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.
suguru's stupidly long hair always gets in the way ! ☆
suguru's hips snapped deep and deliberate, thick cock dragging your walls raw, veins pulsing against that sweet spot that made your toes curl. sweat beaded on his brow, honey eyes half-lidded in bliss, but fuck—those damn strands kept sweeping across your face like annoying spiderwebs. you groaned, turning your head, one hand batting weakly at the mess.
"sugu—ngh—tie your hair back! it's in my fucking face!" you whined mid-moan, pussy clenching around him despite the irritation. his rhythm didn't falter, that devilish smirk curling slow as he leaned in closer, deliberately grinding deep to bury himself balls-deep. more hair tumbled forward, brushing your lips, your nose—tickling your eyelashes.
"nah." simple, smug, his voice a velvet growl. he shifted, bracing on his elbows to hover inches away, letting the full cascade drape over both your faces like a private tent. strands stuck to your sweat-slick skin, one long lock trailing right down your cheek as you gasped on a thrust. "deal with it. i like how it looks."
you shoved at his chest, laughing breathy and pissed, nails scraping his pecs. "asshole—ahh!—move it! i can't even s-see you!" hips bucked up defiant, chasing the stretch anyway, slick squelching loud as you milked him. he chuckled dark, low rumble vibrating where you joined, then he shook his head like a damn dog, sending a fresh wave of hair whipping across your eyes, your cheeks, even tangling in your lashes.
"see? perfect view now." he taunted, pace turning punishing—snapping harder, faster, the wet slap of skin echoing. his hair flailed wild now, sticking to your tits, draping your joined bodies in inky chaos.
you spat another strand off your tongue, half-giggling half-moaning, free hand yanking a fistful of it. "fuck you—it's annoying! tie. it. up!"
"make me." geto grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand—his hair spilling over your bound arms like ropes. he dove down, mouth latching onto your neck, sucking a bruise while thrusting brutal, cockhead bullying your cervix. more hair smothered your face, breaths hot and shared in the humid tangle.
"oh god—harder!" you arched, traitorous body betraying you, walls fluttering as pleasure coiled vicious. his free hand snaked between you, fingers pinching your clit mean—rubbing fast circles while his hair curtained everything, world narrowing to sweat, strands, and his relentless dick splitting you open.
"th-this would feel even better if your hair wasn't in my mouth!"
you sputtered, batting it away, clenching around him in spite—earning a hiss from his lips. hips bucked up defiant, chasing that building heat despite yourself, slick gushing around his base.
geto grinned feral, one hand pinning your thigh wider, the other fisting the sheets by your head to hover even lower. more hair cascaded—full curtain now, cocooning you both in his scent. "don't i look good with it down?" he purred, voice velvet mock-hurt, slowing to a torturous grind that kissed your cervix. "thought you loved my pretty hair. or do you want me in a bun like some salaryman?" he tossed his head again, strands slapping your forehead light, then licked a stripe up your neck.
"you're— aahnnn!" you moaned, half-laugh half-groan, fingers yanking a handful of that offending mane—pulling hard enough to arch his back. he growled approval, pace ramping vicious, hair flying wild now like a black storm. "say it—'your hair's hot, suguru. fuck me through it.'" his free hand snuck down, thumb circling your clit rough—piercing glinting as he rubbed.
pleasure snapped vicious, your sass crumbling. "fine—hot—fuck, suguru! cumming!" walls spasmed vice-tight, milking him as you shattered, squirting messy around his pistoning cock. hair blinded you through tears, but who cared—bliss whited everything.
he followed with a guttural "fuck—take it," flooding you hot and thick, ropes painting your womb while his hair draped your heaving chest. collapsed half on you, he smirked through the strands, nipping your lip.
"see? perfect accessory."
you shoved his sweaty locks aside, panting grin. "next time: put it in a damn bun. or no pussy."
he laughed, already hardening inside of you again. "dealbreaker."
The rise of Greek and German nationalism are the most cookie cutter versions of white supremacy to exist and to look away from it is 1000 percent to condone it.
It affects everyone with a conscious and working brain.
I've never given a fuck about yalls blog themes even once.
*handing you the mic* You think white supremacy is BAD. RIGHT???
Small observations on the ROMH Till cover (and Karma)
I did this pointing out the obvious bc I'm tired of seeing people saying these covers are for Mizi when Vivinos herself hasn't made any content referencing his past crush on her since "Remember everything" came out and it was confirmed that Till no longer has romantic feelings for her.
Not to mention the lyrics of the songs don't fit with his relationship with Mizi, not even from Till's pov. He would never ask Mizi to "make him her god" bc he was aware that she loved someone else and never cared, he never wanted to be reciprocated romantically by her like he wanted to be reciprocated by Ivan, getting angry whenever he denied their connection (like when Ivan "rejected" the flower crown he tried to give him or when he insulted him by calling him a loser and indirectly denying that they were friends)
These things made Till angry bc he CARED, and he realized that Ivan cared too when it was too late.
every time someone writes my baby jean kirstein as a jerk fuck boy, cheater, toxic, disrespectful to women and extremely popular, an angel loses his wings; because he would literally be the og yearner, he's a big loser who thinks he's a popular guy, bro could never use women, he would be a hopeless romantic, a soft spoken man, nervous around the girl he likes, respectful, overprotective, he would always put the person he loves first, probably the best boyfriend/husband in this world.
if you thought that your husband would let you handle anything alone right after you just delivered your baby, you're sorely mistaken. not even a bathroom trip is made on your own in your household.
content & warnings — SFW but MDNI 18+, fem!reader, canon jujutsu universe, domestic fluff and tenderness, yearning, slight angst, hurt/comfort, reader is a cult leader alongside sugu, curse user!reader, reader’s ct has to do w/ foresight and shikigami but its barely mentioned, nanako and mimiko are your adopted daughters ofc, this takes place a few hours after labor, talks of childbirth, pregnancy & postpartum, you and geto have a daughter together, geto being slightly weird in an overbearingly affectionate way, geto is soooo in love with you, part of my husband!geto series
author's note — was researching pregnancy stuff for a different fic and came across some things that gave me the idea for This fic. but suguru is the wife lover of all time and he’s wife himself imo 🤓👆🏽so he’s literally perfect for the role of wife guy 🙂↕️🙂↕️ I hope you all enjoy him being a sweetie pie angel in this fic 🫶🏽!! main masterlist.
