in the morning.”

Danny, still too stunned to process much beyond “Batman grounded me,” felt himself nodding along. Guess we’re going with it.

The ride was silent and tense. Jason looked broody, arms crossed, staring out the window. Tim rubbed his temples, probably rethinking every tactical choice. Dick was sulking, and Damian, surprisingly, just looked mad at being lumped in with the others. Danny, meanwhile, stayed very still, wedged between Tim and Jason, trying not to breathe too loudly. It was a surreal experience—he was tired, his limbs ached, and his brain was reeling from the absurdity of it all, but it was Batman. The Batmobile wasn’t exactly the place to make his objections.

By the time they reached the Batcave, Danny figured he’d try for some clarity.

“Uh,” he started, looking around at the cavernous space, vast and impressive, filled with tech and lights. “So, do you mind if I, uh, call my family to tell them I won’t be home tonight?”

The entire cave fell silent. Jason froze mid-complaint, Dick and Tim stopped sulking, and Damian’s scowl melted into shock. All four of them stared at Danny, and then slowly, like someone had hit pause, their heads turned to look at Bruce.

He seemed unbothered, glancing at Danny as if this were just standard procedure. But for everyone else, the realization was dawning. Dick was the first to speak, his voice wavering.

“Uh… Bruce?” Dick asked slowly, eyebrows raised. “Did… Did you kidnap a civilian?”

Bruce frowned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jason burst out laughing, doubling over, his hands clutching his sides. “Oh, this is gold. He’s not even a rogue, B. He’s just some random guy you told to get in the car!”

Danny held up his hands. “In my defense, it was Batman, okay? Who’s going to not get in the Batmobile when Batman tells you you’re grounded?”

Tim covered his face with both hands, muffling his laugh. Damian scowled, crossing his arms.

“This is embarrassing,” he muttered. “Father, you’re losing credibility by the second.”

Bruce’s expression tightened, clearly irked by the fact that his kids’ attention had wandered from the initial issue. They had disobeyed him, endangered a civilian, and now they were laughing because, okay, maybe he had unintentionally forced said civilian to join them in the Batcave.

He sighed, rubbing his temples, clearly rethinking several recent decisions.

“Alright,” Bruce finally said. “My apologies. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and you don’t need to be here. We’ll get you a ride back home.”

Danny blinked, a little surprised. “So, wait, I’m not grounded?”

“No, you’re not grounded,” Bruce replied, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Jason snickered. “Damn, you got off easy. We’re grounded for sure.”

Bruce cleared his throat, and the smiles faded from the other Batkids’ faces. “Yes, you’re grounded,” he said, looking at each of them in turn. “All of you.”

They groaned in unison, but Danny, relieved beyond measure, was already edging toward the door. He nodded a quick thank you to Batman and managed a small, awkward wave to the others.

As he left, he could hear Dick muttering, “Grounded… from what? We’re grown men!”

Jason groaned. “Grounded as in, no solo missions, genius.”

Danny paused, letting the sounds of the Batfamily’s complaints echo behind him as he took the lift back to ground level. He shook his head, chuckling. Only in Gotham. Only with Batman would you end up “grounded” for just existing in the wrong place at the wrong time.

But hey—at least he got a free ride in the Batmobile out of it.

[sweetstrawberryys]

"She’s In Labor (Again?!)"

–Part 1: Code Red: She's in Labor.

Summary: Your water breaks, and Task Force 141 loses what’s left of their minds. One’s panicking, one’s too calm, one’s Googling things he really shouldn’t… and the baby hasn’t even arrived yet.

Rating: chaos, fluff, found family madness

Masterlist

---

“GUYS—SHE’S IN LABOR!”

Gaz’s voice echoed through the base like a bomb went off.

Soap, halfway through biting into a sandwich, dropped it immediately. “What?! Now?! She wasn’t due ‘til next week!”

“She said her back hurt, then she made that face—you know the face!” Gaz was already sprinting toward your room like the world was ending.

Ghost looked up from the corner. “We talking full contractions or emotional spiral?”

“FULL CONTRACTIONS, YOU TWIG!” Gaz shouted back.

Soap bumped into a chair, cursed, then tripped over his own bootlace. “What do we do?! Do I boil water?! Isn’t that a thing?!”

“You’re not making pasta, Johnny!”

Price appeared in the hallway, utterly calm, like he wasn’t hearing World War III erupt in the barracks. “Someone grab the go-bag. Get her in the car. We trained for this.”

“We talked about it,” Gaz corrected, “for, like, ten minutes—months ago!”

“She said she felt a pop,” Soap added breathlessly, “I think that’s the part where the baby’s like, ‘I’m coming!’”

Ghost calmly shut his book. “You lot are hopeless. I’ll carry her.”

