Oh ok so it turns out ive been borrowing grief from the future ! it turns out ive been preparing to lose the things i love rather than basking in the light of them while they last. Maybe i should nt do that
your boyfriend turns into such a whimpering and pathetic mess when you decide to take charge for once, taking care of him in the form of bouncing up and down on his drooling cock as youâre seated on his lap.
he whines so loudly, large hands gripping onto the soft skin of your hips and desperately leaning forward to suck on your pert nipples. with your tits bouncing in his face, your pussy swallowing him whole, the creamy mess thatâs frothing between you two, the wet sounds of his balls slapping against your pussy and your thighs hitting back down on his, not to mention how breathtakingly gorgeous you look right now, itâs just too much for him to handle; heâs turning so braindead from how good it feels when you ride him like you own him.
âbaaabyyyy.. yâre so pretty,â he groans. âah-ah! âm cummingâ hngnhh..mmmfffpâ cumming, cumming!â
âyeah?â you reply, breathing heavily. the slick noises contributed from the mess thatâs been forming at the base of his cock and your cunt makes you a bit too dizzy for your own liking. âgo ahead, sweet boy.. jusâ let me take care of you mâkay?â
he sobs loudly, choking on his whines and moans as he finishes so deep inside you. it shoots up and ropes of his warm, hot cum is spilling into you. he rocks his hips up lazily, trying to get every last drop out. despite this, youâre not done yet. instead, you grab onto his shoulders and shift a little before continuing.
âhnnghh.. ahâah! noâno stop, mâ sensitive.. canât..â he whimpers, although his actions say otherwise because he instinctively reaches for your hips again, grabbing you closer and trying to make you go faster.
âhmm.. youâre making a mess..â
âiâm sorry, iâm sorryyy! hahhâ i canâtâcanât take it.. so much.. i canât hold it in..â
feeling the pressure build up, thereâs tears forming and his eyes roll back in pure desperation as you keep your pace. itâs too overwhelming for him and his cock is so sensitive to the point where it hurts. heâs about to finish again so easily even though he already came earlier, not too long ago. âiâm gonna⌠gonna.. iâiâmââ
âshhh, baby.. itâs okay. iâm gonna cum too, wanna make me cum right? be good and fill me up nâ make me cum âround your cock?â
ây-yeah, yeah..please.. iâll do anything, pretty.. donât stop..â
ââm so close.. wanâ you to dump your cum into me while i cum okay?â
and that was all it took. with a deep, broken moan that ripped all the way from the back of his throat, his hips desperately bucked up and he couldnât even form a sentence before his release hit him, his cock twitching so much as he flooded your cunt, like he was trying to give you everything. it hits you in thick wavesâ hot, heavy, and endless. each pulse sent more spilling out, filling you to the brim, leaking out before he was even done. it was so messy, just pouring into you with no end in sight.
grinding down hard on him as you gasped, âffuckk, cummingâ!!..â feeling the tension in your body snapping as you came all over him.
afterwards, it was silent except for the sounds of both of you panting, trying to catch your breaths as his head was buried into your chest. with a quick kiss to his cheek, you lifted yourself up from his cock, where everything started dribbling out of you slowly.
âshitâŚâ you heard him say.
you pouted. âyouâre the one that asked me to ride you tonight.â
heâs still trying to catch his breath as he mumbles, âi didnât think.. didnât know itâd be like.. this.â
he looks up at you like a lost little puppy, big eyes and pouty lips as his arms circle around your waist, hugging you in attempts of keeping you closer to him, his chest pressed against yours.
âah,â he starts, like heâs suddenly got a great idea. âmade such a mess, think i should clean you up..â
âhuh?â
before you can fully process what he means, he gently pushes you down, your back hitting the mattress as he climbs on top, lowering himself to where your glistening hole is. he looks at you, eyes shining with quiet intensity and a determined look before he starts going down on you, licking and lapping at your pussy, causing everything to smear onto his face. guess thatâs what he meant by cleaning you up, huh?
isagi yoichi, alexis ness, nagi seishiro, mikage reo, chigiri hyoma, itoshi rin, jean kirstein, reiner braun, porco galliard, armin arlert, nanami kento, gojo satoru, choso kamo + any of your favs!
choso kamo is the kind of boy people notice without realizing theyâre staring. heâs not loud, never one to demand a roomâs attention, but something about him pulls you in, the lazy grace of someone whoâs always just a little bit stoned and completely at peace with himself.
he throws the best parties on campus, the kind that arenât 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, youâre 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. itâs 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, youâd ended up next to him. not even talking at first. just being. and then heâd pulled one earbud out and offered it to you without saying anything, and youâd heard frank oceanâs âivyâ playing soft and crackly from his phone. youâd smiled at him, and heâd smiled back. just a little.
after that, it was like something clicked. you didnât have to try with choso. you just existed in each otherâs space like you were meant to.
youâre sweet, outgoing, a little flirty, always the first one to compliment someoneâs 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? thatâs reserved for choso.
itâs a mystery to most people. you, the glittering, glowing party girl, and choso, the stoner boy who doesnât even have social media. but it makes perfect sense to anyone whoâs 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. youâre 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 âthatâs wild, ma,â or âyo, youâre too nice for them.â
and during the parties, youâre never far. you gravitate toward each other like magnets, slipping into place the way you always do. chosoâs usually on the couch, arms stretched over the backrest, and youâre 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 itâs so easy. dangerously easy.
chosoâs never been one to push. heâs got feelings, real ones, deeper than heâll ever admit out loud, but he keeps them buried. not because he doesnât want you. he wants you in a way that scares him sometimes. in quiet moments, when heâs too high and youâre asleep on his chest, he thinks about what it would feel like to kiss you. to be yours for real. but heâs content, at least for now. content to have you like this.
you give choso a kind of peace he didnât know he was missing. before you, things were kind of blurry. background noise. but with you, itâs all color. you laugh and the whole room tilts toward you. you touch his hand and itâs like static electricity under his skin. he pretends he doesnât notice. he jokes, he teases, he lets it pass.
because he thinks heâd rather have you like this, close and real and warm, than risk losing you completely.
and you? you love him. maybe too much.
youâve 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 donât know what to do with that.
maybe youâre scared to ruin it too.
itâs not just the friendship, itâs 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.
youâll lay there in the dark, both of you wide awake, and youâll 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.
thereâs something unsaid between you, always has been, something glowing and soft and maybe a little fragile. like the chords of âivyâ hanging in the air, too tender to touch. itâs in the way he looks at you when youâre 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.
itâs a love thatâs still blooming. hesitant. deep-rooted. and for now, maybe thatâs enough.
maybe not forever.
~
the partyâs 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 someoneâs 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 youâre going.
you slip past people who call your name, who compliment your outfit, who try to keep you still, but youâre already moving, already smiling like youâve got a secret. because you do.
heâs on the couch. he always is.
slouched like he was poured there, long legs spread, a blunt pinched between his fingers. thereâs a few people around him, suguruâs sitting on the floor, half-asleep against his knee, gojoâs perched on the armrest talking to some girl, but he doesnât really look at anyone. just stares at the smoke curling above him, the red light making shadows under his eyes.
until he sees you.
chosoâs head tilts slightly. his gaze sharpens, just barely. his mouth softens, corners curling up into something small, lazy, private.
âyo,â he says, voice low and smooth like honeyed smoke. âthere you are.â
and just like that, youâre 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.
âi brought you chips,â you say, holding up a bag. âbecause you never remember to feed people when you throw these things.â
he laughs, soft and breathy, and takes the bag, tossing it onto the table without looking.
âyouâre the only one who eats at my parties,â he murmurs, dragging the blunt to his lips. âtheyâre lucky you show up.â
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. itâs not on purpose, but it is. everything choso does is like that. unbothered. intimate. effortless.
your heart stutters.
âyou look good,â he adds, like it just occurred to him. his eyes dip, trace your legs, the cut of your dress, the gloss on your lips. âreal good.â
you smile, sweet and slow, like youâre soaking it in.
âyouâre stoned.â
he shrugs. âyeah. still true, though.â
you nudge his thigh with your knee, and he smirks that lazy, barely-there grin that never quite reaches his eyes unless itâs you.
the party swells around you. bodies dance in the center of the room, the music gets louder, someoneâs 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.
âdonât know how you come to my house every week and still donât smoke,â he says, flicking ash into a red solo cup.
âdonât know how you survive without eating dinner like an adult,â 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 donât even pretend not to look. choso doesnât pretend not to notice.
âyou missed me?â he asks after a beat, quieter now. the smokeâs made him slow, softer around the edges. more honest.
you glance up at him, lips parted. âi was here last weekend.â
âyeah, and then the whole week happened.â he shrugs, lazily. âi got bored.â
you nudge your way closer. your knee slides between his. âyou say that like you donât have other friends.â
he hums. âdonât hit the same.â
youâre both quiet for a second. itâs a thick, heady silence, not awkward, not tense. just full. full of everything thatâs been building since freshman year. everything you donât say. everything you both feel in moments like this, when youâre a little too close and heâs 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.
youâre not a wild dancer, you move like youâre 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 heâs 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.
âhave fun out there, superstar?â he asks, gaze flicking over you.
you shrug, settling back into him. âmissed my favorite dance partner.â
he raises a brow. âyou donât dance with me.â
you grin. âexactly.â
he snorts, shaking his head. you rest your hand on his thigh, fingers splayed over ripped denim, and he doesnât flinch. doesnât 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 suguruâs asleep and gojoâs 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.
âyou crashing here?â he asks, already knowing the answer.
you nod, cheek pressed to his chest. âif thatâs cool.â
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.
âalways.â
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 heâs not even thinking about it.
you could fall asleep like this. youâve done it before.
but he shifts a little, murmurs, âcome on, ma. letâs get off this fuckinâ couch. my backâs killinâ me.â
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.
âdrama queen,â he says, tugging you to your feet with effortless strength.
he doesnât 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 itâs normal. like itâs instinct. your arm hooks around his middle, and you lean into his side as you walk, slow and steady, like youâve done this a hundred times. because you have.
chosoâs room is down the hall. itâs 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.
âyo, scoot over,â he mumbles, nudgin your hip with his.
âyou scoot,â you shoot back, voice muffled by the blanket.
he doesnât 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.
âthis party was kinda ass,â you say.
ânah,â he says softly. âyou were here.â
your stomach flips.
but you donât say anything. donât 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.
âremember the first one?â you ask, voice hushed now. âthe freshman-year party where we met?â
choso smiles at the ceiling. âfuck yeah. you were wearing that little white dress and yellinâ at some guy who spilled beer on your shoes.â
âhe ruined them,â you murmur indignantly.
