notes: i was trying something new here, so be gentle with me; first time writing in a headcanon style and first smut, lol
kickboxing coach!sukuna who’s been running his private gym for years, tucked away in a gritty warehouse corner of the city, and has seen every flavour of wannabe walk through the door—arrogant fighters, weekend warriors, bored socialites, rich kids looking for abs. most quit by week three.
kickboxing coach!sukuna who’s mid-spar with a heavy bag when the door creaks open and you step in, fresh gear still smelling of the store, and with bright eyes, you ask for one-on-one training.
kickboxing coach!sukuna who stops the bag with one glove, sweat dripping off his jaw, pink hair sticking to his forehead, sizes you up in a single slow sweep, and snorts, already certain you won’t last.
kickboxing coach!sukuna who, when you don’t back down, just shrugs and tells you flatly that you pay for three months upfront, no refunds when you quit. not if, but when, because he knows you will quit and he’s not wasting his time.
kickboxing coach!sukuna who starts you the next day anyway. he has to take your hands, his fingers thick and calloused, to wrap them properly because your first attempt looks like it’ll fall apart after one jab. he mutters the whole time, “tighter. no, tighter. you want broken knuckles on day one?”
kickboxing coach!sukuna who expects excuses, missed sessions, and soft effort, but instead finds you fifteen minutes early for every session, already warmed up and wrapped exactly the way he showed you, so you won’t waste any moment of actual training.
kickboxing coach!sukuna who can’t take his eyes off you by the end of month one. you’re bruised, breathing like you’ve run a marathon, but every time he barks a correction, you reset and try again without whining or excuses.
kickboxing coach!sukuna who realises you haven’t missed a single day. he begins correcting your stance by placing his hands on your hips, adjusting the angle without asking, with his palms lingering half a second longer than they should.
kickboxing coach!sukuna who begins staying late to run extra pad work with you as the gym empties out. week by week, he watches your kicks sharpen, power building in your hips, balance locking in, precision tightening until every strike lands where he tells you to put it.
kickboxing coach!sukuna who starts noticing stupid little details: how your breathing steadies when you focus, the bead of sweat tracking down your collarbone, how your eyes flick to him every time you throw a combo like you’re waiting for approval. he tells himself it’s just good coaching, but he finds himself leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching you work the heavy bag for far longer than necessary. it’s irritating how hard it is to look away.
kickboxing coach!sukuna who realises, somewhere around the time you finally deliver a clean 8-step combo without him having to fix your feet, that the faster and sharper you get, the more utterly fucked he is. you’re not just improving; you’re beautiful doing it. the images of your hair sticking to your neck when you’re tired, and little victorious huffs when you nail a technique, now follow him outside the gym.
kickboxing coach!sukuna who gives you a complicated drill in your sixth month of training and holds the pads for you on his forearms. he wasn’t expecting you to nail the full combo perfectly, let alone follow it with an extra kick that flows seamlessly, entirely your own addition. it lands harder than anything before it, forcing him to take a step back as his eyes snap to yours, followed by a low, rough rasp, “don’t get cocky, brat.”
kickboxing coach!sukuna, whose control snaps when you smirk, whispering, “then make me stop, coach,” and without hesitation, kick harder anyway, power snapping through the pads, forcing him another step back.
kickboxing coach!sukuna who drops the pads and backs you into the nearest wall in one stride, hands slamming down on either side of your head, caging you in two metres of muscle and ink, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to hold his stare.
kickboxing coach!sukuna who kisses you slowly at first like he’s still proving he’s in charge, but loses it the second your fingers fist his tank top and tug him closer. he takes over with a deep growl in his chest, tracing his hot mouth down your neck as one large palm slides under your sports bra, thumb brushing over your nipple. the other hand keeps you pinned as he grinds slowly against you, so you feel exactly how hard watching you train has made him.
kickboxing coach!sukuna who exhales through his teeth, “we’re done for today,” even though both of you know exactly where this is going, before dropping to his knees, yanking your shorts and panties down in one rough pull, and spreading your thighs over his massive shoulders. the first taste of you hits like a drug, and he groans into your soaked cunt.
kickboxing coach!sukuna who eats you out like a man starved. slow licks turn into hungry, open-mouthed kisses and hard, relentless sucking on your clit. his tongue then dips lower to push between your folds, fucking you with it while his thumbs spread you wider.
kickboxing coach!sukuna who keeps going until you’re trembling and whining, fingers in his hair, hips bucking against his face. when you come, clenching around his tongue, he laps up every drop, without a care in the world that he’s drowning in you. his chest is heaving, and he’s never felt more alive than when you’re shaking apart because of him.
kickboxing coach!sukuna who stands up only when you’re dripping down his chin and shoves his shorts down to reveal a rock-hard, leaking cock slamming against his abs. he smirks as your eyes widen at the size of him, because he’s been aching for you for weeks months and finally seeing that look on your face is worth every second of waiting. “like what you see?”
kickboxing coach!sukuna who spins you around before you can answer, makes you brace your palms on the cool gym mirror, and sinks into you in one excruciatingly slow, deep thrust while cooing low against your ear, “shh, relax, you can take it.” the heat and plush of your tight walls rip another raw hiss out of his throat.
kickboxing coach!sukuna who fucks you steady at first, dragging his cock out just to thrust back in deeper, savouring every inch and every little hitch in your breath as he watches your face in the mirror. every time your eyes flutter shut because it feels too fucking good when he’s hitting that sweet spot that makes your thighs shake, his grip tightens on your hips and he growls low, “i said look. watch how well you take me.”
kickboxing coach!sukuna who leans over you, chest pressed tight to your back, mouth brushing your ear, “come on—cum for me. let me feel it.” his hips snap harder, deeper, relentlessly driving into that spot that makes your breath catch and your palms squeak against the mirror.
kickboxing coach!sukuna who feels you start to tighten, your thighs trembling against his, and slides one hand down to rub slow, firm circles over your clit. he hums against your skin, voice dropping to that low, coaxing rasp, “there you go… good girl. make a mess for me.”
kickboxing coach!sukuna who lets out a deep groan when you finally do, clenching hard around him, crying out his name, and squirting over his cock, the mirror, the mat beneath you. only then does he let go, burying himself to the hilt with a hoarse, “fuuuuck—” as he spills inside you, before both of you collapse in a sweaty, wrecked heap on the mats.
kickboxing coach!sukuna who, after catching his breath, pulls you against his chest, thumb tracing lazy circles on the marks he left on your neck, and mutters, “tomorrow’s session starts at noon. you’re gonna need sleep… and ice.”
kickboxing coach!sukuna who lies there in the quiet gym, sweat cooling on both of you, and knows this is how every session ends from now on. you’re not walking out of his gym for good.
notes: posting this because today i passed an exam of my country's kickboxing association (be proud of me), so i'm now officially licensed to deliver certified beatings. and i just need to spread the kickboxing propaganda.
also can you tell i have a crush on my kickboxing coach?
suguru’s face drops, like the nature of what you’ve just asked him is much, much worse than it is.
your best friend’s gaze slowly flicks over to the man sitting alone in front of you, typing away on his laptop only a couple yards away.
“that nanami?” he sighs.
you watch kento pause to take a long sip of whatever foamy drink he’s nursing, running lithe hand through the shaggy bangs you’ve daydreamed about more times than humanly possible.
“yes him, who else?”
“how many times are you going to ask me that this week? i don’t know.” the catty tilt in your best friend's tone is unsurprising.
it’s quiet for a bit, suguru returning to his homeowork without so much as a peep. you consider asking again, maybe rephrasing the question differently. he had to know something. anything to clue you in on whether or not your efforts to woo the campus’ hottest nerd were in vain.
suguru can feel your train of thought from a mile away, dragging a hand down his face before speaking up a little louder than he needs to.
“oh for fucks sake—kento! you single?”
you were 100% going to kill him for that. maybe sneak into his dorm and smother him with a pillow tonight. the only tangible solution to offset the way your adrenaline spikes and your stomach drops.
the man behind you perks up at the noise, scanning the library with a confused look until his attention settles on you. not suguru, but you.
the blond stands, making his way over to you, eyes narrowed with intrigue. your stomach twists, half anxiety half anticipation.
nanami stops at the edge of the table, smiling down at you with a kindness you're not even sure you deserve on account of suguru's behavior.
"so?" your best friend pries. head resting in the palm of his hand.
“well is he asking me, or are you?” nanami holds your gaze, drumming five perfectly manicured fingers against the table you kind of wish you could disappear into right now
“me— uh. sorry.” you breathe, not quite knowing what you’re apologizing for.
you glance over at suguru, silently pleading for some backup. something, anything to alleviate what will probably go down as the most humiliating confrontation of your life.
your friend obliges you, holding in a laugh while he speaks.
“y’know you should probably be nicer when a girl is asking you out.” he jests.
“is that what you’re doing?” nanami sounds perfectly composed, eyes never leaving your own. you don’t know whether to blush or flinch with how steadily he’s looking down at you through his fringe. taking in every minute expression that crosses on your face.
you clear your throat, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve.
“would you..” you’re not even sure how to phrase it without sounding ridiculous. “do you want to grab lunch sometime? like… together?” was that a solid proposal? did nanami even do lunch?
the blond pretends to mull your offer over, leaving you suspended in amber for what feels like an eternity.
“i’d like that.” nanami tells you. he sounds softer around the edges now, kinder. almost like he’s rewarding you for coming out and telling him what you wanted.
suguru could honestly win an award with how wide the smile on his face is, taunting you in your peripheral with a saccharine sweet look that says “i told you so” louder than words ever could.
𓂃 𝜗℘ dad!sukuna dealing with his rebel son after he stays out for too long. mlist.
the house is quiet. too quiet for a friday night. you lean against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching the clock tick past 12 am. sukuna sits sprawled in the living room like a bored predator, red eyes glinting in the dark while one finger taps rhythmically against the armrest.
“he’s late,” he says.
“by four hours,” you reply, trying to sound stern, “he said he was studying at kenji’s.”
sukuna snorts, unamused, before standing up, “studying. right.”
before you can protest, your husband’s already gone in the blink of an eye. you look a bit bewildered, though not really surprised, knowing he’s used some teleportation technique to seek out your child. not the first time he’s done it—that overprotective man.
seconds later, sukuna appears again with your son being held by the collar of his jacket. he lets go and drops the boy’s flailing body unceremoniously onto the floor.
“dad, seriously?” the teenager groans before scrambling to his feet, “i was literally just—”
“partying,” sukuna finishes with a nasty look, “with humans. in a basement. smelled like cheap fuckin’ drinks and desperation.”
you pinch the bridge of your nose, already knowing what’s going to happen, “ryo. . .”
“what? he reeks of it.”
the sixteen year old boy glares up at his father, “it’s called having a life. you should try it sometime.”
sukuna’s manic grin widened, fangs glinting dangerously. “careful, brat. i’ve crushed skulls for less lip.”
you step between them before the room can fill with actual malevolence. “both of you, knock it off!” you turn to your son, “you promised you were going to study for exams with your friend until 08:30. you lied. that’s not okay.”
he shifts, defiant but guilty, “i lost track of time. it’s not a big deal.”
“not a big deal until you’re stumbling home at dawn and i have to explain to the neighbors why my underage son is ‘allowed’ out until so late at night,” you said dryly.
sukuna scoffs, “let him explain. might teach the little shit some responsibility.”
your son rolls his eyes so hard you thought they’d get stuck. “you’re one to talk about responsibility. you literally beat and ate people for fun.”
you shot him a look that could curdle milk. the kid raises two hands in mock surrender. he then huffs and his shoulders slump. “fineeee. ground me. whatever. just… don’t do that shit again. dragging me back home. it’s embarrassing.”
sukuna tilts his head to study him. for a second the room was silent—father and son staring each other down, mirror images of stubborn pride.
then sukuna sighed after feeling your hand on his chest to calm him down, “tch. you’re lucky y’r mother’s soft.”
he drops back onto the couch, legs spreading wide lazily. “one week. no phone. no leaving the house except for training. and y’re sparrin’ with me tomorrow all fuckin’ day, ya hear?”
the boy opened his mouth to argue—then closed it. something flickered in his expression. not fear. respect, maybe. or at least the grudging kind.
you sigh and give your son a little headpat to comfort him of a way, knowing tomorrow is going to be a tough day for him, “both of you are impossible.”
sukuna watches him for a long moment, then smirks, “y’re still getting your ass kicked tomorrow.”
drummer!choso x reader | college au | fluff | drabble | a lazy sunday morning in the arms of your drummer boyfriend | 1k words
♡ link to my main masterlist
♡ looking for more choso? here you go!
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goodbyes - jorja smith
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Warm, yellow sunlight filters through thin linen curtains. The soft white cotton sways slightly as a gentle breeze enters through the barely-there crack in your bedroom window. Last night’s Spotify playlist is still playing quietly, on loop, again and again. Soft singing joins the harmony of the breeze, the bright hum of the city waking up outside, and the birds chirp.
You stir slightly. White sheets crumple and shift with your movements. Your eyes barely open before your hands fly to shield your eyes from the sunlight. The alarm clock beside your bed reads 10:56.
But the day doesn’t begin. Not while the tattooed, dark-haired mass behind you has his thick and strong arm wrapped around your middle; he hasn’t even shown signs of waking up yet. He grunts when you lightly tap his forearm below the covers.
Of all the seasons, spring must be his favourite. The weather outside is cool enough to hold you this close; the crisp air of winter has not yet shifted into the humidity of summer. Choso remembers how he used to hate the sound of birds outside but ever since you, he always leaves the window open just a crack because he knows you love hearing that the city is still vibrant and buzzing outside of the small paradise the two of you have created together here. He notes that you love the smell of the blossoming cherry blossoms just outside of your apartment. He will always leave the window open just a crack for you.
Feeling you move slightly under his grip, he only tightens it and pulls you closer into him, if that is even possible. Choso feels as though his frame might swallow you whole in bed right now but for a few more moments of quiet bliss, he doesn’t let his grip falter.
“I think we overslept.” You murmur.
He grunts again. “Five more minutes, doll.”
His voice is gruff and sleepy. Quiet, but serene like your mornings with him always are. He sighs softly, feeling you turn over and trace your finger down his nose, giving it a soft boop at the tip. The corners of his lips tug upward slightly but his eyes are still closed and his breathing is slow and heavy. Choso loves every morning with you in his arms like this, safe from the world and entirely his.
“I think,” You start. “Gojo’s gonna be mad if you’re late again.”
“-don’t want to leave you.”
You giggle softly. He loves hearing it and he can’t help but concede to that smile he was trying to suppress just seconds ago. A louder one escapes your lips when you feel his hands trailing teasingly further and further up your loose t-shirt. It is his of course; in fact he insists you wear his clothes, which wears you more than you wear it. But he adores the sight of you in his clothes, completely enveloped in a mixture of his cologne and the smell of his soft skin. His hands, rough from years of drumming, settle on the swell of your breast. Choso gives it a light squeeze, and a timid blush warms your cheeks.