Gaz held up a phone. “I Googled what to do, it says she needs to—wait. Wait, this is an article about cows—”

“GIVE ME THAT!”

Reader stood in the hallway doorway, doubled over slightly but clearly unimpressed. “Why is everyone yelling?”

They all froze.

“You—are you okay?” Price stepped forward, voice gentler now.

You nodded. “Yes. Contractions started. My water broke. I’m not dying. Stop looking like that.”

Soap nodded rapidly. “Right, right—okay, you’re fine, but also not, because the baby is coming and we are not fine!”

“Car’s ready,” Ghost added, already scooping you up like it was nothing.

“Why does he get to carry her?” Soap muttered.

“I will bodycheck you into a wall,” Ghost said pleasantly.

As they loaded you into the truck, the yelling continued.

“She’s breathing weird, is that normal?”

“That’s called labor, you idiot!”

“Did anyone bring snacks?! What if she’s hungry?!”

Price got in last, shutting the door behind him. “Everyone. Breathe.”

You grabbed his hand. “You’re the only sane one here.”

He smirked. “Someone has to be.”

And as the engine roared and Soap started yelling about speed limits and Gaz kept asking where the charger for the speaker went, Ghost leaned back in his seat and sighed.

“Next time, I’m staying home.”

[yukioos]

you are the only one who can change shoto’s mind

“we could have fought better against the attackers.” shoto frowned, staring face to face with katsuki.

“no shit, icy-hot, but don’t act like you were better than me!” the blonde argued, pointing a finger in his face.

“you were reckless,” he raised his voice then turned to denki, “you hardly did anything,” and switched to every student around the room, pointing out each and every flaw without recognizing his own.

you crossed your arms as some students began to intervene, and focused on your quirk. shoto had a hard time calming down, although he acted like nothing bothered him most of the time. one thing all of you knew though, is when shoto was mad, everyone knew.

the boy was arguing with his classmates when suddenly everyone disappeared, and all sounds drained out. he gasped and backed away, on high alert. was there a new member of the league who was doing this to him?

he then heard a familiar voice, yours, reassuring and getting closer to him, “shoto,” you tried to catch his attention, and he finally turned around, “it’s okay.”

his eyes softened and unclenched his jaw. he let his guard down but tried to persist, “i need to tell them we could’ve done better. we did a terrible job, and multiple people need to work on their skills. we won’t get anywhere with this talent, practically useless—“

“you’re riling yourself up.” you slowly stepped toward him, “take a moment to yourself, then you should calmly speak to them or walk away. it’s important that you say what you were feeling, but be careful about it.”

he huffed and gave you a small nod before waiting a few minutes, then murmured, “i’m ready,” he was fully met with chaos but tried to restore the peace he had once disrupted.

ever since that day, he’s been taking more time to think about his words. he could get especially impatient during fights, and sometimes you still had to remind him to calm down.

another time, shoto was about to make an impulsive decision before you clouded his mind. the league was attacking his classmates, and he needed to do something about it. he had time but thought he had none, and tried to attack before you stopped him.

all the noise and screams faded out, and he knew you had silenced everything once again. he turned around, trying to find you when you meekly stood there, tilting your head. you were both thinking the same thing.

“it's okay,” you gave him a small smile, and he had time to think about his attack. once he looked up at you from the ground and nodded, you showed him reality, and he quickly attacked.

the boy would also always remind you before every fight to not die, as he was worried about losing you. you could help him with his struggles and frustrations like no one else and gave him company when he needed it.

he turned to you, as routine, as you hid behind a large rock with him. he raised his voice, “y/n—“ with sharpened eyes, and he stared into your eyes.

“if i die, you’ll kill me, right?” you teased, grinning.

a frown appeared on his face, and he averted his gaze, the tips of his ears tinted pink. you knew him too well.

no one knew you were the reason why shoto has become calmer lately, and your classmates had yet to thank you for it.

yes this is based off of megumi and yuji bc i love them so much

[dcintys]

: ̗̀➛ IN THE SPOTLIGHT | ln4

summary: lando norris protects his actor girlfriend from an aggressive paparazzi crowd at a red carpet event.

theme: protective!lando

!based on that one video of tom & zendaya!

the red carpet event was nothing short of chaos. flashing lights, shouting photographers, and a sea of people swarming for a glimpse of the stars made it hard to focus on anything other than getting through it. y/n, a world-renowned actor and the center of attention that night, smiled gracefully for the cameras despite the overwhelming energy around her.

she was used to this—handling the press, the lights, the noise—but tonight felt different. the photographers were relentless, shouting her name louder than usual, and the crowd of fans pressed closer to the barricades. It was all becoming a bit too much.

standing a few feet behind her, lando norris watched the scene unfold with a growing sense of unease. he had tagged along as her plus-one, happy to support her big night, but seeing her in the middle of such chaos made his chest tighten.

y/n turned to step off the carpet, signaling to her team that she was ready to move inside, but the paparazzi surged forward, their voices rising. “y/n! over here!” “give us one more shot!” “y/n, who are you wearing?”

her smile faltered slightly, but she maintained her composure, trying to maneuver through the crowd. lando, however, had seen enough.

in a flash, he was at her side, his hand gently but firmly finding the small of her back. “let’s go,” he murmured, his voice calm but laced with quiet determination.

y/n glanced up at him, surprised but grateful. “i’m fine, really,” she began, but the concerned look in his eyes told her he wasn’t buying it.