âand i was just sittinâ on the porch, watchinâ the whole thing,â he grins. âhigh as shit. thought you were hot as hell.â
you lift your head to look at him, one brow raised. âyou still say you donât remember how we ended up talking.â
âi donât. swear to god.â he shrugs. âone second iâm finishing a blunt, next thing i know youâre sitting next to me like youâd been there forever.â
âi probably just decided you looked safe,â you say, settling back down. âand hot. but, like, quiet hot.â
he chuckles, slow and low. âquiet hot?â
you nod. âlike⌠hot in a way that doesnât try. like you didnât even know it.â
âdamn,â he mutters. âflirting with me now?â
âalways.â
his hand slides down from your hair to your shoulder, warm and broad and steady.
âthatâs why i fuck with you,â he says after a moment. âyouâre real.â
you blink.
âlike, people show up to my parties for the vibes or whatever. you show up to make sure i eat dinner.â
you laugh. âwell someone has to.â
ânah, but for real,â he says. âyouâve been showinâ up since day one. always got my back. always know what i need before i even do. shitâs crazy.â
your throat goes tight. but he doesnât sound emotional. he sounds calm. sure. like itâs just a fact of life, gravity, weed, you.
he doesnât say it like itâs a confession.
he says it like itâs just the truth.
âyou do the same for me,â you murmur, voice small.
his thumb strokes your arm, slow.
âyeah,â he says. âi know.â
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 itâs second nature.
he doesnât flirt with anyone the way he does with you. doesnât touch anyone like this. people know youâre close, but they donât get it.
they donât know how choso listens to you rant for hours about your classes even when heâs half-asleep. how he always keeps snacks in his room he doesnât like, just because you do. how heâs seen you cry at 3am and didnât say a word, just pulled you onto his chest and played with your hair until you calmed down.
how youâve 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 donât know that youâve been doing this, just like this, since freshman year.
youâre not together.
but this? this is something else.
âyou good?â he mumbles, his voice starting to get gravelly with sleep.
you nod, curled into his side.
âyou?â
âmhmm.â he exhales through his nose, deep and slow. âdonât leave before i wake up.â
âi never do.â
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 chosoâs heartbeat and the hush of something unspoken between you, you fall asleep.
right where youâre supposed to be.
~
the sunâs too fucking bright.
chosoâs 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 heâs not playing anything. just using them to avoid eye contact. to avoid people.
his chem lecture starts in twelve minutes. heâs not rushing.
heâs never rushing.
the quadâs 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 hasnât showered. hasnât brushed his hair. smells faintly like weed and sleep and your lotion, the floral kind you always keep in your bag.
heâs halfway across the quad when he hears it.
âyo.â
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 heâs 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. âyo.â
âyou look like shit,â toji says, amused.
choso shrugs. âfeel fine.â
âlate night?â
âalways.â
toji grins. âbet.â
choso wanders over, boots crunching gravel, and leans against the wall next to him. tojiâs got that lazy menace vibe, like he could break someoneâs nose or fall asleep in the sun, it could go either way. choso respects it.
theyâre not close, but theyâre good.
âyou throw last night?â toji asks.
âyeah. packed out.â
âheard. saw some dude getting dragged out by the neck around one.â
choso huffs a little. âsukuna. again.â
âno shit?â toji laughs. âthat guyâs a walking lawsuit.â
âgot blood on my stairs,â choso mutters. âruined the rug.â
âtragic.â
theyâre quiet for a second. choso watches a squirrel dart across the walkway. toji sips his coffee.
âhow much you make off the door?â
âcouple hundred. enough for groceries. gas. weed.â
toji nods like thatâs the natural order of things. âyou ever think about pledging?â
choso snorts. ânah.â
âyouâd run that shit,â toji says. âturn those little rich boys inside out.â
âiâm not good with rules.â
âfuck rules.â
choso grins a little. âyou sound like yuki.â
âi taught yuki,â toji says, deadpan.
that gets a real laugh out of choso, low and amused, breath curling in the cold air.
âyou got chem?â toji asks after a moment.
âyeah. lab.â
âtough.â
âi'm so fucking hungover.â
toji smirks. âso. last night. you go home alone?â
choso shrugs. ânah. crashed with her.â
toji looks at him. not surprised. not shocked. just curious.
ây/n?â
âyeah.â
a beat.
âyou guys together now or what?â
choso looks up, brows drawn. ânah.â
toji raises an eyebrow. âhuh. figured that wouldâve happened by now.â
âwhy?â
âyouâre always with her.â
âyeah.â
âyou sleep in the same bed?â
choso shrugs again, easy and lowkey like it doesnât mean anything. like itâs normal. âall the time.â
toji whistles under his breath, grinning. âyouâre a better man than me.â
ânot like that,â choso mutters, looking away.
âright,â toji says, smirking. ânot like that.â
choso stays quiet. doesnât explain. doesnât elaborate. he just lets it sit in the air between them like secondhand smoke, warm, familiar, a little dangerous.
because it isnât like that.
not yet.
but toji doesnât push. just nods, takes another slow sip of his coffee, and claps choso on the shoulder with a rough hand.
âyouâre cool,â he says. âbut if you ever fuck that up, someone else wonât be.â
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. heâs supposed to be running a titration, but heâs running on three hours of sleep and an edible that hasnât stopped hitting since breakfast.
thereâs a small chemical fire happening at the next table over. he doesnât 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. sheâs never once asked him to help. chosoâs fine with that.
his phone buzzes in his hoodie pocket. he pulls it out without looking, thumb unlocking the screen by feel. itâs instinct. the way he always knows when itâs 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?? iâm bored
[10:39am] choso: wya
the response comes fast.
[10:40am] you: bleachers behind the field. bring snacks or iâll cry.
choso smiles.
itâs the kind of smile he never shows anyone but you. lazy. lowkey. like a secret he doesnât 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 itâs 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. itâs one of the only spots on campus that still feels untouched, still feels yours. people donât hang out here. itâs too open, too weird, too quiet.
perfect.
youâre already there when he shows up, sprawled across the middle row like itâs 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. âyou brought me snacks?â
he lifts a 7/11 bag in greeting.
âyouâre an angel,â 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 doesnât notice.
or maybe he does.
but he doesnât say anything.
âwhat happened in chem?â you ask, voice slow with sunlight.
âalmost set the bench on fire,â he says. âagain."
you laugh, and itâs the good kind, low and warm and familiar, like something soft you wrap yourself in. âyouâre gonna fail.â
ânah,â he murmurs. âi got you. youâll cry to shoko for me.â
you shrug. âprobably.â
he grins.
you eat chips together for a while in comfortable silence. people jog past on the track below, but itâs like the two of you exist in another timeline, quieter, slower, deeper. every time your shoulders bump, he doesnât 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. âyou eat candy like youâre in a music video.â
âduh,â you say. âgotta stay on brand.â
âyour brand is slutty candy princess?â
you flash him a wink. âyou know it.â
he groans into his hands. âyouâre gonna kill me.â
âyouâd like it.â
âmaybe.â
you both laugh.
but underneath it, thereâs a tension you donât 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.
âso whatâd you tell toji?â you ask suddenly, pulling your legs up under you. âhe asked about us, right?â
choso blinks. shifts.
âhowâd you know that?â
âi just saw him talking to you this morning and you rushed of before i could catch up.â
he sighs. rubs a hand over his face. âjust asked about some dumb shit, was surprised we aren't fucking.â
âoh yeah?â
âyeah.â
you hum. âwhatâd you say?â
he shrugs. âtold him weâre just friends.â
you nod.
but your fingers are tight around your lollipop stick. âdid he buy it?â
choso looks over at you. eyes half-lidded, lazy. âdunno. didnât really care.â
you donât speak for a second.
thenâ
âyou know,â you say lightly, âif we were dating, people wouldnât question it.â
he raises a brow. âyou wanna date me?â
you laugh like itâs a joke. like the ideaâs crazy. âobviously not. iâd ruin your whole vibe.â
ânah,â he says, quiet and cool. âyou are my vibe.â
it knocks the air out of you a little.
you donât reply.
he doesnât push.
instead, he pulls a lighter from his pocket. a faded red bic with a sticker of a cartoon frog on the side.
âyou mind?â he asks.
you shake your head. âgo for it.â
he lights the joint behind the bleachers, careful to block the wind, and takes a slow hit like heâs 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 thereâs 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 donât inhale. you just like the closeness. the ritual. the rhythm of it.
âyou always smell like weed and coconuts,â you say absently.
âyou always smell like sleep and candy.â
âthat a compliment?â
âyou know it is.â
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 itâs automatic. like muscle memory.
you donât say anything.
you donât have to.
âthereâs a party saturday,â choso says, like itâs 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. âyours?â
he shakes his head, dragging another pull from the joint before it sizzles low. ânah. kappaâs.â
âtojiâs place?â
âmhm. sukunaâs throwinâ it.â
you make a face. âew.â
he laughs, lazy and low. âyeah, i know.â
âwhat kinda party is it?â
he shrugs, flicking ash off to the side. âdunno. probly loud. messy. overrun with freshmen.â
âmy favorite,â you say sarcastically.
âcome anyway.â
you raise a brow. âyou want me to go?â
he nods, eyes still soft from the joint. âyeah. all our people are gonna be there. gojoâs bringing that speaker he stole from the rec center. suguruâs bringing weed from the plug that scares everyone but him. shoko said sheâs pre-gaming at yours.â
âshe didnât tell me that,â you mutter, amused.
âshe said quote, âiâm getting blackout on your floor so you better have mixers.ââ
âclassic.â
âmakiâs going too,â he adds. âand yuuji. megumi. nobara. yâall can take over the kitchen or whatever.â
you snort. âwe always end up doing that. turning some random frat kitchen into our private lounge.â
âbetter lighting.â
âless vomit.â
he taps his knuckle to your forehead. âso?â
you blink at him. âso what?â
âyou cominâ?â
you stretch your arms over your head, lollipop tucked in your cheek like a secret. âmmm, depends. whoâs walking me home if i black out?â
he gives you a look. âme."
âwhoâs holding my hair if i puke?â
âme.â
âwhoâs dancing with me when they put on early 2000s throwbacks?â
he smirks. âyou already know.â
you grin and nuzzle into his thigh dramatically. âugh, fine. i guess iâll go.â
âwhat an honor.â
âyouâre welcome.â
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.
thereâs something warm in your chest.
like always.
âwhat timeâs it at?â you ask.
âlate.â
âwhen are we getting there?â
âlater.â
you smile. âas always.â
âas always,â 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 doesnât notice.
but you do.
you always do.
~
the sun has long since set when youâre back in your dorm.
shokoâs 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 youâre painting.
your desk is a mess of scattered brushes, scratched acrylics, and an empty matcha can youâve 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.
youâre painting red spider lilies across the front, his favourite.
the petals curl across the plastic like veins, wet with gloss and attention. youâre careful with the details. youâve looked up references. youâve done this before.
but this timeâs different.
this oneâs for him.
you donât know why, exactly. maybe itâs because his old oneâs going dead.
maybe itâs 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 âhome?â when itâs late and doesnât sleep until you answer. in the way he rolls his blunts left-handed and always lights yours first. in the way he remembers your momâs birthday even though heâs 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 partyâs already pulsing down the block.
you arenât 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, itâs already hell in there.
thereâs 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. someoneâs already swinging a half-finished bottle of patrĂłn 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.