Earlier, sleep took you into its arms and rocked you beneath a sky that was blushing in pinks and soft golds, and you now wake a few scant hours later to find the day had already dissolved into velvet night. It takes you an awkward few seconds of squinting through the dark bedroom, lit only by a flickering bouquet of candles, for your fuzzy vision to adjust.
Beyond the window, the heavens curve into a thick, blacked-out bowl flecked in the white paint of stars. The breeze that slips through the window hushes the candles into dimness. It’s open only because it’s advised to keep rooms ventilated when burning candles around newborns— that, and you and Suguru just like listening to the peaceful sounds of nature’s lullaby when it’s time for bed.
The wax is jasmine and fig scented to calm you after the day’s… ordeals (to put it lightly). The mix creates a soothing cocktail that far overpowers the subtle tang of breastmilk, the unexplainably warm smell of a newborn, and the muskiness of post-delivery hormone-fueled sweat. It’s a perfume of serenity, curling around the room like a cat made of smoke winding its way around your ankles.
You feel ridiculously comforted by the care poured into the bedroom you share with your husband. Thank god you chose to have an at-home birth instead of going through the wringer in an actual hospital.
(A decision made mostly because you wanted to keep it a private moment between family, but also, admittedly, because you and Suguru didn’t want non-sorcerers anywhere near your precious baby.)
Otherwise, the room is heavy with warmth and the soft rhythm of two breaths— no, three now. Immediately, you know that it wasn't the newborn that stirred you, because when you tip your gaze down, you find her still slumbering in a bundle on your chest with the milk-drunk heaviness of a plump kitten.
Nor is it the ache, because that’s long dulled into something manageable enough to doze off to. Don’t get it twisted, though; you’re still very much in pain, tender in ways you hadn’t known you could be. But it was a much needed reminder that the worst has already passed, and you’d steadily improve as the days pass. Time and patience would be your most steadfast companions from here on.
You gingerly shift under the warmth of the layered blankets you’re sharing with Suguru and your daughter, wordlessly groaning at the twinge crunching your spine like a trash compactor. No, this was your oddly hollowed body waking you with its own insistent, unavoidable demand that pressed down on you more than the cramps mercilessly pulsating through your uterus.
Your bladder’s full.
Great. You have to piss.
Suguru, who you suspected hadn't so much as truly closed his eyes, lies half-curled around you both with an arm tucked beneath your head and his cheek on your hair. Exactly where you last felt him before you passed out— a steady balm against your side. His breath ghosts over your sweat-bathed baby hairs, but the instant you shift again, stretching your legs out beneath the covers until they start shaking, he lifts his head, wholly alert.
"Angel, what is it? What hurts?” His voice is gravelly low in its quietness, somehow soft but edged with readiness and concern. Jumping to beat you to the chase, just in case you deflect like your life depends on it.
Not that you want to do that, anyways. You’re wrung out, sleepy and blurred at the edges with not enough energy poured into your reserves to muster up your usual wry stubbornness that always makes Suguru look like a service dog that’s just been kicked, all despite its best efforts to tend to you as it was bred for.
The kind of exhaustion that you’re grappling with is one that blurs your thoughts and leaves you defenseless against tenderness. It renders you spent, splayed out beneath the butcher’s knife with no way to act as though you don’t want him hovering, that you don’t literally need him.
But you do. You’ll always need your Suguru. Especially now, considering you’ve done enough for a lifetime today. Not even all the stubbornness in the world could hold you back from falling back on him.
You just sigh, heavy and small. “Nothing new. Consequences of no epidural,” you mumble drearily, pawing at your puffily chapped lips.
Suguru is quiet for a beat longer than necessary, as if trying to confirm that “nothing new” really means nothing alarming. You can practically hear the whir of gears kicking into motion in that genius head of his as he hums low in his chest, a sound that rumbles through where you’re pressed against him. The hand resting on your arm draws lazy circles— absent-minded affection.
“Mmm,” he draws out like honey, somehow managing to sound as though he’s restraining the urge to complain that you always deflect. “You sure?” Suguru tries instead.
The best you can do is huff a tired, fondly exasperated giggle at his concern and mumble, half-slurred, “relax, lover boy. Just— I have to pee,” like it’s the most monumental confession of your life. “That’s it.”
“Ah.” His chuckle is a strumming vibration that melts you down— warm, fond, and syrupy-slow, threatening to coax you back into a state of docility. Your eyes droop. “Should’ve known. I’ll take you to the bathroom when you’re ready to get up, beautiful. Take your time,” Suguru speaks, relaxing now that he knows you’re being truthful.
You ache deep in your bones, exhaustion wrapped snug around every limb, but you manage to nod and glide your hand up to rest upon your daughter’s back. An instinctive, entirely unpracticed motion, just checking on her. Relief floods your fragile marrow when all she does is puff out a soft grunt, fat little hands curling into fists, before relaxing against your skin where the neckline of your robe is still tugged open.
She’s content, lulled by your heartbeat and the wave-like rock and fall of your breathing. Though you do wonder what she’s dreaming about. The candles are a faint glow in the corner, but their light is enough to trickle across the bed where you’re entwined, haloing her.
