pretty things don't belong in places like this

Choso fights in underground rings to pay the bills and raise his little brother. It’s brutal, bloody, and the only life he knows—until he meets you: the sweet, sparkly campus darling with a heart too big for your own good.

Notes:

hi everyone :3c this was a bday fic i wrote for myself that ive been meaning to share for over a month <3 the original idea was from tumblr user @nanam1nz who gave me the inspo. this fic was also cross-posted on my tumblr @sincerelyhunnybee
as always kudos + comments are always appreciated !

Work Text:

The crowd roared as Choso’s fist met bone.

Another one down.

Another nameless fighter who thought they could take him. His knuckles ached, but the familiar pain was welcomed. It drowned out the rest. His mind, always full, fell quiet in the ring. Only rage and reflex. Fighting is survival—it keeps the rage from boiling over, keeps his broken pieces sharp. Keeps his education funded. Keeps him and his younger brother fed.

The bell rang. A KO. No surprise.

He didn’t smile. At least not here.

Blood oozed down his opponent’s temple. More blood to coat the already stained floor. Choso turned his back on it. His wrapped hands grabbed the towel slung over his shoulder to wipe the sweat dripping from his brow and jumped down from the ring.

Same shit. Same crowd. Same hollow, useless noise—

Something caught his attention from the corner of his eye.

It wasn't the flickering overhead lights or the shattered beer bottle catching the glow.

No—this was softer. Sweeter.

You.

The girl in the prettiest shade of pink.

Standing out like a cherry blossom in a battlefield. You were hugging your coat closer to your body, clearly uncomfortable with the stench of sweat and adrenaline in the air. You didn’t belong here. Anyone with half a brain could've guessed that.

He hated that you were here.

He hated that he couldn’t stop looking.

He hated that when your eyes met his, everything in his chest stopped.

“…Shit.”

You smiled. Not a Hollywood smile—just the kind that tugged at the corner of your mouth, uncertain but polite. The kind you gave strangers on campus who asked you for directions. It shouldn’t have meant anything.

But it did. It made him feel seen.

Like he wasn’t just bloodied knuckles and cold, empty stares.

Like he wasn’t just this monster people whispered about on campus.

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Uh… sorry. I was looking for my friend. She said she’d be here but…” Your nose scrunched. “This isn’t really my scene.”

No shit, he thought, swallowing hard. “No. It’s not.”

Taking in his appearance, your gaze drifted to his bruised cheek, then to the blood on his towel. His hair damp with sweat, and broad chest littered with a patchwork of tattoos. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t look away.

“You’re Choso, right?” you asked, tilting your head. “You’re in my literature class. You sit in the back. Hoodie up. Never talk.”

He blinked. You knew who he was?

“…Yeah,” he muttered, unsure what to do with his hands. “That’s me.”

Your smile grew just a little, making your lipgloss shine under the dark lighting. “Didn’t peg you for a poetry guy.”

He wasn’t. But now he wished he was.

“I like the quiet,” he said, voice low.

You nodded like you understood that. Like you got it.

“Y-your lip’s bleeding.”

He wiped at it. Missed.

You stepped closer and reached into your tiny white purse. Produced a tissue and reached up to dab gently at the split skin just under his lip. Up close, you smelled like vanilla and something sweet he couldn’t name.

Everything in him tensed. Not from pain. From this—this touch that was too gentle for the world he comes from.

He couldn’t remember the last time someone touched him like this. Maybe his mother did before she left.

“You fight a lot?” you asked softly.

“Only when I need to.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Keeps me sane.”

You looked at him, tilting your head to the side. And it wasn't pity. He knows what that looks like. Just… understanding. Maybe even curiosity.

“Maybe next time,” you said, pressing the tissue into his larger hand, “you come find me before a fight. I have cookies. And tea. It helps, you know—other kinds of outlets.”

He didn't know if what he was hearing was even real or fake. “You… bake?”

You giggled. “I bribe people into passing their finals. Cookies work wonders.”

Choso stared. He’d just knocked a guy out so hard they needed smelling salts—and here you were, all pink and sweet and full of light, offering him cookies like he wasn’t decorated in someone else’s blood.

“I…You shouldn’t be here,” he said again, a little rougher this time. Like it hurt to say.

“Maybe not,” you whispered. “But I’m glad I came. Guess things happen for a reason”

And then you turned. Just like that. Walked through the crowd of intoxicated people out the back toward the door where the bass couldn’t swallow your footsteps, and the pink shimmer of your skirt was the last thing he saw before the crowd swallowed you.

Choso looked down at the tissue with smeared blood in his hand.

Still warm.

Still soft.

Still coated with the smell of you.

And for the first time in years, he felt something else simmer beneath his rage.

The apartment was dim, save for the flicker of the muted TV and the soft snore coming from the lump of blankets curled up on the couch. Yuuji, out cold. Socks half on, remote clutched in one hand. Cartoon reruns still playing.

Choso closed the door quietly behind him, shoulders sagging the moment he was out of the cold. He sets down his rugged duffle bag on the floor and begins removing his worn, black Converse

A low and smug voice came from the kitchen. “You smell like blood.”

Choso didn’t look up. “Thanks for watching him again.”

Sukuna leaned against the counter, tattooed fingers wrapped around a chilled, cheap bottle of beer. His grin was sharp. “You know, for someone who says he’s just studying late, you come home looking like you were in a knife fight with a trash compactor.”

“I didn’t lose.”

“Didn’t say you did.”

Choso sighs and walks over to the kitchen, the ache in his knuckles was setting in now that the adrenaline was gone. “How was he?”

Sukuna snorted. “Hyper. Made me watch that stupid show with the talking toilet. Again. Tried to teach me the dance from the theme song or some shit.”

Choso cracked a faint smile. “You dance?”

“Fuck no. I sat on him ‘til he stopped.”

“He’s seven.”

“Exactly.”

The exhausted man shook his head, pulled open the freezer and grabbed the ice pack he always kept there for his injuries. Pressed it to the bruise blooming beneath his eye.

Sukuna watched him for a long moment—eyes narrowing, grin fading.

“You keep this shit up, you won’t be able to lie to him much longer.”

“I’m not lying…”

“You think he doesn’t notice? The busted lip, the bruises, the way your hands shake when you think no one’s looking?”

Choso’s jaw clenched, glaring at the man in front of him. “He’s a kid. He doesn’t need to know.”

Sukuna stepped closer, voice dropping.

“And what if one day you don’t come back, huh? Someone hits you a little too hard? What then?”

Choso didn’t answer. He didn’t have one, instead, he swallowed hard and sniffed.

The older man groaned, then shoved the bottle into his chest. “Drink something. You look like shit.”

Choso took it wordlessly.

Sukuna disappeared into his room, grumbling about not getting enough sleep. Rolling his eyes and setting down the beer bottle, Choso went to gently wake Yuuji, murmuring his name until the kid groggily blinked up at him.

“C’mon, let’s get you to bed.”

Yuuji mumbled something about superheroes and reached up, arms loose and sleepy. Choso hoisted him easily, careful of the bruises tightening his ribs, and carried him down the hallway. He pulled back the blankets, laid him down, and tucked them snug around his shoulders. It was only then, watching his little brother settle into a dream, that the tightness in his chest eased.

“I got you,” he whispered. “Always.”

He left the door cracked and walked to the small dining table wedged into the corner of the living room.

His old laptop clicked open with a weary groan of the fan. The screen was too bright. The document—a blank Word file titled Mid-term Essay – Modern Lit—mocked him.

Due tomorrow. Five pages.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, wincing as his fingers hit the bruise along his cheekbone. Every part of him ached. Bone-deep fatigue pulled at his shoulders, but there was no room for rest. Not for him. Not anymore.

Dad was dead. Mom had been gone long before that.

It was just him now.

Him and Yuuji and the weight of making it all work somehow.

He cracked his knuckles. Stared at the blinking cursor. Typed a sentence.

Deleted it.

Started again.

But his thoughts drifted. Away from literature. Away from deadlines. Back to you.

The way you looked at him with wispy lashes. Not like he was a rage-filled monster and sleepless nights. That tiny smile, soft and unbothered, burned into his brain like a slow brand.

The warmth of your manicured fingers brushing his lip.

The tissue still folded in the pocket of his jacket.

You two had never interacted, two different worlds that were supposed to intercept. The brief interaction was starting to get under his skin.

And yet—

He leaned back in the chair with a tired sigh, squeezing his eyes hard, letting his head thump softly against the wall behind him.

You made him feel something he didn’t have time for. Didn’t deserve.

Hope.

Connection.

Kindness.

Alas, the spark was already there. Lit behind his ribs. Quiet and glowing and so fucking impossible to ignore.

He opened the essay file again. Forcing his hands to move across the keys. He had to finish. He would finish.