âjesus,â shoko mutters, pushing through a knot of people. âitâs worse than last time.â
âthatâs saying a lot,â 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 friendâs thigh as ink bleeds into skin.
âhow much you wanna bet that guyâs not even licensed?â 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 shouldnât be public, their moans barely muffled over the bassline. you and shoko share a glance.
âten bucks says theyâll be upstairs in five,â she says.
âtwo,â you shoot back.
you find the rest of your girls near the island, makiâs drinking straight from a bottle of dark rum, nobaraâs yelling at some guy for calling her âsweetheart,â and miwa looks like sheâs trying to spiritually leave her body.
âthere you bitches are,â nobara says, throwing an arm over your shoulders. âi was gonna beat some freshmanâs ass for trying to say you werenât on the guest list.â
âi just got here!â you laugh, letting shoko pull you in tighter. âi havenât even taken my jacket off!"
âwell hurry up,â nobara insists, pouring something violently pink into a solo cup and handing it to you. âthis nightâs cursed already.â
you take a cautious sip, bubblegum and battery acid. âwhat the hell is this?â
âitâs called the thong dropper,â shoko says helpfully.
âgirl.â
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.
âhis stroke game was so weak,â she says, slamming her cup down. âhe kept asking me âis that good?â likeâcmon. do you not hear me faking it?â
maki snorts. âyou faked it?â
âof course i did. i had to get it over with.â
shoko leans in. ârookie mistake. just tell âem straight up.â
âi canât crush a manâs ego like that,â nobara defends.
âtheyâll live,â maki says.
you giggle into your drink, letting the warmth buzz up your spine.
âwhat about you?â shoko nudges. âyou getting any lately?â
you shrug, trying to hide your smirk. âdefine âgetting.ââ
they all ooh at that, but you wave them off.
ânah,â you add quickly. âjust been⌠chillinâ.â
nobara raises a brow. âchillinâ with who?â
you donât answer.
you donât 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.
heâs 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 thereâs 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. âback in a sec.â
you beeline straight to him.
he sees you coming, of course. always does.
âyo,â he says, voice syrup-thick, laced in that lazy drawl you know too well. âthere she is.â
you plop onto the couch next to him, thigh pressed to his instantly, as natural as breathing.
âhey, babe.â
he pulls the blunt from his lips and passes it to gojo. âyou look hot,â he murmurs, eyes scanning over you. âlike⌠stupid hot.â
you grin. âyouâre high.â
âand youâre hot.â
âso high.â
gojo chuckles. âheâs been saying that about everyone for the last twenty minutes. told sukuna his chains looked âshiny as fuckâ and that he was proud of him.â
âand i meant it,â choso says, nodding solemnly.
âsukunas a menace,â you laugh.
âa sweet menace,â choso adds.
gojo tosses the blunt into an ashtray and stretches. âaight. iâm gonna go find the aux before someone puts on country again.â
âgodspeed,â you tell him.
choso watches him disappear into the crowd before turning back to you. âyou good?â
you nod. âgirls are wild tonight.â
âwhen arenât they?â
you smile. âpartyâs kinda gross, though.â
he grins. âyeah. itâs ass.â
âi missed your parties.â
he hums, dragging a slow breath through his nose. ânext week. tuesday.â
âa tuesday party?â
âhell yeah.â
you laugh softly, eyes dropping to the front pocket of his hoodie. his lighterâs there again, the red one. the same one from earlier, edges worn down like itâs 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 heâs memorizing it.
âyou painted this?â
you nod.
âmaâŚâ he says under his breath, almost like itâs too much. âyo. this is⌠this is fucking beautiful.â
âyour other oneâs dying,â you say, a little shy now. âfigured you needed a new one.â
heâs quiet for a second, blinking slowly.
thenâ
âyouâre such a fuckinâ angel.â
you laugh. âitâs literally just a lighter.â
he doesnât let his gaze leave it. ânah. itâs you.â
you blink.
he says it so casually. so high. so him.
like itâs just a fact.
you donât 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, itâs just the two of you, and a lighter between your palms.
âyouâre gonna make me cry,â you joke, even though the way he keeps looking at the lighter makes your chest feel a little too full.
choso doesnât answer, just keeps running his thumb over the curves of it like itâs 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.
âperfect,â he mumbles.
âit works?â
âbetter than my soul, babe.â
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 hasnât started. you teasing him for skipping chem lab again. him promising you some ânext-level weedâ for tuesdayâs party that âtastes like peaches and existential dread.â
his voice is slow, syrup-thick, a little slurred at the ends. heâs stoned, clearly, but youâre used to this. used to the way he leans into you when heâs like this, heavy and unguarded, every thought coming out a little slower and more unfiltered. itâs a version of him that doesnât get tired of looking at you.
he tugs at the hem of your jacket playfully. âyou gonna stay with me tonight?â
you raise a brow. âdidnât plan on going anywhere else.â
he grins, that sleepy smile that makes your heart tick funny.
then your name cuts through the room, pitched over the music.
âoh shit,â you say, glancing over your shoulder. âtheyâre calling me.â
choso hums, not looking away. âtell âem i said hi.â
you hesitate for a second, not wanting to leave the warm bubble youâve curled into. but shokoâs waving you over, and makiâs already halfway across the room with a bottle in her hand and trouble in her eyes.
âiâll be back,â 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 heâs alone.
not really, the house is packed, pulsing with bodies and music and smoke, but alone in the way that matters.
the lighterâs still in his hand.
and it wonât stop looking like you.
'she fuckinâ made this.'
that thought loops through his head in lazy spirals. he stares down at it like heâs still not fully processing that itâs 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.
heâs 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 tryinâ.'
it hits him all at once, sudden and full-body.
he needs to mark this. this moment. this feeling.
heâs already pulling out his phone before the thoughtâs even fully formed, scrolling through the camera roll he swore he didnât 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.
âyo,â a familiar voice calls, sauntering through the haze. âyou look fried.â
sukuna.
choso glances up. âam fried.â
sukuna grins. âfigured. that couch is cursed, by the way. guy got a blowie on it last week during pong night.â
choso shrugs. âadds flavor.â
they lean on the wall together, easy silence for a second.
âyou see the tat guys?â sukuna asks, chin-jerking toward the kitchen. âsomeone just got a fucking worm on their calf. like a literal earthworm. said it was âsymbolic.ââ
choso laughs, low and thick. âsymbolic of what?â
âdunno. being dirt, i guess.â
he doesnât respond. just looks back at his phone.
sukuna raises a brow. âyou good, dude?â
âyeah.â
âyou look like you just had a vision.â
choso finally meets his eye.
âyo,â he says slowly. âyou ever just feel something and know you gotta do somethinâ about it right now or youâll bitch out?â
sukuna squints. âuh. like what?â
choso doesnât 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. âdamn. alright.â
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.
âyo,â 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.
âwhatâs up, man?â
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.
âcan you do this,â he asks, âon my arm?â
the artist blinks, then looks at the screen.
itâs a close-up of a girlâs 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. âthose are hers.â
the guy raises a brow. âlike⌠your girl?â
choso shrugs one shoulder. his eyes never leave the photo.
the buzz of the needle starts soft, a low, persistent hum, and choso doesnât 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 heâs holding out in his opposite hand.
the pictureâs still up. her eyes, warm and wide, lashes curled, looking up at him like she trusts him with her whole heart.
âpretty,â the tattoo guy mutters, angling a small light to get a better look as he sketches the stencil. âyours?â
chosoâs mouth curves slow. doesnât answer right away. just flicks his lighter open and closed, click, click, click, the red spider lilies catching the light each time.
then finally:
ânah.â
the guy hums. âgirlfriend?â
he huffs a little, amused. ânot that either.â
he sets the lighter down on the table beside him, keeps his eyes on the screen.
âsheâs just,â he pauses, then shrugs, soft and slow, âher. yâknow?â
the artist side-eyes him. âdeep.â
choso smiles again, eyes unfocused. ânah, iâm just fuckinâ high.â the guy presses the warm stencil into chosoâs arm, smooths it into place.
âyou sure you wanna do this while youâre, uh,â he glances at chosoâs glassy expression, the faint grin still tugging at his mouth, âclearly not sober?â
âiâm not wasted,â choso says lazily. âand iâm not dumb. itâs not a mistake.â the artist nods once, respects it. âalright, man.â he flips on the machine again, lines it up.
âyou done this before?â choso grunts a laugh. âyâthink i got these in my sleep?â 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. âfirst time sober was the weirdest one.â
the guy snorts. âfair.â
the needle hits skin.
choso exhales slow. doesnât flinch, doesnât shift, doesnât 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. âyou ever tattoo someone like this before?â he murmurs after a beat.
âlike what?â
he shrugs again. âsomeone whoâs⌠yâknow.â the guy doesnât answer right away.
choso elaborates, voice softer this time. âsheâs not mine. i donât want her to be. not right now. itâs not like that. itâs justâŚâ he trails off, brows furrowing a little, tongue tucked against the inside of his cheek.
âshe just means somethinâ. donât got a word for it.â
the artist doesnât look up from his work, but his toneâs gentler when he speaks again. âyeah. iâve seen that before.â choso sinks deeper into the chair, breathing even. the painâs dull and constant, but it grounds him. keeps his thoughts from spiraling too far out, keeps his high in this exact moment.
âyou think sheâd be mad?â he asks, voice airy. âif she saw it?â
âdunno,â the guy says. âyou gonna tell her?â he blinks slow, head rolling back against the headrest.
ânah.â
another pause.
ânot now. itâs just for me.â the tattooer gives a small nod. âthatâs real.â
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.
âlooks good,â the artist murmurs, wiping excess ink from the forming lines of the eyes. âsheâs got crazy lashes.â
choso huffs out a small laugh. âsheâd fuckinâ love that you noticed that.â
âyeah?â
he smiles again, softer now. âtalked about lash serum for like a week. gave me a whole presentation.â
the guy chuckles under his breath. âsounds like she talks a lot.â
choso closes his eyes.
âshe talks just enough.â 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.
âalright, man,â the artist says, leaning back with a stretch. âdone.â
choso blinks slow, still slouched deep in the chair like heâs 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.