Her face, round and so impossibly small it’s almost surreal, is softened by the faintest crown of fine, wispy hair, the color not yet settled— you can’t attribute the color to you or Suguru just yet. Folds that crease her expression and neck, nose flattened from birth, swollen rosebud mouth, ten fingers and ten tiny toes, you catalog. She looks the way newborns always do, a little silly-looking, but she’s so yours that it makes your stomach try to perform the heimlich maneuver on itself.
“You’ve both been asleep for a while now,” Suguru lightly comments before you can inquire, volume hushed to avoid disturbing the peace. “Three hours. She hasn’t stirred once.”
That’s enough for you, honestly. Even the shortest of naps was enough for you to recoup just a smidgen from the brutal double whammy of contractions and the burning pressure of trying to push her head and shoulders out that you endured.
Feeling a little needy and desperate for some grounding, you reach and brush against the warmth of your husband. You curl your fingers around his wrist like a child seeking to cower behind its mother, and Suguru is quick to shift, instead interlacing your fingers and dragging them up for a kiss that he nuzzles into the back of your hand.
When you look up at him from beneath heavy eyelids, you find him half-propped on one elbow, admiring you and the newborn with brown eyes that are alert with vigilant purpose in the dim glow. They’re heavy around the edges and undersides with a bruising that speaks of little to no sleep in favor of keeping watch over you. Yet they’re impossibly heart-rending, softened by an affectionate sincerity that almost undoes you.
He’s so calm, so sure, so there, and it tightens your throat.
Suguru’s lazy river of long black hair has long loosened from its funnily clinical ponytail that he yanked it into to keep it away from his face while you were pushing your baby out. Strands now frame his face in silky cuts of yawning liquid night that make him seem almost ethereal, the tousled cascade more carelessly elegant than anything.
… And for not the first time since you’ve known him, he seems almost fragile, as if the world has been pared down to just the two of you and the tiny life you’ve created.
You can’t stop staring, even in your hazy post-labor and post-nap stupor, because he was impossibly close. Not just physically, but— alive, here in the now. No cult leader facade is needed.
He smiles genially, tipping his head as he holds your gaze; you’re caught.
Not breaking your grip, he guides your tethered hands up so that he can adjust the swaddle around your baby with only his pinky and ring finger, his bare sculpted chest that shifts kissed in flickering gold. Fussing, even now.
Your limbs feel like wet sandbags that not even Atlas could lift, your bones gelatinous, your pride somewhere in the pile of soaked towels Suguru cleaned up hours ago. Every inch of you is leaden and sore in ways you didn’t know you could be, and the thought of moving even a fucking inch away from Suguru’s comfort and the downy weight of your daughter (so new but already impossibly loved) makes your body want to cry mutiny.
So instead, you let your head loll against his shoulder, singing out a weak warble that barely qualifies as speech:
“… don’t wanna moveeeee.” You whine, petulant, the volume of your voice so quiet where it’s half-buried under exhaustion. Your bladder smarts, insistent.
Suguru is upright faster than you can form a proper plea, like he’s been waiting for this exact moment to scoop you up into his arms and nobly proclaim, “You won’t have to,” like a prince from a Disney movie before running off with you (and isn’t that what he did when you both defected…?). Even exhaustion doesn’t stop him from making sure you're so spoiled and cared for that to be anything less would be an injustice.
Torso twisting like twined stalks to face you, he steadies your frame after he rearranges the pillows and blankets to keep you nestled in like a bug snug in a rug. A soft hum of reverent promise vibrates down to your atoms— ‘you’re taken care of.’
The Nintendo 3DS balancing on the fine ridge of his hipbone gets swept off and placed onto the bedside table to free his hands. The screen distantly flickers in vibrant, lush greens and the sweetly-saturated oranges of the world of Pokémon Sun, his copy of it a mere year older than its release date.
(Knowing him, he picked the game up not for pleasure but to keep his mind sharp should anything happen while you rest, counterbalancing the quiet oasis of the room that threatens to drag one under the twilight of sleep. How cute, your husband.)
Suguru carefully gathers up your baby, cradling her to his shoulder with that infuriatingly perfect vulpine-like grace that he’s always had when it comes to even the most mundane of things. He treats the acts of pouring tea and brushing your hair when you’re too tired to do so yourself in the same way— like it’s a ceremony that a shrine maiden has practiced for their whole life.
“I’ve got her,” he coos. Suguru rises with the call of the nightlife that crests beyond the window as the evening deepens, taking out the heating pad he left in the bassinet to keep her new spot warm and putting it aside.
(Fussy, fussy, fussy.)
Cradling her head and stumpy neck with one massive palm while the other supports her back, Suguru puts utmost care into lowering the newborn. Her feet sink into the firm mattress, then her bottom, then her head in the smoothest transfer you’ve ever seen. Suguru’s got the technique whittled down to a fine stick. It’s genuinely impressive how quickly he’s adapting.
(You pray you’ll be the same, even if you’re already terrified of fucking up the fragile life you tore yourself apart to bring onto this earth.)
You lie there, limp and trusting, oh so fond as you watch him take a moment to quietly moon over your snoozing daughter. He rubs his fingers over her feeble chest as if to anchor her, smiling, before practically materializing back at your side to gather your useless ass up without prompting.
“Such a good papa,” you tease quietly as Suguru guides you upright against the pillows. His hands are unfaltering against your ribs and back, a steady scaffolding meant to brace your frame. “And a good husband.”
His molten brown eyes flick up to you, creasing around the corners in a smile so earnest it almost hurts. “Trying my best,” he gracefully accepts it with a proud tilt of his chin that reminds you of a fox, slipping the covers back and cupping the backs of your calves to swing them over the side of the bed for you. It feels great to not do a thing. “We’ll go slowly, okay?”
