tsuyuno-ajisai

[tsuyuno-ajisai]

nanami is taking me out lol 😭😭😭

[tsuyuno-ajisai]

[tsuyuno-ajisai]

Me clocking in vs me clocking out

[tsuyuno-ajisai]

UGH THIS WAS BY FAR THE MOST POETIC FANFIC I EVER READ

love love loved it. periodt.

sex with a stoner

fratboy!choso x bestfriend!reader

wc: 16k

smut with so, so much plot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and it’s so easy. dangerously easy.

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

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

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

and you? you love him. maybe too much.

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

maybe you’re scared to ruin it too.

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

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

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

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

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

maybe not forever.

~

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

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

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

he’s on the couch. he always is.

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

until he sees you.

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

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

and just like that, you’re home.

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

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

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

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

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

your heart stutters.

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

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

“you’re stoned.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he hums. “don’t hit the same.”

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

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

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

you stay like that. for a long time

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you grin. “exactly.”

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

like you always will.

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

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

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

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

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

“always.”

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

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

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

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

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

he doesn’t let go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and there it is again. home.

“this party was kinda ass,” you say.

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

your stomach flips.

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

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

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

“he ruined them,” you murmur indignantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“always.”

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

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

you blink.

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

you laugh. “well someone has to.”

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

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

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

he says it like it’s just the truth.

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

his thumb strokes your arm, slow.

“yeah,” he says. “i know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you’re not together.

but this? this is something else.

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

you nod, curled into his side.

“you?”

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

“i never do.”

he hums, already drifting.

you close your eyes.

"night, cho."

"night, babe."

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

right where you’re supposed to be.

~

the sun’s too fucking bright.

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

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

he’s never rushing.

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

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

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

“yo.”

he looks up.

toji.

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

choso pulls out one airpod. “yo.”

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

choso shrugs. “feel fine.”

“late night?”

“always.”

toji grins. “bet.”

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

they’re not close, but they’re good.

“you throw last night?” toji asks.

“yeah. packed out.”

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

choso huffs a little. “sukuna. again.”

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

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

“tragic.”

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

“how much you make off the door?”

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

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

choso snorts. “nah.”

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

“i’m not good with rules.”

“fuck rules.”

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

“i taught yuki,” toji says, deadpan.

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

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

“yeah. lab.”

“tough.”

“i'm so fucking hungover.”

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

choso shrugs. “nah. crashed with her.”

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

“y/n?”

“yeah.”

a beat.

“you guys together now or what?”

choso looks up, brows drawn. “nah.”

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

“why?”

“you’re always with her.”

“yeah.”

“you sleep in the same bed?”

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

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

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

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

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

because it isn’t like that.

not yet.

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

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

choso just exhales through his nose. shrugs.

he knows.

he knows.

~

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

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

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

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

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

[10:38am] choso: chem

[10:38am] you: ew

[10:38am] choso: yea

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

[10:39am] choso: wya

the response comes fast.

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

choso smiles.

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

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

~

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

perfect.

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

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

he lifts a 7/11 bag in greeting.

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

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

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

he doesn’t notice.

or maybe he does.

but he doesn’t say anything.

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

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

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

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

you shrug. “probably.”

he grins.

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

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

choso looks over. blinks once.

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

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

“your brand is slutty candy princess?”

you flash him a wink. “you know it.”

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

“you’d like it.”

“maybe.”

you both laugh.

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

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

choso blinks. shifts.

“how’d you know that?”

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

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

“oh yeah?”

“yeah.”

you hum. “what’d you say?”

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

you nod.

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

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

you don’t speak for a second.

then—

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

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

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

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

it knocks the air out of you a little.

you don’t reply.

he doesn’t push.

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

“you mind?” he asks.

you shake your head. “go for it.”

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

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

he passes it to you.

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

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

“you always smell like sleep and candy.”

“that a compliment?”

“you know it is.”

you smile.

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

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

you don’t say anything.

you don’t have to.

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

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

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

“toji’s place?”

“mhm. sukuna’s throwin’ it.”

you make a face. “ew.”

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

“what kinda party is it?”

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

“my favorite,” you say sarcastically.

“come anyway.”

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

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

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

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

“classic.”

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

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

“better lighting.”

“less vomit.”

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

you blink at him. “so what?”

“you comin’?”

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

he gives you a look. “me."

“who’s holding my hair if i puke?”

“me.”

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

he smirks. “you already know.”

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

“what an honor.”

“you’re welcome.”

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

there’s something warm in your chest.

like always.

“what time’s it at?” you ask.

“late.”

“when are we getting there?”

“later.”

you smile. “as always.”

“as always,” he echoes.

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

he doesn’t notice.

but you do.

you always do.

~

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

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

because you’re painting.

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

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

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

but this time’s different.

this one’s for him.

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

maybe it’s because you love him.

not like that.

not yet.

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

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

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

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

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

you aren’t ready yet.

but you will be.

because he asked.

because you always go when he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“two,” you shoot back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“girl.”

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

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

maki snorts. “you faked it?”

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

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

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

“they’ll live,” maki says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

you don’t answer.

you don’t have to.

because you just spotted him.

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

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

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

you beeline straight to him.

he sees you coming, of course. always does.

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

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

“hey, babe.”

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

you grin. “you’re high.”

“and you’re hot.”

“so high.”

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

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

“sukunas a menace,” you laugh.

“a sweet menace,” choso adds.

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

“godspeed,” you tell him.

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

you nod. “girls are wild tonight.”

“when aren’t they?”

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

he grins. “yeah. it’s ass.”

“i missed your parties.”

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

“a tuesday party?”

“hell yeah.”

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

without saying anything, you reach into your jacket pocket.

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

you hand it to him wordlessly.

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

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

“you painted this?”

you nod.

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

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

he’s quiet for a second, blinking slowly.

then—

“you’re such a fuckin’ angel.”

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

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

you blink.

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

like it’s just a fact.

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

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

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

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

he flicks it once. flame bursts up.

“perfect,” he mumbles.

“it works?”

“better than my soul, babe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

then he’s alone.

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

the lighter’s still in his hand.

and it won’t stop looking like you.

'she fuckin’ made this.'

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

(which you do.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

he pauses there.

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

his thumb hovers over the screen.

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

sukuna.

choso glances up. “am fried.”

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

choso shrugs. “adds flavor.”

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

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

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

“dunno. being dirt, i guess.”

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

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

“yeah.”

“you look like you just had a vision.”

choso finally meets his eye.

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

sukuna squints. “uh. like what?”

choso doesn’t answer.

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

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

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

he reaches the makeshift tattoo stand.

it smells like rubbing alcohol and regret.

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

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

“what’s up, man?”

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

he holds out his phone.

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

the artist blinks, then looks at the screen.

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

looking up at him.

choso taps the screen once. “those are hers.”

the guy raises a brow. “like… your girl?”

choso shrugs one shoulder. his eyes never leave the photo.

the buzz of the needle starts soft, a low, persistent hum, and choso doesn’t even flinch. he just leans back, one arm draped lazily across the armrest, hoodie shoved halfway up his bicep where the artist wiped him down with alcohol. his eyes are half-lidded, bloodshot from whatever gojo rolled earlier, but locked on the phone he’s holding out in his opposite hand.

the picture’s still up. her eyes, warm and wide, lashes curled, looking up at him like she trusts him with her whole heart.

“pretty,” the tattoo guy mutters, angling a small light to get a better look as he sketches the stencil. “yours?”

choso’s mouth curves slow. doesn’t answer right away. just flicks his lighter open and closed, click, click, click, the red spider lilies catching the light each time.

then finally:

“nah.”

the guy hums. “girlfriend?”

he huffs a little, amused. “not that either.”

he sets the lighter down on the table beside him, keeps his eyes on the screen.

“she’s just,” he pauses, then shrugs, soft and slow, “her. y’know?”

the artist side-eyes him. “deep.”

choso smiles again, eyes unfocused. “nah, i’m just fuckin’ high.” the guy presses the warm stencil into choso’s arm, smooths it into place.

“you sure you wanna do this while you’re, uh,” he glances at choso’s glassy expression, the faint grin still tugging at his mouth, “clearly not sober?”

“i’m not wasted,” choso says lazily. “and i’m not dumb. it’s not a mistake.” the artist nods once, respects it. “alright, man.” he flips on the machine again, lines it up.

“you done this before?” choso grunts a laugh. “y’think i got these in my sleep?” he gestures vaguely at the black ink already crawling across both arms, jagged, abstract lines, constellations and waves, some faded with age. some done in basements like this one. “first time sober was the weirdest one.”

the guy snorts. “fair.”

the needle hits skin.

choso exhales slow. doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift, doesn’t even blink hard. just stares at the wall across the room, jaw slack, hoodie sliding off his shoulder, the buzz settling into the meat of his arm like a low hum of intention. “you ever tattoo someone like this before?” he murmurs after a beat.

“like what?”

he shrugs again. “someone who’s… y’know.” the guy doesn’t answer right away.

choso elaborates, voice softer this time. “she’s not mine. i don’t want her to be. not right now. it’s not like that. it’s just…” he trails off, brows furrowing a little, tongue tucked against the inside of his cheek.

“she just means somethin’. don’t got a word for it.”

the artist doesn’t look up from his work, but his tone’s gentler when he speaks again. “yeah. i’ve seen that before.” choso sinks deeper into the chair, breathing even. the pain’s dull and constant, but it grounds him. keeps his thoughts from spiraling too far out, keeps his high in this exact moment.

“you think she’d be mad?” he asks, voice airy. “if she saw it?”

“dunno,” the guy says. “you gonna tell her?” he blinks slow, head rolling back against the headrest.

“nah.”

another pause.

“not now. it’s just for me.” the tattooer gives a small nod. “that’s real.”

a silence settles between them, the steady hum of the needle, the sound of someone vomiting into a bush outside the window, a muffled scream from the beer pong table two rooms over.

“looks good,” the artist murmurs, wiping excess ink from the forming lines of the eyes. “she’s got crazy lashes.”

choso huffs out a small laugh. “she’d fuckin’ love that you noticed that.”

“yeah?”

he smiles again, softer now. “talked about lash serum for like a week. gave me a whole presentation.”

the guy chuckles under his breath. “sounds like she talks a lot.”

choso closes his eyes.

“she talks just enough.” the buzz continues. the lines take shape. her eyes, right there, etched into his skin. not to claim. not to confess. just to remember.

just for him.

~

the buzz dies down gradually, tapering into a low hum before the artist finally flicks the switch and pulls back. the sudden quiet settles like a heavy blanket over the both of them, just the soft thud of bass from the next room and the subtle scrape of latex gloves against skin.

“alright, man,” the artist says, leaning back with a stretch. “done.”

choso blinks slow, still slouched deep in the chair like he’s been there for hours, like the cushion molded around his bones. he lifts his head, eyes hazy but laser-locked on the strip of bandage being pressed to his upper arm.

“yo, hold up, lemme see it before you cover it,” he says, voice low and hoarse from either weed or reverence, maybe both.

the guy lifts a brow, but obliges. carefully wipes the skin one last time, blood and excess ink coming away in soft red-black smears. the room’s fluorescent lights hit the raw lines at an angle, shining off the freshly tattooed skin like it’s something holy.

and fuck.

there it is.

your eyes.

wide and soft and open, curved lashes sweeping upward in a way no stencil should’ve captured but somehow did. that quiet way you look at him, like he hung the stars, like he’s yours even if the two of you never say it out loud. inked permanent on the soft part of his bicep, nestled between a set of waves and the jagged edge of a half-finished constellation.

for a second, he doesn’t speak. doesn’t move.

he just stares.

it hits him slow, like a good edible, starts behind his eyes, low and warm in his chest, then spreads.

yo.

he’s obsessed.

like fully, all the way, brain-meltingly obsessed.

he turns his arm slightly under the light, eyes tracing the lines, the slight curve of your upper lid, the detail around the corners like you're mid-laugh or mid-thought or both. it looks exactly like you, his favorite version of you. the version that looks up at him like nothing else exists in the room.

god.

you look good on him. not in the possessive way. not even close. it’s not that.

it’s something else. something way quieter. something he can’t even name when he’s sober, and definitely not now, baked out of his skull with his arm still tingling and his hoodie falling half off.

but still, he’s wearing you now. and it feels like something that’s always been true, just waiting for the ink to make it real.

“you good?” the artist asks, half amused, already reaching for the plastic wrap again. “yeah,” choso says, slow, mouth crooked into a lazy grin. “looks fuckin’ sick, dude.” the guy chuckles under his breath. “kinda figured you’d say that.”

“you killed it,” choso adds, finally dragging his eyes off the tattoo. “like, actually.”

the artist nods, pleased. “appreciate it. was fun as hell to do, honestly. you sure you don’t want her name or somethin’? under it?” choso snorts. “nah. that’d make it weird.”

“fair.”

he watches the guy gently press a clean dressing over the fresh ink, tape it up. the sensation’s a dull sting under his skin, not quite pain, just awareness. a reminder that it’s real now. that it’s his, for good.

she doesn’t know. you might never know. and that’s kinda the whole point. he’s not gonna flash it at you mid-party or say anything slick when you sit beside him later like you always do, throwing your legs over his lap and stealing his drink.

nah.

this one’s just for him. a secret under his sleeve, tucked into the curve of his body like a memory.

“you gonna keep it under wraps?” the guy asks, like he can read choso’s whole plan off his face.

“yeah,” choso mutters, grabbing his hoodie and tugging the sleeve back down with a practiced flick. “at least for now. don’t need her freakin’ out or nothing.”

“bet,” the guy says with a short laugh. “i get it.”

choso stands slow, body still heavy from sitting too long and smoking too much. he sways a bit but rights himself, shaking out his arms like he’s just come up from underwater. the whole basement smells like blood and rubbing alcohol and resin, but it’s warm, and the energy buzzes low and steady around him.

he digs in his pocket for a few bills, slaps them into the artist’s open palm.

“appreciate you, man.”

“anytime, bro. take care of that, don’t go dunkin’ it in a keg or anything.” choso grins. “no promises.”

he walks out with his hoodie draped low, sleeve tugged all the way to his wrist despite the heat and the crowd and the chaotic press of bodies funneling in from the hallway. music floods back in slow, a pulse of bass syncing up with his own heartbeat.

but he can’t stop thinking about it. every step he takes, every time the sleeve brushes against the fresh ink, it reminds him.

not of what they are.

but of what you mean.

upu didn’t need to give him that lighter. you didn’t have to think about him in that little quiet way you always did, like he’s more than just a weed plug or the guy you party with every weekend. that little moment, just you in your dorm, painting red spider lilies on a bic you knew he’d never throw away? that shit went straight to his chest. and now you're on his skin. maybe you'd freak out if you saw it. maybe you'd cry. maybe you'd laugh.

maybe you'd get real quiet and never say anything again. or maybe you'd look at him the way you did in that photo. maybe you'd look at him like you knew.

but all that’s for later. for now, he’s just stoned as hell, arm warm and throbbing, and so unbelievably content that it’s almost embarrassing.

he spots gojo again across the room, already perched on the arm of someone else’s couch with a red solo cup and a grin like he owns the house. choso veers toward him, slips back into the noise like he never left.

sleeve tugged down.

lighter in his pocket.

eyes on his arm, just for him.

~

later that night you navigate yourself back to choso after your banter with the girls.

you spot him sunk deep into the cushions, hood half up, curls falling into his face, a bottle of water in one hand and his eyes half-lidded and sleepy with that lazy high he wears better than anyone. he’s surrounded, gojo splayed on one armrest like he owns the place, sukuna lounged sideways with his feet on the table, and suguru perched on the edge, nursing a half-finished blunt.