âyo, hold up, lemme see it before you cover it,â 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 roomâs fluorescent lights hit the raw lines at an angle, shining off the freshly tattooed skin like itâs something holy.
and fuck.
there it is.
your eyes.
wide and soft and open, curved lashes sweeping upward in a way no stencil shouldâve captured but somehow did. that quiet way you look at him, like he hung the stars, like heâs 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 doesnât speak. doesnât 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.
heâs 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. itâs not that.
itâs something else. something way quieter. something he canât even name when heâs sober, and definitely not now, baked out of his skull with his arm still tingling and his hoodie falling half off.
but still, heâs wearing you now. and it feels like something thatâs always been true, just waiting for the ink to make it real.
âyou good?â the artist asks, half amused, already reaching for the plastic wrap again. âyeah,â choso says, slow, mouth crooked into a lazy grin. âlooks fuckinâ sick, dude.â the guy chuckles under his breath. âkinda figured youâd say that.â
âyou killed it,â choso adds, finally dragging his eyes off the tattoo. âlike, actually.â
the artist nods, pleased. âappreciate it. was fun as hell to do, honestly. you sure you donât want her name or somethinâ? under it?â choso snorts. ânah. thatâd make it weird.â
âfair.â
he watches the guy gently press a clean dressing over the fresh ink, tape it up. the sensationâs a dull sting under his skin, not quite pain, just awareness. a reminder that itâs real now. that itâs his, for good.
she doesnât know. you might never know. and thatâs kinda the whole point. heâs 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 oneâs just for him. a secret under his sleeve, tucked into the curve of his body like a memory.
âyou gonna keep it under wraps?â the guy asks, like he can read chosoâs whole plan off his face.
âyeah,â choso mutters, grabbing his hoodie and tugging the sleeve back down with a practiced flick. âat least for now. donât need her freakinâ out or nothing.â
âbet,â the guy says with a short laugh. âi get it.â
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 heâs just come up from underwater. the whole basement smells like blood and rubbing alcohol and resin, but itâs warm, and the energy buzzes low and steady around him.
he digs in his pocket for a few bills, slaps them into the artistâs open palm.
âappreciate you, man.â
âanytime, bro. take care of that, donât go dunkinâ it in a keg or anything.â choso grins. âno promises.â
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 canât 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 didnât need to give him that lighter. you didnât have to think about him in that little quiet way you always did, like heâs 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 heâd 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 thatâs for later. for now, heâs just stoned as hell, arm warm and throbbing, and so unbelievably content that itâs almost embarrassing.
he spots gojo again across the room, already perched on the arm of someone elseâs 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. heâs 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.
âyo, look who it is,â gojo grins as you walk up, already clocking the way you move like youâre headed home, not just to a guy. âprincess finally found her prince.â
you donât say anything, just slide right into the little space at chosoâs side like it was made for you. his arm shifts automatically, pulling you in like itâs 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.
âhey, ma.â
his handâs warm against your hip, steady, grounding. he smells like weed and cedar and the faintest trace of paint from the lighter you gave him. itâs in his pocket now, safe like something sacred.
âso anyway,â suguru picks back up like you didnât just crash-land in chosoâs lap, âiâm 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 fuckinâ lollipop.â
âgod, not the lollipop roll,â sukuna groans, dragging a hand over his face. âfreshman?â
âof course it was a freshman,â gojo says, grinning. âthose little guys think watching one youtube tutorial makes them bob marley.â
âyo, remember that one dude at the delta party?â choso says, head tilting back slightly. ârolled a joint with a bible page.â
âamen,â sukuna snorts.
ânah, for real,â choso laughs, hand tightening just slightly where it rests on your side. âhe said it made the high holier.â you huff against his hoodie, and his fingers flex like he felt it, like it was the best sound heâd heard all night.
they keep going, weed stories, party war stories, the dumbest shit theyâve ever seen in a frat house at 3am. itâs relentless, loud, chaotic, but you stay quiet, tucked against chosoâs side like heâs 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.
âyo,â gojo says, leaning across suguru to point at choso. âwhatâs the craziest thing youâve ever done at a party?â
âbesides adopt a girlfriend he doesnât kiss?â sukuna adds. choso blinks slow. doesnât rise to the bait, doesnât even twitch.
âprobably that time at theta when i fell asleep in the bathtub and woke up with a raccoon in my lap.â suguru chokes. âyou serious?â
âdeadass.â
âwas it⌠alive?â
âbro. it was chillinâ. just vibinâ with me.â
âyou probably hotboxed the tub,â gojo says, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. âraccoon was just tryna get high.â
choso grins, soft and slow, and you nudge your nose into his hoodie like youâre hiding your own smile. âwhat about women?â sukuna says suddenly, eyes glinting like heâs fishing. âyâall ever hook up at your own party?â
âyouâre disgusting, that's against regâ gojo tells him cheerfully.
âdonât lie,â sukuna drawls. âyou know you have.â
âalright, once,â gojo admits. âbut i kicked her out after because she tried to name my bongs.â âyouâre heartless,â suguru says, deadpan.
âyou donât name the bongs,â gojo insists. âthey earn names. itâs sacred.â
âwhat about you, choso?â sukunaâs gaze cuts sideways. âyou got bodies stacked in your stoner dungeon?â choso hums, slow and easy. you feel the low sound in his chest, pressed flush to your cheek.
ânah,â he says. âi donât hook up with girls who donât know how to roll.â the boys howl, gojo nearly falling off the couch.
âthatâs so on brand,â suguru laughs. âyou need standards,â choso mumbles, amused, and leans his cheek briefly against the top of your head.
the lighterâs still in his pocket. his armâs 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 â arm around you tighter now, palm spread warm across your ribs, thumb grazing your side through the fabric. heâs careful. doesnât let the hoodie ride up. doesnât let anyone see. the tattooâs still fresh, still tender, and itâs just for him.
âyo, you good?â suguru asks, nodding at him. choso blinks slow. âyeah manâ.â
âthat weed hit hard,â gojo says. âi feel like iâm seeinâ sounds.â
âyou tryna kill someone?â suguru laughs. âevery time i hit one, i feel like my soulâs leaving my body.â
âshitâs a rite of passage,â sukuna shrugs.
ânah, a rite of passage is hosting a rager with a cop at your door and acting like you live there,â gojo grins. âhave you?â choso asks, amused.
âbro, iâve answered the door in a bathrobe before,â gojo says proudly. they all crack up again. you donât say anything, but your smileâs pressed right into chosoâs chest, and he dips his head for a second to nuzzle his nose into your hair.
âsheâs real quiet tonight,â suguru says, noticing. ânah, sheâs just comfy,â choso says easily. âshe donât need to talk when sheâs like this.â
you donât. not when youâve got his warmth, his arm around you, his voice rumbling low in your ear with every lazy joke. itâs always like this, like no one else in the room really matters, like you could fall asleep right here and heâd keep the world spinning while you did.
âthatâs love,â gojo says mock-serious.
âshut up,â choso mutters. but he doesnât stop smiling. and the lighterâs 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. itâs past 2am, maybe closer to 3, but the music hasnât let up and thereâs still people on the floor, drinks in hand, voices loud and slurred over each other. someoneâs passed out with a sharpie mustache, another guyâs making out with a pillow. classic kappa chaos.
chosoâs 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.
âyou good to dip?â
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 itâd happen.
âyo,â choso calls out over the couch, voice scratchy and low. âwe out.â
gojo perks up from where heâs still posted with a half-spilled drink, eyes bright. âtell your girlfriend goodnight for us.â
you donât say anything, just press your face into chosoâs shoulder again, and he laughs under his breath.
ânight, man,â suguru says with a nod, already halfway into rolling another blunt.
sukuna lifts a hand lazily. âtext if you end up in a ditch.â
âif i do, iâm takinâ you with me,â 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 nightâs 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.
âget on.â
you blink, amused. âseriously?â
âcâmon, ma,â he mumbles, tugging at your wrist. âyour feet hurt.â
you climb onto his back with a little laugh, arms wrapped loose around his shoulders, and he stands like itâs 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.
âyou always take care of me,â you mumble against his neck.
he hums low. ââcourse i do. you're my.. best friend.â
you walk like that for a while, his hoodie soft against your cheek, his hair brushing your face every time the wind shifts. he doesnât 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 youâre close, only when his own buildingâs 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 roomâs 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. youâve 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 canât name.
youâre both under the blanket when he finally speaks.
âhey.â
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 heâs offering it.
âi really fuckinâ love that lighter.â
your heart stutters a little. âyeah?â
he nods, slow. âlike⌠a lot. been using it all night. even switched pockets for it, kept checking to make sure it didnât fall out or get swiped.â
you smile, something small and full blooming in your chest. âgood. itâs supposed to be yours.â
âfeels like it.â
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 heâs 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.
âthe flowers⌠whyâd you paint those?â
you press your face into his chest.
âthey reminded me of you,â you say quietly. âred spider lilies. theyâre kind of⌠complicated. people think theyâre about death or goodbye, but they also mean memory. rebirth. starting over. they grow in all the places nothing else does.â
chosoâs quiet for a second.
then, soft, âyou think iâm like that?â
you shrug against him, voice even softer. âi think youâre the kind of person who sticks. who stays even when shit gets hard. and you donât always say how you feel but⌠youâre steady. like those flowers. like fire.â
he exhales slow.
âfuck, ma.â
âwhat?â
âyouâre gonna make me cry or some shit.â
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.
âyou can cry,â you mumble. âi wonât tell.â
he chuckles low, the sound vibrating through you.
ânah, iâm good. just⌠i dunno. not used to someone thinkinâ about me like that.â
you donât 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.
âgonna keep that lighter forever.â
you smile, eyes fluttering shut. âgood.â
ânot even gonna let gojo touch it."
âdefinitely good.â
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 heartbeatâs slow against your cheek.
ânight, ma,â 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.
~
~
itâs been a chill afternoon, sunâs out, classes dragging, brain fried. chosoâs 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.
heâs almost past the quad when a shadow cuts across the sidewalk.
âyo, choso.â
doesnât 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.
tojiâs leaned against the trunk of an oak tree like heâs been waiting. sunglasses on, black tee snug across his chest, arms crossed like heâs got all day. his smirkâs already half-there.
âwhatâs up?â choso mutters.
âyou got a sec?â
choso gives him a long look. he knows toji. knows the kind of calm that means somethingâs coming.
ââŚyeah,â he says anyway.
they walk.
theyâve 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. tojiâs always been different. sharper. like he watches the room just to see where it bleeds.
âhowâs life at delta mu?â toji asks after a few steps. casual. fake.
âsame shit.â
âyeah?â he smirks. âyou still throwing those weed parties with your little mascot?â
chosoâs jaw ticks. âyou mean y/n?â
toji chuckles. âyeah. her.â
he tosses a glance sideways. too casual.
âsheâs got some energy, huh? always bouncing around, arms all over you. she like that with everybody or just you?â
choso doesnât answer. toji doesnât need one.
ânah, iâve seen it,â he continues. âalways tucked up next to you. on your lap. wrapped around your arm. clinging to your hoodie like itâs the last blunt in the world.â
he laughs under his breath. âkinda cute.â
chosoâs fists go deep in his pockets.