With a soft squeeze on your flesh again, he leans his face forward into yours and brushes his nose against yours. His lips graces it next, a gentle peck. “Is my pretty girl going to be at practice with me?” He hums. “Geto wants to try Radiohead today.”
A velcro boyfriend is what you would describe Choso as. And he knows it too – he relishes the title. He wants to bring you everywhere: Concerts, band practice, the after-parties, the whole lot. Choso isn’t able to count on all his fingers and toes the amount of times the likes of Gojo and Geto have teased him about his clinginess; it’s almost as if his gravity is you. He has always been slightly resigned, and relatively quiet by comparison to his bandmates; yet, his affections for you have never once gone unnoticed by you or anyone.
Choso remembers the time before a big show, Sukuna had to pry him off of you so they could make it on stage for the countdown. There must be a tally chart somewhere in Gojo’s garage for the amount of times each band member has had to do that. You feel him chuckle slightly against your lips when you tilt your face up and capture his against your own in a shy peck. The notion that he is punching above his weight has always settled in the back of his mind and stubbornly, does not seem to budge. Once again, he pushes it to the back of his mind. Nothing gives him more peace than seeing you perched on the couch in Gojo’s garage, laptop balancing on your knees as you try to multi-task enjoying the music and getting your essays done. Nothing warms his heart more than the moments where you finally look up, see that Choso’s been zoned in on you the entire time he has been drumming away relentlessly, and give him a soft smile.
“What’s so funny?”
Choso pulls away and a large hand graces your jaw. “I just love you. I bet ‘Kuna’s jealous that I have more game than him.”
You laugh, remembering the time Sukuna joked about taking you out on a date just to get Choso to admit his feelings for you. “You’re never letting that go, are you? You know he was joking.”
He rolls his eyes, scoffing. “He was absolutely not joking. I see how he looks at you at practice.”
You swat his arm gently. “Yeah well… I’d rather kiss you anyway.”
He raises his eyebrow at you; all sleepiness from his disposition fades as a mischievous glint takes over his dark eyes. “Yeah?” He smirks, suddenly pushing the covers off of your bodies and trapping you below him. You yelp as the cold air hits your bare legs.
“Y-yeah… you’re a much better kisser.”
Choso considers for a moment and looks down at you, legs pressed together, with a hand on his chest. His hand glides down your waist to your thighs. You part your lips in the silence but nothing comes out of your mouth. He is jealous but would never let himself admit it, as if it wasn’t obvious enough already.
“Do you want me to show you what else I’m better at?”
your stoner best friend choso and you are deeeep in sexual tension, you are his girl, but not really his girl. cuddling, forehead kisses, being glued to eachothers hip, it eventually simmers down until neither of you can take it anymore. (my favourite work i've done so far) (mdni, smut with a shit ton of plot, angst (not really), fluff, comfort.)
wc: 16k || art creds: @/einrvji
smut with so, so much plot.
choso kamo is the kind of boy people notice without realizing they’re staring. he’s not loud, never one to demand a room’s attention, but something about him pulls you in, the lazy grace of someone who’s always just a little bit stoned and completely at peace with himself.
he throws the best parties on campus, the kind that aren’t just about getting drunk or high, but about the vibe. incense burning in the corner, led lights set to red or purple, trap playing softly over speakers. and yet, you’re the only one who really knows him.
you, the sweet girl who never misses a single one of his parties. the one always curled up next to him on the couch with a red solo cup of something you can barely taste, your legs draped over his lap, your cheek pressed to his shoulder. it’s always been like this. ever since freshman year, when you met him during that stupid icebreaker event on campus that neither of you wanted to go to.
somehow, you’d ended up next to him. not even talking at first. just being. and then he’d pulled one earbud out and offered it to you without saying anything, and you’d heard frank ocean’s “ivy” playing soft and crackly from his phone. you’d smiled at him, and he’d smiled back. just a little.
after that, it was like something clicked. you didn’t have to try with choso. you just existed in each other’s space like you were meant to.
you’re sweet, outgoing, a little flirty, always the first one to compliment someone’s outfit or remember their birthday. people love you for your light, your laughter, the way you make everyone feel seen.
but when it comes to closeness, to real comfort? that’s reserved for choso.
it’s a mystery to most people. you, the glittering, glowing party girl, and choso, the stoner boy who doesn’t even have social media. but it makes perfect sense to anyone who’s seen the two of you together.
you show up to his parties before anyone else does. you help him string the lights, pick the playlist, bring snacks no one asked for but everyone eats. you’re the one sitting on the counter while he rolls, sipping from a straw and babbling about your week while he nods, smiling faintly, muttering things like “that’s wild, ma,” or “yo, you’re too nice for them.”
and during the parties, you’re never far. you gravitate toward each other like magnets, slipping into place the way you always do. choso’s usually on the couch, arms stretched over the backrest, and you’re tucked under his arm without even thinking. you lean into him when you laugh. he rests his chin on your shoulder. he passes you drinks and you take tiny sips before handing them back to him with a wrinkle of your nose.
and it’s so easy. dangerously easy.
choso’s never been one to push. he’s got feelings, real ones, deeper than he’ll ever admit out loud, but he keeps them buried. not because he doesn’t want you. he wants you in a way that scares him sometimes. in quiet moments, when he’s too high and you’re asleep on his chest, he thinks about what it would feel like to kiss you. to be yours for real. but he’s content, at least for now. content to have you like this.
you give choso a kind of peace he didn’t know he was missing. before you, things were kind of blurry. background noise. but with you, it’s all color. you laugh and the whole room tilts toward you. you touch his hand and it’s like static electricity under his skin. he pretends he doesn’t notice. he jokes, he teases, he lets it pass.
because he thinks he’d rather have you like this, close and real and warm, than risk losing you completely.
and you? you love him. maybe too much.
you’ve never said it out loud, not even to maki or shoko, but you know it. you feel it every time you see him laugh at something you said, every time he lifts your chin to tuck your hair behind your ear, every time he waits for you outside class just because he felt like it. choso is yours, in a way no one else is. and you don’t know what to do with that.
maybe you’re scared to ruin it too.
it’s not just the friendship, it’s the rhythm. the quiet glances, the shared playlists, the way you always, always end up in his bed after parties, clothes still on, hearts too full.
you’ll lay there in the dark, both of you wide awake, and you’ll wonder if he feels it too. if he notices the way your breath hitches when his fingers brush your waist. if he hears the way your voice gets softer when you say his name.
but neither of you ever says anything. not really. not yet.
there’s something unsaid between you, always has been, something glowing and soft and maybe a little fragile. like the chords of “ivy” hanging in the air, too tender to touch. it’s in the way he looks at you when you’re not watching. in the way you linger at his door after a party, lip gloss smudged and heart aching. in the way he lets his hand rest on the small of your back just a little too long.
it’s a love that’s still blooming. hesitant. deep-rooted. and for now, maybe that’s enough.
maybe not forever.
~
the party’s already full by the time you get there, but you know exactly where to find him.
bass thumps through the floor like a second pulse, red lights spilling down the hallway, laughter echoing from the kitchen where someone’s poured jungle juice into a mixing bowl. bodies press close in the living room, the air thick with smoke, perfume, sweat, but none of it touches you. not really. not when you know where you’re going.
you slip past people who call your name, who compliment your outfit, who try to keep you still, but you’re already moving, already smiling like you’ve got a secret. because you do.
he’s on the couch. he always is.
slouched like he was poured there, long legs spread, a blunt pinched between his fingers. there’s a few people around him, suguru’s sitting on the floor, half-asleep against his knee, gojo’s perched on the armrest talking to some girl, but he doesn’t really look at anyone. just stares at the smoke curling above him, the red light making shadows under his eyes.
until he sees you.
choso’s head tilts slightly. his gaze sharpens, just barely. his mouth softens, corners curling up into something small, lazy, private.
“yo,” he says, voice low and smooth like honeyed smoke. “there you are.”
and just like that, you’re home.
you drop down next to him without a word, tucking your legs up on the couch, leaning into his side like you were made to fit there. his arm lifts automatically to rest behind you, and your bare shoulder brushes against his chest, skin to skin. he smells like weed and citrus and something warm, like sunbaked cotton. familiar. dangerous.
“i brought you chips,” you say, holding up a bag. “because you never remember to feed people when you throw these things.”
he laughs, soft and breathy, and takes the bag, tossing it onto the table without looking.
“you’re the only one who eats at my parties,” he murmurs, dragging the blunt to his lips. “they’re lucky you show up.”
he inhales, slow and deep. lets it sit in his chest for a moment. then he turns his head toward you and exhales, deliberately, slow, a trail of smoke that ghosts over your collarbone. it’s not on purpose, but it is. everything choso does is like that. unbothered. intimate. effortless.
your heart stutters.
“you look good,” he adds, like it just occurred to him. his eyes dip, trace your legs, the cut of your dress, the gloss on your lips. “real good.”
you smile, sweet and slow, like you’re soaking it in.
“you’re stoned.”
he shrugs. “yeah. still true, though.”
you nudge his thigh with your knee, and he smirks that lazy, barely-there grin that never quite reaches his eyes unless it’s you.
the party swells around you. bodies dance in the center of the room, the music gets louder, someone’s yelling in the kitchen about the beer pong table. but in your little corner of the couch, everything is slowed down. hazy. sacred.
he keeps passing the blunt, and you keep refusing with that little scrunch of your nose he always teases you about.
“don’t know how you come to my house every week and still don’t smoke,” he says, flicking ash into a red solo cup.
“don’t know how you survive without eating dinner like an adult,” you shoot back.
he chuckles, tipping his head back. his throat stretches long, his hoodie slipping off one shoulder to reveal the black ink of a tattoo just under his collarbone. you don’t even pretend not to look. choso doesn’t pretend not to notice.
“you missed me?” he asks after a beat, quieter now. the smoke’s made him slow, softer around the edges. more honest.
you glance up at him, lips parted. “i was here last weekend.”
“yeah, and then the whole week happened.” he shrugs, lazily. “i got bored.”
you nudge your way closer. your knee slides between his. “you say that like you don’t have other friends.”
he hums. “don’t hit the same.”
you’re both quiet for a second. it’s a thick, heady silence, not awkward, not tense. just full. full of everything that’s been building since freshman year. everything you don’t say. everything you both feel in moments like this, when you’re a little too close and he’s looking at your mouth and his hand is resting just a little too low on your waist.
you want to kiss him. god, you do. but not yet. not here.
so instead you lean forward, just enough to rest your head on his shoulder. you feel him go still for a second, then relax, melting back into you.
you stay like that. for a long time
later, when the house gets louder and hotter and someone pulls you up to dance, you feel his eyes on you.
you’re not a wild dancer, you move like you’re in your own little world, fluid and soft and smiling. some guy tries to grind up behind you and you immediately peel away, laughing as you shake your head. but when you look over, just once, you see choso watching from the couch.
his eyes are darker now. still lazy, still half-lidded, but focused. pinned on you like he’s memorizing the way your dress moves, the way your hair sticks to the sweat on your collarbone. one hand resting on his knee. the blunt long gone.
you move back to him eventually, of course you do, and he opens the space beside him again like he knew you would.
“have fun out there, superstar?” he asks, gaze flicking over you.
you shrug, settling back into him. “missed my favorite dance partner.”
he raises a brow. “you don’t dance with me.”
you grin. “exactly.”
he snorts, shaking his head. you rest your hand on his thigh, fingers splayed over ripped denim, and he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t move. just lets you stay there. touching him. like you always do.
like you always will.
when the party starts dying down and the lights dim even lower, when suguru’s asleep and gojo’s disappeared and the couch is just the two of you again, you curl into him like you belong there.
he yawns, one arm around your shoulders, hand playing lazily with the strap of your dress.
“you crashing here?” he asks, already knowing the answer.
you nod, cheek pressed to his chest. “if that’s cool.”
he makes a soft sound, something between a hum and a laugh, and dips his chin to brush his mouth against your temple. not a kiss, exactly. just a press. warm, soft. barely there.
“always.”
you smile, closing your eyes for a second. his hand is still resting on your waist, fingers tracing absent little shapes into your skin like he’s not even thinking about it.
you could fall asleep like this. you’ve done it before.
but he shifts a little, murmurs, “come on, ma. let’s get off this fuckin’ couch. my back’s killin’ me.”
you whine quietly as he moves, and he laughs again, a lazy rumble in his chest and slides an arm around your waist to help you up.
“drama queen,” he says, tugging you to your feet with effortless strength.
he doesn’t let go.
you move through the sea of red cups and leftover smoke, past the people half-passed out in the hallway, with his hand still slung around your waist. like it’s normal. like it’s instinct. your arm hooks around his middle, and you lean into his side as you walk, slow and steady, like you’ve done this a hundred times. because you have.
choso’s room is down the hall. it’s the only one with a broken doorknob and a blacklight taped above the bed, buzzing faintly. it smells like weed and clean laundry and him.
you kick off your shoes the second you walk in and collapse face-first into the unmade bed, limbs spread.
he laughs, low and indulgent, then flops down beside you.
“yo, scoot over,” he mumbles, nudgin your hip with his.
“you scoot,” you shoot back, voice muffled by the blanket.
he doesn’t argue. just lets his body melt sideways until your shoulders touch again. you shift your head onto his chest without thinking, cheek to the soft fabric of his hoodie.
and there it is again. home.
“this party was kinda ass,” you say.
“nah,” he says softly. “you were here.”
your stomach flips.
but you don’t say anything. don’t need to. you just lie there, breathing in sync, your hands curled in the hem of his hoodie while his fingers play with your hair, slow, lazy twirls that make your eyelids flutter.
“remember the first one?” you ask, voice hushed now. “the freshman-year party where we met?”
choso smiles at the ceiling. “fuck yeah. you were wearing that little white dress and yellin’ at some guy who spilled beer on your shoes.”
“he ruined them,” you murmur indignantly.
“and i was just sittin’ on the porch, watchin’ the whole thing,” he grins. “high as shit. thought you were hot as hell.”
you lift your head to look at him, one brow raised. “you still say you don’t remember how we ended up talking.”
“i don’t. swear to god.” he shrugs. “one second i’m finishing a blunt, next thing i know you’re sitting next to me like you’d been there forever.”
“i probably just decided you looked safe,” you say, settling back down. “and hot. but, like, quiet hot.”
he chuckles, slow and low. “quiet hot?”
you nod. “like… hot in a way that doesn’t try. like you didn’t even know it.”
“damn,” he mutters. “flirting with me now?”
“always.”
his hand slides down from your hair to your shoulder, warm and broad and steady.
“that’s why i fuck with you,” he says after a moment. “you’re real.”
you blink.
“like, people show up to my parties for the vibes or whatever. you show up to make sure i eat dinner.”
you laugh. “well someone has to.”
“nah, but for real,” he says. “you’ve been showin’ up since day one. always got my back. always know what i need before i even do. shit’s crazy.”
your throat goes tight. but he doesn’t sound emotional. he sounds calm. sure. like it’s just a fact of life, gravity, weed, you.
he doesn’t say it like it’s a confession.
he says it like it’s just the truth.
“you do the same for me,” you murmur, voice small.
his thumb strokes your arm, slow.