“yo, look who it is,” gojo grins as you walk up, already clocking the way you move like you’re headed home, not just to a guy. “princess finally found her prince.”

you don’t say anything, just slide right into the little space at choso’s side like it was made for you. his arm shifts automatically, pulling you in like it’s instinct, and you tuck your face into his shoulder, letting out the softest exhale. you can feel the thrum of his voice in your cheek when he speaks.

“hey, ma.”

his hand’s warm against your hip, steady, grounding. he smells like weed and cedar and the faintest trace of paint from the lighter you gave him. it’s in his pocket now, safe like something sacred.

“so anyway,” suguru picks back up like you didn’t just crash-land in choso’s lap, “i’m telling you, the guy had no idea what he was doing. tried to roll with a swisher, no guts, just dumped the weed in and twisted the end like a fuckin’ lollipop.”

“god, not the lollipop roll,” sukuna groans, dragging a hand over his face. “freshman?”

“of course it was a freshman,” gojo says, grinning. “those little guys think watching one youtube tutorial makes them bob marley.”

“yo, remember that one dude at the delta party?” choso says, head tilting back slightly. “rolled a joint with a bible page.”

“amen,” sukuna snorts.

“nah, for real,” choso laughs, hand tightening just slightly where it rests on your side. “he said it made the high holier.” you huff against his hoodie, and his fingers flex like he felt it, like it was the best sound he’d heard all night.

they keep going, weed stories, party war stories, the dumbest shit they’ve ever seen in a frat house at 3am. it’s relentless, loud, chaotic, but you stay quiet, tucked against choso’s side like he’s the only still thing in the room. his thumb runs in slow circles against your waist through the fabric of your top, and you feel the way he laughs before you hear it.

“yo,” gojo says, leaning across suguru to point at choso. “what’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done at a party?”

“besides adopt a girlfriend he doesn’t kiss?” sukuna adds. choso blinks slow. doesn’t rise to the bait, doesn’t even twitch.

“probably that time at theta when i fell asleep in the bathtub and woke up with a raccoon in my lap.” suguru chokes. “you serious?”

“deadass.”

“was it… alive?”

“bro. it was chillin’. just vibin’ with me.”

“you probably hotboxed the tub,” gojo says, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “raccoon was just tryna get high.”

choso grins, soft and slow, and you nudge your nose into his hoodie like you’re hiding your own smile. “what about women?” sukuna says suddenly, eyes glinting like he’s fishing. “y’all ever hook up at your own party?”

“you’re disgusting, that's against reg” gojo tells him cheerfully.

“don’t lie,” sukuna drawls. “you know you have.”

“alright, once,” gojo admits. “but i kicked her out after because she tried to name my bongs.” “you’re heartless,” suguru says, deadpan.

“you don’t name the bongs,” gojo insists. “they earn names. it’s sacred.”

“what about you, choso?” sukuna’s gaze cuts sideways. “you got bodies stacked in your stoner dungeon?” choso hums, slow and easy. you feel the low sound in his chest, pressed flush to your cheek.

“nah,” he says. “i don’t hook up with girls who don’t know how to roll.” the boys howl, gojo nearly falling off the couch.

“that’s so on brand,” suguru laughs. “you need standards,” choso mumbles, amused, and leans his cheek briefly against the top of your head.

the lighter’s still in his pocket. his arm’s still over your shoulders. and beneath the sleeve of his hoodie, hidden from the world, your eyes are inked into his skin.

you shift a little, just enough to tuck your legs under yourself, settling more fully into him, and he adjusts without thinking — arm around you tighter now, palm spread warm across your ribs, thumb grazing your side through the fabric. he’s careful. doesn’t let the hoodie ride up. doesn’t let anyone see. the tattoo’s still fresh, still tender, and it’s just for him.

“yo, you good?” suguru asks, nodding at him. choso blinks slow. “yeah man’.”

“that weed hit hard,” gojo says. “i feel like i’m seein’ sounds.”

“you ever tried dabs?” sukuna asks. “that’s when shit gets spiritual.”

“you tryna kill someone?” suguru laughs. “every time i hit one, i feel like my soul’s leaving my body.”

“shit’s a rite of passage,” sukuna shrugs.

“nah, a rite of passage is hosting a rager with a cop at your door and acting like you live there,” gojo grins. “have you?” choso asks, amused.

“bro, i’ve answered the door in a bathrobe before,” gojo says proudly. they all crack up again. you don’t say anything, but your smile’s pressed right into choso’s chest, and he dips his head for a second to nuzzle his nose into your hair.

“she’s real quiet tonight,” suguru says, noticing. “nah, she’s just comfy,” choso says easily. “she don’t need to talk when she’s like this.”

you don’t. not when you’ve got his warmth, his arm around you, his voice rumbling low in your ear with every lazy joke. it’s always like this, like no one else in the room really matters, like you could fall asleep right here and he’d keep the world spinning while you did.

“that’s love,” gojo says mock-serious.

“shut up,” choso mutters. but he doesn’t stop smiling. and the lighter’s still warm in his pocket.

and your eyes are still inked into his arm, safe and secret beneath layers of cotton and smoke.

~

the house is still going when you two finally get up. it’s past 2am, maybe closer to 3, but the music hasn’t let up and there’s still people on the floor, drinks in hand, voices loud and slurred over each other. someone’s passed out with a sharpie mustache, another guy’s making out with a pillow. classic kappa chaos.

choso’s the one who moves first. you feel it in the way his arm shifts, in the soft brush of his thumb against your side like a nudge. he leans in close, voice barely above a murmur.

“you good to dip?”

you nod into his hoodie, eyes half-lidded, heart heavy with warmth and weed.

he helps you up slow, palm steady at your back. when you stand, the cold air from the open back door hits your legs and you shiver a little, instinctively leaning back into his side. he shrugs his hoodie higher and throws an arm around your shoulders like he already knew it’d happen.

“yo,” choso calls out over the couch, voice scratchy and low. “we out.”

gojo perks up from where he’s still posted with a half-spilled drink, eyes bright. “tell your girlfriend goodnight for us.”

you don’t say anything, just press your face into choso’s shoulder again, and he laughs under his breath.

“night, man,” suguru says with a nod, already halfway into rolling another blunt.

sukuna lifts a hand lazily. “text if you end up in a ditch.”

“if i do, i’m takin’ you with me,” choso mutters.

they all laugh again, and it follows you both out the front door, the porch light buzzing weak and yellow above you. the night’s cooler now, quiet in a way that makes everything feel soft around the edges. your heels click against the pavement as you walk, but only for a second, choso notices and without a word, crouches down in front of you, glancing back over his shoulder.

“get on.”

you blink, amused. “seriously?”

“c’mon, ma,” he mumbles, tugging at your wrist. “your feet hurt.”

you climb onto his back with a little laugh, arms wrapped loose around his shoulders, and he stands like it’s nothing, steady under your weight. his steps are slow and sure down the sidewalk, the frat house lights shrinking behind you, the sounds of the party fading with every step.

“you always take care of me,” you mumble against his neck.

he hums low. “’course i do. you're my.. best friend.”

you walk like that for a while, his hoodie soft against your cheek, his hair brushing your face every time the wind shifts. he doesn’t say much, just hums sometimes or comments on dumb shit you pass, a traffic cone in a bush, a raccoon on the curb that freezes when it sees you, like it knows choso somehow.

he sets you down once you’re close, only when his own building’s steps are in sight. his hand stays in yours as he leads you inside, up the stairs, past the other bedrooms where people are either passed out or definitely not sleeping. his door clicks shut behind you with a soft thud, and everything goes quiet.

his room’s the same as always, warm, dim, the faint smell of weed and whatever incense he burned earlier in the week still lingering in the corners. one sock on the floor, a hoodie thrown over the back of his chair. you’ve been here a hundred times, maybe more.

but tonight feels different. softer. warmer.

he pulls his hoodie off slow, careful of the sleeve, and tosses it toward the desk chair. the bandage underneath catches the light for a second, but he turns before you see too much.

you toe your shoes off and crawl onto the bed without thinking. he follows, slower, body still heavy with high and heat and something else he can’t name.

you’re both under the blanket when he finally speaks.

“hey.”

you look over, curled on your side facing him.

his eyes are half-lidded, soft. one arm tucked behind his head, the other stretched toward you, palm open on the comforter like he’s offering it.

“i really fuckin’ love that lighter.”

your heart stutters a little. “yeah?”

he nods, slow. “like… a lot. been using it all night. even switched pockets for it, kept checking to make sure it didn’t fall out or get swiped.”

you smile, something small and full blooming in your chest. “good. it’s supposed to be yours.”

“feels like it.”

he looks at you for a long second. the space between you shrinks until his arm slides around your waist and pulls you in close.

you go easy, always do, settling into him like he’s your own bed, your own pillow, the place you always end up no matter how far you drift.

he breathes in slow, his nose brushing your hair.

“the flowers… why’d you paint those?”

you press your face into his chest.

“they reminded me of you,” you say quietly. “red spider lilies. they’re kind of… complicated. people think they’re about death or goodbye, but they also mean memory. rebirth. starting over. they grow in all the places nothing else does.”

choso’s quiet for a second.

then, soft, “you think i’m like that?”

you shrug against him, voice even softer. “i think you’re the kind of person who sticks. who stays even when shit gets hard. and you don’t always say how you feel but… you’re steady. like those flowers. like fire.”

he exhales slow.

“fuck, ma.”

“what?”

“you’re gonna make me cry or some shit.”

you laugh, a quiet huff against his chest. he wraps both arms around you now, tucking you into the space beneath his chin, his hand sliding up into your hair.

his fingers stroke slow, gentle. again and again.

“you can cry,” you mumble. “i won’t tell.”

he chuckles low, the sound vibrating through you.

“nah, i’m good. just… i dunno. not used to someone thinkin’ about me like that.”

you don’t say anything. just curl closer, your fingers fisting lightly in the fabric of his shirt.

the room settles into silence. soft and slow. your breaths even out together.

his hand keeps stroking through your hair, steady and grounding. like he could do it forever. like maybe he will.

his voice comes again, quieter this time.

“gonna keep that lighter forever.”

you smile, eyes fluttering shut. “good.”

“not even gonna let gojo touch it."

“definitely good.”

his lips brush your hair, a ghost of a kiss.

you feel it all, the warmth, the safety, the way his body curls slightly to fit around yours like a shield, like a home.

his heartbeat’s slow against your cheek.

“night, ma,” he whispers, already half-asleep.

you murmur it back, voice slurred with sleep, breath syncing with his.

his fingers keep moving, slow circles through your hair.

and in the soft dark, beneath the blanket, beneath the silence, his arm curls around you just enough to press the fresh ink on his bicep to your side, a quiet secret. a permanent truth.

just for him.

just for tonight.

just for you.

~

~

it’s been a chill afternoon, sun’s out, classes dragging, brain fried. choso’s walking out of the lab building with his earbuds in, hoodie half-zipped, replaying your last message in his head. a pic of your shoes kicked off under a library table, captioned come save me, three broken hearts. made him smile. still does.

he’s almost past the quad when a shadow cuts across the sidewalk.

“yo, choso.”

doesn’t need to look up to know who it is.

that voice, too smooth. familiar in the kind of way that feels like smoke curling up your back.

he pulls one earbud out and slows.

toji’s leaned against the trunk of an oak tree like he’s been waiting. sunglasses on, black tee snug across his chest, arms crossed like he’s got all day. his smirk’s already half-there.

“what’s up?” choso mutters.

“you got a sec?”

choso gives him a long look. he knows toji. knows the kind of calm that means something’s coming.

“…yeah,” he says anyway.

they walk.

they’ve done this before, that time a few weeks ago before his lab, once or twice after parties, when everyone else was loud and drunk and messy. toji’s always been different. sharper. like he watches the room just to see where it bleeds.

“how’s life at delta mu?” toji asks after a few steps. casual. fake.

“same shit.”

“yeah?” he smirks. “you still throwing those weed parties with your little mascot?”

choso’s jaw ticks. “you mean y/n?”

toji chuckles. “yeah. her.”

he tosses a glance sideways. too casual.

“she’s got some energy, huh? always bouncing around, arms all over you. she like that with everybody or just you?”

choso doesn’t answer. toji doesn’t need one.

“nah, i’ve seen it,” he continues. “always tucked up next to you. on your lap. wrapped around your arm. clinging to your hoodie like it’s the last blunt in the world.”

he laughs under his breath. “kinda cute.”

choso’s fists go deep in his pockets.

“she’s just like that,” he says flatly.

toji hums. “you sure?”

choso looks over.

“what’s your point?”

“just wondering,” toji shrugs, still smiling like it’s harmless. “you’ve told me before, you two aren’t dating.”

“we’re not.”

“but you hang out every day.”

“yeah.”

“sleep in the same bed sometimes, right?”

choso’s mouth tightens.

toji grins like he caught something.

“so she’s single?”

choso stares straight ahead.

“…yeah.”

“good to know.”

silence.

the wind brushes through the quad. students chatter behind them. someone’s playing music from a bluetooth speaker in the grass, something smooth, almost romantic. it doesn’t help.

“she’s just real… open, you know?” toji says. “like, warm. sweet as hell. makes you feel like you’ve known her forever.” choso stays quiet.

“i ran into her the other day,” toji adds like it’s nothing. “outside the gym. we talked for a sec.” his tone is lighter now. teasing. like he’s digging.

“she remembered my name. smiled real nice, too. said she was headed to meet you.”

no surprise there. you always say where you're going. always talking about choso like he’s the center of your world. and maybe that’s why this stings. and toji knows it.

“you ever wonder if she does that for you?” he asks. “tells other guys she’s headed to see you. uses your name like a shield.”

he doesn’t wait for a reply.

“or maybe it’s just habit. maybe she’s comfortable. you ever think about that?”

“don’t do this.”

choso’s voice is low now. warning. toji just smirks.

“look, man. i’m not trying to piss you off. just… trying to understand. ‘cause you act like you’re her boyfriend, but then you say you’re not.”

he tilts his head.

“so which is it?”

choso breathes slow through his nose.

“we’re close. we’ve always been close. that’s it.” toji nods. like he buys it.

but he doesn’t.

“damn,” he says. “you got more patience than me.”

“what’s that mean?”

“means if a girl like that was pressed up on me every night, i wouldn’t be wasting time calling her my friend.” he says it with a grin, but there’s something sharp underneath.

“you really never tried?” toji asks. “never kissed her? not once?” choso doesn’t respond. he can’t. he kisses you all the time, on the head, bebe ron the lips.

because the truth’s stuck in his throat, the way you fall asleep in his arms, the way you hold his lighter like it means something, the way you always come back to him like he’s home. and he’s the dumbass who never claimed you.

“so she’s single, then?” toji repeats.

“yeah,” choso says, barely above a whisper.

toji gives him one last nod.

“cool,” he says. “just wanted to be sure.” and then he walks away. choso doesn’t move. not for a long time.

just stands there, fists clenched, teeth gritted, watching toji’s silhouette disappear down the path like it’s a threat, because it is. he knew.

he knew before he asked.

and now he’s coming.

because choso left the door wide open.

and you?

you’re free to walk through it.