You won’t argue with that.
When you start to rise, everything in you sings with fragility— the soreness between your thighs, the sluggish protest of muscles worked beyond measure, the dull and dragging ache of your abdomen. You grunt, throat rough from fatigue. Suguru has his arm around your waist in an instant, steadying you as you stand, feeling reborn. You tremble with the weight of yourself.
“You’re okay, you’re not gonna fall. Just breathe,” he instructs softly, eyes darting between yours to make sure you’re as okay as he claims. You wobble, your limbs more uncooperative than a faulty blender lid, but he adjusts instantly so that your balance is orchestrated by him.
You know deep down that your bones were made for his hands. You sink into how natural it feels to be supported by him like this.
Five steps across the bedroom and Suguru’s still shadowing your movements so closely that it’s a miracle you don’t trip over each other’s feet. Exasperation flickers across your face, but sleepy submission keeps you from fighting his overwhelming care. Instead, you poke: “do you mind?”
"I'm fussing no matter what you do or say," Suguru announces without shame, lips curving into a shape that isn’t quite a smile nor a smirk. He cradles you close to his side with the same care he had given your daughter a mere minute ago, hand splayed encouragingly against your ribs as you toddle on. “Do you mind?” He turns the question on you, mischievously silky and honey-like.
Even when he’s being sweet, the sassy man apocalypse is still underway.
You drop your head to his shoulder, feeling your face crease with tired amusement. “I can still walk on my own,” you protest weakly, but he’s already guiding you past the threshold of your bedroom and into the quiet hall soaked in the scent of the candles drifting from the room. His fingers nudge the slider light in passing, sparking a dim bulb to light your way.
"You will, once you've healed," he counters simply, hand tightening just a fraction around your middle. "For now, let me do all the walking. You think I’d let you out of my sight right now? Or, god forbid, let you faint halfway there?” His tone carries the weight of fact, not question. No heroics, no martyrdom.
“Fine. But I'm not made of porcelain,” you grumble through the discomfort, brows scrunched. One step, two steps, three steps, your side brushing against Suguru’s in passing. Focusing on the ginger pitter patter of your socked feet on the carpet helps.
Suguru makes a low noise at that. The hallway light gilds everything in muted amber— your hair, his hands, the planes of his face when you tilt your head just so and catch him looking at you from beneath his lashes. Just looking, like you’re a miracle still unfolding right there in front of him.
“No,” he concedes easily with a saintly dip of his head, voice brushing your ear like velvet, “porcelain is fragile and cracks too easily, and you don’t. But you’re my wife that I love more than anything, and that makes me careful with you.” His hand flexes against your ribs, steadying you through another hesitant step.
Maybe it’s the hormones already assaulting you postpartum, maybe it’s just your Suguru being Suguru— gentle and unyielding, speaking so matter-of-factly, like gravity, like breathing, a truth he’s built his whole body around, but it knocks the air out of you. It slides into you like warmth from a kettle poured slowly, spreading to your fingers and toes.
Your chest trembles once in a shuddering exhale more than a sob, but it’s close enough. You turn your face and press your forehead to the slope of his shoulder, his usual robes exchanged for the natural softness of bared skin. The scent of him— clean laundry and sandalwood— tickles lazily at your nose, the notes pleasant and drugging.
“You’re too much,” you borderline whimper, hating how your hormones still scramble you. Suguru’s laughter that follows is low and golden, sunlight in verbal form.
You think of how it’d spill out of him on those lazy August afternoons at Jujutsu High like a cicada’s song while he sliced fruit for you, his senior by one year. Suguru’d tease you that you were so spoiled, senpai, and that you’d never learn to use a knife properly because he’d always do it for you. Maybe he was right, because you liked the view far too much to interrupt your adorable junior.
(You also think of how he smiled under that same sun— barefoot, reckless, eyes too kind for the world, and how he’d tilt his head back and the sun would catch on the inky stretch of his naturally long lashes. You think of grass-stained uniforms and the smell of spilled plums on his skin, of the way his shadow used to fall across yours when he leaned too close, all heat and summer wind as he held up a slice just for you to eat from his hand.)
The bright, gentle boy of your dreams is now your husband of the present. Isn’t that something?
“Maybe, but I have reasons to believe that you love that about me,” he murmurs, the words half-tease, half-gratitude as if it’s an honor for him to even say that. “You married me, you had my baby… the list goes on.”
You concede with a faint chuckle, leaning into him more than you want to admit, which makes him visibly brighten, more than just happy to be of service; he’s ecstatic. Your legs quake with the effort of putting one foot in front of another not unlike a fawn trying to find its footing, and Suguru notices, of course, and gives you a break so that you can both peek past the crack of Mimiko and Nanako’s bedroom door. The halfway point.
Blankets strewn and growing limbs flopped over, the twins are entirely knocked out and dead to the world in their adjacent beds; nervously pacing around the house to the beat of your screams and then meeting their baby sister will do that to a person.
Suguru’s thumb draws small circles into your ribs, grounding you in the body that doesn’t quite feel like yours again yet before coaxing you along again. Every movement reminds you that you’re not the same cult leader who used to stride into meetings alongside Suguru with perfect posture and calculated poise. Your innards rebel against you; your legs are Jello where your robe brushes against them.
Trying to walk normally after waddling beneath the swollen weight of your baby and pregnant belly for months feels like a test that you’re failing miserably. But at least you’re in motion again and finally have some of your usual range that you had long before pregnancy, you think, groaning thickly.
Pregnancy, labor, and childbirth wasn’t the quick dip and go that men painted it to be when cowardly declaring a woman’s pain from childbirth to be nothing on forums. Thankfully sweet, blessedly sweet Suguru knew the true gravity of what your body’s been through, and accommodated accordingly.