Getting into college hadn’t been easy for him. He didn’t have connections, legacy, or even a stable transcript. Merely grit and the determination to build something better for Yuuji. For himself. He’d clawed his way through community college first, scraping together credits while working shifts that left his body bruised and his mentality running on fumes. So now that he was at a university—on scholarship, barely keeping up—he couldn’t afford to let it slip through his fingers. Every class, every assignment, every late-night mattered. It wasn’t just about the degree. It was proof that he could make something more out of the wreckage he came from. That it was all worth it.

But when he finally closed the laptop, sometime around 4:00 a.m., he didn’t fall asleep right away.

Instead, he lay in the dark, staring up at the ceiling, heart beating a little too fast.

And all he could see was your smile.

ـــــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

The sun was too bright.

Too loud, too awake. Choso squinted beneath his hoodie, one strap of his fraying backpack slung over a shoulder, trying not to stagger as he made his way across the courtyard.

His limbs felt like lead. His head buzzed from lack of sleep and too much caffeine. The rings under his eyes were darker than usual—bruised shadows under already bruised skin. He hadn’t bothered to put on anything fresh. Just black joggers, beat-up Vans, and the same hoodie he’d thrown on the floor last night. There was blood smeared on the cuff. He rolled it up.

He was counting down the minutes until class ended and it hadn’t even started.

Then he saw you.

Sitting on the low stone wall near the campus café, legs crossed, sipping a cold matcha like you weren’t an angel dropped straight into the middle of his fatigue-soaked nightmare.

You were wearing a pale pink cardigan, pearl buttons glinting in the morning light, with a short white tennis skirt and soft white sneakers that looked too clean for anyone attending this school. A matching bow clipped into your hair like some sort of cherry on top. Light makeup, glossy lips, a gold necklace that shimmered whenever you moved.

You looked like you’d gotten eight hours of sleep, done your skincare routine, and maybe had a dream about sunshine and cupcakes. Not like you’d spent the night dragging your half-dead body through an essay.

You turned your head.

Caught him looking.

Your eyes lit up.

He froze.

And then—just like yesterday—you smiled.

It hit him worse this time. Not because it hurt, but because it didn’t. It felt like a balm against everything heavy thing he carried.

You lifted your half-full cup slightly, like a wave.

He shifted, brown eyes glanced away, then glanced back.

You hadn’t imagined it. He was looking.

He blinked at you, half-asleep and running on empty, and for a moment you wondered if he even remembered the night before or if you’d dreamed the whole thing.

Choso wasn’t sure what came over him but he took a slow step forward. Hesitated. Looked down at his hoodie, then back up at you. Suddenly he was hyper-aware of how worn it was. Faded black, sleeves stretched at the cuffs, a faint stain near the hem that he hadn’t noticed until now. His joggers weren’t much better, wrinkled, the elastic just barely holding out. This morning he thought it was practical, clean enough, and good for disappearing into the background. But now, walking towards you, all soft light and clean lines and the kind of put-together that felt effortless, he felt like he stuck out in the worst way. Embarrassment crept in slowly, settling in his chest. He hadn’t expected to see you again so soon—definitely not like this.

He tugged on the strap of his backpack, shoulders tense as he closed the last few steps between you.

“Uh,” he started, voice rough, “thanks… for the tissue. Last night.”

You blinked. Then laughed softly, tilting your head. “You mean the one that probably looks like a crime scene now?”

The tips of his ears went red. “Yeah. T-That one.”

“Don’t mention it,” you said with a shrug, taking another sip of your matcha. “I carry tissues for emergencies. Bloody lips included.”

His mouth twitched almost a smile. “Do you always walk into fight clubs prepared to patch up random guys?”

“No,” you teased, leaning back slightly, kicking your feet “only for the ones who look like they could use a cookie or two.”

Choso stared at you for a moment, caught off guard by how easily you teased him. How… unafraid you were.

He shook his head lightly, muttering, “You really don’t belong in places like that.”

“Neither do you,” you shot back with a smirk, standing and adjusting your cardigan. “Walk me to class?”

He blinked but nodded, falling into step beside you.

The walk was quiet, but not uncomfortably so. You chatted about the cooler weather, the ridiculous assignment your professor had dumped on everyone, and the upcoming campus festival. He mostly listened, occasionally giving short answers, but every once in a while his eyes drifted to you—how your skirt brushed against your knees, how you laughed without holding back.

When you reached the building, you flashed him another grin. “Guess we’re classmates and walking buddies now.”

He shrugged, looking away to hide the faint warmth in his expression. “Guess so.”

Inside the classroom, Choso automatically moved to the back row—hoodie up, laptop open but near-dead already—while you slid into your usual spot near the front, surrounded by friends who whispered and laughed with you like you were everyone’s favorite person.

The professor droned on, collecting papers before launching into another long-winded lecture. Choso tried to focus but his mind kept drifting to the smell of vanilla when you’d passed him, to the way you’d teased him like you’d known him longer than a day.

From the back, he watched you scribbling notes, head slightly tilted, glowing in the sunlight streaming through the windows. You made it look so easy—being here, being good at everything. Meanwhile, he was just trying to keep his eyes open.

The second the lecture ended, you were on your feet, waving at your friends as they said their goodbyes. “Yeah, I’ll see you at the café later! Don’t forget the group chat update!”

You turned, spotting him slouching by the door, hands shoved into his hoodie pocket. His gaze flicked up at you before sliding away like he hadn’t been waiting. He had no reason to.

“Leaving without me?” you teased, stepping closer.

He snorted. “Wasn’t sure if your fan club would let you go.”

“Please,” you said with an exaggerated eye roll, “they know better than to compete with someone who fights in underground rings.”

That made his brow lift. “...That supposed to be a compliment?”

“Maybe,” you replied, smiling up at him. “Walk me again?”

Leaves crunched gently beneath your feet as you and Choso strolled side by side through the quad, the fall air brisk but not unfriendly. The trees overhead were half-fire, half-bare, the golden hour sun filtering through in lazy patches of warmth.

Neither of you said much at first. He kept glancing at you like he was still trying to figure out if this was real—if you were real.

You decided to break the silence.

“Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”

He looked at you, brows furrowed under the shadow of his hoodie. “What secret?”

You gave a playful shrug. “That you’re living a double life. Mild-mannered student by day, knockout king by night.”

He stiffened slightly, but you softened your voice before he could retreat. “I’m serious, Choso. I’m not gonna say anything. It’s none of my business. But…” You paused, glancing up at him. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

His throat bobbed, clearly unsure how to respond.

“I’m not good at—” he started, then exhaled. “—talking. Especially not with people like you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “People like me?”

He looked away. “You just… seem like you have everything figured out.”

That made you laugh, genuine and completely disarming. “Trust me, I don’t. I’m just really good at faking it.”

He huffed, almost a laugh. Almost.

You glanced at him again, noting the way he blinked slowly, as if even the sunlight was too much effort. “You look exhausted,” you said, “like you stayed up writing a paper.”

“…not entirely untrue.”

You grinned and reached for his sleeve. “Come on. Let me buy you a coffee. My treat.”

He stopped walking. “You really don’t have to.”

“I know I don’t have to,” you said, tugging him forward by his sleeve. “That’s why it’s a nice thing to do.”

Choso hesitated, then let you lead.

You found a bench under a tall oak, its branches heavy with red-gold leaves, and handed him a hot coffee that steamed between his fingers. He muttered a quiet thanks and sank onto the bench beside you.

For a moment, the world was still. Just the two of you, knees almost brushing, warm drinks in hand, with the wind rustling overhead.

“Can I ask something?” you said.

Choso didn’t look at you. Just nodded.

“Why do you fight?”

He was quiet for a while, sipping the coffee like he needed the extra time to figure out how much to say.

Then, quietly, “Money. Mostly.”

You glanced at him, waiting.

“I don’t… come from much. My dad passed away a couple years back. Mom hasn’t been around. It’s just me and my younger brother now. I cover what I can.” He shrugged. “Books, food, bills. Fighting pays better than most jobs that’ll hire a guy like me.”

Your heart clenched a little, but again, you didn’t pity him.

You just looked at him for who he was: a quiet, worn down guy who was strong in a way that didn’t need to be loud.

“I admire that,” you said gently. “Most people wouldn’t even bother. They’d give up or check out. But you’re still here. Showing up. That’s not nothing.”

He turns his head towards you slowly, gaze flicking to your face, hoping that you meant the words that made his heart ache so.

You did.

Taking a chance on believing it is maybe what made him speak again, voice even softer than before. “I don’t usually talk about this.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” you promised, smiling at him over your cup. “It’s just between me, you, and this overpriced campus coffee.”

Choso blinked, like he couldn’t believe he was actually smiling but he was.

You took one last sip of your drink, then stood with a soft sigh. “I promised I’d meet up with some friends before our group project check-in, but” your eyes flicked to his soft gaze, “I meant what I said earlier.”

Choso tilted his head to the side. “About?”

“Helping you out in class. Notes, tutoring, a flashcards—whatever works. I know your plate’s already too full.”

You reached into your bag, pulling out your phone. “Here. Let me put my number in yours. You can text me anytime.”