~

choso’s room, late afternoon

your legs are curled under you on choso’s bed, hoodie three sizes too big hanging off your shoulder, his, of course. the windows are cracked open, letting in the soft hum of birds and the echo of some guys yelling down at the basketball court. his room smells like incense, sage and something deeper, something him, warm, sleepy. you’ve been here a hundred times like this. maybe more.

his hoodie sleeves keep sliding past your wrists as you text, thumbs quick, quiet smile pulling at your lips. he’s across the room, digging through a drawer for his rolling tray. you can feel his presence without even looking. always do.

“yo, did you move my grinder?” he calls, glancing over his shoulder.

“nope,” you answer, distracted, fingers still flying over your screen. your phone lights again.

toji [3:04pm]: you looked cute at that mixer last night.

you bite your lip. thumbs hover.

then you type:

you [3:07pm]: oh you're stalking me noww?

you don’t see choso pause. you don’t see how long his eyes linger on your phone. you don’t realize he saw the name, until he speaks.

“who you texting?”

you blink up, tone of his voice unfamiliar.

“hm? oh—” you shift your phone in your hand, instinctive. “just… someone.”

he tilts his head.

“someone, huh.”

you laugh a little. “why do you sound like that?”

he doesn’t answer. he crosses the room instead, slow steps. plants himself at the edge of the bed, arms folded. you look up at him and that warm energy’s gone. replaced with something colder. sharp.

“that toji?”

your breath stalls.

“…yeah.”

choso stares at you. unreadable.

“why?”

“what do you mean why?” you ask, eyebrows tugging. “he messaged me. we were just talking.”

he hums. low. not buying it.

“just talking,” he echoes. “what about?” you sit up straighter. “what’s going on?”

“what’d he say?”

“choso—”

“lemme see.”

he gestures at your phone. you clutch it instinctively. like muscle memory. like guilt? “are you serious right now?” he doesn’t answer. jaw’s tight. eyes dark.

“what’d he say?” he asks again. your fingers squeeze your phone. you feel a flush crawl up your neck. not from embarrassment, but shock.

“you’re not serious,” you say again, this time quieter. he just looks at you. so you speak.

“he said i was cute when i was bored. and i said maybe. that’s it.”

his jaw ticks.

“you flirting with him?”

“what?”

“you heard me.”

you scoff. “no. i wasn’t. it wasn’t even- i didn’t mean it like that.” choso steps back, runs a hand through his hair. pacing now.

“you texting him while you’re in my bed?”

“what does that matter?”

“it matters.”

his voice is sharper now. rough around the edges. not loud, but tight, like it’s fighting to stay inside his chest. “you know how i feel about that guy.”

“choso, he’s been nothing but nice lately—”

“he’s not nice. he’s not interested in being friends. he’s waiting. he’s circling. you don’t see it?” you blink.

“so what, you’re mad ‘cause i texted him back?” he looks at you like you just spit on the floor. “i’m mad ‘cause you’re in my fucking hoodie, in my bed, telling some other guy he’s got a shot.”

you freeze.

the silence that falls is loud.

so loud.

your eyes widen. you stare at him, lips parted. unsure if you heard that right. unsure if he meant to say it.

“a shot?” you echo. he looks away. exhales hard.

“never mind.”

“no,” you say, voice firm now. “say it again.”

he doesn’t. but you both feel the truth echoing off the walls.

you look down. suddenly too warm. like the hoodie’s burning your skin. “…i didn’t know you’d care,” you say, almost to yourself.

choso swallows. “i do.” you glance back up.

“why?”

he doesn’t answer. but you already know. and now the air is thick with it. the unspoken thing. and for the first time, it’s not sweet. not warm. it hurts.

because it means everything he’s never said, everything he’s been, came with conditions you never agreed to. came with borders he never drew, but expected you not to cross.

you breathe slow. he watches you. you speak first.

“if you wanted to be the only one texting me like that, you should’ve said something.” choso’s face shifts. his mouth opens like he’s going to say something, defend himself, maybe, argue the way he always stays quiet because he doesn’t want to lose you,but nothing comes out.

instead, his brows knit together, lips pressed in a tight line. his fingers curl at his sides.

“you really think i don’t wanna be that?” he says, voice rough. “you think this shit’s been casual for me?” you blink at him. your breath catches.

“you’ve never said it was anything else, choso. what was i supposed to think?”

“fuck,” he growls, pacing again. “you were supposed to know. i thought you knew.”

his voice rises, not yelling, but loud with frustration. he’s unraveling in real time, and it’s shaking something loose in you, too. “how was i supposed to know?” you shoot back. “you flirt but you never say anything. you touch me like i’m yours but act like i’m just your best friend—”

“you are mine.” your voice dies in your throat.

he stares at you. and when he speaks again, it’s quieter, but no less intense.

“you’re mine,” he says again, like a confession. like a curse. “always been mine.” your stomach flips.

“then why—” your voice cracks — “why didn’t you ever tell me?”

choso runs a hand through his hair again, like he’s trying to physically hold himself together. like it hurts.

“’cause i was scared,” he snaps. “scared that if i said it out loud, it’d fuck everything up. that you’d look at me different. that you’d leave.” you stare.

“so you’d rather let someone else have me?”

he stiffens. you rise onto your knees on the bed, fire lighting behind your ribs now. “you’d rather let toji of all people try it?”

his jaw clenches. “he’s not gonna have you.” your heartbeat skids.

he moves in fast, faster than he ever has, and grabs your wrist, firm but not rough, like he can’t bear to let the distance exist any longer.

“i’m not letting him have you,” he mutters.

you’re still frozen, looking up at him. something between fear and thrill curling in your gut.

“choso,” you whisper. he doesn’t stop. he pushes you back gently onto the bed, one hand catching your waist, the other bracing against the mattress. he hovers over you, breath heavy, eyes searching your face like he’s begging you to see it, really see it this time.

“i’m fucking in love with you.”

your heart punches into your throat. his forehead dips, pressing against yours, voice hoarse.

“i’ve been in love with you since you showed up to my first party and we listened to that dumb song together.”

you let out a shaky laugh, but your eyes are wet his thumb brushes your cheek.

“i never said it ‘cause i thought this was enough. thought just having you close was better than risking it all. but i can’t—” he pulls in a breath, voice shaking now too — “i can’t sit quiet while other people try to take you from me.”

you’re blinking fast now. breath catching. every inch of your skin feels like it’s on fire beneath his touch.

“you’re my girl,” he says again, softer this time. “you’ve always been mine.”

you don’t answer right away. your chest rises and falls beneath his, shallow and unsteady. your palm is still on his cheek, but your eyes have shifted, staring past him now. unfocused. wet.

“you’re only saying that,” you murmur, “because someone else finally had the balls to go after me.”

his breath catches. your voice is quieter, but sharp now, like you’re trying to convince yourself. like you want to believe it, but the cracks are there, and they’re splitting open.

“you didn’t say anything until he got involved. until he started asking about me. texting me. seeing me.” your hand falls away from his face. “and now suddenly, i’m yours?”

his eyes widen. “no—”

“you had so long to tell me, choso. so many chances.”

“y/n, it’s not like that—”

“then what is it like?” you breathe. “’cause i don’t get to be the girl you only want when someone else does.”

choso stares at you, heart hammering. like you just ripped something raw and bloody straight out of his chest.

he swallows.

and then, slowly, he pushes back, just far enough to sit up on his knees beside you. the mattress dips with the weight shift. his hands fumble for the hem of his hoodie.

he pulls it up and over his head in one quick move. your breath stutters.

there, inked into the inside of his upper arm, where he’d hidden it every time you curled up against him, is a tattoo.

of your eyes.

staring straight back at you.

your real breath, the one stuck in your throat, finally punches out of you.

choso watches your expression shift, eyes flicking from the ink to his face and back. he swallows once, hard, and says:

“got it the night of the party. when you gave me the lighter.” you blink.

“you were curled up on me. whole time i was talking with the boys, i couldn’t stop thinking about you. how close you were. how you looked at me like that was your home.” he swipes a thumb under his nose, like he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands. “so i got up, high as fuck, to the guy tatting people in the corner. told him to ink your eyes on me.”

your lips part, but nothing comes out. his voice softens.

“i didn’t say anything ‘cause i thought it was enough. just having you near. but it’s not. not anymore.”

your heart pounds so hard you feel it in your ears.

he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room. like he needs you to believe it. really believe it.

“this isn’t about toji. it’s never been about him. i wanted you long before he ever said your name.”

you’re still staring at the tattoo.

he moves closer again. his hand brushes your knee, gentle.

“you think i’d get your fucking eyes on me just ‘cause i’m jealous?” you blink fast.

his hand finds your face again. tender. grounding “you’re it for me.”

his voice is low, raspy. not just from the emotion, but from how hard he’s holding it in, like if he lets go, everything he’s ever felt for you will come spilling out and drown him.

but he lets it go anyway.

“you’re all i think about,” choso says, brushing his thumb over your cheek again. “when i’m high, when i’m sober, when you’re across the room and laughing at someone’s stupid joke, when you’re asleep in my bed, wearing my shirt, you’re in my head all the time, ma.”your breath catches.

“every song reminds me of you. every little thing you do drives me crazy. you don’t even know how much of me you’ve got.”

he leans closer, forehead nearly touching yours.

“you gave me that lighter and i wanted to kiss you right there in the middle of the street. when you paint your nails i stare at your hands for hours. when you fall asleep on me at parties, i sit still like a statue so you don’t move. i’m always lookin’ at you like i already lost you. and it kills me.”

his hand finds your jaw, warm and steady, fingers curling behind your ear. your breath hitches, and he’s close enough to feel it.

“you’ve had my heart since freshman year. and i didn’t say anything ‘cause i thought maybe you didn’t want it. or maybe you already had it and didn’t need to hear it out loud.”

you swallow, shaky. lips parted. cheeks flushed.

and choso looks down at them, your lips, like he’s been holding himself back from kissing you for a lifetime.

and then he doesn’t anymore.

he crashes into you like he’s starving.

the kind of kiss that drags a sound out of your throat before you even realize it, all heat and pressure and ache, all the months and years and everything he’s shoved down, poured out into the way his lips mold against yours. he kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll pull away, and like he knows you won’t.

your hands claw at his shoulders, winding into the mess of his hair, tugging him in even closer. and choso groans, deep in his throat, pressing you down into the bed, slotting his hips against yours.

his mouth moves fast, desperate, lips, tongue, teeth, like he can’t get enough. like the taste of you is something he needs in his lungs.

“fuck,” he breathes against your mouth, dragging his lips down your jaw, “you don’t get it, do you?”

your back arches, lips parting when he sucks lightly under your ear.

“how bad i’ve wanted this. you.”

his hands roam, over your waist, under your shirt, up your sides like he’s trying to memorize all of you at once. and every place he touches leaves a trail of fire.

you moan his name, soft and shaky, and he loses it a little more, bites your bottom lip as he grinds his hips down into yours, heavy and hot and so there.

“say it again,” he mutters, eyes half-lidded, forehead pressed to yours. “say my name.”

“choso.”

he shudders.

“again.”

“cho!.”

he kisses you so deep it knocks the breath out of your lungs. kisses you like he owns you, like you’ve always belonged to him, and like he’s finally letting himself claim what’s already his.

and fuck, you let him.

you’ve wanted this just as long. needed him just as bad.

and now, with your limbs tangled, your body burning under his, your heart thudding like a war drum in your chest, there’s no more pretending.

you’re his. he’s yours. and it’s written all over his face.

choso looks at you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted, like he’s starved for you, but still savoring the moment. his eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, but soft. reverent. he cups your cheek with a hand that’s just slightly trembling, brushing his thumb along your skin like he can’t believe you’re real.

he kisses your forehead, slow and grounding, like a promise. then your nose. then your lips, and that one lingers. warm, aching, deep enough that it steals the air from your lungs. it’s not just desire. it’s everything he’s never said until now.

“please let me see you, ma." he whispers, voice hoarse, like he’s been holding back forever.

you nod, lips parted, eyes locked with his. your breath stutters as his fingers ghost over the hem of your shirt, lifting it inch by inch like he’s unwrapping something precious. he tosses it aside, only to pull you in again. his palms spread wide across your ribs, thumbs brushing just beneath your chest.

“fuck,” he breathes, low and to himself. “so fucking beautiful.”

he leans in, mouth dragging hot and open along your neck, kissing and breathing you in, his lips trembling against your pulse like he’s drunk off you. he murmurs something there, a soft, almost desperate, “mine,” before he undoes your bra with one practiced flick.

and when it falls away, he doesn’t touch you right away. he just stares, like the sight of you has knocked the wind out of him.

his hands come up slow, palms warm as they cup you like he’s afraid to break something delicate. “been dreaming about this,” he says. “about you. here. like this. in my bed. lookin’ up at me like you already know i’d give you everything.”

you shiver under the weight of it all, his voice, his gaze, his touch. and then his mouth is on your chest, lips sealing around your nipple, tongue flicking before he sucks — slow, deep, just enough to make you arch into him with a needy whimper.

“choso…”

he groans, hand sliding lower, fingers hooking into the waistband of your shorts. he pulls them down with your panties in one motion, dragging his palms down your thighs on the way. and when he sits back, just to take you in, bare, breathless, flushed, his eyes go wide, like he’s trying to commit you to memory. “look at you,” he murmurs, chest rising with each ragged breath. “you don’t even know what you do to me, do you?”

you reach for him, tugging his shirt up and over his head, palms skating down the strong lines of his chest, stopping only when your fingers find his arm. your breath catches.

your eyes. inked in black and red over his skin, etched like a confession. you won't ever get sick of seeing it.

he watches you take it in, sees the exact moment you understand, and he doesn’t say anything. not at first. he just leans in, takes your hand in his, and presses it over his heart.

“see?” he whispers. “been yours. always.”

your eyes brim, chest tight with something that has no name. and then he kisses you again, slow and deep, tongue stroking yours, hand sliding between your thighs. he groans into your mouth when he feels you, warm, wet, already trembling.

“so wet for me,” he mutters, lips brushing yours. “all this for me, huh?”

his fingers dip into you, one at first, then two, slow and deep, curling just right. your back arches, mouth falling open with a gasp as he starts to move them, watching every twitch and shiver you give him like he’s memorizing the way you come apart. “fuck, baby,” he breathes. “you feel so good, been wantin’ this for so long. just wanted to take care of you. make you feel good.”

his lips trail back down, mouth closing around your nipple again as his fingers keep working you open, the room echoing with your broken gasps and soft moans. he kisses your sternum, your ribs, every inch of you he can reach like he’s trying to make up for every second he didn’t have you.

and when your legs start to tremble, when your thighs squeeze around his hand and you whimper his name into the crook of his neck, he groans, low and sexy, and pulls back just enough to strip the last of his clothes.

his cock is flushed, hard, already leaking, and still, he pauses.

he leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing hard. “you sure you wanna do this hun?”

“i want you,” you whisper, voice cracking. “i want all of you.”

and when he slides in, slow, deliberate, it’s overwhelming. your nails dig into his shoulders, mouth open in a silent gasp, and he just groans, long and low, burying his face in your neck.

“fuck, baby… you feel so fuckin’ good, made for me, huh?”

his hips rock into you, slow and deep, dragging along every sensitive inch inside you until you’re trembling again, mouth parted in helpless moans. he kisses you through it, messy and uncoordinated, full of teeth and tongue and need.

he doesn’t hold back anymore. not his body, not his voice. he’s everywhere, his hands, his mouth, his words, and every thrust is rougher, deeper, hotter than the last.