“yeah,” he says. “i know.”
the room hums with silence after that. not heavy. not awkward. just real.
he lets you lie there on his chest, the beat of his heart under your ear, the rise and fall of his breathing making you feel safe in a way nothing else does.
you shift after a few minutes, and his hand moves automatically , tugs the blanket up over you both, settles you closer, fingers smoothing over your arm like it’s second nature.
he doesn’t flirt with anyone the way he does with you. doesn’t touch anyone like this. people know you’re close, but they don’t get it.
they don’t know how choso listens to you rant for hours about your classes even when he’s half-asleep. how he always keeps snacks in his room he doesn’t like, just because you do. how he’s seen you cry at 3am and didn’t say a word, just pulled you onto his chest and played with your hair until you calmed down.
how you’ve cleaned up after every party. how you always know when he needs water. how you never smoke but you always light his blunts for him.
they don’t know that you’ve been doing this, just like this, since freshman year.
you’re not together.
but this? this is something else.
“you good?” he mumbles, his voice starting to get gravelly with sleep.
you nod, curled into his side.
“you?”
“mhmm.” he exhales through his nose, deep and slow. “don’t leave before i wake up.”
“i never do.”
he hums, already drifting.
you close your eyes.
"night, cho."
"night, babe."
and in the dark, in his bed, wrapped in the quiet warmth of choso’s heartbeat and the hush of something unspoken between you, you fall asleep.
right where you’re supposed to be.
~
the sun’s too fucking bright.
choso’s got his hood pulled low, hands stuffed in the front pocket of his faded sweatshirt, hoodie sleeves bunched at his wrists like armor against the cold. his airpods are in, but he’s not playing anything. just using them to avoid eye contact. to avoid people.
his chem lecture starts in twelve minutes. he’s not rushing.
he’s never rushing.
the quad’s half-full with undergrads moving in packs, laughing too loud for this hour. he weaves through them like a shadow, dark-eyed and slow-moving, sleep still clinging to his bones.
he hasn’t showered. hasn’t brushed his hair. smells faintly like weed and sleep and your lotion, the floral kind you always keep in your bag.
he’s halfway across the quad when he hears it.
“yo.”
he looks up.
toji.
posted up on a low wall near the main staircase, nursing a large iced coffee and wearing the same zip-up he’s worn every morning since choso met him. he looks good, like he always does, jaw sharp, eyes tired, posture loose in that older-guy way that makes people think twice about messing with him.
choso pulls out one airpod. “yo.”
“you look like shit,” toji says, amused.
choso shrugs. “feel fine.”
“late night?”
“always.”
toji grins. “bet.”
choso wanders over, boots crunching gravel, and leans against the wall next to him. toji’s got that lazy menace vibe, like he could break someone’s nose or fall asleep in the sun, it could go either way. choso respects it.
they’re not close, but they’re good.
“you throw last night?” toji asks.
“yeah. packed out.”
“heard. saw some dude getting dragged out by the neck around one.”
choso huffs a little. “sukuna. again.”
“no shit?” toji laughs. “that guy’s a walking lawsuit.”
“got blood on my stairs,” choso mutters. “ruined the rug.”
“tragic.”
they’re quiet for a second. choso watches a squirrel dart across the walkway. toji sips his coffee.
“how much you make off the door?”
“couple hundred. enough for groceries. gas. weed.”
toji nods like that’s the natural order of things. “you ever think about pledging?”
choso snorts. “nah.”
“you’d run that shit,” toji says. “turn those little rich boys inside out.”
“i’m not good with rules.”
“fuck rules.”
choso grins a little. “you sound like yuki.”
“i taught yuki,” toji says, deadpan.
that gets a real laugh out of choso, low and amused, breath curling in the cold air.
“you got chem?” toji asks after a moment.
“yeah. lab.”
“tough.”
“i'm so fucking hungover.”
toji smirks. “so. last night. you go home alone?”
choso shrugs. “nah. crashed with her.”
toji looks at him. not surprised. not shocked. just curious.
“y/n?”
“yeah.”
a beat.
“you guys together now or what?”
choso looks up, brows drawn. “nah.”
toji raises an eyebrow. “huh. figured that would’ve happened by now.”
“why?”
“you’re always with her.”
“yeah.”
“you sleep in the same bed?”
choso shrugs again, easy and lowkey like it doesn’t mean anything. like it’s normal. “all the time.”
toji whistles under his breath, grinning. “you’re a better man than me.”
“not like that,” choso mutters, looking away.
“right,” toji says, smirking. “not like that.”
choso stays quiet. doesn’t explain. doesn’t elaborate. he just lets it sit in the air between them like secondhand smoke, warm, familiar, a little dangerous.
because it isn’t like that.
not yet.
but toji doesn’t push. just nods, takes another slow sip of his coffee, and claps choso on the shoulder with a rough hand.
“you’re cool,” he says. “but if you ever fuck that up, someone else won’t be.”
choso just exhales through his nose. shrugs.
he knows,
he knows.
~
choso slouches in his stool at station 4B, safety goggles pushed up into his messy hair, long fingers lazily rotating a test tube over the bunsen flame. he’s supposed to be running a titration, but he’s running on three hours of sleep and an edible that hasn’t stopped hitting since breakfast.
there’s a small chemical fire happening at the next table over. he doesn’t care.
his partner, some girl from his gen chem section who only speaks in whispers and perfume, scribbles answers onto their worksheet like her life depends on it. she’s never once asked him to help. choso’s fine with that.
his phone buzzes in his hoodie pocket. he pulls it out without looking, thumb unlocking the screen by feel. it’s instinct. the way he always knows when it’s you.
[10:37am] you: what class r u in rn
[10:38am] choso: chem
[10:38am] you: ew
[10:38am] choso: yea
[10:39am] you: wanna meet up after?? i’m bored
[10:39am] choso: wya
the response comes fast.
[10:40am] you: bleachers behind the field. bring snacks or i’ll cry.
choso smiles.
it’s the kind of smile he never shows anyone but you. lazy. lowkey. like a secret he doesn’t need to say out loud.
he texts back a thumbs up emoji. tucks his phone away. watches the blue flame flicker under the test tube like it’s trying to tell him something.
~
the bleachers behind the athletic field are barely standing. rusted metal, cracked paint, half the steps warped from years of cleat-stomped abuse. it’s one of the only spots on campus that still feels untouched, still feels yours. people don’t hang out here. it’s too open, too weird, too quiet.
perfect.
you’re already there when he shows up, sprawled across the middle row like it’s a chaise lounge, sunglasses perched low on your nose and a bag of kettle chips open in your lap.
you perk up when you see him. smile wide and lazy. “you brought me snacks?”
he lifts a 7/11 bag in greeting.
“you’re an angel,” you say, and you sound like you mean it. choso climbs up beside you, drops the bag between you, and sits with a long sigh like the weight of the whole morning finally got the memo that it can fuck off.
he lets himself lean back on his elbows, head tipped toward the sky. hoodie sleeves pushed up to the elbow. hands ringed in silver, knuckles faintly bruised from last night. jaw sharp, neck tattoo peeking just above his collar.
you glance over at him, bottom lip tucked between your teeth for a second too long.
he doesn’t notice.
or maybe he does.
but he doesn’t say anything.
“what happened in chem?” you ask, voice slow with sunlight.
“almost set the bench on fire,” he says. “again."
you laugh, and it’s the good kind, low and warm and familiar, like something soft you wrap yourself in. “you’re gonna fail.”
“nah,” he murmurs. “i got you. you’ll cry to shoko for me.”
you shrug. “probably.”
he grins.
you eat chips together for a while in comfortable silence. people jog past on the track below, but it’s like the two of you exist in another timeline, quieter, slower, deeper. every time your shoulders bump, he doesn’t move away. every time your fingers brush in the snack bag, he lets it linger.
you pull out a cherry lollipop from your tote. unwrap it with delicate, distracted fingers. stick it between your lips and suck thoughtfully.
choso looks over. blinks once.
his throat bobs. “you eat candy like you’re in a music video.”
“duh,” you say. “gotta stay on brand.”
“your brand is slutty candy princess?”
you flash him a wink. “you know it.”
he groans into his hands. “you’re gonna kill me.”
“you’d like it.”
“maybe.”
you both laugh.
but underneath it, there’s a tension you don’t touch. not yet. not today. not when the sun is this warm and the wind is this soft and the space between you feels like a bubble no one else can pop.
“so what’d you tell toji?” you ask suddenly, pulling your legs up under you. “he asked about us, right?”
choso blinks. shifts.
“how’d you know that?”
“i just saw him talking to you this morning and you rushed of before i could catch up.”
he sighs. rubs a hand over his face. “just asked about some dumb shit, was surprised we aren't fucking.”
“oh yeah?”
“yeah.”
you hum. “what’d you say?”
he shrugs. “told him we’re just friends.”
you nod.
but your fingers are tight around your lollipop stick. “did he buy it?”
choso looks over at you. eyes half-lidded, lazy. “dunno. didn’t really care.”
you don’t speak for a second.
then—
“you know,” you say lightly, “if we were dating, people wouldn’t question it.”
he raises a brow. “you wanna date me?”
you laugh like it’s a joke. like the idea’s crazy. “obviously not. i’d ruin your whole vibe.”
“nah,” he says, quiet and cool. “you are my vibe.”
it knocks the air out of you a little.
you don’t reply.
he doesn’t push.
instead, he pulls a lighter from his pocket. a faded red bic with a sticker of a cartoon frog on the side.
“you mind?” he asks.
you shake your head. “go for it.”
he lights the joint behind the bleachers, careful to block the wind, and takes a slow hit like he’s been doing it his whole life. like breathing.
you watch the way his lips part. the way the smoke curls from his mouth. the way he blinks up at the sky, exhaling slow, like there’s nothing in the world that could ruin this moment.
he passes it to you.
you hold it between two fingers. bring it to your lips, but don’t inhale. you just like the closeness. the ritual. the rhythm of it.
“you always smell like weed and coconuts,” you say absently.
“you always smell like sleep and candy.”
“that a compliment?”
“you know it is.”
you smile.
and then, like always, you shift until your head is in his lap, knees bent, lollipop back between your lips.
he threads his fingers into your hair like it’s automatic. like muscle memory.
you don’t say anything.
you don’t have to.
“there’s a party saturday,” choso says, like it’s just a passing thought. his voice is mellow, dragged slow with smoke and sun.
you squint up at him from his lap, one leg kicking idly off the edge of the bleachers. “yours?”
he shakes his head, dragging another pull from the joint before it sizzles low. “nah. kappa’s.”
“toji’s place?”
“mhm. sukuna’s throwin’ it.”
you make a face. “ew.”
he laughs, lazy and low. “yeah, i know.”
“what kinda party is it?”
he shrugs, flicking ash off to the side. “dunno. probly loud. messy. overrun with freshmen.”
“my favorite,” you say sarcastically.
“come anyway.”
you raise a brow. “you want me to go?”
he nods, eyes still soft from the joint. “yeah. all our people are gonna be there. gojo’s bringing that speaker he stole from the rec center. suguru’s bringing weed from the plug that scares everyone but him. shoko said she’s pre-gaming at yours.”
“she didn’t tell me that,” you mutter, amused.
“she said quote, ‘i’m getting blackout on your floor so you better have mixers.’”
“classic.”
“maki’s going too,” he adds. “and yuuji. megumi. nobara. y’all can take over the kitchen or whatever.”
you snort. “we always end up doing that. turning some random frat kitchen into our private lounge.”
“better lighting.”
“less vomit.”
he taps his knuckle to your forehead. “so?”
you blink at him. “so what?”
“you comin’?”
you stretch your arms over your head, lollipop tucked in your cheek like a secret. “mmm, depends. who’s walking me home if i black out?”
he gives you a look. “me."
“who’s holding my hair if i puke?”
“me.”
“who’s dancing with me when they put on early 2000s throwbacks?”
he smirks. “you already know.”
you grin and nuzzle into his thigh dramatically. “ugh, fine. i guess i’ll go.”
“what an honor.”
“you’re welcome.”
you stare up at him for a second, at the sharp angle of his jaw, the lashes curled against his cheeks, the faint bruises of exhaustion under his eyes.
there’s something warm in your chest.
like always.
“what time’s it at?” you ask.
“late.”
“when are we getting there?”
“later.”
you smile. “as always.”
“as always,” he echoes.
you reach over, fingers brushing the side of his hoodie pocket where his lighter peeks out, red and fading, sticker peeling at the edges.
he doesn’t notice.
but you do.
you always do.
~
the sun has long since set when you’re back in your dorm.
shoko’s stuff is already half-scattered across your bed, a tote bag overflowing with lip gloss and tequila, her ripped denim skirt folded beside your pillow like it lives here. your bluetooth speaker is charging in the corner. your fairy lights are glowing dim, and the whole room smells like something between vanilla lotion and sharpie markers.
because you’re painting.
your desk is a mess of scattered brushes, scratched acrylics, and an empty matcha can you’ve been using as a water cup. right in the center sits the new bic lighter you picked up after social, jet black, perfectly smooth, untouched.
you’re painting red spider lilies across the front, his favourite.
the petals curl across the plastic like veins, wet with gloss and attention. you’re careful with the details. you’ve looked up references. you’ve done this before.
but this time’s different.
this one’s for him.
you don’t know why, exactly. maybe it’s because his old one’s going dead.
maybe it’s because you love him.
not like that.
not yet.
but in the way you know exactly how he likes his ramen. in the way he texts you “home?” when it’s late and doesn’t sleep until you answer. in the way he rolls his blunts left-handed and always lights yours first. in the way he remembers your mom’s birthday even though he’s never met her.
in the way he makes you feel safe in a room full of noise.
in the way he never tries to make you anything other than yourself.
you lean over the lighter, the brush held steady between your fingers, and add the final line of gold detailing around the petals. your breath fogs the surface. you wait for it to dry.
outside, someone blasts a bad edm remix. the party’s already pulsing down the block.
you aren’t ready yet.
but you will be.
because he asked.
because you always go when he asks.
by the time you and shoko step into the kappa house, it’s already hell in there.
there’s music vibrating the walls, some mashup of jersey club and distorted britney spears, smoke curling from doorways, the reek of beer and weed and something you hope is a vape cloud drifting from the stairs. someone’s already swinging a half-finished bottle of patrón in the foyer, and a guy in a spiked collar is passed out half-naked on the pool table. red LEDs paint the room like a warning.
“jesus,” shoko mutters, pushing through a knot of people. “it’s worse than last time.”
“that’s saying a lot,” you reply, laughing.
you pass a makeshift tattoo station set up in the kitchen, a foldable table, three guys with gloves and prison-grade guns, girls taking shots with their shirts off, someone yelling about cross-contamination. someone else is already screaming into a paper towel, gripping their friend’s thigh as ink bleeds into skin.
“how much you wanna bet that guy’s not even licensed?” shoko asks, pointing with her cup.
a few feet away, a couple is practically devouring each other on the couch, hands in places that definitely shouldn’t be public, their moans barely muffled over the bassline. you and shoko share a glance.