He hesitated.

You waited patiently.

Eventually, he dug into his hoodie pocket, pulling out an older iPhone with a cracked screen. “Sorry, It’s not… fancy,” he mumbled, handing it over.

You grinned. “It’s not about the phone, Choso.”

Your fingers danced over the screen as you typed in your number, and before handing it back.

“Here,” you said, showing him the contact name you created: 🎀

“Seriously?” he asked, staring at the pink bow.

You winked. “You’ll remember who I am now.”

He shook his head but didn’t delete it.

You gave him a wave as you walked away, cardigan fluttering in the breeze, and Choso stayed seated on the bench for a moment longer—coffee warm in one hand, phone a little warmer in the other.

ـــــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

The apartment was quiet except for the occasional clatter of a wooden spoon against a pan. Choso stood at the stove, stirring instant curry over low heat. Yuuji sat at the table behind him, humming while flipping through a picture book.

Sukuna was out. Job stuff. Probably shady.

Choso didn’t ask anymore.

As he stirred, he glanced at his phone charging on the counter.

Still hadn’t texted you.

He wiped his hands on a dish towel, unlocked it, and opened your contact.

The bow made him huff through his nose.

After a moment, he typed:

Choso: hi
It was bare, almost awkward, but it was a start.

He set the phone down again and turned back to the stove, expecting nothing.

Two minutes later:

🎀: hey there, stranger 👀
He felt his chest tighten in a strange, unfamiliar way.

He texted back.

Choso: just finished making dinner. yuuji’s starving as usual.

🎀: that sounds domestic of you. what did you make?

Choso: curry. nothin special. just enough to get by.

🎀: still sounds better than the cereal dinner i just had 💀
Choso chuckled, shaking his head.

He was smiling again.

God, what were you doing to him?

The conversation drifted playfully. You told him about your group meeting, complained about a friend who didn’t show up, and sent a blurry photo of your notes, glittery pen and all.

Then, after a pause, your next message buzzed in.

🎀: i’m a little offended you still haven’t taken me up on my offer of freshly baked cookies 😤
Choso stared at the screen.

Then typed:

Choso: sure
And hit send before he could overthink it.

🎀: 😳 omg. did you just say yes??

Choso: yeah. surprise.

🎀: i’m holding you to that. you better be ready. my cookies have a 100% approval rating.
Choso looked at the clock. Then at Yuuji, who was whining about how hungry he was.

He turned off the stove, scooped up some rice and curry in a shallow bowl, placing it in front of Yuuji.

The glow of his phone screen still lingered in the back of his mind.

You were in his phone.

You were in his day.

And now, somehow, you were in his night too.

ـــــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

Class had ended early, and you were already tugging your bag over your shoulder when you turned to Choso with a smile.

“No other classes today, right?”

He shook his head.

“Perfect. You’re coming with me.”

He blinked. “What?”

“You said sure, remember?” You grinned, walking backwards a few steps before motioning for him to follow. “You’re about to change your life.”

He didn’t argue.

He just stuffed his hands into the pocket of his hoodie and followed.

Today you wore high-waisted, light-wash flare jeans that hugged your hips like they were made for you. Paired with a cropped white tee that had a tiny embroidered bunny above your chest — it was almost unfair how doll-like you looked.

Cute, he thought, swallowing hard.

Not that he’d ever say it out loud.

As you walked, he cleared his throat. “Uh… your roommate gonna be cool with me being there?”

“Oh—no worries,” you said, looking over your shoulder with a little laugh. “I got lucky. I have a single.”

That made him pause mid-step.

A single. That meant it’d just be you and him.

Alone.

His ears felt warm.

The second you both stepped into the building, Choso felt out of place. Too gritty for the squeaky-clean dorm floors and walls decorated with pinned corkboards and pastel flyers.

But then you unlocked your door, pushed it open, and invited him into your little world.

And fuck, it was nothing like he expected.

It was a pink-and-white oasis. Soft blankets folded neatly on the bed, a string of warm fairy lights hanging from the ceiling, plushies and Sanrio characters lining the headboard. The air smelled like you and something citrusy. Your desk was cluttered with pastel pens, open notebooks, and a calendar covered in highlighter scribbles and heart stickers.

There was a little “kitchen corner” beside your desk: a mini fridge with a few magnets, a microwave, and a pastel pink electric kettle.

Choso stood in the middle of it all like he’d wandered into another dimension.

You dropped your bag on your bed and made your way to your “kitchen”, humming a soft tune under your breath. “I made them fresh this morning in the communal kitchen,” you said proudly, popping open a Tupperware container lined with parchment.

He stared. “You woke up early… to bake?”

You nodded with a sheepish smile. “I’m a morning person.” Of course you are.

You held the box out to him. “Go on. Try one.”

Choso hesitated for just a moment, then reached in and took a cookie—a classic chocolate chip, still a little soft at the center, golden around the edges.

He took a bite.

And nearly groaned.

It melted in his mouth, rich chocolate, browned butter, just the right amount of salt.

He stared down at it like it had just rewritten his entire belief system.

“I’m not usually into sweets,” he said slowly, chewing the second bite, “but this is… shit, this is amazing.”

When he looked up, your nervous expression had bloomed into something radiant.

“Really?! You like it?”

He nodded. “Yeah. A lot. You might’ve ruined regular cookies for me.”

You beamed, eyes sparkling as you rocked back on your heels. “I knew I had a perfect batch today.”

And like that, something shifted.

Like maybe—just maybe—he was starting to like sweets.

At least… yours.

The cookie container sat open between you, two half-eaten sweets left inside, forgotten. You were both curled on the floor now, backs resting against the side of your bed, legs stretched out on the fluffy rug that matched the softness of everything else in your room.

You’d offered to put on a show or some music, but he shook his head. “This is fine.”

So you stayed like that. In the silence.

Until he spoke.

“I didn’t think I’d like being here.”

You turned your head toward him, resting your chin on your bent knee. “You mean my dorm? Or college in general?”

“Both, honestly.”

Your smile was patient, encouraging. “But?”

He glanced sideways at you, eyes dark but softer now. “Your place… it’s calm. Kinda peaceful.”

“You can thank the fairy lights and scented candle for that. Just don’t don’t tell my RA about the candle though.”

He huffs a laugh, “I think it’s you, actually.”

Your breath catches in your throat a bit. But before you could say anything, he looked down at his calloused hands and added, “It’s hard to relax most days.”

You stayed quiet, sensing that something important was trying to untangle itself out of him.

“I’m basically raising Yuuji,” he started slowly. “He’s my half-brother, but… he’s just a kid. I didn’t want him to grow up getting passed around like I did. So I ‘m trying my best to step up.”

You nodded gently, letting him speak.

“And Sukuna—he’s our uncle, technically. But he’s got his own shit going on. Some nights he’s home, a lot of the other nights he’s not. It’s just me and Yuuji, really.”

You watched him carefully, fingers tracing idle circles into your thigh as you listened.

“So I fight,” he said simply. “Like I said before, it pays well. Plus, I’m good at it. I can’t afford to not be. And then I’ve got school on top of that, trying to keep my grades decent enough to keep financial aid. Literature is not even my thing. It’s just… something I could get into without having to pay out the ass.”

“Wait,” you interrupted gently, lips curling upward, “so you’re telling me you’re juggling fights, full-time classes, a literal child, and a sometimes-employed menace of an uncle?”

He blinked, like hearing it out loud made it sound more ridiculous than he’d realized. “...Yeah.”

“And you’re still passing your classes?”

“Barely.”

“Okay, well,” you leaned forward, resting your cheek on your hand, “you just became ten times more impressive than I originally thought.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I’m not impressive.”

“You are,” you said softly. “You really, really are.”

The compliment settled over him slowly, awkwardly. Like it didn’t quite fit but he didn’t want to take it off, either.

He shrugged one shoulder, lips twitching. “Don’t say that. You’ll ruin my image.”

“Oh, please.” You laughed, head tipping back. “You act all broody, but you’re actually just a tired older brother with great cheekbones and a guilt complex.”

He bit the inside of his cheek and groaned into his sleeve.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No, just… you talk like you’ve known me forever.”

“Maybe I’m just a good listener.”

“Or a psychic.”

“Or maybe,” you said, gently nudging his socked foot with yours, “you’re easier to read than you think.”

Something in his chest softened at the light gesture. The tension in his shoulders eased. He didn’t know how or when it happened, but suddenly, sitting on your rug surrounded by pastel plushies and the warm glow of fairy lights, he didn’t feel like he was bracing for something to go wrong.

He felt… safe.

Even if just for the moment, the world outside didn’t matter.

And neither of you said it, but both of you knew:

This was the start of something.

You were still talking—animated and bright, telling some story about your RA accidentally sending a mass text with a break up message instead of an official floor meeting reminder. Choso wasn’t even sure he was following the details anymore. He was just listening.

To the way you laughed.

To the way your words carried through the room like sunlight.

He didn’t realize how much time had passed until his phone buzzed in the pocket of his hoodie.

Kenji (Fight Club Owner): last min drop out. ur up if u want. double for the set. triple if u knockout the other guy. need you here in 30.
Choso stared at it for a second longer than he needed to.

Of course it had to be now.

He exhaled slowly and pushed off the side of the bed, your voice trailing off as he rubbed a hand over his neck.

“I’ve gotta go,” he said quietly.

You turned mid-sentence, blinking at him. “Oh—what’s wrong?”

“Opportunity came up,” he muttered. “Fight tonight. One of the guys dropped. I get double just for showing, triple if I win by KO.”

Your smile faltered, just a little.

“Oh,” you said, quickly masking your disappointment with a nod. “Right. Of course. That makes sense.”

He stood near the door, stepping into his shoes, then standing there awkward, uncertain.

You crossed the room toward him, arms wrapping gently around his torso.

“Be careful, okay?”

He stiffened.

He didn’t do hugs. Not really.

But he didn’t pull away either.

You were soft, warm, and smelled like the same fucking vanilla from that night along with something sweeter he couldn’t name.

It rattled him more than it should have.

You pulled back just enough to smile up at him. Then, with a bounce in your step, you walked to the kitchen corner, grabbed a ziplock bag, and slipped a cookie inside.

“For luck,” you said, pressing it into his palm.

Choso stared down at it, warm from your touch, sealed with care.

He looked up, unreadable expression.

“Thanks.”

You smiled again, gentler this time. “Text me when it’s over?”

He gave a short nod and turned, trying not to look back.

ـــــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

The locker room reeked of sweat, rubber, and desperation. Harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Choso sat on a cracked bench, wrapping his hands slowly, methodically.

He’d done this a dozens of times. Maybe more.

But tonight, he couldn’t seem to focus.

He kept thinking about you while he tied his hair back.

About the way you looked in that white bunny top and eyes bright like you saw right through all the armor he had built. About the hug—how you fit against him like you’d done it before, like it was a natural thing.

About the cookie.

He’d tucked it carefully into his bag, like it mattered more than anything else.

“You need to focus,” he muttered to himself, stretching his knuckles beneath the wrap.

But your laugh echoed in his skull.

Your scent clung to his hoodie.

And suddenly, the ring didn’t feel like the only place where something dangerous was waiting.

The lights buzzed to life, casting a harsh white glow on the makeshift ring. The crowd was loud tonight—hungry for blood, for chaos, for something primal to feed their dull lives.

Choso stood in the center, shoulders squared, knuckles tight beneath the wraps. Across from him: a lean, tattooed guy with a smug expression and a deep scar running down his left jaw. Fast. Confident. The kind of fighter who liked to show off.

The bell rang.

Round one.

Choso’s body moved on instinct, ducking, weaving, guarding high. However, his mind wasn’t with him.

It was with you.

Your hug, soft and sudden, like something he didn’t know he needed until it was already over. Your fingers brushing his when you handed the cookie to him. That fucking smell of vanilla.

He took a hit to the ribs.

Then one to the jaw.

It rocked him hard, sent him stumbling back, teeth gritting as the crowd erupted in howls and cheers.

Focus, he told himself.

But your voice kept echoing in his ears.

The bell rang again. Saved by the end of the round.

He leaned into the corner, chest heaving, blood trickling from the corner of his lip. A bystander, likely one betting on him, growled from the edge of the mat, “The fuck is this?! Wake up, Choso. You’re fighting like ain’t got shit on the line!”

He felt like he was somewhere else.

But when the bell rang for round two, something clicked.

He needed to see you again.

Because losing meant going home to Yuuji with less than he had hoped for. Meant wasting the gift of that stupid little ziplocked cookie like it wasn’t a good luck charm.

Because he had someone else waiting on the other side of this now.

He surged forward, finally locked in.

The tattooed fighter jabbed—Choso dodged, slipped low, pivoted—and landed a solid hit right on the guy’s cheek. Flesh against bone. It echoed.

Momentum shifted.

Two more blows followed—rib, then temple—before the guy went down hard, dazed and bleeding.

Choso’s fists ached. His knuckles throbbed. But he stood tall as the ref lifted his arm.

Winner.

The crowd roared.

But his heart wasn’t in that moment, it was still in your dorm, sitting on the floor, enjoying sweets and conversation.

He jumped down from the ring, feet heavy on the floor as sweat clung to his back and brow. Kenji met him at the door to the office, already counting out his winnings. Bands of cash, stacked and crisp.

“Triple payout for a KO,” Kenji said with a grin. “Just as promised.”

Choso didn’t answer. Just took the money and nodded once.

But there was a glint in his eyes—that was real.

The fluorescent lights continued their hum above him as Choso unwrapped his hands slowly, fingers aching, wrists burning from each punch. Blood and sweat mixed in the cloth, staining it deep.

He wiped his face with a clean towel, exhaling.

Then checked his phone.

A message from you lit up the screen.

🎀: You okay? Been thinking about you. Hope it went well.
His thumb hovered. Then tapped.

Choso: Won.
30 seconds later.

🎀: YESSSS 👏 we need to celebrate!!
He stared at the text. Then glanced at the time.

Choso: Can’t tonight. Gotta get home to Yuuji.
A pause.

🎀: What if I came to you? Only if it’s okay.
He stared at the screen longer this time.

His gut twisted with the idea of you being in his space. Sukuna would probably be there. The teasing would be relentless. The questions, worse.

But…

The thought of seeing you again right now, not on Monday, not later—just you, in his space, near him—it was enough to silence the doubt.

He typed back.

Choso: Yeah. That’s okay.
ـــــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

Choso had just pulled on a clean, grey hoodie, hair damp and hanging loose over his shoulders when the knock came at the door.

His heart skipped a beat.

He glanced once at the mirror in the hallway, just to make sure he didn’t look like a complete mess, and opened the door.

There you stood, arms hugged around yourself against the night air, cheeks flushed, your pink-tinted lip gloss catching the hall light.

The second you saw him, you grinned. “There’s the champ.”

Choso couldn’t help the soft, tired smile that pulled at his lips. “Hey.”

You giggled and wrapped your arms around his waist, pressing your face gently against his chest. “Congrats.”

He stiffened for half a second—still not used to being touched this easily—but then his arms came around you too. A little unsure, but tighter than earlier. He didn’t want to let go just yet.

You pulled back with a small, sheepish glance toward the living room. “Is Yuuji asleep? I didn’t mean to be loud.”

Choso shook his head. “Nah. It’s the weekend. I let him stay up late to play Roblox.”

You smiled, stepping into the apartment as he gently closed the door behind you.

The scent of fresh pizza still lingered in the air.

“I picked some up on the way home,” Choso said as he motioned toward the kitchen. “Perks of the fight starting early. Places were still open.”

At the small dining table sat Yuuji, deep in concentration, one hand holding a slice of cheese pizza, the other rapidly clicking a mouse. His tongue stuck out slightly as he moved his character across a screen filled with colorful chaos.

“Yuuji,” Choso called gently, “come say hi.”

Yuuji looked up—and then lit up.

“WHOA!!” he shouted. “You’re SO PRETTY!”

Your eyes widened, and then you burst into soft laughter, crouching down beside him. “Well, thank you, Yuuji! You’re very charming.”

He beamed. “Wanna see my base? I just got a pet dragon. He breathes lava.”

“Lava? That’s elite,” you said with all the seriousness of someone watching a national sports final, pulling up a chair beside him to watch his pixelated dragon fly across the screen.

Choso leaned against the counter for a moment, arms crossed, watching the two of you.

You fit.

Too well.

The moment didn’t last long.

A door creaked open down the hall, and out walked Sukuna—shirtless, sweats loose around his hips, bed hair wild and one eye half-shut.

“Christ,” he muttered, scratching his chest, “did someone let a Care Bear into the apartment or am I still half-asleep?”

You turned in your seat.

Sukuna blinked.

Stopped dead.

Then grinned—slow and wicked.

“Ohhh. Well damn. Bringing a girl home without my permission, Cho?” His voice oozed mockery. “She looks way out of your league.”

Choso didn’t even flinch. “I pay rent here too, dipshit.”

Sukuna cackled. “Yeah, yeah. Others gambled money. Still doesn’t cover emotional damage.”

You tried to hold back a laugh, biting your lip as you glanced between them.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Sukuna continued, stepping into the kitchen to grab a slice of pizza without asking. “He may be all broody and ‘I fight to survive,’ but he gets flustered when you compliment his hoodie n’ tattoos. You should try it sometime.”

“Shut up,” Choso muttered under his breath, cheeks warming slightly as he handed you a can of soda from the fridge.

“Should’ve warned her about your snoring too,” Sukuna added through a mouthful of crust. “Hope she’s not staying over, or she’ll run screaming.”

You raised a brow, glancing at Choso with a teasing smile. “You snore?”

“I don’t.”

“You do,” Yuuji chimed from across the room.

Choso groaned and buried his face in his hoodie sleeve.

You just laughed.

Despite the noise, the teasing, the chaos— his heart feels at ease.

Because for the first time, it didn’t feel like three separate worlds crashing into each other.

It felt like something whole.

Yuuji's eyes had started drooping somewhere between his third slice of pizza and his fifth Roblox death.

"Kid’s crashing,” Choso murmured, pushing off the counter.

You watched as he crossed the room, ruffling Yuuji’s hair gently. “Alright, c’mon. Teeth, pajamas.”

Yuuji groaned dramatically but let himself be helped up. “Will you read tonight?”

Choso glanced at the clock. “It’s late.”

“Pleaaaase?” Yuuji begged, dragging his feet toward the hallway.

Choso sighed. “One story.”

You smiled, watching as he disappeared down the hall with Yuuji clinging to his hoodie, the little boy’s voice drifting out in sleepy protests about brushing his teeth later.

You followed at a distance, hovering just outside the bedroom door as Choso settled onto the edge of the bed. He pulled a well-worn children’s book from the shelf—its cover bent, corners frayed—and opened it, voice low and even as he began to read.

Yuuji snuggled into the blankets, eyes fluttering. Every so often, he murmured something—half-awake commentary about the characters—but Choso read on patiently.

You watched quietly from the doorway, heart swelling at the sight.

There he was.

This big, stoic fighter with heavy eyes and bruised knuckles… reading about enchanted forests like it was the most important thing in the entire world.

And for Yuuji—it was.

By the time Choso closed the book, Yuuji was fast asleep, lips parted slightly, one arm wrapped around a worn plush tiger.

Choso tucked the blanket under his chin, stood, and gently closed the door.

You were still leaning against the wall, arms crossed loosely.

“You’re really good with him,” you whispered.

Choso rubbed at the back of his neck, eyes lowering. “I try.”

Before you could say more, another door opened behind you and Sukuna emerged, now fully dressed in black jeans, aa button-up and boots.

“Business call,” he muttered, shrugging on a jacket. Then, with a smirk, “I’m headed out, lovebirds. Don’t do anything gross.”

Choso rolled his eyes hard. “Please shut uuup.”

Sukuna winked at you, then let the door slam shut behind him.

Silence followed.

Choso exhaled, then turned slightly, motioning toward the sliding glass door in the living room.

“…I know it can be a lot,” he said quietly, thumb brushing over the edge of the curtain. “If you want to get some fresh air, the balcony’s open. Sorry for the chaos.”

You stepped closer and smiled up at him. “Don’t apologize. I love how much you care about Yuuji. And… honestly? You and Sukuna are kind of an oddly functional disaster. In a charming way.”

His brow lifted. “Charming?”

You giggled. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

He slid the glass door open, stepping aside to let you out first.

The fall night air was crisp, the sky a dark velvet sprinkled with stars. The balcony was small—just enough space for two chairs and a folding table with a dying succulent on top—but it felt like a world away from everything else.

You sat, pulling your sleeves down over your hands, and Choso joined you, hoodie zipped halfway, elbows resting on his knees.

For a while, you both just breathed.

Then conversation started—soft, natural, like slipping into something warm.

You laughed about your professor’s terrible handwriting, and how you caught him accidentally grading the same paper twice last week. Choso chuckled at the memory of someone trying to use ChatGPT to write a haiku that ended up being six lines long.

Talk drifted to the manga you were both reading.

The books you never finished.

The dream vacations you didn’t have the time or money for.

And Choso didn’t feel like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He just… enjoyed it.

You.

The quiet between your laughter, or the way you’d gently bump your knee against his when you were making a point.

The way you leaned toward him, eyes sparkling when he actually managed to crack a dry joke.

Eventually, you sat back in your chair, arms folded, a lazy smile on your face.

“I like this,” you said softly. “Talking to you.”

His heart beat harder than it had during the fight.

“…Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

The wind had picked up, rustling the trees below and making the air bite a little sharper. But neither of you moved.

You leaned your head back, gazing up at the stars with a soft sigh. “I should probably head out soon. I scheduled an Uber to pick me up and the driver’s gonna think I ditched him.”

Choso smiled faintly, lips barely twitching. “We can’t have that. Might take it personally.” He debated on offering to drive you back but he didn’t want to leave Yuuji alone.

You looked over at him—hair still semi-damp, face dusted with pink, a little more relaxed than when the night began. His expressions with you have softened. Like the weight on his back had lifted, just a bit.

“Your hair’s still little wet,” you murmured.

He blinked. “Yeah. Didn’t have time to dry it much.”

You scooted your chair just a little closer and reached up carefully. “Can I…?”

Choso stilled but nodded once.

You brushed a few damp strands away from his face, fingers slow and deliberate. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t lean away. Just watched you with those tired, dark eyes like he couldn’t believe you were touching him at all.

“Better,” you whispered, smoothing one lock behind his ear. “You have really nice hair.”

“…Thanks.”

His voice was quiet. He looked at you like he wanted to say something else—something bigger, something that lived in the space between your closeness and the weight of the silence.

But instead, he stood and opened the sliding door for you again.

Back in the living room, the lights were low. You stepped into your shoes slowly, not quite ready to leave, while Choso hovered near the door, hands deep in his hoodie pocket to hide his fidgeting.

“Thanks for coming,” he said, voice low. “For real.”

You smiled up at him. “Thanks for letting me. And for the cookie trade deal.”

The chuckle he let out made your face go warm, if you could hear it on repeat you would.

You lingered by the door, hand on the knob.

“I meant what I said, you know,” you added softly. “You’re doing more than okay. With Yuuji. With everything.”

Choso swallowed, throat tight.

You leaned in and gave him one last hug, longer this time, your arms snug around his waist. His came around you too, less hesitant now. More sure.

When you pulled back, you touched his arm gently. “Text me when you get a second. Or when you’re bored. Or whenever.”

“Yeah,” he assured. “I will.”

You smiled one last time before opening the door.

And as you turned to walk down the stairs of the apartment building, Choso stood there for a long moment, staring after you like you’d just walked off with some small, vital part of him.

He closed the door softly behind you.

He couldn’t wait to open it again.

ـــــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

The weeks blurred into a rhythm neither of you ever named.

There were impromptu café outings after class, you dragging Choso to whatever corner of campus offered matcha and wi-fi. He always ordered the same thing. Cold brew with nothing in it. You teased him for having the taste buds of a war general. He’d shrug, sip, and steal bites of your pastry when you weren’t looking.

There were afternoons where he picked Yuuji up from school, and you tagged along. Yuuji always came barreling toward him with a grin and a “Did you bring her?!” like you were part of the regular routine now.

There were “study sessions” in your dorm that involved minimal studying and maximum everything else—laughter, jokes, long-winded conversations about your favorite books, manga recs, dissecting whether the professor really meant for the discussion post to be 500 words or just “500 words of effort.”

Choso made mental notes about everything—how you liked your tea, that you always clicked your pen twice before you started writing, how you hated the heat but loved the sunshine on cold days.

You learned that he was softer than he looked. Not just in the way his voice lowered whenever he asked if you’d eaten that day, or how he always walked you to your dorm after dark without ever making a thing of it. But rather in the way all that sharpness he wore like armor started to crack around you. The rage, the cold indifference, it wasn’t real. Not fully. It was a mask, stitched from years of keeping himself alive and untouchable. But underneath it, there was something hushed. Gentle. Like how he texted you after every fight—not with details, just with “I’m home,” as if that alone might ease whatever worry he knew you’d be carrying.

And physically, God, he was just as confusing. His knuckles were usually scabbed, his palms rough and calloused, but there was something magnetic about them. You caught yourself staring when he ran a hand through his hair or cracked his fingers absentmindedly while reading. You wanted to hold them, trace every scar, kiss them like they were something sacred. And then there were the moments—far too brief—when he’d pull his hoodie off after coming in from the cold, and his shirt would ride up, exposing just a sliver of toned muscle and that stupid, perfect v-line with the faintest, black happy trail of hair disappearing under his waistband. You’d pretend not to look, but your stomach would twist every time, heat licking up the back of your neck, and you’d have to force yourself to focus on whatever excuse you’d given him to come over in the first place. You weren’t just crushing anymore. You were aching. Even worse when you were away, not near him. Quietly. Constantly.

That being near him made your chest hurt in ways you liked.

Late afternoon sunlight spilled across your dorm floor in long golden beams. The window was cracked open, letting in the soft breeze of autumn.

You sat cross-legged on your rug, a binder open across your lap. Your notes were neat, highlighted with your usual soft pink and lavender pens. But you hadn’t written anything down in five minutes.

Choso was across from you, one knee bent, the book cracked open in his lap as he read a passage for your joint literature assignment. His brows were furrowed, eyes locked on the page, lips moving just slightly with each word.

He looked good.

Too good.

His hoodie sleeves were pushed to his elbows, showing the light scars on his forearms and the faint bruising from his last fight. His dark hair was pulled back into a messy, half-up bun, some strands falling into his face as he leaned forward.

You were supposed to be focused on the assignment.

But all you could focus on was the shape of his hands. The way his mouth moved when he read. The way he let the world fall away when he was with you.

You bit your lip, forcing yourself to drop your gaze and scribble a sentence you’d already rewritten twice just for something to do. Your heart thumped, heavy and slow, loud in your ears.

The crush you’d harbored a month ago had only gotten worse with proximity. With the way he opened up, little by little. With how he always walked on the side closest to traffic when you were out. With how he once noticed your hands were cold and quietly offered his hoodie without saying a word.

It was bad.

He was bad for your ability to concentrate.

You glanced up again.

Choso’s head tilted slightly as he flipped the page. A small crease appeared between his brows. He rubbed his thumb against the edge of the paper like he was grounding himself.

And fuck—you wanted to trace that crease with your fingertip.

You wanted to brush the hair out of his face.

You wanted to kiss him.

Forcing yourself to keep writing, you hoped he hadn’t noticed you watching.

Choso, still half-distracted by the passage, spoke without looking up. “This book was actually kind of good. The line about love being like a haunting?”

Your pen froze for a second in your hand.

Your voice was calm, but inside, everything felt warm.

“Yeah?” you asked and before you could think, “You relate?”

Choso looked up—eyes meeting yours for the first time in minutes.

The air felt different.

Still. Thick.

Something between you, tightening like a pulled thread.

“I think,” he said slowly, “some things stick to you whether you want them to or not.”

You nodded, heart hammering. “Yeah. I think that’s the point.”

Neither of you looked away.

Your binder slid slightly in your lap.

The book dipped in his hands.

In the quiet and golden and stupidly close moment it didn’t feel like a crush anymore.

It felt like falling.

The sun had dipped lower, soft amber shadows were casted across your floor, the room glowing.

Choso was still watching you.

And you… you didn’t dare move.

Your pen sat idle in your hand. Your breath felt caught just below your ribs. That last line in the book—love is like a haunting—looped in your mind like an echo.

He closed the book softly, the sound absurdly loud in the stillness.

Then he said your name.

Soft. A little unsure.

You looked up.

And he was already leaning forward.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t a kiss that stormed in like thunder. It was a slow tilt forward, like gravity had pulled him into you without asking first. A question asked with half-lidded eyes, answered by the way your breath hitched but you didn’t back away.

His rough hand grazed your cheek—barely there, still giving you time to stop him.

You didn’t.

So he kissed you.

Gently at first. Tentative. Like he was afraid he’d mess it up.

But when you sighed against him, when your hand found his hoodie and curled into the fabric like it was instinct, that kiss deepened. His fingers moved to the back of your neck, and yours slipped into his hair, tugging just enough to make him breathe harder against your lips.

It wasn’t perfect.

It was better.

It was real.

When you finally pulled apart, just barely, foreheads touching, neither of you said anything right away.

You were both a little breathless.

“So,” you whispered, “study break?”

Choso let out a quiet huff, the corner of his mouth twitching in that rare, boyish way you’d started to live for. “Yeah… sorry for not giving a warning.”

“I didn’t need one.”

He kissed you again.

Slower, deeper, more certain. Your hand found its way to his jaw, thumb brushing the edge of his cheekbone as you leaned into him, his fingers sliding along your waist, grounding himself in the feeling of you.

Eventually, you both shifted, hands fumbling gently until you made your way over to the bed. You climbed onto the mattress first, carefully pushing aside the small army of plushies that had taken up one corner—soft bunnies, round bears, a sleepy Badtz-Maru that Choso had once teased you for naming it after him.

“Sorry,” you murmured, giggling breathlessly as you tossed your large cat plush to the floor. “No offense, Mochi, but I need the space.”

Choso crawled in after you, the twin XL barely enough for both of your bodies, knees brushing, hips pressed close. But the closeness made it feel right. Like you were meant to fit this way.

Your back hit the pillows as Choso leaned over you, his hand slipping beneath the hem of your shirt just to rest on your waist. It wasn’t demanding, just there, claiming the moment. His kiss deepened, mouths moving together in a slow rhythm as the warmth spread between you.

His other hand found yours, fingers lacing softly by your head, and even though his breath was heavier now, his touches remained careful. Worshipful.

There was no rush. No urgency.

He was wrapped in the newness of what it meant to finally be wanted back.

You sighed into his mouth when he nipped at your bottom lip, and he kissed you again like he couldn’t stop if he tried.

Outside, the world carried on.

Inside, in your bed of crisp, pastel sheets and quiet tension, nothing else mattered but this. The soft push and pull of lips, shared breath, and whispered smiles between kisses.

At some point, the kisses slowed.

You were still curled beneath Choso on your tiny bed, legs tangled, his hand still resting gently at the dip of your waist like it belonged there. His lips hovered just over yours, breath brushing your skin, but for now, he didn’t move. And neither did you.

His forehead pressed against yours, eyes closed, lashes brushing your cheek when he exhaled.

“I-I’ve never really done this,” he murmured.

You tilted your chin just slightly. “What? Kiss?”

He chuckled under his breath. “No. I mean… this. Being this close to someone. You make it feel so easy to open up. It feels weird…”

Your chest ached in that sweet, impossible way. Cupping his jaw, thumb brushing the tattoo over the bridge of his nose. “You’re doing fine.”

His hand gave a soft squeeze at your side, grounding himself in your touch.

You swallowed. “I… I’ve liked you for a while. A s-stupid amount, actually. Thought I was being subtle, but—”

“You weren’t,” he interrupted, and his smile across his gloss-stained lips was so shy it made your heart tumble.

You laughed, breath catching a little as your nose brushed his. “Well you’re way softer than people make you out to be.”

“Blaming you for that,” he whispered before planting his lips on your again. Kissing you like a starved man.

You shift your hips just slightly beneath him, his breath hitches against your lips. You could feel him getting hard through his jeans.

You looked up at him, your voice barely audible. “Do you wanna…?”

Choso didn’t speak right away, biting his bottom lip in hesitation, body radiating more heat .

“I want you so fucking badly,” he said, voice steady now. “But only if you want me too.”

“I do,” you whispered. “I really, really do.”

His hand was hesitant at first, trembling as it traced the line of your jaw, your neck, your waist, as if he was mapping you in his memory. Every strained breath he took sounded unsteady, as you would roll your hips back and forth against his jean-covered thigh between your legs. Giving your growing heat the friction it craved.

“It’s okay, baby. Touch me however you want.”

His pleading brown eyes flicked up to yours, wide and uncertain, like he needed to be sure you meant it. When you nodded, he let his hands roam with more confidence, sliding beneath the hem of your white, cropped tee, fingers splayed wide over your bare skin. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver up your spine.

“God,” he breathed, “you feel… unbelievable.” His hands continued to move upwards reaching your pink, lacey bralette. He slides his fingers under the thin material to feel your breasts, thumbs running over your nipples. You suppress a whine, as he watches your reaction to his touch.

“Need to see more of you..” he pushes up the clothing and goes to hungrily kiss your collarbone and then your nipples, licking each one right after.

He pulls his head back admiring how pretty you look before him. Your face is beyond hot, chest rising and falling with each breath, lips swollen from kissing. You were something delicate and divine all at once.

His sweet girl. His angel.

“You’re staring,” you pout.

“Can you blame me?” he teased while pulling your upper clothing over your arms, his voice wasn’t as suave as he’d hoped.

A soft pink dusted his cheeks. It was unfair how good he looked flustered.

You lifted yourself up and planted a chaste kiss on his lips before reaching for the hem of his hoodie, tugging it upwards, letting you pull it over his head. His hair tumbled loose around his shoulders. And there he was—lean muscle under a plain black tee, the faint trail of hair you’ve fantasized about beneath his waistband teasing you when the fabric rode up.

And with his shirt soon gone, your eyes dart between the patchwork of tattoos littered across his chest, arms, and stomach, the same way you did the night you met him. You touched him, your palms roaming his chest, using a manicured nail to trace the line of his v-cut, following the soft trail that led downward—his body tensed with restraint. He closed his eyes, soft whine leaving his lips, relishing the moment. Like he wasn’t used to being seen like this, like he didn’t know he could be wanted gently.

You showed him otherwise. He wanted to return that feeling and so much more.

By the time he reached the waistband of your pink sweats, his breath was hot against your skin, and his dark. pleading eyes flicked up to meet yours. “Can I?” His voice was low, reverent, like he was asking to pray.

Your chest rose and fell faster. “Yes.”

That was all he needed.

He tugged them down slowly, his calloused hands so careful it almost undid you. When you were bare beneath him, he paused—just for a second—to take you in, his lips parting slightly as he admired your ethereal body.

The first press of his mouth against your pussy was so soft, so gentle, it made your toes curl. His tongue traced your arching clit slowly, deliberately, memorizing every reaction. He didn’t rush, didn’t push, he just took his time tasting you, learning you.

One of his hands moved to hold your hip steady, rough thumb brushing soft circles into your skin, grounding you as he kept working you open with his mouth. The other slid up to lace his fingers with yours, squeezing when your grip tightened.

Every sound you made, every sigh, every shaky breath, he took as encouragement. His pace stayed slow and calculated, like this meant more for him than for you. Like he couldn’t get enough of having you like this, spread open, pussy gushing and falling apart under his mouth.

You moaned his name, his groan vibrated against you, sending a shockwave of pleasure through your body. His tongue worked deeper, from spelling his name against your clit down to savor how wet your entrance had gotten, pulling another breathless sound from your lips.

“Choso…” you gasped, your free hand sliding into his hair, tugging just enough to make him moan against you, rutting his hips into your mattress with how painfully hard he was.

He didn’t stop. Not until your legs tensed around his shoulders, your breath came in short, desperate sounds, and you broke apart beneath him.

Even then, he stayed, pressing slow, lingering kisses on your slick, lower lips until the aftershocks faded. Only then did he look up, his lips were slick, his chin glistening faintly in the low light. His hair had fallen loose from the tie, strands sticking to his flushed cheeks. He looked undone in a way that made your pulse skip.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, voice thick, as if he’d just been given something sacred.

Choso lingered between your thighs a moment longer, his breath warm against your skin, before finally pulling back. His hands stayed on you steady, grounding as he shifted up the bed.

Without a word, he leaned down, catching your mouth in a kiss that was messy and deep, the taste of yourself on his tongue.

The sound you made against his lips made him groan, low and rough, as he kissed you harder, he needed you to feel what he just felt. His hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, holding you close, deepening the kiss until your lungs ached for air.

When you finally broke apart, breaths mingling, his forehead rested against yours.

“I wanted you to taste,” he rasped. “Wanted you to know how good you are.”

You whimper, heat pooling low as his thumb brushes your lower lip, smearing the faint dampness there. His worshipful gaze lingered, before he kissed you again—slower now, savoring, his weight pressing you into the mattress as if he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between you.

When he finally broke the kiss, his breathing was uneven, lips red and wet from the way you’d been kissing him. His gaze was heavy and pained, trying to keep himself together.

He moved his hands to his joggers’ waistband.

You watched, breath catching, as he pushed the fabric down over his hips, revealing the obvious outline of his dick through the thin black briefs beneath.

Your lips curled into a small, wicked smile. “Choso…” you teased softly, your voice like silk as your eyes deliberately trailed down his body. “You’ve been holding out on me?”

His jaw flexed, ears pink as his gaze flicked away. “Don’t…” His voice was low, tight, like even the teasing unraveled him.

But you didn’t stop. You reached out, brushing your fingers over his thigh just under the hem of his briefs, smiling sweetly when his breath stuttered. “You’re so hard for me.”

A quiet groan escaped him, his hand gripping the sheets of the mattress.

Your hand trailed higher, just brushing against the tent, and his whole body tensed. “And you feel so big… You’ve really been holding back this whole time?”

“Not on p-purpose,” he admitted. His free hand came to your waist, thumb rubbing circles into your skin like he needed the grounding. “You just… drive me fucking insane.”

He pushed his briefs down, and your breath caught at the sight of him as his cock bobbed against his stomach, thick and flushed at the tip, his arousal clear dripping with need and anticipation.

“God,” you whispered, your voice a mix of awe. “so perfect.”

His thoughts caught at your praise, he presses his forehead to yours.

“Are you sure?” he asked again, voice steady, hovering over you with a kind of intensity that made your whole body buzz.

You nodded, fingers brushing his jaw. “Yes. Again, I want this. I want you” Choso exhaled with relief, then he pulled back just enough to reach for his wallet on the nightstand next him. You watched him with your heart fluttering in your chest—half from the heat thrumming between your legs, half from the quiet way he handled you, every motion thoughtful, even now.

He pulled a foil packet from the wallet, glanced down at it for half a second, then looked back at you.

“I—uh. I brought it just in case.” His voice a little sheepish. “Didn’t think I’d get lucky.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of you, brushing a finger lightly over his wrist. “Lucky, huh?”

Then your eyes narrowed in mock suspicion, a grin tugging at your lips. “Wait—did you steal that from Sukuna’s room?”

Choso froze for a fraction of a second, ears pink. “No,” he muttered, far too quickly.

Your grin widened. “Oh my God, you did.”

He groaned, head dropping to your shoulder in embarrassment. “I didn’t think I’d have to explain where I keep my condoms…”

You giggled, leaning closer to his ear. “Relax, I’m not judging. Just saying if this comes up at the dinner table, I’m not taking the blame.”

That made him groan again, but his mouth twitched at the corner, fighting a smile as he kissed you to shut you up.

Pulling away, you gave him space as he knelt up, pushing his briefs further down his thighs, and tore the packet open with shaking hands. His cock aching against his stomach, and your thighs clenched at the sight of him rolling the condom on slowly, carefully, like even this was part of loving you right.

He leaned back over you, kissing your cheek, then your jaw, then your mouth.

You whispered against his lips, “whenever you’re ready.”

Hips aligned with yours, his hand braced at your waist, guiding himself slowly. The first push of his tip inside you was a lovely stretch, his jaw going slack as a guttural groan tore from his throat. And this time—when he pressed into you, your bodies molding together—it was even better.

Because now it was all of him.

Intentional. Completely yours.

“F-fuck…” he breathed, watched his lashes flutter and his jaw clench with quiet effort before looking down at you.

You held his face in your hands, kissing his throat, murmuring his name, gasping soft things into his ear that made him move just a little deeper, a little slower.

It was all heat and trust and the sound of his breath breaking around your name.

There was nothing rough in the way he touched you—just the kind of care that came from someone who didn’t take affection lightly. Who didn’t take you lightly.

Choso’s thrusts had started getting used to the way you felt around him. But as the minutes passed, his breath grew uneven, each exhale shakier than the last, his restraint slipping.

He buried his face in the curve of your neck, groaning softly with each push of his hips. The sound wasn’t loud—just raw, desperate, like he’d been holding back too long. His hand at your waist tightened, pulling you onto his cock with every snap of his hips.

“You feel—God, you feel so good. I can’t—” His words cut off in a sharp gasp as his rhythm stuttered.

He shifted, bracing one hand by your head while the other slid between your bodies, his fingers finding your sweet pearl. His touch was a little clumsy at first as he was so close, but he adjusted quickly, circling your clit in firm, steady strokes that made you gasp.

“Come with me,” he murmured, voice ragged. “Please—want you to feel good too.”

His hips faltered again, his groan deepening as he pushed harder, chasing that edge. His thumb then brushed just right, and your back arched into him, a breathless yelp escaping your lips.

That sound pushed him over.

He came with a low grunt, hips pressing deep as he spilled into the condom, his forehead pressing to yours. But even as his body shook with release, his fingers didn’t stop working you—rubbing tight, precise circles as his voice dropped to a breathless murmur.

“C’mon, baby… just a little more for me… t-there you go…”

The heat built and crested, your orgasm spilling over, pussy spasming around his cock, just as his lips caught yours in a deep, shaky kiss. You trembled beneath him, his hand holding you steady through every wave until you finally stilled.

Only then did he slow, pulling back just enough to look at you—sweaty, flushed, and absolutely undone in his arms.

His voice was soft, almost shy. “You okay?”

And the smile you gave him in that moment told him everything.

The room was quiet now, save for the sound of your breathing as it slowly evened out. Choso stayed above you for just a moment longer, watching your face, as if to reassure himself you were okay.

“Stay here,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

He slipped out of bed carefully, padding over to the trash to tie off the condom and toss it away. From where you lay propped against the pillows, your eyes followed him—couldn’t not follow him. His hair had fallen loose around his face in dark, damp strands, clinging to his flushed skin. Broad shoulders rolled with each step, the lean muscles in his back shifting under smooth, scar-and-tattoo-dusted skin. You’d seen him fight before. Seen the power in his body. But here, in the low glow of your room, every line of him felt different. Softer. More yours. You had to force yourself to look away before he turned back and caught you staring.

When he came back, there was a gentleness to every motion. He grabbed a clean cloth from your drawer, dampened it at your sink, and returned to your side.

“This okay?” he asked, holding it up.

You nodded, and he cleaned you up carefully, his touch featherlight with patience.

Once done, he tossed the cloth into your hamper, then pulled the blankets back and slid in beside you. He tucked the sheets around you first, then himself, settling so your body fit against his chest, his arm snug around your waist.

You turned into him, fingers idly tracing the faint ink on his forearm. “When do you need to get back to Yuuji?”

His voice was quiet, almost reluctant. “Soon…” He paused, his nose brushing your hair. “…but I can cuddle with you just a little longer.”

Your chest warmed. “I’d like that.”

He hummed softly, pulling you closer, his chin resting on the top of your head. His breathing began to match yours, slow and steady. And to him, the rest of the world didn’t exist—just you, wrapped in the arms of someone who’d never been this gentle with anyone before.

ـــــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

Weeks slipped by, the last leaves giving way to frost, then snow, blanketing the campus in white. Dating Choso wasn’t loud or flashy, but it still turned heads. More than a few people paused to glance when the campus sweetheart strolled by, arm linked with her own black cat incarnate.

It was early morning texts when he knew you had an exam, a coffee waiting on your desk before class with your name scribbled on the cup in his messy handwriting. It was late-night calls when he headed home from a fight, voice needy as he told you he’d be at your place soon—just to see you, just to breathe.

You still studied together, though “studying” often turned into you curled up in his hoodie on your bed, reading side by side until the books slid forgotten to the floor. Your eventually plushies learned to make space for him on your twin mattress.

You still met Yuuji at least once a week—sometimes at pickup, sometimes over pizza nights—and every time, the kid’s grin when he saw you made Choso’s chest feel warm.

And Sukuna, of course, never let him hear the end of it. Every time you came over, there was a snide comment, a smirk. But Choso didn’t care anymore, not when he could press a hand to your back as you stepped inside, not when you smiled at him like he was something more than just a fighter with too much to carry.

The walls he’d spent years building had started to feel… lighter. Less necessary.

It started casually—just another night together, your head resting on his chest while his fingers absently stroked your head.

“Choso?” you murmured.

“Mm?”

“Can I come to your next fight? You know… to cheer you on?”

His hand paused in your hair.

“You don’t want to be there,” he said, his voice firm. “It’s not—” He hesitated, choosing his words. “It’s not a space you belong in.”

You shifted, propping your chin on his chest so you could look at him. “You keep saying that, but you said the same thing the first time I showed up. And guess what? I survived.”

“This isn’t about surviving,” he countered, “Those people… that place… it’s different. It’s not for you.”

You smiled faintly. “Maybe not. But you are.”

That pulled an annoyed sound from him, his head falling back against the pillow.

“You don’t let things go, do you?”

“Not when it comes to you,” you teased softly.

He gave you a long look—equal parts exasperation and affection—before sighing. “Fine. You can come.”

ـــــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

The crowd was just as loud and brutal as always, the air thick with something electric. But this time, Choso’s focus wasn’t on them.

It was on you. The single person leaning casually against the back wall, arms crossed, smiling at him like you knew something no one else in the room did.

You’d dressed against his advice, of course. No dark hoodie or jeans to blend in—just you in a pleated denim skirt that brushed your thighs, white, thick stockings beneath, and leg warmers around your ankles, spilling over the Doc Marten Mary Janes he gifted you after his last win, paired with a cream sweater soft enough to look out of place in the grit and shadow of the venue.

It was reckless. It was preppy. It was so you.

And it fueled him in a way that felt very dangerous.

The fight was quick, efficient—he’d been careful to keep it that way. When his opponent went down his eyes searched only for you.

He didn’t even make it all the way to the bench before you were there, slipping past a half-open door of the locker room, cheeks flushed from the noise and heat of the crowd.

“Congrats, champ,” you teased, voice soft in the quieter space.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, in the midst of his adrenaline rush, his hands found your waist, tugging you in until your back hit the wall. His mouth crashing onto yours—messy, heated, every ounce of restraint he’d been holding in the ring unraveling now that you were here.

You smiled against his lips, letting him kiss you rough, your fingers threading into his hair still damp from the fight.

“See?” you whispered between kisses, smirking up at him. “Told you I could handle it.”

He groaned softly, his forehead pressing to yours. “You’re trouble.”

“You like trouble.”

And oh how that trouble came back to haunt his perfect little world.

You weren’t there when it happened.

Choso hadn’t told you about the fight—said he needed to “handle something” after class and kissed your forehead before slipping off into the cold, saying he’d text you later.

He didn’t.

The call came from Sukuna.

You’d never heard him sound shaken before. Not until he said, “He’s in the hospital. He’s stable but it was bad.”

The words didn’t register at first. Just the way your fingers went numb. The way your legs moved on their own. The way your heart beat like it was trying to escape your chest.

When you got there, Yuuji was curled up in the stiff waiting room chair, hoodie too big, swallowing him, and his eyes rimmed red.

You didn’t ask anything. You just sat down beside him and took his hand.

When you were finally allowed in, the sight of Choso nearly broke you.

IV in his arm. Bruises blooming dark and ugly across his chest. Bandaged ribs. One eye swollen shut. A gash over his brow. Machines blinking and humming softly at his bedside. Still breathing, still here but barely.

Yuuji was the first one to speak when he woke up, voice barely a whisper.

“Are you gonna die?”

Choso’s lips cracked into a dry smile, but it wobbled.

“No,” he rasped. “Not yet.”

But your silence said more than anything.

You didn’t yell or cry. You just stood there, arms hugging your body, jaw tight, holding yourself together like a dam about to burst.

“I told you that place wasn’t for you,” you whimper out.

Choso didn’t argue. Didn’t make excuses.

“I thought I could handle it,” he murmured. “Thought I had to.”

Yuuji sniffled. “You don’t. We don’t need you hurt. We just need you home.”

Choso’s eyes shifted between the two of you, his whole world standing right there beside his hospital bed.

The decision had made itself.

When the doctor asked about discharge instructions, Choso said quietly, “I’m done. No more fights.”

He meant it.

The apartment was quiet when you arrived, quiet in the way that meant Choso and Yuuji had probably fallen asleep mid-movie again.

You nudged the door open with your hip, balancing a grocery bag against your chest. The smell of something warm and familiar—curry, maybe—lingered faintly in the air, though the stove was long off. The glow of the TV cast shadows across the room, and sure enough, there they were.

Choso lay stretched out on the couch, hoodie half-zipped, arm slung protectively around a snoring Yuuji who was curled into his side like a cat. A thick blanket tangled around their legs, and the movie credits scrolled idly on the screen.

He was still healing—his eye was no longer swollen, but the bruises painted across his ribs and shoulders had turned that murky yellow-purple of fading pain. The stitches on his brow had been removed. His movements were slower now, more mindful. No fights. No midnight calls. Just rest.

You stepped in quietly, setting the groceries on the counter before padding over.

“You’re hovering,” Choso murmured without opening his eyes.

You smiled, crouching beside him. “Can’t help it. You look too peaceful.”

His lips tilted faintly at the edges. “It’s the painkillers. And the fact that Yuuji made me watch The Bee Movie again.”

“I offered to bring over something good,” you teased. “But someone insisted you needed more culture.”

Yuuji snored softly in response.

Just then, a door creaked open. Sukuna strolled out of his room shirtless, yawning and scratching his chest like he had nothing better to do than ruin the moment.

“Well, well,” he drawled, leaning against the hallway frame with a smirk. “If it isn’t my replacement sibling and his little nurse.”

You rolled your eyes. “Hi to you too, Sukuna.”

Choso groaned. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying,” Sukuna continued, voice full of mockery, while he slipped on a shirt “one near-death experience and suddenly you’re domesticated. It’s kinda cute. Tragic, but cute.”

You gave him a sickly sweet smile. “Should I make you a to-do list so you feel included?”

Sukuna held up his hands. “Relax, mom. I’m just grabbing my keys. Got a business call. You lovebirds enjoy your wholesome little life.”

He disappeared with a click of the door, and silence returned.

You sat gently beside Choso, reaching over to brush a loose strand of hair from his face.

“You okay?” you asked.

He looked at you, soft and unguarded in a way only you ever got to see. “Yeah. Still hurts a little. But… I’m okay.”

You nodded, pressing a kiss to his temple. “We’ve got you now.”

As the night deepened and Yuuji snuggled further into his side, Choso let his head rest against your shoulder.

Home. And he let himself believe he deserved it.

Actions

Kudos

DiddleMyDongle, valentine8825, WorlfOfWizardry, addictedtomtdew8, SugarCoatedBunny, Eggplague, Drezbot, flipsidekid, bloodshot_ava, I_w_2_Die_lol, auras_witchcraft777, Mint_Deirdre_Suga, ScarlettSnatchx77, curlycatARMY, Bumpty, AshleeJaniece, xvisol, gingerweeper, SpoonbiIl, Pixelaffectiion, Arikimii, Ocelha_cherry, sabbs123, Deadite, Miyars, Lovelyvtiny, pynkk, Richardpapen123, minjiG, amourbaroque, Angsty_Microwave, notamyiswear, damone, Ykaaede, SpellWell, BakuBlazeIt, Kingofthewolves, lildaddyyy, frootjelly00, fakepoisonivy2, chocolattae, hyunemoons, Mushroomie29, tsukuyomis, spideyengene, Pxrplelemcnade, lara_f18, WangxianOnRepeat, lau_p, Silvire808, and 83 more users as well as 50 guests left kudos on this work!

Comments

Sorry, this work doesn't allow non-Archive users to comment. You can however still leave Kudos!

Archive of Our Own

Actions

Work Header