“been yours since the day i met you,” he breathes against your skin. “you’re mine, baby. mine. no one else gets to have you like this. no one else even fuckin’ compares.”

you believe him. how could you not, when he’s saying it like he’s been waiting years to let it out?

you fall apart first, clenching around him with a strangled moan, whole body trembling as your orgasm crashes through you, and choso follows, grinding into you with a low growl, holding you close as he spills into you.

he doesn’t let go. not even after. he stays buried deep, forehead to yours, one hand cradling your jaw like it’s fragile.

“not lettin’ you go,” he whispers. “not now. not ever.”

~

the party’s already in full swing when you two walk in. the bass thrums under your feet, bodies packed tight in the kappa house. familiar faces flash by in strobes of color and sound, solo cups raised, someone laughing too loud, gojo shouting across the room with a bottle in each hand.

and then you and choso step into the chaos like it’s nothing. except tonight, it’s not nothing. it’s everything. your hand is in his. his thumb strokes over your knuckles like it’s second nature, and you’re tucked into his side like you’ve always belonged there. he’s wearing that hoodie you love, and you’ve got it slung off your shoulder like it’s yours now. he hasn’t let go of you since you walked through the door, and he doesn’t plan to. people notice.

gojo sees first. his mouth falls open around the mouth of a beer can, and he drops it on the counter with a dramatic gasp. “oh my god.” choso raises an eyebrow, smirking. “no fuckin way,” sukuna mutters, eyes narrowing. “this for real?” you don’t say anything. just smile, nuzzling into choso’s chest. and choso, god, he melts. his arm tightens around you like instinct, like he’s not even thinking about it. “you’re kidding,” maki blurts from across the room. she’s half-drunk and squinting, pointing her beer bottle at you two like she’s trying to make sense of a mirage. “you finally fucked?”

“maki,” shoko hisses, slapping her arm, but she’s already grinning. “i knew it. i knew it.” suguru lifts his drink with a slow, knowing smile. “took you long enough.” gojo, meanwhile, is spinning in a circle like he just witnessed a miracle. “wait wait wait,” he says, pointing between the two of you. “you’re telling me this entire time, we’ve been watching you two eye-fuck each other across every frat house on campus, and now you’re just casually showing up like this?”

“what can i say,” choso murmurs, pulling you even closer, “i figured it was time.” “look at his hand placement,” shoko says, leaning into maki. “that’s not friends. that’s boyfriend hand placement.”

“yeah and look at her,” maki laughs. “she looks like she just got dicked down and praised like a goddess.” you duck your head a little, embarrassed, but choso leans in and kisses your cheek, then your temple. it’s so soft, so easy, and when he pulls back, he looks straight at toji who’s staring wide eyed, steady, calm, but with a flicker of challenge in his eyes.

“don’t look at her like that,” he says, voice low. “not tonight. not ever.” toji scoffs, raising his hands in mock surrender, but his grin is sharp. “damn. someone’s possessive now.”

“been possessive,” choso mutters, like it’s not even up for debate. he turns his attention back to you instantly, brushing your hair behind your ear.

“you okay?” you nod. “i’m perfect.” and then he kisses you. not a peck. not for show. it’s slow, unhurried, with his hand cupping your jaw and his lips moving with the kind of tenderness that makes your knees weak. the room could be burning down and he wouldn’t stop. you don’t even hear gojo’s dramatic screech until you break apart.

“yo this is crazy,” he says, spinning around and yelling to no one in particular. “choso is off the market. choso kamo, resident stoner-lover of no one but his weed and his hoodie collection, is now cuffed.”

“what’s it feel like,” suguru asks with a smirk, raising an eyebrow at choso, “to be someone’s boyfriend?”

“feels like i shoulda done it years ago,” choso says. you blink up at him, heart catching in your throat. “yo,” yuuji calls from the other side of the room. “does this mean we’re finally allowed to say you two have been in love since freshman year?” “i always said it,” nobara yells, shoving through the crowd with a drink. “don’t act like y’all didn’t see them cuddled up at every party like an old married couple.”

“wait does this mean she’s moving into his room?” gojo asks, visibly spiraling. “what’s gonna happen to the guest bed? who’s gonna roll for me when choso’s too busy being in love?”

“die mad,” choso says flatly, and everyone laughs. but even through all the noise and teasing and attention, his focus never strays from you. his hand stays on your waist. his eyes keep dropping to your mouth like he’s remembering exactly what it feels like.

“you good?” he murmurs again, like he just wants to hear you say it.

you press your nose to his chest and nod, smiling. “more than good.”

he kisses you again, slower this time, like it’s just for you. like no one else is in the room. like he’s exactly where he’s always wanted to be.

and the thing is — he is.

he’s yours. fully, finally, publicly.

more choso for you >~< 'sticky situation'

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

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

[tsuyuno-ajisai]

i have very recently discovered haikyuu stage play clips

Keep reading

[tsuyuno-ajisai]

i think one misconception the english fanbase sometimes have over the miya twins is that osamu is also very very popular

atsumu isn't the 'better' or more 'popular' twin, they're on the same pedestal, it's just that atsumu gets a little more attention because he's boisterous and an annoying little prick

the japanese fanbase depicts the 'atsumu person' or an 'osamu person' rivalry, and places more emphasis how osamu and atsumu has insecurities because of the fact that their twins, and they're always seen as 'one' rather than separate individuals—it's never about how osamu is the only one being insecure because of his twin brother's 'winning popularity'

all in all though, it doesn't change the fact that they are both lovable dumbasses

[tsuyuno-ajisai]

Cowboy gojo❗️

[tsuyuno-ajisai]

Iwaizumi doodles that I made after gym ⭑.ᐟ

[tsuyuno-ajisai]

Aran appreciation🤍

[tsuyuno-ajisai]

triple threat

[tsuyuno-ajisai]

AHHHH THIS IS SO SWEET AND SO HEARTWARMING!!! I LOVE IT SO MUCH!!

this is the kind of fluf i miss reading from the world 🥹

beauty and the beast (m.r.)

Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Word Count: 9.3k

Summary: Mattheo Riddle, the infamous heartbreaker, gets his heart broken.

A/N: this is my first fic ever for matty but basically what happened was i read @redeemingvillains's amazing amazing fic called 'Dove' and it made me feral and i wrote this when i was supposed to be studying for my finals

im not so sure abt it lol because i feel like it's all over the place but this is what happens when i get depressed and get inspired at the same time

so, i hope you enjoy the product of my academic burnout and procrastination

also vee i hope you like the fic cuz ur most definitely my celebrity crush hehe 👉👈

Mattheo Riddle and you made an odd couple—at least, that’s what everyone said.

He was the son of the Dark Lord, Slytherin’s crowned king. All sharp edges and smoldering glances, more beast than boy. Mattheo solved problems with fists long before he used his brain, and even then, he was more likely to headbutt the issue than think it through. Fights, bruises, bleeding knuckles—he was practically the poster child for them.

You, on the other hand, were his opposite in every imaginable way.

Hufflepuff’s sweetheart. A sunbeam in human form. You were always wrapped in soft pastels with flower crowns tucked into your hair, hands sticky with sugar from baking treats or speckled with soil from planting herbs. You loved baby animals and warm tea, and your hands only ever got dirty in the name of creation or care.

So when Mattheo Riddle—the dark moon to your warm, gentle sun—started showing interest in you, your friends were quick to intervene.

Mattheo loved flustering you. Whether it was a cocky compliment or a teasing nickname, he’d always say something just to catch that bashful blush on your cheeks. He’d lean in too close, grinning like a devil as you tried to hide your smile.

“Ah! You’re just so cute. Muah!” You giggled one afternoon, pressing a kiss to the head of a tiny kitten. You’d found a litter of them near the castle grounds and built a makeshift shelter, lining it with soft blankets. To your delight, your friends had fallen in love with them too, helping feed and cuddle the kittens when they could. You came today for the usual dose of kitten therapy.

“Wow, where’s mine?”

The deep voice startled you so much you nearly toppled over from the crouch you were in, silently praying to Helga that your arse wouldn’t land on a defenseless kitten.

“Woah there!”

Luckily, someone caught you—one hand steadying your back, the other gripping your elbow just enough to stop your fall. The kitten in your arms squirmed and you realized you might’ve squeezed it in your surprise. Loosening your grip, you gently pet between its ears with a single finger, smothering it with kisses as an apology.

“You really know how to make a bloke jealous, sunshine,” Mattheo said, his voice a low purr near your ear, “I save you, and you’re still more invested in the kitten.”

You turned, only to find him inches from your face. You squeaked again, your blush rising fast as you looked away, tucking your face into your shoulder. Mattheo grinned.

You cleared your throat, trying to gather yourself, “Well, if you recall, you’re the reason I almost fell in the first place.”

His smirk widened, one brow arching—the same brow with the notch he’d gotten in a fight just a few days ago. You’d heard about it in passing, less concerned about the fight and more about whether anyone had been seriously hurt. Your friends had smiled gently at your concern, telling you you were too sweet for this world.

“I didn’t realize I distracted you, princess.”

The nickname was your undoing. Again.

You turned away, hiding behind another kitten as your cheeks burned. You couldn’t understand how someone like Mattheo Riddle found so much joy in tormenting your poor, flustered heart.

You cleared your throat, flustered, “So… you came to see the kittens too? Don’t they just cheer you up after a long day?”

Mattheo gave you a look—something between a smirk and a genuine smile, an expression that made your heart stumble over itself before he even opened his mouth.

“I am cheered up now,” He said, his voice low and warm, “But I must say, it’s not because of the kittens, Sunshine.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

Your friends had immediately tried to intervene—purely out of concern for you, as you came to realize that night in the cozy safety of your dorm room, when Mattheo Riddle’s name was brought up.

“We just want you to be careful,” Lila said gently, her dark curls falling into her eyes as she spoke, “Mattheo isn’t exactly a stranger to other girls’ beds, (Y/N). He’s gone all the way with them—four bases, easily. Hell, with him, there’s probably an extra base we don’t even know about.”

Imani winced, “And well… we know you aren’t as experienced.”

You felt your cheeks flush. They weren’t wrong.

They were referring to the fact that you were a virgin. You’d never dated anyone. Never even had a boyfriend.

“…Is that bad?” You asked softly.

The girls’ eyes widened and they immediately jumped to reassure you.

“No! Not at all!” Lila said quickly.

“Of course not!” Imani added, shaking her head.

“That’s not what we meant,” Daisy chimed in, reaching over to squeeze your hand, “You just… you deserve someone who’s patient with you.”

“Mattheo’s part of a rough crowd,” Evangeline said, hesitating. She always chose her words carefully, “I don’t want to sound mean or make you feel like we’re judging him, but… I’ve been overthinking this whole thing. And you really can’t be sure he’s not doing this as some kind of cruel joke. Or a dare. Or something equally awful. I wouldn't put it past some of his friends.”

She looked you right in the eye, her voice softening.

“I feel bad assuming the worst, I really do. But I also don’t want to trust just anyone with someone as precious as you.”

That made you smile despite yourself.

Evangeline. The mother of the group. Always looking out for everyone. Always making sure you were safe, happy, and loved. She deserved something in return for how diligently she cared for you all.

You made a mental note to bake her favorite strawberry jelly pastries as a thank-you.

“I understand what you’re all saying,” You said, voice warm, “Thank you… for looking out for me.”

Thus began the excruciating process of trying to remind yourself of everything your friends had said—every time Mattheo began to flirt with you.

You returned his charm with a polite smile. You laughed at his silly jokes. You reminded yourself, this probably isn’t that serious to him.

He could have any girl on his arm—any girl who actually knew what she was doing. What business would Mattheo Riddle, famed Slytherin heartbreaker and rumored womanizer, have with someone like you? Someone who wasn’t experienced. Someone who needed emotional connection to feel safe. Someone who couldn’t even tell whether this was real or just another one of his games.

It all came to a halt the day Mattheo—so casually it could have been mistaken for a joke—suggested you two actually go out.

It happened in passing, half-directed at someone else in the conversation. But you noticed the way he paused. The way he looked at you afterward, as if waiting—hoping—for an answer.

You stared at the hand he extended toward you, palm open.

Then your gaze lifted, meeting his eyes. Wide. Hesitant. Innocent.

He laughed, trying to play it off, “What? Don’t you trust me?”

You froze.

The corner of your mouth dipped downward, a subtle but telling movement. And Mattheo noticed instantly. The playful spark in his expression faded, replaced by a chill that settled into his shoulders like dread.

“Oh.”

“Mattheo, I—” You stopped, unsure what to say as you tugged anxiously at the edge of the shrug you’d crocheted, “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

“You didn’t, princess,” He said quietly, shaking his head, “Truth is… I’ve never given you a reason to trust me.”

You paused, chewing your bottom lip nervously. The sight of it made something sharp and aching stir in Mattheo—an urge to pull your lip from your teeth with his thumb and press his own mouth to yours, just to stop you from doubting yourself.

“I’m sorry.” You whispered.

Mattheo gave you a gentle smile.

It was a sad kind of smile—soft, genuine, and far too forlorn for someone who was always so cocky and sure. Seeing it on his face made something twist in your chest.

“Don’t be, princess.” He said. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

The next couple of days were filled with a Mattheo-shaped hole in your life—and it left a heavier ache than you expected. You tried not to dwell on it, but it was hard not to overthink. Had he only wanted one thing from you? Had your rejection truly been enough for him to discard the little friendship you’d built?

Was that all he ever wanted? Was that all anyone wanted?

Still, the thoughts didn’t consume you completely. You had your friends. You had your kittens. You had the little chaos garden you were growing with Professor Sprout’s permission just beyond the greenhouses, where wildflowers grew beside pumpkins and honeybees lazily floated between blooms.

That was enough… mostly.

At least until Mattheo found you in the library.

You were seated near the back, flipping through your Herbology notes, when he strolled up and set a small vial down on the table in front of you. The clear liquid inside shimmered faintly, catching the candlelight. You looked up at him, eyebrows raised.

Mattheo’s chest was puffed out in obvious pride. He looked like he expected you to gasp or leap into his arms or start clapping.

But you just stared between him and the vial.

His posture deflated slightly, “Come on, princess. At least pretend to be interested. I spent days trying to get my hands on this.”

You bit back a smile, secretly amused by the way he still spoke to you like nothing had changed. Like you hadn't broken his heart—or at least bruised it. The fact that he was here at all made something flutter in your chest.

You gave in with a curious tilt of your head, “Alright, Mattheo. I’ll bite. What’s in the vial?”

“Veritaserum.”

Your eyes widened, but before you could even think to stop him, Mattheo uncorked the tiny bottle and downed it in one go like it was a shot of Firewhisky. He slammed the empty vial back onto the table and leaned forward, smirking.

“I’m completely at your mercy now, sunshine. Ask me anything. I’ll prove I’m not messing with you.”

You blinked, taken aback by his dramatic display. Then you pouted a little, your lips tugging downward as your eyes softened.

“How do I know that was actually Veritaserum?”

He laughed, grinning at you, “Trust issues much, princess? I respect it. Go on—ask me something I wouldn’t answer unless I was under the influence.”

Your eyes flicked over him, unconvinced. That was when you noticed the fresh cut across his nose—no doubt from yet another fight. It should have made you concerned, should have made you check him over for any other bumps and bruises. Instead, you had the completely embarrassing thought that it looked… sort of adorable.

You cleared your throat and hummed, thinking, “Your best friend is Theodore, right?”

He smirked, already cocky again, “Of course. Come on, angel. Give me a tough one.”

You tilted your head, pretending to ponder. Then, as sweetly as ever: “Have you ever thought about kissing Theodore?”

Mattheo froze.

His entire face lit up in a furious blush, red blooming across his cheeks and ears, “I—I mean, yes—but I wasn’t fantasizing about it or anything!” He sputtered, “It was just… a random thought that popped into my head once, I swear!”