“you shouldn’t have to deal with this alone,” he said, his tone softening as he guided her toward the entrance.

the paparazzi didn’t miss the moment. cameras clicked furiously, and new questions erupted. “lando, are you two together?” “y/n, is this your mystery date?”

lando ignored them all, his focus entirely on her. the crowd pressed closer, and a fan nearly reached over the barricade, but lando was quicker. his arm wrapped protectively around y/n’s shoulder, shielding her as they moved forward.

“just keep walking,” he said quietly, his voice steady despite the chaos.

y/n nodded, her hand instinctively resting on his arm for support. the noise around them blurred as she focused on his calm presence, the way he moved with purpose, creating a barrier between her and the relentless crowd.

once they were inside the venue, the noise from the outside world disappeared, replaced by soft music and murmured conversations. lando finally released her, though his hand lingered on her arm for a moment longer than necessary.

“are you okay?” he asked, his brow furrowed in concern.

y/n let out a shaky laugh, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “yeah, I’m fine. thanks to you.”

he gave her a small smile, but the protectiveness in his eyes hadn’t faded. “you shouldn’t have to deal with that kind of madness. they don’t know when to stop.”

“it comes with the job,” she said with a shrug, though her voice was tinged with exhaustion. “i’m used to it.”

“maybe you shouldn’t have to be,” lando said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

her eyes met his, and for a moment, the world around them seemed to fade. there was something unspoken in the way he looked at her, a quiet promise that he’d always be there to step in when things got too overwhelming.

“thank you,” she said sincerely, her lips curving into a warm smile.

“anytime,” he replied, his own smile softening as he glanced down at her. “now, let’s get you a drink. I think you’ve earned it.”

she laughed, the tension of the evening finally easing. with lando by her side, she knew she could handle whatever the spotlight threw her way.

[rafedarling]

𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐲

pairing: drew starkey x fem!reader

summary: a headache sends you reaching for drew, but his phone goes unanswered as you struggle to get to the hospital alone. at the pharmacy, you find him there with odessa.

warning(s): english is not my native language. angst, mild language, jealousy and mistrust, mention of health a scare.

au: like, reblog and feedback are much appreciated. discussion can be send through my ask box, please feel free to send in anything. ⭐️ taglist | tagging: @rubixgsworld @rafeyslamb @bisexualcvnt @tracymbcm @maybankslover @anamiad00msday @stuffyownswrld @httpsdrewstarkey @mileyraes @enjoymyloves @akobx @noobmazter69 @victwrvale @xoxohoneymoongirl @xoxosblogsblog @wearemadeofstardust0 @saviorcomplexrry @percysley @littlelamy @winniemoe @emberaurora @issabellec7 @alexxavicry

notes: i actually write the reader’s emotions and behavior based on how i personally react when i’m mad. i tend to have this i don’t give a fuck attitude. hope all you drew!angsty hoes out there love this one-shot! goodnight :).

“Hey, Drew, it’s me again,” you say into the phone, voice strained as you clutch it to your ear.

Your head’s pounding, a vicious ache that’s got your vision blurring at the edges, and you’re pacing the living room, waiting for him to answer.

It rings, then cuts to voicemail. Again.

“My head’s killing me, and I need to get to the hospital. Please call me back.”

You hang up, staring at the blank screen, willing it to light up. Nothing.

The pain surges, and you wince, pressing a hand to your temple. You’d wanted Drew to drive you, to be there, but he’s MIA. With a shaky breath, you open the Uber app, fumbling to book a ride. The hospital’s close, but every minute feels like torture when your skull’s splitting open.

The driver doesn’t talk, and you’re grateful, slumping against the cool window as the streets slip by. You try Drew once more, just in case.

Voicemail.

“Whatever,” you mutter, shoving the phone into your bag.

You’re on your own.

At the hospital, the ER’s a chaos of noise and weary faces, but they see you fast. The doctor’s steady, jotting notes as you describe the headache, sudden, brutal, unlike anything before. Tests and a scan later, he calls it a stress migraine, writes a prescription for pain meds, and tells you to rest. It’s something, but the relief’s overshadowed by the sting of Drew’s absence.