âsheâs just like that,â he says flatly.
toji hums. âyou sure?â
choso looks over.
âwhatâs your point?â
âjust wondering,â toji shrugs, still smiling like itâs harmless. âyouâve told me before, you two arenât dating.â
âweâre not.â
âbut you hang out every day.â
âyeah.â
âsleep in the same bed sometimes, right?â
chosoâs mouth tightens.
toji grins like he caught something.
âso sheâs single?â
choso stares straight ahead.
ââŚyeah.â
âgood to know.â
silence.
the wind brushes through the quad. students chatter behind them. someoneâs playing music from a bluetooth speaker in the grass, something smooth, almost romantic. it doesnât help.
âsheâs just real⌠open, you know?â toji says. âlike, warm. sweet as hell. makes you feel like youâve known her forever.â choso stays quiet.
âi ran into her the other day,â toji adds like itâs nothing. âoutside the gym. we talked for a sec.â his tone is lighter now. teasing. like heâs digging.
âshe remembered my name. smiled real nice, too. said she was headed to meet you.â
no surprise there. you always say where you're going. always talking about choso like heâs the center of your world. and maybe thatâs why this stings. and toji knows it.
âyou ever wonder if she does that for you?â he asks. âtells other guys sheâs headed to see you. uses your name like a shield.â
he doesnât wait for a reply.
âor maybe itâs just habit. maybe sheâs comfortable. you ever think about that?â
âdonât do this.â
chosoâs voice is low now. warning. toji just smirks.
âlook, man. iâm not trying to piss you off. just⌠trying to understand. âcause you act like youâre her boyfriend, but then you say youâre not.â
he tilts his head.
âso which is it?â
choso breathes slow through his nose.
âweâre close. weâve always been close. thatâs it.â toji nods. like he buys it.
but he doesnât.
âdamn,â he says. âyou got more patience than me.â
âwhatâs that mean?â
âmeans if a girl like that was pressed up on me every night, i wouldnât be wasting time calling her my friend.â he says it with a grin, but thereâs something sharp underneath.
âyou really never tried?â toji asks. ânever kissed her? not once?â choso doesnât respond. he canât. he kisses you all the time, on the head, bebe ron the lips.
because the truthâs 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 heâs home. and heâs the dumbass who never claimed you.
âso sheâs single, then?â toji repeats.
âyeah,â choso says, barely above a whisper.
toji gives him one last nod.
âcool,â he says. âjust wanted to be sure.â and then he walks away. choso doesnât move. not for a long time.
just stands there, fists clenched, teeth gritted, watching tojiâs silhouette disappear down the path like itâs a threat, because it is. he knew.
he knew before he asked.
and now heâs coming.
because choso left the door wide open.
and you?
youâre free to walk through it.
~
chosoâs room, late afternoon
your legs are curled under you on chosoâs 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. youâve 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. heâs across the room, digging through a drawer for his rolling tray. you can feel his presence without even looking. always do.
âyo, did you move my grinder?â he calls, glancing over his shoulder.
ânope,â 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 donât see choso pause. you donât see how long his eyes linger on your phone. you donât realize he saw the name, until he speaks.
âwho you texting?â
you blink up, tone of his voice unfamiliar.
âhm? ohââ you shift your phone in your hand, instinctive. âjust⌠someone.â
he tilts his head.
âsomeone, huh.â
you laugh a little. âwhy do you sound like that?â
he doesnât 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 energyâs gone. replaced with something colder. sharp.
âthat toji?â
your breath stalls.
ââŚyeah.â
choso stares at you. unreadable.
âwhy?â
âwhat do you mean why?â you ask, eyebrows tugging. âhe messaged me. we were just talking.â
he hums. low. not buying it.
âjust talking,â he echoes. âwhat about?â you sit up straighter. âwhatâs going on?â
âwhatâd he say?â
âchosoââ
âlemme see.â
he gestures at your phone. you clutch it instinctively. like muscle memory. like guilt? âare you serious right now?â he doesnât answer. jawâs tight. eyes dark.
âwhatâd he say?â he asks again. your fingers squeeze your phone. you feel a flush crawl up your neck. not from embarrassment, but shock.
âyouâre not serious,â you say again, this time quieter. he just looks at you. so you speak.
âhe said i was cute when i was bored. and i said maybe. thatâs it.â
his jaw ticks.
âyou flirting with him?â
âwhat?â
âyou heard me.â
you scoff. âno. i wasnât. it wasnât even- i didnât mean it like that.â choso steps back, runs a hand through his hair. pacing now.
âyou texting him while youâre in my bed?â
âwhat does that matter?â
âit matters.â
his voice is sharper now. rough around the edges. not loud, but tight, like itâs fighting to stay inside his chest. âyou know how i feel about that guy.â
âchoso, heâs been nothing but nice latelyââ
âheâs not nice. heâs not interested in being friends. heâs waiting. heâs circling. you donât see it?â you blink.
âso what, youâre mad âcause i texted him back?â he looks at you like you just spit on the floor. âiâm mad âcause youâre in my fucking hoodie, in my bed, telling some other guy heâs got a shot.â
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.
âa shot?â you echo. he looks away. exhales hard.
ânever mind.â
âno,â you say, voice firm now. âsay it again.â
he doesnât. but you both feel the truth echoing off the walls.
you look down. suddenly too warm. like the hoodieâs burning your skin. ââŚi didnât know youâd care,â you say, almost to yourself.
choso swallows. âi do.â you glance back up.
âwhy?â
he doesnât answer. but you already know. and now the air is thick with it. the unspoken thing. and for the first time, itâs not sweet. not warm. it hurts.
because it means everything heâs never said, everything heâs 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.
âif you wanted to be the only one texting me like that, you shouldâve said something.â chosoâs face shifts. his mouth opens like heâs going to say something, defend himself, maybe, argue the way he always stays quiet because he doesnât 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.
âyou really think i donât wanna be that?â he says, voice rough. âyou think this shitâs been casual for me?â you blink at him. your breath catches.
âyouâve never said it was anything else, choso. what was i supposed to think?â
âfuck,â he growls, pacing again. âyou were supposed to know. i thought you knew.â
his voice rises, not yelling, but loud with frustration. heâs unraveling in real time, and itâs shaking something loose in you, too. âhow was i supposed to know?â you shoot back. âyou flirt but you never say anything. you touch me like iâm yours but act like iâm just your best friendââ
âyou are mine.â your voice dies in your throat.
he stares at you. and when he speaks again, itâs quieter, but no less intense.
âyouâre mine,â he says again, like a confession. like a curse. âalways been mine.â your stomach flips.
âthen whyââ your voice cracks â âwhy didnât you ever tell me?â
choso runs a hand through his hair again, like heâs trying to physically hold himself together. like it hurts.
ââcause i was scared,â he snaps. âscared that if i said it out loud, itâd fuck everything up. that youâd look at me different. that youâd leave.â you stare.
âso youâd rather let someone else have me?â
he stiffens. you rise onto your knees on the bed, fire lighting behind your ribs now. âyouâd rather let toji of all people try it?â
his jaw clenches. âheâs not gonna have you.â your heartbeat skids.
he moves in fast, faster than he ever has, and grabs your wrist, firm but not rough, like he canât bear to let the distance exist any longer.
âiâm not letting him have you,â he mutters.
youâre still frozen, looking up at him. something between fear and thrill curling in your gut.
âchoso,â you whisper. he doesnât 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 heâs begging you to see it, really see it this time.
âiâm fucking in love with you.â
your heart punches into your throat. his forehead dips, pressing against yours, voice hoarse.
âiâve been in love with you since you showed up to my first party and we listened to that dumb song together.â
you let out a shaky laugh, but your eyes are wet his thumb brushes your cheek.
âi never said it âcause i thought this was enough. thought just having you close was better than risking it all. but i canâtââ he pulls in a breath, voice shaking now too â âi canât sit quiet while other people try to take you from me.â
youâre blinking fast now. breath catching. every inch of your skin feels like itâs on fire beneath his touch.
âyouâre my girl,â he says again, softer this time. âyouâve always been mine.â
you donât 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.
âyouâre only saying that,â you murmur, âbecause someone else finally had the balls to go after me.â
his breath catches. your voice is quieter, but sharp now, like youâre trying to convince yourself. like you want to believe it, but the cracks are there, and theyâre splitting open.
âyou didnât say anything until he got involved. until he started asking about me. texting me. seeing me.â your hand falls away from his face. âand now suddenly, iâm yours?â
his eyes widen. ânoââ
âyou had so long to tell me, choso. so many chances.â
ây/n, itâs not like thatââ
âthen what is it like?â you breathe. ââcause i donât get to be the girl you only want when someone else does.â
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 heâd 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:
âgot it the night of the party. when you gave me the lighter.â you blink.
âyou were curled up on me. whole time i was talking with the boys, i couldnât stop thinking about you. how close you were. how you looked at me like that was your home.â he swipes a thumb under his nose, like he doesnât know what else to do with his hands. âso i got up, high as fuck, to the guy tatting people in the corner. told him to ink your eyes on me.â
your lips part, but nothing comes out. his voice softens.
âi didnât say anything âcause i thought it was enough. just having you near. but itâs not. not anymore.â
your heart pounds so hard you feel it in your ears.
he looks at you like youâre the only thing in the room. like he needs you to believe it. really believe it.
âthis isnât about toji. itâs never been about him. i wanted you long before he ever said your name.â
youâre still staring at the tattoo.
he moves closer again. his hand brushes your knee, gentle.
âyou think iâd get your fucking eyes on me just âcause iâm jealous?â you blink fast.
his hand finds your face again. tender. grounding âyouâre it for me.â
his voice is low, raspy. not just from the emotion, but from how hard heâs holding it in, like if he lets go, everything heâs ever felt for you will come spilling out and drown him.
but he lets it go anyway.
âyouâre all i think about,â choso says, brushing his thumb over your cheek again. âwhen iâm high, when iâm sober, when youâre across the room and laughing at someoneâs stupid joke, when youâre asleep in my bed, wearing my shirt, youâre in my head all the time, ma.âyour breath catches.
âevery song reminds me of you. every little thing you do drives me crazy. you donât even know how much of me youâve got.â
he leans closer, forehead nearly touching yours.
âyou 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 donât move. iâm always lookinâ at you like i already lost you. and it kills me.â
his hand finds your jaw, warm and steady, fingers curling behind your ear. your breath hitches, and heâs close enough to feel it.
âyouâve had my heart since freshman year. and i didnât say anything âcause i thought maybe you didnât want it. or maybe you already had it and didnât need to hear it out loud.â
you swallow, shaky. lips parted. cheeks flushed.
and choso looks down at them, your lips, like heâs been holding himself back from kissing you for a lifetime.
and then he doesnât anymore.
he crashes into you like heâs 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 heâs shoved down, poured out into the way his lips mold against yours. he kisses you like heâs afraid youâll pull away, and like he knows you wonât.