“ten bucks says they’ll be upstairs in five,” she says.
“two,” you shoot back.
you find the rest of your girls near the island, maki’s drinking straight from a bottle of dark rum, nobara’s yelling at some guy for calling her “sweetheart,” and miwa looks like she’s trying to spiritually leave her body.
“there you bitches are,” nobara says, throwing an arm over your shoulders. “i was gonna beat some freshman’s ass for trying to say you weren’t on the guest list.”
“i just got here!” you laugh, letting shoko pull you in tighter. “i haven’t even taken my jacket off!"
“well hurry up,” nobara insists, pouring something violently pink into a solo cup and handing it to you. “this night’s cursed already.”
you take a cautious sip, bubblegum and battery acid. “what the hell is this?”
“it’s called the thong dropper,” shoko says helpfully.
“girl.”
you let the chaos swirl around you for a bit, settling into the rhythm of things, catching up on nonsense, swapping wild stories, dodging spilled drinks and clumsy hands. nobara starts talking about some guy she hooked up with last week, rolling her eyes and groaning dramatically.
“his stroke game was so weak,” she says, slamming her cup down. “he kept asking me ‘is that good?’ like, cmon. do you not hear me faking it?”
maki snorts. “you faked it?”
“of course i did. i had to get it over with.”
shoko leans in. “rookie mistake. just tell ‘em straight up.”
“i can’t crush a man’s ego like that,” nobara defends.
“they’ll live,” maki says.
you giggle into your drink, letting the warmth buzz up your spine.
“what about you?” shoko nudges. “you getting any lately?”
you shrug, trying to hide your smirk. “define ‘getting.’”
they all ooh at that, but you wave them off.
“nah,” you add quickly. “just been… chillin’.”
nobara raises a brow. “chillin’ with who?”
you don’t answer.
you don’t have to.
because you just spotted him.
across the room, slouched low on the ratty couch like a king on a broken throne, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, blunt glowing between his fingers, is choso.
he’s got his head tipped back, laughing at something gojo just said, eyes heavy-lidded and hazy, lips pink and glossy from smoke. his legs are spread wide, rings catching the LED lights, and there’s a plastic crown crooked on his head like someone dared him to wear it and he just went along with it.
you hand your cup to shoko. “back in a sec.”
you beeline straight to him.
he sees you coming, of course. always does.
“yo,” he says, voice syrup-thick, laced in that lazy drawl you know too well. “there she is.”
you plop onto the couch next to him, thigh pressed to his instantly, as natural as breathing.
“hey, babe.”
he pulls the blunt from his lips and passes it to gojo. “you look real hot,” he murmurs, eyes scanning over you. “like… stupid hot.”
you grin. “you’re high.”
“and you’re a fucking bombshell.”
“so high.”
gojo chuckles. “he’s been saying shit like that about everyone for the last twenty minutes. told sukuna his chains looked ‘shiny as fuck’ and that he would fuck him if he was gay.”
“and i meant it,” choso says, nodding solemnly.
“sukunas a menace,” you laugh.
“a sweet menace,” choso adds.
gojo tosses the blunt into an ashtray and stretches. “aight. i’m gonna go find the aux before someone puts on country again.”
“godspeed,” you tell him.
choso watches him disappear into the crowd before turning back to you. “you good?”
you nod. “the girls are wild tonight.”
“when aren’t they?”
you smile. “mmm. party’s kinda gross, though.”
he grins. “yeah. it’s ass.”
“i miss your parties.”
he hums, dragging a slow breath through his nose. “next week, tuesday.”
“a tuesday party?”
“hell yeah.”
you laugh softly, eyes dropping to the front pocket of his hoodie. his lighter’s there again, the red one. the same one from earlier, edges worn down like it’s been used a thousand times.
without saying anything, you reach into your jacket pocket.
he watches you curiously as you pull out the lighter you painted, black and glossy, the spider lilies blooming across the surface in blood-red ink and gold veins.
you hand it to him wordlessly.
his fingers brush yours as he takes it, and something in his face shifts, softens, quiets.
he turns it over slowly in his palm, eyes scanning every detail like he’s memorizing it.
“you painted this?”
you nod.
“ma…” he says under his breath, almost like it’s too much. “yo. this is… this is fucking beautiful.”
“your other one’s dying,” you say, a little shy now. “figured you needed a new one.”
he’s quiet for a second, blinking slowly.
then,
“you’re such a fuckin’ angel.”
you laugh. “it’s literally just a lighter.”
he doesn’t let his gaze leave it. “nah. it’s you.”
you blink.
he says it so casually. so high. so him.
like it’s just a fact.
you don’t say anything, and neither does he. the music swells. the lights flicker. people scream and laugh and break things somewhere in the background.
but right now, it’s just the two of you, and a lighter between your palms.
“you’re gonna make me cry,” you joke, even though the way he keeps looking at the lighter makes your chest feel a little too full.
choso doesn’t answer, just keeps running his thumb over the curves of it like it’s some delicate artifact, black with the glossy gleam of fresh paint, those red lilies blooming across the surface like blood in water.
he flicks it once. flame bursts up.
“perfect,” he mumbles.
“it works?”
“better than my soul, babe.”
you laugh, leaning your head against his shoulder, and for a few seconds everything around you falls away, just the throb of the music, the warm press of him, and the soft flicker of that tiny orange flame between his fingers.
you sit like that for a little while, talking about nothing. him complaining about a group project he hasn’t started. you teasing him for skipping chem lab again. him promising you some “next-level weed” for tuesday’s party that “tastes like peaches and existential dread.”
his voice is slow, syrup-thick, a little slurred at the ends. he’s stoned, clearly, but you’re used to this. used to the way he leans into you when he’s like this, heavy and unguarded, every thought coming out a little slower and more unfiltered. it’s a version of him that doesn’t get tired of looking at you.
he tugs at the hem of your jacket playfully. “you gonna stay with me tonight?”
you raise a brow. “didn’t plan on going anywhere else.”
he grins, that sleepy smile that makes your heart tick funny.
then your name cuts through the room, pitched over the music.
“oh shit,” you say, glancing over your shoulder. “they’re calling me.”
choso hums, not looking away. “tell ‘em i said hi.”
you hesitate for a second, not wanting to leave the warm bubble you’ve curled into. but shoko’s waving you over, and maki’s already halfway across the room with a bottle in her hand and trouble in her eyes.
“i’ll be back,” you say, giving his knee a squeeze as you get up.
he watches you go, eyes dragging over your silhouette, that sway in your hips, the flash of your smile as nobara yells something at you that makes you laugh and flip her off in the same breath.
then he’s alone.
not really, the house is packed, pulsing with bodies and music and smoke, but alone in the way that matters.
the lighter’s still in his hand.
and it won’t stop looking like you.
'she fuckin’ made this.'
that thought loops through his head in lazy spirals. he stares down at it like he’s still not fully processing that it’s his now, the way it fits so perfect in his palm, like you painted it with him in mind, like you know his hands that well.
(which you do.)
'what an angel', he thinks again, your face still ghosted in his mind.
he’s high. so high. his body feels like a heartbeat, slow and deep and pulsing warm. and the lighter, it keeps dragging him back to that moment on the couch, your thigh against his, your fingers brushing his, your quiet little smile when he lit it up for the first time.
'she always does shit like this. just makes stuff better. without even tryin’.'
it hits him all at once, sudden and full-body.
he needs to mark this. this moment. this feeling.
he’s already pulling out his phone before the thought’s even fully formed, scrolling through the camera roll he swore he didn’t care about but secretly checks too often. blurry candids, selfies with you curled against his chest, that pic from two weeks ago when you were looking up at him from the floor of his room with a red gummy in your mouth and sleep in your eyes.
he pauses there.
your eyes in that picture. big, soft, glassy, sexy.
his thumb hovers over the screen.
“yo,” a familiar voice calls, sauntering through the haze. “you look fried.”
sukuna.
choso glances up. “am fried.”
sukuna grins. “figured. that couch is cursed, by the way. guy got a blowie on it last week during pong night.”
choso shrugs. “adds flavor.”
they lean on the wall together, easy silence for a second.
“you see the tat guys?” sukuna asks, chin-jerking toward the kitchen. “someone just got a fucking worm on their calf. like a literal earthworm. said it was ‘symbolic.’”
choso laughs, low and thick. “symbolic of what?”
“dunno. being dirt, i guess.”
he doesn’t respond. just looks back at his phone.
sukuna raises a brow. “you good, dude?”
“yeah.”
“you look like you just had a vision.”
choso finally meets his eye.
“yo,” he says slowly. “you ever just feel something and know you gotta do somethin’ about it right now or you’ll bitch out?”
sukuna squints. “uh. like what?”
choso doesn’t answer.
instead, he pushes off the wall, hoodie slipping off one shoulder again, lighter still clutched in one hand, phone in the other, and starts walking.
sukuna watches him go, a little amused. “damn. alright.”
the air is thick with smoke and bass as he weaves through the crowd, bumping shoulders, dodging a girl dancing with her heels off and her hair in her face.
he reaches the makeshift tattoo stand.
it smells like rubbing alcohol and regret.
“yo,” he says, voice smooth as silk and twice as slow.
the guy behind the table, ink sleeves up to the neck, black gloves, sunglasses indoors, glances up.
“what’s up, man?”
choso leans down slightly, eyes low-lidded and unreadable, body loose and stoned and sexy in that careless way he always carries.
he holds out his phone.
“can you do this,” he asks, “on my arm?”
the artist blinks, then looks at the screen.
it’s a close-up of a girl’s eyes, wide, seductive, yet still glowing with laughter. looking up at the camera like whoever took the photo was the only thing in the world.
looking up at him.
choso taps the screen once. “those are hers.”
the guy raises a brow. “like… your girl?”
choso shrugs one shoulder. his eyes never leave the photo.
the buzz of the needle starts soft, a low, persistent hum, and choso doesn’t even flinch. he just leans back, one arm draped lazily across the armrest, hoodie shoved halfway up his bicep where the artist wiped him down with alcohol. his eyes are half-lidded, bloodshot from whatever gojo rolled earlier, but locked on the phone he’s holding out in his opposite hand.
the picture’s still up. her eyes, warm and wide, lashes curled, looking up at him like she trusts him with her whole heart.
“pretty,” the tattoo guy mutters, angling a small light to get a better look as he sketches the stencil. “yours?”
choso’s mouth curves slow. doesn’t answer right away. just flicks his lighter open and closed, click, click, click, the red spider lilies catching the light each time.
then finally:
“nah.”
the guy hums. “girlfriend?”
he huffs a little, amused. “not that either.”
he sets the lighter down on the table beside him, keeps his eyes on the screen.
“she’s just,” he pauses, then shrugs, soft and slow, “her. y’know?”
the artist side-eyes him. “deep.”
choso smiles again, eyes unfocused. “nah, i’m just fuckin’ high.” the guy presses the warm stencil into choso’s arm, smooths it into place.
“you sure you wanna do this while you’re, uh,” he glances at choso’s glassy expression, the faint grin still tugging at his mouth, “clearly not sober?”
“i’m not wasted,” choso says lazily. “and i’m not dumb. it’s not a mistake.” the artist nods once, respects it. “alright, man.” he flips on the machine again, lines it up.
“you done this before?” choso grunts a laugh. “y’think i got these in my sleep?” he gestures vaguely at the black ink already crawling across both arms, jagged, abstract lines, constellations and waves, some faded with age. some done in basements like this one. “first time sober was the weirdest one.”
the guy snorts. “fair.”
the needle hits skin.
choso exhales slow. doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift, doesn’t even blink hard. just stares at the wall across the room, jaw slack, hoodie sliding off his shoulder, the buzz settling into the meat of his arm like a low hum of intention. “you ever tattoo someone like this before?” he murmurs after a beat.
“like what?”
he shrugs again. “someone who’s… y’know.” the guy doesn’t answer right away.
choso elaborates, voice softer this time. “she’s not mine. i don’t want her to be. not right now. it’s not like that. it’s just…” he trails off, brows furrowing a little, tongue tucked against the inside of his cheek.
“she just means somethin’. don’t got a word for it.”
the artist doesn’t look up from his work, but his tone’s gentler when he speaks again. “yeah. i’ve seen that before.” choso sinks deeper into the chair, breathing even. the pain’s dull and constant, but it grounds him. keeps his thoughts from spiraling too far out, keeps his high in this exact moment.
“you think she’d be mad?” he asks, voice airy. “if she saw it?”
“dunno,” the guy says. “you gonna tell her?” he blinks slow, head rolling back against the headrest.
“nah.”
another pause.
“not now. it’s just for me.” the tattooer gives a small nod. “that’s real.”
a silence settles between them, the steady hum of the needle, the sound of someone vomiting into a bush outside the window, a muffled scream from the beer pong table two rooms over.
“looks good,” the artist murmurs, wiping excess ink from the forming lines of the eyes. “she’s got crazy lashes.”
choso huffs out a small laugh. “she’d fuckin’ love that you noticed that.”
“yeah?”
he smiles again, softer now. “talked about lash serum for like a week. gave me a whole presentation.”
the guy chuckles under his breath. “sounds like she talks a lot.”
choso closes his eyes.
“she talks just enough.” the buzz continues. the lines take shape. her eyes, right there, etched into his skin. not to claim. not to confess. just to remember.
just for him.
~
the buzz dies down gradually, tapering into a low hum before the artist finally flicks the switch and pulls back. the sudden quiet settles like a heavy blanket over the both of them, just the soft thud of bass from the next room and the subtle scrape of latex gloves against skin.
“alright, man,” the artist says, leaning back with a stretch. “done.”
choso blinks slow, still slouched deep in the chair like he’s been there for hours, like the cushion molded around his bones. he lifts his head, eyes hazy but laser-locked on the strip of bandage being pressed to his upper arm.
“yo, hold up, lemme see it before you cover it,” he says, voice low and hoarse from either weed or reverence, maybe both.
the guy lifts a brow, but obliges. carefully wipes the skin one last time, blood and excess ink coming away in soft red-black smears. the room’s fluorescent lights hit the raw lines at an angle, shining off the freshly tattooed skin like it’s something holy.
and fuck.
there it is.
your eyes.
wide and soft and open, curved lashes sweeping upward in a way no stencil should’ve captured but somehow did. that quiet way you look at him, like he hung the stars, like he’s yours even if the two of you never say it out loud. inked permanent on the soft part of his bicep, nestled between a set of waves and the jagged edge of a half-finished constellation.
for a second, he doesn’t speak. doesn’t move.
he just stares.
it hits him slow, like a good edible, starts behind his eyes, low and warm in his chest, then spreads.
yo.
he’s obsessed.
like fully, all the way, brain-meltingly obsessed.
he turns his arm slightly under the light, eyes tracing the lines, the slight curve of your upper lid, the detail around the corners like you're mid-laugh or mid-thought or both. it looks exactly like you, his favorite version of you. the version that looks up at him like nothing else exists in the room.
god.
you look good on him. not in the possessive way. not even close. it’s not that.
it’s something else. something way quieter. something he can’t even name when he’s sober, and definitely not now, baked out of his skull with his arm still tingling and his hoodie falling half off.
but still, he’s wearing you now. and it feels like something that’s always been true, just waiting for the ink to make it real.