You clapped a hand over your mouth, giggling uncontrollably. “Well,” You managed through your laughter, “I guess it really was Veritaserum.”

He covered his face with one hand, groaning into his palm, “That was embarrassing. I am embarrassed.”

You paused, your laughter fading into a soft frown as concern overtook your expression, “Mattheo… if you regret it, it’s okay. I won’t ask you anything else until the serum wears off, you don't have to answer anything else.”

He peeked at you through his fingers and smiled, slow and sincere. “You really are too good for this world, princess.” He let his hand fall and leaned forward, eyes never leaving yours, “No—I don’t regret it. I want you to trust me. And this was the only way I could think of doing it.”

You let out a breathy laugh. Of course it was. Of course the way Mattheo Riddle tried to earn your trust was something absurd, reckless… and somehow incredibly endearing. Just like him.

You hesitated, then asked the question that had been sitting on your chest for weeks, “All those compliments you give me… when you say I look beautiful… do you really mean that?”

His expression softened so much it almost hurt to look at. “Without a doubt,” he said without missing a beat.

Your heart stuttered in your chest. A blush crept up your neck, spreading across your cheeks like warm sunlight, “…Do you really want to date me?”

“More than anything.”

You swallowed hard, “Is this possibly part of a joke? Or a dare? Or something else I should be scared of?”

Mattheo didn’t even flinch, “Believe me, princess, I would rather fall twelve stories from the Astronomy Tower than ever do something like that to you.”

Your breath caught. You’d been cold earlier, the drafty corners of the library nipping at your sleeves—but now you felt hot all over, your skin tingling like you’d been dropped into sunlight.

You blinked, “…Are you using me as a beard to hide your true feelings for Theodore?”

“(Y/N!)” He exclaimed, utterly scandalized, your name leaving his lips for the first time ever instead of a teasing nickname. The outrage on his face was so genuine that you couldn’t hold back anymore—you burst into a fit of laughter, face falling against his bicep as you tried to muffle your giggles.

Mattheo was still huffing beside you when you finally peeked up from his arm, and the expression he wore—soft, amused, fond—made your breath hitch all over again.

You shifted nervously, “Do you… like me?”

“More than you realize.” He said, quiet but certain.

You lowered your head, flustered, heart pounding as you fidgeted with the sleeves of your jumper. You weren’t usually so forward. Asking him all those questions had taken a surprising amount of courage. And now that you had your answers, you didn’t know what to do with them.

Mattheo tilted your chin up with a featherlight touch, catching your eyes. He glanced at your lips, then back into your gaze with so much reverence it almost made you dizzy.

“Will you go out with me, sunshine?”

Your lips curled into a shy smile, “I’d love to, Mattheo.”

His smile widened, something boyish and sweet in it that you hadn’t seen before. But before you could let yourself fully sink into the glow of that moment, the nagging voice of self-doubt tugged at your courage.

“I… don’t know if you know this about me,” You started hesitantly, “but I’ve never really done this before. Dated, I mean. So… I might need to take things slower than what you’re used to. Is that okay with you?”

There was a beat of silence where your heart was convinced it might just split in two from the pressure. But then Mattheo leaned in, pressing the gentlest kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

When he pulled back, his eyes were soft with something so genuine it made your throat tighten, “We’ll go as slow as you need to, princess.”

You smiled, chest loosening as you leaned slightly into his side, your hand brushing his.

It wasn’t until later—when you were curled up in bed, running back through every detail—that you realized something.

He had never actually clarified if that pace—slow, careful, uncertain—was okay with him.

He had said you could go slow.

But you didn’t know if he wanted to.

***

It had been about three weeks since you and Mattheo started dating, and even now, it sometimes didn’t feel quite real. Not because he didn’t show it—if anything, Mattheo Riddle was a surprisingly attentive boyfriend. He brought you little things he thought you’d like (a flower he saw outside Greenhouse Three, a charm that reminded him of your favorite animal, a quill in your favorite color just because you said yours was running out). He always waited for you outside class, always carried your books if your bag looked even slightly heavy, and never let a day pass without calling you by some new sweet nickname.

But more than that, he never pushed.

On your first date, you'd gone to the edge of the Forbidden Forest—somewhere quiet and peaceful with just enough sunlight trickling through the trees to give the illusion of safety and magic. You’d spread out a blanket, shared pumpkin pastries and pumpkin juice, and talked about anything and everything. Mattheo hadn’t even tried to hold your hand until you'd gently brushed your pinky against his, and even then, he’d waited for you to fully intertwine your fingers.

Since then, it had been a slow rhythm of delicate moments: shoulders brushing in the corridor, pinkies linked under the table, his fingers tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with careful reverence. He never took more than you offered. Never asked for what you weren’t ready to give.

Even now.

Now, it was late—past curfew—and you stood with him in a shadowed alcove near the Astronomy Tower, where moonlight pooled like spilled silver. The castle was hushed, and your heartbeat was the loudest thing in the world.

Your hand touches his cheek, featherlight, like you’re still unsure if you’re allowed to touch him this way. Your voice trembled at the edges when you spoke—

“Can I kiss you?”

Mattheo’s heart stops.

“You—you wanna…?” His voice catches, and he mentally curses himself because he’s Mattheo Riddle, for fuck’s sake, and now he’s stammering like a schoolboy.

“I want to kiss you,” You admitted, voice soft and just a little shaky, “But… I’ve never really done this before. I mean—not really.”

Mattheo’s expression softened immediately. He reached out, his fingers ghosting along your cheek before curling gently around your hand, “Me either.”

You blinked, “You’re kidding, right?”

He laughed under his breath, shaking his head, “No. I mean—I know what people say. I know what you’ve heard. And yeah, I’ve kissed girls before. But those… they didn’t matter. They didn’t mean anything.”

You stared at him, skeptical, “But you’ve done things, Mattheo. With other girls.”

He didn't deny it. Instead, he took your hand in both of his and guided it to his chest, just over his heart. The steady thud was frantic beneath your palm.

“You’re the first one,” He said, voice quiet and steady, “who’s made me feel like this… from just being around me.”

Your breath caught. And then, slowly, you rose onto your toes, brushing your lips against his.

It was tentative, uncertain—but real. So real it made your knees wobble and your heart race.

Mattheo barely moved, just kissed you back softly, reverently, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he wasn’t careful. When you pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, smiling like you’d just handed him the stars.

“Still nervous?” He whispered.

“Only a little.” You replied, cheeks warm.

And then he leaned in again like you were sacred.

Not like a boy kissing a girl. Like a sinner kissing a prayer.

He didn’t grab. Didn’t take. He just kissed you like it was all he ever wanted to do, like your kindness was the only thing that had ever made him feel clean.

When you finally parted, your breath was uneven, your hands still trembling faintly in his.

For the first time, you understood what people meant when they talked about wanting. The way your heart kept whispering more in the stillness. The way you leaned closer without even realizing.

“I think,” You said, barely louder than a breath, “I might need some more practice.”

Mattheo grinned, brushing his nose against yours, “Good thing we’ve got time, then.”

And he kissed you again—just once more, until you asked him for more—like you were the only thing that had ever made his heart beat like that.

***

The morning sun poured lazily through the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, casting golden light over half-finished bowls of oatmeal and drifting owl feathers.

You slid into your usual spot at the Slytherin table beside Mattheo, nudging his side lightly with your shoulder, “Good morning, Matty.”

His lips quirked up immediately, voice still raspy with sleep, “Good morning, baby.”

A chorus of greetings chimed around the table.

“Hi, (Y/N),” Theodore greeted, already mid-sip of pumpkin juice.

“Morning,” Lorenzo added with a grin, elbow-deep in toast and marmalade.

Draco gave you a nod, lifting his chin. “(Y/N).”

You smiled sweetly. “Hi, Theodore, Lorenzo, Draco.”

Mattheo tried to hide the way he preened, but he wasn’t fooling anyone. His hand casually slid onto your thigh under the table, his thumb brushing tiny circles there. You weren’t one for PDA-heavy nicknames in front of the boys, so the fact that he got a "Matty" while everyone else got their usual names? That was better than syrup on pancakes. And he was smug about it.

“What are you guys talking about?” You asked, pouring yourself some tea.

“We’re just messing with Draco,” Lorenzo said with a snort, “Apparently Pansy invited him to go flower picking in the Far East Forest.”

Your eyes lit up, “That sounds like fun!”

The table went silent for a moment—and then all three boys burst into laughter.

“You’re so precious,” Lorenzo wailed, wiping a tear.

Theodore leaned in, “Oh, it is fun. Just not in the way you’re thinking.”

Your brows furrowed, “Huh?”

Mattheo snorted, clearly amused, “Flower picking in the East Forest is a very hands-on activity, sunshine.”

Draco looked smug, “It's basically a date with, uh, extra-curriculars.”

You gasped, “Ew! Draco!”

Mattheo leaned closer to you with a smirk, his voice dropping suggestively, “If you’re that interested, I could take you flower picking sometime…”

Your head whipped toward him, scandalized, "There’s a whole brood of sweet little ducklings that nest there! Don’t you dare snatch their innocence!”

The boys lost it.

Draco buried his face in his hands, laughing helplessly, “You sound like a disappointed forest fairy.”

“I am!” You declared, scandalized, “Honestly, I hope that every time you try to do anything with Pansy out there, you open your eyes and see a baby duckling staring right at your soul. Judging you. Silently.”

Lorenzo practically choked on his juice, “Even her threats are innocent!”

Mattheo couldn’t stop grinning. He looked at you like you’d personally hung the moon, brushing his knuckles against your cheek affectionately.

Just as the laughter around the table began to settle, a familiar voice called out from the entrance of the Great Hall.

“(Y/N)! Come on, we’re gonna be late!”

You turned to see Evangeline waving you over, with Lila and Imari flanking her, each holding an enchanted picnic basket floating obediently beside them.

Mattheo let out a quiet groan beside you, letting his head drop gently onto your shoulder. “Where are you going? It’s not even time for class yet. It’s so early…”

You giggled, nudging him lightly with your elbow. “I know, but we haven’t played with the kittens in days thanks to that Charms essay. I promised the girls we’d have breakfast outside with them.”

He sighed like it was the worst tragedy known to man, looking up at you with tired eyes and a pout. “So you're ditching me... for a bunch of furballs.”

“They’re our furballs,” you said with a soft smile, standing and brushing off your skirt.

Mattheo looked up at you—his hair a mess, his expression still sleepy, but his eyes so warm and full of something you couldn’t name. You leaned down and pressed a featherlight kiss to his cheek. It was barely anything, just a brush of your lips, but it had heat blooming across your cheeks.

“Bye,” You said quickly, “Save me a seat in Charms?”

He nodded, watching you trot off toward your friends with a smile so dazed it made him look a little lovesick.

As soon as you were out of earshot, Theo let out a low whistle, “Mate. You’re gone.”

Lorenzo leaned in with a grin, “Did you just blush? Over a cheek kiss?”

Draco raised a brow, amused, “You’ve had girls snog you senseless behind greenhouses. 'The Hufflepuff Sweetheart' kisses you on the cheek and you look like you're ready to write her a sonnet.”

Mattheo blinked slowly, still smiling like a right fool, “It was a very good kiss.”

Draco smirked, “She barely touched you and you look like you’ve been hit with a Confundus charm.”

None of them noticed the two girls lingering near the entrance—eyes narrowed, arms crossed—who’d heard every single word.

***

You weren’t supposed to hear them.

Their voices were just a low hum at first—giggling, whispering—coming from around the corner as you walked the quiet corridor. You weren’t trying to eavesdrop. You weren’t looking for trouble.

But the words found you anyway.

“Mattheo Riddle? Merlin, he’s such a fuckboy,” One of the girls said, her voice dripping with judgment, “He’s probably seen more girls naked than he can remember. And now he’s with her? Sweet, innocent little thing? She doesn’t stand a chance. I mean, how could someone like her—so sweet, so innocent—keep up with him?”

Another girl snickered, her tone mocking. “It's probably just a corruption kink. He’ll get bored as soon as he realizes she can’t give him what he really wants.”

You paused mid-step, your heart sinking into your stomach. The words struck you harder than you could have imagined.

“She doesn’t have what it takes, though. Look at her—so naive. You think she even knows what to do with a guy like that?” One of them continued, “You really think she knows how to keep someone like him satisfied?” The rest of their words faded, but they’d already done their damage. The words had been carved straight through your chest.

You hadn’t meant to listen. But now you couldn’t unhear it.

Your breath caught in your throat, and you could feel the sting of tears burning behind your eyes, the cruel weight of their words crushing your chest.

You wanted to shake it off. You wanted to tell yourself it didn’t matter. But their voices stuck to your skin like smoke. You weren’t enough. You never would be.

You felt stupid.

You’d been so blind to think someone like Mattheo, with all his past, could ever truly want someone like you. You weren’t like the other girls. You were soft, innocent—too innocent, it seemed. You knew it, deep down, but hearing them confirm your worst fear was unbearable.

You didn’t even know how you managed to make it to your dorm. Everything blurred—walls, portraits, passing students—until finally you reached your bed and collapsed onto it, curling in on yourself like you could disappear. The tears came hard and fast, soaking into your pillow no matter how tightly you shut your eyes.

You couldn’t shake the image of Mattheo and his past. Of all the things he’d done, of all the girls who had been in his life. And here you were—so different from them. You were certain he deserved someone who could keep up with him, someone more experienced, more capable of handling whatever it was that he needed.

What if Mattheo needed someone more experienced—someone who could match the fire in his veins, not melt under it?

Could he really be happy with someone like you?

The ache in your chest tightened. You tried to brush it off, to convince yourself it didn’t matter, that Mattheo wouldn’t care what those girls said. But the words kept echoing, louder with every breath: He’ll get bored. She’s not enough. She can’t keep up.

You’d always known you were different than the girls he'd usually chased. You thought he liked that about you. But… maybe you’d been delusional to think he could feel the same way. Really feel it.

The sadness settled over you like fog—thick, inescapable. You tried to reason with yourself, tried to dismiss the ache as insecurity, paranoia, nothing real. He told you he didn’t mind. He’d said it plainly, truthfully—Veritaserum coursing through his veins, no way to lie. You could take all the time you needed. He liked you, chose you, in spite of your hesitation.

And still, the doubt crept in.

Maybe he had meant it at the time.

But maybe he’d change his mind.

Maybe one day he’d wake up and realize what he was missing. Maybe he’d grow tired of your softness, your innocence, your quiet kind of love.

The ache deepened, dull and steady, like something inside you had cracked and wasn’t going to heal quickly. You curled tighter under the blanket, trying to shut it all out—the voices, the doubt, the image of Mattheo with someone who could give him more than you ever could.

You told yourself it didn’t matter.

You told yourself to stop.

But the feeling wouldn’t leave.

***

The next morning, when Mattheo met you in the corridor, he noticed it instantly.

There was a weariness in your eyes that hadn’t been there before—an invisible weight pressing down on your shoulders. The usual lightness in your step, the spark in your smile, your warmth—all dimmed, like someone had drawn a curtain over you overnight.

“Hey,” He said softly, tilting his head to meet your gaze, “You okay?”

You forced a smile, but it felt brittle—like glass about to crack. “Didn’t sleep well,” You murmured, brushing your hair behind your ear as you looked anywhere but at him. The floor suddenly seemed very interesting.

Mattheo’s brows pulled together. He didn’t press, not yet, but the shift in your energy felt like a punch to the ribs. You were always open with him. Bright, effervescent—sunlight in human form. Seeing you closed off like this, hiding behind half-smiles and lowered eyes, made something twist deep in his chest.