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 canât get enough. like the taste of you is something he needs in his lungs.
âfuck,â he breathes against your mouth, dragging his lips down your jaw, âyou donât get it, do you?â
your back arches, lips parting when he sucks lightly under your ear.
âhow bad iâve wanted this. you.â
his hands roam, over your waist, under your shirt, up your sides like heâs 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.
âsay it again,â he mutters, eyes half-lidded, forehead pressed to yours. âsay my name.â
âchoso.â
he shudders.
âagain.â
âcho!.â
he kisses you so deep it knocks the breath out of your lungs. kisses you like he owns you, like youâve always belonged to him, and like heâs finally letting himself claim whatâs already his.
and fuck, you let him.
youâve 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, thereâs no more pretending.
youâre his. heâs yours. and itâs written all over his face.
choso looks at you like youâre the only thing heâs ever wanted, like heâs starved for you, but still savoring the moment. his eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, but soft. reverent. he cups your cheek with a hand thatâs just slightly trembling, brushing his thumb along your skin like he canât believe youâre 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. itâs not just desire. itâs everything heâs never said until now.
âplease let me see you, ma." he whispers, voice hoarse, like heâs 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 heâs 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.
âfuck,â he breathes, low and to himself. âso fucking beautiful.â
he leans in, mouth dragging hot and open along your neck, kissing and breathing you in, his lips trembling against your pulse like heâs drunk off you. he murmurs something there, a soft, almost desperate, âmine,â before he undoes your bra with one practiced flick.
and when it falls away, he doesnât 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 heâs afraid to break something delicate. âbeen dreaming about this,â he says. âabout you. here. like this. in my bed. lookinâ up at me like you already know iâd give you everything.â
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 â slow, deep, just enough to make you arch into him with a needy whimper.
âchosoâŚâ
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 heâs trying to commit you to memory. âlook at you,â he murmurs, chest rising with each ragged breath. âyou donât even know what you do to me, do you?â
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 doesnât say anything. not at first. he just leans in, takes your hand in his, and presses it over his heart.
âsee?â he whispers. âbeen yours. always.â
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.
âso wet for me,â he mutters, lips brushing yours. âall this for me, huh?â
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 heâs memorizing the way you come apart. âfuck, baby,â he breathes. âyou feel so good, been wantinâ this for so long. just wanted to take care of you. make you feel good.â
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 heâs trying to make up for every second he didnât 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. âyou sure you wanna do this hun?â
âi want you,â you whisper, voice cracking. âi want all of you.â
and when he slides in, slow, deliberate, itâs 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.
âfuck, baby⌠you feel so fuckinâ good, made for me, huh?â
his hips rock into you, slow and deep, dragging along every sensitive inch inside you until youâre trembling again, mouth parted in helpless moans. he kisses you through it, messy and uncoordinated, full of teeth and tongue and need.
he doesnât hold back anymore. not his body, not his voice. heâs everywhere, his hands, his mouth, his words, and every thrust is rougher, deeper, hotter than the last.
âbeen yours since the day i met you,â he breathes against your skin. âyouâre mine, baby. mine. no one else gets to have you like this. no one else even fuckinâ compares.â
you believe him. how could you not, when heâs saying it like heâs 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 doesnât let go. not even after. he stays buried deep, forehead to yours, one hand cradling your jaw like itâs fragile.
ânot lettinâ you go,â he whispers. ânot now. not ever.â
~
the partyâs 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 itâs nothing. except tonight, itâs not nothing. itâs everything. your hand is in his. his thumb strokes over your knuckles like itâs second nature, and youâre tucked into his side like youâve always belonged there. heâs wearing that hoodie you love, and youâve got it slung off your shoulder like itâs yours now. he hasnât let go of you since you walked through the door, and he doesnât 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. âoh my god.â choso raises an eyebrow, smirking. âno fuckin way,â sukuna mutters, eyes narrowing. âthis for real?â you donât say anything. just smile, nuzzling into chosoâs chest. and choso, god, he melts. his arm tightens around you like instinct, like heâs not even thinking about it. âyouâre kidding,â maki blurts from across the room. sheâs half-drunk and squinting, pointing her beer bottle at you two like sheâs trying to make sense of a mirage. âyou finally fucked?â
âmaki,â shoko hisses, slapping her arm, but sheâs already grinning. âi knew it. i knew it.â suguru lifts his drink with a slow, knowing smile. âtook you long enough.â gojo, meanwhile, is spinning in a circle like he just witnessed a miracle. âwait wait wait,â he says, pointing between the two of you. âyouâre telling me this entire time, weâve been watching you two eye-fuck each other across every frat house on campus, and now youâre just casually showing up like this?â
âwhat can i say,â choso murmurs, pulling you even closer, âi figured it was time.â âlook at his hand placement,â shoko says, leaning into maki. âthatâs not friends. thatâs boyfriend hand placement.â
âyeah and look at her,â maki laughs. âshe looks like she just got dicked down and praised like a goddess.â you duck your head a little, embarrassed, but choso leans in and kisses your cheek, then your temple. itâs so soft, so easy, and when he pulls back, he looks straight at toji whoâs staring wide eyed, steady, calm, but with a flicker of challenge in his eyes.
âdonât look at her like that,â he says, voice low. ânot tonight. not ever.â toji scoffs, raising his hands in mock surrender, but his grin is sharp. âdamn. someoneâs possessive now.â
âbeen possessive,â choso mutters, like itâs not even up for debate. he turns his attention back to you instantly, brushing your hair behind your ear.
âyou okay?â you nod. âiâm perfect.â and then he kisses you. not a peck. not for show. itâs 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 wouldnât stop. you donât even hear gojoâs dramatic screech until you break apart.
âyo this is crazy,â he says, spinning around and yelling to no one in particular. âchoso is off the market. choso kamo, resident stoner-lover of no one but his weed and his hoodie collection, is now cuffed.â
âwhatâs it feel like,â suguru asks with a smirk, raising an eyebrow at choso, âto be someoneâs boyfriend?â
âfeels like i shoulda done it years ago,â choso says. you blink up at him, heart catching in your throat. âyo,â yuuji calls from the other side of the room. âdoes this mean weâre finally allowed to say you two have been in love since freshman year?â âi always said it,â nobara yells, shoving through the crowd with a drink. âdonât act like yâall didnât see them cuddled up at every party like an old married couple.â
âwait does this mean sheâs moving into his room?â gojo asks, visibly spiraling. âwhatâs gonna happen to the guest bed? whoâs gonna roll for me when chosoâs too busy being in love?â
âdie mad,â 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 heâs remembering exactly what it feels like.
âyou good?â he murmurs again, like he just wants to hear you say it.
you press your nose to his chest and nod, smiling. âmore than good.â
he kisses you again, slower this time, like itâs just for you. like no one else is in the room. like heâs exactly where heâs always wanted to be.
and the thing is â he is.
heâs yours. fully, finally, publicly.
awe wasn't that sweet đŠââ¤ď¸âđâđ¨ masterlist !!
it's not that I need a quiet day or a day off exactly; it's that I need a pocket of time that exists entirely outside of linear time as we know it that would allow me to get things done without time passing in the real world, and frankly, I don't think that's too much to ask.
Continuing the thought of Penelope Garcia coded Reader, I need Roach to be the first one to pull them because heâs being silly and he makes her laugh and he doesnât have the weird intense military guy persona going on (looking at Price and Ghost right now very intently) and heâs not trying too hard (Soap, my love, Iâm sorry) and heâs generally fun to be around (Kyle, you are beautiful but you are so fucking intimidating to me, Iâd fold immediately if we talked).
And itâs so much funnier in omegaverse setting because Roach is beta and heâs still the first one who pulled the pretty giggly omega their TaskForce is working with. And oh, heâd be so good to her, heâd take care of her so well and sheâd purr to him after a long day, stopping only to laugh.