“you good?” the artist asks, half amused, already reaching for the plastic wrap again. “yeah,” choso says, slow, mouth crooked into a lazy grin. “looks fuckin’ sick, dude.” the guy chuckles under his breath. “kinda figured you’d say that.”
“you killed it,” choso adds, finally dragging his eyes off the tattoo. “like, actually.”
the artist nods, pleased. “appreciate it. was fun as hell to do, honestly. you sure you don’t want her name or somethin’? under it?” choso snorts. “nah. that’d make it weird.”
“fair.”
he watches the guy gently press a clean dressing over the fresh ink, tape it up. the sensation’s a dull sting under his skin, not quite pain, just awareness. a reminder that it’s real now. that it’s his, for good.
she doesn’t know. you might never know. and that’s kinda the whole point. he’s not gonna flash it at you mid-party or say anything slick when you sit beside him later like you always do, throwing your legs over his lap and stealing his drink.
nah.
this one’s just for him. a secret under his sleeve, tucked into the curve of his body like a memory.
“you gonna keep it under wraps?” the guy asks, like he can read choso’s whole plan off his face.
“yeah,” choso mutters, grabbing his hoodie and tugging the sleeve back down with a practiced flick. “at least for now. don’t need her freakin’ out or nothing.”
“bet,” the guy says with a short laugh. “i get it.”
choso stands slow, body still heavy from sitting too long and smoking too much. he sways a bit but rights himself, shaking out his arms like he’s just come up from underwater. the whole basement smells like blood and rubbing alcohol and resin, but it’s warm, and the energy buzzes low and steady around him.
he digs in his pocket for a few bills, slaps them into the artist’s open palm.
“appreciate you, man.”
“anytime, bro. take care of that, don’t go dunkin’ it in a keg or anything.” choso grins. “no promises.”
he walks out with his hoodie draped low, sleeve tugged all the way to his wrist despite the heat and the crowd and the chaotic press of bodies funneling in from the hallway. music floods back in slow, a pulse of bass syncing up with his own heartbeat.
but he can’t stop thinking about it. every step he takes, every time the sleeve brushes against the fresh ink, it reminds him.
not of what they are.
but of what you mean.
upu didn’t need to give him that lighter. you didn’t have to think about him in that little quiet way you always did, like he’s more than just a weed plug or the guy you party with every weekend. that little moment, just you in your dorm, painting red spider lilies on a bic you knew he’d never throw away? that shit went straight to his chest. and now you're on his skin. maybe you'd freak out if you saw it. maybe you'd cry. maybe you'd laugh.
maybe you'd get real quiet and never say anything again. or maybe you'd look at him the way you did in that photo. maybe you'd look at him like you knew.
but all that’s for later. for now, he’s just stoned as hell, arm warm and throbbing, and so unbelievably content that it’s almost embarrassing.
he spots gojo again across the room, already perched on the arm of someone else’s couch with a red solo cup and a grin like he owns the house. choso veers toward him, slips back into the noise like he never left.
sleeve tugged down.
lighter in his pocket.
eyes on his arm, just for him.
~
later that night you navigate yourself back to choso after your banter with the girls.
you spot him sunk deep into the cushions, hood half up, curls falling into his face, a bottle of water in one hand and his eyes half-lidded and sleepy with that lazy high he wears better than anyone. he’s surrounded, gojo splayed on one armrest like he owns the place, sukuna lounged sideways with his feet on the table, and suguru perched on the edge, nursing a half-finished blunt.
“yo, look who it is,” gojo grins as you walk up, already clocking the way you move like you’re headed home, not just to a guy. “princess finally found her prince.”
you don’t say anything, just slide right into the little space at choso’s side like it was made for you. his arm shifts automatically, pulling you in like it’s instinct, and you tuck your face into his shoulder, letting out the softest exhale. you can feel the thrum of his voice in your cheek when he speaks.
“hey, ma.”
his hand’s warm against your hip, steady, grounding. he smells like weed and cedar and the faintest trace of paint from the lighter you gave him. it’s in his pocket now, safe like something sacred.
“so anyway,” suguru picks back up like you didn’t just crash-land in choso’s lap, “i’m telling you, the guy had no idea what he was doing. tried to roll with a swisher, no guts, just dumped the weed in and twisted the end like a fuckin’ lollipop.”
“god, not the lollipop roll,” sukuna groans, dragging a hand over his face. “freshman?”
“of course it was a freshman,” gojo says, grinning. “those little guys think watching one youtube tutorial makes them bob marley.”
“yo, remember that one dude at the delta party?” choso says, head tilting back slightly. “rolled a joint with a bible page.”
“amen,” sukuna snorts.
“nah, for real,” choso laughs, hand tightening just slightly where it rests on your side. “he said it made the high holier.” you huff against his hoodie, and his fingers flex like he felt it, like it was the best sound he’d heard all night.
they keep going, weed stories, party war stories, the dumbest shit they’ve ever seen in a frat house at 3am. it’s relentless, loud, chaotic, but you stay quiet, tucked against choso’s side like he’s the only still thing in the room. his thumb runs in slow circles against your waist through the fabric of your top, and you feel the way he laughs before you hear it.
“yo,” gojo says, leaning across suguru to point at choso. “what’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done at a party?”
“besides adopt a girlfriend he doesn’t kiss?” sukuna adds. choso blinks slow. doesn’t rise to the bait, doesn’t even twitch.
“probably that time at theta when i fell asleep in the bathtub and woke up with a raccoon in my lap.” suguru chokes. “you serious?”
“deadass.”
“was it… alive?”
“bro. it was chillin’. just vibin’ with me.”
“you probably hotboxed the tub,” gojo says, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “raccoon was just tryna get high.”
choso grins, soft and slow, and you nudge your nose into his hoodie like you’re hiding your own smile. “what about women?” sukuna says suddenly, eyes glinting like he’s fishing. “y’all ever hook up at your own party?”
“you’re disgusting, that's against reg” gojo tells him cheerfully.
“don’t lie,” sukuna drawls. “you know you have.”
“alright, once,” gojo admits. “but i kicked her out after because she tried to name my bongs.” “you’re heartless,” suguru says, deadpan.
“you don’t name the bongs,” gojo insists. “they earn names. it’s sacred.”
“what about you, choso?” sukuna’s gaze cuts sideways. “you got bodies stacked in your stoner dungeon?” choso hums, slow and easy. you feel the low sound in his chest, pressed flush to your cheek.
“nah,” he says. “i don’t hook up with girls who don’t know how to roll.” the boys howl, gojo nearly falling off the couch.
“that’s so on brand,” suguru laughs. “you need standards,” choso mumbles, amused, and leans his cheek briefly against the top of your head.
the lighter’s still in his pocket. his arm’s still over your shoulders. and beneath the sleeve of his hoodie, hidden from the world, your eyes are inked into his skin.
you shift a little, just enough to tuck your legs under yourself, settling more fully into him, and he adjusts without thinking — arm around you tighter now, palm spread warm across your ribs, thumb grazing your side through the fabric. he’s careful. doesn’t let the hoodie ride up. doesn’t let anyone see. the tattoo’s still fresh, still tender, and it’s just for him.
“yo, you good?” suguru asks, nodding at him. choso blinks slow. “yeah man’.”
“that weed hit hard,” gojo says. “i feel like i’m seein’ sounds.”
“you tryna kill someone?” suguru laughs. “every time i hit one, i feel like my soul’s leaving my body.”
“shit’s a rite of passage,” sukuna shrugs.
“nah, a rite of passage is hosting a rager with a cop at your door and acting like you live there,” gojo grins. “have you?” choso asks, amused.
“bro, i’ve answered the door in a bathrobe before,” gojo says proudly. they all crack up again. you don’t say anything, but your smile’s pressed right into choso’s chest, and he dips his head for a second to nuzzle his nose into your hair.
“she’s real quiet tonight,” suguru says, noticing. “nah, she’s just comfy,” choso says easily. “she don’t need to talk when she’s like this.”
you don’t. not when you’ve got his warmth, his arm around you, his voice rumbling low in your ear with every lazy joke. it’s always like this, like no one else in the room really matters, like you could fall asleep right here and he’d keep the world spinning while you did.
“that’s love,” gojo says mock-serious.
“shut up,” choso mutters. but he doesn’t stop smiling. and the lighter’s still warm in his pocket.
and your eyes are still inked into his arm, safe and secret beneath layers of cotton and smoke.
~
the house is still going when you two finally get up. it’s past 2am, maybe closer to 3, but the music hasn’t let up and there’s still people on the floor, drinks in hand, voices loud and slurred over each other. someone’s passed out with a sharpie mustache, another guy’s making out with a pillow. classic kappa chaos.
choso’s the one who moves first. you feel it in the way his arm shifts, in the soft brush of his thumb against your side like a nudge. he leans in close, voice barely above a murmur.
“you good to dip?”
you nod into his hoodie, eyes half-lidded, heart heavy with warmth and weed.
he helps you up slow, palm steady at your back. when you stand, the cold air from the open back door hits your legs and you shiver a little, instinctively leaning back into his side. he shrugs his hoodie higher and throws an arm around your shoulders like he already knew it’d happen.
“yo,” choso calls out over the couch, voice scratchy and low. “we out.”
gojo perks up from where he’s still posted with a half-spilled drink, eyes bright. “tell your girlfriend goodnight for us.”
you don’t say anything, just press your face into choso’s shoulder again, and he laughs under his breath.
“night, man,” suguru says with a nod, already halfway into rolling another blunt.
sukuna lifts a hand lazily. “text if you end up in a ditch.”
“if i do, i’m takin’ you with me,” choso mutters.
they all laugh again, and it follows you both out the front door, the porch light buzzing weak and yellow above you. the night’s cooler now, quiet in a way that makes everything feel soft around the edges. your heels click against the pavement as you walk, but only for a second, choso notices and without a word, crouches down in front of you, glancing back over his shoulder.
“get on.”
you blink, amused. “seriously?”
“c’mon, ma,” he mumbles, tugging at your wrist. “your feet hurt.”
you climb onto his back with a little laugh, arms wrapped loose around his shoulders, and he stands like it’s nothing, steady under your weight. his steps are slow and sure down the sidewalk, the frat house lights shrinking behind you, the sounds of the party fading with every step.
“you always take care of me,” you mumble against his neck.
he hums low. “’course i do. you're my.. best friend.”
you walk like that for a while, his hoodie soft against your cheek, his hair brushing your face every time the wind shifts. he doesn’t say much, just hums sometimes or comments on dumb shit you pass, a traffic cone in a bush, a raccoon on the curb that freezes when it sees you, like it knows choso somehow.
he sets you down once you’re close, only when his own building’s steps are in sight. his hand stays in yours as he leads you inside, up the stairs, past the other bedrooms where people are either passed out or definitely not sleeping. his door clicks shut behind you with a soft thud, and everything goes quiet.
his room’s the same as always, warm, dim, the faint smell of weed and whatever incense he burned earlier in the week still lingering in the corners. one sock on the floor, a hoodie thrown over the back of his chair. you’ve been here a hundred times, maybe more.
but tonight feels different. softer. warmer.
he pulls his hoodie off slow, careful of the sleeve, and tosses it toward the desk chair. the bandage underneath catches the light for a second, but he turns before you see too much.
you toe your shoes off and crawl onto the bed without thinking. he follows, slower, body still heavy with high and heat and something else he can’t name.
you’re both under the blanket when he finally speaks.
“hey.”
you look over, curled on your side facing him.
his eyes are half-lidded, soft. one arm tucked behind his head, the other stretched toward you, palm open on the comforter like he’s offering it.
“i really fuckin’ love that lighter.”
your heart stutters a little. “yeah?”
he nods, slow. “like… a lot. been using it all night. even switched pockets for it, kept checking to make sure it didn’t fall out or get swiped.”
you smile, something small and full blooming in your chest. “good. it’s supposed to be yours.”
“feels like it.”
he looks at you for a long second. the space between you shrinks until his arm slides around your waist and pulls you in close.
you go easy, always do, settling into him like he’s your own bed, your own pillow, the place you always end up no matter how far you drift.
he breathes in slow, his nose brushing your hair.
“the flowers… why’d you paint those?”
you press your face into his chest.
“they reminded me of you,” you say quietly. “red spider lilies. they’re kind of… complicated. people think they’re about death or goodbye, but they also mean memory. rebirth. starting over. they grow in all the places nothing else does.”
choso’s quiet for a second.
then, soft, “you think i’m like that?”
you shrug against him, voice even softer. “i think you’re the kind of person who sticks. who stays even when shit gets hard. and you don’t always say how you feel but… you’re steady. like those flowers. like fire.”
he exhales slow.
“fuck, ma.”
“what?”
“you’re gonna make me cry or some shit.”
you laugh, a quiet huff against his chest. he wraps both arms around you now, tucking you into the space beneath his chin, his hand sliding up into your hair.
his fingers stroke slow, gentle. again and again.
“you can cry,” you mumble. “i won’t tell.”
he chuckles low, the sound vibrating through you.
“nah, i’m good. just… i dunno. not used to someone thinkin’ about me like that.”
you don’t say anything. just curl closer, your fingers fisting lightly in the fabric of his shirt.
the room settles into silence. soft and slow. your breaths even out together.
his hand keeps stroking through your hair, steady and grounding. like he could do it forever. like maybe he will.
his voice comes again, quieter this time.
“gonna keep that lighter forever.”
you smile, eyes fluttering shut. “good.”
“not even gonna let gojo touch it."
“definitely good.”
his lips brush your hair, a ghost of a kiss.
you feel it all, the warmth, the safety, the way his body curls slightly to fit around yours like a shield, like a home.
his heartbeat’s slow against your cheek.
“night, ma,” he whispers, already half-asleep.
you murmur it back, voice slurred with sleep, breath syncing with his.
his fingers keep moving, slow circles through your hair.
and in the soft dark, beneath the blanket, beneath the silence, his arm curls around you just enough to press the fresh ink on his bicep to your side, a quiet secret. a permanent truth.
just for him.
just for tonight.
just for you.
~
~
it’s been a chill afternoon, sun’s out, classes dragging, brain fried. choso’s walking out of the lab building with his earbuds in, hoodie half-zipped, replaying your last message in his head. a pic of your shoes kicked off under a library table, captioned come save me, three broken hearts. made him smile. still does.
he’s almost past the quad when a shadow cuts across the sidewalk.
“yo, choso.”
doesn’t need to look up to know who it is.
that voice, too smooth. familiar in the kind of way that feels like smoke curling up your back.
he pulls one earbud out and slows.
toji’s leaned against the trunk of an oak tree like he’s been waiting. sunglasses on, black tee snug across his chest, arms crossed like he’s got all day. his smirk’s already half-there.
“what’s up?” choso mutters.
“you got a sec?”
choso gives him a long look. he knows toji. knows the kind of calm that means something’s coming.