He leaned in for your usual morning kiss—your quiet tradition, simple and grounding. Mattheo loved giving affection, and you adored receiving it, but he’d always let you close the gap. Let you decide. Whether it was a quick kiss, a lingering one, or just a soft touch on the cheek—he followed your lead, always careful not to push your boundaries.

It was something that had always made your heart flutter. His patience. His gentleness with you.

But this morning, all you could think about was Fifth Year—when he’d grabbed the girl he was dating at the time and snogged her senseless in front of half the Great Hall. No hesitation. No care for who was watching. His hand had been tangled in her hair, the other gripping her waist like he needed her closer, and when she’d giggled against his mouth, clinging to him like he was gravity itself, he’d laughed—carefree, cocky, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It had been effortless for him then. Confident. Public.

Your heart seized.

How much did he have to restrain himself now? How many times had he accepted your fleeting pecks, when he might have wanted more? How often had he pretended it was enough?

A wave of guilt washed over you. You wanted to reach out, to grab him by the tie and kiss him breathless. Maybe then the whispers wouldn’t matter. Maybe then he wouldn’t get bored. Wouldn’t leave.

But even with that desperate thought flickering in your mind, your body didn’t move. There was ice in your veins. Fear anchoring your limbs. So instead, you leaned up just enough to brush your lips against his, featherlight. Barely there.

Mattheo froze.

You always smiled after your kisses—grinned and scrunched your nose, sometimes added a ridiculous muah sound that made him roll his eyes but secretly love you more. But now…

Now, you didn’t even look at him.

“Sunshine,” he said gently, “are you sure you’re okay?”

You sighed, and this time the smile didn’t even try to reach your eyes. “Just feeling… tired,” you murmured, the words barely above a whisper.

He didn’t believe you. Not for a second.

***

The next few days felt like a slow drift—like two ships caught in different tides.

You weren’t as quick to meet him between classes anymore, often ducking into the crowd or lingering behind with classmates until he was gone. You still spoke when you ran into him, but only when he spoke first. Your voice lacked its usual lilt, and the pauses between your words were longer. Heavier. When he asked to see you, you hesitated. “I’ve got homework,” you’d murmur, “I think I’m getting sick.” Excuses—flimsy, transparent.

You didn’t even show up for breakfast.

Your absence was glaring, something his friends immediately picked up on.

“Where’s your sweet little princess, Matty?” Theodore teased around a mouthful of toast, “Too busy with the mice and birds baking a pie?”

Mattheo didn’t answer.

Because in all honesty… he didn’t know where you were. Just like he hadn’t known yesterday. You’d slipped through the day like a ghost, nowhere to be found, avoiding every place he’d looked for you.

He’d even sent an owl that morning. A soft, simple note: Missed you at breakfast. Meet me after class? I miss you.

All he got back was a short reply scribbled hastily on parchment: Sorry, slept in. Was up late. Just really tired. Maybe later.

There was no little kiss-mark of your lip gloss. No sweet spritz of your perfume clinging to the paper. Not even a heart at the end of your sentence.

And it hurt him—visibly, deeply. More than he could ever admit.

Mattheo wasn’t stupid. If anything, he was painfully perceptive when it came to you. He noticed the way your eyes didn’t light up when you saw him anymore. The way you flinched—subtly, but undeniably—when he reached for your hand. How your laughter came less often. How your smile no longer reached your eyes.

You were pulling away.

At first, he tried to play it cool. Maybe you were stressed, maybe you just needed space. He’d seen you have bad days before. But the quiet between you kept growing louder, stretching taut with everything unsaid. Every time he reached out, you slipped further from his grasp—like sand slipping through his fingers, no matter how tightly he tried to hold on.

And it scared him.

Because this time… you weren’t just hesitant. You weren’t just unsure, or overwhelmed, or waiting for him to take the lead.

You were running away.

And he didn’t know why.

***

It had been nearly two weeks.

Two weeks of avoiding his eyes, his touch, his voice. Two weeks of skipping dinners and brushing past him in corridors like he was a stranger. Two weeks of burying the ache in your chest and pretending like you didn’t feel the pull of his absence every second of every day.

And now… you were here.

Standing outside the boys’ dorm, your fist hovering just inches from the door.

You hesitated—long enough to wonder if this was a mistake, long enough to feel the lump rise in your throat again—but then you knocked. Once. Twice.

It creaked open immediately.

“Oh—hey,” Theodore said, surprised but smiling, “Uh… Mattheo’s inside.”

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.

Around the room, the other boys lifted their heads. Recognition dawned quickly—followed by an awkward shuffle of movement. They exchanged glances, and then, wordlessly, began to file out.

“We’ll give you two a minute,” Lorenzo said with a wink, nudging Blaise toward the door.

Draco gave you a small, kind smile as he passed, brushing your shoulder gently, “Good to see you again, (Y/N).”

And that made it so much worse.

You swallowed hard. Guilt pooled in your stomach like lead.

When you finally stepped inside, Mattheo was sitting on the edge of his bed, a book abandoned in his lap. His head snapped up the moment he saw you.

“(Y/N),” He breathed, standing quickly, his eyes searching your face, “You—you’re here. Are you okay? Are you finally gonna talk to me?”

He looked so hopeful. So relieved. Like your silence had just been a bad dream he was waking up from.

You couldn’t meet his eyes.

“I wanted to talk,” You said softly, “Can we sit?”

He nodded quickly, motioning for you to sit beside him on the bed. You did, folding your hands tightly in your lap.

He sat close—close enough to touch, to reach for you—but you shifted slightly away, just enough for him to notice.

His smile faltered. “(Y/N)…?”

You forced yourself to breathe, to speak the words that had been lodged in your throat for days. To finally speak the words that had been festering inside your chest like poison.

“I think we should break up.”

Silence.

You couldn’t look at him.

It took him a moment to react—like the words had hit, but the meaning hadn’t quite registered yet.

“What?”

Your heart cracked in your chest.

“I don’t think we’re right for each other, Mattheo.”

He flinched—actually flinched—like you’d slapped him, “What are you talking about?”

“I just…” You struggled to keep your voice steady, “I think we’re too different. You and me. It’s not working. I don’t want to waste your time.”

He was staring at you now—like you’d just confessed something absurd, “You don’t want to waste my—(Y/N), what are you saying? You’re everything to me.”

“Mattheo—”

“No.” He stood suddenly, running a hand through his hair, pacing a few steps like the motion might help him make sense of the spiral, “You’re lying. This isn’t you. Just tell me what’s wrong and I’ll fix it. Is it something I did? I can change. I will change. I’ll do anything. Just—don’t do this.”

You stood, too, voice quieter now, “That’s the thing. Even if you change…it wouldn’t make a difference.”

Because I’m the reason everything is falling apart—but you couldn’t say it.

And Mattheo was standing there like the wind had been knocked out of him.

He opened his mouth—but no words came.

So you left.

You turned on your heel, walked out the door, down the stairs—your legs trembling the entire way. You were halfway across the common room before—

“(Y/N)!” His voice tore through the air like lightning.

You froze.

Then you felt it—his hand wrapping around your wrist, desperate and trembling, pulling you gently back around.

His friends were there, scattered around the couches, watching with wide eyes.

“Can you just please tell me what’s going on?” He asked, breathless and hurting, “I’m not mad—I just… I don’t understand. You don’t even look at me anymore, you’re avoiding me, and now this? If you want space, I’ll give you space. If you need time, I’ll wait. Just… please. Tell me the truth. I can’t fix it if I don’t know what I broke.”

You looked up at him then. His eyes were shining, lips parted, pain carved into every inch of his expression.

And it shattered you.

You shook your head slowly, tears burning at the corners of your eyes.

“You didn’t break anything,” You whispered, “But some things just…can’t be fixed.”

And that was all you gave him before you slipped your wrist out of his hold and walked away—this time, for real.

He didn’t chase you again.

Mattheo stood there, unmoving, eyes locked on the spot where you’d stood.

“What the hell was that?” Blaise asked quietly.

Mattheo didn’t respond.

He just stared at the door, still trying to catch his breath.

“We just broke up,” He said hollowly. Then he sank into the nearest armchair, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. His fingers threaded through his hair, trembling as he blinked rapidly—like the world was spinning too fast, and he couldn’t keep up.

***

It had been nearly a month since the breakup. And every second of it had been hell.

Mattheo wasn’t just off—he was unrecognizable.

He stopped showing up to class unless someone physically dragged him. On the rare occasions he did, he’d sit slouched in the back, hood up, glowering at the floor, snapping at anyone who dared speak to him. He skipped practice. Ignored meals. Picked fights for no reason.

And when Quidditch rolled around? It was brutal.

He played like he had nothing to lose—like every match was a battlefield, every tackle a personal vendetta, every swing of his bat a desperate attempt to release something festering inside. Players left the pitch bruised, limping, bleeding. Referees issued warnings. Professors whispered behind closed doors. Students started walking on eggshells whenever he passed, careful not to catch his eye.

But still… even through all of that, he searched for you.

Every time he walked into a room, his gaze found you. Across the Great Hall, surrounded by your friends. In the courtyard, hunched over your journal. In the corridors, where you kept your head down and your footsteps quick—where you avoided him like it physically hurt to meet his eyes.

Because it did.

Once—just once—you ran into each other between classes.

You turned a corner and there he was.

His steps halted. Your breath caught.

“(Y/N)—” He breathed, his voice low and hopeful, like he wasn’t sure if he was dreaming.

But you couldn’t look at him. You ducked your head and brushed past, your heart hammering in your chest.

You kept walking, fast, willing yourself not to cry.

And just before you rounded the corner, you paused.

Just for a second.

You glanced back, hoping—aching—for even the smallest sign that he was looking back.

Mattheo didn’t see your heartbroken gaze.

But Evangeline certainly did.

***

“This is ridiculous.” Theo muttered one night, slamming his book shut.

Blaise didn't look up from his game of exploding snap with Enzo, “He didn’t even show up to practice today.”

“He was out back,” Enzo said quietly, “Feeding her cats at the shelter again."

The tension in the Slytherin common room was already thick when the door opened and four girls stepped inside.

Evangeline, Lila, Daisy, and Imari strode in with a kind of urgent determination that made every conversation falter mid-sentence. Heads turned. Even Draco glanced up from where he sat lounging by the fireplace.

When him and the others saw the girls heading straight for them, their expressions shifted from curiosity to mild alarm.

“You lot,” Evangeline said firmly, folding her arms as they approached, “We need to talk.”

“Uh…” Theo blinked, “Hi?”

Lila didn’t waste time, “It’s about (Y/N).”

That got their attention.

Blaise sighed and put down the Exploding Snap cards.

“She’s not eating,” Daisy said quietly, “I’ve been sitting with her at meals, and she hardly touches anything. She’s barely there. Her eyes are dead, and I know she’s been crying herself to sleep every night. I can't watch it anymore."

Imari added sharply, “And she won’t tell us what happened. All we know is that she broke up with Mattheo, and ever since then, it’s like we’re living with a ghost.”

The boys exchanged glances—uneasy, guilt-ridden glances.

“Well,” Theodore exhaled, running a hand through his curls, “if it makes you feel any better, Mattheo’s not exactly thriving either.”

Draco snorted, “Thriving? He’s on the verge of a full mental collapse.”

“He’s stopped going to class,” Blaise muttered, “He’s smoking like a chimney again. Got detention twice last week for fighting.”

Lorenzo chimed in, “He damn near took someone’s head off at Quidditch. We’re this close to him being benched for the rest of the season—or expelled.”

Evangeline’s expression softened slightly, “So… they’re both miserable.”

“Clearly,” Theo muttered, leaning against the arm of the couch, “But what are we supposed to do about it?”

That’s when Imari stepped forward, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She fixed the boys with a hard look, “You all know Mattheo better than anyone. What the hell is he doing to fix this?”

Theo’s eyebrows shot up, “Why does Mattheo have to fix anything? (Y/N) dumped him out of nowhere and shattered his heart! Some Hufflepuff sweetheart she turned out to be!”

Lila stepped forward defensively, “She must’ve had a good reason! Mattheo must’ve done something—he’s obviously in the wrong!”

“You shut your Hufflepuff mouth,” Draco snapped, standing up as the tension in the room heightened.

“Enough,” Evangeline snapped, eyes flashing, “This isn’t about blame. We’re not here to fight—we’re here to help them. Or did you all miss the part where they’re both completely wrecked without each other?”

Theo blinked, “…Damn. I like an assertive woman.”

Evangeline didn’t even look at him, instead turning her attention back to the boys, "We need to help them. They’re both falling apart, and if we don’t do something now, it’s only going to get worse."

Imari glanced at the guys, her eyes narrowing as she thought for a moment. Then, a smirk tugged at her lips. She stood up straight, crossing her arms as she looked them over, "I’ve got an idea."

***

It was just past sunset when you heard a stampede of frantic footsteps charging up the stairs to your dorm room. You barely stirred from bed, buried deep in a cocoon of blankets and silence.

Then the door burst open.

“Does anyone have gauze? Or a healing salve? Lila, where’s the bloody first aid kit?!”

The chaos jolted you upright.

Imari was digging through drawers like her life depended on it. Daisy was pacing, hair a mess, muttering under her breath. Lila had inexplicably opened your wardrobe and was rifling through your jumpers. Evangeline was trying—and failing—to look composed.

You blinked, “What’s going on?”

“We found a baby owl,” Daisy rushed out, breathless, scrambling to your bedside, “Abandoned on the Astronomy Tower. Its wing’s all bent—it can’t fly.”

“—and it was crying,” Lila added dramatically, dabbing at imaginary tears, “Little squeaky hoots, like it was calling for help.”

Your heart lurched, “Wait—what? Is it still up there?”

“Yeah, we didn’t want to risk hurting it more by moving it,” Imari said, voice sharp with urgency, “We were grabbing supplies, but honestly, you’re the best with animals, (Y/N). Could you go? Please?”

You were already tossing off your blanket, “Of course. Where?”

“Astronomy Tower,” Evangeline said, “By the west-facing window.”

“We’ll be right behind you with the kit,” Lila added, pushing the nearly empty first aid box into Imari’s arms.

“Go on,” Daisy said gently, “Poor thing’s probably terrified.”

Without another word, you slipped on your shoes and bolted for the door.

The second you were gone, the girls sagged in relief.

“We’ve been trying to get her out of bed for weeks and all it took was a fake injured animal?” Lila muttered.

“She’s too pure for this world,” Daisy sighed.

“I love her for it,” Evangeline said softly.

“Right?” Imari smirked, “Now we just need the guys to hold up their end of the bargain.”

Meanwhile, in the Slytherin dorm…

“Oi, Mattheo,” Blaise called casually, leaning against the doorframe, “Fancy a smoke?”

Mattheo didn’t even glance up. He was slouched in his desk chair, hood up, fingers twitching idly. But after a pause, he sighed and stood, “Sure.”

They walked in silence, the kind that made everything feel heavier. No jokes. No jabs. Just thick, uncomfortable quiet.

Halfway to the courtyard, Theo suddenly froze, smacking his pockets, “Shit.”

Mattheo frowned, “What?”

“My lighter. Left it in the dorm.”

Mattheo narrowed his eyes, “Use your wand?”

Theo blinked, “Uh… right. That would make sense.”

Mattheo stared at him.

Draco stepped in, cool as ever, “Ignore him. Dropped on his head too many times as a child. Just head up to the Astronomy Tower—we’ll catch up.”