Theyâd be so good to each other, Iâm so sorry, I need them injected into my system ASAP, nurse
let me info dump on how I think the CoD men would dress, pretty puh-lease? Kyle âGazâ Garrick, Simon âGhostâ Riley, John âSoapâ MacTavish, John Price, Gary âRoachâ Sanderson, Keegan Russ, and KĂśnig
Kyle âGazâ Garrick:
actually wanted to make this post because of him, âThank you, Kyle.â, we all say in unison
I oh so desperately think he dresses so casually it looks clean as fuck. heâs definitely the best dressed out of the 141, in my opinion. going for groceries? meeting up at a pub? Kyle looks great! also, bottom left photo? holding true to the board, I firmly believe Kyle has totes - different colors, some with logos, a couple well used and loved. totes and caps, Kyle has a nice collection
my fun little headcanon is that Kyle will match his outfits to whatever hat or tote he plans on using for the day. and he has a wardrobe to match - t-shirts, button ups, jumpers, turtlenecks, Kyle has variety. a lot of them are gifts from his family (who have his fashion sense down to a science). his aunts and uncles definitely pay the most attention to what Kyleâs wearing whenever they see him, they never miss when buying him new jeans or shoes
Simon âGhostâ Riley:
as fearsome and intimidating as Ghost is, draped in military gear and holsters, Simon prefers to be comfortable. a majority of his civvies are for his comfort, soft and warm jumpers that bag a little. he keeps it simple, his signature black clothes are really the only thing that carries over from service. that said, I think heâd look good in brown too. still a noticeably darker color compared to most, but it gives a nice contrast to his usual monotone look
it might seem counterintuitive to wear long sleeves when heâs had all this tattoo work done on his arms - fair enough - but I donât think Simon necessarily cares to show them off. he has his fair share of t-shirts, but he really only wears them when itâs exceptionally warm out. that, or Simon has them on as an undershirt at the gym, hidden beneath his black hoodies. does the 141 poke fun at him for dressing nearly all black every time they see him? yes they do, does Simon care? no, heâs a sucker for a dark aesthetic
John âSoapâ MacTavish:
Johnny dresses like heâs ready to go to the gym, but itâs why we love him. I swear, it could be freezing outside and Johnny would be wearing short, heâs definitely one of those people, âHm? Nah, mânot cold.â, heâs actively trying to not let his teeth chatter. Johnny loves a good hoodie, especially if they have drawstrings - this man has an oral fixation, let him chew on those strings, damnit! oftentimes the drawstrings on his hoodies are fucked up and thready because heâll absentmindedly nosh on them
Iâm not afraid to say heâs the closest on this whole headcanon post to dressing like Adam Sandler - thereâs definitely been times he wore the rattiest clothes ever outside and people mistook him for being homeless. the nicest thing heâll consider wearing out is a t-shirt, zip-up hoodie, and jeans. I think Johnnyâs a little nose blind to his own scent, sometimes heâll think a hoodie is clean but he forgot he sweated his ass off in it two days ago at the gym. puts it on because⌠well, it just smells like him, surely it doesnât reek
John Price:
I had such a hard time finding photos that matched my thoughts, but when I found them? oh, these matched. Iâd like to call Priceâs look âblue collar husband comes home after workâ - do we get that vibe? simple man, he likes his blue jeans and a plain shirt. has a wide variety of nice, leather belts though, the only bit of his wardrobe he really splurges on. the simplest out of the 141, but he cleans up nicely with just a shirt and some jeans that hug his thighs just right
heâs a fan of t-shirts, the fact they show off his biceps is purely coincidence. he low-key dresses like a dad, but he rocks the look. heâs definitely the type to have vintage leather jackets, beat up, brown coats that are durable. theyâve seen better days, were new and shiny once, but John likes them a little weathered and worn. heâs not beating the bucket hat allegations
Gary âRoachâ Sanderson:
Iâd love to say âI donât make the rulesâ, but I do. Iâm putting my foot down and saying Gary dresses like this. he always wears a white t-shirt, is it the same one? does he have dozens? who knows! heâll causally swap between pants and shorts, whichever is appropriate for the weather. button ups, he owns so many. never buttons them, just wears them open over his t-shirts. itâs casual, but the simplicity of it unironically makes his outfit look super clean
Gary will dress this way until the day he dies. itâs just how he dresses, no variation unless thereâs an important event - holidays, an army shindig, I dunno, a wedding (if he could, heâd show up in his usual civvies). you would have to beg Gary to try a different style, heâs silently stubborn about it. he doesnât make a fuss if you buy him a hoodie or sweater, just know heâll throw a quiet strike by tucking it into the back of his closet
Keegan Russ:
biblically accurate Keegan Russ is a biker, what can I say. two words: leather jackets. he likes the aesthetic, owns a handful - hand-me-downs, thrifted, vintage, new. a majority of his wardrobe is black, I personally think his favorite color is blue, but he enjoys wearing black more. he likes wearing t-shirts, purposefully showing off his well-trained arms. he really only owns jeans, maybe a pair of nice slacks
you know what? gonna be honest, not much to add on, I just think Keegan is hot and would wear this haha. itâs nothing flashy, but if youâre into bikers itâs definitely eye catching. on another note, I think heâd paint his nails matte black. do I have any reasoning? no, I just think he would, or maybe just a clear coat. that, and he definitely wears silver rings. not all the time, but he does wear them on occasion
KĂśnig:
if KĂśnig isnât in fatigues he still looks blatantly military. now, I didnât include it in the board, but he has way too many pairs of khaki cargo pants. like an absurd amount - imagine a reasonable number of cargo pants and then add ten more pairs. back to the board, man cannot escape camouflage and green in general. whether itâs pants, shirts, or sweaters, KĂśnig has it in some shade of green
otherwise, he actually enjoys itchy, scratchy sweaters. you know the kind that makes your skin red after wearing it a little too long? KĂśnig eats that up, for whatever reason it feels nice to him. course, he does have standard, comfortable sweaters and hoodies. itâs a bit of a hassle to find clothes in his size though, sure they make them big, but KĂśnig would appreciate if they were more fit to his build than overly baggy. lucky for him, his mama was a seamstress and taught him how to sew - he adjusts his clothing as he sees fit (heâll still grumble about it though)
manifesting just one CoD man into being so I can play dress up with themđâ¨pretty please, I just wanna make him look so good - Soap and Roach might put up a fight thoughâŚ
thanks for reading my behemoth of a post<3 hugs and kissđ¸â¨
Can you make one for Mother's Day? I love your writings!đ¤
Motherâs Day
Pairing: John Price x Reader, Simon âGhostâ Riley x Reader, Kyle âGazâ Garrick x Reader, Johnny âSoapâ MacTavish x Reader, Gary âRoachâ Sanderson x Reader, Nikolai x Reader
Warnings: soft domesticity, parental exhaustion, implied past absences/deployment, pregnancy (Soap), sign language use (Roach), lots of fluff, tears (happy and aching), and unconditional love.
John Price:
The sound of tiny feet and hurried whispers woke you before the sun had fully stretched into the room. A scuffle. A thud. A muffled âShh, youâll wake her up!â followed by a giggle and a hissed, âYou put the jam on backwards!â
You didnât even need to open your eyes to know what day it was.
The door creaked open slightlyâtoo slowly, like they were trying very hard to be sneaky, which only made it more obviousâand then your youngest, your daughter, was scrambling up onto the bed with a triumphant little squeal.
âMummy!â
You opened your eyes to see her clutching a homemade card, glitter smudged along the corners and crooked hearts drawn in shaky lines. Her eyes sparkled as she shoved it into your hands, already wriggling beneath the blankets beside you. âI made it! Itâs us. You and me and Daddy and the boys and the dog and the bird that lives outside the window!â
Your heart swelled, impossibly full. You couldnât help the laugh that escaped, warm and already teary.
Then came the boysâyour middle child balancing a tray with suspicious toast and juice (jam definitely on backwards), your eldest walking behind him, holding the backup tray with a single rose in a chipped mug and a lukewarm cup of tea.
âHappy Motherâs Day,â they chorused awkwardly, as if they hadnât rehearsed it twenty times.
You were still blinking back tears when you looked past themâand there he was.
John stood in the doorway, leaning one shoulder on the frame, arms crossed, his beard a little more silver than last year, his eyes softer than youâd ever seen them. He didnât say anything, just watched the chaos from a distance like it was the most sacred thing heâd ever witnessed.
And maybe it was.
He was home. Home for Motherâs Day. No deployments. No sudden calls. No âIâll try, love, but no promises.â
Just John. Right there.
âBudge over,â he murmured eventually, walking in as the kids all piled around you, half on top of one another. He kissed the top of your head, fingers brushing your cheek before he disappeared againâto the kitchen this time.
And you stayed, surrounded by jam-covered toast and bent paper flowers and glitter now stuck to your pajamas, smiling so wide it ached a little.
Later, after the whirlwind of morning and mid-afternoon quieted, the house finally asleep, you found him in the kitchen.
John stood by the sink, sleeves rolled up, hands still damp from washing up. The window was cracked open, letting in the cool night air. He didnât hear you come in at firstâbut when your arms wrapped around his waist, he dropped the dish towel immediately and turned, pulling you into his chest.
You rested there for a moment, breathing him in. Soap and tea and home.
He kissed your hair and held you tighter.
âI was never any good at this,â he murmured. âThe family thing. Thought Iâd just mess it up. But then youââ His voice cracked, just a little. âYou gave me everything. These kids. This life.â
You didnât speak. Just held him closer.
âIâm sorry,â he whispered, âfor all the times I couldnât be here. When it was hard. When you carried it all alone.â
You tilted your face to his, eyes glossy. âYou were always with us. Even when you werenât here.â
He kissed you then. Slow. Full of the years and the weight and the gratitude he could never quite put into words.
In the quiet hum of the kitchen, surrounded by a house built on laughter and long nights and second chances, John Price held you like a man who knew exactly what he hadâand would never stop being thankful for it.
Simon âGhostâ Riley:
The house was quiet in the way only early morning could bringâsoft, still, and tinted with pale light breaking through the curtains. You stirred to the sound of a faint hum, low and gravelly but warm, almost like a lullaby wrapped in gravel.
Simon.
Eyes blinking open, your gaze found him across the roomâsitting in the rocking chair, the one youâd placed beside the crib for late nights and early mornings. He looked enormous in it, knees high, shoulders hunched slightly, arms wrapped around your daughter like she was something too fragile for this world.
Her little head rested against his chest, lost in the black fabric of his hoodie, her tiny hand curled into the material. And Simon⌠he had his cheek pressed to her crown, humming something soft and broken that youâd only ever heard him mutter in sleep. A tune from another life, maybe. A lullaby no one had ever sung for him.
You didnât speak. You didnât move.
Just watched himâthis man who once swore heâd never bring a child into a world like hisâhold the very reason he woke up every morning a little softer than the last.
Eventually, you rose, careful not to startle them, and padded into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. The smell drifted between rooms, warm and grounding. You sat on the couch, mug in hand, legs folded beneath youâand within a few minutes, Simon appeared.
Your daughter now slept peacefully against your chest, her cheek squished against your shirt, mouth slightly open. You brushed your hand along her back in slow, soothing strokes.
Simon knelt beside you.
It startled you, honestly. Seeing himâGhostâon his knees like that. But his eyes never left yours as he reached out and touched your hand gently, like he might break you too.
âYou do the hard work,â he said, voice hushed and frayed at the edges. âEvery bloody day.â
You shook your head, trying to smile. âYou do too.â
âNo.â He squeezed your fingers. âI⌠I missed her first steps. Her first word. I was gone.â His voice cracked, barely audible now. âBut I notice, even when I canât be here. Especially then.â
Tears welled in your eyes before you could stop them. His thumb brushed them away without hesitation.
âShe says âDadaâ now,â you whispered, and watched something in him shatter gentlyâgrief and pride folding together into something sharp and warm.
âYeah?â he rasped.
You nodded. âShe says it when she sees your picture.â
Simon blinked hard, jaw tight. Then he leaned in and kissed your foreheadâslow, lingering. One hand rested on your daughterâs back, the other still tangled in yours.
âIâm here now,â he said softly. âAnd Iâm not going anywhere today.â
You believed him.
So you sat together on that couchâcoffee cooling, baby breathing slow and steady, the world spinning outside your window.
And for once, Simon Riley allowed himself to feel the weight of home. Not as a soldier, but as a father. As yours.
Kyle âGazâ Garrick:
You heard the chaos before you saw it.
Whispers â or what the kids thought were whispers â filtered down the hallway in a flurry of giggles and shuffling feet. A crash, a yelp, someone hissing âShh! Youâre gonna wake her up!â followed by a thud and a very clear âOops.â
You blinked your eyes open just in time to hear the softest tap of little fists against the bedroom door. Then it burst open â your son, covered in flour from hair to socks, and your daughter, face painted in crooked butterfly wings, proudly carrying a tray.
The tray shook dangerously with every step, burdened by what looked like very burned pancakes, a nearly-toppling glass of orange juice, and a single, half-wilted flower stuck into a mug.
Behind them came Kyle.
Hair slightly ruffled, shirt smeared with batter, expression both proud and very, very guilty.
âHappy Motherâs Day!â the kids chorused.
Your daughter scrambled up onto the bed beside you, tucking herself under your arm with glitter still stuck to her cheek. Your son followed, dropping crumbs with every bounce, clearly thrilled with the surprise.
Kyle followed more carefully, setting the tray on your lap like it was a bomb he wasnât sure wouldnât go off. Then, without saying a word, he knelt at your side, eyes soft, fingers brushing against your flour-dusted knuckles.