“…yeah,” he says anyway.
they walk.
they’ve done this before, that time a few weeks ago before his lab, once or twice after parties, when everyone else was loud and drunk and messy. toji’s always been different. sharper. like he watches the room just to see where it bleeds.
“how’s life at delta mu?” toji asks after a few steps. casual. fake.
“same shit.”
“yeah?” he smirks. “you still throwing those weed parties with your little mascot?”
choso’s jaw ticks. “you mean y/n?”
toji chuckles. “yeah. her.”
he tosses a glance sideways. too casual.
“she’s got some energy, huh? always bouncing around, arms all over you. she like that with everybody or just you?”
choso doesn’t answer. toji doesn’t need one.
“nah, i’ve seen it,” he continues. “always tucked up next to you. on your lap. wrapped around your arm. clinging to your hoodie like it’s the last blunt in the world.”
he laughs under his breath. “kinda cute.”
choso’s fists go deep in his pockets.
“she’s just like that,” he says flatly.
toji hums. “you sure?”
choso looks over.
“what’s your point?”
“just wondering,” toji shrugs, still smiling like it’s harmless. “you’ve told me before, you two aren’t dating.”
“we’re not.”
“but you hang out every day.”
“yeah.”
“sleep in the same bed sometimes, right?”
choso’s mouth tightens.
toji grins like he caught something.
“so she’s single?”
choso stares straight ahead.
“…yeah.”
“good to know.”
silence.
the wind brushes through the quad. students chatter behind them. someone’s playing music from a bluetooth speaker in the grass, something smooth, almost romantic. it doesn’t help.
“she’s just real… open, you know?” toji says. “like, warm. sweet as hell. makes you feel like you’ve known her forever.” choso stays quiet.
“i ran into her the other day,” toji adds like it’s nothing. “outside the gym. we talked for a sec.” his tone is lighter now. teasing. like he’s digging.
“she remembered my name. smiled real nice, too. said she was headed to meet you.”
no surprise there. you always say where you're going. always talking about choso like he’s the center of your world. and maybe that’s why this stings. and toji knows it.
“you ever wonder if she does that for you?” he asks. “tells other guys she’s headed to see you. uses your name like a shield.”
he doesn’t wait for a reply.
“or maybe it’s just habit. maybe she’s comfortable. you ever think about that?”
“don’t do this.”
choso’s voice is low now. warning. toji just smirks.
“look, man. i’m not trying to piss you off. just… trying to understand. ‘cause you act like you’re her boyfriend, but then you say you’re not.”
he tilts his head.
“so which is it?”
choso breathes slow through his nose.
“we’re close. we’ve always been close. that’s it.” toji nods. like he buys it.
but he doesn’t.
“damn,” he says. “you got more patience than me.”
“what’s that mean?”
“means if a girl like that was pressed up on me every night, i wouldn’t be wasting time calling her my friend.” he says it with a grin, but there’s something sharp underneath.
“you really never tried?” toji asks. “never kissed her? not once?” choso doesn’t respond. he can’t. he kisses you all the time, on the head, never on the lips.
because the truth’s stuck in his throat, the way you fall asleep in his arms, the way you hold his lighter like it means something, the way you always come back to him like he’s home. and he’s the dumbass who never claimed you.
“so she’s single, then?” toji repeats.
“yeah,” choso says, quieter than the first time, barely above a whisper.
toji gives him one last nod.
“fairs,” he says. “just wanted to be sure.” and then he walks away. choso doesn’t move. not for a long time.
just stands there, fists clenched, teeth gritted, watching toji’s silhouette disappear down the path like it’s a threat, because it is. he knew.
he knew before he asked.
and now he’s coming.
because choso left the door wide open.
and you?
you’re free to walk through it.
~
choso’s room, late in the afternoon.
your legs are curled under you on choso’s bed, hoodie three sizes too big hanging off your shoulder, his, of course. the windows are cracked open, letting in the soft hum of birds and the echo of some guys yelling down at the basketball court. his room smells like incense, sage and something deeper, something him, warm, sleepy. you’ve been here a hundred times like this. maybe more.
his hoodie sleeves keep sliding past your wrists as you text, thumbs quick, quiet smile pulling at your lips. he’s across the room, digging through a drawer for his rolling tray. you can feel his presence without even looking. you always do.
“yo, did you move my grinder?” he calls, glancing over his shoulder.
“nope,” you answer, distracted, fingers still flying over your screen. your phone lights again.
toji [3:04pm]: you looked cute at that mixer last night.
you bite your lip. thumbs hover.
then you type:
you [3:07pm]: oh, so ur stalking me noww?
you don’t see choso pause. you don’t see how long his eyes linger on your phone. you don’t realize he saw the name, until he speaks.
“who you texting?”
you blink up, tone of his voice unfamiliar.
“hm? oh—” you shift your phone in your hand, instinctive. “just… someone.”
he tilts his head.
“someone, huh.”
you laugh a little. “why do you sound like that?”
he doesn’t answer. he crosses the room instead, slow steps. plants himself at the edge of the bed, arms folded. you look up at him and that warm energy’s gone. replaced with something colder. sharp.
“that toji?”
your breath stalls.
“…yeah.”
choso stares at you. unreadable.
“why?”
“what do you mean why?” you ask, eyebrows tugging. “he messaged me. we were just talking.”
he hums, low.
'not buying it.'
“just talking,” he echoes. “what about?” you sit up straighter. “what’s going on?”
“what’d he say?”
“choso—”
“lemme see.”
he gestures at your phone. you clutch it instinctively. like muscle memory. like guilt? “are you serious right now?” he doesn’t answer. jaw’s tight. eyes dark.
“what’d he say?” he asks again. your fingers squeeze your phone. you feel a flush crawl up your neck. not from embarrassment, but shock.
“you’re not serious,” you say again, this time quieter. he just looks at you. so you speak.
“he said i was cute, that's it.”
his jaw ticks.
“you flirting with him?”
“what?”
“you heard me.”
you scoff. “no. i wasn’t. it wasn’t even- i didn’t mean it like that.” choso steps back, runs a hand through his hair. pacing now.
“you texting him while you’re in my bed?”
“what does that matter?”
“it matters.”
his voice is sharper now. rough around the edges. not loud, but tight, like it’s fighting to stay inside his chest. “you know how i feel about that guy.”
“choso, he’s been nothing but nice lately—”
“he’s not nice. he’s not interested in being friends. he’s waiting, he’s circling, you don’t see it?”
you blink.
“so what, you’re mad ‘cause i texted him back?” he looks at you like you just spit on the floor. “i’m mad ‘cause you’re in my fucking hoodie, in my bed, telling some other guy he’s got a shot.”
you freeze.
the silence that falls is loud.
so loud.
your eyes widen. you stare at him, lips parted. unsure if you heard that right. unsure if he meant to say it.
“a shot?” you echo. he looks away. exhales hard.
“never mind.”
“no,” you say, voice firm now. “say it again.”
he doesn’t. but you both feel the truth echoing off the walls.
you look down. suddenly too warm. like the hoodie’s burning your skin. “…i didn’t know you’d care,” you say, almost to yourself.
choso swallows. “i do.” you glance back up.
“why?”
he doesn’t answer, but you already know. and now the air is thick with it. the unspoken thing. and for the first time, it’s not sweet. not warm. it hurts.
because it means everything he’s never said, everything he’s been, came with conditions you never agreed to. came with borders he never drew, but expected you not to cross.
you breathe slow. he watches you. you speak first.
“if you wanted to be the only one texting me like that, you should’ve said something.” choso’s face shifts. his mouth opens like he’s going to say something, defend himself, maybe, argue the way he always stays quiet because he doesn’t want to lose you,but nothing comes out.
instead, his brows knit together, lips pressed in a tight line. his fingers curl at his sides.
“you really think i don’t wanna be that?” he says, voice rough. “you think this shit’s been casual for me?” you blink at him. your breath catches.
“you’ve never said it was anything else, choso. what was i supposed to think?”
“fuck,” he growls, pacing again. “you were supposed to know. i thought you knew.”
his voice rises, not yelling, but loud with frustration. he’s unraveling in real time, and it’s shaking something loose in you, too.
“how was i supposed to know?” you shoot back. “you flirt but you never say anything. you touch me like i’m yours but act like i’m just your best friend—”
“you are mine.” your voice dies in your throat.
he stares at you. and when he speaks again, it’s quieter, but no less intense.
“you’re mine,” he says again, like a confession. like a curse. “always been mine.” your stomach flips.
“then why—” your voice cracks — “why didn’t you say anything?”
choso runs a hand through his hair again, like he’s trying to physically hold himself together. like it hurts.
“’cause i was scared,” he snaps. “scared that if i said it out loud, it’d fuck everything up. that you’d look at me different. that you’d leave.” you stare.
“so you’d rather let someone else have me?”
he stiffens. you rise onto your knees on the bed, fire lighting behind your ribs now. “you’d rather let toji of all people try it?”
his jaw clenches. “he’s not gonna have you.” your heartbeat skids.
he moves in fast, faster than he ever has, and grabs your wrist, firm but not rough, like he can’t bear to let the distance exist any longer.
“i’m not letting him have you,” he mutters.
you’re still frozen, looking up at him. something between fear and thrill curling in your gut.
“choso,” you whisper. he doesn’t stop. he pushes you back gently onto the bed, one hand catching your waist, the other bracing against the mattress. he hovers over you, breath heavy, eyes searching your face like he’s begging you to see it, really see it this time.
“i’m fucking in love with you.”
your heart punches into your throat. his forehead dips, pressing against yours, voice hoarse.
“i’ve been in love with you since you showed up to my first party and we listened to that dumb song together.”
you let out a shaky laugh, but your eyes are wet his thumb brushes your cheek.
“i never said it ‘cause i thought this was enough. thought just having you close was better than risking it all. but i can’t—” he pulls in a breath, voice shaking now too — “i can’t sit quiet while other people try to take you from me.”
you’re blinking fast now. breath catching. every inch of your skin feels like it’s on fire beneath his touch.
“you’re my girl,” he says again, softer this time. “you’ve always been mine.”
you don’t answer right away. your chest rises and falls beneath his, shallow and unsteady. your palm is still on his cheek, but your eyes have shifted, staring past him now. unfocused. wet.
“you’re only saying that,” you murmur, “because someone else finally had the balls to go after me.”
his breath catches. your voice is quieter, but sharp now, like you’re trying to convince yourself. like you want to believe it, but the cracks are there, and they’re splitting open.
“you didn’t say anything until he got involved. until he started asking about me. texting me. seeing me.” your hand falls away from his face. “and now suddenly, i’m yours?”
his eyes widen. “no—”
“you had so long to tell me, choso. so many chances.”
“y/n, it’s not like that—”
“then what is it like?” you breathe. “’cause i don’t get to be the girl you only want when someone else does.”
choso stares at you, heart hammering. like you just ripped something raw and bloody straight out of his chest.
he swallows.
and then, slowly, he pushes back, just far enough to sit up on his knees beside you. the mattress dips with the weight shift. his hands fumble for the hem of his hoodie.
he pulls it up and over his head in one quick move. your breath stutters.
there, inked into the inside of his upper arm, where he’d hidden it every time you curled up against him, is a tattoo.
of your eyes.
staring straight back at you.
your real breath, the one stuck in your throat, finally punches out of you.
choso watches your expression shift, eyes flicking from the ink to his face and back. he swallows once, hard, and says:
“got it the night of the party. when you gave me the lighter.” you blink.
“you were curled up on me. whole time i was talking with the boys, i couldn’t stop thinking about you. how close you were. how you looked at me like that was your home.” he swipes a thumb under his nose, like he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands. “so i got up, high as fuck, to the guy tatting people in the corner. told him to ink your eyes on me.”
your lips part, but nothing comes out. his voice softens.
“i didn’t say anything ‘cause i thought it was enough. just having you near. but it’s not. not anymore.”
your heart pounds so hard you feel it in your ears.
he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room. like he needs you to believe it. really believe it.
“this isn’t about toji. it’s never been about him. i wanted you long before he ever said your name.”
you’re still staring at the tattoo.
he moves closer again. his hand brushes your knee, gentle.
“you think i’d get your fucking eyes tatted on me just ‘cause i’m jealous?” you blink fast.
his hand finds your face again. tender. grounding “you’re it for me.”
his voice is low, raspy. not just from the emotion, but from how hard he’s holding it in, like if he lets go, everything he’s ever felt for you will come spilling out and drown him.
but he lets it go anyway.
“you’re all i think about,” choso says, brushing his thumb over your cheek again. “when i’m high, when i’m sober, when you’re across the room and laughing at someone’s stupid joke, when you’re asleep in my bed, wearing my shirt, you’re in my head all the time, ma.” your breath catches.
“every song reminds me of you. every little thing you do drives me crazy. you don’t even know how much of me you’ve got.”
he leans closer, forehead nearly touching yours.
“you gave me that lighter and i wanted to kiss you right there in the middle of that party. when you paint your nails i stare at your hands for hours. when you fall asleep on me at parties, i sit still like a statue so you don’t move. i’m always lookin’ at you like ive already lost you, and it kills me.”
his hand finds your jaw, warm and steady, fingers curling behind your ear. your breath hitches, and he’s close enough to feel it.
“you’ve had my heart since freshman year. and i didn’t say anything ‘cause i thought maybe you didn’t want it. or maybe you already had it and didn’t need to hear it out loud.”
you swallow, shaky. lips parted. cheeks flushed.
and choso looks down at them, your lips, like he’s been holding himself back from kissing you for a lifetime.
and then he doesn’t anymore.
he crashes into you like he’s starving.
the kind of kiss that drags a sound out of your throat before you even realize it, all heat and pressure and ache, all the months and years and everything he’s shoved down, poured out into the way his lips mold against yours. he kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll pull away, and like he knows you won’t.
your hands claw at his shoulders, winding into the mess of his hair, tugging him in even closer. and choso groans, deep in his throat, pressing you down into the bed, slotting his hips against yours.
his mouth moves fast, desperate, lips, tongue, teeth, like he can’t get enough. like the taste of you is something he needs in his lungs.
“fuck,” he breathes against your mouth, dragging his lips down your jaw, “you don’t get it, do you?”
your back arches, lips parting when he sucks lightly under your ear.
“how bad i’ve wanted this. you.”
his hands roam, over your waist, under your shirt, up your sides like he’s trying to memorize all of you at once. and every place he touches leaves a trail of fire.
you moan his name, soft and shaky, and he loses it a little more, bites your bottom lip as he grinds his hips down into yours, heavy and hot and so there.
“say it again,” he mutters, eyes half-lidded, forehead pressed to yours. “say my name.”
“choso.”
he shudders.
“again.”
“cho!.”
he kisses you so deep it knocks the breath out of your lungs. kisses you like he owns you, like you’ve always belonged to him, and like he’s finally letting himself claim what’s already his.
and fuck, you let him.
you’ve wanted this just as long, you've needed him just as bad.
and now, with your limbs tangled, your body burning under his, your heart thudding like a war drum in your chest, there’s no more pretending.
you’re his. he’s yours. and it’s written all over his face.
choso looks at you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted, like he’s starved for you, but still savoring the moment. his eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, but soft. reverent. he cups your cheek with a hand that’s just slightly trembling, brushing his thumb along your skin like he can’t believe you’re real.
he kisses your forehead, slow and grounding, like a promise. then your nose. then your lips, and that one lingers. warm, aching, deep enough that it steals the air from your lungs. it’s not just desire. it’s everything he’s never said until now.