Mattheo’s expression tightened, “Why the Astronomy Tower?”

“Best view. Less wind. Good vibes,” Blaise said, waving him off, “Go on. We’ll be right there.”

Mattheo looked at them for a long second. Suspicious. Then he turned and headed toward the tower alone.

As soon as he was gone, the boys broke formation.

“Do you think he’s going to punch someone if this goes wrong?” Lorenzo asked.

“Definitely,” Draco muttered, “I’m blaming that halfwit Imari. This plan is ridiculous.”

“I don’t know,” Theo said thoughtfully, “Evangeline seems like she knows what she’s doing.”

Draco narrowed his eyes, “Theo’s kink is women telling him he’s stupid.”

Theo shrugged, “Not denying it.”

***

You ran up the stairs to the Astronomy Tower, lungs burning, trying to quiet your breathing so you could listen for the pained hoots of an injured owl.

But then you saw him.

“Mattheo?” You breathed, freezing in the doorway.

He leaned against the far wall, bathed in the fading light of sunset, his posture tense, eyes sharp with disbelief, “What are you doing here?”

“I—I didn’t know you’d be—”

The door slammed shut behind you with a heavy clang.

You both spun around, “What the hell?!”

“YOU’RE WELCOME!” Came Theo’s smug voice, muffled through the thick wood, “Not unlocking this ‘til you two sort your shit out!”

“DON’T BOTHER SCREAMING!” Imari added cheerfully, “It’s soundproofed!”

Mattheo stormed to the door, yanking at the handle and pounding his fist against the wood, “This isn’t fucking funny, Theo! Open the door!”

You stood frozen, caught between panic and the overwhelming urge to melt into the floor.

“Mattheo—”

“Honestly, what the fuck were they thinking?” He snapped, pacing now, furious, “Let’s just trap us in a room together, yeah? Brilliant. Force her to spend time with the monster she couldn’t wait to get away from.”

Your chest clenched, “You’re not a monster.”

He laughed bitterly, “Right. That’s why you couldn’t even look at me when you ended things.”

You flinched.

“You didn’t even say anything real,” He continued, voice rising, “Just some vague crap about how we weren’t compatible—like that wasn’t a complete lie.”

You stared at the floor, throat tight, “It wasn’t about you, Mattheo.”

“Oh, no?” His voice cracked, “Could’ve fooled me.”

Your fists clenched at your sides, “It wasn’t you. It’s me, okay?!”

He froze, “What?”

You couldn’t stop the words now, even as your voice wavered, “It was me. I’m the problem. I can’t give you what you need. I’m inexperienced and clumsy and it was only a matter of time before you realized you deserved better—someone who could give you the kind of relationship you actually want.”

He looked like you’d just struck him.

“I didn’t want it to get to my head,” You whispered, tears spilling down your cheeks, “But I couldn’t stop thinking about how I wasn’t making you as happy as you made me. I wasn’t enough. And every time I saw you, it hurt… and I just didn’t want it to hurt anymore.”

“(Y/N)…” He breathed, shaking his head, “I told you so many times. I promised you—we wouldn’t go faster than what you wanted. What you needed.”

“But what about your needs?” You cried, voice cracking, “Why should you have to restrain yourself and ignore what you want just because I’m too scared to give it? What makes me worth that sacrifice?”

Mattheo was stunned silent.

Then, in the quiet, his voice broke through like a prayer, “Because I’m in love with you, (Y/N).”

You froze.

“I love you for who you are. There isn’t another girl in this bloody castle—or the world—who’s as kind and selfless as you. I told you before—I’ve never felt like this with anyone else. And I don’t want to. I’m not going anywhere.”

He stepped closer, voice softer but no less intense.

“I don’t love you in spite of your caution—I love you because of it. Because every time you trust me, even just a little, I know I’m getting a part of you no one else has. That means something to me. That connects me to you in a way I’ve never felt with anyone else.”

His eyes searched yours, earnest and unwavering.

“So if you want to take things slow? That’s fine. If you want to join a convent and die a virgin—I’ll turn into a priest.”

That startled a teary laugh out of you.

“All I need is you, (Y/N). In whatever way you can give me.”

And then, in a blur of movement, he crossed the room and wrapped you in his arms so tightly it knocked the air from your lungs.

“You stupid, beautiful idiot,” He whispered into your hair, voice shaking, “You think I’d ever stop loving you?”

You sobbed into his chest, gripping the back of his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

“I don’t care what anyone says,” He murmured, “I don’t care if you’re scared, or shy, or awkward—I. Don’t. Care. You’re mine, (Y/N). That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“I just didn’t want to disappoint you.” You hiccuped.

“You couldn’t,” He said fiercely, “You never could.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face—his eyes were glassy, rimmed red, but so, so soft.

He cupped your cheek, kissed your forehead. Then your temple. Your cheek. Every inch he could reach without letting go.

“I love you,” He whispered, like a vow, “And I’m gonna keep loving you—no matter how long it takes you to believe me.”

“I—I love you too,” you whispered back, trembling.

And this time, you kissed him first—wrapping your arms around his neck and molding your lips to his, harder than ever before. Not because you felt like you had to, but because you missed him.

You missed him so much.

The stars above bore witness—not to an ending, but a return.

***

Bonus:

You stirred your cup of hot cocoa lazily, a playful smirk tugging at your lips as you watched both groups of your friends awkwardly glance at one another. The kitchens were warm and buzzing with laughter, but a hint of tension from earlier still lingered in the air.

“Unbelievable,” You said, looking more upset than you were considering your eyes were still red and your cheeks were still blotchy, “Lying about a poor injured baby animal like that.”

Lila, ever the spokesperson, threw her hands up with an exasperated groan, “We’re sorry, (Y/N). But you were so depressed! It was horrible. We didn’t know what else to do.”

You raised a brow, grin deepening, “So you told the depressed girl to go to the only place in the castle with a balcony?”

The room went dead silent. Everyone exchanged panicked looks as the weight of that unintended implication sunk in.

Then—your laughter broke the silence, bright and sudden, echoing off the stone walls. The sound was so unexpected that they all visibly relaxed, joining in with nervous chuckles.

Mattheo, seated beside you, leaned in and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, his voice quiet and steady. “Don’t talk like that,” he murmured, his lips brushing your skin, “I don’t like hearing it.”

You blinked up at him, momentarily caught off guard by the tenderness in his tone. His gaze was soft but serious, full of something fiercely protective.

A quiet warmth spread in your chest, and you gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Okay,” You whispered, your smile softer now.

Across the table, Theo let out an exaggerated groan, “And now we have the pleasure of witnessing the tooth-rotting fluff. Again.”

“They’re adorable. Stop being mean,” Evangeline shot back, smacking him lightly on the shoulder.

Theo perked up, undeterred, “Maybe I wouldn’t be so mean if I had some teeth-rotting sugar of my own.”

Evangeline looked genuinely disturbed, “I’d rather third-wheel their disgustingly cheesy romance, thanks.”

“Alright, alright,” Daisy cut in, raising her mug in a faux-toasting motion, “How about we all agree to be mildly happy for them and get back to celebrating the fact that they’re no longer moody shells of human beings.”

“Agreed,” Blaise added, lifting his own cup with mock solemnity, “For the greater good of us all.”

***

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@notslaybabes

@superheroesaremyjam113263

@writers-whirlwind

[tsuyuno-ajisai]

literally the sweetest writing and story I've ever read, omg!! 🥰🥰

Creamy or Crunchy

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Bucky joins you grocery shopping to everyone’s surprise.

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: Bucky hovering; Bucky knowing his favorite people; little bit of protective!Bucky

Author’s Note: I don’t know what this is but I was in need of some silly fluff. Hope you enjoy! ♡

Masterlist

He’s been trailing after you since you left the tower, stuck to your side.

Not in an obvious way, not in a manner that would draw stares or second glances, but in that ever-present way of his - like a second shadow or an old instinct that never really shuts off.

You’ve barely gone five blocks to the nearest grocery store, and Bucky has stuck close the whole time, keeping pace without a word.

It caught everyone off guard when he volunteered to come with you.

He had been slouched in his usual spot at the kitchen counter, cradling a cup of coffee he never seemed to finish, and looking like he had nowhere in particular to be. So when he had straightened, eyes trained on how you pulled on your shoes and muttered a gruff “I’ll come with you,” there was a moment of pause in the conversation between Natasha, Steve, Clint and Sam lounging on the couch in the common room.

Even you had blinked at him, thrown off by the suddenness of it.

Still, you didn’t argue.

Normally, grocery shopping isn’t something that interests anyone in the tower. It is a mundane, civilian thing - something of a life most of you had long since left behind.

There are people who handle it, services that deliver whatever you need at the touch of a button. But you aren’t looking for efficiency. You are looking for something real - something that can make you feel like a human being again.

You’d just gotten back yesterday from a month-long solo mission in Vorkuta, Russia. It was rather harsh. You spent those weeks in the cold, in silence, every step a deliberate calculation, every breath rationed as if you weren’t entirely sure when you’d be allowed another. You operated alone, only allowed to talk to Tony once a week for updates. It was the kind of quiet that made a person feel less like a person and more like an echo.

So you need something normal now. Something unremarkable.

No mission, no intel, no carefully rehearsed exit strategies.

Just a trip to the store, because you want to pick out your own food instead of eating whatever shows up in the tower’s stocked fridge. You want to grab things impulsively - maybe a bag of chips you don’t need or a carton of juice just because it looks good.

You want the simple, stupid pleasure of choosing something, just because. Of standing under the fluorescent hum of grocery store lights and deciding between brands of cereal and coffee creamers like it actually matters.

And Bucky, for all his presence, says nothing.

He just walks with you, hands stuffed into his pockets, eyes darting between the sidewalk and the people passing by. He is relaxed, but only just. There is tension in the way he moves, like he is running an assessment every few steps, tracking details of things you don’t care about at the moment.

The doors to the store slide open with a mechanical hiss, spilling warm, artificial air onto the street.

Inside, there is that familiar smell of waxed floors and cold produce, the sounds of shoppers, the beeping of registers.

A cart squeaks somewhere to your left. A child giggles near the bakery section. A bored-looking cashier stares blankly at the register screen. A tired-locking employee is restocking shelves.

It’s nothing special. But it feels real and humane in a way you need.

Bucky steps in behind you, scanning the store out of habit, then looking at you as if waiting for direction.

You grab a basket and move forward.

He follows without a word.

You walk through fruits and vegetables in bright, and glassy colors, stacked in neat abundance. The air smells like citrus, earth, the scent of misted greens, and something fairly plastic all slightly overwhelming your senses after a month of smelling mostly cold air.

You extend a hand toward the lemons, fingers brushing the textured skin of one when you feel the weight of the basket shift.

Bucky’s hand curls around the handle, pulling it from your grip and holding it himself.

Your gaze snaps up to him, but he isn’t looking at you. Not directly. His eyes are fixed on the rows of produce in front of you, his brows drawn together just slightly, his mouth set in that endearing little frown.

He stands close. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him. Close enough that, if you shifted just an inch, the fabric of his sleeve would brush against yours.

It’s not intentional, this proximity - it’s more like a habit. He doesn’t seem to realize he’s doing it, doesn’t notice the way his presence expands to fill the space between you until there’s almost nothing left.

He exhales through his nose, shifting his weight slightly, eyes sweeping the fruit display as if it’s something to be figured out rather than casually shopping through.

His metal fingers whir slightly as he flexes his grip around the basket handle.

“This is a lot,” he murmurs, almost absently.

You keep glancing at him. It takes you a second to realize he is speaking at all, his voice being so quiet, a thought that accidentally made its way out.

“What?” you ask softly.

His eyes fall to you briefly, then back to the fruit. His mouth tightens, jaw working, debating whether to explain it or just let it drop.

“Back then,” he says, still not quite looking at you. His eyes scan the apples, the oranges, the rows of neatly stacked avocados and kiwis and papayas flown in from places he never got to see. “You had your basics. Apples. Pears. Some oranges, if you were lucky. But this?” He tilts his head slightly. “This is a lot.”

He doesn’t say it with wonder. He says it with assessment, categorizing this excess, measuring it against whatever memory of the past lingers in the spaces of his mind. Like he is trying to decide if this abundance is a good thing or just another shift in the world that changed without him.

For a second you wonder, if he is talking to you at all - or just thinking out loud, caught between time periods, a man stretched across decades that won’t quite line up.

Your fingers brush the lemons again, grabbing one and carefully putting it in the basket Bucky is holding. “Well,” you mumble, keeping your voice light. “You should see the cereal aisle.”

Bucky huffs out something that’s almost a laugh, something genuine and his eyes land on you again.

You move and pluck what you need. Apples, zucchini, a handful of bright bell peppers. A bundle of fresh basil, its scent still on your fingertips - something Wanda has been asking for. Some mangoes, ripe and golden, the kind Sam offhandedly mentioned craving the other day.

Bucky watches.

He doesn’t reach for anything himself, just keeps his grip on the basket as you fill it and trails closely after you.

His eyes track every motion - the way your fingers test the hardness of an avocado, the way you turn a tomato in your palm, the way you pause just a second before deciding on a bunch of grapes.

He simply observes.

You step over to the plums.

Their deep purple skins glisten under the lights, some nearly black, some streaked with dusky red. You pick one up, pressing it lightly with your thumb, feeling the faint give beneath your touch. Satisfied, you reach for more, slipping them into a paper bag one by one.

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

But you feel him.

The attention he gives you.

His face is unreadable, expression carefully neutral, but there is something behind his eyes - something considering, something caught between memory and recognition.

You don’t know if he realizes you are getting them for him.

You don’t know if he remembers, or if it is just something subconscious, some buried instinct nudging at him in a way he can’t understand.

But you remember. You remember the way he stared at the heap of plums on the kitchen counter weeks ago, the way his fingers had twitched with a want to take one, but he hadn’t. And the way he watched Wanda as she used them to make a pie he didn’t end up eating.

“Do you want some more?” Your voice is casual, warm. And when you glance up at him, he is already looking at you.

Then, almost abruptly, he clears his throat, dropping his gaze. The fingers of his metal hand flex once around the basket handle. He shifts his stance slightly but does not move away from you. When he speaks, his voice is low, almost careful, almost bashful.

“S’ fine.”

But you catch the almost-question in the way his eyes move around, how his fingers tighten and release.

So you grab a handful more and drop them into the bag without a word. Then you fold the top down and place it into the basket.

Bucky doesn’t look away this time.

And he continues wandering along with you through the aisles.

The plums sit among other products and you catch him glancing at them once or twice.

You reach for a carton of eggs when there is a shift.

Not in the air, not in the store itself, but in Bucky.

His posture tightens, his grip on the basket adjusts slightly. You don’t immediately know why, but then you turn your head and see a man standing a few feet away, watching you.

It’s not overtly threatening, not enough to draw attention, but something about his gaze lingers too long, too deliberate. His eyes trace the shape of you, moving slow, assessing. He isn’t leering, isn’t smirking, but the way he looks makes your skin prickle.

He seems to debate if he should say something. Waiting for an opportunity.

You barely have time to move away before Bucky does.

He doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t say a word, just shifts seamlessly into place - between you and the man.

It’s not a dramatic gesture. No sudden motions, no confrontational stance. Just his presence - him planting himself in the way, broad shoulders squaring, jaw setting, scowling.

That man takes his brown eyes away from you and meets Bucky’s gaze, and whatever he sees there - whatever lives behind those icy blue eyes - is enough to make him rethink his interest. He looks away, scratching the back of his head, shuffling back a step, and seems suddenly far more interested in bread.