The walk to the bathroom feels longer than it should due to your slow shuffle, almost like crossing a continent. Yet Suguru doesn’t rush you once. He keeps pace with you, slowing when you slow, stopping when you squeak out a pained noise, tethered to your every stagger.
“Almost there, princess,” he soothes, breath brushing over your hair. “Good job. You’re doing so well.”
You feel so cared for that you almost want to run from it and see if it’ll sprout four legs in order to chase after you. Instead of voicing a thing, you huff your soft amusement, “You sound like a midwife.”
“Well, I did just spend the day earning the title of midwife,” he muses with a playful tilt of his head, unbothered. “I like to think I was a better assistant than a proper one, anyways. I did a great job of catching our daughter.”
“Mm. Says the one that almost fainted?”
“Lies,” Suguru waves a hand, looking vaguely like he wants to duck and take cover. “I was… momentarily awed by the power of creation.”
You snort and it startles a quiet grin out of him, like the sound of your joy in any capacity is enough to fill him up. “Don’t make your flailing sound so noble. You’re ridiculous. Ridiculous and a mother hen,” you sigh, lovingly.
The doorframe of the bathroom comes into view— salvation, you mentally jump and clap for joy. Suguru’s already twisting the handle for you before you can even think of lifting your hand and he steers you past the threshold with infinite patience, ensuring you don’t bump your hip on the frame. The floor is cool under your bare feet.
The lights that he flicks on are dim enough not to sting your eyes but bright enough to see how it throws gold against the tiles. It’s somehow still warm in the bathroom, humid with steam from the bath Suguru had drawn hours before before lowering you into the water, and you swear the space carries the echoes of the cries from you and your baby. Lingering with your survival and endurance.
All of it feels a lifetime away even though it was only hours ago.
The birthing kit is still tucked neatly in the corner, the tub now spotlessly empty and gleaming, the towels gone (most likely in the washer, now) and the basins long put away. Everything smells faintly of lavender from the plugged in diffuser and the sharp, sterile bite of alcohol wipes and disinfectant that he used to scrub away the scent of blood and amniotic fluid. Clearly, Suguru had seen to cleaning with the same meticulousness he reserved for battle strategy and hunting the most dangerous of curses to add to his arsenal.
Your knees weakly knock like flint striking stones as you cross the bathroom. He notices. “Yeah, time to sit,” he murmurs, half to himself.
His hand slides to your lower back, the warm weight of his palm like a low burn of reassurance as he eases you down onto the closed lid of the toilet like you’re something precious (you are, to him, and you’ll always be). You wince as you settle. The coolness of the porcelain beneath your thighs is shocking but grounding and your muscles sigh in relief now that you’re still.
“Breathe first. Then we’ll figure out the rest,” Suguru instructs softly. He moves with quiet precision as he brushes a stray damp strand of hair behind your ear, kissing the crown of your head. His thumb traces your temple in slow circles, anchoring you, both of you needing the physical connection as much as the reassurance.
You’re so tired and delirious that you could weep at the sweetness. You lean your forehead against his abdomen for a beat, just to feel the press of his skin— warm, damningly alive.
When you pull back, Suguru crouches in front of you, big frame folding in on itself to bring himself to your eye-level. His hair brushes forward in a dark curtain around his face that softens the lines of his jaw, so healthily glossy that the river of inky black hair shimmers beneath the bathroom light.
Gently rubbing over your thighs to soothe you as you take a moment to breathe and blink away the slight dizziness, Suguru looks up at you from under his lashes. His dark brown eyes look honeyed, here, shy flecks of gold popping up like little sunflowers in a field in the depths of his irises.
“I’ll wait right here. No rush, no pressure. You’ve basically been through a war, and you get to take your time,” he promises without a hint of impatience, and that alone is an anchor that he tosses into your storm-tumbled seas.
Something about that phrasing— war, not ordeal— strikes true. You blink at him, remembering the rawness of hours ago, the feral shriek you made when your daughter finally slipped into the world, and how Suguru had been your only lifeline.
He tilts his head to catch your gaze after observing your face for any cracks, and the smile he gives you is crooked, unbearably tender. God— the way he looks at you like you’re both the most fragile thing he’s ever touched and the strongest thing he’s ever seen, like he still hasn’t quite gotten over the sight of you bringing a whole new person into the world… it makes you feel deserving— worthy— of all the love he spoonfeeds you.
You find yourself blinking against the sudden warmth that pricks behind your eyes. Fuckass hormones.
All too observant, Suguru coos with a little heartbroken crack of his voice, cupping your cheek with the gentlest touch imaginable. “Hey. None of that,” Suguru whispers gently, thumb tracing the underside of your eye. “You’re my perfect angel. I just wanna take care of you.”
You nod, leaning into his hand like a cat seeking more pets. For a moment, it’s just the two of you in the amber half-light— the steady tick of the clock down the hallway, the scent of home and wax and the cleansed bathroom.
Eventually, you scrub a hand down your face, unable to resist the call of your bladder anymore. You shakily smile at him through half-lidded eyes, the smile costing more energy than you have left. “I’m good.”
Suguru’s gaze softens impossibly further, melting chocolate, so tender and full of pride that he doesn’t even try to hide it. “See? You’re stronger than you think,” he says with utmost certainty that even you can’t deny it, slowly pushing off the balls of his feet so that he may stand upright, kissing your forehead again.
He looks like he’s been carved out of calm itself, which you envy— barefoot and shirtless in his domain, his hair a dark spill against his neck, the curve of his shoulders and the weight of his authority woven into the ease of his stance. Suguru is sturdy and here, holding everything together.
"I literally just pushed a human out of my body," you deadpan, watching him glide over to the counter. At that reminder, your hand drifts instinctively to your belly— empty now. Weird. "I think the jury's already in on that one."