“please let me see you, ma." he whispers, voice hoarse, like he’s been holding back forever.
you nod, lips parted, eyes locked with his. your breath stutters as his fingers ghost over the hem of your shirt, lifting it inch by inch like he’s unwrapping something precious. he tosses it aside, only to pull you in again. his palms spread wide across your ribs, thumbs brushing just beneath your chest.
“fuck,” he breathes, low and to himself. “so fucking beautiful.”
he leans in, mouth dragging hot and open along your neck, kissing and breathing you in, his lips trembling against your pulse like he’s drunk off you. he murmurs something there, a soft, almost desperate, “mine,” before he undoes your bra with one practiced flick.
and when it falls away, he doesn’t touch you right away. he just stares, like the sight of you has knocked the wind out of him.
his hands come up slow, palms warm as they cup you like he’s afraid to break something delicate. “been dreaming about this,” he says. “about you. here. like this. in my bed. lookin’ up at me like you already know i’d give you everything.”
you shiver under the weight of it all, his voice, his gaze, his touch. and then his mouth is on your chest, lips sealing around your nipple, tongue flicking before he sucks. slow, deep, just enough to make you arch into him with a needy whimper.
“choso…”
he groans, hand sliding lower, fingers hooking into the waistband of your shorts. he pulls them down with your panties in one motion, dragging his palms down your thighs on the way. and when he sits back, just to take you in, bare, breathless, flushed, his eyes go wide, like he’s trying to commit you to memory. “look at you,” he murmurs, chest rising with each ragged breath. “you don’t even know what you do to me, do you?”
you reach for him, tugging his shirt up and over his head, palms skating down the strong lines of his chest, stopping only when your fingers find his arm. your breath catches.
your eyes. inked in black and red over his skin, etched like a confession. you won't ever get sick of seeing it.
he watches you take it in, sees the exact moment you understand, and he doesn’t say anything. not at first. he just leans in, takes your hand in his, and presses it over his heart.
“see?” he whispers. “been yours. always.”
your eyes brim, chest tight with something that has no name. and then he kisses you again, slow and deep, tongue stroking yours, hand sliding between your thighs. he groans into your mouth when he feels you, warm, wet, already trembling.
“so wet for me,” he mutters, lips brushing yours. “all this for me, huh?”
his fingers dip into you, one at first, then two, slow and deep, curling just right. your back arches, mouth falling open with a gasp as he starts to move them, watching every twitch and shiver you give him like he’s memorizing the way you come apart. “fuck, baby,” he breathes. “you feel so good, been wantin’ this for so long. just wanted to take care of you. make you feel good.”
his lips trail back down, mouth closing around your nipple again as his fingers keep working you open, the room echoing with your broken gasps and soft moans. he kisses your sternum, your ribs, every inch of you he can reach like he’s trying to make up for every second he didn’t have you.
and when your legs start to tremble, when your thighs squeeze around his hand and you whimper his name into the crook of his neck, he groans, low and sexy, and pulls back just enough to strip the last of his clothes.
his cock is flushed, hard, already leaking, and still, he pauses.
he leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing hard. “you sure you wanna do this hun?”
“i want you,” you whisper, voice cracking. “i want all of you.”
and when he slides in, slow, deliberate, it’s overwhelming. your nails dig into his shoulders, mouth open in a silent gasp, and he just groans, long and low, burying his face in your neck.
“fuck, sweetheart… you feel so fuckin’ good, made for me, huh?”
his hips rock into you, slow and deep, dragging along every sensitive inch inside you until you’re trembling again, mouth parted in helpless moans. he kisses you through it, messy and uncoordinated, full of teeth and tongue and need.
he doesn’t hold back anymore. not his body, not his voice. he’s everywhere, his hands, his mouth, his words, and every thrust is rougher, deeper, hotter than the last.
“been yours since the day i met you,” he breathes against your skin. “you’re mine, baby. mine. no one else gets to have you like this. no one else even fuckin’ compares.”
you believe him. how could you not, when he’s saying it like he’s been waiting years to let it out?
you fall apart first, clenching around him with a strangled moan, whole body trembling as your orgasm crashes through you, and choso follows, grinding into you with a low growl, holding you close as he spills into you.
he doesn’t let go. not even after. he stays buried deep, forehead to yours, one hand cradling your jaw like it’s fragile.
“not lettin’ you go,” he whispers. “not now. not ever.”
~
raging music throbs and the party’s already in full swing when you two walk in. the bass thrums under your feet, bodies packed tight in the kappa house. familiar faces flash by in strobes of color and sound, solo cups raised, someone laughing too loud, gojo shouting across the room with a bottle in each hand.
and then you and choso step into the chaos like it’s nothing. except tonight, it’s not nothing. it’s everything. your hand is in his. his thumb strokes over your knuckles like it’s second nature, and you’re tucked into his side like you’ve always belonged there. he’s wearing that hoodie you love, and you’ve got it slung off your shoulder like it’s yours now. he hasn’t let go of you since you walked through the door, and he doesn’t plan to. people notice.
gojo sees first. his mouth falls open around the mouth of a beer can, and he drops it on the counter with a dramatic gasp. “oh my god.” choso raises an eyebrow, smirking. “no fuckin way,” sukuna mutters, eyes narrowing. “this for real?” you don’t say anything. just smile, nuzzling into choso’s chest. and choso, god, he melts. his arm tightens around you like instinct, like he’s not even thinking about it. “you’re kidding,” maki blurts from across the room. she’s half-drunk and squinting, pointing her beer bottle at you two like she’s trying to make sense of a mirage. “you finally fucked?”
“maki,” shoko hisses, slapping her arm, but she’s already grinning. “i knew it. i knew it.” suguru lifts his drink with a slow, knowing smile. “took you long enough.” gojo, meanwhile, is spinning in a circle like he just witnessed a miracle. “wait wait wait,” he says, pointing between the two of you. “you’re telling me this entire time, we’ve been watching you two eye-fuck each other across every frat house on campus, and now you’re just casually showing up like this?”
“what can i say,” choso murmurs, pulling you even closer, “i figured it was time.” “look at his hand placement,” shoko says, leaning into maki. “that’s not friends. that’s boyfriend hand placement.”
“yeah and look at her,” maki laughs. “she looks like she just got dicked down and praised like a goddess.” you duck your head a little, embarrassed, but choso leans in and kisses your cheek, then your temple. it’s so soft, so easy, and when he pulls back, he looks straight at toji who’s staring wide eyed, steady, calm, but with a flicker of challenge in his eyes.
“don’t look at her like that,” he says, voice low. “not tonight. not ever.” toji scoffs, raising his hands in mock surrender, but his grin is sharp. “damn. someone’s possessive now.”
“been possessive,” choso mutters, like it’s not even up for debate. he turns his attention back to you instantly, brushing your hair behind your ear.
“you okay?”
you nod. “i’m perfect.” and then he kisses you. not a peck. not for show. it’s slow, unhurried, with his hand cupping your jaw and his lips moving with the kind of tenderness that makes your knees weak. the room could be burning down and he wouldn’t stop. you don’t even hear gojo’s dramatic screech until you break apart.
“yo this is crazy,” he says, spinning around and yelling to no one in particular. “choso is off the market. choso kamo, resident stoner-lover of no one but his weed and his hoodie collection, is now cuffed.”
“what’s it feel like,” suguru asks with a smirk, raising an eyebrow at choso, “to be someone’s boyfriend?”
“feels like i shoulda done it years ago,” choso says. you blink up at him, heart catching in your throat. “yo,” yuuji calls from the other side of the room. “does this mean we’re finally allowed to say you two have been in love since freshman year?” “i always said it,” nobara yells, shoving through the crowd with a drink. “don’t act like y’all didn’t see them cuddled up at every party like an old married couple.”
“wait does this mean she’s moving into his room?” gojo asks, visibly spiraling. “what’s gonna happen to the guest bed? who’s gonna roll for me when choso’s too busy being in love?”
“die mad,” choso says flatly, and everyone laughs. but even through all the noise and teasing and attention, his focus never strays from you. his hand stays on your waist. his eyes keep dropping to your mouth like he’s remembering exactly what it feels like.
“you good?” he murmurs again, like he just wants to hear you say it.
you press your nose to his chest and nod, smiling. “more than good.”
he kisses you again, slower this time, like it’s just for you. like no one else is in the room. like he’s exactly where he’s always wanted to be.
tags: modern AU, Sukuna x f!Reader, graphic designer!Reader, tired girl x tired man, Sukuna's soft and quiet, reader's a bit of a yapper, reader exhaustion realism, quiet intimacy, slow burn, slice-of-life, minimal dialogue, subtle yearning, emotional restraint | wc: 3.6k
← Week Twenty · Week Twenty One · Week Twenty Two →
Masterlist
Thursday, 9:00 p.m.
The week drags in a familiar way that doesn’t leave you crushed, only stretched in every direction at once. There’s a pressure building behind your eyes and settling at the base of your skull, but it’s still manageable. The big campaign keeps moving forward, piece by piece, and even though your boss keeps adding smaller projects to your plate as if you had endless hours in a day, at least the main one is beginning to look like something coherent, behaving the way you want it to. You can finally see it taking shape after weeks of pushing through the sludge of poorly phrased feedback and contradictory requests.
You’re tired, and there’s no hiding that, but there’s also a thin thread of stubborn hope under the fatigue that makes you think you might actually finish this thing without losing your mind or your job. It shouldn’t feel like an accomplishment, but somehow does.
Everything else looks the way it usually does on a Thursday. You leave your workstation later than you wanted, you forget your water bottle on the counter and have to double back for it, you walk out into the cold air that immediately gives you shivers, and you try to tell yourself that being busy is better than being overwhelmed, because at least being busy has direction.
Once again, you make your list on actual paper because your brain refuses to hold onto anything lately, and you fold it twice before slipping it into your pocket, hoping it’ll keep you from wandering through aisles and forgetting half the things you came for.
You drive to the store like you always do, even though today you feel like the fatigue actually hit you. It’s a reminder that it’s been a long month and that you’ve been surviving it on caffeine, stubbornness, and the quiet stability of a routine you never expected to rely on.
When you pull into the parking lot and see the Jeep already parked there, you feel a sudden wave of relief wash over you, as if some part of you was stressed that he wasn’t gonna be here today, even though you would never say it out loud.
You stop your car beside it, kill the engine, sit there for a moment with your hands on the wheel and your eyes half-closed, then tell yourself to get moving before you melt into the seat.
Inside, the store feels dimmer than usual, and you explain to yourself that your eyes are tired. Checking your list, you grab the first few items without really looking at the shelves, trying to ignore the nagging thought that you still have two campaigns to finish and the week isn’t over. You keep moving, aisle by aisle, letting the familiar route settle your thoughts until your breathing evens out and your shoulders loosen just a little, even as the weight of your workload presses down.
By the time you get to the ready meals, your hands have stopped trembling from the cold outside, and you pick out a few boxes for the next week’s dinners. Only then do you finally pause long enough to reread your list so you don't forget anything. You shift your basket to your other hand, exhale slowly, and reach for the next item when a low voice comes from your right, closer than you expected.
“Hey.”
You turn slowly, and there he is, wearing a navy blue hoodie. His hair is a little messy, like he drove here straight after work and didn’t bother fixing anything before walking in. His posture is relaxed, but there’s something calm about the way he stands there as he waits for the moment you aren’t scanning shelves or fighting your list, so that he won’t startle you.
He lifts his hand slightly, held out toward you with a silent question that needs no words, and, hooked between his fingers, there are two bottles of warm tea.
Your tiredness cracks just enough for a small smile to push through. It barely lifts your cheeks but still feels like relief. “Gladly,” you say, nodding once and to your surprise, your breath steadies now that he’s in front of you.
He drops the bottles into his basket, and when he sees you’re only worn down and not completely drowning, he offers a nod like he’s acknowledging something between you that neither of you has tried to put into words.
“You almost done?” he asks, and you can tell he’s only checking and not rushing you.
“Yeah.” You glance down at your list again to check what you’re missing. “Two more aisles.”
The unspoken offer is clear as if he’d said it outright when he moves the basket from one hand to the other and steps past you. “Come on.”
You can hear the quiet scrape of his shoes and the faint rustle of his groceries when the two of you walk close together. After grabbing the last few things from your list, you look up, and he’s turned toward the registers, pacing himself so you fall into step with him without effort.
When you get to the counter, he's just a half a step behind you, not crowding, just… there. His quiet presence is actually pretty comforting, making you feel way calmer than it probably should, and you're not even going to try to figure out why.
After your groceries are safely put in the trunk of your car, you settle into the passenger seat of the Jeep while he moves around the front of it, brushing a hand through his hair before climbing in beside you, shutting the door with a low thud that seals the cold out. The windows fog at the edges almost instantly, and the interior slowly grows warm thanks to the heater. He sets his tea between his knees, leans back slightly, and lets out a breath that sounds like he’s been holding it all day.
As you glance at him, it’s apparent he’s exhausted as well, but tries to hide it. The dark circles under his eyes give it away, though.
For a few minutes, you both just exist in the same space, sipping your drinks, listening to the soft murmur of whatever older CD he put on before without thinking. It’s familiar by now, and you don’t rush anything. You know he won’t.
Like so many other things between you two, it’s an unspoken rule: he waits for you to start. Eventually, you break the silence.
“My grandma used to take me to this summer festival every year,” you begin, absently tracing the rim of the warm bottle cap with your fingers. “It was a small, local one. Nothing impressive that would ever make the news or draw a crowd from the city.” You pause, letting the image solidify in your mind. “But she’d always buy me a stupid toy I wanted every single time. A little wind-up thing, usually something that blinked or made an irritating noise. She’d always start by saying she wouldn’t—‘We have enough clutter’—but she always caved.” You smile then, a genuine, soft curve of your lips that smooths out the residual tension in your voice. “It was noisy, crowded, predictable in the best way, but it was the one thing I looked forward to all summer. I think about it sometimes, you know? Don’t know why, really. Maybe because of the work and stress? Everything was just so much easier back then.”
After a few seconds of quiet thought, a process you can practically see unfolding behind his eyes, he shares something of his own. “There was a place near my house. Field behind the shop. Big enough to run in, small enough to cross in under a minute. My brother and I used to catch beetles there. Late summer, heat, cicadas, dirt everywhere.” He shrugs, a minimal gesture. “It wasn’t anything special. Just a patch of dirt and weeds, but it comes back to me sometimes.”
The way he says it isn’t nostalgic, but it’s far from being cold either. It’s nothing more than a simple recollection, stated as fact, and somehow that makes it feel more intimate.
His eyes meet yours across the space, and your lips curl into a shy, knowing smile. He returns it, gently lifting his mouth that crinkles the corners of his eyes. There is something oddly comforting in the ability to speak the first thing that surfaces in your mind, and the person in front of you listens without judging or showing the slightest hint of annoyance at the digression.