You exhale softly. Bucky doesn’t move.

He stays right where he is, a silent wall between you and whatever attention you haven’t wanted. His scowl lingers for a second longer before he glances back at you, eyes sweeping over your face as if he is making sure you are fine.

You tilt your head, offering a small, gentle smile. “Everything good?”

His lips twitch, almost like he wants to say something but doesn’t quite know how to form those words.

“Yeah,” he mutters, swallowing.

But his stance is still slightly stiff, his fingers can’t stay calm around the basket handle. And he glances, just once, in the man’s direction - making sure he stays gone.

Something warm fills your chest.

You missed him, while you were gone.

He’s always such a grounding presence at your side.

You missed his dry, reluctant commentary whenever the team does something ridiculous.

You missed walking into the common area with him brooding in his usual chair, pretending not to listen to conversations he’d eventually grumble his way into.

He was there when you stepped off the jet yesterday.

It wasn’t necessary for him to be there, it was six in the morning, after all, but he was.

He hadn’t said much - he never says much - but his eyes ran over you in a way that told you he had been waiting. That there was something heavy underneath that furrowed brow and the almost too casual nod he gave you. Something like relief. Satisfaction. And something much more profound.

You remember how he was when you left.

Standing off to the side of the hangar, arms crossed, jaw pressed tight as you made your final checks. It also wasn’t necessary for him to be there, but, again, he was.

He said goodbye briefly, wished you luck, but in the way you felt him watch you board the jet it seemed there was more he wanted to tell you.

And when the engines had roared to life, when the ground beneath you had begun to shrink, you caught the last glimpse of him - standing stiff, pensive, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

Now, he walks beside you, trailing just a half-step behind, his grip steady around the basket that should be in your hands, watching you more than anything you’re planning to buy.

Maybe that’s why he came with you.

Maybe that’s why he hasn’t strayed, why he hovers close, why his eyes find you like he is memorizing something he doesn’t want to lose track of again.

Maybe he missed you, too.

He is not grumpy, but there is still a tension in him. Something wound too tight in his shoulders, in the set of his jaw, in the way he glances at you like he wants to say something and then doesn’t.

You can’t have that.

Your eyes scan the shelves as you walk further along, knowing that Bucky will follow.

“What kind of soup does Steve eat?”

Bucky’s brows pull together at your casual question, as if he can’t believe that’s what you asked. “Soup?”

You nod, dead serious. “Yeah. I mean, does he have a favorite? Chicken noodle? Tomato? Something tragic, like plain broth?”

Bucky exhales sharply, almost a laugh and something in him relaxes ever so slightly. He tilts his head back a little as if this is the most absurd thing anyone has ever asked him, but he humors you.

“Steve doesn’t eat plain broth,” he says in that low rasp that sometimes sends a shiver down your spine. Now is sometimes. “He’s got more sense than that.”

You hum thoughtfully, reaching for a can on the shelf, inspecting it like it holds the answer to some great mystery.

“So what is it, then? Something classic? Or does he secretly go for the weird gourmet stuff?”

Bucky steps closer, peering over your shoulder. The fabric of his jacket brushes against your back.

You glance up at him, arching your brow.

“You don’t know, do you?”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but his face is soft. The scowl has faded. There is a tug at the corner of his mouth. “Of course, I know.”

“Uh-huh.”

He huffs, reaching past you to grab a can from the shelf, fingers brushing yours briefly. “Clam chowder,” he utters. “There. Happy?”

You blink, genuinely caught off guard. “Wait. Really?”

Bucky smirks, just a little, just enough to be real.

“Yeah,” he says, voice a bit quieter. “Really.”

“Well, then,” you quip, taking the can off his hands and putting it in the basket. “He shall have it.”

Bucky huffs out an amused laugh.

You walk a little slower now, Bucky falls into step beside you. He seems lighter now, his face softened as he watches a little boy excitedly run off to a certain aisle while his mother calls out for him.

You plan on keeping him that way.

You spot a ridiculously, colorful display stacked high with an array of different kinds of peanut butter.

“Creamy or crunchy?”

Bucky blinks, turning to look at you. “What?”

You gesture toward the display like it’s obvious. “Steve. What kind of peanut butter does he eat? Creamy or crunchy?”

There is a beat of silence. Then, something seems to turn alive in Bucky’s expression. His lips twitch as if he suppresses a smirk and doesn’t want to give you the satisfaction.

“You serious?”

“Deadly.” You fold your arms, tilting your head. “I feel like he’s a creamy peanut butter guy, but I could be wrong.”

Bucky is hovering again, looking at the shelves like this is suddenly a debate worth considering. His arm brushes against your side, but he doesn’t move away.

“You’re wrong.”

You glance at him, eyebrows raised. “Oh?”

“He’s a crunchy guy,” Bucky says, reaching for a jar with his flesh hand and inspecting it like proof. “Says the creamy stuff’s got no texture. No character.”

You snort.

Bucky hums, still holding the jar, rolling it absently in his hand. He looks at ease. The basket dangles from his metal fingers as if it weighs nothing, even though it is filled with products.

You watch him.

The tension in his shoulders is practically gone and you know you should probably leave it there, but you don’t.

Because you want more.

More of this, more of him, more of that unguarded space where he forgets to be closed off.

So, you bite your lip and tilt your head at him before asking carefully. “What about you?”

Bucky glances at you, a small crease forming between his brows. “What about me?”

You gesture vaguely. “What kind of peanut butter do you like?”

For a moment, he just stares at you, like the question has never occurred to him before. Like no one’s ever bothered to ask.

You can almost see the gears turning in his head, his fingers tightening slightly around the jar. The hesitation is there. He doesn’t know how to answer. Perhaps he doesn’t know if he has a preference. Or it’s just been a long, long time since someone cared enough to ask.

You wait, patiently.

Finally, he lets out a cough, looking back at the display as if searching for an answer among the shelves. “…Crunchy,” he mutters. “I guess.”

You gin. “Yeah?”

He shifts his weight, looking rather uncomfortable but not in a bad way. Just unsure. This is unfamiliar ground for him, not knowing what to do with the attention.

You reach forward and pluck the jar from his hand before he can second-guess himself.

“Alright,” you say, dropping it into the basket with a decisive little thud. “Crunchy it is.”

Bucky observes you do it, something shimmering in his expression - something soft, a little hesitant, but warm. Like this tiny, seemingly meaningless choice holds a weight to him.

His jaw flexes slightly, as if he is about to say something, but he just exhales through his nose and shakes his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

But there is no bite to it.

And this time, he is the one to start walking, making sure you come along, staying just a little closer than before.

You are nearing the checkout registers when Bucky suddenly stops walking. It’s so abrupt that you almost keep going, but the absence of him beside you makes you pause.

You turn, finding him standing in front of a shelf, scanning its contents with a strange kind of focus, considering something.

You wait, watching the way his eyes search the options, his brows furrowing slightly. There is no tension in his posture, no obvious reason for the sudden stop - just deliberation.

Then, without a word, he reaches out, grasps a familiar-looking package, and drops it into the basket.

A soft thud.

Your gaze falls down, and your stomach does something strange when you realize what it is.

Chocolate-covered almonds.

The ones you always grab when you’re wandering the tower’s kitchen late at night, mind still wired from a mission, too awake to sleep but too tired to focus on anything real.

The ones you mindlessly snack on when you’re curled up on the couch, half-listening to, half-joining a conversation, or watching a movie.

The ones you didn’t even realize you had a thing for until you see them sitting in the basket between his plums, Steve’s soup, and the peanut butter Bucky prefers.

Your lips part slightly, surprised, searching his face. “You- Why’d you grab these?”

Bucky doesn’t even hesitate.

“Because you like them.”

Matter-of-fact. Simple. As if it’s obvious.

Just a fact.

Like it’s something he has known all along, something he has cataloged somewhere deep in that careful, quiet mind of his without ever making a big deal of it.

The realization unsettles you - not in a bad way, but in the kind of way that makes your chest feel suddenly too full.

You swallow, the corners of your lips twitching slightly, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up your neck.

“How do you know that?”

The words leave your lips lightly, bright with curiosity, playful in their demand. But beneath it, there is something you don’t quite let slip.

Something about the fact that he’s been watching.

That he’s noticed.

That he has paid attention in a way you didn’t think anyone has.

His grip on the basket adjusts for the hundredth time, but not because it’s heavy, he just seems to need something to do with his hands.

He schools his expression into something nonchalant, something careless, but it’s betrayed by the hint of warmth dusting across his cheekbones.

“You’re always munchin’ on ‘em,” he says, a teasing edge lacing his voice. He tries to sound smug, like it is an observation, just a simple fact, but there is something softer beneath it. Something like fondness.

You don’t even know if it’s been that obvious. If you truly eat these things out in the open that often.

Or if he just really is that observant.

That realization settles deep in your chest, warm and startling all at once.

So you just huff, pretending like your heart isn’t skipping beats, like his answer isn’t winding around something tender inside you.

“Well,” you remark, nudging his arm as you start walking again, “now I feel self-conscious about my snacking habits.”

Bucky lets out a soft chuckle. And when he falls into step beside you, he leans in slightly, voice just low enough for you to hear.

“Don’t.”

“The most sincere compliment we can pay is attention.”

- Walter Anderson

[tsuyuno-ajisai]

did i also mention how sometimes the author makes him continue to act this way… even AFTER he fell in love with the reader and tries to woo them, like ma'am???? hello?!?!

the funniest thing about reading Geto Suguru x reader fics in English vs Japanese is that he's characterised so differently

Geto written by the English fanbase is depicted as this doting, loving person usually, and an even more loving boyfriend. worst case scenario, a fuckboy or some toxic guy at the max (from what I usually see).

while Geto written by the Japanese fanbase a lot of times literally portrays him as this devastatingly disgusting womaniser, sleeping with a ton of older women in their 20s/30s (as a high schooler), who lost his virginity at middle school by his university student tutor. a lot of times the reader is quite uncomfortable, uneasy around him or literally does not like him back, sometimes until the very end of the fic (at least he changes by the end I guess)

[tsuyuno-ajisai]

the funniest thing about reading Geto Suguru x reader fics in English vs Japanese is that he's characterised so differently

Geto written by the English fanbase is depicted as this doting, loving person usually, and an even more loving boyfriend. worst case scenario, a fuckboy or some toxic guy at the max (from what I usually see).

while Geto written by the Japanese fanbase a lot of times literally portrays him as this devastatingly disgusting womaniser, sleeping with a ton of older women in their 20s/30s (as a high schooler), who lost his virginity at middle school by his university student tutor. a lot of times the reader is quite uncomfortable, uneasy around him or literally does not like him back, sometimes until the very end of the fic (at least he changes by the end I guess)

[tsuyuno-ajisai]

ahhhhhh so so cute!!!

CRUSH (ushijima wakatoshi x reader)

summary: wakatoshi has a crush.

word count: 720

warnings: fem!reader, its all just fluff

tags: @keiva1000

Ushijima knows he has fans. He might be simple-minded and a little oblivious, but he’s not stupid.

He knows girls stare at him from the balcony during practice. And he can hear their giggling when he passes them in the halls. Tendou often calls him Shiratorizawa’s Golden Boy, which Ushijima wholeheartedly disagrees with, but never voices out loud. Tendou often says strange things. He doesn’t mind.

Ushijima doesn’t understand his popularity. Sure, he is a good player. The best ace in the prefecture. But most of these girls have no understanding of volleyball. So why are they spending hours upon hours in the stands, watching him play?

“They’re not watching the match, Wakatoshi-kun. They are watching you.”

Hm. Strange. His play is very consistent. Watching him do the same thing over and over has to get boring, especially when they aren’t watching for the sake of the game.

But then he sees you for the first time.

You are in his third year English class. In his three years of high school, Ushijima is sure he has never seen you before. Because if he had, there was no way he would forget you.

He is curious. And a little enamored by you.

You are, by all means, a regular girl. You sit on the same chair every day, bring your own bento instead of eating from the cafeteria. It is always wrapped in a pretty multicolored patterned cloth, done up in a knot on top. You have a small stuffed cat chain on the zipper of your backpack. And you wear your hair differently every day. Some days it is tied up, some days it is let down. And some days it is half-up and half-down. You have one pink bunny hairclip that you wear maybe once every two or three days that Ushijima thinks is very cute. Your uniform is always immaculate.

There are so many tiny details about you that Ushijima has learned, and he finally understands why girls would stay hanging over the gym balcony to watch him for hours, because he could watch you for hours too.

You are very smart, he could tell. You always answer correctly when the teacher would call on you, and he has glimpsed at your notes. Simple, but neat and easy to understand, just the way he likes it. There are no crazy colors and highlighters, and your handwriting is neat and beautiful, just like the rest of you.

You are also quiet. You have a select group of friends that you talk to, and while you are nice to anyone who interacts with you, you don't go out of your way to stand out. Again, Ushijima loves that. It seems he loved everything about you. All the minor details that make you a little bit more unique to everyone else.

When you show up at his game, he nearly loses his focus.

It in’t an important game by any means, just a practice match with another local university team. So why are you here? Have your friends dragged you along? Or are you here by your own volition? Ushijima feels how sweaty his palms are when he clenches his fists, and it surprises him.

Is he….. nervous?

Why? Because you are watching? How ridiculous. Ushijima has never once doubted his own strength, or his ability to win. How could your presence alter that? The thought annoys him, and he is determined to prove that you being here would not be a hindrance to his play.

Turns out, he needn't have worried. It seems your presence had sharpened his senses more than ever. Shiratorizawa won in straight sets, and of the 50 points they scored, 39 had been from Ushijima’s hand.

“You were on fire today, Wakatoshi-kun.” Tendou comments as the final whistle rings. Ushijima unintentionally glances at you in the stands, cheering for the team. Cheering for him.

His heart is beating a mile a minute, and he doesn’t think it is because of the game he had just played. He hears Tendou let out a dreamy sigh.

“Ah, the miracles of having a crush.”

He feels his lips tick up in a tiny smile as he throws a towel over his shoulders. Tendou is wrong. Ushijima doesn’t think he has a crush.

He thinks he is in love.

[tsuyuno-ajisai]

Is there any sight more beautiful than that of a stunned Medicine Seller?

[tsuyuno-ajisai]

One thing about Mononoke that I find kinda funny is that the samurai in the series are always pretty useless.

A lot of anime present samurai as these, like, hardcore unstoppable badasses, but whenever a Medicine Man runs into a samurai, they're either stupid, cowardly, or they just get in the way. At best, they're portrayed as being in way over their heads. Even the evil samurai in the series aren't particularly badass. They're just portrayed as thugs and lowlives that happen to have swords.

Not only is this funny, it also ties into the feminist themes of the franchise. A lot of Mononoke has to do with the hardships women face in a male-dominated world. That an exalted, all-male class like the samurai are in reality a bunch of losers helps show how bitterly unfair the gender dynamic in Edo society is. A lot of these guys are just allowed to fail upward because of their connections or social status or whatever while lower class women who are braver and more competent than them just get crushed by the system.

One thing that's never said outright but is still clear from the reactions of the characters is that only men of the samurai class are allowed to carry swords. Legally, a merchant like the Medicine Man isn't allowed to have one. However, not only are the swords the samurai carry completely useless against mononoke, but none of the samurai are even good swordsmen in the first place. Whenever they do use a sword to kill someone (which is rare), it's usually an unarmed civilian that can't defend themselves. These aren't hardened warriors; they're just bullies with a title. The Medicine Man is way more qualified to carry a sword than any of them.