You’re still unsteady when the Uber drops you at the pharmacy. The bright lights inside jab at your eyes as you head to the counter, prescription in hand. That’s when you see him, Drew. He’s by the cold medicine aisle, smiling faintly at Odessa, who’s holding a basket and saying something that makes him nod. They look comfortable, like this is normal.

Your chest tightens, a mix of exhaustion and something sharper. You don’t move until he notices you, his eyes widening slightly.

“Y/N, what are you doing here?” Drew asks, stepping toward you, his tone surprised but soft.

Odessa lingers behind, watching with mild curiosity.

You don’t answer, just hand the prescription to the pharmacist, your fingers trembling a little. The silence hangs heavy, and Drew shifts closer, frowning.

“Are you okay?” he tries again, voice laced with concern now.

“Almost died,” you say, clipped and cold, avoiding his gaze as you wait for the pills. It’s an exaggeration, but it’s how it felt, and you’re not in the mood to sugarcoat it.

He goes quiet, then exhales. “What happened?”

You turn, meeting his eyes briefly.

“Bad headache. Called you a bunch. You didn’t pick up. Took an Uber to the hospital instead.”

Your words are flat, matter-of-fact, but they land hard.

His face shifts, guilt flickering there.

“I didn’t know, babe. My phone was in the car. I was…”

He glances at Odessa, who’s now pretending to study a box of tissues.

“Helping Dess with something.”

You nod, just once, and grab the bag from the pharmacist with a muttered thanks.

“I need to go,” you say, heading for the door.

Drew hesitates, then follows, leaving Odessa behind.

“Let me drive you home,” he says, catching up outside. His voice is gentle, almost pleading.

You’re too tired to fight, so you shrug, letting him lead you to his car.

The ride’s silent.

You stare out the window, the pharmacy bag crinkling in your lap, the headache dulled but still gnawing. Drew grips the wheel, glancing at you every few seconds, but you don’t give him anything.

No words,

No looks.

Just the hum of the engine and the weight of what’s unsaid.

When you get home, you kick off your shoes by the door and head straight for the kitchen. Drew trails behind, closing the front door softly. You grab a glass from the cabinet, fill it with water from the sink, and pop the pill bottle open, all without a word. The pill slides down your throat, bitter and cold, and you set the glass down, staring at the counter.

“Y/N,”

Drew starts, his voice low as he leans against the doorway.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to leave you hanging like that.”

You don’t look at him, tracing a scratch on the counter with your finger.

“You weren’t there,” you say simply, and it’s not loud, but it cuts.

“I know,” he says, stepping closer.

“I should’ve had my phone. I didn’t think… I didn’t know you needed me.”

You turn then, eyes meeting his, and the hurt spills out before you can stop it.

“Why is it always her, Drew? Why’s Odessa always around, and I’m the one who can’t reach you?”

He blinks, caught off guard.

“She’s just a friend. She needed a ride to the clinic today, that’s all.”

You laugh, short and sharp.

“A friend. Right. She’s always needing something, and you’re always there. Meanwhile, I’m calling you, scared out of my mind, and your phone’s in the car because of her.”

He rubs the back of his neck, looking down.

“It’s not like that. You’re my priority, Y/N. I swear.”

“Then why doesn’t it feel like it?” Your voice rises, trembling a little.

“I needed you today, Drew. Not her. Me. And you weren’t there.”

He steps closer, hands out like he wants to fix it.

“I messed up. I get it. I’ll keep my phone on me, I’ll be there next time. Just… tell me how to make this okay.”

You shake your head, turning back to the counter, gripping the edge.

“I don’t know if you can. It’s not just today. It’s every time she’s around, every time I feel like I’m second.”

“She’s not more important than you,” he says, voice firm but quiet.

“You’re my girl. I’ll talk to her, set some distance. I didn’t see how much this was getting to you.”

You don’t respond, just stand there, the pill kicking in, numbing the ache in your head but not your chest. Drew waits, shifting his weight, like he’s hoping you’ll turn around, say something to close the gap. But you don’t. You grab the glass, rinse it out, and set it in the sink, moving past him to the living room.

“Y/N,” he calls softly, following a step behind. “Please.”

You pause, half-turning, but your eyes don’t meet his.

“I’m tired, Drew. I just need to lie down.”

He nods, slow and uncertain, hands dropping to his sides.

“Okay. I’ll be here if you need me.”

You head for the couch, curling up with a throw pillow, and he lingers by the doorway, watching. You close your eyes, pretending to rest, he doesn’t push. He just stays there, a shadow in the corner, and you’re not sure if he’s close enough to reach or too far to try.