“Feels like those moments stay even when everything else goes to shit.”
He just hums in agreement, a low sound that vibrates deep in his chest.
You don’t know what sparks the idea, but it rises in you before you can stop yourself. “Okay, wait. Let’s do something dumb.”
His brow lifts slightly, which for him qualifies as genuine curiosity. He’s leaning against his door, one arm resting on his knee, the other cradling his perpetually cooling tea. The light from the streetlights outside catches the sharp line of his jaw.
“A game,” you clarify. “Favourite things, but not the basic ones, you know? The real ones that first come to mind.”
His eyes stay on you a second too long, like he’s trying to figure out whether this is something he should be wary of, whether it’s a trap that will demand more vulnerability than he’s prepared to offer. But when you raise your bottle toward him like a challenge, the smile he gave you before widens. He gives you the slightest, almost imperceptible nod. The game is on.
“Favourite kind of morning?”
He doesn’t think long. “Cold. When the air hurts a little, when your breath smokes. Before sunrise. No people on the streets.”
The solitary, stark image fits him so perfectly you almost laugh, but instead you sip your tea and offer yours.
“Mine’s when it’s raining, but it’s warm enough to keep the window open. That sound is everything. That heavy, consistent drum of water hitting the window or the roof. It feels like the whole world slows down. And don’t get me started on the smell… it’s the best.”
He turns his head a little like he’s actually picturing it, then glances toward the windshield, and there’s the first spark of something lighter in the air.
“Okay,” you continue, shifting in your seat, back against the door so you can face him fully. “Favourite sound at night.”
He shifts his tea between his hands, thumb dragging over the cap. “Wind hitting the house. Or gravel under tyres when someone pulls in late.” He pauses, then fixes his gaze back on you.
The answer raises one of your eyebrows, and you mutter, “Terrifying, but okay.”
He’s clearly trying to hold it in, but the smallest, sudden laugh still escapes him. It’s a short, husky sound that makes your chest tighten a little, but he covers his mouth quickly. “Yours?”
“Festival drums,” you say immediately. “Far away. You know, when you can’t hear it unless everything around you is quiet. It’s a deep, rhythmic thrumming that reminds you that… big and wild life is happening just beyond your line of sight.”
You watch him absorb that, the slightest tilt to his head, the way his eyes seem to darken as he processes the image and the feeling. You breathe in and keep going.
“Okay,” you say. “Favourite way to sit when you’re so exhausted you want to melt into the floor and permanently become one with the foundation of the building.”
He snorts. It’s a quick, sharp burst of air that shows he's exhausted but also genuinely amused. It’s like this question probably shouldn't be funny, but somehow your over-the-top summary of how you two are doing hits him just right.
“Kitchen chair,” he answers in a low, gravelly murmur. He leans his head back against the door, half closing his eyes. “Back against the wall, feet stretched out straight.” He pauses, furrowing his brow slightly. “Nothing touching me. No blankets. Just sitting there until my brain catches up.”
You laugh properly now, the sound bubbling up from your chest and shaking your shoulders. The fatigue is slowly getting replaced by this warm, giddy feeling. “That’s so you,” you manage, wiping a tear of amusement from the corner of your eye.
He raises an eyebrow, a slow, confident movement, and a lazy grin stretches across his face. “Yeah? Then what’s yours, Red?”
“On the floor, against the bed with a blanket over my legs, dramatically sighing like I’m eighty and recalling all the mistakes of my life.” You lift a hand to your forehead and let out a long, theatrical, shuddering exhale. “Oh, the agony of this youth!”
Both of you burst into laughter at the same time, a synchronised, unrestrained chorus that fills the small space. Yours is bright and high, while his is a deep, resonant rumble that vibrates the air between you.
You like him like this. The exhaustion has stripped away the slight reserve he usually carries, leaving him just carefree and unguarded. And you realise, as the laughter subsides and leaves a pleasant, tingling silence, that the way he laughs, that deep, genuine, chest-shaking sound, makes your heart race just a tiny, exhilarating bit faster. It's a small, secret flutter that you tuck away, savouring the moment between the two of you tonight.
“Favourite sky,” you prompt next, unwilling to let the conversation, or the moment, end.
He leans his head back again, taking a moment, watching the imaginary canvas above your heads. “Right before a storm,” he says finally, his voice thoughtful. “That heavy grey sky. Feels like something’s about to happen even if nothing really does.”
This time it’s you who snorts, a small, involuntary sound of acknowledgement, but only because he actually has a point there.
"Mine’s sharp winter blue," you counter, turning your face up toward the same empty expanse. "The kind that's so intensely clear it looks almost painful. Makes my eyes hurt in a good way, like a reset button."
He gives you a look that says he doesn’t understand your slightly dramatic appreciation of eye-straining colours, but he’ll absolutely let you have it.
"Fine," you concede, playfully rolling your eyes at him. "Next one then. Favourite stupid purchase you don’t regret? The more useless or ridiculous, the better."
A sputtering sound escapes him, and he instantly tries so hard to hold back laughter, hiding his face in his hands as his shoulders begin to shake uncontrollably. The suppressed sound fills the space for a long moment before he finally lets the answer out in a little strained voice.
“A wrench. A really nice, professional-grade wrench that was way too expensive for me back then, but it was the same shade of pink as my hair.”
"What?" You burst into shocked, genuine laughter, clutching your stomach. "You're lying!"
"Promise you I'm not," he drawls, letting the last word hang in the air with a smug finality, and finally takes his hands off his face. "It's still in my shop. I really did buy it."
“Okay, that was something I was definitely not expecting from you.” You’re trying to regain composure and stop laughing, but it's so hard to breathe. After clearing your throat, you can finally answer. "Right. Mine's… a fleece blanket that looks exactly like a tortilla."
He chuckles loudly at that, clearly not understanding how this is somehow less weird than his answer.
"What?" You defend your choice immediately. "I wrap myself in it and become a warm, human burrito. It's functional and conceptually genius."
"And you said I was lying." His voice still shakes with amusement when he points it out.
After a final snort and a long, theatrical exhale, you decide to change the topic. "Moving on! Favourite tiny, pointless thing you look forward to in a day? Like, the absolute smallest joy."
"Easy. Sitting down after being on my feet forever." He sighs contentedly, as if experiencing the feeling right now.
“That’s a good one,” you concede, tapping your chin thoughtfully. “Mine is completely dependent on cosmic alignment and sheer luck. It’s when the traffic lights actually line up for once. You hit one green, then the next, then the next, and suddenly you feel like the whole city is bowing to your commute. It’s glorious."
He lets out a short, dry sound. “That never happens to me. Pretty sure I have a personal nemesis who controls the city’s light grid, and their sole purpose in life is to make me stop at every single one. I’m lucky if I get two in a row.”
“That’s a possibility.” You grin without hiding it, feeling full and warm in a way that makes the tension in your shoulders ease up for the first time all week.
Before you can come up with another topic, he cuts in, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if he’d found the key to a better, more interesting direction. “My turn. Favourite smell that isn’t food. Doesn’t count if you want to eat it.”
Your eyebrows rise in mild surprise and satisfaction because it was the first time he had added his own, instead of just responding to yours. “I think… the air inside bookstores. The old paper and ink, specifically. I don’t even read that much anymore, but that smell still gets me every time.”
He nodded once in a silent acknowledgement that registered the sincerity of your choice.
“Motor oil,” he says immediately without a shred of doubt, lifting an eyebrow like he’s daring you to judge this deeply mechanical preference. “Clean motor oil. That fresh, slightly metallic scent right out of the can.”
You laugh softly. “Wouldn’t have believed it if you’d said anything else. That’s probably the most you answer you could’ve given.”
He casually shrugs, but the smile that briefly creases the corners of his eyes betrays his pleasure at your confirmation. His restless thumb taps a steady rhythm against the worn leather of the steering wheel.
“Favourite light,” he says simply.
Your brows furrow slightly in curiosity. “Light?”
“Yeah.”
Your gaze lifts to the roof of the car as you search for a specific memory. “Warm lamps,” you decide. “The ones you turn on at night instead of the harsh ceiling lights. They make everything softer.”
His gaze seems momentarily distant as he considers your answer, as if he's trying to picture what you just said. Then he offers his own answer: “Early morning headlights through a dense fog.”
The specificity of his answer, the almost cinematic quality of the scene it invoked, tugs at something deep inside you.
Both of you feel that, in a way, time stopped after you started the game. You talked without rushing, laughed loudly, fell quiet without awkwardness, and drank without noticing when the bottle emptied.
When the laughter finally dies down, and the silence between you gives nothing but warmth, you aren’t the one who notices the time first this time. It’s his eyes that flick to the clock as it changes from 11:39 to 11:40, and something in the set of his shoulders changes just enough for you to sense it even without looking directly at him.
You follow his gaze a moment later and the realisation hits you slowly, the way the night stretched longer than any Thursday before, and neither of you noticed until now. It makes you straighten a little.
“I should… go. You probably want to sleep, or eat, or just exist in peace without me talking your ear off.”
You can tell from the way he sits back against the seat and from the way his hand rests on the steering wheel even though the engine isn’t running, that he’s thinking about something. He opens his mouth, just the slightest part, the tip of his tongue visible, as if a thought has made it all the way from his mind to his lips, but in the end, he chooses not to say anything. His gaze drops, lingering for a fraction of a second on your face, and the warm, open look from the laughter is gone, replaced by a deep, weary contemplation.
It’s only a small tightening in his jaw and a longer pause before he exhales, nothing dramatic or obvious. Even though you aren’t supposed to look for meanings in every little thing, you feel something in your chest pull tight at the thought that he might not want this night to end either.
He turns his head slightly, and you see the outline of his face in the dim light of the dashboard and the distant streetlamps. His thumb taps once against the steering wheel, and when he finally speaks, his voice is lower than before, almost quiet.
“Drive safe, Red.”
The phrase lands differently this time. More like something that could have been more if the rules were different, if either of you had the courage or the stupidity to push past whatever this routine has become. You lift your eyes toward him and find him already watching you, so you nod once, slowly, and your throat tightens with a sudden, confusing lump of emotion.
“Yeah, you too, Pink.”
You reach for the door handle slowly, delaying the inevitable, and slide out of the seat, closing the door behind you. The cold night air is way colder than you expect after the warmth of the Jeep. When you circle the front of the car, you look back once more before getting inside your own. He’s still there, hands on the wheel, eyes following your movement like he’s waiting for something unnamed.
Like always, he doesn’t drive off until your engine is running and the car pulls forward.
As you leave the lot, you catch the time again on the dashboard. 11:45. By far the latest you’ve stayed, and somehow it still feels like it wasn’t long enough.
the frat house felt wayyy different when it wasn’t hosting anyone. there was no music bleeding through the walls, no strangers slumped across the couches, no sticky cups abandoned wherever someone had last forgotten it.
it was well past midnight and the place had settled back into its calm state where the lights were dimmed and the air smelled faintly of fresh laundry and leftover takeout. you liked it much better like this.
you were curled up at the long kitchen counter, legs tucked beneath you on one of the stools, laptop pushed off to the side in favor of a notebook you were barely using. your handwriting drifted lazily across the notebook page, more doodles than notes. your attention divided between the soft rnb music sukuna had put on the speakers and the muffled conversation drifting in from the living room.
sukuna leaned against the doorway, watching you without announcing himself.
he always did that, hovering just out of your immediate awareness, as if he needed a second to recalibrate before stepping fully into your space. your presence was a contrast to the sharp angles of the house and the people who lived in it.
“you’re supposed to be studying,” he said eventually. it was impossible to miss the mildly accusatory tone in his voice.
you glanced up, eyes lighting immediately when you saw him. “i am studying,” you replied, tone light even as you nudged the notebook with your elbow to make the claim seem more convincing.
he snorted quietly, pushing off the doorframe and crossing the kitchen in long strides. he stopped close, close enough that his knee brushed the side of your stool, close enough that you could smell the faint trace of smoke clinging to his hoodie.
“you’ve been in that same position for forty minutes,” he said.
“awwww,” you smiled up at him, unbothered. “were you spying on me?”
he didn't answer at that.
instead, he reached past you to grab the tumbler he left on the counter, his arm caging you in briefly. you were used to this kind of proximity with him, the way he took up space without asking. your body had learned his presence well enough to relax into it.
what you were not used to was the way gojo chose that exact moment to wander in.
he strolled into the kitchen barefoot, hair a mess, wearing a shirt that looked suspiciously like it might have once belonged to sukuna. he took in the scene with quick amusement, eyes flicking from sukuna’s looming frame to you perched comfortably at the counter.
“oh,” gojo said, dragging the word out. “am i interrupting something?”
you laughed softly, shaking your head. “no, i was just trying to study.”
“trying,” gojo echoed, leaning his hip against the counter, eyes bright with interest. “you should let me help. i’m great at being a distraction.”
sukuna’s jaw tightened, just slightly.
“don’t,” he said flatly.
gojo ignored him completely, stepping closer to you instead. he rested his elbows on the surface, chin propped in his hands as he peered at your laptop screen. “what’s this for?”
“psych,” you answered, shifting so you could angle the device toward him. “i’m already behind.”
“tragic,” gojo sighed then smiled at you in a way that was far too practiced. “you know... if you ever want a quieter place to study, my room’s always open. way less intimidating than this guy hovering over you like a gargoyle.”
you glanced instinctively at sukuna, the corner of your mouth tugging upward like you found the situation amusing more than anything else.
sukuna, on the other hand, did not.
“she’s fine right here,” he said, voice calm in that dangerous way that meant he was restraining himself. “go bother someone else.”
gojo’s grin widened. “since when do you speak for her?””
you felt the air shift immediately. sukuna straightened. his presence seemed to thicken, pressing down on the space between all three of you. his hand settled on the back of your stool, fingers curling around the wood, thumb resting close enough to brush your hip if he moved even an inch.
“you don’t need to speak for me,” you said gently, trying to ease the tension, though your heart had started to beat a little faster.
gojo’s gaze softened, just a fraction. “see? she’s got a voice.”
sukuna looked down at you then, eyes dark and searching. there was something sharp held just beneath the surface like he was constantly measuring how far he was allowed to go with you.
“do you want stay with him?” he asked, quietly.
the question landed heavier than it sounded.
“i just want to finish this,” you said finally. “and i want you to stop looking like you’re about to commit a damn felony in your own kitchen.”
gojo laughed under his breath, clearly entertained. “fine fine, i’ll take the hint.”
he pushed off the counter, pausing to give you a wink. “offer still stands though.”
when he left, the room felt quieter than before.
sukuna stayed where he was. you could feel the heat of him now that there was no one else to diffuse it.
you turned on the stool to face him fully, knees brushing his thigh. “c’mon, he was just teasing.”
his gaze dropped to where you touched him, lingered there longer than necessary. “people don’t tease you like that unless they want something.” your breath caught slightly.
“and what do you think does he want?” you asked.
sukuna leaned down, close enough that his voice brushed your ear when he answered. “the same thing everyone else does.”