He chuckles low, the sound soaked in affection. “You did. And you’re still standing. That’s my girl.”
Like clockwork, flustered heat rushes into your face.
Your… everything may hurt, but bracing your hands against your thighs and leaning to the side to peer around Suguru’s body doesn’t produce any extra pain. His fingers parse through a bathroom caddy that wasn’t there a few hours earlier; witch hazel pads, medical spray, packs of disposable postpartum underwear, maxi pads, stool softeners— there’s more, but you get overwhelmed trying to note it all.
He must have set it all up while you were napping, anticipating absolutely everything that you’ll need. Of course he did. His attention to detail feels oddly obscene and adorable all at once.
It’s funny, how Suguru could be cold-blooded to the cult’s sponsors, a leader who calculated outcomes without blinking; yet at home, he was all small attentions, a man who practically nests like your lives depend on it and still gets the urge to tuck in Nanako and Mimiko.
You prop an elbow on your thigh and cradle your chin in your palm, a fragile smile curling your lips. “You prepped the whole bathroom, didn’t you? Overachiever.”
Suguru glances over his shoulder with that mild, unassuming pride of his, the one that somehow makes you feel cherished rather than smothered (okay, smothered too— but his overbearing attitude is endearing, truly). “Habit,” he sighs with a little shake of his head, as if he’s embarrassed by his own thoroughness. He turns forward again, meeting your gaze through the mirror this time.
(Habit, the man has the audacity to say, you internally muse— like it’s not the most quietly devastating display of his dedication to you.)
You quirk a brow and gingerly cross your arms beneath your sensitive chest. “Some habit. You stockpile like a control freak.”
“It’s efficient,” Suguru proposes instead, face now actively flushing pink. “And that’s mother hen to you, not control freak. Or, better yet, just call me your husband. You’ve done enough today— and in general— and you won’t be lifting a finger for however long.”
God, he’s a sweetheart. “You know, you’re setting the bar really high for yourself,” you murmur, voice slow with fatigue.
He tilts his head, pretending to think about it. “Princess, that’s just called doing the bare minimum. But, well…” he concedes, sucking his teeth. “I just like making sure my wife has proof she married the right man. Sue me.”
You just smile, fond. With his trademark unhurried grace, Suguru returns with a small peri-bottle, freshly folded underwear, and a thick maxi pad balanced atop a towel, all which he places on the floor next to the toilet. Again, he crouches in front of you. “Up or off?” He asks, nodding at the knot of your robe’s belt.
You’re already rolling it to your hips and bunching the fabric up there as you slowly stand, not-so-subtly saying with your body language that you’re not ready to really look at the war zone of your body just yet. Unflinching, Suguru hooks his thumbs into your waistband and draws your panties, soiled with lochia, down your legs. Gentlemanly fuss, down to the last detail.
Before you can start tweaking, he discards the set in the trash bin and gives you a somewhat sassy look that screams ‘you have no reason to be grossed out over your own body.’
Huffing, you flip the toilet lid up and sink right back down onto the seat, sore muscles protesting again. Whatever.
Your husband hands off the peri-bottle filled with warm water. Examining it, it looks somewhat like one of those bottles that rodents drink out of. That makes it ten times more unappealing, but you know you need it.
Suguru steadies one hand on your knee. His gaze never leaves you, not out of intrusion, but vigilance. For a newer or more reserved couple, this would be an awkward moment that warranted privacy. But nothing about you and Suguru was ordinary after almost a decade of your relationship, and nothing about Suguru's presence had ever allowed you to feel shame in the rawness of yourself. This is your ordinary.
(Some— or most, maybe— partners wouldn't even be in the room for this part, but then again, most partners weren’t Geto Suguru. "Dignity or whatever you wanna call it doesn't concern me when it comes to you,” you can practically hear him say. “Only you matter.")
He isn’t hovering because he doubts you or feels as though he needs to babysit you— he’s there because he can’t not be (and you would’ve checked to see if he was coming down with a fever if he ducked out of the room, if you’re being real. That’s how often you two end up in the bathroom together while one of you is using the toilet). His fragile heart is still somewhere in that messy moment of your earlier labor, watching the woman he loves bring a new heartbeat into the world, and it keeps him at your side.
It takes you a little bit of awkward shuffling on the toilet and way too much concentration put into not bearing down, but when your bladder finally gives in, the first trickle comes out hot and stinging. You wince, clenching your teeth and hissing. It should be illegal for pissing to fucking hurt.
The joys of having a child. Raw fucking pussy. Yay.
His calm is absolute, but the quiet intensity in his eyes says he’d swap body parts so that he could bear the pain for you if you said the word. "Easy. Just let it out,” he encourages. Then, “use the bottle, sweetheart,” Suguru reminds you quietly, steadily rubbing your thigh and knee.
Groaning, you slump your sweaty face into one hand and angle the spout of the peri-bottle between your legs with the other. You spray warm water over your perineal area while your body trickles so that the streams join together, and the relief is near-immediate; warm, soothing the rawness into something bearable.
"God, that actually helps,” you rasp a little wetly, letting out a breath you’ve been holding even though urinating feels uncomfortably clumsy and tender now. You peer at Suguru, voice dry as dust. "This isn’t exactly the glorious part of postpartum you had in mind, huh?"
His lips curve, a hint of teasing stirring up his chocolate-brown eyes. "It's just as important," he explains with a lordly air, sounding as though he’s reciting a textbook as he continues. “Urinating helps with cramping and reduces bleeding. This is good.”
This man.
You half-laugh, half-roll your eyes. "Don't make it sound ceremonial. It's peeing,” you snort, but relief softens the tightness around your mouth anyways.
Your toes scrunch up on the tile when you feel yourself pass chunks through your channel. The human body after labor, everyone.
You feel like you’ve been pissing for years, mildly wondering when the last time you even used the bathroom was with how long you’ve been going. At your front, Suguru keeps murmuring, low and steady, words meant only for you. Little nothings about how strong you are, how beautiful you are, how he’s not going anywhere.
Your shoulders sag when the stream gradually tapers off into a dribble before halting completely. You adjust the angle of the peri-bottle to ensure every part of you is rinsed, then you give it back to Suguru.
Now finished, you reach automatically for toilet paper— only to find it intercepted by his hand. Blinking rapidly, you watch him languidly rip a sizable strip off the roll.
“Let me help.” There’s no ego in it as he folds it into a fine square, smiling lazily up at you. He’s all devotion, quiet and unwavering.
You balk, incredulous. “You're not actually going to wipe my—"
"I am." His tone brooks no argument, but it’s gentle all the same. Suguru raises his fine eyebrows in a mild challenge, though he doesn’t seem convinced that you’ll push back too hard.
"Suguru," you utter flatly, brows arching. You’re torn between laughing and crying because genuinely, what the hell. You try reaching for it and he gently bats your hand away. “Really?”
"Yes?” He says simply as though it were the most obvious answer in the world. What he says next makes you stiffen. "You've given me a daughter. That, and I’ve also pulled a tampon out of your vagina when it got stuck—“
“Oh my godddd—“
“— been vomited on by you, aided you through labor, caught our daughter and cut the umbilical cord. Myself. Do you think l'll balk at this?"
You open your mouth to retort that he did in-fucking-fact look paler than Casper when he snapped gloves on and got between your legs in the bathtub, but the sharp set of his jaw tells you there would be no swaying him regardless of what you throw at him. With a resigned moan, frazzled and bizarrely moved all at once, you card your fingers through your hair and avert your eyes to study the bathroom wall. “… Go on.”
Out of the corner of your eye you find him smiling serenely, that charismatic panty-dropping smile, as Suguru reaches between your thighs with a gentleness that would've startled anyone who only knew him as a cult leader. You flinch, more embarrassment than discomfort, but you relax at the first swipe of fabric.
Suguru says nothing as he dabs you clean and dry with relaxed, unflinching precision, like he does everything else when it comes to you. There was nothing clinical about the way he did it, no; not when it was so clearly devotion disguised as practicality. Hell, his posture’s totally relaxed as if this is just another Tuesday afternoon at the Geto household in the countryside.
Not once do you feel small or awkward for accepting his help, even though you can’t decide if this is the most mortifying or the most intimate thing he’s ever done for you. Meanwhile, entirely unaffected, Suguru works— faint light seems to accentuate the exact softness of his skin, the careful lines of his hands, the way his jaw flexes when he concentrates.
When it was done, Suguru tossed the balled up toilet paper into the toilet, flushed it for you, and helped you back onto your feet. You pinch the bridge of your nose and consider your life choices. “Romantic,” you jest in a slight groan.
He emits a lovely, bell-like laugh. "The most romantic. I'm here in sickness and health,” Suguru chuckles as he guides your steps into the fresh underwear he holds open for you, a thick pad already flattened and stuck to the gusset. He adjusts the waistband at your hips and you let your robe gently flutter back down to your ankles, covering yourself back up.
Your chest tightens as you peer up at sweet, gentle Suguru and his honey-warm eyes, a lump forming in your throat you hadn't prepared for. You reach up, brushing his jaw and palming his face, your snark dissolving into something gentler. "You're ridiculous. But I love you. A lot, Suguru,” you admit, lips quirking.
"And I love you more than anything," he coos back, sinking into your touch and blinking slowly, almost drowsily as your thumb rubs his cheek, indulgent. “Are you feeling better now that you peed?” he asks, tone dipped in fondness and amusement all at once.
“Very,” you admit, letting him reel you in entirely. His arm slides firm and warm around you again, pulling you in against his side as if you belong there by default. The relief in your body is almost dizzying.
He plants a kiss on your forehead, and for a second you can feel the smiling curves of his lips pressed against your skin as he breathes you in. “Good girl. Let’s get mama back to bed.”
Something in your chest twists sweetly at the word— mama— like hearing it aloud makes the whole impossible day real.
He directs you carefully to the sink, steadying you while you rinse and wipe your hands. Once you’re done, one of his massive hands finds the small of your back while the other hooks under your legs, bodily sweeping you off of your feet with the kind of ease that makes it feel like you're weightless (even though you know your body has betrayed you with its own gravity).
You don’t protest, letting your head fall onto his chest with a tired snicker, exertion weighing you down. “What, am I too slow when walking?” You ask, a yawn crawling free of your throat. He chuckles softly, endeared, as if you’re a little sleepy kitten in the palm of his hand.
“I’d walk behind you through hell no matter how slowly you moved,” Suguru admits easily without batting an eye, shooting you in the heart with that singular remark. “I know you wanna go to bed already, so I’ll get you there faster.”
You huff out something between a laugh and a sigh, the sound weak but genuine. Your husband takes it as victory, adjusting his grip around you, the muscles in his arms flexing just so in a silent promise of strength. You’re grateful for his solidity.
The warmth of his body seeps into you, into every aching joint, and even your stiff fingers relax as they absently thread through the soft tendrils of his hair when you curl an arm around his neck. Suguru flicks the light off and slips out of the bathroom, carrying you through the darkened hallway. He moves with the slow certainty of someone who will always be where you need him, even before you know you’ll need him.
In the bedroom, the candles flicker lowly, the atmosphere dreamy with warmth and the scent of milk. The slow burn of wax drips like stalactites, perfuming the air with fig and jasmine. Every shadow is soft, whittling down the edges of your bedroom into a fuzzy, muted paradise. A faint hum of the night filters in through the cracked window— the cicadas, the rustle of a breeze sifting through the trees outside.
The domesticity of it all feels surreal. You half-expect the world to crack open again.
You uncomfortably pulsate in time with the sway of Suguru’s steps as he carries you further in, lowering you onto the mattress with the delicacy of a priest laying an offering on an altar. The bed is warm with layers that he pulled from storage, soft enough to welcome both mother and child.
He adjusts the plumpened pillows at your back until you sink back, comfortably reclining like wax returning to a mold. Suguru even tucks the blankets around you, fussing and chuckling under his breath when you playfully try to swat at his hands before you fully relax. You watch him from below, too tired to speak, too full of love to breathe properly. He’s so perfect. And so pretty.
(You’ve gotta admit, Suguru rocks the sleepy-sexy new dad look.)
Your eyes flit toward the bassinet when you hear a sound, instinct unerring, where your daughter sleeps like an angel wrapped in her swaddle. Even in her slumber, she seems impossibly small and delicate, a fragile dream made real. Her tiny lips are parted around the adorably snuffly sighs of a baby cocooned in dreamland.
You think about it now— the ideology that binds you and Suguru together so fiercely, the dream of a world free from the ungrateful, the ignorant. You can only hope that you brought your daughter into a world with a future that would be worth living in, because you and Suguru would try to make it so. Thoughts of her future reminded you why you had followed him out of Jujutsu High all those years ago, why you’d chosen the hard road.
Suguru notices your glance and offers a soft hum upon following it with an analyzing gaze, brushing your hair behind your ear with a thumb that lingers at your temple. “She’s alright, it’s okay,” he whispers, voice faint in volume yet no less comforting. “You can rest again, mama bear. She’ll let us know when she needs something. You focus on regaining your strength, okay?”
You can only hum in response, placated by the relief of having the weight of motherhood momentarily pushed aside. Still, just to be safe, you stir at the pot of your cursed energy boiling low in your belly to conjure your fox shikigami, watching its sleek, silvery form curl up at the bassinet’s feet.
The exhaustion still pulses through your body, but it’s softened, dulled by the security of having Suguru here and the knowledge that your daughter is safe just a few feet away. Heavy eyes slip half-closed as you drift toward a warmth that’s not just physical but emotional, visceral.
Without a word, he leans down and breathes you in with a steady sigh. This is the man who helped you breathe through contractions, who held your hair back when you cried. This is the man who, even now, still manages to make you feel like the center of the universe. Suguru's expression is soft as he admires you, unguarded in a way it rarely is.
“Cuddles,” you demand through a yawn.
That makes him smile— it starts slow, small, then spreads until it warms the whole room. His dark eyes stay fixed on you as though you’re the only thing that matters. “Of course, baby,” he lilts, giving in like PlayDoh.
Suguru is quiet as he lifts the blankets on his side of the bed, stretching out beside you once more. Your arms flail lazily for his familiar embrace, and Suguru doesn’t hesitate, scooping you into his bulk with a deliberate, encompassing care. Your cheek nestles against the warm curve of his chest, feeling the slow, steady beat of his fragility given flesh underneath his sun-kissed skin, each pulse a metronome that promises safety.
“That’s my wife,” he breathes, mouth grazing the top of your hair and making you boneless. “Thereee we go, pretty girl. Much better now, right? Nice and cozy?”
A nod is all he gets. Suguru’s hand slides up from your waist to cradle the back of your head, tucking you closer against his chest. The other drifts lazily over your arm, fingertips brushing against your skin. “I’ve got you, always,” he whispers, almost as if he’s answering a question you hadn’t even voiced.
Peeking up, you meet Suguru’s dark eyes right before closing your own, sinking into the blackness behind your eyelids. “You did so well today,” he continues, his voice like an embrace around your shoulders. It grows a little choked. “You were…” His words falter for the first time that night, and you feel the shift as he shakes his head like he can’t quite catch the phrasing. “You were unbelievable. Thank you so, so much for giving me more than what I deserve, my sweet girl.”
You want to respond, to tell him that he deserves everything good the world could possibly offer, and that you’d still give him more if you could. That you'd do it all again, every ache, every drop of blood, every cost that it took to bring forth life. This— him, her, the twins, you— is worth it, and it’s everything you could ever want. The tide of assurances scrabbles insistently at your throat, begging to be let free.
But your body is conspiring against you, and you’re already half-lost to sleep. Privately, you resolve to tell him all of that and more when you wake in the morning to him creeping back into the room with a tray laden with breakfast, pretending it’s nothing, like he didn’t spend half an hour making pancakes shaped like hearts and cutting fruit into perfect little stars, before he drags your daughter’s bassinet closer to the bed to gaze between her and you like he still can’t believe you’re both real.
The ache in your body, from your abdomen to between your thighs, makes you tender, but right now it’s bearable. The steady weight of Suguru against you, the soft warmth of the blankets, the gentle hush of nighttime, and the distant, tiny noises of a baby dreaming in her bassinet is enough to settle you.
He nuzzles the side of your head, low and lazy, imprinting himself into your senses: your protector, your home. You take the chance to inhale the intoxicating scent of him— the faint trace of soap, the reassuring flowery earthiness of his cologne that anchors you in ways words could never capture.
Suguru’s heat seeps into your bones like honey, sticky and slow and dulling your pain with sheer comfort, and you find yourself letting out a soft, satisfied sigh as the weight of your exhaustion drags you back under.
a/n: oh sugu u have moved mountains…
i’ll be finishing up the husband!geto masterlist sometime over the next few days so that I can get post it and get it out there :3 this fic and another one that I’m posting soon will be part of the series. anyone is welcome to request fics for this series because I ADOREEEE writing geto ^_^
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