[sanjisluvbot]

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ Take Me Home

⋆.˚ PAIRING: Mark Grayson Variants/Reader

⋆.˚ SYNOPSIS: The chaos of the past few days has been indescribable. The world, shaken to its core, is now in a state of panic. The Invincible variants—once a symbol of hope, now ominous harbingers of a twisted fate—have revealed their plan to the world. They’ve openly declared that Y/n L/n, the one person who could tip the scales, is the reason for the madness that’s consuming reality itself.

⋆.˚ NOTES: Posting this while editing CH 3 of Intuition. If you'd like a full fic please let me know and you can expect it within a week!! I might change some things, but this is my current base!! ENJOY ♡

The world had gotten used to the impossible happening. After Omni-man revealed himself to be a mass murdering villain among all types of creatures and monsters roaming the earth, humanity became jaded. The screams and destruction woke you bright and early that day, maniacal laughter eerily familiar to your ex-boyfriend brought you to the window. 

There was not one, not two, but multiple people destroying the planet under the name of ‘Invincible’. You and your family made it safely to the bunkers with the rest of the scared, tired, and confused. The government allowed everyone to see with their own eyes the destruction of everything humanity worked for millions of years to be easily destroyed in less than twenty-four hours. 

“ Oh god… Mark,” you whisper to yourself. 

Although the world was shaken to its core, even now in a state of panic and fear there were still some bold enough. News reporters going as far as to film on top of buildings that still stood tall to get a closer look at the multiple Invincibles. However, being bold means potentially getting unwanted attention. The camera focused on one of the invaders destroying a prison when he finally caught eye with someone he has yet to tear in half. 

A devious smirk and in a split second the camera fell, gasps surrounded the room as people gathered around the tv screen. The screen was no longer in focus and you could only make out feet and the background of fire and rubble. You could hear the poor man losing his life, gurgling on his own blood while the bastard laughed. Once the gurgling stopped and the blood painted the camera lens crimson the body was tossed aside. 

The camera was picked up, you could only make out his smile before he wiped the lens with his finger smudging the blood to the left. “ oooh Y/n, where are you hiding— Get outta here!” 

The screen went black and everyone around you began to scramble. You were stuck in place. That was Mark, not your Mark but a Mark with his hair shaved into a mohawk and bags under his eyes that made him look like a complete psychopath. There were many questions but the one simple one that made your heart race. 

Why.

Why was he searching for you. 

You and Mark had made the difficult decision to break up almost a year ago, and the two of you moved on. Thinking about your past while trembling in this present as everyone began to whisper about what they’d just seen. Eyes turned to you, was there a possibility they were talking about Y/n L/n who was hiding out with them. Your parents quickly shut the rumors down, but the people began to avoid you until they couldn’t anymore. 

“ You have no proof! Other than the fact that the maniac on the screen was talking about someone with the same name! You can’t just harass my daughter!” Your poor sweet mother yelled. 

The crowd surrounded you and your family, you felt sympathy and regret they were simply scared. However, as your mother said, they can’t just harass you and your family when all they had was a name without a face. 

The madness continued, the chaos turned people against anyone with the name Y/n across the globe. The GDA not only had to deal with the death, the destruction of humanity, and multiple versions of one of the strongest men in the universe, but they needed to find Y/n. They were able to gain control of the media being broadcasted, all of the Mark’s were searching for the same person, letting you know that the longer you hide the worse it would get. 

Cecil sighed to himself. Half of his hero’s dead or in critical conditions all because of one person. He felt bad for Mark, but this just furthered his desire to have a weapon strong enough to deal with the kid if need be. When Mark arrived battered up having fought himself for hours on end Cecil asked him who Y/n was, just to see if he’d lie. 

“ Y/n… is my ex girlfriend. I don’t know where she is–”

“ Don’t worry about it, we found her already.”

“ What? Where is she– is she okay?”

“ She’s fine Mark, and so is her family, why don’t you go check on Eve.”

Mark felt relieved that you hadn’t been found by his counterparts, he couldn’t live with himself knowing you were possibly hurt by him even if it was a different version. He quickly went to check on Eve while Cecil made a hard decision. 

When the GDA came to the compound they told everyone things would be alright soon, and picked you and your family up telling everyone that you were just going into extra protection. The people felt relief as they no longer had a target on their back.

Under the guise of providing safety you and your parents followed them. You couldn’t ease the uncertainty though, were they really trying to protect you or were they protecting the innocents without the name Y/n? The pentagon was intimidating, a lump in your throat formed with the seriousness of your situation beginning to dwell on you. You grabbed onto your mother’s hand and she squeezed, providing you the comfort she always did. 

Now that you were far from the eyes of the public you were forcefully separated from our parents. Tears forming in your eyes as you’re pushed into a sterile white room. Cecil sat in front of you motioning you to sit and as you did armed officers appeared from thin air. Large rapid fire guns pointed directly at your chest and head. The silence of the room is suffocating, and it’s as though time itself is holding its breath. 

You were hyperventilating in full hysterics, Cecil could do little to comfort you. His face is tight, full of regret, but his voice is steady. "Y/n," he begins, his words laced with an apology that he can’t fully express, "I’m sorry it had to come to this. But you have to understand, this is about earth’s survival. Think of the billions of people who have been murdered over the last two days. If you’re handed over to them, they’ll stop the destruction. It’s the only way to save what we have left."

“ How can you be so sure? How can you be so sure that they won’t just rip me in half and leave this planet disintegrated.” you argue.

“ Because I’ve already come to an agreement with them.”

Before you could question anything else you were blinded by a light beyond your comprehension and then everything went dark. 

The first thing you felt was the wind, running through your hair while the sun warmed your cheeks. Rough hands cradle you into a sturdy chest and you lean into the familiarity, letting out a soft sigh when you realize it was Mark. He came to save you, take you away from the GDA and away from the evil versions of him. “ Oh, Y/n you’re even cuter on this earth.”  

The chaos of the past few days has been indescribable. The world, shaken to its core, is now in a state of panic. The Mark variants—once figures of influence, now ominous harbingers of a twisted fate—have revealed their twisted plan to the world. They’ve openly declared that Y/n L/n, the one person who could tip the scales, is the reason for the madness that’s consuming reality itself. The world has descended into a frenzy of desperate attempts to find her, each moment pushing humanity further toward the edge of its own unraveling.

The government has been scrambling to restore order, but in truth, it’s been a helpless race against time. The Global Defense Agency (GDA) gets involved, but not to protect Y/n, as she first thought. No, their involvement is a calculated move. Under the guise of providing safety, they’re planning to turn Y/n over to the Mark variants to ensure the earth’s survival. The GDA has long believed that the Marks hold the key to stopping the chaos—and they’re willing to sacrifice one person to preserve the greater good.

Y/n is brought into a fortified government building, far from the eyes of the public, and led into an ominous, sterile room. She can feel the weight of every eye upon her, even though there is no one there. The silence of the room is suffocating, and it’s as though time itself is holding its breath.

Cecil, the GDA operative who had been an ally, stands before her. His face is tight, full of regret, but his voice is steady. "Y/n," he begins, his words laced with an apology that he can’t fully express, "I’m sorry it had to come to this. But you have to understand. The Marks—they hold the balance. If you’re handed over to them, they’ll stop the destruction. It’s the only way to save everything."

Y/n feels a surge of anger, betrayal, and fear in her chest. The only way to save everything? Her mind races through every possibility, every outcome, but one thing remains clear: this is no longer just about saving the world. This is about survival, about sacrificing herself to a twisted fate or becoming the puppet of beings that have already caused irreparable harm.

Cecil’s face hardens, though his eyes flicker with a sense of sadness. "You can either be the good guy, or you can save the world. But you can’t do both."

The words echo in her mind as the walls seem to close in around her. The good guy, or the world? The weight of her decision has never been heavier. She knows what has to happen. The choice is excruciating, but it’s becoming clear that there may not be another way.

Y/n's mind flashes to the alternate versions of Mark—those who have been wreaking havoc, making themselves into shadows of their former selves. They are no longer just individuals; they have become symbols of the madness that has consumed reality. But what if they could be stopped? What if there was a way to break the cycle? What if she could find a way to shut down the alternate versions of Mark without sacrificing herself or falling into their trap?

She stands tall, her eyes locked with Cecil’s. "If I go to them, there’s no guarantee they’ll stop. What if they want more than just the world? What if I’m their ultimate prize?"

Cecil hesitates, clearly torn. He can’t answer her. He doesn’t know the full truth either. All he knows is what the higher-ups in the GDA have told him—what they believe. But Y/n feels it now: the truth is slipping through their fingers, and her fate is slipping further away with every passing second.

"Tell me," she demands, her voice quivering with a mixture of fear and determination, "how many others have they done this to? How many people have sacrificed themselves to them already? How many more will there be?"

Cecil remains silent. He doesn’t have an answer for that. But he knows what she means. The Marks have already been through countless others—versions of people, lives torn apart, worlds left in ruin. Y/n feels the weight of all those lost possibilities pressing down on her.

And then, in that moment, a new resolve fills her. She can’t let this be the end of everything. She won’t let herself become another pawn in their game. There has to be another way. She can stop the alternate Marks. She has to.

With every ounce of strength she has left, she turns away from Cecil. "I won’t be the prize they want me to be. I’ll find another way. I’ll stop them."

Cecil calls out, his voice pleading, "Y/n, don’t—"

But she’s already gone, slipping into the shadows of the building. She may be alone now, but her mind is clearer than it’s ever been. It’s time to end this—her way.

The stakes are higher than ever, and the final confrontation looms, but the fate of the world lies in the hands of one person: Y/n L/n. Will she find a way to destroy the alternate Marks and save herself, or will she be forced to make the ultimate sacrifice to prevent reality from unraveling completely? The clock is ticking, and there’s no turning back now

[lazysoulwriter]

not dating - rafe cameron // hc.

based on 'not your girlfriend'

He leaves you little notes everywhere. On your car window, in your bag, under your coffee cup. Always signed, “Yours (but not officially), Rafe.”

You once told him your favorite flowers as a joke. He remembered. Two weeks later, he showed up with a chaotic, oversized bouquet and said, “Had to beat the florist up for the last of these. Worth it.”

Rafe never knocks. He just shows up outside your place like some overly confident raccoon. Usually holding iced coffee like it’s peace offering. “Figured you’d forgive me if I brought caffeine.” “What are you even apologizing for?” “I dunno. Preemptive guilt.”

He pretends to hate romcoms. But he sat through How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days with you and said “that guy is literally me” no less than four times.

Every time he thinks you’re mad at him, he texts you: – “Are we in a fight?” – “Is this about the gun thing again?” – “Be honest, on a scale of 1 to blocking me, where are we right now?”

He swears he's not clingy but miraculously ends up everywhere you go. “Oh, you’re here too?” “Rafe, this is my dentist’s office.”

One time, you kissed him without thinking. Like muscle memory. Mid-argument. Mid-sentence. He didn’t stop smiling for the rest of the week.

He says stuff like: – “Just one date. One. You can ghost me after.” – “Do you believe in fate? Because I keep running into you like it’s planned.” – “You keep saying no, but you kiss me like you mean yes.”

He sends you selfies from therapy with captions like: “She said I’m emotionally volatile. I said yeah but in a hot way.” And then, “Doing this for you. Hope you’re proud. Also I miss your face.”

Once, he showed up bleeding. Nothing dramatic. Just a cut on his cheek. ���Got into a fight with a guy who said you weren’t that hot.” “Rafe.” “He was wrong. I stand by my actions.”

Sometimes you forget why you keep saying no. Like when he pulls you into his chest and kisses your forehead like you’re something fragile. Or when he says your name like it’s a secret. Or when he looks at you like you hung the damn moon.

He always says, “I love you,” like a dare. And you always roll your eyes. And kiss him back anyway.

You once told him you’d consider dating him if he could go one whole week without doing anything illegal. He made it to day four. "That parking ticket doesn’t count!" “You parked in a church.”

He wears your hair tie on his wrist. Says it's his good luck charm. “You know, for self-control.” “Rafe, that doesn’t even make sense.” “Doesn’t have to. It’s yours.”

Every time you call him by his full name — “Rafe Cameron” — he gets this stupid smirk like he’s about to get kissed or arrested. Maybe both.

He’s chaos. He’s a menace. He drives you insane. But when he pulls you in, hands on your hips, forehead pressed to yours… You don’t pull away. You never do.

---

requests are open! / check out my masterlist.

[meleeyz]

┈﹒ ꒰ 𝗠𝗘𝗧𝗔𝗟 𝗣𝗘𝗧𝗔𝗟𝗦 ꒱

ekko 𝒙 fem!reader

୨୧ English is not my first language, so I regret in advance if something reads weird or is misspelled

୨୧ Thank you so much for the support on the first oneshot, this is mostly fluff because I have to heal the wounds in my heart that arc two left behind.

୨୧ I'm still learning how to use masterlists and stuff (😿) but you can send me requests if you want! For now I'm only going to write about Ekko (or until I learn how to use tumblr) then I'll post the list of characters I could write for.

୨୧ Inspired by some headcanons of @blllllllllllllllllllue

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The Firelights’ hideout always felt alive, even in its quietest moments, but your little corner was a chaos. It was where you crafted, creating not just the masks that symbolized your rebellion but tiny pieces of identity for your comrades.

"Something like this?" you asked, holding up a rough sketch for the recruit seated across from you. He was new to the team and still shy around most people, but with you, he seemed to relax, likely due to your welcoming demeanor.

“Yeah, that’s cool,” he said, leaning in to inspect it. "But, uh, could you make the eyes a little bigger? I want it to look more… intense."

“Intense. Got it.” You jotted down the adjustment in the margins, smiling as you worked. “Anything else?”

The recruit hesitated for a moment before glancing at you sheepishly. “So, uh, are you Ekko’s girl? Like… his girlfriend?”

The question caught you so off guard that the pencil slipped from your fingers. Heat bloomed in your cheeks, and you scrambled to compose yourself.

“Oh! Uh, yeah. I mean—yes. I am.”

The recruit grinned.

“Thought so. He talks about you all the time.”

Your heart did a funny little flip, equal parts warmth and embarrassment.

“He does?”

“Yeah. Like, a lot. You’d think you hung the moon or something”

The boy’s teasing tone made you flush deeper. Before you could decide whether to be mortified or flattered, another voice broke through.

“Hey! Ekko’s looking for you!” A little boy poked his head in the door, oblivious to the conversation he was interrupting. “Said it’s important.”

“Oh, okay. Thanks.” You turned back to the recruit, already rising to your feet. “I’ve got everything I need for your mask. I’ll start on it soon.”

“Take your time,” he replied, giving you a knowing look as you walked out.

He nodded, and with a small wave, you left the workshop and made your way to Ekko’s space.

The closer you got to Ekko’s workshop, the quieter the base became, the energy from the rest of the Firelights retreating into the distance. You pushed the door open cautiously, only to find the room eerily calm. The usual clatter of tools and the whir of machinery were absent.

When you stepped inside the workshop, the quiet was almost eerie. Tools and half-built gadgets lay scattered across Ekko’s workbench, but there was no sign of him.

“Ekko?” you called, glancing around.

No answer.

A small knot of worry tightened in your chest.

“If this is a joke, it’s not funny—”

Before you could finish, arms wrapped around you from behind, lifting you off the ground. You let out a startled yelp as you were spun around, your voice mixing with laughter that bubbled up despite yourself.

“Ekko!” you cried, trying to sound indignant, but failing miserably as he set you down, his grin impossibly wide. “You scared the life out of me, you jerk!”

“Couldn’t resist,” he admitted, still chuckling. His voice carried that familiar mix of playfulness and warmth that always made your heart skip a beat. He leaned in and planted a quick kiss on your cheek. “You’re cute when you’re mad.”

You swatted at his arm, trying to suppress a smile.

“What did you need me for, anyway? And don’t say it was just to scare me.”

“Relax, Firefly,” he teased, stepping back. “I’ve got something for you. Close your eyes.”

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously.

“If this is another prank—”

“It’s not,” he said quickly, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Promise. Just trust me.”

After a brief hesitation, you sighed and shut your eyes.

“Okay, but if you throw something at me—”

“Shh. No peeking.”

You heard him moving around, the soft clang of metal and the scrape of something being picked up. Your curiosity burned, but you kept your eyes closed, hands fidgeting nervously at your sides.

“Alright,” Ekko said finally. “Open.”

When you did, your breath caught. In his hands was a bouquet of flowers, but not just any flowers—each one was intricately crafted from scrap metal, their petals shaped and welded together with incredible precision. They shimmered faintly in the light, their edges polished to a soft gleam.

“I made these for you,” Ekko said, his voice quieter now, as if he wasn’t sure how you’d react. His smile, though, was radiant, the little gap in his front teeth only adding to its charm. “You like them?”

“Like them?” you echoed, reaching out to take the bouquet. “Ekko, they’re beautiful. You made these?”

He scratched the back of his neck, looking both proud and bashful.

“Yeah. Thought you’d appreciate something… different. Real flowers don’t last long down here”

You turned the bouquet in your hands, marveling at the craftsmanship. Each flower was unique, and the care he’d put into them was evident in every detail. Your chest felt tight with emotion as you looked back at him.

“Why, though? What’s the occasion?”

Ekko’s grin returned, mischievous but endearing.

“The right way to ask my girlfriend out on a date. Tonight.”

Your lips parted in surprise.

“A date?”

“Yeah. Thought it was time we did something just for us. No missions. Just you and me.” He stepped closer, his gaze locked on yours. “So, what do you say?”

A warm, fuzzy silence hung between you, the weight of his words and the sincerity in his eyes tying your tongue. Your gaze flicked to his lips, the same thought clearly mirrored in his mind as he leaned closer.

The moment stretched as the world outside seemed to blur and fade. Just as your lips were about to meet—

“Oh, uh, sorry!”

Both you and Ekko jumped apart as the recruit from earlier barged in, a sheepish look on his face.

“I just—uh—I had another idea for the mask and thought—”

Ekko sighed loudly, his previous grumpiness overtaking his usual charm.

“Seriously?”

“I’ll just—uh—leave” the recruit stammered, already retreating back through the door.

You chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

“It’s fine,” you told him. “We can talk about it later.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the tension melting away as you stepped back.

“Guess we’ll have to finish this later, huh?”

Ekko’s pout was almost comical.

“You owe me, Firefly.”

As you turned to leave, you blew him a playful kiss. Ekko grinned, pretending to catch it in midair and press it to his chest.

“See you later.”

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