âThey adore you,â he said, and his voice was low, reverent, like he was speaking the truth of the universe. âSo do I.â
Your heart ached â a good ache, the kind that came with being seen and known.
He kissed your hand, lingered there.
âI know itâs not easy,â he continued, looking up at you with something broken and full of love behind his smile. âNot with me gone so much. But you hold it all together.â
He looked around at the crumbs, the glitter, the warzone of a kitchen probably waiting behind him.
âI donât know how you do it.â
You swallowed thickly, blinking away sudden tears.
âBecause I have you,â you said simply, your hand cupping his cheek. âEven when youâre not here.â
Kyle leaned into the touch.
And for just a moment, as your daughter offered you a pancake shaped like absolutely nothing and your son tried to spoon-feed you syrup, you let yourself sit in the chaos. In the love. In the life youâd built together.
The breakfast was a disaster. The kitchen was likely worse.
But your heart â your heart was full.
Johnny âSoapâ MacTavish
You woke up already exhausted.
Your back ached. Your belly felt impossibly heavy. Your toddler â your sweet, wild little boy â had claimed your leg like a koala and refused to let go. Every step was a shuffle, every breath a bit more effort than the last. Your hands rubbed over your belly instinctively, murmuring little nothings to the baby growing inside you, half a whisper of youâre okay, Mamaâs okay, even if you werenât entirely sure you believed it this morning.
But then the bedroom door creaked open.
Soft music filtered in first â your favorite playlist, turned low, just enough to fill the silence. Then the scent of something warm and sweet: cinnamon, coffee, buttered toast.
And then Johnny. Standing in the doorway, hair still damp from an early shower, wearing that stupid apron he swore made him look âchefy,â holding a tray with wobbly pancakes shaped like hearts and a tiny vase with two daisies in it.
One flower had already started to wilt.
âHappy Motherâs Day, bonnie,â he said, smiling so wide it crinkled the corners of his eyes.
Your throat tightened immediately.
He made a show of entering the room like a server at a five-star restaurant, placing the tray beside you with a dramatic flourish and a wink at your toddler, who squealed with delight and promptly faceplanted into a pancake.
Johnny chuckled and set him back upright without missing a beat, then bent to press a kiss to your swollen belly, then your lips, and finally your nose.
âYouâve outdone yourself,â you whispered, voice thick. You felt the tears coming before you could stop them. Damn hormones. Damn exhaustion. Damn how seen you felt in this moment.
You didnât even try to fight it. The tears fell, quiet and unashamed.
Johnnyâs smile didnât falter. He just climbed up beside you, pulled you gently into his arms, and held you as you cried into his shoulder.
âNo teasing,â you warned against his shirt.
âWouldnât dream of it.â
His hands rubbed slow, calming circles into your back. Your toddler babbled happily beside you, focused entirely on dunking pancake pieces into his cup of juice.
âI see how tired you are,â Johnny murmured against your hair. âHow much you carry every day. You donât have to say it â I see it, love.â
You closed your eyes. Let yourself breathe for the first time that morning.
âIâd carry it all if I could,â he whispered. âYour aches. Your worry. The weight of it. All of it. Iâd take it in a heartbeat.â
You pulled back just enough to see his face.
âYouâre everything to me,â he said, voice thick with conviction. âEverything, bonnie.â
And in that quiet little room, with pancakes cooling, a toddler singing his own breakfast song, and a bath already drawn just for you, you believed him. With your whole heart.
You didnât need anything more than this.
Just Johnny. Just this love. Just this messy, beautiful, hard-earned happiness.
And maybe one more pancake.
Gary âRoachâ Sanderson:
The door slammed open with the force of a small stampede.
âHAPPY MOTHERâS DAAAAY!â
Two small bodies launched themselves at you like missiles â one aiming for your stomach, the other for your head. You barely managed to shield yourself before a flurry of arms, legs, giggles, and blanket-stealing chaos swallowed you whole.
You were tired â so tired. It felt like youâd been tired for years now. Motherhood never stopped. The days blurred together sometimes, a steady rhythm of lunchboxes and laundry, bedtime stories and tear-wiping. You never resented it â not really â but some mornings hit harder than others.
Today couldâve been one of those days.
But Gary was home.
Your husband stepped in behind them, quiet as ever, a cup of coffee in one hand and that familiar warmth in his eyes. His smile was soft, crooked, sleep-lined. He placed the mug on your nightstand and mouthed, Happy Motherâs Day, before pressing a kiss to your forehead.
The boys were still bouncing on the mattress like caffeinated jackrabbits.
âOkay, okay,â you groaned with a laugh. âGive your mother a minute to breathe!â
Gary chuckled silently and wrangled them off the bed with practiced ease, tossing them both over his shoulders like sacks of flour. They shrieked with laughter, arms flailing, already asking for cartoons and cereal.
A while later, you emerged from your room to the sight of a full blanket fort consuming the living room.
Pillows everywhere. Fairy lights strung haphazardly between chairs. Your sons sprawled on their stomachs with markers in hand, carefully doodling smiley faces and rocket ships all over Garyâs bare arms.
You opened your mouth to protest the mess, the markers, the inevitable chaos â but stopped.
Because Gary caught your eye and signed something quick but deliberate:
Rest.
Iâve got them.
So you did. You curled up on the couch, wrapped in a throw blanket, listening to your boys laugh and your husband play along with everything â even letting them crown him âKing of the Fort.â You drifted off somewhere between their giggles and the steady rhythm of quiet love filling the house.
That night, after dinner and sticky hands and two boys tucked into bed, Gary helped you beneath the covers. He kissed your shoulder, then your temple.
And then he knelt beside the bed, fingers moving slowly in the lamplight.
I know itâs hard when Iâm gone.
But youâre never alone.
Youâre the strongest person I know.
Your throat tightened.
You reached for his hand and held it against your chest, right where your heart ached and loved and beat just for him.
âIâm strong,â you whispered, âbecause I have you.â
He smiled.
You were tired. You were messy. You were real.
But you were loved â wholly, deeply, without condition.
And tonight, that was more than enough.
Nikolai Belinski:
The day began with giggles.
Soft, conspiring whispers outside the bedroom door. Tiny shushes. The clinking of porcelain. A near spill followed by a frantic âItâs okay!â in a little voice you knew too well.
You stayed still, smiling to yourself, playing along.
The door creaked open slowly. Your two daughters tiptoed inside like the floor might betray them â the oldest balancing a tray with tea and toast (and far too much jam), the youngest clutching a painting that looked like a sun with your smile and hearts all around it.
Both wore lopsided flower crowns, petals already falling off, but they glowed with pride.
âHappy Motherâs Day!â they shouted, abandoning all stealth at once.
Nikolai followed behind them, hair tousled, eyes soft and bright. He carried a single flower â a tulip from the garden â and wore a crown of his own, clearly handmade with too much tape and a generous helping of glitter.
âMy angels made something for their mama,â he said, voice rough with emotion, thick with sleep and something deeper. âAnd I helped. Mostly by staying out of their way.â
You laughed through the lump in your throat, sitting up to welcome them. Little arms wrapped around your waist, your shoulders, your neck. Kisses on your cheeks. Tiny hands patting your face like you might vanish if they didnât hold on.
The tray wobbled but made it safely to your lap. Toast and a slightly burnt muffin. The tea was lukewarm. The painting was already smudged.
It was perfect.
Later, Nikolai kept the girls busy outside. You heard their laughter from the garden while he patiently showed them how to water the tomatoes, letting them dig their hands into the earth. The kitchen filled with the smell of fresh bread and wild honey. Every now and then, he peeked in on you, checking if you were still resting, still warm, still smiling.
He didnât say it outright, but you could see it in the way he touched your shoulder in passing, the way he kissed the girlsâ foreheads, the way his voice softened when he said your name.
He knew how hard it was when he was away.
He knew how much of yourself you poured into keeping the house, the children, your love intact across miles and months.
And today, he gave all that care back.
That night, after bedtime stories and one more glass of water and a chorus of âjust five more minutes,â the house finally settled.
You curled up beside him on the couch, warm and content.
His arm came around your shoulders, pulling you in close. He kissed your temple, slow and lingering.
âThey have your heart,â he murmured, eyes fixed on the quiet hallway where your daughters now slept.
âAnd itâs the best gift Iâve ever had.â
You laid your head on his chest, feeling the steady beat of home beneath your ear.
And for the first time in a long while â you let yourself rest, truly rest.
You're sitting at your desk, typing away at your computer as you work, totally in the zone until there's a nudge at your chair. And then you're moving, chair turned around as Simon spins you around. You blink in surprise, before giggling softly, tilting your head back to look up at him.
He leans down, hands on the arms of your chair, blocking you in as he leans in for a kiss. When he pulls away, there's a furrow in his brows, and he grumbles quietly, "I'll be back." He's gone before you can question it.
A few minutes later, he's making his way back into the room, a screwdriver in hand. He spins you around again, before dropping to his knees by your chair. Without a word, he starts to tighten the screws on your chair.
The arms had been wobbly since you got the thing, something that you had just grown accustomed to. Never once did it cross your mind to bring it up to Simon.
You can't help but giggle softly, watching the way his arms flex as he swings you the other way so he can reach the other arm. He doesn't even glance up at you, solely focused on his task at hand.
"Thank you, Simon," you giggle out, as he rises to his feet, finished.
He leans down, catching your lips in another quick kiss, mumbling a soft, "Welcome, love."
I have brown eyes and hair and was teased within my family for it, it was probably "normal" family teasing but either I'm too sensitive (so I've been told) or it's the fact that none of them knew healthy family dynamics and always hid everything behind sarcasm and teasing and as the youngest who always wore their heart on their sleeve I was a good target ig, so I hated my brown eyes for a good long while, but now I like them.
that being said the thought of Ghost and Gaz just constantly complimenting each others eyes would've made younger me cry tbh. I still sometimes remember the "so full of shit it's reached your eyes" joke at times and cringe a little internally. Having a bombardment of compliments about brown eyes from 2 freaks like Ghost and Gaz? I'd perish methinks
The compliments that would be showered upon you would make anyone perish. Ghost and Gaz are nothing if not sincere in their commitment to a bit, or at least what started as a bit.
Ghost and Gaz are getting like a little too into it actually. Gaz is holding Ghost's face and going "Your eyes remind me of being a kid, carting along my stuffed bear everywhere I went. They're so warm and comforting, same color as his fur." And Ghost responds, "Ya got eyes like a forest, the trunks blurrin' together as ya run, big and imposing but holdin' up the sky. Like I could make a home for myself in 'em." And Gaz narrows his eyes and goes, "When did you get poetic?" And Ghost tells him, "I read books."
And then they make out sloppy style on the couch while Soap asks Price if he thinks his eyes are pretty, and Price calls him the F word.
misunderstood and unhinged @1overgurl - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag