[looking at people younger than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at people older than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at myself] its over
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@theartofbadluck
[looking at people younger than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at people older than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at myself] its over
tomura holding you still and gasping in your ear after he cums because his cock is too sensitive for him to move.. but then you squeeze around him and it feels really good and he wants more, so he begins to shallowly thrust in and out, trying to ride through the overstimulation.. yesyes
Ok so like... This is a random HC I now have if anyone is feeling low about themselves that none of the Li's would love them irl...
They've seen you in so many different forms and past lives. They've probably seen you when you were rich, poor, healthy, or struggling.
So if you think you're not that pretty the way you are, they'll remember your personality, because that's why they fell in love right? Your jokes, your wit, your attitude towards life, your sassiness... And feel content that they've found you again.
If you think you're fat or not eating correctly, they'll think, she's been given a tough set of metabolic and genetic combinations this time, she has more to overcome, and love you harder. They'd never see your physical body and assume you don't take care of yourself.
Because nothing would stop their love for you. You belong. A part of them, forever.
Two might be enough
You've reached your limit with kids but Choso is always up for one more whenever your ready.
The kitchen island had become a tactical staging ground. On the left sat a sterile drying rack overflowing with small silicone valves, anti-colic vents, and plastic bottles with faded measurement lines. On the right, a solitary mug of coffee—long since gone cold—rested next to a half-eaten slice of toast that had hardened to the consistency of cardboard.
Between these two monuments of survival stood the two of you.
"Choso, I love you with everything I have," you began, your voice dropping into that heavy, deliberate register reserved for conversations that required absolute clarity. "But I do not have the capacity, the physical stamina, or the structural willpower to push out another human being."
You let out a long, ragged sigh, the sound vibrating against the small, warm weight bundled securely against your collarbone. You shifted your heels on the linoleum, performing that rhythmic, subconscious hip-sway that had become your default setting over the last twenty-four months. The four-month-old in your arms let out a weak, protesting squeak, her tiny fingers bunching into the fabric of your shirt.
Across the marble counter, Choso stood with his arms crossed over his chest. His signature posture—shoulders pulled high, chin tucked low—usually gave him the silhouette of a gargoyle guarding an ancient gate. But today, his sharp, angular features were softened by a thoroughly domestic, localized pout. His heavy lids were lowered, his gaze fixed on the small tuft of black hair peeking out from the baby’s swaddle.
"I know," he murmured, his deep voice carrying that distinct, gravelly hum that only ever surfaced within the quiet safety of your four walls. "I am not arguing with you, love."
"Good," you said, though your shoulders didn’t quite drop from their defensive position near your ears. "Because my body is still trying to remember where my organs belong. We are at capacity."
To say you were at capacity was an understatement. A two-year-old and a four-month-old was a volatile, beautifully chaotic combination. It was an ecosystem governed entirely by biological urgency—sleepless nights that bled into gray mornings, a relentless cycle of diaper changes, sudden and unexplainable kitchen-floor meltdowns, and the draining task of navigating the unsolicited parenting advice of practically everyone who saw you in public.
Yet, through the thick of the fog, there was Choso.
To call Choso a good father felt like an incomplete assessment of his character. He didn't simply participate in childcare; he had internalized the entire concept of fatherhood as an extension of his soul. The vast, ancient reservoir of protective instinct that had once defined his existence as an elder brother had shifted entirely toward you and the children.
He didn't wait for direction. He didn't ask for permission to handle the domestic load. He scrubbed the baseboards until his knuckles were raw, cooked calorie-dense, nutritious meals to ensure you were recovering, and managed the grocery runs with the precise efficiency of a soldier gathering rations. He regularly cleared your schedule, practically pushing you out the door or locking you in the bathroom with a tub full of hot water just so you could experience thirty minutes of silence.
But the baby fever was a distinct, undeniable force.
It wasn't a demanding urge, nor was it an expectation he placed on you. It was a quiet, almost reverent fascination with the early stages of life. You had watched him during your pregnancies—how he would sit on the edge of the bed for hours in the dark, his large, scarred hand resting flat against your swollen stomach, his forehead pressed against your skin as he whispered long, rambling histories to the fluid inside. He was a man who had been denied a conventional childhood, a man whose early existence had been defined by blood, duty, and premature loss. In the small, fragile dependency of a newborn, he seemed to find a version of peace that nothing else could provide.
"I know, baby," Choso repeated softly. He moved around the perimeter of the island, his steps entirely silent despite his broad frame. The faint, grounding scent of sandalwood, dried lavender, and cedar followed him—a familiar sensory anchor that immediately caused your pulse to slow.
He closed the distance between you, his eyes scanning your face with that intense, observational focus he used when assessing your fatigue. He didn't try to cajole you or turn your boundary into a debate. Instead, he simply leaned down, pressing a warm, lingering kiss against your temple, his lips dry and rough against your skin.
"Let me take her," he whispered.
His large, calloused hands slid beneath your daughter with practiced ease. One hand supported the base of her skull, his long fingers cradling her neck, while his other arm scooped beneath her bottom. The transition was seamless. The moment she was transferred into his arms, the relief in your lower back was so sudden it made your knees feel weak.
The baby, who had spent the last forty-five minutes letting out rhythmic, high-pitched whines against your neck, quieted instantly. She let out a small, shuddering sigh, her tiny face turning inward toward the dark fabric of his oversized knit sweater.
The genetic signature was unmistakable. She had inherited his deep, intense, almost purple eyes and the thick, stubborn black hair that refused to lay flat, no matter how much water you brushed through it.
"See?" Choso murmured, a very faint, private smile touching the corners of his mouth as he adjusted her against his chest. His hand covered her entire back, a massive shield of bone and muscle ensuring nothing could touch her. "She was just waiting for her papa."
"She was waiting for someone with a higher body temperature who doesn't smell like sour milk," you countered, though you leaned your shoulder against his arm, letting your head rest briefly against his bicep. "Don't misinterpret basic thermodynamics as a vote of confidence for baby number three."
Choso let out a low, rumbling chuckle that vibrated deep within his thoracic cavity—a sound that clearly acted as a sedative for the infant, whose eyelids were already growing heavy.
"I would never," he said, his tone turning serious, his eyes dropping to meet yours. "Your body has given enough. I am grateful for what we have here. I do not need more than what is in this room."
Before you could appreciate the sincerity of his words, a heavy, uncoordinated thump echoed from the hallway, followed by the familiar, dragging sound of a weighted blanket being hauled across hardwood floors.
The toddler had risen from his nap.
Within seconds, a small boy with an identical mop of untamable dark hair appeared at the kitchen threshold. He was wearing one striped sock and one bare foot, his eyes small and puffy from sleep as he dragged his favorite plush bear by its left ear. He stopped where the hardwood met the linoleum, his little mouth opening in a wide, dramatic yawn that threatened to unhinge his jaw. He looked at you, then at the bundle in Choso's arms, and let out a small, demanding grunt.
Choso’s response was instantaneous. His reflexes, honed by centuries of survival and perfected by two years of toddler monitoring, didn't falter. He lowered his center of gravity, dropping to one knee on the hard floor without a sound, keeping the four-month-old perfectly level against his chest. He extended his right arm, creating an open flank.
"Come here, little star," Choso called out softly.
The two-year-old didn't hesitate. He trudged forward, his small legs moving with the heavy-bottomed gait of a child still waking up, and buried his face directly into Choso’s side. He hooked his small fingers into the coarse knit of his father’s sweater, his thumb finding its way into his mouth as he let his entire weight lean against Choso's thigh.
Choso wrapped his large arm around the boy’s shoulders, pulling him into a firm, grounding hold while maintaining the delicate cradle of the infant with his left. He sat there on the kitchen floor, flanked by his descendants, looking like an ancient pillar around which the entire house revolved.
You knelt down beside them, your joints popping in the quiet room. You reached out, using your fingers to smooth down the chaotic bedhead at the back of your son’s neck. The boy let out a small hum of approval, his eyes closing again.
"You have that look on your face," you murmured, keeping your voice low so as not to disturb the fragile peace.
Choso looked up from the toddler's hair, his dark eyes fixed on you. There was an immense, heavy gravity in his expression—the look of a man who constantly measured the distance between his family and the rest of the world, ensuring no danger could bridge the gap. "What look?"
"The look that says you’d build an entire village with your bare hands if I gave you two more," you said, your finger gently tracing the distinct line across the bridge of his nose. "The look that says your big-brother complex is trying to manifest a small army."
Choso didn't laugh this time. He simply watched you, his gaze steady and entirely respectful of the boundary you had drawn earlier in the afternoon.
"My heart is larger than it used to be," he admitted, his voice dropping into a rough whisper. "When I was alone, I thought my purpose was small. Just my brothers. Now... I look at him, and I look at her, and I see everything I never thought I would be allowed to have. If you told me today that this is all we will ever see, I would be content. I am not greedy for more of your pain."
He leaned forward slightly, just enough to press his forehead against yours. The warmth of his skin was immediate, the steady rise and fall of his chest a constant, rhythmic baseline beneath the small, erratic breathing of the children.
"But," he added, a small, wry glint appearing in his dark eyes as he looked down at the toddler currently snoring against his leg, "if we are truly finished... I think we should discuss that appointment you mentioned last week. The one with the doctor."
You let out a soft laugh, the last remnants of the day's tension leaving your ribs. You pressed a quick, firm kiss to his lips, the taste of him familiar and safe.
"The vasectomy?" you whispered.
"Yes," Choso said, his expression completely serious, though his hand gently patted the toddler’s back in a slow, rhythmic circle. "If it ensures you can rest, I will let them do whatever they must. I have survived worse than a surgeon's knife."
"It's a standard procedure, Choso, not a battle," you reminded him, though you leaned your head against his free shoulder, watching the way your daughter’s fingers had tangled themselves into the fabric near his collarbone.
"A sacrifice for the household," he corrected solemnly, though the small twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. "I will bear it for the team."
You stayed like that for a long time, kneeling on the kitchen floor between the cold coffee and the clean bottles. The silence stretched between you, comfortable and heavy, broken only by the soft, rhythmic puff of your son's breathing against Choso's sweater.
You looked down at the tiny girl cradled so effortlessly in Choso's massive forearm. Her little chest rose and fell, completely safe, completely oblivious to the world outside this room. You thought about the labor, the sleepless fog, the absolute toll it took to build a life from scratch. You had gone into this conversation entirely against the idea of ever doing it again. The door was supposed to be shut, locked, and barricaded.
But looking at Choso—noticing the absolute reverence in his eyes, the way he bent his entire monumental existence to fit the needs of you and these children, and how deeply he respected your choices without an ounce of resentment—something in your chest softened. Just a fraction. Not enough to open the door completely, but enough to unlock it. You weren't entirely against it forever... but definitely not anytime soon.
"Just... give me a couple of years, Cho," you sighed softly, the words slipping out before you could fully think them through. "Preferably until she's in middle school."
The change in him was subtle but immediate. The tension in his broad shoulders evaporated completely. You could feel Choso smile softly against your hair, a deep, silent warmth radiating from him as he shifted slightly to rest a gentle, infinitely tender kiss on the top of your head.
"Whatever you need, my love," he murmured into your hair, his voice thick with a quiet, overwhelming gratitude. "However long it takes. I can wait."
Tag-list: @oksukuna
Orbiting You
Qifrey fell hard, harder than he could’ve ever anticipated
Female reader, slight manga spoilers, mostly for Qifrey’s character, established relationship
Qifrey didn’t realize he was falling for you until he was face first in the dirt. He thought it would be a gradual shift, like when a stream creates a canyon. Instead, he awoke one morning and it was as if his entire world turned on its axis, now orbiting you instead of a dying star. It wasn’t entirely noticeable when he first opened his eyes, disappointed when your side of the bed had grown cold. Setting his glasses into place, sliding out of bed, and finding his slippers to search for you in what he thought would be a quiet atelier. As he approached the kitchen, laughter sprung off the walls, the sound fastening his heartbeat. When he eased the door open, there you were, eyes crinkled with a giant smile plastered on your face, and he swore the sun shining through the window cast a heavenly glow over your form. You and the girls were covered in flour, even the brush bug was jumping around in the white powder strewn across the mahogany.
“Shhh, we don’t want to wake him yet,” You lifted a pointer finger to your lips, trying to conceal even your own giggles.
“It seems it’s too late for that,” He walked through the door, eyeing the mess.
“Master Qifrey,” Coco squeaked, “We were just trying to make breakfast.”
“Without magic,” You pursed your lips.
“Now why would you want to do such a dreadful thing,” He tried to avoid the powder on the floor—which was practically impossible—before ending up at your side, wrapping an arm around your waist—as he couldn’t bear to be apart from you any longer.
“We thought it would be fun,” Tetia giggled.
“We’ll clean up the mess right away,” Coco said, grabbing Riche’s arm to go find the broom.
“How about,” Qifrey grabbed the ends of their robes, “You clean it with magic.”
“Yes, Master Qifrey.” The girls nodded, running to grab their pens and pads.
He pulled you into his side, “How did this happen?” He laughed, kissing the top of your head.
“Coco and Tetia were fighting over the bag of flour and split it in two.” You giggled, melting into his touch.
You turned to face him, standing on the tips of your toes to wrap your arms around his neck, mouth mere inches from his own, “We wanted to make you breakfast.”
“I imagine that would’ve been easier if you’d used a spell,” He wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you in close, connecting his lips to yours.
“Ick,” Agott gagged when she walked in the room.
You laughed as your lips parted, “Good morning Agott, Coco tried to wake you.”
“With the look of this mess, I’m glad I stayed asleep,” She grabbed a fruit from the counter and went back to her room.
Then there was you showing the girls a new spell at the river nearby. He didn’t much care for the water, but when you’d asked him to come along, who was he to deny you. Besides, he was a witch, he didn’t have to get wet if he didn’t want to. And how he hated getting wet, but you, you loved the water, and watching as the magic teaching turned into fun, the way you giggled as you splashed water onto the girls. You took off your shoes, jumping into the river, and falling onto your butt, but that didn’t stop your experience, pulling the girls into the river with you until even Agott was giggling with glee. You laughed and stood, hair soaked, water dripping down the sides of your face and yet the smile never left it. He had never thought water was more beautiful than in this moment, covering the body of the woman he loved. And maybe it was in that moment that he realized he loved you. He had never experienced anything quite like the feeling in his gut right now, the fluttering and almost nauseating sensation floating around in his belly. Even when you traversed out of the river, coming his way with your soaking clothes, ringing your hair out, and plopping yourself directly into his lap. You smiled as you kissed his cheek, water from your body soaking through his robes and somehow he didn’t have a care in the world. He could dry himself off at the atelier, but he would never miss out on the opportunity to hold you, so he wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you impossibly closer.
But no, the moment he knew he loved you is when he sought out comfort, something he had never dared to allow himself the privilege. It had been some time since one of his notorious headaches plagued him, and when they did he typically found himself a dark, solemn place to hide and wait out the pain. Except this time, he craved you. Your touch. Your voice. Your mere presence. So instead of shielding himself away, he took a deep breath, and went in search of you. The hallway was a dizzying feat, and when he heard quiet snickering it almost made him turn back, almost. But when he turned the corner into the living room, you sat in front of the fire, Coco curled into your side, quietly chatting with Olruggio. Luckily, when his old friend saw the displeased look on his face, he made quick work of ushering Coco off to bed. Qifrey made a mental note to thank him for that later. Your face softened as you noticed your lover enter the room, extending your arms for him. He practically collapsed into them, shielding his face in your chest. He needn’t say a word. He had informed you only once of the headaches that plagued him due to his past, but you never bore witness to one. The way his face creased, his eyes barely able to stay open, even his movements were sluggish.
“Should I get you some medicine?” You went to stand, but his arms tightened around your waist.
“My love,” He mumbled out, “Please stay.”
“I’m here,” You squeezed his form, pulling him closer to you before gently tangling your hands in his hair, “Is this alright?” You asked as you softly scraped your fingertips across his scalp, anything to try and dull the ache.
He merely hummed, leaning into your touch. You laid your head atop his, listening to the quiet crackle of the fire, hoping that your presence alone would ease your lover's pain.
Qifrey had never been in love, wasn’t quite sure what it even felt like. But if this right here, held in the embrace of the person you trusted with your most vulnerable moments, was what it meant to be in love, then he had fallen for you so deeply, no amount of magic would be enough to pull him back up.
A/N: I was in my feels so hard writing this. I just wanna hold him and give him the love he deserves. Yes I know I’m not done with the manga and I have been told it’ll break my heart.
*Please do not repost, copy, or use any of my works to feed your AI*
My mind keeps going back to the little blurb I read where Qifrey and reader get caught making out by the girls and how they never get time to actually do anything fun(if YK what I mean) bc the girls always need him or Olruggio somehow catches them , I find it hilarious and I was wondering if you could do a fic like this bc the creator said that the blurb would probably never be continued
I would highkey give you my soul if you did this (but ofc if you don't wanna that's understandable!)
I seriously love your Qifrey fics tho 🤍🫶
hey, so i took way longer on this than i should have and i wrote far more than i needed to, so congratulations LMAO
We Interrupt Your Regularly Scheduled Program
Summary: You would have to take a crowbar to Qifrey in order to pry him off of you. Hilariously, there are four children in the house who know the exact moment to interrupt you. Pairing: Qifrey/Reader, Qifrey/Original Female Characters Genre: Romance/Humor Rating: T/M Word count: 3239
Monday, 5:32pm
The kitchen is quiet, the children you just finished feeding are now off playing in the fields that surround the atelier. There’s a soft hum coming from one of Qifrey’s water spells as it rolls dishes within its sphere. You stand with your gaze towards the window, watching the birds catch the evening breeze. Every so often you hear laughter echo from the fields, the girls’ voices filled with nothing but amusement.
You’re drying plates over the sink but your hand stills when you feel an invisible weight bare down on your shoulders.
Hm, he’s staring again.
Qifrey sits behind you at the table, like he always does when a meal is finished, and watches. If he doesn’t need to start a lesson or have a pressing matter to attend to, he waits for you to finish. You adore it, truly. It gives you uninterrupted time with him, a moment to talk about the day and, well, gossip a little.
But right now, he didn’t seem to have the energy to chat but he did have the energy for other things.
Qifrey very rarely shows intimate affection publicly, even within the home he keeps it limited. A kiss on the cheek here, a hug there. Things that would be done in passing. He is…passionate, yes, but he has an excellent way of communicating his needs without outwardly expressing them. He’s all looks and innuendos and when spoken in that smooth cadence of his you melt every time.
He does have his moments, however, where his own desires become so overwhelming that they spill from him like a broken faucet. Running into a glass that can never be filled. And when that happens, he can’t help but act on them.
You never mind when he does, you quite like it when he loses a little control.
Mr. and Mrs. Shen
After another assassin interfered in your mission, you’re tasked with eliminating him. But what do you do when he turns out to be none other than your husband?
(Heavily inspired by the movie Mr. & Mrs. Smith (2005), but you don’t have to have watched it to read it.)
✧ Xavier x fem!reader ✧ Word count: 17.3k ✧ Content: mdni 18+, violence, no Evol, Alternate Universe, cameos of other LIs, fluff, smut, pinv, unprotected sex, mentions of blood, oral f receiving, vaginal fingering, softdom!xavier, jealousy
✧ read on ao3 ✧
Up on the roof, the wind blew relentlessly. Despite the cloudless sky, the glare of the midday sun was no match for the biting late autumn air, raising goosebumps on your exposed arms.
You heed it no mind as you remained motionless with your gaze fixed on the opposite building through the scope, the brim of your cap shielding your eyes from the blinding rays of sunshine. In a couple of minutes, the target should be brought to the 28th floor, right where your sniper rifle was pointing at.
EXTRA, EXTRA READ ALL ABOUT IT (PHAINON IS IN HIS FEELINGS AND HE CAN’T GET OUT OF IT) — PILOT
a phainon x female reader modern au series.
overview: the crowds cheer when you finally announce that you have a boyfriend! and there’s a lot to be expected, considering it is your first relationship. you’ll be experiencing many ‘firsts’—first kiss, first dates, first everything.
though it doesn’t make sense.
phainon had been in a relationship before, and yet he shares the same sentiment.
(or: phainon finally learns what it’s like to be loved in return.)
tags: modern au, emphasis on the firsts, many firsts, miscommunications, established relationship, first love, fluff and humor, hurt/comfort, toxic relationship + manipulation (not for phaicham and the reader at least), past exes, reassurances, female-reader, awakenings, rated mature, additional tags to be added
“Will you stay?”
There it is—you knew this was coming. You pause from using your phone and look by your shoulder from the bed, and just behind you, lies Phainon, your big, wonderful, boyfriend, with hair white as snow, and eyes as blue as the ocean.
( Yeah, you can’t do this. You can’t speak poetry like him when it comes to describing things. How can Phainon do it? How can he spill such words with ease? )
Mc was lying down on the floor playing a new game that had taken up all their time as of late when Sylus entered the living room.
"It seems our Dragon Li has decided to nest here." Sylus says, noting how Mc had barely moved an inch since he last saw them.
"Should I help you mark your new territory with a hoard, Kitten?" Sylus teased, his tone laced with amusement.
Mc made an incoherent noise and paid Sylus no attention as they continued playing their game. This caused Sylus' brows to rise in astonishment and he let out a huff of annoyance. He was the fearless leader of the N109 zone, many feared his name alone, and many would cut off their own arm just to speak with him. Yet here he was, in his own home being ignored and neglected by his beloved as if he was a mere henchmen.
With a smug expression and a plan to obtain what he wants, Sylus took out a large ruby gemstone that he had recently cut in his basement before he walked over to his lounging lover.
"Are you really going to make me bend over to give you this, Kitten? Don't you want to see my hard work?"
Still not looking away from their screen or making any attempts at moving, Mc continued moving the joysticks and mindlessly threw out a response to his question.
"Whats the matter, Sy? Afraid you won't be able to get back up again, old man?"
Oh, that was it. Before Mc could say anything else, they felt their world spin as Sylus picked them up like they weighed nothing at all.
"Wait. Wait! I take it back. I take it back! You're not old. You don't even look a day past a thousand." Mc said, digging their grave deeper.
Loud astonished laughter rumbled through Sylus' chest and echoed down the hall at how his brutal his kitten could be when they showed their claws. He decided that their payment for this negligence and wounded pride would be through cuddles.
A yelp left Mc as they felt themselves be thrown onto the king sized mattress below, but before any words could come out, Mc wheezed as Sylus completely dropped on top of them, trapping Mc between the mattress and the brooding dragon above.
"S-Sylus!"
"Hush now, Sweetie. Pillows aren't know for talking."
And that was how Mc could be found, crushed below a dragon they were forced to remember and pay attention to. Games now completely forgotten about as Sylus laid with his head over his beloved's beating heart and a tender touch lingering on his back.
➽────── gojo…is down horrendously. ──────❥
access the verse here!!
gojo does not handle the rejection well.
he's slumped across the couch in the frat house the following morning, one arm draped over his eyes, the other dangling off to the side, phone lighting up beside him every few seconds because he keeps unlocking it for no reason.
there's nothing on it. nothing he cares about, anyway.
no new notifications from you, no mysterious appearance of your contact, no divine intervention.
just the same empty screen, again. and again. and again.
he hasn’t moved in ten minutes.
“he’s dead,” toji says from the kitchen, pouring himself coffee like this is a normal tuesday.
“tragic,” geto replies, scrolling on his phone. “cause of death?”
“ego collapse,” toji says.
gojo groans into the cushion. “i can hear you.”
“good,” toji says. “then hear this. she’s not into you.”
gojo lifts his head just enough to glare at him. “i just need to see her again.”
"she's not into you, bro," toji says flatly. "how many times do i have to say it?"
“you watched one conversation. i have plenty of time for redemption.”
“you introduced yourself like an idiot,” geto shrugs. "good luck."
"i didn't introduce myself properly," gojo snaps. "that's the problem."
"oh, sorry," toji deadpans. "you announced yourself."
gojo throws a pillow at him.
right then, choso comes down the stairs, already dressed. "i'm going to my girlfriend's," he says quietly, pulling on his shoes.
three heads turn, and gojo stands up so fast it's almost alarming. "is y/n gonna be there?"
choso hesitates. "maybe? she was there when i texted this morning."
gojo's already halfway across the room. "i'm coming."
"no you're not," toji says immediately.
"yes i am."
"you're not invited," geto adds.
"i'll be quiet," gojo insists. "i'll be normal."
toji laughs. "you don't know how to do either of those things, dumbass."
gojo ignores him, already grabbing his coat. "choso. please."
choso blinks at him, stuck between concern and confusion. "i don't know if that's—"
"please," gojo repeats, hands clasped together. "i'll do anything."
"anything?" geto asks, delighted.
gojo shoots him a look. "not you, you dumb fuck."
"...i don't know if that's a good idea," choso says carefully.
"i'll sit in a corner. i won't speak unless spoken to. i'll—"
"that's a lie," toji cuts in.
"i'll try," gojo says, desperate now. "just let me come."
choso looks at him and sighs, grabbing his keys. "...fine."
twenty minutes later, gojo is standing outside the apartment door trying to look normal.
he fails immediately. he runs a hand through his hair. fixes his shirt. checks his reflection in the black screen of his phone. wipes his hands on his jeans.
“relax,” choso mutters, knocking.
“i am relaxed,” gojo says, voice too tight.
the door swings open and choso’s girlfriend beams. “hi, cho!”
then her eyes flick to gojo. her smile widens, just a little too knowingly. “oh,” she says. “hey!”
“hey,” he says, suddenly very aware of his posture, his face, his entire existence. she steps aside to let them in, then glances over her shoulder toward the living room and smirks.
“y/n, you have a visitor,” she sing-songs.
gojo follows her gaze to where you’re on the couch, legs tucked under you, scrolling on your phone.
your eyes land on gojo. there’s a beat, and your expression flattens in real time. "...oh."
you glance at your friend who's already watching you like she’s about to enjoy this.
you roll your eyes. hard.
“hey,” gojo says, trying for casual and landing somewhere near painfully obvious. “funny running into you again.”
“you followed your friend to his girlfriend's apartment,” you say. “this isn't a coincidence.”
choso’s girlfriend snorts and disappears into the kitchen, holding choso's hand, before she gets dragged into it.
traitor.
gojo hovers awkwardly for a second before sitting on the edge of the couch, leaving a respectful gap between you.
you don’t look at him again.
he waits, and waits. “...so,” he starts.
“so,” you echo, still scrolling.
“you left early.”
“i had stuff to do.”
he shifts awkwardly. “you could’ve said bye.”
you glance up, unimpressed. “to who.”
him.
he swallows. “to people.”
“i said bye to people i wanted to say bye to.”
ouch.
from the kitchen, there’s a muffled choking sound that is definitely choso’s girlfriend laughing into her hand.
“you’re mean in the morning too, huh,” he mutters.
“you showed up uninvited,” you reply calmly. “what did you expect, a welcome basket?”
he exhales softly. “can i make it up to you?”
you finally look at him properly, eyes a little cold and unblinking. “make what up to me?”
“last night,” he says. “i sounded like an idiot. i—i can do better.”
“was that you trying?”
“no,” he says quickly. “last night was a rough draft.”
you stare at him for a second then look back to your phone. “nice.”
he smiles despite himself. “can i get a second draft?”
“convincing pitch,” you say dryly.
he leans forward slightly, earnest. “just give me, like, one chance to not be that guy.”
“i’m good.”
gojo sits there, blinking like he got hit with cold water. “do you—uh—have instagram?”
“no.”
“no like, you don’t have it? or—”
“no, i’m not giving it to you.”
he winces. “your number?”
“no.”
“snap?”
“no.”
“email?”
you stare at him. “are you serious right now?”
“i’m being thorough.”
“you’re being annoying.”
“i can be less annoying if you give me one of them.”
“or,” you say, “you could be less annoying by leaving me alone.”
he runs a hand down his face. “listen, i—i just wanna see you again.”
“you’re seeing me right now,” you deadpan.
“give me a chance?”
“no.” you shut your eyes like his presence alone is a nuisance and grab your bag, standing up. “i’m leaving.”
gojo straightens instantly. “what? why?”
“because i have things to do and you’re giving me a headache.” you give your friend a quick thanks and wave bye to choso, heading for the door.
“i’ll walk you,” gojo says.
“you don’t need to.”
“i want to.”
“i don’t want you to.”
“i’m going to anyway.”
you stare at him. he stares back, smiling widely.
so annoying.
you roll your eyes again and he follows immediately as you walk out.
the elevator ride is quiet for exactly three seconds. “you sure i can’t get your number?”
“pretty sure.”
“just pretty sure?”
“entirely sure,” you correct, glaring at him.
"okay, but—just one thing," he tries again, hovering over you. "anything. please, i'll take anything."
"take the hint," you say.
"i'm ignoring the hint," gojo replies. "you're killing me, y/n."
“you’ll live.”
“i don’t think i will, actually.”
you press the button for the ground floor. “okay.”
when the doors ding you step out and he follows, walking beside you insistently. "one more chance," he tries.
"no."
"one coffee."
"no."
“if i give up, will you at least feel bad?”
“no.”
“wow.”
you keep walking, he keeps pace. “okay, new deal,” he says quickly. “if you give me your instagram, i will shut up. completely. never bother you again.”
you stop and turn, something flickering across your face. “you swear?” you ask.
“swear,” he says immediately.
you study him for one long second then sigh.
“fine,” you mutter, pulling out your phone. “if i give you my instagram, you'll shut up?”
his face lights up. "yes."
"completely?"
"completely."
"no talking?"
"silent," he vows.
"forever?"
"i mean—"
your eyes narrow and he backtracks, stammering. "yes. yes, forever, silent."
you recite your handle. "...yeah. and there's an underscore there."
he types it in carefully, nearly fumbling his own phone as he pulls it out.
"thank you," he says quietly, ducking his head down.
you turn to leave, and you barely make it four steps.
“…hi,” he calls after you.
you stop, slowly turn your head.
he smiles sheepishly. “i lied. you know i can't stay silent.”
you give him a last look before turning around.
he stands there for a second after you disappear out the building doors, like his brain needs a moment to catch up to what just happened. he looks down at your instagram, where his follow request is pending. you've got a private account.
your instagram is right there. literally right there.
“…holy shit,” he breathes. he practically floats back to the elevator, his whole body buzzing in excitement. eventually he stumbles out, makes it back down the hall, and pushes choso's girlfriend's apartment door open with energy.
she takes one look at his face and immediately starts smiling. “oh my god.”
“i got it,” gojo says, absolutely giddy. “i got it.”
“you’re glowing,” she laughs, shutting the door behind him.
he doesn’t even respond to that, just drops straight onto the couch, sprawled out, holding his phone up like it’s sacred scripture. “i got her instagram,” he repeats, to no one and everyone at the same time.
choso, standing nearby, blinks at him slowly. “…okay.”
“no, like—” gojo sits up, shoving the phone toward him. “look.”
choso leans back slightly like the phone might explode. “i believe you.”
“she gave it to me,” gojo insists, like this is the part that matters most.
“after you begged?” choso’s girlfriend asks sweetly.
“i did not beg,” gojo says immediately. “i negotiated.”
choso’s girlfriend raises a brow. “mm. what were the terms of this negotiation?”
“she said if she gave me her instagram, i had to shut up.”
choso actually laughs. "gojo, i just don't think she likes you."
"she hates me," he says fondly, hearts radiating out of his eyes as he leans back onto the couch. "she hates me so much."
eventually, even gojo runs out of reasons to sit there refreshing the same screen like it owes him something. he pushes himself up off the couch, stretching once, phone still glued to his hand. “alright, i’m gonna head back.”
choso nods, already half-turned toward his girlfriend. “yeah, okay.”
there’s a pause, then choso clears his throat, not looking at him. “i’ll… stay a bit longer.”
his girlfriend immediately bites back a smile.
gojo looks between them once. “…oh,” he says.
choso goes a little red, his girlfriend giggles.
gojo lifts both hands. “no, yeah. stay. absolutely. take your time. take…all the time..” he’s already halfway to the door, shaking his head with a grin. “have fun. be safe. don’t do anything i wouldn’t do.”
“that’s not a high bar,” she calls after him.
“it’s a respectable bar,” he shoots back, already slipping out.
the second he pushes the door to the frat house open he's announcing triumphantly, "i got it!"
toji, sprawled across the couch, doesn’t even look up. “you got what.”
“her instagram,” gojo says.
that gets geto’s attention immediately. “she gave it to you?” he asks, brows lifting.
“yeah,” gojo says, already grinning again. “obviously.”
toji snorts. “that was fast.”
“i told you,” gojo shoots back, dropping onto the armchair this time, leaning back like he just won something. “i said i’d see her again.”
geto hums, watching him carefully. “and?”
“and nothing,” gojo says, waving a hand. “we talked. she insulted me like five times. it was great.”
toji finally glances over. “you’re smiling.”
gojo immediately wipes it off his face. “i’m not.”
“you are.”
“i’m not,” he insists, failing completely because the smile is already creeping back.
geto laughs quietly. “did she seem thrilled about giving it to you?”
gojo drops onto the couch, restless. “she told me to shut up.”
“romantic,” toji mutters.
"w—wait." gojo sits up so fast he almost drops his phone. “she accepted.”
geto raises a brow. “already?”
“don’t say ‘already’ like it hasn’t been the longest wait of my life,” gojo snaps, but there’s no bite to it. he’s already tapping into your profile.
your page loads and gojo's eyes scan it slowly, taking in every detail like he’s afraid he’ll miss something. “…holy shit,” he breathes.
geto leans over slightly. “what.”
gojo doesn’t respond. he scrolls, one post to another. there aren't many, but every single one hits him like a punch to the chest. you're laughing on one, head tilted back, sunlight catching on your face.
gojo's never seen you laugh like that. you're beautiful.
you in another, dressed up, looking directly at the camera with that same unimpressed expression you gave him. you, blurry in motion in one photo, mid-step, still somehow perfect.
gojo just stares. “she's beautiful,” he mutters.
“let me see,” geto says, leaning closer.
gojo tilts the phone away immediately. “no.”
geto raises a brow. “why not.”
“because,” gojo says, already scrolling again.
“because what,” geto presses, leaning in anyway.
gojo angles the phone even further out of reach, twisting his body like he’s shielding classified information. “because you don’t need to see.”
toji finally sits up a little, interest piqued now. “oh, now we definitely need to see.”
“no, you don’t,” gojo says quickly, thumb still moving, eyes glued to the screen like he might miss something if he blinks.
geto tries to peek over his shoulder. “you’re acting weird.”
“i’m not acting weird.”
“you’re hunched over your phone like a dragon guarding treasure.”
“okay, first of all, dragons are cool,” gojo mutters. “second, back up.”
toji leans over the back of the couch, glancing down. “damn.”
gojo jerks the phone away instinctively. “don’t—”
“nah,” toji cuts in, already grinning. “she’s bad.”
“she’s not ‘bad,’” gojo snaps immediately. “don’t say it like that.”
geto pauses, eyebrow lifting. “like what.”
“like that,” gojo repeats, vaguely annoyed now. “just—don’t.”
toji smirks. “what, we’re not allowed to acknowledge she’s hot?”
"she's beautiful, okay? shut up."
geto watches him, something amused flickering in his expression. “interesting.”
gojo doesn't hear him. he's so lost in his little world, gazing at your pictures with a loopy grin. it’s not just that you’re pretty.
he exhales slowly, eyes never leaving his screen. “i like her,” he says finally.
toji groans immediately. “oh my god, we lost him.”
you don’t think about gojo the whole way home.
okay, maybe you think about him a little. it’s hard not to think about him after he begged for your instagram.
you sigh, dragging a hand over your face once you get to your apartment. “so irritating.”
your phone buzzes in your hand and you already know who it is.
other half: no way other half: NO way you gave it to him 😭
you roll your eyes, already typing.
you: i didn’t give it to him you: he begged
three dots immediately.
other half: mhm
you: shut up
you open instagram, purely for research purposes. you hesitate for half a second before opening his profile. “…oh.”
okay.
so.
this is what he looks like when he’s not standing in front of you being unbearable.
you scroll slowly. annoyingly slowly, because your brain is taking in details. he's good looking. stupidly good looking. unfairly so.
pictures with friends.
pictures at parties.
pictures where he’s clearly aware he looks good.
the comments are all the same, too. girls. so many girls. heart eyes, fire emojis, variations of 'marry me' and 'ur so fine'. you make a face.
other half: i knew it btw
you: knew what
other half: that you were into him
you: absolutely not
other half: you gave him your instagram
you: after he begged
other half: you could’ve said no
you: i DID say no
other half: and then you said yes
you: he was being annoying you: i wanted him to stop talking
other half: mhm other half: and now you’re on his profile
you freeze. “…she’s so nosy,” you mutter, immediately typing.
you: i’m not
other half: liar
you look down at his profile again, thumb hovering over one of his pictures. you zoom in slightly without thinking, onto his stupid face and stupid smile and stupid blue eyes.
you: he’s just you: objectively attractive you: it’s not that deep
other half: sure
you narrow your eyes at the screen.
you: i don’t like him
other half: okay
you: he’s arrogant
other half: mhm
you: and annoying
other half: mhm other half: he’s down bad btw
your brows pull together.
you: what
other half: like…bad bad other half: he came back here looking like he won the lottery
you blink.
something small and weird flickers in your chest.
you: that’s embarrassing
other half: for him, yes
you: good
you can't help but smile a little.
taglist <3 :
@your-nightmaredoll @eiaf4uwn @authortheclown @universalstarfly @candytoothless @maliciousmountainprophecy @hyperfixation-dot-gov @fallensoxul @ydkobitoo @cutiepie14 @pompomballsfromouterspace @just-moix @perfectly-myself23 @sluticzxtss @v4mp1r3b4tzz @wolf-monkey @kjovn @gloryyofthesnow @creamofsneky-blog @tojirin @undedin @valberryboos @notanimpokay @tsnataly @ssushi @frickpickle @glitt3rpuss @hannahzg8 @pinkmanz-grl @artbligh @tairyuu @luvs-angel @raendarkfaerie
The duality of "If you even imply that being aro or ace condemns someone to a sad and lonely life I will fucking fight you"
and
"being aro and ace is the most isolating thing I will ever experience"
i think the tags are important
This.
“you’re such a ray of sunshine!” thanks! one day i chose to act happy and then i kept choosing it over and over and over and over until the neurological pathways formed like desire paths in the thicket. i dug and clawed my nails into the grooves of my brain and carved out joy. i retouch it every day.
cws // fem reader. arranged marriage. jealousy. violence. injuries and blood. death.
wc // 3.6k
"You're humming."
"Am I?"
You glance up from the dark, tattered cloak in your lap, the needle in your hand stilling as you come to a pause in your stitching. Your gaze falls on where Goka watches you from his place on the edge of the bed in your shared bedroom.
You're sitting on the floor, a wide range of needles and threads scattered around you, along with various scraps of fabric that belong to Goka's uniform. He'd torn it in battle, yet again, and you had busied yourself with trying to piece it back together, a task that was proving near-impossible.
"Yes." He says, unblinking, and you roll the needle between your fingers as you wait for him to continue. "You only do it when you're happy."
"Do I?" He breathes out slowly through his nose, and you lower your gaze back down to the task at hand, resuming your stitching.
"Yes."
How Gojo grovels after breaking up with you
Satoru peers up from the sofa. “What’s for dinner, baby? Should we get food delivered? I’m up for anything.”
Jaw dropping, you reply, slowly like he’s an idiot, “There is no dinner. There is no we. You made sure of that.” Stomping over, you grab him by his arm and use all your weight and force to get him up from your couch. To no avail. He’s not called The Strongest for nothing, after all. “Get your fat ass up and out of my apartment!”
“Don’t be mean,” he whines. “It’s turning me on.”
You can’t believe this. Can’t believe that he’s here, lounging in your living room, trying to reach for your thigh to stroke the bare skin there, when just this morning, Satoru had broken up with you.
“A fucking text, Gojo,” you spat out. “You broke up with me through a text message that read, ‘too busy, gotta cut you loose. love ya always!’ And now, you just strut back in here, thinking you can act normal and I’ll let you back in? Are you fucking kidding me? Do you think I’m a pathetic fangirl who’ll let you walk all over her? Get. The. Fuck. Out.”
He pushes himself up to his feet, sighing. Satoru combs his hair back as he towers over you in his usual uniform. “Really hoped it wouldn’t come to this. Here goes nothing.”
In a flash, he falls to his knees and clings to your body like a leech.
“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. Oh, fuck, baby. I’ve been so busy these days. I thought you were going to break up with me. I’ve never been broken up with, and it was scary, and I was just thinking of my pride, like I thought it would hurt less if I was the one who broke up with you first, but when you blocked me on everything and I couldn’t send you any funny tiktoks about dogs standing up on their hind legs, it started to set in, y’know? Like, this immense pain in my chest. I actually thought I was dying. And I knew I had to apologise and beg for you to take me back, but when you opened the door, all I could think about was how beautiful you are and the speech I had planned disappeared, and I just walked in like a dick, and now I’m on my knees literally begging and crying for you to forgive me. I’m so sorry, baby. Please take me back. Please, please, please. I can’t live without y—”
“Shut the fuck up,” you say, pushing him and his snot-nosed face from your stomach. He’s left a Gojo print of wetness on your shirt. Disgusting. “You’re the worst, you self-sabotaging, manchild.”
Satoru, through wet tears, gazes up at you. “I love Sabrina. She really captures my essence, I think. She’d hate me for what I did to you, of course, but I like to believe she’d be moved by my ability to throw all sense of dignity out the window to show you my sincerity… so what do you say?”
“Ugh,” you groan to yourself, “I have the worst taste in men.” Resigned to his inescapable hold, you grumble, “Alright, get up. Let’s unpack why you’re so goddamn impulsive.”
He kisses your belly button in gratitude and sheepishly asks:
“You have all night?”
just a thought I had as I was drying my hair. he'd definitely like to play it cool at first lol
choso's really wanted to try the bulk and cut technique he found online, where he focuses on eating in a calorie surplus, training strength and protein intake. you've noticed since that his body's a lot softer, pudgier in the best way. his pecs are bigger and rounded, as his his stomach, thighs, arms, and the rest of his body.
he's a little bit insecure about the weight gain, and feels like he has to keep reminding you it's temporary and that he's aiming for lean, defined muscle. but you're more and more opposed to that idea every day as you take in how good he looks right now.
18+ boyfie!choso caught a case of baby fever
゛⸝⸝ ⋆ req ; fluff && smut , breeding k
afternoon sun filtered through the half-drawn curtains of choso’s apartment, casting warm golden patches across the living room floor. you were both on your knees, surrounded by a battlefield of colorful plastic blocks, stuffed animals, and half-eaten strawberry puffs. little baby yuuji—barely two, all chubby cheeks and wild pink hair—stood in the middle of the chaos like a tiny general, squealing with delight as he hurled a bright red block across the room.
“yuuji! no throwing, little man. you might hit one of us,” choso said, his voice soft but trying to sound stern. it came out more like a fond sigh.
he reached out with gentle hands and caught yuuji’s wrist before another block could become a projectile. yuuji just giggled harder, his little body wiggling with uncontainable energy.
you laughed, the sound light and bubbly, as you scooped up the escaped block and wiggled it in front of yuuji’s face.
“look what i found! think we could build a tower with this?”
yuuji’s big brown eyes lit up like fireworks. “tower! tower!” he clapped his sticky hands and immediately tried to climb into your lap, nearly headbutting your chin in the process. you caught him easily, settling him against your chest as he grabbed at your shirt with grabby little fingers.
Leon and u
I’m sooooooo drunk